Adam Taurus idly swept his gaze over his throne room, growing uncomfortable with how long he'd simply sat on the useless chair. The chamber was lush and brilliant, towering walls set with large blocks of polished basalt and painstakingly carved with reliefs of his exploits.

To his left was the Hundred Mile Charge, with his breathless cavalry cresting the Gorge of Honey to relieve the Winchesters, he and his Companions rising atop the defilade like a detachment from the Watcher himself. His downhill charge scoured Valerius' men from the Shimmer, his iron shards nailing the fay commander to the realm. Adam raised his knife-eared head in the relief's climax, the tattered remains of Valerius' men bowing to him like a god. That wasn't really what happened, of course— they hadn't the time for prostration when he was busy with their collective Binding ritual.

The Battle of Irongate was depicted on the opposite wall, slightly older but slightly longer than the other relief. He remembered drawing Marcellus' forces onto the long bridge over the Hollow Mire— the only place he could've hoped to nullify their numerical advantage. Their Dust-hardened bardiches sundered the tight shields of Adam's armies, a contingent of fay skirmishers gating behind his lines to wreak unfettered havoc.

The relief dipped low, showing his moment of greatest desperation, before it crested with his figure rising from the depths of the Mire itself, appearing alone on the other end of the bridge. He'd shunted every ounce of iron from his person at once, shredding the heavy infantry on the bridge and giving his men the second wind to repulse what fay remained. Also not completely accurate, it left out the long line of chained Binders he'd dragged through that disgusting river— he couldn't make all that iron with his own blood, after all, he fed his Binders highly-ferrous diets for a reason.

Marcellus escaped, for a few days, but the great iron stele in the room's center depicted his final fate. For all his posturing, lording over his gates and his schemes, he'd been awfully silent when Adam himself gated into his throne room. Perhaps it was the spear he'd chucked in the fay's throat, or perhaps Marcellus Magnus knew he simply couldn't live up to his name.

Adam breathed a sigh and itched at the horns that ringed his head. They'd sprouted shortly after he ended Marcellus' reign, spikes of iron that broke through his skin, sharply angling straight up in what his devotees aptly called the Iron Crown. His advisor had mentioned something called 'soul-shifting', but all Adam really got out of it was that his soul had seen fit to grant him the mark of royalty. It apparently had something to do with overindulgence in the fay's dust, but he preferred to think it was simply a representation of his ego. Either way, it itched constantly.

Adam was the only one who could control the anti-magic material. It wasn't even the medium of blood that allowed such manipulation, the central stele proved that much— he'd cast it himself, molded it from a massive hunk of iron ore that had killed hundreds of Binders for its gating. Others called it a Semblance, but he didn't care. The nobles could spit at him all they want, call him a half-breed until their throats ran dry, but in the end, it was he that ran the Shimmer.

Twenty iron bastions were at his fingertips, their edifices menacing every major fay city on the continent. The measly six Winchester bastions were under his thumb, ready to hoist his colors as soon as Adam gave the word. As strong as William was, he'd be shocked to see how little coin it'd taken to sway his men.

He'd already started bribing the Schnee bastions, as well. Quite recently, in fact, but the fact that he hadn't received any kind of missive from their patron was still odd. He knew 'Jaques' Schnee's house was weak, but he didn't know they were blind too. Even across realms, word should've reached the man by now. Perhaps he was distracted by the petty matters of Remnant.

Perhaps he was dead. That'd be funny.

Just in case, and partially from instinct, he drew a vague map of succession is his head, assembling it from from pieces of memory that he'd never cared to maintain. He remembered that the Schnees had disowned their eldest daughter, so next was… what's his name? Wallace? No, Wisby— Whitley! That was it. Though he wasn't sure if he was still with that family; he wasa military boy, after all, following the ill-fated steps of his older sister. Probably disowned, as well. So next would be…

Adam shook his head. This was a fruitless line of thought, especially when there were more tantalizing opportunities to ponder.

The two Imperial bastions were paper tigers— grand and sprawling, but filled with feathered caps who hadn't the stomach for real war. Their walls were too wide, towers too tall, with courtyards large enough to gate half an army into. Their weapons were cowardly steel, and their mages studied earth and ice until their eyes bled. They'd never tasted fire like Adam's men could unleash.

He thought of it often, worryingly often, gating himself and his Dragon Cohort into the courtyard— it would take just 300 men to turn the Shimmer's largest bastion to burnished slag in less than an hour. Adam could picture the stupid look on Cordovin's face before he'd ruin it with an iron lance. He yearned to mold the whole citadel into a grand obelisk, a thorn to stab into the Imperial eye.

Adam would draw them into the Shimmer, to their second and final bastion. He'd be waiting for them there, lounged across their throne as he kicked Lionheart's head to the Marshal Lord's feet. He could already taste the victory. Eisenholz would crumple to his demands, knowing damn well that breaking from House Taurus would snap the greatest chain around the fay's throats. For the Marshal Lord over all Imperial holdings, the man had always been a coward.

Adam cared none for his holdings in Remnant, anyways— the castles were dilapidated, the walls were crumbling, the people were weak— and that was before he'd torn his succession from his father's heart. He was meant for the fay realm anyways, he'd known from the first time he set foot on its soil.

He bit down on the thoughts until they soured his tongue. It was arrogance— narcissism, even— but he couldn't help himself. Adam belonged to the Shimmer, and the Shimmer belonged to him. His very bones itched to rule. He just needed to wait— he'd know when it was time. Perhaps, while he waited, he'd come up with a better plan. Something less destructive.

Adam didn't care about life, human or fay, but he was a pragmatist at heart. No orphaned child or weeping widow would move his soul, but he knew that such a lack of compassion made for a poor ruler. It was pure rationality, proven by decades of iron fists and subsequent uprises. He'd quashed more than enough to know by now. Bloodshed brewed hatred, hatred brewed desperation, and desperation brewed legends.

If he were to hold the Shimmer, he'd like to hold it forever, but inspiring generations against him would only lead to his downfall. He held the thought in his mind; one of his Binders had taught him their concept of memento mori, and he kept it staked close to his heart. He was just a man, one who could die just like any other, and knowing that would keep him alive longer.

"Adrian," a voice called through the grand hall, one which was distinctly familiar to him. His most trusted advisor, his closest friend, and the first to willingly be Bound in service to him: Valerius— not the general from his relief, no, fay just aren't particularly creative when it comes to names.

He watched Valierus smoothly round the central stele. 'Adrian' was what his most loyal devotees called him, closer to a title than a name, as if to embrace his rightful rulership and befit him with a proper fay designation. He'd grown to appreciate it; even his human men had started to spread it among their ranks.

Valerius bowed before Adam, brilliant crimson irises affixing his lord with a thoughtful look. The fay was almost a head taller than Adam, with light cocoa skin and features a little softer than most fay. His ears were long, as expected, but drooped low rather than standing tall, and his wine-colored hair fell to mid-back in luscious, shimmering curls. His frame was slender, but his lithe movements belied a predatory strength that contrasted his seemingly-cumbersome plate.

Valerius wore a dress-like suit of armor, similar to that of the Schnee's Household Reiters, though his came up and covered the parts that truly mattered. The interlocking plates split into two skirts down each side, hanging like great metal shields over his legs. Those came up in bands around his abdomen, tucked under a smooth breastplate with articulating side-panels that allowed flexibility for his waist.

Adam didn't let his eyes linger— Valerius knew him far too welland he refused to be teased right now.

Instead, he focused on the remaining plate. Its pauldrons were smooth and fluted like clamshells, the left one coming over his brassard and matching the grooves of his circular elbow guard. The vambrace over his left arm gave way to a vicious gauntlet with large, thickly-armored fingers and razor-sharp claws. Adam knew he wouldn't wear it while mounted— the hand could be much better used around a spear or an axe, but Valerius loved wearing the thing everywhere else. Adam rarely even saw him fight with his sword, preferring instead to claw at his enemies like some feral beast.

He would begrudge the obvious showboating if it wasn't so effective. Time and again, he'd seen Valerius kill men twice his size by closing well within their range, eschewing the farce of swordsmanship in favor of the real, brutal crux of armored combat: grappling.

Valerius could move like a dancer, and he made sure that everybody knew it. Plate turned to cloth when it was around him, and Adam had watched the fay twist in ways that should be impossible even without armor, but Valerius didn't seem to care. He could curl himself around a man with ease, doff their helmet like he'd made it himself, then sink his clawed hand wrist-deep into their skull without breaking a sweat.

It was a beautiful art, but Adam would never tell him that. He usually considered himself unshakeable, but Valerius was extremely capable of disproving that.

Adam's eyes flitted to the last unobserved piece of his armor, or lack thereof: his right arm. No gauntlet covered his hand, no vambrace guarded his forearm, and his elbow remained completely bare. Instead, he proudly bore his iron chains, which snaked from under his brassard and coiled all the way down to his wrist, where the last stretch of links loosely dangled to his side.

If Adam were to follow them up the fay's arm, removing his arm-guard in the process, he'd be able to languidly trace a finger up the chains, following their path until they dove below his skin. His hand would linger there, wondering how painful it was to have the alien iron curled around his bones, and how loyal he must be to stay at his side.

"Adrian," Valierius snapped his unarmored fingers in front of his lord's face, hip cocked as he leaned towards him. "You're staring again."

Adam sputtered, his pale face burning much too bright a red for his comfort. "Silence, Valerius," he waved over his face to cover his embarrassment, "if you're only here to insult me, then kindly do it somewhere else. You're disturbing my peace."

"Disturbing your peace, ooooh," the fay waved his hands mockingly, drawing a sneer from Adam's lip. "Are people actually intimidated by that?"

Adam frowned deeply. "Not the ones that matter, no."

"Aw," Valerius cooed, "you're saying I matter?"

Adam rolled his eyes, slouching on one hand to make it seem like he didn't feast on every languid syllable from the man's mouth. "It's a simple fact. No more, no less."

Valerius quirked a dark eyebrow, unconvinced. "Is that so?"

Adam narrowed his eyes. "It is."

"We're operating on simple facts, now?" Valerius crossed his arms and tapped his foot— the skirts of plate allowed him to eschew leg armor, so his annoyed tic was clad in leather, not steel. "Just to be clear?"

Adam pursed his lips, already wary of where the fay was taking this. "That's all we've ever done, Val."

He slammed his teeth shut around the nickname, but it had already slipped forth. Valerius' lips quirked into a smirk. "What about the simple fact of—"

Adam cut him off by sending a pebble of iron at his breastplate, his grimace a quiet threat. "Do not speak of that."

"Dare we talk about such taboos?" The fay raised his arms, his face falsely aghast as he gestured around the empty room. "Especially with all these guests!"

There were no guests. The room was quiet as a grave, if that grave had two quarreling lo— friends trapped inside of it. If anybody were listening, he or Valerius would've noticed. Fay had long ears for a reason, and Adam's soul was linked with his Binders.

Adam scowled, reclining to hide how tightly the subject had him wound. "Guests or not, I won't tolerate your lies."

Valerius huffed. "We both know what happened, you can't deny it forever."

Adam waved dismissively. "Did you have anything important to bother me with?"

"Yes, milord," suddenly formal, Valerius gave a razor-sharp salute; a mannerism that he only expressed when he was severely pissed. "Caravans report that the Schnees are trying to implement tolls again."

Adam pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. "How much this time?"

"Double."

Adam took a deep breath in, shut his eyes, and let it out. "Double, you say?"

"Yes, milord," Valerius drawled, sarcastically bleeding every syllable. "Double."

Adam opened one eye at his advisor. "Fine. You know what to do. Try not to kill him, this time."

Valerius' annoyance immediately melted under a bright smile, his voice turning joyous as he jauntily bowed. "As you command, your highness!"

Adam watched him bow, turn on a heel, and prancehis way out of the grand hall. The man loved to fight, and the martial right of the duel was one of the few things the other houses respected out here. If their champion couldn't beat him, they'd have to retract the road toll, at least for a time. If they didn't, Valerius would keep challenging their champions until their armies were reduced to widows and old men.

And he'd love every second of it. There was no fact of which Adam was more certain.

"Adrian?"

Adam blinked— Valerius hadn't left yet, and his sly smirk told him that he'd caught the lord staring again.

"When I return, will you—"

"Silence," Adam commanded, drawing the fay's lips into a tight, pursed smile. After a long moment, he averted his gaze and continued. "I will make no promises."

Valerius cracked a wide grin, then proceeded to skip his way out of the throne room. Adam groaned. 'I will make no promises', what a shite answer! He might as well have taken him right in the—

Adam palmed his face and grunted, abruptly halting that line of thought.

They had to stop. For both of their sakes.

A/N: hey hey :) surprise adam chapter, just gotta let that cliffhanger hang a liiiiiiiittle bit longer lol. therell be more interlude-kinda chapters like this later, which im *extremely* excited about, finally giving penny, pyrrha, and jaune a spotlight. i also love valerius, the roman culture inspo is super fun to write for the fay.

in other news, the commissioned art for this fic's cover is almost done! and its like the best money ive ever spent! im so fucking happy with what ive seen so far dude, the artist is def gonna be getting a *lot* more money from me in the future. when its done ill insert it at the beginning or end of the first chapter, might even get art for each arc too :), and ill also have a tumblr link up for it in the a/ns for a bit. im so fucking hyped yall.

anyways, thanks for reading, see yall soon! :)