A/N: hi~! hello~! and welcome back~!
i would apologize for the wait, but. hi hello.
a thank you to the immaculate AkaiSafire on Ao3 for listening to me whine about writing lol because i love writing but also fuck writing, you know?
all mistakes are mine because i preen these things like a mama otter fluffing up her baby's fur.
it's too hot to think where i live, so here we go
love you
enjoy
oxy

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As businesses were wont to do, the inn at the edge of the Rift beside Titan's Crossing had sprung up when its proprietor identified a niche in the market. The Crossing had become quite the popular thoroughfare, and the guarded checkpoint on the southern side necessitated a place for those turned away to lodge. For all that the inn was fairly new, however, it was just as dusty and sandy as any other establishment in the desert.

It was in a small inn room that Clive was told they would finally meet with Cid's acquaintance. The setting sun was peach through the windows and the room itself was stiflingly warm.

Clive's shoulders ached fiercely and his wrists had long chafed raw under the fetters. He wore his impatience plainly on his face.

Cid walked - well, paced, really - back and forth across the narrow space. It was only the threat of electric retaliation that kept Clive from tripping him as he passed. Still, the temptation was there. And Clive wondered if anyone knowing his situation would blame him; Cid had been nothing but irritating and cryptic since kidnapping Clive from Drake's Head. And of course there was the fact that he had kidnapped Clive.

If anything, Cid deserved a swift kick in the ass at the very least. But he very much did not wish to be on the receiving end of the variety of magic that the Dominant of Ramuh could scare up. So, instead, Clive was civil.

"Would you explain, now? What you meant the other evening when you spoke about my 'fate'?" Clive requested as calmly as he could manage.

Cid's eyes lit with mischief and he opened his mouth as though to answer Clive's question when there was a specific, patterned knock at the door followed by a low whistle.

"Hold that thought," Cid said and went to answer the door.

A young man with blonde hair drawn into three small tails pushed around Cid and into the room. He raised a brow as he took in Clive.

"This him?" The young man asked. He considered Clive with his hands on his hips.

"Sure, come right in, Gav," Cid muttered under his breath. He closed the door and turned to answer, "Yes, that's him."

"Huh."

"Gav, this is Clive. Clive, this is Gav," Cid said with a gesture. He offered Clive a grin. "The acquaintance I mentioned. Who I hope has concocted a brilliant plan to get us across the Rift unmolested?" Cid glanced at Gav.

Gav nodded. "Right-o. The Crossing is heavily guarded and for good reason — Dhalmekia don't want any Imperials or any Imperial goods that could violate Rosaria's embargo. Everything that passes is checked for Imperial markings or documents. But I've kept my eye on the Crossing for a fortnight now, subtle as you like. No matter who approaches the guards, there's one thing they never pay attention to. So, if you'll kindly hold still—" Gav said and brandished what appeared to be a pot of black ink and a thin brush, "—I'm gonna make you invisible."

Cid and Gav fixed Clive with matching mischievous grins, and Clive found that he very much did not want to hold still.

~XxX~

"Attention'll slide right off ya," Gav muttered confidently. He considered the drawing in his hand again before making another thin brushstroke that felt dangerously close to Clive's left eye. "Like water off a chocobo's back."

Clive had to work very hard to keep his head still.

It wasn't only that someone was so close to his face; the ink smelled foul and the vapors it emitted were strong enough to sting the eyes. Sitting through its application was a trial in and of itself, though Clive knew this to be significantly more pleasant than the process of receiving an actual brand. He'd watched the branding more than once in his tenure as a commander, heard screams ricocheting off stone and seen Bearers of myriad ages strain and struggle under the apathetic hands of Imperial astrologers. The absolute worst was the branding of infants; Clive truly could not imagine anything more deeply upsetting.

The branding was hours of needles, poison, and incantation resulting in one of two things - a lifetime of oppression and slavery, or death.

Clive could handle a few more minutes of gentle brushstrokes and the disgusting smell of ink that would fade with time.

He breathed in and nearly choked on the acrid fumes. If Gav spoke true, the ink would cure on the skin and retain the mark darkly and clearly for several days – more than enough to make the Crossing with ease and be safely away from any major cities.

Gav stepped back and considered his work before beckoning Cid over with a wave of his arm.

"What d'ya think?" Gav asked.

"You're a regular artist, Gav!" Cid exclaimed and clapped Gav on the shoulder.

Gav staggered a little under the force, but he smiled a self-satisfied smile and stowed the pot of ink and the brush in his satchel.

Clive stood from his seat and wandered over to the cracked mirror mounted on the wall to take a look for himself. And…wow.

Really, Gav had done an excellent job at mimicking a brand with a simple ink. Clive thought he spotted a slight wobble on a line near his cheekbone, but it was only upon an unnecessarily close inspection that he noticed it. Anyone looking Clive Rosfield in the face would believe he was a Bearer. He had become invisible, as Gav had put it earlier.

Clive was struck, suddenly, with the notion that others in Valisthea may be able to do the same thing - to copy the brand so exactly that it was nigh undetectable as a fake. Even if the process was not well known, if it was known at all Clive could imagine a market for counterfeit brands. How many villains would take the opportunity to discreetly dispose of their enemies by "branding" them and selling them to the military?

But such things were beyond Clive's control, now, and of course far from the most important issue at that moment. He closed his eyes, took a breath that was thankfully starting to smell less and less like that horrible ink, and pushed those thoughts aside.

He turned around to address Gav - to acknowledge his efforts if nothing else, as he still had no idea why they were making Titan's Crossing in the first place - but he saw Cid and Gav engaged in a tense, hushed exchange. Clive stayed his tongue and opened his ear, instead.

"...for a day or two, but it's as you said - she's sharp," Gav explained. "I make less than three days and you're in irons. Or–er, crystals? Fetters, I mean."

"We'll need to cross as soon as possible, then," Cid said. "How long till the cards are ready?"

"Two days for him, four for you," Gav said.

"Four days?!" Cid exclaimed. "For some fucking travel cards?"

"Clive's are for a Bearer - they don't even print names. Yours are more complicated."

"And they truly can't just modify the ones I had?"

Gav looked at him incredulously. "The ones you had, that said 'Cidolfus Telamon' on them in plain Valisthean?"

"To those Crossing sentries, I bet my name means nothing!" Cid didn't sound like he even believed himself, really.

Gav rocked on his heels a little. "Even if that were true, the sentries might have been informed about your movements, specifically."

Cid's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Tell me what you know, Gav. Has she already cozied up with the Dhalmeks?"

Gav shook his head. "If she hasn't already, she will soon. And you can't be here when she does."

Cid went contemplative and silent.

"What d'you wanna do, Cid?" Gav asked eventually.

"Come back tomorrow at midday," Cid decided with a sigh, "I'll've thought of something by then."

"I'll see if I can get away with a bit more sneaking around before that - see what else I can find out."

Gav left without much fanfare after that, and Clive watched Cid pace restlessly back and forth across the room once again.

Clive wondered just how he was going to go about uncovering who the mysterious "she" was. After all, she must have been someone fairly important to have flustered Cid so easily.

X~X~X

"As you so clearly have much to share, what was your interpretation of the missive, Marshal Havel?" The Prime Minister drawled, frowning.

Havel stood from his seat and slammed his hands on the grand table. "Drake's Head has fallen and Rosaria has called for the indefinite attendance of the Eikon of Earth at the front. The missive as it was received implied that the Rosarians expected the fall of Sanbreque's Mothercrystal."

"Mayhap they did," the Minister of the Velkroy said, "Why does it matter in the least to us what they expected? The Empire is their enemy, and they have nearly succeeded in conquering it."

"And when their enemy is defeated, and our alliance is no longer a priority? What will stop the Archduke from setting his sights on Drake's Fang?"

"You believe the Rosarians mean to betray us, when they still enjoy the might of Drake's Breath and will soon claim victory in the war?" The Prime Minister asked.

"It is precisely their reclamation of Drake's Breath and their forthcoming victory over Sanbreque which should give us warning! You all recall the decimation of Ironholm and the strategic weakening of Sanbreque's supply lines. Have we not spent a decade enjoying the wealth of crystal shards from the conquered Mount Drustanus? Who's to say that the Rosarians will not attempt to leverage our reliance on their generous crystal shard donations to force us into an unfavorable position?" Havel raved.

"A decade of war has left you paranoid and imagining enemies where there are none, Havel," insisted the Minister of Corava.

"They concealed their intentions to destroy Sanbreque's Mothercrystal - what else might they now be hiding from us, their supposed closest ally?" Havel countered. "We must be prepared!"

The table subsequently dissolved into arguments, and Hugo Kupka allowed his attention to wander.

Titan's might was absolute, certainly, and with the Eikon of Earth in the fray a victory over Bahamut was all but assured.

Hugo flexed and relaxed his left hand. A decade of providing support both for the war effort and the stability of Titan's Crossing…

Hugo's bones felt heavier, his joints more stiff. The victory over Bahamut was certain, and yet…

What price would Titan's participation exact on his body? He would be expected to prime and to do battle at his full strength, and already Hugo felt weaker - slower. If Havel's outlandish theory had even the possibility of truth, would Titan's might be enough to defend against a potential Rosarian incursion? Or indeed a Rosarian ambush?

Hugo had been listening to Havel's declaration some time ago - that Bahamut would prove a challenging opponent for Titan. He hadn't believed him, of course, but he had been listening.

Havel's sudden declaration pulled Hugo's attention back to the meeting.

"The demand for Titan's presence may be a trap! To weaken Dhalmekia by stealing the Warden of Earth and imprisoning him!" Havel shouted.

Said Warden of Earth scoffed on reflex, drawing the attention of the room. "Our Rosarian friends could have underhanded schemes and traps waiting to be sprung aplenty, but still they would not be able to contain me."

Havel scowled while Hugo grinned and awaited whatever drivel the older man could cook up.

It was only by the grace of Hugo Kupka's mercy that Field Marshal Havel's head had not been divorced from his shoulders years ago. The Dominant of Titan found their verbal duels more amusing than irritating, but only to a point.

"You always fail to heed my warnings, Kupka," Havel spat. "Your hubris will be your undoing!"

Ah, Havel. He never failed to disappoint. A retort rose to Hugo's lips, but before he could say anything—

"I suspect your tongue will be yours, Eugen Havel."

All eyes were drawn to the double doors of the meeting room.

The woman was diminutive in size, even compared to the stature of an average man. To Hugo, she was incredibly small. Her blonde hair was short to her chin and her eyes were a light green. And, judging from the light splatter of blood across her right cheek and the blood dripping from the blade at her side, she had just bullied her way past the Men of the Fist who had been posted as guards in the hall.

"Pardon the intrusion," she said with a nod of her head. "But I have information to deliver to and a request to make of the Chief Economic Advisor."

Aether lashed in the air. Titan stirred, a rumble like a rockslide in Hugo's ears. The Warden of Earth knew with sudden certainty exactly who had entered the room.

"What is the meaning of this?" The Prime Minister asked in outrage. "You—!"

Hugo cut him off with a raised hand and addressed the intruder, "Just what information is so important that you made mincemeat of my guards, Miss Harman?"

There were some quiet gasps from the members of the Parliament.

Benedikta Harman, the Dominant of Garuda, who had deserted her post as head of Royal Waloeder Intelligencers only recently. She stood before the Dhalmekian Parliament of Ministers to entreat Hugo for some favor? How bold.

"If we may speak privately?" Harman asked Hugo.

The table fell silent and each minister turned to look at the Chief Economic Advisor.

Well, the Dominant of Garuda seemed much more interesting company than the Parliament of Ministers. The meeting had been boring and frustrating from the start, and there was hardly any point to it when the final decisions would be put to Hugo, anyway. A conversation with Benedikta Harman—how much harm could a gust of wind inflict upon a mountain, really?

"Leave," the Warden of Earth intoned, and watched in satisfaction as the Parliament's members coerced a protesting Eugen Havel out of the room and shut the doors behind themselves.

Hugo gestured with one arm for the Warden of Wind to tell her tale. Irritatingly, she seemed more inclined to waste time with pleasantries.

"That Field Marshal of yours seems quite the thorn in your side, from what I've learned," Harman commented. "One must wonder why you deign to keep him around."

"Havel has his uses. Now, you requested privacy for a reason?" Hugo asked impatiently.

"So curt!" Harman observed, the shock in her voice plainly false. "Did I offend you by killing your guards, or is this simply how you speak to women?"

"How I speak to spies, yes," Hugo confirmed. "My guards know they risk life and limb for their pay."

"Perhaps your allyship with the Lady of Frost has chilled your heart! Do you have no loyalty for your own men?"

"I grow tired of this," Hugo warned. "Speak."

"Very well, Lord Kupka," Harman demurred. She stepped forward until she met the edge of the great stone table, leaned both hands upon it, and spoke while meeting Hugo's eyes directly, "A traitor to the Waloeder crown has crossed the border into Dhalmekia. He is escorting a dangerous prisoner. We ask your permission to operate within Dhalmekia proper, and we ask your cooperation with finding and subduing these men."

Hugo placed a palm flat on the stone and concentrated. Harman's pulse was steady, if a bit quick. Well, she was a small woman and she had just gone through the process of killing a number of men in the hallway. An elevated pulse would be normal.

"And why would a deserter hold loyalty to her former king?" Hugo asked in amusement. "To go so far as to hunt down your fellow traitors and your old king's prisoners?"

There was no change of Harman's expression, but her heart sped. Oh, had he hit a sore spot?

"...You seem an honorable man," Harman admitted softly, a lie, her pulse confessed, "and so I feel I can trust you with this. I did not desert my post; it was a ruse." Truth.

Hugo cocked his head to the side.

The Dominant of Garuda spoke further, "When our former Lord Commander left Waloed, he stole a dangerous prisoner." Lie. "I have been trying to track them along with my company. We pretended to disavow the Kingdom to move more freely. Alas, our search is slow-going." Truth.

He had many questions, but the one which seemed the most pertinent was:

"What prisoner?"

Harman kept her eyes steadily on Hugo. "I'm not at liberty to say." Lie.

So she planned to withhold the information until he convinced her to share it? Or perhaps she simply had never received an order to keep the secret? Very well. He would have fun with her game until it no longer served him.

"And you expect me to believe that you trust me?" Hugo chuckled. "Dhalmekia has no loyalty to Waloed. We have not participated in other nations' aggressions against Waloed, but that is all. Why should my people have an interest in your king's affairs?"

"Both the prisoner and the traitor escorting him could slaughter half of your people before sunrise tomorrow," Harman said flatly. Truth.

Hugo laughed, intrigued. "Well, now I simply must know what sort of man could inspire such fear in the unflappable Garuda!"

"The Second Eikon of Fire," answered Harman.

Hugo blinked and his grin fell.

Truth.

X~X~X

As soon as Dion was well enough to stand, he was called to an audience with the Emperor.

With Terence's careful assistance, he dressed in his heavy formal clothing and began the trek to the audience chamber.

The stone beneath Dion's boots was the same as it always was, though it seemed to bow and flex as he moved - a dizzying mirage that ground Dion's progress down the corridors to a halt more than once. He leaned against a wall and closed his eyes and just breathed when black spots flashed across his field of view.

Despite his fever breaking earlier the previous evening, his limbs still trembled with weakness and his muscles still refused many of his commands to move - just move.

"My Prince?"

Dion looked to see Terence's face beset by concern. His lieutenant had a hand outstretched in Dion's direction.

"I merely need a moment," Dion reassured and waved Terence off.

Terence's brow crinkled and he opened his mouth before shaking his head and closing it again without saying anything at all.

They finally came upon the grand doors of the audience chamber and Dion thanked the Great Goddess for his status that they were opened promptly for him; in this state, he highly doubted he would be able to push them open himself.

He thanked the Goddess again that the audience chamber was - save for the Emperor - blessedly empty.

Dion crossed the room, desperately hoping the swaying he could feel was not reflected in his stride, and finally knelt before the dais. Terence followed behind him and adopted a similar posture.

"Your Radiance," Dion greeted.

"Dion. I am gladdened to see you well," said the Emperor.

Well was not a word that Dion would use to describe his condition at that moment, though he was pleased his ruse had succeeded.

"Your report regarding the Second Eikon of Fire and the fall of the Mothercrystal was…enlightening," drawled the Emperor. His tone was distinctly skeptical.

Dion frowned. "I am of course willing to provide any clarification necessary, if there are concerns."

"There is no need. Dion," his father said, "I have received Divine insight regarding this war."

Truly? Dion raised his head to fix his eyes on his father. Truly, had Great Greagor delivered Her wisdom and guidance upon the Emperor?

Had the Goddess not abandoned Sanbreque?

He saw the Emperor's fingers clasped around the long stem of a stark white wyvern's tail, and Dion could feel the blood draining from his face.

"Bahamut will rain fire upon the Rosarian capital of Rosalith. He will crush the home city of the Phoenix and Shiva, and do battle in the skies above until the enemies of the Holy Empire have been laid low." He crossed the short distance to Dion and slid the stem of the wyvern's tail beneath Dion's epaulet. "You shall depart at once."

Dion squeezed his eyes shut and bowed his head. The petals of the wyvern's tail brushed against his right cheek.

No.

No. No.

He would not. He could not.

He refused.

"Your Radiance, I urge you to reconsider," Dion said before he could talk himself out of it.

The Emperor was, rightfully, disbelieving. The man raised a brow. "Do you?"

"I do."

"I shall afford you the opportunity to explain yourself."

"Thank you," Dion breathed for a long moment and attempted to gather his thoughts. "Your Radiance, at present there are far too many obstacles between Bahamut's might and our enemies at Rosalith. Bahamut is mighty and the grace of the Goddess is absolute, but the resources of the Holy Empire are dwindling. If any of the three known protectors of Rosaria were to escape a confrontation and retaliate against Sanbreque, it is possible that there would be no recovering. Already I fear for the longevity of the people without the blessing of the Mothercrystal—"

"You mean to imply that Bahamut - Greagor's champion - would fail to accomplish his mission." It was not a question when the Emperor voiced it.

"That is precisely my meaning, yes. And the Empire would suffer for it."

"Such blasphemy is uncharacteristic of you, Dion," Emperor Sylvestre criticized. "In any case, I have delivered unto you an order from on high. You. Will. Obey."

Dion's next breath in was a shaking one. "Father, I cannot."

"Retract your words."

"No. I cannot obey this order."

"Cannot or will not?"

And truthfully, it was both. Bahamut's glow remained out of Dion's reach. But even if he had access to his full power as the Warden of Light…

"I will not," Dion affirmed. There was the barest stir in his chest - the Great Wyrm approved?

"Leave."

"Your Radiance?"

"Leave me!" the Emperor growled and turned his back on Dion. "Sir Terence, remain here."

Nothing further - no more orders or criticism or commentary from the Emperor. Just—nothing.

And so Dion just stood, turned on his heel, and…left.

X~X~X

The grand doors of the audience chamber clashed shut behind Prince Dion and Terence winced a little. He hoped that the Prince could return to his chambers safely…

"Sir Terence," the Emperor greeted.

"Your Radiance," Terence acknowledged. He stared at the floor, wishing very much that he could simply follow the Prince from the room.

Alas.

From the sounds of it, the Emperor paced back and forth unsteadily across the dais, his cane thumping against the ground and his gold-trimmed robes providing a significant obstacle to his stride.

"The Great Goddess Greagor has appeared to me in the nighttime hours. She warns of Dion's loyalties. The shadow of treachery hangs over my son," the Emperor confessed.

"Treachery?"

Terence's voice was far from the respectful calm that should accompany addressing the Emperor, but he simply could not help his outburst. Dion Lesage - treacherous? The Prince did not possess a treacherous bone in his body!

But the Emperor went on: "He is blasphemous. He is false. He plans to dethrone me."

"He is your loyal son, Your Radiance," Terence said firmly.

"And yet he would disobey my orders?!" The Emperor hissed. "He means to betray me! Betray the Great Goddess..."

Terence should not have argued, truly, but, "His Highness is not false or blasphemous, Sire. He was chosen by Bahamut—"

"And She is the Almighty!" Sylvestre shouted in answer, cadence faltering. He gesticulated wildly in his pacing, cane in hand. "Ultimate—above all else!"

Almighty? Terence blinked. An odd turn of phrase.

It was only for a moment, so briefly that Terence must have imagined it, but the light caught in the Emperor's eyes such that they flashed a bright, sickly blue.

"False…a usurper…" Sylvestre muttered, pacing jerkily once more back and forth. "The Almighty has forsaken him - withdrawn the power of Bahamut."

Almighty? Terence was still somewhat taken aback by the stilted title.

"The Great Goddess has…abandoned him?" Terence asked.

"Dion is not worthy of Her might," Sylvestre replied. "And he means to watch while Sanbreque drowns in fire and blood."

Terence nodded slowly, hoping his doubt did not show on his face. "Yes, of course, your Radiance. The will of Great Greagor be good. What is your command?"

When the Emperor finally stilled his feet and turned to look at Terence, his countenance was nothing short of grief-stricken. Dread seeped into Terence's stomach.

"Dion trusts you, Sir Terence," the Emperor said. "You have a duty to him as his First Lieutenant."

"Yes, Your Radiance," Terence confirmed warily.

It was not untrue, after all. Dion trusted him with a great many things, indeed. Many of those things would see Terence to the gallows were they discovered by the wrong person, and the Emperor himself was upon that list. Terence tensed.

"For the sake of Sanbreque, you must hold your duty to your Goddess above your duty to the Imperial Prince," Sylvestre commanded.

The Emperor extended a hand and placed a glass vial filled with a clear liquid in Terence's palm. Terence looked up at his sovereign's face, confused.

"Any amount in his food or drink," Sylvestre said.

A terrible, stunning clarity rocked through him. His hand closed around the vial, the mandate closed about his neck.

X~X~X

YEAR OF THE REALM 861

Rosalith was the capital city of Rosaria, birthplace of the Phoenix and blessed by its flames.

With its tall, white façades and winding streets, it was a far cry from the fragmented memories Jill had of her homeland in the Northern Territories. They weren't called the "Northern Territories" by the people who lived there, but their true name was lost to the childhood from which Jill had been stolen.

From what she could remember of the language of her mother's lullabies - lilting, musical, rolling, consonants soft and steady - the true name of the Northern Territories wouldn't fit right in her mouth, anyway, after all the arduous Rosarian etiquette classes. Childish table manners and melodious vowel sounds alike had been crushed summarily beneath the boot of the Rosarian standard; Anabella Rosfield had made sure of that, at least.

And in spite of the cruelty of the Rosfield matriarch, Jill had made a home within Rosalith Castle with Joshua and Clive and Elwin. Torgal, too - another relic stolen from the northern ice and snow in which Jill's people made their home. The wolf pup brought Jill comfort when she found herself bogged down in thoughts of all she'd lost. Especially after the Night of the Flames. Especially then.

Jill spent many a tired night out on the balcony where she had had her last real conversation with Clive, staring up at the stars and cursing Metia where she burned in the heavens. It wasn't the first time a wish of hers had gone unanswered, and it likely wouldn't be the last, but still Jill felt a measure of betrayal - as though her faith had been discarded, like it was worthless.

She found sleep there, sometimes, on the balcony in the cool night air. Even when she did not bring a blanket or pillow, the evening chill never brought discomfort.

Rosalith Castle was home, and the surrounding city was home, as well. But for all its lovely winding streets and lively vendors and upbeat atmosphere, Rosalith was still a city.

Forgetting that fact was a mistake for which Jill paid dearly.

The war was new - less than a full year on - and Jill wandered through the empty marketplace at dawn. She'd failed to get to sleep the night before and found herself on the deserted streets as the rising sun barely glowed at the horizon, thankfully ridding the sky of Metia's hateful fire.

She had only Torgal for company, unwilling to bother Joshua early in the morning when he was so busy and always so tired. Torgal plodded along beside her, all awkwardly large paws and gangly legs given by his recent growth. He still had plenty more growing to do, to Jill's eye, but he had already made impressive strides.

There was a sharp whistle from a side street and Jill looked to see Torgal split off from her and make his way toward a man who appeared to be brandishing a salami of some type. Not uncommon - the people of the city knew Torgal and liked to spoil him with treats. She continued on her way; Torgal would catch up soon enough.

The paths this early in the morning were quiet, with no vendors even considering peddling their wares yet. It was peaceful - peaceful bordering on eerie. The cool morning air seemed to grow colder, and Jill's breath made miniscule clouds of vapor when she exhaled.

(Move.)

She stopped and stood in the middle of the path for a moment, marveling at the phenomenon - it was a summer morning, was it not? Surely it could not be cold enough for such things.

(Move, child.)

Perhaps I should go, Jill thought suddenly, out of nowhere, Joshua may be awake and ready for breakfast by now.

Jill didn't notice that she was surrounded until it was far, far too late.

"Silver hair and blue eyes," the man standing at the far end of the street chuckled. He hefted a blade. "That's our job made easy, then."

Arms were around Jill's body before she could even turn. A rag was shoved into her mouth, but she screamed around it, anyway.

Her feet left the ground and she was flung over another man's shoulder. The air left her lungs in a rush and she struggled to get it back.

(Breathe.)

"And if she's not the one we're looking for?"

"What, do I look like a saint to you?" Laughter. Casual, normal. Like he did this all the time. "I bet we'd still get something for her when we're done."

Anger prickled in Jill's stomach, spilled into her veins.

They'd distracted Torgal on purpose so they'd be separated. They'd waited until Jill was alone. Someone wanted her - was willing to steal her off the streets to get her.

(How dare they?)

Rosalith was her home. These streets were where she played with Joshua - where she'd played with Clive. Where Torgal got spoiled rotten by the people who loved him. And these men would violate the peace of the city Jill loved? The only home she had left?

How dare they?

The men laughed amongst themselves and discussed their next tasks, but Jill stood next to them, above them, towered over them, looked down upon them. She saw her own body, small and helpless, red in the face, still gasping to regulate her breathing.

These men would threaten her? Sell her? Assault her?

How dare they?

Jill reached out a hand towards the men. Her nails were long, pointed; blackened as though bitten harshly by frost. They were not her hands. They had always been her hands.

How dare they?

"How dare you?"

The words hissed from between Jill's teeth, from somewhere in her chest, from the depths of her spirit. They bounced off the street and burst cold, shattering across the stone.

The world narrowed. The temperature plummeted. A shift, like the last tumbler of a lock clicking open.

A voice spoke a language Jill had never learned, lilting and musical and lovely like a long-forgotten lullaby, and the rest was lost to dizzying fractals of ice.

.

When awareness returned, Torgal was licking her face and whining. He yipped sharply into her ear.

The street was no more. All around was blood and ash and spires of blue-green ice so tall Jill couldn't see the tops. The sun had long risen fully into the sky. Ominous, ear-splitting cracks emanated from the ice as it warmed in the summer air.

"Jill!"

Joshua was all panic, his voice quaking. He wasn't even out of his sleeping clothes. Dark soot was smudged all along his face and hands. For all his disheveled appearance, though, Joshua didn't look hurt.

Jill wanted to reach out her hand and reassure him that she was fine, but her limbs were heavier than she could ever recall them being. She was tired.

She lost her grip on her waking mind just as Joshua reached her.

.

"Jill?"

Her hand was cradled gently between two others.

"Jill, can you hear me?"

Elwin Rosfield sat at Jill's right side. Worry was plastered all over his face, the furrow between his brows deep and his mouth drawn.

Jill blinked a few times to clear her eyes of lingering blurriness. "Your Grace?" She managed hoarsely.

"Back with us, I see," Elwin's smile was a tremulous thing, entirely unnatural for a man as self-assured as him.

"Your Grace, where—?" Jill asked. "What…?"

"Do you recall anything?" Elwin helped Jill sit up and pressed a cup of water into her grasp.

The cool water down her throat was welcome - it soothed a scratching ache she hadn't noticed until she started drinking.

"I was walking in the city," Jill remembered aloud, and passed her empty cup to the Archduke, "it was early in the morning…I…"

She looked helplessly over to Elwin, who refilled the cup with water and set it gently down on the bedside table.

"We know nothing of what happened before Joshua attended the scene," Elwin admitted. "We were made aware that there was an incident in the marketplace, and when we learned of the magnitude, Joshua primed."

Joshua primed? The Phoenix was needed?

Jill stared down at her hands, stark white against the muted browns of the bedspread. They looked somehow unfamiliar to her.

"He engaged Shiva, the Eikon of Ice," Elwin continued steadily. "After the battle, Joshua confirmed that you are Shiva's Dominant."

Shiva, the Lady of Frost. Jill wanted to refute Elwin's claim immediately and deny any connection to the Eikon. But Jill was struck with the feeling that if she were to turn her head just so, she would see blue-green vestments curling and twisting in an unfelt breeze. It was like Shiva herself stood behind Jill, watching. Protecting.

There was something far more worrying to Jill, anyway:

"Joshua…" Jill breathed out.

Flashes of red, orange, green; pillars of ice scraping into the sky. The cries of a great bird and a frozen spear piercing through delicate feather and bone. Had she…? Could she have hurt…?

"Is Joshua alright?" Jill demanded, coughing once when her throat protested. "Is he safe? I didn't…"

"He's unharmed. He also has much more practice with priming than you do, so he's been up and around, already," Elwin assured. "Jill—"

"What did I do?" Jill asked. "The way you're looking at me, it's—what did I do?"

The Archduke made a noise that was halfway between a sigh and a hum.

"It will take a rather long time before the market quarter is restored," Elwin began slowly, seriously, "Ten storefronts were completely destroyed, along with fifteen homes."

Elwin paused for a long while, and Jill clenched her teeth.

"Tell me. Please. I need to know."

"We found the bodies of ten citizens - residents of the destroyed houses - and five men we could not identify."

Bodies, Elwin said. Citizens, Elwin said.

Jill nodded. Stopped. Nodded again.

Breathe, child.

There was a twisting, a clenching—

The archduke snatched up a basin from the floor and shoved it beneath Jill's chin.

.

Jill was allowed out of bed by the physicker the next day. Dominants always healed quickly, and there were really no injuries to speak of in the first place.

She returned to the balcony and sat on the ground with her legs through the spokes of the railing when her feet started to ache. The market quarter wasn't visible over the tops of the walls and gates surrounding Rosaslith Castle, but Jill could imagine it fairly well. Buildings toppled, ice encrusting what remained of the streets….

No, not ice, not anymore, Jill mused as she felt the summer breeze brush her skin, melting ice making a slurry of soot and blood—

"Torgal!"

A panting mass of fur and slobber knocked into Jill's side and she found herself laughing as Torgal licked at her cheek.

"Torgal, no! Down!" Joshua scolded Torgal lightly as he ran from the hallway after the hound.

"It's alright," Jill giggled and waved her friend off. "It's fine, he's fine."

Torgal calmed after several moments of uncontrollable wiggling and bouncing around, and Jill wiped the dog slobber from her face with the back of her sleeve.

"I think I needed that," Jill admitted with a weak smile and then lapsed into silence.

Joshua sat beside Jill on the balcony and shoved his legs through the railing just as she had. Torgal laid between the two of them and luxuriated under the attention he received.

The summer air was warm and Jill could smell the flowers blooming in the Down Gardens below. She looked at Joshua, who gazed placidly over the garden and watched dragonflies swoop through the air with mild interest.

"Sorry," Jill offered, and at Joshua's confused noise she continued, "about the whole…Shiva thing. I don't remember right, but…I hurt you, didn't I?"

"It's fine," Joshua said, "I'm just glad you're alright. How are you feeling?"

"I wasn't injured," Jill answered.

Joshua shook his head. "That's not what I meant."

Jill cast her gaze back to the Down Gardens, where a servant was trimming a hedge.

Joshua would know, wouldn't he? He left for Ironholm with Archduke Rosfield and Lord Murdoch and came back quieter, more hollow. The Phoenix's appearance at the archipelago had been the talk of Rosalith for nigh on six moons.

"How do you deal with it?" Jill asked. "With…" she waved her hand around, unwilling to say it out loud.

Joshua hummed and looked at Torgal, who had fallen asleep with his head pillowed on Jill's thigh.

"I do what needs to be done," Joshua answered eventually. "I do my duty."

It was a good answer, Jill decided. But Jill wasn't sure how much she really believed it.

.

(Jill would not learn until years later that the men who had attempted to kidnap her had been frozen within ice that would not melt. It mattered not how long they left the ice to sit, nor how much heat they applied to the exterior - the corpses of the men remained suspended within a tomb of permanent frost. It was painstakingly chiseled away and removed piece by piece from the market quarter.

Even when fully primed, Jill was unable to generate ice of this variety at will.)

.

To do one's duty, Jill mused, already nine years removed from that fateful first priming. Her bones ached. Alas.

She rolled her neck and shoulders, cracked her knuckles, and grimaced when the aches in her joints failed to dissipate. Pressed her fingertips to her eyes, hoping the cold would help with how dry and tired they felt. The tension of waiting for Bahamut to show up was starting to get to Jill. When was the last time she got a full night's sleep, again?

The soldiers in the camp were growing belligerent with their orders to remain on constant watch - Jill had needed to intervene in three small scraps between men earlier that same morning. One positive aspect of being the Dominant of Shiva was the ability to, literally, cool things down.

Jill huffed and regarded the small stack of reports on the writing table with disdain. Weeks since the fall of Drake's Head, and still nothing substantial. There had been no word from Drake's Breath, no concerning reports from any of the other war camps, and no reports about the movement of Sanbreque's army that would indicate a retaliatory effort. The Empire was planning something, obviously, but there was no indication of what it could be.

There had also been no return correspondence from Dhalmekia - no confirmation of their request for Kupka's presence in Rosaria. Even if the Dhalmeks had decided to send a rider with a message instead of sending a stolas or another messenger bird, a response would not have taken more than two weeks. It was worrying, to say the least.

Worse, still, was the fact that Shiva had been unsettled for days on end. Where before winter's guardian would remain barely perceptible unless Jill reached for her, now Jill was distracted by the pale woman's blue-green gown constantly fluttering just on the edges of her vision. Jill's dreams, uncommon though they were with how little she slept, left her restless and disturbed. She could not remember the contents of the dreams, not entirely, but she knew Shiva made attempts at extended communication with how much Jill's head ached when she woke.

A gentle hoot heralded the arrival of a stolas to Jill's tent, wings navigating with ease through the open flap at the front. The bird's glossy white feathers bore it smoothly to Jill's outstretched arm.

And the message, it was…

What she heard was—was it….? She reeled back in shock, and the stolas squawked indignantly from its perch on her wrist.

The message had just barely finished before Jill was re-enchanting the stolas for the purpose of sending it on:

"O mia lost elan. Tu isag elythe," Jill rushed out and repeated the message she had just heard. When she finished, she urged the stolas, "Go on, to Sir Rodney."

The stolas rushed out of the tent ahead of Jill in a flurry of motion, and she collected her rapier from its place near the entrance before making a beeline for the rookery.

~X~X~X~

The stolas from Lady Jill Warrick presented exactly no information that Rodney Murdoch was prepared to receive. In fact, he sat stock-still for several moments attempting to make sense of what he had heard. Perhaps he had simply misunderstood?

No. The missive that had been sent along with another bird contained the same message, and they were a direct match. And the words on the page remained the same no matter how many times he traced back over them.

Rosalith was still locked down in anticipation of Sanbrequois retaliation for the destruction of Drake's Head, so the typical rumor mills failed to drag news in from outside the city at their usual clip.

Rodney was kept apprised of the goings-on of the troops, the enemy, and the remainder of Valisthea via a combination of stolases, handwritten letters, and the occasional rider reporting from within Rosaria. There had been little to report - and therefore little to learn about - in the weeks following the fall of Sanbreque's Mothercrystal.

Until now, of course.

Rodney shoved his chair back from his reading table and was at the door of his office before it tipped over and clattered to the floor. He ran, in spite of his protesting knees, through the corridors and to the audience chamber.

He couldn't wait for the guards by the doors to introduce him, so he pushed the heavy wood doors open himself and sprinted across the wide hall until he reached the throne.

"Lord Murdoch?" Joshua asked in shock, but Rodney had no time to apologize for his lack of decorum.

"From—the Lady Warrick, Your Grace," Rodney gasped out and presented the parchment with one uncertain hand.

Joshua scanned over the document once and Rodney watched shock bloom across his face. Rarely was the Archduke caught so off-guard. It would be disturbing if Rodney had not had the exact same reaction mere moments before.

The young man raised his eyes to meet Rodney's and his jaw worked momentarily without a sound escaping him before he finally managed:

"Dion Lesage is…dead?"

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A/N: i very much hope you enjoyed~! thank you for all the kind words and support.