It started at 0530- thirty minutes before your alarm- when the fire alarm went off because Private Jenkins had tried to make toast. Toast. The most basic form of cooking known to mankind. Bread. Heat. That’s it. But somehow, somehow, Jenkins had managed to not only burn the toast but actually catch the toaster on fire. You’d stood in the predawn cold in your pajamas for forty five minutes while the fire department cleared the building.

When you’d asked Jenkins, trying to understand the thought process on how he’d managed it, he’d said, “I dunno, ma’am, I just pushed it down and walked away.”

Walked away.

From a toaster.

This was a man was trusted with a firearm.

By 0615, you’d discovered that no one had bothered to replace the fire extinguishers after last week’s “incident” (someone had tried to deep fry something in the common room and had nearly burned down the building). The Fire Chief had shown up during the Toast Incident and had lost his absolute mind. You’d spent forty five minutes getting screamed at- actually screamed at, with the vein in his forehead pulsing and everything- about negligence and fire code violations and “what kind of chickenshit operation are you running here?”

You weren’t even in charge of fire safety. That was Morrison’s job. Morrison, who was conspicuously absent. Morrison, who’d somehow had a “dentist appointment” at 6 AM. But Captain Price had looked at you and said, “Handle it,” and then walked away, leaving you to take the fall for someone else’s incompetence. Again.

The Fire Chief had threatened to report the base. You’d had to grovel and promise it would never happen again and personally saw to it that they were all replaced.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

0700: Someone- you has suspects but couldn’t prove it- had made you the next victim in the base wide prank war that had been ongoing for weeks and replaced your shampoo with Nair. No doubt they thought they were pranking someone else and hadn’t bothered to confirm they had the right locker first. You’d caught it just in time, but only because you’d been paranoid enough to smell it first. You’d had to use dish soap to wash your hair. Dish soap.

0730: You’d found out that the weekly intelligence reports you’d specifically asked Corporal Davis to file were not, in fact, filed. When you’d asked why, he’d said- and you could not make this up even if you tried- “Oh, I thought you said you’d do it.” You’d literally watched him write it down in his little notebook. You’d watched him underline it. The reports were now late. Your ass was on the line. But sure, Davis thought you were doing it.

0800 briefing: You’d watched Lieutenant Riley drink tea through his mask. Not lift it. Not move it. Straight through the fabric like some kind of logic defying cryptid. When you’d stared at him in horrified confusion, he’d just stared back with those dead eyes. You’d had to continue the briefing while experiencing what could only be described as a dissociative episode. No one else seemed to think this was weird. You were surrounded by lunatics.

0845: The visiting Lieutenant Colonel called you “sweetheart” and asked if you’d “mind terribly” grabbing coffee for the room. You were running the briefing. You were running it. He’d then spent the next fifteen minutes explaining your own intelligence report back to you, incorrectly, while nodding like he was doing you a favor.

0900: You’d discovered that your meticulously prepared presentation for the brass- six hours of work- had been deleted. Just gone. You’d asked the IT specialist what happened. He’d said, “Oh yeah, I was cleaning up the shared drive and it looked like old stuff, so I deleted it.” It was dated from yesterday. It was very clearly labeled “BRIEF FOR VISITING BRASS - DO NOT DELETE.” He’d apparently not read that part. You’d recreated it from memory in forty five minutes while having what you were pretty sure was an aneurysm.

1000: Sergeant Garrick had crashed a drone- your personal drone, the one you’d bought with your own money- into the side of the barracks because he “wanted to see if he could do a barrel roll.” When you’d asked him why he’d used your drone instead of one of the fifty military grade drones on base, he’d said, “Yours was closer.” It was now in seven pieces. He’d apologized with those big sincere eyes like that somehow unsmashed your $800 drone.

1030: You’d had to break up a fight between two privates who were arguing about whether a hot dog was a sandwich. It had escalated to shoving. Grown men. Pushing each other. Over a hot dog. You’d had to file an incident report. You’d had to waste official military paperwork on the hot dog sandwich debate.

1100: The intelligence reports you needed for the 1300 meeting were being held up because the courier had accepted a dare to eat a carolina reaper and was now in medical “experiencing profound regret.” Your reports were locked in his bag. In his locked office. He was too busy “contemplating his mortality” to tell anyone the code. You’d had to get maintenance to literally drill the lock off.

1200: You’d confiscated a makeshift flamethrower that two privates had constructed from an aerosol can and a lighter because they “wanted to see if they could cook lunch faster.” There were scorch marks on the ceiling. When you’d asked them what they thought was going to happen, they’d both shrugged. No thoughts. Heads empty. Just vibes and arson.

1300 meeting: You’d had to present your recreated brief to the brass while the Lieutenant Colonel interrupted you every thirty seconds to add “valuable input” that was just… wrong. Factually incorrect. But you couldn’t correct him because he outranked you, despite being dumber than a bag of rocks.

1400: You’d returned to your office to find the door locked. Your office. Locked from the inside. You’d knocked. No answer. You’d used your key. It didn’t work- someone had engaged the interior lock. You’d had to get maintenance. Again. When they finally opened the door, you’d found Captain Price in there with Susan from admin. Susan’s lipstick was smeared. Captain Price’s hat was on your desk. They’d been using your office- your office- to fuck. On your desk. Your desk. Captain Price had the audacity to wink at you and say, “Thanks for the space, love,” as he walked out, adjusting his belt.

1430: You’d had to clean lipstick off your desk. And other things. You didn’t want to think about the other things. You’d used an entire container of disinfecting wipes. You were going to need therapy.

1445: Sergeant MacTavish had set off a smoke grenade in the women’s bathroom. You’d been in there. You’d been in a stall. He’d just opened the door, tossed it in without looking- because why would you look, apparently that’s too much to ask- and shut the door. You’d had to evacuate through a window. Second floor. You’d twisted your ankle. MacTavish had found you limping across the parking lot and had the absolute balls to ask if you were okay. You’d nearly murdered him with your bare hands.

1500: You’d discovered that someone had used your car- your personal vehicle- to make a beer run. Your car. They’d taken your keys from your desk (the desk that had been defiled) while you were in the building. There was a dent in the bumper now. No one would admit to it. When you’d asked around, everyone suddenly had amnesia. Thirty grown men and not one of them saw anything.

1530: Jenkins- fucking Jenkins- had been promoted to armory supervisor. The man who’d nearly burned down the building making toast. The man who’d assembled a rifle backwards last month. That Jenkins. You’d asked Captain Price if he was serious. He’d said, “He’s got initiative.” Initiative. Jenkins had initiative. You’d laughed. It was not a sane laugh.

1600: Someone had started a rumor that you and Ghost were dating. Three people had congratulated you. One had asked when the wedding was. Another had asked if Ghost was “good in bed” because “he seems like he’d be intense.” You’d had to stand there and explain that you were not, in fact, romantically involved with the base’s human shadow demon.

1630: The coffee maker in the officers’ lounge had finally, completely died. You’d gone to use the backup coffee maker. Also broken. The vending machine? Out of order. There was no coffee anywhere on this godforsaken base except for the instant coffee in the supply closet, which tasted like it had been brewed in the fires of hell using Satan’s bathwater.

1700: You’d found Garrick in the medical bay doing parkour. Parkour. Off the examination tables. There were muddy footprints on the ceiling. The ceiling. When you’d asked him what the hell he was doing, he’d said with a straight face “Conditioning, ma’am.” The medic had just shrugged like this was normal.

1745: You’d finally made it back to your office to find Ghost sitting at your desk. In the dark. When you’d turned on the light, he’d said, “You left these on the printer,” and held up a pack of paper like that explained any of this while you tried to make your heart rate return to a normal rate and rhythm. It did not explain why he was in the dark. It did not explain how he’d gotten into your office. It did not explain anything.

1800: You’d made it to the mess hall. You were running on four hours of sleep, no coffee, crunchy hair, a twisted ankle, and your will to live that was hanging on by a thread made of spite and denial.

And then you’d seen it.

The last piece of chocolate lava cake.

Your light. Your beacon. Your reason for continuing to exist.

You’d made it through the line in a daze. Mystery meat. Suspicious vegetables. Powdered mashed potatoes that had the consistency of paste.

But you had the cake.

You’d had the cake.

Past tense.

Because MacTavish, the man who’d already made your day a living hell, had come barreling through the mess hall like a drunk moose and knocked it out of your hands.

You’d watched it flip through the air.

Watched it land.

Face down.

And now you were here.

“Do you know- ” you snarled shaking MacTavish like a maraca, “- what kind of day I’ve had?”

The mess hall was dead silent except for your voice, which had gone somewhere between a scream and a primal roar.

“You’re supposed to be elite. Special forces. The best of the best. Do you know what that’s supposed to mean, MacTavish?”

MacTavish’s feet were dangling. You’d been holding him for a full minute now. Your arm wasn’t even shaking.

“It’s supposed to mean competence. Basic. Fucking. Competence.”

You shook him again.

“But you, all of you- you’re the stupidest bastards I’ve ever worked with. And I’ve worked with Marines. I’ve worked with Rangers. I’ve worked with private security contractors who showed more common sense than this entire unit combined.”

Your voice was rising, getting more unhinged with every word.

“You can’t make toast- ” you glanced at Jenkins, who’d gone pale, “- without committing arson. You can’t file a simple report. You can’t read a file name that says ‘do not delete’ in clear fucking English. You can’t look before you throw explosives into enclosed spaces.”

You turned your attention back to MacTavish.

“You threw a smoke grenade into the women’s bathroom. While I was in it. Didn’t check. Didn’t look. Just tossed it in like you were feeding ducks at a pond.”

“I didnae ken- ”

“You didn’t think!” Your voice cracked. “None of you think! That’s the problem! You just do things! Stupid, destructive, idiotic things! And then you look surprised when there are consequences!”

You started pacing, still holding MacTavish like he weighed nothing.

“I have a master’s degree. I speak four languages. I have eight years of experience and a spotless record. And what do I do with all that training and education?”

You looked around at the crowd.

“I clean up after you. I fix your mistakes. I file your paperwork. I take the fall for your incompetence because apparently I’m the only person on this base who can be trusted to actually do their fucking job.”

Your hands were shaking now. MacTavish had gone very still.

“Price- ” you found him in the crowd, “- you promoted Jenkins to the armory. Jenkins. The man who set a toaster on fire this morning is now in charge of weapons. Do you understand how insane that is? Do you?”

Price opened his mouth.

“That’s rhetorical, Captain. I don’t actually want to hear you try to justify it.”

Someone in the back made a nervous sound.

“And the rest of you- ” you looked around at the crowd, “- you’re no better. You fight about whether hot dogs are sandwiches. You make flamethrowers in your spare time. You use my car without permission. You put Nair in people’s shampoo bottles. You act like this is summer camp instead of a military base.”

Your voice had reached a pitch that was probably only audible to dogs.

“How- ” you could feel your face getting hot, “- how do they trust you with missions? With classified intelligence? With guns? You can’t even walk through a mess hall without destroying someone’s property!”

You stopped. Looked down at MacTavish, still dangling from your hand.

“All I wanted was one piece of cake. One. After spending the entire day keeping this operation from falling apart. After playing mother to a bunch of grown men who can’t be trusted with basic tasks. After being the only competent person in a building full of idiots who are supposed to be elite soldiers.”

Your voice dropped. Went quiet. Dangerous.

“And you took that from me.”

The silence was deafening.

You looked around at all of them. “You don’t even understand what you do. You don’t see it. You bumblefuck your way through every single day causing chaos and destruction and you think it’s fine because someone- because me- is always there to fix it. To smooth it over. To make excuses. To take the blame.”

You could feel something breaking. Some final thread of professionalism snapping.

You looked at MacTavish one more time.

Then you dropped him.

He hit the ground hard, stumbled backward, gasping.

“Outside,” you said quietly. Too quietly.

No one moved.

You looked at them. Your expression had gone completely flat. Empty.

“Get outside. By the count of zero.”

“Ma’am- “Price started, taking a step forward, hands up in that universal ‘let’s all calm down’ gesture. “Let’s just take a breath and- ”

You started taking off your earrings.

Price stopped talking.

You placed them carefully on the nearest table. Started on your watch.

“Ten,” you said calmly.

“Now hang on- ” Morrison tried.

“Nine.”

You unclasped your watch. Set it down next to the earrings.

“Ma’am, I really think we should all just- ” Garrick attempted.

“Eight.”

You shrugged off your jacket. Folded it. Placed it neatly on the table.

The mess hall had gone dead silent. Everyone was watching you with increasing horror.

“Seven.”

You bent down. Slipped off one heel. Then the other. Lined them up neatly.

“Listen, we can talk about this- ” Price tried again, but his voice had gone uncertain.

“Six.”

You rolled up your sleeves. Methodically. First the right. Then the left.

Ghost’s hand was definitely on his sidearm now.

“Please- ” someone in the back squeaked.

“Five.”

You tied your hair back. Smooth, practiced movements.

“Okay, everyone just stay calm- ” The visiting Lieutenant Colonel was backing toward the door.

“Four.”

You looked at the nearest table. Four people were sitting at it, frozen like deer in headlights.

“Ma’am- ” MacTavish’s voice was strangled.

“Three.”

You walked over to the table. Calmly. Slowly.

The four people scrambled away from it.

You grabbed the edge.

“Wait- ” Price started forward.

You ripped the table out of the floor.

The sound was catastrophic. Metal shrieking. Bolts shearing. Floor tiles cracking. The table came up like you were pulling a weed from soft earth. Several people shouted.

You held it above your head.

The mess hall had gone beyond silent into some kind of vacuum where sound didn’t exist anymore. Everyone had gone pale. Actually pale. Like they’d seen a ghost.

Someone whispered, “Aren’t those bolted to the ground?”

“…Yeah,” someone else breathed.

You looked at them. Made eye contact with as many as possible while holding a table over your head.

“Two.”

That broke the spell.

They moved.

Chairs screeched. Trays went flying. Someone definitely trampled someone else. There was shouting. Pushing. A full on stampede for the exits.

“Move move move- ”

“Go go go- ”

“Out of my way- ”

You stood there, still holding the table, and watched them flee like rats from a sinking ship.

When the last person had scrambled out- Jenkins, naturally, bringing up the rear- you set the table down carefully.

Then you walked out after them.

They were clustered on the grounds outside, a hundred and fifty people pressed together like a herd of prey animals, all watching the door you’d just exited.

You looked at them.

They looked at you.

The evening air was cool. Quiet. Peaceful.

“Run,” you said. It came out as a growl. Something primal and furious.

Nobody moved.

“Run. Laps. Now.”

They started moving, but not fast enough.

“I said run.”

They ran.

“How long, ma’am?” someone called out.

You smiled. It was not a kind smile.

It was unfair, really, the ease in which your ambush was set, and how willful he had you saunter straight into it.

Summoned to his office well outside the hours of operation. The rough edge snagging his timbre when he called you an occupational hazard for all the mind you paid it. Long days stalking the city, and later nights holed up in his office, slaving to piece together the puzzle.

Roy Washburn wasn't a subtle man, nor a patient one. A straight shooter of objective singularity - you knew his manner, his tells. Sarcasm wielded like seduction. Crass tongue waggled silver. An uncanny knack for getting his way.

"Hey stranger." You answered the phone with a smile in your voice. "I guess if you're calling this late I shouldn't wait up for you?"

Even when he told you not, you always did. Your bed too cold and empty for sleep without his lank sprawled across the lion share.

"Was thinkin' you could stop by, actually." Even under work related strain, his voice dripped through the speaker a slinking husk.

The rhythm of your heart skipped two beats giddy. "Oh? Is everything alright?"

He chuckled. A fleeting, haughty sound well suited to his rich and creamy tonality, caramel center decadent. Lupine charisma that trickled down your spine and pooled at the base, even as it crackled distant over the line.

"Of course, lass. I just want to see you." Tone kicked down chest deep. A suggestive drawl, hot and hazy. "Don't you miss me?"

The station quiet and emptied, all save for him. Detective Roy Washburn. Stolen away from you by the mistress that was his work.

Being top-dog had its draw backs, and this was one of them.

Fine-tuned to the needs of those above him, he was who they sent when a job needed doing - and done well. Nose to the ground, persistence weaponized.

He was nothing if not persistent, and he always delivered. A job well done because he kept himself hungry.

And he was very good at what he did.

The wolf at the door. A touch arrogant, though it wasn't unearned. He solved cases, double knotted loose ends. He knew who was dealt what hand, and called them how he saw them. A regular at the table. Keen eye and razor wit. Dumb as a fox.

A smirk that came too easy. Roguish eyes that gleamed too mischievous. Hands too elegant for his line of work. Sinful in their architecture, and the fantasies they insight.

Dead ends and trails gone cold the sort of challenge to light his fire - and Roy loved a good challenge - the sort he likened to his pursuit of you. Eat, sleep, chase. And fuck. That was his cycle, and he didn't like to break the chain. Air-tight intuition and a fierce right hook. For every punch he took, an answering one was locked and loaded. Thrown just as hard and twice as fast.

He'd been embroiled in a rough one. Worked over, getting as good as he gave. Keeping him from you for days and nights on end, each melding into the other, distinction lost to the hours he clocked. A captain adamant in staying with his ship, even as it sunk his time, and the opportunity for basic physical needs to be met.

A spread of manila folders flood his desk a sea of photo copies, witness statements and post its, and you find him wading through that mess. Furrowed concentration highlighted by the glow of his monitor, brows scrunched, lips pursed frowning.

Bone deep weariness creasing him at the edges. Shoulders drawn beneath his crisp pinstripe suit jacket, and the weight of the world he carries, a position that hurts your back just to look at. Despite how he contorts over the jigsaw of his current case, his look nothing short of dismal, you can't help but smile. A heart-beat that kicks instinctive at the sight of him, school-girl thrummed and fluttering.

Even dourness he wears as something close to handsome.

Slipped the rest of the way inside his domain quiet as a wraith, you catch the door on your heel and ease it clicked shut. However faint the clink of metal, the latch catches and breaks the spell. A fawn strutting aimless into the wolfs clearing, a twig snapped underfoot.

His eyes are on you so fast you doubt in that moment he remembered his work existed at all, let alone ensnared him.

A glaucous haze of steel blue, veined red and raw with exhaustion, magnetize to your entrance. Then bright and feverish, storm swell thunderous with implosion.

The hours he keeps and the distance of his job muzzling him restrained, it's whittled down to a matter of seconds before he chews clean through.

"Good evening, detective." You loll the title around the tip of your tongue, bubblegum sticky, sickeningly sweet. Flirtation in a three syllable press against the back of your teeth. You're still clueless, woefully so, to what you've wandered into. "How're you holding up?"

Propriety fading to a spec in his rear view as you shift into his sights. Your smell on the air warping his rationale warm vanilla sugar frosted. His world narrows down to you. Chest pulled taut, his tie a noose.

For a gentleman is no more than a patient wolf, and chivalrous is one such accusation he's never had to contend.

"Was Ferguson at his desk or has he gone home already?" Frustration a bed of gravel beneath his usual satin articulation. Teeth set on edge.

Cut to the chase so hard and fast you're left to stand there for a moment, reeling. Doe caught in headlights, blinking slow and dozy as you struggle to recall if he was actually gone, or if he wasn't just statue still and silent when you breezed on by to Roy's door.

A display he'd find almost adorable any time other than now. So unsuspecting it makes his teeth ache and his gums itch. Prodding his hunger, caged-beast riled. You stand there juggling fresh coffee and a bag of Chinese takeaway, the paper beginning to soak through with grease. He stares you down in the beat that follows, breath stuck in his throat, brows arched in wait. Set to pounce, your current meekness notwithstanding.

"Uh- no, I don't think I saw him out there."

It was unfair. But fairness counted for very little when you knew better.

Heedless, you indicate what you assume to be the point of your late-night appearance and lift the bag. Your smile small and ingratiating. "Brought your favorites." Lilted chipper and fawning. Your attention strays to the mess on his desk en-route to the clock face, hung above. Deductions that stir your habitual fussing - if you don't do it, no one else will - "You must be hungry."

He unfurls his height in full, haggard though imposing. It lengthens a stride that devours distance, consuming paces twice the amount of one average. He's around the other side of his desk before you've even finished speaking.

"Ravenous."

Deft hands disentangle yours from the gifts you come bearing, only to deposit them without much care to join his case file, relegated to similar abandonment. You're here now, after all. A new target acquired, his blood-lust pivoting. Confusion wrinkles so cutesy on you he nearly tackles you to the ground, lunging to get a taste.

Roy's descent is sudden; a summer storm brewed out of the blue on a clear midday. He swallows your squeak with an answering growl as teeth clash, and lips meet sloppy.

Large palms bombard your figure, dizzying assurance in the calloused digits that sweep up your back and thread your hair. Taking charge as he's want to do, he's a force of confident push and pull. Manipulation dressed like finesse, large hands and longer fingers positioning just how and where he likes you, and you melt under it. Under him. Warm and pliant. Mold-able and open for his choosing and taking.

His scent overwhelms, heady and indelible. Suffocating in masculinity, a smoky musk spiced oak moss and cardamom. Traces of the man, raw and unrefined, layered beneath cheap cologne and stale nicotine. Old, burnt coffee on his breath, bitter and black. Still detectable even through the wad of spearmint he's chewed to tasteless pulp over the long hours spent confined to these four walls.

One hand breaks course from stroking down your spine to grope your bottom. A generous palm full, he kneads your dreamy sighs to ragged moans, rolled against his tongue. Scraps for an appetite whet. That caged thing in him prowling and testing his restraint for give.

His assault only hastens as he maneuvers you around, herding you until the desk edge catches your low back. Only once he has you pinned helpless between his body and it, does he break the kiss. Desire a tidal wave to sweep you up and trap you under, you surface with a gasp for air, though Roy doesn't allow himself such luxury. One-track mind orders his busy hands to your skirt, hiking the fabric up your thighs. Growing frustrated at the long, loose length of it that keeps slipping through his fingers and back into his way.

He settles instead to paw at the thin outline of knickers he traces through them. His wants made plain. You claw him in kind, the room spun out of control around you. A tall, lean anchor dead center in the swirl.

"Off." His rasp impatient, the demand whipped and stinging, snapped rubber-band sharp. "Off. Now."

Voice honey-glazed, so dulcet it's obscene. So airy and gentle it distracts from the filth it often coats. The dominance that hides inside, biting and pressing. Elbowing the constraints of professionalism. Astringent aftertaste cold medicine sweet. Artificial black cherry, candied on the tongue, shuddering tart once it hits.

"Roy-"

"I'm not asking." A borrowed kindness in the warning you're past the point of deserving. He's scruffed you about the nape like an unruly pup caught nipping his heel. Disobedience chastised in the squeeze of spidery fingers. Your body, the traitors thing it is, proves its fealty to Roy before you, as it slackens limp to his firm hand. Guiding you up to tip toes as he leans down, noses bumping. "I want you to strip them off for me."

His subsequent release is just as abrupt. Sending you startled and stumbling back on your heels with a clack. The detective watches for your obedience, hawk-eyed. His restraint present in memory only.

Shaking fingers fish up your legs beneath your skirt, and drag your panties back down mid shin, the sides hooked by an index finger each.

"Atta girl." Whisper quiet adoration that buckles your knees. He catches your stumble - he always does - a display that spreads a lazy smirk tugged up at the corner.

No more than a scrap of clinging rayon cut to pattern lace, you have one foot stepped out before a wide palm juts forth. Turned open, cupped in wordless request.

You comply in similar fraught silence, and your cheeks dial from a modest blush to something furious.

"All dolled up for me, eh?" Insufferable cockiness twitches to a grin, lewd and lascivious. He's catnip to you when he's like this, so irresistible it's unbearable. A hand played against you as he rubs the scant garment between his fingertips. Halting with a sharp breath when his investigation proves fruitful, and he finds the gusset slippery. "I see I've ruined another pair of knickers."

His eyes burn through yours. A lurid cobalt smolder that flickers and gleams frenzied as he brings them to his face and takes a deep inhale. Scenting his prey up close and personal, unmistakably fresh and female - the aroma sends his eyes back, an indecent sound seething from the seat of his chest.

He stows his prize in his slacks with all the ceremony of pocketing loose change. Hands wrap your waist before you're snatched from your feet and dropped to his desk. Sending confidential records scattered. His pen cup tipped over, the few to fall out rolling across the surface. His lamp nudged precarious to the edge by your hip.

Unbothered to clear space himself, he assumes whatever gets caught in the crossfire will make itself scarce once he gets to rattling you proper. Desk-top casualties clattering to the ground as you wriggle and writhe. His hunger for you metastasized to starvation, ugly and unrefined. A desire that hurts. Splintering through him inside-out. Insatiability gnawing like shrapnel lodged deeper with every beat of his heart. His handling quick and jerking in appropriate agitation.

Skirt wrangled and bunched around your hips, knees pried open and guided apart. His stare falls to the mess webbing across your folds, smeared sticky within the hollows of your thighs.

Roy Washburn drops to his knees before you.

Broadloom carpet thin and punishing on his older joints. A click and a grunt, all the mind he pays as they catch the full brunt of his dead weight, dropped like rock to riverbed. Settling himself in for an extended stay; your first release likes to take its time, and he's in no rush. The journey is his destination, and he'll make himself right at home between your legs. Invited by the wet warmth leaking out of you. Never has he felt more obliged by such an offer.

The picture of you bared flush and puffy drains him of all strength. The fight in him quieted by even just the hint of slick. Discomfort no more a blip on his radar with the sight of you spread hypnotic for his observation. His look tweaks like a wounded man trying to mask his agony, but he licks his chops. Anticipation salivating. A low, libidinous rumbling up the back of his throat from his belly.

"This all for me?" He's pleased and it slips through his sharp teeth, whistled long and low, the pitch making you squirm. "Jesus fuck-ing Christ what a mess."

"Roy." A weak mewl of attempted protest, quivering to ball yourself up and hide from his appraisal. But oh no, that won't do. That won't do at all.

Unchecked greed and a quick draw, you jump when his fingers dig into your hips and force them open. Full on display, no amount of shifting is able to cover even an inch of your aching apex. Puckered peachy and glistening in the dim office light.

Exposed to the air and his white-hot scrutiny, you shiver and pout. He groans.

No time to waste, he bullies his way between your legs, shouldering your hips even wider. Until the joints twinge and the muscles burn through with a dull pinch. Head cocked and gaze fixed to the dew of your petals, he sways a little where he's knelt. Onset wooziness of blood-rush from one head down to the next.

Easy, old boy. He thinks in response to the nag of his length, straining against his inseam. You'll have to wait your turn.

"What a pretty sight." Stuck somewhere deep inside him, then shakes loose and rushes out in a heavy sigh. It's the closest he's ever come to reverence, your sex the only religion to which he's subscribed. He's not devoted, but indulgent. Gluttony without shame. Selfishness somehow gilded pious with how earnest he pursues. He shakes his head, his breath misting against your sopping heat. "You poor little thing. I mean just look at you, droolin' all over yourself like this."

All faux doting, Lancashire drawl spooled silken. Cruelty in how bold his leer forces your compliance. Delighting in how bashful he's colored you. Sparing no preamble, he steals his first taste. Prisoner of his grip and eye contact alike, as he works a flat, forceful stripe of tongue along where the throbbing is most intense.

He tastes your whimper just as much as he hears it. A shrill invocation the weight and shape of his name. Raw, as if he'd reached down your throat and pulled it free by hand. You toss your head back, breaking contact without express permission. His displeasure tuts.

"Eyes on me, love." Syrup glazed, thick and sticky on his tongue. Affection in the pet-name, his mouth hovering at your center sours the suggestion of romance. His smirk widens crooked - dangerous as one who knows the game well, and disregards the rules. "I want you to watch me eat this darling cunt of yours until you're unable to see through your tears."

The strength of the threat alone makes your eyes water, croaking a hushed; "Jesus." It's all your mind supplies.

He licks his lips preparatory. "Your cryin's not gonna stop me this time."

Signature bad cop-bad cop routine laid on charm thick, the silver streaked seas he has for eyes drag you in and hold you under, a gaze that drowns. His head dips and he blows on your folds, playful. A puff of air to rev you good and squirming. An excuse to dig into the meat of your hips until the grooves of his fingerprints are leftover in the skin.

"I'll make you a deal; if you're good for me, I'll reward you." He wiggles the fingers of one hand in emphasis, but you huff. Exasperation girlish enough to make a smile crack his face wide. You knew once he got started, his tongue wouldn't yield to share even with his own fingers.

"You're a bastard." A hot moan glides through your lips. Roy purrs like you've praised him.

"A bastard who licks your pussy like it's sacred."

Diving in nose first, he laps you hungry beast brazen. Huffed breath, and eager gliding muscle, velvety and limber. Suckling audible, groaning into your lips as they pucker swollen to his instigation. Bestial sounds of guttural approval penetrate alongside his relentless tongue. Forever hungry.

He is so very good at what he does.

You tell him so, or rather your body does on your behalf. Coherence leaves you. Reduced squealing and twisted under his mouth, every inch of you stained rosy. Tongue-tied to voice anything more complex than a whine. He's nothing if not thorough, though only due to his own greed. Twice as impatient and mean. The tip batters and flicks until clarity dissolves from your vision. Interrogative swipes of the muscle, you tug his hair and dig heels at his hunched back, but it hits him like a pebble lobbed at a stone wall for all it accomplishes.

He doesn't ease, he doesn't slow - he doesn't stop. Singular focus and the insistence of a blood hound caught on your scent, if anything your resistance eggs him on. Your pleas for mercy strangled hitched and sobbing as he wrestles you with a maw clamped to your cunt.

His grasp prevents your hips from gyrating against his face, from shying away from the chase of his tongue when the pressure builds too much, too fast. Unable to ease the speed of climax to something gradual, digestible. Roy holds you still and defenseless to his battery. Wiry scruff scratching and a mouth ruthless in pillaging, he has you careening towards a finish you're not ready to reach this soon.

The pit of your stomach clenches hard and low. A tremor possesses your left leg, thumping jack-rabbit wild, the violence increasing as he burrows flush and snarls.

The ebb and flow that had been needling at your peripheral then smacks you like a rogue wave. Joints locked, body seizing rigid above him. Color and light pops solar flare blinding behind the back of your lids. Your tongue stalls, unable to form even his name. All you can do is fall to pieces. Blindsided by the intensity, wailing something pathetic and unintelligible.

The bastard between your legs has the audacity to grin into you. Victory curled wolfish against your abused throbbing.

When your vision is returned to you somewhat intact, you find his self-satisfaction aimed your way, crinkled and glittering. Tufts of short auburn hair stick out on end from where your fingers tugged them erratic. Disheveled and smug.

And if it isn't the most devilishly toothsome you've ever seen him, even if only from the eyes up.

"Didn't make me work very hard for that one, did you?" His tongue clicks disappointed, but he couldn't be more impressed. Wrenched apart and flooded over in record time, all from his clever tongue lashed incessant. "Got another for me, pretty girl?"

The aftershocks aren't given a moment to deescalate once he starts up again. The tip of his tongue tracing in deliberate strokes, reminiscent of his full, God given name flowing in cursive fluidity. Turning your roused stimulation against you, as the wicked muscle cleaves your tender folds apart and begins sawing.

"Oh God - Roy please-," strangles out of you, the words shredding themselves jagged on the broken glass of shattered vocal chords. "I c-can't... -I can't-!"

The ridge of his nose nudges its prominence to the soreness of your bud, over-eager. "You can, and you will." Lips kiss swollen and messy. You're dripping down his chin, and dark in his mustache. Pupils bubbled over and spilled across the stormy pigment, a void of black blotting out the blue. "You're done when I tell you so."

He takes pause - a moment borrowed long enough to put you back into your place, and not a second more. Lips unfairly plush on a man like him, they seal back around the swelled bud of your clit and suck hard. A cheeky swirl of his tongue to echo the tattered scream it rips out of you.

Your spread thighs his confessional, he laves into you his transgressions. Sins of the past heavy and smothering. He loses himself in you, peaches and cream addictive. Heaven-sent distraction for the less-than-ethical lecher he is. Wants and needs from the darkest recesses of the self, he's unable to give them voice, so he huffs them into you instead. Rumbling penitent into your quivering sensitivity without mercy. Seeking to ease his burdens in where you've blossomed for him, lush and fragrant and his. All his.

Either a blessing or a curse, his nature is an obsessive one, and carnality was no exception. Another eruption tears through you not long after, a scorch that blisters, though he's too engrossed notice. To grace you with snark parading as bedroom talk.

You're weeping through the sweeps of his tongue, diligent and unyielding as the man himself. Nails rake his scalp to no avail. You'd have to hook a finger in the corner of his mouth to break his latch, and even then he'd just swoop right back in as if he'd never been interrupted in the first place. His unwillingness to let go a dog with a bone, any attempts to tug it away has him growling around the mouthful of his spoils.

He pries himself away only to take a much needed breath, and his true admiration for you makes a break for it.

"Fuckin' hell you taste amazing." Coarse sincerity suggesting he hadn't meant to let it loose. Didn't mean for you to catch on to just how whipped for you he is. Uttered devout against your plushness like a dirty secret he never meant to expose. Coaxed out of hiding by your ambrosia. Teased from him by how your body yields malleable to his whims. Unquestioning. Trust so absolute it would be nauseating if he was a humble man.

A moment tender, it was over just as soon. Two orgasms coat the back of his tongue, chin sopped and nose rubbed raw. Enough to sate the wolfs oral craving, he's now sporting raging arousal he needs somewhere to bury. The spasming of your lavished womanhood around it's own emptiness too enticing a request to stave off any longer.

Creaking joints signal he's raised to his feet, followed by a jingle you know to be his belt buckle. A bleary gazed veiled by lashes lowered, you're lured to the rip of his zipper just in time to catch his entrance.

He yanks himself out rough and impatient, hissing an expletive beneath his breath at first contact of brutish fondling to his stiff prick. Bruised in negligence and scalding to the touch. The hefty length weeps up at you from the strangle of his hold.

A 50/50 split of awe and intimidation, the juxtaposition an intoxicant to his ego.

"See something you like?" He makes a show of jerking it between your shaking legs, unable to deny himself the friction the tightness of his trousers only hinted.

Trembling and weak, he looms over you like the big bad wolf, though you don't cower. You don't flinch. You open your legs wider to urge him back between.

You catch the proud twinkle in his eye before he fists himself with one hand, and holds your thigh back with the other. Bracing his feet, he sinks forward, sheathing himself to the hilt in one stroke that hushes you both. Lip bitten, brow knit, both of you holding your breath. Once he's nestled inside he chuffs like a sick dog, stilted relief gravely in his throat.

You're well primed to take him, too swollen and slick to feel that pinch you usually do when he buries this deep, but his hefty tip bottoms out with the determination of a battering ram and you convulse reflexive. It sends pens scattered, his ashtray clattering to the ground at his feet.

Fighting for breath, you're fairly certain you feel him in your lungs, crowding the inside of you like the end game is to sprawl himself within every available inch and take root. Those fingers of his, slender lethality, dexterous that borders vulgar, knot in your hair at the base and gives one sharp tug. Neck bent and bared non-negotiable.

He leers down the vulpine bridge of his nose, eye lids heavy and voice plunged in his chest. His breath saturated with your headiness, panted hot at your cheek. "That tight little snatch of yours would be worth going to war, for. Y'know that?"

Eyes slicked like a dolls, smooth as glass and just as spacey, you shiver. "Sweet talker."

His mouth quirks amused. Predatory assurance coiled low, and tight enough to spring lose. "Yeah, and you can't get enough, you filthy thing."

Flesh slapping wet flesh is soon to echo, bounding off the walls of his office in salacious harmonization with his grunts. Hits the ground running, he's not one to hold your hand. Rutting like a feral mutt, unrelenting in both rhythm and force, chasing release by way of merciless grinding. Bruising and battering your walls sore. Rolling your eyes white.

Paperclips and an uncapped pen dig into your back, and you're then aware he's laid you down across his desk, flattening himself along your front to slide in deeper. White knuckles anchoring you at a hip, his other hand slaps around the edge of the wood above your head. His next thrust stutters a moan backwards your throat, choked silent. Keening into his stuffy office as the walls bounce it back at you.

"S'too much - too much," the conviction gets lost in your slurring. "You're t-too much."

As if he could grow harder.

He taunts through a croon, honeyed voice both salt in the wound and a balm all at once. "Oh come now, I know it's not so bad. You're a big girl, you can take it."

He rides into you with the explicit goal of crippled mobility come morning. A compulsion brought on perhaps by hitting middle-age, the image of you wobbling on your feet like a newborn foal spurs him harder. Harsher. Fiercer. "That little quim always take me so well, wrapped nice and snug 'round my cock."

His crown pierces what feels like your cervix, a delicious drag against your channel that throbs stretched and agonized as he re-seats himself at a depth that erupts your sight starry. Your fingers knot in the back of his jacket, snagged on your breath as he works that spot like a suspect. Brutal repetition. Punching out gasps of his name, reedy and broken.

"R-roy, Roy-Roy!" Breathlessness wrung shrieking, he punctuates every cry with a snap of his hips, jostling each syllable broken beyond distinction. His desk lamp surrenders where it teeters, and falls to the ground with a thud.

"There she fuckin' is." His praise swells with pride. Debauched beneath him, ruddy cheeks and vacant bliss glossy in your eye and on your lips, parted around your panting. The reek of sex in competition with the sounds of it. The creaking desk, his labored breaths. Your drenched heat run through by his girth, over and over and over again. "That's it, honey - let me hear you."

Each dictation holds carnivorous weight, shot straight down to the poor swell of nerves caught pinched between where you're joined. You're burning. A lick of fire curled taut where he's rubbing your tissue raw, a tendril breaks loose and coils throughout your core. Burrowed further still to thread between your hips, his brutal tandem of pressure and pace ignites a blaze that rages through you, wildfire destructive. Mindless consumption of good sense and resolve.

The soles of your feet tingle pins and needles indicative. Tremors wrack outward from the corner of your eyes, squeezed shut. Welled with fresh tears. A crest to ripple through you, waiting at the other end of your fast burning fuse. The summary of your dynamic; dry kindling, the prosperous compliment to the lit match that is Roy.

Walls spasm tell-tale frantic against his pistoning, having abandoned any semblance of rhythm in favor of force. Speed. A tight clench of muscle seizes him, desperate in its strength. Demands for more more more made of him in every twitch. One next contraction squeezes beseeching, stuttering his pace. A cry to be driven right through the wave as it builds to crash.

"Oh - you're gonna come for me again, aren't you?" His chuckle winded, forced out of him by the responding pinch around his shaft. "Yes you are, you good fucking girl."

Sweat beads and sinews pop beneath his shirt collar, his jacket straining at the shoulders as his body tenses, his own climax imminent. Pushed closer to the fore every time he spears you. When the third and final one rockets through you, it milks around him in a stranglehold, insistence tugging he follows after.

A glancing blow, he's able to absorb the blunt force and power through, if only for mere seconds more. His stance shifts, and he straightens back upright, leveraging his thrusts anew as he encircles your waist with both hands.

It's almost instant, the way his attentions drawn to your breasts, mounds bobbing with the motion he rocks you against. A rare appearance of regret sneaks up on him, hindsight remorseful he hadn't taken the time to pry your jumper off before he tossed you on your back.

Yours arms fly above your head, scrambling for purchase along anything within reach. Spine bowed, lips parting for the a silent scream the ridge of his cockhead pulls from the new path it carves.

You're looking up at him, his silhouette dark and ferine through teary-eyed obstruction. His head tips back, release dawning in the pulsation radiating outwards the heaviness in his sack. His thrusts turn loose and sloppy, groans seething at how well his shaft slots inside. Throbbing and tender as his whole lower half feels.

"Fuck- here it comes." He grits, using your pinhole channel to rub away the bloated ache of his length, pulsing root to head expulsive. "Where do you want it?"

"In-inside-," the word blurts free. A deep-seated, primitive urge that could only be dredged up by the man hilted inside you. Before you can bring it to heel, it darts away, presenting new prey for him to hunt, something in which to sink his jaws. Too juicy and tantalizing to ignore.

He laughs, breathless. "Come again?" Pulling back to get a better look at your face, unable to believe what he's hearing. Trying to savor the phenomenon that is catching Roy Washburn off guard, you mistake it for a withdrawal, and your thighs blur in blind panic. Ankles cross at the small of his back, crushing him in a desperate leg lock. He grunts, smile lopsided. "Want me to fill you up?" He taunts. "Want me to blow it all inside you, yeah?"

"Please." Cheeks aflame, you whine, the sound small and thin. He's never before heard you quite so submissive. His scrotum contracts tighter to his body in warning.

"Go on, let me hear you." He urges. A hoarseness shadowing the intonation that betrays him. That he's just as affected by the talk as you are. "I want to hear you say it."

"Please, Roy please-," you're babbling before he's even finished speaking. Broken beyond compliance. You'd agree with your whole heart to be kept chained about the neck, and naked, under his desk if he chose that moment to ask. "C-come inside me, Roy, please I want you to come inside me-!"

A direct hit to his virility, fluffed and fanned peacock feather proud. A miracle those words alone don't smite him where he stands. A miracle he's been able to last long enough to hear them, given the week he's just endured and your absence he's suffered.

He hushes you as a means to stall himself just a bit longer. A laugh in his voice even through his shuddering groan. "I'll just bet you do, you dirty girl."

You're shoved along the length of his desk first two, then three more times, before he topples. A bitten off howl announces him, spilled hot and thick inside you. An overabundance trickling back out murky white from the span of time since when last he had relief. His frame tenses through the initial brunt, and then gives like split thread. Loosening languid as the thrumming in his cock slows, and begins to go soft.

The aftermath is comparatively quiet. Just the sounds of the breath you're both trying to catch. The faded hum of what you assume to be a ventilation unit in the distance, beyond his office door. You make no attempts to peel yourself from where you slouch. Limp, quivering, sweat-dampened. Not that you could if you wanted to - Roy's still shoved inside of you, with no moves to disengage.

Your eyes shut, drowsiness keeps them that way. You gauge by feel, waiting for the moment when he pulls out. The moment that doesn't come. Instead, you hear the rustle of paper and the crinkle of plastic.

The takeaway, not far from where your head lolls, being rummaged through. Remarkable it survived the carnage that befell much of his other belongings in your tousle. Finding what he was after, Roy sets his weight back on his heels with a grunt, though joined at your center he remains. Your lips purse in a wry grin unbidden.

With your eyes still closed, you're unable to witness the way he marvels at your post-coitus serenity, your beauty. Hair mussed, hips tender - and utter calm. Humming, and sated. By him.

He gazes upon you, and his severity softens. Hard-edges dulled. A coarseness rounded and smoothed by your stunning vulnerability like sea glass passed through ocean waves.

Relaxation a systematic progression, his knotted posture unwinds opened, and lax. The molten-core of him quelled and beginning to cool, all thanks to your release of his pressure. The taste of you still strong on his whiskers.

His free hand falls to your thigh, slung low around his hip. Residual tremors greet his touch, and he strokes them soothed. His pattern absent and fond.

"You spoil me." Roy sighs something rhapsodic. Speaking to the fried king prawn he's unwrapped and poised to devour, as if he's referring only to the food. An unconvincing ruse, you decide not to call him on it.

He feeds himself in nonchalance with one hand while he continues petting you with the other. Groused appetite demanding instant satiation, his lips smack crude as he refuels.

Breaths slowing from gallop to cant, you lay still. Boneless around his intrusion, softened but not withdrawn. Eyes held shut, your smile spreads fuller. When you speak, it emerges a quiet simper, a tad scratchy from the heights your throat had been pushed.

"Still hungry?"

You're answered first by the crunch of deep-fried breading ground between his molars.

Where prior to your quick and dirty rendezvous he was nothing shy of feral, he now seems pacified.

Afforded the sort of contentment that comes as a reward for a job well done. An overactive mind then quiet. The wolf contended, circling before his slumber.

"Fucking starved."

The parchment in Remus' hands blurred at the edges. Numbers swam before his eyes - Order safe house locations, patrol schedules, supply caches. None of it seemed to penetrate the fog of his mind. All he could see was the flash of a silhouette pinned beneath him, hear the echo of a moan. Your silhouette. Your moan. 

Your relationship was a secret. It was a raw, passionate love, born out of desperation and need. Remus knew it was almost unhealthy, the way he craved you, needed you, but he couldn't help himself. You were his escape, his forbidden sanctuary in a world gone mad. 

His focus on the parchment was shattered, his thoughts consumed by you. A frustrated sigh escaped his lips. He was aching to be with you, but the house was always bustling with Order business... until it wasn't. For a delightful moment, the attention wasn't on him, the members too busy, too taken with their own tasks. 

He didn't need to say anything. He just took you by the hand and you knew. The moment the door to his bedroom slammed shut behind you, he warded it. His need was immediate and overwhelming. He was already rock hard, his erection straining against his trousers evident. He wasted no time, spinning you around and pushing you face down on the bed, hiking up your skirt with an urgency that bordered on madness. 

"Remus," you gasped, your voice muffled by the mattress. 

"Shh, sweetheart," he growled. "I can't wait any longer. I need you. I need you now." 

He hastily freed himself, his erection throbbing with need. The sight of you, face down and hips raised, made his cock twitch almost painfully. He tugged your panties down, just enough to give him access, and positioned himself at your entrance. He pressed hip tip against you, feeling your warmth, and pushed into you with one swift thrust. "Fuck, you're so tight," he groaned, his hands gripping your hips firmly. 

You whimpered, your body trying to accommodate his size. "R-Remus..." you gasped, your fingers clenching the sheets. 

He stilled, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles on your hips. "Easy, love," he murmured. "Take a deep breath. Just relax for me. You can take it." 

You nodded, your breathing evening out as you adjusted to him. "That's it, good girl," he praised as he felt you relax about him. Once he felt your ease, Remus began to move, his thrusts slow and controlled. His grip on your hips tightened, pulling you back to meet his movements. 

"That's it," he groaned, his pace quickening. "Take me. Take all of me." Each thrust was powerful, demanding, driven by a need that bordered on feral. He grabbed a fistful of your hair, tugging it back, making you arch back into him. "God, you feel so good wrapped around me." 

You moaned in response, your body yielding to him. "Remus..." you whimpered. 

"Such a good girl...taking me so well." 

Your body shuddered with each movement, your breaths coming in ragged gasps. "I can't...Remus, I..." 

"Yes, you can," he growled. "You can take it. Let go for me." 

You cried out, your body trembling violently as you reached the edge, clenching around him. 

"That's it," he murmured, his grip on your hips painfully tight. 

He could feel himself nearing the edge too, his control slipping further with each thrust. "I'm close," he warned you, his voice strained. "You're going to make me come. Ah...fuck. I'm going to come inside of you." 

He thrust into you one last time and held himself as deep as he could, his hips bucking as he released inside you, a loud moan escaping his lips. "Yes...you feel so fucking good," he groaned, his body trembling with the force of his orgasm. He stayed inside you for a while, his cock pulsating, lazily thrusting a few more times to prolong the sensation. 

Eventually, he slowly withdrew, his breath still heavy, his hands caressing your back. "Are you alright?" he asked softly. 

You nodded, your cheeks flushed. 

He smiled, pressing a kiss to your shoulder before pulling you up and turning you to face him. 

"I want you to do something for me." 

"What is it?" you asked, still breathless. 

"Don't clean up," he said simply. "I want you to stay like this, full of me, all day." 

Your eyes widened, a deep blush spreading across your cheeks. "Remus..." 

He chuckled softly as his fingers traced random little patterns on your skin. "Yes, love. You will do as you're told, aren't you?" 

"Y-yes, Remus," you responded, eager to please him despite being embarrassed. 

"What a good girl," he murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. "Now, let's tidy up a bit so we can head back. We don't want the others suspecting anything, do we?" 

"No, Professor," you teased. 

"Careful, love," he warned playfully. "You might just get me started again." 

"Maybe that's what I want," you replied innocently.

Remus chuckled, shaking his head. "You're insatiable." 

He helped you adjust your clothes and gave you one last, lingering kiss before leading you out of his bedroom like nothing had happened. 

Only a few hours later, you felt the undeniable sensation of Remus' essence running down your thighs. Your face flushed a deep crimson, and you immediately sought him out. You made your way to the dining room where the Order was gathered for a meeting. You waited at the doorway, your eyes wide and pleading. Remus' eyes traveled your form, pausing briefly at your thighs, and he immediately understood. 

Maintaining his composure, he stood smoothly. "Excuse me for a moment," he said calmly. 

He followed you to the study, closing the door behind you. "What is it, love?" he asked, although he already knew the answer. He wanted to hear you say it. 

You hesitated, looking down in embarrassment. "Remus...it's...running down my thighs," you admitted. 

His eyes darkened with desire at your words. He lifted your skirt slightly, exposing your slick thighs. "Aww," he cooed, his tone both mocking and affectionate. "Is my little girl too full?"

Your face turned an even deeper shade of red, and you looked away, flustered. "Remus, I-"

"Hush," he interrupted. "Let me see." 

You stood still, your heart pounding in your chest as he lifted your skirt further up, giving him better access. He took out a handkerchief and began wiping you clean, his touch light and gentle. "You need to try and hold it in a bit longer, love," he murmured.

"But, Remus, I can't-"

"No," he said firmly. "You will do as I say. Can you do that for me?" 

"Y-yes, Remus." 

"Very good," he whispered. "Now be a good girl and hold it in. I'll take care of you after the meeting." 

You nodded again, his words going straight to your core. "I'll try." 

Remus smiled, kissing your forehead. "That's all I ask. Now, go back to what you were doing." 

Remus watched you go before composing himself and returning to the meeting, his demeanor as calm and collected as ever. 

"Sorry for the interruption," he said smoothly, taking his seat. "Where were we?" 

You kept to yourself for the rest of the day, mostly focusing on staying still, desperate to please Remus. As evening finally fell, Remus discreetly took you back to his bedroom, closing and warding the door behind you. 

"Show me," he instructed. 

You hesitated for a moment, your cheeks flushed. Slowly, you lifted your skirt, revealing the sticky mess that had accumulated throughout the day. Remus hummed appreciatively at the sight, his eyes darkening. 

"My, my...looks like I've made quite the mess down there," he whispered. "You've done so well, sweetheart. I'm very pleased with you," he praised. 

You could barely hold still under his gaze, feeling exposed. 

"Now, let it out," he commanded softly. 

You went to protest, thoroughly embarrassed by the idea. "But, Remus, I can't just-" 

"I said, let it out," he repeated firmly. 

You bit her lip, your eyes darting nervously, but you obeyed him, relaxing your muscles. Remus watched with satisfaction as the evidence of your intimacy slowly began to trickle down your thighs.

"Good girl," he murmured. "You're doing so well." 

Your face burned with embarrassment, but you felt a strange sense of pride for following his instructions, for pleasing him. 

"That's it, just let it out," he soothed, his hands gently rubbing your hips. "How did you feel today? Sitting around the others knowing you were full of my seed?"

"I-I felt like I was...yours," you let out almost too quietly. 

"That's right, love. You're mine. Say it." 

"I'm yours, Remus." 

"Such a good girl for me," he praised. "You've done so well today. Now, let get you cleaned up properly." 

He led you to the bathroom, helping you undress and stepping into the shower with you. He washed you gently, his hands moving slowly, caring, possessive, gentle. 

"You've been so good," he murmured. "You did exactly as I asked." 

You leaned into his touch, feeling utterly safe and cherished. "I just wanted to please you," you whispered. 

"And you did. You've pleased me very much," he replied, his hands gently massaging your shoulders. 

After you were both clean, Remus dried you off with a soft towel, his movements slow and deliberate. He led you back to the bedroom and tucked you into bed, joining you under the covers. 

Black slowly lightens, revealing a soft, green glow with dots.

"-ayla!"

The muffled shouting suddenly clears as if her head had been lifted out from underwater.

"-ey! Kayla!"

A blinding white light blinds and blurs her vision before it's spared by the silhouette of a man who hovers over her.

"Kayla! Get up!"

"... Norm...? What's happening?"

"We're being evacuated. High Camp is compromised. We gotta go!"

It was all one large blur, almost like a dream. Kayla felt as if she was only witnessing the events and not entirely a part of them. Norm wretched her out of her link gurney so fast and panicked, making her head swim and her stomach flip uncomfortably. She was ready to empty said stomach's contents before Norm pulled her to her feet and shoved a breathing mask and a communication device into her hands.

Before she knew it, she was outside, feeling the cold of High Camp's caves seeping into her skin. Still loopy and nauseous, she stumbles around and bumps into both humans and Na'vi as everyone runs around like an ant colony, rushing to evacuate just like their practiced drills. Kayla looked over her shoulder to see that Norm was no longer by her side in the midst of the chaos, but she tried not to panic, her mind grasping at straws and trying to remember what to do if this situation ever occurred.

She remembers that all avatars must be abandoned and the drivers must run to find a Na'vi warrior with an ikran to help them fly down the mountains. Forcing her feet to move, Kayla stumbles into a young warrior she vaguely remembers to be a childhood friend of Tarsem, called Tivek. The young Na'vi recognized her, exchanged a few hurried words with her, and in just a few short seconds, Kayla was clutching onto the neck of Tivek's ikran and flying out of High Camp like a bat out of Hell.

Swarms of ikran were flying the coop all at once, completely obstructing Kayla's view of the clear blue skies. As practiced, many banshees scatter and group together, while others split off to either face the threat or lead it away from their home, something that Kayla had once seen Ao'nung and his friends do astride their ilu back at the reef...

Tivek was one of the taronyu who was assigned to play the offensive role, and so he turned his ikran to separate from the pack, so to speak, moving to take on the threat. Kayla held on for dear life, closing her eyes when the sudden movements of the flight made her stomach drop. Her surroundings suddenly shift as the sound of gunfire rings out, followed by Tivek's shouting and his ikran's roars that sounded suspiciously familiar to a squealing pig about to be slaughtered.

Kayla knew she should open her eyes to see what was happening, but by the time she gained the strength to do so, her fingers slipped from the ikran's neck.

Whoever said that falling is much like flying needed to be fed their own fingernails.

It wasn't one of her initial thoughts when she was bucked from the banshee, but it was one of the many thoughts that followed when she finally opened her eyes, a scream stuck in her throat and refusing to escape as she fell through the sky. The ground was still too far down since she was easily hundreds of miles up in the air where the floating mountains resided, but that didn't make Kayla feel any better about her current predicament.

"Shit shit shit...!" She managed to get out, water forced from her eyes due to the winds whipping in her face.

Her fall went on forever, the imminent danger still far away, given her long descent. Kayla finds herself with enough time to breathe and try not to panic, elevating her body like a skydiver.

A spark of hope is born in her chest when she hears an ikran's screech. Turning her head to the right, she sees one in the distance, beating its wings heavily to get to her as fast as possible.

"HERE! I'M HERE!" She screams desperately over the wind, her throat tightening in protest.

As it gets closer, the form of a rider takes shape. Kayla's fast breathing practically pounds in her ears as she tries to stretch out all her limbs to look as noticeable as possible. Watching the approaching ikran more closely this time, Kayla felt her blood cool and her hope fell as she recognized the riding gear when the beast got closer.

Both banshee and rider were sporting military gear.

All Kayla could do was helplessly fall and hope that her pursuer wouldn't have the flying skill to catch her. Unlucky for her, he did.

Quaritch's ikran folds in its wings and dives toward her at full speed, Kayla's heart leaping to her throat at the sight of black talons and teeth when it gets too close. She finds herself closing her eyes, waiting for the impact to happen. She would rather relax her body and see the darkness behind her eyelids compared to the sight of an ikran ready to devour her in three bites, as terrifyingly beautiful as such a creature can be.

But the end never came.

Instead of talons or teeth, Kayla feels a large hand wrap around her neck, clenching roughly to use as leverage, pulling her in, and slowing her fall.

She has just enough time to open her eyes and make a small choking sound before her airway is completely cut off, Quaritch's grip around her throat only tightening further. With the strength of a Na'vi, it didn't take long before his grip was enough for Kayla's vision to spot and darken, the last thing she sees is his stone-hard eyes and brute expression before passing out.

~~~~~~~~~

A muffled ringing in her ears slowly pulls her back to consciousness. Kayla could first feel her brain pulsing against the inside of her skull, seemingly trying to escape. It made opening her eyes considerably difficult, feeling that same pulse pushing against her retina. She felt a cold metal pressed against every inch of her back and legs, making it safe to presume she was on a table, and for some reason... she couldn't move.

Muscles began to remember their function, and then her eyelids slowly lifted. A blinding light glared down at her, driving the confused woman to slam them shut once more and groan, only to realize her throat was dry and her voice had caught before it could escape her lips. When she goes to lift her hand to her mouth, a wave of dread flips in her stomach when Kayla's hand doesn't get far once the restraints make themselves known on her wrists and ankles.

Kayla opens her mouth to shout and yell for help, only to stop herself when her ringing ears begin to pick up the sound of another voice.

"Patch me in to the general."

It's faint at first, but the voice grows louder as if drawing closer, or perhaps her ears were just beginning to clear up and the source had been nearby all along. Kayla even holds her breath to listen more closely, only for her ears to pick up a second voice.

"Colonel. You better have a good explanation as to why you haven't reported back since losing your team."

That voice, much more familiar than the first, makes Kayla's skin crawl and feel cold against the metal slab she was restrained to. Finally moving her head to look around, she finds the source of the voices. For obvious reasons, she didn't like what she saw.

His large back was turned toward her, but with strong, avatar shoulders covered in military gear and a close-shaven head apart from his kuru. Kayla immediately recognized Quaritch. Her stomach was in knots, her mind having forgotten how small she was in this human body, compared to her avatar that had managed to take on Quaritch previously. Seeing him rise in height in comparison to the table she was strapped to didn't give her good odds.

"Had to go radio silent so the enemy didn't detect my signal," his drawl became clearer as the ringing in Kayla's ears dissipated, "'Sides, the mountains kept scrambling what little instruments I had left."

The voice she had just heard before Quaritch, the one she thought was familiar, came from a radio the blue colonel held in his hand.

"The Hallelujah Mountains? I hope to hear some good news."

Ardmore.

"I got more than good news for you, General. I got a highly valuable prisoner for you. I got your missing corporal," Quaritch shifts his torso until he's looking just over his shoulder, his eyes meeting Kayla's in a way that made the hair on her arms rise, "Makayla Sully."

He thinly smiled with only one corner of his mouth, unsurprised to see her awake and responsive. The silence in the room was heavy as the radio softly buzzed, both Recom and human barely blinking amid their staredown. The radio buzzed a little longer, and for a moment, Kayla had wondered if the connection had been lost.

"... Switch to a private channel, Colonel."

Kayla's stomach clenched at the tone of Ardmore's voice, tight and muffled as if the general spoke under her breath with what sounded like growing anger. Quaritch made a small sound that sounded like 'affirmative' before clicking a dial on the top of the radio, holding it up to his face as Ardmore's voice returned, "What is the meaning of this?"

Quaritch grins while speaking into the radio, his eyes never leaving his hostage, "Turns out your little test subject was never missing or killed in action. Merely in hiding. 'Gone rogue and helping the war criminal, Jake Sully."

"How did you obtain her?"

"Baited her out of the hive, and even better, managed to get her in her human form. She's hardly a threat, but I thought she could be useful to us."

With all of Kayla's senses now fully functioning once more, all she could do was glare defiantly up at Quaritch from where she lay.

"Do you think she'll talk?" Ardmore gruffly ponders.

"She will... if we used that fancy tech you got back in your lab."

Another long pause before Kayla's former boss spoke, "... I will grant you access to our neuroscanner. I'll bring a squadron and the device to your location. We do this off-site and with limited personnel. I can't have everyone under my command believing they can turn tail and run as this traitor did. It would be chaos."

"Naturally," Quaritch agreed with underlining vanity, "I've already sent you my coordinates, but I don't think you'll need them."

There's a faint beeping on the other end of the radio channel before Ardmore's voice patches through, "Copy that, Colonel. You can expect our arrival at 0600."

"Copy that. Colonel out."

The radio is switched off, so tiny in the hands of an imposing Na'vi-looking man. Quaritch's full attention returns to his captive, to whom Kayla refuses to look away, her defenses up.

"You know, I used to run this place," he says casually while looking around at the clean, sterile room they resided in, "Some spots of the joint I hardly recognize. All the... plants and twigs and dirt have taken them over. But rooms like this? Untouched and familiar? 'Feels like coming home."

His grin plus his words clue Kayla in on her whereabouts. Remembering the files she had read and what little of Quaritch's past she had dug up from either Jake or Norm, Kayla took one look around what could only be a small interrogation room and surmised that she was in Hell's Gate.

Kayla tried to ignore the blinding fluorescent bulbsabove her, managing to finally find her words after briefly licking her lips and looking around. "How did you know which human to grab?"

"It's not that hard to gain access to your file," his thin smile shifts into something akin to annoyance, "and after having to deal with you like a thorn in my side back on that boat, I'd like to know who and what I'm dealing with."

Quaritch lifted a datapad from a nearby table, and from the other side of the translucent screen, Kayla could see a picture of her own face staring back at her.

"Corporal Makayla Sully," he reads off, "Born 2130, youngest of three, lost both your parents when you were sixteen, and joined the Marine Corps when you were eighteen."

Kayla paused to look at the picture for a moment, barely recognizing the long, healthy hair and flushed skin. She forced her eyes to look away, darting up at the avatar hovering over her as she spoke casually, "Yeah, so?"

"It's funny," he shrugs, "Must be quite the coincidence that you enlisted the same year one of your brothers was killed and the other left for Pandora."

Something uncomfortable rolled in her stomach, a small instinct in her gut that told her that something was wrong aside from the obvious kidnapping. She felt as if gravity was holding her down on that interrogation table, her muscles and bones like lead as she caught the knowing smirk on Quaritch's thin, blue mouth.

"Get comfortable, Sully. I think it's about time we got properly acquainted."

~~~~~~~~~

It was common for the children to be quickly forgotten once the adults all stood over them and started talking. Spider was used to it out of all of them, being the smallest and once invisible. 

He wasn't necessarily blocking out the conversation, but his focus was mostly on Kayla, or, technically, her avatar. His eyes kept closely watching her for a sign, anything that might indicate that she's still in there, somehow, and just resting her eyes despite Jake's insistence that her consciousness is elsewhere. 

As he's watching over the woman who has slowly become his guardian, Kiri is kneeling on the opposite side of Kayla's body, anxiously humming under her breath while her fingers fidget with the slowly growing songcord strung around the unconscious avatar's belt loop. One particular bead on the cord catches Spider's eye. 

A familiar red and wooden bead that he remembered carving himself and fitting into his hair when he was younger. Spider faintly recalls taking the bead out recently in exchange for more appropriate wear for the Metkayina clan, but hadn't seen the bead since. 

Something in Spider's chest seized, the room closing in, and the warm air of the ocean choking him slowly. His eyes dart to Kayla's resting face, the face of someone who wanted him to be a verse in her song.

The world spins on despite the boy's inner turmoil. If Jake was concerned, he had skillfully masked it behind his soldier persona, still speaking to Norm through the radio, "Send Max to us so he can pick up Kayla's avatar."

"I can do it."

"No, I need you to form a search party and hopefully pick up a trail by the time I get there."

"Wait, you're coming here? Isn't that what Quaritch wants?"

"I don't care. This isn't just anyone that Quaritch can possibly torture and get nothing out of. This is Kayla. She knows way more information than most. If he gets through to her, there's no telling what Quaritch might do or if he'll tell Ardmore. The Sky People could rain down on this very village within a day if Kayla talks."

Silence fell over the marui, and Jake had to focus on his facial muscles to avoid wincing at the look Neytiri gave him. Of course, no one would want Quaritch or Ardmore to learn their whereabouts, but the insensitive tone in Jake's voice was not lost on his mate. 

Norm's silence was an indication that he heard it, too, and when he responds, it's in a solemn, firm tone, "You got it. Over and out."

The radio cuts off, and Jake immediately fixes his gaze on his mate, "Neytiri-"

Her back turns from him, immediately grabbing a bow she has quickly fashioned as a replacement for her father's, "You are not facing that demon without me."

His ears lowered, her eye avoidance a clear sign of disapproval. Angering her further would not help the situation, so he doesn't argue and silently accepts. He moved to grab his gun but noticed movement out of the corner of his eye. Ronal and Tonowari were talking quietly among themselves, and when the olo'eyktan noticed Jake looking in their direction, his mouth ceased movement and straightened his posture to his full height. Ronal does the same, determination in her eyes, while her mate steps forward to address Toruk Makto. 

"We will go with you, Jakesully."

Briefly stunned by the volunteer, Jake finds himself speaking automatically as if he were talking to one of his sons, eager for a fight, "There's no need. Besides, you know nothing of our forests."

Tonowari's eyes, hard and fierce, narrow, "Your sister is Metkayina now. She is one of us."

Ronal snarls low in her chest, "If you are capable of learning our ways, then we will learn yours to bring Makaylasully home."

Jake's confusion visibly deepens in his frown, taking one look back at Neytiri to see if she would back him on this. She, however, just looks expectedly at him. Once again, as if waiting for him to come to his own conclusion. He turns back to Ronal and Tonowari, taking a breath in before he could form a reply.

All it took was one inhale, and something clicked into place. Jake's left ear twitched, eyes briefly squinting while trying to solve a puzzle in his head. He has a sinking feeling when he catches a familiar smell-- the smell he detected on Kayla the last time they spoke.

His eyes narrow on the Metkayina leaders, their gaze unwavering. They don't blink or look away, and for some reason, it irritates him. Like they have no shame and dare him to say more.

The long, sullen silence fills the air of the marui with an intensity that none of the kids dared to break, holding their breath as they await Toruk Makto's decision. Jake lets the silence linger long enough before he sighs heavily through his nose before returning to his communication device, switching channels, and bringing the mic to his mouth, "Max."

Within a few moments, the static gradually changes to a familiar voice, "Jake? Don't worry. Norm has kept me in the loop, and I'm on my way in the gunship."

Jake grimaced, eyes darting over to the clan leaders before sighing heavily, "... I hope you have room for two more. We're bringing some extra help."

~~~~~~~~~

Max was arriving in an hour, and so two of the ikran were saddled and ready, eagerly nipping at each other as their claws dug into the wet sand. Neytiri goes around them, inspecting each strap and tightening anything she deems too loose. The whole clan had gathered to watch them depart, worried expressions shared all around as they witnessed even their olo'eyktan and tsahik prepare for the journey. 

"Rutxa," Tonowari summons a Metkayina, and they step forward, the one Jake remembers seeing Kayla interact with more than once. "You and your brother will watch over the village in our stead."

Jake surveys Ruxta's dutiful nod and stern features, missing someone approaching him until Spider stands just at his feet. The teenager looks up through his breathing mask with all the resolve he could muster in his young age, a makeshift bag slung over his shoulder.

"I'm coming, too."

Jake blinks out of his thoughts and looks down, taking one glance at Spider before shaking his head with a quiet voice, "No. That's just what Quaritch wants."

"Exactly. Maybe he'll come out of hiding if I'm there. We can lure him out and grab Kayla-"

"-Kayla would skin me alive if I allowed you to come with us." Jake half-heartedly smiles, placing his hand heavily on top of Spider's head, making sure the teenager was looking him in the eyes as he spoke, "You would be doing her a favor by staying here, where it's safe. She wouldn't want you anywhere near danger, especially when we just got you back."

Spider opens his mouth, ready to continue arguing. Jake braces for impact until a flash of long, tightly curled hair appears beside the boy in the blink of an eye, hovering over him.

"I will need your help, Spider," Tsireya, the angel she was, immediately calming the dispute with her hand curling over Spider's elbow, "with making sure that Lo'ak doesn't do anything foolish."

They all know it's a poor attempt to be persuasive, but it is proven effective as Spider's shoulders sag and the fight in him follows suit, at least smart enough not to argue with Tsireya. Spider keeps his head down and steps back to give Jake some space, and so the former Marine takes his cue to leave, nodding to Tsireya with gratitude before moving over to his ikran. 

The hour closes in, and from a distance, they see a small speck that could be nothing other than Max in the rogue gunship. Those who were departing quickly made their final goodbyes to their children. Tonowari exchanges small words with his son and daughter before moving on to Spider, the human boy brooding silently to himself until the chieftain stood over him. Tonowari waits until he can see the boy's eyes underneath his mask and nods down to him while trying to muster his best encouraging expression, gently patting the boy's shoulder. The warmth of the Metkayina chief's hand nearly engulfed Spider's entire shoulder and arm, but it had a weight and gentleness that felt oddly comforting to him. The olo'eyktan moves past him, and the tsahik takes his place. Ronal takes her time pretending to adjust the strap's tightness on his breathing mask, lingering in a tense silence that matched her aura, before she finally meets his eyes. 

"We will bring her back."

It was a small assurance and not very gentle in Ronal's voice, but Spider appreciated her attempt nevertheless. He nods, and she steps away to join her mate further down the beach, where he stands next to Jake and Neytiri while watching the gunship draw closer. Spider ducks his head away, softly glaring down at the sand between his toes.

Tuk abruptly runs out from the crowd to her parents, worriedly tugging on her mother's arm with a trembling lip, "Mama..." 

Neytiri's firm resolve immediately softens, bending down to her youngest child and pulling her into the tightest hug, one she hoped Tuk could cling to in her memories at the Spirit Tree while she and Jake were gone. Kiri soon joins the hug, and Neytiri holds her girls a little tighter. 

Jake watches the interaction with a solemn expression, trying not to look as if this was goodbye. Movement shifts in the corner of his vision, turning his head to find Lo'ak slowly approaching him. The boy hesitates, as if debating on approaching a hungry thanator, which Jake tries not to take offense to. 

He holds out his hand and rests it on Lo'ak's shoulder once the boy drifts closer. When Jake opens his mouth, silence follows. Words fail him, and something in the back of his mind somehow holds him back from giving orders. It was frustrating. He tries to think like Kayla and do what she would've done. Instead of giving orders and expecting Lo'ak to blindly follow them like a good soldier, Jake gently lists off reasons as to why he should listen to him.

"Son, if there is ever a time when I need you to really listen to me, it's right now. Do not come after us," Jake gives Lo'ak's shoulder a small squeeze to keep his attention, "I mean it. I need you here, looking after your sisters and keeping an eye on Spider. Please. Not just for me, but for your aunt. You know her, and you know that she would never forgive herself if something happened to you because you were trying to save her."

Lo'ak carefully watches his father, still hesitant and weary of him. There's a long, sullen silence, father and son stuck in this loop of uncertainty between each other. Lo'ak takes a deep breath and nods once, his voice quiet, "... Okay."

"Swear it." Jake couldn't help the strain in his own voice; the thought of losing another child was putting pressure on his tone.

Lo'ak swallows then nods again, "I swear it."

~~~~~~~~~

When Quaritch mentioned she should get comfortable, she should've known it would entail one of the most common interrogation methods... making her uncomfortable.

It was a textbook stress position, binding Kayla's wrists and raising her arms up to suspend her from the ceiling of the room. It was convenient for her avatar captor as the arrangement brings the human female up to his height. Whether it was intentional or not, the four walls were bland, cold, and isolating, causing her body to shiver to the point her bones ached and her teeth chattered, wearing only the top and shorts she had worn in her link gurney that morning.  

It was still early. If she had to guess without even knowing how long she had been unconscious, she probably hadn't been missing for a full twenty-four hours yet. It isn't much of an observation, but it's a small comfort in this cold room. So far, all her captor had done was shine lights in her face and occasionally push her just enough to make her body sway from her wrists' confinement. She felt like a stuck pig in a butcher shop.

Quaritch stays leaning against the wall with his arms folded, chuckling, "Gotta say it's kinda nice to whip out the old tactics."

"Happy to help." She grumbled.

"Yeah? 'You willing to talk then? Or do you think you're buying your brother time to come and save you?"

She flashes a small glare, "I'm not stalling. You and I both know he's not coming."

Their tense conversation is interrupted by movement in the doorway. In walks two other avatars Kayla briefly remembered seeing before. The one with the broken sunglasses on top of his buzzed cut, his name lost to her, while the other was bald. Her gut turns at the sight of the latter, recalling a description Spider had given her before, along with a name.

Quaritch looked to the entrance, "Took ya long enough."

Lyle Wainfleet unzips a pocket in his vest, unfazed, "Place is clear, boss."

"That's not right. Jake's not stupid enough to abandon this place completely. Mansk, do another perimeter."

Quaritch doesn't even wait for Mansk to leave before turning back to the dangling human female, "Now you can be quiet for us all you like. It won't matter. We'll just soften you up, and Ardmore's little machine will break your silence."

Kayla has to force herself to pull her glare away from Lyle, having the gall to look unimpressed at Quaritch, "I know. Spider told me about your... little torture device. He's told me a few other things, too," her eyes slowly glide over to Lyle, a deep snarl forming on her small lips, "like who shot Neteyam."

Lyle tilts his head, frowning in confusion, "Who?"

Something dawns in Quaritch's gaze before the muscles in his face slacken into a grim, solemn expression, "Ah... so that was his name? Sully's boy?" 

"He was just a kid-"

"-who killed one of my men."

"He was fifteen years old, you son of a bitch!" Kayla spat while abruptly struggling against her restraints, looking as if ready to tear out Wainfleet's throat, grunting like a wild animal.

Lyle watches her struggle for a while, a flash of something briefly passing through his eyes. She unfortunately blinked and had missed whatever emotion hung there before Wainfleet's gruff voice broke the silence, "He wouldn't have died- Hell, he wouldn't have even been born if Sully hadn't betrayed his own kind."

"'You willing to do the same?" Quaritch adds.

It felt like a slap to the face, being asked a question that, to her, held the most obvious answer.

"My kind?" The words feel like ash in her mouth as she scoffs with distaste, "My kind killed my planet. My kind screwed over my family, drove my parents into drinking. My kind alienated and took my brothers away from me, one way or another. Because of my kind, I never got the chance to watch my brother's children grow up. Because of my kind, my nephew is dead. My kind is well-known for killing each other already, so what Jake and I have done I would actually consider to be what they call 'in character.' You should tell me your secret, Colonel."

Her captor's brows furrow, "Secret?"

Kayla's teeth gnash together, "To how far your loyalty stretches before it snaps." 

Quartich visibly hardened, "So your loyalty goes to these animals?"

"'Only animal I see is you."

"Not the feral who held a knife to a boy's throat?"

"Her name is Neytiri, and you held a knife to her daughter's throat!" She snaps, jaw clenching with barely contained rage, "What she did to Spider was horrible, but violence is the only language you're able to speak, and Neytiri knew it. You had her son killed, and she lashed out in desperation. She would've done anything to ensure she didn't lose any more children. That's not an animal. That's just a mother trying to protect her babies. Wouldn't you have done the same?"

He waves away the question with a scoff, "I have nothing in common with that woman."

"Have you looked in the mirror lately?" Both Wainfleet and Quaritch's ears twitch as if her voice irritated their hearing, "Spider told me what you had been doing during those months he was traveling with you. He taught you the ways of the Na'vi. Have you learned nothing from it? You ordered Jake to learn from the Na'vi all those years ago. To learn is to understand, and to understand is to realize that what you are doing here is wrong. That's why Jake betrayed you. That's why I betrayed Ardmore. It's nothing personal."

"Personal?" Quaritch straightened, "Who said anything about personal?"

"I was there," Kayla jeered, "I heard what you said to Jake that day out on the water. How he betrayed you and how you wouldn't hesitate to kill his own kid."

He firmly shook his head. "Personal is betraying people who took you under their wing just for some local tail. That's why Jake betrayed us. Are you like your brother, Sully? You gonna find a nice piece of tree-hugging ass and then turn your back on mankind?"

She offers a crude, insincere smile, "You've clearly never had local tail before."

Her method of provoking left something uncomfortable to turn in her stomach, the feeling only growing when both Recoms sneer with sharp teeth and upturned lips, the leader of the two ducking his head down to meet Kayla's eyes, "If that's the case, why don't you tell us where they are, and maybe we'll go get some."

"I'll see you in Hell first."

"Alright, then. On to a better question. Where's the boy?"

"Oh, now you ask?" The laugh that bubbles in her parched throat felt flat, "I honestly didn't think it would take you this long."

His eyes darken, "Where is he?"

"He's at home."

"And where's home?"

"Here's a better question. Why do you want him back so badly?"

Quaritch's face shrivels to something exasperated, "He's my son."

Kayla slowly drops her amusement and mocking tone, her eyes unblinking while looking straight up at the avatar before her with a dangerous glint in her orbs, "You don't deserve him."

The colonel's expression gets stuck for a moment, the only indication that he wasn't frozen was his tail casually swishing behind him. Kayla continues to speak from her chest, "He's a good kid. A kind soul. Not a single cell in his body represents you in any way, shape, or form. I won't let you squash his spirit. This world is his home. It's all he's ever known. He loves the forest. He loves the ocean, the animals, and the Na'vi. He loves this world. He loves it all, and you're threatening to take all of that away from him. If you take that from him, you'll be killing him. What kind of father kills his own son?"

"I ain't killing nothing." The colonel finally snaps out of it, lips pulled back in a snarl, "The kid's been brainwashed by those savages. He belongs with his own kind."

"You really should look in a mirror," she emphasized with her own human-like snarl, "You're not his kind either. Call it whatever you want, you're still trying to take him from everything he loves. I won't let you."

The human captive leans back in a soft sway, managing to get a better breath in while her arms shook from the gravity, "So if you want him, you'll have to kill me first."

Quaritch's fist is fast, a blur of motion before Kayla feels a harsh blow to her gut. She lets out a strained wheeze, the air knocked clean out of her. Quaritch rolls his shoulder a few times, briefly satisfied with the way Kayla groans like an injured animal while spitting down at her, "And who do you think you are to him, huh? You're not the boy's mother. She died fighting Jake and his band of savages. She's dead because of traitors like you, Sully."

Kayla coughs for a considerable amount of time, her throat raw and scratchy. Rolling her lips to try and regain any bit of moisture, she makes a daring move by smiling, "Aw, Colonel. Who knew you had a heart? I wouldn't have guessed, considering you were responsible for the death of a fifteen-year-old boy."

His frown deepens, and Wainfleet's expression doesn't look amused anymore, the reminder making his tail twitch with irritation. Kayla expressed feigned concern while looking between the two avatars, "Do you seriously think Spider would ever forgive you? After killing Neteyam? Spider was his friend, you know. They had known each other their whole lives. They grew up together... and you killed him."

Quaritch makes a point to roll his shoulder again, "I'm getting bored, Sully. Tell us where the kid is."

"At a bar mitzvah in Canada."

The quick whiplash she received from the sudden punch to the face was jarring, the lights above her multiplying and stretching while she tried blinking out the dots in her vision, shocks prickling the back of her neck. The pain was instant, cracking through the front of her skull like jagged lightning bolts. Kayla forgets how to breathe for a moment, too stunned to think of what to do. The only sensation she could register was the small brush of warmth that, for a moment, felt comforting in such a cold room. It wasn't until she felt it running down the swoop of her brow like water droplets that she realized the warmth was from blood.

Quaritch pulls his fist back, and there's not even a mark left on his knuckles, his skin a little tougher compared to a human's. It was obvious he didn't use his full strength, as Kayla faintly recalls being able to kill RDA grunts with a single blow while she was back on that sinking ship. He shakes his hand like it's nothing, "You think you're protecting him by being a smartass. Hell, I bet you think you're raising him. Like you have any right. Is your name on the birth certificate?"

She grunts, finally remembering how to breathe as she raises a bleeding eyebrow, "Is yours?"

His grin stretches, faintly reminding her of a hyena she once saw in a documentary back on Earth, "You're funny, Sully. Quick-witted and full of attitude, like your brother. Or, one of them, at least."

Her brows twitch, and her throat visibly bobs. Quaritch's voice turns mocking, "Oh... did I strike a nerve?"

Wainfleet already has his hand stretched out, providing a datapad once Quaritch reaches back for it. The colonel taps the screen a few times before listing off what he finds, "Dr. Thomas Sully. Killed by gunshot. Is that what they told you? Did you even bother checking the body yourself?"

Disoriented eyes narrow briefly up at him past the blood running through her lashes, "I wasn't there when they cremated him."

"'Suppose that makes sense," Quaritch, the bastard, lightened his tone and expression to feign innocence as he mouthed on, "They were in such a hurry to sweep the evidence under the rug. Had they given Jake even a moment to examine the body, he would've seen the knife marks and not a single bullet hole in sight."

She felt woozy and lightheaded, so for a moment, Kayla wasn't sure if she had heard him correctly. The muscles in her face struggle to remember to remain firm and unflinching while her ears struggle to pay attention to Quaritch's little monologue, 

"People hardly communicate these days. Higher-ups didn't bother telling the suits who hired Jake how his twin died, so it's a good thing he didn't even bother checking, or else the whole scheme would've gone up in flames. Not that he's smart enough to do so. You, however, I suspect, would've at least been sober enough to ask."

Still unsure of what he was fully saying, Kayla tried to provoke him to explain further, "... You're lying."

"I remember Selfridge drunkenly bragging about the genius of it all. 'How we needed a guy on the inside."

Quartich grimaced at a faint memory playing back in his head, "But Dr. Augustine, that bitch, ran such a tight ship that we couldn't even get a hair through the door without her being on Selfridge's ass about it. So we infiltrated, and lucky for us, an avatar-trained scientist was getting ready to leave Earth to come to Pandora... and he just so happened to have a marine for a twin brother."

Cold. It rushed through her bloodstream, and she lost circulation in her toes and fingers. Kayla's eyes widen as the information loops on and on in her head, blood pumping in her ears until all she could hear was her own rapid heartbeat. 

Quaritch watches as the realization sinks into her face and simply states with a shrug, "So RDA did what they had to do."

~~~~~~~~~

Every hour spent flying over the ocean is another hour Kayla is missing. 

Jake tried his best not to exhaust his ikran, while also keeping in mind Neytiri flying beside him and the gunship flying just behind them. Max keeps a safe distance, keeping a close eye on the fuel intake, worried about all the extra added weight to the aircraft. While the gunship always carried avatars, no problem, two Metkayinas were a different story. They were larger, broader, and had stronger tails that most definitely could knock a human out cold if not completely snap their necks with one thwack. Ronal had curled herself up around the head of Kayla's avatar, trying to be small even with her rounded stomach. Then there was Tonowari, who was easily one of the biggest Na'vi males Max has ever encountered, and so the scientist did his best to fly as carefully as possible, not wanting to make this flight jarring for his passengers. 

When the cliffsides and vast jungle closed in, Neytiri's heart ached, a bittersweet moment to be home again, but under dire circumstances. She and Jake take the lead on the flight, making sure to communicate with Max with their throat mics while also using them as a way to reassure the Metkayina leaders if they appear wary or suspicious about this journey in a Sky People ship. Before long, the Hallelujah Mountains emerge from the clouds, and Neytiri yips to caution all flyers as they weave through the large masses. Ronal and Tonowari could not help but watch the mountains fly by, in awe of the rock fixtures that easily minimize the floating boulders that encompass the Cove of the Ancestors. 

Jake's impatience finally pays through as they fly into the cave system of High Camp, their presence made aware to the Omatikaya by the familiar echoes of the horns. It felt as if they had never left as crowds of Na'vi and humans alike formed a crescent around the landing zone, calling out for Toruk Makto and their returning friends. Jake leaps off Bob's back before the ikran can even touch ground, marching forward even as Max takes his time to safely land the gunship.

Neytiri seems just as eager, leaping off her own mountain banshee as her eyes land on the one face she had been desperate to see, feeling like a child again, "Ma sa'nok!"

Mo'at doesn't wait for her daughter to come to her. Instead, the old tsahik is uncharacteristically running to Neytiri as well, meeting her halfway and embracing her child as tightly as she could. Both women began to sob the moment they were reunited at last, both relieved to see one another and sharing the grief of a loss they had not gotten to share. 

Jake sees a familiar face parting from the crowd and walking up to him, but doesn't waste time with greetings, "Tell me something good, Norm."

"Tarsem sent out a search party hours ago once Tivek and Kayla didn't make it to the rendezvous," Spellman, in his avatar form, reports as he and a few other familiar faces surround Jake: Tarsem, Jocelyn, Txe'la, and Meui.

"And?"

The new and young olo'eyktan looks as if he was channeling his grief into anger, "That demon shot Tivek's ikran down and left my friend to fall to his death after taking Makaylasully."

Norm solemnly nods while further explaining to Jake, "Tivek and the ikran's bodies were recovered. No sign of Kayla."

Jake's jaw tightens, trying his best to keep his face blank of emotions, apart from giving Tarsem a squeezing hand on his shoulder in a silent apology for his loss. 

He looks down at the female scientist present among the circle, "Do we know if he took her to Bridgehead?"

Jocelyn shook her head, "It's not mentioned in any of their transmissions."

"That doesn't mean anything," Jake pinches the bridge of his nose for a moment before looking around at his gathered allies, "So... what happened? Give me the rundown."

"Scouts spotted Quaritch and his ikran surveying the Mountains a few days ago."

"Did Kayla know about this?"

"She did and made me swear not to tell you," Norm replies, "She wanted you to just forget about it and worry more about your family."

Jake's furrowed brow deepens while he hastily looks around at the cave, "So, how did he find High Camp? Why haven't you relocated?"

"Because I don't think Quaritch actually knows our location. He just had an idea of where to look, and since he's traveling by ikran, our scanners never picked him up, and he likely just mapped out the area since scanners are useless up here."

Max, who finally joins the group after landing the gunship, cuts into the conversation, "It's likely why he flushed us out before going after Kayla. Once we left the nest, he swooped in and grabbed her."

Ronal and Tonowari had cautiously followed Max from the gunship but did not join Jake's group of allies, the male Metkayina carrying Kayla's avatar in his arms. They both look around, catching every pair of eyes that look at them, the Omatikaya walking around and giving the reef Na'vi a wide berth. The cave floor is cold beneath their wide feet, their bright colors dampened by the surrounding dark and rock walls. It is clear they were out of place, and they both felt it, being observed like strange new creatures. 

The crowds of Omatikaya part ways for their tsahik, and both Ronal and Tonowari lay eyes on Mo'at, closely followed by her daughter. They note how Neytiri stood taller among the other Omatikaya, her movements loose and less defensive, her eyes tracking them in a way that could make anyone feel as if they were trespassing. 

"My mother," Neytiri introduced the Metkayina leaders to the older Na'vi woman standing beside her, "Mo'at, the tsahik of the Omatikaya." 

Mo'at and Ronal share similar greetings, while Tonowari could only nod with his arms still occupied holding Kayla. Mo'at's eyes dart to the unconscious avatar immediately, stepping before Tonowari and barely blinking at the intimidating height difference. Her hands press against Kayla's face, inspecting her with methodical fingers.  

Meanwhile, Jocelyn's attention is brought to her datapad, looking down at it and looking back up at Jake, "We got something."

All Na'vi, avatar, and human eyes land on her, and she quickly explains, "One of our motion sensors at Hell's Gate was just triggered."

Max gently takes the datapad from Jocelyn's hands, furiously typing something while the others speak around him. Tarsem does not look convinced.

"Could be anything. Could be an animal."

"But it would make sense," all eyes turn back to Jake as realization dawns on his face, his gaze quickly looking around, "Let me see a map?"

The group moves into the war tent, where Norm is able to project a large map of known Pandora landscapes in the center of their circle. Max remains distracted on his datapad while Jake moves around the map using the controls.

"Hell's Gate is just east of the Muku River... and didn't you say that you lost Kayla's radio signal halfway to the rendezvous point? It's a bit of a stretch... but Hell's Gate is a helluva lot closer to those coordinates than Bridgehead."

While it's logical, Norm is still cautious, "But we don't know if it's Quaritch."

Max makes a victorious sound when he discovers something on his screen, "Except that I'm also monitoring Ardmore's radio chatter and just received this-"

The volume of the datapad is turned up as all ears tune in to a two-way radio conversation, both voices very distinct and recognizable.

"Colonel. You better have a good explanation as to why you haven't reported back since losing your team."

"Had to go radio silent so the enemy didn't detect my signal. 'Sides, the mountains kept scrambling what little instruments I had left."

"The Hallelujah Mountains? I hope to hear some good news."

"I got more than good news for you, General. I got a highly valuable prisoner for you. I got your missing corporal. Makayla Sully."

"... Switch to a private channel, Colonel."

The signal is abruptly cut off, and Max winced when he was unable to recover more, "Damn. Lost it."

"Shit," Jake flinched, "Ardmore was supposed to be kept on believing Kayla was dead."

"Now that she knows, she's likely gonna want to interrogate her."

"Meaning that she'll likely order Quaritch to bring her to Bridgehead."

"If that's the case, then our window to extract Kayla before that happens is closing in," Jake immediately turns to two of the Na'vi men in the corner of the pod, "Txe'la, Meui, you will scout ahead."

While they respect Toruk Makto, Txe'la and Meui wait until Tarsem nods with approval before they start to move. Jocelyn watches them leave with concern in her eyes, hidden behind the glare of her breathing mask when she turns back to Jake.

"And then what? We move in once they report back?"

"As long as Quaritch stays in Hell's Gate, we'll have a better chance at grabbing Kayla before he transports her to Bridgehead. Let's gather any warrior willing to fly with us. Even if Quaritch is just one guy, I'm not taking any chances."

Jake's eyes meet the avatar standing across from him, "Norm, while I lure Quaritch out, I need you and Max to go in there to get Kayla."

"Jakesully." All eyes turn to the opening of the war tent, and Jocelyn has to move several steps back so as not to crane her neck up to the tallest Na'vi she has ever seen. Tonowari practically took up the whole archway of the tent, no longer carrying Kayla's avatar form that he had left in the care of the tsahiks. 

His blue eyes meet Jake's yellow with a firm expression, "I will join you."

Jake's brows furrow, searching Tonowari's face as if he had grown another nose. It doesn't help that the suspicion brewing in Jake's gut regarding the Metkayina clan leaders continues to grow. After a moment, he simply shook his head, repeating similar words Tonowari once said to him, "Your skills are useless here. Unless you have an ikran, you won't be able to attack from the sky."

Tonowari's emotions remain firm and unwavering, "Then I will attack from the ground. I have legs."

It almost would've been comical to see Tonowari's sarcastic side if it weren't for the circumstances. Sully opens his mouth to argue further, only for Norm to step in.

"Jake." Norm waits until Sully's eyes meet his, "Max might be more useful raining down on the gunship. I'll need someone with me watching my back while I grab Kayla."

It's... logical to some extent but still not imperative. From a marine's point of view, Tonowari still holds a disadvantage as he has not yet experienced the inside of a human base, even if said base was supposedly abandoned. But then, from a Na'vi and a leader's point of view, Tonowari feels responsible for someone he claims as a part of his people. 

However, Jake had a sinking feeling that this had nothing to do with Tonowari's duties as Olo'eyktan. 

Looking over at Norm, the scientist is already looking at him the same way Neytiri had been earlier, as if Jake was supposed to be grasping something he didn't see that was swinging in front of him. It was starting to feel irritating that apparently everyone appeared to know something he did not... but he knew that his injured pride wouldn't help the situation.

He takes a slow, deep breath, then nods in defeat, "Alright. Tonowari is ground team."

~~~~~~~~~

At this point, Kayla's torture progresses. The Recoms have reverted to methods she lists off in her head as her own way of dissing the Marines for not being creative and doing everything by the book. Once they got tired of her sarcastic replies, they started shouting, which quickly led to beating her when they got bored with that, too. They were always striking around her abdomen, her skin prickling from feeling so vulnerable and exposed with her arms strung up over her head. She knows they were still holding back. They weren't using their full Na'vi-like strength, or else she would've been dead by now. The waterboarding came later, closer to what she assumed was nighttime, as the room had gotten colder. When they realized Kayla was strangely talented in holding her breath, they moved on to starvation and sleep deprivation, all the while leaving her in the wet clothes as the temperature slowly dropped.

She wasn't even capable of hugging her own arms to warm them, teeth chattering with stuttered breaths while her restraints rattled with every violent shiver. Determination to wait out their tactics was the only thing keeping her from giving in. Two things can happen if she waits. Either the Omatikaya will rescue her, or Ardmore shows up, and all torturing will cease before the general comes up with a more effective method. 

"Eagle's landed," Wainfleet reports when he and Mansk return.

Speak of the Devil and she shall appear.

Quaritch scoffs while glaring down at Kayla, taking a couple of breaths through his oxygen mask, "Maybe the general will get better results. Cut 'er down."

The pained groan that escapes Kayla's throat is triggered by the feeling of her arms finally being brought down from hanging over her head, muscles burning beneath the skin as Mansk brings her down from the ceiling. She's back on her feet for all of two seconds before Kayla's swarmed by two RDA soldiers the moment they pile into the room. Sky People.  They grab both of her arms and drag her backwards, leaving her to stumble and unable to struggle as her arms begin to feel prickly while they regain feeling. She's on her back, restrained to the metal slab once more, while more soldiers and people in lab coats file in, most of them carrying heavy machinery and equipment in their arms. No one even looks at her as they get to work on setting up shop right away.

The stream of humans filing into the room dwindles, Kayla's eyes watching the door and unable to help that small churn of dread in her gut when General Ardmore walks in from around the corner. She looked the same as always, with a tight face, hair, and attire. Not a single imperfection in sight. Kayla gets a more face-to-face view of her former boss when a labcoat approaches her restraints and fiddles with the controls, raising the metal slab Kayla was lying on using hydraulics, then tilting it upward a little until Kayla's more vertical than horizontal. 

Ardmore waits until the hydraulics come to a complete stop before addressing her captive, cold eyes barely blinking while staring into Kayla's, "You failed to mention you were a turncoat, Corporal."

Kayla's face briefly twitches with irritation before letting out a scoff, "Yeah, well, you failed to mention my brother wasn't actually dead."

She glares around at all the people and the equipment slowly coming together to form a massive machine, "So what was it, then? Did you recruit me to lure him out, or was I just plain irresistible?"

Ardmore breathed a laugh, but there was no humor in it, "Perhaps you're not as perceptive as the colonel says you are. It's true. You're not special or the soldier I claimed to need for the Avatar Program. You don't even fit the qualifications to drive an avatar, much like your brother. Jake Sully is a threat to mankind's continued existence on Pandora, so I thought that possibly waving his only living relative in front of his nose would bait him out. It wasn't personal."

"Nothing's personal for you," Kayla agrees while her eyes briefly dart to Quaritch standing in the corner, "Can't say the same about your present company."

"The Recoms are relentless because of their drive for revenge. They'll ensure Jake's capture or expected death by any means necessary. It's why they're reliable."

"And yet, there's only..." she makes a point of looking around, "Three of them left?"

Ardmore thinly smiles, "We can make more avatars. 'Money isn't exactly an issue for me."

"Hm. I take it Amrita really pays the bills, then," Kayla comments offhandedly.

"So you do know about that. I wondered."

Ardmore begins circling Kayla's metal slab like a shark, and the latter tries to look unfazed by this as she comments, "Could spend those millions of dollars on rehousing humanity on some other planet, yet you're wasting it on brewing more assholes in a lab."

"It would prove efficient if our lab results prove that humanity can withstand long-term neural links between their bodies and their avatars."

Ardmore paused her small rant just as she stopped right in front of Kayla, her head slowly tilting back in her captive's direction, "Speaking of which-" 

The general moves fast, her arm a blur, but Kayla feels the impact in her own stomach, used like a punching bag. She groans and leans forward, unable to curl her arms or legs around herself to protect her vital organs, wheezing from the air getting knocked out of her. Ardmore doesn't even have to straighten her uniform as she gracefully regains her posture, her fist returning to her side, "Millions of dollars wasted on your avatar, on all that research, only for you to abandon ship and take all of those answers with you-"

Kayla sucks in a sharp breath of air, and it burns her lungs, "'Thought you said money wasn't an issue for you?"

"-Answers that could potentially benefit human life here on Pandora." Ardmore leans closer, hovering near Kayla's face while lowering her voice, "Don't you owe it to the innocent human lives back home? Shouldn't you have a god-given responsibility to ensure humanity's survival?"

Quaritch's tail flicks in Kayla's peripheral view, the corporal throwing in his own two cents with a more solemn tone, "They need that research, Sully."

The struggle to find air freezes in time. Slowly, Kayla's pained expression morphs into a glare now pitted against the Recom in the corner, "If what you said about Tommy is true, then I don't owe any of you fucks a single thing. You talk about betrayal and failed to mention that you sons of bitches were the first ones to stab Jake and me in the back!"

"In Tommy's back, technically."

Quaritch might have well have just let go of the leash with the way Kayla tries fighting and thrashing against her restraints, snarling and shouting as if she were feral and ready to tear his throat out.

"General," a labcoat waves to Ardmore, "Primed and ready."

Ardmore sternly nods before her cold eyes dart back to Kayla, "It doesn't matter whether or not you think mankind deserves retribution. We'll get what we want out of you, traitor."

Kayla feels her restraints briefly tremble as a group of scientists pulls her metal slab backward until it fits directly below a machine that looms over her head. Once her captive was looking up at it, Ardmore explained the imposing piece of technology.

"This here is the NeuroSect. Originally, it was designed to be a medical device to monitor brain activity and detect cancer cells, but we've since utilized it to extract intel. It's one hundred percent lethal when someone is subjected to it for hours due to exposure to radiation. It could potentially cause brain damage at best, and death at worst."

Kayla's throat tightens, a brief memory of how Spider described the device they used to torture him chillingly matches the device surrounding her head like an oversized halo, comprised of a very delicate rotary imaging array and glowing green as a labcoat presses a button to turn it on.

"Typically, one could use this to look into a patient's dreams if they're asleep," Ardmore continues, "But I want results, and to do that, I need conscious individuals, so we fashioned these eye guards for the machine."

Before she could blink, an overly large blue hand pushed and pressed Kayla's head back against the cold slab, nearly encompassing her whole head in Quaritch's palm. Kayla is almost tempted to thrash enough to possibly try biting him before another scientist moves to the other side of her and places a mask-like restraint over her eyes.

Ardmore nods approvingly, "The guards around the eyes shock the muscles in your face, causing them to freeze up and forcing your eyelids to stay open. Hardly anyone can withstand this fine piece of machinery. Using radiation, it uses invasive mapping of one's prefrontal cortex, which a human being uses to process visuals. Words can be said in order to extract intel from a given subject."

Kayla tries to blink, but a soft buzz pricks at the skin around her eyes, leaving her lids to freeze against her control. She swallows thickly as her eyes move to Ardmore, almost in disbelief at just how cruel this other woman can be, "You strapped a kid to this?"

"Like I said: hardly anyone can withstand this. The kid was an exception," Ardmore gave a small expression of intrigue. "He was remarkably resilient to its effects. My scientists would love to get their hands on his brain again sometime."

Kayla's mouth tightens, gritting her teeth behind her lips before stiffly attempting to glare at Quaritch, "The people you're loyal to torture children for information. I wouldn't go wasting your breath trying to defend them."

Ardmore purposely stands in front of Quaritch, blocking Kayla's line of sight to him as more scientists go around inspecting the machine as it runs to ensure it's working, "Just form a thought, and we will see it. It shouldn't be hard for you."

The machine starts whirring, slowly at first before gradually picking up speed, blinding lights flashing over her vision. Over and over. It was nauseating, and the worst part about it was not being able to close her eyes. It was a nightmare she couldn't wake from.

Just to try and shake out her fear into something tough, Kayla takes quick, hurried breaths before spitting, "Kiss the darkest part of my a--"

Pain stabs through Kayla's skull before she can finish her sentence. Searing, indescribable pain. She was fairly certain Neytiri could drive an arrow through her head, and it would hurt less. At least an arrow would be quicker. A cry of agony escapes her lips without meaning to, followed by groans as she tries to fight the invasion in her head, gritting her teeth.

Unable to close her eyes, she's forced to memorize the small grin Ardmore expressed, "Where's your brother, Corporal?"

~~~~~~~~~

He felt like he was trespassing, even after all this time, like it was the one place he never felt like he truly belonged. 

The Tree of Souls glowed beautifully over Jake's head, as bright as ever. It was strange to think about how much has changed in all these years. People were born, or people had died. Nature grew stronger or weaker, mainly around the time the Sky People left and then came back, yet the tree remained the same. 

He knelt at the foot of it, head bowed in shame, while he hesitantly spoke, "I need some help... again."

He slowly pulls his tswin braid out from behind his back, bringing the tendrils up to the nearest glowing vine that still reminds him of fiber optics to this day, and letting them intertwine, "Show me how I can save my sister. Give me some sort of sign... please."

The sentience of the tree was quiet, and yet the wind through the vines sounded like soft whispers, woodsprites gracefully dancing over Jake's head. He struggled to wait, his ears perked up at all times to try and catch the faintest of words, but nothing came of it. There was no time to wait for hours on end. Kayla's window was still closing in, and Jake wanted to be ready to leave the second Txe'la and Meui returned. He sighed heavily and started to lift his knees up from the ground before the vine his braid was entangled with began to glow brighter than all the rest. Jake stumbled back to his knees, feeling as if the wind was knocked out of him, his pupils struggling to focus. The ground is pulled out from underneath him, and his vision tunnels down into something he was familiar with. 

He was pulled into a memory, only it wasn't like the ones of Neteyam he often sought when visiting the Cove of the Ancestors. 

He wasn't sure how much time had passed once he woke up in the VA hospital in Venezuela. He'd guess it was about a week before they transferred him to a location closer to home, back overseas. It had been months since he last set foot on American soil... and now he would never be able to physically do so again.

The only comfort he had at the time was those weird dreams he had; dreams of flying over jungle trees he didn't recognize, so fast he could never take the time to truly study them. Unfortunately, sooner or later, he always had to wake back up.

The hospital they transferred him to was cleaner, but old. Jake ignored the fact that the morgue where his folks' bodies were carried in was just three floors below his room. He wasn't there for a full twenty-four hours before Tommy was racing in as if coming to rescue his twin. When Jake made a quiet joke that at least people would be able to tell the two of them apart now, neither of them laughed.

The brothers exchanged small talk once Tommy settled into the foldable chair in the corner, avoiding the elephant in the room for the time being. Jake asked about Avatar training, to which Tommy mentioned making a new friend named Nate or Norm and how they were both learning the Na'vi language together.

"It's very complex and tedious. Norm's a bit too formal with the words," Tom huffed a small breath of laughter. He looked as though he had come here straight from work, in his ironed button-up shirt and nicest pair of jeans he owned, his short hair gelled and parted off to the side. Jake no longer had the heart to call him a nerd, especially when being a nerd helped him make an honest living.

Tom hadn't noticed Jake's eyes straying away from him and continued to chuckle absently, "He's convinced the Na'vi are royalty and so very articulate."

"Hm," in typical Jake fashion, he wasn't quite grasping what his brother was saying anymore, always eventually drowning Tom's ramblings once they'd gotten too long. Jake's gaze focused solely on the door of his room when he heard faint voices talking right outside, likely two doctors contemplating an upcoming surgery together.

"Any idea how long I'll be here?" He changed the subject, finally addressing what they'd both been thinking.

Tom looked up and followed his gaze to the door, his light attitude sobering a little as he explained what he was told over the phone before coming here, "Doctor said it'll be a slow recovery. Lots of meds and physical therapy. They'll let me bring you home once your arms are strong enough to... to..."

Jake stiffly nods with deep, ghostly eyes, practically glaring at his legs covered beneath the typical hospital blankets, "To push the wheels of my sweet new ride."

"At least you're alive, Jake."

Tom hadn't even hesitated to say it, which only meant he had likely been rehearsing it in his head in case the conversation finally curved to this part. Jake simply scoffed and moved his eyes to glare back at the door, wanting to will someone to walk in so he didn't have to feel his twin's watchful gaze practically digging through his skull.

One glance at the clock and Jake changes the subject once more, "Why are you even here? Shouldn't you be picking Kay up?"

Something akin to dread drops in his stomach when he notices the way Tom subtly shifts in his chair as if uncomfortable, "She's on her way right now."

Jake sucks in a sharp breath, "Why'd you tell her where I was, Tom?"

A shadow passes over the scientist's eyes, "Because she was told at school that her brother was blown up. I needed to reassure her over the phone that you were still alive."

"I don't want her to see me like this."

Tom scoffs, "You can't hide from her for the rest of her life."

It was something the marine heavily debated while anxiously awaiting his baby sister to arrive. She was... what, seventeen now? He nearly felt sick at the thought of it, realizing he had missed her birthday since he was stationed in an active war zone, where time and date were hard to keep track of.

"Did she have a party?"

"She... kinda rebelled a little and went out with her friends instead. 'Said that it wouldn't be the same anyway. She was really hoping you'd be home by then."

Jake opened his mouth to make a snide remark before a commotion was heard outside and the door to his room was sent flying open, rattling the hinges. Jake clenched his jaw at the sight of Kayla. Nothing about her had changed. Ripped-up jeans, a hoodie, and a side braid that Jake could've sworn was only to her shoulders, now it was near her stomach. The respiratory mask she had painted her favorite comic book character on the front now dangled around her neck as she came storming in with her backpack over one shoulder, out of breath and with panicked eyes, mascara smudging down her cheeks as fresh tears formed the moment her gaze landed on the figure sitting up in bed.

Her backpack was sent sliding across the floor as she bolted to the bed, arms outstretched, as a sob escaped her throat, "Jake!"

He braced for impact, and she managed to constrict her arms around his neck, using that momentum to climb up onto the bed and hold her brother close. She was shaking drastically, crying into his shoulder as all of the panic and uncertainty that she had felt on the way here finally drained out.

Jake forces himself to relax and softly pats her shoulder, a small flicker of a smile briefly appearing over his mouth, "Hey, kiddo."

She hiccups, "I thought you were gone--"

"I'm okay," he's quick to stomp down her dark thoughts, despite having uncertainties of his own. Jake doesn't hesitate to change the subject once more when it feels as if the pity in Tom's eyes would suffocate him, "It's gonna be okay. How'd ya get here?"

Kayla takes a moment to catch her breath and relax, pulling out of the hug to wipe her tears and smudged makeup out of her eyes, "Train."

He gives her a sharp eye, "We talked about this."

Tom finally pitches in with a small huff, "She was fine, Jake."

Jake's narrowed eyes fix on his twin from across the room, "You're supposed to be going with her."

"How? I have training nearly fifteen hours a day. I'm already gone by the time she has to get up for school, and she's already home before I clock out at the end of the day."

The fact that Jake is one to talk when he's been gone for months hangs heavy over the air. No one says it, but they're all thinking about it. He's no better when it comes to providing for his sister. However, no one wants to mention his deployment since now it looks as though he won't have to worry about leaving ever again.

Regardless, Kayla rolls her eyes, a typical teenager who thinks she's fully grown, while grasping Jake's hand, "I have the taser you got me. And the knife. And the pepper spray."

She then wavers, unable to help the way she looks at him with big, concerned eyes, "Are you going to be okay?"

He tensed, his expression flat along with his voice, "I lost my legs."

"But... but they can help with enhancements, right? Physical therapy?"

Tom takes a deep breath and shakes his head, "Our insurance won't cover it, Kayla."

"Bullshit! His insurance should cover it," she hissed while whipping her eyes over to her other brother, then returning to Jake, "You lost the mobility in your legs while on active duty!"

"It's not as cheap as prosthetics," Jake explained, even though his gut churned, "We're talking about enhancements that would revive dying tissue and nerves. We're talking about something as big as helping me walk again. They won't cover it. I was hardly useful to them before, and I still wouldn't be useful if they helped me now."

No one denied his statement, but it still hung heavy in the air, the slow realization that this would be Jake's life now, forever changed in one of the worst-case scenarios aside from death... a part of Jake wondered if death would've been easier.

Kayla, unaware of Jake's thoughts taking a dark turn, tried to smile, her eyes casting over at the wheelchair in the corner of the room, "... At least the ladies will love you."

Jake scoffed, his thoughts momentarily forgotten as he shoved her face away, "Whatever. I was always able to pull more chicks than you, kid. Always have, always will."

Light surrounds the edge of his vision, and Jake is gently pulled out of that memory, his eyes blinking to adjust to the soft glow of Eywa's beauty. However, he doesn't feel fulfilled or satisfied with his answer, slowly breaking his connection to the Spirit Tree while staring down at the ground with disappointment.

"Ma Jake?"

His ears flick in the direction of Neytiri as she approaches, his eyes remain fixed to the ground, "... I don't know why she showed me that memory."

"Then think. Our Great Mother wouldn't have shown you if it wasn't for a reason."

He grimaced, "All I saw was a reminder. The reason why I'm a terrible brother."

A soft touch against his cheek guides him to look at his woman, one of her fingers gently tracing the imperfections on his cheek. Neytiri bore pity in her eyes while her voice grew gentle, "Even if Makayla thought that, she still loves you."

Jake doesn't agree nor argue since he didn't have the energy to fight. A small scoff escapes him, "You sound like Ronal and Tonowari. Using her first name so formally."

Silence follows, though he didn't expect her to entertain his attempt at lightening the mood. She knew him well enough to know that it was just his method of reflecting. Jake watched something cross through Neytiri's eyes. Contemplation. Hesitation. It was as if she wasn't sure whether or not to speak her mind, but in the end, her husband's ignorance is what convinced her that he needed to be bluntly told instead of hinted at.

"Ma Jake. They are not saying 'Makayla.' They are saying Ma Kayla."

Jake's eyes briefly squint, his mouth opening to retort that they both sound the same, but then... there it was. Neytiri watched as his face morphed into realization, and she couldn't help but faintly smile as she explained, "They are pxey mates. It is rare but not unheard of. Sometimes a mated pair brings a third or fourth into their tsaheyl si, or more than two individuals fall into it all at once. Sometimes, two pairs of mates become four."

His mouth opens and shuts multiple times like a fish, almost too stunned to make a sound. He looked at his wife with disbelief as if she had grown a second head. His initial thought was to shoot down her observation because how does that make sense? Then, slowly, he recalls all of the signs that he had caught just within these past twenty-four hours. The Metkayina clan leaders' concern for his sister, the way they speak her name, or are quick to volunteer in bringing her back. The most obvious sign was their scents that he remembered catching on Kayla's form.

He swallows thickly, "... I didn't know that."

It was almost a shocking scene to see Neytiri grin so smugly, "I did not want you getting any bright ideas. Toruk Makto is mine and mine alone."

Laughter startles them both when it escapes Jake's lungs, the sound so foreign after these trying few months. Jake beamed at his woman as if she held the stars for him, stepping closer until he pressed his forehead to hers, "You're the only one for me."

"I know," Neytiri whispers into the small space between them, her eyes sparkling with contempt, "But your sister belongs to two."

Two. That shouldn't come off as strange to him. It wasn't uncommon for polyamory relationships back on Earth, and Jake had even been friends with those who actively practiced it. It's just another thing to wonder where they all might be now in life and if they're doing well. He could use their advice right about now on the amount of trouble his sister had found herself in. 

"Yeah, okay," he sighs heavily, "But did it have to be with the clan leaders of the Metkayina?"

Neytiri gives him an amused look, her reply lost to the wind as a shout from afar drowns it out, "Jake!" 

Both he and Neytiri whip their heads around to the hillside leading down to the roots of the Spirit Tree. Norm emerges from that hillside, looking rushed and on a mission, "The scouts are back."

~~~~~~~~~

It's hot.

Nauseatingly hot. The spin of the scanner made her dizzy and short of breath, all the while, the heat of the machine bearing down on her metal slab nearly mimicked a stovetop. Kayla thought she was being cooked alive from the inside out, starting with her brain. They have been at this for a couple of hours now, her throat now raw from screaming, too sore to make any noises louder than a whine. She had dug her nails into the palms of her hands from clenching them into fists too hard, dried blood caking beneath them, while she tried to fight the searing pain in her head.

"Where is Jake?" Ardmore continues to demand firmly.

She focuses more on how she feels rather than the general's questions. She's sore and bruised and warm, her eyes nearly rolling back into her head when she's unable to shield them from the spinning light. The labcoats are somewhere behind Kayla, analyzing a protruding hologram of her brain scan activity, murmuring to one another as they debate. With none of them exclaiming that they've found the information, Ardmore continues to verbally drill into Kayla's head.

"I asked you a question, Corporal."

Corporal. That's her. Corporal Makayla Sully of Earth. Focus on that.

"Corporal."

Focus.

"Corporal-"

On that.

Her vision blurs and grows spotted with dots. If her head hadn't already been secured to the table, it would've rolled to the side when she blacked out, her last thought being what would happen to her human soul if she died on Pandora.

Instead of an answer, she's brought to a location. Kayla blinks, confused, while looking around and then down at herself when she realizes she is no longer restrained. While inspecting herself, she took note of the grass beneath her feet.

It was yellow.

"Let's go. We're Oscar Mike."

Her head shoots up, heart leaping in her chest when she feels her fight or flight instinct kick in. Her body betrays her and stands perfectly still as a group of soldiers walks past her, unaware of her presence. Kayla briefly wondered if she recognized that voice, then her eyes drifted to the front of the formation, and her heart dropped to realize it was her voice.

The Kayla in front of her stood stiff and firm, her impassive expression aging her beyond her years. She wasn't looking directly at Kayla, but rather ahead to where she and her garrison were marching. She was wearing her utility uniform as if ready for battle at any second, complete with the rolled-up sleeves and boots she had forgotten all about ever since becoming accustomed to life on Pandora. Beneath her utility cover cap that barely shielded her eyes, her long hair was pulled into a tight bun and stayed in place with gel. 

Looking around, Kayla finally recognized the place she had herself dreaming about. She remembered being stationed at this place for several weeks and recalled slowly growing crazy, seeing the dead grass stretch for miles from all sides of their base of operations. The sky always looked hazy here, and sported the same dead, yellow colors as the grass. The Kayla in uniform looks left and right while stationing her garrison to stand straight in their assigned position, waiting for their commanding officer to arrive.

Watching herself in her marine element, Kayla couldn't help but pity the woman in front of her. This was the woman who believed that by joining the military, there was hope for her to eventually be shipped out to Pandora. This was the woman who still hoped of seeing her brother again.

The general... what was his name again? Paublo? Pedro-? Her superior officer finally made his appearance, stepping out of the base and crossing the yard to meet the garrison. With him was a uniformed man, taller and aged, while he kept his cap tucked under his arm.

"Sully." Her general addressed.

The voice itself triggered a memory, and slowly, Kayla began to watch this scene with panic in her eyes.

No, no, no. Not here. Anywhere else but here. Somewhere else--

The Kayla in uniform steps out of formation and salutes, but her general looks solemn, hesitating for a moment before stiffly nodding his head. "At ease, Corporal. The rest of you are dismissed." 

Kayla sucks in a sharp breath while watching her garrison march off in perfect formation, faces of men and women she used to fight alongside, and now hardly remembers their names. These were faces of people she considered family because it was the only way to survive out there, and now they're just a distant memory. Her eyes dart back to her past self, her gut churning uncomfortably. This girl had no idea what was about to hit her.

Her general motions to the officer standing next to him, "Sully. This here is Sergeant Roberts. He... has some news for you."

Kayla's eyes expectedly turn to Roberts as she has to relive one of the worst moments of her life. Past Kayla patiently waited as the officer rolled his lips and spoke in a deep and low voice. It almost sounded sympathetic.

"As a representative of the Marine Corps, it is a heavy honor to inform you that your brother, Corporal Jake Sully of the United States Marine Corps First Reconnaissance Battalion, was killed in action on the front lines of the war on Pandora, August 23rd, 2154. He was killed in the midst of a conflict between our troops and the moon's indigenous lifeforms. I wish to express my deepest sympathies for your loss."

Kayla watches herself receive the news with pity. The woman in uniform remains frozen both in body and face for several moments as if the news had not yet sunk in. Then, there's a faint twitch of the eyebrows. Kayla knows what's going on in her own head. It was fighting her on what to do and say. Should she keep up appearances in front of her superior officer? Should she react like a human?

In the end, Kayla's voice comes out small and unsure as she finally blinks, "... Okay. Thank you. Um-- May I be excused?"

Her general nods, "Of course. Dismissed."

Kayla watches herself stiffly march away, but she knows her pace is much faster than what was technically regulated. She was retreating to the base, but didn't go inside. Instead, she vanished from view behind the building where she knew no one would see her. Kayla didn't have to follow her to know what was about to happen. Her grief will come out ugly and unhealthy. She'll scream and lash out... resulting in her with a broken hand and arm when she inevitably slams her fist into the brick building.

The view changes, and Kayla finds herself standing in much healthier, kept grass. Looking around, her throat tightens at the sight of the gravestones lining up and down rows by the hundreds. Looking down, she sees a fresh grave right at her feet, where a new marble stone has been placed, but not a body. After all, there was nothing to bury.

Kayla looks up to see herself standing right in front of her, eyes sunken in and face pale, but otherwise as smooth and as firm as the stone she was glaring down at. She now wore her formal service uniform, and her right arm was sporting a new cast in a navy blue sling that stood out among her khaki attire. The service had just ended, and everyone else had packed up and left. Tucked under Past Kayla's left arm was a folded-up flag meant to resemble her dead brother's service for this country and, ultimately, this world. She barely even blinked as she stared down at the grave, carved with Jake's name and now placed right at home beside Tommy's and their parents. Too busy staring at the stone that refused to give her comfort, she failed to acknowledge another officer approaching her, dressed in the appropriate attire for a fallen soldier's funeral, despite never knowing the deceased.  

Kayla glares at the Past Ardmore as the general stood beside her grieving self, hardly missing a beat with her proposal, "Do you want to avenge your brother's death?"

Perhaps she was too lost in thought, but eventually, Past Kayla's brows furrowed, and then she turned to the stranger standing beside her, searching for clarification, "What?"

"I can help with that," the woman continues, keeping her hands behind her back since both of Kayla's were not available to shake, "General Frances Ardmore. I'll be the lead military personnel on the next flight out to Pandora."

Kayla nods absently to acknowledge the woman's status, but is too tired to put up a persona that cares. Her voice was rough and uncaring, full of sarcasm, "Good luck with that, General. From what I heard, you're going to need it."

"I don't need luck, Corporal. I need heads like yours," Ardmore gestures to the grave at their feet with her head, "The last of your family is dead. There's nothing left for you here now."

Kayla visibly breathes in deep, exhaling tiredly while the general continued, "What I'm offering is a chance to have some good old-fashioned revenge, along with a new planet to call home. You can start over... but only if you say yes. Help me build a better world for our species, and I can help you bring the lifeforms responsible for your brother's death to justice."

The wheels were visibly turning in her head despite the grim look on her face. Past Kayla glares ahead of her at nothing, but the Kayla who was looking back at her still felt uneased by it, as if she could see her future self. For several long moments, no one says anything until Past Kayla exhales through her nose, "Just how dangerous is this place?"

A flicker of amusement flashes in Ardmore's thin smile, "More dangerous than any tours you've done on this planet, I assure you."

"And we're gonna try to make it our new home?"

"With your help, it could be possible. Our shuttle leaves in a few days. I'll need your answer before then."

Ardmore produces a small card from her pocket and slips it into Kayla's cast before walking away. Kayla stares down at the card for some time, then glances back at the grave. The Kayla watching this memory already knows what the other is thinking. It's not a hard decision. She would rather die than visit this grave ever again.

She doesn't need to see what happens next, remembering how she impulsively cut her hair short right before she took a bag to the shuttle the day of departure. Instead of going into cryosleep like the majority of the flight crew, Kayla was ordered by a doctor to remain conscious so her broken arm would heal before they arrived on Pandora. She took that time to read, flipping through books on Na'vi culture and languages, including one written by Dr. Grace Augustine, who managed to make Kayla exhale a laugh with a few of her jabs at men's stupidity. While it wasn't much to go off of, Kayla tried teaching herself the language one syllable at a time. Once her radius bone had healed and her knuckles were no longer swollen, it was time for some physical therapy to regain her muscle strength. For the first year of their flight to Pandora, Kayla remained awake and mobile until she was given the all-clear to enter cryo, unaware of what her destination would mean for her future.

One moment, she was waking up, orbitting around Pandora, then the next, she was walking around in her new avatar body, reuniting with Jake despite not recognizing him at first. Kayla looks back at the memory and doesn't regret hugging her brother instead of punching him like she initially wanted to. She tries to hang onto that memory of the only and last time she hugged her brother... because there was probably never going to be another opportunity ever again.

~~~~~~~~~

Kayla wakes, and the first thing she notes is that she's not dead, but she almost wishes that she was. Her eyeballs burned from being held open, and not only was the NeuroSect still running, but the labcoats were in her face and shining small flashlights in her eyes to wake her up.

"Test subject is conscious again."

"Alright," Ardmore looked as if she hadn't moved a muscle since Kayla blacked out, eyes still narrowed at her prisoner, "Let's continue."

Kayla's eyes couldn't produce tears despite her growing anguish, dreading another round of this torture, another round of memories she didn't want to relive. She can't look away from the spinning lights, wishing they were purple instead of this sharp green so she could fool herself into thinking she was surrounded by Eywa, as crazy as it sounds.

"Rutxe."

All motion in the room stops upon the small sound, all eyes and ears fixing onto one person: Kayla.

"What was that?" Ardmore frowned.

The captive didn't look as though she heard the general, softly muttering to herself as if reciting a prayer. All the labcoats look to one another with curiosity. Had they broken this woman's mind?

"Rutxe. Eywa, rutxe," Kayla whimpered.

Finally, Ardmore realizes what's going on and turns her head up to Quaritch, "What is she saying?"

Kayla still doesn't appear to be fully aware of what was going on around her, lips quivering while gazing up at the spinning lights above her head, her throat dry as she pleads with someone who isn't there.

"Oe have nìteng nìpxay Na'vi pesu kin oe, rutxe!"

Quaritch's eyes narrow while his mind slowly interprets the language, and fortunately for him, Kayla continues to cry that same phrase over and over again, so he eventually is able to catch up. Once he's cracked the code, his posture stiffens, a weird, unsettling feeling weighing heavily on his shoulders as the words now translate to English in his head.

"I have too many people who need me, please!" 

~~~~~~~~~

Txe'la and Meui return from their scouting mission with good news; at least for Jake and his rescue party. They report that instead of Quaritch taking Kayla to Bridgehead, Ardmore had brought a small convoy over to Hell's Gate. 

When they list off how many men they saw, Jake still looked concerned, "Did you hear any chatter of Ardmore bringing any more men?"

"Not that we could hear."

Max raises his eyebrows at Toruk Makto, "You think she'll order another convoy to follow her?"

"She'd be exposed at Hell's Gate otherwise. It's a risky move to go to Quaritch instead of having him go to her."

Jocelyn hums in thought before nodding, "Ardmore plays by the book. Maybe she wants everyone to still believe that."

"You think she's interrogating Kayla off the record?" Norm asked.

She shrugs, "In case any of her men might get a bad taste in their mouth? I'd do the same thing if one of my officers betrayed me. I wouldn't want the rest of them to get any bright ideas."

Jake makes a faint note to never get on Jocelyn's bad side before reeling everyone in with a firm, steadfast voice, "Alright, so that means that we still have a window we need to make before Ardmore calls for reinforcements. Remember: air team distracts while ground team sneaks in, grabs Kayla, and gets out. Let's move!"

He claps his hands together, and Tarsem hollers a small war cry. The party parts in order to grab their weapons and move out. When Tonowari goes to follow Norm, he feels a strong tug on his elbow. Turning back, his eyes immediately find Ronal's as she looks up at her mate with faith and determination.

"Bring her back."

~~~~~~~~~

A/n: So as of right now, next chapter will definitely be a struggle for me since I've tried to sit down and write it multiple times, but it just never clicks. I think as we get closer to Avatar 3, I'll have motivation and a better idea on how I'll try to blend this fic into the canon events of Fire & Ash, but I think I have at least two chapters of this fic to still write before we're all caught up. Stay tuned! Thank you to all those who have been so incredibly patient and supportive.

This is a work of fiction. While some characters and settings may be loosely inspired by real figures and places, the events described here are not to be taken as historical fact. I’ve woven bits of history together with imagination, taking creative liberties wherever the story demanded and then some!!!

The silence that gripped the high table was a living entity, fed by Ladislaus’s impotent rage and the Prince’s chilling candor. It was a void that threatened to swallow the pretense of celebration whole. Then, the young king moved, a subtle shift of his shoulders as if casting off an invisible weight. Matthias’s smile returned, not the bright, celebratory one from before, but something wiser, more measured. It was the smile of a boy who had been forced to become a man too quickly, and who now understood that some storms could not be commanded, only navigated.

“A ruler must indeed understand the nature of his tools,” Matthias said, his voice calm, reclaiming the space the Prince’s words had dominated. He looked not at Ladislaus, nor directly at Vlad, but at the space between them, a diplomat addressing the tension itself. “And he must also understand that each tool has its purpose and its place. The hammer to break the rock, the scalpel to cut the rot, and the pen to write the treaty that ensures neither is needed too soon again.” He lifted his goblet, a gesture that included both the shamed Ladislaus and the formidable Prince. “We are all, in our own ways, tools for the preservation of Christendom. It is the hand that wields us, guided by God and reason, that determines the outcome. Your perspectives, Voivode, are… invaluable. They remind us of the stakes. And for that, Hungary thanks you.”

It was a masterful response. He had given Vlad reason without bowing to him, and in doing so, had gently reasserted the primacy of his own throne. The air, thick with the threat of violence, began to slowly, cautiously, thin.

You could hear your father's words in him. And you were impressed by how much Matthias had changed since the crown was placed on his head. You prayed that this maturity would make him realise the many mistakes that surrounded him. The air, thick with the threat of violence, began to slowly, cautiously, thin.

Seizing the moment, Matthias rose to his full height, his voice projecting once more to the wider hall. “But tonight is a celebration! And no celebration in Hungary is complete without a dance to remind our hearts what we defend with our steel.” His gaze swept over the guests before settling, with deliberate kindness, upon his wife. Catherine offered a wan but genuine smile.

Then, his eyes found yours. They were warm, cousinly, and utterly inescapable. “Dear cousin,” he said, his voice imbued with a public affection that felt like a new, gilded chain. “Our queen must conserve her strength for the heir she carries. Would you do me the great honor of leading the dance with your king? Let us show our court, and our guests, the grace and unity of our house.”

Forcing a grace you did not feel, you lowered your eyes in a show of demure acceptance. “The honor is mine, Your Grace,” you said, your voice a clear, steady note that belied the frantic beating of your heart.

You placed your hand in his, the young king’s grasp firm and assured. As he led you from the high table toward the center of the hall, the musicians, who had been waiting for their cue, struck up a stately branle. The courtiers parted before you, a sea of smiling, curious faces. To them, it was a beautiful picture: the young king and his beloved cousin, a symbol of familial loyalty and courtly grace.

The music swelled, a lively, intricate melody that demanded precise, formal steps. You moved with Matthias in the center of the grand hall, your crimson gown a stark bloom against the sea of onlookers. Your hand was light in his, your steps measured, but your heart was a wild, trapped thing. The public smile never left your face, a mask of courtly grace, but your eyes, as you turned in a slow, prescribed circle, held his.

“You promised me time,” you said, the words escaping on a breath meant to be part of the dance’s rhythm, so low that only he could hear them. “You said this night was for the foreign guests. For taking their measure. You gave me your word, Matthias.”

He guided you through a turn, his grip on your hand firm, his own smile never faltering. “Do you think I do not know what you’re doing?”

he asked, his voice equally quiet, a counterpoint to the cheerful music.

The question, so calmly delivered, sent a chill through you that had nothing to do with the cool hall air. You completed the step, your bodies coming close again before parting in the pattern of the dance. “What do you mean?” you whispered, the mask of your smile slipping for a fraction of a second.

He drew you into a promenade, arm-in-arm, and it was then he looked at you, his gaze sharp and knowing. “It was not difficult to deduce,” he murmured, his tone almost conversational. “The tension in my wife’s chambers whenever your mother entered, hearing complains about your betrothed. The way your eyes would harden to flint whenever Pongrác’s name was mentioned in your presence. You are many things, cousin, but you are not a subtle actress when it comes to your repulsion.” He gave a soft, mirthless chuckle. “You wear your disdain like a scent. A king learns to notice such things.”

The steps of the dance carried you apart, giving you a moment to school your features, to force the blood back from your pallid cheeks. When you came together again, his next words landed with the finality of a headsman’s axe.

“It was the whispers between you and your mother during the reception. The way you scanned the crowd. You were looking for another option, were you not? It's exactly what your father would tell you to do if he hadn't been the one to close the deal.”

He had seen it all. He had watched you scheme and, finding your efforts both transparent and dangerous to his own plans.

“So you moved first,” you breathed, the words tasting of ash. The dance felt like a funeral march. “You announced it to the entire court to box me in, to make it irrevocable.”

His smile was a sad, understanding thing, all the more devastating for its gentleness. “To protect you from a futile endeavor, and to secure what Hungary needs,” he corrected softly, his hand squeezing yours in a mockery of comfort as the music began its final, soaring refrain. “This is the way it must be. For all of us.”

The final notes of the branle hung in the air, but the true performance was just beginning. As the court applauded, Matthias kept your hand in his, his gaze holding yours, a silent demand for the conversation to continue. The musicians transitioned into a slower, more intimate pavane, and the other couples began to join the floor, granting you a semblance of privacy within the crowd.

“He is a rabid dog, Matthias,” you whispered urgently as you came together, your steps slow and measured. “Giving him a Szilágyi bride will not tame him; it will only make him believe he has the right to bite the hand that feeds him. You are giving him legitimacy, a connection to the throne he can exploit. He will not see me as a wife, but as a title deed, and with that deed, he will demand more power, more influence. He will become unmanageable.”

Matthias’s expression remained placid, but a flicker of doubt entered his eyes. You pressed on, your voice a desperate, fervent whisper. “I know my father wants his lands, his resources. I understand the pragmatism. But as king, you must look beyond the ledger. Think, Matthias. Why did your father, the great John Hunyadi, never treat with Ladislaus while he lived? Why did he keep that viper at arm's length? He saw the rot in him, the same rot the Voivode so plainly named.”

The dance forced you apart, a slow, circling retreat that felt like an eternity. You used the moment to gather your courage, to let the raw truth of your fear shine in your eyes when you returned to him. “I have been in his company. I have endured his presence and seen the cruel avarice in his soul. To live under his roof would not be a life; it would be a slow descent into a hell from which death would be a gentler release. I am begging you, not as your subject, but as your blood. Let me choose. Grant me this one mercy. I would never act against our family. I would never act against Hungary. I am a Szilágyi. My loyalty is my name. But let my loyalty be given, not sold to the highest bidder.”

You moved through the steps, your heart pounding against your ribs like a trapped bird. The music swelled, and as you came together once more, his hand on your back, he looked down at you, his youthful face a mask of conflicted sovereignty.

“Who?” he asked, the single word cutting through the melody. His voice was low, intense. “If I were to grant you this… this incredible leniency, who do you have in mind? You have scanned the entire court. Give me a name.”

The command hung between you, as terrifying as it was liberating. Your mind, so full of desperate plans, suddenly went blank, then raced. A name. He demanded a name. It could not be just any lord; it had to be a man of power, a man who could offer Hungary something equal to or greater than Ladislaus’s lands. A man who could be a shield, not just for you, but for the crown itself.

Your eyes, almost of their own volition, strayed from the king’s face, sweeping across the glittering assembly. They passed over the preening dukes, the simpering barons, and landed, as if drawn by a lodestone, on the one man who commanded the room without uttering a word. The man whose very presence was a challenge, whose honesty was a weapon, and whose understanding smile had felt like your only moment of salvation in this long, dreadful night.

He stood apart, as always, a silhouette of black against the golden glow of the hall, his dark eyes already watching the dance, watching you.

Your breath caught. It was madness. It was treason to your family’s history. It was the most dangerous choice imaginable.

And it was the only one that made sense.

You turned your gaze back to Matthias, your chin lifting with a defiance that was both terrifying and exhilarating. The name was on your lips, a forbidden prayer, a gamble with your very soul.

“Him,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, yet carrying the weight of your future. You did not need to say his name. The direction of your gaze, the shift in your expression, said it all. The Prince of Wallachia.

Matthias’s smile vanished, replaced by a look of pure, unadulterated shock. The carefully constructed mask of the sovereign crumbled, revealing the young man beneath, utterly floored by your audacity.

A low, incredulous laugh escaped him. “Him?” he repeated, the word a sharp exhalation. “You wish to trade a life in hell for a pact with the Devil himself? You just finished telling me that living with Pongrác would be a fate worse than death, and now you point to the one man in this hall my father taught me to fear above the Sultan? Explain this madness to me, cousin. How is one monster preferable to the other?”

“Ladislaus is a snake who hides in the grass,” you whispered, your voice fierce and low. “He smiles while he plots. The Prince does not hide what he is. He is sincere in his ruthlessness. He has a code, however brutal, and he adheres to it without apology. That alone makes him infinitely more predictable, and therefore more trustworthy, than a man whose loyalty shifts with the wind.”

“Trustworthy?” Matthias hissed, guiding you through a turn. “He is a known traitor!”

“So is Ladislaus!” you shot back, your eyes flashing. “it is known he nearly swore fealty to your predecessor’s sister. The only difference is that the Prince admits his capacity for faithlessness. He owns it. Ladislaus cloaks his in false smiles, and that makes him the greater fool, and the greater danger to you.”

Matthias was silent for a few steps, the logic, however perverse, striking its mark. “Pongrác offers land, resources,” he argued, his voice tight. “What does the Voivode offer? He holds his own throne by his fingernails.”

“He offers an army,” you countered immediately. “Not just men, but a hardened force that knows how to fight the Turk on their own terms. He offers a buffer. An alliance with him secures a flank, it protects a stretch of border. It means the Ottoman armies cannot simply sweep through Wallachia and into Hungary unimpeded. That is worth more than all the grain in Ladislaus’s storehouses. It is the difference between a fortified wall and a bag of gold left in an open field.”

Matthias could not refute the military strategy. It was sound. It was, you realized, perhaps the very reason the Prince had been invited at all. His jaw tightened, and he played his final, most personal card. “You forget the history. Our family and his… there is blood between us. A river of it. He may not hate you personally, but you are a Szilágyi. You are my cousin. He could take you simply to have a piece of us, to wield you as a weapon against me, to torture my father’s memory through you. A marriage to him would not be a shield; it would be walking into your own execution.”

The fear in his voice was real, and it sent a fresh chill down your spine. But you had come too far to retreat. “Then tell me,” you implored, your voice softening, pleading for the truth that had been kept from you. “What happened? What did my uncle do that was so terrible it would warrant such a vengeance?”

The dance carried you apart, the space between you filled with the swell of music and the rustle of silk. When you came together again, his face was grim, the weight of a dark legacy settling upon his young shoulders.

“When Vlad was a boy,” Matthias began, his voice barely a whisper, a secret confession in the midst of the celebration, “his father, Vlad Dracul, gave him and his younger brother as hostages to the Sultan. A guarantee of his loyalty. For six years, he was a prisoner of the Ottomans. Any betrayal by his father meant his death.”

You listened, your heart thudding dully in your chest.

“And yet,” Matthias continued, his gaze distant, “his father, alongside my father, fought to push the Ottomans back from our borders. He allied with us. To everyone’s astonishment, the Sultan did not kill the sons. He released Vlad, not to his family, but to his own side, to be groomed. His father and elder brother did nothing to reclaim him. Humiliated, Dracul was forced to pay an annual tribute to the Porte.”

He paused, the next words heavy with shame. “My father, who was then Regent of Hungary, saw this not as a father’s desperate choice to save his son’s life, but as the deepest treason. He invaded Wallachia. In the process, his armies killed Vlad Dracul and his elder brother, Mircea. They carved out their eyes with hot iron pokers before burying them alive. Then, my father placed a cousin of theirs on the throne that was rightfully Vlad’s.”

The horror of it stole your breath. The music, the laughter, it all faded into a dull roar. You were no longer dancing; you were standing at the edge of a chasm of betrayal and brutality. It was not just a political rivalry. It was a blood feud. Your uncle had not only robbed Vlad of his family and his birthright; he had subjected them to a death of unimaginable cruelty.

You finally understood the cold fire in the Prince’s eyes, the weight of the history that made your mother pale. You were not considering a man. You were considering a storm of vengeance, and you had just asked your king to give you to it.

“So I ask you once again, dear cousin. Are you sure you want it to be him?”

The question Matthias had asked you hung more persistent than any hymn.

Now, knowing the full, horrific truth The story Matthias had whispered during the dance played behind your eyes like a grim tapestry: a boy given as a pawn, years of Ottoman captivity, a father’s impossible choice met not with understanding but with brutal betrayal. Your uncle, the legendary John Hunyadi, was not just a political opponent to Vlad; he was the architect of his deepest trauma, the man who had not only slaughtered his father and brother but had desecrated their bodies in the most horrific way before stealing the throne that was his birthright.

You understood, with a clarity that chilled you to the bone, why Vlad Țepeș would hate your family with a fire that could never be extinguished. You understood why he might seek vengeance, a life for a life, an eye for an eye—or in his case, two eyes, brutally taken, for a kingdom stolen.

And you, in your desperation, had pointed to him. You had seen a shield, a powerful, honest monster to protect you from a petty, smiling one. But now you saw the man behind the legend, a man forged in betrayal and unimaginable loss. How could you have been so naive? To think that such a man could separate you from the name you carried, from the blood that ran in your veins—the very same blood that had ordered the murder of his family—was the height of foolishness.

He would never see you as anything other than a Szilágyi, a living symbol of the house that had destroyed his. Any hope that he might set aside his vengeance for your sake was the desperate fantasy of a drowning woman.

You bowed your head, the weight of it all pressing down on you. The hopeful, defiant spark you had felt on the dance floor now felt like a dying ember in a sea of ash. To choose Vlad was to willingly walk into a gilded cage where the keeper’s kindness would be a lie and his cruelty a certainty born of a pain you could comprehend. Yet, the alternative—Ladislaus—remained a fate of a different, more vulgar hell.

You had no such serenity. You had only a choice between two damnations, and the haunting, unanswerable question: which hell was truly worse?

Sleep was a traitor that would not come. The fire had burned low in your chamber grate, and the moon was a cold, judgmental eye through the window glass. The weight of your thoughts was a physical pressure on your chest, making the very air feel thin and useless. The four walls of your room, usually a sanctuary, had become the confines of a prison, each one pressing in with the specter of a different damnation.

Driven by a restlessness that gnawed at her bones, you slipped from your bed. You did not bother with a cloak, pulling only a heavy shawl over your nightgown before stepping out into the stone-flagged corridor. The castle was deep in its nocturnal slumber, silent but for the distant, rhythmic tread of a guard on his rounds. Your feet, bare in their soft leather slippers, made no sound as you moved through the familiar labyrinth, drawn by an instinct older than reason.

You sought the chapel. Not for a miracle, perhaps, but for a different quality of silence—one not filled with the echo of your own frantic heart, but with the quiet patience of centuries. At this hour, long after Compline and long before Matins, you expected to find it empty. Your father, a man of habit, took his private prayers at dawn. Catherine, in her condition, was accompanied there for a brief morning devotion. But now, in the deep watch of the night, you hoped to find it a void, a place where you could pour your own turmoil into a greater, more absorbing stillness, where the silence of God might swallow the screaming in your soul.

You pushed the heavy oak door, its iron hinges groaning softly, a sound that seemed to confess your own weariness. The air inside was frigid, smelling of stone and extinguished candles. The red glow of the sanctuary lamp, a single vigilant eye in the darkness, cast long, dancing shadows that made the saints in their niches seem to shift and breathe.

You moved down the short nave, your shawl pulled tight against the chill, your steps slow and deliberate on the cold floor. Your eyes, adjusted to the gloom, scanned the pews, expecting only the emptiness you had craved.

But you were not alone.

A figure was kneeling at the very front, before the simple altar, his head bowed not in prayer, but in a posture of profound, weary stillness. He was dressed not in nightclothes, but in dark, travel-worn attire, as if he had only just arrived or could not bear the pretense of rest. The flickering light from the lamp caught the sharp line of his shoulder, the pale nape of his neck, and the severe, unyielding profile you had seared into your memory.

A sight difficult to forget.

The prince.

He was the last person you expected to find, and yet, in the strange logic of this cursed night, it felt inevitable.

He had not heard you enter, his stillness so absolute he seemed a part of the chapel itself, a monument to some private, relentless agony. And you, frozen in the aisle, were faced with the very source of your torment, praying in the darkness.

For a heartbeat that stretched into an eternity, you were paralyzed. Every instinct screamed for retreat, to melt back into the shadows from whence you came and leave this man to his private torment. It felt like a sacrilege to witness him in such a state of unguarded stillness, this prince of sharp edges and brutal truths brought low before a silent altar. To stay was to intrude upon a pain you now understood was fathomless.

Yet, your feet were rooted to the cold stone. You were drawn, not by the monster of legend, but by the stark humanity of his silhouette—a lonely sovereign bearing the weight of a crown forged in betrayal.

It was then that he moved. Without a sound, without a startle, he slowly rose from his knees. It was not the swift, predatory grace he exhibited in court, but a movement weighted with a profound weariness, as if the very air had substance and resistance. He did not turn abruptly, but rather unfolded himself towards you, a dark pillar turning to face the night that had crept up behind him.

His eyes found yours in the dim, sanguine glow of the sanctuary lamp. There was no surprise in them, only a deep, unsettling recognition, as if he had sensed your presence all along, a second shadow entering his orbit.

The silence between you was thicker than the castle walls, charged with all the unspoken history that bound your families.

You found your voice, though it was little more than a breath. “I… I apologize. I did not mean to disturb you. I thought the chapel would be empty.” The words felt foolish, inadequate. You had come to escape your thoughts of him, only to find their source standing before you.

A ghost of a smile, bleak and knowing, touched his lips. “This is your home. You have nothing to apologise for..” His dark eyes swept over you, taking in your disheveled state, the shawl clutched tightly at your throat, the bare feet in their slippers.

A faint, self-conscious heat rose to your cheeks as his gaze lingered on your state of undress. “I… I found sleep elusive,” you murmured, the explanation feeling as thin as your nightgown.

“A malady that seems to plague this castle tonight,” he replied, his voice a low rumble that seemed to absorb the chill from the air. “We are in the same situation, it seems.”

Emboldened by his lack of judgment, you gave him a small, tentative smile and began to walk slowly down the aisle. The cold stone seeped through your slippers, a grounding sensation. You paused before the great crucifix, making the sign of the cross, the familiar motion a small anchor in the storm of your emotions. Then you moved to the side altar, where a box of thin, unused tapers lay. You took one, the wax cool and smooth against your skin, and leaned forward, lighting its wick from the eternal flame of the sanctuary lamp. The small, new fire sprang to life, a tiny, brave star in the overwhelming darkness.

“Does your wakefulness stem from thoughts of someone?” His question came from behind you, not intrusive, but contemplative, as if he were asking the shadows the same thing.

Your hand stilled, the taper poised. You watched the flame dance, a living, breathing thing that held your entire focus. You, she thought. It is the thought of you that keeps me awake. But the truth was too vast, too dangerous to speak aloud.

“Yes,” you whispered to the flame, the admission a sacred secret offered to the quiet.

“Someone you have lost,” he stated, the words not a question but a quiet conclusion drawn from the universal language of grief.

You turned then, the candle casting a warm, flickering light upon your face as you looked at him. He had not moved, a statue of shadows and sorrow, yet his attention was entirely, unnervingly fixed on you.

“Something like that,” you said, your voice gaining a strange steadiness. “I was praying for souls I never knew. But whose… loss… caused a deep pain to others.” You turned back and carefully placed your candle among the others on the wrought-iron rack, its light joining the chorus of silent prayers. “I have faith that God receives all souls, regardless of the hands that shaped their fate. I was asking Him to be benevolent. To forgive the sins that stained their journey, and grant them peace.”

The words hung in the air, a clear, unmistakable plea for the souls of Vlad Dracul and Mircea. You did not look at him as you said it, your focus on the small, brave flame you had just offered in his family’s memory.

“It is a benevolent thing,” he said at last, his voice closer than you expected, “to pray for the souls of those you never owed a kindness.”

You shook your head slowly, still not looking at him. “It is not benevolence. It is… a need to quiet my own mind. I feel the weight of those lives. Here.” You pressed a hand to your own chest, over the velvet pouch that still lay against your skin. “As if their story is a stone I carry, though I did not cast it.”

You felt him take another step closer, the air shifting around him. “Was it your hand that held the blade?” he asked, his voice low and intent. “Was it your command that ended them?”

The question was direct, stripping away all pretense. You finally turned to face him. He was only a few feet away now, close enough that you could see the faint lines of exhaustion around his eyes, the subtle tension in his jaw.

“No,” you whispered, the word firm. “It was not my hand. But I am of the blood that gave the order, and I—”

“Do not,” he interrupted, his voice sharp, yet not unkind. It was a command, but one meant to protect. “Do not take upon your shoulders a burden that is not yours to carry. The guilt of kings and the sins of fathers are a poison. To drink it willingly is a slower, more insidious death than any blade can deliver.”

His words felt like a key turning in a lock deep inside you, freeing a breath you didn't realize you were holding. The simple, stark truth of them was more absolution than any priest could offer. You looked at him, truly looked at him, not as the Prince of Wallachia, but as the man who had just offered you a strange and unexpected mercy.

The words that came next felt necessary, a final stone to be cleared from between you. “Then let me offer a burden that is rightfully mine to lift,” you said, your voice gaining strength. “I… I wish to apologize. For my family. And for…” the word stuck in your throat, thick and unpleasant, “…for my betrothed.” You forced it out. “The provocation at the banquet was uncalled for. To question your honor in such a way was an aggression I do not condone.”

He observed you for a long moment, the candlelight dancing in his dark eyes. Then, that same ghost of a smile you had seen in the hall returned, but this time, it was different. A faint, genuine curve of his lips that transformed the severity of his features.

“Your apology is accepted,” he said, his tone gracious.

he stood before the altar beside you, his gaze shifting from your face to the candle he still held. “But I do not regret the words I spoke. I believe every one of them.” He looked back at you, and the intensity in his eyes was like a physical force. “For a man like me, that is the only currency that holds any value: the truth, however brutal. And in that hall, for that moment, it was enough.”

It was enough. The words settled over you. He was not a man who needed or wanted pretty lies. He valued honesty above comfort, and in offering him your raw, unvarnished truth—your apology, your misplaced guilt, your prayer for his family—you had, without realizing it, offered him the one thing he could respect.

He stood beside you, a solid, silent presence in the flickering dark, both of you gazing at the small, defiant flames. The chapel was no longer a place of lonely torment, but a sanctuary for two wounded souls, and the silence between you was no longer heavy, but filled with a profound and unexpected understanding.

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This is a work of fiction. While some characters and settings may be loosely inspired by real figures and places, the events described here are not to be taken as historical fact. I’ve woven bits of history together with imagination, taking creative liberties wherever the story demanded and then some!!!

Your father is Sir Michael Szilágyi de Horogszeg, Count of Beszterce, a Hungarian nobleman, a landholder, and royal advisor to the true King of Hungary, the head of the Szilágyi–Hunyadi league. Your mother descends from the most powerful noble family: The Báthory of the Gutkeled clan, risen to formidable influence, holding high military, administrative, and ecclesiastical positions. And it is whispered, on breaths that the wind carries through the castle's stone corridors, that in her veins runs not only the blue blood of the magnates, but also the ancient, dark essence of a goodness. Or so they say, those who believe in such things.

With this twin parentage of yours—the iron loyalty of a Hungarian wolf and the dark inheritance of a lineage touched by the eternal—one could expect anything from you: an enchantress, or an ordinary girl. There are those who, after meeting your gaze, will whisper that you are both.

But tonight, as you gaze into the silvered mirror and let your fingers trace the crimson velvet of your gown, you would give all that you are, all your legacy of pride and power, to be, just this once, simply irresistible. For the sake of your surviving, you don’t have another choice but to excite the attention of another man who wasn’t Ladislaus Pongrác.

He may not even see you. He—whoever he is. You have no name, no face to fix your hopes upon, only the terrifying knowledge that among the new arrivals, the foreign guests with their strange accents and shadowed pasts, there must be one with power enough to defy a monster. You are a hunter sighting down an arrow into a crowd, with no clear target. You cannot beg. You must intrigue. You must ignite a spark of curiosity in some world-weary eye, inspire a flicker of protective instinct in a stranger for a plight he does not know exists, and etch yourself onto his memory so he cannot simply forget you when the night is over. You must find a man around whom the very air crackles with power, a prince or a Duke and before whom even a man like Pongrác must kneel.

And you are to use this unknown savior as your shield.

The very thought is a cold stone in your stomach. For the man you must escape. A man whose name is a whisper of greed, whose touch is a bruise. A man who had received the King’s own warnings to cease his horrible treatments of the people under his charge and who had been forgiven every time, every single time, simply because he held the lands and resources the Crown desperately needed. You knew, with a certainty that chilled your soul, that if you did nothing tonight, if you failed to secure the attention of some man infinitely more powerful than Pongrác, you would be ruined. You would be at his mercy, and God alone knew what would become of you under his roof, in his power.

The bitterest irony was that you held no allure for him. Ladislaus Pongrác did not desire you; he desired your name and the Transylvanian lands that were your dowry, which he would add to his own swollen holdings as if he were doing your family a favour. In the few unfortunate occasions you were forced to endure his presence, he had the gall to look through you, his eyes sliding away to flirt with other women in the very same room, all while being willing to marry you. You were a transaction. A deed to a property. A key to a door he wished to unlock.

And so you must make yourself a key for another door. You must make some unknown, powerful guest see the transaction. You must make him understand the value of the prize—not the land, but you—and the horror of the alternative. He is a stranger, perhaps an enemy, a son of a land that bred your deepest fears. But you are far beyond loyalty to ancient feuds or family pride. Your loyalty is now to your own survival.

And now you are left a pawn in a game of shifting loyalties, and what security and station you once called your own has been threatened by the ambitions of men, with the tacit approval of a boy-king whose crown is still fresh-forged and ill-fitting. The master of this fragile realm, the great strategist who is known as your own father, Michael Szilágyi, who helped make a king out of his nephew, now only seventeen, and will make a fortress of Hungary against those who still whisper for a true son of the previous line. There are rival nobles in every great house of the kingdom now, and every profitable alliance or title or favour is held in their jealous grasp.

Your cousin, the boy-king Matthias, is on the throne, and his precarious supporters form this new, glittering court. You, the daughter of his most powerful pillar, are both a jewel and a hostage in your own castle, your true king a memory, your regent father a pragmatic statesman plotting with old enemies to secure a future. You have to navigate the court of the victor, while praying that God does not desert him and your family’s fortunes are not swept away by the next tide of rebellion. In the meantime, like many a woman with a name too great and a future too uncertain, you have to stitch your safety together like a patchwork of whispers and glances. You have to secure your freedom somehow, though it seems that neither your father’s influence nor your mother’s name can shield you from this one, vile fate. You are known as a Szilágyi—a kingmaker’s daughter. You are respected but not safe. You are all but powerless in the one thing that matters most.

This feast, this celebration of a birth and a reign, is but a mummer’s show. Its true purpose is to take the measure of friend and foe, to see which foreign lords and internal rivals will bend the knee to Matthias, and what dark interests stir beneath the surface of the wine and the music.

You take a final, steadying breath, the scent of beeswax and cold stone filling your lungs. The girl in the mirror is no longer just a girl. She is a weapon, finely wrought and aimed into the dark.

The door to your chamber whispers open, and in the silvered glass, you see your mother’s reflection appear behind your own. Her eyes, the same shade as yours, meet yours in the polished surface, and for a moment, the two of you are a portrait: the young huntress and the seasoned 'queen', bound by blood and circumstance.

“The moon pales tonight beside you, drága gyermekem,” she says, her voice a low, melodic hum that seems to quiet the frantic beating of your own heart. Her hands, cool and steady, come to rest on your bare shoulders. You feel the slight tremor in your own frame still beneath her touch. She sees everything. “The air around you crackles like a summer storm. You are afraid.”

You cannot lie to her. “Is it so obvious?”

“Only to a mother,” she murmurs, her fingers gently sweeping a stray curl from your neck. “And to anyone who knows what it is to have the world rest on a single glance.” She picks up the silver comb from your vanity, its teeth catching the candlelight. With a ritualistic slowness, she begins to draw it through your hair, each stroke a calming, measured rhythm. “You think you must conquer the entire hall tonight. You think you must be a hurricane. But a hurricane destroys. You must be the still, deep lake that a man cannot help but drown in.”

You watch her in the mirror, her own legendary beauty a tempered version of yours, hardened by years of courtly intrigue. “I feel I am aiming an arrow in utter darkness.”

“Then you must become the arrow and the light,” she says, her voice firm yet gentle. She sets the comb down and from a hidden fold in her deep blue sleeve, she produces a small velvet pouch, midnight black and tied with a silken cord. She places it in your palm. It is surprisingly cool and heavy for its size.

You look down at it, then up at her reflection, a question in your eyes. “What is this?”

“A tool,” she says, her hands closing over yours, forcing your fingers to curl around the pouch. You feel the distinct, smooth shape of a stone within. “A focus. It will help you see what others wish to hide. It will… clarify intentions.”

You turn the pouch over in your hand. It feels ancient, thrumming with a faint, almost imperceptible energy. “Magic?” you whisper, the word tasting both forbidden and familiar on your tongue. Your father’s house, for all its power, pays lip service to the Church’s laws. But your mother’s line… the Báthorys… they have always traded in older currencies.

She does not flinch. “A different kind of sight. A way to listen to the silence between a man’s words. To feel the truth of his power.” Her gaze is unwavering in the glass. “I know what you intend tonight. I know the wolf you must avoid. A mother does not send her daughter into a den of beasts without giving her a weapon.”

Your throat tightens. “What great beast do you hope this will help me catch?”

Her smile is a sad, beautiful thing. She cups your cheek, her thumb stroking your skin. “Your heart’s desire. Or at the very least, your salvation. I did not raise you to be a transaction on Pongrác’s ledger. I did not pour the ancient essence of our blood into your veins for you to wither under the touch of a greedy man.”

“What did you raise me for, then?” you ask, the weight of the stone in your hand feeling like the weight of her expectations, of your entire legacy. “In this world where we are both respected and vulnerable, where our king is a boy and our safety is a wager?”

She leans forward, her lips brushing your ear, her whisper a secret for you alone. “I raised you to be the best that you could be. Not just tonight. Always. Now, keep it close. Let it guide you. And remember,” she adds, stepping back, her regal composure returning, “the greatest magic is already in your blood. This is merely a key to help you unlock it.”

“Well, Amen,” You look from the retreating form of your mother to your own determined eyes in the mirror, your fist closing tightly around the velvet pouch. “Amen to that. And may the new moon bring me something better.”

The great hall is a roaring sea of silks, velvets, and the low thunder of a hundred murmured conversations, all washed in the golden light of a thousand candles. The air is thick with the scent of spiced wine, roasting meat, and the faint, cloying perfume of ambition. You stand with your mother in the place of honour, just behind and to the right of the Queen’s Catherine gilded throne. Catherine, your almost-sister, sits with a hand resting on the pronounced curve of her belly, a serene smile fixed upon her face, though you see the faint strain of fatigue at the corners of her eyes. You feel a protective surge, quickly banked. Tonight, you cannot afford to be merely a protective cousin.

The procession of dignitaries begins, a river of power and pretension flowing toward the dais to pay homage to the boy-king and his heavily pregnant queen. Your father stands at Matthias’s other side, a pillar of stern authority, his voice a constant, low murmur in the young king’s ear, shaping his perceptions, guiding his reactions.

Your own guide leans closer to you, her breath a soft whisper against your ear, her fan fluttering gently as if to stir the air, but in truth, to mask her words from all others.

“See there,” your mother murmurs, her eyes on a broad-shouldered man with a forked beard bowing low before Matthias. “János Vitéz, the Archbishop of Esztergom. A mind like a steel trap, and ambition to match your father’s. He would be a powerful shield, but his loyalty is to the Church first, and his own power second. A dangerous ally.”

The man moves on, and another takes his place, a younger, fiercer-looking noble with a hawk’s nose and restless eyes.

“And that one,” her whisper is laced with a hint of disdain. “Nicholas Újlaki. His lands border Pongrác’s. They are rivals in greed, two vultures circling the same carcass. He would take you to spite Ladislaus, but you would simply be trading one monster for another, perhaps a more foolish one.”

A duke from Bohemia is announced, his chest glittering with Jewerly. He offers extravagant compliments to the Queen.

“Empty courtesies from an empty purse,” your mother dismisses him instantly. “His influence is a phantom. He seeks loans, not a bride.”

You watch, your heart a frantic drum against your ribs, as man after man is presented and just as swiftly dismissed by your mother’s quiet, ruthless commentary. The velvet pouch feels like a lead weight tucked against your skin, its promise feeling more foolish by the minute. How can this stone help you navigate this labyrinth of flawed and dangerous men?

Then, a new figure steps into the circle of torchlight before the dais. He is not announced with the blaring titles of the others.

He is dressed not in bright silks, but in deepest black, a stark, severe contrast to the riot of colour in the hall. His doublet is of simple, elegant cut, devoid of jewels, his only ornament a dark fur draped over one shoulder. His face is pale, sculpted and severe, with eyes so dark they seem like pools of night. He moves with a predator’s grace, silent and deliberate, and the crowd parts before him without a sound. This is not a man who announces his presence; his presence announces itself, and the world falls silent in acknowledgment.

He is the most compelling, the most terrifying man you have ever seen. Your breath catches. This is him, a voice screams inside you. The one.

He stops before the dais and offers a bow that is not subservient, but a calculated gesture of respect from one power to another. His voice, when he speaks, is low, measured, and carries effortlessly in the silent hall. It is a voice that has known command.

“King Matthias,” he says, and the name sounds like both a recognition and a challenge on his lips. “Hungary flourishes under your gaze. I bring greetings from the Carpathians, where the wolves are restless and the earth remembers its ancient debts. An alliance forged in steel is stronger than one written on parchment. I am here to remind us both of that truth.”

You wait for your mother’s whisper. You crane your ear toward her, desperate for a name, a title, a crumb of information about this man who holds the entire court in thrall.

But her whisper does not come.

You turn your head slightly. Her face is a carefully composed mask, but you see the tension in her jaw, the white-knuckled grip on her fan. She is staring straight ahead, refusing to even look at him.

Confused, you lean in. “Mother,” you whisper urgently. “Who is that?”

She does not look at you. Her lips barely move. “Vlad Țepeș. Voivode of Wallachia.”

And you understood the most obvious part. Everyone knew that man's story, at least the most famous part, the reputation that followed him like a shadow.

“He… his power is palpable,” you breathe, your eyes drawn back to him like a moth to a flame. “Could he… would he be—”

“No.” The word is a sharp, final dagger. She finally turns her head, and her eyes are not guiding now; they are warning. They are frightened. “He is not an option. Not for you. Not for anyone in this family.”

“But why? Hungary needs his armies against the Turks. He needs our support.”

“What he needs and what he seeks are two different things,” she hisses, her voice low and venomous. “His father, Vlad Dracul, and your uncle, John Hunyadi… their history is written in blood and betrayal. Actions were taken. Terrible actions. If he is here, it is not for a bride. It is not for pleasant alliances. A man like that does not forget. He does not forgive. He bides his time. He is here for one thing only, should he ever get the chance: vengeance. And we,” she says, her gaze sweeping over you, then back to the dangerous figure before the throne, “must be very, very careful not to give him that chance.”

A tense silence stretches after Prince words, thick and heavy as the fur on his shoulder. All eyes are on the young king. Matthias, to his credit, does not flinch under the weight of that dark gaze or the cryptic warning. He leans forward, his boyish face set in a mask of regal composure that you know your father helped him practice.

“The Crown of Hungary welcomes the Voivode of Wallachia,” Matthias replies, his voice clear, though it lacks the deep, resonant gravity of the man before him. “We remember the ancient debts of the earth, and we value steel above parchment. Your alliance is noted and appreciated. Let us speak more of our Kingdoms after the feast.” It is a dismissal, but a polite one, an attempt to steer the conversation back to the safe, public waters of celebration.

The moment breaks. The courtiers remember to breathe, and the low murmur of conversation slowly swells to fill the void left by the prince’s daunting presence. The prince offers another of his minimal, unnerving bows and turns to melt back into the crowd, which parts for him as water parts for a shark.

Your eyes are locked on him, your mother’s warning a distant buzz in your ears. You watch the straight line of his back, the way he moves without seeming to notice the people around him. And then, just as he is about to be swallowed by the throng, he stops.

It is as if he felt the weight of your stare, a physical pull. He turns his head, not fully, just a slight shift. And his eyes, those pools of absolute night, find yours across the crowded hall.

There is only the startling, direct connection of his gaze. It is not a glance; it is an assessment, swift and thorough, taking in every detail of you standing there beside the queen. It lasts less than a heartbeat, a fleeting, electric moment that leaves a strange, cold heat prickling on your skin. Then he turns away and is gone, absorbed into the tapestry of the court.

You blink, your heart hammering against your ribs as if trying to escape. You force yourself to look away, to turn back toward the safety of the dais, your mind reeling.

He saw me.

A profound disappointment washes over you, cold and final. Of all the men who had paraded before you tonight, he was the only one who had truly stirred your curiosity, the only one whose very essence seemed to radiate a power so absolute it could shatter a man like Pongrác with a word. But that same power made him the most dangerous choice of all. If your family, who held every card at this court, feared him, then you had no choice but to fear him too.

A pity. A truly devastating pity. For a moment, you had seen your shield. And in the next, you saw the sword that could destroy you all.

Now you understood why your father was so urgent to bring Ladislaus’s territories under his control, or so you thought. You could only listen as he laughed with the man, as if they were lifelong companions and friends, as if just a few months ago Ladislaus had not switched sides, nearly swearing loyalty to the sister of Matthias’s deceased predecessor over the decisions of the nobles. An insult, nothing more, nothing less.

Yet, for your cousin’s teetering reign, the fragile borders, and the imminent Ottoman invasion, the resources Ladislaus offered were key. His lands were where supplies could be most easily and quickly procured should any of the three situations turn dire.

This was the new reality at the banquet. On purpose, your father had seated you right beside Ladislaus. For the past hour, you had only listened to your father and him talk, to Ladislaus reminiscing and boasting about the vast, prosperous resources he possessed—resources that would be of great help in case of a disastrous rule. In your mind, you could only recall the man’s reputation as a thief and an enslaver. And though your father agreed with everything he said, you knew that once you were married, it would be your father who would manage everything as his own. He only needed an excuse to take them without Ladislaus being able to refuse, and that excuse was his marriage to you.

It was then that Matthias interrupted to propose a toast. He struck his glass with a spoon, and the sound of crystal cut through the murmur like a knife. All eyes turned to the king. He stood, imposing, the crown on his head gleaming with a golden glow.

“Friends, allies, loyal subjects,” he began, his voice projecting with a natural authority that filled the hall. “I toast to this night. To the relationships that grow stronger, to the goodwill that unites us, and to the faith in God that guides us—the very faith our enemies so desperately wish to destroy.”

The crowd murmured its approval. Matthias raised his glass even higher.

“I toast to my wife, Catherine, the rock upon which my heart rests and the mother of my future heir.” She inclined her head gracefully, a hand on her womb. “I toast to my loyal uncle and subject, Michael Szilágyi, whose counsel and sword have been pillars of my reign.” Your father nodded solemnly, his face expressionless but his eyes shining with pride.

Then, Matthias’s gaze settled on you. A faint surprise coursed through you.

“And I toast,” he continued, his voice taking on an almost tender tone, “to my cousin, whose gentle spirit and loyal service have not only been a balm to our queen but a constant companionship and a reminder of the family for which we fight every day. Her presence has been a light in moments of great darkness.”

As if you were the true center of attention, he extended his hand over Catherine, gesturing for you to rise.

And you did, your legs slightly trembling, feeling the weight of hundreds of eyes upon you. You did not understand such adulation. You had only done what was expected of you. You looked at Catherine, seeking guidance, and she responded with a slight, encouraging smile.

“And in that spirit of securing our future,” he declared, his eyes sweeping the room, “it brings me great joy to announce a union that will further strengthen the bonds of our kingdom. A marriage that will unite two great houses and ensure the prosperity and security of our lands.”

Your blood ran cold even before he spoke the names. Your father’s placid expression, Ladislaus’s smug, triumphant smirk—it all made a terrible, horrifying sense.

“I hereby announce the betrothal of my beloved cousin,” Matthias said, his hand gesturing toward you, “to our most loyal and resourceful supporter, Lord Ladislaus Pongrác. May their union bring not only personal happiness but enduring strength to Hungary!”

The applause was immediate.

“To all of them!” Matthias proclaimed, raising his glass. “And to the future of Hungary!”

“To the future of Hungary!” the room roared in unison, and the sound of clinking glasses filled the air like a peal of bells.

You stood frozen, a smile plastered on your face that felt like a death mask. Across the table, your mother’s face was a pale, stoic mask, her knuckles white as she too clapped, her eyes screaming a silent apology to you.

Ladislaus rose, giving a grandiose bow, his eyes glinting with possessive victory as they swept over you. He had won you. The key to the door he wished to unlock had been handed to him publicly, irrevocably, by the king himself.

The future of Hungary, it seemed, would be built on your sacrifice. And as you sat back down, the taste of wine on your tongue was as bitter as ash.

Confusion curdled in your chest, thick and sickening. The announcement… it was today? You had thought this night was merely for welcoming the foreign guests, for your father and Matthias to subtly interrogate each envoy, to take the measure of friend and foe. You had believed you had time—precious, desperate time—to find another path, to ignite a spark of interest in some other powerful man. You had clutched your mother’s strange stone as if it were a lifeline, a promise of a chance to fight.

That chance had been stolen from you before you could even draw a weapon. The despair was a physical blow, a wave of impotent fury that threatened to crack the porcelain smile on your face. A bitter resentment, hot and sharp, flared toward your family—toward your father for his ruthless pragmatism, toward Matthias for his grand, casual gesture that had sealed your fate as if gifting a prized horse. Did they love you so little? Did they know the monster they were chaining you to and simply not care? The thought was a betrayal in itself, but it was there, a poisonous vine twisting around your heart.

You forced it down, choking on the guilt that immediately followed. They are securing the kingdom. You are a Szilágyi. This is your duty.The mantra felt hollow, a shield of rotted wood against the reality of Ladislaus’s gloating presence beside you. How could your father, who claimed to love you, condemn you to a life under that man’s thumb? The disconnect between his affection and his action was a chasm you were falling into.

The roar of the toast faded, replaced by the resumption of feasting. The taste of ash in your mouth would not leave. You were so lost in the tumult of your own despair that the conversation at the high table seemed to come from a great distance, a dull hum beneath the ringing in your ears.

It was the sudden shift in the quality of the silence around you that pulled you back. You blinked, forcing yourself to focus. Matthias was leaning forward, his face set in an expression of keen interest. And his gaze was fixed not on your father, or on a foreign duke, but on the one man in the hall who seemed to carry his own winter with him.

“And you, Voivode Țepeș,” Matthias’s voice cut through the chatter, deceptively light. “Your… methods in Wallachia are the subject of much discussion. You hold your differences against the Transilvanian Saxon with a firmness others find… extreme. Tell me, do you believe fear is a more reliable currency than gold in the defense of a kingdom?”

The question hung in the air, a blade poised. You could not fathom why Matthias would introduce such a volatile topic at his own celebration, a public challenge to a man known for his brutal pragmatism. It felt like tossing a lit torch into a room full of gunpowder. You glanced at your father, expecting him to smoothly intercede, to deflect and soothe as he always did. But his silence was deafening. He merely watched, his expression unreadable, a strategist observing a battle unfold from a safe hill.

Then, the Voivode spoke. His voice was not loud, yet it cut through the din of the hall with the chilling clarity of ice cracking on a winter lake.

“A king must understand the nature of the tools he uses,” Vlad began, his dark eyes fixed on Matthias, utterly ignoring your father’s presence. “The Saxons of Transylvania declared their loyalty to those who usurped my father’s throne. They funded my enemies. They celebrated my family’s suffering. I cannot risk such a disease festering within my own borders. Gold?” He almost smiled, a cold, sharp thing. “Gold can buy a man’s service, but it cannot buy his loyalty. It makes him a richer mercenary, not a truer subject. A man who betrays for gold will betray again for more gold. Or for a prettier title. Or simply because the wind changes direction.”

The silence in the immediate vicinity of the high table was absolute. Ladislaus, beside you, had stopped chewing, his face slightly pale.

Your father finally stirred, clearing his throat, the sound overly loud. “Surely, Voivode, there are always… alternatives to such permanent solutions. Diplomacy. Sanctions. The guidance of the Church. Spilled blood is a stain that is difficult to wash away, even from the hands of a king.” It was the expected rebuke, the voice of civilized politics.

But Vlad’s gaze did not waver from Matthias, as if your father were a gnat buzzing at the periphery of his vision. “When the rot is deep, Count Szilágyi, one does not paint over the wood. One cuts it out. I was left with no other action. I chose the one that ensured my survival and the security of my throne. A ruler who hesitates to protect what is his does not deserve to keep it.”

Then, his eyes swept, for the first time, across the table. They passed over your father’s rigid face, over Ladislaus’s irritated one, and for a fleeting second, seemed to brush against yours before returning to the king. He delivered his final blow, his voice dropping to a intimate, carrying pitch that felt like it was meant for every betrayed soul in the room.

“A traitor will always be a traitor. A thief, a thief. You can give them the brightest gold, the most powerful title, even your most beautiful daughter…” His words landed on the recent announcement with the weight of a tombstone. “…and you will still lie awake at night wondering when they will turn their face against you. I have always preferred to see men for what they are: selfish, arrogant, and treacherous. It saves a great deal of disappointment later.”

The air rushed from your lungs. It was a direct, undeniable strike. He had taken the very foundation of your betrothal—the political calculation that a man like Ladislaus could be bought and trusted with your body and your family’s future—and had held it up to the court not as strategy, but as profound, wilful foolishness.

A shocking, treacherous sensation flared in your chest. It was not offense. It was vindication. It was a fierce, blazing agreement. He had given voice to the screaming protest in your own soul, the one you had to choke down with talk of duty and family. He had looked at the transaction your father had made and had named it for the dangerous gamble it was. The words were a blow to your father’s plans, and to your own future, yet you felt a perverse, thrilling sense of gratitude. Someone had said it. Someone had seen the rot.

You dropped your gaze to your plate, your heart hammering against your ribs, afraid that the wild, complicit agreement in your eyes would be seen by everyone. The taste of ash in your mouth was suddenly gone, replaced by the metallic tang of a truth too dangerous to speak aloud.

A faint, unbidden smile touched your eyes, a flicker of light in the gloom of your despair. It was a reflex, a spark ignited by the sheer, audacious truth of his words. Before you could stop yourself, your gaze lifted from your plate, seeking his across the crowded space.

He was still turned toward the king, his profile a sharp, pale cut against the torchlight. But as if feeling the pull of your look, his head turned. His dark eyes, which had moments ago been imparting a lesson in cold Realpolitik to a king, found yours.

This time, it was not a glancing blow, a swift assessment. This time, it was a connection. You did not look away. Neither did he. And in the depths of that midnight gaze, you saw it—a subtle, answering curve at the corner of his mouth, a ghost of a smile that acknowledged your own. It was not a smile of warmth, but one of sharp, perfect understanding. A conspirator’s smile.

There was no doubt. None at all. He had said what he had said with purpose, with brutal sincerity, and he had aimed it precisely where he meant to. And he had seen your silent, grateful applause. He had seen the vindication in your eyes and, in seeing it, had found a moment of dark amusement.

The silence that followed Vlad’s pronouncement was thick enough to choke on. It was Ladislaus who broke it, his voice a jarring, overly hearty sound that clashed with the tension. He raised his glass, a mocking smile playing on his lips.

“A most… illuminating philosophy, Voivode,” he said, his tone slick with false camaraderie. “It is always bracing to hear a man speak with such conviction about the nature of treachery. It reminds one of the… complex paths some must walk to reclaim their birthright.” He paused, letting the insinuation hang in the air before driving the dagger home, his voice dropping into a more intimate, cutting register. “Tell us, Prince Dracula, how did you find the Sultan’s hospitality during your… extended stay? And the pay he provided for your army when you first marched on Wallachia? It is a curious thing, how the definition of ‘traitor’ can shift depending on which side of the border one stands, and who is signing the paychecks. Wouldn’t you agree?”

The gasp in the hall was audible. This was no longer an insinuation; it was a direct, public accusation of the highest treason, of consorting with the Ottoman enemy. Ladislaus had not just thrown a stone; he had launched a spear aimed straight at the heart of Vlad’s legitimacy.

All eyes swung back to the Prince of Wallachia. You held your breath, expecting a denial, a flash of righteous fury.

Instead, Vlad did something far more terrifying. He smiled. A wide, sharp, and utterly chilling smile that did not touch his eyes.

“You are remarkably well-informed for a… landholder, Lord Pongrác,” he said, his voice a low, agreeable rumble that somehow silenced the hall more effectively than a shout. He did not deny a single word. “Yes, I have indeed supped with the devil. I have used the tools available to me, no matter how stained. I took the Sultan’s gold. I learned his tactics. I used his army. And when it served my purpose, I turned on him. But you see, the critical difference is this: I have never once claimed to be a saint. I do not pretend to be a loyal lamb in a court. I know precisely what I am.”

He leaned forward slightly, his dark eyes pinning Ladislaus to his seat. The smile remained, a predator’s grin. “I recognize the faithless because I am capable of faithlessness. I understand the traitor because I have played the traitor when it served a greater purpose. My survival. My throne. I make no apologies for it. I simply ensure that those who would play those games with me…” his gaze flickered, for a fraction of a second, to your father, then back to Ladislaus, “…understand that I am the master of them. No one has ever successfully cut me out. They have tried. And they have learned that the rot they sought to exploit runs far deeper in them than it ever could in me.”

The air left the room. He had not denied it. He had embraced it. He had taken Ladislaus’s attempt to shame him and had worn it like a crown of black iron, transforming an accusation of treason into a declaration of supreme, unchallengeable self-awareness and power. He was not a hypocrite; he was an honest monster, and in doing so, he revealed the pathetic, cloaked greed of men like Ladislaus, who hid their own treachery behind a veil of feigned loyalty.

Ladislaus looked as if he had been physically struck. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. He had thrown his spear and hit a mountain, and the mountain had laughed, the sound echoing in the stunned silence of the hall.

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Chapter 1

Chapter 2 … coming soon