Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Author's Notes: And interlude-y type chapter. Progress is still happening on this though, I promise. It's just slower than any of us would like. Stay safe out there, y'all.

Life is either about accepting what exists, or creating what is desired.
-Steven Redhead (Life is a Dance)

Martel researched furiously by lamplight, her eyes straining in the darkness. Human medical texts were harder to decipher; she had never learned chemistry—that wasn't how Healing magic worked, and her herbal knowledge wasn't based in how the elements reacted to each other. She had been teaching herself chemistry—Mithos was attempting to learn it with her—but the subject was inherently tricky for her.

"Hello? Who's here?"

Martel squinted at the light of another lantern coming around the shelves. "Hello?"

A middle-aged man approached. His face seemed kindly, but weathered in the way that war did to people. A scar ran from his forehead across his left temple. "I didn't think anyone was still in here."

Officially, the library was closed at this time of night; Martel tensed at his words. She was allowed to be in here, but the librarian was used to her by now. She came as often as she could after her days at the clinic. She didn't want the librarian to get in trouble because of her.

"My name is Dr. Richard Reyholm. I don't believe I've ever seen you before, miss…"

"Marta Aegis."

The doctor blinked in surprise, though Martel doubted it was from her firm handshake. "Marta…you wouldn't be the doctor working in the refugee camps, would you?"

"I am." She didn't think anyone had heard of her.

Reyholm beamed, his entire face lighting up. "It's an honor, doctor. I've heard a great deal about your work."

"I'm afraid I can't say the same."

"Ah, well. I can't make it out there as much as I'd like. I largely work here, in the university's military rehabilitation wards. But I have several students who have worked with you, or heard of you and they've passed their praise on to me." He tilted his head at her open books and array of papers spread around her. "Needed a refresher?"

"I'm afraid I was never very good at the chemistry of medicine. I'm more of an herbalist and field medic, honestly."

His eyes on her were calculating and Martel prayed that the disguise held. She wore a headscarf to hide her ears, and her hair had been dyed brown, but there was no way to hide her eye shape, and while it wasn't an immediate notifier, her paranoia never ended. "You're from the country?"

"Yes. I never had formal schooling for medicine." Not human medicine, anyway.

Surprise passed over his face, but it went away quickly. Reyholm set his lantern down, and sat across from her. "From what I hear, you're working miracles without it." He hesitated, then asked, "If you would like, I have a few evenings free a week. I'm a professor here, when I get the chance, and I would be willing to help you, if you want to learn."

"I—I can't afford a class. My brother-in-law is the student here. I only have a guest pass because of him. I just—my patients deserve better than what I'm giving them. They deserve the best I can offer."

Reyholm smiled in understanding. "It's just tutoring. No fees required. And I think that you doing the work you're doing, when you don't have to, is a mindset I would wish on more people. The world needs more doctors like you."

"…I would need to think about it. Consult with my husband." As much as the social norms of human women grated on Martel, they did provide her with convenient excuses every now and again.

"Of course. May I borrow a scrap of paper?" Martel ripped a portion off of one of the sheets in front of her. He wrote something in a bold, neat script. "The top is my home address, and the bottom is my office here, in the Tower, should you like to get ahold of me."

"Thank you, sir."

"And thank you for indulging my boldness." He dipped his head in a nod. "I'll leave you to it, then, Dr. Marta. Good night."

"…Good night."

Martel and Yuan had developed a bedtime ritual after coming to this city. It had started when they'd begun dyeing each other's hair for the disguise, combing through it and checking to make sure that no "inhuman" color remained. Now, it was simply calming at the end of the day to sit in front of her husband and have him run the comb through her hair. A quiet comfort as the tensions of the day leaked out, to watch the sleepiness take over.

With all four of them taking every opportunity to be at the Ciridian Library, their routines were much less common, but it wouldn't be so strange to find Yuan awake at night too, doing his own research in the apartment, even when Martel came home late.

"Why don't you come to the library?" Martel asked as he carefully undid some of the snarls in her hair. Yuan was lucky; his hair was thick, but fine, and generally rather tame. Martel's tended to frizz and tangle at every opportunity, and needed copious amounts of ricewater to get it to behave. "Why do you bring the books here to do the research?"

Yuan didn't pause in his work, the strokes of the comb gentle, but firm when he got to a particular tough point. "…Paranoia, I suppose. I'm always worried that we'll be recognized and caught. Here, I can focus on the research and not on the people around me."

There was no talking him out of it, Martel knew. It wasn't paranoia if people were actually out to get you. They talked about their days, and idle observations of their neighbors.

"…Do you think I should do it? The tutoring?" She'd told the boys about it when it happened, nearly a week ago.

"Do you feel comfortable taking the offer? You Yggdrasills seem to go to the library and keep being approached by older men."

Martel smiled. "We're very charming."

Yuan snorted, leaning forward to kiss behind her ear, making her shiver. "I can vouch for that. But in all seriousness. Did it feel…odd to you at all?"

"I mean, I don't generally like being approached by strangers. But I did ask around, and Dr. Reyholm is all that he said he was. Some of the other doctors or nurses at the refugee clinic have worked with him, or have been taught by him. No one really has anything bad to say about him, and his help would be welcome."

"Then do it," Yuan said simply, tying off her braid and patting her hip to let her know he was done. They switched places, now with Yuan between Martel's legs. "He has useful things to teach, and if anything happens, you're more than capable of taking care of yourself."

His words sent a rush of warmth to Martel's heart. She knew her skills quite well, but Yuan's casual, absolute confidence in her was pleasant to hear. The comb ran smoothly through his hair, the constant motion lulling both of them into quiet. Martel ran her fingers through it from temple to nape, fingernails scratching gently; his hair was freshly washed that afternoon, rendering it soft, and still damp-warm at the base of his skull.

Yuan leaned back into her hands. "Feels nice," he murmured, little more than a sigh.

Martel lifted his hair to one side, leaning forward to kiss along the baby hairs at his nape, down to the curve of his shoulders. Yuan hummed. "Unless you feel like giving the other two a show…" he said quietly.

Martel pressed her forehead against the back of his neck. "One day," she promised in a low voice she usually reserved for the souls who had the misfortune of pissing her off. "We will have a house of our own with a door that locks."

Yuan's shoulders shook with laughter as he turned, dropping a kiss on her temple. "And a proper bed. A sturdy one."

Martel's wicked smile sent thrills up his spine. "Promise?"

He twined an arm around her waist, tugging her closer, resting his forehead on her temple. "Mark my words. A proper house, with locks on every door." He interspersed his words with kisses. "Multiple locks, if you want. A veritable fortress with a moat and everything. And a very plush…very large bed. Sturdier than a dwarven anvil."

Martel laughed against his lips, entwining their hands. "Well, how could a girl say no to that?"

With Reyholm as a teacher, Martel learned human medicine in leaps and bounds. She learned how they combined chemicals to create their medications, how they could be made into pills or transferred intravenously.

Their intravenous system was so much safer and more sophisticated than the one Martel had come up with when Kratos had needed that blood transfusion all those years ago. When Martel told Reyholm an edited version of the story, his eyebrows nearly hit his hairline.

"That was a dangerous thing to try. Your patient was fortunate to survive such a procedure. Do you know how their health has progressed since the transfusion? Many of the effects can set in later."

Martel smiled. "I'm happy to report that both people survived. My husband and his brother. No negative effects."

"You went to the battlefield with them?"

"I did." Martel inclined her chin, expecting an argument. She knew it wasn't a thing that human women really did. There were some nurses, and aides, but they were largely not allowed on the battlefronts.

But he surprised her because instead of looking down on her, he said, "I wish that that hadn't been necessary. I would hesitate to wish the battlefield on anyone."

"You served also." It wasn't a question. The silvery scar on his temple and forehead was not the clean kind of wound one got living a safe life in the city.

"I did." Reyholm stirred his tea slowly. Officially, they weren't allowed food and beverages in the library, but it was long after hours, and Reyholm was apparently rather popular with much of the library staff, so they were willing to glance over a lot of things. "I have no taste for battle, myself, but in those days, enlistment wasn't an option. When you turned sixteen, you were automatically sent to basic training. I'm glad I went. I met my husband, out there, and I would not be the person I am today without that experience. I have learned compassion where, if I had stayed here, I would be like so many of my race, despising half-elves."

"You don't hate—them?" Martel had to catch herself on the pronoun. She'd almost said 'us'.

"No, Ms. Marta, I don't." His eyes on her were very intent. "I believe that the idea of them being savages is blatantly untrue. I believe they are much like us, just as capable of good things and bad. I have had the honor of meeting and knowing some remarkable half-eves and some despicable humans, as much as the other way around. It is why I will not turn away any patient, regardless of race."

"That's a dangerous choice, sir," Martel said softly. "People have been arrested or killed for less."

Reyholm hummed, taking a sip. "It is. But I tell you this because I suspect you are much of the same opinion."

"I am, sir." Martel thumbed at her wedding ring, a habit she was picking up from Yuan. "I think that people's choices are a much better idea of their character than what blood happens to run in their veins."

Reyholm beamed, and it was the smile of a younger man. "Let us hope that a future where all people are of our opinion comes to pass."

Ratatosk shimmered into existence beside Martel. She was too accustomed to his presence by this point to be alarmed. Ratatosk was her main sounding board for her cure. He toned down his appearance while in the capital. His skin was still nut brown, but his hair—and a new accompanying beard—were much darker, his features broader, his frame more squat.

"I think it would need to be a brand new kind of Key Crest to block the crystallization from happening again," Martel told him, pushing her notebook at him.

Ratatosk hummed as he took a seat, reading her notes. Martel took the opportunity to stretch, her shoulder blades popping satisfyingly. There had still been daylight through the windows when she'd sat down. Now, the only lights were from the lamps.

"I think you're onto something."

Martel sat up properly to look Ratatosk in the eye. "What?"

"I can't guarantee anything, but—this is sound as far as I can see. Mostly plausible."

"Why only 'mostly'?"

"Your case is so advanced that I fear the Key Crest would only halt the progress, not reverse it. At least, with the power levels of the ingredients that we have."

"Ratatosk, these ingredients are some of the rarest on the planet," Martel said dryly. "I can't exactly just get more of them at the market to double the potency. How would you suggest I power them up?"

Ratatosk tapped one of several pages full of neatly drawn tables recording the results of dozens upon dozens of experiments. "You're having a reaction from the ingredients. You even said it yourself that small scale reversals happened, even if they don't last long." Thus far, Martel had been using the best solutions she'd discovered on the scales along her eyebrows and hairline, the most visible parts of her. The ones along her eyebrows had been reduced to faintly blue-tinged skin, which was hard for most people to notice. She'd even bought some face paint, to help cover them up, but those were too expensive to use all the time. "If you find an energy source for that big reversal of symptoms, the Key Crest would take care of the rest."

"You need to be very clear with me. What are you suggesting?"

"Using more ingredients isn't the only answer. Boosting the amount of mana they are infused with, and that they can affect you with, is another way."

"There are no sources of mana that can do that. Not with the world as it is. Not in this city, with magitechnology everywhere."

"I could give you the mana," Ratatosk suggested, finally looking away from the notebook to meet her eyes.

"What?"

"It's in my reign of power. I can provide the mana for this."

Martel wanted to seize him, to demand that he did, to cure her of this thrice-cursed disease. But she remembered how she had seen him that first time, out in the fields of Heimdall; casually powerful, comfortable in his skin. People said Spirits were immortal and unchanging, but Martel feared that neither one was true. Ratatosk looked drawn, these days, stressed in ways she didn't know a Summon Spirit could be. The toll the War took on him was more obvious now than it had ever been.

"No."

His green eyes flashed red—the red of old blood—his skin going oddly translucent like he was being lit up from within, his skeleton a dark silhouette against the rest of him, and Martel remembered that Ratatosk was not only the Guardian of the Giant Kharlan Tree, but he was also Lord of Monsters, and all that that entailed.

"You would refuse the gift?" he said, his voice deep and rumbling from his chest like it came from the depths of the earth.

"I would if it would kill you," Martel snapped, refusing to be afraid of him. Ratatosk had already proven he wasn't going to hurt her, that he found it pointless to fight them. "Stop the show before you draw attention to ourselves. You've said it yourself that you're low on energy these days because of the Mana Cannon, because of all the magitechnology in the world. If you give me the amount of mana that you're saying—what happens to you?"

"I would survive." He did as she asked, his skin becoming normal once more, his disguise in place except for those red, red eyes.

"By what, a thread? No, you're too important for the world for that. There must be other ways of doing this. We just have to find them."

"If you keep putting the world before yourself, it's going to end up killing you one day," Ratatosk said softly. "You should learn to be selfish every now and again."

"This is selfishness. It's not just the world I'm worried about, Ratatosk. You're my friend, and I don't let my friends sacrifice themselves for my sake."

He blinked at her, eyes reverting back to green in his shock. "A friend?"

"Well, of course you are. At least on my end. I would hope it was the same for you."

His smile was crooked, rueful and warm. "Not many people are lining up to make friends with Summon Spirits."

"I don't know if you've noticed, but we aren't exactly 'most people'."

Ratatosk laughed, the sound washing over Martel in a warm rush of mana. "Indeed not."

"But your idea is a good one. There must be other sources of mana that I can utilize. Natural wellsprings, maybe?"

Ratatosk shook his head. "The Tree is the only wellspring left with enough excess mana, and even that is running low."

Martel folded her fingers over each other, leaning her chin on them. "The humans have to be powering their magitechnology somehow."

"A lot of it is with an artificial mana they've managed to create. It feels terrible."

Martel knew that feeling well enough. Their first week in this city, she and Mithos couldn't move for the dizziness and nausea from that strange mana. Yuan had been nauseous too, but his hadn't been nearly as bad. He'd thrown up a bit, but after a day or two, he'd recovered with only headaches to show for it. Kratos had patiently taken care of all three of them in their tent in the refugee camp, his face pinched with worry.

How much worse would it be for Ratatosk? Someone who was made of mana, where mana was his entire domain?

"It's impossible to create something from nothing. They have to be getting the energy for that artificial mana from somewhere." Martel scratched absentmindedly at her collarbone, where the worst of the damage from her Exsphere was. She froze. "You said the scales that are forming on me. They're solidified mana."

"Yes. But those scales barely contain an ounce of the mana you would need."

Martel shook her head, hands grasping at the air as she tried to grasp the thought that flashed through her mind. "No, no, listen. Solidified mana crystallizes, right?"

"Right."

"Which means that it can be mined. I need to do more research, but—the humans are already using the ranches for plantations and factories. What if some of the ranches are being used to mine for mana crystals?"

"It's a good idea, but this planet doesn't have those kinds of deposits. Some, yes, but not nearly enough. This planet was…not very rich in mineral mana."

Martel shifted in her seat, mind whirling. "…The humans have been targeting mountainous areas, as of late. Why? The half-elves that live there have the high ground. There is no way to bring an army to them without being seen from miles away. Or they fire the Cannon and make their job even more difficult because now the ground isn't as uniform—the Cannon. The Cannon shoots pure mana, doesn't it?"

"Concentrated mana, yes. It sucks up the mana around it like a sponge and funnels it out the cannon mouth." The entire experience was deeply uncomfortable every time, making Ratatosk feel like he'd been twisted and bent out of shape. It always took him days to recover, and it was only taking longer the more times they used the Cannon.

"What if—and this is just a theory. I don't know how magitechnology works—the humans couldn't find a way to use the mana to power it. But rock can change, under heat and pressure. Both of which concentrated mana would create. What if that's how they're creating their artificial mana? They can't tell the difference between artificial and natural mana, right? So they shoot the mana cannon and where it hits, it would create these, like, crystal deposits of this fake mana, which they then go in with their armies to seize for fuel for their cities and their weapons. It's killing two birds with one stone!"

Ratatosk stared. "That could be true. That—all of that's possible." He had no sense for the artificial mana. It was disorienting to even try to sift through it.

"I don't know how they would be able to do that, though. Like, the actual physical process. I don't know enough about human engineering, or gems to even remotely figure it out." Martel's fingers drummed on the table. The dwarves were the experts in the latter, and Yuan was the one out of the four of them who had the most knowledge about the humans' machines.

Martel gathered up her books, and notes. "C'mon. We need to go home and share these theories with the boys."

"Can one of you say something?"

"Sorry," Kratos said, scrubbing a hand through his hair. "Just—absorbing it all."

Martel bristled. "it's not that crazy an idea."

"It isn't," Kratos assured, and she relaxed. "I need to see the old war room maps, see how they chose their targets, how their strategies developed. Most of these technologies are new, very new. The direction of the war might have changed, but the source hasn't."

"Can you look into those things without looking suspicious?"

"They want me as an officer and a strategist," Kratos replied, an odd, wry smile on his lips. "It'll probably be one of the least suspicious things I've done."

Martel looked over at Yuan, who hadn't spoken a word. "What is it?"

"Just. Those rotten sons of whores. They attacked our mountain, our towns and villages, and forced them to mine the shit they use for their magitechnology that kills our people." Yuan slammed his fist onto the table, making them jump.

"Yuan—"

"They attacked and enslaved my village for what?" Yuan snarled. "So they can be a little bit more comfortable?! And they want to preach about how we're the abominations?"

Kratos reached out, gripping Yuan's arm right over where the numbers had been branded on him. "You're right to be angry. But if Martel is right, we can use that information to make sure that it never happens again."

Yuan shook Kratos off. "I need to get out of here."

"Yuan."

He didn't turn to look at her, a lone silhouette against the night sky, up here on the roof. He always went for high places. Did he do it because they reminded him of his home, long burned and bombed, up in the mountains? Or had he always been trying to go higher? Had he been on a lookout tower or treetop that day that the humans came? Had he seen them coming? Had he been the one to warn people?

"I know that what the humans have done is horrific. But we can't be rash about any—

"Rash?" Yuan laughed, a hollow sound. "It's been—what, twenty years?—since I was taken, Martel. I think anything at this point is the opposite of rash."

"So, what do you want to do, Yuan?" Martel propped her hands on her hips as he finally looked at her. Her legs, her feet, her back—all were sore from exhaustion. All Martel wanted to do was sleep, but even if she wasn't out here right now, she wouldn't be able to, her mind too wired to rest. "Throw away everything we've worked for? Everything people have died for?"

"My village was destroyed for this," Yuan hissed, static electricity sparking from his fingers as he gestured widely at the city behind him. "For these people to live in their safe little city while our people slave and starve for them.

"What I want is to watch the whole city burn honestly." Yuan clenched his fists. "I want to watch them swing on a noose and have their families ripped from them, and I want to start the fires for this city with my own two hands."

Martel stepped towards him. The electrical energy he was giving off made the hair on her neck and arms stand on end. Yuan took a big step back, and the feeling faded.

"I don't want to hurt you by accident," he said lowly. "I'm not—not in the best headspace right now."

Martel cast a Barrier over herself and strode forward until she was an inch away from touching him. "If you want to be left alone, I'll leave, but you're not going to hurt me."

Yuan couldn't even argue with any of that. Martel's Barrier spells had been known to keep even the Summon Spirits at bay for short amounts of time. To be honest, he's pretty sure she could keep his lightning from hurting her through sheer force of will because that's just the kind of woman he's in love with. Yuan stared at her for a long minute, a drowning man spotting a raft, before he shot forward, wrapping his arms around her and burying his face in her neck. Her arms came around his trembling frame, pressing a kiss against his hair. Even with the Barrier, Martel could feel tickles of his power against her skin, but it was sensation, not pain. It had been a long time since Yuan had lost control of his magic, and she couldn't remember it ever being like this.

"I'm sorry," he said, voice shaky. "I just—I want this peace, I want it to work. I thought I was past it, that I'd accepted that my village was gone, but—"

"It's okay," Martel told him, stroking his hair, . "It's like Kratos said—you're allowed to be angry. But we all have to watch out for each other."

Martel led them down to sit, Yuan curled in her lap, head tucked into her shoulder. He wet his lips, fingers fiddling with his ring. "I don't know how you do it," he said. "How you're able to forgive them."

"I don't think I have. Not really. Forgiveness is not the same thing as being willing to work past it." Martel's fingers scratched idly along his side. The dips of his ribs weren't as obvious anymore, without as much time between meals as there used to be. One of the many little blessings of their life here. "But the humans—they've done things to me, but—it wasn't personal like it was for you. Not in the same way. I could forgive them, one day. I could understand them.

"But the elves—we grew up with them. They were our neighbors, our friends, our babysitters. They snuck us treats when we went to the market, and gave us cool tea when we came in after playing outside. And then they decided that us being what we were, what we were born as, wasn't okay anymore. That we were too other for them. Too unsafe for their precious, cowardly peace."

"So they exiled you."

Martel shook her head. "No. We were never supposed to make it out of that village alive. All half-elves were to be put to death, and their parents imprisoned for the crime of producing such abominations. Our mother was warned, and we had a few minutes' headstart. We managed to get into the Ymir and hide there until the elves were certain we were dead. And then we never looked back, until we went to find Origin."

"I'm sorry," Yuan said, pressing his forehead to her temple.

"I'm saying this because—I understand. I could forgive the humans one day for the things they've done to me. Maybe. To the humans, I am nothing more than another number, another enemy. Someone faceless. But—the elves. They knew us. And they turned on us anyway. That I can't forgive."

"I don't know what to do with all this anger, Martel." His breaths were soft on her skin, and he sounded so much older than his years. "It just sits here and doesn't go away."

Martel took his hands, kissing the calloused fingers, the rough knuckles, the strong palms. "You can do more than destroy, you know. I've seen the entirety of you, Yuan, and you could build such incredible things. Build a city for half-elves, build them schools and inventions to spite all the humans who said we could never do anything like that, that we are too stupid to learn."

His laugh, when it came, was a little less hollow, but it wasn't the joyful sound Martel loved. "I like the sound of that a lot more than forgive and forget."

"I do too." She ran a hand along the sharp bone of his elbow, the curve of his upper arm. "Are you ready to go back inside?"

Yuan thought about it. The anger was fading, but his control…not quite where it needed to be. And he wasn't quite ready for Kratos' solemn, worried face, and Mithos' well-meaning words. "Not quite…stay with me? For just a while longer?"

Martel hummed, pressing her nose into his hair. "Always."

Mithos didn't speak with Ratatosk nearly as often as Martel did. Still, all it took was a light, inquisitive tug at their pact-bond—nothing like a proper Summoning—for Ratatosk to appear beside him in Ciridian Tower's observatory.

Ratatosk eyed the area, then looked to Maxwell, muttering to himself as he made adjustments to some of the cosmological instruments. "So this is where you've been holing yourself up? Not much of a Temple."

"Says the only other Spirit without one," Maxwell replied absently. "And I go where the knowledge is. My old Temple was destroyed in a bombing, so. Here I am."

"What'd you need, kid?"

"You said 'this planet'. Martel told us about your idea to boost her healing materials with mana. She said that you said 'nothing on this planet'."

"That's right. There's no mana deposits on this planet left for the kind of use she's going to need."

"What about other planets?"

Ratatosk stared at him. Since the day they'd met—and indeed, beforehand, when he'd been hearing the rumors from the other Spirits and the monsters in Temples about the little half-elf summoner who was collecting Summon Spirits—Mithos Yggdrasill had struck him as ambitious, determined, and brilliant. This was on an entirely different level. "You want to go to another planet?"

"Origin is the Spirit of time and space. Getting there shouldn't be a problem."

"Have you considered breathing, kid? Space is a vacuum. No air, no breathing. And if you say the Sylph, you haven't thought this through. There's no mana to keep them supported out there. You'd burn yourself out on mana deprivation before you took three steps."

"But if the other planet has mana?" Mithos pressed. "Could that work?"

The boy was considering inter-planetary travel as a serious plan. All for his sister. The truly terrifying part, Ratatosk thought, was that Mithos, of all people, might actually be able to accomplish it. Through sheer force of will, if nothing else.

"Theoretically? Maybe. But Origin isn't all-powerful. None of us are. The amount of mana it would take him to bring you to another planet and back? I can't even begin to measure it." Ratatosk looked to Maxwell. "Are there even planets that support that amount of mana?"

"Sure there are. This one wasn't lucky in how it developed, but there are some other planets, further away from our sun, that are nearly entirely crystallized mana."

"How far away?"

Maxwell sighed and shuffled over to them. A soft puff of his mana and there were semi-transparent planets floating around them. Their entire solar system, mapped. Mithos stared in awe, reaching out to touch. It was like witchlight, he realized, just running on different wavelengths to create different colors and formed into their proper shapes. Brilliant.

"This is us." Maxwell pointed, a few planets out from the nearby sun. "The planets in our inner system have very similar core structures. In other words, not very much crystallization. These out here," Maxwell gestured to several planets, further out. "All are nearly solid mana crystal."

Ratatosk leaned forward to observe. "And this is to scale?" Maxwell shot him an insulted look. "Right, sorry I asked." He moved through the illusory solar system, humming and muttering to himself. "Look, I'm no mathematician, and I can't speak for Origin because he knows his limits better than I do, but—by my estimation? None of those planets are within reach. There's not enough mana here to fuel the trip there."

"Okay, forget about planet. What about asteroids, meteors, comets, anything?"

"Comets are crystalline in nature as well," Maxwell said. "But there currently aren't any nearby."

Mithos pat excitedly at Ratatosk's arm. "Wait wait wait, the elves. They came here from another planet. They came from Derris-Kharlan."

"That's right."

"What happened to that planet? Is it still part of our solar system?" Mithos' knowledge of astronomy wasn't detailed. He knew the stars, and the general patterns of the moon and sun, but he was new to everything else.

"Their landing wasn't a proper one," Maxwell said. "More of a crash. They were doing much like the humans are doing to this planet: running it ragged by overuse. So they chose to jump ship, so to speak. Derris-Kharlan is much smaller now, more moon-sized than a proper planet. It's orbit can be, rather…wobbly."

"Show me."

One of the orbits in the solar system lit up a bright purple.

Mithos' followed it all, restless as he did mental calculations. "It's closer than anything else. But why is its orbit like that?" Maxwell had described it well. It wasn't the smooth, even oval paths of the other things in space.

"The mana imbalance, I would assume. Its mana reacts to even minute changes nearby, which means it's always going towards each change."

"So it's unstable itself. The core."

"Yes. The elves transplanted the Tree from Derris-Kharlan to here when they landed. It hasn't recovered."

Mithos whirled towards Ratatosk, eyes fever-bright. "It's drawn to you!"

"What?"

"You're the source of the mana it's missing, right? The Tree? That's why it's been moving closer. Look at this orbit. It wobbles, but it's gone much wider in recent times than it has before, right, Maxwell?" Maxwell nodded, eyes narrowed, not sure where the boy was going with this. "I have two theories. Either A, it's drawn to the Tree that was transplanted, or B, it's drawn to the void."

"The void?"

"Compared to the other planets, which—for our intents and purposes—are uninhabited, the natural mana flow of this planet is completely out of tune with the rest of the galaxy. We're hollow because of the mana that we can't produce in order to keep up with things like the mana cannon."

Mithos was talking faster now, hands flying as he went for a sheet of paper to scribble out his theories on. "What if mana behaves like-like a gas or a liquid? It fills whatever container it's in. And we're hollow. And Derris-Kharlan has a link to this planet because of you." Mithos pointed the pen at Ratatosk. "So it's drawn here first because it's a mass of mana without ties to anything else. Does that seem sound?"

"It's not wrong, but you're talking about things that have never occurred naturally. We don't have a basis for that," Maxwell told him.

"Then we test it. Ratatosk, you can take mana out of a location as much as put it in, right?"

There was a flash of red in Ratatosk's irises, his hands coming down to lean his weight heavily on the table. "I don't have much mana to spare on experiments, kid."

"It's not spending more or less. It's like an equation. And it'll be temporary anyway." Mithos waved airily, as though this conversation was about nothing more casual than the weather. "Think about it like an investment. If this plan works, you won't have to worry about mana ever again."

Ratatosk frowned at him, discomfited by the look on Mithos' face. The words were good ones, but he couldn't even begin to guess at what was going through Mithos' mind, couldn't guess the trajectory of his thoughts, the lengths he was reaching for. "Why?"

"I got the idea from summoning links, actually. What if we tether Derris-Kharlan to this planet? That gives it a massive mana boost and could help us along until this peace treaty gets ratified."

"That's not a thing!"

"Why not?" Mithos challenged, tilting his chin up. "Just because no one's done it before?"

"Because the repercussions could be more than you—or any of us—could fathom, have you considered that?" Ratatosk snapped. "This is rearranging planets and orbits. The effect could domino out into the rest of the galaxy."

For a moment, Ratatosk saw it. The flare of temper, the beginnings of the snarl at the edges of Mithos' lips. (He recognizes it as something of his own. Mithos and Ratatosk are similar in more than a few ways. Ratatosk has the raw power and unpredictability of mana tempered by the gentleness required of growth. The Lord of Monsters versus the Guardian of the Tree. Mithos? Mithos is all the passion and ferocity of love, empathy and imagination tempered only by hope, and fear for those same people he loves. He can only do what the world allows him to do, for if he draws attention to himself, his sister, his friends—his brothers—are forfeit. Ratatosk does not want to find out what happens if that hope and fear are gone)

"You're thinking too big, trying to solve too many problems at once," Maxwell said. "Let's try smaller."

"Such as?" Mithos turned to him, and oh, these two were a bad combo. Maxwell was already unpredictable enough for a Summon Spirit. He'd always been too involved in the mortals' affairs for Ratatosk's taste.

"Focusing on the problem at hand. The cure. I've been thinking about it since you mentioned comets."

"You said none were currently in orbit."

"And they aren't. But space rocks tend to leave debris behind when they come too close. Between Ratatosk and I, we can see if there are any meteorites that fell and that have any crystallized mana in them."

Mithoss felt a sharp pull in his gut before Gnome appeared beside him. Not that he would have recognized Gnome on sight; he only recognized him because he knew the mana that linked him with each of the Spirits as well as he knew his family's. Gnome hadn't appeared as Mithos had seen him last, a large mole-like creature. He'd appeared today as a boy, perhaps a few years older than Mithos, skinny and short.

"I can help you guys with that," Gnome said. "Finding them, that is."

Ratatosk had to concede the point. "It's hard for me to sense mana that doesn't originate from this planet," he explained. "Your help would be appreciated."

Gnome grinned, his teeth very white against his soil-dark skin. "Look at you, learning to play with others." Ratatosk growled, but Gnome remained unfazed. Gnome turned back to Mithos. "But seriously, let us take care of this. You guys have enough on your plate already."

Mithos bristled at him, still riding the edge of his temper. "It's for Martel; I should be involved in it. She's my sister."

"Ay, sproutling, you think I don't realize that? But you shouldn't wear yourself out. You'll be no help if you make her worry." Despite not being much taller than Mithos in this form, Gnome set a large, weathered hand on Mithos' head. "We love Martel too. Let us do this for her, and we'll tell you when it's time so that you can do your part."

Whether it was the softer smile on Gnome's face, the weight of the friendly hand mussing his hair, or the words, Ratatosk didn't know, but some of the tension faded from Mithos. Gnome had always been good at things like this, at people.

"Okay."

With a final scratch of the hair, Gnome shooed Mithos off. "You'll be late for dinner."

"Manifesting a physical body so often isn't good for you," Origin murmured.

"I'll be the judge of whether I can handle it or not, thank you," Ratatosk replied waspishly.

There was a long moment of silence before, "What did you want to speak about?"

"I'm trying to think of a way to say it tactfully."

Origin snorted. In the millennia that he had known Ratatosk, tact would never have been used to describe him. "We will be here until the sun dies if that is what we're waiting for. Just say it."

Ratatosk shot him a dour look, but he couldn't argue. He was not the type who had patience for circling a subject. "I'm concerned about Mithos."

"Is he alright?"

"He's perfectly healthy as he can be," Ratatosk waved away. Neither of them mentioned that, of the Spirits, Origin would be the first to feel any differences on Mithos' end. "It's a general…mindset that he tends to have."

"He can be rather stubborn."

Ratatosk crossed his arms. "Did you hear from Maxwell or Gnome about the discussion we had with Mithos today?"

A hum of energy that meant 'no'.

Ratatosk told Origin all that had happened that afternoon. "He's arrogant, and driven, and too smart for anyone's good." He eyed the Spirit next to him. His King, technically, but Ratatosk had always been the one Spirit who had never been particularly cowed by Origin's rank and power. "What?"

"You being the voice of reason is an interesting change, is all."

"I'm being serious, Origin." Ratatosk turned to face Origin properly. "The boy is dangerous."

Origin's sunset eyes flashed with a powerful press of mana that Ratatosk shrugged off. Once, he would have hardly noticed it at all, but the longer this War went on, the weaker he became. "We're all dangerous."

"Yes, and you lot gave your leashes to a child soldier." Ratatosk had seen hints of it, when their little group first came into Heimdall. How could he not feel the faint echoes of power from his brothers and sisters, their pacts bound to the boy? Speaking to Martel that night in the field had been properly educational in what, exactly, they wanted with the Spirit pacts. But he couldn't deny that doing something, anything with the power was better than just letting it sit stagnant.

When they'd come to his Tree, though—hearing Mithos' casual assumption of the situation with Alain, their arguments for their case. They hadn't been wrong in many respects, but so much power of the Spirits should not be granted to one person. The other Spirits, in their desperation, in their exhaustion of the War, may have forgotten their duties, may have forgotten the idea of balance, but Ratatosk's entire existence was balance. Spirit of the Tree, and Lord of Monsters. The patient, nurturing growth, and the ferocious, untamed power. There was a reason that, traditionally, Spirits were only pact-bonded to the head summoner of their areas.

"And what would you have us do?" Origin said softly. "Even if we wished to, he has not broken his pact vows, and we have not fulfilled them, nor is there another summoner to make a new pact with."
"I'd hope you could exert some force or reason over the boy," Ratatosk snapped. "And not write me off as paranoid."

"No…you're many things, Ratatosk, but paranoid is not the right word for any of them." Paranoia had the connotation of jumping at every shadow, but Ratatosk had always just been wary, watchful of all dangers. And he was right; Mithos had the potential to be dangerous. But Mithos was the type of person the world needed right now. A person with big dreams, and the will and means to accomplish them.

"You still won't do anything, will you?"

"No. I believe in Mithos. In his dream for the world. Peace must be fought for, and such a long-awaited one as this will not be won easily."

Ratatosk let out a breath. "I hope you're right."