Caelius

she watched another descent, her eyes following the subtle gaps that opened and closed through the formation. "i don't mean you've changed at your core," she said after a moment. "i mean you've come back carrying more than you left with." her gaze shifted to him, thoughtful rather than pitying. "experience changes the way people speak. the way they lead. the things they're willing to accept." she nodded toward the host. "they remember the general who left. they're standing in front of the one who returned. to you, those differences probably feel gradual. to them..." a small shrug. "they happened all at once."

her attention lifted skyward again as the ecosians banked into another circuit, noticeably tighter than before. "you're right to push them," evelynn said quietly. "peace has a habit of convincing people it's permanent, and that's when they stop preparing for the day it isn't." she folded her arms a little tighter against the breeze. "if valaria has taught me anything, it's that calm isn't the absence of danger. it's the opportunity to be ready before it arrives." a faint smile returned as she glanced back at him. "they may grumble every time you tell them 'again,' but one day they'll make that tighter turn without thinking. and on the day it matters most, they won't remember the complaint."

"Wow." The male remarked with a fake offense. "You could at least pretend to be nice and tell me 'No, Caelius, you're not an asshole at all. We love you.'. That's messed up, Evelynn." Cael shook his head several times before laughing quietly. Rolling his eyes one final time at the flight above them, Cael waved a dismissive hand and turned to the young woman beside him; grabbing a skin of water from a nearby table and drinking deep from it.

"I'm sure Kaidan's tried to give you the grand tour of the Court already. But, he's boring and a stick in the mud - so why don't we prowl the town? Wherever you want to go - just consider me your bodyguard. Since, you know, I am." He smirked once more. "Let them repeat it over and over until they realize I'm not even here anymore."

The teasing faded as his attention returned to his soldiers. Lyric followed his gaze toward the sky, watching the empty stretch where the host had disappeared. The frustration lingering beneath his words wasn't difficult to hear. It rarely was, not when it came to him. “They didn't forget who they are,” she said quietly. “They forgot what it felt like to have their foundation beneath them.” Her eyes remained fixed on the horizon. “People adapt to absence. They have to. They learn how to survive around it. The problem is that surviving and thriving are two very different things.” She glanced at him then. “For a year they convinced themselves they didn't need the things that steadied them. Now those things are back, and they don't quite know where to put the weight again.”

For a moment the only sound between them was the breeze moving through the training field. Then his voice softened, and so unexpectedly that Lyric felt the words land somewhere deeper than they should have.

I'm glad you came by.

The admission drew a brief shift in her expression, gone almost as soon as it appeared. She looked away first, toward the empty sky, though the corner of her mouth curved faintly. “Careful, General,” she murmured. “You keep saying things like that and people might start thinking you've become pleasant.”

The dry humor returned when he mentioned visiting Autumn. That earned a genuine smile, small but impossible to miss. “Oh, I would absolutely pay to watch that happen.” She folded her arms loosely across her chest and looked him over as though evaluating the idea. “You striding into Autumn Court unannounced? Half the Court would assume we're preparing for war. The other half would assume you've come to challenge someone to a duel before breakfast.”

Her smile deepened slightly. “Though I'd advise against barking training orders at anyone during your first hour there. Autumn warriors are stubborn enough without encouragement.” She tilted her head, amusement warming her voice. “Then again, watching their faces when Night Court's terrifying General starts criticizing their formations might be worth whatever diplomatic incident follows.”

Her gaze lingered on him for a heartbeat longer than necessary before drifting away again. “Besides,” she added lightly, “you'd enjoy it far too much. And unfortunately for the rest of us, I know exactly what you look like when you're having fun.”

"As delightful as that sounds, I prefer to keep all of my delicate bits free of searing flames as often as I can. Your Lord would probably send that whelp of his - or worse, just some of your foot soldiers once he realized it was an Ecosian daring to walk into his Court, of all things." Cael mused with a wicked grinning. "Terrifying, huh?" The grin somehow managed to deepen further. His expression suddenly snapped to one of confusion. "Huh - wait, what do you mean? What's wrong with how I look when I'm enjoying myself, Thorne?" He growled out.

she didn't intervene. didn't step forward. just watched the dust settle around the male as the host reluctantly returned to formation. only after the drills resumed did she approach. "well," evelynn said mildly, coming to a stop a few feet from caelius. "that seemed productive." there was no judgment in her tone. only the faintest trace of dry amusement. her gaze followed the host as they banked through another formation overhead. "not that my opinion matters here, but your point wasn't wrong."

she folded her arms loosely. "if someone can slip through a patrol formation because they're tired or stubborn, they can slip through a patrol formation because they're tired or stubborn." a breeze caught a loose strand of hair and she tucked it behind her ear. "though i don't think he was actually arguing about the maneuver." her eyes shifted to him then. "i think he was arguing about you." not cruelly. not critically. simply honest. she glanced back toward the sky where the ecosians continued their pattern.

"people get strange when someone leaves and comes back different. even when the difference is good." a small pause. "especially when the difference is good." her expression softened slightly. "they spent years learning how to protect the court without you. now you're back and reminding them they don't know everything." the corner of her mouth twitched upward. "which, based on that descent, they don't." another beat passed before she added more quietly. "for the record, i don't think kaidan would trust just anyone to watch his borders." her gaze lifted to the host once more. "and neither would the court."

"Male's a right prick. Always has been, the bastard. Seems it's only gotten a little more brazen since the Merge, though." Cael shook his head. A singular eyebrow raised in curiosity at her words. "Different? What do you mean? I'm pretty sure I didn't come back any different than when I left - asshole then, asshole now." He grinned. "No, Kaidan wouldn't. But what good is that trust if it's misplaced because they can't even keep a simple flight formation solid for a basic patrol pattern? Even if the waters have been mostly calm since the fog that brought us back with the Broken City in tow, we still need to be prepared. Valaria has never truly been 'at peace', even before all of this." Cael explained.

The fact that Caelius seemed personally offended by her presence was, if anything, making this more enjoyable. The corner of her mouth twitched as she watched him glance toward the city as though he intended to march back to the gate and interrogate every guard responsible for letting her through.

"О, успокойся," she said, waving a dismissive hand. "You make it sound like I tunneled through wall with spoon."

Her hands remained comfortably buried in her jacket pockets as she shifted her weight and glanced toward the sky. The thunderous rhythm of wings was beginning to fade now that the training exercise had finally been called. Ecosians dispersed in small groups, conversations already starting as the pressure of hours-long drills lifted from their shoulders.

When Caelius admitted he'd kept them at it longer than he'd realized, Anastasia's expression softened into something suspiciously close to understanding.

There it is.

The problem had never been the formation. It was him.

She'd seen it before. Commanders who pushed because they cared. Leaders who forgot where the line between preparation and punishment lived because the stakes always felt too high to stop. Soldiers who carried responsibility so long they forgot everyone else was carrying it too.

"You know," she said after a moment, her gaze following the retreating host, "when everybody around you starts making stupid decisions at same time, sometimes it is because they are idiots. Other times it is because they are exhausted and too respectful to tell you that you are becoming pain in ass."

Her eyes slid back to his.

"The older one was disrespectful. Absolutely. I probably would have knocked him on ground too."

The admission came without shame.

"But he also said something you did not like hearing."

Trust Anastasia to walk directly into the dangerous part of the conversation.

The wind stirred between them, carrying the scent of grass and sweat from the training field. For a second she simply studied him—the tension still lingering in his frame, the way his attention kept drifting toward his soldiers even after dismissing them.

Then he asked again why she was there.

Anastasia was silent for a beat. Two. Three.

The answer she finally gave was delivered with entirely too much confidence to be believable.

"I was bored."

A lie.

Not a complete lie.

But definitely a lie.

"Sasha was busy. Nobody was actively trying to kill me. It felt unnatural."

A smirk tugged at one corner of her mouth.

"Then I heard shouting. Very loud shouting. I thought maybe somebody had finally challenged Big Bird to duel."

There it was.

The nickname.

Delivered with the precision of a thrown knife.

"I stayed for entertainment."

Despite herself, her eyes softened slightly as they returned to him. Now that the shouting had stopped and the host was gone, the exhaustion was easier to see. Not physical. Something older than that. Something heavier.

Anastasia tipped her head.

"So tell me, Большая Птица," she said quietly. "Are you angry at them?"

The question lingered between them for a moment.

"Or are you angry because some small part of what he said was true?"

Snarling at the nickname the woman had clearly decided against giving up on, Cael folded his arms across his chest and watched the sky as the squadron dispersed for the time being. He was silent for the longest time, save for a number of unintelligible grunting and mutterings under his breath.

"It wasn't our choice to go to New Orleans when we did. Even so, the Courts we left behind had to scramble and question where many of our kind just disappeared to and how. Night Court had it among the worst. They lost their High Lord... their General... their Spymaster. Almost all of our Inner Circle just torn away without answers..." Caelius grumbled and once more speech devolved into primitive sounds.

There was absolutely no humor in Caelius's expression, which only made it worse.

"Ah, there he is," he said, folding his arms across his chest. "I was wondering how long it'd take before you threatened me personally."

The venom in the General's glare rolled off him easier than it used to. Not because it didn't still hit. It did. It always would. But after years of being on the receiving end of it, Darien had learned the difference between angry and worried.

Caelius rarely noticed when he slipped between the two.

His gaze drifted skyward, following the host as they banked through another turn.

"They know how," he said after a moment.

The teasing edge faded slightly.

"That's the problem."

A wingbeat thundered overhead.

Darien tracked the formation, eyes narrowing.

"If they were green recruits, they'd be making mistakes because they don't know any better." He jerked his chin toward the circling host. "Those idiots know exactly what they're supposed to be doing."

Another pass.

Another hesitation.

"They're distracted."

His voice carried the certainty of someone who spent most of his life watching people right before battles went wrong.

"The Merge. Families scattered. Half the city trying to figure out where they belong. Everyone acting like the world's ending every other week."

He shrugged one shoulder.

"You can train discipline into soldiers. Hard to train focus into people whose lives got ripped apart."

His eyes slid sideways toward Caelius.

"Not that I'm saying go easy on them."

Because he absolutely was not.

A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"Cauldronforbid I damage your reputation."

Then he looked back toward the sky.

For a few moments he was quiet.

Studying.

Calculating.

"That one on the left keeps checking his blind side before every descent," Darien observed. "And the one near the rear flank is overcorrecting every turn because he's anticipating someone else screwing up the formation."

A beat.

"They trust their enemies more than they trust each other right now."

The words hung there for a moment.

Then Darien shoved his hands into his pockets and looked at Caelius again.

"Which means this isn't an aerial combat problem."

His expression turned distinctly more amused.

"It's a leadership problem."

A pause.

"Go ahead." His grin widened. "You can throw me into the dirt now."

Finally, he turned to Darien and that shit-eating grin that had been plastered to his face from the moment Cael had taken him under his wing. Had grown accustomed to. Had grown to find one of the odd comforts in his life. "Oh, you're not getting off that easily." He stated at the permission to act. "Nah, when I pay you back for your wise-ass remarks and commentary, it's going to be worse than just throwing you into the dirt." Caelius warned. Would he actually follow through, however? Well, that remained to be seen another day from now.

"Actually..." Caelius started and a gleam of wicked amusement shone in his eyes as he looked over his ward and protégé. "I think I'll give you the honor as one of my elites to break the news to the camps -- I want to begin training the females in flight and combat drills." The gleam shone brighter as he grinned.

Just like that.

One sharp command and the skies emptied, Ecosians peeling away in every direction with the unmistakable urgency of soldiers who knew better than to linger once their General had decided the lesson was over.

The sight tugged at something dangerously close to amusement.

"Mm."

The sound was noncommittal, which, from Lyric, was usually an admission of victory.

She pushed away from the post and watched the last of the host disappear beyond the treeline before returning her attention to him.

"You're proving my point rather spectacularly," she observed. "I call you sentimental and your response is to send them home before you launch one of them into orbit."

A pause.

"Growth."

The word was delivered with all the sincerity of a battlefield insult.

His accusation earned a soft scoff.

"Please."

Lyric glanced around the training grounds.

"If I wanted to taunt you, I'd have waited until they landed and corrected every mistake you missed. Then I'd have charged Night Court for consulting services."

The corner of her mouth twitched with the faintest hint of a smile before it faded again.

The breeze shifted through the field, carrying away the last echoes of wingbeats. For a moment, Lyric simply stood beside him, looking out across the empty sky where the host had been moments before.

When she spoke again, her voice was quieter.

Less teasing.

"I wasn't watching them."

Her gaze remained fixed ahead.

"I was watching you."

The honesty of it settled between them without apology or explanation.

"You always get this look when you're trying not to be disappointed," she continued. "When we were younger, it usually meant somebody was about to lose a tooth."

Finally, she glanced at him, centuries of familiarity reflected in her bronze-green eyes.

"You expected more from them. And before you argue, no—I don't mean their flying."

Her head tilted slightly.

"I mean their belief in themselves."

The field had grown strangely still around them.

"You train them like they're capable of becoming exceptional. Most commanders train soldiers to survive."

Something shifted in her expression then—not softness exactly, but understanding.

"You've always been harder on the people you believe in."

A beat.

"And significantly harder on yourself."

Her gaze drifted back toward the horizon, where the last traces of the host had vanished into the evening sky.

"So no," Lyric said at last, a faint smile touching her mouth once more, "I didn't come here to watch training drills."

She looked sideways at him.

"I came because I heard you shouting from half the Court away and wanted to see who was unfortunate enough to deserve it."

The words drifted away on the breeze, but Caelius' eyes never left the female. "They already were exceptional. The past year - with half our Inner Court suddenly disappearing. I don't know, Lyric, it's like they just forgot who and what they are. Forgot what Court they represent - whether Kaidan and myself or Tairen are present or not." He shook his head.

There was a pause, as Cael allowed himself the freedom to scan the female from head to toe. "I'm glad you came by." The words were quiet. "Next time remind me to swing through Autumn. I'd love to see people's faces." He smirked at the thought.

Really.

She'd been leaning against the fence line for the better part of twenty minutes, arms folded across her chest, watching the drills with the detached expression of someone who absolutely had opinions and was choosing, out of extraordinary generosity, to keep them to herself.

It had been going surprisingly well.

Then the older Ecosian opened his mouth.

Stasia closed her eyes briefly.

“Ah,” she muttered. “There it is.”

The universal language of someone about to make a bad decision.

She watched the exchange unfold with the weary resignation of a woman who had spent years around military officers, hunters, alphas, generals, and every other flavor of stubborn authority figure the universe could invent.

The male hit the ground.

Dust flew.

The host immediately found religion and got back into formation.

“Mm.”

Stasia popped her gum.

“Effective.”

She waited until the drills resumed before finally pushing away from the fence. Boots crunched softly against the dirt as she approached, hands still buried in her jacket pockets.

The air around the training field thrummed with the beat of wings overhead.

“You know,” she said conversationally as she stopped a few feet away from Caelius, “for someone who complains about other people being dramatic, you do throw Ecosians at the ground with impressive theatrical timing.”

One brow lifted.

“Very inspiring leadership. Nine out of ten. Lost one point for dust cloud.”

Her eyes flicked briefly skyward toward the reforming host.

“They are tired,” she observed.

Not criticism.

Just fact.

“Half of them started anticipating the maneuver instead of executing it twenty minutes ago. The older one especially.” A pause. “Which means his mouth got ahead of his judgment.”

Stasia tilted her head slightly, studying him.

“You okay, Big Bird?”

The question came casually.

Too casually.

Like she wasn't asking about the tension still wound through his shoulders or the fact that his patience had clearly been stretched thin.

She glanced toward the sky again.

“Because if you keep glaring at them like that,” she added dryly, “they're either going to improve very quickly...”

A beat.

“...or start placing bets on who survives training.”

Perhaps he was being a tad unfair though, he considered, as the woman seemed only mildly amused by the training session and more interested in ambushing him with that ridiculous nickname of hers for him.

He pursed his lips as he considered her casual observation. "Ecosian fighters are veritable wells of stamina. These drills should be child's play to them - not something that should have tired them out after only..." He glanced at the horizon and cursed. "...more hours than I realized." He admitted. He watched his men for a few moments longer before dismissing them with a wave of his hand and turning to the woman now. "Why are you here?" He questioned more calmly this time.

That was the first lie.

The second was that he hadn’t been watching for ten minutes already.

He stood at the far edge of the training field where the terrain dipped into broken stone and scrubby grass, hands loose at his sides, hood half up but not doing much to hide him. The wind here always carried altitude in it—thin, sharp, like the sky had teeth.

And above it all—Caelius.

Again.

Darien’s jaw flexed slightly as the formation tightened and broke and tightened again. Clean, repeatable failure dressed up as discipline. He’d seen worse. He’d been worse.

The shout rolled across the field like a blade being dragged over stone.

“Again.”

Of course.

Darien exhaled through his nose, almost amused despite himself. “Yeah,” he muttered under his breath. “That’s going to fix it.”

He shifted his weight when the older Ecosian stepped forward—watched the exchange without moving, expression flattening in that familiar way that meant he was calculating outcomes instead of reacting to them.

The moment the insult landed, Darien’s head tilted slightly.

Not surprised.

Just… tired.

When Caelius dropped the man without hesitation, Darien let out a quiet, low breath—something between approval and resignation.

“Subtle,” he murmured.

The formation reset. The tension settled back into something controlled. Or pretending to be.

Only then did Darien step forward.

Not into the center. Not into the line of command.

Just close enough that Caelius would notice him without needing to look for him.

“You’re going to burn them out before you fix them,” Darien said calmly, gaze still on the host above rather than the General beside him. “Or they’re going to start listening to the wrong kind of voice just to avoid yours.”

A beat.

His eyes flicked up toward the circling wings, tracking the timing of the descent with quiet precision.

“The pattern’s not the problem,” he added. “It’s the hesitation in the drop. They’re thinking instead of committing.”

Only then did he glance sideways at Caelius—steady, unflinching.

“And before you say it,” Darien added mildly, “no. I’m not volunteering to fix it for you.”

A faint pause.

“…unless you’re going to keep them up there all night, in which case I might start charging admission.”

"You're lucky you're no longer just one of our footmen, Darian, or I'd haul your ass up there with them just for being a smart ass." He grumbled out and gazed skyward once more for a few moments. "They're sloppy. They're acting like they don't know how to be the elite aerial fighting force our people are bred to be." He scoffed once.

The barked again carried across the training grounds with enough force to send a flock of smaller birds scattering from the trees beyond the perimeter. She followed the sound more out of curiosity than intention, emerging from the forest's edge just in time to watch a host of Ecosians bank sharply through another aerial maneuver.

Or attempt to.

Her gaze tracked the formation once.

Twice.

Then drifted upward to where Caelius hovered among them like a storm cloud that had learned how to wear armor.

The older male's challenge earned her attention. The resulting impact earned something closer to approval. Not because she enjoyed violence. Because she appreciated efficiency.

By the time Caelius landed and the host resumed their drills, Lyric had wandered close enough to observe without truly joining the scene. She leaned one shoulder against a weather-worn post, arms folded loosely across her chest as she watched the formation climb back into the sky.

For a long moment, she said nothing.

Then—

"You're getting sentimental." The comment arrived without warning. Without explanation. Dry as autumn leaves.

Her eyes remained on the formation overhead. "They're flying poorly." A beat. "They're disrespectful." Another. "And yet you've spent an hour trying to teach them instead of replacing them."

Only then did she glance toward him, the faintest hint of amusement lingered around her eyes.

"Ten years ago you would've thrown three of them into a lake by now." She tilted her head slightly as another sloppy descent drew a visible tightening of her expression. "Though, to be fair..." Her gaze tracked the offending flyer. "...you still have time."

The corner of her mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. Definitely not sympathy. Just enough humor to make the observation dangerous.

After a moment she looked back toward the sky. "They're watching you more than they're watching each other." A quieter observation, more thoughtful than teasing.

"That's why they're failing."

The wind shifted through her hair.

"They're trying not to disappoint you."

Her eyes found him again.

"And unfortunately for them, you're terrifying."

As the host soared off, he shook his head several times and ran his hands over his face then through his black locks. "Kind of taunting of you to wander into our Court just to watch us train, no?" He questioned with the faintest of smirks playing at his lips.

He stood near the edge of the training grounds with his arms folded loosely across his chest, dark coat stirring in the mountain wind as the host repeated the same maneuver again and again overhead. He hadn't interrupted Caelius once. Every barked order, every frustrated correction, every muttered complaint from exhausted wings trying to keep formation had been allowed to run its course. Sometimes leadership meant letting people work through their frustrations. Sometimes it meant letting them fail until they understood why they were failing.

When the older male finally made his comment and found himself knocked from the sky for it, Kaidan didn't move.

Because Caelius had shown considerably more restraint than most would have.

The Night Court's High Lord only pushed away from the stone railing he'd been leaning against once the host resumed their formation and Caelius settled back onto the ground. Civilians gathered near the outskirts of the field instinctively stepped aside as he crossed the training area, shadows trailing lazily at his heels.

He stopped beside his General and lifted his gaze toward the sky.

For a long moment, he simply watched.

"The eastern perimeter is still too loose," he remarked calmly.

One of the younger fliers drifted too far from formation during the banking turn.

Kaidan's eyes narrowed slightly.

"And they're compensating for poor descent angles by widening their circles."

A pause.

"They'd lose a target."

The assessment was delivered with the detached precision of someone who had spent centuries studying battlefields.

Only then did his attention drift toward the elder Ecosian laboring to keep pace with the rest of the host.

The male refused to look down.

Kaidan wasn't surprised.

"No," he said quietly.

The single word carried enough weight to feel like an answer to a question that hadn't been spoken aloud.

"He wasn't angry because you left."

His gaze remained fixed on the formation overhead.

"None of us left."

There was iron beneath the statement.

Neither he nor Caelius had abandoned the Night Court. Neither had Tairen. Neither had Gwendolyn. None of the Inner Circle had chosen to disappear into the mortal world for a year. The Convergence had stolen that choice from them.

But grief was rarely interested in facts.

"The Court lost its High Lord. Its General. Its Spymaster. Half its leadership." His jaw tightened slightly. "And for a year they had no answers."

Above them, the host banked around the perimeter once more.

"They adapted."

A beat.

"They survived."

Another.

"And now we're back."

The words carried no pride.

Only understanding.

"That makes some of them grateful."

His eyes briefly tracked the older male again.

"And some of them angry."

The mountain wind shifted around them, carrying the rhythmic thunder of wings overhead.

Kaidan folded his arms.

"Not because we abandoned them," he continued. "Because they spent a year learning how to live without us."

There it was.

The real wound hidden beneath the disrespect.

"They spent a year carrying responsibilities that weren't supposed to be theirs. Making decisions they never expected to make. Burying people without knowing whether help was coming."

His expression remained thoughtful as he watched the patrol formation struggle through another turn.

"Now the people they spent a year replacing are standing in front of them again."

For the first time, he glanced toward Caelius.

"He wasn't questioning your authority."

A pause.

"He was questioning whether it still belongs to you."

The honesty landed cleanly between them.

Then, unexpectedly, the corner of Kaidan's mouth twitched upward.

A faint trace of amusement.

"Fortunately for him, throwing himself into the dirt wasn't the smartest way to test that theory."

Above them, the formation broke apart again during the descent.

Kaidan sighed.

"They're still sloppy."

The criticism carried far more irritation than the confrontation had.

His gaze followed the host as they regrouped overhead.

Then he lifted his chin slightly and called toward the sky.

"Again."

This time there was unmistakable humor beneath the command.

"Because if we're reclaiming this Court, I'd prefer our patrols stop flying like drunken geese first."

"And that makes it okay?" He turned and looked at his High Lord - his brother. "Whether it was intentional or not, we did abandon them." He stated and glanced at the older male up in formation. "He's not the only one that's bristling. There's several. Throughout multiple hosts." Caelius frowned sharply.

"Of course, the right to that authority still belongs to me. Year away or not, I'll dance circles around the rest of these bastards just as I have for centuries." His pride fumed and he shook his head; black hair tossing softly with the motion. Caelius was almost thankful, however, that the next order to run the drill again came from the High Lord himself.

"What news do you have?" Caelius asked quietly, if only to keep himself from losing his temper at the host once more. "Has the prince settled in yet? Our Lady?" He glanced at Kaidan.

He didn’t step forward immediately.

Instead, he shifted just enough to stand beside him again—not overriding the invitation, but quietly refusing to let it become distance.

“Careful, Caelius,” Apollo murmured under his breath, tone light, threaded with warmth only Caelius would catch. “You keep deferring like that and people will start thinking I outrank you in something that matters.”

A beat—dry humor, steady.

“I don’t.”

Then he turned his attention back to the merchants, posture still easy, still unthreatening—but now clearly shared. Not a replacement. Not a correction. A partnership.

“We’re not here to make your work harder,” Apollo said, voice carrying just enough to reach them without pressing. “We’re here to make sure you get to keep doing it.”

He let his gaze move between them—not piercing, not judging—just present enough to hold their attention.

“The crossings aren’t closing,” he continued. “They’re being watched. Logged. Verified when possible. That protects you as much as it protects the Courts.” A slight tilt of his head. “Because when something goes wrong—and it will—the first question asked is always the same.”

Who let it through?

He didn’t say it sharply. Didn’t need to.

“If you can answer that,” Apollo added calmly, “you keep your autonomy. Your trade. Your routes.” A faint, reassuring note entered his voice. “And we avoid the kind of oversight that comes with less patience and fewer conversations.”

His gaze softened just a fraction.

“This is us choosing cooperation before someone else chooses enforcement.”

He let the silence sit—long enough for it to land, not long enough to become pressure.

Then, casually, like it hadn’t been anything at all, Apollo shifted his weight back slightly, glancing to Caelius.

“Your turn,” he said quietly, not relinquishing control—sharing it.

The Ecosian stepped forward on cue, as if rehearsed, and straightened his posture even more imposingly. "The High Lord put it simply. Cooperation is the easier option for all of us to take, but if it comes down to it we will enforce the safety of our Courts. Consider those words to have come directly from my Lord's mouth." He warned and resisted the urge to react to the wave of murmurs and whispers that flooded the area as the merchants gradually stepped away back towards their stalls.

"Too much?" He grumbled at length to the male beside him.

“Right,” she said softly. “Because the second it looks like a coordinated move, it stops being a problem and starts being a war.”

Her gaze followed his briefly toward the merchants, watching the way they’d scattered — not panicked, but careful now. Calculating. It didn’t reassure her nearly as much as it probably should have.

“Accountability through intimidation,” Nikki murmured, tipping her head. “Very on-brand. Very effective… short term.”

She shifted her weight, one heel turning slightly against the stone as she leaned in just a fraction more, voice still low, thoughtful rather than challenging.

“But merchants don’t stop,” she added. “They adapt. If anything, you’ve just made it more profitable to be discreet about it.”

A beat.

“And if something is already moving through the City?” her eyes lifted back to his, sharper now. “It won’t be using the obvious routes you just tightened. It’ll be using the ones no one’s watching yet.”

Her arms loosened slightly, though she didn’t drop them entirely.

“So intimidation buys you hesitation,” Nikki said. “Maybe even cooperation, if they’re smart enough to be scared.” A faint, knowing look. “But it doesn’t buy you loyalty. And it definitely doesn’t buy you foresight.”

She paused, studying him more carefully now — the mantle, the wings, the deliberate way he carried authority without quite throwing it.

“You’re not wrong to do it,” she added, quieter. “It’s probably the only move you can make in a place like this without starting a panic.”

A small exhale.

“But if you’re betting on fear to hold the seams together…” Nikki’s gaze flicked once more to the bustling square, the countless unnoticed crossings happening in plain sight.

“…you might want a second plan for when something decides it’s not afraid of you.”

Caelius looked around a few moments longer before sighing. "Sometimes I wish when mortals were practically born with an instinct to fear our people due to our histories. Being reduced to folktales and children's stories kind of stings." He remarked and offered the woman a small smirk.

“Fragile,” she repeated lightly, glancing back toward the square where life moved on, stubborn and loud. “And still here. That counts for something.”

Her gaze returned to him, steadier now. “You don’t need to like the word ‘right’ for it to be true.”

At his concern, her brow lifted just slightly, considering. Then she shook her head once.

“The Courts don’t need theatrics,” Reina said. “They need clarity.” A beat. “Unruly dragons and disgruntled generals are only a problem if they’re unpredictable.”

Her tone shifted—quieter, but firmer.

“You’re not unpredictable, Caelius. You’re consistent.” She gestured loosely toward the booths. “You tighten the gates because something is wrong. I back it because I’ve seen what happens when no one does.”

A faint breath, almost thoughtful.

“That’s not chaos. That’s alignment.”

She tilted her head, studying him with that same measured ease. “Tairen can handle the honeyed words. That’s his craft.” A small smirk flickered. “You don’t need to pretend to be something you’re not to be effective.”

Reina stepped half a pace closer—not crowding, just enough to lower her voice beneath the market noise.

“If anyone asks,” she added, tone calm but edged with quiet steel, “this isn’t a display. It’s a warning. Something crossed that shouldn’t have. We’re responding before it happens again.”

A pause.

“And if they still don’t listen,” she said simply, “then it stops being a conversation.”

Her gaze held his for a moment longer, then softened just enough to take the edge off the weight of it.

“You don’t need honey to be heard,” Reina finished. “You just need to be right—and willing to stand there even when people don’t like it.”

"That's what I'm worried about. When the situation stops being a conversation and we have to exert the severity of matters - will these people understand what's at stake or will they just see the 'Court of Nightmares' trying to make a power play?" He inhaled once and released it with a huffing breath. Tossing his hair behind him with a jerk of his head, he turned back to the dragon queen. "I'm always willing to stand where people don't like me to." He smirked once more. Ever the troublemaker at heart.

People like him weren’t used to being told the edges didn’t belong to them—and weren’t entirely wrong for thinking they should. But the city didn’t care about rank. It just shifted around whoever thought they were in control.

“Information business pays better than it looks,” she said lightly. “Just not in ways you can put on a ledger.”

At his name, she gave a small nod—filed, not impressed.

“Caelius,” she repeated once, like she was committing it somewhere useful.

When he asked how she got into it, her expression stilled—not guarded, just… settled. Like she’d told this version of the truth before and knew exactly how much of it to hand over.

“My brother disappeared,” she said.

No dramatics. No weight added. Just fact.

“People called it voluntary. It wasn’t.”

A small pause.

“I started looking for him. Found something else first.”

Her gaze flicked briefly toward the booths, then back to him.

“After that, it wasn’t really a choice. You learn what’s out there, you either pretend you didn’t… or you adjust.”

A faint shift of her shoulders.

“I adjusted.”

She didn’t dress it up. Didn’t call it revenge. Didn’t call it purpose.

Just continuation.

“Turns out most of this job is paying attention and not freezing when something looks wrong,” Laikyn added. “The rest you pick up as you go.”

Her eyes held his, steady.

“I’m still looking, by the way. That part didn’t stop.”

"Losing a family member to something you couldn't explain... that's not something I can relate to, but it is definitely an experience that I do not envy your kind for having to deal with." The Ecosian remarked. "Being born and raised; going through your lives without being taught about the dangers and simple truths that are out there..." He shook his head slowly. "Even as children, our kind are taught and warned about every species of lesser faerie and dangerous sub-species that lurk in the uncharted corners of our Court territories. Keeps us sharp. Keeps us prepared and alert to situations we should be avoid."

He withdrew into his thoughts for a few seconds. "Nor should you give up. Not on someone you care about. Not on your family." He stated with a rare genuineness.

“They don’t,” she agreed quietly. “Deserve it.”

Her gaze drifted briefly across the market — mortals arguing over prices, a witch haggling over herbs, a child weaving between legs without any awareness of how fragile the peace truly was. When she looked back at Caelius, the gold in her eyes had cooled into something thoughtful.

“We arrived like a storm,” she said. “And then expected them to treat thunder as background noise.”

A faint exhale left her nose — not quite a laugh.

“Kaidan’s storm. The Cauldron. Triad ripping at seams they barely understood.” She shook her head once. “We call it survival. They call it Tuesday.”

Her arms folded loosely, posture relaxed but grounded. “You’re right. First we were forced into their world. Now they’re forced into ours. And the Courts still argue like the ground under them isn’t shared.”

Her gaze sharpened slightly at that.

“That’s the part that irritates me,” Reina admitted. “Not the tightening. Not the paperwork. The assumption that we can afford to behave like separate realms when the borders have already blurred.”

She looked back toward the booths, then at him again.

“You’re not wrong to protect the arteries,” she said. “If something is moving through them unchecked, it’s not just a Night problem. Or a Valarian one. It becomes everyone’s.”

A small pause.

“And mortals don’t survive Court corrections,” she added flatly. “They get crushed under them.”

Her expression softened a fraction after that — less queen, more something older.

“If the Accord is going to mean anything, it has to include the people who didn’t choose this.” She tilted her head slightly. “You tighten the gates. I’ll make sure my side understands why.”

A faint glimmer of heat threaded through her tone now — controlled, not flaring.

“And if any Court decides to treat the Broken City like expendable collateral, they’ll find the dragon less diplomatic than the General.”

Then, quieter:

“You’re doing right by them, Caelius. Even if they never know it.”

This was exactly why he let Tairen worry about diplomacy with their fellow Courts. The spymaster was much more suited for the work than he. Put a sword in his hand or given him an army to command and Caelius was your fae. Ask him to sway folks over with just honeyed words? You might as well be putting make-up on a pig and trying to pass it as anything but.

Her gaze drifted past him briefly, tracking the flow of travelers weaving between booths, the subtle shimmer of glamour, the way coin changed hands faster when people thought no one important was watching. Then her eyes came back to him.

“So it’s not just about contraband,” she said evenly. “It’s about access.”

She stepped a little closer, not crowding him — just closing the conversational distance, lowering her voice so it didn’t carry past the nearest fruit stand.

“You’ve given every Court a front door that opens into a neutral crossroads,” Nikki continued. “Which means whoever figures out how to exploit that first doesn’t just get smuggling routes.” A beat. “They get leverage.”

Her lips curved faintly — not amused, not quite grim. Just thoughtful.

“Broken City isn’t a liability,” she said. “It’s a shortcut. And shortcuts make people sloppy. Or ambitious.”

Her gaze flicked briefly to his wings before returning to his face.

“You’re not here to scare traders,” Nikki concluded quietly. “You’re here because if something ugly walks through one capital and out another, it won’t look like a coordinated breach.”

A pause.

“It’ll look like an accident.”

She folded her arms loosely, mirroring his earlier posture without quite realizing it.

“So what are you tightening, exactly?” she asked. “Documentation? Gate wards? Or are you trying to build a coalition before one of the High Courts decides Broken City is easier to control than protect?”

"Accountability." He responded as she questioned what he was attempting to tighten. "I'm hoping these merchants have some sort of sensibility in their damned skulls and are intimidated just enough - by someone with my... presence playing the role of messenger - that they second-guess any ideas they may have had about starting up or continuing any under-the-table sort of travel deals they might have had."