Archive of Our Own

Lock has been quiet the entire time Cale has known him. Granted, it hasn't been that long, and Cale doesn't know the boy as well as he knows Choi Han or even as well as he is beginning to know Rosalyn, the princess seeming dead-set on becoming closer to Cale. His current hypothesis is that he interests her and, in the true spirit of a mage, she feels obligated to pursue her curiosity. 

That's hardly the point, though; the point is that Lock is quiet, and withdrawn, and currently shuffling awkwardly into Cale's study. He feels a little bad for the mysterious summons, but Cale is too paranoid to have notified Lock that the wolf children were located and safe (to an extent) until they were within reach. Anything can happen, after all. 

Apparently, something had happened on the way—Nehula, the oldest, had entered Berserk mode while aboard the ship, presumably startled into it by a nightmare of some kind. Kitsi had easily subdued her, knocking the girl into unconsciousness, but that means that they'll need to properly facilitate a Berserk transformation in the future. And, Cale had realized with some resignation, if the oldest is only just awakening Berserk Mode, there are nine more children they'll need to foster through that transformation.

Cale tries not to think about Ohn and Hong reaching that stage of their lives. Raon's growth phases are already giving him enough to stress about. 

"Young Master," Lock greets with a polite duck of his head. 

Cale waves him off, standing from his desk. "No need for the titles. You're the operating head of the Blue Wolf Tribe. You technically rank above me." 

Lock doesn't meet his eyes, shoulders slumped. "I could hardly call myself the tribe head when there's no tribe to lead," he murmurs, hands clenched into fists at his sides, "but i appreciate the thought, Young Master." 

"Walk with me," Cale instructs, brushing past Lock through the open door. Lock makes a confused noise but only pauses a moment before following. Cale doesn't bother looking behind himself, wondering about Kitsi's condition and how the children are holding up. He'd sent them to wait in the garden, certain that'd be a better environment for a bunch of pups than a stuffy estate. Would they be playing, or just waiting nervously? In Kitsi's sparse reports, she'd mentioned not explicitly telling the children about Lock. Cale can appreciate the mutual paranoia of something going wrong and dashing hopes of already downtrodden kids.

The sun is almost blinding when Cale steps outside, his wing of the estate usually having most of its curtains drawn. He's not sure when the servants had started doing that, but it's a difference he'd noted with nothing but passing disinterest, as he's observed everything for the last few years. Maybe it's time to request a change. The children already spend so much time outside; maybe it's because it's too dark within the estate?

He barely needs to squint to see where he's going, the path to the garden engraved eternally in his mind. How many weeks had he spent, once Violan and Basen came home for the first time, spending his days nowhere but this garden, walking back and forth only to eat and sleep? Quite enough to know the route by heart.

The happy sound of children laughing filters through the wrought-iron gate. Cale glances over his shoulder to catch Lock's expression dropping with shocked recognition, but he doesn't linger long, smiling to himself as he pushes the heavy gate open. 

Lock has been quiet the whole time Cale has known him, a mourning silence not unlike what might permeate the air at a funeral. He's carried his grief and guilt with him in every breath, solemnity unfaltering. 

All of that is gone now, a loud sob bursting from Lock's lips as he rushes forward, the brightest beam Cale has ever seen splitting his lips. His arms are open as he calls each of the children's names, who much the same go from chasing each other through the flowers to pouncing on Lock with their own elated exclamations.

Cale hangs back as the garden swells impossibly louder with an echo-chamber of joy and relief, leaning against a pillar of the gazebo with a soft smile. Kitsi wanders over, looking a little worse for wear but mostly just content. Cale shifts slightly, leaving a space beside him in invitation. Kitsi takes it without a word, shoulder brushing Cale's. "You did good," Cale murmurs in lieu of thanks. "The kids seem... happy." 

Kitsi shrugs. "I don't think they ever stopped bein' happy. Just needed a little time to realize it was okay to be." 

Cale scoffs with a foxy grin. "Yeah, but you're no good with kids, aren't you?" She'd complained endlessly with those same words when Cale finally broke the news to her why he had her running around in the Empire with two suspicious companions. 

"They're easy to work with," she grumbles, rolling her eyes. "Don't go sendin' me on any more babysittin' missions. It's a miracle these brats made it back whole." 

Cale hums and accepts it, refocusing his attention on the kids. They're back to their games, dragging Lock between each other giddily. A tiny girl, the one Cale is pretty sure is named Ceah, comes running up to the two of them with big old pleading eyes. Cale's heart shudders a little at the sight. "Big sis, can you come play with us, too? Please, pretty please?!" 

Kitsi sighs, reluctant. "I told ya my joints are old, kiddo. I can't keep up with you." 

Cale rolls his eyes and whaps her on the shoulder, already digging into his pocket for one of the candies he carries around for the kids. What a crock of shit. "Just go play with 'em for a bit, Kitsi. You're their big sister now, right?" He reaches out to ruffle the girl's hair, shooting her a grin of his own. "Gimme your hand, kid." 

She sticks her palm out obligingly. "My name's Ceah." 

"Alright, Ceah," he agrees, dropping the candy into her hand. "Go take this old lady to play. If she does a good job, I'll give her a candy too, hm?" 

Ceah grins, big and wide, and cheers, grabbing Kitsi's hand and dragging her away. Kitsi barely pretends to put up a fight. Cale sighs, taking that as his cue to duck out, though he leaves a few more candies on the gazebo's table for the kids to discover once they've tired themselves out. Now that they're actually in Roan, Cale has to start worrying about where he's keeping them, how he's going to make sure Arm doesn't come after them again, covering up his own tracks...

Kitsi's no slacker, but associating himself with the wolf kids is telling enough that he had a hand in their rescue. From there, it's not hard to draw the connection to the missing records on the experiments and the Jungle fire. 

The funds aren't an issue, of course. Cale is more than likely going to set them up in some neighboring territory—Puzzle City currently feels like his best bet—and supply everything they need; his network of mostly-criminals has basically become a part-time treasure-hunter service, and Cale's been using them efficiently to wring Billos dry. He's proud to say that he's probably, at this point, richer even than the Flynn bastard. 

The royal family's treasury is Cale's next target, he supposes. He's already gotten some gold out of them, selling off the evidence against the Empire and all the completed research documents he found, mostly useless, in the Magic Tower now in his possession. The building itself is pretty useless to him as well, especially after his meeting with Eruhaben, so Cale is considering just selling it back to the anti-mage faction for a decent price and letting them demolish it. Mueller's on Cale's leash now, too, properly employed by the county, though he's technically under Deruth's jurisdiction. 

Really, the biggest item on Cale's checklist right now is collapsing the Empire's annoying castle of cards. He's established his influence relatively well through Raj, though Dot has become his official through-way since the mission of collecting the wolf kids was wrapped up. Cale is beginning to suspect they're a former prisoner of the Empire in some capacity, though whether that's a prisoner of war or a prisoner of experimentation is still yet unclear. 

No matter what it is, it works out in Cale's favor. Dot is completely untraceable and has an unparalleled grudge against the Empire, thus perfectly willing to support Cale's scheming to collapse it from the inside out.

"Weak human," a voice interrupts his thoughts. Cale blinks away his stupor. When did he get back to his study? "Are you listening now?" 

"I'm listening, Raon," Cale replies, trying to shake off the absentmindedness. "What's wrong?" 

Raon huffs. "You didn't greet this great and mighty dragon when you entered." I was worried. 

How cute. Cale offers his arms, and Raon makes himself comfortable. Cale tries not to wince at the weight—he should probably start exercising more. "This weak human apologizes for not acknowledging you, then. Is there a reason you came in here?" 

Raon was napping in Cale's bedroom earlier. He thinks Ohn and Hong had gone to check on him, but they hadn't come back by the time Cale left with Lock to the garden. "The stupid human was bothering my thoughts," Raon huffs, seeming to shrink in on himself slightly. Cale's mood sours. That bastard Stan—what did he get out of torturing a child? From the day that child was born, no less. 

Even if Cale killed him with his own two hands, it wouldn't be enough to stop him from haunting Raon when the poor kid sleeps.

"Great and mighty dragon," Cale murmurs, eyes hooded. "Don't you think stupid humans should be taught to know better?" 

Raon makes a confused noise, looking up at Cale with adorably innocent eyes. "What do you mean?" 

If anyone were to walk in, they would likely describe Cale's smile as wicked. Raon's face gives no indication of thinking the same. "I have a friend to visit in the Stan territory." Taylor underwent a miraculous recovery after cutting a deal with the Crown Prince; as the renewed heir to the Stan Marquis, Venion has once again become a useless extra. "His name is Odeus." 

"The merchant human's uncle?" Raon asks, cocking his head. 

"That's right," Cale praises, patting Raon's head. What a smart child. "Now, Odeus is very good at covering his tracks, and I'm sure he'd be happy to help us find a place to stay in the Stan territory, hm?" 

"This mighty dragon will make it so!" Raon crows, excited at the opportunity to scare a human into submission.

Cale huffs, lips twitching into a smile. "Ah, I don't think he'll be stubborn. I think you should save your strength for the stupid human, who also lives in that place." 

Raon's eyes widen, realization suddenly dawning. Cale can think that there is no better way to defeat the monster that lingers in nightmares than to humiliate that same monster. A fearsome figure becomes more pathetic than anything when they realize their victim is no longer defenseless. Especially the sort of coward like Venion Stan who relies on the strength and power of others; it will take Raon only the flick of a claw to prove to himself that Venion has never been a person to fear.

Cale can only hope that Raon will have plenty of good dreams in the future, filled with images of Venion bloodied and crying. 

Alberu has a massive headache. 

His name is Cale Henituse. 

See, this man hadn't been a problem, before. Amusing, if nothing else. His late mother was a friend of Alberu's late mother, it was all very nice and happy. He was a bad-tempered drunkard with a penchant for picking fights; nothing Alberu was unequipped for or even surprised by. He refrained from allowing Cale to interact with foreign dignitaries when he did attend large gatherings, though most of the time the stepson, Basen Henituse, was sent in his stead. 

And then the capitol was attacked by terrorists on the King's birthday and Alberu had the absolute delight of being forced to come to terms with the fact that the lout of the Henituse county was now nationally regarded as a hero. 'Young Master Shield', they called him.

His only saving grace back then was, perhaps, the fact that Cale was unconscious for at least a brief respite after the incident. It gave Alberu more time to gather himself and fill out paperwork without seeming discourteous for ignoring the Plaza incident's hero. He'd offered a reward, as was expected of him. He'd assumed, foolishly, that Cale would request fine wine, maybe a vacation, a medal. Something shallow and easy to procure. 

He'd settled on 'a favor'. An agreement—in writing, the paranoid bastard—that the Crown was to fulfill one request of Cale's, regardless of what that request might be, whenever he decided to employ Alberu's help. 

Alberu grit his teeth and happily signed the agreement, praying to gods that hate him that Cale Henituse will shock Alberu by being as fickle as he'd imagined. 

Cale asked for a magic tower. The magic tower. The one in Whipper, the only magic tower in all of Roan. 

Alberu pinched the bridge of his nose and threw a golden plaque at the problem. He grit his teeth and bought the documents that were left inside when Cale offered to sell them. He procured the requested gold when Cale came with stolen records directly from the goddamn Empire along with physical evidence that the unquenchable fire in the Jungle was the Empire's tampering.

Ah, the unquenchable fire which Cale extinguished, by the way. 

Alberu signed another 'favor' agreement, and wished that he had just offered a medal and more public recognition. It'd be easier if Choi Han was the people's newest hero; he seems naive, trailing after Cale like a lost puppy. Easy to manipulate and easier to deal with in the aftermath. The complete opposite of his master.

A point which is once again proved as Cale stands in front of him, blank faced and holding out a bottle of purified dead mana as though Alberu is supposed to take it.

He puts on his best smile, fully aware that his whole face is twitching. "Might I ask why the gracious Young Master Shield is offering this to me? The Crown has no interest in purchasing dead mana." 

Cale shakes his head. "It's a gift, your highness." He's even laid off on the useless praises, staring into Alberu's soul insistently with those terrifying eyes of his. "It makes me think of you, so I thought you should have it." 

Alberu feels himself go lightheaded, terror surging through him. Dead mana makes Cale think of Alberu? Is it something he's done? Did Cale somehow see through his disguise? Did he see him interact with Tasha and get suspicious?

A thousand what-ifs race past Alberu's eyes. Cale could extort him. He could puppeteer him under threat of exposing his secret, which the King would undoubtedly notice and then choose a different heir. Or, Alberu could resist, and Cale could broadcast to the people at least the fact that the Crown Prince associates with dark elves. That could decimate Alberu's reputation completely, forget any chance of succeeding the throne. He could try to smear Cale's name in return, say that it's the ramblings of a drunkard, but Cale has saved too many lives for that to work anymore. 

People's hatred of dark elves surely outclass their hatred of a former trashy drunkard.

"I can't say I could guess why," he finally cobbles together in reply, smile glass on his face. 

Cale smiles, falsely innocent. It's a convincing show, Alberu can admire that much. "It's shiny, like his highness' eyes. I thought something so pretty ought to go to someone like your grace." His tone is light, but his eyes flicker his message clear. I know what you are. He grabs Alberu's hand, completely inappropriate for their respective stations, and presses the bottle into Alberu's grip. "I think darker shades suit you better. With all respect to his highness' tailors, he's often unnaturally bright." 

And, really, that's difficult to misread, but perhaps Alberu has somehow managed? There's no way this unassuming man could be making it clear that he holds no contempt for a people reviled by all of humankind? No contempt for Alberu, for being of their blood?

"Well, I appreciate the suggestion," Alberu murmurs when he remembers to respond, his hand closing around the glass. "The Young Master of course has quite the eye for fashion."

"I assume your tailors will be more skilled once your highness ascends to the throne. I hope that, by then, you can wear a more suitable palette." 

And in the same flurry he'd come, Cale Henituse is gone, leaving Alberu blinking blankly at the door he'd closed behind him. As usual, Cale has left Alberu with more questions than he'd started with and, complimentarily, a massive migraine.

Tasha slides in the door gracefully a mere few beats after Cale is gone, steps inaudible as usual. She meets Alberu's tired gaze with a knowing smile. "That young man is causing you trouble again, is he?" she teases. "What's he done this time? Another contracted 'favor'? Saved another region from destruction?" 

"I wish," Alberu scoffs, unclenching his hand to show off the purified dead mana. Tasha's good humor fades as her expression drops, only worry in her eyes as she meets his. "He knows. I... I don't know how, but he knows."

Tasha's face is solemn. "What did he want?" 

Alberu can't help but laugh, hand pressed to his face. That's the part that's left him so disoriented. He would've been offput, sure, perhaps even worried, if Cale had used this knowledge to blatantly take advantage of him. But this... whatever that interaction was, instead, has left Alberu wrong-footed and dazed. "'I hope that, by then, you can wear a more suitable palette', he said," Alberu quotes, setting the bottle down to observe uncomprehendingly. "'I think darker shades suit you better'. 'Once your highness ascends to the throne', he said." 

He laughs, dragging both hands down his face. He might be a bit closer to a nervous breakdown than he realized. "What is wrong with this man?" 

"Has it already been a year?" Cale asks, trying to count back the months. Surely that much time hasn't passed already, has it? 

Father grimaces, though the expression is slightly distorted through the magic communication device. "Not quite yet, my son. I... this isn't news I wish to deliver over a distance, but Ron has returned injured. You should... Please hurry back to say your goodbyes." 

Cale falls silent, for once completely unsure of what expression he wears. Say... goodbyes? What does that mean? Ron came crawling back early because he got injured hunting Arm by himself, that's no surprise. Why—why is Father acting like..?

It's no surprise, Captain murmurs, sounding uniquely miserable. 'Hunting foxes' takes more than one old man.

But it's Ron, Cale wants to plead, to someone, anyone. The Molan household's head. An assassin. Cale's—he's Cale's. He belongs to the Henituse family. He's contracted to them, bound for life until they release him. He wasn't released. He's not allowed to go of and get himself killed!

"Cale?" Father calls, voice soft. "Are you—"

"I'm only a few days out," Cale murmurs, his face gone dark and his voice cold. "Goodbye, Father." 

He ends the call before Father can get a word in edgewise, tucking the crystal ball away with a fragility he hates. He wants to smash it into the carriage window. He wants to scream, drink himself into oblivion, maybe jump off another belltower. Why Ron? Cale did everything right. He's supposed to be able to protect them. 

He opens the carriage door, hands shaking, and steps out. His gaze is trained to the floor as he tries to force himself to take even breaths. It's not really working, but it does well enough to deter anyone from trying to talk to him. Cale can hear the crunch of multiple sets of feet approach and then hesitate as he wanders farther and farther away from where they're making camp, just a day out from the Tolz territory.

Cale only pauses when he hears the sound of a knife against a cutting board. Beacrox had come with them to the Stan territory, teaching Raon how to torture Venion when Taylor made it clear they couldn't yet kill the bastard. Beacrox doesn't have a magic crystal to be informed of Ron's impending doom through. 

Cale feels about a thousand times worse very suddenly, and significantly more like puking. What right does he have to be losing himself over this? He's treated Ron like dirt for years in his overzealous efforts to appear as trash, and now he's dragged Ron's only son away on a little torture trip while the man returned to the estate, no doubt to see Beacrox one last time before dying.

Cale hadn't even given his father the time to say how long Ron has left. What if it's a matter of a day, and they're here setting up camp, making themselves cozy, while Ron is wondering where Beacrox is?

Beacrox looks up after dumping his meats into a pot, meeting Cale's eyes. It's stew tonight. "Young Master?" he asks, tone deadened as always.

Cale can't meet his eyes, vision blurring with tears. Beacrox hates him, of that Cale has no doubt. He's always been at peace with that. But now, there's no one around to tell Beacrox on Cale's behalf that his father is dying. Does Cale really deserve to be the one to break the news. 

Instead of turning away from the awkward display of emotions like Cale had expected him to, Beacrox invites him to sit. "Watch the stew boil." Cale assumes it's supposed to be some sort of calming thing, but it only makes him think of when they were both younger and Cale wasn't ruined yet and Beacrox would let him sit on the counter and watch him cook as long as Cale wiped it down three times after he hopped off. He hiccups, another wave of tears choking from his stupid eyes, and Cale pulls his knees up and shoves his eyes into his kneecaps in hopes of shutting down the dam.

Cale can feel Beacrox stiffen next to him, hand hovering unsurely before withdrawing, then hovering and withdrawing again. That hasn't changed, either, and it makes Cale hiccup-laugh through his tears to think. Would Beacrox appreciate a pat on the back if he broke down crying? Then again, Cale's not sure Beacrox is capable of being as pathetic as Cale. 

He sniffles, deciding to just tell the truth. Playing coy about it will only make it hurt worse. Maybe Cale can tell Beacrox and then disappear into the woods, never again to be found. Dramatic. It's a suitable end for a person like him. "Ron came back from his leave early." 

Cale is almost glad he looked up to watch Beacrox's expression. That constant neutral mask breaks just slightly with confusion, and Cale smiles wryly to himself at the thought that he probably wore a similar face not fifteen minutes ago. He swallows hard, that feeling of bile crawling up his throat as tears again brim at his waterline. Cale feels eight years old again, standing in the rain above his mother's gravestone long after everyone else left, his only company the old butler holding an umbrella over his head. "My—" his voice chokes off and breaks.

"The Count said to hurry back. Ron came back injured and..." He can't continue. 

Beacrox clearly understand, anyway, his face shattered-open in a way Cale's never seen it. It hits him, then, that Ron feels like family to Cale, but he's the last family Beacrox has. The Molan house is gone save the two—soon to be one—of them. 

Beacrox blinks quickly, a sheen to his eyes as he turns to stare into the pot. His hand is white around his knife, the cutting board already discarded on the grass. Usually, Beacrox would throw a fit about getting grass and dirt on a surface meant for food prep. He doesn't glance twice at it, now. 

"I'm sorry," Cale murmurs, for lack of anything better to say. "I should've... I shouldn't have even let him go. I knew he..." wouldn't come back, he wants to say, but that feels too final. Cale bites his lip and stops talking. Beacrox has already shut down completely. "I'll let them know we're not stopping anymore once dinner is done. We'll be back by tomorrow. I'm sorry, Beacrox."

He retreats to his carriage without sparing the chef another glance.

Archie is annoyed. If Shickler himself hadn't ordered it, Archie would've had no problem just fucking off to some deserted corner of the ocean and pretending he'd gotten lost. Why the hell is he supposed to be the chauffer of some random human? To see the Princess, no less? 

The man's just as unimpressive as Archie had imagined, when he finally catches sight of him. That twig is really the one that save Prince Pasteon from the mermaids? Archie almost doesn't believe it, but the Prince would have no reason to lie that he'd been cured of mermaid poison. The scars are real enough to dismiss any doubt. 

He stares the human down as he descends from the Cliff of Winds, a seemingly gentle wind carrying down. Archie almost thinks it's magic, but the king had mentioned something about Ancient Powers in relation to this weakling before. It'd make more sense for him to possess an inherited power instead of working to earn it himself. His hands are delicate; he's probably never known a day of work in his life. 

Archie scowls, trying to make his displeasure clear. He's not supposed to cause trouble, but what's a little posturing if he gets this bastard to the Hais islands in one piece?

The air turns thick with an overwhelming presence, and Archie almost chokes on his own breath. The human is scowling back at him, and his aura is that of a seasoned swordmaster. He looks at Archie like a bug, and that pressure leaves Archie feeling like he is a mere insect, in front of this man. 

And then it's gone as soon as it had emerged, and the human looks away. "You're Archie?" he asks tersely, seeming to choose to ignore the previous interaction altogether. Archie grits his teeth and does the same, grunting confirmation and jumping back into the water. His back is braced to the surface imploringly, and the stupid fragile human wastes no time in climbing on. Archie wants to buck him off, but King Shickler would have his head. 

Urgh. 

In what little retaliation he's allowed, Archie swims as he usually would, pretending he doesn't have a passenger at all. The bastard grips for life to his fins, tugging them uncomfortably, and Archie does another spin into the water in retaliation. By the time they get to Hais 1, the redhead is thoroughly soaked. Archie shucks him onto the shore and makes a show of emerging gracefully after him, transformed to his human body.

He looks down at the man disparagingly. "You alright there? Ride too rough?" he asks mockingly.

The redhead scowls and gets to his feet, pointedly shaking water off into Archie's eyes. "It was good to cool down," he bites back with just as much venom. "I appreciated the breeze."

Witira emerges before Archie can reply with a straightforward insult, still drenched in the blood of the mermaids she'd slaughtered easily. She's not her father by any means, but Archie holds a begrudging respect for her strength. "Cale!" she greets happily, making Archie want to spit on the man even more. "It's good to see you! You reached out so urgently, did something happen?" 

"I need to blow up an island." 

Archie blinks. Witira blinks. They meet each other's eyes over Cale's head. Witira makes a wordless sound of confusion, and Archie comes to a realization.

Of course this bastard is weak but was still able to save Pasteon; he's clearly fucking insane. 

Apparently, the whales have become just as insane, because Witira hears him out. Normally, Archie would prohibit this, attempt to cart Witira off to the King and have her seen by a doctor, but Cale was apparently made aware of a mermaid base on Hais 5, which is conveniently the island he wants to explode. 

"You want our help demolishing the damn thing, then?" Archie suggests, cocky grin already in place. 

"No need," Cale dismisses casually, seeming to miss the way Archie's expression falls into irritation. "I can destroy it myself. I just wanted to ask if one of you could collect a corpse for me before I destroy the island completely." 

Witira finally raises a hand to pause Cale's madness, a question already visible on her face. "I understand the need for a corpse—the cure for their poison, I presume—but is there a reason you're seeking to destroy the island altogether? I won't oppose you, because weakening the mermaids is crucial for us, but I don't understand your motivations."

Okay, maybe not the question Archie was expecting. And, sorry, run that back? A corpse, the cure for mermaid poison? When did this become information they had? 

Is that what Pasteon told his family about Cale that made them all willing to bend to a random human's whim? Is that why there have been so many less casualties when injured warriors actually make it back to rendezvous? Archie had honestly been too caught up in the bloodshed to think more about it than the passing assessment that the mermaids were getting lazy with their poison. 

A headache is building, and Archie begins to understand why King Shickler beat him to a pulp. Is this the kind of pain troublemakers cause? Maybe Archie will have to swear off kicking things up for the foreseeable future. 

"Ah, the mermaids are collaborating with an organization I have a problem with. I want to kill them all."

Wow. And yet another point for 'things teenage nobles should not have any reason to say literally ever'. What is wrong with this guy?

Regardless of Archie's internal complaints, his theory of devolvement into insanity is again supported by the fact that he finds himself carting around a mermaid corpse, killed courteously by Witira. Archie wants to bang his head against the sea floor, but instead he faithfully swims back to Hais 1 and watches with mild amusement and vague disturbment as Hais 5 explodes in a massive wash of water and dirt. 

He can see rubble fly around and make waves in the water—even Hais 1, far as it is, is rumbling slightly. 

Witira reemerges with Cale in tow, happily returning him to solid land, though he looks vaguely more nauseous than he did when they left. All traces of sickness fade in favor of a flush of pleasure as Cale's eyes land on the corpse laid out next to Archie. 

What a disturbing sentence.

"Thank you both for your help," he murmurs with a quick bow, already clearly distracted by cutting into the corpse and letting the blood into perhaps the largest glass jar Archie has ever seen. 

Does he intend to bleed the poor bastard dry? If it weren't the dead body of Archie's natural enemy, he'd almost feel bad. Witira is apparently completely undisturbed, instead cheerfully thanking Cale back, saying he's really helped them more than they know. 

Archie just hopes that madman doesn't collect too much blood. It'll be fucking heavy, and Archie's still responsible for bringing him back to shore.

The puppy has been busy in Ron’s absence. The last thing he’d expected on returning to the Henituse Estate before his death, after all, was to be cured. 

Perhaps, being the late Lady Jour’s son, Ron should have expected as much of Cale; those mysterious rings of hers always let her see more than the average man’s eye. Still, he found himself baffled by Cale’s initial reaction to his injury. The mermaid poison had by then already spread to his torso; cutting it out was impossible, and his arm was already gone. He’d end up dead one way or another. 

Cale threw a fit at the suggestion, cursing Ron for letting ‘something so little’ get to him to the point of accepting his end. Beacrox had looked more than a little irritated by the young master’s temper, but any frustration could likely be named cast aside when Cale returned, forced Ron to drink a cup full of what smelled but did not taste like blood, and declared him cured. 

And, miraculously enough, Ron is cured. He no longer aches with the side effects of mermaid poison, and the trained alarms that tell him his doom is near have fallen silent. Ron hates to admit, for the sake of his own pride, that he shed a few tears upon being able to stand and one-handedly embrace his son. He’s long since accepted that he will one day have to part from Beacrox forever; it’s just… easier to stomach when Ron is injured on a battlefield, not staring up at his boy, all grown up now, from a sickbed. 

“This old man is impressed,” Ron says once the crowd disperses and the young master’s temper returns, an expectant look on his face as he drops into a chair at Ron’s bedside. “The cure for mermaid poison is unknown, so I must inquire what it is that you made me drink.”

Cale watches him, something analytical in his gaze that Ron doesn’t remember seeing in him before. “It’s mermaid blood,” he settles on shortly. 

Ron’s eyes widen. “Ho… and how did the young master come upon this?” The solution, for one, but also the blood itself; he’d departed for barely a day, coming back with the antidote in a cup and looking windswept, sea salt still stinging the air around him.

“You weren’t the trial subject,” Cale assures wryly. “I found the prince of the whales in a cave, shot up with poison.” Ron’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline, but he doesn’t interrupt. His puppy young master seems keen on landing himself in unfortunate situations as soon as Ron looks away. It’s not good for Ron’s old heart. “There were dead mermaids all over the place, and I assumed that they ought to be immune to their own poisons. Reaching that conclusion wasn’t much of a stretch.”

Ron is sure Cale is withholding some information, glossing over important details, but he doesn’t doubt this story. The young master is clever, despite his valiant attempts to appear as the contrary. “I admire your quick thinking, young master,” Ron teases. “I do owe you my life on that behalf.”

Predictably, Cale scowls, flushing pink to the tips of his ears and jerking his face away. “Don’t act like it was a personal favor. I expect you to return to your duties once the year-long leave expires.”

“Ah,” Ron hums, “does the young master want me out of the estate until that time? This Ron has plenty more foxes to spend his time track—”

“No!”

Ron pauses, allowing his face to shift into slightly exaggerated surprise and then return to a benign smile. “Young master?” Always so sentimental, no matter how much he tries not to be. Cale is so similar to his mother in that way, except Jour had long since realized that loving with anything less than her whole heart was impossible by the time Ron had met her. 

“I don’t… some of the other servants have family living on the premises, and it’s not like your room is otherwise occupied. It’d be useless to chase game with only one arm, anyway,” Cale scoffs, as though one snide comment will hide his blatant worry. Ron truly wonders why this puppy ever thought he could fool the butler who was responsible for his raising. 

"Then this Ron appreciates the young master's hospitality." 

As though he's being petty, Cale huffily shoves clean bandages and salve onto the nightstand for whatever doctor comes in to check on Ron next. As indulgent as his son, the Count has spared no expense on Ron's healthcare. "Goodbye, Ron." 

"Goodbye, young master." Cale makes an indignant noise upon glancing at Ron's smile, storming off for real this time. The puppy has been busy, running around the continent (and beyond, if what Beacrox told him of the Wolf Tribe children is true) and making friends with people he shouldn't associate with, but he's yet to grow out of his milk teeth. Such a gentle-hearted young master is difficult for Ron to imagine with proper fangs.

Cale has named this week his vacation. He won't be doing anything. He won't be contacting anyone. He won't be operating his evolving organization. Everything is in the hands of his five closest subordinates, and everything that doesn't fall under their jurisdiction (which is basically just the wolf kids) has become the problem of Choi Han and his merry band of heroes. Cale sent a few of the children off with Choi Han and Lock to the Dark Forest in hopes of working out the Berserk Transformation problem now, but he won't be terribly surprised if they call it quits a bit early and return before the week's end. 

Cale doesn't want to work them to death quite yet. He just had them saved, after all. 

"Cale-nya," Hong calls for the third time in just as many minutes. The distraction makes it significantly harder to pin down the words of the book Cale has been staring (glaring) at for the last hour, given they're already swimming across the page. 

He sighs. "Yes, Hong?" 

"Take a break, Cale-nya! Come play with us!" 

'Us', of course, being Hong and Raon. Ohn has entered the phase in which she's too good to play with her younger brothers, instead tagging along with Lily to all her lessons and playing with her in her free time. Lily seems delighted by the attention, and Cale has been trying to find a tutor for the Cat kids anyway. Raon...

Cale will tackle that issue once Raon has a human transformation. He's still only four, anyway, and it's not as though a creature as intelligent as a dragon really needs a tutor. It'd more likely be a way for Raon to develop a structured day and entertain himself while Cale is busy. 

"I'm on vacation, Hong. Why don't you ask Basen to play?" 

Hong whines. "But you're still working anyway! Plus, Basen's always busy with studying n' if I ask him to play Raon can't play too!" 

Ah, Hong actually has a point with the last bit. Cale has yet to inform his family about the dragon under his care. It seems like an announcement he'll have to make, er... delicately, and even then he'd like to conceal Raon's presence as much as possible to avoid word getting out through mouthy servants. Rumors spread faster than wildfire among the nobility, after all, and Raon has had enough scummy rich men breathing down his neck for one lifetime. 

"I'm not working," he protests half-heartedly, shutting his book on ancient legends over his index finger to keep the page. He's been spending most of his vacation so far torn between planning accommodations for the Wolf kids in Puzzle City, searching for any clue of a nearby Ancient Power with one of the attributes he needs to not explode, finding the other half of Annual Rings, and trying to lay out some sort of paper trail that will make officiating Ohn and Hong as Henituse family vassals easier. Or maybe just adopting them properly into the main family? Cale still has yet to decide, though he's leaning towards the latter because it'll be easy to excuse it as the whim of a trashy young master looking to waste his father's money.

Just thinking about dealing with the branch family's fury about two random orphans becoming main house, especially after the fuss they kicked up about Basen and Violan, is already giving him a headache, so he instead chooses to imagine a perfect world where they all magically keel over and die. He sighs, lamenting the impossibility to himself. "Look, see!" Hong squawks, breaking through Cale's circling thoughts. "That's your tired-of-working-'cause-you've-got-a-headache sigh! You're working!" 

"I'm on vacation," Cale repeats with even less conviction than his first protest, staring down at his blurring hands blearily. He scrubs his eyes, trying to blink his vision clear. When did he get so disoriented?

"You've been staring at the same page of the book for ten minutes, weak human, and now you're just staring at the cover."

Cale's eye twitches as he withdraws his finger from the pages, stubbornly letting it slam shut. Screw losing his page. "I actually shut it to be polite. You're supposed to move away distractions when another person engages you in conversation." 

"Urgh," Hong grunts, displeased at what could barely be called a lecture. "Are you gonna make this into another one o' those etiquette lessons? Those suck. The teacher is sooo annoying." 

Don't yell at the kid. Don't yell at the kid. Whatever you do, Cale, do not yell at this child. 

He takes a deep breath. He's just tired. And a little worried about dying. And Ron missing an arm. And Arm, the organization. And the experiments Arm was running on the Wolf kids, which he's been looking over the records of in between all his other self-assigned tasks. And the Northern alliance he'd already informed Father about, and the fortifications Mueller is working on (will they be enough? Was Cale strict enough in approving those designs? Did he buy sturdy enough material?), and the fact that Casul hasn't checked in once in the last three weeks despite being the most neurotic of the five of his original crew about weekly check-ins. 

It's all fine. It's all none of his concern, really. This is Cale's vacation week. His time to really live up to the name he's built for himself and live as a drunken, lazy lout. He's just checking off a few miniscule items on his to-do list in his in-betweens. His brain would rot if he really just sat around doing nothing, after all. 

"—uman? C-Cale?" 

Cale blinks back to awareness, a little dazed. "Raon? What's, what's the matter?" 

Sharpened blue eyes appear in front of Cale between one dragging blink and the next. Raon is visibly pouting, and if Cale had a little more presence of mind he'd probably call it cute. As it is, he's struggling to focus on the slightly bobbing figure in front of him, eyes hazing and skittering around before settling back into the eye contact. "You're doing it again, human. Stop ignoring us!" 

"Sorry, Hon—Raon," Cale apologizes in a mumble, cursing himself for mixing up their names. His thoughts must still be distracting him from the conversation; half his mind has already run off to contemplate the logistics of just threatening the Crown Prince into helping him with whatever he needs to make the treasure-hunter gig less of a necessity and more of an excess. 

And then Cale looks around, waiting for a response he doesn't receive, to find that both the young boys are gone.

Ah, did he blank again? Maybe Hong agreed to go find Basen to bother into a game of tag. Raon hasn't managed to learn transformation yet, but he's gotten better at casting illusions over himself. Perhaps he'll participate in the game under the guise of a squirrel or a cat. 

With yet another heaving sigh, Cale shoves his stubborn book to the side, sliding out legal identification establishment forms for the Cats and sorting through what Tribe paperwork he could scrounge up to start transferring the Wolves' official residence to Puzzle City. He's not sure how legalized the Wolf Tribe hierarchy is, but if there's some documentation available Cale would prefer to make it clear that Lock is the new Tribe Chief, separate from Cale's designation as the Tribe's official sponsor.

Another whim, he'll hope to play it off as. Their sudden extinguishment fascinated him, a fickle young master, and the County has money to spare. Perhaps he can also use it to make Basen and Father look good; say Basen planted the idea in his head, and portray it as Father going along with his son's expensive whims out of sympathy for the child victims. 

Cale's quill scribbles ink off the side of the page, only saved from bleeding into his desk wood by the new sealant. 

It was painted on after Cale first 'fell ill' (that bastard Captain's fault, of course) because he kept staining the mahogany with blood. 

He blinks blankly at the ink blot, trying to smear it off with his hand. It's only mildly successful, but the blunder is less obvious than before. Cale will have to start this document from scratch, realizing belatedly that half the lines are filled out about four centimeters too far to the right, and now stained with the ink covering his fingers. 

He sighs, grabbing at the first handkerchief he sees to wipe his fingers down. He's careful, out of habit, to press lightly on the ring gifted to him by Eruh—

The ring. The ring of golden dust, gifted to him by an ancient dragon, which is currently not on Cale's finger. 

Cale pulls the bell-string to call for Hans (also installed after Cale's first bout of 'illness') without thinking. Surely his Deputy Butler, if no one else, will be able to help him find it? Cale hasn't left this room all day, there's no way it could be lost far...

Holy shit. Holy shit. He's going to die. He's going to get killed by a dragon for losing a gift. Or, worse, he's going to have Raon taken away. If he can't handle keeping a ring safe, there's no chance Eruhaben will trust him to look after a baby dragon. And then Ohn and Hong are going to be just distraught and Cale will be forced to confess that it was his own idiocy that got Raon taken away and they'll probably never be able to see him again and oh gods!

Perhaps summoned by Cale's freakout over losing the ring, Eruhaben (in his elven form) teleports into the room in a shower of golden dust. It's all Cale can do to stop himself from screaming, instead choking on his own spit and falling on his ass as the room spins around him. Fuck, fuck, fuck!

Eruhaben looks ready to pounce, pupils slitted and searching, shoulders tense. "What happened, child?" he asks, crouching to offer Cale a hand up when he registers no immediate threat. Cale stares at it dumbly.

"Goldie Gramps!" Raon greets happily. "We're the ones who called you here!" 

Absolutely unabashed, the baby dragon and Hong emerge from behind the curtains with twin grins on their faces. "Cale-nya was super overworking himself, so Raon said you could help, because you're a super powerful dragon, and Cale-nya will listen 'cause he's not stupid!"

Cale glares at the children, all decorum and sensitivity forgotten as he scrambles to his feet to scold them. "You shouldn't tou—huufff," he cuts himself off with a ragged breath, swaying slightly as the room fades in and out of focus, black spots dancing across his vision. Ah, the meals he missed in the dining room are still sitting on that cart Hans brought in earlier, aren't they..? Maybe that's why he's been so out of it.

A set of elegant hands land on his shoulders, steadying him. Cale finds it somewhat harder to catch his breath. "E-Eruhaben-nim, I truly apologize for the inconvenience, please don't bother yourself with..."

Gold dust flutters over his head and before his eyes, and Cale trails off into a yawn as his eyes get indescribably heavier. "You've barely slept, child. Stop fussing and listen to the younglings."

"But I ne-need to..." Cale starts to protest, out of his mind just enough to not think twice about talking back to a dragon. 

Eruhaben ignores him easily, surveying the room. "There's no bed in here," he observes tersely to himself. He huffs, seeming to come to a decision, and then the elegant hands are replaced with large claws and a smooth, furnace-like heat source drawing Cale closer, until he's cushioned in the midst of it, something curled almost protectively around him and two of his children at his side. 

Cale is barely what can be called awake when the door creaks open. "Young Master, please forgive my tardiness! What can I—"

That protective thing around Cale lashes once as he jerks slightly, concern bubbling past the overwhelming desire to sleep for a year when Hans's voice chokes off to a blank noise of panic. Dust falls over him again in time with that rumbling, comforting voice. "Rest, child. I'll take care of it all." 

Cale is fast asleep before he can put together enough brain power to remember what the first two words mean. 

Hans could scream. Run, maybe? The dragon doesn't seem eager to move the young master to give chase. 

It's a miracle Hans hasn't dropped his plate of snacks directly from Chef Beacrox yet, but he's more than likely going to pass out sometime soon because, well. Dragon. A giant golden dragon is curled protectively around Hans's young master, urging the exhausted young man to sleep alongside Young Master Hong (it's not official, but it's obvious enough that most of the staff has begun referring to Cale's new adoptees as such) and a smaller, black dragon. 

Ah. Hans is really beginning to feel faint. 

Two dragons. Two. Both of which Cale seems incredibly comfortable with. 

A hysterical thought begins to bubble—why hadn't Hans expected this? Really, he should have immediately assumed, upon seeing that great lashing tail, that Cale has charmed these dragons into becoming his protectors. He seems very prone to doing that with powerful beings, as of late. Firs the whales, then the anti-mage faction in Whipper, then the Queen of the Jungle herself. 

Hans is half expecting to have to connect the young master to a call from the Crown Prince in the near future, inviting Cale out for an evening walk or something equally bizarre and mundane. 

Hans realizes belatedly that he's been gaping openly at this blank-faced dragon for far longer than politely appropriate. He closes his mouth and ducks into a trembling bow, trying to collect his wits. "M-mighty dragon-nim," he greets, only able to speak with professional evenness from a lifetime of training in service. "It is an honor for this humble servant to gaze upon you." 

The dragon rumbles, the sound distinctly unimpressed. "Rise, boy." Hans snaps straight. "Why are you here?"

I could ask you the same question, Hans thinks, but keeps to himself because he does actually value his life. "I am the young master's personal attendant, dragon-nim." Hans glances nervously to the untouched food cart in the corner, now stacked with a chilled breakfast, stale lunch, and cooling dinner. "He hasn't been attentive to his needs, so I was attempting to bring fresher food when the young master rang his call-bell." 

The dragon's gaze flickers to the string Hans gestured to, his(?) scaly face managing to express wry curiosity. His attention turns briefly to the children in his arms. "Now, I don't suppose his request for aid could have had something to do with a stolen ring, would it?" he asks.

Both children studiously avoid eye contact. "If the weak human let himself rest, he would've noticed us taking it," the black dragon defends weakly, still not meeting his elder's boring gaze. 

The dragon sighs, shoving them lightly so they're pressed deeper into Cale's side in some half-hearted scolding. Cale only twitches once, still deep asleep. Hans has enough presence of mind to wonder if the golden dust that'd showered above his head has anything to do with that. The young master has been a light sleeper as long as Hans has had any duties related to his waking; even opening his bedroom door, always well-oiled and without creaking, seems to jolt him into the land of the conscious. 

"I suppose you are curious, as well, why I am here?" the dragon asks, that heavy gaze resettling on Hans. Hans kind of wishes it wouldn't, but nods anyway. He was wondering; there's no point in lying to a being widely considered omniscient. That rumbling comes again, and Hans realizes it's the equivalent of a human hum. Considering. "I met Cale Henituse on Mount Yellia not terribly long ago and gave him a method to call on me should he encounter dire trouble." That scolding look returns, cast again at the boys tucked under the dragon's fore-claw. "The younglings decided to activate it by their own whim, but I suppose the child was in trouble enough. I will restore his health and depart."

Huh. Cale really has charmed two dragons into becoming his protectors. 

But—Hans has to wonder—why a child? If the black dragon's size wasn't enough indication, it's clear from the way the gold dragon treats him that he's still in his early stages of development. Hans can hardly assume the two dragons are related, and considering how comfortable Young Master Hong seems with them both...

It's all too confusing. 

As though peering into his thoughts, the black dragon yelps and suddenly becomes invisible. "Nervous human!" that same voice commands, now from an unseeable source. "You did not see me!" 

Hans stalls. Wh... what?

He turns to the gold dragon, hoping the elder will have some sort of explanation for him. The dragon just turns to the invisible child with a prompting look. "Youngling?" 

The black dragon groans, reappearing. "Goldie Gramps, you gave me away! Weak human said I shouldn't show myself 'cause humans are greedy and bad!" 

Hans almost laughs. What an ironic thing for such a good-hearted person to say, and yet Hans can perfectly imagine the young master telling this child such a thing. He seems so intent on the best of days at making himself out to be a terrible person. 

Or, perhaps it's more a matter of—

"...as though I could become useful, by making sure Basen could—"

Hans violently shuts out the thought. He'd reported the incident to the Count and now prying into the young master's mind any further is not his right. He can hold concern, privately, but anything more is intrusive beyond his station. 

The golden dragon watches Hans assessingly as he breaks out of his own thoughts, sweating slightly under the scrutiny. "I suppose, youngling, that we could simply ask this meek human to mind his words. Yes?" The last word is turned towards Hans, and he immediately nods his agreement. 

"Of course, dragon-nims. It's hardly my business to pry in the young master's choices of companionship."

The black dragon pouts, eyes sharpened at Ron. Despite himself, Hans finds it very cute. "I'm not a companion! Cale said we're family!" he protests, with all the childish innocence of an infant. Hong, on his right, flushes slightly. 

"Shh, little brother!" he hushes, doing a poor job of whispering. "Cale-nya said not to tell!" 

The black dragon huffs, turning away petulantly. "This human will not tell either, so it doesn't matter." 

The spat quickly devolves into childish bickering that Hans watches with a growing smile. The children are just so adorable, nipping at each other with their words despite the way they're tucked into each other's arms. On top of that, the grown strands of Cale's hair (he'll need it cut, soon, Cale never likes his hair too long) drip along the red of Young Master Hong's head. It's a domestic sight. "This youngling," the golden dragon rumbles, watching the distracted pair with his own minute fondness, "is called Raon. I believe the child became his caretaker around the time of... ah, what was that festivity held recently? At the Roan capitol, he said." 

Hans, despite his growing resilience to the young master's natural tides of madness, chokes slightly. Since... since the celebration at the capitol, Cale has had a dragon in his care? 

There are about a thousand exclamations that race through Hans's mind at that thought, but perhaps it's better that his professional autopilot activates then and quashes his train of thought completely. His brain is blank, a survival instinct more than anything else. He bows. "I swear myself to secrecy then, dragon-nims. This humble human must only ask that, once Young Master Cale wakes, he is reminded to have some of the snacks I've brought along. They were prepared by Chef Beacrox to be easy after a day without eating." 

He sets the tray down, feels silent gratitude that his trembling arms have been released from that particular duty, and bows himself out of the room. He catches one final glimpse of the domestic cuddle-pile as he shuts the door, seeing the golden dragon lean to rest his head on his claws, eyes sliding shut for a rest of his own.

Hans very calmly returns to his room to scream into his pillow, ignoring the concerned knock at the door.

Cale wakes up feeling very refreshed and slightly embarrassed. It helps that Eruhaben is so firmly unruffled about the whole thing, even graciously providing Cale with a new ring and assuring him the children were suitably scolded and swore not to repeat the incident so long as his state did not become dire again.

Cale hadn't bothered with protesting he really wasn't doing that badly; the contrast between how he felt then versus now made it feel like he'd been operating with three-quarters of his brain turned off. 

A little embarrassing. 

Suitably refreshed, his first order of business was playing with the kids. Once they were satisfied, completely worn out for the day and settling in to slip, Cale got back to work. He'd slept most of the day away, so there was no need to sleep the whole night through. 

He makes a decent amount of progress; all the documentation for the Wolf kids is done, so he'll probably send them on their way when Choi Han returns with the eldest. He's gotten in contact with Sejilu and sent her to track down Casul, so he can relegate that to the backburner for a little longer, and he finally found the adoption papers he'll need for children of 'unverifiable' (cough cough) ancestry. 

Perhaps the wave of things going well is what gives Cale a little too much confidence; he finds himself standing outside the room that used to be his mother's study. 

Father never had it cleared out, and Violan is too polite to claim it as her own. When Cale rips off the bandage and pushes inside, it's exactly as he remembers it, dustless and all. The servants seem to maintain it under the impression it's been entered once in the last decade.

It hasn't. 

Still, feeling like a thief creeping around in the night, Cale walks further. The space is organized, as Mother always preferred it, but he's unsurprised to find an unruly stack of papers pushing each other for freedom when he pulls open the desk drawer. He's just like her, in that way. Always too lazy to keep their papers stacked neatly, choosing to hide the mess in the nearest cupboard.

Maybe he's like her, too, in the way that it assures him it will be harder for snooping hands to find his important papers like this. 

Though he's now become those snooping hands, and Cale sets to work, well aware that there is no rhyme or rhythm to finding documents in a heap like this. He must spend hours sitting there, reading through even the unimportant things with a keen eye just for the chance to re-familiarize himself with her swooping handwriting. 

Some of the papers are important. They talk about death and shattered souls and an encroaching illness, a death she needed to set herself on course for. 

For the sake of my son, she wrote, over and over, like it was an assurance to herself. It makes Cale feel sick. Perhaps worse than these papers, though, is the ones that don't contain any writing at all. They're vague splashes of color and blotted ink, some smudged beyond recognition and some in sickening detail. All of them represent carnage Mother was never alive to see, not in this life or the last.

On the backs of every picture are the same four words: For my dear Cale.

There are diagrams, too, but those Cale can't make heads or tails of, looping lines and illegible notes scrawled in margins that are barely large enough to count as more than the edge of a page. Records of dreams that can't really have been only dreams, by the way Captain occasionally chimes in with a withdrawn 'I remember that' or 'That was an unfortunate time', as though he hadn't lived twenty years of misfortunate hell.

The sun is rising through the windows, visible despite the drawn curtains, by the time Cale parts from the messy stack. His hands shake with the motion of setting them down, reaching for the letter he hadn't realized sat beneath them all. The front is plain, no stamp or address line included but for four words.

For my dear Cale.

Cale turns around and pukes, his guts having little to empty but acid, and he tries to focus himself with the sting down his throat. He feels a little bad for the mess, thinking on it for just a moment longer, before wiping his face and reading the letter.

In a startling reenactment of the time Captain first jolted Cale awake and commandeered his body, Cale leaves on Pisca with the sunrise. 

He doesn't go as far as Harris, this time, and not nearly at the breakneck speed Captain had pushed Pisca to. His mother's grave isn't all too far, after all. It'd break Father's heart to keep her at a distance, even in death. Sometimes, Cale wonders if that unnerves the new Henituse. If they ever wonder if Mother's unhappy spirit will poison the soil they walk on to ward them away.

And then Cale remembers that all the Henituse belong here, with their brown hair, and thinks no more of it.

He can't bring himself to shovel at her grave. He digs with his fingers instead, only absently registering the pain as his nails break and roots split his skin. Deeper, deeper, deeper he digs, until his fingers jam against wood and metal. How like mother, to leave something so important so close in reach. 

The letter had said, with a small apology, that he'd need to offer the box a drop of his blood; it would open only for him, not any Thames or blood relative within the Henituse like the one at Harris. 

That, at least, partially answered Cale's questions about the original White Star's access to the power; with hair the same shade as Cale's, it's not difficult to believe he has Thames blood. 

So he wipes his thumb across the lock and watches with sickly fascination as it unclasps. He's not sure if Captain takes over or if his own mind shuts down, but everything that follows happens in a daze. 

All Cale can pin for certain is that he sees mother, can touch her ever-so-briefly, and he cries like a little kid with his arms wrapped around her legs as she pets his head and tells him those same sweet lies as always that he'll be fine. He thinks he tells her he loves her, he hopes he did, because soon enough she's gone, and Cale is left sobbing at the base of a withering tree as he mindlessly fills back in the grave he'd dug up. 

Eventually, Cale is out of tears to cry, and he touches the tree and sees all the life that's passed by under its watchful shade. He pulls away. He mounts Pisca, and sees her at every stage of life she'll continue on to live for the briefest of moments. He's already run out of the energy to mourn when he sorts through the assault of visions to see her corpse. 

It's fine. He lies his head on her neck as he always does and trusts her to guide them back to the estate, and she does. He's re-entered the gates before midday, and Ron hadn't even come to look for him. 

Ron is still on break, and Cale can see Hans scrambling for the gates, out of breath, with one of the knights who'd let Cale in not minutes ago at his side. 

Cale looks at Hans and sees him smiling, face wrinkled with age, and then smiling, face still young and smooth with blood spilling from his lips. The choice is yours, the contrast tells him. What future will you give him? 

He died the second way, Captain says before Cale can ask. Cale is grateful he didn't have to put it into words as he slides off Pisca, leaving her in the knight's care. 

"Young master, you're hurt!" Hans worries, already scrambling over to hover, reaching for Cale's bloody, dirt-covered hands. 

Hans is wearing white gloves, as always. Cale doesn't want to stain them with his filth. "I'm fine." He turns away, steps quick, and retreats to the inside of the estate. He'll go to his room, tell the children not to bother him so he can rest, and get his head back on straight. His week's vacation is almost up. He should... he should probably get himself back together before the wolf kids return, at least. 

Of course, since the world seems to hate him, he runs into Lily on the way. Her eyes catch on his dirt-stained appearance immediately, and she brightens with a conspiratorial smile. "Were you out playing, big brother? Papa was so worried, he almost asked Mr. Ron to come off vacation to find you, but I promise I won't tell." 

Her form fluctuates before him as she reaches out to grasp his pinky, between a beautiful young lady, a dying fifteen-year-old girl, and the baby he'd first held in his arms. 

Cale was clearly mistaken in thinking he had no tears left to cry. He collapses to his knees, squeezing his eyes shut with a trembling sigh and pulling her close. She's still small enough to be tucked under his chin, like this. So small, so fragile. Cale is staining her dress with dirt and blood. Maybe her nanny will let her change into her preferred pantsuit if she shows up to her lessons like this. 

"I love you too, Lily," he whispers, more obviously teary than he'd like, into her hair. "I'm sorry you have such a terrible older brother. I'll try to be better for you, okay? Please wait up for me." 

"Huuuh?" she gasps, not grasping the solemnity of the situation. It makes Cale want to laugh, just a little bit. "I have the best big brother in the world! You're super super awesome, Cale!" 

Cale's breath hitches on a raw sob as she does her best to wrap her little arms around him in return. He just presses a kiss to her crown when she tries to look up questioningly, wanting to let himself relish in this for just a little bit longer. He knows he's already taken too much, though, and so he pulls away soon enough, praying his face isn't as much a wreck as it feels. It's probably in vain, because Lily's face creases with worry. "I'm gonna clean up now, Lily. Get to lessons on time, alright?" 

She opens her mouth, some retort on the tip of her tongue, but Cale is gone between one blink and the next, vanished down one of the many corners only he knows from years of practicing how to be a ghost in his own home. There was little chance, of course, that Cale would notice Basen watching with guilty eyes, in such a hurry to leave as he was, and he doesn't. 

Basen doesn't move until long after Cale is gone, anyway.

And so, Cale has no way of knowing that the occurrence got back to his father from two mouths as he scrubs himself violently clean and stares at his still-split skin with a sickly hatred. 

Cale's vacation isn't over, and yet Sejilu finds herself dressed in all black at her master's side as they prowl the slums three goddamn territories southwest of Henituse. Cale has apparently developed some issue with hiding bodies between his last stint as the Executioner and now, so that's become Sejilu's job. She's not sure why she's surprised that he hasn't relegated the killing job to her; he'd seemed to take a selfish little joy at holding their lives in his hands when he'd first poisoned the five of them, after all. 

The rings in his eyes shift, now. As though they weren't eerie enough before, he'll stare at someone or something a little too hard and the rings will merge, shift, tangling together like the rings hidden in the trunk of a tree. 

He always jerks his gaze away quickly when then happens, and there's a stiffness to his movements for the few minutes after. Sejilu doesn't dare ask what he sees; frankly, she's not interested in knowing. Even if she wasn't as frightened of him as she is, he carries a deeply haunted look in his eyes for a man not yet twenty. Sejilu has seen enough in her life without prying into whatever horrors that head holds.

It's not like she has to worry about seeing that crazy crap now, though. Cale's gone full into the Executioner, hood drawn up and shadows covering his face down to the chin. He's every bit the frightening picture the stories had painted him as, so different from the man she'd seen interacting with Ohn and Hong not three hours ago.

Sejilu wonders, in the quiet recesses of her mind, what it is in Cale Henituse that shifts so clearly when he changes roles. It's obvious, even now, that 'Young Master Cale' and the Executioner are not the same person, not even to the person who plays both roles. He carries himself differently, leans forward instead of back when he walks. Like a predator instead of posturing. His eyes flicker with the same calculating glint, perhaps the only trait that ties these two personas, but what is usually tinted with the mask of a useless drunkard is now stained with the eagerness of a killer blowing off steam. 

Neither description fits the young man Sejilu has unwillingly come to know, and yet she stands beside him as she experiences the vacillating doors of false personalities he fronts. Is there a real Cale Henituse under all the deceit? What kind of man would that be?

"Here," he murmurs, jerking his head to the side. There are two beefy looking guys standing in front of a seedy joint (how typical), doing all the posturing that tells Sejilu they won't live up to their purpose in the slightest. Muscleheads, Casul would call 'em. 

Cale walks up first, Sejilu a polite half-step behind him, and jingles his bag of coins in that creepy way of his. The grunt on the left makes a sound of acknowledgement at the back of his throat. "Code?" he asks, gruff and monosyllabic. What a barbarian. 

Cale doesn't speak. He probably didn't have time to dig that deep, too eager to stick his knife in something fleshy. Sejilu can relate, so she sympathetically covers for him. "He don't talk. We're here to buy." Services? Slaves? Sejilu doesn't have a clue, but if Cale's showed up to execute, it's something along those lines. 

"Then you gotta cough up the code, lady, ain't just nobody let in here," the other dunderhead sneers, stepping closer as though his big man-tits are scary. 

Sejilu sneers right back, making sure the expression tugs hard at the scar on her lips. It's big, people say. Frightening. Makes her look like a beast with a bite. "We got money to blow and shit to buy. If it ain't here, I'm sure your daddy ain't got a problem with the money goin' to competition, huh? Fuck would I know the code? He don't talk!" 

"You fuckin'-!" 

He reaches for Sejilu, red faced with anger, and then drops like a stone to the ground. A flash of stained silver retreating behind a cloak is the Executioner's only tell. The other guard pales, stumbling back. Sejilu sends him a nasty look. "You wanna play, too?" she bites. 

He shakes his head, tapping a coded knock Sejilu takes care to memorize and then letting them in. "R-right this way, 'f ya please," he murmurs, still monotone but lacking the earlier boredom. 

It quickly becomes clear that they're here to 'buy' the latter option: slaves. Poor chained bastards line the walls, skinny like starved dogs and twice as pathetic. Most of them don't even bother looking up when the three of them pass, the few who do watching only with disgust-tinged fear.

Sejilu can't fault the looks. She'd be disgusted with any bastard who entered this place if she weren't the one walking in free of chains. She's still disgusted with the dick behind her, and wonders why the Executioner didn't just make quick work of him at the same time as his buddy. 

They're let into another room with a different coded knock, and her irritation is slightly soothed. They needed this piece of shit for entry, she supposes. Keep themselves subtle for a bit. 

"—so I should've just killed him there, but he's a good—huh?" Some sleazy-looking bastard sits in a nicely-upholstered chair at the back of the room, an entourage of equally slimy looking pieces of shit scattered around him on stools of their own. "Fuck you want? I don't pay you to wander away from the door." 

"Customers, sir," the grunt informs his boss(?) shortly, head ducked.

The sleazebag looks them over with renewed interest. "Hm. Alright, dismissed, go do your damn job." He waves a hand to shoo the guard away, as though swatting a fly, then lets a lecherous grin spread across his face. "Customers, huh?" He glances to the Executioner, then Sejilu. He looks her over longer, gaze snagging on her tits. "You ain't selling?" 

Sejilu scowls, fighting the urge to reach for her own knife. A flash of silver beneath the Executioner's cloak is reassurance enough for her to stay her hand for now. "He don't talk, sir," she snaps out, gritting her teeth through the lazy title. "I'm comin' as his translator." 

The Executioner jingles his bag of coins. Predictably, sleazebag's eyes and grin widen in sync. "Ohoho, I don't think he needs a translator, missy. You lookin' for premium? I'll take ya to the back, sir, that might just be enough to buy you one and a show." 

The Executioner nods, in that slow, creepy way he does everything, and follows after sleazebag like a ghost. Sejilu keeps a wary eye on everyone around her, half a step behind. She stays a little closer as they descend down a winding set of stone stairs, the corridor lit sparsely with torches. It's mostly the lantern in sleazebag's hand lighting their way, which doesn't give Sejilu much confidence. 

"I try to keep these goods well-kept, y'know," sleazebag advertises shamelessly. "Keep 'em separate from the average shit, keep 'em fed, clean enough. 'S too cold to sweat much down here, if y'know what I mean." He waggles his brows then, going for suggestive but landing on mostly revolting. Sejilu has to let her nails bit into her palm to keep herself from slitting the man's throat now. 

He lets them into the room with a click. 

Sejilu's eyes are slow to adjust to the low light, but she doesn't miss when the man ducks behind them, murmuring something barely loud enough to hear about 'leaving them to choose one' and sliding out the door. Sejilu jams her dagger in the gap before it can lock behind them, creating the click sound that seems to satisfy that sleazebag enough to shuffle off, chuckling to himself. 

The Executioner nods to her in simple gratitude. Sejilu stares at the door that could've locked them in here with all these 'premium' slaves with just a little bit of hatred. 

More of it is directed towards Sleazy McSleazebag that left them here. 

"I'm assuming we're getting them out, then?" she asks, more for the captives' sake than her own. The Executioner, expectedly, nods, procuring her an extra lockpick and getting to work with his own. "Stubborn bastard," she grumbles as she starts working her way down the line, undoing handcuffs and handing off pins stuck in her hair for the captives to free their own legs. "If he just told me the plan, I woulda walked in here and murdered all of 'em. Made it easier on myself just breakin' down the door."

A weak chuckle meets her. "Probably why he didn't tell you, huh?" 

That's—

Sejilu's head snaps over at the same time as Cale's. Cale flings down his hood and scrambles away from the prisoner he'd just freed in favor of kneeling in front of Casul, worriedly checking him over. "Casul! I thought—fuck, I could barely see, why didn't you say—fuck, where are you hurt? Will you be able to stand? You know how to pick locks, right? Actually, don't worry about it, we'll take care of it, just, just relax for now. Recover your strength, try to get feeling back in your legs."

Just like that, the persona of the Executioner has dropped—gone as quickly as the swipe down of the hood. In its place is something... something Sejilu isn't sure she's seen before. His hands tremble as he tries to pick Casul's chains open, making him ineffective. She pushes him slightly to the side to do it herself and he lets her, still watching Casul with wide, waiting eyes as he rubs his raw wrists. 

"Fuck, Casul," Sejilu can't help but scoff as she returns to freeing the other prisoners. "This is where you pissed off to for the last week and a half?" 

Casul laughs sheepishly, still in surprisingly decent spirits. "Listen, it worked out, right? I didn't have time to let you guys know what was going on or else I'd have lost their trail, but you found me!" 

Sejilu feels the air turn icy with fury that, surprisingly, isn't her own. She needs to let that ridiculous statement process for a few moments before she reaches the 'fury' stage, after all. 

"You were captured into a slave ring intentionally," Cale echoes, voice stony. 

Casul swallows and looks away. "Yes sir." 

"Instead of—" He cuts himself off, sighing shakily and yanking the last captive free. They're all beginning to stand on shaky legs, rubbing out wrists and ankles and hugging each other with an empty shock taking root. "Nevermind. Not... not now. We'll do this later. Sejilu." 

Sejilu snaps to attention, back stiff despite herself. She really doesn't want Cale to direct his ire at her. Casul is stronger than she is for not breaking into tremors immediately. "Yes, sir." 

"Get them out quickly. I'll take care of the issues upstairs." 

As though summoned by Cale's derision, a voice appears outside, laughing cockily. "Yeah, yeah, I'm sure they're wanting out by now. Just go in and pump the gas to knock 'em out. We'll tell the man he got drunk and his girl got lost, pick a random slave to send 'im out with and clean his pockets dry." 

The rings warp but Cale doesn't look away, head locked forward as he slings the hood back over his head and squares his shoulders. Sejilu takes her cue for what it is, yanking the door open and her dagger out, leaving the way clear for the Executioner to charge forward faster than she knew he was able. 

The three men in the hall are dead on the ground, spurting blood, by the time the captives have finished gasping about noxious gas. The Executioner jerks his head, and Sejilu and Casul herd the nervous captives out and through.

At the least, none of them seem to have a problem stepping on the cooling bodies of their captors on the way. Sejilu gives an extra stomp on the fat sleazebag as she takes the end of the procession. 

It's quick work once they reach the top of the stairs, enough pins and lockpicks distributed among them to free the prisoners in the upper level in minutes. Some of them are children that burst into tears as they reunite with siblings or parents held across the way or down below, and others are limp-limbed and empty eyed but helped up by more grizzled and hardy neighbors. 

Either way, they're all making their way to the exit. Sejilu isn't surprised to see that the other bodyguard has already become a corpse, downed with the same poison that'd taken his buddy. 

The Executioner joins her and Casul not long later, fresh stains on his cloak. None of them mention it or look too hard, passing out money and rations to the newly freed who hadn't run immediately. Most of them want out of this place; whether to return to the place they'd originally been taken from or get out of the hellhole that brought back memories, Sejilu doesn't care to learn. About a gold coin each, they've got plenty to last them. Plenty to get them out of the lifestyle that ends this way.

It's only once they're all dispersed, partnered up with the bond of shared trauma and out of sight, that Cale comes back from the recesses of the Executioner he hides in, hood pooling at his shoulders. "Let's get to an inn. I'm drunk, you got into a scuffle defending me, and Sejilu is supervision. We'll patch you up there."

Casul smiles, a gentle gratitude in his too-soft eyes, and Sejilu wants to cuff him upside the head. "Yes, young master," they instead concede in sync.

Inn first; there's time for scolding later, when Casul's not trying to hide a limp or wincing through every smile.

Just do it, Alberu tells himself for perhaps the thousandth time. Nothing you say is definitive proof. Chances are, he won't even show.

And isn't that a comforting thought. He almost snorts. With the burst of undeserved surety that gives him, he impresses the signature passed onto him from Cale Henituse himself into his magic orb. It buzzes faintly with a reaching connection for a few long moments in which Alberu's heart crawls up to his throat. It's not as though Cale will ignore a call from the Crown Prince, but if he's otherwise occupied or misses the call, then attempts to return it, or if Alberu is revealing their connection in a public space—

The call connects. 

Cale has blood splattered across his cheek. Alberu does his very best not to look too hard at it, smiling brightly into the glass. "Young Master," he greets politely. "I apologize to disturb you at such an hour—"

"Young Master..?" a groggy voice feeds through the call, and Cale's attention jolts away abruptly. He looks almost... worried as he hurries to stand, hands hovering nervously over the hunched figure but never quite touching.

"Casul," Cale mumbles, scolding. "I told you to rest and recover. Do I really have to give you another tongue lashing, or should I set Sejilu on it?" 

The man laughs weakly. Alberu watches, entranced and feeling a little bit like a voyeur, as this entirely new—dare he say soft—side of Cale Henituse unwillingly reveals itself to him. "Sorry. I heard your magic orb trying to connect a call, and I'd hoped it was the others checking in." The man, seeming too disciplined to attempt to peek, makes no move to check for himself.

Cale looks awkward, even from what little Alberu can glean of his expression, as he glances back, covering the orb's glass with his body. Alberu glances around for something to cover his side with, to hide himself from view, but he comes up blank. "It's... a personal call," Cale finally musters, voice tight. "Sejilu! Come in here and help Casul!"

Casul huffs in a way that sounds distinctly amused, turning to the door. "I'll be alright to return myself, young master. I apologize for disturbing you. Please let me know if they do call."

"It—it's not like that, so don't go thinking it is," Cale stammers after him, though he lets the door shut with a sigh. 

Alberu would be more amused if the implications of that assumption weren't unfairly close to the truth; isn't his purpose here to invite Cale to a secretive rendezvous? He almost shudders at the thought. Saying it like that, inviting Cale to a place even as gruesome as the Desert of Death sounds cheesily romantic. 

Cale clears his throat, returning to what Alberu presumes is his desk. The room looks a little... shabby for a young master, though, so Alberu comes to wonder if Cale is staying in some sort of inn. "Apologies for that, your highness. One of my attendants was injured recently, and he's been..." Cale cuts himself off, sighing, and Alberu thinks he can see when Cale's shoulders slide back and he shifts into that smooth-tongued bastard Alberu has come to know. "Is there something this humble young master can do for Roan's shining sun?"

Alberu grits his teeth through his smile. "It's no trouble at all. Your compassion is admirable. I did have a rather tricky request for you, Young Master, related to our last meeting; would you venture to the Desert of Death?" 

Alberu is expecting a few responses. The most likely he imagines is a softened-by-tiredness look of confusion, perhaps paired with a crude question of why Alberu is messing with him. Second most likely, Alberu thinks, is a flat refusal. Maybe a few curses. Part of him anticipates, as the silence stretches and Cale blinks on blankly, that the transmission will just cut and that will serve as a simple rejection in itself.

Since Cale Henituse loves to throw Alberu for a loop, however, he finds himself meeting the young man at the gates to the desert in his dark elf form alongside his aunt, similarly undisguised. Tasha had walked Cale here from the rendezvous in the city; Alberu is just glad they've finally arrived, about losing his mind with nerves.

Cale looks over to him with vague confusion on his face, glancing to Tasha. "Your friend?" he asks, bored and flat. 

Alberu untenses slightly. Cale didn't recognize him. Some of Alberu's features shift, of course, when he drops the illusion—all his less-than-human traits finally allowed to exist freely—but Cale's eyes are too sharp for his own good sometimes. 

Perhaps it's the harsh color contrast, or Alberu doesn't look as much like a dark elf as Cale anticipated. No matter what the reason, he won't take this blessing for granted. He ducks into a bow, playing into the persona of subservience that distinguishes this identity even more harshly. "My name is Ben, sir. It's a pleasure to meet you."

"Ben," Cale hums, head cocked to the side. He analyzes Alberu only for a moment before offering his hand. "Cale. Don't call me anything more than that." 

The friendliness shouldn't be shocking—it's not as though Cale became up in arms upon encountering Tasha in her true form—but it's refreshing enough to leave Alberu a little wrong-footed. Especially when he's so used to interacting with Cale through the harsh separations and formalities of nobility, it's...

Nice. Perhaps Alberu should leave it at that.

"Now," Cale continues, beginning to scale the wall with slightly frightening dexterity—does he do this sort of thing frequently? "I hope the Crown Prince gave you more detailed instructions than he gave me. 'Follow Tasha' isn't particularly explanatory." He lands on the coal-black sand with a grunt, looking up at Tasha and Alberu as they follow him. 

"His highness wants us to lead you to the City of Death," Alberu explains quickly, hurrying to return to Cale's side. He doesn't actually want Cale to kick it in this desert, though he seems to be having no trouble with the weakness that usually captures normal humans immediately. "That's where the dark elves reside." 

Cale hums, glancing again over him and Tasha both. Alberu's palms are warm with sweat. "Lead the way, then," he decides, gesturing forward. "I trust you'll know the path better than me."

And so Alberu and Tasha march shoulder to shoulder through the shifting sands under the cover of the night sky, Cale never more than a few paces behind them. Occasionally, Tasha makes idle chatter, and Alberu tries to indulge, but he's so busy continuously glancing behind him to make sure Cale hasn't suddenly perished that it mostly washes over him and directs itself towards Cale. 

Cale is shockingly friendly. Alberu wants to smack himself for again being surprised by the young master's disposition, but he's so unlike every rumor about him that it makes Alberu curious how he'd managed to build such a reputation in the first place. And—more importantly, since such an accomplishment was undoubtedly intentional—why?

Though, Ben-the-random-dark-elf really shouldn't be curious about those kind of things, so he keeps his questions to himself. It's sort of a shame. Alberu imagines that, in this liminal space where neither of them need to be the faces they present to the general world, Cale might actually answer him truthfully. Alberu can't imagine such a thing were he to pry as himself, the Crown Prince of Roan. 

All his considerations melt away when Tasha leads them underground, and he sees for the first time in so very long his second home. The City of Death sprawls out beautifully before him, faux sky glittering with starlight, and Alberu wonders if he's imagining the way Cale gasps quietly, even as he turns to see the redhead absorbing all of the scenery with sparkling eyes. 

Tasha shares a pleased smile with Alberu before returning her attention to Cale. "It's beautiful, isn't it?" she asks. 

Cale hums, not tearing his flittering eyes away from the many buildings bustling with activity. "I'd never imagined... this scale of life, to be supported underground...? It's hard to believe it's real. Food production alone must be..." 

And then he's gone, lost to his own mutterings about logistics and population and—vitamin necessities? Alberu can't help but watch Cale with mild confusion, sure the sentiment is echoed on Tasha's face. Alberu understands clearly that Cale is not quite what he presents himself to be (far from it, really), but he speaks now like a man used to being in command of human resources—a soldier used to heading troops more so than an heir who's been educated in preparation of becoming count. 

...How odd, that something so simple has given Alberu yet another layer of the mystery that is Cale Henituse to unfold. 

"Well then," he regretfully interrupts. Grandfather will be waiting; he'd been warned in advance that Alberu wanted to bring a human—who seemed accepting of dark elves and was in a socially powerful position—to the city. "We should let you meet the mayor, yes? It's not often that humans come down to see the City of Death."

Cale agrees easily, of course, but he looks a little sad, gaze stuck behind them, when Alberu starts herding him towards Grandfather's office. Alberu, fully taking advantage of being just Ben for now, laughs softly at him. "You'll have time to explore a bit more once you've met the Mayor, Cale. Please don't look so upset."

Cale flushes a little at being called out, jaw clamped shut tight. "I'm not upset. Just observing, is that forbidden?" 

"I hope you at least enjoy what you see," Alberu concedes, returning his attention to the path in front of him. In good time, because he almost just walk directly into a pillar he doesn't remember being there. 

Alberu, with all the dignity he can muster, ignores the snickering behind him. 

Cale, the stubborn bastard, refuses to let him cling to his dignity for long, because as soon as he and Grandfather are introduced, Grandfather asks with shaking pupils if Cale is a dragon. 

Alberu's mind stalls. 

He holds no doubt for his great-grandfather's assessment; he'd grown up on stories of the dragon the man once met. Paired with his elemental sensitivity, Alberu is certain that a dragon's aura shrouds Cale, without a doubt. 

But... what. As if all of his nonsense wasn't enough to begin with, this person Alberu has been attempting to put onto his own leash was a dra—

"I'm not a dragon. Raon?" 

Raon? Alberu glances behind him. No one else entered the office. No one has been tailing them through the desert. Who could Cale possibly be—

A young black dragon appears, and Grandfather falls to his knees and bows.

Ah, right. Cale isn't a dragon. Somehow, Alberu finds little relief in that when he is instead bombarded with the knowledge that Cale has adopted a youngling. A young black dragon. 

...Right. Why wouldn't Alberu have anticipated such a thing?

Mary hears that a human has come to visit with the Mayor's grandkids. She huffs when she learns they'd only come down about an hour ago. Word always travels fast down here, she supposes.

But she's being urged to come take a peek, just to see what kind of unique person would wander down here on invitation. Mary can't deny the fact that it's a little exciting. When was the last time she met another full human?

And then she catches sight of him, and is immediately entranced. His hair is red, bright red, like the vibrant dye of the highest quality textiles. It's well cared for, too, brushing the top of his shoulders and glistening slightly under the lamplights he passes. As much as she appreciates the elves who took in her, helped her preserve her life, Mary longs to know what life is like outside of this constrained community. Do all the humans on the surface have such bright hair? How does it look, she wonders, under the sunlight?

"You should talk to him," Mary's friend whispers, wearing an encouraging smile. "I heard he's nice! And Tasha-nim seems to like him, so that's always a good sign."

And, well, what could really go wrong if Mary does? She stumbles forward, making certain her hood is drawn securely over her head before crossing her acquaintance-hopeful's path. His steps stutter slightly as he notices her, eyes flickering as though with some sort of recognition. Mary nervously tucks her arms deeper into her clock. "You're the human that's come to visit," she murmurs, but it comes out as a statement more than a question due to the monotone she can't quite seem to shake. 

The human relaxes, probably having expected to be approached by a curious citizen at some point. "I am. Cale," he offers, extending a hand. 

Mary hesitates. Even the dark elves who meet her for the first time flinch upon seeing the dead mana scars tracing veins up her arms. 

But... if Cale has come all the way down here and is able to look at the City of Death with nothing but wonder, surely this one more thing won't offput him?

She clasps his hand in her own. "Mary. I'm also human, so I was excited to meet you." 

Expectedly his gaze lingers on her arm even as he smoothly shakes her hand and releases it. Mary is grateful, at least, that he conceals any signs of disgust or pity from his face. "Mary," he echoes, considering. "If it isn't too intrusive to ask, is that an old wound?" 

It's the sort of question that might typically make Mary withdraw, make her curl away and protect those injured parts of herself from observation. And yet, the way he asks is so curious—as though he's only prying to be certain she's not in any sort of danger. A flush of excitement rushes through her, invigorating her. "It is. I was poisoned by dead mana and saved by the elves here, who helped me become a necromancer." 

Cale's eyes flash with fascination. "How does that work?" he asks, breaking away from Tasha-nim and her nephew. "Does necromancy negate the effects of dead mana poisoning?" 

"Necromancers have an affinity for dead mana in a similar way to the dark elves," Mary explains, the shadows cast by her cloak hiding her smile. "The marks remained, but they aren't a danger to me; more so fuel." 

"Incredible," Cale breathes, hands clasped behind himself as though restrained from reaching towards her and observing her more closely. Mary thinks his excitement is charming. "And you've lived here, in the City of Death, since they saved you?" 

Mary nods easily. "It's not... Necromancers aren't well-received on the outside, from what I'm told. It's safer." 

The longing that comes and goes frequently laps at her again. "I wish—"

"How do you survive down here? I understand a little more about food production now, but it's clear that the needs of dark elves are different from that of humans. Although, I suppose having a dark attribute could negate some of the dietary differences," Cale rambles, now glancing around them as though their surroundings will hold his answers. Mary sort of hopes they do; she's having a hard time keeping up. "But even then, a human will wilt without sunlight. What kind of deficiencies might your necromancy have unconsciously adapted you to, do you think? Perhaps it's—"

"Cale," Tasha-nim's nephew interrupts, hand placed on Cale's shoulder. "I think you're scaring her." 

Cale jolts, finally glancing back to Mary's stiff figure. She's not scared, but she untenses slightly when he loses that edge to his voice that sounds like he wants to dissect something. 

Namely, her.

"I'm so sorry," he apologizes, ducking his head as his face flushes. "Please don't take offense to my curiosity. This is all just beyond my imagination, so I suppose I've let my mind wander." 

Mary tries to imitate the forgiving chuckle she's heard so frequently when she makes conversations awkward unintentionally, but it ends up coming out sounding vaguely choked. "It's no trouble. I understand the fascination... I was in awe the first time I could properly take it all in." Mary sort of misses being able to look at her surroundings with wonder instead of familiarity. She loves that she can call this place home, but... "I don't think there's anything I want more than to experience the rest of the world. Feel the sun, again." 

"Ben," Cale calls, perking up—and oh, that's what Tasha-nim's nephew is named—and turning to him. "How much trouble would a tagalong be on the way back to the gates?" 

Ben grits his teeth through an awkward smile. "Not... not that much, Cale. Why do you ask?" 

Cale's smile is bright when he turns back to Mary, extending his hand again, this time palm-up. "Mary," he invites, like the sunlight itself inviting her to bask in its rays once more, "how would you like to join me on the surface? I do plenty of traveling, so I'm sure I'll be able to show you a lot."

There's no hesitation, this time, when Mary takes his hand.