#hopefully i've fixed the issue where it's unreadable to dark mode users?

[slashmagpie]

I started writing a 3L fantasy AU forever ago and I think the AU is very cool but it's also A Lot and I have no idea if I'll ever get around to finishing it so uhh here. Have part of the first chapter. As a treat.

(Quick TW for violence, minor character death, description of a corpse)

Dogwarts’ Gate is an ancient, ornate thing, gilded gold and stone and rubies. The walls around it have been rebuilt and replaced, often mis-matched where two sections were refurbished at different points in time, but the gate stands tall and proud despite the progression of time. The familiar glow of redstone sigils emanates from its frame, and track a constellation around the walls of the city. In the courtyard it opens into sits the King’s carriage, roof removed and King sitting in plain view, surrounded by guards as the populace approach him with offerings and gifts and commentary.

“We don’t have to get in line, do we?” Martyn asks, eyeing the long line of civilians waiting for their moment with the King.

“Of course not,” Ren says. “I’m the Prince, I’m not waiting in line.”

“We’ll cut round,” Etho says.

The Red King, Martyn has always thought, is a little uncanny. Ren has always been lively and familiar and dependable, but Martyn can count on one hand the amount of times he’s spoken with his father, and those occasions had never been particularly prolonged. He wears a red fur-lined cloak and golden crown, a dark veil spilling out from it and hiding his face. Martyn has never seen him without it—though one time he had seen the King without his gloves, and caught a glimpse of skin so pale it was basically grey. The man is probably desperately lacking in vitamin D, but Martyn isn’t his doctor, and he doesn’t imagine the comment would go over well if he said it to the king’s face, so he keeps it to himself.

It is strange, though, to see a man most known amongst the royal guard for locking himself in his room and refusing to let his throne room be properly lit sitting in plain view, shrouded in sunlight for everyone to see.

As Etho leads them around the courtyard, there’s a sudden loud crack, and the crowd goes silent as the gate slowly creaks inwards. Martyn pulls his sword, and hears the other guards doing the same as he moves to stand in front of Ren, ready for—

Ready for what?

There’s nothing beyond the walls of Dogwarts but forests and ruins and hordes of the undead. And, now, apparently, the Crastle, but surely they wouldn’t be here this soon—

The gate swings open to reveal a man.

He’s tall and broad, with short hair and skin that would probably be called tan if it weren’t an odd shade of ashen grey. He’s wearing a high-collared cloak that splits into fluttering shreds as it descends and wide-bottomed trousers. Out of his hair twist branches like antlers, the wood clearly old and dead and beginning to rot, hanging with shreds of moss and lichen. A nasty-looking scar splits his handsome face in two. There’s an air about him, something powerful and shimmery and familiar, and Martyn kicks himself for forgetting that the fey exist beyond Dogwarts’ walls as well.

And this fey in particular is familiar in a way that makes Martyn’s breath catch, and his grip on his sword tighten, and his lips form the shape of a name he hasn’t spoken aloud in years.

The square is still for a long, long moment. In the distance, above the steps, Martyn can still hear the distant sounds of the festival, the celebration of people who have not yet realised that the party has been thoroughly interrupted. The guards stand ready and tensed, prepared to leap into battle to defend their king—and then their king stands, making eye contact with the fey lord stood before him.

“Why have you come here?” the Red King demands, voice rough and harsh with just a hint of an accent Martyn has never been able to place.

“Many years ago, you stole something from me,” the fey replies, and Martyn could swear there’s a trace of a pout in his voice. “You’ve had your fun, now; I would like it back.”

The Red King sets his jaw, steadies his stance, and growls, “No."

Scar’s relaxed posture tenses. “Are you sure? I think both of us will sleep better tonight if you returned to me what is rightfully mine. Let’s talk about it—surely we can come to an agreement. Make a deal.”

“I will be making no deals with you, foul creature. Begone,” the Red King spits.

Scar sighs. “I was afraid you would say that. Well, my friend, that right there is a declaration of war. I hope you do not come to regret it.”

The fey lord winks, raises his hand into the air, and clicks his fingers.

The world holds its breath.

And then the world explodes.

-----

There is smoke everywhere, heat and ash and Martyn chokes on it, blinks on it, cannot see or breathe or hear beyond the ringing in his ears and the distant, muffled sound of screams. His body feels heavy. His head pounds. For an endless moment, he doesn’t know where he is.

There’s a hand on his arm. He turns his head, blinking, and sees BigB, mouth moving, saying something that Martyn can’t hear, desperation writ across his face. Martyn reaches up towards his ear, and pulls his hand away to find blood streaked across his fingers. He feels sick.

“—tyn! Martyn, come on, man!”

Martyn blinks. “Sorry,” he chokes out.

The ringing begins to die down, still present, but now he can hear the calamity over it. There are footsteps and the familiar swish of swords and screaming, oh gods, so much screaming, pain and misery on a scale he’s only heard once before.

“My father,” Ren gasps from somewhere behind him, and Martyn jolts as he remembers that he has a job to do and he has not been doing it. He reaches for his sword but it’s gone, dropped somewhere in the chaos, and he flounders as Ren pushes forward past him towards the centre of the carnage. “I need to go to—”

“No!” Martyn cries, grabbing Ren’s arm and stopping him in his tracks. “No, My Liege, we need to get you out of here, get you somewhere safe—”

“Martyn!” Ren cries, voice cracking, and Martyn cuts off, staring at his prince’s face. Ren’s eyes are wide and scared and red, and Martyn can feel him shaking under his grip. “Martyn, that’s my father,” he says. “I need to go to him, I need to be at his side. I need to see if he’s okay. You’re either with me or against me, Martyn, but you cannot stop me. I will not go with you.” He yanks his arm away with a force Martyn is not expecting, and turns to race off into the smoke and chaos. Martyn curses under his breath and takes off after him, BigB hot on his heels.

The closer they get to the king’s carriage, the worse things become. The cobblestone floor of the square is cracked and broken and charred, stained with blood and gore and viscera from bodies Martyn tries his best not to look at more than he has to, stepping over severed hands and shattered skulls. BigB reaches out to grab his hand and Martyn does not protest, simply clings back, trying to keep his breathing steady and his breakfast in his stomach.

They reach the king’s carriage, though there’s not enough left of it to call it a carriage. The smoke is beginning to thin, and it’s easier than it was to take in the damages: splintered wood and broken wheels and red seat cushioning torn to shreds. There are so many bodies, here, now, still, unmoving, and Martyn tries not to look at the faces of the men he’d once known, the men who he had trained with and fought with and laughed with, the men who had scolded him for running in the palace hallways and thumped him on the back and told him to get his head on straight. He blinks, and his eyes sting, and it’s not just the smoke that’s making them water.

Ren is clambering over the wreckage of the carriage to the body in the centre. The Red King’s veil has burned away, and Martyn should be able to see the face he’d never managed to glimpse before, except the king does not have much of a face left. His skin is charred black, his eyes have melted in their sockets, his hair has crumbled to ash. His crown has rolled away, lost somewhere in the debris, his cloak stained with blood and burns.

The Red King is dead. Ren gathers his father’s corpse in his arms and wails.

“Father,” he chokes, shoulders shuddering with sobs and cheeks wet with tears. “Father, father, no, please…” He rocks, sobbing, and Martyn wants to go to him, to say something, to help, but he can’t move. His ears are ringing again. In an act of tremendous effort, he closes his eyes, stares at the blackness of his eyelids, and tries to just breathe.

In the distance, he can hear the echo of a familiar laugh.

“Martyn,” BigB says, pulling on his arm. “Martyn, look. Martyn, look!”

Martyn tears his eyes open and looks up to see the city’s gate, broken and splintered and torn away, a gaping hole to the outside world that threatens everything Dogwarts stands for. His heart drops, and he’s about to turn and grab Ren, corpse be damned, and drag him back to the safety of the castle—

But BigB isn’t pointing at that.

No, BigB is pointing at a figure standing where the gate had been moments prior, shrouded in smoke. He’s facing slightly away from them, but Martyn’s breath still catches at the turn of his nose, the familiar curve of his jaw, the messy mop of blonde hair he’d never quite managed to tame. His shoulders shake with laughter, uncontrollable giggles, and Martyn realises that the sound he’d heard was more than a memory echoing in the ringing of the explosion.

His old friend doesn’t look quite like he remembers: there are red and gold feathers growing from his face, across his eyes like a carnival mask, and even more jutting from his bare arms beneath the floaty poncho he wears. His fingers are twisted and clawed, and there’s a strangeness to his gait as he spins slowly around, marvelling in the chaos he’s caused.

Martyn swallows back bile and blood and ash, wets his lips, and calls out, “Grian?”

Grian freezes, eyes landing on the two of them, and the mirth fades from his face, replaced by unmistakable dismay. Martyn opens his mouth, tries to say something, anything, but the words all die on his tongue.

What could he possibly say?

He doesn’t get a chance to figure it out as Grian reaches into his pocket with red-stained hands and pulls out a small pouch, throwing it down on the ground and releasing a cloud of sand into the air. Martyn coughs, covering his eyes as the particles spray out towards them, and by the time the cloud has cleared enough to see again, Grian is long gone, and any chance of getting answers is gone with him.