Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Fluixon knew the battle was already lost. His men lay dead, the field silent but for the clash of enemies closing in. Thomas was out there—close, but unseen. And what difference would it make? Two men against an entire army, it was nothing more than delaying the inevitable. Yet his pride held him fast; it blazed hotter than fear and was louder than reason. 

He wouldn’t let himself be taken by people he considered beneath him. Fluixon skidded to a halt at the edge of Infernus Castle, his gaze drawn to the molten pool below. The lava roared and spat, its glow clawing at his skin, heat burning the air around him. Jagged shards of stone jutted from the depths—merciless things that could end a life in a heartbeat.

He stood there, chest heaving, the screams and clash of battle fading into a dull ringing in his ears. Maybe this was it. Maybe it was always meant to end like this.

His fingers trembled at his side, not from fear, but from something heavier. Something like acceptance. The world had taken everything from him—his men, his name, the last shred of whatever he once believed in. He could risk everything to escape — or he could fall, horribly, and die. 

But if it came to it, death would be on his own terms

He looked down again, at the glow waiting below, and almost laughed.

“Figures,” he muttered under his breath.

So when the enemies closed in from every side, Fluixon did the unthinkable. With nothing left but defiance, he cast aside all logic— and hurled himself into the flames below, a final act of pride and madness. He barely registered the roar of men as they watched him fall from the Infernus Castle. The air scraped against his bruises, stung at the open cuts he’d earned in battle. Every breath burned, every movement hurt, but none of it mattered. His eyes caught only one thing—a flash of white on the mountainside.

Saparata.

And while the others cheered, his face was different. No triumph. No joy. Just something that twisted in Fluixon’s chest, something he couldn’t bring himself to name. 

He had no time to grasp, no chance to cling to breath or thought– and then, in an instant, everything went black.

Saparata couldn’t believe his eyes as he watched him fall from the edge, raven hair whipping against the jagged rock of the volcano. It was reckless, it was foolish—so utterly, infuriatingly him to turn even his own downfall into something grand. The cheers were deafening, a tidal wave of triumph crashing through the air. They celebrated as his friend—his nemesis—sank into the molten glow, swallowed by fire like some cruel parody of an ending.

"Fluixon fell into the lava!"

"Glory to Westhelm!"

"Someone make sure everything is burnt!" a voice barked, harsh and commanding. Saparata’s head snapped toward the sound, dread coiling in his chest. Schpood’s men. Of course it was them. Even now—even here—they wouldn’t let Fluixon rest. 

What twisted the knife wasn’t the order itself—it was the way his chest tightened at the thought, the way he hated himself for caring. His body and heart betrayed his mind, urging him to run into the crowd where his friend probably lay dead. It took everything in his bruised body not to move, not to give in. His hand clenched tight around the hilt of his sword as he stood frozen, watching the others rush to glimpse Fluixon’s lifeless body.

He hated this.

He hated that Flux had taken the easy way out—that instead of facing him, he leapt like a coward and left the world in fire and ash.

But most of all, he hated that he’d been robbed of one last moment. One last chance to see him, to hear his voice, to cross blades again—the only thing that had ever managed to stop him at his attempt at the snow tower. A memory flashed behind Saparata’s eyes—the tower, tall and lonely against the white bite of the mountain. Snow whipped around him like ghosts, cold and sharp, biting at the exposed skin beneath his armor. He remembered the weight of the metal he’d stripped from his chest, the hollow ache in his lungs, the silence that followed when the thought first crossed his mind.

He had stood there once, at the edge of that tower, the drop below swallowing everything in white. One more step, and the pain would’ve ended. One more step, and it would’ve been over. He remembered that hesitation, the shaking in his fingers, the sound of his own breath catching in his throat. And then, the voice that stopped him. His.

Now, standing here, watching Fluixon disappear into the inferno, it all came back—the same stillness, the same helplessness. Only this time, there was no one to call him back from the edge. The snow was gone, replaced by flame. The cold replaced by burning heat. But the feeling in his chest, the suffocating pull of loss, was exactly the same.

Saps had genuinely hoped, just for a few moments—to see him one last time. To have his questions answered, his mind eased, some semblance of closure with the man who had ruined everything and everyone.

Now it was gone–gone with him.

"Saparata"

The voice cut through the noise, and Saps startled, shoulders tensing before he could stop himself.

The emperor came to stand beside him, gaze fixed ahead, watching as the crowd pushed and craned for a glimpse of Fluixon’s body. His expression was unyielding, hard, cold, and the fury etched into every line of his face was impossible to ignore. Saps felt it press against him like a blade at his throat, sharp and suffocating. Yet beneath the threat, guilt twisted in his chest, a sickening reminder that part of him wanted to push through the crowd, to see for himself if Fluixon was truly gone.

"So he's dead." It wasn’t a question, but it wasn’t quite a statement either. The words fell heavy, deliberate, like bait cast into silence. As if the emperor wasn’t confirming the truth, but testing it, testing him. Watching closely to see how Saparata would flinch.

Saps lets out a remorseful chuckle.

"I mean, one can only cheat death for so long, am I right?"

Schpood’s gaze flicked toward him, sharp and assessing, before shifting back to the crowd. For a while, he said nothing, silence wrapping around them like a shroud. Then something in his expression eased, the hard lines giving way to something quieter, almost gentle. When he looked back at Saps, there was no command in his eyes, only a rare, fleeting softness, as though he, too, was mourning in his own way. 

“Aren’t you going to go look at him?” he asked, tilting his head slightly, genuine curiosity flickering in his eyes.

Saps hesitated, then turned his back to the scene, each step heavy as if the earth itself tried to hold him back.

“No. What’s the point?” His voice was low, tight, carrying both exhaustion and a bitter edge.

“The dead cannot speak. He can't answer my questions anymore.”

For a moment, he wanted to break, to run back and scream, to cry, but he forced himself onward, holding the grief like a blade pressed to his chest. 

Saparata left the battlefield, carrying his friend's death quietly in his heart.

Schpood moved with deliberate calm, each step measured as he approached the edge of the molten field. The crowd seemed to part instinctively at the sight of him, a silent acknowledgment of the emperor’s presence. His gaze fell on the scene ahead: one of his guards struggling to lift Fluixon’s body from the glowing embrace of the lava. The sight was almost surreal, ashes clinging to blackened armor, the faint curl of smoke rising from scorched black hair, but Schpood’s expression betrayed nothing, even as the air thickened with heat and unspoken tension.

He cast a glance at one of his men. “Where is one of his lackeys? Don’t tell me they all vanished.”

“One of them was seen heading into a tunnel up ahead, underground.” They replied.

A bark of laughter escaped him. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised– yet it is pathetic, letting his leader burn while he runs.”

He turned to one of his elite guards.

"Go after him, take two men with you," Schpood ordered, his voice slicing through the heat and noise of the crowd. "Do whatever you must– but he comes back alive. Understood?"

His guards nodded and sprinted after the fugitive, vanishing into the tunnel’s shadow. Schpood’s gaze drifted back to the body of the man who had murdered hundreds. His armor hung in tatters; his clothing burned to cinders. Skin blistered and broken, some wounds shallow, others frighteningly deep. Dark streaks of blood soaked through his hair, evidence of the brutal force that had thrown him against the earth. Schpood felt pure hatred, but beneath it, an almost imperceptible thread of respect lingered, for the man who had dared to defy everything, to throw himself fully into the chaos without fear or restraint.

One of the survivors crouched beside him, patting the corpse and rifling through his pockets, likely searching for anything of value. Schpood didn’t care; the dead cannot complain, after all.

He watched as the man’s expression twisted from curiosity into confusion. Slowly, hesitantly, he met the emperor’s gaze.

“Uh… sir?” 

Schpood stepped closer, the heat of his presence pressing down on the man. “What? Is there a problem?”

“Uh… maybe? I mean—yes,” the man stammered, voice wavering. Schpood’s patience was already thinning; he despised waiting.

Before the emperor could say another word, the man stood up and walked closer to him, and blurted it out, fear threading through his tone:

“He… he has a pulse.”

Chapter Text

He sank against a shattered column in the heart of Westhelm’s capital, letting the ruins shelter him from the wind and the memories. Around him, men from Island 1 and Island 2 moved with quiet determination, tending wounds, offering water, sharing what little comfort they could. Old rivalries were set aside—if only for now—replaced by the simple, undeniable truth of survival.

He watched them carefully, noting how even the fiercest of enemies paused to help one another, how grudges softened when lives were at stake. There was something fragile and fleeting in this unity, yet something profoundly human. For the first time in what felt like forever, Saparata allowed himself to hope, not just for victory, but for reconciliation, for understanding, for a world where differences could be set aside in favor of something larger than pride and resentment.

His own body ached, bruised and battered, yet the pain seemed lighter here, in the midst of shared effort and compassion. Healing, he realized, was not just a matter of patching wounds or resting muscles—it was the quiet recognition that humanity could endure, that even amidst ruin, people could still choose to care for one another.

For a moment, he closed his eyes, letting the noise of the capital, the cries of the injured, the soft murmurs of aid, the clatter of makeshift bandages wash over him.

If only Fluixon could see this.

Saps could almost imagine himself storming over, arguing, teasing, trying to force him to understand—wrong about his ideals, wrong about his instincts, wrong about the other island being irredeemably evil.

He chuckled at the thought. 

"Wow, you look like shit"

Saps glanced up. Cass was there, a soft, tired yet teasing smile on her lips. Her eyes, though weary, held a quiet kindness as she settled beside him. 

"Hey, Cass– you look like shit also" He grinned.

“Well,” she said, taking in the wounded and the chaos around them, “looks like someone really messed things up.”

Saps chuckled, shaking his head. “Yeah, someone really screwed this up. Can’t imagine who, though.”

Silence stretched between them. Saparata didn’t have the energy to continue the conversation, but Cass seemed capable of carrying it for both of them as she continued to speak.

“I heard... the news,” Cass murmured, keeping her voice even. “It’s surprising how quickly it spread, given it only happened a few hours ago.” She watched him carefully, aware of how deeply he had cared for that man, and chose her words with quiet caution.

A familiar knot twisted in Sap’s stomach at the mention of Fluixon. He clenched his fists, willing himself not to crumble, not to let tears betray him in front of her. It was understandable, he reminded himself—she spoke of him because, in the end, the war had always centered around that man.

“I heard Schpood took the body with him,” Cass said, keeping her tone even. “Not sure what he intends to do with it.”

Saps froze, confusion and disbelief tightening his chest. Schpood took the body? He didn't burn it?

“Wait– Why?” he asked, incredulous. He had never imagined the emperor—ruthless, calculating Schpood—showing any concern for the dead.

Are they going to give him a proper burial?

Saps shook his head silently at the thought. He doubted it—who would mourn a war criminal? Well, aside from him, of course, but that was a discussion for another day.

Cass gave a small shrug. “Honestly, I don’t know. My people haven’t reported anything yet. The only thing I’ve heard is that they took his body straight to one of Schpood’s medical rooms.”

Saparata’s confusion deepened. “Medical room? He’s dead—”

“I’m as clueless as you are, Saps,” Cass said, her tone calm but unhelpful, which did nothing to ease the swirl of thoughts in his head.

What the hell are they doing with Fluixon’s body? Schpood wouldn’t– he wouldn’t do something that twisted, would he?

Sap’s mind was racing, spinning through endless possibilities of what could be happening to Flux’s body. No matter how deep his hatred ran, he could not stand by and let some leader desecrate his friend’s corpse out of anger or spite. 

Should he go looking for Schpood? Would the emperor even let him see his dead friend?

“Ah, screw it!” Saps suddenly shouted, springing to his feet and startling Cass in the process.

"What're you doi– oh!" she exclaimed, eyes widening as he bolted from the capital building, moving with a desperate urgency that left her momentarily frozen.

Saparata ran as fast as his exhausted legs would carry him. He felt a pang of guilt for leaving Cass behind, he would apologize later but right now, there was no time for that. His priority was finding Schpood, and more importantly, seeing his nemesis’s body for himself. He looked all over the ruined place, earning glances and confused stares from people as he looked frantically at a sign from the emperor. 

"Hey man– have you seen Schpood?" Saps asked a stranger who was quietly tending a wounded man.

“Schpood?” the man repeated, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah,” he said, nodding. “A few hours ago, I saw him and his men. They were going toward the infirmary, carrying the bodies of the fallen.”

Flux might be one of them.

"And where's the infirmary?" Saps asked, trying to mask the urgency in his voice.

The man pointed ahead. "Just a few blocks after that destroyed restaurant over there."

"Hey, thanks, man!" Saps patted his shoulder, giving him a brief smile before taking off.

Saparata ran, brushing past people with quick, muttered apologies until he finally reached what looked like the infirmary. The entrance was heavily guarded. Familiar faces stood at their posts, their expressions dark and unreadable, betraying no hint of emotion. Saps slowed just enough to catch his breath, eyes scanning the guards for any hint of hostility.

He weighed his options quickly. Charging in recklessly would be stupid, but waiting could mean losing any chance to see Fluixon’s body at all. His fingers clenched around the hilt of his sword, heart hammering. There had to be a way past them—some small opportunity, some slip he could exploit.

The longer he hesitated, the more the fear of what he might find inside gnawed at him.

"Saparata! What're you doing here?" One of the Westhelm guards called out behind him.

“Oh—hey! I was, uh, just checking on something—” Saps groaned internally. He was a terrible liar.

The guard’s brow furrowed. “I’m afraid you can’t stay here, Saps. The emperor’s orders are clear: no one enters the infirmary for now. Something urgent came up.”

Urgent?

“Come on, man—can’t you call Schpood just this once? He’ll let me in,” Saps pleaded, trying to push past the guard.

Two more Westhelm guards materialized beside him in an instant. Saparata instinctively raised his hands. “Woah, woah! Okay, chill!”

“Look,” he said, lowering his hands slightly but keeping his voice firm, “I don’t have time for formalities. It’s important. Schpood—he needs me in there, now.”

One of the guards frowned, scanning him carefully. “Orders are orders. Nobody goes in without the emperor’s explicit permission.”

Saps clenched his jaw. Damn it. He couldn’t waste time arguing—every second felt like a lifetime. His eyes darted around, seeking an opening, any distraction he could exploit.

Then, a faint commotion to the side drew one guard’s attention. Saps seized the moment, stepping forward, voice loud and confident. “Hey! Over here! I need help—someone’s hurt outside!”

The guard hesitated, exchanging a glance with his companions. That hesitation was all Saps needed. He bolted past, weaving through the crowd as adrenaline surged through him. He could hear the guards yelling at him to stop.

Saparata skidded to a halt in front of the infirmary doors, chest heaving, eyes scanning for any sign of Schpood before locking the doors. The guards had clearly been distracted, but he knew there was no room for mistakes now.

“Schpood!” he called, voice echoing through the hall. “I need to see him—now!”

Saparata barged in, trying to ignore the torn flesh, the metallic sting of blood thick in the air. The sight clawed at him, bodies lined up in eerie silence, each one draped with a thin scrap of cloth that did nothing to hide the truth beneath. He told himself not to look, not to care.

From the shadows near the medical wing, Schpood emerged, calm as ever, his expression unreadable.

“Saparata,” Schpood said, his tone flat. “I wasn’t expecting you here.”

“I don’t care about your expectations!” Saps snapped, stepping closer, every muscle coiled with tension. “I need to see him. Tell me—what have you done with Fluixon?”

Schpood just cocked his head sideways, blinking in confusion. "I'm afraid I don’t know what you're talking about."

Every fiber of Saps wanted to lunge forward and throttle Schpood, but he held himself back, recalling that this was the same man who had saved him, who had acted when it truly counted.

“I heard you took Flux’s body with you,” Saps snapped, his voice tight. “I thought you’d have burned him—along with all his men.”

Schpood met Saps’ gaze, a faint, almost wistful smile on his lips. “Burn him? No,” he said lightly. “That would have been unnecessary. He’s… out of the way, as far as we’re concerned.”

Saps’ brow furrowed. “Out of the way? He jumped into a lava! How is that ‘out of the way’?”

Schpood’s eyes softened just slightly, the kind of look that made Saps’ stomach twist. “Sometimes, people take matters into their own hands. Some endings are… final. For now, that is all you need to know.”

Saps’ hands tightened into fists. “Final? Yeah, no shit, dude!

Schpood’s lips curved faintly, not a confirmation, but not a denial either. “Let’s just say… his role in this war has ended. That is enough for today, don’t you think?”

A cold knot twisted in Saps’ chest. Schpood’s words suggested a truth he had resigned himself to—but still, a relentless, uneasy feeling clawed at the edges of his thoughts, refusing to be ignored.

Schpood sighed, hands settling firmly yet gently on Saps’ shoulders. “I’m asking you, not as Westhelm’s leader, but as someone who cares—Saparata, for today, rest easy. You’ve endured enough. Leave it all to me.”

Saps stared at Schpood, chest tight, mind racing. Part of him wanted to push back, to insist he had no right to rest while Fluixon’s fate hung in the balance. And yet… the warmth in Schpood’s eyes, the steady assurance in his voice, pulled at something deep inside him.

He wanted to argue, to deny it—but his body betrayed him. Every bruise, every cut, every ache screamed for reprieve. For a brief, fleeting moment, he allowed himself to lean into the touch, to draw a shaky breath and let the tension drain from his shoulders.

“I… I don’t know if I can,” Saps admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

“You can,” Schpood said gently, a slight smile tugging at his lips. “Just for today, Saparata. Trust me.”

Saparata’s brows furrowed. “But what about Flux? I can’t leave him, he’s my—”

The word caught in his throat, breaking before it ever formed. For a heartbeat, it hovered on his tongue, aching to be said—aching to make everything real. But the moment he realized what he was about to admit, his chest seized, and he forced his mouth shut.

He couldn’t say it. He shouldn’t. Saying it meant ignoring everything Fluixon had done—the destruction, the lies, the betrayal that still carved at him every time he breathed. It meant admitting that despite all of it, a part of him still cared.

So he swallowed the word like poison and turned his face away, hoping no one had heard the crack in his voice.

He didn’t need to look to know the emperor had noticed. He could feel it—the weight of Schpood’s gaze on him, steady and unreadable. 

When Saparata finally risked a glance, the emperor’s expression was calm, almost gentle, but it said everything.

He knew.

And that knowing was worse than judgment.

The air between them felt heavier after that, the kind of silence that pressed against the ribs and left no room to breathe. Saparata forced his eyes forward, pretending he didn’t feel the sting in his chest or the way the word he hadn’t said still echoed in his head.

Schpood let out a long sigh, shoulders easing as he turned away.

“I promise I’ll take care of him,” he said, voice quieter now, almost thoughtful. “People like to call me crazy, unstable—” he gestured vaguely with one hand, “—and maybe they’re not entirely wrong.”

He glanced back at Saparata, a crooked grin tugging at his mouth. “But I’m not that heartless… or am I?”

There was humor in his tone, light and teasing, but the warmth behind it was real. For a moment, the edge in him faded, replaced by something oddly steady, something almost kind.

Saparata blinked, caught off guard by the softness in Schpood’s tone. For a moment, he didn’t know how to respond. The man had always been unpredictable, terrifyingly brilliant one second, impulsive the next—but never insincere. Not like this.

A quiet breath escaped him, almost a laugh.

“You’re insane,” he muttered, shaking his head.

Schpood’s grin only widened. “Takes one to know one.”

“I’ll have a few of my men escort you back home,” Schpood said, his voice softer now, almost careful. “I’m sure nothing beats being in your own bed after a war like this.”

He said it with that half-smile of his—the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes but still managed to sound like comfort. For all his eccentricity, Schpood knew when to pull back the madness and just be human.

“And Fluixon?” Saps asked, his voice carrying a faint edge of hope. There was a flicker of hesitation beneath it—something desperate, unspoken—silently pleading for Schpood to notice, to promise that nothing would happen to Fluixon’s fallen body.

Schpood’s expression faltered for a moment, the usual glint of humor in his eyes dimming. He exhaled softly, gaze turning distant before he looked back at Saps. “We’ll take care of him,” he said, quieter this time, almost gentle. “You have my word.”

Saps’ lips parted as if to speak, but no words came out. His shoulders tensed, his throat tight with everything he wanted to say but couldn’t. After a beat, he only nodded—once, firm and slow. 

“You better,” he murmured, voice rough around the edges. Then he looked away, eyes clouded with something that wasn’t quite grief but felt dangerously close.

Saparata sailed back home with two Westhelm guards in a separate boat, their vessel cutting through the water just behind his. The sea was calm, yet his thoughts churned restlessly. His mind lingered in that dim infirmary, where his closest enemy lay—broken, breathless, and somehow still his responsibility.

He had entrusted Schpood with the care of a war criminal. The thought alone was almost humiliating. He hadn’t said it out loud, but it was there—in his eyes, in the silence between words. And Saps knew Schpood had noticed.

He had trusted Schpood to watch over what was left of him.

He could see Tricolour’s shoreline drawing closer, the faint hum of life returning—Jophiel’s people wandering among the ruins, trying to rebuild what was left. Jophiel.

The name alone made his chest tighten. He realized, with a dull ache, that he hadn’t even allowed himself to mourn her. Their time together had been brief, fleeting even—but it was real. She was kind, endlessly patient, and carried her crown with a grace few rulers ever could. Saparata had admired her deeply for that.

And now, she was gone.

A bitter taste rose in his throat, sharp and cruel. The knowledge that Fluixon—the man he once trusted, the man who still haunted his thoughts—had been the one to end someone as remarkable as Jophiel burned like acid in his chest.

Saparata let out a heavy sigh, the sound rough in his throat. How was he supposed to rest now, with everything still burning behind his eyes? He shook his head, forcing the thought away. He should rest, he told himself. He deserves this—more than anyone.

Everything felt overwhelming—the weight of it pressing down until he could barely breathe. The losses weren’t just in Island 1; Island 2 had fallen into ruin as well. Too many names, too many faces blurred together in his mind, all swallowed by war and fire.

It was supposed to be over. The fighting, the blood, the endless chase for vengeance. Yet here he was, surrounded by silence that felt heavier than the battlefield itself.

Saparata finally reached his base, boots sinking into the soft sand as he stepped off the boat. The shoreline was quiet, the wind tugging gently at his coat. Every step away felt heavier, as if the weight of what he’d lost—or what he feared to admit he’d lost—was chained to his heels.

Saparata turned to the Westhelm guards, exhaustion softening the usual sharpness in his voice. He managed a small, tired smile.

“Thank you for escorting me back,” he said, the words quiet but sincere. “And… give Schpood my thanks as well.”

One of the guards nodded, the other offering a brief salute before they stepped back toward their boat. Saparata watched them leave until their figures blurred into the horizon, the rhythmic sound of the waves filling the space their presence left behind.

He looked back at the small structure waiting for him on the shore, its frame outlined against the fading light. A quiet sigh slipped from his lips as he scratched the back of his head, a weary smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Now… where should I start?” he muttered to himself, the words half a joke, half a question to no one at all.

As if on cue, his stomach let out a loud, miserable growl. Saparata froze, then groaned softly, pressing a hand against his abdomen as if that could quiet it.

“Right,” he muttered under his breath, half amused, half exasperated. “Food first. Existential crisis later.”

He trudged towards his home, the sand cool beneath his boots as the sun dipped lower behind him. 

When Saparata pushed the heavy door open, the faint echo of his footsteps filled the hall. The interior was open and bright, sunlight streaming through gaps in the roof. Long stone tables stretched across the space, every surface covered in papers and sketches—maps of their territories, battle reports, and Fluixon’s floorplans on the other table.

There were dozens of them—versions upon versions of what was supposed to be his home. Detailed, ambitious, and unmistakably Fluixon. His handwriting was everywhere—bold ink, sharp angles, meticulous lines.

Saparata moved closer, brushing the dust from one of the plans. “Always reaching for perfection, huh?” he muttered, a small smile tugging at his lips before it quickly faded. The silence pressed in around him, heavy and familiar.

Saparata rummaged through what little he had left—some dried rations, half a loaf of bread, and a flask that had seen better days. He sank into the chair, chewing absentmindedly, staring through the open doorway where the horizon bled orange into purple.

The food tasted like nothing. Maybe because he wasn’t really hungry—not for food, anyway.

He exhaled softly, leaning back, eyes drifting to the faint reflection of himself in the metal cup beside him. “You’ve really outdone yourself this time,” he murmured, voice low and almost fond.

“Alive, but barely.”

Saparata sank into the nearest chair, the legs scraping softly against the marble floor. For a moment, he just sat there, elbows on his knees, taking it all in. 

He took in the sight before him. The place was a mess—chairs overturned, tables shoved aside, papers scattered across the floor like fallen leaves. The chaos of that last confrontation still lingered, frozen in time.

His gaze drifted upward to the gaping hole in the roof, sunlight streaming through where stone should’ve been. Jagged pieces of dripstone lay scattered across the ground, remnants of the traps Fluixon’s men had set during the meeting. He stepped over one, the crunch of debris echoing through the hollow space.

It felt strange, seeing it like this. The Acropolis was supposed to be a place of peace and promise—a symbol of what they were building. Now it looked more like a scar.

“I wonder if I can ask Cass to help me rebuild this place,” Saparata muttered, mostly to himself. His voice got lost somewhere between the open pillars and the wind slipping through the cracks in the walls.

He leaned back in his chair, eyes tracing the ruin around him—the shattered marble, the fallen beams, the half-buried tools left from a time when there was still hope to finish this place. It was too much work for one man. He’d need stone, lumber, maybe even livestock to get the farm running again. Most of the animals had fled during the war, and the crops had long since withered.

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. Cass would probably help if he asked. She always did. But she had her own kingdom to fix, her own people to lead. It felt selfish to even think about dragging her into this mess.

Still, a small, weary smile crept onto his face. “Maybe I’ll start with the roof,” he murmured.

Back at the Westhelm infirmary, Schpood pushed open the blinds. The faint scent of medicine and iron lingered in the air. One of his medics stood by the bedside, quietly adjusting the IV line that ran into Fluixon’s arm.

Fluixon lay motionless, his skin pale beneath the harsh light. His raven hair clung damply to his forehead, a fresh bandage wrapped tight around his head. More strips of cloth wound around his torso and arms, concealing wounds that had nearly ended him. His prosthetic hand rested on the table nearby—silent, detached, almost symbolic.

Schpood stood there for a long moment, saying nothing. Then a quiet scoff slipped out. This—this fragile, broken thing—was the same man who had orchestrated chaos, who had pushed entire islands to the brink of collapse. It was almost absurd.

He crossed his arms, his expression hardening. “You don’t look like a threat now,” he muttered under his breath.

For the first time since pulling him out of the lava, Schpood wondered if he’d made the right choice. 

The sound of boots against the tile broke the silence. Two Westhelm guards appeared at the doorway, standing straight and breathless from the rush.

“We found and captured Thomas, just as you ordered, sir.”

Schpood turned slightly, his gaze flicking from Fluixon’s still form to the guards. He gave a short, approving nod. “Good work,” he said, his tone even, but edged with exhaustion. “Put him in a cell immediately. Double the watch and rotate the guards every few hours. I don’t want him slipping through like the others.”

“Yes, sir.” The guards bowed their heads before quickly stepping out, the echo of their footsteps fading down the hall.

Schpood lingered by the window a moment longer, his reflection faintly overlapping Fluixon’s body in the glass. “Your right hand’s here too now,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Guess I’ll have to figure out what to do with both of you.”

Schpood leaned back against the counter, eyes tracing the slow drip of the IV beside Fluixon’s bed. His thoughts were already miles away, toward the inevitable council meeting he’d have to call once things finally settled. The leaders would need to regroup, to decide what came next after the chaos.

Yet Saparata’s name lingered stubbornly at the edge of his mind.

Should he tell him? He wasn’t sure if it was the right call. If Saparata joined the meeting, things would never stay neutral. Everyone liked the man, respected him, even idolized him in ways that made their judgment hazy. Schpood had seen it before, calm, reasonable people throwing away protocol just to keep Saparata safe. Some would do something drastic, uncharacteristic, all for him.

He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. It was ironic, really. He wasn’t any different from them. Keeping Fluixon alive wasn’t mercy, it wasn’t even duty. Schpood didn’t care what happened to the man. Deep down, he knew he’d done it for Saparata’s sake. Because losing Fluixon completely would have broken him.

“Sir, the leader of the Cass Coalition is outside asking for you,” one of his men called out from the doorway.

Schpood paused mid-step, exhaling through his nose. Of course. As if the world was teasing him, pushing him to make a choice before he could even think it through. He never liked that feeling—being forced into reflection. He’d always been the act first, think later kind of man. It was how Westhelm flourished, how his people admired him. Quick to decide, firm to command.

But lately, that certainty had started to waver. Maybe it was the aftermath of war, or the weight of the names he’d chosen to spare. Either way, Schpood could feel it creeping in—the quiet hesitation that didn’t used to be there.

Schpood stepped outside and found Cass waiting, the ever-graceful leader of Island 1. Her reputation preceded her—remarkable, kind, the sort of leader whose people followed not out of fear, but trust. He’d heard her island suffered almost no losses, her citizens kept safely away from the chaos, except for the few who defied orders and joined the fight anyway. And when the war finally ended, she was among the first to act, sending aid and supplies across the isles before most had even begun to recover.

Schpood could see why everyone spoke of her with such regard. She carried herself with a calm authority that didn’t need to be announced.

"You’ve been awfully cooped up in there lately," Cass remarked, tilting her head, a teasing smile playing on her lips.

Schpood’s mouth curved into a smirk—sharp, confident, a little too sure of itself. "What can I say?" he said with a shrug. "I’m a great leader. My people need me, and I’m quick to deliver."

Cass huffed a quiet laugh, crossing her arms. "Right. And I suppose hiding out in the Infirmary and overthinking count as heroic acts now?"

Schpood’s grin only widened. "You’d be surprised what kind of disasters I prevent just by staying in my office."

She scoffed, her voice teasing. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’ve gone soft. Or worse—found yourself a new hobby that doesn’t involve yelling at people.”

Schpood barked out a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “You make it sound like I don’t know how to relax.”

Cass raised an eyebrow. “Relaxing? You? Please. The last time you ‘relaxed,’ I heard half your council thought you finally snapped and gone crazy.”

“It’s not like you to hide behind walls when your people are working themselves to exhaustion out there. What’s going on?”

He exhaled through his nose, glancing over his shoulder at the infirmary door as if it might whisper the answer for him. “Just… tying up loose ends,” he said finally. “There’s still cleanup to do, you know that.”

“Loose ends?” Cass echoed, narrowing her eyes. “Or ghosts?”

“I'm making sure the right things are handled,” he said after a beat. “You know me. I like my affairs neat.”

Cass chuckled, shaking her head. “You? Neat? That’ll be the day.” Then, her tone dropped low, almost kind. “Just don’t disappear on your people, Schpood. The people notice when their loudest voice goes quiet.”

He shot her a half-smile, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes. “Don’t worry. I’ll start yelling again soon enough.”

Cass arched a brow, half-teasing, half genuinely curious. “But you still haven’t answered why you’re in there all day,” she pressed, nodding toward the infirmary behind him. “Don’t tell me you’re secretly housing a prisoner in there or something.”

Schpood let out a short laugh, ready to throw back a quip—but the sound caught in his throat. His grin faltered, mouth hanging open for just a second too long.

Cass’s smile faded as she watched him. The silence stretched, the kind that didn’t need to last long to say too much.

“…Are you?” she asked again, tone lighter than her eyes.

Schpood blinked, forcing the grin back on his face. “Cass, you wound me,” he said with mock offense, but his voice carried a hitch that didn’t go unnoticed.

Cass crossed her arms, lips twitching into a faint smirk. “That wasn’t a no.”

He exhaled through his nose, glancing toward the infirmary window. “Some people are harder to get rid of than others,” he muttered, almost to himself.

Cass tilted her head, reading between the lines but not pushing. “Well,” she said finally, tone softening, “just make sure whoever you’re keeping in there doesn’t bite. We need you in one piece, Schpood.”

That earned a real laugh out of him—rough, tired, but genuine. “No promises.”

“In case I forget,” Schpood called out, stopping her just as she was about to leave. Cass turned, curious, a hand on her hip.

“I’ll be hosting a council meeting in three days,” he said, voice slipping into that familiar tone of authority. “I want every leader from Island 1 and Island 2 to attend.”

Cass nodded thoughtfully. “Got it. I’ll pass the word around—and I’ll make sure Saparata gets the message too.”

Schpood’s reaction was immediate, sharper than he meant. “No,” he said, cutting her off before the words even settled.

Cass blinked, surprised. “No?” she echoed, brow furrowing. “You’re excluding him? He has just as much right to be there as the rest of us.”

“I know,” Schpood replied, quieter now but firm. His gaze drifted somewhere distant, expression unreadable. “But not this time. Not yet.”

Cass studied him for a long moment, her usual playfulness fading into something more serious. “You’re hiding something,” she said finally—not accusing, just stating it like fact.

Schpood didn’t answer, only gave her a look that told her she was right.

Cass sighed, shaking her head. “You’re lucky I trust you,” she muttered, turning away at last. “But I hope you know what you’re doing, Schpood.”

He didn’t.

But he nodded anyway.

Chapter Text

All the leaders gathered in Westhelm’s capital building—or what was left of it. The grand hall, once lined with banners and gold-trimmed walls, now bore cracks and scorch marks, a silent reminder of the war that had nearly torn everything apart. Rubble had been swept to the corners, tables repaired just enough to stand. It wasn’t the symbol of power it once was, but it was enough.

Outside, Westhelm guards stood at every entry point, their armor glinting in the light. Sharpshooters and skilled fighters watched from the rooftops, every angle secured. Schpood had given the order himself: no one in, no one out until the meeting was done. Not even a stray insect could slip through unnoticed.

He wasn’t taking chances. Not with what was about to be discussed.

The people were still restless, rumors traveling faster than the truth ever could. Schpood wanted no whispers, no panic, no premature conclusions. The world would know—after the council decided. After he decided.

Schpood’s gaze drifted across the room, taking in the familiar faces that had survived. A few from the Requiem Alliance caught his eye—faces he hadn’t expected to see again. He remembered the tension, the arguments, the way their policies had worsened the food shortages. But that was the past now. The world had already bled enough for old grudges.

He turned his attention to the others seated around the table. The new leader of Elysium sat composed and unreadable, as always, while Tricolour’s representative carried a quiet exhaustion that mirrored his own. At the far end was someone new—a young leader from a smaller nation called VoW, their nervous energy giving away how unfamiliar they were with being in a room like this.

There were others, too—faces Schpood couldn’t quite place. He studied them in silence, the subtle differences in their attire and insignias hinting at small nations he’d never personally dealt with. Most, he assumed, were from Island 2—newly emerged, newly united after the chaos of war.

Their expressions ranged from cautious curiosity to open distrust, the kind of unease that came from sitting across once-enemies in a fragile peace. Schpood didn’t blame them.

“Is this everyone?” Schpood asked, his voice carrying easily across the battered hall.

He scanned the room slowly—faces he recognized, others missing entirely. The space felt emptier than it should have, and that silence between breaths told him more than any roll call could.

A few heads turned away. No one wanted to say it out loud.

Schpood exhaled through his nose, jaw tightening. He didn’t need an answer. The empty seats spoke for themselves. The war hadn’t just taken soldiers—it had taken leaders, entire voices of nations.

He straightened his posture, forcing his tone steady again. “Then we’ll start with who’s left.”

“We’ll get straight to the point,” Schpood began, his tone sharp but calm. “This council wasn’t called to talk about rebuilding or trade. Not yet.”

The low hum of chatter faded the moment Schpood stood. The weight in his stance alone was enough to command the room. Every pair of eyes turned to him—some wary, some curious, others already heavy with suspicion.

“This concerns the Infernus Front. The aftermath,” he said, voice measured, but there was a flicker of hesitation—something rare for him. “And a certain… individual involved in it.”

The leader of Tricolour leaned forward, brow furrowed. “You mean him, don’t you?”

Schpood didn’t answer right away. His silence said enough.

Finally, Schpood spoke. “After the siege, my men searched the volcanic perimeter. We found… remains. Not what we expected.”

He paused, the words caught between his teeth like something dangerous. “Fluixon—” he stopped himself, adjusting his tone, “—was not among the confirmed dead.”

The room broke into chaos. Chairs scraped against the floor, voices rose, arguments overlapping. The name itself struck the air like a hammer. Chairs creaked, quiet murmurs erupted almost instantly. The Architect of the Conspiracy. The man who’d ignited the war that razed two islands and left nations in ruin.

“That’s impossible—”

“He fell into lava!”

“You’re saying he survived that?!”

Schpood slammed his hand on the table, the sound echoing sharply. The noise ceased.

"I said not confirmed dead,” he corrected, his gaze sweeping across them. “Whether he lives or not… only one man can say for sure. And he isn’t talking.”

A heavy silence followed. No one dared to ask who that man was.

“But,” Schpood continued, his tone softening just enough to sound almost human, “I made a decision. A controversial one.” He looked down briefly, as though weighing whether to speak the truth aloud. “There’s a reason I haven’t issued a public statement yet. The people aren’t ready for it. None of you are.”

Legacy spoke next, his voice like ice. “Schpood, what have you done?”

He looked up, meeting his gaze head-on. “I ensured the cycle doesn’t start again,” he said simply. “I took responsibility for the man who started it.”

Gasps erupted, restrained fury trembling in the air.

“You kept him?” the Covenant representative spat. 

“You’re harboring the one who destroyed half our nations?”

“Enough!” Schpood’s voice cracked through the noise like thunder. “I made a choice none of you had the stomach to make. He’s under control. Contained. Alive—because his death now would do nothing but give us another reason to destroy each other.”

The room fell into a cold, biting silence.

"This is out of character from you, Schpood."

"You've gone mad."

Schpood’s jaw tightened. “He’s under my custody,” he replied evenly. “In Westhelm’s infirmary. He’s no longer a threat.”

“That man killed thousands,” another voice snapped—one from Island 2, their emblem gleaming faintly on his collar. “He destroyed nations, wiped out generations of families. And you’re telling us he’s resting comfortably under your watch?”

“He’s barely resting,” Schpood shot back, tone colder now. “I didn’t save him out of pity. I saved him because ending him now would do nothing but feed the same cycle that brought us here.”

A murmur of protest rippled through the room.

“You’re protecting a monster,” someone said.

“I’m preventing another war,” Schpood countered.

He straightened, meeting their glares without flinching. “If we kill him now, half of you will demand his body as proof, the other half will question who gets the credit. It’ll spiral into politics, revenge, pride—everything we just barely crawled away from. I’m not letting that happen again.”

The leader of Elysium leaned forward, voice quiet but sharp. “And what happens when word gets out? When your citizens—when ours—learn that the man who burned their homes is being protected by one of the victors?”

Schpood hesitated. He had asked himself the same question for days.

“They’ll call it mercy,” he said finally. “Or madness. Either way, it’ll be mine to bear.”

Cass sat at the far end, watching him quietly. “You’re not doing this out of mercy,” she said, almost gently.

Schpood’s eyes flickered toward her. “No,” he said. “I’m doing this because I’m tired of burying leaders who think revenge is justice.”

It was a half-truth, and Schpood knew it.

Yes, he didn’t want another war—not after seeing what it carved out of his land and his people. But that wasn’t the whole reason, and it gnawed at him that he couldn’t say it out loud. The others saw him as a brute, a leader who’d go to battle over the slightest provocation, a man who thrived on the thrill of conquest. Maybe that had been true once. He’d felt that pulse of adrenaline, that intoxicating sense of control when the world bent to his will. But war had stripped him clean. It took more than soldiers—it took homes, faces, laughter, and left him with ghosts that refused to be buried.

He had grown to value his people more than his pride. That was the truth he let the others see.

The other half—the part he buried—was the reason he couldn’t bring himself to end Fluixon’s life. No matter how much it made sense, no matter how much the world demanded it.

He thought of Saparata—his calm voice, the quiet strength behind his gaze, the way even the most ruthless of leaders softened when he spoke. Saparata had lost enough. To take away the last person tied to him, even if that person was the monster who’d nearly destroyed them all, felt cruel in a way Schpood couldn’t justify.

Finally, the leader of Tricolour sighed, leaning back. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Schpood.”

He met her gaze. “I know,” he said simply. “But I’d rather play a dangerous game than start another war.”

The council didn’t clap, didn’t cheer. They just sat there—some furious, some conflicted, some quietly thinking. But for now, no one objected.

And that was enough.

Cass spoke, her tone was calm, but her eyes flickered with something heavier. “And what of Saparata? You know he’ll find out sooner or later.”

The question hit Schpood like a blow he’d been expecting but still couldn’t brace for. He looked down at his hands, fingers clasped tight together. “He doesn’t need to know yet.”

Cass arched a brow. “Doesn’t need to know?” she repeated, incredulous. “Schpood, he will know. He’s not stupid, and word spreads faster than your guards can shut mouths.”

Some of the leaders shifted uncomfortably, murmuring among themselves. A few nodded in agreement—others stayed silent, unwilling to challenge Schpood directly.

Cass sighed and leaned forward, lowering her voice. “You’re really going to hide it from him? That Fluixon—the same man who orchestrated this war—is alive and lying in your infirmary? After everything he’s done?”

Schpood’s jaw tightened. He could feel their eyes on him, a dozen different judgments pressing into his skin. “I’m not hiding it,” he said finally, voice low but firm. “I’m delaying it. There’s a difference.”

Cass gave a humorless laugh. “A difference that’s going to explode in your face when he finds out.”

He looked up then, meeting her gaze squarely. “You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t understand what it’ll do to him?”

“You can’t just keep him in the dark, Schpood,” she said, voice steady but edged with something like concern. “You’ve seen the way Saparata’s been since the war ended. Half the time, he’s barely holding himself together. And you think not telling him about Fluixon is the right call?"

Schpood didn’t respond immediately. He just exhaled through his nose, fingers drumming lightly against the wood. Cass pressed on.

“Fluixon wasn’t just some enemy to him,” she continued, quieter now. “You and I both know that. You’ve read their reports, you’ve seen how deep it went. Saparata doesn’t hate him the way everyone else does. He—” she stopped for a moment, searching for the right word, “—he understands him. That kind of connection doesn’t just die when the war does.”

Schpood’s gaze flicked up, sharp and weary all at once. “That’s exactly why I can’t tell him,” he muttered.

Cass frowned. “You think you’re protecting him?”

“I am protecting him,” Schpood shot back, voice low but firm. “You don’t know what seeing Fluixon like that would do to him. Saparata’s barely healed. One look at that man, broken and dying, and he’ll throw himself right back into the wreckage. You think he can stand that again?”

Cass hesitated, lips pressing together. There was truth in what he said—too much of it. But still, she shook her head. “He deserves the truth, Schpood. Maybe it’ll hurt, but he’s strong enough to take it. You can’t make that decision for him.”

He met her stare, and for a long moment, neither of them said anything. The tension between them felt almost physical, pulling the air tight.

Finally, Schpood leaned back in his chair, running a hand down his face. “You talk like he’s some indestructible hero,” he muttered. “But he’s just a man who’s lost everything. And I’ll be damned if I’m the one to break what little peace he’s got left.”

Cass let out a quiet sigh, standing up. “You can delay it all you want,” she said softly, looking down at him. “But secrets have a way of finding their way out—especially when they’re buried in the middle of a battlefield.”

Schpood glared. "It's not that easy"

Cass crossed her arms, watching him carefully. “What do you mean?”

He looked up at everyone, eyes shadowed. "Fluixon’s not the same man anymore,” he said. “The medics say his brain took too much damage from the fall. He barely wakes up, and when he does, he just stares at the wall. Doesn’t speak, doesn’t remember names—not even his own. They told me it’s like looking at a hollow shell. The Architect of the Conspiracy reduced to… nothing.”

There was a murmur at the news. It spread through the room like a slow-burning fire — quiet at first, then rippling into uneasy noise. Some scoffed, bitter laughter cutting through the tension at the irony of it all. Others bristled in anger, voices rising just enough to be heard but not enough to be punished for it. And then there were those who simply sat there in stunned silence, eyes darting to one another, as if unsure whether to be relieved or horrified.

Cass’s expression faded completely. “Memory loss?” she repeated, her tone caught somewhere between disbelief and pity.

Schpood nodded. “Severe. He’s lucky he’s even alive. Most days, I’m not sure that’s a blessing.” He leaned back, rubbing at his temples. “If Saparata saw him like this, what do you think would happen? He’d think he could fix him. He’d stay. He’d break himself trying.”

Cass’s brows furrowed. “Or maybe he’d just want to know he’s alive. Maybe that’s enough.”

“No,” Schpood said firmly, cutting her off. “Not for Saparata. He’s got this… way of seeing people, like they’re puzzles he can mend. He’ll throw himself right back into the fire if he thinks he can save someone—especially him.” His voice softened, almost to a whisper. 

“And we can’t let him do that. Not again.”

Cass was quiet for a while, looking down at the polished table between them. The faint murmurs of the council outside seemed distant now, almost unreal.

He just sat there, silent, eyes unfocused, as Cass slowly turned and made her way toward the door.

Before she left, she paused and said, softer than before, “You think you’re protecting him, but sometimes mercy looks a lot like cruelty when you’re on the other side of it.”

And with that, she turned and left the hall, leaving Schpood surrounded by silence and the faint echo of her words—words he knew would come back to haunt him sooner or later.

Schpood finally let himself look at the report again—the one stamped with Fluixon’s name.

Patient remains minimally responsive. Speech incoherent. Signs of severe neurological damage. Memory function uncertain.

He closed the folder. For once, he didn’t feel like a leader. Just a man caught between duty and guilt, trying to decide which one would hurt less.

Saparata was bored out of his mind. Four days of silence—no word from Schpood, no messenger, not even a damn parrot. He told himself he wasn’t anxious, but the longer it dragged on, the harder it was to sit still. And to make things worse, the universe had decided to humiliate him with this—a single, infuriatingly smug chicken.

“Come on, you stupid chicken!” he barked, crouched low with a handful of seeds like some desperate farmer.

The bird stared at him with beady defiance, tilted its head once, and—like it understood exactly how to piss him off—darted the other way.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” Saparata muttered, stumbling after it. His boots scuffed the dirt as he lunged again, and again the chicken slipped past, feathers brushing against his sleeve like mockery.

“I fought in a war, survived an explosion, watched an empire fall—and now I’m being outsmarted by poultry.”

The chicken gave an indignant squawk, pecked the air once as if in defiance, and strutted off toward the open courtyard.

Saparata sighed, resting his hands on his knees. It had been four days—four excruciating days of silence. He convinced himself he wasn’t worried, that Schpood was just busy handling whatever mess came with post-war politics. But the truth itched under his skin like a splinter.

He stood, watching the horizon where the Westhelm mountains faded into the haze. “Four days,” he muttered. “How long does it take to tell me if he’s buried or not?” 

The chicken clucked at him from a few feet away, tilting its head like it was judging him.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Saparata said, pointing at it accusingly. “You’re lucky I don’t make soup out of you.”

It was ridiculous—standing there arguing with a chicken—but he’d take this over the silence. Anything to drown out the restless thoughts clawing at his mind.

Fluixon’s face wouldn’t leave him alone. That infuriating grin, that unshakable arrogance, that look in his eyes right before he fell. The image played in his head like a cruel loop.

He sighed again and sat on the steps of his unfinished porch, elbows on his knees, watching the chicken circle the yard. “I swear, if Schpood doesn’t send a word by tomorrow, I’m sailing there myself.”

The chicken stopped, blinked, and let out a loud, sharp cluck—almost like agreement.

Saparata narrowed his eyes. “...Don’t encourage me.”

The chicken pecked the dirt, unimpressed.

Saparata groaned. “You’re mocking me, aren’t you?”

The bird blinked once.

“…Yeah,” he muttered, defeated. “Definitely mocking me.”

He groaned, falling back against the sand. “I’m losing my mind.”

The warmth of it pressed into his back, soft and familiar, like it was trying to comfort him in its own quiet way. He stared up at the wide, open sky—the kind that stretched forever, the kind that didn’t care. Somewhere nearby, the chicken clucked like it had won a war. He didn’t even have the energy to care.

His eyes slipped shut. And the silence… it brought ghosts.

This shore used to mean something. Used to feel alive. He could still see it—Fluixon standing in the shallows, the wind tugging at his coat, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips as he tossed a rock and missed by a mile. Saparata had laughed then, loud and genuine, before Fluixon threw one back at him in mock offense.

They’d stay here for hours—waiting for sunrise when the world felt new, and walking until dusk when it burned itself out. The memory of it came too easily. The gold on Fluixon’s hair as the sun dipped low, the way he’d softly talk about their next plans like they actually had a future.

And for a moment, it almost felt like they did.

Saparata opened his eyes again. The sky was darker now, fading into violet, and all of it suddenly felt too far away. He scoffed, a quiet, humorless sound. “Was any of it even real?” he muttered.

It was easier to believe it wasn’t. Easier to think that every smile, every word, every quiet moment under this same sun was just part of Fluixon’s game—something carefully built to make him drop his guard.

He huffed out a bitter laugh. “Perfect, isn’t it?”

The wind picked up, tugging at his hair as he stared out toward the ocean. “You got me right where you wanted, Flux,” he murmured. “Played me like a goddamn puppet.”

The waves rolled in, slow and steady, like they were mocking him too.

And Saparata lay there, surrounded by everything they used to share—sunset, sea, silence—wondering when exactly it had all stopped being theirs.

Saparata pushed himself up from the sand, brushing the thin grains that clung to his tunic. Strands of his white hair caught the light, glimmering faintly as he ruffled it, trying to shake off the stubborn flecks of sand that refused to let go. The air was warm, heavy with salt and smoke from the far-off ruins that still smoldered across the sea.

He turned his eyes toward his base—or what was supposed to be one. The half-built acropolis stood like a skeleton against the horizon, its pale pillars reaching upward as if waiting for a god who would never come. The farm nearby was worse: a few furrows of turned soil, a broken fence, and tools abandoned where exhaustion had left them. No animals. No crops. No progress.

Saparata exhaled through his nose, a quiet huff that almost sounded like a laugh. “So this is what rebuilding looks like, huh?” he murmured, his voice barely rising above the wind.

Truth was, he hadn’t rebuilt a damn thing. For days now, his routine had been nothing but repetition: wake up, wash, eat whatever was left in the pantry, stare at the sea until the sun went down, and then crawl back to bed. Each day bleeding into the next, indistinguishable except for the ache that settled deeper in his chest.

Existing. That was all he was doing.

The wind shifted, carrying the soft creak of the unfinished scaffolding behind him. For a moment, he imagined a voice echoing between the marble columns—low, amused, familiar. Fluixon’s voice, sharp as it was steady, teasing him about his lousy craftsmanship or the way he always forgot to measure before cutting

Saparata stared at the Acropolis until the lines blurred. “You’d hate this mess,” he muttered. “You’d call it a waste of good marble.”

A breath hitched in his throat, and he let out a small, bitter laugh. “You’d probably be right.”

He looked down at his sand-dusted hands, then up at the horizon where the sky met the sea. “Guess I’m still building things wrong, even without you.”

Before he could sink too deep into the pit he’d been digging in his mind, a faint sound broke through the quiet — the low scrape of wood against sand, the hiss of waves pushing something ashore.

Saparata blinked, turning toward the shoreline. A small boat had drifted in, its sail still trembling from the wind. And stepping off it, brushing her hair out of her face like she owned the ocean itself—

“Cass!” Saparata called, a half-laugh slipping through his words. The smile that followed looked genuine at first glance, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Cass grinned back, her boots sinking into the sand as she trudged closer. “You look like you’ve been talking to chickens again.”

Saparata snorted, dragging a hand through his white hair. “They’re better company than half the council.”

“Mm, I’ll believe that,” Cass said, stopping a few paces away. Her tone was teasing, but there was a glint of concern beneath it — the kind only someone who’d been watching him fall apart from a distance could carry.

Saparata then broke the silence. "What're you doing here, Cass? Not that I don't want you here, of course."

Cass didn’t answer right away. She stood there for a while, hands on her hips, her gaze drifting past Saparata to the unfinished house, to the crooked fence, to the chicken still pecking at the sand like nothing in the world mattered.

Finally, she sighed and brushed the sand off a flat rock before sitting down. “You’ve been keeping busy,” she said, softer this time. “Sort of.”

Saparata huffed a laugh and sank down beside her, the air between them heavy with unspoken things.

“Schpood sent you, didn’t he?” he asked after a long silence.

Cass gave a small, almost guilty smile. “He didn’t have to. You know him—he’s not exactly the type to send messengers for personal matters. But I was there during the meeting. And I thought… you’d rather hear it from me.”

Something in her tone made his stomach twist. “Hear what?”

Cass took a moment, staring at the sea. Her voice was careful when she finally spoke, each word chosen like stepping stones over fragile glass.

“The council met about Fluixon,” she began. “There were a lot of opinions. Most of them weren’t kind.”

"I mean, that's not exactly a surprise? Everyone despises him after what he did," Saps replied.

Cass hesitated. “You know what everyone’s been told.”

“That he’s dead,” Saps said, his voice flat, the words rehearsed, like he’d been forcing himself to accept them. “That Schpood’s men found his body and took it away before I could even see him.”

Cass’s throat worked as she swallowed. “That’s… not the whole truth.”

Saparata blinked. For a moment, the words didn’t make sense. “What?”

“He’s alive,” Cass said softly. “Barely, but alive.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Saparata just stared at her, like the air itself had been ripped away from his lungs.

“He’s—” He couldn’t finish. His voice cracked on the single syllable.

Cass looked down, hands clasped tightly in her lap. “Schpood didn’t want anyone to know yet. Fluixon’s injuries were… bad. His brain took damage, and he hasn’t responded to anything since they brought him in. The medics say he doesn’t remember much, if anything at all.”

Saparata’s breath came out uneven. “He’s alive,” he said again, as if saying it out loud might make it real.

Cass nodded once. “Schpood’s keeping him in the Westhelm infirmary. Under heavy guard. You know how people see him—what he’s done. Keeping him alive could break the council apart.”

Saparata laughed—quiet, bitter. “So Schpood lied to me. He let me think he was dead while he kept him locked away?”

“It wasn’t to hurt you,” Cass said quickly. “He thought he was protecting you. You know how people talk. You and Fluixon—”

“Don’t,” Saparata cut in, his tone sharper than he intended. He stood up, running a hand through his white hair, grains of sand falling from the strands. “He’s alive. And all this time—

Cass rose too, voice soft but steady. “I wanted to tell you sooner, but Schpood insisted we keep it quiet until the council decided. I thought you deserved to hear it now, before they do something stupid.”

Saparata stared at the horizon, the sea reflecting the fading light of dusk. “Alive,” he whispered again. “And kept from me like some kind of secret.”

Cass stepped closer, her voice barely above the sound of the waves. “Saps, he's... not the same, though. ”

Saparata laughed, though it didn’t sound amused. “That’s convenient.” He rubbed his temples, eyes narrowing. “So he gets to forget everything he’s done, and I’m the one stuck remembering it all.”

Cass opened her mouth to speak, but stopped when she saw his expression. His voice wasn’t angry—it was tired, strained, like he’d been carrying too much for too long.

“You don’t have to see him,” she said softly. “No one’s asking you to. I just thought you should hear it from me, not from a council letter or a rumor.”

Saparata finally turned to her, meeting her eyes. “Four days,” he said.

“Four days I’ve been sitting here, trying to accept that he’s gone. Trying to believe that maybe it was better that way.” He let out a bitter scoff. “And now you tell me he’s alive, and I don’t even know if that makes it better or worse.”

Cass looked down, her arms folding loosely. “You’re allowed to feel that way,” she murmured. “Honestly, I don’t even know what I’d do if I were in your place.”

Saparata smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Neither do I.”

For a while, they just stood there in silence—the waves rolling, the air heavy with things left unsaid.

Finally, Cass took a small step closer. “If… if you ever decide you want to see him, I can take you.”

Saparata didn’t respond. He only looked back at the sea, eyes distant, as the sun dipped lower.

Cass lingered a moment longer, studying him—his quiet posture, the weariness in his face—and decided not to push any further. She turned toward her boat, her voice soft as she said, “Take care of yourself, Saps.”

He gave a small nod, barely audible over the wind. “Yeah,” he muttered, eyes still fixed on the water. “You too.”

Saparata thought his day couldn’t possibly get any worse.

He stood there for a long while, watching Cass’s boat grow smaller against the horizon until it was nothing but a pale speck swallowed by the orange-tinted waves. 

The news sat heavy in his chest, like an anchor. Fluixon is alive.

He almost wished she hadn’t told him.

His fingers curled into his palms as he exhaled sharply, shoulders tense. “Alive,” he muttered under his breath, the word foreign and bitter on his tongue. He could almost laugh at the irony—after all this time spent grieving, after convincing himself that Fluixon’s death was final, that maybe it was fate’s way of ending their story—suddenly, the world decided to twist the knife a little deeper.

He turned toward the ruins of his acropolis-like home, its broken pillars catching the dying light. The place looked almost peaceful in the sunset, but it only reminded him of what he’d lost—what they had destroyed.

A humorless chuckle escaped him. “Of course he’s alive,” he murmured, running a hand through his white hair. “That bastard always finds a way.”

He sat down on one of the fallen stone steps, elbows resting on his knees, staring blankly at the shifting water. His mind wouldn’t stop replaying the memories—the arguments, the laughter, the betrayal. And now this… a cruel reminder that he’d never really escaped him.

Saparata trudged back to his house—or more like dragged his feet through the sand, each step heavier than the last. He stepped inside, brushing past the hanging fabric that served as a temporary curtain. The air was still, faintly smelling of dust and ash. He sank into the nearest chair, feeling the wood creak beneath his weight.

His mind wouldn’t stop replaying Cass’s words—He’s alive. The way she said it, careful and quiet, as if afraid he’d shatter. Maybe she was right to worry.

Saparata leaned back and stared at the ceiling, or what was left of it, the open sky bleeding into the cracks. “Alive,” he murmured again, testing the word on his tongue like poison.

He closed his eyes. The thought should’ve brought him peace. It didn’t. It only left him wondering if fate was cruel—or if it was giving him one last unfinished thread to pull.

5 DAYS LATER

Saparata was honestly surprised by his own restraint—by the fact that he hadn’t immediately dropped everything and sailed straight to Westhelm the moment Cass told him. The old him would’ve. The one still running on fury, grief, and something dangerously close to a feeling he wasn't ready to acknowledge yet.

Instead, he stayed. Five days passed, and he buried himself in work as if hammering nails and hauling stone could drown out the noise in his head. He patched the hole in his roof, though it still leaked when it rained. He managed to capture two stubborn chickens—one of which seemed to hate him personally—and rebuilt one of the smaller huts near the acropolis.

The place was beginning to look alive again, even if he wasn’t.

By the fifth evening, he stopped pretending. Sitting on the steps of his unfinished acropolis, he stared out at the horizon, watching the tide pull in and out, and finally admitted the truth to himself. Running away—or burying himself in work—was pointless. The questions, the anger, the confusion, the need for closure… none of it would go away.

Saparata stood slowly, white hair catching the last light of the sun. He glanced at the small boat he kept moored along the shoreline, the one he’d been ignoring while tending to his base. A bitter smile tugged at his lips. “No use waiting anymore,” he muttered. “Time to face it.”

He pushed the boat into the water, the familiar creak of wood under his hands grounding him in the moment. Every stroke of the oar carried him closer to Westhelm, closer to the truth he had tried so hard to avoid.

It had been a good few hours of sailing back to Westhelm, though Saparata didn’t feel much urgency. In truth, he was scared—more scared than he cared to admit. Every part of him wanted to turn the boat around, head back to his half-finished base, and pretend none of this ever happened.

But he didn’t. Somehow, he had arrived, almost as if on autopilot, standing outside the infirmary under the pale glow of the moon. Guards moved in quiet rotations, their armor glinting faintly in the night. The streets were nearly empty; a few dim lights flickered from the windows of houses where people were likely sleeping.

As if the guards had been expecting him, Saparata was escorted inside without a word. The corridors of the infirmary smelled faintly of antiseptic and something metallic, a scent that made his stomach twist.

He barely had time to take it all in before he saw Schpood standing by the medical room, his posture calm but his face unreadable. The usual flicker of mischief in his eyes was gone, replaced by a stillness that made Saparata’s chest tighten.

“Glad you made it,” Schpood said finally, voice steady but carrying a weight that made Saparata pause.

Saparata’s gaze flicked to the curtain behind him, and he froze. Every heartbeat thrummed in his ears, a slow, relentless drum of anticipation and fear.

“You know why you’re here,” Schpood continued, stepping aside just enough to allow a glimpse of the bed beyond. His expression didn’t change, but the tension in the room did—heavy, suffocating, impossible to ignore.

“Is he…?” Saparata’s voice cracked, trailing off before he could finish.

“He’s awake,” Schpood replied, his tone even, but not without a trace of something—reluctant pride, maybe.

“He’s been awake for about an hour now. Normally, he drifts in and out, barely able to respond to anyone. But these past few days, there’s been progress. He’s coherent… a little. Eating on his own, too. It’s small, but it’s a start.”Saparata’s chest tightened. Small progress. The words should have felt reassuring, but instead they pressed down on him like a weight he hadn’t expected. He stepped closer to the door, hesitant, unsure if he was ready to see the man who had haunted his thoughts for so long.

Schpood watched him, expression still unreadable. “Take it slow,” he said finally. “He’s… not himself yet. The accident—his memories, much of what he was—those aren’t back. At least, not yet.”

Schpood’s gaze sharpened, serious and steady, cutting through the tension in the room.

“Are you able to bear this?” he asked, voice low but firm.

Saparata hesitated, eyes dropping to the floor for a moment before meeting Schpood’s gaze. The question hung between them, heavier than the silence of the infirmary.

“I… I’ll manage,” Saparata said finally, his voice tight, controlled, though his white hair shimmered faintly in the dim light from the infirmary windows. “I have to.”

Schpood nodded slowly, as if expecting nothing less. “Good. Then come closer. But take your time. He’s fragile, and so are you.”

Saparata inhaled sharply and stepped forward, every footfall a quiet drum of anticipation, dread, and something he refused to name.

And then he saw him.

Fluixon.

Saparata’s gaze drifted over him, taking in every detail. The patch on his cheek, the bandage wrapped around his head, the way he sat on the medical bed with a medic at his side. His hair was messy, unkempt—nothing like the slick, tidy style he always wore. His uniform was gone, replaced by a simple long-sleeved shirt that hung a little too loosely on his frame.

And oh.

A swell of emotion rose in Saparata’s chest, and he felt the edges of tears forming in his eyes. The man before him—the fragile, quiet version of Fluixon—looked like the person he had known before the war, before the paranoia, before the endless schemes. The same man Saparata had first met, the one who had smiled softly and looked at him with those purple eyes.

Before Saparata could speak, Fluixon’s gaze finally found him, and a small, hesitant smile tugged at his lips.

“You’re Saparata, right? I heard about you from the Emperor,” he said softly.

Saparata could only stare, words caught somewhere in his chest. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move—he just watched the man before him, alive and fragile, yet unmistakably him.

Fluixon shifted, standing slowly from the bed. Each step was measured, careful, until he was close enough that Saparata could see the slight tremor in his posture. Then he stretched out a hand, tentative but earnest.

“It’s… nice to meet you. I’m Fluixon,” he said.

Saparata stared at the outstretched hand for a long moment, memories of their first meeting flickering through his mind. The hesitation, the tension, the quiet understanding—they all came rushing back.

Then, slowly, deliberately, he lifted his hand and grasped Fluixon’s.

“I’m Saparata,” he said, his voice steady despite the swirl of emotions inside him. “But… you can call me Saps.”

Chapter Text

Saparata eventually stepped out of the room, his movements slow, as if the world outside had grown heavier with each step. His heart pounded loudly in his chest, a relentless drum that made his head swim.

Even after seeing him face to face, even after feeling the warmth of Fluixon’s hand in his own, even after catching that faint, careful curl of his lips directed at him—Saparata couldn’t shake the feeling that it was too good to be true.

He paused in the corridor, letting out a quiet breath, shoulders sagging with the weight of everything he hadn’t realized he was carrying. It shouldn’t feel like this. It shouldn’t feel like hope was clawing its way back into a heart so long armored in grief and anger.

But it did.

Schpood appeared beside him almost instantly, concern softening the lines of his face.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, careful, almost gentle.

“I’m… okay, I just—” Saparata’s words faltered, swallowed by the weight of what he’d just seen.

“He looks… alive,” he said finally, voice low, almost in disbelief. 

“And well—like he hadn’t just used me as a scapegoat for the deaths of the other leaders a few weeks ago.” His laugh was hollow, devoid of any real humor.

Schpood gave a slow, understanding nod. “It’s a lot to take in,” he said quietly.

“Don’t rush yourself. You’ve waited long enough to see him like this.”

Saparata exhaled, letting a fraction of the tension drain from his shoulders. Seeing Fluixon here—alive, fragile, human—didn’t erase the past, didn’t undo the pain, but it was something. And for the first time in days, that something felt enough.

Saparata hesitated, then asked quietly, “How is he? Mentally, I mean. Is he alright?”

As if on cue, one of the medics stepped forward. “Physically, he’s recovering well, given everything he went through,” they said carefully.

“Mentally, it’s more complicated. The fall damaged his brain, and he’s lost a lot of his memories. Some days he’s coherent and responsive, and other times he becomes agitated, even violent. It’s unpredictable.”

Saparata’s jaw tightened at the words. He had expected some instability, but hearing it out loud made it sharper, heavier.

“We monitor him closely,” the medic continued.

“He’s safe, and so is anyone around him. He responds to calm guidance, but sudden stimuli can trigger a reaction. It’s part of the injury and the confusion he’s experiencing.”

Saparata nodded slowly, taking it all in. The man in front of him—the one who had haunted his thoughts, frustrated him, and caused him so much pain—was fragile and unstable, yet alive. He had to reconcile the past he knew with the reality now in front of him.

“I understand,” he said quietly. “Thank you for telling me.”

The medic gave a small nod and stepped back, leaving Saparata and Schpood outside the clinic room.

Saps turned his gaze to Schpood. “And how’s the council handling this? I imagine it’s not going smoothly.”

Schpood let out a low sigh, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “You’re not wrong. There’s tension, whispers, outright anger from some of the leaders. Many of them cannot believe I’m harboring him."

Saparata’s hands clenched slightly at his sides. “I don’t blame them. It’s difficult to justify.”

Schpood nodded, his expression firm but calm. “It’s difficult, yes, but I made the choice for a reason. Keeping him alive isn’t about forgiveness, and it isn’t about weakness. It’s about preventing more bloodshed. That’s what matters. But yes, many of the leaders are watching, waiting for me to slip. I suppose some of that pressure will eventually fall on you too.”

Saparata exhaled slowly, the weight of the decision settling over him. “I see,” he said quietly. “Then I have to be ready for whatever comes next.”

Schpood leaned back slightly, letting his gaze sweep over the quiet infirmary before settling on Saparata. A faint smirk tugged at his lips. “So far, I’ve managed to stall the council. They can’t make a move without my say, not without risking chaos.”

Saparata raised an eyebrow, and Schpood chuckled softly. “It feels different, being feared for once. People actually listen before acting.”

Saparata let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “I’ll admit, it does make some things easier. Hard to imagine I’d ever say that.”

Schpood’s expression shifted, the humor fading into seriousness. “But the meeting will come eventually. It won’t be like last time with everyone scattered and unsure. Fluixon will be expected to attend, and if the council presses, you’ll be there too. They’ll watch, judge, and test both of you.”

Saparata met Schpood’s gaze, trying to steady the jumble of thoughts crowding his mind. “Have they decided when the next meeting will take place?”

Schpood shook his head, a line forming between his brows. “Not the full council yet. There’s a brief gathering later, just to discuss Fluixon—his condition and where he’ll be held temporarily. It’s meant to clarify things without stirring unnecessary tension.”

Saparata exhaled slowly, the tightness in his chest loosening a little. “Can I attend? I want to understand what’s happening for myself.”

Schpood paused, considering him carefully. “It’s probably best that you do. You’ll have the chance to see what’s happening firsthand and prepare before the council meets in full,” he said, cautious but steady.

Schpood added, his voice calm but firm, “It’ll happen in a few hours. For now, you can stay here and prepare, gather your thoughts, or you can go back inside and see Fluixon for yourself, see how he’s really doing if you want.”

Saparata nodded slowly, running a hand through his white hair as he considered his options. Staying meant time to think, to brace himself for the questions and tension of the meeting. But going back inside meant seeing Fluixon—seeing the man who had caused so much chaos yet somehow survived, fragile and patched up, lying under the care of medics. Part of him longed for that sight, to measure the truth with his own eyes rather than hearing it secondhand.

He shook his head gently. “I’ll stay out here for now,” he said, voice quiet but steady. “I need a moment to gather myself before facing the council. I’ll see you in a few hours for the meeting.”

Schpood gave a small nod, a hint of approval in his expression. “Very well. Use the time wisely. I’ll make sure everything is ready when you join us.”

Saparata took a moment to steady himself, watching the quiet night settle around the infirmary. The decision didn’t ease the weight entirely, but it gave him a sense of control. For now, he could breathe, and for now, he could prepare.

Saparata stepped into the gathering hall, noting immediately how few were present and how heavily guarded the place was. The arrangement felt deliberate, almost conspiratorial. He allowed himself a short, bitter chuckle at the thought—it reminded him too much of Fluixon.

Some familiar faces were there, though none offered any comfort. Their expressions were strained, guarded, and more than a few looked at him with suspicion or judgment. Only Cass, god bless her, gave him a small, kind smile that managed to cut through some of the tension, however fleetingly.

Schpood was nowhere in sight. Knowing him, Saparata guessed it was typical—his flair for drama often meant arriving late and making an entrance. He shifted slightly, letting his gaze sweep the room again, waiting, thinking, and preparing himself for whatever was about to unfold.

Schpood finally made his entrance, the hem of his dark cape sweeping across the floor with each confident step. The subtle clatter of his boots echoed in the hall, drawing every eye, and yet he carried it with that peculiar mix of authority and flair that only he could manage.

“Sorry I’m late,” he called out, his grin wide and easy, as if the gravity of the council gathering hadn’t a chance to touch him. “One of my men tried to save some animals stranded at sea—turns out he didn’t know how to swim.”

Saparata leaned back slightly, rubbing the bridge of his nose with a sigh. Mentally, he facepalmed so hard he could feel it through his skull. Even now, in a room meant for deliberation and tension, Schpood had managed to inject the absurdity of his presence, turning what should have been a formal, quiet gathering into a display that was unmistakably, entirely him. The cape, the grin, the story—it all screamed Schpood in a way that made Saparata both exasperated and, strangely, a little relieved.

“Anyway, we can start the meeting,” Schpood announced, his voice carrying easily across the hall.

The council meeting began with a briefing from Schpood’s chief medic, who stepped forward with a small stack of charts and papers in hand.

“Fluixon’s condition is… delicate,” the medic began, voice steady but careful. She laid out a series of diagrams showing vital signs, scans of injuries, and neurological reports.

“Physically, he’s recovering well. His burns are healing, and most of his broken bones have set correctly. There’s still some weakness in his limbs, but nothing life-threatening at this point.”

Saparata leaned forward, eyes scanning the charts. The images of bandaged arms, a head wrapped in layers of gauze, and IV lines running along his body tugged at him in ways he wasn’t ready to admit.

“But his mental state is unstable,” the medic continued, flipping to another chart that showed a series of cognitive assessments.

“The trauma from the fall and his previous injuries have caused partial memory loss. He’s disoriented at times and can become aggressive without warning. Medics are able to manage it for now, but it’s unpredictable.”

A murmur spread through the room, some leaders exchanging grim looks. One of them, a tall man from Island 2, spoke first. “Given his actions and his instability, he should be placed in a secure cell. We can’t risk him harming anyone else—or himself.”

Before Saparata could respond further, Cass leaned forward, her voice firm but calm, cutting through the tension in the room.

“Keeping him in a cell is not an option,” she said, meeting the eyes of the other leaders. “We’re not dealing with a criminal in the conventional sense right now. He’s injured, disoriented, and unstable. Punishment would not only risk his health, it could also make the situation far worse for everyone involved.”

Murmurs spread around the table, some leaders frowning at her words, others clearly considering her perspective. Cass didn’t back down, her tone steady and persuasive. “If we want him to recover safely—and prevent further incidents—we need him under care, not confinement. The infirmary provides supervision, medical support, and a controlled environment. A cell provides nothing but isolation and risk.”

Saparata exhaled, a small measure of relief washing over him. He hadn’t spoken yet, but Cass’s intervention had given weight to the argument he had been struggling to make alone. Schpood’s eyes lingered on her briefly, a faint smirk tugging at his lips, as if silently approving her choice of words.

The leader’s gaze flicked to Saparata as he continued, “And your friend—Fluixon’s closest ally, as I understand it—shouldn’t that make your judgment questionable, Cass? Surely you cannot be impartial here. Why should anyone treat him differently than a criminal?”

Cass’s eyes narrowed slightly, her tone sharpening, though she kept it measured. “First, Saparata is not Fluixon’s ally,” she said firmly. “He never was, not after what Fluixon has done. He was betrayed, manipulated, and left to suffer because of Fluixon’s actions. To call him ‘Fluixon’s closest ally’ is not just wrong—it ignores everything Saparata endured, and the very reason he withdrew from the world after the war. He does not owe Fluixon anything, and he certainly does not act on his behalf.”

The murmurs in the room grew, some leaders clearly uncomfortable with her frankness. Cass held their attention with steady composure. “Saparata’s concern for Fluixon is not loyalty or bias—it is the responsibility of a person who understands the consequences of violence and suffering. He is advocating for a course that keeps everyone safe, including Fluixon himself, while preventing further harm. That is not allegiance. That is reason.”

Saparata listened to Cass, her words firm and unwavering, defending him as if she knew every thought running through his head. Relief washed over him at her clarity, at the way she refused to let the council misrepresent him as some blind ally of Fluixon.

And yet, a part of him winced. She was right in principle—he wasn’t acting for Fluixon, not truly. But the truth was messier. Part of his decision, part of why he insisted on supervision rather than confinement, was tangled with his own feelings, the echoes of the bond they once had, the memories he couldn’t quite forget. He could almost admit it to himself, but not here, not now.

So he remained silent, letting Cass speak for him, letting her frame his motives as reasoned rather than personal. It wasn’t completely false, and it would buy them the time he needed to figure out where he truly stood—between his duty, his anger, and the remnants of a connection he couldn’t quite let go.

Cass’s gaze returned to the council, unflinching. “So I ask again: why should anyone treat him as a criminal, when the best course of action is care and supervision? To do otherwise would be reckless, and it would ignore everything we know about his current state.”

A leader from Island 1, a stern woman with sharp eyes, raised her voice over the murmurs of the council. “Enough talk about whether he should be confined or cared for. Where exactly should Fluixon stay? He must be guarded, of course, but he also must be kept away from the other nations until his condition stabilizes. We cannot risk him wandering freely and causing chaos again.”

Heads nodded, some scribbling notes, others exchanging glances.

Saparata cleared his throat, leaning forward slightly. “If I may,” he said, keeping his tone even.

“He could stay at my home. It’s isolated, far enough from most of the islands, and I can personally ensure he is monitored. He won’t have access to anyone outside, and he will be under constant supervision until he recovers further.”

A ripple of surprise ran through the room. Some leaders looked skeptical, others curious. Saparata met their eyes calmly, letting the weight of his offer hang in the air. “It’s not ideal, but it’s safe,” he added.

“And it gives him the environment he needs to stabilize without unnecessary exposure to the outside world or further conflict.”

A burly leader from one of the smaller nations narrowed his eyes at Saparata. “And why should any of us trust you not to help him escape?” His voice was sharp, slicing through the tentative quiet of the council room.

“You may claim to want him isolated, but how do we know you won’t act on… whatever lingering feelings you have for him? How do we know you won’t let him slip away the moment you see a chance?”

Saparata’s jaw tightened, though he kept his composure. He could feel the heat rising to his cheeks, the familiar mix of frustration and exhaustion. 

“Because I am not his ally,” he said evenly, meeting the man’s gaze. 

“I have no reason to aid him in anything but recovery and containment. My concern is safety—for everyone, including him. You may call it bias or weakness, but my focus is the same as yours: preventing harm while ensuring he is monitored.”

Cass leaned slightly forward, her tone calm but firm. “You heard him. This is not about loyalty to Fluixon. It is about pragmatism, and the only person here who understands the stakes clearly is Saparata. Trust is earned, yes—but he has demonstrated it in the choices he has made over the past days. Nothing has happened to suggest otherwise.”

The room murmured again, some leaders softening their expressions while others continued to study Saparata with wary eyes. He felt the tension, but also the subtle shift: they were listening, even if reluctantly.

Schpood raised his hands, drawing the council’s attention. “Well, that’s settled,” he said, his voice carrying that casual finality he always used when making a decision seem inevitable. He paused, scanning the room with a smirk, letting the tension build just slightly.

“Now, let’s make it official. All those in favor of Fluixon staying under Saparata’s supervision, speak up.”

A ripple of hands rose around the table, some tentative, others resolute.

“And those who insist he should be confined—jailed, if you will?” Schpood prompted, letting the pause linger for dramatic effect.

A nearly equal number of hands shot up, some faces tight with concern, some reluctant. Schpood tilted his head, a faint grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Interesting,” he murmured, “but it seems the first group takes it by a short mile.”

He leaned back in his chair, letting the council absorb the result. “Very well. Fluixon will stay with Saparata, under strict supervision, until further notice. Guards will rotate, medics will continue to monitor, and anyone attempting to interfere will answer to me directly. Agreed?”

Murmurs of assent followed, the council still tense but compelled by Schpood’s decisive tone. Saparata allowed himself a small exhale of relief, knowing that, for now, the responsibility—and the burden—was his alone.

Schpood rose from his chair and gave Saparata a firm pat on the back. “Go back to the clinic and prepare yourself,” he said with a half-smile.

“It’s your turn to face the council’s wrath for protecting him. They’ll ask questions, throw accusations, and maybe even try to intimidate you. Don’t flinch—just keep your head, and remember why you’re doing this.”

"Thank you, Schpood." Saps gave him a smile.

From across the table, Cass gave him a teasing thumbs-up, her grin light but knowing. “You’ve got this,” she said, her tone both playful and reassuring.

The council murmured their assent, the session drawing to a close, and one by one the leaders filed out. Soon, Saparata was left alone in the room, the weight of the decision settling around him.

He exhaled, rubbing his temples briefly before pushing himself off the chair. There was no time to dwell. With measured steps, he headed back toward the clinic, toward Fluixon, and the responsibility that awaited him there.

Saparata finally arrived at the clinic, the quiet of the hall pressing in around him. He paused just outside the door, taking a deep breath, letting himself gather the fragments of courage and resolve he’d carried since the council. For a long moment, he simply stood there, staring at the familiar white walls, listening to the distant shuffle of medics and the faint hum of activity.

After a few measured seconds, he pushed the door open and stepped inside. His eyes immediately found Fluixon, surprisingly awake, looking at the window. The moonlight spilled across his features, casting soft shadows over the bandages wrapped around his head and arm. His raven hair fell messily across his forehead, and his gaze was distant, dazed, as if he were staring at a world only he could see.

Saparata froze for a heartbeat, taking in the sight of the man who had been both enemy and puzzle, the weight of the past and present pressing quietly around him.

Saparata drew in a slow, steadying breath before stepping a little closer. His voice broke the quiet of the room, calm but carrying a weight he couldn’t hide.

“Fluixon. It’s me.”

Fluixon turned slowly at the sound of his name, eyes widening slightly before a small, surprised smile tugged at his lips.

“Well, look who finally decided to show up,” he said, his voice light, teasing, though a hint of relief lingered beneath it.

“I was starting to think you’d forgotten about me. It gets awfully lonely in here, staring at the same faces, day after day.”

“How are you holding up?” he asked, his eyes scanning Fluixon’s face, taking in the bandages and the tired, distant look in his eyes.

Fluixon let out a short, humor-tinged sigh, shrugging slightly despite the bandages and his weakened state.

“I’m surviving,” he said, a faint smirk crossing his lips. “Not exactly the most exciting view, though. Walls, ceiling, medics, you get the picture. Could use some better company—fortunately, that’s finally fixed.”

His gaze flicked to Saparata, lingering a little longer than necessary, as if trying to gauge his reaction, the teasing tone doing little to hide the relief he felt at seeing a familiar face.

Saparata blinked at him, momentarily caught off guard. Fluixon’s voice—soft, teasing, almost easy—felt foreign to him. He had spent so long expecting the tight-lipped, careful, almost cold version of the man that now, this small smirk and lightness threw him off completely.

“I… uh,” Saparata started, then paused, unsure how to continue.

His usual composure faltered slightly, replaced by a strange mix of relief and confusion. “I didn’t… I mean, you look…” He shook his head subtly, trying to gather his thoughts.

Fluixon’s smirk widened, his eyes glinting with mischief.

“Relax, I’m just messing with you,” he said, the teasing edge softening into something warmer. He patted the edge of his bed. “Come on, sit. Don’t just stand there looking like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Saparata hesitated for a moment, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Fluixon’s hand waved gently, patting the space beside him with quiet insistence.

“So… how’s your day been? And how did that council meeting go?” he asked, his tone casual, but there was a spark of curiosity in his eyes.

Saparata froze mid-breath, eyebrows shooting up. “Wait—how do you even know about the meeting?” he asked, a mix of surprise and suspicion in his voice.

Fluixon chuckled lightly, a sound that was both amused and self-assured. “You think I’ve been lying around all day doing nothing? I have my ways of keeping up with things, even from here.”

Saparata shook his head slowly, a small, incredulous smile tugging at his lips despite himself. “Figures,” he muttered, the disbelief lingering, though he couldn’t help feeling a little relieved that Fluixon still had that sharp, aware edge about him.

Saparata leaned back slightly, keeping his voice calm and measured.

“The council… they had a meeting about your situation,” he said carefully.

“Mostly about where you’d stay and how to keep you safe. For now, it’s been decided that you’ll stay at my home. It’s isolated, away from most of the other islands, so there’s little risk of trouble. Everything else, the finer details, I’ll handle with Schpood.”

He paused, watching Fluixon’s face for any sign of tension. “I didn’t want to overwhelm you with everything. Just… know that you’re being looked after, and for now, you’re safe.”

Fluixon let out a quiet chuckle, the corners of his lips twitching. “Isolated, huh? Sounds like I’ve got the perfect spot to cause some trouble,” he joked lightly, though the small smile didn’t quite reach the distant daze in his eyes.

Saparata allowed himself a faint smile, shaking his head. “Don’t get any ideas,” he muttered, though his tone held no real sharpness, just a careful effort to keep things calm.

Fluixon’s gaze lingered on Saparata, a teasing glint in his eye.

“So we’ll be staying together for a while, huh?” he asked casually, though there was a soft note beneath the words that made Saparata’s chest tighten.

Saparata felt a nervous flush creep up his neck. “Why… Is that a problem? If it is, I can ask someone to—”

Fluixon chuckled, cutting him off. “Relax, I don’t mind.”

He leaned back slightly, the corner of his lips curling into a faint, almost playful smile. “In fact, I’m glad it’s you. I don’t exactly trust anyone here. The Emperor’s been taking care of me, sure, but I don’t think he’d care much about my mental state.”

Saparata hesitated, swallowing hard, the weight of Fluixon’s words settling quietly in his chest. He wasn’t sure why, but hearing Fluixon place that trust in him—of all people—made his pulse spike.

“Right,” he said finally, trying to sound casual.

“Then I’ll make sure you don’t cause too much trouble while you’re with me.”

Fluixon’s laugh was soft, easy, but genuine. “I suppose I’ll hold you to that,” he said, his eyes flicking toward Saparata with a mix of mischief and something unspoken, something that made Saparata’s heart feel simultaneously heavy and unaccountably lighter.

Saparata shifted slightly on the bed, keeping his voice gentle.

“You feel well enough to move soon? To go back to my place?” he asked, careful not to sound pressing.

Fluixon tilted his head, blinking slowly, as if weighing the question. “Back to your place…" he repeated, voice soft, almost distant.

Then a faint smile tugged at his lips. “I think I could manage. Slowly, of course. I don’t want to topple over before I even make it past the door.”

Saparata allowed himself a small, relieved exhale. “Good. You’ll need time to recover, but I’ll help you. We’ll take it slow. No rush.”

Fluixon’s gaze softened, and he nodded, a trace of gratitude in his eyes. “I knew you’d take care of me,” he murmured quietly, the teasing edge from before replaced by something steadier, something that made Saparata’s chest ache in an unfamiliar way.

Saparata didn’t respond; he didn't know what to say.

The journey back to the Acropolis was quieter than Saps expected. The small boat cut through the water under the soft glow of the morning sun, the gentle sway almost hypnotic. Fluixon sat opposite him, wrapped loosely in a blanket, eyes tracing the horizon as if committing the waves and wind to memory.

Saparata kept the pace steady, careful not to push too hard. Every so often, he glanced over, making sure Fluixon was holding up. The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable—it felt necessary, a small reprieve from the world outside.

As the familiar shoreline came into view, Saparata felt a twinge of anticipation. The white sand, the scattered farm huts, the slowly rebuilt walls of his base—it was a stark contrast to the chaos of Westhelm. For all its simplicity, it felt like a sanctuary, a place removed from the politics and pain that had shadowed them for so long.

Fluixon shifted, finally breaking the quiet. “Not bad,” he said, voice quiet but approving, “your home, it’s different than I imagined.”

Saparata’s lips twitched in a small, tight smile. “It’s simple. Quiet. Safe. Everything else can wait.”

The boat nudged the sand, and Saparata jumped to steady it. “Careful,” he muttered, then gestured for Fluixon to follow. The medic stayed behind, giving a small nod, trusting Saps to handle the rest.

Saparata led Fluixon carefully across the sand toward the small acropolis-inspired home he’d been slowly rebuilding. The structure was far from complete—some columns still needed support, the roof patched but not seamless, and inside, the floors were littered with scattered documents, plans, and tools he’d used to try and restore some sense of order.

Fluixon’s eyes roamed over everything, taking in the chaos with a faint, amused tilt of his head.

“This is… impressive, in a chaotic sort of way,” he murmured, voice soft, almost teasing.

Saps gave a short, humorless laugh, gesturing toward the floor plans and scattered blueprints.

“This was supposed to be the main hall. That’s why I have all the tables set up and the farm plan, and—” He stopped, realizing how unnecessary the explanation sounded. “It’s a work in progress.”

Fluixon’s gaze softened. “I see. You’ve been keeping busy, then.”

Saparata nodded, brushing sand off his tunic. “I had to. Can’t sit around thinking. Doesn’t help anyone, especially me.” He paused, watching Fluixon settle on a chair by the window, the blanket still wrapped loosely around him.

“You’ll have your own room,” he added, voice low, careful. “I won’t smother you or anything. Just close enough to make sure you’re okay.”

Fluixon’s lips twitched into a small, almost imperceptible smile. “Good. I’d rather have you checking on me than anyone else. Not that I trust anyone else much.”

Saps felt that familiar tightness in his chest—the pull of responsibility, the unspoken bond, and the shadow of all the chaos Fluixon had caused. He kept his voice steady. “Then we’ll take it slow. No sudden moves, no surprises. We rebuild here, together. One step at a time.”

Saparata froze for a moment, caught off guard by his own words. They had slipped out more intimate than he intended, teetering dangerously close to corny. He braced for the familiar teasing, the playful jab the old Fluixon would’ve thrown, calling him a cornball.

But there was none of that. Instead, Fluixon offered a small, genuine smile, the kind that carried a quiet warmth. “Thanks, Saps,” he said softly.

Saps blinked, unsure how to respond. “Uh… you’re welcome,” he muttered, his voice low, almost awkward. He glanced away, pretending to inspect the messy floor, though his heart felt heavier and lighter at the same time.

Saparata wasn’t used to this. No matter how much he had mentally prepared, no amount of time could have readied him for this new version of Fluixon. The man before him was softer, quieter, almost fragile in ways that clashed violently with the memories Saps had carried for years.

He had told himself it would be easy to act, to lie, to mask everything behind calm words and measured expressions. But the questions—the gnawing anger, the need for answers—still pressed against his skull like an insistent tide. What could Fluixon possibly give him now, when the man barely knew anything about himself, barely remembered even his own name?

Fluixon’s eyes flicked toward him, sharp despite the dazed haze lingering in his gaze. “Hey,” he said softly, tilting his head. “Why are you staring at me like that? Did I do something weird with my hair again, or are you just plotting my murder in your head?”

Saparata blinked, caught off guard. “I… uh, nothing,” he said, scratching the back of his neck.

“Just admiring the mess you’ve become, I guess. Very… rugged look.”

Fluixon raised an eyebrow, mock-offended. “Rugged? You mean this is my new style? I was going for ‘terrifying war criminal,’ but sure, rugged works too.”

Saparata snorted, despite himself. “Yeah, terrifying’s on pause for now. You’re more like harmlessly dazed.”

Fluixon smirked. “Harmlessly dazed, huh? Well, come closer then, and admire all you want. I don’t bite… much.”

Saparata froze mid-sit, blinking at Fluixon as the man’s smirk didn’t falter. Was he… flirting? The thought made his ears burn and a heat rise to his cheeks that he couldn’t shake. He shifted uncomfortably, trying to ignore it, but every word, every glance, felt pointed, deliberate, and somehow personal.

Fluixon leaned back slightly, eyes locking with Saps’ in a way that was bold, almost dominant. It was that same old confidence, the one that had commanded people and plans alike, but now it was aimed squarely at him. And that was what unsettled Saparata the most—this wasn’t the teasing from a comrade, this wasn’t playful banter; this was directed at him.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Fluixon said, voice low and teasing. “Not used to people being so… attentive, are you?”

Saps cleared his throat, trying to regain composure. “I-I’m fine,” he said too quickly, and then immediately regretted how awkward it sounded. He shifted again, tugging slightly at the hem of his tunic like it would ground him.

Fluixon’s smirk widened, clearly enjoying the effect he was having. “You’re adorable when you’re flustered,” he said softly, almost mockingly, though the intensity in his gaze made Saps forget how to breathe for a second.

Saparata’s mind scrambled. Adorable? Flustered? What the hell is happening? He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this tongue-tied around anyone, let alone the man who had caused him so much grief. And yet there was something intoxicating about the way Fluixon’s presence pressed into him, bold and unyielding, claiming space in a way Saps didn’t know how to resist.

He cleared his throat again, louder this time, trying to sound firm. “I-I’m not… I’m not going to give you the satisfaction of knowing that, okay?”

Fluixon laughed softly, a low, amused sound that made Saps’ chest tighten.

“Oh, I’m already enjoying it,” he replied, leaning just slightly closer. “You’ll just have to live with that.”

Saps groaned quietly, burying his face in his hands, muttering, “This is ridiculous…” 

"I’m going to bed. You can do whatever you want there,” his voice low and slightly stiff, though his cheeks betrayed him with a faint flush.

Fluixon’s laugh followed him down, echoing against the ceilings.

“You’re leaving already?” he teased, watching the porcelain-haired man disappear into his room, the warm glow catching in his hair.

Saparata paused at the doorway. “I’m tired. You can manage on your own,” he said, attempting firmness but failing to mask the slight hesitation in his tone.

Fluixon stood up and leaned casually against the wall, arms crossed, a teasing glint in his eyes.

“Manage? Oh, I’m sure I’ll survive. But it’s unfair, leaving me so soon. I was just starting to enjoy the quiet company of someone sane for a change,” he called out, voice carrying lightly in the vast hall.

Saparata’s steps faltered slightly. “Sane?” he muttered under his breath, half-annoyed, half-flustered. “I wouldn’t call you that, exactly.”

Fluixon chuckled, pushing off the wall and stretching lazily. “Details, details,” he said with a grin. “You can't just show up just to vanish immediately. That’s hardly fair, Saps.”

Saparata’s steps faltered slightly. The way Fluixon had said it—Saps—sent a strange warmth twisting through his chest, a flutter he hadn’t expected. 

“We’ll talk tomorrow,” he said softly, trying to sound firm, though the warmth in his chest betrayed him.

From the living room, Fluixon’s voice drifted after him, light and teasing: “Tomorrow, then. Don’t think you can escape me so easily—I’ll find ways to make you stay.”

Saparata let out a quiet, exasperated sigh, sinking onto his bed. What a fucking mess.

Chapter Text

The morning light bled into the room, brushing against Saparata’s face until the warmth pulled him from uneasy sleep. His eyes blinked open to the muted hum of the waves beyond the Acropolis walls, a sound that should’ve been comforting—except his chest still felt heavy, like the night before hadn’t really ended.

He sat there for a while, staring at the sunlight pooling across the floor. It was strange how the world could look so peaceful after everything. After the war, after the council meeting, after him.

Fluixon.

Just thinking the name made something twist in his stomach. The memories came in flashes—his face, his voice, the way he said “Thanks, Saps,” like it was the most natural thing in the world. It wasn’t supposed to hit this hard, but somehow it did.

He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. Keep Fluixon away from everyone. That was the plan, wasn’t it? The council’s grand solution. And Saparata—idiot that he was—had volunteered himself for it.

Now the man who tore everything apart was resting just a few meters away, quiet and weak and not quite the same. It should’ve made things easier, but it didn’t. If anything, it made everything worse.

Saparata stood and opened the door to the corridor, his bare feet brushing against the marble floor. The Acropolis was still half-finished, echoing and empty, but it felt even quieter now.

Saparata paused mid-step.

Something was off.

Fluixon was still sitting by the window, but the way the light touched him made him look almost translucent—like he wasn’t really there. His eyes were unfocused, glassy and distant, tracing something only he could see beyond the horizon. The morning breeze stirred the ends of his hair, but he didn’t flinch, didn’t blink, didn’t move.

Saparata’s throat tightened.

“Fluixon?” he called, voice low, cautious—as if afraid that speaking too loud would shatter something fragile.

No response.

He tried again, a bit firmer this time. “Flux.”

Still nothing.

His chest constricted. For a brief, terrible second, he thought— no, no, not again—and he crossed the room in three long strides, his hand hovering just above Fluixon’s shoulder, unsure if he should touch him.

Then, finally—finally—Fluixon’s head turned, slow and mechanical, like the motion took effort. His eyes blinked back to focus, and the fog in them started to clear.

“Saps?” he murmured, voice faint, disoriented.

Saparata exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Yeah. It’s me.”

Fluixon blinked again, his expression softening with belated recognition. “Sorry,” he said quietly. “Guess I drifted off for a bit.”

“Drifted off,” Saparata echoed, his tone sharper than he meant. “You looked like you were miles away.”

Fluixon gave a small, hollow laugh, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Maybe I was.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward, just heavy. Saparata stood there, studying the man in front of him—this strange, fractured version of Fluixon who seemed caught somewhere between remembering and forgetting.

For a moment, he let himself breathe, trying to ease the weight in his chest.

And then it hit him.

Wait.

Where did Fluixon sleep?

“Dude,” he began carefully, “where did you sleep?”

Fluixon turned toward him with that faintly amused look that always made Saparata’s stomach tighten. “Sleep?” he echoed, as if the concept itself was foreign. Then he shrugged. “Didn’t feel like it. Window seat was fine.”

Saparata blinked. “You stayed there all night?”

“Yeah,” Fluixon said simply, leaning back against the wall. “It’s quiet here. And I didn’t want to risk waking you up. You snore when you’re exhausted, right?”

“I—what? I do not snore,” Saparata muttered, his face heating despite himself.

Fluixon just smiled, that small, knowing curve of his lips that made Saparata’s heart skip. He was definitely teasing him. And somehow, that was even more disorienting than if he’d just said he couldn’t sleep.

Saparata crossed his arms, trying to look stern and failing miserably. “You can’t just—sleep on window ledges. You’re supposed to be recovering.”

Fluixon tilted his head, eyes glinting faintly in the morning light. “You sound like a caretaker already. Should I start calling you nurse Saps?”

Saparata groaned, running a hand down his face. “Never mind. You’re clearly not dying.”

He exhaled, stepping up beside him. “Anyway, how are you feeling? Any difference since yesterday?”

Fluixon hummed, eyes still fixed on the horizon where the sunlight bled into the waves. For a long moment, he didn’t answer, and Saparata wondered if he’d have to ask again. Then, Fluixon tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable.

“Physically? Better. I can stand without feeling like I’ll pass out.” He flexed his fingers as if testing the statement. “Mentally, though…” He paused, gaze distant. “It’s strange. I wake up feeling like I should be somewhere else. Like I’m waiting for something to happen, but I don’t know what it is.”

Saparata frowned, trying to read the tone behind his words. There was no pain in it—no panic—just a quiet kind of confusion that somehow felt worse.

He nodded slowly. “That’s expected. You went through a lot. It’ll take time to adjust.”

Fluixon’s lips twitched, almost into a smirk. “You sound like one of those doctors Schpood keeps throwing at me.”

“Maybe I should start charging,” Saparata muttered, glancing away before Fluixon could see the faint color on his face.

“You eaten yet?” Saparata finally asked, tone light but laced with concern. “Or do you plan to keep surviving on sea air and sheer willpower?”

That earned him a small huff of laughter. Fluixon turned to him, the corner of his mouth curling up. "There's not much to eat, is there?"

Saparata blinked. “You’ve been here since last night and didn’t think to check?”

“I was a little busy trying not to lose my mind, Saps,” Fluixon shot back dryly.

“Right, my bad,” Saparata said, opening a cabinet to find—well, not much. A few cans, some old tea leaves, and a loaf of bread that was either stale or weaponized. “We could have coffee and… bread that might be older than Island 2.”

Fluixon leaned against the windowsill, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a faint attempt at a smirk. He looked exhausted—dark circles under his eyes, posture loose like he was barely holding himself upright—but still, he tried to tease.

“How domestic,” he said, voice lighter than it should’ve been, like he was forcing himself to sound amused. “Didn’t think you’d start playing house with me this soon.”

Saparata’s head snapped toward him. “I’m not playing house, I’m trying to keep you alive.”

“Aw, I didn't know you cared so much about my diet.”

“I don’t,” Saparata said, a little too quickly. “I just don’t want you passing out and giving me more paperwork to fill.”

Fluixon chuckled, the sound soft and oddly disarming. “In that case, maybe I should faint right now. You’d probably give me more attention.”

Saparata groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I swear, you were easier to deal with when you were unconscious.”

Fluixon laughed, the sound soft but genuine this time. “And yet, here you are—still putting up with me.”

“Unfortunately,” Saparata muttered, turning back to the counter, though the corner of his mouth threatened to lift.

Saparata sighed through his nose, choosing not to rise to the bait. He turned away from Fluixon and padded toward the kitchen, brushing some dust off the counter as if it would distract him from the strange heaviness settling in the air.

“Sit down somewhere before you actually pass out,” he said, rummaging through the cupboards. “There’s a couch right there. It’s not much, but it’s softer than the window seat.”

Behind him, he heard a quiet huff that might’ve been a laugh, or just Fluixon trying to breathe through his exhaustion.

Saparata kept his hands busy—pulling out a pan, searching for anything edible left in the pantry. There wasn’t much, but he could make something simple. Egg, maybe. Something warm. 

He risked a glance over his shoulder. Fluixon had taken his advice, sort of—he’d sat down on the couch, elbows on his knees, head tilted back like he was caught somewhere between stubborn wakefulness and sleep. For the first time since this whole mess began, Saparata wasn’t sure which of them needed rest more.

Saparata finally found a half-bag of grain, a few eggs, and what might’ve once been vegetables if they hadn’t wilted from neglect. It wasn’t much, but it was something. He cracked the eggs into a pan and hoped for the best.

Fluixon, meanwhile, was still slouched on the couch, eyes half-lidded but annoyingly alert whenever Saps did something questionable. There was also that same glint of curiosity in his gaze, even through the exhaustion. 

“Did you cook for me before?” he asked, tone half-teasing, half-genuinely wondering. “You sound like you’ve done this before.”

Saparata paused mid-stir, shoulders stiffening. “Not really,” he muttered. “You just look like you’d collapse if I didn’t.”

Fluixon laughed softly—a low, unfamiliar sound. “So I’m that pathetic, huh?”

“You said it, not me,” Saparata replied, glancing over his shoulder just in time to see Fluixon smile faintly, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

The quiet that followed was almost comfortable—until a sudden sizzle turned into a harsh crackle.

“Ah, damn it,” Saparata cursed under his breath, trying to salvage the eggs. A faint curl of smoke drifted up.

Fluixon tilted his head, watching with open amusement. “Is it supposed to smell like that?”

Saparata gave him a deadpan look. “Yes, it’s my special recipe—‘slightly burnt, made by a man losing his patience.’”

Fluixon chuckled, pushing himself off the couch with slow, tired steps. “Sounds appetizing.”

He took a seat at the small table, elbows resting on the wood as he studied Saparata’s every movement. “You’re awfully nice for someone I barely know,” he said after a pause, tone softer now. “You sure we’re not… more than acquaintances?"

The question made Saparata falter for just a heartbeat. “You could say that,” he answered carefully, turning back to the stove before his face could betray anything.

“We knew each other.”

“Were we friends?” Fluixon asked, almost hopefully.

Saparata glanced at the slightly burnt eggs, then at him. “…It’s complicated.”

Fluixon smiled again, faint but genuine. “Complicated sounds about right.”

And when Saparata finally handed him the plate, Fluixon took it with quiet gratitude. “For what it’s worth,” he said, meeting his eyes, “I’m glad you’re the one taking care of me. Even if I don’t remember why."

Saparata only hummed, turning away to hide the twist in his chest. “Eat before it gets cold. It’s not good food, but it’s food.”

Fluixon smiled faintly at the plate. “Looks fine to me.”

The sun hung lazily over the horizon, painting the Acropolis in hues of gold and pale orange. Saparata stood outside, axe in hand, splitting wood with rhythmic precision. Each swing landed with a satisfying crack, scattering bits of bark and dust into the wind. It was quiet except for the distant rush of waves and the soft creak of the swing he’d set up earlier—Fluixon’s so-called “bed.”

Saparata still didn’t understand how someone could refuse a roof over their head after everything he’d been through. But when he’d offered his room earlier, Fluixon had simply smiled that small, absent smile and said, “I like the air better outside.”

So Saparata built a swing—an admittedly crude one, made from old ropes and driftwood. It swayed gently between two leaning palms, half in sunlight, half in shade. And on it, Fluixon lay stretched out, head tilted back, eyes half-closed as if he was listening to the world breathe.

“Don’t you have anything better to do than nap?” Saparata called, wiping the sweat off his brow.

Fluixon cracked one eye open, smiling faintly. “Not particularly. You seem to have enough energy for both of us.”

Saparata grunted, picking up another log. “You’re supposed to be recovering, not lazing around like a spoiled cat.”

“I am recovering,” Fluixon countered, his voice slow, almost drowsy. “Sunlight’s good for the mind. You should try it sometime instead of brooding with an axe.”

“Brooding?” Saparata scoffed. “I’m working.”

“Ah, right,” Fluixon said, stifling a yawn. “You’re brooding productively. My mistake.”

Saparata glared at him over his shoulder, but there was no real bite to it. It was ridiculous—how easily Fluixon teased him now, how natural it felt coming from someone who used to be so reserved, so meticulous.

And the strangest part was that it used to be the other way around. He used to be the one throwing offhand jabs, poking fun at Fluixon’s seriousness, trying to get a rise out of him. But now, here they were—roles reversed. Fluixon was the one doing the teasing, and Saparata was the one brooding like some love-sick fool with an axe.

He tried not to think about what that said about him.

“You’re staring,” Fluixon murmured without opening his eyes.

Saparata blinked, startled. “No, I’m not.”

“You are. I can feel it. You’ve been doing that a lot lately.”

“I was just—” Saparata cut himself off, scowling. “You’re imagining things.”

Fluixon chuckled softly, the sound low and tired. “Maybe. But it’s nice, being imagined by you.”

Saparata nearly dropped the axe. “You—what—why are you like this?”

“Like what?” Fluixon asked, feigning innocence as the swing rocked lazily beneath him.

Saparata turned back to the woodpile before his face could betray anything. “Never mind. You’re insufferable.”

“Mm. You said that before, too,” Fluixon murmured, voice dipping softer now, almost wistful. 

The sun had already started dipping low, stretching long golden streaks across the fields. Saparata’s arms were sore, the skin of his palms raw from the axe handle, but he kept chopping anyway. The rhythm of it—the dull thock of wood splitting—kept his mind from spiraling.

He’d spent most of the afternoon trying to be productive: chopping firewood, mending the small fence near the path, and attempting to bait a few wild animals into what he liked to call his “makeshift pasture.” Unfortunately, none of them seemed remotely interested. A horse had stolen his bait. The traps hadn’t even twitched. And the sheep he thought he heard nearby turned out to be the wind.

From the shade near the Acropolis steps, Fluixon watched it all with half-lidded amusement. His head rested lazily against the rope of the swing. 

“You’ve been at that for hours,” Fluixon called out, voice rough but still carrying that faint spark of amusement. “Trying to impress the wildlife?”

Saparata gave him a sideways glance. “Trying to survive.”

Fluixon chuckled weakly, leaning his head against the rope. “Well, you’re doing a great job of terrifying anything with a pulse. I’d run too if I heard you hacking away like that.”

Saparata snorted. “You could help, you know.”

“I could,” Fluixon said, pausing for dramatic effect. “But then you wouldn’t have an audience.”

That earned him a quiet laugh, despite Saparata’s best effort not to show it.

He was about to throw back a retort when a faint clink reached his ears—the sound of armor, steady and purposeful. His muscles tensed instinctively, but the moment he heard the voice that followed, the tension eased.

“Saparata!”

He turned, already recognizing it before he even saw her. Cass.

She came into view down the slope, sunlight glinting off her armor, her steps sure and confident as ever. A faint grin tugged at his mouth despite himself.

“Cass,” he greeted as she approached. “You didn’t send word you were coming.”

“I figured you’d pretend you didn’t get the message,” she said with a small smirk. “Thought I’d make sure you’re still alive—and see how things are going now that your guest has… settled in.”

Fluixon looked up from the swing, blinking slowly. His expression was calm but distant, as if he wasn’t entirely sure who she was. Cass hesitated for a moment, visibly taken aback.

She’d been there at the council—had heard every debate, every accusation, every cautious defense. She knew Fluixon had lost his memories, but knowing and seeing were two entirely different things. Seeing him like this, quiet and lost, was nothing like the man who had once overthrown governments and commanded armies with a voice that could shake halls.

“He really doesn’t remember,” Cass said softly, more to herself than to anyone else.

Saparata nodded. “Not a thing. Just his name.”

Cass’s hand tightened slightly on her belt. “It’s strange. I thought I’d come here ready to argue again, maybe even yell a little. But looking at him now—” she exhaled, “—it’s hard to even imagine him as the same person.”

Neither of them answered, and Cass’s gaze flicked toward Saparata, silently asking if he was doing alright. He gave a faint nod.

“I’m not here to make trouble,” she said, glancing toward Fluixon, who sat silently on the swing, watching her with mild curiosity. “Just wanted to see how you’re holding up.”

“I’m fine,” Saparata said automatically. Then, quieter, “We’re managing.”

Cass studied him for a moment, as if searching his expression for cracks. “You sure?”

Saparata shrugged, trying to make it seem easy. “He’s not as bad as the medical records made him out to be. Rarely quiet. Eats when reminded. Teases a little too much for someone half-conscious, though.”

“That sounds about right,” Cass murmured with a knowing smile. Then she stepped closer and nudged his arm lightly with her elbow. “Still, don’t forget to take care of yourself too, Saps. You look like you haven’t slept properly since the council meeting.”

He opened his mouth to protest, but Fluixon beat him to it. “That’s because he probably hasn’t,” he said, voice light but undeniably fond.

Cass chuckled. “Yeah, that tracks.”

She looked around—the chopped wood, the small swing, the half-tended garden—and then back at Saparata. “Anyway, I’m not here just to check on you, unfortunately.”

Saparata raised an eyebrow. “Then what?”

She straightened, her tone shifting. “The council’s finalized its decision. Fluixon’s exile is official now. He’s to remain here on your land— and there might be a possible trial in the foreseeable future."

Saparata exhaled, unsurprised but still heavy with the confirmation.

Cass continued, her voice lower now. “If, for any reason, he needs to travel to another island, it’ll be under your direct supervision, Saps. And if he does anything—anything at all—that threatens the safety or stability of the region, the council will hold you partly responsible.”

Fluixon’s eyes flicked up at that, surprise cutting through his usual calm.

“So if I sneeze in the wrong direction,” he said dryly, “he gets blamed for it?”

That made Saparata’s jaw tighten. “So they’re not just exiling him. They’re shackling me too.”

Fluixon listened quietly, although he couldn't really hear most of the important parts.

“So, I’m your problem now,” he said finally, almost amused.

Saparata gave him a flat look. “You’ve been my problem since the moment I saw you at the infirmary".

Cass couldn’t help but smile faintly at that, though there was something sad in her eyes. “They’ll expect weekly reports. His condition, his behavior—anything unusual. Schpood arranged a courier for it. It’s official protocol now.”

“Of course they have.” Saparata rubbed his forehead. “Anything else? Maybe a collar while we’re at it?”

Cass shot him a look, though her expression softened as she whispered her reply. “They trust you, Saps. But they also know what he’s capable of—what he was capable of. This is their compromise between mercy and caution.”

Cass lingered for a moment, then looked at Fluixon again. Her tone softened. “It’s different seeing him like this,” she admitted.

"At the council, it was all numbers and records and memories. But standing here,” She shook her head.

"He’s just—someone else.”

Fluixon tilted his head. “You sound disappointed.”

“No,” Cass said quietly. “Just reminded.”

She gave Saparata a parting look. “Don’t isolate yourself, alright? You’ve done enough of that for one lifetime.”

"And Saps?"

He looked up.

"You’re doing the right thing,” she said quietly.

When she finally turned to leave, the silence came back in waves. The ocean roared faintly below, the swing creaked, and for a moment, neither man said a thing.

Then Fluixon spoke, voice light but edged with something thoughtful. “So. If I burn down another island, you get punished too?”

Saparata side-eyed him. “You even think about burning anything, and I’ll tie you to that swing.”

Fluixon grinned faintly. “Fair enough. Guess I’ll try to be on my best behavior.”

“Try harder,” Saparata muttered, picking up the axe again.

Fluixon leaned back, the ropes creaking as he swung gently. “Could be worse. At least I’ve got a warden who builds furniture.”

By the time the sun began to lower, streaking the sky in pale gold and violet, the sound of the axe had slowed to a stop. Saparata leaned against the handle, wiping the back of his wrist against his brow. The pile of wood beside him had grown considerably, but his thoughts hadn’t moved an inch.

Fluixon was still on the swing. He’d barely said a word since Cass left, the teasing quieted, the smirk fading into something more unreadable. His gaze was fixed on the sea, far away and glasslike, as though he could stare hard enough to see his missing past reflected.

And yet—nothing.

Not a question. Not even a hint of curiosity.

Saparata frowned. He’d expected something by now. Maybe a question about the council Cass mentioned, or the half-muttered warnings, or the way everyone seemed to treat him like something dangerous waiting to wake. But there was nothing.

It unsettled him more than anger ever could.

He hadn’t even asked what kind of man Saparata was to him before all of this.

Sometimes, Saparata caught him staring with that quiet, fogged look—like he knew there was something to ask, but the words wouldn’t come. And other times, he acted like there was nothing missing at all. Like the gaps in his memory were just blank pages he’d already made peace with.

Saparata set the axe down, the dull thud against the dirt louder than it needed to be. His chest felt tight.

Was Fluixon really unbothered by it all?

Or was this his way of coping—pretending there was nothing to mourn, nothing to remember?

The thought stung more than it should’ve.

He didn’t know why it mattered so much. Maybe part of him wanted Fluixon to ask. To want to remember. Because at least then Saparata could tell himself it still meant something—that the bond they once had wasn’t completely buried beneath all that betrayal.

He sighed and brushed the wood dust from his hands, glancing back again toward the swing. 

Saparata hesitated before speaking, his voice quieter than usual. “You’re awfully quiet right now.”

Fluixon hummed faintly, not looking at him. “Am I?”

“That’s not a no,” Saparata said.

Fluixon tilted his head, a faint ghost of a smile crossing his lips. “Just thinking.”

Saparata frowned. “About what?”

A pause, then: “Wouldn’t know how to explain it. It’s like trying to remember a dream that feels too far away to chase.”

Saparata blinked. That... was probably the most honest thing he’d said since arriving here.

“Does it bother you?” he asked before he could stop himself.

Fluixon’s eyes lifted toward the horizon, catching the fading light. “Not really. Maybe it should, but… I think I’m just tired.”

Tired. The word hung in the air, heavier than it sounded.

Saparata wanted to say something—anything—but what could he possibly offer? Sorry, your memories are gone, but at least you’re not the same man who tried to kill half the council? The thought made him grimace.

“Would you tell me if I asked?” Fluixon suddenly asked, his gaze dropping to the sand. 

Saparata opened his mouth, then shut it again. The truth was complicated, buried beneath blood and history, neither of them was ready to unearth.

“I don’t know,” he said finally.

“Then what’s the point?” Fluixon’s tone was calm—too calm. “If I ask, I’ll just hear things that make people look at me like Cass did. Like I’m a ghost that forgot it’s supposed to haunt people.”

Saparata’s jaw tightened. “You’re not a ghost.”

“Feels like it sometimes.” He gave a small shrug, eyes still fixed on his hands. “People talk like I died and someone else crawled out of the ashes. Maybe they’re right.”

The words hit harder than Saparata expected. He forced his breath steady, but something bitter twisted inside him—because in a way, that was what it felt like. The man he knew—the reckless, infuriating, scheming bastard—was gone, and what sat before him was a stranger wearing his face.

“You could at least try to find out,” Saparata said quietly.

“You don’t even seem curious.”

Fluixon looked up then, eyes tired but clear. “Curiosity’s a dangerous thing. Everyone seems so scared of who I used to be—I figured it’s safer if I don’t go looking for him.”

“That’s not how this works, Flux. You can’t just ignore who you were and hope it disappears.”

“Why not?” Fluixon’s tone sharpened just a fraction, a rare edge. “Everyone else seems happier pretending I’m not him.”

Saparata exhaled slowly, fingers flexing at his side. “I’m not,” he said, voice low. “You think it’s easy, sitting across from you and knowing the man I fought—spent with—doesn’t exist anymore?”

The silence that followed was heavy enough to make the sea seem louder.

Fluixon’s gaze softened. He opened his mouth as if to respond, but the words never came. Instead, he leaned back on the swing, looking up at the canopy of olive leaves swaying overhead.

“I’m sorry,” he said finally, barely above a whisper. “I wish I could be him again. Whoever he was.”

No, no, you don't 

Saparata’s chest tightened. He turned away, picking up the axe again if only to give his hands something to do.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Me too.”

Saparata sat outside, elbows on his knees, the remnants of the day’s work piled neatly beside him. The smell of chopped wood lingered faintly in the air—sharp, clean, grounding—but it did nothing to settle the weight pressing against his chest.

Fluixon was lying on the couch.

He hadn’t said a word since their argument that afternoon. No jokes, no smirks, not even one of those lazy, half-hearted remarks he used to toss out just to fill the quiet. He’d simply muttered something about being tired and laid down there.

The whole fight was stupid, he knew that. He hadn’t meant to snap at him. But there was something about Fluixon’s calm acceptance—his refusal to ask, to remember—that dug under Saparata’s skin. It made him feel like he was the only one still bleeding from wounds that no one else could see.

A soft rustle from the other room broke his thoughts.

Saparata stood quietly and stepped inside his home, padding over the marble floor until he reached the couch.

Fluixon lay curled slightly, a blanket half-draped over him. His face was turned toward the dying firelight, his expression slack but uneasy, brows faintly furrowed as though even his dreams refused to leave him in peace.

Saparata hesitated, hands flexing uselessly at his sides.

“...You should’ve taken the bed,” he said softly.

Fluixon didn’t stir. His breathing evened out, slower now, steadier—maybe asleep this time. Or maybe pretending.

Saparata sighed and crouched down beside the couch, the wooden floor creaking faintly beneath his weight.

“You really don’t make this easy,” he murmured. “You used to—hell, you used to talk so much I’d have to find excuses to leave the room. Now you won’t even look me in the eye.”

The words fell flat against the quiet. He hadn’t expected an answer anyway.

Still, he lingered there for a moment longer, his gaze softening despite himself. There was something almost cruel about it—how peaceful Fluixon looked now, stripped of memory, of guilt, of everything that had burned between them.

He wanted to be angry. He wanted to remember why he should be angry.

But all he could think about was how this man—the one who’d once betrayed him, used him, destroyed everything they built—was now asleep on his couch like nothing ever happened.

Like it never would.

Saparata stood, the movement slow, reluctant. He adjusted the blanket, pulling it a little higher over Fluixon’s shoulders before stepping back.

“Rest well, Flux,” he whispered, though his chest felt heavier than it should’ve.

He put out the fire and returned to his room. The bed felt colder than before. And even as sleep dragged at him, the faint sound of Fluixon’s breathing—steady, untroubled—echoed through the walls like a memory that refused to fade.

A Few Hours Later

Saparata had just started to drift into the edges of sleep when a sharp, ragged cry tore through the quiet of the Acropolis.

Saps froze for a heartbeat, then leapt out of bed, bare feet silent against the cold stone, his heart hammering, ears straining. The couch in the common room shifted violently. Fluixon.

He skidded into the room, where Fluixon was thrashing across the couch, hands clutching his head so tightly it looked as though he was trying to crush the thoughts back inside. Tears streamed down his face, streaking dirt and sweat across his skin, and jagged claw marks ran along his arms, pale against bruised flesh.

“Flux!” Saps shouted, rushing forward. “It’s me! Saps! Hey! Look at me!”

Fluixon’s eyes opened briefly—wide, unfocused, glazed over with terror—then slammed shut again, as if the world outside him didn’t exist.

“I… I can’t… I can’t!” he gasped, voice hoarse and broken, trembling through sobs that wracked his body. "Kill me!”

Saps immediately knelt beside him and wrapped his arms around him, pressing his body close despite the violent thrashing. Fluixon clawed at him, nails digging into Saps’ arms and tunic, but Saps held on, jaw tight.

“Hey,” Saps said, voice low, rough, almost breaking himself. “No. Not ever. What're you talking about–"

“Let me go! Just—fucking kill me!” Fluixon screamed, voice ragged, breaking apart with every word.

“Calm down!" Saps said, teeth clenched as he tightened his hold despite the pain, pressing himself closer

Saps didn't let go, heart-breaking as he felt the raw, pulsing panic coursing through Fluixon’s body. His arms were scratched and burning, his own chest constricting at the sight of everything. 

Fluixon tried again, harder this time. His movements were wild, desperate—less like someone fighting him, more like someone fighting to escape himself. But Saparata refused to let him slip away. He tightened his grip until the two of them were pressed together, breath to breath, heartbeat to heartbeat.

"Coward,” Fluixon rasped, the fight in his voice breaking apart. "You're a damn coward— why can't you just kill me– and make it stop!”

He pressed himself closer, almost pinning Fluixon against the couch. “Okay! Okay, fine! I’ll do it! If that’s what you need to stop this… I’ll—just stop thrashing for me, just breathe, please!”

It worked, just a little. The violent thrashing began to weaken, punches growing slower, less desperate. Saparata’s chest heaved, relief mingling with panic as he pressed Fluixon closer, holding him as tightly as he dared without hurting him further.

“Tomorrow, okay?” Saparata said, his voice urgent but soft, patting Fluixon’s back in short, insistent motions. 

“Tomorrow, we’ll make it stop. I promise, just calm down, okay?”

Fluixon’s breaths were ragged against his chest, each one shuddering and uneven, but the tremor slowly eased as he leaned—tentatively, painfully—into Saparata’s hold.

“I’ll make it stop tomorrow,” Saparata continued, almost pleading, pressing his forehead to the top of Fluixon’s head. “So just–  just breathe for me. You’re not alone. I’m right here.”

For the first time since the screams began, Fluixon didn’t resist. His hands, still trembling, rested limply on Saparata’s arms. His body slowly ceased the frantic struggle, clinging instead to the steady warmth pressing against him.

Saparata’s arms didn’t loosen. He pressed closer, letting the warmth and tremor of Fluixon’s body ground him even as panic still churned in his chest.

"You know,” he murmured, voice low. His fingers dug lightly into Fluixon’s shoulders, as if he could hold the man together through sheer will. “You shouldn't say things like that so easily–"

Fluixon’s breath hitched, small tremors running through him, but he made no move to respond. His face was buried against Saparata’s chest, hands limp now, almost empty of the tension that had wracked him only moments ago.

Saparata swallowed, throat tight. “When you say that, it—it makes me feel like I’m already losing you.” His voice wavered, quieter now, almost a whisper. 

“You don’t get to just decide that. It makes me so lonely, and I—” He paused, biting back the rest, the words he couldn’t fully let out. 

“I’m afraid it’d kill me too.”

There was a pause, heavy and tender, broken only by the faint shudder of Fluixon’s breath. Saparata eased back just enough to meet Fluixon’s gaze, his hands lingering on the other man’s arms, fingers brushing over tense muscles. For the first time that night, a small, almost teasing smile flickered across his face—quick, brief, but undeniable.

“So,” Saparata said, voice softer now, laced with that rare playfulness, “stay with me, okay?”

Fluixon’s eyes widened, caught off guard by the sudden lightness in Saparata’s expression. The panic and raw pain hadn’t entirely vanished, but the warmth in Saps’ eyes cut through it, like sunlight through a storm.

He exhaled, a small, shaky sound, and murmured, “Okay.”

Chapter Text

Flashback

Saparata, Fluixon, and the rest of the crew: Thomas5200, Gotoga, Snowbird344, Hvyrotation. All dirt-streaked and sunburnt, helmets hanging off their belts as they trudged up the narrow path leading to the cliffside.

Fluixon trailed behind, frowning in that familiar, tired way. “You know,” he muttered, “we’ve been mining for six hours straight. We could be resting right now instead of climbing another damn cliff.”

“Rest later, boss,” Thomas said with a grin over his shoulder. “Today’s a special day, you see.”

Fluixon’s brow furrowed. “Special how?”

Gotoga turned, eyes glinting with mischief. “It’s your birthday!”

Fluixon blinked. “...What?”

“You completely forgot, didn’t you?” Saparata said, grinning as he hefted his pickaxe over his shoulder.

“I—” Fluixon exhaled, shaking his head. “Yeah. Completely. I don’t really care about birthdays, anyway. It’s just another day.”

“Aw, well too bad!” Snowbird sang from up ahead. “We’re celebrating it anyway! Right, Saps?”

“Hell yeah!” Saparata replied, already breaking into a run. “Quick! We’re gonna miss it!”

“Miss what?” Fluixon asked, baffled, but no one answered.

Fluixon watches his men and Saparata already darting ahead — laughing, stumbling, shouting over each other — while he follows at a slower pace. The steady clink of his boots against rock was almost lost beneath their noise.

And yet, as the climb ended, something in him eased. His expression didn’t change much — still that stoic, unreadable mask — but the lines around his eyes softened as the wind met his face.

“One!”

“Ah, it’s here?”

“Is it?”

“Two!”

“Can’t you see it, idiot?”

“Three!”

“Surprise!!”

The shout hit the air just as the sun broke through the horizon — light spilling over the edge of the cliff, gold and rose and faintly violet, bleeding warmth into every surface it touched.

Saparata turned to look at Fluixon.

“So a sunrise, huh?” Fluixon said finally. “It’s… whatever. We see this every day.”

Saparata stared at him, mock offense in his voice. “Are you a robot or something?”

Fluixon tilted his head, still watching the sky. “I see it all the time,” he said, voice quieter now. “So it’s not like—”

He stopped. Something in his throat caught.

“But,” he said, softer this time, “thank you.”

The words were small. Barely there.

But they carried more weight than any speech he’d ever given.

And then, for the first time, Fluixon smiled.

It wasn’t much — just the faintest curl of his lips, the barest easing of his features — but it hit like sunlight after a storm.

The others broke into noise immediately — laughter, teasing, disbelief.

“Is the world ending or something?”

“Holy shit, he smiled! Someone quick, take a picture!”

“We don’t have that, dumbass!”

Their voices blurred together, but Saparata barely heard them.

He was looking at Fluixon — really looking. At the way the light hit his face. At the soft purple in his eyes that almost seemed to glow. At the warmth that shouldn’t have existed in a man like him.

And for that one still, impossible moment — Saparata thought the world could stop right there. That if time had any mercy, it would freeze them in that light forever.

Because he’d never seen him look like that again.

Back To The Present

The house hummed with quiet activity, the kind that only comes from long, silent cooperation. Fluixon moved with a careful efficiency—stacking wood, carrying fresh water, feeding the chickens—his motions precise, deliberate. At one point, he paused, brushing his hand over the coop, and muttered, “These little idiots are a lot smarter than they look.”

Saparata leaned against the wooden fence, arms crossed loosely, pretending to watch, though his eyes followed every movement. “You’ve got a weird way of showing care,” he said dryly.

“Never thought I’d see you fussing over poultry.”

Fluixon gave a faint grin, not looking up. “Don’t confuse attention with sentimentality,” he replied, tossing a small scrap of grain to a chicken. 

“I just don’t like being a burden to you.”

Saparata froze slightly at the words. That careful, understated kindness—so quiet and unassuming—wasn’t something he remembered seeing before. Back then, Fluixon had been all sharp edges and clever words, teasing, manipulating, always two steps ahead. Saps had laughed along, rolled his eyes, gotten caught up in the charm.

“You know, you're weirdly… methodical,” Saps said finally, watching him tighten a knot in the swing rope.

Fluixon glanced at him, a smirk tugging at his lips despite the weariness in his eyes. “Is that supposed to be a compliment or a complaint?”

Saps shrugged again. “Observation. Doesn’t mean anything. Just weirdly precise. Thought you were more chaotic.”

“Some chaos is fun,” Fluixon said softly, almost quietly, “but too much and you get nothing done. That’s not how you survive.”

Saparata hummed in response before suddenly hopping inside the pen, noticing a loose panel on the side of the coop and attempting to fix it. The latch had come undone again, one of the hinges threatening to give way. He crouched low, tools in hand, muttering under his breath as feathers brushed against his knees.

That was when Fluixon’s voice came from behind him, flat but edged with amusement.

"You built the coop yourself?” Fluixon tilted his head, squinting at the uneven frame.

“Yeah. Why?”

Fluixon crouched beside him, studying the wooden slats with a strange focus. “It’s—” he hesitated, fingertips brushing the rough edge. “It’s not bad. But your support beams are uneven. If the ground shifts, this side’s going to tilt.”

Saparata blinked, finally glancing up at him. “...What?”

“And you used untreated oak,” Fluixon said, tapping the corner of the coop. “Humidity will eat through this in a few months.”

Saparata frowned. “How the hell do you even know that?”

“Hold that beam steady,” Fluixon said, ignoring him. He gestured toward the small overhang near the chicken coop. His tone was casual, but the precision in his movements made Saparata blink.

“You talk like you’ve done this before,” Saparata said, half-joking, half-curious.

"This alignment’s off by a few degrees. It’ll collapse under wind pressure.” He said, brushing dust from his palms.

"You’ve got spare wood somewhere, right? I can fix it.”

“Wait, you—” Saparata started, but Fluixon was already moving toward the pile of lumber stacked beneath the old tree.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Fluixon called over his shoulder. “You’re doing it wrong anyway.”

Saparata sighed, dropping the hammer with a dull thud. “I wasn’t asking for help.”

“Too bad,” Fluixon replied, the faintest grin flickering across his face. “You’re getting it.”

Before Saparata knew it, they’d fallen into a steady rhythm. Fluixon measured and adjusted the beams with practiced precision, explaining things Saparata hadn’t even thought to notice — tension points, airflow, load-bearing angles. His words were deliberate, confident, the kind that came from somewhere deep and old, like muscle memory buried under everything he’d lost.

Saparata found himself watching more than working. The way Fluixon’s hands moved with certainty. The faint crease between his brows when he calculated an angle. The quiet calm that replaced the storm that had raged through him just the night before.

“Didn’t think you’d know so much about carpentry,” Saparata said finally, trying to sound casual.

Fluixon just hummed. “I didn't know either. It’s all blurry, but it feels right somehow.” He tilted his head, thoughtful. “Stone. Angles. Load distribution. Guess it’s buried in there somewhere.”

He looked so… ordinary. Not the name whispered through ruined cities, not the ghost that haunted his nights — just a man with dirt on his hands and the faintest crease of focus between his brows.

And for some reason, that hurt more than any memory ever could.

Saparata turned away, pretending to check the hinge. But his mind wouldn’t stop tracing the shape of the realization pressing in on him: he had never really known Fluixon.

Not beyond the chaos. Not beyond the battlefield.

He didn’t know what the man was good at, what he used to love, what kind of world had shaped him before the war turned them both into something unrecognizable. He didn’t know if Fluixon liked the rain or the sun, if he ever had a favorite color, or if he ever laughed without something sharp hidden beneath it.

All he’d ever known was the version that fought him. The one who betrayed him. The one who burned everything in his wake.

“You really can’t help yourself, can you?” said Saps.

“Guess not,” Fluixon said, smiling faintly.

It was a small thing — a repaired chicken coop, nothing grand. But Saparata couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d seen a glimpse of a life that might’ve been, if things hadn’t gone the way they did.

“Come on,” Fluixon said, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I’ll make us something to eat.”

“You cook now?”

“Guess we’ll find out.”

Saparata followed him back to the house, gaze trailing over Fluixon’s back. He frowned. He should really start feeding him something heavier, something with more nutrients. The man looked too small — clothes hanging a little loose, movements too light, like the wind could just take him if it wanted to.

He sat down by the kitchen table, elbows on the wood, trying not to stare intently as Fluixon move through the kitchen.

"Hey, what do you remember?" Saps asked before he could stop himself.

“…Not much,” he admitted after a moment, voice low.

“Flashes. Sounds. The smell of oil and parchment. Maybe dripstone.” He gave a small, humorless laugh.

“Not very helpful, huh?”

Saparata shook his head. “No, I mean… it’s something.”

He turned slightly, suddenly pointing toward the corner. “See that window frame. You installed it upside down.”

Saparata blinked. “What?”

Fluixon’s mouth twitched, almost smiling. “You see how the rain gutter sits? It’s angled the wrong way. Water’s gonna leak into the sill the moment it rains.”

Saparata squinted at the frame, and — damn it — he was right. “That’s ridiculous.”

“That’s gravity,” Fluixon countered easily, stirring again. “You’ll thank me later.”

“Right,” Saparata muttered. “So you’re an expert now?”

“Maybe I was,” Fluixon said, a hint of a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I keep noticing things. Foundation cracks. Paneling that’s off."

He stirred again, softer this time. “Guess architecture stuck more than I thought.”

Architecture.

Saparata hadn’t even known Fluixon studied architecture.

He’d thought he knew everything — the cadence of his laugh, the sharp wit under the calm. He’d fought beside him, trusted him, hated him. And yet this? It was something he didn't expect.

He rubbed a hand over his mouth, the faint taste of ash and regret lingering there.

“Hey,” Saparata said suddenly, voice cutting through the soft clatter of dishes. 

“You wanna ask what my favorite color is?”

Fluixon looked up from where he was rinsing a bowl, eyebrows drawn together. “What?”

“I’m trying to get to know you,” Saparata said, tone dead serious which only made it sound more ridiculous.

Fluixon huffed a laugh. “You know me. Probably more than I know myself.”

Saparata shook his head. “No,” he said, quieter now. “I knew the past you. And I think it’s kinda useless to keep seeing you as that person.”

The words hung in the air, gentle, but heavy enough to make Fluixon pause mid-motion.

“So,” Saparata added, trying for a small smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, “just answer freely. Doesn’t have to match whatever you said before. Now, what's your favourite color?”

For a moment, neither of them moved. The only sound was the drip of water from the tap, the soft hum of wind through the window.

Then, slowly, Fluixon set the bowl aside. “White,” he said. “I think. It feels like something I’d like.”

Saparata nodded once, his expression unreadable. “Good choice.”

There was a beat of silence, not awkward, exactly, just full. Like they both knew what wasn’t being said.

Then Fluixon tilted his head slightly. “What about you? What’s yours?”

Saparata blinked, like he hadn’t expected to be asked back. His gaze wandered, the ceiling, the floor, the quiet air between them before, finally, landing on Fluixon.

He hesitated. Thought about all the answers he could give— red, for the banners of old battles; grey, for the ash that followed them. But none of them felt right.

“Purple,” he said at last, the word slipping out softer than he meant to.

Fluixon blinked. “Purple?”

“Yeah.” Saparata’s lips curved in a small, almost sheepish smile. His eyes lingered a beat too long — on the faint bruised hues beneath Fluixon’s tired eyes, the soft violet tint the dusk light cast over him through the window. “Guess it just… something I've always liked.”

Fluixon huffed a quiet laugh, half disbelieving, half shy. “Can’t say I saw that coming.”

“Me neither,” Saparata murmured.

Fluixon had gone quiet again, crouched by the small crate they used as a pantry. His brows furrowed as he poked at a bunch of wilted greens, the ends of the leaves already turning brown.

He sighed. “There’s no saving these.”

Saparata, who’d been leaning against the counter, looked over. “What do you mean?”

Fluixon held up a handful of vegetables that looked more like withered seaweed. “Half of this stuff’s gone bad, and the rest will follow by tomorrow. The chickens aren’t laying either. You’ve been feeding them scraps, haven’t you?”

Saparata blinked. “I— maybe.”

Fluixon gave him a flat look. “You’re supposed to feed them, not starve them into an early retirement.”

Saparata snorted, rubbing the back of his neck. “Alright, farmer Flux. I’ll buy new stock tomorrow, maybe head to Island One. They’ve got a decent marketplace there.”

Fluixon stilled. He didn’t look up right away, his hand frozen over the crate. “…You’re going out?”

“Yeah,” Saparata said simply. “You can come if you want.”

That made Fluixon glance up, surprised. His expression flickered, something unreadable tightening in his jaw. “That woman said it’d be better if I stayed here,” he said carefully.

“She did imply that if I even set foot off this rock, someone would start counting the seconds.”

Saparata waved him off. “You’ll be with me. The council won’t lose their minds over that.”

Fluixon’s eyes darted to the side. “Still.” He hesitated, thumb tracing the edge of the wooden crate.

“It’s not exactly comforting, knowing the moment I step off this island, I’m breaking a rule.”

Saparata shrugged, trying for casual even though something in his chest pinched at the sight of that uncertainty. “Rules are flexible. And besides, you look like you could use a bit of sunlight that isn’t filtered through these windows.”

Fluixon gave a quiet, reluctant laugh. “You’re one to talk. You barely go out yourself.”

“Yeah, well.” Saparata tilted his head. “Guess we’ll fix that together.”

The waves brushed lazily against the wooden dock as Saparata adjusted the small sailboat’s ropes, checking the knots twice more than necessary. Fluixon stood nearby, his sleeves rolled up and hair tied loosely at the back of his neck, watching the sea with a look halfway between curiosity and unease.

“You sure this is okay?” he asked again, tone hesitant. “She made it sound like I’d cause a diplomatic incident by breathing too close to anyone from another island.”

Saparata snorted softly, tightening the rope one last time before straightening. “We’ll be fine. You’re with me. And besides,” he glanced up at the sky, “it’s just Island 1, not a royal procession.”

Fluixon didn’t seem entirely convinced, but he nodded, stepping into the boat as Saparata held it steady. The boards creaked under their weight, the soft roll of the water meeting them with gentle rhythm. Saparata pushed off from the dock, letting the current catch the sail.

When the first faint outlines of Island 1 appeared ahead, Saparata’s shoulders stiffened just a little. The docks there were busier, merchants shouting, gulls wheeling overhead, the metallic clang of ships being loaded. And soon enough, the murmurs began.

People noticed.

Fluixon didn’t meet their eyes, gaze fixed on the water even as they approached the shore. His posture went still, guarded — a kind of quiet tension that Saparata recognized instantly.

The stares were sharp, some filled with confusion, others with the faint edge of contempt. Whispers rose between groups, too low to hear clearly, but heavy enough to feel.

Saparata stepped off the boat first and turned, offering his hand. “Watch your step,” he said simply, voice calm but firm the kind of tone that drew a quiet line between them and everyone else.

Fluixon took it, fingers brushing his for a moment longer than necessary. He kept his head up as they walked through the crowd, following close behind while Saparata led.

No one said anything outright. No one dared to. But the air thickened with judgment, eyes following them like shadows. Saparata could feel it, the weight of every sneer, every whispered accusation.

And yet, he didn’t let go of the small bag he’d slung over his shoulder, nor did he slow his pace. His voice, when he finally spoke, was even. “Ignore them.”

“I am,” Fluixon replied. Then, after a pause, “You don’t have to stand so close. It’ll just make them look more.”

Saparata shot him a sidelong look. “Good. Maybe they’ll think twice before saying something stupid.”

Saparata walked ahead, sleeves rolled up, checking through the small list he’d scrawled on a scrap of paper. Flour. Salt. Dried herbs. Something fresh if they could afford it. Beside him, Fluixon trailed along with that infuriating, familiar swagger — one hand in his pocket, the other reaching out to inspect whatever caught his eye.

It would’ve looked casual to anyone else. To Saparata, though, it was obvious — the way Fluixon’s shoulders tensed whenever someone’s gaze lingered too long. The way his eyes flicked toward exits, corners, anything that could serve as a way out.

“Vegetables first,” Saparata said, scanning the stalls. “If we don’t get them now, they’ll be gone.”

“Mm. Because wilted lettuce is such a tragedy,” Fluixon murmured, glancing around with a faint smirk. “You’d think we were trying to survive the apocalypse or something.”

Saparata didn’t bite. “You’re the one who complained about the dead crops.”

“Yeah, well,” Fluixon said, bending slightly to inspect a bunch of carrots, “I didn’t mean I wanted to become a farmer.” He tossed one lightly toward Saparata, who caught it midair with a glare that was more fond than annoyed.

“You’ve got dirt on your hands now,” Fluixon added with mock gravity. “Welcome to the working class.”

“Keep talking, and I’ll make you peel all of them later.”

“Ooh, promises.”

Saparata shot him a look that was equal parts exasperation and reluctant amusement, and Fluixon grinned wider, clearly pleased at the reaction. For a fleeting second, the tension that clung to him earlier seemed to slip, replaced by that easy, mischievous rhythm that once came so naturally to him.

They moved from stall to stall— buying flour, a sack of rice, dried fish. A few locals still looked their way, eyes narrowed with suspicion or worse, but Fluixon met those looks with the kind of grin that was both daring and dangerous.

It was a quiet rebellion. He hid behind it well.

At one point, Saparata stopped by a fruit stand, picking up a few small mangoes. He turned to ask if Fluixon wanted any, only to find him leaning on the stall’s edge, chatting with the vendor like he hadn’t just been the subject of a dozen whispers.

“You always this charming when we’re supposed to be inconspicuous?” Saparata asked.

Fluixon shrugged, smile lazy. “If they’re gonna stare, might as well give them a show.”

The vendor laughed nervously; Saparata rolled his eyes and paid before Fluixon could say something worse.

Saparata trudged further down the line of stalls, boots kicking up dust with every step. The market had quieted slightly since morning, but the smell of salt and smoke still clung heavy in the air. He glanced over his shoulder, Fluixon was standing a few paces away, leaning lazily against a post, pretending not to notice how many eyes were still on him.

Saparata frowned. He didn’t say it out loud, but he wanted to buy something for him. Something small, maybe food, maybe just something to make up for—well, for nothing in particular. Just because. Before he could decide, his eyes landed on the poultry stall across the street, and he remembered what Fluixon said earlier about chicken feed.

“Hey, man, I’m gonna go buy some chicken seeds!” he called out.

Fluixon turned to him with that same unbothered expression, the one that said none of this mattered but sure, go ahead.

“Alright,” he said simply, waving a hand. “I’ll stay here.”

Saparata shook his head fondly and walked off.

Fluixon watched him disappear into the crowd, then turned his gaze toward the open sea beyond the docks. Westhelm — that’s what Saparata had called this land. He remembered the name vaguely, though it stirred nothing familiar in his mind except the echo of a crown, a throne, an emperor. Schpood. He hadn’t seen him since, well, since before everything.

He didn’t get the chance to follow the thought further. A sudden shout cut through the air.

“Hey! You think I didn’t see that? You put your damn hand on the scale!”

Fluixon’s head snapped toward the sound.

Saparata stood by the stall, shoulders squared, glaring at the vendor across from him.

“I didn’t touch anything,” he said flatly.

The vendor scoffed. “Forty emeralds. You want it or not?”

“It was thirty in the other stalls,” Saparata shot back. “And their scales weren’t rigged.”

“Then go buy from them!” the man barked. “See if they’ll sell to a criminal protector like you.”

The words hit like flint striking steel — and the whole market seemed to hold its breath.

Fluixon straightened, blood running cold. Saparata’s expression didn’t move, but something behind his eyes did — something that could have been anger or shame.

Saparata’s jaw clenched, the muscles ticking. “Watch your mouth.”

“Or what?” the man spat, taking a step forward. “You gonna hit me, traitor?”

He swung before Saparata could even answer, a sloppy, furious punch that missed by inches.

Saparata caught his wrist midair, his expression unreadable. “Don’t.”

The man yanked against his grip, shouting, “Get your cursed hands off—”

That was enough.

Before he could finish, another hand slammed against his arm, cold, tight, and iron-strong.

“Hey,” Fluixon said, voice low as he tightened his hold around the man's arm. “Back off.”

The vendor sneered, tugging at his arm, but Fluixon didn’t let go. His grip tightened like iron, and the man’s eyes widened in sudden fear.

“You filthy criminal—get your hands off me!” he barked, struggling.

“Flux,” Saparata warned, voice tight. “Dude, let him go. I’ve got it.”

But the vendor wasn’t done. He spat toward the ground, eyes darting between them. “Figures. The traitor and his dog.”

He yanked the man forward, spun him, and slammed him into the ground. The sound of impact made the nearest bystanders flinch.

“Flux!” Saparata lunged forward, trying to grab his shoulder. “Stop—let him go, you’re gonna make it worse—”

The man groaned, struggling, but Fluixon’s knee was already pressed against his back. His eyes were wide, wild, too bright, too empty.

“Flux!”

This time, Saparata didn’t plead — he pulled. Hard. The two of them hit the dirt, Fluixon still breathing hard, jaw tight, every muscle strung like a wire about to snap.

The crowd erupted.

"This is an outrage against Westhelm!"

"Call the guards!"

Metal clanged from down the road. Saparata scrambled to his feet, dragging Fluixon up with him. His mind raced, he could already see soldiers pushing through the crowd, armor glinting under the sun.

And then—

“What the hell is going on here?”

The voice was unmistakable — commanding, familiar.

“Schpood,” Saparata breathed, relief and dread colliding in his chest.

For a moment, no one moved. The market hung in the balance, the man on the ground groaning, the crowd whispering, Fluixon standing too still beside him.

And Saparata thought — so much for blending in.

The air around them felt like it shattered.

Even the guards, usually brash and loud in their diamond armor, hesitated as Schpood stepped forward. His shadow cut through the chaos, regal, composed, but with an unmistakable weight behind his gaze.

“Schpood,” Saparata said again, quieter this time. 

The emperor’s eyes swept the scene in a single, chilling motion: the overturned crates, the bruised vendor still groaning on the floor, the crowd whispering venom at the edges. And then his gaze landed on Fluixon.

Fluixon, with his chest still heaving and a wildness flickering in his eyes that didn’t belong to anyone sane.

“...Fluixon,” Schpood said, his tone unreadable.

The sound of that name hit the air like thunder.

The murmurs swelled instantly — why is he here? that’s him? — before Schpood’s hand went up, silencing them without a word.

Fluixon didn’t move. His expression twisted, confusion and recognition warring in his face, like he couldn’t decide whether to bow or run. His lips parted, but no sound came out.

Saparata stepped forward instinctively, placing himself between them. “It’s not what it looks like,” he started quickly, his tone urgent, hands half-raised as if to stop something before it began.

Schpood’s gaze flicked to him. “Then what is it, Saparata?”

He didn’t shout. He didn’t need to. His voice had the kind of authority that pressed down on the chest, making every word feel heavier than the one before it.

Saparata’s throat worked. “He— the dude started it. Flux was just trying to—”

“Trying to what?” Schpood’s tone sharpened, though his expression stayed eerily calm. “Defend you? Or himself?”

The question cut deeper than it should’ve. Saparata swallowed hard, glancing at Fluixon, who still hadn’t looked up. His knuckles were scraped, his hair falling over his eyes, and for a moment, just a flicker, he looked lost.

“He’s not—” Saparata began again, but Schpood interrupted quietly.

“Does he even remember what he’s done, Saparata?”

The words hit harder than any blade could’ve. The world seemed to go still for a heartbeat, only the sound of the sea crashing against the harbor filled the silence.

Saparata clenched his jaw. “He’s not that person anymore.”

Schpood studied him for a long, agonizing moment, then looked at Fluixon, who finally raised his head, meeting the emperor’s eyes for the first time.

There was no defiance there. No arrogance. Just confusion.

“I don’t remember you,” Fluixon said quietly, his voice low but steady.

It wasn’t said with venom — it was simply true.

Schpood exhaled, a slow, almost imperceptible sigh, as if the words themselves confirmed something he already feared. “No,” he murmured, “I suppose you wouldn’t.”

The crowd’s whispers were growing again, the traitor, the fallen one, the emperor’s ghost come back to life.

Saparata stepped closer to Schpood, lowering his voice. “Please,” he said, more earnest now, “He’s not well. You can see that. Don’t— don’t make this harder.”

For a moment, the emperor just watched him, eyes flicking between Saparata’s strained face and Fluixon’s silent figure behind him. And then, to everyone’s surprise, Schpood gave a small nod to his guards.

“Clear the market,” he ordered simply.

The crowd groaned in protest, but the glint of armor was enough to send most scattering. Within minutes, only the three of them remained— Saparata, Fluixon, and Schpood standing in the quiet wreckage of what had almost been a riot.

The emperor just watched him, eyes flicking between Saparata’s strained face and Fluixon’s silent figure behind him. Then, his gaze shifted to the spilled basket near Saparata’s feet, vegetables rolling in the dust, a cracked crate of chicken leaking melted ice.

The faintest crease formed between Schpood’s brows. “You went to the market for supplies,” he said softly, half to himself.

Saparata blinked, caught off guard. “I— yeah. We’re running low back home.”

Schpood hummed, not quite approval, not quite judgment. Then, without looking away, he motioned subtly to one of his guards. “Gather what’s salvageable,” he said. “Have it delivered to Saparata’s quarters later.”

The guard bowed and began collecting the scattered goods immediately.

Saparata froze, throat tight. “You don’t have to—”

Schpood cut him off with a small glance. “It’s not for you. It’s for the ones waiting.”

Something in Saparata’s chest twisted at that, the weight of quiet understanding beneath Schpood’s tone, the unspoken reminder that this wasn’t the first time the emperor had cleaned up after his messes.

“You were warned,” he said, eyes narrowing at Saparata. “You were told to keep him contained.”

“I am keeping him contained.”

Schpood raised a brow. “By letting him assault citizens in the middle of Westhelm?”

Saparata’s hands curled into fists. “They were the ones—”

“I don’t care who started it.”

The words came out like ice.

Fluixon’s voice broke the silence before Saparata could speak again. “It was me,” he said quietly, eyes fixed on the ground. “Don’t blame him.”

That caught Schpood off guard, only slightly, but enough.

“You remember how to take responsibility,” Schpood said after a pause. “Interesting.”

Saparata’s heart squeezed. “Schpood—”

“Enough.” Schpood’s voice cut him off cleanly. “You’ll both return to the Acropolis. Effective immediately. I’ll handle the council.”

There was a long silence. The emperor’s gaze softened, just slightly. “And, Saparata…”

Saps straightened, expecting reprimand.

“…be careful with him.”

Then he turned and walked away, leaving them standing in the fading gold of late afternoon, surrounded by the whispers of a world that wasn’t ready to forgive either of them.

Saparata turned toward Fluixon, who hadn’t moved, still staring at the ground where the fight had happened. His jaw worked, but no sound came out.

Saps sighed, rubbed the back of his neck, and muttered, “Well, that could’ve gone worse.”

Fluixon looked up, eyes tired but flickering with a faint, crooked smile. “Could’ve gone better too.”

And somehow— somehow– Saparata found himself laughing. Quietly, helplessly, like a man who had no other choice.

They didn’t talk much after that.

By the time the sun had started dipping, the guards had brought the goods to the dock, neat bundles of supplies wrapped in paper and tied with string, like nothing out of the ordinary had just unfolded in the market.

Schpood’s insignia was stamped on one of the crates. Of course it was.

Saparata didn’t know whether to be thankful or humiliated.

He watched the guards load the bundles onto the small boat, nodding curtly before taking their leave. Fluixon stood off to the side, hands in his pockets, pretending to be fascinated by the water.

“Come on,” Saparata said quietly, jerking his chin toward the boat. “Let’s get out of here before anyone changes their mind.”

Fluixon blinked at him, then gave a lazy smirk. “What, you think I’m gonna get jumped again?”

“Wouldn’t put it past them,” Saparata muttered, half under his breath.

Fluixon only hummed in response, stepping onto the boat with a lightness that didn’t quite reach his eyes. The boards creaked beneath their weight as Saparata pushed them off the dock, the oar cutting through the still water.

The air was cool — too cool — and the silence stretched long enough for the waves to fill it.

Saparata’s arms moved on instinct, rowing steady, his gaze fixed on the horizon. He could still feel the crowd’s stares burning on his back, could still hear the venom in their voices. And through it all, he kept glancing at Fluixon, who was leaning back against the side of the boat, eyes half-lidded.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Saparata said finally, breaking the quiet.

“Which part? The defending-you part or the throwing-him-like-a-bag-of-wheat part?”

Saparata shot him a look, but there was no heat in it. “Both.”

Fluixon smirked faintly, though the edge of it trembled. “Guess I’m just naturally charming.”

“Flux—”

“What?”

Saparata stopped rowing for a moment, letting the boat drift. The sunset painted everything gold, the water, the sky, even the worry in his face. “You don’t have to pick fights for me.”

Fluixon’s expression shifted, the teasing fading into something quieter. “Wasn’t for you.”

Saparata blinked. “…What?”

“Wasn’t for you,” Fluixon repeated, still looking out over the sea. “I just don’t like when people grab someone like that. Doesn’t matter who it is.”

Something about the way he said it — flat, distant, like the words were borrowed from a memory that hurt to touch, made Saparata’s chest tighten.

He wanted to ask. Wanted to know. But he didn’t. Not this time.

The silence returned, but it wasn’t as heavy anymore. Just quiet. Gentle, almost.

A few minutes later, Saparata sighed, setting the oar down beside him. “You okay?”

Fluixon blinked, caught off guard. “Me? Yeah. Why?”

“You’re quiet.”

“I’m always quiet.”

“Not like this.”

Fluixon didn’t answer right away. He tilted his head back, eyes tracing the sky. The sunset reflected in his irises, gold melting into crimson. “Maybe I’m just… tired,” he said eventually. “Feels like the air here’s too thin.”

Saparata studied him. The way his shoulders slumped just a little, the way his fingers fidgeted with the edge of his sleeve.

He wanted to say something, anything that would anchor him back. Instead, he leaned over and flicked Fluixon’s forehead lightly.

Fluixon scowled. “Ow— what was that for?”

“Just making sure you’re not turning to stone,” Saparata said, the corners of his mouth twitching.

Fluixon blinked at him — then laughed. Really laughed. A small, startled sound that startled even himself.

It was soft and fleeting, but it broke something in the air, that tense, invisible thread that had been strangling them both since the marketplace.

Saparata smiled without realizing it. “There you go.”

“What, you gonna start collecting my laughs now?”

“Maybe.”

Fluixon snorted. “Weirdo.”

“Ungrateful little shit,” Saparata muttered, but there was warmth beneath it.

As the boat glided across the glowing water, the island faded into the distance, the noise of the city dying behind them. Ahead— home waited. 

Fluixon leaned back again, eyes drifting shut, the rhythm of the waves lulling him.

Saparata watched him for a long moment, his jaw tightening as the wind brushed through Fluixon’s hair.

He looked so small there, not the leader, not the architect of The Conspiracy, not the man from the past. Just someone trying to remember how to exist again.

Saparata looked away before the ache in his chest could swallow him whole.