"Where's Blutarch?" Jane demanded, ignoring Marcel's 'you're embarrassing me' sigh behind him.

The stranger smiled congenially. "His Majesty's indisposed. I've been helping with his latest batch of illness, and he asked me to step in for him this time around."

Jane folded his arms. It was an arm-folding sort of morning. Awaking anywhere but his old and battered war tent could set it off—no bruises from the previous day's battle, no fight to come that would put him in a better mood—and they were happening more frequently these days. Months now of a goose-feather bed in the castle, instead of the hard packed earth that could lull him to sleep as if it were his own mother. It was enough to drive a General crazy.

"Ludwig helps Blutarch with the not-dying machine," Jane said.

"Ludwig's been abroad for a while now, partner."

A side eye cast to the physician's chair showed it empty. It was a mix of black magic and 'science' that kept His Powerful and Glorious Majesty alive (neither of which Jane trusted), and although he didn't like (or again, trust) the madman who kept it all spinning, he was at least a known constant. This stranger, this man who'd come to the meeting in place of the king as the rest of Blutarch's ministers settled around the grand oak table, he itched something at the back of Jane's mind. Like the others. A rot that had seeped into his fellow Ceruleans, the sloth to lie down while past (slights) were forgotten.

"D'ya mind if we start the meeting?"

Jane did mind. He minded very much until he could get a full military-grade integration for this stumpy little man, with his shiny hand made of gold that swirled with impossible gears that any sane person could tell you was bad news. But he could feel Marcel's glare on the back of his neck, and decided it would be best to take a seat. There'd always be later.

That's what he thought at least, until Dell—that was his name, after being reminded for the fourth time, damn hippies naming their children after water features—started spewing treason. Jane wouldn't let that stand, not without a word in edgewise.

"We will not be attending this disgrace to the concept of 'party'!" Jane slammed his open palm on the table. "We will not even entertain the notion! We will not entertain their entertainment!"

"It is not merely a party." Even with his head rolled against the back of his chair, Marcel's ever-present mask could not be seen beneath. "It is a celebration of our achievements."

"Our achievement of rolling over on our backs for the first time in over a hundred years. Grab the confetti poppers and party hats boys, we have successfully groveled our way to licking Scarlet bootleather." Jane stood, pointing at each of the men around the table, the traitors who had brokered this 'peace' while Jane had been out on the front lines, fighting for their freedom. More chairs were empty since he'd last fully sat on the council, more than just Ludwig. "I am aware exactly what kind of celebration this is, and that is why I am telling you it's all crap ."

"What were we bloody supposed to do?" Mundy growled. "You were chewing up pikers faster than we could send 'em. It wasn't sustainable."

"I'll show you sustainable , you reverse-flushing kangaroo-humping son of a-"

"Enough." Marcel's hand reached up and dragged Jane's shoulder, which he allowed with a snarl. "The decision was made. We can not show weakness now, and failing to attend would reveal the divisions I'm sure we'd all rather keep to ourselves. Jane and I will attend the masquerade."

Jane noted his careful phrasing, and hated to admit he was right. The only thing worse than being seen as conciliatory would be being seen as divided—that would certainly invite the sort of attack Jane knew he couldn't fight.

"We need this to work out, General," that overly-cheery voice of Dell's prompted again. "Hell, we've been fighting on and off for the last century-"

"Rather it be on- "

"-and we're tired ," Dell finished. "Folks want to go home. Recover."

"Those who beat their swords into plowshares end up doing the plowing for those who kept their swords," Jane muttered darkly. "Sun Tzu said that. His last words. They were never able to take him from his battlefield."

No one paid him any mind. The decision had been made, after all. Without him , like so many decisions these days.

Marcel trailed him as he left the meeting. Jane shot the assassin a glare. "Why didn't you tell me we were being sent on a mission?"

"I tried. Repeatedly. You dodge meetings the way the wind dodges arrows."

"I hate those things."

"Meetings or the wind?"

"Meetings."

"Really? I hadn't noticed."

"Who does that egghead think he is, anyway? Taking over Ludwig's spot…he could be poisoning the king for all we know!"

"I severely doubt that." Marcel breathed smoke out his nose. He often did that, even without pipe in hand, though only when it was just he and Jane. "Though, his ascendancy to Blutarch's side was…quick. Keep an eye on him."

"Hard to keep an eye when we're halfway across the continent."

Jane reached his destination, the thick oaken door where the castle's highest tower connected to the rest of the palace. He began to beat his fist against it rhythmically.

"What are we doing here?" Marcel asked of this display.

"If we're leaving the country I need to talk to Merasmus. There will be battle, mark my words, and we'll want his strongest potions."

"Merasmus is also abroad, remember? He has been for the past month."

"What? Ridiculous! That sopping old woman never leaves his tower." Jane renewed his attack on the door with vigor. "MERASMUS! OPEN UP! I KNOW YOU'RE IN THERE YOU USELESS PISS WIZARD!"

Marcel was able to refill his pipe three times before Jane finally grew bored of this activity. The door was locked—which wasn't strange—but a faint odor of brimstone was coming the seams—which was. When he pressed his ear against it he could have sworn he heard faint giggling, but could ascertain no more.

"Things really are changing around here," he said softly to the door.

"Indeed. Which is why I think it best if we were not within the castle's walls in the coming weeks."

Jane frowned.

"Do not pout at me."

"I am not pouting! If I am not needed turning Scarlet maggots into itty bitty chunks, the least I can do is stay here. Close to Blutarch. Protecting him or whatever."

"Come now amigo," Marcel said. "Surely there are better things out there than running around this same castle day in and day out."

Jane folded his arms. "The BEST things in life are the PEOPLE you love, the PLACES you have been, and the MEMORIES you have made."

"…"

"Sun Tzu said that-"

"-He did not ."

"Fine," Jane spat. "Lets go pack for this cheese-faced party. The sooner we leave, the sooner we get back."


The masquerade was in full swing, and Tavish hated every minute of it.

From the crystal champagne flutes, to the toasts of their victory, pats on the back as everyone rubbernecked and sniffed their own farts. It made him sick, which he tried to wash down several goblets of mead, then tried even harder as his mother chewed out his 'churlish behavior'.

When he'd finally ducked night's never-ending string of suitable brides, he was very much ready to thumb the eye of the king, his mother, and the scarlet aristocracy as well.

Step one: ruffle some feathers.

He spied the Cerulean General through the thick fog of partygoers, red and blue alike, with other foreign dignitaries thrown in the mix, all openly curious if this rumored truce would pan out. The flowing gowns and capes of Ambery fashions clogged the pathways, surpassed in ostentatiousness only by the gemstones protruding from every Chartreuse belt. Even a few austere delegates from Graystan were in attendance; each one Tavish glimpsed looking uniquely uncomfortable, as though the mere concept of 'party' was foreign to them. But this General…he could have given the Grays a run for their money with how oddly he stuck out, his metal helm glistening hawkishly among the bows and frills. A black sheep if Tavish ever saw one. A preceded reputation, to the point that there's a good several feet of space around him, even in a Grand Ball packed like sardines. Tavish wouldn't have known him except by that distinctive helm—it was said that he lead every battled from the front lines, a terror and a death sentence if you ever had the misfortune to meet him face-to-face. Tavish had obsessed over the man when he was younger, back when he still had fantasies about being allowed to fight in the war. Those had, at first, been cautiously dissuaded. Then they were dashed more firmly on a day that still left a flare of shame when he recalled it; being sixteen running to the very edges of the grounds, rubbing hot tears as he hid in the old wooden fort made of twigs. He managed to escape for a day in total before he was found, and the fort knocked down for good. He spent the whole time swearing he could still hear laughter in the breeze, the shadows of children he no longer knew darting between every trunk.

The sole heir to the House of DeGroot could not be wasted in battle, after all. Couldn't be lost to a careless alchemy accident either, like the ones that had pruned so many other extraneous branches of the family tree. No, he was to be tucked safely away—even more so Da could no longer protest the treatment—and wait until it was his time to be used as a pawn to advance his family's position.

That hadn't kept him from stolen nights in his father's old lab though, or days training with the ancient blade that under no circumstances could Mum find out he had.

He no longer felt the resentment toward the General that he had in his youth. It hadn't been the same one who'd led the raid that'd killed Da, after all, who'd cost Tavish one father and one best friend on that blistering summer's day. That was years before the current General's time and, if the rumors were true, he'd supposedly killed his predecessor in a duel. Such things didn't fly in Scarland, but Ceruleans were savages through and through. What better way than to ruffle his countrymen than by chatting one up?

"I'd stay away from servers if I were you," Tavish greeted with one elbow on the nearest raised plant pot and discarding when the General jumped at his sudden appearance. "One of the wine bowls has a crack in it, and they're desperate enough to do something barmy."

"What? Who are you? Where did you come from? What do punch bowls have to do with anything?" The General barked off each question in rapid succession.

Tavish shrugged nonchalantly. "Just keep a hand on that helm of yours. It'd make a perfect replacement."

Although the edge of silver concealed much of what the mask did not, Tavish could just see a set of eyes narrow within its shadow. "You're mocking me."

"Nothing of the sort!" Tavish grinned.

Instead of replying, those eyes glanced away, distinctly falling on the good six feet of distance the crowd had allotted him. It was as though he were poison, was an affront to their very sensibilities. He seemed perfectly willing to let Tavish return to that category.

"Er, well maybe a little," Tavish coughed quickly, having already scuttled what he thought was going to be a smooth opening. "Sorry, thought that might get a laugh."

"For you maybe. When your country's favorite form of entertainment is pelting the stocks with tomatoes, what you consider a 'joke' is of no interest to me."

Tavish flinched. Bit more honesty than he was used to. That, and he wasn't expecting the enemy General to be so…sharp. "No, really, I didn't mean anything by it. Let me try again, aye? My name's Tavish, and nothing'd make me happier than if you were having a better time than you look like you're having."

If there was any recognition to Tavish's name, the General betrayed none of it. He eyed Tavish again, reevaluating, then cautiously said, "Doe."

"Ray, a drop of golden sun?"

"What?"

"Er, sorry, 'nother bad joke."

It was hard to keep his composure, the General so different from what Tavish had imagined. He was younger for one, and—though it was difficult to tell for sure—he was actually rather handsome where the mask couldn't obscure it.

"Why are you bothering me, Scarlet?"

"If I'm really bothering you, I can go."

"Just answer the damn question."

Tavish eyed over the helm again, the blue plume stuck in its top, the way it had been cleaned again and again, no doubt to free it from the blood sprayed in battle. "You killed the last Cerulean General, didn't you? In a duel?"

Doe stilled. "So they tell me."

"What does that mean? You don't know?"

Doe's eyes grew stormy again, though this time they looked past Tavish and into the bobbing heads beyond. "I am reasonably confident that is what happened."

"Ah, then good," Tavish nodded. "He killed my Da, you know."

"Half the people in this room have killed someone's relation on the other half. Me included, sonny. This is where the whole farce shows its cracks, where everyone has to stand and face war and what she brings, look into your enemies eyes and understand that you are past the point of forgiveness."

"You don't believe in the truce?"

Doe threw back his head and laughed, that sound Tavish had aimed so high for to begin with. When he again lowered his chin, he was grinning.

"Look at me, son." He spread his arms. "I am every man this truce was meant to destroy." Still he smiled, the words dripping with viciousness. "You kill a lot of Ceruleans, Tavish?"

This was not a man who would care about tact, about smooth introductions and polite assurances. "I wanted to, when I was younger." Honesty is what would matter. "But I was never allowed."

"Heh, better for us."

"…I still trained though," Tavish added, a secret so guarded and yet he found it slipping out to this stranger who gleamed like a drop of silver sun.

Doe's interest was immediate, a prick of the breath, a dilation in the pupils that set Tavish's own pulse quickening. "What kind of formations?"

"Claymore."

"Mmm. Good for standing behind the pikemen. Useless if cavalry get through, but necessary for meeting the other side's heavy infantry. Ends in a lot of single combat, sword to sword. The purest form of war."

There was something beyond reverence in his voice. Craving maybe.

"You've dueled using two-handers then?" Tavish asked, his mouth dry, standing closer than he had been before.

"I have mastered every weapon under the sun, son. Could kick your ass with each and every one."

Tavish leaned in, his own mask of black lacquer concealing his missing eye, shielding him from the rest of the room until only Doe was in his vision.

He whispered, "I'll take that challenge, laddie."

If there had been hesitation, just a hint of it, Tavish would have retreated in on himself for fear of an inter-kingdom crisis. But to Doe's credit, there wasn't a whiff. "When and where, cupcake?" His smile was full of teeth.

"There's no one in the garden this time o' night. Too busy dancing."

"Show's they don't know how to have real fun."

They were down on the grounds before the hour was out. The hedge mazes clawed at the sky, but Tavish knew the paths well enough to find a spot of manicured gravel that would not begrudge them a moment of heavy foot traffic.

Tavish drew the Eyelander. It was meant to be a ceremonial sword that was slung across his fancy dress uniform, but what his mother didn't know wouldn't hurt tailor had been precise and painfully traditional: with the sword came a black cape to 'conceal', and a matching knee-length kilt. The rest was far too many gold-patterned sashes for Tavish's taste, and a broach of red iron since Endless Voice forbid they ever forgo national pride for a moment.

Doe idly examined the claymore Tavish had presented him with. It was Tavish's spare, tucked in the concealed chest under the hedges, as it wasn't hard to hide weapons out here in the gardens. The claymore now glittered in the moonlight as Doe held it aloft, its edges kept well honed by Tavish's hand.

Lineage and legend had passed the Eyelander down from hand to hand until it had reached Tavish's calloused ones. Supposedly it had powers untold, but the only magic Tavish had been able to wrestle from the blasted thing was a supernaturally sharp edge that never seemed to need sharpening. Now, as the most deadly man in the Cerulean army leveled his sword at Tavish's chest, he almost wished he had something better in his back pocket. He nudged the thought away. He hadn't goaded the man just for a practice bout; and indeed, there were no protectors on either of their blades. This was as real as they came.

Doe cocked his head. "Savor what you can. Sweetness in victory, Scarlet."

"As to you, Cerulean."

The General pounced.

Tavish brought up his blade, and the resounding clang dove straight through his arms and into his soul. His stance had expected it but his ears had not, and as one foot made a half circle in the gravel to bring 'round his own sword, he could barely process how loud it was. Beating against stolen training dummies could never prepare him for the raw force of meeting steel swung in direct opposition, parallel angles of pure force.

It also couldn't prepare him for a partner.

Doe had barely completed his first strike before he was sliding off Tavish's parry, swinging again with sword's full force. He'd run the formations again and again, watching the training yard and replicating them later here in privacy, but as he was forced into a full step sideways he realized he'd never be able to match experience. The resentment he'd thought he'd let go of reared again, hissing at the base of his skull in abject jealousy. He'd been kept from this. He'd been kept from facing men like this.

And what a man he was. There was a raw physicality to it, their dance that was so different from those happening in the palace above. The air was cool, but Doe took a step back, throwing off his jacket while barely touching the buttons. The doublet underneath was sky blue, almost silvery, clinging to his skin as sweat built on them both.

The numbness in his arms would have been welcome in his throat, where Tavish's breath suddenly caught.

The reprieve was brief. Again Doe came at him, and already their positions had reversed entirely, ending on the exact opposite sides of their makeshift arena. It went on like that, egregiously long, Tavish's stamina waning as sweat poured down the back of his neck and into the horrid mess of finery and sashes his mother had spent so long having him stuffed in. The pompous excuse for a kilt restricted his movements, his stances horrid, his defense barely held in check. They fought not like knights with armor to take a glancing blow, nor like trainees who knew a blow would be painful but not mortal; they were their own brand of whirlwind. Something else entirely. To win was not the goal, no high ground, no dirty tricks. Even as Tavish thought it, he felt the disarm coming in slow motion, and could do nothing to stop it.

They were within each other's effective range, testing their strength with their noses inches apart, when Doe's hilt came down on his wrists. The Eyelander went spinning, flecks of gray in its wake, and Doe took the opportunity of Tavish's smarting arms to elbow him in the stomach. Tavish staggered to his knees.

Doe took a step back, and Tavish felt something cold and metal under his chin. It was no debate to let it be lifted and meet eyes with the victor.

"Not bad for a maggot who's never seen the glory of war," the General panted.

Tavish could barely feel his fingers, still humming with the vibrations of steel. Panic swelled as he suddenly realized how thoroughly his life was in the other man's hands; there was no one who had known where they had gone, no one to assume he'd done something so stupid as to fight the commander of the Curealan army in a duel to the death. It would be so easy to spill his blood across the garden's earth.

He shivered when the blade moved upwards, but all it did was slip into his blind spot. With a flick, Doe flipped the mask off his face.

The sword lowered. "Almost wish you were on our side. Could have done something amazing with you."

A line on his cheek stung, and Tavish raised his hand to feel blood welling warm between his fingers. That was all. Doe was exhausted too, and that dulled the shame a bit as his words sunk in. A high compliment. Maybe the highest Tavish had ever received.

The hand that helped him up drew him in close before he was fully on his feet, bringing them nose to nose again, chest to chest, the afterfight gasps for breath falling so close to one another. That smile was so close to him now, the manic one Doe had never lost through the entire battle, but there was a hunger in them too.

"I hate all this damn ceremony," Doe admitted, whispered close, though there was no one there but the two of them. "The masks, the pageantry. You should know your enemy's face."

"That so?" Tavish's heart was thrummed from more than just the battle.

The eyes behind the mask dared him.

He reached up, and performed his duty likewise. His hand came away holding the small fabric thing, as his body moved to step in closer and bring their faces entirely together-

Only to find himself rearing back instead.

"Jane?" he gasped.

Those eyes, those beautifully familiar eyes that had never stopped haunting him, widened in shock.

"What? How did you-? I did not tell you my name."

Endless Voice, how had he not recognized those eyes before? Yes they were different, aged and changed and more, but it was still Jane . After all these years…

"Jane," the words came sputtering from his mouth without his consent. "Jane you're alive , you- you don't recognize me? I-it's me, it's Tav."

Jane took a step back.

Tavish followed him forward. He'd thought about nothing but Jane for decades, not believing when everyone told him that his only friend was dead, killed in the invasion. The idea that Jane had been lost or captured was such a slim hope, yet still he'd done so, never believing Jane had ended a corpse at the bottom of the river.

But still, even he could never have imagined that Jane wouldn't care about coming home.

Tavish kept advancing. "How could you not-? We- when we were kids we used to play down on the red banks, during the summer when we weren't allowed near the wilds, and we built towers in the trees-"

Jane's eyes snapped open wide. "No, no you do not get to be inside my dreams!"

"Dreams? I didn't-"

"I, ahrg-" Jane clutched his head. "Stay away from me, Scarlet! I am warning you, I-"

He hissed another gasp of pain. Then, his backpedals turned into a full-blown sprint, and he tore away into the night.

"Jane! Jane wait-!" Tavish moved to run after him, but his foot caught on something, tripping over the Eyelander and sprawling face first into the gravel.

When he lifted his eye, Jane, the one person he'd been looking for so long, was once again gone.