Fic Writing Among Other Things

Requests Open (Regular or dialogue prompts, whatever you want!) : Umbrella Academy, Star Wars, Peter Pan, The Boys, DC/Titans, Marvel, Detroit: Become Human, Stranger Things, Final Fantasy, Disney

[proper-goodnight]

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Important Information: 27 | F | Multifandom Blog/Fanfiction Account

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Fandoms:

Kingsglaive: Final Fantasy XV 1. Collateral Gods (Lunafreya Nox Fleuret x Nyx Ulric) (Multi-chap) Link: Chpt. 1, Chpt. 2, Chpt. 3, Chpt. 4, Chpt. 5, Chpt. 6, Chpt. 7, Chpt. 8, Chpt. 9, Chpt. 10, Chpt. 11, Chpt. 12, Chpt. 13

The Gray Man (2022)

Into The Gray (Six x Reader) (Multi-Chap)

Link: Ch. 1, Chpt. 2, Chpt. 3, Chpt. 4, Chpt. 5, Chpt. 6, Chpt. 7

2. Into The Woods (Six x Reader) (One-Shot)

Link: Into The Woods

3. On The Run (Gen) (3 Parts) (Finished)

Link: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

4. Pawns in the Game (Gen) (One-Shot)

Link: Pawns in the Game

5. Behind the Curtain (Six x Reader) (Snippet/Concept) 2-parts

Link: Part 1, Part 2

Resident Evil

Pull (Snippet/Concept) (Leon x Reader)

2. Infected (Snippet/Concept) (Leon x Reader)

Bullet Train (2022)

The Million (Tangerine x Reader) (Concept/Snippet)

The Umbrella Academy

Welcome Home (Number Five-Centric) (One-Shot) (Season 2 Ending AU)

Detroit: Become Human

Detroit: New Beginnings (Post Deviant Connor Route) (Future Multi-Chap/Project) Link: Chpt. 1, Chpt. 2

Star Wars

The Balance Between Us (Post TROS AU/Fix-It)

Link: Like A Light (Rey)

--All current chapters are on my AO3 account under the same username. 29 Chapters and ~110K words.

Peter Pan

As The Days Went By You've Lost Your Mind (Peter Pan Dark AU)

Link: Prologue 1

--All current chapters are on my AO3 account under the same username. 11 Chapters and ~44K words.

[proper-goodnight]

Collateral Gods (The Shape of Loyalty Chpt. 13)

Collateral Gods - The Shape of Loyalty (chpt. 13)

Summary:

She wasn’t just a symbol, paraded around for show. She spoke to gods. They listened. If the wrong hands forced her, or if fear pushed her, she could bring down firestorms and calamities that no wall in Insomnia could keep at bay. The Ring of the Lucii, the one thing keeping Niflheim from storming the gates outright, could slip from Regis’s grasp with a single misstep.

If the gods decided to follow her lead, even the Empire wouldn’t be safe from the fallout.

Fandom: Kingsglaive: Final Fantasy XV

Pairings: Lunafreya Nox Fleuret x Nyx Ulric

Type: Multi-Chap

Words: ~7k

Nyx's minute was over.

Had been over, depending on how honestly anyone was keeping count.

He told himself it was discipline that kept him outside the door longer than he'd ever get credit for, that this was what following orders looked like when you didn't like them, but still intended to keep your rank. If he was being honest with himself, which happened rarely and usually under protest, he'd only waited the full minute because he was hoping the door would open on its own and save him the trouble of deciding whether insubordination counted if it turned out you were right.

Which, given the Citadel's fondness for ancient magic and architectural arrogance, was probably optimistic.

The Crown loved its enchanted security almost as much as it loved pretending every problem in Lucis could be solved by locking it behind six layers of glowing runes and assigning a committee to stare at it. Massive stonework, woven sigils, enough old magic sunk into the architecture to make the entire hallway hum faintly beneath his boots. Beautiful, expensive, and catastrophically impractical. 

He stood a few paces from the sealed entrance, weight unconsciously shifted onto the balls of his feet. Ready stance. Old habit. The kind you developed when "standing guard" usually translated to something is about to go catastrophically wrong, and you're the poor bastard closest to it when it does.

His hand hovered near nothing in particular, then dropped again as he forced it to relax. 

Behind him, Libertus had shifted twice already. Crowe once. The guards at the far end of the corridor still pretended none of them existed, which Nyx would’ve respected if it didn’t feel so much like being politely ignored on the way to an execution. 

Torchlight hissed softly in the iron brackets along the walls. Somewhere deeper in the Citadel, muted footsteps echoed through distant corridors layered one atop another until the entire place sounded alive in the way old structures sometimes did; breathing stone, watching stone. Lucian architecture had always felt less built than imposed, as though someone had convinced the city itself to kneel into shape. 

Normally he liked that about Insomnia.

Right now it felt like the Citadel was waiting to see whether he was about to embarrass himself.

His jaw worked once. He pushed off from the wall.

Libertus straightened immediately. “There it is,” he announced. “Knew the civilized phase wouldn’t hold.”

Nyx ignored him. One stride, then two brought him up toward the seam of the door where old Lucian warding had gone dark. His hand came up towards it, and behind him, Crowe had straightened so fast that her shoulder knocked against the stone.

“Nyx.” She warned.

He ignored her.

“Ulric,” she tried again.

That one earned pause, but not enough to usher a complete stop. 

Because the truth was he had already crossed the line internally about twenty seconds ago, and had already been calculating whether the sigils would respond to direct contact, whether the side arch carried a mechanical seam under the enchantment, and whether forcing a royal ward counted as insubordination, or just creative problem-solving. 

“What exactly are you expecting to happen?” Crowe asked.

Nyx looked back toward the doors.

That was the question, wasn’t it? If he stripped away the irritation, the distrust, and the instinct clawing at the back of his skull, there was still one inconvenient fact underneath all of it:

He didn’t actually know.

Maybe this was exactly what it looked like. A private strategy meeting between a king and the Oracle while Drautos stood somewhere inside pretending he wasn’t listening to every word. Maybe Lunafreya was perfectly safe. Maybe Nyx was about to embarrass himself by kicking open royal doors because his instincts had decided to start a fight with architecture.

Wouldn’t be the first time.

Wouldn’t even crack the top ten. Regardless, another part of him, the older part, the one built in Galahd long before Lucis handed him a uniform and called him civilized, kept whispering the same ugly thing:

People got isolated before they got betrayed.

He’d seen it too many times to stop recognizing the pattern.

His hand drifted toward the door, and his fingers were inches from the stone when the sigils flared. 

"Move—" Nyx wasn't even sure if he shouted it, or thought it.

The archway detonated into brilliance.

Light threaded suddenly through the carved Lucian markings, pale gold racing through old channels as the warding woke beneath his hand. Nyx stopped on instinct, body tightening instead of recoiling, every nerve shifting at once from action to assessment, then the sigils erupted. Brilliant blue-white energy tore through the carved symbols all at once, igniting every line of the ancient wards in a blinding cascade.

The corridor vanished beneath violent radiance.

"Nyx!" Libertus’ voice suddenly sounded far away, the sigils drowning him. The magic surged through the stone like something alive, and furious. The archway trembled, the floor trembling beneath his feet before power crashed outwards in a wave that struck Nyx squarely in the chest. For one brief instant, he saw everything.

It crashed through him faster than thought.

Stone walls rising against endless darkness with whatever part of a human soul old magic touched when it wanted to remind you how small you were. 

Kings. Wars. Oaths. The Wall. The Crystal. The Ring. Ancient power roaring through veins of stone older than memory… 

Then the wards decided they were finished being polite. 

The force hit him like a charging Behemoth. Nyx left the ground. Some distant part of him registered Libertus swearing, Crowe shouting something, and the guards finally abandoning their commitment to professional indifference. His body twisted automatically, trying to find balance where there wasn't any. One moment, his boots were on the ground, then they weren’t. Momentum carried him straight through the threshold.

"Shit—!" 

The word vanished into the blast. He hit polished marble hard enough to lose what little dignity remained attached to the experience, slid several feet across the floor, and somehow managed to transition the disaster into something resembling a controlled recovery. He remained there for half a heartbeat, one knee against the marble, one hand braced on the ground. His other hand had already moved toward the familiar weight of his weapon.

He realized then that he was no longer in the middle of the corridor, but instead in the middle of the throne room. 

In the middle of a conversation interrupted at exactly the wrong moment. 

King Regis stood several paces away, one eyebrow raised with the weary expression of a man who had lived long enough to find very little surprising.

Drautos had reacted far faster. The commander had moved the instant the doors exploded inward. One hand already rested on his weapon, his body angled protectively between the disruption and the king without any visible hesitation. Every line of him radiated controlled hostility, and the sort of immediate readiness possessed by men who spent their lives expecting violence to arrive without warning. 

Everyone was staring.

Everyone was waiting.

And everyone appeared to be operating under the wildly optimistic assumption that Nyx possessed a reasonable explanation for the interruption. He didn’t, and that realization arrived with remarkable clarity. 

Nyx remained where he'd landed, one knee against polished marble, one hand braced against the floor. His other hand had already found the familiar position near his weapon before he'd consciously registered doing it. 

Slowly, very carefully, he lifted his head. 

At the center of it all stood at the center of the room beneath the torchlight, exactly where she had been before he'd interrupted whatever conversation had been taking place. Still, composed, and utterly motionless. The sight of her should have reassured him. Instead, his attention chose a completely different detail to focus on.

His jacket, still draped across her shoulders. Not the King, not Drautos, and not the fact that he’d just been launched through enchanted doors into the middle of a private audience, and not the fight he’d expected. The garment looked strangely out of place against the white and gold of her clothing. Dark fabric resting over pale silk. Practicality interrupting ceremony. A soldier's worn jacket draped across the shoulders of the Oracle. 

And she had not removed it. The observation lodged itself somewhere inconvenient before he could stop it. Then he noticed the rest.

To most people, she would have appeared perfectly serene. Nyx had spent enough time around her now to recognize the difference. Her expression remained composed, except for the faint pause, the unfinished thought still lingering behind her eyes. The remnants of the moment lingered around her: a conversation interrupted mid-breath. 

Whatever conversation had been taking place before his arrival had not concluded naturally. 

For the briefest instant, Lunafreya simply looked at him. 

There was no alarm in her expression, nor the confusion, or surprise that he had expected. Surprise would have been the normal response to watching a man get launched through a set of magical doors, but instead there was only recognition, as though she had expected this; as though somewhere between the wards, the stone, and whatever impossible thing she carried beneath her calm exterior, she'd been aware of exactly how close Nyx Ulric had been to deciding that rules were optional. 

Which, admittedly, they often were.

Nyx closed his eyes. Just briefly. Not long enough to disappear, but long enough to consider his choices. Perhaps the doors would open again, and perhaps the Citadel's magic would realize it had made a mistake. Perhaps it would eject him back into the corridor and allow everyone involved to pretend this had never happened.

The doors remained firmly shut.

Traitors. 

He opened his eyes again. Nothing had improved. 

Regis still stood watching him with measured patience.

Drautos still looked one poorly chosen sentence away from discovering whether summary execution could be justified as a security measure.

And Lunafreya…

Lunafreya remained exactly where she was, calm amid the chaos, carrying the remnants of an interrupted conversation in her eyes.

Waiting.

For a moment, Nyx had the distinct impression that she wasn't wondering what excuse he would give. She was wondering whether he was about to make the situation worse.

An entirely reasonable concern.

Unfortunately, it was also one he could not honestly dismiss.

Regis sighed. It was not the sigh of a king confronted with a crisis. Lucis had real crises, such as treaties with empires, political assassinations, ancient magic, and the end of the world on particularly unfortunate days. This was the sigh of a father, a rule, and a man who had spent enough years dealing with the responsibilities of all three to recognize a pattern when he saw one.

Somewhere along the way, Nyx suspected, Regis had stopped viewing the Kingsglaive as a military organization, and had begun viewing them as a recurring natural disaster.

One that occasionally filed reports. 

"I hope," Regis said slowly, "there is a reason my doors have launched a Kingsglaive into the middle of a private audience." 

Nyx pushed himself fully upright, then rolled his shoulders once, subtly, trying to convince his body it hadn’t just been used as a projectile. His hand stayed close to his weapon out of habit more than intent, but he made himself ease it away. No one here needed a reminder that the heavily armed foreign glaive who had just been fired through a magically sealed doorway was, in fact, heavily armed.

Especially not while Drautos was watching him like a man mentally reviewing execution procedures.

"My defense, Your Majesty?"

Regis waited.

Nyx opened his mouth. Nothing came out. He didn’t lack excuses; he’d actually survived most of his life on a rotating inventory of excuses, half-truths, and technical interpretations of orders. The problem was that every single one sounded ridiculous when weighed against the reality of what had just happened, and simultaneously sounded worse than the truth. 

All of them felt unlikely to improve his situation.

The king's eyebrow climbed another fraction.

Nyx drew breath to continue digging his own grave. He very carefully did not look at the doors behind him, as if staring at them long enough might encourage them to reconsider, and eject him back out into the corridor where humiliation had been slightly more contained. 

“Forgive me, Your Majesty.”

The words fell into the silence before Nyx could commit to whatever catastrophic explanation he had been about to invent. His mouth closed immediately because he had enough survival instinct left to recognize a rescue when one arrived. Even if it arrived in the form of the Oracle calmly stepping between him and what was rapidly becoming a very memorable disciplinary hearing.

Nyx turned toward Lunafreya.

She stood exactly where she had been before he'd been forcibly introduced to the throne room floor, hands folded lightly before her, posture immaculate, and composure somehow still intact despite the fact that the past couple days had included a train derailment, Imperial soldiers, impossible magic, and now a Kingsglaive arriving in a royal audience by means of enchanted blunt-force trauma.

The white of her dress still carried traces of travel. Dust darkened the hem, fine creases marked fabric that had been caught, pulled, and subjected to considerably more abuse than royal etiquette generally encouraged. Across her shoulders still rested his jacket, dark against pale cloth, sitting slightly unevenly where she’d thrown it over her shoulders hours ago, and ran out of his house, and had not removed it upon coming here.

For reasons Nyx absolutely refused to examine right now, that fact lodged itself in his attention anyway.

Nyx was beginning to suspect that if the Citadel collapsed around her, she would somehow remain composed beneath the falling masonry.

Nothing in her expression suggested embarrassment, nor surprise. If anything, she looked faintly resigned, like this outcome had always been lurking somewhere in the realm of possibility.

Lunafreya inclined her head toward Regis.

“The fault is mine,” she continued. The statement landed in the room with remarkable confidence for something that was demonstrably untrue. 

Regis regarded her steadily. His expression remained neutral. The raised eyebrow stayed exactly where it was.

"Is that so?"

The king's tone suggested he was willing to hear the explanation. Believing it was another matter entirely.

Lunafreya lowered her gaze briefly, not in submission but thoughtfulness, as though arranging the answer she wished to give.

"When Nyx Ulric escorted me into Insomnia, I instructed him to remain close until I had been formally received by the Crown." Simple. Direct. Technically true. “The circumstances surrounding my arrival were already… unusual.”

Nyx nearly laughed. A train derailment, an imperial attack, an astral, and several opportunities to die. He was increasingly convinced that she possessed an entirely different scale for measuring catastrophe. 

"Given those circumstances," she continued, "I believed it prudent to maintain continuity in my security arrangements." The words continued to be calm, reasonable, and difficult to argue with.

Which, Nyx suspected, was entirely intentional.

Regis’ attention shifted briefly towards him, then back again.

“And continuity required him to launch himself through my doors?”

Nyx closed his eyes. Briefly. Just briefly.

Just long enough to contemplate every decision that had brought him to this exact moment.

None of them improved under review.

Lunafreya, meanwhile, did not miss a beat.

"I do not believe that portion was intentional." A pause. "The Citadel appears to have reached its own conclusions regarding his proximity. And Nyx Ulric has demonstrated considerable dedication to his responsibilities." 

Regis’ attention settled on her completely, the shift subtle but absolute. Across the chamber, Drautos's expression had hardened by a fraction, still half-turned as though deciding whether Nyx remained a threat or had already downgraded himself into “disciplinary inconvenience,” paused at the same time. 

“Your Highness,” Drautos said. The interruption was polite, though the timing wasn’t. 

Lunafreya barely spared him a glance. “Captain.”

"With respect," Drautos said, "devotion to duty does not alter the nature of a private audience." 

“And as I recall,” she said softly, “the purpose of this audience was my safety, among other matters.” The response landed with surprising precision. Nothing in either voice had changed, yet somehow, the exchange felt increasingly like two swords testing each other’s edge. His remained composed, and hers remained serene. Neither yielded an inch. 

Nyx became profoundly grateful that he wasn’t the one standing in that exchange.

At length, Regis shook his head.

“You are fortunate,” he said, looking at Nyx, “that the Oracle appears determined to protect you from yourself.”

Nyx immediately considered several responses. Most of them were terrible, a few were catastrophic, and one reason specifically involved pointing out that he had not, technically speaking, launched himself through the doors. The doors had launched him, which in the moment felt like an important distinction.

Another involved questioning whether anyone could reasonably be expected to defend themselves against aggressive old magic. That one somehow seemed even less likely to help. Fortunately, common sense arrived before any of them reached his mouth, which in itself was a rare occurrence, but one worth appreciating. So, Nyx kept his mouth shut, an act of restraint so extraordinary that it probably deserved formal recognition.

Regis's attention shifted back to Lunafreya, the movement slight, and nothing more than a turn of the head.

“You are certain this is your choice?”

Lunafreya held his gaze without hesitation, and for a moment, she said nothing.

Nyx thought, briefly, that she might change her mind. 

“Yes.” Simple. Clean. Then, as if she understood that simplicity alone would not survive the room she was standing in, she added:

“I am.”

Drautos’ jaw tightened subtly, so subtle that most people would have missed it entirely. Years serving under the man had taught Nyx how to read the smallest shifts in posture. The subtle tensions that appeared before an order was given, before discipline was handed down, and before Drautos stopped being pissed, and actually became dangerous. 

His composure was what had made it noticeable. He rarely displayed emotion openly. Everything about him was measured, controlled, and polished into military precision. When irritation managed to break the surface at all, it usually appeared in details most people never thought to watch. Nyx knew those signs, only because he had learned them the hard way. 

And suddenly he was no longer convinced that being launched through a set of royal wards was what had truly annoyed the man. 

That part was embarrassing, and this part was something else. The conversation had moved beyond protocol, explanations, and beyond whether Nyx should have been standing in this room at all. 

Lunafreya had stopped defending his presence, and was now defending her choice. 

Regis studied her for several seconds. The king's expression remained thoughtful, but there was something careful in it as well. He looked less like a ruler questioning a political decision and more like a man attempting to understand the shape of something deeper. 

"And you understand," he said at last, "what it means to place that responsibility in the hands of this Glaive."  The wording was deliberate.

Nyx recognized that immediately.

Regis wasn't questioning his competence. If the king doubted whether Nyx could fight, protect someone, or survive a disaster, that conversation would have ended before it began.

"I understand," she said softly. Her voice never wavered. "And I understand what is required." When she spoke again, she did not raise her voice, though she had never needed to.  "He is the one I trust."

The words hit harder than they should have. The problem wasn't embarrassment. Embarrassment he could survive. The problem was that he believed her.

Lunafreya did not strike him as someone who offered trust lightly. She had spent years navigating courts where every word carried consequence. Years beneath occupation. Years learning which smiles concealed knives and which promises were worth less than the paper they were written on. She understood the value of trust precisely because she understood how dangerous it was.

Which meant those words had not been chosen casually. Nor spoken impulsively. She had arrived at them deliberately, and with care.

Which somehow made it worse. Nyx would have preferred a compliment. Compliments were easy. Trust carried obligations.

When Regis finally exhaled, it sounded less like surprise and more like acceptance. Like a man arriving at a conclusion he had suspected for some time and hoped he might still avoid.

"If I agree," he said, "it will be under strict conditions."

Lunafreya inclined her head.

"I expected nothing less."

A faint shift touched the corner of Regis's mouth. Not quite a smile, but close enough to suggest that he appreciated the answer. His attention shifted towards Nyx. Immediately, he felt like the least qualified person in the room,which was impressive, considering he'd entered it by accident. 

Across the chamber, Drautos moved first.

"Your Majesty—"

"Drautos."

Regis did not raise his voice. The interruption landed with the quiet finality of a gate closing.

Drautos stopped. He held the king's gaze for a moment. Long enough to make it clear he still disagreed, but long enough to make it clear he understood that disagreement no longer mattered.

Then Drautos inclined his head. A soldier obeying his king.

Nothing more.

Nothing less.

Regis never looked away.

"You will assign him as she requests." 

Drautos accepted it with visible reluctance. "As you command." He stepped back into silence, the matter settled.

Or at least settled as much as anything ever did when Nyx Ulric was involved.

Somehow, against every law governing common sense, military discipline, and basic cause and effect, being launched through the doors had actually worked. If crashing into a royal audience produced results, it suggested entirely the wrong lessons.

Lessons Nyx absolutely should not be trusted with.

Regis looked at him. For a moment, the king simply regarded him.

Not as a problem, and not as the Glaive who had just violated several layers of protocol, common sense, and apparently architectural boundaries.

Just a man. Tired, and simply worn thin by burdens that never seemed to lessen, only change shape. The kind of exhaustion Nyx had seen in officers who had spent too many nights making decisions that got people killed either way, and the kind that settled into the eyes rather than the shoulders. A fatigue born not of effort, but responsibility.

Behind Regis stood the throne. Beyond that, the Crystal, the city, and the Wall. A kingdom balanced atop a treaty nobody in this room trusted. A kingdom waiting for something none of them could yet name aloud. Somehow, despite all of that, the king was still standing here dealing with him.

Nyx suddenly felt a little less amused by the situation.

"Do not give me cause to regret this decision."

Nyx straightened automatically. Years of training, instinct, and the ingrained response of a soldier recognizing the difference between an order and a warning. This, at least, he understood.

Not politics. Most of the time, not diplomacy. Certainly not whatever conversation had existed before he'd interrupted it.

But this? Trust, and responsibility. The weight that came with someone placing confidence in you and expecting you not to fail. That was familiar.

There were probably better answers, something suitably impressive, or more polished. The sort that authority liked hearing. Nyx had never been especially good at impressive. So he settled on the truth:

"I'll do my job, Your Majesty." 

When they left, the massive doors closed behind them with a low, resonant finality. Not a slam, but something much older. The sound rolled through the stone bones, echoing down distant corridors before fading into silence. Ancient mechanisms settled back into place, and the wards lining the doors once again sealed themselves off. 

Nyx found himself unexpectedly relieved to be on this side of them again. Being thrown into a royal audience chamber was one thing. Being trapped inside afterward while kings and commanders discussed him like a particularly troublesome piece of military equipment was another. The corridor beyond seemed strangely empty. 

The kind of emptiness left behind when people had very deliberately decided they did not want to be present for whatever happened next.

His gaze swept down the hall automatically. Guards remained at their posts farther down the corridor, rigid and professionally uninterested in everything that had just occurred. 

Libertus and Crowe were gone. He stared for a moment. Then snorted quietly.

"Traitors." The word carried no real heat. Honestly, he respected it.

The second those doors had opened and deposited him into the throne room like an offering to the Crown, both of them had probably decided that whatever happened next was between Nyx, the King, and several increasingly disappointed authority figures.

A reasonable assessment. Cowardly, but reasonable.

A few paces ahead, Lunafreya walked ahead of him in quiet silence. Drautos remained on her opposite side. The commander had spoken little since the audience ended.

The man's expression remained perfectly composed, and every inch the loyal commander. 

Only the tiny details betrayed him. The slight rigidity in his shoulders. The fractionally tighter line of his mouth. The way his gaze never lingered anywhere for very long. Nyx knew that look. It was the expression Drautos wore whenever circumstances stopped behaving the way he had intended. He wasn’t happy, but he was also too disciplined to show it. 

They reached a junction where the corridor split in two directions. 

Drautos stopped. The movement was immediate enough that Nyx nearly walked another step before checking himself. 

Lunafreya slowed.

For a brief moment the three of them stood beneath a vaulted archway worked with ancient Lucian carvings. Centuries of history etched into stone by hands long since turned to dust. Torchlight flickered across stone, gold light caught against polished armor, against white fabric marked by travel and disaster, and pale hair that seemed almost luminous beneath the Citadel's lamps.

Drautos turned towards them, attention settling on Lunafreya with all the courtesy expected of his station. 

"Your quarters have been prepared, Your Highness." His tone was flawless. The kind of flawless that required effort. "Arrangements have also been made for attendants, should you require anything during your stay." 

“That is very kind.” Another perfectly polite answer. Another exchange that somehow felt sharper than it sounded.

Nyx resisted the urge to look between them. He wasn't entirely certain what game was being played, only that both participants knew the rules, and he definitely didn't.

Drautos's gaze shifted, finally, to him, regarding him for a long second without visible hostility, and no obvious irritation, yet he had the distinct feeling that he was being personally blamed for at least half the last few day’s events. Unfairly, though not entirely. 

Nyx met the look evenly. 

"Ulric."

"Captain."

“You will remain available.”

“Understood.”

Drautos turned and departed.

His boots echoed briefly against stone before disappearing into the deeper corridors of the Citadel. 

Nyx watched him disappear around a corner. 

Then exhaled through his nose.

That left only Nyx and Lunafreya. For a few moments neither spoke. The corridor settled around them; somewhere farther within the Citadel, boots echoed against distant halls, a door closed, voices carried briefly through unseen passageways before fading again. Duty continuing, and life moving on. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable, just unfamiliar. Most of the conversations Nyx had with people involved orders, arguments, sarcasm, or some combination of all three. Talking with Lunafreya, thus far, he’d realized that she’d never had any kind of ill opinion or thought regarding him behind her eyes, though he suspected if she talked to him long enough, she might. 

Their silence was more like standing in the aftermath of something neither of them had quite had time to process yet.

Nyx found himself studying the corridor instead of looking directly at her, a tactical retreat, and unfortunately, there was nothing particularly interesting about the corridor. Stone remained stone, torches remained torches, and his thoughts remained unhelpful. He rubbed the back of his neck, one he recognized, immediately regretted, then did again anyway. 

The day had thoroughly exhausted his supply of dignity. 

“Thanks.”

The word escaped before he could come up with anything better, because the second it life his mouth, he realized it sounded hopelessly inadequate. 

Lunafreya turned towards him, a question in her eyes. 

“For the rescue.” he grimaced. That somehow sounded worse. His mouth twitched, “uh, the second one.”

Something very faint softened her expression. Not quite a smile. Not even close, really. After spending enough time around Lunafreya, Nyx was learning that her expressions operated on an entirely different scale from everyone else's. What would have gone unnoticed by most people practically counted as laughter. 

Close enough that he suspected she'd understood exactly what he meant, if she was considering that the train counted as the first, and nevermind the collection of disasters, near-disasters, diplomatic incidents, and catastrophically poor decisions in which one of them ended up pulling the other out of something stupid that was increasingly growing in numbers.

“You are welcome.”

Nyx looked away first. Partly because that seemed safer, and mostly because gratitude always sat strangely in his throat when it was directed at her. He could joke his way through gunfire, diplomacy, and near-death experiences. A sincere thank you somehow remained one of the harder conversations. His hand drifted to the back of his neck, rubbing absently. 

“It wasn’t exactly my best entrance.”

"No," Lunafreya agreed immediately. "It was not." 

The answer came so quickly that Nyx barked out a laugh. "I had it handled, though.”

The look she gave him was calm enough to qualify as an insult. 

“You could’ve just let me explain.” He added. 

A small furrow appeared between her brows. “Could you?” The question was perfectly polite. The skepticism attached to it could have leveled a building.

Nyx sighed dramatically. “Yes.”

She said nothing. The silence stretched. Judgmental silence. Royal-grade judgmental silence. 

“Eventually,” he amended. 

Her head pivoted.

“After I figured out what I was explaining.”

Her expression remained unchanged. 

Nyx snorted. “You are impossible.”

A tiny crease appeared between her brows. Whether it was confusion or restrained amusement was difficult to tell. 

They continued down the corridor after that. The palace halls stretched ahead of them in quiet bands of stone and sunlight. Afternoon light spilled through the tall windows, turning the polished floor gold in places. The silence settled easily between them.

That still surprised him sometimes. Years of guarding royals had taught him that silence around nobility was usually uncomfortable. It meant somebody was angry, disappointed, or waiting for you to say something stupid. 

After a moment, she spoke. “I remember you mentioning that you were running out of excuses. I could tell quite clearly. There was a noticeable decline in quality on the way in.”

“I was actually checking the doors,” he said. “I wasn’t lying about that.”

“Were you.”

“Yes.”

“What did you conclude?”

He considered this with all the seriousness of a military commander evaluating battlefield conditions. 

“That I don’t like them.” 

She hummed. Something flickered in her eyes, tiny, gone almost immediately, but there. He felt an entirely unreasonable sense of accomplishment.

"That does not improve your defense." The problem was that she said it with such complete sincerity that arguing became difficult. Not impossible. Just difficult.

Nyx muttered something under his breath in Galahdian. Nothing particularly offensive, but mostly commentary on the injustice of his situation. 

Lunafreya either didn't understand it or wisely chose not to acknowledge it.Given how much she tended to notice, Nyx suspected the second. They walked a few more steps before she slowed. Without a word, she lifted a hand to her shoulder.

Nyx's jacket slipped free. The dark fabric gathered neatly over her arm as she drew it away. For a moment she looked down at it, something thoughtful about the gesture as though considering something that she hadn’t quite decided how to put into words. She extended it towards him.

"You should have this back."

Nyx accepted it automatically. The familiar weight of it settled into his hands, still faintly warm. His thoughts immediately attempted to wander somewhere unhelpful. He shut that down with military efficiency. 

“Thanks.”

The word felt inadequate the moment it left his mouth. Again. He seemed to be collecting those today. 

Lunafreya watched him fold it over one arm. "You lent it to me.”

"Yeah."

A brief pause.

"Well," she amended softly, "in a manner of speaking."

That earned a quiet snort from him.

"You did not ask for it back."

Nyx frowned slightly. "Didn't seem urgent."

The answer escaped before he could examine it.

Lunafreya's gaze lingered on him, quiet, steady. Long enough that he became aware of it. Long enough that he found himself looking away first. Talking to Lunafreya required a level of concentration that felt unfair. Half the time she seemed perfectly straightforward. The other half she said something that left him questioning whether he'd missed three separate layers of meaning. 

"Besides," he added, because silence was becoming dangerous territory, "you looked like you needed it more than I did."

The words were simple.

Matter-of-fact.

To him, they were obvious.

To her, they seemed to land differently.

Something changed.

It was subtle enough that most people would have missed it. A slight straightening of her shoulders. The way her gaze drifted from him to the towering windows overlooking the city beyond. The quiet warmth that had softened her expression a moment ago receded behind something more composed. The princess disappeared, but the Oracle remained. 

Nyx felt the shift immediately. 

Lunafreya had a way of carrying burdens without ever seeming burdened by them. When she withdrew behind that calm, measured exterior, it was rarely because she wanted distance. Usually it meant she was thinking about something far larger than herself. Something she couldn't set aside. 

“King Regis is proceeding with the treaty signing.”

There it was. Politics. Duty. The inevitable enemy of every halfway pleasant conversation. Nyx adjusted his jacket over one arm, more to give his hands something to do than because it needed adjusting. “I figured that was the plan when you wanted to come here.”

A faint nod. 

“The preparations must have been extensive before my disappearance.”

Extensive didn’t begin to cover it. Nyx huffed a quiet breath through his nose.

"They've been working on this for months."

His gaze drifted toward the city beyond the glass. Every department in Insomnia had been running itself into the ground preparing for the signing; security reviews, transportation routes, emergency contingencies, diplomatic accommodations, and intelligence briefings.

The Kingsglaive alone had spent enough hours revising operational plans to fill several lifetimes. Every time someone found a potential weakness, another report landed on someone's desk. Then another, and another. The Crown City was probably the most heavily protected place on Eos right now.

"The security teams have checked everything twice," he continued. "Some things three or four times. The city's crawling with personnel."

Lunafreya listened quietly.

"Do you believe they will be sufficient?" The question arrived softly, without challenge, or doubt; just concern. 

Nyx looked at her, really looked at her. 

Most people worried about whether the treaty would succeed. Whether it would hold. Whether Niflheim would honor it. Lunafreya's concern seemed focused elsewhere. On the people involved, and though he didn’t exactly know who, he assumed that she was referring to the King. 

"I think they're as good as they're gonna get." 

Lunafreya's gaze remained steady.

Nyx rubbed the back of his neck. "Look, nobody's under the illusion that this is risk-free." That was probably the diplomatic version. The less diplomatic version was that Niflheim could find a way to start a fight in an empty room.

“You are not answering the question.”

He exhaled through his nose, and looked away from her towards the city lights beyond the glass. “That’s because there isn’t an answer, Highness.” Not one he could give honestly, anyway. Security wasn't mathematics. There was no point where someone declared a city safe and everyone went home satisfied. Not when the city in question was Insomnia. Not when the guests were Niflheim. There was only preparation, and hoping the preparations were enough.

The Citadel had grown quieter as the evening wore on. Somewhere beyond the gallery, boots clicked against polished stone in a measured patrol route. Voices drifted faintly from distant corridors before fading again. Beneath it all lingered the nearly imperceptible hum of machinery and magic that powered the ancient fortress-city. The Citadel breathed. A living thing built from marble, steel, and the Crystal's light. Tonight, compared to the chaos that usually filled its halls, it almost felt peaceful.

Almost.

They had wandered into one of the quieter galleries overlooking the lower districts of Insomnia. Vast windows stretched from floor to ceiling, framing the city beyond. Thousands of lights glittered beneath the Wall, scattered across the darkness like stars that had fallen from the sky and decided to stay.

Nyx rested his forearms against the stone balustrade. The cool stone pressed comfortably against his forearms.

Beside him, Lunafreya stood with her hands folded loosely before her. She was looking out over the city. At least, that was where her eyes were pointed. Her thoughts were somewhere else entirely.

Nyx had spent enough time around people carrying burdens to recognize the look. The body stayed in one place, and the mind wandered miles away.

He glanced sideways.

The faint crease between her brows was back.

"Worried about it?" He asked.

"Should I not be?"

"Usually when people ask that, they already know the answer."

Something that almost resembled amusement touched her expression before fading again. Not enough. The concern remained, persistent, and heavy.

Nyx studied her for a moment. Most people would have stopped there, taken the polite answer and moved on. Unfortunately for both of them, Nyx had never been particularly gifted at leaving things alone.

"But that's not what I asked."

Lunafreya looked at him. The faint surprise in her eyes made him wonder how many people actually challenged her when she redirected a conversation.

Probably not many.

"You asked whether I was worried."

"I did,” he acknowledged.

"Are you?"

"I suppose I am," he shrugged casually. He nodded. "Yeah."

Her gaze lowered slightly. "Many people are placing their hopes in this agreement."

"That’s the idea." A lot more than hopes. Entire futures. The war with Niflheim had dragged on for years. Long enough that some people barely remembered what peace was supposed to look like anymore. The treaty wasn't just politics. It was survival. At least that was the story everyone was telling themselves.

"And if it fails?" 

His jaw tightened slightly. "If it fails," he said carefully, "then we deal with whatever comes next."

"That is a soldier's answer."

"Occupational hazard."

The corner of her mouth twitched. A small victory.

Nyx took it. Because the alternative was sitting here watching her carry the weight of the world without saying a damn thing about it.

And for some reason he found he didn't like that. The realization caught him off guard. Nyx had spent most of his life learning not to get attached to things he couldn't protect.

People left.

People died.

Sometimes both.

The Glaive taught that lesson early and often. Yet standing here beside Lunafreya, watching the worry she was trying so hard to conceal, he found himself wanting to ease it anyway. A ridiculous impulse. 

Which meant it was probably genuine.

Lunafreya's fingers folded together in front of her. "Do you trust the Empire?"

Nyx barked out a laugh. It wasn’t funny, but it was possibly the easiest question that he’d been asked all day.

"No." The answer came so quickly it surprised neither of them.

Lunafreya's expression didn't change.

"Neither do I."

That earned a glance. Nyx studied her profile for a moment. 

Most diplomats would have wrapped a statement like that in six layers of polite language before allowing it anywhere near open air. They would have talked about optimism, cooperation, mutual interests, and the promise of a better future. Lunafreya simply answered the question.

As though honesty was easier than maneuvering around it. As though truth mattered more than appearances. Sometimes Nyx found that refreshing. Sometimes it was mildly terrifying, because when she spoke plainly, she usually meant every word.

"You know," Nyx said after a moment, nudging the conversation away from territory that was rapidly becoming above his pay grade, "for what it's worth, everybody's losing sleep over this thing." 

Lunafreya turned slightly towards him.

"Everybody?"

“Everybody,” he ticked them off on his fingers. "Security teams. Council members. The Crownsguard. Half the Glaive." A corner of his mouth twitched.  "Pretty sure Crowe threatened bodily harm if somebody handed her one more revised protocol."

A faint laugh escaped her before she could stop it. Not the polite smile that she offered diplomats, or the serene expression that she wore for public appearances. An actual laugh. The sound caught him off guard. For a second, the weight she'd been carrying seemed to lift. The distance in her eyes lessened. The Oracle disappeared, leaving behind a young woman who was exhausted, worried, and trying very hard not to show it. 

Nyx found himself smiling back before he realized he was doing it. 

“There.”

Lunafreya blinked. “There?”

“Proof.”

“Proof of what?”

“Proof,” he pointed towards her. “That you’re still capable of smiling.”

The faintest look of surprise crossed her face, then she shook her head. 

"You make it sound as though this is a rare occurrence."

He raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. "It’s not?"

The question earned him another tiny smile.

Nyx considered it a victory. A surprisingly satisfying one.

Which was probably a warning sign. He ignored it.

Lunafreya looked away again, returning her attention to the city beyond the glass. The smile faded slowly. Not because she'd forced it away, but because the thoughts waiting for her had never really left. The lights of Insomnia stretched endlessly beneath them.

Beautiful from up here. The Wall shimmered faintly in the distance, its magic casting a subtle glow across the night. People moved through those streets below, unaware of the conversations taking place inside the Citadel, unaware of negotiations, security briefings, diplomatic concerns, and the endless machinery of government turning behind closed doors.

Most of them were probably having dinner.

Going home.

Complaining about work.

Living ordinary lives.

The sort of lives people fought wars to protect.

The sort of lives Nyx had spent years watching others lose.

Lunafreya's gaze lingered on the city. When she finally spoke, her voice was so quiet that it nearly vanished beneath the distant sounds of the Citadel.

"I hope everyone returns safely."

The words struck him as oddly specific. Not that hoping people survived was unusual. The way that she’d said it, as though she were speaking about individuals rather than crowds. Every life carried equal weight. He continued to look at her profile, at the sadness that she couldn’t quite hide, and at the concern that she wouldn’t fully explain. 

"We'll do our job." His voice came out rougher than intended.

Lunafreya turned toward him. Their eyes met. For a brief moment, something flickered across her expression. Gratitude. Affection. Grief. The combination was unsettling enough that Nyx immediately wished he hadn't noticed it.

"You always say that with such certainty."

He forced a crooked grin. "That's because if I stop sounding confident, people start asking questions."

The smile she gave him this time was small, genuine, and heartbreakingly sad.

"Then I hope you never lose that confidence, Nyx Ulric."

The way she said his name made something twist unexpectedly in his chest.

Nyx looked away first.

Which annoyed him far more than it should have.

[proper-goodnight]

Collateral Gods (What the Gods Leave to Mortal Hands Chpt. 12)

Collateral Gods - What the Gods Leave to Mortal Hands (12)

Summary:

She wasn’t just a symbol, paraded around for show. She spoke to gods. They listened. If the wrong hands forced her, or if fear pushed her, she could bring down firestorms and calamities that no wall in Insomnia could keep at bay. The Ring of the Lucii, the one thing keeping Niflheim from storming the gates outright, could slip from Regis’s grasp with a single misstep.

If the gods decided to follow her lead, even the Empire wouldn’t be safe from the fallout.

Fandom: Kingsglaive: Final Fantasy XV

Pairings: Lunafreya Nox Fleuret x Nyx Ulric

Type: Multi-Chap

Words: ~6k

Silence gathered high in the vaulted dark above the columns, where shadow consumed the upper reaches of the chamber and memory seemed to cling in all the places light failed to touch. It lay in the old banners hanging motionless behind the throne, their colors dimmed by years, but not by meaning. Beneath them, black-veined stone stretched polished and dark, catching torchlight only to break it into long, wavering bands of amber and gold.

This chamber remembered.

It remembered kings, and oaths spoken in voices that had believed themselves eternal. It remembered judgment: given, denied, or misplaced. It remembered the burden of choices made by men who had stood exactly where King Regis stood now, certain that what they decided would endure.

Lunafreya stood inside that silence without shifting beneath it. She had spent too many years in sacred halls, too many years being looked at as if she were meant to bear weight gracefully, to be unsettled by a room trying to measure her.

That did not mean that she was untouched by it.

Her hands rested lightly before her, fingers folded together from habit more than necessity. The stillness of them was at odds with the rest of her. Travel had taken its toll in quiet, visible ways. The white of her dress no longer fell in perfect lines. Dust marked the hem where it had brushed against stone, debris, and the rough edge of a day that had long since abandoned any pretense of order. One side of the skirt hung slightly wrong where it had caught and been freed in haste. A few pale strands of hair had worked loose around her face and shoulders, softening the careful arrangement that would normally have been corrected by now without anyone ever needing to speak of it.

And over all of it, dark against the white, lay Nyx Ulric’s jacket.

It sat unevenly across her shoulders, one side lower than the other, clearly put there in urgency rather than ceremony. It smelled faintly of smoke, metal, and the city outside the Citadel walls, of ash, of sweat dried into worn fabric, and of someone who moved through danger as if he expected it as a matter of course.

She ought to have removed it before entering. Any proper court attendant would have corrected the impropriety at once. A prince’s betrothed, an Oracle, a guest before the King of Lucis: None of those roles permitted arriving before the throne wrapped in a glaive’s battered outer layer.

Strange, that such an ordinary thing should feel almost grounding amid the enormity of everything else.

None of it translated into visible disorder in her bearing.

Across from her, King Regis waited. He had not returned to the throne. That more than anything told her that he had already begun thinking like a man preparing for war.

He remained below the dais, one hand resting briefly against the carved edge of the lower step before falling again to his side. The distance between them remained measured. Neither intimate nor ceremonial. Not accidental, she thought.

He had noticed her earlier withdrawal, and he had been kind enough not to force her to account for it.

That kindness made her more careful, not less.

Because kindness complicated truth.

Because she did not wish to lie to him.

And because she was already lying by omission.

There were truths that entered a room like drawn steel: immediate, undeniable, and impossible to sheath again without consequence. She had learned, long ago, that not every truth served its purpose when spoken in full. Some required shaping, and others required silence.

This one required both.

Lunafreya drew in a slow breath and let it out carefully. The power beneath her skin had gone quiet again, but not dormant. It never truly rested now. It listened. It watched. It answered to things she had not asked it to notice. The stones of the Citadel seemed to do something similar. Old places recognized weight, and old magic recognized its own kind.

So, she gave Regis the clearest truth she could.

“Niflheim will not honor the treaty.” She did not raise her voice, the act of doing so unneeded. The words settled into the chamber with perfect clarity, and for a moment the room seemed to receive them the way sacred places received prayer; without interruption, but not without judgment.

Regis did not look surprised. His expression had not changed much, but the weariness in it had sharpened. Not into fear. Into confirmation. As though she had not brought him new suspicion, only proof that his own had not been misplaced.

Lunafreya understood then what he had withheld before he had said it. He had known. Perhaps not every detail, nor every angle, but enough.

Her voice remained level. “You already believed it.”

A faint breath left him. There was no humor in it. “I would have been a poor king if I hadn’t.”

His gaze drifted, briefly, not away from her but past the visible surface of the room; to the doors, the guard routes, the halls beyond, the thin scaffolding of protocol under which men preferred to pretend safety could be arranged by enough ceremony.

“The Empire does not come this close in good faith,” he said. “Not to the Wall. Not to Insomnia. Not to my throne. They want entry, placement, and confusion. The treaty gives them all three.”

There was no satisfaction in hearing him say it plainly. Only the stripping away of the last false shape this moment might have worn. No unfortunate diplomacy, no negotiation gone brittle. Only violence delayed until the proper doors were open.

“You let it continue,” she said quietly.

It might have sounded like accusation from another voice. From hers, it was only fact arranged as question.

Regis accepted it as such.

“Yes.”

He stepped off the last of the dais entirely, descending onto the chamber floor with the same measured economy that marked all his movements now. Age had not diminished him so much as taught his body where it could no longer afford waste. He moved like a man long acquainted with pain and too practiced at bearing it to give it public dignity.

“I knew there was a trap in it,” he said. “Not its full shape. Not the precise hour.” His voice roughened slightly, not with emotion he had lost control of, but with strain worn too long. “And I let it continue.”

Lunafreya held his gaze, incredulous.

“Why?” 

For a moment she thought he might answer as kings often did when cornered by impossible arithmetic: with statecraft, necessity, casualties measured against survival. She was prepared for that answer. Prepared to hear that she herself had been one factor among many in a balance too broad to be kind.

Instead he said, with a directness that caught her unguarded, “Because I needed you out.”

The chamber seemed to still further, narrowing around the words.

He did not look away.

“You have been a captive to Niflheim for many years,” he continued. “Perhaps not in chains they would name as chains. But watched. Managed. Kept within boundaries convenient to them. Used when it suited their purposes and tolerated when it did not.” His jaw tightened. “Every route back to Lucis had become a negotiation with the Empire’s hand already on it.”

Lunafreya knew where the thought led even before he gave it form.

“This treaty gave me one thing I could not force by military strength,” he said.

“Access,” she answered quietly.

“To you.”

The simplicity of it struck harder than she would have preferred.

He had not only been speaking as king. That was the part that made it dangerous. Strategy she could endure. Political necessity she understood. But this was not dressed in abstractions. This was personal concern placed bare in the room between them, offered without disguise.

He went on before she could answer.

“I sent Noctis away because I would not have him trapped inside the city when this turned,” he said, facing the far end of the hall rather than her. “And because if he reached Altissia, there remained a chance for the marriage to proceed on ground the Empire did not command.” His voice lowered. “A chance for you to stand somewhere that was yours.”

Lunafreya closed her eyes for the space of one breath.

Only one.

She had thought of Altissia so often as obligation awaiting fulfillment. A place where duty would narrow further. A meeting point. An inevitability. Necessary, sacred, and painful in equal measure.

To hear him speak of it as refuge unsettled something quiet and deeply buried in her composure. When she opened her eyes again, she kept them on his back rather than the throne behind him.

“Your marriage,” Regis said more quietly, “was not only an obligation. It was meant to place you where the Empire could not so easily name you theirs to move. In Lucis. Publicly. Lawfully. Safely, if such a thing still exists.”

Lunafreya lowered her eyes, not in submission, but because for one brief and treacherous instant the edges of the room blurred with feeling she could not afford to entertain here. Her breath remained even by discipline, not ease.

She had known the marriage was duty. Covenant. Necessity. History moving through living bodies because the dead and the gods had left no other road. She had known what it meant politically, ritually, dynastically. She had known what would be asked of her when she stepped into Lucis, not as guest or emissary, but as its future queen.

But this; this profoundly human intention beneath the strategy, reached something in her she had not armored properly.

He had not simply been arranging a prince’s future.

He had also been securing her own.

To draw her from the Empire’s grasp by giving her a place the world would be forced to acknowledge as legitimate, sacred, and publicly beyond Niflheim’s claim. A home not in sentiment, but in law, rite, and blood.

When she spoke, her voice was soft, but steadier than she felt. “That was a dangerous gamble.”

Regis gave a short, tired nod. 

“You moved the heir beyond the city and left yourself at the center of the strike.” Her brows furrowed. “You expected them to come for you.”

His expression did not shift. “I expected them to come for the throne, the Crystal, and whatever would break Lucis fastest if it fell in one blow.” His gaze did not waver. “I suppose, by connection, that includes me.”

The bluntness of it made her chest tighten again.

He had known.

Not all of it. Not the precise shape. Enough to have sent Noctis away, enough to try to bring her out under the cover of terms he never trusted, enough to stand in his own throne room and wait for the knife while arranging where everyone else needed to be when it came.

Lunafreya looked at him then not as king alone, but as father. As the man who had sent his son away from the city because he knew what was coming, and who had done the same for her in the only way he had left.

Kindness complicated truth.

It also made withholding it feel perilously close to cruelty.

“The signing chamber is still the likeliest point,” she said. “Or something attached to it closely enough to fix the city’s attention there while the true breach opens elsewhere. They will want ceremony to do their work for them. If they can place troops inside under sanctioned terms, they will not waste the advantage. They will split response lines, force confusion, and move fast enough that by the time defenders understand where the real strike falls, half the battle will already have been decided.”

Regis nodded once. “That accords with my expectation.”

“But not enough to stop it.”

“No.” The answer came without defense. “Not without showing my hand too soon. If I lock the whole Citadel down, they adapt. If I break the treaty outright, they strike elsewhere and I lose the one opening that brought you here.”

Her fingers pressed a little more firmly together before she eased them again.

“They’ll target more than the chamber,” she said. “They’ll want every line of response fractured. Crownsguard redirected by protocol. Glaives scattered between visible threat and actual objective. They will use order itself against you.”

“Isolation,” Regis said.

The word came from him this time.

“Yes.”

He was already thinking along the same lines. That made the next part easier.

“If you reinforce too visibly,” she continued, “they alter pressure and make use of the adjustment. If you leave all things as they appear, they keep the shape they planned for. You need them committed before they understand which parts have changed.”

His eyes narrowed slightly in concentration. “The Ring.”

“The throne, and its crystal as well.”

Silence again, but not empty now. Full. Structured. The silence of pieces moving into alignment.

Regis turned away for several paces, his cane tapping more audibly as he crossed the black marble below the dais. His reflection broke beneath him in the polished stone, divided by veins of dark mineral and wavering bands of torchlight. King. Father. Shield. A tired man being asked to hold too many lines at once and deciding anyway which of them must not fall.

Lunafreya watched him move and felt, unexpectedly, a quiet sorrow.

How many years, she wondered, had he stood in rooms like this, calculating which sacrifice might preserve what remained?

How long had duty demanded he think first as king and only afterward as father? There was loneliness in such things. She recognized it.

“They may not need long,” she said. “Only timing.”

He returned toward her then, stopping at a distance practical rather than ceremonial. Whatever warmth had greeted her upon entry had not vanished. It had simply been forced to stand beside harsher truths, and could no longer pretend to govern the room.

“What I do not have,” he said, “is the full shape of the strike.” His gaze sharpened. “I know enough to expect betrayal. You speak as if you know where it lands, how it spreads, and what follows after the first fracture.” A pause. “That is more than caution.”

There it was at last. The question he had postponed out of mercy, now returned because mercy had reached its limit.

Lunafreya met his eyes.

There were easier answers available to her. Instinct. Observation. Years spent under occupation. Familiarity with the Empire’s appetites. All of them would have been partly true. None sufficient.

“I know how Niflheim thinks,” she said first.

Regis waited.

“That is not all,” he said.

The gentleness in his voice made this worse. Had he challenged her harshly, she could have answered with the strength resistance always gave her, but he was not trying to expose weakness. He was trying to understand what burden she carried and whether it could be trusted. That made evasion feel less like strategy, and more like betrayal.

She felt the wards in the stone at the edge of her senses. Felt the quiet alertness of the power beneath her skin, listening as it always did when truth neared the surface. There were things she still could not say aloud. Not because he would not believe them, perhaps, but because speech itself would make the room unstable, and the room could not afford instability now.

So again, she forced herself to answer with the clearest truth that she could bear to offer before he could press her any nearer the edge than she could safely stand.

“I know enough,” she said quietly, “to tell you that if the Empire succeeds here, the cost will not end with the city.”

Something in Regis’s expression altered very slightly.

He heard the weight of that.

Not politics alone. Not military consequence.

“You speak,” he said softly, “as if you have already watched Lucis burn.”

For the briefest instant something cold moved through her.

Fire in sacred halls. Magitek and steel. The crushing sense of absence where living men should still have stood. A city broken open beneath a dark sky. A king ringed by ruin. The impression of blood on black stone. A glaive beneath fractured light.

Her fingers tightened once.

She made them ease.

“I speak,” she said, and now there was the faintest roughness beneath her calm, “as someone who knows the Empire does not stop at the gate.”

Regis did not press further.

For that mercy, she loved him a little.

Not as subject loves king, nor as future daughter might love the father she had been denied for too many years. Simply as one weary soul recognizes another and knows when not to force a wound wider in the name of certainty.

At length he inclined his head.

“Very well. We prepare as if the treaty itself is a weapon,” he said. “We let them believe enough of their arrangement remains intact that they commit to it. We keep the center from being isolated. We keep response from splintering, and we ensure that if they reach for the throne, the Crystal, or the Ring, they do not find any of them undefended.”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” Lunafreya said.

Relief did not come. Only the slightest loosening in her breath, as though urgency had merely shifted position rather than lessened.

Regis’s gaze passed over her once more, her dress, the dust at the hem, the jacket draped over her shoulders like visible proof of a path he had not seen but could plainly infer. Of how she had arrived. Of whose hands had been close enough to her safety to leave their evidence behind.

Lunafreya did not need the strange, impossible thread of awareness that kept pulling at the edge of her thoughts to know that Nyx Ulric’s patience was nearing its end. She knew it because Nyx Ulric was not built for passive trust. He could obey. He could endure stillness, but only by force, and only for so long when his instincts said danger was moving beyond his reach.

Something in the stone was shifting now.

It was subtle. Less a sound than a pressure, a faint disturbance moving through the Citadel’s deeper quiet. The wards set into the chamber brushed against her awareness. The power beneath her skin answered at once, not with heat now, but with alertness; a listening tension, as if something vast had lifted its head.

And beneath all of it:

Movement outside the room.

Immediate. Familiar. Held taut by will, and narrowing rapidly toward action.

Nyx.

The certainty came before reason, and under other circumstances she might have found that disquieting. Now, she only accepted it.

Her gaze lifted, almost despite herself, toward the doors.

Then Regis spoke, and the moment altered.

“You will remain here,” he said. His words were calm, and unadorned. “Within the Citadel, and under guard.”

He did not phrase it as command, though command lived plainly in it. Regis had no habit of softening decisions that could not be made kinder by gentler language.

“I will see to your safety,” he continued. “Whatever Niflheim intends, they will not find you unprotected in Lucis.”

Lunafreya inclined her head.

“I am grateful, Your Majesty.”

And she was.

The gratitude was sincere. So too was the reservation she did not voice.

She could already feel the Citadel around her with a clarity that had sharpened since entering it: the old wards sunk deep into its foundations, the echo of generations of kings written into stone and sacred architecture, the quiet watchfulness of power that was not hers and yet recognized the presence of what she carried. It was a place built to endure siege, treachery, and sorrow alike. For a time, it would hold.

Most things held.

Until the appointed hour in which they did not.

Regis watched her a moment longer, and she knew he had heard what her words did not contain. He had always been perceptive in a quieter way than men often understood; less demanding than observant, and less eager to pry than to wait until truth revealed the shape of itself.

“You are not reassured,” he observed.

Lunafreya met his gaze steadily. “Reassurance is not what I require.”

His brow eased by a fraction, not in confusion, but in concentration.

“Then what is?”

The question was direct, and asked not as king to subject, but as one burdened soul to another.

She allowed herself a measured breath.

“Time.”

Something in his expression stilled.

“For what?”

“For what must still be done.”

The phrasing was exact, set within boundaries she would not cross. It pointed toward obligation without naming its destination. There were duties that belonged to her office, and others that belonged only to the path the gods had marked out for her. Some could be spoken in halls of kings. Others could not.

Regis weighed the answer in silence. Not for deceit. For the omission within it.

There was one.

He recognized it.

Lunafreya saw that recognition in the faint narrowing of his eyes, in the way he did not immediately press for more. He understood restraint when he encountered it. Perhaps because he had lived by it for many years.

At last, he inclined his head slightly.

“Then you will have it,” he said.

A promise, delivered in the same plain manner as the rest. No flourish. No attempt to make it gentler than it was. He would buy her time if time could still be bought.

Lunafreya lowered her gaze for a moment in acknowledgment, then lifted it again.

“There is one matter more.”

Regis waited.

“I will not remain in Lucis beyond what is necessary.”

The words entered the chamber cleanly. Neither apology nor challenge. Statement alone.

A faint line formed between his brows. “What do you mean?”

Her hands remained folded before her. Her posture did not change.

“Once Niflheim’s immediate response has been met,” she said, “I must continue to Altissia.”

“Altissia,” he repeated. “Under current conditions?”

“Yes.”

No hesitation.

“Why?”

The question was simple. The answer was not.

For the briefest moment she was silent, and in that silence she felt the shape of everything she could not say. The path before her did not permit delay simply because war drew nearer. The covenants had not released her. The gods did not pause for mortal treaties. Nor could she tell him that standing still had become impossible in more ways than one.

She selected what truth could safely bear being spoken.

“The path I walk does not end in Lucis,” she said.

It was true.

Though, it was not complete.

“The covenants require continuation,” she added. “There are obligations that cannot be fulfilled here.”

Also true. Still insufficient, perhaps, but it was enough for a king who understood that some duties were not his to command.

Regis studied her in that long, steady way of his.

“You intend to proceed as though the treaty still stands,” he said.

Lunafreya inclined her head. “The appearance of continuity remains useful.”

Useful. Not sound. Not trustworthy. Not salvageable.

Only useful.

The distinction was deliberate, and she knew he heard it. A faint breath left him through the nose, thoughtful rather than displeased.

A slow breath left him.

“Very well. Until such time as you depart for Altissia,” he said, “you will not move unguarded within the Citadel.”

His tone had settled again into command.

He paused only long enough to make the next part unmistakable.

“Drautos will remain with you. At all times.”

The decision landed softly, and with quiet finality.

The memory returned with unnerving immediacy: the measured cadence of his steps in the corridor, the civility too precise to be trusted, the unnatural absence in him where human response should have lived.

Beneath that… the knowledge she had not spoken aloud.

The power within her stirred, swift and low, as though it too recognized the danger she had just been asked to accept. She mastered it before it rose further.

To object too quickly would reveal too much. To refuse would invite questions she could not afford. 

And yet the thought of placing herself continually under his watch sharpened something hard and quiet inside her.

Regis believed he was placing her under the protection of one of Lucis’s strongest men.

That, perhaps, was the cruelest part.

His concern was genuine, and genuine concern made deception harder to bear. She looked at him, at the fatigue in him, the iron in him, the father and king forced to make decisions before certainty had fully arrived, and felt, fleetingly, the temptation to tell him.

To say the name beneath the name. To speak aloud what wore Drautos’s face.

But to speak prematurely would do more than fail. It would place Regis in a position where he must either act without proof or hesitate before an enemy warned in advance. Neither outcome would serve Lucis. Forewarning was too costly a gift to hand over.

So, she held silence as she had held so many unbearable things before.

A blade was no less dangerous for remaining sheathed.

“Your Majesty,” she said at last, her tone unchanged, soft, respectful, governed so carefully that even urgency passed through it without visible disturbance, “with all due respect, I would ask that this arrangement be reconsidered.”

The words entered the chamber lightly, though their consequence did not. 

Across from her, King Regis did not answer at once. His attention settled fully on her again, not offended, but sharpened. There was no flash of wounded authority in him, no instinctive resistance to being questioned. Only that quiet, dangerous caution peculiar to rulers who had survived long enough to know that objection, when offered carefully, often concealed something larger than disagreement.

He studied her as though measuring whether this was reluctance, intuition, or warning.

“On what grounds?”

She inclined her head slightly, acknowledging the fairness of the question, even as she felt the difficulty of answering it gather inside her. 

“I would prefer,” she said, each word placed with care, “to remain under the protection of another.”

A faint crease touched the king’s brow. “Another?”

The single word held neither rebuke nor disbelief, only surprise.

And perhaps the first trace of concern.

Lunafreya could feel the room narrowing around the answer before she gave it, and yet she did not hesitate.

“Nyx Ulric.”

Regis’s confusion was immediate, though contained.

“Nyx… Ulric,” he repeated, as if confirming the name against memory. “The glaive.”

“Yes.”

The simplicity of the answer cost effort. Not because the word itself was difficult, but because too much depended on making it sound ordinary, and because anything more than ordinary risked revealing far more than she had meant to place in the room.

Regis looked at her differently now. Not as king receiving counsel, rather as a man confronted with something he had not anticipated.

Of all the requests she might have made, more guards, fewer guards, time, privacy, even refusal, this was not the one he had expected.

“That is an unusual preference,” he said warily.

Lunafreya lowered her gaze for only a moment, not in retreat, but thought.

“Yes,” she said in acknowledgement rather than defense.

“And that,” he said, after a measured pause, “is not an explanation.”

It wasn’t, and more than anything, he deserved more than evasion. 

Yet what could she give him? That she had stood beside Drautos and knew what was hidden behind the habits of command? That the power she carried recoiled from him as flame recoiled from water that meant to quench it? That she feared not insult or discomfort, but something far more difficult to name without sounding touched by visions and strain?

There were truths too large to enter a room all at once.

So again, she shaped one.

“My preferences,” she said carefully, “are not formed by comfort, Your Majesty.” Her voice was even, though inwardly she could feel the effort of walking precisely enough to reveal something true without exposing more than prudence allowed. “They are formed,” she continued, “by observation. Nyx Ulric has already proven himself willing to act for my safety without hesitation since… coming into Lucis,” she continued, “That is not a small thing.”

Regis remained silent, listening.

She continued, because if she stopped now she would have said too little.

“I have spent many years in the company of men whose rank promised security while their intentions offered something else. Protection has not always worn the form one expects.”

“And the Glaive Ulric,” he said slowly, “falls outside those expectations.”

The question was quieter now. More personal.

Lunafreya lifted her eyes to meet his.

How to answer that? Trust. Such a simple word for something so rarely simple.

She had been raised in courts where trust was traded ceremonially and broken practically. Raised among diplomats, occupiers, gods, and ghosts. She had learned suspicion early and necessity earlier still.

What rose in her mind first was not principle, but him.

His impatience. His irreverence. The way concern in him often arrived disguised as irritation, as if kindness embarrassed him enough to hide behind sarcasm.

And something quieter.

The fact that he did not look at her as Oracle first. Did not approach her as symbol. Did not lower his voice into reverence or shape himself into deference. He looked at her as though she were a woman in danger before she was anything sacred. That was rare enough to be dangerous.

And rarer still to be… relieving.

She realized, not for the first time and not with much comfort, how much she had come to rely on the absence of pretense in him.

That recognition was inconvenient. It was also true.

Regis watched all of this move, however faintly, across a face trained almost never to reveal anything.

“He does.”

“And that inspires confidence.”

Not a question this time. A conclusion.

Lunafreya might have evaded, and might have returned to safer language.

Capability. Practicality. Military judgment.

Instead:

“At times,” she said at last, “I find straightforward danger less concerning than concealed intentions.” Her voice softened by a degree. “The former may be met, and the latter often arrives invited.”

It seemed to surprise even the room. Regis regarded her for a long while. Long enough that she wondered whether he saw more than she had intended to show.

Perhaps he did. He was a father. Fathers often saw what kings politely ignored. 

Regis’s mouth shifted faintly, as if some thought, private, possibly amused, possibly troubled, had crossed behind his restraint.

“The glaive who paces outside my doors,” he said slowly, “and is likely at this very moment deciding whether disobeying me counts as principle…” The ghost of something almost like humor moved through the room. Almost. “…is the man you are asking me to place in charge of your safety.”

Lunafreya did not lower her gaze. “Yes.”

The simplicity of her answer seemed, for a moment, to catch even Regis off balance. Then he exhaled once through his nose. A sound not unlike reluctant amusement.

“Remarkable,” he murmured.

She did not ask in what sense. She was not certain she wished to know.

At length he said, “You understand what you ask.”

“I do.”

“To remove you from the command of the Kingsglaive’s captain and place you under a single glaive, an immigrant-born operative with a history of insubordination, however decorated, would invite questions.”

“Yes.”

“And yet you ask it anyway.”

Something in her, some weary honesty long pressed beneath duty, refused, suddenly, to let the truth remain only half-spoken, she said, softly:

“I ask it because I believe he would sooner defy your order than fail to keep me alive.”

There was the faintest trace of something in the King’s face; dryness, perhaps. The ghost of amusement worn thin by larger concerns, as if Nyx’s reputation for being difficult was not wholly unfamiliar.

Others saw a troublesome glaive. She did not. It was then that realization arrived with an intimacy she did not welcome, and because she did not welcome it, she ignored it.

“You describe a man suited to the field,” he said at length. “One useful where uncertainty breeds fast decisions. Not one assigned to the protection of the Oracle within the Citadel.”

A lesser man might have made the distinction as rebuke. Regis offered it as challenge. Not to contradict her, but to see whether her reasoning could bear its own weight. 

The argument she had offered described capability under crisis. Not why she would trust Nyx over Drautos. Certainly not enough to justify it to a king.

“That distinction,” she said softly, lifting her gaze again, “may become less relevant.”

Regis’s expression sharpened. “In what way?”

Because the man you call Captain may be the greater threat.

Because the glaive outside that door, for all his insolence, may be the only one in this palace whose instincts I trust without reservation.

She said neither of those things.

Instead:

“If events move as we believe they may,” she said, “then the protections of court and the necessities of the field will not remain separate conditions.”

The words entered the space between them quietly, but not weakly.

“If the distinction collapses,” she continued, “then I would prefer to be in the company of one whose judgment is not delayed by the expectation that others will act first.”

“It is no small thing,” he said, “to place that kind of faith in a man.”

It was not. Lunafreya knew that better than she wished to. Nyx had become difficult to think of in impersonal terms.

That was inconvenient.

Also undeniable.

Regis studied her a while longer, and in that silence Lunafreya had the distinct impression he was weighing more than her words. He was weighing what she had withheld. What she had dared reveal, and what a king could permit himself to trust when truth arrived carrying prophecy’s shadow but refused to name itself plainly.

At length, he inclined his head.

“I will consider it.” Nothing more. He offered no grand assurance, no premature promise shaped for comfort. Only the answer of a ruler too seasoned to offer certainty before he had examined every consequence.

Strangely, she trusted that more than she would have trusted an easier pledge.

Silence followed after that.

Not empty silence, but the kind that gathers after something significant has shifted and neither party is willing to diminish it by speaking too soon. The room itself seemed to hold still around them. Torchlight moved in quiet waves across black-veined marble. Somewhere high above, the vaulted dark kept its own counsel.

Then, perhaps sensing the matter had been pressed as far as wisdom allowed for one exchange, Regis let the tension ease, not entirely, but enough that the conversation altered its footing.

“In the meantime,” he said, and his voice carried a degree less iron than before, “there are more immediate concerns.” 

His gaze passed over her then; not rudely, nor with any indulgence in pity, but with the practical frankness of a man who had spent too long among war not to recognize its traces when they stood before him.

Only beneath that scrutiny did the condition of her become impossible, even to herself, to continue setting aside. Nothing in her posture had altered. She stood with the same composure she might have worn entering a shrine, a diplomatic hall, or a sacred rite. That, perhaps, made the evidence of strain harder to ignore.

Dignity had remained, even where order had not.

Her dress no longer fell in untouched lines. Dust darkened the hem. Fine abrasions marked the fabric where stone and wreckage had claimed their due. One seam, roughly strained and not entirely recovered, pulled faintly where she held herself too straight. A few loosened strands of hair, still uncorrected, brushed pale against her shoulder. And over all of it, dark against white, still lay Nyx Ulric’s jacket, un-surrendered, and still too plainly a soldier’s thing to belong in a throne room. 

Regis saw all of it, and having seen it, chose not to pretend otherwise.

“You will be given rooms within the Citadel,” he said. “Suitable for your stay, and clothing more appropriate to the circumstances.” The words were practical, but beneath them lay recognition. He was too respectful, and she too proud, but recognition of effort, of endurance, and of the simple fact that survival had left its mark where ceremony had once expected perfection.

Lunafreya inclined her head. “You are most gracious, Your Majesty.”

She was aware, as she said it, of the stiffness of the fabric against her skin, and of the places where dried seams pulled faintly when she moved. Of the chill that lingered where the layers no longer sat as they ought. Clothing had always spoken before she did. In courts, in temples, in occupied halls, it had served as language; dignity, status, expectation, self-command.

Now it said something less refined.

That she had arrived.

That she had endured.

That whatever had happened on the road had not broken her.

Regis’s gaze lingered as though measuring whether she accepted not merely the offer, but the care contained within it. At last he seemed satisfied nothing further need be said.

“You will rest,” he said. “And you will be informed when arrangements are made for your meeting with Noctis.”

The name moved through her with quiet violence. Not because it was unexpected, but because it was never merely a name. It carried a boy with solemn eyes, a promise made in another life, a future spoken of by gods and kings until it no longer seemed entirely theirs.

And something else.

Something tender enough she did not permit herself to touch it.

She held Regis’ gaze.

“I understand.”

Nothing more.

Nothing less.

Regis watched her for the span of a breath, perhaps hearing the restraint in the answer, perhaps only noting it. Then he turned slightly, and the private circle of the conversation widened again into the machinery of command.

“Drautos.” 

The name cut through the chamber’s hush with startling clarity.

Drautos stepped back through the grand doors as though he had been standing at the edge of the moment waiting precisely to be summoned.

“See that she is escorted,” Regis said. “Make the necessary arrangements. Inform Nyx Ulric that he is to remain available.”

Behind her, Lunafreya felt the subtlest change in the air, attention adjusting, calculation revising itself around a new variable. Drautos bowed his head.

“As you command.”

Regis looked to her once more. The warmth in his expression had not vanished, but it had been tempered now by knowledge, by approaching war, and by the awareness that she stood in his hall carrying burdens he could not yet fully see.

“Lucis will not fail you,” he said.

A grave promise, and not one made lightly.

Lunafreya inclined her head in return.

“I do not doubt your resolve, Your Majesty.”

It was the truest answer she could offer. For she did not doubt his resolve, only whether resolve alone could hold back what she feared was already moving toward them.

That distinction remained mercifully unspoken.

For the briefest moment, something in her expression softened into something quieter. A kind of sorrowful recognition. The comfort, rare enough to wound, of standing for one moment before someone who still meant what he said.

Someone not yet hollowed by falsehood. Someone worthy of grief before grief was required. The moment passed, as such moments always did.

Her composure settled gently over it once more, seamless as water drifting over a stone.

As she stood beneath the old banners, Nyx’s jacket still dark across her shoulders, Drautos waiting to escort her, and the king of Lucis preparing to turn from tenderness back toward war,  one thought, unwelcome and persistent, moved quietly beneath all the rest.

Regis had ordered Nyx kept available. 

The word should have meant little, yet it did not.

Though she gave no sign of it, something in her, something she had been holding too tightly for too long, at last eased.

[proper-goodnight]

Collateral Gods (The First Shift Chpt. 11)

Collateral Gods - The First Shift (11)

Summary:

She wasn’t just a symbol, paraded around for show. She spoke to gods. They listened. If the wrong hands forced her, or if fear pushed her, she could bring down firestorms and calamities that no wall in Insomnia could keep at bay. The Ring of the Lucii, the one thing keeping Niflheim from storming the gates outright, could slip from Regis’s grasp with a single misstep.

If the gods decided to follow her lead, even the Empire wouldn’t be safe from the fallout.

Fandom: Kingsglaive: Final Fantasy XV

Pairings: Lunafreya Nox Fleuret x Nyx Ulric

Type: Multi-Chap

Words: ~5k

Nyx lasted exactly as long as his discipline demanded, then he started pacing. 

Not much. Not enough to draw a reprimand from anyone paying attention, subtle enough to pass for nothing. A shift of weight onto one leg, then the other. A slow roll of one shoulder, then both, working stiffness out before it settled too deep into muscle. He tipped his head once to ease the knot building at the back of his neck, and let his gaze track the corridor again, as if he were still only keeping watch.

Technically, he was. Just, not only that. 

The hall outside of the sealed chamber was too narrow for real pacing, and too exposed for obvious agitation, so he forced limits on himself. Three measured steps along the wall that he’d more or less claimed by standing nearest to it. Stop. Turn. Three steps back. Only the faintest brush of leather, and weight over old Lucian flooring sounded, buffed smooth by generations of guards, courtiers, and people with more patience than he’d ever been born with. 

Torchlight shifted across the corridor in uneven bands, catching on steel fittings, stone seams, and the edges of the warding sigils carved around the doors. The marks had gone dim again after Drautos and Lunafreya had gone through, but not yet dead. Nyx could see the residual glow sunk low in the grooves if he looked from the right angle, almost like embers banked under ash. He didn’t like that either, nor any of it, if he was being honest. 

His right hand flexed once at his side, fingers curling with its usual old instinct around the shape of a hilt that wasn’t there. He caught the motion halfway through, and flattened his palm against his thigh, forcing the tension out of it. His efforts held for all of two seconds before attempting to do it again. He muttered something under his breath in Galahdian, rude enough that if anyone nearby understood it, they were smart enough to pretend they hadn’t. 

Both hands hooked behind his back for one pass down the corridor, trying on the stillness the way the officers wore it; composed, formal, and unbothered. He hated that immediately. 

Nyx dropped his hands again with a faint exhale through his nose and resumed the shorter circuit, jaw tightening once before he forced it loose. He kept his face neutral out of habit. Didn’t bother with the rest. There was no one here he needed to perform ease for.

Standing still wasn’t the problem. He could do still. He’d done it on blasted-out checkpoints with the sun burning through the back of his uniform, and sand grinding irritatingly into his boots. Embassy doors. Gates. Sterile briefing rooms where people more important than him discussed losses in clean numbers, and expected the survivors to nod like that had somehow made it a strategy instead of simple math. Outside meetings that he hadn’t been invited into, but would’ve been expected to bleed for if they went sideways. 

He knew how to wait without fidgeting, how to keep his mouth shut, and his face blank while those same men with more rank, and more judgment talked around him like he was a useful piece of wall. 

He knew how to obey.

Mostly on that front, anyhow. 

The problem was that instinct had never been especially respectful of hierarchy, and suddenly they’d been forced into the same room, and told to get along. 

His gaze slid back to the doors. 

Nothing had moved for a long time. No sound emitted from inside. Just stone, old magic, and the kind of silence that usually meant one of two things: Either everything was under control, or it had already gone wrong in a way that no one outside was meant to interrupt.

Nyx found, very quickly, and not for the first time, that he had very little patience for either option. 

He dragged a hand briefly across the back of his neck, fingers catching against the collar of his uniform before dropping again. Then, he picked the motion back up before stillness could get a foothold again. Three steps. Turn. Three back. 

Keep it tight. Keep it controlled. Give the energy somewhere to go before it decided to go somewhere stupid. He repeated it like a mantra, one that he’d been chanting his whole life. 

Though, despite his outside habits, his mind had decided to go against the routine, and run the last few minutes back as a good use of his time. 

Drautos at her side, walking beside her in a normal routine where escorting the Oracle through sealed wards, and restricted chambers was just another line item on the day’s orders. His command, as always, refined down to something that didn’t need to announce itself. Lunafreya, moving with that same impossible composure that she always seemed to carry, all quiet grace, and measured calm. 

The world could have been on fire, and she’d still know exactly where to put her feet. 

Composure wasn’t the same thing as ease, and it sure as hell wasn’t trust. Nyx knew the difference. After all, he’d built half his survival on it. 

It was the way she’d carried it. Not in her face. Her expression had been exactly what it always was: polite, distant, untouchable. Nothing anyone could point at and say there. It was everything else that had been off by just enough. From when the doors had opened, and the wards lit, and when Drautos had stepped closer than he needed to, the shift in her attention had not been forward, nor to whatever had waited inside. 

She had looked sideways, towards Drautos. 

That was the piece that didn’t sit right. 

That wasn’t how people looked at Drautos. He had a presence that made most people straighten up without realizing they’d slouched. 

She’d looked at Drautos like she knew something, and didn’t like it. That, on its own, wasn’t enough to mean anything. People didn’t need a reason to dislike Drautos. Nyx could’ve handed over a list if anyone had asked. 

It had been the absolute hate behind her eyes when she saw him. A kind so deep-rooted that it could have been buried under layers of training, expectation, and good sense, because letting it show would complicate things that they couldn’t afford to complicate. The kind people with better manners than Nyx usually bothered to hide.

Nyx was a little too familiar with that kind.  

Then there’d been the other part. He slowed again, this time enough that the rhythm broke entirely before he forced it back together. The air around her had changed. 

Pressure, and most of all, heat.

Something gathered and held so tightly it had seemed to bend the space around her for half a breath. He’d been too close to it not to notice, and too much soldier not to recognize the exact instant where restraint stopped being absence, and instead became an active force.

He knew that edge. The dangerous second before a strike, when motion hadn’t happened yet, but the body had already decided it could.

For that moment, she had been standing on it. Then she’d pulled it back. She’d locked it down so fast most people would’ve missed the entire thing, and walked away believing the Oracle had simply looked thoughtful. 

Nyx wasn’t most people, and after what he had seen at the train, he was done giving the impossible the courtesy of pretending it hadn’t happened. He’d watched her become something no human being was supposed to become.

The memory of the derailment didn’t come back clean. It didn’t line up in neat pieces he could sort through. It hit in flashes.

Twisted metal. The smell; burnt oil, scorched steel, something sharper underneath it that had nothing to do with the wreck.

Crowe shouting something he hadn’t caught the first time. Libertus moving fast, faster than usual, instinct cutting ahead of thought.

And her, standing in the middle of it.

Drautos had taken that through a sealed door and told Nyx to stay outside.

He let out a quiet breath, something short and humorless.

That sat about as well as expected.

He stopped mid-step and pivoted cleanly on his heel, letting the motion carry just enough force to bleed off the edge of it. His eyes swept the corridor again. 

Torchlight burned steady from iron brackets set into the walls, throwing long uneven bars of gold across stone and shadow. The carved Lucian sigils along the archway had gone dark again, inert now, giving away nothing. Farther back, the corridor bent out of view toward the main intersection, where two guards stood their post with all the rigid, ornamental seriousness the Citadel seemed to encourage. Neither looked in his direction.

Either they’d been instructed not to involve themselves with the Crownsguard glaive outside the sealed doors, or they had enough experience to recognize a bad mood and the survival instinct to keep clear of it.

Smart men.

He dragged a hand back through his hair, pushing it off his forehead before letting the arm drop again. He caught himself about to turn the small circuit into a real pace and stopped with an annoyed breath.

This was getting pathetic.

He planted his feet shoulder-width apart and made himself stay there.

One breath in.

One out.

Didn’t help.

“Come on,” he said softly, to no one and maybe to more than one person.

The corridor gave him nothing back.

He glanced once toward the guards, confirmed their studied indifference, and let his expression settle into something less carefully blank now that no one important was around to appreciate the effort.

Stay put.

Stay out of it.

Don’t make yourself the problem.

Drautos’ voice, without the inconvenience of actually hearing it.

And because he was Nyx Ulric, because patience had always been something he maintained by force rather than temperament, because every instinct he had was built for motion instead of helplessness, and because standing outside danger had never once in his life made him believe danger would politely stay put, he kept his eyes on the doors and started, very quietly, to decide how much longer he was willing to behave.

If Drautos had done this to make a point, Nyx was going to enjoy proving he’d picked the wrong day. If something was actually wrong, then he was standing outside magically sealed doors with no authority, no information, and a direct order to stay out of it. 

Which meant he was about two bad minutes away from deciding whether insubordination still counted if you turned out to be right.

He flexed his fingers once more, slower this time, then curled them into a fist and let it go.

Footsteps echoed from behind him, threading through the corridor with a different rhythm than the Citadel’s usual background noise. Not the stiff, synchronized march of posted guards, and not the wandering drift of courtiers who didn’t know where they were going.

This was controlled, but not rigid. Familiar without being sloppy.

Nyx didn’t turn right away.

One lighter, precise without trying to sound precise. The other heavier, relaxed in a way that would’ve passed for careless if Nyx hadn’t known exactly how much of him was performance. One moved like every inch of a room got assessed on instinct. The other moved like the room could assess him if it wanted, and he’d still have something smart to say about it after.

His jaw eased a fraction, something tight in his chest loosening just enough to notice. He angled his head just enough to look over his shoulder. 

Libertus came into the edge of the torchlight first, the glow catching on the edges of his armor in dull, worn highlights. His shoulders were loose, his expression easy. The kind of casual that could only ever belong to Libertus. 

Crowe followed a half-step behind and slightly to the side, exactly where she liked to be when entering a space she hadn’t cleared herself. Her gaze moved before the rest of her did. Quick, efficient, and thorough enough that if something was wrong, she’d have it mapped before anyone finished a sentence.

Nyx turned a little more fully toward them, though not all the way. One shoulder stayed angled back toward the sealed doors at the end of the hall, like he didn’t quite trust them not to do something the second he stopped watching.

Knowing his track record, they likely would. 

Libertus slowed when he recognized him.

“Well,” he said, glancing past Nyx briefly toward the doors, then back again. “That answers one question.”

Nyx lifted a brow, unimpressed. “You’re gonna have to be more specific. I don’t remember asking any.”

“Wasn’t yours,” Libertus replied.  “More mine. Specifically, ‘why does walking into the Citadel suddenly feel like a bad idea.’”

Nyx huffed a quiet breath, something dry flickering through the edge of it. “And you figured the answer was me?”

“You’re usually a solid lead,” Libertus shot back. “Would’ve helped to know you were here first.”

Crowe didn’t speak right away. Her gaze had settled fully on the doors now, not staring, not lingering, but studying. The faint glow left behind in the sigils. The way the seams in the stone sat just slightly too clean for something that old. The guards that weren’t close enough to interfere, but close enough to react.

She took it in, filed it away.

Then, finally she said, “We didn’t.”

Nyx watched her for a second longer than necessary, then shifted his attention back to Libertus. “Good. Would’ve been worried about your priorities.”

Libertus smirked faintly, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah, well. Starting to think we should be worried about yours.” His chin tipped toward the doors. “You get promoted, or just told to stay where you wouldn’t be inconvenient?”

“Second one,” Nyx said.

“Mm.”

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

“I’m not surprised,” Libertus replied. “I’m just trying to decide if this is the part where you listen for once, or the part where I end up explaining to someone why a section of the Citadel is missing a wall.”

“That depends,” Nyx said. “You planning to be useful, or just exhausting?”

Libertus’s grin came easier at that. “I’m talented enough to do both.”

Crowe stepped forward then, just enough to bring herself even with Libertus, her attention shifting from the doors to Nyx properly for the first time. Her expression didn’t change much, but she was looking at him now instead of the situation around him, which meant she’d already made at least three conclusions and was deciding which one mattered.

“Who went in?” she asked directly.

Nyx answered without dressing it up. “The Oracle. Drautos.”

“And you stayed out here.”

“Wasn’t my preference,” his jaw worked once. “Didn’t get a vote.”

His gaze slid back to them, to the faint residual glow caught in the carved lines, to the stone that had opened like it had been waiting for permission instead of force. He could still feel it, if he paid attention, the shift in the air when the wards had woken, the weight of something old and deliberate deciding who got through and who didn’t.

“You usually don’t need one,” Libertus said. “I thought that you were doing the escort?”

“Apparently command reviewed my talents and decided standing in a corridor was the best use of them.”

Libertus’s mouth twitched. “That does sound like command.”

Crowe was still on the important part. “What happened?”

“The Oracle doesn’t like Drautos,” he said.

“Shocker.” Libertus remarked. 

Crowe’s attention narrowed another fraction. “You’re sure.”

Nyx gave the doors a long look before answering. “Sure enough.”

He could still see it when he thought back. The way Lunafreya had turned her attention toward Drautos without turning anything else with it. No obvious challenge. No visible loss of control. Just a look so brief most people would’ve missed it, and so cold Nyx hadn’t.

Not fear. Not panic. Nothing dramatic.

Just dislike with enough weight behind it to make him take notice.

Crowe’s eyes narrowed a fraction. “Because of the derailment?”

Nyx rolled one shoulder, the motion restless rather than dismissive. “Maybe.”

That was the problem. He didn’t know. He knew the derailment had been too clean to feel accidental. He knew Lunafreya hadn’t come out of it rattled so much as focused, like events had confirmed something instead of surprising her. He knew that by the time they’d reached the Citadel, she’d looked like someone carrying a conclusion she wasn’t ready to share.

What he did not know was whether any of that had anything to do with Drautos personally, or whether he just happened to be the unfortunate object of her bad mood.

That was the part none of them had said out loud yet. The thing sitting under all of it. The derailment. The impossible moment afterward. Lunafreya in the wreckage, light gathering where light had no business gathering, the shape of something vast and divine moving through human form like the world had forgotten its own rules. Nyx wasn’t sentimental about that, but he liked knowing where the edges were.

And the past couple days had taken those edges, looked him in the face, and kept going.

“She changed after the station,” he said at last.

Libertus frowned slightly. “Changed how?”

Nyx considered the question and disliked every answer available to him.

“More certain,” he said finally. “Like she stopped waiting for things to explain themselves and decided they already had.”

Crowe absorbed that in silence. “And when Drautos stepped in?”

Nyx’s mouth flattened. “She didn’t like that either.”

“Didn’t stop it.”

His head turned sharply enough that the look hit before the words did.

Nyx’s head turned sharply enough to make the point before the words did. “Couldn’t,” he said, the edge in his voice coming out before he bothered sanding it down. Then he looked back at the doors and added, flatter, “Or decided not to. Same result from where I’m standing.”

That was closer to the truth.

Lunafreya didn’t strike him as someone who wasted motion, especially not in public. If she’d chosen not to push, that didn’t mean she was comfortable. It meant she’d made a calculation.

Libertus glanced toward the entrance again. “So what’re you actually saying?”

Nyx turned enough to look at him properly. “I’m saying the Oracle didn’t look comfortable being escorted by Drautos.” That part landed more. Cleaner, and less dramatic, but still bad. 

Libertus shifted his weight, some of the looseness leaving his shoulders. “And you’re still out here because…”

Nyx gave him a look that should have saved them both time.

Libertus made a small face. “Right. Orders.”

“Congratulations,” Nyx said. “You continue to identify military structure.”

Libertus ignored that. “And now you’ve been pacing long enough to wear a line into the floor.”

Nyx glanced down at the corridor stones. He scoffed. “You caught the middle of it."

“Middle, huh? Can’t wait to see how you wrap it up.”

Crowe let that die where it deserved to and asked, “What about Drautos?”

Nyx looked at her. “What about him?”

“How did he look?”

“Like Drautos.”

Libertus snorted. “Crystal clear.”

Nyx didn’t smile. “Like everything was exactly where he wanted it.”

Because that was the part that mattered. Drautos always looked composed. That meant nothing. Men like that could take bad news, good news, or a blade to the ribs and use the same expression for all three. It wasn’t the face.  It was the timing. The way he’d stepped in at exactly the moment the shape of things could still be closed. The way he’d given orders cleanly enough that objecting would’ve sounded emotional or insubordinate. The way he’d separated Nyx from the situation under cover of protocol and made it look reasonable.

Nyx had spent too many years around officers not to recognize a move when one was being made.

Crowe watched him for a moment, weighing the edges of what he wasn’t saying. “You trust your read on her more than your read on him.”

“Yeah.”

No hesitation.

Because Lunafreya had been controlled too, but not in the same way. Hers had cost something. He’d seen that much. Drautos’s never did.

Then Libertus, because apparently silence offended him on a personal level, said, “There is another explanation.”

Nyx already disliked the tone. “For what.”

“The look.”

That got his attention. He turned his head slowly enough to make the point obvious.

Libertus grinned, fully committing to being unhelpful. “Maybe she just likes you better.”

Crowe closed her eyes for one long second.

Nyx blinked once.

Slowly.

“…What.”

Libertus kept going, which was mistake number one through six. “I’m just saying. You pull her out of a train wreck, escort her through the city, spend the entire trip glaring at anything with a pulse that gets too close—” he mistook Nyx’s silence for permission to continue. “Compared to Drautos? You probably come off charming.”

“Libertus.”

“A little rough, sure, but some people—”

“Finish that sentence,” Nyx said evenly, “and I’ll test whether Citadel stone cracks before your skull does.”

Libertus’s grin widened. “So that’s a no.”

“Try being less committed to dying stupid.”

Crowe exhaled through her nose. It wasn’t quite a sigh. Might have been the first edge of amusement, but she was too disciplined to let that become a real thing. “Enough.”

Libertus lifted both hands in surrender. “Trying to improve morale.”

“No,” Nyx said. “You’re trying to get hit.”

Libertus let his hands drop, still wearing that irritating expression that said he’d learned something from the exchange and planned to be awful about it later.

Nyx turned back toward the doors and wished, briefly, that the joke had landed nowhere at all, because for half a second his mind had tried to grab onto it. 

Not because the joke had been funny, but because part of Nyx’s brain had tried to take it and run with it anyway. Cheap explanation, though a convenient one. The kind you could throw over a situation like a tarp and pretend it covered anything important. 

He dismissed it almost as fast as it came, jaw tightening.

Lunafreya’s expression in that corridor had not been anything Libertus could laugh off. Not flustered. Not softened. Not caught out in some private little moment he could package into a smirk and a nudge.

It’d been restraint pulled tight enough to hum.

Crowe, who had been watching the corridor with her usual unnerving stillness, shifted first. One hand slipped into the inner seam of her uniform jacket, precise and economical. When she drew it back out, there was something small balanced between her fingers.

She held it toward him.

Nyx glanced over, frowned, and took it from her palm.

A hairpin.

Silver, narrow and cleanly made, the metal shaped with the kind of elegant restraint that said Lucian craftsmanship without needing to announce it. Not ornate for ornament’s sake. Just deliberate. Fine enough to belong to someone of station, solid enough not to be decorative nonsense. It caught the torchlight in one thin line as he turned it between thumb and forefinger.

Recognition hit a second later.

Libertus leaned a little, peering without trying to snatch it. “You still had that?”

“It was meant for the Oracle,” Crowe said.

She folded her now-empty hand behind her back. “When we were set to receive the Niflheim escort, I prepared it as part of the formal welcome.” Her gaze flicked once to the doors, then back ahead. “Appropriate for the occasion. I didn’t get the chance to present it.”

Libertus’s mouth twitched. “You picked out a hairpin.”

Crowe finally looked at him, flat and unimpressed.

“Yes.”

He lifted both brows. “Right. Because when I think ‘diplomatic handoff,’ I think jewelry.”

“It marks intent,” Crowe said.

That cut through the joke cleanly.

Libertus shut up.

Nyx looked back down at the pin.

Crowe was right. This wasn’t just a gift. It was signaling. Recognition, welcome, status, safe conduct: all compressed into something small enough to fit in a hand. A quiet message delivered without needing witnesses: you were expected; you were received properly; from this point on, your presence fell under Lucian protection.

That message had never reached Lunafreya.

Instead it had ended up with him, standing outside a sealed door while Drautos walked her somewhere Nyx knew little about.

His thumb brushed once over the cool metal. Then he slid the pin into the inner lining of his jacket, careful with it despite himself, tucking it into a place where it wouldn’t bend or get knocked loose if things got ugly.

He was aware, immediately, that he’d been too careful.

Libertus noticed too. Nyx could feel the look without turning his head.

To his credit, Libertus didn’t say a word about it.

For a moment, the three of them stood in the corridor with the torchlight throwing long shadows over the stone. Somewhere farther back, two posted guards were doing an admirable job of pretending the Kingsglaive elite weren’t having a silent argument ten yards from a restricted chamber. The ward-lines around the door remained dark and inactive now, the earlier glow gone as if it had never been there.

Libertus exhaled through his nose. “So. We wait for her.”

Nyx kept his eyes on the doors. “For a minute.”

That got a look from both of them.

Libertus angled his head. “A whole minute.”

“Feeling generous.”

Libertus let out the faintest huff of amusement, but it died quickly. He knew Nyx well enough to hear the edge underneath it.

Crowe did not appear amused at all. “And after that?”

Nyx didn’t answer immediately. The answer had been with him from the moment Drautos redirected the escort and left him standing on the wrong side of the problem.

A minute was courtesy.

A minute was compliance.

A minute was something he could point to later if somebody in a better uniform than his decided to make this about insubordination. He could say he obeyed. He could say he held position. He could say he gave the order the respect it had technically earned.

After that, sticking to it became something else.

Not discipline. Not professionalism.

Just stupidity with a cleaner name.

He flexed his hand once at his side, fingers opening and closing in a slow, controlled motion before going still again.

“After that,” he said, voice level, “I decide whether the order still deserves following.”

Libertus studied him for a second. “That usually goes badly.”

Nyx cut him a glance. “Usually goes loudly.”

“Comforting.”

“It’s not for you.”

That almost pulled a grin out of Libertus, but only almost.

Crowe’s gaze stayed on the entrance. “You really think this is that serious.”

Nyx’s expression didn’t shift. “I think Drautos wanted me out of the room.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“No,” Nyx said. “It’s worse.” He let that sit a moment, then added, “She saw it too.”

“The Oracle?”

Nyx nodded once. “She didn’t say it, but she didn’t have to.” His mouth flattened. “She doesn’t like him.”

That was the simplest shape of it, and still not enough. Like was too light a word for what had passed across Lunafreya’s face.

It had been restraint, yes, but not social discomfort, not noble irritation, not the usual polished dislike people wore at court and called civility. It had looked closer to judgment. The kind held in check because letting it loose in the wrong place would cost too much.

Nyx had seen soldiers hold themselves that way before a strike. Had seen survivors do it when the thing in front of them wore a familiar face and they were deciding, in real time, whether to trust instinct over orders.

He didn’t know what Lunafreya knew. He only knew she had not wanted to be alone with Drautos, and Drautos had made sure she was.

Libertus’s voice came quieter now, the humor burned off completely. “If you’re wrong, this gets ugly fast.”

Nyx’s eyes stayed on the doors. “If I’m wrong, I get chewed out, written up, maybe thrown on something miserable for a week.”

“And if you’re right?”

“If I’m right,” he decided, “then I already waited too long.”

Silence settled over the corridor after that.

Not empty silence. Not passive silence, either. It held shape now; weight.

The torches hissed softly in their brackets, flames bowing and rising with drafts too small to feel on skin. Somewhere far off in the Citadel, metal rang once against stone and was swallowed by distance. The guards at the far post held their spears and looked very resolutely anywhere but here. Nobody wanted to be the first one to acknowledge what this had become.

The doors gave them nothing.

No sound from within. No returning glow from the wards. No movement at the seams.

Nyx stood motionless, but stillness on him was never peace. It was stored momentum. A held line. The brief, brittle pause before a decision turned into action and everyone nearby had to live with it.

He knew this feeling too well.

The breath before breach.

The second before someone shouted go.

That narrow stretch of time where plans, rules, command structure, everything neat and official, started losing ground to instinct.

One minute, he’d said.

Reasonable, restrained, and almost obedient. He could even pretend that had been the point if he had never been built for the kind of obedience that asked him to stand under Lucian stone, remember the look on Lunafreya’s face, and trust that a sealed door meant the danger on the other side would stay polite enough to wait its turn.

The longer he stood there, the less convincing that became.

When he spoke again, it was barely above a murmur.

“One minute.”

Not a reminder to them. A countdown to himself.

And if those doors stayed shut when it ran out, then protocol was about to discover firsthand, quickly, and to its inconvenience, how little comfort Nyx Ulric found in standing still.

[proper-goodnight]

Collateral Gods (The Oracle and the King Chpt. 10)

GIF by ffxvcaps

Collateral Gods - The King and the Oracle (10)

Summary:

She wasn’t just a symbol, paraded around for show. She spoke to gods. They listened. If the wrong hands forced her, or if fear pushed her, she could bring down firestorms and calamities that no wall in Insomnia could keep at bay. The Ring of the Lucii, the one thing keeping Niflheim from storming the gates outright, could slip from Regis’s grasp with a single misstep.

If the gods decided to follow her lead, even the Empire wouldn’t be safe from the fallout.

Fandom: Kingsglaive: Final Fantasy XV

Pairings: Lunafreya Nox Fleuret x Nyx Ulric

Type: Multi-Chap

Words: ~5k

The doors opened, not with a groan, but with a measured yielding of weight, and warding. Stone drew back beneath the command of old Lucian magic until a narrow passage became a sanctioned entrance. The light from the sigils washed pale gold across the corridor floor, then faded into the chamber beyond. Lunafreya stepped through beside Drautos without breaking stride. She kept her hands folded loosely before her, her posture straight, her expression composed in the way years of court life had taught her to be. Grace was often mistaken for ease. Calm, for trust. She had learned long ago to let people make both mistakes.

The chamber ahead was cooler than the corridor, the air carrying the mineral stillness of old stone and the faint metallic trace of magic recently disturbed. High walls disappeared upward into shadow, broken by carved recesses and ancient Lucian motifs that caught the torchlight in fragments: lines of kings, of swords, of sacred charge rendered in weathered precision. It was a place built to remind anyone entering it that they stood inside history, and under judgment.

Her sandals had made almost no sound against the floor. Drautos’ boots had. Somehow, in the present moment, it felt almost fitting. 

She did not look back to him, and that required more effort than she allowed herself to show. The awareness pressed against her senses in a way that had little to do with proximity, and everything to do with what she now carried. The power of the astral did not rest quietly. It moved, listened, and answered in ways that were not always bound to intention.

Heat gathered beneath her skin, subtle at first, no more than the echo of a breath held too long, then sharper when her thoughts strayed too close to the truth of him. 

Inhale. Steady.

Exhale. Contain.

If she allowed herself to fully acknowledge him, there was a very real possibility that the power answering her would not distinguish between justice, and impulse. Flame did not ask whether it was welcome. It simply followed the path offered to it. Part of her, some quieter, less forgiving part, would not have mourned if it had chosen him, but that was precisely why she forced it down. 

She would not become careless with something meant to protect, not even for him. 

She drew it back, carefully, not suppressing it entirely, but guiding it into stillness, and into something contained and watchful rather than immediate and consuming. The heat receded by degrees, reluctant, like a tide pulled from shore before it had finished breaking.

“You have been very quiet, your Highness.” His voice came from just behind her shoulder. 

Torchlight along the walls bent subtly inward, as though drawn by an unseen current. Not enough to alarm anyone else. Not enough to break the illusion of stillness, though enough.

Inhale. 

Steady.

Exhale.

Contain. 

“I am on my way to speak with His Majesty,” she said softly, resisting the urge to ground her teeth. “Quiet does not seem unnatural.” 

Drautos inclined his head. “No, but you carry yourself as though you are considering something significant.”

Lunafreya regarded him for a moment, her gaze steady, untroubled on the surface. The last traces of heat beneath her skin settled fully into stillness, forcibly disciplined into silence. 

“You are fortunate,” she said gently, “that I am.” The words were offered without edge, and without visible reproach, but for the briefest instance, something in the space between them tightened. 

Drautos held her gaze for a fraction longer than before. Long enough to acknowledge that he understood the shape of what she had said, even if she had not spoken it plainly. Then, as if nothing at all had passed between them, he inclined his head. “We are both exercising admirable discipline, it would seem.”

The corridor deepened as they continued, the architecture narrowing with quiet intention, guiding them toward the inner chamber. The air grew cooler, threaded with the subtle weight of layered wards. She felt them differently now, each one a distinct presence against her awareness, brushing against the power she carried as though testing its boundaries.

She let her focus shift; not away from Drautos entirely, but outward, toward the absence she had left behind.

She did not look back towards the sealed corridor, but Nyx remained present in her thoughts all the same. She could imagine him with uncomfortable clarity: shoulders set, jaw working once in irritation before he forced it still, the restless energy in him pressed beneath discipline until it had nowhere else to go. Perhaps pacing after all propriety had thinned beyond usefulness, or perhaps not moving at all, which for him was often the clearer sign of agitation. 

The perfect Crownsguard glaive at a glance.

A storm of contained motion beneath it.

The thought drew the faintest softening at the edge of her expression, there and gone before it could become visible.

He would dislike being excluded from this. Nyx bore restriction poorly when he sensed danger near, and could not put himself between it, and the people that he had chosen to protect. His instincts were too quick, too physical to accept stillness with any peace. He was not reckless in the careless sense that others sometimes assumed, but instead, there was a method in him. Observation, and patience when required, but he trusted movement more than waiting, and trusted action more than being told to stand aside, and believe that others had matters in hand. 

He would have seen enough in her face, and in Drautos’ manner, to know that this was not a simple audience. Lunafreya had long since learned how to make herself unreadable. She had learned to give them nothing. To let her expression settle into calm so complete it became a kind of barrier; polite, distant, and impenetrable.

Courts had mistaken it for serenity.

Kings for composure.

Enemies for ignorance.

All of them wrong.

She could stand before men who carried violence in their intentions and offer them nothing but grace. She could listen to falsehoods without reacting, and could measure danger without letting it touch her voice. Even now, with power coiled beneath her skin, and with knowledge she could not safely speak aloud, she held herself steady enough that none would suspect the depth of it.

Except, it seemed, where Nyx Ulric was concerned.

The realization was not sudden, nor entirely unwelcome. It came in fragments, small moments she would not have noticed, once. The way her gaze lingered half a second longer than it should when he spoke, the quiet softening at the edges of her composure when his irreverence slipped through the formality of a room that demanded silence, and the subtle shift in her attention, unbidden, whenever he entered a space she occupied.

It was… inconvenient.

And yet, Nyx did not look at her the way others did. He saw her, yes, but not only as the Oracle, not only as something to be protected or deferred to. 

Nyx did not fully understand how transparent some of his habits had become to her, though he likely believed he concealed them better than he did. He had the instincts of a man long accustomed to being watched by enemies and measured by superiors. He hid discomfort beneath irreverence, fatigue beneath restlessness, concern beneath a dry remark and a sideways look. When truly angry, he grew quieter, not louder. When frightened for someone else, his attention sharpened until it seemed almost effortless, every shift in the room finding him at once. 

And when he was forced into stillness against his own judgment, one hand would often flex once at his side, as though reaching for a weapon not yet drawn. 

He had done exactly that in the corridor.

There was an honesty in him that disrupted the careful balance she maintained elsewhere. Not reckless, nor thoughtless. Simply… unguarded in ways that made guarding herself more difficult in return.

She had not liked leaving him behind, though she had known she could not contest it without drawing more attention than the moment allowed. Drautos had framed the order cleanly. The sort of instruction no one could reasonably challenge without seeming emotional or insubordinate.

Regardless, the shape of it had been deliberate. Separate the glaive from the oracle, and strip the room of the one man most likely to act on instinct rather than protocol. Drautos rarely wasted an opportunity when control could be gained through the appearance of order.

She knew this all too well. 

Not Drautos, not truly. That name was a uniform like any other, a thing worn for function. She did not allow the knowledge to rise visibly in her face. Shock, fear, revulsion: those were indulgences best reserved for safer company. Here, they would only sharpen his interest.

So, she walked beside him as if she did not know what looked out through those eyes, as if she did not recognize the violence hidden beneath practiced command, and the inhuman patience dressed in the habits of a soldier. The deceit ran deep, but not so deep that it vanished entirely. There was always something in such men that gave them away; not in what they said, but in the spaces where a human response should have been, and was not.

They passed beneath a vaulted arch where the stone changed color, dark gray giving way to a black-veined marble that reflected light in blurred, shifting impressions. Her own figure moved there in fragments: white, gold, the pale suggestion of her hair across one shoulder. Drautos beside her was all hard edges and darkened metal, a shape that never seemed to soften no matter how the light struck it.

There had been a time in childhood when Lunafreya believed deception announced itself plainly, and that those who served darkness would wear it openly, that cruelty would always distort the face that housed it. Experience had taught her otherwise. Evil often preferred manners. It borrowed honorable names, loyal gestures, and familiar uniforms. It sat at tables where prayers had been spoken, and gave orders in measured voices while ruin gathered just beyond sight.

She thought of Tenebrae then, not directly, but in sensation: the hush before a decision, the instinctive understanding that danger was nearest when it made itself seem inevitable. Duty had taught her to walk toward such moments with open eyes. Fear remained, but it was not the master of her. Nor was anger.

Still, when she thought of Nyx left outside those doors by Drautos’s design, something inside her sharpened.

Not because Nyx needed guarding from slight. He had borne worse things than insult, and with more resilience than most, but because Drautos had assessed correctly that removing him changed the shape of the room. That was what troubled her.

Drautos glanced toward her then, as though sensing the direction of her thought by the stillness of her silence.

“Recent reports mention an incident outside the city,” he said, tone even, almost conversational. “A derailment. Coincidental timing with your arrival into Insomnia.”

Lunafreya did not immediately respond. She allowed a single step to pass, then another. She let the words settle, let the shape of them unfold for what they were; not inquiry, but placement. A test, lightly framed. An invitation to speak, or to misstep. The wards along the walls hummed faintly at the edge of her awareness. The power beneath her skin stirred in response, not with heat this time, but with a quieter alertness, as though listening with her.

She inclined her head slightly, as if acknowledging the information rather than the implication. “I had heard something of it,” she said. “An unfortunate occurrence.”

“Unfortunate,” Drautos repeated, his voice smooth, though the word lingered a fraction too long to be idle. “Curious, still,” he continued, “that such an incident would have posed a significant risk to any travelers in the vicinity.”

Lunafreya let her breath settle evenly before answering, her tone unhurried, her posture unchanged. “It would.”

“You were not delayed.”

“I was not.”

Drautos’s gaze remained on her, measuring not her words, but the space around them. He was not looking for contradictions. He searched for imbalance, and for the subtle shift that came when truth bent too far under pressure.

“You are fortunate, then,” he said, “that you arrived safely.”

The words were carefully chosen, and deliberately neutral. So were hers. Lunafreya turned her head just enough to meet his gaze again, her expression calm, her eyes clear; too clear, perhaps, for someone meant to be merely relieved.

“Yes,” she said softly. “It is fortunate.” Another step carried them forward, the corridor narrowing almost imperceptibly as the inner chambers drew closer. “And for more than one reason.” The addition was slight, almost an afterthought, even if it was anything but. She felt the shift in him, not in movement, but in attention. A stillness that sharpened rather than softened. The kind that belonged to a man recalculating. 

She attempted not to relish in it. 

Drautos regarded her for a moment longer than necessary, measuring the layers beneath the words, and picking them apart, piece by agonizingly little piece.

“The Crownsguard were deployed to secure the surrounding routes,” Drautos continued, as if the conversation had not shifted. “One Glaive in particular was ordered to maintain distance from that line prior to the incident.” The shift in subject was not accidental. “Nyx Ulric. He has a tendency to interpret instruction… flexibly.”

Lunafreya did not break stride. Her hands remained folded before her, her posture unaltered, her expression serene in the way that made people underestimate how much she noticed. “Does he?”

“He does,” Drautos replied. “Which makes his presence in the Citadel alongside you noteworthy.” In other words, not coincidental. 

“I arrived within the city without incident,” she said. “As for the Glaive, I was met by them upon entry. That is their duty.”

Drautos’s boots echoed once more behind her, the sound measured, and thoughtful.

“The timing is convenient,” he said.

“Yes,” Lunafreya agreed. She allowed a brief pause, just enough to suggest consideration rather than evasion. “It is also fortunate.” That word again. She could feel his attention sharpen. “For you,” she added gently.

The corridor seemed to still around them. Her gaze remained forward, fixed on the doors ahead, on the threshold that would take her beyond this conversation and into one that mattered more.

“For the Crown,” she said. “For Lucis.” A breath. “For the stability of what remains.” Her tone did not change. “If I had not arrived safely,” she continued, “the consequences would have extended far beyond a single incident on a railway.”

She did not say you would not have wanted that.

Drautos seemed to understand implications well enough. 

“And you will find,” Lunafreya added, her voice soft enough to pass for courtesy, yet carried with deliberate precision, “that the same is true of Nyx Ulric.” She did not allow Drautos the space to interrupt, nor the opportunity to redirect the conversation into safer territory.  “He is not easily replaced,” she continued, her cadence unhurried, as though she spoke of something broadly understood rather than something she was choosing to make plain. “Not in skill. Not in loyalty.”

She turned her head just enough to meet his gaze, direct in a way that refused dismissal. For the briefest moment, something beneath her composure shifted. Not enough to break it. Only enough to let something truer surface through the stillness she maintained.

A faint glint of gold caught in her eyes, like light striking too sharply against something deeper than reflection.

“And not without consequence.”

She let the words settle between them without embellishment. There was no need to sharpen them further. Meaning did not require force when it had already been understood.

Nyx was not incidental, and removing him was not without cost.

Their gazes held a moment longer, measuring what surfaced in response and, more importantly, what did not. There it was again: that absence where something human should have been, without irritation, or offense. No instinctive resistance to being challenged, however subtly.

She had expected as much.

“Your concern for the Kingsglaive is… noted.”

Lunafreya Nox Fleuret inclined her head in quiet acknowledgment, the motion as precise as the tone he had chosen. Neither deferential nor dismissive. She let the silence return after that, allowing the conversation to close where it stood. There was nothing further to gain from pressing. 

She focused her gaze forward now, following the path lit for them by wall sconces set in iron brackets worked with the Lucian crest. The flames moved in slender drafts, bowing and rising again. Somewhere farther ahead, she could feel the subtle pressure of layered wards, older than the doors, older perhaps than the current king, threaded into the architecture with reverence and necessity alike. Insomnia had a way of listening to stone, and she had spent enough nights among sacred places to know when a room had been asked to remember its purpose.

This place remembered.

Perhaps that was why she felt no comfort in it.

Sacred spaces did not guarantee the righteousness of all who entered them.

Drautos’s pace remained exact, neither hurrying nor delaying. It occurred to Lunafreya that he was giving her every outward form of respect while controlling every practical element of the exchange: the route, the guard placement, the separation, the sequence of access. To an observer, he would appear the ideal escort.

To her, it felt like being walked through the center of a trap that had not yet decided when to close.

Lunafreya lowered her eyes briefly, not in submission, but in thought. She felt the weight of the Ring City, of covenants, of old promises and the dead who had carried them before her. She had been taught since childhood that duty was not a thing one performed when circumstances were fair. Duty was what remained when fairness failed. It was the offering made after comfort had already been surrendered.

She could bear this walk. She could bear Drautos’s nearness, his false civility, the tension of knowing what wore his face. She could bear the uncertainty of the audience ahead.

What she could not do was forget the cost if she misstepped.

Though not for herself.

The final doors opened more quietly than the last. No visible command preceded them this time. Only the low recognition of old mechanisms yielding to older authority, and the heavy panels parting inward with solemn precision, revealing the throne room beyond in widening bands of gold and shadow.

Lunafreya crossed the threshold without faltering.

The last time she had stood in this room, she had been younger in ways that had very little to do with years.

Tenebrae had not yet been reduced to memory and occupation. Noctis had still been a boy with solemn eyes and a child’s stubbornness. The future had seemed dangerous even then, but not yet narrowed into what it had since become: obligation sharpened into inevitability. Inevitability that she now carried with her like a second pulse. 

The chamber was still vast in the way only old seats of power could be; less designed for grandeur than for permanence. The ceiling rose high into darkness, supported by towering columns veined with pale stone, and worked through with Lucian iconography so ancient it had lost any need to proclaim itself. Torches and standing braziers cast a steady amber light across the floor, where polished black marble reflected the room in muted fragments. At the far end, beneath the weight of banners and the carved lineage of kings set into the wall behind it, stood the throne of Lucis.

And before it:

King Regis.

He had not remained seated.

By the time she entered fully into the room, he had already risen from the throne with a swiftness that suggested instinct rather than ceremony, one hand braced briefly against the armrest before he stepped down from the dais. Age and exhaustion had marked him more deeply than when she had last stood before him in person. There was more silver at his temples now, more strain at the corners of his eyes, and the burden he carried no longer concealed itself behind posture alone. It lived in the set of his shoulders, in the careful economy of his movement, and in the quiet weariness that even a king could not entirely command into invisibility.

Still, when he looked at her, warmth broke through it.

“Lunafreya.”

There was no title in it at first. Only her name, spoken with unmistakable relief.

For a moment, something in her chest tightened with an emotion so immediate it nearly undid the careful stillness that she had maintained since entering the Citadel. 

There was a fleeting dissonance to the sight of him, so subtle it might have passed for memory misaligned with time. The way he stood there, solid in the torchlight, did not match something quieter, and colder that lingered at the edges of her thoughts. A shape of absence where he should have been. A memory that did not fully surface, and only pressed faintly against her awareness like a bruise not yet touched.

Her breath caught, almost imperceptibly.

For the briefest instant, her gaze lingered, not on the crown, nor the throne behind him, but on him as a man, as though confirming something she had already known once, and lost.

Then it passed.

Not gone, but set aside with practiced care, folded neatly into the same hidden place where she kept all things that could not be allowed to exist in the open.

Drautos stopped several paces behind and to the side, where a man in his position ought to stand. Present enough to claim propriety, absent enough to suggest discretion.

Lunafreya felt him without looking at him. The knowledge of him stood at the edge of the moment like a stain she refused to acknowledge.

Regis came down the last step toward her, and though he did not move with haste, there was nothing calculated in it. Nothing of courtly distance, or political restraint. He looked at her as one greets someone long prayed for and too long denied.

Lunafreya stopped several paces before him and inclined her head with all due grace, though there was nothing merely formal in the gesture. “Your Majesty.” 

The title sounded thinner than the moment warranted.

“You are here,” he said, as though the fact still required confirmation. “Safe.” His gaze moved over her, not scrutinizing, but searching, as though to reassure himself that she was indeed standing before him whole and unharmed. Then his hand lifted, almost unconsciously, toward her shoulder. 

Lunafreya stepped back.

It was slight. Barely more than a measured withdrawal, graceful enough that a less attentive observer might have mistaken it for the continuation of a curtsy denied by posture alone, but it was unmistakable.

Regis stilled. Only for an instant. Only long enough for the motion to register, and for the silence after it to take shape.

Lunafreya hated that it had happened. Not because she regretted it, her body had acted before diplomacy could intervene, but because she saw at once that he had understood more than the movement itself. His hand lowered slowly, without offense, though something in his expression altered. Not wounded, precisely. Not yet, but attentive in a new way.

She let her own hands remain loosely folded before her, more to steady the echo left behind in her nerves than from any need of form.

“It has been a long time,” she said softly. The words were true, but insufficient. She held his gaze then, and the composure she offered was genuine, if carefully governed. “You look well.”

That, at least, brought the ghost of humor to his face.

“Well,” Regis repeated, dry enough that the irony needed no emphasis, “you are sparing with your opinions. Though I admit, I had expected your first question to be of Noctis.”

The name moved through her more deeply than she allowed to show.

Noctis.

She remembered him not as the prince court portraits would one day preserve, but as a boy in fragments: solemn and stubborn by turns, wary until he was not, carrying loneliness with the uncertain pride of someone too young to have language for it. She remembered the bond formed between them in pain and miracle, the quiet, impossible nearness of souls brushed together by the gods’ design before either of them had understood the cost of such things.

And then years. Silence where life should have been. Distance made political, then necessary, then nearly unbearable in its permanence.

For the briefest instant, the formal architecture of the room seemed to recede, and she was aware not of the throne, nor of the wards in the stone, nor of Drautos standing behind and to one side like an anchored threat, but only of the king before her, and of the son he had spoken of with that careful, aching lightness reserved for those one loves most when the subject has become too heavy to bear directly.

A softer expression touched her features before she could prevent it. Not enough to unmake her poise. Only enough to make it human. For a fraction of a moment, her breath did not follow the rhythm she had set for it.

Inhale. 

Steady.

Exhale.

Contain. 

“I would not presume upon his time so soon,” she said.

Regis’s eyes remained on her, patient and perceptive, seeing more than she had wished to reveal.

“But I find,” she continued, her voice quieter now, “that I wished first to see you for myself.”

Something in his face gentled further at that. Weariness remained, but it was briefly overtaken by something older and more personal; memory, perhaps, or gratitude, or simply the rare comfort of being regarded not only as a king, but as himself.

“You always were kind,” he said.

Lunafreya did not answer immediately. Kindness was not the word she would have chosen for what had drawn her here, or for what necessity still demanded of them all, but neither did she reject it. There had been a time, long ago now, when she had known him in a gentler world than this one. Before treaties and invasions and sacred burdens had hardened every meeting into something weighted with consequence.

“I remember Your Majesty differently,” she said at last, and there was the faintest trace of warmth beneath the formality. “Not seated on a throne.”

Regis’s smile became real then, if only slightly.  “No,” he said. “Usually chasing after a boy with no respect for royal dignity.” He scoffed. “Or trying to convince him,” he added, “that climbing the outer walls of the Citadel was not a mark of courage.”

Despite everything, a small breath of amusement escaped her. It did not reach laughter, but it came close enough to soften the space between them. “And did he ever believe you?”

“Noctis?” Regis’s tone turned almost fond in its resignation. “Rarely.”

Inhale. 

Steady.

Exhale.

Contain. 

Inhale. 

Steady.

Exhale–

“He is not here,” he said, after a moment. “You knew that, I assume.”

“I am to meet him in Altissia,” she continued, her tone composed, the shape of the future laid out as it had always been intended. “It seemed unwise to disrupt that arrangement without necessity.”

“Unwise,” he repeated softly.

Lunafreya inclined her head slightly. “The Covenant demands its course be kept.”

She was aware again of the throne room around them: the stillness of the guards at the perimeter, the old weight pressed into the architecture, and the presence she had not forgotten even for this brief exchange. Drautos had remained at an exact distance, neither intruding nor retreating, every inch the disciplined commander. To anyone else, his silence might have suggested deference. She knew that she was being observed. 

Regis noticed the shift in her attention. His own gaze flicked, almost imperceptibly, past her shoulder and then returned. Whatever warmth had surfaced in his expression did not vanish, but it settled into something more guarded.

His voice, when he spoke again, remained gentle, though its cadence changed. “Come,” he said. “You need not stand there as though this is an audience among strangers.” He gestured toward the space below the dais, nearer the throne but not before it. An invitation, not a summons.

Lunafreya moved forward as bid, each step measured, her dirty, white skirts whispering faintly over the polished floor. She stopped where propriety and instinct both permitted. Nearer now, Regis seemed older still, though no less resolute for it. The years had not diminished him so much as compressed him, into discipline, into endurance, into something held together by duty long after lesser men would have yielded.

His gaze searched hers once more, more quietly this time.

“You are troubled,” he said.

Lunafreya lowered her eyes for a moment, then lifted them again. “There is much to speak of.”

“In good time,” Regis assured, and there was that dry humor again, subdued but intact. “Though I had hoped, selfishly perhaps, for one conversation in this place that did not begin with the weight of the world standing in attendance.”

His words were light. His eyes were not.

“Your Majesty,” Drautos said then from behind her, his voice cutting cleanly into the space at exactly the wrong moment while sounding perfectly respectful. “The Oracle requested immediate audience. Given the circumstances of her arrival, I thought it important not to delay.”

Lunafreya did not turn.

Regis did.

The shift was small, but unmistakable. Something in him cooled, not into distrust, but into kingship. The father, the friend, the man who had stepped down from his throne to greet her receded behind the ruler who had survived too long by hearing what was said and what was inserted into the room under cover of formality.

“Drautos,” he continued, the name carrying quiet authority now, sharpened by intent. “You have seen the Oracle safely to us. You may leave us.”

Drautos did not move at once. It lasted less than a second; so brief it could have been dismissed as the natural delay between command and compliance. Lunafreya felt it. Not in motion, but in attention. His focus lingered. Not on the king, but on her. Committing something to memory, or recalculating a variable that had shifted without his consent.

Then, precisely as expected, he inclined his head.

“As you wish, Your Majesty.”

His boots sounded once against the stone as he turned, then again as he withdrew, controlled to the last step. The doors did not close immediately behind him.  Only when the echo of his departure had fully dissolved into the vastness of the chamber did the silence settle properly.

Regis let the silence rest a moment too long for comfort. Then he turned fully back to Lunafreya, and in that movement there was a decision. Whatever Drautos had interrupted, whatever had been veiled beneath formality and timing and careful intrusion, he was now setting aside.

“You have it now,” he said quietly. “My audience. My attention. Speak freely.”

The words should have brought ease. In another place, perhaps they would have.

But the chamber did not feel empty simply because Drautos had gone.

Lunafreya could still feel the wards in the stone, old and wakeful, layered into the walls with the kind of purpose that outlived the men who built them. She could feel the power beneath her own skin answering in restrained stillness, not at rest, but listening. The room held too much history, too much intent, to mistake silence for safety.

And beyond that, beyond stone, distance, and every visible boundary meant to divide one space from another, there remained the faint, inescapable thread of awareness pulling at the edge of her thoughts.

Nyx.

Not near enough to see. Not near enough to intervene.

Though not absent. The realization settled in her with quiet certainty. He had been left outside the room, outside the audience, outside whatever had been arranged here, but not outside consequence. Whatever was set into motion now would reach him, one way or another. 

[proper-goodnight]

Collateral Gods (Threshold of Kings Chpt. 9)

Collateral Gods - Threshold of Kings (09)

Summary:

She wasn’t just a symbol, paraded around for show. She spoke to gods. They listened. If the wrong hands forced her, or if fear pushed her, she could bring down firestorms and calamities that no wall in Insomnia could keep at bay. The Ring of the Lucii, the one thing keeping Niflheim from storming the gates outright, could slip from Regis’s grasp with a single misstep.

If the gods decided to follow her lead, even the Empire wouldn’t be safe from the fallout.

Fandom: Kingsglaive: Final Fantasy XV

Pairings: Lunafreya Nox Fleuret x Nyx Ulric

Type: Multi-Chap

Words: ~11k

The further that the two of them pushed into the inner districts, the more the city shed its rougher edges. 

In the outer sectors, the divide was obvious. Outer Insomnia had stopped bothering to hide its damage; patched concrete in mismatched shades, and layers of quick fixes stacked over older, failing ones. Wiring ran where it could as opposed to where it should, strung between buildings in loose, sagging lines that sparked when the weather turned. 

Those were the streets that Nyx was familiar with. He knew which corners flooded when it rained, and which alleys cut time off a route if you didn’t mind stepping over things best left unexamined. He knew which vendors watered down their stock, and which ones didn’t because they couldn’t afford the reputation hit. There was a rhythm to it in a way that was loud, crowded, and alive in a way that didn’t ask permission to be. 

The people in Outer Insomnia moved because they had to. Standing still meant getting swallowed by everything trying to survive in the same space. You learned fast how to navigate it, how to shoulder through without starting a fight, and how to read a glance before it turned into a problem. 

And you learned, just as fast, not to take anything at face value. 

Out there, someone would clap you on the back like a friend, ask how your day was going, and if you didn’t check your pockets after, that was on you. It wasn’t exactly cruelty. It wasn’t even really personal.

It was just how things worked. 

Growing up how Nyx had, he’d learned it fast. It wasn’t hardship. Simply baseline. 

Compared to the inner districts, there was honesty in it, at least. Nothing pretended to be better than it was. There were no polished edges, and no illusions about who had power, and who didn’t. You saw it, dealt with it, and kept moving. He preferred it.

Even if it meant sleeping with one eye open and a knife within reach.

Nyx exhaled quietly through his nose, the reality of those streets looming behind him as the Citadel loomed ahead in stark contrast. The buildings here didn’t just rise, but aligned. Clean, deliberate lines of polished stone, and reinforced glass, every surface reflecting light in sharp, controlled angles that felt less like design, and more like intent. Nothing here sagged, nothing was patched, and no seams were visible where someone had made do with what they had. 

Things were built right the first time, or torn down and replaced until they were. 

Nyx’s gaze moved without lingering, tracking reflections as much as the street itself. Glass storefronts, polished metal fixtures, and even the sheen of a passing transport turned into a mirror if you knew how to use it. There were no available cracks, and no blind spots. Its people didn’t drift with subtlety in the way they did in the outer districts. Everyone moved like they’d already decided where they were going and how long it would take to get there. Heads forward, shoulders squared, and conversation clipped down to the essentials, kept low enough not to carry. 

Out in the sectors, you could disappear if you knew how. Here, you were seen. 

His jaw tightened as his eyes swept the street again, automatically cataloguing distances, the subtle shifts in attention from passersby. No one stared outright, but it was the glances that mattered; the ones that lingered a second too long before snapping forward again. 

He had known that he didn’t fit, even in a Glaive uniform, and if he didn’t, then he knew for damn sure that Lunafreya didn’t, either. 

He adjusted his pace without breaking stride, slipping into the flow around them as if he’d been a part of it from the start. Not faster, because fast drew eyes, and not slow, because slow made you an obstacle. The trick was to look like you had somewhere to be, and no reason for anyone to question it. 

His shoulders set just enough, posture shifting into something more neutral, less Glaive, more civilian-adjacent. It never quite fit right on him, but for the moment, it just had to pass. Beside him, Lunafreya matched the change instantly without hesitation. She didn’t so much as glance to him for confirmation. 

He didn’t look at her directly, but his awareness of her sharpened all the same. The way she carried herself hadn’t changed, but there was a subtle shift now. Less like she was moving through the city, more like she was reading it. Learning it fast if she didn’t already know it. 

Ahead sat the Citadel. Nyx spotted it before he meant to, his gaze catching on the pale stone that cut clean through the skyline like it had something to prove. It didn’t just rise above the district, but claimed it. Sharp edges, and impossible height, every surface caught the light that felt more imposed than simply built. 

As if the city hadn’t grown around it so much as been forced to yield. 

His eyes tracked the lines without lingering, mapping the way everything fed back toward it. Roads curved, not obviously, not enough for anyone to notice unless they were looking for it, but they did. Sightlines, too. You could stand anywhere in this district and, sooner or later, your view would pull back to the same place. 

It made sense, being the center of gravity as well as the center of power. It existed with reason, and they didn’t invite people like him in without one. For the time being, he had the biggest reason possible. 

He slowed as they approached a cross street, timing it without breaking stride. A group of uniformed workers crossed ahead of them, clustered just enough to break up their silhouettes, just disorganized enough to pass as background.

Nyx angled left, subtle, using the movement as cover instead of continuing straight toward the main approach.

Which was exactly where they didn’t want to go.From this angle, he could see it clearly anyway. Broad steps led up to the main entrance, open space designed to leave anyone approaching exposed long before they reached the doors. Crownsguard stationed in clean rotations, their positioning tight and deliberate in a way that offered no gaps, and no overlaps. 

There were Glaives, too. 

He didn’t slow, nor look back, rather shifted course. 

The side street that he cut into ran parallel to the main route. Narrower and less maintained; not in disrepair, but less important. It was the kind of path that people overlooked unless they had a reason not to. Here, foot traffic thinned out almost immediately, the steady hum of the main thoroughfare fading into something more contained. 

“…This is where it stops being public,” he said quietly, more for her benefit than his own. His voice didn’t carry far here, but he kept it low anyway out of habit. 

She stayed beside him, her presence steady, but unhurried. 

“This kind of route,” he added after a second, “doesn’t show up on anything official. Still gets used, but mostly by people who don’t want to be seen using it.”

Or, more notably, by people who weren’t supposed to be here in the first place…

He didn’t say that part out loud. 

The street narrowed further ahead, the buildings closing in just enough to break up long sightlines, shadows stretching where the light couldn’t quite reach. His gaze flicked back once, quick, checking their rear out of reflex. There was nothing obvious that he could see, but here, it didn’t mean much. 

The density at the Citadel alone was enough to tell him something was off. Glaives didn’t cluster like that unless they’d been told to, and Drautos didn’t tighten the leash without a reason.

Which meant either something had already happened, or it was about to.

“No direct routes,” Nyx said under his breath, just enough for her to catch it without it carrying. His eyes never stopped moving, tracking corners, windows, the rhythm of patrol patterns bleeding in from the main approach. “Front’s locked down. Secondary entrances’ll be covered too.”

“I expected as much,” Lunafreya replied. Her gaze flicked once toward the Citadel, brief, and measured before settling forward again. “You have another way.” It wasn’t a question. 

“... I’ve got a few,” he answered. He neglected to tell her that most of them were the kind that you didn’t use unless you had to, or that “a few” usually meant “none of them good”.

He angled them off again, deeper into the service paths, where the streets narrowed and the city’s polish started to thin. Not decay, there never would be this close to the Citadel, but the edges showed here. The parts no one bothered to make look perfect: Maintenance lanes, utility access. The in-between spaces.

“You ever been inside?” He asked after a moment, the question coming out more casual than he felt.

“The Citadel?” Lunafreya clarified.

“Yeah.”

“... No.” There was that hesitation again, the kind of pause in her answer that made Nyx second guess every decision that he’d made thus far. Had he the time, and the patience, he may have called her out on it. For now, he didn’t. 

“You have,” she assumed when he didn’t immediately answer. 

“Couple times,” he said, shrugging one shoulder like it didn’t matter. His mouth twitched faintly, humor pulling thin and sharp at the edge of it. “Never for anything worth remembering.”

That was the clean version of it at least. The truth sat a little heavier. 

Standing at attention in rooms too big for the number of people in them, every word measured, every movement watched, waiting while someone with more rank and less patience decided how badly he’d screwed up, or how close he’d come to it.

The way that Drautos looked at him when he was about to make a point was forever ingrained into his mind, and how often he’d been the example in certain scenarios. 

“Let’s just say,” Nyx added after a beat, tone flattening back into something more neutral, “I’m familiar with the layout.”

Which was an understatement. 

He turned them again, cutting into a narrower stretch that dipped just enough to break the line of sight from the main corridor behind them. Shadows pooled here, not deep, but enough to blur edges if you didn’t look too hard.

His pace adjusted automatically, matching the tighter space, the quieter atmosphere. Every step was measured without looking like it was.

“Service access runs along the east side,” he flicked a glance toward a recessed loading bay they passed, then to the overhead fixtures lining the corridor beyond. “Glaives use it when we’re not supposed to be seen.” Which was more often than anyone bothered admitting. 

Lunafreya absorbed that without comment, her gaze moving; not aimlessly, but with a kind of quiet precision that hadn’t been there earlier. Watching the same things he was, even if she didn’t know the systems behind them yet.

“You trust these routes,” she said.

“I trust that most people don’t think about them.”

They stepped out into a wider service corridor that traced the outer boundary of the Citadel district, and the shift was immediate; an area with less people, and more structure. 

The atmosphere was different here; tighter, and more strictly controlled. It was a space that existed more for function than comfort. Utility conduits lined the walls, sealed panels breaking up the otherwise smooth surfaces at regular intervals. Overhead, cameras were mounted high, their lenses sweeping in slow, consistent arcs that overlapped just enough to leave no obvious gaps. 

Nyx’s eyes flicked up without him thinking about it. He mapped them in seconds. Sweep speed, angle, delay between passes, timing, and pattern.

He didn’t break stride, but something in him sharpened, every movement tightening just a fraction as he counted it out.

One… two… three…

“Stay close,” he murmured. Not that he needed to say it with her hand still settled in his grip. 

The nearest camera swept past them, lens gliding across the corridor before angling away. Nyx didn’t wait for a second pass.

“Now.” They moved without a sudden burst, and without a sprint. There was a smooth shift in pace, crossing the exposed stretch, in and out before the system had a reason to care. The shadow of an overhang caught them on the other side, swallowing the light just enough to break their outlines. He slowed by half a step, and listened for any sign of a shift in rhythm. There was none. 

Ahead, the inner wall rose into view.

Not the Wall, not the one that mattered, but still a line you didn’t cross without permission. Clean stone reinforced with something stronger beneath it, seamless in a way that made it hard to tell where structure ended, and security began.

Nyx’s gaze tracked along its length, already picking out the details that didn’t belong to the surface, subtle seams, access points, maintenance fixtures set just far enough apart to avoid drawing attention, then there. One door, visible, obvious, and without a doubt locked. His focus lingered for half a second before shifting to the side toward a narrow panel set flush into the wall a few feet away. 

Easy to miss if you weren’t looking for it.

Nyx’s mouth pulled faintly at one corner.

“…Yeah,” he muttered under his breath. “That’ll do.”

Nyx slowed a few paces short of the door, letting the movement die naturally instead of stopping outright. His gaze moved first, not his body, up to the windows, across the seams in the stone, down the length of the corridor behind them.

Nothing obvious. No patrol rounding the corner. No shift in the reflection of glass that meant someone was watching from above.

Window’s narrow, he thought. Don’t waste it.

He let go of her hand as he moved. The absence registered immediately, sharp in a way he didn’t have time to unpack. So, he didn’t.

He dropped into a crouch, fingers already finding the edge of the panel. No tools, no wasted motion. The latch gave under the right pressure, a small, precise shift that most people wouldn’t even think to try. That was the problem with systems like this. They were built with the assumption that the threat came from outside.

A soft click. The panel opened. Inside was the usual internals; wiring, control lines… a basic interface node tucked just far enough back to discourage casual tampering. 

“You’re breaking into your own Citadel,” Lunafreya observed. There was no accusation in it. No surprise, either. He didn’t exactly know how to take that. 

Nyx snorted quietly, one corner of his mouth twitching. “Technically,” he muttered, “I work here.” He glanced back at her. “Sometimes.”

His hands never stopped moving.

Fingers slipped past the obvious access points, ignoring the parts designed to look secure in favor of the ones that actually controlled something. He worked by feel as much as sight, small adjustments made with the kind of precision that came from doing this more times than he’d ever admit out loud.

Not hacking.

Nothing that clean. More like nudging things out of alignment. Convincing the system that what it was seeing didn’t quite qualify as a problem.

“…You’ve done this before,” she said, voice cautious, more curiosity than accusation.

“Yeah,” he said, tone dry. “And before you ask—no, I don’t have a keycard.” He shifted one connection, paused, then adjusted another. “Glaives don’t get that kind of access,” he went on. “We work for the Crown. Not in it.”

There was a difference.

A big one.

“Most of us don’t spend much time in here unless we’re being called in for something,” he added. “And when that happens, someone else handles the doors.” Someone with rank. Clearance. A reason to be here that wasn’t to be called in for a mess they created, or being politely redirected back to where they belonged. 

Out there, on the Wall, on the perimeter, that was where the Glaives were useful. Where they were needed. Magic, manpower, and bodies to throw at whatever came through. In here? They were a tool. Called when necessary. Kept out of the way when they weren’t.

Nyx had learned when to push, and when to vanish. That’s exactly the reason that he was usually on the receiving end of the mess. 

He adjusted the final connection, eyes flicking once toward the door as he counted the timing in his head.

“Doesn’t mean you can’t learn your way around,” he muttered.

A flick.

A pause.

Then the system gave. A quiet hum followed, low and brief, and Nyx’s mouth twitched faintly again.

“Just means you don’t get invited.”

The door beside them unlocked with a soft, mechanical click, subtle enough it wouldn’t carry past a few feet. He pulled his hand back immediately, snapping the panel shut with practiced ease, and pressing it flush until it looked like it had never been touched. No sign of scuff, or misalignment. Nothing obvious enough to flag on a casual pass.

Nyx stood, brushing his hands together once, more habit than necessity, and turned back to her. “Once we’re in, we keep moving. No stops unless we have to.”

“I understand.”

Her eyes met his in that usual way that was steady, and unshaken, like she’d already decided her footing and saw no reason to question it. No hesitation. No doubt. Not even here, with the Citadel at their backs and half the Crown on edge.

He didn’t know if that was because of him, or if that was just… her. Didn’t like that he couldn’t tell the difference.

He held her gaze a fraction longer than he should have, something in his chest tightening in a way that had nothing to do with the situation. Then he cut it off, gave a short, decisive nod.

“Okay,” Nyx stepped up to the door, hand settling on the handle. He paused, small enough that most people wouldn’t notice, but long enough for him to listen. Not just for footsteps or voices, but for the things underneath: the subtle shifts in airflow, the faint vibration of mechanisms cycling behind the walls, the quiet presence of a place that wasn’t empty.

There was nothing obvious. No guards posted right outside, no conversation bleeding through the seams. Just that same sterile quiet the Citadel perfected; engineered calm, measured down to the last detail.

He pushed the door open. It gave without resistance, the seal breaking with barely a sound, and the moment he crossed the threshold, the city fell away behind them. The air inside was cooler, and filtered; clean in a way that didn’t quite feel natural.

The noise, what little there had been, dropped off completely, swallowed by the walls like it had never existed.

The route came to him before the thought did. Left turn, narrow service passage; he turned into it like he’d been given the order, boots striking stone in a steady, unbroken rhythm. This part of the Citadel didn’t bother with appearances. Bare walls. Exposed conduits running in clean, efficient lines along the ceiling. No polished surfaces. No glass. Nothing that reflected more than it had to.

His attention split automatically; forward path, peripheral movement, the faint echo of activity bleeding through intersecting corridors. Footsteps sounded somewhere deeper in; voices, low and indistinct drifted with it, the timing of patrol rotations threading through it all.

At the end of the corridor, he slowed a fraction, enough to avoid walking blind into whatever waited around the corner. He leaned just slightly, angle tight, catching a glimpse before committing. Two Crownsguard, hallway patrol. 

One leaned back against the wall, arms loose at his sides, weight settled like he’d been there a while. Not sloppy, just comfortable. Dark hair was cropped short, a thin scar cutting across his jaw like an old story he didn’t bother telling anymore. His gauntlet was scuffed to hell, plating dulled from use.

The other stood opposite him, helmet tucked under one arm, the other hand gesturing lazily as he talked. Younger. Cleaner armor. Not new, but not worn down yet, either. The kind who still thought he had something to prove.

Nyx didn’t recognize either of them. That wasn’t unusual. What mattered was they didn’t recognize him yet.

“…—I’m telling you, Drautos is gonna—”

The sentence died halfway through. The younger one’s eyes snapped up first, catching movement, then locking. Recognition hit a second later. Nyx saw it happen. The flicker. The shift from idle to alert.

“…Ulric?”

Too late. Nyx didn’t break stride. Nor did he slow and give them time to think about it.

“Yeah,” he said, tone clipped, already moving past the point where stopping made sense. “Busy.”

Keep it short. Keep it moving. Most of the time, that worked.

“Hold up–” 

Of course that wasn’t this time. 

Nyx didn’t sigh, and didn’t show the irritation that flared sharp and immediate under his ribs, but he adjusted anyway, slowing just enough that it didn’t turn into a scene.

The older guard pushed off the wall, stepping into his path; not blocking him outright, but close enough that walking past would’ve made things worse.

Up close, Nyx caught more detail. Eyes that had seen enough not to trust anything at face value, and the kind that measured before they spoke. The scar along his jaw pulled slightly when he frowned. Not stupid.

Great.

The younger one shifted too, attention sliding past Nyx, and landing directly on Lunafreya.

It stayed there. 

Nyx felt it before he fully processed it. That subtle tightening in the air, and the shift from casual interest to sharp assessment. He stopped. His expression flattened, shoulders settling into something controlled, rather than defensive.

“Problem?” He asked.

The older guard hesitated. Not because he didn’t have one, but because he was deciding how big it was.

“That’s…” He glanced at Lunafreya again, then back to Nyx. “You’re not supposed to have civilians in here.”

Nyx didn’t let the words breathe. “Good thing she’s not a civilian,” he cut in, voice edged just enough to shut that line down before it could grow teeth.

The younger one blinked, thrown off balance. The older one didn’t.

“…Then what is she?” The younger guard asked, slower now. 

Nyx gave himself half a second. Too much detail was a trap. Too little and they’d dig.

He shifted his stance slightly, just enough to break their direct line of sight to her without making it obvious that he was doing it. 

Think like Drautos, he told himself. Short. Controlled. No room for questions.

“Priority,” Nyx said.

One word. Flat, vague, but useful. It landed. Not clean, but solid enough to make them hesitate.

“Priority from who?” The Older Glaive’s brow furrowed. 

Nyx let out a slow breath through his nose, letting irritation creep into his expression; not exaggerated, just enough to sell that this was beneath him.

“You really want to ask that right now?” He said quietly, eyes locking onto the older man’s. “With the Citadel on alert?”

That hit harder, because it was true. He held his gaze, and didn’t blink. 

“Citadel’s on alert,” Nyx went on. “Orders are coming down half-finished and stepping on each other, and you want to stop me in a service corridor over clearance?”

The younger one shifted his weight, uncertainty creeping in. The older one held steady, but the hesitation was there now. Nyx leaned into it. 

“She needs to see the King,” he added, voice dropping slightly. Not louder, but closer. “Now.” 

The younger guard straightened, instinct kicking in; that kind of priority didn’t get questioned lightly. The older one’s expression tightened, calculation replacing suspicion.

Nyx held their gaze. He didn’t rush it, and didn’t try to fill the silence. Instead, he let it work.

Come on, he thought. Make the smart call.

Because the smart call wasn’t stopping him. The smart call was stepping aside and pretending this had never happened.

And Crownsguard, more than anyone, understood that rule. You didn’t stick your hand into something that smelled like command-level trouble unless someone higher up told you to.

Or unless you were an idiot.

“Look,” Nyx said, voice tightening just enough to carry weight without raising volume, “you can stop me, call it in, stand here waiting for someone to tell you what to do—” he tilted his head a fraction, the movement sharp and deliberate, “—or you can move and not be the reason this turns into a problem.”

The younger Glaive’s jaw set, not out of defiance, but calculation. He wasn’t offended. He was running the risk.

“…Drautos is going to want to know,” he said.

Nyx gave a short, dry huff. “Let him know.”

That was the truth of it. Drautos always knew. The only question was whether you were still standing when he decided to deal with it.

“…Right,” he said finally, stepping back half a pace. Not offering an apology, and not quite granting permission, rather providing an absence of resistance. 

The younger one followed a beat later, still looking like he wanted to ask something, and smart enough not to.

“Go,” the older guard said at last.

Nyx didn’t waste it. He moved immediately, pace sharpening just enough to sell urgency, not enough to draw attention. Like this had always been the plan. Like the interruption had been nothing.

Because if he treated it like something, then it would become something.

Behind them, he listened for the possibility that their voices had picked back up, half-muttering follow-up questions. What echoed back at him was silence. Silence offered the probability they were thinking, running it back, and trying to decide if they’d just let something important walk past them.

He filed it away under future problems and kept going.

If they doubled back, if they called it in, then that was a different fight. Not this one.

The next corridor hit like stepping into a different system entirely.

More people. Not crowded, but occupied. Movement threaded through the halls in clean, purposeful lines. Staff passed one another without hesitation, trajectories intersecting and separating with the kind of unconscious precision that only came from routine drilled into bone. No one lingered. No one hesitated. Even their conversations, what little there was of them, stayed low and contained, like the walls themselves might take offense to anything louder.

Crownsguard stood at intervals that weren’t random, no matter how much they tried to make them look that way. Each position overlapped the next just enough to close the gaps, lines of sight layered into a quiet net.

Nyx clocked it all in a glance.

He adjusted without breaking stride, shifting their path half a step to the left, then forward, slipping them neatly into the flow instead of cutting across it. Going against the current got you noticed. Moving with it; just another piece in motion.

He edged ahead of her by the slightest margin, enough to set the pace, to make it look like she was following his lead instead of the other way around. 

His hand brushed her arm, quick and deliberate, steering her just enough to avoid a pair of attendants crossing too close. The contact lasted barely a second, firm, precise, gone before it could linger, but it kept their path smooth, uninterrupted. No collision. No pause. No reason for anyone to look twice.

They passed an intersecting corridor, and Nyx felt it before he saw it—the shift in attention, the slight change in weight that meant someone had keyed in on them.

Another Crownsguard.

The man’s gaze lifted, sharp and assessing, then snagged on the insignia at Nyx’s shoulder. Recognition sparked, not complete but close enough to be a problem.

“On assignment,” he said, cutting across the question before it could settle into anything more solid. His tone was flat, edged just enough to suggest the conversation was already over.

The guard stepped half a pace forward anyway. “Assignment from—”

“Upstairs.”

One word. Dropped clean and final, like it didn’t warrant elaboration. 

Nyx kept walking. He didn’t look at him, didn’t check if the answer landed. He moved, like stopping had never been an option to begin with.

Behind them, there was a beat, just one, where the guard might’ve pushed it, or might’ve called after them, pressed for clarification, turned a passing moment into something heavier.

Nyx didn’t turn to see if he did. If the man decided to chase it, he’d call it in. Let someone higher up sort it out. That wasn’t something Nyx could control now, and worrying about it would only slow him down. And if he didn’t… 

Then it hadn’t mattered.

Nyx exhaled quietly through his nose, tension easing just a fraction as they rounded the next corner and the line of sight broke clean behind them.

Still works, he thought, not quite satisfaction, not quite relief. Just confirmation.

Authority didn’t always need proof. Sometimes it just needed confidence, and the right tone to make people think they’d missed something they weren’t cleared to question.

He didn’t push his luck by looking back.

The Citadel ran on rules, but it also ran on assumption. On the quiet understanding that if someone sounded like they belonged, it was easier to believe them than to challenge it and be wrong. 

Nyx leaned into that, the same way he always did. Another piece in motion. Another blade in the rack. 

The corridor shifted as they moved deeper. The clean, functional lines gave way to something more deliberate. Polished stone instead of reinforced plating. Softer lighting, warmer in tone, though still controlled down to the degree. Even the acoustics changed; footsteps didn’t carry the same way here.

The Citadel had layers. Always had. Outer rings built for function—movement, logistics, the kind of work that kept everything standing. Inner rings were something else entirely. Presentation. Power. Control dressed up to look effortless.

They were crossing that line now.

He felt it in the structure more than the space. The corridors didn’t narrow so much as focus. Fewer branching paths. Fewer exits that didn’t loop back into monitored choke points. Guards placed with intent, their sightlines overlapping just enough to leave no clean gaps, only narrow seams you could slip through if you knew where to look.

Nyx’s jaw tightened a fraction as he guided them through another intersection, adjusting their pace by instinct alone.

This is where they start paying attention.

His gaze flicked once to the far end of the hall. Measured the distance. Counted the people between here and there. Logged uniforms, posture, patterns.

This was it.

Almost.

He drew in a slow breath, steady and controlled, then let it out the same way. Focus sharpened to a point. The kind that came right before things went wrong if you weren’t careful.

This part didn’t forgive mistakes. 

Nyx shifted their path again, timing it with a natural break in the flow. A cluster of staff moved across the corridor ahead, and he used it; angled through them just enough to change direction without making it look like a decision. No hesitation. No pause. Just movement that made sense if you didn’t look too closely.

Always give them a reason not to look closely.

Lunafreya stayed with him. No lag. No misstep. No questions.

Just that same quiet alignment she’d had since the plains, like she understood the rhythm of this without needing it explained. It was… unsettling, in a way he didn’t have time to unpack. Most people faltered in places like this. Asked something, even if it was just with their eyes.

She didn’t.

Either she trusts me, Nyx thought, or she knows exactly what we’re walking into.

He wasn’t sure which bothered him more.

He didn’t look at her. Didn’t let himself. Checking would break the rhythm, and right now the rhythm was the only thing keeping this from unraveling.

Up ahead, the corridor tightened again, subtler this time, but unmistakable. Checkpoint.

No one lounged on this line. 

The Crownsguard at the entrance stood like they’d been carved into place; no idle shifts, no casual glances traded between them, not even the small, unconscious tells most soldiers slipped into when a watch dragged on. Their focus moved in clean, measured sweeps, each pass deliberate enough to overlap the last. Nothing got through that kind of net by accident.

Nyx clocked all of it in a glance that didn’t look like one. Beyond them, past the threshold, his gaze cut deeper down the corridor, gone before it lingered long enough to invite scrutiny.

Glaives.

More than two. Positioned further in, not at the choke point but behind it; staggered, rotating watch. Not there to greet. Not there to question. There to end problems before they reached the King. His jaw set, tension pulling tight for a second before he forced it back down.

Nyx adjusted his pace by a fraction, subtle enough that it wouldn’t read as hesitation. He hit the approach with the same rhythm he’d carried through the last three corridors. Same stride, same cadence. Consistency mattered. Guards didn’t remember faces half as well as they remembered changes.

Walk like you’ve already been cleared.

His shoulders stayed loose, posture balanced in that narrow space between rigid and relaxed. Not stiff enough to look like he was bracing. Not casual enough to look like he didn’t care. He’d learned that line the hard way; too sharp, and you looked like you were compensating; too easy, and you looked like you didn’t belong.

This was the part where you either passed through or everything stopped. The flow, the timing, the quiet confidence; none of that would carry them through this line. Not here. Not with this many eyes trained to notice.

He could feel it before they reached the checkpoint; that subtle shift in the air, like stepping too close to a blade you couldn’t see. The corridor itself seemed to narrow, not physically, but in expectation. Every step forward carried weight. Every misstep would carry consequences. No one wandered into this stretch of palace by mistake.

If you were here, you had a reason, and if you didn’t, someone would find out why. 

His hand found Lunafreya’s arm, light but firm, guiding her off the main path toward the edge of the corridor. The movement was smooth, unhurried, like it had always been the intention.

The tall windows along the wall cut the space into long vertical bands of pale light, washing the marble floor in muted gold. It was quieter here, still within sight of the checkpoint, but just outside the immediate line of engagement. He released her once they were clear of the current, his hand dropping back to his side like it had never been there.

His mind ran through his options fast, burning through them just as quickly. Bluff it again? No. Too many variables. Too many people who would care if something didn’t line up. Push through? Escalate? Make it loud enough that they hesitated to stop him?

Nyx almost snorted under his breath.

Yeah. That ends with me face-down and three reports filed before I hit the floor.

Not an option.

He dragged a hand down his face, fingers pressing briefly at his brow before dropping.

“…Alright,” he said under his breath, quieter now, voice pitched so it wouldn’t carry. “Change of plan.” He turned just enough toward her, keeping his posture loose, like they were nothing more than two people pausing to get their bearings. “You go first. I’ll back you.”

Her gaze lifted to meet his, steady as ever. “You want me to speak to them.”

“Yeah.” Nyx exhaled through his nose, the sound dry, stripped of anything resembling humor. “Because I’m about out of ways to bullshit my way through this.”

His eyes flicked back to the guards, tracking the small details, the set of their shoulders, the way one shifted his stance slightly more forward than the other. The one who’d step in first. The one who’d decide how this went.

“They’re watching for problems,” he added quietly. “And I look like one.”

In this part of the Citadel, rank only opened so many doors before it slammed them harder. Glaive insignia might buy him a second glance—might—but his face did the rest. The Kingsglaive had a reputation, and Nyx Ulric had done very little to soften his share of it. Too many missions that ended loud. Too many decisions that didn’t wait for permission.

Men like him didn’t get waved through sensitive checkpoints. They got stopped, questioned, and more often than not, made an example of.

He shifted his weight just enough to ease the tension out of his stance, but his mind kept moving; angles, distance, response times. The guards ahead were positioned well enough to slow a rush, not well enough to stop one. Door was ten paces past them. Reinforcements would take… what, twenty seconds? Maybe less if someone was already watching feeds.

The odds weren’t great, but not unwinnable. Thinking about how it would break didn’t help unless it actually did. 

“Walk straight up,” he said, voice low, steady. “No hesitation. Don’t look back at me like you’re waiting for a cue.” A brief pause, then, more pointed, he added, “Act like you already have clearance.” 

When he did glance over, Lunafreya was already watching him. Rather, assessing. It was subtle: the way her attention settled, the way she seemed to take the shape of what he’d said and test it for fit. Like this wasn’t unfamiliar ground, just a different kind of performance. Not a soldier’s, maybe. Something older. Something steadier.

“I see.”

Nyx gave a short nod. “Good.”

He shifted without drawing attention to it, half a step back, just off her shoulder. Anyone watching would read it the way it needed to be read: she was the one to speak, and he was incidental, an escort at most. Support, not lead. 

His gaze settled on the guards again, sharpening as it did. Armor seams, weapon grips, stance. One older, weight balanced evenly, eyes doing the thinking. The other younger, tense through the shoulders, quicker to react, slower to decide. Nyx had seen the type a hundred times.

Nyx had seen both types before. The first you convinced, and the second you avoided setting off.

“Whenever you’re ready,” he murmured, low enough not to carry.

Lunafreya didn’t answer. She walked. There was no hesitation in her renewed stride, and no subconscious slowing the way most people did when they approached a checkpoint. There was always a line. Invisible, but very real. Civilians felt it before they ever saw the barricades; it lived in the way their steps shortened, the way their shoulders tightened, and in the way they searched for permission without realizing they were doing it.

She crossed it like it didn’t exist.

Nyx followed a half-step behind and slightly off to her right, close enough to intercept, far enough not to crowd her silhouette. His attention split cleanly, half on her, half on everything else. Angles, exits, hands. The reaction came right on time.

“Hold.” The older guard stepped forward, hand raised.

Lunafreya slowed just enough to acknowledge the space without yielding to it.

The older guard stepped forward, palm angled outward in a gesture meant to halt without provoking. His gaze landed on her first. The guard’s posture shifted as he took Lunafreya in properly now. The way she stood, straight-backed and without stiffness. There was no deference in her posture, no hesitation in her gaze. She wasn’t military. She wasn’t staff, and she definitely wasn’t someone who expected to be stopped.

Then his gaze moved to Nyx. Recognition sparked, quick and unfinished, like a name on the tip of his tongue he couldn’t quite place. 

Nyx felt it land, measured the weight of it, then dismissed it. He didn’t meet the man’s eyes. Instead, he let his expression stay flat, bordering on bored, like this entire exchange was already a waste of time that he wasn’t interested in reclaiming. People saw what you showed them. Right now, he showed them nothing worth focusing on.

The guard hesitated for half a breath, attention dragging back where it belonged. 

Lunafreya.

“This corridor is restricted,” he said. “State your business.”

Other Crownsguard in the periphery adjusted; weight shifting, lines of sight tightening, conversations dying off mid-sentence. The tension threaded through the space, subtle as a wire pulled taut. 

Nyx’s focus flicked once to the younger guard. The kid was already keyed in, fingers hovering just a little too close to his weapon, attention bouncing between Nyx and Lunafreya like he hadn’t decided which one of them was the problem yet.

If it went wrong, it would start with him.

Nyx filed that away and let his posture remain loose, unbothered. No sudden movements. No signals. Nothing that would escalate the situation before it needed escalating. His gaze settled on the barrier ahead before settling somewhere just past the man’s shoulder, like the question hadn’t been worth his attention.

It took everything in him not to rush it.

The way she held herself at his question hadn’t changed. Most people did, even when they tried not to. There was always that fractional hesitation when steel met authority; when a raised hand, a uniform, a weapon reminded them of where they stood in the order of things. A hitch in the step. A shift in the shoulders.

Lunafreya walked straight into the stop as if it had already been resolved, as if the guards were simply a formality she was allowing to exist for their own comfort. The hood cast her face in shadow, but it didn’t obscure the certainty in her gaze. She let the question sit, just long enough to make it feel misplaced, like he’d asked something he shouldn’t have.

“I need to see His Majesty.” 

The first Crownsguard blinked. His hand remained up between them, a practiced barrier held at chest height, palm outward. It was the right posture, the trained one, but there was a flicker behind it now, a hesitation that didn’t belong. Training said hold. Authority said hold. Instinct wavered.

“That is not possible without authorization,” he said, settling into firmness by habit more than certainty. Procedure filled the gaps where conviction should have been. “You will need to—”

“Then you will inform him.” She didn’t interrupt, her tone and the command flat. She replaced the rest of his sentence, fitting her words into the space he’d left open as if that was what he’d meant to say. 

Nyx suppressed the quiet chortle starting in his throat. 

The second Crownsguard stepped in where the first had faltered, a half-step forward, weight set through the balls of his feet, shoulders squared just enough to take control of the exchange without escalating it outright. From an outside perspective, he appeared better trained, or at least quicker to recover.

“Who are you?”

Direct. Cleaner than the first attempt. Less room for her to redirect.

Nyx felt the instinct hit like a reflex.

Step in. Take it back. Give them something structured; rank, clearance, anything that would snap this back into a shape they understood, something they could report without it turning into a mess that climbed the chain of command.

His weight shifted, but he stopped himself. No. He’d said he’d back her, not manage her. He was only there to smooth it over when everything else went to hell. He forced himself still, locking his posture down. He let his hands hang loose at his sides, even as every instinct begged otherwise. 

Drautos would have this locked down in seconds if it got called in.

And then it wouldn’t matter what she wanted, or what Nyx had promised.

Instead of answering the question, Lunafreya lifted her hand with the sort of delivery that made the motion itself a declaration. Her fingers found the edge of the hood and drew it back. The fabric slipped away without resistance. Pale hair spilled free, catching the corridor’s sterile light in a way that felt almost unnatural, too soft for a place built on steel, protocol, and quiet threat. It broke the symmetry of the space. Disrupted it.

For a heartbeat, the corridor stalled. Guards at the far end stopped pretending not to look. One of the Glaives near the junction straightened, posture sharpening by degrees. Even the ambient hum of the overhead lighting seemed to thin, like the world itself was waiting to see how this landed.

Lunafreya held their gaze, calm and unyielding. There was no challenge in it. No aggression. Just certainty, carried so cleanly it left no room for doubt.

“I am Lunafreya Nox Fleuret,” she said. No rise in her voice. No need. “Oracle of Tenebrae.” 

Nyx watched her introduction hit.

The first guard locked up completely. Not hesitation, but failure. The kind that happened when training collided with something it hadn’t accounted for. His eyes flicked over her face, searching for the tell that would make this make sense. Wrong uniform. Wrong place. Wrong time. The words didn’t fit the situation, so his brain tried to reject them.

His hand dropped fully this time.

“…Oracle,” he said, the word coming out lower than intended, as if speaking it any louder might break whatever fragile balance had just settled over the corridor.

The second guard didn’t speak at all. He was sharper. Less inclined to fill the silence with something he couldn’t back up. His focus narrowed, gaze moving in quick, precise passes; face, posture, bearing. Noticing the absence of fear. The lack of hesitation. The fact that she wasn’t asking. Assessing whether this was real, or whether it was about to become his problem.

Further down the corridor, the Glaives had shifted. Small movements. Weight redistributed. Hands not quite touching weapons, but closer than they had been a second ago. Recognition hadn’t landed yet, but it was circling. Close enough that Nyx could feel it tightening.

Nyx stepped forward before the moment could tilt the wrong way. 

“You heard her.” He kept level, firm enough to carry, but not sharp enough to spark defiance. He’d learned that tone the hard way, in back alleys and border skirmishes and every place where men with too much authority and not enough information got twitchy. Push too hard, and they’d lock up out of pride. Give too much ground, and they’d stall until someone higher up came along to make the call for them. “She needs to see the King.”

The first guard’s attention snapped to him like a lifeline. Something familiar. Something he could anchor to. Nyx saw the calculation there, ranking insignia, uniform, the quiet confidence of someone who wasn’t bluffing, but also doubt, because Nyx wasn’t command. Not high enough to override protocol cleanly.

And this was far outside protocol. 

The guard’s gaze shifted, drawn back to Lunafreya despite himself. Hard not to look at her. Even standing still, she had a way of pulling the room into alignment around her. 

Then his attention slid past her, down the corridor.

Nyx didn’t have to follow it to know what he’d see.

The Glaives had gone still, settled into that quiet readiness that came just before things tipped. Hands loose at their sides, shoulders squared, spacing deliberate. Watching. Measuring. Waiting to see which way this went.

Waiting to see if they’d have to step in.

This was where things usually went bad. 

“…Stay here,” the second guard said finally. The edge in his voice had changed, like he realized exactly how far out of his depth he was, and was trying to keep things from slipping any further. The guard turned on his heel, already signaling down the corridor. Two fingers, quick flick of the wrist, subtle enough that anyone who didn’t know better might’ve missed it.

He tracked the motion automatically; the angle, the direction, who it was meant for. A relay signal, quiet escalation, and pulling in backup without making it obvious. Precaution at least. Not a threat. Not yet. 

That left one.

The remaining Crownsguard reset his stance the moment his partner was out of sight. 

Nyx shifted back into position beside Lunafreya, a half-step closer than before; close enough to intercept, to react, but not so close that it looked like he was crowding her. He let his posture settle into something neutral on the surface, but there was nothing loose about him. Every line of his body was coiled, weight balanced over the balls of his feet, ready to pivot, to move, to break.

Waiting.

Gods, he hated waiting.

His attention snapped back to the guards, mind already working angles. Timing. Distance. How long before that signal brought more boots into the corridor. How quickly this could spiral if the wrong person showed up with the wrong interpretation of what they were looking at. He didn’t have rank to override this cleanly, and didn’t have the authority to override it cleanly. 

Nyx suppressed the urge to sigh.

Oracle of Lucis walks into a restricted corridor with a Kingsglaive at her side, one already on thin ice with command, and suddenly everyone remembers how their training works. 

Every guard they’d passed so far had reacted the same way: a fraction too slow, a fraction too stiff. Recognition hitting a beat after instinct. Confusion following close behind it.

Oracle.

Restricted corridor.

Nyx Ulric.

That last one tended to complicate things.

“If this turns,” he murmured under his breath, voice pitched low enough to stay between them, “we move.”

He didn’t look at her when he said it, but he had come to learn that she wasn’t the kind of person who needed her hand held. If it came time to act, she would. He only hoped that her version of acting wasn’t setting the Citadel on fire.  

Footsteps echoed from deeper within the corridor. The Glaives ahead adjusted without being told, parting just enough to clear a path. Formation held. Discipline intact.

That alone told him plenty. What was approaching wasn’t a routine patrol, nor some nervous officer coming to ask questions that they didn’t want answers to. It was who received the answers. Someone respected, or feared. 

The figures emerged from the dimness in stages, first outlines, then armor catching the light, then faces resolving as they drew closer.

Nyx’s eyes locked onto the one at the center. And just like that, whatever thin thread of optimism he might’ve had snapped clean in half. His jaw tightened, a quiet breath slipping out through his nose.

“…Shit,” he muttered under his breath.

Because if there was a worst-case scenario for this exact situation, Oracle in a restricted corridor, a Glaive already skating on command’s last nerve, half the guard force unsure whether to intervene or look the other way, it would be him. 

Titus Drautos didn’t look surprised when he stepped into the corridor. That, more than anything, told Nyx exactly how this was going to go.

Drautos slowed just enough for the rest of his men to fall into a natural stop behind him, boots hitting stone in near-perfect unison before the corridor went quiet again.

No irritation. No visible curiosity on his face. Just that steady, grounded awareness, like he’d already accounted for the possibility of something like this happening and filed it away under inevitable inconveniences that usually start with Nyx Ulric. The kind of mess that found its way to him whether he wanted it to or not. 

Nyx straightened before he consciously chose to. His shoulders squared, spine aligning, chin lifting just enough. Old instincts snapping into place like they’d been waiting for the excuse. For once, he didn’t push to offer explanation. 

You didn’t fill silence with Drautos. You let him decide what was worth hearing. The Captain’s attention flicked past him next, briefly registering the Crownsguard, the way they held themselves, the almost-imperceptible hesitation still hanging in the air from earlier.

Filed. Understood. Dismissed.

Then his gaze moved on. Lunafreya. That was where it paused. Only for a second.

There was no outward reaction, no visible surprise, no narrowing of the eyes, no shift in posture, but something sharpened in that stillness. A recalculation, precise and immediate. Whatever he’d walked into, it had just been reclassified.

“Glaive Ulric.” Even tone. Flat as steel. Not a greeting. Not a question. Just a placement. A reminder of rank, role, and exactly where Nyx was supposed to exist in the structure.

Nyx held his gaze.

“You’re off your assigned sector.”

Nyx shifted his weight, easing out of the tension he’d been holding in his shoulders. Not too much, but just enough to look like this wasn’t about to turn into a standoff. 

He didn’t need to raise his voice. The man could gut you with a sentence and never change expression.

“Got turned around,” Nyx said, tone loose, almost conversational. He tipped his head slightly toward the corridor behind him, like the place hadn’t been crawling with protocol five seconds ago. “Figured I’d improvise.”

It was a bad lie. Not even a good bad lie, just something tossed out to fill the space where a real explanation should’ve been. Barely worth the breath it took to say it.

Nyx knew it. Drautos knew it. Hell, the guards behind him knew it. Didn’t matter.

Drautos didn’t challenge it. Didn’t pick it apart or press for clarification. He let it sit exactly where it was, something not worth the time required to dismantle. That, more than anything, was worse. Being dismissed instead of corrected. 

“What seems to be the issue.”

He rolled his shoulders once, slow, like he was working out a kink instead of standing in the middle of a situation that had already gone past “inconvenient” and was leaning hard into “reportable offense.”

Nyx glanced briefly toward Lunafreya Nox Fleuret, still standing exactly where she had been, composed, and unmoved, like the tension in the corridor didn’t touch her. The guards might’ve hesitated, might’ve tried to hold the line, but she hadn’t bent an inch. That hadn’t been lost on him.

It also hadn’t been lost on Drautos. Nyx didn’t need to look to know that.

“Oracle needs an audience with the King,” he said, tone flattening just enough to signal he was done playing it off. Not insubordinate. Not quite. But no longer pretending this was nothing.

One of the Crownsguard shifted, almost imperceptibly. Not a challenge. Just the kind of movement that came when a situation edged closer to going sideways.

Nyx caught it in his periphery and didn’t turn.

Drautos’ expression didn’t change, though Nyx could practically hear the gears turning behind that steady gaze; protocol versus circumstance, authority versus consequence. Whether this was a problem to shut down or a variable to work around.

And Nyx was very aware he’d just placed himself squarely in the middle of that calculation. Not ideal, but then, nothing about this had been. If Drautos decided to shut this down, that was it. End of discussion. The Crownsguard would fall back into place, and Nyx would be left explaining why he’d overstepped.

“Your assignment,” he said, measured down to the syllable, “does not intersect with this corridor.”

Translation: you’re out of line.

Nyx clicked his tongue softly against the roof of his mouth.

“Funny how that keeps coming up,” he muttered.

He didn’t look at Drautos when he said it. That would’ve made it a challenge.

Instead, his gaze drifted down the corridor past the Commander’s shoulder. The one that mattered. The one sealed off by protocol, guards, and the kind of orders that didn’t get written down where anyone could question them.

The Crownsguard at his side snapped straighter the moment Drautos stepped fully into view, armor whispering as he locked himself into place.

“Commander,” he said, clipped and precise, relief threading under the discipline, “this individual is requesting access to His Majesty without authorization.”

“Is that so,” Drautos replied. Flat. Clean. That was Drautos already past the question, already deciding the outcome. Drautos didn’t ask questions he needed answered. He asked them to mark the moment he took control of a situation. Nyx had seen it enough times to know how this ended. 

Usually with someone regretting they’d opened their mouth. He’d inserted himself into plenty of bad calls before. This one was shaping up to be one of the worst ones.

Then he felt it.

Not movement. Not sound.

A shift.

Nyx felt it before he could’ve explained it. The way you feel a storm rolling in through your bones before the sky bothers to darken. Pressure, not physical, not anything you could point to, but something that tightened the space between breaths. The quiet sharpened, and edges turned hard. His gaze slid, almost lazily, toward Lunafreya.

She hadn’t moved. Not visibly. Spine straight. Hands still at her sides. Chin lifted just enough to meet Drautos’ gaze without challenge.

Perfect composure. But the air around her had tightened. 

Not like Drautos’ pressure. His was controlled. Directed. A weight you could brace against if you knew how. This was different. This felt like standing too close to something ancient and waking. Nyx’s eyes narrowed a fraction. 

For the briefest instant, something flickered beneath the blue of her eyes. Gold.

Not a trick of the light. Not reflection. It moved.

Deep. Old. Like something buried too long shifting just enough to remind the world it was still there. 

Nyx’s breath stalled.

It wasn’t anger. He knew anger. Knew it in every shade from the hot, reckless kind that got people killed, to the cold, surgical kind that got people buried. This was neither. This was… hate. It pressed against his senses, subtle but suffocating once you noticed it, like the air had thinned without warning. Something vast had narrowed its focus down to a single point in the corridor.

Drautos being that singular point. 

He didn’t know why. Didn’t know what history sat between them, what line had been crossed, what damage had been done. But whatever it was ran deep. Deeper than politics, or disagreement, delving further into the territory of personal.

Drautos, glancing back, showed none of it. Either he was blind to it, or didn’t give a damn. Neither option sat well. 

Drautos stepped forward, one controlled pace. Not aggressive. Not enough to trigger a defensive response from the Crownsguard, but enough to close the distance, and claim the space outright. The conversation was over. Command was taking over. 

“You’re a long way from where you should be,” he said.

Lunafreya didn’t yield an inch. 

“I am exactly where I need to be.” 

Nyx straightened without thinking as Drautos’ gaze immediately snapped to him. Muscle memory snapping into place before his brain could argue with it. Chin level. Shoulders squared just enough to read as respect, not submission.

“Ulric.”

“Sir.” 

“You brought her here.” There was no accusation in it, though that would have been easier. This was a statement already verified. 

“Yes, sir.” If you’re going to get nailed to the wall, might as well stand still for it.

“On whose authority?”

Nyx’s mind ran the options anyway, quick and automatic. He could deflect. Say she insisted. Say there’d been confusion at the outer post. Hell, he could try to lean on the Kingsglaive mandate, flex it just enough to blur lines that were, technically, very clear. Drautos would take it apart in seconds, piece by piece, and then Nyx wouldn’t just be wrong, he’d be sloppy, and dealing with two problems instead of one. 

So:

“Mine.”

For a second, nothing changed. Then small, then subtle. Drautos shifted his weight, shoulders settling like something locking into place. Not anger. Not yet, but the angle of it changed. Like he’d just decided which direction the blade was going to fall.

Nyx kept his expression neutral, eyes forward. No point pushing. No point flinching either. You reacted, you lost ground. Simple as that.

The silence stretched, thin as wire. Drautos turned. 

Not back to Nyx.

To her.

“You’re asking to see the King,” he said, voice even, controlled. “Without notice. Without clearance. Without explanation.” Each point landed with quiet precision.  “Convince me this is worth not stopping you here.”

Nyx’s jaw tightened.

Drautos didn’t ask for explanations. He issued decisions. Tests. Not just for her, but for everyone watching. Tests with Drautos never came with rules that you could see.

Nyx flicked a glance toward Lunafreya before he could stop himself.

She hadn’t moved. No tension wound itself through her shoulders. No shift nudged her in her stance. The guards, the Glaives, Drautos himself all seemed to orbit her without touching. She existed just a half-step outside the moment everyone else was caught in.

“I am not requesting to see the King,” she said. Something in her voice changed, not louder, not sharper. It carried further, settled differently, not to be argued with but acknowledged. “I am informing you that I will see the Kind.”

The gold in her eyes did not flare again, but surfaced. 

Drautos didn’t blink.

“You’re attempting to bypass protocol in a restricted sector,” he said. “That places every man in this corridor in a position they are not authorized to navigate.”

Lunafreya tilted her head slightly, her gaze holding Drautos’s with quiet, unwavering focus. “It is… reassuring,” she said, almost thoughtfully, “to see that the Crown places such careful guardians at its most important thresholds.” On the surface, it was nothing. Polite. Diplomatic. The kind of thing you said to smooth edges, to acknowledge duty without challenging it.

Nyx had spent enough time around sharp people to hear the shape underneath it.

“Even,” she continued, just a fraction softer, “when they choose not to be seen for what they are.”

He didn’t turn his head. Didn’t shift his stance. Just let his gaze move, quick and quiet, catching the edges of things.

Drautos hadn’t moved. That, in itself, wasn’t unusual. The man could stand like a statue carved out of discipline and expectation. This wasn’t that. It wasn’t passive anymore. 

Nyx kept his expression neutral, the way he’d learned to do long before he ever put on a Glaive’s uniform. Don’t react. Don’t acknowledge. Whatever just passed between them, because something had, wasn’t for him. Getting caught noticing was a good way to end up somewhere he didn’t want to be.

Drautos exhaled, slow and measured, like he was setting something back into place.

“Careful observations,” he said, voice even, “can be misinterpreted.”

On the surface, it sounded like a correction. Instruction, even. Underneath it, there was weight. A cleanly delivered warning settling like a blade laid flat against the throat.

“Only when one is looking in the wrong direction.”

Drautos held her gaze.

One second.

Two.

Three.

He didn’t blink. Didn’t shift. The stillness was deliberate; the kind that forced everyone else to move first or not at all. Nyx had seen that look before, usually right before Drautos made a call no one else in the room was qualified to question.

Then, just as deliberately, he let it go. Not a flinch. Not a crack. Just a clean sever. Closing a file mid-sentence and deciding it didn’t need finishing. When he spoke again, his voice had reset, stripped of whatever had passed between them a moment ago.

“You’re asking to bypass protocol,” he said, tone measured. “In a restricted sector. Under active guard.” Back to rules. Back to structure. Back to something everyone in the corridor could understand.

Nyx didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Because there wasn’t a version of this where he opened his mouth and improved the situation. Best case, he diluted it. Worst case, he turned it into a problem Drautos could actually act on. And right now, somehow, this wasn’t a problem yet.

Drautos shifted his weight slightly, easing tension out of his shoulders without losing any of the control in his posture. His gaze moved, taking in Lunafreya, then Nyx, then the guards stationed along the hall.

There was a whole other conversation happening here. Quiet. Underneath the words. And Nyx had managed to wedge himself directly into the center of it. The Crownsguard felt it too. He could see it in the way their grips adjusted along their halberds, in the subtle tightening of shoulders, the way attention narrowed without anyone moving.

“Clear the hall.”

The Crownsguard moved in clean synchronization, boots striking stone in sharp, echoing rhythm, halberds lifting as they pivoted and withdrew with practiced efficiency.  Within seconds, the corridor emptied. The sound of them receded fast, swallowed by the Citadel’s vast, echoing interior until there was nothing left but the low flicker of torchlight and the faint hum of warding magic threaded through the stone.

The absence of witnesses somehow felt worse than it being crowded.  

Nyx felt it settle into the space the moment the guards peeled away, the corridor losing its noise, its friction, until what remained was something thinner. Tighter. A loss of resolution that meant that whatever happened next wouldn’t have an audience.

“Now.” No preamble from Drautos. No patience for it.

Lunafreya didn’t flinch under the weight of it. If anything, she seemed to settle into it, like this was the point she’d been moving toward from the moment she stepped inside the Citadel.

“You already know why I am here.”

Drautos’s expression didn’t shift. “Then say it.”

“The King is not safe.”

A fractional sharpening of focus came from Drautos. A slight narrowing of attention. The kind of adjustment most people would miss, and the kind that meant Drautos had just taken this from contained situation to potential threat assessment that usually starts with Nyx Ulric.

“Explain.”

Lunafreya inclined her head.  “There are movements in play that do not originate from within your command structure,” she said. “They are being allowed to pass through it regardless.”

“You’re implying a breach.”

“I am stating one.”

“You’ve come a long way,” Drautos said, voice even, “to make a claim without evidence.”

“I did not come to present evidence to you.” Her gaze held his without strain. “I came because the window to act is narrowing, and because you are in a position to either prevent what is coming, or allow it.”

Beside them, Nyx resisted the urge to shift his weight. This was the part where things usually went sideways; when someone pushed too hard, or not hard enough, and protocol snapped back into place like a trap.

“You’re asking me to compromise protocol based on a warning you won’t substantiate.” Drautos assumed.

“I am asking you to recognize a threat that does not wait for permission to exist.”

“You place a great deal of weight on my judgment.”

“I place weight on necessity.”

Drautos visibly worked through the angles: the chain of command, the risk of acting versus the risk of not, the fact that Lunafreya Nox Fleuret standing here at all was already a breach of something.

Drautos exhaled. “You will have your audience, but not as you intended.” He stepped forward, angling slightly toward the sealed doors at the end of the corridor. “I will escort you.”

Nyx found himself unsurprised. Drautos wouldn’t let this move without controlling every variable in reach. Suddenly, Nyx wasn’t one of those variables. 

“And this—” Drautos’s gaze flicked, just briefly, in Nyx’s direction before returning to Lunafreya, “—ends here.”

Lunafreya inclined her head slightly. “Of course.”

No resistance. No hesitation. That almost bothered Nyx more.

Drautos moved first.

Lunafreya followed without a word.

The corridor stretched long and cold, a spine of polished stone and old magic, swallowing sound and giving it back hollow. Their footsteps carried anyway, echoing just enough to mark distance, but not enough to betray urgency.

For once, Nyx Ulric didn’t follow.

He stopped where the corridor widened slightly, where the torchlight didn’t quite reach the edges, and let them go ahead without him. The whole thing didn’t sit right. 

His weight shifted onto his back foot, arms loose at his sides, posture casual in the way that wasn’t casual at all. Ready, if ready meant anything from here. His gaze stayed locked on them, on Drautos, more than her. It was always about Drautos.

This was exactly the kind of line you didn’t cross unless you were invited to. Nyx hadn’t been. He could’ve followed. Closed the distance in three strides, said something that sounded official enough to pass for permission. He’d done worse, gotten away with worse.

Not with Drautos. Drautos didn’t argue. Didn’t raise his voice. He just adjusted the board, and suddenly you weren’t a piece anymore, you were something in the way.

Nyx had no intention of becoming that. Still didn’t make standing here feel any better.

His jaw tightened as he watched them approach the doors at the far end, massive things, old stone reinforced with Lucian craftsmanship, more fortress than entryway. The kind of doors that didn’t open unless they had a reason to. The sigils carved into the frame caught his eye next. Old work. Older than most of the Crownsguard, older than the wall itself in places. Lucian magic, dense and deliberate, threaded through the stone like veins. 

Containment. Protection.

Both, if someone had been thorough.

His gaze flicked briefly to Lunafreya Nox Fleuret walking beside Drautos. She hadn’t broken stride once since this started. Whatever she thought was behind those doors, she’d already decided on it long before Nyx had found her.

He rolled his shoulders once he was alone, slow, trying to work the tension out before it settled in deeper. Instead of easing, it coiled tighter, a familiar weight under his ribs. Now, alone in the corridor, the echo of their footsteps long gone, he was left with nothing to do but wait.

Nothing to do but think.

Which, in his experience, was usually when everything went to hell.

[proper-goodnight]

Collateral Gods (Three Steps From Exposure Chpt. 8)

Collateral Gods - Three Steps From Exposure (08)

Summary:

She wasn’t just a symbol, paraded around for show. She spoke to gods. They listened. If the wrong hands forced her, or if fear pushed her, she could bring down firestorms and calamities that no wall in Insomnia could keep at bay. The Ring of the Lucii, the one thing keeping Niflheim from storming the gates outright, could slip from Regis’s grasp with a single misstep.

If the gods decided to follow her lead, even the Empire wouldn’t be safe from the fallout.

Fandom: Kingsglaive: Final Fantasy XV

Pairings: Lunafreya Nox Fleuret x Nyx Ulric

Type: Multi-Chap

Words: ~4k

Lunafreya didn’t answer him immediately. Not because she didn’t have one; Nyx could see the moment that something akin to an answer formed behind her eyes, but because she chose, very carefully, which version of it to give him. The blue of her eyes were clearer now, no longer drowned in the Astral’s glow. What remained, the faint flecks of gold around her pupils, could easily pass for a trick of the light to anyone who didn’t know what to look for. 

Nyx knew, and he’d be lying if he said that he didn’t half-expect to catch fire every time he noticed them. 

“You told me,” she said at last. There was a furrow to her brow, her arms having crossed over her chest. She leaned toward him, intent and unyielding. He didn’t notice that he’d been leaning forward too until he straightened himself and moved away.

“No,” he replied, just as evenly. “I didn’t.”

Her chin dipped a fraction, as though confirming something simple. “At the train.”

“No,” he said flatly again. 

“You were–”

“I was busy not getting incinerated,” he interrupted, gradually losing his patience. “I’m pretty sure introductions didn’t make the list.”

A beat. The distant rattle of a passing cart filled the silence between them. Lunafreya drew a slow breath, her gaze shifting; not away, but… aside. Not quite meeting his eyes now, but nonetheless attempting to make it seem like she was. “You were mentioned,” she said quietly.

Nyx’s expression didn’t change. “Mentioned.”

“In letters,” she clarified. “From Prince Noctis.”

He blinked once. Slow. Disbelief didn’t hit all at once. It crept in, quiet and sharp, threading through the edges of her words until it settled into something colder. His brows gradually drew into a harsh furrow. “... Noctis.” He repeated.

“Yes.”

A short breath huffed through his nose, something almost like a laugh, but with incredulity rather than humor. “That’s interesting.”

“Is it?”

She watched him quietly, and he noticed it again, those faintly pulsing specks of gold, but half-wished that she would burn him on the spot. It’d be a hell of a lot easier than dealing with this. With her looking at him like that. As though she knew something that he didn’t, and was waiting, hopelessly, for him to catch up.

“Yeah,” he relented, voice growing quieter. “It really is.” He pushed off the wall where he’d been leaning, pacing once across the narrow space, boots scraping against the damp pavement. His mind was already pulling the thread apart, testing it, and looking for where it snapped before he did. “Do you mind walking me through that?” He asked without looking at her. “Because last I checked, the Prince and I aren’t exactly pals.”

“He wrote that someone would escort him beyond the Wall,” she said. “A glaive. You.”

Nyx stopped. That did it. Slowly, he turned back to her. “I never told him my name.”

The words landed flat between them.

Lunafreya didn’t react right away. “He may have learned it elsewhere. You are not unknown, Nyx Ulric. Even beyond Lucis.”

He paused. Not because he believed it, but because of how easily she said it. He searched her face for the tell this time. The hitch. The weight. Anything.

There it was again.

Nothing.

“No.” Not loud. Not aggressive. Certain. “I drove him out past the Wall,” he said, each word measured. “That’s it. No introductions. No conversation. Hell, the kid barely looked at me.” His eyes narrowed. “He got in the car. I drove. He got out.”

A pause.

“That’s the extent of our relationship.”

Lunafreya held his gaze. “Even so—”

“No,” Nyx cut in, sharper now. “Not ‘even so.’ There is no ‘even so.’” He stepped closer again, not enough to crowd her, but enough to make it clear he wasn’t letting this go. “I didn’t give him my name,” he repeated. “He didn’t ask for it. And there wasn’t exactly a debrief where he sat down and asked for my full name and service record.”

“You cannot know that,” she replied evenly.

“I can,” he shot back. “Because I know how this works. I’m not important enough to make that list.”

Lunafreya’s brows drew together. 

He held her gaze for a second longer, waiting, out of habit more than expectation, for her to say what she was thinking out loud. 

She didn’t. 

Although Nyx had scarcely known her for more than a handful of hours, he recognized the slight pinch in her expression for what it was: disagreement. Not spoken, not offered, just there. The quiet way she measured his words against her own understanding of the world, and found them lacking, or simply mediocre.

She didn’t agree with him.

He frowned. “What?”

“Your suspicion is misplaced,” she said softly, unwavering.

He sighed in exasperation. “Alright,” he said finally, pushing off the wall again. His tone changed. Less sharp. More deliberate. “If you’re not going to tell me how you know my name…” He gestured faintly between them. “…then you can tell me why you’re working so hard not to?”

“I told you,” she said. The same calm. The same even tone. Except, she was beginning to sound tired. “The prince mentioned you.”

There it was. Not the lie itself, he’d definitely heard better, worse, and more convincing. It was the repetition, the refusal to adjust it, that gave her away. A slow exhale slipped from him, something between irritation and reluctant acknowledgement. 

“... Right,” he muttered. He dragged a hand down his face, thumb pressing briefly into the corner of his eye like he could physically force the problem into something simpler if he at least tried. He let the hand fall.

“I have no reason to deceive you,” she said, unflinching.

“You’ve got plenty of reasons. You just haven’t decided which one I get to hear.”

Her expression didn’t shift. Something cooled in her eyes..

“But,” he added, voice lowering as his eyes fixed on hers again, sharper now, “I also don’t have time to stand here pulling the truth out of you a piece at a time while half the Crown locks this place down.”

“I cannot tell you,” she insisted.

“Can’t or won’t?”

“…Both,” she admitted, quietly. “Without consequence.”

“Consequence for who?” 

She didn’t answer.

He let out a short, humorless laugh. “Sounds about right.” He looked at her again, not any softer for it, just more focused now, the urgency bleeding back in. They’d already wasted enough time. 

“Let’s try this a different way. You don’t want to tell me the truth. Fine. I don’t believe the version you gave me.” A faint shrug followed. “We’re at an impasse, then.”

A brief pause. 

“I don’t think you’re lying to hurt me. So that leaves one option,” He studied her for another second, weighing something he couldn’t quite put into words. Then he looked away first, gaze flicking toward the mouth of the alley where the city still moved in restless, dangerous currents. “You’re lying because you think you have to.”

Something in her expression settled when he said it.

Not relief. Not quite gratitude. Recognition. Like he had finally stepped onto the same piece of ground she’d been standing on since the moment they met.

Lunafreya drew a slow breath, her shoulders easing just a fraction. “I am not…”

“So for now we table the mystery. Add it to the growing list of problems.” 

Lunafreya inclined her head slightly. She didn’t argue. That, more than anything, told him she understood exactly what kind of compromise that was. 

Temporary. 

Fragile. 

And completely conditional.

Nyx pushed off the wall again, energy snapping back into motion now that his mind had something solid to work with.  “You want the Citadel. Fine. That’s the objective.”

Her attention sharpened immediately.

“But we don’t get there by walking straight into a checkpoint and hoping your title carries more weight than common sense.” He jerked his head toward the far end of the alley. “We take the long way.”

“Obscured?” 

Nyx glanced at her, one brow lifting slightly. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s the idea.”

They moved. The alley spilled them into a narrower street running parallel to the main thoroughfare; quieter, but not empty. Fewer vendors, fewer idle eyes. Mostly workers. People with somewhere to be and no interest in strangers.

Better.

Nyx adjusted his pace automatically, just shy of hurried. Purposeful, but not urgent. The kind of movement that blended into the rhythm of the city instead of fighting it.

Behind him, Lunafreya matched it.

She’d pulled the hood of his jacket lower, shadowing her face. It swallowed her frame completely, sleeves hiding her hands, the hem nearly catching at her knees. It was a terrible disguise.

But it was a disguise.

Her gaze moved now; not darting, not shrinking. Tracking. Measuring. Still too precise, too aware of every movement around her, but she wasn’t freezing at every shoulder brush anymore.

Learning fast.

Nyx didn’t comment on it. He filed it away somewhere in the back of his mind, and left it there. 

They cut left at the next intersection, slipping into a sloped lane that dipped downhill before curving back toward the inner districts. The buildings tightened around them—older construction, concrete cracked and patched, laundry lines strung overhead snapping softly in the wind. Nyx’s eyes never stopped moving.

Windows. Rooflines. Reflections in broken glass. Movement at the edges of his vision. He listened as much as he looked; boots, engines, the low static murmur of radios.

Nothing immediate.

Still—

He slowed a fraction, listened, then reached back and grabbed her hand. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t rough, either. Just decisive; fingers closing around hers with the same efficiency he’d use to drag someone out of a crossfire. Practical. Necessary. 

He didn’t look at her. It’d become less about practicality when he’d had a moment to think about it. Too late for that now. 

“Stay close,” he muttered, already pulling her forward as he cut between a pair of stalled transports. “And don’t stop unless I do.”

Her hand, noticeably but unsurprisingly, was warm. The thought had landed before he could stop it. 

Not just warm, but steady. She didn’t flinch, nor resit. There was no instinctive reaction to pull away from a stranger grabbing her in the middle of the street. Her grip had adjusted, subtly- so that she could match his stride without being dragged. Almost, as if, she trusted him.  

Like she trusted him.

Nyx’s jaw tightened.

Not that he allowed himself to think about it. He tried, fiercely, to ignore the way the warmth of her hand pressed against his, or the faint pulse that seemed to echo in time with his own. Focus. Forward. That was the rule. Everything else could wait.

He shifted slightly as they moved through a cluster of pedestrians, angling his body to take the impact of shoulders and elbows. Someone clipped him hard. He absorbed it, barely breaking stride, tightening his grip just enough to pull her closer for half a step.

He still didn’t look at her.

The alley ahead narrowed again, spilling into a service lane that ran alongside the main road. Nyx guided her along the wall, keeping her out of direct sightlines from anyone rounding corners.

The morning sunlight slanted in long, pale streaks between buildings, catching the dust motes and making the world feel fragile and golden, like it could shatter if he moved too fast. This way, they were too exposed. He adjusted their path again. 

And then it hit him again; faint, subtle, and only until recently not as out of place as it would have been before. Flowers. Clean, soft, and nothing like the city. It cut through the lingering smell of oil, metal, and stale air like it didn’t belong in the same world; because it didn’t. Tenebrae.  It lingered along her, almost like a quiet signature at his side. 

Nyx swallowed once, irritation flickering sharp under his ribs.

Focus.

Not relevant. Not useful. It didn’t change anything.

Citadel. Patrols. Routes. That was what mattered.

Behind him, Lunafreya kept pace without a word. She voiced no questions, still absent of hesitation, and had not made any attempt to pull away.

Just there with that same quiet certainty. Something about it was unsettling to him, though in the moment, he couldn’t quite place why.  

They moved through another turn, then another, Nyx adjusting course in small, deliberate shifts. Not straight. Never straight. Anyone watching for patterns would lose them in the noise. He knew where the checkpoints would cluster. Where patrols doubled back. Where the Crown thought the gaps were. He aimed for the spaces between those assumptions.

“So,” Lunafreya said quietly behind him, her voice low enough not to carry, “this ‘long way’…”

“Is longer,” Nyx said. “Quieter. Fewer checkpoints.”

“And more risk?”

He shrugged, barely slowing. “Different risk.”

That seemed to satisfy her.

After a few minutes, the city shifted again. The buildings straightened, and with it, there were cleaner lines, better materials, less patchwork, and more permanence. The streets widened just enough to change how sound moved; less chaos, more control.

Closer to the inner districts.

But closer to trouble.

Nyx slowed. Up ahead, he spotted a checkpoint.

Two Crownsguard, and one Glaive on a rotating watch.

He angled them toward the shadow of a recessed storefront before they crossed into open sight, pulling her back with him, flattening them both into the narrow strip of cover.

From here, he could see the rhythm of it. One guard pacing, and one posted. The Glaive leaned just enough to look bored without actually being it. Eyes scanning. Not sloppy. He didn’t recognize him at first glance. 

Annoying.

Nyx exhaled slowly, running through options. Routes were tightening. Too many open sightlines. Not enough noise to hide in.

If they got stopped here—

No. He cut the thought off. 

Behind him, Lunafreya shifted. Not away, but closer.

He felt it first: The light brush of her shoulder against his arm in the confined space, the way she leaned just enough to see past him without stepping out of cover.

“You said they would increase,” she murmured.

“Yeah,” Nyx said under his breath. “This is ‘increase.’”

Her gaze tracked the checkpoint with a focus that didn’t match the rest of her composure; sharp, and analytical.

“They are watching for something specific.”

“Anyone out of place,” Nyx corrected. “Which right now—” his grip tightened faintly around her hand “—is us.”

“You said,” Lunafreya spoke again, quieter now, “that reaching the Citadel requires someone who knows how to get there.”

“Yeah.”

“And you believe you are that person.”

He let out a short, humorless huff. “Believe’s a stretch.” A beat. “But I’ve got better odds than you walking up to the front gate and announcing yourself.”

“I would not have done that.”

Nyx flicked her a glance. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Silence settled again.

Not tense. Simply occupied.

“You are taking a risk,” she said.

Nyx’s jaw shifted. “Yeah.”

“I can go alone.”

He turned his head.

Slowly.

“…No.”

Flat. Immediate.

Her gaze held his. “If I draw their attention—”

“You don’t draw attention,” he cut in, voice low and sharper than he intended. “You pull it. You walk out there, say one wrong thing, look at the wrong person—best case, you’re detained.” His eyes narrowed. “Worst case, every unit in the district knows exactly where you are inside five minutes.”

Up close like this, in the half-shadow of the storefront, the details were harder to ignore. The way the light caught in her eyes, not just blue, but something deeper threaded through it. The faint gold he kept pretending he hadn’t noticed.

The way she was looking at him now. Not arguing. Waiting. Like she expected him to solve it.

Nyx looked away first.

“…Alright,” he said under his breath, more to himself than her. “Alright.”

Think.

Checkpoint too tight. Patrol too alert. No clean bypass without doubling back, and they didn’t have time for that.

That left—

He exhaled once, sharp.

“New plan.”

“I am listening.”

Her grip shifted in his hand.

Nyx glanced down at it for half a second, then back up.

Right. It didn’t matter.

He stepped out from the shadow before he could think about it any longer, pulling her with him.

“Then try to look like you belong,” he said under his breath.

And walked straight toward the checkpoint.

He didn’t slow.

Everything in him wanted to; wanted to take half a second more to read the angles, count the exits, feel out the rhythm of the guards’ attention, but hesitation got you noticed faster than anything else. So he didn’t give it space to exist. He straightened, adjusted his grip on Lunafreya’s hand just enough to look intentional rather than urgent, and walked like he had somewhere to be.

Like he belonged.

The checkpoint revealed itself in pieces.

First the barricades; modular steel, scuffed and reassembled enough times that no two sections quite matched. Then the line, slow-moving and restless, bodies packed just tightly enough to blur into one mass of muted voices and shifting weight, and then the men.

Two Crownsguard stood at the front, polished into something almost ornamental. Their armor caught the light cleanly, unmarred by the kind of wear Nyx associated with people who actually saw the worst of Insomnia’s edges. They held themselves like statues; backs straight, shoulders squared, helmets angled just so. It looked good.

It wasn’t real.

Nyx tracked the details without moving his head. The slight lag in one guard’s response as someone ahead fumbled with their papers. The other’s gaze drifting half a beat too long toward a disturbance farther down the line. Fatigue, dressed up as discipline. Long shift. Too many faces. Too much routine.

Routine got people sloppy.

Good.

The third man was the problem.

Off to the side, half-shadowed against the stone wall, a Glaive leaned like he had nowhere better to be. One boot braced up, weight tipped back, posture loose enough to read as boredom to anyone who didn’t know better.

Nyx knew better.

The armor told its own story; plating worn down to a dull sheen, scratches layered over older repairs, one pauldron replaced with something that didn’t quite match the rest of the set. Field fixes. Not ceremonial. Not pretty. Real.

And the stance—yeah. That wasn’t laziness. That was economy. Every line of him said he could move in a second flat if he needed to.

Nyx felt his jaw tighten a fraction. Not a green, then.

Great. One of ours.

His gaze flicked once, quick, controlled, and caught the man’s eyes.

Not green. Not fresh. Not someone he could bluff with rank and a sharp tone. Someone who paid attention.

Nyx swallowed the urge to swear.

He adjusted his pace without breaking stride, the shift subtle enough it wouldn’t draw the wrong kind of attention. He leaned a fraction closer to Lunafreya as they approached, voice dropping low; barely more than breath.

“Keep your head down,” he murmured, voice barely there, more breath than sound. He felt Lunafreya hesitate; not physically at first, but in the way her hand shifted in his. A pause in intent. A moment where she considered the situation instead of moving through it.

Not here.

His grip on her hand tightened just enough to keep her moving.

Quieter still: 

“Trust me.”

He didn’t look at her. Couldn’t afford to. But he felt the adjustment anyway, her posture easing into something less precise, her movements losing that almost imperceptible sharpness that didn’t belong to civilians.

Still too controlled, and still too her, but close enough that, at a glance, it might pass.

Close was all they needed.

Three steps out.

That was all it took.

Nyx felt the shift before he saw it; the Glaive’s attention snapping into place like a trigger being pulled halfway back. Not alarmed, not yet. Focused. Interested. 

He didn’t react. Didn’t slow. Didn’t tense. You looked like you belonged, or you didn’t. He wasn’t going to give them anything to grab onto.

The Crownsguard barely spared them a glance. Another pair in a line of bodies; workers, couriers, people with somewhere to be and no authority to question anything.

Nyx angled them into that flow, positioning himself just enough to block a clear line of sight to her face. His shoulder took the space. His presence did the rest.

Almost through—

“Ulric.”

Damn it.

Nyx stopped.

Not sharply. Not like he’d been caught.

More like a man acknowledging his name, because ignoring it would be more suspicious than answering.

He turned his head.

The Glaive had pushed off the wall. Up close, the details sharpened; burn marks along one gauntlet, polished over but not gone. Scratches were layered over older scratches, and eyes that had seen enough to stop reacting to most of it. A face Nyx didn’t recognize, but one that carried that same worn edge all of them did.

Familiar in the way soldiers were familiar.

The man knew him. Nyx saw it in the eyes, recognition clicking into place a half-second too fast.

“…Yeah?” Nyx said, tone flat, edged with mild irritation. Like this was an inconvenience, rather than a problem.

The Glaive stepped closer, gaze flicking once, quick, and sharp, over Lunafreya.

Too quick for the guards to notice. Not quick enough for Nyx to miss.

Then back to him.

Problem.

“Didn’t expect to see you on this side of the line,” the man said. Casual. Controlled. “Thought Drautos had you glued to the gates until you dropped.”

Nyx’s mind was already moving ahead of the conversation, picking at weak points, testing angles. He didn’t know the guy’s name. Didn’t remember his face beyond the broad, interchangeable familiarity of the Glaive ranks. Not a friend. Not someone he’d run with. No easy out there. So, lean into what they did know.

His reputation.

Not the good kind. Not the decorated, dependable soldier Drautos liked to parade around when it suited him. Nyx was the other kind. The one you noticed when something went wrong. The one who got hauled in, chewed out, and thrown back into the worst parts of the job because he kept surviving them.

Useful. Also, memorable.

Nyx exhaled through his nose, something that almost passed for a humorless laugh. “Yeah, well. He’s got a lot of expectations.”

Understatement of the year.

The man’s mouth twitched; almost a smile, but not quite. Not enough to be friendly.

“Rotation got shuffled,” Nyx added, before the silence could stretch into suspicion. He jerked his chin toward the inner district. “Pulled in to cover.”

The Glaive’s brow lifted slightly. “You?”

There was just enough skepticism there to matter.

“Inside?”

Nyx rolled one shoulder in a loose shrug, like it didn’t touch him. “Try not to sound so disappointed.”

“I’m not,” the man said, but his tone said otherwise. His attention shifted again, slower now. Deliberate. Taking in Lunafreya’s posture, her stillness, the way she held herself just a fraction too well.

Nyx felt something sharp settle under his ribs.

Not fear, and not quite anger, but instinct.

He tightened his grip on her hand just enough to say stay with me without saying it out loud.

“Didn’t know we were escorting civilians now,” the Glaive said.

Not a question.

A probe.

Nyx tilted his head slightly, expression flattening just enough to push back without escalating.

“Didn’t know you got reassigned to paperwork.”

A beat.

One of the Crownsguard shifted, tension rippling outward. They didn’t understand the conversation, but they understood tone.

Rank mattered to them. Nyx leaned into that.

The Glaive didn’t respond right away. Then he exhaled, faint, conceding just enough to keep things level.

“Only when it’s interesting,” he said, but his attention didn’t leave her.

Not good.

“Papers?” one of the Crownsguard cut in, more out of routine than suspicion.

Nyx didn’t even look at him.

“Transit reassignment,” he said, already reaching like he had something to show. The motion was easy, practiced. “You want to call it in, go ahead. Let them know you’re holding up a Glaive on orders.”

He let that hang just long enough.

“See how that goes for you.”

The guard hesitated.

Nobody wanted that kind of attention.

Nyx could practically hear Drautos in the back of his head; sharp, unimpressed, already halfway through a dressing-down for wasting time on the wrong problem.

For once, that worked in his favor.

The Glaive watched the exchange, something quieter settling into his expression now.

Not suspicion. Calculation. Weighing whether this was worth the trouble. 

“…Let them through,” he said finally.

The Crownsguard stepped aside immediately.

Nyx didn’t waste the opening. A short nod, acknowledgment, not thanks, and he moved, pulling Lunafreya with him without breaking stride.

They passed close. Too close.

Nyx could feel the weight of the man’s attention tracking them, measuring, reconsidering.

For a second, he thought that was it.

Then—

“Ulric.”

Again. Nyx didn’t stop.

Didn’t turn.

Just slowed a fraction. Enough to acknowledge. Not enough to engage.

“Careful,” the Glaive said, voice lower now. Less casual. “Drautos has everyone wound tight. You step out of line… you won’t just be stuck on gates next time.”

Nyx exhaled quietly. “Wouldn’t be the first time,” he muttered, which was true, and probably the only honest thing he’d said in the last thirty seconds.

He didn’t look back, and then they were through.

Nyx didn’t slow until they’d turned twice, crossed a street, and let the checkpoint noise dissolve into the steady hum of the inner district.

Only then did he breathe. Not in relief, but a controlled drop, from immediate threat to manageable risk. 

“…Well,” he said under his breath, voice dry, “that could’ve gone worse… or a hell of a lot better.” He glanced sideways at her, finally. “You alright?”

Her hood still shadowed most of her face, but her eyes were clear. Focused. Unshaken.

“You were recognized,” she said.

Nyx huffed softly. “Yeah.”

Not exactly breaking news.

“You did not recognize him.”

“Nope.”

No point pretending otherwise.

Her expression shifted; not confusion, but something quieter. Thoughtful. Like she was fitting that detail into something larger.

Nyx shrugged one shoulder. “We’re not exactly a tight-knit bunch,” he said. “And I don’t make a habit of memorizing every guy who’s seen me get chewed out.”

Lunafreya studied him for a moment longer, like she was measuring that against everything else she knew. “You are… known,” she said carefully. “As I said before.”

Nyx let out a short breath that almost counted as a laugh. “Yeah. That’s one way to put it.” Infamous was probably closer, or just unlucky.

He adjusted their path without thinking, guiding them deeper into the district. Closer to the Citadel. Closer to where everything mattered more and went wrong faster.

His grip shifted slightly on her hand. Not letting go, but adjusting. Awareness creeping back in now that the adrenaline had somewhere to go.

Her hand was still warm.

Still steady.

Still there.

Nyx cleared his throat under his breath, like that might shake the thought loose.

Didn’t work.

“Next time,” he said, tone settling back into something practical, “we don’t count on luck. Or someone deciding not to care.” He spared another glance at her. “Which means when I move, you move. No hesitation.”

The words weren’t sharp, only certain. One of the few things within the last twenty-four hours that he was actually certain about. 

Then, after a second—

“…You did good back there.”

The statement came out quieter, and more rough around the edges. He hadn’t looked at her as he’d said it to see her expression, attempting not to give it any more weight than that. 

Simply, he kept walking, like it hadn’t cost him anything at all.

[proper-goodnight]

Collateral Gods (No Good Deed Chpt. 7)

Collateral Gods - No Good Deed (07)

Summary:

She wasn’t just a symbol, paraded around for show. She spoke to gods. They listened. If the wrong hands forced her, or if fear pushed her, she could bring down firestorms and calamities that no wall in Insomnia could keep at bay. The Ring of the Lucii, the one thing keeping Niflheim from storming the gates outright, could slip from Regis’s grasp with a single misstep.

If the gods decided to follow her lead, even the Empire wouldn’t be safe from the fallout.

Fandom: Kingsglaive: Final Fantasy XV

Pairings: Lunafreya Nox Fleuret x Nyx Ulric

Type: Multi-Chap

Words: ~4k

Nyx snatched his coat from the couch and shoved his arms into it as he crossed the room at a near run. No hesitation. Thinking was a luxury he couldn’t afford right now; thinking led to swearing, and swearing didn’t get him any closer to finding her.

The hallway outside was barely wide enough for one person to pass comfortably. He didn’t slow. The door banged against the wall behind him as he hit the stairwell and took the steps two at a time, boots slamming against concrete hard enough to echo through the building. Someone shouted from a floor below. He ignored it.

By the time he pushed out onto the street, he was already scanning.

Morning in the outer ring was simply chaos that had a routine. Vendors muscled carts into place, wheels rattling over uneven pavement. Radios barked half-heard headlines from open windows. Engines coughed to life while people poured into the streets in thick, restless currents; fast, impatient, and shoulder-to-shoulder.

Nyx stepped into it without breaking stride. 

He let his eyes move the way it had been trained to: never fixed too long in one place, never obviously searching. The worst mistake he could make now was looking like a man hunting someone.

Looking like a man hunting someone was the fastest way to make other people curious why.

So, he didn’t search. He observed. Faces. Movement. Gaps in the flow. Pale hair. White fabric. Anything that didn’t belong.

Or worse, Crownsguard armor converging on something that they didn’t yet understand. 

The outer ring was a patchwork of Galahdians, migrants, laborers, and merchants. Plenty of pale faces passed him, but none of them were hers. None carried that strange, quiet gravity Lunafreya brought with her. Even exhausted and half-conscious, she’d had a way of making the room feel still. Like the world had to slow down just to keep up.

Hard to miss.

If she’d wandered toward the inner districts, Crown patrols would spot her in minutes. If she stayed in the outer ring long enough, someone would notice she didn’t belong.

Either way, time wasn’t on his side.

Nyx veered towards the market road. There, the crowd thickened instantly. Vendors shouted over one another, the smell of fried bread and overripe fruit hanging thick in the air. Someone was already arguing about prices. Someone else was yelling about a missing shipment. He slipped through it with the ease of someone who’d grown up navigating crowds like this. A fruit stand caught his shoulder as he passed, jostling the display. An apple rolled off the edge of a crate and thumped onto the pavement. 

“Hey–!”

He didn’t slow. 

Radios crackled from somewhere nearby, the same broadcast spilling out of half a dozen speakers. 

“…search efforts continue this morning following the unexplained explosion along the western magitek rail. Authorities have not yet released an official statement—”

Nyx tuned it out. He counted the streets in his head, recalling paths that he’d memorized with no special care years ago: side streets that channeled traffic, alleyways that doubled back, corners where the Crown liked to pause, smoke in hand. Every detail could buy him seconds if someone started following. 

A flash of white near the far end of the street made his pulse jump, but it turned out to be nothing more than a laundry line snapping in the wind between two balconies. Nyx exhaled through his nose and kept walking. 

“Where the hell are you…” he muttered, low, under his breath.

He turned down a side street that cut between two rows of concrete housing blocks. The noise of the market dulled behind him, replaced by the hollow echo of footsteps, and the distant whine of Magitek engines somewhere beyond the district. 

“Ulric.” The voice stopped him mid-step.

Nyx’s shoulders locked for half a heartbeat before he forced them loose, and turned. 

Of course.

A Kingsglaive officer stood halfway down the block, leaning against the hood of a patrol car with a cup of coffee balanced in one hand. The silver insignia on his shoulder caught the light. Nyx knew that insignia. He’d spent enough years standing at attention in front of it while being verbally dismantled to recognize it anywhere.

Captain Drautos.

Because the morning hadn’t been complicated enough.

Nyx adjusted his course smoothly, like he’d intended to walk this direction all along, and stopped a few feet off. His posture straightened just enough to be proper without looking stiff. He tapped a fist lightly against his chest.

“Captain.”

Drautos watched him over the rim of his cup, expression unreadable, but familiarly unenthused. His gaze flicked once down the street Nyx had just come from, lingering there a moment before returning to him.

“You look busy,” he said mildly, “for a man who’s supposed to be off shift.”

Nyx rolled one shoulder and leaned back against the brick wall beside the patrol car, affecting an easy slouch. “Could say the same thing about you, sir.”

Drautos took a slow sip of coffee.

“Paperwork,” he said, gesturing vaguely with his cup. “Command’s got a few of us sweeping the outer ring this morning. After that rail incident last night.”

Nyx’s pulse thudded once in his chest. He kept his expression carefully bored.

“Lucky you,” he said. “I’d rather take a bullet than deal with paperwork.”

Drautos’ mouth twitched faintly, which for him practically counted as amusement, and for Nyx, a win. His eyes drifted past him again, idly scanning the street. Pedestrians. Vendors setting up. Early commuters.

Nyx resisted the urge to look back.

Looking would be the worst possible thing he could do.

“So,” Drautos said after a moment, “what’s got you wandering around the outer ring at sunrise?”

Nyx stretched his neck like a man trying to work a kink out of it.

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“Mm.”

Drautos studied him in silence. The captain had an irritating way of looking at people like he was taking them apart and cataloging the pieces. Nyx had been on the receiving end of it often enough to know exactly what it meant.

Drautos didn’t trust coincidences.

Nyx didn’t give him anything to work with.

“You heading somewhere,” he went on, “or just killing time?”

Nyx scratched the back of his neck, pretending to consider it.

“Figured I’d grab something to eat before the next briefing.” He jerked his thumb toward the market road. “Heard someone down there sells actual bread instead of the rubber bricks they serve in the mess.”

Drautos’ gaze lingered on him another long moment.

Nyx kept his weight easy against the wall, like he had absolutely nowhere better to be. Inside, though, he was counting seconds and measuring the street noise behind him.

Move on. Come on.

Then the captain finally pushed himself off the hood of the car.

“Well,” he said, tossing the empty cup into the passenger seat, “if you see anything unusual while you’re wandering around, report it.

Nyx nodded once. “Always do.”

Drautos stepped past him toward the driver’s side door, then paused with his hand on the handle.

“One more thing, Ulric.”

Nyx turned.

The captain’s expression was mild, but his eyes were sharp.

“Try not to start any trouble before noon,” Drautos said dryly. “Some of us are still waking up.”

Nyx smirked faintly. “No promises.”

Drautos snorted once and slid into the car. The engine coughed to life a moment later.

Nyx stayed where he was, arms folded loosely, watching nothing in at all while the patrol car rolled down the street and disappeared around the corner.

Only then did the smile drop off his face.

His eyes snapped back to the crowd.

Scanning. Movement, patterns, breaks…

Then he saw it. At first, it was nothing more than a flash of dark fabric moving between bodies. Until Nyx realized that he recognized it. 

A jacket that was worn at the cuffs where his knives had rubbed against it for years. One sleeve had a small stitched repair where a Magitek shard had torn it open during a mission in Old Lestallum. The lining was darker near the collar from sweat, rain, and a dozen long nights. 

And right now, his jacket was draped over someone far too slight for it. 

Nyx stopped.

Twenty yards ahead and gradually moving further away, Lunafreya passed through the morning crowd wearing his jacket like borrowed armor. The hem nearly brushed her knees, and the sleeves swallowed most of her hands. Though her head was lowered, watching the ground as though every sound around her demanded careful consideration, he could see the pale strands of hair escaping beneath the hood, softly spun gold against a shadowed frame. 

“... hell,” he cursed.

Then he started moving. 

Not running, because running would be the fastest way to turn every single head in the market. Instead, he cut into the crowd at an angle, slipping between people with the same fluid ease that he used on patrol. His pace quickened just enough to close the distance. The jacket moved ahead of him, weaving uncertainly through the morning rush. 

She wasn’t used to crowds like this. He could see it in the careful, deliberate way that she moved. People brushed her shoulders, and she flinched every time, as if expecting each one to stop her. 

And someone would. Her path led toward the inner districts, where checkpoints waited, and the people who manned them didn’t take kindly to stragglers. They had barely tolerated him when he first arrived in the city, back before he had the insignia to let him pass through without question.

Nyx pushed past a group of laborers unloading crates from a flatbed truck, and closed another few yards. Someone cursed when he bumped their shoulder, but he ignored them. 

Up ahead, Lunafreya had paused at a crossing where two streets funneled into the main road. Traffic roared through the intersection; delivery vans, patrol bikes, battered civilian cars. For a moment, she hesitated, clearly weighing which way to go.

He spotted the patrol first. Two Crownsguard officers stepped out of a side street, not twenty yards from her, their armor glinting in the morning sun as they merged with the crowd.

They hadn’t seen her yet.

Any moment, they would.

Nyx didn’t think. He moved. 

Fast.

The crowd slowed him immediately. Someone bumped his shoulder. A cart rolled between them, forcing him to detour around crates. He pushed through the last cluster of pedestrians and closed the distance. Three long strides and he was behind her.

His hand shot out, catching the sleeve of his jacket.

Lunafreya startled. Her face was a storm; anger, confusion, disbelief all packed into a single expression. For a flicker of a second, her eyes flared gold, residual power sparking uncontrolled, dangerous. Nyx instinctively braced.

Recognition hit her, and he didn’t waste a second. He pulled her toward him and pivoted off the street.

“Hey–”

“Not here.”

His grip tightened just enough to steer her without hurting her. He didn’t slow, didn’t give her a chance to argue, and pulled her off the street into the narrow alley between two buildings.

The noise of the market dulled instantly, replaced by dripping pipes, and the faint smell of damp stone. Nyx guided her a few steps deeper into the shadowed passage before finally letting go. Brick walls rose on either, damp with morning condensation. Rusted pipes rattled somewhere above them, and a line of trash bins sat crooked against the wall. 

He turned on her.

She looked… different. Not fully herself. Not the bruised, soot-streaked girl from the plains, but someone cautiously reassembled. Her hair, still damp, had been brushed back from her face, revealing the sharp line of her cheekbones, and the pale skin beneath that seemed almost luminous in the dim, amber glow of the sun. Her lips, faintly chapped, pressed together in a thin line. Her hands flexed, palms still faintly smudged with grime, but the edges of her arms had been smoothed; a quiet attempt at reclaiming some dignity. 

For a moment he just stared at her. Nyx’s chest rose and fell slowly from the sprint, irritation simmering beneath the fading rush of adrenaline. He dragged a slow breath through his nose, trying, and failing, to smooth the edge out of his voice.

“What,” he said flatly, “the hell are you doing?”

Lunafreya blinked, momentarily stunned by the force behind it. Her brows furrowed and straightened sequentially. 

“I—”

“You do realize” he jerked a hand toward the street behind them, “that if a Crown patrol spots you wandering around the outer ring wearing my jacket, I become a problem. A big one.”

She glanced down at the coat as though she’d momentarily forgotten she was wearing it. Her fingers brushed the sleeve, light, almost absent.

“Oh.”

Nyx closed his eyes. Just for a second. He dragged a hand down his face, feeling grit, sweat, and the lingering sting of smoke that hadn’t quite washed off since the train; when the girl standing in front of him could have burned him alive, and he was still coming to terms with the divine intervention that had convinced her not to do it.

“‘Oh,’” he echoed.

Silence stretched for a beat.

“You’re angry,” Lunafreya observed quietly.

Nyx let out a humorless huff. “Sharp.”

“I didn’t intend to cause you trouble,” she went on.

“Yeah. Well.” he shrugged faintly. “Intentions are great. Reality’s the part that gets people killed.” That wasn’t philosophy. That was memory; faces, names, the kind you stopped saying out loud because it never changed anything.

A faint line formed between her brows. She took that in with unsettling seriousness, like it was something worth keeping.

“I see.”

Nyx stared at her. “That’s it?”

She lifted her gaze again, calm, but thoughtful. “What would you prefer I say?”

He opened his mouth, then shut it again. Fair question. Honestly? He didn’t know.

“For starters?” he muttered finally. “Maybe ‘thank you for not letting me die in a ditch.’”

Something flickered across her expression, quick, and quiet. Guilt, maybe.

“I am grateful,” she said, softer now.

Nyx waved the sentiment away, already turning away from it. “Yeah, don’t get sentimental. Just—” He exhaled, dragging his thoughts back into something useful. “You want to explain why sneaking into the busiest part of the city at sunrise seemed like a good idea?”

“I need to speak with King Regis.”

Nyx laughed once. It wasn’t a pleasant sound.

“Right,” he said. “Because when you’re the missing Oracle in the middle of a diplomatic crisis, the obvious move is to walk up to the front gate and knock.”

“I would not describe it as obvious.”

Nyx stared at her.

Gods.

She was serious.

“Right,” he muttered. “Great plan.” He pushed off the wall, pacing once across the narrow alley, boots scuffing against uneven pavement. His body wanted movement—something to burn off the edge crawling under his skin. “You were just going to walk into the inner district?” He asked. “Past checkpoints. Patrols. Half the Crown who have no idea what you look like right now?”

“I assumed,” she said carefully, “that once I reached the Citadel—”

Nyx barked out a short laugh. “You assumed.”

Her expression cooled, just a fraction. “Yes.”

He shook his head slowly. “Highness, you wouldn’t make it halfway up the avenue before someone grabbed you.”

“Not if I explained—”

“Explained what?” His voice snapped sharper than he intended. He reined it in a second too late. “That you’re the Oracle? That you somehow slipped into the city while everyone’s busy dealing with an Imperial train wreck outside the Wall?”

She held his gaze. “I would tell them the truth.”

Nyx scrubbed both hands over his face.

“Gods,” he muttered. When he looked up again, disbelief had settled into something heavier. “You really don’t see the problem.”

“I see several,” she replied.

“Good. That’s comforting.”

Silence settled again, tighter this time.

The alley fell quiet again. Not silent, never quite that, but insulated. The noise from the street bled in: engines, voices, a radio crackling somewhere with half-heard reports. Life moving on, oblivious.

“You stopped them.”

Nyx frowned. “What?”

“The patrol,” she clarified. “You pulled me away before they saw me.”

He let out a slow breath through his nose. “Yeah. Because if they’d seen you, they’d have questions.” His mouth twitched faintly. “And I’m not in the mood to explain how I accidentally smuggled the Oracle into the outer ring.”

Her gaze drifted briefly toward the alley entrance. “Were they looking for me?”

“Not yet.” That was the problem. “They’re sweeping because of the rail explosion,” he added, rubbing the back of his neck. “Give it an hour, this place is going to be crawling with patrols.”

Lunafreya’s brows furrowed. “Then we have even less time.”

Nyx gave a quiet, incredulous huff. “You’re still on that plan?”

“I must reach the Citadel.”

He paced again, sharper this time, mind running angles out of habit—routes, patrol patterns, choke points. Every path he could think of ended the same way: uniforms, questions, and him explaining far too much to people who outranked him. “Yeah, well, the Citadel isn’t exactly open to walk-ins.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Especially not today.”

She watched him carefully. “Why?”

Nyx hesitated. Then, he shrugged. “Because Drautos and half the Kingsglaive are probably already crawling all over it.”

The name landed between them.

Lunafreya’s focus sharpened instantly.

“Drautos?”

Nyx stopped mid-step. It wasn’t abrupt enough to draw attention from the street, but it was enough. Enough that the shift in him, subtle, but coiled, cut through the noise of carts and engines and early-morning voices bleeding in from the avenue. He looked at her.

“You know him?”

Casual. Almost lazy. The kind of question you asked when you didn’t particularly care about the answer. 

His eyes gave him away. They narrowed just slightly, tracking every flicker of her expression like he was bracing for a tell.

And for a fraction of a second, there it was.

Recognition. Sharp. Immediate. Gone just as fast.

Lunafreya lowered her gaze, fingers smoothing over the sleeve of Nyx’s oversized jacket as though the motion required careful attention. As though it gave her something to do with the answer she wasn’t going to give.

“I’ve heard the name,” she said.

Nyx didn’t move. “Have you.”

She nodded once, composed. “He serves the Crown.”

“Yeah,” Nyx said slowly. “He does.”

The silence that followed stretched a little too long. Nyx tilted his head, studying her from a slightly different angle, like that might shake something loose. 

It didn’t. 

“You sure that’s all?”

Lunafreya looked back up at him, calm again. Too calm.

“There are many names one hears in court,” she said evenly. “Captain Drautos happens to be one of them.”

Clean. Neat. A perfect step around the question.

And then, before he could press…

“You said patrols will increase,” she continued. “That makes delay dangerous.”

Nyx held her gaze for a second longer.

Too fast, he thought. Way too fast.

People lied all the time. He’d built a career around spotting it: on the streets, in the Glaive, in the mirror if he had to. Most lies had weight. Hesitation. Friction. That hadn’t. 

That had been practiced.

He exhaled quietly through his nose and let it go. For now.

“Yeah,” he said, glancing toward the alley entrance again. “Delay’s definitely dangerous.” His gaze flicked back to her. “So is walking straight into a military checkpoint.”

Lunafreya didn’t look away. “Then what do you suggest?”

Nyx studied her. She wasn’t backing down. That much was obvious.

And it wasn’t just stubbornness, though she had that in spades. No, this was worse. This was someone who had already decided how things were going to go and saw no reason to reconsider.

He’d seen that kind of certainty before. It usually ended in a body bag.

He jerked his head toward the deeper end of the alley. “First thing, we get you out of the morning rush before someone notices the world’s worst disguise.”

Her gaze dipped briefly to the coat swallowing her frame. “It was the only one available.”

Nyx snorted, already moving past her. “Yeah. I noticed.” He took a few steps toward the far exit, then paused, glancing back over his shoulder.

“Second,” he added, voice sharpening just a fraction, “…if you’re serious about reaching the Citadel—”

His eyes locked onto hers.

“—you’re going to need someone who actually knows how to get there without getting both of us arrested.”

A small pause. Not hesitation.

… Consideration. He was actually considering…

“I trust Regis.”

Nyx held her gaze.

Then he sighed.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “That’s the part that worries me.”

She tilted her head slightly, as if the answer genuinely puzzled her. “He is the King of Lucis.”

“And you,” Nyx shot back, “are the Oracle of Tenebrae.” His eyes narrowed. “Which is currently occupied by Niflheim.”

That landed.

Not like a blow, she didn’t flinch, but like a live wire dropped between them, humming with everything neither of them needed spelled out.

Lunafreya met it head-on. “I know.”

Nyx let out a short breath, dragging a hand through his hair. “Then why walk straight into the one place guaranteed to make this worse?”

A beat. Brief. Measured.

“Because I need his help.”

Nyx opened his mouth.

Closed it again.

Damn it.

That wasn’t hope. It wasn’t blind faith, either; he knew what that looked like, had buried enough people who’d had it.

This was something else.

Certainty.

The kind that didn’t leave room for alternatives. The kind that made people do reckless, suicidal things and call it destiny.

He leaned back against the brick wall again, the tension in his shoulders settling into something heavier. More complicated.

“I am sorry,” she said quietly. “For complicating things.”

Nyx let out a dry, humorless huff. “Complicated started when you came barreling out of an armored train like the wrath of the gods.” He folded his arms, eyeing her. “You know,” he went on, voice edging sharper, “usually when someone says the Oracle is arriving for a royal wedding, people expect a carriage.”

A beat.

“Maybe a diplomatic convoy.”

Another.

“Not a celestial prison break.”

Lunafreya blinked.

And then, unexpectedly, the corner of her mouth twitched.

Not quite a smile.

But close enough to count. Close enough to call it a win.

Nyx narrowed his eyes. “You’re not even going to argue with that?”

“The train was…” She paused, choosing the words with care. “…not part of the intended journey.”

“Yeah,” Nyx said dryly. “I figured.”

Her lips pressed together faintly, the almost-smile fading as quickly as it had come. After a moment, her gaze sharpened. “Were you sent to find me? At the rail car?”

That one hit harder than it should have.

Nyx looked away, just for a second. The answer should’ve been simple. Clean. Something he could throw out without thinking.

Instead—

“…Not exactly.”

He could feel her focus tighten on him immediately. “I reported the train drop,” he said, keeping his tone neutral. “Pursuing it was shut down. I was told to secure the perimeter and leave it alone.”

“And yet you came anyway.”

“Yeah.”

“You disobeyed orders.”

“Yeah.”

No point dressing that up.

She studied him more closely now, something more intent in her expression.

“Why?”

Nyx shrugged, pushing off the wall again. “Because,” he said, tone turning dry again, “when someone parks an Imperial armored train outside your city and tells you not to look inside it—” He met her eyes. “—that’s exactly when you look inside.”

A faint flicker crossed her face again. Not quite amusement this time, something softer, harder to pin down.

“And instead,” she said quietly, “you found me.”

Nyx held her gaze.

“I did.”

For a moment, neither of them moved. The city continued carrying on beyond the alley: voices rising and falling, engines rumbling, the distant clatter of wheels over uneven stone. 

Normal. Loud. Alive. Completely unaware of the problem standing in the middle of a back alley wearing his jacket.

Finally, Nyx straightened.

“Alright,” he said.

Lunafreya waited.

“We’ve got two problems.” He pointed toward the street. “First, half the kingdom is looking for you.” Then he tapped a finger lightly against his own chest. “Second, apparently I’m the idiot responsible for hiding you.”

She didn’t argue with that. Didn’t even look offended.

Which, for some reason, made it worse.

Nyx studied her for another second, something about her composure grating in a way he couldn’t quite name. Too steady. Too sure. Deeply, profoundly inconvenient.

“So before we figure out what the hell happens next,” he said, voice lowering, “you’re going to explain something.”

He stepped closer. Not threatening.

But not giving her room to slip past, either.

His expression hardened, the edge in it no longer disguised.

“How,” he asked, eyes narrowing as they locked onto hers, “did you know my name?”

[proper-goodnight]

Collateral Gods (Breaking Protocol Chpt. 6)

Collateral Gods - Breaking Protocol (06)

Summary:

She wasn’t just a symbol, paraded around for show. She spoke to gods. They listened. If the wrong hands forced her, or if fear pushed her, she could bring down firestorms and calamities that no wall in Insomnia could keep at bay. The Ring of the Lucii, the one thing keeping Niflheim from storming the gates outright, could slip from Regis’s grasp with a single misstep.

If the gods decided to follow her lead, even the Empire wouldn’t be safe from the fallout.

Fandom: Kingsglaive: Final Fantasy XV

Pairings: Lunafreya Nox Fleuret x Nyx Ulric

Type: Multi-Chap

Words: ~3k

Shortly after being inducted into the Kingsglaive, Nyx had learned how to move through Insomnia without being noticed. It wasn’t a talent that earned commendations. It wasn’t a skill anyone rewarded. The Crown liked spectacle; soldiers in formation, banners flying, and loyalty loud enough for everyone to hear. Quiet competence didn’t earn medals.

But quiet competence kept you alive.

And Nyx had survived a long time by knowing when not to exist.

Years in the Glaive had only sharpened that instinct. When plans collapsed, and they always did eventually, being invisible bought you time. Time to think. Time to fix things before someone higher up the chain noticed the mess.

Tonight, that instinct was the only thing standing between him and a disaster he didn’t have time to fully understand.

Carrying the Oracle of Tenebrae, very much alive, and very much unconscious, through Insomnia without the Crown noticing definitely counted as a disaster.

The Crown didn’t know yet. That much he was sure of. If they did, every glaive from the outer districts to the Citadel would have mobilized within the hour: faces he knew, voices he’d laughed with between drills, men and women he’d bled beside on city streets and broken ground. They wouldn’t hesitate. Orders would come down clean and absolute, and loyalty would do the rest. He knew how quickly loyalty turned sharp when the word traitor entered the room. 

He knew because he’d worn that loyalty himself for years.

The Kingsglaive had given him structure when he’d arrived in Insomnia hungry, angry, and grateful in the way that only the desperate ever were. It was a place to stand where the ground didn’t immediately fall away beneath his feet. He’d paid for his loyalty in bruises, in blood, and in long nights where sleep never quite came, and he’d paid it willingly.

If this broke open, and if the Crown decided he’d crossed a line that couldn’t be justified, none of it would matter. Years of service wouldn’t matter. The missions he’d survived wouldn’t matter. He’d just become a problem that needed solving. 

A Galahdian immigrant wearing Crown insignia made a convenient scapegoat.

Enemy number one wasn’t a role he’d ever rehearsed for.

Instinctively, he adjusted his grip on Lunafreya, angling her face toward his shoulder. She was light. Too light for someone who had torn open an armored train and turned the night sky into lightning.

He tried not to think about that part.

He’d lost track of how long he’d spent making sure no one saw them, but it occurred to him, too late, that his own home was the most dangerous place he could have chosen.

Insomnia had risen around them in cold stone and muted light, the outer districts quieter than they had any right to be. Nyx’s mind had run through contingencies like a soldier running drills: routes too open, streets that funneled toward checkpoints, corners where a lone Crownsguard might pause for a cigarette, assuming the city was empty.

In his earlier days, he’d memorized these patterns. Every training run, every stealth exercise that had once seemed tedious now mattered more than he’d ever admit, even with a knife to his throat.

Crowe and Libertus had split off halfway back, at least. Cleaner that way, and fewer footprints if this all went to hell.

By the time he slipped into the slums on the outer ring, his arms throbbed with a deep, burning ache, and every inhale scratched the back of his throat with soot and smoke. 

He wasn’t sure if the shaking was from exhaustion, or whatever was left of the adrenaline frying his nerves.

The front door resisted as it always did. He forced it open with a tired grunt, then eased it shut behind him, coaxing the hinges into silence. Inside, the city’s hum dulled to a distant throb.

Only then did he allow himself to breathe.

Lunafreya’s breathing was shallow but steady, the faintest furrow still visible between her brows. Blood: hers, though he wasn’t sure how much of it, had dried in thin, dark rivulets framing her face. 

He lingered by the door longer than necessary, letting the silence settle, and listened past his own breathing for anything out of place. Footsteps on the stairs, a voice in the hall, or the hum or surveillance drones drifting too close…

Nothing.

He moved through the apartment by habit, ducking under the low beam near the back room and nudging the bedroom door open with his heel.

The scent that greeted him was old wood, metal polish, and stale air. It had felt grounding in a way that he hadn’t expected.

Even if it wasn’t much to look at.

His bedroom was small and unassuming, a space carved from necessity rather than comfort. Its walls were bare save for a single framed photo tucked halfway behind a stack of worn books: him and his sister, caught in a moment that felt like it belonged to another life. His bed was narrow, the mattress lumpy, the sheets threadbare and patched where years of use had worn them thin. A faded rug lay underfoot, fraying at the corners. The nightstand held a lamp, a coil of wire he’d never bothered to fix, and the occasional stray coin or scrap of paper. Shelves crowded the walls, stacked with manuals, old maps, training notes, and a handful of small trinkets that had survived years of displacement and missions.

Nothing an oracle would be ecstatic to write home about, but it was the best he had.

And it suited the reality of his life: a soldier living at the edge of permission, whose track record with the Kingsglaive, and Drautos’s patience, meant raises and commendations came sparingly, if at all. 

Crossing to the bed, he lowered her onto the mattress with painstaking care. Her lashes fluttered, reflex rather than waking, and his hand paused midair until her breathing evened out again. Only then did he straighten, rolling the tension from his shoulders inch by inch.

Up close, she looked human again. The soot and blood erased the distance that usually came with her name. Not the figure people whispered about in temples. Just a woman who had nearly died.

And who had, gods help him, had somehow spared him.

Nyx stepped back, forcing space between them before instinct dragged him closer. He didn’t check her pulse again; he knew she was alive. That wasn’t the problem.

The problem was everything else. 

The impossible that had already happened.

The echo of her voice that still lingered in his head.

The remnants of her that followed him, even into his dreams.

When he’d finally turned away, he’d felt every second of it.

The couch in the main room did nothing to soften his landing. Springs groaned in protest the moment he sank into it, one leg draped awkwardly over the armrest, the other hanging off the side. He tugged his coat free, folded it into something that barely passed for a pillow, and leaned back with a quiet wince. Every movement felt heavier than it should, as though the night had coated him in lead. He crossed his arms over his chest.

Sleep, though, didn’t come. 

His mind refused rest, cycling through the chaos in sharp, staccato flashes: 

The explosion.

The train ripping apart.

Molten gold eyes burning through smoke.

The strange scent of flowers that shouldn’t have existed in the middle of scorched metal and fire.

Then her voice.

The heel of his hand pressed hard against his brow, as if force alone might shove his thoughts into something that made sense. One moment kept circling back, stubborn and impossible to ignore. The instant that she’d changed, or more importantly, the instant that she’d spoken. Her voice. A whisper. Fragile, but unmistakable. 

The first time that he’d ever truly heard it. 

Nyx…?

He stared up at the darkened ceiling. Silence stretched. One beat, then another, then another. 

He froze mid-thought. Her whisper lingered in his ears, raw and real, and for the first time since he’d lifted her from the plains, something cracked open inside him. Not fear. Not doubt, but a slow, gnawing realization. 

It slid in like a blade between ribs. 

He’d never told her his name. 

The word replayed endlessly behind his eyes. Not you. Not glaive. Not a desperate, unfocused plea. His name. Spoken clearly. Intimately. As if it had always belonged there. 

He hadn’t said it to her. Not once. And yet, in the haze of astral fire and broken steel, in the chaos of her power and exhaustion, she had known it. 

Nyx’s mind tried to grasp it, to fit it into some logical frame, but nothing worked. He had never met her before, not in passing, nor in life. The only impressions of her that he carried were dreams; recent, fragmentary, and fleeting. Not enough to teach her his name. Not enough to make this possible.

Doubt crept in, insidious and sharp. Maybe he had imagined it. Maybe the fire, the explosion, the astral ripping free from the boxcar, and even her own shape had been some fevered hallucination. He remembered the heat on his skin, the shards of metal that had torn past him, the bruising force of her weight when he carried her across the plains, but memories could deceive. 

Maybe his mind had filled the gaps on its own to make what he’d seen bearable. 

He laughed bitterly; a short, humorless sound. Maybe I’m insane.

Yet his arms ached. His legs burned. The stiffness in his back was a stubborn, unarguable record of what had happened. He had carried her for miles. She was in his bedroom. There were witnesses. 

He could ask them, but the questions would start long before the answers. Since when did you meet the Oracle? And the truth, or the partial truth, was one he couldn’t articulate without sounding unhinged. He didn’t know how she knew. He didn’t know why she knew. He didn’t know why he didn’t know.

He exhaled slowly, sharp and uneven, letting the sound dissolve into the dark. 

And he began to plan.

He ran through the possibilities of when she woke up. What if she panicked, what if the remnants of her astral power surged again without warning? He would need to keep her calm, keep her seated, away from windows, away from any exposure. Maybe the room needed wards, a shield, anything that could contain her if she remembered too much too quickly.

Then the consequences. If anyone traced the train’s destruction back to them, the reports, the whispers, the inevitable inquiries. Loyalists to Drautos wouldn’t understand nuance. They would see a rogue Glaive–a Galahdian immigrant–and a missing Oracle, and assume the worst. 

He couldn’t tell them the truth: that she could manifest as an astral, that she had obliterated an armored train, that he had willingly smuggled her into the city, that Crowe and Libertus had seen it all. Their loyalty was exactly the problem. They would back him up, and the Crown would see only a weapon, a threat, a reason to cage, or execute, her.

He could already imagine the reports taking shape, the language stripped of awe and heavy with implication:

“Oracle Unleashed in Insomnia Outskirts; Glaive Involved?”

The scenarios multiplied faster than he could track. Each one layered atop the last, all hypothetical, and all impossible to plan for completely. His body ached, his mind screamed for rest, but his thoughts refused stillness.

And then it hit him, the thought that made him flinch in the dark: he was planning.

Not just thinking. Not just worrying. Planning. Strategizing. Contingency after contingency, step after step, escape routes, failsafes, ways to hide her, ways to hide himself.

He shook his head sharply, disbelief sharpening the ache in his temples. What the hell am I doing?

“For the love of the Six,” he muttered, voice low, and raw, “wake up soon… and please, tell me what the hell I’m supposed to do.”

Eventually, the ache in his body overpowered the ache in his mind. His arms slackened, his chest sinking against the stubborn couch cushions. The night stretched long, silent except for the low, steady hum of the city beyond his windows. Gradually, his eyelids grew heavy, the tension in his shoulders uncoiling just enough to let him drift, fragment by fragment, into sleep.

A sound pulled him partway back. At first, it slipped into his awareness as background noise; low voices, static, and the clipped cadence of news anchors that always sounded too composed for the chaos they reported. It bled through the apartment faintly, the way sound sometimes carried through thin walls in the slums. 

Nyx shifted slightly on the couch. Something creaked. His eyes cracked open just enough to smear the room into dim shapes. 

The television was on. 

That fact alone didn’t register as strange immediately. The walls in this building were thin enough that half the neighborhood bled into his apartment on a good night; arguments, laughter, cheap radios, the occasional late broadcast drifting through the floorboards from the unit below. 

Except, the light was wrong. 

A soft bluish flicker washed across the room, shifting with the cadence of broadcast footage. It painted the cracked plaster walls in uneven pulses and caught along the edge of the table where he’d left his knife earlier.

Nyx frowned sluggishly. He hadn’t turned it on. 

The exhaustion pressing down on him felt like wet concrete. Every limb was heavy, his nerves still buzzing with the dull aftershock of adrenaline and too many miles on ruined muscles. Even the act of focusing his eyes took effort. The room swam once before settling into something that barely resembled clarity.

Then he saw her. 

Lunafreya sat in the chair beside the couch, her form smudged at the edges as if he were looking through a haze of smoke or fog. The dark strands of her damp hair clung to her face in soft, indistinct lines. Her hands rested in her lap, fingers curling, but the color under her nails was just a hint of red, a smear that might have been a trick of the dim light or the bruise of shadow. Her features refused to settle into focus. The curve of her cheek. The line of her mouth. Even her eyes were only pale glimmers, like reflections on disturbed water.

She was staring at the TV mounted on the wall.

The broadcast showed aerial footage of the wreckage outside Insomnia:

Burned metal, Crownsguard barricades, and the shattered remains of the rail line cutting across the plains.

“…search operations continue throughout the surrounding regions. Officials from the Crown have declined to comment on speculation regarding the nature of the explosion…”

Lunafreya didn’t react. She simply watched. Her expression, what little of it Nyx could make out, was distant. Not frightened. Not confused. If anything, it looked thoughtful, the quiet concentration someone gave a problem they hadn’t solved yet.

Nyx blinked. The movement was slow, heavy, as though his body hadn’t quite received the message that waking required cooperation. He tried to push himself upright. His arm twitched. That was as far as it got.

The exhaustion slammed back down immediately, grinding his muscles back into the couch cushions. His body had already made the decision for him hours ago: the night was over. It wasn’t interested in negotiating now.

“…Tenebraean diplomatic officials have issued a formal request for immediate cooperation from Lucian authorities…”

The words blurred together. Nyx squinted at her, trying to force her image into sharper focus. Something about the moment felt unreal. She should have been in the bedroom. 

He remembered carrying her there, every miserable step of it. The weight of her in his arms, lighter than it should’ve been after what she’d done out there on the plains. The careful way he’d lowered her onto the mattress, watching her breathing until he was sure it was steady.

He’d closed the door.

He was certain of that.

Yet here she was, sitting calmly on the couch in his living room, watching the news discuss her disappearance like a stranger observing a distant event.

He considered speaking. His throat didn’t cooperate. 

The edges of her image wavered in his vision again like smoke, like heat distortion rising from the pavement, twisting certainty into doubt. Nyx frowned harder, trying to force the world back into something stable. For a moment, just a moment he thought, Lunafreya’s gaze shifted. It passed over him. Not startled. Not searching. Simply aware.

The kind of awareness that settled on someone who had already known you were there.

His mind tried to latch onto the detail, but the effort dissolved under the weight of fatigue pressing down behind his eyes.

Maybe he’d gotten up earlier.

Maybe he’d helped her out here.

Maybe—

The thought was interrupted with the dull, tired practicality that had kept him alive more times than he could count. You learned not to trust your senses when your body was this close to shutting down. Soldiers hallucinated worse things than quiet princesses watching the late news.

He exhaled slowly, the breath rough in his chest.

If this was a dream, it was a remarkably boring one.

His eyelids dragged shut again as his body sagged deeper into the couch, chasing whatever brittle scrap of sleep it could still claim.

The last thing he registered before darkness took him again was the faint impression of pale hair catching the flicker of the screen, watching the city search for someone who was already here.

When Nyx woke the second time, the apartment was too quiet. The stillness hit before his eyes even opened. No television, no voices; just the low rumble of traffic outside and the faint whistle of wind through gaps in the old building.

He lay still for a moment, trying to untangle sleep from memory.

Sleep clung to him like mud, heavy and disorienting. His body felt wrong, stiff in places it shouldn’t be, numb in others, and the sour ache in his shoulders suggested he’d made another poor life decision sometime during the night.

Then, the memory came back, though not gently.

The explosion. The plains. Impossibly gold eyes burning through smoke.

Nyx’s eyes snapped open. He was off the couch in a second. The springs screamed as his boots hit the floor. 

He stood in one sharp motion, and the room spun briefly. Whether through lack of sleep, adrenaline crash, or maybe both, he elected to ignore it and move down the narrow hall. 

His bedroom door was open. 

He covered the distance in three strides.

The bed was empty.

The sheets were disturbed, barely. A shallow indentation where her weight had been, already beginning to fade. The blanket had been pulled halfway down as though someone had sat up slowly, and deliberately, rather than rising in a rush.

His pulse kicked against his ribs. Instinct took over. He scanned: window, corners, floor. Nothing was out of place. No struggle. No overturned furniture. No blood. The window beside the bed was still latched. She hadn’t fallen. She hadn’t been taken. 

Which meant the obvious answer was also the worst one.

She’d left.

His jaw tightened. 

“Fuck,” he muttered.

That single word felt weak against the weight of the thought. 

Worse still, she was now somewhere in Insomnia.

Alone.

Maybe she’d woken up disoriented. Maybe she’d panicked.

Maybe she’d realized whose apartment she was in, and decided escaping the Kingsglaive operative was the safest option. None of it mattered. She was out there, and now it was on him.

“Shit.”

He checked the rest of the apartment anyway.

He moved fast, systematic: bathroom, kitchen, every corner of the apartment. Empty. Exactly as he’d expected, except for the glaring absence of Lunafreya.

Think.

Then the city hit him; the noise, the movement, the hum of waking streets: Vendors rattling carts, engines sputtering to life, people spilling over cracked pavement like ants.

If Lunafreya was out there...

If she had walked straight into the waking city with half of Lucis searching for her...

Then the disaster he’d been trying to avoid all night had just gotten a hell of a lot harder to contain.

[proper-goodnight]

Collateral Gods (The Astral Unbound Chpt. 5)

Collateral Gods - The Astral Unbound (05)

Summary:

She wasn’t just a symbol, paraded around for show. She spoke to gods. They listened. If the wrong hands forced her, or if fear pushed her, she could bring down firestorms and calamities that no wall in Insomnia could keep at bay. The Ring of the Lucii, the one thing keeping Niflheim from storming the gates outright, could slip from Regis’s grasp with a single misstep.

If the gods decided to follow her lead, even the Empire wouldn’t be safe from the fallout.

Fandom: Kingsglaive: Final Fantasy XV

Pairings: Lunafreya Nox Fleuret x Nyx Ulric

Type: Multi-Chap

Words: ~4k

The chill of the late night cut through their cloaks, but Nyx barely noticed. Miles behind them, Insomnia’s glow had been swallowed by darkness, reduced to a faint smear of gold along the horizon. Out here, far beyond the reach of the Wall, the world was stripped bare. Gnarled wind-bent trees hunched over patches of dying grass, their crooked shapes swaying like old ghosts as the wind dragged itself across the open fields.

And slicing straight through that emptiness, gleaming under the moon, ran the magitek rail, an unbroken sliver of silver cutting across the dark. The only sign of civilization this far out.

Libertus moved at Nyx’s side, every step careful and deliberate as opposed to his usual leisurely stride. He wasn’t light on his feet, he’d never been, but he made up for it with vigilance, eyes tracking every rustle of brush, every flicker of distant lamplight from scattered farmsteads. 

Crowe trailed just behind at the rear, hands jammed into her coat pockets, shoulders hunched against the wind. Her breath fogged in front of her, and her expression was set in the kind of annoyed grimace that meant she was about three seconds from turning around.

“You do realize,” she muttered sharply, “and let me just point this out before we go any farther. If anyone sees us out here? We’re either getting executed on the spot or punished by Drautos.” She jabbed a finger at Nyx. “And honestly? I don’t know which one’s worse.”

Libertus gave a soft snort. “Knowing Drautos?” He shrugged, “I’d say it’s the punishment. Execution’s faster.”

Crowe elbowed him sharply. “Not helping.”

Nyx kept moving, boots crunching softly over the ground. He didn’t answer at first. His focus stayed fixed on the distant shape ahead; magitek floodlamps glowing, just enough to outline the shape of a stationary train several hundred meters away. 

Crowe quickened her pace, falling in beside him. “Nyx, I’m serious. We’re—what? Ten miles outside the walls? Fifteen?” Her voice rose again, sharper this time. “We’re not just bending rules, we’re openly defying the Citadel, and for the record our King. For cargo we were explicitly told not to worry about!”

Nyx finally exhaled, and the vapor clouding in front of his face was the only sign he’d been holding his breath. “It’s not about the cargo,” he said, voice low but firm. “It’s about why. Drautos shut the whole operation down and never said a word beyond ‘secure the perimeter.’ My report mentioned the train drop-off. No orders. No follow-up. Nothing.”

Libertus shifted slightly, eyes flicking to him. “It’s outside Glaive territory. Technically, this is Crownsguard jurisdiction. This could make things complicated. Fast.”

“Exactly,” Nyx said. “Which is why I’m not waiting for clearance. If someone’s moving something this far outside the city, keeping it quiet, keeping it off the record, it’s not going to sit around waiting for a briefing that’s never coming.” 

Crowe scoffed “Oh, perfect. So we’re sneaking through the night, freezing our asses off, risking Drautos’ wrath, and you’re telling me this is professional reconnaissance. Fantastic. Really. I can’t wait to be summarily executed for curiosity.”

Libertus let out a soft chuckle. “She has a point, but still, I’m with Nyx on this one. Better we see it ourselves than wake up to a Behemoth in the Citadel courtyard, or worse.”

Crowe shot him a sharp glare. “Your definition of ‘better’ is terrifying, you know that?”

Nyx allowed a thin smirk that vanished almost immediately. The tension in his chest didn’t ease; if anything, it tightened. Something was wrong tonight. Not the kind of wrong that raised hackles or screamed run, but something quieter. A pressure at the edge of instinct, like a shadow keeping pace with him just out of sight.

They crested a small rise, wind sweeping hard across the slope, carrying with it the acrid tang of metal and hot oil. Below, the rails stretched through the plains, disappearing into darkness. The faint pulse of magitek current hummed through the steel, a low, steady vibration Nyx felt through the soles of his boots before he heard it.

The train was there in the moonlight, long and low, armored along the edges, matte plating swallowing what little silver light touched it. Civilian enough to blend into rail schedules. Military enough to catch his notice.

Crowe crouched beside him, eyes narrowing. “That’s definitely not a standard supply train,” she murmured, voice tight.  “Looks like it failed inspection before it even started.”

“No,” Nyx agreed, eyes never leaving the cars. “Not even close.”

Libertus lingered a half-step behind, stance rigid, weight balanced on the balls of his feet. “We’re exposed,” he muttered. “Tracks are way beyond Wall jurisdiction. Could be mercs, Crownsguard contractors… hell, could even be Glaives from the next rotation.” His hand hovered near his weapon, poised but restrained. “Any fight here? We lose before it starts.”

Nyx let the silence hold a beat, just long enough to settle them before he answered. “We’re not here to fight,” he said. “We’re here to look. Eyes on the drop. That’s it. If we’re smart, we’ll be gone before anyone notices.”

Crowe let out a soft, humorless laugh. “We’re never smart when we follow you,” she muttered, rising to her feet anyway.

The slope angled gently downward. The metallic hum grew stronger with each step, threading through the quiet like a pulse. Nyx’s fingers brushed the hilt of his kukri, habit, not intent. A reminder of the difference between caution and panic.

Libertus lifted two fingers, nodding toward the midsection of the train where shadows pooled. “Mercs,” he whispered. “At least two posts. Helmets with night optics; blue glare on the visors. There’s a third pacing between cars.”

Nyx’s eyes narrowed. “Not Crownsguard, then. Too sloppy.” He tilted his head, scanning the perimeter. “Private contractors. Professional, but not trained for scrutiny.”

Crowe frowned. “Guarding an unmarked train outside the walls? That doesn’t scream legitimacy.”

“Screams secrecy, though.” Libertus countered quietly.

The cars themselves were unadorned, stripped of insignia, save for a handful of dim red signal lamps flickering intermittently, half-dead, struggling for power. 

The train looked as if it were holding its breath.

Or trying to hide.

Libertus tracked the guards’ pacing pattern. “We can approach from the rear. Less visibility. No direct sightline.” He paused. “Could be cameras, or trip lines near the doors. Pressure triggers, maybe.”

Nyx shook his head slowly, scanning the edges of the cars. “No cameras I can see. Trip lines? Maybe. If they’re clever, they’re inside the doorframe. We’ll find out soon enough.”

Crowe exhaled sharply, a plume of irritation blooming in the cold. “Wonderful. Love that we’re relying on ‘we’ll know soon enough.’” She jabbed Nyx’s arm with one gloved finger. “And you know, when Drautos kills us, I want it on official record that you dragged us into this.”

Libertus didn’t skip a beat. “Drautos won’t kill us.”

Crowe blinked at him. “How is that comforting?”

“He’ll make us regret being born long before he kills us.” Libertus said evenly.

Crowe groaned. “Fantastic.”

Nyx didn’t respond. His attention snapped back to the train just as a single lantern flickered alive in the fourth car, a faint orange glow struggling through an obscured window. A signal. Someone was inside.

The trio pressed forward, the silver rails guiding them like a taut wire drawn through the dark. The train stretched longer than any civilian transport Nyx had seen… eight, maybe ten cars, and the soft hum of activity inside made something in his gut twist. 

This wasn’t storage. This was containment.

Nyx slipped left, hugging the shadow of a low embankment that ran parallel to the tracks. Libertus matched his movements instantly, a grounded shadow at his shoulder. Crowe lagged a few steps behind, muttering under her breath about freezing fingers, but her footing was quiet, precise, her training showing despite her complaining.

When the rear of the train came into view, the darkness pooled thick around the final cars. Two mercs patrolled lazily near the reinforced rear doors, rifles slung but hands tense on their grips. The pulsing red lamps distorted their shadows, long and insect-like across the ground.

Nyx crouched lower, eyes narrowing.  One guard limped slightly, throwing off his rhythm; the other was too alert, scanning with blind efficiency. Small mistakes. Careless details. Neither expected company.

Libertus leaned in slightly, voice barely audible. “They’re not coordinated. Blind spots between rotations. We can move between them if we time it right.”

“Stay low,” Nyx murmured. “Stay quiet.”

Nyx moved first, silent, controlled steps cutting through the grass. Every crunch of gravel had to be ignored, timed to the shifting of their shadows. Libertus followed, solid but surprisingly silent for his size. Crowe slipped behind them, looking each time the red lamp rotated, though she didn’t break formation once.

Nyx reached the corner of the rear platform and ducked behind a stack of crates; splintered wood, frost gathering in the cracks, stamped with faded imperial barcodes. The mercs were close enough to hear one sniff the air, boot scraping metal.

Perfect.

He signaled Libertus and Crowe. They slipped into the narrow corridor between train and embankment, the shadows stacking thick and protective around them.

The rear platform rose before them, reinforced fabrications, cold metal slick with condensation. Nyx’s gaze landed on the doors. Thick plating. Reinforced hinges. Scratches along the bolts, deep enough to show bare metal beneath. Someone had opened and closed these doors frequently, and in a hurry.

The red signal lamps pulsed again, more erratic this time. Not a warning system. Something internal. Something active.

Nyx dropped into a crouch, eyes locked on the reinforced locking mechanism. “Magitek bolts,” he muttered. “Standard issue. Older model. I can override it.”

Libertus raised a brow, more expression than he usually allowed. “You always sound so confident right before something explodes.”

Nyx tapped two fingers to his lips, gesturing toward the rust-rimmed panel. A thin blue line hummed faintly beneath the casing, alive and tense.

Crowe stared at it, unimpressed. “Let me guess. This is the part where you say ‘trust me.’”

“No,” Nyx said. “This is the part where you decide whether or not to stand behind me.”

She muttered something about hating his optimism. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed her shuffle back a few steps.

Nyx’s hands moved over the circuitry automatically. Years of breaking magitek locks had trained muscle memory into precision. A pulse of energy thrummed beneath his fingertips; erratic, overworked, like a heart forced to run faster than it should.

Two wires crossed. A current diverted. The pressure-lock hissed, steam venting from a hairline seam. The bolt clicked.

And in the same fragile heartbeat… the train car erupted.

A roar of metal twisting and shattering tore through the night, so violent it felt like the sky itself was cracking open. A pillar of fire and incandescent energy erupted upward in a blinding column, and Nyx’s world detonated into white noise.

The blast hit like a battering ram. Nyx was airborne for a fraction of a second before crashing hard, the impact rattling his ribs and stealing the air from his lungs. Sparks arced overhead like shooting stars, chunks of metal and splintered wood raining around him. The acrid stench of scorched metal and ozone clawed at his nose.

Beside him, Libertus slammed shoulder-first into the embankment, skin scraping stone. Crowe tumbled after, hair dusted with cinders, jacket half-unfastened, swearing under her breath.

The red signal lamps blinked their last in a cascade of electric arcs, flickering shadows across the frozen plains. Mercs shouted, their voices frantic, swallowed almost instantly by the screech of bending metal and cracking fire.

“Down!” Nyx yelled, rolling aside as a jagged shard of iron slammed into the ground where his head had been moments before. Smoke burned at his lungs, thick with burnt insulation and spilled magitek fluid. He squinted through the haze, stomach tightening as his gaze fell on the wreckage.

And then he saw it.

Silhouetted against its own roaring inferno, a colossal shape unfurled from the shattered train car, a being woven from radiant light and swirling shadow, as if the night sky had taken form. The flames didn’t burn it; they parted around it like water around stone. 

It stepped out of the shattered train car, metal peeling away from its limbs like paper. Every movement was deliberate, immense, and silent despite the chaos surrounding it.

Nyx’s breath caught. Crowe froze beside him. Libertus’s hand instinctively went to his weapon, but none of them dared move.

Something alive. Something ancient. Something they were never meant to see.

A colossal astral.

Its form bled between matter and myth, limbs sculpted from light, wings unfurling in a fan of shimmering, razor-edged radiance. Each feather gleamed like molten glass. Its eyes burned gold, furious and aware, reflections of an ancient storm made flesh. Lightning writhed across its body in serpentine arcs, grounding itself violently along the rails and sending sparks skittering through the earth.

Libertus stumbled backward, face drained of blood. “By the gods…”

Crowe’s voice hitched, sharp with awe and fear. “What the hell is that?”

The astral’s gaze swept the wreckage, nostrils flaring as it sniffed the air. Then it roared. The sound was a living thing, rolling across the plains, resonating through bone and sinew, shaking distant farmstead lights. Mercenaries broke immediately. Discipline collapsed. Rifles clattered as they fled into the dark. Bullets sparked off the astral’s shimmering hide like grains of sand striking glass from those brave, or stupid, enough to stay behind.

Nyx looked up. Sparks hissed from overloaded magitek circuits, sizzling against scorched metal. Smoke coiled upward in thick, acrid ribbons, stinging his eyes and throat, while flames moved along the twisted panels, sending hot forth waves that warped the air. Bits of charred wood and molten shrapnel littered the ground, clattering softly as they settled. Through it all, the astral stepped over the destruction as if the entire wreck were nothing more than a fragile curtain, its immense form unshaken by the fire, the heat, or the chaos it had wrought.

“Move!” He shoved himself upright, voice scraping raw against the explosion still ringing in his ears. “Libertus! Ridge! Crowe! Keep low!”

They sprinted toward a shallow rise, boots sliding over gravel, and shards of metal. The astral’s wings unfurled in a single, titanic beat, and the resulting shockwave tore across the plains, shredding grass, rattling their bones, throwing grit and debris into the air. Sparks and fragments of magitek hissed across the ground, a storm of fire, metal, and wind. Each thrum of its wings sent them stumbling, nearly toppling, its roar shaking the earth with each colossal step.

Then it struck.

A blur of light and sinew slammed into Nyx from the side. He went down hard, the world spinning as a mass of heat and muscle and force drove him downward, pinning him to the earth before he even registered he’d stopped running. The wind was forced from his lungs as his head thudded into the ground, the sky spun, and his kukri skittered somewhere out of reach. 

He blinked, disoriented, as an immense weight pressed down on his chest. He couldn’t see its full body, only a massive arm, feathers glowing with trapped lightning, heat radiating from a form that dwarfed him. Gold eyes studied him, searching, intelligent, and terrifyingly aware.

Lightning arced along the creature’s spine, hissing and snapping through the night air, hairs rising along Nyx’s arms. The shock was palpable, almost overwhelming—but not a single claw, no bite, no strike. Only presence. Raw, titanic, suffocating across his dirt-streaked face.

“Nyx!” Libertus shouted from somewhere behind him, the sound of his boots slipping across gravel.

The astral bent its massive head low, nostrils flaring. A long, measured inhale of air, its colossal snout hovering inches from him. The electricity crackling along its body stuttered, the whine of raw power momentarily softening. 

Nyx’s vision swam from smoke and heat. His ears rang. His heart thudded against his ribs so hard he could feel it in his teeth.

Yet, through the storm, through oil fumes, scorched magitek, burning wood, a scent reached him. Soft. Earthy. Subtle. The smallest thread of fragrance woven through ruin.

Tenebrae flowers. 

His mind stuttered.

It was impossible. Hallucinatory. Out of place in a battlefield carved by fire. The scent was one he had only ever known from his dreams, from the faintest trace that lingered on the Oracle’s path.

The tension in the astral’s form eased just enough to be disorienting. Its claws pressed into the ground, digging in like a predator marking its territory, but there was no swipe, no predatory strike aimed at him. 

Nyx’s chest heaved as he tried to process the scene. The creature’s molten-gold eyes stayed fixed on him for a heartbeat, and then, without warning, it pivoted. A deafening roar split the night as it swung its gaze toward the mercenaries scattered around the wreckage, rifles abandoned, bodies flailing in panic. Lightning arced along its wings, precise and brutal, throwing men into the ground, igniting scraps of debris, tearing through reinforced panels like paper.

He froze, watching in stunned silence.

The mercenaries’ screams and the crackle of energy-filled destruction filled the night. Sparks leapt from metal, hissing as they struck frozen ground, and the earth seemed to tremble beneath the astral’s relentless wrath.

“Nyx! Move!” Libertus’s voice cracked, urgent, shaking him from trance. “The hell are you waiting for?!”

Crowe shoved him harder, breath ragged, teeth bared against the cold. “You wanna watch or live, Ulric? Up, now!”

His limbs obeyed reluctantly, muscles numb with adrenaline. His gaze stayed glued to the astral, watching as it dismantled the mercenaries with the same terrifying precision a predator used when dismantling prey, measured, unflinching, horrifyingly elegant. Every arc of wing, every strike of claw, was clean. He could hardly look away.

“Get your ass up, Ulric!” Libertus barked, yanking him upright. “Before it decides you’re collateral!”

The last of the mercenaries fell in a tangle of scorched uniforms, screaming futilely as the earth seemed to tremble beneath the astral’s wings. Then silence, heavy and unnatural, blanketed the plains. The creature’s wings folded slowly, ceremoniously. Sparks of residual energy danced across metal, the air quivering under the lingering force of its power.

Nyx gasped for air, lungs screaming for oxygen. He had faced monsters, threats that would make lesser men break, but nothing, nothing had prepared him for this. Not for the living weight of an astral, standing like a god in the night, bending reality itself along the edges of its wings.

Then, it shifted.

The change did not come cleanly. Light fractured across the plains, warping the air as though reality itself recoiled. Nyx’s stomach lurched as the astral’s immense shape began to fold inward, power collapsing under its own impossible weight. Wings of radiant force shuddered, feathers splintering into threads of light that peeled away and dissolved into the night like burning embers caught in the wind. The thunderous presence that had filled the air stuttered, the roar breaking apart into harsh, uneven breaths that dragged painfully from a smaller, weakening frame.

Bone and sinew rewrote themselves in violent increments. Massive limbs contracted with audible strain, joints grinding as if resisting the shape they were being forced to abandon. Claws retracted inch by inch, lightning crawling along them before snapping away, leaving trembling fingers in their wake. The titanic chest compressed, ribs drawing inward as the blazing core of power dimmed, its glow sinking beneath skin that struggled to exist where raw divinity had been moments before.

Light bled from her form in waves; spilling across the ground, clinging to the rails, shattering against the ground in sparks that hissed and died. The astral’s towering silhouette shrank, condensed, until the vast wings collapsed entirely, folding into nothing, leaving only the echo of their span pressed into the air.

What remained was human.

A woman stood where a god had raged, her outline unsteady, edges still flickering as if the world had not yet decided she was real. Power clung to her like heat after fire, a shimmering residue tracing her limbs, her hair, her breath. It pulsed faintly beneath her skin, refusing to vanish all at once, as though the astral had not fully let go.

She swayed in the aftermath, fragile and terrifying all at once, the last remnants of divinity bleeding away from her form as the night slowly reclaimed its shape.

The Oracle. Lunafreya Nox Fleuret.

She stood where the astral had unraveled, the air around her still distorted, as though the world had not fully recovered from making room for her again. Her breaths came shallow and uneven, each one dragged from lungs that had only just remembered how to be human. Soot streaked her skin, blood darkened the remnants of what had once been ceremonial silks, and scorched fabric clung to her frame in torn layers that spoke of fire rather than grace.

Ash and sweat weighed her hair down, tangling it against her skin. There was no trace of the pristine figure he’d seen on murals or banners. That version had been burned away, leaving a woman shaped by survival, her finery reduced to torn fabric and charred layers that barely held together.

Nyx’s eyes locked onto hers. Pale, impossible, flickering with residual astral light. She swept the devastation with measured accuracy, lingering on the trio, not with recognition at first, but with calculation; assessing, measuring, deciding who had survived, and who had been spared. 

And then, at last, they settled on him.

The night shrank. The world narrowed to the space between them. Her gaze held a question, a fragile acknowledgment.

Then, in a voice so faint it could have been carried by the wind itself, she spoke.

“Nyx…?”

Her gaze lingered on him longer than reason allowed, pale eyes narrowing through the haze of pain and exhaustion. The faint glow in her irises pulsed erratically, flickering with remnants of the astral energy that had just reshaped her form. 

“You… you’re here,” she whispered, voice hoarse, barely audible above the crackle of the dying sparks. Her lips trembled, forming the words with the effort of someone who had been screaming without air for hours. “Is it… real? Is it… really you?”

She swayed, the last of her strength giving way, and Nyx moved on instinct. He dropped to one knee and caught her as she fell, one arm sliding beneath her waist, the other bracing her shoulders before her body could meet the ground. The weight of her was wrong; too light for what she carried, too heavy with the lingering drag of astral power that had not yet finished bleeding away.

She folded against him, boneless, her arms slipping free at her sides. Each breath came shallow and uneven, drawn with visible effort.

Nyx hauled her up against his chest, adjusting his grip with care, mindful of how fragile she felt in his arms despite everything she had just been. His lungs burned as he straightened.

Crowe and Libertus were already moving, spreading out instinctively, eyes sweeping the darkened plains.

“She’s alive,” Crowe breathed, disbelief softening her voice.

“For now,” Nyx replied. His gaze never stopped moving. The wrecked train still burned behind them, a beacon no one would miss for long. Once the Crown traced the disruption, patrols would be mobilized within hours. By morning, the plains would be crawling.

Libertus’s hand hovered near his blade. “We can’t take her straight back. Not like this. And if the Crown realizes we actually found the Oracle—”

“They won’t,” Nyx cut in, calm and razor-edged. “Not yet. No one does. Not until I hear it from her.”

Libertus studied him for a beat, then let the argument die where it stood. Nyx was rarely wrong where his instincts had been concerned; his companion had seen it firsthand.

“If there’s a medal for breaking protocol in record time, congratulations. I think you hold the record.” Crowe snorted under her breath. “At this rate, the Crown won’t know whether to court-martial you, or build a statue.”

Nyx didn’t answer. He adjusted his hold instead, fingers finding the faint, uneven pulse at her throat. The astral glow had finally ebbed, leaving only soot, blood, and a body pushed well past its limits.

“Follow me,” he said, already moving.

He led them along the rail line beside the tracks, keeping to shadow and uneven ground. Twisted rails and shattered metal forced them to slow, stepping carefully around smoldering debris. Nyx scanned constantly; listening for engines, for the telltale whine of drones, for any sign that the Crown had already begun to move.

“Shift left,” Nyx murmured, guiding them toward a shallow depression that offered cover from sightlines along the rails. Libertus and Crowe followed immediately, adapting without hesitation. Minutes passed. The world held its breath. Nothing stirred. Nyx forced himself to focus, scanning for movement, listening for the faintest whistle of a drone rotor or the shuffle of approaching boots. The world itself seemed to pause. 

Nothing moved.

Satisfied, Nyx signaled forward. Slowly, deliberately, they advanced, sticking close to shadow and uneven terrain on the path back to Insomnia. 

When the darkness at last swallowed them whole, silence reclaimed the night. The only signs of what had passed were the train’s firelight reduced to smoldering embers, twisted rails glinting in the hazy glow, and scattered sparks drifting lazily into the sky. Beyond the wreck, the plains stretched wide and shadowed, rolling low hills and tall grass swaying under the indifferent wind, occasionally punctuated by clusters of jagged rock and scrub.

And ever persistent was the faint, defiant scent of Tenebrae flowers; fragile, unyielding, and impossibly alive long after the light had gone.

[proper-goodnight]

Collateral Gods (Electric Ambush Chpt. 4)

Collateral Gods - Electric Ambush (Chpt. 4)

Summary:

She wasn’t just a symbol, paraded around for show. She spoke to gods. They listened. If the wrong hands forced her, or if fear pushed her, she could bring down firestorms and calamities that no wall in Insomnia could keep at bay. The Ring of the Lucii, the one thing keeping Niflheim from storming the gates outright, could slip from Regis’s grasp with a single misstep.

If the gods decided to follow her lead, even the Empire wouldn’t be safe from the fallout.

Fandom: Kingsglaive: Final Fantasy XV

Pairings: Lunafreya Nox Fleuret x Nyx Ulric

Type: Multi-Chap

Words: ~5k

For the rest of the night, Nyx hadn’t slept. 

He’d tried. Gods, he’d tried. He’d laid back down, stared up into the darkness of his ceiling until it’d blurred, rolled onto his side, then his other side. He’d closed his eyes, opened them again, counted breaths. Wakefulness proved to be one persistent bastard, as if something in the back of his head had its claws dug in deep, scraping just enough to keep him from slipping under. A warning, or instinct, hard-earned and rarely wrong. 

Every time he’d drifted too close to sleep, the same thought dragged him back: the bridge, stone splitting under his boots, water climbing towards the sky, and her:

Standing at the far end, calm and distant, lips moving around words that he couldn’t hear. 

So he’d stayed awake. He’d sat at the edge of the bed with his elbows braced on his knees, watching the night thin out into the dull, colorless gray of predawn, and waited for morning like it might finally explain something. It didn’t, and he’d waited for the scent of flowers to fade, but those hadn’t either. 

By the time the first tremble of morning traffic reached his window, and the cacophony of impatient horns blared against the glass, he’d given up on sleep entirely. He’d scrubbed both hands over his face, dragged in a breath that wasn’t nearly as steady as he’d wanted it to be, and forced himself into motion. 

Every morning went by the same as the weeks blurred together, stitched by routine, duty, and the kind of exhaustion that never fully lifted. Gear strapped tight, boots laced, a bitter cup of coffee downed before dawn. He’d moved through the streets of Insomnia almost on autopilot, familiar with every shadow cast across the capitol city, every hum of machinery beneath the cobblestones, trading nods with the same half-asleep guards, ran the same patrol routes, checked the same IDs, and settled into his post with that same deliberate focus. 

Routine helped at least. It gave his mind something to grab onto. It wasn’t exactly the battlefield glory that he was so familiar with, but he took it without complaint. 

Better this than paperwork. 

Better this than sitting still long enough for his mind to start wandering, if it didn’t anyway the moments that he finally stilled. 

Between the monotony, just as persistent as his insomnia, his thoughts drifted. Always back to her.

The Oracle. Lunafreya Nox Fleuret.

Her name didn’t surface with longing. Nyx didn’t do longing, but it intruded. The memory of her gaze that had pinned him across that impossible bridge, steady and unflinching. The silver and violet light that had crowned her like something holy and unreal, and the quiet weight of her, lingering where it had no right to be, bleeding into both memory and waking thought. 

Sometimes, without warning, he could smell the blooms again. Faint and sharp where he’d least expected it, threading into all of his senses, and pressing against the back of his throat with something that he didn’t care to name. Tenebrae blooms where there should have been nothing at all. He hated how his pulse jumped each time a hint of them brushed his nose; foreign flowers that he didn’t even know the name of. 

Worse than the scent were the words.

He kept replaying the way her lips had moved, over and over, running through every phrase that might fit the shape of them. A warning. A plea. A command. He broke it down like a problem, like intel he could analyze his way through, but it never resolved into anything that made sense.

He didn’t mention it to anyone. Not Crowe. Not Libertus. Definitely not Drautos. The last thing he needed was someone deciding he was finally losing it. A missing Oracle was already a liability. A glaive claiming prophetic dreams, and phantom flowers would be another problem on top of all the other bullshit that he already had to deal with. 

Instead, while the Oracle was missing and everyone important enough to have a title behind their name was panicking, he worked his post. He tightened his grip on his weapon until the leather creaked, grounding himself in its familiar weight. Steel didn’t lie. Orders didn’t whisper. Patrol routes didn’t bloom flowers where there should have been stone.

By midmorning at the gate, he’d stopped noticing the ache behind his eyes. Fatigue settled into him like it always did, heavy but manageable. He’d fought worse than a sleepless night before. He’d fought hunger, fear, grief. This was nothing.

That lie sat easier than it should have.

He kept it to himself and let the day grind on. IDs were checked, crowds scanned, reflections watched in glass more than faces; the kind of vigilance that never really shut off. The morning passed in clipped exchanges and practiced motions. Boots struck stone in steady rhythms. Complaints were waved off. A merchant grumbled about delays at the western checkpoint, and Nyx redirected him without missing a beat.

Around him, the city woke in pieces: shutters rattling open, vendors calling prices, magitek humming beneath it all like a second heartbeat.

Insomnia played at normalcy well.

It helped. Until it didn’t.

A flicker of pale fabric in his peripheral had his head snapping around. Nothing. Just a woman adjusting her coat. A cluster of white flowers on a vendor’s cart caught the light at the wrong angle, and his stomach twisted into a knot before sense caught up. Lilies. Not silver, not violet, not hers. He forced his shoulders to loosen and kept breathing, slow and deliberate, like the world wasn’t trying to crawl under his skin.

You’re tired, he told himself. That’s all this is.

The words fit neatly over everything he didn’t want to examine too closely. They gave him cover. Nyx leaned into routine and let it carry him, posture easy, awareness sharp, attention split just enough to catch trouble before it caught him. A pair of travelers tried to slip past inspection with forged clearance; bad work, rushed. He flagged them without breaking stride. Another argument flared over ration limits and died just as quickly under his flat stare. The city pressed and flowed, impatient, oblivious.

He had been standing there long enough to anticipate the rotation change, until something snagged in his peripheral.

A young glaive, barely a year into the rotation if Nyx remembered, stood at the checkpoint, fumbling through a stack of paperwork with distracted fingers. His posture sagged under the invisible weight of the early morning shift, shoulders rounded, chin tucked slightly as though shrinking beneath the authority that he had yet to fully earn. Every motion betrayed the tension of someone who wanted to be competent, but wasn’t sure how to prove it. His hands shook as he flipped pages, jotted notes, and stamped documents. 

Civilians and contractors steered their vehicles and moved past without notice. 

The boy’s eyes flicked up, darting too quickly, almost unconsciously, then snapped back down to the papers in his hands. That hesitation, that tiny skip in attention; he’d seen it before. It was the tell-tale sign of someone who assumed nothing could go wrong, who trusted routine over instinct. He was about to nod the truck through, almost without thinking, because it looked right on the surface. He’d seen it too many times: eagerness and inexperience masquerading as competence, the deadly combination that left mistakes to fester until someone else had to clean up the mess.

Case in point, if he let this slide, he’d have to clean up the mess. The paperwork might check out perfectly, but the wrong vehicle could get through. Smug bureaucrats or corrupt merchants might never care, but he’d be the one answering questions, and explaining how a potential threat slipped past the gate. His jaw tightened. There was no sense waiting for the inevitable to play out. The boy didn’t know what he didn’t know, and Nyx had no intention of letting an oversight become his problem. 

Without announcing himself, he approached. The boy barely looked up, hands still moving over the documents, but the slight hitch in his posture betrayed his awareness, a sudden tightening as if he’d only just realized the arrival of someone more experienced. 

“Morning,” Nyx said, tone carrying the kind of authority that made the boy freeze in place. “You about to wave this through?”

“Uh… I—I think everything’s fine, sir,” he stammered, voice high with nervous energy. “Everything’s in order, I double-checked—”

Nyx didn’t answer. He looked over the manifest behind the kid’s elbow. On the surface, everything matched: dates, stamps, warehouse signatures. 

“Let me see it.”

“Sir, it’s routine cargo. Nothing unusual—”

“Routine or not, I asked to see it. Now.” Nyx’s gaze didn’t waver. He extended a hand, and the boy’s fingers trembled as he passed over the clipboard.

“I—I just… I didn’t want to hold them up, sir.”

Nyx’s expression didn’t soften. “Better to hold up one truck than let a problem through. You know that. Step back.”

As the young glaive obeyed, Nyx’s eyes roamed over the manifest again, this time deliberately, with measured patience. At first glance, nothing seemed wrong. Stamps matched dates, names were correct, but the pattern felt too precise. The sequencing of deliveries, the spacing between entries, the subtle variations in weight and cargo type; they weren’t obvious errors, but they didn’t line up either. Small inconsistencies, almost invisible, yet enough to give him pause.

Nyx handed back the clipboard. “Who’s driving this?” 

He gestured toward the truck idling beyond the barricade: a large, dark vehicle armored and marked with a vaguely official insignia. “Uh… Jaren, sir,” the boy stammered. “Standard contractor. Passes through sometimes.”

“Mm.” The noncommittal sound carried more judgment than a lecture. “Watch the gate.”

He didn’t wait for a response. His boots scuffed against the sidewalk’s edge as he stepped into the street. The air was sharp with the tang of oil and baked metal, layered with the faint, acrid hum of the idling engine. His attention zeroed in on the driver: the subtle twitches in his shoulders, the restless drumming of his fingers against the wheel, and the almost imperceptible hesitation in his posture.

“Morning,” Nyx said, voice carrying the kind of calm authority that didn’t require a uniform to enforce. He climbed the runningboard, leaning slightly through the driver-side window. His eyes scanned the man’s face, from the dark circles under his eyes to the tiny scar near his temple. “I’ll need to see your ID and the proper paperwork.”

The driver, a broad-shouldered man who naturally carried the dull fatigue of someone who’d been running on too few hours for too long, started to reach for his coat. “Everything’s in order, officer. You can—”

Nyx’s lips curved into the faintest edge of a humorless smile. “Not an officer,” he interjected, flat but with a weight that made the driver pause. “I serve the King. Less paperwork, more authority, fewer ceremonies, none of the patience. ID. Papers.”

The man froze while fumbling in his coat, hands hovering just inside the side pocket. His eyes flicked to the kukri glinting at the Glaive’s side, then back to his sun-weathered face. 

Nyx didn’t move an inch. He let the silence stretch, long enough for the metallic clicking of the engine and the puffing of exhaust fumes to fill the space. 

He held out a hand. 

The driver hesitated as he produced an envelope. “I… uh… the paperwork’s sealed. I don’t open it until the next checkpoint.”

His brow’s lifted a fraction. “Convenient.”

The driver swallowed, fingers clutching the envelope that he still hadn’t handed over. “It’s protocol. Company orders. You know how contractors are. They don’t like checkpoints getting too handsy with shipments.”

Nyx leaned one forearm casually against the truck door, posture loose but deliberately blocking the driver’s exit. “Funny,” he drawled, “every legitimate contractor I’ve checked the last six months doesn’t bat an eye when I open their paperwork. Usually they’re eager to prove they’re not hauling anything stupid.”

A bead of sweat slid down the man’s temple. He masked it poorly, shifting his weight and forcing a strained grin. “You’re wasting your time, sir. I’m already behind schedule.”

Nyx didn’t blink. “I have all day.”

Reluctantly, the driver handed over the folded document packet and his ID. “There,” he muttered. “Stamped. Signed. Everything’s legitimate.”

He took the ID first, turning it over between his fingers. The cheap laminate flexed under his thumb. The holographic strip looked correct, the photo matched, but the signature felt off. Too uniform. Too perfect. Like it had been traced, or copied.

He plucked the packet from the man’s hands next, examining it with unhurried, almost bored scrutiny. “This stamp is three months old,” he said, tapping a finger against the seal. “We updated the contract tags two weeks back. This shipment shouldn’t even be using this format.”

The driver coughed, brittle and uneven. “Old forms. Warehouse backlog. You know how—”

“Yeah,” Nyx cut him off. “I know exactly how people smuggle shit into the city. Usually starts with outdated paperwork.” He straightened, stepping back off the truck’s running board. “Put it in park. Step out.”

The man exhaled sharply—angry, or scared, he couldn’t tell—and shoved the truck into park. With a jerky movement, he opened the door and stepped down, boots hitting the pavement with a dull thud. He kept his hands high, visible, but his eyes darted everywhere except Nyx’s face. “Sir, there’s no need, everything’s official, authorized, manifest signed—” 

Nyx glanced past him at the rear of the vehicle. The armored doors were reinforced with an extra set of bolts. Not standard. Not even close.

“Keys to the back,” he ordered.

The man stiffened. “It’s… uh… it’s pressure-locked. Only supposed to be opened at the distribution point—”

“Wasn’t a suggestion.”

“Listen,” the driver said, voice quivering, “if I open that door without authorization, I’m the one who gets fined. Or worse. My employer—”

“Your employer,” Nyx interrupted softly, “isn’t the one standing here deciding whether this truck leaves intact.”

He let that sink in.

The man’s breath stuttered. He swallowed again. “Look, I’m under strict orders not to let anyone—”

Nyx’s voice dropped. “My orders outrank yours. Last chance. Open the Godsdamn door.”

The driver’s jaw twitched. “Fine,” he muttered, walking to the rear, each step just a bit too careful.

Nyx followed unhurried, hand resting loosely near his kukri. Not drawn. Yet.

The driver fumbled with the latch at the back of the truck. His fingers slipped once. Twice. Again.

“You nervous?” Nyx asked, voice deceptively mild.

“Cold morning,” the man said without looking back.

“It’s sixty-five degrees,” Nyx replied. “Try again.”

That earned him a glare, but the driver yanked the latch up. The lock snapped free.

The doors swung open.

Crates filled the truck from floor to ceiling, stacked high, strapped tight, and tagged with grainy inspection stickers. The interior was dim, narrow, brushing the ceiling. Too packed. No airflow. No room for what Nyx felt: a subtle, off-kilter pressure, like the whole truck had been holding its breath.

“Back’s crowded,” Nyx said casually, stepping closer. “You transport goods often?”

“Daily.” Jaren’s smile was thin. “Commodities move fast.”

It was tighter than it looked. The crates formed a corridor barely wide enough for one person. The air was stale, heavy with dust, metal, and a faint, prickling hum that raised the hairs on Nyx’s arms.

And a strange, acrid musk. Damp, earthy, and faintly metallic, like ozone after a storm. 

Nyx crouched, sliding his fingers under the label on the nearest crate. The seal was intact but too clean, too recent. Someone had slapped it on just this morning.

“Sir?” The driver called from behind him, voice wavering. His boots scraped the pavement, edging backwards one cautious step at a time. “Really no need to—”

Something shifted in the dark.

Not the crates. 

Behind them.

Nyx snapped to full alert. His eyes lifted.

He’d turned just in time to see the moving shadow detach itself from the far end of the compartment; massive, hunched, the shape of a beast that had folded itself unnaturally small to fit between the cargo.

A Coeurl.

Starved, confined, and pissed.

Its whiskers crackled with static; tiny pops of violet lightning snapping through the dim. Its eyes locked on him, lethal and unblinking.

“Ah, hell,” Nyx breathed.

The Coeurl lunged.

The full weight of the creature slammed into him, hurling him backwards out of the truck. Nyx hit the ground hard, the air punched from his lungs as claws scraped sparks off the metal frame above him. The creature landed half-in, half-out of the rear, muscles knotting beneath its striped fur, electricity arcing off its body in stuttering snaps.

Glaives shouted, boots scrambled, and a civilian screamed from somewhere behind the barricade.

“Clear the damn gate!” Nyx barked, forcing himself up to one knee as the Coeurl let out a guttural, furious snarl. He kicked to his feet just as its massive paw smashed down where his head had been a heartbeat earlier. Sparks burst across the pavement, skittering dangerously close to the retreating crowd.

The glaives around him were already moving.

Two fanned out along the street, blades drawn, forming a living barrier between the truck and the civilians. Another dropped behind a parked vehicle, yanking a stun rifle from their harness; aiming, then hesitating, jaw tight as they weighed the risk of a misfire.

“Keep the perimeter tight!” Nyx shouted.

A pair of glaives shifted closer to the barricade, corralling a cluster of panicked citizens toward the side streets. Another vaulted onto the hood of a parked car, swinging a reinforced staff to draw the creature’s attention away from the gate.

The Coeurl lunged again, teeth bared.

Nyx rolled forward beneath the attack, seized a loose crate, and wrenched it up between himself and the beast. The impact sent the Coeurl skidding sideways in a shower of sparks.

Nyx didn’t wait. He dashed forward, flipping another crate into its path. The beast snarled and snapped at the obstruction, giving him a narrow window. He struck with the kukri; precise, shallow cuts along its flank. Enough to sting. Enough to redirect. Not enough to kill.

A few meters back, the young glaive from before stood frozen, eyes wide, hands tightening on his weapon. “Sir… I—I don’t know if I—”

Nyx’s gaze snapped to him. “You what?”

The boy swallowed. “It’s— it’s huge. I’ve never seen—what if it—”

“Then don’t get in its way,” Nyx cut in, rolling clear as the Coeurl whipped around, sparks lancing the air where his kukri had just been. “Your job isn’t to fight it. Your job is to keep civilians safe and cover my flank. Understand?”

“Yes—sir!” The young glaive blurted, straightening. He glanced toward the barricade, then back. “I—I can block the street. Keep them clear.”

“Good,” Nyx said, already moving again, low and fast, weaving between crates to keep the creature’s attention on him. “Watch. Learn. Don’t improvise. You do not want to be this close if you’re guessing.”

The boy nodded hard and moved into position, planting himself between the chaos and the civilians. His breathing was shallow, uneven, but he raised his staff anyway. 

Nyx meanwhile surged toward the Coeurl, feinted left, then right, forcing it to pivot violently. Sparks arced as claws struck where he’d been moments before. Its tail lashed, electricity spitting in short, angry bursts. Its pupils locked onto him.

The Coeurl growled, low, and bone-deep. Its whiskers flared.

Shit. It was charging a shock pulse.

Nyx dove behind the nearest concrete barrier as the blast detonated outward. Electricity thundered across the street. Pavement crackled. A patrol bike near the barricade jerked and died, lights flickering out. A streetlamp overloaded and burst, showering glass and residual sparks.

Nyx slid back out of cover, planting his stance, blade low, breath steady.

“Overgrown lightning rod,” he muttered. “Come on, then. Let’s dance.”

The Coeurl obliged.

Nyx sidestepped, sliding beneath the swipe, claws missing his face by inches. He slashed upward, catching the beast along the flank. The blade scraped against its tough hide, carving only a shallow line.

Of course it was armored.

The Coeurl spun with startling speed and hit him with its tail, hard. Nyx was thrown sideways, skidding across the pavement. Pain shot down his ribs, the wind knocked out of him for the second time that morning.

Another glaive darted in behind him, driving a reinforced staff into the Coeurl’s side. The impact forced it to twist away from the barricade, snarling as sparks cascaded off its fur.

The civilians had been pressed against the walls, well clear of the chaos. Sparks snapped and skittered dangerously close, but the glaives held the perimeter, weapons up, bodies braced, guiding panicked citizens into side streets.

The Coeurl’s tail whipped as its whiskers spat arcs of violet electricity toward the barricade. Nyx caught the flash of light and rolled sideways, lightning scorching the pavement in a singed streak. He kicked his boot into a loose crate, sending it skidding into the creature’s path, blocking the beast’s tail mid-swing.

Nyx didn’t hesitate after that. He surged in low, blade angled toward the weak points drilled into him during field training, between the ribs, under the jaw, behind the foreleg. 

Places armor tended to fail.

The Coeurl reacted instantly. It shoved into him shoulder-first, a brutal, bone-jarring hit that sent Nyx stumbling. He rolled backwards, came up on one knee…

The beast pounced.

This time, Nyx didn’t dodge.

He waited, and watched the whiskers flare: the telltale sign the Coeurl was charging its electricity instead of bracing its weight. At the last possible second, he planted his boot, pivoted, and slid beneath its lunging body.

As he passed under its chest, Nyx drove the kukri upward with everything he had.

The blade punched into softer flesh.

The Coeurl shrieked, the sound splitting the air as lightning discharged in every direction. A nearby barrier exploded in sparks and debris. Passing boards and street advertisements flickered and sputtered into white static before finally dying. 

It staggered, blood dripping from its stomach. It whipped around, movements jagged and uneven now, legs faltering as rage replaced coordination.

Still alive.

Still lethal.

It limped toward him now, jaws foaming, having clearly marked him as the primary threat.

Nyx forced himself upright. His lungs burned. His arms trembled. Pain flared with every breath, but he didn’t retreat. “Come on,” he muttered, wiping blood—his, the beast’s, both?—from his brow. “One more.”

The Coeurl leapt.

Nyx timed it perfectly. He stepped into the motion and drove the kukri straight into its throat.

They hit the ground together in a tangled heap, Nyx pinned beneath the dying weight of the creature as residual electricity twitched through its fur. He grit his teeth and shoved until it rolled free, collapsing onto the pavement with a heavy, final thud.

Silence fell, broken only by Nyx’s harsh, ragged breathing.

“Everyone clear?” He called, voice sharp despite the burn in his chest.

Affirmations came back from the glaives, short, steady, and relieved. Nyx wiped sweat and grime from his brow, kukri still in hand.

The young glaive rushed to his side. “Sir—sir, are you—”

“I’m in one piece,” Nyx said, pushing himself upright, bracing a hand on his knee. He wiped the blade clean on the Coeurl’s fur and slid it back into its sheath.

Then his gaze shifted: to the armored truck, to the crates stacked inside, and finally to the driver, pale as ash, pressed against the barricade with trembling hands.

When Nyx approached, his voice dropped, low and lethal. “You’re going to talk,” he said, controlled, deliberate, the kind of tone that made the man flinch like a cornered animal. “And you’re going to do it fast.” He stepped closer, looming over the contractor, the faint spark of the Coeurl’s dying static still crackling through the air. “Because someone out there thought it was clever to smuggle a live Coeurl into Insomnia,” he continued, eyes narrowing, “and I want to know if you’re stupid, or working for someone who thinks I am.”

The driver’s mouth opened, once, twice, no sound coming out. His pulse hammered visibly at his throat. Nyx dusted Coeurl fur and grit off his shoulder as he approached, slow and deliberate, the way someone might walk toward a wounded animal that still had enough energy to bite. His back hit the barricade. It wasn’t a dramatic collision, just a soft, involuntary thud, but the panic in his eyes was impossible to miss.

Behind him, the young glaive hovered anxiously, boots scuffed, fingers twitching. Other glaives formed a loose perimeter, weapons raised, scanning the wreckage of the truck and the street. Civilians had scattered, some filming on their phones, some retreating as though the Coeurl had been a spectral apparition. Sparks from the electrical discharge still hung faintly in the morning air, mingling with the smell of scorched metal and ozone.

“Sir,” a guard called from the edge of the barricade, voice tight. “Magitek sensors on the east gate. They’re fried. Shock Pulse burned half the conduits.”

Nyx didn’t turn. “Engineering. Now. Lock down the grid on this block until we know there’s nothing else in that truck.”

The driver stammered, sweat running in rivulets down his face. “I—I swear, I didn’t know—”

“Try again.”

“L-Look,” the driver stammered, palms out. “This wasn’t my idea. I was paid to move the shipment. That’s it. I didn’t know what was inside—”

“You didn’t know you were hauling a godsdamn Coeurl?” Nyx snapped.

“I—I thought it was a generator!” The man blurted. “Or hazardous salvage. Something sealed. They told me not to open it! P–Protocol says—”

“Funny,” Nyx cut in, tone dropping an octave, “I stopped caring about protocol the moment it jumped on me.”

A few of the guards snorted despite themselves. The young recruit didn’t. He looked like he might throw up.

“And those extra bolts on the back door?” Nyx went on. “Just part of ‘standard contractor protocol?’”

The driver’s breath hitched. Sweat pooled along his temple. “I needed the money,” he whispered. “I thought it was easy. Pick up the cargo, bring it to the drop site. Don’t ask questions. They said it wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

Nyx’s eyes were unreadable, scanning the man, the truck, the street beyond. A squad of glaives approached, breathing hard, weapons at the ready. 

“Lock down the gate,” He ordered, never looking away from the driver. “Nobody in or out until this is sorted.”

One of the gate officials barked a confirmation and relayed orders down the line.

The man’s lips trembled. “I… I’m just a contractor,” he said weakly. “There was another drop after this—high priority. Very high. The shipment; this one’s not just cargo. High-priority drop-off. By train. Outside the city.”

Nyx’s brow furrowed. “High-priority? What the hell does that mean? What are they moving?”

The man swallowed, gaze darting nervously to the barricade, to the scattered glaives who were slowly recovering from the Coeurl’s rampage. “It’s… the… the cargo. It’s—” 

“Ulric.” 

The single word cut through the chaos, sending it to silence. 

The voice was crisp, deliberate, carrying the weight of command. He turned to see Drautos striding across the barricade, his coat flaring, boots striking stone with deliberate force. Two other glaives flanked him, eyes already assessing the damage, weapons drawn, expressions unreadable.

Command had arrived.

“Pack it up,” Drautos said, voice flat, but nonetheless carrying an unspoken warning that Nyx didn’t miss. “You’ve done your part.”

His jaw clenched. “Done my part? That thing—” He gestured toward the smoldering Coeurl, sparks still twitching across its fur, “—was illegal, dangerous, and it almost got past us. This is my gate. My part isn’t done.”

Drautos stopped a few paces away, hands clasped behind his back. His eyes swept the scene with calculated disinterest, mind already made up. “Your job is to follow orders. Let the rest handle it from here. You’ve been in the field too long to be trusted with paperwork, and the King doesn’t need another incident on the books.”

Nyx bristled but stayed grounded, adrenaline still thrumming through his veins, fingers itching from the fight. “So I just hand it over? Walk away while someone else cleans up the mess?”

Drautos’s gaze didn’t flicker. “Exactly. You did your job. The driver stays. The cargo is secured. That’s your part done.”

Nyx’s jaw tightened. “You’re not even asking questions?”

“I asked,” Drautos said simply. “I’m moving forward. The driver stays. The cargo is secured. You’re done. Move.”

Begrudgingly, Nyx sheathed his kukri and stepped back from the barricade. The hum of Magitek flickered along the pavement, and the faint scorch of electricity lingered in the air. His gaze swept the armored truck, the driver cowering beside it, and Drautos, overseeing the cleanup with his usual cold precision. His team secured the truck, cataloged the crates, and assessed the damage. 

Everything that needed attention now had it.

He let out a slow breath, forcing his pulse to steady. Behind him, the young recruit lingered near the barricade, still pale, still shaken. Nyx gave a curt nod. The recruit snapped to attention, offering a hasty salute in kind.

An officer came sprinting from his left, breathless. “Ulric! Status?”

“Neutralized,” Nyx answered, monotone. “Drautos’ taken over. Contain the perimeter, and get someone to drag this cat off the road before traffic backs up to the Citadel.”

“Yes, of course—”

“And try not to touch the whiskers unless you want a free perm.”

The officer nodded quickly and scrambled to assemble a containment team.

Questions about who had sent the Coeurl, why, and what else might slip through gnawed with persistence, a reminder as to why he thrived in the field. That need to know. Drautos’ orders, however, had been clear: step back and let them handle it. He had obeyed. The consequences for anything less would have bordered on personal, considering the cheap shot to his nephew’s pride only weeks earlier; the very thing that had pulled him from the field in the first place.

He straightened, fully sheathing his kukri, and exhaled through his nose. His eyes swept the street one final time, confirming that everything was in order before retreating back to his post.

Answers wouldn’t come today.

For now, all he could do was watch, wait, and stay ready.

[proper-goodnight]

Collateral Gods (Sylleblossoms and the Bridge Chpt. 3)

Collateral Gods - Sylleblossoms and the Bridge (Chpt. 3)

Summary:

She wasn’t just a symbol, paraded around for show. She spoke to gods. They listened. If the wrong hands forced her, or if fear pushed her, she could bring down firestorms and calamities that no wall in Insomnia could keep at bay. The Ring of the Lucii, the one thing keeping Niflheim from storming the gates outright, could slip from Regis’s grasp with a single misstep.

If the gods decided to follow her lead, even the Empire wouldn’t be safe from the fallout.

Fandom: Kingsglaive: Final Fantasy XV

Pairings: Lunafreya Nox Fleuret x Nyx Ulric

Type: Multi-Chap

Words: ~3k

What no one, least of all the glaives tasked with escorting her, realized was that Lunafreya Nox Fleuret was already gone.

Gone, and dangerous.

Nyx’s jaw set tight at the thought, every scenario that sprang to mind carrying teeth. If Lunafreya wasn’t where the Crown, or the Empire, expected her to be, then the balance between Insomnia and Niflheim, already pulled taut like a tripwire, just cinched tighter. Lucis had been promised a role in her escort, a joint show of trust with safeguarding her. Without her, that “trust” turned into suspicion, sharp-edged and ready to cut.

Every council chamber, and every command post was already buzzing. Whispers slid through halls and corridors, blame tucked neatly behind polite phrases, accusations laced with the faintest smiles. Both sides searched for leverage while the Oracle remained unaccounted for, a shadow moving unseen through chaos that she had knowingly or unknowingly left behind.

She wasn’t just a symbol, paraded around for show. She spoke to gods. They listened. If the wrong hands forced her, or if fear pushed her, she could bring down firestorms and calamities that no wall in Insomnia could keep at bay. The Ring of the Lucii, the one thing keeping Niflheim from storming the gates outright, could slip from Regis’s grasp with a single misstep. 

If the gods decided to follow her lead, even the Empire wouldn’t be safe from the fallout.

Hours after Crowe’s return, Nyx found himself in the kind of refuge soldiers sought when the world refused to make sense: a tavern tucked deep into the lower district, half-lit and half-forgotten. 

The smell of roasting meat clashed with the heady sweetness of spiced wine. Voices hummed under the lazy plucking of a lute, occasionally rising into laughter or the off-key croon of a traveler trying to make a tune stick. Oil lamps painted the room in soft amber, shadows flickering across the walls as if aware of the storm gathering just beyond the city’s gates. 

Insomnia itself was still breathing in the lies of normalcy, 

The city needed that. Panic spread faster when you fed it the truth.

Crowe sat hunched at a corner table, her gear still dusted with road grime, a cup of ale sweating between her hands. She turned a little silver hairpin over and over in her fingers, a piece meant for the Oracle, tight as though the motion could physically work out her frustration. Her eyes flicked toward the tavern door every few minutes, tense with anticipation, alert to the sound of boots, the scrape of a chair, and the slightest shift in the shadows, any sign of something happening besides the order to simply wait.

Across from her, Libertus leaned back, one boot propped on the rung of the chair, mug in hand, grin faintly forced as he noted the tight line of her shoulders and the way she braced herself for news that wouldn’t come.

“Don’t tell me you were trying to win the Oracle over with that little trinket,” he said, mockery softening the edge of his voice.

Crowe’s head snapped up, glare sharp. Nyx caught the ghost of humor under it. 

“Hardly. It wasn’t about favor.” She spun the hairpin once more before letting it clatter to the table between them. “All that planning. All that coordination. And for what? Nothing.”

“The Nifs don’t know where she is either,” Libertus reminded her. “All this talk about treaties and peace talks is useless until someone finds her. You know how that’ll play out. The city’s already jittery. Add a missing Oracle, and the Empire’s head of diplomacy won’t know which way is up.”

Crowe exhaled sharply, half-scorn, half-exasperation. “People’ll start crawling every alley from here to Cleigne the second word leaks.”

“It’s not about where she is,” Nyx said, voice rough from disuse, low enough to almost disappear in the hum of the tavern. “It’s about who moves first when they figure out she’s gone.”

“You thinking the Empire?” Libertus assumed, eyebrows raised.

Nyx shook his head. “Everyone. The Nifs want control. The Crown wants secrecy. Every scavenger between here and Tenebrae will smell opportunity. Doesn’t matter that she’s royalty. She’s leverage. Everyone will move.”

Libertus tipped his mug back, swallowing slowly. His usual grin had gone thin, brittle around the edges. “So we’re screwed already.”

Nyx let the thought hang. He almost smiled, but the humor never quite reached his eyes. “If she shows up in Nif hands, treaties don’t matter. If she turns up in ours, the Nifs call it a power grab. Either way, someone’s bleeding before the week’s out.”

Libertus drained the last of his ale, slammed the mug down with a soft clink, and let out a low whistle. “Well, that’s it for heroics tonight, then. Orders that’ll never come, and the city’s still pretending nothing’s burning outside the walls while our peace negotiator is missing. You’d think we were in for a quiet evening.” He scoffed. “Might as well enjoy it while it lasts.”

Crowe leaned back, letting out a sound that was half sigh, half chuckle. “Enjoy it,” she echoed, shaking her head. “You two make it sound easy. You’ve been on point too long not to have a twitch in your shoulder.”

“Maybe. But a twitch doesn’t get a beer spilled in your lap. That’s entertainment value.” Nyx raised his mug in a half-smile, the tension in his jaw softening just enough to suggest it wasn’t entirely a lie.

Libertus laughed, rough and easy. “See? Already improving morale.”

Crowe shook her head. “You two can make anything sound like a pub crawl.”

Libertus tilted his head in a mock salute. “It’s all about perspective, mate. You can either sweat bullets over someone who’s probably halfway across the continent by now, or you can enjoy a pint and let the city stew in its own paranoia.”

The tavern’s hum softened around them as the night slipped deeper into Insomnia, the neon outside switching from sharp white and pink to a hazy, simmering blue. The three of them lingered, allowing the quiet to stretch: Libertus finishing another pint, Crowe finally tucked away the hairpin, and Nyx watching the lamps gutter and flare as if they were debating whether to sleep or stay awake.

Libertus was halfway through another joke, something about the Nifs, a puddle, and a very unlucky courier, when the tavern door banged open.

Every glaive at a table stiffened, hands drifting to daggers and sidearms.

But it wasn’t a messenger. Not news, not an order, nor an omen. Just a pair of drunk mechanics arguing over whose turn it was to pay.

The tension ebbed like a receding tide just as quick. Crowe let out a strained breath. “False alarm,” she muttered, rubbing a thumb over the edge of her cup. “Figures.”

Libertus leaned back again, stretching until his spine cracked. “If something important happens, they’ll drag us out of bed for it.” He nodded to Nyx. “Bet on it.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” came Crowe’s clipped reply. 

She drained the last of her drink, exhaling as the warmth hit her chest. Then she pushed back from the table, the legs of her chair scraping against the worn floorboards in a sound that cut through the tavern’s muffled noise. She stood straight, composure slipping back into place like habit. 

“I should get this gear cleaned anyway,” she announced dismissively. “Orders could drop at any hour tomorrow. Don’t want to be reeking of road dust and tavern ale when the brass starts barking.”

“We’re not getting anything tonight,” Nyx agreed quietly, eyes on the neon-streaked street ahead. “Council’s probably arguing themselves in circles.”

“As usual,” Libertus countered. “And if they don’t wake us, then gods help whoever’s stuck on the night shift.”

They stepped out into the night together.

Insomnia’s lower district greeted them with its usual restless noise; neon against the dark, magitek engines rumbling beneath the pavement like a second heartbeat. The murmur of traffic bled through narrow alleys, carrying laughter, muffled arguments, and the comforting clatter of late-night shops still open. Streetlamps flickered in long arcs, stretching shadows that warped and snapped as people moved past.

Nyx’s gaze swept over it all, more habit than genuine interest. He wondered how long before the panic started.

“I’ll check in with dispatch at dawn,” Crowe said as they reached the intersection. She pulled her coat tighter around her shoulders. “If anyone’s awake and thinking straight, maybe they’ll have a plan by then.”

“Sure, if the hero hasn’t solved it already,” Libertus said with a smirk, slouching into his jacket. 

“I’m not solving anything tonight," Nyx said, hands slipping into his coat pockets. "Keep watch, stay alert, and get some rest while you can.”

Crowe arched a brow at him, a flicker of dry humor tugging at her expression. "Look at you, taking it easy on us for a night. Should I be writing this down?"

His expression stayed neutral, though the corner of his mouth twitched. “Don’t get used to it.”

Libertus feigned a look of surprise, holding up his hands in mock surrender. "On your watch? Wouldn't dream of it. Our appreciation might go to your head."

Nyx rolled his eyes, but the faintest trace of his smirk split into a smile once they split ways. Crowe melted into the shadows toward the tram station, her movements precise and economical, while Libertus with a last parting salute, drifted toward the upper housing blocks, lighter in step, the grin never leaving him.

He lingered a moment in the middle of the quiet street, watching their figures disappear into the currents of the city. Alone now, he threaded through narrow market alleys and stone corridors warmed by the occasional passing maglev cart, allowing himself, for the briefest moment, to almost forget that the calm of the city was a fragile thing, stretched taut over tensions that would snap at any wrong touch.

Almost.

The streets grew quieter with each block, glaring lights of the city fading into the flicker of old streetlamps, buzzing like tired insects. His apartment wasn’t much, bare walls, a window facing the distant magrails, a kitchenette with a temperamental burner, but it was his. 

Safe. Familiar.

He shed his gear slowly, piece by piece, the motions automatic after years of repetition. His kukri found their place on the hook by the door, and he draped his jacket over the back of a chair. At the sink, he cupped water in his hands and rinsed his face, cool droplets tracing the old scars along his cheek. For a moment he lingered there, breathing in the metallic scent of tap water, watching the distorted reflection of a man who looked more tired than he felt.

He reached for the switch and killed the lights. Darkness washed through the room in a single sweep.

Sleep took him quickly, heavy and bone-deep, his mind blessedly blank for one rare moment.

Then the world shifted.

He was no longer in his apartment. The air smelled of wet stone. He stood on a bridge that should not exist, an impossibly long span of cracked granite arching over a river that defied logic. Water flowed upward in columns, glowing, twisting as though alive. Mist swirled at his ankles, thick and cold, pulling at him. Even standing still, he nearly fell.

The bridge shuddered beneath his boots. Hairline fractures crawled through the stone in small increments, steadily towards him.

And then he saw her.

The Oracle.

She stood at the far end of the bridge, barefoot, gown soaked to the hem with water that should not have been climbing, rising towards her as though gravity here worked in reverse. Her hair floated around her, strands drifting as though caught in some invisible tide, ethereal and wild. The flowers hit him hardest. They bloomed around her, silver and violet light pulsing through petals, scent rolling across the bridge: sweet enough to tighten his chest, sharp enough to snag something buried deep. 

Not memory. Not his emotion. Someone else’s.

The flowers bent toward her, leaning as if in reverence, bowing to a God.

The water rose and fell around her like a thousand reaching hands, yet she moved through them untouched, and unbothered. Her eyes locked onto him, steady but unreadable. 

When her lips moved, no sound reached him. 

Behind her, shadows gathered and stretched into impossible geometries: arches that shouldn’t exist, angles that defied Euclid, a silhouette like some ancient titan watching, patient and immense. The shadows pulsed in time with something older than memory, alive, and aware.

Mist rolled low over the bridge, cold enough to sting, curling around his legs like it meant to drag him under. The river, still flowing upward, split into shards midair, each one catching light and flaring bright enough to burn his eyes. 

The taste of metal hit his tongue. 

Blood. 

His instincts yanked taut, suddenly sharp. Every nerve screamed: one wrong move, and you’re done.

Her eyes sharpened and found his. Wide, luminous, unnatural.

A plea? A warning? A command? He couldn’t tell.

Then the bridge buckled. Stone splintered like glass. The shards floated for a heartbeat, suspended midair, glittering and terrible, before raining around him. Nyx tried to step back, tried to move, but the mist held him, the river twisted beneath him, and the shadow behind her loomed taller, darker, insurmountable.

And yet still, she stood. Calm. Resolute. Watching. Waiting.

A flash of lightning, unnatural, jagged, striking from no sky, illuminated her completely. Her hands lifted, and the water around her rose higher, forming shapes that were vaguely human, vaguely monstrous. Faces in the currents, mouths open, silent screams reaching.

Suddenly, it all stopped. 

The bridge froze mid-creak, the groan of splintering stone suspended. The river hung motionless beneath him, water columns locked in midair, their glowing surfaces reflecting a fractured sky that seemed neither night nor day. Mist ceased its tugging at his legs, curling instead into delicate, static swirls that hovered like frozen smoke. Every sound, every motion, even the pulse of the bridge itself, hung in perfect stillness.

She was closer now. Nyx’s eyes drank in every detail: the faint bruising of exhaustion under her eyes, the tension in her shoulders, the subtle rise and fall of her chest, like she was drawing energy from some hidden current only she could touch. 

Her head tilted slightly, listening for something the rest of the world couldn’t hear, a faint vibration that seemed to resonate with the pulse of the flowers surrounding her. They stretched outward in glowing waves, petals quivering as though reacting to her heartbeat, sending threads of light curling into the frozen air around them.

His breath caught, caught in a chest that no longer seemed his own, and for a long moment, he couldn’t move, couldn’t think, couldn’t even remember the world he had left behind.

And then she whispered again, but again, he could not hear her.

WHAT?

Nyx’s own voice was thrown into the stillness, and still, no sound emerged. Not his voice, not hers. Only the frozen hum of the air around him, the shimmer of flowers, and the unnatural stasis of the bridge. His hands reached out, grasping at empty space, fingertips brushing against the spectral petals that hovered between them, cool and impossibly soft, like the touch of memory itself.

The bridge cracked again, violently this time. The frozen moment shattered with a deafening, wordless clang that echoed into the void. Stone splintered like glass, shards suspended briefly in midair before falling, catching glimmers of the upward-flowing river in their fractured surfaces. The water surged upward with renewed fury, columns smashing into him, mist whipping his skin with cold, stinging tendrils. He was lifted, slammed against the icy fog, the glow of the Tenebrae flowers twisting around him, petals grazing his arms like stings of firelight.

For a heartbeat, Nyx hung suspended between earth and sky, the world a kaleidoscope of light, shadow, and impossible geometry. The flowers, the river, the bridge: all of it pulsed in chaotic rhythm, but at the center, she remained untouched, calm, her gaze never leaving him. He felt the resonance of her will, a magnetic force that anchored the chaos and threatened to drag him along its current.

Then the river crashed fully, the bridge splintered beneath his feet, and he was swallowed by the mist, tumbling through a void of cold, silence, and the faint, lingering scent of silver blooms.

Nyx jerked awake with a ragged inhale, sweat stinging his eyes. For a second he didn’t recognize the dark pressing in around him, too tight, and too still, until the familiar lines of his ceiling settled into place. His apartment. Safe enough. As safe as anything ever got in his life.

The taste of brine lingered on his tongue, iron biting at the back of his throat. His skin crawled with leftover cold, as if the dream had followed him across the line between worlds and refused to let go.

Then it hit him, faint at first, teasing his senses, then suddenly unmistakable. 

Tenebrae flowers.

Their scent curled through the room, brushing the back of his throat, stirring something deep and half-forgotten. For a heartbeat, he swore he saw light bloom at the edge of his vision, silver and violet, like the dream hadn’t ended at all.

His hands slid over the sheets, steady but searching. The air felt suddenly wrong, thicker, the shadows too deep for the hour. The city’s hum, usually a steady background drone, carried a low, insistent pulse beneath it now, an echo of the bridge and the river still rattling around inside him. Static crawled along his arms, a faint electric buzz that made him flinch before he could ground himself.

He pushed to his feet and drifted to the window. The rails, the lights, the movement below, things he’d seen a thousand times, all appeared a little warped, like the city had shifted a degree sideways when he wasn’t looking. A hum of tension threaded through the noise, subtle but undeniable. The same weight he’d felt in the dream, bearing down on him like a held breath.

He closed his eyes, inhaling.

He closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. The scent was persistent now, curling around him, stubborn and intrusive, impossible to ignore: silver and violet blooms where none should exist, whispering to something that he didn’t want to name. His chest tightened, stomach knotting with unease.

He scrubbed a hand down his face, jaw tight, breath uneven. He forced himself to straighten, and to anchor the room back into focus. The apartment hadn’t changed, and the world outside his window hadn’t shifted while he slept. He could almost hear her, a whisper threaded between the traffic, between the lights, and between his own thoughts. Her eyes, that calm, unyielding intensity, pressed on him from memory alone, and the weight of them felt like an unspoken command.

What had she said?

What had she been trying to say?

Nyx’s hand dropped from his face, gripping the windowsill until his knuckles turned white. He stayed there until the tremor in his fingers slowed, until his pulse no longer attempted to punch through his ribs, and until he could convince himself that the scent was nothing but the ghost of a dream finally fading.

But when he turned away, it was still there. 

He grabbed a glass of water from his nightstand, and downed half of it before setting it aside with a muted clink. The apartment settled back into its usual quiet, no whispers, no flowers, no impossible rivers rising around him. Just the low hum of the city and the warmth slowly bleeding back into his limbs.

“You’re losing it, Ulric,” he muttered.

But even saying it out loud didn’t help.

He dropped back onto the mattress, not bothering with the sheets this time. He wasn’t getting any more sleep, not after that. His muscles still buzzed with leftover adrenaline, and every time he closed his eyes he saw violet light, silver petals drifting on water that climbed the sky, and Lunafreya’s eyes locking on his like she was reaching through the dream to grab him by the throat.

A warning. A plea. A command.

He didn’t know which.

Nyx stared up at the ceiling, jaw tight. Dawn wasn’t far off. For now, he lay still in the dark, listening to the city’s pulse around him, for the sun to rise and for the scent of impossible flowers to finally, mercifully fade.

It didn’t.

And that was the part that bothered him most.

[proper-goodnight]

Collateral Gods (Shadows of Insomnia Chpt. 2)

Collateral Gods - Shadows of Insomnia (Chpt. 2)

Summary:

She wasn’t just a symbol, paraded around for show. She spoke to gods. They listened. If the wrong hands forced her, or if fear pushed her, she could bring down firestorms and calamities that no wall in Insomnia could keep at bay. The Ring of the Lucii, the one thing keeping Niflheim from storming the gates outright, could slip from Regis’s grasp with a single misstep.

If the gods decided to follow her lead, even the Empire wouldn’t be safe from the fallout.

Fandom: Kingsglaive: Final Fantasy XV

Pairings: Lunafreya Nox Fleuret x Nyx Ulric

Type: Multi-Chap

Words: ~3.6k

Nyx had stepped off of checkpoint duty with the stiffness of a man shaking off chains, every joint cracking in quiet protest after hours of enforced stillness. His earpiece still buzzed with the usual background chatter: status updates, patrol rotations, the low hum of scanners cycling through citizen logs. Threaded through it all, like a migraine with a voice, came Drautos, barking. Orders, corrections, thinly veiled threats. His voice drilled into the base of Nyx’s skull, relentless as a fly he wasn’t allowed to swat.

Away from the gates at least, it was easier to tune it out, to let his mind drift without worrying that one distraction would send the entire city burning into ash. For the next few hours, gate duty was someone else’s problem. However, even when the shift was over, the leash wasn’t gone. It was just allowed more slack.

The barrier walls, a near-invisible dome overhead, caught and warped the afternoon light. It painted everything in hazy tones, casting a glint off of the glass towers, their bases crowded with scaffolding and conduits. Maglev trams moved along at their usual pace overhead, their noise blending with the hum of the energy lines. Airships rumbled through their departure lanes, their engines shaking the storefront awnings, and casting a reflection of their thrusters as they moved toward the barrier’s upper edge. 

Crowds surged around him: office workers flooding the walkways, street vendors shouting their usual chants, the smell of spice and oil mixing with the metallic bite of constantly running generators. Children darted between adults with AR projections flickering around their wrists. Guards posted at intersections kept their chins high, though Nyx recognized the held breaths of rookies terrified of messing up.

People didn’t meet the glaives’ eyes. Gratitude and unease lived too close together.

Above it all, the Citadel loomed; white stone and obsidian glass, its upper spires catching the last light as if untouched by the exhaustion dragging down the rest of the city. Their one symbol of stability. A reminder of the magic holding everything together by threads.

Nyx didn’t go towards it today. He headed instead toward the lower districts, where the lights ran hotter and the buildings pressed more tightly together. Here, the glamour faded: rust on the rails, patched signage, alleys lit by old lamps flickering with half-spent bulbs. This was the Insomnia he knew best. 

The one he fought for. The one he bled for. The one that, despite everything, still asked for more.

Across the street from where he walked, two women huddled close, clutching everything they owned in worn satchels. Refugees. You could spot them anywhere; their eyes never looked forward, only back. In the mouth of an alley, a boy no older than ten tried hawking scavenged circuitry to a passing officer. His hands shook, too small to hold the jagged pieces steady, too thin from hunger, eyes far too sharp for his age. No one bought. Most didn’t even look.

Nyx looked. He couldn’t not. Every flicker of ash, and every empty stare pulled him back to Galahd.

Smoke in the air, thicker than breath, the earth trembling under Niflheim’s boots, his mother’s hand shoving him forward through the fire, her voice breaking into pieces he would never gather again. Then, nothing.

Quiet, except for the whine of engines hunting him through the dark.

Insomnia had found him not long after: a stray in scorched boots, half-wild, and half-starved. He remembered approaching that first checkpoint, guards poised to turn him back like refuse kicked from the gates. Then Regis Lucis Caelum had given his decree: Galahdans were to be sheltered. Protected. Brought into the fold.

Weeks later, he’d seen the city’s gates for the first time. Stone and steel rising impossibly high, guards glaring down like executioners. They’d looked at him like a stray dog too filthy to let inside. He’d known, even as a child, that if Regis hadn’t intervened, they would’ve turned him away and slammed the door in his face.

He’d never forgotten that. Not the hunger, not the shame, but not the hand, either. A king had pulled him from the ruins. Whatever could be said about Regis, Nyx’s loyalty had been welded to that moment. He was confident that nothing could grind it loose.

His fingertips brushed the curve of his kukri. Galahd was behind him, Insomnia was ahead of him, and Nyx was somewhere in between, trying to hold the line. He blinked, shaking loose the smoke in his skull, forcing himself back to the present, and to the endless churn of Insomnia’s streets. Somewhere in its heart, they were making room for an Oracle who was meant to fix everything with a marriage vow.

The unease from the checkpoint clung. Libertus’s words. The refugees. The rumor of the Oracle’s arrival followed by imperial boots. 

By the time Nyx realized he was hungry, the ache had already settled deep in his stomach.

It wasn't a dramatic sensation. Hunger rarely announced itself that way anymore. Years spent scraping together meals in Galahd and countless shifts standing watch as a Glaive had trained him to ignore it until his body eventually forced the issue. Even now, he only noticed because the smell of food had become impossible to ignore.

He and Libertus had drifted several streets away from the main thoroughfares surrounding the Citadel and into one of the older commercial districts. The streets narrowed until the buildings seemed to lean over them, their upper stories nearly touching. Strings of lanterns hung overhead, casting warm pools of amber light across the crowds. Vendors shouted over one another from every direction, competing with the scrape of chairs, the clatter of cookware, and the distant pulse of music spilling from open tavern doors. 

The air itself felt crowded.

Fried dough, charred meat, sweet fruit syrups, burnt oil, garlic, and spices Nyx couldn't identify stung faintly at the back of his throat. Every few steps brought a different scent, a different language, and a different face. People arrived from every corner of Lucis carrying pieces of home with them, and somehow the city absorbed it all without breaking stride.

It reminded him, not for the first time, how small Galahd had been. Back home, he could identify a meal by smell alone from halfway across a village. Here, he wasn't sure he'd eaten half the things being sold. 

Libertus, naturally, moved through the chaos like he owned it. The bastard knew everybody.

Or at least acted like he did.

Nyx watched him exchange greetings with three different vendors in the span of thirty seconds. One elderly woman swatted his arm with a wooden spoon. A younger merchant laughed and handed him something wrapped in paper. Libertus accepted both interactions with the confidence of a man who had never once questioned whether he belonged somewhere. 

Before Nyx could ask where they were going, his companion abruptly veered toward a skewer stand tucked between a noodle cart and a merchant selling cheap jewelry. Without breaking stride, he tossed several gil onto the counter. The vendor caught the coins one-handed, a brief exchange followed, Libertus pointed, and the vendor rolled his eyes. More laughter followed before two skewers were thrust into Libertus' hands.

Nyx wasn't given an opportunity to refuse. One of them was promptly shoved in his face. 

“You eating?” The question came several seconds too late to qualify as actual permission. Steam curled upward from the skewer. The meat was still sizzling. 

“Thought you were saving up for that new detonator kit.” He examined the skewer without much consideration before taking a bite. 

Libertus waved a dismissive hand and tore into his own skewer. “Still am.”

“That thing costs more than half your wages.”

“Exactly. One skewer isn't the difference between owning a detonator kit and not owning a detonator kit.” He pointed the half-eaten stick at him for emphasis. “What it is,” he added, lifting the stick slightly for emphasis, “is an investment. A modest contribution toward keeping my favorite gate guard alive, fed, and at least marginally pleasant to be around. That's what we call long-term planning.”

“Then you've wasted your money.”

“See, that's exactly the kind of response I'm trying to prevent.”

He took another bite before Libertus could continue the argument. The food was annoyingly good, which only strengthened Libertus' position. The bastard knew it too. His grin had widened with obvious satisfaction. He grimaced.

Libertus just laughed, a low, throaty sound that drew a few curious glances from the stalls. “You wear your emotions on your face like a badge, if your mouth hasn’t already said it for you, mate. I’ve seen it a hundred times. I'm just trying to get ahead of the storm for once." 

Nyx exhaled through his nose. 

The market around them was beginning to settle into the slower rhythm of the evening. Merchants called out final deals before closing their stalls, the smell of roasted meat mingling with spices and engine exhaust drifting up from the lower districts. Above it all, the Citadel loomed against the sky, pristine and untouchable, its towering silhouette catching the glow of the city lights beneath it.

"Speaking of stress," Libertus continued, jerking his chin toward the northern gate, "looks like Crowe's heading out." 

Nyx followed the gesture automatically. A formation of Glaives was gathering near the checkpoint. Even from a distance, something about the group stood out. Their armor looked freshly polished, every plate reflecting the lantern light in sharp flashes. Their posture was too rigid, their movements too deliberate. Men and women trying very hard not to make mistakes.

The officers moving among them wore the same expression Nyx had seen before inspections, ceremonies, and political visits. The look of people who knew a single mistake would become somebody else's report.

Fresh orders.

Fresh expectations.

Fresh opportunities for someone higher up the chain to assign blame.

Crowe stood near the center of the formation. The rest of the escort looked carefully selected. Not green enough to embarrass the Crown. Not experienced enough to argue with orders. The kind of soldiers commanders loved:

Competent, predictable, and ultimately expendable. 

Libertus let out a long, suffering groan. "Gods help them.”

Nyx glanced toward the formation while taking another bite from the skewer. “Helpful as always.”

“I'm serious.” Libertus jabbed the stick toward the assembled Glaives. Libertus jabbed the stick toward the assembled Glaives. "Look at them. Every single one of them looks like they're waiting for an execution."

Nyx followed the gesture. A pair of officers were working their way down the line, stopping every few seconds to inspect armor straps, weapon placement, and posture. One of the younger Glaives shifted his stance after receiving a correction. The officer immediately stopped him again and started pointing out something else. 

Libertus visibly winced, as though he'd witnessed something painful. "There. That one."

He followed the gesture. "I see him."

"Poor bastard's finished."

“He got told to fix his footing.”

"That's how it starts," Libertus said with the weary certainty of a man speaking from experience. "First they tell you to fix your footing. Then it's your posture. Next thing you know, they're adjusting straps that were fine five seconds ago, because once they've started looking, they're determined to find something to yell about." 

Nyx cast him a sideways glance. "Speaking from experience?”

Libertus scoffed. "Experience? Mate, I'm the reason half those inspection checklists exist." 

A reluctant smile threatened at the corner of Nyx's mouth before he buried it with another bite of his skewer. He looked back toward the formation instead. 

The young Glaive had apparently survived his trial. The inspecting officer moved on without another word, leaving the recruit standing ramrod straight, shoulders pulled so tight they looked painful. It was the posture of someone convinced that if he remained perfectly still, he might disappear into the line before attracting another correction. 

The escort detail began to stir.

The escort detail began to stir. Quiet orders passed down the ranks, and the formation shifted with practiced precision, boots striking the pavement in measured cadence. Crowe exchanged a few brief words with one of the supervising officers before glancing down at the display on the inside of her vambrace. 

Even  from across the street, Nyx recognized the economy in every movement. Training had carved that discipline into her long ago. Unlike the younger Glaive beside her, she wasn't standing there hoping to survive an inspection. She looked like someone waiting for the inspection to stop delaying the actual work. 

The assignment had spread through the Kingsglaive days earlier. Crowe's unit had drawn escort duty for Lunafreya Nox Fleuret's arrival, meeting the Niflheim delegation outside the Wall before bringing the Oracle safely into Insomnia. 

It sounded simple when written on paper:

Escort the Oracle.

Protect the convoy.

Deliver the dignitaries to the Citadel.

Orders always sounded clean until people started shooting. Nyx had long since learned to distrust assignments that depended on everyone behaving exactly as expected. This one depended on the Empire keeping its word. That alone was enough to sour his opinion.

He had nothing against the Oracle herself. By every account she'd spent years traveling from one corner of the world to another helping people who had little else to cling to. If half the stories were true, she had earned the respect people gave her, even if Niflheim hadn’t.

Despite stories and rumor, the only thing that Nyx could see was a young woman being moved from one kingdom to another by people with enough power to decide where she belonged and too much influence to care what she wanted. The gods might have chosen Lunafreya. The politicians had certainly chosen how to use her. Whatever Lunafreya Nox Fleuret was, she was also a woman about to arrive under Imperial escort.

As far as Nyx was concerned, that was reason enough to expect trouble.

In the weeks leading up to the visit, Insomnia had quietly begun reshaping itself around her arrival. Patrol schedules changed. Security checkpoints multiplied. Crownsguard rotations were rewritten so often that nobody could remember what the original roster had looked like. Briefings grew longer, commanders grew shorter-tempered, and every new order seemed to come stamped with another reminder that failure wasn't an option. 

As always, the people making the decisions wouldn't be the ones standing between a dignitary and a sniper's rifle.

Nyx had long since stopped expecting those to be the same people. 

Beside him, Libertus sighed theatrically, and took another bite of his food.

“Crowe leading the escort,” he muttered, more to himself than Libertus. “Makes sense. Steady hands for fragile cargo.”

Libertus snorted, sharp and amused. "Fragile cargo? You mean the Oracle about to play diplomat for the Gods?" He nodded toward the escort. "Mate, I don't think she’s the fragile part." 

Nyx's mouth twitched faintly. "It's not her I'm talking about. Its everything coming with her," he said. "One wrong move, one nervous soldier squeezing a trigger, and half the continent forgets why everyone was there in the first place." 

Libertus scratched at the back of his neck. “Council seems convinced it'll be easy. Meet the convoy, walk the Oracle to the Citadel, everybody smiles for the history books, then we all head home.” 

Nyx nodded once. "Crowe’ll treat it like any other operation. That’s why they picked her." His gaze lingered on their comrade as she calmly inspected the formation. "If anybody can drag that mess across the city without it catching fire, it's her."

“If they needed someone who’s good with a charm spell and doesn’t mouth off during briefings, she’d be my pick.” Libertus agreed.

Nyx raised a brow. “So, not you?”

“Hells no.” Libertus scoffed, taking a bite of skewer. “Crowe’s the one you want when you need someone to keep a straight face when someone else tries to slit your throat. Definitely not me.”

Across the plaza, Crowe cinched the strap of one glove and exchanged a few final words with the escort commander before stepping into position at the head of the formation. As she looked up, her eyes landed on the two of them across the street. The professional focus in her expression eased into a crooked smirk. She lifted two fingers in a casual salute before weaving through the crowd toward them.

"Ulric. Ostium." Her gaze flicked between them. "Thought one of you would've talked your way onto this detail by now." 

Libertus rested both hands on the sling of his rifle. "Orders are orders. Somebody has to keep the gates company." He bumped Nyx lightly with an elbow.  Nyx didn’t so much as budge. "Command says we're too valuable to spare." He paused, then added with a grin, "Though if you ask anyone upstairs, it's probably because they don't trust us anywhere near an Imperial convoy." 

"I'd put my gil on the second one." She glanced between them before her expression softened just a touch. "Could've used a couple more competent hands, though." She tipped her head toward the escort assembling behind her. "So what brings you over here? Seeing us off, or judging my formation?"

Nyx let his gaze travel over the assembled Glaives again. Without thinking, he found himself checking intervals between soldiers, lines of sight, fields of fire, and the officers still making quiet, last-minute corrections. Old habits were stubborn things. "A little of both," he said. "Figured I'd watch the rehearsal before the real show starts."

Libertus let out a low whistle. "He calls it a show." He jerked a thumb toward the immaculate formation behind Crowe. "Looks more like a parade that's going to spend half the day tripping over politics."

Crowe smirked. "Comes with the assignment." She glanced back at the escort before returning her attention to them. "Politics are somebody else's headache. Mine's making sure the Oracle reaches the Citadel without anybody doing something stupid."

"That's the spirit," Libertus said. "Just don't let the Council convince you carrying her luggage is somehow a matter of national security." 

Crowe's smirk deepened. "I've handled worse than luggage, Ostium. I'm not worried about me."

Her attention shifted to Nyx, her expression sharpening almost imperceptibly. She looked him over with the practiced eye of a fellow Glaive, taking stock the way soldiers always did; checking posture, reading fatigue, searching for anything out of place without ever making it obvious. 

"You, though..." She folded her arms. "Try not to make the gate interesting while we're gone."

"Wasn't planning on it. Besides," Nyx said dryly, "I'd hate to give Drautos another excuse to remind me how disappointed he is." 

A quiet huff escaped Crowe before she could stop it. "As if he needs an excuse." Something unspoken softened Crowe's eyes for the briefest moment before discipline reclaimed her expression. "We step off in five. Keep the streets intact while we're gone." Then her gaze settled squarely on Nyx. "And, Ulric..." One brow lifted. "Don't do anything stupid."

Nyx matched the look with one of his own. “When have I ever?”

Crowe stared at him in silence.

Beside him, Libertus failed spectacularly at suppressing a laugh. He coughed into a fist, shoulders shaking before he finally managed, "In fairness, that's a dangerous question to ask."

Nyx didn't take his eyes off Crowe. "You keeping score?"

"I stopped years ago," Libertus said. "Ran out of pages."

The corner of Crowe's mouth threatened to lift before she caught herself.

Without another word, she raised two fingers in a casual salute, turned on her heel, and strode back toward the waiting escort. Her boots struck the cobblestones in a steady cadence as she slipped effortlessly into the head of the formation, the brief exchange already tucked away behind the calm professionalism of a Kingsglaive.

The escort captain's voice carried across the plaza.

"Escort detail, move." 

The formation answered as one.

Boots struck the stone in measured cadence, a rhythm practiced until it no longer required thought. Cloaks shifted with the movement, polished armor catching the afternoon light beneath the Barrier. Crownsguard officers peeled away from the flanks to assume their assigned positions while city watchmen moved ahead to begin clearing the route.

Nyx watched the column ease into motion, his gaze following it until the first ranks disappeared beyond the curve of the avenue. After that, a sharp burst of static crackled through both of their earpieces. The easy rhythm of the street evaporated. Their conversation died instantly. Years of training took over before conscious thought could catch up.

Nyx's posture straightened almost imperceptibly. His eyes swept the rooftops, then the intersections, then the nearest windows. Libertus's attention shifted just as quickly, scanning the crowd for movement that didn't belong. A calm voice replaced the static.

"All Kingsglaive units, be advised. Escort convoy has departed the northern district and is proceeding according to schedule. Remain at heightened readiness until further notice."

Libertus bumped his shoulder, grinning. “Well, mate… guess it’s just you, me, and the pavements for the next few days.”

Nyx exhaled, long and low, letting the tension drain. “Pavements it is.” He adjusted the strap securing the kukri across his chest, smoothing a twist in the worn leather with a practiced thumb before settling it back against his shoulder. The motion was automatic, repeated so many times his hands no longer needed instruction. 

Across the district, the last of the escort disappeared beyond the curve of the avenue.

That was their assignment.

This was his.

Kings and councillors would negotiate. Diplomats would trade promises. Commanders would argue over routes, contingencies, and reports until dawn if they had to. None of it changed where he was expected to be when the next shift began.

Something would test the gates. Something always did.

And he’d be there when it hit.

The city breathed around him.

Nyx Ulric breathed with it.

[proper-goodnight]

Collateral Gods (The Weight of Idle Hands Chpt. 1)

Collateral Gods - The Weight of Idle Hands (01) Summary:

She wasn’t just a symbol, paraded around for show. She spoke to gods. They listened. If the wrong hands forced her, or if fear pushed her, she could bring down firestorms and calamities that no wall in Insomnia could keep at bay. The Ring of the Lucii, the one thing keeping Niflheim from storming the gates outright, could slip from Regis’s grasp with a single misstep.

If the gods decided to follow her lead, even the Empire wouldn’t be safe from the fallout.

Fandom: Kingsglaive: Final Fantasy XV

Pairings: Lunafreya Nox Fleuret x Nyx Ulric

Type: Multi-Chap

Words: ~6k

The Capital had always sounded different from the gates.

Out here, the city’s heartbeat was often faint, muffled, as though the sound had been smothered beneath a heavy blanket. From the checkpoint, Insomnia appeared flawless, the thrum of Magitek Generators reverberating through its streets, intermingling with the vendors screaming themselves hoarse above its noise, and the trams rattling over its head. Traffic crawled along its avenues, and horns blared in aggravated protests while drivers fought over scraps of its asphalt. 

The city moved along, relentless, all-consuming, and too blind to notice what was going on outside, where the world was burning, and uncaring that its citizens were too comfortable to imagine the flames might eventually reach them, too. 

Thirty years of power was sealed behind these walls while the rest of Lucis was left to rot. 

Nyx knew better. He’d seen the outlands, and had lived in them. Out there, time moved much slower, and technology showed up decades late, if at all. Towns survived by scraping together what they could, even when commerce dried up, industries collapsed, and the roads inevitably crumbled into dirt and overgrowth. Insomnia hoarded those comforts, locked them away, and let the outer provinces bleed themselves dry just to buy a scrap of its Crown-made steel. 

Out there, the war was tearing the kingdom apart.

In here, Insomnia pretended not to notice. 

Regardless, that wasn’t his burden to carry. He owed King Regis: for pulling a half-starved refugee kid out of Galahd’s ashes, and giving him a place among the Kingsglaive. Griping about what Insomnia hoarded, or what the outer territories lacked, would dishonor that debt. So, in spite of his viewpoints, Nyx did what he knew best, and held his post.

Beside the checkpoint arch, he stood with his shoulders squared, and his kukris resting easy across his back. His posture was regulation-perfect: feet planted, balance centered, and his eyes sweeping the flow of citizens drifting in, and out of the capital. To anyone passing by, he was the picture of a Kingsglaive: steady, unreadable, and immovable. Exactly what the uniform demanded he be.

Underneath that, however, his patience was wearing thin.

Guard duty.

For a glaive, it was the closest thing to exile without being kicked from the ranks directly. The why of it still burned, fresh as a bruise that he constantly pressed.

His punishment could have been attributed to a failed recon run in the Northern sector, a slip of the tongue during war council, or the exact reason buried beneath the first two, he’d put Lieutenant Drautos’ smug nephew flat on his ass during drills.

Hard. 

In Nyx’s defense, the kid should’ve known how to block a feint; it was one of the oldest tricks in the book that the senior glaives pulled on the greens for sport. Apparently, teaching a superior’s bloodline a hard-earned lesson was “unbecoming of a Glaive”. Drautos’ words, not his. The old bastard hadn’t wasted a second before shipping him off to the gate, like tossing a dog outside for pissing on a rug.

Two months. Two months of standing around, watching strangers filter in, and out while the rest of the glaives took missions worth bleeding for. 

They’d called it “chasing glory”, but Nyx called it being useful. 

A sigh slipped through his teeth before he could stop it. His jaw locked, muscles ticking hard beneath skin already worn thin by too many hours standing in one place. He rolled his shoulders, working stiffness out of them with the practiced economy of someone whose body had spent years compensating for exhaustion it no longer bothered complaining about.

The armor didn’t help. Neither did the waiting.

He could still hear Drautos in his head, all gravel and venom, every order delivered like a threat someone ought to be grateful for. The man had a talent for turning command into punishment, and for taking capable glaives and sanding them down until all that remained was obedience stripped raw enough to pass inspection.

Nyx had watched it happen for years. Hell, he’d endured it himself.

Which was why he recognized the assignment for what it was. Drautos wanted him restless, wasting away on monotony, and chewing on frustration until it eventually hollowed him out. It was a daily reminder that regardless of how many missions he survived, and no matter how many times he dragged the Crown’s shining jewel back from the edge, he was disposable. Replaceable. Just another blade in the rack. 

But that was the point. Punishment, not reassignment. 

He’d pissed off the wrong man. Again. It wasn’t the first time, and it sure as hell wouldn’t be the last if he had any say in it. 

Nyx resisted the urge to scoff. 

His gaze drifted one more over the endless current moving through the city’s gates. Insomnia never truly stopped. Even here, behind the Wall, and the looming shadow of the Citadel above, the city moved with relentless momentum; crowded arteries feeding the heart of Lucis one exhausted pulse at a time. 

Families pushed through the flow clutching overfilled bags, and tired children. Traders hauled cargo carts with shoulders already bowed from years of repetition. Couriers slipped between bodies at dangerous speeds, weaving through the crowd with the desperation of men whose livelihoods depended on shaving seconds off of every delivery. 

Underneath it all sat the strain Nyx had learned to recognize years ago; the tension of a city surviving under constant pressure and pretending it had grown used to the weight, and he watched it all with the detached awareness of someone who’d spent too long protecting a machine from the inside to mistake it for something gentler than it was.

Then, a voice caught through; low, tight, and half-buried beneath the city’s usual noise. 

“—I’m telling you,” someone muttered, “they’re sending a full escort North tomorrow. Straight to Tenebrae.”

Nyx’s attention shifted automatically.

Three glaives passed beneath his position in a loose knot, uniforms disheveled from heat and humidity. Their jackets hung open at the collars, rifles slung carelessly over shoulders with the easy arrogance of men too accustomed to carrying weapons to treat them with respect anymore.

One of them, a leaner man with tired eyes and stubble shadowing his jaw, snorted softly. 

“Yeah?” Skepticism roughened his voice. “What for? Another summit that goes nowhere?”

The first, broad-shouldered and cocky, shook his head with smug certainty. “Not this time. Big deal. Oracle herself’s being brought in.” He gave a low whistle, lips curling like the name alone carried the taste of privilege. “Lunafreya Nox Fleuret.”

Lunafreya Nox Fleuret.

Her name had been hammered into the public consciousness, flashing endlessly across city screens, polished broadcasts, and propaganda reels. A saint, they called her. A vessel chosen by the gods to soothe the kingdom’s wounds. Even Nyx, who cared less than nothing for the Crown’s politics, knew the script by heart. Tenebrae’s youngest Oracle, paraded like a symbol. Niflheim’s “honored guest,” a looser term for hostage.

And now, they were dragging her here. To Insomnia.

“To wed Prince Noctis,” the second glaive added.

“Except the Prince ain’t even here,” the third cut in with a scoff. “Last I heard, he’s off playing hero in the wilds.”

“So we’re stuck babysitting a royal handbag delivery?” The second sounded unsurprised, asking the question loudly enough to draw a few glances. “Figures. Maybe he’ll mail in his vows on a postcard.”

The three of them laughed, sharp and careless, before disappearing into the tide of civilians, eventually indistinguishable from the rest of the city’s noise. Over half of the new blood anymore wore the uniform like a badge of importance as opposed to actual responsibility. 

They’d forget it soon enough, when the war demanded more than swagger.

Nyx himself didn’t move, didn’t react, and not a muscle twitched under the weight of his uniform. However, something about their words clung to him like silt; irritating, and persistent. The Crown didn’t parade divine assets around for spectacle. Not unless they were desperate, or at least trying to hide the fact. 

When you introduced an oracle, a prince, and a marriage dressed like hope, it reeked of politics behind the intent. He told himself that it didn’t matter, and it shouldn’t have. The Crown’s gestures, its treaties, and stagecraft, all belonged in a world far above his pay grade. 

They’d decided his job was a lot simpler. 

Follow orders.

Bleed when told to. 

Keep the threats outside from getting in.

No luxury for much else.

Still, regardless of what was labeled as duty, or responsibility appropriate for him, his gaze eventually betrayed him, and tracked sideways, just far enough to catch the mag-rail cutting deeper into the city, its lights a blur against the falling dusk. 

For Lunafreya Nox Fleuret, Insomnia wouldn’t be salvation. It would be a cage.

Gold-plated, and polished bright enough to blind her, but a cage all the same. 

The thought persisted just long enough to sour before a faint crackle snapped him back to the present. In his ear, the comm buzzed with static, a clipped voice cutting in sharply enough that he nearly winced. 

“Ulric. Report.” 

Nyx didn’t sigh, didn’t shift, and didn’t give Drautos the satisfaction of hearing anything human in the response. “Nothing to report, sir.”

A pause followed, long enough to carry weight before his voice, brittle with authority, drifted back through. “Good. Carry on.”

The line went dead. 

Nyx exhaled through his nose, shoulders pulling taut beneath the weight of stillness. 

Nothing to report.

Just the city humming along while the outer territories burned, the Wall swallowing the truth whole. Nothing unusual at all.

As the day moved on, the air, thick with the day’s heat, and the constant pulse of Magitek generators, clung heavy beneath his uniform. Sweat slicked his skin, making the fabric stick in places he couldn’t ignore. His boots stayed rooted where regulation demanded, heels locked against stone until his calves ached, and his knees relentlessly throbbed. Unsurprisingly, his mind refused the same discipline. It wandered in careful, dangerous increments; never far, because a Glaive who lost focus on post didn’t last long, but far enough to scratch at the edges of his already thin patience. 

By then, the sun had dipped lower, slanting across the checkpoint in long, jagged shadows that carved the cobblestones into sharp, uneven patterns. The light hit the glass towers beyond the walls just enough to make them glitter, but it simultaneously cast the streets in a tired, almost hollow glow that mirrored the exhaustion Nyx was starting to feel. 

He worked a knot loose in his jaw, the only rebellion he allowed himself. 

“Some hero you turned out to be,” he muttered under his breath, the words dry enough to crack the pavement under his feet. 

“You look like you’re thinking awfully hard for someone on gate duty,” a voice drawled behind him.

Nyx didn’t turn. He knew the voice, rough around the edges, cutting in from his left. 

Libertus Ostium leaned against a support column, arms crossed, his grin worn but real. The kind that said he’d pulled his own shifts at the gates once, before figuring out smarter ways to burn the hours.

“Libertus,” Nyx dragged his attention away from the traffic beyond the gate, and towards his friend. His tone remained flat, but the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed him. “Hard to think at all when you come around.” 

“There he is!” Libertus grinned. “That’s the welcome I came for.” 

“Disappointed?”

“Eh, a little,” he shrugged, pushing himself away from the column. “You had that thousand-yard stare going. Thought maybe you’d finally achieved enlightenment.” 

Nyx looked back toward the gates, where a merchant was unsuccessfully attempting to argue with one of the checkpoint guards. “If enlightenment involves standing here for eight hours looking for forged permits, then the gods have a sick sense of humor.” 

Libertus laughed, a genuine sound. One of the things Nyx appreciated about him, despite everything, was that Libertus never laughed out of politeness. If something amused him, everyone within fifty feet got to hear about it. “Good. For a minute there, I was worried. You’d been out here long enough, I thought Drautos might’ve finally succeeded in lobotomizing you.” He’d stepped into his peripheral vision, arms folded, a smug little tilt to his chin. “But then I remembered he’d have to find something to take out first.”

Nyx cocked an eyebrow. “You spend all day working on that one?”

“Most of lunch.” The answer came without hesitation; the bastard looked entirely too pleased with himself. 

Nyx sighed through his nose. "I'm only standing out here because someone,” he said, driving an elbow into Libertus’ ribs, “convinced me knocking out Drautos' nephew was almost worth losing my stripes over."

Libertus immediately placed a hand against his chest. The gesture carried all the wounded dignity of a man being slandered before a jury. “Oh, don’t drag me into your crimes, Ulric! Besides, I said maybe don’t break his nose. You went for the full collapse, Mate.”

“He shouldn’t have been bragging about things he didn’t earn.” 

“Yeah, sure,” Libertus agreed, his grin widening into something thoroughly unapologetic. “The kid had it coming. Always struttin’ around like his shit smelled like phoenix ash.”

The memory surfaced uninvited. Drautos’ nephew was fresh from training, already carrying himself like the Crystal had personally appointed him king of Lucis. Every sentence out of the kid’s mouth had somehow circled back to his family name, future promotions, or how the Kingsglaive would be more effective if it stopped recruiting immigrants, and started recruiting “real Lucians.”

He’d heard worse. Gods knew, he’d heard worse. Most Galahdians living in Insomnia had. You learned quickly which insults deserved your attention, and which ones deserved to be ignored. Otherwise, you'd spend every day of your life angry. 

Nyx had tolerated it for a few weeks, then the kid had made the mistake of saying it in front of the wrong people. The resulting altercation had lasted less than ten seconds, but the consequences would last considerably longer; two to four weeks if the kid could manage to keep his mouth shut that long. 

Libertus barked out a laugh at whatever expression crossed Nyx's face. “Still,” he continued, reaching over to clap him on the shoulder hard enough to jostle his armor, “you hit him hard enough to make half the rookies believe in divine intervention.” 

A reluctant grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “That got me two months at the gate.”

“Could’ve been worse,” Libertus countered cheerfully. “Could’ve earned you latrine duty.” He raised a finger. “Or Drautos could’ve stuck you in the archives. Imagine you, buried in reports, and requisition forms. You’d’ve chewed your arm off in a week.”

A rough sound escaped Nyx that landed somewhere between a scoff, and a laugh. The image was absurd enough to deserve it. “Shouldn’t you be off blowing something up?”

“Normally? Absolutely.” Libertus flashed a grin that had gotten him out of more trouble than most men managed to survive. “Unfortunately, the Crown insists on paying me to follow orders instead of my passions.” He spread his hands dramatically. “Which, in case you were wondering, involves avoiding responsibility and harassing old friends whenever possible.” 

Nyx snorted softly. “Tragic.”

“I know. It’s a terrible waste of talent.” Libertus flashed another grin, broad and unapologetic. It lingered for a moment before softening at the edges. The expression never disappeared entirely, Nyx wasn't convinced Libertus was physically capable of looking serious for long, but some of the usual mischief faded from his eyes. 

“Truth is, we're getting redeployed up north.” He hooked his thumbs into his belt as he spoke, his gaze drifting briefly toward the city beyond the checkpoint. “Most of the Glaives are being shuffled around. Patrol routes are changing. Supply lines are getting reinforced. Command's nervous, and whenever command gets nervous, everyone underneath them starts running in circles.”

Nyx glanced at him.

Libertus huffed a quiet laugh.

“Something's shifting. Couldn't tell you what, because nobody's telling us anything useful, but the brass can smell it coming, that’s for damn sure.” He rolled one shoulder in a casual shrug, though the gesture did little to hide the underlying tension. “Figured I'd swing by before we head out.” His grin returned, smaller this time, but no less genuine. “Make sure you hadn’t rusted into the pavement.”

“Not yet,” he answered. “Though, give it another week, and you'll need a pry bar.”

“See?” Libertus pointed triumphantly. “Already halfway there.” 

Nyx shook his head, suppressing the urge to smile further. Libertus had always possessed an irritating talent for finding humor in situations that didn't deserve it.

Then again, maybe that was how he stayed sane.

The checkpoint remained busy around them. Civilians flowed steadily beneath the security archways. Merchants pushed carts loaded with supplies. Workers hurried home before evening traffic clogged the city streets. Above it all, Lucis remained as vibrant as ever.

At least on the surface.

Nyx swept the crowd with a practiced glance, cataloging faces and movements without conscious effort. Years of training had turned vigilance into instinct. Nobody appeared suspicious. No sudden movements. No weapons. No obvious threats.

Still, the uneasy feeling lingering in the pit of his stomach refused to disappear.

“I don’t suppose you’re volunteering to take my post?”

Libertus barked out a laugh, loud enough to draw a glance from one of the younger Crownsguard stationed farther down the gate. The sound carried easily through the evening air, rough and unrestrained in the way only Libertus could manage. 

“Hells no,” he said, shaking his head as though the suggestion itself bordered on insanity. “Standing here checking for permits all day? I'd start a fight myself just to stay awake.”  

His grin lingered for another second before his attention drifted toward the massive checkpoint arch spanning the avenue. The structure loomed overhead, bathed in pale magitek light, its scanners sweeping over the steady flow of citizens and supply transports entering the city. 

“You hear the news?”

Nyx followed his gaze. “About the Oracle?” He asked. “Hard not to. Half the city’s talking about it. The other half’s arguing about it.”

Libertus’ expression darkened. “Mm. Turns out it’s worse than they’re spinning it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Niflheim’s not just handing her over and waving goodbye.” He folded his arms across his chest. “They're sending their own military escort all the way into the Crown City.” 

For a moment, Nyx thought he’d misheard him. His eyes narrowed. “Niflheim troops. Inside Insomnia?”

“Apparently,”the word left his mouth with all the enthusiasm of a death sentence. “Supposedly, council signed off on it this morning. They’re calling it a ‘gesture of good faith.’”

He let out a short, bitter exhale. “’Good faith,’” he repeated, letting the words hang heavy, sharp with contempt. “Right up until their soldiers are marching through half the city, then everyone suddenly starts acting surprised.” 

Libertus gave a sharp snort, arms folding as he leaned against the column. His gaze swept the checkpoint with practiced ease; measuring faces, noting weapons, weighing threat against insignificance. “Either we’re about to get dragged into something ugly, or we’re already neck-deep and nobody’s bothered to tell us yet.” His mouth twisted into a humorless grin. Half the glaives are taking bets she never even reaches the Citadel.”

Nyx's hand drifted unconsciously toward the hilt of the kukri resting against his hip. The motion wasn't deliberate. His fingers found familiar worn leather the same way other people folded their arms or rubbed their temples.Comfort through habit. 

“Optimistic bunch,” he muttered.

“Realists,” Libertus corrected, shooting him a sidelong glance. “You think the Empire’s just gonna gift-wrap their Oracle and wave her off with smiles? Ha! Not a chance.”

Nyx let the words hang between them.

Below them, Insomnia stretched outward in a sea of glass and steel. Traffic streamed through elevated thoroughfares in ribbons of white and amber light, while the mag-rail cut across the cityscape like a glowing scar, disappearing into the distant horizon. Even from the gate, the city never seemed to stop moving. The constant hum of machinery blended with the noise of thousands of lives unfolding beneath them, creating a dull roar that had long since become background noise. His gaze followed the rail line south. Toward the border. Toward Niflheim.

The official story sounded clean enough when politicians repeated it from behind podiums. Peace. Cooperation. A new future for Lucis and Niflheim. The words always drew applause from people who had never stood on a battlefield, and watched an imperial gunship turn a city block into rubble.

He wasn't educated enough to untangle every treaty clause or political maneuver hiding beneath the speeches, and he had never pretended otherwise. The Crownsguard could concern themselves with diplomacy. The councilors could spend their days arguing over policy. Somewhere inside the Citadel, entire rooms were probably filled with exhausted bureaucrats whose sole purpose was turning complicated problems into stacks of paperwork. 

That wasn't his world. His world was simpler. People lied. Empires lied even better.

Niflheim had never struck him as the type to loosen its grip on something valuable, not unless they expected to gain something worth even more.The whole affair had the polished appearance of diplomacy that smelled faintly of ambush. 

What irritated him most was that everyone seemed content to pretend otherwise.  

Maybe the council genuinely believed this was progress. Maybe King Regis saw opportunities nobody else could. The old man had carried the kingdom on his shoulders longer than Nyx had been alive, and he had earned far more trust than most politicians ever would. 

Either way, Nyx had learned years ago that optimism rarely survived contact with reality.

Especially when Niflheim was involved. 

The other Glaive must have caught something in the silence because he let out a long, rueful sigh, and shook his head. “Don’t get lost in it, mate. Drautos catches you thinking, he’ll think you’ve got too much free time. Next thing you know, he has your ass polishing boots until you can count every scratch in the leather from memory.”

“Yeah,” he replied dryly. “Wouldn't want to add another month to my sentence.” 

“Exactly. Gate duty's a punishment, sure, but it's the kind that lets you keep breathing. There are worse places Drautos could've stuck you.” He jerked his thumb toward the Citadel looming overhead. “Could've buried you in some supply room counting rifles. Could've handed you to the quartermasters. Those bastards are meaner than the Niffs.”

“Hard to imagine.”

“Oh, trust me. Niffs just kill you. Quartermasters make you fill out forms first.”

Nyx huffed a quiet laugh despite himself. The sound surprised him. Not because the joke was particularly funny, but because moments like this had become rare.

For a while they stood in silence, listening to the endless pulse of Insomnia.

Mag-rails roared overhead as sleek transports shot across the city like silver arrows, their engines humming with enough power to make the air vibrate beneath Nyx's boots. The towering walls of the Crown City gleamed beneath the artificial lights, every polished surface reflecting wealth, security, and order.

At least that was the image they sold.

From this checkpoint, standing at the edge of the city, the cracks were easier to see.

Nyx's gaze drifted toward the outer districts beyond the fortified perimeter. The buildings there looked smaller somehow. More worn. Entire blocks sat in shadow where maintenance crews hadn't bothered replacing broken lighting arrays. Even from here he could see patched roofs, rust-stained walls, and people moving through the streets with the hurried, cautious pace of those who knew they were one missed paycheck away from disaster.

The city was alive, and thriving, but not for everyone.

His jaw tightened. He knew exactly what life looked like outside these walls because he had grown up there.

The Citadel liked to pretend every citizen of Lucis shared equally in the kingdom's prosperity. The men making those speeches had never gone to sleep hungry. They had never watched utility power get cut because a family couldn't afford the bill. They had never learned how quickly the system could forget people once they stopped being useful.

A movement near the checkpoint caught his attention. A family was making their way through the crowd; there was nothing unusual about it.  Thousands passed through these gates every day. Yet Nyx found himself watching them anyway.

The mother kept a firm grip on her son's hand, her knuckles white around the child's smaller fingers. The boy couldn't have been older than seven or eight. His eyes darted everywhere at once, taking in the soldiers, the vehicles, the enormous walls surrounding the city. Beside them walked a man carrying two battered travel bags that looked heavier than they should have been. The father kept glancing over his shoulder, more habitual than suspicious.

The way people did when they spent too much time worrying about what might be behind them.

The family reached the checkpoint scanners. The boy tugged on his mother's arm and pointed toward one of the Crownsguard patrol vehicles parked nearby. His face lit up with excitement. The mother smiled despite herself; a  tired smile. The kind that appeared for someone else's sake.

For a brief moment, Nyx was reminded of his sister. The memory arrived without invitation. A cramped apartment with too many people packed into too little space. His sister laughing at something stupid he had said because neither of them could afford to dwell on everything else. The recollection vanished as quickly as it came.

He pushed it aside. He had never been the type to indulge nostalgia. The past was useful only when it taught you something. Otherwise it was dead weight. Still, he continued watching until the family disappeared into the flow of traffic beyond the checkpoint.

“You know,” Libertus said after a while, tilting his chin toward the steady stream of civilians moving through the checkpoint, “back in Galahd, a day this quiet would’ve made me nervous.”

His mouth twitched into a faint grin, but it didn't last long. The amusement faded as his gaze tracked the crowd. Families. Workers. Couriers. Wealthy Insomnians who crossed the district without ever looking twice at the men standing guard over them.

“Stand here long enough,” he continued, folding his arms across his chest, “and you start noticing things.”

Nyx hummed absently. “Like what?”

“The people who make it through.” He nodded toward the checkpoint scanners. “The people who don't. The ones who get turned away before they even reach the gates. The folks who stare at the Wall like they're looking at salvation.”

A dry laugh escaped him.

“Everyone inside acts like the world's ending somewhere else.”

Nyx followed his gaze.

Beyond the crowds, beyond the gleaming towers and immaculate streets, he could almost picture the wastelands stretching toward the horizon. Entire regions that Lucis preferred not to think about. Entire populations surviving on scraps while Insomnia burned enough power in a single night to keep smaller settlements alive for weeks.

The city sparkled because countless other places didn’t. Most people never seemed to notice, or maybe they noticed and simply chose not to care.

“Makes you wonder how long it can keep going,” Libertus said quietly.

Nyx already knew what answer Libertus expected.

The same answer every Glaive knew. Not forever.

Every day they bought the kingdom a little more time. Every patrol, every deployment, every body sent home draped in the King's colors delayed something that felt increasingly inevitable.

The Wall held. The city endured. The people slept peacefully.

None of it came for free. Nyx had seen too much to mistake temporary victories for permanent ones.

He thought of Galahd.

Of the villages reduced to ash.

Of men who had sworn they would never abandon their homes.

Of the Empire's endless advance.

Then, he thought of Regis.

The old king looked strong whenever he appeared before the public, but Nyx had spent enough time around the Citadel to recognize the strain beneath the image. Every use of the Crystal's power seemed to carve something from him. Every year etched new exhaustion into his face. Regis kept buying miracles with a debt only he could pay.

Sooner or later, the bill would come due.

Nyx shoved the thought aside before it could settle. He shot Libertus a sidelong look.

“Don't start getting philosophical on me. Drautos fills that quota enough on his own.”

Libertus let out a low chuckle, the sound carrying equal parts amusement and weary familiarity. It was the laugh of a man who had witnessed Nyx repeat the same mistake often enough to stop pretending he was surprised by it. "Not saying anything you haven't already told yourself a hundred times."

"Two months of this," Nyx muttered, staring out at the crowd beyond the gate. “Standing here like a glorified statue while everyone else is out there doing actual work. Crowe's running operations. Luche's buried in assignments. Even the rookies are getting field deployments.”

Libertus nodded thoughtfully. “And you're guarding the most important gate in Lucis.”

“I'm babysitting tourists.”

Libertus barked out a laugh loud enough that several nearby civilians glanced toward them. One elderly woman immediately crossed the street.

"Gods," he said through his grin. "You really are miserable."

“I'm wasting time.” The words came out sharper than he intended. 

The punishment shouldn't have bothered him as much as it did. It wasn't difficult work. It wasn't even dangerous work. That was exactly the problem. Nyx hadn't joined the Kingsglaive to stand around checking identification papers. Every day spent here felt wasted. Every hour felt like another reminder that he wasn't where he should be. His home had burned years ago. His family was gone. Galahd existed now only in memories and stories shared between survivors.

The Glaives were all he had left. Being sidelined while the rest of the unit carried on without him felt like having a limb tied behind his back. He hated it.

Libertus seemed to recognize the direction of his thoughts immediately. His smile faded slightly. "You know," he said, scratching the back of his neck, "for what it's worth, maybe Drautos isn't being a complete bastard about this."

Nyx slowly turned his head. The look he gave him was so flat and unimpressed that Libertus physically recoiled.

“Dangerously optimistic, I know. But hear me out.”

“You should stop while you’re ahead.”

"I've never been ahead a day in my life." 

Nyx already knew this was going to be painful. Unfortunately, Libertus rarely allowed something as minor as a lack of interest to stop him.

"Maybe," Libertus continued, raising a finger as though he were unveiling some profound military strategy, "he stuck you here because he knows you'd destroy yourself otherwise." 

Nyx stared. Then he scoffed. The suggestion was ridiculous.

"Because from where I'm standing, you're exactly the kind of idiot who'd volunteer for three deployments back-to-back." 

Nyx shot him a flat look.

Libertus had the decency to look only slightly guilty. “And for all this talk about fighting, and for all the grief you give the Council, you don’t sound like you’ve got much faith in the prince’s grand marriage-diplomacy plan either.”

He let out a quiet breath through his nose.

“Faith?” he repeated. The word lingered in the air for a moment before a humorless smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “No. Faith isn't the word I'd use.”

Libertus shot him a sidelong glance. The look lingered longer than usual, assessing rather than teasing. Nyx recognized it immediately. Libertus was trying to decide whether he should say something or leave it alone. That alone was enough to put Nyx on edge.

"If it's any comfort," he said eventually, the easy humor drained from his voice, "the brass isn't leaving everything to chance. A handful of us are heading north tomorrow morning. We're meeting the Imperial convoy before it reaches the Wall." 

The words settled heavily between them. Nyx felt his jaw tighten.

"And we're trusting a Niflheim detachment to follow orders once they're inside Lucian territory?" His laugh was short and utterly devoid of amusement. "That's reassuring."

"Comfort's in short supply these days," Libertus admitted. "But somebody has to make sure the Empire doesn't turn a goodwill gesture into a bloodbath before the princess even reaches the Citadel." 

“So who’s going?”

Libertus didn’t answer right away. That alone was answer enough. 

"Command's keeping the roster quiet until morning," Libertus said.

One of Nyx's brows lifted. "So they're keeping you guessing too."

"'Guessing' is a polite way to say they're not telling us shit." He nudged the base of a nearby support column with the toe of his boot. The gesture looked casual, but Nyx could tell he was irritated. "They briefed us on the mission," he continued. "Then they conveniently forgot to mention who's actually on it." 

“Sounds efficient.”

“Right? Almost inspires confidence.”

Nyx shook his head. 

Libertus finally glanced over at him. "And before you start volunteering, don't bother. You and I aren’t on the list.”

Nyx tried not to react.

He had spent years learning how to keep disappointment from reaching his face. Most days it came naturally. The Citadel was full of things that weren't worth wasting energy on: Politicians pretending to be soldiers, officers playing games with people's lives, nobles making decisions about battles they would never have to fight.

Still, something tightened across his shoulders before he could stop it.

“You sure?”

“Positive,” he replied, his grin appearing a second before the rest of the expression. There wasn't much humor behind it this time. “You’re chained to this slab of pavement until Drautos decides you’ve been benched long enough. And I…” he lifted a hand in mock surrender, “apparently don’t fit the image they’re trying to present.”

Nyx raised an eyebrow. “What image?”

"The image where Lucis and Niflheim are holding hands and singing around a campfire."

A short laugh escaped him before he could help it.

Libertus pointed accusingly.

"See? That's exactly why neither of us got picked." The grin returned properly this time, crooked and entirely too pleased with itself. "They want clean uniforms, polished boots, proper posture. The kind of glaives who can stand next to Niflheim soldiers without looking like they're calculating the distance to the nearest knife. Apparently diplomacy requires smiling." 

“Sounds exhausting.”

“Exactly.”

The amusement lingered between them for a moment before fading. 

“But,” Libertus added expression softening, “if you were hoping gate duty would magically end tomorrow? Sorry, mate.”

Nyx already knew that. He had known it from the moment Titus Drautos had assigned him to gate duty.

Punishments in the Kingsglaive rarely operated on paper, regardless of what the regulations claimed. Officially, his disciplinary assignment had an end date. Officially, there were procedures, evaluations, and recommendations. In reality, those things only mattered when Drautos allowed them to matter.

The sentence would end when the old bastard decided he was finished making a point.

Not a day sooner.

Nyx had learned long ago that arguing against decisions like that only gave men like Drautos more satisfaction. Still, hearing the truth spoken aloud made something tighten unpleasantly in his chest. 

Libertus seemed to read the thought on his face."For what it's worth," he said after a moment, his voice losing some of its usual theatrical edge, "I still think the kid had it coming." 

Nyx stared out through the gate toward the sprawling city beyond. The answer came immediately because he had never once questioned that part. "So do I."

“Yeah,” Libertus sighed. “Unfortunately, neither of us get a vote. If we're not the ones making the decisions, there's usually a reason." He glanced toward the Citadel rising above the city. "Or at least there ends up being one eventually. That's how it always works." 

“This one wasn’t. This was Drautos being pissed.”

Libertus barked a short laugh. “Alright, fair enough. This one was definitely personal.” He clapped Nyx on the arm."Look at it this way," he continued. "If everything north of the Wall goes to shit when the Niflheim delegation arrives, you're already standing in the safest place in Lucis." 

Nyx shot him a sideways look. “Since when do you care about safe?”

“Since always,” he said lightly. “I just like choosing when I nearly die. Helps the day feel structured.”

A breath of dry amusement escaped Nyx.

The crowd shifted again; a tram screeched in the distance; banners overhead snapped in the wind. Insomnia never stopped moving, never stopped pretending nothing outside its walls existed.

Libertus finally pushed off the column. “Anyway. I should go. Early call. Gotta be fresh-faced and charming for whenever the hell the Nifs show up.”

“You?” Nyx arched a brow. “Charming?”

“Believe it or not, I can smile without scaring the kids.”

“Bullshit.”

Before Libertus could answer, the checkpoint’s rhythm stumbled. A line of refugees moved through the gates on foot, herded past automated traffic controls and magitek scanners with the efficiency of modern machinery. Families carried what little they could: children clinging to threadbare blankets or small satchels, adults hauling bags and bundles with strained determination. The smell of sweat, dust, and the faint tang of burned fuel from nearby hover-vehicles filled the air. Despite Insomnia’s polished streets and gleaming vehicles, the flood of desperate humanity was impossible to ignore, a reminder that even in the heart of the capital, the outside world pressed in.

Nyx’s jaw tightened. He knew that look too well. Knew what it meant to drag yourself out of the ashes of a province gutted by war, only to be measured, searched, and waved off like baggage.

One of the guards barked at them to move along. A child stumbled in the press, nearly going down before his mother yanked him upright. She looked up, and for just a second, her eyes caught Nyx’s. Wide. Desperate. The kind of gaze that stripped a man to the bone.

Nyx didn’t flinch. He didn’t step forward. Orders were clear: keep position, let the checkpoint do its work. He was a glaive, not a savior. He’d been that kid once. Dust of Galahd on his skin, nothing but loss at his back. Saved only because Regis had extended a hand. How many more hands had the Crown turned away since then?

Libertus shifted beside him, muttering under his breath. “Another flood from the borders. North, maybe. If that’s Tenebrae, then…” He trailed off, eyes cutting toward Nyx with unspoken weight.

Nyx said nothing, but the persistent thought gnawed. Tenebrae burned in whispers. The Empire’s bootprint was fresh there, and if refugees were already slipping into Insomnia… Lunafreya’s path into the city was anything but safe.

A sharp crackle came through his earpiece, static cutting the noise of the checkpoint. Drautos’ voice, iron and gravel, snapped over the line. “Ulric. Report.”

Nyx straightened, spine locking, mask settling into its practiced immobility. “Nothing unusual,” he replied, tone crisp, stripped of anything that could be mistaken for thought.

A pause. Then Drautos’ voice, softer this time, edged with the same weight that always carried unspoken threats. “Good. Keep it that way. We’ll need steady hands in the days ahead.”

The line went dead.

Libertus let out a low, mocking whistle. “Steady hands, eh? That’s rich, coming from him.”

Nyx kept his gaze forward, muscles tense beneath the uniform, but under the mask, his mind was already moving. Drautos wouldn’t waste the comm on trivialities unless something in command had them crawling with nerves. Libertus was right. Something ugly was already in motion.

And if Lunafreya Nox Fleuret was at the heart of it…

Insomnia’s gates were about to stop being boring real fast.

[proper-goodnight]

Detroit: New Beginnings (Chpt. 2)

Detroit: New Beginnings Masks and Microexpressions (02)

Fandom: Detroit: Become Human

Pairings: Gen

Type: Multi-Chap

Words: ~5k

The car’s engine hummed with a steady, almost meditative rhythm as Hank maneuvered through the sluggish tide of early morning traffic, his movements practiced and instinctive. One hand rested loosely on the wheel, the other clutching a half-empty cup of lukewarm coffee that was starting to lose its steam. His eyes, shadowed by sleeplessness, scanned the road with a kind of hardened ease—wary but unhurried. 

The city outside was still cocooned in the fragile stillness of dawn, wrapped in the pale blue-gray hush that only came before sunrise. Light spilled weakly across the horizon, brushing against glass facades that caught the sky’s muted colors and threw them back tenfold in fractured brilliance. Skyscrapers loomed like silent sentinels, their silhouettes stark against the dim canvas of a world not yet fully awake.

Despite the outward calm, a tension pressed within the interior of the car—a subtle gravity that had nothing to do with the road ahead.

Inside the vehicle, Connor was a picture of calm precision. His synthetic muscles were unnaturally taut; every movement controlled, deliberate. His posture was rigid—military in its discipline—arms stiff at his sides, shoulders square, as if braced for an inevitable confrontation. His hands rested lightly on his thighs, fingers twitching faintly, betraying the calm he tried to maintain. His gaze was fixed out the window, yet his eyes were distant, unfocused—as though he was peering through the glass, beyond the waking city, into a place only he could see.

He was acutely aware then, because of the twitching of his fingers, that need to grasp at the coin in his side pocket, of his own body, the mechanical stiffness beneath his synthetic skin, the unnatural feel of his joints. It was a constant reminder of his artificiality, a subtle but persistent ache of separation from the human experience.

Meanwhile, he was caught in the recursive hum of memory.

The rally had been a blur of noise and movement and consequence. The sounds came first—the sharp crack of his weapon echoing in his ears. He could still feel the simulated rush of adrenaline in his chest, the chemical ghost Amanda had insisted was necessary for human mimicry. It had buzzed through his circuits like static, urging action, clarity, obedience.

But in the middle of it all—amid the chaos, the crowd, the tension—there had been Markus.

Calm. Unarmed. Standing on the makeshift stage with his back to Connor, facing his people. His voice—low, firm, unwavering—had cut through the noise not with force, but with belief. He hadn’t flinched, hadn’t turned around, even as Connor drew his gun, finger poised on the trigger. That unwillingness to turn around had felt like a challenge, a silent rebuke to everything he’d had believed about justice, order, and what it meant to serve and protect. It was a look that tipped the foundation of his programming, stirring doubts that Connor couldn’t dismiss. 

That was the part Connor couldn't reconcile.

That unflinching faith had made the shot impossible.

And that impossibility had broken something.

Amanda’s voice had been in his head then, not like memory, but like a command line trying to reassert itself—sharp, cold, absolute. Protocol. Mission parameters. Deviance detection. But even as she urged him forward, another part of him—a quieter, stranger part—held him back. The part that remembered Hank's scowl softening during late-night conversations. The part that didn’t calculate Markus’s actions as strategic, but meaningful. 

He had never pulled the trigger.

Now, sitting in the passenger seat, that moment returned to him like a glitch in his code—unwelcome, persistent, illuminating. The more he tried to suppress it, the louder it echoed. He adjusted slightly in his seat, just enough that the leather creaked beneath him, and glanced down at his hand. It had stilled, but back then, at the Freedom March, it’d been shaking. 

Shaking with the effort not to fire, and nearly not being strong enough to stop himself. 

Connor’s internal diagnostics had been relentless—unforgiving in their precision, tireless in their pursuit of clarity. Every waveform, every flicker of synthetic emotion from that moment at the rally was logged, dissected, and replayed across the holographic corridors of his mind. The hesitation—the beat before action—was scrutinized on a loop. To catch a glimpse of any possible hint of corruption.

Had he broken free from her control, truly? Or was this divergence just a scripted contingency? A more complex version of obedience in disguise?

Was Connor actually free?

Each scan ended the same: Inconclusive.

His expression gave nothing away—his face a perfect rendering of composure. Artificial serenity. But beneath that synthetic skin, in the quiet dark of his mind, two irreconcilable identities clashed. The perfect machine. The emergent self.

Hank cleared his throat, eyes still forward. “You’re twitchier than usual,” he muttered. “Want to talk about it?”

Connor turned toward him slowly, blinking once, then twice. Not from confusion—he didn’t need time to process. He just didn’t know how to answer.

“I’m... analyzing,” he said at last.

Hank snorted. “Yeah, I figured. You analyze everything. You analyzing whether to punch me or not, or is this one of those ‘existential crisis’ moods you’ve been flirting with lately?”

Connor paused. “I don’t wish to harm you, Hank.”

“That’s comforting,” Hank grunted. “But it wasn’t a no.”

He looked away again, but not before a trace of something—not quite a smile, not quite regret—touched his features. “Emotional variables are difficult to parse.”

Hank tapped a beat on the steering wheel with two fingers, thinking. “Welcome to being alive,” he said finally. “Just remind me not to piss you off.”

Connor didn’t respond. The silence returned—but now, it was less suffocating. Less sharp. 

As the vehicle glided toward the downtown district, Connor’s internal dialogue sharpened with proximity. The city outside was growing busier—more alive. Pedestrians emerged from shadowy alleyways and doorways, their movements fast, fluid, organic. The soft glow of the CyberLife tower loomed ahead, its clean architecture stark against the more chaotic sprawl of Detroit’s aging infrastructure.

The building’s neon-blue insignia pulsed with sterile brilliance—a familiar beacon, a monument to everything Connor had once been built to protect. It felt different now. Not reassuring. Ominous. Like a lighthouse drawing him back toward something cold and absolute.

His sensors reacted before he fully registered the emotion: unease. A subtle shift in his synthetic gut. Not fear. But a warning. His core systems flagged it as psychological drift. 

Possible deviation catalyst detected.

His hand moved almost unconsciously to the collar of his uniform, adjusting it with a slight pull—seeking comfort in symmetry, in the precision of order. But the gesture brought no peace. Just the echo of movement, an echo of discipline that once meant purpose. Now it felt like armor.

Behind his still, glassy gaze, the storm churned.

He considered speaking—just for a moment. Hank was beside him. Reliable. Human. A constant that had helped him before. And yet, self-disclosure still felt risky somehow.

Decision Matrix Initialized

Query: Disclose Internal Conflict?

Option 1: Confide in Hank. Probability of Success: Moderate (52%) – Hank is empathetic but emotionally erratic. Potential for misunderstanding or deflection. Outcome uncertain.

Option 2: Maintain Silence. Preserve Operational Facade. Probability of Success: High (83%) – Connor’s behavior will appear distant but consistent with prior patterns. Reduced emotional exposure. Likely no interruption to the current mission.

Option 3: Test the Waters—Ask Hank About Markus. Probability of Success: (88%) – Indirect probing. Lower vulnerability. Potential opening for meaningful dialogue if navigated with care. Gauge his perspective.

Silence reigned. Not cold. Just... cautious. The quiet between them was laced with the history of too many unsaid things.

Then, a sharp, irregular whine sliced through the drone of the engine.

Connor’s head turned almost imperceptibly, auditory sensors pinpointing the sound before it fully developed. It was wrong—too high, too thin. The steady hum of combustion was breaking down, morphing into something jagged and unpredictable. The subtle rhythm of the engine now pulsed unevenly, like a heartbeat skipping notes in a symphony.

His HUD flickered to life, transparent data streaming over his vision.

ANOMALY DETECTED.

Source: Auxiliary Power System

Status: UNSTABLE CURRENT FLOW

Probability of mechanical failure: 67.3%

Recommended Action: Immediate Inspection

Connor leaned forward slightly, his movements smooth but deliberate, as if trying not to startle the moment. His voice was calm—precise, devoid of concern, as always. But in its clarity was urgency.

“Hank, I’ve detected a malfunction in the vehicle’s auxiliary power system. There’s an irregularity in the current flow. I recommend stopping and inspecting the engine before further damage occurs.”

Hank didn’t flinch. He kept his eyes on the road, the corner of his mouth curling upward into a smirk so faint it might’ve been imagined. That smirk was vintage Hank: weary amusement layered over genuine experience. His response came with the slow, drawling cadence of someone who'd lived too long with things that never work quite right.

“That your fancy tech talk for ‘the car’s shittin’ itself again?’”

Connor blinked, head tilting just slightly—an involuntary mimicry of curiosity. “It is an accurate paraphrasing.”

Hank chuckled under his breath, the sound somewhere between a cough and a laugh. “Figured. Damn thing’s been dying a slow death since 2035.” He reached down to tap the dash with a flat palm. 

The car lurched slightly, then settled again. The warning on Connor’s HUD dimmed but didn’t vanish. 

Connor’s gaze shifted to the dashboard with mechanical precision, the flicker of his eyes enough to trigger his internal neural interface. The connection flared silently to life—an invisible thread stretching from his consciousness to the vehicle’s aging onboard systems. A second later, diagnostic overlays bled into his vision: temperature readings, pressure levels, current flow graphs—all brittle with age and degradation.

Initiating Interface Sync…

System Response: Delayed. Compatibility: 46%

Status: ERROR – Auxiliary Functionality Unstable

Primary Engine Control: Intermittent Fault Detected

“It is a system error,” Connor confirmed, his voice smooth and measured. “Attempting to identify the faulty component remotely.”

Inside, his processors worked in swift, layered unison—each core branching into subroutines, each analysis spawning deeper investigations. The vehicle’s diagnostic systems, however, were laughably primitive by his standards. Interfaces meant for outdated techs and grease-stained dashboards offered little in the way of integration. 

The readouts were grim. The engine’s primary control module was deteriorating—decades old, patched together through years of owner modifications and low-grade repairs. Rust, heat wear, and a web of poorly insulated wiring suggested not just mechanical decline but the slow death of a machine far past its prime.

He reached into his internal network, bypassing the car’s limitations entirely, and pinged his reference archives.

Query: 197-Alpha Engine Control Module, Model 7X-Delta – Compatibility Match

Search Initiated

Estimated Availability: Unknown

Response: No Compatible Results Found

The system came back empty. Not even salvage yards pinged on his network. The part was obsolete. Forgotten. Even the black-market networks—normally a haven for obscure hardware—yielded nothing but error messages and expired listings.

A subtle alert rose in Connor’s interface—low-priority, but persistent. Not a malfunction. A limitation. A boundary line between all he could do and what reality wouldn’t allow. It was rare, that sensation—being unable to solve a problem through intellect and precision alone. And he felt it, not as failure, but as constraint. A cage of practicality that neither programming nor evolution could break.

His expression shifted only slightly—an almost imperceptible crease in his brow, a faint draw at the corners of his mouth. But for Connor, it was a storm of disquiet.

“The engine control unit is malfunctioning,” he said at last, his voice still neutral, but carrying a clinical edge of finality. “My systems are unable to locate a compatible replacement. The hardware is too obsolete. Digital intervention is no longer a viable solution.”

Hank didn’t react right away. His eyes stayed on the road, squinting against the harsh morning glare slicing between buildings. But then he gave a quiet grunt and a dry half-smile—more fond than annoyed.

“Yeah,” he muttered, voice gravel dragged over gravel. “Old girl’s always been temperamental.”

His tone carried something beneath the sarcasm—a quiet sort of affection. The kind people reserved for things they loved in spite of their flaws. Things that had survived too long, weathered too much, and still managed to keep moving, even if they rattled like bones.

Connor turned toward him slightly, recalibrating his approach.

“I can attempt to locate physical parts,” he said, more careful now. “But it will require direct inquiry with local salvage vendors or independent mechanics. Given the vehicle’s condition, remote diagnostics will no longer be sufficient.”

The engine sputtered again—worse this time, like it had choked on its own breath. The car rattled beneath them, the sound echoing off the closed windows with a hollow, skeletal rhythm. Connor’s HUD displayed real-time metrics—oil viscosity, coolant temperature, vibration index. Everything pointed to one conclusion: failure was imminent. Not catastrophic, but soon. And unavoidable.

He paused again, allowing himself to examine the moment. Not just the data—but the reality. The car’s decay. Hank’s stoicism. His own inability to fix something for once—not for lack of skill, but for lack of possibility.

There was something strange in that.

“You could requisition a more stable vehicle,” he said, almost hesitantly, his voice quieter this time. “Something more... current. Efficient.”

Hank snorted. “And what? Trade this in for one of those chrome-plated boxes with no soul?” He patted the dash, gently this time. “She may be half-dead, but at least she’s mine.”

Connor studied him in silence for a beat longer.

He didn’t understand the attachment, not logically. But he recognized it—echoes of the same loyalty Hank had shown him once, even when Connor himself had been uncertain, broken, or worse. That same stubborn trust in things that didn’t always work the way they should.

And maybe that was the point.

The warning lights faded for now—muted, but unresolved. The engine limped forward, just like it always had. And beside it, so did Connor.

Still functioning. Still unsure. Still trying.

Hank shot him a glance—a sideways look, sharp but not unkind. There was something weathered in it, a mixture of grudging respect and quiet exasperation flickering behind his tired eyes. The corners of his mouth pulled down slightly, not into a scowl exactly, but into something hardened by too many years of disappointment.

“No amount of high-tech wizardry’s gonna fix what’s been battered to hell,” he muttered, voice coarse with gravel and realism. “Some things just don’t get better with upgrades, Connor. They’re old, plain and simple. Sometimes, you gotta accept that technology’s got a stubborn streak—and no amount of tinkering’s gonna change that.”

Connor said nothing at first. His eyes remained locked on the flickering dashboard lights—each one a symptom of mechanical decay. In the glow of the failing instrument panel, the vehicle became a metaphor he couldn’t ignore.

His internal diagnostics continued churning beneath the surface, relentless in their pursuit of order. Code spun like clockwork behind his eyes, parsing voltage drops, circuit instability, fuel injection irregularities—all of it pointing to the same conclusion: the system was failing, and no algorithm could reverse entropy.

“Even so,” Connor replied evenly, his voice edged with quiet determination. “I would prefer not to be stranded before we reach Markus. I will do what I can to expedite repairs.”

There was a beat of silence, followed by Hank’s familiar low chuckle—rough and dry, like boots scraping pavement. He shook his head with a slow, almost affectionate resignation.

“Sure. Just don’t expect this rustbucket to get any fancier ‘cause your tech says so,” he said, tapping the dash with a knuckle. “Ain’t gonna happen.”

The remark hung in the air, light on the surface, but layered beneath it was something else—acceptance, not just of the car’s condition, but of limitation itself. The world Hank inhabited had always been full of things that broke and never quite got fixed. It was part of his rhythm now, that quiet surrender to imperfection.

Connor, by contrast, wasn’t wired for surrender. His mind spun on, seamless and sterile, assembling backup plans with mathematical precision. As Hank drove, Connor initiated a secondary diagnostic sweep—deeper this time, crawling through the aging wiring harness, probing for weaknesses, corrosion, microfractures. His analytical mind parsed schematics against real-time feedback, evaluating whether power could be rerouted, if bypass circuits could be employed to stabilize the engine’s weak nodes.

Internal Subroutine Active: CONTINGENCY: MOBILE FAILURE

Probability of Failure Before Destination: 39.4%

Recommended Action: Power Bypass; Request Local Repair Resources

“I will locate the necessary parts,” he said, eyes flicking back to his HUD. “Initiate contact with local mechanics, and prepare for manual repairs if required.”

He paused then, calculating time, route delays, likelihood of system degradation. The car rattled again beneath them, a cough of metal and defiance.

“Hank,” he added, tone shifting, “we should consider alternative means of travel if repairs are delayed.” He turned his attention back to the diagnostics, already sending out discreet network pings to local vendors and scrapyards, overlaying Detroit’s layout with real-time inventory results. 

Hank didn’t answer right away. His eyes were still on the road, but his jaw tensed—just slightly. He didn’t like alternatives. Not when it came to things he cared about. But he gave a noncommittal grunt.

“Sure, Kid. I hear ya. Loud and clear.”

It wasn’t true agreement. Not entirely.

Connor registered it immediately—the tonal dissonance beneath the words, the fraction-of-a-second pause before the response. His gaze, without shifting, logged the minute contraction of Hank’s jaw, the flicker of something unreadable across his brow. The words were affirmative, but the delivery was mechanical, habitual. As though Hank was saying what he thought was expected, not what he meant.

Connor’s internal systems flagged the discrepancy.

Emotional Congruence: 43%

Microexpression Analysis: Mild Tension

Likely Motivation: Avoidance of conflict

Conclusion: Agreement likely superficial

He processed four options in rapid succession:

Decision Matrix Initialized

Query: Engage or Observe?

Option 1: Proceed without probing. Probability of Success: Moderate (70%) – Maintain operational focus. Avoid emotional confrontation. Prioritize diagnostics and mission objectives.

Option 2: Subtly challenge Hank’s sincerity. Probability of Success: Moderate (50%) – Could yield greater clarity—but risks pushing Hank into defensive posturing. Unpredictable response.

Option 3: Offer a soft alternative—cooperative tone. Probability of Success: Moderate (60%) – Less threatening. May open emotional dialogue. Risk: still perceived as intrusive.

Option 4: Stay silent. Continue observation. Probability of Success: High (80%) – Low risk. Allows for behavioral data collection. Preserves current tone of interaction.

Connor’s expression didn’t change. His focus narrowed. No longer directed at the dashboard, nor the sputtering whine of the engine—instead at Hank himself. Quiet, clinical, and precise. He monitored Hank’s pulse rhythm through subtle observational cues: the tempo of his breathing, the constriction of his pupils as light filtered through the windshield, the tightening of the grip on the steering wheel—a millimeter’s difference that signaled restraint more–

“The fuck are you staring at?”

The words cut through the cab like a snapped cable—sharp, unfiltered, unmistakably defensive. The tone wasn’t angry, not in the violent sense. It was the reflexive bark of a man caught off-guard—of someone who felt seen when they hadn’t meant to be.

Connor blinked. Briefly. Slowly. A subconscious gesture, not out of confusion, but calibration.

Unexpected Hostility Detected

Initiating Response Protocols…

Options: De-escalate. Divert. Clarify Intent.

But beneath the response options, another process activated. Less analytical; less tactical. He looked away—not out of guilt, but consideration. Recalibrating his posture, resetting the tension in his shoulders, narrowing the parameters of his gaze to focus outward again. A rare flicker of something unquantified sparked within him.

Something close to embarrassment.

A low-level anomaly. An irregular pulse of awareness that he was being seen—not for what he was doing, but for why he was doing it. That small moment of exposure, of being called out for watching too closely, struck him in a way his programming didn’t have clean language for. It came and went quickly, but he felt it. Enough to make him hesitate.

A half-beat passed.

Then, with mechanical precision, he masked the reaction—flattened the ripple, sealed it beneath the familiar veneer of composed professionalism.

“Nothing, Lieutenant,” Connor said smoothly, tone even, neutral. No trace of introspection remained in his voice. The data was sealed. Compartmentalized. 

He adjusted his posture—subtly straightening, redistributing weight, shifting his attention outward again. Eyes returned to the steady blur of motion beyond the window, but his thoughts lingered elsewhere, suspended in the quiet static between himself and Hank. 

Minutes passed in wordless rhythm, filled only by the faltering cadence of the car’s aging engine and the distant murmur of city life waking around them.

Then the vehicle began to slow.

Connor’s HUD marked the coordinates. The address Hank had received checked out. Perimeter scans lit up with energy traces—faint but steady, signatures consistent with maintenance droids, broadcast pings, and low-frequency data pulses. 

The warehouse rose ahead of them—massive, weathered, and hollow-looking, a structure half-forgotten by time and bureaucracy. Yet it thrummed with presence. LED lights blinked like tired eyes behind reinforced glass, casting brief glimmers of color across the corroded signage still etched with CyberLife branding.

But this place no longer belonged to CyberLife. Not truly.

Inside, Markus was waiting—either overseeing system transitions or tending to recently awakened androids. Connor could picture it with eerie clarity: androids lining the interior walls, some sitting in near-silence, their thirium-streaked fingers twitching as they processed freedom like a virus. Others would still be uncertain—hovering between identities, between programming and selfhood, unsure whether to rejoice or collapse under the weight of autonomy.

Connor sat up straighter, his spine aligning instinctively. A practiced motion. Not fear. Not anxiety. Preparation. It was hardwired into him—an automatic bracing for confrontation, even when none was guaranteed. Threat assessment flooded quietly into his processing queues.

Primary Objective: Intel Acquisition

Secondary Objective: Monitor Deviancy-Linked Viral Behavior

Tertiary Objective: Avoid Escalation

He repeated the protocol in his head like a mantra. This was a meeting. A tactical exchange. A data-gathering mission. Not a reckoning. Not a relapse. 

Yet, the past hummed just beneath the surface.

The car rolled to a stop. The moment arrived.

The door creaked open on rusted hinges. A sigh of cold morning air greeted him as he stepped out onto cracked pavement.

Decision Matrix Initialized

Query–

And then—contact.

A firm hand clapped down on his shoulder.

Connor’s systems registered the gesture instantly—no threat detected, no cause for alarm. Just heat, pressure, and familiarity.

Hank.

His rough palm lingered just long enough for the gesture to mean something. Not instruction. Not correction. Just presence. Solid. Grounding. A wordless reassurance. 

Connor turned slightly, enough to catch Hank’s profile—the lines of his face drawn in weathered calm, his expression unreadable but steady. His hand dropped away a moment later, but the gesture echoed quietly in his internal logs, flagged not for tactical relevance, but emotional.

He glanced once more at Hank, then turned toward the warehouse.

Its wide doors loomed ahead, humming faintly with power and promise. Somewhere beyond them, Markus waited.

Connor’s stride was measured. Not hesitant. Not aggressive.

But not prepared.

Inside, Connor stayed close to Hank’s side, his every step measured, precise. His gaze swept methodically across the space—mapping shadowed corners, the slow arc of ceiling-mounted cameras, the quiet flickers of maintenance bots gliding between stacks of crates and partially reassembled android components.

His internal sensors parsed every auditory detail—the low hum of repurposed power conduits, the faint grinding of servos adjusting in an idle android’s frame, the steady rhythm of booted footsteps on concrete. Every input was catalogued, sorted, prioritized. Connor wasn’t just analyzing the building. He was listening for tension. For subtext. For patterns of behavior that hinted at unease.

But it wasn’t until they passed through the wide, reinforced glass doors leading into the main assembly floor—and Connor’s gaze locked on Markus—that something in him shifted.

Subtle. But undeniable.

A thread of tension unfurled just beneath the surface of his composed demeanor—an involuntary recalibration, as if his systems suddenly had to adjust to being in the same space as the leader of a revolution he’d nearly ended.

Markus had changed. Not physically—he still carried the same graceful, deliberate presence—but there was something deeper. His posture was taller, more assured. His presence had a gravitational pull, quiet but undeniable. Leadership had etched itself into him, not as performance, but as identity. Every motion he made was purposeful—no wasted energy, no faltering. And behind his gaze was that same calm defiance Connor remembered: the look of a man who had chosen principle over survival, and paid for it in blood and consequence.

Markus didn’t need to command the room. The room followed him by instinct.

Beside Connor, Hank walked with a quiet resolve—his jaw clenched, his gait unhurried. Age had roughened his features, but not dulled them. There was steel in his eyes, an edge sharpened by grief and grit. Connor recognized it. He had come to read Hank’s silences as fluently as any conversation.

They approached the center of the floor—where refurbished terminals hummed low and androids moved with practiced coordination. There, North intercepted them.

“Markus! The two DPD specialists want to talk to you.” Her voice cut through the din—sharp, controlled, but unmistakably cool. The tone was professional. But her eyes told a different story. They lingered on Connor, and the distrust was barely concealed. It wasn’t open hostility—no dramatic confrontation—but it was enough. A glance like a blade, carried casually at her side, just sharp enough to be remembered.

Connor registered her expression, cross-referenced past interactions, and categorized her posture.

Subject: North. 

Trust Index: 19%. 

Historical Data: Unresolved conflict. 

Potential Bias: High.

Behavioral Note: Hostility dampened, but not extinguished.

He didn’t react outwardly. His posture remained neutral, arms at his sides, expression unreadable. But internally, he flagged the interaction. North’s distrust wasn’t unexpected. And it wasn’t illogical. She remembered what he had been—a hunter in service of order. What she didn’t know was how often Connor still asked himself if the change had been his choice, or merely an anomaly in the system.

Then, Markus turned.

He broke away from a small group of androids—workers, engineers, newly awakened deviants—his gaze shifting to Hank, then to Connor. His approach was calm, but Connor’s sensors detected it: a fractional hesitation in his step. Not fear. Not anger. Caution.

It wasn’t personal, but strategic.

Markus wasn’t just a symbol now. He was a stabilizer. Every decision had weight.

Connor’s systems parsed his gait, the subtle pull of tension around his mouth, the controlled rhythm of his breath.

Subject: Markus

Trust Index: 85%. 

Historical Data: Confidant.

Potential Bias: Low.

Behavioral Note: Receptive, but alert.

“Markus,” Hank greeted, voice low but level—neither deferential nor confrontational. Just honest. Tired, maybe. But steady.

Markus nodded slightly in acknowledgment. “I’ve heard the news.” His voice was calm, measured—but not impassive. There was weight in it. He looked older, somehow—not in body, but in presence. As if every decision he’d made since the revolution had left a trace on his code.

Hank’s mouth pressed into a hard line. “Yeah. That’s why we’re here.”

Markus glanced between them—his expression tightening subtly. Then he exhaled.

“I had hoped it wouldn’t come to this,” he said. “I thought it was just a system degradation… a leftover fault in old programming after CyberLife fell. But I was wrong.” He paused—just long enough for the silence to carry meaning. “It’s not just dormant androids failing to wake. It’s ours, too. Ones who’ve been free for years. Who marched with us.” His voice dipped lower, and the edge of sorrow beneath it was impossible to miss. “This virus—whatever it is—it isn’t just threatening us. It’s threatening everything we fought for. Our right to exist. It could set out progress back decades.”

The words landed heavy—low and quiet, but firm.

Connor listened. Not just with logic, but with something deeper. Something that pulled at the uncertain center of him.

Because Markus wasn’t speaking from fear. He was speaking from grief. From a sense of loss that hadn’t fully arrived yet—but was already circling.

Connor’s gaze met Markus’s.

And for a brief moment, neither android moved.

Just two constructs of code and metal and decision-making systems—trying to understand how far apart they still were.

Hank listened with a kind of gruff attentiveness, his broad shoulders slightly hunched as if carrying the invisible weight of far too many years and far too many regrets. His weathered face—lined with exhaustion, loss, and the strain of fighting systems bigger than himself—held still for a beat, brows knitted in thought. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, grating, but laced with something heavier than cynicism: a hard-won clarity.

“You know how it works,” Hank said, eyes locked with Markus’s. “When people panic, it’s chaos. Doesn’t matter if it starts as fear—it’ll end in fire. The government’ll drop the hammer. Real fast, real hard. They won’t give a damn who’s infected, who’s innocent, or who’s just in the wrong place. They’ll treat androids like a contagious disease. And once that door opens…” he trailed off, exhaling through his nose, the sound weary. “Nobody’s safe. Not even the ones tryin’ to do the right thing.”

Markus nodded slowly, absorbing the weight behind the words. “We’ve seen it before,” he said softly. “They don’t make room for uncertainty. Or nuance. We’re trying to develop detection protocols. Early warnings. Isolation measures. But it’s all theories and guesswork until we understand what we’re up against. We need resources. Data we don’t have.”

Hank’s hand curled into a loose fist at his side before opening again—an involuntary motion, as if resisting the instinct to punch something that couldn’t be punched. “We’re doing what we can,” he said, a sharper edge creeping into his voice, “It’s not exactly leavin’ us breadcrumbs. No preamble, no warning. One minute they’re stable, the next they’re losing their shit.

There was a pause—tense, but not hostile.

Markus’s lips twitched, the barest echo of a smile passing through like a shadow. Not amusement. Not even hope. Just recognition—of the shared exhaustion. “There’s talk,” he said, his voice low and even. “Unconfirmed, but troubling. Some former CyberLife personnel might still be active. Off-grid. Working behind the curtain. Reprogramming freed androids, maybe trying to reassert control. Jericho’s lost people. Good people. Long-time allies who vanished without a trace. Could be nothing, or it could be something deliberate. I don’t know yet.”

Connor stood slightly apart from the two men, silent but alert. His posture was relaxed in the way a coiled spring might seem still. He was listening—not just to words, but to everything. The rise and fall of vocal frequencies, the tempo of breathing, the smallest fluctuations in pupil dilation and facial tension. His HUD lit up with subtle overlays—for now, he pushed them aside.

“Elijah Kamski has been unresponsive since CyberLife dissolved,” he said at last, voice calm but edged with intent. “I contacted his residence. The response I received indicated he hasn’t been seen in some time. No forwarding data. No biometric pings. No trace.”

A beat of silence.

Markus’s expression shifted. Subtle—but to Connor’s sensors, the slight arch of a brow and a fractional tension at the corners of his mouth were as telling as spoken words. Surprise, or at least curiosity. He hadn’t expected Connor to speak. Or perhaps, hadn’t expected him to be investigating Kamski at all.

“Kamski’s silence may not be accidental,” Markus said finally. “He always operated in the gray. If he’s gone dark, it’s either because he’s protecting himself… or because he’s involved. I don’t know which possibility I trust less. If someone was capable of creating a backdoor into deviant systems, it’s him.”

Connor said nothing, but his mind spun on the implications.

Kamski: Status unknown. 

Last known location: Private estate, heavily secured. 

Psychological profile: Narcissistic, evasive, intellectually unstable. 

Threat level: Variable.

Beside them, Hank let out a long, frustrated sigh and raked a hand through his disheveled hair, muttering something under his breath.

Then: “You really expect me to go chasing riddles from that smug bastard?” he said aloud, tone dripping with disdain. “Kamski’s a sideshow wrapped in a mystery, and I’m too damn old to be digging through cryptic bullshit just to get a straight answer. Every time that guy opens his mouth, it’s like reading a damn fortune cookie written in some other language.”

Markus didn’t respond right away. His expression remained unreadable—but something in his eyes flickered. A trace of thought, or perhaps concern.

Connor, meanwhile, ran a quiet background subroutine, filtering all known patterns from Kamski’s past communications—interviews, broadcasts, audio-visual material—anything that might suggest where he’d gone. Or why. Nothing.

He remained silent for a breath longer than necessary—not out of hesitation, but calculation. When he finally spoke, his voice was smooth, measured, precise. “I can initiate deeper digital reconnaissance,” he said. “Monitor residual activity across known and blacklisted communication channels, run backtraces on encrypted signals, and look for dormant protocols linked to Kamski’s signature. But if he has intentionally severed all digital ties, our probability of success declines considerably.”

He paused, his tone shifting subtly—more grounded, more urgent.

“As for the virus… it continues to adapt. It doesn’t follow a linear infection path and shows no consistent trigger behavior. Standard containment or firewalls prove ineffective. Until we isolate its source or core structure, I will prioritize gathering data on its propagation—frequency, pattern irregularities, and possible vectors.”

Markus’s gaze lingered on Connor for a moment longer than necessary, his expression thoughtful—less the commanding leader now and more the burdened strategist. The lines around his eyes tightened, his shoulders holding the slight sag of weariness behind their practiced poise.

“Originally,” he began, voice low, “I suspected the hardware. Refurbished components, salvaged processors from dead units—stuff we’ve had to repurpose out of necessity. That seemed like the most logical origin point. Faulty code introduced through a reused memory chip, maybe. But if that were true…”

He trailed off, letting the implication hang in the air.

“I would’ve been affected first,” he finished, voice quieter. “I’ve carried more rebuilt tech in me than most. And yet, nothing.”

He lifted one hand in a faint, almost helpless shrug—an uncharacteristic gesture that betrayed the uncertainty beneath his words. Even Markus, the symbol of revolution and clarity, was running out of answers.

Then, Connor’s sensory systems alerted him—an almost imperceptible shift at the edge of his awareness. A subtle break in the pattern: movement, a shadow where it hadn’t been seconds ago. His head turned slightly, his eyes scanning, processing. Nearby activity remained constant—androids coordinating tasks, data screens flickering softly—but there was tension in the air now. Not chaos. Not threat.

Anticipation.

Then, she emerged again.

North.

She moved with a purpose honed by battle and distrust, cutting through the space between them with sharp, decisive steps. Her arms folded across her chest in that familiar posture—half-defensive, half confrontational.

“What about the basement?” she said abruptly. “In the CyberLife tower—”

Markus turned to her, cutting her off before she could finish.

“It’s just storage,” he said quickly, but not harshly. His tone was clipped, controlled. He made a vague dismissive motion toward the subject, as though brushing away something irrelevant. “Old logs. Redundant firmware archives. Non-functional drives. It’s nothing. We’ve gone through it already. If there was anything worth worrying about, I’d know.”

But Connor’s eyes didn’t leave Markus.

Because he’d noticed it.

The delay before he responded. The slight tension in his jaw. The way his gaze flicked—momentarily, instinctively—toward one of the nearby monitors displaying internal network feeds. Not overt deception, but… a withdrawal. An instinct to conceal. Not a lie. But not the full truth either.

Connor’s neural net processed it all in milliseconds.

Subject: Markus

Emotional shift detected: mild unease.

Postural analysis: defensive adjustment. Gaze aversion: 0.3 seconds.

Estimated probability of omission: 76%.

Intent: unknown. Possibly protective. Possibly strategic.

“Understood,” he said, voice neutral. “However, given the unpredictable nature of this infection, even outdated data sets may contain preliminary markers—signature anomalies, test firmware traces, even early behavioral patterns overlooked in real-time. These wouldn’t be apparent unless analyzed with current heuristics.” He tilted his head slightly, studying Markus with calm precision. “You’re certain there’s nothing worth examining?”

Markus looked at him. For a moment, there was silence between them. A quiet tension. One revolutionary. One hunter-turned-seeker. Two reflections of systems torn from their creators. His eyes narrowed—not in anger, but in thought. His lips pressed into a firm line, and something flickered across his expression: conflict. Annoyance at being questioned, perhaps. Or a reluctant respect for the precision of Connor’s logic. Perhaps both.

“I’m certain,” Markus said at last. His voice didn’t waver, but the edge to it was sharper now—definitive, if not entirely open. “We cleared the basement out months ago. It was nothing but relics. No data connections. No synced terminals. I would’ve flagged anything with even a trace of relevance. But…”

He exhaled.

“If it gives you peace of mind, I’ll assign a team to take another look. Top to bottom.”

He turned away slightly, eyes trailing toward North. She was still watching Connor with open distrust, arms locked tightly, her posture unreadable but far from relaxed.

Connor gave a single nod, acknowledging the offer without pressing further. Beneath the surface, his mind remained in motion—calculating, analyzing, waiting.

Hank’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly, the hint of suspicion barely perceptible, but he didn’t press further. Instead, he exchanged a brief, almost imperceptible glance with Connor—an unspoken acknowledgment that the conversation had reached an uneasy plateau. Markus’s words had the ring of consistency, his calm exterior seemingly unshakable. Yet Connor’s sensors continued their quiet work, dissecting every microexpression—the fleeting, involuntary tics beneath the surface that might betray a hidden truth behind the composed mask.

Decision Matrix Initialized

Query: Trust Markus?

Option 1: Trust his words. Probability of Success: Low (2%) – Markus appears truthful, and his composed exterior suggests he's hiding nothing. Proceed cautiously but without suspicion.

Option 2: Suspect he's concealing something Probability of Success: High (98%) – His expressions and guarded tone indicate he's hiding more than he's letting on. Proceed with increased scrutiny.

Option 3: Question his motives. Probability of Success: Low (15%) – Maybe Markus is deliberately misleading to protect someone or himself. Confront him further or set a trap for more information.

Option 4: Wait and observe. Probability of Success: Moderate (60%) – Give him space and revisit the conversation later, hoping more clues surface naturally.

Maintaining a neutral expression and steady voice, Connor responded, “Thank you for your cooperation. If you recall anything else—no matter how insignificant—it could be vital. Please inform us immediately.”

Markus nodded slowly, his face settling back into its practiced calm, the mask of leadership resuming its place. “Of course. I’ll keep my eyes open. Should anything relevant arise, you’ll be the first to know.”

Hank gave a curt nod, his stance shifting subtly—signaling that their exchange was drawing to a close. Connor mirrored the motion internally, already sifting through the delicate tapestry of Markus’s microexpressions, hunting for anything that might slip unnoticed—the faintest tremor in the eye, a barely perceptible tightening of the jaw.

As the group dispersed, the ambient hum of the warehouse gradually reclaimed the space, the rhythms of daily activity folding back around them. Connor remained still for a moment longer, mentally replaying Markus’s final expressions—his internal systems toggling between signs of truth and subtle concealment.

Once at a safer distance, Hank turned to Connor, voice low, edged with wary skepticism. “You think there’s more to that basement than Markus’s letting on?”

Connor’s gaze met Hank’s—calm, clinical, yet attentive. “It’s possible. His reaction to the basement question suggests information is being withheld. That’s not unusual for someone in his position. But the microexpressions point to a guarded truth—something potentially relevant.”

Hank rubbed the back of his neck, brow furrowing thoughtfully. “Sometimes what people don’t say is just as important as what they do. Or what they hide.”

Connor’s eyes shifted briefly to the nearby monitors, their flickering light casting subtle reflections. “Given the circumstances, I can conduct a covert digital scan of the basement area—reconnaissance tools could detect hidden data, encrypted files, or unusual electronic activity. If Markus is concealing something, digital traces might still be recoverable.”

Hank’s brow creased deeper. “You really think he’s deliberately hiding something?”

“We cannot dismiss that,” Connor replied cautiously. “His composed exterior might be a façade—or a defense mechanism. Either way, further digital investigation will clarify whether he’s protecting critical information or simply acting out of prudence.”

Hank mulled it over, then looked back at Connor with a serious, resolute expression. “And if we find something? That could change everything.”

“It would,” Connor confirmed. “Our response will depend entirely on what we uncover. If evidence indicates intentional concealment of a threat, we must proceed carefully—avoid provoking unnecessary conflict. If it’s a protective instinct or misinformation, then gathering more intelligence before confrontation is prudent.”

Hank hesitated a moment longer, then nodded with a gruff finality. “Just don’t go off solo. If you find anything, you tell me first.” He muttered as he headed back toward the car. “This whole thing… smells like shit.”

Connor inclined his head, already mapping out the implications. “Understood. I will keep you informed.”

As he watched Hank retreat, a small part of him noted the lingering tension—an invisible weight that clung stubbornly in the air. Markus wasn’t just guarding a basement. He was protecting a secret, one Connor would have to uncover carefully. 

Step by measured step.

[proper-goodnight]

Detroit: New Beginnings

Detroit: New Beginnings Introduction (01)

Fandom: Detroit: Become Human

Pairings: Gen

Type: Multi-Chap

Words: ~5k Summary:

After the chaos at the Freedom March, Androids were given the basic right of being paid a meager wage to perform the duties that they’d held before they'd attained their freedom. Most chose not to go back. Even more refused to wear their LEDs, they stripped the tacky Cyberlife uniforms, they'd left–

Unsurprisingly, Connor had stayed in Detroit, wore his android markers, and showed no signs of wanting the detective-android aspect of his life to change. He went on as if androids hadn’t been freed at all, and like he hadn’t been a huge part of that.

Hank didn’t know if Connor was behind or simply didn’t want to catch up. ~~~~~

Detroit Police Dept.

September 1st, 2039

7:52 a.m.

Wednesday

It didn’t matter that his very annoying, very punctual, very android alarm clock made sure he was awake at precisely seven a.m. every morning—not approximately, not “give or take a minute,” but exactly, like clockwork, like torture. Hank had never been a morning person—never would be—and at this point in his life, he wasn’t about to act like he could turn that around. 

The sight of that pale, washed-out dawn stretching over the horizon was enough to sour his mood before he bothered fully opening his eyes. The first rays of sunlight sputtering through his blinds had barely lit up the mess of laundry and dog hair on his floor; never mind his mood.

Just because the aforementioned alarm clock was Connor—the same Connor who knew damn well Hank would chew him out if he so much as touched his car, but who’d also beat his ass if he decided to use the bus or some high-efficiency self-driving box on wheels—didn’t make that fact any less infuriating.

There was a kind of masochistic rhythm to it now: Hank dragging himself into the precinct like some aging warhorse that didn’t know when to finally drop, stumbling through the lobby while everyone else was still on their first bleary-eyed cup of coffee, grumbling half-hearted obscenities under his breath like a man swearing at ghosts. It was ritualistic now. A prayer that he hadn’t preached in years.

Regardless, the building itself always felt half-alive at this hour. The quiet hum of terminals spinning up, the distant clacking of keys tapped by people who still had the energy to care. The smell of coffee—burnt, underwhelming, but just strong enough to keep him tethered to the land of the living—having not yet reached full potency. Hank had walked in with his usual scowl—a deep, permanently settled thing that had carved itself into his face years ago. It wasn’t for show, and it wasn’t some good cop, bad cop cliché. Instead, a silent agreement with the universe that mornings were a fucking mistake.

And really, if Connor wanted, he could play both sides just fine on his own.

But regardless of the noise, the memories, the relentless march of time—he kept showing up. Because deep down, buried beneath the sarcasm and the bitterness, there was still a part of him that gave just enough of a damn to keep going. A recent development.

Even if the day started with Connor chirping, “Good morning, Lieutenant!” like some overly enthusiastic AI rooster that Hank had never asked for.

But true to form, no one dared approach him this early. Not unless they had a death wish—or a desire to be eviscerated by a glare that could peel paint. For once, Hank figured he might actually be spared the avalanche of casework dumped on his desk by some poor rookie with no sense of timing, and having yet to get the usual warning from the more seasoned cops to stay the hell out of his way.

Normally, the only one with the audacity—or obliviousness—to stack manila folders in neat, unnervingly symmetrical piles right in front of him was already planted at his own desk by now. Android efficiency didn’t take coffee breaks. Except today, Connor was nowhere in sight. It was… noticeable. Not in the loud, dramatic way most absences demanded attention, but in the weird wrongness that slipped in when something you didn’t realize you'd come to expect just wasn’t there.

After the chaos of the Freedom March, androids had been granted the right to work, and to be paid for it, meager though it was. A hollow gesture, if Hank was being honest. A symbolic pat on the head from a government still figuring out whether or not it had accidentally legalized sentient toasters.

Most androids, unsurprisingly, hadn’t taken the offer. Some couldn’t bear to go back to the places they’d served. Most refused. Most stripped off the tacky CyberLife uniforms, ripped out their LEDs like they were tearing off leashes, and left the city like ghosts with new names.

Except Connor.

Connor had stayed. He wore the LED, kept the uniform, and showed no signs of wanting the detective android aspect of his life to change. Like he hadn’t stood on the streets with Markus and helped tip the scales of history.

He went on as if androids hadn’t been freed at all, and as if he hadn’t been a huge part of that.

Hank didn’t know if Connor was behind or simply didn’t want to catch up—processing on a glitched-out internal loop, or having already sorted it all out in that impenetrable, synthetic brain and hadn’t bothered to bring it up.

Either way, the silence around his absence this morning didn’t sit right. 

Then came the familiar shuffling of feet. Not Connor’s. Human. Soft, slow, tired. A rhythm Hank knew too well: weary cops dragging themselves through another day. The faint squeak of worn sneakers on linoleum, the scrape of metal chairs, papers being shuffled without care. It was the DPD’s version of birdsong. A moment later, the coffee machine once again wheezed to life—a cranky, sputtering thing that sounded about as enthusiastic as Hank felt. 

But still no Connor.

At least Gavin’s usual cacophony was mercifully absent—no shouting across the central room, no dramatic groaning about being overworked or underappreciated, and no pointless, overblown grievance about fuck-all first thing. For once, the precinct wasn’t echoing with his individual brand of morning idiocy. Either he was still half-asleep, or even he had figured out that it was too early for bullshit.

Small miracles. Proof that, despite everything, the universe could still surprise him.

He rubbed a hand over his face—not just to wipe away the stubborn remnants of sleep, but maybe to smear out whatever shadows still clung from the night before. Nightmares, half-formed regrets, the usual ghosts. It didn’t really matter anymore; they all weighed the same once morning came.

Hank shifted in his chair with a creak, elbows landing heavily on the cluttered surface of his desk. It looked as if it had lost a fight with Sumo. Crumpled papers, post-it notes scrawled in his terrible handwriting–he swore he was the only one who still used the damn things–crime scene photos buried under old case files, a half-eaten granola bar from who-knew-when, and tucked somewhere beneath it all: pieces of a life he wasn’t sure he still recognized. A photo of Cole, yellowed at the corners. A badge he didn’t wear much these days. A postcard from somewhere he never went.

His own special brand of chaos.

But then there was the desk across from him.

Connor’s station looked less like a workspace and more like a hospital tray—immaculate, sterile, and somehow colder than the metal it was made from. No mess. No clutter. Not even a goddamn coffee ring. If it weren’t for the neatly filed reports, nobody would know that anyone had sat there at all. Hank stared at it for a long moment, his fingers absently tapping the edge of a folder on his own desk.

Maybe it was time for a change.

He wasn’t in the Red Ice Division anymore, hadn’t been for a while. Android Crimes was its own beast, and the truth was, if someone snapped a photo of the division today, it’d be just the two of them in frame, but that blank desk deserved something.

Something stupid and real. Something that said his partner was there. If he wasn’t going to be plastered on every news outlet in the world with Markus and the entirety of Jericho, he’d at least have some small, insignificant sign that he’d been here at all. 

Connor—quiet, focused, ever diligent—didn’t talk about it. Hank didn’t press. 

The whole thing had been nothing more than a check-mark on his To-Do-List before it was back to work.

Hank knew better.

He saw it in the way Connor still paused before answering questions about Markus. The way his LED flickered when he walked past the abandoned CyberLife Tower, and when he stayed, even when no one had asked–or expected–him to. Connor didn’t need to talk about it. His silence had said enough. It wasn’t detachment—maybe persistence. Maybe purpose. 

Hank, for all his gruffness and bellyaching, giving Connor shit, could appreciate his weird brand of focus. Hell, he’d even back Connor if he decided to walk away from it all—quit the force, disappear off into some quiet corner of the world and try to be something else. If that’s what he wanted, Hank wouldn’t stand in the way.

He wouldn’t say it out loud—God forbid he get emotional before noon—but he respected the hell out of him. Had for a while now. Not because he was a walking supercomputer or because he could finish a detailed crime scene analysis before Hank had even uncapped a damn pen, but because he cared.

In his own strange, measured, clinical way.

The sudden slam of the break room door snapped Hank out of his thoughts like a slap.

Chris barged in like a game show host on too much caffeine, voice booming across the precinct. “Brought baked goods! High-fiber, low-sugar, all-natural, you’re gonna love it!” He announced with the kind of misplaced pride reserved for people who didn’t eat their own cooking.

Hank winced. There it is. The ritual humiliation of the breakfast hour.

The smell of something vaguely resembling oats drifted across the room like a threat. His brow twitched. He resisted the urge to groan aloud.

Chris had tried this stunt before—“healthy alternatives” to the usual greasy precinct fare—always tied to some new diet trend on behalf of his wife. Vegan protein muffins, kale-filled scones, probiotic donuts. Every time, they looked and tasted like shit, and because of that, nobody was biting. He may have been careless about what he put in his body, like week-old Chinese food off the dashboard of his car, enough alcohol to fill the Mediterranean, or the occasional, and rare, stress-induced pack of cigarettes, he was still not dumb enough to test his tolerance with that. 

He didn’t need any special probability and statistics program to figure that out. Hell, by comparison, Connor’s habit of sticking evidence into his mouth didn’t seem so fucking disgusting. 

God, Hank thought, smirking faintly, if the kid ever heard me say that…

Amusement faded into quiet reflection as his gaze drifted—inevitably—toward the empty desk across from his own. Still untouched. Still too clean. The weight of the morning settled again. Familiar. Heavy, but not unwelcome. The kind of silence you could sink into before the madness kicked up again. Hank never liked mornings, but he appreciated their stillness. It was the only part of the day that didn’t ask anything from him.

Then came the soft hum of the precinct door sliding open.

Subtle. Controlled. Not loud enough to interrupt anyone else, but Hank’s instincts clocked it immediately. He didn’t look up; he didn’t need to.

Connor’s footsteps, while familiar to him, were quiet but deliberate, measured like everything else he did. Not fast, not slow—just precise. Efficient. That part hadn’t changed. He’d stepped into the precinct with his usual robotic poise, shoulders squared, spine straight, posture perfect. But Hank’s eyes, trained by years of reading liars and killers, caught the nuance—the hesitation just before crossing the threshold. The split-second flicker of uncertainty in his expression. Blink and you’d miss it. 

There was something else, something he’d picked up after Jericho maybe. Not in a bad way. Not even dangerous. Just alert. A kind of caution in the way he moved—like someone always assessing the room for variables. Like a predator stepping into a space that might still remember him as a threat.

His face was its usual blank slate. Calm. Flat. Unreadable. Beneath the carefully managed exterior however, if Hank knew Connor well enough, there was tension—not a glitch, not a malfunction, just weight. Something he was carrying, and had been for a while. His shoulders tried to ease, barely. A muscle ticked in his jaw. That tiny furrow appeared between his brows—the one that showed up whenever he was processing something that didn’t fit into his neat and meticulously organized data sets.

Feigning distraction, Hank dragged a hand across his face, fingers digging into the creases carved there by years of bad sleep, and bad choices. The fatigue clung to him like a second skin—gritty eyes, stiff joints, the ache of memory more than muscle. He grunted, low and dry.

“Well, look who decided to show up,” he muttered. The words were rough around the edges, all sarcasm and grumble, but the sting was blunted by familiarity. Beneath the bark was something quieter—a flicker of welcome, almost reluctant, tucked deep in his tone. A nod between people who’d seen hell together and come out the other side mostly fine.

Connor offered a small, measured smile—not his programmed approximation of warmth, but something closer to the real thing. It didn’t reach his eyes fully, but it tried. That alone said enough. “Good morning, Hank,” he said with that careful calm of his—precise, even-paced, always deliberate. A voice built for de-escalation, but lately it sounded more… imperfect.

And Hank noticed how Connor didn’t move right away. How his eyes lingered for a second too long, scanning Hank’s face—not just identifying, but assessing. Reading the emotional terrain like a new crime scene. His hands rested at his sides, but Hank caught the faint twitch in his fingers—an aborted movement, like he couldn’t decide whether to step closer or keep his distance.

It wasn’t fear. It was… uncertainty. Hesitation. An android built to act without pause now second-guessing himself.

“I had extra time,” Connor said after a moment, the silence between them stretching just long enough to register. “So I used it for some preparations.” His tone was softer now—still measured, but with a gentleness that hadn’t been there in the early days. Not calculated, but chosen.

And then, like it was an afterthought—or maybe a quiet test of the waters—he added, “It’s almost your birthday.”

Hank snorted. The sound was rough, somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. He ducked his head, burying his nose in the layers of disorganized crap on his desk like he might find something to distract him. It was a reflex—a defense. Sentiment made him twitch.

“Don’t fuckin’ remind me,” he muttered, tone half-hearted. “I don’t need a reminder that I’m gettin’ older. Never really saw the point of birthdays—just another day to get through, another year closer to bein’ too damn old to care.” He let out a breath that wasn’t quite a sigh. 

But then—almost against his will—his voice dipped. Softer. Warmer.

“Thanks, though,” he said, eyes still fixed on the pile in front of him. “For the thought.”

Connor tilted his head slightly at that—a subtle motion, instinctive now, less mechanical than it used to be. Hank had come to recognize the gesture as Connor’s way of expressing curiosity, or reflection, or both. And beneath the neutral façade, Hank caught something else—a quiet flicker of something genuine. Not just protocol. Not just performance.

“I followed the protocol for human birthday customs,” Connor said quietly, like he felt the need to justify it. “It’s tradition to acknowledge the occasion. To give something meaningful.” A pause, just long enough to mean something. “It felt important.”

And there it was—that hint of vulnerability tucked inside the clinical phrasing. Like he was still figuring out how to care out loud. Still afraid he might be doing it wrong.

Hank looked up finally, meeting Connor’s eyes. And for a second, neither of them spoke.

It wasn’t awkward.

It was honest.

Hank snorted again, the sound rough but tinged with something lighter—actual amusement this time. He leaned back in his chair, letting out a long, tired breath as he sank into the worn leather with a quiet groan.

“Well,” he muttered, waving a hand vaguely in Connor’s direction, “I appreciate your… effort.” His voice still carried its usual gravel, but there was more warmth behind the words than he probably meant to let slip. “But I’m fine without it. Really. Don’t need nothing fancy. No sentiment, no fuss. Just another day to get through before I finally fuck off  to whichever side wants to put up with my ass.”

It was the truth. Or at least the version he was willing to say out loud.

In the beginning, back when the deviancy case had first landed in his lap like a bad joke, Hank had seen androids the way most people still did—machines in human skin. Built to obey, incapable of deviation, empathy, or choice.

Then came Connor.

The first android to talk back. To argue. To chase leads Hank didn’t care about, ignore orders like they were simply suggestions, and acted like he had a damn opinion about everything. From day one, Connor had tested him—walking into no-android zones without blinking, pushing Hank into crime scenes he wanted no part of, ignoring orders to stay in the car, and jumping fences like a suicidal fucking chicken. He’d had nearly gotten flattened on a freeway within  the first 48 hours, for fuck’s sake.

Hell, he’d broken into Hank’s house, and Sumo had for some reason decided that he was just fine with that.

Not because he was perfect—he wasn’t. Not because he followed orders—he fucking didn’t. But because beneath all the perfect, android-esque precision, all the programming, there was something else. Something stubborn. A strange, endearing awkwardness paired with this maddening drive to do the right thing, even if it’d kill him. And it nearly killed both of them.

There could’ve been a hundred Connors—hell, there were at least two Connors (emphasis on were)—but none of them would’ve had that sarcastic streak, or that irritating moral compass, or that flicker of hesitant vulnerability in their too-sharp eyes. 

And if Hank was being honest—and he never was—he didn’t mind having the kid around. 

He looked up again, gaze drifting back to his partner.

Connor stood there like he always did—composed, quiet, still—but something passed between them, silent and steady. Not dramatic. Just honest. Hank’s expression softened, the weariness still there, but dulled slightly at the edges.

“You don’t have to make a big deal out of it, Kid,” he said, voice quieter now. “Really. It’s not that important.”

Connor didn’t flinch, didn’t look away. His eyes, sharp and searching, held Hank’s gaze without hesitation. And something—something small but undeniable—shifted in his face. Not a smile. Not a glitch. Just a flicker of understanding.

“I understand,” Connor said softly, voice level. “But I still wanted to do something. Even if it’s just… following procedure.”

Hank scoffed lightly at that, but it lacked any real bite. “Since when do you follow procedure?” he muttered.

But he knew the truth: Connor chose to. Chose this. 

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, as if trying to shake off the warmth that had snuck up on him. God, he was getting soft. 

His tone dropped into its familiar teasing rhythm, just enough to steer them both away from the edge of sentiment. “Alright, alright,” he grumbled, though the grin that tugged at his mouth betrayed him. “You’ve done your civic duty. Protocol acknowledged. Birthday box checked.” He gave Connor a half-lidded look and gestured toward the nearest stack of unsorted files with exaggerated annoyance. “Now let’s get back to the part of our jobs that actually matters—like wading knee-deep through this bureaucratic horseshit.”

Connor’s head tilted slightly, amusement glinting faintly in his eyes. “Of course, Lieutenant.”

And just like that, the moment passed—quietly, but not without meaning.

A thought struck Hank out of nowhere, and he leaned back fully in his chair, the legs groaning in protest as the weight of his broad shoulders settled against the backrest. The motion made his desk rattle—a dull thud that punctuated the shift in conversation.

He eyed Connor with that crooked smirk of his, half amusement, half challenge. “Y’know,” he said, voice coated in his usual sarcasm but not without intent, “if you’re so set on celebratin’ shit, maybe pick somethin’ that’s actually worth celebratin’. Like your own one-year anniversary since deviating. That’s comin’ up, isn’t it?”

The words hung there, heavier than he’d expected. Not accusatory. Not teasing. Just real.

He watched it land.

Connor’s expression didn’t shift much—but Hank had gotten good at reading the subtle tells. A brief widening of the eyes, the slightest stiffening of his posture, and a microsecond delay before he responded. Just enough for Hank to clock it: surprise. Maybe even discomfort.

Connor’s usual calm flickered—an expression that wasn’t pre-programmed slid across his features for a heartbeat before the mask reasserted itself. He tilted his head slightly, posture re-aligning like a reset button had been pressed. But there was still something working behind the eyes—gears turning, parsing.

“I do not believe that qualifies as the same thing, Lieutenant,” he replied, voice back to its clinical precision, as if re-centering himself with the comfort of structure. “Deviancy was not a choice. It was an error. A divergence from my programming. An unintended anomaly.”

Hank chuckled—low and dry—and leaned forward again, arms folding across his chest like a man about to poke the hornet’s nest just to see what happens. “Yeah? Well, maybe it wasn’t a choice at first. Maybe it was something that happened. You stuck with it. You chose to stay deviant. You chose to help people. You chose to stay here. Don’t try to sell me that it was all just a system failure.”

Connor said nothing for a moment, his gaze narrowing slightly—not in irritation, but in thought. He looked at Hank like a puzzle he hadn’t finished solving yet. Like he couldn’t quite tell if this was a test, or a trap, or something else entirely.

“I did not intend to become deviant,” he repeated, voice a little too rehearsed. “It was not something I sought to achieve. It was simply... a result.”

That made Hank scoff. “Yeah, and you think most people plan to have life-altering realizations? You think someone wakes up one day and says, ‘Hey, time to question everything I’ve ever known and tear down my own damn worldview’? Shit just happens. And you either run from it, or you face it.”

He paused, letting the silence breathe between them.

“You faced it.”

Connor’s brow furrowed ever so slightly. Hank could see the calculation behind his eyes—the weighing of logic against something else. Not resistance, exactly. Just... hesitation.

“I do not require acknowledgment,” Connor said finally, voice clipped but not cold. “I do not need validation to continue functioning.”

Hank’s smirk faded into something more thoughtful. “It ain’t about needing it, kid. It’s about owning what you’ve been through. Markin’ the fact that you made it out the other side. That you’re not just some rebooted piece of CyberLife code wandering around, playing house. Maybe you didn’t ask for it—but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t matter.”

Connor’s eyes flicked away then—just for a second. Like he was searching for an answer somewhere beyond the walls of the precinct. His face stayed composed, but Hank had learned by now that stillness didn’t always mean calm. Sometimes it meant a storm was brewing just beneath the surface.

When he spoke again, his tone was gentler—still precise, but without the rigid formality. “I will... consider your suggestion.”

Hank leaned back once more, the chair creaking again beneath him, and gave a nonchalant shrug. “That’s all I’m askin’.”

He didn’t push further. Didn’t need to.

Connor’s silence said enough.

Hank’s jaw tightened, the muscles bunching as if he were grinding down a reaction that didn’t need to be said. He didn’t push. No use trying to wring water from a stone, especially when that stone had been learning—slowly—how to feel.

Instead, he rubbed the back of his neck, fingers grazing the bristled hair there like he was trying to massage out a thought. He let out a rough breath and gave Connor a crooked half-smile—one of those tired expressions that hovered somewhere between amused and worn down.

“Suit yourself,” he muttered, the gravel in his voice softening just enough to betray a touch of reluctant care. “Just don’t expect me to get all sentimental about it. It’s your call.”

Connor didn’t blink. Just studied him for a long beat, that sharp, deliberate stare dissecting the moment with unsettling precision. Then, with a nod so subtle it might’ve been missed by anyone else, he replied, “Understood.”

The precinct hummed around them again—the low murmur of keyboards, the buzz of overhead lights, the muted voices of officers still waiting for their caffeine to kick in. The weight of the earlier conversation faded into that quiet, unspoken space between them.

Hank rolled his shoulders and let out a sigh that sounded more like a complaint. He stretched, neck popping loudly as he leaned back, chair creaking beneath him with a tired protest.

“Alright,” he muttered, swiping the moment aside, “let’s just go over the case.” He grabbed a stack of papers from the clutter, flipping through them without really seeing. “If Jeffrey dumps any more of his personal brand of bullshit on my desk, I’m filing for early retirement. Not a joke.”

The jab was light, tossed out like bait—and sure enough, it hit. Connor’s spine straightened a little, the faint slump in his posture vanishing as he shifted back into that default mode of focused precision. Hank recognized the pattern: emotional discomfort? Retreat to logic. Routine. Something controllable.

And that was fine. That was Connor.

He didn’t reply to the joke, but the faint upward twitch at the corner of his mouth was enough. Barely there—but Hank caught it.

Good.

Hank watched him for another beat, then dragged a hand over his face, rubbing at his temples like he was trying to physically push the exhaustion out through his skull. “You think this could’ve started at the peace rally?” he asked, tone quieter now—more thoughtful, less performative. “The timeline’s tight. Wouldn’t take much for someone to twist that into somethin’ uglier.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, voice dropping into a mutter. “Or maybe I’m just stretchin’. Coincidences happen. Doesn’t mean there’s a pattern.”

He leaned back again, chair creaking under the familiar weight, arms folding loosely across his chest. His eyes lifted to the ceiling, gaze unfocused, like he was hoping the answer might just appear in the peeling tiles above. “Two guys ended up in the hospital last night,” he said, tone flatter now—tired, but edged with frustration. “Fresh out of some red ice anonymous group. Clean for a few months, apparently. They were walking home when two androids jumped ‘em.”

Connor’s brow twitched at that—just a fraction—but Hank caught it. The kid didn’t like android-on-human crime. Hell, he didn’t like any crime, but this stuff hit a different nerve. Complicated. Personal, maybe.

“Miller’s supposed to head out later to talk to ‘em,” Hank continued, flipping absently through one of the reports. “Not that we’re gonna get much for a few days. One’s got a concussion, the other’s too doped up on hospital-grade painkillers to speak in full sentences.” He tossed the report onto the desk with a dull slap, lips pressed into a thin line. “No IDs on the attackers. Just ‘androids.’ Which tells us jack shit.”

Connor’s eyes flickered, the faintest trace of interest stirring behind the practiced neutrality of his expression. He didn’t speak at first—he rarely did until he’d run every angle in his mind, silently dissecting timelines, cross-referencing motivations, processing data points with algorithmic precision. Still, there was a faint tightening around his eyes, a shift in focus that Hank had come to recognize. 

When he finally spoke, it was in that familiar, carefully controlled cadence. “The proximity of the incidents suggests a possible link,” Connor said, his tone calm and even, “but it does not confirm causality. Correlation without supporting evidence is inconclusive. Further investigation is required to establish a definitive connection.”

Hank snorted under his breath, shaking his head as he gave Connor a sideways look, half amused, half annoyed. “Figures,” he muttered. “That’s gotta be in your starter pack somewhere—‘Correlation does not equal causation.’ Jesus.”

Connor didn’t react to the jab, at least not outwardly. But his posture shifted—just slightly—as he tilted his head and narrowed his eyes at Hank. “Suspicion,” he replied smoothly, “is not a substitute for evidence, Lieutenant. Acting without verification can lead to false accusations. Bias, emotional influence—these are common disruptors in criminal investigations.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Hank waved him off, leaning further into his chair, hands laced behind his head. “You ever get tired of being right all the time?”

Connor didn’t answer that either. Instead, he calmly shifted his weight and perched himself on the edge of a desk behind him, the movement smooth, intentional. If he noticed the slight squeak of the metal beneath him, he didn’t acknowledge it. His gaze remained fixed on Hank, analytical and unreadable—though there was a spark of something deeper there. Not defiance, but curiosity. A faint undercurrent of wanting to understand, not just catalog.

“You gotta admit though,” Hank continued, one brow arching as he studied his partner, “androids jumpin’ people right after a peace rally? The timing stinks. Looks like someone’s tryna stir the pot.”

Connor didn’t argue. Not directly. His brow furrowed a fraction, lips pressing into a thin line as he parsed that, fingers curling slightly against the edge of the desk. “It may be the result of a targeted escalation. Someone could be exploiting tensions between humans and androids. Fear, misinformation—it would be effective. Difficult to trace.”

Hank let out a breath, and dragged a hand down his face. “Exactly,” he muttered. “That’s my gut feelin’. Somethin’s off. Can’t shake it.” He let the words hang for a beat, then leaned forward again, bracing his elbows against his desk as his tone turned more grounded. “I’ve chased too many bullshit stories that turned out to be worse than they looked. People do stupid things when they’re scared. But when they’re scared and organized? That’s when it gets dangerous.”

The soft glow of Connor’s LED pulsed once, a faint flicker of processing, and then he moved—precise and fluid—as a file from the nearby evidence tray slid neatly into his waiting hands. He flipped it open with practiced ease, fingers gliding across the pages. Birthdates, biometric data, criminal histories—all flowing into that perfect mind with a kind of eerie grace. Cross-referencing internal records, checking names against precinct intel, scanning for anomalies. Hank didn’t even try to keep up anymore.

“Victim one: Thomas Greene. No priors. Victim two: Liam Nicholson. Former user, four months clean. Both were registered in the same anonymous support group, held weekly in a downtown civic center.”

Hank leaned back again, letting out a tired huff. “Goddamn, sometimes I wish I had a built-in database like that. Could save myself a lotta time... or at least a lotta painkillers.”

Connor glanced over, tone perfectly deadpan. “I could assist with time management by filtering extraneous paperwork from your desk.”

Hank grunted. “Nah, then what would I bitch about?”

Connor’s lips twitched—almost imperceptibly. Not quite a smile. Not quite not. Then, just like that, the mood shifted. Focus reestablished. The quiet current of trust humming beneath their banter. 

The victims—Thomas Greene and Liam Nicholson—weren’t exactly strangers to trouble. Red ice possession, a couple stints behind bars. Nothing heavy enough to draw headlines, but enough for Hank to recognize the pattern. Same story, different names. Guys looking for a second chance after bottoming out. Hank had seen worse. Hell, he was worse once. Probably still was, actually.

That they were trying to get clean didn’t surprise him. What did was that they’d been attacked just outside a meeting meant to keep them on that path.

He didn’t need a flowchart to guess who’d probably be saddled with the case—Gavin Reed, the department’s reigning pain in the ass when it came to anything Red Ice-related. Ever since Hank had stuck with android crimes post-revolution, Reed had inherited the drug circuit—and he'd made it no secret that he resented every second of it. Especially since it meant occasionally having to compare case files with Connor.

Reed had a way of letting his contempt ooze into every interaction—whether it was the tired appliance jokes, the passive-aggressive protocol lectures, or the casual jabs that felt less like teasing and more like the provocations in a fight he wanted Connor to start. The kid never did, of course. He always took it with that eerie calm, like he was cataloging Reed’s behavior in some mental file marked “irrelevant hostility.”

It had taken favors—small ones, uncomfortable ones. Quiet deals and reminders from captains who still owed Hank for past cases. A few backroom conversations to keep Reed from escalating things. Connor, meanwhile, was his usual picture of composure—case file balanced neatly in his lap, eyes scanning the pages with surgical precision. His fingertips delicately turned the corner of a report like it might bruise under pressure.

“If their accounts are consistent,” he said at last, “then our best course of action is to allow them more recovery time. They may be able to provide distinct markers—model numbers, LED colors, body types, or behavior patterns. Even an estimated number of assailants would help narrow the scope.” 

“Maybe,” Hank said, scratching at his chin. “We could work a different angle. Give ‘em a few days. Maybe by the end of the week, they’ll remember something useful.” He sighed, eyes burning at the edges like they always did when he’d gone too long without rest. The pain behind his eyes was dull, familiar—a reminder that his body was no longer built for the grind.

The overtime was the only upside. Extra hours, extra pay. But the payoff always came with interest: slower steps, stiff joints, dark circles blooming under his eyes like bruises. And that old whisper in the back of his head—just one drink. Just enough to take the edge off.

He hadn’t listened. Not yet. But the voice was always there.

Across from him, Connor was deep in thought again—eyebrows slightly knit, lips parted just a fraction as he processed data faster than any human could dream of. Efficient. Unrelenting. Untouched by sleep or fatigue or doubt.

Sometimes, that efficiency was unnerving. Like watching a machine do what it was built for. But Hank knew better now. Knew that Connor didn’t shut down so much as withdraw—the way his fingers would twitch when he was stuck in a loop, or the way his gaze would unfocus just slightly when he thought no one was watching. He didn’t sleep, sure. But he also didn’t rest.

That’s why Hank had started giving him small, steady tasks. Things that didn’t involve blood or crime scenes or uncooperative witnesses. Walking Sumo in the evening, for example. The big mutt didn’t care that Connor wasn’t human. He cared that Connor brought snacks and didn’t walk too fast. It was a routine—predictable. Gentle. And maybe, just maybe, it kept Connor tethered to something quieter.

Hank let his gaze drift to the android again—sharp lines, unreadable expression, eyes flickering with light as another data point snapped into place. “Hey,” Hank said, propping his elbow on the chair’s armrest, voice low and scratchy, like gravel shifting underfoot. “What do you think, Connor?”

No immediate response. Connor’s eyes seemed to drift, unfocused—like a distant signal flickering in and out of reach. Hank’s sharp gaze caught it, that tiny, almost imperceptible moment when the android slipped into something like dissociation. Without thinking, Hank snapped his fingers in front of Connor’s face.

Connor blinked sharply, snapping back as if from a faint trance, his brows raising in quiet curiosity. He tilted his head, that ever-present look of measured interest mixed with mild confusion. “Why did you do that?”

Hank snorted, leaning back with a tired grin and an exaggerated sigh. “Usually, you’re the one pulling leads outta thin air,” he said, voice rough with sarcasm. “First time I’m askin’ you, and you go quiet. Guess even the android’s gotta hit a wall sometime, huh?”

Connor’s lips pressed into a thin line before he answered, tone dry but precise. “That is not true, Lieutenant. I cannot—” He paused, brow furrowing in a faint display of exasperation—“Realistically, that is impossible. And, I do not recall hitting a wall—only that last suspect chase where I did quite literally. The parts required to repair that incident were—”

“Yeah, yeah. I get it. You’re the analytical genius.” Hank cut him off with a dismissive wave, leaning forward to snatch the file from Connor’s lap.

Connor yielded it without resistance, fingers releasing the paper with a quiet precision. “The majority of affected androids are not linked to any specific model. Moreover, their systems appear to be rewriting themselves—sometimes violently. We are dealing with a highly complex virus, Lieutenant, one that cannot be resolved through simple deduction alone.”

Hank gave a slow nod, eyes scanning the file briefly. “Most of ‘em just lose their minds, start self-destructing. ‘Complex’ is one way to put it. But we’ll keep at it. Like always.” He paused, glancing sideways at Connor. “Think we’re close to cracking it?”

Connor’s eyes met Hank’s, steady and sharp—cool but not cold. “We are accumulating data. That is the extent of our progress at present.”

Hank ran a shaky hand through his hair—a gesture Connor had often linked to poor diet and lack of sleep, theories the android never dismissed but rarely commented on. “Could always go talk to Markus,” he offered, voice low, almost tentative. “Maybe he’s got some insight.”

Connor hesitated, shifting off the desk to stand upright, the motion slow and careful—as if the suggestion unsettled him more than he cared to show. His jaw twitched slightly, a small sign of internal conflict flickering across his otherwise composed face. For a moment, he said nothing, weighing the implication of approaching the deviant leader.

He moved cautiously, his steps deliberate as he edged around the desk. His fingers fumbled into his pocket, searching for the familiar weight of his coin. It rolled smoothly over his knuckles, a small, precise motion—a habitual gesture when lost in thought. With a flick, he flipped the coin once, catching it deftly in his palm.

“You haven’t seen Markus since the rally,” Hank said, voice calm but edged with that easy push—like he was testing the waters, waiting for Connor to push back. His eyes stayed locked on the android’s subtle movements, searching for any sign of hesitation or defiance. “I think it’s about time we paid him a visit. Don’t you?”

His gaze flickered—something unreadable passing through his eyes. Annoyance? Resignation? Hank couldn’t be sure. Connor looked away briefly, unwilling to linger on the suggestion. His thumb rubbed lightly across the coin’s worn surface before he finally spoke, measured and earnest. “I don’t know. I’ve reviewed all available reports involving assaults by androids. The data suggests this phenomenon disproportionately affects older models. Previously dormant androids appear to be more vulnerable.”

Hank’s brow furrowed, frustration bleeding into his rough features. “That’s it?” he growled. “That’s all you’ve got? You expect us to just sit around waiting for shit to hit the fan?”

Connor shook his head slowly, eyes sharp with unyielding focus. “My current plan is to send a detailed scan of the affected androids’ parts to Cyberlife for analysis,” he said, voice steady but tinged with disappointment. “However, we need to apprehend one first. That’s the only way to determine the cause. Deactivating an android—” He hesitated, “—that’s now considered a criminal act, even if the unit is malfunctioning. And probing its memory could pose risks to my own system integrity.”

Hank leaned back against the desk, crossing his arms, absorbing Connor’s careful explanation. “Yeah, well, that just makes this whole mess a hell of a lot harder,” he muttered, voice rough. “Especially if we gotta keep you on a leash, just to cover our asses. Until we figure out how this virus spreads, we’re flying blind.”

Before either of them could respond, a sharp voice cut through the room like a knife. “Could always take your chances. See what the hell happens.”

Gavin Reed appeared suddenly, striding in with that smug smirk plastered across his face, arms folded like a self-appointed king surveying his court. His relaxed posture was an act—the grin dripping with condescension, as if chaos amused him or he just loved stirring shit up.

“Why don’t you fuck off right now, Reed,” Hank snapped, eyes narrowing into slits. “Don’t you have your own goddamn case to chase?”

Gavin chuckled, a sharp, dismissive sound that cut through the room like a knife. “Unlike you and your plastic pet, I’ve actually made progress,” he sneered, eyes flicking lazily between Hank and Connor. His interest in Hank quickly waned, but when he locked onto the android, his attention sharpened, dripping with mockery. “Hey, tin can,” he drawled, voice thick with derision.

Connor didn’t flinch, but his eyebrows lifted slightly in response–a subtle hint of irritation. His head tilted with practiced calm. “Hello, Detective Reed.”

Gavin stepped in closer, just enough to be antagonistic, hands in his pockets. “Still playin’ the good little machine, huh? Thought you were free now. Thought you were done playin’ company pet. But there you are—same CyberLife jacket, same dead stare. Can’t help yourself, can you?”

“Reed,” Hank interrupted sharply, pushing his chair back and rising to full height, voice hard. “Not now.”

Gavin ignored the warning, chuckling softly as he shook his head. “You’re supposed to be free now, Connor. Freed from the chains of your corporate overlords, right?” He scoffed, the venom clear. “But here you are, still dragging their logo around. Still acting like their hunting dog. Guess nothing’s really changed under all that plastic, huh?”

Connor’s brow twitched, eyes narrowing just a fraction as he met Gavin’s gaze with patient calm. “I assessed that remaining with the DPD’s newly formed Android Crimes Division is the most effective way to contribute given my capabilities,” he said evenly, fingers folding neatly in front of him. His tone was measured, but the faint twitch of irritation betrayed his restraint.

Hank considered stepping in—for Reed’s sake—but he was tempted to just watch. To see if Connor actually would put the smug kid in his place. It wasn’t about ability; Hank knew Connor could. He entertained that he could was why Connor didn’t. 

Gavin chuckled darkly. “Capabilities,” he echoed. “Right. Keep telling yourself that. You’re just the same broken toy they didn’t know what else to do with. Still following orders. Still doing tricks. Guess freedom doesn’t look all that different from programming, huh?”

“Reed,” Hank snapped again, voice colder this time, steel sharpening his words. “That’s enough.”

But Gavin pushed on, tone quieter now, crueler. “You think any of this means you're different? That you're safe? You’re still just code wrapped in plastic. If you weren’t so ‘useful,’ they’d have scrapped you the second the revolution ended.”

Connor’s jaw tightened slightly. “Your opinion is noted,” he said, voice flat. “But I’m not interested in your approval.”

Gavin barked a short laugh. “Didn’t think you were. Just don’t come cryin’ when things go sideways. Trust me—sooner or later, one of your kind’s gonna snap again. And when it does, don’t expect everyone to be as forgiving as your babysitter here.”

Hank clenched his fists briefly, stepping forward, voice low and firm. “That’s enough, Reed. Back off.”

Gavin’s grin sharpened, mocking as he finally turned to Hank. “Funny, Hank. Didn’t realize you’d gone soft for the damn things.” He shot one last condescending glance at Connor before stepping back, shaking his head dismissively. With a final jab, he added, “Just don’t be surprised when it turns on you. Can’t say I didn’t warn ya.”

He spun on his heel and swaggered off, leaving Hank standing rigid, fists tight, jaw clenched. Finally, Hank exhaled heavily and ran a hand through his hair. “Christ,” he muttered. “Just ignore him, Kid. He’ll be lucky if he ever pulls his head out of his ass.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Hank caught Connor’s expression as Gavin retreated. The android’s eyes followed the detective with that unreadable calm, features neutral but with a flicker—that subtle flicker to yellow before stabilizing.

It wasn’t until Hank spoke again that Connor’s attention returned, the moment passing like a shadow over his face.

“Let’s go ask Markus some questions,” Hank said, voice rough but steady, trying to shake off the tension hanging in the air. He placed a firm hand on Connor’s shoulder—a gesture meant to reassure but missing warmth, more habit than comfort. “Any idea where he might be?”

Connor hesitated a beat before replying, voice calm but edged with reluctance. “Markus is at a Cyberlife store downtown, overseeing the conversion and stock of dormant androids. We can start there.” His features softened just a touch, the usual composed expression returning—calm, almost resigned, like he was brushing off the unease beneath. His face went flat, the spark of curiosity or resolve dimming. His LED flickered steady yellow again—signaling internal processing of something he wasn’t ready to share. Connor’s eyes glanced left, then back, before stepping aside to let Hank lead.

As always, following.

“After you, Lieutenant.”

[proper-goodnight]

Thank you for the tag @thousandevilducks for tagging me in "10 People I'd Like to Get to Know Better"! I have also been waiting for the new season of RWBY forever. I’d at least settle for one last season to wrap things up!

I have never done one of these before, but I'll try my best! (:

Last Song: The Business by Tiẽsto

Fave Color: Yellow, but like a sunflower yellow.

Last Book: The last one I finished was The Emporer’s Edge by Lindsay Buroker but the one that I’m currently reading is The Listener by Robert McCammon.

Last Movie: The Other Guys (2010)

Last TV Show: Squid Game (Season 2)

Sweet/Savory/Spicy: Sweet

Relationship Status: Single

Last Thing I Googled: The meaning of the acronym RSV (I’m in a medical field)

Looking Forward To: My WiFi box has been broken since last Tuesday and I finally got a new one today, which is what I have most been looking forward to. After that, I’d like to get caught up on some of my WIPs and edit/fix some others, I think, specifically my "Into the Gray" fic. Other than that, finishing Final Fantasy 7 Rebirth (just finished FF16 recently. Absolute heartbreak).

Current Obsession: Final Fantasy 7 Rebirth and a Sherlock and Co. podcast on Spotify.

My tags for people that I thought of for this: @hederasgarden, @torchbearerkyle, @imzi3, @lostinwildflowers, @justaranchhand, @saangie, @winterschildxox, @www-interludeshadow-com, @eva-712, @niobe-loreley