#fic.copy

Darkness embraced the Prince of the Underworld once more as the current of the Styx pulled him beneath its crimson tide. The water, thick and cold, washed over his countless cuts and bruises, dulling the pain until it dissolved into something distant, almost dreamlike. Death had long since lost its sting for Zagreus. Now, as the Underworld’s security specialist , a position that suited him perhaps too well, he allowed himself to drift, surrendering to the familiar quiet between battles.

There had been so much unrest in the House of Hades lately. New disturbances, old tensions resurfacing, and now, word of a sister from the future who needed his aid. Whatever the cause, Zagreus had thrown himself into his work, pushing through the Underworld’s defenses with relentless determination, searching for any sign of their grandfather’s stirring. In the face of such constant struggle, the cool embrace of the Styx was almost a mercy. A rare, blood red reprieve.

As he floated deeper into its current, Zagreus dreamed, as he often did, of battle. He relived his final moments: the blow that felled him, the taste of iron, his blood mingling with that of countless other lost souls in the river’s eternal flow. The Styx did not fail him, bringing him back to the House every time. Perhaps she was kind to him… or perhaps she simply could not refuse the Prince.

Then, his dreams shifted. He saw them, his shade. Always there, waiting beside the Pool of Styx, watching the records with Hypnos and keeping idle count of his returns. They were his shade, his alone, no matter what others might say. Even when they laughed at his latest defeat, teasing how the great Prince of the Underworld could have fallen to such a foe, Zagreus never minded. Their laughter, their smile, those small moments of light, were caused by him, for him, and it made everything better.

They would sit together in the lounge, as they always did. Zagreus’s first bottle of ambrosia was reserved for them alone, a quiet ritual after each return from death. They would drink and laugh, and Zagreus would tell his stories: of the shades wandering Tartarus, of the blistering heat of Asphodel, of the endless fight against the champions of Elysium, and the biting snow of the surface world above. His tales never seemed to end, each one vivid and alive, and the shade would listen with rapt attention, eyes bright as gemstones, as though his words were the only light left in the afterlife.

When the amber drink had settled warmly in their veins, they would retreat to the Prince’s bedchamber, a messy sanctuary of soft blankets and lavish pillows, far removed from the gloom of the House. There, the shade would speak in turn, voice gentle and unhurried, telling stories far more ordinary: of their endless administrative duties, of misplaced scrolls and impossible deadlines, and of the small frustrations that made up their afterlife. And Zagreus would listen, smiling, because though they were his shade, he was their Prince, and that balance felt more sacred than any vow.

The dream began to dissolve like mist on the river. Zagreus stirred, the cool pull of the Styx loosening its hold as he rose once more from the Pool, weapon still clutched in hand. The familiar clamor of the House greeted him: shades drifting about their tasks, attendants bustling through the marble halls, and Lord Hades himself presiding over a mountain of paperwork, hearing the endless petitions of the dead.

Zagreus’s gaze drifted to Hypnos’s post, the usual place where his shade waited to greet him with laughter or mockery over his latest demise. But this time, the spot was empty. Hypnos’s usual jabs fell on deaf ears as Zagreus’s attention lingered on the absence.

“They must be waiting for me in the lounge,” he thought.

The walk to the lounge is a short one. Zagreus greets friends and familiar shades along the way, trading a few words with his father, Hades, and with Nyx, before stepping inside. The lounge hums with its usual life, the soft chatter of shades, the clink of glasses, the faint echo of music. His eyes sweep the room: Megaera and Dusa sit gossiping together in the corner, Achilles and Patroclus share a quiet drink at the bar, a handful of other souls linger over cards and conversation.

But not his shade.

Perhaps their duties in the administrative chamber are taking longer than expected. Or perhaps, he tells himself with a small, wry smile, they simply have other things to do. Friends to see, a life (or afterlife) of their own. It would be unfair to assume they should spend every waking moment by his side. Still, an unexpected heaviness settles in his chest as he turns away, making his way toward his bedchamber.

There, Zagreus finds them.

Curled up amidst the silken blankets and soft pillows, their form rises and falls in the quiet rhythm of sleep. For a moment, he just stands in the doorway, the tension melting from his shoulders. A laugh, low and fond, escapes him.

“You missed the date I had planned for us,” he murmurs, the words more a caress than a reprimand. He moves softly through the dim chamber, setting aside his weapon before slipping beneath the covers. The shade’s body is cold against his, yet the moment he gathers them into his arms, warmth floods through him, not the searing burn of Asphodel’s flames, nor the biting sting of battle, but something gentler. Something whole.

Love, he thinks.

Zagreus rarely sleeps, Styx offers him rest enough. But tonight, as he closes his eyes and lets the world fade into dream, he allows himself this peace. Because they are his shade, and he is their Prince.

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ꕥ ❀。• *₊°。 ❀°。

“Liar.”

Edward says it calmly, without a flicker of doubt, as though he’s speaking a fact long settled. His gaze cuts toward the person seated beside him. They stare back, mouth parting in faint disbelief. Then they laugh. It isn’t the sound of amusement. There’s a brittle edge to it, something tight beneath the surface, and it does not escape the quartermaster.

“Really?” they ask. “You really think that?” “I do,” Edward replies, almost too quickly, before the question even finishes. A shift runs through the room.

“Do you not trust me?” the captain asks, their eyes locking onto his. Sharp and assessing, Searching for hesitation, for uncertainty, anything they might exploit. But they find none. “Not when you lie to me,” Edward answers, cool as a winter tide, as if the topic of conversation is the weather. The crew watches in silence. No one moves. No one dares speak, lest they miss the spectacle before them.

“So Silverhold meant nothing to you?” the captain scoffs. “I risked my neck for you.” Edward nods, slow and deliberate, but his expression does not soften. “Even after all we’ve been through, you still don’t trust my word-”

“The only way to have me trust you,” Edward cuts in, voice steady as steel, “is not to lie to me.” He does not flinch beneath the captain’s stare and they know they’ve lost. “I’m not lying,” the captain tries again, but the conviction has thinned. “Then prove it.” Edward gestures toward the table between them. “Pick ‘em up.”

A beat.

“Show us the cards.”

The captain gives their quartermaster one final look, before reaching for the cards and turning them over. A jack. A ten of hearts, not the pair of jacks they had claimed.

The crew erupts. Laughter crashes over the table, loud and merciless. A few jeers are thrown in for good measure as the captain groans and gathers the pile of cards accumulated throughout the round. Their comfortable lead vanishes in an instant. Edward merely smirks. He lifts his flask to his lips and takes a slow, satisfied swig of rum.

“Honestly,” the captain mutters, struggling to keep their hand of cards from spilling everywhere, “it’s unfair how easily you can tell when I’m lying.” The tension that had filled the room moments ago dissolves entirely. “Takes all the fun out of it,” they add, sliding a card facedown onto the table. “One king.”

“Ye wear yer heart on yer sleeve, Cap’n!” someone calls from across the table. “‘Specially when it comes to Kenton!” another chimes in. The table explodes again with laughter and pounding fists. The captain pointedly studies their cards, doing their best to ignore the heat creeping into their face. Edward clears his throat and adds another king to the pile.

The game rolls on, card by card, bluff by bluff, until only two players remain. Edward places his final cards down with deliberate calm. “Two jacks.” His tone is simple, but there’s an unmistakable edge beneath it. A challenge. The captain meets his stare. The room quiets.

“You’re lying.”

Edward doesn’t hesitate. “That’s the difference between us.” He flips the cards. Two jacks, hearts and clubs, just like he had claimed. “I would never lie to you.”

The crew howls as the captain slumps back in defeat, having lost this liars’ game.

The River Cocytus whispered tonight, its current heavy with muted prayers and the unspoken laments of both the dead and the living. To most, its voice was a torment, a reminder of sorrow without end. To a lone shade perched at the edge of a weathered pier, it was a lullaby. They released a soft sigh, an echo of a habit from mortal days, lingering still despite their lack of breath or lungs, and let the night breeze drift through their half-corporeal form.

They had just returned from the surface giving their report to Odysseus, ever the shrewd mind of the Crossroads. Nothing unusual to recount: a handful of Chronos’s soldiers, though most of the trouble came from the lingering beasts that prowled the ruins of Ephyra. Routine and predictable. And so, with the night washed silver by the moon, the shade let their feet dangle into the dark waters and allowed their thoughts to drift back toward the affairs of the Crossroads.

Princess Melinoë had already departed once more into the depths of the Underworld. Another attempt, another impossible strike at Chronos himself. Such was her duty, the shade mused. A life of relentless striving, burdened with both expectation and somehow a predetermined notion of failure. Somewhere behind them, voices rose in animated chatter, but the shade did not listen. This moment was theirs. Visitors, duties, conversation, those could wait.

Then the voices fell silent. The shade almost turned, but the sound of heavy, measured footsteps reached them first. Nemesis. She strode past with her usual severity, flanked by two guardian shades likely bound for patrol. Her gaze swept over the pier without pause, passing through the lingering shade as though they were no more than mist, not to the surprise of the shade.

Once, that indifference had cut deep. Once, they had burned for her recognition, even dared to dream of training under the vigilant protector of the Crossroads. They had wanted greatness in death, to seize the second chance they’d never had in life, to carve a purpose that might endure time. But Nemesis had dismissed them without ceremony, disdain plain in her words. Unremarkable in life, unremarkable still in death.

The sting had dulled with time, though it never truly faded. What once burned as ambition had softened into something quieter. Not greatness, not immortality, just the steady resolve to do enough. Enough for Headmistress Hecate, for the Princess, for Odysseus and the other shades. Enough for the Crossroads. Enough to matter, even if only in small ways. A quiet yearning remained: to be better, to prove themselves worthy of trust. Suffering was common, almost effortless. Kindness, by contrast, was rare. And so they chose it, again and again.

But they had always been weak. In life, as in death. They could not protect anyone, not their home, not themselves. Their modest dwelling burned around them as the thieves rushed through, shoving every coin, every trinket, every cherished keepsake into their pockets. A knife had found its way deep into their abdomen, and they bled quietly in the corner. Smoke clawed at their lungs, stung their eyes, though perhaps it was only the blood filling them inside. Likely both. The thieves did not even look their way, granting them the final insult of being beneath notice. Such was the dignity of their death.

Only one gaze had lingered: a pair of deep, violet eyes. Unwavering, solemn. While the fire roared and the beams above split with a groan, while the thieves fled without a glance, those eyes remained. Watching. Bearing witness. To them, the tall, ashen figure was no terror, but a comfort. The only assurance that they would not die alone, when all else had already been stripped away.

In their haste, the last thief dropped a handful of coins. They scattered across the floor, one rolling, spinning, until it came to rest within reach of a trembling, bloodied hand. Wrenching their hands from Thanatos’ waiting grasp, their fingers closed around it, the searing metal burning their palm. They held it tightly, as if it were proof they had left the world with something still their own, something they can offer to the boatman. And as the ceiling gave way and the flames claimed them whole, their last breath was not a scream, but a sigh of relief.

The next time the shade saw those striking violet eyes was when Doom Incarnate himself, Lord Moros, appeared at the Crossroads, summoned at the behest of Princess Melinoë. Many had taken it as an ill omen then, to invite the bearer of calamity into their hidden refuge was a questionable decision at best. Even Headmistress Hecate had her doubts, and the gathered shades, all victims of fate’s cruelty, could not help but remember the violence of their own ends.

The shade drew their feet from the river’s edge and leaned forward. From the pier, if one leaned just far enough, one could glimpse where Lord Moros had stationed himself beside the Fated List. At that moment, he was speaking with Princess Melinoë. (Had she returned early? Perhaps her fight below had gone poorly.) From this distance, the shade couldn’t make out their words, not that it mattered, for conversations in the Crossroads were always held in hushed tones. The Princess shifted slightly, her gaze moving over something inscribed upon the Fated List.

The shade had tried more than once to steal a glance at that divine record during the rare moments when Moros was not standing sentinel, but to no avail. All they ever glimpsed were letters in ceaseless motion, shimmering and reforming across the gold-woven surface, a language alive yet forever beyond mortal comprehension. The Fates had not written those words for them, and the prophecies were not meant for unchosen eyes. Speaking of eyes,

They froze.

Across the dim expanse, Lord Moros’ violet gaze found them. The shade couldn’t make out his expression from such a distance, yet the weight of that look was unmistakable. Heavy, deliberate, knowing. It cut clean through the haze of death and memory alike, dragging to the surface the image seared into their soul: fire consuming the walls, smoke clawing at their lungs, the iron scent of blood, the knife buried deep, and that final, fragile breath of relief before the end.

The shade tore their gaze away and rose abruptly. If they still possessed a heart, it would have been pounding against their ribs. Never before had a god’s eyes fixed upon them with such intent, so direct, so singular, that for one impossible moment, it felt as though the lowly shade was the only being left in existence. The thought unsettled them. They weren’t sure they were ready to bear the weight of being seen so completely, to become, even for a heartbeat, the center of someone’s gaze.

They exhaled a shaky breath, trying to scatter the storm that encounter had stirred within them. (Was it even an encounter? He had been so far away…)

Nothing steadied the mind quite like battle, they had learned. Perhaps it was time to return to the surface, to the torn ruins of Ephyra. If nothing else, the city’s remnants still offered what could be put to use: bones, nectar, ashes… remnants of lives lost. And in clearing the way, they could carve an easier path for the Princess when she next ascended toward Mount Olympus. Decision made, the shade turned from the Crossroads and vanished into the night.

—

It wasn’t long before the shade returned to the Crossroads. Their form was battered and faintly flickering, weariness clinging to every motion, but such was the cost of rushing headlong into battle. It couldn’t be helped. Inside their satchel lay a modest cluster of bones, there had been little else to find today, and the shade had no wish to wander deeper into danger. They were not yet strong enough for the true frontlines, however much they longed to be. This would have to do. A few bones for their trouble. Enough, for now.

The bones still had their use. The shade made their way down to the Wretched Broker, by the same pier where they’d sat beneath the moonlight not long ago. The Broker’s wares were few, but scarcity was a given in wartime. Still, fortune favored them: a single bottle of nectar remained. The shade traded the bones, receiving the neatly wrapped bottle in exchange.

Their first thought was to drink it there by the pier, a small indulgence for work done, however minor. Yet, as they turned, their gaze caught the ashen form of Doom himself, standing alone beside the Fated List. Shades passed him at a cautious distance, their silence heavy, their disdain edged with fear. For all his divine bearing, he looked… lonely. Something in the sight struck the shade deeply.

“Lord Moros,” the shade began, their voice naturally soft like a breeze, though not uncertain. The god’s violet eyes turned to meet them, steady, unblinking, curious. No shades ever sought him out, much less dared to speak.

“I bring you this offering of nectar,” they continued, holding the bottle carefully between their fading hands. “I hope it is to your liking.”

The glass caught the faint light of the moon, its surface glowing silver while the liquid within shimmered a deep amber hue. Moros remained silent, his expression unreadable, and the stillness between them stretched thin. The shade’s confidence began to waver. Had they done something wrong? Was the offering unworthy of him, or perhaps it was improper to speak to him at all? Unease crept in, and before they could stop themselves, words began to spill out.

“You were there… in my final moments,” they murmured. “And I wished to show my gratitude. I hope I’m not overstepping.”

“I… thank you. I don’t quite know what to say to such kindness,” Lord Moros murmured, his voice low and resonant as he accepted the bottle from the shade’s trembling hands. The faint brush of his fingers against theirs sent a ripple through the shade’s body. Relief washed through them like warmth through veins long stilled. They dared to look up, at his face, though not into his eyes, and straightened from their bow, uncertain of what came next.

In life, they had made many offerings to the gods, but never like this, never face to face. Offerings were meant for altars, for temples, for unseen hands beyond mortal reach. There was no opportunity for an ordinary soul to stand so near to divinity, let alone offer a gift directly. And even if such a chance arose, encounters between gods and mortals seldom ended kindly for the latter. They were just beginning to step back, to retreat into the safety of silence, when Moros spoke again.

“I have not received offerings from mortals before,” he said, turning the bottle in his hand as though studying the way moonlight caught the amber within. “Only the Princess has granted me nectar until now.”

The shade froze. Surely this was a test, some divine trick meant to expose arrogance or ignorance. “H-how can that be?” they stammered, words tumbling out in a fragile whisper. “You… you play such an important role in mortal life, granting us dignity in our final moments. How could it be that my humble offering is the first of its kind?”

Moros’ expression softened, the faintest trace of something melancholic flickering across his features. “Mortals seldom see it as you do,” he said quietly. “They meet me in fear, not reverence. My presence is not a blessing to them, but an end to be fled from. It cannot be helped.”

The shade struggled to comprehend it. Death came for all, it was as certain as the turning of the stars. Why, then, did mortals despise the inevitable so fiercely? Why scorn the one who carried it with such quiet duty? Did they not see that life’s worth was shaped by its impermanence? And yet, unfairly, they condemned the bearer of their fate. Lord Moros, who spoke with such calm and courtesy, more so than the other gods the shade had heard tales of.

“Then I shall bring you more offerings,” the shade declared, their voice steadier now, each word lending substance to their half-corporeal form. “For all the ones you have yet to receive.” Gratitude laced their tone, and for the first time, they met Lord Moros’ gaze directly. The deep violet of his eyes flickered with surprise, an expression the shade had never seen, and one they were wholly unprepared for, however, strangely it did not deter them.

“Such a promise… I must confess, I am wary,” Moros murmured, uncertainty creeping into his voice. “The gods above are more deserving of your offerings.” Though not meant as a warning, the words carried the weight of one, a reminder of how easily a god could take offense, and the peril that could follow. It would be a pity if the shade standing in front of him now were to be hit with a calamity they were not deserving of. Yet the shade remained undeterred.

“The other gods receive countless gifts already,” they said softly, their lifeless eyes gleaming with quiet resolve. “Please… I insist.” Their tone dipped to a whisper, as if fearful the gods above might somehow overhear this act of defiance, though such a thing was impossible. The Crossroads were hidden, even from them.

“I shall find you something truly exquisite!” Without waiting for a reply, the shade bowed deeply, saluted the god, and turned on their heels, already racing toward the ruins of Ephyra in search of something worthy. Odysseus’ waiting report was forgotten in the urgency, swept aside by the fire of their newfound purpose. Nothing mattered now but finding a gift befitting the Doom Incarnate, and honoring the quiet, improbable connection that had formed between mortal and god.

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ꕥ ❀。• *₊°。 ❀°。

Night on Windrow Island was quiet, a rare calm after the storm of recent days. The wind moved through the trees like a low hymn, their leaves whispering a lullaby to the weary. By the campfire sat two figures: Iris, the anomaly, and the captain, a king killer still bound in bandages after the brutal clash with King Calvus of Ravenna. Between them stretched an easy silence, punctuated only by the faint snores of their companions in the tents nearby.

From the shadows, a third figure emerged. Neither Iris nor the captain stirred in alarm, they knew the sound of those footsteps by heart. They welcomed him with smiles: hers weary, the captain’s laced with quiet affection, as they shifted on the log to make room. The quartermaster returned the gesture, his own smile tired but warm, and dipped his head toward Iris in greeting.

“How are things on the ship?” the captain asked, patting the seat beside them.

“All is well, Captain,” Edward replied as he sat, stretching his hands toward the flames. The heat seeped into his skin, a welcome guest against the chill of the night.

For a while, the fire was their only voice. Embers rose and vanished on the wind, and the three drifted into their own thoughts. Iris wrestled with the loss of her father, tempered only by the knowledge that the tyrant who ordered his death was gone. Edward’s mind lingered on the ship and its crew, the weight of responsibility pressing down, heavy but worth bearing. And the captain… their thoughts were a tangle of worries, too many to name, too great to confess. Tonight, they focused only on keeping their friends and comrades safe.

It was Iris who broke the silence. “If we want the fire to last until morning,” she murmured, “we’ll need more wood.” She shifted as if to rise, but her eyes betrayed her. She had no strength left for an errand.

The captain saw it. Despite their wounds, they pushed to their feet with sudden energy. They winced, stumbled briefly, but refused to let pain show. Rest was a luxury they hadn’t known in days, yet still they moved, driven by one instinct alone: to protect the people they loved, even if it meant walking into the dark woods alone.

“Ah! I’ll go instead!”

The abruptness of it startled both Iris and Edward. Iris slumped back into her seat, relief softening her features. She felt she should have protested, normally, she would have, but her exhaustion weighed too heavy. She suspected she’d fall asleep in the first halfway-comfortable bush she found. “Well, if you insist,” she sighed, resting her chin in her hand.

“I’d better come along,” Edward said, rising as his eyes flicked to the captain’s bandaged frame. His voice was firm, though threaded with concern.

The captain only smiled, warmth in their gaze that refused to be hidden. Edward caught it, turned quickly away, and cleared his throat with a muttered, “Let’s go.” His eyes fixed on the tree line, the dark swallowing his expression.

The captain bent to offer Iris a soft well-wish, answered only with a tired hum, before moving to match Edward’s stride. The same adoring smile lingered on their face, unshaken. Edward kept his eyes ahead, silently praying the woods were dark enough to shield him from the captain’s gaze. Those eyes, filled with such open devotion, made his own feelings all the harder to ignore.

—

The campfire’s glow was little more than a faint shimmer between the trees when the captain crouched to gather a sturdy, dry branch, adding it to the bundle already in their arms. Fortune had been kind of late. Clear skies, steady winds, and dry ground made everything easier, from sailing to setting camp. Even the forest seemed to offer itself willingly tonight, its floor littered with crisp branches perfect for kindling.

“It’s calm out here,” they remarked, their voice carrying a rare, unguarded ease. “A welcome change of pace.”

A low chuckle answered from a short distance away. Edward emerged from the shadows, arms full of wood. Despite the captain’s tone, he kept sharp, watchful eyes on the treeline. The bandits who prowled this island had already tested their luck once, they’d been sent scattering easily enough, but Edward wasn’t about to risk finding his captain ambushed and bleeding in the dark. Not while he still drew breath.

“Aside from the bandits?” he said.

“Well, the bandits aren’t much trouble now, are they?” the captain quipped, a wry smile coloring their tone. Whatever dangers lurked here were nothing compared to what they had already endured.

Straightening, the captain shifted their gaze toward him, expression softening. “Oh, I meant to ask earlier. What of those Ravennian deserters we picked up on the shore? Are they adjusting well?”

Of course they would ask. Of course they would care. To the captain, there was no distinction between deserter and veteran, stranger and crew. The moment a man set foot on their ship, he was under the protection of both captain and quartermaster. Discipline and morale were the twin pillars of their command, and both required attention.

Edward considered his reply. He thought back to the day spent guiding the new men across the deck of the ship while the captain and their comrades secured the camp. He remembered the haunted eyes of the deserters, dulled by fatigue but lit again with something fragile: hope. Hope in a purpose that did not demand blind slaughter for a tyrant’s cause.

“It may take some time before they’re fully used to the ways of your ship,” Edward admitted, stooping to gather a few more sticks before rising again. “But it won’t be long. By the time we set sail, they’ll know their place among the crew.”

The captain crouched again, but their hand lingered in the dirt, tracing absent shapes while their thoughts drifted. Their eyes lifted from the earth, past the canopy, up into the stars that scattered the night sky. As if the moon herself might offer clarity.

“I can’t help but think about them,” they murmured. “They left their families behind, all because they refused to kill for a cause they never believed in, never even knew of…” Their sigh was heavy, shaped by unspoken memories arising once more. After a pause, their voice dropped to a softer timbre. “It reminds me of you.”

Edward stepped closer through the shadows and lowered himself onto a mossy rock beside them. He set the firewood down at his feet and leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, settling in for a conversation he knew would not be idle. Not that he would ever mind. Time alone with the captain was rare, precious even. He treasured it like something fragile, fleeting.

“Did you have a family when you deserted from the Grand Navy?” the captain asked at last. Their tone carried no judgment, only quiet curiosity, a yearning to know the man they trusted above all others.

“I did not,” Edward answered simply. There was no hesitation, no shield between him and the truth. He had never intended to hide his past from them. Not now. Not ever.

“But it wouldn’t have mattered,” Edward said, voice steady. “I would have left regardless.”

The captain had expected that answer. Edward never killed without cause; it was one of the many reasons they adored him. Men like him were rare in the War Seas. They thought, briefly and silently, how small the chain of chances had been that brought them together. If they hadn’t wandered onto that island, none of this would have happened. Fate had a way of handing them blessings in odd packages, and both of them were quietly grateful.

“Did you ever think about settling down?” the captain asked after a beat, then softened it. “I mean, actually settling. A home, a family?”

Edward shook his head. “Not really.” He sighed, eyes going inward as years unspooled in his mind: the eager youth who enlisted, the steady weight of command later on. “Sometimes someone would catch my eye,” he allowed with a wry edge, “but it never stuck. They were tied to port, I was tied to sea.” A small, bittersweet smile touched his lips. Goodbyes had once been unbearable, now they felt inconsequential. “Hazard of the job, I suppose.”

“And now?” the captain pressed, casual curiosity coloring the question. It landed like a pebble in still water, simple, but with ripples. Edward felt the catch beneath it, an easy trap that could expose something private. The captain’s grin widened, light and teasing.

Edward opened his mouth, then closed it. The admission felt dangerous in the quiet between them. The captain laughed. Not cruelly, but delighted, at how a childish question could unsettle such a steady man. Moonlight sifted through leaves and caught the bright edges of their joyful tears as they spilled into the night. Edward cleared his throat. “What would you have done, when placed in the position of the Ravennian deserters?” he asked, steering the conversation away from himself.

The captain grew thoughtful, smile softening into something more complex. “I don’t remember having a family, or much of a past, really.” Their eyes tracked the rustling branches above as if the leaves might offer answers. Then their voice hardened into a calm resolve. “If it came to it now,” they said, looking back at Edward, “I would kill them.”

“The innocents?” Edward asked, disbelief softening his voice.

“No.” The captain’s gaze stayed on the canopy overhead. “The ones who threaten them. The innocents, my family, the people.” Then they turned, meeting Edward’s wide eyes. The topic was heavy but not unpleasant, it felt intimate, a private world shared between them. The captain added, quietly, “Like the king of Ravenna.” The rest, how they had taken his life, went unspoken.

A corrupted tyrant who sent innocents to their deaths for his ambitions had been reduced to nothing by someone who remembered neither past nor purpose. Now an enemy of an empire sat before Edward, bandages hiding deep wounds, mind and heart bared in a rare moment of vulnerability. Protector of the people, bringer of balance, yet who would protect the captain in return?

“Do you remember,” the captain said, voice low, “at the shore before we sailed, when we met the deserters?” Their fingers traced idle patterns in the dirt, picking at the grass as the memory settled. “Prince Revon ambushed us.” Edward remembered the moment well, how they’d all braced for a fight to the death, adrenaline and pain the only things keeping them moving. The captain had ended it quickly, disarming the prince and pinning him to the sand before he could strike.

“I didn’t kill him,” the captain continued. “Because I understood him.” Their voice softened. “He loved his brother more than anything and saw him as greatness incarnate. In taking that illusion away, I took everything he believed in.”

Misplaced adoration turned to rage and grief, but to the prince it had been utterly real. If someone had taken the life of the person the captain cherished most, and then declared that person wicked and deserving of death, the captain knew they would feel the same. They would, above all else, trust their friends and crew before believing a stranger who had stolen everything from them.

“I was simply lucky he had no true combat experience,” they finished, erasing the pattern in the dirt with a single, decisive sweep.

Silence settled between them once more, broken only by the soft whisper of leaves overhead, the world narrowed to a quiet, lulling song. One sat on the ground, the other on a moss covered rock, watching the shadows of moonlight weave and shift through the branches above. At last, the captain lifted their gaze from the dirt, shifted closer, and rested their head lightly against Edward’s knee. He stilled, fighting the urge to let his fingers drift through their hair.

“If the roles had been reversed,” the captain said at last, each word measured, “if it had been me on that shore, avenging your death…” They paused, the air tightened around the promise that followed. “Ravenna would be nothing but a memory.”

The quiet broke with the captain’s soft laugh as they lifted their head, meeting Edward’s eyes with a smile light and untroubled, carefree, as if they hadn’t just vowed to tear an empire apart for his sake. As if such a promise were nothing at all, when in truth it was the opposite. They were fierce in their need to protect, relentless in their will to heal and save. To turn a healer into a destroyer would demand nothing less than the weight of the world itself.

“But luckily, there was no need for that,” they said, voice light and free of the weight it had carried moments before.

Edward let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. How could anyone respond to a confession like that? Where worry should have taken root in his chest, there was only warmth, and a sharp, unshakable admiration for the person beside him. A thousand things pressed at the back of his tongue, too many truths he longed to give voice to, but none of them felt safe. Not if he still meant to guard the feelings he only ever managed to bury halfway.

“We should head back,” the captain murmured, rising and gathering their pile of wood.

“Yeah…” Edward answered, a quick nod, and rose as well. He took the captain’s offered hand, not from necessity, but as courtesy, and as a quiet excuse to be nearer.

—

They returned to the camp to find Iris crouched by the dying fire, her magic coaxing the last embers into life. “What kept you two so long?” she grumbled as they approached. The captain’s hands were smudged with dirt, grit caught under their nails. Iris’s expression softened a fraction. “Bandits?” she asked, eyes flicking between Edward and the captain.

Edward moved to answer, but the captain was quicker. “A few,” they said with a shrug. “Not many. No harm done.” They tossed a stick on the flames, which flared up gratefully. Iris let go of her hold on the fire and exhaled, but her gaze lingered on the captain with a suspicious crease. “I didn’t hear any fighting,” she said, narrowing her eyes.

“We were quiet,” the captain replied easily. “Didn’t want to wake anyone.” Edward could see Iris didn’t quite buy it, but exhaustion won out, she gave a distracted huff. “I’m heading to bed,” she declared, climbing into her tent. “If you get tired, wake Neviro or something,” she muttered before vanishing into the canvas.

Left by the now sturdy blaze, the two sat in companionable silence. The crackle of burning wood was steady and soothing. Edward couldn’t tell the hour, only that night had deepened and dawn would come soon. The captain watched the flames, their face soft in the light, and old words returned to Edward’s mind. Words of vengeance and protection. The thought of what the captain had said would not, must not, go unanswered.

“About what you said in the woods,” he began, voice uncertain as he tried to grasp for the right shape of his feelings. “If anyone ever took your life,” He paused, then finished, “they wouldn’t live long enough to regret it.”

The captain looked startled for a beat, then a gentle smile spread. They reached for Edward’s hand, bringing it toward their lips but stopping short, their breath warmed his knuckles and Edward felt the urge to lean closer, to close the small distance between them. The firelight reddened his face, and he was grateful for its shade.

The captain paid his conflicted silence no mind. “Edward Kenton,” they said, the name falling formal but feather light, full of something like reverence and a promise. “As long as I am your captain, you will never have to bear the burden of revenge.”

The words settled between them, simple, absolute. Edward felt them as both shield and gift, and in the hush that followed, the two of them sat a little closer, the night folding around them like an ally.

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ꕥ ❀。• *₊°。 ❀°。

The sound of clashing metal rang through the training hall, sharp, rhythmic, relentless. Training was in full swing. At its center, General Argos and an ensign exchanged blows at a breakneck pace. To an onlooker, it might have seemed brutal, but every movement was measured, deliberate, and entirely by design. The ensign had practiced on training dummies and stationary opponents countless times, but one could only learn so much without a proper fight. Now, it was time to put those lessons to the test.

Their breath came quick and shallow as they recalled every drill, every correction, parrying the general’s strike. The force still knocked the air from their lungs, boots sliding back slightly in the dirt. A near imperceptible mistake, yet General Argos’ sharp gaze caught it instantly. As expected. Gritting their teeth, the ensign lunged forward, seizing what looked like an opening.

It was a trap.

Argos sidestepped with ease, already sensing the desperation behind the haphazard strike. Using their momentum against them, he sent the ensign stumbling forward, and in the next instant, a heavy kick of an armored boot sent them flying across the training ground. They rolled a few meters through the dirt before landing flat on their back, the world spinning, trying to regain their focus.

They barely had time to think of getting back into the fight before the general’s boot pressed firmly against their chest, the cold edge of his halberd poised just beneath their throat. A fraction more, and it would have drawn blood. A little further, and it would have taken their head clean off. The ensign froze breath hitching in their throat. The fight was over and they had lost.

“This,” Argos said, voice steady and unimpressed, “is where you’d die.”

For a moment, the ensign almost believed him. Their failures had been many, perhaps the general had finally grown tired of their incompetence, deciding their training a waste of his time. But instead, he withdrew the weapon, resting it against his shoulder, and stepped back. He didn’t offer a hand to help them up, something the ensign had not even dared to expect..

“Though you lasted longer this time,” he said.

‘Maybe by a second.’ they thought, disappointed in their own failure.

The ensign coughed and pushed themselves upright, dirt clinging to their simple armor, chest still heaving. It was a small improvement, but it was something. At least not all their effort had been in vain, like they had first thought. Still, they couldn’t shake the thought that if this had been a real fight, they’d already be dead before they even realized it had begun. They needed to be better.

“Your skills have improved,” he said, his tone unreadable, neither harsh nor encouraging, simply stating a fact. There was no joy, no pride. “However,” he continued, “I am still going easy on you.”

There it is.

“I am nowhere near going all out yet.”

The ensign pushed themselves upright, brushing off the dust and dirt that clung to their scraped armor. Argos’s gaze followed, sharp and assessing. “If you want to hold your own in combat, you’ll need to last much longer than that.”

Without another word, he held out a small vial of shimmering liquid, a healing potion. Not enough to restore them fully, but enough to mend the worst of the bruises and cuts. The ensign took it, muttering thanks, while the general stood as immaculate as ever. His armor bore old scars and dents, none of them the ensign’s doing. They were relics of countless battles fought and won.

The ensign often wondered why he never replaced it. Surely, a man of his rank could afford armor in perfect condition. But perhaps he didn’t need to. Few could even land a strike on him, let alone pierce that steel. And even if his armor shattered, it was easy to imagine Argos cutting down his foes with the same effortless, unrelenting precision.

Armor almost seemed ornamental on him anyway. The ensign hadn’t seen it personally, but the stories were plenty, whispers of scars too numerous to count, carved across a body forged by countless battles. They said that despite his years, his form still looked as though it were carved from marble, untouched by age.

For a fleeting moment, the ensign wondered what it might be like to see the truth behind those rumors, then immediately cursed themselves for even thinking it. That was absolutely not the line of thought they should be having right now.

As the ensign swallowed the potion, Argos began speaking again, dissecting their stance. “Your footing is too wide. It leaves you open and makes it easier for an opponent to unbalance you. And when you strike,” he said, voice even, “always consider what happens if you miss. Every swing reveals an opening.”

To the ensign, his critique felt like a postmortem of their failure, but they still appreciated his patience. Few soldiers were ever granted this much attention from General Argos himself.

He turned, moving back to his starting position with deliberate, unhurried steps. The ensign watched him, something burning in their chest, a question that slipped free before they could stop it.

“Why me?”

Argos stopped mid-step and turned his head slightly, the faint glint of his eyes visible through the shadowed helm. The weight of his gaze was enough to make the ensign’s throat tighten. But it was too late to take the words back.

They straightened their posture, forcing their voice not to waver. “Why am I the one chosen for this, sir? What makes me worthy of such an honor, to be trained by you?”

“When I first enlisted,” they began, the words slipping out before they could stop them, “I had no accomplishments to set me apart. My results were average at best, and my peers,” they hesitated, catching their breath, “My peers were faster, stronger. Some had noble ties. Others had already seen combat. I had none of that.”

They were a commoner, born to a family with no history in the Bronze Legion. To stand here, training under General Argos himself, it didn’t make sense. They wanted to be better, yes, but wanting alone hardly warranted such an honor. Desire was easy, achievement was not. Anyone could want greatness, few ever reached it.

For a moment, the general said nothing. The silence stretched, heavy and absolute, until the ensign began to regret speaking at all. Their mind raced through every possible misstep, every word that might have overstepped the line, every way they might have just thrown away the rare honor Lady Luck had granted them.

Then, at last, he spoke.

“Yet you enlisted,” Argos said simply. “Despite the disadvantages, you stand here now, serving the Ravenna realm as a soldier of the Bronze Legion.”

His voice was even, unreadable as ever, and yet, somehow, the ensign thought they heard a flicker of something else beneath it. Not pride. Not warmth. But perhaps… recognition.

“In your eyes,” he continued, “I see the will to become more.” His tone did not waver. “Those born into power, nobility, magic, privilege, they lack that will. They were born into greatness and will never strive beyond it.”

The ensign felt his gaze on them, piercing, deliberate, yet not cruel. It wasn’t the sharp eye that corrected their stance or measured their technique. It was different. It was as if he saw something beyond them, something that could be.

“Unlike them,” he said, the final words landing like the edge of a blade, “you may yet reach your true potential.”

“Your will to endure hardship and strive for betterment is an admirable trait,” the general said, his tone a touch lighter now. It was still matter-of-fact, but there was something almost human beneath the iron of his voice, how one might imagine he’d sound in more casual company.

“Reminds me of myself in my youth,” he continued. “You’ve come far, and you haven’t given up, no matter how slow the process. But you are still a long way from standing as my equal.”

The words weren’t harsh. There was no accusation, no disappointment, only expectation. A promise that one day, perhaps, the ensign might stand where he stood now.

That thought alone was enough to reignite the spark in their chest. Straightening their posture, the ensign readied their stance once more. They had endured much, and they would endure more. There would be setbacks, many of them, but their resolve would not waver. They owed it to their family, their comrades, their general… and, most of all, to themselves.

Satisfied, General Argos lowered his halberd from his shoulder, taking position opposite them once more. His stance was poised, commanding.

“Now,” he said, voice cutting through the still air like steel through silk, “again. Give it everything you have.”

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ꕥ ❀。• *₊°。 ❀°。