A few days passed in preparation of Sylva's trip across Lucis. It took that long, at least, for all involved to be convinced that Regis should accompany her. Usually, he would have been the one doing the convincing. But as the summer slipped away more and more rapidly with each passing week, he was loath to spend more time than necessary away from his children. Not that this reluctance meant he had any more time than usual to spend with them, merely that he was more cross than usual when he didn't. Sylva was the one coaxing him to leave Insomnia to its own devices, for a few days.

"It would do you good to see your people," she told him, "And it will do your people good to see you."

The second, at least, was a truth he could not argue with. The first may have been true, as well, but if seeing his people meant less of seeing his children, he was inclined to believe it was a goodness he could do without. Nevertheless, in the end he gave in.

Duty the Lucii whispered.

And he would do his duty.

Clarus was not pleased with the arrangement, either. It meant several days of Regis out in the open, and that was cause enough to make any Shield nervous. But, as ever, once Regis' mind was made up he did not offer any arguments. He arranged that a full retinue of Crownsguard should come with them, along with Cor and, of course, himself. That last sowed dissent in the council. If both the king and the royal adviser were gone from the capital, who was to run Lucis? Clarus informed them succinctly that Lucis could run itself quite well with neither king nor royal adviser for a few days. He refused to budge from his decision.

And so, with much pomp and ceremony, the royal retinue departed from Insomnia. Again, they passed through Hammerhead and again Regis wondered at the whereabouts of another lost friend. But he caught no sight of Cid, neither that day nor any of the others.

Their first stop was in Duscae, just outside of the Disc, where a Starscourge treatment facility had been established—for all the good it had done. Those few hundred from their estimate of the afflicted were mostly here. And here Regis found that Sylva was correct once again. To hear the numbers and receive reports while he sat atop his throne was nothing to walking among them and seeing them with his own eyes.

The Starscourge was a blood illness. Though the first symptom was often a cough, which developed into a difficulty breathing and a black fluid in the lungs, the tell-tale sign developed later. It ran in the infected's bloodstream and turned crimson so dark that their veins could been seen—stark black—underneath too-pale skin. In the later stages of the disease, it turned eyes foggy and white as it attacked not just the circulatory and respiratory systems, but the nervous system as well. The Starscourge took from them their sight and, slowly, control of their limbs, and all the while drained its victims of their strength, as their bodies struggled to survive against it. No one who progressed so far in the disease ever survived. Unless the Oracle laid her hands on them.

The treatment facility—always a hospital, but now turned home to hundreds of condemned men and women—was too small for the number of patients and poorly funded at that. Regis had seen, on paper, how much Aldebrand granted them from the treasury each month, but now that he stood in their midst it seemed so insufficient. They were understaffed and under-stocked. If they had been inside Insomnia, this would have been unthinkable. The mere fact that being outside the Wall made it acceptable to so many people was unthinkable. That such a place existed in his kingdom and he knew so little about it…

They met first with the management, who introduced them to the doctors and all of their medical staff. Though Sylva was eager to see to the patients, she withstood the necessary niceties with the sort of grace he expected from royalty. When, at last, all hands had been shaken and due recognition had been given for all their hard work, the real work began.

Regis had seen Sylva's magic at work in the past. She had the line of healing magic that was so often weak or nonexistent in the Lucis Caelum bloodline. Regis could, if the situation called for it, channel the power of The Oracle King through the Ring of the Lucii and heal thus. His own magic, without the connections of the ring, left much to be desired. Even so, his forefathers had warned him against the costs—and the dangers—of healing. Better to protect the masses than waste his strength healing the few.

Sylva had no such limitations, it seemed. Doubtless, her magic had its own strengths and weaknesses, and its own costs, but she approached the Starscourge head on and addressed it as directly as an adept warrior might have challenged a daemon.

They were escorted to the first of many rooms, wherein lay an old man on a hospital bed. He struggled to sit upright when they entered and Sylva was at his side in an instant. She eased him into a more comfortable position, murmuring warm words of encouragement: how strong he was to maintain the fight for so long, how much it must have cost him to carry on day after day; all of his efforts would soon pay off. She would take away the pain.

Regis stood at the door, hardly noticed behind the light of Sylva's glow. At his side, Clarus was as nervous as a mother over a reckless child. Did he really expect to encounter danger inside a hospital? Of course he did. Why else would he have brought himself and Cor along instead of simply sending the contingent of Crownsguard? That was his job, in any case: to worry about the king's safety so that the king could worry about more important matters.

Cor was outside the door, waiting in the hall along with half a dozen Crownsguards and Avunculus. How, exactly, anyone managed to travel without an entire entourage, Regis wasn't entirely certain. Even if he had wanted to, a whole guard of people would have been assigned to escort him. The Crownsguards he could have done without. But Avun had proven himself invaluable time and time again since Weskham's departure; likely, Regis couldn't have done without him.

Sylva worked her magic on the afflicted man. She laid her hands on either side of his face, pressing her forehead gently to his and… did something. It was difficult to describe what another's magic felt like. In his entire life, Regis had only known two other people who could use magic at all: his father and Sylva. His father's magic had been familiar, predictable, and, in time, Regis could recognize by feel precisely what was being done, even without knowing the outcome. Sylva's magic, on the other hand, had always been more foreign. A hint of something recognizable flitted just on the edge of his understanding, like a memory he couldn't quite grasp, and then vanished in a flash of light. He lowered his gaze as her magic brightened until she and the man both shone with sunlight too bright to behold. And then it faded.

He and Clarus were left blinking to clear spots from their gaze. The sensation of magic drained slowly from the room, once more passing beyond Regis' capability to understand it. When he could see once more, Sylva was straightening and the man—his skin now clear of tainted black veins and cloudy eyes—was rising shakily to his feet. He thanked her profusely so many times over that he ran out of words to do so with. Then he turned to Regis and bowed and thanked him as well, though Regis insisted the credit was not his to take. It was some few minutes before they were able to pull away and move on to the next.

And so it went, throughout the treatment facility. By the third room Cor was already impatient, but he was too well disciplined to even shift on his feet; he stood, resolute, and stared down the hall outside each room while Regis entered with Clarus. Clarus was also well-schooled at hiding his emotions—he would not have gone far in the Lucian court if he were not—but even the most skilled courtier was likely to grow bored after hours of watching the same scene unfold, time and time again.

There was little for Regis to do, either; he shook hands with the cured men and women, offering some few words of acknowledgement or comfort, but he was little more than a symbol to them. An important symbol—a sign that their king was watching over them and meant to protect all of his people—but a symbol, nevertheless. He occupied himself, instead, with studying Sylva's magic.

But by the time Sylva had worked her way through the entire hospital, it was well past nightfall and Regis was forced to admit what he had already known from the start: that he did not have the power nor the skill to reproduce what she did.

They stayed in a hotel in the Outlands, that night, electing not to travel in the dark on unsafe roads. They took up the entire hotel, which only had a handful of rooms to begin with, and Clarus seemed well pleased with that fact. To Clarus, it meant less chance of some far-fetched attack from within the hotel. He was over-cautious. The people in the Outlands viewed Regis as king in the same distant fashion that they recognized the sun as a star: true, perhaps, but with so few practical similarities that it hardly warranted the comparison in day-to-day life. Royalty meant something different, in the Outlands.

They ate a sub-par meal with overcooked meat and under-cooked vegetables, drank a glass of wine each before admitting the vintage wasn't worth a second attempt, and climbed into lumpy beds, exhausted for having done very little—all of them save Sylva, in any case, who had every right to crave her rest.

Regis' heart ached for his children. It was the first time since their birth that he had slept so far away from them. Even on those days when he had been too busy to visit while they were awake, he always made a habit of stopping by their room to kiss them goodnight—even if they were already asleep. Tonight he had no such privilege. And tomorrow would be another long day in their absence. The start of the longest stretch he went without seeing them. Such was his duty.

He slept poorly, that night. Not merely because the bed was uncomfortable, but because he longed so keenly for his children. He woke—if it could be called that—in the morning with the sensation of having been cut in two. Half of him had been left in Insomnia. Or two-thirds of him, as was more accurate.

Avunculus brought a tray with coffee—a weak brew, which left an unpleasant sour note on his tongue, but he drank it nonetheless because it was all he had available to him—and somehow managed to make him look presentable. Regis stood in front of the cracked bathroom mirror, watching Avunculus put every last hair in its place. This was why he had brought Avun along. But Gods did he ever miss Wes.

They descended to meet the others for breakfast. Something of Regis' demeanor must have shown on his face, for Clarus grasped his shoulder tightly.

"I know it's not the same, but we can telephone the Citadel. I'm sure Reina and Noctis would be delighted to have a phone call," he told Regis in an undertone.

Regis only nodded and grimly resigned himself to a questionable breakfast. It was easier to stomach if he tried not to think of it.

Their agenda for the day had a handful of stops around Lucis: various outposts scattered across the continent, where they hoped to find other people in need of Sylva's particular brand of magic. In the absence of that, at least they might spread some hope or marginal faith in the monarchy. The first stop was two hours by car, which left time for Clarus' suggestion to be carried out. Almost without being told, he had dialed the Citadel and had Jenet on the phone.

"There you are, Your Majesty; you're on the speaker, now. Go ahead, Noctis—say something!"

Never before had anyone called Noctis and Reina on the phone. While they may have had some passing familiarity with the purpose of a phone, they had never used one. It was no great surprise, then, when neither said anything, even at their nanny's urging.

"Good morning, my dearest ones." Regis sat forward in his seat, putting his elbows to his knees as he pressed Clarus' phone to his ear. The Regalia hummed beneath him, speeding along to her next destination with Cor behind the wheel.

"Daddy?" Noctis called out from the other side of the line.

"Yes, Noctis?"

"Why are you in a box?"

Regis laughed. "I am not in a box. I am in the Regalia, but I am able to speak with you through the phone."

"Oh," said Noctis, with the unmistakable air of one who has no idea what was just said.

"Are you being good for Jenet?"

"Yes!" Here, at least, was a question he knew the answer to—even if it wasn't true. "I ate all my breakfast, and I read a whole book. Ignis said I did everything right!"

"That is extraordinary, Noctis. Mayhap when I return, you will read me a bedtime story."

Noctis giggled. "No, Dad! You have to read it!"

"You will not read me a bedtime story?" Regis put on his best tone of dismay.

"No!" Noctis laughed.

"How ever am I to sleep if you do not read to me?"

Having no apparent answer for this, Noctis only laughed.

"Is Reina there?" Regis asked.

"She is, Your Majesty," Jenet responded. "Only she's not saying anything. Just staring at the phone with that look on her face—you know the one, Sire, where she scrunches up her eyebrows and twists her little lips in a bunch."

"I do." He could practically see it, just from the description.

"Go on, darling, it's your dad! Say something for him."

"Reina, my dear, are you having a nice morning?"

No response.

"Have you been reading along with Noctis?"

Quiet, for a moment. Then Noctis saw fit to answer for his sister. "Rei doesn't read, Dad!"

"Noctis, hush!" Jenet scolded.

Regis' brow furrowed. As a toddler, it had taken her months longer than Noctis to begin speaking. Would it be the same for everything, save music?

"Does she not read?" He asked.

"She reads, Your Majesty, just does it more quietly. Noctis likes to take his book and sit on Ignis' lap and tell everyone the story—and Ignis helps if he gets stuck. But Reina seems happy to sit on her own and whisper the words to herself like no one is listening. And if anyone does admit they're listening she shoots them such a look! I've never seen such a fierce glare on a five year old, Your Majesty."

He smiled at that. It was astounding how very different the two of them were, for having been given everything the same thus far in their lives—so far as Regis could tell. That Reina wanted to read quietly to herself, however, only made him more keen to have her read to him. She would do it. Of that he had no doubt. Ever since she could walk, she had always done just what he asked of her.

In spite of that, she seemed much too wary of the phone to promise him anything—indeed, to speak to him at all. Though he coaxed, she remained silent throughout their phone conversation, leaving Regis to speak only with Noctis and Jenet. He couldn't help but feel some disappointment at that. Likely it was nothing to how Reina and Noctis felt at being separated from him. At length they reached their destination and Regis was forced to say his goodbyes, promising to call again later.

Coernix Station had no hospital, not even of the makeshift variety, but it did have people and a fair number of them had converged in an effort to see the Oracle. In spite of the rain that was falling in a steady drizzle, they gathered in the open, pressing in toward the cars nearly as soon as they had stopped moving. Cor made a sound of annoyance and shared a glance and a nod with Clarus. They and the other Crownsguards ushered the small crowd back to a more respectable distance before allowing Regis and Sylva to exit the Regalia. Regis gave her an apologetic look. Tenebrae had no Crownsguards, but something told him that Sylva wouldn't have tolerated being kept at an arm's length from her people. That Regis did tolerate it only shamed him.

Indeed, they had only just stepped out into the open before Sylva was passing by the line of Crownsguard to reach those who had come to see her. Among their ranks, Regis picked out more than one with clear signs of the Starscourge. It was as they thought, then; not all those who had taken ill had gone to the treatment facility. Some few others had come for different reasons: there were elderly who came with the mundane complaints of age and hunters who had taken injuries that had never healed properly. Sylva gave each of them the same portion of her time, treating them individually, with the same gentle care that she approached everything else.

Throughout, Regis stood apart between Clarus and Cor. Clarus had produced a large black umbrella from within the car, though Regis hadn't even noticed the rain on his shoulders—or, indeed, the lack thereof—until several minutes after it had stopped. Crea had cured him of that. Many of the Coernix folk came to address him, either after or while they were waiting for their time with Sylva. Though he remained something of a novelty to them, there was a distinct lack of reverence in the way they addressed him. They approached with the same manner of interest they might have given any well-renowned celebrity, and yet, he doubted that more than half of them would have recognized him at all, had he not been wearing a crown and standing among uniformed guards. Nevertheless, they passed by the Crownsguards without any concerns for whether or not they were meant to do so, and came to shake his hand or have a few polite words with him.

If Clarus and Cor disapproved of this, they made no comment, though he did notice that both of them stiffened when one of the hunters afflicted with Starscourge came close. Was it contamination that concerned them? It had been established with certainty that the scourge was not spread through handshakes or breath. Sylva had confirmed that the disease could spread through blood, but that its primary means of infection was via the black clouds of miasma, which the late-stage infected exuded and only at night. Nevertheless, both of his watch dogs guarded him carefully against an otherwise harmless woman and breathed a sigh of relief once she was gone.

"What, precisely, has you both so worked up?" Regis asked in an undertone, when a lull formed between people.

Cor exchanged a glance with Clarus.

"The Starscourge turns men into daemons, does it not?" Clarus asked.

"Gods forbid," Regis sighed. "Yes, in theory, the very late stages of the scourge are capable of causing such a transformation. But it has not occurred in generations. Hundreds of years have passed since the last recorded corruption of that magnitude. When King Valerian pushed back the Starscourge two hundred years ago, giving up his life in the process, it stripped much of the power from the scourge. Since then, the disease has never transformed human into daemon."

"But it is growing stronger," Cor reminded him.

"Since two hundred years ago," Clarus said, "It has been nearly unheard of to even contract the Starscourge. Until now."

"There have been occasional sightings of it." Regis shifted uncomfortably. "Or even small outbreaks where the afflicted have been killed by the progress of the disease—but not transformed."

"But nothing of this magnitude," Clarus said.

"Nothing of this magnitude," Regis agreed at last.

Their fears in Coernix proved unfounded. In a few hours, the retinue of king and Oracle was on its way once more, no worse for the contact with the afflicted, though a little more damp than they had been to begin with. The procession continued as such throughout Lucis. Each stop was much the same: people had gathered, whether to be cured of the Starscourge or some other affliction, or merely to see king and Oracle. There were not, as Regis had feared, too many beyond the walls of the treatment facility who had contracted the scourge. Most whom they met were simply seeking cures for everyday woes.

At nights they stayed in whatever hotel the Outland outposts had to offer, and found them all in much the same state as the first had been, save for the hotel in Lestallum and the one in Galdin Quay. Of those two, only the latter would ever have been found inside the Wall, unless Regis was very much mistaken about the quality of lodging inside the Crown City. Which, come to think of it, would not have been so far-fetched.

Between the outposts, they stopped off at sites designated by Master Felice to be warded against daemons. Whoever had found the spots had chosen well; each one was situated off the road but within walking distance, filling up the gaps between outposts to ensure that no one would ever be caught on the road at night. At each of these sites, Sylva worked a different sort of magic, which Regis understood no better than he did the healing magic. She walked the perimeter of each site and called upon the strength of her own bloodline to hold these spaces safe and secure against daemons and encroaching night, regardless of the absence of lights. When she was finished, each campsite glowed faintly with blue runes and on more than one occasion, Regis thought he saw faint wisps of blue magic drifting up—as smoke from a fire—from the warded safe haven.

On the night slated to be their last beyond the Wall, they stood in Leide and watched Sylva perform her warding ritual for the last time. They were not far from Hammerhead and, though there was no plan in the schedule to pass through that outpost and seek out a particularly cantankerous old mechanic, Regis was of half a mind to do so, anyway. It had been over ten years since the last time they had spoken face to face. They were do for a reunion.

It would be enlightening, as well, to learn of the goings-on in the Outlands from a native. Reading reports or hearing the explanations given by Felice and others in court and council was nothing to experiencing the state of Lucis first hand. And even then he had no doubt that he had missed things.

Even so, what little he had seen in these few days was troubling. The Starscourge was more widespread than he had been lead to believe. This was due, in part, to a lack of understanding; the affliction had a myriad of signs, not all of which were clear or always present upon infection—especially in the early stages of the disease. As such, many who had contracted the scourge had had no idea. A small collection of clerks had taken copious notes on all those that Sylva had healed, however, and when those notes were consolidated and poured over in hindsight, the number of people whom had been treated for the Starscourge was disconcerting, to say the very least.

If that was not enough to make him uneasy, there was the extent to which the scourge had developed in the most pronounced cases. A man in Old Lestallum had been coughing up black ichor before Sylva treated him; another in Meldacio had actually begun to avoid the sunlight, claiming that even a few seconds burned his skin; and an old woman down in Caem had a growing patch of blackened skin on her shoulder. The more they saw, the more Regis became certain: this was not an anomalous outbreak of the Starscourge, which could be treated and then forgotten about. This was a sign of something much worse to come.

It was twilight by the time Sylva was finished with the wards. They needed to be on their way, lest they be caught in the darkness they were trying so hard to protect his people from. But they also had the unique advantage of being, temporarily, in the middle of nowhere. When they reached the hotel, which was to be their last, they would have no chance to speak for fear of being overheard.

Regis ordered the Crownsguards, attendants, and clerks back to the cars. Clarus and Cor would let him out of their sight under no circumstances, but he could be within sight and beyond earshot. So he motioned them to remain while he went ahead toward the haven to speak with Sylva, who was walking the perimeter, checking her work.

She glanced up when she heard him approaching. "The wards should hold on their own for at least fifty years. Beyond that, they may need to be renewed, but I suspect that will prove unnecessary."

Her words all but confirmed his fears. "Because this is the end. Twilight has come and the King of Light is born."

"Yes." She straightened to look at him and something like sympathy flashed across her face.

"In fifty years, the state of these wards will not matter. By that time, my son will have—" He choked on the words. Even as he stood here, staring down the truth, eye to eye, he couldn't say it.

Sylva took a step forward, laying her hand on his arm. "I can only offer my condolences, Regis, and my apologies. When first I arrived, I was not certain and I could offer you no more definite answer than that. But now I see as you do: this is the way it must be."

"He is only five years old." His voice cracked. He shut his eyes and a tear escaped down his cheek.

Sylva squeezed his arm. "He will have time, yet. My sight is limited, but I believe we might hold it back for a few decades more."

"A few decades?" Regis pulled his arm from her grip. "That is what you offer me? That he might live to see twenty-five or thirty-five? He will be younger than me when he—" Something, still, held him back from saying the words. As if it would be any less real if he refused to.

He turned away from her, looking out across the darkened desert. It wasn't Sylva's fault any more than it was Clarus' fault or Cor's fault, but she was the only one he had to direct his anger toward and anger felt more manageable than the black grief he knew would encroach, after.

The sun had set. They needed to be on the road, again, but few things sounded worse to Regis than returning to face other people and pretending that everything was fine. He stood and stared out toward the darkening horizon, while Sylva's footsteps hesitated behind him. Movement caught his eye, over behind some rocks not more than thirty feet away. Likely it was just some beast on its way to den for the night, but it held Regis' attention, nevertheless.

Sylva was behind him again. "Regis—"

He lifted a hand to silence her and pointed toward the rocks. She came to stand beside him, looking where he pointed. Again, they caught sight of it—not a beast, for it seemed to walk on two legs, yet it wove unevenly across the level ground, as if unsteady on its feet. It stumbled closer still and, like the flicking of a switch in his mind, Regis suddenly perceived that it was not some sinister, shadowy form, but a man.

He caught sight of them—or else he had always been fixed on them—and reached out one hand as he took several more shaky steps in their direction. "Your Majesty… Oracle…" His voice was hoarse and dry, as if the words were forced from a parched throat.

Sylva gave a startled cry. "Light of the Six, what is he doing out there?"

She stepped in front of Regis and beyond the bounds of the haven. No sooner had she done so than the glowing wards lit the man's face.

If he had thought the patch of blackened skin on the old woman in Caem was unsettling, it was nothing to this. A full half of the man's face was black as pitch and slick with oozing ichor. The same inky substance had taken over one of his arms, but it hadn't simply blackened the skin. It had transformed. What should have been a human hand now ended in long, talon-like fingers that hung nearly to the man's knees. He walked unevenly because his body was uneven.

Regis' first impulse was to take a step back. His second was to grab for Sylva and prevent her from moving any closer to the abomination that now approached them, but she was already out of his reach.

"Sylva—" Regis reached beyond the physical and into the pocket dimension to grasp his sword. As soon as his fingers wrapped around the hilt, it leapt to his hand in a flash of blue. "That is beyond even your formidable healing powers."

She hesitated, looking back toward Regis. The creature did not.

"Help… me…" It shambled forward, reaching with its human arm.

When she looked back at it, it was nearly upon her. Whether she saw the truth in Regis' words or simply reacted out of horror, she, too, took a step back. "I'm so sorry…"

The creature paused, staring at her with an open mouth as black ichor dripped from between its lips. Then it threw back its head and screamed—a sound unlike anything Regis had ever heard before. It lunged forward, lifting its clawed hand to reach for her, this time.

"Clarus—!" Regis shouted over his shoulder. The brief glance was enough to tell him both Clarus and Cor were already on their way, having not waited for his call. He turned back around and flung his blade across the distance to the daemon.

His sword plunged into its midsection and Regis followed swiftly after; in another burst of magic, he appeared with his hand on the hilt. He pulled it free and blackness dripped from the wound in place of blood. The daemon screamed again, staggering back just enough to let Regis put himself between it and Sylva. It lifted its taloned hand once more and Regis threw up his sword to deflect the blow when it came down. His blade was heavier than he remembered it being. Or his arm was weaker. No time to worry about which, now.

He forced the daemon back, using both hands on the hilt of his sword and a well-timed shove. It staggered again and, while it was finding its balance, Regis gathered a handful of lightning and threw that. The magic arced and cracked, sending the daemon reeling and pushing Regis back a step. Sylva was at his back. He could feel the brush of her hand between his shoulder blades.

The daemon was still on its feet. Regis held his sword at his side, waiting, and gathered up another handful of lightning. It crackled in his palm, tingling hot against his skin while the daemon recovered its balance.

So focused was Regis on his target, that he hardly noticed the approach of footsteps until Clarus and Cor both surged past him. The daemon took both their blades, one after another. Cor's katana plunged straight through its midsection and out the other side, while Clarus' blade cleaved cleanly through shoulder and collarbone like. The scream it gave, this time, gurgled and spilled black ichor. Cor pulled his blade free and swung again while Clarus was still repositioning himself. The daemon was already done for, but Cor never had been one to do things by halves. Even as his blade sliced the human arm neatly from its body, the daemon was sublimating into a black mist as the eerie scream faded into a whisper of the wind. Before its body hit the ground, half of it was gone.

The human arm remained on the ground at Cor's feet.

Clarus straightened, releasing his blade, which vanished in a flash of Regis' magic, and turned back toward them. "Come. We have lingered here too long. Let us make haste for the hotel."

"No." Regis let his own blade go, returning it to the In Between until he called it next, and crushed the lightning in his hand until it was no more. "We return to Insomnia."

If he had needed any more surety that this was the age of twilight, that had been it. One of his own people, transformed into a daemon by this accursed plague. But just then, it meant only one thing to him:

Noctis' life was forfeit.