Chapter Twenty-Nine: Traitors' Pyre

"Cor, would you be so kind as to send for more blankets?"

There was a slight pause in which Regis imagined the marshal was endeavoring not to sigh before he replied, "With all due respect, if the six he has aren't keeping him warm, I doubt another will make much difference."

That was unfortunately quite likely, yet his statement was punctuated by his footsteps as he strode to the door nevertheless. It brought a smile to Regis's lips to hear him call for the guards to have more bedding brought up, if a small one. This was but one of many occasions when he wondered what he had done to deserve such loyal retainers, even in his least rational moments.

His deserts, after all, tended to err in the opposite direction. Regis had had ample time to dwell on that as he sat helplessly by Noctis's bedside, watching his condition deteriorate with no recourse. Through all the years that he had spent alone, observing his son from afar and grieving the loss of the relationship they could have had if there were any justice in this world, Regis had thought himself exceptionally clever. In spite of his experiences, successes and failures alike, he had been convinced that he finally claimed the advantage over Ardyn. So long as Noctis was still breathing, still awake, he had won. There had been setbacks, of course; there were days when Regis had nearly lost his way in his desperation and loneliness. Yet when the dawn rose on Noctis's twentieth birthday, it had been his blessing to wake with a smile on his face and look forward to meeting the person his child had become.

How foolish of him. How many setbacks did he have to suffer, how many lives had to be lost before he comprehended that there was no outmatching Ardyn Izunia?

Too many examples were apparently never enough for Regis. His hubris would be the death of him and the downfall of his kingdom if he continued to let it hold sway. Or was it his emotions that rendered him so incapable of fathoming the tremendous and terrible power that was stacked against them?

The power he had enraged. The power he had woken through his own actions, for better or worse.

Taking a deep and tremulous breath, Regis shook those thoughts from his mind and extended a hand to smooth Noctis's hair out of his face. Reflecting on what he could have done was useless: he and Clarus had already spoken at length of their options, and none of them were any more prudent than the one he had chosen when he was young and inexperienced and so very frightened. The alternatives were indeed worse than the path he had decided to tread. If he had allowed Ardyn dominion, his people would have died; thwarting the mage's plans meant sacrificing his own son. There was no middle ground, no averting the moral crisis that he had faced. Even now, older and wiser than he was in the early years of his reign, he could not say with absolute surety what was the better course. As king, he was well aware of the answer, and he had walked that road to its end.

As a father, he was more a failure than words could describe. Not even Carbuncle, who had arrived earlier that day and taken up residence on Noctis's other side, had been able to correct the inevitable consequence of his righteous cause. Yes, his son was still alive. His chest rose and fell evenly, too evenly to be natural in sleep or waking.

But there was something wrong, some evil at work within him that was determined to gradually steal that which had been snatched away from it by the Dream Guardian's quick thinking twenty years prior. It went far beyond the simple fact that they could not keep him warm—at all. Regardless of what they tried, there was no chasing away the chill that had settled into Noctis's limbs, as though he were already dead even when his heart continued pumping blood through his veins. It made his joints stiff and his skin pale, his fair complexion nearly translucent despite the warm light of his bedroom. The intravenous solutions that the court physician had prescribed to stave off the effects of starvation appeared to have no impact; with each passing day, his hands looked a bit bonier and his cheeks thinned with unnatural rapidity. Dark, bruise-like circles rounded Noctis's eyes, which did nothing to help when they seemed to have sunk deeper into his skull as it was. To gaze upon him was to gaze upon the portrait of death itself, gone yet so very much alive.

It was like a parasite was leeching the life out of him, hour by hour, day by day. No, Noctis was not dead; Carbuncle had spared him from that fate, however disconcerting the alternative. Still, Regis could not help but wonder if all the Dream Guardian had done was buy him time to say goodbye. Soon—very soon with the swiftness at which Noctis was fading away before his eyes—there would be nothing left. The curse itself might not have killed him, but its effects very well could. After all, how would Noctis survive if his body could not receive the nutrients it desperately needed? How would he continue to breathe if his ribs were too heavy for his weakening lungs to lift? How would he not freeze if he could conserve no heat?

Those were questions that had been whirling around Regis's mind for the last week with no answers forthcoming. Even Carbuncle, wise and knowledgeable though he was, could not provide them.

Regis smiled sadly as he surveyed the tiny creature that had done so much more than his stature suggested possible. His arrival had been quite unexpected, yet there was no denying the comfort that he carried with him, as he always had. That was not to say that he was singularly reassuring: the toy Regis had purchased for his son when he was a baby—the one that brought him close to tears every time he remembered that Noctis had kept it all this time—was still tucked beneath the blankets in silent support. To see it made it easier to imagine that nothing was wrong, that his son was simply sleeping. The true Dream Guardian must have realized the nostalgia that gripped Regis at the sight, because he did not seek to supplant his stuffed counterpart. Instead, he had climbed onto Noctis's pillow and cuddled up next to his head to wait.

It hadn't bothered Regis that he did not speak. The atmosphere did not lend itself to noise, really.

That he couldn't speak did not occur to him until that afternoon, when the air seemed to prickle with energy like the clouds before a storm. It did not cross his mind until he'd glanced out the window to see the magical wall protecting Insomnia and his son from Ardyn's wrath collapsing, breaking apart like shards of glass that disintegrated as they fell towards the ground. It did not seem possible until Clarus's phone had rung and Ignis's name appeared on the screen.

"Is it done?" he'd demanded the moment the call connected, his Shield having long since abandoned any hope of keeping the device to himself until they returned to the Citadel.

The answer was plain to see, yet Regis had been relieved nonetheless when Ignis replied, "It is."

He'd known it would not be enough to wake his son, of course; the curse was not attached to the Crystal so much as the mage that wielded its might. Its erstwhile might. Even so, he had glanced to Noctis as though he would open his eyes and join him in celebration of the grand step they had taken towards Ardyn's demise. Unsurprisingly, he hadn't, although his bedfellow's ears had perked up like he could hear every word Ignis spoke. Perhaps he could—they were indeed long enough that Regis would have thought they should offer some sort of benefit to his senses.

His silent joke and inner satisfaction had dissolved when Ignis continued, "I suspect this may be a trap."

At first, Regis hadn't understood what he meant. The task was completed; the Crystal was destroyed and, from the sounds of it, they had escaped in one piece. There was the simple matter of dealing with his son's friend when they returned to the Citadel, along with the more daunting mission of locating Ardyn so that they could deliver his end as swiftly and surely as possible. Beyond that, Regis hadn't initially been able to comprehend what Ignis could be referring to. Then again, maybe he hadn't wanted to admit it. Maybe he had merely wished to believe that things were well on their way to being settled and that dawn was indeed on the horizon.

The most enticing delusions could not last forever, though, and his son's advisor had not been quick enough to explain himself before realization had struck him. The only excuse he could offer for not recognizing it sooner was his own grief, and even that was not sufficient for one of his station.

Outside, there was no wall of divine protection standing between them and the darkness lurking where they could not see it.

Inside, the familiar reddish glow of Carbuncle's horn was conspicuously absent, and his gaze was a great deal more solemn than Regis had ever seen in the past. Not even on the day of the christening had he affected such a somber, anguished appearance.

On his son's finger, the Ring of the Lucii no longer glimmered with the magic that had been imbued within by the Messenger's will.

And it was in that instant that Regis had fully comprehended the gravity of what he had known would happen without care for the consequences if it meant releasing his child from the bonds of imprisonment that kept him locked away. It was in that instant that he had registered yet another grievous loss in the seemingly endless war between himself and the fourth mage.

"Ardyn will come for Noct," Ignis had said, his explanation suddenly unnecessary as Regis reclaimed his seat beside his son and reached out a hand to stroke Carbuncle's fur in wordless apology.

Another loss. Another sacrifice.

This one, he'd resolved, would not be in vain.

So, with a heavy heart that belied his determination, Regis had gathered what strength he could to reply, "Let him come. He will find us ready."

"Majesty… We are unable to confirm what effect the destruction of the Crystal has had on him, if any. Even if his immortality has indeed been stripped from him, he still poses a considerable threat."

"That is a risk we must take," Regis had observed. "As it stands, there are few other options."

In fact, there were no other options. Regardless of his own feigned confidence, regardless of Ignis's assurances that they would return to Insomnia with all haste, regardless of the precautions he'd immediately set about taking as soon as the call disconnected—they had no choice. The deed was done; the Crystal was gone. Gentiana would never again step out of the shadows to aid them in their time of need with a spell or a word of comfort, just as Carbuncle had to wait like the rest of them for Noctis to rise again. According to Ignis, the Oracle hadn't fared much better: she was apparently recovering well from the strain of her task and its aftermath, but all that had kept her strong in the face of her fate had fled. She was but a young woman—a brave, kind, selfless woman who had done the seemingly impossible in order to save the world, yet an all too mortal woman nevertheless.

It was that more than anything else that gave Regis the courage to carry on. If Lady Lunafreya, so young and now powerless, could stand before the greatest shadow the world had ever encountered and refuse to allow it passage, then there was no reason why he should not. In the event that he perished, at least his son would have a father who died ensuring the safety of his family and his people to the best of his ability.

So, he hadn't wasted a moment. Clarus and Cor had been waiting outside Noctis's room for the duration of his conversation, not bothering to simulate ignorance to what they had undoubtedly overheard. Neither was pleased with the idea of shifting their defenses, not when they had struck the perfect balance already, but there was no other alternative available to them.

For the last week, every member of the Crownsguard and Kingsglaive had been on duty around the clock, scouring the Citadel for any sign of intruders. The days were long and the nights even more so, and Regis had endeavored to make their jobs that much easier by suspending civilian access to the palace indefinitely. Maintaining his own vigil at Noctis's side made it unnecessary for unauthorized individuals to seek an audience with him, so there was hardly any need to keep the doors open for them to loiter about until he deigned to greet them. That was not to say that he did not value his people or their time and attention, not in the slightest. Yet that small, selfish part of him that spoke with a father's voice rather than that of a monarch had insisted that there were appropriate situations in which to make himself unavailable. His own father had stepped away from the public on occasion, needing to meditate on substantial requests or simply remove himself from the stress of the position for a few fleeting hours. This was a great deal longer than that, yes, but Regis refused to be parted from his son when there was still hope of reversing this terrible curse. His council and his people would have to forgive him his failings for now. Therefore, in conjunction with his wishes, the Citadel had been singularly populated by his most trusted attendants and loyal guards. Anyone else would wait until the crisis—the crisis heretofore unknown to them—had abated.

The obliteration of the Crystal meant changing their tactics, however reluctant his retainers had been to comply with his wishes. With danger potentially looming closer, Regis had ordered Cor and Drautos to pull back even further. Since that afternoon, guards and Glaives alike had taken to patrolling the corridors outside Noctis's chambers and the perimeter of the Citadel's gates alone. Those were the most vulnerable locations, the ones that would need defending should Ardyn enter as they anticipated, so they had taken precedence in their strategic orchestrations. Only the inside of Noctis's apartment was free of their increased presence, as Regis had allowed none but his Shield, his marshal, and the Glaive that had ever stood at Noctis's side to join him in his grief. Others came and went as they were needed, which was seldom, but remained steadfastly rooted to their positions in protection of their prince.

The rest of the palace was left unattended: Regis had little care whether Ardyn sat on his throne or dined at his table so long as his hands came not within reach of his son's throat. In fact, he almost welcomed the mage to do so. Let him come now that he was not bolstered by the power of the gods. Let him come now that he had no empire at his disposal.

Let him come so that Regis might meet him, steel for steel, and take back what belonged to him. What belonged to Noctis.

Yet he did not. Hours crept by, the sun lowered beyond the edge of the wall and brought darkness to the world, but Ardyn did not appear.

In a sense, the waiting was more maddening than the threat, and Regis took to staring out the window in distant dread as the clock ticked ever onward. Although they could not predict the time or manner of his coming, they did not even attempt to delude themselves into believing that he would not with each moment he remained ominously absent. Too many years had passed between the commencement of his plans and the hour of his perceived victory for him to abandon his vengeance now. After all, it was he who had sent Noctis's retainers dashing for the Crystal; it was he who had provided the perfect opportunity to snatch the origins of his powers away so that he might never use them again. Indeed, Regis knew as well as Ignis that his motives were not so clear, that there were facets of his plot that they were not privy to. Still, he had maneuvered them into this position. He had strung them all up and made them dance like marionettes. He would come to cut their strings—it was merely a matter of when.

In the meantime, there was nothing to do besides that which he had been for the last week. He straightened Noctis's blankets. He hopelessly attempted to rub some warmth back into his son's frigid hands. He brushed those long dark locks of hair away from his forehead over and over again until he thought for certain that he would never be able to stop.

He stood watch. He hoped. He prayed to whatever deity might be listening for the first time in years.

If they heard him, they did not answer. Regis supposed that was only to be expected when he was responsible for the razing of their gift to mankind and the guardians that they had bestowed upon Eos. With no Messenger to communicate their will, there was certainly no point in enforcing it.

Which was why Regis closed his eyes and sighed when the lights went out just before midnight. If ever there was a sign, be it from the Six themselves or merely the abomination they had set loose, that had to be it.

And what a sign it was.

"Regis," Clarus called him from the window, his tone as severe as his expression.

Steeling himself, Regis gave Noctis's hand a comforting and useless squeeze before relinquishing his hold and moving to join him. The sight that greeted them was beyond comprehension even as they watched it unfold.

It was not merely the Citadel that had lost power, much as Regis wished it were so simple as that. No, block by block, the rest of Insomnia was blinking out until there were no lights on the horizon. Not even vehicles were immune, the streets running into the distance like snaking black rivers that slithered to the depths of the underworld. With the sun having set hours ago and the moon obscured by heavy clouds, he would have thought that they existed in a void—if they existed at all. If not for the steady presence of his Shield at his side and the sturdy sill he leaned on, it would not have seemed like such an impossibility for them to have drifted into a shadowy abyss, a darkness that could only be his.

And if that were the case…

"Ulric, send word to Drautos," Regis ordered as firmly as he could manage in light of what he must do. "Have him muster the Glaive and make for the main gates immediately."

Regis sensed more than saw him hesitate where he had been hovering just outside the door, unable to berate him for it when he understood precisely how he felt. It was, after all, no different than the hesitation that attempted to stay his own tongue. Yet Ulric was a Glaive first and foremost, and he had done less appealing things in the course of his duty than this. Thus, it was Cor who spoke for him so that he would not have to voice complaints he doubtless had no right to.

"You think it wise to remove guards from the prince's side?" he inquired cautiously, no doubt recognizing the difficulty Regis already faced in doing so.

Their understanding made little difference to him, his expression hardening at their tentative defiance. "I believe we have no other choice. See it done."

A heavy set of footsteps and the beep of Ulric's earpiece were all the confirmation he had that his orders would be followed, and the tense set of his shoulders eased somewhat in spite of his discomfort. Clarus must have recognized his momentary lapse of confidence, because he immediately laid a firm hand on his shoulder to draw him from the confines of his own traitorous thoughts.

"They protect the prince in their absence," his Shield assured him. How he could remain so certain was nearly beyond Regis's comprehension until he remembered: it was not his child he stood to lose if this was the wrong decision.

Regardless, it was one that had to be made. Long had the walls on the border of Insomnia protected the Crown City from the daemons that prowled outside. Their presence had diminished in recent years, but they were by no means gone from the world the way so many of them desired. On various occasions, he had received reports of the odd goblin scratching at the far side of the gate, easily dispensed with on sight and just as quickly forgotten. Nothing larger had plagued them in years, nor had any creatures of darkness yet managed to gain entry to the city.

But the lights were out now. Insomnia was shrouded in shadows the likes of which he assumed only the ancient kings had seen, for the invention of electricity was not a new one. Never had they been plunged into darkness this deep, this endless; never had they been without the beacons that ensured their security by sending their enemies running. Not until tonight.

His people were not prepared for this trial, not like his guards and Glaives. They had known peace for so long that he did not believe they could fathom the trials of war his father had encountered, and his father before him. As such, he had little hope that they would be able to defend themselves should the need arise. The walls had to hold, and with the sheer scale of this apparent calling card… Well, Regis doubted they were quite as impregnable as he had always assumed.

So, he nodded tersely in wordless acknowledgement of his Shield's reassurances. He thanked Ulric when he returned and confirmed that Drautos was mobilizing the Glaives at his behest. He spared a glance for his son and silently apologized for having to once again make the decision between his safety and that of their people. It seemed so long ago now that he had stood beside his wife's bed and promised his baby boy that he would always be there, that he would always put his son's needs before his own. And in that way, he had never broken his solemn vow: although his absence had been undesirable, it was in acceptance of Noctis's needs that he had remained so. Often had Regis desperately required the solace of seeing his child, of knowing that he had not been entirely robbed of those who meant more to him than life itself; often had he spent hours inhabiting fantasies where he could leave Insomnia and visit with Noctis, see him grow firsthand rather than through the blessed pictures that he had saved and cherished all this time. It was not to be, though. So long as Noctis's safety was at stake, so long as he was in danger by Regis's mere presence, there was no way that he could bring himself to take that which he had constantly longed for. Perhaps Noctis hated him for it; perhaps he abhorred this odious king who had sent him away with such seeming ease. Perhaps, in spite of his hopes to the contrary, they would never be able to foster the sort of relationship that Regis had ideally anticipated. All that meant nothing if his son lived. If Noctis loathed him until the day he died, which would be quite far off if Regis had any say in it, he could at least be certain that he had done everything he could to put his child before himself.

But he could not come first. That was not a blessing afforded him as monarch.

The gates needed defending. His subjects needed protection. As king, it was his duty to provide for them even at the cost of his own life. Ever had he upheld his post, and although his heart ached to do the opposite, he would do so now.

And with not a moment to spare, it seemed. When Regis turned back to the window, his eyes were immediately drawn to the horizon when subtle movement against the dark clouds caught his attention. At first, he thought for certain that it was his imagination: shadows could be fearsome foes, bent on twisting one's perception of the world until all things seemed grotesque and frightening. The massive birds of prey soaring straight towards Insomnia were inarguably both. That was how they appeared, at least: even from this distance, they seemed more like the animate skeletons of some incalculably enormous beast than anything else, their numerous red eyes eerily glowing in the gloom. It was as though they pierced Regis's soul, driving whatever warmth had remained from his heart and replacing it with the same chill that had plagued his son for a week.

The sensation worsened when he realized that they were not alone. Even as he watched them soar at alarming speed over the walls, he heard the distant bangs and shouts that heralded the coming of their counterparts on the ground below.

This, then, was how their doom would be decided. How foolish of him to have believed that Ardyn might come without company and allow Regis the comfort of knowing that even if he perished, even if the unthinkable happened and he lost his son, his people would live on in peace. After all these years, he should never have given those hopes quarter in his mind. The fourth mage had been in his employ long enough to know his deepest fears, his most ensnaring doubts, and his darkest misgivings. If this was to be the grand finale of his dreadful opus, then he was bound to make it such an end as to be worthy of his own efforts. Never could it be said that Ardyn Izunia, chosen mage and perpetual thorn in Regis's side, was not entirely devoted to his cause—his terrible, deadly cause.

A cause that Regis would fight tooth and nail if it meant his kingdom stood another day and his son's chest rose and fell an hour longer.

Even if it meant leaving his side.

Because the daemons were not the only ones who had arrived to drag Lucis into the depths of Hell where all of the fourth mage's enemies languished. They were not the only shadows that haunted the streets of the Crown City tonight.

The devil himself stood in the center of the Citadel's courtyard, silhouetted by a circle of guards with his head raised as though he could see Regis watching him. All things considered, it was quite possible.

That should have inspired more fear in him than it did. It should have given him pause, not propelled him to his knees beside Noctis's bed so that he could draw his sword from its sheathe beneath the mattress. Now that there was no danger in his son's proximity to such weapons, Regis had not hesitated to keep his trusted steel at his side in the event that Gentiana's protection failed and the hammer of fate fell upon them as it had long desired to—as it did now.

The time had come, and gripping the familiar leather hilt was like shaking hands with an old friend when he strode towards the door without a backwards glance. For once, both king and father were in agreement.

His Shield, however, was not.

"You intend to fight him on your own?" he huffed, following hard on Regis's heels and plucking his greatsword from the sofa in Noctis's sitting room as if it weighed nothing.

Regis did not turn to look at him as he reached for the door and retorted, "If I must."

Just as he turned the knob, a hand shot out to slam it shut again. Clarus's eyes were ablaze with righteous anger when Regis glared over at him, and his voice was filled with untold emotion as he insisted, "As your Shield, it is my duty to fight at your side."

"It is your duty to protect that which is most important," amended Regis. Perhaps it was a misinterpretation of the technical purpose to which a Shield was put, but he cared not. Instead, he pressed on, "Your place is here."

"My place is standing between you and that monster."

Calming himself with a breath, Regis pointedly attempted to pry the door open once more to no avail. Clarus's grip remained firm and unwavering, as it always had been. In this instance, though, it grated more on Regis's nerves than it comforted him.

With a hasty glance towards where Ulric and Cor were waiting in the entrance to Noctis's bedroom, he ordered, "You are to remain here and guard my son."

"Three pairs of hands are of less use here than they are against Ardyn," observed the marshal evenly. "With all due respect, you'll need all the help you can get."

"I can fend for myself."

"And if you can't?" demanded his Shield. "If you fail and the prince does not wake? To whom, then, would the throne fall?"

To that, Regis could offer no answer. It would be optimistic to the point of foolishness if he insisted that it hadn't crossed his mind as the days stretched on with no improvement. Even if he managed to safeguard his people, they would need a leader when all was said and done. If not him, then whom? Noctis was not yet ready to rule, and if he was unsuccessful in his attempt to subdue Ardyn, then that reality was moot. His son had to wake before he could take the throne; if he lingered on in this cursed existence, alive and dead at once, then the line of succession would be compromised. There would be no true king that could ascend in his stead so long as Noctis lived without abdicating, nor could the council claim regency when he would never regain consciousness. All of Lucis would be thrown into disarray, the control of the government collapsing until anarchy reigned instead.

Perhaps the king and father could not be so similarly motivated after all.

"Ulric," Regis addressed his Glaive, pride surging through him when the latter straightened in immediate acceptance of whatever he would be asked. It was fortunate that he was so accommodating, for Regis did not know whether he could take any further argument when he commanded, "Take care of my son."

"With my life, Your Majesty," was Ulric's automatic response, and he did not wait for them to leave before stepping back into Noctis's room and closing the door behind him.

Never in his life had Regis found the click of a lock so encouraging.

It was the sound he took with him when he nodded to his retainers—his friends and brothers—and left Noctis's apartment to meet what awaited below. It echoed in his mind alongside visions of his child's tearful smiles and the sound of his voice as Regis stepped into the elevator and led them all into the fires of destiny.


"What've we got, Aranea?"

"You want the good news or the bad news?"

Gladio and Ignis shared a solemn glance, but it was Prompto who called into the car's speakerphone from the backseat, "Uh, good news first?"

"Well," Aranea's voice mused from the other end of the line, tinny yet audible, "the place is still standing."

"And the bad news?" sighed Ignis, his hands clenching tighter around the steering wheel. He was practically white-knuckling it, and that was before Aranea responded.

"You boys have a hell of a crowd waiting for you. Daemons all over the place."

Big surprise, thought Gladio glumly. It wasn't like they hadn't guessed as much themselves, but it was another thing to have it confirmed by someone with a bird's-eye view.

He had to hand it to them: Niflheim had come up with a lot of shit over the years, but their airships were pretty damn impressive. That wasn't to say that he would've felt the same way if they'd ever been put to the sort of use that he knew they were meant for; attacks from the air were a lot harder to deflect than ones on solid ground, after all. Still, when Aranea had pointed to her craft where she'd left it at Ravatogh's summit, he hadn't been able to avoid grudgingly complimenting it. What else was he going to do when she'd agreed to use her advantage to help them save Noct?

Of course, it would have been too simple if they'd all piled inside and made for Insomnia together. Nothing could ever be done the easy way.

Besides giving them a ride to the bottom of the mountain so that they didn't have to hike that distance a second time—which was a blessing when Gladio had had to heft that worthless so-called king on his own—they'd been out of luck. Much as he hated to admit it, he'd sided with Prompto when the latter groaned and moaned all the way to Duscae about how unfair it was that they'd risked the treacherous slopes while the former commodore of the imperial army had been able to land a hop, skip, and a jump away. It was only fitting that she could repay them with a lift to Insomnia, and she'd at least had the decency to offer. Ignis, however, pulled one of his typical maneuvers and told her they'd follow by land even if it was the slower option. His glare had kept them from arguing, but both of them understood the necessity enough not to bother—even if they hated every last second of it.

The part of him that had always been and forever would be a Shield had been itching to get back to the Crown City as quickly as possible. If they were right and Noct was in danger, then there was nowhere else he would rather be than at his side. That was without mentioning the magnetic pull of their brotherhood, which meant that the combination of his emotions and his duty had been driving him insane ever since Ignis had hurried them out of that cavern, the shattered remains of the defunct Crystal left behind as the only evidence that it had ever been there at all. If he'd had it his way, he'd have taken the fastest route and left that scumbag Ravus strung up at the top of the mountain for the crows to deal with. He would have thrown caution to the wind and taken a few chances to reach Insomnia before sundown. But Ignis wasn't an expert strategist for no reason: putting all their eggs in one basket, however impressive and sturdy that basket might be, was a terrible idea. One lucky shot, and they were done for. There wouldn't be any getting to the Citadel; there wouldn't be any saving Noct. There would just be darkness and waiting for their friends and family to join them in it.

So, Gladio had tried to keep his grousing to a minimum as they stuffed themselves back into Ignis's car and took off as though they'd been shot out of Prompto's gun. They'd stopped once for gas along the way since there was no chance they'd make it across the country without filling the tank, but otherwise, it had been a nonstop dash for home. Ignis, for as much of a stickler as he'd always been about following rules, was breaking every speed limit imaginable to make it to the Citadel before their worst nightmares could come true—in fact, Gladio was pretty sure the speedometer had broken back near Cauthess and couldn't actually keep up with them anymore. That would explain why it was stuck at a hundred fifty when they were definitely going a hell of a lot faster than that.

But none of them had said a word about it as the hours ticked by and brought them closer to their goal. They'd simply grabbed hold of the handles inside their doors, held their breaths, and hoped that they didn't run into anyone who wasn't paying attention. They couldn't afford any mishaps that might slow them down, particularly mishaps of their own making.

There was no avoiding the ones waiting for them when they crossed the borders of Insomnia and sped up the road towards the gates, Aranea's report ringing in their ears as the walls of the Crown City towered ever larger in front of them.

"Do not engage them if you can manage to do otherwise," Ignis ordered firmly. His eyes never left the road, not even when a telling—and monstrous—shadow floated overhead in the direction of the city.

"Wasn't planning on it. You sure that fancy car of yours can handle all this?"

His lips twitched for the first time since they'd destroyed the Crystal, but it wasn't a happy kind of smirk. Actually, it was that brand of terrifying that only Ignis could achieve as he peered in the rear-view mirror and assured her, "It'll take a bit more than a few daemons."

"If you say so."

That was it—no goodbyes or platitudes, just the steady beeping that told them she'd hung up before the call disconnected and the car fell silent inside. Her frankness was something Gladio could respect, even if the rest of her personality plucked on his last nerve until he was pretty sure he would rather have eaten his greatsword than accepted her offer of assistance. Not that he didn't get the necessity: like Prompto had said on their way back from Gralea, they needed everybody they could drag together if they were going to pull this off. She was still a pain in the ass, though. Not working with the empire anymore didn't change that.

The former empire, that was. According to her, it hadn't existed for years, unbeknownst to its people. They were going to have a hell of a time breaking the news, but that was luckily a matter for another day and someone better equipped to handle the fallout than him. Right now, he had to keep telling himself that she had been right, that they were on the same side purely because they wanted to live. They could work out the rest later, just like all the other shit on their docket.

"Ardyn will not make it so simple to reach the Citadel," warned Lady Lunafreya, leaning forward from the backseat to peer through the windshield at the ominous flying daemons.

"Funny," Gladio grunted, "we're not gonna make it so simple for him either."

Before she could contradict him, Prompto piped up, "All we gotta do is clear a path, right?"

"Whatever's left of one."

"If we must, Aranea can provide a safer route," interjected Ignis sharply, his pointed stare reprimand enough for Gladio's pessimism. Lady Lunafreya wasn't having any of it from either of them, apparently.

"We must take the fastest road possible," she argued steadily, "if we are to intercept him before he reaches the prince."

Hold the phone.

Turning in his seat, Gladio leveled her with his most intimidating glower (according to Prompto, anyway) and countered, "We nothin'. You're staying in the car."

The scathing yet silent response that earned him did nothing to chip away at his resolve, not this time. Lady Lunafreya wasn't the Oracle anymore—she didn't even have her trident now. They'd watched it disintegrate in a flash of light in the same instant that the Crystal had shattered; Gladio wasn't about to fool himself into thinking that she could summon it again purely because she wanted to help. That meant she was just your average, run-of-the-mill princess, and an unarmed one at that. People like her were a liability, not an asset.

It wasn't that he didn't think she wanted to save Noct—she did. It was even better that she'd finally gotten off her ass and done something for a change to do it. But Gladio wasn't willing to take any risks here. Aranea was a required one: she had the tools and the firepower to make shit happen, which had paid off well before they'd made it as far as the Crown City. Having eyes in the air was the best they could hope for, especially when they didn't know what else they were about to drive into. Anything besides that was tempting fate when the deck was already stacked against them, and if there was one thing Gladio wasn't about to entertain, it was the idea of pushing their limited luck even further. That was why they had rented out the caravan in the outpost near Ravatogh and tied Ravus up inside as soon as they'd had the chance. (The knots hadn't been nearly tight enough for Gladio's satisfaction, but Ignis had been adamant that they not make it impossible for him to get free and head home when he woke up and couldn't make himself any more of a damn nuisance.) That was why they had made a few calls and hedged their bets on their way back to Insomnia.

And it was why Gladio was going to make sure that the former Oracle stayed in the car until they saw this mess through. His priorities couldn't be split, and if she was around, he would feel obligated to keep an eye on her that he didn't have to spare. Maybe the Oracle had been able take care of herself without needing a Shield or a guard or whatever passed for security in Tenebrae, but this was completely different. It had to be. They'd done the seemingly impossible; she needed to accept that there were going to be times when she was better off getting out of their way. It was just a matter of seeing to it that she didn't do anything stupid in the meantime. After all, despite the fact that they hadn't known her long, Gladio could already tell she had an unfortunate amount of Noct in her. That wasn't necessarily a bad thing; the two of them would probably get along like a house on fire. The problem was that they were trying to put out the flames right now, not make them bigger. Mages—even former ones—had a tendency of doing the exact opposite.

Fortunately, Lady Lunafreya didn't have the opportunity to argue with him, although she obviously wanted to. While they'd been staring each other down in a wordless battle of the wills (one that he would win), they'd apparently made it over the bridge and approached the gate. It wasn't until Gladio felt the car decelerating that he tore his gaze away to frown into the darkness ahead of them. Aranea had already warned that the lights of the Crown City had gone out, but he hadn't anticipated how bad it would be. It was an ominous sight, to put it mildly. Growing up at the Citadel meant that he and Ignis had been surrounded by fluorescent signs and glittering vistas for as long as they could remember; not once could he recall a time when the flood lamps at the top of the wall hadn't been turned on after sunset. They were what kept the daemons at bay—them and the guards that monitored who entered and exited Insomnia at all hours without fail.

That much, at least, hadn't changed. When Ignis rolled to a stop at the conspicuously open border, it wasn't to find the gate unmanned like they had almost expected on the irritatingly long drive. No, the king had definitely gone all out on this one: the gate watch was accompanied by the Kingsglaive tonight, which made absolutely no sense when Gladio could hear the screams beyond the wall as soon as Ignis opened his window.

Why the hell weren't they inside the city, protecting the people who couldn't damn well do it for themselves? Why were they standing here with the doors wide open? Why did they care who came and went when the enemies had already waltzed right on in?

And why was Luche Lazarus staring at their car as though he'd just won the goddamn lottery?

Gladio never had liked that guy: he was obviously one who put ambitions before brotherhood, even to the point where his head was usually stuffed up Drautos's ass. There weren't many occasions when the Crownsguard worked in conjunction with the Glaive, especially occasions where Gladio was actually present instead of on special assignments within the Citadel, but he'd never been around Luche without feeling like he might just punch the guy in the face.

And apparently for good reason. Ignis couldn't get a word out before that sleazy little shit commanded, "Step out of the car."

Ain't happening.

Of course, Ignis was a lot better with words than Gladio, so his version was a little less hostile.

"The king is expecting us and requested our return as soon as possible," he replied, a cool edge to his voice that he usually only used when one of the older retainers treated him like he had no clue what he was doing. They might have had time and experience on their side, but Ignis had clearly gotten all the brains.

Which was why Gladio shouldn't have been at all surprised when Luche waved a hand towards his fellow Glaives, beckoning them forward as he repeated, "I said, step out of the car. All of you. By order of the king," he added with an ironic sneer that Gladio wanted to wipe off his smug face.

For a second, it looked like Ignis was seriously contemplating just ignoring him. His foot even tapped the gas, making the engine whir as though he might just say screw it and run them all down if they didn't get out of his way fast enough. That was definitely what Gladio would have done—from the looks of it, Prompto and Lady Lunafreya wouldn't even have blamed him for it.

But Ignis was Ignis, so he reluctantly shut off the engine and did as he was told. Knowing him, he probably thought that was the easiest method of getting out of this and that if they just cooperated, things would go a lot smoother.

Gladio, on the other hand, doubted it. There was something wrong about the way Luche was eyeing them: his nose was tilted so far into the air that Aranea would have to watch out to keep from hitting it. Most Glaives didn't get that full of themselves, not even the ones who only cared about their next promotion like him. They served at the king's pleasure, which was as easily revoked as it was granted. No one was safe, and if you didn't watch your step, you'd find yourself a civilian or worse. More than one member of the Kingsglaive had gotten the boot over the years; the remaining soldiers valued their positions enough not to pretend they were big shit when they weren't.

Well, everyone but Drautos. That guy was a special brand of asshole, talented captain or not.

It looked like Luche was doing his best to emulate him, too, because he affected the same casual disdain for anything that wasn't himself as he glared down his nose at them when they didn't follow Ignis's lead. Unlike Noct's chamberlain, however, Gladio wasn't as willing to play ball with these idiots. They had places to be, and the longer they spent messing around down here, the more people stood to get hurt. That wasn't acceptable regardless of the king's alleged orders.

And call him crazy, but something told Gladio that King Regis would never order the Kingsglaive to stop them when they were trying to get to Noct's side.

"Did you suddenly go deaf?" demanded Luche sharply, his eyes narrowing when Gladio did nothing more than stare at him in unconcealed annoyance. If he thought he was going to get one over on the Shield to the future king, then he was shit out of luck.

"No, but I'm startin' to wonder if you did. Like Ignis said, we got places to be."

"The only place you need to be is outside of the vehicle. Now."

What Gladio really wanted to tell him was that if he got out of the car, Luche was going to be the one to regret it. After all, there were a few hundred pounds of steel separating his face from Gladio's fist; if there weren't, he wasn't sure he'd be able to stop himself from showing this guy who the hell he was talking to.

Ignis wasn't about to let that happen, though. Every time Gladio thought they were on the same page, he proved himself to be the same killjoy he'd always been instead. Surprisingly, it had somehow seemed less obnoxious when they were kids, which he never would have believed possible back then. Right now, with that pointed glare over his shoulder and the silent Don't Antagonize Them he was trying to convey, Gladio wished he would take a leaf out of Prompto's book. Niff spy or not, at least he had guts of steel. And gall. A lot of gall.

Not that Ignis didn't, but he tended to tread the careful path and expected them all to take the high road right along with him. Most days, Gladio would have appreciated that: it was good to have someone around who looked before they leapt and kept a cool head on their shoulders. It kept them from acting too rashly, like using Luche as a speed bump on their way to the Citadel.

In this case, however, Gladio had to admit that there wasn't much choice involved in deciding whether they were going to follow Ignis's lead. On Luche's orders, the car was flanked with Glaives while the other guards kept watch ahead; swords were unsheathed and aimed in their direction as though they were the threat rather than the daemons. All eyes were trained on them, waiting for them to make a wrong move.

And they had a goddamn liability in the backseat.

So, with a low growl of frustration, Gladio unceremoniously shoved open the door and slammed it behind him as he turned to face Drautos's pathetic second in command. Prompto and Lady Lunafreya did the same, and he couldn't deny that it took a load off his own shoulders to see the former slide across the seats so that he could stay as close to her as possible. If he was going to play bodyguard, then that was fine by Gladio. Maybe that would keep both of them out of trouble. He honestly didn't get what it was that enamored Prompto so much about the former Oracle: she was pretty and all, but they also rivaled each other as the biggest pain in the neck he'd ever met at times. Whatever had him so enchanted, whether her looks or her personality or the fact that she was as annoying as he was, he wasn't moving any further from her side than absolutely necessary. In fact, his expression was as focused as Gladio's as they rounded the car, keeping himself between her and the points of the Glaives' swords surrounding them. It was a pretty odd sight given the fact that Niffs hadn't exactly been gentle with Tenebrae in the past.

So now he's got a conscience. Well, better late than never.

There would be other times for sarcasm, though. The Glaives had followed in their footsteps, trapping them at the center of a circle ringed with steel while Luche sneered in triumph. Over what, Gladio wasn't sure he wanted to know.

But the alternative was letting him get the first word, and there was no way that was going to happen.

"The hell is this?" Gladio waved a hand towards the gate with every ounce of authority his father had taught him to exude. "Don't you have better things to be doing than standing around here? People're dying."

Luche shook his head, unruffled by his accusations as he scoffed, "His Majesty deems is of the utmost importance to prune traitors from our midst. Seize their weapons."

That last part was clearly meant for his comrades, who immediately popped the trunk to raid it for their arms. Any other time, it would have taken everything Gladio had not to turn around and throw them all out of the way to protect what was his, but not now. The consequences weren't worth it, even if his instincts were screaming the opposite in an attempt to get him to move. It helped that there were just enough of them left playing babysitter to keep him from taking the kind of action Ignis would guilt him over later. Besides, he was still too caught up on Luche's bullshit.

"Traitors?" he mused darkly. "You gotta be kidding me."

"I can assure you, this is no joking matter," snapped Luche. Maybe Gladio was imagining it, but it looked like he threw his chin even higher in the air than before, if that were possible. "Or do you deny that you were the ones that brought down the magical barrier King Regis contracted to protect the prince?"

Frowning, Gladio simply stared at him like the moron he was without bothering to answer. It wasn't his place to correct him, not when that must have been the excuse they were going with for Gentiana's intervention. Gladio didn't blame the king for not giving the Glaive the whole story either: it was none of their damn business, especially where people like Luche were concerned. Their duty was to keep Lucis safe; asking questions about things they didn't need to know wasn't on the agenda. The Messenger's wall helped them as much as it did Noct, given that their job got a whole lot easier when there was a big magical bubble around the city doing all the work for them. That was as much as they really required, and Gladio wasn't about to offer more than the king had even in his own defense.

Because damn, it stung that they couldn't argue on this one. After all, they had brought down the barrier, just not for the reasons Luche seemed to think.

Oh, and he wasn't done.

Figures.

"Do you deny that your actions lured the daemons into Insomnia or that you have been cavorting with the enemy to destabilize Lucis?" he continued with a flippant, disgusted gesture at Prompto that had Gladio irrationally bristling.

So was Prompto. The kid didn't waste a second before he was indignantly exclaiming, "Who're you calling the enemy?"

"Now is not the time for this," interjected Ignis, finally losing his temper in a way that only Ignis could. He didn't shout—that wasn't his style—but his razor-sharp glare and no-nonsense tone made it clear that he was ten shades of done with this conversation. "The king has been fully briefed on Prompto's former position within the empire. Delivering justice is his privilege, not yours."

His logic was completely lost on Luche, who merely smirked and retorted, "Then you admit to sabotaging the Crown City's defenses, which you should know better than anyone is treason."

So was keeping the prince's Shield from getting to his charge, but Gladio didn't think that line of argument was going to take them very far. At this point, though, nothing would. Whoever was jabbing the flat end of their blade into his back was making that much pretty damn clear.

But they hadn't come all this way just to get stopped at the gate. They hadn't traveled the world in a week and defied the gods themselves just to trip right before they reached the finish line.

He was the Shield of the future king of Lucis—a king who would be crowned if Gladio had to tear the rest of Eos down to see it done.

The Kingsglaive had nothing on him.

Which was why he didn't just stand there and wait for Luche to finish shouting, "Kill them!" By the time the words left his mouth, Gladio was already in motion.

Whirling around, he knocked the Glaive's blade away right as they were about to stab it through his back—poetically enough. These were no mere guards, though; the Kingsglaive was Lucis's most elite defensive force, and his opponent was quick to spin her sword in her hand to come around for another assault.

But he hadn't gotten his position for sitting on his ass either.

Gladio ducked to the side so that her attack struck the ground instead, putting some distance between the two of them before she had a chance to recover. The problem was that she wasn't alone: for every Glaive that stood at the edge of the road, watching in mingled horror and indecision, there was another ready to blindly follow their orders. They weren't considering the fact that this sort of justice wasn't theirs to dispense; they weren't considering the fact that if the king really did want them out of the way, then he would have done it himself. They weren't considering anything beyond the simple notion that they were Glaives and the guy in charge had commanded them to kill alleged traitors. That was it. Nothing more to it.

That didn't mean Gladio wasn't ready and willing to crush a few of their skulls. Maybe it wasn't anything personal—except to Luche, who had drawn his weapon and gone for Ignis as though he thought he might get made advisor to the prince by taking down the guy who already had the job—but reaching Noct was. Making it to the Citadel was. Kicking Ardyn's ass straight to Hell where it belonged was. A few dead Glaives, while not exactly what Gladio wanted, was nothing compared to what they would lose if they wasted more time here.

It was with that thought in mind that he drew himself up to his full height and weighed his chances of getting to the car, where their weapons had been dropped haphazardly on the ground when they proved they weren't about to go gently into that good night. At moments like this, when his pulse was beating in his ears and the familiar rush of adrenaline made the rest of the world go quiet, time seemed to slow. He could reach out and grab his adversary's wrist as she swung her sword towards his head; he could bend it all the way back when she made to punch him, smirking in satisfaction when her bones snapped in his grasp. There was no scream of pain—she was a Glaive—but he also didn't give her much chance. In a split second that seemed more like an hour, he yanked her around by her broken arm and sent her careening into two others that had tried to get the drop on him while he was occupied. If they weren't going to get picky about aiming below the belt, then they could expect him to respond in kind.

And it looked like he was going to have to—they all were. This went beyond the kinds of scuffles they were used to in training. This was all out war.

No, it was worse than that: the Glaive hadn't lined them all up outside the car for a fight, but for an execution. That could only mean one thing.

The problem was that Gladio couldn't figure out how it was possible.

"Hey, big guy! Heads up!"

Apparently, he was going to have to save that for later, because Prompto's shout cut through the haze that had blanketed Gladio's senses while he stomped hard on one of the fallen Glaives' knees. The sickening crunch it made was enough to assure him that the guy wasn't getting back up anytime soon, and he glanced over his shoulder to see that their tagalong hadn't done such a bad job.

Where Gladio had taken down three on his own, it appeared that Prompto had gotten four. Two of them were on the ground at his feet, completely out cold; the other two were stuffed into the trunk with only their legs sticking out. It would have been funny if Gladio weren't so damn relieved when his greatsword came sailing towards him—hilt first because Prompto wasn't as big an idiot as he sometimes pretended to be.

And what a difference it made to be armed. Gladio never would have thought that the Kingsglaive would be so full of cowards, but now that he had a sword in hand and vengeance on his mind, it was amazing just how quick they were to retreat. It was definitely strategic: there was no way they were giving up that easily. Still, he found it equal parts gratifying and aggravating to see them scurrying like rats.

They were back in business, though, and that was what mattered. The screams of a bunch of defenseless citizens who really needed some protection were drowned out by Prompto's gunfire, and Ignis hadn't been too honorable to knee Luche in the gut so that he could grab his daggers from the pavement. The three of them edged towards one another until they were back to back, Lady Lunafreya having slipped inside the car at some point and locked the door behind her. Well, at least she decided to take his advice. They needed all the silver linings they could get right now.

Not to mention backup. That would have been pretty good too.

"Got a plan, Specs?" he grunted as the Glaives regrouped. They were a lot more cautious on their approach this time, but they were still inching closer—or the ones who could were, anyway. Plenty were bleeding on the ground, unable to walk with broken bones or bullets in their legs. Now that they weren't up against a freakishly well-armored king, Gladio could see that Prompto was one hell of a shot; nobody was dead, yet they may as well have been for as useful as they were going to be now.

He'd never admit it in a million years, but…maybe it was a good thing that they'd brought the kid with them.

Maybe.

Prompto's skills notwithstanding, they would need more firepower if they were going to get out of this alive. Ignis had to recognize that too: he took a second to survey the lay of the land, and from the frown on his face when Gladio peered over at him, their odds weren't looking good. What seemed like a standoff in the few breaths they'd been able to snatch wasn't bound to stay that way for long. They were outnumbered and outgunned, in a manner of speaking; even the Glaives that had been trying to stay out of it before were lining up behind the others, weapons at the ready. They'd never make it through the wall of steel and patriotism they were facing off against if it was just the three of them. No amount of optimism or training or confidence in himself as a Shield could trick him into believing otherwise. It was only a matter of time now, especially when they couldn't call for backup.

Or so he thought.

Just as Ignis opened his mouth to give the orders or the bad news, whichever was most pragmatic given their situation, the sound of a horn broke the heavy silence that had fallen between them and their unexpected adversaries. They'd apparently missed the roaring engine and sudden flash of headlights, because they barely had a chance to flatten themselves against the side of the car before a yellow tow truck plowed down the road towards the city without a care for who it might hit—and if the shouts from the other side were any indication, Gladio was guessing that some poor bastard just lost a few toes.

"Now!" shouted Ignis, pushing Gladio out of the way so that he could wrench open the driver's door and dive inside. "Quickly!"

He didn't have to tell them twice. Prompto was already strapped in by the time Gladio sprinted around the car, but his hand faltered as he made to open his own door. The last thing he expected to see when the truck passed was a bunch of Glaives battling each other instead of apprehending them. That was exactly what he was staring at, though: the contingent that hadn't been so keen on branding them as traitors hadn't been joining the fray after all, at least not in the way Gladio had anticipated. Instead, it was an all-out brawl of Glaive against Glaive, sword against sword until he wasn't sure who was on which side anymore.

Strike that—there was one person he definitely knew they could trust, and she just so happened to be giving Luche a run for his money. Besides Nyx, Crowe was the only Glaive he could be sure wouldn't turn on them if for no other reason than that they all had Noct's best interests at heart. Neither he nor Ignis had gotten to know her too well; they'd barely even seen her around Hammerhead since they were rarely there on the same days. Still, they'd heard enough about her from Noct not to doubt for a second that she adored him—who the hell didn't besides Ardyn? (And Ravus, but going there didn't do shit for his temper.) If anyone was going to go out on a limb to defend their prince, it was her. If anyone was going to believe that they were just doing what they had to in order to keep him safe, it was her.

If anyone was going to beat the hell out of another Glaive to free up their road to the Citadel, it was her.

Sending up a silent word of thanks for her intervention, Gladio impatiently brushed aside the chorus of calls for him to get inside and hopped into the passenger seat. Ignis took off before the door shut behind him, and twin bumps told them the Glaives that had been hanging out of the trunk were getting up close and personal with the asphalt. None of them looked back to check, holding on tight as he floored it through the barricade where it had been left wide open after Cid's truck had made the guards weigh their lives against becoming a skid mark on the street. Admittedly, Gladio hadn't understood why Ignis felt the need to call him as soon as he got off the phone with the king—the guy wasn't a warrior, not even close. In hindsight, it had to be one of the smartest moves he'd made: that truck was a battering ram. Anyone who tried to get in their way now… Well, they probably didn't want to do that when even Luche had been smart enough to back the hell up.

Just the thought of that creep made Gladio's fists clench in his lap, and he busied himself with awkwardly angling his greatsword to fit on his side of the car in an attempt not to lash out. It wasn't going to do them any good to lose his temper now.

So, of course, Prompto had to open up that can of worms.

"What was that all about?!" he exclaimed shakily, although his hands were steady where he still held his gun at the ready as if a stray Glaive might have latched onto the bumper and was about to pounce. Considering how things were going tonight, it was a distinct possibility.

Ignis must have felt the same way, because he instantly rolled up the window. With a significant glance at Gladio, he answered, "It would appear that Ardyn's eyes within the Citadel are more formidable than anticipated."

"Eyes?"

"Spies," spat Gladio, glaring out the window at the thankfully deserted streets.

It took a second for Prompto to reply to that, and Gladio almost wished he wouldn't. All of this was wrong: their lives were never meant to be simple, but it was like everything they'd ever known had been turned on its head until he wasn't sure who they could trust and who they couldn't anymore. Ironically, he couldn't even bring himself to be mad about it: this was their penance, in a way. It was the universe telling them that they'd hurt Noct and now had to suffer the same thing he had when his entire world got spun around only to leave him reeling and pissed off. Gladio just wished that the universe could have picked a better time and preferably a group of people that didn't wield weapons quite as well as they did to prove its point.

Prompto didn't know the Kingsglaive, though, nor did he get just how massive a betrayal this was. Loyalty probably wasn't something anyone taught in the empire anyway, so that was no surprise. At least he had the sense not to point out that he wasn't spying for the enemy anymore: of all the things Gladio didn't have the patience for right now, that had to be in the top five. They could have that discussion after they worried about the spy that was still an active threat.

"So, you think Ardyn sent that guy to kill us?" he asked without drawing attention to the obvious behemoth in the room.

"It's highly doubtful," countered Ignis with a shake of his head. "Luche is ambitious, but I find it unlikely that he could have gained the sort of clout to orchestrate that execution on his own."

"Botched execution."

"Quite."

"Which means we're hunting down a much bigger fish," grumbled Gladio, his mind already awhirl with potential suspects. Or one potential suspect, really. It wasn't like it got much bigger than Luche. Cor was never going to betray Noct, and his father would sooner jump off the Citadel's observation deck than see King Regis in any more pain.

That only left a candidate Gladio couldn't believe they hadn't suspected before.

Sensing the direction of his thoughts, Ignis hurried to warn him, "Now, now. We mustn't make assumptions until we have all the facts."

"What's to assume?" scoffed Gladio, grabbing the door handle as Ignis took a corner at the kind of speed that should have flipped the car. "He's the only one who wasn't out there with everybody else."

"The king might have asked him to stay behind to protect Noct."

"That's Nyx's job. Not like King Regis would leave him to Drautos."

He saw Prompto open his mouth in the rear-view mirror, but he closed it again with a squeak when he practically found himself in Lady Lunafreya's lap a moment later. She didn't seem to mind, although Ignis tutted disdainfully under his breath as Prompto hurried to right himself. It wasn't like he had much room to talk, of course: that was what happened when you took a speedbump fast enough to send them flying a few feet before they hit the ground with a crash that made Gladio worry for the chassis. Oh, well—it would give Cid something to do later, and they had more important things to worry about than some princess's fragile dignity.

Like the shadows that were taking on a life of their own not far ahead of them.

Recovering with a red-faced apology, Prompto gripped the back of Ignis's seat and leaned forward to ask, "Who's Drautos?"

That's the question of the hour, Gladio mused without speaking, training his eyes on the daemons that Cid was mowing down a few blocks up. At the moment, he didn't really trust what was going to come out if he opened his mouth.

Instead he left it to Ignis, who suddenly seemed determined to keep his eyes on the road and his thoughts to himself now that they were entering the main part of the city. If his death grip on the steering wheel was anything to go by, then Gladio was hazarding a guess that he didn't want to voice their suspicions for fear that that might make them true. Okay, so it was up to him to bring Prompto up to speed, then.

He would have if he could have, anyway. Seconds stretched on into minutes as he struggled to form the words, but nothing came to mind. All he could do was stare out the windows at the scenes of destruction that awaited them in Cid's wake.

Ignis didn't stop for any of it, and in spite of his own shame over leaving civilians to fend for themselves, Gladio was grateful for that. He was a Shield. His place was with his charge no matter what befell the citizens of Insomnia in the meantime. He didn't want to dwell on the swathes of daemons lining the streets or the bright flames glowing ominously below the bridge. They couldn't get sidetracked by the motionless bodies on the ground as they entered downtown or the towering giant that nearly cleaved their car in two with a gargantuan sword as they sped underneath at the last second. They had to ignore the way the car pitched and jerked over the broken pavement where monsters had already wandered through in search of prey.

They had to put all of that behind them, but that wasn't the reason why Gladio couldn't speak. No, it was worse than that.

As they rocketed towards the Citadel in silence, Gladio realized he couldn't answer Prompto's question because he didn't know the answer—and that was more dangerous than he wanted to think about.


But for the resonating echoes of chaos in the distance, the courtyard was silent. A glance was enough to tell Regis why, not that he had expected any different. This was not a match meant for his men; it was not a match meant for the other mages. This moment, this battle of light and dark had been destined for himself and the traitorous abomination that stood quite at his leisure amidst a circle of bodies, the only remaining evidence of the guards that had attempted to do their duty in defending both king and country. Their blood flowed freely in pools around them, rivers of life that ran endlessly over Ardyn's shoes.

That did not appear to bother him. If anything, he seemed to bask in the metallic odor of human souls traveling to the beyond by his hand.

So confident was he in his own invincibility that he did not turn at the sound of their boots against the Citadel's steps or the swish of steel when Cor drew his blade from its sheathe. He cared not at all, and why should he? In this final hour, he had all that he ever dreamed of: seemingly eternal darkness and Regis backed into a proverbial corner. There was no need to fear that which had never been able to best him in the past and presumably could not improve in the future.

But Regis was determined to change that. He was determined to be the one who separated Ardyn's head from his body and mounted it on a pike for the world to see what happened when someone came for his kingdom and his son. He was determined to avenge the losses that he had incurred on the will of a madman who cared only for revenge. Now was the time, and if he fell, it would be his atonement for all that he was not strong enough to thwart.

As always, Ardyn cared little for the resolve that had Regis striding forward, his retainers following with weapons at the ready. Rather, he seemed to ignore their presence entirely as he removed his hat and held it out to the lightless city.

"Ah, Insomnia," he lilted with a grand and sweeping gesture, "the jewel in the crown of the Lucian kingdom. What a beautiful sight it makes this way."

"Beautiful?" Regis rejoined sharply, unable to help himself. Ardyn's taunting was hardly a new development, yet he rose to the bait regardless. Too frayed were his nerves for him to do otherwise.

His voice, it seemed, was all it took to garner the mage's full attention. He whirled on his heel and lowered himself into a mocking genuflection that Regis now recognized as all too similar to the ones he had once believed to be genuine. The years had offered him greater insight, however, and he tightened his grip on his sword in preparation for an attack he knew would come. It was merely a matter of when.

Ardyn was in no rush, likely savoring the moment of his assumed victory as he straightened and put a hand to his ear.

"My dear King Regis, do you not hear the sounds of your people rejoicing? What a favor it would have been to bring you this joy long ago."

Shaking his head, Regis swallowed his rage and forced down his bitterness to answer, "There is no joy in the darkness you wield, nor will it save you from the wrath of the gods."

"The gods?" inquired Ardyn with a low and menacing chuckle. If he was at all concerned about the destruction of the Crystal, he was keeping it to himself. Instead, he paced unhurriedly towards them with a sardonic, "It was my belief that Your Majesty did not approve of prostration to the Six. Indeed, that was one matter in which we were quite agreed."

"My judgment will come, as will yours," was all Regis said in reply, unwilling to offer him more than that. He had long ago resigned himself to the fact that he might well be deemed more worthless than the most infinitesimal speck of dust in the grand scheme of the universe by the Six's standards. Even so, his beliefs were not important. His past was not important. All that mattered was ending this.

Now.

Ardyn must have spied the telltale flick of his wrist or the burning passion with which he lunged forward, because he was not there when Regis slashed through the suddenly empty air. It was an old trick, not to mention a childish one that he should not have fallen for, and he immediately brought his sword around in preparation for the mage's reappearance. The blood beneath his boots made the ground slick, yet he kept his balance even as amused laughter displaced the atmosphere by his ear. There was no time for him to react before the ground vanished and Regis was sent flying by some invisible force he could not identify.

Pain blossomed throughout his body when he hit the ground half an instant later and, cursing under his breath, immediately scrambled onto his feet. Every joint protested in a glaring reminder that he was no longer the untried prince who had wielded a sword with youthful ferocity; it had been years since he was forced to arms, and his deceptively firm grip on his blade did not change that. It was in moments like this when he had no choice but to register that he was growing old: his muscles betrayed him even as he encouraged them to action once more.

The fourth mage did not have such troubles. Whether he had lost his immortality with the light of the Crystal or not, he remained as strong and powerful in body as Regis had ever seen him. He deflected Clarus's attacks with a wave of his hand, and Cor was never quite capable of flanking him before he could vanish, suddenly resurfacing halfway across the courtyard with a gleeful chuckle.

Of course, that was merely evidence of what Regis had always known: this was all a game to him. Humans, beasts, the gods themselves meant nothing. They were all his playthings, entertaining to manipulate when the fancy struck him but otherwise entirely dispensable. Even now, without the blessings of the Six or the empire's might behind him, he drew out their exchange as though he had nothing better to do—and nothing to worry about.

Not once did he move to run Cor through when he was close enough that it would have been simple. Not once did he wrest Clarus's blade away with the tendrils of darkness that erupted from the ground to knock them back. Not once did he parry Regis's incessant and admittedly frenzied attacks as they grew increasingly reckless. Rather than take any one of the openings that they provided, he simply darted around the courtyard in obvious amusement.

"Stand and fight, coward!" Clarus eventually growled when he evaded yet again. This time, they found him leaning casually against the gates, his grin as wide as his arms where they were stretched out at his sides.

"Oh, but I do so enjoy this little exercise," he retorted carelessly, utterly at ease with the situation. For all their efforts, they did as much damage as flies, and Regis had no doubt that he believed them to be of equal value.

There was one thing, however, that not even this former mage of the Six could anticipate. There was one thing that, for as knowledgeable as he always seemed with regards to the movements of his enemies, he simply could not fathom. His scorn for what he considered the weakness of humans, his disdain for Regis's all too mortal love for his child blinded him to just how deep their fortitude ran.

That was why his sneer melted when Regis let his arm drop idly to his side. That was why his eyes narrowed when they did not make a move to pursue him any further than they already had.

And that was why he did not see it coming when the blaring of a horn rang out above the distant screams and a monstrous yellow truck smashed through the gates, crushing Ardyn underneath its nose and still going.

Perhaps it was callous that Regis smiled grimly, but it could not be helped. Not when the vehicle screeched to a halt at the center of the courtyard and one of his oldest, most trusted friends jumped down from the driver's seat with a familiar grunt of exertion. Cid was bent with age, the years having stolen from him much of the strength that Regis also mourned the loss of, but his vitality had never been in question. He was, after all, the one who had single-handedly raised two children on his own all this time. It was also how he had gotten here so quickly when Ignis had not yet contacted him mere hours earlier.

Whether he was concerned with his own dwindling physical presence or not, Cid did not refrain from pausing beside his vehicle and spitting on the ground with a murderous glare at the place where the fourth mage had left a sizable dent in the hood. This sacrifice, at least, was more palatable than the others; Regis resolved to see the damage fixed before his friend departed the Crown City. It was far too optimistic for him to believe that he would stay when he had created his own world at the outpost, nor should he have had to choose. Noctis's condition was what brought him here now, and although it hurt to remind himself that that was all he could hope to expect, it was more than enough. Their shared love for his son might not have been what the Dream Guardian had in mind when he altered Ardyn's curse, but they would use it to save him nevertheless.

In a manner of speaking, of course. Some things never did change regardless of their age or distance.

"Could'a left the damn gates open," muttered Cid by way of greeting as he approached.

Regis's smile turned a bit more genuine, and he nodded in acquiescence. "Apologies, my old friend. I am afraid we were caught unawares."

Scoffing, Cid retorted, "Ain't surprisin'. Y'all worry so much 'bout plans that'cha don't see what's right in front'a your nose."

There was no arguing to the contrary, so Regis did not endeavor to do so. He merely sighed in regretful agreement and watched a second, more familiar car tear through the unrecognizable remains of the bars that had covered the entrance to the Citadel moments ago. It hardly rolled to a stop before Gladiolus was leaping out of the passenger seat, greatsword in hand and looking so very much like his father when they were younger. The same fire was in his eyes, the same feverish need to act—to defend. As such, he did not pause to acknowledge them, nor did Ignis and the boy Regis recognized from numerous photographs as Prompto. Rather, they made straight for the flatbed of the truck, where Clarus and Cor were already examining the underside on their hands and knees.

Their curses and expressions of dismay did not surprise Regis. The mystified yet solemn gazes they leveled in his direction were not at all unexpected. If it were so simple to destroy Ardyn Izunia, Regis would have had him paved into the road decades ago.

His absence, however, did set Regis on edge. There was no telling laughter, no taunting barbs tossed at them from the darkness. Now that they were all here, including the imperial airship he had been warned about hovering overhead, it would have made a great deal of sense if Ardyn made his move and struck them all down in a single blow—but he did not. There were only shadows and the shouts of his people that seemed commonplace now that his ears had grown accustomed to them. Ardyn himself had disappeared, and Regis feared with a sudden pang of trepidation that he knew precisely where they would find him.

Noctis.