Perun

by Anathash

Chapter 7

Notes:

Perun (Перýн) the highest god of the slavic pantheon, the god of sky, thunder, lightning, storms, rain, law, fertility and war. He was (by some accounts) the son of Svarog, the husband of Mokosh, and the mirror image of the god Veles. He resides high in the branches of the World tree, watching over his domain.

In his childhood, Vars developed particular habits that made his role as the next Master of Whispers a transition easier than most. To be precise he liked to observe, as intently as possible. The land, the animals, and most importantly, the people. No matter whether peasant or noble, to him all of them were a subject of study. The attention to his interlocutors may have been honed by training, the keen observation of their accents, tone and manners certainly did, but the curiosity? That came before. Maybe when he and his mother left for the Capital. That’s when that useful habit came to develop. 

When he was four and his father was due for a visit, Vars found the highest vantage point possible to wait for any sign of his approach. Usually, it was days or even weeks before his father did ride through the massive stone gates of Fang Keep, Vars’ elder brother in tow, but the wait did not bother the young lord. If anything, it was just as exciting as his father's actual arrival. Soon he knew everything there was to know about the inner workings of the castle. There was just so much for a young child to hear while hidden in the centre of the most powerful country on the continent. 

It is that very skill that Renshu chose him for, one that he honed ever since. 

So now, at nineteen, Vars Griffin still likes to hide in the shadows, lurking out windows, perching himself at high vantage points, watching, listening, and memorising. It is on such an occasion that he looks out a newly replaced glass window into the courtyard and listens to the washing maids gossip about soldiers in a room close by. They left the door open. He is under no delusion that his people are the only spies in this castle. If they could overtake it, why couldn’t the Chains? They needed to be careful, especially with Xiao Lang coming. 

That’s when he hears the footsteps, light and careful, with a pattern to them that he memorised. Vars averts his gaze from the courtyard to see Zophia approaching.  

"There you are." 

Ever since she joined their side her appearance started to change notably. Vars got used to her villager persona, someone who could blend in any environment, be it the countryside roads or bustling alleyways of cities. It was her face, he suspected, plain features sprinkled with a healthy amount of freckles and light eyes, typical for the region. Although now Zophia switched her usual run-down disguise for a pair of pants and a variety of loose shirts that while not ostentatious, were clearly of fine craftsmanship. Most of all, it was the hair that made the biggest change, a strategic one at that — she wore it loose; no longer braided or covered by scarves, it pooled over her shoulders in honey-blonde waves. Only free women wore their hair loose, not bound by the shackles of marriage or obligation.  

"Something the matter?" 

Vars asks, putting his mundane task aside. It was not getting anywhere. 

"I just got hungry and hoped for some company." 

Zophia answers, shrugging her shoulders. It is slowly becoming a habit of theirs to dine together even if Renshu wasn’t present. Zophia made for a good conversation. 

"Anything good today?" 

He asks with a chuckle, knowing that Zophia has worked herself into the good graces of the cooks of Raven’s Hold. 

"Potato stew, they are saving the meat for the retinue." 

Vars winces. 

"I wish my brother would hurry up, then." 

"Come, it is not so bad." 

They make their way towards the kitchens, leaving the washers alone to their work. The Hold has been slowly rebuilding after the battle; the masons and soldiers sent by the Empress were already reconstructing the bridge, despite having arrived only days ago. They pass them on the way, hard at work. If they keep this pace it will be functional by the time the main force arrives. 

"Vars? Why does Renshu keep me here?" 

Zophia asks as they cut their walk through the garden, poor as it is, with barely a handful of greenery and two trees in the clearing surrounded by stone walkways. Not once has she addressed him by his proper title, no Sir Griffin or milord even. Zophia has always recognized him as a fellow information broker, nothing besides that. Even the amber hue of his eyes never seemed to faze her. If she weren’t great at her job, he would wonder if she knew that he was titled. Perhaps it is why Vars took such a liking to her— without the apparent disparity of their birth, they were equals. 

"You do know you chose to be here, right?" 

He asks, an amused expression painting his features.

"I know. I also know I would be more useful out in the field." 

"You are plenty useful now, Zophia." He assures her. "Doesn't your network work regardless?" 

"Of course it does, I have worked bloody hard for it to do… I guess I am just used to moving around. I have always kept moving with my network. Unlike you highborn folk, I don't have a home. No house for my enemies to burn either."

"Perhaps it is something he wants you to learn— how to move your network around you, not move with them." 

"Why?" 

Her footsteps behind him cease, forcing Vars to a stop. Thankfully one of the trees, puny as they are, provides the little bit of shade needed. Of course, Zophia isn’t the least bit affected by the heat. She stands in the sun, her head held high as she stares at him, awaiting an answer. 

"You know why." 

Her arms cross at that, the glare intensifying when she leans back. Could be a trick of light, as her whole face is shadowed by the scorching sun. 

"Spell it out for me."

Vars sighs. He supposes that talk is long overdue. They made no promises to her besides coins when they brought her in along with Ostwen and a number of other prominent brokers of the country. Among all of them, it was Zophia who stood out. No ties to regional lords, no ambitions of grandeur, but she was good at her job and discreet. Renshu rarely revealed the magnitude of his plans to him, not until they were ready, but Vars knew him enough to draw his own conclusions. 

"He knows your value. I would wager a good guess that you will be chosen as the Master of Whispers to whomever this region is granted to." 

Zophia is silent for a moment; the glare stays though, soured further by the downturn of her lips. It’s as if she is trying to decide if she likes that prospect. Finally, she turns slightly, the sun hits her face, but she doesn’t shy away from it.

"You know I have started this thing accidentally." Her face relaxes the longer it stays in the sun, basking in its treacherous heat as she spins her tale. "I was like them once, just a servant in someone else's employ. People like to talk around those who they perceive to be beneath them. The day one of them raised their hand against me was the day I sold my first piece of information. I realised then how valuable intelligence is, how much it can save, but also how much it can destroy. I learned to use it well over the years. It’s more valuable than coins, much more valuable than life. I had saved just as much as I had killed with it." 

When she finally turns back to him, her eyes are intense, gleaming in the shadows cast upon her flushed face. 

"My point is— I have freedom, and I have earned that freedom. I will not serve someone just because the Emperor points his finger at him." 

At times like this Vars wonders if even people he thought intelligent had their moments of weakness. And what did it say of their relationship for Zophia to outright tell him she would betray them or at least turn her back on their offer if she didn’t like their choice? Should he feel honoured by her trust or disappointed in it?

"At the end of the day, Zophia, you are an information broker. That’s a fickle business, is it not? We are offering you a job, stability, a title, and most importantly, a steady flow of money. All you need to do is protect who we choose and report back to us. I don’t think I need to remind you who you are up against otherwise?"

In the end, he hesitates between: not yet truly deciphering Zophia’s true intentions and not willing to let her know that. She smiles at the veiled threat, her eyes creasing as if it were genuine and not a product of tension.  

"Oh, I know." She sounds like she would be disappointed if they didn’t. Perhaps that would be the thrill of it for her, fooling the great Renshu WuYa. "Who will that be, do you have any wagers?" 

Perhaps it is simple curiosity that guides her questions or a way of diverging from the topic, however lightly. Vars shrugs; it is not up to him to decide such things, and although Xiao Lang has always stressed the importance of a somewhat legitimate bloodline taking over, Wave could very well be an exception. Velenia sits still and loyal only because they brought the blood of House Rion back into its seat of power, and Lady Rovanna is content with the husband she had wed. Riverdale is so stricken by what happened in Lindow that they accepted the distant cousin, Rowen Blackwell just so their nightmare ends. Bohemia on the other hand is still uncertain. It is content now only because it’s surrounded by the Empire and its allies at every border. Not to mention, the last daughter of House Shibazeki being held captive in the Golden Valley. She was too young to wed when they took the land, but Vars is sure she will be soon enough. They can’t have that here, Wave needs to be secure if they ever wish to leave it. And if they want it secure, they need the Princesses alive. 

"An obvious choice would be an unmarried man close to Xiao Lang, or at least someone he trusts, and that list is short as it is." 

Zophia stares at him as if she were trying to figure out a puzzle, her doe eyes nearly turning into slits from that scrutinising gaze.

"Don’t you fit that description? You are the Emperor's cousin, are you not?" 

Perhaps a few years ago Vars would wonder that himself. Why wasn’t he considered for any of the Wardens? He was a child jealous of his elder brother, one hopeful for a home and household of his own. Ever since he took these lessons alongside his cousins, ever since he learned what it is to manage his own territory, he wanted it. There was an allure to the careful balance of income and outcome, the politics of vassality and stewardship. But more so than that, he wanted a place to call home. Sythia was never home, Xi’an was never home, and with time home became a distant memory of his mother’s warmth. Vars craved a home, perhaps more than he was willing to admit. 

"My future is already decided, Zophia." 

His feelings did not matter. Not in the face of the bigger picture. He was set to become the next Master of Whispers. He is to protect his Emperor, to be the shadow forever carved into his side. Vars would give his life for Xiao Lang in a heartbeat, and not because he was sworn to do so by an oath older than his bloodline. Vars would kill for Xiao Lang because he is his brother, more than Domomir ever was. So if Xiao Lang chooses to grant him his own territory, as his father did for Renshu, maybe then Vars will have his home. Till then, he will be content where he is, by his brother’s side. 

"In a few years’ time, I will be who you will report to."

He says, leaning in a bit, part of his face scorching in the light.

"I hope so." Her voice becomes light again, the smile less cunning and more genuine. "So choose the Warden of my home wisely." 

Home again. These lands of unbearably hot summers were her home. Could an entire country be considered home? Perhaps to her, nomadic in nature as she was, everyone with the same accent of the common tongue, the same ancient language, and similar culture could be considered such. Perhaps he could consider a lush forest home? The fields of Sythia? The rivers of the Crownlands? 

"Madam!" A frantic voice calls out from over the bridge, one easily identified as a young errand boy currently sprinting towards them with his eyes fixated on Zophia. "Madam! A missive for you!" 

Vars knows him well - the little lad helps the old raven keeper. A nimble boy from the surrounding town, in charge of running out with letters and messages alike; no matter if it came on a raven or by horse, the rascal would be sure to deliver it. Good thing he barely knew his letters or else he would be privy to more secrets than the three spies currently residing in Raven’s Hold. 

He stops before them only to force the scroll of parchment into Zophia’s one hand and take the bronze wolf from the other. The spy shakes her head in amusement watching the boy zoom by for a moment before unfolding the message. The remnants of her smile fall immediately, and as her eyes continue reading, her expression continues to harden. Finally, she looks up at him and says the words Vars knows mean only upcoming trouble. 

"We need to find Renshu." 

一一一一

Xiao Lang swears he is going to ban people from interrupting their meals if this goes on. Gods forbid they have barged in even ten minutes sooner. The spectacle of his wonderful wife on top of him would make anyone think twice about doing so again. Alas it is another meal interrupted, and he is sure it will grow cold before this conversation is over so he shoves a big spoonful of porridge into his mouth before even turning around towards their uninvited guest. 

"My men sent news this morning."

It’s Amir Eihon standing at the entrance, dressed in his colourful leathers, bells dangling from his thick braid. Xiao Lang likes that braid- it makes the already handsome man much more distinguished. He also likes the fact that his men seem to be the best additions to his army to date. Well, they are more determined than most, given the fact that they are asking him to split a previously unified territory. It’s a lot of headache and a lot of paperwork, but if they keep going like this, Xiao Lang will throw an extra pasture land in, just because he can.

"Good Morning to you too, Amir." 

Says Sakura, buttering up a bun with an obscene amount of jam. It’s a good day for her: no nightmares, no nausea. If she is indeed pregnant, her only symptoms thus far are a ridiculous sweet tooth and an even more ridiculous sex drive. He remembers Fuudie’s first nightmare of a pregnancy; she kept throwing things at his poor good brother. Xiao Lang still marvels at how on earth she had ever agreed to two more after that. Briefly, he wonders when he will have to start practising his dodging. 

"Do join us." 

A normal vassal would refuse, then again, a normal ruler would not offer. And as much as Xiao Lang tries to maintain a friendly relationship with his Wardens, it is certainly not Sakura’s type of friendly. Which includes making them drag an additional chair to their cluttered table, and shoving a jam-filled bun into their hands. And Amir, who Xiao Lang would never peg for having a sweet tooth, thanks her and bites into the monstrosity eagerly. When he finally hands him the scroll, he has jam running down his face and yet another bun from Sakura in his hand. Xiao Lang can hear his wife inquiring about Karlura’s letters (apparently she sends them through Amir and a hawk) while he unfold the parchment.

He suspected word from men left behind at Cradle Ford, or the two sent to catch up with Feimei, but alas it is another matter entirely. The deserters have been found. Out of the ten, only four survived their squirmish with the clansmen and were apparently dragged (quite literally) back to Andermatt where they await trial, one they want him to oversee. A trial, huh? Like he would give them one. Oh, he will certainly speak with them, but there will be no trial. They don’t deserve one. 

"Good work, Amir." 

The young Chief nods his head, mouth full of a bun while taking his attention off of Sakura. 

"Should I send a word to execute them?" 

He asks, still carefully chewing. 

"Execute who?" 

Sakura asks, her smile faltering. 

"The deserters." 

She is surprised for a second there, her brows rising before something unpleasant settles in the lines of her face. Something that tells him she will oblige any methods he chooses this time around. 

"They found them?" 

"Yes. And we are invited for the trial."  

"Will there be a trial?" 

She asks before biting into her sloppy bun despite the sour expression on her face. 

"No— but there might be an interrogation."

Sakura hums, knowing full well what he means. 

"I shall ask Rika to prepare my tiara then, the children wanted to see it." 

Yun Lee and Kerberos make it a mission to race each other on the last stretch to the village. They run down the hill with all their vigour, not caring for its steepness. Xiao Lang watches, amused, as Kerberos takes a tumble right at the foot of it, giving Yun Lee the advantage she needs to win the impromptu race. Sakura laughs, quickly covering her smile with her gloved hand. The lion would not let her hear the end of it he overheard. Xiao Lang doesn’t have that problem though, as he makes sure Kerberos hears the laugh.

"Stop it, he complains about you enough." 

Sakura reprimands him, gently swatting his shoulder. It doesn’t stop his grin from spreading. 

"Maybe this is what I need. For my harshest critic to be my wife’s overgrown cat." 

Sakura emits a sound between a suppressed laugh and a snort. 

"He does behave like a kitten sometimes, does he not?" 

She asks, amusement sparkling in her eyes as she tries her best not to laugh. 

"I did see him chase a ball of yarn once." 

He says, leaning slightly out of his saddle and into her side. That does it; Sakura giggles, softly enough for said lion not to overhear. She is stunning today. Her tiara adores her fringe, emeralds catching the summer sun. Her hair done in two thick braids, framing her face elegantly, their ends secured with gold accessories and fiery red ribbons. He can catch glimpses of Mokosh’s symbols engraved upon the metal. She is wearing red today, its vibrancy broken with the white of her undershirt and the green details embroidered upon the garment. It’s been a while since he has seen her in her maiden colours. 

"You look radiant, by the way." 

He says softly. Sakura’s gaze jumps to him immediately, her face flushing ever so slightly. She smiles, a residue of laughter still there. 

"Thank you." She says softly before turning back to the village. "I wished to dress up for the little girls, they called me Princess." 

"You are a Princess." 

He reminds her, causing Sakura to roll her eyes. 

"Not the point. They have been through so much, a lot of them would not talk before they saw me. Somehow seeing pretty dresses and sparkling jewellery made them feel like kids again. It’s not much, but it’s something at least."   

Xiao Lang doesn’t remember how many war orphans he saw. He doesn’t even know how many orphanages had to be built over the course of this war. It is one of the things that he simply accepted, something that has to be included in the yearly budget planning and nothing else. Something to be informed of and managed, but not be at the forefront of his mind. Nor is it something to feel for. Perhaps it is yet another thing he ought to leave in Sakura’s care. If she wants it, that is. Orphanages and schools are always in need of patronage, royal or not. And while he himself can’t outright sponsor any, his spouse surely w can. But that is something to discuss later, when they are actually in Xi’an. 

"You are doing what you can, Sakura, that’s what is most important here." 

She sends him yet another tight-lipped smile.

"Now, come on, our glorified pets are still arguing." 

Xiao Lang takes his time to inspect the progress of the village as they slowly make their descent down the hill. From Sakura’s tale and the reports, he expects a much more dreadful picture, but in nearly a week Master Alvaldi has outdone himself. He can still see construction, but it is clear that they are nearing the end of it. Some skeletal work rises in the distance but Xiao Lang can see no debris left, only homes, although bare of the regional colours and symbols, the wood fresh in comparison. They all seem to be raised around a single, large tree. He wonders if they left one of Sakura’s creations standing. 

Chief Hillbloom is standing right by the entrance to the settlement, eyeing the still arguing familiars wearily, with one of the Clansmen to his right. Sakura starts not with a greeting but with a loud shout for both the familiars to: 

"Settle down, already!" The animals freeze for a moment, turning to them in an instant. "For Veles’ sake, you are scaring people." 

Yun Lee actually looks at Xiao Lang with pleading eyes, as if she was sure that it’s unfair for her to be shouted at when she isn’t the problem. 

"Don’t give me that look, girl." He says and drops down from his saddle now that they are close enough. "Come here, you two need a break from each other." 

"You too, Kero. Yun Lee won fair and square, you can have a rematch when we will be returning back to camp." 

Yun Lee actually pouts, but does trot to Syaoran’s side as he helps Sakura out of her own saddle. Kerberos looks like he wants to retort, but one glare from his mistress is enough to bite his tongue. 

Finally they can turn their attention back to the village. Xiao Lang does not particularly like entering villages. In the cities people rarely acknowledge royalty beyond getting out of their way(excluding the official processions or festivities). He prefers it that way. The importance of his station should not be recognized by the peasants bending over at his sight, but by the terrifying fact that his one decision could end all of their lives. He does not need the unease that always comes with a flock of peasants falling to their feet at the mere sight of an emerald banner. He hopes for a repeat of Sakura’s earlier experience. Even if it was spurred by mistrust, he will take it over the bows and kneels that occur in front of him now. 

"Should have brought a chamberlain to complete this with a trumpet and a long list of titles." 

He murmurs under his breath as they slowly approach the gathering. Sakura sends him a confused look in turn. 

"I have not once seen our chamberlain." 

"That’s because he is in Xi’an, where all of the court etiquette should stay." 

A strangled sound escapes her before she rolls her eyes. 

"Chief Hillbloom, please raise." 

The man, much younger than Xiao Lang anticipated, but whose face still bears some marking of age, rises from a low bow. He looks more sheepish than described, although again, he might have expected only Sakura to show up. This is, after all, only a small village, a mere spot on the growing map of the Empire. Normally, Xiao Lang would give the execution orders and move on, but something here doesn’t add up, and he is far too curious to let it be. Besides, he wanted to see Sakura’s trees. 

"Welcome to Andermatt, Emperor Xiao Lang." He says, his voice careful, his manner guarded. He then turns to Sakura, a small smile entering his lips. "Welcome back, Empress." 

Sakura smiles in return and gestures to their own young Chief to extend another introduction. 

"Chief Hillbloom, allow me to introduce Amir Eihon, Chief of all the Mountain Clans." 

"A pleasure, Chief Eihon. I believe your father came here often to trade." 

"I think so, he was one to venture past the valleys." 

"How is he?" 

"Good, although he chose to retire for the time being. He is not at an age to lead the hunters to war." 

The Chief chuckles. 

"Oh, I know the feeling. I am not exactly a spring chicken myself." 

His smile falters slightly. 

"I must say, you have chosen the most curious timing for your visit. We have just lit the pyres in the morning so food is plenty. Can I offer you some refreshments?"

Edward Hillbloom asks, clearly focusing the question on Sakura. She smiles in return, but steals a glance at Xiao Lang in a silent question. 

"Perhaps later, Chief. I would like to see the prisoners first." 

The Emperor answers. Chief’s smile tightens again, perhaps he didn’t expect them to get right into business upon arrival. 

"Of course, right this way."  

The Chief leads them down a beaten path. Villagers rise slowly from the ground, following the procession. Their nervous faces soften as they meet Sakura’s curious gaze. It seems that her previous actions here have left a positive impact. Behind them follow the Clansmen, hurriedly reporting developments to Amir in a hushed tone and a foreign tongue.

The village itself looks nearly ready. It is clear that both its residents and the soldiers took the tight deadline to heart. All the houses they passed looked livable, their fresh wooden walls half painted and glossed, the windowsills installed, some furniture still being built in the yards. They seemingly only halted the renovations mere moments before their arrival, and would likely resume the work, as they gathered around the homes, stealing glances in the direction of the guests. 

"The tensions run high so we keep the arsonists in the Temple to deter the people from any idea of a mob law." 

The Chief gestures forward, to the temple rising in their path, still obscured by construction. The patchwork of wood making up its structure tells Xiao Lang it was not spared in the attack. 

"I can imagine." 

He says, focusing back on Hillbloom. 

"Thankfully, the Clansman kept them safe until your arrival." 

"I think they can stop today." 

There is a halt to the Chief’s step, quickly corrected but noticeable all the same. The man looks at Xiao Lang, hesitation clear in his ageing features. 

"Do you want to hold a trial now, Your Grace?" 

He asks, those light eyes never leaving the ruler. 

"I am not here for a trial, Chief. The case is too clear-cut for that." Xiao Lang clarifies, shrugging his shoulders. As much as Sakura is here to curry the good favour of one village, he is here on business, and he is not about to play benevolent ruler with his reputation as is. "What I need from them is information, after that… we can throw them to the people if that makes them happy." 

"Is that how the Empire works?" 

The question surely did not come without prompting, the intention clear as day. The Chief knows that his quaint village now falls under the Empire’s governance. He is testing the waters of how they should expect their lives to look like from then on out. Xiao Lang obviously has plans. It seems that war brought on some of the ingenuity that was only prompted by mischief in his childhood. 

"Trials are the norm, yes. We can hold one if you would like, but only after I get what I need from them. There is a system to these things, our villages have laws they are expected to obey. Within that they simply govern themselves, pay taxes, and report back. There are people who check on things regularly. Villages fall under the jurisdiction of minor Houses, and they are governed by major Houses, who in turn are governed by Wardens. I am the one who takes care of Wardens. Everything flows in order. Without it, an Empire of our magnitude wouldn’t last this long." 

Of course, the decentralisation of power only works because of codependency and convenience. That is the point of the entire structure of the Empire, of the fairness poured into the Li family from infancy. Make the people comfortable, so comfortable they will not even think of a rebellion. And keep the Lords so scared of you and your power they too will be kept on a tight leash. It's a careful balance, one that wasn’t properly shaken for hundreds of years. 

"It is a great understanding for one so young." 

Chief Hillbloom says, not particularly condescending, but it is still clear he is not used to such a young person in place of so much power. Xiao Lang had his fair share of them before his first battle — old men who thought they could get in his head purely because of his age. Not one of them would dare to say anything now. 

"Naivety is a privilege I cannot afford, Chief." 

Hilbloom nods.

"I can understand that." 

Naivety is a gift now, a blissful and carefree existence that all of them inherently seek, but none can achieve. Not if they have the capacity to fully comprehend the world around them. As such naivety is left to children. All try to shield their young eyes from the horrors the world inflicted upon its inhabitants. One does not have to look past the threshold of Andermatt to see how much they failed. 

There is a girl on the steps of an unfinished home, her hair in braids, finished with pretty ribbons, a woman who does not look like her, fixing them in place. She stares ahead, not focusing on anything in particular. Xiao Lang recognizes the gaze immediately. He has seen it plenty - in soldiers, in civilians, in the people left alive in Lindow, in himself. 

A privilege indeed, and a very dangerous one. 

For the second time today, he thinks of all the orphanages he will ask Sakura to patronise. 

The Temple is indeed guarded by no less than four clansmen. It would seem the Chief does not fully trust his own people not to strangle the arsonists in the house of Gods. They could place them under the biggest oak in the Holy Grove and they wouldn’t be safe. At best they would make nice sacrifices to please the more vengeful Gods. Xiao Lang is not one to judge, nearly all of his opponents were dedicated to Gods; his patron in particular seemed to enjoy them, seeing that his luck is yet to run out.

From this close, Xiao Lang can really see the patchwork this building has become; some of it managed to escape the fire by some miracle, and now the greyed wood stands out against the reddish oak even with all the work put into it. Perhaps it will remain a painful reminder of what the village has gone through. 

Sakura takes his hand as the doors of the Temple start to open, its hinges creaking with age and wear. Xiao Lang spares her a glance as he fits her palm into his own, a hold that became comfortable as they grew into each other. She looks at him too, nothing but the slight bite of her lip betraying her nerves. He wants to tell her she does not need to go in, that he can shoulder this particular burden alone. But he knows she would refuse. For it is a demon she needs to face. So instead, he gives her an encouraging smile and holds her hand tight. 

The Temple is dark and quiet, its windows boarded shut, the unguarded doors barricaded tightly. A place of gathering and worship, the heart of the village life, turned into a prison, butchered by the ruthless reality they had come to live in. There is little light coming through the unfinished roof. Singular pillars of it sip between the skeleton of the building and onto its uneven floors. The harsh sunshine creates an even harsher shadow - everything out of it is barely a silhouette in his eyes. He can see some benches pushed against the walls, some tables, chairs, even ceremonial braisers, bits and pieces of hardware, and furniture possibly stored here before the space was further desanctified. Two more of the hunters are inside, sitting in the light, on the only bench not pushed to the side. They stand up as soon as the doors open, turning away from the darkness encompassing the altar. 

A rattling of chains sounds through the silence, forcing his eyes forward, into the darkness, looking for its source. They are there, in the shadows, pushed up against the wall, eyes glowing in the dark. Like animals trembling inside of their cage. 

"Your Grace!" 

Sounds one, his voice hoarse as he cries out the title like a plea. He is the only one of them that dares to speak. The others still, their bodies backing up as far into the wall as humanly possible, desperately trying to gain some distance between themselves and the danger they are facing.

"We did your bidding! We spread your glory!" 

Sakura’s hand twitches. Fingers wrapped around his, clinging tighter than before. Her face twists in anger, teeth clenched, muscles tight. Disgust morphs her face into something he has yet to see on her, something cold and vicious. Something that shouldn’t suit her. 

She lets go of his hand abruptly, not even looking in his direction as she steps forward. He follows suit, making sure he is a few steps behind her. Careful not to overstep her, but close enough to react if anything happens. His hand lays on Zhanlu unconsciously, the familiar pattern of the handle calms him down. 

Sakura’s back is tight like a violin string, and he knows it's her way of detaching herself, of using her mask like a literal shield. Kerberos steps out with her, his head held as high as hers, completing the menacing picture she tries to portray. Out there, with her gentle smiles and keen ears, she was the Empress she wanted to be. Now it is the Bright Flame who stands before them — the Empress she needed to be. 

"I suggest you stop lying now." Sakura says finally, her voice frigid, the unusual calm only adding to its frostbite. "If you wish for a quick death, that is." 

He wonders what he would see in her eyes now. Would they be as gelid as her voice? What would the green he came to associate with warmth akin to the sun, look like? How would it feel to see such an antithesis of her gazing at him? Could he be able to glimpse beyond whatever facade she has set up? Could he recognize his wife within the Bright Flame? (let's not kid ourselves boy would be into that)

"The Bright Flame, we are your most humble servants—"

The vermin speaks again, leaning out even more, chains straining to keep him in place. There is a craze of desperation in his eyes. Does he really believe the nonsense he is speaking? Does he convince himself of the truth of his twisted reality? Or did someone else?  

"If you confess now, I will convince His Grace to simply hang you." 

She continues as coldly as before. Xiao Lang focuses on the deserters, on the crazed eyes completing the picture of misery. He has seen it enough times to know how this will play out. They will not say anything, too shellshocked to even consider the offer until it will be too late to take one. There is something they are more scared of than the noose, more than him even. They won’t be hard to break. 

"A quick and painless death for your information." 

The only man that managed to speak remains silent now. For a moment there, Xiao Lang expects to hear his desperate voice again, a shred of information hiding in the delusion. The man looks at Sakura, his gaze changing rapidly, the craze giving way to uncertainty, and then his whole body falls. The rigidness leaves his shoulders, his gaze drops and the chains rattle again, loosening as he falls back against the wall. Sakura’s shoulders ease simultaneously.

She does not try again. 

Instead, she turns around, and he gets an answer to his question. There is no warmth in her eyes now, no gentle crinkle to them. Instead, he is met with a steely gaze that resembles the emeralds encrusting her tiara. Cool and lifeless as the gem itself. It seems that not every prisoner will bring forth the compassion of his Empress. It is for the better. 

Xiao Lang raises one arm slightly, the one not resting on the hilt of his sword, in a silent invitation. Sakura takes it, letting his hand rest on the small of her back as she places a kiss on the edge of his jaw. He presses one to her fringe, his lips brushing one of the gems of her tiara. 

"Find me when you deal with this, my wolf." 

She says, leaning back. Her gaze is softer now, more like her, even if the muscles of her jaw don’t unclench. He nods, brushing a loose curl behind her ear as he lets her go. It is progress, he concludes as he watches her disappear behind the Temple doors. Just a few weeks ago she wouldn’t let this go as easily, if at all. She is not only aware of what he does now, she understands it needs to be done. 

The doors to the Temple shut behind her, echoing between its scorched walls. 

Xiao Lang lets the sound die down. 

The slight rattling of chains revibrates through the air. Silence saturates the space so much he can hear their rapid breaths, quickening as the pause stretches on. Xiao Lang doesn’t move, he just looks, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. He starts with the bravest one, with his dark, unnerved eyes. He takes his time with him, stares until he can see the terror in his features. Just long enough to make them question their sanity. He doesn’t move to the next one until his first victim can’t do much but shiver into themselves, the tremble jangling in the silence. 

He only speaks when the rattling is constant, unyielding in his ears, so much so that he doesn’t know where the sound ends and the echo begins. That’s when he can almost taste it — the fear saturating the space around him. At times like these, he wonders how much truth is there to the myths surrounding his family. How much of a wolf could be found in his blood. 

"My Empress is a wonderful woman, is she not?" 

The Emperor asks, turning from the prisoners to his companions. The Chief of Andermatt stands a few paces behind him, his eyes focused on the prisoners. He only turns from them when asked, his face hardened by hatred morphs into a strained smile momentarily, one that leaves as soon as the words do. 

"Of course, Your Grace." 

Amir only nods. He has now positioned himself by his hunters, leaning against the piles of benches and smote wood as he observes the situation with keen eyes. Xiao Lang wonders what he will think of the display he is about to see, the confirmation of his well-known reputation. Will he even care? When these heads are paying the price for everything his people need?

Xiao Lang wouldn’t. Not with his family on the line.

"So compassionate, so kind, so— forgiving." 

He drags the last word out, turning back to the prisoners, looking into their eyes once more. He then takes a few steps forward, picking up the bench the hunters previously occupied, and drags it with him. The wood scrapes on the floor, leaving a disconcerting sound in its wake. A screech so high-pitched it makes even his teeth rattle. He drops it but a pace in front of them, knowing full well it is just out of reach when the chains stretch fully. It falls with a loud thud , startling his prey further. He sits down, Yun Lee quickly following suit. His smart girl always knows how to make herself look scary, being a constant companion in his interrogations. Right now her fangs are out, and a low growl escapes her snout, but she does not move, simply sits, and waits. 

"Unfortunately for you, I take offences towards my dearest wife very seriously." 

Xiao Lang continues, his hand dropping to extract the knife strapped to his calf. It is a simple thing, much unlike the ornamental kind he had given Sakura. Its blade, serrated and sharp, holds a different purpose, even if it ultimately leads to the same outcome. When he looks up, the blade balancing between his hands, rotating with each flick of his wrist, their gazes are focused on it. Eyes wide, pupils blown, a picture of pure fear. And he is yet to do anything. 

"And you have offended her greatly." 

The blade stops, the sharp tip pushing into his riding gloves. The man in the middle draws breath again - the shallow sound of it attracts his attention immediately. Xiao Lang focuses on him, his copper gaze nearly unblinking, tracking the rapid movement of his eyes. 

"W-We… We did wh-what we were told." 

The man finally manages to utter, much less confident when it was the Empress standing before him. Perhaps now he begins to grasp the gravity of their situation. 

A wolf stands before him, and he is not known for his mercy. 

The blade rotates, its pointed edges catching light.

"Yes, yes you have said that." 

But they never said who had told them that. A part of Xiao Lang wonders if there is some truth to his words, some mystery to unravel, a puppet master behind this insanity. It’s an inkling, a question nudging at the corner of his mind. He doesn’t like this prospect. It is complicated, it is long, and he is tired. He doubts it, too experienced not to know that the simplest answer is most often the truth. The feeling stays all the same. 

"Two options stand before you. Either you tell me now who you work for, and I grant you a quick, albeit painful death. Or— I will make you beg for it." 

He gives them a beat, then two, his eyes focusing on the middle man, the only one to still have the courage to look into his eyes. The blade still rotates, just as much a taunt as it is a tick. 

"Personally… I wouldn’t mind a challenge if you did want to beg." He says again, when he gets not an answer but a strangled sob. "It’s been so long since someone has truly made me work for it." 

He raises his brow in a silent question. 

"We did what we were told." 

The man says again. 

The blade stops. The hard way, then. 

"Sir Artem. Bring me that brazier, please." 

Xiao Lang raises from his seat abruptly, pointing to one of the ceremonial braziers pushed up against the wall. The knight obliges, throwing a few stray pieces of wood inside before dragging it before his monarch. A silent incantation, a flick of his wrist, and soon a fire ignites between the charred steel bars. Xiao Lang watches as his magic consumes the wood, catching onto the remnants of ceremonial coal and herbs lingering at the bottom. It fills the air with a pleasant aroma. 

"I have always been a bit fascinated with village justice." 

The Emperor muses, eyes straying from the braiser to look for the Chief. The man stands a few feet away, hands tucked behind his back, jaw set, his eyes not straying from the fire.  

"Do you know, Chief, what do the people of the Empire do with arsonists?" 

Edward Hillbloom blinks, gaze snapping back to Xiao Lang. 

"N-No, Your Grace."

The Chief amidst, taken aback by the question. Xiao Lang hums and rotates his knife quickly before sliding it into the bottom of the braiser. 

"If they are caught in time, they are thrown right into the fire they ignited."

The fire continues to build, smoke rising up and finding its way out through the unfinished roof. He recognises the smell of mullein right away. Must have been used in the last rite before the attack. 

"It is said that sometimes, whatever is left of them crawls out of the fire, wheaver by curses or magic, and continues to roam the earth to atone for its sins. Some say it is their punishment from the Gods. Rarely do these souls are granted atonement on Allfathers’ Eve.*"

The blade is turning red, brightening with each second spent in the fire.  

"I know the fire is already put out, but we can always make a new one, perhaps from the rubble?" 

The Gods would love it, of that he is sure. Poetic justice is their favourite, after all. If it weren’t, then why would they bless his conquest so? Why wouldn’t they take his power and give it to someone else? He swore his conquest to Perun, and was blessed in turn. So many lives have already been taken in the name of revenge. These ones wouldn’t be his though. Here he is but an executioner for his people, the one who will see these souls find Navia with their murderers finally dead.  

He puts his hand on the hilt. The polished wood is barely warm in his gloved hand. He flicks the burning blade in his hand, turning back to his prisoners. 

"What do you say, boys? Maybe one of you will crawl out." 

Sakura squints when the summer sun hits her skin again. It's a harsh awakening after the dimness of the temple, but one she needed. It happened again: that sickening hollowness returned to her body, detaching her from herself, drowning her in her own hatred to the point she couldn’t even feel that anymore. She feels as if she is being put into a tight box, constricting her from within, threatening to crush her. She supposes it is for the better. Panic doesn’t suit the Bright Flame. 

Yet now, the temple doors closed behind her, with the no doubt violent interrogation inside, her feeling returns once more. Shame it only manifests as nausea. The waves of it hit her every time she recalls those frightened eyes, looking at her, fearing her. Her husband is supposed to be the intimidating one, she is here to be the reasonable one in this marriage. Yet she is just now realising what being reasonable for a monarch at war is. 

They deserve to die. In a manner as terrible as Syaoran can grant them. It is terrifying to admit it to herself, but she wants them to suffer. She wants these deaths avenged, even for the souls of their victims to rest come Forefathers’ Eve. Even for her own gratification, a warning, so no one ever uses her name for something so horrific again. All this anger and yet she can’t help another wave of nausea when she hears the first scream break behind locked doors. 

"Are you feeling okay, Sakura?"

Kerberos nudges her with his snout, upset at her prolonged stillness. Sakura casts a glance at him, her hand diving into his fur on reflex. Lao Mei must have brushed it recently, having taken quite a liking to the same animal that previously scared her half to death. 

"I will be fine."

Recently all the familiar has been doing is asking about her wellbeing. It is becoming concerning. She was always the one to be taking care of him, and now she looks into his big black eyes and sees only worry. Worst of all, it is not about to change anytime soon. 

"How about we go catch up with the villagers? Andermatt is looking quite different." 

"Maybe— Maybe I should go help Yun Lee? She has been doing so much—" 

Sakura freezes. Where did he get such an idea?

"No." 

"But—"

"No, Kero. Yun Lee is used to this, you are not." She tells him sternly. The lion clearly wants to argue more, but Sakura cuts him off with the only argument she knows will always work. "Besides, aren’t you supposed to protect me, oh my great beast of the seal?" 

It works. If there is anything Sakura can be sure of it is her familiar’s pride in his lifelong mission. He has been the protector of mages ever since the grimoire’s creation centuries ago, reborn with every Master chosen to support them in their journey. If he only seeks to help, he can do so from her side, away from all the bloodshed. 

"There you are, Your Grace." 

Sakura turns from Kerberos, her hands still caressing his mane. At the entrance to the temple grounds stands Martha Hillbloom. Her hair is braided in a crown, embroidered ribbons weaved through ash blonde locks. Her garb is simple, layers of linen blended together, but Sakura easily identifies ritual symbols in the stitching. She looks much younger than Sakura judged her to be on her previous visit. Or perhaps it is the burden of tragedy that has aged her so. 

"Hello, Chieftess." 

"Are you feeling up for a tour? I have been told Edward has neglected to give you one." 

"He wanted to, but he is rather occupied at the moment." 

She clarifies, gesturing to the Temple behind her.

"I see, then shall— Oh Gods!" 

Martha’s kind smile morphs into horror when she follows Sakura’s hand, glancing at the Temple. There, where the roof should sit, piles a cloud of smoke. For a moment Sakura stills too, but the smoke is thin, light in its colour, as if controlled. Wasn’t fire Syaoran’s other speciality? 

"It’s okay." She says calmly, capturing the bewildered gaze of the Chieftess. "His Majesty is simply interrogating the prisoners. Nothing to fret over, Martha." 

"I-interrogating?" 

Martha blinks at her, perplexed at her explanation, failing to see how the apparent fire is related. Sakura would rather not think about all the creative possibilities of its use - too many come to mind already. 

"Yes."

Sakura is surprised her voice doesn’t waver. Being in front of the panicked Chieftess, she feels a wave of calm washing over her. Perhaps it is simply her mask slipping back on now that eyes are back on her, however informal they may be. Or perhaps it’s the smoke rising in the sky, telling her that soon all the souls of Andermatt shall be avenged. And no matter the need for justice burning inside her in the Temple, she knows she wouldn’t like to be there when they do. 

"Now, the tour?" 

 

 

Andermatt is bustling with life. 

It is so clear which homes are new, their walls freshly made, the wood not yet coated in colourful paints. Their oak aroma fills the streets, mixing with the smell of foods passed around between the people; smoked meats, fresh bouncing breads soaked in hearty stews that look like they could melt on your tongue. The pyres were lit yesterday, and it would seem the wake* has continued till today. The celebration of life even in the face of monumental loss seemed to bring some much needed light into the community. As if the people built themselves up along with the village. Mayhaps it was the sense of purpose that is helping them find themselves anew despite the horrors they endured. A wound as deep as this would not scab over for years to come, but perhaps at least now, with the semblance of security the Empire brings, the people of Andermatt could have hope. 

In the middle of their new square rose a single oak. Its bark twisted but sturdy, as if it rose up to accommodate more growth, pushing and pulling on the neighbour that was no longer there, its branches only fanning out where they could breathe on their own. 

They left one of her trees. 

Now it stands right in the heart of their village. Its branches spread above the square, light sipping through leaves to shine upon all gathered here as if they were there to shield and protect. There are children playing in its shade, and others climbing the sturdy branches, finding perches in the twist and turns of the wood. 

There was a tree Sakura loved the most in her mother’s forest. One which bark coiled in on itself, rising almost in a spiral. How many times had she climbed it as a child, reaching its peak to look upon the vast forest below her, just so she could truly feel her mother’s magic among its branches? She wonders if one of the children here can feel it, too. The pull her magic must have left in the wood under their hands. Will it spark a call only ever heard in the presence of nature? In the groan of trees on a peculiarly windy day? The crack of ritual fire on a solstice night? A small push to awaken a talent as ancient as their civilization?

She can see that tree in her oak. Her mother’s magic in its twisted branches. The very thought brings tears to her eyes. 

"Hope you don’t mind that we left one. We wanted a reminder of you, and what you have done for us." 

Martha says after a beat of silence. Sakura can barely tear her gaze from the children, her mind still wandering in the past, stretching out only to look for a vague possibility of the future in those strained, pudgy faces. A hand presses onto her shoulder. 

"I am honoured, Chieftess." Sakura meets her gaze, her eyes softening when she notices the tears. Her hand raises to cover Martha’s own. The Chieftess takes that hand in between her own, her skin hardened by years of work, but thin with age. "Truly. Thank you for giving me a chance to right this wrong." 

Martha’s smile wavers, lips pinching together in an effort to keep tears at bay. She simply shakes her head, keeping Sakura’s hand in her tight embrace. For a moment, she just stares at their joint hands, a look of deep concentration settling in her features. And just as she is about to say something, a loud screech interrupts her. 

"Look, it's the Empress!"

"Lady Magi!" 

"You have a crown!"

"Look how high I can climb!"

"Did you bring your knight!?" 

"Dummy! It’s the Emp- the Empelo-Emperor!"

The children scramble from among the branches - some have climbed so high Sakura can barely see them from behind the foliage. They move down the tree as if they have done it a hundred times before, following its every twist and turn, every steady bough. Martha’s trembling expression breaks into a laugh. 

"Careful, you rascals!" 

Marvelously, Sakura finds herself laughing with her, momentarily forgetting the peril with which she entered the village, and the smoke rising above it. It is a wake, after all, a celebration of life, and the ensurement of warding off evil spirits. She should focus on life that perseveres despite all odds. This life stares at her with giddy eyes, currently pleading for a showcase of another trick up her magical sleeve. 

Xiao Lang finds her when the sun dips low on the horizon, painting the village in its warm hues. The Andermatt presented to him in the reports is quite different from the one he encounters. Their pain echoes in the settlement, resonating between buildings. The markings of sod on rooftops that rain will never quite get rid of. The burns on someone’s skin that won’t fully heal. The tinge of fear whenever fire burns, no matter how controlled or little. 

Edward told him they have burned their dead today. The pyres, large and small, burn still, their ashes smouldering in the fields. And so the celebrations continue, likely until there will be nothing but bones needed to be laid to rest. Xiao Lang always found wakes an interesting assembly. The celebration of a concluded life is very different from one halted in its middle. More sombre, fuller with its grief, filled with musings of possibilities never to be fulfilled. And yet the people dealing with it always pretended overwise. Music plays in the square, sounds of strings and drums fill the space between laughter and conversation. They speak with smiles on their faces and tears in their eyes. Even as they dance, there seems to be a note of sadness to their step. 

They do not want the wake to end. Do not want to stop talking of their dead as their souls still linger about, do not want to let go just yet. Once the pyres burn down and the music stops, they will be faced with the reality of their loss. 

Xiao Lang still remembers the moment his father’s pyre burned down. Remembers the shift of conversation around him; from mourning the loss of a great leader, condolences, and remembrance to expectation and wartables. One day he buried the bones of his father in the family crypt, the next he went on the Hunt, and the day after he mobilised the banners and went to war. Did he ever have the time to truly grieve? To think about his father without the shadow of his uneasy soul over him? 

No, he doesn’t think he did. Perhaps a part of him is still there during the wake, his father’s uneasy soul lingering in his shadow. 

He finds his wife under the stretching shadow of a great oak. She is sitting on a bench, surrounded by children, her tiara in her lap as she listens to their tales, little hands gesturing to the tree with unending enthusiasm. Some of them settled next to her, some at her feet, and one brave girl settled in Kerberos’ fur. The familiar appears unbothered, napping with the girl snuggled against him. 

"Why don’t you join Kerberos?" 

Yun Lee, still a little damp from where he tried to get blood out of her snout, sends him a glare. 

"I already have blood in my fur. I don't need snot, too." 

Xiao Lang snorts, remembering how he and his sisters used to run around their father's familiar. Poor, mighty Fu Xi was both their nanny and protector. Always with something in his fur, be it Fuudie’s paints, Shiefa’s ribbons, or mud from running after him. Xiao Lang imagines Yun Lee will be much the same, and will complain about it just as loudly. 

"Get used to it, it will be good practice." 

He tells her, running his hands through her wet fur.

"If your children ever sneeze at me, I am giving them back to you by the collar." 

"Sure, sure, now go." 

Xiao Lang says between chuckles, patting the wolf one last time before nudging her forward. 

"By the collar!"

His stubborn familiar calls out but goes forward anyway, easily catching the children’s attention. Some move closer to Sakura, catching the embroidered linen of her skirts in their grubby hands, a few more daring ones brighten at the sight of the wolf. Especially given the fact that Kerberos easily recognises her, and apparently it’s enough to garner their trust. It is also enough for Sakura to notice him. For a moment, she holds his gaze, searching for something in his face. He nods once, hoping that it will be enough of an incentive. He watches as she tells something to the little gathering, pointing to him briefly and fixing her tiara back on her head. At least a dozen little eyes fall on him instantly. Some smile, little boys whose eyes fall onto Zhanlu strapped to his hip. Some hide behind Sakura. Some ignore him completely in favour of Yun Lee. None dare to approach but his wife. 

"You stink of blood." 

Sakura says in a greeting as he places a kiss upon her forehead, catching the delicate chains of the tiara with his lips. Her nose scrunches ever so slightly. 

"Ah— I did try to wash up." 

But blood tends to cling to skin, as he learned over the years. The Empress tilts her head, squinting ever so slightly as she scrutinises his form, inspecting as much as she can without leaving his embrace. 

"It’s probably the hair. You are going to need a bath." 

She decides finally, her hand rising to brush a strand out of his face. He doubts she is looking for the blood he missed in his cleanup. Satisfied, she drops her hands to his shoulders. 

"Those two look awfully chummy."

Sakura tilts her head to the right, her eyes glancing in said direction before returning to adjusting the laces of his linen shirt. Her fingers twirling with the thin straps, distracting him long enough for her to accentuate the question with a raise of her brow. Xiao Lang turns to her right, following the line of sight he was too preoccupied to pay attention to previously. 

He looks through the crowd, glancing over the dancers briefly before settling on the tables lining the perimeter of the square. At one of the tables sit two Chiefs, bowls of stew and pints of brew between them, hunched across the slab, deep in conversation. They look nearly animated; the conversation, while no doubt serious, seems to be flowing in good spirits. 

"That they do." He says, almost dismissively. "Care to dance, dearest?" 

The question catches her just as her expression begins to sour at his dismissal. The shift from the scrunching features to a bemused smile is indeed endearing to watch. She was fully prepared to wring the answer to her unspoken question out of him in a field full of peasants. He likes to think he would not have yielded. Even so, Xiao Lang grabs one of the hands still on the (now tied) straps of his shirt and places it at the crook of his elbow. 

"It seems to be our habit now."

Sakura comments, amusement colouring her voice.

"Every couple has their quirk. Ours just seems to be pleasure and duty combined." 

Xiao Lang shrugs. 

"One of these days, I will get a dance out of you that doesn’t end up in a discussion of state affairs." 

Sakura says pointedly despite the smile she graces the onlookers with. The number of eyes on them grows the closer they become to the makeshift dance floor. In that sense, it wasn’t that much different from a court feast. At least here those gazes mean curiosity brought forth by the novelty of their station. No one here will hide a deadly plot behind a coy smile. Xiao Lang would have liked the simplicity of it, if not for the constant attention. At least in Xi’an he could blend in without his regalia. 

"But then it wouldn’t be our habit, would it?"

He leans into her, so close his nose brushes against her thick braid. Her fingers flex on his forearm, and ever so slowly she faces him, neck lengthening to look up. There is a challenge in those clear eyes, but he likes to think the flush on her cheeks is more than a trick of the dusking sun. 

"No, then it would just be a pleasure." 

She says, slowly, defiance in her tone mirroring the spark in her eyes. 

"Touché."

Her gaze lingers on his lips, watching as they morph into a smirk. It seems like he is not the only one yearning for a kiss. She leans back all the same, her arms slipping out of his embrace as they approach the centre of the clearing. The violin scratches, then stops, and all the instruments follow one after another. Then halt the people, their dances frozen mid-step. 

He tugs on her hand ever so slightly, making them stop in between different pairs, largely ignoring the silent commotion forming around them. Sakura catches on immediately, folding into a graceful curtsey as she would on the marble floor of a ballroom. Xiao Lang bows in response. 

"Something lively, if you will!"

The Emperor calls out with a somehow exaggerated smile, one crafted specifically for the masses. It takes the band a long moment to catch on, one he spends tugging on Sakura’s hand, bringing her back into his embrace. One hand on her waist, fingers tracing the embroidery of her corset, the other holding her palm. The musicians look at each other wide-eyed and unsure before a violin sounds again; it’s shaky, but the melody is there, and so the rest follows. 

Xiao Lang needs another moment to match the brisk and charming pace of the song. The note of it is high, as if to artificially lift the spirits of those hearing it, forcing the steps to be vigorous and powerful. It reminds him of one of the dances in the Empire's central provinces. Ones he danced to on his tour, ones that he knows Sakura would love.

"I may have told them of my plan for the mountains." 

He tells her when she eases into his hold, her feet finding the rhythm he is forcing. Her focus is back onto his face instead of their feet. A look of understanding passes on her face. 

"Ah, I did wonder on which side of the border will Andermatt land. What does the Chief think about it?" 

She asks, easily folding under his arm when he twirls her. 

"He seems interested in developing Andermatt. At the very least he understands that this will be the only true settlement on this side of the Ward." 

"I think I would like to speak with him, then. This will become a trading hub, so it will be my share of the Empire. He will— no, both him and Amir, need to know what to expect and what is expected of them."

Sakura scrunches her brows, her gaze a tad lost in thought but focused on the men conversing by the tables. He can practically see the gears turning in this brilliant mind. What kind of accommodations will she come up with? What trading deals will she seal on their behalf so this new Ward may prosper exactly as she wants it to? 

Her share of the Empire indeed. 

He can imagine what this settlement can become under her guidance. The true hub of commerce, the place anyone wanting to cross the valley would have to pass to get further into the continent, the point of connection between the Western Ward and Riverdale. To be that, to process all of this traffic, it would have to grow. If they win, decades from now Andermatt may become a true city, its buildings may spew out of their deep Valley way past the treelines clouding the horizon. 

And in the middle of it all will stand one mighty oak, Sakura’s oak. Her magic forever sealed within its bark, woven into the leaves, a beating centre of mystic activity. 

"So—"  

Xiao Lang’s gaze strays from the branches of the tree as they lose their shape against the darkening sky. He looks back at her, finding a question in the raise of her brow. Right, they have yet to discuss the deserters. 

"They weren’t ours."

He answers and watches her surprise merge with concern.

"Bees? All of them?"

"All of them." He confirms. "It seems our purge was not as effective as we hoped." 

They should have been found before the battle, should have died in that tent with the rest. This is their oversight, and if they missed a portion of them once, there is a good chance they are missing some still. 

"They can’t be the only ones left, then." Sakura supplies, as if reading his mind. "Surely they would have not sacrificed all of their spies to do— whatever this was meant to accomplish."

Xiao Lang is sure that she would gesture to the entirety of the village were her hands not occupied. 

"There isn’t much we can do for now, besides taking some… precautions. We will leave the heavy lifting to Renshu or Vars when we arrive at Raven's Hold. It is their job." 

Truthfully, Xiao Lang is anxious to be around his spymaster again, no matter how much good sending him out in the field did. If at least Vars stayed behind, maybe things would have been different… No point dwelling on it now.

"What is he like?" 

Sakura asks, folding under his arm in a graceful twirl. 

"Who?" 

"Your cousin, Vars." 

Xiao Lang recalls the boy, eyes mirroring his own, softer though, southern in their shape, but amber all the same. His chestnut hair is as wild as his spirit. A myriad of smiles the elder boy learned to recognise, which ones were apologetic, and which foreshadowed an incoming disaster. And there was always something with Vars - a harmless prank made, a shrewd jab whispered or a sagacious intrigue uncovered. Although since becoming Renshu’s apprentice, all of that energy found its focus in work. 

"Clever, sometimes too clever for his own good. He would always have an excuse ready to get us out of lessons, he could lie through his teeth if it got him out of trouble. Of course then I would be the one suspected of anything he did. Now I wonder how I didn’t come to hate him…" 

Sakura giggles. 

"All siblings are like that, I think. Touya would bring me cakes smuggled from the kitchens after we fought. Just so I didn’t go tattle to father, of course." 

She smiles softly, no doubt recalling the memory in her mind. Xiao Lang notices immediately that she called Vars his sibling, not cousin, recognizing that the fondness in his voice didn’t match the distance of their blood. 

"The lemon ones?"

He muses, remembering her fondness for sour sweets. He nearly misses the look of affection settling in her features. 

"Yes, exactly those."

The song ends with a clash of notes, forcing them into a brief stop, but none of them make a move to leave the floor. Xiao Lang can feel his breath catching, which is odd for him, not when he is used to fighting for hours at a time. It would seem he is not as recovered as he hoped. And yet, he does not think to stop. At least one more dance, so he can watch Sakura’s cheeks flush, her skin gloss, and her teeth flash in a bright smile. At this point, he will be the one more willing to host and attend balls. 

Another song starts, just as vibrant as the last one. They really took his request to heart, didn’t they?

"Is that why he was chosen? Because he is clever?" 

Sakura asks as soon as they fall back into step. The rhythm is slightly different in this one, but it still comes quicker to him now than it did before. 

"For spymaster? Hmm… yes, also because he is very nosy, but not in a prying way. He can get information out of you without even asking. It's creepy sometimes." 

It got even worse under Renshu’s tuition, as he could look at a person and know precisely what was wrong with them. What to normal people was a feeling of fallacy to Vars and his Master were grounds for investigation. And they did— sometimes just because they could. 

"He must love the court, then." 

Sakura observed, making Xiao Lang smile. 

"Oh yes, I recommend you watch him during a banquet, it’s very entertaining." 

She chuckles. 

"I definitely will."

Thinking of Vars is akin to opening floodgates he didn’t realise he had been putting up. The boy was one of the constants in Xiao Lang's life up until recently, always there even if lurking in the shadows of the castle. Even their time apart was brief, a few weeks at best. But this war is different; it required his brother elsewhere for months at a time. It also kept him occupied, so much so that he rarely had time to think of what he missed. But now that he remembers, he longs to see his brother again even more. 

"I wonder what he will make of all of this."

He muses, still lost in thought. 

"And what do you think?"  

It seems as though Sakura treats it as another topic of discussion.

"I think Robert is now keen on destroying your image, too." 

Which would be a safe estimate. The deserters were supposed to commit acts of brutality in her name, in the lands that so recently belonged to Wave. King Robert and his allies have done wonders to embellish Xiao Lang’s reputation enough to hear whispers of ‘Cruel’ slowly attaching itself to his name. He, of course, let it be, using it to his advantage. They can’t have the same for Sakura. The Bright Flame can be a dangerous title to own, and while it is fitting for Clow’s descendant, it may not be what Sakura wishes to present herself as. Not to mention it is not what she was brought to his side to be. 

"That seems like a waste of resources." 

His Empress ponders, ever correct. 

"That’s because it is. They were meant to continue this mad rampage in other villages." They were very close to doing the same thing elsewhere, but he chooses to withhold that information, fearing it will only add to her burden. "Thankfully, Amir’s men are excellent at their job. At this point, I don’t really know what we would do without them." 

Sakura flashes him a coy smile. 

"I take it you don’t regret the yellow jacket, then?" 

This little— 

He twists her in their step, her palms still in his, back turned to him, nearly pressed into his chest. She finds her rhythm again quicker than he hoped. 

"Sakura, I adore you, but do not put me in yellow again." 

He makes sure to keep his voice low, just how she likes it, hoping to get a raise out of her, in vain. Her neck twists just so, face centimetres away from his own. These green eyes nearly glow in the dimming light. 

"It wins you a war, doesn't it?" 

That coy smile twists her lips. He doesn’t know if he is more offended than enchanted. 

"I highly doubt—"

Sakura twists in his arms, easily sliding back into his embrace. There is still that brilliant smile on her lips, laughter tainting her voice when she speaks. 

"Gods, you are so pleasing to tease." 

Enchanted, he decides. He will be forever enchanted by his wife, and beyond. If the fields of Navia won’t have her, he will gladly roam the earth just to hear her voice. But he can’t articulate it, nor does he know the words to do so. So instead he hoists her up, hearing the strangled delight in the yelp she makes. Her hands dig into his shoulders, relaxing only seconds later when he sets her down to continue their dance; this time she holds him tighter, her palm improperly close to his neck. Not that he minds. 

"Chieftess Hillbloom proposed that we stay at their home tonight, just so we don’t have to travel again for the execution tomorrow. It would give me some time to go over some details with the Chiefs." 

He can’t say he is surprised at the invitation, given that Edward has presented him with the very same one. Yet he can’t help but ask, his brow raising:

"Does she realise her home will be crawling with guards, then?" 

Sakura laughs. Between the two of them, there will be at least six Emerald Cloaks present. Not to mention the soldiers that were supposed to come back with them. 

"No, I don’t think she does." 

The song stops. His lungs are on fire, he can almost feel the ringing in his ears creeping in. But Sakura looks at him, just as beautiful and vivacious as the first tacts of a new melody. 

One more, he tells himself.  

The pyres fade deep into the night. 

Embers crackling in the fields, the only light in the darkness. The mead has long dried in cups, the musicians have packed their strings, and the cooks dried their cauldrons. Now the entire village watches the pyres settle. 

Souls seem to linger between them, casting a sombre feeling upon the gathering. They should be settled now. They did their part as the living in warding them from evil spirits, with joy they celebrated their lives. That should have opened their way into Navia. But the dead linger, waiting. 

Families would stay behind to gather their loved ones' ashes. They would be put to rest in a tumulus, returned to the soil from which they came. 

The wake ends.  

They have one more duty to see to, one more measure to see their dead truly go. Come first light there is justice to be seen to. 

The dawning sun sips through the branches of the great oak. It's gentle, rays scattered upon the square in beams of warm light. They fall upon cobblestone in a kaleidoscope of patterns, moving with the morning breeze. It is cold in the shadows, the night clings to them with stubbornness only nature could provide. So Sakura leans out of it, turning her face towards the oak just so she can taste the warmth of the sun upon her skin. For a second there, she can pretend it is her mother’s oak, in her forest back home. She can feel mother’s magic instead of her own, cascading down the bright green leaves. It calms her trembling cold fingers, eases some of the tightness in her stomach, and clears the fog that had been cast upon her mind. It is but a moment, one she needs before her husband's voice rises through the square. 

Sakura turns back to the square, casting her gaze upon every soul in the village, packed tightly into the courtyard, some standing on the steps of freshly painted homes. All of them bathed in the speckled shadow of her oak. Their gaze is set on Syaoran, heads tilting as he moves about the platform, his voice booming in the silence. He speaks of grief, empathising with their pain, his voice laced with the only emotions he grants freely when the bronze crown sits upon his brow. Passion and anger - a fuel to vengeance that guides his actions and paints his words. It is what they need now, for what they see in their new ruler is but a mirror of their own passions. Perhaps some of these young men will leave their homes to follow the Thunder Wolf. Perhaps their corpses will light the next funeral pyres. 

For right now, who they thought a foreigner, an invader, grants them exactly what they want — revenge. He moves with his speech, creeping forward as his voice grows colder. The hand resting on Zhanlu finally unsheathes the blade. The sound seems so loud in the undisturbed silence of the morning, all sharpness and melody that only Damascus steel could provide. It forces her to look, and once her gaze sets, she simply can’t let go. 

Four prisoners stand before them. Four nooses tight around burned necks. And just one rope waiting to be cut. She looks at their skin, bruised and bleeding. Their eyes bloated and bloodshot. Upon them angry red marks, burns so precise she could probably recognise the shape of her husband’s knife. She looks into their pleading eyes… and feels nothing. 

Only anger. Cold and damp, like a mist hiding in dark shadows. The marks of their torture only amplify the pain that those very hands inflicted, reminding her further of why they are here. This is justice. This is vengeance. 

The Emperor prays. He folds his hands upon his sword, the blade embedded in the floor beneath him, head held down as his lips move. Sakura mimics it, pressing her palms into her bodice, into the lilac chiffon of her veil covering her braided hair and flowing down her form. She imagines Syaoran praying to Veles, for a steady hand, perhaps a judgement upon the souls he will soon shepherd. Perhaps it is a curse, not a prayer. Perhaps these four will forever wander the earth looking for atonement that may never come. She too sends a prayer to Veles, begging for safe passage, for protection in the fields of Navia to all the souls that these four tormented, to all those they wrongly shepherded. 

They are not granted their last words. 

The blade swings. The rope snaps. The floor under them collapses. 

Sakura watches as the nooses tighten, skin purples and blanches, and limbs shake violently, looking for a support that isn’t there. She doesn’t let go. She continues to watch through the spasms, through the strangled gargles and gasps, and into the quiet that suits but death and dawn. 

They leave Andermatt just as the bodies cool in the shadow of her oak, tainting her legacy one last time. 

 

一一一一

A knock on the chamber doors jolts Sava from her half-asleep state. The sun is still high on the horizon; she couldn’t be asleep so long as to miss any engagements. She looks at her sisters, all of them piled onto each other on her bed, their cheeks still flushed from the sun, breaths stable, no nightmares today. The younger princesses tired themselves out running around in the sun all morning, and it seems that their sleepiness was infectious. 

The knocking continues, notifying Sava that whatever needs her attention is urgent. She gets up from her chair, joints cracking from the sudden movement, disregarding the book she forgot she began reading. Someone knocks two more times before Sava opens the door. 

"Your Highness, it is urgent." 

Behind them, she is met with a rather anxious Sir Philip, and Clara, one of the Castle servants in a similar state. Both of them are her people, the only ones she knows she can fully trust. Their loyalty is to Sava and her sisters, not to House Strom, no matter how tied the two were seemingly. 

"That much I gathered, sir. Now, what is the matter?" 

Sava asks, stepping out of the room and closing the door behind her so as to not wake the girls up. 

"There is a boat heading for the dock under a white banner." 

A boat? That could only be an Imperial vessel. Had they captured their father, after all? Were her brothers alright? Had something happened in the wake of their defeat in Andermatt? Or had their navy decided that starving them from the sea wasn’t enough and they were to move to the city while the armies were away? 

These thoughts have been her constant companion since the message had arrived— another defeat, after Lindow. Sava thought she would never read a more devastating report. She was wrong. Somehow Andermatt felt even more unsettling. Maybe because it is not the cruelty of hundreds of men, not the barbarity of war, but one spell, the work of a single woman that has brought an army to its knees. A girl not much older than her at that. 

Sava starts to walk off towards a corridor she knows will take her to the docks the fastest, Sir Philip and Clara hot on her heels. 

"Does the Queen know?"

The Princess asks as they descend the first flight of stairs. 

"We cannot say, Your Highness." Clara speaks, a certain panic in her voice. "We do not know all of the servants still reporting to her." 

The fact continues to be the bane of Sava’s existence. No conversation to be had in the open, not a thing to be decided without knowing for sure it shan’t be reported back. A year and she still doesn't have it fully under control. Ever since Galene’s unofficial banishment from the Capitol, Sava has been struggling to gather the servants, and still… 

"And do we know who could have told her?"

Sava glances at Clara over her shoulder. The woman smiles, even through her tight expression.  

"We need to hurry, then." 

Ultimately, they take the path leading through the outside walls, which provides them both with a swift descent down the cliffside, as well as a clear view of the bay area. It used to be Sava’s favourite view - now it’s just a reminder of the cage her home has become. A never-ending view of the ocean, barely separated from the endlessness of the sky above is now littered with hundreds upon hundreds of ships anchored just outside of their bay. The blockade has been stationed here for weeks now. They were not moving, not attacking, just… looming over them, a constant reminder of how close the Imperial army is. They have already destroyed their Kingdom at sea, and now they are waiting to do so on the ground. 

The blockade serves mainly two things; it prevents anyone from getting out and ensures they have no food from the outside, essentially preparing to starve the people of the Capital out if the ground siege begins. In doing so, they foiled one of mother’s plans of running away with Albert to the Drakken Islands. So if any boat is heading to the docks, under a white banner nonetheless, it must be an Imperial business. And what should they seek with her father away? She will never know that if mother gets to them first. 

Sava descends on the path leading to the docks, tempted to turn right instead of left out of habit. The stone passages rise above water all along the coastline, into the city, and an off-shore island sitting almost in the middle of the bay, built impossibly high in its rock structure. It used to be her sisters’ favourite place. 

She turns left instead and walks down the final flight of stairs. From here she can observe the unfolding scene freely. The boat is already docked, and the palace guard is swarmed around it. They do nothing but observe for now, knowing that attacking someone under a white banner is a violation even during wartime. Thankfully, she sees no sign of her mother; things wouldn’t be so calm otherwise.

Quickly they come down onto the dock and all but rush into the crowd. The guards give way to her as she approaches, making a clear pathway to the front where their Captain stands. He is a solemn old man, a second son of a minor House whose own great-nephews have long succeeded. A talented, loyal man, who served House Strom long before Sava was born.  

"Captain Drache." The man turns at the sound of his name, showing her his haggard face; splotches and wrinkles gathered around scares showcasing both his advanced age and battle experience. "Do we know what happened?" 

"Your Highness." The Captain acknowledges her with a bow of his head. "They have just docked. Would you like to receive them?" 

The question startles Sava, even if it is the outcome she has hoped for. Drache has been known to dismiss her as a child before Galene’s departure to Mountain Hold. In Sava’s book, he is one of the wild cards. She still doesn’t know who he will favour quicker; the Princesses or the Queen? 

"Yes, yes I would." 

The Captain nods his head and lets her lead the approach. The boat is already being docked by a small crew of five. It’s by no means a delegation, and clearly, they are not here to parley. Although they carry something on this small boat of theirs, a box of some kind. 

A man stands out from the party of warriors and sea dwellers, one Sava spots in an instant, and not just because he jumps onto the deck first. He strikes her as someone of a higher standing. It’s in the manner of his moves as well as the finer detail of his clothing. He is older, mayhaps nearing his forties, but one can only see it in the fine lines around his eyes for not a white strand could be seen in his hair nor his full beard. His hair, a golden bronze, is braided into dozens of tiny braids and gathered into a high ponytail, adorned with ringlets of gold that clang as he approaches.

They meet at the end of the deck, the man bowing with a grace only someone used to court life could possess. 

"Good day. I am Niels of House Estridsen, Duke of Gotland." 

The man introduces himself, raising from his bow, hands folding behind his back, green eyes focused on her and unbothered by the blinding sun of Wave summer. This is the man coordinating all of the Empire's sea operations, the ruler of the only Duchy in the Empire, and the husband of the Emperor’s eldest sister. His children were first in line to the throne if anything were to happen to the current Emperor, or so she thinks. One of the most powerful people in the Empire has come here under a white flag, just what is going on? 

Thankfully, the years of court training drilled into her not to waver, so Sava dips into a low curtsey before him. It would be wrong to get tongue-tied in front of Drache if she is to make him her man, and by extension, the entire palace guard. 

"Welcome, Your Grace. I am Princess Sava of House Strom. What brings you to Aegean?" 

The Duke gestures to his men still waiting inside the boat. 

"An errand bestowed upon me by my good brother, the Emperor." 

The men start to take the mysterious box out of their ship and onto the deck. It’s only when they get out of the boat, the cargo supported from each side, does Sava realise what this is. Her breath stops, and for a moment there everything is muffled. She can hardly focus on anything else, can barely hear the words spoken to her as the casket is being placed down before her. 

"On behalf of the Imperial Family, I offer you, and your family our most sincere condolences, Princess Sava. It is the Emperor’s wish for your sister to lay to rest with her own kin."

It’s Viviane.  

Sava doesn’t even realise she is walking towards the coffin before her hands are touching the wood. There, below her palms, lies a sister she thought forever gone to her. A sister she saw last as a mere child, her soft features hidden behind a sheer veil, her lovely face bloated by tears. Viviane Strom left Aegean for a marriage she didn’t want, a marriage that ultimately killed her. The news of Viviane’s death broke her, the means of it planted a seed of hate she nurtured ever since, but the very thought of never giving her a final goodbye was what made it fester. To have at least that… To have Viviane home… It means more to her than she thought. 

Sava can barely contain a whimper that escapes her; she tries to muffle the sound with a hand clasped over her mouth, but it does little to help when the tears start to fall. She needs to be a Princess still, needs to get a hold of herself. She clenches her teeth, calms her breath, and wipes her cheeks with the long, flared sleeves of her gown. It won’t undo the breakdown, but it is enough to turn to the Duke. 

The man has moved to stand closer to her and the coffin, a respectable distance still, while his men have all fallen back behind him. Looking at him now, Sava notices that his attire is all black; a black tunic, black slacks, even a simple black coat. He has taken this errand with respect not many would have towards their enemy; it spoke very highly of his character. Briefly, Sava wonders if the roles were reversed, would they do this? Would they send the bodies back if it had been their grace? Would her father give House Li the same treatment? 

Sava straightens her back. There will be time for tears soon. 

"On behalf of House Strom, thank you." 

The Duke nods; he doesn’t hide his sympathy for her grief. It seems evident in the downturn of his lips, and the slight furrow of his brow. 

"I also have this for you, from your sister." 

He produces a letter from the pocket of his coat. The paper is plain white, but it indeed holds the seal of House Lavey on it, in her sister’s signature pale blue wax. There is no doubt about it, this is a letter from Galene. How did the Duke of the Empire have it? Did the North fall? Is her sister captive? Is she to lose another before even burying one? 

But Sava doesn’t have the time to ask, for out there in the distance she hears a distinct shout, one she recognizes as her mother’s. In panic, she snatches the letter from the Duke’s hands and stashes it in her pocket before anyone can see it, let alone her mother. The Duke notices, she can see it in the quizzical raise of his brow, but doesn’t have the time to ask anything. 

"Thank you, Your Grace. Now may I suggest you leave before my mother arrives? I can assure you, she will not be as welcoming as I was, nor will she respect the white flag you are sailing under." 

Duke Estridsen scans the crowd with his unguarded eyes, watching as a tall, blonde woman marches through the guards like a lioness on a prowl. Then he smiles, probably thinking the threat is empty, underestimating both the guards and her mother, or he is truly confident he would win such a squabble. No doubt one shouldn’t underestimate a man who has beaten a kingdom hailed for its navy in the open sea, even on dry land. 

"Thank you for the warning, Your Highness, I shall heed it." The man bows again, still smiling despite the accompaniment of shrieks growing louder in the distance. "Good day to you." 

Sava curtseys in response. 

"And you, Your Grace." 

The Duke wastes no time in gathering his men and hopping back onto the boat. He is pushing it back into movement, kicking the pier in the process. Perhaps her mother is as scary as Sava thinks. Or perhaps it is the Duke’s sense of humour that causes him to act so, the fact more probable by the grin he sends just before his features are blurred by the distance. 

"What is the meaning of this?!"

Thankfully, it is then that her mother finally rushes past the guard. 

Queen Mirrah of Wave was once the epitome of ethereal beauty. Her features were soft, skin like porcelain and dew, luscious hair falling down her back in soft ringlets. She turns her little nose to the slowly retreating boat, her fair face soured with a scrawl morphing every otherwise attractive feature. She glares at the small vessel, not even sparing a glance for Sava, yet the Princess bows all the same, shifting her mother’s attention. 

"Lady Mother."

To little Sava Mirrah was a distant painting to adore and a rigid voice to follow. Her mother was vain in her beauty, which didn’t seem to fade after nine children and many more pregnancies. She did have a reason for her conceit, Sava supposed, she just wished some of that pride would be spared for any of her children.

"Is that an Imperial ship?! Who was that?!"

Her voice is high, once melodic now turned almost husky with a shriek. Sava straightens from her curtsy, now standing nearly a head taller than her mother. Still, she dared not to look her in the eye, keeping her gaze low. 

"The Duke of Gotland, Lady Mother." 

"And you just let him go?!"

Her voice goes up an additional octave at that, anger colouring its every note. Sava observes the veins popping on her long, pale neck. 

"He was sailing under a white flag." 

Sava’s voice comes out tinier than she would like. Queen Mirrah grabs her immediately, her hands gripping her shoulders, forcing her to look up into those furious grey eyes. Suddenly, the Princess feels tiny, five not fifteen, a child scolded for not forming her words correctly. Not smart enough, not demure enough, not as pretty as her sisters, her features a mirror of her father’s. 

"And? He killed your grandfather! Do you think he would respect a white flag? Or have you forgotten already that we are at war?!" 

Sava can feel her breath on her skin, her nails digging into the black silk of her gown. She wishes she wore a veil today. That there would be something between them, something that would mask the fear holding her hostage. She is sure it is clear to anyone present, they can see it on her face.

"No, mother."

And so she answers in her small voice, cursing herself for breaking this easily. It is what Mirrah wants to hear, what will placate her. She doesn’t know if the Emperor would respect the white flag (did it fly over Lindow while her sister burned?), but Grandfather perished at sea, going down with his ship like any Captain would. He lost the battle with Niels Estridsen, but it was not his blade that ended his long life. She did not forget the war, she would never forget the war, least of all with her sister’s bones lying at her feet. 

Time seems to stretch as the Queen stares into her daughter’s eyes, seconds turning into minutes. The letter burns in her pocket. Sava held many secrets from her mother over the years, small, inconsequential things that amounted to nothing but privacy. But this is different. This could be treason. And all Mirrah needs to do is reach into her pocket. 

Finally, Sava’s mother lets her go, stepping back a pace. The glare doesn’t ease, but at least now Sava can breathe. It’s enough to stop the tears from flowing, enough to calm her uneasy heart. From there the Queen couldn’t possibly take her letter, couldn’t know what her daughters are up to. 

"What did he want?" 

"He brought us Viviane." 

Gesturing to the casket not a step behind her, Sava watches as the Queen casts her glare down. For a moment, those cruel, pale eyes just stare at a box before her, still secured by ropes and damp with seawater. Sava imagines how any other mother would react upon receiving the body of her firstborn, she imagines tears and wails, grief beyond compare, much deeper than what she currently experiences. And then she compares it to the cold face before her. It couldn’t have been a greater contrast. 

"Give her to the sea." 

The Queen says, turning on her heel and marching back towards the castle. Her husky voice is quieter than Sava has heard in months. Perhaps it is that moment of calm, or the fact that she is no longer looking at her, that gives Sava enough courage to ask. 

"I would like to bury her on Avalon instead, Lady Mother. It was Viviane’s favourite place." 

The Queen stops, her heels clacking on the wooden pier. The silence is only broken by incoming tides. She needed to try, even if it meant anger and venom, she needed to try just so she would never again wonder where her beloved sister lay. So Viviane would never be alone again. 

"Do what you wish." 

Her mother says simply, calm coldness replacing the shrieking creature Sava came to know. She doesn’t turn, reassuming her step immediately. At least she agreed. Sava watches as her mother approaches Drache, all that venom coming back into her body as she straightens before the man towering over her. 

"The next time an Imperial envoy arrives, I am to be notified first." 

"Of course, Your Majesty." 

Drache folds into a bow that he doesn’t release until Mirrah vanishes into the crowd. His eyes find the Princess as he straightens back up, but he doesn’t look into her eyes. No, he looks at her hands and her dress, right where her pockets would be. When his eyes finally meet hers, Sava knows she has lost him. 

The doors to her rooms close behind her. Unsteady on her feet, Sava finds her way to the seat right by the balcony, dropping into a plush couch. She stares at the view of the bay stretching before her, at the armada blocking the open sea, at Avalon where her sister will soon lay, at her home. Her breath fails her, heart raging against her ribs, anxiety twisting her guts. 

Tears come easy now, with nothing but the quiet breaths of her sisters sleeping in the bedroom. They shake her shoulders and wet her cheeks, swelling her skin. Sava wants to rage, she wants to scream, and she wants some of that tension to ease somehow. She can’t though, not if she is to appear competent. Does that even matter after today? After she trembled before her mother? 

And so she cries until she can’t no more, until her mouth dries and her head aches. Until she has nothing more to give. It is only then when she takes the letter out of her pocket and rips it open. 

 

My Dearest Sava, 

 

Father has abandoned House Lavey. He left us at the mercy of the Empire and now the Northern region is officially a part of it; we have surrendered Mountain Hold. We needed to save ourselves, our children, and we needed the chance to save Lord Edric. 

 

Since Vivine’s death, I find it so easy to fault our father for all of our misery, no matter how much I still love him. We are paying the price for his ambitions, all of us, and we don’t even know what tempted him to take up this war in the first place. We have to think about ourselves now, whatever is left of our family. Maybe there is still something we may do for Albert, as well as the rest of our sisters. Sava, it has been made abundantly clear to me that we still have a chance of accomplishing that. It’s in your hands, dear sister, play your cards well. 

 

I am hoping this letter will reach you before mother’s venom does. I hope you will find it in your heart to understand me, my sweet sister. And remember; whatever you choose to do, she can never know of it. 

 

Love, Galene

 

Sava’s hands tremble even as the letter burns before her eyes. She watches as her sister’s blue wax melts on the charcoaling wood piled in an unused fireplace. This is treason. Galene is a Lady of the Empire now. Lavey is a vassal House of the Emperor. Her sister is a traitor.

And now she asks her to be the same. 

Sava turns away from the fireplace to look out of the open door to her room. There, on her own bed, pile her little sisters, peaceful in their slumber, completely unaware of a conundrum she is facing. 

Treason, the betrayal of her own kin, the highest sin imaginable. And yet here Galene is, telling her it is a way to save her siblings. Wouldn’t she give everything to see them grow? To see them happy?  

Gods, what is she to do?

 

 

一一一一

On the third day of the Seventh Moon, the Imperial forces leave the fields surrounding Andermatt. 

The vast camp is packed with an efficiency that should not suit such an expansive crucible of forces. And yet in a matter of hours, the entire encampment is taken apart, stuffed into crates and barrels, every piece of it loaded onto carts and carriages. There is a system to their movement that Sakura has come to attribute to the forces hailing from Crownlands, a trait that slowly bled into the Wards, affecting even the allies encompassing the central encampment. 

Sakura watches as the grounds she came to recognise as her temporary home become unrecognisable. Over the weeks, she had come to know the maze that was the Imperial camp inside out. She trod its beaten paths on a daily basis, memorising its shortcuts and structures by heart. 

Sakura knew you could always find someone sparring near the forge, memorised the unevenness of those grounds having laid in them countless times, and tasted them at times too. She knew the air tasted sweeter near Yeddo’s encampment, its soldiers preferring herbal teas in the afternoons. More tart near the Eihons, always a piece of meat roasting over some fire. If she ever missed home, she knew to go East, looking for a familiar face or a nostalgic treat. 

There is a memory at every corner of the encampment.

Laughter echoing near the kitchens, a tart whisk of alcohol, a shaky tune played on a string, her brother's laughter, Eriol’s amused sigh at Ruby’s careless remark. A sweet lul of Syaoran voice near her ear. A sharp tug on her heart. 

A kiss stolen near the forge. A caress under a fluttering banner. A glance, a whisper, a sweet smile stretching cracked lips. The once awkward set of her rings became a source of comfort in moments of distress. Those eyes shining copper in the dusk, soft and set on her form. 

A tug after a tug. 

Pain lingered near the medical tents, sipping into its covers, interweaving with blood and herbs, continuously washed out of its yellowed fabrics. Those sleepless nights when she dreaded every passing hour, when she watched for every change of breath, a sting of hope becoming an answer to every movement. 

Uncertainty and tension in those days when the responsibility was hers alone to bear. The stuffy tent may be gone, the sturdy war table taken apart and already rattling on a wagon, but the strain will remain within her. It will be her first taste of what it means to rule, her decisions affecting countless lives united under one crown. Pride tumbling with shame within her as a chant of her title rose between those tents. A mark of her competence, a symbol of how far she will go for the Empire, for House Li… for Syaoran. 

I will kill for you.

He had said once, but it is she who did. 

Dawn settles upon them with blurry orange light, illuminating the steps of freshly beaten ground of the valley. Some land still remains a charred black, a stain upon fresh summer grass and fertile soil. There is a different kind of pain that will forever cling to Andermatt and the grounds surrounding it. One that will come with the flinch upon the sight of fire, a shake when uttering her moniker, an uncertainty with which they will continue to pass through these grounds. 

For some time, it will be a place of remembrance. 

To the young Empress, it will be a source of conflict, one that may never fade, having been sown into her soul. The pain that is her doing, an injustice that may never let her cross into Navia. A justice that let her keep and grow her family while ending countless others. A pain to many, a blessing to others. 

"Are you ready, Sakura?" 

She turns slightly towards her approaching husband. He, not unlike she, is clad in his travel ensemble, a set of comfortable and slightly worn leathers, a jacket which he is sure to lose not an hour into their journey. Behind him, their horses are grazing before an already moving procession of armies and carts. 

"A minute." 

She tells him, turning back to the valley when he steps at arm's length. She can feel his gaze upon her, but he doesn’t say anything. Perhaps he knows that the comfort of his presence by her side is enough. 

"Do you think something will grow here? In the future?" 

Sakura asks. She hopes it will not be the lilac haunting her dreams, the vile flower turning his body purple. Maybe it will be a delicate bloom, or a collection of poppies, cornflowers, and chamomiles standing among the high blades of wild grass. A meadow one could encounter in the countryside. 

Syaoran hums.

"Something could grow here now." Sakura turns to him, confused, but he simply smiles and knocks upon the hard surface of the Clow strapped to her hip. "I suggest carnations." 

Oh.  

He smiles at her so softly she can almost see the love softening his gaze. Even if she cannot yet categorise that emotion as such. Still, she smiles back, not knowing it makes his heart soar. 

An invocation is uttered in the commotion of dawn. The weight of her staff is a comfort in her hands. It is easy to envision the field now, the flowers swaying in the wind, their colours bursting in the tinted light. So easy to see life growing where they buried their dead. 

She watches her magic become fuel to the land stretching before her. It weaves itself into the soil with a subtle glow. It takes seconds for the grass to grow. The valley blossoms in the blink of an eye, filling itself with colour; poppies, redder than the dawning sun, cornflowers as blue as the sky above them, bushes of chamomiles she can nearly smell, and carnations in her favourite shade of pink. 

A lone tear falls upon her cheek, one she is quick to wipe away with her gloved hand. 

She wonders how this field will be remembered. The location of the battle of Andermatt? The birthplace of the Bright Flame? Her greatest achievement? Her most dreadful mistake? 

Or maybe it will be taken for what it is now, a beautiful meadow never thought to be recognised as a place of barely one battle in the Empire's long history. A footnote in a chronicle, right next to their names, just two rulers in a sea of hundreds, all eventually lost to time. 

Syaoran grasps her hand in his. Lately he likes to hold it firmly, as if he is afraid she will let go. Her fingers stretch to accommodate his between them, his thumb digging into the tense muscles of her palm. Sakura squeezes back. 

"I am ready now."

And despite that, she looks at that meadow, another piece of her magic left on these lands, until it vanishes from her view, forever etched into her heart. 

 

 

 

*Spalaniec/Pożognik (Most closely I would translate it as the burnt one , but the word pożoga would translate into conflagration meaning a fire that caused great damage, also used to describe the aftermath of said fire[excuse me I am currently reading Babel by R.F Kuang, etymology is very heavy on my mind]) - In Slavic mythology they were, as Syaoran described, monsters or half-demons of village arsonist. Homes back in the day were very flammable, not only because of wood constructions, but also because of hay covering the wooden roofs - for heat/snow/rain isolation. Once a hut was set aflame there was practically nothing the village could do besides saving a herd. Since some villagers believed the fire “walked” with the tenants they didn’t always house the victims. As such arson was one of the most severe crimes, so it was believed the arsonist would suffer even after death. 

*In slavic cultures wakes are still performed in some semblance of the traditional way. Ancient slavs would eat right by the burning pyre or the grave, telling stories about the deceased and celebrating their life. Wakes as slavs knew it ended with the rise of christianity but from that was born the traditions of All Soul’s day. Even now we tend to hold dinners for the wakes, albeit we do not eat at the cemeteries. 

Notes:

An early Christmas present for you <3

We are FINALLY done with the Andermatt arc, and while it served its purpose, it's good to be done with it and be able to move on to some scenes that have been on my mind for a long time now. That being said! I hope you enjoy the POVs of Sava and Vars for you will be seeing much more of them in the coming chapters. The lore document is delayed once again, but well what else is new.

Once again Merry Christmas to all who celebrate, and see you in 2025! (May it be better for us)

Notes:

Hello! I hope you are all healthy and hanging tight! This year has been absolutely horrid so I hope you can forgive me for taking so long to write this :( Anyway I hope you will enjoy Perun and that it will take your mind off of everything even for a moment :)

This work is beta'd by wonderful andrec02 and kuroi-kotoba, please check them out on tumblr!

My tumblr: anathash or wikapikadraws - here i will be posting some drawings and sketches for this AU. If you have any questions, don't be shy and just ask :)

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 2 of Like Changing Seasons