“…The hell’s this for?” 

Hands behind his back, the boy feigned coyness. “I know pumpkin flan’s you’re fa-a-a-avorite…” He told the older, drawing out his words slowly on purpose to irritate the other. 

“Edge, we’re in the middle of a war, I hardly think it’s time to-“

“Shh! It’s always time for sweets! If you don’t wanna eat it now, either hide it in your pockets or give it to Blizzard.” The hydra sighed before lifting the small saucer to his nose and sniffing it slightly. The gelatinous orange dessert threatened to slip right off, and he put a hand underneath just in case. It was made well, of course, smelling of fresh zesty pumpkin, cinnamon, and sweet milk. Edge was no cook, so Forte was left to wonder where he had gotten the flan from. Perhaps they had had dinner without him, as usual. As the ex-Sky Knight raised his gaze to thank his king, he found Edge with his arms outspread like wings, only on foot planted on the rooftop, and his eyes panning across the autumn cityscape. 

It was peaceful, serene, and it would all come to an end. It was early fall, and Edge was determined to find leader of a group of wood dragons that were hiding out in Milan. It was a dangerous move, since the town was as green as could be, and the perfect place for trees to grow. The buildings were brilliant shades of reds and oranges in the setting sun, and the two were standing on the top of a cathedral of sorts. 

“She’s near. I can feel it.” 

“You grew up with her, right?” The knight inquired, finger gliding over the surface of the dessert and tongue darting out to graze it. 

“Not really.” Edge replied plainly, his composition completely changed. “I mean, Ambrosia taught the both of us, but I didn't really talk to her.” Forte was silent in the name of the last elder of the shadow dragons, Ambrosia. Her name meant ‘of the gods’, and even among dragons, she was regarded as one. In the old days, they could see the Ygdrassil anytime they wanted, and when they did, there would be a whole section missing, as if someone had cut it off. Legend told that the old elder of the shadow dragons, Oscell, sawed off a branch of the holy tree and planted it in his yard. It grew a blossom, in which stepped out the young dragoness. It was a rather romantic tale, but the popular explanation of the strongest dragon that ever lived. 

“She’s not dead.” Echoed a voice from behind them, and Edge turned slowly to face his old acquaintance. She was stout, and had wooden limbs growing out of her back and head. 

“Of course she is, Beoff.” 

“She’s sealed away, kept in-“

Edge raised a hand, and the rebel leader was hoisted into the air by her neck by an invisible force. 

“I killed her myself.” Edge said with a slight smile and tilting his head to one side. 

“W-Why?” She managed to choke out. 

“Why? Because she was the only one who could cut me down…”
---
Charon blinked his eyes open, then heard a voice. He grinned stupidly and growled happily as he was petted. The conditioning was designed so flawlessly, the hydra's will had completely melted away. There was no desires, only the commands he was given. It was an existence he would have never been able to pursue, because Charon led with his heart so much more than anything else. It was so ironic that his king had created something that would doom his subjects. 
---
Edge returned in the mirrors, palm pressed against the glass, a childish pout upon his childish features. "You're no king," He mused, accused. 

"I am a king. You are nothing but a shadow, a disgrace." 

The bitterness melted from his face in a few moments. "Why?"