Chapter Text
The subterranean kingdom of Khaenri’ah was a world of eternal twilight, illuminated not by the sun or the moon, but by the intricate clockwork of man-made stars and the luminescent pulse of the artificial sun. Here, beneath the crust of the world, the air smelled of ozone, cold stone, and the distant, metallic tang of the great forges.
Surtalogi stood on one of the high precipices overlooking the capital, his dark purple hair caught in the artificial breeze generated by the ventilation shafts. His face, etched with scars that told stories of monsters slain in the Abyss, was set in its usual stern mask. To the soldiers of the Royal Guard, Surtalogi was a terror—a man who valued power above all else, whose tongue was as sharp as his blade, and whose patience for mediocrity was non-existent.
But as a rhythmic, light footfall echoed against the crystalline floor behind him, the tension in Surtalogi’s shoulders didn’t tighten. It melted.
"You’re brooding again," a voice said—a voice like the first thaw of spring, calm and melodic.
Surtalogi didn’t turn.. yet. He didn’t have to. He knew the scent of the Inteyvats and old parchment that followed Dainsleif everywhere. He knew the exact height of the man, the lithe grace of his movements, and the way his pale golden hair would be glowing faintly in the dim light.
"I am reflecting," Surtalogi corrected, his voice dropping an octave, losing the serrated edge he used for everyone else.
Dainsleif stepped up beside him, leaning his elbows on the balcony railing. He was the Twilight Sword, the paragon of Khaenri’ah’s martial prowess, yet he looked more like a dream than a soldier. His blue eyes, deep as the twilight and twice as bright, looked out over the city.
"Reflecting on what? The new recruits?... Or how much you dislike the new Captain of the Alchemists?" Dainsleif teased gently.
Surtalogi finally looked at him. Up close, Dainsleif’s beauty was nearly painful. He was so delicate in appearance, so ethereal, yet Surtalogi knew the strength that lay beneath that porcelain skin. They had grown up together in the alleys of the Eclipse Dynasty, one belonging to the Nobles... and the other being an orphan whose parents were convicted criminals sentenced to death. Yet, they had forged themselves into the kingdom’s strongest shields.
"On the passage of time," Surtalogi said, his heart hammering a rhythm that contradicted his stoic expression. "...On how long we have stood on this very spot, Dainsleif."
Dainsleif laughed softly, a sound that Surtalogi wanted to bottle and keep hidden away from the rest of the world. "Since we were children sneaking out of the barracks to see the 'stars.' You were much shorter then."
"And you were much more prone to getting lost," Surtalogi countered, a ghost of a smile touching his lips.
For a moment, the air between them shifted. The playfulness died down, replaced by a heavy, shimmering tension. Surtalogi’s hand, calloused and large, twitched toward Dainsleif’s. He wanted to reach out, to tuck a stray strand of gold behind Dain’s ear, to say the words that had been rotting in his throat for a decade.
I love you. I have loved you ever since we were kids. Every ounce of power I seek is so that I can ensure a world where you never have to bleed....
"Dainsleif," he began, his voice rasping.
"Yes?" Dainsleif turned his head, his wide, bright blue eyes searching Surtalogi’s face with an openness that was almost devastating. Dainsleif was a master of the sword, but in the theater of the heart, he was an innocent. He saw the world with a purity that Surtalogi, in all his cynicism, envied and adored.
"I wanted to ask..." Surtalogi started, his resolve hardening. He was a man who conquered the Abyss; surely he could conquer his own fear.
But before the sentence could find its end, a third shadow joined them.
"Ah! Captain Dainsleif! There you are."
The voice belonged to Halfdan. He was one of Dainsleif’s elite subordinates, a man of quiet respect and gentle disposition. Halfdan was tall, his presence calming and aloof, and he was one of the few people Surtalogi didn't openly snarl at—partly because Dainsleif cherished him, and partly because Halfdan was undeniably competent.
Halfdan approached, bowing slightly to Surtalogi before turning his attention to Dainsleif. "The Council is asking for the final report on the border skirmish. I told them I’d find you."
Dainsleif blinked, the moment of tension breaking like glass. "Ah, of course. I lost track of time." He turned back to Surtalogi, an apologetic smile on his face. "We’ll finish this later, Surtr? Whatever you were going to ask?"
Surtalogi’s hand, which had been inches from Dainsleif’s sleeve, curled into a fist and retreated into the folds of his dark cloak. His expression shuttered, the stern, rude mask snapping back into place.
"It was nothing of importance," Surtalogi said coldly. "Go. Duty doesn't wait for dawdlers."
Dainsleif’s smile faltered, a flicker of hurt crossing his features at Surtalogi’s sudden change in tone, but he nodded. As Dainsleif walked away, Halfdan lingered for a second. His eyes darted between Surtalogi’s rigid back and Dainsleif’s retreating form. There was a knowing, almost mischievous glint in Halfdan’s eyes. He had long suspected the depths of Surtalogi’s feelings—it was hard not to notice how the most fearsome man in Khaenri’ah turned into a protective shadow the moment Dainsleif entered a room.
Halfdan caught up to Dainsleif, and as they walked, Surtalogi watched. He watched as Halfdan leaned in to whisper something to Dainsleif. He watched as Dainsleif laughed and playfully nudged Halfdan’s shoulder. To Surtalogi’s tortured eyes, the intimacy looked practiced. Easy.
Surtalogi felt a cold, hollow ache in his chest. Strength and power, he told himself, turning back to the dark expanse of the city. That is all I have. That is all I should want.
The following weeks were a slow torture. Surtalogi buried himself in his work, pushing his body to the absolute limit. He took on missions into the deepest reaches of the Abyss, returning with blood on his cloak and a darker fire in his eyes. He stayed away from the training grounds when he knew the Twilight Sword would be there.
He convinced himself it was for the best. Dainsleif was a creature of light, despite the title he bore. He deserved someone like Halfdan—someone gentle, someone who wouldn't bring the stench of death and the weight of obsession into his life. Surtalogi was a monster of his own making, a man who saw the world in terms of conquest. He didn't know how to love softly; he only knew how to protect fiercely.
One evening, a festival was being held in the lower districts to celebrate the anniversary of the kingdom’s founding. The streets were filled with the glow of lanterns and the sound of music. Surtalogi had no intention of attending, preferring the silence of his private chambers, but a direct summons from the palace forced his hand.
He moved through the crowds like a predator through tall grass, people parting instinctively before his glowering presence. He found himself near the Royal Gardens, a place of bioluminescent flora and quiet stone paths.
And there, he saw them.
Dainsleif and Halfdan were standing under a cascading willow tree of silver light. Halfdan was holding a small, intricately carved wooden box, handing it to Dainsleif. Dainsleif looked surprised, his hands delicate as he accepted the gift. He looked up at Halfdan, his face illuminated by the soft glow of the garden, and he smiled—that same radiant, heart-stopping smile.
Surtalogi stopped in his tracks, his breath hitching. From his vantage point, it looked like a confession. It looked like an ending. He didn't stay to see Dainsleif open the box. He didn't stay to hear the words exchanged. He turned on his heel and vanished into the shadows, his heart feeling like it had been crushed under the weight of the very mountains that housed them.
He is happy, Surtalogi thought, his jaw aching from how hard he was clenching it. He is with someone who matches his spirit. I was a fool to think I could ever be more than a... brother-in-arms.
Three days later, Surtalogi was in the sparring rings, alone. It was late, the artificial sun dimmed to their nighttime violet. He was moving with a frantic, violent energy, his greatsword whistling through the air as he cleaved through training dummies made of reinforced steel. He was trying to outrun his own thoughts, trying to burn the image of Dainsleif and Halfdan in the garden out of his mind.
"You’re going to break your sword if you keep that up."
Surtalogi froze. He didn't turn around. "Leave me, Dain."
"No." The word was firm, unusual for the usually yielding Dainsleif. Surtalogi heard the footsteps approaching. Then, a hand touched his shoulder. Surtalogi flinched away as if burned, spinning around with a snarl.
"I said, leave!"
Dainsleif stood there, looking startled but not afraid. He was wearing his formal uniform, his hair shining like spun moonlight. In his hand, he held the wooden box Surtalogi had seen in the garden.
"What is wrong with you?" Dainsleif asked, his voice trembling slightly. "You’ve been avoiding me for weeks. You haven't spoken a word to me that wasn't a military report. Have I... have I done something to offend you?"
Surtalogi felt a surge of bitter, righteous anger—the kind of anger that only comes from deep hurt. "You’ve done nothing. You are the Twilight Sword. You are free to do as you wish, with whomever you wish."
Dainsleif frowned, a look of profound confusion on his face. "What is that supposed to mean?" "I saw you," Surtalogi spat, stepping closer, using his height to slightly loom over Dainsleif. He hated himself for being rude, but it was the only defense he had left. "In the garden. With Halfdan. I saw the gift. I saw the way you looked at him."
Dainsleif blinked. Then he looked down at the box in his hand. Then back up at Surtalogi. A slow, realization dawning in his eyes, followed by something that looked suspiciously like a sparkle of amusement.
"The gift?" Dainsleif held up the box. "You mean this?"
"I don't care what’s in the box," Surtalogi lied, his voice a low growl.
"Halfdan gave this to me," Dainsleif said, his voice dropping to a soft, conspiratorial tone, "because he was tired of watching us 'orbit each other like two dying stars'... his words, not mine. He told me that if I didn't take the initiative, you would probably spend the next century brooding in silence."
Surtalogi’s brain seemed to stall. What?
Dainsleif stepped forward, closing the distance Surtalogi had tried so hard to maintain. He opened the box. Inside, resting on a bed of dark velvet, was a hair ornament—a pin made of Abyssal ore, shaped like a soaring hawk, with a small, deep purple gem for an eye. It was beautiful, expensive, and clearly meant for someone with dark hair.
"Halfdan didn't give this to me as a gift for me," Dainsleif explained, his cheeks flushing a faint pink. "He commissioned it for me to give... to you. Because he knows I’m a coward when it comes to these.. things. He knows I’ve been waiting for years for you to say something, but you always pull back at the last second."
Surtalogi felt the world tilt. The image of Halfdan and Dainsleif in the garden transformed from a romantic tryst into a supportive friend giving a nervous man a nudge.
"You..." Surtalogi’s voice broke, the word barely more than a breath. "You were waiting for me?"