Caelius

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."

Caelius inhaled slowly and released it the same. His pale, emerald eyes found respite in the fiery, gold specks that dusted her blue ones and he held the gaze for several moments as she spoke. "I'm five hundred years old. I suppose I can still learn some new tricks with enough time." He chuckled gently. Giving her a nod, he turned back in the direction they had wandered from. "As a habit." He echoed.

There was no hesitation in it now—no testing of boundaries, no measuring of distance. Just the quiet acceptance of something already understood. His squeeze was warm, grounding. When he released her, she didn’t chase the contact—but she didn’t retreat from the space it had altered either.

“Unpredictable,” she echoed softly. “That’s what keeps them honest.”

Her gaze held his a moment longer than necessary—bronze catching green, ember to forest—and there was something almost amused in the set of her mouth when he mentioned learning new tricks.

“Five hundred years,” Lyric said lightly. “That’s barely adolescence for stubborn men.”

The faintest spark of humor lingered in her eyes, then settled into something steadier.

“You’ll learn,” she added. “Not because you have time. Because you choose to.”

When he turned, she fell into step beside him without needing invitation. Their strides found rhythm quickly—boots brushing gravel, wind slipping between broken stone and Veil-light.

“As a habit,” she repeated quietly, as if committing the shape of it to memory.

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy. It was companionable. The kind forged in battlefields and borders and moments that didn’t demand more than presence.

After a few steps, she glanced at him from the corner of her eye.

“Careful,” Lyric murmured, voice low and dry. “If we make a habit of this, someone might start thinking we’re predictable.”

A beat.

“And we both know how dangerous that would be.”

“City’s not great at urban planning,” she said. “Built itself out of fog and bad decisions. Clearances weren’t high on the list.”

Her gaze moved as his did — over the square, the booths, the traders who were pretending not to listen. Regulation always looked neat from the center. Messier from the edges.

“Unregulated gets you chaos,” she agreed quietly. “Overregulated gets you a black market with better branding. You’re trying to keep it inconvenient enough to deter, but not desperate enough to radicalize.”

It wasn’t admiration. Just recognition of the balancing act.

When he asked her name, she didn’t hesitate — but she didn’t give more than that either.

“Laikyn,” she said. “Reeves. Most people that know me call me Lake though.”

No Court. No title. Just the human cadence of it.

“I manage a bar a few blocks from here. People pass through before they jump. After they jump. When they’re deciding whether to.”

Her eyes settled back on him, steady.

“They talk. Especially when they think they’re not being listened to by someone who reports to a throne.”

A beat.

“You don’t need me inside your structure,” she added. “That’d spook half the square. But if something alive is slipping through, it’s going to leave a pattern. Hesitation. Extra coin. The wrong kind of silence.”

Her posture stayed loose, but there was iron under it.

“You tighten the front door. I’ll watch the side streets. If the seams are being tested, someone’s checking for which thread pulls easiest.”

A small pause.

“You don’t have to like the method. You just have to decide if you want another set of eyes.”

"Caelius." He reluctantly introduced himself in turn and sighed out the tension he had been containing within his hulking frame. "I hate the idea of dragging any of your mortals into Court business - but, let's face it. Our business is going to wind up being your business one way or another now that this city is at all of our doorsteps." He shook his head once; dark locks bouncing with the motion. "How did you get into this kind of work anyway, Laikyn?" He questioned. "Sorry - Lake."

“General,” he returned evenly, matching tone for tone without letting it harden.

His gaze moved briefly over the surrounding merchants again—not threatening, not glowing, not grandstanding. Just present. And present carried weight in a square like this.

“I’m sure your Lord appreciates your enthusiasm for grunt work,” Apollo said lightly, though there was something knowing beneath it. “And I suspect the Princess would disagree about dirty hands. But I won’t rob you of the satisfaction.”

The brief grin earned a flicker of amusement from him before it faded back into composure.

When Caelius mentioned the wicked Court of Nightmares, Apollo’s eyes glinted—soft humor, not denial.

“Mm,” he hummed thoughtfully. “Reputation does tend to arrive before context.”

He stepped forward just enough that the merchants could hear him clearly without feeling cornered.

“This isn’t a punishment,” Apollo said calmly, voice steady but carrying. “It’s a safeguard. When crossings tighten, it’s because something beyond the square has grown unstable. We’d rather inconvenience a handful of routes now than explain to three Courts why something dangerous walked through unchecked.”

He let that settle, measured and rational, not accusatory.

“Trade thrives on trust,” he continued. “And trust erodes quickly if travelers believe the City has stopped paying attention.”

Then he glanced sideways at Caelius, voice lowering slightly, private without being secretive.

“You’re not the only one tired of cleaning up what slips through ‘just this once,’” he added.

His posture remained relaxed, hands at his sides.

“If they need someone to blame, let them blame procedure,” Apollo said mildly. “It sounds far less dramatic than Night tightening its grip.”

A faint smile ghosted his expression.

“And if my presence helps balance the narrative,” he finished, tone warm but firm, “then I’ll stand here as long as needed.”

He angled his head slightly toward the booths again.

“Shall we try this once more, General? Together.”

The entire motion felt as awkward as it looked. Respect for the hierarchy had never been Cael's strong suit - if it was anyone other than Kaidan himself, Cael would just as soon clap them on the shoulder and take them to a tavern than butter them up with pleasantries. It was just who he was as a person - and a trait that had only solidified and intensified over the centuries being raised in Ecosian culture.

he stepped slightly to the side, giving the square an assessing look of his own. the chaos was already knitting itself back together — merchants whispering, travelers recalculating. “for what it’s worth,” corvath added lightly, “you’re not wrong. something is slipping through cracks it shouldn’t fit through.” his tone didn’t carry alarm — just curiosity. autumn never rushed to panic. then his eyes flicked back to caelius, amusement returning like sunlight through leaves. “but next time you’re threatening ‘enforcement,’ perhaps soften it with a smile. keeps them guessing.” a subtle beat. “or invite me along. autumn does wonders for negotiations. we make consequences sound almost festive.”

"Prince Blackthorne." He spoke the name with both greeting and simple observation. "There is no 'General' mode when the General is who I always am. Besides, whether they like it or not, listening to me in just plain common sense. Arguing would have only meant my Lord would have had to get involved. The Ecosian General? That's just lesser of two evils to deal with." Cael shrugged his shoulders.

A small scoff escaped him against his will. "Why am I not surprised that Autumn has taken notice of these lapses in security?" He quipped with a delicately balanced among of disrespect. A look of disbelief crossed his features for a brief moment at the suggestion. "Ah, because that would definitely keep folks from entering a panic seeing the Prince of Autumn wandering on business with Night's General." He stated and shook his head a few quick times. "And I don't smile." He added pointedly.

when the fairies finally dispersed, she stepped forward from the thinning crowd, brushing stardust grit from her palms like she hadn’t been standing there absorbing every word. “i’m guessing this isn’t about misplaced paperwork,” she said gently. her gaze tracked the winnowing booths, thoughtful, calculating in a way that didn’t harden her. “three crossings in ten days…” she exhaled softly. “that’s either something trying to get in. or something trying to get out.”

that was the part that sat heavier. she met his eyes fully now. “do i need to let the crescent alphas know about this?” it wasn’t dramatic. it wasn’t panicked. it was practical. “if whatever’s crossing makes it fully into the broken city, they’ll be the first line of civilian protection whether they volunteer for it or not.” her jaw tightened slightly. “and if this is originating here — if something’s being smuggled out of our streets into the courts — they deserve to know that too.” a small pause, quieter now. she studied him carefully. “are we containing something… or are we being contained? i want to know, so please don't hold back information. i can handle it.”

His lips then curled into a small, amused smirk. "Walk with me, my Lady." He ordered - though his tone was just respectful enough to mind the station that was all but hers while being casual enough to have elders clutch their pearls had they heard him. He was used to it anyway - had seen many do just that upon witnessing his more informal mannerisms with Kaidan. "You and Kade have been courting for too damn long for us to not have found a moment to spend some quality time with one another." The gruff lack of decorum in his words returned almost immediately. "Besides, I've got loads of embarrassing stories to tell you about the mutual pain in our asses."

The Broken City always carried noise like a second skin—magic humming, voices overlapping, movement layered on movement—but this pocket of tension had a different weight to it. Authority had a temperature. She’d learned that long before crowns and accords and the endless negotiations of survival. It cooled rooms. It made people edge back without realizing why.

Her boots found stone at the edge of the winnowing booths, posture loose, hands unoccupied, wings masked beneath glamour the way she preferred in places with too many eyes. Gold-flecked eyes tracked Caelius as he spoke, taking in the calm steel of his tone, the careful way he held the line without setting the square on fire.

When he dismissed the fairies and turned, Reina didn’t pretend she hadn’t been listening.

“You’re not taking up space,” she said evenly, stepping closer into the thinning ring the crowd had left behind. “You’re making it.” A faint curve touched her mouth—dry, not unkind. “People just notice when it shifts.”

Her gaze flicked briefly to the booths, the residual shimmer of glamour in the air. “Destination declarations,” she repeated, thoughtful. “Verification. No blind jumps. That’s not strangling trade.” A pause. “That’s asking it to grow up.”

She angled her body beside him rather than in front of him—queenly instinct tempered by the courtesy of someone who knew what it was to hold a line in public. “You’re right about one thing,” Reina continued, quieter now. “If the Courts decide the Broken City is a liability, they won’t negotiate. They’ll correct.” Her eyes cooled a fraction at that word. “Corrections tend to leave scorch marks.”

A breath. Then, softer:

“Whatever is slipping between realms won’t stop because you tightened the gates. But it will get harder for it to hide.” She glanced at Caelius, studying him with the open appraisal of someone used to measuring generals. “You’ll take heat for this. From merchants. From travelers who think rules only apply to other people.”

Her shoulders lifted in a small shrug. “Let them complain. If something ‘alive that shouldn’t have crossed’ made it through once, it’ll try again.”

She tipped her head toward the cracked fountain, the square resuming its hum at the edges. “If you want, I’ll put word out on my side of the Accord. Make it clear the tightening isn’t Night Court posturing—it’s shared risk management.” A beat. “Sometimes people listen better when they realize the dragon is paying attention too.”

Her eyes warmed again, a glint of wry amusement returning. “You’re doing the unglamorous work, General. It doesn’t earn cheers.” A brief, approving nod. “But it keeps cities standing.”

"That might go a long ways to getting people to at least consider listening for once." He admitted at her offer to get involved. "I've always liked your people." Caelius gave her yet another smirk - larger this time - and chuckled quietly to himself.

"One year ago, many of our people arrived and inserted ourselves into the mortals' world. It was against our will, of course, but that did not change that they became entangled in our messes from that moment forward - from Kaidan's storm; to Triad possessing the Cauldron, of all things. And now when we've finally been allowed to return home, it is they who are ripped from everything they have known and planted - quite literally - at the center of our Courts and their petty squabbles." Caelius shook his head, the long curls of his dark hair bouncing softly.