Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Subaru opens his eyes to darkness. Not the comfortable, warm dusk of an evening room, not the nighttime forest full of mabeasts, and not even a basement with blindfolds over his eyes… No, this time he’s trapped in darkness far worse than anything he could escape from.

He twitches his fingers—barely, just to check—and the movement awakens pain. Starting from where his fingernails used to be, spreading across his fingers and into his forearm, it stabs his left hand with a scorching heat, like burning coals. He should have expected it, but he didn’t—unconsciousness dulled pain, and he inhales reflexively. And freezes.

A soft metallic clink—the trembling of chains wrapped around his wrists; luckily, not too loud. He exhales slowly, careful not to rattle them further.

So, in his cell again.

The nails are gone—so this is after. His hands haven’t gone numb enough to lose feeling—so not far after.

Meaning…

A shrill scream pierces his ears—distant but painfully sharp in the silence of the dungeon. That’s the rusted exit door opening. Disgusting. Beloved. Hated. Worshipped. The sound of endings and beginnings, of repetition, and simultaneously—the sound of change. A checkpoint.

Footsteps on the stairs echo clearly despite the distance. Subaru holds his breath to listen better, before letting false hope take root.

Ahead of the familiar armored clatter of the guards’ boots, there’s another sound—softer. Measured, calm steps, undoubtedly paired with impeccable posture. The kind Subaru dreaded hearing the first time.

“…No way. Perfect timing…” Subaru rasps, barely audible.

Not wise. In this cold dampness, a sensitive throat irritates easily, and the dry cough that follows shakes his exhausted body with dull pain. Subaru wastes precious seconds trying to suppress it—fifteen out of the thirty it takes to walk from the stairwell to his cell. Planning, words, acting, composure—one by one, all intentions are drowned out by the growing footsteps and accelerating heartbeat.

…This is going to hurt so much…

It won’t, if you do everything right—no mistakes, no panic. If you just stop caring. Come on, how many times do you have to die before you start doing things properly—

The door to his cell screeches open, slightly less horrifically than the previous one, and pale lagmite light burns his eyes, forcing him to squint.

“Well look who woke up,” a deceptively sweet, familiarly detestable, slightly nasal voice croons—a voice that makes the hairs on Subaru’s neck stand on end. “You’ve got visitors, Pride-chan.”

In the dungeon’s murky shades, the silhouette of that immaculate white shape—visible even through tears and pain—can belong only to Julius.

***

“Sure, I don’t exactly look the part right now, but I’m an Archbishop! Tons of cultist powers, you get it? I can—”

“That’s enough.” Julius Juukulius, Knight of Knights, handsome and exemplary, the patron saint of boredom and unfunny jokes, and—incidentally—Subaru Natsuki’s last hope of escaping this dark damp basement, presses his fingers to the bridge of his nose for the first time today.

The fourth—according to Subaru’s count.

“Take him back,” he sighs, and Subaru barely blinks before he’s detached from the interrogation chair and chained like usual by two knights.

Knight-lookalikes. Really, Julius—will you ever notice the snake before it coils around your neck?

Subaru has processed acceptance. He no longer panics, screams, or begs for another chance. Faster and less painful to return obediently to his cell—and quietly strangle himself with his chains there. Just a few deaths were enough for Subaru to master doing it quickly, silently, irreversibly.

That’s exactly what he does the moment the key turns. The chains run from wrists to the wall behind—too short to reach the door, but plenty long enough to loop perfectly around his neck.

Still painful from the crushing links, still terrifying to suffocate slowly, but there’s relief in the pulsing blood, in the fading vision. The room spins; Subaru gasps for air. Breaths grow shallow and rare as he thrashes. Agony doesn’t last long.

The guard won’t notice. Rattling chains are constant background music in this prison for the worst of criminals.

Seconds slip away, consciousness with them. His body relaxes.

Just before the darkness—euphoria.

***

“…What a shame,” Subaru mutters when he opens his eyes to the exact same view.

The same cold stone, the same grooves and cracks he’s memorized. Some scratches are his own, from when he still had nails.

Today the room says nothing back. He’s in his right mind—reason enough to celebrate.

“What an idiot, kkh… It’s Julius! In what universe would empty words convince him?!”

Subaru breaks into a fit of sane coughing. Talking to himself doesn’t count. He’s being analytical, okay? It’s not madness if he can rationally explain it—

Oh shut up—it helps organize plans. It’s not like they hand out notebooks in prison. Let’s see you mock it after dying a few times because you mixed up your cycles and said the wrong thing.

“I can’t keep fooling around anymore,” Subaru sighs.

Unlimited time, unlimited attempts. Sounded good until around the third “today.”

You know how it goes—victorious push, battle ends, you relax because your friends are alive, so no rewinding. Your contracted spirit’s unconscious from mana loss, everyone’s half-dead, joyful at dawn—and then he arrives. The star. The showstopper. With his favorite trick: erasing every memory of your existence. The next morning is interrogation by the city’s worst knights, and by evening—you’re in a damp dungeon, because ha-ha, you’re a Sin Archbishop.

Subaru didn’t get that grand title immediately. The guards are happy to torture even rank-and-file cultists—he learned that the first night in holding. But once they threw him into a cell with Sirius… Well. Hard to wash off suspicion when you reek of miasma from a mile away, and the Archbishop of Wrath calls you her “beloved.”

Subaru chuckles out loud. Funny—even now, two months later.

Actually, only funny now.

Not a good sign. He didn’t refuse Echidna’s help just to lose his sanity dying over and over here.

Any method. There’s no reason for them to keep him—remember? One last push.

The rusty door screeches for the fifth time.

“…Or I really will go mad.”

***

The interrogation room is clean and bright, as it was for the previous three “todays.” Not always like this—usually unfriendly and bloody—but Julius arrived in town, so every trace of excessive violence must be scrubbed away.

Three, yes—Subaru didn’t slip. The first of the five “todays,” he wasn’t brought here because he dissolved into tears upon seeing that familiar face after…

Two months physically. In his mind? Twice that. It’s surprisingly easy to die in prison.

“Sit,” Julius says—not cold, just politely neutral—like this truly were their first meeting. But for Subaru, used to subtle smiles and quiet sarcasm, this empty politeness cuts deeper than insult.

He stays composed—everything depends on this next ten minutes. He sits; the chair is brand-new, and his restraints are buckled less painfully today.

Julius seems relaxed—but Subaru’s learned enough about… No, not him. This version of him, who doesn’t remember. That mistake ruined previous cycles. Treating this Julius as a friend is fatal.

Let it be... Juli. Annoying twin with a familiar face and voice. The real Julius would punch him for treating Subaru like this. God, Subaru would pay to watch Julius punch himself.

Juli won’t trust Subaru—only fellow knights. If their meticulous investigation says the prisoner is an Archbishop, he’ll treat him as one. But on the flipside—if reports describe him as pitiful and weak, an Archbishop in name only, tainted with witch stench—negotiation becomes possible.

Also… because of that foolish faith in knights, claiming innocence is pointless.

“Archbishop of Pride—Natsuki Subaru,” Subaru introduces himself casually, bowing his head.

He feels the guards tense behind him. First time he hasn’t denied the role.

He counts four seconds per inhale; panic-breathing ruins the image. His palms sweat around the chair handles.

Juli doesn’t look surprised—first meeting, after all. He’s never seen Subaru desperate, pathetic, denying the cult even when pointless. Still, he doesn’t answer immediately.

“Julius Juukulius,” he responds—always returning introductions, because a knight must respect even an enemy. “Knight of the candidate to the throne of the forty-second ruler of Lugunica, Anastasia Hoshin—”

Subaru nods knowingly, then continues:

“…the Finest of Knights, slayer of the Sloth,” he adds with a smile he hopes looks natural, “and Knight of the Rainbow Spirit, right?”

Titles no one else remembers now. Julius freezes, struggling not to reveal surprise. Subaru senses the guards stiffen too—but fear can’t be allowed to ruin the plan.

Plan for this cycle… Do what Subaru does best. Make the worst first impression possible—it’s never failed him.

Cycle Five — Final_version(1)!

“What?” Subaru asks innocently. Kind of fun, teasing Julius like old times.

It breaks his heart.

“According to protocol, you’re not this talkative,” Juli replies coldly—and it’s so terrifying Subaru’s breath stutters.

He doesn’t know. Of course he doesn’t. Reports won’t detail how…

Subaru blinks the memories away.

Don’t think.

“What a shame. I’m quite the sweetheart,” he laughs lightly—too lightly—and smiles, “Bet they cut out my best jokes.”

Subaru swallows a scream, but not the shiver, when footsteps approach from behind and someone yanks his hair. Interrogators love doing that since it grew out a bit.

Not for long. Juli gestures silently; the grip reluctantly loosens. Subaru remembers to breathe.

“You’d be better off not provoking them,” Juli advises indifferently—but sincerely.

Pathetic and vulnerable helps. Thanks for your contribution, asshole-guard-number-two.

…Subaru tries not to remember their names.

“You claimed to know how to reach the Sage,” Juli continues. “Sounds laughable, considering your position.”

Oh hysterical. “What good are you after two months of torture?” Call things what they are, you lousy Julius knockoff.

“Something like that,” Subaru shrugs.

He inhales deeply before his next words. All or nothing.

“My Authority,” he says, licking cracked, bloody lips, “lets me see the future.”

Juli blinks. Breathes. The world doesn’t freeze.

***

“Hey, maybe I ended up in prison on purpose, wicked cultist motives and all. Doesn’t friendship start with trust? …Argh, come on! Tell your buddies to chill, I’m literally doing nothing!”

…

“What, you think I can predict whatever I want, whenever I want? Am I a cultist or a fortune-teller? What am I supposed to see from prison—tomorrow’s lunch!? Lower your expectations, Mr. Knight. Not everything in life is that easy.”

…

“Why…? Pfft-hahaha! Of all people, you should understand me best, Juli-chi!” Subaru bursts into laughter, genuinely this time—the question is stupid.

The laugh becomes coughing, and after catching his breath—silence. Neither Juli nor the guards speak.

Subaru finishes coldly.

“I want my name back too.”

…

“Yeah, arrivederci. Watch your step, the third stair is slippery,” Subaru adds with all the pent-up venom he’s saved, “And don’t forget to ask your beloved lady why her stupid scarf doesn’t talk to her anymore.”

Their longest dialogue in all five cycles. Subaru was honestly convinced Juli would remind him of their old duel via new broken bones. But surprisingly—even that didn’t break his knightly composure. Only the flash of cold fury in his eyes before he left betrayed anything.

Hard to call this a success—but still… Julius didn’t pinch the bridge of his nose this time. Back in his cell, Subaru dares to hope.

***

Julius doesn’t return the next day. Nor the one after.

“Oh really?” asshole-guard-number-two laughs, squeezing Subaru’s chin painfully, spraying him with spit. “Care to predict what’s gonna happen to you today, Pride-chan?”

Not killing yourself has a price, but Subaru pays it—he senses tension building among his tormentors. Their frequent visits, showy displays of power—they’re nervous. And that lets Subaru hope.

***

Five days after the meeting, Subaru dies.

Violently, disgustingly—vomiting potato stew, which never agreed with him even on good days, then stale bread, and when nothing remains—blood fills his mouth. Like magic, the guard who brought the tray pretends to be blind, deaf, mute.

If you abstract from the situation, it’s honestly hilarious. Between all the stupid deaths due to trivial negligence, they couldn’t think of anything better than poisoning him? Seriously—they could’ve just stopped feeding him.

Such sloppy murder wouldn’t escape Julius—even blind. What will they claim? Subaru tripped over the chamber pot and cracked his skull?

When he awakens, Subaru laughs harder—scaring the guard outside his door. His new checkpoint is right before his single daily meal. Sure, he’ll stay hungry—but he can’t stop smiling.

Never in all his time here have they tried to kill him so stupidly, sloppily, like in a cheap mystery—so blatant—and wasted such a good poison on him.

He pours the stew into the bucket, then forces himself to vomit. For authenticity, he bangs on the door a few times, begs for help, moans, groans—and only after collapsing theatrically does the peephole slide open. For a moment Subaru fears they’ll check his corpse—but the guard clearly knows better than to linger at the scene. The peephole closes, footsteps fade.

Subaru wipes his face, sits cross-legged on his excuse for a bed—hay and boards under rags—and waits.

Waits for the reason they killed him so suddenly and crudely.

He’s willing to bet she has a marvelous cascade of purple hair.

Chapter Text

The familiar groan of the same rusty door somewhere down the corridor serves as his alarm clock.

Subaru hadn’t planned on sleeping. He was supposed to think through how to react, what to say to make himself sound useful—far more important than wasting precious time on rest. Yet here he is, wiping drool off his chin and cursing himself for being an idiot, and his heart—for galloping like it has no intention of slowing down.

How much time has passed? What do they want from him? Will anyone come at all, or was that whole story about someone trying to poison him nothing more than an anxious, sleep-starved delusion stretched over… well, anything, really. A stomach ulcer, for example—he wouldn’t be surprised if one opened up inside him with this diet.

Prisons don’t hand out clocks, and having missed lunch, he can’t even guess the time by hunger—only by how many episodes of Julius vs. Juli he dreamed through.

…A lot? With swords, fists, ninjutsu, Pokémon, and at least four filler episodes, but not enough to turn the dream into a nightmare. So, roughly an hour or two…

It’s easier to do this stupid, pointless math than listen to the footsteps—terrifying footsteps, the approaching echo of boots on tile replacing a stopwatch. He’s afraid to know how many there are.

Three, maybe four. Two wearing metal boots.

His fears matter to no one here. He forces himself back into the real world, scraping fingers along the floor—and is instantly shocked, as if someone ran a current beneath his skin. The pain from the raw, newly-scaped nailbeds stabs all the way to his elbow, forcing his eyes shut and breath sharp—but it makes him listen, too. The third set of steps, the last one, is soft. Quiet. And worst of all—unfamiliar.

Subaru is afraid to breathe.

His fears matter to no one here. Four seconds in, four seconds out—and the door to his cell swings open.
The pale lagmite light won’t blind him if he keeps his back to the door. Take that, rude-guard-who-walks-in-without-knocking! Probably Wildor—actually a decent guy, lots of fishing stories; kind of a thug, but hey, not everyone in this world can be perfect…

“Hello, Pride. You look surprisingly well for this place.”

…Bingo.
God. He can’t believe that stupid jab at Julius actually worked. Subaru solemnly swears never to make fun of him again.

“The prison diet works wonders. Probably. Honestly, I can only imagine—no mirror in these luxurious apartments,” Subaru answers quickly, keeping his gaze pinned to the wall so his eyes can adjust to the dim light. “Won’t you lend me yours, Anastasia?”

She laughs softly.

“Don’t you think it’s polite to look at a lady when asking her for something?”

“Bright colors make my eyes itch.” And not only his eyes—his throat burns too, begging for a cough, but Subaru keeps his voice even and continues without turning around. “Maybe I’ll look at you if you take off that scarf.”

“Oh? How bold,” her gentle voice carries a hint of surprise. “Ha… I’ll indulge your cheekiness. Sir Wildor, if you please?”

“I… Of course, Lady Anastasia.”

Ha. Guessed right. Wildor hesitates—two knights are required to watch an alleged Archbishop, but someone of Anastasia’s status wouldn’t oppose a candidate’s wishes. Fur rustles—she really does remove the scarf.

“And you, Sir Bas—”

Subaru doesn’t hear the rest.
He doesn’t even hear his own sharp inhale—doesn’t know whether the world went silent or he bit his lip hard enough to taste blood.

Moments. Seconds.
Only the cracked stone wall before him knows how long it takes Subaru to gather himself.

Sound returns. He hears the metal boots walking away—two pairs.

“Shall we speak in private?” Anastasia’s voice sounds playful, almost daring.

But Subaru knows when to listen—there’s falseness beneath the smoothness, the wrong rhythm of fake emotions. Like theatre. He replies without hesitation:

“Drop the act, Echidna.” Only then does he turn to face her. “If I wanted to turn you in, I already would have.”

As if Subaru would ever hand over his last hope. He can’t know for sure, but it’s unlikely the real Anastasia would waste her time on a cultist.

Echidna—Scarfidna—may be far from human empathy, but she’s curious to the point of madness. Subaru knows her well enough not to fear her: she would never pass up knowledge served on a silver platter. Still, when the friendly expression slides off her face like a paper mask, a cold shiver runs down his spine.

Or maybe he caught a chill. The floor isn’t heated.

“…And you weren’t bluffing. What gave me away?”

“Nothing your knight would notice, don’t worry,” Subaru tries to smirk, but it turns into a cough instead. “But I expected Anastasia’s spirit to know a thing or two about negotiation. Information is expensive.”

“Oh, I know that only useless things are overpriced that aggressively.” Scarfidna’s lips stretch into a smirk. “And how are you still alive, you little brat?”

He senses the familiar, poorly concealed hunger for knowledge. Good sign.

“Ha. Look at this athletic body.” He flexes the arm protected by dragon blood, feigning muscle where none remains. “How do you think something like this survives? Obviously I’m either a misunderstood genius or…”

Subaru looks her dead in the eyes. Wiggles his brows.

“Merchandise should be displayed,” she replies. And Subaru realizes he made a mistake, thinking he could outplay her with curiosity alone. A master’s instincts pass on to the spirit.

“Alright. Ahem. Ask me anything.” He clears his throat, trying to sound confident.

A predatory gleam lights up her eyes—identical to the one he saw a year ago, a split second before realizing he’d been tricked.

…Shit, shit, shit, he handed her the initiative.

“Let’s start simple. What’s the weather outside?”

A painful question—in the depths of a windowless dungeon—but easy. His scars ache more today, and he hasn’t heard a single rat squeak in about an hour.

“Archbishop’s Weather Forecast: pouring rain; a little chilly, maybe ten degrees; any missing hats—blame the wind, not the cult, I’m busy today.”

Her reaction gives nothing away. She asks the next question flatly:

“What color are the duty officer’s gloves?”

Still easy. When you’re trapped long enough, memorizing schedules becomes survival.

Today should be Farel’s shift.

“Black. Brass studs.”

…No, too easy. Something’s off. Why?

Subaru studies “Anastasia.” Without her fox-scarf, dressed in white, she looks smaller—and simultaneously more dangerous. Her eyes lack warmth, lacking even the imitation of it. Cold curiosity.
Under that gaze, Subaru feels pinned like a beetle in glass. A frog ready for dissection.

It's raining outside, but there's no hint of moisture on her clothes.

She wants to test him. She wouldn’t ask questions she hadn’t prepared for.

“…And they’re in your pocket,” Subaru adds. “It’s rude to take someone’s belongings just to test me—his girlfriend gave them to him, you know.”

“Really? Then she should worry, he handed them over quite enthusiastically.”

“Yeah, they’ll break up in a month. When you leave, look at the secretary—she’ll have a love bite.”

For a story to sound believable, mix truth with lies—basic fortune-teller tactics. Subaru doesn’t know any secretaries, but he did hear someone call at least one of them a slut.

“Oh? Do Archbishops spy behind curtains these days instead of destroying cities?” She doesn’t even bother to add malice to the words—just curiosity.

“I don’t have anything to do with those lunatics. If I had, do you think you’d all get off this easily? Please.” Subaru rolls his eyes. “Pristella would’ve drowned in blood.”

Scarfidna blinks. Not impressed.

Bravo, theatre boy. Overacting.

“And what were you doing here, then?”

…He was not prepared for questions like these at all.

“On vacation,” Subaru deadpans.

“An Archbishop in the city right after an attack. Hard to believe,” she counters, and Subaru no longer knows what she’s testing.

“Guess I was wearing my evil pants today?” he snaps. “I was shopping. Check your interrogation files—everyone asked me that.”

“They also say you deny any affiliation with the cult,” she notes calmly. “Why admit it now?”

Because the only thing between him and the gallows was the word suspect on the first page of his file.

Was. By today, the noose is already lovingly soap-lathered, the salvation-line crossed out, red ink circling the new, delicious label: Archbishop.
What a career boost for some lucky knight.

“…Creative crisis,” Subaru blurts. He never planned for the conversation to drift here, but he has no choice now. “Always the same: screams, blood, pain, yadda-yadda-yadda. Got boring. Wanted to try something new.”

“And you sought self-discovery in prison?” Her confusion sounds genuine.

Archbishops have no common sense. The more absurd the lie, the more believable it becomes.

“Well, kinda hard to hide from your own cult.” Subaru leans into the lie, finding rhythm. “You know—crazy fanatics everywhere, wanting you to lead them to carnage. They don’t leave you alone, not even in the bathroom. Thought I’d shake them off here, but nope—they followed me.”

…They had followed Sirius, but after smelling his miasma, declared Subaru as Pride’s heir:
“The teachings led us to a new leader!”
“We are unbroken as long as two Sins walk with us!”
Yeah. Thanks a lot. Sir, those cultists aren’t mine, they were planted on me—no one ever believes it.

“Suppose I believe you. What price do you want for cooperation?”

The next line hits late.

“I believe you” sounds shockingly light.
No weight. No revelation.
Nothing like the dreams—those cruelly kind dreams that turned to nightmares when he woke.

He thinks distantly that Echidna’s nature is unchanged. A true merchant would never let someone set the price so easily.

“Cheaper than you think.” He forces a slippery smile. “Hm… let me think…”

He holds himself perfectly still—not biting lips, not looking away, not trembling. No unnatural movements.

“The cult listens to me. That’s a massive amount of information and a third of your problems solved in advance—for the price of one me in the luggage. A real Archbishop of Greed would ask for a harem and a palace…”

You don’t need all that. Pretend it’s nothing. A whim. A distraction. Make her want it more than you do…

“I’m useless in here. I don’t need a palace. I don’t even need a bed. Or food, honestly, I’m doing fine without…” He cuts himself off—she doesn’t need to know—and breathes out. “I’ll follow orders. I won’t run—if I wanted to, I would’ve already.”

Scarfidna listens intently. He had forgotten what that felt like.

“…I just want out.”

Idiot. Moron. Fool. ABSOLUTE IMBECILE.

“I physically cannot hurt anyone. And I can be very, very quiet—you won’t even notice me, metaphorically speaking of course, otherwise I’d already be ou—”

Shut up, shut up, shut up.

“…B-but if you want some noise, I can be louder too! And I can tell you the weather early, so you can wear a hat, and—”

Close your stupid mouth RIGHT NOW.

…This is Echidna, not Anastasia. Don’t blow it.

His breathing stutters—because he’s talking too fast. His hands tremble—from tension. His eyes water—from light, probably, hopefully.

He swallows thick saliva. Leans back with a grin he hopes looks confident.

“You don’t have to like me. You don’t have to trust me. Just tie me to your cart like an… incredibly ugly lucky rabbit’s foot and enjoy the effects. I can prevent disasters you don’t even see coming.”

His fingers twitch; he fights the urge to clasp his hands.

“And if I bore you… If I become a liability; if you doubt for a moment that taking me was worth it… You have a knight, a mage and two spirits.”

His inhale rattles—a dramatic pause, perfect.

“Killing me would be the easiest thing in the world.”

Exhale.

“You get foresight,” Subaru finishes quietly, eyes locked on her. “And I… get a walk to the Tower and, hopefully, my name.”

He blinks fast. Anastasia stays silent long enough for him to regain control.

“Deal.”

“So, here’s my offer. Fair bargain, but if you want to add something—”

“Natsuki.”

“I can consider that, of course, just because it’d be a shame if all of you died out th—”

“Natsuki.”

“Not that your fate matters to me, but you know, I’d like the world to remember my cunning, like—imagine: you try so hard, do all this evil, and then—poof, and—”

“Natsuki Subaru. I said: deal.”

Subaru jolts like struck.

…How beautiful his own name sounds.

“…A-ah. Sorry. Could you say it again?”

...

She does. Says more—about convoys, petitions, bureaucracy. Subaru’s skull feels stuffed with cotton; all he can do is blink and nod.

...

He doesn’t know how long the conversation lasts. Longer than it takes two guards to deliver a cloak, probably, yet still nowhere near long enough.

“Oh, right—before I go. How did you know I wasn’t Anastasia?”

Only that question truly wakes him.

“You’re too calm, and you should blink more." the jagged response bounces off the teeth "Don’t act emotions so directly. Don’t laugh at the wrong times. Oh, and simulate empathy before getting down to business.”

“So much criticism… And you think my knight won’t notice?”

Subaru smirks—forced arrogance hiding bitterness. No foresight needed to know why.

“Everyone forgot him,” Subaru shrugs. “I bet he’s in too much pain to notice anything.”

Two days later, the first bracelet of his new shackles fits a little too tight—as new things tend to. Only five links connect it to the second; not much room for tricks, but Subaru doesn’t complain.

Why?

Choke on your spite as you fasten this ticket-to-freedom, guard-bastard-two! Shackles rarely symbolize freedom, but lots of things in Subaru’s life refuse to work properly.

The second bracelet clicks shut on bruised purple-green skin, and despite his determination to stand still and look cool, Subaru squeaks pitifully—and ends up sliding to the floor entirely.

Cold. Cold, cold, cold—almost like when Puck froze his blood from the inside; like the bodies of people you cared about when you find them dead; like someone drained the very last spark from his soul and left only cold, cold ash…

“Like it?” The bastard laughs through the ringing in Subaru’s ears. They always laugh. Pain is hilarious, apparently—his pain, his twisted body, his tears. “Mana Suppression Shackles, Tier-2. You forgot already?”

He’s worn these before, Subaru recalls through the crushing weight on his chest. In places like this, there's no one to deal with the toxic mana of shattered gates, to slowly and carefully remove the magical poison from the body—a laughable fantasy in a world where magic limiters exist. It was already so cold at the very beginning, when someone first called him by that vile name...

“What’s wrong, Pride? Cat got your tongue?” the bastard laughs again. Subaru would love to snap back, but he barely has air to breathe—and naturally, now the cough tries to break out. “Let me help you.”

The world tilts a bit, but Subaru manages a normal breath when the guard crouches beside him. He attaches another chain to the shackles—long, with the free end coiled around his fist. A leash. And, obviously, because he’s a bastard, he yanks it hard.

His wrists burn; Subaru has no choice but to follow. As if he could stand still now, after two months of malnutrition, no sunlight, two days of self-imposed starvation to avoid poison, and having his mana ripped out in one go.

…Beako was always gentler.

Don’t think.

Yes. Now Subaru could barely defeat a Victorian boy with cholera, rickets, and preferably in a coma.

Slam his already-abused nose into the guard’s breastplate? He can handle that. The grip in his hair hurts far worse—Subaru can’t suppress the reflexive wince, his muscles tensing in anticipation of… something. Always painful. The rational part of him knows tension doesn’t help. Relaxation hurts less. He wishes he could explain that to his own nerves.

He can’t relax. Not here. Not this close to one of his torturers. They always knew how to make everything worse.

Break the body? Sure, bones and muscles have endured worse.
Starve him? Fine—how much food and water does a prisoner need? Not much. Nothing happens if you miss a couple days… He used to think he was valuable for information, but seriously—letting your prisoner starve? Why is he even here if they care so little?

Contortion in painful, exhausting positions in darkness—reminds him of that failed Sanctuary loop, Garfiel’s captivity. Almost bad. But Subaru lucked out—most guards were boastful idiots, easily provoked. Pain, insults—anything is better than silence and darkness.

…Better than letting the faint, pathetic part of him hope Otto might save him again.

Or… anything else. Don’t think about that. No need to poke old wounds. Past is past—only the present matters.

In the present, the bastard rises—pulling Subaru’s head up with him. Subaru’s knees refuse to lift him.

“You don’t really want out, do you?” the bastard taunts. “Maybe I should tell someone you want to stay.”

The provocation is so empty Subaru doesn’t even get angry. Just closes his eyes and waits for the pain in his scalp to fade, for his knees to steady. This bastard is too proud to carry someone like Subaru.

“You’re doing it wrong, Lügner.”
A deceptively gentle tone. A hated, nasal voice behind him. Subaru’s eyes fly open on instinct.

He shuts them immediately. It won’t help—nothing helps—but anything to not be here.

“You need to be gentle,” the voice whispers by his ear, gloved hands sliding under his arms. His hair is released.

Subaru once named him: the Glove-Maker.

His presence snaps Subaru’s thoughts into clarity:
He is leaving this place.
None of them—not even the worst—will stop that.

“Thinking you’ll get away, huh?” the voice laughs as the hands pull Subaru back against a chest. “Get rid of us?”

He hears the smile in that poisonous tone. It nauseates him.

“Maybe you fooled Yuklius and his lady,” the breath against his skin burns, raising goosebumps—Subaru hates it—“but we know you, Pride-chan. Once they see how useless you are, they’ll send you back to us.”

Send you back to me — unspoken, but clear.

Subaru bites his cheek to stop his hands from shaking.

“We’ll be waiting.”

When the hands let go, his legs—weak as they are—hold. Blood fills his mouth. The bastard-guard jerks the chain again, but Subaru welcomes the distance from the Glove-Maker.

He follows the pull.
Doesn’t look at the guard ahead; gives himself to the ringing in his ears, anything to drown out the voice behind.
Doesn’t answer.
Doesn’t think—just takes a step over the threshold of his cell. Second time this week.
And this time—not to return.

…Wow.

He’s still getting used to that feeling as they lead him through the corridors—each brighter than the last. Subaru stops instinctively when, after two endless staircases, he sees the first window.

Barred, cloudy—but sunlight spills onto the stone floor.
Subaru steps into it. Warmth beneath bare feet—almost forgotten—fills him with primitive, quiet joy.

Two-months-ago Subaru wouldn’t have hidden it.
The current Subaru swallows it down easily.
The chain tugs, and he walks forward as if nothing happened.
As if he’s a sinner, a broken prisoner, a mad Archbishop who wouldn’t rejoice over something so trivial as sunlight.

It’s surprisingly easy to play the role.

The sunspot fades behind them. Rough stone halls turn into bright, carpeted rooms with sofas and potted plants. More faces—each more unfamiliar than the last.
The last door he recognizes slams shut behind him with a deafening thud, pressure lifting from his wrists.
Subaru doesn’t register it in time—he walks several more steps on instinct and slams into his guard’s back.

The jolt snaps him to awareness; he blinks hard. And again—for clarity, or maybe because he wants to see Julius Juukulius.

Annoyed. Tense. Hollow-eyed. Suspicious of him—none of this suits Julius, but Subaru still thinks his face is probably the most beautiful thing in the world right now.

The guard and Julius speak—Subaru hears it as white noise.
He watches the way sunlight lands on Julius’s hair—who knew it could look that beautiful?
Watches dust float in the air.
Feels the soft carpet beneath his fingers—warmer even than the sunspot.

The white noise fades when the chain rings. It doesn’t hurt—just rings.

In Julius’s hands, it may as well sing.

Chapter Text

The sun, shining so irritatingly bright into her eyes, doesn’t wake Emilia at all, because she definitely didn’t fall asleep on the road — she just… closed her eyes for a few minutes.

“Betty couldn’t care less what you do in your free time, I suppose,” Beatrice, sitting opposite her, replies without lifting her eyes from the book in her hands.

Detached.

It’s familiar. Just like a distant year ago — before the fire, before the Sanctuary — the only difference now being that there’s no library for her to retreat into; Beatrice has been like this ever since the battle in Priestella ended.

It’s only natural. The soul-deep pain of losing a contract is something Emilia knows far too well.

“But I must note, your sniffling is rather irritating,” Beatrice adds after a short pause, holding the next page without turning it, “Just go to sleep properly, I suppose.”

…Maybe not so detached after all. The clumsy hint of concern spreads warmth through Emilia’s chest, allowing a small smile to bloom.

“I can’t sleep right now,” she shakes her head, finally shaking off the drowsiness. Wanting to change the subject, she asks, “What are you reading?”

Beatrice startles and drops the page she’d been holding.

From Emilia’s angle, it’s blank. She regrets the question the very moment she asks it.

“I—”

“Don’t you dare apologize,” Beatrice cuts her off, her tone completely unchanged. “Betty has seen enough empty pages already. Such nonsense means nothing anymore.”

Emilia stays silent. Whatever Beatrice says — only someone who doesn’t truly know her wouldn’t hear the old pain hidden behind that indifference.

“Besides, these… aren't entirely empty, I suppose,” she finishes quietly but firmly, and snaps the book shut.

“Beako,” reads the inscription in her own handwriting on the pink cover, leaving an obvious empty space underneath..

More than half the pages — worn, clearly thumbed through many times in the past — are completely blank. Emilia, with Beatrice’s reluctant permission, checked them herself at least a dozen times. Only a handful — maybe ten — contain anything at all.

The ink print of a small palm, obviously leaving room for a second; messy doodles vaguely resembling Puck; symbols in an unknown language, also — in Beatrice’s handwriting, though she doesn’t remember writing them…

Complete gibberish — that’s all that remains of the diary their “missing person” had once kept.

Someone so important that the pain splits your skull the moment you try to think about the days “before.” Them marks linger in strange words, in habits that appeared from nowhere; in a room far too big for Beatrice alone; in their inexplicable — inexplicable! — streak of good luck days long past.

Traces-empty-stains. Someone who left behind so much that even disappearing, they’re impossible not to search for — and even if it’s just chasing a shadow, still…

“We’ll find them,” Emilia says, and it’s one of the few things she can say with such certainty.

This faith — too — is a trace.

Beatrice, contrary to Emilia’s expectations, doesn’t reply with her usual curt nod — she only presses her lips together and tightens her grip on the book. Emilia feels a stab of fear.

“What’s wrong, Beatrice? Is something wrong with the contract?”

It couldn’t have just… vanished, right?

“Tch, stop fussing!” Beatrice jerks her head so sharply her curls bounce. “The contract…”

She hesitates, presses a hand to her heart, and continues much more quietly:

“Far away and silent, as always, I suppose. It simply… exists.”

Emilia stays silent.

“What if…” — this is new — seeing Beatrice hesitant, quiet, vulnerable, searching for words — “What if they doesn’t want to be found?”

“Beatrice…”

“What if,” she continues, and in her grief her voice gains strength, “What if, like Mother—!”

“They wouldn’t abandon you!” Emilia blurts out, louder than etiquette allows — etiquette she spent months learning, “Just because they disappeared doesn’t mean—”

“How would you know?” Beatrice hisses. “Bubby abandoned you too! —”

And stops short. Looks at her, wounded; and Emilia won’t — can’t — pretend those words don’t hurt, but they only reinforce her conviction. Before Puck severed their bond, her memories of Elior Forest were erased just as brutally.

“Puck didn’t abandon me,” she answers, firmer now, “and the fact that I can’t remember how I managed without him means our Lost One was there with me even then.”

Beatrice is silent.

“The Rabbit, killers, Roswaal, and all that with me in charge… Do you really think someone who stayed with us even through that would abandon you so easily?”

“…Those are just assumptions,” she mutters, turning away, “what’s the point in speculating…”

“Well, the fact that you took them hand — that’s proof enough, isn’t it?” The answer comes so easily that Emilia smiles, shyly. “I don’t think you’d trust just anyone.”

Beatrice turns back, paling, blushing, and…

“Hmph,” she huffs as if annoyed, though Emilia still sees the slight twitch at the corners of her lips. “Indeed, Betty would not choose a good-for-nothing. Sometimes, I suppose, you do manage to say something sensible.”

Emilia laughs. Lately they’ve been burdened with far too many worries, and the fact they can still smile like this — after deciding on the last desperate measure available — truly feels like a miracle.

Her laughter cuts off when the carriage stops so abruptly that Beatrice nearly tumbles off her seat.

“Ah… looks like we’ve arrived,” Emilia says, brushing her hair out of her face.

“Tch, what an inept dragon!” Beatrice cries, flicking her curls back, now brimming with brisk annoyance completely unlike her mood a minute ago.

“Now, Beatrice, don’t be mean to Patrasche. I’m sure she’s trying her best.”

“No, she’s doing it on purpose,” comes Ram’s voice through the small window near the driver’s seat. “Cold, calculated malice. Hm, remarkable talent.”

“Don’t praise such things, I suppose!”

Emilia climbs out of the carriage. Ram is already unfastening Patrasche, who chirps something in her dragon tongue while scraping the road with her claws one after another.

“She must be nervous without Otto,” Emilia sighs. “We should buy her something tasty on the way back.”

“I doubt you’ll find any such shop here,” Ram cuts her down flatly without turning around. “Don’t get distracted, Lady Emilia. We have far more pressing matters.”

The cold tone drags Emilia back to the single thought that cost her several nights of sleep.

“…But just so you know, I still don’t like this,” Ram finishes.

“A servant’s opinion carries no weight,” Beatrice huffs, stepping down after Emilia. She descends slowly, awkwardly holding up her fluffy dress, utterly ignoring Emilia’s offered hand.

Her pink shoes click against the stone pavement, dragging Emilia’s mind fully back into harsh reality. Beyond the gate, past the walls separating them from the outer world, lies the Buried Court — the underground prison — and from there, they’ll have to continue on foot.

“I understand why you’re suspicious,” Emilia says, meeting Ram’s eyes directly, “but still… since the mission’s success affects more than just us, we need to take every measure we can.”

Ram, having finished with Patrasche’s tack, scratches her under the snout — though the dragon, normally delighted, pulls her head back and sits heavily on her haunches.

“A clever beast. She senses cultists bring nothing good,” Ram sighs, crossing her arms.

“He isn’t affected by Gluttony’s authority,” Emilia insists, “and Anastasia said he’s willing to cooperate…”

“Betty does not care who he is,” Beatrice adds — and it’s rare to see her support anyone’s side in such arguments, but on this matter she is even more resolute than Emilia, “if he can help find my contractor, he can, I suppose, be even the Witch herself.”

Ram raises her hands in surrender.

“Hah. No need to be so defensive,” she smirks. “Just because I dislike the decision doesn’t mean I intend to oppose it. Still, someone here must keep a clear head.”

“Thank you for that, Ram,” Emilia says sincerely.

She knows she lacks rationality, and having allies with cold judgment like Ram and Otto is a true blessing.

…Though perhaps predictable? Their Lost One could easily be responsible for that too.

Doubting herself constantly is bad, of course, but — strangely — Emilia doesn’t feel like a failure. Her memories have too many smudged places, and precisely because of that, she knows for sure: this person was important. When you return home after a long road, it’s comforting to find your belongings exactly where you left them. And if the belongings disappear? It would be rude to put something else in their place — so why should it be any different with memories?

…So she will not draw conclusions about things she cannot be sure of. No matter how many such things there are, one truth she knows: during those blurred, bright days, she had been happier than any frozen-lonely girl in the forest could ever dream of being.

“Hmph. That’s the least I expected from this servant,” Beatrice snaps, pulling Emilia out of her thoughts. “But how long are we going to stand here, I suppose?”

“It seems we won’t have to walk anywhere at all,” Ram suddenly says, then dips into a curtsey. “Greetings, Lady Anastasia.”

Emilia turns — and indeed sees the merchant approaching their group. She greets her as well.

“A pleasure to see you, ladies,” Anastasia says with her usual polite smile. “Your guess was correct — there’s no need for you to descend into that place. Truly, there is nothing there you should see. My knight will be enough to escort the prisoner.”

Silence falls.

“Forgive me,” Ram breaks it, “just one knight for an Archbishop?”

Emilia knows: Anastasia is smarter, more experienced, more perceptive — and with all that, sly — but above all, she’s a reliable ally. It was Emilia who agreed to let her handle the matter of the prisoner, yet even with that trust, Ram’s words make her tense. She immediately thinks of Regulus — utterly unaffected even by her strongest spells.

For that monster, even the Sword Saint had nearly not been enough.

“I understand your doubts, Ram,” Anastasia closes her eyes with her usual calm, “You will understand once you meet him. They should arrive shortly.”

“Can’t wait,” Ram mutters, arms folded, leaning against the carriage, clearly unwilling to say more.

Anastasia chuckles.

“I see not everyone in your camp approves of my idea, Lady Emilia.”

“Otto was against it too,” Emilia admits honestly. “And I completely understand — this is dangerous, and the cult caused us a lo-o-ot of trouble… but still. That’s no reason to ignore an opportunity.”

“You’ve become surprisingly calculating, Lady Emilia,” Anastasia gasps, folding her hands in delight, “I’m pleasantly surprised.”

“You think so?” Emilia blushes. “Well, I just think maybe not all cultists are necessarily bad? Maybe some of them could be a tiny bit good…?”

“…Ah, pay it no mind.”

Watching Juli with the enamored eyes of a rescued princess is the kind of shame Subaru would probably never wash off, and as a little bonus, it’s also a rather illogical reaction from a supposed Archbishop. So he reminds himself to stick to the only working survival tactic in this damn place.

Juli. J-u-l-i. Memorize it letter by letter, etch it on your tongue with a tattoo: an enemy, a good guy who utterly despises you.

“…Pride,” the guy nods.

Like last time, Subaru can’t interpret the neutral tone any other way than as if Juli had found a wound in his heart and thoroughly poked at it with his finger.

“Didn’t expect to see you again so soon, Knight-boy,” he smiles this time genuinely, “I thought you’d forgotten about me.”

A short phrase demands more effort than it seems, and as soon as it’s over, Subaru feels a sudden shortage of air. While he tries to quietly catch his breath, Juli doesn’t move a muscle.

Silence stretches on. Thoughts of steady breathing give way to rising anxiety, and Subaru replays his own words in his head.

…Ah.

Damn, messed up, messed-up-messed-up-messed-up—

“I thought with your authority, predicting my appearance wouldn’t be an issue,” Juli replies evenly.

Idiot.

Relaxed, thinking everything’s fine just because it’s Juli? You said it yourself, he’s the enemy—so why the hell did you think you could step out of role?

Before it’s too late, find a way to die here—

Ah, just shut up already.

“Hah… Now what, live thinking about you?” Subaru takes in a big breath, grimaces, “Phew, no thanks, my heart’s already taken. Bye-bye.”

Juli blinks.

“What? Life lesson number one: live in the present,” Subaru snorts condescendingly.

…Probably something someone embodying Pride would say? Not easy, being a filthy, stinking prisoner, to convince yourself of any mental superiority, even over someone.

“You can pull the stick out of your ass when the situation actually gets dangerous, I’ll save you, trust me,” Subaru continues. “Although, you can not believe me, I don’t care about your opinion. Are we going or what? Want me to predict the route so you don’t step in rat sh—kha-kha…”

…Okay, maybe too much verbal momentum isn’t wise either. Subaru feels a chill on his sweaty neck and his head suddenly heavy, deciding the person who ticked off “mana suppression-Tier 2” is a goddamn jerk. Really, a tiny spiritual contract’s mana wasn’t worth Subaru almost dying over a couple of jokes.

“No,” Juli sighs, and for a second, it’s so familiar that Subaru’s lips curl into a smile he quickly suppresses. “Let’s go.”

Subaru theatrically widens his eyes.

“Ah, seriously? No lecture like ‘blah-blah-blah, don’t breathe, don’t fart, don’t do this or that or you’ll die’?" — because he need to know the rules — come on, Juli, tell me what I need to do for you to kill a cultist? "Safety instructions? What am I working with, Juli-chi?”

And only now—terrifyingly—there’s something glinting in Juli’s eyes Subaru has never seen before.

“Try to hurt anyone—and you’ll die.”

That single phrase, in that exact voice, hits Subaru like a bucket of ice water.

The air itself seems to freeze. His mouth suddenly feels drier than before, and Subaru swallows thick saliva tasting of rust.

“Try to escape or remove the cuffs—you’ll die.
Use magic, even a little—you’ll die.
Dare to contact the cult—and I’ll slit your throat.”

Juli continues as calmly as if reading instructions on knife care.

“Always be where I can see you. Respond to my commands immediately. Tell me everything you learn with your authority.”

He pauses, staring at Subaru for a few moments, unblinking.

“Any attempt to fake weakness will be treated as manipulation.”

…Fake!

Look at him, damn it! Do you know how much weakness is in these bones?! Barely standing, breathing hard, not even mentioning a throbbing head or a stomach chewing itself; Subaru might gladly lie down and sleep on this nice floor, but no—he’s wasting his strength and time on this idiotic dialogue, like, coherent sentences, open eyes? Do you even realize how much adrenaline this takes?! Lucky you’re scary, heart pounding like this, crazy, and… Try spending a month or two in a cellar, you knightly pig!

Juli’s gaze is calm, pure. Icy.

Bastard.

“Clear enough?”

…No running, no magic, not whining too much, follow Juli like a duckling behind a mother duck, cater to his whims. Got it.

“Crystal,” Subaru swallows again; the new saliva hasn’t built up yet, trickling into his throat, irritating him.

He can’t suppress his cough. Tries honestly, but it only makes it worse, and halfway through resigns, coughing so hard it tears his throat.

Juli waits patiently until it passes, without particular sympathy, but Subaru wouldn’t wait for him, even if they were… friends. When Emilia asked, he always said they weren’t.

Got what you wanted.

“Allergic to idiots,” Subaru rasped when finally released. “Standing long?”

He dropped the line defiantly, but when Juli steps toward the exit, Subaru doesn’t follow.

The chain between them, previously slack, tightens until it clangs. The pressure on Subaru’s wrists isn’t as strong as before, but after a few minutes of getting used to it, he still shudders. More from surprise than pain. Some small mercy in numb fingers shackled with hated cuffs.

“Well?” Juli urges, turning back.

Subaru nods, peeling off the floor.

So they walk. Juli ahead, a meter of chain between them, and Subaru behind. A couple of days earlier, he might have, out of principle, hurried forward to walk side by side and occasionally poke Juli about something—why is he so sour?—but now, honestly, he has no strength for anything like that.

…When will this prison finally end?

Step, another step, weaving through corridors here and there. The fact that after the doors Subaru knows, a whole new wing opens up mostly crushes the feeling of a crossed finish line.

Although, rather, a “starting line.”

…Start from zero once again, huh, Subaru?

Not even joking, it feels completely grim, even in thought.

…How much longer? Maybe now?

And there’s absolutely no need to slow down, dumb Juli. Shove your high-minded sympathy up your ass—you spent three pages lecturing about what actions would get my head chopped off.

…Though, you know what, you’re right, don’t rush, wait—stairs are a serious boss. Who the hell needs so many stairs? Subaru would have asked aloud, started an engaging, in theory, discussion—but there’s not enough air, and Juli, all perfect knight, stays completely, utterly silent, not a word of judgment, no longer even scary.

Adrenaline—gone.

Say something mean, Juli, or I’ll pass out right here.

“What?” Juli asks again, that cold unfamiliar tone—and yes, it works.

“You stepped in shit, I’m telling you,” Subaru smirks through his breathlessness. “Bold evil plan… succeeded… hah.”

Juli doesn’t answer. Because no. Not funny.

…Right on the pristine white shoe, ha. Slightly funny.

Subaru tries to laugh, breathe, and climb stairs simultaneously, missing when they end.

…Seriously? Can we finally collapse somewhere?

What opens up before Subaru… Well, first of all, a scorched retina. The sun outside is too bright, the air—too fresh, too many too noisy people, and, Juli, stop at least on…

No need to embarrass yourself and open his mouth. Yes, stand here and wait while I blink and catch my breath. That’s for forgetting me, got it? So now, suffer.

…A stone-paved courtyard opens up, yes. Wide, rectangular, with even a distant walking area—not for cool prisoners like Subaru, who’s been placed in the very, very depths and brought out only for interrogations.

…Too big a courtyard. Why would people need such a huge area? Don’t they get tired of walking so much?..

Continuing to follow Juli, Subaru glances briefly back at the main building left behind.

Dark, gray, ugly, like everything here. Very small, because all the juice goes inward; too small—by Subaru’s feel, who’s walked what feels like a couple of football fields, and that’s probably not a good sign.

It’s behind him. That’s the main building.

Now only the trip through the monster-infested desert to the Misanthrope Sage Tower remains, convincing him to help restore a few names to the world. Easy.

…For the first time since completely breaking down in the capital before Rem, the upcoming seems overwhelmingly impossible.

“You better earn your wage properly,” Subaru mutters, completely defeated.

Juli doesn’t respond.

“You’re a knight of knights, right? Get us to the tower without major mishaps. There and back, like going to a store,” Subaru continues monotonously. “I’ll say ‘oh, scary monster to the right,’ then left, you chop them for salad, and we’re there.”

Still silence.

“Fine, I don’t like you much either,” Subaru closes his eyes, continuing to walk, now lightly and pleasantly—his new mission is annoying Juli enough to get a word, to stay awake.

…

“Come on, Juli-chi, tell me,” Subaru disregards breathlessness, pain, sleep, sun, the world—just the stone underfoot and a possible answer. “Quick: yes or no? How much trouble can a few beast demons cause a guy with six spirits?”

Steps ahead stop. Chain clinks, Subaru not fast enough to react—just opens eyes, keeps walking.

He doesn’t collide with Juli because he grabs and holds the prison robe collar.

Subaru holds his breath, squints, anticipating… doesn’t know what, but certainly not the sharp, quiet thing right in his face:

“Is this your tactic?” He opens one eye, the golden iris’s fierce gaze like a predatory bird. “Looking for where it’ll hurt most?”

…Subaru realizes what’s happening, and genuine, chilling horror spreads through his heart.

He didn’t mean that—!..

“What a pathetic habit,” Juli hisses like spitting, and for the first time, Subaru hears true venom in his usually flawless words. “Don’t play with other people’s feelings. Won’t tolerate it a second time.”

And releases him, smoothly setting Subaru on his feet—otherwise he’d likely fall ass-first on cobblestones—and immediately turns, continuing without a chance to recover from the shock.

Subaru walks behind, renewed energy from his frantically pounding heart. The world narrows to the point between Juli’s shoulder blades and thoughts of inhale-exhale-inhale…

One more inhale. Pause. Exhale, longer. Again…

…Now, in other people’s eyes, he’s a malicious manipulator—just brilliant. The urge to ignore these breaths in and out, to catch up, grab him by the collar, and shout right in his face what a hopeless idiot Juli is and that he understands nothing…

…Or maybe it’s better this way.

A dark, ugly thought presses down from that corner of the soul that in this dungeon has long since rotted and dried to ashes.

Did clinging to innocence give you many advantages? — the knot unravels, — But all it would have taken was to give them what they asked for—and here you are, enjoying the sun and everything like that.

So… is it really worth it to you?

Saying “you’re mistaken” and “I’m innocent”—did it ever work?

Did it work when Rem killed you because you smelled like a witch?

…That one hurt.

Subaru shakes his head, dismissing the nonsense, quickens pace to walk beside Juli.

“I don’t know what you thought,” he blurts before Juli, clearly displeased, can speak, and passionately lies: “But I don’t give a damn about your pathetic feelings.”

Juli stops, frowns, but Subaru inhales sharply and continues, leaving no pause:

“Hurt? Not my problem,” he hisses, secretly enjoying the jaw muscles twitching, “All I care about is whether you can follow my plan. If someone in your company’s going to cry because I asked a simple question…”

Subaru pauses. Because he needs to take another breath—but he plays it off as a deliberate pause, smiling brightly, and, as soon as he can, mockingly.

“…So, you don’t even reach my level, and we should turn around and go back.”

He imagines how it looks. You arrive, the flawless knight, at one of the most serious prisons in the country, and there a runt the size of your thigh, all mangled, starts pressuring you, saying between fits of coughing that you’re not up to such an empress. Laughable, really.

He imagines it, and only because of that…

“If you can’t even make it to the tower, you’re dead weight,” he hisses, realizing that he has to end it now, because his voice wouldn’t have the strength for another tirade like this, “and I’m not going to drag you along.”

That’s it. The end. If his hands obeyed, Subaru would have clasped his fingers in relief.

…In the worst-case scenario, if Juli changes his mind now and drives him away, Subaru could just return to the cell and die there, right?

“...Ha. You really…”

Juli slowly raises a hand, Subaru chills.

He’ll hit, right?

He… flips his bangs. This, pardon the language, magnificent bastard flips magnificent bangs with a magnificent hand in the usual motion Subaru hasn’t seen for what feels like ages, and tears almost form at how comforting it is.

“…Pride, through and through,” Juli hisses, eyes bright as today’s sun.

Color of disdain, perhaps—but Subaru’s used to it.

“Hm, indeed,” he rolls eyes with a smirk.

Then, giving in to an impulse of the heart, ignoring the pain in his missing nails and the throbbing in his wrists, he spreads his arms as far as the chain allows and slightly bows in a reverent gesture.

“In person, Archbishop of Pride,” he bares his teeth, “Natsuki Subaru. You can hate me or despise me, I don’t care.”

Julius, Juli—honestly, he no longer has the strength to try and tell them apart in his head—remains silent.

The silence hanging between them is pierced by a third voice.

“Excellent,” sharp, piercing, like a needle under the nails, familiar-cold, “I was planning to despise you.”

It’s Ram speaking.

And Subaru had thought he’d imagined it. Without her maid uniform, he could barely recognize her at the corner of his eye.

…Hold on just a little longer.

Without lowering his smile—in fact, letting it distort his face as much as possible—Subaru turns toward her.

“Well, hello. I’ve missed the audience.”

And he doesn’t blink at anyone but Ram. No way—he ignores the group behind her.