Chapter Text
The night had been far too short.
Sleep had taken an age to come, but his eyes were so heavy, his skin so raw that Rhys eventually drifted off for a few bells. Before returning to the Pendants for the night, he had retrieved his cloak. It carried the faint chill of crystal, and for a moment he nearly cast it aside. Instead, he held on to it through the long hours until morning.
He rose at first light, opening the window to let the cool morning air spill into the room. This afternoon could not come quickly enough—he needed something to occupy his mind, or the wait would drive him crazy.
Dressing swiftly in his dalmascan red attire, he stepped out, locking the door behind him before following the long corridor toward the spiralling stairs that led down to the ground floor.
At this hour, the Stairs lay silent and empty. It was still far too early, an there was no celebration ongoing.
A shiver ran up his arms, and the air beside him seemed to tremble. An instant later, a figure emerged from a swirl of shadow right next to him.
“Don’t start taunting me first thing in the morning." He didn’t bother to turn, continuing on until he pushed open one of the great doors leading outside. "I don't have the patience for it today.”
Beyond lay Lakeland, its colours muted beneath a thin veil of mist. He leaned his elbows against the railing that ran the length of the canopy.
“Rough night?” The Ascian’s voice came from just beside him, and Rhys felt his arms tense as the man settled casually against the rail. When he turned his head, he caught the faint recoil in Emet’s expression.
“By your Twelve, Rhys. What in the—”
He could imagine the sight he made: paint still smeared across his skin, eyes surely red and swollen, nose raw. “Go on, say whatever you like, Emet.”
“Someone die?” came the question, calm yet curious. He nodded absently.
“In a way, yeah.” He meant himself.
It felt as though he had left his body, his heart, in the throne room the night before—what remained now was little more than a hollow shell, a weapon waiting to be aimed. “And what brings you here so early? Hoping to collect some fresh gossip?”
“What an accusatory tone,” Emet drawled, before his voice shifted, quieting. “Yes, I came for the morning’s gossip… but I think I’ve changed my mind.”
Rhys closed his eyes as the throb of an oncoming headache began to bloom. “Go away.”
“No.” A pause, then with the faintest hint of mischief: “We’re going hunting.”
“What are you on about now?” He turned fully to face him, unable to fathom what Emet’s aim was in all this.
The Ascian’s gaze swept him from head to toe, lingering on the rapier at his hip. With a sharp click of his tongue, he dismissed it with open disdain. “Put that toy away. Fetch your staff.”
Rhys’s brow furrowed at the sheer condescension in his tone.
Emet lifted a hand, and from the void itself there materialised a massive black staff—his own, no doubt—its presence dark and commanding.
“Go on,” he said, almost lazily. “I’ll be waiting right here.”
-
Rhys didn’t know why he obeyed—but he did.
He made for the Tower, teleporting straight to his quarters. His rapier was set carefully back in its case, and his hand closed around his staff. He didn’t bother with robes or armour; he had no wish to linger here a moment longer.
He knew the Exarch would have felt him arrive—the way he always did. And no one else entered unannounced at any hour of the day or night; he—and Lyna— were the only ones allowed. The others had to be announced.
He returned to find Emet exactly where he’d left him. The Ascian’s eyes lit with a fierce smile at the sight of the staff in his grasp.
“You can be reasonable when you choose to be.” The Ascian gave him a mocking smile, leaning in with pure insolence. “Numi’a.”
Rhys shoved him with his shoulder at waist height, growling his indignation.
“Filthy Ascian—who do you think you are?” he spat at his feet. “'tis the second time already. You’ve no right to call me that—you’re not of my clan.”
Emet straightened, dramatically extending a hand toward him, entirely unruffled by the insult.
“Oh, I think I know exactly who I am.” His grin widened as he began to count them off on his fingers, voice dripping with amusement. “I’ve seen your Menphina with my own eyes. I’ve watched men split into subraces," he mimicked feline ears with his hand. "I’ve shaped civilizations. I am an Ascian—an Original one. The oldest mage alive. Father of Allag. Bearer of ancient tongues. Founder of empires. He-Who-Walks-Between-Stars. Breaker of chains. Mother of dra—” He stopped, smirking as if in on a private joke. “Oh… you don’t know that one yet.”
Rhys stared at him, unimpressed. “I couldn’t care less about your achievements. Ascian. Allagan. Emperor—” He snarled the last word. “Garlean.”
Emet’s smile only widened with every venom-laced word, his expression almost indulgent.
“Finished, savage?” he asked, wiggling the fingers of the hand Rhys had all but shredded yesterday—like the savage he was accused of being.
“Shut it,” the Keeper growled again. “Call me Rhys if you must. I don’t care.” He stepped back to size him up, refusing to crane his neck to meet his gaze. Emet really was tall, and a bit of distance was necessary. “So—are we standing here all day, or are we hunting?”
Emet barked a laugh, then offered a shallow, mocking bow, arm extended to the Keeper.
“Kholusia or Amh Araeng?” he asked. Rhys shrugged.
He took hold of the Ascian’s forearm, and the two vanished in an instant.
☾
The blinding light swallowed them as they arrived in the desert. Rhys’s grip was tight on Emet’s forearm, claws all out, digging into the thick fabric of his arm. Suspended in midair, he felt anything but at ease.
“Find your prey, Rhys,” Emet said, bowing at the waist, talking next to his ear, his voice laced with amusement. “Make them pay for the injustices you feel. Set yourself free—I’ll be the last to judge you for acting like a rabid beast.”
Rhys felt his vision narrow. Hatred. Anger. Frustration. Sadness. Despair. That sudden, crushing loneliness.
"Show me how you yield black magic. Be Merciless."
“There,” Rhys pointed toward what looked like a loose cluster of sin eaters prowling the sands.
In the blink of an eye, he was teleported there—boots sinking into scorching sand as he broke into a run.
He was going to unleash himself.
-
The morning had burned away in a blur.
The desert heat pressed down like a vice, choking the air from his lungs. Rhys was gasping, sweat slicking his skin, his red drape hung loose and heavy around his hips, held only by his belt.
His flesh gleamed under the unforgiving light, the golden markings blazing fiercely despite the sweat that poured over them. They would stay etched into his skin for days—two, maybe four—if he didn’t obsessively claw at them while bathing.
Emet-Selch didn’t join the fray. He lingered on the caves at the edges, slipping between patches of shade like a ghost, eyes never leaving Rhys.
An Ascian bathed in so much light was an anomaly—his power muted, shackled by the brilliance.
Rhys’s jaw clenched, the irony twisting in his gut. Here he was, fighting beside an Ascian of all people. It felt like a cruel joke the gods played on him. He fought almost hand-to-hand, casting spells while risking it all with every move. He dodged attacks by the barest margin, refusing to tend to the scratches that marked his arms and parts of his back.
One creature, wielding a razor-sharp blade, nearly caught his face. He twisted away just in time, but the strike clipped long strands of his hair, severing them with brutal precision. His right eye was almost fully exposed now—and he didn’t care in the slightest. He’d lost all desire to please anyone, and his new asymmetrical fringe wasn’t something he was going to fret over.
He made a subtle gesture and, in the blink of an eye, Emet pulled him through the aether—depositing him not in the chaos of battle, but in the shadows of a cave. The Keeper’s frown deepened. This was nowhere near the cluster of sin eaters he had indicated. They were inside the cave, away from the fight.
Emet’s lips curled into a smile, eyes glittering with amusement as he drank in the raw, unrestrained fury in Rhys’s stance.
“We should probably return to the Crystarium,” he said lightly, as though sensing—and thoroughly enjoying—Rhys’s irritation.
Without warning, he caught Rhys’s staff in one hand, the motion sharp, like an adult confiscating a dangerous toy. “I understand we’re bound for Rak’tika this afternoon?”
Rhys reached for it at once, but the effort was wasted. Emet’s grip was unyielding, his height and presence a wall of challenge. The sheer audacity of this ancient being was staggering—and infuriating.
“We?” Rhys repeated, his voice tinged with disbelief.
“Yes. As I said, I want to learn more about you Scions. Those were not idle words.”
Emet smirked, letting go of the sceptre. “When you arrive, clean yourself and tend to your wounds." He points a gloved finger into the Keeper's bare chest, raising a brow. "Don’t needlessly worry the others."
Rhys shot him a dry look, pushing his hand away. "Yes, mother.”
Emet chuckled, stepping back into the deeper shadows slowly gathering around them. ”You know, for someone so fierce, you’re surprisingly easy to boss around.”
Rhys growled. “Fuck you!” at the same time, with a snap of Emet's fingers, they vanished.
They reappeared at the threshold of the Ocular.
But glancing back, he found Emet gone—vanished without a trace, leaving only the silent watch of the gods.
Disgusted at having spent the morning with the Ascian, Rhys nonetheless knew—deep down—that it had done him good. He had channeled some of his rage and frustration toward a real enemy.
He only hoped their escapade would remain a secret among the other Scions. The thought of Thancred’s disappointed gaze was something he preferred not to entertain.
☾
He had taken the time to wash and close his wounds, but his outfit was in no state to be worn again—full of sand, soaked through, and stained with blood in several places.
He returned to the room where he kept his gear and searched for a while before finding nearly the same outfit, but in black. He had no intention of wearing his robes, even if he owned an impressive collection of them.
A black drape, cinched at the waist with the same belt, the pleats fell to his knees, split high enough to give him freedom of movement. Tall black-and-gold boots. Gloves that reached almost to his elbows, their cuffs adorned with golden bracelets set with crystals. He fastened a few more crystals to his belt, leaving all his red mage equipment behind. He would clean it when he returned.
Despite what he had told himself—no. He wanted to wield black magic. He was in an explosive frame of mind and had no intention of showing mercy. With his friends at his side, he knew they would cover him. They had worked together for years, knew his positioning, his limits. And now, he was far more familiar with the enemy.
He was halfway to the door before he paused, glancing back at the unmade bed. With a sharp exhale, he snatched up a light sheet and threw it over his shoulders. No sense making things harder than they already were.
When he reached the Ocular, the door stood open, the low murmur of voices spilling out. Pushing it wide, he found everyone already gathered.
Heads turned. Smiles faltered.
Beyond the orange cloth draped over his shoulder, there was something… off about him. His face was shuttered, the markings along his skin fiercer, harsher than usual.
“Rough wake-up, Rhys?” Thancred broke the tension, giving the cloth an experimental tug.
Minfilia flinched at the sight of his eyes and neck—and screamed outright when Emet strolled in behind him. She could see it plainly: the darkness that clung to him, oppressive and suffocating, despite the small, pleasant smile on his lips.
It was as if he weren’t capable of wiping out everyone in the room with a snap of his fingers. Literally. He greeted the group with a shallow bow before leaning lazily against the crystalline wall, content to watch.
Rhys tilted his head toward his friend. “A bit rough, yes.” He rubbed at his right eye, dislodging a newly short lock of hair that had been tickling his eyelid. “But I’m looking forward to the woods. You know I like them.” He forced a smile, but the silence that followed told him enough—he probably looked more frightening than reassuring, with the faint glint of fangs behind his lips.
“Good. Everyone’s here.”
Rhys lifted his head and fixed his gaze on the mirror behind the Exarch, because he couldn’t bring himself to meet his face. The fatigue in the man’s voice matched his own.
The Exarch explained the situation in Rak’tika and informed them that he’d been summoned to Vauthry following his clash with Ran’jit—which meant Eulmore, directly. Rhys bit back the urge to warn him to be careful, to tell him the man was cunning, dangerous, unpredictable. But he had to trust him. He was a city leader, for gods’ sake—had been for a century. He didn’t need Rhys’s advice on how to rule. Rhys hardly knew how to do it himself.
Rhys, Thancred, Minfilia, and Urianger would head into the Rak’tika Greatwood. Alphinaud would go to Kholusia; his sister, to Amh Araeng. They would split up in search of the remaining Lightwardens.
“Hold on,” Thancred said, pointing at the Ascian. “He’s actually coming with us?”
Emet arched a brow. “Do not point, child. It is rude," he clicked his tongue. "Grant me the benefit of the doubt. Let me join you—just this once—and you can pass judgment when the expedition’s over.” He raised both hands in mock surrender. “I daresay my help will prove useful. Just try not to bore me.” With that, he took his leave, tossing Rhys an amused look before vanishing.
The group exchanged glances, silently wondering if they could truly work alongside an Ascian. It was Alphinaud, surprisingly, who spoke in his defense. Being the voice of reason among them, his opinion carried weight—and in the end, they agreed to give Emet the chance to prove himself.
Rhys was the first to leave when the meeting ended—something so rare that Alisaie was caught off guard. He hadn’t even spoken to the Exarch. She frowned, ready to follow, but Urianger stopped her with a hand on her arm.
“Whatever trials he faces, it would be wise to let him meet them alone.”
“But—” she began, glancing toward their host, only to relent with a sigh. She knew she was hardly in a position to demand answers from him. He’d given her the space to work through her own burdens, and she owed him the same courtesy.
“…All right.” She stepped back, defeated.
☾
Rak’tika did, in fact, resemble the Black Shroud.
The trees towered high above them, their dense canopy letting the brilliant light filter through only in scattered shafts.
For a fleeting moment, Rhys wondered if they’d somehow slipped back to the Source. But the ever-present, heavy thrum in the air quickly grounded him in reality. No—there was very much an enemy to hunt here.
They made their way through the forest, joined by their new recruit on the proverbial ejection seat: Emet-Selch. Who, apparently, had nothing better to do than tag along on their little adventures. Watching him stride among them was both surreal and absurd—tall, draped in imperial Garlean robes, always ready with a biting remark, a smile fixed permanently to his lips.
Thancred was delighted. Minfilia, traumatised by the oppressive weight of his aura. Urianger and Rhys were the only ones who bothered to answer him when he spoke.
And Rhys thought, gods, what a scene it would be when they found Y’shtola again. She, who didn’t trust the Exarch. Who had secluded herself in this forest because she thought him suspicious.
He couldn’t help a quiet chuckle. No, she was not going to be pleased to see an Ascian among their ranks. She was going to give them all an earful. And he was looking forward to it.
-
Their stay in Rak’tika was nothing short of remarkable.
The reunion with the Scion—who now called herself Matoya—had been… unsettling. She had embraced black magic, and at first had taken Rhys for a Lightwarden, so radiant was the Light within him.
She hadn’t recognised him.
The chill that passed through his heart then… through both their hearts… was glacial.
Physically, Rhys felt no different, yet he knew that, in time, something would inevitably change. Still, he had chosen to place his trust in the Exarch’s assurances about it all.
During their stay they met the people Y’shtola had made her own—whom she had led, in her way, for the past three years. The Night's blessed. Their rituals were hauntingly beautiful, stirring in ways that lingered long after.
Truly, Rhys loved the Crystarium, but he could easily imagine himself living in that small village. It felt like home in its own right—deep in the woods, wrapped in shadows, surrounded by people wholly devoted to a cause. People who prayed and painted themselves.
And he did not go unnoticed. Often, heads turned as he passed, and not solely because his reputation preceded him. No, it was something else—something dark, nightly, dangerous… familiar.
He bore the same ritual paints they did, and more than once, he’d been approached late at night with an invitation to pray together. Alone. Or with others.
And each time, he had held back. He didn’t know why. But he had.
-
One evening at the camp, after they had returned from an expedition, Rhys took advantage of the fact that Y’shtola was the only one still awake among their friends to draw her aside.
The fire crackled, voices murmured in the background, but he hardly heard them. He spoke her name quietly, and when she looked his way, he leaned in.
“Tell me… do you know much about Mystel instincts?” His voice was low. Her ears flicked, a subtle tell.
One elegant brow arched. “You’ll have to be more specific than that, dear.” There was a lilt of amusement in her tone. “I am acquainted with them, yes.”
He shifted, settling back into his seat before leaning forward again. “Let’s say that—”
“Rhys.” She lifted a hand, silencing him as neatly as she might still a careless novice. “Spare me the scenic route. Out with it.” Her lips curved, just faintly — the smile of someone who knows you’re about to embarrass yourself and will let you do it anyway.
He swallowed. “Fine.” He stared down at his hands, fingers twisting together. “I’ve been feeling an… abnormal attraction toward someone. Almost destructive. And it’s mutual.”
She said nothing. The silence demanded more.
“They’re a Mystel, too.”
That made her lean in — not hurriedly, but with a deliberate air, as if to scent out every layer of his discomfort. His already soft voice dropped to a whisper.
“I’ve never been drawn to males before. I mean I did, once, but it was years ago. But him… it’s not just physical. I feel real affection, though I barely know him. It’s not normal — it happened far too suddenly, and we’re both… a little overwhelmed.”
He scrubbed a hand over his face, cheeks burning.
Still, she remained silent, head tilted, as if appraising a particularly intriguing specimen. Then, with maddening calm, she raised a single finger.
“Wait.”
And so he waited — trapped under her gaze, mortified.
“Is it one of my people?” she asked at last.
Rhys froze. He couldn’t tell her who it was, and chose instead to stay vague. She didn’t press.
“Very well,” she said, with a small shrug. “It does seem a little sudden, but such things can happen.”
He nodded, waiting for her to continue.
“Between a male and a female, the female may find herself courted… quite vigorously,” she mused, her pale gaze lifting back to his face. “Between two males, however… I’m less certain.”
Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “Have you been close? Physically?”
Rhys went still. There was no point lying. If he wanted answers, he’d have to be honest.
“Yes,” he said at last, his voice unsteady. “Touch my hands — look how they’re shaking. Just thinking of him… of the touches we shared…”
She placed a cool hand over one of his, and the flicker of surprise on her face might almost have been comical.
“We’ve… shared a few rare kisses. Tender embraces. Chaste caresses.” He ducked his head, mortified to speak the words aloud. “And… less chaste ones. Just with our bodies pressed together.”
The memory was too vivid — too dangerous. He rose abruptly, disgusted by the way his body betrayed him.
She stood as well, catching him by the arm. “Come,” she said, tugging him away from the firelight. “Walk with me.”
He raked a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply, and followed as they left the camp behind.
“Tell me…” Her voice softened, though her gaze stayed sharp. “…did you attack each other? Feel the urge to claim?”
“Yes,” he admitted, his voice almost a growl. “It’s unbearable.”
“Does that need outweigh the feelings you share?”
“I’d like to say no, but… sometimes the urges are so strong I can’t think straight.” He hated admitting it. “He, on the other hand, manages to control himself—more or less. Better than I do, certainly.” He raked a hand through his hair again, hesitating. “I want to spend my life with him. And I’ve known him less than a month.” He lifted his gaze to her. “I hope that answers your question. It’s… difficult.”
Her expression shifted, caught somewhere between surprise and curiosity. She seemed to weigh her next words before asking, “Have you marked each other?”
He froze, his entire body trembling at the mere mention of the word. And that was answer enough.
“Why wait,” she pressed, “if you both feel it’s the right thing to do?”
“Because it’s complicated. I can’t bind myself to someone who exists on another reflection. If something were to happen here… I don’t know how I’d survive once we returned home.” He told himself it was a safer explanation than the truth, though in essence it amounted to the same. And as the words left him, he realized he meant them—truly. The realization made him draw a sharp breath, dread surging like a wave, one more weight added to the growing pile crushing his chest.
“I don’t know what I’ll do without him. I… I don’t know, Y’shtola. It’s driving me out of my mind.” He sank into a crouch, clutching his head in his hands.
His anguish was almost tangible, creeping into her own chest like a contagion. She knelt beside him, laying a steady hand on his shoulder. For a moment, her expression softened with a private grief she didn’t share. Rhys looked dangerously close to breaking.
“You’re absolutely certain you haven’t marked each other?” she asked, her tone careful but pointed. “Not even in the heat of the moment, when neither of you was thinking clearly? Because looking at you now…” She let the thought trail off, her knowing gaze speaking louder than her words.
“I’m certain. I would remember!” His hand drifted unconsciously to his left ear—and he almost collapsed then and there. No, it was impossible. His G’raha was in the Tower, in Mor Dhona. He recalled again, and again, the last glimpse he’d taken of it before traveling to the First. Only yesterday, he’d seen the Exarch’s left shoulder bare. No tattoo. Even in the state he’d been in, he had noticed that detail. The Exarch was not G’raha Tia. He was certain—utterly certain—of that now. And it was impossible for one man to exist in two places, in two worlds, at once.
“In that case,” she murmured, giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze, “perhaps you are simply meant for each other.”
The words made something inside him wither.
“If the feelings are as strong—or stronger—than the physical pull, then nothing can drive people to such a state except fighting against the very nature, the very fate, that binds them.”
“I don’t know where I stand anymore. It’s… terrible.” His voice was low, raw, as he tried to steady himself, to absorb words that were cutting him to pieces.
Bound by fate to the Exarch. The same man that pulled him between worlds. That defied fate itself. Which would make him, in truth, his life partner.
There had been a time when Rhys had thought perhaps G’raha was meant to be that partner—but they had never had enough time to nurture what had only just begun to blossom.
“I hope you find the strength to rise again,” Y’shtola said at last, straightening before offering him her hand. “You have no choice but to rise, Rhys. To keep moving. No matter how much it frustrates you. No matter how deeply it grieves you.” She paused, eyes softening. “We will save this shard. We will keep them all safe. And if I must find a way to travel the Rift itself to keep us from losing contact, I will.”
Those were the words he had been waiting for, without knowing it.
He stood with effort. “We will save this shard,” he echoed.
☾
The days passed, each unlike the last—every one of them brimming with new trials and discoveries.
Their travels had brought them to Fanow, a village built high among the trees, home to the Viis—tall, imposing rabbitfolk like Lyna.
They immersed themselves in the region’s folklore, but their respite was short-lived. An Eulmoran detachment had tracked them to the depths of Rak’tika, and the party soon found themselves ambushed amid the crumbling grandeur of ancient ruins. Ran'jit was there, waiting.
The battle that followed was both treacherous and brutal. In its wake, they lost their newly reunited friend—swallowed by a yawning abyss.
The shock was still fresh when Emet, who had vanished shortly after they first entered the forest, reappeared without warning.
What came next silenced them all—he pulled Y’shtola back from the Lifestream as effortlessly as one might pluck a pebble from a pond. The ease of it was staggering, a stark reminder of how unpredictable—and dangerous—the Ascians’ powers truly were.
Her recovery took several days. When at last she was well enough to travel, they resumed the hunt for the great Sin Eater. Their latest lead brought them to another set of ruins, where they prepared for yet another assault.
The fighting was fierce—fiercer than anywhere they’d been thus far. The sin eaters here seemed driven by a particular savagery, and Rhys threw himself into the fray with relish, pushing his limits with every strike. Thancred kept a watchful eye, but more than once had to call him back, catching him straying too far into danger without so much as a warning.
And Emet surprised them yet again.
They had seen murals—ancient, fading scenes—and he had explained their meaning. Whether his account was true, none of them could say; after all, the events he described had taken place thousands of years ago. Yet Y’shtola regarded his words with striking gravity—and that was no small thing.
The revelation that Hydaelyn and Zodiark were primals had landed like a thunderclap. To hear that the history they knew was not the history that had actually been lived was equally hard to believe. They longed for answers, but patience would be the price of them.
Rhys no longer knew what to think of Hydaelyn. He had already begun to question Her, seeing the state this reflection was in—but to learn She was a primal… Even bearing the Blessing of Light, he could not shake the thought that he might already be enthralled. Guided down this path without ever realising it.
☾
Y’shtola was bidding farewell to her people while the rest of the group waited for her before setting out. She would return in a few days, but her absence would be felt. She was always there for them—their anchor, their leader.
And the closer the moment of departure drew, the more Rhys found himself thinking that no—he did not want to leave. He did not want to see the Exarch. He did not want to suffer again, feeling him in the same room. He had no idea how he would react. Now that the thrill of the journey had faded, he did not know how he would manage his feelings. He wanted only to forget, if only for a night.
A hand touched his arm, just above the glove, and he looked down. A young Hyur met his gaze, her eyes saying more than her lips.
“Why not stay a while tonight?” she whispered.
He lifted his gaze, and then he saw him—
Standing just behind her, hand clasped around hers, was a Miqo’te Keeper—like himself—yet so striking it made his pulse stumble.
Hair and fur so white they caught every shard of moonlight. Eyes a shade of pink so deep they nearly bordered on red. For a dizzying heartbeat, Rhys’s gaze lingered on the curve of those lips, the line of that jaw—overlaid in his mind with another face. Softer, yes, but just as unyielding.
Something twisted tight in his chest.
The man’s mouth curved into a slow, almost coy smile, half invitation, half challenge. Rhys stepped toward him without thinking, shoulders squared, breath catching. His hand rose, deliberate, to rest against the man’s neck.
A stunned silence fell over the camp at such a brazen display for all to see. Thancred let out a whistle, but Urianger caught his forearm to still him. Y’shtola folded her arms, head tilting slightly, ears pricked in sharp attention.
“If the Exarch asks…” Rhys’s hand slid upward, brushing over the man’s lips, coaxing them apart just enough to glimpse the sharp fangs beneath. "Tell him I'm fine."
His fingers traced the light-brown curve of the cheek, the moonlight blanching it pale. "Tell him not to worry."
For a heartbeat, his touch lingered, as if seeking something—something that wasn’t there. Slowly, his hand drifted higher, grazing the fur-soft tips of the ears. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”
Thancred’s hand came down over Minfilia’s eyes.
Rhys gave a low growl, seized both their hands, and led them away at a determined pace—wherever they intended to take him to pray.
He did not wait for an answer. He hadn’t realised until that moment how desperately he needed an escape—at least until he saw that white fur, those almost-red eyes.
☾
Next morning, at dawn.
Rhys dressed slowly, fingers moving with deliberate care in the cave’s dim, firelit gloom. The scent of sweat and smoke still clung to him.
The two who had shared the night with him lay tangled in rugs and pelts, limp and senseless after he had driven them past the edge—one, then the other—until they collapsed beneath the weight of his hunger.
And yet… the hollow in his chest remained. No, not hollow—aching. Starved. Something was missing. Someone.
He closed the bite marks he had left on their throats, erasing the evidence. He’d forbidden them to mark him in return—no teeth, no unnecessary touch—and they had obeyed without question, pliant to his will. They had recognised something in him. The one who had brought the Night. The one who felt… known, familiar.
And still, it tasted of nothing.
A sharp pang of guilt twisted through him. Even if he and the Exarch were not… whatever it was they had shared or had never shared, the thought of what he had done—what he had taken for himself in those dark hours—made his stomach churn.
The fire inside him flared again when his mind lingered on the Exarch’s face, half-shrouded in darkness, waiting for him in the Crystarium. That heat would never fade, no matter how many bodies he used to dull it. All he had done was scrape the edge of the ache, leaving it raw and thudding in his chest.
He stepped from the cave shortly after dressing. The cold air hit him like a clean blade—sharp, bracing. And just in time, the Ascian appeared.
No words. No smile. Only a nod of acknowledgment, and a hand extended in silent invitation.
Rhys crossed the distance without thinking, guilt and pain entwined in every step.
“Lakeland.”
-
Emet set him down at the lake’s edge before vanishing once more.
Rhys walked the short distance to the city gates, nodding to the guards standing watch, allowing them at last a chance at rest.
The city and its outskirts were blessedly calm, a welcome contrast to the ceaseless stir of Rak’tika. He had always liked the Crystarium—he liked it very much.
Reaching the base of the Tower, he drew in a deep, steadying breath before pushing open the great doors and closing his eyes. The familiar scent—crystal, clean air—enveloped him, soothing and achingly familiar. This was home, perhaps foolishly, but it was home nonetheless.
He moved toward the Allagan cube—and froze.
Seven Hells—no.
No. Why him. Why now.
Rhys should have gone to the Pendants first.
They regarded each other in silence for a heartbeat. Then the Exarch’s lips curved into a faint, welcoming smile.
That smile. So shy. So gentle, always.
I don't deserve him.
The man stepped aside from the cube, giving Rhys room to approach. “There seems to be some movement near Lakeland,” he said, gesturing toward the main doors. “I just… wanted to be certain.”
Damn his voice—so unsteady, so betraying how much he cared. How much he wanted to ask simple questions, such as "how are you feeling?", or "are you okay?"
Rhys gave a brief nod, now keeping his gaze fixed on the floor as he moved past toward the cube.
He fled.
Like a thief, he just fled. Unable to stay near him.
Once inside his chambers, he stripped off his clothes and set the bath to fill—almost scalding.
He bathed for half an bell, maybe more, scrubbing until his skin burned. He felt unclean. Filthy.
And all the while, a single, desperate thought clawed at him: Please, let him not have noticed. Let him not have caught the scent—the faint trace of the others still clinging to me.
Even from afar, the weight of what he’d done pressed on him, sharp and insistent. He had told the Exarch he would do… disgusting things, all to maintain control. Yet now, the truth of it gnawed at him, sour and wrong. It wasn’t power or discipline he felt—it was guilt, mingled with a longing that made the ache in his chest sharper than ever.
-
He took his time reapplying the paint to his skin and cleaning his gear before slipping into one of his long black robes. He was fastening the crystals at his waist when the door to his chambers slammed open, the crystal wall shuddering with the impact.
Alisaie.
“There’s an attack on Lakeland.”
He snatched up his staff and hurried after her into the hall.
“Eulmore—war’s broken out,” she said. “The Exarch’s asked us to activate the levers around the city so he can raise the protective barrier for the civilians.”
Rhys stopped short. “How is he?” He’d seen him leave for Lakeland earlier. A terrible rumble rolled through the air—if something had happened to him…
“Shaken more than hurt. He’s waiting on us to do our part. Now come on, Rhys—move, for the love of the gods!”
And they ran.
Their boots rang against the crystal floors, the sound echoing off the vaulted halls.
Out in the streets, the early morning calm was shattered by the toll of warning bells. Crystal panels in the outer walls shimmered faintly, the city’s defenses stirring to life.
Alisaie darted ahead, nimble as a shadow, weaving between merchants hastily shuttering their stalls. “East lever’s closest!” she called over her shoulder.
The air tasted of storm—metallic, heavy—and each tremor underfoot carried the distant roar of battle. Rhys gripped his staff tighter, forcing himself to focus on the task, though his mind kept circling back to the Exarch: shaken, not hurt. He clung to that.
They reached the first lever, half-hidden behind a column of crystal. Alisaie threw her weight against it, and with a deep, resonant hum, the first segment of the barrier flared to life.
“One down,” she said, already sprinting toward the next. “Don’t fall behind now!”
They raced to activate the rest of the levers, running like the damned. Where was Emet when you actually needed him?
Rhys caught sight of soldiers spilling from the city gates, disappearing into the treeline. If only they would hurry—he needed to join them.
Yet, despite the pull of battle, his feet carried him elsewhere. He had to see him.
The Ocular doors slammed open. The Exarch stood before the mirror, staff grounded at his side, his back rigid with focus. He turned at once, hood casting his face in shadow, and his hand rose in a swift, defensive curl of magic.
“Why are you—?” The question cut off, sharp and wary.
Rhys closed the distance, hands raised in surrender, eyes wide and desperate.
He longed to reach out, to run his fingers along the line of the Exarch’s neck—but he stopped himself. He could not.
Instead, he let his gaze roam, taking in every inch: the tilt of his shoulders, the tension in his arms, the grip on his staff, the steady rhythm of his breathing.
His eyes memorized the curve of his jaw, the way the light hit his features, searching for any sign of harm.
Each glance reassured him, yet made the ache worse—the longing to touch, to hold, to simply confirm with skin what his eyes already told him.
Gods, I love you so much. Please, stay safe.
He dragged a trembling hand across his own face, grounding himself, trying to push down the rush of emotions.
Relief surged, fierce and raw. He was okay.
Without another word, he turned and left, swift as he had come.
Behind him, the Exarch remained, whole and unharmed, unaware of the storm Rhys had just endured—both the fear and the restraint, the love and the guilt.
-
Outside, the battle was nothing short of brutal.
Sin eaters everywhere.
Fingers white-knuckled around his staff, loosing spell after spell into a sky choked with flying creatures, Rhys was feeling more alive than ever. He felt like he had a purpose, here.
Every impact of claw against ward, every inhuman roar rattled his bones. His black robes, already dust-stained, tore in places, clinging to his skin with sweat and blood.
Thancred shouted from a few paces away, warning him to fall back, but Rhys shook his head, jaw clenched. He had to hold the line, protect the others.
Nearby, Lyna fought valiantly, but Rhys caught sight of her faltering under a sudden surge of enemies. With a desperate roar, he launched himself into the fray, his magic flaring wildly as he carved a path through the sin eaters to reach her.
A jagged claw slashed across his forearm, tearing flesh and sending a burst of agony through his arm. He barked a curse, gritting his teeth as he grabbed Lyna’s hand and pulled her free.
The wound burned fiercely, and he could taste blood in his mouth from a graze on his cheek, but Rhys refused to show weakness.
For how weak he was in the presence of the Exarch and his feelings, he always was adamant in the battlefield.
The barrier around the city shimmered faintly in the distance—a fragile hope that had to hold.
He cast another spell, channeling every ounce of strength left in him, turning the tide momentarily. His breaths were ragged, his body trembling with exhaustion and pain.
Still, they stood.
Still, they got each other's back.
-
Later that afternoon, the return to the Ocular was brief.
They found the Exarch seated on the small steps, his posture heavy, as though the battle had drained him to the marrow. One by one, they delivered their reports on the situation beyond the city walls.
The Crystarium itself had been spared—its inner streets and civilians untouched. The barrier had held, forcing the enemy back and denying them entry.
“My meeting with Vauthry… did not end well,” the Exarch said, his voice carrying despite the weariness etched into his features. “War is now inevitable.” He paused, the faintest shadow lacing his words. “But there is another matter—worse still.”
Vauthry was no mere tyrant. He was akin to a primal, wielding the power to bend others to his will—and he had very nearly ensnared the Crystal Exarch himself. They might have lost him entirely had he not taken the safer course, sending only a projection in his place.
Rhys shut his eyes, a slow, simmering rage coiling within him.
He had almost lost him—and hadn’t even known.
Oh, but he would make that wretched primal pay. He longed to see him burn, to unleash Hell itself upon him. The thought alone made his body tremble, every muscle taut with anticipation for the fight to come.
He didn’t even realize he was growling under his breath until Y’shtola’s hand came to rest lightly on his shoulder, her blank gaze searching his face.
“We’ll have his head,” she said at last, her tone measured but edged with steel. She turned to the rest.
“If you can still stand, come with me. We have injured to tend to—more hands will be welcome.” Without another word, she slipped out the door.
Rhys moved to follow, but Thancred’s hand caught his arm.
“See to your own wounds first.” His eyes flicked to Rhys’s back, where his robe hung in tatters, thin lines of fresh blood visible through the fabric.
“I will, brother,” Rhys replied, already heading for the door. “Don’t trouble yourself over me.”
✹
Thancred was the only one who stayed behind after everyone else had left. After all, he was the only one among them without any skill in healing magic.
The Exarch lifted his head, noticing the man’s lingering presence. Raising the barrier—and holding it for so long—had drained him completely. Even standing was a struggle.
“You should talk to Rhys,” Thancred said at last. “He usually listens to you. Ever since Rak’tika, he’s been…” He gestured vaguely to the ceiling, exasperated and unsure where to begin. “He’s been reckless. I can’t watch his back all the time.”
“I don’t think—” the Exarch started.
“Exarch. I saw him out there today. On the front lines. With that damned staff, no real armor to protect him.” Thancred’s gaze dropped, the memory still vivid and painful. “He fought like a man possessed. And yes—it’s admirable, his dedication to the mission. But there are limits.”
Hearing this chilled the Exarch as much as it did Thancred. Yet he wasn’t sure he was the right person to confront Rhys about it. He could only imagine the turmoil Rhys was facing—and feared more than anything that it would one day cost him his life.
“Did you see his eyes?” Thancred pressed, worry bleeding into his voice. “He looked dead inside. Like he doesn’t care anymore—whether he lives or dies.”
The words struck deep. If he hadn’t been sitting, he might have collapsed under their weight.
“I’ll see what I can do,” he managed, steadying his voice by sheer will.
“Did something happen between you two?”
The question caught him off guard, but he kept his composure. Guilt churned in his gut, sharp enough to make him feel sick.
“I’m… not sure,” he lied without hesitation. “Get some rest, Thancred. I’ll keep you informed.”
Thancred ran a hand through his hair, exhaling heavily. “That kid’s going to be the death of me.”
-
The rest of the day passed swiftly, busy as they were.
The spagyric clinic was crowded, the civilians helped carrying furniture outside, on the Exedra, where more wounded could be tended to.
In a rare moment of calm, Alphinaud pulled Rhys aside and insisted he undress so he could tend to the wound on his back. Rhys found it pointless—better to conserve their efforts and aether for those who truly needed it. He barely felt the pain from the torn flesh, the patches of skin scorched raw.
All his thoughts fixated on Vauthry. Killing him for the insult. Cutting down the rest of the Lightwardens. Helping the people of the Crystarium in their time of need.
“My attempts to track down the Lightwarden in Kholusia have all come to nothing,” Alphinaud said quietly, cleaning and closing the wounds. “Alisaie has had more luck than I in Amh Araeng.” His tone was calm, measured. “We discussed it yesterday, once the others returned. We’ll likely head to the desert once things settle here.”
He stepped close, placing a hand gently against Rhys’s face to close a shallow cut on his cheek. “Where were you yesterday, Rhys? Thancred told us you were taking part in the festivities, but…”
“Yes. That’s what I was doing,” Rhys replied shortly. “And it’s a good thing I came back when I did.”
He couldn’t bear to imagine what might have happened if he had stayed away any longer.
“Alisaie mentioned she was concerned ab—”
“No.” Rhys rose, unwilling to continue. “We’ve wasted enough time. Let’s get back to work. Subject closed, Alphi. Please.”
Alphinaud knew there was no point pressing further.
-
The chaos finally eased in the middle of the night.
Rhys caught Urianger’s eye and gestured toward the twins, sitting side by side on the ground—fast asleep, utterly spent. They had given everything, and had earned their rest.
He gathered Alphinaud into his arms, waiting for his friend to lift the other twin.
They passed near the entrance of the clinic, where the air was thick with the scent of blood, crushed herbs, and the sharp tang of tinctures. Soft lamplight painted the walls in warm gold, but the heaviness in the room spoke of exhaustion more than comfort.
Rhys had only meant to pass through on the way to the Pendants, but movement in the corner caught his eye.
Lyna was heading for the main doors.
He went to her without thinking.
“Captain,” he greeted quietly. “You took a nasty hit.”
She gave a faint, wry smile. “It’s nothing. I’ve had worse.”
He stopped just before her, letting his eyes linger—once—on the damage she tried so hard to downplay. The fabric of her uniform was torn, a dark stain peeking from beneath fresh wrappings.
“I’m glad you’re safe,” he said simply. “You should rest for the night.”
That earned him a sharper look. She seemed ready to argue, but his gaze didn’t waver. After a moment, she exhaled, some of the tension easing from her shoulders.
“You fought well,” he added, softer now in the face of her stubbornness. “Some of your men are still fit to stand watch—they’ll keep Lakeland safe in your stead.”
Her eyes lowered in a rare show of fatigue. She dipped her head slightly—not quite a bow, but close enough. “Thank you for your concern.”
He hesitated, glancing behind him where Urianger waited, then leaned in a fraction. “I need to ask something of you… Watch over him—the Exarch—in my stead. Just… make sure he’s all right.”
Something flickered in her expression—surprise, yes, but also quiet understanding. She studied him for a long moment, her gaze steady enough to make him feel far too exposed.
“You know I always watch over him. But yes, you have my word,” she said at last, her tone carrying more weight than the words themselves.
“Thank you, Lyna. We’ll be on our way,” he said, glancing to the sleeping Alphinaud in his arms. “See you tomorrow, all right?”
Her eyes shifted to the young man, and she nodded. Then she acknowledged Urianger with another nod. “You’ve earned your rest as well,” she said before bowing her head properly. “And… thank you for coming to my aid earlier.”
With a short nod of his own, Rhys stepped back, catching Urianger’s patient silhouette still outside. They had places to be, but leaving Lyna without saying anything—without ensuring the Exarch had someone watching his back—had never been an option.
They parted ways in the Quadrivium, Lyna heading toward the Stairs, the Scions toward the Pendants.
They carried the twins into Rhys’s own room, where he tucked them gently into bed.
Leaning down, he pressed a light kiss to each of their foreheads before turning out the lights and stepping back.
Urianger’s hand came to rest on his arm, drawing his gaze upward.
“Y’shtola and Thancred await us at the Stairs, if thou wouldst join them. Minfilia hath just gone to bed—she hath laboured well this day.”
He nodded, following Urianger downstairs. He still needed à bath, but it ciuld wait. Time with his friends might do his spirits some good.
As they reached the Quadrivium, they spotted Emet. He greeted them with a shallow bow before fixing his gaze on Rhys.
“You look terrible.”
Scowling, Rhys showed him the middlefinger. Pointing out the obvious when he was already upset wasn’t helping.
Urianger pressed something into his hand—a linkpearl. Ah. He understood. How, he couldn’t say. Shame flooded him.
“Rhysard?”
The voice rolled through the night air—low, rich, utterly unmistakable. It struck him like an arrow, sinking deep before he could brace himself.
His chest tightened painfully. Gods, he had missed that voice. The warmth in it. The strength. The way it could quiet storms in his mind—if only he’d let it.
“Have you a moment? It’s important.”
His throat closed. His body leaned forward without permission, instinct clawing at him to go, to answer, to close the distance.
“Seven Hells, no.”
The words slipped out before he even realized he’d spoken them. Emet raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised to hear him curse at anything other than himself.
Rhys’s gut twisted.
All he wanted was to be here with him tonight—to mourn those lost alongside the Exarch, to ease the weight of his sorrow. To hold him close and let the world fade for a moment. The man carried so much, so many responsibilities, he deserved a reprieve, even just for a night.
A sharp pang of guilt stabbed him. He couldn't stay. Couldn't give him the affection he deserved.
I shouldn’t even want this. Not after what I’ve done… after everything I left behind.
Care clashed violently with responsibility, Rhys felt the weight of both pressing down on him—heavy, suffocating, inescapable.
He turned to Urianger, fist tightening. “Thank you for this. I won’t be staying tonight after all.”
Then he lifted his gaze to the Ascian : “Rak’tika.”
He spoke the word quietly, yet everyone heard it. And just like that—before the stunned eyes of all his friends and the Exarch—he seized the Ascian’s arm, and the two vanished in a swirl of darkness.
The ease, the unspoken understanding between such an unlikely pair was undeniable. This was not the first time they had done this.
-
Rak’tika thrummed with noise and light, even in the dead of night. The celebrations would rage on for days—unceasing, sleepless.
Materializing in the heart of the camp, Rhys’s gaze swept the crowd with the precision of a predator, locking almost instantly onto a pair of white feline ears in the distance. The pink eyes lifted to meet his.
He growled low, closing the distance in long, decisive strides until he had the Mystel pinned against the tree where he’d been resting.
The look the man gave him—and the arm winding around his waist—left no room for doubt. Rhys hooked his hands beneath his thighs, lifting him effortlessly, and crushed his mouth to his in a fierce, hungry kiss against the rough bark.
He caught the man’s wrists, pressing them above his head, denying him the chance to touch. A low, feral sound rumbled from the other as he tried to bite mid-kiss. Rhys’s dangerous glare sent the ears flattening instantly—the spark of rebellion flickering out, replaced by sudden docility in his grasp.
Emet watched from the side, surprised, before breaking into slow, sardonic applause. Cheers and whistles erupted across the camp. After all, there were many ways to release the pressure of battle—choosing flesh over bloodshed was hardly the worst. Emet thought with mild amusement that Rhys would certainly be asking him to return here more often.
Rhys was drowning in the tangle of conflicting emotions. The mouth pressed against his only summoned memories of another body—one he couldn't have.
The sight of the Exarch moments before—the way he had carried himself, unshakable even under the weight of loss—struck him so sharply it left him trembling.
He wanted to call the Exarch’s true name, to anchor himself to that presence—but he couldn’t, he didn't know it. And speaking his title would be even worse with everyone listening.
So when his lips parted, what escaped was instinct. A name bound to memory, to the Allagan royal line. Someone close. The nearest thing his heart could find in the dark.
His voice broke through the kiss, barely audible, the word slipping past his lips instinctively: “Raha.”
Even as it left him, a stab of guilt pierced his chest. This isn’t him. I shouldn’t…
But reason drowned in the flood of need and pain. Broken inside and out, he clung to the man before him. He didn’t know his name. Didn’t care. Tonight, it was “Raha,” even if it was wrong, even if it twisted something inside him, it was the closest he had to the Exarch.
Tears burned his eyes, furious, devastating, before spilling hot down his cheeks. He didn’t wipe them away. He didn't care.
He only wanted to lose himself.
He just wanted to forget.
“I hope you managed some rest today,” he murmured, though even to his own ears the words sounded strange, as though spoken from far away.
A nod answered him—slow, almost dazed.
“Good,” he whispered darkly, voice shaking with hunger and rage against himself. “Hold on tight.”
Then he pulled him closer, and he took him—here, without ceremony. In front of everyone, without hesitation.
Just like the animal he was.
Just like the animal he knew he had become.
✹
Meanwhile, in the Crystarium.
The Scions and the Exarch sat around the table in heavy silence, their appetites long gone after the day’s harrowing events.
It was Thancred who finally broke the quiet.
“He’s not well,” he said, voice low and taut. “What could have put him in such a state?” He glanced around at his companions, searching for answers that weren’t forthcoming.
Y’shtola remained silent, her expression unreadable. She had sensed the tension between the two men earlier that day. Something was wrong—deeply, profoundly wrong. She lifted her sightless eyes toward the Exarch, waiting for him to speak, though she feared what she might learn.
Thancred pressed on, voice serious. “I’ve only seen him like that once before. It was after—”
“G’raha Tia.” Y'shtola said, voice steady and strong.
The name landed like a stone in still water.
The impact was immediate, the Exarch felt it like a blow, and he forced himself to turn his head slightly toward her, feigning only mild interest.
“I’ve heard that name before,” he said evenly. “Rhys asked me once if I had found him in the Tower, when he first arrived.”
“He was a dear friend to Rhys. Losing him left a wound he never truly healed from,” Y’shtola added, her tone steady but heavy.
She cursed her blindness once more—wishing she could have read the Exarch’s expression, to see if his neck bore tattoos. His scent was unmistakable—Miqo’te—but she refused to believe he was the same man Rhys had spoken of just nights before.
She spoke in the past tense. They all knew that G’raha Tia would not be waking anytime soon.
“After G’raha sealed the Crystal Tower on the Source,” Thancred continued, his jaw tightening, “Cid—another of our friends—asked us to watch over him. Said he was… unstable. A few weeks later, he threw himself into studying black magic. Said it helped keep his mind off things. But something darker started to emerge. I couldn’t say exactly what.” He glanced toward Y’shtola, herself clad in black.
A brief silence fell before she spoke. “He was far more open when practicing red magic. But when he dons those black robes, he becomes… not quite another person, but far more consumed with destruction. His record as the Warrior of Light has only grown more fearsome since taking that path.”
Urianger gave a slow, deliberate nod. “He had taken up his rapier once more, Y’shtola—before we set out to join you. And soon after, he reclaimed his staff.” He cast a brief glance at the Exarch, but said no more.
“In any case,” Thancred said, voice sharp and tense, “he needs to stop this madness of playing black mage on the front lines. If he wants to die, it won’t be under my bloody watch!”
He stood abruptly, the slap of his palms against the table ringing sharply in the quiet room.
"And what does he think he’s doing with that Ascian? Why won’t he come to us instead of tearing himself apart like this? Gods damn it!”
Turning away, he paced the room, struggling to burn off his fury. Watching his friend spiral like this was driving him to the edge.
“Sometimes,” Urianger said gently, “one doth find it easier to unburden one’s fears to those beyond our most trusted circle.”
He was observing Thancred’s restless pacing and the way he ran his hands over his face. The man was already overwhelmed caring for Minfilia; adding more worries was more than he could bear.
Y’shtola gave a small, silent nod.
“With such confidants, one may reveal weakness—the shadowed, untempered self—without fear of disappointment, without the weight of expectation pressing down upon the spirit,” he continued, keeping his gaze deliberately from the hooded figure seated opposite him.
“If Rhys finds solace, or some measure of understanding, in the company of Emet-Selch and… others… then it must be permitted, so long as it serves to temper the storm within him.”
Rising as well, Urianger added, “Yet the resolution of that which troubles him must come from within. Should he seek not our counsel, there exists little else we may do. All that remaineth for us is to watch and to wait.”
“Wait for him to destroy himself before our eyes?” Y’shtola shot back, brow furrowed. “I don’t think I can stand by and watch that, Urianger.”
“Then we remain vigilant,” Urianger replied, voice steady, composed, yet carrying quiet authority. “That, and naught else, is within our power. I shall speak with his Ascian companion—and endeavor to temper Thancred’s own ire, that it may not cloud his judgment.”
He bid them goodnight and left to find his friend, who had wandered to the Exedra.
The Exarch sat frozen, cursing himself and the whole situation. Alone now with Y’shtola, he knew he would not leave this encounter unscathed.
“I am blind, so I cannot see you,” she said bluntly, her voice cutting through the silence. “But tell me honestly—are you G’raha Tia, or do you have any connection to him?”
He answered swiftly. He had considered telling her the truth but doubted she could keep it quiet, especially with her friend in such distress.
“No,” he said evenly. "And I am sorry. It seems everyone here… wishes, in one way or another, that I were that man."
Rising, he added, “I will do what I can to help him—if he allows me. But I fear I am… not enough to convince him.”
He turned to leave, but her voice followed him, relentless and impossible to ignore. Frozing him in place.
“At Rak’tika. Thancred told me you were close—friends, even.”
He could see where this conversation was heading.
“Yet that’s not the feeling I get when I’m around you. You’re distant. But somehow very close at the same time.”
He drew in a slow breath, the barest shadow of a pained smile tugging at his lips. “I suppose that is all I am permitted—to be close enough to see, and not close enough to shield him from what he must endure.”
Her pale eyes made him uneasy; there was no escaping her gaze. “I’ll tell you again, as many times as it takes—I don’t trust you. I will never trust you.”
She rose from her seat.
“Rhys’ heart is clearly broken. If you are the cause of this entire charade, do us both a favor—do him a favor. Make things right. Or at the very least, do everything you can to help him before it costs him his life.”
Without waiting for an answer, she turned and walked toward the Pendants.
The Exarch sat back down, straightening his posture.
By the Twelve.
This situation had spiraled far beyond what he had imagined, and he felt utterly powerless. The thought of Rhys in such torment made him sick—but he had a promise to keep. Yet he could not help if he kept running away like this.
Exhausted, he found no strength left to walk back to the Tower. Gathering his reserves, he focused deeply, the ether around him swirling.
In a flash of blue light, he vanished.
He reappeared on Rhys’ bed, inside the Tower.
Sealing the door from within with a flick of his crystalline hand, he reached for the blue cloak among the blankets.
Removing his hood, he pressed the blue fabric to his face, inhaling deeply.
Cinnamon. That sharp yet sweet scent—from the same pigments the Keeper had long applied to his skin, seared into its memory.
He let himself linger there for a heartbeat, imagining Rhys’ warmth, the closeness he could not claim, the hand he could not take.
Helpless longing coiled in his chest, fierce and private. He ached to be near him, to hold him close even for a moment.
He closed his eyes, pressing the cloak a little closer. Helplessness coiled in his chest like iron, but he could not despise him—not even for the night Rhys would spend elsewhere. He would simply hold onto this fragment, this quiet nearness, and let it carry him through the hours.
Sleep was urgent, but so was the faint comfort of imagining Rhys near—safe, even if only in memory.
