Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Thirteen years after the war, Jote still slept with a blade close by.

She knew it wasn’t just her. Old habits were hard to break, and Joshua was much the same way—Burning Thorn was always within reach of his bedside, ready at a moment's notice to leap into action. It should have been expected, had they had time back then to think about an after, but they had been actively fighting in the thick of the war for so long that it was difficult enough to think about the next moment, let alone years down the road, and now it was impossible to completely let down their guard even after a decade of peace.

They had both lost count of how many times they had woken each other up from their nightmares. Jote's only solace on those nights where she would see Joshua's lithified body or watch him fall in battle from something she failed to protect him from, where she would hear Benedikta Harman's voice in the darkness and see their children grasped in Garuda's claws, feel her blade in her shoulder as it had pierced her that night in Caer Norvent before Joshua had burned the castle down, was the solid feeling of Joshua's arms around her, his quiet, soothing words, and the soft kisses he left on her forehead, her cheeks, her mouth. She knew her presence grounded him in the same way, brought him back to the present as he did her. Undying or not, sworn duty or not, Attendant or not, Jote would keep him safe in any way she could.

And despite everything their nightmares threw at them, they had won the war.

Some nights were easier than others. This night, the mild evening breeze swept in the open windows of Rosalith Castle, ruffling the smooth, short locks of the child fast asleep in Jote's arms. Rocking her four-year-old daughter back and forth, she watched Carin bring a thumb to her mouth reflexively, murmuring something in her sleep before settling again. Just a few feet away, Joshua held their son, dropping a soft kiss on the sleeping boy’s forehead. Caden merely wriggled his little body closer to his father at the contact, but like his sister, stayed safely asleep.

It was not a new sight to Jote, but it still almost brought tears to her eyes. It did every time she looked at her children, seeing the ways they were able to just be children, to grow up loved and wanted in a home with both parents—something she herself, despite having been taken in by the Undying after her mother’s death, had never had, and, well, Joshua’s own upbringing hadn’t exactly been perfect either. But each night they looked into their twins’ little faces, with Jote’s umber eyes, hair a shade darker than Joshua’s, and the bone structure and smiles they definitely inherited from their father, it reminded her that each scar she bore from the war, mentally, emotionally, or physically, was well worth it to have their little family flourishing in the re-established Rosaria.

And fortunately for them all—Joshua, Jote, the twins’ caretaker Lady Rowell, and all of the ex-Guardians of the Flame who took up their title of Shields of Rosaria once more—Caden and Carin were mostly mild-tempered children and went to sleep easily, despite the absolutely chaotic way they came into the world. They kept each other entertained, loved reading with their father and training with their mother, listened to instructions (for the most part), and slept through the night if not interrupted.

Their parents absolutely took advantage of this as much as possible and did everything they could to preserve the status quo. Slowly, so as to not wake them, both Jote and Joshua laid their sleeping children in their respective beds and gently tucked them in before easing the door closed. Joshua breathed out a sigh and offered her a small smile that she was helpless to return—it always astounded Jote a little that even thirty-one years after she laid eyes on him for the first time, she still found herself so very much in love with him.

“Shall we, my lady?” he asked, still with that twinkle in his blue eyes that she had loved so much growing up.

“We shall, Your Grace,” she replied with a courteous nod of her head, her grin impossible to hide.

With nothing more than their pinkies hooked together, they walked down a few hallways past some patrolling Shields to their own bedroom. The hearth had been lit to keep their room relatively warm, and they freshened up with the warm water that had been brought up before changing into their sleep clothes—Jote in her nightgown of soft-spun Rosarian cotton, quarter-sleeved and loose, and Joshua in just his sleeping trousers, long, worn, and just as comfortable.

He sat up against the headboard and Jote settled between his legs, leaning her side into his chest as he held her, arms around her waist. She pulled herself closer, looping one arm behind him while she tucked her head under his chin, her other hand trailing slow, lazy patterns up and down his forearm.

“I can’t believe they’re already four,” her husband mumbled into her hair. She hummed in agreement.

“Jill and Clive both said time flies with children, but I didn’t realize the years would pass by so quickly,” Jote admitted. Shifting a little, she rested her cheek on his shoulder to look up at him. “Would you want another one?”

Joshua’s frown was evident in the firelight. “Do you not remember what Tarja told you after the twins were born? We were fortunate that you had no further ruptures or bleeding after giving birth, and you had a difficult enough time in labor with them as it was. Nothing is worth the risk of putting you in danger again, especially when we already have two very curious, very determined, very adorable children.”

It was an old discussion, but still one that came up every so often. Jote pressed a kiss to his jaw, feeling his tension seeping away a little at her silent reassurance. I haven’t had to be apart from you in the last thirty-one years, Joshua had said to her before. Please don’t let me live the rest of my life without you. And she had responded every time with a hand squeezing his, lips pressing kisses all over his body, arms holding him tightly enough to carve her embrace into his bones. I am with you, Joshua, always.

One of his hands came up to play with her hair, wavy from being in its braid all day. “Clive should be in Rosalith in the next day or two,” Joshua said. His fingers gently carded through her loose locks, working out any leftover kinks and tangles. “Based on the message he sent.”

“It’ll be good to have him here, even if he’s just passing by on his way back to the Hideaway.” The slow-flickering light of the room and her husband’s warm arms were lulling her into a deeply relaxed state, and she could feel her eyelids growing heavy. A yawn escaped her, causing her to snuggle deeper into Joshua. “I know you’ve missed him the most out of all of us. Though…” she yawned again. “Caden and Carin might have you beat in the next year or so. We all know Clive is their favorite.”

His warm chuckle reverberated in his chest, a comforting sound next to his heartbeat. “I still have time to change their minds,” he murmured, kissing her temple.

“I think Dion’s next in line, actually.” Jote sighed, and within moments, was fast asleep.

When she awoke, she was tucked in with their duvet around her, Joshua’s arm thrown around her waist. The sky was still dark outside their window, but the commotion from the hall had them immediately jerking awake in bed, their weapons already drawn and at the ready when Sir Wade pounded on the door.

“Your Graces! We’re under attack!”

Distantly, Jote could smell smoke in the air as she hurriedly pulled her boots on under her nightgown while Joshua called for the Lord Commander to enter, rushing to lace up his own.

“Status report, Sir Wade,” he ordered, every bit the Archduke even in only his sleep trousers and shoes.

“Sanbrequois knights have begun burning homes in the city closest to the castle gates,” Sir Wade said without hesitation, his hand already on his axe. “Our Shields have gone out to meet them, but with the fires and their numbers, it will take more manpower to subdue them.”

“Sanbreque?” Shock broke through his focus for a moment, but Joshua recovered quicker than a blink of an eye. “Dion would never. Let’s move; the castle needs to be locked down and the fires contained. I need a report of all casualties, soldiers and civilians alike. Jote, stay here.”

With that, the two men tore out of the room, weapons in hand while Jote bristled at her husband's audacity. The calmer side of her knew that he was entirely focused on the problem at hand and wanted to ensure her safety, but it annoyed her that in the years of peace, he had forgotten exactly who she was. She had once been his Attendant, caring for his every need, his blade, cutting down all the enemies in his path, and his scout, always finding the way forward during their travels.

Unfortunately for him, she was also now his wife, Archduchess of the Grand Duchy of Rosaria, and still the deadliest knight of the Undying—and one that absolutely did not have to obey his every word.

Quickly tying her hair back with a strip of leather, she turned the situation over in her head. Something about it didn’t seem right to her.

If these attackers, and she highly doubted they were true Sanbrequois knights given Dion and their relationship, both professional and personal—unless a coup had been launched in the Empire and they had heard no word of it; Jote made a quick mental note to look into Dion and Terence’s status and safety once Rosalith was secured—were truly making an attempt on Rosaria, they wouldn’t have begun with Rosalith. Likewise, if they were making an attempt on Rosalith, they wouldn’t have waited until they snuck through the entire city surrounding the castle to reach the gates before starting the fires. No, Jote thought as she stalked out of their bedroom, twirling her blade, the commotion would have started at the farthest point from the seat of power. It would then take time to draw out the forces from the capital and call for reinforcements, and by then, the enemy would have had that time to raze the countryside and take over as much land and property as they could before help arrived.

The only reason anyone would start chaos at the heart of the country was if it was a directly staged coup, which she could rule out in this case. And the other…

Jote took off sprinting in the opposite direction as Joshua and Sir Wade, her breath quickening not from the exercise, but from fear.

The only other reason anyone would attack the way these people did was to create a diversion, and it didn’t take a master strategist to figure out the easiest way to bring Rosaria to her knees in one fell swoop. When one went in for the kill, the strike was always aimed at their opponent’s most vulnerable spot.

She skidded into the hallway and didn’t even stop at the sight of the few Shields who lay bleeding out on the red carpets and white marble—she knew they wouldn’t have stood a chance against a surprise attack of this caliber, and not after so many years of their enemies laying low and keeping quiet after Valisthea’s rebuilding efforts after the Age of Crystals. It was too late for them, and Jote prayed as she ran with gritted teeth that she wouldn’t be too late—

Throwing open the door to the twins’ bedroom, she stopped short at the sight of five men dressed in Sanbrequois armor, fully armed, who were making ready for their escape. And pressed against the wall, quivering with fear—

“MAMA!!!” Carin screamed at the top of her little lungs, terrified tears pouring from her eyes as she held onto her equally-scared brother. Caden’s short arms wrapped around her, one hand clutching his little wooden toy sword, his cheeks red and splotchy from crying.

The men straightened at the sight of Jote, excited smiles, assurances of victory, growing on their faces.

“It’s the bleedin’ Archduchess!”

“We’ll be paid and promoted extra for this!”

Jote’s heart twisted inside her chest, already heaving from the shallow breaths her fear allowed her to take. She forced it back, forced her body to remember all of its training in her thirty-seven years, forced her breathing to slow and her lungs to expand with deeper breaths to prepare herself for the most dangerous fight of her life. With her voice remarkably steady, she addressed her young children, pitching her tone to ensure they heard her over their panic. “Caden, Carin, remember the games we played together in the training field?”

“Grab her!”

“Moogle!” Jote yelled, and the hours of training paid off as her twins ducked, pressing themselves against the wall and making themselves as small and short as possible as three of those armored men threw themselves forward at her. Her body reacted instinctively; she whirled around, her blade singing as it slid along the first man's sword and sliced his throat open.

“Gareth!” one of the men cried. Gareth went down with a gargled sound and bulged eyes, the thud of his body causing the others to stop and stare in horror.

Jote didn't give them a chance to recover.

She sidestepped and drove her blade into another man's stomach, pulling the hilt savagely to his side and opening up his guts, blood spurting out all over her white nightgown. Anger and shock colored the faces of the rest of his cohorts as they prepared to engage again, but Jote had never been one to fear falling in battle; she knew her capabilities and her limits.

And yet, for all her speed, footwork, agility, balance, and bladework she had more than mastered over the years, it wasn't her skill that made her dangerous now. What made her truly deadly at this moment was the simple fact that Jote was a mother, and her children were in danger.

“You bitch! You'll pay for this!!” a third man screamed and rushed at her along with one of the two who stood in front of the twins. As she fought, she took in everything she knew about these men, stashing the information away and filtering out anything that could help them. Their accents didn't have the polish of the Sanbrequois, was too thick to be true Rosarian, and missed the lilt of the Dhalmekians. The slight rasp of the people of the Northern Territories was also absent, and clear of the tongued inflections of the newly established Kingdom of Ash, made up of the remnants of Waloed. That left…

Twisting her arm, she swept her blade to the side to test her theory, and—there it was. The man in front of her released a battle cry and responded exactly in the way she expected him to, deflecting her weapon in true Ironblood swordplay. It was clear then, what was going on.

The Iron Kingdom had crawled into the rocky holes of their islands to lick their wounds when Drake's Breath had fallen and didn’t reemerge until after Ultima's demise. Even then, they fought with Rosaria over the naval channels on the Rosarian border along with the resources found there, and the two countries had never come to a satisfactory agreement.

They must have been getting desperate if they were masquerading as Sanbrequois knights and trying to stir up confusion and dissent between Sanbreque and Rosaria. Even if the general populace of Valisthea wasn't aware of how deep the comradery and brotherhood ran between the Lesages and Rosfields, they must have known that this ploy couldn't be a long-term plan. This attack was meant to be a quick bid to pit the two strongest countries in Storm against each other, after which the Ironblood would sweep in to assist the Empire, snuffing out Rosaria in the process.

And it was meant to start by using the young Rosfield twins as bait.

Now, Jote truly knew who she was dealing with, and deal with them she would. She would not forgive the tears that ran from her children's eyes, nor the blood that was spilled in their sanctuary.

The man came at her with a flurry of blows from his sword, and seeing her distraction, the other attacked from the right side and got in a lucky swipe on her arm that ripped through her sleeve of her nightgown, her blood seeping into the white cotton.

“Mama, up!” Caden's shrill warning rang sharply through the air and Jote twisted her torso just in time as the first man slashed his sword downwards in front of her.

Bringing her weapon around and up, she planted her foot on the hip of her attacker’s unbalanced, open side and kicked, gravity helping her to slit his throat on her ready blade. Hot blood flecked onto her face, her low ponytail whipping over her shoulder as she fixed her gaze on the last two men, both trembling in rage and fear.

“Forget taking her down!” the one guarding her twins yelled. “Just fucking kill her!”

“Grab them and go!” the man facing her yelled back at his comrade, and Jote’s heartbeat quickened so rapidly her head began to spin. She absolutely could not let him take her children from this room, but to get to them, she had to end this battle, and fast. He raised his sword in front of him, but she leaned forward on the balls of her feet and pushed off hard from the ground, propelling her toward him and her blade nicked the side of the man’s leg before he managed to move backward, keeping the rest of his appendage. Quickly recovering her footing, she brought her sword up to block against his swings and then swept wide, catching the inside of his thigh, this time gouging deep enough that he howled in pain.

In the corner of her eye, Jote could see the last Ironblood grab Carin, lifting her into the air. The little girl’s scream distracted her enough to allow her opponent another lucky hit, this time the sword piercing her left shoulder just inches from the scar Benedikta Harman had left behind at Caer Norvent all those years ago. Ignoring the pain and the blood now dripping down her arm and torso, she quickly shifted her left foot back, her momentum pulling her body away from the blade and preventing it from completely going through her shoulder.

Joshua was going to have a whole pack of chocobos once he saw her wounds, she already knew it. The trauma and fear from their run-in with Garuda had never been forgotten or left behind, and now it would never be with this new shoulder scar to remind him so starkly of it.

The man stumbled forward from being thrown off-balance by her sudden movement, and her blade was there to meet him, gutting him clean in the stomach. With blood in his mouth, he bared his bloodstained teeth at her in hatred, screaming as he dropped his sword and put his bare hands on her blade to try to pull her weapon free from his body. Jote heard her twins crying for her when she thrust her sword forward again, and when she dared glance at them, she was astounded by the sight that greeted her—Carin was wildly swinging her legs at her abductor as Caden did his best to bang his small wooden sword against the man’s armor. In a move that Jote knew he had definitely learned from Clive at some point, all tavern brawl and meant as pure self-defense, her son stepped on the man’s foot and bashed his little head against their captor’s groin.

As fierce as his offense was, Caden was still only four years old with a four-year-old’s strength—and instead of taking the man down, it only made him angry. He threw Carin hard onto the marble floor before scooping Caden up in one swoop, the boy dropping his wooden sword in the process, and then sprinted out of the room.

“No!” Jote yelled, but it was too late. She quickly ended her fight, pulling the blade free from her enemy’s stomach to open his throat, dropping her bloodied weapon after as she rushed over to her wailing daughter.

“Are you hurt anywhere?” she asked, her hands on Carin’s shoulders and eyes flitting over her small body to assess for any injuries. Her daughter whimpered and raised the arm she had landed hard on when the man threw her, and Jote ran her hand over it to ensure there were no breaks or fractures, even if she would most definitely end up with bruises in the morning. She pulled Carin to her, one arm around her small body and her other hand behind her head, holding her girl in the same way she had rocked her to sleep just hours earlier.

Even with one child safe, the counter in the back of her mind kept track of every second her other one remained in the enemy’s grasp. They wouldn't have stayed in the castle, but there were a number of entrances and exits they could have used; Jote couldn’t take Carin with her to go after Caden, but she couldn’t leave her alone either. Joshua and the Shields were too far away to help, and Caden and his captor would be long gone by the time she brought Carin over to them, the Shields in this wing were all dead in the hallway—

“RAGHHHHHH!!!!” a fierce cry came from the doorway, startling Carin so badly she shrieked even in her mother’s arms. “DIE, YOU FIENDS!!”

Multiple voices joined in the rallying battle cry, and Lady Rowell ran through the door with a folded wooden chair held high above her head and ready to strike, followed by some of the household staff and kitchen cooks, all armed with nothing but common household items—some more chairs, a fireplace poker, some soup ladles and kitchen knives, and in Lady Essinda’s case, a pair of gleaming knitting needles, brandished dangerously in front of her. Upon seeing Jote kneeling on the floor, their middle-aged, normally genteel caretaker nearly burst into tears. “Your Grace!”

“Nadine.” Jote dropped the formalities as she waved the woman over, revealing the little girl clinging to her and hiding. “I need you to take Carin and make sure she stays safe.”

Lady Rowell wasted no time, coaxing Carin into her arms instead. “Caden, Your Grace?”

Brushing a quick kiss on her daughter’s forehead and grasping the caretaker’s arms in thanks, Jote flipped her fallen blade into her hand with her foot and ran out of the room.

By the time she made it outside the castle walls through a side door in the gardens, shouts could be heard from streets over where the fires were concentrated near the main gates. Though the structures in Rosalith were made mostly of stone, there were plenty of wooden support beams and structures that were flammable and fallible, enough to bring down whole homes and buildings to create a decent diversion and threat to the lives of the citizens who lived in that district. Smoke filled the air, and Jote struggled to think through the distractions and her anxiety.

There was no telling where Caden was, where the Ironblood would have taken him, what their planned escape route would have been—but she wouldn’t figure it out by standing there. Spotting a wall of ivy, she quickly clamored to the roof of the building the ivy clung to with her blade in hand, pulling herself over the ledge and crouching to survey the area. Her scout training immediately kicked in, the higher vantage point giving her a decent overlook of the city as she searched. The cut on her right triceps stung and her left shoulder wound hurt, blood still seeping from it.

She could make out the smaller figures of the Shields trying to put out the fires, Joshua likely among their number, in the main plaza leading to the castle. The Ironblood wouldn't have been so stupid as to run straight into the fray; he would have taken full advantage of the distraction and run in another direction.

And how did they get in and out of the castle walls in the first place? Jote whipped her head back where she could clearly see the window to the twins' bedroom on the second floor, her mind turning over each passageway nearby, the entrances and exits that they could have used. If they had scaled the walls, the Shields around the perimeter would have seen them. If they had attempted to breach the castle at any of the windows or balconies, the patrolling Shields would have caught them. The only other way would have been a secret passage hidden behind a bookshelf in an extra bedroom down the hall, but no one aside from Joshua and herself, some of the household staff, and the Lord Commander would have known about it…though the Shields that were dead in that hallway all died without their weapons in hand, signifying that they had all been taken by surprise. They wouldn't have expected the enemy to come from within.

There was traitor among them. Jote banished that thought away for later, tracing the path the passageway would have led them—underneath the ground floor of the castle and leveling out into a basement storage room of a shop down the hill that she remembered having boarded up back when they had first discovered it. The shopkeeper, an old man named Wilfred, had sworn to never reveal the truth about the passage. But the boards were aged and thin, more of a deterrent and illusion than a true barrier in case they ever needed a last-ditch escape route, and it would take nothing for even one Ironblood soldier to take it down.

Wilfred. The elderly man with a kind smile who sold sweets from his small shop—Jote took off in that direction, leaping quietly along the rooftops and praying that he and his family came to no harm. He had a granddaughter, an orphaned little girl with pigtails and a gap from losing her front tooth just weeks before, who lived with him and his wife in the home above the shop with no one to defend them.

The district remained untouched by the fire and most of its residents were still indoors in the absence of a raised alarm, a fact that Jote thanked every deity for, until she saw a hunched figure in white on the quiet street.

“Wilfred!” she called, running in his direction and sliding off the rooftop, landing neatly on her feet, her knees bending to account for her weight. Hearing his name, the old man turned, raising his hand.

“Oh, Your Grace!”

“What's happened?” she asked, panting. “Is everyone all right? Did you see anyone come from your shop?”

“Why-why Your Grace, I did!” Wilfred said. “A rather loud noise downstairs woke me ‘n Annelore up just now. Our stores were broken into, and that wall there the Shields put in was all torn up. I came out of bed to see what's happened only to some bastard to run off!”

Jote grasped his arm. “Did you see which direction he went?”

Wilfred pointed down the street and back toward the main thoroughfare. “Ran right ‘round that corner, Your Grace.”

She didn't have time to thank him. Jote took off, making the turn that the old man had pointed out. Here, the fires were licking up the walls of the structures on the street, but this was the warehouse district where certain landowners rented out their property for storage and were therefore mostly empty of people. It would be impossible to look for Caden on rooftop now, with the smoke and the flames so close. She could feel fear and panic crawl up her throat, closing her airways as Jote fought through the sudden possibility that she would never see her baby again.

She wondered if she had gotten it all wrong. She wondered if she had just failed her son…but she couldn't stop running. She couldn't give up; she was his mother, damnit, and she would hold him again.

Her sharp ear caught the sound of voices and Jote sprinted toward them, rounding another corner where the fires blazed, the wooden doors of these buildings now reduced to ash, to see two Ironblood soldiers; one of them held a small figure that was gagged, hands and feet bound, their silhouettes sharp against the orange flames.

“Dead,” the one holding Caden reported, panting. “She fucking killed them all!”

Not yet, she hadn't. But she would. Jote flipped her blade and sent it flying straight at the other soldier, her aim true and piercing him through the throat. He went down with barely a gurgle, his blood spurting onto his comrade's face and armor. Caden's captor reared back with a cry, nearly falling over and giving her time to run to them and see the fear in the soldier's glassy eyes, the scent of urine filling the air.

“Fuck this!” he yelled as she approached in all her fury. “This kid isn't fucking worth it!”

And he flung Caden through the burning doorway into the flaming building behind them, turning on his heel and sprinting in the opposite direction.

There was a time when Joshua had problems controlling his flames after Phoenix Gate, and she had learned to suffer accidental burns, to stonewall her heart against his tears and pleas to heal her so that he wouldn't exhaust his own magic, and to keep water close by in case it was a bad day. Jote was not afraid of fire, not after all she had been through with the Phoenix. Not when her own element had been its balance.

Without hesitation, she dove into the flames.

The wooden crates inside were already burning, the wood beams and supports of the building starting to char. It was unbearably hot inside, and it took Jote a moment to find her son on the stone floor, miraculously unharmed by the flames and surrounded by the crates that burned black smoke into the wooden rafters. Tears streaked down his cheeks, and when she leapt over the fires over to pull out his gag, the little boy gasped several heaving breaths before his wails came back full-force.

“Mama!” he cried as Jote crashed onto one knee to figure out the knots, her nimble fingers tearing at the rough rope. With her injuries, she wasn’t confident she could carry him out the whole way, and they were already surrounded by hungry flames; their chances were dwindling the longer they stayed inside. Caden would need to run out of there himself.

“I’m here, love,” she reassured him, keeping her eyes roving over their surroundings. She needed to hurry, but the Ironblood, damn him, had ensured that the knots were tight.

As she worked, she let out a sharp, shrill whistle that she had made up years ago based off of the Phoenix’s screeching call, a code for her and Joshua on their travels if they were separated. With the clamor and destruction in the main square and their location being several streets over from it, Jote was almost certain that he couldn’t hear her, but she needed to try anyway. She gave it another five seconds before letting out another one, her raw, bleeding fingers finally pulling the rope free from her son’s legs.

“Caden, listen to me,” Jote said, her blood smearing all over the rope at his little hands as she yanked at the knots. “Remember the obstacle courses we did in the training fields? Ducking and running until you reach the end of the course?”

Her son sniffled and nodded. She could feel her blood pulsing at the wound on her right arm, and it was hard to breathe now with the smoke in the air, the loss of blood from her shoulder, the exhaustion of the night…

“As soon as I get these ropes, you’re going to run around these crates and find the door. Run as fast as you can toward the castle walls. Follow the wall and find the main gate. There will be a lot of noise and light from that direction. Papa and Uncle Wade will be there. Do you understand?”

Jote had no idea whether her four-year-old, as astute and observant as he was, would be able to find his father. The only thing she was certain of was that he wouldn’t die here.

The wooden beams above them let out a loud groan, and Caden gasped, his little body trembling. In desperation, Jote whistled two more times before her torn fingers finally got through the knot, and she lifted her son up under his armpits until he was standing. “Go, Caden,” she said. “I’m right behind you.”

She had taught him and his sister to listen to her while in the training field without question. They had been taken to the field ever since they could walk and talk, and the hours of playing with and training them paid off as Caden surveyed his surroundings before taking off around the flaming crates, avoiding the firepits. Jote could just barely see through the flames that his short legs had carried him out the door, clearing him from immediate danger. Pushing off the floor to get to her feet, she was suddenly hit with a wave of nausea and dizziness, causing her to lose her balance against a nearby wall that blistered her hands from the baked stones nearly immediately.

There was no more air for her pained cry through the black smoke. Blood had soaked through the left side of her nightgown, and Jote stumbled blindly toward the exit, but each step cost her dearly. She heard the groan of the rafters, the crackling and splintering of wood, and with the last of her strength, she threw herself forward before the roof gave way.

Chapter Text

Dion would never betray them. Joshua knew it to be a fact like he knew the sky to be blue and his wife’s smile to be the most beautiful thing in the world.

Someone else was behind this, but his immediate concern was ensuring the castle was locked down, the fires contained, and his people safe. Dashing out of his bedroom with Sir Wade behind him, Joshua winced as he thought over the words he left Jote with, knowing he would have to pay for them later.

Some of the buildings surrounding the main square in front of the castle gates were up in flames, and the blazes were spreading to the adjacent streets. Frustration slammed into him at the mysterious arsonists, at the sight of his people afraid and watching their properties burn. Thirteen years ago, he would have been able to extinguish the flames with a wave of his hand. Jote would have been able to summon a rainstorm if she needed to. Now, Shields rushed back and forth with pails of water, working their fastest and doing their best to contain the fires before it could spread throughout the entire city.

“Your Grace! Lord Commander!” a Shield ran up to them, panting heavily as he saluted. Joshua waved the formalities away.

“Status report, Sir Biggs,” he ordered, his eyes tracking over every movement in the square.

“Your Grace, the watch on the castle walls first spotted the fires some ten minutes ago. Several buildings in different places around the plaza were ablaze at once as though someone had lit them together, pointing toward a group of people being responsible for this. None of the Shields have managed to round any of them up thus far, but we are still waiting for Sir Leon’s squad to report back. Sir Wedge's squad is securing the castle’s perimeter, and Sir Jesse's squad is on active patrol. Every other available team has been assigned to put out the fires and settle the citizens.”

“Good work,” Joshua said, putting a hand on Sir Biggs’s shoulder. “Any casualties?”

“None, Your Grace,” he answered affirmatively. “But there are those who will be displaced for a while due to the damage.”

The buildings in the square were mostly taken care of, leaving behind relatively intact structures and blackened stone walls and floors. Some weren’t so lucky; their wood burned right through, resulting in collapsed windows or walls, roof damage, and loss of possessions. Even just glancing around the area, Joshua knew it would likely take a few weeks to sort through the debris and repair or rebuild. People came up to him, crying, questioning, thanking him, thanking the Shields—with every face he saw, another ember of his anger sparked. Thirteen years of peace, only for someone to try to shatter it in the Empire’s name.

Something caught his attention then—a sound he thought he heard, faint, as though from a distant memory. But there were too many people speaking around him, and with the screams he had heard all night, he shook his head at the phantom noise. Joshua squinted at the sky, still dark as ink. Day break must still be some time away. How long had they been out there?

“The innkeeper in the southern district said they would open up all rooms to accommodate for the displaced,” he heard a Shield report to Sir Wade. “Both innkeepers in the eastern district also offered their rooms for anyone in need.”

“Your Grace!”

From a side alley, Sir Leon and his team of Shields dragged a bound, bloody figure into the main square, forcing what looked to be a man in Sanbrequois armor to his knees. The smell of urine scented the air, the source evident by the way the front of his trousers were wet and his eyes glassy. Blood splatters covered his face and chest armor, barely dried. Sir Wade stepped to his place behind Joshua as Lord Commander.

“Your Grace, we caught this man running from the warehouse district,” Sir Leon reported. “He was alone.”

“Ungag him.” Joshua looked over the supposed Sanbrequois knight—the armor was correct, but something about the way he wore it seemed ill-fitting, and though there was blood on him, he didn't seem injured anywhere.

His attention was instantly pulled away when he heard that sound again—something sharp and shrill, just faint enough for Joshua to not be able to make out what it was. No. He needed to focus now, with the enemy at his feet.

When the Shield behind Sir Leon pulled the gag from the man's mouth, he burst into a coughing fit, taking gulps of air as he fought through it.

“Speak,” the Archduke commanded, tone unyielding and eyes cold. “Who sent you?”

The man bared his teeth, a scared animal in a cage biting the bars in fear. “Never. You Rosarian dogs will get what's coming to you. War will wage once again, and there is no chance of your victory now, not against the might of the Empire.”

“The Emperor didn't send you,” Joshua said firmly, pressing for the truth. “Do not lie. Who sent you? What purpose does this attack on my city serve?”

“I'll never tell you!”

Though he said all the right words to portray himself as Sanbrequois, placing the blame for this attack solely on the Empire, there was something about his accent that also wasn't quite correct. Joshua would know; he had met many people during his travels across the realm, and even in his every day dealings now with their allies in Sanbreque, he knew the man's inflections were just a little too pointed, a little too perfect for it to be natural Sanbrequois. His eyes flicked over the blood on the man's face, picking another point of attack.

“That's not your blood, is it? Is one of your number injured?”

At this, the man laughed. “What does it matter? The brat's dead by now,” he said, nearly manic at Joshua's prying question. “That bitch too. And you'll all join them!”

“Who's dead?” Joshua demanded, knowing his Shields had confirmed no Rosarian casualties, but the man clenched his jaw shut and refused to say anything more.

He would talk. Joshua flicked his eyes back to Sir Leon. “Gag him and throw him in the dungeons. Resume questioning in the morning.”

No sooner had Sir Leon and his squad dragged the man away did Joshua suddenly hear a child's wailing. Pivoting on his heel, he searched for the source of the sound as Sir Jesse stepped into the main square.

“Your Grace!”

The captain was not alone. In his arms, small and crying, was Caden, his little face covered in soot and a gash on his right cheek, his clothes ripped.

Joshua's heart stopped when he saw his son, who finally spotted him and let out the loudest cry he had ever heard from him.

“PAPA!” Caden wailed, reaching his arms out for his father as he sprinted to them. Sir Jesse immediately passed the child over and Joshua held his son tight, willing his heart to settle before pulling back a little to check for any other injuries.

“Caden, what's happened?” His eyes touched on the wound on his cheek, as though he had skidded on stone, the soot on his body as though he had been close to the fires, the way his little arms and shins were red and rubbed raw, as though he had been bound.

And then it all made perfect sense. Joshua stilled completely as horror washed over him, his mind stalling when he finally realized what the attackers were after, what the faint sound he heard before was.

“Did they take you?” he asked his son, who nodded tearfully. “Where's your sister? How did you escape?”

“Runned,” Caden hiccupped. “Mama said run.”

No.

No.

If Jote had been here, she would never have left their child alone to fend for himself, not even to run after perpetrators if she had seen them. She would never have let Caden wander through a city that was still under attack; to even leave him alone after he was kidnapped, she would have had to be—

Panic dugs its ice-cold claws into his chest, constricting his airways. Joshua had to remind his lungs to breathe. He needed to keep it together. She could be fine. She could have been distracted and told Caden to run while she took care of whatever was after them, she could be back at the castle by now. She had to be fine.

“Where is Mama?” he asked, forcing the words out. He looked up at Sir Jesse. “Where did you find him?”

Caden was four. The fact that he had even ambled in the right direction was a godsdamned miracle in itself, much less the way he had managed to run into Sir Jesse without encountering anyone else.

“We were just starting a sweep of the warehouse district, Your Grace,” the captain explained quickly as he, Caden, Sir Wade, and two more Shields accompanied them, all making haste toward the warehouses where the fires were dying. Smoke still wafted from the burned structures, embers in the blackened wood lighting their way forward through the empty street. “I heard a child crying and went to investigate only to find that it was his Lordship, frightened and looking for you. He was alone.”

“Caden,” Joshua said, his eyes roving over the damaged properties. “Do you remember where they took you? Where did you see Mama last?”

The boy shook his head, burrowing his body into his father’s arms. Surveying the destruction of the area, Joshua knew it would take them a while to make a sweep of the perimeter. He signaled for his Shields to begin and for Sir Wade to approach before he gently pulled away from Caden’s death grip, his voice soft as he spoke. “I need you to go back to the castle with Uncle Wade while we look for Mama, all right?”

His son whimpered, tears building in his eyes, but Joshua pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Be brave now.”

Sir Wade opened his arms, a familiar-enough gesture for Caden to reluctantly clamber over. “We’ll ask Lady Rowell to get you some warm milk, your Lordship, how does that sound?” he asked as he walked back toward the castle.

Joshua turned his attention to the search, his eyes never resting in one place as he looked for tracks he knew she would have left behind for him just like she did all those years ago on their travels, anything for him to find her—a scuffed footprint, a quick mark on the walls that she would leave when she was in a hurry, even a scrap of fabric or clothing. Something.

“Your Grace!”

One of the Shields called out to him from down the street, waving his hand in the air. Something glinted at his feet, and Joshua held his breath as he approached, both afraid to know and not know at the same time. When he was close enough, he could see a man’s body, covered in the rubble of a nearby collapsed building, dressed in the same armor as the other false knight they captured with a blade through his throat.

Jote’s blade.

His breath caught, his throat dried, and his heart tripped into overdrive, thundering in his ears. He fought to ground himself, to focus. She had been here.

Looking closer at the destroyed building next to the body, he could see it had once been a full warehouse, but everything had been burned in the blaze and whatever the fire didn’t touch, the force of the roof collapsing had decimated whatever crates had been there. Splintered wood and broken stone littered the ground, covering what had once been stored inside.

He almost turned away.

He almost missed it.

Farther into the collapsed building, there in the wreckage was a soot-darkened, bloodied hand with a very familiar ring on the middle finger.

No.

Joshua’s legs gave out.

“Your Grace!”

He heard the alarmed calls of his Shields, but the only thing he was aware of was the skin on his knees and hands splitting as he clawed and crawled his way to her, digging desperately and throwing rocks and pieces of wood aside until he could see fabric that was so bloodied and dirtied until it was no longer white, until he dug out her whole arm, until he flung the debris away to uncover Jote—

The Shields gasped, now at his side and helping even as the one on his left swore under his breath when her whole body was free from the wreckage. Joshua himself had to stop, sitting back onto his calves when he saw the entirety of her…dusty, covered in blood and soot, her nightgown ripped and torn. There were scratches on her cheek and a long gash along her neck, jagged and uneven, that thankfully seemed to miss her artery.

His hands were shaking so badly that even when he balled them into fists, they were still trembling, and cold tears had slipped down his face in his fear and panic. Reaching forward, Joshua forced himself to put his fingers at her pulse point, just to make sure, he had to make sure—

And collapsed forward in relief, catching himself with his other hand when he felt the faint flutter of her heartbeat under his fingertips.

“Send for Aryll; tell her to prepare the infirmary,” he croaked out, the Shield to his right immediately running off toward the castle.

Joshua reached for Jote but his hands hovered over her, uncertain of where she was injured, where to touch her. Taking a deep breath, he took her hand, shockingly cold, and gently pulled her up to where he could slip his other arm under her shoulders. He wiped at her cheek with his thumb, smearing the blood and soot on there before he looped his arm under her knees to lift her into a bridal carry.

Her head fell limply into the crook of his neck where he could feel her shallow, barely-there breaths against his skin. Joshua’s throat felt so tight it burned.

I am with you, Joshua, always, she had promised.

“Jote, please. Stay with me,” he whispered to her as he carried her home.

Morning came and the sunlight bathed Rosalith in a new day, the damage from the attack on the city now in stark view. The Shields had worked through the night in helping the displaced, and the tradesmen and women were prepared to begin the rebuilding efforts at the earliest bells.

Rosarians were resilient, and like their duchy’s Eikon, rose from their ashes, had done so time and time again in their history.

Caden and Carin were both asleep in the bed next to Jote’s, exhausted and afraid. Joshua sat in a chair between their beds, having hardly taken his eyes off his family since he had rushed Jote into the infirmary, Aryll and her team of physickers immediately tending to her—it was a long hour as they cut away her dirtied dress to clean her and assess her wounds. Joshua could not sit still; he kept his hands and focus busy and distracted by washing Jote's hair in one of the basins of warm water the attending physickers brought over, wiping and cleaning her face and her body until multiple basins were bloodied and dirtied.

The wound on her right arm was split wide, and her left shoulder had nearly been pierced through. Her hands were blistered and pink from burns, and the skin on her fingers were torn. Superficial gashes covered her legs and her left cheek.

Her Grace was lucky she hadn't bled out, Aryll had said. She was lucky none of her wounds were infected.

It took them time to find every wound to sterilize and bandage before dressing her in a fresh gown, Joshua having just sat down on the side of her bed when Aryll cleared the infirmary door to be opened and Sir Wade and Lady Rowell brought the twins into the room.

Carin had never cried so much as she did when she saw him and refused to be put down, and Caden didn’t let go of his hand until he fell asleep next to his sister. Both twins were thankfully mostly unharmed save for the scrapes that Caden had, but as Joshua sat rigidly in his chair, he feared that if he so much as moved a finger, he would burn the entire world down.

It was the first time he had ever been thankful that he was no longer the Phoenix, after a long night of cursing the fact that he no longer had the Eikon's abilities to magically heal his wife and children. If he still had his flames, Joshua knew that Valisthea wouldn't survive his wrath—but even more than that, he knew Jote wouldn't have wanted him to raze the realm if she had left him like this.

And she almost had. And—Joshua would, could do worse in her name if she didn't make it.

The soft click of the door opening and closing behind him wasn't enough to draw his gaze, but the familiar footsteps and the heavy hand on his shoulder did.

“Joshua.”

Clive's voice never failed to make him feel small, safe and protected, with his big brother there.

His whole body trembled, as though his brother’s hand had shattered the ice that had held him still and steady, and just like that Archduke Joshua Rosfield was once again the ten-year-old who looked to his older brother for strength and assurance.

Hunching over, he rested his elbows atop his knees, head bowed as he shook, and Clive sank down to one knee in front of him, one hand grasping the back of his head and holding him against his strong frame. Waves broke upon shores, and Joshua was finally given a safe harbor to break in, quiet sobs slipping free.

His brother held him until he stopped shaking, until his tears dried and Joshua had the strength to lift his head on his own, able to take a tremulous breath. Clive waited patiently, only watching as he knit himself back together and simply ruffled the back of his hair once more before he turned to look at Jote and the twins, his blue eyes taking in each detail and injury. His brows furrowed.

“How are they?” Clive asked, voice soft to keep them from waking. “Sir Wade told me what happened. I’d only just arrived. He said I would find you in here.”

“The twins are mostly unharmed. Carin has bruises on her arm and shoulder. Caden’s injuries are surface-level, but they are both terrified. The infiltrators kidnapped him, but Jote…” Joshua looked at his sleeping wife. “She went after him and got him back. She always was the clever one out of the two of us. The fighter. The knight. She realized before anyone else what was going on. If she hadn’t gotten to them in time, they would have both been taken.”

He chuckled hollowly. “Sir Wade said all the Shields in the hallway were dead, but there were four other men in the twins’ bedroom with their throats slit. Two of them had been gutted. Lady Rowell said it was all Jote, with no backup and no one who knew she was there to help. She saved our children on her own, and she almost…”

His throat closed, and he couldn’t finish his sentence. Clive glanced over at Jote, pale and unconscious. “We found her blade through another man’s neck that led us to her. A building had collapsed on top of her, and I…I nearly couldn’t find her. I nearly walked past her, and I never would have known,” Joshua whispered, as though speaking the words aloud would prove him right.

“But you did, Joshua.” Clive put a hand on his shoulder. “You found her and brought her home. She saved the twins and made sure you all still had a home to come back to.”

Joshua reached for Jote’s bandaged hand, cold even after hours of being back in Rosalith. “Would that I were still the Phoenix…” he whispered. “Even with the curse, if it took everything I had to give, I would heal her. I could keep them safe.”

His brother shook his head. “Even on your travels, Jote had been the one to protect you and keep you alive,” he said. “She knew the risks as a knight and as your attendant. She’s strong, Joshua. And now, she’s done her part. She just needs you to do yours.”

“Which part is that, Clive?”

The hand on his shoulder patted him once before Clive stood and pulled up a chair nearby. “She looks for danger in front of you. And you watch out for danger behind her.”

Chapter Text

Rustling sheets from the twins’ bed caught their attention, and the brothers looked over to see Carin stirring, blearily pulling herself awake. When she saw Clive, her eyes immediately widened, her whole body jerking forward. “Uncle Clive!” she cried, waking her brother up where he had been curled up next to her under the blanket. The two scrambled over each other to get to him first; Clive rose from his chair and sat on the side of their bed, opening his arms for both his niece and nephew to slam themselves into him.

“I’ve missed you both,” he said, holding them tightly.

“When did you came back?” Carin asked. Her little voice was muffled in his shirt and her uncle chuckled, kissing her hair.

“Just this morning. I couldn’t wait to come see all of you.”

Caden was unusually quiet, but Clive only needed to take one look at the cuts on his small face to understand why. He brushed his thumb against the boy’s chubby cheeks before drawing him closer, hoping to surround him with enough warmth and comfort to keep the fear of what he had been through at bay.

“Aunt Jill here?” Carin turned her head to look toward the infirmary door. Clive gave her an easy smile.

“No, she’s at home with your cousins and Torgal. But I’ll tell her you miss her.”

His niece nodded, then lowered her head back down to rest it on his chest just as the door opened, Aryll and Lady Rowell entering with trays laden with breakfast.

“Ah, Lord Marquess,” the physicker greeted him with a bowed head. “I wasn’t aware that you had arrived. I will fetch another dish from the kitchens.”

“Lady Aryll. No need,” Clive replied quickly. “I’ll go down there myself. I need to find Sir Wade and have another word with him before I break fast anyway.”

He looked down to meet twin pairs of wide, panicked eyes, and patted their heads. “It’s all right. While you eat breakfast with Lady Rowell and Lady Aryll, I need just need to get some things done and then we can spend the rest of the day together.”

“Clive, wait.”

Joshua’s voice made him stop in his tracks, and he watched him stand and go from husband, father, and brother to Archduke in but a single moment. His blue eyes, a shade paler than his own, were chips of ice. “There’s something I need your help with, brother.”

Clive had been in the Rosalith dungeons only once or twice before, having been too young for his father to allow him full clearance before Phoenix Gate. He’d been in plenty since then as an Imperial branded slave soldier, and he knew that as dungeons went, the one beneath the castle was a luxury compared to others he'd seen. The dungeon was also empty in this golden era of Rosaria…save for the cell that Sir Wade led him and Joshua to.

A small slit in the stone atop the far wall allowed for a crack of natural light, the floors were dusty, and the only things in the cell were a pile of straw for some sort of bedding and a bucket in the corner. Its occupant, wearing remnants of what looked like Sanbrequois armor, was chained with his hands hanging next to his shoulders and his ankles to the wall underneath the narrow window, and when the trio stopped in front of the metal bars, the man raised his head to show the gag in his mouth and the anger and hatred and fear in his eyes.

Something about him didn't seem right to Clive, however. He had been an Imperial soldier once, and this man, he could tell immediately, was an imposter.

“This is the only one that Sir Leon caught last night,” Joshua said, his tone colder than Clive had ever heard it. “From what little he said, we think he had been with Jote and Caden and can tell us the breadth of their plans.”

He motioned for the Lord Commander to open the door and Clive stepped in behind his brother, carefully watching the way he held himself terrifyingly still, the way his hand curled as though a reflex after years of summoning his flames. His gaze moved to the prisoner, covered in blood and soot and whatever else had spoiled his clothes, evident from the stains.

This man had been complicit in and responsible for hurting his family, for the fear he saw in his niece and nephew's eyes and the way his sister-in-law had yet to awaken from her injuries. As much as his own anger burned, Clive knew that Joshua brought with him a storm the likes of which no one had seen before. It wouldn't be his brother he needed to protect now—if anything, he knew already that it would be the prisoner he would need to try to keep alive. He knew now the true reason Joshua had wanted him there.

Stepping forward, Joshua slowly drew Burning Thorn, angling the blade so that it sang as it was pulled from its sheath. His focus had narrowed to only him and his prisoner, he the cat in a game of cat-and-mouse the other man had no chance of winning. The icy flash of his eyes reminded Clive of the way Anabella had looked before Phoenix Gate—cold, with a wrath that rivaled Shiva’s winter storm.

His brother lifted his blade flat-side up, hovering the tip right at the prisoner’s throat, who flinched backwards with nowhere to go. The wall behind him was unyielding even as he tried to mold his entire back to it.

“You will tell us who sent you and what exactly your plans were. How many people were involved. And if you lie…” Joshua pressed the flat of his blade onto the man’s cheek. “I may not be a Dominant any longer, but I swear on the Phoenix’s flames that you will know what it is to burn.”

Though both brothers had taken after their father in many respects and temperament, that moment proved to be the one Joshua showed exactly what vengeance inherited from their mother looked like. Elwin Rosfield had been a warrior, noble to his last breath. Anabella though, had enough hatred, avarice, and ambition to spare, and it was this rage that Clive saw from Joshua now.

Each cut on the man's face and body was shallow, only enough to sting and bleed instead of maim, and though his limbs were all physically intact, they were rendered useless from the way he had, presumably, been in the chains and bound in place since the previous night. And yet, he remained stubbornly silent, even as his legs shook and his breath stuttered.

“Once more,” Joshua said, his tone almost bored. “Who sent you?”

When the prisoner refused to speak, Joshua flicked his wrist and a new line of blood appeared just scant centimeters from his eye, causing him to gasp in fear, pressing his back against the wall. He lowered Burning Thorn at the man's continued silence until it was level with his groin, and with a sigh, he shoved his sword forward.

The man screamed, his pants immediately wet and soiled as tears leaked from his eyes. It wasn't until seconds later that he heaved his breaths, slowly opening his eyes to see the Archduke's blade stopped just shy of piercing him.

“Joshua,” Clive warned. The look in his brother's eyes was one he had never seen before, even facing down Ultima—it was the coldest sort of wrath where ice burned just as much as fire did, and Clive knew just how hot Ifrit and the Phoenix's flames were. But even through their anger and Joshua's demand for vengeance, they needed answers.

His brother cocked his head to the side, emotionless and uncaring.

“I'll tell you!” the man screeched, finally breaking when Burning Thorn was about to cut into him. “I'll tell you! Just don't kill me! It was the Kingdom, it was the Kingdom!”

“The Iron Kingdom?” Clive asked, raising his eyebrows. He nodded frantically, his eyes glued to the sword. “And the king approved of this mission?”

“The king has no real power, even after the Patriarch's death,” he said hurriedly through his panicked breaths. “The leader of the Iron Crusade said this would be the last step we needed to take before all the resources and land of Rosaria would be at our feet.”

“And then the blame would lay with the Empire. While Sanbreque and Rosaria fought, it would have allowed the Iron Kingdom to come in and reap the spoils.” Clive's mind spun with the implications. “You would kidnap children and plunge the realm into war once again.”

“And what of the Archduchess?” Joshua asked, bringing his sword to the man's neck. He cringed and shied away from it, his chains clanking as his legs nearly gave out.

“Please! Please! Spare me, I'll tell you everything!”

Joshua's face hardened. “The Archduchess.”

“We weren't given orders about her,” the prisoner nearly cried. “We nearly had the children, we were making our way out when she showed up and killed everyone!”

“And then what happened? How was it that she came to be so far from the castle?”

“I—I took the boy,” he gulped. “I escaped and she followed us. She killed another one of my squadmates. I made a run for it.”

“After you took my son and threw him into a burning building!” Joshua roared, and Clive thought of the way Joshua had found Jote inside of a collapsed warehouse, the way Caden had looked this morning. There was no mistaking what had happened now, and the prisoner's legs shook and failed him in the face of his fury. Quicker than Clive had ever seen him in battle, his brother removed his sword from his neck and shoved it into the man's left shoulder in a mirror of Jote's wound, running him all the way through. The man cried out, his blood dripping down Joshua's blade, tears pouring down his cheeks and undoubtedly stinging the cuts all over his now-ruined face.

There was something in the man's words that Clive doubted Joshua had heard in his fury, but one last piece of the puzzle remained.

“How was it that several Ironblood soldiers made it in and out of the castle when Shields are patrolling every hallway?” Clive asked him, watching the man struggle like a butterfly with its wings pinned down. He heaved a sob before his last confession.

“I don't know his name,” he said in a whisper. “I don't know his name. There was a shop in the city. And a tunnel. Our captain led us through. There was an old man. We walked through the tunnel and into the castle.”

From the corner of his eye, Clive saw Joshua freeze, his hand falling from the hilt of his sword. Whatever this piece of information meant went deeper than he understood at the moment.

“The old man helped you?” Joshua asked, his voice dangerously quiet. The prisoner nodded through his quiet sobs, and without warning, Joshua withdrew his blade from his shoulder, causing the man to cry out before he turned and walked out of the cell.

When one submerged themselves in darkness, it took time to recover and let the darkness slowly seep out of them, for the light to filter back in. For as powerful as the light was, darkness was heavy enough to strangle and crush, and even the Phoenix required time and warmth to heal and rise once more. Clive watched his brother's hands shake when they sat in the training field, the sun barely overhead and the area deserted with the Shields either in the city helping the rebuilding efforts or on patrol.

Neither of them spoke for a long while as Joshua gathered the pieces of himself, slowly pulling back from the edges that Clive knew all too well from his time as an Imperial soldier sent on the bloodiest missions. When he was finally ready, Joshua shuddered as though cold water had been poured on him, and he flexed his hands several times before he took a deep breath, looking up at him.

“Thank you, brother,” he said softly.

Clive’s arm came around his shoulders, anchoring him with that one touch. “I’m always here for you, Joshua.”

Joshua leaned into his brother’s steady strength, sighing. “I need to speak to Sir Wade and have that old man brought in.”

“You know who he is?”

“Yes. But…we never would have guessed. He was always kind, with a smile for everyone who walked into his shop. Jote loved the sweets he sold, and both she and Tarja had nothing but praise for him when all Jote wanted for weeks during her pregnancy was one specific candy he kept in stock. We never thought…” Joshua cleared his throat. “You remember that hidden passage I had once written to you about when we had the castle repaired and rebuilt? We found that it led to the basement of this man’s shop. He had sworn to never speak of it, and we decided to keep the tunnel as a last resort escape route. That’s why the twins’ bedroom is in that same hallway, in case they ever needed to use it. And now…”

A shadow crossed his face, and Clive squeezed his brother’s shoulder briefly before letting go, standing. “I’ll go speak to Sir Wade and make arrangements,” he said. “And then the kitchens for…” he squinted at the sun. “Looks like it’s closer to midday now. Lunch, then. I’ll ask the cooks to prepare another plate for you.”

Joshua looked at him with the same adorably lost expression Clive had seen on his baby brother all those years ago, and the memory of it warmed his heart and lifted the corners of his mouth. “Take your time, Joshua. I’ll be here another few days yet, and I believe my niece and nephew have asked me to stay with them for the day. Go to her.”

He didn’t wait for Joshua’s response before he turned and made his way toward the kitchens, but his soft, “thank you, Clive” reached his ears anyway as he stepped through the gate.