pretty little PUPPET

As little as he believes in Asmodeus’ so-called integrity, he only sighs. There’s no point in pursuing a disagreement here. Though… he’s not sure if he’s more disappointed or surprised when Asmodeus suggests payment here. Here? In his office? 

Sure, he’d resigned himself to his fate already, but goddamn, he was still a prince. He’d at least expected the dignity of having his first time in a real bed, but… 

For a moment, he only looks at his new husband, before realizing he’s making nearly no effort to conceal his dismay for the first time since their marriage happened. 

In the next moment, though, he recollects his composure.

“Sure. But before we… begin, I guess I should say this now. As long as you don’t do anything detrimental to Brakhava, I’ll follow you as long as we’re married. So long as you leave my… former home intact, you can count on my loyalty - my current condition being evidence.” 

He’s hoping Asmodeus noticed his actions at all, but…

Well, he’s said what he needed to say. With that, he turns away, and quietly sets about tying his hair up. 

“Such a sour face. It’s not like I asked you to kill a man.”

Asmodeus kept his eyes upon his future mate, refusing to miss a single second of his submission. The smug feeling from before returned in full force. Sytry seemed to be rather displeased, but he didn’t say a word. He didn’t fight, he didn’t rebel. He did what he was supposed to. He was already so obedient, the king could only wonder what he’d be like in the future. After he put him in his place.

A pledge of loyalty sealed their deal, Asmodeus unable to hide his smirk now. “As long as you obey, I have no reason to bother Brakhava any longer. I have my prize, already. I have no use for them.”

While the prince adjusting his hair was a lovely view, something in Sytry’s words struck him as odd. His current condition? As far as the king knew, Sytry was completely. He didn’t seem injured or ill…did he?

At least then it’d be familiar territory, as disappointed as Mihr would be in him. 

He doesn’t particularly like the way Asmodeus says he has no use for his home, but... given the alternatives could be much, much worse, Sytry lets it go. Asmodeus would sooner ascend again than perform any more than perfunctory acts of service towards Brakhava - indifference was the best outcome to hope for here.

He freezes for a moment as the king throws that question back, the hair ribbon falling for a moment from parted lips before he quickly snatches it up again - and for the first time, as he glances at Asmodeus, there’s something akin to hurt in his eyes. A kind of grief - confirmation that Asmodeus wasn’t, and would likely never, pay attention to him outside of this context. And though of course, this was what he had prepared himself for, it was a very different thing to be stunned by the realization in the moment, that he could have given his life, even, for someone who wouldn’t even notice. 

He looks away. “... Never mind.” 

His voice is softer, bordering on the edge between trembling and cracking.

“It’s nothing. Please don’t worry about it.” 

As if to force a resolution to the topic, he fumbles with his shirt collar, attempting to maintain some semblance of grace instead of quite literally ripping it open to get... this over with. 

The frustration ballooning in him threatens to spill over, crumbling his defenses - how long has it been since he has felt this powerless?

He’s surprised at how badly he wants Asmodeus to believe him - not even to gain the upper hand in their game anymore, but to feel equal to him. 

He doesn’t even realize his hand has balled itself into a fist with the weight of self-restraint in it - 

“I. Didn’t. Say. Anything. If I had, I certainly wouldn’t have been able to stop my mother’s reaction.”

That much, at least, was true. He had kept up the façade of their marriage being a negotiation on equal grounds - Brakhava would not have accepted a disadvantageous position, with his consent or without. 

He’d raised his voice more than he intended, though - and the effort suddenly reminds him that he hasn’t had the chance to steal away from all the commotion to heal himself after he intercepted Mihr’s attack. For the king, nonetheless - one who clearly still treated him as an adversary. 

He slowly exhales, now mindful to not push himself like that again. It would be humiliating if any… consequences of the poison happened when the only person who could possibly help him was someone who so clearly despised him. Especially when his current state was a direct result of a favor he did for Asmodeus - what else was he supposed to do to prove his trustworthiness on some level?

But if he had to sacrifice his pride again - what was one more time?

He moves to sit across from the king - hyperaware of his poise, determined to not give away that anything was amiss. Once seated, he bows slightly to Asmodeus, lowering his eyes to the table even though he hates conceding this time. 

“… But, thank you for not pushing the issue after… what my mother did. I… appreciate it.” 

Asmodeus remained silent for a few moments, which nearly felt like centuries. Something was amiss here. Clearly information had been leaked. The Brakhavan heir had been well-informed. And if he wasn’t careful covering his tracks, the little brat might strike again. Perhaps even harder.

However, he’d already won the advantage with casting doubt on the boy’s claims. Anything that he revealed would be taken with a grain of salt. He did have Sytry to thank for that anyhow. If the prince hadn’t played along, well…it might have been his demise. Sytry’s first and foremost desire was peace, after all. Perhaps he was telling the truth here.

But no matter where Mihr learned their secrets, there was still the matter of his brother to deal with. With the summit out of the way, and peace attained, his marriage was in the forefront. 

“You’re very lucky I didn’t. I may be a demon, but I do have my integrity. I am here to lead my people, after all. What good would being a war-torn country do?”

Sure, he’d resigned himself to his fate already, but goddamn, he was still a prince. He’d at least expected the dignity of having his first time in a real bed, but... 

For a moment, he only looks at his new husband, before realizing he’s making nearly no effort to conceal his dismay for the first time since their marriage happened. 

In the next moment, though, he recollects his composure.

“Sure. But before we... begin, I guess I should say this now. As long as you don’t do anything detrimental to Brakhava, I’ll follow you as long as we’re married. So long as you leave my... former home intact, you can count on my loyalty - my current condition being evidence.” 

He’s hoping Asmodeus noticed his actions at all, but...

I’m glad I lived up to your apparently high expectations, he almost shoots back before thinking better of it. It wouldn’t do to show bitterness this early - even if they both knew it would surely arise eventually.

Another time, don’t speak of Mihr like that would have been his immediate retort, but times are very different now.

His displeasure at the remark, though, leaks into his dry tone. “I didn’t tell anyone about the details. I don’t know how he found out -”

and then he shuts up to give Asmodeus the opportunity to divulge these supposed secrets, but it’s just as well, because he realizes how Mihr might have found out.

If Sidonai wasn’t actually unconscious that day, then there was a witness. And it would explain his behavior in cooperation with Mihr - as well as his reluctance to disobey his father.

“No matter how he found out, the problem is he found out.”

The smug expression fell from his face. Sytry was the only one in that room, the only one who heard their conversation. Sidonai was half dead on the floor, wasn’t he? It seemed his dearest bride might not have been entirely truthful. 

He placed his drink down, leaning forward upon his desk. “The secrets I have to release are not mine. But yours. If you ever dare to implicate me in something so ridiculous again, all of Sheol will know of your true nature before you could even blink.”

It was a miracle that no one took the pair of princes seriously, and that Sidonai was somehow smart enough to back down. He’d had enough rebellion in his household. He didn’t have room for another like Sytry.

He’s surprised at how badly he wants Asmodeus to believe him - not even to gain the upper hand in their game anymore, but to feel equal to him. 

He doesn’t even realize his hand has balled itself into a fist with the weight of self-restraint in it - 

“I. Didn’t. Say. Anything. If I had, I certainly wouldn’t have been able to stop my mother’s reaction.”

That much, at least, was true. He had kept up the façade of their marriage being a negotiation on equal grounds - Brakhava would not have accepted a disadvantageous position, with his consent or without. 

He’d raised his voice more than he intended, though - and the effort suddenly reminds him that he hasn’t had the chance to steal away from all the commotion to heal himself after he intercepted Mihr’s attack. For the king, nonetheless - one who clearly still treated him as an adversary. 

He slowly exhales, now mindful to not push himself like that again. It would be humiliating if any... consequences of the poison happened when the only person who could possibly help him was someone who so clearly despised him. Especially when his current state was a direct result of a favor he did for Asmodeus - what else was he supposed to do to prove his trustworthiness on some level?

But if he had to sacrifice his pride again - what was one more time?

He moves to sit across from the king - hyperaware of his poise, determined to not give away that anything was amiss. Once seated, he bows slightly to Asmodeus, lowering his eyes to the table even though he hates conceding this time. 

He hadn’t even realized he had been holding his breath until his mother had stated her acceptance of the treaty - though he manages to hold back a sharp exhale, hyperaware of both Asmodeus’ and Sidonai’s attention on him. While he’s avoiding giving Sidonai a reason to worry about him, however, he’s avoiding giving Asmodeus any further ammunition against him.

Somehow, he gets through the rest of the summit. He pointedly only makes polite conversation with his family - and outright walks in circles around Sidonai, in an impressive endeavor to not have to make any further excuses about today. 

… Luckily, at the end of the day, Asmodeus invites him to his office to speak. Any other time, he would be apprehensive, but… this time, Sytry was going to seek him out anyway. Asmodeus could have his fun, but Sytry was more interested in laying down some…. rules. And insurance, for a marriage (and peace) that would last. 

Still, as the door closes behind him, Sytry stays standing, watching as Asmodeus leisurely walks around the desk to pour a drink. Two glasses - it occurs to him he should decline, but a bitter realization sets in that there’s not much that could happen even if he accepted that wouldn’t happen eventually. 

He waits for Asmodeus to speak first - both to see what he was after first, and force his cards to be displayed first - and to give himself time to think about his demands. Of course, he had spent many a full day considering where exactly to draw his boundaries, what to demand, what he was willing to give - but much still was up to the time of negotiation. 

He had finally won.

He had gotten everything he wished for. And end to a terribly draining war, a muzzle put on Sathanus, his heir put in his place, and a pretty thing on his arm. It was simply wonderful. All that was left to do was revel in his winnings until he took his ultimate prize.

The very angel standing before him.

As the gathering of dignitaries began to wind down, he had escorted Sytry to his personal study. After pouring a pair of drinks, he sat himself down on his large, soft chair. He reclined rather casually, swirling the contents of his glass around in his hand. 

“What a show you gave, hm? I would expect nothing less from someone like you.”

Another time, don't speak of Mihr like that would have been his immediate retort, but times are very different now.

His displeasure at the remark, though, leaks into his dry tone. "I didn't tell anyone about the details. I don't know how he found out -"

and then he shuts up to give Asmodeus the opportunity to divulge these supposed secrets, but it's just as well, because he realizes how Mihr might have found out.

Despite appearing to be wholly focused on the negotiations before him - not that it would be appropriate to actively participate anymore - he slightly turns his head towards the soft steps behind him, though not far enough to see Sidonai.

Was there more coming?

He braces himself for another attack, another outburst, but none comes.

Instead, the whispered question immediately causes him to stiffen - straighten up, in an attempt to smooth over the wrinkles in his act.

How did Sidonai know?

The only person whose favor he had wanted in that moment was his fiance’s…

Still, he steals a glance upwards towards the king, ensuring his attention is elsewhere before Sytry lowers his free hand to his side, silently signing to the prince surely watching.

I wouldn’t be that careless.

Sidonai wanted to believe him. He wanted to believe him terribly. Perhaps he had misconstrued what he saw. Maybe the stress and commotion from earlier caused him to miss a cue. Though he could easily tell that Sytry was not well, if not from the attack, then definitely from all of this. He wanted to insist, or get him out of this damn summit. But he knew he couldn’t, not after earlier. It would put them all at risk.

So he sat quietly.

As Asbeel finished his speech, the time had come for the final phase of the summit. All that was left to do were for both sovereigns to sign the treaty and peace would be ensured. But with all that had happened leading up to this moment, the ball, Mihr’s interruption, it was up in the air whether or not it would actually happen.

Asmodeus rose from his seat, placing one hand on Sytry’s shoulder. As if it were one final taunt to his mother. “I believe we’ve heard all we need hear. I see no reason peace should not continue under these conditions. A fresh union between Brakhava and Akri’qar will do plenty to heal both kingdoms. The treaty has my support.”

All eyes fell upon Sathanus now. Those who knew her well could tell she was less than pleased. Wisps of shadows surrounded her hands, which she placed beneath the table. The last thing she needed was for someone to take this as an attack. And to attack she desperately wanted. The way the bastard touched her son so casually, the way he mentioned their so-called union. If it were up to her, she would tear the damn treaty to bits and take Sytry home with her. 

But she was thinking selfishly. This wasn’t about her, and Sytry had been a reminder of that. He was giving his freedom so that his people could have the same. This was for the greater good, wasn’t it? If a young demon like Sytry to act so selflessly, then perhaps she could too. 

After all, she refused to let Sytry’s sacrifice be in vain.

She be damned before she did.

Sathanus stood from her own seat, shooing away shadows as she clasped her hands before her. “There is a great deal to continue improving, but…We owe it not only to our families, but to all of our people to push forward towards peace. Brakhava accepts the treaty.”

And it was done. She gave up her son, for the greater good.

Somehow, he gets through the rest of the summit. He pointedly only makes polite conversation with his family - and outright walks in circles around Sidonai, in an impressive endeavor to not have to make any further excuses about today. 

... Luckily, at the end of the day, Asmodeus invites him to his office to speak. Any other time, he would be apprehensive, but... this time, Sytry was going to seek him out anyway. Asmodeus could have his fun, but Sytry was more interested in laying down some.... rules. And insurance, for a marriage (and peace) that would last. 

Still, as the door closes behind him, Sytry stays standing, watching as Asmodeus leisurely walks around the desk to pour a drink. Two glasses - it occurs to him he should decline, but a bitter realization sets in that there’s not much that could happen even if he accepted that wouldn’t happen eventually. 

Oh god, he was so close.

Sidonai had gotten used to friendly spars with Sytry. They were trying a new technique today, something Sytry mentioned learning from Holika. Sytry's arms were wrapped around him, hands guiding Sidonai's own in this new position. Sytry was blabbering on about pacing and grounding, but he couldn't hear.

He just thought of Cael.

Sneaking kisses behind the tents, being pinned to the ground, the way those sparkling eyes shimmered while they met Sidonai's.

Being reminded to steady his breathing only made his breaths more shallow and erratic.

Oh god, how could he be calm now?

Alas, today they had an audience, a presence Sytry was all too well attuned to, and his focus was split between Sidonai’s stance and maintaining the delicate balance between helping a friend while keeping proper distance - both physically and emotionally, as new consort.

He steps back when he hears the reluctance in Sidonai’s voice, though - and his gaze flickers away from the imposing figure in the distance.

“I can show you again, but as you’ve seen it several times already, perhaps it’s better if you redirect your efforts towards attempting it for yourself.”

He knows Asmodeus is too far to overhear their conversation, but without intending to, his speech reverts back to a formal quality he only takes in the presence of outsiders. 

Nevertheless, he raises his sword again, shifting his weight onto one foot as he prepares to throw his weight into the move.

Sanaa fumbled with the sword in her hands, trying to take Sytry's advice. But a sword was different than a lance. While she could move gracefully with a spear, this was something else entirely. It was heavy, it was much harder to maneuver. How did Sytry and Holika do it?

Well, now she had to try again. There was no way she was losing to a spoiled prince in a mock battle. She lifted the blade, ensuring to keep her wrists looser and her movements fluid. She took one deep swing at her friend.

And missed.

“But you didn’t drop it!”

Sanaa fumbled with the sword in her hands, trying to take Sytry's advice. But a sword was different than a lance. While she could move gracefully with a spear, this was something else entirely. It was heavy, it was much harder to maneuver. How did Sytry and Holika do it?

Mihr sighed and plopped himself on a bench, letting the naginata fall from his hands. It was particularly hot this morning and he was particularly tired. He didn't have the stamina his brother had. He didn't like to fight, not even in a practice setting. He was exhausted after a few bouts with Sytry, making it very apparent how out of practice he was.

He’s eyeing his brother. 

Looking through the darkness at those golden eyes meeting his - while when they first met, the sharp glow had been intimidating, now he found that warmth comforting rather than burning. 

Taking a deep breath - for the first time, not coughing - he relaxes and stands up, turning to face his new friend. Turning away now, from the lonely, empty sky that stretched over the desert for forever. 

Cautiously, he reaches out to accept the offered hand, hesitant to regain his familiarity with the comfort of not being alone when his first family had so recently abandoned him.

“… My name is Sytry. What’s… yours?”

Sathanus’ smile only grows as he moves from the window. He was doing so well, she was happy to see it. She definitely liked this more than his tears. It made something stir inside her chest. Something that hadn’t stirred in quite some time. It was warm and it was comforting.

Perhaps she was getting in too deep.

“You may call me Sathanus,” she replied. “I’m named after my….”

But her voice trailed off. Sytry. That name…it sounded terribly familiar. Where had she heard it before? She recalled hearing it years ago, perhaps in Lucifer’s court? They’d been speaking of her aunt, of the archangels. The name Sytry….A child was born to an archangel. She recalled it now. They were discussing what would happen when the child grew.

There were only two female archangels. This certainly wasn’t her auntie’s child. His skin was far too pale and she never seemed to be around men. The only other option…

“Gabriel…”

Her hands flew to her mouth, eyes widening. She didn’t just take in a stray angel. This was the firstborn son of an archangel.

He carefully repeats the name, as if gently tucking it away into memory for use later - testing how it feels to call the name of a friend, his first in a while.

But while he is just settling into the beginning of this new reality, it seems as if this Sathanus was coming to terms with another name he was quite familiar with, perhaps even more than his own.

"You know my mother?"

He feels the shift in the room immediately as Asmodeus denounces his brother - no, no, no. This was supposed to be his own fault - his mother has no more heirs if Mihr is perceived as weak and he is no longer in Brakhava.

He couldn’t let public opinion turn against his brother - not when he knew the truth, that Mihr was desperate to help him, to free him from his chains now in the form of a hand squeezing his own so harshly.

But before he can come to Mihr’s defense, Asmodeus yanks him back, and Sytry understands he is powerless to interfere now. He can only look on, in terrible regret, at his brother before him, throwing everything away to save someone who couldn’t be saved.

Sidonai, for his part, is beginning to look like he wishes he were anywhere but here. His words confirm his regret - his hesitation.

Sytry can now sympathize a bit more - he can only imagine what a lifetime squeezed by the iron fist that has pulled himself in would do to someone.

Because Sytry is a -

Mihr - no - not like this. He takes an involuntary step forward, as if to watch the crumbling of his life from closer up, when Mihr in his distress destroys Sytry’s life in an attempt to save it.

They would likely ask him to prove his identity, somehow - and call for his immediate execution. That is, if no one took the initiative to attack him first and ask questions later.

He could fight, but… what would even be the point? He wouldn’t have anywhere to go even if he did survive.

So… he draws in a sharp breath, prepares for the fatal accusation-

But Mihr never finishes his sentence.

Saved by his mother… again.

He can only pray Mihr takes his mother’s injunction to go home - they cannot afford for this to drag on longer than it already has.

But instead of choosing to retreat, it seems Mihr has one last resort in mind -

and as Sytry swiftly steps in front of the king, the miasma settling into his own body, he can only think of this peace they had sacrificed so much for, even as the pain seems to sear every muscle inside him for a moment before settling in as a dull ache.

He stumbles but for a moment, but his wince is gone as quickly as it is there, and he finds himself turning to Asmodeus first to ensure he isn’t hurt, even as he tries to subtly soften Mihr’s landing from Asmodeus’ blow with his own magic.

He’s not sure if guilt or horror pervades his expression more as his brother is forcibly removed from the room, but…

I’m sorry, Mihr.

He’s not sure if he’ll ever be able to forget the betrayal, the frantic desperation on his brother’s face, long after the doors have closed behind him.

As the silence is broken only by Sidonai’s resounding steps to stand near the king, Sytry averts his eyes - unable to look at him.

He’s almost grateful for the way Asmodeus’ hand tightens around his own - a subconscious sign of stress, or a warning of punishment to come? Either way, the slight pain in his wrist helps keep his mind off the pain of Mihr’s poisonous attack.

He would have to find time later to try to heal himself, but until then, he would simply have to manage.

As the king leans in, it’s clear he won’t receive any gratitude for the favor - so Sytry simply nods in acknowledgment, dreading the next time they’re alone.

The summit continued, all hoping to ignore the commotions. It was nothing short of a miracle that peace was still an option after the actions of the Brakhavan royals. But while the others focused on deliberation and trade agreements, Sidonai’s mind was stuck elsewhere. This entire day, this whole situation, it haunted him.

Watching Mihr be dragged out like some sort of criminal was horrifying. He knew what the older prince was trying to save his brother from. If anyone knew what Sytry was going to endure in Akri’qar, it was him. He’d seen it with Sabahl, he’d seen it with his own mother. Hell, he’d seen it firsthand, himself. A gentle spirit like Sytry would be easily overpowered by Asmodeus.

And it terrified him.

He knew it was wrong. He knew it was horribly wrong to feel this way about him. He should’ve been satisfied. He had Mihr. Sytry was his father’s fiance. But each time he looked at him, he saw Cael. He saw those legs, the flushed face, those eyes. He was back between the tents, surrounded by sweet lilies and soft lips. 

Sytry wasn’t Cael any longer. He should’ve just accepted it. But he couldn’t let go.

He tried his best to pay attention to Duke Asbeel’s current ramblings, but it was impossible. He dared to steal a glance at Sytry….

He looked….pained. Pale. Like he was struggling. His father held Sytry’s hand tightly, but it didn’t seem to be from that. In fact, while everyone had focused on Mihr, Sidonai did notice that Sytry stood between his father and the rogue prince. Mihr’s attack….did it…?

He boldly moved inches closer to Sytry, attempting to be covert. He didn’t need to be causing alarm.

He lowered his voice into the softest whisper he could manage.

Was there more coming?

He braces himself for another attack, another outburst, but none comes.

Instead, the whispered question immediately causes him to stiffen - straighten up, in an attempt to smooth over the wrinkles in his act.

How did Sidonai know?

The only person whose favor he had wanted in that moment was his fiance's...

Still, he steals a glance upwards towards the king, ensuring his attention is elsewhere before Sytry lowers his free hand to his side, silently signing to the prince surely watching.

He pretends to not hear the king’s petty annoyances - unsure if it was even meant to be heard by himself. 

Mihr and Sidonai had been spending a significant amount of time together, true, but he had assumed that they were simply… making up for time spent apart. On the other hand… the king had a point. Missing a ball was one thing - it would be easy to spend the duration in some nook of the palace, conversing over a stolen plate of hors d’ouevres. He would know. 

But it was another thing entirely to miss a major peace treaty signing that would end a war that many citizens did not even remember a time prior to - especially a treaty between two countries they would inherit one day. 

If it were not his own brother in question, Sytry would have deemed the behavior downright irresponsible for someone of such responsibility - and now anxiety creeps up on him, too, though he tries to not show it.

Had something happened to Mihr while he and his mother were preoccupied? Had he really been so selfish as to ignore his brother in a time of need he didn’t even know existed?

If that was the case, then he had to -

But before he can move to stand up, to inquire after Mihr, his mother stands, and he gives up the idea.

He would have to wait to find Mihr later.

… But it turns out, he doesn’t have to wait long - for his mother barely gets a single sentence in before the hall doors slam open, revealing the missing crown princes… quite fashionably late, but from the serious looks on their faces, Sytry suddenly has a sense of foreboding that this is no ordinary tardiness. 

And in the next moment, his brother has accused the king of treason.

Before he can even think, he’s stood up from his seat - though he has no plan of action, he knows he has to stop this somehow, before Mihr loses all respect he has of the nobles on both sides. 

But as Mihr continues, Sytry is frozen in place - this was about him?

And as the words continue to spill, bubbling over into the assembly as some overflowing pot of boiling water, a cold realization comes over him that Mihr must have spoken to Alphonsine about what happened that day, and pieced together the truth of the matter.

But that truth couldn’t be known publicly, no matter what the consequences - how could Mihr not see that? 

Healing, light - if even one noble present made the wild connection between his unknown healing abilities and his ability to manifest light, his life would be over. Not only his, but his family would surely be branded as traitors for allowing him to live at all. 

But in the few moments it takes him to clear the fog in his mind, when his focus returns to the present moment, when he’s faced with his brother’s tears and the reality of Sidonai’s confession and those familiar hands squeezing his own as if he’s praying - 

He lowers his eyes - desperate for any privacy in his expression as he can manage to obtain here.

He knows what he must do, even if part of him wishes he did not, that he would have the courage to act on instinct alone.

A few deafening moments pass.

His gaze shifts to the king at his side, who is still seated, and sharpens. A warning, a silent you owe me one.

And then he slowly inhales, and looks up to face his brother, drawing his hands away before gently leaning forward to hug him, choosing his next words carefully.

“Mihr… I know this is difficult for you. For us. I don’t know how you came to these conclusions, but…”

He pulls away, giving Mihr a glance in silent apology.

“I would like to assure everyone present, King Asmodeus is not guilty of the accusations laid forth here to my knowledge.”

He has chosen his side - and for the first time, it is not his family’s.

He turns again to Mihr, and bows deeply.

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t able to inform you of the engagement. You should have been the first to know, and I should have known that doing things so suddenly would have worried you and made you look elsewhere for explanation.”

“The truth is… while I did assist in a delicate matter involving the crown prince Sidonai, the king has graciously offered to include certain very favorable terms in this peace treaty to be signed today, in exchange for my hand and nothing else, as a gesture of gratitude for my assistance in that matter.”

A smile at Asmodeus - though to others, it might seem a smile of acknowledgment or even affection, he trusted the king would recognize it as the second warning it was - a reminder that the only way to avoid treason now was to acquiesce to Sytry’s narrative, and follow through with the terms of the treaty that Sytry had demanded earlier. 

Again, to the audience.

“I’d like to sincerely apologize for the disturbance my brother and your crown prince have caused. It was on account of my oversight and egregious mistakes that they were forced to investigate this matter, on evidence I accidentally and erroneously provided. I hope King Asmodeus will not assign blame to them, but to me instead… and I hope he will accept my promise that such carelessness will not happen again.” 

“My god, the boy’s gone absolutely mad,” Asmodeus managed to hiss. He tried his best not to show it, but he was infuriated. How in the hell did the little brat get wind of their interactions? Unless Sytry told. But would he be stupid enough to risk outing his true nature? 

Luckily enough for him, Sytry seemed to come up with a swift, improvised story. He’d graciously healed the prince, then agreed to marriage for the good of their countries. The things Mihr spouted were speculative nonsense. Good. It seemed believable enough for the others to buy it. The Akri’qarians would believe anything Asmodeus told them and the Brakhavans had to trust their level-headed prince. It seemed they were safe….for now.

“Prince Sytry’s words are the truth. Why in the hell would I risk peace for my kingdom? Why would I leave my legacy without an appropriate heir? For Lucifer’s sake, I took a fist to the face last night from that woman and did nothing to hinder my peace agreements. This sort of behavior I would expect from Sidonai. But I believed you were of more sound mind, Prince Mihr. You are deeply disturbed to risk your mother’s hard work.”

Murmurs began once more. Perhaps Mihr was disturbed. All this change, losing his brother, stress from preparing to be his mother’s heir. Perhaps the boy truly was of weak mind. Perhaps he cracked under the pressure.

Mihr’s expression turned into pure horror. No. No it couldn’t happen like this. He knew what he heard. He knew what he saw. This was the truth, not whatever web of lies the couple spun. Sytry had to be under duress. Asmodeus was making him say those things!

“N…No..” He shook his head, reaching out for Sytry’s hands once more. Though this time, Asmodeus ‘protectively’ pulled his fiance back beside him. “No, no, Sytry…He’s using you! You know what happened that day, you know the truth! Please just listen to me! You have to believe me!” He was sobbing by this point, his composure completely lost. “D-Don’t let him…Don’t let him get away with it! Nai!!” It hurt too much to look at his brother now. So he clung to his dear friend instead. “N-Nai…Tell them. T-Tell them. D-Don’t let them do this. You know who did this to you. Please, just tell them!”

This had taken a turn that Sidonai wasn’t expecting. He was planning on confronting his father, freeing Sytry from his engagement, But that was all. This…This was too much, even for him. He knew Tamiel had been the one to stab him, but….was it really at his father’s orders? Or did Tamiel act alone? They did share bad blood, and he had been open with Ace about their past turmoil. Perhaps it was simply retaliation for speaking out about the abuse. Perhaps it wasn’t his father at all. But Lucifer on high, he couldn’t tell a crowd that. Not in front of his colleagues, his enemies, his poor grandfather. 

“I….” he began, holding onto Mihr so he didn’t crumble. “I don’t know who did it. I didn’t look at their face. It was all so fast…Perhaps….Perhaps our inferences were wrong.” 

Mihr shook his head, slowly backing up from his friend. “N-No…No, it’s not right. He was testing him. He played him, Nai. He had to see him heal you! He had to because Sytry is a–!”

“Mihr.”

Sathanus’ voice boomed over the prince’s. Oh, she knew what he was inferring. And she was horrified that Mihr would expose Sytry so casually. Though, his accusations were concerning. If Sytry healed the prince with light, then perhaps Asmodeus had seen him? Could he be blackmailing him?

No. This was her own prejudice getting in the way. Her own biases blinding her. She trusted Sytry to tell the truth. What would he gain from lying? 

“Mihr, I understand these past months have been stressful–”

“I’m not insane, mother!!! I’m telling you the truth!!”

“Go home, Mihr. You’ve embarrassed me enough today. This is too important for your unresolved resentment.”

“NO! NO I WON’T!” Almost instantly, he conjured an orb into his hand. A dark, swirling orb. Poison. He released his ability. “I won’t let him have you Sytry!” Winding his arm up, he erratically threw the conjured poison in Asmodeus’s direction. Luckily the king seemed able to avoid a hit.

“That is ENOUGH!” Asmodeus’ voice bellowed. The wind from his own hands blew the prince to the ground, subduing him enough that the guards were able to restrain him. “You’re lucky you’re not being charged with treason, boy. Take him to Bir’alloth and ensure he does not escape.”

The guards swiftly removed a sobbing Mihr, who continued calling for his brother, begging and pleaded for him. And once he was gone, the room fell silent.

“Sidonai,”  Asmodeus sneered, his visage dark and wrathful. “Was your brain injured as well? Pull another stunt like that, boy, and see what happens. Come here and do your damn job.”

Sidonai froze for a moment. Everything happened so quickly. He was second guessing himself. And Sytry…the way he destroyed poor Mihr. He had no fight in him. He simply answered, “Yes, father,” and returned to his position.

Sytry was so close.

“Now let’s get the bloody treaty signed before there are any more outbursts.” Asmodeus allowed the nobles to continue their delegations, all the while squeezing Sytry’s hand a bit too tightly.

He couldn't let public opinion turn against his brother - not when he knew the truth, that Mihr was desperate to help him, to free him from his chains now in the form of a hand squeezing his own so harshly.

But before he can come to Mihr's defense, Asmodeus yanks him back, and Sytry understands he is powerless to interfere now. He can only look on, in terrible regret, at his brother before him, throwing everything away to save someone who couldn't be saved.

Sidonai, for his part, is beginning to look like he wishes he were anywhere but here. His words confirm his regret - his hesitation.

Sytry can now sympathize a bit more - he can only imagine what a lifetime squeezed by the iron fist that has pulled himself in would do to someone.

Because Sytry is a -

Mihr - no - not like this. He takes an involuntary step forward, as if to watch the crumbling of his life from closer up, when Mihr in his distress destroys Sytry's life in an attempt to save it.

They would likely ask him to prove his identity, somehow - and call for his immediate execution. That is, if no one took the initiative to attack him first and ask questions later.

He could fight, but... what would even be the point? He wouldn't have anywhere to go even if he did survive.

So... he draws in a sharp breath, prepares for the fatal accusation-

But Mihr never finishes his sentence.

Saved by his mother... again.

He can only pray Mihr takes his mother's injunction to go home - they cannot afford for this to drag on longer than it already has.

But instead of choosing to retreat, it seems Mihr has one last resort in mind -

and as Sytry swiftly steps in front of the king, the miasma settling into his own body, he can only think of this peace they had sacrificed so much for, even as the pain seems to sear every muscle inside him for a moment before settling in as a dull ache.

He stumbles but for a moment, but his wince is gone as quickly as it is there, and he finds himself turning to Asmodeus first to ensure he isn't hurt, even as he tries to subtly soften Mihr's landing from Asmodeus' blow with his own magic.

He's not sure if guilt or horror pervades his expression more as his brother is forcibly removed from the room, but...

I'm sorry, Mihr.

He's not sure if he'll ever be able to forget the betrayal, the frantic desperation on his brother's face, long after the doors have closed behind him.

As the silence is broken only by Sidonai's resounding steps to stand near the king, Sytry averts his eyes - unable to look at him.

He's almost grateful for the way Asmodeus' hand tightens around his own - a subconscious sign of stress, or a warning of punishment to come? Either way, the slight pain in his wrist helps keep his mind off the pain of Mihr's poisonous attack.

He would have to find time later to try to heal himself, but until then, he would simply have to manage.

As the king leads him away from the familiarity of his own family, Sytry resists the urge to look behind him - focusing instead on minutiae of his own appearance. In this political warzone, he knew both he and Asmodeus would be heavily scrutinized - but unlike Asmodeus, he didn’t have the weight of a crown to shield himself from open criticism. Luckily, he doesn’t seem to detect outright hostility from any eyes yet… except one pair, from a certain advisor close to the king.

This could be problematic.

As he sits down, smoothing the fabric of his clothes as he settles in, he’s only grateful for the momentary loss of physical contact with Asmodeus for a second before his relief is cut short by a term of endearment he isn’t sure he’ll ever grow entirely accustomed to.

Dearest.

He’s impressed at his own composure in restraining a flinch, turning calmly to the king at his side. 

He’s careful to sit just the slightest distance further away from the table than Asmodeus - falling into the support… backseat role of consort perhaps too easily. 

He gazes at the king placidly for a few seconds at the question, before quietly returning his gaze to look ahead before answering.

“Unfortunately, I have been… preoccupied these past few days. I likely know as little of his whereabouts as you do - though perhaps it is wise to have our respective heirs in separate locations anyway.”

The implication of the possibility of betrayal is spoken in a low voice, so as not to alarm anyone near - but to inform Asmodeus that were he to renege on his own promises, Sytry would not hesitate to withdraw his own loyalties either. 

“I very much doubt they are separated,” the king huffed beneath his breath. He very much doubted a weakling like Mihr could pose any sort of threat to him. But allowing a wrath demon to influence his own brutish son? That was where he drew the line. Things with Sidonai were precarious enough as they were. He didn’t need him getting any bright ideas. Sytry swore he didn’t know where they could be, but Asmodeus wasn’t entirely sure he could trust the prince. Perhaps he was hiding something from him. He’d have to get to the bottom of this.

His musings were interrupted, however, when the sound of a chair pushing out quieted the room. Sathanus now stood at her table,

“I see no reason to continue stalling. Let’s finish this.” 

Even though she looked at Asmodeus, she couldn’t bear to look Sytry in the eyes. To see him so close to the king made her feel ill. “I thank you all for your presence here today. On behalf of myself and Grand General Basmur, I assure you this era of peace is well past due. Before the treaty is signed, we will hear from our representatives. If anyone believes this treaty should not be formed, I advise you to st–”

“STOP”

A new voice rang through the room, accompanied by the sound of the door swinging wide open. All action on the council floor froze. And all eyes fell on the voice’s owner.

A frantic looking Mihr, with Sidonai at his side.

“You have to stop!” he shouted, mostly address his mother. “Peace can no longer be an option when there is unaddressed treason!”

Murmurs flew across the room. Treason? Sathanus’ attack at the ball? Perhaps something Akri’qar had done?

“And who, pray tell,” Asmodeus began, very quickly learning the 

answer to where the princes had been, “has committed treason?”

“You, King Asmodeus.”

“Mihr…” Sathanus sighed. “That is unfounded slander!” Duke Tamiel hissed. “A ploy by Brakhava!” “For the things he has done, he should face more than treason!” Duke Cimeries retorted.

“This isn’t about the war!” Mihr cried, raising his voice as loud as it could possibly go. It hurt in his throat, and he was getting frustrated, easily. But it didn’t matter. He would keep fighting. “This is about Sytry! This is about Sidonai!” 

He knew they weren’t believing him. He must’ve looked absolutely mad. But he promised he’d save his brother from being taken advantage of. And this was the only way. “King Asmodeus planned to assassinate his own son and heir to his throne! He summoned Sytry as a ploy and blackmailed him! All to get him into some…some…false marriage! Tell them, Nai! Tell them what happened!”

All eyes now fell upon the Akri’qarian prince, who was feeling more than a bit uncomfortable. Much less confident than he’d been earlier, agreeing to this. “I….I can’t remember who injured me.” A lie. He knew exactly who, but he wasn’t about to bring up his ill-fated history with Tamiel. “But I just remember Sytry. He….He found me and healed me. I….I remember a light…” The light was so gentle, so unexpected that he thought at the moment he was dying. But then he recalled that face he’d come to admire so. It was Sytry’s light, no doubt.

Mihr grabbed onto Sidonai’s hand, gripping as tight as he could. “Asmodeus tried to kill his own son! Then he tried to use my brother’s involvement against him! When Sytry did nothing but try to help! He took advantage of his healing prowess and threatened him!  I….I can’t say more, but you have to believe me! If you don’t believe me, believe Sytry! He was there! He can tell you!”

Mihr and Sidonai had been spending a significant amount of time together, true, but he had assumed that they were simply... making up for time spent apart. On the other hand... the king had a point. Missing a ball was one thing - it would be easy to spend the duration in some nook of the palace, conversing over a stolen plate of hors d’ouevres. He would know. 

But it was another thing entirely to miss a major peace treaty signing that would end a war that many citizens did not even remember a time prior to - especially a treaty between two countries they would inherit one day. 

If it were not his own brother in question, Sytry would have deemed the behavior downright irresponsible for someone of such responsibility - and now anxiety creeps up on him, too, though he tries to not show it.

Had something happened to Mihr while he and his mother were preoccupied? Had he really been so selfish as to ignore his brother in a time of need he didn’t even know existed?

If that was the case, then he had to -

But before he can move to stand up, to inquire after Mihr, his mother stands, and he gives up the idea.

He would have to wait to find Mihr later.

... But it turns out, he doesn’t have to wait long - for his mother barely gets a single sentence in before the hall doors slam open, revealing the missing crown princes... quite fashionably late, but from the serious looks on their faces, Sytry suddenly has a sense of foreboding that this is no ordinary tardiness. 

And in the next moment, his brother has accused the king of treason.

Before he can even think, he’s stood up from his seat - though he has no plan of action, he knows he has to stop this somehow, before Mihr loses all respect he has of the nobles on both sides. 

But as Mihr continues, Sytry is frozen in place - this was about him?

And as the words continue to spill, bubbling over into the assembly as some overflowing pot of boiling water, a cold realization comes over him that Mihr must have spoken to Alphonsine about what happened that day, and pieced together the truth of the matter.

But that truth couldn’t be known publicly, no matter what the consequences - how could Mihr not see that? 

Healing, light - if even one noble present made the wild connection between his unknown healing abilities and his ability to manifest light, his life would be over. Not only his, but his family would surely be branded as traitors for allowing him to live at all. 

But in the few moments it takes him to clear the fog in his mind, when his focus returns to the present moment, when he’s faced with his brother’s tears and the reality of Sidonai’s confession and those familiar hands squeezing his own as if he’s praying - 

He lowers his eyes - desperate for any privacy in his expression as he can manage to obtain here.

He knows what he must do, even if part of him wishes he did not, that he would have the courage to act on instinct alone.

A few deafening moments pass.

His gaze shifts to the king at his side, who is still seated, and sharpens. A warning, a silent you owe me one.

And then he slowly inhales, and looks up to face his brother, drawing his hands away before gently leaning forward to hug him, choosing his next words carefully.

“Mihr... I know this is difficult for you. For us. I don’t know how you came to these conclusions, but...”

He pulls away, giving Mihr a glance in silent apology.

“I would like to assure everyone present, King Asmodeus is not guilty of the accusations laid forth here to my knowledge.”

He has chosen his side - and for the first time, it is not his family’s.

He turns again to Mihr, and bows deeply.

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t able to inform you of the engagement. You should have been the first to know, and I should have known that doing things so suddenly would have worried you and made you look elsewhere for explanation.”

“The truth is... while I did assist in a delicate matter involving the crown prince Sidonai, the king has graciously offered to include certain very favorable terms in this peace treaty to be signed today, in exchange for my hand and nothing else, as a gesture of gratitude for my assistance in that matter.”

A smile at Asmodeus - though to others, it might seem a smile of acknowledgment or even affection, he trusted the king would recognize it as the second warning it was - a reminder that the only way to avoid treason now was to acquiesce to Sytry’s narrative, and follow through with the terms of the treaty that Sytry had demanded earlier. 

Again, to the audience.

His mother was uncharacteristically silent as he followed her to the site for the final peace treaty signing - he finds himself missing even the unsolicited advice she pushed onto him when he was only a bit younger.

Those days… felt so far away now. 

He, in turn, doesn’t attempt to bridge the gap - assuming she was still angry with him for accepting the king’s proposal without her input. Or, if not angry, then… she certainly wasn’t indifferent, and he didn’t want to upset her further, at such a crucial time. For them both.

The moment he enters, he’s about to follow his mother’s cue for their seats, when they both simultaneously notice the king change course to walk towards them - well, himself.

But while they both stiffen at first, Sytry forces himself to relax. This was… going to be his husband, and everyone would be watching. He could not show weakness in Brakhava by displaying any hints that he was being coerced into this union.

So he fights the urge to step back as the king approaches - even when Asmodeus implies the inappropriate a bit too loudly, his reaction is more muted than one would expect, limited to a flash of briefly widened eyes in incredulity before he smiles amicably. 

“Our dance was not so tiring, thank you for asking.” 

A polite bow. 

This request, though…

He would admit, it made political sense.

“It would be an honor to join you, then… If I may intrude.” 

He refuses to address the king’s final comment - there would be time later for that. He fully intended to inform Asmodeus of his intentions - and his conditions. 

Ahh, such a cheeky thing. Sytry played so coy but Asmodeus knew how flustered he was underneath. This was becoming an enjoyable pastime for him. And to think, he had years upon years of this fun ahead of him.

He linked his arm with the prince’s, leading him over towards the Akri’qarian side of the venue. Even as they arrived, he kept the prince linked with him, as if to show him off, like some pretty little trophy. The eyes of the surrounding nobles and generals seemed to fall upon the pair, in confusion, or in the case of a certain royal advisor, disdain. However, there was one set of eyes that Asmodeus couldn’t see. 

Sidonai’s. 

Once more, he had been missing. He knew what this peace meant, and he knew his role as not only grand general, but crown prince, was incredibly important today. Yet he never came. Now that he noticed, the Brakhavan crown prince was missing as well. Just as last night. Were they together? So busy canoodling that they forgot the time of day? Or was something deeper going on?

This could be problematic.

As he sits down, smoothing the fabric of his clothes as he settles in, he’s only grateful for the momentary loss of physical contact with Asmodeus for a second before his relief is cut short by a term of endearment he isn’t sure he’ll ever grow entirely accustomed to.

Dearest.

He’s impressed at his own composure in restraining a flinch, turning calmly to the king at his side. 

He’s careful to sit just the slightest distance further away from the table than Asmodeus - falling into the support... backseat role of consort perhaps too easily. 

He gazes at the king placidly for a few seconds at the question, before quietly returning his gaze to look ahead before answering.

“Unfortunately, I have been... preoccupied these past few days. I likely know as little of his whereabouts as you do - though perhaps it is wise to have our respective heirs in separate locations anyway.”

The sight of his mother crying - knowing he did that to her - is enough to nearly send him running back to her, to confess everything, to seek another solution to all of this.

But what keeps his feet walking forward, into a divergent future, is the knowledge that there is no alternative. This situation… arose because of his own mistake. He chose to risk his identity, to save his brother’s best friend - and he would make the same choice every time. 

… Those days on the battlefield feel like they happened an eternity ago - even that day on the floor of the parlor, with Sidonai’s blood on his clothes, feels like a memory floating through clouds long passed by. 

He wants to close his eyes, shut out the ball that suddenly seems so repulsive - but when he does, all he can see is memories of a life that seems so distant now. 

All mine.

Asmodeus wasn’t wrong. The endearment sickens him, but he bites back a retort, lowers his head, and grips a little tighter onto the king’s sleeve. 

The commotion at the ball was all the empire could speak of the following day. Between the fighting and the proposal, there was plenty of juicy gossip to spread around. Tensions were high as the morning of the peace summit arrived. After the chaos of the previous night, would there even be peace to speak of?

Sathanus didn’t speak to Sytry as she arrived at the Shamdon barracks. Not out of anger or disgust, but out of pain. She knew that if she tried to speak of his engagement, she would end up in tears all over again. She couldn’t be seen as weak today, not when facing the beast that called itself her son’s fiancé.

The room was filled with powerful nobles of Akri’qar and Brakhava alike, their generals, their royal families. This was a monumental occasion. An occasion that had been spoiled by Asmodeus.

Those days... felt so far away now. 

He, in turn, doesn’t attempt to bridge the gap - assuming she was still angry with him for accepting the king’s proposal without her input. Or, if not angry, then... she certainly wasn’t indifferent, and he didn’t want to upset her further, at such a crucial time. For them both.

The moment he enters, he’s about to follow his mother’s cue for their seats, when they both simultaneously notice the king change course to walk towards them - well, himself.

But while they both stiffen at first, Sytry forces himself to relax. This was... going to be his husband, and everyone would be watching. He could not show weakness in Brakhava by displaying any hints that he was being coerced into this union.

So he fights the urge to step back as the king approaches - even when Asmodeus implies the inappropriate a bit too loudly, his reaction is more muted than one would expect, limited to a flash of briefly widened eyes in incredulity before he smiles amicably. 

“Our dance was not so tiring, thank you for asking.” 

A polite bow. 

This request, though...

He would admit, it made political sense.

“It would be an honor to join you, then... If I may intrude.”