I finally have internet set up at my new place! It took a while because, it turns out, the siding of my house is asbestos. It's 100% safe, so long as I don't break any of it.
Unfortunately, that meant I couldn't have the internet company drill into the side of my house. They had to have everything go through my basement and up through my ceiling, it was a whole ordeal.
Anyway, happy reading!
To the people of Spargus, there was a sort of mystery behind Ionna and Damas. A sort of "are they, are they not?" rumor mill drama.
Not to Sig, of course. He was a Nomad, a native Wastelander. He was used to deciphering relationships based on actions, not words. But those from Haven City apparently needed a damn neon sign to tell them how people were related.
(Seriously, engagement rings? Only use he could see for those was to melt them down and patch up some armor.)
But Sig could see it clear as day. He saw it in the way that Ionna's eyes flashed when Damas made a sarcastic comment, or the way he always asked her advice before anyone else's. He saw it when Ionna would rest her hand on Damas' back, right between his shoulder blades, as though it belonged there all along. He saw it when Damas glanced at her occasionally, smiling in a way that was free of his normally harsh demeanor.
Sig saw all the non-verbal cues, the way they managed to have an entire conversation with facial expressions and body language. That kinda relationship? More rare than water in the desert.
He'd see them in the morning sometimes, walking around the city. Closer than they normally were, laughing and talking like they normally didn't. Every once in a while, when Sig couldn't sleep and went to the palace really early, he'd see them sitting in the throne room. Damas would help Ionna brush her hair, or sometimes they would just be sitting together, close enough their shoulders touched.
So Sig wasn't really that surprised when Ionna stopped wearing her armor because it was too tight around her stomach. When Damas became a little more watchful over her, gripping her elbow to help her balance on the stone steps or offering her water more often than usual.
"She's 'bout ready to pop," Sig told his mama one day. He was sitting at her old kitchen table, while she dropped scrap metal into the forge. "I'm calling it, any day now."
She pursed her lips. "She's got at least another three months. Hit the bellows for me, will you, baby?"
Sig did as she asked, pressing on the bellows with his foot and watching the fire climb higher. "You think? She's gettin' pretty big."
"Not yet." She pulled on her gloves and picked up a pair of tongs. "Trust me, chili pepper, it takes time. You should know that."
She pulled out the crucible and brought it to the anvil. As she poured the molten metal into the mold, she continued, "Never rush a lady when she's makin' something. When she's done it'll be perfect." She set her tools aside and pulled off the gloves, giving his ear an affectionate tug. "That's how I ended up with you."
Sig laughed. His mama pulled out the mallet and began to pound the metal into shape. He watched her, with her braids tied up on her head and beads of sweat dripping from her face. Finally, when she finished, Sig asked, "You ever regret it?" At her look of confusion, he explained, "You know, havin' a kid out here?"
His mama never lied to him. Harsh truths and bitter wisdom, she used to say, did the soul good. She pondered the question for a moment, then answered, "Not regret, exactly. But it wasn't easy, you know."
Sig tilted his head. "Would you do it again?"
"In a heartbeat." There was no hesitation in her response. "There's lots of things I'd have done different, but having you isn't one of 'em." She sat down beside him and sighed. "I wish I'd kept you safer. Given you a good childhood, instead of what you got."
"I had a great childhood," Sig argued. "Remember my poopsie bear? And all those stories?"
She gave him a shadow of a smile. "A bear and some stories didn't keep your stomach full. It didn't keep you away from metal heads and Marauders. It didn't keep you warm at night or cool during the day. It didn't keep you from gettin' sick or injured."
Sig didn't remember any of that, but his mama had never lied to him. "I was always safe with you," he insisted.
"Listen, Sig." She leaned forward, her eyes intent on his suddenly. "There's a difference between safety and security. Your child can be in the safest place in the world, locked behind iron walls and guarded by the fiercest warriors. But unless that child is in your arms? They'll never be secure."
She walked away from the forge and picked up another piece of armor, a chest plate. As she set it out on the table, she added, "And that's not something that ever changes, you know. I worry myself sick whenever you go out on missions and I don't hear from you."
"You tryin' to guilt me into visiting you after missions?"
His mama laughed. "I'm just sayin'," she said, raising her mallet over the armor, "that the world is a dangerous place, and parents will always worry about their kiddos. It doesn't matter if it's in the desert or in the city."
Sig folded his arms over his chest as she worked on the armor, the mallet clanging on ringing metal. When she finished, wiping her brow, Sig said, "You act like it's gonna be difficult for 'em."
"Hardest thing in the world." She paused, then added, "But it's different. I was alone when I had you. Nomads don't band together, not like Wastelanders do. This little one...they'll have the whole of Spargus behind them. They'll have Ionna, they'll have Damas. They'll have you."
With a rush of cold water, Zy'air tempered the armor she was working on. Steam billowed from the metal, pouring over her body and hiding her face.
When the steam cleared, she flashed a smile at him. "Not a bad family if I do say so myself."
There was a storm coming, Sig explained, so they would have to wait until it passed to head out on the search into the Wasteland. Jak tried to ask more questions, but Sig refused to answer.
"I'm already breaking Damas' word by tellin' you anything," he reminded them. "Everything else is need to know."
"Don't we need to know what this guy looks like at least?" Daxter argued. Sig shook his head.
"I'm the one doin' the searching. You two are my backup. Just worry about what metalheads and Dark Makers look like."
Daxter rolled his eyes at this. "Here I thought you were our pal, Sig!"
"Look, I told you," he said firmly. "Nobody in Haven can know about Damas' son. I know they're your friends, but you know what they're like. Opportunists, in the worst way."
"And you don't trust us to keep our mouths shut?" Jak asked in a low voice.
"Hey, I know what they're like, too." Sig shrugged. "Some of the folks in Haven City made a living gettin' info out of unwilling people. I trust you two, I really do, but I can't risk it. All it takes is one slip up."
And he refused to say any more.
In the meantime, Sig told them to go about their business as normal. "I'll come get you when the storm's passed. We'll head out then." He folded his arms and glared at them with his good eye. "And none of this gets back to Damas or Ionna."
Which left Jak to head for the infirmary the next day, having nothing else to do. Business as usual, just like Sig said, right?
The bell rang overhead as he and Daxter entered. Ionna was, as usual, at the counter making something. "Hey," Jak said, leaning against the counter. "Sorry we're late."
The cooking pot was full of boiling water, the fire below it crackling pleasantly. Ionna had a jar of some kind of pale yellow powder next to it, and was slowly scooping spoonfuls to put into the water. He watched for a moment, curious as to what she was making.
He'd always been interested in watching people make things. He liked to watch Keira build vehicles, her hands putting gears together and peeling metal shells apart. On boring afternoons in Sandover, he could be found sitting on the sculptor's floor, watching him chisel at rock and sand off rough corners. Even Samos' work, as he ground herbs with a mortar and pestle, was fascinating to watch.
So Jak's attention was automatically drawn to Ionna's hands as she measured out the powder. Slow and calm, she always had a methodical way of creating her tonics and medicines. But this time was different.
Her hands were shaking.
Badly, Jak noticed. Bad enough that she couldn't quite hold the spoon steady, sending the powder scattering all over her counter.
"Dammit!" She slammed the spoon down and exhaled sharply. She grumbled something under her breath and snatched a rag from the basin. As she cleaned up the spill, she said, "I'm sorry, Jak, but as you can see, I'm not in much of a condition to do our lessons today. I can barely function as it is."
She gave them a pained smile. Daxter hopped from Jak's shoulder onto the counter. "Relax, sweetheart," he said smoothly, taking the rag from her hand. "Orange Lightning and his sidekick are here! What'cha need help with? We got you!"
Ionna glanced at Jak. He shrugged. "We didn't have anything else to do today," he told her. "We don't mind helping."
"Well…alright. Here. Two spoonfuls." She moved out of the way and let Jak take her spot at the cooking pot. "Daxter, there's a basket of ingredients in the cabinet. Can you pull them out for me?"
"Yes, ma'am!" Daxter gave a mock salute and threw the rag at Jak, who tossed it smoothly into the laundry basket. Ionna chuckled at their antics, then pulled a stool over to sit down. Jak took a spoonful of the powder and dropped it into the pot, watching it swirl and dissipate in the water.
"Thank you both," she sighed. "I'm sure Sig or Damas told you that I have visions. When they strike, they…are rather exhausting."
"Yeah, Sig mentioned it." Jak watched as Daxter pulled out what appeared to be a basket full of spices, grains, and vegetables. "You doing okay now?"
"As good as I can be." As he started sorting through the basket, she stretched her arms over her head. "There's a knife in the drawer beneath the basin."
While Jak pulled out the knife, Daxter eyed the basket. "So, uh, what sorta medicine you makin' here?"
"It's not medicine," Ionna explained. "It's lunch. Vegetable soup."
"Oh. Um, just so you know, I'm not…great at cooking." The only real experience Jak had was of his days in Sandover, roasting fish on sharpened sticks. His uncle had never been one for complicated meals, usually eating salted meat and raw fruit. Soup was most definitely not on the menu.
"No better time to learn," Ionna said, rubbing her calves. "Besides, vegetable soup is easy. Got the knife? Good. Start chopping the celery into chunks."
While Jak did as she said, Ionna turned to Daxter. "There's a bottle of oil in there. Pour a little bit into the other cooking pot."
Daxter nodded and followed her orders. She leaned back in her chair, watching them and commenting every once in a while. She directed them to chop the rest of the vegetables and dump them into the pot of oil, stirring occasionally. Soon, the room was filled with the smell of cooking vegetables, earthy and savory. Jak found it almost soothing, to do something so…normal. As he threw the rest of the onions, he caught a glance at Ionna. She was smiling widely, watching as they made something from scratch.
Had she done this with her son, he wondered? Had she taught him how to cook and clean? Helped him chop vegetables and simmer oil?
"Are you alright, child?" she asked as he stirred the vegetables together. "You seem quiet."
Quiet. He was always quiet; that was his natural state. Instead, he just said, "I'm fine. I just don't cook too often, that's all."
"And thank goodness for that," Daxter snarked. "You know our boy here once tried to eat metal meat?"
Ionna looked revolted. "That's…I don't even know how to respond to that." She nodded at Daxter. "Go ahead and put the vegetables into the water."
"He's always been like that," Daxter told her. He dumped all the cooked vegetables into the pot and brushed his paws off. "When we were kids and used to go fishing, you'd turn around for five seconds, and bam! He's got a raw snail in his mouth."
"You can eat fish raw," Jak reminded him. "Remember that place in the bazaar?"
"Yeah, but snails aren't fish!" Daxter made a face. "You're just gross."
Jak stirred the pot and watched all the chunks of vegetables float and sink. Daxter had snuffed the fire to the second pot and was washing it, wiping the oil with one of the rags.
"No one ever told you not to put unknown things in your mouth?" Ionna remarked. "Or was it simply that you didn't listen?"
"My uncle raised me," Jak explained. "He traveled a lot, so it was usually just me and Dax."
His uncle hadn't really wanted anything to do with Daxter. No one did, really, except Jak and Keira. But Daxter had needed a place to sleep, and Jak had room and a big heart, so his uncle had just shrugged, said, "Jolly good, then," and moved on with his life.
"It was just your uncle and you?"
"Yeah. I mean, the whole village used to take care of us sometimes. Me, Dax, and Keira were the only kids around, and we were all orphans. Kind of." He shrugged and stirred the pot again. "Keira was adopted by her father, but Dax and I only had my uncle."
"How were you related to him? Maternal or paternal?" she asked. Jak tilted his head, frowning. "Uncle on your father or your mother's side?" she added gently.
"Oh. Um…" Jak paused. He'd always been told that the Explorer was his father's brother, but that was obviously not true. Now that he thought about it, how had he ended up in his uncle's care? Had the Explorer known that Jak was really a stranger's child, not his dead brother's? Or had Samos constructed some elaborate lie, a story to convince the man his nephew was real?
Had they all known? The villagers, the people who raised him? Had they known he was different?
"Paternal," he blurted out suddenly, not willing to let his mind go there yet. "My dad's brother."
"..." Ionna must have sensed his hesitancy, so she just said, "Good of him to raise two children as well as he did. Cooking lessons notwithstanding."
"Ugh, raised is a strong word for it." Daxter knew Jak well enough to know that he needed to be a distraction. "That old explorer was always leavin' Jak and me home alone. I swear, Jak's lucky he isn't feral."
"I'm not convinced." Ionna stood up and began to pull out bowls and spoons. "Trying to eat a metal head?"
Jak cringed. "He makes it sound worse than it was. It was just a few bites."
"You cooked it!" Daxter shrieked. He'd taken up the position stirring the pot while Jak started washing the utensils they'd already used. "You lit a campfire, you gutted it like a yakkow, you skewered it on a spit, and you roasted it! You were clearly going to eat the whole thing!"
"How did it taste?" Ionna asked curiously. "I'll admit, it never occurred to me to try, but…now I'd like to know."
"Not good," Jak confirmed with a grimace. "Really bitter, and it was hard to chew. Plus it made me sick to my stomach for the next few days."
"I can only imagine." Ionna gestured to the soup. "Blow out the fire, it's done."
Daxter did so, making a big production of huffing and puffing. Jak snorted and set the dishes aside to dry. Ionna set out the bowls and began to scoop soup into them.
"Can you take these," she said, handing them to Jak, "to the beds over on the end? I would greatly appreciate it."
The infirmary was mostly empty. Jak could only see three patients: an older man who looked to have a broken arm, a teenage girl who was pouting as she sat in bed, and a young woman with a gash on her chin.
He delivered a bowl of soup to each, to varying degrees of gratitude, and returned to see that Ionna had poured three bowls at the counter.
"Sit." She gestured to a stool beside her own and handed him a bowl. "You helped make it, you get to help eat it."
"Don't mind if I do!" Daxter dove into his soup with vigor before Ionna could finish.
"But let it cool before you—oh."
"Ack!" Daxter swallowed his mouthful of soup and waved his hands at his mouth. "Hot, hot!"
"Well. Never mind, then." Ionna blew on hers to cool it, and Jak followed suit. She held her bowl up towards him. "Cheers."
"Cheers." Jak tapped his bowl against hers, while Daxter tried to eat another spoonful. He yowled in pain, while Jak rolled his eyes. "C'mon, Dax, you're smarter than that."
"I'm hungry!" Daxter snapped. "Precursors know, if I had to rely on you to eat, I'd never want to taste again!"
"Who knows," Ionna added, taking a bit of her own food. "You might end up having to eat a metal head."
Daxter burst into laugher, loud and racious; Ionna started to laugh with him, hiding her smile behind her hand. Jak folded his arms, but gave in eventually, as he always did with his best friend. And before he knew it, the three of them were laughing over their lunch, comfortable and easy-going, familiar and happy.
Staring at Seem through the cracked door, Damas felt his heart pound in his chest.
She was silently crying, tracks of tears smearing the paint on her face. Her eyes were staring at Ali's body, still bleeding on the floor. Praxis kicked the body aside viciously. "Damned coward," he snarled. "Even after everything that happened, he couldn't do it."
Damas slid back against the kitchen wall. Five seconds ago, he would have been happy to escape the palace himself, to run to safety and deal with the fallout from somewhere else.
But he couldn't leave Seem. Not after what had just happened to Ali, not after watching Praxis' face twist with menace like this. Not after seeing how she shook and sobbed behind all of the guards.
There was a moment, brief and intrusive, where Damas remembered those depthless, black eyes. Where he remembered that, of all the people in the room, Seem was the most dangerous. That she could tear her way through those guards as easliy as paper, if she wanted to.
But that was the thing. Damas knew that she didn't want to. He knew that she couldn't control her powers, and he knew it would be worse if she tried to. Right now, the only threat was Praxis.
He was enough to deal with right now.
"Find him! Check the evacuation elevators, anywhere he might have escaped to!" Praxis' voice was drowned out by a chorus of "yessir" and doors opening and closing. When it was finally quiet, he snarled softly, "You. Get over here."
Damas wasn't sure who he was talking to, but his question was answered immediately. Seem gave a yelp of pain; he shifted to look through the door again.
Praxis had grabbed her forearm and yanked her towards him. "If you are going to fight for your city," he said darkly, "you need to readjust your attitude! Watching one man die is nothing compared to watching hundreds!"
"I…I don't fight…" Seem's voice was higher than usual, though she was clearly trying to hide the way it wavered. "I'm not a soldier, not like you."
"Don't play games with me!" Praxis shook her arm roughly and Seem winced. "You went into the metal head nest alone with no weapons, and came out with the Light Eco Sage!"
Seem's voice got stronger, harder. "I only went there because Ionna was in danger. I won't go back."
"Hmph." Praxis gave a nasty smirk. "You underestimate my abilities, little girl. If you won't go of your own volition, well…" He placed his hand on her chin and forced her head up.
"I can arrange for a repeat of history."
Damas felt a chill run through his spine. Seem jerked back, trying to get away, but his grip held fast. Damas tensed, readying himself to barrel in and take on Praxis, ignoring the fact that he had no weapons and no chance of defeating the general in hand-to-hand combat.
He reached for a cast-iron skillet. Might as well go down swinging. Literally.
"Do you understand me?" Praxis growled, shaking Seem's face. "I will drag Ionna out to that nest and then we'll see how many metalheads you're willing to face!"
"Believe me when I tell you," a voice said from the other side of the room, "that I would love nothing more than to see you try."
Damas exhaled with relief as Ionna entered through the doorway. She had her arms folded and a chillingly fake smile on her face. Praxis blanched.
"How did you get in here?" he demanded.
"I…walked?" Ionna glanced down at her feet. "How else was I supposed to get in here?"
As Damas watched, her eyes caught his own and she blinked. Her gaze immediately went back to Praxis, however, and she continued, "I've come to take Seem home."
Damas gripped the pan tighter. All he needed was the right moment…
Praxis pulled Seem behind him. If Damas hadn't known any better, it would've looked like he was protecting her from danger.
"The Dark Sage is staying here." Praxis sneered at Ionna, who didn't look bothered in the slightest. "She is needed to destroy the metal heads. Her power is—!"
"You don't need to talk this much. I'm not really listening." Ionna took a few steps forward, deliberate and calm. "So where's Damas?" she asked, glancing around as if she was attending a dinner party.
Praxis glared at her for a moment, then grunted, "Dead. After he betrayed the city, I was forced to step in and kill him."
Ionna laughed, and the sheer derision in her voice heartened the king. "No, you didn't. If Damas were dead, this whole place would be a mess. Haven't you ever seen the man fight?"
"He never even got the opportunity to fight back!" Praxis' lie was both bold and ineffectual. Ionna hardly seemed bothered. "I shot him in the head before he even had a chance."
"You know," Ionna said conversationally, "you and I are much more alike than either of us wants to admit. Both of us are tactical thinkers, trained to solve puzzles and think ahead." She started to pace around the room, arms still folded over her chest.
"And I'll be damned, I think I know what you have planned. Or, rather, had planned." She gestured to Ali's corpse. "Our poor friend got in your way. You planned it all out to the last detail, but the two main characters didn't behave the way you expected."
"I have no idea what you're talking about!" Praxis spat, but his tone of voice said quite clearly that he did. "Damas killed Ali, and I was forced to—!"
"Again," Ionna said curtly, "I remind you that I am not listening."
Praxis' face twisted unpleasantly. "I see you haven't grown up at all over the years."
"Yes, well, you've unfortunately regressed." She tilted her chin up. "You never intended Ali to kill Damas. You wanted Damas to kill Ali."
In the kitchen, Damas' grip tightened on the pan he was holding. Had that been the plan all along? To force Damas to defend himself? To have others kill each other, to keep his own hands clean?
There was a beat of silence before Praxis replied. "Why would I want such a thing?"
"Because it would suit your narrative." She gestured to the window, where flashes of gunfire could be seen from the city below. "A violent protest, an heirless king who killed his comrade and fled, and no one left to take the throne but the war-hero general. It's practically flawless. Except, of course, for all the flaws."
"Clever," Praxis sneered. "I suppose the Precursors gave you all the answers, did they?"
"Actually, I figured it out when a bunch of soldiers burst into the Mountain Temple and tried to capture me." Ionna shrugged. "They're all dead, by the way, but I did take custody of their communicators. You need to be more careful what you say out loud, Praxis. There are ears everywhere."
"Damas is dead!" Praxis snarled. "I killed him with my own two hands!"
"I," Ionna said, stepping towards him, a finger pointed at his chest in fury, "don't believe you. You're a liar, Praxis, and a bad one at that."
"Then where is he?" Praxis roared, spittle flying out of his mouth. "Where is your precious king, if not in his grave?"
"Oh, he's behind you."
Praxis' eyes widened. "Wh—?"
He didn't get a chance to say anything more before Damas slammed the skillet against his head. Praxis crumpled and fell against the wall.
"Let's go!" Damas didn't bother to see if Praxis was still conscious or not, instead just seizing Seem's wrist and taking off. Ionna ran with them, clapping her hands and letting her light eco illuminate their way in the dark palace. "Hurry, head for the roof!"
He took the lead, Seem stumbling over her own feet as he pulled her along. Ionna glided behind them, her wings stretching and swaying as they moved. Damas took them to an old, rusted ladder.
"Stay close," he said, mainly to Seem. Behind them, there was the distinct shouting of Praxis, barking orders that couldn't be heard clearly. "And try not to make too much noise."
He hoisted himself onto the ladder and began to climb. Seem followed him nervously, frantically glancing behind her. Ionna brought up the end of the chain, still lighting the way from behind.
Once they made it to the roof, Damas quickly shut the hatch they came through. It clicked shut behind them and Ionna stooped beside Seem, murmuring something.
"I'm fine," Seem said, a little force behind her voice. She turned to Damas, her red eyes intense on him. "General Praxis wants everyone to think you ran away. He said he's going to lock you up and put you somewhere to rot."
"Great," he said wryly. "Well, let's not give him the chance, shall we?"
It was raining, a storm picking up around them. Dark clouds hung over the city, and over the howling wind, there were shouts and screams from the city below. Damas leaned against the railing of the palace roof.
Seem and Ionna followed him. "What are you thinking?" Ionna asked.
Damas frowned. "One of Seem's powers is teleportation, right? Can she use it to escape?"
Seem hesitated, then shook her head. She mumbled something that Damas couldn't hear. He tilted his head curiously. "What is it?"
"Seem hasn't channeled any dark eco since she attacked you," Ionna supplied. Seem's gaze went down to her shoes. "She isn't able to teleport without it."
Damas turned back to the city below, thinking. Finally, he asked quietly, "Ionna, are you able to fly down from here?"
She nodded. "Of course."
"And you can carry Seem with you?" he continued. "You can take her and get to the temple?"
"What about you?" she asked. "I don't think I can carry both of you at the same time. Maybe if Seem hangs onto my back…"
"Don't worry about me. Can you get Seem down to safety?" His eyes met hers. "Can you get her somewhere Praxis can't reach her?"
Ionna stared at him for a moment, then answered, "Yes. Onin has already moved the monks to the lower levels. The only people who can access them are the monks themselves and…well, you. The Heir of Mar."
"Good. Take her there." Damas turned around and sighed. "Praxis is going to go after her with everything he has. The sooner we can ensure her safety, the better."
"Again, I ask," Ionna said, folding her arms. "What about you?"
Damas grinned at her. "I'll be fine. You think Praxis can get the better of me?"
Ionna didn't smile back. "I'm not leaving you behind," she said firmly. "Damas, you can't—!"
"Hey, we don't have time to fight this out right now." He gestured to Seem. "Praxis is still looking for us, and it's only a matter of time before he finds us. Take Seem and go."
Ionna stared at him. She pursed her lip, then finally said, "Damas."
"Yes?"
"...I'm the only advisor you have left right now." Ionna exhaled slowly. "You won't like what you hear, but I want to give you my advice before I go."
He raised an eyebrow. "What is it?"
She closed her eyes. "If Praxis catches you, he will give you the chance to surrender. Take it."
"What?" Damas blinked at her. "Are you joking? Praxis will kill me, and I'm not going to give him the chance!"
"Weren't you listening?" Ionna reminded him. "Praxis' plan is falling apart. He lost the shining, perfect win he wanted. He wanted you to kill Ali so he could claim you're unfit. Then he has a scapegoat and all the power. But now some of his men saw him kill Ali himself, so he has no one to blame for the coup."
"I…I don't understand."
"Praxis won't kill you. Not unless he wants to be seen as a traitor by the entire city." She let go of his hands and clapped her own together. Light eco flowed around her with a flicker. "He'll keep you alive, at least for now. Don't give him a reason to change his mind."
Damas hesitated, but Ionna didn't wait for him to respond. She grabbed hold of Seem and picked her up like a child. "Be careful!" he called, watching as they descended towards the city.
A boom of thunder, a strike of lightning. Damas frowned as he considered Ionna's words.
It was not in his nature to surrender. But it was in his nature to survive.
He had no chance to make it out of the palace. Even if he managed to avoid Praxis' men, with the power off, none of the elevators were running. He considered the possibility of just getting ahold of a gun and fighting his way through, but he was so outnumbered, his odds were low.
Before he could get a chance to consider his options any further, a noise came from behind him. Damas whipped around, readying himself.
The hatch opened; Praxis had arrived. As he stepped out onto the roof, his boots splashing in the rain, Damas set his jaw. It was time to make a decision, he supposed.
"I knew you'd be up here," the general growled. "So, the sages escaped, did they?"
Damas tilted his chin up haughtily. "They're safe now. I made sure of it."
"How selfless of you." Praxis' rough voice dripped with sarcasm, and he walked closer. "You would put a single girl above the entire city…this is why you should never have become king!"
"Seem is not a weapon for you to use," Damas replied coldly. "And no self-respecting king would ever use her as one."
"Hmph. Well, now you are no self-respecting king." Praxis pulled out his sword, a blade that glowed green in the misty rain. "You won't escape me, Damas. I'll give you one chance to surrender and save yourself."
Damas took a deep breath and held out his wrists. "Fine."
Praxis faltered, clearly surprised. "What are you…?"
"You win, Praxis." Damas met his eyes. "I surrender. If you want the city, it's yours. Clearly, I haven't been doing such a spectacular job." He jerked his head towards the city below, where the protests were still going strong. "And as you pointed out, I don't have much of a chance of escape."
Praxis eyed him suspiciously. "You aren't the type to give up so easily. What's the catch?"
Damas smirked. "Smart man." His expression sobered quickly. "I want your word that Antwon, and anyone else who supports me, won't be harmed."
"...Selfless to the end." Praxis raised his sword and leveled the tip at Damas' throat. "I should kill you right now."
Damas swallowed. He certainly hoped Ionna was right about Praxis' plan. Otherwise he might end up on the wrong end of that sword. Praxis' good eye burned into Damas'.
Finally, he sheathed his sword and took out a pair of handcuffs. "But I'm a man of honor. You have my word."
The cuffs snapped over Damas' wrists and that was it. With no more fight, Haven City had lost its king.
It's very important to me that young Damas finally learns his damn lesson and accepts that, sometimes, the people who can literally speak to the gods might have some good advice.
(Also I can't believe I wrote 3000 words about soup instead of moving the plot along.)
