Fallen Stars

by Cori Shadowfang

Do you want to hear a story? It's not so much a grand tale as it is a lot of little things. Growing up. Moving on. Healing, or not. And maybe it's also, a little bit, about defying fate, and what the world might do to set things back the way they should be. Mostly, though, it's just a story about two friends. (Brain wasn't the only one who ended up in Scala ad Caelum.)

38. Beginning of the End

'The fight for Scala ad Caelum begins.'

Content Warning: Both Skuld and Mimir experience flashbacks during this chapter. Skuld's section starts at, "Clang! Starlight crashed against another Keyblade;" Mimir's starts at, "(How much longer do you think you can keep running, Little Light?)." As always, summaries of those will be down at the bottom.

---

Chapter Thirty-Eight: Beginning of the End

The skies were starting to turn a hazy sort of gray. It wasn't anything Freya would've been concerned about under normal circumstances—a surprise storm, maybe, creeping over the horizon, or an unexpectedly overcast day. But in the distance, she could hear the sounds of metal clanging against metal, creeping closer.

Freya pursed her lips and pulled away from the window. She couldn't see the fighting yet—but she could certainly remember the stories of the last time this had happened.

The shadows moved. She snapped around, tensing—but when she looked, there wasn't anything there. It didn't do anything to soothe her nerves; her skin prickled, like she was being watched.

Her eyes narrowed, and she glanced at the Keyblade hanging above her desk. That blue eye stared back. Judging. Watching.

After a beat she lifted her hand. The Keeper's Keyblade flashed into it with a crackle, and she could feel it humming to life beneath her fingertips.

"…Master Freya?"

Odin. The apprentice was waiting in the doorway, looking uncertain.

Freya inclined her head. "Come with me. It's time for us to intervene."

---

-Aegir moved quickly; he launched himself at Frigga, a blur across the courtroom. Her Keyblade lifted, catching his weapon on the edge. It hummed a battle song, rusty with disuse, but slowly waking up from its long slumber. It was like greeting an old friend again, warm and sweet with the taste of nostalgia and ages past. Old memories that had gone dull with age became clear and colorful. One of her first missions off-world, laughing with pent-up adrenaline after a terrifying encounter with a powerful Heartless. Twisting her Keyblade in a performance, the weapon thrumming with a quiet joy as the audience gasped from a magic display. Training against the very man in front of her, her Keyblade humming with the same eagerness to prove herself.

She stepped into the movements of her past self, twisting Aegir's Keyblade down and away. He came back with a heavy strike, all brute force and wild fury. A careful side-step, a one-two parry, a Keyblade aimed towards his chest, magic building at the end.

Aegir leapt backwards. Volleys of light flew after him, parried once, twice, blocked and sent back by a Reflect spell. She moved out of the way just as easily, teleporting up, landing in the now-empty stands and crouching there.

There was a giddy sort of energy humming through her veins. The last time she'd held this weapon, she'd been hanging it up—a bittersweet moment after she'd finally, finally been deemed worthy of holding Master's Defender, after years of training and making connections and figuring out how to play to her family's whims. Now, there were none of those expectations—nothing but the need to protect her people. It was…freeing, and she laughed, a quiet thing that ached in her chest. "Are you ready, old friend?"

Warmth flooded her hand, racing down her arm, and the Keyblade vibrated in a way that felt almost like yes.

Aegir caught sight of her and lunged.

Frigga shifted her footing, then leapt to meet him. Their Keyblades clashed midair; Aegir had always been stronger physically, and the force of his attack forced Frigga a little lower, towards the ground.

But Frigga hadn't gotten as far as she had without playing smart. Her weapon whipped around, light burning at the tip. Aegir fell, like he was going to try and brute-force his way through it.

Frigga gave him a dry sort of smirk, then twisted her Keyblade around jamming the tip into the ground as she landed. The ground cracked and glowed, and from the fractures came streaks of magic, light bursting skyward, blinding and painful. Aegir hissed, lifting a hand to try and shield himself; his attack faltered, his feet stumbling as he hit the ground, and he kicked backward, like he was trying to get out of range.

Frigga's Keyblade came free. She rocked on a rising piece of earth, shooting from the edge and across the open space. One strike hit Aegir's stomach while he was too stunned to do anything; another cut across his shoulder. He caught himself on the third, his parry sloppy but effective enough to divert her attack. With a quick step she'd slipped behind him, letting him stumble as he moved into another strike. Her weapon struck his back, sending him stumbling forward.

"You're losing your touch, Aegir," she said, her head lifting. "For someone so interested in claiming my position, this is not an impressive showing."

She thought she heard something that almost sounded like a growl, and then Aegir was slamming his Keyblade into the ground. The attack was more disruptive than Frigga's had been, earth cracking apart and flying into the air. Frigga stumbled under the force of it, rocking as a large piece of the ground rose; she shifted and shot forward, flying to another piece, and another.

Something brushed past her shoulder; she turned in time to see Aegir flash past her, Keyblade a hair from her back. She turned midair, fire flashing from the tip of her weapon. It crackled and dissipated against the rising stone, Aegir dodging behind his magic-made barrier.

A shift overhead—Aegir, reappearing from amidst the rubble. Frigga kicked against the rock, spinning to fire another spell, swiftly parried by a flash of Aegir's blade. Her back hit a piece of earth, but she was off again in an instant, kicking against stone after stone after stone, and Aegir pursued.

Metal flashed. A flicker of a spell, hot against her cheek. The brush of cloth, too close as she dodged out of the way. Her feet moved to catch her, weapon flying almost too quickly for her to keep up with, dragged on by muscle memory and adrenaline. The nostalgic warmth of her Keyblade blazed into a fire, hot with magic, a war cry screaming from the blade that almost echoed in her throat.

They had fought for this position, once. They would fight for the people relying on them, now.

Frigga twisted, and her feet hit the ceiling. Her knees bent, and with a burst of magic she shot down toward Aegir. Her Keyblade crashed against his, brought up in haste, and they fell, breaking through rubble and crashing toward the ground.

Magic hummed around them—a Zero Gravity spell, catching them before they could make impact. Aegir twisted around, Keyblade jammed into the side of a floating bit of rubble. He dragged it around, and Frigga pulled up a barrier just before he launched it at her. The weight of it sent her crashing against the ground, but her barrier held, even against the extra force. With a little focus her spell expanded, exploding outward, shattering the stone into tiny pieces.

Frigga's feet hit the ground, and her head jerked up to see Aegir, still hovering above, his Keyblade glowing red hot. Molten spots appeared along the ceiling, and Frigga moved.

Something crashed into the ground behind her. She could see the black and red bleeding across the ground, feel the heat nipping at her heels, the shockwave rippling across the ground and nearly making her stumble. Up ahead, another meteor crashed, the impact rattling her bones and shaking the room.

Magic sent her flying into the air. She used one of the still floating bits of rock as a launching point, kicking off it to avoid the burst of another spell. Her movement took her toward Aegir, who couldn't quite collect himself in time to block her attack. They both tumbled into the haze of fire and earth; Frigga could feel it searing her skin, too hot against the back of her neck and legs.

Aegir twisted, kicking, forcing Frigga back long enough for him to escape. She chased him, leaping from safe patch to safe patch, her Keyblade clang-clanging! against Aegir's Keyblade as he parried, then retreated. A meteor crashed to their side; part of the stands crumbled under the impact, and Frigga side-stepped, throwing up a barrier to protect herself from the rubble.

Another meteor, striking the ground too close to her other side. She lifted her other hand to brace her barrier, her Keyblade quivering under the strain of holding it up. Hairline cracks appeared across the spell, and she thought she could vaguely hear the sound of creaking glass.

From the smoke appeared Aegir, Keyblade lifted. He pulled back from his strike almost at the last second, the tip of his Keyblade swinging around to reveal—

A spell. What, Frigga wasn't certain, because it exploded against her barrier almost before she could register it was happening. The remains of her shield shattered, and the force of the blow sent her flying backward. The world turned into a spinning blur of fire and earth; her shoulder hit the ground, and then her back, and then her shoulder again, a burning, ripping sensation tearing through her arms a few seconds after the initial impact.

She twisted, fingers digging into the ground to slow her flight. Her heels dug into the dirt, leaving her in a half-crouch with her Keyblade lifted.

Aegir had decided to press his advantage, a blur flying across the distance. Frigga surged upward to meet him, Keyblade cracked against his, dragging it to the side as her feet tried to right themselves.

"I'm the one with a disappointing performance, am I, Head of the Council?" Aegir gestured broadly. "Is this still disappointing?"

With a huff of breath Frigga had shot across the distance to strike at him. Aegir lifted his blade to meet hers, and they were off again, streaks across the courtroom.

Back and forth they went, dodging across bits of debris and the shattered remains of the stands, exchanging strikes and spells in such a hurried blur that Frigga sometimes struggled to keep up with the speed of it. A burst of ice crackled across the ground, Aegir sliding across it to deliver a slashing blow. Lightning crashed from the ceiling, stopping him in his tracks. Fire crackled in explosion after explosion, embers flickering across the edges of Frigga's Keyblade.

Their Keyblades crashed against each other, again and again and again. Frigga skidded across the ground, then caught herself against a piece of debris, kicking across the open space. Another blow against Aegir's Keyblade, and another; Aegir managed to get the best of her, this time, swinging around to strike at her leg, and her knee buckled. A quick Cure spell and she was back in motion, aiming at his arm. A heavy blow against his wrist temporarily disarmed him; a twisting stab aimed for his chest, but Aegir was already moving out of range. Light flickered around his fingertips as his Keyblade rematerialized, swinging around to catch another of her blows. The weapons twisted around each other, and Frigga released her blade and disengaged, summoning her Keyblade back and swinging toward his neck simultaneously. Aegir kicked back, and then up, Keyblade burning with the beginnings of a spell.

Frigga reacted quickly; her Keyblade swung around, a spell of her own at the tip. She fired before Aegir did, bursts of light cascading across the open space. They crashed into Aegir's still-forming spell, causing it to backfire and sending him flying. He hit the ceiling with a thud, cracks spreading out from the impact, and Frigga jumped to meet him.

Aegir cracked an eye open to glare at her. With a cry he twisted his Keyblade around, jamming it into the ceiling, magic pouring from the tip.

Frigga crashed into him almost in the same instant. The force of both blows broke the ceiling apart, sending them flying up and out, tumbling over and over, falling, falling, falling down the edge of the Clock Tower.

Frigga's eyes flicked, very briefly, out to Scala ad Caelum. There was fighting in the streets; she couldn't make out familiar figures in the chaos, but she could see the battles spreading out from the edges of the Clock Tower, festivities trampled underfoot, the citizens of Scala ad Caelum rushing to take shelter or getting caught in the hectic fray.

Metal glinted near her face, and she jerked her head away, Keyblade flashing to parry Aegir's blow. She twisted, using magic to slow her fall, and watched as Aegir threw himself against the side of the Clock Tower, glowing with magic as he darted along the walls. Within a heartbeat Frigga was following him, chasing him across the rooftops of their home, magic singing on her tongue.

---

-Clang! Starlight crashed against another Keyblade; the force of the impact drove Skuld's opponent back, their feet skidding across the floor. The others sprang into motion beside her; she thought she could see Brain, stepping back to shoot off a spell, and Osmin, turning with a furious roar and launching himself at one of the other wielders.

Starlight twisted; her opponent's Keyblade snapped around it, shaft caught on her weapon's teeth. She tugged sharply; her opponent stumbled, hilt torn from their hands, and the hot-cold sting of magic built in her palm, star fire in her throat and on her tongue. The crash of a light spell, unrefined and frantic, forced her to squint a little, but it sent her opponent flying with the impact.

There weren't many of them—four had come with Osmin, and the assassins had disappeared once reinforcements had arrived. Sitting out, like I asked, she thought bitterly. Trying to figure out what the best course of action is for them.

It didn't matter; they weren't here, and hopefully they weren't fighting, and there was nothing else she could do about it. Hopefully, they would at least hold up their end of the deal, however much they'd delayed them here.

But we need to get back to the trial. She didn't know what was happening—if Aegir had had the chance to swing things in his favor, or if the bluebloods had been successfully disarmed. Ideally, Aegir would be sentenced appropriately, even without them there, and this would just be one final, frustrating hurdle before they could rest. It was possible; Frigga had given a good speech, and Brain had at least been there, and Osmin had obviously heard about the assassins so she presumed the rest of the council had, too. But was it enough? We still need to get back. To make sure.

Which meant they couldn't waste time here, fighting. They had to get past their opponents, not engage with them—at least, as much as they could.

A flash of light, and a rattle of chains. Skuld leapt back a little; her opponent had only made it halfway back toward her when chains wrapped around their torso, jerking them abruptly sideways. She could hear their yelp of alarm as they hurtled across the space; with a twist, she'd fired a Blizzard spell at Brain's opponent, freezing her feet long enough to stall her. The two wielders crashed into each other, and Brain moved away, spell breaking apart into tiny sparks. "So," he said, landing next to her, "plan?"

There was something strangely grim in his expression—his face too stiff, his eyes too tight. She wondered at it, for a moment—but it was probably just concern about the trial. If it wasn't, she could ask about it later. "Run."

Brain huffed a laugh, but said, "Suppose I can do that."

Skuld managed a weak grin behind her helmet, then turned. "Mimir! Kvasir!"

The two of them were pressed back to back—engaged with a single wielder, for the moment, who was darting in and out from the shadows, forcing them to try and keep up with the assault. "Yes?" Kvasir called, sounding slightly harried.

Skuld lifted her Keyblade; with a flick, she'd sent a wall of ice between them and their opponent, listening to the sound of the other wielder's cry. Behind her, she heard Brain shift, and the crash of a spell against a barrier. Their opponents hadn't stayed down long, it sounded like. "We're heading back! Get moving as soon as you can; we need to reach the courtroom!"

Mimir glanced toward her and gave a tight nod. They gripped Kvasir's arm, tugging him along behind them; Kvasir stumbled, but caught himself, twisting briefly to fire a spell at their opponent as they shot over the top of the ice wall. A Zero Gravity spell from Skuld sent them floating, forcing them to take the brunt of the blow.

"Brain—" Skuld started.

"Coming." A flick of Master's Defender, and a line of Mines settled across the floor, burning bright for half a second. Then he was moving, turning to follow the others, and Skuld let magic fill her feet and kicked off, rocketing across the open hallway. Please don't let us be too late. Please let everything be okay, please, please, please—

Footsteps sounded behind her—a quick one-two step, just slightly offset, and Skuld bit back a cry of frustration. Someone might need to stay back to keep them occupied, she realized; otherwise, this would take too long, and they really might be delayed enough for something to happen—

It probably shouldn't be me, she thought, spinning around and shooting off a spell to distract them. The thought tasted bitter, even if she knew it was right. I'm the one who needs to speak next. Mimir, too. So Brain or Kvasir. Or—

There was something like a war cry behind them. Her head snapped up in time to see the whole room start to glow.

She heard Brain's hissed breath, Kvasir's noise of alarm. She scrambled backward, kicking up and away, and she heard chains rattle as Brain followed. Another flash of chains from both of them caught Kvasir and Mimir, dragging them away from the edges of the spell just before it went into effect.

Purple energy glowed along the floors and crept up the walls. It emanated a low hum, the buzzing thrumming deep inside Skuld's ears and making her head ache. Even from a distance, she could feel the pressure of it—the way it tugged at her legs and arms and chest, threatening to drag her in and down, pinning her to the floor so tightly she couldn't breathe.

The other wielders weren't as quick as the four of them had been—they'd been pursuing, and hadn't noticed the spell quite quickly enough to escape its effects. They crashed against the floor, some jerking in an almost unnatural manner, like they'd been trying to resist the spell's effects and found themselves unable to. The thuds as they hit the ground were muted, muffled by the glowing burst of energy.

Osmin stood in the middle of the spell, Keyblade still lifted, crackling with energy. "Go!" he shouted, the sound carrying despite the spell. "I'll handle them!"

Skuld hesitated, but only for a moment. A quick nod, and then she'd turned, sprinting down the corridor; she could hear the others running around her, rapid footsteps the only sounds in the hallway.

But only for a moment.

"I think the spell faded," Kvasir said, glancing behind them, like he wanted to go back and help.

"He'll be fine," Brain answered. "Keyblade Master and council member—not a lot that can beat that."

But the sounds of ringing metal were getting louder, not quieter. In the distance, Skuld could hear shouting—screams of terror and battle cries and frantic questions, all jumbled together, too many voices for the people they'd left behind. If she closed her eyes, she thought she could feel the heat of a spell against her skin, the cold air of the wastelands taking it away only a half-second later.

Mimir's face looked pale, when she glanced at them, their Keyblade quaking with a familiar sort of terror.

She ran faster.

It wasn't like the Keyblade War had been; she didn't find herself dumped directly into the middle of the fighting, scrambling frantically to try and defend herself, grabbing Ephemer to pull him out of the way of a spell and running until it finally sank in that they needed to fight. This was slower; this was one person, turning around the corner, forcing the group to split apart and let them through, a panicked look thrown over their shoulder. This was another, and another, a slow trickle of civilians as the four of them raced back toward the courtroom, dread creeping down Skuld's back. This was the faint glow of spells in the distance, and the tightening, sickening feeling of knowing something had gone wrong, even as her mind was scrambling to find a way to avoid accepting it. We just have to get back. We just have to get back. We just have to get back—

(This was shadows creeping down the walls, something dark and tacky twisting between the cracks in the floor and sticking to her feet. Run, Little Light. You wouldn't want to keep them waiting, would you?)

The others had gone grimly quiet; she didn't look at them—couldn't spare a moment to slow down—but she could feel it. The way the tension was growing thicker as the crowd did, her friends moving a little faster as the sounds of spells and fighting rose into a roar. The rattle of Keyblades held at the ready, the air already saturated with the smell of magic that shouldn't be there, not this much, not in the middle of the city. It made Skuld's skin prickle, too cold, a jittering feeling slithering down her arms that couldn't be attributed just to adrenaline. Magic pooled in her feet, and she jumped, flying across the hallway because she needed to see, she needed to make sure—

Her feet landed, and when she shot up, something was flying toward her.

Starlight lifted on reflex. The weapon twisted away, and she spun, ready to strike at her opponent.

It wasn't until then that she fully registered what had swung toward her: a piece of wood, probably grabbed haphazardly from some destroyed furniture, held in the hands of a wild-eyed civilian.

She stopped her strike at the last second, stumbling backward.

The civilian stared at her, then turned and scrambled away, makeshift weapon still clutched in their hands.

Civilians. There weren't civilians, last time.

All of us were soldiers.

She stumbled, armored feet clanking against each other, and felt something collide against her back. She turned, for a moment thinking that she'd just run into someone, and only realized after a second strike that someone was attacking her. Her Keyblade met metal this time, and it was with a dim, distant relief that she acknowledged it was a Keyblade, not some piece of debris grabbed off the floor, and so she rose to meet her opponent in kind, pushing them back with a shout. But when she stepped forward, she found herself caught in a small crowd, someone else swiping at her side, and—

And this she remembered. This was an old wound, terror torn open by the hectic chase of a battle she'd thrown herself headlong into, a confusing cacophony of noise and movement that she had to keep up with or she'd fall. Figures blurred; in the chaos, it was nearly impossible to tell who she was fighting, and the further she was drawn in, the more she had to keep moving, keep fighting, Keyblade flashing to block a piece of metal, wood, fists, dodging spells and bodies and—

I have to get there. I have to get there—

It didn't start like the Keyblade War, but in many ways it still felt like she'd been pulled back into the past. The space ahead of her was gray and red, but she thought when she blinked it looked haloed by a pale blue, cold and unnatural. The ground underfoot sometimes looked like craggy rock, not the Clock Tower floor, and when she looked at people's faces, all she could see were the blurry, half-remembered images of fellow child soldiers. She couldn't stop to think about what was happening to them—she couldn't worry about if her Keyblade had cut too deeply, or what a spell had done, or if she'd known that face or just imagined it, because she had to stay up and keep moving and keep fighting or she'd be pulled under.

She reached back, half-glancing behind her, and there was a cold, terrified prickling in her chest when she realized no one was there—no one she knew, anyways, not right off the bat, and she felt a jolt of terror because Ephemer was supposed to be—

No. Not Ephemer. The others—

The thought fell away, half completed, as she had to turn back and parry a blow, but the feeling remained, a shivery, terrified sort of thing that made her chest too tight and her legs jittery.

She was—running. Her feet kept moving her forward, forward, forward, and she knew she was looking for something, but she'd lost grasp of what it was. She just knew she needed to get there, she needed to stop something, she needed to keep them safe—

The courtroom came into view, and it felt like something had clicked into place, a little. That's where she needed to be—she needed to get to the trial, she needed to find Aegir, she needed to—

Stop.

Her body didn't entirely listen, carrying her forward on momentum and instinct, but her brain registered, dimly, that there was no trial to get back to anymore; it'd stopped some point before they'd even reached the hallway, everything descending into chaos, a cacophony of spells and metal and—

(And it was like she was back in the Keyblade War all over again and she needed to move she needed to keep fighting she needed to—)

Breathe.

Before she'd entirely thought about it, she'd launched herself upward. Her feet skittered awkwardly on the rafters, and she jammed Starlight into the wood to catch herself, shaking and uncertain and this was happening again—

(Breathe. You need to breathe.)

Her heart still hammered against her chest. She was shaking, keychain rattling, and she gripped the hilt tighter and closed her eyes because it was going to fall apart again it was going to fall it was falling—

(You're a Union Leader. You didn't ask for it, but you are. You need to take action.)

She gritted her teeth, and sucked in one shaky, uncertain breath, and then another, and listened to the sound of it rattling in her chest. The armor clanked with the movement, and she tried to focus on that, and not on the chaos below her.

(You can save them, but only if you focus. Put it away for later—you can deal with it later.)

Another breath. Another. Steadying. Slow. She pressed her head against her Keyblade's hilt, took another breath, and opened her eyes.

From up here, she had a clearer view of the fight—not that it did much to help. The crowd was a mix of people—some were trying to flee, but others were fighting, swinging both makeshift weapons and Keyblades, and for a moment it felt like she was going to get lost in the chaos again, eyes flicking uselessly from person to person.

Breathe. Focus.

It took a moment, but she found, to her relief, that she could figure out who was trained and who wasn't, when she actually stopped to pick out individuals. Some were easy—Keyblade wielders, their weapons flashing as they moved to try and fend off their opponents. Others weren't as obvious, their weapons mostly pieces of items they'd picked up off the floor, but when she watched, she could see the way they were careful about their footwork, movements precise, even in the intensity of battle. Others were swinging wildly, a frantic energy to them that said they were caught up in the haze of battle, untrained fighters drawn into the chaos. And others still looked less like they were trying to be part of the fight and more like they were just trying to run, but were stuck, trapped by the crowd.

Another breath. Skuld's eyes lifted, tracking the crowd. She couldn't see the streets from here, but she could see how the fighting was spreading out—away from the courtroom, and likely spilling out into Scala itself. Okay, she thought, and tried to ignore the sounds of battle and focus. Okay. What do we need to do?

She didn't know what had happened at the trial (even if she could make a guess), but she wasn't sure it mattered; there was fighting below her, right now, and many of the people there weren't trained. From the looks of things, she wasn't even sure if anyone knew who was supposed to be fighting who. The civilians should come first. We need to get them out—get them away from the fighting. But where can we send them that's safe?

She heard someone shout, and decided that didn't matter right now—for now, they just needed to get them out of the thick of the battle. They could figure out where to send them once they weren't in quite so immediate danger.

Starlight jerked out of the rafter, swinging around, and light flashed at the tip. Chains rattled, aimed towards what looked like someone downed, hands and arms thrown over their head as people surged around them. The spell wrapped around the person's waist; they yelped, clawing at the ground, as the chains pulled them backward, and several people leapt out of the way, tensing like they were prepared to be attacked. The person flew backward, up toward Skuld, and she released her Keyblade to catch and steady them.

"Let me go!" They kicked and struggled, and as she released them, they swung around to punch her, nearly falling off the rafters in the process. "I don't want to fight! I don't—"

"It's okay," Skuld said quickly, hands lifted. "I was just trying to get you out."

They faltered, face slowly going slack as they seemed to realize who'd rescued them. "Master Skuld…?"

"I'm going to get you away from the fighting. Once you are, start running, okay?"

They nodded, still looking unsure, but they didn't struggle when Skuld grabbed them, leaping back the way she'd come, magic humming underneath her skin. She'd barely hit the floor when she let go of them, pausing only to make sure that they actually ran before launching herself back up to the rafters.

Another person, backed against the courtroom walls. Someone else, fighting uselessly against an opponent clearly stronger than them. A couple of children, hiding behind a chair, too frightened to move. Skuld ran and ran and ran, heart still shuddering but her legs moving with purpose, now, Keyblade flashing as she sent out spells again and again and again. She stayed up and out of the fighting, mostly, watching from the rafters as she tried to find the right people, get them out and to safety.

(Her eyes couldn't help but linger, sometimes, on the people she couldn't get to in time. It felt familiar—like leaving the Dandelions behind, in the data Daybreak Town, or like running past other wielders in the Keyblade War, seeing them bleeding or struggling to breathe and pausing for half a second even if she knew she couldn't. It wasn't fine, but then, it wasn't something she could focus on. Later. Deal with it later.)

She couldn't see her friends from here—she barely had time to stop and look, her attention focused entirely on getting people out—but then she caught a flash of chains that weren't hers, and she nearly stumbled with relief, head snapping toward Brain as he landed beside her. "Hey."

"Hey," he said, expression tight.

"Have you seen the others?"

"Not in a while, but they've probably seen us." He caught the person he'd pulled out, ignoring their shouts. "Be back in a bit." He launched himself in the other direction, and Skuld kept going, shooting forward to find someone else to drag out of this mess.

It happened almost quicker than she could react—a flash of someone, to her side, and a glint of metal, and the heavy impact of something slamming into her armor. The whole world spun, a blur of chaotic color; her back struck something fragile, and it gave underneath her, Brain's shout almost drowned under the shattering noise of glass.

Something snapped around her waist; she twisted, dangling, a brief shock of pain burning through her midsection, one hand reaching up to grip the glowing chains. Her feet hit the ground; she wobbled, trying to get her footing, and looked up—

And when she looked up, it felt like she was back in Daybreak Town, the day everything had fallen apart.

It was different this time, of course; there were people in the streets, fighting and running and screaming. People stumbled out of buildings, looking confused and terrified; others shoved their ways back inside, watching nervously from behind the windows. The stalls set up for the festival had fallen apart, their remains trampled into the ground or strewn across the streets. Spells flashed, Keyblade wielder against Keyblade wielder; she wasn't even sure if anyone knew who they were supposed to be fighting.

(She wondered if the Dandelions had fought, when they realized the world was ending. If they'd even had time to understand what was going on, or if everything had crashed too quickly. She wondered how long the familiar places around her home had remained standing, before the world had ended.)

"…ion Leader…Union Leader!"

Someone shook her shoulder. She snapped around, Keyblade lifted—it's an attack, you have to keep moving, you have to keeping fighting—but when she turned, she found herself staring into the familiar face of Brain. She couldn't quite manage words, at first; they caught in her throat, a choked noise she couldn't quite get to form into something coherent, and Starlight lowered, but only barely.

Brain turned from her toward Scala ad Caelum. He closed his eyes, breath hissing between his teeth.

"Don't freeze up like that, kid. You'll get yourself killed with everything that's going on here."

The cadence was familiar, and Skuld felt her chest lightening, turning to breathe, "Mei—"

No. Not Meili.

He was older than Meili, built different—but the voice and face were familiar, once she'd had the chance to process who they belonged to. Sven.

"You're okay," she said instead, the pivot feeling unnatural, and she tried to ignore the fact that she desperately wished that it had been Meili that had found them. (They didn't have a Keyblade. They couldn't fight like the rest of them could. But. It'd be nice, to have them here. And then, at least she'd know they were safe.

…She had no idea what had happened to them, after the trial had fallen apart.)

"Yeah," Sven answered, and she dragged herself back toward the conversation, trying to ignore the way her mind stuck elsewhere. "That group you were looking for didn't get to me. Weird lot, though. They ever get back to you?"
"They did," Brain said. "But they were a little late."

Something glinted, and Skuld threw up a barrier; a spell crashed against it, and she tried not to flinch, her ears ringing with the aftermath.

"Mind telling us what happened?" Brain shouted over the rumbling.

Sven was grimacing, face pale and stiff—but it was a different voice that answered. "Aegir. Aegir happened."

Brain snapped around, eyes lighting with surprise. Skuld followed his line of sight, and found herself staring at Sigurd.

His Keyblade was by his side, blood on the edges. His shoulders were hunched with exhaustion; she wondered how long he'd been fighting. "Aegir…knew he wasn't faring well during the trial, I think." Sigurd dragged himself forward, and Brain's Keyblade flicked; a Cure settled over the other wielder, and he made a noise like a sigh of relief, straightening a little. "So instead of trying to defend himself, he used what all of you said against you—tried to stir the other bluebloods into action."

Brain's expression looked tense. After a reluctant moment he looked away from Sigurd—back to the chaos running rampant through the streets. "This seems like it got out of hand fast, if it originated at the trial."

"It wasn't just there," Sven said, quiet. "There was already fighting in the streets—a group of people, who jumped some other wielders. There was a blueblood at the head of them, shouting orders—not sure which one."

"We didn't get everyone," Skuld murmured, squeezing her eyes closed and trying to breathe.

"It was a possibility," Brain murmured, but he didn't sound happy.

"It's still a problem." She whipped toward him, and couldn't quite keep her voice from rising in panic. "They're fighting, and if there's too much fighting then Darkness will come, and the world will fall apart, and—" Her voice caught, and cracked, and she managed, strangled, "I can't lose my home again, Brain."

Brain's expression turned surprisingly soft. "You won't," he said, and she only had a distant moment to wonder about the 'you' before he continued, "so long as we figure out a plan." He lifted his head, pushing his hat a little higher, like he was trying to survey the streets. "You were trying to get any non-combatants out, right?"

Right. Right—focus. She needed to—focus. They weren't—Scala wasn't falling yet. They still had time. They could still stop this, if they acted quickly. "Yeah. I didn't have anywhere to send them too, but—I wanted to get them out of the fighting."

"…The docks," Sven said after a thoughtful moment. When Skuld turned to him, he added, "I can run on ahead—get some people to ready some boats. That should hopefully be at the edge of the fighting, anyways—and if it's not, we can get them all out on the water and away from things."

"There's nowhere to take them," Skuld pointed out, quiet. "The other islands…"

Sven gave her a tight smile. "Well—we just have to make sure we have a home to come back to, then."

"…Right. Right, okay." Skuld took a deep breath, and continued, "We need to get people out—but we also need to take care of the bluebloods. Aegir's group."

"Would be easier if we knew exactly who was where," Brain muttered. "Think everyone at the trial would still be close to here, at least—but the longer this goes on, the further the fighting's going to spread."

"So we need a way to stop that. Trap them in, and keep the fighting from going much further." She thought, for a moment, of the assassins. "A barrier."

"Going to have to be a big barrier." Brain squinted skyward.

"…Master's Defender," Sigurd said after a hesitant moment, "was always used to set up the wards around the city, before. It's—it's possible that the Keyblade could do something like that, too."

Brain's lips pressed into a grim line.

"We have to try," Skuld said, looking at him.

Brain glanced at her, then sighed in apparent resignation. "How far out are we putting this barrier?"

Skuld's attention snapped to the streets. She couldn't see how far the fighting had spread from here, but— "Get to the top of the Clock Tower. You'll get a better view from there—and can hopefully stay out of the fighting, too."

Brain didn't look entirely happy about that, but he didn't argue. "You guys want to send up a spell or something when you're ready for it? Figure I don't want to trap anyone in."

"I can," Skuld said, and it felt…not good, exactly, but less horrible, now that they had something of a plan. "Okay. Okay, so—Sven will go get the dock workers ready. Brain will go up and wait for my signal to make a barrier. Sigurd and I will go and try to get as many civilians out as possible. We can grab anyone we can to help—Kvasir and Mimir, when we find them again, and others, too." She didn't know where the two of them had gone; she hoped they were safe, and it took all of her willpower not to run back and look for them.

"I…think I know where we might be able to find some reinforcements," Sigurd said, quiet.

Skuld gave him a nod. "Okay. After Brain puts up the barrier, we can regroup—around here, maybe, in one of the buildings. We'll figure out what to do from there."

The others nodded, and—and she realized that there was nothing left to do, then, but get moving. "Stay safe," she said, looking at each in turn, and the others echoed her sentiment. Then they were moving, splitting off in different directions, and as Skuld's feet pounded across the ground, stopping to drag one civilian out of the fray, and tried desperately, desperately not to think about what might happen if this didn't work. It's not going to be like Daybreak Town. It's going to be okay. We're going to make it okay.

---

-(On an island in the distance, Heartless stirred. They skittered through the streets, teeth chattering, claws twitching. They air tasted like something familiar—like anger, and righteous fury, and fear, and grief, and hope, and so many other things, all tantalizingly close. It tasted like people they knew, even if they were a little different, and they whined and cried and crawled along the edges of their island, pawing at the water like it would give way.

Deep beneath the island, old, weakened chains rattled. A low, breathy noise echoed through empty chambers, breathing out the cracks in the ruins. Something stirred beneath their feet, bubbling through the island's cracks. Soon, it whispered, a happy-sounding hum vibrating like a purr. Soon.)

---

-Frigga's feet pounded against shingles, a rapid tap-tap-tap as she chased Aegir across the rooftops. Not again. You aren't escaping me this time.

Aegir glanced back toward her, then pivoted; sparks flashed from the edge of his Keyblade in an arc, and Frigga slowed just enough to block them, throwing a spell of her own. The two attacks collided in a burst of smoke, and Frigga launched herself through it. Her Keyblade hit Aegir's once, twice, weapons flashing; Aegir leapt backward, launching himself across the street, and Frigga pursued.

She glanced down, if only briefly. The fighting was still concentrated here; she could see her family, swept into the fray, many of them fighting each other. Other Keyblade wielders had been drawn in—attracted by the noise of fighting, concerned and curious, then dragged along out of concern or battle lust or just simple uncertainty. Some looked like they were trying to usher confused citizens away and block off certain areas; others were shouting questions, trying to figure out what's going on and why are we fighting wielders, not Heartless?

Her feet landed on a rooftop, and she shot after Aegir before he could run away again, Keyblade cracking against his. She pushed him back, but only briefly, his heels catching him and slowing his movements. With a shout he swept his Keyblade outward, forcing her to stumble back a little. He swung the weapon around into a stab, but Frigga was ready, parrying quickly and diverting it a little to the side. He pivoted just as easily into a swing, and no matter how hard Frigga braced her Keyblade, she couldn't quite stop the full force of the blow. She went flying, cracking once against the top of a rooftop, then toppling over the edge.

A spell caught her, her Keyblade humming with a low-thrumming fury at being bested, even if only for a moment. She cast a glance below her, briefly, and saw people watching, eyes wide with fear and hope and confusion.

(Watching her. Waiting to see what their leader would do.

This was what she was fighting for—not for her pride, not to stop Aegir, nothing but this. She needed to keep Aegir away from them.)

"Get out!" she shouted. "Find Keyblade wielders who aren't in the fray—ask them to get you awa—"

Her sentence cut off as a spell crashed into her. She gasped, faltering under it, thrown down into the streets. Her back hit the ground with a heavy thud; she heard something crack, and cast a Cure almost as quickly to try and take the edge off.

And then Aegir was there, Keyblade lifted as he flew down to meet her.

Frigga rolled, and Aegir's Keyblade hit the ground with a crash, pieces of earth flying from the impact. Frigga caught her footing and launched back toward him, Keyblade crashing against his, and for a moment they struggled against each other, sparks glinting off the edges of their blades.

Frigga's eyes flicked, briefly, behind Aegir. Some people were running—but there were still too many citizens, too many people close to the fighting. She disengaged briefly, Keyblade flashing as she threw up a barrier behind Aegir. He whipped around, and she could see the confusion briefly on his face before she turned and ran in the other direction. Magic sent her flying back toward the rooftops, leaps taking her up, up, and over, jumping from one building to another.

"Running away now, Frigga?" Aegir shouted. "I thought you'd want to maintain your claim."

Frigga glanced back; Aegir was pursuing, at least, and she allowed herself a relieved breath. Good. At the very least, I can perhaps lead him away from the main conflict.

Magic crackled behind her; she spun, throwing a spell of her own back at him, and twisted and kept going, not bothering to see if it hit. Chains rattled from the edge of her Keyblade, and she used them to swing around the edge of a building. Her footsteps touched ground very briefly, and in that moment she felt swamped by the chaos of it—by the wielders, fighting to protect their home, even if they weren't sure what they were protecting it from; by her family, torn apart, all trying to maintain some sort of claim to power; by people who should be civilians, forced to defend themselves or run or die.

(This will not be how my home falls. Not here—not now.)

A spell crashed into the street behind her, shaking the ground, and she heard people shouting in alarm. She steadied someone near her, ordering, "Find who you can—get to safety."

"The docks!" She whipped around at the distant shout; someone was waving at them, gesturing wildly. "Get to the docks! The Union Leaders have been sending everyone there!"

"The docks," she repeated, and felt something in her calm. It maybe shouldn't surprise her that the Union Leaders would help take charge in a situation like this—but for all she'd had to get used to the idea that they were teenagers, she'd perhaps forgotten that they were also leaders. They'd been chosen for a reason; they could handle getting people to safety.

Which meant that, for the moment, she could focus on Aegir.

Her feet took her back up to the rooftops, a half second before Aegir landed. She thought she heard his frustrated growl, and paused long enough to turn toward him, raising an eyebrow. "Well? Are you coming, coward?"

She thought she heard his furious shouts as she turned and ran, smirking a little. She ducked down beside a building, and when he flew overhead she shot a spell in his direction. It hit, sending him crashing across the rooftops, and she leapt to follow. Chains rattled from the tip of her Keyblade; before Aegir could recover, she'd wrapped him in them, swinging him around and throwing him as far away from the direction of the docks as she could manage. She took a moment to steady her footing, then lunged, shooting across the space with a magic-filled attack.

Aegir corrected himself in midair, and his Keyblade caught her first strike, then her next. His feet found purchase on the roof of another building, but they were unsteady, and he was forced back, back, back, until he found himself at the very edge. He leapt away, and Frigga pursued.

They charged across the city, slinging spells and weapons, dodging back and forth as they tried to evade each other's attacks. One attack from Aegir nearly crashed into a building; Frigga threw up a barrier to block it, then sent back a volley in kind. Energy crackled overhead, too quick for her to dodge, and she summoned another barrier; when Aegir crashed into it, she forced it to expand outward, shattering with enough force to push Aegir back. She started moving again, pressing her advantage only briefly to strike at Aegir's midsection, then hurtling across the city, flying from the ground, to the side of the building, to the roofs, to the ground again. When Aegir pursued, she turned, chains rattling to try and catch him; he pivoted around them, Keyblade coming to crash against the ground. He'd swung into an upward strike hardly a moment later, and Frigga managed to catch it, leaping up and back to put herself out of range.

Aegir pressed his advantage with magic-fueled strides, striking again and again and again as Frigga parried. She wasn't quick enough, once, and his Keyblade scraped her cheek; she twisted her weapon around, trying to catch the shaft of her opponent's blade in the teeth of hers, and he released it, calling it back just as quickly. Instead of striking again he jumped backward, Keyblade glowing red-hot with a spell. Overhead, dozens of meteors started to form, rapidly growing in size and power.

No. Her Keyblade flicked before she had time to think, her shout of "Stopga!" rising above even the chaos of the ongoing fight. Aegir stiffened, the spell still half-formed, and Frigga launched herself across the space. Her arms had barely wrapped around him when she'd teleported, magic humming.

It didn't take them far; it sent them crashing over the side of a building, slamming into several crates, and Frigga gritted her teeth and ignored the sting. For a moment she lied there, still stunned from the impact. Get up. You need to get up and finish this, before Aegir causes more harm.

Aegir was still frozen, caught in the effects of her spell. She could see his eyes flicking, his arms twitching as he tried to move.

Frigga took one steadying breath. Another. She picked up her Keyblade from where it'd fallen, striding towards Aegir.

His attention snapped to her.

Frigga lifted her Keyblade, gripping it with both hands, and pointed it down at his chest.

Aegir's eyes widened; he struggled, but no matter how good a wielder one was, the right spell could do enough to keep them in place.

Frigga's eyes narrowed, and she plunged her Keyblade downward.

She didn't register that anyone else was there until she felt the blow against her back.

She was flying before the pain really registered—sharp, something sticky clinging to her clothes. Keyblade, then, she thought distantly. Not a spell. Her weapon twisted, digging into the ground, and it hummed with the glow of a Curaga spell. She could feel the sting of her wound knitting back together, the blood stemmed just as quickly; the pain remained, a phantom reminder of what had happened, and if she moved to touch it, she knew, she'd probably find the remains of blood still attached to her clothes.

The opposing wielder reached down to help Aegir up. He was still stiff, the spell making movement difficult, and Frigga would've attacked again right then and there if she hadn't seen more wielders approaching. It dawned on her as she watched, slowly counting heads, that these were all members of her family—people she would've liked to have been able to trust.

But then, she'd learned a long time ago that she had to be careful, didn't she?

"Frigga," the closest to her said, "trying to kill another member of your family? Disgraceful."

"She's already proven she can't be trusted!" someone shouted from the back. "You heard her at the trial!"

"He was about to unleash a Meteor spell," Frigga snapped, swinging her Keyblade for emphasis. "Over the city, when there are civilians still here. What, exactly, are we fighting for, if not for them?"

Aegir's eyes narrowed. "Our…family," he said, voice slow and tacky.

"He's right," someone else said, and they at least had the decency to sound reluctant. "Maybe it was always going to come to this, Frigga. I'm sorry. We can rebuild—once things have settled."

Rebuild. Rebuild, when Scala ad Caelum was nothing but ruins, when the people she'd sworn to protect were either dead or forced under foot, when no one was there anymore to try and challenge their rule.

The whole world seemed a little darker. Frigga thought she could feel something sticky, clinging to her back—but then, that was the remains of her wound, probably.

(It felt cold. It probably shouldn't.)

She met Aegir's eyes. He understood the stakes, then. Only one of us makes it out of this alive—and it will not be you.

With a breath, she lunged, and the others lunged to meet her.

---

-Meili roared, tossing someone—they weren't sure who, but they hoped it was Anders—toward the crowded battlefield. They heard Bryn's breath hiss between her teeth; she'd been trying to keep both Leid and Fafnir off them, as the only Keyblade wielder they currently had with them, and had her work cut out for her. Meili grimaced, wiping blood off the edge of their mouth, where they'd caught a stray blow. Their knuckles were bruised and red, but they'd be damned if they didn't at least try to help; they might never have trained as a Keyblade wielder, but they had gotten into enough fights in their youth, and even if those skills were rusty, they weren't entirely gone. If nothing else, they supposed they could probably brute-force their way through things; Keyblade wielders may have an unnatural sort of strength, but that didn't make them unbeatable.

"Where do we go?" Njord asked; he was shaking in between the two of them, no fighting experience, however unused, to fall back on. "We're supposed to—the council is—"

Another clang, and Bryn grunted at the impact, hissing, "Njord, now is not the time." A sharp breath, and then, "Meili, look out!"

Meili lifted their arms, bracing them overhead as a Keyblade came down on top of them. They grunted at the impact, but the block held, their knees bending just a little to help absorb the force of the blow. But through the space between their arms, they could see the Keyblade coming around, a blur of metal, and had the realization that they wouldn't be able to stop that in time.

Another flash of metal, cutting the attack off and twisting it away, and Meili let out a quiet breath of relief. Bryn. She twisted, Keyblade flashing back and forth, a broad ice spell flying from the edge of her weapon to force the other two council members back. Meili grabbed Njord and dragged him backward, ignoring his yelp at the rough grip.

"Leid," Bryn said, voice stinging with betrayal. "This is what you want?"

Leid looked apologetic, but decided, and it didn't surprise Meili but it did make them want to shake her. "I'm sorry," she said, "but you heard what Frigga was saying—"

"Since when have bloodlines ever mattered?" Bryn snapped, voice brittle. "I'm not related to Master Ephemer; have you ever questioned my ability to do my job?"

It's everything to them, Meili thought grimly. They could've told them that, a long time ago.

"I didn't want to do this," Leid snapped, looking frustrated, "but the fighting's already started—there isn't a choice."

"Sure," Meili said dryly. "You keep telling yourself that. Maybe it'll make you feel better, when there's nothing left to actually rule over."

Leid, amazingly, faltered—but only for a moment.

"Meili," Bryn said, quiet, "be careful. You can't—"

"Yeah, I'm aware of my chances against a full-fledged Keyblade Master. But it's not like I have much choice right now."

(It was what they told themself, too, when they thought of where the kids might be. Brain and Skuld are masters; Mimir and Kvasir have plenty of training. They'll be alright.

…They'd better be alright.)

And then Leid was lunging again, and Meili didn't have a chance to focus on much of anything else.

---

-Eir had never been so terrified in her life.

It felt like the world was crashing down around her. She guessed it was, in a way. It didn't really feel real; she'd known, intellectually, what her family meeting with Anders had meant. She'd known what it might mean, when she'd taken the information to Kvasir—to Master Frigga. But now—

It was different. Seeing it in action.

They hadn't been allowed a day off school for the trial—it was big, but not big enough to interrupt their education, her professor had said—but they'd still known, when things had gone wrong. Someone had asked, "What's that?" and in an instant everyone had been at the windows, staring with dawning horror at the growing haze, the sounds of fighting growing louder.

"You think that's coming from the trial?" someone whispered, as Eir stared and stared and stared.

"Dude, maybe."

"Eir," Kris whispered, "do you think—"

Yes. No. Probably. She wasn't sure what she looked like; she wasn't even sure she entirely heard her, everything strangely numb. Maybe she hadn't really thought it'd get this far; maybe it hadn't sunk in that this could happen.

(What was this? What did this mean? Her family—Scala ad Caelum—)

"Professor—" someone started.

"It'll be alright." But he sounded grim, standing close to the windows; Eir could barely hear him over the ringing in her ears.

"We should—do something, right?" She wasn't sure which classmate that was; she wasn't even sure she'd heard properly. "We're Keyblade wielders—"

"In training," their professor responded. "You shouldn't be near the thick of the fighting."

"They don't need to be."

She recognized the voice, after a moment. The Union Leaders' friend.

Eir turned, almost mechanically, to see Sigurd standing in the doorway to her classroom. "Hello. I'm sorry to interrupt, but—we need some help."

---

-It was strangely quiet, up on top of the Clock Tower. It could almost make Brain believe that there wasn't any fighting going on at all. Reminds me of the last time this happened, he thought, and then tried not to think about it again.

His fingertips pressed against one of the windows. If he looked, he could still see the fighting, far below him, but he couldn't make out the details. He tracked the line of battle across Scala ad Caelum, squinting like maybe he could pick out Skuld or Mimir or Kvasir or anyone.

There. A flickering string of light, and a shape flying over the rooftops. He breathed out a slow, steadying breath. Skuld was still moving, at least. He wondered if she'd managed to find anyone else—any of their allies, scattered across the city.

…He wondered how long he could afford to wait.

(Waiting is what caused so many problems the last time, isn't it? Something felt like it was crawling over his shoulders, dripping down his chest. Can you really afford to let it happen again?)

A careful breath, in and out. His nails scraped against the glass, and he pulled his hand away, sticking it in his pocket. Master's Defender hummed; he could almost catch snippets from it, ghosts whispering in his ear that they need to put up the wards and we can keep them out and can we really create a barrier big enough to protect everyone? He closed his eyes and tried to sort through them, carefully picking each whisper apart, piece by piece. Maybe he could find something useful in them, while he waited; he knew Master's Defender was responsible for setting up the wards somehow, and it might be better to let its memories guide him, rather than work it out on his own.

(Easier to think about than what may happen, isn't it? Something dark, falling over his eyes. If you cannot stop this—you know what will happen. You will have to leave them—or sacrifice one home for another.)

Another shaky breath, and his eyes snapped open, Master's Defender tapping rapidly against the floor.

(You poor thing. Trying so hard to buy yourself more time.)

Come on. His eyes went back out toward Scala ad Caelum, flicking across the streets. Come on. Give me some sort of sign that you're ready.

---

-"Skuld!" To his right; Kvasir turned, Keyblade lifted, and parried an errant blow. He wasn't even sure it was meant for him; he stumbled, and kept running, trying to ignore the screaming crashing fighting and figure out where the others had gotten to. "Brain! Mimir! Where are you?"

He had lost them, in the chaos around the courtroom; Skuld had left, shooting ahead, and Brain had gone after her, and Kvasir had tried to follow, but he and Mimir had gotten caught up in the crowd, and then—

Then he didn't know much anymore, besides the fact that people were trying to push past him, or swinging weapons in his direction, or firing spells, and everything was one horrible mashup of sights and sounds and colors and he felt like he couldn't breathe. He'd finally stumbled out of the Clock Tower, disoriented, and when he'd gotten his bearings, he wasn't sure where anyone was anymore.

It was less claustrophobic, out in the streets, but no less terrifying; it seemed like everyone was as confused as he'd been, struggling to figure out what was going on and who they were supposed to be fighting and where they were supposed to go. Kvasir stumbled, twisting around someone who looked just as terrified as him, both hesitating like they weren't sure if one of them was going to strike. Eventually they took off in opposite directions, and Kvasir couldn't help but feel a twinge of relief that, at the very least, that was one person he didn't have to worry about fighting.

(This is what your family has done, something whispered as he trailed past the fallen stands, the terrified people. Their fighting has finally spilled onto the streets—and everyone will pay the price for it.)

Kvasir felt, a little, like he was going to be sick. His head hurt, and he wasn't sure if it was from the exhaustion or the noise or—or something else. His legs and arms felt like rubber, and there was the cold, creeping sensation of something wrapping around his throat.

Another flicker of movement. A blade flashed near his face, and Kvasir turned, magic flying from the tip of his Keyblade as he tried to create some distance between him and whoever'd been attacking him. He didn't know if the spell hit—didn't know what it did. He just kept running, trying to ignore the sick curdling in his stomach and the bile in his throat.

His ears were ringing; they ached with the sounds of spells and clashing metal, with people calling frantic questions, with—

"…find…fire…!"

Something…familiar?

Kvasir slowed, feet drawn, very briefly, to a halt amidst the chaos. He tilted his head, tiny pin-pricks running down his spine, and tried to focus on the one, singular voice. It seemed to be rising from a distance, carrying over the chaos in the streets, floating down over the rooftops.

"…hold…!"

…Shouting. He could hear shouting. The voice was loud, but commanding, familiar in a way that made him go tense. He turned toward it almost without thinking, feet carrying him to the source without his consent.

"…acks together! Keyblades facing the enemy; don't break formation!"

The orders struck at a memory—lessons from class, about dealing with Heartless in the outside worlds. "You are almost always going to be out numbered," his professor had warned. "You will need to work together. Learn how to defend each other's backs, and use your spells to keep your enemies at bay. You can often overcome even horrible odds, so long as you don't lose sight of each other."

Of course she'd know, some distant, half-hysterical part of him thought. Of course she would. She's—she's a Keyblade Master. She trained to fight, just like everyone else.

It still didn't entirely feel real, when Kvasir turned the corner and saw the cluster of his family, filling the streets. They were collected in a tight circle, Keyblades aimed outward like thorns. He could see Lydia, standing tall among them—and others, too, people he remembered from the list Eir had provided. Halle, Ari, Dagr…

It hadn't worked. Their plans, their attempts to stop things before they got out of hand—they hadn't worked. Not entirely. Too many had escaped, and now—

He choked back a hysterical laugh, pressing one hand against his mouth and slumping against the wall. They're going to—they're going to destroy our home, he thought, and his eyes stung. Why do they—I don't understand. I don't understand.

(Don't you? something whispered. You were at the trial. His stomach sank, a little, and he tried to ignore it, he tried, he tried, but—

But it was hard, now, with the results standing in front of him. He could still remember how angry he'd been, when Odin's grandfather had said even muted words against his family; the only reason the sickness seemed dull now was because of what had happened with his friends.)

"Freeze them!" Lydia shouted, voice ringing above the chaos, and Kvasir ducked further behind the building, hiding his head as a collection of Blizzard spells flashed past him; he could feel the brush of cold air against his cheek, and winced, cracking one hesitant eye open. Who are they fighting? he wondered, but he couldn't see; whatever enemies there were, their retaliation was confused and uncoordinated, spells firing in random directions, one shout of alarm rising from amidst the chaos.

"Fan out and press forward!"

The wielders—his family—spilled across the streets, spreading out in one long line. Their weapons flashed as they moved, either forcing people to step aside or cutting them down. It's not even a fair fight, he thought, watching as another wielder tried to engage them; three moved to intercept, cutting the wielder down with spells and quick, efficient cuts. Kvasir swallowed bile, refusing to look at the aftermath. No one else was prepared for this—no one but us. How can anyone defend themselves when…?

Shaky legs sent him up and over the building. With a sinking sort of dread he followed them, trailing along the rooftops, barely having the presence of mind to stay out of sight. His family moved, methodically cutting down or trapping anyone who stepped into their path; occasionally they'd close ranks again at Lydia's command, throwing up Reflect spells or walls of ice to keep others at bay. Where are they going? Kvasir wondered, and it was a distant, vaguely terrified thing; he wasn't sure he wanted an answer. What's their plan? There's—Lydia's trying to get them somewhere—

It dawned on him, finally, when he saw the familiar building rising in the distance. The Clock Tower. Of course—of course they'd want to get there. That's where Aegir was. That's where their allies likely were. Lydia wanted to get them there to—to try and coordinate an attack, probably, or maybe try to get ahold of the other council members, or—

I need to tell someone. Kvasir stumbled backward a little, heel cracking against a loose shingle. Someone glanced upward, and he ducked away, turning to run, sprinting back over the rooftops. I need to tell someone. I need to—we need to do something. We need to stop them before—

I don't know where anyone else is.

The thought stopped him in his tracks. Because—because he'd lost track of everyone, once the fighting had started. Because he wasn't even sure who all of their allies were among his family. Because how long would it take him to find people, and how much time would it give Lydia and her wielders to get where they needed to go.

…I need to do something.

The thought made him shaky; his keychain rattled, and the world blurred a little, because no no no, how was he supposed to fight against his family, this was different, this was different—

(You knew you'd have to, some part of him whispered, gentle. When you realized that your uncle had kidnapped Mimir—you knew it would probably come to this, eventually.

He wasn't sure it had entirely sunken in; he'd known, from an intellectual standpoint, what he might need to do, but emotionally—

I can't fight them. They're my family.

And this is your home.)

It took Kvasir a moment to realize he'd dropped to his knees. Black spots blotted his vision, and it dawned on him, distantly, that it was hard to breathe. He pressed one palm against his eyes, squeezing them shut and forcing slow, steady breaths.

(You need to do this. No one else is here to do it for you.)

…His Keyblade was still shaking. When he stood, he felt wobbly, head spinning like he was going to fall. He braced himself with his weapon, running a thumb along its handle. It hummed with a quiet, comforting warmth, and he leaned into it, for just a moment.

Then, with a tug, he moved.

It didn't feel like he thought it would. Like most wielders, he'd imagined what it would be like, to finally get to step into his role and prove his worth. He'd envisioned stories of grandeur, standing proud amidst a legion of fallen Heartless, his comrades offering excited congratulations and civilians crying with relief.

This was…different. This was panicked and painful and unsteady—none of the grace an confidence he'd once thought he'd have. This was a mantra in the back of his head, telling him to turn back turn back you can't fight your family you can't. This was trying to convince himself he was doing the right thing, and it not feeling that way at all.

But when the formation got in sight, he lifted his Keyblade, anyways.

His aim was shaky; his Keyblade wobbled in his hands, the spell shooting wide and nearly throwing him back against the rooftops. But he could still hear the shouts of alarm as it hit—could still hear the way ice crackled, feel the sting of it as it rose along the edges of buildings, arcing upward like a barrier.

"Form up!" Lydia shouted, and Kvasir scrambled back, kicking away from the roof's edge ungracefully. "Keep an eye on the rooftops!"

Kvasir pressed himself flat, chest heaving. Okay, he thought. Okay. You did it once. You did it once, and you stopped them. Now just—

Now you just have to do it again.

An unsteady breath. Another. And then he rolled over, swinging over the side of the building and gripping the roof with one hand. He couldn't see his family very well, but he shot another spell, anyways; there was less alarm this time, the crackle of ice met with a second volley. Something shot back his way; he ducked backward, then started moving again, trying to find another place to hide behind. He could hear the sound of spells chasing him; fire and ice crashed against the buildings, lighting crackling overhead. But it dawned on him, after a tense moment, that they didn't know where he was.

…It wasn't as relieving as he thought it'd be.

Kvasir didn't attack again until he'd managed to circle around the others; he made his way carefully to the opposite side of the street, using his own ice wall as cover, and then waited, tense, for more spells to come.

Nothing did; the small formation remained tense, Keyblades out, heads turning slowly, like they were waiting for him.

"Hold!" That was Lydia—she was in front of the formation, just a little, eyes sharp. Kvasir lifted his Keyblade, aiming toward her—

(I can't I can't I can't—)

With a jerk, he fired his spell directly over the formation.

There were shouts of alarm as fire rained down on them. "Left!" Lydia shouted as Kvasir ran. "Don't break formation! Stick together—splitting up is how we get picked off."

Kvasir took a breath, then lifted his Keyblade; a Thunder spell crackled overhead, crashing as he moved. Just keep them distracted, he thought, desperate. Keep them moving. Try to—to break up their formation, maybe. Yeah. That's what—Lydia said not to do that. That's how we can slow them down.

…Is it enough to stop them?

He didn't know. He didn't want to think about it. He just turned, and fired another spell from between the buildings, darting away again as volleys fired back. I need to—to send something into the middle of them, maybe. Something big enough to scare them. Or…an earthquake? He wasn't really familiar with Quake spells—his uncle knew them, but Kvasir had never really practiced. But maybe—

Another spell went off. Kvasir flinched, ducking his head and getting ready to throw up a barrier, just in case—only to realize the spell wasn't aimed at him.

Fire flew down from the rooftops, crackling into a Reflect spell that was thrown, hastily, over his family's formation. The spell scattered, flying back towards its original sender; Kvasir couldn't tell if it hit, the world, for a moment, nothing but the roar of flames.

Hardly a moment passed before another spell came from the opposite direction. Kvasir turned, and—there. Another wielder was standing on the rooftops—one he wasn't sure he recognized, but was willing to aim spells at their mutual opponents (his family, his family) all the same.

And another—a crackle of energy, flickering from between the buildings. Lydia swung her Keyblade, the lightning crashing uselessly against a barrier—but it still sent up a smokescreen.

Something landed on the roof above him. Kvasir glanced up, catching the eyes of another wielder. She nodded, the ghost of a smile on her lips, and then turned and fired at the formation.

Kvasir could feel a smile of his own forming, shaky and uncertain as it was. He lifted his weapon again and fired, spells singing on his tongue.

"Don't break!" Lydia shouted. "Keep your barriers up! Attack when you see an opening!"

Kvasir took a breath, then moved. It's not just you, he thought. There are lots of people willing to fight for your home. Just keep going. Just keep fighting. Everything will be okay.

…It has to be.

---

-"Get to the docks!" Skuld's voice lifted above the chaos, chains rattling as she dragged someone else out of the crowd. She didn't stop to look at who it was, or if they listened; she just kept moving, eyes sweeping across the streets as she tried to locate anyone else caught in the fray.

There. A group of storykeepers, it looked like—they were still by their cart, trying to ward people off, eyes flicking like they were searching for some sort of escape. An older woman; a younger man firing frantic water spells from his palms; a couple of scattered others, hidden behind the cart, preventing Skuld from seeing them.

Starlight flashed. A barrier went up around them, protecting them from the onslaught.

Several eyes turned to her, curious and wary and hopeful, all in one.

Skuld pressed one armored hand against the barrier. "As soon as this goes down," she said, "get to the docks. There are people waiting there to get you on boats."

"Boats?" The incredulous protest came from the one with the water spells; his eyes had gone wide, face slack, like he couldn't quite believe she was suggesting they leave. "Are you serious? Those abandoned towns are creepy, dude; no one's supposed to go out there!"

"You're not going there," Skuld said. "You're just going out on the water until the fighting dies down."

The older woman was watching her, expression unreadable.

Skuld took a breath, then brought the barrier down. "Go," she ordered. "Get moving!"

The young man watched her; then his eyes flicked to the fighting behind her, and he gulped. "Well, death by drowning's better than this." He turned, gripping the older woman's arm. "Come on, Runa, time to go."

She didn't budge; she just stared at Skuld, something haunted and tired in her expression. "You're one of the Union Leaders."

Skuld swallowed, but nodded. "Yes."

"You—" The old woman—Runa, Skuld supposed—sucked in a breath. Her eyes went out to the fighting, hands clenching and unclenching, and for a moment, her expression seemed distant. "I talked to your friend," she whispered, quiet. "You—this has happened to you before, too."

Too. The word made Skuld's stomach twist. She'd known that there were others here who had been alive when the last island fell—Sven, for one, and Odin's grandfather, and countless others she probably couldn't name. But it felt different, to have to acknowledge it to someone who had experienced the fall first-hand. "It's not going to happen again," Skuld said, voice hard. "We're not going to let it."

Runa looked at her with a sad sort of resignation, like she didn't believe her, no matter how much she wanted to. "You've been trying to get people out."

Another nod.

"I want to help."

"Runa, seriously?" the storykeeper beside her screeched.

Her expression remained unchanged. "I know what it's like. You lose people, in the chaos. You can't find your friends, or your family, and they get left behind. If there's anything I can do to prevent that—I want to."

Skuld appraised her. She was old, and didn't seem to be a wielder (or other fighter, for that matter), and her face was still too pale. But there was a stubborn set to her expression, and—Skuld understood that, really. She was pretty sure she'd worn it herself, when she and Ephemer had raced back to the Keyblade War to rescue their friend. And so she nodded, ignoring the other storykeeper's incredulous noise. "Tell whoever you find to head to the docks," she said. "But stay away from the fighting—we don't need you guys to get hurt."

The ghost of a smile flickered across Runa's face. "Don't worry; I know I'm not the best equipped for combat. Besides—Myde can keep them at bay with his magic."

"Me?"

Runa turned, ignoring the other storykeeper's spluttering—then paused, giving Skuld one last, long look. "Whatever happens," she said, quiet, "thank you. For trying."

Skuld's throat tightened; she wanted to protest that she wasn't just trying, it was going to work out this time, it had to—but she couldn't get the words out of her throat, so she nodded.

Runa nodded back, expression softening, and then turned and left, Myde trailing protests after her.

Skuld watched them go for a moment too long. Something struck her armored shoulder, and she turned, Keyblade sweeping back toward them with a war cry.

(But she's right, something inside Skuld whispered. Getting people away protects them, but it isn't going to stop the fighting. What are you going to do?

Brain's going to put up the barrier. It'll keep things contained. And then—then we can figure out how to fight Aegir's group.

But will it be enough? Or are you going to watch your home fall again?)

(the Clock Tower was breaking apart and the sky was red and that wasn't happening this time it wasn't it wasn't it wasn't)

Skuld ran. She moved, and moved, and moved, feet pounding so hard her legs hurt. Everything was a little bit of a blur; she didn't entirely know where she was or how many people she'd grabbed or how much time had passed, just that she needed to keep going, needed to keep getting people out, needed to keep doing something. How long? something in her whispered. How long before you have to give up? Brain can't wait forever.

Metal, glinting over her shoulder. Skuld turned on instinct, Starlight flashing. Her Keyblade clanged against another, and she took a step back, ready to strike if necessary—

And—and she recognized that face, she realized after a moment. "Eir?"

Eir, for her part, looked stunned, jaw and Keyblade dropping. "Master Skuld?"

A person shifted behind her, and—that was Kris, she realized, turning around to give her a broad, sharp smile. "Hey, Union Leader! We heard you needed some help."

"Heard—who—?"

"Ah—that was my doing, Master Skuld."

She whipped around, and—there was Sigurd, standing at the ready. "I went with these two," he said, sounding almost embarrassed, "when they went to spy on Anders's meeting. I thought maybe I could reach out to them again—and some of the other wielders in training."

Skuld blinked, and turned. It struck her, now, that she could pick out younger wielders amongst the chaos—students, helping to usher people away from the fighting, gently coaxing people out of buildings, encouraging them to slip out from behind crates and fallen stands. She blinked, her eyes stinging.

"Our first real fight," Kris said, and while she was still smiling, there was something almost nervous tightening her eyes. "You know—aside from when they actually let us go off-world."

"This is serious," Eir snapped; her eyes were wide, hands shaky. "People could—it's not a game."

"It's going to be okay," Skuld said, trying to keep her voice gentle. "We're going to—"

"Hey! Hey—Union Leader! Mask dude!"

Skuld blinked, turning.

A student Skuld didn't know was hurtling toward them, expression pale. "There's—we need your help!" They stumbled to a halt, wheezing as they tried to breathe.

"What happened…?" Sigurd asked, sounding vaguely baffled.

"There's—something's going on, near the Clock Tower." The student took another shaky breath. "I don't—I didn't get a good look at it. But—there were bluebloods fighting. A whole group of them. And—and I think I saw your cousin there." She turned, looking at Eir, and Skuld froze.

So did Eir. "Kvasir…?" she asked, tentative, and when the student nodded, she whispered, "Oh, no. No, no, no, he's—what is he doing?"

"He might've found part of Aegir's group," Skuld whispered, the realization sinking in. "He's—was anyone with him?"

"I think so," the student said, still breathless. "But not a lot."

Mimir, maybe. Or others—people who want to help. But if there's not a lot…

He's going to need backup.

Skuld took a breath. "Okay," she said, "new plan. We're going to go give Kvasir backup."

When she turned to look at the others, they nodded, expressions tense.

"Spread out; find whoever you can that can fight, and get them to come with you." Skuld turned, glancing at the student. "Lead the way?"

The student nodded, expression tight, and took off. The others surged after her, sprinting across the streets.

Skuld took a steadying breath—and then she lifted her Keyblade, firing a Flare skyward. Put the barrier up, Brain. Keep them from running.

…I hope it was enough time.

…She couldn't worry about it. She needed to get to Kvasir—to help one of her friends, and maybe help stop this before it could spiral any further. And so she took off, chains rattling from the tip of her Keyblade as she soared toward the fight.

---

-Tap. Tap. Tap.

There were shadows, creeping around the edges of the Clock Tower. Do you really think you can save them this time?

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The darkness crawled out of the corners, snaking along the floor. You know how this goes. The Keyblade War was the same. Nobody could stop it, once it was in motion.

Tap. Tap-tap.

How long do you think you can keep the fighting at bay? Sooner or later, the world will crack apart.

Tap-tap-tap.

What will you do then, Little Light? Will you really try to give up everything that you are? Do you think that would absolve you of your failure?

Tap-tap—

There.

Brain snapped around, one hand gripping the edge of a window. In the distance, he could see a streak of light, shooting into the sky. It exploded into colorful fireworks, crackling toward the ground. Is that a signal—or just a mishap? He gritted his teeth. Wish I had a better idea of what was going on down there.

Something crawled down his shoulders, clinging to his neck and sticking against his chest—or, at least, he thought it did. When he looked at his reflection, he couldn't see anything save himself—eyes too wide, face too thin, eyes hemmed with shadows, everything almost skeletal.

He could still feel the whisper of something against his ears, and a shiver crawled down his spine at the sensation. How long can you afford to wait, Little Light? When does the fighting spiral beyond your control?

He ground his teeth together.

He thought, for a moment, he could almost see the ghost of something smiling. Better hurry. Time is running out.

Brain breathed out a frustrated breath. Another breath, and then another—and then he swung the window open, lifting Master's Defender and pointing it skyward. He could feel the presence of the weapon's past wielders keenly—specters wrapping their hands around his in tandem, the phantoms of others' magic burning in his chest, the pinprick flashes of sights and voices and sensations that seemed to speckle the landscape. Master's Defender glowed, a blazing purple-white light exploding from the tip and arcing up, up, up over the top of the Clock Tower. It crashed into the sky like it'd hit something physical, and then it spread outward, streaks raining down in an arc. A shimmering, semi-transparent barrier crackled between the edges, slowly solidifying into something glass-like.

His chest burned. His arm shook, and he braced it with his free hand. He could taste something like metal on his tongue—blood and magic and bile, and he bit down hard to keep from screaming on the pain pain pain crackling across his chest. It felt too tight, too hot, too—too much.

But he could do it. He could. He just—he just needed to hold it. That was all.

He thought, almost, he could hear the sound of quiet laughter. Of course. You will try and try and try—but will it be enough?

Brain gritted his teeth, gripped Master's Defender with both hands, and tried to just breathe.

---

-(Drip. Drip. Drip. Claws reached in to touch the darkening water, shaking sea spray from the tips. Heartless crowded along the shores now, prowling and chittering, yellow eyes gleaming.

People watched from the docks. They eyed them from on top of boats, huddling together nervously. Some sent wary glances back toward the island while they ushered more people onboard. A couple people held makeshift weapons at the ready. "They Keyblade wielders…" someone whispered, quiet.

"They're tied up right now."

"They shouldn't be. They should be here."

"Well, they aren't. We'll just have to make sure we get everyone away."

"…You think they'll come over here?"

"They shouldn't. The wards—"

"I know. I know, but—they're weak. It's too close to the festival."

"I know."

One of the Heartless pounced into the water. It screeched, leaping back. Clouds rolled through the sky, heavy with an unnatural sort of darkness. "You want it, don't you?" came a whisper. "What's waiting for you."

Another cautious pounce. A couple more, the Heartless trying to climb over each other.

"Go on. Take it."

More chittering and pacing. The screeches turned loud, echoing eerily across the sea. A couple tried to swim, and didn't make it across. Others poked at the ground, small pools of shadows forming underneath them.

"…They want to come over here."

"…I know."

"How long before…"

"…Just make sure everyone's onboard.")

---

-Frigga could see her breath as it puffed in front of her. A long wall of ice arced around the walls behind her; it wouldn't block her escape—not entirely—but it would slow her down if she needed to run.

Not that she planned on it—not yet. She had gotten them far enough away from the fighting that she thought they couldn't cause too much damage, and if any civilians were in the buildings—well. They weren't anymore.

(But she could still hear the sounds of ringing metal in the distance. The fighting was still spreading, and—how long before it reached them? How long before things got out of hand?)

Movement overhead. Frigga kicked backward, a barrier thrown around her. A Keyblade hit from the right, not from above—a distraction, then. She braced her hand against the barrier, taking the moment to try and breathe.

Aegir was still here. Watching, for now. She knew he didn't want to be; he'd started to turn, more than once, and—

Oh, no, you don't.

With a little concentration, the barrier expanded outward and exploded. Light flicked from the tip of Frigga's Keyblade, snapping towards Aegir's leg. He whipped around, Keyblade cutting sharply toward the spell, and couldn't quite get his Keyblade up again in time to avoid the swing of Frigga's weapon. She missed his neck, but she could still feel her blade digging into the flesh across his shoulder, his chest.

A glint of metal, to her right. She jerked her Keyblade free, swinging it around and feeling the hum of anger-protection-fear shiver through her hands, but she wasn't quite quick enough to block the attack entirely. It cut her side, drawing blood, and she was forced to backpedal. With some frustration, she watched Aegir place a hand against his wounded shoulder, the skin and muscle knitting back together.

(With less frustration, she noticed that it took a little longer. His magic was draining, refilling more slowly as he had to keep fighting and fighting and fighting. He would, eventually, exhaust himself. She just had to keep him here. Keep him from regrouping with the others, from becoming more organized, from regaining his strength—)

Something struck her back. She stumbled, then spun to block. No time to heal—she didn't think the wound was that deep, anyways, and if she stopped, she'd probably be overwhelmed. She spun, ice arcing around her feet in spears; she heard a choked, pained sound, and grimaced but didn't turn to look. Her Keyblade whipped around, aimed toward Aegir.

His eyes widened, and he launched himself backward—but not quickly enough. Ice exploded from the tip, cutting a path through the streets, crackling into buildings, leaving frozen trails along the cobblestones.

A barrier went up around Aegir just quickly enough to protect him from the full effects of the spell. It couldn't stop it entirely, however, the ice crawling over the edges and trapping him.

Frigga didn't quite dare take a moment to catch her breath; she shot forward, magic burning through the soles of her feet and aching in her chest. She swung her Keyblade backward, a glowing ball of energy slowly forming at the tip; something twinged in her chest, and she winced, but ignored it, because she needed to end this, she needed to at the very least take out Aegir—

Crack! The scent of ozone and the thunder crack were the only warning she got before the spell launched. She blinked, and—

(everything hurt everything hurt her Keyblade was missing she couldn't breathe couldn't breathe couldn't breathe)

Blinked, and—

(she was on the ground she didn't remember getting there when did she)

Blinked, and—

(everything was black and then it wasn't and she couldn't think couldn't move couldn't do anything)

Another crack. A footfall, near her face. Something nudging her, forcing her to roll over. Something resting against her throat, too-cold against the sudden heat.

(move move move you've fought battles before you need to keep going you need to keep going—)

She thought someone was saying something. The voice sounded—familiar. Angry. She couldn't quite place it, but—she knew it was dangerous.

(get moving get moving you need to do something—)

Magic burned. She felt the heat of it around her, underneath her back and arms and legs. That voice grew alarmed, and then disappeared as fire roared around her in a wave. There was a crackling, popping sound that made her ears hurt; the earth groaned, metal shrieking.

Another spell, dragged from her chest based on years of training, and—

She could think again. She could breathe. The healing spell washed over her, cool and comforting, and she sucked in a gasping breath and pushed herself upward, one hand pressed against her chest. Her heartbeat still felt a little erratic, but—she was alright.

(She wondered if the spell had simply been that powerful, or if she had been weakened by the fight.

…She didn't think it mattered. The sooner this ended, the better.)

Someone was helping Aegir to his feet. She could see them as the fire died—the burns that lined his face and arm. Frigga used her Keyblade as a crutch to force herself upward, taking careful breaths in and out.

Wind whipped around them, and it took Frigga a moment to realize it was some sort of spell, and not a natural phenomenon. She tried to brace herself, but the spell seemed to intensify, dragging her feet off the ground and sending her up, up, up—

One wielder launched themselves after her, and then another. They came from either side, and Frigga used the spell to help her spin and block them, to one side, then the other, and then around again. When the wind settled, she found herself falling, awkwardly, on top of a building.

The other wielders barely gave her a chance to breathe; they were charging almost before she'd landed, and she found herself scrambling backward, blocking again and again and again, Keyblade a blur of motion as she spun and parried and struck, and—

And her eyes darted beyond them, for a moment. Aegir was there. Aegir was—running. He was heading toward the edges of the fighting.

(He was going to get away.)

She moved, an Aero spell of her own shooting her over the other wielders. She could feel the strain in her chest—the way everything burned, cutting through her throat like fire. She coughed on it, but she couldn't stop—not when Aegir was still there, when he was getting away—

Something caught her leg—some spell or Keyblade transformation—and she abruptly found herself tugged out of the air. The ground came up—too quick, too quick—and even a quick spell to lessen the impact didn't protect her entirely. She hit the cobblestones with a crash; something cracked, and pain split her arm. Another spell; the pain in her arm disappeared, things snapping uncomfortably back into place, but it felt like her chest was caving in a little, everything burning, burning, burning—

She heard the sound of something overhead, and lifted her Keyblade to parry without looking. She stumbled to her feet, tottering backward, and the other wielder landed in front of her, launching immediately into an attack. Frigga parried, again and again and again, but she could feel herself growing slower, the exhaustion of the fight starting to catch up, and—

(he's getting away he's getting away he's going to hurt people I need to do something)

"Why do you still follow him?" Frigga snarled, and she could feel the way her lips curled with the words. "He's running, leaving you to fight his battles."

"We aren't following him," one of the wielders snapped; another parry, the clang! ringing in her ears. "You were the one who decided to turn against us."

"I am not against my family—but I will not let us destroy our home."

(The world seemed—darker, somehow. In her peripherals, she thought she could see shadows, creeping down the buildings and through the cracks in the cobblestones. Are you sure?)

I need to get to Aegir. With a frustrated cry, she reached, deep, deep into her magic. She swung her Keyblade in a broad arc, hearing it screech as light poured from the tip. She heard the other wielders scream—blinded or burned, she couldn't tell, and wouldn't stop to check. Her eyes stung, everything a blot of black and white—but she knew what direction Aegir had gone in, and she turned, magic shooting her into the sky.

The sunspots cleared, slowly—enough that she could see the blotted, blurry shapes of buildings, and the fleeing figure of Aegir. Her feet hit the shingles, and she shot off again.

(It didn't matter how much she could feel the magic burning through her legs and feet—how much it felt like something was draining out of her chest. She needed to get there—no matter what it cost her.)

"Aegir!" she shouted. "Weren't you the one who thought you could lead? Stop running and fight if you're so determined."

Aegir glanced back, but kept going, and Frigga cursed silently to herself. It wasn't working, this time; Aegir was frustratingly difficult to deal with sometimes because he could be clever, when he chose to be. Just clever enough to know that it was a better strategy to wait until she was worn down—to find his allies, and figure out a more coordinated plan of attack that could keep all of them on their toes. And Frigga was tired—too tired to keep up with him, if he got away. It'd be easy for him to slip away and hide somewhere—and then, even if they lost this initial battle, he could still come back with a more organized plan.

She needed to stop him now. She didn't know if she could—not if he—

Wait. Something's happening at the Clock Tower.

Purple light flickered overhead, and for a moment, Frigga faltered. She turned, tracking the spell, and for just a moment, she worried that she would have to divert her attention—that she would have to go fight someone else to try and protect her home.

Put then the spell started arcing outward, and she realized what it was. A barrier. It's a barrier around the battlefield. To stop us from escaping, or our opponents?

It didn't matter. It'd keep Aegir from running away; she could worry about the details after he was dealt with.

Aegir had, apparently, noticed the forming barrier, too; he put on a burst of speed, magic fueled footsteps carrying him closer, closer—

He crashed into the barrier, just a second too slow. His hands pressed against it, like he was trying to find some sort of weakness—but it held strong. He couldn't run anymore—not really. He could maybe hide, somewhere within these walls, but she would find him.

Frigga allowed herself a moment to slow down and catch her breath. She wasn't sure where the other wielders were; she didn't care. Right now, it was just the two of them. "Well, Aegir?" she asked, and it might've still hurt her throat, but she felt a twist of satisfaction in it. "Are you willing to fight now?"

Aegir turned back to look toward her, eyes almost wild. With a shout he lunged, Keyblade a blur as he charged.

---

-Meili spit blood. They breathed, in and out, breath rattling in their chest.

A Keyblade nicked the space underneath their chin. It tilted their head upward, and they stared at Fafnir, their expression unflinching. They spat at them instead, surging upward to try and land another blow.

Fafnir stepped backward; with a flick of their Keyblade, Meili found themself frozen. A Stop spell.

They wanted to fight. They strained against the constraints of the spell, trying to twist, to speak, to move.

…They couldn't The spell held them stubbornly captive.

Fafnir inclined their head a little, something like satisfaction flitting across their expression.

Leid had Bryn pinned, Keyblade jammed into the ground next to her. Bryn was still breathing, but she was exhausted; she tried to push herself to her feet, but her arms shook, and one quick knock from Leid's Keyblade forced her back to the ground. Njord was shaking, just barely in Meili's line of sight, looking like he didn't know what else he was supposed to do.

"Well," said a gratingly familiar voice, "it looks like things went well here."

Meili wished they could move their head, if only so they could glare at him. Anders.

He looked relatively untouched. Smug. He strode across the space, arms folded behind his back, and paused for a moment, tilting his head as he looked down at Meili. "The bastard blueblood," he said, and Meili had the brief impulse to bite him; the spell was about the only thing keeping them from following through. "A shame you couldn't do more."

"Where were you?" Leid asked, voice slightly accusatory.

"I'm not a wielder; I wouldn't be much help."

I'm not a wielder, either, and I managed just fucking fine.

(Obviously not, something inside them whispered, since you're lying trapped here.)

"Good job," Anders said, inclining his head. "At this point, we have the entire council either on our side or captured."

"Except Master Frigga," Njord offered, quiet, and Meili wanted to tell him to shut up.

"I'm sure Master Aegir will take care of her," Anders replied easily.

"And if he doesn't?" Leid asked, quiet.

"Don't tell me you're getting cold feet now."

"I'm not. But I need to know—"

Their conversation faded a little. Light flickered out of the corner of Meili's eye—the only warning they got before everything exploded with activity.

Chains rattled overhead, streaking from the sky, the walls, the floor. Meili heard the sound of shouting, and saw Fafnir jump, disappearing out of few. A flickering chain chased after them, and for half a moment, Meili thought that Skuld and Brain had come to find them. It'd be like them, they thought with a grim sort of amusement, to throw themselves headlong into trouble.

The spell released them. Meili's limbs twitched as they stretched them, then pushed themself, achingly, to their knees.

Hands rested on their arm and back, helping them up. "Easy."

That…wasn't the voice they expected, and they gave a dry, raspy laugh. "I didn't expect to see you here, Osmin."

Osmin looked a little miffed at the implication. "I am your ally. I just got a little…sidetracked."

Meili lifted their head and followed his eyes.

Master Freya strode down the street; she looked calm, but her eyes were almost glowing with magic. The Keeper's Keyblade was held at her side, almost vibrating. The other Keepers followed her; they fanned out as they reached what had once been a battlefield, almost eerily silent.

"I thought the Keepers didn't come out of their tower," was what Meili managed, finally, but a part of them was still reeling as they watched.

"They don't normally," Osmin agreed, quiet. "But I wasn't the one who brought them down; they did that on their own."

"Master Freya!" That was Leid, and Meili turned their eyes toward her. She was struggling, chains wrapped tightly around her arms, her legs, her torso. "What's the meaning of this? The Keepers aren't meant to interfere in political affairs."

Freya approached her calmly. She lifted her chin, eyes narrowed, and Leid went very, very still under her look. "We don't, yes," Freya agreed, quiet, "unless they threaten the safety of the world."

Leid went pale.

"That's ridiculous," Anders snapped; he was similarly restrained, twitching against the chains. "We would never—"

"You would," Freya interrupted, "and you have. I was not born when the last of the islands fell, but I've certainly heard the stories. And the Keepers can see more than you, council member; that is our job, after all." She didn't take her eyes off Leid, eyes narrowed. "There are Heartless encroaching on our shores—and something lurking underneath the earth. It feeds on ambient darkness—that across the world, and that inside people's hearts. Tell me, how much do you think this fight has caused?"

Leid, amazingly, went paler.

Freya pursed her lips. Her eyes swept across the group, contemplative. "…We will decide your judgment later," she said finally. "For now—prove you truly care about preserving your home. Come with me, all of you. There's work to be done."

---

-(How much longer do you think you can keep running, Little Light?)

(You) Mimir scrambled through the streets (through the graveyard the wastelands the battlefield), Keyblade flashing back and forth until they were entirely sure what they were doing anymore. Everything was a blur; it felt like portions of (your) their memory were missing, dipping into useless, unhelpful blotches. The flash of a face they thought they knew. A burn of a spell that felt too familiar, ticking at something at the edge of their memory. The ever-present ring of metal, drowning out everything.

(It is difficult for you, isn't it? Seeing the world crumble, just like it did before. And you are just one person; like last time, there is so little you can do to truly stem the tide. How it must ache, to feel that…helplessness. That rage.)

(They) You couldn't stop. You couldn't stop, couldn't stop, couldn't stop, because if you did, you'd die. But you knew these wielders. You knew them. They were your friends and party members and people you saw at the fountain or marketplace, and now they were fighting each other, they were killing each other, you didn't know why everyone was so willing to go along with this, you thought—

You thought this would be harder for them. And—and maybe it was. Maybe it was, and they just weren't showing it.

You were here fighting, too, after all—even though you'd stayed behind to try and help. You'd thought—

You didn't know what you thought.

(We know, Little Light. We know you, after all. You are so very…brave, and clever. But that is not always enough to protect those you love.)

You turned to block a blow, and—and something looked wrong. (You) Mimir blinked, and (they) you were standing back in the streets of Scala ad Caelum, and you were still staring at someone you knew—or, thought you knew, maybe. But they were older—older than anyone else had been, back in the wastelands. You went to heal them, anyways, worried that they would fall, and it was familiar in a way that felt wrong, filling your mouth with something bitter.

(It is alright. We will protect you. Even when the world falls, we will keep you safe.)

You didn't know why this was happening again. Or you did, but you weren't sure you wanted to believe it. People who were supposed to protect their homes, fighting against each other and dragging the entire world down with them.

You wondered if this was what it was always like—if eventually, Keyblade wielders would fight each other over petty concerns until there was nearly nothing left of them.

(It will hurt, as all things do. But we will be there to hold you—whether you want to rest, or fight, or try to make something of what the world has become.)

Another parry. Another flicker of a spell. You blinked, and you were in a different place than you were before. You stumbled, confused for a moment, because you weren't sure you recognized it. Hadn't you—been in the wastelands. Or—no. Back near the fountain?

It didn't matter. You blinked again, and found yourself somewhere else. You wondered if someone was teleporting you, but you hadn't felt the sting of magic, and you didn't know why that would happen, anyways.

(There are so many possibilities—and you have always done so well to surprise us before. We are curious to see what you'll do.)

You lifted Starlight—

Not Starlight. New Dawn.

That's right. You—Mimir had gotten a different Keyblade, back when—they'd visited the graveyard. They'd—you'd—it'd been—it was different. I was—you needed to breathe. They needed to breathe.

Can't stop can't stop can't stop we have to keep moving keep fighting and healing and I don't know what to do it's happening again it's happening again—

"Is that—Mimir? Hey! Hey, Mimir!"

It took too long for you to remember that was your name, in this time. Everything felt sticky, like you were dragging yourself out of tar. You turned—slow, slow, too slow—but your Keyblade moved faster than you thought possible, just a blur as it swung through the air and hit someone else's with a clang! You backed off and nearly ran, because you were sorry, you're sorry, this isn't what you wanted—

"Woah, woah, hey, Mimir, easy." The other wielder was—was gesturing for calm. They—she wasn't attacking you. She wasn't—she didn't want to fight. She didn't want to fight.

(You still couldn't breathe. Your chest was too tight, and your heart was beating so fast you thought it would jump out of your chest, and everything sounded a little like you were under water. You needed to run. You needed to run.)

"Hey—hey, hey, don't pass out on me, geez." The wielder—you knew her, you knew her, but you couldn't place how right now—reached out to steady you, and it was only then that you realized you'd been wobbling. Your legs gave out from underneath you, and they couldn't they couldn't they couldn't you needed to runyouneededtorunyouneededto—

"…ir. Mimir. Geez—fuck, I don't know what to do about a—look, you need to—I don't know, how to people calm down from panic attacks? Just—just breathe, alright? Can you—shit, there's still fighting, hang on."

Dimly, you were aware of movement. You could hear the sound of spells singing behind you, and you weren't sure if you wanted to hold the other wielder tighter or kick away, because everything was too close too close too close she was going to get hurt they were going to get hurt—

The decision was made for you; you were released, relatively unceremoniously, somewhere you didn't recognize. There was a hard wall against your back, something solid beneath your fingertips. Starlight—New Dawn was still in your hands, and you held it tighter, like it was the only thing keeping you tethered to reality.

The other wielder ran a hand through her hair; your vision was getting a little splotchy, but you thought you could see her pacing back and forth. "Shit. Shit, okay, come on, think Kris—they went over this in class—"

Everything felt very, very warm suddenly, and you pressed your head against your knees. You were—you didn't know. You wanted to not be here. You needed to keep going.

"It's—grounding! Right, okay. You—Mimir. Mimir, hey, can you—tell me something that you can feel."

You wanted to laugh; you couldn't, choking on it just as much as you would any words.

"…Right, okay, you sign, usually, and you don't look…present enough for that. Okay. Okay, so—maybe just—think about it. Think about—I don't know, how do the things feel around you?"

The cool metal of New Dawn's hilt warmed a little under your fingertips. It was smooth, and new, but familiar, at the same time. The wall was hard and solid and uncomfortable. Your legs ached from how much you'd been running. You thought you could feel the strange, still-hot feeling of a burn on the side of your neck.

"We're—okay. We're on top of a building. In—shit, I'm not even sure where we are right now. It's—" A pause. "Okay. Sun Quarter—the part near the Clock Tower, you know? There are a lot of potion and equipment shops here."

You—could only sort of focus on the words, but—you thought that sounded familiar. The voice washed over you, and you held onto it, breathing in, and out, and in again. Your chest started to loosen, a little, and you rubbed a hand against it, trying to—smooth out the ache, maybe.

"We're on top of a building. It's—I don't know, I didn't see when I brought you up here, but I think it's the Moogle Shop. You know, the guy who tries to cheat you out of everything?"

You laughed, quiet and achy, because you remembered that; you weren't sure what lifetime it came from, and you weren't sure it mattered.

"We're away from the fighting," the other wielder continued, and you thought they sounded relieved, "so take as long as you need, okay? Just try and breathe."

You did. In, and out. The world wasn't spinning quite as badly, now. The ground felt a little more solid. You could hear things a little better, your ears popping as things came back. Slowly, slowly, you could feel your chest loosening, your heartbeat calming. With a careful breath, you tried to start piecing things together.

You were—not in Daybreak Town, or the Keyblade Graveyard. You were Mimir. You were in Scala ad Caelum. You had—been at the trial for Aegir. You had been with Skuld, and Brain, and Kvasir, right up until you'd nearly reached the courtroom and found fighting. And then you'd lost track of everyone, and the fighting had dragged you back—drawn out a part of you that you didn't think you could forget again (didn't want to forget again, even if it hurt). Everything after that was a little bit of a blur.

With another breath, Mimir lifted their head.

They could finally place the face in front of them: Kris. One of their classmates. They didn't know her well, but it was, at least, a somewhat familiar face.

She gave them a crooked smile. "Hey. That looks like you're with me again."

They blinked, and they weren't entirely sure that was true, with afterimages of the Keyblade War still flashing behind their eyes, but it was true enough they didn't want to argue the point. They lifted shaking hands; it took a few moments before they could get them steady enough to sign, "Why are you here?"

Kris's eyebrows furrowed, and they thought they might have to repeat themself, but after a moment Kris murmured, "Why am…? Oh. Oh, shit, right—we were supposed to be in class." Her grin turned a little more feral. "Sigurd came and got us. You know—the Union Leaders' friend?"

Mimir tilted their head. They did know Sigurd, kind of, but— "Why?"

"To help get people out. The Union Leaders had their work cut out for them, with everything going to shit. But that's not the only thing we get to do." She gestured around her. "Take a look."

Mimir looked past her, finally, and their eyebrows furrowed as they finally registered the glowing barrier arcing overhead.

"That's Master Brain's doing," Kris said at their confused look. "They were trying to keep the fighting from spreading too far—or that's what Master Skuld said, at any rate. I was on my way to help with the second part."

"Second part?" Mimir managed to sign.

Kris's grin, if anything, broadened. "Come on, I'll show you." She stood and extended a hand, then hesitated, looking uncharacteristically nervous. "I mean—if you're okay to move. They'll probably be fine without me for a while. It's not like I'm, you know—crucial to the plan or anything."

Mimir paused, considering. After a beat they pushed themself carefully to their feet. They wobbled, and Kris steadied them, but—they didn't fall. They gave her a firm nod, and she flashed a smile back at them. "We'll take it slow," she promised, and then they headed off.

They moved across the tops of the buildings, rather than through the streets. Mimir thought that was—good, probably. It was quicker, and—and they weren't sure what would happen if they had to fight again.

(What a fascinating response. We are…curious to see how you will approach this challenge.)

Mimir looked away pointedly, trying to ignore the flickers of something dark at the edges of their vision.

"So," Kris said, voice low, and Mimir turned their attention toward her, "We caught up with Master Skuld, right? Then one of our classmates—you remember Hannah, right?—Hannah comes and tells us that there's some pretty heavy fighting near the Clock Tower, and apparently Kvasir's involved. Pretty bold move for the guy; I didn't really think he had it in him."

Mimir wanted to say something in defense of their friend, but mostly they found themself struggling with a sudden sinking feeling in their stomach, the taste of bile in their throat. It's not fair, they thought. He shouldn't have to.

(None of us should've had to.)

"So Master Skuld says, 'Let's go give him backup,' so all of us just—start rushing toward the scene, right? We're supposed to pick up anyone we can find along the way—and lucky for me, I ran into you."

That pit grew in Mimir's stomach. "There's…going to be a lot of fighting?"

"Probably." Kris shrugged, like that wasn't a concern, and Mimir tried to ignore the bile that filled their mouth. "But that's what we're here for, right? To stop things from going too far."

Mimir nodded. They wanted to be hopeful—they did—but they couldn't quite ignore that sinking feeling, the whisper of something that said this isn't going to go like how we want it to.

…But they had to try, didn't they? If they didn't—well. They didn't really want to think about that.

…I'm coming, too, guys. Hang on.

(Oh, Little Light. Don't be so naïve. You know how this ends.)

---

-"Hold your ground!" Lydia's voice rose above the chaos, and Kvasir ducked behind a building, lifting his arms to shield his head. A spell shot above him, scattering rubble. "Set up a barrier—protect yourselves!"

Kvasir sucked in a breath, then started moving again, sprinting across the cobblestones. He stopped, spinning to shoot a fireball between the buildings, then continuing before he'd seen whether it'd hit.

His magic felt drained. He could taste something metallic in his throat. His legs were wobbly, arms heavy. But he and the few others that had joined him had been able to keep Lydia and her group occupied; one person would shoot a spell, and another, volleys alternating to try and give each of them a chance for a break. He hadn't had many chances to talk to them—they'd mostly just exchanged nods, maybe a quick word as they went past each other—but it was nice, to know he wasn't alone.

But he wondered how long this could last. One of them would have to give; there were more of the bluebloods (his family) than there were of them, and even though they were under a near-constant barrage, their magic was draining quicker than it could replenish. Or, at least, Kvasir's was; it was hard to keep up, when he had to fire spell after spell after spell, and he imagined the others were starting to feel the strain, too. Something has to happen. Something has to give, or they're going to get away.

…We need to break apart their formation.

He'd thought it before, when it was just him—and the thought came back to him now. They needed to break the formation apart—make them scatter, so that they couldn't recuperate. We can't brute force it, he thought, trying not to feel desperate. There are too many of them. So it'd need to be a big enough spell. He glanced at them from between the buildings, taking a moment to actually look, rather than firing a spell. They were clustered together, with a powerful barrier thrown overhead; ideally, he'd want to shoot in the middle of them, making them scatter, but Lydia had made sure they'd covered that notable weakness. But there has to be someone maintaining it. I just need to see who.

Another spell crashed against a building—too close, and Kvasir flinched as grit scraped across his cheek. He gritted his teeth, then forced magic into his feet and lunged, scrambling up onto a rooftop. He stayed low, stomach pressed flat, and watched.

There. There was someone standing in the center of the circle; after a moment, someone tapped them, and they released the spell, moving to the outside. The barrier flickered for a moment, then strengthened as the other wielder took their place. Maybe that's when I can do it—when they change out. I just need to make sure I time it right.

And use a big enough spell.

Would the others be alright, without the additional spells thrown into the mix? He'd need to conserve his energy, at least a little, if he wanted to do anything. I have to try, he thought, and tried to ignore the way his chest tightened. If someone doesn't do something, it won't matter how long we distract them. They'll get away.

So he stayed there, and he waited, watching with his Keyblade gripped tight. Their opponents (his family) were coordinated, sending spells in a couple of rounds. The spells coming from the rooftops and from between buildings were more frantic and sporadic, hitting at random intervals and forcing the group to stay on their toes. The chaos around them had quieted; Kvasir wasn't sure if that meant that the fighting had died down, or if it'd just moved elsewhere.

"Throw up a wall!" Lydia shouted, sounding frustrated, and Kvasir had half a moment to wonder what she meant before a couple of wielders lifted their Keyblades.

The air grew cold. Kvasir's skin prickled, and he only had a moment to realize what was happening. He ducked, a panicked barrier going up around him, as the whole world froze. Ice and wind blew across the streets, creating a large, arcing ring around those attempting to defend themselves. It spread out, creating an empty space around the small group. Kvasir thought he could hear shouting, and his chest seized. No. If this gets the others—if they can't fight anymore, then—

They're going to get away.

…This wasn't going to be enough. He was—he'd need to go down. He'd need to distract them. He'd need to—

Something flickered in the sky. Kvasir's head snapped upward, and for a moment was blinded by a ball of fire. He squinted his eyes shut, flames roaring as the spell crashed into the wall of ice. There was a moment of relief as he realized, At least one of them made it out. There's at least one other person to help me.

And then—

"Is this really what you want to do, Lydia?"

That's—I know that voice.

Kvasir lifted his head, hardly daring to believe he was actually hearing what he was hearing. Because that—that was—

"Ivar!" Lydia's voice had a bit of a snap to it, her head whipping around to glare at a figure on the rooftops.

He didn't hide—but then, Kvasir wouldn't have expected him to. Most of his family were…very proud people, he was realizing. He was grateful for it now, his chest aching with some emotion he couldn't place.

(It's not just me.)

"All of you," Ivar continue, shaking his head. "What are you thinking? This is a bit of a shameful display, isn't it? Causing a scene."

Figures moved behind him, and it dawned on Kvasir, suddenly, that there were more. Not many—just three or four, not nearly enough to outnumber the people below—but they were there, and that was more than Kvasir had dared to hope for.

"What are we thinking?" Lydia asked. "The Union Leaders are a threat. We are fighting to bring our family back to its former glory."

"You're on the losing side, Lydia," Ivar said, shaking his head. "The Union Leaders have allied with Master Frigga—and Master Aegir likely hasn't enough time to build an effective assault. Throwing your lot behind him will only cause your downfall in the end."

"Throwing our—we're trying to protect ourselves. It's him, or giving up—going back to the way things were, or worse." Lydia's eyes narrowed. "Why would you side with them?"

The ghost of a smile flickered across Ivar's face. "Frigga reached out," he said. "I figured it would be more…prudent to be on the winning side."

Kvasir nearly jumped when someone landed near him—a very distant relation, he realized, someone who had likely very little ranking, beyond her status as a Keyblade wielder. She gave him an appraising, side-eyed look, but after a moment her lips twitched toward a smile. Her Keyblade turned, aiming toward the group below.

Movement, across from him. As Kvasir watched, another person took up a similar position on the opposite roof. And—there. Another, a short distance away, and another. Even with only five of them, it felt like an intimidating display, Keyblades ringed around the edges of the icy wall.

"Well?" Ivar asked. "You could surrender. I'm sure we could convince Frigga to lighten your sentence."

Lydia's eyes narrowed. "She's already tried to arrest us," she responded, voice tight. "I doubt there's anything you can say to change her mind." Her eyes swept over her group. "Everyone!" she shouted. "Take aim!"

"Hmm. That is…unfortunate." Ivar lifted his head. "Fire!"

A spell cracked near Kvasir's ears, and he winced a little at the proximity. Another fired, and another, the sound echoing loudly through the streets. Kvasir flinched a little, but pulled himself toward the edge of the roof to watch.

The spells rained down, cracking against the barrier—not enough to break through, but enough that he thought he could see the person holding up the spell wince, and his chest flickered with the very faint beginnings of hope. Maybe. Maybe if they keep them distracted—

Keep firing. Keeping going. Just—

(Just don't think about the fact that this is your family.)

Lydia's group retaliated; she shouted orders, the contents almost lost underneath the noise. Kvasir watched, and waited, and waited, blinking as he tried to focus through the noise and smoke. He could see flashes of spells, brightening up the air and making his skin prickle. Some of them cracked against the streets; others hit the rooftops, scattering bits of shingles, and Kvasir winced and pulled backward, trying to protect himself. He scrambled around the edges, ducking low and leaping onto the next roof, and then the next, eyes constantly on the onslaught.

They don't know I'm still here, he realized after a moment; the spells all seemed aimed toward his other family members, who would dodge to the side in intricate flips, parry spells with spells of their own, throw up barriers—anything to keep themselves from getting hit. One couldn't quite dodge in time, grunting as she was hit, skidding backward, then scrambling back to attack again. Another attack strayed too close to Kvasir's face, and he pulled back, throwing his arms over his head to protect himself from the debris.

Lydia's group hadn't had any members fall yet—but they did look tired, starting to flag underneath the constant assault. When he could glimpse them between the attacks, he thought he could see exhaustion painted on their faces, arms shivering with the effort of holding up their Keyblades.

…He and the other wielders hadn't been the only ones starting to wear down, Kvasir realized.

His head snapped up. His eyes searched through the rubble, trying to find—there. He could see the person holding up the barrier, arms quivering as they tried to keep it steady. They winced as another blow struck the spell; it held, but— They're getting tired. They'll have to switch out soon. All I have to do is be ready.

He crawled closer to the edge of the roof and waited, Keyblade gripped with both hands. The spells turned everything into a blur, filled with bright bursts of color and loud, banging noises. His ears ached; his teeth chattered with the force of impact. Something hit too close to his nose; he squinted, but didn't move.

Another spell. Another. And—there.

One of the wielders stepped out of the ring, back towards the center.

Kvasir didn't give himself time to think about it; his Keyblade twisted skyward, and he dragged the spell from somewhere deep within his chest. Lightning crackled across his arm and sparked along the edge of his Keyblade. For a brief moment, the world seemed darker.

And then light split the sky. Lightning crashed, a split-second burst of energy that snapped toward their opponents. A shout; smoke burst from the point of impact. Kvasir flinched, pulling back; when his vision cleared, he whipped around, trying to get a better look. Did it work? he wondered. Is the barrier down?

The world seemed like it had grown quiet. The spells fell away. Everyone seemed to be watching, hushed, for when the smoke cleared. Kvasir held his breath, eyes straining for some sort of sign.

Very slowly, the smoke started to clear. Kvasir narrowed his eyes. Through it, he could see—

He could see the purple, glass-like dome of a barrier spell. It was cracked, fractures running along the top, and the wielder holding it looked like they were straining to keep it together—but it was still there.

"Keep firing!" Lydia shouted. "Don't let up!"

"Meet them!" Ivar ordered. "Keep up the pressure!"

Spells crashed again, but Kvasir felt his stomach drop. It didn't work. It didn't—but we can try again. We can—

What if it's not enough?

A spell crashed into someone. They went flying, toppling off the roof with a shout. Without thinking, Kvasir turned to race after them; a Cure spell flicked from his Keyblade, and he winced as it strained his chest.

A crash, too close; dust and grit scattered across his head, and he winced, ducking and covering it. Someone else let out a cry of alarm; he wondered if another person had fallen, caught by one of Lydia's spells.

"Thanks," came a whisper, and Kvasir glanced at the wielder in front of him.

(Family.)

He gave them a shaky smile. "Of course," he said. Another crash, and he winced, but no debris scattered, this time. "But I think we could use some reinforcements."

The wielder's lips pressed into a thin line. "No point in wishing," they muttered, and launched themself back onto the rooftop. Their Keyblade turned to aim a spell at the group, and Kvasir watched them for a moment before, slowly, pushing himself back to his feet.

He felt drained. His legs were shaky. His arms were heavy. But—they were right. They needed to keep going. I just need to—to try again. Maybe I can get it this time. Maybe I can break through.

(How long will they stay scattered? How much can one spell do, especially when you're so drained?

…It didn't matter. He had to keep going.)

Kvasir took a deep breath and mentally prepared himself to move. He rocked, ready to run—

And paused.

There was—something, echoing across the streets. A noise he couldn't quite place.

Kvasir tilted his head, and—there it was again. A rattling noise, getting steadily closer. It almost sounded like…

…Chains?

Light streaked across the buildings. Armor glinted in the sunlight, just breaking through the gaps in the clouds. A figure swung toward them, almost graceful in its movements. It took a moment for Kvasir to realize he recognized it—recognized her. She looked different, like this—less like his friend, and more like the figure of legend so many people saw her as.

Despite himself, he could feel his chest lightening with something like hope.

"The Union Leaders!" someone shouted, and there was the same joy in their voice. "The Union Leaders are here!"

And it's not just her, Kvasir realized, watching with some amazement as a trail of people followed her—students, he realized after a moment, and some more experienced wielders, and even a couple of people who'd picked up makeshift weapons and looked like they were ready to throw themselves into the fray. She brought help. There's—we outnumber them now.

We could win. We could actually win.

Skuld shot overhead, and cheers followed her. Kvasir laughed, stumbling a little in his relief. He followed, dragged on by the sight. He turned the corner in time to see Skuld crash, feet-first, into the fracturing barrier; it shattered underneath the force of her blow, and Kvasir laughed again, breathless, as the others were forced to turn, trying to strike the enemy suddenly in their midst.

"Don't lose sight of the rooftops!" Lydia shouted, but her voice sounded strained. "Hold the line—only a few people should fight the Union Leader!"

Skuld turned around with a roar, chains flying from the tip of her Keyblade, swinging around her in a loop. The other wielders scrambled to avoid them, voices raised in alarm.

Some brushed past him. Another person. The crowd moved, pouring into the battlefield, rushing toward the group. "Hi, Kvasir—Kvasir?" someone shouted, and Kvasir turned to see Eir, half-hopping as she moved toward the fighting, twisted to look back at him with a confused blink. Not far from her, he thought he saw Sigurd, racing toward one of the other wielders.

"Hold!" Lydia shouted again. "Stick together—form a barrier!"

But it was different, this time—Skuld was in the middle of them, weapon swinging at their backs. They couldn't quite collect themselves—couldn't get themselves back into position to parry blows coming from both sides.

They were breaking apart. Finally.

With a vague shout of relief, Kvasir let himself get swept into the tide.

Everything turned into a chaotic sort of blur. Kvasir found himself fighting alongside familiar figures, every now and then—Eir, their backs pressed against each other as they spun and fired a combined spell; Sigurd, throwing a barrier up to protect him, and giving him a quick nod of acknowledgement; other students and family members and people, all working together to try and keep the crowd from forming up again. He cut and stabbed and sent spells flickering across the space, and he couldn't entirely ignore the exhaustion, but it felt manageable when there were others to catch him.

And it was working—Lydia's group was splitting apart, slowly, shouting with frustration as they were cut apart from each other, herded away and forced to deal with more wielders than they could manage. One by one, they started to fall.

(One by one, your family is falling apart.)

Kvasir paused, rocking a little at the thought—but then he stumbled, lifting his Keyblade to block a blow, and found himself knocking into a familiar figure. "Skuld?"

"Kvasir!" She paused, twisting like she wanted to say something more, then turned and shot a spell at one of their opponents.

Kvasir's throat tightened. He'd hug her, if he had the time for it, but instead he turned his weapon on their opponents (his family, his family, that was), and tried not to look any of them in the eye. "How did you know where to find us?"

"You guys were fighting," Skuld said, laughter in her voice. "You kind of stood out."

Kvasir couldn't quite manage a laugh, but he did smile, just a little. "Thank you."

For a little bit, they didn't say anything—they just fought, trying to ward off their opponents, firing spells and slashing weapons in tandem, spinning around each other and striking at any openings left at the others' sides. It was an easy rhythm to fall into—familiar, to be fighting with one of his friends. He almost could've ignored everything else.

Almost.

He caught a flicker of movement, out of the corner of his eye. He turned, and—

And that was Lydia. That was Lydia, slipping off into an alleyway with one brief, disgusted look at the fighting. That was Lydia, who—

No.

Without thinking about what he was doing, Kvasir went to follow.

Lydia noticed him; she turned, lifting her Keyblade to block, and Kvasir protested, "Aunt Lydia, wait!"

Lydia froze. Very, very slowly, her Keyblade lowered, and…Kvasir stared.

Now that he was here, he didn't entirely know what to say. His mouth moved, but he couldn't quite get it to form words; all he could do was stare, any bravado he'd had dying away.

"Kvasir," Lydia said, slowly; her posture relaxed, a little, and Kvasir distantly had time to marvel at that. "Were you drawn in by the fighting?"

He wanted to laugh, because he was one of the major causes of it. "I—Aunt Lydia," he managed, finally, his voice little more than a squeak. "What's…?" He trailed off, because he didn't know how he wanted to finish that sentence.

Lydia narrowed her eyes. She glanced beyond him—to the fighting, still raging across the streets—and for one, terrified moment, he thought she'd make the connection. "You were at the trial."

It didn't sound like a question; Kvasir nodded, anyways.

"Hmm. What happened?"

"I—" Why isn't she attacking me? What's going on? "I—don't know."

Lydia turned toward him sharply. "You don't know?"

"Not about—about what caused this." He gestured at the fighting. "I wasn't there for—I didn't see that part."

She studied him, and he tried very hard not to squirm. "Where were you?" she asked, and Kvasir felt his heartrate spike.

Don't tell her about the assassins. Don't give yourself away. "I—I was—I got detained. After the trial."

"By who?"

"Some Keyblade wielders—I'm not sure who they were." They were sent by Aegir.

Lydia stared, and stared, and stared, and Kvasir forced himself not to look away. (He tried not to think about the fighting behind him, or what he was doing following Lydia, or where his friends were or what could go wrong. He tried not to think about…a lot of things, really.)

Lydia breathed out a long, low breath after a moment. "So Frigga found you out, too," she murmured, and Kvasir felt a jolt of—relief, maybe. He wasn't sure. "That happened to all of us." She gestured at the space behind him—to where the rest of his family, his friends, his allies were fighting. "There was a leak, somewhere. Frigga sent wielders to detain us. I got out, as did some others; we've been trying to get back to the Clock Tower to regroup." She clicked her tongue, craning her neck. "I'm not sure what Anders is doing. He should've been trying to coordinate things—not letting this spiral out of hand."

(She didn't know. He almost wanted to laugh, because it dawn on him that—she didn't know. She still thought that he was on their side.)

"You…" Kvasir trailed off, the words sticky in the back of his throat. "You've been…fighting."

"We have."

"There are civilians."

"Who should know enough to get out of the way." Something must've shown on Kvasir's face, because Lydia's expression softened when she looked at him. "It isn't ideal—but we can use it to our advantage. They'll see our strength, and will likely think twice about trying something." She frowned, glancing behind him. "In the meantime, we need to deal with this." She tilted her head, then gestured down the alleyway. "Come with me."

She turned to move, and Kvasir hurried to follow, almost without really thinking about what he was doing. "Wait—where are we going?"

"To see who we can regroup with. The formation's broken apart, now that the Union Leaders are here." Skuld. Just Skuld. And—and a lot of other people who want to protect their homes. "But we can hopefully find Aegir, and Anders, and anyone else who's on our side. With their help, we can figure out a new plan."

No. He needed to—he needed to do something. He needed to do something.

"You're friends with the Union Leaders, aren't you?"

Kvasir nearly tripped over himself—but Lydia was watching him, now, and he found himself nodding, trying very hard to ignore the way his heart was pounding.

Lydia paused, for a moment, looking at him fully. "That could be an asset, here. Having someone on the inside would be…useful. We may be able to divert their attention—"

"And hurt my friends."

He didn't mean for the words to slip out—but they did, anyways, and Lydia gave him a sharp, wary look, and Kvasir scrambled to try and think of something to say— "It's—I don't want anything to happen to my family," he hurried to add. "I know—I know we need to do something. But—I don't want them to get hurt. Isn't there any way to…?"

Lydia was watching him, and Kvasir almost wanted to wilt underneath her look. You're going to fail. You're going to fail, and the others are going to get hurt because of your family— "Kvasir," she said, "I understand that this is likely…difficult. But now is the time to commit. You can stand by the Union Leaders—or you can stand by your family."

(Don't make me choose, he thought, even though he'd already made his choice. Isn't there a way to avoid this? Isn't there a way to just…stop?)

(There isn't.)

"I—" He licked his lips, trying to find the words to say. "I…the Union Leaders are my friends. But…" The words got caught; he took a breath, trying to releasing them. "I don't…family is everything. I might not of…I wasn't at the trial to see how the fighting started, but…I heard what Frigga said, there. She's…if this keeps going, our family's going to fall apart. And I don't—I don't want that."

It wasn't even a lie, really; he didn't want to watch his family break apart. He didn't want to fight them; he didn't want to have to choose. He just…knew he didn't really have that option.

(I can't look away. Not again.)

Lydia studied him, like she wasn't quite sure if he was telling the truth. After a moment, she inclined her head. "Good." Her voice softened a little as she added, "Perhaps there's a way to reduce the conflict. You can lead the Union Leaders away—tell them they're needed elsewhere. Get them off-world, if you have to. Provide contradictory orders. Do what you can to disrupt their operations and make it easier for us to deal with them. With enough distractions, they won't be able to act until it's too late."

It was almost tempting—the idea of taking his friends and running, going off-world and away from the fighting, without having to worry about the conflict between his friends and his family.

"I…can do that."

Lydia nodded, and turned. "I can send you off first, then. Go—distract the Union Leaders. See what you can do to stop them."

"I—okay. I'll—see you on the other side."

Lydia hummed an acknowledgement; her Keyblade flicked, legs bent like she was ready to jump.

Before she could, Kvasir struck.

It was quicker than he expected, years of practice and muscle memory helping to guide the blow. It still almost wasn't quick enough to stop Lydia, who turned, eyes wide, mouth slightly parted, Keyblade coming around to block the blow—

But he could still feel his Keyblade, cutting into her back.

His breath caught in his chest, because what did he do, what did he do, and before he could think about it, he shouted, "Stop!"

Lydia froze, toppling; the bleeding slowed and stopped, but Kvasir could still see it, the red leaking into her clothes and onto the ground, and Kvasir scrambled to catch her, to do something, mumbling apologies over and over and casting healing spell after healing spell. "I'm sorry I'm sorry I have to I have to you don't know what's underneath our home—"

Her eyes were frozen open; it was almost worse, looking into them.

"Sleep."

The word came out frantic, more a gasp than something spoken, and all at once his aunt went limp, eyes sliding closed, breathing easing out.

Kvasir's didn't. He knelt there, chest shuddering as he tried desperately, desperately to steady his breathing, but he couldn't, he couldn't, he couldn't—

(All he could see was his aunt looking at him like he'd betrayed her and he could feel his Keyblade cutting through her back and he wasn't sure he could do this he wasn't he needed to he couldn't—)

The world was…spinning. He rocked, leaning against the wall. You had to, something whispered to him, gentle. You needed to help your friends.

It didn't stop the guilt.

The sound of clanking metal sounded behind him. He didn't turn to look, but he heard the quiet whisper of a friend: "Is she…?"

He sucked in a breath. "She's—alive. But—"

(he couldn't he couldn't he couldn't—)

Something shifted beside him—Skuld, he realized after a moment, kneeling at his side and pulling him into a tight hug.

Kvasir's breath caught. It felt like something had broken in his chest; a keen escaped his throat, and he leaned into the hug as he cried.

---

-(The Heartless screeched. A heavy wind rushed across the sea like a breath. It made the streetlamps flicker; some people pulled their coats closer, trying to protect themselves from the cold.

One Heartless, finally, lunged. It didn't quite make it across, drowning halfway there. But then another moved, and another, and another. Slowly, slowly, some of them started to make their way across the sea.

"Shit," someone whispered. "Quickly! We need to get the boats on the water!"

"Not everyone's onboard!"

"Then move faster."

"Not long now," came a whisper of a voice, and the shadows inched ever closer.)

---

-Mimir stumbled over themself. There was—there was something twinging in their chest. Something familiar—cold and heavy, like the reminder of an old wound.

Kris paused to look at them. "Hey. You alright?"

They…weren't sure. They were shaking, they realized. They felt…cold. "Something's wrong," they whispered.

"What's—?"

"We need to move."

"What?"

"We need to move."

---

-"I can see them," Freya murmured, mostly to herself. She watched as the water grew darker, the wave of Heartless slowly getting closer. She closed her eyes briefly, breath hissing between her teeth. "They're already coming."

"Master Freya," Odin asked, tentative. "What—what do we do?"

"We get to work."

---

-(The first Heartless touched the shore. Across Scala ad Caelum, several devices clicked, whirring. They took a moment to register the sensation—and then they wailed, their sound carrying across Scala ad Caelum, just as they'd been programmed to do.

Another Heartless crawled across the shore, and another, and another. They shook themselves, water splattering across the cobblestones.

"Go," something hissed, and the Heartless did, tearing across the streets with a clicking, chattering sort of sound, a wave of shadows following in their wake.)

---

-Skuld almost thought the wailing sound was in her head—ringing from the aftermath of the fight, maybe, or exhaustion. But then Kvasir lifted his head, sniffing a little. "Hey…do you hear…?"

"That's—you hear it, too?" She lifted her head, warier now, and tried to pinpoint where the noise was coming from. It seemed to wail from several different directions, echoing loudly across the streets.

"Sirens…?" Kvasir asked. "We don't…"

Something thudded hard nearby.

Skuld whipped around, tensing.

It was the first time she realized they'd reached the edge of the barrier; it glinted just in front of her, thrumming with a quiet energy. But at first, she couldn't pinpoint what had made the noise.

And then, suddenly, two pinpricks of yellow eyes flickered from the shadows.

Skuld stared back, frozen.

Another set of eyes appeared. And then another. And then another. Dozens of them, bobbing slowly, prowling along the edges of the barrier. One of them lunged, crashing against the faintly-transparent wall; it bounced off uselessly, but continued stalking around the edges, chittering quietly.

Skuld scrambled to her feet, Starlight lifted.

Kvasir followed suit; he stared at the shadows, expression slowly going pale. "That's—"

Heartless. There were Heartless in Scala ad Caelum.

---

-Breathe. In and out. Focus.

Brain's hands shook; he braced them against Master's Defender, trying to ignore the burning-empty-aching feeling in his chest. He took in a breath, and felt the sting of magic in the back of his throat; he released it, and it shuddered through his chest made him cough. He could hear the murmured snippets of half-remembered conversations, just barely out of reach. He got the impression they were meant to be comforting, but right now they just seemed loud, making his head throb.

But the barrier was holding. It was up. That was—good. It was good. It would help the others handle Aegir's group.

(You aren't doing enough.)

Brain gritted his teeth. He tasted something metallic, and tried to take another steadying breath, gripping his Keyblade tightly.

(Your friends are down there—and yet here you are, just waiting at the top of the Clock Tower.)

He couldn't quite find the energy to think. He pressed his forehead against Master's Defender's hilt. Breathe. Just—breathe.

(Do you really think this is enough to redeem you?)

His ears rang. His fingers gripped Master's Defender tighter, and he gritted his teeth and tried to just focus focus focus—

It took him several moments to realize he wasn't just imagining the ringing.

He blinked, lifting his head slowly. The sound was—loud. A wail, coming from several different directions. It sounded like—

A siren. An alarm.

…I know what that is.

His chest tightened, and he almost, almost lost his grip on the barrier spell. He released Master's Defender with one hand, lurching toward the window. He squinted, glancing down at the streets, around the edges of his barrier.

It took a moment for him to notice. For half a beat, he thought his Heartless detection device was malfunctioning; that everything was alright, and this was just a false alarm, and he didn't have to worry about what else might go wrong. But then he caught them—the signs of shifting shadows, just outside the edges of the barrier, and he felt his chest clench.

(You sent those civilians out there—you and your friend. Now look what's happened. You locked them outside of your barrier—and left them at our mercy.)

(I can't lower the barrier. I can't, I can't, we still haven't dealt with Aegir—)

(What if people die because you didn't act?)

Brain's eyes snapped down, back to the streets. He couldn't see signs of Heartless down there yet—just hiding, or had they been unable to breach the barrier? If I bring the barrier down, it'll let people out to fight—but it'll let the Heartless inside, too.

…I need to figure out how to take care of the Heartless without that. Come on. You're supposed to be smart. Think.

He thought he could feel—something, scratching at the edges of the barrier. Or maybe he was just imagining it, the craping sounds loud loud loud against the back of his skull.

(Figure it out figure it out you can't be responsible for this again—)

I can—I can imbue magic into the barrier. Combining spells wasn't—it wasn't unheard of, though usually it was done in conjunction with someone else. But it wasn't like he had much of a choice, here; he was the only one up here, and he wasn't sure how to flag down someone and let them know he needed help. A—fire spell, maybe. No, something that will travel. Electricity?

…Thunder spell, then. He braced his hand against Master's Defender's hilt, and he gritted his teeth as his chest burned burned burned, his hair standing on end and static crackling against his jaw. His fingers tingled and sparked as lightning crackled from the tip of his Keyblade, arcing skyward until it crashed into the barrier. It fizzled outward, snapping down along the same trails the original barrier spell had. He could see the way the barrier started to glow—a faint, sparkling, electrical edge to it that crackled and hissed.

It'll do damage to anything that touches the barrier—but it's not going to stop the Heartless entirely. Come on. What else? What else?

He could—set up Mine spells—no, too far. He wished he had done it sooner, but—No point in wishing. The barrier wasn't—he could shoot spells, but he couldn't send them through the barrier—

Unless I could make openings.

It would be—difficult. It'd take a lot of concentration, to keep the barrier up, pulling down just enough pieces to send spells through them. But he wasn't sure he knew what else he could do.

You're a Union Leader. Prove you deserved the role.

Brain sucked in a steadying breath. His hands were shaking; his legs felt wobbly, his chest sore, breath burning against the back of his throat. But he closed his eyes, and pressed a hand against Master's Defender's hilt, and focused on the barrier. He could picture it, in his mind's eye—a wall of magic, arcing up and over the city, perfect hexagonal pieces slotting together to create a protective dome. And then, very carefully, he began stripping away pieces. One panel there, in the space right across from him; another there, in the area behind him. Another, and another, and another, all carefully pulled away from high points that'd be difficult to reach without magic, but low enough that he hoped to be able to aim properly.

(His hands were shaking. He gripped Master's Defender a little tighter and tried to pretend he didn't notice.)

With another breath, he dared to open his eyes.

The barrier was—it was still up. But he could see the gaps, across from him—openings just big enough to fit a spell through them, provided he aimed right.

He puffed a breath, too exhausted to even entirely feel relieved. His alarms were still wailing, the sound seeming to echo off the barrier's walls, screaming a warning to anyone within range to hear. Get out. Danger.

(There are people out there already. The Heartless are out there, with them. I need to do something.)

Master's Defender swung around. He sighted down the tip, staring down one of the openings. He was…shaky, he realized, Master's Defender wobbling, the keychain rattling as he tried to keep it still. He braced a hand, very carefully, against the edge of the weapon—and then he channeled magic through the shaft and fired.

It wasn't a particularly powerful spell—just a quick light-based attack, something small enough to fit through the openings and, hopefully, not too damaging if it fell short. He watched it sail into the distance, and for one brief, nerve-wracking moment, he thought it wouldn't make it.

And then he watched as the spell cleared through the edge, just barely, and crashed toward the ground below. He wasn't sure if he was imagining it, but he thought he could see a burst of shadows, trailing up from the ground.

Brain stared at it, and then he laughed, the sound shaky and vaguely relieved. It wasn't anything near what he needed to do—but it had still worked, so. It was a start.

Keep going. You've still got a lot of work to do.

There were—he didn't know how many Heartless. He couldn't really get a good count, from all the way up here; couldn't figure out exactly where they were or how far they'd spread. All he could do was keep going to try and buy the others time. Once the fighting had stopped—once Aegir's group had been dealt with—then he could lower the barrier and they could all take care of the Heartless.

With a shaking breath, he turned his Keyblade toward the next opening. His chest burned, and he rocked back a little as he fired another spell. This one ricocheted just a little underneath the opening. He braced his hand underneath his Keyblade and steadied it, shooting off another spell. This one made it, and he watched as the light flickered through the edges of the opening he'd made, glinting against the barrier.

Keep going. Keep them at bay.

He got a little more sure of himself as he kept moving. He opened one window, and then another, and then another, giving him openings to fire spell after spell after spell. Some made it through the openings; some didn't entirely, crashing against the barrier, but he didn't stop, feet wobbly but quick as he spun and turned and ran, aiming for opening after opening. His spells shot across the distance like falling stars, brightening up the slowly-darkening sky.

Across the room. Another spell—this one with a little extra punch, the light exploding into long, thin tendrils once it'd gone through the opening. The other side; a different spell, this time, a glittering ball of red that exploded as it fell through the barrier. His hand caught the side of one of the windows; he dangled out it, shooting a volley of spells, firing again and again and again and hoping that he'd do enough damage to the Heartless to keep them at bay.

(His chest was burning. His legs shook. His arms quaked, and he knew—he knew—that, eventually, he'd probably stumble and fall. But he needed to keep going while he was still able; he needed to do everything he could to protect this place, protect the others, stop this from going any further.)

(How long do you really believe you can put off the inevitable, Little Light?)

Brain gritted his teeth, aimed his Keyblade out the window, and cast another spell.

---

-The song of battle rang in Frigga's ears, loud even over the sound of Aegir's weapon crashing against hers. The roar of people's shouting. The cacophony of spells. The ringing of Keyblades against Keyblades. She looked up into the sky, past that glowing barrier, and could see the darkening clouds coalescing over it. Who's winning? she wondered. Is anyone?

Pain cut through her midsection; Frigga grimaced and dragged her Keyblade around to parry another blow. "Distracted, Frigga?" Aegir asked, and Frigga's lip curled, but she moved to strike him again.

(But she was tired. Her legs were rubbery, her chest tight. Her magic felt drained, her reserves empty after fighting against her opponent for so long. How long can I keep going? she wondered. How long can either of us?)

The crack of thunder split the sky. Frigga glanced up briefly, half-expecting rain. Instead she saw something arcing across the barrier—a flicker of electricity, turning the purple haze of the barrier blue.

She tilted her head. Interesting.

Footsteps, pounding toward her. Frigga side-stepped; her Keyblade twisted around, and she shot a spell from the tip. It hit Aegir square-on, sending him flying, toppling over the side of one of the buildings.

Something shifted, further up the barrier. Frigga's eyes flicked to it, and they slowly widened as pieces disappeared. What is…?

Something glinted from the top of the Clock Tower. Her head snapped around, watching as a small burst of light shot across the distance. It arced through the first opening, falling toward the city below.

Frigga's eyebrows furrowed—and then more spells came, one after the other, all aiming for the openings in the barrier.

Frigga's first instinct was concern; she was almost ready to charge up to the top of the Clock Tower and fight whoever was there, determined to protect her home. But— But why now? Why put up a barrier, then wait to start firing? Who or what could possibly be out there?

And so she moved, and went to try and get a better look at the area around the barrier's edge.

She didn't see them at first; they blended into the shadows, nearly invisible in the darkening world. But then yellow eyes flickered, briefly, from the mass. They appeared again, and again, and again, and with slow-dawning horror, Frigga realized what was being fired at. Heartless. There are Heartless here, in the city.

Pain erupted along her back. Frigga flew, thrown off guard, and she had to dig her Keyblade into the roof of a building to keep herself from being thrown into the barrier. She dangled for a moment, feet kicking.

Aegir appeared above her. His hair and clothes were a mess; there were still burn marks, from where he'd hit the barrier. His face was contorted into a furious snarl, and he raised his Keyblade.

With an effort Frigga swung herself upward, spinning around the edge of the roof. Aegir's Keyblade cracked against the tiles, sending up broken bits. He'd turned around almost too quickly for her to keep up, striking once, twice, parried in rapid succession. "There are Heartless, Aegir!" Frigga shouted. She locked her Keyblade against his, pressing back; after a moment she disengaged, forcing Aegir's Keyblade to fly wide. He swung around, Keyblade coming back for a strike, even as she backpedaled. "Do you really want to continue this petty fight, when there are monsters invading our home?"

"Petty?" Another strike; another parry. "You were going to destroy our family." A sweeping blow, parried again, but slow, and Frigga gritted her teeth and tried not to focus on it. "If I let you go, everything falls apart." His next strike broke through her guard; she winced as it nicked her arm, and she twisted around to the side, making to strike for his waist. "I can't stop now, or there'll be nothing to go back to."

"There'll be nothing to go back to if you don't." She braced her feet against the roof and used it to press forward, Keyblade clanging against his. It put him, very briefly, on the defensive; he struggled for a moment to force back the blow, stumbling a little as he parried a second attack. He rallied a heartbeat later, offering a sweeping strike of his own. "What do you think has drawn the Heartless? It certainly wasn't because of an average day." Another strike toward his side; another parry. Frigga circled around him, exchanging blows, leaping and cutting and making aborted motions to try and throw the other off-guard. "We need to focus on the Heartless, not fighting each other. They will overrun our home, if we let them—leave nothing but an empty husk behind."

"Excuses!" His weapon cracked against hers, and she braced hers in a shaking block. His lips curled, and he swept his Keyblade around, nearly cutting across her waist. "If you hadn't turned against us, this fight wouldn't have been necessary in the first place! We could've gotten rid of the Union Leaders—things could've gone back to the way they should've been!"

"You will truly never take the blame, will you?" Frigga lifted her Keyblade, a spell exploding from the tip. Aegir twisted around it, flying toward her in a sharp stab. She switched to a quick parry, carefully diverting his weapon to the side. He'd swept it back toward her almost instantly, forcing her to stumble away, twisting around to catch another blow, and another. "We have both made mistakes—and the only way forward is to learn how to accept them." She switched into a lunging stab; Aegir twisted, weapon coming around to crash against hers. She caught herself, forcing her legs to keep her upright, and Aegir moved for another blow.

He's truly never going to stop, something whispered. Not for you. Not for his family. Not for his home. He won't stop fighting until he's dead.

…She needed to end this. Now.

Her eyes flicked, for a moment, toward the barrier. It seemed to flicker and glow with electricity. I wonder…

Aegir's Keyblade cracked! against hers. Frigga winced, lifting her hands to steady her weapon and block the blow. He struck, over and over and over, and Frigga grimaced, trying to backpedal.

But she was tired, worn out from the constant fighting. It was a given that, eventually, something was going to break through.

She barely had time to process it; Aegir's Keyblade swept around, striking toward her legs. She registered the impact first, a powerful blow against her knee; and then she registered the pain, something sharp and sticky and painful ripping through her leg.

Her ears rang; it took a moment to realize it was screaming, and a moment longer to realize it was coming from her, her throat raw. Her hand went to her knee, frantically casting a Curaga, but—

There was a missing space, there, where part of her leg should be.

Aegir was—Aegir was still moving. His Keyblade lifted, and Frigga didn't entirely register what she was doing; she just heard the sound of a throaty, painful, furious scream, her Keyblade burning in her hands, and felt the burning hum of energy as she swept her weapon around. Blood-red light pulsed at the tip; it haloed Aegir's face, cutting across sharp edges and his furious, twisted mouth. And then the spell exploded, the light almost blinding. It struck Aegir head-on, too close for him to dodge; he went flying, forced across the rooftops—

And crashed directly into the barrier.

His whole body jerked at the impact. He seemed stuck there, for longer than he should've been; he twitched, arms and neck and legs spasming, Keyblade clenched almost too tightly. There was a noise that might've been a noise of pain; Frigga couldn't quite tell. She stood, slowly, Keyblade used to prop her up with only one leg to stand on, and watched.

The barrier released him, finally; Aegir tumbled, and for half a hopeful moment, Frigga hoped that it had killed him outright. She was not nearly as lucky as she'd like to be; he was still moving, grunting quietly as he tried to push himself back into a standing position.

Frigga took a steadying breath. She tried to jump down, magic lessening her impact; she still fell, without her other leg to support her, and she could taste bile but she couldn't focus on that, not when Aegir was still here. And so she dragged herself forward, Keyblade used as a crutch, until she was standing in front of Aegir.

Aegir's eyes flicked up toward her. Despite everything, he still somehow managed to narrow them into a glare.

Frigga was breathing heavily; she couldn't quite get her words out easily, but she still managed, "It's over, Aegir. Do you have any final things to say?"

Aegir watched her; she wondered absently if he could say anything at all. And then, to her faint disbelief, a Curaga spell washed over him; the worst of the injuries disappeared, and Aegir forced himself to his feet, swaying.

Frigga's lips pursed. He's going to continue fighting, she thought grimly. Of course he is. She braced herself, taking a breath and trying to figure out how best to prepare for his next attack. A spell, maybe—something to force him back and into the barrier again. Maybe it would stop him for good, this time.

Aegir moved, and—it wasn't toward her, she realized. He darted past her, charging upward, jumping across the buildings. Running away again, she thought, furious. Where is he…?

The Clock Tower. He was—he was heading up there to take out whoever'd put up the barrier, she realized. Which would mean the Heartless…

Frigga tried to follow him on instinct—but when she did, her remaining leg crumpled. Her hand slammed into the ground; she forced her head up, shouting, "Aegir! Aegir!"

He didn't respond; he just kept going, up and up and up, and all Frigga could do was watch.

---

-Bang! The spell fired from Brain's Keyblade and sent him rocking backward. He stumbled, losing his grip on the window—and, panting, he moved a little closer, trying to get an idea of where it'd gone. It seemed like it was heading toward the next opening, at least; he couldn't afford to stop and watch it too long, and turned, hurrying toward the next window.

(How many am I actually hitting? some part of him wondered. Am I actually doing anything about the Heartless, or just causing unnecessary damage? Have the others finished fighting yet, and keeping the barrier up is just causing more problems?)

(I can't mess this up again.)

The sirens still wailed; they were so loud he could barely make out any other noises, the sound of his footsteps muted, the crackle of his spells a dim thing. The only thing that seemed to echo louder was his breathing, heavy against his ears as he ran and ran and ran, legs wobbly enough that he thought they'd give out—

There was…something behind him. The sound was distant, but—he thought it reminded him of shattering glass.

He barely had a second to process that before something cut across his back. It was cold. Sharp. The pain took a split second to register—but with his already-exhausted legs, he was crashing to the ground in a second, something sticky and wet against his back.

(In the distance, he thought he could see the barrier flicker, just a little.)

Brain scrambled, reaching for his magic—a healing spell, something to at least stem the bleeding, his mind scrambling to figure out who was here what was here did the Heartless get in what had happened—

He'd barely managed to get ahold of his magic (it burned it burned it burned) before something was flying down toward him. He blocked it, this time, Master's Defender shaky, the wound in his back knitting together slowly, slowly, slowly.

(The barrier flickered, and the lights seemed to follow. There were shadows creeping along the ground, in the places where the light didn't reach.)

Another flash of a weapon; another parry. A third strike, and this time, Brain couldn't quite block it. It crashed against him with enough force to send him flying, the whole room a blur. His back hit the wall with a painful crack! He jerked, gasping from the impact, and—

Something snapped.

(it burned it burned it burneditburneditburned—)

The sound of shattering glass was louder, now. It blotted out everything—the sirens, the footsteps of the other wielder (wielder?), the sound of what felt like his own screaming, his throat raw. His vision blotted white, for a moment, and he thought he could feel the echoes of something from Master's Defender.

When he came to, he was kneeling, hunched over himself, one hand braced against the ground as he coughed and tried to breathe.

…The barrier. He didn't have his tether to it anymore.

Brain blinked. He lifted his head slowly, twisting toward the window.

The barrier was…gone. There was just open sky, and—and the Heartless, down below.

"You."

Brain blinked, turning slowly—and then he was scrambling to his feet, tripping over himself as he backed away, Master's Defender lifted to parry another strike.

When he lowered his weapon enough to get a good look at his attacker, he found himself face to face with Aegir, expression twisted with fury, Keyblade already moving for another blow.

---

-The barrier flickered. Skuld tensed. That's not—

"Skuld," Kvasir whispered, "what's…?"

Something like shattering glass crackled overhead; Skuld nearly threw herself over Kvasir, ignoring his shout of surprise. Perhaps it wouldn't have mattered; barriers were magical, anyways, and the pieces would fade away before they ever reached them. But—

But if the barrier's falling…that means…

She looked at Kvasir; he stared back, pale and scared.

"Brain," Skuld managed, quiet, terrified—and then she was turning, shooting back toward the Clock Tower with Kvasir in tow.

---

-"Shit," Kris breathed, staring up at the breaking barrier. "That's not good. I wonder what happened?"

Mimir wasn't really looking at her; they were looking at the Heartless, crawling into the streets, and then back up toward the Clock Tower, where the spells had been coming from—

And toward the space where they thought they'd seen a familiar figure, hurtling up toward it. Aegir.

(What will you do, Little Light?)

Mimir's hands curled into fists. They forced their hands to loosen, and they signed, shaky, "Do you have a pen?"

"Do I—? Uh, no? But you can probably find one easily. Why?"

They smiled, grim. "I have a plan."

---

-"The two of you," Aegir snarled, Keyblade swinging, "are the reason any of this happened."

The weapon crashed against Master's Defender; Brain's feet skidded backward a little, the ache in his chest twinging, and he gritted his teeth, bracing against the blow.

Another strike. Master's Defender swung around, catching the weapon and forcing it aside, but it was too unsteady, off-kilter and shaky.

"Before you came," crash-clang! "we didn't have to worry about any of this." Crack! "Our family was united." Clang-clang! "Frigga was moving too slowly—but all we had to do was outwait her. We could've reclaimed our power." Crash-screech! "But then you showed up—you and your friend. And everything fell apart."

A sweeping blow sent Brain stumbling backward, and he took a breath and stabbed Master's Defender into the ground. A barrier bubbled around him, forcing Aegir to jump back and giving Brain a chance to breath.

The other wielder's lips curled into a snarl. He prowled around the barrier's edges, but his eyes remained fixed firmly on Master's Defender. "You are not worth of that blade."

(He's right. You were never good enough to wield it. You couldn't save anyone, no matter how hard you tried.)

(Prove that you're worthy this time.)

"You sound a little sore it didn't pick you." Brain flashed a sharp grin, and scrambled for some sort of plan. "If I'm not worthy—what does that make you?"

Aegir's eyes narrowed in fury. "You Union Leaders," he growled, Keyblade dragging a painful line along the edges of the floor, "should've stayed as you were. Legends."

"A lot more convenient for you, right? Easier to use us if we aren't around to argue." Brain tilted his head. "I imagine Ephemer would have some complaints about most of you."

Aegir's Keyblade clanged! against the barrier. It shook, but didn't break. (Brain could feel it rattling in his chest, anyways; it felt like there was an empty space where his magic should be, exhausted and drained and painful.)

(How do you think you're going to save anyone like this? You always think you're so much more clever than you are.)

"Effective. You want to try again?"

Aegir's eyes narrowed, and he drew back a little, the edge of his Keyblade resting against the floor. "…You're stalling," he said finally. "You don't have a plan."

I do—just not for you. Brain shrugged, casually folding his arms over the hilt of Master's Defender. It felt warm and comforting, and quiet hum pulsing slowly through his skin. "Don't need one. Look around you—your plan's failing." He nodded toward the window.

Aegir didn't take the bait; he stood there, staring stubbornly at Brain, eyes narrowed dangerously.

Another shrug. "Just saying. You've got some people on your side, sure—but there aren't enough to take everyone down. Even without the barrier, the best you guys can do is scatter." Brain glanced, very briefly, toward the window. He couldn't see the fighting from here—wasn't sure if it'd stopped or not—but he could still hear the sound of his alarms, wailing over the noise.

(He thought he could see shadows, creeping in from the edges of the world.)

"But you know," he said, and tried very, very hard to ignore the strained sound of his voice, "you guys have caused a lot of problems—for everyone." He pointed toward the ceiling. "Hear that?"

Aegir didn't say anything; his Keyblade tapped against the ground, almost rhythmic.

"Know what those are? Wait, don't answer—you wouldn't. That's a Heartless detection device Frigga asked me to build. See, all this fighting has attracted some unwanted attention. There are a lot of Heartless waiting on your doorstep—and Darkness lurking just underneath the city." Brain tapped his foot against the floor.

For one very brief moment, Aegir's eyes flickered with something like fear.

"You're so concerned with power—but what's any of that going to matter if there isn't anything to have power over?" Brain could feel the edges of his grin. "But I guess that's normal for you guys, right? Ruling over empty islands—you have to be so proud."

(He thought, almost, he could hear an echo behind his words. The whole Clock Tower seemed darker. If he blinked, he thought he could see a different Clock Tower—one with stained glass windows and familiar halls.

Something crawled over his shoulders and clung to his skin. Tell him, it whispered, hissing through his ear. Let him see the effects of his actions.)

"You—and what do you have left?" Aegir snapped, and Brain forced himself not to wince. "One person out of hundreds—thousands! Not even a world left to your name."

(you failed you failed you failed)

"You're about to be in the same boat." Brain tilted his head. "What do you think this accomplishes, here? You beat me, and—what? You get to say one Union Leader's gone?" He rolled his shoulders. "Just saying, it's a poor plan. Why not actually do something to prove you'd deserve leadership? Call people off, and help fight against the Heartless." He studied Aegir, then added, "Or stay here, and keep pursuing a petty fight. Your call."

Aegir stared at him for a moment. The he swung his Keyblade, the weapon cutting sharply through the air. He looked almost shrouded in shadows, darkness creeping underneath his eyes, crawling into the folds of his clothes and trailing from his wounds.

(Had the room always been this dark?)

(You're running out of time, Little Light.)

"You," Aegir snarled, "are a self-righteous child, and it's high time someone actually put you in your place."

His Keyblade came down on Brain's barrier with a crack! The blow felt like it shook the ground; Brain grimaced, one leg twisting toward the ground, and he clung to Master's Defender to keep himself upright.

There were fractures along his barrier, when he cracked his eyes open to look.

(You're going to have to fight. We wonder—how long before the shadows creep in too far? How long can you waste on a useless fight?)

Another strike. The cracks widened. Brain took a breath and jerked Master's Defender out of the ground. Alright, he thought, bracing himself. I'm not getting out that way. I'm going to have to fight. The barrier's already down—I don't need to stay here. As soon as there's an opening, I can leave to try and deal with the Heartless. Just got to hope that Aegir doesn't follow me.

Another crash. Crack-creak! The breaking barrier sounded a little like fracturing glass, and Brain braced himself, gripping Master's Defender with both hands.

Aegir lifted his Keyblade for one final swing.

Glass shattered. It took Brain half a second to process why his barrier was still standing if it sounded like it shouldn't be.

Aegir's head snapped up. He lifted his Keyblade, backing up a little—just in time to parry an armored wielder flying toward him. The wielder landed and went to strike, again and again, forcing Aegir away with one sweeping blow and backpedaling a little toward the barrier.

Brain's eyes caught on the familiar images—the sun, the flicker of star-like patterns. He huffed something that might've been a laugh, but mostly he just felt relieved. "Guess you saw, huh?"

"Are you alright?" Skuld asked, only half-glancing back his way.

"Still in one piece. Magic's mostly drained from that barrier, and," he gestured, "Heartless."

He could imagine Skuld's grimace, even if he couldn't see it. "Then we can back you up."

"Uncle!"

Kvasir.

He hit the ground, momentum carrying him a few more stumbling steps forward; when he looked toward his uncle, his expression was desperate—but there was something resigned there, too, like he knew anything he could say wouldn't get through to Aegir, no matter how hard he tried. "Listen—there are Heartless in the streets! We can't fight each other right now."

Aegir's eyes narrowed. "I have no particular interest," he said, voice cold, "in talking to a traitor."

Kvasir flinched.

"Aegir—" Skuld started, voice filled with venom—and then cut off just as quickly as Aegir lifted his Keyblade.

"For what it's worth," Aegir said, voice softening just a little, "I am sorry that it came to this, Kvasir. You were always such a sweet child—but perhaps that was more a weakness than I originally believed."

"Stronger than you are," Brain said, an edge to his voice.

"Of course you would say that—it serves you, after all." Aegir drew back his Keyblade.

Skuld's footing shifted a little. Kvasir tensed, lifting his weapon. Brain took a breath, and with a sweep of his hand lowered his barrier. He stepped up beside them, gripping Master's Defender carefully.

Aegir swung his weapon around, a spell burning on the tip, and—

And—

Brain blinked, sure he was seeing wrong, but—no. A glance toward the others said that Skuld had gone stiff, Kvasir blinking in confusion.

The spell had failed; it had guttered and died before it had the chance to fire.

Brain had half a moment to wonder if Aegir had had a change of heart before he looked to his face. He looked just as baffled as Brain felt. He shook his Keyblade like he could make the spell come back, aiming it in their direction.

Nothing happened. No flicker of light, no flash of energy—just cold, empty space, the sound of dripping water just barely noticeable over the wailing of the sirens.

(The shadows looked a little longer. If Brain looked closely, he thought he could almost see a grin.)

"What's—what's happening?" Aegir swung the Keyblade; it looked, a little, like his arms were shaking. "What did you do to me?"

"Uncle…?" Kvasir asked, uncertain.

"Why can't I…?" Another swing; a spell started to form, only to flicker and fade the moment Aegir pointed it their way.

Brain's eyebrows furrowed. He relaxed his stance a little, head tilted.

"Brain," Skuld started, hesitant, "do you know what…?"

"Not a clue."

"Do you think it's a trick?"

Brain studied Aegir, swinging his Keyblade with increasing franticness, and said, "If it is, it's a weird one."

"What's happening?" Aegir shouted, and the room echoed his question back to him. "Why can't I fight?"

"…You can't hurt the Union Leaders. Your contract says so."

The voice was quiet, but it carried, all the same. Brain's attention snapped past Aegir—to where Mimir was standing, just visible in the shadows, watching tiredly, a paper and pen in their hands.

Aegir had gone very, very still.

"'Aegir Caelum will not harm the Union Leaders Brain and Skuld, either through physical or magical means.'" Mimir looked up from the paper. "That's what it says."

"You…still have the contract," Aegir said, and very slowly, he turned.

"Contract?" Skuld repeated.

"Aegir offered it to me when he kidnapped me." Mimir turned, and the look they gave him was all steel. "In exchange for protecting you…" They paused, looking at the paper again. "'Mimir, Keyblade wielder of unknown origin, will be bound to Aegir Caelum for the extent of their life. They will be required to follow all orders without complaint and to the best of their ability.'"

"That's right," Aegir said, and Brain tensed all over again. "I can't fight them—but you can." Aegir stepped aside, gesturing with his Keyblade. "So do it—battle the Union Leaders in my stead."

"Mimir," Skuld said, voice strained, but—

"Hold on."

"Brain, what—"

"They aren't doing anything."

Mimir had a strange sort of smile on their face, the contract crinkling a little in their grip.

"Well?" Aegir pressed, sounding frustrated. "Go. I order you to fight them."

"The contract says," Mimir stated, each word pronounced carefully, "that Mimir, Keyblade wielder of unknown origin, will be bound to Aegir Caelum."

"Yes," Aegir said, sounding frustrated. "That's you—it has to be. The contract wouldn't be binding otherwise."

Something like satisfaction flickered across their face. "Except I'm not just Mimir."

Beside Brain, Skuld stiffened. Brain, for his part, almost wanted to laugh.

(He thought he could hear an echo of it, anyways, reverberating ghost-like off the walls. Our clever Little Light.)

"What are you talking about?" Aegir asked, and it sounded like the reality of it hadn't quite sunk in yet. "You can't possibly be—"

"A long time ago," Mimir interrupted, and there was power in their voice, no matter how quiet they'd gotten, "a wielder fought and died at the end of the world. When they passed away, their heart found their way forward—to Mimir's. The original's." Mimir lifted their Keyblade. Their expression creased a little, but they took a breath, and when they looked at Aegir again, there was something like steel in it. "You can't use me to hurt my friends. Not like that."

Aegir's face contorted in rage.

Kvasir's expression broke with glee. "Mimir, that's—"

"You."

His words faltered.

Aegir was shaking. He'd turned almost fully away from them—back toward Mimir. Mimir faced him, chin lifted.

Shit. This isn't good.

"You," Aegir repeated—and then, seemingly failing to find any other words, lunged, a war cry ripped from his lips.

"Mimir!" Skuld shouted, and she was moving before Brain had even entirely processed what had happened. She's not going to make it, he thought, kicking off after her. We aren't going to be—

"Aegir. We thought we warned you."

(Deep below Scala ad Caelum, something shattered.)

The whole room grew dark. The shadows moved, crawling along the floors in long, jagged streaks; Skuld jumped backward, scrambling out of the way, and Kvasir yelped, leaping out of sight. Brain dodged away from the darkness and felt like something could had wrapped itself around his chest.

(Too late too late you're too late—)

The shadows snapped, shooting out of the ground almost too quickly to keep track of. They wrapped around Aegir's legs, his arms, his torso, dragging him down, down, down; he bucked and squirmed, twisting and turning, but the shadows held fast, dragging him to his knees. In front of him, a dripping mass of darkness rose, dragged slowly from the ground. Two golden eyes gleamed in the center of the shadows; something that might've been a jagged mouth stretched into a smile.

Behind the shape, Mimir stood, still and pale.

(It's them.)

Brain—should do something. He should do something. But this was—

(you failed you failed you failed it's too late Darkness is already here)

Something that might've been a hand emerged from the ground; long, clawed fingers gripped Aegir's chin, forcing it to look at the shadowy shape. "We told you that they were ours, didn't we?"

Aegir made a noise that sounded like choking; he'd stopped moving, now, save for a faint shaking that rattled his Keyblade.

"A pity. You have been so entertaining to watch. But we cannot let you harm what is ours."

Their clawed thumb moved—too quick to do anything, but Brain jerked forward a little, anyways, pulled toward Aegir almost on instinct. It wouldn't have done anything, even if he had made it in time; the claw pierced Aegir's chest, dark tip on the other side. Aegir jerked once with something that sounded like a choked scream, and then went still.

"Uncle!" Kvasir's scream rose into something strained and painful; he started to move across the room, but hesitated, eyes trailing up, up, up toward the gigantic, shadowy head.

The shadows released Aegir. He fell limp to the floor, and didn't get back up.

"Hmm. A waste. But we suppose that he was helpful. It would've been so much harder to get through the cracks without him, after all."

The lights flickered, and died. An unnatural darkness settled over the Clock Tower. Brain reached for Skuld almost without thinking, and she pressed close to him, both Keyblades glowing with light. Kvasir and Mimir scrambled toward them, but the combined magic wasn't enough to drive away the sudden cold or the pressure that had suddenly fallen over them.

Up above, Darkness smiled. "Hello again, Little Lights."

---

Summary for the content warning sections:

Skuld's section: Skuld, Brain, Kvasir, Mimir, and Osmin fight the Keyblade wielders trying to detain them. Osmin stops the enemy wielders with a spell, pinning them all there and encouraging the other four to hurry back to the courtroom. When they arrive, they realize there's fighting, and get separated. Skuld is momentarily disoriented by memories of the Keyblade War; she jumps into the rafters, taking a moment to reorient herself, and starts to try and get civilians out. Brain helps, once he finds her. However, a Keyblade wielder knocks Skuld out a window and into Scala ad Caelum, where she can see the destruction. In the chaos, she runs into Sven and Sigurd. The three of them, along with Brain, hatch a plan to protect everyone: send any civilians to the docks, and set up a barrier around a portion of Scala ad Caelum to contain the fighting, which Brain volunteers to do. Sigurd says he can get reinforcements. The four go their separate ways to enact their plan.

Mimir's section: Mimir is taunted by Darkness as they run through the streets of Scala ad Caelum, thrown back into their memories from the Keyblade War as the Player. Kris—a student who Sigurd had recruited to help evacuate civilians—finds them and gets them out of the fighting, slowly talking them through things until they're steadier. Kris explains what she knows, helping to guide them toward where Kvasir and the others are.

So, uh…this chapter kept growing. Originally, I thought this was going to be like…40 to 50 pages. It's 85. But I made it. Yay?