#chapter seven

This was giving him a fucking migraine.

It had started cordially enough — polite conversation, adequate small talk before delving into their familiar routine. Lando would demand his money, Mattia would act clueless, and then Lando would reacquaint him with their deal until Lando’s knuckles split.

Apparently they were still at the clueless part.

“Come on,” Binotto tutted, placing his clasped hands in his lap, eyes sharp beneath the warm lighting as if he had even some semblance of power in this situation. “We’ve known each other for how long now? What is business between friends?”

Lando gave a slow, calculated smile. “Somehow, I don’t recall us ever being friends,” he replied smoothly, hand coming up to massage his temples.

Binotto, predictably, didn’t like that.

His fingers tightened around his glass. “You are acting like you don’t need friends?”

“I’ve got enough,” Lando rolled his eyes.

Binotto leaned in, his expression darkening. “That is a polite way of telling me to fuck off?”

Lando’s patience thinned. Yes, he wanted to say. Instead, he let the silence speak for itself.

The other man exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Bad idea. A very bad idea.”

"Yeah," he drawled, a smirk on his lips as he stood up. “M’ willin’ to lose sleep over it.”

15 minutes later, Lando turned and walked out, feeling the weight of Binotto’s glare burning into his back. His knuckles ached faintly, already beginning to purple.

Once outside, he exhaled, mind already moving three steps ahead. Binotto wasn’t a real threat, but men like him had a way of becoming problems when left unchecked. And right now, Lando didn’t have the patience for problems.

The Brit counted every bill to make sure each one was accounted for before slipping the thick, worn envelope into one of the pockets inside his jacket. It was important to double check every single detail, he'd learned. He was always aware, always looking over his shoulder. It was how he’d built his empire. 

It was how he’d survived.

But as he turned a corner, his gaze flicked to a head of dark blond hair across the street—Arthur Leclerc, standing at the edge of the sidewalk, eyes flickering as he pretended to scan a storefront, his hand casually adjusting his jacket. It was subtle, almost too subtle, but Lando saw right through it.

Lando smirked to himself. The kid was ambitious, sure, but he had no idea what he was dealing with. No matter how clever he thought he was, he was still the little brother—not the one in charge. 

Arthur was probably just an unwitting pawn in this—too inexperienced to fully grasp what he was trying to do, but Lando couldn’t afford to let him get any closer.

The Leclercs. Always so eager to get involved in things that weren’t theirs.

Lando kept walking, his steps calm but purposeful, allowing Arthur to fall into rhythm behind him. He didn’t want to make this easy. He needed to see how far the kid would go.

Then, just as Lando turned a corner, he spotted another shadow, a darker head of hair this time—a tall figure, with similar gangly features lingering further down the block. 

Lorenzo Leclerc. 

He was older, more calculating, his posture a little more obvious, standing by a streetlight with a phone in his hand, trying to play the part of an innocent bystander. He was watching, waiting for Lando to slip up. Lando’s smirk faltered, and his hand instinctively brushed the gun concealed under his jacket.

Looks like his morning just got more interesting.

Lando’s pulse quickened as he realized he was being double-tailed, and this time, it wasn’t going to be as easy to shake them off. He needed to disappear.

With a deep breath, he straightened his shoulders. He was good at what he did—too good to get caught—but he wasn’t about to let himself get cornered by the Leclercs on a busy street. He needed to vanish. Fast.

His mind worked quickly. The first rule of the game: Never lead them to your next destination. His eyes scanned the street, searching for an exit.

There wasn’t time for a confrontation. Not here, not now. He needed to lose them both—quickly.

Lando ducked into the nearest alley and scanned the area, his instincts already locking onto the perfect escape route. A narrow side street led into a small café with large windows, an unassuming little place that looked as though it could blend into any part of the city. Perfect.

He could blend in, slip into the background, and wait for the Leclerc brothers to pass by. His pace quickened, making a beeline for the door. He slipped through the door, barely drawing attention as the bell above it chimed softly.

But of course, as he moved toward the counter, his eyes landed on a familiar face.

You’ve got to be fuckin’ with me.

He could already feel his irritation rising. There was no way this was happening. No fucking way.

It had to be some kind of cosmic joke.

She was smiling at him, clearly pleased to see him again, completely unaware of how fucked this situation was.

“Liam?” she asked, voice tentative.

Lando froze. Of course, she’d recognize him.

Oh fuck me.

“Yeah,” he said, his tone flat, forcing a tight smile.  She gave him an awkward smile, the kind of smile he’d seen a hundred times before—unsteady, unsure, yet oddly warm. “I didn’t expect to see you again,” she said, the words almost shy as she took a step toward him.

Lando swallowed his irritation, quickly masking it with an aloof expression. “Trust me, I wasn’t planning on it either,” he muttered under his breath.

“Twice in one week!” she mused cheerily, tucking her copy of Crime and Punishment under her arm. “I mean, what are the odds?”

I dunno, but I need 'em to be zero.

“D’you come here often? I haven’t really seen you here that much” she wondered, tilting her head. “Or are you just really, really lucky?”

Lando almost laughed at the absurdity of it.

Instead, he gave her a tight smile, just enough charm to keep her from hopefully asking anymore questions. “What can I say? Good coffee n' all tha'.”

She huffed a soft laugh. “Right, well, I can get you a coffee if you—”

“No,” Lando cut her off, his tone sharp, almost too quick. He needed to keep moving, get out of here before drawing more attention to himself.

“M'fine, really,” he said, his gaze shifting toward the door, willing himself not to look back at her.

“No, thanks,” he said curtly, his eyes already scanning the windows. He wasn’t looking for her, not really. His thoughts were elsewhere. He was thinking of the Leclercs, and how he needed to get out of here without drawing any attention.

Still, her voice broke through his thoughts. “You sure? I could, you know, bring you something.”

Lando didn’t turn to look at her. “I’m fine.”

He wasn’t here to entertain her, and he sure as hell wasn’t here to play nice. This was just another complication—another irrelevant, inconvenient detail in his life.

His fingers drummed lightly against the edge of the table, the seconds dragging on in silence. He knew she was still staring at him, probably wondering what the hell was going on, but he couldn’t afford to care.

Y/N stood there for a moment, unsure, then shrugged awkwardly and returned to her side of the counter.

“Just passing through,” he blurted, some semblance of an explanation. Not that he owed her an answer, but… she was only trying to be nice. It wasn’t her fault she’d caught him on a shit day, right?

So Lando was just being polite. 

Politeness. Decency. Yeah, that sort of thing.

Y/N blinked at him, a little caught off guard by his tone. “I hadn’t expected to see you again, especially not so soon,” she said, smiling awkwardly, but there was something else in her eyes now—a curiosity. “Is everything okay?”

Lando didn’t answer right away. He could see the way her eyes darted around, looking at him as if she was trying to piece things together. He couldn’t have her asking questions, couldn’t have her getting too involved.

“M'fine,” he waved off casually. “Just… needed to get out of sight for a moment, yeah?"

“Out of sight? What, are you like… running from the cops or something?” she laughs, her tone teasing.

If only she knew.

“Nah, s'nothing,” he replied coolly, then paused, catching her eye. He studied her for a moment—how she was standing there, so out of place in the chaos of his world. It almost made him question everything. Almost.

Finally, when enough time had passed, Lando took a step toward the exit, but something about the weight of her gaze made him pause. It was the same old pitfall. He was so good at keeping people at arm’s length—he was cold when he needed to be, distant, indifferent—but for some reason, it was different when it came to her. She had a way of making him feel… odd.

“Uh, see you around,” he said, almost too quickly.

And without another word, he turned on his heel and walked out, slipping back into the crowd.

The moment he stepped back onto the street, he allowed himself a brief moment of relief. The Leclercs hadn’t followed him in—yet—but it wouldn’t be long before they realized he’d slipped away again.

The weight of the world was still pressing on him, but now it was tinged with something else—a lingering feeling that wouldn’t quite leave him.

And no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t shake the thought that he had just made a mistake.

Firestar didn’t respond. He and the entire warrior rank of ThunderClan were sitting on the border by the Houses, in the spot they’d been attacked the most often (which happened to be close to Firestar’s old house, which he chose not to comment on). Bramblepaw and Tawnypaw had been invited along and took up seats on either side of Firestar—at least a head taller than him, and with their noble faces, they made for intimidating guards. Greystripe sat close behind them, a looming monolith of grey and dark stripes. None of them had been asked to do this.

“Rogues won’t ever talk to us willingly,” Lizardtail agreed in a low voice. “I’m certain that they’ll come with a whole army to this… discussion you leaders are having.”

“Have some faith,” Firestar said to him with a friendly blink. “They’re not stupid. They’ll want to act in their best interests, won’t they? Avoiding a war would be ideal for them, too.”

“It’s at least worth a try,” Dustpelt said, sitting ramrod-straight. “We do have a good negotiator speaking for us.”

Lizardtail swished his tail doubtfully, but he said nothing more. Firestar gave Dustpelt a thankful beam and turned back to the fenceline.

They didn’t have to wait long; the smell of strangers hit the gentle breeze in the stretch of clipped grass between the forest and the fences, and a dark ginger head poked out from around the corner. The shadows of the trees must have blocked their view of the entire Clan, because a group ran towards them, ears back and heads low, only to skid to a stop when they got closer, nearly tumbling into each other in their attempts to halt the attack.

“Hello!” Firestar called cheerfully. “Would you mind chatting with us for a moment?”

The rogues looked at each other, wary and confused. The one at the lead, Firestar recognized as that dark ginger tom with a long, hairless line on his back. He recovered from his surprise almost immediately and appraised Firestar with half-closed eyes.

“I suppose you’re going to make a threat of some kind?” he asked, his voice lax and dry.

“Not us.” Firestar dipped his head respectfully. “You have a leader that’s sending you out to attack the Clans, correct?” At the tom’s puzzled nod, he continued, “The Clans would like to invite them to a meeting with our own leaders for a discussion on the current tensions and attacks. Their second-in-command, too, please.”

The tom regarded him with mild surprise that turned to mild amusement. “And where will you all be meeting?”

“Brick, are you serious?” a tabby next to him whispered.

“There’s a ring of trees surrounding a large boulder in the grassland between this forest and the moors,” Firestar said promptly, his chest lighter with hope. “We’d appreciate it if your leader could meet us there in two days’ time at midnight. We don’t want to start a fight; we just want to talk and figure out a solution for all of us. Could you deliver that message, please?”

The rogues looked just as baffled at Firestar as his Clanmates looked dismayed by his politeness. The tom, Brick, flicked his eyes up and down, like he was studying Firestar, before tilting his head to the side lazily.

“We’ll pass the word along,” he said. “Not like we have the element of surprise now, anyway.” He turned away. “Come on.”

His followers, still lost and confused, followed him in silence, some of them glancing back at the Clan cats with some worry, like they were expecting to be chased. Firestar simply waved his tail and waited for their scents and pawsteps to disappear completely before standing up and turning around to face his Clan.

“Well, there we go!” he said delightedly. “Easier than I anticipated.”

“We should still guard this border,” Dustpelt said, more calm as he stood up too. “I don’t trust that they won’t try to take advantage of us.”

Firestar curled his tail. “We can do that. Who wants to stay here for now?”

“I’ll do it,” Thornclaw said, and Greystripe agreed with a grunt.

“Thank you,” Firestar replied. “In the meantime, Teaselfoot, Frostfur, and Brackenfur, would you mind heading out to the other Clans’ borders and sending word that we’ve got the meeting?”

“No problem,” Teaselfoot said, tail wagging. “I can get to WindClan fastest, I’ll go there.”

“Then Brackenfur, head to Sunningrocks, and Frostfur, the road or tunnel by the marshes. Your choice.”

The mother-and-son pair bowed their heads and promptly took off, Teaselfoot behind them for only a moment before overtaking them and disappearing into the forest. The rest of the Clan followed Firestar as he trotted back in the direction of camp, Greystripe and Thornclaw staying behind.

“I hope this works,” Dustpelt said quietly to Firestar as they walked together. “The last thing ThunderClan needs is a fight.”

Firestar gave him a gentle tap on his haunch with his tail. “We’ll be okay, Dustpelt. I promise.”

---

The meeting-night arrived before Firestar could blink. Suddenly, he was sitting in the flattened grass that the normal warriors and apprentices rested on when the leaders were giving the news, the other leaders around him. Dustpelt, beside him, had his claws sunk deep into the soft earth, and Firestar’s guards—Greystripe, Thornclaw, Mousefur, and Sandstorm—were in a half-ring on the side-border of Four-trees with the other guards. Sandstorm’s jaw was tight, like she was clenching her teeth so snappy words wouldn’t escape her mouth. The rest of the guards for the leaders looked just as tense. The leaders, at least, all sat composed and quiet, occasionally glancing at each other to check that all was well.

“If they bring an army…” Leopardstar narrowed her eyes, her own claws flashing for just a moment.

Firestar squinted, peering into the distance. He perked up at the sight of a small patch of white-and-dark-colors coming around the corner of the forest. “No, it looks like a small group. Maybe it’s multiple leaders.”

Rookstar looked back at the security cats. “Don’t say a word. Leave this to us.”

They all nodded with varying degrees of reluctance.

Everyone waited as the small troop approached. Firestar wondered if he should go to meet them, introduce himself and start off on a friendly foot. He glanced questioningly at Rookstar, and as if the overstretched tom had heard his thoughts, he shook his head. Firestar fidgeted a little, but stayed put.

The group picked up their speed into a trot, and as they got close, Firestar had a faint sense of looking into a reflection in a puddle. Two of the cats, black-and-white patched, were humongous, their rough, long fur making them look even bigger. One was carrying something striped, long and fluffy in his mouth; Firestar couldn’t tell what kind of prey it was from here. The other, his underbite clearer as he approached, had grim blue eyes and a slightly wrinkled muzzle, like he had smelled something revolting. In front of them was another huge cat, this one mostly white with a bit of black, but his size was more in his gut, not his height. The fourth was Brick, and the cat he trotted alongside…

Why did Firestar’s fur prickle uneasily just looking at him?

It wasn’t that he was huge and scary—he was a tiny, pure white cat, sleek and petite, with ice-blue eyes ringed by pink skin, like he was sick or hadn’t slept in a month. Against his towering followers, he seemed little more than a kit in dire need of a queen. Firestar had no doubt that even he could accidentally kill this cat with too hard of a push.

But there was something… no, not something. There was nothing. Nothing in his eyes, like they were unseeing. Nothing in his posture, making him impossible to read. His gaze wasn’t focused, or determined, or afraid. As his pale eyes roamed over the gathered cats, Firestar had the faint sensation that he was looking at a walking corpse.

Nevertheless, he dipped his head once the group crossed into Fourtrees and said, “Good evening.”

The ghostly cat’s eyes landed on his, and he wished he could name what he was seeing in that gaze. The shared stare lingered for a moment, Firestar feeling a rush of cold water in his veins, before the tom stopped walking a fair distance from the Clan cats and sat down. Brick sat beside him, looking bored, the mostly-white tom taking up the other side, and the pair of patched toms stayed standing, soldier-rigid and silent. Firestar still couldn’t figure out what on earth that fluffy thing in one of their mouths was.

Leopardstar broke the silence. “You’re the leader of the rogues that’ve been harassing us in the past month?”

“Leader of the Blood,” Brick corrected her, much more focused than his bored face would imply. “Consider yourselves blessed. It’s not very often that Heaven’s Scourge speaks with strangers.”

“‘The Blood’,” Blackstar echoed flatly.

“Your hearing works, then?” Brick slanted his head.

A thin, white tail twitched at the very tip. Brick fell silent.

“I am Scourge,” the tiny cat said, his voice soft and higher than usual for a grown tom. His eyes went from one leader to the next. “You are Rookstar. You are Blackstar. You are not Crookedstar.” He slightly turned his head, just enough to face Firestar. “And you are… Fireheart.”

“Er, Firestar,” he said.

Scourge’s pupils slightly dilated and he made the smallest hum of acknowledgement.

“How do you know us?” Leopardstar growled. “We’ve never spoken with you or your grunts.”

Scourge ever-so-slightly lolled his head sideways, his emotionless eyes staring deeply into Leopardstar’s—so much that she shifted her paws uncomfortably even as she glared at him. In his flat, staccato voice, he replied, “We’ve heard things. One of your own… spoke to us.”

One of our own? Firestar both perked up and tightened his tail around his paws. Did Darkstripe go to the Aulmir? But why would he be there, when he could go anywhere?

Rookstar spoke next, even as ever. “You imply we have a spy in our midst.”

“Had,” Scourge said.

A bubble of anxious hope rose in Firestar’s chest, and he couldn’t help leaning forward and asking, “Is his name Darkstripe?”

Scourge’s eyes went to him with a lizard-like quickness. “Yes. He talked… a lot… about you.” His attention returned to the rest of the leaders. “We learned what we need. And what we don’t. Nothing of the Clans is a secret.”

Blackstar’s ears folded back. “One random warrior knows not a thing of all of us.”

“He does,” Scourge said quietly, “when he thinks it’ll save him.”

At this, the first patched tom stepped around his leader, went to the center of the ring of cats, and dropped the grey-and-black fluffy prey before backing away. Everyone peered at it, confused by the dull red tip on one end…

Then realization hit Firestar and he froze in place.

It wasn’t prey.

It was a tail.

Darkstripe’s tail.

“He kept talking about Firestar,” Scourge continued, his tone not changing one bit. “He needed encouragement. To stay on topic. He thought he could bargain with us… for a position of power.” Another tilting of the head. “He wanted revenge. The kittish sort. We want more than that.”

Rookstar looked up from the tail, and for the first time since Firestar had known him, his voice was unsteady. “And you want…”

Scourge straightened his head again, but his voice stayed monotone and halting. “Land. Prey. Homes. The Blood holds every cat in town. Not enough room for all of us. We’re expanding our territory.”

Firestar managed to find his voice. “Hold on, isn’t there another side of the Aulmir? The opposite way of our territories?”

“Not good enough,” was all Scourge said.

Leopardstar growled, her back-fur sticking straight up. “You’re not getting a whisker of territory from us. We have just as many cats as you do. More, likely.” Her claws on all four paws glinted in the moonlight. “And much better trained fighters.”

Scourge didn’t even look her way. His eyes went back to Firestar. “Your Darkstripe tried to get away. Once we had everything.” His eyes didn’t narrow; instead, his pupils turned to slits. “We don’t accept deserters.”

The patched tom with the underbite came forward now, and Firestar realized why he had such an odd expression when he opened his mouth and a small pile of little white, pointy things dropped onto the ground and scattered. He stepped back, too, while Firestar tried to figure out what those things were. They reminded him of Darkstripe’s usual curled lip and snarling face, the last thing he’d seen when—

…Teeth.

They were teeth.

By the Three.

“We can provide more,” Scourge said. “As much teeth, and as many tails, as it takes… for you to obey.”

Leopardstar jumped to her feet, furious… but Firestar caught fear in her eyes, too. “You think you can order us around?!”

“We do not intend to listen to monsters,” Blackstar agreed, his tail shivering. “Whatever your demands are, we do not heed them.”

Scourge’s left ear flicked, so slightly that Firestar wasn’t sure it did at all. “We know where your camps are. Where you keep your kits. Where your best hiding places are. How many cats you’ve lost during winter. Your holy place. Your holy nights. Which cats are most precious to you.” He calmly looked from leader to leader. “You will leave your lands. By the time the next full moon rises. We don’t mind a fight if you’re still here.”

Every Clan cat, from the warriors to the deputies, snarled or spat or shouted in anger.

“You’re not taking our territories!”

“How dare you threaten us!”

“We’re not fighting on a night of peace!”

“Then leaving will be easy,” Scourge replied to the last one.

Firestar stood up just as Dustpelt did, placed his tail on Dustpelt’s side to calm his bristling form, and spoke as kindly as he could once the shouting softened. “Scourge, with respect… we don’t want an unnecessary fight. There doesn’t have to be any conflict between us.”

“Correct,” Scourge said, meeting his eyes and sending that jolt of cold through his body again. “If you leave… there won’t be a fight at all.” He looked directly at Rookstar. “We accept kits. If they’re too slow for you.”

Another first—Rookstar’s long, doggish claws slid out and his yellow eyes narrowed. His words were even, slow and glass-clear. “We will kill as many of you as it takes for you to learn to leave us be.”

“Stay in your filthy Aulmir,” Leopardstar snapped. “The Clans aren’t going anywhere.”

Blackstar’s lip curled. “To threaten us on a sacred night is to invoke a wrath greater than you can imagine.”

“Hang on—” Firestar raised his voice, unable to not sound pleading. “We can figure something out that will help you with your need for land. I’m sorry the Aulmir is so crowded, but this is our home. We need it to survive. If we can just—”

“Firestar,” Rookstar said, “that’s enough.”

Firestar stared at him, stunned at the words delivered in as much of an order to shut up as Rookstar had ever given.

Rookstar continued, “We don’t fight on the full moon. We also don’t kill in battle.” His long, pointed ears went back smoothly. “Our ancestors will forgive us for forgetting our traditions to protect ourselves.”

Scourge didn’t move a single muscle, or even blink as he regarded Rookstar. There was a long, long pause, the tension in the air suffocating, then…

“Next full moon,” Scourge said, standing up. “You leave or you die. Make your choice.”

Before anyone could say anything, he turned and started off at a trot out of Fourtrees. His followers went after him, though Brick took a moment to linger and study Firestar in particular before giving a sideways cock of his head and following the others.

No one spoke for what felt like an eternity. Everyone looked at each other, at the way the Blood cats had gone, at the leaders, at the moon and stars, but still, silence.

“We’ll need to be in contact more than ever,” Rookstar said at last, breaking the quiet like the rronakrak* that had once saved Firestar’s life. “Guard your borders and keep a messenger ready. This won’t be a good month.”

“The audacity of attacking us on a waking night…” Leopardstar’s tail whipped back and forth, her teeth bared. “And threatening us with that stuff! I’ll be the one to rip his throat out, I promise you all that.”

“I fear for us, if I may speak with truth,” Blackstar said to Rookstar. “I have seen their population. It far outsizes our own, even with all of us together. Thlain cats crowd those streets, all hungry and many angry. We are in great danger no matter how well we work with each other.” Unusually for him, he shivered. “And we risk the wrath of StarClan by breaking the law of peace. Even more so, if we do intend to kill.”

Rookstar looked down at him, cooled down again. “You heard the runt. They won’t hesitate to kill us. The Three and StarClan will forgive us for a night of cruelty in the name of saving our homes and loved ones.”

“Who knows?” Leopardstar’s teeth grit together, her words hissing through them. “Maybe we’ll be rewarded for slaying a monster.”

“Either way,” Rookstar said, a half-warning in his tone as he looked at Leopardstar, “we’re doing what we must. At least we’re not killing any of our own.”

Firestar said nothing. He felt ill. His eyes kept returning to Darkstripe’s tail and his scattered teeth. He could see the faintest smears of blood on their tips. What in the world had he gone through before they no longer had any use for him?

What were the Clans as a whole going to go through if they didn’t stop this?

Mernatha, Thlainra, Suriin, Rokhar, Horoa, Mother, please… He started to tremble. Please help us. Give us an answer. Please don’t let this end in death and bloodshed.

No one answered him, but, oddly, a faint flash of sun-bright heat warmed his heart, just for a moment, then faded away. The cold of Scourge’s eyes lingered in the rest of him, like he had sunken into a deep bed of snow.

He didn’t know what he was going to do now.

The group had fallen into a jagged, uneven rhythm, their silhouettes stark against the turquoise horizon. At the vanguard, Hoseok moved with a frantic, forced energy. He was the scout, the one supposed to find the path, but today he seemed to be trying to outrun the very air they breathed. He pointed out interesting rock formations with an exaggerated flourish or whistled jaunty tavern tunes that died a brittle death in the salty wind. He was the only one trying to pretend the sky hadn't fallen, but the way his grip tightened on his bow told a different story.

"So," Jimin said, his voice cutting through the rhythmic crunch of their boots like a serrated blade. He was walking uncomfortably close to Y/N’s left side, his energy from the morning hadn't dissipated. He didn't look at the sea; he watched her hands, her feet, the way her shoulders moved. His hand hovered perpetually near the hilt of his twin daggers, as if he expected her to sprout wings or sink the path into the ocean at any moment.

"The earthquake back there," Jimin continued, his tone mockingly conversational. "Was that a one-time thing, or can you just decide to swallow a city whenever you’re particularly annoyed?"

Y/N stared straight ahead, her eyes fixed on the white dust of the road. "It wasn't a choice, Jimin. It was a failure of control."

"That’s worse," he snapped, his eyes flashing with a cold, defensive fire. "An intentional monster I can plan for. An accidental one? That’s just a disaster waiting for a bad mood. And your brother? Kathan, or Jungkook, or whatever name he's using while he guts our mentors. Can he make the earth move too, or does he just stick to burning palaces and killing old men?"

"We were born of blood and bone,” Y/N whispered, the words feeling like hot coals on her tongue. "the children of two who walked between the heavens and the mud. The power Jungkook inherited is pure, terrifying physical force. I’ve seen him tear an iron-oak from the earth, roots and all, just to use the trunk as a bludgeon. If he makes the ground shake, it’s not because his heart is breaking—it’s because he struck the world with the weight of a falling star. He isn't the earthquake. He’s the hammer."

"Fantastic. So he’s a butcher who can bench-press a mountain," Jimin muttered, a bitter, breathless laugh escaping his throat. He looked at his own hands, then back at the horizon, his jaw set in a hard line. "A man who treats stone like wet clay and plays with boulders like they’re pebbles. So tell me, child of heaven and mud, how do we stop a man who can swing an entire forest like a club? Does his heart still beat like a mortal's under that skeletal plate, or is that made of granite, too?"

While Jimin looked for a weakness to exploit, Jin looked for a meaning to archive. He was trotting on Y/N’s right side, seemingly oblivious to Jimin’s hostility. Every few minutes, he would fumble with his bag, pulling out a small charcoal stick and a scrap of yellowed parchment to jot down notes with a scholarly fever that even the scent of smoke hadn't fully quenched.

"Twelve hundred years," Jin mused, his eyes bright with a hunger for knowledge that bordered on the obsessive. "Y/N, the texts from the archives—the ones we thought were allegories—they say the Nine weren't just kings; they were manifestations of the raw elements. Did you actually see them? Was the High Sanctum truly made of solid, sun-pressed gold, or was that just poetic license from the New Era bards?"

"It was white marble," Y/N replied, her voice softening despite herself. "The gold was just the way the light hit the spires at noon. And the Nine... they weren't manifestations. They were just powerful. And very, very arrogant. My father didn't represent the storm; he was the storm. If he was angry, the crops failed. If he was pleased, the sailors had wind. There’s a difference between a symbol and a source, Jin."

"And the God-Fall?" Jin pressed, leaning in so close he nearly tripped over a loose stone. "The scrolls say the world screamed for three days when the heavens broke. Was it a literal sound? A vibrational shift in the atmosphere? Or a metaphor for the shifting of the continental plates?"

Y/N frowned, a line of confusion deepening between her brows. She slowed her pace, the name clicking against her memories but finding no lock. "The God-Fall? I don't know what that is, Jin."

Jin paused, his charcoal stick hovering over the paper. "What do you mean? It’s the end of everything. The disappearance of the Nine. The silence of the heavens."

Y/N shook her head slowly. "When the stone was sealed around Jungkook and me, the Nine were still very much alive. I’m sure they were sitting on their thrones in the High Sanctum, looking down at the ruins of the War of Darkness. The last thing I remember was my mother crying and Jungkook holding my hand. To me, that was the end. If the gods fell afterward... I was already asleep in the dark."

The scholarly light in Jin’s eyes flickered, replaced by a profound, hollow disappointment. He looked at her as if she were a library that had burned down just before the final chapter was written. "You mean... you don't know why they left? You don't know what happened to the Light?"

"If you’re looking for a grand explanation for why your sky is empty," Y/N said, her voice turning cold, "you're asking a ghost who died before the funeral started."

Jin looked down at his parchment, his notes suddenly feeling small and insignificant. He looked at her, and for a moment, the scholar vanished, replaced by the man who had spent the night stitching together broken bodies. He saw the grief she was carrying—the weight of an entire era resting on two shoulders.

Twenty paces behind the rest, Taehyung walked in a world of his own. He didn't look at the sea, and he certainly didn't look at Y/N. He kept his gaze fixed on the heels of her boots, his expression a mask of stony, unreadable silence. Every time she glanced back, hoping for even a flicker of the boy who had laughed with her on the cliffs, he looked away, his jaw tightening until the muscle leapt in his cheek.

Yoongi slowed his pace, his uneven gait rhythmic against the stone, until he was shoulder-to-shoulder with the young knight. He took a slow, deliberate pull from a small silver flask and offered it to Taehyung.

"Water?" Yoongi asked, his voice as dry as the road.

"I'm fine," Taehyung replied, his voice clipped and cold.

"You're not fine. You're brooding," Yoongi said, capping the flask with a metallic click. "And you're doing it loudly. It’s giving me a headache, and I’ve already got a bruise on my ribs the size of a dinner plate."

"She lied to us, Yoongi. For a year." Taehyung finally spoke, the words bursting out of him like a suppressed wound. "She watched us train. She ate at our tables. She let me tell her my secrets while she sat there being... that." He gestured vaguely toward Y/N’s back with a gloved hand. "And then her brother kills the only father I ever knew, and we’re just supposed to follow her into the sunset? Like we're part of her legend?"

"She didn't lie about the person she is, kid. She just didn't tell you the land she was born in," Yoongi countered, his gaze unreadable as he watched Y/N navigate the path ahead. "The silent treatment isn't going to bring Varian back, and it isn't going to make her normal again. You’re just hurting yourself. And honestly? Look at her."

Yoongi nodded toward the front, where Jimin and Jin were still flanking her like a pincer attack of interrogation and awe.

"She looks like she’s already carrying the weight of the mountain she cracked," Yoongi said softly. "If you keep this up, you're going to lose the friend you had and the ally you need. And going up against Ravanis, we’re going to need every ounce of demigod she’s got just to stay alive."

Taehyung didn't answer, but his pace faltered for a heartbeat. He looked at her—really looked at her—and for the first time, he didn't just see a demigod. He saw a girl in a stolen cloak, walking toward a war she didn't want, flanked by people who were either afraid of her or obsessed with her.

He gripped the strap of his shield until his knuckles turned white, but he didn't move up to join her. The distance between them remained twenty paces, but the silence felt slightly less like a wall and more like a bridge that had simply lost its planks.

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The sun didn't so much set as it surrendered, sinking behind the Bayvern mountains in a bruised sprawl of violet and dying orange. As the light failed, the temperature on the coastal road plummeted, the wind shifting from a salty breeze to a biting, predatory chill that rattled the dry gorse bushes along the path.

Hoseok led them into a shallow limestone hollow, a natural windbreak just off the Kingsway. The silence of the journey followed them into the camp, thick and suffocating. There was no easy chatter, no jests about sore feet or the quality of the trail. There was only the rhythmic, hollow thud of gear being dropped onto the dirt.

Hoseok immediately set to work, his movements efficient but lacking their usual grace. He gathered scrawny bits of driftwood and dried brush, his hands shaking slightly as he struck flint against steel. When the small flame finally caught, he didn't cheer. He just stared at the flickering orange light as if it were a fragile thing that might vanish if he breathed too hard.

"We should keep the fire low," Jimin said, his voice cutting through the crackle of the wood. He wasn't helping with the camp chores. He sat on a flat rock directly across from Y/N, his cloak pulled tight, his eyes never leaving her face. "We don't know who—or what—is following us out of the ruins."

"Nothing is following us, Jimin," Y/N said, her voice sandpaper-dry. She was sitting at the edge of the light, her knees drawn to her chest. She felt like an open wound exposed to the air. "Jungkook got what he came for. He doesn't care about a handful of survivors in a ditch."

"Is that right?" Jimin leaned forward, the firelight casting dancing, demonic shadows across his sharp features. "You seem very certain about the whims of a mass murderer. Tell me, does your divine connection give you a direct line to his thoughts, or are you just guessing?"

"Jimin, leave it," Yoongi grunted. He was leaning against the stone wall of the hollow, his arms crossed, his eyes closed. He looked like he was sleeping, but the way his ears twitched at every snap of the fire suggested otherwise.

"I’m just trying to establish the rules of our new reality," Jimin countered, his gaze sliding back to Y/N. "Do you even need to eat? Or sleep? Or are we just carrying extra grain for a girl who lives on starlight and ancient grudges?"

The tension in the hollow was already thick enough to choke the small fire, but at Jimin’s words, it curdled into something dangerously sharp.

Y/N felt the tectonic pressure of her wrath building behind her ribs, a heat that had nothing to do with the flickering driftwood. She looked at Jimin, and for a split second, her eyes didn't look like the eyes of the girl who had spent a year wandering the docks. They shone like the sunset on the water—golden and fierce.

"You want a rule, Jimin? Here is the only one that matters." Her voice was low, vibrating with a resonance that seemed to bypass the ears and settle directly in the marrow of their bones. "My ability to keep the earth beneath your boots from opening up is tied directly to how much energy I have to spend on my temper. My control is a thread, and right now, after watching my brother murder the only world I had left, that thread is frayed to the point of snapping."

As she spoke the final word, a subtle, violent shiver ran through the limestone floor of the hollow. It wasn't a roar—it was a ghost of a tremor, just enough to make the tin cups in their packs clink together with a frantic, metallic chatter. A handful of dust shook loose from the ledge above Jin’s head, dusting his shoulders in white powder.

Hoseok froze, his hand suspended over the fire, his breath catching in a hitch of pure, instinctual alarm. He looked at the ground as if it had suddenly turned into thin ice.

Jin didn't flinch, but his eyes went wide, his scholarly mind cataloging the event with a mix of terror and grim fascination. He watched a small pebble roll off a nearby rock and settle in the dirt, his charcoal stick snapping clean in half between his fingers. He saw the physical toll it took on her—the way her jaw locked and her knuckles turned the color of bleached bone.

Yoongi didn't move a muscle, but he shifted his weight, pressing his boots more firmly into the vibrating stone. He looked like a man bracing himself for a storm he had seen coming since they left the city gates. He let out a slow, measured breath, waiting for the vibration to die.

In the shadows, Taehyung’s hand clamped onto the hilt of his sword. He didn't draw it, but the reflex was there—sharp and defensive. He looked at Y/N through the smoke, his brow furrowed not with curiosity, but with the weary realization that the person he had cared for was now a force of nature he couldn't protect himself against.

"So keep pushing me," Y/N continued, the tremor subsiding as she forced her breathing to slow, though the air in the hollow still felt charged with static. "And you’ll find out exactly how much starlight I live on."

She reached into her pack and pulled out a strip of the salted beef Father Orin had given her, tearing off a piece with a sharp, violent tug of her teeth.

"I bleed, I eat, and I am currently exhausted enough to wish the earth would actually swallow me for a change," she spat, her voice cracking with the weight of her grief. "Does that satisfy your curiosity, or do you want to check for a heartbeat too?"

Jimin didn't flinch. He watched the last of the dust settle, his expression a mask of cold, stubborn skepticism. He had felt the world shake, and he had seen the power, but it hadn't bought his trust. If anything, the display had only confirmed his deepest fear: that they were traveling with a live coal in a room full of explosives.

"I’d prefer to check for a conscience," Jimin whispered, the words slicing through the silence like a scalpel. He didn't wait for a response. He simply turned his back on her and stared into the fire, leaving the echo of the tremor to haunt the rest of the night.

Jin moved between them then, the ultimate diplomat of the mundane. He had been quiet since the history lesson on the road, but his hands remained busy. He laid out a clean cloth and began portioning out the sourdough bread and dried fruit, his movements precise and clinical.

"Eat," Jin commanded softly, sliding a portion toward Y/N. He didn't look at her with the same hero-worship he’d had an hour ago. There was a new, wary distance in his eyes, but his instinct to care for the living was stronger than his fear of the ancient. "You’re pale. And your hands are shaking. Even demigods can succumb to shock, Y/N."

"I'm fine, Jin," she whispered, though the bread tasted like sawdust in her mouth.

"You're not," he said simply, turning to check the bandage on Yoongi’s shoulder without being asked. "None of us are. We’re all just pretending the world still has a floor."

In the darkest corner of the hollow, furthest from the fire, Taehyung sat alone. He had unbuckled his silver pauldrons, leaving them in a heap of metal that caught the flickering light like discarded scales. He was sharpening his longsword with a whetstone, the rhythmic, metallic shriiink... shriiink... shriiink the only sound in the camp for a long time.

The sound was a heartbeat. A countdown. Y/N looked at him, wanting to say something—anything—to bridge the twenty paces that still sat between them. She wanted to tell him she was sorry about Varian. She wanted to tell him that she missed the boy who had tried to teach her how to skim stones.

But every time she caught his eye, he looked through her. To Taehyung, the girl he had known was dead, replaced by a statue of marble and myth.

"I'll take the first watch," Hoseok volunteered, his voice startlingly loud in the oppressive quiet. He stood up, grabbing his bow. "The rest of you... try to get some rest. We have a long climb tomorrow."

Y/N leaned her head back against the cold limestone. The stars were coming out now—sharp, uncaring points of light that had watched her world burn a thousand years ago and were now watching this one do the same. She felt a profound, aching loneliness. She was surrounded by the only people she had left in the world, yet she had never felt more like an intruder.

"Don't let the fire go out," Jimin whispered, his eyes closing at last, though his hand remained clamped firmly around the hilt of his dagger. "I don't want to wake up in the dark with you."

Y/N pulled Father Orin’s heavy wool cloak tighter around her shoulders. It smelled of incense and old parchment—the scent of the only home that hadn't tried to kill her today. She closed her eyes, but sleep didn't come. Only the memory of a brotherly smile, and the crushing weight of the hammer that had replaced it.

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By the time the sun had fully cleared the horizon, they were a thin line of shadows moving along the cliff’s edge. The formation had changed, a silent consensus reached during the packing of the mules.

Yoongi and Hoseok took the lead, flanking Y/N. It was a deliberate move, a living shield designed to keep her away from the simmering resentment at the back of the line. Hoseok continued pointing out landmarks—the distant silhouette of a watchtower, the way the gulls circled over a hidden reef—his chatter a thin veil over the tension. Yoongi remained his usual, quiet self, but he stayed close enough that his shoulder occasionally brushed Y/N’s, a grounded, steady presence that didn't ask for explanations.

Jin walked in the center, acting as a human buffer. He moved with a stiff-backed dignity, his medical satchel clinking rhythmically. He spent most of the morning checking the line, drifting back to see if Taehyung’s pace was steady, then moving forward to offer Y/N a piece of dried honeycomb “for the nerves”. He was the bridge, the only one still trying to maintain the fiction that they were a single unit.

At the rear, the atmosphere was poisonous.

Jimin walked with his head down, his steps heavy. He wasn't looking at the scenery; he was staring at the back of Y/N’s head with a look of pure, unadulterated suspicion.

"You see the way she walks?" He muttered to Taehyung, his voice a low, jagged hiss. "Like she owns the very dirt she’s trying to kill us with. A year, Tae. A whole year she played the waif while her brother was sharpening his sword in Ravanis. You really think she didn't know? You think a god just forgets their family is a pack of wolves?"

Taehyung didn't answer. He looked exhausted, his silver armor reflecting the dull grey sky. He was staring at the rhythmic puff of dust from Y/N's boots, his jaw tight.

"She’s a liability," Jimin continued, his voice rising just enough to catch the wind. "We’re escorting a walking disaster to a port where she can vanish, leaving us to explain to the Princess why a 'friend' of the Guard is the reason her father is in a shroud. It’s a joke. She’s probably laughing at us under that hood."

"Jimin, stop," Taehyung said, his voice a low warning.

"Why? Because it hurts your feelings? Look at what she did to the courtyard, Tae! Look at the King! She’s not the girl who sat on the beach with you. She’s a relic of a war that should have stayed buried. She’s a—"

"I said stop!"

Taehyung’s voice cracked like a whip, echoing off the rock face and causing the entire line to stumble to a halt, several heads turning to look back. He turned on Jimin, his chest heaving, his eyes blaring with a sudden, sharp agony.

"You think I don't know?" Taehyung shouted, his hand white-knuckled on the strap of his shield. "You think I don't feel every bit of the betrayal? Varian is gone, Jimin! My mentor is ashes! I know who she is better than anyone else here, and I know exactly what we’ve lost."

He stepped closer to his Captain, his voice dropping to a trembling, furious whisper. "But she is the only person on this gods-forsaken road who actually knows how to stop that monster. So you can hate her, and you can talk your shit, but you will not do it while I'm standing here. Because if she's a relic, then we're just the dust she’s walking on. Leave her alone."

The silence that followed was absolute. Even the gulls seemed to stop screaming.

Y/N didn't turn around. She stood frozen at the front of the line, her shoulders hunched, her hands buried deep in the pockets of her wool cloak. Yoongi placed a hand on her arm—not to hold her back, but just to let her know he was there.

Jimin stared at Taehyung, his mouth slightly open, the shock of being dressed down by his subordinate momentarily silencing his rage. He looked at the younger knight—really looked at the hollows under his eyes and the way his hands were shaking—and saw the true depth of the wound.

"Fine," Jimin said, his voice cold as the sea spray. "Have it your way. But don't come crying to me when the ground opens up again." He pushed past Taehyung, moving to the very edge of the path to keep as much distance as possible.

Hoseok cleared his throat, the sound awkward and forced. "Right. Well. The Needle Crags are just ahead. Watch your footing, everyone. It's a long way down."

As the group lurched back into motion, the gap between the front and the back grew wider, the twenty paces of the morning stretching into thirty.

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By sunset of the second day, the copper spires of Altharia rose over the horizon like; bleeding needles. Built upon a series of tiered limestone cliffs that plunged into the Sapphire Sea, it was traditionally a city of white marble and snapping white sails—the jewel of the northern coast.

"Finally," Hoseok sighed, his voice thick with a exhaustion that even his relentless optimism couldn't mask. He wiped a smear of dust and salt from his brow. "A hot meal and a bed that doesn't have a geological grudge against my spine. With any luck, you'll be on a merchant brigantine by morning, and be well on your way to the Eastern Continent by dusk."

But as the road curved toward the Great Gate, the salt-spray air turned acrid. The harbor wasn't a forest of masts; instead, a single, massive warship sat anchored in the bay, its black sails unfurled like a shroud. The rest of the port was a graveyard of scorched timber, choked with oily black smoke that curled lazily toward the sunset. The massive iron sea-chain, usually submerged to allow trade, was raised high, dripping and rust-streaked, barring the bay like a serrated teeth.

At the landward gate, a double line of Altharian soldiers stood in a phalanx, their spears leveled at the road.

"Halt!" the lead guard cried out, his voice cracking with a tension that didn't belong in a sister-city. "The city is closed by order of the Council. No ships leave, and no strangers enter. Ravanis has taken the northern waters, and the Chancellor has declared a state of siege!"

The spears didn't waver. They were a physical barrier against the desperation of the road, the tips glinting with a cold, orange light.

Jin stepped forward, the transition in his posture instantaneous. He smoothed his traveling tunic and adjusted the strap of his medical satchel, adopting the calm, heavy-lidded authority of a man who spent his days moving between the shadows of high priests and the light of kings.

"Peace, friends," Jin said, his voice resonant and soothing, carrying over the wind. "I am Seokjin, Senior Archivist and Healer of the Katayn Sanctum. My companions and I have traveled from the south through the smoke of our own home. Katayn has fallen, and we seek sanctuary within the Altharian Church. I carry a personal missive from Father Orin for your Bishop."

The lead guard, a man with a face like weathered leather and eyes clouded by fear, didn't lower his point. "The Bishop is praying for the souls of the drowned, Archivist. My orders come from the Chancellor’s palace, not the altar: no one enters while the black sails are on the horizon. Not even the cloth."

"We have wounded," Hoseok chirped in, gesturing toward Yoongi’s bruised side and the hollow, haunted lines on all their faces. "And surely Altharia doesn't turn away her sister-city in her hour of need? We’re of the same blood."

The guard sighed, his gaze sweeping over the ragged, dust-covered group. He looked less like a soldier and more like a man waiting for a blow to land. "Fine. Names. I’ll take a list to the Captain. If he says you’re clear, you’re in. If not... you sleep in the dirt tonight."

The guard pulled a small slate and a charcoal stylus from his belt.

"Hoseok of the Western Scouts," Hoseok said with a practiced, weary bow.

"Jimin, Knight-Captain of Katayn," Jimin added, his voice stiff as a frozen board.

"Taehyung, Knight-Guard."

"Yoongi."

The guard’s gaze shifted to Y/N. She was standing slightly behind Jin, her hood pulled low against the biting wind. Despite her exhaustion, the hum in her blood—that low vibration of power—was reacting to the hostility of the spears. She didn't want to say it. She wanted to be the Archivist's apprentice, a nameless girl from the beach, a ghost.

But under the guard's impatient, piercing stare, the lie died in her throat.

"Y/N," she murmured.

The guard stopped writing. The stylus froze against the slate, then slipped from his fingers, clattering against the white stone. He looked up, his eyes widening until the whites showed all the way around.

"Y/N?" he repeated, the command in his voice vanishing, replaced by a hollow, breathless awe. "Just... Y/N?"

"Yes," she said, her hand moving instinctively toward her hip, searching for a sword that was no longer there.

The transformation was terrifying. The guards didn't just step back; they snapped into a crisp, frantic salute. The spears were retracted so quickly the shafts clattered against their breastplates.

"Open the gate!" the leader barked, his voice jumping an octave. "Clear the way! Messenger, run to the palace! Tell the Chancellor the Primary Guest has arrived!"

He turned back to them, his face ashen. "My lady, forgive the delay. We had no idea. Please, allow us to provide a personal escort to the High Palace immediately. The Chancellor has been... expecting someone of your description for three days."

The group went dead silent. A cold, heavy weight dropped into the pit of Y/N's stomach. Jimin’s hand flew to the hilt of his dagger, his eyes darting toward her with a look of pure, unadulterated betrayal. Taehyung finally looked at her, his expression a mosaic of shock and new, sharp suspicion.

Jin, ever the diplomat, sensed the snare before the jaws could snap shut. If they went to the palace now, they weren't guests; they were cargo being delivered to a warehouse.

"That is... most generous," Jin said, stepping smoothly in front of Y/N, using his larger frame to shield her from the guard's predatory gaze. "However, the lady is beyond exhaustion, as are we all. We appreciate the offer, but the Father at the Church will have adequate room for us. I have Father Orin’s letter to deliver, and it is far too late to disturb the Chancellor with such an informal arrival."

"But the Chancellor was very specific—" the guard started, his voice desperate.

"And Father Orin was very specific that I deliver this letter tonight," Jin countered, his voice turning pleasantly firm—the tone he used when a novice dared to speak in the Great Library. "We will go to the Sanctum. We can discuss the palace in the morning light."

The guards hesitated, caught between the terrifying orders of their Chancellor and the ancient, spiritual weight of the Church. The memory of the Primary Guest title won out; they were too afraid to touch her, but too afraid to let her go.

"As you wish, Archivist," the leader said. "We will escort you to the Sanctum doors to ensure your... safety."

please tell me what you think? i waited so long to post this chapter because i really didn't think anyone was reading and enjoying it. even just a few words or an emoji will really help me along. thank you so much for reading!!