Mjolnir

Reign of the Usurper

^{#10636f ....|..... outfit ....|..... rhea’s bedchambers}

Rhea slipped back into the Citadel through the undercroft, led by Coren. It wasn't the first time, nor would it be the last time that the Guardsman would take her that way to avoid the Queen. While her mother knew what she was doing, any and every opportunity where she could avoid running into her, and one of her stern lectures that usually followed, the better. Knowing the Princess’s luck, her mother already knew what happened on the Weave and was waiting to have words. But the one thing she could always count on was the Queen wouldn't be caught dead in the servants’ wing of the castle.

Their path led them through tight corridors of stone that perspired from the heavy humidity in the air, droplets trickled down the large bricks like the Citadel itself was weeping from the heat. They climbed slick stairs until the walls parted and opened up into the guard barracks. Dozens of men filled the room, perched on cots and stools in various stages of undress as they polished or donned their armor for the upcoming festivities. At first they didn’t notice her arrival until the sound of her steps echoed over their soft murmurs, the high pitched clicks upon the stone a stark contrast to the heavy muted thuds of Coren’s gait. The men stirred to attention and covered the parts of them unsuitable for a Princess’s gaze. They all bowed, deep and reverent as if they lined the walls of the Great Hall not their own quarters, half naked and caught off guard.

"At ease, men," her voice rang throughout the intimate room, a song like a soft breeze that cut through the harshness of the barracks. "I am only passing through."

Rhea went to take a step forward but stopped when she caught sight of the door to the Captain’s quarters ajar. She sparred a sidelong glance toward Coren as her feet started carrying her deeper into the gathering of men. "A quick moment."

"Princess," Coren tried to voice his argument and take her arm, but she was out of reach before he could act. He sighed and waited where she left him, although his gaze never left her for a moment.

The Princess weaved her way through the various guards, flashing them all a brief smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, for she dared not let them see the turmoil that churned within her. The Queen was always present on her mind, but now after her run in with a Járnbjørn, she needed her brother’s guidance and reassurance more than anything. Her hand rested upon the old wooden door that led to the quaint bedchambers. Perfectly polished plate armor was laid out along the bed in preparation for the night’s events, his writing table was covered in parchments denoting planned guard schedules, and a half-drunk goblet rested beside them… But no Declan.

"Pardon, Your Grace," the nearest guard turned his attention toward her and bowed a second time. "The Captain is in the Valley retrieving the Prince."

"Of course," she responded quietly with a resolute nod of her head. She should have known better. It wasn’t uncommon for Dorian to go missing on the eve of anything important. Rhea had grown accustomed to his disappearances and Declan’s subsequent vanishings to seek out their brother and bring him home. With the feast being mere hours away she would have thought it would have been handled already, but she supposed meeting your future betrothed carried more weight than avoiding a knighting ceremony.

"Thank you, Ser Arryn." She bowed her head toward him as she passed.

Halfway back to Coren, she noticed one of the men struggling to fasten his shoulder piece to his breast plate with only one hand. Rhea had never donned armor herself, but having watched her brothers she knew it was a job that often took a second set of hands and patience. Seeing that no one was aiding him, she stopped in her tracts and took a step toward him. "Allow me," she instructed quietly while taking hold of the leather ties. It took her but a moment to tie the piece in place with a secure knot. "There we are." She gave the armor a gentle pat before retreating.

"Thank you, Your Grace." The man bowed his head in silent awe and gratitude.

Rhea returned to Coren a bit dejected with her previous haste returned. "Let us go." Without her brother as a shield or a shoulder to lean on, her final hope was locking herself away in her room until the Welcoming Ceremony.

The pair left the barracks and disappeared deeper into the Citadel following the winding labyrinth of servants’ passages that snaked between the walls, remaining out of sight. It took longer to reach the wing where her bedchambers resided than if she had taken her usual route, but it kept her hidden until she had no choice but to step out into the hall. They hurried to the door, Coren assuming his usual stance, back to the wall beside the entrance while Rhea grasped the ornate gold leaf and crystal handle. She looked over at him with a smile that didn’t fight to hide the sadness or weight behind her eyes. The mask she wore in the presence of others melted away and she sank into the comfort of his presence as one of the few people she could be herself around. "Thank you," she said barely above a whisper as she turned the handle and pushed open the door. "We—"

A room that once thrived in ordered chaos was staged for guests and no longer the safe haven Rhea had created. Towering stacks of books that lined the walls had been returned to their homes on her bookshelf or carried off to the Citadel library. Novels left open on her writing desk, bed or windowsill had vanished, no longer marking her place to return to them later. Musical instruments she had been attempting to teach herself—and failing—were gone. Her bed that was always unmade with a burrow of blankets and pillows had been given fresh linens and remade to perfection. Even the candlesticks caked in wax and long absent anything to burn were cleaned and given a new candle. This was not her room, but the room of a Princess her mother wished her to be.

The windows had been cracked to let in the cool breeze that swept off the mountaintop while the fireplace remained dark and cold. A wooden tub had been placed in the corner, draped in damp fabric, for comfort, that was held in place by the water within that had long been still. Then in her writing chair, stoic and silent as a statue, sat the Queen. Her austere expression was unwavering and cold. Her disappointment and anger was prevalent in the tense muscles of her neck and the darkness behind her eyes. She was already dressed for the Welcoming Ceremony, wearing an ornate gown of ivory and indigo that was accented with golden embroidery. Her brunette hair was braided and pinned into an intricate swirl on her head with her silver and sapphire tiara perched atop it like a robin’s eggs resting in its nest.

Poised hands rested upon her crossed legs. A single delicate finger tapped impatiently at her daughter’s tardiness. "You are late."

Rhea swallowed the lump that formed in her stomach as she tried to force air into her lungs. She took a single, apprehensive step forward into her room and turned to close the door. Her movements were slow, methodical, like she was trying not to startle a wolf lying in wait for its chance to pounce. For a breath of a second her gaze met Coren’s, sympathy and concern furrowed his brows but he said nothing, nor did he dare peek into her room and catch a glimpse of the Queen. The door clicked shut and she hesitated, steeling her resolve and attempting to steady her erratic heart.

She slowly turned to face her mother, dragging out every movement and second like the prologued silence would lessen the final blow. Rhea stood straight, back erect, but her head was downcast and her hands cupped tightly before her to try and ease the trembling in her fingers. "Apologies, mother. I lost track of time—"

"Yes, I heard. Was that your plan to earn the common people’s support?" the Queen asked as she idly ran her hands along her skirts, smoothing wrinkles and removing any errants hairs or lint. "Trample them to death?"

"I didn’t—"

"Think? I am aware." Her mother did not move a muscle beyond the rhythmic brushing of her fingers along the satin fabric. Only her eyes shifted to look over at Rhea, dark and judginging, cast in shadow from her brow.

"No," she spoke up with more conviction. But whatever confidence she had immediately faltered as the Queen’s head snapped in her direction in silent challenge. Rhea took a quick step back like a beaten animal flinching from a strike. "I didn’t kill him—"

"Nearly." The woman sighed, eyes rolling as she shifted her attention out the window towards the mountains. "Who was the man so we might send a formal apology?"

Rhea rang her hands together, twisting the dove skin leather that encapsulated her fingers into tight wrinkles, clinging to the discomfort like an anchor. Words were lost. She knew his name, but couldn’t bring herself to speak it. There was a brief moment where she contemplated throwing herself from the window to save herself further torment. Would her mother stop her? Did she have enough time? Would it—

"Speak."

"...Emil Járnbjørn."

A single sharp laugh rang throughout the room like an alarm, jarring and abrupt. It was not a laugh of amusement, but sardonic and biting. The Queen was not surprised. It was hard to surprise her when she always expected the worst from Rhea, like it wasn’t a matter of if but when she would mess up again. "Even better. You meet a prospective suitor and almost kill him. Is this your way of punishing me?" She stood up, heels clicking upon the stone floor muffled by the swishing layers of extravagant fabric as she began pacing the length of the room. "I spent months organizing, summoning all the Lords and Ladies of the Ninefold here for you and your siblings to have a say in your marriage—a choice I did not get—and this is the gratitude I receive?" She pivoted, tossing her skirts behind her as she started back in the opposite direction. "You are determined to disgrace this family one way or another. As if it was not already enough that you ran away, married a peasant, and forsaken your maidenhood—"

"I am still a maid—"

"Do not interrupt me," her mother snapped, sharp as a blade with a silent venom behind her glare. "Your insolence is trying my patience, daughter. I have been waiting in this pig’s sty you deem to call a room for over an hour while you plunge our house further into ruin." One hand held her side as the other raised to rub her forehead, as if to stave off a headache that tickled behind her brow. "Why are you not more like your sister?" she asked beneath her breath like a thought slipped loose, but the words were too loud to not be intentional. "Is it, at least, finished?" she asked, holding her hand out, palm up and expectant.

Why wasn’t she more like her sister? A question Rhea found herself asking more frequently the longer she remained imprisoned in the Citadel, locked away in her mother’s clutches. Her gaze flitted to the window a second time as she took a step forward. She did not run for Umbran’s sweet embrace, but moved reluctant and solemn toward her mother like a leashed animal too frightened to lash out against its master. She removed her glove as she closed the distance, tugging the leather free from her skin with a trembling delicacy. Her left hand rose on its own accord and fell listlessly into the awaiting palm. The Queen’s grasp was harsh, lacking a mother’s warmth, as she pulled Rhea closer for inspection. Her fingers were bare, the only remnant of the string was a small indent from two years of wear.

"It would appear you are capable of following some orders after all." The Queen’s hold tightened as she pulled Rhea in closer. There were only inches between them as she stared, not into her eyes but through them, into her soul. "You shall never speak his name nor visit his grave again, so long as you live within the Citadel. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, mother," Rhea agreed barely above a whisper, forcing herself to hold her mother’s gaze no matter how much it made her want to recoil in on herself.

"Very well." The Queen discarded her hand like a dirty handkerchief with no further purpose. "Your bath has run cold and there is no time to fetch warm water. Perhaps the chill will bring you to your senses." She ran her hands down the front of her skirt for the countless time, before motioning toward a garment that had been laid out across the bed. "I had your gown brought straight from the royal tailors."

Rhea’s gaze drifted to the dress that she hadn’t noticed in her mother’s presence. It was a stunning ivory satin with a square neckline, sheer sleeves and a subtle glimpse of the indigo petticoat. Golden embroidery, similar to that on her mother’s dress, ran along the bottom of the skirt and decorated the subtle blue trimming around the bodice. It was a beautiful gown… But it wasn’t her. "I had a gown set aside—" she began, motioning toward a turquoise dress draped over the door to her armoire.

"We are dressing as a family," her mother interjected, "in the house colors to show strength and unity. You would not wish to insult Madame Thea by shirking her hard work, would you?" She walked over to the bedside and started running the tip of her finger along the embroidery as she spoke. "It is made from the finest satins and silks, with the richest blue dyes imported straight from The Sunderlands. But your gown—" She gave the skirts a small tug to pull free the wrinkles, then ran her hand along the soft fabric. "—is as white as fresh fallen snow. Pure… Chaste—"

"Mother, please, I am a maid—"

"I will not have this discussion again." The Queen stood upright, turning her full attention toward her daughter, while whatever patience she had fluttered out the window and disappeared into summer heat. "You will wear this gown and pray that the tales of your deviancy do not reach your future husband’s ears before you have shared the marital bed."

Rhea’s head fell, gaze fixed on a frayed bit of rug beneath her bed as her mother’s skirts brushed over top of it on her way toward the door. "Yes, mother," she replied quietly. Her voice was not strong and confident like the woman out on the trail, but quivering and broken like a child broken into submission, where conceding was easier than defiance.

"She must be spotless to present to the Lords." The Queen’s voice cut through the silence, drawing Rhea’s attention. Standing in the back corner of her room, silent and observant like a gargoyle stood her handmaiden, Amira. "I do not care if you scrub her skin raw, just get it done." The Princess’s cheeks reddened from the embarrassment of knowing there was a witness to their conversation, but she said nothing, remaining obedient and still.

Her mother opened the door and took a step forward before turning to glance back at Rhea. Once their gazes met, she spoke to her one last time. "You are expected outside the Great Hall at sundown. Do not be late." With that, she exited. No love or affection or motherly advice before throwing her daughter into the viper’s den to be pawed at by every eligible Lord in the Kingdom.

Outside the room, the Queen turned toward Coren who stood vigilant in the hall. "She does not leave this room unless it is to go to the Great Hall. If you fail that order, I will have your head, Guardsman." Then the storm of a woman disappeared like a whirlwind, leaving behind the wreckage… Rhea silent, stunned and unmoving.

Once the echoing clicks of the Queen’s steps vanished deep within the Citadel, Coren stepped into view, reaching into the room to grab the door. There was a brief second where he looked up, finding tear filled hazel eyes staring back at him as the maid worked to remove her other glove. Rhea’s gaze broke away before his. She stared at that same frayed bit of rug, ashamed and hollow, as he locked her away from the rest of the world to be stripped of what little bit of her remained.

^{interactions ....|.... queen valenya ............... mentions ....|.... declan, dorian, emil & maeve............... collabs ....|.... none}

Descendants

^{#796e9c .....|..... alloy ....|..... outfit ............... #bdddff ....|..... polar ....|..... outfit ............... descendant tower}

Tobias slowly pulled his Jeep into the parking garage under the tower. Rather than parking far off to one side, he pulled into the closest spot to the elevator that was available. He backed in so there was no car on the passenger side and shut off the engine. His head fell, looking between the sleeping kitten still nuzzled in his lap and the sleeping woman beside him. It took him a few minutes to figure out how he was going to juggle everything before he slid his phone in his pocket and finally opened the car door. As he stood up, he felt the sticky wetness along the cuts on his back cling to the back of the car seat. He looked back, sighing at the stains that were already sinking into the upholstery.

He closed the door quietly and made his way around to the passenger side. Tobias rested his hand against the side of the car, steeling what last shreds of energy he had left to get them to the infirmary. He slowly opened the car door where Bell was still sound asleep. First, he carefully pulled her bag from the floor boards and slipped the strap over his head so the weight rested on his good shoulder. Then he slowly leaned over her to unfasten the seat belt and detangle it from around her. He slipped the sleeping kitten into the large pocket of her hoodie before sliding his arms underneath her and lifting her out of the car. As they neared the elevator, Tobias waved two of his fingers beneath Bell’s leg and made the door close.

Her head lulled against his shoulder, and Bellamy didn’t even shift as she was lifted out of the Jeep. Her exhaustion had gone bone deep without her even realizing, and the foreign sense of safety she felt around Tobias allowed her to sleep through it all. Once the elevator doors shut though, she twisted subconsciously, turning into his chest a little, one of her hands catching in the fabric of his shirt against his stomach. Bell’s brows furrowed for a moment, and then she sighed, relaxing once more in his arms.

Once inside the lift, he pressed the button for the second floor, leaning back against the wall for support and sighed. It didn’t even cross his mind that he was leaving behind a streak of blood until the doors opened into the infirmary and one angry looking Alfred. The older man’s face shifted through a wave of emotions starting at obvious anger that he left the tower alone… again, he was relieved that he was back, shocked at the woman in his arms, and concerned at the blood he left behind in the elevator. A million questions danced across his face as he stepped aside.

"I’m sorry, Alfred," Tobias whispered as he walked past him. He carried Bell toward the closest hospital bed. The last step he took, his knees buckled and he stumbled into the side of the bed with a groan. He nearly dropped her but managed to set her down before every muscle in his body gave in from exhaustion.

"Tobias," Alfred pleaded quietly.

He shook his head, stopping the man from continuing as he gently helped Bell into the correct position on the bed. "Her first," he whispered.

"New patient identified. Please state name," the robotic voice echoed throughout the infirmary.

"Bellamy Drake," Tobias replied, sparing Alfred a sideways glance as he set her bag on the ground. He then carefully slid a hand into her hoodie pocket and pulled out the small kitten.

The sleep that Bella had managed to acquire wasn’t as peaceful as she’d have hoped, her dream was filled with faceless men, their features twisted into something grotesque and incomprehensible, and she was running through the woods again, watching her mom bleed out, watching a bullet rip through her dad’s skin, and this time Tobias did not show up. "Drake, Bellamy. Multiple wounds detected, core temperature dropping rapidly." A robotic voice cut through the nightmare, distorting into something deeper, making her pulse jump. Tendrils of cold seemed to leech from her skin, cooling the air surrounding her, a thin layer of frost spreading from where her palms rested against the bed. "Administering mild sedative." Something sharp slid into the side of her neck, and Bell jerked awake.

Tobias’s gaze snapped toward the bed as the temperature dropped. Reflexively, he took a step toward the robot, holding up his hand to stop the syringe but a gentle hand on his shoulder stopped him. He looked back to meet Alfred’s calm gaze. The man was a little wide eyed at the realization of who laid on the bed before him, but importantly he was trying to keep Tobias calm. "It won’t hurt her, just keep her calm."

He grimaced, shifting his shoulder slightly as he remembered the robot’s less than tender stitches he received the night before. But he said nothing. Alfred’s hand on his shoulder gave him a reassuring pat in silent praise for what he accomplished before holding out his other hand toward him. "I shall look over the cat."

Tobias nodded his head and gently slipped the content kitten into Alfred’s cupped palms. He took the couple of steps over to the next closest bed and sat down. His weight stirred the robot to life. An arm extended from the side of the table and placed a sensor on his wrist. Then the red beam of light swept over him. "Lehnsherr, Tobias. Multiple wounds detected. Please remove inhibiting clothing or state ‘assistance.’"

He grabbed a handful of his shirt, feeling how the damp fabric still clung to his skin. Just the thought of trying to peel it off of him and remove the temporary bandage Bell made all felt like too much effort. Tobias rolled his shoulder slightly and grimaced. "Assistance." The end of the robotic arm split, revealing surgical scissors. It swiftly cut through the fabric of his and Bellamy’s shirts. He shivered as his wet skin was exposed to the cold breeze of the air conditioning. No longer hidden by clothes or the darkness of night, his injuries presented themselves beneath a mixture of mud and blood.

Delirious confusion distorted the first few moments of consciousness for Bellamy, one of her hands automatically slapping over where the needle withdrew from her neck, a rush of cold spreading from her fingertips along the slope of her throat before she remembered herself, hearing the sound of Tobias’s voice nearby giving her something to focus on. An unnatural sense of calm was eroding at her panic, and her ice was thawing into the fabric of the hoodie, leaving her a little damper than she had been before, and shivering.

The red light scanned him a second time. "Lehnsherr, Tobias. Reopened gunshot wound to the right shoulder, anterior and posterior. Cut to the left cheek. Frozen cut to the right tricep. Thirteen small cuts to the left arm. Two containing residual debris. Three large cuts across the back. Low core temperature. Recommended treatment: cleaning, removal of debris, sterilization, stitches to the bullet wound, tape stitches to the remaining wounds, and bandaging. Do you comply?"

"Yes," he replied quietly and nodded his head. All the while his gaze remained fixed on Bellamy in the bed opposite him.

She’d twisted her head to look toward the sound of his voice, gaze catching on the skin of his chest and straying for a moment, eyes wide and expression a little dazed as she took in the tattoos that decorated his entire torso, and his biceps, following the trail toward his waist before she jerkily looked back up toward Tobias’s chest. It was likely an effect of the sedative, but she missed when the robot spoke to her next until one of the arms moved closer, catching her attention.

"Repeat, please remove inhibiting clothing or state ‘assistance.’" Bella stared at the arm dumbly, blinking a few times as the words slowly penetrated the fog that seemed to be clinging to her head. She sat up slowly, watching the arm move back some to give her space, and then with great effort she managed to remove his hoodie. She flinched as a red light scanned her, looking toward Tobias shakily and then back at the arm. She’d never seen anything like this before, it was disorienting to wake up to it. "Drake, Bellamy. Scapular contusion. Sprained left ankle. Sprained right wrist. Ten foreign objects in palm of right hand. Low core temperature. Dehydration. Recommended treatment: cleaning, removal of foreign debris, sterilization, compression for scapular contusion, sprained ankle, and wrist, administration of fluids. Do you comply?"

"Uh," Bell cleared her throat, her mouth felt as dry as the desert, voice hoarse and uncertain. "Yes?" She glanced once more toward Tobias, expression one of utter bewilderment. "Where are we?"

Tobias’s gaze fell the moment he realized what she was doing, focusing on his clutched hands that rested in his lap. A drawer on one side of his bed opened to reveal a metal bowl as it was being filled with warm water. The metal arm took a rag, dipped it into the water and then began to clean the blood, dirt and grime from his skin. First it started with his face, then arms and back. The warmth was soothing, but stung whenever it grazed one of his various cuts. And while it did some to help sooth his shivering, he only felt colder in the absence of it whenever the cloth was pulled away.

He snuck a quick glance from beneath his brows, but the moment he saw more of Bellamy’s exposed skin he quickly looked away. Tobias cleared his throat. "Descendant Academy," he answered, unsure if she knew what that was. Somewhere in the middle of everything he must have missed the machine warning him about anesthesia. The syringe jabbing into his shoulder pulled a sharp breath from him and it took everything in his control not to withdraw.

The name sounded familiar in the same way the name of a book did, distant and unimportant until the moment when it was important. She shifted uncomfortably as her own robotic doctor began the same process as Tobias’s, cleaning away the mud and muck from her body with a warm, damp cloth that left her colder than when it all started. Bella was used to the cold though, welcomed it more than most, but she was still uncomfortable in her damp jeans.

Alfred stepped forward between the beds, opening a cabinet on the wall that housed large heated blankets. He grabbed the first one, carefully opening it with one hand while he cradled the cat like a baby. He took a slow step toward Bellamy with a friendly smile and placed the warm blanket across her lap. "Alfred Pennyworth, Ms. Drake," he introduced himself as he placed the kitten gently into her lap. "I am one of the academy’s caretakers."

"Hello," Bell instinctively shrunk in on herself some under Alfred’s attention, shoulders relaxing a little as the warm blanket was draped across her lap, eyes lingering on Loki as he was placed gently down before she looked back up at the older man. There was something soft about Alfred, he reminded her of her grandpa, gentle and kind, and the realization made her eyes burn. "Thank you." Her voice was soft and unguarded, eyes slipping back down to Loki who was sleeping quite happily.

He went back to the same cabinet, pulling out a second blanket and took it over to Tobias. As Alfred unfolded it and tucked it around the man’s lap, he studied the way he shivered. "I’ll go fetch some warm, dry clothes and tea." The older man nodded his head toward both of them and made his way over to the elevator.

"Can you tell Imogen I’m back, please?… Before her and Magni do something stupid," Tobias asked quietly.

"Stupid? Like leaving the tower without telling anyone?" Alfred goaded him gently. "J.A.R.V.I.S. has already notified them."

His face contorted into an apologetic grimace. "Thank you."

Alfred nodded his head before slipping into the elevator. His gaze drifted over to the blood on the wall and sighed before the doors closed.

Tobias closed his eyes, focusing on steadying his breathing and minimizing the tremors that shook his body out of his control. There was a sick sort of irony that it had been less than 24 hours and he was back on that damn table again, getting poked and prodded with needles. At least that time he didn’t have to deal with Luke making salacious comments and trying to seduce him. He kept his gaze fixated on the fleece blanket as he spoke up, trying to fill the silence. "Sorry I didn’t wake you."

She watched the metal arm twist away from her, retrieving the required equipment to remove the thick and jagged splinters from her hand, before she turned her attention back onto Tobias, keeping her gaze respectfully elsewhere than his exposed skin. "It’s okay, I’m not upset." Bell winced as the first splinter was pulled free, dropping with a small thunk into a small metal bowl, her blood welling up each time a splinter was removed. It was methodically done, not with a sense of ease or comfort in mind like a human would have had, and it left her feeling nauseous.

Whatever they’d given her before she fully woke up made her mind move slower than usual, each thought dragging along like driftwood in a slow moving river, it made her angry but too far away from her emotions to be able to register it fully. "Are you…okay? I mean, your shoulder…" The last splinter, bigger than the others, was ripped free from her skin and the arm moved to stem the bleeding, sterilizing the multitude of small wounds before bandaging her wrist. It moved away to retrieve what looked to be compression wraps, an IV bag, and a needle.

What little bit of color that had returned to her face drained away, and Bellamy looked up toward the ceiling resolutely. She had no issues with needles on other people, but for herself? Her stomach rolled in protest, but she swallowed down the little bit of bile that rose up in her throat, squeezing her eyes shut until the sting of the needle had passed through the crook of her elbow and the cold flow of fluids entering her body left her feeling disoriented and clammy. "I’m not a fan of this." Bella managed after a moment, voice wobbly and tired.

Tobias parted his lips to answer her question, but froze as he caught a glimpse of her growing sickly pale. He pushed off the table to stand up and catch her if she fainted, but a second robotic arm grabbed his other shoulder and kept him firmly planted in place. "Please remain seated." He winced, shutting his eyes tight as the movement jostled the arm that had started stitching him, causing it to slip and jab the wound. He was really fucking terrible at receiving care from that damn machine. His fist pounded the side of the table as some outlet as another arm started stitching the back side of the bullet wound tandem with the front. Sure, it was faster and probably more efficient… But just like the last time, it seemed there wasn’t a sufficient amount of anesthesia or did he fuck that up too and not notice? Whatever.

"Lay down," he instructed her calmly, looking across the gap toward her, keeping his gaze fixed on her face and only on her face. "You look like you’re going to faint. Lay back so you don’t fall on the ground and hurt yourself," he repeated, trying to force his words through her partially sedated mind.

Moving at all seemed like an awful idea, she was barely holding onto the contents of her stomach as it were, but after a moment of debate Bell laid down slowly. The blanket was hot in her lap, her upper body frigid as the arm moved to wrap compression bandages first around her wrist, and then her ankle. She wanted to take back her acceptance of treatment, if they’d just tossed her in a tub or a pool she could have fixed herself right up, but the sedative was working against her logical thought process, and she was so tired that none of it felt like it mattered anyways. The pain in her wrist and ankle were easy to ignore earlier, but now her injuries felt like tangible proof of everything that had happened. Bella wasn’t sure if she was ready to let that go. Everything was hazy for a few moments, thoughts fluttering away as quickly as they came, she was on the verge of passing out, but eventually it passed and she could think a little clearer.

"I don’t like it either," he sympathized. "I’d rather not make this a daily occurrence, but so far I’m two for two." An exasperated laugh rumbled in his throat behind a clenched jaw. It wasn’t like Tobias was trying to get himself hurt and wind up back in the infirmary. The last thing he wanted was to sit through more fucking stitches, yet there he was. At least that time it was for a valid reason, versus avoiding hospitals out of stubborn pride and paranoia.

When the arms finished the final stitches on his shoulder, they pressed gauze against the wound and taped it in place. It wasn’t going to help much, especially when it came to avoid popping stitches because of training. But he’d cut himself some slack and take a day off from working out in the morning. No guarantees for the following day. When the robot medic switched to stitch tape for the rest of his wounds, Tobias relaxed slightly and finally answered her question. "I’ll be ok," he reassured her. "Got it when they took my niece—" He froze mid-sentence as the metal arms placed two strips of tape over the cut on his cheek. "I’m just not very good at the whole rest and relaxation thing," he confessed with a guilty smile.

"I never have been either—" The robot cut her off, its little metal hand…thing…spinning for a moment, still holding the compression bandages. Bellamy tilted her head with a vague sense of interest, mouth clicking shut like a child that had been scolded for speaking during class.

"Drake, Bellamy. Scapular contusion would best be treated with a compression wrap, ice, and elevation. Please sit up." It waited patiently for her to find the energy to drag herself back up right, mindful of the IV in her arm. "Please turn."

Bella frowned at the arm, but twisted some so that her back was to Tobias. A bruise, deeply purple and splotchy, curled around her shoulder blade toward the top of her shoulder. She couldn’t even remember which fall the injury came from, it didn’t matter either, the sedative didn’t do anything for her pain though. She sucked in a sharp breath as it began to tightly wrap the compression bandage across her chest and then around her upper arm, pinning it in place before the arm retreated to put on a secondary bag of fluids; she'd already run the first bag dry.

Gingerly, she lowered herself back onto the bed, face scrunched up in discomfort and pain. "Please tell me I don’t have to sleep here tonight." Bell glanced toward Tobias, eyes a little more focused than a few moments before but still relatively hazy. "I feel weird, what did it give me?"

Tobias watched as the robot covered the cuts on his left arm with small pieces of stitch tape. "You started panicking in your sleep, so the—" he motioned his hand toward the arms of the machine, "—gave you a sedative."

"Lehnsherr, Tobias. For proper access to your right tricep, please rest your right hand on top of your head."

He sighed softly, raising his hand as instructed, slowly to not disturb the fresh stitches in his shoulder. His palm rested on top of his head, exposing the length of the underside of his arm. Tobias watched for a second as the robot worked to remove the ice, then looked back over toward Bellamy. "No, you don’t have to sleep here," he reassured her with a quiet chuckle. "There’s plenty of empty apartments. I can take you to pick one once we’re free to leave."

It appeared that tape was significantly faster than traditional stitches. The machine worked diligently to wrap his right arm around the bicep and left arm from shoulder to elbow. The cuts along his back were too long to bandage, but he no longer felt the warm trickle of blood so whatever was done at least stopped the bleeding. "Lehnsherr, Tobias. First aid complete." Not needing to be told twice, Tobias slid off the hospital bed and wrapped himself in the warm blanket. The moment he stepped away, the bed folded up into the wall and the curtain closed around the area. "Commencing station sterilization."

He hesitantly approached Bellamy’s bed and lowered himself into the empty chair beside it. Between the warmth of the blanket, no longer being prodded with needles, and the creeping exhaustion, Tobias’s eyes grew heavy. He managed to stay awake for maybe a minute before he sunk further into the seat and dozed off. His sleep was peaceful, at first. His head tipped forward, chest rising and falling with every deep rhythmic breath. The void of his mind drifted to the bloody hostel floor as the sound of Helena’s screams echoed down the hall. He choked on the warm taste of iron with every gasping breath. Tears burned his eyes as he fought against the hands that held him down and the knees in his back. The pressure of a boot pushed down on the fresh gun shot wound sending a flaming heat radiating down his arm. His left hand clawed at whoever he could reach, tugging at their legs, at their arms, at… His fingertips brushed the plastic pistol. Before the attackers knew what was happening, the weapon was in his grasp and he pulled the trigger.

She didn’t realize that he’d fallen asleep at first, the robot had wrapped up her own first aid but the fluids were still being administered, so Bella was allowed to lay there for a little longer and watch the drip of the IV. Eventually though, almost as if out of her control, her gaze slid toward Tobias. He looked…peaceful, his long lashes created small shadows across his cheekbones, face relaxed, breaths even. She replayed the night over and over in her head as she took in his pale skin, the bags under his eyes, the bandages adorning his body, and she felt…guilt. If he hadn’t come looking for her, he wouldn’t have aggravated his injuries. If she hadn’t ran, if she’d helped her dad, if she’d been strong enough—Bell went to turn away, blinking away from the thoughts that began to feel as if they were suffocating her, when she noticed his breathing was more labored and, to her horror, a single tear cut a glistening trail down his cheek.

Bellamy panicked, what was he dreaming about that would make him cry in his sleep? Could she wake him? Should she wake him? Her arm instinctively jerked forward, trembling fingers reaching out toward his hand, when a robotic arm smacked against her uninjured wrist. She pulled her hand back with a soft yelp of pain and a reproachful look at the robot. "Please keep your IV arm stable." It intoned, turning away from her without another word. Bella huffed in agitation, turning back toward Tobias.

Ding. The elevator chimed in sync with the ring of the gun through Tobias’s dream, startling him awake. His chest heaved as he tried to blink the sleep from his eyes. He groaned, sitting upright as Alfred walked towards them with a tray perfectly balanced in one hand and a neat pile of folded clothes in the other. "Apologies, Mr. Lehnsherr. I was unaware if Ms. Drake had dry clothing so I took the liberty of grabbing a pair of sweatpants and a sweatshirt from your belongings for her. I assumed you wouldn’t mind."

Tobias nodded his head. "Of course. Thank you, Alfred."

She looked between the two men, mouth falling open a little at how easily Tobias accepted that. It was true, all of her clothes in her bag were beyond drenched, she’d need to wash them before she could wear anything, but his willingness and how unbothered he was…it was touching.

The man set down the tray at the foot of Bellamy’s bed to free his hand. He then handed Tobias one set of clothing, then set another set on the side table for her. His attention shifted back to the tray which was stacked with more than just tea. There was a steaming teapot, two tea cups, honey, a bottle of aspirin, a bowl of water, a bowl of milk and a tablet. "We aren’t properly equipped for your little feline friend, Ms. Drake. But I have a warm bowl of cream and water, prepared for him. I have also taken the liberty of placing an order for whatever you should need: food, litter, toys, etc. I’ll have them delivered to your room tomorrow when they arrive."

"Thank you," her voice sounded as stunned as her expression portrayed her, looking up at Alfred a little dazed by the man’s courtesy and thoroughness. She hadn’t even managed to think far enough ahead to consider everything Loki would need, her brain had been stuck on survival mode first and foremost. "I—I have money, I can pay you back, I don’t want to be an inconvenience…" She’d already done that more than enough for one day, Tobias and the other people, Imogen, Magni, they’d all done so much for her already. She wasn’t sure how she could repay any of them for any of it.

"This is all maintained with Stark, Wayne and Frost money. I don’t think they’d accept repayment even if you offered." Tobias’s voice dropped low enough that only she could hear it. "You’re not inconvenient. You’re alive… That’s what’s important."

Was it all that important? She glanced up at him, the doubt visible in her gaze before she looked away, head ducked in shame. She wasn’t like him, or likely the others in the tower. She didn’t have enough training to be useful in whatever fight they were headed toward, she couldn’t even save her dad. At best, Bella would be cannon fodder, at worst she’d get someone else killed for her own incompetence. She didn’t vocalize any of this, it wasn’t Tobais’s job to reassure her. Instead, she nodded her head once to show she understood what he said.

Alfred grabbed another warmed blanket and placed it on the ground, making a small little burrow around the bowls of water and cream. He then gently took the kitten from Bellamy’s arms with a reassuring smile and placed him in the small habitat so he could get some much needed food and water. Next he set to pouring two cups of tea and passing one off to each of them along with two aspirins. Finally he held out the tablet toward Tobias with a warm smile. "I’m sure you’re able to help her find a place to stay."

Tobias set aside the clothes so he could hold the tea in one hand and the tablet in the other. He gave the older man an exhausted but warm smile. "Thanks, Alfred."

The man gave him a gentle pat on the shoulder before turning back toward the elevator. "Don’t worry about cleaning up. I’ll take care of it later. Feel free to leave your dirty clothes behind. I can have them cleaned and back to you both by morning." Without another word, Alfred slipped back into the elevator leaving them both alone to change and recover.

"Thank you." She echoed Tobias, blinking a few times as the whirlwind of an old man exited just as quickly as he’d come. Staring down at her own cup of tea for a moment, before glancing down at Loki. The kitten was delighted by the offerings, purring so loudly she could hear him from the bed, and the sound brought a small, tired smile to her lips.

Tobias took a sip of his tea, then leaned forward slightly to rest the tablet on the side of Bell’s bed. "There’s a lot of empty apartments, so you’ll have a pretty good selection." He looked over at her briefly with a smile before illuminating the screen. "Mr. Stark and Mr. Wayne let us kind of decorate however we wanted. I have my old penthouse from when I attended. There used to be a wide variety of people here back in the day, so I’m sure there’s something you’ll find interesting." He navigated to a page similar to the kiosk down in the lobby that showed images of all the available apartments and held the tablet out towards her. "It’s like HGTV, but you don’t have to pay for anything," he laughed softly, trying to lighten the mood.

"I have to pick?" She’d smiled at his joke, but there was an undeniably edge of stress in her voice as she caught sight of the sheer amount of available apartments. Stone floors, wooden floors, marble floors, one with a balcony, one with a piano, one even had an indoor hot tub. Who in their right mind would want a hot tub in their bedroom? Bella chewed on her bottom lip, lifting her wrapped hand to scroll through a few of the options herself. "This one has a couch in the closet, who in the world needs a closet that big?" Bella muttered to herself, swiping away from that one before giving Tobias a sort of helpless look. "I have a studio apartment in New York that barely passes as a closet, I’m a little out of my depth here."

He leaned forward, peeking over the edge of the bed to look at the tablet when she mentioned the giant closet. "I think that was Jessica’s apartment. She’s the only person I’ve known to care more about fashion than Imogen." Tobias laughed quietly. "Alright, here." He reached out and gently took the tablet away from her. His finger slowly ran along the screen as he skimmed the various available apartments. Occasionally he caught glimpses of rooms that reminded him of the previous tenant and he couldn’t help but wonder what happened to them, if they were in hiding or were taken… like Helena.

He cleared his throat. "So… What do you like? Colors? Hobbies? Help me narrow it down a bit." Tobias looked up at her from beneath his brow. While his eyes were cast in shadow with dark circles beneath them, there was still a subtle warm and light behind them.

"Well, um… literature, I have a degree in English literature, so I guess that’s a hobby, but…" her eyes trailed off of the tablet screen, settling on his hand instead, the way his finger swiped across the screen slowly. Bella stared for a moment, unsure of why she was so enthralled, and decided it was the sedative clouding her mind. With great effort, she settled her eyes back onto the screen. "I participate in professional figure skating, I was meant to go to an international competition next month." Her lips tugged down some, the realization that she couldn’t go anymore sat like a weight on her chest. "None of that really matters anymore." Bell let out a soft breath, swallowing around the urge to cry, she wouldn’t break down in front of him again.

With each new piece of information, Tobias swiped away apartments that he didn’t think suited her. The task was a little mundane, but he kept his mind busy so he didn’t slip into thoughts about his nightmare or how uncomfortable it was to lean his back against the chair. He looked back over at her when she mentioned figure skating. "Guess that just means we need to solve this quickly so you can go." The corner of his mouth tugged into a lopsided smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. People had been going missing for over a year, the likelihood of them wrapping this up in less than a month was unlikely. And while he had a habit of being pragmatic at best, pessimistic at worse, Bell seemed like she could use some optimism… Even if it was a little misplaced.

She smiled at that, soft and a little wobbly, but it was one of the first genuine smiles he’d managed to pull from her since they’d met. It reached her eyes, her cheeks a healthy flush instead of the sickly pale she’d been earlier. She knew that it wouldn’t happen, but he was trying, and Bella appreciated that more than she could put into words.

"Well, I don’t think any of these apartments have an ice rink but I’ll keep an eye out," he teased gently. So far he had it narrowed between five different apartments, each of which had a decent library and looked cozy, like a home away from home. If he had to choose, he probably would pick the second one. It had that dark academia sort of vibe and a lot of plants, but he wasn’t sure if that really suited her. He knew little to nothing about Bell, but something told him that she needed something brighter and more welcoming. "What’s your favorite color?"

Her eyes had trailed back to his hands, and then away back toward the cat to distract herself, but at his question Bell looked back up, her eyes catching his gaze. She opened her mouth to answer, but…"Blue, but dark, like..." She pressed her lips together tightly, gaze breaking away from his own to stare at the heated blanket in her lap. Why had she said that? She hadn’t realized what color his eyes were until just then, a mix of blue and grey that reminded her of the frozen over lake she practiced ice skating on as a kid behind her house. "Any shade of blue, really." Bellamy recovered quickly, heat rushing to her cheeks, but the robotic arm moving to remove her IV helped take her mind off of her blunder, grimacing and looking away as it was removed from her arm and a bandage was placed over the crook of her inner elbow.

"Drake, Bellamy. First aid is complete." She looked toward Tobias, eyebrows raised.

"Is that it telling me to get out?" Her lips twitched up into a slight smile, the idea of being bossed around by a robot was ridiculous.

Tobias laughed, something a little less strained and more genuine. "Yeah, means you’re done." With the knowledge of her liking blue, he swiped away two more options narrowing it down to three. There was the one he originally liked and two others that looked a little brighter, letting in more sunlight with a couple places he could see Loki getting into some mischief. He handed over the tablet as he stood up with a pained groan. "I narrowed it down to three. Maybe that’ll help."

Bella leaned over to look at the tablet, eyes scanning the options she’d been left with. She debated for a moment, narrowing it down between the two, but the first one…the shade of blue on the walls, the windows, there was something about it that felt right. She hesitated still, glancing toward Tobias as he set down his cup of tea, belatedly realizing she hadn’t drank any of her own yet and taking a sip. It was warm, and refreshing. She’d always enjoyed tea, and the familiarity of the drink eased some of the tension hanging onto her shoulders.

He downed the rest of his tea, then set aside his cup to grab the set of clothes Alfred had left for him. "I’ll give you some privacy." Tobias nodded his head toward the sweats on her side table. He gave the little cat a quick pet as he stepped away. His free hand grabbed the hospital curtain and pulled it out to divide the space between them. He hadn’t noticed the bed he was on earlier was already sterilized and ready for someone new. Must have finished while he was sleeping. He set aside the blanket that was no longer warm to the touch aside from his own body heat. He kicked off his sneakers and peeled off his drenched socks first. Surprisingly his shorts and boxers were still damp and took some effort inching them down when the fabric kept clinging to his skin. A shiver ran down his body as his wet skin was exposed to the chilly air conditioning. He quickly pulled on the dry sweatpants and hoodie, thankful to finally be dry.

She scooted off the bed, eyeing the mud caked shoes and discarded socks with a frown. Those had been her only shoes she’d brought with her, she’d have to ask Alfred if…they could order her some more, she supposed. It felt weird to be reliant on someone else for things like that, but it was out of her hands now. Bella struggled for a moment, the mobility of her wrapped shoulder and upper arm made it difficult to drag off her damp jeans, hard to pull on the sweatpants that were too long and pooled loose fabric around her ankles, and downright impossible to get the hoodie on over her head. She wobbled a little on her good foot, hanging her head in embarrassment as she clutched the hoodie in her good hand.

Tobias took his time laying out his dirty, soaked clothes as neatly as he could for Alfred. When he finished he slowly and carefully lowered himself to the ground. He crossed his legs beneath him before reaching his hand beneath the curtain where he could hear the kitten still slurping up cream. He idly stroked the cat’s head as he waited. "I like the color red, but more like maroon. And I play the piano." He wasn’t entirely sure why he offered up the information unprompted. Maybe he felt like it was only fair since Bell shared information about herself or maybe he wanted to fill the silence… Or maybe he wanted her to know something else about him that wasn’t his father or that he was a killer.

Despite her predicament, Bellamy smiled at Tobias’s confession. She hadn’t expected it, hadn’t been sure how to ask despite wanting to know, and so she was glad that it was information openly given. "What’s your favorite song to play?" she flopped back down onto the bed with a huff after struggling for a moment, giving up the last bit of dignity she had. "I’m sorry, I…I can’t lift my arm. Can you help me, please?" Bella held the hoodie out toward where she knew he’d come from the curtain, face flushed and resolutely turned to the side, so she could glare at the robotic arm patiently waiting for her to vacate her bed so it could begin sanitizing the space.

"Umm…" He puffed out his lips with a deep exhale. What did he enjoy playing? Tobias played a lot of songs, but was always drawn to tunes that were a little more enchanting or melancholy. "Probably Swan Lake." He had never seen the ballet but the music was uniquely haunting, yet captivating in a way most songs weren’t.

"Yeah, sure," Tobias replied to her request for aid without hesitation. He groaned as he got to his feet and walked toward the curtain then hesitated. He took a deep breath then stepped forward, keeping his eyes focused on his bare feet. He just barely caught a glimpse of the hoodie out of the corner of his eye, reaching out for it, missing a few times before feeling the fabric brush his palm. He took a second to prep it like you would dressing a child, turning it front side down and bunched up one of the sleeves. His gaze shifted to the ceiling as he moved in front of her. "Right hand first," he instructed barely above a whisper. When he felt her fingers slip through his hands shifted to the other sleeve, prepping it similarly. "Ok. And the other one?"

Her face burned, but one of them had to actually look and see what they were doing, so Bella turned toward him despite how flustered she was, sliding each arm in as directed, though her right arm was tricky because of how it was wrapped, even lifting it just the tiny bit she had to pulled at her shoulder and made pain ripple down her back. She shifted her weight, remembering her injured ankle before she put too much weight on it, and shifted back as her knees threatened to buckle. Getting dressed by a very attractive man was not supposed to be so horribly painful, it never was in the books at least.

The next part was tricky, so he worked slowly to make sure he didn’t hurt her while focusing on counting the number of ceiling tiles. Tobias fingers scrunched the fabric up so he held it from hem to collar. He took a slight step closer only sparing the quickest glance to make sure he wasn’t going to miss. Luckily his sweater was massive compared to her, so he had plenty of wiggle room to guide it over her head without putting tension on her arm… Whichever one was injured, he couldn’t remember. He carefully tugged the hoodie down to her waist making sure not to accidentally touch her. Tobias looked down at her only when he was certain she was fully covered. He gently untucked her hair from beneath the collar with an awkward smile and flushed cheeks. "There." He nodded his head and took a step back.

"Did you pick a room?" He asked, nodding his head toward the tablet, trying to shift the conversation back into more comfortable territory.

Despite the embarrassment and pain, Bellamy couldn’t help the small and indulgent grin that tugged at her lips, brightening her tired eyes. The way his own cheeks were flushed, how gentle he’d been as he fixed her hair, it was all so endearing. Bell didn’t understand how a man who claimed to have taken so many lives could be so unbelievably gentle, and warm. She could feel the difference in their natural body temperatures now that he wasn’t on the verge of hypothermia, where she naturally ran a few degrees cooler than the average person Tobias felt blissfully warm. She cleared her throat, glancing down at the tablet, happy to have a distraction from the confusing direction her thoughts had gone.

"The one on floor thirty, I think. The color and the windows, it’s so beautiful." her grin softened into something a little more sad, and Bella backed up to sit on the edge of the bed, trying to roll up the ankles of the sweatpants so she didn’t trip over them. "It’s the sort of place you dream about living in, but never think you’ll actually be able to." She paused in her endeavor of rolling the ankles up to instead roll the sleeves of his hoodie up, face one of great concentration as she struggled for a moment. "I’ve never seen the play, Swan Lake, but I’ve read Mark Helprin’s literary adaptation of it. I’ll have to look up the music."

"I have the sheet music in my room," he replied before fully realizing the implications of what he was suggesting. Tobias cleared his throat and slid his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants. "It sounds a lot better with accompaniment or a proper orchestra though," he continued trying to move past what could have been an awkward invitation that gave the wrong message. He wasn’t entirely sure what the wrong message was, but whatever it was, he didn’t want to come across forward or like he was trying to get her alone or something.

Tobias inhaled a sharp, awkward breath as he walked around the hospital bed to pick up Bellamy’s soaked bag. He carefully pulled the strap over his head and rested it on his good shoulder. "How’s your ankle?" he asked as he crouched down to collect the empty bowls. He slid them into a side pocket of her bag and scooped up the pudgy content cat. Using the sleeve of his hoodie, he wiped the cream from Loki’s face as he returned to Bell and held out the kitten for her. "You can try walking, but seeing as how you won’t even put weight on it…" his voice trailed off, the implication of his words evident without saying it. "There’s also crutches, a wheelchair or…" He motioned his hands toward himself with a slight shrug. While Tobias was tired, he could manage carrying her to her room if that’s what she wanted. In the end it was her decision.

"I’d like to hear you play sometime," Bell glanced toward Tobias, brows furrowing more as she watched him verbally backtrack for a moment, not sure why, unless he didn’t want to spend time around her, which…that was fair, really. She glanced back down at the sleeves, swallowing around the lump in her throat. It made sense, he’d fulfilled whatever moral obligation he’d had getting her here alive, that was all that mattered in the end. "No pressure, of course. I’m sure you’re busy with…" she gestured around them, the sleeve she hadn’t managed to roll up properly flopped back and smacked her in the face. Bellamy dropped her arm quickly, face burning in embarrassment.

"No, I…" his voice faded away as he rubbed the back of his neck. Tobias wasn’t used to this, any of it. Most of his life it had been just him and when he was at the academy he had people like Magni who just kind of adopted him and dragged him around everywhere. He never really made friends on his own or initiated anything beyond necessary conversation. "I’d be happy to," he sighed, deciding honesty was better than whatever it was that he was trying to do. "I was just… trying not to make you uncomfortable," he admitted with a faint smile.

"Oh," she let out a soft breath, surprise flickering across her face before Bella smiled, soft and unguarded. She hadn’t realized until that moment, but the two of them had a lot in common. "You…I feel safe with you." Her breath caught in her throat, realizing what she’d said a second too late, but…it was true. She looked down at her ankles, one wrapped and the other bare. The floor was cold beneath her feet, welcoming and familiar. "I–I just mean, you don’t have to worry about that, so."

The admission caught Tobias off guard. As far as he could remember, the only people who ever felt safe with him was family, or at least the only people who vocalized it. A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He must have been doing something right. The small bit of good he did paled in comparison to the overwhelming shadow of his past that loomed overhead, but the small reassurance told him he was on the right path, if nothing else. He cleared his throat and nodded his head. "Ok," he replied softly.

She pushed up to her feet, smiling at his reply, testing how much pressure her bad ankle could withstand before answering. She would sooner go back out into that forest and give the sniper a clean shot than have him push her around in a wheelchair, thank you very much, but she wasn’t going to tell Tobias the idea of him picking her up again made her heart flutter in her chest. Christ, what was wrong with her? Had she hit her head during one of the falls, because it sure felt like it, maybe it was just the sedative. Pain arched up her ankle, along her calf, and burned in her knee. Bella flattered for a second, face paling a little, but she smiled a tight little smile at him. "I can walk," she lied, eyeing his shoulder with more concern than she’d given her own injuries. "I don’t want you to rip your stitches again. That was…" terrifying. "It must have really hurt, I’m sorry."

"Yeah, fuck that," he muttered under his breath as he pushed her bag around his torso so it hung behind his back. Regardless if Bell tried to argue or pull away, Tobias could move faster than her. He swept his left arm into the back of her knees while his other hand carefully held her side, and then picked her up. His jaw tensed for a second as he adjusted her in his arms, but then he relaxed and made his way toward the elevator. He turned her so she could handle pressing the button. He was already beyond the point of fatigue, so he wasn’t going to risk adding another thing to juggle along with Bell and her bag.

She had a split second where she saw the resolve flicker across his face, her stomach dropping, and then Tobias was moving toward her faster than she could process the movement. Bella looked like a deer in headlights, gasping as her legs were quite literally swept out from beneath her, good arm flailing for a second before she slipped it around the back of his neck, face burning for a completely different reason as her weight settled easily into his arms. Bell, quite possibly, had never felt more attracted to another person until this very moment. "Toby!" The nickname slipped from her tongue without thought, her warm breath fanning across the bit of his throat that was exposed, arm tightening around his shoulders for a second before she adjusted, not wanting to agitate any of his injuries.

"I didn’t even notice until we were in the car," he confessed, looking over at her as they waited on the elevator. Tobias would have shrugged but he couldn’t move his shoulders while focusing on supporting her weight, so his head just nodded to the side slightly. "I get tunnel vision in a fight. Unless the injury actually inhibits me, I’ll notice vague pain, but don’t really register what it is until it’s all over."

"Are you in pain?" Her other hand kept Loki against her chest, where the kitten was content to snuggle up and doze lazily, so she couldn’t reach out and press a hand to his chest like she felt the bizarre desire to do. She could feel the steady and strong thrum of his heart against her side though, catching his gaze as her own heart beat erratically in her chest, and that was the exact moment Bella knew she was in danger for reasons that had absolutely nothing to do with armed goons. She’d never felt so flustered from something so simple, it was so stupid. She just needed sleep, the sedative needed to wear off, and she’d be fine from there. "I…thank you." Bell added softly, looking down at the cat.

Tobias stepped onto the elevator when the doors opened, and turned her toward the panel so she could select the correct floor. Once the lift began to move upwards, he leaned back against one of the walls for support as they waited. Was he in pain? Yes. Was he going to admit that to Bellamy? No. "Just a little sore," he answered, looking down at her from beneath his dark brow. It wasn’t a lie, per se, just not the entire truth. Was it likely that his legs would give out two seconds after he entered his apartment? Most likely. But half of that wasn’t because of her but his own fault for doing an excessive amount of weight training in the morning. Figures the one day he half kills himself working out there would be training and it’d be the one time he actually helps someone. Fate was kind of a bitch that way.

When the doors opened to Bellamy’s new apartment, Tobias let out a low whistle. "This is a lot fancier than my place." He pushed off the wall with a faint grunt and carried her inside. His eyes scanned the room until he locked onto an ornate staircase that had to lead to a second floor, and most likely her bedroom. Fuck. At the base of the stairs he inhaled a sharp breath through his nose then started climbing. Each step was more difficult than the last. His legs felt like noodles and his muscles were on fire, but his face was stoic and blank aside from the slight furrowing of his brows.

"Tobias," her tone was verging on pleading, watching how his brows furrowed, face otherwise impassive. She could feel the tension in his arms though, how each step up felt slower than the last. Guilt rolled in her stomach, because he was in pain but trying to push through for her, she should have just asked the stupid robot to put her in a tub, exhaustion and conflicting emotions be damned, anything so he didn’t have to suffer through this for her. "I can walk, please…" He was stubborn, and focused, so her whispered plea didn’t do much, and her head fell to the side to rest against his collarbone, a soft sigh of defeat falling from her lips. "I’m going to be worried about you getting back to your room now." Bella muttered, absentmindedly stroking Loki’s head with her thumb.

Tobias’s gaze fell to the top of her head as she rested it against him. His pulse elevated slightly as a warmth grew in his chest and spread across his cheeks. "I’ll be ok. I’m only five floors away."

A sigh of relief escaped his lips when Tobias finally made it up the stairs and found her bedroom. He carried Bellamy inside and gently set her on the bed. He then pulled her bag over his head and put it inside her closet. "I can show you where we do laundry tomorrow, if you need help," he offered, rubbing his hands together awkwardly as he lingered by the door. "Did you need anything else?" he asked. While it wasn’t his duty to take care of her, he couldn’t bring himself to leave until he knew his help was no longer needed… or wanted.

The bed was soft beneath her, like how she’d imagined a cloud would feel when she was younger, nicer than any bed Bellamy had ever owned, but it wasn’t enough to distract her from him. Her eyes tracked his movements like a planet stuck in the gravitational pull of the sun, unable to look anywhere else. It was the exhaustion, the sedative, that was all, and yet…she took a deep breath, and all Bell could smell was his cologne. "No," she lied, better this time, because what she wanted was very different from what she needed. She wanted to ask him to not leave, she was scared of being alone again, but that was selfish in a way that she didn’t even want to consider. "Thank you, for everything. If you hadn’t shown up…" Bell looked away, and she could feel the tears shimmering in her eyes. She set aside Loki onto one of the pillows, refusing to let a single tear fall. "Thank you for saving me, Tobias."

"Ok," he whispered with a nod of his head. "I would do it again," Tobias confessed as he noticed the tears pooling in her eyes and the guilt that tugged her mouth into a slight frown. "Even if it ended worse for me. So…" He shrugged his shoulders slightly. "Don’t blame yourself for me. I’m alive, you’re alive…" He nodded his head and exhaled softly.

"I’m on floor 35 if you need anything. I don’t sleep much so it’s no bother." Tobias took a step forward, lingering for a second in the doorway. He lightly tapped his hand against the door frame while looking over at her one last time. "Good night, Bell." A lopsided smile curved at the corner of his mouth before he disappeared out into the hallway.

His words bounced around in her head relentlessly as she watched him go, biting her bottom lip hard enough that she could taste iron across her tongue. She resisted calling him back, because she knew the control she’d held onto all night was slipping. She didn’t trust herself, her powers, or her own control enough to risk hurting him, so she watched him go as the tears spilled over, and he was already gone before she found it in her to reply. "Night, Toby."

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Descendants

^{#a8f9ff ....|..... prism ....|..... outfit .............. #00aeef ....|..... outfit .............. imogen's penthouse}

"...I’ll be back soon and get off that machine before you give yourself a stroke, Imogen."

"Yeah, ok. Be careful. Call me if anything changes. If you’re not back in two hours we’re coming to get you."

"Got it," Tobias replied before the line went dead.

Imogen extended a shaky hand to quickly shut off Cerebro. The second the connection was severed it felt like an invisible tether that had been connecting her to the machine snapped. She nearly doubled over, catching herself with a weak grip on the edge of the coffee table. It took several ragged breaths to muster enough energy to reach up and pull the helmet from her head a second time. She couldn’t be bothered to properly close up the case when every subtle movement felt like she was wading through water. Her hand slowly reached out to take her phone from Magni’s grasp. Her fingers fumbled with it a couple times before she got a good hold. She made sure the call was properly ended before darkening the screen and discarding it on the table beside her mini Cerebro.

Her head felt like it was full of TV static, hardly able to focus on her own thoughts let alone anything that might have been crossing Magni’s mind. Warmth dripped onto her bottom lip and the subtle taste of iron touched her tongue. Imogen wiped her nose along her sleeve leaving a crimson trail along the white material. "Fuck," she muttered under her breath. That was… more blood than she thought.

She needed to get up. She needed medicine, a shower, and rest… desperately. But Imogen was at that stage of exhaustion and fatigue where sleep would be impossible, like her mind was wired and fried all at once. "I need a shower," she commented out loud more to herself as motivation. With a deep breath to bolster what strength she had left, Imogen pushed off the table and forced herself to her feet. When she attempted to stand up straight everything started spinning and going dark. Her hands flailed, searching for the side of the couch but instead found Magni’s arm. She held onto him, blinking slowly as her vision slowly returned while using his sturdiness to steady her. "Or… maybe a bath," she corrected weakly, able to admit defeat when she was barely able to stand on her own.

Magni merely nodded, having been an ever-present shadow at Imogen’s side through the process. He lifted one hand to help hold her steady as the other rested itself upon her back. "Of course." With a single effortless motion, he scooped Imogen up in his arms. He moved slowly, making his way back to the bathroom again. When he stepped inside, he set Imogen down on the edge of the spacious tub so she could sit while he fiddled with the knobs to begin running the bath. He was silent and stoic, his brow furrowed as he fussed with getting it ready while keeping an eye on Imogen.

There was a second when she might have argued, insisting she would walk herself, but who was she kidding? Imogen was barely able to stand up without passing out, who knows how much effort it would have taken to cross her penthouse. So she settled into his arms without argument, letting her head lull against his shoulder during the short amount of time he carried her. She was grateful for his strength and support, even though she knew he would have rather been fighting alongside Tobias compared to babysitting her phone while she fried her brain. But without him… she doubted there was anyone else who would have stayed with her. That meant more to her than she could put into words.

When he set her down, she whispered a quiet, "Thank you," as if speaking would be too loud. She watched him work on drawing the bath, noting the heavy silence that filled the room and the deep pensiveness that crossed his face. Imogen slowly reached out, resting her hand against his cheek so that her thumb could gently stroke the tension from his brow. "Is something troubling you?"

Magni's expression softened at Imogen's touch, his face relaxing a little as he placed a palm over her hand that cradled his cheekbone. He took a breath as he closed his eyes. "I am a man of decisive action. To relegate myself to the role of bystander whilst my ally is in peril is… frustrating." He let out a deep exhale as his fingers gently pried her hand from his face. He felt restless as his hands continued to fuss over checking the water's temperature.

When he was satisfied the water was warm enough, Magni plugged the drain and let the water start filling the tub. With nothing else to focus his hands on, he gripped the bottom hem of his shirt and peeled it up over his head. His torso was littered with small marks, the lingering welts of the training darts from earlier that seemed to be nearly healed. There were other faint remnants of electrical burns, feeble attempts to stun a god of lightning. He tossed his shirt aside, sifting through thoughts of pain and combat. His thoughts dipped to memories of Tobias in their drills at the Academy, as if trying to convince himself Tobias would be fine. Underlying the worry, though, was a hint of envy that remained unspoken. "I do not like waiting," he admitted softly.

Imogen lips curved downwards into a subtle frown as he severed her touch. Her dejected hand fell slowly to rest in her lap. She didn’t say anything, remaining silent as she watched him. She tried to sift through the haze that buzzed in her head and hear his thoughts, but she only got fragments like radio static that made her wince as it scratched at her brain. "I’m sorry," she whispered into the space between them.

"I didn’t like the thought of Tobias going alone either," she confessed, finally looking back up at Magni regardless if he held her gaze or not. "But his logic was sound, and—" Imogen shrugged her shoulders. "—I likely would have been a burden alongside both of you." She was not disillusioned when it came to her own capabilities. Whether or not her intentions came from a place of wanting to be helpful, how could she compare to someone with their capabilities? "I have always been someone destined to live on the sidelines. I learned at a young age that sometimes the most helpful thing we can do is be supportive… Not everything can be answered with violence."

Imogen hesitated for a moment before slowly raising her right hand and resting it against his abdomen. The tip of her finger lightly traced one of the markings that lingered on his skin from training as she exhaled a shallow breath. "No one questions your strength and power. I certainly do not." Her voice was quiet but resolute, making sure he not only heard but listened to every word. "You’re a God, a warrior born to fight. But these… people have knowledge and means beyond what any of us understand. They’ve taken powerful heroes… They might have taken your father." She paused, letting the weight of her words linger in the quiet expanse between them. She recalled Magni mentioning he was looking for his father and given everything going on, it wouldn't be that far of a stretch to assume he was taken similarly to her own father.

"Just because Tobias isn’t wanted doesn’t mean you aren’t." She spoke slowly, emphasizing every syllable with a light tap to his stomach to try and drive the point home. Her voice had a subtle strength in her fatigue, but still held onto its warmth and tenderness. "If you went you could have been taken... and I’m not a hero like you, Magni." Imogen’s voice fell to little more than a whisper at her admission. "I don’t know how I’d get you back. I would blame myself to the point of madness…"

She sighed, raising her other hand to gently grasp his waist. "You might feel your value hinges on your physical prowess, but there is so much more than what you bring to a fight." Imogen’s gaze fell, focusing on the faint markings that speckled his skin. "Cerebro... scares me. I’ve barely used it, mostly failed, and it hurts more than I can put into words. If you hadn’t been there…" Her voice trailed off, unable to finish her thought or find the words. "Your support mattered. Just your hand on my shoulder grounded me… It might not mean much to you, but it does to me."

Magni listened quietly, his face remaining relatively stoic as he alternated between looking at her and monitoring the rising waters. As she finished speaking, Magni turned one of the faucets to stop the flow of water. When he faced her again, he remained frozen for a moment. Her words rang with a level of truth and sincerity that took him a little time to process. "I understand," he responded softly. "I am grateful that my presence provided some boon to thy efforts. I understand the tactics and concern for my well-being. I just wish I could be doing more." The admission was simple, and far less clear than the tempest of inadequacy and deep-seated frustration at the mess that was thrust upon him within the past few days. Imogen’s tone did much to smooth his frayed nerves. He was sure she would have more to say, but they were things that could be said when relaxed.

Magni glanced at the filled tub, let out a deep sigh, and slipped his thumbs under the waistband of his shorts. He slowly lowered his lower garments to the ground and stepped out of them, quickly turning his attention back towards Imogen. He stepped towards her, lifting his hands to cup her cheeks as he lowered his lips to the crown of her head. "Let us get thee in the bath," he whispered, less of a suggestion and more of a gentle order. He let his hands trail down to her shoulders, across her collar bone, and down to the zipper of her cropped jacket. He was delicate as he went about undressing her slowly whilst getting a better look at how drained she appeared. His movements were akin to unwrapping a fragile antiquity, his touch more restrained than he had shown before.

Imogen nodded her head slowly, listening and acknowledging his words in silent understanding. The thumb of her hand that had remained reassuringly on his side gently stroked his skin in a tender and rhythmic pattern. "I do too," she whispered. She wished she had the capability to make Magni feel as needed and useful as he looked in her eyes. She also wished she was more helpful. It was a sentiment that she had heard reverberated throughout the tower. Everyone was there to help… but how? They had no information, no leads, nothing. It was an infuriating waiting game that left people who were used to action, like Magni, restless. There were no words she could share that would ease that feeling.

She let her hand fall from his side into her lap as he continued to remove his clothing. I was supposed to be doing that, Imogen chastised herself as an evening that was supposed to be filled with far more enjoyable ways to get tired was replaced with… this. When Magni’s hands found her cheeks, she exhaled softly through her nose, sinking into his touch for the brief moment it lingered. Her heart sank when he started undressing her, lips tugging downwards into a frown she couldn’t fight while her gaze fixated on their bare feet against the tile. His gentle tenderness was endearing and only made her fondness for him grow, but being that useless churned like bile in her stomach.

With her jacket unzipped, it was like removing the laces from a corset, she could finally breathe. She held onto Magni’s arms for support as she pulled herself up to her feet. Imogen then slowly turned her back to him, steadying herself against the side of the tub to make it easier for him to help remove her top. She looked down at her shorts as she hooked a thumb in the waistband. After a couple fruitless tugs, she sighed. "You can tear them off. I don’t intend on keeping them." This was not the image that came to mind at the thought of Magni tearing her clothes off. She shook her head at her own uselessness but remained still for him.

There was a slight shift in the air as she spoke. He stood close behind her, his hands gravitating towards her sides. He filled the gap behind her, his chest pressed against her back as he wrapped his arms around his partner. "’Tis a shame, they flattered thy form." The statement lingered for a moment, before he took a step back. His fingers traced from Imogen's stomach to the small of her back. Both hands gripped the back of her shorts, and a single tug ripped open the seam of the garment. With little effort, he was able to slide the shorts past her hips and let it drop around her ankles. He circled around next to her, effortlessly stepping into the filled tub. He turned to face Imogen, holding his hands out towards her to help her in.

"Hmm," she hummed in quiet appreciation for his flattery. Imogen let out a muffled sigh of relief when the seam was ripped open. While she might have been rid of the suffocating clothing, remnants of their vise-like grip remained indented around her thighs and waist. Her finger tip ran along the groves left behind on her stomach as Magni climbed into the bath. When he held out his hands toward her, she reached out, holding tight to them like a life line as she carefully stepped into the tub, one wobbly leg after the other. Once inside, she slowly lowered herself into the warm water until she sat nestled between his legs. Imogen laid back against Magni’s broad chest, letting her head rest against his shoulder, finding comfort in his presence. Her curves slowly molded to the contours of his muscles, his warmth and strength a balm to her aching mind and weary body.

"You’re far more tender and affectionate than I would have imagined," she confessed quietly amidst the soft sloshing of the water from their movements. Imogen took one of his hands, bringing it in front of her like she was studying it for the first time or committing it to memory. Her fingers, petite in comparison to his own, traced the lines of his palm, brushed across his callouses, and outlined the faint remnants of scars. "In my experience, the stronger the man, the more fragile his masculinity. Like they saw love and affection as weakness." She rested her hand flat against his, palm to palm. The difference was so stark, almost like an adult to a child. The tips of her fingers just barely reached halfway up his own. He had enough strength and power to break her without an ounce of effort, yet he handled her like she was made of glass… delicate. "But not you." Imogen slowly slipped her fingers between his. "Did your gentleness come from your mother?"

Magni let out a resonant sigh, both in relief at the comfort of their two bodies melting together in the warm waters and as an anxious release at the question. While she studied one palm, the other lightly rested against Imogen's stomach. He too gently ran his thumb along the small indented lines in her skin. "A bit." The words came painfully slow, as if each thought took effort to form. He had not ever been called gentle, nor considered his tenderness for long. "Our passing in these halls of yore shielded thee from my wanton disregard in my youth." The confession was delivered with a somber wistfulness as he considered those he had known. His disappearance was the final of a long string of choices that drove a wedge between himself and those he considered his friends. He only prayed that they yet lived for him to reconcile with.

Imogen's question was clearly probing, as even he could surmise the purpose. So, he decided to get at the root of the matter. "I have not spoken to my mother since last we met. Her place is in this realm, and I made a habit of choosing my father's domain as readily as my brother chose my mother's." He leaned back more against the edge of the tub, his hand on her abdomen gently pulling Imogen back with him. His tone shifted slightly, a modicum of guilt trailing his words like shadows he only just noticed. "I think she saw too much of my father's shadow over my form, and I was too blinded by his stories to see his faults. ‘Tis no mystery why we hardly found common ground." He paused, a slight hitch forming in his throat, decades of history choking his words. "But what boy would dain choose reality over fantasy?"

She had no idea her comment would draw something so heavy from him, but she did not interrupt. Imogen listened intently to every word while her hold on his hand tightened gently as his voice grew heavier and more pensive. She pulled his other arm around her as if they could be any closer or the embrace might soothe him. When the room grew silent, she tilted her head back and to the side slightly so she could look up at him. "So your gentleness is just… you," she mused quietly in an attempt to pull a bit of light out of him that she unintentionally snuffed.

Imogen placed a tender kiss on the underside of his jaw before sinking back into his embrace. "I understand. I can't say I wouldn't have made the same choice… Asgard over earth. I always struggled with the transition going from Krakoa to New York when I was a girl." She doubted Krakoa held a light in comparison to Asgard, but the island did feel like its own world in and of itself. It was never New York that pulled her away, but the need to get away from the Stepford cuckoos. "Families are complicated. I'm aware of that more than most," she confessed while her left hand absentmindedly stroked his forearm beneath the water.

"We should visit her when this is all over," Imogen added. "She's your mother. I'm sure she misses you and I'd love to meet her, and your brother." Her feet rested against the far side of the tub, toes wiggling just above the water’s surface. "I could bake her a pie, and she can show me pictures of you as a baby." A faint smile tugged at the corner of her lips at the thought of his little baby butt or him playing in a bubble bath. "It's never too late to try and mend a relationship," she added with a reassuring squeeze of his hand.

Magni tensed at the suggestion, his breath catching in his throat. He knew she was right, and that his mother would wish to see him. Showing back up with a partner out of nowhere would be a powder keg of a situation he was not ready for. "It would be more wise that I visit her alone first. I would not wish to taint thy favor of my family with an explosive introduction." It was a deflection, and a weak one at that. He took a breath, aiming for a better redirection. "What is this Krakoa? What is it like?"

The feeling of Magni's body tensing against her pulled Imogen out of whatever mild daydreams she was having about their future. Her smile slowly faded, slipping into a subtle frown she was thankful he couldn't see. Between his explanation and the hint of the word ‘deflection’ cutting through her mental fog, she didn't press the matter further. "Oh," she replied quietly, trying her best to sound as unbothered as possible. "Right. That makes sense."

One of Imogen's hands released its hold on Magni's arm to idly toy with the surface of the water while she tried to focus her thoughts on his questions and Krakoa. "It's an island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean that is home to many of Earth’s mutants. It's seen as its own nation and a sanctuary for mutants since they tend to be under a lot of scrutiny… Although people like Magneto don't really help our image." Her voice trailed off before she tried focusing back on Krakoa rather than the mutant struggle. "It's ruled by a council of twelve mutants… My mom being one of them." She lightly flicked a little bit of water as she tried to figure out how better to describe the island, never having to explain it before.

"It's very beautiful. The island feels like it is in perpetual spring from its abundance of flowers and plant life that cover everything. There are even these gateways that can be created by planting flowers to connect other places to Krakoa." She remembered, back when she still attended the academy, going to the Quiet Council and requesting a gateway to connect the tower to Krakoa for people like herself, Tobias, and the Rasputins, but the academy closed before anything came of it. That definitely would have made her travel to the tower significantly easier. "That's where I was before coming here. Most of the mutants fled to Krakoa when the disappearances started getting worse. Only people with the X-gene are allowed on the island, so it's been a safe haven for us." Imogen ran her toe along the wall of the tub beneath the faucet as she recalled the argument she had with her mom before coming to the tower. "My mother wasn't happy when I left."

Magni could sense a slight shift from Imogen, sensing faintly that his efforts to dodge discussion of family had went poorly. He listened to her describe Krakoa, holding her as she did. When she finished, he nodded softly. "It sounds like a good home for thy people," he said softly, closing his eyes. "I can understand her concern for thy safety." He paused, taking in a breath as he considered how to broach the next question. He knew well that running from the tension would be unwise. "Wouldst thou prefer to be witness and counsel for my conflict with my kin? Dost thou wish the same reciprocation from myself?"

"We got into a fight when I left," Imogen confessed quietly, her voice half lost beneath the sound of the water shifting from her movements. "Both of my parents wanted me to go to Krakoa when things got bad. I didn’t like it, but I agreed. The entire time I was there I tried to convince mutants to come here and help, but the most they’d do is plug into a damn Cerebro." She adjusted how she sat, bringing her knees close to her chest as if closing off her body somehow balanced out the vulnerability of her words. "When my father went missing I couldn’t hide anymore. I couldn’t leave my brother alone in this, even if he didn’t want me here." Her voice trailed off, searching for the words while a tightness constricted in her chest. "I called her a coward for hiding while the world burns around her… She said I was being reckless and that I’d get myself killed…"

Imogen ran her fingers along the edge of the bathtub, growing silent as the fight replayed in her mind. She could hear the bite in her own voice and see the fear in her mother’s eyes. There were tears clinging to their lashes and venom in their words. The rumble of Magni’s voice in his chest against her back pulled her out of her thoughts. Her body froze at the realization her deflection went as easily missed as his own… not at all. She exhaled as she sat up slightly and ran her wet hands back through her hair. "I just…" Her voice got caught in her throat as she tried to make sense of her feelings and put them into words. "I don’t want to be kept at an arm’s length," she whispered the admission as if speaking it too loud would frighten him away. "I want to be part of your life. The good and the bad. I want to support you through hardship and lean on you in turn. I’m not the kind of woman who waits behind for her man to return to her. I want to go through life side by side with my partner, through peace and war and family bullshit... All of it." She shrugged her shoulders slightly and rested her chin against the top of her knee. "I can’t say I’d be the best warrior but…"

"Thou has the heart of a warrior, and thy skills exceed those of many mortals." His words were soft and clear. Magni lifted his hands up to gently stroke and smooth Imogen's hair behind her back. "I did not mean to keep thee at a distance… My nature is to keep safe and away from danger those who I am fond of." He scooted himself a little in the tub, his arms wrapping around her knees as he embraced her. "I know thou art brave and do not underestimate thy strength. ‘Twas selfishness that made me hesitant, that thou would think less of me or mine."

The anxiety that rose in her chest from Magni’s hesitation subsided with his reassurances. What remained melted away as his arms found their way around her once again. Imogen’s head lulled against his shoulder as a soft breath of relief fell from her lips. "We don’t choose our family. They’re complicated and messy… I mean, look at my brother," she added with a wry chuckle. She slowly nestled back against his chest as the tips of her fingers lightly ran up and down his forearm. "I would never judge you because of your family. They might have helped shape you, but you are your own man. The only person who could sway my feelings for you is you, and you alone."

Magni chuckled softly, his hands slowly and softly rubbed Imogen's legs. "’Tis true… alas, Malcolm does not bear the same antagonistic disposition thy brother does." Her deeper words resonated in his chest, as his mind let the meaning sink in for a moment. "That is… reasonable and kind. Where I am from, family is a predisposition and a curse. My father, my father's father, and his father before him have determined how the realms view myself. My actions will cascade, setting the course for my children and my children's children." He took a breath, letting the statement linger as he parsed his last thought more clearly. His hands slipped up Imogen's thighs and up to her core, where he pulled her into a tighter embrace. "Affection and courtship have been either lustful relief or heartless politics. I understand that thou art different." His tone grew softer and quieter still, his hushed confession barely a whisper. "I beseech thee to grant me graceful absolution as we acclimate to this. In recompense, I vow to stand by thy side as thou seeks to stand by mine: as stalwart and equitable companions."

Imogen’s smile grew at the sound of his soft but deep laugh, relishing in the soothing rhythm of his hands stroking her legs. A quiet, content hum sang from behind her lips as he pulled her closer. While Magni spoke, she slowly shifted within his embrace, turning so she sat perpendicular to him, perched in his lap rather than nestled between his legs. Her left shoulder lightly pressed against his chest as she slipped her feet over the side of the tub, calves resting against the edge, water dripping from her skin onto the tile. "Then it is lucky for your future children that you are a good man, both strong and kind." That was better. She was able to hold his gaze and study his face as she spoke.

Her hand moved beneath the water to rest upon his chest while her fingers absently traced the contours of his muscles. "Growth isn’t one sided. We can meet in the middle." Imogen’s voice matched his gentle tone but firm in her conviction. "It takes time to find effortless synchronicity in a relationship, but we can learn and grow together. You can show me the ways people court in Asgard and I can show you how we date on Earth… Equity." She mirrored his word back to him with a bright smile, genuine warmth, and a light press against his stomach for emphasis.

She settled more comfortably into his lap, a faint glint in her eye and a subtle playfulness tugging at the corner of her mouth. "It is also a convenient coincidence—or rather fate, as you put it—that I am a diplomat’s daughter… and that I burn for you." Imogen’s last comment hung in the air between them, drawn out slowly so the implication could sink in one word at a time. "So you can get your politicking and… relief from me as well." She tilted her head slightly, smile growing as she held his gaze.

Magni smiled softly at her words. Her words provided some comfort and stability that he had been unaware he needed. His fingers pressed against her flesh, his hands desperately cradling her in his lap. The meaning of her final statements were clear. "I pray I may stoke the flames of thy affections further," he whispered, leaning his own head close to hers. The space between them felt energized, as if one errant movement would ignite a spark. "And ‘tis my hope that I may release thy tensions with matched vigor." His words were far gentler than the implication, and he sealed its meaning with a tender kiss. He held it for a precious few moments, breaking it only as a new concern knitted his brow. "How dost thou feel? Thy works did sap the life from thy complexion."

A soft chuckle hummed behind her lips as her smile grew at his closeness. Imogen’s hand gently climbed up his chest and curved around the back of his neck as he closed the remaining distance between them with a kiss. It wasn’t needy or full of lust, but it didn’t lack for affection or warmth either. She could have remained there forever, resting in his lap, held tightly in his embrace, lost in the tender caress of his lips against hers. When Magni pulled away, she let out a soft sigh that was a mix between a pout and whimper, but her smile remained. Her hand fell to rest against the curve of his neck while her thumb lightly tapped his collarbone.

"My headache is nearly gone. My strength?" Imogen pursed her lips and raised her foot just high enough to see it from where it hung over the edge of the tub. The movement was minor, but she could still feel her muscles trembling slightly. "Well," she laughed softly, looking back up at him. "You have enough strength for the both of us."

Imogen’s disappointment at the breaking of their kiss was remarkably obvious, even to Magni. He continued to hold her, noting the clear pain and fatigue in her muscles. He nodded, taking in a breath. "We can soak a while longer still." He smiled, looking into her eyes with a gentle warmth. He went in to kiss her again, sharing that tender softness once more as their mouths spoke with more than words.

Her body curved into his embrace and warmth, sinking into a synchronicity with every gentle caress of their lips. Her hand slid up his neck to cup his jaw, seeking any and every way to feel more of his body with her own. There was still a small part of Imogen's mind, hidden away like a distant whisper that was in disbelief that she was his, she was in Magni's arms… that he pledged himself to her. It was surreal, like any second she could wake up from the dream and crash back down to reality. It felt like she had to hold tight to every touch, every embrace because any moment they could be ripped apart and spirited away like their fathers.

Imogen clung to those tender kisses longer than she should have. It was cruel for her to take what she wanted when her body was too weak to reciprocate. After several minutes she reluctantly parted her lips from his with a sigh, keeping her eyes closed while her forehead rested against his. "I'm sorry," she whispered in the small space between their lips. "I shouldn't be greedy." She slowly lowered her head to his shoulder, letting her hand fall from his cheek to rest against his chest. The tip of her finger traced the line of his collarbone searching for something to fill the silence. "I've decided my first lesson for you in Midgardian dating will be taking you on an actual date," she mused quietly, with a soft smile. "We can't really leave the tower right now… But, I'd still like to try and do something nice. So, don't make any plans for tomorrow night."

Magni hummed a wordless tune, his voice resonating and vibrating through his chest as Imogen spoke. If he were a mortal, if he had a greater sense of danger and urgency, the proposal would seem foolish. The walls were closing in around them all by the day, and an unknown threat lingered beyond the tower's walls. To Magni, though, this was Asgardian custom. Feasts, revelry, passion, laughter… it was all part of the cycle, for to cease living in fear of death was to die early.

"Avarice is permitted in my company," he remarked steadily, as if issuing an inconsequential decree. He let loose a deep breath, his grip on Imogen tightening slightly as he held her close. "Thou may do with my schedule as thou pleases. I am interested to know what is custom for courting in thy realm, Lady Frost."

While Magni might have welcomed it, there was a part of her that felt selfish in her greed. A quiet, weak chuckle echoed behind Imogen’s lips as she tucked her knees in closer to her chest. "It’s silly, but... I feel guilty, indulging in my own desires when I am too weak to fulfill yours." It was a simple confession of repressed inadequacy, but she was continuing to try and be as forthcoming with her own thoughts as he let her read his. Her smile grew, a bit lopsided and sheepish. "Don’t give me free rein over your time or you’ll never be rid of me. While I’d be happy to keep you all to myself, I’m sure your friends would enjoy your company too." She then tilted her head back slightly to look up into his eyes, her voice little more than a whisper. "You can call me Imogen."

Magni shook his head softly, averting his gaze only for that action before he met her stare again. "Well… Lady Imogen, fret not over thy desires. It is the responsibility of gods to indulge in the wishes of mortals." As always, his tone was light but certain. He smiled, shrugging his shoulders. "I do not desire to be rid of thee… though I do suppose time alone to spar and build bonds with our allies would be in our best interest." He turned his head away, looking out towards the open bathroom door and into the apartment beyond. He pressed his lips together tightly as he considered their shared night, recalling the comfort in sharing in her bed. "I would be grateful if thou would indulge my own desire: to hold thee as we drift into slumber each night."

"Perhaps," Imogen replied with a quiet conviction behind her words. She wasn’t talking to a God or higher being. She was talking to her lover. There was a difference… an equity, as he put it. "But as your partner it is my responsibility to sate your desires. Gods and mortals are irrelevant. All that matters is making each other happy and fulfilled."

She nodded her head in silent agreement. While Imogen would have been content following him around everywhere to the point of driving him crazy most likely, Magni wasn’t wrong. They have had the advantage of coming into this all knowing some of the others within the tower, they weren’t going to trust each other without getting to know each other. Remaining locked away in her apartment having a lot of sex was fun, even counted as cardio… but that only strengthened their own relationship, not their connections with the others.

Imogen’s smile softened with his last words. He didn't ask for the comforts of flesh but simply to share a bed while they slept… To hold her. It was such a small, simple request yet it made something swell in her chest while a subtle flush bloomed across her cheeks. She had never been the type to blush or be bashful, but the admittance of something incredibly innocent but also intimate left her at a loss for words. Her body settled more in his embrace as if the tiniest bit of tension that had laced her muscles was cut free, allowing her to relax that last bit she hadn’t allowed herself to before. She ran the back of her finger lightly along his jaw as she looked up at him. "Of course," she whispered. "There’s nothing I’d like more."

^{interactions ....|.... tobias ............... mentions ....|.... none ............... collabs ....|.... @webboysurf}

Reign of the Usurper

^{#42557d ....|..... outfit ............... #b5c7eb ....|..... outfit ............... the black rose}

The streets through the valley were narrow, bustling, and full of life. Merchants called out to passersby enticing them to buy their wares. Small canopy covered stalls overflowed with jewels, finery, florals, fruits, and anything else a person could think to purchase. The heat and the Summer Solstice pulled every soul from their homes. One could hardly pass through the crowd without brushing shoulders with another.

Declan led them down the crowded streets with a learned ease, weaving through the citizens of the valley with the finesse of a skilled swordsman sidestepping an opponent in a duel. They passed a bakery that filled the air around it with the rich scents of fresh baked bread and sweet cakes. Across the street fine fabrics of satin and silk fluttered in the breeze, catching the warm light of the sun in their soft sheen. Then beyond that they could hear the rhythmic ting ting of a smith’s hammer on an anvil followed by the heavy breath of a bellows as they passed one of the lesser, more boisterous armories.

The clamor of the market washed around her in a warm, living tide, voices rising, hands bartering, sunlight running molten down banners of silk and over the sweating bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder. Lei let the rhythm of it buoy her, the crowd’s motion carrying her forward behind Declan’s steady, deliberate stride. His path cut cleanly through the chaos, the people parting before him like water around a riverstone. She followed in the calm of his wake, letting the scents of fresh bread and sweet pastries curl under her nose, letting the dizzy shimmer of colors and textures distract her from the lingering chill of the river still clinging to her warm skin.

They passed a smithy next, louder than the rest, boisterous, brash, its energy spilling into the street. The hammer’s ting—ting—ting struck the air like sparks made sound. Lei’s gaze strayed without thought, slipping toward the open window where the heat billowed out in waves and—

Her heart stopped. There, in the lamplit haze of the armory, stood her brother.

Elrik.

His profile cut through the steam and smoke, broad shoulders she had followed as a child through Ironcrag’s corridors, hair ash-dark like their fathers, jaw tight with familiar impatience as he frowned down at the sword in his hand. Even from the street, even through the glass and the crowded din, she knew the blade was wrong. A false cragore. A poor imitation of the ancestral sword he had carried since their father first laid it in his palms at thirteen. He turned it over, the metal throwing back a fractured glint of light.

Lei froze mid-step.

Numbness flooded her, cold and creeping, as if every vein had suddenly been filled with riverwater. Her fingers tingled. Her lungs refused to listen. The world narrowed until she could see nothing, nothing, but the shape of him, the rise and fall of his chest, the way his mouth tightened in that stubborn, familiar line. Elrik, who had shielded her from their father’s wrath with his own body. Elrik, who had carried her bruised and shivering to their mother’s room when she could no longer stand. Elrik, who had promised, voice raw, that he would always find her, even if she ran, because he’d believed his duty was to protect her.

And she had run.

Left him behind. Left his protection, his love, his trust. Left the only person who had ever looked at her and seen Soleil, not a disappointment, not a duty. Her breath shuddered—barely a sound. Elrik shifted, setting down the blade, saying something sharp to the man standing with him. Turning toward the door.

He’s coming out—he’s coming out—if he sees me—

Her hand shot out before thought could intervene. She seized Declan’s arm, grip tight, desperate, and dragged him with a strength she didn’t feel, pulling them both off the main street and down between two tightly packed stalls. The shadows swallowed them, the crowd shielding them from view as Elrik stepped out of the armory, scanning the street with the same sharp eyes she had inherited. Lei pressed herself back against the stall wall. She didn’t dare breathe.

Her grip remained on Declan’s arm without realizing, fingers clamped around the damp linen of his sleeve, knuckles pale against the sun-browned fabric. Her pulse hammered against her palm where their skin met beneath the cloth. She clung to him there not because he was Captain, not because he was strong or steady or anything a guardsman ought to be, but because he was here, and she needed something rooted to keep from pitching forward into the storm of memory and guilt crashing through her chest. She watched Elrik move through the crowd, taller than most, unmistakable, until the tide of people finally carried him out of sight.

Only then did the air return to her lungs in a sharp, trembling inhale. Her face felt bloodless, hands shaky, lips parted in silence. Still she said nothing. Could say nothing. The tightness in her throat was too raw, too full. Her hand remained on Declan’s arm, gripping it as if she feared her brother might reappear at any moment, and as if this single point of contact was the only thing anchoring her to the present, to her disguise, to the life she had carved for herself far from Ironcrag’s shadow.

They may have passed through the city looking little more than civilians, but Declan was on duty. Even in the leisure steadiness of his gait, he was always attentive, always alert. So when a strong hand took hold of his arm, he did not ask, only reacted, like a guardian laying in wait he was prepared at a moment's notice. His body heeded the forceful redirection willfully, light footed, eyes scanning the crowd while his right hand fell to his hilt. His grip tightened, knuckles turned white, sword slowly slipping inch by inch out of its sheath, polished steel glinting in an errant ray of light… To then be pulled beneath a shadow, shoved into a space far too narrow.

Declan’s chest pressed into Lei’s with each labored breath. He watched every person that passed the stalls as if one of them would turn to face them, as if one of them was the culprit for the sudden panic. After a handful of moments that passed slower than watching sand fall in an hour glass, his gaze fell to the vise-like grip on his bicep. He tried to take a step back but was met with the side of a stall pressed into his back. His hold on his sword loosened, blade slipping back into its home as his hand moved from the hilt to press against the wall behind Lei in an endeavor to push himself backwards and wedge a sliver of space between them.

"What happened?" he asked with a steady voice, but it did not mask his confusion nor his concern. Declan continued to spare a sidelong glance toward the congested market street like he was waiting for the truth to reveal itself, but he was only met with more questions. His hazel eyes focused once more on Lei seeking answers or some sort of clarity in the man’s face, noting the stark paleness that was out of place given the sweltering heat. "Are you faint?" he posed a second question, patient and slow to try and pull the man’s attention and ground him.

Her throat worked once, twice, a small convulsive movement that hurt more than any wound she’d ever taken in service to the Crown. When she finally found her voice, it was thin—too thin for Lei, too soft, too real. A sound that belonged to Soleil alone.

“I… I just saw my brother.”

The words trembled out of her as if torn from the deepest part of her. Only then did she become aware of everything—the narrow shadowed space, the heat trapped between their bodies, and the scent of him surrounding her. Riverwater still clung faintly to her own skin, cool and mineral-bright, but his scent pressed closer, warm musk, metal, and the lingering spice of sun-worn leather. It filled the tight pocket of air between them, made her pulse stutter, made the world feel too small to hold both memory and breath.

And her hand, gods, her hand was still locked around his arm.

She dropped it like a live coal, drawing back so quickly her shoulders hit the stall wall behind her with a soft jolt. Trinkets rattled faintly above her head. She braced against the boards, trying to steady her breath, to shrink herself, to find Lei again beneath the quaking edges. Her gaze lifted to him for a heartbeat, his closeness, his concern, the quiet strength in the lines of his face, and then she tore it away before it could unravel her any further. A long silence stretched, filled with the smell of river and steel and him, until she forced her voice back, shaped something steady from the fragments.

“I didn’t know the Járnbjørns would accept the request in full,” she murmured, speaking to the packed earth between their boots. “Not during thaw. It’s when the crops are busiest. When they’re… most needed.” A truth with its teeth filed down. A truth safe enough to offer. Another breath, another hesitation that felt like standing at the lip of a cliff. “I didn’t only leave Ironcrag.” The words fell from her lips slow, weighted. “I left my family, too. Because of our father.”

Her hands curled into fists at her sides, nails biting into skin to keep her voice from slipping off its tether. She risked one more glance at him, searching his face, silently begging that he didn’t know the exact number of Járnbjørn sons. That he wouldn’t count them. That he wouldn’t count her. “They don’t know I’m here,” she whispered. “And I wasn’t prepared to see him. Not… like this.”

The last words lingered, fragile as breath on winter glass, suspended in the warm, river-scented space between them, where truth and danger and something far more treacherous tangled quietly in the dark. Soleil bowed her head in deference, aware that she’d revealed far too much of herself than she’d have liked, especially to the Captain. “I am sorry.”

Declan remained silent, unwavering, and attentive. The man’s answers softened the tension that knotted along his shoulderblades and eased the breaths that were tight in his chest. There was a moment where his gaze drifted toward the crowd beyond the stalls, but he hadn’t a clue what the Járnbjørns looked like to be able to place one of the sons. He cleared his throat as if the confession or perhaps the dense heat stifled the air between them. "I appreciate your candor," he finally spoke, filling the silence with a calm understanding. His stance shifted to be a little less guarded as his pulse slowed and he no longer felt as though they were a moment from being attacked.

"I respect privacy, but when that privacy impedes my duties or the duties of my men then they must be spoken." Some of the light that had been a permanent fixture upon his face since stepping outside the Citadel had dimmed, replaced with an unspoken weight of command that created an intangible space between them that couldn’t be mended with closeness or words.

"Come. I know another route." Rather than slipping back out onto the market street, Declan pushed off the stall and snaked his way deeper through the maze of barrels, crates and other goods until they emerged in a narrow alley nestled between two wattle and daub buildings. As he walked, his pace lost a fraction of its ease, each step a bit heavier and resolute while he rolled his shoulders and rubbed his neck as if searching to find his composure he lost but a moment earlier. When he stepped out onto the adjacent street, Declan turned to the right under the assumption Lei followed rather than glancing over his shoulder to be certain.

The remaining moments of their journey were carried in a heavy silence weighed down by boots upon the cobblestone road in a contrasting cadence, muffled beneath the light laughter and revelry that filled the city. Declan’s gaze was downcast, following a path that had become second nature over the past handful of years. While he knew Lei was a Járnbjørn, he never thought to broach the subject of the House’s arrival to the valley. If all of the nobles had been sent a summons, then why would Lei assume the Lords of Ironcrag would not answer? It never crossed his mind to consider the man was hiding from his family, but now it was another complication he was unprepared to handle. He could not tailor an entire guard schedule to one man’s problems. That was an unfair bias and disregard for his other men… But deeper still, there was an unfamiliar discomfort that tightened beneath his ribs, finding fault in himself for not being approachable enough for his men to trust him.

The Black Rose was peaceful in its isolation, resting on the outskirts of the city, not a stone’s throw from the Raven’s nest. Nobles and knights alike crowded the street while women wrapped in silks whispered honeyed words and cooled themselves with feathered fans. The moment Declan came into view before the brothel every guardsmen tensed, growing silent and avoiding eye contact. Meanwhile the women’s eyes drifted and lingered on the one man who was untouched and refused to partake like he was a challenge, and she was the solitary person who could make him break. He weaved through the crowd giving his men sidelong glances as he passed, contrasted by the polite smiles and nods he offered the women.

Lei followed him—because what else was there to do? What else could she do, when the world had narrowed into a single corridor of motion, of footsteps, of breath forced in and out like something learned rather than lived? The moment Declan turned away, something inside her folded in on itself, quiet as fog disappearing in the morning light.

The cacophony of the market had dulled into a distant roar, as if she’d slipped beneath the surface of the sea once more. Sound warped. Light bent. The heat of the solstice afternoon washed over her skin but never reached her bones. She felt cold, bone-deep, marrow-deep, the kind of cold no sunlight could thaw. Every breath tasted thin and metallic, like the memory of blood in the back of her throat, like iron and fear and the echo of a childhood she had sworn she’d buried beneath her new life. The crowd pressed in around her, bright and loud and oblivious, yet she felt utterly apart from it all, drifting through the world like a ghost sewn poorly into a human’s shape.

Her posture straightened of its own accord, sliding back into the disciplined lines of a King’s Guard. Chin lifted. Shoulders squared. Steps measured. She wore Lei again, not as a man she inhabited but as armor, welded tight around the soft, thrumming creature inside. Her face smoothed into calm neutrality, cool and distant, empty in the way a still lake is empty before winter steals over it entirely.

A disguise, yes. But also a refuge.

She walked a half-step behind Declan, eyes forward, ears tuned to every shift in the alleyways and courtyards they passed, body alert and ready despite the storm breaking and reforming inside her. The memory of her brother’s face ghosted her vision, sharp jaw, stern mouth, those fierce eyes that had always softened when they turned to her. Elrik. Alive. Here. Close enough to touch. Close enough to ruin her. The ache of it hollowed her out. She felt impossibly young again, impossibly small, standing at the threshold of her father’s study, breath held tight like a bird in her throat. The old fear wrapped cold fingers up her spine, whispering of obligations and cages and futures carved for her by someone else’s hand.

And over it all came that quiet, relentless voice she thought she’d long since drowned. You cannot escape this. Not really. Not ever. If your lies unravel, if your mask falls… you will be dragged back. You will kneel again. You will break again.

Her jaw clenched.

No.

No, she would not return. Not to Ironcrag. Not to him.

If the truth cornered her, if her disguise shattered open in the light, she would choose the ocean before she ever chose her father. She would walk willingly into the deep, let the cold water claim her, let the tide carry her far from every voice that had tried to shape her into something she wasn’t allowed to be. But not yet. Not today. Today she followed Declan, her body the perfect reflection of duty, her face a mask of disciplined calm, her silence a blade sharpened against the scream that wanted to claw up her throat.

She was Lei. King’s Guard. And Soleil, frightened, trembling, longing, was pressed down beneath the weight of that truth, held tight where no one would ever see her.

Declan reached the entrance of the brothel and hadn’t managed to raise his hand to knock when the door swung open with a soft creak of its heat swollen wood. Before him stood a buxom woman with a crimson satin shawl wrapped around her shoulders, preserving the bit of her modesty that had to be purchased with coin. Her long brunette hair was kissed by silver and pinned to her head to stave off the heat. Sweat beaded upon her neck, trailing down her skin until it disappeared beneath the red fabric. But even in her discomfort, her smile was bright and inviting like welcoming an old friend. "Ser Declan, what a wonderful sight."

The Captain’s effortless smile returned like it had never left, not letting his own thoughts pour into how he treated others. He reached out, taking the woman’s hand gently in his before bowing his head and placing a kiss upon her knuckles as if she were the most noble of women, not the madame of a brothel. "Madame Lyssa, a pleasure as always."

"The pleasure is always mine, my dear," she replied with velvet words and a tap of her closed fan against his shoulder.

A deep genuine chuckle rumbled in his chest as he took a slight step back and rested his palm atop the pommel of his sword. He nodded his head over his shoulder toward Lei, tousling sweat-dampened curls with the small movement. "This is a friend of mine, Ser Lei." Declan pivoted slightly to meet the man’s gaze for the first time since they had left the alley, his gaze was pensive and heavy but masked by the ease of his stance and warmth of his demeanor like he was able to shelve his own concerns for a later time. "Lei, this is Madame Lyssa, proprietor of The Black Rose and the loveliest lily in the valley." His smile widened, just a fraction, growing a soft charming air that he would deny if anyone dared ask.

"Flatterer," she mused with another lighthearted pat of her fan against his chest. The Madame then turned her attention toward Lei, not losing an ounce of her natural charm as she looked him up and down with a newfound interest. "A pleasure to meet you, Ser Lei. Any friend of Ser Declan’s is always welcome in The Rose." She bowed slightly in polite greeting while her gaze never left his.

Lei stepped forward when Declan angled his body toward her, but only by the smallest measure, enough to be seen, enough to be acknowledged, nothing more. The mask she wore had settled into place with an eerie completeness, skin pulled smooth over the tumult that still churned beneath her ribs. Her expression was neither warm nor frosted with offense, instead, it held the immaculate neutrality of a man carved from still water. Not empty—only deep in ways no one was invited to wade into.

The Black Rose smelled of perfume and sun-warmed silk, of open windows and murmured laughter, of secrets purchased and tended like prized orchids. But beneath it all, Lei could still smell the phantom scent of riverwater clinging to her skin, threading and twisting with the heat of the crowd and the lingering musk of Declan’s nearness in the alley. The contrast only tightened something in her chest. She bowed her head in a courteous incline—precise, respectful, distant.

“Madame Lyssa,” she said softly, the words shaped with perfect decorum, though they lacked the lively cadence of Declan’s easy charm. “An honor. Thank you for your welcome.”

Her voice held nothing sharp, yet it carried none of the gentle warmth it sometimes did when she let her guard slip. This voice was practiced, measured, the tone of a soldier greeting a noble he’d never hope to know better. Her posture remained impeccable, shoulders squared, back straight, palms loose at her sides as though she had never known how it felt for her hand to tremble. She offered no smile, nor an ounce of discomfort, only the serene stoicism expected of a King’s Guard. Where Declan’s presence radiated warmth and sunlight, hers was moonlight reflected off steel—cool, controlled, and quietly unreachable.

The man before the Madame was whole again, unlike she had been after she’d seen her brother, but in the way a locked door is whole. Beneath the calm exterior her pulse remained taut, thrumming like a thread pulled too tight. She stood half a step behind Declan, perfectly positioned as a guard, perfectly arranged as a shadow. Lei held her ground with the quiet certainty of someone who had been forced all her life to survive by being unreadable. She bowed her head once more, politely, respectfully, distantly.

Declan’s right hand raised to scratch his chin beneath his short coarse beard while he scanned the surrounding area for lingering gazes or curious patrons wandering a little too close. While his brother’s… appetites were fairly common knowledge, he still endeavored to keep moments like those silent. The valley did not need to know their heir was busy whoring and drinking rather than preparing to receive the Lords of the realm and choose a future bride. The people wanted security and assurances from their future King, not a man who falters under the weight of responsibility and lacks propriety. The people wanted him, not Dorian, but he turned away from that path a long time ago… His brother needed… Well, he needed a great many things, but most importantly time they could not spare.

His gaze found the Madame’s as he took a small step toward her. "Where is he?" His voice was a hushed whisper like a man embarrassed to confess his desire to purchase a woman rather than the heavier unspoken meaning.

The woman turned to stand beside him, shoulder to shoulder as she slipped her hand beneath his arm and rested her palm softly against his forearm. "Right this way, Love." The Madame bowed her head toward him with the same charming smile before guiding him inside like a paying customer rather than a brother seeking a brother. While some might care about the whispers of others, Declan couldn’t be bothered when it came to what the townsfolk said when his back was turned. The King’s Guard were supposed to be chaste, but it was a rare occurrence where the men upheld all of their vows. He had long since accepted the rumors in exchange for sparing his brother one less burden. So, he played along with a warm smile and a nod of his head beckoning for Lei to follow.

Even in the heat of summer, The Rose never wanted for patrons. Deep whispers and soft giggles met Declan’s ears before his eyes had a moment to adjust from the bright sunlight to the near darkness of the room. The inside of the brothel smelled like sweat, sex, and alcohol masked by the heavy aromas of expensive perfumes and incense. The large central room was bathed in a rosy hue from the sheer curtains of crimson and blush that hung over the windows to preserve privacy but still let the faintest traces of sunlight slip through. Countless candles and oil lamps that hung from the ceiling contributed to the intimate ambiance without adding much in the realm of useful lighting. The way large pillow beds and various tables were scattered about the room spoke to the desire for privacy and anonymity, to be a forgotten shadow, faceless, nameless. Half naked women carrying fans nearly half their size walked around the room creating their own gentle breeze that didn’t quite cool, but kept the air from remaining still.

Every seat was filled with a man eager to be sated and a woman in his lap happy to oblige. Several of those men, even masked in the darkness, had a familiar intonation to their voices or recognizable mannerisms that caught Declan’s attention. Guardsmen. A tense silence befell the room as the men, one by one, began to notice their captain. Laughs died in the middle of a breath and coughing filled the stillness from drinks of ale that were interrupted mid-gulp. They did nothing, said nothing… Just watched, knowing where he was heading and waiting for their moment to escape.

Madame Lyssa led him through a winding labyrinth of tables toward the back of the building where several private quarters lived beyond closed doors… For an additional cost. At least Dorian had the sensibilities to keep his lecherous activities behind closed doors. But as they grew closer, Declan quickly realized that was the only secrecy his brother could be bothered with. His all too familiar roar of laughter could be heard several feet from the door, followed by a fit of giggles. No one lingered nearby, but the sidelong glances from his men said they knew. Hell, they were likely there on the Prince’s coin if he had to guess.

"Prince Dorian," one voice purred, lighter than air from beyond the door.

"Oh... Your Majesty," another followed, deeper, with a gruff lilt.

Declan cleared his throat, head downcast as he steeled himself. He could run into a fight without a moment’s hesitation, but this was a battleground he had entered time and time again, yet never found his footing. He gave the Madame’s hand still hooked around his arm a gentle tap before freeing himself from her grasp. "I appreciate your assistance as always, Madame."

She did not need to be told to leave, nor did she linger. Madame Lyssa simply bowed her head with her same warm smile and gentle words. "You know where to find me should you need me." Her hand slipped into the pocket of her skirt, pulling out a small bit of iron with a crimson tassel dangling from the round ornate bow of the key. Then she fluttered off, silent and weightless, like a guardian butterfly watching over her garden.

His calloused thumb ran along the gentle ridges of the key before slotting it into the door. But before he threw the lock and pushed into the room, his gaze drifted over his shoulder to where his men still remained, frozen like animals playing dead, frightened that one move might reveal the truth. Declan cleared his throat, then spoke in a calm, yet commanding voice. "If you are not in the Citadel upon my return, you will run drills in your plate armor." As he turned his attention back toward the door, mumbling and hurried shuffles ensued behind him. Women gasped as they were pushed from their perches and the occasional clatter of a chair toppling over broke the quiet calm of the room. In a matter of seconds half of the men were out the door, pulling their tunics on hastily and scooping up their boots without a care for putting them back on.

Lei lingered several steps behind Declan as he moved deeper into The Rose, its perfumed shadows swallowing them whole. Her senses sharpened, if only because her mind demanded something, anything, to anchor itself to besides the storm churning beneath her ribs. Incense. Cheap cologne. Velvet cushions warmed by bodies. Laughter pitched too high to be sober. The sultry murmur of women who knew how to wield a smile like a blade. All of it filtered past the veneer of her expression, which remained cool, composed, and utterly unreadable.

But what she did notice, what she couldn’t ignore, were the voices. Familiar ones. Scraps of laughter and poorly muffled curses. Heavy boots kicked beneath tables. A few men straightened so rigidly she wondered if their spines might snap. Guardsmen. The same men whose schedules she trained beside, whose jokes she endured, whose blows she traded at dawn. The embarrassment prickled beneath her skin like heat rash. Not hers, but theirs. She could practically smell their panic: ale, sweat, and the sharp metallic scent of dread when a Captain’s shadow fell where it shouldn’t.

A handful pretended not to see her. One unfortunate soul choked on his drink so violently she feared he might die purely from mortification. But then, there he was. Torsten. One of the few with a sense of humor dry enough to match her own. A man who never pried, never needled, only offered a quiet word or sly quip in passing. He looked at her as he hurried by, boots in hand, tunic askew, hair disheveled, and gave her a crooked, rueful smile that said we shall never speak of this again.

Lei allowed the barest twitch at the corner of her mouth, nothing more, a ghost of acknowledgment, and stepped out of his path. That was when the girl fell. One of the courtesans, dislodged in a patron’s blind scramble for escape, hit the floor with a soft gasp, skirts spilling around her like a burst rose. Lei moved without thinking, posture arrow-straight, slipping through the path of fleeing men to crouch at her side.

“Easy,” she murmured, voice still quiet, still distant, but softened by the discipline of duty. She offered her hands and helped the woman up with a firm, steady grip, making sure she found her footing. Dust clung to the girl’s bare knee, and her perfume, amber and something sweet, brushed against Lei’s senses like a warm sigh.

The woman blinked up at her, surprised… then delighted. Her lips curved slowly into a honeyed smile, one hand smoothing down her loosened hair. “Well now,” she purred, lashes fluttering. “I’ve never seen such a pretty man before.” Her gaze dragged down Lei’s form leisurely. “Perhaps I ought to give you a kiss in thanks for the rescue.”

For a heartbeat, Lei forgot the noise—the scrambling boots, the muffled curses, the embarrassed retreat of men who had never expected to see a Captain stride into their den of comfort and liquor. All of it dimmed, blurred, as the courtesan’s fingers brushed her arm in that teasing, feather-soft way meant to curl a man inward on himself.

It worked. But not for the reasons the girl imagined.

Heat flared across Lei’s neck so fast it felt like it burned through her collar, blooming under her skin with humiliating urgency. She had held a blade steady through snowstorms, had lied to everyone's face for a year to escape the beatings her father gave like candy, yet somehow one soft hand on her arm nearly undid her more efficiently than any enemy ever had. Her pulse leapt, traitorous thing, hammering against her ribs as if it desperately sought escape.

Declan glanced back over his shoulder with raised brows, catching a glimpse of the interaction as it unfurled. Most men would melt to words like those, weak-kneed and obedient to whatever that woman desired, but Lei looked more stunned than anything. The man’s face had turned as red as his hair from neck to forehead while he struggled to find a response. They were in a whore house after all, he wasn’t sure what the guard had expected, but perhaps it was Lei’s first time in an establishment like The Rose. Declan could still remember his first time fetching Dorian, all knock-kneed, stuttering and incapable of holding eye contact. It reminded him of his younger, more naive, self.

"Careful of distractions, lad," he called out calmly with a faint hint of his lighter tone that had gotten lost somewhere in the market.

Her composure wavered as her face flushed darker at Declan’s comment, the facade cracking for a moment, and she forced it back into place with the rigidity of a woman tightening a too-small cuirass. “I—that will not be necessary,” Lei managed, the words smooth in shape but strained in tone, pushing past a throat that felt suddenly tight. She steadied the courtesan with a careful, almost delicate touch; precise and brief, and then withdrew her hand as if the woman could burn her.

The girl’s perfume rose again, amber-rich, warm as a hand pressed against the hollow of Lei’s spine. It made the air around her feel too dense. Too intimate. She drew in a breath that wasn’t quite steady, realizing too late that it only pulled more sweetness into her lungs. She stood, posture ramrod-straight, as if discipline alone could save her from the warmth threatening to spill across her composure. She bowed her head just slightly, a gesture both polite and a subtle retreat. “I am simply glad you were not harmed.”

The courtesan’s smile deepened, slow and syrup-thick. “Such a gentleman,” she crooned.

Lei’s breath caught on the edge of her ribs. Gentleman. Gods. She cleared her throat, forcing her gaze away before she drowned in another second of that attention. “Yes, well…I…uh,” very eloquently she said, trying for distance this time, something cool, soldierly, and failing misterably. Her voice betrayed her with a faint quiver, and she felt it, felt the flush resting high on her cheeks like a brand.

Lei stepped away hastily, hands clasped behind her with rigid formality as she turned back toward Declan, toward the moans coming through the door, locking every inch of herself into order. But the girl’s laughter, a delighted, tinkling sound, followed her like heat, and Lei felt it bloom beneath her skin long after she’d pulled away.

Declan drew in a deep breath before turning the key in the lock and pushing open the door. The saltiness of sweat and sex collided with his senses first, before it mingled with the heavy lingering scents of expensive oils and perfumes that clung to the heat in the air like dampness to fog. The room was glowing compared to the dark shadows that hung over the common area. Bright sunlight flooded the private quarters with golden yellows and oranges from the lavish fabrics that draped along the windows, fell from the ceiling, and covered the various chairs and benches. Clothes discarded without a care were scattered about, hanging over armrests or strewn about the floor. Four courtesans surrounded the gathering of bodies, slowly waving large feathered fans to stir the air and giggling at the sight that befell before them.

At the heart of the room was a large bed, framed in colorful sheer curtains and covered in a mound of pillows and flesh. There were at least half a dozen men and women tangled in a naked weave of limbs and at the center lay Dorian, a mess of brown curls and an arrogant smile, oblivious to anything happening beyond that bed. He was splayed along the pillows, a mix of chuckles and moans, deep and content, poured from him. A man curled into his right side, finger toying with his chest hair as he kissed Dorian’s neck. On his left a woman lay half on top of him, bent knee resting along his abdomen, breasts nearly smothering him as he seized one of her nipples between his lips with a devious chuckle. Then knelt between the Prince’s legs, a bare bottom pointed directly at the door, hands tightly gripped his thighs while a head bobbed in and out of view.

Declan cleared his throat as he averted his gaze toward a lone boot that rested upon the tiled floor, discarded in the throes of passion. Startled gasps cut through the revelry and the subtle breeze from the fans ceased as the entire room drew still aside from the now deafening sounds of sucking and moaning that he dared not look at. He impatiently rapped his thumb against the door handle, waiting for his brother to notice but as the uncomfortable sounds continued, he could no longer remain silent. "Dorian…"

There was another gasp as the woman between the Prince’s legs pried herself from him, scurried off the bed, and attempted to make herself invisible behind one of the fan bearers. The Captain grabbed the first piece of clothing within reach and tossed it at his brother, where it luckily landed in the vacant place between his legs, covering the part of him that neither Declan, nor Lei wanted to see.

Lei had known, known, that entering a brothel with Captain Declan would be uncomfortable. She had not, in all her years of disciplined imagining, prepared for this. The moment the door swung fully open, the scene struck her like a blow to the chest, knocking the breath from her lungs and sending heat rushing up her throat so violently she nearly swayed. Her hand moved of its own accord, rising halfway before she could stop it—a soldier’s reflex repurposed into something far more fragile, the instinctual urge to shield her eyes like a startled maiden. She caught herself just before her palm met her face, fingers trembling midair, and curled it slowly, rigidly, back toward her side.

Duty did not allow her to look away. Decency begged her to.

Her compromise, desperate, pitiful, and utterly insufficient, was to anchor her gaze downward to the floor. She fixed her eyes on the mosaic tiles, on scuffed boots abandoned in the heat of revelry, on the delicate feet of courtesans shifting uncertainly, on the splay of toes and ankles that were far safer to examine than the tangle of limbs above. But even that was not entirely safe; a careless movement on the bed cast shadows across the floor that suggested far more than Lei wanted to know.

"Brother!" Dorian called out with an enthusiastic wave after freeing himself from the courtesan’s bosom. "Care to join? There is plenty to go around." He motioned his hand toward the plethora of naked, willing, and able people that filled the room, more than a fair handful sparing Declan a suggestive smirk as their eyes trailed his body from head to toe. "Women, men—" the Prince lightly smacked the backside of the man that still remained close at his side. "Whatever you desire."

Declan sighed, leaning some of his weight against the hand that held the doorknob while his other hand shifted to rest upon his hip. "You know I am chaste."

Dorian scoffed as he shifted to prop himself up. His right foot slipped along the silk sheets until his knee was bent and he laid his arm atop it. The precarious bit of clothing slid down his thigh, just barely covering what lay beneath. "None of your men are. Why keep up the pretense?"

Her cheeks burned. No—blazed. The heat seared all the way to the curve of her ears, tightening her throat with humiliation on behalf of herself, her Captain, the courtesans, the Gods, the universe—anyone affected by the catastrophe of walking in on the living embodiment of debauchery. Declan’s brother writhed upon the mound of pillows like a man born from silk and arrogance, utterly unbothered by the intrusion. The courtesans had at least had the decency to still or scramble for cover. Dorian did nothing of the sort. When he addressed them—addressed Declan, but Lei felt the words against her own skin, it took every shred of her training not to choke on her own breath.

Lei made a sound she had never heard herself produce before. A sharp, indignant little noise, halfway between a gasp and a cough, the sound of dignity dying in real time. It escaped her before she could swallow it, a small betrayal of composure that she hoped the pounding of her pulse masked. She did not look up, could not look up, but she could feel the Prince’s gaze like a smirk pressed along her spine. His next words, lazy and dripping with amused accusation, fell over the room:

“None of your men are. Why keep up the pretense?”

Lei stiffened so hard her knees locked. Another choked sound threatened to claw its way out, mortification twisting her insides into knots. Because… Gods help her… he wasn’t wrong. She had seen enough fleeing forms to know precisely what their evening habits were. It was hardly her place to judge, she had no interest in their private pleasures, but to have it thrown so casually into the air, here, in this room where she wanted to dissolve into vapor and escape… she swallowed hard.

Her gaze, still on the floor, shifted to the discarded tunic at her feet, to a ribbon tangled around the leg of a chair, to the slow drip of spilled wine sliding down a tile. Anything. Anything but the bed. Anything but the knowledge that she stood in the doorway of the Crown Prince’s debauchery while her Captain tried to wrangle dignity from a scene that had none to offer. Still, she forced her voice into silence. Forced her breaths to steady. Forced her stance into something resembling readiness, though her insides felt like hummingbird wings.

It was the same conversation, a different day. Dorian had been trying to convince him to forsake his dignity before he had vows to break. In the same way Declan tried to find some decorum in his brother and in turn his brother tried to loosen his tight grip on duty. It was a game of give and take where neither were willing to budge. It was maddening. There was a glimmer of a thought that with the added burden of the throne resting on Dorian’s shoulders that he might have put his people first, but the only time someone’s needs came before his were in the bedroom… And even that rested on the flip of a coin. Declan’s selfless sacrifice for the betterment of his brother mocked him day in and day out, knowing that the Ninefold was likely to fall into ruin at the hands of his brother. But as he did everyday before, he would fight relentlessly for the change… Fruitful or not.

The Captain sighed as he stepped further into the room and out of the doorway. "Everyone out," he commanded with a gentle but assertive tone. While the courtesans started gathering up their clothing and filing out, he wandered over to a small table where he saw some of his brother’s belongings and more specifically his navy velvet coin purse. He scooped it up. The sizable bag was hefty and jingled with a fair bit of gold. Just as the last woman went to leave the room, Declan stepped in front of her and held out the pouch. "Take it. Split it amongst yourselves."

The girl’s eyes went wide as she hesitated for a moment. When he did not back down, she took the purse, clutching the navy fabric and silver cords in her petite palm and pressed it against her bare chest to support its surprising weight. "Thank you, Ser." She bowed her head deeply before disappearing into the common room of the brothel.

"Woah, hey!" Dorian leapt up from the bed, disregarding the small bit of covering that fell from his lap to the floor.

Declan quickly grabbed the door, closing it enough to shield Lei and whomever else could be lingering about from seeing his brother completely nude. While Dorian was doing a spectacular job at ruining his own reputation, they did not need whispers of the Storvane brothers arguing in a brothel—one in the nude—while Lords and Ladies were waiting to receive them. Even their father couldn’t shield them from their mother’s wrath with a scandal like that. He turned around, peeking out at the guardsman from beyond the small opening. "Give me a moment."

He removed the key, shut the door, and locked it from the inside so they could not be disturbed.

"There was enough gold in that purse for a week," Dorian argued, taking a step forward while pointing toward the door where the woman disappeared with all of his coin.

"Are you aware of the time? Or the day for that matter?" Declan asked, disregarding his comment with furrowed brows. He crossed his arms loosely over his chest, standing between his brother and the door like a human barricade keeping the Prince trapped in his debauchery and locked away from future ruin.

Dorian blew out a breath, puffing up his lips with a flippant disregard for the severity of the situation, or perhaps ignorance. He sat down on the edge of the bed with a weak laugh as he lightly slapped his hands against his bare knees. "Uncle Dunstan is the time keeper. Princes do not worry themselves over something so trivial." He shrugged his shoulders. "I will know the time when I am summoned. Until then—" He raised a hand, motioning his index and middle fingers, beckoning for his brother to step aside, open the door, and send back in the whores.

"This is your summons, idiot!" Declan snatched up a pillow that rested upon a nearby chair. Then, without warning, he threw it across the room, pelting his brother in the chest. The shock or force caught the Prince off guard and knocked him backwards against the bed with a grunt. "Or more accurately, your summons was over two hours ago, when you were supposed to meet with our mother before the arrival of every Lord and Lady from across the Ninefold. But surprise, you were nowhere to be found, because you are more concerned about your cock than your duties."

"Lords and Ladies," Dorian repeated the words as his mind struggled to catch up to the meaning. He then sat bolt upright, wide eyed, and bewildered. "The summer solstice?... It’s the summer solstice." There was a moment or two of panic before he deciphered the rest of Declan’s words. He had a brief thought to drown himself in the Weave to spare himself their mother’s anger, but it was quickly washed away by his brother’s final comment. "Duties?" The Prince spat the words back as he picked up the pillow that was lobbed at him and threw it back with twice as much force. It slammed into his Declan’s chest with a loud thud and a guttural oof. "These were your duties until you stepped down!"

Lei had stepped back instinctively when the Captain eased the door halfway shut, shielding her from the worst of what his brother seemed intent on displaying to the world. She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, her lungs trembling with the remnants of shock, embarrassment, and the iron discipline she forced over all of it like a cooling sheet. The door clicked softly into place, leaving only the muted glow of the private chamber spilling into the hall, warm and indecent. Lei straightened, spine tall, shoulders locked into a perfect line. Her pulse still thrummed hot beneath her skin, but she fixed her gaze on the corridor ahead, guarding the threshold like it was the gate to the throne room rather than the entrance to chaos incarnate.

Behind her, through the muffled wood, came the low, rough cadence of raised voices—Declan’s steady, controlled timbre against Dorian’s sharper, more volatile bark. The words were indistinct, blurred by distance and the thickness of silk curtains beyond, but the sentiment was unmistakable: reprimand, deflection, pride, and frustration tangling like duelists in the dark. Lei kept her expression neutral even as the back of her neck prickled with tension. It felt improper to listen, yet impossible not to.

In the space outside the room, the atmosphere had shifted entirely. Where earlier there had been languid heat and hedonistic ease, now there was purposeful movement, courtesans gathering scattered garments, smoothing hair, adjusting shawls and skirts. Excited whispers ribboned through the air, light and bright as birdsong.

“That much gold?”

“Did you see the weight of it?”

“It was Ser Declan and one of the ravens of the citadel?”

“Saints above, I’ve never—”

The navy velvet pouch traveled from hand to hand with reverence, its silver cords gleaming like treasure in the dim light. Each woman took her share with laughter stifled behind palms, not out of shame but disbelief. Gratitude shimmered between them, a gift unexpected, undeserved by some of their own reckoning, and all the more precious for it. Lei allowed her focus to drift only slightly, watching from the corner of her eye as the brothel began its quiet transformation. Curtains drawn back. Floors swept with quick, efficient strokes. Perfume bottles recorked. A world winding down after being so wildly alive just moments before.

She nearly missed the soft footsteps approaching her. A petite blonde courtesan came to a stop just a few feet away, clutching the now-empty navy pouch in both hands. Her hazel eyes shimmered warm as honey, bright with lingering joy. But her posture was hesitant, shoulders tucked, chin ducked just enough to signal deference.

“Ser?” she ventured, voice sweet as spun sugar.

Lei blinked, the address pulling her from her thoughts. “Yes.” Her voice was steadier than she felt. Controlled. Professional. A relief, so long as this one did not begin flirting with her.

The young woman held out the pouch, its weight now nothing but velvet, silk and air. “I believe this is yours to return,” she said softly, lashes fluttering as she peaked up at Lei. “Madame Lyssa said the Prince would want it back.” Lei accepted it carefully, her calloused fingertips brushing briefly against the courtesan’s smooth hands. She dipped her chin in a respectful nod.

“Thank you.” The words came quiet, gentler than she expected. The girl seemed much too delicate for this sort of work.

The girl’s smile bloomed, shy and warm. “It’s we who should thank you,” she murmured. “For… everything today.”

Lei opened her mouth, whether to deny any role or simply to nod again, she couldn’t quite say, but the words tangled somewhere in her throat, turning to a faint, breathless hum instead. She hadn’t done much of everything, it had all been Declan after all. Being praised for it felt wrong as it had been his good deeds, not her own. The girl giggled, a soft, tinkling sound, and floated away to join the others before she could say anything else, leaving Lei standing alone at her post, pouch in hand, heart still embarrassingly unsteady. She exhaled long and slow, grounding herself once more.

Captain behind the doors. Voices raised. Duty before all. She straightened her stance again, let her gaze fix once more on the hall, and waited, flustered, yes, but immovable, until Declan would open the door once more.

Several minutes passed of muffled shouts and the occasional clatter of thrown objects or perhaps thrown brothers. But eventually the sound of the lock’s tumbler shifting cut through the silence of the corridor outside, followed by the door opening with a soft creak of its hinges. The first to emerge was the Prince, donned in a commoner’s cloak that obscured most of his face, and clothing of… moderate means. Dorian could only keep up the ruse to some extent. He was, after all, a spoiled cunt of a Prince and was used to a certain degree of finery. His pace was slow like a scolded dog, head down, pouting. With each dejected trudge, a soft jingle of iron filled the brothel.

Following him was the Captain, one hand clapped on his brother’s shoulder, the other holding the bit of chain that hung between Dorian’s wrists, restrained behind his back. A victorious and devious grin curled at the corner of Declan’s lips and glinted in his eyes. They walked in silence, no words exchanged, until they came to a halt before the Madame. "Apologies for the commotion." He returned the key gently into the woman’s outstretched palm. "You all should take the night off, enjoy the solstice, and get out of this furnace. Courtesy of the Prince."

Dorian struggled against his brother’s grasp and rolled his eyes. "I should be enjoying the fruits of my coin," he whined like a chastised child.

"You should be in the Citadel, bathing off the stench of sex, and preparing to meet prospective brides… Not wasting our father’s gold on whores." Declan started to herd his brother toward the exit when the weight of his words caught up to him. He sighed, lips tugging into a sympathetic smile as he turned toward the Madame. "Apologies." His hand fell from Dorian’s shoulder to press against his chest while he bowed his head. "I was careless with my words. I meant no offense."

Madame Lyssa placed her fingers delicately upon his shoulder, giving him a gentle squeeze with a kind smile. "None taken, love. We know what we are. But your generosity and respect is greatly appreciated. If but a fraction of the men that graced my establishment shared your compassion." Her cat-like gaze shifted to Dorian, even dipping her head a fraction so she could look into his sad eyes. "Always a pleasure, Your Grace. I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other soon." She gave him a small wave before wandering deeper into the brothel.

As Declan stepped out from the aromatic shadows into the oppressive brightness of the setting sun, he could hear the Madame call out to her workers, "You heard the Captain, take the rest of the night off. Just be sure you return rested and ready to work by sunrise." Which was then quickly followed by elated cheers, laughter, and the scampering of bare feet throughout the building in a rush to gather their things and disappear into the crowd of the city.

Dorian groaned, dramatically, the second the sun barreled down on him and rays of heat seeped through the thick wool of his cloak. "Ira’s balls, the heat has only gotten worse." He flicked his head back to try and knock the hood off, but before it could slip halfway off his head, Declan was shoving it back up. "Is this really necessary?" he groaned.

The Captain tugged him down an alley before Dorian made a scene that drew attention when they were barely two feet outside the brothel. Declan backed him up against a wall of one of the buildings, holding him in place with his forearm pressed against his brother’s chest. "You’ve exposed yourself enough for one day, wouldn’t you agree? It would be best if we got you to the Citadel unnoticed and without drawing any unneeded attention."

"Did your father not teach you how to speak to a Prince?" Dorian asked with a quirk of a brow. While there was a heavy sarcasm that laced his words, hidden beneath it was a challenge, one only a brother could decipher.

Declan shoved his arm harder against his brother’s chest, pinning him in place as he took a step closer, holding his gaze intently. "For the sake of The Nine, shut your damn mouth before I shut it permanently."

"Is that a threat?" The Prince’s smile grew devious. "I could have your head for that, Captain."

"You said you were hot, right? I’d be happy to throw you in the Weave if you wish to cool off." Declan asked as he pried his brother from the wall and shoved him forward hard enough that the Prince tripped, stumbled and nearly fell on his face. Thankfully he didn’t, because the last thing he needed to do was explain to his mother how he brought back his brother with a bruised face simply because he thought putting him in irons would be humorous.

Dorian shot him an incredulous look after he found his balance. "That is principicide."

"Four syllables. I’m impressed." Declan mocked as he grabbed ahold of the iron chain between his brother’s hands and continued to guide him further down the alley in the direction of the Citadel. "Alas, you are but a common thief. I would be within my right to drown you in the river."

"Fratricide then," Dorian grumbled out his response as he took an unsteady step forward.

Declan looked over at him with a mischievous grin. "... Only if I get caught."

Lei could only stand there, still as carved stone, yet inwardly reeling, as the two brothers left the room with the air of a pair of feuding alley cats. Bewilderment flickered across her face in a rare, unguarded tremor before she mastered it, blinking once… twice… as if her lashes could clear away the sheer absurdity of the image before her; the Prince, sulking beneath a borrowed cloak, hands bound like a common brigand, and Declan, Captain of the King’s Guard, guiding him with all the patience of a weary parent dragging an unruly child to bed.

When Dorian trudged past her, the jingle of his irons brushing the air like an accusation, Lei’s spine snapped straight. She followed at once, steps measured, her boots whispering against the warm cobblestones as they left the shadowed doorway behind. Their voices rose again, this time sharp enough to bite. "I could have your head for that, Captain."

Lei’s breath caught, just for a heartbeat. Her shoulders locked, jaw tightening, as instinct coiled in her muscles. She did not move, did not speak, but her posture sharpened like a blade being drawn. A Prince’s threat, even draped in sarcasm, was no small thing. Her gaze flicked briefly to Declan, swift, assessing, protective in a way she wasn’t sure she understood. He only pushed harder, leaning in with that dangerous, reckless calmness she had seen him wield during training. She swallowed. Steadied. Took her place at his back as he shoved Dorian forward into a stumble.

The brothers bickered in a way that was petty, biting, familiar. Lei followed in their wake like a shadow that had nowhere else to live, her silence deepening with every exchanged insult. When their argument reached a lull, Declan smirking, Dorian pouting darkly, she stepped forward and extended the empty velvet pouch toward the Captain. Her hand was steady. Her voice was not needed. She did not look at the Prince, she’d seen enough of him to last a lifetime, thanks.

Declan’s attention drifted sideways as something slipped into view out of the corner of his eye. He reached out and took the purse before looking up to meet Lei’s gaze for a fraction of a second. "Thank you," he spoke quietly as he tucked the velvet pouch into his brother’s pocket. Dorian probably had a handful of them, likely lost a dozen more, but the gesture was appreciated nonetheless.

She offered a grunt in response, keeping her eyes set ahead of them. This had been a mistake, one she realized much too late. The Captain was too close now, saw too much of her and she’d have to do…something, to remedy that. Likely fold in on herself more than usual. The sun leaned heavy against the city, drenching the stone alleys in amber heat as they walked. The Prince grumbled under his breath, weaving insults and complaints into the air like he hoped one might sting enough to earn release. Declan ignored him with the casual expertise of someone long inured to the antics of his younger kin.

Lei remained a pace behind, dutiful, watchful, and painfully thoughtful. This was the future King. The truth settled on her tongue, metallic and unwelcome. She’d known it, of course, everyone did, but hearing the Prince brandish execution and authority so carelessly made the reality feel far sharper, he was horribly irresponsible. Declan had given up the crown, but she couldn’t think of any feasible reason he’d have for doing so, unless he wished to cast the Kingdom into ruin. She ought not doubt Dorain, it was unbecoming of a Kingsguard, and yet…

Her loyalty, which should have been tethered to the crown, to the Prince first and the Captain second, had shifted somewhere along the way. She felt it, quiet and instinctive as breath, the subtle lean of her purpose toward Declan rather than his brother. She felt responsible for him, protective in a way that went beyond title or oath. As though his wellbeing mattered more, somehow.

That is not how it should be, she told herself. That is not how it must be.

Yet the thought lingered, stubborn and traitorous.

She glanced at Declan, broad shoulders bathed in setting sun, hair tousled, gait steady even while dragging a complaining prince behind him. He laughed under his breath at some muttered barb from his brother, a warm, rolling sound that softened the hard edges of the city around them. Lei’s chest tightened, unwelcome and unmanageable. She pushed the feeling down—deep, deeper—and refocused on the road ahead. Her duty. The Citadel’s distant silhouette. The approaching night.

The two brothers walked on, still bickering, still bound together by chain and blood and affection buried beneath irritation. Lei followed behind them with a sword at her hip, a storm in her ribs, and the uncomfortable realization that her loyalties were no longer as cleanly drawn as they ought to be.

^{interactions ....|.... dorian ............... mentions ....|.... none ............... collabs ....|.... @Sleepy Tani}

Camp Athens - Closed

^{#667c0c ....|..... outfit .....|..... arena}

Wes didn’t watch or notice as others wandered into the arena. His gaze remained fixed on his sneakers, tapping his feet against the ground to pass the time and numb his thoughts with the rhythmic beat: left, right, left, right. Minutes passed like hours while his thoughts tip-toed around the edge of replaying the night before and his conversation with Trinity. It was all that was on his mind. It kept him from sleeping… from eating. He felt more like a zombie, going through the motions like muscle memory absent thought. It was stupid… He was being fucking stupid.

""Good morning everyone. If it wasn't already obvious, I am River, your new leader… And son of Poseidon, if that matters." Their new leader stepped forward, interrupting Wes’s thoughts from the slippery slope that circled something darker. Thank the Gods. It was the one and only time he’d be thankful for training… Ironic.

River continued on, rehashing the dumpster fire that had been camp: Ajax’s failure as a leader, Pandora’s box, the deaths. He even gave Andy some acknowledgement for her part in holding everything together when they had no leader and everyone was nursing deadly injuries. Somewhere in the middle, Wes zoned out taking in their new leader rather than listening to much of what he had to say. River definitely looked more formidable than Ajax, and didn’t seem to have a sister he’d bend the rules for, so bonus. He shared some bit of a resemblance with Nick, from what he could remember, but the previous son of Poseidon wasn’t at camp for long so he didn’t have much to compare him to. Either way, another demigod being sent there to lead them all boiled down to one thing, that the Gods were displeased and now their lives were going to be hell… Well, more hell than they were before.

Wes tuned in at the mention of three assessments, what those were exactly, he didn’t know. But if he had to guess that meant three back to back days of training. Wonderful. Andy’s announcement the day before warned them that the Gods’ note mentioned a rigorous training schedule, but damn. He didn’t realize he should be thankful that they were only training once a day, more than that and he might actually have to consider leaving camp. That sounded just… fucking horrible. He sucked in a sharp breath and ran his hand along his thigh as he watched River approach the obstacle course.

He didn’t know what he expected, but by the look of half of the obstacles he was going to be in trouble. He watched River run through it and even he didn’t make it look easy, which was concerning. While physical fitness was the only strength Wes had going for him in a place like camp, he had one arm and half of the obstacles looked to rely heavily on upper body strength. If he had his bionic arm Duke made him still, or maybe even just the good ole fashion arm he was born with, he thought he could pass it well enough. There was no way he could hold a torch to someone like Trinity or Andy, but he could pass. But as the camp’s resident cripple?

… This was going to be embarrassing.

He sighed and dragged his hand over his face. The one small boon that Wes was given was that he didn’t have to go first. While the small handful of campers made their way to the course, he stood up and started in the opposite direction, climbing higher up into the stands. He only stopped when he was behind every other camper and out of sight. Then to his own dismay, he started stretching extensively, focusing heavily on his arm first knowing it was going to have to carry the brunt of the strain and his body weight. Intermittently he switched to his legs with the thought that whatever time he loses due to upper body strength, he needs to make up for it on the others. There didn’t look to be many obstacles that solely relied on leg strength, so he was likely fucked regardless. But he was trying.

For the most part Wes didn’t pay much attention to the others running the course, knowing that watching them handle it better than he ever could would only psych him out. But when he heard Rae’s name called, his attention finally drifted towards the obstacles. He watched, silent but attentive as he continued to stretch his arm. P.E. was never her strong suit. She was the brains and he was the brawn… and her run was brutal. Wes winced and inhaled sharply with every slip and misstep until she reached the end. There was a second where he raised his hand to clap, almost forgetting he lacked the necessary parts. Perhaps if he and Trinity weren’t in the middle of a tiff that started with Rae’s arrival he would have cheered. But instead he remained silent and went back to stretching.

By the time his name was called, Wes was already glistening with sweat. He reached behind his head, grabbed a fist full of his shirt and pulled it over his head. Trinity’s voice echoed in his mind, making some sarcastic comment about a son of Aphrodite walking around camp shirtless was asking for trouble. The thought made him chuckle quietly to himself as he discarded the shirt on the bench and headed down the stands, not humoring blondie’s hypothetical comments. He was nearly to the end when he looked down, noticing the loose strings of his sweats. There was no way for him to tie them and he could only imagine what an army crawl on his belly in the dirt could do. He cursed under his breath and quickly detoured for Trinity.

"Hey," he spoke quietly to get her attention as he approached. "Could I get your help so I don’t flash everyone?" Wes asked as he playfully tugged on one of the strings and gave her a weak, lopsided smile. "Please."

Regardless of the tense air between them or the conversation they likely needed to continue, Wes still leaned down and gave her a quick kiss once she was finished before hurrying down the stands and over to the course. He took his place in line next to Evelyn—who he flashed an awkward smile to—and a brunette he didn’t know. Upon quick observation he realized he didn’t know any of the other women he was running alongside. If any of them made eye contact with him, he smiled, but his attention didn’t linger, swiftly returning to prepare for the task at hand.

When they got the signal to go, Wes took off with tunnel vision. He kept his eyes forward, focused on his current obstacle and nothing else. Running through the tires was easy, he kept his knees high and footfall steady, pushing through it without an issue. When he got to the end, he stopped for a second to study the log jumps. He knew he could clear the first three, maybe four with good momentum and a solid jump, but the last one he would have no choice but to pull himself up and over. That was the crux. Rather than risk wasting anytime relying on one hand when he needed two, he decided to bypass it entirely. He hopped up onto the lowest log, then leapt across to the next, slowly jumping and ascending until he reached the final one and jumped down.

So far so good.

The next obstacle didn’t take much consideration, just determination. Wes dove onto the ground and started making his way under the low barriers. He was far too tall or large to attempt anything beyond an army crawl. His left—and only—arm acted more as anchor to direct him while his feet and knees did the heavy lifting, kicking and pushing the dirt to move him forward. Wes didn’t have to see where the others were to know he was losing time. As he got closer to the end he started pulling dirt to try and hurry the final few feet, but it did little to nothing to hurry his crawl.

When he got to his feet, Wes was faced with the single obstacle that gave him the most concern… The rope climb. He had caught glimpses of others struggling with two hands. How the fuck was he supposed to get enough leverage? He walked around it once, studying the damned rope and height as he ran through various ways to tackle it in his mind. Finally he opted for strategy rather than speed. Wes stepped up to the rope and weaved his arm around it before grabbing a strong hold. He took a deep breath and jumped. His hand slipped, the friction from the coarse braiding burned against his palm as his legs wrapped around the tail and braced against the knot dangling at the bottom. Sweat was already beading along his brown and running down his cheek, and he hadn’t even started the climb.

He groaned through gritted teeth as he pulled himself up until his chin was at the height of his hand. His knees tucked toward his chest, constricting around the rope as tight as he could manage before he released his hold and quickly reached up. No matter how vise-like his legs were, he still slipped, losing half of his progress as he got a new hand hold. The climb was painstaking and slow, blisters had already formed and been torn open. Halfway up his arm was trembling with every pull, threatening to give at any moment. Wes was nearly at the top when his grip strength failed him. He lost his hold and frantically wrapped his arm around the rope in an attempt not to lose his progress or fall. His body slid down like a fireman down a pole, leaving behind a burning line along his chest and forearm. He had lost his progress down to the halfway mark when his feet got wrapped up in the rope, jolting free his grasp. Like a silk dancer unwinding, Wes spun and twisted out of control as gravity unfurled him from the tendrils until he was free and slammed to the earth with a loud thud.

Not even halfway through…

Wes didn’t move for a second, face down in the dirt, chest heaving. The skin on his chest, arm, and palm burned, his muscles ached, and a sharp pain radiated from his nose. He coughed the dust from his lungs and spit on the ground. The normally clear liquid was tinged pink and as he propped himself up on his elbow, noticing a small puddle of crimson soaked into the ground where his face collided. "Fucking fantastic," he grumbled to himself as she stumbled to his feet. He dusted his hand off on his pants leaving a faint streak of red in its wake before wiping the blood from his nose along the back of his wrist.

River took a small step forward as concern furrowed his brows, not that Wes could see. He kept his gaze on the ground, trying to push past his embarrassment rather than risk someone’s sad gaze full of sympathy and pity.

There was a part of River that wanted to tell him he didn’t have to finish, but he also knew that wouldn’t be fair to the rest of camp. He was also familiar with the dangerous look of determination that darkened Wes’s eyes, so rather than give him an easy out, he gave the same guidance he gave anyone else who struggled with the rope climb. "You can move on," he offered with a heavy weight to his words.

"Sure thing, boss," Wes replied wryly. He spit more blood from his mouth and continued toward the next obstacle without another word.

A rope bridge… right. At that point Wes had accepted that his chances of beating the fifteen minute time limit was little to none. So rather than injure himself further, he paced himself and approached the next obstacle tactically. He reached out, steadying the net as best he could. He then stepped forward and leaned his right shoulder against the side of the rope bridge. The way he crossed was less like walking and more like dragging himself along the side because there was no way he could stabilize himself without a second hand.

At the end, he stepped up onto the platform to be met with more fucking rope. Wes’s gaze fell to his already angry palm. Fuck. He pushed his discomfort to a distant part of his mind and grabbed the rope. Before he could regret it or second guess all his life choices that led him to camp, he jumped. Somehow he managed to make it across the pool of water, just barely. His landing was rough and off balance, sending him into a tuck and roll, but it was at least controlled and didn’t end in more injuries.

Next was the balance beams, which at face value seemed fairly easy… Except for the fact Wes was perpetually off balance now. He had no way to level himself on his right side. He didn’t really have the time to waste considering a course of action. In the end, there were no alternate ways to approach it beyond just… going. The first attempt, he climbed the ascending beam with patience and a steady pace. He made it to the top then tipped over and stumbled to the ground. On his second try he made it as far as the decline, then lost balance again. His third and final approach, Wes said to hell with patience and sprinted through it. There were a couple times where he wobbled but when he thought he would fall again, he jumped to the end and called it good enough.

While others might have looked toward the swimming as their salvation and temporary respite from the grueling obstacle course, Wes only noticed the ache in his lungs and the trembling muscles that laced his arm. He took a second to try and catch his breath before jumping into the water. He started doing some lopsided breast strokes but mostly relied on his legs to propel him forward. His pacing wasn’t the worst. He mostly struggled with getting his head above the water to take a breath. He already lacked buoyancy, so staying afloat was enough of a struggle without adding breathing into the mix.

Wes made it to the end well enough and climbed out only to face down the largest and most oppressive obstacle. He was lucky that he had height on his side, but unlucky… because of nearly everything else. At that point, just wanting it all to be over, he approached the giant ladder and braced his hand against the lowest rung. Then he jumped, hooked his elbow over the log for leverage and lifted his leg. It was sloppy and definitely not the most stable, but it worked. Wes repeated this methodically up the structure until he reached the top. Descending was a bit more precarious, so he decided to play it safe and climb down near one of the vertical pieces of the ladder. He wrapped his arm around it like a bear hug and inched his legs over the edge and down a rung. Surprisingly it sort of worked… Well enough, anyway that he was able to reach the bottom without falling.

All that was left between him and freedom was the long jump. His arm was dead but his legs… They had a little fight left in them. Wanting nothing more than to go die in the stands, Wes took off full speed and leapt over the hurdle, clearing the pool with room to spare. Past the finish line, he let out a triumphant and exhausted sigh. The taste of iron filled his mouth as he became aware of the blood that ran from his nose and over his lips. He wiped away what he could across the back of his hand with a grimace. There was a second where Wes contemplated collapsing on the ground right then and there… And just stare up at the sky until it was all over, but he knew once his legs stopped supporting his weight and the adrenalin wore off he wouldn’t be able to stand up again for… well, awhile. As much as he wanted to sit down, he still waited for Evelyn and the other girl to finish knowing that if he was in last place the support would make things a tiny bit more bearable for him.

When everyone finished, Wes trudged his way around the course heading for the stands. To his surprise, as he passed River, the guy looked up from his clipboard to make a comment. "That was impressive."

Wes stopped, taken aback, blinking the confusion out of his eyes before turning his attention toward him. "Which part? Failing or falling on my face and breaking my fucking nose?" he replied with a wry coldness that failed to see the compliment behind the man’s words.

"The part where you did it all with one arm," River clarified plainly before averting his gaze back down to his clipboard. "I couldn’t do that," he added barely above a whisper as more of an escaped thought rather than a confession.

"Huh... uh, thanks." Wes forced out the words with a grumble then he continued back toward the crowd. He didn’t meet anyone’s gaze, very intentionally staring down at the ground and occasionally wiping his nose as he climbed the stands back to his isolated seat. He scooped up his discarded shirt before laying back on the bench, half collapsing as his legs finally gave out. Rather putting back on his shirt or using it as a pillow, he pressed the white cotton to his nose with a grimace.

"’Go to camp,’ they said. ‘It’ll be fun,’ they said," he grumbled, voice muffled beneath the bunched up fabric. "Bullshit."

^{interactions ....|.... river ............... mentions ....|.... trinity, andry, rae & evelyn ............... collabs ....|.... none}

Camp Athens - Closed

^{#c9bef3 ....|..... outfit .....|..... arena}

Blair wasn’t asleep… per se, more lingering in that miserable balance of a pounding headache that felt like Zeus himself was trying to pry her brains through her eye socket with an ice pick, and the ache of her stomach churning unable to decide if she wanted to vomit or if she was hungry. Both sounded entirely unappealing. There was even a point where she thought she might have heard someone approach and sit nearby, but for all intents and purposes, Blair was asleep… dead… communing with the Gods to take pity on her. But mostly her brain was an incoherent cacophony of aches, pains, and what the fuck were you thinking drinking that much.

She was discontent to suffer in her misery… alone and silent—Dear Gods please keep it fucking silent. If Nelly starts shouting some overly peppy team fight song to motivate them all to train… Blair might just have to kill her…

Tartarus could be nice this time of year.

The sensation of something being pressed between her ribs and arm jolted her out of her whiny, self-loathing spiral. Of course the actual jolt made her stomach burble in protest and sent a stabbing pain reverberating down the right side of her head. Blair squinted her eyes so tight they hardly could pass as open before lifting the side of her coat, letting the sharp sunlight slip into her cave of agony just to see it was her brother. She scoffed, letting her head fall backwards onto the bench with a little too much force, which made her brain feel like it was rattling around inside her skull like a bell in one of those little cat toys. "Ow," she grumbled.

"I haven’t seen you like that in a while. You manage to get to your own cabin in one piece?"

Before she could form a proper thought, Blair heard a quieter, more sheepish voice approach. "Um…hi." She was trying to piece it together, but getting two of her brain cells to rub together was like trying to wrangle cats. "I, uh—We met yesterday"

Then it dawned on her. "Anissa! Thank the Gods." In a fit of gratitude mixed with frustration, knowing she could no longer disappear into her misery in peace, Blair threw her coat off her head like ripping off a bandaid… Which also coincidentally tossed it right into Fiona’s side, whom she didn’t know was sitting there until that moment. "Mmm... Sorry," she mumbled while pushing off the bench and forcing herself to sit up. She had already forgotten about the bottle Lochlan wedged beneath her arm until she nearly dropped it, but once she saw it was water a thankful sigh fell from her lips as her body slouched forward, absent its usual poise. "Thank the Gods." She then proceeded to chug half of it, only stopping to take a deep breath.

Blair rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand that clutched the bottle cap. "Yes, I made it to my own cabin… Alone," she answered Lochlan’s question, begrudgingly, before downing what remained of the water. "I got lost a couple times, but I eventually found it," she admitted with a weak smile as she set the empty bottle down on the ground by her feet. "What about you? It was your fucking idea for shots, but I’m the one hungover… Make it make sense."

She looked up, eyes widening as she saw Anissa hovering nearby. Blair’s brain caught up a second time, as if object permanence was no longer a thing while hungover. She reached out, grabbing the girl’s hand and pulled her down onto the bench between herself and Fiona with a little more force than necessary. There was a second where she parted her lips preparing to release a barrage of questions about River and what happened after midnight, but she caught herself before anything slipped out. That wasn’t really a conversation for company. Instead she figured introductions were in order, if only to make things… less awkward.

"Anissa, this is my brother Lochlan." She nodded her head toward him as if it wasn’t obvious with him being the only male in their general proximity. "Same dad—mortal—different moms. His is Hera. And then that—" Blair pointed toward the red head on Anissa’s other side. "Is Fiona, also Lochlan’s sister, but both Hera… It’s all very Once Upon a Time."

Before any more conversation could be had, for better or worse, River demanded attention—luckily without actual shouting, she didn’t know if her brain could handle that. There was a lot of new leader welcome bullshit before he got to anything that actually demanded Blair’s attention… Mostly it was the part where he took his shirt off which warranted an impressed eyebrow raise followed by suggestive side eye in Anissa’s direction. Girl code dictated that he was strictly off limits, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t be happy for her friend… And rightly a little jealous. Good for her.

Luckily—or unluckily depending on how you want to look at it—River’s muscles were the only thing that kept her attention fixated on him running the course. Although, to be honest, he could have instructions for the training written in braille along his abs and Blair still would struggle to retain any of it in her current state. It was actually laughable that this fucker expected her to do any of that in a reasonable amount of time while nursing the worst headache she’s had in months.

Good luck with that buddy.

The only thing that kept her ass planted in her seat rather than walking out and going back to bed was Nick. Sure, they just hooked up and didn’t really get to anything beyond that, but he was her friend… Or friend enough. He was also the previous leader… and he still died during Pandora’s box. That meant she was insanely and stupidly lucky, because there is no way someone like him died while she survived. In her own fucked up logic, it felt like she owed it to the more capable people who were dead to at least try. Blair didn’t know when she got so morally… whatever, but she didn’t fucking like it. Things were far more simpler when she wasn’t trying to amount to anything beyond trying to sleep with the hottest guy she could wrap her thighs around.

When River finished his run and explained the last bit of rules, the only thing she really cared about was when she had to go. After he rattled off the names for the first Group and hers wasn’t included, she let out a relieved—and slightly dramatic—sigh. That was where her attention began and ended. There was a small part of her that might have enjoyed watching Sloane run the course in hopes of seeing her struggle, but it was far too early in the morning and she was too hungover to care about her feuds at the moment. Blair was more concerned with how the fuck she was going to accomplish a single one of those fucking obstacles, let alone the whole course in less than an hour… Fifteen minutes? What a joke.

Well, fifteen minutes or not, the first group felt way faster than that. Blair had barely managed to keep the water her brother gave her down before their names were called in the second group. Alphabetical. Great. She reluctantly pushed off her knees and stood up with a groan. "Five bucks says I barf before the pool" she commented sardonically to no one in particular. "Come on. Let’s go." She gave Lochlan’s arm a weak tug, thankful to have him running it with her although she knew he’d be long gone before she finished the second obstacle. "I’ll be shit, so you'll look great. Chicks will love it."

They made their way toward the course in no particular rush. As they got closer, Blair’s stomach twisted with a new wave of dread. It all looked smaller… More manageable from the stands. Now that she stared down the barrel, she had no fucking clue how she was going to finish any of this. Beyond the heavy weight of feeling inadequate in the face of this, there was the added anxiety of looking like a fucking incompetent idiot. Nerves… and something else started brewing in her guts, making the hair on the back of her neck stand on end and her whole body was covered in a cold sweat. She swallowed the lump in her throat and clenched her hands into tight fists to try and keep herself from shaking.

Blair was so lost in her own thoughts and dread that she missed River’s signal to start, only knowing to begin when she saw all the others take off like bullets where she could barely lift her foot off the ground. The tires looked easy compared to everything else and that was her first mistake, underestimating the course or overestimating herself. She didn’t even make it four tires deep before her toe clipped the edge of one and she fell face first along the ones lined up in front of her. "Are you fucking kidding me?" She grumbled to herself, face beet red at having fucked up in the first fucking obstacle. Pathetic. She forced herself back to her feet and proceeded slower, with more caution. There were still a couple times where she stumbled but at least Blair managed to keep her balance enough to not fall over a second time.

For the log jumps she didn’t really run at them as much as she walked towards them and awkwardly stepped over the lower hurdles. Once she reached the third one she sort of hooked her knee over the log and rolled over it. She repeated that for the other two but the height and momentum made her slip over the edge and fall on her back. Two for two.

The low crawl, surprisingly enough, proved to be one of the easier obstacles. Aside from getting dirt under her nails, in her mouth, and in her hair, it wasn’t the worst. Blair still lacked any semblance of speed compared to the people she ran with who were already at least two obstacles ahead of her, but she had a steady rhythm, even if it lacked all proper form. Her arms didn’t really accomplish much of anything, but she had spent more than her fair share of time on her knees and wore heels constantly, so her leg strength shouldered the brunt of the work.

When she reached the end, Blair stood up and wasted more time than was necessary dusting off her clothes and hands. Time was ticking away, she knew it was, but it was a convenient distraction to postpone the damn rope climb for a few more seconds. She sucked in a deep breath and slowly approached the rope, tilting her head back to take in just how high she had to climb… Spoiler, it was really fucking high. Manicured fingers wrapped around the rope and she jumped, but couldn’t even hold on long enough to get a steady foothold before she slipped free.

She continued her pathetic attempts for at least a minute before River’s voice cut through the buzzing in her ears that drowned out everything else. "Keep moving."

Blair looked over at him, already out of breath with her hands on her hips. "Bless you, Nipple boy." She gave him a shitty salute before running—more like lazy jogging—toward the next obstacle.

River’s brows furrowed, confusion plain as day across his face. "Nipple—What?"

She didn’t hear him nor did she realize her slip up… A problem for later.

Blair approached the rope net bridge and, again, she thought it looked fairly straight forward. But having learned her lesson the last time she paced herself, watching where she placed each foot and gripping the sides like a lifeline. She almost cheered when she reached the end having made it without her foot slipping through a single one of the holes, but she was met with the rope swing, and all the pride she had washed away in an instant. Blair took a hesitant step forward and took hold of the rope. If she couldn’t even hold on well enough to get a foot off the ground in the rope climb, how the fuck was she supposed to accomplish this? She looked over the edge, noting the drop into the water below and her heart sank.

"Fantastic," she grumbled while ringing her hands against the rope. Blair took a deep breath and a couple steps back. "Fuck it." She ran. She jumped… And she immediately plummeted straight down into the pool below with a loud splash and a small squeal before she disappeared beneath the surface. She came up coughing and gasping for air while pushing her wet hair out of her face. The pool was only a few feet deep, so rather than swimming she trudged her way toward the edge and climbed out.

While the balance beams might not have been that huge of a concern when she watched River run through them, she was tired, soaking wet, and losing patience. Blair started up the rising beam, but the water on her shoes gave them little to no traction and she slid back down. She cursed under her breath, stopping and twisting her shoes in the dirt to dry them off before trying again. It was sloppy and wobbly, but all in all, she did far better on them than half of her other obstacles and got across fairly quickly.

Swimming. Thank the Gods for swimming. Blair dove into the water with a confidence she lacked in every other challenge thus far. She had lessons as a child, so while she wasn’t a competitive swimmer by any means, it was something she could accomplish without making herself look like a bigger idiot than she already did. However the second to last obstacle was the one she dreaded most. A giant ass fucking ladder… Honestly. She didn’t have the faintest clue how she was going to climb it. The best she could do was tackle it similarly to the log jumps, but there was no pool of water to catch her like the rope swing, so if she fell… she was fucked.

It was a painstakingly slow climb with countless missteps and slipped holds. Blair climbing the ladder looked something akin to watching a cat that half fell off its tower, holding on for dear life and flailing… a lot of flailing. The best part about reaching the top meant her arms could relax… sort of, but the climb down was complicated. She proceeded to slowly lower her legs down a rung, stretching and reaching until she found the log with her toes, then awkwardly lowered herself. Repeat. Taking a page from a couple other's books, when she was close enough to the ground, she dropped the rest of the way. Unfortunately, she landed wrong, twisted her ankle, and fell on her ass.

With one obstacle left, Blair just muscled through it as best she could, limping her way to the long jump. But given her ankle and exhaustion, she merely stepped over it, not caring too much about the water since she was already soaked and walked her way out. The second she crossed the finish line she felt the water leave her clothes and hair like it was never there in the first place. No doubt something nipple boy did. She had every intention to thank him, but then there was a wave of cold that sent a chill down her spine and stopped her dead in her tracks. She barely managed to look over at Lochlan before doubling over, falling to her knees, and vomiting on the dirt floor.

Blair remained there for several seconds, retching up the contents of her stomach which was little more than the water her brother gave her and bile. Her body only stopped convulsing when she surpassed the point of dry heaves. She spit on the ground and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She couldn't bring herself to stand, her arms and legs felt like jello that would cave under her own body weight. Already resolute in the embarrassment of her entire run, Blair just remained there on her hands and knees, hunched over a putrid puddle of her own making, eyes stinging from the tears that threatened to burst free.

^{interactions ....|.... lochlan, fiona, anissa & river ............... mentions ....|.... none ............... collabs ....|.... none}

Camp Athens - Closed

^{#bd1664 ....|..... outfit .....|..... arena}

Andy was thankful Mason didn’t fuss and fight her as she pulled him down onto the seat beside her. "Alright, but don’t tell anyone I listened to you just because you said so," he pretended to argue, even if his body still heeded her gentle direction. The gentle kiss upon her shoulder made her smile grow, warm and affectionate as she slowly turned her head to look over at him.

After her comment about a shower, his head leaned in close like he was sharing a secret with her. Andy mirrored his movements until they were nearly temple to temple as he spoke. "I can’t wait for training to be over." She hummed in quiet content from behind closed lips, cheeks flushing faintly as her own mind sifted through thoughts of Mason joining her beneath the hot water, hands and mouths rediscovering each other as if they had forgotten after a night’s sleep. She cleared her throat, gaze falling to where their entwined hands had shifted to rest in her lap. The gentle stroke of his thumb against her bare thigh, tender and warm, sent a soft tingle along her skin.

"Patience," Andy whispered in response, a quiet unspoken challenge—or perhaps tease—hung on the edge of her words.

"Good morning everyone. If it wasn't already obvious, I am River, your new leader…" River started his speech, addressing everyone or whatever else, while simultaneously popping the fragile bubble that had existed around the pair of them. Andy listened, but she didn’t look up aside from the brief mention of her stint as Camp’s temporary leader. Instead her gaze was fixated on the contrast of her hand in Mason’s. Her fingers, deceptive in their slender daintiness, looked small compared to his, strong with a natural protectiveness in the way they coiled around her hand like a tender shield, soft yet possessive.

Andy didn’t even notice someone approaching or look up until Mason slipped his hand from her grasp, which also pulled a soft, disgruntled grunt from her lips. She looked up but not toward River, not at first. Her gaze snapped over toward Mason, half tempted to steal his hand back but then she noticed the new leader standing before her. "Do you mind tracking my time?"

A bit stunned, she looked back and forth between River and Mason before reaching out to take the clipboard and stopwatch. "Yeah, sure." She listened as he described what she needed to do and answered with a small nod. As he made his way over toward the course, she missed the show he made of taking his shirt off so she could grump at Mason for taking his hand from her. "Rude," she muttered playfully as she linked her arm with his, unwilling to sacrifice the small bit of physical contact for the sake of using a stopwatch.

She watched River get ready and pressed the button when he started, as instructed. While he ran the course, Andy watched him, not because of his muscles that she paid no mind to, or to better grasp how to approach the obstacles, but to study his form, efficiency and speed. She observed him with a keen scrutiny, wanting to know the merit of Poseidon’s chosen leader—back up chosen leader. To her surprise, he fared well… Well enough to earn a modicum of respect from her, although she did not voice it or make it evident beyond a small nod of her head as he approached. "9 minutes and 37 seconds," she offered up his time along with the clipboard and stopwatch.

15 minutes to run the course was easily doable… for her, but for everyone? Andy’s gaze scanned the faces of the various campers, new and old, weighing their likelihood of finishing in time. It wasn’t the worst. Over a minute per obstacle seemed like a fair enough balance, but there were other factors to take into account. Too focused on figuring out how she would run the training, she missed the tailend of River’s instructions until she heard her name. "First up is Sloane, Sylas, Nate, Maylisse and Andy…"

"Oh shit," the words slipped out with a stunned sigh. Andy always preferred going first, it meant she could get it over with without getting the chance to overthink it or get anxious… She just wasn’t prepared.

Mason gave her a small reassuring smile as he released her arm. She ran her palms along her thighs, sighed, then stood up. Before she managed to take a single step forward, she felt a light tap against her butt. She jumped from slight surprise and flashed him an incredulous look over her shoulder, contrasted by a faint smile that tugged at the corners of her mouth. "Go get ‘em."

Andy made her way over toward the tires, adjusting her outfit as she walked to make sure everything was secure: tugging the legs of her shorts down, the waistband up, adjusting the hem of her shirt and slipping her thumbs through the small holes in the sleeves. She looked at the others who approached with her, sizing them up silently. It might not have been a race, but she was competitive and felt the need to out perform the others, if only because she made the damn course herself. Sylas would be a challenge, but she had bested him before. Sloane had proven herself ingenious but she—unfortunately—wasn’t the most physically inclined. The brunette looked capable, and then Nate…

A pit immediately grew in her stomach, twisting and knotting as she recalled the party the night before. Andy sucked in a sharp breath and stepped in line beside him. She took a second to start stretching her quads while trying to form a somewhat decent apology. Finally, she turned toward Nate as she held her left arm straight across her chest mid-stretch. "I’m sorry… about last night." She switched arms with a soft sigh. "I should have said something. I always thought those girls who immediately drop the ‘I have a boyfriend’ shit were…" Her face scrunched as she tried to find the right word but fell short. "It doesn’t matter. It was shitty. I’m sorry if I led you on and for how my boyfriend acted." She didn’t know if Nate would forgive her or if he gave a shit one way or the other, but she tried… It was the best she could do.

With her conscience clear, Andy turned toward the tires splayed out before her and tightened her ponytail. She readied herself with bent knees, lightly rocking back and forth on the balls of her feet to build momentum until she heard River signal their start. Then she was off, floating through the tires swift and nimble, not missing a beat. Through the log jumps and the low crawl Andy was quick and agile, using her experience to her advantage to pull ahead of the rest of the group. But her lead was quickly lost when it came to the rope climb. She had a solid technique but her height and upper body strength couldn’t match Sylas’s. He reached the top a few seconds before her and descended faster.

Watching him run ahead of her lit a fire under her and ignited a second burst of energy. Andy was hot on his heels through the net bridge, tip toeing across the center rope like a tightwire. The second Sylas hit the platform she was there, grabbing one of the ropes and swinging across the pool of water in sync with him. She stuck the landing where he stumbled and didn’t waste a beat getting to the balance beams. She sacrificed the security of balance for speed and sprinted along the beams in long strides, reaching the end before her body got the chance to try and tip over.

She was across the pool first, but Sylas’s height gave him a natural advantage again. Worried he would gain on her while climbing the giant ladder, Andy attacked it like a monkey. She kicked off the logs to try and skip a rung, then hoisted herself up, ignoring the burning ache that flared in her muscles. On the way down she was swift, skipping the last few rungs and dropping to the ground below. A sharp pain radiated through her feet from the drop, but she pushed through it, sprinting to the final obstacle. Andy gritted her teeth, using her last burst of energy for the final push and cleared the long jump a handful of seconds before Sylas. An exhausted but triumphant laugh fell from her lips between pants as she gave him a pat on his back that he promptly shrugged off with an indignant huff.

While Sylas didn’t wait around to see how everyone else fared, Andy lingered near the finish line hovering in the general proximity of River. Unable to help herself, she leaned toward him trying to sneak a peek at the times while softly clapping for the brunette girl and Nate as they completed the final obstacle. "So… What’s my time?"

River looked up to see Sloane climbing out of the pool and heading towards the ladder before sparing Andy a sideways glance. He squinted for a second before rolling his eyes and looking down at his clipboard. "10 minutes and 3 seconds."

"Damn." She let out a weak laugh mixed with a pant as she rested her hands on her hips. "I was trying to beat you," she confessed with a guilty shrug.

Andy’s attention turned back to Sloane as she ascended the ladder. To her credit the girl had drive and determination which meant a lot, at least in her eyes. She nodded along in silent encouragement watching the girl’s hand and foot placement. "Good. Good," she muttered under her breath, not daring to say anything loud enough to throw her off. Then, so close to the bottom, she slipped and fell to the ground with a thud. Andy winced and sucked in a sharp, sympathetic breath. There was a second where she considered going to help, but Sloane waved it off with a steadfast resolve and managed to push through to the end despite it all.

On her way to the stands, Andy detoured past Sloane, flashing her a small smile and a thumbs up in silent reassurance. She then found her way back to Mason, waiting right where she left him. "Thank the Gods you have upper body strength," she commented with a huff as she lowered herself into the space beside him.

Unfortunately she was only able to enjoy his company for one round before his name was called. Then following his lead, when Mason stood up Andy gave his butt a slap that may or may not have been a bit more snappy than the one he gave her. "Go get ‘em, tiger," she called after him. There was even a second where she thought about whistling for a little extra flare, but she knew he’d be pissed if she made that big of a scene… Even if it would have been hilarious.

Like someone watching a sporting event, Andy leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees as she watched Mason’s run intently. Most of the faces that ran alongside him were unfamiliar to her other than Nelly, so there was no guilt in silently cheering for him to do better than the rest. Whenever he hit an obstacle that called for upper body strength, she shamelessly snuck glances at his muscles before forcing her focus to shift to his technique. It was difficult sometimes, considering he was insanely attractive, but she wanted him to do well. More importantly Andy wanted him to excel at all of his training so she’d never have to worry about his wellbeing again like she had to during Pandora’s box.

In the end, he didn’t finish first but that was hardly a surprise when Nelly seemed like she was pumped full of a gallon of espresso every morning. Second wasn’t bad, it was good even, considering he was hot on her trail and even passed her for a bit. Andy was surprised he chose to linger as the others finished rather than hurry off, but whenever she caught his gaze she gave him a warm smile and a thumbs up from where she sat in the stands. Without any other runs she was particularly interested in beyond Trinity’s—it wasn’t like it was her job to care anymore, or at least that’s what she tried to tell herself—she settled back into her seat, elbows propped against the bench behind her and legs crossed, simply waiting to be dismissed… She had more exciting things to look forward to compared to training anyway.

^{interactions ....|.... mason, nate & river ............... mentions ....|.... sylas, maylisse, nelly & trinity ............... collabs ....|.... none}

Reign of the Usurper

^{#455955 ....|..... outfit ............... #b5c7eb ....|..... outfit ............... the king's fist}

It was a long and arduous journey through the King’s Fist. While Gloomfen might have been the closest hold to Thornvale, it was also far too close to warrant a journey by ship. With the Varrows controlling the King’s Gate, it was only practical to travel through the Fist. Regardless of how large or small their retinue, their passage was slow and laborious. It was a miracle in and of itself that they had not broken a linchpin or spoke on the rocks and rough terrain.

They were on the tailend of their travels, only an hour or two from reaching the Valley of Kings. The narrow corridors they traversed nestled between the tall peaks of Mount Briar had begun to widen. No longer in the shade of the mountain, the light of the sun and its unbearable warmth had started trickling in through the window, unwanted like water rising in the hull of a boat. Their carriage pitched and rocked with every bump, pulling a dissatisfied grunt from Rhaevyn as he stared out at the steep crags and occasional tree.

The young Lord had forsaken any desire to appear ‘proper’ in lieu of comfort. He had long since abandoned his dress coat on the seat next to him. The sleeves of his dark tunic were rolled up into the crooks of his elbows, damp and hugging his forearms while his collar was unlaced, the open neckline revealing the pale skin of his chest. Sweat curled his silver hair causing the errant strands to cling to his jaw and the back of his neck like the dense fog that hugged the moors on the cusp of morning, thick and oppressive. He slouched on the black velvet bench opposite his sister with his legs stretched across the cabin, feet crossed and resting on the cushion beside her.

How the weather could be so starkly different and suffocating with only a handful days of travel, Rhaevyn didn’t know. It was like they were traversing two separate worlds going from Gloomfen into Thornvale, and the heat only made the journey more unbearable. He could have been in the valley two days prior if he traveled by horseback. He had made the journey by himself before, but this time there was an entire retinue… and more importantly, his sister. No matter how much he bitched and moaned about the sweltering heat or the rattling of the wheels that reverberated through his teeth, he bore it all to make sure she arrived unharmed. They had dozens of armed guards in their party, but he did not trust a single one of them to do as honor demanded for the safety of Aelyria. So there he remained, blade never out of reach, melting into a puddle of his own making… for her.

Entertainment was few and far between locked in a rickety, rolling box deep in the heart of a mountain. Rhaevyn did not busy himself with books or learning an instrument like his sister, so he often found himself disinterested during long journeys and desperate for a distraction. He had spent one day of travel staring out at the South Sea as they crossed the narrow land bridge of the Fist, another was spent with his head in Aelyria’s lap as she read to him and played music, and the day before he walked alongside the carriage, stretching his legs and picking flowers in the rain. That day the sun was too high, too relentless for him to be outside, no matter how restless he was. With nothing to hold his attention, he toyed with his dagger to pass the time. He held the tip of the blade, sharp and perfectly polished, pinched between his thumb and index finger. "Traveling by horseback would have been faster, and less… percarious," Rhaevyn commented with a wry drollness as he flipped the knife in the air and caught it effortlessly. "This carriage is a damn furnace."

Aelyria let the rhythm of the carriage steady her breathing, though the heat gnawed at every inch of patience she possessed. The sun, once filtered mercifully through the ribs of the King’s Fist, now spilled freely through the carriage window in molten sheets. It clung to her skin like a fever, beading wherever it pleased. A solitary drop gathered at the hollow of her throat, warm as breath, and traced its languid path down into the shadowed valley shaped by her corset. She felt each inch of it, an irritating, tickling thread of sensation she refused to wipe away purely out of spite.

She had stripped down to her chemise hours ago, shedding her overdress with a cool disdain as though discarding a lie she no longer felt like wearing. The thin linen clung to her, translucent in places where sweat had insisted on blooming. The dark-boned corset cinched her waist and pushed her breasts upward, its laces tugged tighter than comfort allowed, but she endured it as she endured all things—with silent, sharpened grace. Gloomfen had taught her that beauty, like power, was a weapon. Rarely comfortable, always effective.

A lyre harp rested across her lap, its carved wooden frame dark and swirling like roots caught in a dream. Her fingers moved over the strings with absent precision, coaxing from them a low, wandering melody that seeped through the carriage like cool water trickling over stone. It softened the groaning of wheels, the creak of jolting wood, even the occasional clatter of loose stones striking the undercarriage. The song was one she remembered from childhood, though she had long since outgrown the sweetness of its original tune. Now, under her hands, it sounded wistful and faintly dangerous, as though some old god might be humming it beneath his breath.

Rhaevyn’s complaint broke through her reverie, low and rough as gravel dragged across iron. Aelyria lifted her gaze to him, and for a heartbeat she forgot to pluck the next note. He looked carved by heat and impatience both, silver hair damp and unruly, jaw shadowed, collar open far enough that she could see the slow rise and fall of his chest. His legs stretched indolently across the velvet seat, feet braced beside her thigh. The posture was carelessly familiar, almost possessive in its ease. The knife glinted every time he flipped it, catching the sunlight in brief, sharp flashes.

She admired him openly, because she could, because he belonged to her as much as she belonged to him, because no one else was here to witness the hunger she rarely allowed to slip through her mask. She took in the curve of his forearms, the damp strands clinging to his temple, the line of muscle visible through the sweat-darkened fabric. Aelyria let the pad of her thumb drag softly across a lyre string, letting it hum for a long, trembling moment before she finally answered. “Rhaevyn,” she murmured, her voice soft but touched with wry reprimand, “you complain only because you have never ridden horseback in a dress.”

The corner of her mouth curved, subtle, sly, it was the kind of smile she wore when she enjoyed watching others squirm. She adjusted the harp on her lap, the wooden edge pressing lightly against her corset’s boning. “I assure you,” she continued, her tone lingering like perfume, “this is far preferable to gripping a saddle while the wind tries to fling your skirts over your head. Sweltering or not.”

She plucked another soft series of notes, slow and coaxing, as though tempting the oppressive heat into stillness. Her eyes drifted over him once more, slow, thoughtful, the way one might study their favorite page of a beloved book. “And besides,” she added, almost idly, though her gaze lingered on the sweat-damp hollow at the base of his throat, “you complaining is a small price to pay for the view.”

The harp thrummed, warm and intimate, filling the cramped carriage with music and something quieter, heavier, coiled between them like a shared breath neither had yet exhaled.

Rhaevyn’s mind drifted, painting a vivid image from her words. He could see her, plain as she sat before him, adorned in her finest jewels of amethyst and diamond, wearing her plum velvet dress. His favorite. The wind blew her silver curls loose and free, her face not contorted in determined frustration, but soft and unwoven in ecstasy. Aelyria did not mount a steed, but him. It was not hidden lust stolen in the dark, shadow blanketed corners of Dunhollow, quick and fleeting before they were caught by prying eyes. It was unfettered, a show of love and desire in the middle of a field for the world to see without shame or judgement. Her moans sang on the wind, her thighs gripped him, not a saddle, and those damned skirts she was concerned about were held in place by the wanton grasp of his hands upon her waist.

His expression of discontent shifted, the corners of his mouth curving into a lascivious smirk as his gaze unabashedly traced every curve of her body where the sweat dampened chemise clung to her skin, revealing glimpses of her form beneath. Rhaevyn wet his bottom lip with a subtle flick of his tongue. He ran the blade of his dagger along the frame of the window as he looked over at her from beneath the shadow of his prominent brow. "That sounded like a pleasurable view to me," he commented low beneath the tunes of her lyre.

Aelyria’s fingers did not falter on the strings, though the note she plucked thrummed sharper, brighter—like a blade catching light. She lifted her gaze to him fully, letting her eyes trace the slow arc of his smirk, lingering on the way his tongue had swept across his lower lip. A single, elegant brow arched upward, a gesture equal parts challenge and amusement. The corner of her mouth tugged in answer, a small, knowing curve that promised far more than it revealed.

The carriage swayed, the melody shifted with it, soft and lilting, a tune that felt as though it were weaving itself around them both. She let the next note hum between them before she spoke. “Mm,” she breathed, a sound threaded with warmth and reprimand in equal measure, “I would hope the view would please you.” Her voice dipped, smooth as honey. Her fingers glided across the strings in a slow run, each pluck deliberate, each note a quiet tease.

“But alas,” she went on, tilting her head just slightly as though considering the matter, “there are no horses for me to ride at the moment.” Her eyes flicked downward and then back to his face, measured, languid, purposeful. Her smile sharpened just a touch, wicked in its subtlety. “So,” she concluded with silk-soft finality, “you simply must be content with the current view.”

The lyre answered her with a shimmering chord, warm and intimate, as though the instrument itself shared in her mischief. The tune resumed, slow, deliberate, a quiet seduction disguised as a lullaby. She plucked another string, her gaze never leaving him. “Try not to suffer too greatly, darling.” She added, the faintest purr beneath her words.“I know how arduous such restraint can be.” Her smile widened by a breath, just enough to let him see the spark beneath it. The heat in the carriage had not lessened, but now it felt different. Coiled. Intentional. Waiting.

There was a sharp chink of his blade against the window as Rhaevyn’s attention shifted fully toward her. Every muscle in his body froze, poised like a predator, patient and attuned to his prey, awaiting the perfect moment to attack. "Restraint has never been one of my strengths," he confessed low, conspiratorial like a secret Aelyria was not privy to and would have to take to the grave. His hand flicked, swift and calculated, flipping the dagger another time. The blade sliced through the dense air and unspoken words between them, glinting in the rays of light that slipped through the canvas canopy before landing with the hilt perfectly resting in his palm.

"Nor am I easily contented." He threw his dagger sideways without shifting his gaze from the icy grey-blue of Aelyria’s eyes that glowed like the moon from beneath the shadow of the carriage. The sharp blade lodged itself into the wooden side panel of the cabin on the opposite side of his bench, out of sight, out of mind, and of little concern. Rhaevyn’s feet slowly slipped from the cushion beside her, falling to the floor between them as he scooted forward to the edge of the seat. The rough hand of a fighter, worn and calloused, reached out, fingers delicately wrapping around the neck of the lyre, halting the reverberating tunes as he pulled the instrument from her grasp. He set it atop his overcoat with a tender reverence, not wishing to destroy something precious to his sister in his pursuit in ravishing her.

Rhaevyn fell to his knees on the floor of the carriage before her like a supplicant and she—haloed in the shadows, illuminated by errant rays of golden sunlight—was his God. He prayed to her, worshipped her. Pious and devout, he humbled himself before her, seeking her pleasure before his own. The tips of his fingers hungered to feel her, slipping beneath the damp hem of her chemise to caress the supple skin that curved along the back of her ankle. He was steady, patient, and maddeningly slow as his touch climbed the warmth of her legs while the fabric of her skirt pooled in the crooks of his arms. The heat from his palms radiated against her thighs as he inched higher until he took hold of her svelte hips and tugged her forward to the edge of the bench with a lustful impatience. He lowered himself further, guiding her left leg over his shoulder as he looked up into her eyes from beneath his sweat glistened brow.

"Let us test your restraint." The words fell from his lips, rough, guttural, and laced with a devious challenge as he disappeared beneath the folds of her skirt.

^{interactions ....|.... none ............... mentions ....|.... none ............... collabs ....|.... @Sleepy Tani}

Reign of the Usurper

^{#10636f ....|..... outfit ....|..... near the shore of the bramble weave}

The outskirts of the Valley of Kings was a peaceful thicket of forest that hugged the sides of the Bramble Weave just before the shore carved upwards into the sharp cliffs of Mount Briar. No homes were scattered this far away from the city and the path had ended over a mile back, slowly transitioning from a stone road, to a worn trail, then gone beneath dense grass and brush. Two horses were tethered to nearby trees. One was a black stallion outfitted in armor plating and the signature black cloaking of the King’s guard. The other was pure white with an elegant saddle and draped in lavish caparisons of navy and silver that were embroidered with a snow owl. They grazed leisurely, relishing in the shade of the forest and the cool breeze that rolled off the river and rustled the leaves overhead.

Leaning against one of the nearby trees was a King’s guardsman, not in his plate armor but still wearing his crown sanctioned leathers emblazoned with the royal seal. The sleeves of his tunic had long since been rolled up into the crooks of his elbows to spare himself from a fraction of the heat. Sweat glistened along his brow and ran down his muscular forearms. The strands of his blond hair whipped around from the soft breeze, clinging to every damp piece of skin they came into contact with. Coren may have looked like he was melting in the heat, he might have even admitted it when asked, but his attention was fixed and perception attuned to every rustle of branches, snap of a twig, or boat sailing down the Weave. The heat or his discomfort was irrelevant in comparison to his charge.

Several feet further down the shore, past the edge of the treeline where the bank met the steep ascending crags climbing out of the Weave stood the Princess Rhea Storvane. Loose crimson hair that fell from her braid was tousled around her face by the strong breeze, occasionally catching in her eyelashes and between her lips. Every gust of wind blew the skirt of her riding kirtle, whipping it against her legs like a flag atop a mast. She stood beside a six foot long mound of river rocks that was marked by a pine sapling little bigger than a small branch sticking out of the earth. The heels of her boots sunk into the damp mixture of mud and sand as she stared at the grave, stoic with a forlorn heaviness behind her hazel eyes.

She slowly pulled her dove skin gloves off one finger at a time with a reverent patience that was methodical and almost ritualistic. Rhea swallowed a lump that had grown in her throat, trying to keep hold of her emotions as she tucked each glove beneath her belt. Tears welled against her lashes and burned her eyes but were quickly carried away on the wind before they could trail down her pale cheeks. Her left hand rose like she was accepting an offering from the wind, palm up turned toward the heavens steadily while her fingers trembled as if she had a chill in the middle of the summer heat. Her gaze was fixed on a small bit of thread tied around her ring finger, once dark in color now frayed and lightened by the sun.

It had been nearly two years since their wedding… and nearly two years since his death. With every passing day, the image of Gareth’s face grew hazy and foreign like a dream slipping from memory with the rising sun. Rhea could no longer recall the sound of his voice or the unique curvature of his smile. Only his scent remained: leather, cedar and freshly bloomed lilac. The love and longing she had for him would remain with her until the day she died, but she could feel it slipping through her fingers like trying to catch water with her bare hands.

She didn’t want to be rid of her last piece of him, frightened that with its absence he would fade from reality and become no more than a fever dream. But her mother’s threats were not to be taken lightly. If the Queen found Rhea with her wedding ring she would be married off to whichever Lord promised the most advantageous union and alliance without so much as a care for her own happiness. It was cruel. But it was just another way for her mother to punish her. Rhea couldn’t disgrace the family if she was caged like a bird with her wings clipped. It left her with only two choices, a life of misery tied to a man she did not love or smothering the flame for her dearly departed. As much as it pained her, she couldn’t risk her last chance at freedom… not for the dead. Gareth would want her to find happiness, even if that meant forsaking him.

Rhea knelt beside the grave, feeling the coolness of the mud soaking into her ivory trousers, but she paid it no mind. She reached out, placing her hand tenderly upon the sapling. "Hello, my love," she whispered to the wind like a prayer that Umbran might carry it to Gareth’s soul. Delicate trembling fingers shifted the rocks to reveal a hidden niche filled with trinkets from their time together: a sparrow’s feather, dried lilac, a cracked shell from the Bay of Kings, and a similar circle of knotted thread. Her breaths grew ragged and heavy as she pulled her ring from her finger, being sure to leave the knot intact. She studied it for the last time, trying to commit her final token to memory. "Keep it safe for me?" Her voice quivered, tears speckled the river rocks beneath her as she leaned forward and rested the worn bit of thread with its mate.

She struggled to swallow past the lump that stole her words, harder still to force herself to breathe when her body ceased to do it on its own. Rhea held fast to her strength, relying only on her sheer willpower to refrain from burying herself beneath the earth beside him. It would be simple, easy to let herself fall into Umbran’s embrace alongside Gareth. Death was easy… Finding a reason to continue living was far more difficult. Each day that passed her desires tipped the scales toward the darkness, losing another piece of herself along with it. Gareth would want her to try and find the sunlight again. Declan, her father, Coren… She clung to the small handful of reasons like a bouquet she was desperate to tend. For them, not for her.

She tenderly returned the rocks to their resting place, burying the memories of their love away from the world, if only to save the last piece of her heart from being shattered beneath her mother’s ire. Before she could succumb to her grief, she kissed the tips of her fingers and pressed them to the sapling. "Farewell, my love." Rhea got to her feet, keeping her back to the grave without a second glance as she made her way back to Ser Coren who waited, patient and vigilant, by their horses.

The knight pushed off the tree and walked the short distance to his steed, who was still content and grazing and completely unaware or unbothered by his presence. He pulled a waterskin from where it was tied to the saddle and made his way back over to her. "Hands, Princess," he instructed her gently, removing the stopper then motioning her hands forward with a subtle gesture of his fingers.

Rhea took a small step forward, holding out her hands between them with a small sniffle. After nearly two years of guardianship, Coren had seen her traverse every emotion, through her highs and lows, she was no longer bothered when he saw her cry. Her gaze shifted from her dirt covered hands, that now felt naked without the small bit of thread, up to his eyes that rivaled the rich blues of the Weave. "You may call me Rhea… We are the only souls for miles," she spoke softly, repeating a conversation they have shared nearly every fortnight.

Coren’s brows furrowed out of concentration, not at her words, as he carefully poured the water over her hands with a practiced diligence, endeavoring to wash away the dirt. While his attention was steadfast, the faintest of smiles tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Habit, Princess," he answered resolutely, although an air of levity laced his words. "I would hate for our familiarity to reflect poorly upon yourself. I do not wish to slip in the wrong company." He put the stopper back in the waterskin before tucking it beneath his arm and grabbing a bit of cloth that hung from his belt. "Your burdens are heavy. I seek to lighten them, not add to the weight."

"If you worry about Declan—" she started as he used the cloth to gently dry her hands like she was more fragile than fresh blown glass.

"The Captain is kind and gracious," Coren interjected, hand hesitating in the air between them clutching the bit of, now damp, cloth. A quiet sigh fell from his lips when he knew asking for permission was fruitless. The Princess gave him more freedom than was proper… More freedom than he deserved. So, he did not ask before one hand gently took her chin and guided her head toward the sun while he wiped an errant tear from her cheek. "He is grateful I watch over you where he has been forbidden." He released his hold and took a step back, putting a more respectable bit of space between them as he tucked the cloth back beneath his belt. "I do not fear him… I fear the Queen."

Rhea sighed as she slowly slipped her glove back onto her left hand in an attempt to make it feel less bare, tucking and tugging the leather into place between her fingers. "To hell with my mother." The words fell from her mouth, cold and bitter, like berries left to rot beneath the first frost.

"Princess…"

"Do you disagree?" She asked, looking up at him from beneath her lashes, pausing in the middle of donning her other glove.

Coren sighed uncomfortably, shifting his stance and resting his hands on top of his sword’s pommel. The muscle in his jaw tensed as he sifted through his thoughts and feelings. "I think…" He took a small step forward, narrowing the space between them by a fraction as if he intended to share a secret. "The trees and the rocks and the winds have ears… That words should not be so carelessly shared for we do not know who could be listening."

Rhea tugged the hem of her glove, the heaviness of her thoughts plain across her face in the way her brows tensed and furrowed, while her lips remained tightly pressed together. She inhaled, but words alluded her for a moment as she painstakingly forged the sentence in her mind before letting it free. "Is there no part of me that remains free?" Her voice faltered as she spoke. Was she truly a prisoner in her own home?... In her own mind? It wasn’t until that very moment that Rhea truly felt like she had been stripped of everything that made her… her. She was no longer Rhea Storvane but a shadow, a hollow husk of the woman she used to be, a puppet with her strings pulled taut at the beck and call of her mother.

"Princess…" Coren’s own voice wavered, soft and sympathetic, but he had no answers or comforts of his own to offer. "I will take your confidences to the grave." His voice was quiet but held a strong conviction. "If I had the power, I would shield you from your mother. But I cannot protect you from the whispers of others."

Her head nodded slowly, accepting the heavy burden of the truth with fortitude and a quiet resilience. "I understand," Rhea replied, little more than a whisper carried by the wind, as she slowly made her way over to her horse and lightly ran her fingers through the creature's mane, freeing any knots or tangles. "It would seem my last hopes rest on the shoulders of a man I have yet to meet… I pray he is kind."

The knight made his way to her side, hands poised near her waist, ready to aid her climb or catch her should she lose balance. Rhea slipped her left foot into the stirrup, grabbed onto the horn and cantle, then pulled herself up with a practice grace. Unlike a proper lady—and most certainly not a Princess—she swung her right leg over the horse’s back, slipped her right foot into the other stirrup and settled onto the saddle in proper riding form. She leaned forward and stroked the side of the mare’s neck while Coren set to checking her mount as he did before every ride.

"I have grown accustomed to watching over you," the guardsman commented with a lopsided smile. He tested the tautness of the saddle’s straps by giving each one a firm tug, then made sure the treads of each stirrup were nestled just before the heels of her boots.. "I do not know what I will do once you have gone." The confession was quiet with an air of playful banter, but beneath the levity there was a genuine weight that hung in the silence.

"You would come with me, of course," Rhea replied, looking down at him as he secured her saddle for the fourth time that day. Her answer was simple. It fell from her lips without hesitation, brazenly honest.

Coren’s smile grew, warm and a little less guarded as he gathered the reins and placed them carefully into her hands. "That is an enticing offer, Princess. But I am a King’s Guard. Once you marry, you are no longer a royal… No longer my charge." The possibility of them ever seeing one another after she became the wife of a Lord was not likely, regardless of the friendship they had built in their time together. His duty was to the King. What Lord would allow his wife to bring a guardsman along with her?

"Then I shall take you," she offered with a bright smile and resolute nod of her head.

The guardsman laughed, deep, unbidden and from his chest, shaking his head in disbelief as he untethered his own horse. "And how would you accomplish that?" Coren asked as he mounted his horse with far less care and showmanship than his charge.

"I could spirit you away," Rhea whispered, leaning towards her guard conspiratorially as her light slowly returned and bloomed across her face. "Or… I could ask my father," she offered up her second option with a light snort and far less conviction.

"Is it that simple?" Coren grabbed his reins, sparring her a sidelong glance, finding her determination endearing.

"Mhmm." The hum sang behind her mischievous grin. Rhea held her head up with a confident assurance as she guided her horse toward the hoof trodden path they created earlier that day.

Coren shook his head, tousling sweat-dampened hair as he followed after her. "As you wish," he answered under his breath, far too quiet for her to hear.

Rhea slowed her horse as she reached the small clearing of trees. Nothing stood before them in the vast stretch of space that inevitably led to their trail. A glint sparkled in her eyes as one small, brief moment of freedom presented itself before her on a silver platter. She snuck a quick glance over her shoulder toward Coren who trailed behind her. "Race you to the Citadel."

"Princess, I do not—"

"It was not a question," she called back to him with a weightless laugh followed by the crack of her reins. Without any other warning, she sped off beneath the narrow archway of trees where the light that slipped between the leaves covered her in golden speckles that sparkled warm like amber. The breeze might have wiped away Rhea’s tears, but it did not lighten her soul. It caressed her skin, but it did not stave off the heat… Her only respite from her gilded cage and her mother’s looming shadow was found on horseback. And in that fleeting moment… She was free.

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Camp Athens - Closed

^{#c7b29b ....|..... outfit .....|..... #0a6d6b ....|..... outfit .....|..... arena}

Sylas’s gaze was trained on his sister the second she stepped out from beneath the stone archway, head down and watching every step she took in the usual timid, ‘pretend I don’t exist’ sort of way she floated through life. There was a brief second where she met his gaze. He wasn’t even able to flash her the type of smile that he knew would fester beneath her skin before she turned away, lowering herself onto the closest bench. Disappointing.

But before he pulled his attention from her solitary existence—that had honestly grown quite boring over the past three months—a pair of unfamiliar dark haired demigods stepped into the arena. There was a fraction of a second where he considered it to be no more than coincidence until the boy beelined straight for Sloane and sat down beside her, followed by the girl on his sister’s other side… Interesting. His brows furrowed as he watched, observed in a pensive silence. It could have been coincidence or some ulterior motive perchance, but then the boy stretched. It was one of those forced moves that was intended to look nonchalant, but failed miserably. Sylas wondered if it was one of those terrible rom com moments when he watched the guy’s arm brush Sloane, but instead of putting his arm around her shoulders his gaze drifted back over the heads of dozens of demigods until it locked on Sylas.

He didn’t look away, didn’t back down, didn’t move. Sylas remained stoic and unchanging like a statue until the boy looked away, refocusing his attention on Sloane. "Hmm," he hummed to himself as he watched the trio, studying every movement and smile… and the way his sister remained rigid, focusing desperately on not looking back at him a second time.

"Good morning everyone." He sighed, turning his attention forward with some reluctance. Training wasn’t high on his list of priorities, but making sure he appeared competent and made a good first impression for the new campers was… somewhat important. He slowly leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees in a way that mirrored a certain redhead… unintentionally. "If it wasn't already obvious, I am River, your new leader… And son of Poseidon, if that matters." Sylas snorted softly at the irony but otherwise remained silent.

As he listened to River address them and talk about training, he couldn’t help but wonder about the fondness Anissa had for the man. From his perspective, this new leader seemed about as approachable as a puffer fish, but then again he wasn’t the one trying to fuck the man so perhaps his perspective was skewed or exceptionally not biased. He did, however, get the smallest modicum of an ounce of respect from Sylas for running the course himself rather than hovering, dictating and blowing a damn whistle. Of course, new-leader-boy had to run the course to near perfection and at an impressive speed that even Sylas, in all of his arrogance, didn’t think he could best.

"You have 15 minutes to complete the course—" River addressed them all after his run, covering the last formalities of their training—assessment before kicking everything off without a shred of pomp and circumstance. "...First up is Sloane, Sylas, Nate, Maylisse and Andy…"

Fantastic.

On the far edge of the arena, Sloane sat anxiously silent as she listened and watched with her hands tightly pinned between her knees to keep herself from bouncing her legs restlessly. She hated all of this for several reasons, but when she heard the first group rattled off and her name was the first to fall from River’s lips, she audibly scoffed in disbelief. Sure she wanted it done fast, but that didn’t mean she wanted to go first. Disappearing somewhere in the middle was her speciality and that comfort was ripped out from under her.

"Fuck," she grumbled under breath. "Seriously?" her voice pitched and face contorted like she was still coming to terms with all of it. Sloane groaned, pulling her elastic from her hair to re-fasten brown mane up into a tight messy bun while muttering curses and complaints beneath her breath.

She reluctantly pushed off the bench and turned to face the twins. Her lips parted to offer them some sort of self deprecating parting words, but she was silenced by a subtle shift behind her that sent an involuntary chill down her back. Her head slowly turned in time to find Sylas slotting himself beside her, shoulder to shoulder, with his fake charm and effortless smile that slipped into place like a skilled actor playing the role he had been practicing his whole life.

"New friends?" Sylas cocked his head to the side slightly, shifting his attention from Sloane to Katryna to Kacper. "I’m Sloane’s brother—and twin," he added in a matter-of-fact kind of way he never did, both siblings often choosing to omit that little fact rather than bring light their unusual relationship. But he wasn’t blind and he definitely wasn’t stupid. The two before him were also twins. The easiest opening to a conversation was common ground and he needed an entrance to shoehorn his way in like an invasive species."I’m Sylas," he offered his name, a charming smile and his right hand extended in greeting toward Kacper in a silent challenge.

Sloane’s blood ran cold and face somehow managed to grow paler than her already pale complexion. But where she looked like a ghost or faint, she still forced a smile that had more warmth than it had any reason to be, falling into her own practiced act of a loving sister… Even if that same warmth never touched her eyes like it had when she was laughing at diet black or comforted by the offer of chamomile tea. She faked a laugh that was eerily natural, but the inflection was different, maybe strained compared to her earlier weightless chuckles. She reached out, pushing Sylas’s hand away before Kacper had a chance to shake it.

"Оставь их в покое — Leave them alone." She effortlessly switched to Russian. Her tone was light and casual, like they could be having a conversation about the weather or she was secretly sharing her attraction to one of the twins without being brazen. A farce.

"Уже защищает? — Protective already?" Sylas taunted as he studied the pair before him. "Что это? — Which is it?" He mused, not seeking an answer but wishing to unravel it himself like a puzzle laid out before him. "Девушка? — The girl?" His gaze trailed over Katryna lazily, taking in her more timid nature and the way she hid beneath multiple coats in the warmth of the arena. "Я вижу сходство. — I can see the similarities." Then his attention shifted to Kacper, eyes narrowing a faint, almost imperceivable, amount as he studied the boy like he was sizing up a rival. "Или это мальчик? — Or is it the boy?" His head tilted. "Хотите заполнить пустоту, Liam? Вы всегда притягивали к себе тех, кто сломан. — Looking to fill the hole Liam left behind? You did always attract the broken ones."

Sloane went rigid, back straightening as her smile faltered for just a second. Her gaze focused on something in the distance rather than being able to bring herself to look at either one of them. The tips of her ears flushed but she did her best to act unaware as she forced another laugh. "по крайней мере у меня есть друзья. — At least I have friends."

"ты? — Do you?"

Her eyes narrowed slightly but she said nothing.

"Если бы вы открыли глаза и на мгновение подумали о ком-то другом, а не о себе, вы бы заметили, что сегодня утром трибуны совершенно пусты. — If you opened your eyes and thought of someone other than yourself for a moment, you’d notice the stands are quite bare this morning." Sylas pointed generally toward the other demigods that lingered and chatted as they waited for their turn on the obstacle course. "Сколько теперь? Должно быть не меньше четырёх. — What is the count now? It has to be at least four."

Sloane’s eyes scanned the waiting campers, sifting through the pool of familiar and new faces alike. She was missing something, she knew it, but she didn’t want to give Sylas the satisfaction of asking. Each second that ticked by made her heart race as she tried to connect the dots. She almost caved until she noticed the stark absence of the one person she had been avoiding nearly as much as she avoided her brother… Ace. Her eyes widened and she swallowed as her search became a bit more frantic. No Ace… No Anatoliy. No Elysium… No Duke. Every single person that talked to her the day before… just… gone. Her chest tightened as the panic churned and constricted.

"Сколько времени пройдет, прежде чем эти маленькие вороны тоже улетят? — How long before these little ravens scurry off too?"

She said nothing. Her gaze was fixated on an empty bench. Maybe if she stared and wished hard enough she could manifest them all…

"В следующий раз, когда мне понадобится от кого-то избавиться, я просто попрошу этого человека подружиться с тобой... Ты стал весьма... эффективным. — The next time I need to be rid of someone, I’ll just have them befriend you... You’ve become quite… efficent." Sylas let out a hardy chuckle as he patted her on the shoulder like siblings sharing playful insults before turning their assessment into a friendly competition. "We’ll see who crosses the finish line first, sis," he added one final comment in English as if to cement their entire banter was about training and nothing more. He gave her one last pat then turned and made his way toward the starting line.

Sloane did her best to never let her smile falter, even after he left… But she couldn’t bring herself to look at either of the twins. "He’s just… really competitive," she attempted to make light of their conversation as she pushed the sleeves of her hoodie up her arms until the cuffs rested in the crooks of her elbows. "I’ll uh… be back after I break an ankle or die." She tried to make one last joke at her own expense, but it fell flat as she turned from them and made her way toward the starting point of the course.

As she approached the tires alongside Sylas, Andy and two others she didn’t know, Sloane quickly accepted her fate as the most likely to fail. She already knew what her brother and Andy were capable of, fully aware that there was no way she could even compare to them. As for the other two… well they looked competent if nothing else, which was already more than herself. She cleared her throat and readied herself best she could.

Sylas, on the other hand, was unbothered by the newbies he didn’t care to get to know. The only competition he saw before him was Andy who readied herself on the far end of their line up. While this was an assessment and not a challenge, after Capture the Flag he had a growing need to one up her. His arrogance blinded him and there was no way he’d let himself be out done by the daughter of Hecate twice. He readied himself and the moment they were told to go, he pushed himself with an added fury and determination.

The entirety of the course he was hot on her trail. There was the occasional time where he inched head, if only because of the advantage his height gave him. But while he was physically fit and able to keep up fairly well, he wasn’t aware she was a military brat. So while he struggled at the first few seconds of every obstacle trying to find his rhythm and approach, Andy jumped into them effortlessly with a practiced confidence and speed. By the time they crossed the finish line he was about five seconds behind, cursing and kicking at the dirt once in frustration.

Meanwhile, Sloane brought up the rear from the minute the time started. She wasn’t tripping and stumbling through the obstacles like a new born deer, but she lacked the finesse and speed of the others. The tires were the easiest obstacle probably for most people, but once she was faced with the daunting gauntlet of upper body strength dependent tasks… That’s where she started eating away at time. She tried to take a page out of River’s book and take the ascending log hurdles like stepping stones, so rather than jumping or mounting each one, she hopped to the top of the first one then bounced across them quickly. To her surprise that actually gained her some time in comparison to the others, but that didn’t last long.

She wasn’t… abysmal at the low crawl. Sloane definitely wasn’t fast, but she pushed herself hard and was short, so she had a little more wiggle room for extra movement. The rope climb on the other hand… She made it to the top… eventually. After half a minute of struggling and only getting a foot off the ground, River told her she could move on, but if there was one thing that was true about Sloane, she was determined. Her form was horrid but she did it, although she also suffered some minor rope burn on the way down as well.

To her own surprise, she did moderately alright on the next handful of obstacles, crossing the bridge effortlessly, swinging on the rope with ease, running across the balance beams quickly before her clumsiness could fuck that up, and diving into the pool with a delicate poise. But after pulling herself out on the other side, tired and out of breath, she was faced with a ladder that looked like it was made for a giant. Her ascension was slow and precarious. She couldn’t steal River’s technique because… Well, she was fucking short. She had to pull herself up each rung one at a time like a kid climbing onto a counter, get to her feet and repeating. By the time she reached the top her palms were raw, her arms felt like noodles and her knees were shaky. Climbing back down proved to be the bigger challenge and two rungs from the bottom her grip was so weak that when her foot slipped and she fell to the ground with a thud that knocked the wind from her lungs.

Sloane coughed and wheezed on the ground trying to catch her breath. If anyone attempted to come help her, she shoved their hands away, stubborn, determined… and so damn close to the end. She pushed off the ground when she could manage to move and ran at the last obstacle—well it was more of a sad jog at that point, but she tried. Giving it her best, she jumped but was a few feet short of the end and landed knee deep in the pool of water. Panting and drained of energy, she climbed out of the pool and crossed the finish line. The temptation to collapse right then and there on the ground was high but she stayed on her feet, bracing her hands against her knees while trying to catch her breath. Her mind was buzzing so much from exhaustion that she didn’t even notice the way her clothes and hair went from drenched to bone dry in a blink.

Once she managed to regain enough energy, Sloane trudged her way back to the stands. She briefly caught a glimpse of her brother already seated, looking at her with a smug smile and judgemental squint of his eyes. She didn’t have enough energy to pay him any mind as she half fell back into her seat between Katryna and Kacper. "That—" she coughed, deep breaths still causing sharp pangs from her fall, knowing her back was going to be black and blue before the end of training. Her gaze fell to her hands, palms turned upwards showing the angry and torn open blisters that clung to her callous-less skin. "—sucked."

_{disclaimer : I do not speak or know Russian. This is google translate BS lol. Their actual words in English follow the Russian… I won’t make you all suffer to try and decipher that lol.}

^{interactions ....|.... katryna & kacper ............... mentions ....|.... river, evelyn, anissa, andy, maylisse & nate ............... collabs ....|.... myself??}