#LET'S IGNORE THE FACT THAT PASCAL IS ANGRY ABOUT NOTHING

[evignonita]

IDGAF about the ideal upper-middle-class heteronormative family model that north-american society tried to instill in us worldwide, THIS is the ideal family model and we should all aspire to this 😇

I'm really honest when I say that the sims have helped me feel happier than I thought. Yes, it makes me happy to see how a nerdy man and his semi-mortal punk boyfriend take care of their silly alien baby and see how their evil scientist neighbor comes to steal their newspaper

[rachelbethhines]

Tangled Salt Marathon - Day of the Animals

While perhaps not my favorite episode this season, Day of the Animals is easily the best written story of season three. Even so, it still has problems due to the third season’s poor approach to characterization. 

Summary: Rapunzel, Varian, Angry and Red are returning stolen loot that the two girls had stolen years ago. They are accompanied by Max, Pascal, Ruddiger and Hamuel who all cannot stop quarreling with each other (or in Hamuel's case, just being useless). While messing with a sea shell pendant, it magically transports the humans into it, leaving the animals to fight over it. A minor thug named Dwayne, steals the pendant forcing the animals to work together to retrieve it. 

So Why is a Polynesian Inspired Kingdom Within Riding Distance of a Northern European Country? 

If you’ll remember my review of Beginnings, Neserdina’s princesses were wearing Polynesian garb and dancing the Hula when prepping for the competition. Now I’ve already went into length as to why that’s not good representation, but in addition to that it’s also just plain dumb. You can’t just transport one ethic group and dump them into another part of the world because it’s convenient for you. You don’t earn any brownie points for doing that. Especially when your fantasy world is still based off of our own historical earth. 

To make things even more confusing, we actually saw Neserdina way back in season one in Way of the Willow. It’s where Willow bought the gremlin knock-off. 

That is an island. How the heck do you get to a volcanic island riding in a horse and cart? And don't tell me they’re riding to a port, because Corona is a port city already. They could have gotten there by boat. It’s also can’t be too far away from Corona’s borders if Angry and Red were able to get there on foot during their year long travels. 

The only explanation is that the entirety of the Tangled crew doesn’t understand geography, and this won’t be the last example in the show to back up that statement. 

So Why Is Rapunzel Here?

We get explanations for why everyone is on this road trip, except for the main character herself. Red and Angry are trying to return some stolen loot. Varian is wanting to pick up rare alchemy supplies at the market and was invited along because Raps hopes it’ll be a chance for Ruddiger and Max to get know one another better. 

But why on earth does Rapunzel feel the need to come on this trip herself? Doesn’t she have a kingdom to run? While I’m sure Eugene is more than capable of handling things, this doesn’t reflect well upon the writers supposed plan of making Rapunzel appear more responsible. 

Literally any other adult could have come along on this trip. This wasn’t something Rapunzel needed to waste time on. Lance especially would have been more appropriate here as he’s the one who’s suppose to eventually adopt Angry and Red.  And the sad thing is, all they had to do was give Rapunzel a line about needing to attend some sort of diplomatic business in Neserdina. That’s it. 

In a show that’s supposed to be all about Rapunzel; Rapunzel sure doesn’t have a whole lot of reasons to exist in the majority of the episodes. 

Lack of Worldbuilding Strikes Again

At this point I’m kind of numb to the whole “magical thing just exists for no adequately explained reason” and so I’m not as upset as some people are about the shell necklace. But it’s still not good writing. 

Why does this thing exist? How did come to be cursed? How did it get mixed in with their stuff? What activated the magic and why did it only effect the human’s even though the animals were closer to it? 

Just something show. Anything. You bothered to give use rules for how this thing works and even stuck to them this time, but you can’t just make the last leg of the trip and give us some exposition? 

Yeah, okay. 

So Where Exactly Are We in Relation to Corona?

We can see Pittsford and Ivangarr on the road sign and we have to be in riding distance to Neserdina from Corona, but like are we in Corona still? Are we in Koto, which is Corona’s nearest neighbor to the east according to season three. Are we in some no-man’s-land where none of the kingdoms have control, or are we already in Neserdina itself? 

The series gives us no sense of direction nor any firm placement for Corona within it’s world. I only know it is a Northern European country because Corona itself is a peninsula with a north sea, uses French, English, and German fashion/customs, and Rapunzel is a Germanic fairy tale. But like those clues are thrown into a blender and contradicted several times over, on top of never being told where it’s closest kingdoms actually lie. 

All of this matters when traveling and exploring the wider world are big themes of your show. You need more solid and consistent world building than this. It also impacts how much authority and control your main character has within the episode itself if she range of political power is limited to one area. So like we need to know where the heroes stand here. 

(FYI I personally headcannon Corona as former Prussia which was once part of Germany and it’s alliance of smaller kingdoms. It’s also a peninsula next to the Curonian Spit) 

This Is Not Progress

Okay so the idea here, is that the show is implying that Rapunzel is trying to improve Corona’s justice system over Frederic’s previously inhumane crack down on crime. However, this is terribly executed. 

For starters the show has never called Frederic nor Rapunzel out for their previous misbehavior. You can not change any system for the better without acknowledging the flaws within said system first. Therefore this comes right out of nowhere and doesn’t stick around long enough to stay within the viewers minds for later. 

Secondly, Rapunzel is incredibly fickle about who she does and doesn’t set free. The Saporians were still in the dungeons last time we saw them, Caine was shipped off to the prison island and left to die there as far as we know, and the Stabbingtons are shown shackled together in the wedding short even though they supposedly changed their ways and befriended Eugene again. 

Meanwhile Dwayne and Stalyan are free to go their marry way and continue their life of crime, Varian is only released from his overly harsh punishment because he kissed Rapunzel’s ass not because it was wrong to imprison him in the first place, and later Cassandra gets away scot free because she’s Rapunzel’s bestie even though she committed the worst crimes out of everyone in the show and for very little reason. 

That’s not justice. That’s not compassion. That’s not progressive reform. It’s just nepotism, and it’s every bit as corrupt as Frederic’s classism and totalitarianism. 

Just because Rapunzel is “nice” it doesn’t mean that she is kind. Real reform has to treat everyone with equality and have a set of base standards that are beyond one person’s personal judgment. She is still a dictator and an abuser even if she lets the occasional person go free on a whim. 

Finally, Rapunzel’s methods are just downright ineffective. Dwyane may not be a threat to our heroes, but that doesn’t mean he’s not a threat to other people. He’s not actually sorry about trying to rob people at knife point and he fully plans on continuing being a thief after feeding Rapunzel the lines she wants to hear. 

Furthermore, we don’t know if this course of action is born out of malice or desperate need. He half heartily comments about finding ‘an honest job” but can he even do that? Is it even a realistic option for him? The series has been weaving this class inequality theme through out it’s past three seasons and directly connecting that to Corona’s crime rate. 

Eugene had a hard time finding a job during season one directly due to his past record, remember? A life of crime he was forced to lead in order to survive, and he’s the Prince Consort! What chance does Dwayne have? Did Rapunzel even try to help him find work or did she just wag her finger at him and told him “Now, now, stealing’s not nice.” 

The show wants to act like Rapunzel is this progressive reformer but then they turn her into a Republican instead. That’s not me being sarcastic either, this approach to criminal justice is the foundation of conservative belief and has been for centuries. The right are not interested in why people commit crime. They don’t care about addressing the fundamental problems in society that lead people to break the law. Let alone bother to analyze why those laws exist in the first place. Instead they resort to doublethink and survivor bias to either write off those that fall through the cracks or make excuses for why their policies repeatedly fail, often ignoring the fact that things aren’t actually working for whole swathes of people who aren’t themselves.  

Tangled the Series is far too simplistic and childish in it’s approach to deeper subjects like this to enforce the messages it supposedly wants to enforce. Rapunzel herself relies on magical thinking, double standards, and personal bias to see her through every and any problem and the show just rewards her for it rather than challenging her to grow and in doing so winds up supporting people like her in their authoritarian ideas, whether that was the writers’ intentions or not. 

In short, Rapunzel shows no interest in putting in the real work it would take to implement genuine restorative justice. She doesn't honestly care about Dwyane or his victims. She’s just posturing here for the sake of her self image.  

You’re Not In Any Position to Talk Rapunzel 

Speaking of Rapunzel being a hypocrite.... The entirety of season three’s main conflict is her having a petty bitch fight with her supposed best friend and needlessly dragging everyone else into it.

In fact that’s the whole show. Rapunzel repeatedly failing to get along with other people because she’s deep down a shitty person despite the veneer of ‘friendliness’ she slaps on to hide it. Having her just say she knows better does nothing to convince me that she’s actually learned anything. You have to show that she’s learned it first, and that requires acknowledging her own wrong doings.  

Varian’s face here just tells it all. Rapunzel is full of shit and no one in the show knows it better than him. Why are they even friends again? Why should we trust her with the three kids she neglected more than once? Why should any of these people take what she says seriously? 

Well This is Contradictory

Also, since we brought up double standards, here’s Varian undermining that whole “jail is bad” thing Rapunzel is trying to push with Dwayne and later with Cass. Not only is the show under cutting it’s themes for a joke, but it just reinforces the abuse Varian received. He’s now bought into Frederic’s stupid beliefs and winds up reinforcing to the audience that that his ‘reform’ was due to his past imprisonment.   

As an adult watching this series, Varian’s supposed redemption continues to increasingly look like a victim complying with their past abuser out of fear of further harm rather than anyone genuinely learning to be better.

Can We Please Stop Infantilizing the 16 Year Old

As if to deflect from Varian’s past mistreatment and continuing parentification, the show then goes on to showcase the opposite extreme whenever possible. I know it’s hard to tell just from these few screen shots alone, but over the course of season three Varian is spoken down too and treated condescendingly by the rest of the cast, and by Rapunzel in particular, even as he enters his later teens/early adulthood.  

Some of this is just to due to Rapunzel being her usual holier than thou self, but there’s also times, like here, where Varian is lumped together with the actual children of the show, even though he’s 6 to 8 years their senior. 

In fact out of everyone Rapunzel interacts with, Varian’s actually the closest to her in both age and development. Queen for a Day forced the two of them into a power imbalance due to a mixture of classism and society’s ongoing unhealthy (and often artificial) divide between younger and older teens, but as we get further and further away from that point in time and as Varian nears the same age Rapunzel started out as, that imbalance becomes less and less relevant. 

Look at how this scene is framed, He’s standing between Angry and Red and is placed lower than them to make it look like he’s one of them. He’s not. 

Varian may still look 12 with his big old eyes and short stature, but seeing as how we’re past Hearts Day, he’s actually close to being 17, if he isn’t already. The timeline gets even wonkier after The King and Queen of Hearts, but trust me, we’re close to being two years past Queen for a Day, if not more so. 

Varian, for all counts, should be Rapunzel’s equal by now in terms of story. Not only is he closest in age to her, but he’s also the only other person going through a coming of age arc. And of the two, Varian’s the one who has actually learned and grown as a person. He has more real world experience than Rapunzel ever will and knows how to implement that experience. (He’s also the more mature, but that’s more of a failure to write Rapunzel competently than a reflection of his capabilities.) 

No matter how you slice it, Varian shouldn’t be taking orders or advice from Rapunzel; no one should be, really; and he most certainly shouldn’t put up with her condescension. Rapunzel is not his nor anybody else’s mother. She’s not even a big sister like figure, and at no point should be treated as the leader of anything or anyone. 

Rapunzel is a Poor Man’s Rose Quartz 

I typically try not to draw too many comparisons between Tangled and other shows outside of the occasional parallel, as a show should be able to stand on it’s own for good or for bad, but it’s hard not to discuss the series without also discussing Steven Universe in some way. 

Steven Universe is this generation’s Batman the Animated Series or Scooby Doo. It’s the game changer that everybody else is trying to copy in some manner. Chris desperately wants Tangled the Series to be the next Steven Universe, right down to how the show is structured, paced, and what themes are presented. But unfortunately Chris has no idea why Steven Universe works the way it does. 

For starters SU adjusted it’s pacing as it went along, smoothing out its rougher edges while Tangled doubled down on its filler. SU had a planned arc from the get go and stuck to it, so that by the time the twists came they made sense. SU kept it’s focus on Steven purposefully so that the story unfolded from his view point while making to sure to acknowledge the importance of other characters around him and their conflicts. It didn’t make him infallible nor shove aside everyone else’s arcs.  

But most importantly, Steven Universe was written by a bisexual nonbinary person who set out to make a show for people in the queer community like themselves. Meanwhile, as a middle aged white man, Chis hasn’t a damn clue about his primary audience and has shown no interest in connecting with them. 

This isn’t to say that Steven Universe is a perfect show. No show is beyond criticism. Nor is this to say that straight white cis men can’t write; many of them do and can portray characters unlike themselves competently enough. But if you’re completely disinterested in other points of view than you can’t be a good writer of fictional stories, that’s just a fact. Because in order to understand proper characterization you need to acknowledge that not every character ever will be like you and that even you’re main heroes will hold beliefs and experiences different from yourself. Otherwise there is no genuine conflict to build off of. Either no one will disagree with each other or the conflict will come across as flat and forced, complete with lopsided bias. 

Therefore, in the end, Rapunzel winds up being less of a Steven and more of a Rose Quartz/Pink Dimond. Both are spoiled princesses/co-rulers of a kingdom that mistreats it’s people and anyone outside of it, who rebelled against their guardians, supposedly out of a sense of justice, but really for themselves and their own freedom, only to make things even worse for everyone. On top of that they both accidently harmed their friends, freindzone their best friend while also bossing them around, are condescending to their love interests, is controlling of people who trust them, and throws temper tantrums when they don’t get what they want, oh and neglected someone for an inhumane amount of time. 

Even then, Rapunzel winds up being the worst of the two. 

The whole point behind Rose was that she is someone whom the main characters place upon a pedestal and as the series went along slowly had the scales fall from their eyes and learned to view her for who she really was flaws and all. By the end, in Future, she is even metaphorically removed from her pedestal when Steven removes her picture from the wall.  

Rose also grows as a character, unlike Rapunzel. Her story is deliberately being told to us backwards. The awful person she was in the past was no longer who she was by the time of her death. True she was still flawed, and the consequences of her actions continued on even after her demise, but she actually tried to be a better person. She got called out for her behavior, she wasn’t excused for actions even when the show explained why she did what she did, and she stopped doing harmful actions whenever she realized that they hurt someone. 

Greg was allowed to stand up to her and show how she was wrong, and she respected him for it and later fell in love with him because of it. She tried to better control her temper when she wound up hurting her friend. Her failed revolution and her mistreatment of Spinel was actually born from a misguided desire to help, rather than outright selfishness. 

Rose Quratz/Pink Dimond is a brilliant fucking character. You may not like her, but you can’t deny that she is one of the most complex figures in children’s media to ever be created. She is real, nuanced, and multifaceted. He role within the story is complicated, messy, and intricate. She is the most well rounded female character I’ve ever seen and she is what I had hoped Rapunzel would be when I first watched season one, only even more so as the actual focus. 

I want women in cartoons to be people! 

But Rapunzel fails at every turn to follow through with this promise. She is not a deep complex character. She’s not a flawed and complicated heroine. She’s a blank canvas in which the creator can shove his creepy ass views upon. She is never taken off her pedestal, she’s never allowed to be wrong, and she is forced to spout the the creator’s personal bias against other characters. 

Rapunzel isn’t a person. She had the chance to be one, but then was reduced to .. to this. As a woman, the treatment of Rapunzel and Cassandra in this show is just flat out insulting. 

So What Is the Difference Between Angry and Red Now?

I’m all for character growth, but at this point Angry and Red are just interchangeable. Anything that made them uniquely them has been lost, and they’re now just fulfilling the generic rambunctious little kid trope. Red becoming more assertive shouldn’t mean she stops being an introvert altogether; that’s not how that works. While Angry shouldn’t lose her temper completely just because she’s wiling to open up more. 

So Why Dwayne?

I like Dwayne as a character and in truth I don’t mind his existence here, and unlike that werewolf hunter last time he at least was established in a pervious season. But this is still time that could have went to a more important antagonist. 

Also notice that Dwyane gets a villain song, but not Lady Caine or Zhan Tiri. Just saying. 

Rapunzel Has Not Earned the Role of the Wise Sage and Mentor 

Rapunzel has never learned to listen to others. Ever.

On it’s own this might have been a good speech, but when taken in context of the wider story it just makes Rapunzel look like an ass. 

A year traveling does not make Rapunzel suddenly all knowing. She is not wiser nor more experienced than anyone else in this scene. She’s also a crappy leader and big fat hypocrite.  

Even when she’s technically right, as seen here, she’s still in the wrong because she never follows through and acts upon her own advice; making this whole story pointless in the grand scheme of things. 

And that’s the core problem with season three. Rapunzel is shoved into a role she is not designed for and the whole premise of the series runs right off the rails. You’re main heroine in a coming of age story can not inhabit the mentor role. She can not simultaneously learn and grow and be always right while instructing everyone else. 

All through out season three Rapunzel is either rendered completely useless in her own damn series, or she utterly fails to fulfill any sort of narrative promise laid out for her while she infuriatingly hijacks the story from more interesting and dynamic characters. 

Behold The Only Reason Why Varian was Included in the Episode 

Speaking of hijacking things, Rapunzel of course has to get the idea to save everybody, even though what she thinks of isn’t anything special. It’s not derived from her character as an individual nor from all that experience she supposedly has. It’s literally an idea anyone could have come up  with and the show just hands it to her in order to justify her exitance. 

Meanwhile the character who actually is useful to the plot is sidelined and reduced to just a plot device. And not just here, Varian is rendered practically pointless in all but two episodes in season three, even in episodes that he actually should have more impact in, like the season opener and series finale. 

Good writing treats characters as equally contributing to the plot in ways that complements who these characters are.  

Ok I’ll Admit That This Line Is Funny

Look, I know this whole review series is about pointing out the negative, and I stand by my opinion that Tangled the Series is one of the worst written shows I’ve ever seen, but I want to make one thing clear.... I do not hate the show. If I hated the show I would not waste my time reviewing it. 

Yes the over all writing is shit, but there are a lot of good things to be found in the series beyond just the crap story arc. The humor is usually solid, the animation is gorgeous, the music is a delight, and the majority of the characters are likable even though they don’t develop in the ways that they should. There’s a lot of talent that went into this show and there’s a lot of potential to be had in it’s set up and lore. 

Being critical or negative about the aspects of something doesn’t mean you dislike it, or that you’re not a real fan, or that you’re just a ‘hater’, and I actually find TTS to be fascinating because it’s such a mess. I write reviews because they’re fun and because I genuinely think there is something to be learned from Tangled’s mistakes. 

So Why Do We Cut Back to Rapunzel Here and Not Varian? 

This is such an odd framing choice. Varian is the one who is talking and reacting to what’s happening. It’s his pet that’s in trouble and therefore he carries the emotional weight of the scene, and yet it’s Rapunzel’s shocked face we focus on? Why? What’s the point of that? She has no business being the center focus here. The action does not involve her. 

If you wanted to include her for a later set up then why not have both her and Varian present in this shot? Usually I can at least count on the story boarders to frame things better than this, but they really missed the mark here. Unless Chris is just that stupid and petty that he over ruled them and forced Varian out of the scene, but that seems like a pointless fight to pick, even for him. 

See This is How you Fulfill a Narrative Promise 

The conflict between Ruddiger and Max was set up in season one with What the Hair, then it was reiterated a few episodes ago during The Lost Treasure of Herz Der Sonne, and then it was reintroduced in this episode along with a stated lesson about working together that they needed to learn. By they end of the episode, guess what, they’ve learned to work together. That is how you properly set up and resolve a conflict. 

It’s clear from this that the writers of Tangled the Series know the basic tenants of writing and how to fulfill narrative promises. So the fact that they don’t follow through with this in the majority of the show’s episodes and ongoing story arcs just baffles me. 

Is it negligence? Is it hubris? Is it incompetent management and editorial mandates? Is it just one asshole ruining everything or is this a failure in the writers room as a whole? 

I just don’t understand what the fuck went wrong here. There’s no reason for why the show got as bad as it did. How does the most acclaimed animation company in the world put out such amateurish tripe? 

Just... wow. 

Now you know why I’m mesmerized by this show. It is a mystery to be solved, like trying to figure out how the crew on the Titanic fucked up so badly or why Hindenburg blew up. You just can’t look away. 

Conclusion 

Like I said at the start, structurally speaking this is the strongest episode of the season. I personally enjoy Lost Treasure a little more, just because Rapunzel annoys me less in that, but it’s not a bad story. However when you’re best episode in your final season is filler, then you know you’re in trouble. 

If you like my reviews and want to support my writing endeavors you can drop a tip in my kofi https://ko-fi.com/rachelbethhines

[aerynwrites]

Duty and Honor

Oberyn Martell x Reader

Author’s Note: Okay I know I said that I had Ezra and Javi Soulmate AU’s in the works (which is still happening lol), but this idea popped into my head like two days ago and I just felt really inspired to write for it! Plus Oberyn is the character that first got me into Pedro Pascal and his work, so I feel I should finally dedicate a piece to the character that started it all! Hope you all enjoy! <3

Summary: Reader is less than enthused to find out she is being married off to the infamous Red Viper, something she makes very clear. (sorry I suck at summaries)

Word Count: 4k

Warnings: cursing, arranged marriages, angst, fluff.

*Thank you to my wonderful beta readers @anniebombannie and @amberthefiredemon Y’all rock and i love you.*

/////

“I will not do it!”

Your voice rings out harshly in the room you’re currently occupying with your father, Tywin Lannister, who just frowns at your outburst.

“You have no say in the matter. You are betrothed to Oberyn Martell, and you will be married to Oberyn Martell within the fortnight,” he says finally, returning his attention to the papers in front of him, “You are dismissed.”

You felt your blood boil within your veins at his dismissive tone, “No.” Your voice is firm and dripping with venom as you clench your fists at your side and hold your chin high.

Tywin freezes before his eyes slowly lift to meet yours, a look of sheer contempt clear in his eyes, “Excuse me?” he snips out.

“I refuse to marry him father, I will not do it” you seethe.

Tywin finally rises from his chair, “You will do as you are told. Whether you like the command or not. You are my daughter and you will do as I say,” his voice is tight, he’s clearly losing his patience with you, but you don’t back down.

You feel tears start to gather in your eyes now, anger being met with complete and utter despair, “No! I won’t let you sell me off like some piece of cattle, I’m your daughter for god’s sake! Does that mean nothing to you? We are Lannister’s!” you cry, voice cracking.

“Enough!” Your father yells, hands slamming against the table loudly, causing you to jump slightly.

“I am used to this coming from your sister, but I expected more from you,” he bites, “Now you best leave before I decide to marry you off to someone like Loras Tyrell instead,” his voice is eerily calm as he finishes, something that scares you slightly.

So, swallowing your pride, you nod, “As you wish, my lord hand.” You sneer the last part before turning on your heel and all but run from the room.

The door closes with a certain finality behind you and you can’t stop the tears that follow.

----------

You sit stiffly beside your father and sister in the banquet hall, watching as the festivities celebrate the arrival of your betrothed roar throughout the room. You had yet to meet the man you were to marry, and silently, you were thankful for it. You weren’t entirely sure you would be able to keep your tongue if the man came to see you, so you thought it best to put off the inevitable. However, as your eyes roamed over the crowd of people, they finally landed on the one person you were trying to avoid.

Prince Oberyn himself.

You watched as he talked boisterously with Margery and Olenna Tyrell, and you also took note of the beautiful woman latched onto his arm. You furrowed your brow slightly, and Cersei must have seen what caught your eye because she let out a dry laugh before nudging your shoulder with her hand.

“I see you have finally spotted your betrothed,” she says.

You turn to look at her slightly, “Apparently so,” you sigh.

“I just wish he would have left his paramour in Dorne,” she says, disdain clear in her words, “It is rather tasteless.”

Your eyes widen and your heart drops into your stomach, “His what?” you whisper, trying to hold back the bile you felt rising in your throat.

Cersei gives you a sympathetic smile. While the woman was known for her cruelty, she had a soft spot for her baby sister, and she was just as angry at your father for his decision as you were, but she had fought that battle before, and lost. So, all she could do was watch.

“I’m sorry my sweet,” she says sincerely, putting a comforting hand on your shoulder.

You take your eyes from her concerned ones and turn your gaze back to your future husband, only to find him staring right back, a devilish grin on his face as he raises his glass to you. You immediately stand from your seat, almost knocking the chair over in the process, and grab your dress in your hands, ignoring your father’s shocked and angered expression.

“(y/n) what in the seven hell’s-“

You cut him off, trying to ignore the confused expression Oberyn sent your way, “Excuse me for a moment,” you whisper, walking swiftly from the table and out of the room, ignoring your father’s frustrated calls of your name all the while.

You wove through the throngs of people, desperate to get out of the suffocating room. Just as you broke through the crowd and got through the doors of the banquet hall you ran directly into what felt like a wall. You let out a startled gasp when you felt a steadying hand on your low back, quickly stepping away and looking up to see that the wall you ran into hadn’t been a wall at all.

It was Oberyn, with his paramour at his side, both of them smiling sweetly at you.

You couldn’t stop the deep frown that settled onto your face as you took a step back from them both, pushing his hand from you, earning confused and somewhat concerned looks from them both. But Oberyn gives you a polite bow, nonetheless, sending you another award-winning smile.

“It is a pleasure to finally meet my betrothed,” he begins, voice thick with a dornish accent, “Prince Oberyn Martell, and Ellaria Sand” He introduces them both, looking at you expectantly.

You had to compose yourself momentarily, you felt tears bubbling in the back of your eyes, but they were quickly stamped out by the anger at your situation. Part of you knew it was irrational, that Oberyn was as forced into this arrangement as you were, yet you couldn’t stop the frustration from escaping, despite all your lady-like training.

You grip the skirt of your dress in your fists tightly, “I wish I could say the same my prince but I cannot,” you begin, feeling a slight sense of triumph at the baffled expressions on both of their faces. You continue.

“I didn't even know of this arrangement until this morning and then I find out that you were to arrive this evening. Then I sit at dinner all night without a single greeting from the man I’m being forced to marry, and I find out from my sister that you brought your paramour with you?” you scoff, “So Prince Oberyn and Ellaria Sand, I am not pleased to meet you in the slightest,” you bark before turning on your heel to return to your chambers, not seeing the concerned glances the pair share as you depart.

------------

The next day you sit in the gardens for breakfast with Sansa while enjoying lemon cakes and the book you have most recently started reading. Sansa and yourself had become quick friends, you being at her side since she arrived in kings landing all those moons ago. You were several years older than her, only a few years younger than Cersei, but you saw her as a younger sister, and she was just happy to have a friend among the enemies. She was currently doing some needlework while you read, the both of you snacking on lemon cakes, when she spoke up, breaking the silence.

“I still can’t believe you said those things to Lord Tywin and Prince Oberyn,” she says quietly, “Aren’t you afraid of what they might do?” she asks innocently.

You pull your eyes from your book and look at the girl for a moment, taking in her questioning stare as she set the embroidering hoop in her lap, and you sighed.

“As much as Tywin likes to look menacing, he would never hurt me. And as for Prince Oberyn-“ you scoff, “I would rather fight the mountain than be married off to a Dornish prince,” you say, earning a gasp followed quickly by laughter from the young girl.

“No, you wouldn’t,” she says before sighing wistfully and returning to her work, “I think Prince Oberyn is quite charming.”

You frown for a moment, taking in the girl’s words. While you absolutely loathed the idea of being married off to some far away lord, you had to admit that Sansa was right. The first thing that flashed through your mind when you saw him at the banquet last night was his charming nature. His dark hair matched with the well-kept scruff lining his jaw, his deep yet sincere dark eyes, and his albeit inappropriate yet fine silk robes, were all things that you noticed. Prince Oberyn was an attractive man, and to make things even worse for you, Ellaria was an equally attractive woman. Perhaps that is what scared you most.

Yes...scared.

While you try to hide your emotions behind a thinly veiled act of anger, you were terrified. Terrified of moving so far away from everything you knew. Terrified of marrying a man you didn’t know. And now, terrified that you would never be truly loved by your future husband, as it seemed that his love was already claimed by another.

You were drawn from your thoughts by Sansa calling your name, an amused smirk on her face, “Thinking about a certain Dornish Prince?” she teases.

You roll your eyes, “Oh shut up,” you groan, “But you’re right.” You relent, “The prince is quite charming. But that doesn’t change the fact that I don’t want to marry him.”

Sansa just nods, still sewing, before she speaks up once more, “Are you scared? I know I was scared when I had to marry King Joffrey,” she admits quietly, before looking shocked by her own words and started to backtrack, “But I’m sure you aren’t. That was a stupid question.” She mutters, quickly returning to her work.

You sit up straighter, moving to reassure the girl that it was, in fact, not a stupid question, when you see a familiar figure clad in orange and yellow approaching your table. You let out a small sigh and rested a hand onto Sansa’s gently, stilling her movements.

“I’m quite terrified actually,” you admit, casting a glance at the Prince who was now a few feet away.

Sansa catches your gaze and sends you a small smile before picking up her sewing and standing from her seat, curtsying to Oberyn as she leaves. You watch her go before you finally turn your attention to the Prince standing in front of you, hands clasped behind his back. You lift your book up to block the sun from your eyes, trying to get a better look at him.

“Good morning Lady (y/n),” he greets kindly, gesturing to the seat across from you, “May I sit?”

You set the book down and look at the chair previously occupied by Sansa and sigh, “I suppose.”

Oberyn smiles and takes a seat, hands clasped and resting on the table. Neither of you say anything for a moment. You sit silently tracing the letters etched into the leather cover of your book, while Oberyn watches you quietly. You take in a deep breath before resting both your hands atop the book impatiently, “Is there a reason you ruined my breakfast, or do you just enjoy tormenting me?” you asked snidely.

Oberyn sent you an amused smile before leaning back in his chair, “We are to be married in less than a fortnight,” he says simply, shrugging his shoulders.

You scoff, “I am well aware of that,” you snap, “I don’t see why you came all this way to rub that in my face.”

Oberyn sighed, “I know you are unhappy with this arrangement, but I am no happier than you are,” he begins, “In Dorne we believe in free love. Being with whoever you want and loving whoever you want, so this-“ he gestures between you two, “is not something I desire either.”

His words hit you like a ton of bricks. You should be happy. He just affirmed that he doesn’t want this marriage either, just like you. So why did it hurt so much? Was it the fact that you were destined to be in a mutual disagreement for the rest of your life? Or was it more?

Before you could find an answer Oberyn spoke up once more, “But it is happening. And I would rather not be miserable for the next, however many years of my life. So, if you could at least try to like me, I would greatly appreciate it,” he says finally, sending you another one of those dashing smiles, except this time instead of infuriating you, it makes your heart flutter.

You clear your throat, and glance from the Prince sitting across from you back down to your book, opening it to the page you left off on, “I suppose that’s not such a terrible idea my Prince,” you say casually.

Obery chuckles, “Please, you are to by my wife, Oberyn is fine.”

You only nod at his words, trying to busy yourself with the book in front of you, but he isn’t having any of it.

“Not many women from the north are fond of books,” he notes, pointing to the object in your hands.

You roll your eyes, “This is the south.”

Oberyn just chuckles again, igniting yet another round of butterflies in your stomach, “You have it all wrong my lady-“

“Oh, do I?” you ask indignantly.

He smiles and nods, “this is the north,” he insists, “Dorne is the true south.”

You peer at him over your book, you supposed it did make some sense geographically, but you weren’t going to let him know that, so you shrug, “Yes well, here-“ you gestured around you, “it’s the south and Dorne is just Dorne,” you say simply, attempting to return to your book.

“Have you ever been?” his voice interrupts you once more so you sigh, setting your book down since it didn’t seem like you would get much reading done anyway.

“Have I been where?”

He smiles, “To Dorne.”

You purse your lips, “No, I haven’t…” you pause for a moment before crossing your arms and leaning back in your chair, not wanting to seem too interested but curious nonetheless, “What is it like?”

Oberyn gives you the biggest grin you think you’ve ever seen, before he goes on to tell you of his homeland. The sparkling blue waters, the water gardens, the beautiful flowers and buildings. You spend the next few hours like that. Just talking about your home, his home, and anything else that comes up, and as much as you hate to admit it, you start to enjoy his company. The only reason you end the conversation is because your handmaiden comes to get you to start getting fitted for your dress. As the words leave her mouth you feel a lump form in your throat.

Yes…the wedding.

You had almost forgotten about the dreadful event while you spent the morning talking to Oberyn. He had put you at ease and seemed to make your anxieties melt away. But as the Handmaiden so kindly reminded you, time was of the essence, and the wedding was truly not that far off. You had to fight back the fearful tears as you stood from your chair and gave a small curtsy to Oberyn.

“I’ll be seeing you Oberyn,” you say politely.

He smiles, taking your hand in his own and pressing his lips gently to the back of it, “Good day Lady (y/n).”

All you could manage was a wobbly smile before he dropped your hand and you turned to follow your handmaiden, all the fears from before bubbling back to the surface.

----------

Despite the constant reminders of your impending doom, you and Oberyn continued to meet. He would find you in the gardens or the library or even stumble upon you walking through the castle and you two would end up spending hours together. He would tell you more stories of Dorne, or about his training at the citadel, something you found quite interesting to say the least; and he would ask you about your family, your hobbies, and really anything else about you. you realized as the days turned into weeks and your wedding was only a day away, that you had fallen in love with the Prince of Dorne. A feeling that scared you to no end.

Through these two weeks since you first found out about the betrothal, you had come to love everything about Oberyn. His smile, his laugh, the way his eyes crinkled when he did both of those things. You loved his sense of adventure and his knowledge of seemingly everything there was to know. You loved the way he would hold your hand gently or kiss you on the cheek when bidding you goodnight.

You loved Oberyn Martell.

So, when he started to bring Ellaria along to some of his meetings with you, you couldn’t help but feel jealousy rise within you. But not an anger driven Jealousy – no - this was a despairing saddening jealousy. Because she was a wonderful and kind woman. She had been nothing but kind to you since you met, bringing you sweets, or tucking a flower behind your ear, or braiding your hair. On top of all these overly kind and compassionate gestures, she was beautiful. More beautiful and electrifying than you thought you could ever be. So, you didn’t think for a moment that Oberyn could ever love you when Ellaria was right there. Seven hells, he already had her. He loves her, it was so blatantly clear in the way he looks at her or kisses her or tucks flowers behind her ear. You just knew he would never love you, a thought that made your heart ache so deep in your chest that your throat tightened up anytime you thought about it. Which was most of the time if you were being honest. You had cried yourself to sleep almost every night for the past four nights, even breaking down on poor Sansa one morning at breakfast, forcing the girl to try and console you as you cried into the lemon cakes.

Tonight, the evening before the wedding, was no different.

You had gone to the gardens to try and find some peace from your restless thoughts, hoping the stars would give you some comfort. But as you looked up into the night sky, the crickets chirping and the crackle of the torches filling the air, all you could think of was Oberyn. All you could see were the constellations he had pointed out to your mere nights ago, and the stories Ellaria gave them as he did so. The only thing you would think of as you collapsed, sobbing, onto a nearby bench was the fact that you were about to enter a one-sided marriage, a loveless union with non-mutual feelings. Your chest was aching so fiercely you thought your heart might rip from your chest and it even made your fingers tingle. You couldn’t hear anything over your own sobs, so when a warm hand rested itself on your shoulder you jerked in surprise wiping quickly at your tears as you looked up to identify the intruder. Your heart sank even further when you realized it was the very man you were crying over, sitting next to you on the stone bench, a look of deep concern etched onto his features.

“What is wrong my flower? What has caused you such sadness?” he asks quietly, his hand coming to wipe gently at the tears still streaming down your cheeks.

You sniffle and turn away from him, slightly embarrassed that he found you in such a state, yet unable to compose yourself or stop the tears. You don’t say anything. what could you say? Confess your love to a man who doesn’t love you back? Tell him you are still terrified of getting wed tomorrow? Neither of those options sounded appealing, yet Oberyn seemed to understand anyways. He let out a long sigh, cradling one of your hands in both of his.

“Ah,” he breathes, “The wedding.”

“Yes,” you say simply, throat clogged with too many emotions to say much more.

Oberyn turns to face you, hands squeezing yours reassuringly, “What are you afraid of flower?” His voice is sincere, and filled with concern, and this alone brings more tears to your eyes, and another wave of cries wrack your body as you finally crack. All of your pent-up emotions and thoughts spilling out at once.

“I’m afraid of this marriage Oberyn,” you cry, wiping at your nose with your free hand, “I love you,” you finally admit, “I have grown to love you over this short time, and it terrifies me because you have her.”

Oberyn’s brows knit together in confusion, “Ellaria? What does she have to do with this?” he asks incredulously.

You look at him now, really look at him for the first time since he’s sat down, and you see utter confusion on his face, something out of character for the usually confident and suave man, and you take in a deep, shuddering breath.

“She has everything to do with this,” you whisper, “You lover her.” You say finally, a single tear slips down your cheek as you finally say the words out loud, “You love her Oberyn. Not me. And as much as I love you,” your voice cracks pathetically, “I don’t want to spend the rest of my life in a one-sided marriage,” you say finally.

Your words hang heavy in the air and, for a moment, everything is silent. Even the crickets have stopped singing and the only thing you can hear are your quiet sniffles. Nothing is said for what feels like ages, until Oberyn takes your chin between his fingers and gently urges you to look at him.

“It’s true,” he begins, “I am in love with Ellaria,” he states.

You let out a small sigh and close your eyes, your heart breaking in two. But Oberyn’s hands cupping the sides of your face make you open your eyes once more and you are greeted with his dark brown eyes swimming in emotion as he gazes at you.

“But I love you too,” he admits, “You can love more than one person, my love. And I love Ellaria and you. My love for is more vast than the stars in the sky, and I knew it from the moment I met you in that hallway,” his words were laced with emotion.

Even though you could tell he was sincere, the seed of self-doubt was planted deeper than you thought, and you shook your head.

“How can you love me when you have Ellaria?” you ask quietly.

Oberyn smiles, one hand moving down to rest behind your neck while the other stayed on your cheek, thumb wiping away any traces of tears.

“Because you are different from any woman I’ve met,” he whispers, “You are fierce and have a quick wit, yet you are unceasingly kind and compassionate. I love the way your nose crinkles when you disagree with something and I love the way you speak about the things you are passionate about. I love the way your eyes shine when you laugh with Sansa or speak with Ellaria. I love your smile and your humor and your biting edge and your passion – “ he pauses for a moment, just to look at you for a moment longer before he continues, “I love you my flower, all of you.”

Before you can process the whirlwind of emotions his words brought upon you, Oberyn is pulling you in for a passionate yet gentle kiss. And as if his words didn’t reassure you enough, this kiss did. You both said all of the things you couldn’t say out loud during this moment, and when you finally pulled away, you were both smiling the most genuinely happy smiles you had in a long time. And for the first time since you found out about this arrangement, you weren’t afraid. You were excited - happy even - to be lucky enough to marry a man like Oberyn.

He smiles at you sweetly, pressing another quick kiss to your lips and asking, “Are you still afraid?”

You just chuckle and shake your head, “Not in the slightest, my Prince.”

/////

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[vaguely-concerned]

R-r-r-rewatch thoughts for The Mandalorian S2 Ep2

(or Chapter 10 as they seem resolved to call it)

- can I just express my joy for a moment that in one episode we get peli, the answer to my pleas for female representation in the ‘sketchy middle aged car mechanic’ niche, and a female alien designed with no consideration towards sexiness. (I mean I’m sure there’s someone. There is always someone somewhere on the Internet, is the bitter truth history has shown to us. but it’s not the intention behind the design haha)  

- they do take great pains to deliberately show you boba’s armour several times both in the recap and in the episode itself, so never despair he is very likely still on his way onto our screens once more

- this dude holding the baby hostage wanting specifically the jetpack in exchange is the one (1) break this whole episode gave din lol 

also the Patented Mando Finger Curl of Stress while he talked softly and calmly to not promp this asshole to make a sudden move... the most endearing character tic, I love my space cowboy dad so much 

- fun continuity detail: din is all out of whistling birds now, and you can see it here!

I wonder if he could still use the same mechanism with different ‘ammo’, it’s just not as effective? from the way the armorer spoke whistling birds seem quite rare and it would be an inefficient use of beskar if that’s the only thing it can be loaded with

 - I love how after the last episode, a 50 min epic with a bunch of original trilogy significance and impressive technical achievements and exciting character reveals, I was like ‘yeah okay I suppose that is quite interesting’, and this mess/comedy of inconveniences is the thing that fully makes my brain tip into the obsessive ‘BABY AND DAD SHOW!! BABY AND DAD SHOW!!!!!’ mind state lol

- ah the traditional ‘mando trudging slowly but steadily through the desert’ montage we all love to see (I hope this is going to be a Thing for the second episode of every season from now on) 

Also I assume his suit has some sort of temperature regulation built in and that’s how he didn’t, y’know. die under the blazing desert sun

-

CAT FIGHT CAT FIGHT man I love the jawa. also mando doesn’t even glance over at them, really emphasizing how he’s like. done with this entire day (and it’s all barely even getting started din! i’m sorry)

 yodito’s look in this scene tho... he’s like ‘we’ve Seen some shit lady’ (actually I think he’s staring at ‘dr mandible’ like O___o. it’s been a long day for a lil boy) 

you get to see dr mandible’s cards a few times, so I assume anyone who knows the rules of... sabacc? probably? could figure out beforehand that he was in a bad spot. (the star wars fanbase is one of those where I KNOW the rules exist somewhere, and I know people who know those rules exist too)  

- that sound the baby keeps making -- the ‘boo-a’, sometimes with a p-sound at the end -- if that’s the precursor to him saying any variation whatsoever of ‘dad’ or ‘papa’ or ‘baba’ or even ‘buir’ or anything, I will die. I will sink to the ground in a heap and never get up (the way he keeps seeking out gaze contact with the helmet and seems perfectly satisfied with it too... fasdhfaskdjhl my FEELINGS)

- it seems confirmed in this ep that the mandos who died on nevarro did so while holding off the enemy so the rest(probably especially the children) could get away; some of them appear to have escaped. which I guess is a small relief

- 

frog lady stepping out of the shadows and into our hearts

I like that her firm nod after Peli translates ‘her husband has seen them’ lets us know she understands... basic? is that the common tongue thing in star wars there’s just so many to remember across fandoms lol? perfectly well, even if she can’t speak it. 

- mando might be running low on ammo for the pulse rifle, if the fact that he hasn’t replaced the missing cartridge on his... bandolier belt thingy is any indication

ETA: actually ignore me this has been a thing since the literal first episode of the show my brain just had a hiccup lol

- so baby seems to use a little bit of the force to pull the eggs towards him -- I wonder how often he ‘taps into it’ or if it’s always ‘on’ in the background for him. if so I guess there’s no wonder he’s so hungry (but also... kid you can’t end this lady’s entire family line like that one cat who singlehandedly made extinct a whole species of bird! D:)

- din so rarely gets openly angry, he just gets passive aggressive and grumpy. and that’s probably not the healthiest way to deal with things but I love him

- frog lady reacts so strongly to when din sends the ping when nothing else woke her up, I wonder if she can hear more frequencies than a human

- 

hello darkness my old frieeennnddd

- 

proof nr 1508 that din does not starve this baby you guys, he even has his own little tray just the right size for him! as it happens the baby simply seems to prefer eating things that are... still alive in some capacity. which, uh. maybe they can invest in some form of non-sentient crickets or something for him to hunt down and.... oh dear

- 

Look how they massacred my boy

By the way I finally managed to put into words why the Razor Crest -- and particularly the way it keeps getting beaten to hell and back and patched up again --  is so symbolically important and meaningful to me in this show in this post over here! it’s always a great relief to me when I can finally understand what the hell I’ve been going on about all this time and this was one of those lol

-  honestly if it weren’t for frog lady and (more importantly) the baby I think there’s a slight chance din would’ve gone ‘well I had a good-ish run of it for a while there’ and just let the ice claim him haha   

- “Why don’t you come over here and give me a hand. Make yourself useful” This is the one time in the episode I think he crosses the line into just being a dick for a moment (but noticeably the baby isn’t just a little hurt at this reaction, he’s clearly surprised and confused, which means this really does not happen often. after the time mando’s been having recently I guess a moment’s snappishness is understandable haha. he does follow up right after with being much more responsive and attentive when the baby toddles away from him, so it feels like it’s going to be okay)

also the ‘boo-ap’ sound is there again when he’s trying to get din’s attention. just sayin’ 

when din comes over to see the footprints baby makes a declarative little meep like ‘see??? I did tell you!’ haha

- it is very funny that mando is using all his technology meant to track down dangerous bounties in the grungy depths of the criminal underworld... to find a naked lady just chillin’ in a hot spring 

- 

cue the ‘father is evil?’ memes fsadfda. actually the funniest thing about this moment (apart from the fabulous finger acting) is that din actually snatches a few eggs out of the baby’s reach more subtly right before, and that baby only whines for ALL OF ONE SECOND before he goes to sniff around for other food possibilities fkadfhjkds. from my experience with human children he’s a lot less prone to tantrums. yodito doesn’t get mad, he gets even 

- baby running towards din through the hatching spiderlings like ‘DAD I FUCKED UUUUUUP’, din’s little strangled ‘ngh’ sound as he picks the baby up and watches all the creepy crawlies come out... *chef kiss* impeccable 

(that little ‘ngh’ and the soft shocked ‘ah ah AH!’s from when he goes flying at the beginning of the episode... pedro pascal and his voice work for this character gives me so much life. in some ways din has this sort of dignity and grace and in other ways he uh extremely doesn’t. he gets to be cool but also vulnerable in ways a lot of male main characters don’t and it’s probably why I love him so much) 

btw here is that moment when din moves to hold the baby tightly against him with both hands as the big spider appears, because it gets me right in the heart... it such an instinctive thing of holding on to the dearest thing you’ve got before something bad is about to happen

fdsafhsdakjlfhsdkjlhfsdajhf oh my god the baby is clutching din’s finger with his little hand during the chase!!!! 😭😭😭

this FUCKING SHOW has just WEAPONIZED putting in small details everywhere to convey the love and tenderness and attachment felt by a little muppet doll even where only weirdos like me will frame by frame their way through the video to see it I am so MAD

- frog lady going ‘fuck this’ and bounding along is  e v e r y t h i n g 

- din is an amazing shot, though, he doesn’t seem to miss a single one in this whole scene (then again there’s something to shoot at basically everywhere one can take aim so lol)

-

baby hiding behind/half hugging din’s boot as he tries to get the doors closed hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh I can’t breathhhhheeeee 

honestly every single one of the baby’s proximity seeking behaviours in this ep has me on my knees 

- it’s very unfair to play the heroic happy mando music like everything is going to be fine and then have a huge fuck-off spider drop down from the ceiling and break it off mid-tune, the mandalorian, you have trained me in certain ways and now do you betray me??? how can I trust again

- the camera work in the scene with the new republic guys gives such a good sense of the discomfort of being judged from on high by someone or something you can’t really see -- the glare of the lights blocking out everything in the shots from din’s pov makes it feel like a tense interrogation (the new republic dude who is actually dave filoni has such a look of fondness as he watches din tho it’s kind of sweet)

- ...oh no I think baby was actually considering munching on that dismembered spider leg YODITO NO JUST EAT YOUR KRAYT DRAGON BABY

- hngh this is a weird filler episode and it has my entire heart. I suspect we might get some episodes of a more stationary baby between active ones like this -- you can tell a little bit in this episode that especially having him running around fast is quite difficult to have look natural, they likely save that effort up for when it best serves the narrative  

[izaswritings]

A twist on the Cass & Varian parts of Cass' Revenge? You could super angsty with the kidnapping scene or the 'tell me the third incantation' bit, or heck, hurt/comfort up in the tower? :>

AO3 Link is Here!

“You know,” Varian says, as Cassandra shoves him up the tower, forcing him to walk up and up and up those spiraling steps. “Usually, um, when someone is—trying to get revenge, you know—they have a reason?”

The world is spinning before his eyes, and his breath feels sickly and sticky—the truth serum is sweet, all the better for baking, but on its own it’s almost too sweet, like he’s drunk solid sugary syrup and now the aftertaste is clinging to his tongue. It’s gross. Still an ingenious invention that Varian is very proud of because hell yeah, chemistry, but also—yuck.

“Shut up,” says Cassandra, and a rock pokes his back in warning. Keep walking, that’s what that means, and something about that grits at his teeth. She’s been short and curt the whole damn time—one-word orders, cold demands, chilling smiles and taunts. It’s gone right past frightening to just plain annoying, and Varian cranes back his neck, eyes narrowed, trying to catch her gaze.

“No, really,” he says, suddenly sharp. “I’m not kidding. Why are you doing this? All this? What’s it for?”

“Nothing you need to know,” Cassandra says. Something curls at her lip. “Hasn’t Rapunzel told you already, anyhow?”

“You’re kidnapping me,” Varian reminds her. “It’s definitely my business now, thanks.” And as for that second bit— “She did. I heard Rapunzel’s side.” He takes a chance, turns on his heels, forcing them both to a stop on the steps. He meets her eyes and lifts his chin. “Now I’m asking for yours.”

Cassandra stops too, looking up the steps; her eyes flash, and she looks momentarily furious—stops, and looks away. She stares off into the distance and her jaw clenches. She seems torn— caught between Varian’s offer and some other, quieter whisper, some urge to ignore all he says and just keep going.

“You think I wouldn’t understand?” Varian asks, suddenly desperate, suddenly afraid. There is a sense of—of being caught, here, of a thread fraying thin and worn between them, and if he doesn’t reach her here then he will never reach her again. His voice rises, incredulous. “Me?”

Something in his tone must hit true, because she almost seems to smile—a reluctant twitch of the lips, an almost-acknowledgment of the irony. Cassandra’s eyes turn to him. “It’s not revenge,” she says, sudden and clear and sure. “It’s just… taking back what should have been mine in the first place.”

“And… what’s that?”

Her eyes narrow. “A destiny.”

“…Right.” Varian feels unsettled, off-guard. He doesn’t—he doesn’t understand that. What she’s saying, why she’s saying it like that. He was there for the fight in the tunnels— he saw what she did to keep Rapunzel occupied and to spirit Varian away. That… wasn’t revenge? That wasn’t anger?

You almost killed us, he thinks, and gets the sudden sense that he is out of his depth. But he knows better than to say that. So he says instead, quietly— “And… how are you planning to do that?”

“Easy.” Cassandra’s chin lifts. Her hand brushes by her heart—  the shining blue-white gem. “When Rapunzel comes for you…”

She’s going to fight, Varian realizes, with sudden horror and even deeper, awful understanding. She’s seeking a fight. And it’s awful, because this, this Varian does understand—hurting, and taking, and drawing blood for no reason other than the feeling you deserve a little payback. But he also knows how this story ends. Cassandra is throwing everything away, everything she has left to lose, and in the end she’ll gain nothing at all.

“You… you’re going to kill Rapunzel.”

“If she forces me too.”

He says nothing to that. He has nothing at all to say to that. He keeps walking, cold all the way to his bones, and Cassandra walks beside him now, ahead of him, her head raised and eyes set.

He understands now. He knows what this is. Varian’s a hostage. He’s the bait. And it burns low and dark and furious in his chest, like a bitter pill he cannot swallow, and Varian looks at Cassandra’s back and thinks—  it doesn’t even hurt her.

The idea of fighting Rapunzel. Of hurting her friends. She’s so convinced she’s right that nothing else will shake her out of it.

Varian knows that mindset. Varian knows that certainty. And he remembers, sudden and cold, the way that certainty crumbled. Bit by bit. Little by little. Crushed down into pieces with every doubt that festered in his mind.

He doesn’t have time to convince Cassandra slowly.

“It’s almost over, Varian,” Cassandra says, and it’s almost as though she’s trying to sound comforting. “You get it, right?”

“Yeah,” Varian says. His voice is very soft. He keeps his eyes on her back, and already can feel his heart sink. The truth serum on his tongue tastes sweet and sickly.

“I get it,” Varian says, and then he smiles. His hands tremble and then still. Rapunzel stopped him, once, months ago, from sacrificing himself for Corona. But Rapunzel isn’t here now. And while Cassandra’s choices aren’t Varian’s responsibility…

Home, he thinks. Dad. Old Corona. Rapunzel and all the others.

If he can inspire even the slightest doubt, if he can crumble that certainty even a little—  then finally, Varian knows, he’ll have done something right.

“Hey, Cass? Did you know the truth serum lasts for almost a few hours? Fun fact!”

Her eyes flash back at him. She scowls. “Don’t call me—”

“I just want you to know that,” Varian says. “I want you to know this is true.”

“The hell are you talking about?”

Here’s the problem with kidnapping Varian. Because he wants to do better. Because Varian wants to be kind. But once upon a time Varian was angry, and he hurt people— and as much as he hates it, he still remembers how to do it.

“You almost killed us,” Varian says, calm. “You almost killed Eugene, and Lance, and Pascal, and Rapunzel.”

“I didn’t—”

“And even if I do survive this,” Varian continues, ignoring her. “I want you to know that you almost killed me too. Because I didn’t have to do this.” He smiles. It’s shaky. “But you’re scaring me, Cass. And you forced me to. You made me choose this.” The smile goes stiff. “You monster.”

And before Cassandra can react, before she can speak or startle or do anything else other than go pale around the eyes, Varian steps back off the staircase into open air, and lets himself drop.

[charliejrogers]

Wonder Woman 1984 (2020) - Review & Analysis

Here’s a non-controversial statement: 2017’s Wonder Woman is a legitimately great film (if you discount the last act’s boring battle). A fun, yet emotional anti-war tale with a great period aesthetic. What elevated it from greatness was its starkly bleak reveal that Ares does not start man’s wars, but he merely gives humans ideas for how to instigate them. Ultimately, it is Man who holds responsibility for our own destruction, and despite this Wonder Woman still chooses to help us poor creatures. Cool themes, cool hero, cool movie.

Wonder Woman 1984 shares the main character from its 2017 forerunner, as well as its dedication to recreating a particular period aesthetic (here the 1980s), but the brilliant writing from the first film is gone. The main themes are essentially… “be careful what you wish for” and “winners never cheat; cheaters never win.” Not the most grand and interesting follow-up to the prior film’s genuine insight into human nature.

But that’s OK. I’m really not sure why this movie is getting so much flak online. If DC’s recent prior history with filmmaking should have taught us anything, it’s that 2017’s Wonder Woman was a fluke. Remember that this is the same studio that brought us the outstanding climax to Batman vs. Superman where one grown man learns that another grown man’s mother is also named Martha. Oh, and did we all just forget that Justice League is one of the worst movies we have all collectively ever seen?

So let’s not be too hard on WW84 for not meeting the quality of 2017’s Wonder Woman. Few comic book movies can. In the more fair comparison to other movies in the DCEU, it sits below Shazam! and Aquaman, and just a smidge below Birds of Prey, but certainly above Suicide Squad, and then literally leaps and bounds over every other movie they’ve made.

Let’s start with the good. Honestly, despite my gripes about the themes of the movie not being very profound, I found the story to be interesting. The movie centers around Diana Prince (Gal Gadot in her role as an archaeologist for the Smithsonian and not as Wonder Woman) stumbling upon an ancient stone whose inscription invites people who hold the stone to make a wish. No one takes it really seriously at first, so two people make wishes without thinking they could come true. The first person is Diana herself who wishes to bring her boyfriend (whom she only knew for about a week, mind you) from the dead. As a reminder from the first film, her boyfriend Steve Trevor (Chris Pine) had died nearly 70 years prior to the start of this film in a dramatic, sacrificial, world-saving act. Apparently, Diana hasn’t moved on at all from the 1910s and still considers her short-time lover to be her forever lover. She’s not really a human and did not grow up a human, so I think we can forgive her for not moving on… but it is weird to imagine that Diana somehow works at the Smithsonian (without going to college? Or did she?) without developing any friends or interest in life. Wouldn’t she have moved on... like a little bit?

Anyways, she wants her boyfriend back, and that’s wish #1. Wish #2 comes from new character Barbara Minerva (Kristen Wiig… who I am shocked to find is 47 years old! She looks fantastic and far younger in this film). Were Barbara a man, the way she is treated by her colleagues would put them in the stereotypical role of a future school shooter. Barbara is a brilliant gemologist for the Smithsonian, but goes completely unrecognized for her brilliance. She is shy and unconfident, and subsequently people frequently forget that they have even met her. Add on to that the fact that she has to work in the same office as Wonder Woman, and her loneliness and subjective feelings of unattractiveness increase as male employees drool over Diana while they ignore and mock Barbara. Therefore, we would forgive her for having a chip on her shoulder. Yet, for all this, Wiig avoids playing her as an angry, emo goth. Barbara kinda has this air about her of “Well, this is just how life is, and there’s nothing I can do to change that.” Given the character’s lack of self-confidence and lack of social grace, it at times seemed like Wiig was just reprising her old SNL character, Penelope, the socially awkward one-upper. But that’s not fair to her character. Wiig portrays Barbara with an earnest goodness to her. She’s one of those people who when allowed to talk one-on-one proves to be more eloquent and interesting than you could have imagine. Far from being angrily envious of Diana’s confidence and beauty, she’s more sadly jealous. Naturally, then, she wishes on the stone to be more like Diana… unaware that this wish might have some unintended benefits.

But then, there’s a third key character to the film (and a third wishmaker), the main villain Maxwell Lord (Pedro Pascal). I cannot tell you if this was a good character or not… and I cannot tell you whether the imperfections of the character are more due to the film’s writing or Pascal’s performance. Lord is another loser, and like Barbara, his “loser” status is the result of being a victim of America’s prejudicial attitudes. But whereas Barbara fell victim to sexism, Lord falls victim to racism. Hispanic in origin, Lord grew up in America with an abusive father at home and racist classmates at school. Beaten down from an early age, all he wants in life is to make a name for himself, to prove he’s not a loser. In a clever twist, Lord (the person who originally ordered the wish stone to come to America before it was confiscated by the FBI and sent to the Smithsonian for analysis) does not simply use the stone to wish for riches and power… he wishes to BECOME the stone. That way, he can get nearly infinite wishes so long as he can con the people around him to wish things for him.

The scenes of Max Lord as a flawed human who just wants to not be a loser show Pascal giving a great performance as a human being at the ends of desperation. The scenes of Max Lord the supervillain are… not good. In a long string of over-the-top, eccentric, hyperconfident supervillains in countless superhero movies, Pascal’s Lord is just not interesting. In fact, he is literally a weak character. He cannot fight for himself as his body is crumbling (a side effect of wishing to become a stone). Furthermore, his initially grounded motivations to finally be respected and successful seem to be just utterly lost by the end of the film when he just wishes for world chaos… only then to turn around and declare undying love for his son. It doesn’t make a whole lot of sense.

Failure to understand a character’s motivations casts a shadow over Barbara’s character arc as well. It is explained that the wish stone takes something in return for granting someone their wish. So as payment for bringing Steve Trevor back to life, Diana loses some of her strength. Still… this strains to fully explain why Barbara, after gaining Wonder Woman-like strength, turns into a walking humanoid cheetah (complete with bad CGI like she walked straight out of the cast of 2019’s Cats.) Like I get that she lost some of her humanity and morality in exchange for strength… but Cheetah girl seems like a little much. And though initially it is fun to see Wiig get to play Barbara as a confident and sexy woman who fights back against the patriarchy, the movie (I think) unfairly pushes her into the villain role. In my opinion, she should be treated as a tragic character, something akin to a Harvey Dent in The Dark Knight, as her villainous tendencies are not really her fault. She literally had the part of her that cares about other humans taken away from her when she naively and innocently wished to be like Diana. Instead, the movie has Diana lecture her that she shouldn’t be so evil. She literally can’t, lady! Stop being so hard on her! In any case, it seems like a failed opportunity to generate sympathy for a genuinely likable character who tragically becomes a villain not through her own accord.

That failure to create genuine emotions extends to Diana’s story as well. As soon as Steve is resurrected, you know by the movie’s end he will be dead again. There’s no other way this movie ends. Yet, the fact that Diana is so stubborn in refusing to give up Steve makes it hard to sympathize with her. She is simply being selfish, making her eventual decision to say goodbye to Steve feel more like her finally doing the right (and obvious) thing, and not some heartbreaking decision. Also the fact that seemingly Diana hasn’t even tried to move on in the last seventy years doesn’t help matters for me: it more just feels like a lazy way to write in Chris Pine’s popular character into the second movie. The move certainly weakens the idea of Diana as a strong, independent woman by making her emotionally stunted and crippled for the last 70 years. It would have been a much more satisfying (and daring) choice if Diana had moved on from Steve emotionally and had to deal with the guilt of having brought him back by accident, particularly if he didn’t want to go back to being dead. Instead... Steve knows he has to go back and Diana feels no guilt keeping him around. It’s weak character writing.

These poor choices I contrast with two of my favorite TV shows that demonstrate perfectly how former lovers who miraculously reunite eventually have to say goodbye for good: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Jane the Virgin. For risk of spoilers to those still watching Jane, I’ll stick to the Buffy example. There’s an episode of Buffy (though technically an episode of the spin-off show Angel) where Buffy and her vampire lover Angel are fresh off their recent and tumultuous break-up, but through some dark magic that neither seeks out, they are given the opportunity to live a life where Angel isn’t actually a vampire and their love can be fully expressed. Yet, in the end, Angel opts to give up his life as a human and return to being a vampire. The choice is so moving precisely because (due to circumstances I cannot begin to explain) in choosing to give up his life with Buffy, he saves her life as well. Whereas in this movie, Diana choosing to let Steve go is really just her choosing to undo her choice to essentially cheat death. Angel, however, is actively choosing to give up a life of happiness he never wished for but was just given on a silver platter, and will now live in a world where his lover will never know his selfless act and will go on hating him. It’s heartbreaking in a way Wonder Woman dreams it could be.

And not to get too Buffy-heavy… but that show also deals with the emotional consequences of being ripped out of the afterlife much better than this movie. Steve just kinda unrealistically adapts to being alive again in all of five minutes. If, perhaps, from the start he questioned why he was there and hinted to Diana that something was wrong, the emotional aspect of this story, the doomed nature, the feeling of “this is the last chance we’ll have together” could have made this a stronger movie. I wanted to find myself crying when Diana finally says bye to Steve, and I was no where close to that. Gal Gadot shares at least part of the blame. She’s a pretty wooden actress. It’s something I noticed in 2017’s Wonder Woman, but in that movie she was supposed to be a fish out of water so her stilted presence seemed appropriate. Here, where she’s supposedly become an assimilated American for 70 years… it is just bad acting.

Anyways, another aspect of this film that was lacking were the visuals. The bad CGI of Barbara as Cheetah is just scratching the surface here. The opening flashback to Diana as a girl performing in the Amazonian Olympics just… looks fake. I don’t know. The reliance on CGI over practical effects is clear and distracting. It’s only worse in the subsequent scene where Wonder Woman stops a theft from occurring in a mall. The effects are just bad. Like passable for a film in the 1990s or early 2000s. But for a 2020 blockbuster, it’s noticeably bad. And already the scene where Wonder Woman is running towards the camera with a weird green screen behind her seems to have become a meme given just how weird it looks.

And yet, for all the negatives I’ve listed, this is a decent action flick. There’s even some nice set pieces like the one in the White House. As little as I liked Max Lord as a supervillain, I found figuring out the other half of each of his various Monkey Paw wishes (i.e. the downside of each wish) to be clever. unfortunately, each of the main three characters fails to have a story line that takes full advantage of their emotional potential, or they are just poorly acted. With few exceptions, the film eschews “fun” in favor of “seriousness.” Really the only exception is, as in the first film, the chemistry between Pine and Gadot. Their chemistry makes for some of the movie’s best moments, like when Wonder Woman makes the plane they’re flying in invisible and the pair flies over fireworks on the fourth of July. But that sense of whimsy in their scenes is largely absent from the rest of the film. This is particularly true of the action sequences, especially those at the climax. The seriousness makes them rather boring. Really, I’m comparing these action scenes with the last half hour or so of Birds of Prey which really set the bar for superhero movie fight choreography. So in the end, it’s overall an OK movie. It certainly isn’t as bad as others make it out to be, but I cannot believe I’m saying this… in 2020 if you’re in the mood for a fun superhero movie, you’re better off with the Suicide Squad sequel than the Wonder Woman sequel.

**/ (Two and a half stars out of 4)

[gta-5-cheats]

How to price cryptocurrencies

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How to price cryptocurrencies

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Predicting cryptocurrency prices is a fool’s game, yet this fool is about to try. The drivers of a single cryptocurrency’s value are currently too varied and vague to make assessments based on any one point. News is trending up on Bitcoin? Maybe there’s a hack or an API failure that is driving it down at the same time. Ethereum looking sluggish? Who knows: Maybe someone will build a new smarter DAO tomorrow that will draw in the big spenders.

So how do you invest? Or, more correctly, on which currency should you bet?

The key to understanding what to buy or sell and when to hold is to use the tools associated with assessing the value of open-source projects. This has been said again and again, but to understand the current crypto boom you have to go back to the quiet rise of Linux.

Linux appeared on most radars during the dot-com bubble. At that time, if you wanted to set up a web server, you had to physically ship a Windows server or Sun Sparc Station to a server farm where it would do the hard work of delivering Pets.com HTML. At the same time, Linux, like a freight train running on a parallel path to Microsoft and Sun, would consistently allow developers to build one-off projects very quickly and easily using an OS and toolset that were improving daily. In comparison, then, the massive hardware and software expenditures associated with the status quo solution providers were deeply inefficient, and very quickly all of the tech giants that made their money on software now made their money on services or, like Sun, folded.

From the acorn of Linux an open-source forest bloomed. But there was one clear problem: You couldn’t make money from open source. You could consult and you could sell products that used open-source components, but early builders built primarily for the betterment of humanity and not the betterment of their bank accounts.

Cryptocurrencies have followed the Linux model almost exactly, but cryptocurrencies have cash value. Therefore, when you’re working on a crypto project you’re not doing it for the common good or for the joy of writing free software. You’re writing it with the expectation of a big payout. This, therefore, clouds the value judgements of many programmers. The same folks that brought you Python, PHP, Django and Node.js are back… and now they’re programming money.

Check the codebase

This year will be the year of great reckoning in the token sale and cryptocurrency space. While many companies have been able to get away with poor or unusable codebases, I doubt developers will let future companies get away with so much smoke and mirrors. It’s safe to say we can expect posts like this one detailing Storj’s anemic codebase to become the norm and, more importantly, that these commentaries will sink many so-called ICOs. Though massive, the money trough that is flowing from ICO to ICO is finite and at some point there will be greater scrutiny paid to incomplete work.

Latest Crunch Report

What does this mean? It means to understand cryptocurrency you have to treat it like a startup. Does it have a good team? Does it have a good product? Does the product work? Would someone want to use it? It’s far too early to assess the value of cryptocurrency as a whole, but if we assume that tokens or coins will become the way computers pay each other in the future, this lets us hand wave away a lot of doubt. After all, not many people knew in 2000 that Apache was going to beat nearly every other web server in a crowded market or that Ubuntu instances would be so common that you’d spin them up and destroy them in an instant.

The key to understanding cryptocurrency pricing is to ignore the froth, hype and FUD and instead focus on true utility. Do you think that some day your phone will pay another phone for, say, an in-game perk? Do you expect the credit card system to fold in the face of an Internet of Value? Do you expect that one day you’ll move through life splashing out small bits of value in order to make yourself more comfortable? Then by all means, buy and hold or speculate on things that you think will make your life better. If you don’t expect the Internet of Value to improve your life the way the TCP/IP internet did (or you do not understand enough to hold an opinion), then you’re probably not cut out for this. NASDAQ is always open, at least during banker’s hours.

Still will us? Good, here are my predictions.

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The rundown

Here is my assessment of what you should look at when considering an “investment” in cryptocurrencies. There are a number of caveats we must address before we begin:

Crypto is not a monetary investment in a real currency, but an investment in a pie-in-the-sky technofuture. That’s right: When you buy crypto you’re basically assuming that we’ll all be on the deck of the Starship Enterprise exchanging them like Galactic Credits one day. This is the only inevitable future for crypto bulls. While you can force crypto into various economic models and hope for the best, the entire platform is techno-utopianist and assumes all sorts of exciting and unlikely things will come to pass in the next few years. If you have spare cash lying around and you like Star Wars, then you’re golden. If you bought bitcoin on a credit card because your cousin told you to, then you’re probably going to have a bad time.

Don’t trust anyone. There is no guarantee and, in addition to offering the disclaimer that this is not investment advice and that this is in no way an endorsement of any particular cryptocurrency or even the concept in general, we must understand that everything I write here could be wrong. In fact, everything ever written about crypto could be wrong, and anyone who is trying to sell you a token with exciting upside is almost certainly wrong. In short, everyone is wrong and everyone is out to get you, so be very, very careful.

You might as well hold. If you bought when BTC was $18,000 you’d best just hold on. Right now you’re in Pascal’s Wager territory. Yes, maybe you’re angry at crypto for screwing you, but maybe you were just stupid and you got in too high and now you might as well keep believing because nothing is certain, or you can admit that you were a bit overeager and now you’re being punished for it but that there is some sort of bitcoin god out there watching over you. Ultimately you need to take a deep breath, agree that all of this is pretty freaking weird, and hold on.

Now on with the assessments.

Bitcoin – Expect a rise over the next year that will surpass the current low. Also expect bumps as the SEC and other federal agencies around the world begin regulating the buying and selling of cryptocurrencies in very real ways. Now that banks are in on the joke they’re going to want to reduce risk. Therefore, the bitcoin will become digital gold, a staid, boring and volatility proof safe haven for speculators. Although all but unusable as a real currency, it’s good enough for what we need it to do and we also can expect quantum computing hardware to change the face of the oldest and most familiar cryptocurrency.

Ethereum – Ethereum could sustain another few thousand dollars on its price as long as Vitalik Buterin, the creator, doesn’t throw too much cold water on it. Like a remorseful Victor Frankenstein, Buterin tends to make amazing things and then denigrate them online, a sort of self-flagellation that is actually quite useful in a space full of froth and outright lies. Ethereum is the closest we’ve come to a useful cryptocurrency, but it is still the Raspberry Pi of distributed computing — it’s a useful and clever hack that makes it easy to experiment but no one has quite replaced the old systems with new distributed data stores or applications. In short, it’s a really exciting technology, but nobody knows what to do with it.

Where will the price go? It will hover around $1,000 and possibly go as high as $1,500 this year, but this is a principled tech project and not a store of value.

Altcoins – One of the signs of a bubble is when average people make statements like “I couldn’t afford a Bitcoin so I bought a Litecoin.” This is exactly what I’ve heard multiple times from multiple people and it’s akin to saying “I couldn’t buy hamburger so I bought a pound of sawdust instead. I think the kids will eat it, right?” Play at your own risk. Altcoins are a very useful low-risk play for many, and if you create an algorithm — say to sell when the asset hits a certain level — then you could make a nice profit. Further, most altcoins will not disappear overnight. I would honestly recommend playing with Ethereum instead of altcoins, but if you’re dead set on it, then by all means, enjoy.

Tokens – This is where cryptocurrency gets interesting. Tokens require research, education and a deep understanding of technology to truly assess. Many of the tokens I’ve seen are true crapshoots and are used primarily as pump and dump vehicles. I won’t name names, but the rule of thumb is that if you’re buying a token on an open market then you’ve probably already missed out. The value of the token sale as of January 2018 is to allow crypto whales to turn a few cent per token investment into a 100X return. While many founders talk about the magic of their product and the power of their team, token sales are quite simply vehicles to turn 4 cents into 20 cents into a dollar. Multiply that by millions of tokens and you see the draw.

The answer is simple: find a few projects you like and lurk in their message boards. Assess if the team is competent and figure out how to get in very, very early. Also expect your money to disappear into a rat hole in a few months or years. There are no sure things, and tokens are far too bleeding-edge a technology to assess sanely.

You are reading this post because you are looking to maintain confirmation bias in a confusing space. That’s fine. I’ve spoken to enough crypto-heads to know that nobody knows anything right now and that collusion and dirty dealings are the rule of the day. Therefore, it’s up to folks like us to slowly buy surely begin to understand just what’s going on and, perhaps, profit from it. At the very least we’ll all get a new Linux of Value when we’re all done.

Image: Photo by Fabian Blank on Unsplash

[izaswritings]

Title: Faults of the Mind

Synopsis:  Having escaped the perils of the Dark Kingdom, Rapunzel finally returns home—but all is not well in the Kingdom of Corona, and the black rocks are quickly becoming the least of her troubles. Meanwhile, over a thousand miles away, Varian struggles with new powers and his own conscience.

The labyrinth has fallen into rubble. A great evil stirs in the world beyond. The Dark Kingdom may be behind them, but the true journey is just beginning—and neither Rapunzel nor Varian can survive it on their own.

Warnings for: some cursing (for once, actually, not from Varian), internal self-loathing/self-hatred (not constant, but occasionally vicious), references to past child abuse, references to past character death, past character injuries, detailed description of scars, PTSD symptoms and the lingering effects of trauma. If there’s anything you think I missed, please let me know and I’ll add it on here!

-

AO3 version is here.

Arc I: Labyrinths of the Heart can be found here!

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Chapter II: The Stranger

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One day, as the Sun slipped below the hills to rest, she saw a beautiful woman dancing on the seas.

Dark like a shadow, and eyes glowing bright, the woman danced alone to the raging waves. Entranced by the sight, the Sun drew closer, unable to look away. But it was more than beauty, more than curiosity that caught her so. For the woman on the seas was lovely, yes, but she danced to no music. Here, even the wind was silent, and it struck the Sun as unbearably lonely. She watched the woman twirl to nothing, and was reminded of herself.

And as the stranger danced to silence, the Sun opened her mouth and began to sing…

.

Rapunzel can’t sleep.

It is three hours after her disastrous homecoming, and Rapunzel is finally ready to admit defeat. She just—can’t. She can’t sleep. She’s been lying here for hours, she’s been trying with all her might, because she’ll never convince Cassandra and Eugene things are fine if she looks like the living dead—but despite the exhaustion weighing at her body, despite how heavy her eyes, Rapunzel is wide awake.

She turns her face into her pillow, smushing her nose, breathing deep to stave off another wave of tears. Oh, she hatesthis—being sad and being tired all at once. It just clings, the tangle of emotion dragging her down despite her best attempts to ignore it, to stay positive.

It’s not that Rapunzel hasn’t been let down before, hasn’t been hurt, hasn’t been betrayed. She has. Gothel, Varian, her father… No. It’s not the first time, as much as she hates to think that. But she knows how to laugh despite it—to force a smile, and laugh, and turn her back to the things that seek to cut her open. She knows, but something about this—something about being right, about having expected it, about it hurting anyway—digs in deeper than usual.

After that disastrous conversation with her parents, Rapunzel had fled. She had locked herself in her room and gone through the motions of preparing for sleep in a furious, half-distraught daze. Changed into her nightgown with a solemn grit to her teeth, even as her cheeks burned hot with fresh tears. Brushed her hair with stiff hands and got barely a quarter done before she had to stop. For those first few hours, Rapunzel had breathed and she had cried and she had paced, restless and alone. She had let herself feel, then. She was alone here, in this room, and that meant it was okay to cry.

It’s not that Eugene and Cassandra didn’t try to stay with her, of course. They did. They chased after her down the hall, and knocked quietly on the door when she locked it behind her. But in the end, they had listened when Rapunzel waved them away. They had left. Even Pascal, though still with her, is quiet in his support, nudging at her cheek and staying curled on her shoulder, but leaving her otherwise alone. In this moment, the distance is needed. Rapunzel doesn’t want to talk right now. She doesn’t want comfort. She wants to throw a tantrum behind closed doors, without worry of what others will think of her for it. She wants to be angry, she wants to scream, and she doesn’t want to be talked down from it—not yet. Soon, maybe… but not yet.

Even now, hours later—the very idea of soft words and useless placations makes her want to break something. Her face is hot from her crying fit, a headache pulsing behind her eyes from the pressure, but her tears have finally run dry. It is practically morning already, but Rapunzel still cannot sleep.

Lying piled under her bedcovers, Rapunzel turns her head into her pillow and sighs. The covers are heavy, pressing down like bricks, fabric tangled in her fingers and twisted around her legs like a web. When she moves, she can feel every weave, every knot, every thread, the silk rough and itchy against her skin. There’s a blood rush to her head, or maybe just heat, a pressure like she’s been holding her breath until she’s fit to burst, a painful ache building behind her gummy eyes, burning like a fever. It’s both too quiet, and too much all at once—Pascal, silent in rest, even the birds asleep; the wind, beating at her balcony windows, her own heartbeat roaring in her ears and rushing through her head.

She can’t stop thinking about it, is the thing. She’s so stupid. She knew it couldn’t end well. She knew it was coming, and it still hurts. She knew, and yet—she feels like she can’t breathe right, like the air has gone thin and Rapunzel is still adjusting, like her gut has been hollowed out and her heart’s been twisted in her chest, wrung dry, strangled quiet. The press of her thoughts, the weight of everything, leans unyielding on her shoulders. If she thinks about it for too long, or too closely, she can feel her breath catch, her eyes prickling with tears, less from pain and more from stress. God, it’s so much. It’s just so much. She doesn’t—she doesn’t want—

She is aware, distantly, of her breathing beginning to pick up speed, wheezing in her chest; when she opens her eyes, the world blurs, dark and shadowy and too close, labyrinthine, her tower all over again, the roof caving in on her.

Her panic sharpens to a needle point. She throws off her covers, a scream stifled in her throat, and hunches over her middle with a choked gasp. Her eyes are hot and swollen, and it hurts to cry. Her hair hangs heavy around her like a shroud, sticky with sweat. Her hands are screaming stiff, pins and needles stabbing into wooden fingers.

The roar of wind outside her window is like thunder. Everything roars, her ears blocked, her pulse hammering through her skull. She feels sick and dizzy, and the longer she stays under the covers the more she feels like she’s being swallowed up. Rapunzel squeezes her eyes shut against the prick of tears, and opens them with a sigh, hissed through her teeth.

...She can’t do this.

She rolls out of bed, slow and careful, pulling on a shawl. Every movement, every sound, every brush of her hand against the covers… it’s all too loud, too much. Getting out of bed feels like walking through the tide. Standing takes time and effort.

She finds her feet, and the world spirals. She makes her way for the balcony, and the fact she doesn’t fall over is something of a miracle. Her footsteps pound, and the balcony door squeals when it opens, the glass burning cold to the touch. As she pushes open the door, the wind picks up and nearly slams it closed again, whistling fit for a storm.

She steps out into the freezing air, and the stone is frigid against her bare toes. By this point, it must almost be the cusp of dawn: the sun still hangs low below the horizon, but the sky is slowly staining a mystical kind of blue, the clouds above gray and soft.

Rapunzel takes a moment to look at it, to breathe it in—tilts up her face to the cold air, her cheeks sticky from tears, her eyes sore—and lets it calm her. After the sleepless night she just had, hot from tears and restless turning, the winter touch is almost soothing.

Rapunzel steps up to the balcony, reaching out to brace herself against the metal railing. Even through the gloves, the chill strikes through.

Below her, all of Corona sprawls at her feet. She’s so high up she can see the whole city, all the way to the distant mountains and the shining sea, and while normally this sight would comfort her, tonight it makes something small and nasty curdle in her chest. Rapunzel, alone in her room. But who is she fooling? It’s gentler, perhaps, but it’s still the same: Rapunzel, alone in her tower.

...She’s not being fair, she thinks, finally. It’s different. She knows it is! She can leave, after all. She can leave whenever she wants, but in this moment, Rapunzel finds herself struggling to remember the differences. It’s still a tower. It’s still a cage, in its own way, and she’s already learned from painful experience that prison bars can be put on these windows too.

She stares blankly down at the city, her hair dragging like a train behind her, and her fingers flex on the metal in sudden thought. If she wanted to. If she really wanted to—she could leave, right now. Loop her hair around the balcony and slip down to the ground. She could. Who would know? Who could stop her?

For a moment Rapunzel stands there and really, truly considers it—and then steps away, releasing hold of the balcony and her breath. She backs up to the wall, away from the ledge. Her will falters and then firms. No. No, she’ll stay. Leaving now, after that conversation, after just returning, with the situation as it is… it would only make things worse, add a new layer of drama to the whole mess.

No. She’ll stay.

She’s staying.

Still—the possibility, the open chance, the fact she could—just this eases some of the tension building up in her chest. Rapunzel closes her eyes and slides down to sit against the balcony doors, tilting back her head to rest on the cold glass, her face turned up to the cloudy skies.

She breathes. One breath. Two breaths. Slowly, her claustrophobia fades, eased away by the soothing cold. Rapunzel wipes her cheeks dry and rubs at sore eyes, the silk gloves itchy against her skin. She makes a face at the feeling and pulls it away, holding out her hand to see it properly in the moonlight.

Her hands are gloved, now, and even after all this time, Rapunzel is still not quite used to it. The gloves are pretty and embroidered, white silk stitched with delicate flowers and lovely detail—Cassandra’s idea, Cassandra’s gift. She’d bought them so Rapunzel could hide, so that her healing hands wouldn’t be left bare and aching in the chill. And the gloves, they are beautiful, they are lovely… but in this moment, all Rapunzel can do is frown at them.

She tugs them off on impulse—just one, just her right hand. Her exposed skin aches in the searing cold, her fingers curling in away from the icy air, looking almost like claws.

Even in the dim morning light, the scars are unmistakable, pink and shiny and pitted on her skin.

Rapunzel stares are them for a long time, turning her hand to and fro. The scar cuts up her inner wrist, slicing neat across her palm and into the curl of her inner fingers. The cut is straight, precise—but the edges of the scars pucker and tear at her palm, little lightning lines across her hands. The consequences, the result, of Rapunzel using the hand too soon, stressing the injury before it even had the chance to heal. She curls her fingers into a fist—easier than straightening them, most days—and remembers the golem’s gruesome blade.

“I’ve survived worse,” Rapunzel reminds herself, looking at the scars. She tries to keep her voice bright, positive; in the cold, it shakes. “I— I made it! I made it through.” Her fingers flex and close again, grasping on the air. “And I can make it through this, too.”

The wind whistles in answer. Rapunzel looks to the clouded sky, and finally pushes herself back up to her feet. There is an itch in her fingertips, a restless sort of pacing in her soul. Not from injuries, or claustrophobia—no, this feeling is one she knows. This is inspiration.

She heads back inside, pulling off the other glove as she walks, and throws the silk to a side table as she makes for her desk. She gathers up an armful of her paints and brushes, the tools untouched for over half a year, and curls her fingers tight around the slick wood handle of her favorite paintbrush. Her hands are scarred, and shaky, and aching… but they are hers. Her hands. They may be a little less secure, but she can still work with this, and she can still make something beautiful.

She takes up her supplies, goes back to the balcony, and kneels down to paint anew. The icy stone presses hard against her knees; the moonlight is faint, but bright enough to work by. She settles the jars of paint by her side, and splashes color across the rocks.

She paints like a man possessed, her mind soothed and consumed by the idea. Colors and shapes take form for each worry on her mind. She thinks of the scars and how she got them, and splashes red across the stone. Remembers the labyrinth and paints swaths of darkened blue. Thinks of the Moon, of Varian and the Dark Kingdom, and black fills the corners of her makeshift canvas. Her parents—a bright spiral of amber-orange, murky and dim. The changes in Corona become tall silhouettes of buildings and gray paint dragging down her balcony floor. The memory of Cassandra, of Eugene, of Pascal—gold flecks of light, dancing across her stone canvas.

By the time the painting’s complete, her hands are screaming and her back is sore from the time spent bent over the balcony. Rapunzel sits up, and though she still can’t bring herself to smile, she no longer feels like she’s drowning. Something has settled, heavy but secure, in the hollow of her chest. Her breathing is soft and steady. There is paint in her hair, the rainbow flecking from her fingers—and finally, clarity.

Across the whole length of the balcony, a new artwork sprawls across the white-washed marble stone. She’s painted a dark silhouette of the Corona capital, turned shadowy and indistinct from the vivid red-orange sky burning behind it. High above, an eclipsed sun sits over the city, red light trailing down like faded ribbons to shatter the city into segments. At the edges of the piece, great shadows swirl and surround the city like a makeshift border, and the blank white space of unpainted stone looks like reaching hands, thin and sinister.

It is a gloomy, twisted piece—as complicated as her feelings. Yet… there is light, too, even in this darker artwork. Golden streams coiling up the roadways, dancing in the streets. Small little lanterns shining bright and strong in the shadow city, burning bold against the emptiness.

Rapunzel twirls her paintbrush one last time. Her hands ache. Her hair shrouds around her face like a veil. The sun is starting to rise, now, distant light turning the world blue and dreamlike, and in this new dawn the world seems a little bit brighter. Easier to breathe. Easier to face.

Rapunzel closes her eyes, and leans heavy against the balcony doors. And at long last—for the first time since that disastrous homecoming conversation—she finally manages a smile.

.

True to Adira’s word, they leave the merchant camp behind by sunset.

They leave it, also, in awkward silence. Varian packs his bags, and Adira leads the way—both of them seething, and neither willing to speak first. Adira is frowning slightly as they leave the camp behind them. Varian follows in her wake, glaring at the ground, and pets Ruddiger with more rigor than usual in an attempt for calm. He gets only an annoyed fwap to the face for his troubles, and Ruddiger’s usual scolding chitters.

Varian still doesn’t know where they're going—but after that fight, well, he’s no longer in the mood to ask.

So he doesn’t question it, when Adira leads them back through the city, past the main gate and through the streets once again, heading inland. He doesn’t question it, but he does wonder,for lack of anything better to think about. (He missesalchemy. The lack of distraction makes his fingers itch.)

It’s his second time walking through these streets, but in this later hour, Port Caul is like another place entirely. The crowds have thinned to barely a trickle, the doors latched shut, the streetlamps just beginning to burn. The docks of the port city are still bustling, but with the earlier conversation of the merchants in mind Varian keeps a sharper eye out. This time, he sees the empty ports where ships should be, the closed stalls and stiff smiles of the dock workers, their frequent glances to the water.

It’s… subtle. Hard to see on his own. But there’s something in the air, something he can finally identify. Something that reminds him, uncomfortably, of Old Corona. It’s the same feeling—a tension, almost, a building pressure, that feeling he got when the rocks first began growing in the village, closer and closer each day.

The comparison unsettles him, and he slows, eyes darting around for more clues. The shops, the amount of guards walking about… those lights in the distant ocean, more merchant ships or a patrol? “Something’s off,” he murmurs, to himself, half under his breath. Thinking aloud. He curls his hand into Ruddiger’s fur to keep grounded, his mind spinning circles.  “It’s all… wrong, but why…?”

“Finally noticed, have you?”

He almost trips, and it’s only Adira’s quick reflexes that save him from face-planting the road. She hauls him back to his feet, dangling him by his collar like a cat. He yelps, and she drops him. “The merchant groups have been talking about it for nearly a month,” she continues. Her tone is mild and blank. “It’s been a daily concern. Trade is, after all, the livelihood.”

He hefts the wrapped package up against his chest like a shield and backpedals out of her reach, staring hard at the ground. His face is hot, his cheeks red. He hadn’t known she’d been listening. He hadn’t known this was something he should have noticed sooner, and he’s not sure whether to feel ashamed he missed it or irritated that she had these stupid expectations in the first place. He’s an alchemist—or at least he used to be—not a spy. “Is thatwhy we came here?”

Adira eyes him, looking annoyed again, but shrugs and turns away without further comment, continuing on through the darkening streets. Varian has to scramble to keep up. “No,” she says, over her shoulder. “More of a bonus, really. But we did well to come here when we did. Any longer…”

She shakes her head, and doesn’t elaborate. Varian’s mood darkens further. Typical. That stupid fight, all for nothing—she’s still keeping secrets. Still saying nothing. He looks down at his feet, and by his side, his hands clench into white-knuckled fists.

A small paw bats his ear, and his focus shatters, his thoughts derailed. He turns, and Ruddiger baps at his face, cold nose nudging at his cheek. A bushy tail brushes by his other ear, restless sweeping. He looks at Ruddiger and sees worry in the raccoon’s eyes, and his heart drops to his knees.

He swallows hard, and slowly unclenches his fists again. Stares down, silent, at the streets, and this time follows Adira without complaint. Ruddiger croons in his ear, soft and forgiving, but the knot of tension remains.

By the time they leave the city behind, the sun is far below the horizon and the sky is darkening from red to a rich purple-black. Beyond the port town, the roads trail off from cobblestone to dirt, and long lush fields of green stretch on for miles. The flatlands are dotted with fence lines and lantern-lights, distant houses built low and wide, near invisible in the long grass. Faint specks of light float up from the waves of greenery, winter-light fireflies native to this region. In the distance, a great fog broils over the fading silhouette of Port Caul—a low, heavy sort of fog, as dense as a cloud, slowly but surely creeping in over the farmlands. It’s as lovely as it is freezing—an endless field, summer greenery in the winter cold, like a fairytale.

It’s beautiful, and unlike anything Varian has ever seen. Corona is all hills and forests, and any farms are village-bound and limited, the town reliant on outside trade from the capital city. He’s never seen farms like this: large-scale and endless, rolling fields of flatland tilled and maintained by human hands, enough food to feed a whole city. He can see for miles, all the way to the ocean, and the sheer stretch of distance dizzies him.

Still, despite the beauty, despite the shadowed land and ruby red skies like something from a picture book, Varian can’t help but feel uneasy. It goes on for miles, and miles, and miles. No walls, no hills, no natural landmarks—he could wander for days and remain utterly lost.

And it’s getting dark, now; evening trekking on into nighttime, and—and he can’t seeanything, can’t see where the road leads, where it ends. They’re heading out far, the city distant and dim behind them, and the houses here are few and far between. He sneaks a glimpse at Adira and worries at his lip. Are they going to be traveling all night?

He doesn’t feel comfortable asking her. She’ll just mock him, probably, and won’t give a straight answer anyway, and he’s too tired for that—so he focuses on his feet and on keeping steady. His oversized boots sink in the soft earth, the grass brushing at his knees. His breaths puff out in front of his face like a little fog cloud of his own. Ruddiger, sitting prim on his shoulder, leans up to bat at a few fireflies; he nearly falls off in the attempt, and Varian watches him play with a faint smile.

They keep going. The road gets harder and harder to see, and when Adira takes them off the main path, down a little side-trail that’s more footprints than actual paved walkway, it becomes near-impossible. He keeps his eyes on her retreating back, afraid to lose her. If he stops, if he stumbles and she doesn’t notice, could he be left behind in these fields, wandering lost until dawn?

Another hour passes. It’s pitch dark, now, the fields black with shadow and the only light coming from the moon high above. Varian tries his best not to look at it. His skin crawls under the blue glow, shivers wracking his frame. Every brush of the wind feels like icy fingers around his neck. For a moment, he swears he can almost hear a voice—soft laughter on the wind, vengeful whispers in his ears. Lost again, little boy?

He’s so distracted by this sensation, he doesn’t notice Adira has stopped until he runs right into her. He smacks into her back and reels back with a yelp, sitting hard in the dirt.

Adira looks down at him. Even in the darkness, he can see that raised eyebrow.

“Why—why did you—”

“We’re here.”

“—what?” He pushes back to his feet. “What do you…” The words trail off. The clouds move past the moon, and in the growing brightness, he realizes the wall of shadow in front of them is not the same dark fields but a house.A tiny cottage, nestled between countryside and pasture; a small, modest thing, barely two floors, with a heavy wooden door and a small porch. Even now, he can barely see it—the house is built low to the ground, dark and seamless with the black horizon, near invisible in the great expanse of the landscape.

His throat locks. Varian shrinks away, clutching the package to his chest. Ruddiger curls around his neck like a shield. The windows of the house are dark, the porch empty. There’s nothing here to be afraid of, but he’s unsettled by how hard it was to find.

Adira holds no such reservations—she seems amused by his fear, a ghost of a smile on her face as she steps up to the door. The cottage is too small for her; her head would brush the doorframe if she wasn’t careful. This quiet, muted place, hidden by the dark—it is strange to see her there, standing on the steps like she belongs. She doesn’t. She is too big, too noticeable, out of place with the picture, and it makes Varian shuffle on his feet, abruptly uncomfortable in a way he cannot name. Like the house itself, in its own way, rejects them for being here.

It is not the first time he has felt this—like the world itself is aware of him, and disproves of where he steps. He doesn’t look at the sky, but the moonlight burns against his neck regardless.

Adira knocks on the door, and the sound rings low and heavy, shattering the quiet night. For a long moment, nothing happens. The windows remain dark, the house silent, seemingly empty.

And then, behind the door—the soft thud of footsteps. A pale glow flickers through the window. An eyeglass on the door glints with a brief candlelight—and then the door swings open, flung gaping wide.

“Adira. I thought you were dead.”

Backlit by dim candlelight, the shadowy silhouette of a woman leans against the open doorway. She is older, at least Adira’s age, with dark skin, dark eyes, and dark hair streaked with gray. Her small mouth is pinched in a frown; her eyes, lined with crow’s feet, peer out into the night. Her short hair, cut to her nape, curls and coils about her head. Varian leans in for a better look—and freezes, caught, when the woman’s narrow gaze pins on him with startling intensity.

The stranger stares at him, and her eyes go wide. Her lip curls, face drawing tight with fury. “What,” she says, sudden danger in her voice, “is this?”

Varian’s heart drops. The woman, now illuminated by the candlelight, finally clicks into place. He almost drops the package right on his foot. Her face—her voice—the slight accent— Oh.

Oh,Varian thinks. Oh no.

“You!” he yelps.

“You,”says the woman.

“Who?” says Adira, and looks between them rapidly with a scowl.

“Rude boy from the docks!” says the woman—the woman, the woman from earlier today, the one who woke him on the docks and urged him to get moving before he got arrested for sleeping there. Her eyes are bright with recognition, and she glances between him and Adira with a swiftly darkening frown. “What is this!?”

Adira is frowning too, now, looking displeased. “You two… have met?”

“That is myquestion,” snaps the woman, irritably. She runs a hand through her hair, fingers bunching in the short curls. Her expression is frazzled, her foot beginning to tap. “Do not ask a question that I should be asking you, that is very rude, do not. I have—you—the amount of questions I have, goddamn you! It’s near midnight, you absolute… Who are you to come barging in here!? Why now, even, what are you doing here—”

“I’m not allowed to visit?” Adira asks.

The woman stomps her foot and crosses her arms, looking serenely unimpressed. “No,” she says. “No, you are not. Five months, damn you! No letters, no word, not even a whisper, and now you think you can come to my city and knock on my door and pretend you are visiting?” She glances between them again, her eyes lingering on Varian, and her scowl darkens into a glower. “No. Get out!”

“I brought a gift,” Adira counters, recovering, mild at the rejection. She pushes Varian forward, into the light. He stares at her, and at her pointed glance to the package, startles bolt upright and sticks out his arms, holding the package aloft. Right! Right. The book.

He keeps his mouth shut, though, even as he offers it to the stranger. Something about the situation unsettles him—and not just that the woman has recognized him. Thisis the friend Adira was talking about? And yet, this whole conversation… the tense line to Adira’s shoulders, the way they are talking—there is something off here, something he’s missing. It unnerves him.

The unease only deepens when the woman stares back at him. She eyes the book briefly and then glares right at Varian, her jaw tightening. She eyes him for so long he almost thinks she won’t take it—but then her hand snaps out and snatches it from his grip, so quick he almost misses it.

The woman has set the candle off to the side; she tears into the package with both hands, ripping off the wrapping paper with one sharp tug. In her hands, she hefts a large tome, almost as long as her entire forearm. The furrow between her brow deepens. She flips through the pages with quick and precise movement.

“A book,” she says, finally, sourly, snapping the tome shut. “A book? You think a book will buy you my favor? You have been gone so long your brains have addled, Adira, if you truly think—”

“You’re welcome,” Adira says, and the woman gives a truly impressive scowl.

“It is a very nice book,” she says, after a long moment of wrestling with herself, the words stiff. “But frankly? I do not care. Get out. I will not ask again.”

There’s a long pause. Adira’s amused expression fades, her smile near a grimace. She seems to come to some sort of decision, because her stance shifts, her head lowering. “…I need your help,” she says, finally, and the words are strained.

The woman barely bats an eye. “Hah! Tough.”

“I wouldn’t come if it weren’t serious.”

“So you visit me only when it suits you, is that it? No hellos, only business and bribes?” She crosses her arms. “And here I thought us friends. Well, no matter—I shall not do business with you. Too bad, so sad. Go away.”

Another pause. From the corner of his eye, Varian watches Adira take a deep breath. Her smile is gone entirely now. By her side, her hands clench into fists. Her expression, twisted with something almost like pain.

“Please,” Adira says.

Varian nearly jumps from the shock. He stares outright at her. He has never once heard Adira say that before. He can hardly wrap his mind around it. It must be just as surprising to the woman, because she goes quiet at this, pensive. She watches Adira like a hawk, and her lips press in a thin line. She says nothing.

The silence stretches. Adira exhales, shaky, and adds, “There’s something I need to tell you. You and Ella both.” Her mouth works. For a moment Varian almost think she will say—that word—again, but once is apparently all Adira can take, because she shakes her head and leaves it at that.

The woman’s face is blank. Her eyes, unreadable. Her lips press tight and thin, her brow furrowed, and then she turns and looks at Varian. He stills. Her face is blank, and yet—for a moment he feels pinned, judged, his worth weighed and discarded in a single moment. (The moon, high above them—his skin crawls.)  

“…Adira,” she says, at last. Her eyes stay fixed on Varian, cold and piercing. “Do you understand what you’ve done?”

Adira is looking at Varian too, now. Her voice is quiet. “Yes.”

“…I see.” The woman’s jaw clenches, and she closes her eyes. When she opens them again, her expression is resolved. “We will discuss this further inside. You will owe me.”

“We won’t be here long,” Adira promises. “Five days at most.”

“I am still debating on if I want you here tonight,” counters the woman, cold. “We will discuss it later. If you are lucky I won’t kick you out by dawn.” She doesn’t seem best pleased with the situation, but she steps back and gestures them inside regardless. A long hallway stretches behind her, shadowy and featureless, leading into the dark.

“Well, then,” the woman says, shortly, giving Varian the evil eye. “Come inside, unwanted guests. I am Yasmin. Please, do not bother to make yourselves at home—I, for one, cannot wait until you leave.”

.

For a moment, Varian is still. Frozen in place, staring up at the woman with wide eyes, thrown off-balance by her scowl and rude invitation. He doesn’t know her. He doesn’t likeher. The open door of her home feels like walking into a lion’s den.

But when the woman—Yasmin—steps back to welcome them into her house, however reluctantly, Adira smiles and walks in without faltering. Varian follows with much more hesitation. He steps over the threshold and looks into the darkness with a heavy feeling in his gut. Yasmin’s unfriendly expression, the house’s lonely placement, the memory of the merchants and the city’s unease—it feels like danger. It feels like a secret, waiting to break open into the world.

“Hurry up, would you, the cold air’s blowing right in,” Yasmin says, and Varian jumps in his skin and nearly trips in his haste to get inside.

The door closes heavy behind him. Yasmin picks up her candle and sweeps past him before he can even think to react, heading off down the hall. Varian scrambles to catch up, Ruddiger swinging heavy on his shoulders.

“You’re the one from the docks,” he says again, trying to place her mood. He slows at a trot by her heels, watching her carefully; Yasmin makes a face at the air when he speaks.

“And you are that stupid boy I kicked awake, yes, I recognize you.” She turns to scowl at him, and then her eyes fall on Ruddiger, still curled like a scarf around his neck. “What isthat?”

Ruddiger clamors into his arms, and Varian clutches him protectively to his chest. “He’s Ruddiger.”

“…That is a raccoon.”

“He’s Ruddiger,” says Varian, for lack of anything better, and Yasmin closes her eyes and pinches at her nose, turning away.

“Raccoons,” she mutters darkly, striding off. “Raccoons and liars, all in my house, should have moved to the artic, see if anyone can find me there…”

There’s a creak on the floorboards, somewhere behind him, and Varian turns. It’s probably Adira, he thinks—she’s vanished somewhere in the house—but when he looks behind him, it’s to find himself face-to-face with a stranger.

Another woman blinks down at him, standing high above on a dark stairwell. Like Yasmin, she seems Adira’s age: near ageless in appearance, but clearly older, laugh lines carved deep into her black skin. She’s dressed in a pale-yellow nightgown, a heavy shawl pulled up around her shoulders, dark hair dreaded down her back. An opal clasp necklace hangs low around her neck.

She stares down at Varian, her expression blank, and eyes slowly widening. “Oh,” the new woman says. “Oh! I—oh dear, Yasmin, do we have guests?”

Yasmin steps up behind him. “No,” she says, annoyance heavy in her voice. “It is nothing to worry about, Ella, go back to bed. I’ll be up soon enough.”

The second woman—Ella? —blinks again at this, pulling her gaze away from Varian. “I… Are you sure? I could hear voices from upstairs; you sounded upset. Has someone—” She cuts herself off, suddenly. She stares out over their shoulders, and exhales a shocked breath. Her hand rises to her mouth. “My god. Adira?”

“Damn it all,” Yasmin mutters.

Sure enough: Adira stands at the end of the hallway, exiting from the other room. She meets the new woman’s gaze and smiles. “What, no hello?”

The woman seems stunned silent. “Adira,” she repeats, disbelieving. “My god. Is that really you?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” Yasmin announces, sounding sour. “But she won’t be staying long. Ella, please, just ignore her, probably better to forget she came by at all—”

But it is quickly apparent that the newcomer, Ella, is no longer listening. She is already sweeping past Yasmin and Varian both, one hand over her mouth. “Adira!” Unlike Yasmin, she sounds delighted rather than upset. She stops, hands outstretched, like she wants to hug Adira but knows better than to try. “It’s been so long, we almost thought you were dead! How are you? How have you been?”

“Ella—” Yasmin starts, aggrieved.

“I’ve been fine,” Adira says, with a vague smile. “It’s good to see you again, Daffodil.”

“Must we go through this every time? Just call me Ella, please, you’ve known me long enough.” She is laughing, though, smiling ear to ear, and is still grinning when she turns back to Varian. “Ah, I understand the situation now. You’ve brought another with you—how unusual! And who is this?”

“This is Varian,” Adira says, before he can answer. Varian awkwardly returns her smile—and then freezes. Behind Ella, leaning against the wall, Yasmin stares right at him, expression unreadable. Her eyes are cold.

Varian’s breath catches in his throat, his smile stuttering. This is Varian, Adira had said, and that—that’s his name. His realname.

This morning, when he’d run into Yasmin for the first time, he’d told her his name was Vell.

It’s—it’s stupid, he’s being silly; who remembers the name of some random stranger they encountered on the street? And yet—he feels sick, his heart dropped to his knees. Doubt creeps in on him. The darkness in her eyes, the ice of her expression—there’s something frightening about the look on Yasmin’s face, and Varian shrinks back, even as his gut goes hot with anger. He… he hasn’t even doneanything. He hasn’t met her before today, so why, whyis she—

A hand sticks in front of his face, and the thought snaps off into nothing, broken apart by surprise. Varian jolts back to the present. The other woman, Ella, is standing before him now, smiling so warmly he finds himself wrong-footed. She leans down to his level, and the quiet warmth of her smile blocks out Yasmin’s distant glower. “Hello, Varian,” she says. “My name is Elmira.”

Her hand stretches out closer, and Varian finally remembers to take it. Her grip is dry and firm; her hands are soft. Her smile is small but bright, and something about her—something about the gentle way she speaks—

“Everyone calls me Ella, though,” she adds, sounding sly, and the whispers of Rapunzel fade away. Ella gives a sideways glare to Adira. “Mostdo, anyway.”

Adira shrugs, and Ella sighs, shaking her head. Her eyes turn back to him. “Well, regardless. It’s wonderful to meet you!”

“Nice… nice to meet you too,” Varian stutters out, and steps away as subtly as he can manage. Her smile makes old guilt stick in his throat. “Um, I—thanks for having us…?”

“Oh! Are you staying the night?” Ella turns. “Yasmin, you didn’t tell me were having guests.”

Yasmin shrugs, unmoving. Ella’s smile never wavers—she laughs, brightly, as if the other had told a joke instead, and puts a hand on Varian’s shoulder, turning him away, pushing them all down the hall. “Come along, then,” she says, guiding them forward. “You must have had a long journey—have some tea before you sleep. Adira, have you already put the kettle on? Ah, you read my mind. Please don’t tell me I’m thatpredictable, old friend…”

Varian lets himself be dragged, the soft conversation washing over him. The warm kitchen, the quiet candlelight—with Ella’s entrance the fear has broken, uncertainty chased away by the scented tea and the heat of the ceramic cups. Even Adira is as close as she gets to friendly, speaking in length of odd stories and happenings, indulging Ella’s every question.

And it’s almost enough—almost, almost, almost enough—for him to overlook the way Yasmin slips out of the room, the way Adira smiles and doesn’t drink the tea, and the way Ella very carefully doesn’t ask why theyare here, either.

Varian sips his tea, and he wonders.

.

It is four hours into his first day back in Corona, and Eugene is already sick of it.

It’s—the little things, maybe, the everything. All the dread that came with coming back, and then having all those worst fears proven true when he saw Rapunzel walk, shaking, out of that talk with her parents. Cassandra’s reassignment—god, the thought makes his blood boil. The stilted nature of the castle, the weird way people talk, whispering, as if afraid to be heard…

Eugene isn’t one to judge, really. In fact, for all his faults he likes to think he’s rather good at the whole “no-judging” thing. Going with the flow has always been more his style. But recently, his good opinion towards Corona has soured. It’s a lovely place, but it’s not home—home, to Eugene, is a little orphanage off in a different country, a place he’ll never see again. There’s no loyalty here, not to this kingdom, not to this castle. And with recent events, seeing how they’ve hurt Rapunzel, again, and now Cassandra, too…

Eugene’s starting to think it warrants a little bit of judgement, here. And, well, hey. He knowshe’s not exactly the brightest bulb in the box, especially when it comes to all these silly political debacles, but it’s not like he’s blind, either. This thing? This weird thing happening with Corona? He knows, if nothing else, that it’s not normal.

Sure, he doesn’t know what it means, to see the servants and maids whispering amongst themselves, only to stop when they hear footsteps. He doesn’t know how to interpret the way royal advisor Nigel looks pale and stressed, and treats every letter like its either precious gold or a live explosive. He doesn’t know what to think about the way he’s summoned to an audience with the King and Queen the very morning after their re-entry to Corona, except that maybe their voices are a little colder than they used to be, their tone a little cooler.

He doesn’t know what to make of it—but Eugene still notices.

It’s the dawn of his first morning back inside Corona’s walls, and as he strolls up the north tower staircase to Rapunzel’s room, Eugene keeps his ears open and his eyes peeled. It’s a beautiful day, all things considered. Sunlight streams bright and golden through the wide windows, the carpet soft and giving under his cleaned boots. The air is crisp and cool, the halls almost empty. The morning light brightens up even the dreariest of rooms.

It’s a beautiful day, and Eugene hates it almost on instinct. It’s all he can do to force a smile and hello to the castle staff as he goes, his spirits so low every grin feels like a grimace. He’s finally gotten a semi-decent bath after eight months of river water, but a headache pulses at the edge of his thoughts, the late night and his constant worry leaving dark circles under his eyes. He feels awful, and the day is sostupidly chipper. Didn’t anyone tell the world to knock it off?

But still—even with the headache, even in the midst of his annoyance—Eugene watches. Those off-duty guards, ducking into a side hall, their voices cut short by his approach…just frisking, or perhaps discontent? The kitchen potato peeler, normally upbeat and now silent and paranoid about every loud sound…just a bad week, or perhaps something more?

There’s something here, he thinks. There’s an answer for all their questions, if only he knew where to look.

It’s the reason he watches the shadows, and the reason he’s still smiling as he approaches Rapunzel’s door. The answer is here, somewhere. Maybe in the shadows, maybe in the halls. Maybe it’s in the whispers he doesn’t hear. Or maybe it’s here—in the weak greeting from Stan and Pete, standing guard by Rapunzel’s door… and beside them, standing small: another guard. A young, weedy boy with dark skin and a shaky smile, amber eyes wide behind his shiny helmet.

Elias, newly instated—Cassandra’s replacement and Rapunzel’s new permanent escort.

But there’s no hard feelings here! None at all, nope, and even if there were, Eugene isn’t petty enough to blame the boy for the king’s decisions. So he keeps smiling, keeps on grinning, wondering about secrets and plots even as the kid jolts at his arrival, grabbing at his halberd when Stan and Pete move to open the door.

“W-wait,” Elias says, eyes wide, darting back and forth between Eugene and the others. “Why are you—w-who is—” The halberd swings down to point at Eugene’s chest. “State your—your—your business with the Princess of Corona!”

Eugene backpedals out of range, throwing up in his hands in the universal symbol for please no stabbing. Stan and Pete have already lunged forward, dragging Elias back. “Woah, Eli!” Stan says, and his laugh is high and awkward. “It’s fine, it’s fine! He has a pass, he’s—”

“Eugene Fitzherbert,” Eugene supplies, flashing what he hopes is a charming grin. This situation is bringing back all sorts of bad memories. He keeps his eyes on the halberd. “I’m Rapunzel’s—”

“—intended!” says Pete. “Future intended!”

Way fancier term for it than what Eugene would have chosen—talk about aggressively committed and political, yikes—but who is he to complain? “Yes! Yes, sure, that, exactly.”

“O-oh.” The halberd drops, Elias’s cheeks flushing dark with mortification. “Oh, I—I—I—sorry, I didn’t—I’m—”

“It’s fine!”

“I’m new,” Elias says finally, miserably, and his eyes drop to the ground. Behind the boy, Stan and Pete wince.

Eugene lowers his hands, feeling a little more secure now that the threat of bodily injury has passed, and has to hold back a grimace himself. The look on the kid’s face is painful to witness. New to the job, stationed to guard the princess to his kingdom, and replacing Cassandra—the Captain’s daughter and an unparalleled fighter. It’s an absolute joke of a situation, and something about Elias’s expression tells Eugene that the kid knows it as well as he does.

Eugene softens a little at the sight, and he gives the poor kid an easy smile. “It’s fine,” he repeats, and this time almost means it. No hard feelings, he reminds himself, and it’s easier to remember when seeing Elias right there in front of him. “Nice, uh… guarding!”

If Elias had looked downtrodden before, now he looks near-despondent. He gives a very tiny nod, and his helmet makes a sad little creakas he moves.

Well, hell. “Great!” Eugene announces, bright and desperate, and escapes through the doors before he can dig himself into a deeper hole. Gods, it’s like with Varian all over again; he never says the right thing. Someone please save him from all these mopey teenagers.

(And if the thought of Varian pangs a bit—well. Eugene shakes it away with all the determination of a man with six months of practice.)

The door shut behind him, the terrible conversation escaped, he turns into the room. It’s clean in a way that seems anathema to Rapunzel—eight months of being kept neat by castle maids—and he’s not surprised to find her outside, sitting on the balcony.

Eugene heads out to join her, pausing briefly in the doorway. A new painting lies sprawled across the balcony floor, the image taking up almost the entire space, a mess of dark blues and grays. He tilts his head, seeing an image of Corona in the drooping gray buildings, a solar eclipse hanging over the city like a guillotine blade. The painting is violent, and twisted, but not without light—tiny specks of gold float around the dark space, turning a depressing image into something a little more complex.

Well, then.

“Nice new addition,” he remarks, careful to skirt around the edges of her artwork, keeping clear of the drying paint. He joins her on the balcony, leaning next to her against the railing. She doesn’t answer, and Eugene doesn’t press; looks away, instead, giving her time to compose herself.

He looks out over the railing, trailing his eyes across the kingdom. In the midday sun, Corona is awash with pale winter brightness. Snow piles haphazardly on the distant rooftops, the hills a mix of dark green pine and slushy white. The sea seems to glow in the sunlight.

“You know, of all the places I’ve been, Corona is one of the most portrait-worthy. I ever tell you that? I mean, look at this. What man could see this kind of view and not immediately want to buy an island? God damn.”

A quiet huff of laughter, a giggle bit back by a quickfire smile. Eugene grins broadly at the sky and checks her with his shoulder. “No?”

Rapunzel looks at him from the corner of her eye, still red-eyed but playing along. “I can’t say I’ve ever wanted an island,” she says, finally. The ghost of a smile lingers at her lips. “What would you do all day?”

“Well—” He stops, considering. “Swim, I guess?”

“…All day? Every day?” Ah, such a doubtful tone. She tries so hard not to judge, but he can almost see the raised eyebrow, even without looking.

Eugene closes his eyes to the sun and feels his smile broaden, laughter shaking in his chest. “Blondie, no one ever said it had to be a well-planned dream.”

She flounders, at that. “Well, no, but…”

He shrugs, snickering, and laughs aloud when she elbows him, coughing hard in his elbow to keep under control. They fall together in a comfortable silence. Eugene’s smile gentles into something a little softer, a little quieter; he tucks his hands under his armpits to keep warm, and finally looks over at her, bracing himself against the chill.

It’s better than he feared: Rapunzel looks worn, but instead of despairing she just seems tired. Her expression is distant and near-empty, but the calm seems hard-won: her eyes are troubled, and there are deep shadows lining her face, a hint of redness around the eyes, a flush to her cheeks. She’s been crying, and crying hard.

Eugene thins his lips. “…Any better?”

Rapunzel’s eyes flicker to him and then away. She leans against the railing with a gusty sigh, and the sound sinks her whole body, like a weight pressing on her shoulders. “Not really.”

He works his jaw. He knows, now, about the labyrinth, and what happened there—some of it, at any rate, the story pieced together in fits and bursts over the last few months. For Rapunzel, telling the story is like pulling teeth: something painful and unfortunately necessary, that aches even hours after the deed is done.

“You were supposed to have breakfast with them today, right?” he tries. “They take it okay?” She’s silent for a little bit too long, and Eugene winces at the look on her face. “…Ah.”

Rapunzel looks away again, rubs at her eyes. “I—I just, I couldn’t. Not today, not after… you know. And last night, they… they tried to make it easy on me, but—”

“Yeah.”

“And I—I mean, I can’t—obviously I left things out. I mean.”

The Problem of Varian. No, yeah, Eugene can already see how that went down. It’s all around terrible, because even without the secrecy, he’s not sure the King and Queen would react any better. It’d been a huge source of debate between the three of them during their journey home, and while silence on Varian’s fate is perhaps the better option… well. It doesn’t make it any easier.

Rapunzel freeing Varian was… Eugene isn’t sure what to think of it, and frankly, he doesn’t think he has the right to judge. But still. Even he can tell that those were not the actions of a princess, but rather the actions of Rapunzel herself. Justice not in the way of Kings and Queens, but rather, justice for the girl in the tower—for the person who knows, intimately and painfully, what it’s like to live behind bars.

A bitter pill for some to swallow? Yeah, sure, but they’ll have to accept it sooner or later. But for the King and Queen, who got their daughter back and thought she would be a princess in due time, as if one year of instruction could override eighteen years as a normal girl locked away…

Yeah, no. There’s no good way to say it, and there’s no way it ends well. Eugene doesn’t blame her one bit for trying to avoid the situation entirely. If it had been him… well. He’d be running for another country, flat out.

“It’ll die down,” Eugene says, for lack of anything better, and shrugs. “I mean—speaking as a former, ah, rogue here—outrage always does. The sooner you stick it out, the more they’ll just… uh… get used to it, I guess?” He hopes, anyway.

“You’re probably right.” Rapunzel rubs at her face. “I just… I hate this. I feel so—useless.”

The words hit harder than she probably intends, and Eugene has to struggle to keep his face blank. Bitterness is a lump in his throat. Useless. He knows what she means too well, now. Their journey to the Dark Kingdom had it put in perspective, in that way. Painful, ugly perspective. Rapunzel’s destiny is unavoidable, but just because it’s destiny doesn’t make it kind. He could lose her. He could lose them all. He could lose everything, and there would be nothing Eugene could do to fight that.

Useless is right, he thinks, and looks away before she can see his face twist. “…Yeah.” He clears his throat, voice rough. “Yeah. I know the feeling.” He reaches out, taking her hand in his. Her hands are bare, the gloves gone; he squeezes her palm very softly. “But… you’re not, okay? I know it feels that way, but Blondie—if there’s anyone that can change things around here, it’d be you.”

Her smile is dim and faint. “Because I’m the princess?”

He snorts. “Because you’re you, obviously.” Pauses. “Though, I suppose political leverage never hurt either.”

This time, when she smiles at him, the expression is real.

Eugene grins back. “Still, though.” His smile fades, and he casts a sour look back at the door. “I’ll admit, they trapped you pretty well this time, didn’t they?” He scowls at the memory. “And here I was, thinking your old man had finally learned his lesson, go figure—”

But Rapunzel is already shaking her head. “No, that’s… he has, I think?”

Eugene stops mid-complaint, frowning down at her. “Hm?”

“About keeping me safe. I mean—Elias—”

“Nervous kid.”

“—yes,” Rapunzel agrees. She rubs her hands together, lacing stiff fingers like a knot. “And—and I’m sure he’s great! I’m sure he’s very good, but I mean… if my dad really didn’t want me to go out…  there’s not a shortage of guards, y’know? He could have gotten anyone.”

Eugene searches her face. “Wait, wait. You think he chose Elias for a reason?”

“Maybe?” Rapunzel bites her lip. “I think… Elias is new. Young. Closer to my age, kind of—five years off, but compared to the other guards…” She shrugs. “And he’s nice. I’d feel bad about getting him into trouble, so I’m probably less likely to leave him behind, I think? So he’s an escort rather than a guard. And—” She cuts herself off, rubs at her hands. “I think—I can’t remember well, but Elias… probably hates Varian.”

Eugene straightens up at that. “What, really?” He has to admit, he finds it hard to imagine that fearful kid hating anyone.

“I can’t—I mean, I can’t be sure. But that’s the crucial issue, right? Varian’s escaped, and we aren’t talking. So…on the off-chance Varian comes back, if there’s anyone who will stop me, who can’t be convinced to listen…”

The logic tracks. “…It’ll be someone who already has a grudge.”

“Yeah.” She sighs, dropping her head down into her arms. “Oh, maybe I’m just paranoid. I don’t know.”

“No, no, I think…” Eugene hesitates. “No, that feels right. I mean…” He stops again, considering her. She’s been through so much, and he doesn’t want to put more on her shoulders. That’s the last thing he wants to do. But secrets and lies have never brought them anything but pain.

“Look,” Eugene says, starting slowly, deciding to chance it. “I… your parents are great, Blondie, okay? No complaints here! But listen—they’re royalty. And my experiences with royals have been…”

He trails off, unsure of how to word it nicely, and pulls a face. He lifts one hand and wavers it in the air in a see-saw motion, and leaves it at that. He’s “forgiven” the hanging incident, if only because holding a grudge seemed like useless and needless drama at the time, especially since all the charges against him had been cleared. But he still remembers, clear as day, the sight of that noose. He still remembers, always, in the back of his mind—the stories of King Frederick, kind and fair right up until you slipped.

The royal family of Corona had always hated thieves the most.

“People are on edge here,” Eugene says, finally, bluntly. “There’s so many plots going on I can’t go one step without stumbling into something sticky. Whispers, jumping at shadows… hell, you know that kitchen girl, Adeline?”

“Addy?”

“Yeah, her, the spunky one. Saw her as I was walking up, and she looked scared of her own damn shadow. There’s something—off. More than just rumors, or the problems with Varian, or the King’s temper. There’s something wrong.”

Rapunzel stares at him. Her eyes turn back to the railing. “They’re afraid,” she murmurs. She sounds—muted, maybe, and Eugene winces in understanding. What they’ve heard from Corona… it hadn’t been good, no, but it hadn’t been thisbad. Closing trade routes, more sea-faring attacks; harsher laws and punishments enacted, yes, maybe. In-fighting in the castle… mild, but enough to make note of. But if the people of the castle are afraid, if all of Corona is worried—

“I can’t tell you what it means,” Eugene says, at last. “But—while we were gone—we missed something. Okay? We missed something. Bigger than just the King’s… temper. And that something? It’s still there. It’s still happening.”

Rapunzel closes her eyes. “It’s still happening,” she echoes. Her lips twist, an expression almost pained. “And… and my parents aren’t going to tell me what it is, are they?”

It’s not really much of a question, not when they both already know the answer. They’ve gone through this song and dance before, after all. The King and Queen won’t share a thing with Rapunzel—not if they want her to stay here, not if they are angry with her… not if the King is worried once again that his daughter might disobey orders, might risk her life for the kingdom. They’ll try to keep her in the dark as long as possible.

Eugene’s heart pangs at the thought. He puts at arm around her shoulder and tries to rub some warmth back into her arms. She deserves better. She’s always deserved better, and it never fails to make him angry, the way the world always tries to throw her off her feet.

“It’s not all hopeless, Blondie. I mean, think of it this way! If there’s something wrong, still goingwrong, then that means there’s a chance to change it.” He hesitates, watching her, and carefully squeezes her against his side. “…Which, uh. I—I wanted to talk to you about something.”

She turns to him, immediate, and he almost smiles. “What is it?”

He takes a breath. “I… I’ve been thinking.”

She lifts an eyebrow. “…Okay.”

“Cassandra’s been sent to the dungeons, yeah?”

“Guard the dungeons,” Rapunzel corrects. Her smile falters. “But, um, yes…?”

“And you’re here.”

“Mm-hmm…” She’s watching him closely, now. “Eugene, what is it? What’s wrong?”

“It’s… ah…” It’s no use. All his stupid pick-up lines and charming grasp of language, and he’s fumbling tongue-tied like a teenager again. Best to just get it over with. “I think I need to go.”

There’s a long silence. Rapunzel’s face has gone blank.

“Not—notgo, go, I mean… not far. I’ll stick to the main city, stay in Corona if I can, and… damn it.” He rubs at his neck. “I’m saying this all wrong. It’s just—Rapunzel, I can’t do anything here.”

“You’re leaving?” Her voice is very quiet.

“I’m never far.” He takes her hand. “But I need to do this. Like you said—about being useless—I can’t help here.” He squeezes her hand. “But I can help elsewhere.” 

He doesn’t know how else to say it; how else he can explain. Because the Dark Kingdom had done what nothing else could: it had showed Eugene where he stood. It had showed him how, in this game of destiny and plots, Eugene was little more than a side thought. Pushed aside. Made helpless. Made to watch.

He almost lost her, there, in that labyrinth. He has never forgotten that. If Eugene keeps playing by the rules, he’s going to lose her again.

So he won’t play by the rules. He won’t play with destiny, or kingdoms, or powers he doesn’t understand. Doing this—going away, and playing to his strengths—this is Eugene’s answer. This is his stand. He needs to go. He needs to find Lance, and find the people that only Eugene Fitzherbert, former thief, can find.

This, he can do. Eugene may not know politics, but he knows people—knows the shadows, knows the lies, knows what hides beneath the pretty, polished surfaces. He can’t find answers in the castle… but perhaps he can find them somewhere else.

So he takes her hands in his, and kisses her cheek, soft in the way that has always come easy when it’s with her. “You can do this,” he whispers, in her ear. Soft, sure. “Sunshine, you can do absolutely anything. And if you ever need me—I’ll be there. Always.” He pulls back. “But please. I need—I needto do this. Trust me?”

She stares at him. Slowly, she clutches his hands back. “All right,” she says. Just as hushed. “Okay.” A careful squeeze at his fingers. “I trust you, Eugene. If you say you need to do this… then do it.” She takes a deep breath. “I’ll be okay. I willbe okay.”

He smiles at her, helplessly warm. The relief he feels is almost dizzying. “I know,” he says, and squeezes her hand one last time before pulling away. “And it’s not—for long, I promise, I’ll visit whenever I can. You won’t even know I’m gone!”

“I don’t know about that,” Rapunzel says, but she’s smiling now, and even if it’s a little pale, it’s still a smile. She shakes her head. “…Where are you going?”

“Snuggly Duckling, to start.” He grins a little, excitement building in his chest. “I mean, if Lance is still working there…”

“Oh, Lance!” Rapunzel brightens immediately, her face glowing. “That’s a wonderful idea. That way you won’t be working alone, either.”

“He’s the best,” Eugene agrees. He’s missed Lance like a missing limb these past eight months, and even in this whole rotten scenario, getting to see his brother again is like a balm. “I’ll bring him by too, make sure he says hello.”

Rapunzel smiles. “Please! Oh, it’ll be so nice to see everyone again…Tell him I say hello! And that I miss him.”

Eugene winks. “Of course.”

Rapunzel nods to herself. “And—when you go… do you mind giving Cass a message from me?”

He settles against the balcony railing to listen, noting her words to memory. It is only a day after their return—the shadows still cling heavy to their eyes, the exhaustion weighing on their shoulders. Cassandra’s been demoted and Eugene himself is on thin ice. Leaving Rapunzel alone here, in this situation—it should sit ill in his gut. But it is a new day, a bright day, a beautiful day… and as he looks over Rapunzel’s face, the determined tilt to her head and the steel in her spine, he knows she’ll be okay. She’s not alone, either.

It has been a long, tiring eight months. But they are back, now, and he knows: they are tired, but not beaten. Not Cassandra, who took the news with a tense jaw and a determined look. Not Rapunzel, who smiles and laughs despite her awful homecoming. And Eugene?

He’s going to fight too. The only way he can. The only way he knows. No more watching the bad things happen. No more waiting on the sidelines.

This time, when the fallout comes, Eugene is going to hit back.

.

Varian wakes up screaming.

There is ice in his veins, in his heart, in his lungs. Whispers clouding at his mind like cobwebs. His limbs locked stiff like the black stone, unmoving. He tries to move and can’t, tries to scream but his breath won’t respond—there’s a hand in his chest, in his heart, and a voice that hums cruel insults in his ears, rising, rising, rising.

Tick tock, child. Weren’t you going to prove me wrong?

His eyes fly open, breath seizing in his chest. His heart is pounding, drumbeat staccato in his bloodstream. The scream locks in his throat, cut off to a strangled gasp. He doesn’t know where he is. Behind his eyelids: black. The world around him: dark. He can’t see. He can’t see anything. He is—

His eyes catch on a faint sliver of light, a pale glow pooling through the open window. Moonlight. Light.

He’s not in the labyrinth. He’s not—

Varian holds himself still, breathing hard, trying to remember where he is. He is—inside, in a cot, blankets tight around his shoulder—Ruddiger by his side—a roof?

Memory returns to him in fragments. The house hidden in the countryside. The woman, Yasmin, and her wife. Drinking bitter tea at a warm kitchen table. Falling into his borrowed bed, even with all his paranoia, because something may be off here but he was so tired…

His breathing calms, his hammering heart slowly settling. He grits his teeth, squeezing shut fever-hot eyes. Exhaustion feels like a lead weight within him, dragging him down to the floorboards. He’s not angry. He’s not even upset. He’s just woken up, but even now, Varian feels so, so tired.

It’s still dark out: the sky black, the world silent, the only glow coming from the moon shining high up in the sky. He can see the room in vague black-and-white detail—the distant dark corners, Adira’s empty cot, the slim desk and dresser shoved off to the side. Books, their covers and colors obscured in the dark, pile high on shelves and create leaning towers against the walls. A study turned to temporary guest bedroom.

He stares up at the ceiling and tries to breathe, blinking fast so he doesn’t have to close his eyes. He feels hot in his skin, feverish and ill, his bones aching and his lungs small. His chest slowly compacting, like a weight on his ribs pressing down and in, smothering his every breath. He is hyperaware of every part of him—his eyes hot and achy, his fingers and toes tingling pins and needles. His breathing finally calms… but Varian still feels wide awake.

He won’t be getting any more sleep tonight.

After a moment of thought, Varian sits up, slowly levering himself out of bed. He sits off the side of his cot and tugs on his coat as quiet as he can. Straightens his socks on his feet. He sees Ruddiger snuffle, little eyes squinting open, and pets him gently until the raccoon’s eyes slide shut again.

He pads his way carefully across the room, almost shuffling. He pushes open the door gingerly, already making a face, hoping against hope the sound won’t rouse Ruddiger—but for once, he’s lucky. The door doesn’t squeak at all, the hinges silent as the grave. It opens with nary a sound. Home free.

Varian straightens his coat and casts one last look at the illuminated window, the moonlight pooling on the floor. He flips the distant moon the middle finger, flicking the rude gesture with all the feeling he can muster.

His chest feels cold, his veins tight like a chokehold. He rubs hard at his heart, chest and hand stinging alight with fresh pain as he slips out the door and softly makes his way downstairs. It’s nothing, Varian tells himself. Nothing at all. Just echoes, maybe, of the death that didn’t stick.

Still—he nearly flees from that room. The moonlight makes him feel ill.

He doesn’t really have a plan beyond get out get out get out, hopes for a break from this claustrophobic pressure of the house walls boring down on him. He slips down the stairs, hoping they’ve left the front door unlatched, and he is almost at the bottom step when he finally sees it.

There’s a light pooling beneath the closed kitchen door.

Varian pauses on the stair. He watches the light for a long moment. Its dim, small and contained, candlelight at best. The glow it casts under the door is very faint. He listens, carefully, and this time he catches it—the murmur of low voices just behind the door.

Varian stills on the steps. The room upstairs, set aside for both him and Adira. Adira’s empty cot. Stupid, stupid. He hadn’t even thought twice about it. She’s awake.

Later, Yasmin had said, when she’d let them in. To Adira: we will talk about this later. How had he forgotten?

Varian makes his way to the kitchen door, taking extra care to step softly. He keeps one hand on the wall for balance, inching his way closer, sliding his feet so the floorboards won’t creak. He’s learned something of stealth these past few months, and feels almost smug as he sits down against the wall, undetected. He’s right by the door, his ear pressed to the crack.

Even this close, though, it’s hard to hear them. They are quiet, and the walls mute them further. Varian can just barely hear the murmur of their voices above the silence. Adira’s voice, muffled and low, and another, responding. Sharper, tinged by a stranger accent… the scowling woman, he thinks. Yasmin.

“…kingdom died over twenty years ago, for Ella and I both,” Yasmin is saying, now. “Though it is clear to me that for you, the death is recent. For that I am sorry.”

“You talk like it doesn’t bother you.”

“Just because I helped you in your efforts doesn’t mean I believed in the same delusions, Adira. The Dark Kingdom…”

Their voices dip low again, out of his hearing. He closes his eyes and tries to focus.

“Do not play coy with me,” a voice snaps, suddenly, the loudest they have been thus far. Yasmin, again. “You said you had news, I have heard it, it was nothing I didn’t already know. I am in no mood for your games.”

“I’m not playing games.”

“Fuck you. Do you take me for an idiot? To bring that—him—here—”

“I hardly think an underfed teenager is any threat to you,” Adira retorts, talking over her. “You’re over-reacting. I get that you’re upset…”

Varian freezes, his breath catching as their voices trail off once more. Wait a moment. Are they—are they talking about him?

He’d thought it was odd, sure, that Yasmin had hated him so immediately—that she had looked at him all throughout that conversation, as if trying to banish him with glares alone. But for the first time it occurs to Varian that maybe the reason Yasmin was so upset—the reason she was so angry… the reason she nearly shut the door in their faces—

Had it been because hewas there?

But that doesn’t make sense, Varian thinks. He doesn’t even knowher. He’s never even been to Port Caul before today! And while maybe his first run-in with her wasn’t the best, it hadn’t been terrible, either. She’d been brusque; he’d been moody. But he’d left feeling unsettled, not like he’d made an enemy.

Yasmin’s voice rises again. Varian presses back against the door, eyes narrowing in the dark. Maybe, maybe if he can hear a little more, just get a clue of what’s going on here…

This time he barely has to strain his ears. Yasmin is no longer trying to be quiet. Her voice rings out clear and cold. “If you so insist on playing the fool, then I will treat you as one. Let me make this clear to you.”

“I understand perfectly—”

“In these last twenty years,” Yasmin snaps, cutting Adira off, “I have helped you. I have given you information, items, knowledge, secrets. I have guided you and I have tolerated you, despite your secrecy, your irritating arrogance, and your frankly insulting delusions of the Dark Kingdom being rebuilt.”

There is a sudden, icy silence. Yasmin snorts. “Didn’t like that, did you?” There is bite to her voice, her words unkind. “Well. Too bad. I am talking now, so listen. All this I have done for you, and I asked little else in return. But now. Now, after everything, you bring into my house—into my city—a threat?”

Another long silence. Varian lifts his hand and presses it flat against his mouth, trying to stifle his breathing. His heart is pounding in his chest. He feels cold, frozen still with budding anger. Who does she think she is? This stranger, this nobody, calling Varian—talking about him like he’s 

“Silence is no better than your jokes,” Yasmin is saying now, practically glacial. “Let me spell it out to you, Adira, what you have done this day. You have brought—to me! —a criminal wanted by one of the most powerful trade kingdoms in this continent. A criminal with five charges of attempted murder, assault, treason, regicide. You have brought this boy into my home, walked him undisguised through the town, led him right to me—and still, you ask me why I am angry? Anyone after him with be led straight to me!”

Varian is frozen. Locked in place, his fingers turned numb with pins and needles. The icy understanding flooding through him, because somehow—somehow, despite all the miles between him and Corona, despite all this time—

He remembers the way she looked at him, fury and disgust and icy rage, and his mouth goes dry.

She knows. Yasmin knows him. She knows who he is.

She knows what he’s done.

Adira’s voice has gone cold and flat. Dangerous. So low that Varian can barely hear her through the door. “What are you trying to say?”

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t throw you both to the wolves.”

“You—!”

The walls are closing in on him, the memory of the city pressing down on his head. This woman, this stranger—she knows him. She knows him, and he remembers walking through the city with a rising lump in his throat. All those people. All those eyes—

The midnight darkness seems oppressive, suddenly; the low ceiling and narrow walls of the hallway too small, too tight, too little. His breaths feel cut short, thin and useless. His skin crawls, icy fingers down his spine, and all he can think of is running, running, running through the labyrinth, the Moon’s golem at his heels and the Moon herself watching through every wall, every mirror, every dream—

He thinks: I didn’t even want to come here.

There’s no point in listening further, even if he could focus beyond the roaring in his ears. He stands and stumbles for the door, no longer trying to be quiet—hears the voices stop, the conversation cut short as his bare feet thud on the floor.

He doesn’t care. He refusesto care. He makes for the front door and throws the door open hard enough for it to bounce. Who gives a damn? He’s going to get thrown out anyway, so why bother being nice?

The air is—fresh, cool, a relief. He sucks in a deep breath, and feels like he can breathe again. The wind blows cold and crisp against his skin, a swift breeze drifting out over the empty plains of flat farmland. Beyond the house’s tiny garden and little porch, miles and miles of grassy lowland roll out to the distance, from his feet all the way to the distant horizon, far off in the sea.

It is still pitch dark out, but now Varian can see the edges of light beginning to build—the night sky blushing the pale blue of early dawn, gold gathering at the edges of the horizon, the small trees and houses turned to black silhouettes against the budding glow.

Still, though—high above, through the dark clouds, the moon shines bright and mocking. A waxing gibbous like a sideways smile.

His fingers curl into the wood of the doorway, and he slams the door hard behind him. The sound slams, echoes, dies off. Nothing follows it.

He breathes hard, and almost thinks to open the door just so he can slam it again—and realizes, abruptly, how silly that sounds. The anger withers in his chest. His mouth feels dry. He stares out and the empty landscape, and doesn’t recognize a single inch of it.

The sudden surge of emotion turns dead and leaden in his chest. Varian sits, defeated, on the porch, hiding his head in his hands. This was stupid. What was he going to do, run away?He doesn’t know this place. He doesn’t know this country. He doesn’t even know the currencyyet, if they even use the same coin as Corona. Adira might have told him when they crossed the border, but if so, he’d shut her out. He’s starting to regret that now.

“Good going,” he whispers to himself. “Great going, Varian, you absolute genius, make the already angry lady have more reason to think bad of you…”

He swallows hard, and presses his palm against the hollow of his eyes, breathing deeply. “Bet Dad’s real proud of me now. Bet he’s looking down and thinking, ah, that right there, there’s my stupid murderous s-son—”

He can’t finish the thought, feels gutted as soon as he starts it. His dad wouldn’t say that. He’d always been better than Varian in that way; he never said a mean thing about anyone, even if he thought it sometimes. Varian, in contrast, feels as if he never learned how to keep his mouth shut. He grits his teeth and lifts his head, and the moonlight glow is so soft and blue he wants to cry.

“This is yourfault,” Varian tells the moon, and his voice cracks, and he hates it. Nothing happens. The world is still silent. The house dark and empty. The air, cold and crisp. “This is—this is—”

It’s my fault.

His fault his dad is gone, dead to the amber. His fault he’s alone.

His throat feels very tight, suddenly. Varian squeezes his eyes shut against a sudden swell of tears. He’s—he’s—he’s so stupid, he’s so stupid. Missing Rapunzel and the others now, after all this time. Didn’t he choose to leave? Didn’t he choose to walk away?

And yet. He misses them, suddenly and fiercely. At least he knew them. At least he knew why they hated him, at least he could understand that. And even then… Rapunzel’s smile, Eugene’s constant posturing, Cassandra’s dry wit… he misses it. All the things he thought he hated about them, now the things he misses most of all.

He wonders if Adira is still angry at him. He wonders if he should be bothered by the thought she might be. Shouldn’t he care more? He’s traveled with her for—for a while, right? So why does it feel like he knows her less than he’s ever known anyone?

“You and your stupid tests,” he says, to the ground. His fingers tighten in his sleeves. “Stupid secrets, stupid lies, not giving any straight answers…”

He’s not sure if he’s talking about Adira or the Moon, now, or maybe even his dad, and goes quiet. Hides his head in his arms. Sits there. The moonlight burns against his skin; his right hand aches, bone-deep. His heart feels cold and empty.

And slowly, surely, under the light of the moon, Varian finally slips back to sleep.

.

His dreams are blurry and thin, vague and distant like a fog. The same old whispers, the same lost feeling, wandering an empty plain without direction. Varian walks and he walks and he walks, getting nowhere, and when he opens his eyes, he feels as if he hasn’t slept at all.

Sunlight glares into his eyes—he winces, rubbing hard at a crick in his neck. His shoulder feels sore and stretched from leaning against the porch frame, his back all twisted up in knots. It’s morning—latemorning, even. He wonders how he managed to keep snoozing even through the sunrise.  

“Finally awake now, are you? Tell me, boy, do you make a habit of sleeping in odd places?”

The voice is so sudden, Varian just about jumps out of his skin. He shoots bolt upright from his slouch, lurching forward in his fright—and smacks his head right into the porch pole.

“Ow!” He grips his head, reeling back—and then jolts, again, nearly screaming when he turns to see Yasmin standing right next to him. “Holy—!”

Yasmin doesn’t even blink. She’s standing above him on the porch, leaning against the open door; her arms cross over her chest, her eyebrows lifted up by her hairline. “You have a bed,” she remarks, tone unreadable. “A lovely cot that I set up for you and everything.”

Varian’s hand freezes in his hair, last night’s events rushing back to him. He looks away. He… he doesn’t know how to talk to her, now. He doesn’t know her, but she knows him—and if her words were any judge, her opinion is sour. And some part of him wants to fight that, still, wants to argue—if she knew whyhe did it, maybe if she knew his reasons…

But that’s a silly thought too. Should he fight it? Why should he explain himself to her, anyway? (And, secretly, in the back of his mind—does he even deserve to argue? Do his reasons matter, when his actions hurt others either way? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t…)

“I… I thought you didn’t want me here,” he says, at last, and leaves it at that.

Her eyes narrow further. “I do not,” Yasmin confirms, crisp and cold. “But luckily for you, Adira has a decent argument and a long-standing friendship. You are in my care, now. Three days.” Her chin lifts. “Which you would know if you had eavesdropped on the whole conversation, silly child. Nothing good comes from leaving in the middle of something.”

Varian’s train of thought smacks into his skull and goes flat. For a moment he is speechless. “Are—are you tellingme to eavesdrop on you?”

Yasmin gives him a disproving look. “I am telling you to eavesdrop better.”

Varian stares at her, blankly, waiting for the punchline. She doesn’t move. Her eyebrow raises. She gestures, once, as if to say: Well?

He doesn’t gether, he thinks, and instead of angry he just feels young, threadbare, worn to a string. He hides his head in his arms so he doesn’t have to look at her and so she won’t see his face twist.

“I don’t understand,” he says miserably, and hunches his shoulders, bracing himself against the tremor he can feel starting in his arms, shaking through his voice. “I—I don’t even know you, and you just…”

There is another pause, another silence. “Adira did not mention me?”

He almost laughs, and has to stifle the giggle in his elbow before he gets hit with the stupid urge to cry. “Are you kidding? Adira doesn’t tell me anything.”

“…Do you know why you’re here, boy?”

His fingers fist in his coat sleeve. He curls into himself, and even to his own ears, his voice sounds small. “No.”

Another silence.

Yasmin heaves a gusty sigh. There’s a thud as she throws herself down to sit beside him, sitting side-by-side on the porch steps. Varian jumps, reeling back in surprise, and beside him Yasmin laughs. Her smile is all edges, a bladed sort of amusement. “You are like a scalded cat,” she observes, and sounds weirdly delighted with the find.

“What—why—”

“You truly do not know?”

The whiplash from humor to solemnity makes his head spin. “What—I, I mean, no? She just said we were seeing an old friend of hers, I didn’t…”

Yasmin is frowning, now, but for the first time Varian gets the feeling it’s not directed at him. She turns her head towards the sunrise, and in the growing light her expression is cast in shadow. “…Interesting.”

Varian has no idea what to say to that. He’s never met an adult like this one—Yasmin is weird, serious and moody in equal measure. Not quite like his dad… but not as eccentric as Adira, either. There is something strangely ageless about her, and at the same time something strangely old.

Yasmin is still thinking; she tilts her head back, eyes moving to the dawn. “Hmph,” she says, muttering. “I get the feeling that I have been asking the right question to the wrong person this entire time. How utterly vexing. Well, never mind it.” She sighs, again, and turns back to him. “Well, here we are. I will yell at Adira for you, boy; I have more leverage and this whole situation strikes me as rather stupid, so this will be a free favor for you. No need to thank me. But in return, answer me this.”

Varian squints, suspicious. “…Answer you what?”

“Why are you here?”

He stares at her.

“It is a simple question,” Yasmin remarks, and it’d almost be casual if not for the weight of her gaze. “Why did you come here? Why did you follow Adira all this way? What are you looking for? What do you want?” She taps her finger against her knee with each question, counting them off one by one. “Why are youhere?”

Varian gapes at her. His mouth feels dry. His throat is painfully tight. He swallows hard and bites at the inside of his cheek, his mind spinning circles in his head. “I… um, I…”

The words trail off. Varian can’t finish. His throat has closed up, and he is struck with the sudden realization that—that he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He doesn’t know where to go. He doesn’t know.

He snaps his mouth shut, his teeth clicking. Heat crawls up the back of his neck, humiliation hot in his gut. He—he can’t say it. He can’t.It feels shameful, almost, to have nothing. To have no answer, not even a reason. To have come all this way for nothing at all.

Varian looks away. His eyes prickle, and he hides his head in his arms, curling up tight on the steps. Maybe if he’s lucky, she’ll think he’s throwing a tantrum. Maybe this stranger will finally leave him alone.

There’s a long stretch of silence. In the distance, birdsong breaks through the morning air. Yasmin mutters a curse under her breath.

“I meant what I said earlier,” Yasmin says, at last, sounding a little awkward. Her voice isn’t kinder but it is, in some way, a little less hostile than before. “Sleeping in odd places. Is this a habit of yours?”

He doesn’t answer. Yasmin sighs again, much louder this time. “Fine, I will guess. Are you not sleeping well?”

He doesn’t move. He feels tired. “Maybe,” Varian mumbles, at last. “So what? There’s not much I can do about it.”

“Very defeatist talk, for a supposed alchemist.” She stands up, brushing the dust from her pants. Her footsteps thud dully on the porch, moving away. Varian looks up, caught off guard by the almost-insult. What—is that it? A snappy comment, and now she’s just leaving?

“What—why are you—” He doesn’t get her at all. “Did you come out here just to yell at me?”

“Of course not,” Yasmin scoffs. “I did not come out here justfor that, anyway.” She’s leaning in the front door, now, rustling around the entryway; she snatches something off a hook and throws it his way. Varian throws up his arms in meager defense, and a bag smacks him right in the face before falling with a thud in his open arms.

He nearly drops it anyway, he’s so surprised. “W-what—?”

“Carry that for me, would you?” Yasmin calls back, moving back to the door again. She leans inside and then leans back with his boots in one hand, shutting the front door behind her. She tosses him the boots, and this time, Varian lunges to catch them. He fumbles, nearly dropping them on his own feet before he gets a grip. He clutches the shoes and bag close to his chest, blinking rapid in shock.

“This is why it is best to eavesdrop on an entire conversation,” Yasmin is saying, donning her own winter coat. “Because then you would know what I am doing, yes? For these three days, I have agreed to help you; your wellbeing is now my responsibility, at least so long as you remain here.”

She locks the door behind her, testing the handle once before she goes. She thuds down the steps, starting on the road, long strides and brisk walk—stops, a few feet away, and frowns at Varian from over her shoulder.

“What are you just standing there for?” Yasmin asks, sounding genuinely curious, and gestures him forward. “Get your shoes on, boy. Did I not mention? You and I, we are going to the market.”

.

.

.

.

.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Her fingers drum on the wooden table in an uneven rhythm, and with every click of her nails the men wince. The walls rock with the swell of the sea, her ship pitching through darkened waters. The unsteady lurch, however, leaves her untouched—her feet settle firm on the floor, one hand braced against the table and the other tapping at the map: again, and again, and again.

“You’d better have a reason for coming back empty-handed.” Tap. Tap. Tap. “Or is this map all you have to offer?”

She pinches the weathered parchment between two fine, filed nails, and smiles with all her teeth. Before her, one of her men stands tall and uncertain, his eyes flickering to and fro. Her fingers thud on the desk. He flinches.

“I… the port towns, they, they’ve gotten wary. Less ships coming and going—we couldn’t—”

Tap.

“We… I… we ran. I’m sorry. But I—the map, I swear, it’s not just—look, look, see? It has the routes for the patrol ships, we can slip around, resupply…”

His voice withers, goes small. Her hand stills on the desk. The rest of her crew, clustered around the walls, watch the proceedings with wary eyes and mouths tightly shut, hardly daring to breathe.

She reaches out. She takes the map in her hands, and unfurls it in-full across the desk—traces the plotted patrol lines with her finger, the crisscross guard lines that have kept them barred to sea. She considers. The crew hold their breath.

“What did you say it was called, again?”

“P-Port Caul,” her man stutters, and clears his throat. “Nice little trading town. Lots of lazy guards.” His chin juts up, confidence slowly regaining ground. “Full of overconfident little townspeople, sleeping certain in their beds.”

Her smile grows, the edges curling, her teeth bared. This time, the men match her smile, nervous but hopeful. “No attacks at all? My, my. Like sitting ducks.” She smooths out the map with both hands, and circles the point of her nail around the icon of the town in question. “Well. Perhaps not so empty-handed after all.”

She hears the near muted sigh of relief, sees her crew relax. Her smile warps and grows, all teeth. She leans back from the table and pulls free her knife, and flips the blade deftly in the air, unimpeded by the rocking of the waves.

“Contact our ally in Vardaros, would you?” She flips the blade, catches it one-handed. “An opening just might be coming that way.” She throws the blade once more, and this time, catches it mid-flip to slam down on the table, pinning the map flat, Port Caul speared through by her sword.

“What do you say, boys?”

The knife glints in the wavering lanternlight. Her smile stretches gruesome like the gallows. In her eyes, there is the promise of gold—and in the back of her mind, a whisper, a voice that croons of possibility and power to come.

Lady Caine lifts her head.

“Let’s give that little town something to talk about.”