Sorry it took so long fellas! As some of you in the server are aware, I was participating in a Camp NaNoWriMo project for another server I'm in. As most of you are probably not aware, though, after July came to an end and early August began, we had to put down a very beloved pet, and it's been a tough time adjusting to not having him around. I was able to work on most of this prior to the incident with him, and the last POV was all I had left to work on once things got easier.
Things aren't easier, per se, but we're adjusting. So I hope the last POV wasn't too weird to read and that I can update again soon! I have big things planned for Atlas, after all!
12
Vatican City, Italy (Morning)
Day 5 of the World Grail War
Father Kotomine never imagined his family would be involved in the Grail Wars again. A hundred and thirty years since his great grandfather acted as overseer, seventy years since his grandfather had offered his services and was declined for the World Grail War's second tenure, and thirty years since his mother decided their family was no longer needed now that the Grail War broke free of the confines of Fuyuki.
Kotomine Kiran sucked in a deep breath as he stepped off of the private jet and fixed his collar. He was young, but not as young as Kotomine Risei had been when the Second Fuyuki Grail War had occurred, and he certainly wasn't as young as his mother was when she was forced to deliver him to term. But it still felt like he was far too young to have this responsibility on his shoulders—no one younger than forty should've been able to pose as an impartial judge in matters that magi extended their lifetimes to see through. But an order from the Pope was an order from God, and Kiran prided himself as being a devout man of God like his grandfathers before him.
From what he'd been able to gather as he'd nursed his mother back to health in Fuyuki—daemon possessions and banishing such foul creatures came at such a higher cost now that she was older—Saber had been hiding behind the neutrality of the Holy Church alongside his master and the Grail vessel, and on the grounds of technicality and with the knowledge that the master was under the protection of the Church until he was deemed safe from forces outside of the Grail War, it was determined that a master from outside of Italy broke the neutrality in order to attack Saber's master.
A messy affair, Kiran had heard, and it didn't help that the Atlas Institute was involved due to the master's allies and tutor putting their lots with him for the time being. With the offenders being largely independent magi who were only affiliated with each other and their own families, it was a serious matter that required overseer intervention—which Caren Hortensia was in no shape to assist with right now.
Messy, messy.
He exchanged bows with each priest as he was escorted to the audience hall. Of course this would be televised, the allure of magic and beloved fairy tales and history coming to life in a battle of ideals and supreme power appealing to more than just the average joe. Historians took an invested interest in the figures that appeared in these Grail Wars, to the point where Kiran witnessed Wikipedia articles being updated in real time over and over as streams from bystanders revealed more information about certain servants. But reporters always made up the majority of the crowds that gathered in public where servants and masters coalesced. Anything for a hot scoop. Anything for clicks on their articles. Anything for that sweet, sweet ad revenue.
Kiran sighed to himself as he was handed from one group of Swiss Guards to the next, until finally a guard with a halberd led him to the front of the conference hall from its wing. The large sculpture of Fazzini's La Resurrezione loomed over Kiran and the table in the middle of the stage, and he gazed up at the face of Christ before one of the Cardinals called him over.
"Father, you've arrived," the old man greeted in English. Despite Kiran having never left Fuyuki in his life, his mother still pushed for him to learn English growing up. Most of the world was making an effort to learn it so they could universally understand the mechanics of the Grail War, so Kiran should keep up with the trends, she'd said. Frankly, Kiran was more disappointed that he wasn't able to show off his near-fluent Italian—his aim had been to migrate to the Vatican and offer his services there if the church in Fuyuki was abandoned. At this point, only the Tohsaka family attended his sermons. "I take it your trip was fine? How is Sister Caren faring?"
"The Reverend Mother has seen better days." Kiran bowed his head a little as he spoke of his mother. "The pupils you've sent to her have been a great help, but she is devoted to her work."
"Ah. Yes. I did hear she oversees a convent now," the Cardinal mumbled. He was sweating enough that it began to bead along his brow. "S—Surely the nuns we've sent with similar constitutions aren't so swamped with work that the Reverend Mother has to step in herself?"
Kiran lifted his head a little. He glanced at the statue again.
"I'd hate to speak ill of the dead," he began, and the Cardinal held up a hand to stop him.
"I—I see," he mumbled. The Cardinal reached into his robe and pulled a handkerchief from it, wiping his brow profusely. He was turning red, starting from his forehead. "A matter for another time. Thank you for taking Sister Caren's place in this meeting."
Kiran stood up straight and offered up as kind a smile as he could muster. "It's my honour, Cardinal. My family has offered their services as overseers since the Second Fuyuki Grail War—it would be remiss of me to simply ignore the call when the Church needs assistance."
As the Cardinal gestured to the table at the centre of the stage, Kiran took note of the moderately sized crowd sitting in the seats below. Mostly reporters, from the looks of things, and the sheer number of cameras aimed at the stage kept him from letting his pleasant demeanour fall away. He simply smiled and nodded in greeting, and as he got closer to the table, the nun he recognised as being the Grail vessel rose and approached to greet him properly.
Kiran nodded for the Cardinal to return to his seat as he spoke with the nun. The box tucked into his robes might as well be delivered now, especially since Caren had insisted it be taken with him to "handle that brute of a servant during the meeting". He didn't get the nun's name, but when he handed her the black box and made sure she opened it in front of him, Kiran made sure to tell her, "A Holy Shroud. I'm sure if you're familiar with Sister Caren Hortensia's work in Fuyuki, you're aware of its effects."
Recognition blossomed in ruby eyes. The nun thanked Kiran profusely, and she was quick to wrap herself in the Shroud as she made her way back to the table. Her seat was right beside Kiran's it seemed, but she was seated on the side of Saber's faction. The Cardinal he'd spoken to was on the side of the independent magi.
At least they were trying to appear neutral. But with the brief peeks of burns on the nun's skin beneath her habit, barely visible at her jawline, it was obvious that the Cardinal hoped some repercussions could be made for an attempt on the Grail vessel's life.
Kiran stood between both sides of the table's occupants, and he announced to everyone in the hall, "The date is October twenty-fifth, twenty-sixty-nine, officially recognised as the fifth day of the World Grail War. The time is eight-fifty-two in the morning. Assuming the role of overseer in this matter, I, Father Kiran Kotomine, now declare this meeting of masters shall commence."
He still wasn't used to introducing himself the western way. He hoped the reporters took the hint that his use of English meant that Kotomine was well and truly his surname, but there was always one in these World Grail Wars who struggled to understand intentions behind words.
Kiran pulled out his chair and sat down as he regarded the opposing masters. Behind the master of Italy, Saber stood sourly with his arms crossed over his chest. His sword—his Noble Phantasm—had pointedly been placed in the middle of the table in a show of disarming himself. The opposing side's servant wasn't present yet, something Kiran both appreciated and wondered about, and as he regarded the trio of masters to his right, Kiran asked them, "Where is your servant, currently?"
The trio was a mismatched bunch. He recognised the pink hair of the Monette heir, because he'd seen clips of the man's grandfather wow the crowds of the last Grail War and for all his peacocking, Louis Laurent Monette bore a striking resemblance to a younger Normand Novel Monette. The smallest of them, a blonde woman with prosthetic limbs and mechanical eyepatch, undoubtedly belonged to the Van-Alphen family, and even Kiran knew how cutting-edge their technology was in the new age of magi that embraced modern inventions and improved upon them. The third member of this trio, though, Kiran didn't recognise. From what he'd heard, the third and final member of the alliance was associated with the Royal House of Grimaldi, but no one from the Grimaldi family in Monaco had sent correspondence to the Vatican to delay the meeting and support her. She was a beauty, just as much as the other two members of her alliance, but she'd clearly spent the night crying and scrambling for an idea of what to do now that the alliance was facing consequences for attacking another master on neutral grounds.
The Van-Alphen woman turned to face him, and the man standing behind her adjusted his footing as he crossed his arms over his chest.
"Our servant isn't in the country, Father," she reported calmly. "You see, I've left someone important in his care, and I'm hesitant to summon him without knowing that person is safe."
Kiran hummed. "You don't have other safety measures in place?" he asked.
The woman furrowed her brows. "I do," she said slowly.
Before she could add her, but, Kiran jumped in and commanded, "Summon him here. A matter concerning his masters concerns him as well."
The other two in the alliance didn't have much to say, and while the Van-Alphen woman didn't either, the look she gave Kiran could kill him ten times over. Whatever she was having their servant do, she deemed it far more important than this meeting. Bully for her, Kiran thought. She agreed to this meeting, so she should've been prepared for her servant to show themselves as well.
There was a brief moment of silence before the air behind the trio shimmered gold. A tall figure materialised, dressed in white and blue robes and with hair and skin a rich, dark brown. Ultramarine eyes surveyed the scene with a hint of amusement, and the servant didn't miss the way the reporters began to clamour and shout questions—practically ignoring the required silence for the meeting.
From what Kiran could gather, the master alliance was posing someone else as the servant's master. People were shouting for Archer to answer their questions, but Kiran gave it more than just a millisecond of thought. Someone else had already reported to the Pope the summoning of Archer, and it wasn't this alliance. It was a master from America, and from what Kiran had seen in the news, they'd even held a celebration in New Orleans for it.
The Pope yelled for silence, and the Swiss Guards moved in response. The reporters were quick to quiet down, but a couple were dragged out of the room with their camera crew when they tried to continue shouting questions, trying to plead with the Pope for the alliance's story. This was not the time nor place for such gossip. Right now, on neutral ground, all that mattered was the slight committed against the few rules the World Grail War employed.
Kiran folded his hands together and rested them on his lap. He stared at the servant with a blank expression.
"State your class," he commanded.
The servant was almost playful as he bowed and stated, "Assassin. I thank you for the invitation to my masters' hearing, overseer."
"Were you in battle prior to arriving here?" Kiran asked.
"No, overseer. I was establishing a territory for my masters elsewhere."
Kiran gave the Van-Alphan woman a sharp glare. To her credit, Citra didn't back down from her prior belief that Assassin was needed elsewhere.
With the servants both present and the parties involved seated at the table, Kiran breathed in a short sigh and continued.
"Will the members of the wronged party please state their names for the record?" he requested. Though no one was doing any bookkeeping right now, there were plenty of devices planted in the room on behalf of the major magi groups who dedicated their lives to the Grail War. Some members of the Atlas Institute strived for a solution to the ever-looming through of a doomed world, but not all of them wanted to risk their lives and crests in a Grail War to make that wish come true. Similarly, plenty of the homunculi in the Swiss Guard were created by those such as the Yggdmillennia clan and the Einzberns functioned solely to witness these events so the memories could be extracted at the current War's conclusion.
Even now, Kiran thought as he glanced past Saber's party, he could see a row of homunculi standing at attention among the ranks guarding the Pope.
From the end of the table, the blonde man began the introductions. "Casval Crudelis Cecani, alchemist of the Atlas Institute. I serve as an ally and mentor for the master of Saber. I am also one of the people attacked within the bounds of the Vatican City State."
"We were still in Rome!" the Monette heir snapped.
"The building the ambush took place in was past the border of Rome and Vatican City," Kiran droned. He stared holes into the man's head, displeased to see yet another interruption from the Assassin party. "Hold your arguments until it is your turn to speak. The wronged party may continue."
The woman with short purple hair and glasses perched on her nose adjusted said glasses before she spoke. "Maria Hawkins, alchemist of the Atlas Institute. I also serve as an ally for the master of Saber, though I am first a research partner for Casval. I am one of the people attacked within the bounds of the Vatican City State."
Kiran looked back at the Monette heir. The pink-haired man bit his lip harshly enough that it almost bled, but ultimately kept silent.
As long as he stayed quiet until his turn, Kiran wouldn't need to punish him more than he was already about to.
Finally, the master of Saber spoke up. "Sudi Chandra, master of Saber. I was attacked in the process of defending the current Grail vessel within the bounds of the Vatican City State, and a command spell was lost in the conflict."
"Can the Grail vessel attest to this?" Kiran asked, looking at the nun.
The nun nodded her head, almost bowing, as she told him, "I can attest to this. I also had a mystic code on my person that recorded the masters of Assassin plotting to find a new vessel if I died."
The Monette heir slammed his hands on the desk, aggravating the injury on his wrist as blood seeped through the bandages, and he yelled, "BULLSHIT!"
Before Kiran could even reprimand him, Assassin grabbed the man's shoulders and slammed him back down into the seat. Though his grip looked gentle, it was obvious the servant was hurting the man quite a bit as he held him back.
"Come now, master," Assassin cooed, still smiling brightly. "The overseer has told you already to wait your turn. This behaviour is unbecoming of someone of your status."
The pink-haired man was seething through the obvious pain he was in. Beside him, the woman representing the Grimaldi Royal Family sniffled and looked down at her hands in her lap. Kiran could see tensions rising in the alliance, even as Citra coldly ignored the duo in favour of glancing at Assassin. Her concerns laid elsewhere, it seemed, but those concerns could wait. She'd been the one to agree to this most vocally of the trio, which meant she wasn't in on the plan to ambush Saber's master and to try to take the vessel for themselves.
Frankly, in Kiran's eyes, it went against the rules to have a master guard the vessel unless they were affiliated with the Einzberns. But the Pope had deemed Sudi Chandra a master with no ulterior motives, and Kiran had been informed that any wish Sudi might've had was now moot thanks to Saber's interference. He served best now as a representative of the Church, and Kiran couldn't help feeling a little spurned at the notion. His great grandfather had been the one to oversee the Third Fuyuki Grail War. His grandfather should've played the part of overseer for a fourth one, had the rules of the game not changed so disastrously. They'd even contacted his mother to oversee this meeting. It felt almost like, in the past four World Grail Wars, the Kotomine family had been long forgotten and cast aside, left to die quietly in Fuyuki as they waited for the Pope to call for them.
No matter, Kiran thought as his gaze moved to the Assassin team. Worst came to worst, he could always find a way to adopt the master of Saber and play him off in the family tree as someone who was always intended to join the family. It wasn't like Kiran was spritely enough to raise a child while caring for his mother, either. Some strings could be pulled to have an orphan welcomed into the Kotomine family, if only to keep up appearances of being the family the Church relied on for such delicate matters.
The mother would have to be taken care of, though.
"The Assassin party may introduce themselves," Kiran announced. "Do try not to talk over each other, please."
To his credit, the Monette heir did let someone else introduce themselves first. Though, from the looks of things, it appeared that Assassin simply tightened his grip on the man's shoulders and silenced him, likely at the mental request of Citra.
Citra sat up straight and said, though with a cold and annoyed tone, "Citra Van-Alphen, one of the masters of Assassin. I was not present during the incident in question and only arrived at the tail end to prevent my associate from dying by Saber's hand."
The associate in question spoke up next. He sat beside Citra, all smiles and easygoing demeanour, and he chirped at Kiran, "Michael Montes, said associate. I was not present at first for the incident, however I won't deny taking part in some of the violence before my employer's arrival."
Kiran stared at him for a brief moment. Where he'd heard the name before escaped him, but judging by the uncomfortable expressions on the faces of Team Saber, Michael was probably well known in magi circles. He supposed what mattered was that Michael was being honest right now, if a bit casual about his actions.
Kiran looked to the Monette heir. Assassin, almost amusedly, seemed to tell him under his breath that it was his turn to speak now. The bandage around the pink-haired man's wrist was coated a deep red and clearly wasn't going to stop bleeding unless someone took a look at it. Best to finish this meeting quickly, Kiran thought.
"Louis Laurent Monette, one of the masters of Assassin," the pink-haired man said through gritted teeth. "I was… present at the inciting incident. And I maintain that the attack happened outside of the Vatican City State."
What restraint. Kiran almost wanted to give him a gold star.
The final member of the alliance spoke up now, and she was dabbing at her eyes with a tissue she'd pulled seemingly from nowhere.
"Amèlie Appiani, one of the masters of Assassin," she whimpered. "A—And I was also p—present for the inciting incident." She seemed almost remorseful as she whimpered some more and wiped away more tears. Kiran almost doubted them, but the tissue quickly becoming damp lended a bit more credence to her performance. "I would like to resolve this as p—peacefully as possible, Father Kotomine."
From across the table, Casval scoffed and rolled his eyes.
Kiran hummed once. This was certainly going to be a messy meeting. He sighed heavily and leaned back in his chair, resisting the urge to pinch at his brow with frustration. Despite everyone present being adults, they sure acted like children now that consequences were on the table.
"Yes, well," Kiran announced, more to everyone instead of just to Amèlie, "since neither Miss Appiani nor Mr. Monette were the ones in the alliance to agree to this meeting, as well as Miss Van-Alphen's lack of presence in this disagreement, I hereby rule that the decision of reparations and punishment will fall on the shoulders of Sudi Chandra and Citra Van-Alphen. You may confer in my presence, and Louis Laurent Monette and Amèlie Appiani may not have a say in the proceedings. Does the Pope allow this?"
Behind him, the Pope took little time to deliberate and gave a single, silent nod.
"I hereby hand negotiations to the master of Saber and the sole master of Assassin not present in the incident of October twenty-third, twenty-sixty-nine." Kiran gestured to both Citra and Sudi's alliance as Louis tried to speak up again, though he was quickly silenced by Assassin's grip once again. "You may begin."
Norilsk, Russia (Afternoon)
"Are you sure it's okay for me to stay another night?" Dunja bashfully looked up at the elderly couple, and not for the first time, guilt over what happened to Pytor surfaced in her chest.
Ever since she last spoke with Havi, Dunja had been… reluctant to go back to Caster's palace and face him. Never mind that he'd almost found out about her family and why they'd been chased out of Russia—it was bound to happen if she got too complacent. Dunja just couldn't help feeling like he was hiding something from her, especially when it came to the things Caster sought him out for in private. It wasn't like there was any mana transference happening—Dunja had reluctantly suggested it once, and Caster had compared the act to being intimate with a monkey, so there was little chance of Havi providing more than Caster already took from his agreement with Dunja. But there was… something there. Something Pyotr had reported to her, as she'd rode one of the several elk in Caster's stables, back to Norilsk to visit Pyotr's family.
Through the wails and groans of the dead, Pyotr had told her Havi was talking to himself in the room after Dunja had left. And Caster's name had been mentioned in his ramblings, which cast more doubt on what truly happened when Havi lost his eye that day. Caster had done something, and judging by how Pyotr described his way of speaking after Dunja left, she was continuing to attempt to wear Havi down for some kind of plan. Dunja just wasn't sure what.
Pyotr's parents, Veniamin and Polina, had been understanding when Dunja had shown up at their door. And when Dunja expressed a desire to sleep somewhere warm, away from the ice palace for once, they'd given her Pyotr's old room without hesitation. She'd thought Veniamin would resent her, but the old man had simply kissed her on the forehead and told her to sleep as long as she needed, and that a nice, warm meal would be waiting when she woke up.
Caster hadn't reached out to her the whole time she'd been here. Dunja knew she had to go back to the palace eventually, but the warmth within this modest house was… so tempting. It wasn't frigid and isolated like the palace was, and as much as Dunja was numb to the cold, she knew numbness only made her complacent. Eventually the cold might kill her, and she was only human. But compared to the heat of the flames that took everything from her, save for her grandmother, this kind of warmth felt… safe. Like something in Dunja was begging her to stay with them, to take Pyotr's place like a changeling, and hide away from the danger of the World Grail War.
Polina might get along with her grandmother, part of her reasoned. Perhaps they'd welcome Dunja and her grandmother as neighbours, arms wide open and big smiles on their faces. The old couple already let Dunja call them babka and dyedka, like she was one of their own grandchildren, and they were always so attentive to her needs and wants as she stayed the night and dined with them. Dunja hadn't planned on staying overnight, but it'd just happened after such a warm reception from the couple.
"Of course," Polina cooed, pinching Dunja's cheek as she walked past. The old woman served a plate of pelmeni and sour cream in front of Dunja, her lunch for the day. Even though it was nearing three o'clock, the couple had decided a snack was needed while the dispute between the masters of Saber and Assassin was televised. The TV was turned down low so they could hear Dunja talking to them—but it wasn't like they needed to hear anything anyway, thanks to the subtitles generated by the station. "I can't imagine how chilly it is in that palace. You stay as long as you need to, dear!"
"Her Majesty hasn't called for you, anyway," Veniamin remarked. While Polina and Dunja sat at the small table in the living room, Veniamin was wrapped up in blankets on his recliner in front of the TV. Even with a kiss from Caster to ward off the cold, his old bones still seemed to feel the chill. He'd told Dunja not to worry, that it was his arthritis acting up, and even joked that he might have to move to Moscow to better handle the winters. "I say we get to take up as much of your time as you want."
"Minya!" Polina scolded him. She smacked his padded shoulder as she passed him his plate. "Dunja has more important things to worry about than entertaining us!"
Dunja smiled a little as she glanced at her pelmeni. "I don't mind, babka. It's nice to take a break from all the planning and observing the other masters and just relax a little."
Polina came and sat beside her as the masters on the TV argued about reparations. Dunja wasn't entirely sure of what happened, but from what she could gather from this live event so far, it seemed that two of the three masters of Assassin had overstepped an ambush and had accidentally attacked Saber's master within the bounds of the Vatican City State—breaking World Grail War rules regarding neutral grounds and master conduct within them.
Dunja could argue that the master of Saber broke the rules first, by hanging around with Saber when a servant wasn't allowed on neutral grounds to begin with. But, she thought, it seemed he and the lone master of Assassin negotiating with him both agreed he was the wronged party when the other two only expressed an interest in allying with him, only to attack him and the vessel in broad daylight instead.
"I even learned how to make a bit of risengrød," Dunja continued. Polina made an interested sound and took a bite of pelmeni. "Pyotr taught me."
Polina silently chewed the pelmeni as she stared at Dunja. She didn't react immediately to being told her son had taught Dunja, but Dunja could see the gears clicking in her head. It was like Polina had forgotten she'd even had a son, and Dunja felt that guilt rise up again.
Eventually, Polina chirped, "Oh! That's right, he went to see Her Majesty with some. How nice of him to teach you. Did you enjoy it?"
"It was delicious," Dunja mumbled, trying to savour the casual conversation. "I'm glad to have tasted it. He's a very good teacher."
Another stare as Polina chewed her pelmeni. Dunja was a little worried. With how long she'd been chewing that one dumpling, the meat and skin should've been paste by this point.
Polina was quick to change the subject. Dunja felt almost ashamed at bringing up Pyotr so much.
"That reminds me," Polina said, almost absently. "How is that boy the soldiers brought over? The blond one."
"Oh. Havi?" Dunja looked down at the pelmeni and pursed her lips tightly. Now she could understand why Polina froze up every time Dunja mentioned Pyotr. It was… awkward. Dunja wasn't sure what to say, really, but she did her best as she mumbled her replies. "He's, um. His eye."
She pointed to her own eye awkwardly and cleared her throat.
"Gone," Dunja finished lamely.
"Oh, heavens, what happened to him?" Polina asked.
"Won't say," Dunja mumbled. "He and Caster are very… secretive about it."
She was worried Polina hadn't heard her, especially since Dunja's habit of speaking softly was something she struggled to curb, but Polina just nodded once and hummed. She swallowed the pelmeni she'd been chewing into a fine paste and picked up another dumpling.
"I'm sure they're simply trying to make things easier for you," Polina decided.
Dunja wasn't so sure about that. There wasn't enough on Havi's side, from what Pyotr reported to her, to figure out what it was he and Caster discussed, but the fact that he started by mentioning that not everything had to be a scheme set off alarm bells in Dunja's mind. It was bad enough that she couldn't figure out how Caster was able to communicate via telepathy with him—to know he might be deceiving her as well? That perhaps, like she'd known to expect, the Norse High Council had sent someone to try to kill her? Not everyone was happy that Russia specifically was participating again, especially since they won the last World Grail War. Havi had his own goals, as well. It could be any number of things.
It could also be her thoughts getting away from her. It could also be, in that brief sliver of hope that flitted through her mind, that Havi genuinely had no ulterior motives towards her.
Dunja chewed her lip and gave Polina an uncertain look. "I want to believe that," she mumbled, "but Pyotr said—"
Veniamin loudly cut her off. "Ah! I guess the meeting is a quick one! They've just shook hands and everything."
Dunja didn't miss the way Polina relaxed at her husband's distraction. She didn't miss the way Polina got out of her seat and moved closer to Veniamin, leaving Dunja alone at the table.
"What did they settle on?" she asked her husband. Almost as though remembering Dunja was there, she waved the mauve-haired girl over. "Come have a look, dear. I hear it's important to keep track of the Saber class. Aren't they the ones with the biggest advantage?"
Well… Polina wasn't wrong. Dunja scooped a couple of dumplings into her palm and dipped one in sour cream, and she ambled over to the old couple silently. As she munched the pelmeni, she watched the TV display the two groups shaking on the deal they've made.
The man with pink hair was screaming, and the servant she presumed was Saber was also screaming. Both of them were enraged, but the only one reacting with the same stressful tears that Dunja would've shed was a blonde woman with mascara running down her face.
"What on earth has everyone so upset?" Dunja asked herself, not expecting anyone to answer. She could read the subtitles well enough, but Veniamin seemed to want to fill the silence.
"I don't follow it all, but… I think they gave one of the offending masters' command spells to the master of Saber to compensate for the one he had to use on neutral grounds," Veniamin reported. Dunja could see the headline summarise the meeting as the other servant, who she presumed was Assassin (the headline mentioned Assassin was involved, but she'd sworn this one was Archer, so Dunja was just as lost as Polina was), dragged the pink-haired man to the other side of the table, kicking and screaming. The priest overseeing the meeting grabbed his hand, and Dunja assumed the command spell was taken as the priest then went on to shake the hand of the master of Saber. "And I guess the girl with the metal limbs said to take the whole man with them? He's very angry about it. The one that's crying said it was all his idea and he forced her into it by using his family name. You remember Normand? From the last War? That's his grandson."
Polina clicked her tongue disapprovingly. "Such disgraceful behaviour for a great man's descendant. Where did that family go wrong with this one?"
But it got more unhinged the more the headlines summarised the meeting. It wasn't just the pink-haired man being traded with the command spell—it was the servants themselves. The master of Saber had apparently said that handing over a troublesome ally to wrangle on top of their own troublesome servant was practically sabotage, and he'd demanded a trade of servants. The overseer had permitted it if the remaining masters of Assassin agreed, and neither woman had any objection. In fact, the one with the prosthetics seemed pleased with the outcome. She clearly wanted a servant that was capable of a higher output than an Assassin could manage, and having a Saber-class servant was practically an assured win for whoever summoned them.
And so the masters of Assassin became the masters of Saber, and the master of Saber became the master of Assassin.
Dunja almost dropped her pelmeni in shock.
"They're allowed to do that?" she asked.
"Oh, all the time," Veniamin scoffed. "I heard through the grapevine that our last master swapped with someone else before the War officially commenced. Something about being too disagreeable. It worked out in Russia's favour, though. Bet those fools in the Clock Tower are kicking themselves to this day."
Dunja hummed. She looked down at her dumplings, suddenly no longer hungry, and thoughts began to swirl about what this meant for her. There was no doubt that someone would target Caster sooner rather than later, what with Caster remaining largely neutral and focusing on expanding her territory and sway throughout the continent. But now it was a bit more difficult to tell who exactly would be coming for them. Saber made the most sense, given that he was the strongest and probably wanted a challenge—or, at least, that was what Dunja could gather based on the televised sightings of him alone—but his new masters had almost nothing mentioned about them in the news outside of a single interview led by the Monette master. Compared to most others, they were trying to remain covert. They'd even tried to pretend to be the masters of Archer, though that was obviously going to fall through now that the servant had been made to tell his real class to the overseer.
Maybe she should convince Caster to lend them her power to eliminate some of the other masters. Fighting a servant on even grounds was a death wish, even for Caster. There was only so much ice could do, and Dunja couldn't help worrying about her position right now.
Maybe the only solace she could take from this was that, while an anonymous tip had reported Lancer's summoning, neither hide nor hair of them or their master was spotted anywhere in the past week. Almost like they were ghosts, or even like Lancer's summoning had been a massive hoax.
Was the last victor still alive right now? Dunja frowned and forced herself to eat the pelmeni, refusing to waste it. The higher ups at Leningrad had given her a crash course about the man, and as far as Dunja knew, he wasn't on death's door and had been able to make his wish after his servant killed themselves to kill the Grail. And from what Dunja knew, his wish kickstarted the union of the Slavic Confederation. Was it worthwhile tracking him down and getting guidance?
Or was it more worthwhile to pull the souls of the dead masters from the realm of the dead and learn from their mistakes?
Dunja blinked, an idea striking her. Didn't Veniamin say that the pink-haired man was related to a previous participant? She chewed thoughtfully as she reached up to stroke her chin. Maybe if she utilised some resources from Caster and Leningrad, Dunja might be able to handle the masters in her own special way.
'Caster?' she called through her mind.
Caster didn't hesitate to reply, sounding amused. 'Oh, Avodt'ja. Have you been enjoying your stay with Pyotr's family?'
'I have. But I think we need to talk business now. Have you heard about the meeting between the masters of Assassin and Saber?'
A pause. Caster seemed to be checking something, judging by how long it took for her to reply. 'Havi just told me. What interesting news, right?'
'I think I know how to take my first step in dealing with the masters, Caster.'
'Oh?'
'I'm going to board the next train to Moscow and meet with the higher ups in Leningrad for some research. I'll keep in contact. Can you keep an eye on Havi for me?'
'Of course. Worried about him, are we?'
Was she? Dunja wasn't sure. She just knew that, even if she hadn't asked, Caster would've kept an eye on Havi anyway.
'The skin around his eye was terribly frostbitten,' she replied instead. 'I just want to know if I need to bring some medical supplies back with me once I'm done.'
She heard Caster's laugh echo in her mind. It was soft and playful, and no other reply came from her. Dunja tuned back into the couple beside her—and she noticed Polina was reaching for her, concerned.
"Dunja, dear," Polina broached. "What's the matter?"
Dunja smiled slightly and swallowed the pelmeni. "I was just doing some thinking," she said politely. "I might not be able to stay for dinner. Dyedka's mention of Moscow gave me an idea, so I'm going to go look into some things tomorrow."
"You are?" Veniamin groaned as he lifted himself out of his chair. He hobbled towards her, brows furrowed, and looked to his wife. "Polya, do we have any leftovers in the fridge?"
"Oh, you don't have to—" Dunja started.
"We have some stroganoff from lunch," Polina said hurriedly. She was scurrying out of the room as she spoke, and Dunja felt a little guilty already. Weren't they planning on eating the stroganoff for dinner? Surely they wouldn't waste any on Dunja, right?
She reached up and pulled at her ushanka as she fought back a blush. "You don't have to give me anything," she mumbled.
"Nonsense." Veniamin was ambling in the opposite direction of the kitchen, towards the bedrooms, and Dunja hesitantly followed. He was clearly looking for something, wandering into Pyotr's room for it, and Dunja stayed at the doorway as she watched him. "It's a long trip, even if the train moves quickly. You could go to the airport instead, but you don't want to risk airsickness. Aha!"
Veniamin picked up something from Pyotr's closet, where Dunja hadn't dared to look during her stay. She didn't want to pry too much, and Pytor's spirit got awfully bashful whenever she moved too close to his belongings. Naturally, she thought, even a ghost liked to keep things hidden from strangers.
Veniamin blew on the screen of the device he'd pulled from the closet, and she saw a small clamshell device with a case in colours reminiscent of aurora borealis. It was plugged into a cord leading into the closet, and Dunja tilted her head with her brows furrowed as she watched Veniamin unplug it and reach inside for the outlet. When he was done, it was easy to figure out what he'd been looking for—the device was a customised Game Boy, something Dunja hadn't seen in a long time, even when she'd tried to collect retro video games back in England, and a couple of cases with games in them that were clearly bootlegs, as well as the charger cable.
"I knew he kept this hidden away somewhere," Veniamin muttered. "Always acted so ungrateful when I bought it for him, but he managed to sneak it with him on trips to see his aunt."
Dunja was a little alarmed at the mention of the device belonging to Pyotr. As Veniamin handed it and the games and cable to her, she saw the titles of the bootlegs and felt even more guilt. She never would've guessed he was a fan of Pokémon Mystery Dungeon and Castlevania, just from their interaction at the palace. It felt like Dunja was learning something forbidden right now.
"Go on," Veniamin urged her, pushing the items into her hands. "Take it. Pass the time with the games. Youngsters like this kind of thing, right?"
Dunja sniffed and held the Game Boy close to her chest, unable to stop herself from cringing out of guilt. Veniamin didn't miss it, and he cupped her cheek in his hand with a soft expression.
"It's fine, girl," he reassured her. "I wouldn't give this to you if I didn't want you to make use of it. I don't understand the controls much, anyway, so it's no use to me. Polya isn't a big fan of the vampire game, either."
She couldn't help laughing a little. Dunja nodded and sniffed, eyes watering at the simultaneous kindness disregard. Kindness to Dunja and her needs, but disregard for Pyotr and his belongings. How could Veniamin give away his beloved son's belongings so easily? To his murderer?
"Thank you," Dunja mumbled. "I'll treasure it."
It didn't take long for the couple to send Dunja off with beef stroganoff and pasta packed in a tupperware container and some utensils, and the last train of the day waited patiently for her as she boarded with her things. The staff on the train were used to transporting supplies to and from other areas in Russia, but on occasion they were known to let a passenger sleep in their quarters if they had urgent business in Moscow and the airport was unavailable. Dunja got priority, as did any allies brought over from Moscow, and while the staff were unhappy about giving her a spare bunk to rest on, they let her on and left her alone for the majority of the trip.
Dunja's heart felt a little less heavy when she opened the Game Boy and started a new game for Pokémon Mystery Dungeon. She patiently answered each question on the quiz as the train began to move, the sun still up in the sky for the next few hours, and as the quiz came to a close and began to explain Dunja's personality, she couldn't help smiling at the result that came up.
She gave her little Pikachu avatar the same pet name her grandmother used to call her, and Dunja found herself smiling the whole time she played the game over the long trip back to the capital.
Moscow, Russia (Early Morning)
Day 6 of the World Grail War
When the train pulled into the station late in the evening, Fyodor Yeremin was about ready to walk back to his car and demand he be taken home. He had no patience for tardy people, especially when there were quicker options to travel with at their disposal, and after everything he went through for the motherland, he was owed the respect to show up on time when someone requested a meeting with him.
The train from Norilsk was more of a cargo train than a passenger train, so it was very rare that people other than the crew were riding with the resources sent to Norilsk. Normally Fyodor wouldn't need to stand around and wait, but Leningrad had practically crawled up his ass over meeting the current Russian master and assisting her with his wisdom. In his humble opinion, Fyodor's responsibility to the motherland was over and done with as soon as he made his wish for the territory to expand and form the Slavic Confederation. What could he possibly impart to a young magus to help her win this War?
Not to mention, there was the discourse surrounding her family and their exile. There was a reason the entire continent chased the Vinogradov family from the border and across the ocean, where they hid away in England—closer to their kind, in Fyodor's opinion, and it wasn't like the Clock Tower was moving quickly to exterminate the ones hiding in the forests of Britain.
This little freak should've stayed in England and played house with what little remained of her family.
Fyodor looked down at his watch and hummed, displeased. Despite the train coming to a stop, no one looked to be getting off right now. In fact, it'd rolled into the station at a snail's pace—likely the reason why it was so many hours late. Very odd, he thought, because the driver scheduled tonight was a stickler for arriving on time. Fyodor looked back to his assistant, who was holding up his umbrella as the light autumn shower thrummed against the black nylon. The young man was just as confused, and he waved a hand to send one of his puppets forward.
His assistant was a talented young man, skilled at making puppets that looked extremely human to the untrained eye, and Fyodor's limitless number of bodyguards all stemmed from his assistant. He bore a strong resemblance to Rider—Fyodor's Rider, Ivan Tsarevich—and it was the nostalgia that led to Fyodor keeping the young man, Matvey, around.
The puppet with red hair approached the train and inspected it at a distance. The engine of the train switched off, eventually, and Fyodor stared at the puppet as it approached the door and peeked inside. Matvey was closing his eyes to peer through the puppet's, and Fyodor saw the door move as the button inside was pressed to open it.
Matvey, though, was quick to get in front of Fyodor and shout, "Get back, sir!"
No sooner had he said it, and no sooner had the puppet peeled back its arms to reveal its hidden blades, a whole swarm of corpses flooded out of the door and trampled all over the puppet without regard for the potential life snuffed out beneath them. They were covered in cuts and blood, some missing their heads, and Fyodor immediately readied the magic stored in the rings on each finger. Two of the corpses were set ablaze as more of the puppets rushed forward to corral them back onto the train, and Fyodor searched the crowd for the little master among them.
Surely there wasn't a Dead Apostle on the train, was there? No, even if Russia was the best place to hide for their kind, none would be so brazen as to invade Moscow like this during the most publicised time around the world. Were they suicidal? There were less hectic ways to ensure death, Fyodor thought.
Spirits seemed to fly out of the burning and slashed bodies as they all dropped to the ground, unable to support themselves. Fyodor saw each spirit, bearing a passing resemblance to each corpse, fly back into the train almost out of fear. He tapped Matvey's shoulder, pausing his assault on the corpses, and Matvey called back the puppets to surround them.
No corpses moved in the same patterns as the Dead tended to. They didn't even try to search for food. There was no Dead Apostle controlling them, and Fyodor narrowed his eyes into slits as he watched the wide-open door again.
"Come out, now!" Fyodor commanded.
There were a few wails of ghosts from inside the carriage. Echoing in the empty darkness of the early morning hours, time ticking so closely onto the witching hour, footsteps came from the carriage as the wails subsided—something was calming the spirits, reassuring them, and Fyodor could hear the sound of metal scraping against metal from inside of the carriage.
Finally, after an eternity of waiting, Avodt'ja Vinogradov—nay, Avodt'ja Wagner, as she preferred the rest of the world to call her—walked into view and stared out the door, thousand-yard stare prevalent as she held a sword tightly in one hand. She was covered in blood—so much blood that Fyodor couldn't even discern her hair colour from this distance—and beneath the thick layer of blood, she nursed a wound on her stomach with her free hand, keeping pressure on the wound for Lord knew how long.
Fyodor could piece together what happened. But he wanted answers from her own mouth.
"Are you the witch?" he demanded.
Avodt'ja blinked slowly. She looked like she was ready to give up, and she didn't even say anything as she slumped against the frame of the door and nodded once.
"State your Witchcraft," Fyodor ordered her.
Avodt'ja seemed to hesitate—to almost give a snide remark as she gestured to the corpses and spirits around her with her sword—but eventually she used her words. "I control the dead," she told him, voice so small that he almost didn't hear her. "Pull them straight from the underworld. Anything that has passed the border between life and death is my familiar."
What a terrible magecraft. And Fyodor thought necromancers were reprehensible for tampering with the dead. At least there were only bodies to desecrate—not souls like this young girl tampered with.
"Did you kill everyone on that train?" Fyodor asked her.
Avodt'ja's gaze seemed to flare at the accusatory tone. But she remained calm.
"They stabbed me first," she told him, voice louder and firmer this time. "It was a direct sabotage against Russia's chances of winning this War."
Self-defence, eh? Fyodor could see it. He tapped Matvey's shoulder again, and the puppets went back to their idle-mode.
Regardless of his opinions of Leningrad welcoming a witch back into their country, Fyodor also believed that affairs of the World Grail War took precedence over past squabbles within the country. This event was meant to resolve these power struggles, so why wouldn't the motherland bring home a potential powerhouse from a family they'd once exiled? A master desperate to prove they belonged was far easier to control than a master desperate to throw their weight around.
Fyodor could see the reasons for picking Avodt'ja, if he cared enough to look deeper into it. For now, though, his concern was more towards whether or not killing an entire train of workers was worth it.
"Did you provoke them?" he asked.
Avodt'ja gave him a sour expression.
"Well?" Fyodor pressed.
"No," she snapped. "I was playing fucking—Pokémon Mystery Dungeon."
Now there was a game he hadn't heard of in years. Fyodor tried to think back to the days when he would help his daughter cheat the personality quiz in order to get the avatar she wanted. She was a big fan of Mudkip, but she was far from timid in order to qualify for Mudkip in the personality quiz.
Fyodor reached up to rub his beard, humming.
"What did you get?" he asked.
Avodt'ja looked confused. "Excuse me?"
"Your starter. What did the personality quiz give you?"
She sniffed and blinked, pausing only to attempt to wipe some blood from her face while holding the silver sword. It didn't seem to help, only serving to smear the blood some more.
"Pikachu," she said eventually.
"A hasty one, then." Fyodor grinned at her and gestured for Matvey to collect her things from the train. His daughter always used to get Pikachu, no matter how hard she tried for Mudkip. Fyodor knew what he was working with, in terms of how to deal with a young witch like Avodt'ja. "Alright. Dismiss the spirits and get a move on. We'll be burning daylight at this pace."
The girl looked up at the sky, squinting, before realising he'd meant to say that the sun would rise before they made it to Leningrad's doors at this pace. She heaved a sigh, almost exhausted, and she didn't move from her spot as she dismissed the spirits. The corpses all fell to the ground, properly lifeless, and the spirits she was controlling as familiars faded away—not quite released from her control, but hidden from Fyodor's sight and allowed to roam Moscow as they pleased. Fyodor could imagine they would try to head for their homes in the city, still believing themselves to be alive so quickly after death.
Avodt'ja squeezed her eyes shut, only to force them open again.
"Can I please get some medical attention?" she asked, breathless. "I've been pressing down on his stab wound for four hours already."
Fyodor let out a soft, hmph, and motioned to Matvey. A puppet moved away from the group, and it unbuttoned its jacket to reveal smaller hands wrapped around its waist as its torso compartment opened up, medical tools needed for stitching and disinfecting visible within.
"Leningrad can choose whether or not to heal you properly," Fyodor told her. "For now, you heal at the same rate as us humans. Understood?"
She didn't object. Avodt'ja simply kept her composure and let the puppet tend to her wound, gritting her teeth through the pain the entire time.