RWBY: Shadows and Flames
Chapter 1
The Spark Before the Flame
Grannd's Perspective
The clash of steel rang out again, the air between them alive with the sharp tang of heated metal.
Sparks scattered like embers, dying as quickly as they were born. Grannd didn't stop—couldn't
stop. He pressed forward, each strike heavier than the last, forcing Mavis back inch by inch.
His breath came hard, but the fire within him burned steady. Measured. Controlled.
Mavis caught his blade with her own, her stance unshaken. A flicker of approval crossed her face
before she twisted sharply, redirecting the force of his attack and sending him off-balance.
Grannd recovered quickly, swinging the pommel of his sword toward her side. This time, she had
to block.
For a moment, there was nothing but movement—strike, counter, adjust.
Then the world flickered.
The flames danced high, warm and wild, casting flickering shapes against the trees. Laughter
echoed, unburdened and free.
Willie chased after a flaming Beowolf, his movements exaggerated, playing the fool for their
entertainment.
"You're gonna trip over your own feet," Grannd chuckled, shaking his head as he shaped the fire
into a second figure—a Huntsman, blade in hand, challenging the beast.
Willie only grinned. "Then you'd best be ready to catch me!"
Hong and Doughal clapped as the fiery figures clashed, a display of light and shadow across the
clearing.
For a moment, everything was perfect.
Then came the shriek.
Mavis' boot slammed into his chest.
Grannd staggered back, catching his footing at the last second. He lifted his sword just in time to
block the next attack, but the force of it rattled his bones.
She wasn't letting up.
Good. Don't let up.
He adjusted his grip, forcing himself to breathe through the pain. He needed an opening.
He needed to break through.
The first shriek had frozen them.
The second sent Willie tumbling into the fire.
Grannd moved before he could think, grabbing him, pulling him free. The flames still clung to
him—Grannd barely noticed as he reached for his semblance, smothering them before they could
do more damage.
A third shriek.
The air grew heavy, pressing down on them like the weight of a mountain.
Doughal gasped. Hong stumbled.
The trees whispered with movement.
Then the shadows stepped forward.
Grannd swung, a low arc meant to knock Mavis' weapon from her grasp.
She met him halfway, steel scraping against steel.
Their swords locked—but Grannd was stronger.
He pushed, forcing her back, and twisted his grip to wrench the blade from her hands.
For the briefest second, he had her.
Then, pain—sharp and sudden, the crossguard of her sword slamming into his skull.
The world blurred.
The fireball burst outward, a wave of heat and light consuming the clearing.
It should have been enough.
It should have burned them to nothing.
But when the smoke cleared, they were still there.
Still moving.
Still coming.
Hong tried to run, but his legs buckled beneath him. Doughal choked on a breath that refused to
come. Willie hadn't moved since Grannd pulled him from the fire.
The air was suffocating. His flames flickered, dying against the weight of it.
The Apathy closed in.
Grannd roared and charged.
The haze of pain burned away beneath his fury, his body moving before thought could catch up.
Mavis stood her ground.
She did not flinch.
She waited.
Grannd struck—his blade glowing with the heat of his semblance, carving through the space
between them.
Mavis met him with a perfect parry, then slashed across his exposed flank, shattering his aura.
His sword slipped from his grasp.
For a moment, he was unarmed.
But he was not helpless.
The shrieks drowned out the sound of his own heartbeat.
His body refused to move.
His fire was dying.
Claws found his back, slicing through the last remnants of his aura.
Pain.
Cold and sharp, tearing through flesh.
His vision dimmed.
His ears rang with the sound of his friends' weak, broken cries.
Green mist curled around his fingers, rose up around him.
The weight on his body held him down—but something deeper stirred.
Something old. Something waiting.
Save them.
Save them.
Save them!
The fire returned, but it was not his own.
Mavis staggered.
Just for a moment.
Grannd saw it—felt it.
His grip tightened. His breath came in deep, controlled bursts. His muscles coiled beneath his
skin, his body burning hot, searing from the inside out.
He surged forward.
The fight tipped.
Mavis blocked, but he was faster now. Stronger. His slashes came heavier, more relentless, his
blade carving through the air.
She was losing ground.
Grannd barely noticed the sting of the wounds she managed to land—they healed almost
instantly anyway.
He could win this.
He needed to win this.
His blood thrummed beneath his skin. His hands curled, his nails—too sharp—dug into his
palms.
Then, with one precise strike, Mavis cut across his hands.
His grip failed.
His sword fell.
Grannd barely registered it.
He lunged.
Mavis' blade pressed against his throat.
His hand—half-clawed, half-human—was at hers.
The moment stretched.
The fire in his veins raged.
Then—
"Grannd."
Mavis' voice cut through the haze.
The fire flickered.
He exhaled.
Slowly, he pulled back, his fingers trembling as he forced them to unclench.
His breath came heavy.
His pulse roared in his ears.
"I yield."
The words felt hollow, but they were the only thing keeping him grounded.
Mavis did not lower her weapon.
"Do you?"
A pause.
"Aye."
She watched him for a long moment, then finally—finally—sheathed her sword.
"You're unbalanced," she said, her voice even. "You almost lost control."
Grannd let out a breath, raking a hand through his sweat-damp hair.
"I know," he admitted. "I'm sorry."
Mavis' gaze was steady. "And I forgive you. But you won't find many others to be so
understanding."
He swallowed hard, forcing himself to stand. His body still felt wrong, even as the claws became
nails once more.
Mavis studied him, then sighed. "I know what today is. That's why I asked you to spar."
She didn't finish the thought.
She didn't have to.
Grannd wiped his hands against his tunic, ignoring the slight tremor in them.
"I went with you," he said quietly, "so I could atone."
Mavis watched him for a long moment. Then, at last, she nodded.
"I don't blame you for feeling that way," she said. "You carry an enormous burden, my friend.
But the Light is good, and He will gladly ease your burdens."
Grannd wasn't sure he believed that.
The doors creaked open.
"Lady Mavis. Knight Seeker Grannd."
Ignacio stood in the doorway.
"The Council asks for your presence."
The halls of the Gray Abbey were ancient. Older than the kingdoms. Older than the war that
nearly sundered them. Older than the Wayfarers themselves, some said.
They were carved into the very heart of the Forge, the great mesa that loomed over Vacuo's
sands like an unyielding sentinel. A place that had outlasted empires, kings, and every foolish
soul who had thought to conquer it.
Grannd's boots struck stone with each measured step, the sound swallowed by the vastness of the
corridor. This place had a way of making men feel small. Not by grandeur, like Atlas, nor by
towering spires, like Mistral. But by sheer weight—of stone, of time, of history pressing down
on him with every breath.
The air here was cool, untouched by the desert heat beyond the mountain's walls. Torchlight
flickered against the carved murals lining the passage, etchings of old battles, of lone warriors
walking roads no one else dared to tread.
A reminder.
That the path of a Wayfarer was not meant to be easy.
That was what the Forge did. It stripped a man down. Burned away what was weak. Left only
what was true.
But what was true?
Grannd wasn't sure anymore.
"Long walk, eh?"
Ignacio's voice broke the silence, casual and unbothered, as if he wasn't standing in a hall older
than most cities. The lynx-eared Faunus adjusted his belt, the hilts of his twin sabers clinking
against his armor as he walked beside them. "I swear, we could've made a faster path to the
council chamber."
Grannd exhaled sharply. Not quite a chuckle, but close.
"Wouldn't be the same, would it?"
Mavis, walking ahead of them, didn't turn, but he caught the slight tilt of her head, the quirk of
her mouth.
"No," she agreed. "It wouldn't."
She understood. The Forge made men reflect.
It was meant to be a long walk.
A man needed time to reckon with himself before standing in that chamber.
The corridor widened into the Vault of Silence, a vast, solemn chamber where old weapons and
armor lined the walls—remnants of those who had come before. Some were pristine, carefully
preserved. Others bore the scars of battles long since won or lost.
Some had names engraved upon them, in Old Valean, in the flowing script of Mistral, in the
rough-cut glyphs of Deo Ghreine.
The names of the dead.
Grannd let his gaze pass over them, moving without slowing.
He had no right to look.
His friends' names would never be here.
They were written in Deo Ghreine.
The passage narrowed again, curving toward the Hall of the Wayfarers—a place so vast its
ceiling vanished into darkness. High above, constellations had been carved into the stone, set in
the precise positions of the stars as they had been before the kingdoms rose.
Before the Great War.
Before the world had tried to break itself apart.
At the far end, iron doors loomed, etched with the words of the Wayfarer's Creed.
To guide is not to lead. To shield is not to command.
We are servants, not saviors.
Grannd stared at the inscription for a long moment.
The words had always sat heavy on his shoulders.
Now, they felt heavier still.
Mavis stopped before the doors, turning to face him. Her blue eyes held something
unreadable—something between approval and quiet concern.
"You know what they're going to ask."
Grannd adjusted the collar of his jacket, still damp with sweat from the duel.
"Aye."
"They won't question your skill," she said.
Grannd knew that already. But the weight in her voice told him that wasn't the point.
Ignacio snorted. "Dunno why they bother. We all know he's capable."
Mavis gave him a sharp look, but Grannd caught the flicker of something in Ignacio's
expression—a knowingness. A hint of something unsaid.
This wasn't just about the fight.
Or the training.
Or him.
Grannd turned back to the doors, at the words carved into iron.
Servants, not saviors.
For the first time in years, he wasn't sure he believed that.
The doors swung open.
The Council awaited.
The Council chamber was colder than the rest of the Forge.
Grannd stepped forward, his boots echoing softly across the ancient stone.
He had stood here before.
It had never felt like this.
The seven high-backed chairs before him were occupied by figures of quiet authority. They did
not merely watch him. They studied him.
To his left, Mavis stood steady. To his right, Ignacio remained silent.
But they could not stand for him now.
A sharp voice broke the stillness.
"The Council recognizes Knight Seeker Grannd MacAoidh."
Rotterstein.
The Grandmaster's presence was like stone—unmoving, unshakable. He did not command with
force. He did not need to.
"Knight Seeker," Rotterstein intoned. "You stand before us on the seventh year since your
induction into the Wayfarers."
A pause.
"A time of reflection."
Another pause.
"A time of consideration."
Rotterstein's gaze settled on him, measured.
"We have observed your growth." His voice was even. Smooth. "Your skill with the blade is
evident."
A flicker of something in his expression.
Not warmth.
Expectation.
"Your mastery of fire…" he let the words settle, "is promising."
Grannd felt his shoulders tense.
Not recognition.
Not approval.
A leash.
Rotterstein sat back, fingers pressing together.
"But strength," he said, "is not the measure of a Knight."
The silence deepened.
Grannd inhaled through his nose. Kept his voice level.
"I have done my duty, Grandmaster."
A flicker of movement—Halbrecht, shifting in his seat.
"Duty," the Knight Captain repeated. "An easy word to say."
His piercing gaze met Grannd's.
"But tell me, Seeker—do you know why you fight?"
Grannd's jaw tightened.
"To protect," he answered.
A murmur.
"Protect," Goldweaver mused. The old Sage's silver hair caught the dim light as she leaned
forward slightly. "That is what all knights believe."
Her tone was not unkind.
But it was testing.
"And when protection is not enough?" she asked. "When fire alone cannot turn the tide?"
Grannd frowned slightly. "Then we fight harder."
A low hum passed through the chamber.
"You fight harder," Halbrecht echoed. His fingers tapped against the armrest. "Not wiser?"
Grannd exhaled slowly.
"I follow the Oaths," he said simply.
Silence.
Rotterstein watched. Waiting.
Lady Goldweaver's eyes softened slightly. "The Oaths guide us," she said. "But a Knight is not
guided by words alone."
Halbrecht's voice was sharper. "And tell me, Seeker—have you truly followed them?"
Grannd stilled.
"I have upheld the Oath of Protection," he said carefully. "The Oath of Restraint. The Oath of
Balance."
"And yet," Halbrecht said, "you do not hesitate to wield your flames."
His meaning was clear.
Grannd's fire was not just a weapon.
It was an act of will.
A manifestation of something deeper.
A sharp exhale.
"Do you wield fire?" Halbrecht asked. "Or does fire wield you?"
A moment passed.
Rotterstein raised one hand.
The conversation ended.
Not abruptly.
Not forcefully.
Simply because he had willed it.
The Council fell silent.
"Words," he said, "are easy."
He let the weight of them settle.
"But tell me—where do you stand?"
Grannd felt the stillness in the chamber tighten.
There it was.
The real question.
Not of skill. Not of strength.
But of belief.
And before he could answer—
Rotterstein flicked his fingers.
The council chamber dimmed, the great forge-fires burning low, letting shadows creep against
the high stone walls. A deep, resonant hum filled the air as the projection ignited, flickering to
life in the center of the chamber.
Grannd watched as the image formed—a city of towering spires and proud walls, bathed in
golden light.
Beacon.
He had never been there, but the name carried weight even within the Forge. Vale's Huntsman
Academy, a place of legends. A symbol of Remnant's unity. A stronghold of the Light's
influence.
And in mere moments, it was falling.
The image shifted. Screams. Smoke. The sky choked with black clouds.
Grannd's fingers curled into fists.
The tower—the heart of the city—cracked.
Then collapsed.
A yawning pit of darkness swallowed it whole.
His breath slowed.
It was one thing to hear of ruin in distant lands. It was another to see it. To watch a place of light
and learning be devoured.
A low growl built in his throat. The Grimm.
The streets crawled with them. Beowolves, Nevermores, creatures he had never seen
before—twisted things, all gnashing maws and writhing limbs, swarming through the academy
like a flood of living nightmares.
People ran.
People fell.
People died.
Grannd's stomach twisted.
They were students.
Young warriors, clad in armor and cloaks, barely more than children, facing monsters that should
have required seasoned Huntsmen.
A flash of movement.
Grannd's eyes flicked up.
There—among the chaos, a man with white hair cut through the battlefield, flanked by
sword-wielding boy and a girl in bronze armor.
Then—a scream.
The camera snapped away.
The projection flared white.
Then—another scene.
Grannd frowned.
The image changed—and something shifted in the air.
The Grimm still roamed the streets, but now they weren't alone.
Grannd narrowed his eyes.
The next wave of destruction did not come from the Grimm.
It came from Atlesean Knights.
Grannd stiffened.
Rows of white-plated androids stood in formation, their sleek frames unmarred by battle, their
weapons raised. Their targets?
Not the creatures.
People.
A woman in civilian clothes stumbled forward, waving her arms, screaming something—a plea,
a warning—
A bullet tore through her chest.
She crumpled.
Grannd's breath left him.
The Knights did not falter.
They marched forward.
Firing into the crowds.
Grannd felt a sickness rise in his gut.
"Huntsmen were unprepared for such an attack," Rotterstein said smoothly, his voice measured
in the wake of chaos. "They were struck from within their own walls."
Ignacio's voice was sharper, lynx ears flattening back against his head. "We warned them."
"And your warnings were heard," Rotterstein replied, unmoved. "Atlesean forces were sent.
They stood alongside Vale. And yet, the kingdom fell."
The screen shifted.
The battlefield was silent now.
Grannd exhaled sharply.
For a moment, he thought the projection had gone dark—but then, against the backdrop of ruin, a
figure stood.
Small.
Unyielding.
A girl.
Her cloak—a deep, battle-worn red—fluttered in the dying embers of the battlefield.
Her hair was black, windblown, streaked with soot.
And her eyes—
Grannd froze.
Her eyes were silver.
They burned.
Grannd had seen warriors before. He had trained under Mavis, sparred against Ignacio, fought
alongside the finest of the Wayfarers.
But this girl—
She stood.
Not like a soldier.
Not like a Huntsman.
She stood as if she had been placed there.
As if something greater had set her on this path.
Grannd swallowed hard.
Across from her, something moved.
A woman, pale and terrible, clad in red and gold. The very air around her seemed to twist, to
darken.
Grannd felt a pressure coil in his chest.
This was no ordinary enemy.
Even through the projection, he could feel it.
And then—
The girl's silver eyes flashed.
A wave of light burst outward, raw and searing.
Grannd inhaled sharply.
The Wyvern atop the ruined tower froze, turned to stone.
Silence fell over the chamber.
Grannd realized he had not moved.
Had barely breathed.
This was something else.
Not aura.
Not Dust.
Not even a Semblance.
It was—
Light.
"She has the Gift."
The voice cut through the stillness.
It belonged to Nambur.
There was no reverence in his tone.
No fear.
Just certainty.
Goldweaver exhaled, her silver hair catching the dim light. "A rare thing," she murmured. "Rarer
still, in these times."
"And more dangerous," another councilor added. "For the enemy does not suffer such gifts to
live."
Grannd turned to Mavis, his voice low.
"What gift?"
Mavis didn't look at him.
"Later."
Grannd's jaw clenched.
On the screen, the girl's silver gaze lingered.
He had never met her.
Never heard of her.
But he knew, somehow—her world had just changed.
And so had his.
The air in the chamber was thick—charged with the weight of what had just been witnessed.
Beacon had fallen.
The Grimm had torn through its defenses. Atlesean machines had turned on the very people they
were meant to protect.
And then—
That girl.
Grannd exhaled slowly, his hands tightening at his sides.
He did not know her.
But he had seen her.
And that—that light—
Before he could make sense of it, the murmurs began. A low tide at first, then a wave.
Some voices were measured. Others sharp, cutting.
And then—the shouting.
"Madness!" A Sentinel to the left of the chamber slammed his palm against the table. "We
cannot bring her here! You saw what she did—what she is. Do you think the enemy does not
know of her?"
A murmur of agreement rippled through his faction.
"She is powerful," another agreed, his voice low, wary. "Powerful enough to attract the full
weight of the Darkness upon us."
"And what of our Creed?" yet another countered, his voice rising above the growing discord.
"Have we forgotten who we are? What we are meant to do?" He gestured to the screen, to the
fading image of the girl's silver eyes. "This girl—this child—bears the mark of the Light itself.
And yet you speak of turning her away?"
"She is not one of us," another snapped.
"And what of that?" Goldweaver's voice cut through the clamor like the edge of a blade. "The
Light does not choose only the Wayfarers. He does not belong only to us."
"Then let the Light guide her elsewhere," another Sentinel shot back. "Let her find her own
path."
A scoff. "And let her be cut down before she understands her own power?"
A pause.
Tension tightened the air.
Grannd watched. Listened.
This was not the first time the Council had been divided.
But there was something different now.
Something frantic.
Fear.
And it was not just fear of the enemy.
It was fear of what had been seen.
Fear of what the girl was.
"Enough."
The single word silenced the chamber.
Grandmaster Rotterstein had not raised his voice.
He never raised his voice.
He did not need to.
Slowly, he rose from his seat, his long robes shifting like the slow roll of smoke. His face—lined
with age, yet untouched by weakness—was unreadable.
But his eyes—they measured.
They always measured.
"The girl," he said, calmly, deliberately, "is indeed extraordinary."
A pause.
He let the weight of those words settle.
"And because she is extraordinary," he continued, "the question we must ask is not whether we
can help her—"
His gaze swept across the chamber.
"—but whether she will help us."
Grannd stiffened.
The shift was subtle.
But it was there.
He had heard these words before. In different rooms. Different voices.
Dressed in logic. Wrapped in reason.
A subtle redirection.
Goldweaver's brow furrowed. "Help us?"
Rotterstein inclined his head, his expression neutral. "A girl who bears the Gift of the Light as
she does—she is no ordinary traveler. She is not some lost soul to be guided by the hand. If we
take her in, we must understand that we do so at a cost."
"The only cost is our own fear," a Sentinel growled.
A Sage scoffed. "And what of the cost she will bring upon us? The enemy will come for her."
"They come for us regardless," Mavis interjected, her tone cold.
"And if she leads them directly to our doors?"
A silence.
A Sentinel leaned forward, his voice low, firm. "We are not soldiers."
"No," Goldweaver agreed. "We are guardians. And this girl—this child of the Light—is in need
of one."
More murmurs.
A shift in the tension.
But still, no consensus.
And then—
A voice, deep and steady.
Nambur.
"Ruby Rose will stand in these very halls."
The chamber turned.
Knight Sage Nambur stood at the far side of the council table, his robes draped like gathering
storm clouds. His voice did not rise, did not need to.
His words, as always, settled.
"She will come," he said, his golden eyes reflecting the dim light. "And she will not be alone."
A quiet dropped over the room.
Grannd watched the old man carefully.
He had seen it before.
Nambur's gaze did not falter.
"She will stand within these halls," he repeated. "And in her hands, she will carry the Lamp."
A ripple of reaction coursed through the Council.
Mavis inhaled sharply.
Grannd frowned.
"The Lamp?"
Ignacio stiffened. "The Relic?"
The Relic of Knowledge.
One of the great artifacts said to have been left behind by the Light itself.
Grannd swallowed.
He had heard of it. In manuscripts. In lessons.
In warnings.
And now—this girl, Ruby Rose, would hold it?
"She will bring it here," Nambur said simply.
Goldweaver exhaled.
"And the enemy?"
Nambur's expression did not change.
"They will follow."
The room ruptured.
"We would be painting a target upon ourselves!"
"The Light already shines upon us—we cannot hide from the dark."
"We cannot risk the Abbey—"
"We cannot risk her!"
Voices clashed.
Grannd felt the tension pull like a tightening wire.
Too many voices. Too much fear.
Rotterstein raised a hand.
The room fell silent.
His gaze lingered on Nambur.
"And you are certain," he said slowly.
"I am."
Rotterstein exhaled, his expression unreadable.
"Then the question is no longer whether she will come," he murmured.
"It is who will bring her."
A beat.
Then—a name.
Spoken with certainty.
"Grannd."
Grannd stilled, turning to Nambur, searching the Sage's eyes for any hint of deception.
None.
The chamber was silent.
The moment hung—suspended, weightless—yet heavier than stone.
Grannd's name had been spoken.
And suddenly, everything had changed.
Him?
The weight of their gazes pressed upon him, a dozen eyes sharpening, measuring. Some curious.
Some doubtful. Some expectant.
He should have expected this.
And yet, he had not.
Grannd inhaled slowly.
He was a Knight Seeker. This was his duty.
But why him?
The murmurs began immediately.
"Grannd?" A Sentinel frowned. "A bold choice."
"He is untested," another remarked, gaze flicking toward him. "The world outside these halls is
not like the training grounds."
"He has been tested plenty," another countered. "More than most Seeker's twice his age."
Grannd's hands tightened into fists at his sides.
He did not flinch at the scrutiny.
But he felt the weight of it.
Ignacio scoffed, arms crossing over his chest. "Untested? He's untested?" He shot the naysayers
a sharp look. "Were we watching the same trial?"
Grannd exhaled. Trial of Purpose.
It was still fresh in his mind.
The fire. The restraint. The blade at Mavis' throat.
Do you wield fire?
Or does fire wield you?
A Sentinel shook his head. "That boy has never faltered in his Oaths. Can the same be said for all
who sit in this chamber?"
A few hard stares were exchanged across the council floor.
Mavis' voice was steady. "He is ready."
Rotterstein leaned back slightly. His fingers, long and aged, folded neatly over his knee.
The air shifted.
Here it comes.
The Grandmaster's gaze settled on her, unreadable.
"You are certain?"
Mavis did not hesitate. "I am."
A pause.
The pause stretched.
Rotterstein studied her for a long moment, then tilted his head slightly.
"Then tell me, Sentinel Redwall," he murmured, "who is Grannd MacAoidh?"
The words hung in the air.
Grannd felt it—a quiet, deliberate trap.
Rotterstein was patient.
And when he asked a question, it was never idle.
The room watched. Waited.
Mavis' expression did not change.
But she inhaled once, deep and steady.
And then—she spoke.
"Grannd MacAoidh is a Knight," she said simply.
Not a boy.
Not a recruit.
Not a lost soul.
A Knight.
Her voice carried the weight of conviction.
But also—understanding.
"He is stubborn," she admitted. "Headstrong. A mind as sharp as his blade."
A slight hum from Goldweaver.
"But more than that," Mavis continued, "he is faithful. To his Oaths. To his Creed. To the people
he serves."
Her gaze shifted, blue eyes finding Grannd's own amber.
To Grannd.
"Sometimes to his own detriment."
Grannd's breath stilled.
She'd never spoken those words aloud before.
Mavis faced the council once more.
"He does not ask for leadership," she said. "Nor does he seek it. But when the moment calls for
someone to stand—"
A pause.
A knowing glance.
A memory of fire and steel, still fresh in the air.
"He does not hesitate."
Rotterstein nodded slowly.
His expression was thoughtful.
Or—at least, he made it appear so.
"He is strong-willed," he said. "Conviction is a fine thing."
A pause.
"But conviction is not always wisdom."
A murmur of agreement from the more conservative of council members.
Goldweaver leaned forward slightly. "What are you suggesting, my lord?"
Rotterstein did not answer immediately.
Instead, he turned to Grannd.
"A question, Knight Seeker."
Grannd braced himself.
Rotterstein's gaze was piercing, sharp without sharpness.
A sword hidden in velvet.
"You have been chosen," he said. "But tell me, Grannd MacAoidh—do you choose this in turn?"
A breath.
A beat.
The question settled into the room like a slow-moving storm.
His throat felt dry.
Grannd was not naive.
He knew what this was.
A challenge. A trap.
One spoken in the form of a gift.
This mission was his duty.
But that was not what Rotterstein had asked.
Rotterstein had asked if he wanted it.
And that—that was different.
The Light does not command.
The Light calls.
And the willing answer.
Grannd inhaled slowly.
Then he stepped forward.
His voice did not waver.
"Aye," he said. "I choose this."
A hush fell over the room.
Rotterstein studied him.
Long. Measured.
Then—he smiled.
A small thing. Barely there.
"Then it is decided."
A slow exhale.
Grannd had the mission.
The choice had been made.
But something in his gut told him—
This was only the beginning.
The underground river stretched into the darkness, its waters deep and ancient, flowing beneath
the Forge like a forgotten artery of the world. The stone walls, carved smooth by centuries of
quiet erosion, bore the scars of old Wayfarer engravings—names and oaths etched by hands long
since turned to dust. Dim lanterns lined the dock, their flickering glow casting elongated
shadows along the cavern ceiling, as if the past itself lingered, watching.
The Caltag waited.
The schooner's twin masts stretched upward, its black hull sleek and sturdy, built for speed upon
the open sea. The furled, ruddy sails bore Grannd's emblem: a wolfshead entwined with flame, wreathed by Deo Ghreinian knotwork.
Soon, those sails would catch the winds beyond Vacuo's shores, carrying him eastward.
Toward her.
Grannd stood near the bow, gripping the railing as the ship gently rocked beneath his feet. The
distant mouth of the cavern loomed ahead, where the underground river would spill into the
vastness of the ocean. He had sailed these waters before, but never like this. Never with a
mission placed so squarely upon his shoulders.
Behind him, the crew moved with quiet efficiency. The seadrones worked methodically, their
blue-gray plating glinting under the lantern light. Mechanical hands secured rigging, checked
provisions, and prepared the vessel for departure. Among them, his officers oversaw the last of
the preparations. Thyme barked out orders, ensuring every strap and buckle was secure.
Parsley double-checked the charts. Torman inspected the weapons locker with his usual
precision.
Yet despite the bustle of work, Grannd was not alone.
Mavis, Ignacio, and Nambur remained on deck with him.
He had expected words from them, had expected the weight of parting. And it came, but not at
once.
The soft hum of a projection filled the space.
Amity Collosseum flickered into view.
Grannd saw it as if he were standing in the arena himself. The towering coliseum, the roaring
crowds, the golden glow of the Vytal Tournament in full spectacle. And then, at the center of the
frame—a girl in red.
Ruby Rose was younger than he had expected. Pale skin, dark hair, eyes like silver mirrors. A scythe,
taller than she was, unfolding into a weapon of impossible reach. She moved like a whisper
between the cracks of battle, her semblance carrying her in bursts of rose petals and momentum.
She was fast. Too fast.
Not reckless. Not wild. Calculated.
She didn't just react—she adjusted, adapted.
The projection shifted, showing the others. Her team.
Weiss Schnee fought with the precision of a fencer, every strike measured, glyphs at her feet
amplifying her movement. Blake Belladonna moved like a shadow, her clones dissipating into
smoke, drawing enemies into missteps before cutting them down.
And then there was Yang.
Golden hair ignited like flame, gauntlets roaring as she struck with the force of a warhammer.
She was strength incarnate, a storm barely held in check, all power and momentum.
Grannd studied them all.
He studied her.
The projection faded.
"So," he muttered. "That's Ruby."
Mavis nodded, arms crossed. "That's her."
Grannd exhaled slowly, gaze lingering where the projection had been. "She's strong."
"She'll need to be," Mavis said. "Beacon has already fallen. The enemy will be hunting her."
A beat of silence passed.
Then, finally, Mavis stepped closer. She did not look at him at first, only past him—toward the
river ahead. When she finally spoke, her voice was calm, but firm.
"The Oaths will guide you, Grannd," she said, "but they are not a cage."
He glanced at her.
"You are a Wayfarer, but more than that, you are a man of the Light."
He held her gaze.
"Aye," he said.
"The Council will not be with you in Vale," she continued. "The Abbey will not be with you.
Neither will I."
A pause.
Then, gently, she placed her hand over his.
"But the Light will."
The words settled into him, deep and unshakable. He swallowed against the weight of them.
"I'll remember."
Mavis gave a small nod, squeezing his hand once before stepping back.
"That is all I ask."
A hand clapped onto his shoulder.
"Seven years," Ignacio mused, his lynx ears flicking slightly. "Feels like yesterday you were
trying to figure out how to fight without setting yourself on fire."
Grannd huffed a quiet laugh. "And you were tryin' to figure out how not to trip over yer own
feet."
"Hey, I've improved," Ignacio shot back. "You, on the other hand, are still the most dramatic
person I know."
Grannd snorted. "Says the man who writes poetry about his own victories."
Ignacio grinned, then leaned in slightly. "I'll fill Storm and Valentina in later. You know they'll
want to hear about this."
Grannd nodded. Aye. They would.
Ignacio stepped back, rolling his shoulders. "Take care of yourself, Sparky."
Grannd rolled his eyes. "Aye. And don't let Storm talk you into another bet."
"I make no promises."
The laughter faded. The moment stretched.
And then Nambur stepped forward.
His presence quieted everything.
The Sage moved with deliberate calm, his golden eyes reflecting the lantern light like molten
metal. He studied Grannd in silence, as if weighing something unseen, something only he could
perceive.
Then, at last, he spoke.
"I have had one more vision."
Grannd stiffened.
"You will save the life of Yang Xiao Long."
The words struck like a hammer to the chest.
Grannd blinked. "...What?"
"I do not know how," Nambur admitted. "I do not know when. But it will happen."
Grannd frowned, his mind flashing back to the tournament footage.
Yang Xiao Long had not seemed like someone who needed saving.
Strong. Fierce. Unbreakable.
"How?" he asked. "How do I save her?"
Nambur shook his head. "I cannot say."
Grannd exhaled sharply. "That's not exactly helpful."
Nambur's gaze sharpened. "My visions are not puzzles for you to solve before they happen."
Grannd set his jaw.
"I tell you this so that you understand," Nambur continued, "that your path is already bound to
hers in some way. The moment will come. You must be ready."
Grannd let the words settle.
And then, quieter, Nambur added, "Do not let your heart blind you to your duty."
The warning curled in his chest, settling somewhere deep.
Grannd exhaled through his nose, then nodded. "Aye."
He would remember.
He had to.
The moment stretched.
His crew stood ready. The final ropes were untied. The sails would unfurl soon.
Beyond the cavern mouth, the river waited—and beyond that, the sea.
Mavis, Ignacio, and Nambur stood before him, the last ties to the life he had known.
Grannd met each of their gazes, then finally, he stepped back, gripping the ship's railing.
The Caltag began to move.
Dark waters carried him forward.
He did not look back.
Author's Note
Howdy y'all!
Shadows and Flames exists because I love RWBY—but like many fans, I often found myself thinking, "What if they'd just shown us a little more here?" This story sticks close to canon, but it's my attempt to expand on the world of Remnant, adding depth to characters and moments that the show didn't always have the time—or space—to fully explore.
Grannd and the Wayfarers were created as a direct response to that. They're part of my effort to make Remnant feel more lived-in, with history, cultures, and people beyond what we see on screen. Their role will unfold as the story progresses, and I hope you'll enjoy discovering that alongside Team RWBY.
While I aim to honor canon, I've also made some "course corrections" where I felt the narrative could be stronger. I'd genuinely love to hear your thoughts—feedback and comments are always welcome. Thanks for reading!