#when will raubahn's face bones return from the war

[punchelf]

Comfort

“Loving you is like sinking into a warm bath after a lifetime of feeling cold down to my bones.”

Elftober, Day 26

[angstmongertina]

A Night’s Rest

So, when I got to 2.4 in the stuff between ARR and Heavensward, I immediately fell in love with Haurchefant, despite barely remembering him in base game. And, of course, all of Ul’dah’s questline happened and he is the first to offer you “unconditional support.” And so, naturally, I fell for him hard.

This smacked me in the face soon after reaching the beginning of Heavensward and it took me forever to write out but here. Have some disgusting slowburn, featuring my Miqo’te arcanist.

Is the title a reference to A Knight’s Calling? Mayyyyybe.

AO3 Link

The moon shone down from the cloudless night sky, its pale light illuminating the unfamiliar shadows of her guest room. Under the warm covers of her borrowed bed, X’ondarya turned, staring out at the towering buildings that dominated the Ishgardian landscape, dark in the moonlight. It was a far cry from the low buildings she was accustomed to, as was everything else about Ishgard.

Sighing, she pushed herself upright. There was no point in pretending that sleep would come, not when she could still hear General Raubahn’s anguished shouts and the roar of rocks collapsing in the tunnel behind her. Not when she was lying in a too-comfortable bed while her friends and allies were captured or missing or… or worse.

She shook her head. No, sleep would doubtless prove elusive.

Judging from the dark halls and general stillness, the rest of the household had long since retired for the night, which meant there was nobody to stop her as she crept from her room down the guest wing and towards the nearest parlor. Alphinaud’s room was silent and dark, though she rather doubted that he’d want to talk either way; he had never looked as shaken as he had been as they made their escape from Thanalan.

Then again, she had already replayed that whole day’s events more than enough times in her own head.

Instead, she made her way to the smaller sitting room, pouring all of her concentration into the tiny flame she summoned in her palm, just bright enough to see with. Around her, shadows danced in the flickering flames, unfamiliar walls and tapestries twisted by her still overactive imagination into strange creatures.

By contrast, inside the room, dark and empty though it was, lingered the faint warmth of her hosts. A still-smoldering log lay in the fireplace, its surface charred but serviceable. With a flick of her wrist, she flung her flame at it, watching as the spark sputtered before catching and licking eagerly at the wood. Beside the flames, a large couch stretched across the wooden floor, a silent invitation that she took, still focusing on the flames and gently radiating heat. Wood. Fire. The energy given off by the fully aerobic combustion of wood could be calculated by the mass of the wood multiplied by…

“Unable to sleep?”

Blinking several times to clear the stars from her eyes, she turned. Lord Haurchefant, looking oddly underdressed out of his full armor, stood at the doorway, watching her with concern in his eyes. Leaning back against the cushions, she shrugged and he offered her a small smile.

“I cannot say I blame you.” He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “May I?”

She nodded, tucking her legs under her as he smiled, warmer this time. To her surprise, he disappeared from view, though his goal was revealed a few minutes later when he returned with a bottle and two glasses filled with bright amber liquid, one of which he handed to her.

“A Bouldeaux cognac. One of Ishgard’s finest. After all, I never did get to thank you properly for all you have done for me and mine.”

She raised an eyebrow. “On the contrary, you have done so many times already. Besides, I believe all of this more than makes up for anything you could possibly have to thank me for, and then some.”

He grinned, a little sheepishly. “And I confess you look like you could use it. It is the least I could do for as dear a friend as yourself.”

For a moment, she considered protesting but Lord Haurchefant Greystone was not one who would lightly take no for an answer… and she had to admit that the temptation to drown her memories in liquor, at least for a time, was far too strong. Instead, she smiled, more genuine than she expected it to be, and tapped her glass against his. “Very well, then. Thank you.”

His grin widening, he raised his own drink in a small toast. “To you, and all the help you have given House Fortemps.”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t stop a faint chuckle from escaping her lips. “And to you, for returning the favor tenfold.”

Her first sip was careful, though that did nothing to dull the flavor, of spices and vanilla and rich oak, that filled her mouth. Warmth settled in her stomach, chasing away both the Ishgardian chill and the memories of the past few days, and she sighed, feeling her muscles relax.

“That good?”

She opened eyes that she hadn’t realized she had closed to find him watching her with a soft gaze and faint smile, his own glass apparently completely forgotten. A faint heat rose in her cheeks, though she couldn’t be sure if it was from the alcohol. “Indeed. Though I must admit I am quite uneducated in the ways of cognac.”

He chuckled, low and rich. “If you were to ask my brothers, nor do I. They find Excavalier to be much superior but this has always been my favorite. Sweet and yet strong and full. Rather like…”

As his voice trailed off, she raised a brow, but he only shook his head, the flames casting a light flush to his face. Instead, she took another sip, watching as the liquid swirled in her glass for a few moments, before turning her attention back to her companion. “You couldn’t sleep either?”

He started, almost spilling his still-untouched drink, then grinned wryly. “Not so much. With the Dragonsong War leaving all of Ishgard much beleaguered, it has been quite some time since I have been able to return home. I appear to have grown quite accustomed to life in Camp Dragonhead; the beds here are more comfortable than I prefer.”

When he saw her incredulous look, he laughed. “Is that so hard to believe?”

“Now that I know where you spent your childhood, yes.” She nodded toward the fireplace. “I’d imagine that most in your position would enjoy returning home than staying in the camp barracks.”

“Perhaps, though I have no doubt that I was always far more trouble than I was worth. And though my lord father insisted that I be raised as family in Fortemps Manor, I am certain my stepmother never reconciled herself with having a constant reminder of her husband’s indiscretion in the household. Oh, come now,” he added, warm eyes taking in her expression. “One cannot blame her for finding discomfort and it was hardly a price to pay for such an opportunity.”

“Milord…”

Before she was even certain what she intended to, or even could, say, he waved her away. “None of that, if you please.” When she shot him a questioning look, he shook his head with a cheerful smile. “Just Haurchefant. After all you have done for my house and Ishgard as a whole, there cannot be a reason for you to stand on ceremony so.”

She blinked and opened her mouth, though nothing emerged. As if taking advantage of her momentary speechlessness, he pressed on, leaning forward until she could only focus on the earnest blue eyes peering at her.

“Were it not for my father’s kindness, I would not even have my title. Please, X’ondarya. You are my guest, and far more importantly than that, you are my dear friend. And friends have no need for such formality.”

Still blinking somewhat, she grinned and offered him an overly cavalier shrug. “After such an impassioned entreaty, what more can I say? Very well, then, Haurchefant.”

His returning smile was blinding, leaving her breathless in its brilliance. He barely seemed to notice its effect on her, however; leaning back, he sighed and took a slow sip of his cognac, appearing more than content to just sit in peace.

With a small sigh of her own, she mirrored him, relaxing into her seat and returning her gaze to the now steadily crackling fire. She blinked, slower, enjoying the gentle heat sinking into her bones.

“So, what do you think of Ishgard?”

Her face pulled into a grimace without thought. “Too cold.”

“Come, now. It can’t possibly be worse than when you sought the airship in Coerthas!”

She could feel her frown deepening at the memory, but still, she shook her head. “No, but you live here. It’s permanent.”

“Permanent, perhaps, but in a comfortable home with roaring fires and warm beds and, now, still warmer company.” He grinned. “One could even say that it is more enjoyable now than ever before. But I daresay that it is considerably colder than you are accustomed to.”

She raised an eyebrow, though in spite of herself; her lips curled into a faint smile. “The arcanists’ academy is in Limsa Lominsa, so quite.”

“Ah.”

“Precisely. It is a rare winter for snow to even so much as dust the stones.”

He nodded. “And it is a rare day indeed to not see any in Ishgard, especially since the Calamity.”

When she made another face, he laughed. “It is not all bad. As children, in the winter months, Artoirel, Emmanellain, and myself would rush outside whenever we had finished our studies.”

“‘Finished?’”

He grinned. “Or sometimes even before. At any rate, there was mischief aplenty for three spirited boys, and Father scolded us more than once for staying out too late or tracking mud inside the house.”

“Even Lord Artoirel?”

His chuckle was low and fond. “Indeed. He may not appear so much so these days but he was the leader of our merry trio, Artoirel. More often than not, it was he who decided what tomfoolery we would find ourselves up to. I believe one winter, he decided it would be great fun to try sliding down the large winding stairs outside.”

She blinked. “The curved ones by the center of the Pillars?”

“The very same. I have no doubt you have walked it yourself more than a few times.”

Stifling a sudden yawn, she laughed. “Did you manage?”

“Indeed, though thankfully the area was fairly deserted.” His eyes, already soft with amusement, took on a distant look. “And even that was not the worst of it. We are truly lucky my father had thought to look for us; he found us just in time to stop us from using the steps in front of the Holy Vault as our next location.”

“The Vault… The one that serves as the archbishop’s residence?”

“And the seat of Ishgard’s government, aye. I am not certain I have ever seen my father so displeased, and for good reason. I shudder to think what would have become of us should anyone else have been the one to discover us. It would be unfortunate indeed for both of House Fortemps’ heirs to be charged for heresy, especially at that age.”

“And Ishgard would be short a most loyal knight, and your father a son to be proud of.”

He shrugged, though his expression brightened as he rubbed at the back of his neck. “Something of the sort, at least.”

Smiling to herself, she inclined her head. “And whose idea was that? Lord Artoirel again?”

To her amusement, her companion shifted, his face almost guilty. “Not so much, at least not that time. ‘Twas mine own.”

“Yours? And was it worth it?”

His fidgeting only intensified. “Hardly, but it was never meant to be so.”

When she raised an eyebrow, a hint of a blush crossed his cheeks.

“To be perfectly honest, it was more to see if it was possible than out of any belief that it would actually be enjoyable. Nevertheless, I doubt the Holy See would take kindly to such an explanation, or any, as it were. Suffice it to say that we were all scolded accordingly.”

She nodded, leaning further back into the cushions. “And Lord Emmanellain?”

“Ah, Emmanellain. He too was quite antithetical to the young man of today... “ He paused, amusement and concern clearly warring in his voice. “Though I fear my tales of the past may be keeping you awake against your will, if that yawn was any indication.”

Flushing, she shook her head. “No, it is refreshing to think about something else, as long as you don’t mind my poor manners.”

“Not at all. If my senseless chatter can be of any assistance to you, then I am glad to provide it.”

Almost of their own volition, her lips curled into a smile. “I hardly believe that anything you say could be considered such, Haurchefant, but thank you.”

He grinned back. “As if I could do anything else. At any rate, the Emmanellain you know is a far cry from the younger brother I had growing up. Quieter and far more cautious was he, though he did and still does idolize Artoirel, even if it is harder to see now.”

“No doubt your father was kept terribly busy with all three of you to look after and keep out of trouble.”

His eyes lit up. “Oh, nothing could be more certain. The attempt at sledding down the steps in front of the Holy Vault was neither the first nor the last time we received such a scolding. For instance, there was the first and last time he ever allowed us a pet…”

As he continued to expound on the various adventures of his wayward youth, X’ondarya closed her eyes and finally let herself relax fully, his gentle voice washing over her in low, soothing waves.

She didn’t realize she had fallen asleep until she woke up the next morning to find Haurchefant curled up beside her, her head resting on his shoulder, and a blanket covering them both. Careful to avoid waking him, she got to her feet and made her way back to her room, smiling and feeling more rested, more optimistic, than she had in a long time.

[onewonderfulbug]

A Cold Wind

Happy Starlight!

I’ve had this percolating in my mind for a while, until finally it burst forth after finishing the Realm Reborn content heading into Heavensward. To be fair, I could have probably posted it at a better time of year but hey. I can’t predict when this stuff hits my brain.

Anyhoo, spoilers for pre-HW, post-ARR stuff.

The wind is bitterly cold today. To be fair, the wind is bitterly cold every day. Even in those brief moments when the snowfall ceases, the clouds clear, and the warm sun shines brightly upon the lands of Coerthas, it is still bitterly cold. Perhaps one day, it will no longer be so.

But today is not that day.

I do not know how long it has been since we came to Coerthas in search of refuge and succor. It may have been moons, yet I still recall the events that brought us to Camp Dragonhead as vividly as though it happened yesterday. Since then, we three have sat- myself, Alphinaud Leveilleur, and Tataru Taru- waiting for word to return from Ishgard in regards to our petition for asylum. In all that time, one would think that I would have grown accustomed to the cold. In a sense, I suppose that I have.

No, mayhap it is less that I have grown accustomed, and more that I have become numb to it. There is a part of me that hates that. Another part of me accepts it wholly, as numbness is easier to deal with than the pain, despair, and rage threatening to lash out at every passerby.

When those things start to bubble to the surface, I wander the central highlands. From Camp Dragonhead, past the Gates of Judgement, out to Whitebrim; from there, heading south through Daniffen Pass, down near the Aurum Vale, and the path toward Mor Dhona through the Hall of the Seven Echoes, but there I pause.

I dare not go further south. I want to, gods, how I want to, but I know that engaging the Crystal Braves occupying Revenant's Toll would only exacerbate the situation. Nor would it do anything to clear my name, or the names of the Scions.

Much like the cold, I should have been accustomed to loss by now, yet I still feel these losses so keenly. That seems to be the legacy of the Scions, loss. How many did we lose the first time, after Louisoix? When I had first joined, I was but one of four new recruits. By the time I had grown strong enough to challenge Titan, we had grown by leaps and bounds. From all walks of life they came, ready and willing to put their knowledge, their skills, their strength to the cause of preserving Eorzea's future, and to defend the realm against the threat of the primals and the Garlean Empire.

I still remember the cold chill that ran down my spine, the smell of blood and death that permeated around the Waking Sands the moment I opened those doors. What I saw from the sylph Noraxia made my blood run cold. In but mere moments, our numbers were decimated. The Empire's attack was swift, brutal, and without mercy. Just like that, we were back down to but a handful of dedicated souls, the rest left to molder and rot alongside the long-silent bones of those who perished in the Calamity, with naught even a stone to mark their place. None apart from we who survived would know how much they gave for this realm to see a brighter tomorrow.

We lost so many that day, but we still built ourselves back up. We defeated the Empire's ultimate weapon and stopped their war machine dead in its tracks. Primals arose, stronger than those that came before, and we felled them. We found a way to permanently destroy Ascian souls, at the cost of our comrade Moenbryda. We spearheaded the defense of Ishgard against the Dravanian Horde. But then in the moment we take time to celebrate our victories, it happened again. Our comrades were set upon in the streets and the markets. We were betrayed by our allies. One by one, the Archons fell.

Yda.

Papalymo.

Y'shtola.

Thancred.

Minfilia.

In the end, once more, only a handful of dedicated souls were left. Before, we were the saviors of Eorzea, and protectors of the realm. Now, we are known as little more than scheming assassins.

I can feel that rage burning, building up again. This wandering is not working, and it only seems to drive home that I am not as numb to this as I would like to be. Onward. My path takes me from the Hall of the Seven Echoes heading east, toward the Observatorium. Or to use its full title, the First Dicasterial Observatorium of Aetherial and Astrological Phenomena.

By the Twelve, I think the Ishgardians enjoy their puffed up titles just a little too much.

Just south of the Darkhold, the path splits, with one trail heading toward the Observatorium, and the other heading toward the North Shroud, and I stop myself.

There are a few moments of hesitation before I resign myself to my path and continue east.

No. Not today.

A few times during this exile, I have had a mind to glamour myself, return to Gridania, get as much information as I could from Mother Miounne. She, Momodi, and Baderon, they have good heads on their shoulders. I know they could never have believed the accusations. But I also know that I cannot risk drawing them into this. All it would take was the wrong person seeing the wrong thing and the heads of the Adventurers' Guild would be thrown in gaol for 'aiding and abetting' a known fugitive or whatever godsforsaken charges the Monetarists and their lackeys would dream up. I can only imagine what ridiculous charges they leveled against Alphinaud to arrest him to begin with. Had it not been for Vice-Marshal Tarupin's assistance, he would have still been languishing in a cell in Ul'dah.

The little lordling is still recovering from his bout of melancholy and self-pity. As we fled Ul'dah, Alphinaud gave in to despair, blaming himself for everything that had happened. At the time, I said nothing. No words of comfort, but also no words to confirm or deny his beliefs. I simply sat back and allowed the self-flagellation to continue. Secretly, I agreed with him. I am ashamed to admit, but there was a part of me that was satisfied. Not with the loss of our comrades, of course, but to see the great Alphinaud Leveilleur taken down a peg.

The grandson of the Archon Louisoix has rarely ever been at a loss for words, to an almost irritating degree. I wouldn't have thought much of him, sitting across from me on my entrance into Eorzea, silent, sitting aside his sister Alisaie. I would think even less of him the next times I would encounter him, which was during the memorial services for those who perished during the Calamity. They approached me unbidden, because clearly there was not enough room for him to stand elsewhere, suffering his snide remarks in regards to the city-states, their leaders, and their grand companies.

This happened not once, not twice, but thrice.

Given the circumstances, however, I cannot say that I blame him for his cynicism. The city-states of Eorzea must have done very little to instill any sort of reassurance for his grandsire's sacrifice. Even so, Alphinaud's arrogance and self-assuredness was a bewildering thing. Do not misunderstand, I admire his diplomacy, even when he can be lacking tact, and he has a way with words I wish I could emulate. I say it was bewildering because he truly seemed to think he, himself, could single-handedly save the realm. I do not doubt his sincerity, but I also wholeheartedly believe that he was blinded by his potential glory, as the leader of the world-saving, all-conquering Crystal Braves.

Ah, the Crystal Braves. There goes that rage bubbling up again. Time to start heading northward, from the Observatorium back up toward Camp Dragonhead.

Truly, as much as Alphinaud blames himself, I cannot overlook my own involvement. After all, he tasked me with recruiting several of the men and women of the Crystal Braves in the first place. Hells, it was my recommendation that brought that damnable Laurentius into the fold to begin with. I should have known better. But no. No, I had to be the one to give second chances. I wanted to believe that he had turned a new leaf, that he truly did want to start over.

On the other hand, I suppose I should not have been surprised by Yuyuhase's involvement in the mutiny. Even from the beginning, he seemed far too preoccupied with the acquisition of coin. I chalked it up to living in Ul'dah, where the pursuit of the Almighty Gil is a way of life, no matter who you have to step on to reach it.

Then there is Ilberd. What is there to say about Ilberd? He had us all fooled. I believed him to be of great moral character, loyal to a fault, and a man worthy of leading the Crystal Braves. He kept his hatred of General Raubahn more secret than he did his loyalty to his Monetarist paymasters. That a man should speak of Ala Mhigo so, but have no qualms about killing a youth like Wilred, who fought for the same as he, bespeaks a coldness in him that would freeze each of the seven hells. He claimed to have been the one to assassinate Nanamo Ul Namo, but I have my doubts, as sharpened steel seems more his style, not poison.

The price you pay for wanting to do better. I cannot begin to imagine what might have ensued had the Sultana enacted her plans. But even as much chaos as the dissolution of Ul'dah's government would have brought about, surely her death will have done much the same.

That Teledji Adeledji would resort to outright assassination, even I would not have guessed. That, I think, has been what disturbs what little sleep I have had since that day - the look of pure terror on Nanamo's face before she collapsed, and I being completely unable to do anything about it. She was right in front of me, and I could not do anything to save her before Teledji and his cronies had me arrested. Being carted out in chains by Ilberd in front of the assembled guests was certainly far from my proudest moment.

I arrive at the gates of Camp Dragonhead and consider my next move. Briefly, I think about moving further north, toward the remnants of the Steel Vigil, where some of the highest concentration of dragons and Dravanians can be found. Instead, I take the path west, retreading my original path, heading toward the Gates of Judgement once more.

That is something I have to keep reminding myself. Try as I might, no matter what lofty titles others may foist upon me, I cannot save everyone. Though I keep trying, it is impossible. I still do not know how it managed to get to this point. I never even wanted this job. I was never supposed to be this. How I ever ended up as Hydaelyn's chosen is as much of a mystery to me as it is to most everyone else. A glorified sellsword, content to take whatever job is asked of them with a silent nod, going from killing pests around the city to vanquishing shadowless demons and stopping an Imperial invasion.

But I have either gone deaf to Her word or Hydaelyn does not speak to me any longer.

No, the only one who speaks now is Midgardsormr, the Father of Dragonkind, who stripped me of the blessing She gave me. As I stand before the entrance to the Gates of Judgement, far enough outside to be out of eyesight of the guards inside, I feel his presence, just over my right shoulder. I keep my gaze focused ahead, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a glance.

"Heh… heh… heh… thou thinkest sanctuary lieth beyond?" His tone is almost mocking, derisive at the mortal's naivete.

It galls me to admit the truth in the intent behind his words. In the time I spent out in Coerthas searching for the Enterprise, I met some good people and worked with them a number of times in the intervening moons, as the Scions moved into Mor Dhona and Revenant's Toll. But I have never been to the city proper, nor delved into its politics. I have heard bits and pieces from what little Lord Haurchefant has told me, and what few conversations I've had with Ser Aymeric prior to the bloody banquet. As closed off as the nation has been for years, it may either be a path to salvation or to perdition.

It takes no prompting of any kind to be treated to Midgardsormr's belief, before he disappears once again.

"Delusion... Despair… Death… thou shalt find naught else here."

With that, I am alone as the wind whips around me, and the snow begins to pick up. I take a few steps back and turn, heading back east toward Camp Dragonhead. Enough is enough. I am denied the numbness I sought, such as the chill that begins to wrack my body, and I am all but certain to receive a chiding, both from Tataru and Lord Haurchefant.

The wind is bitterly cold today. To be fair, the wind is bitterly cold every day. Even in those brief moments when the snowfall ceases, the clouds clear, and the warm sun shines brightly upon the lands of Coerthas, it is still bitterly cold. Perhaps one day, it will no longer be so. Perhaps one day, I will not have need of it to try and numb myself to the world.

But today is not that day.

[starcunning]

Day Sixteen, Heroes and Villains

An AU in which your OTP has super powers. Are they a hero/sidekick duo? Are they archenemies? Are they both villains? From the 30-Day OTP Challenge.

So ... they’re basically already superpowered vigilantes in the main universe (or at least Shasi is superpowered). There’s another AU prompt that’s redundant (what if they had magic? i hate to tell you this, but magic is already in the setting), so you’re getting two glimpses into a timeline where the Warrior of Light becomes someone else.

Shasi sas Intemperatus. (She might be a villain, too.)

“Do you believe in Eorzea?”

It was the sort of question that demanded a ready answer, asked of X’shasi by the sort of man who would brook no less. As the lights of the Praetorium played over her face and his mask, the silence hung between them.

Was there a united Eorzea left to believe in? Would it long survive this operation? Ul’dah was in upheaval—and it was not merely the Sultana who had been lost to treachery in the Fragrant Chamber. The Syndicate had bullied its way into the war preparations and Teledji Adeledji’s hired killer had dispatched with the young monarch and her strong right arm.

And the Scions—what Scions were not lost in the attack on the Waking Sands or yet in the grip of the foe. That she had killed Adeledji and his assassins was cold comfort for the loss of her allies.

Raubahn’s successor, Eline Roaille, had been adamant that despite these setbacks—despite the aetherial readings on the Rhotano; despite a sickness in the Shroud the Hearers refused to intervene and curb—the Alliance must come together and act.

So she had acted, more alone than ever, and when the moment had come that Gaius van Baelsar asked her to speak, X’shasi Kilntreader found she had little to say.

“Yes,” she said, because it was what was expected of her. “If that were true, you would not have taken this long to say so,” the Black Wolf laughed. “I believe in it enough to fight for it,” X’shasi told him, the heel of her hand resting against the pommel of her blade. “Eorzea’s unity is forged of falsehoods, and its city-states built on deceit. To believe in Eorzea is to believe in nothing,” he said, his tone a lofty scolding. “To die for Eorzea is to die for nothing.” “But to kill—” “And to kill for it is to kill for nothing, too, girl,” the legatus said. “Pay attention.” He advanced, unhurried, his gunblade still at his back. “What happens when you kill me?” Gaius van Baelsar asked her. “I descend to the heart of this wretched place and I destroy your weapon. I dispatch Lahabrea,” X’shasi told him, setting her teeth. “And then what?” Gaius asked her. “And then you return the conquering hero, no doubt. Perhaps your homeland awaits your coming, every roadway lined with parades. But when they have tired of feasting at your victory table, what happens?” She looked at him with eyes as blue as ceruleum flames, and said nothing. “Ul’dah returns to its internal warring, no doubt,” Gaius said. “The vipers crawl over one another to the throne and whichever one wins floods the streets with poison. Perhaps the Admiral can strike a treaty with the sahagin before they succeed in summoning their eikon, but she will break her word in time. The Elder Seedseer watches her nation rot because her gods will not give her leave to act, and she is not strong enough to defy them. Are you?” “Am I what?” X’shasi asked, bewildered. “Are you strong enough to defy your masters? Nothing else will save Eorzea now,” he told her.

“Do you think yourself the answer to all of Eorzea’s ills?’ X’shasi demanded to know. “I was the answer to Ala Mhigo’s,” he said, laughing. “Better to peddle order and stability than madness and deceit.” “You would be hard-pressed to find a willing buyer in Eorzea after the destruction the Empire wrought at Carteneau,” X’shasi told him. Her knuckles were white around the grip of her blade. “I sought to spare Eorzea from the depredations of the White Raven,” van Baelsar told her. “She would have razed this place for spite’s sake. This realm deserved a better class of conqueror. But you are right; to bring Eorzea under my heel carries too dear a cost to bear.” “But you have not drawn on me,” X’shasi said, “so you yet carry some hope.” “The very same hope that all Eorzea rallies behind.” “Surely not,” X’shasi protested. “They would follow you. And you would lead them far better than they have managed.”

That had the ring of truth to it, she realized, watching that pallid mask. The lights of the Praetorium no longer swept over him—the lift had rumbled to a stop long before, she realized. The air around them was still, and thick with aether, dripping with it, like blood, like pitch; in the silence she could hear the whispers and the distant screams of the beleaguered dead. She could feel in this place a pulsing haze, and felt the lights grow dim; the aether rippled, and—

“Lahabrea,” she breathed. She felt the oppressive weight of the darkness, the quickening of long-dead magics. “The Ultima Weapon ...” “What of it?” Gaius van Baelsar asked her. When X’shasi answered, she knew not where the words came from; heard and felt and thought, and spoken, though foreign to her tongue. “It is not what the Dark Minion has told you,” she warned; “it is more. The destruction it wreaks makes this star tremble, from seventh hell to highest heaven.” “What?!” Gaius demanded. “I don’t know,” X’shasi muttered. “But we have to stop it.” “A truce, then,” the legatus said. “For now.”

They emerged together onto the platform that housed the Ultima Weapon. Its black carapace was aglow already in deepest crimson and brilliant azure, creating a sickly violet light that barely cut through the shadows gathering in the chamber. Lahabrea saw them coming and only laughed, a cruel sound from a friend’s throat. “Behold the Heart of Sabik,” he said, “the core of your Ultima Weapon.” His sneering tone laid bare his contempt for his erstwhile ally. “Behold a fraction of the one true god’s power!” “Lahabrea,” the Black Wolf growled back. “Your faith has blinded you.” “And have you come to grant me clarity?” “No,” X’shasi said, drawing her blade and beginning to channel her aether along its length. “The only thing I intend to grant you is death.” That made him laugh, raucous and mocking. “Kill me and you kill him,” Lahabrea told her.

His mockery was cut short by the crack of a rifle’s report at Shasi’s shoulder. She glanced aside to see that Gaius van Baelsar had drawn his weapon at last. Lahabrea stumbled forward a step and rose, undeterred, and the legatus charged him to engage with a stroke of his blade. The Ascian caught it with the silver-shod claws of his gauntlets, shadows rising from where he stood in a writhing, flailing mass.

Watching the pair tangle, X’shasi swung back her blade and brought forth her focus to spew a gout of flame, letting the gust of hot air dry her unshed tears. Blackness pooled on the platform, thick as tar, and Shasi had to step lively to keep it from grasping at her ankles. She could still hear the keening anguish at Ultima’s heart or perhaps at her own—or perhaps that was just the scream of cermite on steel as Lahabrea repulsed his attacker.

Skidding to a stop, Gaius lifted his gunblade, emptying the ceruleum reserves in a series of criss-cross strokes as he dashed toward the Ultima’s feet. They ignited in sequence, raking across the platform in a blaze of blue heat, leaving trails of flame behind. Shasi could have cursed him for abandoning her, but she watched him climbing the thing’s frame, calling for Nero tol Scaeva. The Paragon turned and lifted a hand, fell words tumbling from his lips, and Shasi sprinted forward to tackle him.

She heard the crack of bones as she took him to the ground, and when he rolled to his back, those dark eyes fixed upon her. Shasi had not the room to make use of her arts, so she simply hauled back and punched him, pummeling Lahabrea with blows as he cackled and writhed beneath her, struggling beneath her weight. He worked one hand free and raked her face with his claws. Her world went red with blood; it filled her nose and seeped between her lips until it was all she could taste. She spit it back at him in a glob of crimson, trying to get her hands around his neck.

Shasi pressed her thumbs against his throat, digging into those tattoos—Thancred’s tattoos—as though she could throttle him out, blinking blood from her eyes. His gurgling laughter still sounded in her ears, louder and louder as the room seemed to quiet. She looked away, unable to bear the sight any longer, and saw Ultima still and black, its limbs slack and inactive.

Whatever magic the Heart of Sabik held, then, it would not loose. At least there was that small mercy.

“Purge the tank,” Shasi called, rising to her feet, hauling Lahabrea up by the neck. “What?” Gaius asked. “The ceruleum tank! Purge the fuel!” she howled. A moment later, the fuel vented in a ripple of heat nearly invisible but for the blue at its edges. She let go of Lahabrea’s throat and kicked him in the chest instead. He stumbled backward, and X’shasi made herself watch as flesh blackened and hair crisped, flesh sloughing from bone until only darkness clung there.

And then, as it had done with the essence of the primals, Ultima’s heart drunk deep of the lingering essence of Lahabrea. A veil of rime spread over the black steel, evaporating in the last flames of ceruleum. There was a terrible stillness in the chamber then, Shasi’s last ally crumbling to ash.

Well, not her last. “So you do know the value of sacrifice,” Gaius van Baelsar said, emerging from the cockpit to regard her. She looked up at him, blood streaking her face. “Yes,” Shasi said. “I do.”