Disclaimer: none of this franchise is owned by me.

Author's Notes: Shout-out to that one overheard conversation between a pair of friends at a store, which included the friendly insult, "Your eyebrows are just unnecessary." I found it unforgettably hilarious. Couldn't resist including it for a moment of levity in this fairly dark chapter. (That's one of my keys to writing: experiences and overheard snippets of conversation are great inspirations.)

Playlist songs for this chapter: "Solstice" by If These Trees Could Talk, "Let's Go (The Royal We)" by Run the Jewels, and "Empty Gold" by Halsey.

:: ::

let the shadows fall behind you

::

part 16

::

A blur of torn pirate vest and boots leaps up the stairs toward the hacked-apart briar hedges, taking advantage of the opening. Carlos dodges out of Gil's way easily, intent on the chaos of the streets below.

They barely lock eyes for an instant, one Isle boy making way for the other.

:: :: ::

Smoke.

Her eyes crack open, a flicker of light just beyond the edge of her…arm? Wing? An unrecognizable creation of stone scattered in pieces all around. Rubble digging into her side. (Where—?)

One arm, trembling, lifting—

Ah. Hands.

Mal's headache intensifies as she sits up. Pressing one hand to her throbbing head, she squints through the settling dust. Lifts her hand, brushing at the sides of her face. Notes the smears of blood she brushes away from her temples, refrains from touching higher in deference to the pain. The less grime brought to the wounds, the better, and besides, from those small trickles on her hand, the injury's not deep. She pauses, takes account of the bruising along one hip, the ache in her ankle. There are puncture marks in the boot—

(Claws. Teeth.)

She remembers. Dragged to earth. Torn from flight.

(Is she dead?)

Her neck cracks as she turns, looking over one shoulder, frantic motion stalled with a hiss of pain. Her hand clamps to her neck as she twists, but—

She's alone in the mess her fallen bulk created, and there's no sign of Maleficent.

Plenty of smoke and clashing swords echo in the city streets. Battles still fought. Her allies, alone. Her own gang, needing her to take care of her part.

(Move. Hunt. Stop her.)

Mal grimaces as her feet find purchase on the crumbling stone. Her ankle is sore but she can put weight on it. High above, smoldering ship wreckage floats some distance away. She's neither close to the city walls nor visible from the palace center. Her eyes scan the street, read the story of her own uncontrolled fall in the angle of smashed buildings, in how the ashes settle.

And from memory's placement—

(teeth clenched around her scaled ankle)

—following the path of that fall will take her back to Maleficent.

Knees wobbly, white wand in one hand, sword in the other, she starts to walk.

Then jog.

(Breathe. Don't think about the pain.)

Building bones and cracked stones. A roof tile falls after she passes a dented storefront. The path curves—one building untouched, the one across the street smashed glass and scattered plans—into a blind spot.

Just around that corner, Mal skids to a halt.

First visible is a massive wing, limply splayed across a bent-in-half light post and the corner of a storefront. The tail curls partially under the extended limb. Then there's the body, sides heaving slow with breath. Curled in close is the other wing, instinctively tucked away, damage hidden and held close.

The serpentine neck and the back of the dragon's head are closest.

(Pierce the scales. That's all it'll take.)

Like this, Maleficent is both more and less terrifying. Seeing her as an enemy is easier when she looks like a nightmare creature. (Nightmares don't belong in Aurado—). When breaking scales carries a different connotation than cutting pale skin the same shade as her own. (Their scales are not the same. They're not.) It's harder, not to see the cold eyes of the fae that haunted her childhood and fueled her more recent days of living in fear. (Always, fear. How could she think any bit of it was care—)

It's harder because—

She stands shaky, a weakened enemy at her feet. Potentially defeated. There's something about honor, here. Something about stabbing Maleficent in the back that seems Isle, like secrets and protection and schemes.

When they all agreed that dragon must fight dragon, Ben's eyes met hers across the Council table. He promised them all that in a war, they knew the possibilities. Wounds, casualties, death. He looked her in the eye and knew—

There's something about Isle, about Auradon, here.

(Ben doesn't have to know how she did it.)

She can say it was the aerial fight. She can claim it was her dragon teeth, her claws, as Maleficent dragged her back down to the earth. As Maleficent tried to kill her, and she fought back.

(Jay. Evie. Carlos. They won't ask.)

Or the shredded wing, making her bleed out, making her landing fatal. Her own arrogance, refusing to abandon her more powerful form, ignoring a practical response to a bad injury.

(End it.)

Except—

Mal has a bright, shining pearl of a dream, now. Of a different world. A place where she can eat strawberries, and learn to go swimming in ponds. And cheer wildly for a team from the bleachers. And roll her eyes while listening to monologues about tulle and lace.

This world has chocolate chip cookies, soft beds, clean classrooms. This world requires goodness that she doesn't trust to be within her. This is a world where they don't have to be their parents.

("You don't understand what you're asking. My world doesn't work the way yours does.")

If she protects that dream…

(They don't have to know.)

Mal takes one step. Broken glass crunches underfoot.

A swirling thread of shadow twists around her ankle. To her newly-awakened senses, fed by wild magic, the touch is soft. The dark thread is faint and thin, and…thirsty.

(Claws. Teeth.)

She gasps when the dragon moves. Maleficent curls into herself, tighter, smaller… Shrinking.

The dark magic thread swells, a creek growing to a river stream as it is fed. The curl curves up her calf as Mal steps closer, drawn by a gossamer of longing. Having absorbed remnants of the barrier's magic, she can sense the difference, this time: the magic of the staff is like whispered promises, taunts, power. Like a rich, decadent meal on a plate. Like the difference between sunrise on the Isle and sunrise in Auradon.

(It flows on its own.)

Yen Sid was right. This power would not be hers to take from Maleficent. It would infect her, like mold spreads within a barrel of fruit. And the wand, ancient and nearly sentient on its own, resists just such an infection, vibrating the bones of her hand.

Mal grasps the wand tighter and it hums soothingly.

The shadow looping around her leg draws her two steps closer. Maleficent's human-size, cloaked and horned and slumped where her own fall made a cracked pit in the road. The staff, which took part in Maleficent's transformation just like the wand became part of Mal's, lies at the older fae's side, within her reach.

Breath steady, Mal holds out the wand, gathering magic for—

Arm streaked with bleeding rivulets, Maleficent's hand darts out to grab the staff—

(Not this time.)

Mal is faster.

The staff skids and skitters across the ground, rolling to a halt at her feet, hissing and spitting green curlicues of magic and black threads seeking an anchor. They curl around her feet invitingly. The wand in her hand is hot—not enough to burn, but certainly enough to feel threatening at the staff's temptation.

(Mind of its own. Right.)

"Finally, ready to finish your challenge?" Maleficent's croak startles a glance from Mal. The older fae's eyes alight with malice and glee, even as she awkwardly curls where she landed. Unearthed by broken stone, the dirt gives way easily as she curls her thin fingers deeper.

Mal does not respond to Maleficent's taunt with any option at hand. Neither does she answer the staff's invitation. Instead, she breathes deep—

("The staff remains infected. It's an instrument of evil…")

—to lift her sword, dented and damaged before ever landing in her hands—

("…you gave it an opening to yourself.")

—but at her side through years, like her gang, and she trusts it, trusts as she can't the wand or herself—

("Without training, I doubt you could cleanse it…")

—and so, she swings down, hard.

"No!"

Maleficent's furious denial is gratifying to hear.

Then the staff starts to split under her strike.

Lightning-sharp and molasses-quick, her hand and then her arm spasm with agony, radiating from where her hand clenches tightly at her sword. From the other arm, the wand's own wave of pure force races through, leaving her lightheaded, overwhelmed at the force rushing through her veins, sizzling from hand to heart to opposite arm, whiting out most of her thoughts—

(…carlosbenjayevie…)

—as her headache returns with a vengeance but her knees don't even hurt when they hit the stone, and it's all too much, her body's the battlefield between the two, and she has to release it, arms burning—

Arms lifting, gravity fighting her, and she might scream it hurts.

(break it break it break it)

Her arms vibrate through the bone like they'll fly apart at any minute and she lets gravity pull her sword back down, no strength left, and it lands on the splintered staff a second time—

And—

It cracks. Two halves.

Her bones stop vibrating.

The split shatters the hold each artifact has over her, both powers siphoning away, leaving nothing but a terrible emptiness in their wake. Mal gasps for air with swollen lungs. Her hands twitch and tremble.

(bad plan bad plan bad plan)

Her arms are limp as noodles and her heart pounds like she's just run several city blocks. Her head aches in an entirely new way, unfamiliar and close to the outside of her skin. Her knees protest, digging into unforgiving stone. She's dropped her weapons, defenseless. But…

The staff is broken at her feet. Maleficent's rage is choked. And Mal's still alive.

(Maybe an okay plan, then.)

A huff brings her attention sharply back into focus. Maleficent has yet to move from where she fell, but the broken staff has left her with dark green robes, hazy eyes, and a half-disgusted, half-amused snarl.

"You might be stronger now," she spits, "but you cannot destroy your heritage."

(A fae inheritance? Was that…the staff?)

More mindful of the dangerous artifact she just broke, Mal rises shakily to her feet. "That's not my goal," she replies. "Taking this city back from you, that's what I want. Making sure you can't hurt anyone else who belongs to me, too."

(Implying care for others is risky. Hiding it is impossible, now.)

She takes her sword with her as she stands. Any moment now, Maleficent may tire of taunts.

"Others will do it for me," the older fae sneers from the ground. "Target your weaknesses."

"Nah," says a new voice.

Mal twitches but does not look to the alley. One of the twins, Megan, has found her way back to cover Mal's flank, even after rappelling into the city from the deck of a now-burning shipwreck.

"Love is'n a weakness," adds another voice.

(Make that both twins. Excellent.)

Maleficent smirks, though her gaze grows ever hazier. "Then let your precious love…help you defeat the undying."

Mal's heart skips a beat. "What?"

(Freddie's bluff—is it some other villain's truth?)

Maleficent's lips curl up wickedly…weakly. And still, she does not rise…

("Is it that you won't take it…or that you can't?")

Mal steps closer, haltingly, waiting for her enemy to surge up. Three steps and—how awkwardly Maleficent holds herself, how hard her hand claws into the earth, white-knuckled in strain. Two more steps and—

Maleficent didn't bend the light post, when she landed.

(Hadn't spared it a second glance at it when Maleficent's wing started shrinking. Didn't see—)

The broken light post had a decorative feature on the top. Long and thin, made of metal. There must be iron in the mix, given the faint hiss of the wound. It must be plated with something else to prevent rusting in the rain. But dragon's blood, is seems, is acidic enough to eat through plating, acidic enough to disintegrate metal and let it infect the blood. And apparently, dark, old fae will not crumple instantly to ash when infected by iron.

(Carlos looked it up in the library, to protect her—)

A dark, old fae could have been healed…if she asked for help before the infection set in. If she asked for lighter magic to—

(Her own arrogance.)

She didn't bend the light post, and Mal—

(There's a choice to be made.)

Maleficent clings to life with an ever-weakening grasp. She knows it, by her foul expression and how her serpentine eyes still track Mal's movement through a death haze.

She can sense the red-headed twins, still near the alley, by their twitchy feet.

"You won, little hatchling." Her weaker voice rasps in her dry throat. "Against me. But not against all of us, and not against them."

"Whatever you left behind, we'll defeat," Mal replies. (Stop shivering.)

"And can you defeat your allies when they turn on you?" Maleficent's lips curl in delight, even as her eyes go hollow.

"You still don't get it." (Keep firm. Death-throes, not prophecy.)

Maleficent chuckles like a rush of wind. Her arms tremble and fold under her weight. But her thread-like voice is still barbed, cutting, as she whispers, "You can't escape your inheritance. They won't let you."

Her hand stops clawing the earth.

Mal steps closer. (Not a prophecy. The staff. That wasn't our magic.)

(Damn her.)

In the distance, there are the faint clashing of swords and shouts. And near, the faint shush of ashes floating from the sky and a dark fae's rattling, failing, breath.

:: :: ::

"You're worthless dogs," Hans II spits over their locked swords, "and no one will miss either you or your cousin."

Given that Diego followed Carlos past the briar hedge into the city streets below the palace, that statement rankles mildly. He refrains from uncouth snarls and slams one knee toward his opponent's groin.

Unfortunately for him, the evil princeling has prepared for just such an attack and blocks the move with his own leg, more effectively pinning Diego in place against the storefront wall. A second knife appears in Hans II's free hand, dull in the mid-morning grey.

Diego has a moment to regret—

A zap of purple, a brief cry, and the boy pinning him is flung further down the street. He hits a store corner at an angle, neck snapping backward unnaturally. Swiftly. Crumpled like tossed-out trash.

Motionless.

Diego braces himself against the wall, turning, and Yzla's back is to her brother—a brother whose own crackling palms are like lightning—

He doesn't think before his blade flies with all the force he can muster.

Just like always, Zevon fails to take him seriously.

Just like always, he hits his mark perfectly.

She stares down at her fallen brother, whose gurgling gasps are wet and loud in the street at their feet. She is frozen. Diego is not. He turns to the opponent that he had been fighting, looks closer at the damage, and knows.

Well. That Auradon dream was nice while it lasted.

Yzla's hand claws into his arm and pulls him further along the street, into a darkened alley, and yes—this, he knows. Hiding. Fleeing.

What's new is her shoving him into the wall, eyes alight with a brilliant sheen.

He says it first. "I'll take the blame."

"No."

"Mine's obvious. It's my blade. But I can easily—"

She shoves his shoulder against the wall and growls, "No." The shimmering in her eyes has faded. So, too, has the tension that lined every muscle in her face. That has held her brittle shoulders straight since the moment her mother gasped her last on the Isle.

Damnit. She's the dominant one, he's the henchman, why—

"They can't have you. And they won't have me."

He raises an eyebrow.

"We'll run." Her eyes darken with resolve.

"They'll catch us."

"They can try."

A heartbeat, a breath. The pulse of a war at their backs. Her words ask him to make the choice, instead of making it for them, the way she's always done before. Well.

The answer's obvious, isn't it?

:: :: ::

("You are venom that I will cleanse.")

Well, Jay's been called worse. That's not going to stop him from fighting back.

But, damn, it's harder this time around, he realizes, feet precarious on the wall's edge. He runs like always, over rooftops and across railings, never hesitating—

Fire catches his arm. He hisses and keeps running.

Yeah. Harder this time.

Jafar no longer rages. The silent stalk is worse, an end to hot-headed temper and a start to cruel calculations.

Time to get off the ledge.

With the advantage of height and his own particular skillset, Jay puts distance between them, using the battlefield to his advantage. Lonnie's battle with her family's enemy is one such stumbling block in Jafar's way. He even trips Shun Yu, again, while dodging Jafar. He doesn't look to see where she lands.

An idea pops into his head when he sees what the briar hedge did to one side of the castle. Stairs run up and down, and there's one particular curve on the side, narrow as an alley…

He ducks under Mad Maddy's flailing claws and leaves himself exposed—just enough that Jafar won't lose him.

Jafar almost does lost him, when Jay dodges Mother Gothel and Ginny, battling it out close to the broken briars. Viciously. Just as Jay thinks about ducking Jafar and helping her out instead, Chad darts right into the mother-daughter spat.

(Why he cares to get involved…? Jay will have to look into it. Later.)

He makes it to the railing he's been eyeing. Just as he's leaping onto the railing of a staircase, Jay realizes how much distance he's put between himself and the other fights.

Drawing heavier fire toward himself is fine, that's always his role. But. He forgot, for a moment: his gang's scattered.

That's…fine.

Off the ledge again, feet firmly planted on the stairs, he holds. Waiting. Jafar's never witnessed the street fights and gang strategies. Jay's got something that worked once…and he's banking on it working again.

They glare at each other, across half-crumbled stairs disrupted by a burst of briar hedge, as narrow as any of the alleyways on the Isle. Jay looks trapped. Jafar's smart enough to recognize that…and arrogant enough to assume it's not on purpose.

Jafar's eyes narrow further and he points with that gold staff. A faint glow begins to gather at the top.

Now.

Jay leaps, tucking and rolling, controlled, the harsh edges of the steps barely registering over the crackle of lightning past his ear—

He successfully tumbles past it, rebounding against the castle wall, shoving hard—

"Hey, coward!"

The reckless move works: Jay knocks Jafar's feet out from under him just before someone else's sword slams into the older man's wrist. A splatter of blood, hot on Jay's cheek, catches him as he lunges back to his feet, taking the high ground back.

Jafar's flattened, cursing, clutching his injured wrist while his staff rolls into the briar.

A hand at his shoulder—

He jerks, ready to counter, but instead there's raised hands and clenched jaw, sword still aimed at Jafar's back. Black, messy hair over an Auradon face. Alim.

Bad plan. "Back off," Jay demands, already placing himself between their common enemy and his weaker ally.

Alim just raises one eyebrow, a smirk crossing his lips. "Need help?"

"Like hell I—"

Alim's eyes flicker. A warning. Jay twists with his whole body powering the swing his fist. He hits hard enough to knock Jafar to the ground. But Alim's lunge leads to a smack with the flat of his blade, and Jafar's head hits the stone.

Waiting in the space of a full breath, Jafar doesn't move again.

Still wired, Jay turns his glare on his companion. The prince shrugs. "And I managed to warn you he was moving."

Fine. Decent enough reflexes. "Just watch my back." A bit of extra help couldn't hurt.

Alim nods in agreement, and then his eyes flicker. Again. Then relax. Huh. Quick eyes, quicker to determine friend or foe—useful.

Jay turns toward the castle entrance, at the rush of grown adults swinging their way onto the battlefield.

"Finally," he sighs, stepping forward. Back into the battle. Alim at his heels, Jay strides faster toward the outpour of heroes, some taking off towards the hedge, others leaping to the aid of those in battles at their feet—like Ben violently knocking Hans down, and Gaelle's with—

Into his path steps Coach. His grave eyes meet Jay's with approval, then—abruptly—dismay.

A lifetime of keen hearing and survival on the brain twitch Jay's neck, one ear pinpointing, behind him—

Metal on stone. Rustling fabric.

He shoves Alim, bracing his feet to achieve a truly tourney-worthy tackle, knocking the prince completely clear, following—

Thwack.

His shoulder. The joint. The instant cold fire, the sound of it vibrating through his bones. His breath stolen in one outburst. He nearly crumples. Nearly. Knees to the ground means worse on the Isle.

Means loss.

He stumbles and sways and almost trips over himself, but he does not collapse.

Jafar lifts the staff high above his head, angling for Jay's face this time, slower with blood running down one temple. The prince is clear, but Jay's better arm is on the wrong side—

Blue smoke rushes up behind Jafar, materializing into the glowering, glowing-eyed Genie of childhood scary stories.

Whoa, Coach.

Jafar snarls, unaware, all crazed intent.

A new voice snaps, "Genie, I wish—"

The cosmic fury next to Jafar snaps faintly-glowing fingers.

Jafar's robe falls first, empty of all but air. Then his staff clatters to the ground at Jay's feet. Blinking, he turns his gaze—Alim, still sprawled on the ground, one hand outstretched. A man who looks just like him is at his side, sword angled defensively, triumph in his eyes.

"What?" Jay gasps through the throbbing ache in his arm.

A tiny green garter snake lifts its head from the robe, blinking.

His teammate groans, holding his elbow as he sits up. Aladdin bends down to help him, and Alim holds his arm tightly even as he looks at Jay, explaining, "Total cosmic power? Breaks the laws of the universe when totally free of all rules. He can still use a lot of it when prompted by wishes, even though he's nobody's slave."

Jay blinks. Laws. Magic. Right.

Hard to concentrate when his damn arm feels like it's falling off, though.

The glowing genie stops glowing when he steps closer, but Jay still tenses when his Coach's familiar assessing pressure meets the inflamed skin of his shoulder. "Looks like this might be dislocated," he says, voice soft.

Aladdin steps nearer, picking up Jay's dropped sword as he does.

"Nah, just bruised," Jay grins, drawing up his Isle persona like a shield. Remembers the difference dislocation would have made to his ability to talk. "Just give me back my sword and we're good."

Coach's eyebrows are extraordinarily expressive. Aladdin's are just unnecessary.

Alim, shaking at his father's side, seems to think he's hiding his laughter.

What's the damn problem?

"Still got a lot of villains running around," Jay points out.

"There are plenty of fighters out here now," Aladdin replies. His voice is—it's too soft. Like Jay's a damn wild animal. "You should take care of that arm."

Jay snorts. "I'm not leaving my gang out there alone. Sword." A momentary pause, rolling an unfamiliar word on his tongue. Knowing it might help. "Please."

What is it with the eyebrows?

"Yeah, that's not gonna work," Alim drawls, turned just enough to keep an eye on what's going on around the four of them. "If it didn't work at tourney practice, why do you think this is any different?"

"Tourney's not life or death." Jay looks Coach square in the eye. "You aren't putting me on the bench."

The two grown men just stare at him in response. He sighs heavily through his nose—

And that's when Mad Madam Mim loses. Her. Mind.

:: :: ::

Gaston lunges, crazed glinting eyes above sharp sword—

Gaelle's feet brace against the stone, blade held high, defending her most important word, trapped in her ruined mouth—

A blur of brown and orange, sliding low, knocks Gaston's feet out from under him. He tumbles, cursing, sword tumbling with a clatter. An outstretched leg kicks the knife away.

Her help stills, clear when motionless: a leather pirate vest, clenched fists, a grimace where a grin usually rests.

Gaelle stomps on Gaston's reaching hand. Her youngest sibling yanks Gaston's other arm around, twisted to a breaking strain behind his back. Trapped on his knees between them, their father roars, "I'll gut you both—"

Gil strikes the back of his head. The Gaelle does. He spits at their feet. "Carve you up again—"

(My tongue, my brothers, my gang, Gil's brain, my mother, my dearest ally, my voice…)

They stop when there is blood on their knuckles.

She meets Gil's eyes, after, lungs quivering raw. He stares back, of equal height, those defiantly-sweet eyes darkened with words she cannot read. Words she cannot say.

Her driving desire is resolved. Revenge, check box, marked off. She stares at her first failure, her youngest brother (infants can die from shaking, she learned later, how lucky they'd been when their father) and tries to remember the rage that flowed through her days. But instead…she feels…

Adrift, like there's an empty forest at her feet and no one for miles. Empty, without the goal she set so long ago. Lesser than she did the day she woke up injured, as if she's only just lost her ability to speak in that moment.

A rattling laugh, behind her.

Turning, she drops to her knees. Anthony crumples further to the ground, faint grin on his lips. "Is this how it goes in Auradon?"

Her scowl does not temper his pitiful attempt at humor. Her hands shake as she applies pressure to his side, against the bloody wound. His hands hover near hers as, trembling, he sits on the broken stones. She can hear Gil shuffling behind her, guarding her back.

Does she trust him? Well.

("Who's more important—him, or him?")

Anthony pushes one of her hands away. "Tell me, Gaelle. How bad?"

You. Fine. She spares barely enough time for the gesture, returning to the one medical fact she's sure of—press down to slow blood. She presses hard enough to flatten him on his back.

Again, he pulls one of her hands away. "No lies, now."

She glares at him. He merely lifts an eyebrow at her, as though she can't see the pain. As though he's maintaining any of his precious appearances. Lies, indeed.

"I'd rather see your words," he tells her. "To the end."

She shakes her head sharply. A blurry mist is rising, obstructing her vision.

"We made a promise."

No.

"You can't take it ba—" Anthony cuts himself off. Trying not to grimace. "Can't take it back." His fingers tremble when they tug at hers. "They're yours, should I go. All of them."

She doesn't want more gang to look after. Doesn't want his sister and cousins under her lonely care. She wants—

Wants…?

Gaelle got what she wanted for years. Numb, she doesn't know what else there might be. Not anymore.

Except for—

The blurry mist finally spills over and down her cheeks. He wipes her tears away with a wobbly hand.

"And so am I."

A tiny trickle runs from the corner of his own eye, down into his hairline. His eyes say: more than territory, or ownership. It terrifies her how easily he can express an Auradon fairytale. The consequences—

Anthony looks up at her, jaw clenched tight, creases deep at the corners of his lips. His fear has nothing to do with death.

Gaelle can't pretend. Her hand lifts, a secret. One-handed, easy to conceal by the angle of her body. Just theirs, so no one can take it or misuse it.

I love you.

Gaelle's hand on his side grows firmer. But his clasp around her elbow seems weaker with each passing minute.

Gil still stands guard and Big Murph has joined him. They exist, a moment of stillness in the middle of battle. Others continue to clamor and rage. She looks away just long enough to assess the threats to them.

Not too far away, the young king ferociously knocks Hans' sword from his hand, far fiercer than she expected from him. Jay's left his own father lying on stone, too. Mad Maddy's likely to shred one of those Auradon princes, while that Auradon girl is holding her own against Shan-Yu. Last she saw him, Carlos and one of his companions were destroying briars. That must have been Gil's way in. Whoever else is out there may come crossing over, too. Above, the wrecked ships are a jarring sight. No more dragons fly in the sky, either.

Grunting from deep in her throat, she catches Gil's attention. He turns, looks up when she points, and shrugs. "I think Mal fell after they burned the Revenge."

A battle-cry from the palace. Different voices. Not the cruel, yet familiar, adults known all too well. These are adults of Auradon—

How strange, to see them as allies.

Anthony's hand on her elbow trembles. His eyes flutter closed.

She slaps his cheek with one hand, a blood handprint remaining, splashed across his icy scowl. The strained line of his lips parts around gritted teeth. "Are we winning?"

She glares, suspecting—

"If we aren't, you're needed elsewhere."

She slaps him again.

"Rude."

"I can help," says a female voice, not too far away. Gaelle looks up. A woman is close, Gil blocking her way. Royalty caught in chains not too long ago. Her long skirt, ripping under her own hands as she declares, "We need to wrap that wound and get him inside."

Their eyes meet. The woman is calm seas, a solid steel core. Foreign compassion.

Gaelle grunts again.

Gil lets her pass.

The woman drops to her knees, torn strips of her own skirt in her hands. "Keep the pressure on. I'm going to do my best to make sure we can move him out of here."

Gaelle releases one hand long enough to ask a single question. You. Name.

The woman blinks. Anthony, voice sounding far too weak for her taste, gives her words sound. "Who are you?"

She smiles, thinly, her eyes aglow with something Gaelle does not recognize on an older face. "Call me Tiana. How about you two?" Ripping cloth punctuates her question.

They speak together. "Anthony. Gaelle."

Tiana's reply is swallowed by a sudden, mad roar. And then Gil's at Gaelle's back, hunching over her. Anthony's fingers shake on her arm.

A rush of heat fills the air over their heads.

:: :: ::

(—threats kill—)

Adjust grip on sword, wish for claws. Stalk closer.

Sound. Voices unknown, one voice familiar. Deep, rough growl of earliest memories, of sharp blue eyes and tinkling bells of laughter and— a grimace behind the bars of a cell. Left behind.

Sword, pointed. Arm firm. Enemy cowering, pinned prey. Secure—must secure. "Your reign is over." A snarl, rough and dry. The prey flinches.

Secure enough. Turn. Blink. Those sharp blue eyes, seeking his own, intent.

(—not alone subdue threat—)

Ben blinks again, tremors making their way across his skin, as though fluffing a protective layer over his own skin. The sensation is natural, yet jarring. He—

Sting.

Metal.

The cowering, pinned prince took the unwitting opening. Ben's arm throbs, and his jaw aches with the urge to snap open and close down on—

He flinches, this time aware, realizing—

Instincts.

The evil prince's blade sings through the air toward Ben's weakened limb, and he uses both arms to block. To lunge forward, darting quick, flinging one foot out to trip—

A second blade, a synchronized attack. When Ben knocks away a frantic swipe, hissing through the pain of his injured arm, that second blade makes a solid thwack against the evil prince's head.

Hans goes down and stays down.

(—protect—)

Only then does Ben fully meet his father's eyes.

From this proximity, he can see the crinkles at each corner. Can see the new lines at the corners of his mouth. Can see the way he breathes heavily through his nose, a familiar pattern even though he's never seen it before. The intensity of his father's expression is…not comforting.

(—mine—)

He shakes his head slightly, clearing a faint buzz from his ears. Clasps one hand to his injured arm, a slice from elbow to shoulder not nearly as deep as it could have been, and tries to quell the queasiness starting to well up.

Instincts. Seductive, embarrassing, and now—he knows—dangerous. He would have killed Hans. Without thought or reason. Predator eliminating prey.

His father reaches out to grasp his good shoulder, peering between the injury and Ben's eyes. He swallows, visibly, but when they lock eyes again, Ben realizes that there's more than relief and love.

Knowingly, his father says, "You're in control. Don't let it use you."

Heat flares across his cheeks, but all Ben does is nod. He glances away, watching warrior-queen Kida kneel, lance in her hand, checking that Hans is, indeed, unconscious.

There's so little time on this battlefield. Few of his allies are present, the rest not yet accounted for, when—

A mad roar, a rush of heat—

:: :: ::

The mad sorceress Mim roars, fire erupting from her lungs. And hands.

This is because her daughter is knocked out. Seth's not proud to have done so, but given that she was trying to flay his skin off at the time, he can't regret it, either.

("I'll peel their skin off, too!" the pink haired girl snarled above him. "All those weakling allies that you brought here."

"Not all," he grunted, twisting the blade away from his face. "And not weak."

Fingers twisted in her hair, he jammed her forehead-first into the stones. Caught her as she slumped, twisted her off him—and only then caught the wild eyes of her mother, huffing and puffing in fury.)

But Mad Madam Mim's flinging fire across the whole of the battlefield? That's a new level of lashing out that takes everyone else by surprise. Including the few villains still on their feet.

Everyone ducks, freezes, for a breath. From behind his shield of broken statue, Seth glances around to see freed prisoners. His heartbeat pounds loudly in his ears when he catches a glimpse of his father. He grits his teeth when he realizes that many villains are down, unmoving for whatever reason.

Relief: possibly, they're winning.

Mother Gothel cackles wildly, far too close to him for comfort. Seth darts a glance her way and cringes when he sees the dripping blood on the blade in her hand. Where's her daughter gone? Where's Chad? They'd torn through the broken briars, dodging her fury, but—

Maybe winning, but: what's the cost?

Mother Gothel doesn't seem bothered by the approach of her former adoptive daughter Rapunzel and her husband Eugene. She draws back her hand like she means to pitch a baseball, shrieking, "Mim!"

Oh, no. Whatever that is—

Seth does not think. He leaps up, reaching for the tossed object, and—

"Cheater!"

Flames ripple up his side. The fabric's thick enough that he has a moment before he burns, and he clutches at—

"Seth!"

A glowing crystal passes right through his fingertips as he cringes, flames licking at his skin. He drops, rolls, slapping quick hands at himself, wanting to answer his father, unable when he's on fire.

He's still batting at smoldering bits when he hears, "You can't take our revenge!"

Mad Madam Mim caught the crystal. A multi-colored burst from her clenched palm, of green and blue and red. Teeth gritted, eyes gleaming.

"You can't stop what won't die!"

The nearby statues crackle at a lightning-like strike, stabbing out from Mim's clenched palm. She drops the stone, where it continues to anchor its spell. Lightning zipping between various statues.

And her crazed eyes alight on him.

He scrambles back to his feet at her approach, snatching up the sword he dropped in the midst of her attack.

"Not all of them, hmm?" she simpers, stalking closer. He raises his sword, but Mim is so close when she asks, "Who did you leave behind on the Isle, when you picked up our weakest children?"

In a breath, he understands. "No one—"

"Liar!" One hand swats his blade away, straining his already-burned side. He flinches and she snaps a spell.

As though a rope tied itself around his ankle, he feels a yank, loses his footing. Cries out when his bad side is what hits stone first, the burns blossoming with fresh agony.

Her booted foot, on its way toward his face, is the last he sees.