#lunyx

The Capital had always sounded different from the gates.

Out here, the city’s heartbeat was often faint, muffled, as though the sound had been smothered beneath a heavy blanket. From the checkpoint, Insomnia appeared flawless, the thrum of Magitek Generators reverberating through its streets, intermingling with the vendors screaming themselves hoarse above its noise, and the trams rattling over its head. Traffic crawled along its avenues, and horns blared in aggravated protests while drivers fought over scraps of its asphalt. 

The city moved along, relentless, all-consuming, and too blind to notice what was going on outside, where the world was burning, and uncaring that its citizens were too comfortable to imagine the flames might eventually reach them, too. 

Thirty years of power was sealed behind these walls while the rest of Lucis was left to rot. 

Nyx knew better. He’d seen the outlands, and had lived in them. Out there, time moved much slower, and technology showed up decades late, if at all. Towns survived by scraping together what they could, even when commerce dried up, industries collapsed, and the roads inevitably crumbled into dirt and overgrowth. Insomnia hoarded those comforts, locked them away, and let the outer provinces bleed themselves dry just to buy a scrap of its Crown-made steel. 

Out there, the war was tearing the kingdom apart.

In here, Insomnia pretended not to notice. 

Regardless, that wasn’t his burden to carry. He owed King Regis: for pulling a half-starved refugee kid out of Galahd’s ashes, and giving him a place among the Kingsglaive. Griping about what Insomnia hoarded, or what the outer territories lacked, would dishonor that debt. So, in spite of his viewpoints, Nyx did what he knew best, and held his post.

Beside the checkpoint arch, he stood with his shoulders squared, and his kukris resting easy across his back. His posture was regulation-perfect: feet planted, balance centered, and his eyes sweeping the flow of citizens drifting in, and out of the capital. To anyone passing by, he was the picture of a Kingsglaive: steady, unreadable, and immovable. Exactly what the uniform demanded he be.

Underneath that, however, his patience was wearing thin.

Guard duty.

For a glaive, it was the closest thing to exile without being kicked from the ranks directly. The why of it still burned, fresh as a bruise that he constantly pressed.

His punishment could have been attributed to a failed recon run in the Northern sector, a slip of the tongue during war council, or the exact reason buried beneath the first two, he’d put Lieutenant Drautos’ smug nephew flat on his ass during drills.

Hard. 

In Nyx’s defense, the kid should’ve known how to block a feint; it was one of the oldest tricks in the book that the senior glaives pulled on the greens for sport. Apparently, teaching a superior’s bloodline a hard-earned lesson was “unbecoming of a Glaive”. Drautos’ words, not his. The old bastard hadn’t wasted a second before shipping him off to the gate, like tossing a dog outside for pissing on a rug.

Two months. Two months of standing around, watching strangers filter in, and out while the rest of the glaives took missions worth bleeding for. 

They’d called it “chasing glory”, but Nyx called it being useful. 

A sigh slipped through his teeth before he could stop it. His jaw locked, muscles ticking hard beneath skin already worn thin by too many hours standing in one place. He rolled his shoulders, working stiffness out of them with the practiced economy of someone whose body had spent years compensating for exhaustion it no longer bothered complaining about.

The armor didn’t help. Neither did the waiting.

He could still hear Drautos in his head, all gravel and venom, every order delivered like a threat someone ought to be grateful for. The man had a talent for turning command into punishment, and for taking capable glaives and sanding them down until all that remained was obedience stripped raw enough to pass inspection.

Nyx had watched it happen for years. Hell, he’d endured it himself.

Which was why he recognized the assignment for what it was. Drautos wanted him restless, wasting away on monotony, and chewing on frustration until it eventually hollowed him out. It was a daily reminder that regardless of how many missions he survived, and no matter how many times he dragged the Crown’s shining jewel back from the edge, he was disposable. Replaceable. Just another blade in the rack. 

But that was the point. Punishment, not reassignment. 

He’d pissed off the wrong man. Again. It wasn’t the first time, and it sure as hell wouldn’t be the last if he had any say in it. 

Nyx resisted the urge to scoff. 

His gaze drifted one more over the endless current moving through the city’s gates. Insomnia never truly stopped. Even here, behind the Wall, and the looming shadow of the Citadel above, the city moved with relentless momentum; crowded arteries feeding the heart of Lucis one exhausted pulse at a time. 

Families pushed through the flow clutching overfilled bags, and tired children. Traders hauled cargo carts with shoulders already bowed from years of repetition. Couriers slipped between bodies at dangerous speeds, weaving through the crowd with the desperation of men whose livelihoods depended on shaving seconds off of every delivery. 

Underneath it all sat the strain Nyx had learned to recognize years ago; the tension of a city surviving under constant pressure and pretending it had grown used to the weight, and he watched it all with the detached awareness of someone who’d spent too long protecting a machine from the inside to mistake it for something gentler than it was.

Then, a voice caught through; low, tight, and half-buried beneath the city’s usual noise. 

“—I’m telling you,” someone muttered, “they’re sending a full escort North tomorrow. Straight to Tenebrae.”

Nyx’s attention shifted automatically.

Three glaives passed beneath his position in a loose knot, uniforms disheveled from heat and humidity. Their jackets hung open at the collars, rifles slung carelessly over shoulders with the easy arrogance of men too accustomed to carrying weapons to treat them with respect anymore.

One of them, a leaner man with tired eyes and stubble shadowing his jaw, snorted softly. 

“Yeah?” Skepticism roughened his voice. “What for? Another summit that goes nowhere?”

The first, broad-shouldered and cocky, shook his head with smug certainty. “Not this time. Big deal. Oracle herself’s being brought in.” He gave a low whistle, lips curling like the name alone carried the taste of privilege. “Lunafreya Nox Fleuret.”

Lunafreya Nox Fleuret.

Her name had been hammered into the public consciousness, flashing endlessly across city screens, polished broadcasts, and propaganda reels. A saint, they called her. A vessel chosen by the gods to soothe the kingdom’s wounds. Even Nyx, who cared less than nothing for the Crown’s politics, knew the script by heart. Tenebrae’s youngest Oracle, paraded like a symbol. Niflheim’s “honored guest,” a looser term for hostage.

And now, they were dragging her here. To Insomnia.

“To wed Prince Noctis,” the second glaive added.

“Except the Prince ain’t even here,” the third cut in with a scoff. “Last I heard, he’s off playing hero in the wilds.”

“So we’re stuck babysitting a royal handbag delivery?” The second sounded unsurprised, asking the question loudly enough to draw a few glances. “Figures. Maybe he’ll mail in his vows on a postcard.”

The three of them laughed, sharp and careless, before disappearing into the tide of civilians, eventually indistinguishable from the rest of the city’s noise. Over half of the new blood anymore wore the uniform like a badge of importance as opposed to actual responsibility. 

They’d forget it soon enough, when the war demanded more than swagger.

Nyx himself didn’t move, didn’t react, and not a muscle twitched under the weight of his uniform. However, something about their words clung to him like silt; irritating, and persistent. The Crown didn’t parade divine assets around for spectacle. Not unless they were desperate, or at least trying to hide the fact. 

When you introduced an oracle, a prince, and a marriage dressed like hope, it reeked of politics behind the intent. He told himself that it didn’t matter, and it shouldn’t have. The Crown’s gestures, its treaties, and stagecraft, all belonged in a world far above his pay grade. 

They’d decided his job was a lot simpler. 

Follow orders.

Bleed when told to. 

Keep the threats outside from getting in.

No luxury for much else.

Still, regardless of what was labeled as duty, or responsibility appropriate for him, his gaze eventually betrayed him, and tracked sideways, just far enough to catch the mag-rail cutting deeper into the city, its lights a blur against the falling dusk. 

For Lunafreya Nox Fleuret, Insomnia wouldn’t be salvation. It would be a cage.

Gold-plated, and polished bright enough to blind her, but a cage all the same. 

The thought persisted just long enough to sour before a faint crackle snapped him back to the present. In his ear, the comm buzzed with static, a clipped voice cutting in sharply enough that he nearly winced. 

“Ulric. Report.” 

Nyx didn’t sigh, didn’t shift, and didn’t give Drautos the satisfaction of hearing anything human in the response. “Nothing to report, sir.”

A pause followed, long enough to carry weight before his voice, brittle with authority, drifted back through. “Good. Carry on.”

The line went dead. 

Nyx exhaled through his nose, shoulders pulling taut beneath the weight of stillness. 

Nothing to report.

Just the city humming along while the outer territories burned, the Wall swallowing the truth whole. Nothing unusual at all.

As the day moved on, the air, thick with the day’s heat, and the constant pulse of Magitek generators, clung heavy beneath his uniform. Sweat slicked his skin, making the fabric stick in places he couldn’t ignore. His boots stayed rooted where regulation demanded, heels locked against stone until his calves ached, and his knees relentlessly throbbed. Unsurprisingly, his mind refused the same discipline. It wandered in careful, dangerous increments; never far, because a Glaive who lost focus on post didn’t last long, but far enough to scratch at the edges of his already thin patience. 

By then, the sun had dipped lower, slanting across the checkpoint in long, jagged shadows that carved the cobblestones into sharp, uneven patterns. The light hit the glass towers beyond the walls just enough to make them glitter, but it simultaneously cast the streets in a tired, almost hollow glow that mirrored the exhaustion Nyx was starting to feel. 

He worked a knot loose in his jaw, the only rebellion he allowed himself. 

“Some hero you turned out to be,” he muttered under his breath, the words dry enough to crack the pavement under his feet. 

“You look like you’re thinking awfully hard for someone on gate duty,” a voice drawled behind him.

Nyx didn’t turn. He knew the voice, rough around the edges, cutting in from his left. 

Libertus Ostium leaned against a support column, arms crossed, his grin worn but real. The kind that said he’d pulled his own shifts at the gates once, before figuring out smarter ways to burn the hours.

“Libertus,” Nyx dragged his attention away from the traffic beyond the gate, and towards his friend. His tone remained flat, but the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed him. “Hard to think at all when you come around.” 

“There he is!” Libertus grinned. “That’s the welcome I came for.” 

“Disappointed?”

“Eh, a little,” he shrugged, pushing himself away from the column. “You had that thousand-yard stare going. Thought maybe you’d finally achieved enlightenment.” 

Nyx looked back toward the gates, where a merchant was unsuccessfully attempting to argue with one of the checkpoint guards. “If enlightenment involves standing here for eight hours looking for forged permits, then the gods have a sick sense of humor.” 

Libertus laughed, a genuine sound. One of the things Nyx appreciated about him, despite everything, was that Libertus never laughed out of politeness. If something amused him, everyone within fifty feet got to hear about it. “Good. For a minute there, I was worried. You’d been out here long enough, I thought Drautos might’ve finally succeeded in lobotomizing you.” He’d stepped into his peripheral vision, arms folded, a smug little tilt to his chin. “But then I remembered he’d have to find something to take out first.”

Nyx cocked an eyebrow. “You spend all day working on that one?”

“Most of lunch.” The answer came without hesitation; the bastard looked entirely too pleased with himself. 

Nyx sighed through his nose. "I'm only standing out here because someone,” he said, driving an elbow into Libertus’ ribs, “convinced me knocking out Drautos' nephew was almost worth losing my stripes over."

Libertus immediately placed a hand against his chest. The gesture carried all the wounded dignity of a man being slandered before a jury. “Oh, don’t drag me into your crimes, Ulric! Besides, I said maybe don’t break his nose. You went for the full collapse, Mate.”

“He shouldn’t have been bragging about things he didn’t earn.” 

“Yeah, sure,” Libertus agreed, his grin widening into something thoroughly unapologetic. “The kid had it coming. Always struttin’ around like his shit smelled like phoenix ash.”

The memory surfaced uninvited. Drautos’ nephew was fresh from training, already carrying himself like the Crystal had personally appointed him king of Lucis. Every sentence out of the kid’s mouth had somehow circled back to his family name, future promotions, or how the Kingsglaive would be more effective if it stopped recruiting immigrants, and started recruiting “real Lucians.”

He’d heard worse. Gods knew, he’d heard worse. Most Galahdians living in Insomnia had. You learned quickly which insults deserved your attention, and which ones deserved to be ignored. Otherwise, you'd spend every day of your life angry. 

Nyx had tolerated it for a few weeks, then the kid had made the mistake of saying it in front of the wrong people. The resulting altercation had lasted less than ten seconds, but the consequences would last considerably longer; two to four weeks if the kid could manage to keep his mouth shut that long. 

Libertus barked out a laugh at whatever expression crossed Nyx's face. “Still,” he continued, reaching over to clap him on the shoulder hard enough to jostle his armor, “you hit him hard enough to make half the rookies believe in divine intervention.” 

A reluctant grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “That got me two months at the gate.”

“Could’ve been worse,” Libertus countered cheerfully. “Could’ve earned you latrine duty.” He raised a finger. “Or Drautos could’ve stuck you in the archives. Imagine you, buried in reports, and requisition forms. You’d’ve chewed your arm off in a week.”

A rough sound escaped Nyx that landed somewhere between a scoff, and a laugh. The image was absurd enough to deserve it. “Shouldn’t you be off blowing something up?”

“Normally? Absolutely.” Libertus flashed a grin that had gotten him out of more trouble than most men managed to survive. “Unfortunately, the Crown insists on paying me to follow orders instead of my passions.” He spread his hands dramatically. “Which, in case you were wondering, involves avoiding responsibility and harassing old friends whenever possible.” 

Nyx snorted softly. “Tragic.”

“I know. It’s a terrible waste of talent.” Libertus flashed another grin, broad and unapologetic. It lingered for a moment before softening at the edges. The expression never disappeared entirely, Nyx wasn't convinced Libertus was physically capable of looking serious for long, but some of the usual mischief faded from his eyes. 

“Truth is, we're getting redeployed up north.” He hooked his thumbs into his belt as he spoke, his gaze drifting briefly toward the city beyond the checkpoint. “Most of the Glaives are being shuffled around. Patrol routes are changing. Supply lines are getting reinforced. Command's nervous, and whenever command gets nervous, everyone underneath them starts running in circles.”

Nyx glanced at him.

Libertus huffed a quiet laugh.

“Something's shifting. Couldn't tell you what, because nobody's telling us anything useful, but the brass can smell it coming, that’s for damn sure.” He rolled one shoulder in a casual shrug, though the gesture did little to hide the underlying tension. “Figured I'd swing by before we head out.” His grin returned, smaller this time, but no less genuine. “Make sure you hadn’t rusted into the pavement.”

“Not yet,” he answered. “Though, give it another week, and you'll need a pry bar.”

“See?” Libertus pointed triumphantly. “Already halfway there.” 

Nyx shook his head, suppressing the urge to smile further. Libertus had always possessed an irritating talent for finding humor in situations that didn't deserve it.

Then again, maybe that was how he stayed sane.

The checkpoint remained busy around them. Civilians flowed steadily beneath the security archways. Merchants pushed carts loaded with supplies. Workers hurried home before evening traffic clogged the city streets. Above it all, Lucis remained as vibrant as ever.

At least on the surface.

Nyx swept the crowd with a practiced glance, cataloging faces and movements without conscious effort. Years of training had turned vigilance into instinct. Nobody appeared suspicious. No sudden movements. No weapons. No obvious threats.

Still, the uneasy feeling lingering in the pit of his stomach refused to disappear.

“I don’t suppose you’re volunteering to take my post?”

Libertus barked out a laugh, loud enough to draw a glance from one of the younger Crownsguard stationed farther down the gate. The sound carried easily through the evening air, rough and unrestrained in the way only Libertus could manage. 

“Hells no,” he said, shaking his head as though the suggestion itself bordered on insanity. “Standing here checking for permits all day? I'd start a fight myself just to stay awake.”  

His grin lingered for another second before his attention drifted toward the massive checkpoint arch spanning the avenue. The structure loomed overhead, bathed in pale magitek light, its scanners sweeping over the steady flow of citizens and supply transports entering the city. 

“You hear the news?”

Nyx followed his gaze. “About the Oracle?” He asked. “Hard not to. Half the city’s talking about it. The other half’s arguing about it.”

Libertus’ expression darkened. “Mm. Turns out it’s worse than they’re spinning it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Niflheim’s not just handing her over and waving goodbye.” He folded his arms across his chest. “They're sending their own military escort all the way into the Crown City.” 

For a moment, Nyx thought he’d misheard him. His eyes narrowed. “Niflheim troops. Inside Insomnia?”

“Apparently,”the word left his mouth with all the enthusiasm of a death sentence. “Supposedly, council signed off on it this morning. They’re calling it a ‘gesture of good faith.’”

He let out a short, bitter exhale. “’Good faith,’” he repeated, letting the words hang heavy, sharp with contempt. “Right up until their soldiers are marching through half the city, then everyone suddenly starts acting surprised.” 

Libertus gave a sharp snort, arms folding as he leaned against the column. His gaze swept the checkpoint with practiced ease; measuring faces, noting weapons, weighing threat against insignificance. “Either we’re about to get dragged into something ugly, or we’re already neck-deep and nobody’s bothered to tell us yet.” His mouth twisted into a humorless grin. Half the glaives are taking bets she never even reaches the Citadel.”

Nyx's hand drifted unconsciously toward the hilt of the kukri resting against his hip. The motion wasn't deliberate. His fingers found familiar worn leather the same way other people folded their arms or rubbed their temples.Comfort through habit. 

“Optimistic bunch,” he muttered.

“Realists,” Libertus corrected, shooting him a sidelong glance. “You think the Empire’s just gonna gift-wrap their Oracle and wave her off with smiles? Ha! Not a chance.”

Nyx let the words hang between them.

Below them, Insomnia stretched outward in a sea of glass and steel. Traffic streamed through elevated thoroughfares in ribbons of white and amber light, while the mag-rail cut across the cityscape like a glowing scar, disappearing into the distant horizon. Even from the gate, the city never seemed to stop moving. The constant hum of machinery blended with the noise of thousands of lives unfolding beneath them, creating a dull roar that had long since become background noise. His gaze followed the rail line south. Toward the border. Toward Niflheim.

The official story sounded clean enough when politicians repeated it from behind podiums. Peace. Cooperation. A new future for Lucis and Niflheim. The words always drew applause from people who had never stood on a battlefield, and watched an imperial gunship turn a city block into rubble.

He wasn't educated enough to untangle every treaty clause or political maneuver hiding beneath the speeches, and he had never pretended otherwise. The Crownsguard could concern themselves with diplomacy. The councilors could spend their days arguing over policy. Somewhere inside the Citadel, entire rooms were probably filled with exhausted bureaucrats whose sole purpose was turning complicated problems into stacks of paperwork. 

That wasn't his world. His world was simpler. People lied. Empires lied even better.

Niflheim had never struck him as the type to loosen its grip on something valuable, not unless they expected to gain something worth even more.The whole affair had the polished appearance of diplomacy that smelled faintly of ambush. 

What irritated him most was that everyone seemed content to pretend otherwise.  

Maybe the council genuinely believed this was progress. Maybe King Regis saw opportunities nobody else could. The old man had carried the kingdom on his shoulders longer than Nyx had been alive, and he had earned far more trust than most politicians ever would. 

Either way, Nyx had learned years ago that optimism rarely survived contact with reality.

Especially when Niflheim was involved. 

The other Glaive must have caught something in the silence because he let out a long, rueful sigh, and shook his head. “Don’t get lost in it, mate. Drautos catches you thinking, he’ll think you’ve got too much free time. Next thing you know, he has your ass polishing boots until you can count every scratch in the leather from memory.”

“Yeah,” he replied dryly. “Wouldn't want to add another month to my sentence.” 

“Exactly. Gate duty's a punishment, sure, but it's the kind that lets you keep breathing. There are worse places Drautos could've stuck you.” He jerked his thumb toward the Citadel looming overhead. “Could've buried you in some supply room counting rifles. Could've handed you to the quartermasters. Those bastards are meaner than the Niffs.”

“Hard to imagine.”

“Oh, trust me. Niffs just kill you. Quartermasters make you fill out forms first.”

Nyx huffed a quiet laugh despite himself. The sound surprised him. Not because the joke was particularly funny, but because moments like this had become rare.

For a while they stood in silence, listening to the endless pulse of Insomnia.

Mag-rails roared overhead as sleek transports shot across the city like silver arrows, their engines humming with enough power to make the air vibrate beneath Nyx's boots. The towering walls of the Crown City gleamed beneath the artificial lights, every polished surface reflecting wealth, security, and order.

At least that was the image they sold.

From this checkpoint, standing at the edge of the city, the cracks were easier to see.

Nyx's gaze drifted toward the outer districts beyond the fortified perimeter. The buildings there looked smaller somehow. More worn. Entire blocks sat in shadow where maintenance crews hadn't bothered replacing broken lighting arrays. Even from here he could see patched roofs, rust-stained walls, and people moving through the streets with the hurried, cautious pace of those who knew they were one missed paycheck away from disaster.

The city was alive, and thriving, but not for everyone.

His jaw tightened. He knew exactly what life looked like outside these walls because he had grown up there.

The Citadel liked to pretend every citizen of Lucis shared equally in the kingdom's prosperity. The men making those speeches had never gone to sleep hungry. They had never watched utility power get cut because a family couldn't afford the bill. They had never learned how quickly the system could forget people once they stopped being useful.

A movement near the checkpoint caught his attention. A family was making their way through the crowd; there was nothing unusual about it.  Thousands passed through these gates every day. Yet Nyx found himself watching them anyway.

The mother kept a firm grip on her son's hand, her knuckles white around the child's smaller fingers. The boy couldn't have been older than seven or eight. His eyes darted everywhere at once, taking in the soldiers, the vehicles, the enormous walls surrounding the city. Beside them walked a man carrying two battered travel bags that looked heavier than they should have been. The father kept glancing over his shoulder, more habitual than suspicious.

The way people did when they spent too much time worrying about what might be behind them.

The family reached the checkpoint scanners. The boy tugged on his mother's arm and pointed toward one of the Crownsguard patrol vehicles parked nearby. His face lit up with excitement. The mother smiled despite herself; a  tired smile. The kind that appeared for someone else's sake.

For a brief moment, Nyx was reminded of his sister. The memory arrived without invitation. A cramped apartment with too many people packed into too little space. His sister laughing at something stupid he had said because neither of them could afford to dwell on everything else. The recollection vanished as quickly as it came.

He pushed it aside. He had never been the type to indulge nostalgia. The past was useful only when it taught you something. Otherwise it was dead weight. Still, he continued watching until the family disappeared into the flow of traffic beyond the checkpoint.

“You know,” Libertus said after a while, tilting his chin toward the steady stream of civilians moving through the checkpoint, “back in Galahd, a day this quiet would’ve made me nervous.”

His mouth twitched into a faint grin, but it didn't last long. The amusement faded as his gaze tracked the crowd. Families. Workers. Couriers. Wealthy Insomnians who crossed the district without ever looking twice at the men standing guard over them.

“Stand here long enough,” he continued, folding his arms across his chest, “and you start noticing things.”

Nyx hummed absently. “Like what?”

“The people who make it through.” He nodded toward the checkpoint scanners. “The people who don't. The ones who get turned away before they even reach the gates. The folks who stare at the Wall like they're looking at salvation.”

A dry laugh escaped him.

“Everyone inside acts like the world's ending somewhere else.”

Nyx followed his gaze.

Beyond the crowds, beyond the gleaming towers and immaculate streets, he could almost picture the wastelands stretching toward the horizon. Entire regions that Lucis preferred not to think about. Entire populations surviving on scraps while Insomnia burned enough power in a single night to keep smaller settlements alive for weeks.

The city sparkled because countless other places didn’t. Most people never seemed to notice, or maybe they noticed and simply chose not to care.

“Makes you wonder how long it can keep going,” Libertus said quietly.

Nyx already knew what answer Libertus expected.

The same answer every Glaive knew. Not forever.

Every day they bought the kingdom a little more time. Every patrol, every deployment, every body sent home draped in the King's colors delayed something that felt increasingly inevitable.

The Wall held. The city endured. The people slept peacefully.

None of it came for free. Nyx had seen too much to mistake temporary victories for permanent ones.

He thought of Galahd.

Of the villages reduced to ash.

Of men who had sworn they would never abandon their homes.

Of the Empire's endless advance.

Then, he thought of Regis.

The old king looked strong whenever he appeared before the public, but Nyx had spent enough time around the Citadel to recognize the strain beneath the image. Every use of the Crystal's power seemed to carve something from him. Every year etched new exhaustion into his face. Regis kept buying miracles with a debt only he could pay.

Sooner or later, the bill would come due.

Nyx shoved the thought aside before it could settle. He shot Libertus a sidelong look.

“Don't start getting philosophical on me. Drautos fills that quota enough on his own.”

Libertus let out a low chuckle, the sound carrying equal parts amusement and weary familiarity. It was the laugh of a man who had witnessed Nyx repeat the same mistake often enough to stop pretending he was surprised by it. "Not saying anything you haven't already told yourself a hundred times."

"Two months of this," Nyx muttered, staring out at the crowd beyond the gate. “Standing here like a glorified statue while everyone else is out there doing actual work. Crowe's running operations. Luche's buried in assignments. Even the rookies are getting field deployments.”

Libertus nodded thoughtfully. “And you're guarding the most important gate in Lucis.”

“I'm babysitting tourists.”

Libertus barked out a laugh loud enough that several nearby civilians glanced toward them. One elderly woman immediately crossed the street.

"Gods," he said through his grin. "You really are miserable."

“I'm wasting time.” The words came out sharper than he intended. 

The punishment shouldn't have bothered him as much as it did. It wasn't difficult work. It wasn't even dangerous work. That was exactly the problem. Nyx hadn't joined the Kingsglaive to stand around checking identification papers. Every day spent here felt wasted. Every hour felt like another reminder that he wasn't where he should be. His home had burned years ago. His family was gone. Galahd existed now only in memories and stories shared between survivors.

The Glaives were all he had left. Being sidelined while the rest of the unit carried on without him felt like having a limb tied behind his back. He hated it.

Libertus seemed to recognize the direction of his thoughts immediately. His smile faded slightly. "You know," he said, scratching the back of his neck, "for what it's worth, maybe Drautos isn't being a complete bastard about this."

Nyx slowly turned his head. The look he gave him was so flat and unimpressed that Libertus physically recoiled.

“Dangerously optimistic, I know. But hear me out.”

“You should stop while you’re ahead.”

"I've never been ahead a day in my life." 

Nyx already knew this was going to be painful. Unfortunately, Libertus rarely allowed something as minor as a lack of interest to stop him.

"Maybe," Libertus continued, raising a finger as though he were unveiling some profound military strategy, "he stuck you here because he knows you'd destroy yourself otherwise." 

Nyx stared. Then he scoffed. The suggestion was ridiculous.

"Because from where I'm standing, you're exactly the kind of idiot who'd volunteer for three deployments back-to-back." 

Nyx shot him a flat look.

Libertus had the decency to look only slightly guilty. “And for all this talk about fighting, and for all the grief you give the Council, you don’t sound like you’ve got much faith in the prince’s grand marriage-diplomacy plan either.”

He let out a quiet breath through his nose.

“Faith?” he repeated. The word lingered in the air for a moment before a humorless smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “No. Faith isn't the word I'd use.”

Libertus shot him a sidelong glance. The look lingered longer than usual, assessing rather than teasing. Nyx recognized it immediately. Libertus was trying to decide whether he should say something or leave it alone. That alone was enough to put Nyx on edge.

"If it's any comfort," he said eventually, the easy humor drained from his voice, "the brass isn't leaving everything to chance. A handful of us are heading north tomorrow morning. We're meeting the Imperial convoy before it reaches the Wall." 

The words settled heavily between them. Nyx felt his jaw tighten.

"And we're trusting a Niflheim detachment to follow orders once they're inside Lucian territory?" His laugh was short and utterly devoid of amusement. "That's reassuring."

"Comfort's in short supply these days," Libertus admitted. "But somebody has to make sure the Empire doesn't turn a goodwill gesture into a bloodbath before the princess even reaches the Citadel." 

“So who’s going?”

Libertus didn’t answer right away. That alone was answer enough. 

"Command's keeping the roster quiet until morning," Libertus said.

One of Nyx's brows lifted. "So they're keeping you guessing too."

"'Guessing' is a polite way to say they're not telling us shit." He nudged the base of a nearby support column with the toe of his boot. The gesture looked casual, but Nyx could tell he was irritated. "They briefed us on the mission," he continued. "Then they conveniently forgot to mention who's actually on it." 

“Sounds efficient.”

“Right? Almost inspires confidence.”

Nyx shook his head. 

Libertus finally glanced over at him. "And before you start volunteering, don't bother. You and I aren’t on the list.”

Nyx tried not to react.

He had spent years learning how to keep disappointment from reaching his face. Most days it came naturally. The Citadel was full of things that weren't worth wasting energy on: Politicians pretending to be soldiers, officers playing games with people's lives, nobles making decisions about battles they would never have to fight.

Still, something tightened across his shoulders before he could stop it.

“You sure?”

“Positive,” he replied, his grin appearing a second before the rest of the expression. There wasn't much humor behind it this time. “You’re chained to this slab of pavement until Drautos decides you’ve been benched long enough. And I…” he lifted a hand in mock surrender, “apparently don’t fit the image they’re trying to present.”

Nyx raised an eyebrow. “What image?”

"The image where Lucis and Niflheim are holding hands and singing around a campfire."

A short laugh escaped him before he could help it.

Libertus pointed accusingly.

"See? That's exactly why neither of us got picked." The grin returned properly this time, crooked and entirely too pleased with itself. "They want clean uniforms, polished boots, proper posture. The kind of glaives who can stand next to Niflheim soldiers without looking like they're calculating the distance to the nearest knife. Apparently diplomacy requires smiling." 

“Sounds exhausting.”

“Exactly.”

The amusement lingered between them for a moment before fading. 

“But,” Libertus added expression softening, “if you were hoping gate duty would magically end tomorrow? Sorry, mate.”

Nyx already knew that. He had known it from the moment Titus Drautos had assigned him to gate duty.

Punishments in the Kingsglaive rarely operated on paper, regardless of what the regulations claimed. Officially, his disciplinary assignment had an end date. Officially, there were procedures, evaluations, and recommendations. In reality, those things only mattered when Drautos allowed them to matter.

The sentence would end when the old bastard decided he was finished making a point.

Not a day sooner.

Nyx had learned long ago that arguing against decisions like that only gave men like Drautos more satisfaction. Still, hearing the truth spoken aloud made something tighten unpleasantly in his chest. 

Libertus seemed to read the thought on his face."For what it's worth," he said after a moment, his voice losing some of its usual theatrical edge, "I still think the kid had it coming." 

Nyx stared out through the gate toward the sprawling city beyond. The answer came immediately because he had never once questioned that part. "So do I."

“Yeah,” Libertus sighed. “Unfortunately, neither of us get a vote. If we're not the ones making the decisions, there's usually a reason." He glanced toward the Citadel rising above the city. "Or at least there ends up being one eventually. That's how it always works." 

“This one wasn’t. This was Drautos being pissed.”

Libertus barked a short laugh. “Alright, fair enough. This one was definitely personal.” He clapped Nyx on the arm."Look at it this way," he continued. "If everything north of the Wall goes to shit when the Niflheim delegation arrives, you're already standing in the safest place in Lucis." 

Nyx shot him a sideways look. “Since when do you care about safe?”

“Since always,” he said lightly. “I just like choosing when I nearly die. Helps the day feel structured.”

A breath of dry amusement escaped Nyx.

The crowd shifted again; a tram screeched in the distance; banners overhead snapped in the wind. Insomnia never stopped moving, never stopped pretending nothing outside its walls existed.

Libertus finally pushed off the column. “Anyway. I should go. Early call. Gotta be fresh-faced and charming for whenever the hell the Nifs show up.”

“You?” Nyx arched a brow. “Charming?”

“Believe it or not, I can smile without scaring the kids.”

“Bullshit.”

Before Libertus could answer, the checkpoint’s rhythm stumbled. A line of refugees moved through the gates on foot, herded past automated traffic controls and magitek scanners with the efficiency of modern machinery. Families carried what little they could: children clinging to threadbare blankets or small satchels, adults hauling bags and bundles with strained determination. The smell of sweat, dust, and the faint tang of burned fuel from nearby hover-vehicles filled the air. Despite Insomnia’s polished streets and gleaming vehicles, the flood of desperate humanity was impossible to ignore, a reminder that even in the heart of the capital, the outside world pressed in.

Nyx’s jaw tightened. He knew that look too well. Knew what it meant to drag yourself out of the ashes of a province gutted by war, only to be measured, searched, and waved off like baggage.

One of the guards barked at them to move along. A child stumbled in the press, nearly going down before his mother yanked him upright. She looked up, and for just a second, her eyes caught Nyx’s. Wide. Desperate. The kind of gaze that stripped a man to the bone.

Nyx didn’t flinch. He didn’t step forward. Orders were clear: keep position, let the checkpoint do its work. He was a glaive, not a savior. He’d been that kid once. Dust of Galahd on his skin, nothing but loss at his back. Saved only because Regis had extended a hand. How many more hands had the Crown turned away since then?

Libertus shifted beside him, muttering under his breath. “Another flood from the borders. North, maybe. If that’s Tenebrae, then…” He trailed off, eyes cutting toward Nyx with unspoken weight.

Nyx said nothing, but the persistent thought gnawed. Tenebrae burned in whispers. The Empire’s bootprint was fresh there, and if refugees were already slipping into Insomnia… Lunafreya’s path into the city was anything but safe.

A sharp crackle came through his earpiece, static cutting the noise of the checkpoint. Drautos’ voice, iron and gravel, snapped over the line. “Ulric. Report.”

Nyx straightened, spine locking, mask settling into its practiced immobility. “Nothing unusual,” he replied, tone crisp, stripped of anything that could be mistaken for thought.

A pause. Then Drautos’ voice, softer this time, edged with the same weight that always carried unspoken threats. “Good. Keep it that way. We’ll need steady hands in the days ahead.”

The line went dead.

Libertus let out a low, mocking whistle. “Steady hands, eh? That’s rich, coming from him.”

Nyx kept his gaze forward, muscles tense beneath the uniform, but under the mask, his mind was already moving. Drautos wouldn’t waste the comm on trivialities unless something in command had them crawling with nerves. Libertus was right. Something ugly was already in motion.

And if Lunafreya Nox Fleuret was at the heart of it…