His father was chopping wood. He'd know the burly silhouette of the man anywhere. Even now, father's great size made Owain feel small. Owain bid Tiche run ahead to inform his mother he'd arrived. Father spotted them as they opened the gate that led to the small inner field at the front of the sprawling farmhouse. As Tiche chirped a good afternoon to Hywel, and the man straightened, Owain steeled himself. He'd not seen his father for centuries, not since the crucible knights had gone forth with Lord Godfrey in his banishment.

It had been so many years since Owain had watched father's ship leave the lands between, in fact, that this moment hardly felt real. Owain had so much to say, so much to ask if he ever saw father again, but his tongue wouldn't form the words. Too much pain was burrowed in his chest, too much grief. Even before the shattering, the keen hurt of the banishment of the first elden lord and his knights had been a wound deeply etched.

His eyes could not seem to lift themself from the dirt as he shuffled forward to stand before his sire. Owain had let the order his father had helped build shatter. Owain did not wish to see the disappointment he was sure to find on his father's face. Highlord Hywel would never have been bested by the knives. Highlord Hywel would have seen the finger's tricks for what they were. Father was smarter, stronger, wiser, than Owain. Father would not have been blind to it all.

His father's boots, worn and scuffed, came into his lowered vision. The axe he held was discarded in the dirt beside them. Owain stumbled forward into the iron of father's chest as a rough hand grabbed his nape and yanked him forward. He heard soft sniffles, was father crying? "Thou'rt returned to me at last, mine pride." Hywel choked out gruffly. Owain's throat closed at the sudden rush of tears.

He stammered into father's shoulder, the scent of armor polish and old cloth was comforting. "F-father, I-"

Fingers of callused bronze worked their way through Owain's hair, "Forgive me, child. That I wast not there to keepest thee safe. Forgive mine long absence." Father's voice was tight, a far cry from its normal low growl.

Owain's arms wound around his sire's middle as he desperately tried to stop his tears, "It is I who should beg forgiveness. The Golden Order… I failed, father. In my duty, I failed and the lands broke." So too did his sobs, Owain could not help himself as he cried harshly into father's shoulder.

Father did not speak for a long moment before rearing back and cupping Owain's face with careful hands. "I would chideth thy self-sacrificial nature, but I am to blame for that as well. I knowest not every mystery of what befell these lands of gold in mine banishment, but I knoweth with full and true surety the blame layeth not upon the house Turonus. Thou heareth me, boy?" The green of father's eyes was dark, a deep-set glint within his earnest scowl.

Owain frowned, "But-"

"It is not thy- our fault, pup. So I spake, so it is." Father's thumbs were gentle as they traced his cheekbones to wipe his tears. His palms were as unyielding metal, that Owain might not be able to look away in shame.

"Aye father." he said softly.

Father grunted, working his jaw, "Blessed son. I've called for thy sisters, by the morrow they shouldst arrive. Go and greet thine mother." The stubble of father's beard scraped against Owain's brow as father planted a heavy kiss before releasing him.

Owain frowned at the dirt, forcing himself to speak clearly, "I am…that you are home is of great comfort to me."

"Aye, aye, here to mindeth thee anew. Go, pup." Owain complied with a small smile.

He found mother in her front sitting room, she rose swiftly from the chaise she rested upon at his entrance. A frown settled on her face as looked him foot to head. "Well?" she beckoned him with open arms, "Te me, mine joy."

Owain stuttered forward, eyes anew to the floor. His mother's foot tapped impatiently, "Mama, I'm sorry." he mumbled.

She yanked him down by his shirt collar, smacking his arm with her free hand, "Ye should be. What use is all this muscle if ye canst not fight yer way home? Arrogant boy o' mine." Her words were harsh, but tears that brimmed in her dark eyes and her husky voice wavered.

Owain found a smile forming on his lips as he brought the smaller form of his mother into an embrace, "The black knives are the deadliest assassins to ever live, mama." he spoke softly to the crown of her head.

A small fist burrowed into his side and he winced, "And yer my son."

A laugh stole from him, "Forgive me."

Her voice was crackling and muffled by his shirt as she held him tightly, "Wirra, this vision o' foolishness afore me! Listen not to mine blusterin's, that ye art home and breathin' anew is a gift most precious."

He pulled away, wiping at his eyes, "Have you been…has there been any trouble of late, mother?"

The waxy scar that spanned from his mother's nose to her lower jaw stretched as she sneered at him, "Nay. What trouble couldst find me with how many o' yer horselords're tramplin' bout mine lands."

Mother had been a corsair before Father had won her heart. It was long before Owain's time but even unto the shattering, many had spoke of the scourge of the golden coast in hushed whispers. He was glad indeed Oswald had deployed so many sentinels to her lands, lest mother make war herself.

"And the girls?" he asked tentatively. He knew they were safe now, but they'd refused to tell him if any trouble had found them whilst he'd been dead.

She shrugged off his hands and he dutifully followed her towards her grand kitchen. She probably wished to make them tea, "Loreley n' Crissida both remain in high Altus. That wee castle o' yers wast as stout as the walls o' Leyndell. Likkle Os set the place a swimmin' in yer golden knights."

Owain grinned, happy to know his prepared nature had aided his siblings. He'd gifted them a small keep that sat within the outer walls to the north. Owain had actually gifted his family most of the territories granted to him by the queen over the years. The keep mother spoke of had originally been erected to watch over a sprouting of the Erd Tree, but larger fortifications had eventually been built, leaving the small keep free.

"Our family is restored, mama." he said quietly, smiling as she set a kettle to boil.

"Aye, t'is." She murmured.

They'd only been sat for tea for perhaps ten minutes before he noticed his mother getting annoyed with him. He sighed, a death and a century later and still he could not escape getting scolded.

"I see why ye drive poor Ranni te loon!" She rolled her eyes, placing her tea cup down gently.

Owain leaned forward, "Have you…was she here?"

Mother nodded, tapping her chin thoughtfully, "Not but a few days past, she 'ppeared afore me. Wailin' n' weepin'. Pleadin' te me te speak some sense inte ye. Spooked yer da te high heaven."

"We quarreled." Owain frowned, watching slow steam wisp from his tea.

Mother scoffed, "Ye thinketh me daft, boy?"

His eyes flicked up and he cringed at her expression, "Did she tell you of…all that has happened? Of Godwyn's fate?"

"Aye." she murmured, "Dark tidin's indeed." her face softened as she reached across the small table to take one of his hands in her own.

"I am trying to be more compassionate." his voice was soft, he had not entirely wished to speak of Ranni to mother yet.

"T'is not compassion ye need but sense. Ye took a carian princess as yer bride, son. Madness stainest that family's very bones. Caution ye need. Careful words n' prudent deeds, ye need. Mind thy manners, Owain. Ye ken?" Her dark brows furrowed as she stared him down.

"Aye, mama." he sighed.

She harrumphed, "Doth not looketh so dashed! Now, lay yer burdens atop this table, let yer mama offer aid and council aplenty." Owain smiled softly, overjoyed to be home at last.

As the heavy doors shut behind Leda, Miquella wept. He could never allow his knight, nor any of the many others he'd charmed to his cause, see him so out of sorts. The ferocity of his tears surprised him, the rush of emotion that he'd thought would depart when he'd at last separated himself fully from Trina. To feel this grief so strongly, it was debilitating.

After so long, Leda had finally returned from her mission beyond the veil of shadow and had brought to him news most bittersweet. Owain lived. Owain. For a moment, a hopeful, childish, moment; Miquela had thought perhaps he would not need to go through with his ultimate plan. He'd thought that Owain, after seeing how the Golden Order had failed so miserably, would turn from it. He'd thought the loss of Ranni would stoke in the commander the searing fire needed to fully burn away any vestiges of gold. Then Leda had continued to speak.

Owain was repairing what was shattered. He was restoring the tree sentinels, Leyndell, the alliances of the golden reign. It was clear to Miquella, damnably clear, that Owain was rebuilding The Golden Order. The man had even somehow bound Ranni once more to her flesh, ripped Radahn from Miquella's planned lordship, and subverted Rykard's fate to the serpent. It filled Miquella with clashing hope and drowning despair for he knew what must be done.

It had taken Miquella so long to realize, to fully understand; Owain's righteous nature was the shield of his mother's cruelty. When he was but a boy, he'd so loved his family, his nation, he looked forward to his future with eyes blinded by the gleam of the golden city. Alas, his body may have been cursed to stagnation, but his spirit grew, and with it so did his dread.

How could such evil be done in the name of good? How could a woman who had brought about the gruesome deaths of untold millions, be lauded as a goddess of purity and justice? How could no one else see what he saw? It was Owain! It was Godwyn! It was his father! In his lofty realizations, he knew it was all those that stood as noble pillars, upholding ignoble acts. However, at a visceral, base level level, it was Owain, Lord of the Golden Rampart, that was to blame.

No other had prevented his mother from being ousted with such surety. No other had deflected each and every blow to the eternal one, had safeguarded her and her wickedness with the stalwart fervor of the highlord. With every foiled assassination attempt or defeated rebellion, the mountain of dead at his mother's feet only grew. Maddeningly, It seemed to him as if he were the only one to really see.

It all must be cast away, his past, his very being, if true change were to be made. A gentler world was within reach if only he had the daring, the courage to claim it! Yet, here he sat, nestled in one of the smaller libraries of Enir-Ilim, crying meekly in an armchair. His weakness disgusted him. After everything he'd done to get here, after all the sacrifices he'd made, that he'd spurred Malenia to make in the name of his dream, how could he falter now? At just the thought that perhaps Owain would come and right it all in his stead? Hold him close and kiss his scrapes and promise that all was well because he was there?

Miquella scoffed wetly to himself. Centuries old and acting as naught but a spoilt child. No, he could not allow Owain to set everything back into order once more, for the same corrupting system would begin and all the effort Miquella had put forth over these many grief-filled years would be for naught. Wain would be furious when he found out just how far Miquella had gone. He'd be beyond all reason, should he find Malenia still alive. His sickly sister had always been favored by the commander. Miquella wiped at his eyes, resolved. It was far too late to run back to his protector, tail betwixt his legs, there was work that needed to be done, change that needed to be forced. Miquella could let none stand in his path.

They did not see, but he did.

Vyke awoke to half-dark. It was odd, his mind felt so quiet and his eyes no longer ached with such frenzied intensity, but he was sure madness still gripped him. How else could he be holding his Silvershine in his arms? He almost laughed, but it died in his throat, he was wary of disrupting the vision. He wondered idly why all appeared to be so very detailed yet slightly out of place.

He cast his gaze around the room, curious as to why he could not see from his right eye, but more curious as to the quality of the apparition before him. They were within his quarters, really Lanss' quarters, in the hall of the great dragon. He would have thought such an illusion would perfectly recreate their rooms of eld, but there was so much changed that it perplexed him.

Medicinal supplies lay upon the bed stand beside him, countless books he'd never read lined the far shelf. The walls themselves seemed…unmaintained, as if they were long overdue for replastering and repainting. He frowned, and found the expression crowded by something on his face. Carefully, he lifted the hand that was not being clutched by his wife to his head. Bandages? Ah, they blocked his sight. He smiled absently as Lansseax rolled over in her sleep, flinging a muscled arm across his midriff.

A low panic crept its way across his skin. Her eye too was bandaged, her left. "Hush now. Rest now. I have you. There, my sweet. Drink but a sip." Vyke swallowed thickly, the words spoken were his dragon's but why did he-

Memories, agony and loneliness and taunting whispers, flooded his mind. Decades of restraint undone in a moment of utmost folly. He'd allowed himself to be freed from his prison, he'd allowed the frenzied beast that writhed behind his eyes to escape! He must away, this was real! This was real! This was- Lansseax must not be harmed! He gingerly tried to withdraw himself only to be caught in surprised hands as his wife woke swiftly. She'd straddled him and clasped his wrists above his head in a hand faster than his panicked mind could track.

Her eye, ambered and fierce, watched him groggily for moment before it snapped wide. He needed to flee, to find another prison, he mustn't bring harm to- "The taint is gone, husband." she rasped earnestly. She'd always been able to read him too easily.

"Release me, beloved, This thing within me cannot be allowed free reign." The words cloyed as tar upon his tongue, needing to be said but still desperately unwanted.

"That thing is dead, torn from you." she snarled, leaning her face near to his.

"Dead? Then I- my mind is…." his whisper trailed off. It was always heartbreak most painful to see his lady weep.

"I was told that madness would not hold you so tightly, but its shadow yet lingers and your mind might yet be in disarray." she whispered, laying her brow to his.

"H-how is this possible?" he stammered, overwhelmed.

"The Carian queen." she breathed.

He swallowed thickly. That explained it then, "Ah."

Her hand across his wrists tightened, "Vyke. Promise me you will not flee."

He kissed her slowly, stomach whirling at the reunion of their long bereft lips, "I promise, Lansseax." it was the easiest vow he'd ever made.

She released his wrists to nestle his face to her shoulder, sinking atop him languidly, "I have you. In my claws and in my sight I have you once more. Such contentment as this I thought never to be mine again." In her sight she said. He knew what they'd done. Vyke knew what she'd sacrificed for him. He did not know how he could love this woman any more than he already did, she was ever his hero.

"I still…if this is a vision, I do not wish for you to fade." he watched the wraiths that lingered at the edge of his sight warily, he was not wholly righted.

She knew, as she always did. Her whisper was a gentle husk, her lips upon his ear were loving, "Your visions, can they touch you as I do?"

"Never." he murmured.

She kissed him once more, tongue betwixt his teeth before they parted with a gasp, "Can you taste them as you taste me?"

"Not even at their most captivating." he promised, meeting the scald of her eye with a shadowed smile.

She guided one of his hands to her sternum, his fingers pulsed in time with her blood, "Do they offer you the same heat as I? The same passion?"

He closed his eye, fighting sobs, "They are- they were always cold, cleaved of all joy or warmth."

Her soothing scent of herbs and the spice of her sweat comforted him, he finally released his tears as she spoke into his hair, "Then trust in me, pretty bird. Cleave to me, hold to my touch, to my taste and to my heat. Your mind might be cruel to you, but never shall I be."

"Oh, Silvershine." his arms worked around her muscled core, grasping blindly, "You have saved me. I had forsaken even myself but I should have known you would not leave me to such an end."

Her husky chuckle balmed him, the smile he felt as she pressed her fangs to his throat was the most potent of salves, "You are mine. To love, to keep, to safeguard. Should you ever commit such foolishness as that which robbed you from me again, not even in the realm of death will you be safe from my wrath."

"Never will I wish to be free of you, my love." he promised with a sigh. After so long of such torment, to be safe like this was almost more than he could take.

"My daughter's rite was imperfect." the Carian queen admitted, gaze lingering upon her whelp. Fortissax glowered. It had taken a great deal of calming talks to allow the princess to attend this meeting, Fortissax breathed in deep, focusing on the breeze that flowed through Queen Rennala's quarters.

"Mother?" the princess asked.

"Such a pale shade of destined death upon the black knives, such a fluttering shadow." the queen continued, "I found it curious, Prince Godwyn's body canst still casteth spells. A spell requires a will, a will requires a soul." Fortissax' eyes widened, her hands were clenched to tight fists. Her lord's soul was not dead? Her eyes met Morgott's, who stood still as stone beside the queen.

The princess frowned, "But mother, my sorcery- it wast destined death I ensorcelled upon the blades, I know it true."

The queen nodded, "Aye daughter, and in thy haste thou erred. Thy rite was…sound, passable to perform what thou sought."

This was taking far too long! "His soul. My love's soul is not lost to us? Speak!"

"Soul has been severest from body, it is that connection that wast truly slain. The prince's soul was cast apart and away, pieced to many delving deeps through creepin' time and crawlin' stone." Why must the sorceress always speak in riddles?

"Speak plain, witch!" Fortissax snapped. The graven Sellen, who lingered in the shadows, tensed. The human's nervousness irritated Fortissax.

The queen sneered before smoothing her face, "The growths of deathroot thou hast studied, I believe they holdeth the key. Though still I must confirm."

Morgott at last broke his silence, "Then, his soul lieth within the growths? We might yet restore him?"

"I speak only theory, King. I offer only careful course." Rennala laid a gentle hand atop the king's shoulder, to the surprise of the man himself.

It was taking most all of Fortissax' patience to restrain her ire, "Then why speak at all! Why taunt me with this hope?" she spat.

"There is more, lady dragon." the queen's eyes flashed in warning, "Even shouldst the many strands of his essence be gathered and wound anew, t'would mean nothin'. I couldst not grant him freshly fashioned flesh as I have afore. The other's aided me or were laid low. Godwyn the golden is too powerful, his bein' too burnin', too much magic dwellest within his spirit, even now. He is his mother's son."

Enough, her heart could not take this vacillation! Fortissax stepped forward, fangs bared, "Queen of Caria, if-"

The air edged with rising frost and all besides the dragon sucked in a cautious breath, "Dost thou truly think I wouldst relay to thee only tragedy? Mind thy tongue." Fortissax almost struck the queen, the anger that roared beneath her skin almost overwhelmed her, but her devotion to Godwyn placated it. The queen waved the waiting Carian forward, "Sellen."

The woman strutted out of the shadows, head held high, "You are welcomed for my knowledge, Lady Fortissax. For only I hold such wisdom as you need. Not even Rennala could restore your prince without me." The carian princess pinched her brow and Fortissax damnably resonated with the sentiment.

"Speak." Fortissax growled.

"What tricks I used for Rykard will not work for the golden. Godwyn's flesh must house Godwyn's soul, there can be no substitutes." That she addressed Godwyn without the proper honorifics rankled the dragon greatly.

Morgott raised his hands, stepping between witch and beast, "Pray, I can beareth no more of this academic maundering, what must be done?"

"An Empyrean soul is needed." Sellen said lowly, "Wirra, we've only the one. So a new one must be forced." The smile on the witch's face made Fortissax insides crawl with unease.

"How would we be complete such a task? How wouldst one compel the finger's choice?" Morgott pressed.

"Not all is as simple as you think. New life must spring forth. From the Highlord."

A gasp sent Fortissax' gaze to the dimwit princess, "A child of my flesh." Ranni breathed. What she understood, Fortissax had yet to and it only incensed her further.

"Not a child, no, a soul. Untouched, unblemished, uncolored." The graven's gaze was electric, her lips pulled too far too back in a poor imitation of a smile.

"And how would…wouldst thee utilize albinaric extraction?" Morgott frowned.

Sellen shook her head, "Nay, I dare say it would not work. The sentinel's seed is what is needed. Implanted within a willing, draconic, womb. Ordained by…un-divine intervention, circumvention of the vile digits is a deed never done, but I am nothing if not confident." At last, Fortissax understood. Within her lay the path forward.

"He-with another woman." The air grew heavy, the princess crowding Sellen, "Thou - how dare-"

The queen swiftly interceded, catching Ranni about the shoulders and steering her from the other witch, "Hush, daughter. He needst not perform the act, only offer up-" Rennala made an expression of discomfort, "Sellen shall handle such things, his oaths of fidelity to thee and to Caria shall be safe."

Fortissax stepped forward, stilling her shaking hands, "Then, I shall take Owain's seed within me and enkindle a godful soul?"

Princes Ranni sputtered before Sellen cut through her babbling, "You have asked for a miracle, princess, I can not provide such divine grace. I have only the tools of an apostate, and it through such bloody and gnarled ways that Godwyn might truly live once more."

The princess met her eye and Fortissax recoiled at the weakness she found, "Lady Fortissax, surely we can yet seek another way, surely-"

The dragon snarled, "I will do whatever I must to raise my lord, coward. Queen and graven witch both proclaim this to be the surest way to the slightest chance."

"Then…" Surprisingly, Fortissax watched the girl's face harden in resolve, "I understand. Empyrean flesh is needed. My flesh. Shifted and shaped may it be but we knoweth now the taint of the fingers hast not left it. What hast become of Godwyn is mine fault, I know that. I wouldst not let thy future be forever stolen by my folly. I shall offer no more protest." She bowed her head. Fortissax bit back the scathing retort that yearned release from her throat. That the ever proud princess lowered her head was good, it was enough for today.

"Then tasks hath we, a plan!" Morgott clapped with a laugh.

"I shall teach to you my spell of soul weaving, Ranni. Long toil do you have before you, princess." as the graven witch smiled at the girl, this time one that was unstretched by mania, Fortissax smiled as well. It was more a baring of teeth but such a thing befit her fearsome joy. From the deepest of despairs she saw it now. The small and fragile thing she'd once known as hope glittered in the distance. She would see her lover returned, she would.