𝕆𝕄ℕ𝕀𝕊 𝕃𝔸ℂℝ𝕀𝕄𝔸 ;

ISEUL WAS CERTAIN - THIS WAS PERSONAL. How could it not be? A witch in the room full of common fae, the only one being able to use her power? It was fortunate that Iseul wasn't as foolish as to openly demonstrate her own reserve of it.

none but her beloved had known.

And no one ever will - not if she has a say in it. So, for the rest of the Prythian, she had to remain the weak, measly fae. But... a terrifying thought crossed her mind. If even the special fae had lost their power, then their enemy must be true power.

Sighing, the witch of fire nursed a glass of wine between her palms. One glass every few weeks will do no harm, the healers have said - and this situation would, normally, require something much stronger than wine. Sitting beside her husband, Iseul found herself comforted by both his presence and the crowd loudly speaking in the room.

at least they won't be overheard.

"What do you think of this novel surprise, darling? If the Mother thought a whole court would not suffice to astonish us, she might have vastly underestimated our boredom with the daily life. Starlight was enough of a shock. Now this. I wonder what comes next. A tornado? Perhaps a thunderstorm would do, though the destructive forces of nature sound so... peaceful now."

"A tornado would be straightforward," he said, finally picking up the thread of her humor, though his voice was quieter than usual. "A tornado I could understand. But this..." He shook his head, jaw tightening. "I've been a healer for almost five centuries, Iseul. My hands have never been ordinary. They have always been..." He paused, turning his palm upward between them as if she might see the absence there. "Warm. Alive. And now they're just hands."

He looked at her then the way he'd been forgetting to do since the weight of his secrets had made him too tired to meet her eyes. She was nursing her wine with a composure he knew was half performance. Her power was still intact, he suspected, though she hadn't said so and he hadn't asked. That was the thing about loving a witch. That was the thing about loving him, too. They both kept their dangerous parts hidden.

"You're being flippant," he said softly, although it wasn't an accusation. "Talk to me. What do you actually think of this?"

"I was not, fortunately. Our court was one of the less affected, it seems." They hadn't lost anyone in winter and all arrived in the mysterious Starlight in one peace. "I have. Everyone in the inner circle has been accounted for and accommodated. Even you. Your chambers are close to mine and Régulo's. Omar and Kenna are both staying close as well." She was on top of it all since the moment they have arrived. Catalina never wasted time, every second of her day was calculated and managed to fit perfectly in her planned schedule even amidst all of this. "Would you like me to show you? It's quite nice."

"That's kind of you." The words left him automatically, the muscle memory of centuries of courtly politeness. "I'll find it myself, I think. I'd rather not pull you away from your schedule." A pause. He almost left it there. Almost took the escape she was offering on a platter: a room, a door, distance. But Regulo's name hung in the air between them, and he couldn't let it drop. Not yet.

"You said he's been accommodated. Is he..." He hesitated, choosing his words the way he chose his instruments. "I haven't seen him since before Winter. Is he under guard, or has his situation... changed, now that we've been winnowed to a court that shouldn't exist?"

He felt something shift in his chest. He'd been playing a game, she'd responded with earnestness. That was either deeply genuine or deeply calculated, and he couldn't tell which yet. Interesting, and slightly unnerving.

"I see," he said, letting his grin settle back into its usual lazy shape. "So you're not a spy. You're just a former librarian with a passion for botany and a very reasonable fear of crowds. That's much less exciting and disappointing. I had a whole dramatic scenario planned." He waved a dismissive hand, rings glinting. "No consequences. No dungeons. No stern lectures from people with less charm than me. You're free to admire the architecture in peace. He paused, tilting his head.

"But for the record, you don't have to apologize. For intruding. You didn't intrude. I found you, remember? You were minding your own business, staring at the stars, and I appeared like a very handsome, nosy ghost." He pressed a hand to his chest. "If anyone should be apologizing, it's me. But I won't. Because I'm not sorry. I'm curious."

Her eyes widened as she nodded, excitedly. "That sounds absolutely wonderful and insightful. Please take me there!" Tessa looked up at him, her eyelashes fluttering with kindness. "Questionable. It just might make you the happiest in the world. You have no idea," she explained, knowing that she had created some really wonderful tea in the past. There were so many combinations that could do so many things, and she just wanted to experiment, especially now that she had no other type of magic linked to her.

"The conservatory is this way," he said, tilting his head toward the winding path that led deeper into the gardens. Icarion rose to his feet and offered her a hand. Not quite touching. Just an invitation hovering in the air between them, his rings catching the starlight.

"But let's be clear about something." He waited until she met his gaze. "That night in Winter, you were quiet. Nervous. Sweet. You barely looked at me until you were under me, and even then you bit your lip like you were afraid of making a sound." He paused, his grin sharpening. "And now you're sitting in my family's soil, looking at me straight in the eye, talking about how deep I was. So I have to ask..." He tilted his head. "Are you going to remind me what you sounded like when I got there? Or should I remind you first?"

"I heard someone say something once." His voice is flat, but there's a thread of uncertainty running through it now. "At the Winter Court. A guard talking to his captain. You worry about everyone else, but who worries about you. The captain laughed and said that's what I have you for." He pauses, the silence stretches. "I thought saying something similar would make you..." Virgil trails off, brows furrowing slightly. "I am still learning."

He pushes off the wall, moving towards her. Two steps, enough to close some of the distance but not all of it. He stops by the low-backed chair and rests one hand on it, his scarred knuckles pale against the dark wood.

"I was never taught how to be comfortable, or how to find it. But I can try. If that's what you want." He says it plainly, without self-pity. "Tea, then. I am not sure what I like. I have never..." He stops, tries again. "I will try it. If you make it. That's what people do, isn't it? They try things. For people they..." He doesn't finish. Doesn't know what word to use or if there is a word appropriate for what she makes him feel. He clears his throat and looks away, toward the window, toward the stars.

When Seven lets him go, Remy stumbles a little as he coughs. His hands comes up to his own throat. It's still warm from Seven's touch He rubs over where his hand had just been. Remy recovers, stands back up, eyes still trailing Seven. His hesitation, his anger. He takes a couple of steps forward because all he wants to do right now is hug him. Tell him that it's alright. That they're alright.

Remy nods at his words because he's right, he should have been back with him. If he survived and payed for Remy's escape, he should pay because he never wanted that. Freedom at Seven's expense was never an option and he wouldn't have taken it if offered.

His back hits the railing and Remy hisses at the hit and ducks his head out of pure reflection but he doesn't resist it, doesn't defend himself. "You can just cut to the chase and kill me. It'd end like that anyway. You've always been better than me. At everything, even surviving." There's tears running down his cheeks again as he barely manages to get the words out. "But I just need you to know that I would have come back for you if I knew you were alive. I wouldn't have been able to save you but I would have endured it all by your side. I didn't care about freedom if it was without you, Seven."

"Finished? His voice is flat, empty. He doesn't look at Twelve. He looks at the space just past his shoulder, at the cold stone railing, at the stars bleeding silver across the sky. Anywhere but his face. "You said what you needed to say. You cried. You apologized. Are we done?"

He doesn't wait for an answer. He turns toward the balcony railing, his back to Twelve, his wings folding tight against his spine. The stars are very bright. He stares at them and remembers the mountain sky above them, the night he ran, the blood on the snow. His shadows don't know what to do with this. Neither does he.

"I don't know how to be around you." The admission is barely a whisper, dragged out of him against his will. "I don't know how to look at you and not see the hole. I don't know how to hear you apologize and not want to put my hands around your throat again. I don't know how to do this." His voice is quieter now. His hands are still shaking, he grips the railing to make them stop. It doesn't work too well.

"You said you would have come back. You said you would have endured it." His voice hardens, just slightly. Just enough. "But you didn't. So what am I supposed to do with that? What am I supposed to do with you?"

it felt impossible to sleep in yet another different court, this one so strange and secretive. not to mention, she felt as though she was still reeling from the sudden winnowing into starlight. the temple was not exactly where she would go for comfort, after all, it wasn't her temple ⸻ this wasn't her rugs, her candles, her home. it was just as cold and strange as everything else; but at least nobody could question her reasoning for being here.

aurelia was on her knees before the alter ⸻ not properly kneeling, simply sitting there. praying, whispering, hoping. she didn't know what she was doing anymore, as long as it was something. would praying for a vision help? or would she see horrors that she would rather leave here unknowing? she sighed, her shoulders feeling heavier and heavier with each breath.

her eyes were shut, her mind focused elsewhere, until the sound of his voice broke her of her solitude. slowly, the priestess opened her eyes though she did not turn her head in his direction. " apologies, were you trying to find me? i cannot imagine why. " aurelia murmured, though her tone implied she was already exasperated by his intensity.

comfort? at his words, the brunette turned her head. her gaze narrowed, as if she was trying to figure it out. " ridicule you? " aurelia questioned, genuinely confused. " you have risen in rank, apollo, why are you asking for ridicule? why are you angry? " she wondered if it had to do with the means of his rise in power. a murder, of someone she assumed he at least held a shred of respect for ⸻ though she was well aware she barely knew him at all anymore.

now, aurelia stood, able to take him in fully. his sparring leathers were damp, his hair clinging to his skin. he truly was distraught by something. " did you . . wish to remain third in command forever? why not deny the promotion, then? "

"I trained my entire life for this," he said, the words coming out scraped from somewhere deep. "Every morning before sunrise. Every night long after everyone else had gone to bed. I bled on that training room floor more times than I can count. I earned my name. I've never met anyone I couldn't beat with a sword. Not one person. Not even Jamie." He turned to face her, jaw tight.

"My father was commander. His father before him. And his father before that. All the way back through generations of warlords who carved this court out of blood and steel." His voice dropped. "It should have been mine. By blood. By skill. By every right that's ever mattered in this court, it should have been mine." He laughed, but there was no humor in it, only exhaustion. "But Talia wanted Jamie back. Wanted her sibling home. Wanted to give them a reason to stay." He shook his head slowly. "So she handed her the position. Gave her command of the armies. Gave her everything I've spent my whole life working toward. Second in command is not an honor, but a consolation prize. It's them saying I'm family, but not the right kind of family."

Apollo watched her for a moment, his expression unreadable. "You're very good at this. The whole... serene priestess thing. Like nothing touches you." His voice was flat, almost mocking. "I used to admire it. Now I just want to ruin it. Just for tonight." The words hung in the air between them. He felt something twist in his chest. The silence stretched and he could feel himself teetering on the edge of something he didn't have a name for. This was pathetic and he was going to regret it, and yet somehow... he didn't care. He stepped closer, close enough that he could see the soft curve of her lips, that he could smell the incense on her skin.

"I'm not going to beg," he said, his voice low and almost careless. The lie tasted like copper on his tongue. "But I'm asking. And I don't ask for much. Help me forget."

"Then who would watch out for you?" His voice is still flat, still rough at the edges, but there's something almost dry beneath it. Almost human. "You're the one who matters. You're the one this court needs. I'm just your sword." He says it simply, without self-pity, without weight. It's a fact. The sky is dark, the stars are cold. He is a weapon, and weapons don't need sleep or tea or chairs designed for their wings. The shadow that drifted toward her gown has reached her now. It curls around her ankle and he doesn't pull it back this time. He doesn't know why, it just feels right, somehow. Like a silent tether or a wordless promise.

He steps inside, finally, letting the door swing shut behind him. His wings fold tighter against his back, a shield, a habit. His gaze moves across the room and catches on the chair. He stops and stares at it. Something shifts behind his eyes, too fast to name.

"You did that for me," he says. Not a question. He knows she did. No one else would have thought it. No one else ever thinks of him at all. He doesn't sit, but he moves to the wall beside the chair and leans against it, arms crossed, the shadows settling around his feet. "I don't drink tea, but I'll stay. However long you need." He glances at the window, the stars, the darkness pressing in. "I'll keep watch. You should rest while you can."

When Seven's hand starts to tighten, Remy lets go of his wrist. He doesn't fight it. He doesn't fight him. He never did and is not going to start now. He'll lose either way. Seven was always better than him on everything as he should. Remy didn't want to be, not there. He had no interest in being the best killing machine.

Remy goes easily while Seven corners him and still listens silently because, what else is he meant to do? He's mostly right about everything except for one thing. Remy didn't get happy. Never could without him, never could knowing he couldn't save him. Even if he went back he wouldn't have been able to save him. The Illyrian always thought that he was a waste of life. That if one of them had to survive it should have been Seven, not him.

When Seven is finally done talking and silence envelops them, tears run down Remy's cheeks. "You are alive." He lets out in a whisper as he watches his face. A wound inside Remy closes as he says those words out loud. It doesn't matter that they got separated, he got to live.

"Are you going to kill me?" He asks after a moment. He needs to know because if Seven is going to kill him, he needs to say a few things first before he can go in peace. Seven deserves to know that even though he was left there, he was never alone. Remy carried him with him. Always, even now.

Virgil opens his mouth to answer. The words are there, sharp and simple and final. It should have been easy. It was always easy. But yes won't come. It lodges in his throat like a blade turned sideways, and he realizes with a cold, creeping horror that he can't do it. The realization makes him furious. His hand tightens, a jerk of pressure, a warning, and then he wrenches himself backward, releasing Twelve's throat like it's burned him. The shadows recoil with him, snapping back to his shoulders in a violent rush, and Virgil is breathing hard, his chest heaving, hands shaking at his sides.

"I should kill you. I should have let them cull you back them. It would have been easier. It would have been clean." He drags a hand through his hair, a jerky, uncharacteristic motion, and the shadows writhe around him. "Fight back." Virgil's voice cracks on the words, and he hates it, hates the sound of it, hates the way Twelve just stands there with tears on his face and acceptance in his eyes. He grabs the front of Twelve's top and yanks him forward, then slams him back against the railing. The shadows snap with the motion.

He tilted his head, studying her the way he'd studied her since she was a raw recruit. The same sharp gaze, the same unreadable expression. But there was something softer underneath it now. Something that had grown over the years of training her, trusting her, watching her become of the best spies in his network.

"You want to stay here and keep pretending you're fine?" He was already angling his body toward the corridor that led to the east wing, already offering her an exit. "Or do you want to get out of this hallway and actually breathe for a minute?"