The Scandal's Sting

by piruneito

Summary:

Nerva yae Galvus's son takes advantage of his second cousin's disgraceful dalliance to make a move for power, but finds the tides turned before he can act.

Notes:

I made Vespasian like two days ago but I'm already obsessed. What a pathetic little bug. I love political plays and stupid rich people gossip and ZenosWOL's influence on both fascinates me

Chapter 1

Another party for Garlemald’s nobility, another chance to hear the latest news from across the Empire and perhaps sow chaos of his own. Vespasian yae Galvus buzzes around the hall with a drink in hand, on the prowl for names of importance. His ears perk when he overhears the name Zenos . The prince’s antics of late haven’t been lost on him, and if there’s a way to make Varis look bad, he won’t hesitate. A sly smile slips across his lips as he moves a little closer to the small group who are discussing the prince at length.

“A disgrace, I say. The prince’s reputation is far beyond just the capital city’s walls now,” a matronly, pearl-adorned woman says, tutting. “If His Radiance can’t control his son, how can he expect to govern the realm?”

A man wearing a gaudy medal laughs gruffly. “That boy is a lost cause. I’ve not heard a single good thing about him. Seems the only thing he’s not awful at is fighting!”

A lordling of Vespasian’s age, no older than twenty, adds his thoughts. “He should have been betrothed long ago. With a wife, he might have curbed his more… wild hobbies.”

“That’s if his wife could tame him,” Vespasian remarks.

The entire group turns as one, clearly surprised to see someone listening in, much less Lord Nerva’s spawn.

“Oh, forgive me, I couldn’t help but overhear,” Vespasian says, raising his hands in feigned innocence. “Pray continue. I find the topic of my dear second cousin… fascinating.”

The woman glances between Vespasian and the others, lowering her voice. “It’s not just that,” she murmurs. “Who knows what other vile things he’s getting up to these days. Especially with that Eorzean savage !”

A scoff escapes the general’s lips. “Do you really think those ridiculous rumors have any truth to them? Why would he stoop so low as to slip into Eorzean bedsheets? I’d wager it’s nothing more than the Warrior of Light getting under his skin.”

A lord, one wearing a heavy chain of office, nods in agreement. “That Eorzean beast has caused too many problems as it is,” he mutters. “I’d wager he’s wormed his way into the prince’s influence in an effort to strike at our nation from the inside.”

Vespasian takes a sip of his drink with a small shrug, letting out a derisive chuckle. “Then perhaps our prince isn’t as smart as he’s reputed to be, hm?” he says pointedly. “How easy it must be for a savage to twist his mind.”

“You sound like your father, Lord Vespasian,” a lady snorts in derision. “You two aren’t still planning to overthrow the Emperor, are you?”

Vespasian bristles, his smile going tight, but he manages to laugh it off. “Oh, I can’t believe that tired rumor is still going around,” he dismisses the truth lightly. “Surely you don’t think I would be foolish enough to try such a thing?”

“Wouldn’t you though?” the older lord asks. “You’ve always been a firebrand. Just like your father. I remember what he was like as a younger man.”

Vespasian raises a single eyebrow. “You think me stupid?” he asks, his tone a touch bitter. “I’m ambitious, not naive. I may have certain… grievances, but a rebellion? Against my own family?” He takes another sip of his wine. “Such ideas are just that. Idiotic fantasies.”

“So you don’t have any sympathy with the idea then?” the matronly woman asks, her voice full of suggestion. “You wouldn’t consider backing Lord Nerva if he made a move to replace the Emperor?”

Vespasian’s lips curl in a small smirk. “I have more than just sympathy. But this is a rather… intimate discussion, wouldn’t you say?” he says, gesturing at the crowd around them. “One hardly fit for the ears of every eavesdropping noble here today, yes?”

The others exchange glances, a trace of unease passing over their faces.

“Well, yes. Of course it isn’t.” The general says. “Best not to speak of these things so openly in a public place.”

Vespasian smiles honey-sweet and bows himself out of the conversation. “It has been enlightening, my good lords and ladies,” he says, “but I believe I’m needed elsewhere. Enjoy the party.”

As he slips away, he makes a mental observation: these nobles certainly have loose tongues. A pity they hadn’t mentioned anything he didn’t already know, but it was enough to make him suspicious that some of them might have questionable loyalties, if they were to openly discuss the possibility of Varis being replaced. Yes, I’ll have to keep an eye on these ones, he thinks. There might be supporters of his father in unexpected places, if he is prepared to worm his way in.

The night goes on, Vespasian flitting from group to group, speaking to different crowds and hearing more news. The topic of his cousin and Eorzea’s hero comes up time and time again, until, at last, he hears something that gives him pause.

“I can’t believe those two are really sleeping together. Zenos and that savage. It’s sickening !”

Vespasian turns toward the group of women who have spoken—older, wealthy wives whose decorated husbands are probably drinking somewhere. He slides closer with all the subtlety of a knife in the dark, and pretends to examine the drink in his hand as he listens in.

The woman who spoke before lets out a tsk , tossing her head in disapproval. “It’s beyond disgusting,” she says. “You know the Warrior is… an animal, correct? Not even truly human .”

The other women nod in agreement. 

“I’ve heard the prince even lets the dirty beast bite him,” one of them says with a small shiver. “How unnatural… and perverse .”

“Bite him?” another woman exclaims. “He lets himself be defiled by the savage’s mouth ?”

“Who knows what diseases he could contract,” a third one shudders in horror.

A disgusted expression passes over the first wife’s face. “The worst part? I’ve heard the Emperor knows about it and simply does nothing,” she hisses. “How utterly disgraceful.”

Vespasian lets a small smirk settle onto his features, his pulse quickening with excitement. This is fantastic. Even if it isn’t true, the damage could be devastating if he spread the rumor enough.

“Oh, it’s just awful!” another woman adds. “Can you imagine? Our future ruler, a savage mongrel’s wh—”

The sharp sound of a clearing throat cuts off the woman mid-sentence. The gathered group startles and glances up to see a tall figure towering over them.

Vespasian looks up from his wine as well, and his stomach turns to lead.

Standing in front of the women is no less than Varis zos Galvus himself.

The group quickly falls silent. Varis gives them all a brief, frosty glare, then turns it directly onto Vespasian.

“Lord Vespasian,” he says coolly. “May I speak with you? Privately.”

Vespasian swallows hard as a shiver of dread shoots up his spine. He’s more than aware he was caught red-handed listening to their whispered conversation about his son. “Of… of course, Your Radiance,” he stutters.

Varis glances around, as if checking for listening ears, then gestures for Vespasian to follow him. He leads the younger man away from the group of shocked, terrified women and walks down a nearby hallway. Vespasian follows, barely able to hide his nervousness. He hasn’t spoken to his uncle in years, and to be caught listening to such conversations is… potently humiliating. But as they walk down the corridor, Varis doesn’t say a word until they reach a quiet chamber.

The Emperor pauses, glancing around again, and then turns to Vespasian. “That was a rather heated discussion, wasn’t it?” he asks, with the complete opposite of heat.

Vespasian forces himself to look up at Varis calmly, hiding the anxiety knotting in his stomach. “You mean the ladies?” he asks, as if unaware. “Did they say something unpleasant, Your Radiance?”

Varis’s lips press into a hard line. “Don’t play me for a fool, Vespasian,” he snaps. “I overheard every word of it. You were listening in.”

Vespasian winces. Caught. He swallows again, struggling to recover his composure. 

“A…  a regrettable situation, Your Radiance,” he stutters. “They were speaking louder than one might expect. Naturally my curiosity was piqued. It is a matter of family, after all.”

Varis’s expression darkens.

“Let’s not beat around the bush, nephew,” he says in a quiet, harsh tone. “I know you’ve never been a great supporter of my rule. And we both know that Nerva is always looking for ways to seize power for himself. I don’t need my spies to tell me you’re both still conspiring against me.”

Vespasian blanches, his heartbeat roaring in his ears.

He knows.

But perhaps there’s still a way out of this.

“I am aware of the rumors, Your Radiance,” he says, lowering his voice. “But I assure you, I would never do anything to threaten your reign.” The lie slips out too easily for comfort.

Varis raises an eyebrow. “Then tell me, nephew. Who was spreading the rumor that I am aware of my son’s dalliances with the Eorzean warrior, and doing nothing about it?”

Vespasian’s jaw tightens. He has no idea where this rumor came from, but he’s certainly not about to say so. All he can do is try to stress that it truly was not him. “I… would have to imagine that someone is trying to sow discontent,” he says carefully. “The idea that you are willfully ignoring the impropriety of your son would be quite upsetting to many members of our glorious court.”

Varis’s eyes narrow, seeing through the evasion. “And yet, it’s a rumor that has spread like wildfire across the capital. Almost as if someone is purposefully telling people that I am permitting my son’s…  indulgence .”

Are you not? Vespasian is tempted to sting, but knows better than to needlessly lash his tongue.

Varis crosses his arms with a cold gleam in his eyes. “Allow me to make something very clear, nephew,” he says in a low intimidation. “If I catch even a whiff of you speaking that lie about me, I will crush you like a bug under my boot. You and your father both.”

“Of course, Your Radiance,” Vespasian stammers hurriedly. “Of course. I would never dream of spreading something so damning. I simply overheard it, and was as shocked as yourself, let me assure you.”

Varis stares at him for a long moment, as if testing his sincerity.  Then, finally, he sighs and runs a hand through his hair.

“I can understand your disgust,” he says, his tone more tired than angry now. “Believe me, I share it. This ‘relationship’ between my son and our enemies’ champion has been a thorn in my side since it began.”

Vespasian hides his shock, his mind racing. Varis admits to it? He’d expected denial, or at the very least the Emperor to brush it off and tell him not to spread rumors. But this… this is better than he could have hoped for. He fights the tug of a smile on his lips, managing to quell it.

“It’s an embarrassment to our nation,” Varis mutters. “It’s disgraceful, and I am not ignoring it, as those fools might think. My son has lost his mind, I think. Completely lost it. I have taken every step I can to prevent this abomination from continuing, but the harder I try to end it, the more the damned beast sinks its teeth deeper.”

Vespasian’s head spins. Oh, this is amazing. Varis won’t speak of his helplessness outright, of course, but he’s admitting he can’t control his son. There’s power in that. 

“Your position is a difficult one,” he says, carefully sympathetic. “I can’t begin to imagine the strain this has placed upon you, Your Radiance. If I can be of any assistance in dealing with this situation, I would gladly offer my services.”

Varis glances at him, a flicker of suspicion passing through his visage.

“You offer your assistance? Why, out of the kindness of your heart, I’m sure.” His tone is so dry it evaporates every onze of hope in Vespasian he believes a word he says.

Vespasian forces a placating smile onto his lips. “Of course, Your Radiance. As a loyal member of your court, I only want what is best for the Empire.” He doesn’t falter under the scrutinizing stare. He knows Varis isn’t going to fall for that for a second, but he’s always prided himself on being a good actor. The stage weeps for its loss due to the call of the crown.

“So you say,” Varis says wryly. “Well, my dear nephew, if you are so eager to prove yourself helpful , perhaps you can assist me in one matter.”

Vespasian’s heartbeat quickens.

“Anything, Your Radiance,” he nods quickly. “Anything at all.”

Varis lets out a snort. “Don’t be so eager, boy. You don’t even know what favor I’m about to ask of you.” He glances around the hallway as if checking for eavesdroppers once more.

Vespasian tries to remain calm, despite his anticipation. “I assure you, Your Radiance, whatever you need of me, I will do it,” he says. He knows, of course, that Varis has no intention of simply trusting him. Whatever favor he’s going to ask, it will be a test.

Varis’s lips curl in a small, unpleasant smile. “You’ve always tried so very hard to prove yourself,” he remarks. “Always looking to get my approval. Tell me. Do you want to prove yourself a loyal member of this court, or simply to save your own miserable hide from the consequences of your father’s failed plots?”

Vespasian’s expression freezes. Varis knows exactly what drives him. 

“Your Radiance, I—”

Varis raises a hand, cutting him off.

“Don’t bother lying to me,” he says sharply. “You want power, status, the throne if you can gain it. I knew that about you from the day you were born. You may have as well left the womb with a knife to stab into my back.”

Vespasian swallows hard as his heart sinks to his feet. “Your Radiance,” he says quietly, “I won’t deny it. I have my fair share of ambition, as any self-respecting Garlean should. But that doesn’t mean—”

Varis snaps his hand out, grabbing his collar and yanking him closer. “You’re a spineless coward, trying to crawl back into my favor because you see the axe hanging over your father’s head,” he hisses. “But if you’re ever going to truly prove yourself to me, you will do exactly as I say.”

Vespasian wheezes in rising terror. Why did he think he could fool Varis, of all people? The Emperor can read him like an open book. And now he’s caught in this web with no way out. 

He nods rapidly, hoping it will placate his uncle. The best course of action now is to submit, and hope Varis doesn’t use this as an opportunity to destroy him.

Varis’s grip tightens on his collar.

“Good. Then you will listen well, for I will only tell you once. I have a task for you. A mission, if you will.”

He leans in close, his eyes boring into Vespasian’s. They both inherited the piercing yellow from Solus, and Vespasian now understands why a past lover once called it terrifying. A warning color, like those of poisonous beasts, speaking of danger.

“You will go to Ala Mhigo,” Varis hisses. “You will seek out my son, and you will deliver a message from me. Understood ?”

Vespasian’s shaken gaze darts from Varis’s tight upper lip to the grip on his collar. He has one burning question, which he hopes won’t be taken the wrong way. “Why me? I assume you have plentiful messengers at your disposal?”

“Do not question my orders, boy. You are not in a position to make demands.” Varis leans back, releasing Vespasian’s collar. “I will tell you why you are the one I’m sending. First of all, my son may actually listen to you. At the very least he won’t cut your head off on sight, which is more than can be said for the rest of my messengers. You have enough brains to know how to speak to him.”

Vespasian isn’t quite so convinced his head holds any more value to his cousin than anyone else’s. “With all due respect,” which is none, “Your son and I have never been close.” An understatement; he is lesser than air to the prince, and he knows it.

Varis scoffs.  “Close? You think this is about being close?” He rolls his eyes. “You, my spineless whelp of a nephew, are expendable. If my son ignores your status, rejects your message, kills you, and tosses your corpse into a ditch, I won’t lose a wink of sleep over it. Do you understand?”

No point in hiding his concern, because Varis already knows he’s frightened. It’s evident in every fiber of his being. “And if I refuse?” he says, knowing he’s pushing his luck.

“If you refuse?” Varis sneers. “If you refuse, I’ll do far worse than toss you into a ditch, boy. You’d do well to follow my orders.”

His hand moves to his side, closing around the hilt of his sword.

“Think on it,” he says coldly, “and get ready to take your leave. You’ll be heading out as soon as possible.”

Vespasian gulps again. Ala Mhigo? He’d been expecting some sort of test of loyalty, but not this. 

“And… what is it you wish me to tell your son?” he asks, forcing the words out.

Varis’s eyes take on a dangerous gleam, and he leans in close, his voice dropping to a low growl. “Tell my son,” he says, “that if he continues his… indiscretions, I will not hesitate to end them. Permanently.”

He leans back, glaring at his nephew. 

“Do you understand me? You tell him exactly that.”

Vespasian’s heart jumps into his dry throat. He nods quickly. “I understand, Your Radiance!” he says, trying desperately to maintain composure. “ Exactly that, yes, I understand perfectly.”

Varis studies him for a moment, his narrowed eyes calculating. “Good.” He moves away with a huff. “Now get out, boy. I want you gone by dawn tomorrow morning.”

Vespasian salutes sharply, forcing himself to hold back any protests or arguments. “Yes, Your Radiance. I will do so.” He straightens, avoiding Varis’s disdain as he looks up. “A… a quick question, if I may?”

Varis gives him a withering glare. “Make it quick, boy. I don’t have time for idle chat.”

“Of course, Your Radiance.” Vespasian clears his throat, trying to sound as subservient as possible. A role ill fitting for his ego. “If I may ask… why have you not taken the initiative already? Surely, if the situation is as dire as you say, you could send far more forceful messengers to deal with it.”

“I have,” Varis scoffs, “but my son has ignored their directives just as much as mine, and likely killed them in the process.” He tilts his head, looking Vespasian up and down. “You, at least, have enough common sense not to get yourself cut down immediately. Unless you’re even more foolhardy than you look.”

Vespasian winces at the slight, but bites his tongue. “I… I understand, Your Radiance. That is all.”

He gives another salute, then turns, walking briskly toward the door. Better to get out before Varis changes his mind and cuts him down himself.

No longer in the mood for the festivities, he only returns to retrieve his coat. A lady of House Felice stops him to fuss about the paleness of his cheeks, but he excuses it by having come under the weather and dismisses her. He keeps his head down as he exits the building, trying not to draw too much attention. Exhausted and overwhelmed, a far cry from his earlier smug schadenfreude, his mind races faster than he can keep up.

Ala Mhigo. He’s never even been to the province, let alone had dealings with his cousin. How the hell is he supposed to convince him to give up his sordid little affair and obey his father?

At least Gyr Abania’s weather is allegedly nice this time of the year.

He shakes himself out of his trepidations. No matter his next steps, he has to speak to his father. Ask for the best men of the IIIrd to escort him. Let him know what all he has learned tonight.

A small smirk rises on his face again. It’s not a total loss, is it? This proves just how desperate uncle dearest is getting. With a new resolve, he draws his coat more tightly around himself and hurries off into the cold night air towards his family’s estate.

Chapter 2

Vespasian hurries inside his opulent home, ignoring the stares of the night servants as he walks straight through and bangs on his father’s study door.

“Father!” he calls out. “Father, it’s me, let me in!”

Nerva opens the door, in his nightclothes despite the obvious fact he was nowhere ready to head to bed. His desk is halfway covered in documents, his magitek pad’s dim light tints the room blue, and there’s a twitch in his brow of a man interrupted.

“Do you have any—” he begins, then stops, noticing his son’s distressed look. “What is it? Do you know what time it is?”

“It doesn’t matter, this is important,” Vespasian says, pushing his way in. “Father, you won’t believe what just happened.”

Nerva sighs and closes the door, walking over to his desk. “This had better be good,” he mutters, beginning to pour himself a shot of liquor.

“It is, you have no idea. Varis just confronted me at the party. He found out I’ve been listening to the rumors about his son,” Vespasian rapid fires, bouncing on the heels of his feet.

Nerva’s eyes widen, and he puts the flask down. “Really?” He lets out a snort. “And I’m assuming you tried to deny it like the lying weasel you are?”

Vespasian knows better than to take it as an insult. “I learned from the best, Father.”

Nerva gives a wry smirk. “Very good. And I trust you didn’t manage to get yourself sentenced to death for it?”

“Hah, it isn’t illegal to have ears,” Vespasian scoffs off the assumption, but his bravado makes way for a frown. “But he does know what we are aspiring to do.”

Nerva’s expression sobers as he reaches for the liquor again. “He knows that we are planning to take power, you mean?”

Vespasian nods slowly. “Yes. And he wasn’t happy about it.” He looks down, trying to formulate the words for the best way to relay this. “But there’s more, Father. Varis is losing his patience. With the prince. He’s getting desperate. He confronted me for one specific purpose.”

Nerva’s eyebrows raise. “What is it?” he asks, curious and disbelieving. “He’s actually admitted that he’s struggling? To you? I never thought I’d see the day.” He scoffs. “What purpose did he confront you for?”

“To send me to Ala Mhigo,” Vespasian says, unable to keep the nervous edge from his voice. “He wants me to deliver a message for him. To Zenos .”

Nerva’s eyes widen.

“To…to the prince?” He lets out a bitter laugh. “He wants you to go all the way to Ala Mhigo and speak to his unruly brat of a son? What is it he wants you to deliver, a gift basket?”

“He… he wants me to tell him to break off his… indulgence. And to obey his father.” Vespasian forces himself to stand up straight, staring his father directly in the eye. “Do you understand what this means, Father? The prince has gone so far off course that he’s driving Varis to this .”

Nerva stares, trying to wrap his head around the words, then lets out a snarl.

“It’s unheard of,” he manages to mutter. “Varis is sending you? Of all people? I can’t believe this. How stupid does he think you are? He’s setting you up.”

“Perhaps,” Vespasian says grimly. “Perhaps not. My first thought was that this was a trap. But my instincts are telling me there’s more to this. I believe Varis is actually getting desperate about his lack of means to control his son. And that means he’s starting to crack.”

He clenches his jaw.

“And I’m not stupid enough to walk into a trap without a backup plan, Father. I need your men.”

Nerva’s eyes widen, and he nods quickly. “Yes, yes of course, you can have as many men as you need, my boy. I will let Vergilia know with haste. This is an unprecedented opportunity.” He leans forward, gripping the edge of his desk with a glint in his eyes; the one he gets when he schemes something, the one Vespasian knows well.

“If Varis is truly cracking, we could seize total power within weeks.”

“I believe we could, Father,” Vespasian agrees, the corners of his mouth curling up into a slight smile. “This could be the chance we’ve been waiting for, for years. All we need is for Varis to continue to grow desperate… and for the prince to refuse to cooperate.”

Even though the latter brings cold sweat to the back of his neck. He will regardless have to try to convince him, and the fear for his life isn’t simple to dismiss.

Nerva watches him for a moment, as if trying to assess how badly that possibility scares his son. “Don’t be afraid to bend the knee when the threat is real, Vespasian,” he says, keeping his voice firm, but his tone softer. “Don’t think you need to take any unnecessary risks just to prove something to me. Understood?”

Vespasian swallows hard, his mind flashing back to the memory of Varis’s grip on his collar, his face twisted with rage. “Yes, Father. Understood.”

Nerva lets out a breath, his expression softening even more. “Good. I trust you, son, to make the right decisions. I know that when the time for the coup comes, you will fight with valor. But until then, I don’t want you to be foolish.”

Vespasian lets out a breath of relief, a faint smile crossing his lips.

“Thank you, Father,” he says quietly. “I won’t let you down.”

Nerva nods, then sighs, leaning back in his chair. “Well, I suppose I’d better inform your mother what is happening. She’ll be upset if I leave her out of this, and we both know how unpleasant she can get when she’s displeased.”

Vespasian’s shoulders slack at how the word ‘unpleasant’ leaves his father’s mouth—a far cry from how he said Vergilia’s name just before. It gives credence to all the rumors about where the man’s affections actually lay; the only rumors Vespasian chooses not to comment on.

It’s different when it weighs on his own branch of the family tree. Cut too deep, and risk falling down with it all.

“I will say my goodbyes in the morning,” he states. “For now, I’ll go pack my belongings.”

Nerva nods slowly. “Good. Before you go, come to my closet; I want to give you something.” He stands and walks over to a door at the back of the room. “Follow me, my boy.”

Vespasian frowns, but walks over to meet his father at the door. “Father, what—“ he begins, but Nerva cuts him off with a wave of his hand.

“Don’t ask questions,” comes his answer as he reaches into the closet, grabbing something wrapped in cloth. “Just hold out your hands and close your eyes.”

Vespasian hesitates for a moment, then obediently does as he’s told. He holds out his hands, shuts his eyes, and waits. Something heavy and cold is placed in his hands, and he closes his fingers around it automatically, a shiver running down his spine. He can hear his father chuckling.

“Go on, see what it is.”

Vespasian opens his eyes. A revolver rests in his hands, ornate in detail and delicate in design. It’s old; older than him, for certain, likely older than his father. Perhaps even older than his grandfather.

“Dad,” he can’t help the more affectionate title from leaving his agape mouth.

Nerva watches him with a rare, genuine smile on his face. “Do you remember the day I taught you to shoot when you were six?” he asks, the pride in his chest audible.

Vespasian blinks. He’d almost forgotten that memory, but now that his father mentions it, the images flash across his mind.

“I remember.”

The old training grounds outside the royal courtyard. Dirt and grit on his palms from the small-bore pistol. His father’s careful instruction. The recoil nearly knocking him into the dirt.

Nerva grins. “I remember the day you shot your first tin can. You refused to give up until you hit your target, and you didn’t stop until the can was a pile of scrap metal. You were determined. Even then, you refused to admit failure. You remember what I told you after that, my boy?”

Vespasian thinks back, a faint smile spreading across his face. “You told me that persistence pays off, no matter how difficult the task. That nothing is ever impossible until you give up.”

“That’s right,” Nerva nods. “And I’m willing to bet you’ve remembered that on every occasion since.”

He takes a small step closer.

“I want you to keep this revolver in mind, son. Every time you look at it, I want you to remember the day you fired that first shot. I want you to remember the advice I gave you, when you were barely big enough to reach the trigger. Because this weapon isn’t just a firearm, Vespasian. It’s a prophecy . Do you understand me?”

Vespasian swallows, staring down at the revolver. “A prophecy, Father?” he repeats, his voice hoarse. “How?”

Nerva takes a deep breath, then explains.

“During the fight for the throne, some years ago, it was with this gun I attempted to shoot my cousin Varis dead.” His voice is cold, carrying the same bitter undertone Vespasian has often heard on his own. “Obviously, I missed my mark, much like you first missed that can back then. I failed my father, but the drive which guided my bullet never left. I wish for you to carry that drive.”

Vespasian’s eyes widen, a lump rising in his throat.

“I…”

This is more than just a weapon, and it’s more than just a family heirloom. This weapon is a symbol. A symbol of a failed ascension. A symbol of a father’s vengeance.

“I’ll take good care of it, Father,” he says quietly.

“Do not use it unless necessary,” his father reminds him, “but let it protect you should the need arise.”

“I will,” Vespasian assures him. He looks down at the revolver. Now that he knows the history, he can see the tiny scratches and nicks in the barrel, the worn wood of the grip. “But why didn’t you just keep this for yourself?” he asks. “Surely it’s important to you , Father? Why give it to me?”

Nerva gives a quiet snort, and walks back to his desk. “Because I can’t keep it.” He sighs, grabbing the flask again and knocking back a shot, grimacing as it burns going down. “What good would a gun do me, sitting in a closet? Collecting dust and memories. No.” He shakes his head. “I don’t need something that reminds me of failure hanging on my wall. I’d rather you get some damn use out of it.”

Vespasian looks up, a mix of disbelief and concern in his eyes. “Father, you… you tried,” he says quietly. “You tried, and that’s what matters. I’ve never thought less of you for failing a challenge. You always told me that I would never learn anything if I was afraid of failure, Father. Why can’t you apply that same reasoning to yourself?”

Nerva scoffs. “Don’t be so naive, boy. There is nothing noble about failing. Failure just means you’re a fool who tried to do something you weren’t capable of accomplishing. That’s all it is.”

He gives a humorless laugh.

“You’d think I’d given you the idea that failing is a virtue, listening to you talk. But life doesn’t reward losers, my boy. Never forget that.”

“I understand that.” Vespasian frowns. “But you’re not a loser, Father. And you’re more than capable of doing whatever you set yourself to. The only thing you’ve ever failed at is taking the throne. Other than that, you’ve accomplished plenty.”

He straightens, taking a firmer hold of the revolver, holding it almost reverently.

“I won’t fail with this gift. I promise that much.”

Nerva is quiet for a moment, staring down at his flask, before shaking his head. “See? I always knew you had a stubborn streak. Your mother got that from her side of the family, I suspect,” he mutters.

Then he looks up, meeting Vespasian’s gaze.

“Good,” he says through a trace of a smile on his lips. “ Good . I’m glad you appreciate the gesture, son. I know you won’t fail. Just… When the time comes, don’t hesitate, like you hesitated the first time you shot your gun. Alright?”

Vespasian nods, his eyes fixed on his father’s. “Yes.”

He stalls just a moment longer, the history of the weapon still heavy in his hands, then lifts his chin.

“Goodnight, Father,” he says quietly.

Nerva gives him a small nod, then turns towards his desk. “Goodnight, my boy,” he says absently, already beginning to go through some papers.

Vespasian takes one last look at his father’s back, then turns and leaves the room.

His thoughts race with his brisk feet in the silence of the estate halls. The revolver hums and sings in his hands, and he finds himself stroking the grip with a thumb, thinking of the failed coup, of the years his father has had to dwell on that failure.

It seeped deep into his memory, as well; the night when gunshots rang on every street of the Capital, his father’s supporters against those of Varis clashed in a bid for the throne. Him, delegated to the role of a messenger, relayed bleaker and bleaker news on the radio. His father stumbled home wounded, but nursing the injury on his pride more than the one on his shoulder. Neither ever healed quite right.

The hush fell like a shadow over the whole estate. The tension in his father’s eyes grew heavy—the man seemed to age years within a matter of weeks.

What a strange way it is to pass the torch of one man’s failure to his son, in the hope of letting it carry him to success. Failure is a lesson, never forget that . He can hear his father’s voice in his mind’s ear.

Vespasian lets out a slow breath as he steps into his room, past the expectant stares of the portraits of three generations of his forefathers which adorn the walls of the hallway. He closes the door behind him, walks over to his window and looks outside for a moment, his face half-lit by the light of the gibbous moon.

The past is gone for good, but the future is not yet written, he reminds himself. His hand tightens on the revolver’s grip.

Notes:

All fatherly love in this family went down Titus's side (disregarding Lucius), clearly. I love a contrast <3 Nerva was fun to write, taking characters with close to no canon characterization and putting meat on them is a treasured old hobby of mine

Chapter 3

Morning comes. It comes quickly, far too quickly for Vespasian’s taste.

Not only did he crawl into bed much too late for his waking hour in the crack of dawn, but his upcoming task kept his eyes wide open and his mind reeling. His cousin’s reputation precedes him, not just when it comes to his taste for… savage flesh, as it were. Vespasian has hardly shaken the fear he will turn him into mincemeat. He had hoped to dream of his future, what his sacrifices and efforts promise him, and instead found himself staring at the ceiling in a mixture of excitement and dread for hours upon end.

Now, however, he has no choice but to get up and face the day.

And the day beyond.

He performs his rituals with a practiced ease. Nothing about his sharp dress or carefully braided hair gives off a hint of his inner turmoil. He can, however, do nothing about the bags under his eyes, which no amount of makeup seems to conceal. Once done struggling with them—not out of success, but shameful surrender—he packs a few more outfits into his luggage, even though his choices for the climate that welcomes him aren’t plentiful. It is not to improve his chances with the prince’s persuasion; no, he’s well aware he could wear the most expensive garments on the star, and cousin dearest wouldn’t bat an eye. It is important to make an entrance, regardless.

He closes the bags with a sharp snap, then checks over his supplies one last time. A few changes of clothes, a set of toiletries, the revolver and a box of bullets, emergency provisions, money, first-aid supplies, a bottle of whiskey, a pair of daggers…

He looks up, meeting his reflection once more in the mirror. He looks calm. Focused. Determined. His father’s furrowed brow repeats itself on his face.

He takes a moment to school his expression to smooth out, then picks up the bags and strides out of his room. He only carries them into the corridor before calling over the servants to bring them to the airship landing. That’s what they’re paid for, after all.

While they get to work on that, his own steps take him to his mother’s chambers. He stands outside the door for a moment, then lets out a short breath and reaches out to knock. He’s not sure if he should expect a quiet farewell or a storm, knowing her.

The door opens almost immediately, and he’s greeted by Polistea wir Galvus’s sharp glare. Not a hair out of place, her angular features accentuated by her makeup, she appraises her son.

“You look terrible,” she says curtly. “Did you sleep at all?”

Vespasian winces, his smile strained. “Not really, no. But I’ll be alright, Mother, don’t—“

“Did you at least eat?” she asks, completely cutting off his pathetic attempt at reassurance.

“Yes,” he sighs, giving a slight, almost imperceptible eye-roll. “I did. I’ll be fine, Mother, really. I just need to catch some sleep on the airship.”

Polistea scowls at him.

“You promised you wouldn’t become like your father,” she snaps. “I can’t stand to see you going down the same path, Vespasian.”

Vespasian stares back at her with a mixture of guilt and resignation. “I know, Mother. But please, trust me when I say that I’m doing this for—”

For what? To help his father achieve power in the capital? For honor? Because he’s terrified that he’ll be nothing without it?

“…for us,” he amends. “For the family.”

“Right,” she says coldly. “The family. Your father’s family, you mean. And you’re going to sacrifice your life to gain favor…”

“I’m not going to sacrifice my life ,” Vespasian retorts, his voice shaking. “I’m not suicidal. I’m going to do my duty as a son, and do the best that I can to help Father and—”

He cuts himself off. 

“ Us ,” he finishes.

Polistea scoffs bitterly, reaching out and grabbing his shoulder with a surprising amount of force for someone her height.

“You’re acting just like him, you know. You’re acting like that stubborn fool that I can’t talk any sense into. And if you keep doing this, you will end up sacrificing your life, for him. ”

Vespasian’s jaw sets stubbornly, and he shakes his head. “No,” he says with a low growl in his throat. “No, I won’t. I know what I’m doing, Mother, even if you don’t, so please just—”

He swallows the words on the tip of his tongue.

Just be proud of me for once.

Polistea snorts, releasing his shoulder. “Oh, I’m sure you know exactly what you’re doing, even though you’ve barely seen twenty years on the star. Do you know how long your father and I have been married? How many times I’ve seen him go down the path you’re on right now?”

Her eyes glitter.

“You’re acting like a child.”

The words tighten Vespasian’s throat. No. He knows he’s not acting like a child. But he also knows his mother is going to continue seeing him like one no matter what he does.

“I… I have to go,” he manages to respond. “The airship is getting ready to leave.”

Polistea takes a step back, her expression going cold. “Then go. Do what your father wants. I’m not stopping you.”

Vespasian’s hand curls into a fist once more. “That’s it?” he asks. “ That’s your farewell for me?”

“What should I say that I haven’t said before? That you’ll be missed? That I’ll hope for your safe return?” she spits. “You’re a fool. Just like your father. And just like your father, you’ll get what you deserve. Go .”

Vespasian flinches, his eyes burning, his jaw clenched tightly in an effort to keep his temper from flaring. Like your father. That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?

“Fine,” he lashes out. “Fine. I’ll do something just like him then, just for you.”

Then he straightens and pushes past her into the hallway. Forget what she thinks. Even if Nerva hadn’t asked him to make him proud, a refusal to go would put his head right on Varis’s plate. The choice was ripped from him from the start. He takes a deep breath, trying to steady himself. His mother’s words cut deep… but she just doesn’t understand. She never has understood. She is not a Galvus by birth.

The airship waits. He has to get going.

Vespasian walks as quickly as he can without actually breaking into a run, feeling his mother’s stare on his back. Even though the airship is a mere ten minute walk away from his family’s estate, the distance stretches indefinitely with her words weighing him down.

Waiting for him at the boarding ramp stand a dozen men of the IIIrd, accompanied by their legatus. Finally, familiar faces, familiar men. Ones with hopefully something more reassuring to say to him. He walks forward, and salutes his Legatus.

“At ease, Vespasian,” she says with a nod of greeting. “There is no need to be so formal.”

“Nor was there need to take time off your busy schedule to see me off, Lady Vergilia,” he points out.

Vergilia smiles. “No, there was no need. But I saw the opportunity, and elected to take it.” She cocks her head, looking him up and down. “You look exhausted.”

Vespasian lets out a humorless laugh. “Don’t you start, too. That was my mother’s parting sentiment, as well. I’ve barely slept a wink, yes, but that’s to be expected.”

“Quite so,” Vergilia agrees with a mildly amused hum. “Your father told me everything.”

“Of course he did,” Vespasian mutters. “I assume he also mentioned I didn’t really have a choice in the matter.”

Vergilia sighs, like her own energy has been drained merely by being a bystander in his mess. “Not an enviable position.”

It dawns on him she must have dealt with the prince more than him, being a fellow legatus. How far the dealings between the IIIrd and the XIIth extend, he does not know; however, it is not difficult to beat him in this contest. Zenos hardly frequents the circles he does, especially after his conquests sent him across the star.

Vespasian looks at her for a moment, suddenly wondering why he’s never really asked what she makes of his cousin.

“You’ve met him, haven’t you?” he asks.

Vergilia nods, her expression turning thoughtful. “Several times. At meetings of the generals,” she says. “I’m not sure what to think of him, honestly. He’s more intelligent than I expected, and clearly not the mindless brute he’s made out to be in your father’s propaganda. However, he does have a tendency to speak whatever is on his mind, if he speaks at all. He certainly isn’t the best politician. He’s a man of war, through and through.”

Vespasian frowns, thinking through the rumors that circulate about the prince.

“He is a sadist, though, isn’t he?” he questions. “A hedonistic one, I mean? From what I’ve heard from… less than reputable sources,” he admits.

Vergilia hesitates for a moment, then nods. “There are certainly rumors to that effect. The stories I’ve heard make me hope they’re just slander, or simple exaggeration,” she says, then gives a short, dull laugh. “It would be easier to swallow if he was merely a brute, or a madman. Alas, the truth is rarely the simpler option.”

“Lovely. Just what I wanted to hear,” Vespasian mutters. 

He stares down the ramp, wondering what he’s getting himself into. Then he takes a breath, and looks back at Vergilia.

“… I take it you also heard that I’m supposed to try to persuade Zenos to cooperate?” he asks dryly.

Vergilia gives a wry smile, clearly understanding the ridiculousness of the situation. “Yes, I heard,” she says. “I cannot imagine what Varis is thinking. Persuading the prince to do anything is a fool’s errand akin to taming a storm.”

Well, my own mother thinks me a fool, so I may as well take it on, Vespasian thinks bitterly. His shoulders slump.

“And yet, here I am, setting out to do precisely that,” he bemoans. “Tying myself up and sending myself like a sacrifice into the lion’s den. Do you think he’ll eat me alive?” He looks at her in only half sincerity.

“Well, knowing Zenos, a part of me is tempted to say yes, for it seems far more likely than successful persuasion. But I’m almost inclined to have faith in you,” she says. “I’ve known you for many years, Vespasian. You can be surprisingly charming when you put your mind to it.”

“Hmph.” Vespasian lets out another laugh, this one completely lacking humor. “In the past, I’ve always been able to accomplish things with… persuasion through bribery, you could say. Pretty words, or gold, or favors…” He frowns. “The prince cares naught for any of that. If words will do nothing, what am I supposed to do then ?”

A rueful look of sympathy befalls Vergilia’s face.

“I wouldn’t count you out as being incapable of winning someone over without a bribe or manipulation,” she says, and it gives way for a small smile. “It just requires a different method. You’re charismatic, Vespasian. You know you are. You don’t lack self-confidence, you have no reason to. And I am, for better or for worse, optimistic that you’ll find a way to win over the prince in the end.”

Vespasian’s frown deepens, despite her words of faith. “Perhaps the best I can hope for is delivering Lord Varis’s message and keeping my head, whether he takes heed of it or not.”

Vergilia reaches forward, gently patting him on the shoulder. “You’ll come back to us with your head still on your shoulders, I guarantee it,” she reassures. “After that, I’ll personally see to it that you’ll never be sent on a wild-saiga chase like this one again.” She quirks an eyebrow. “I’m far too fond of you to let you get killed by a mad dog. Especially not for something as stupid as this.”

Vespasian manages a small smile, some confidence returning to his eyes. “Thank you, my lady.” He takes a breath, then straightens his shoulders. “In that case, I suppose there is no use in prolonging the inevitable. I might as well get going.”

“Safe travels,” Vergilia replies, and he can swear he can hear a note of wistfulness in her normally unflappable voice. “I hope to see you again soon, and in one piece, when you return.”

“If not, I entrust you to bring my casket to Father,” Vespasian attempts to wring amusement out of the gallows no doubt looming above him, but winces at his own words as soon as they come out. “Farewell, my lady.”

Vergilia curls the corner of her mouth into a half-smile. “There’s no need to be so morbid, boy. You are not jumping straight into the abyss, you’re simply visiting a troublesome family member. Though not one you’d choose to visit out of your own free will.” She shakes her head. “Now, go, before you begin to doubt yourself. You’ll do splendidly. You are Lord Nerva’s son, after all.”

Vespasian takes a final breath, and nods. “Yes, my lady.”

He gives her one final salute, then strides up into the ship.

Time to meet the monster.

Chapter 4

For all his venom, at least Varis arranged for his nephew to travel in style befitting his status. Vergilia’s men carry Vespasian’s luggage into a sizable private cabin, where he wastes no time collapsing onto the bed.

It is hard to relax, however, when he cannot shake the prickling sensation of being watched. Assessed, even.

Maybe it’s just him, but the guards stationed outside his door and in the hallway are far more careful with him than they would another guest. In all likelihood, they are simply behaving according to protocol, but it’s still unnerving, a shiver at the back of his neck that tells him a predator lurks in the dark.

It’s improbable that Varis hasn’t slipped a spy into his escorting party. The realization turns his blood cold.

On one hand, the thought of being caught unawares, of having eyes watching him, is rattling. On the other, Varis is too smart for that kind of move. The Emperor would be subtler than that; no, if Varis wanted to keep tabs on him, he would need to be far more careful. He’d use someone no one would even think of suspecting of being a spy.

Unless, of course, Varis is toying with him.

Vespasian chides himself for his overreaction. Of course Varis would be watching him, in some sense or another. How could he not? A Galvus can never avoid that kind of scrutiny.

But that doesn’t mean this strange feeling doesn’t bother him.  The sense that all eyes on the ship are turned on him…

Mayhaps sleep is beyond him. It certainly seems that way. He spends a small eternity tossing and turning in the bed, waiting for it to find him.

The flight will take the whole day, with a pit stop in Werlyt in the last leg. No doubt Varis would want him to see his son as soon as he arrives. He should get some rest while he can, and yet it eludes him.

He should just get up, tempts a voice in his head. He should take a walk around the ship, see whether he can find a drink to help soothe his nerves. It is too early to uncork his own whiskey, after all—isn’t it? Then again, day drinking is unbecoming of him. Maybe he should instead—

The thought comes to a grinding halt. What was that noise? It sounded like a thump, followed by a soft sound like someone shifting their weight against the door to listen more closely.

He turns his head, listening hard. Silence. 

Nothing except the quiet humming of the airship’s engines.

You’re imagining things.

But he could have sworn the sound was coming from outside of the cabin.

Well, there is one way to know for sure.

He sits up and swings his legs over the side of the bed, standing and making his way over to the door.

His blood rushes in his ears. It’s probably nothing. He’s just paranoid. And yet, his hand shakes as he reaches for the handle.

What if there is someone behind the door? Someone who is listening, who even now stands just out of sight?

His hand clenches into a fist. Even if that is true, so what? This is his cabin. He can damn well open his door if he so pleases.

He grabs the handle and yanks the door open.

The hallway is empty.

The two soldiers stationed on either side of the door look up at him. He can visualize them blinking in surprise under the helmets.

What an idiot he must look like, to be leaping up out of bed with such a suspicious, guilty expression and wrenching open his door like a raving lunatic. Even though he could have sworn he’d heard a sound, the soldiers’ silence proves no one lurks outside.

Embarrassment flushes on his cheeks. His eyes strafe between the guards until they avert theirs. 

A strange thought occurs to him. For some seconds, he considers pulling one—or both—into his cabin, giving them a reason to stare. His reasons are plentiful; a need for distraction, on top of the list. His cousin isn’t the only one who indulges in the pleasures of the flesh.

In his jitters, however, the idea feels too close to exhibitionism. Vespasian stomps down his urges. What is he, some kind of animal? A hypocrite? He can control himself. He doesn’t need to find some way to take out his frustration. Doing something so reckless could lead to being reported as a degenerate, and that’s the last thing he needs.

He shakes off such silly fantasies, then glances back at the soldiers. 

“Good morning,” he offers, trying to be polite despite his rattled state.

“My lord,” one of them answers, straightening and giving him a salute, which the other promptly follows.

Not the most talkative crowd, these soldiers. They probably aren’t even allowed to speak to him too openly. He’s just about to nod and shut the door again when he pauses.

“Did either of you hear anything… unusual?” he asks, the words slipping out of his mouth before he can stop them.

Both of them shake their heads.

“No, my lord. Nothing unusual,” the one to his right answers. “Why do you ask?”

Vespasian shakes his head. “Nothing. Nothing. I thought I heard… I thought I heard someone outside my door.”

The two soldiers share an inscrutable look, then look back to him.

“There’s no one outside your cabin, my lord,” the second one says. “No one else has been permitted access down this hall.”

Vespasian’s shoulders un-tense.

“… I imagined it,” he concludes. “I must have been dreaming. Thank you.”

The second one gives a polite nod. “No problem, my lord. Anything else we can do for you?”

Vespasian hesitates.

Part of him is still tempted to do… something just a little deviant, with the two handsome, uniformed guards right in front of him. Just for fun.

He strangles the thought before those dangerous frogs can leap out of his mouth.

“… No, nothing,” he says. “I’m heading back to bed. Tell me if you hear anything amiss, won’t you?”

“Of course, my lord,” the first one says, saluting again. “We’ll make sure to alert everyone should there be any trouble.”

Vespasian then retreats back into his cabin, leaning against the shut door. He groans in irritation, running his hands over his face.

You’re losing it, he scolds himself. It’s this damned ship ride. You’re on edge now. It’s nerves.

How ironic would it be if Varis, in his effort to pull Zenos back onto the rails, pushed his messenger off them in the process? Hilarious.

Vespasian sighs in annoyance. He has to get some sleep, even if only to keep himself sane. The sooner he does, the sooner he’ll stop being so anxious. 

That’s it. That’s the trick. He’s making a mountain out of a molehill for no reason.

The problem would go away if he just. Got. Some. Damn. Sleep.

Running his hand through his hair, ruining his braid, he kneels at his belongings and begins to rummage. Screw it, screw polite society’s rules for the time and place for alcohol. It shall be his medication.

In the depths of the bag, seeking the bottle, his hand brushes something else that captures his attention. A book.

He didn’t pack any books. Did he? He can’t remember.

He pulls it out from its hiding place under piles of clothing to examine it closer. It’s a hard-cover volume, wrapped in plain black cloth. There is no title or other indication on the cover as to its contents.

Yet, the moment he holds it in his hands, nostalgia washes over him. He knows what book it is.

With held breath, he opens it to find his grandfather’s writing on the inside of the cover:

To my grandson Vespasian, glory be.

- Titus yae Galvus.

He now recalls having packed this to reread several years ago, before the war of succession, when he was a teenager on his first vacation without his parents’ supervision. As unfulfilled as he found himself basking in Locus Amoenus—and getting a terrible sunburn—the book gave him something to pass the time with. He must have forgotten to unpack it upon his return.

It’s the script of an old play about a prince’s revenge on his uncle. Titus told the tale of his own father taking young him and his older brother to see it on stage, when he did the same with ten-year old Vespasian. The book came on his following nameday as a physical reminder of the bonding experience.

Upon Varis’s ascension to the throne, said play was on the list of banned performances as decreed by his appointed board of censors. Even as much as owning this copy could land a lesser Garlean in hot water.

Vespasian brushes his fingertips over the looping letters of his grandfather’s handwriting. It’s still here , a voice in his mind murmurs, surprised their old favorite has made the journey with him.

He no longer desires the bottle. Instead, he settles back in bed and elects to spend the time between the pages of this book, cracking open the first one with a smile. A smile that doesn’t fade as he reads, a sensation like a homecoming spreading through him.

Even though he’s alone in the cabin, he can almost hear his grandfather reading aloud to him, his low voice taking on each character’s unique tone.

Hours pass with the pages. By the end of the story, Vespasian finds himself so tired he needn’t chase sleep.

A sense of melancholy settles into him as he sets aside the book, drifting through the old memories. Even the childish desire to perform the play rises again.

He misses those performances. The times before…

Don’t think about that now , he scolds himself. Get some sleep, while there’s still time.

He reaches over and flicks the switch on the ceruleum lamp, plunging the room into darkness. He doesn’t even bother taking off his clothes, simply slipping as they are under the covers, closing his eyes.

He doesn’t dream as he slumbers through most of the trip, catching up on debts. When the landing in Werlyt wakes him, it’s with a renewed hope and mended nerves.

Having spent the brief break calling his grandfather with a lungful of sea breeze, he’s prepared to face anything.

Notes:

I prescribe you Hamlet for your anxiety.

Next chapter, Zenos time~

Chapter 5

The first to greet him when he steps out into Ala Mhigo’s airship landing is an oppressive heat.

Giving a disgusted huff, he tosses the coat carried over his shoulder to a soldier behind him, on top of the pile of bags in his arms. He examines his newly-braided hair with careful fingers, straightens his back, and begins to walk with his entourage in tow. The palace awaits.

Bustling streets clear out afore his regal presence. Or so he’d like to think. In truth, the locals do not know his name or face; it is the soldiers they recognize and fear. He will accept the ego boost, however. In these circumstances, it’s more than welcome.

Thankfully, the guards to the palace are savvy enough to let him in without issue, saluting as they should.

He spent the last hour reciting his words to his cousin. He scripted them to perfection, figured out exactly the right tone to get Varis’s message across. When the door to the throne room opens before him and he finds himself in front of Zenos, however, every word he knows flees from his grasp.

The man could as well be a statue, with how still he is. Nothing changes in his blank stare when Vespasian steps closer and musters a greeting, a barely passable one. “Cousin.”

Zenos nods his head, the gesture minimal and dismissive. No warmth or familiarity colors his gaze as he regards the younger man before him. “Vespasian,” he responds, lacking any hint of emotion. At least he remembers his name. His eyes slowly trail up and down, taking in his appearance with a sense of boredom, as if he was already tiring of the encounter before it began.

A beat of silence passes, heavy and uncomfortable, before Zenos speaks again. “What brings you here?”

The way the crown prince regards him is nothing short of insulting, though Vespasian expected no less. The fact his own blood would treat him like this makes him seethe. Zenos’s impassive gaze never wavers, a clear message that he holds no respect for his younger relative. Vespasian meets it with a forced smile plastered on his face.

“I come bearing news, cousin. News of great importance to the Empire, and to our family. It is imperative that we speak in private.”

Zenos regards the soldiers and their burden of Vespasian’s luggage with disdain. “For this, you have packed all your belongings?”

All his belongings? How poor does he think he is?

“Only what I need ,” Vespasian retorts, his voice steady despite the agitation churning within him. It takes honest effort to maintain his composure, to not let it betray the desperation he feels. He’s acutely aware that Zenos holds all the power in this interaction; one wrong step, and everything could be undone.

“There are matters we need to discuss,” he adds with a touch more insistence. “Family matters that require the utmost discretion. I did not come all this way to be denied an audience.”

Zenos’s gaze pierces him, sharp and calculating. In his silence, he considers the audacity behind such an assertion, the audacity to claim he has authority here. “And what family matters are so pressing you felt the need to parade yourself before me with all the grandeur of a plucked peacock?”

Vespasian’s face darkens at Zenos’s biting remark. Despite his best efforts to keep his temper in check, the insult sears through his pride, fueling his anger. This is precisely what he feared from the beginning. “Your arrogance knows no bounds,” he snaps, seething. “Have you any understanding of the gravity of the situation? Or are you so blind to anything beyond your self-indulgent whims?”

He takes a step closer, his body tense, ready to fight if it comes to that… before he remembers Zenos could reduce him to a stain on the floor, and he puts his foot right back where it was.

Zenos leans back on his throne, a small smirk playing on his lips. He sees through Vespasian’s bluster, sees the fear in his eyes even as he stands tall and defiant. Vespasian knows this.

“Careful, cousin ,” he warns, low and cool. “I have little patience for the games of common fowl.”

Vespasian’s cheeks flush from his flustered blunder. Before he speaks and risks making another, he takes a deep breath and recenters himself. “The sooner you show my men and I to your finest guest chambers, the sooner I’ll be out of your hair.”

A subtle flicker of intrigue graces Zenos’s expression. It seems he has assessed Vespasian less spineless than originally thought—though still barely a vertebrate. He raises a hand, gesturing towards the guards. “Take his men to the guest chambers,” he orders, his gaze never leaving Vespasian. “Ensure they are well attended to.”

The guards nod in obedience, their attention focused solely on fulfilling the prince’s command. This gesture of compliance might not be much, but it was more than Vespasian had expected.

However, Zenos’s gaze still holds an edge. “I trust you will be ready to present what brings you here with the urgency you claim.” He leans back on his throne, his arms resting against the cool stone. The message is clear: his audience is not to be wasted on useless chatter.

It pains Vespasian to submit to the orders, but it’s nothing more than what he should have expected. The way the soldiers obey Zenos—a man who barely acknowledges them in passing—angers him. It only reaffirms to Vespasian one simple fact: If Zenos had a little more will and ambition, he would have already claimed everything his father has.

He bows. This is all he can do. “I shall be in my chambers when you’re ready to speak.”

Zenos gives a dismissive gesture with his hand, one that says ‘be gone’ in every way possible. As Vespasian makes his way out of the throne room, followed by his escorting soldiers, the prince remains seated on his throne, a cold, indifferent ruler looking down upon a lesser noble.

Vespasian glares at the back of Zenos’s head, and when he’s out of his sight, he lets out a slow growl, finally releasing his ire. He takes out a handkerchief and dabs his brow, mopping away the sweat that has formed. The throne room was suffocatingly hot. The soldiers didn’t seem pleased about it, either; no wonder, with their heavy armor. How Zenos can stand it for days on end, he doesn’t understand.

After he’s freshened up, Vespasian follows the lead of the guards to his guestroom. His quarters are more than sufficient, the furnishings elegant, with fine silk draperies and polished wooden furniture. Ornate brass lamps light the room, casting a warm glow on the walls. There is even a balcony with a view that looks over the capital.

Vespasian spends the first few minutes exploring the room. He checks each corner, under the bed, behind the curtains. He pulls open the dresser drawers and the wardrobe. When he’s satisfied he isn’t being spied upon, he sits down on the side of the bed, sinking heavily onto the soft mattress. He’s not tired, not after his long rest on the airship. But he is already bone-deep exhausted from dealing with Zenos and his foul attitude.

He closes his eyes and sighs. He doesn’t have long to relax, he knows. Zenos will likely be impatient. Impatient and, no doubt, unwilling to listen to what Vespasian has come all the way across the Empire to discuss. He has little faith left that his plan will work, that his scheme to sway Zenos will be successful. His cousin is stubborn, perhaps even more so than he is.

The hours pass slowly, and there are more of them than Vespasian’s initial assumption. When the summons didn’t come during the first few, he began to wonder if the prince had already forgotten all about him. Yet, Vespasian spends them thinking, pondering what he’ll say to his cousin once he sees him again; he goes over his practiced lines in his head, speaks them out loud.

 

When the sun begins to set and the room darkens with shadows, a knock finally comes at the door. His heart jolts in his chest at the unexpected sound, the sudden disturbance of his solitude. 

He stands, straightening out his tunic before crossing to the door. When he opens it, a man in uniform stands on the other side.

“Lord Zenos will see you now,” the soldier says, his voice monotone.

Vespasian nods. “Very well.”

As he steps into the corridor, he can feel the soldier’s eyes on him, watching him with a steady, unwavering gaze. The man doesn’t speak, doesn’t say anything to acknowledge Vespasian. He simply starts walking, his footsteps echoing through the hallway as Vespasian follows.

He doesn’t know what to make of it.

Zenos remains on his throne when Vespasian enters the room once more. He sits in that same nonchalant slouch, fingers tapping impatiently on the armrest. His gaze slowly falls on the young man, cold and calculating. Once he has seen him, he doesn’t raise his eyes again, expecting Vespasian to do the talking he came here for.

Vespasian resists the urge to look away from the piercing blue gaze. He feels small in it, a speck in the prince’s presence. It makes him angry, the way Zenos makes him feel inferior just by sitting there, saying nothing. But he doesn’t give into that anger. He can’t, if he wants to make this plan work.

“You took your time,” Zenos finally breaks the silence, the words heavy with mockery.

Vespasian clenches his fists, his nails digging into his palms. It’s an effort to keep it together, to not let this pompous ass get to him. “I was awaiting your convenience.” He keeps his tone even, but barely.

“How considerate of you,” Zenos drawls with a hint of sarcasm. “And the matter which requires such prompt attention is…?” He looks down at Vespasian, his expression utterly bored, as if he’d rather be doing anything else.

Vespasian would also rather be anywhere else but here. Alas, he has a message to bring. But first… he wants to probe a little for information that might help his case.

“I’d like to discuss the Warrior of Light.”

Zenos’s eyes narrow at the mention of the title. His entire demeanor changes; he leans forward in his throne, his gaze becomes sharper. “What of him?” he asks, now laced with curiosity, or perhaps hunger.

Either way, it startles Vespasian, though he doesn’t let it show. He’d gotten the exact reaction he wanted. He shifts his weight from one foot to another. This could be played in one of two ways: be honest and upfront, or tread carefully with Zenos’s sensibilities. 

He chooses the latter. It’s safer. “You are aware of his exploits,” he states, leaving no room for argument. “His victories against Garlemald.”

Zenos’s expression remains impassive, his eyes never leaving Vespasian’s face. “I am,” he admits readily. “I have taken an… interest in his endeavors.”

He doesn’t elaborate further, but the subtle change to his voice suggests that there is more to his interest than mere curiosity.

He isn’t going to admit outright that he considers the Warrior of Light his greatest prey, Vespasian thinks, his eyes tracing the contours of Zenos’s face. Not quite yet, anyway.

“Interest,” he repeats, his voice tinged with skepticism, the kind that says ‘ I’m on to you.’ “You find the man worthy of your attention, don’t you?"

Zenos’s gaze sharpens further, as if he realizes he’s been seen through. “Worthy… perhaps. Interesting, certainly.” Though his body remains perfectly still, a slight twitching in his fingers betrays him. “Your point being…?”

Ah. Now he’s getting somewhere. Zenos wants to talk about this. The prince of Garlemald has taken an interest in the champion of the savages, and he’s itching to discuss it.  Vespasian can work with this.

“Do you consider yourself a hunter, cousin?” he asks. He takes a small step forward, meeting Zenos’s gaze without faltering.

Zenos’s eyebrows rise, his eyes fixating on Vespasian with an intensity that makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. He doesn’t respond right away—a long moment passes between them, the silence in the room stifling. 

Finally, he answers, his voice low. “I am a hunter, and a patient one at that.”

“Let me be blunt, then,” Vespasian says. He takes a risk, steps onto the platform that hosts the throne. “What is it you hunt for, when it comes to the Warrior?”

It’s an act of audacity to come so close to the throne itself, and one that isn’t lost on the prince. A smirk pulls at the corner of his lips. He leans forward again, his eyes flickering with challenge. 

“I hunt for the satisfaction that comes from facing a worthy opponent,” he answers, his voice still low. “I’m sure you can understand that, can’t you?”

Vespasian gives him a meaningful look. “Just what kind of satisfaction are we talking about here?”

Zenos tilts his head as if puzzled by the question.  “The kind that only comes from a powerful enemy, of pitting one’s own strength against theirs, of pushing oneself to the limit. Of being exhilarated by the thrill of conflict.”

His expression remains nonchalant, yet something suggests there is more to it. Something he isn’t saying. So, Vespasian decides to come out with his point. “Have you heard the rumors which surround the two of you?”

Zenos’s amusement fades, his face becoming serious once more. “I’ve heard many rumors,” he replies, guarded. “Which, specifically, do you refer to?”

Vespasian debates stepping back off the platform, but decides it would portray weakness he cannot afford to show when he’s already in this deep. “The ones which presume you’re taking your satisfaction in ways… less related to battle.”

The suggestion doesn’t seem to surprise Zenos—there’s a flicker of understanding that passes through his eyes, there and gone in an instant. He leans back, studying him, as if gauging how much the young man knows. 

After a moment’s pause, he responds with a nonchalant shrug, his words measured and deliberate. “And if those rumors were true?”

“It would cause quite the scandal, wouldn’t it?” Vespasian points out, hoping against hope Zenos has one ounce of care for the concept.

Zenos’s expression doesn’t change. He regards Vespasian with a cool, detached curiosity.

“Scandals are of little concern to me. They will pass with time. The memory of a great hunt, however…” He lets the statement hang in the air between them, a subtle challenge. He doesn’t deny the claim, but he does not confirm it, either.

Vespasian’s face flushes. Is Zenos truly so brazen as to admit his desires like this? The memory of the hunt … What a pretentious way to say he’s bedding a beast-man.

“And is that what you want, cousin? For the memory of your hunt to outlive the scandal it will cause?”

Zenos’s eyes narrow just a fraction, a subtle shift in his expression that tells Vespasian he’s getting closer to a nerve.  He doesn’t like being pushed. He doesn’t like being questioned. “What I want…” he says, his voice low and dangerous, “is to experience the thrill of a real hunt. To find an equal, an opponent worth my time, worth my efforts.”

He stands, taking a step towards Vespasian, his entire demeanor suddenly… aggressive.

Vespasian doesn’t allow himself to shrink away at Zenos’s approach. Still he finds himself stepping back instinctively. Something in Zenos’s gaze sets alarm bells ringing in his head. 

But if he backs down now, he’ll lose any leverage he has gained. This is a delicate situation, like walking through a minefield blindfolded. A few more steps and I could explode, he thinks.

He takes them anyway.

“And if your hunt… becomes public?”

Zenos is a towering presence, his mere stance a threat. This has escalated quickly from banter to a battle of wills. Vespasian’s not even sure where he’s going with this, now. He’s winging it, hoping he isn’t about to get himself slaughtered. His cousin steps even closer, his body rigid, poised, as if ready to strike at any moment. The atmosphere between them is thick, tense, like a dam on the verge of bursting. 

“If?” Zenos repeats, his voice a low rumble, laced with the promise of violence. 

His hands flex, fingers twitching, ready to draw a weapon. 

“ When , you mean.”

Vespasian’s heart thunders in his chest. He’s crossed a line, the point of no return. 

His father’s words ring in his ear. Don’t be afraid to bend the knee when the threat is real.  He has a hunch it’s already too late for that.

The revolver burns in his pocket. Let it protect you should the need arise. But, in the seconds it would take to pull it out and shoot, his head would already roll on the floor. No, he has to rely on his weapon of choice alone: words.

He doesn’t move, though every instinct in his body tells him to. He meets Zenos’s glare, his voice steady despite the chaos going on within him. “And when that happens? What do you think the Senate will do? What will your father do?”

Zenos sneers, his eyes narrowed to slits. He looks absolutely feral, the perfect predator, poised and ready for its kill. “Let them try to interfere,” he snarls. “Let them dare . I will not be denied my prey.” A smirk pulls at the corner of his lips, cold and calculating. “As for my father…” He leans in close, his breath hot against Vespasian’s face. “He will not stand in my way.”

Vespasian, frozen still, darts his gaze around the room. No one to save him. No one to hear what he says, either. “You’ll be pleased to find, then,” he begins, his words barely above a whisper, “that when your esteemed father asked me to bring a stop to it, I chose to find out more and form my own opinion.”

Zenos’s demeanor shifts again. What had been a stance of aggression, a stance poised for violence, turns instead into one of intrigue. It's a minor adjustment, but a mildly reassuring one. He tilts his head, his voice dangerously soft when he speaks. “What opinion have you formed, cousin?”

Vespasian’s nerves threaten to overcome him, but he steels his resolve. He doesn’t dare look away. “I think you’re better than that,” he responds, keeping his voice low. “You can take what you want. No need to go chasing like a mongrel for scraps.”

Zenos watches him closely, studying every subtle movement, every expression that crosses his face. Then, he laughs. It’s a chilling sound, cold and dark and devoid of any joy. 

“Better than that, am I? Do you honestly think I care about being better ?”

Vespasian blinks, unprepared for the sudden burst of laughter. It doesn’t put him at ease. On the contrary, he starts to doubt. It was a wild shot in the dark anyway, he didn’t expect much. He takes a step back, puts a bit of distance between himself and his cousin, who still looks like he wants to sink a sword through him. “There are people who care. Your father being one of them.”

Zenos’s laughter fades, his gaze sharp once more. “You overestimate his concern, cousin ,” he snaps, his voice laced with hostility. “He cares only for appearances. For tradition. For the image of a pure bloodline. He does not care for me or my desires. I’d be surprised to learn he even has a heart at all, let alone one that cares.”

Vespasian crosses his arms over his chest, his confidence returning with each word he speaks. “Perhaps, perhaps not. But he still has a reputation he wants to preserve. His son sleeping with an enemy of the Empire will not be viewed… favorably. No matter how powerful Eorzea’s champion is.”

Zenos’s jaw clenches, his gaze shifting as he considers Vespasian’s words. There’s truth to his claims, and it irritates him. “And what would you have me do?” he asks coldly. “Am I supposed to abandon the one thing that interests me, simply to protect my father’s reputation ?”

There it is, his opening.

“No.” The answer comes quietly, but assuredly. “I am not exactly a friend of Varis, myself.”

Notes:

They are both such DIVAS.

This chapter comes with additional gposes that I decided against adding to the fic itself, but which can be found here!

Chapter 6

Zenos reaches behind him, into his sword revolver. An action that happens in a fraction of a second—yet for Vespasian, time slows to a halt.

Had he misjudged the situation? Were son and father’s barbed words about each other a test, to pull his treacherous feelings out into the open? Perhaps Zenos simply tires of him, and is about to dispose of him for no grander reason.

His blood runs cold. This has been a mistake. In all likelihood, it’ll be his last.

The gleam of a blade hits his eyes. They shut without his own volition. His last thought is of his father, how he has failed him, before—

Zenos steps away from him. He throws the sword, aiming for something behind a statue. A gargled sound erupts, then the thud of a person collapsing onto the stone floor.

Vespasian blinks his eyes open, his body tense and braced for the worst, and is greeted with the sight of a guard crumpled up against the wall, the sword sticking out his chest. 

His eyes snap towards his cousin, and in that instant, he truly believes he’s going to be next.

Instead, Zenos turns his gaze back to him, cold, unfeeling. “You are bold to utter such words with spies abound.”

It takes Vespasian several moments to regain his composure, to return his heart to a normal rhythm. He takes a deep breath, then speaks, his voice no less steady than it had been before. “So it seems. You knew they were watching?”

“The walls have ears,” Zenos says coolly. “Your words were spoken in confidence, but such things are rarely kept private.” 

An unfortunate reality, indeed. Vespasian vows to be more careful… but also more clever, if he’s to get what he wants. “So where does that leave us, cousin?” he asks. “Now that I’ve admitted my true feelings?”

“Now?” Zenos repeats. He tilts his head slightly, his gaze flickering over Vespasian’s face, a smirk slowly pulling at the corner of his lips. “Now, cousin, it leaves us at an impasse. I have a hunt, and you have… spite . And an understanding, I trust?”

Vespasian considers the words. It’s a strange way of putting it, but he supposes it’s accurate enough. An understanding is, after all, the goal of any good relationship. In this case, two parties who share a common goal. Or at the very least, a disdain for the Emperor. 

He nods. “An understanding… yes.”

Zenos’s smirk grows to a subtle smile, cold and knowing. He seems satisfied with Vespasian’s response. “Good. Come. Let us discuss this matter further.” He slowly crosses the room towards a balcony.

As if there was another choice for Vespasian besides following. He steps away from the throne, his hands resting at his sides as he walks after his cousin. They’ve gained ground, but with every step, he fears it might give out from under him. 

Zenos stops by the balcony’s edge. A lukewarm breeze blows in from the night, less hot than when the sun blazed down, more pleasant. Vespasian joins him, staring out at the city below.

For a long while, Zenos stands in silence, fixed on the view before them. Lost in thought, his expression neutral and unreadable. Finally, his eyes flicker towards Vespasian and he speaks. “I will not stop my hunt.”

An inevitable statement, but still an uncomfortable one. Vespasian meets his gaze. “I would not ask you to.” He turns his attention back to the lantern lights below. He should choose his next words carefully. “Your father, however, intends to. With drastic means, if I understood his words correctly.”

Zenos doesn’t react, not at first, but Vespasian sees a muscle in his jaw twitch ever so slightly. “Drastic means?” he repeats, his tone cool, controlled. He turns his gaze back to the city, his expression schooled in what could almost be mistaken for calm. “What is he planning?”

“That he did not share with me,” Vespasian responds, shaking his head. “I doubt he’d shoulder the loss of his heir, so if I were to guess, his ire will likely be directed towards your quarry.”

Zenos’s hands clench into fists, but he does not respond immediately. He takes a measured breath before speaking again, though Vespasian can hear the barely concealed edge of anger. “You think he would dare to touch what is mine?”

“He thinks you’re losing your mind,” Vespasian says bluntly. “He’s convinced you’ve lost sight of what’s best for the Empire… which to him, is tradition above all else.” He purses his lips, trying to find the best way to convey his point. “I’ll be honest with you… I don’t think he’ll hesitate to try anything .”

Zenos’s expression darkens, but there’s a hint of realization in his eyes, as well. An acknowledgment of the very real threat posed by his father. “I am no madman,” he growls. “I am fully in control of my actions and my thoughts. If he believes I would abandon my hunt because of him —”

“He will not give you a choice,” Vespasian replies, matter-of-factly. “He sent me here to end the hunt, as a last resort, with no regard for the personal risks.”

Zenos scoffs, dark and mocking, shaking his head in disbelief.  “Of course he did. Why would he speak to me directly? Why would he speak to his own son first? No, it is always easier to send a surrogate than address the issue at its root. His cowardice is astounding.”

Vespasian leans against the railing with a dramatic sigh. “And now he no doubt expects me to return with great news.”

“Yes, I’m sure he does,” Zenos says. “You will be expected to return to him, tell him that you’ve done your duty, that you stopped my hunt and saved his precious pride.” 

He turns his gaze towards Vespasian.

“So what will you tell him?”

“I could lie to him,” Vespasian says with shifty eyes, “but I’ll need your cooperation. I’ll need you to pause your fun long enough for him to think I got through to you.”

Zenos gives a dismissive hum, and Vespasian fears outright refusal. Then, however, he looks into the far horizon, and something in his gaze turns almost… wistful.

“Land and sea separate us,” he murmurs. “It shall not be an issue to bide my time.”

Vespasian glances at Zenos’s profile, his brow furrowing at his cousin’s words. There’s something there, a hint of regret or reluctance that he can’t quite read. “You sound… desolate , cousin,” he speaks up, still staring at Zenos’s profile.

For several beats Zenos stays silent, his eyes fixed on some far-off point. Then, suddenly, he turns back towards Vespasian, his gaze intense and unwavering. When he speaks, his voice is quiet, almost contemplative. 

“… Is it that obvious?”

Vespasian’s chest tightens at the question. It’s strange, the subtle hint of emotion he can sense. It surprises him, though it shouldn’t. Zenos is human, after all. As human as he is, as much as people—his own father included—say otherwise. 

“Perhaps,” he answers gently.

Vespasian isn’t sure whether or not to go on. He can sense the need in Zenos, something hungry , something that drives him. He can’t blame the man. He’s never felt something like that.

“Tell me about your hunt,” he tries, his voice still low and calm.

The tension bleeds from Zenos’s body, and he turns away, staring out into the night once more. “Laku is… different,” he says.

He calls the Warrior by his name. One Vespasian has never heard before, spoken so softly. There is something like affection in the two syllables. To think that Zenos, the mad prince who craves battle and bloodshed above all, is growing… attached to his prey. Vespasian knows better than to comment on it.

“Laku…” he repeats, testing the name. It’s odd. Foreign. He almost wants to ask where it comes from, but decides against it. That’s not what this is about. He wants Zenos to talk. To open up a little. Perhaps to divulge something he can spread later. So instead, he asks, “Different how?”

Zenos’s eyes flicker with a faraway look in them as he speaks. “He fights without hesitation. He does not cower before me. He fights because he wants to fight. He fights because he loves the battle, the rush of blood.” There’s that admiration in his voice again, one that’s unmistakable. “Laku has an uncanny intuition. He knows what I will do, where I will strike, and he counters accordingly, every time.” 

“And how… does that make you feel?” Vespasian’s pushing, he knows, but he has room to push. There is something here, something that can be gained from digging deeper into Zenos’s thoughts. And something that’s being revealed in the process.

A smirk spreads across Zenos’s face, cold and dark. “It makes me crave him. His ferocity, his strength, his speed, his skill… I want—no, I need to capture him. To break him. To tame which burns within him, and make him bend . And when I have, I shall… I shall…”

He stops with the faintest flush on his cheeks. Embarrassment? Shame at his own words? Or simple lust, clear as day?

When he speaks again, it’s quieter, with an intensity that Vespasian has never heard before. “It is not simply about the hunt,” he says. “It’s about a connection. A bond forged in blood and flame. That is what I seek. That is what I crave.”

That last line sends chills down Vespasian’s spine. That hint of passion, buried under a mountain of words. The yearning in Zenos’s voice, how firm it sounds, makes it clear to Vespasian that this… is no simple matter for his cousin.

It’s obsession . Pure and simple. He’s obsessed with this man. And obsession can be exploited. A weakness like this, in a man like Zenos… 

It’s time to play this from another angle. “Do you think this ‘connection’ is returned?” he asks. “Does this… Laku… want you, too?”

Zenos hesitates, his expression betraying nothing more than its usual cold facade. “He… has not told me as much.” Perhaps for a man like Zenos, a simple ‘no’ is too difficult to admit.

This is good. The hesitancy, the doubt, it’s not like his cousin. Zenos wants it to be true. He wants it to be returned, the same madness, a shared lust for violence. But he’s not sure . He doesn’t know. And that’s the key. The uncertainty…

“Then how can you be certain you’re not imagining this connection?” Vespasian is playing with fire and he knows it. But with the way Zenos is reacting, he thinks he can go further.

“I’m not imagining anything.” Zenos gives no outward reaction, but Vespasian notes the way his fingers grip tighter onto the railing. “Our duels, the rush of battle, the clashing of blades, the sound of steel against steel… the warmth of skin against skin… It is real.”

“That’s passion, cousin,” Vespasian counters. “It’s nothing more than adrenaline and lust. Those things are physical. The connection you’re talking about is in your head. A shared understanding. A… mutual need for each other.”

Zenos’s eyes narrow, but he says nothing. There’s silence, and tension, and the faintest hint of something hurt visible behind his gaze. 

Finally, he speaks, barely above a whisper. “… You do not understand.”

“Perhaps I don’t,” Vespasian retorts. “Help me understand it, then.”

He knows he’s being cruel, going in for the kill. Even if he’s uncertain, he wants to see what it will do.

Zenos straightens himself off the railing. “You will not understand. You cannot . You have never felt this. Do not speak as though you can even begin to comprehend what I feel towards Laku. This drive, this need. It is not something one simply explains.”

He turns to leave the balcony. Vespasian watches him go, feeling… saddened, somehow. He’d struck a nerve, that much was clear. But not in the way he’d intended. 

This was vulnerability , raw and unfiltered. He’d dug into Zenos’s heart… and wounded it. It was unexpected. He’d always thought of Zenos as an unfeeling, empty shell. It should feel like a victory, to pull on a string which has the potential to make a fool of him. To shove him further along the path of disgrace, for the vultures of high society to peck him clean. A deep blow to Varis, a boost to his father. Yet, he can’t help but feel bad about it.

He has to remind himself that Zenos is no innocent in need of protection. He is not a man to be pitied. He is a man who lives and exists for battle, and battle alone. If that changes all because he falls for a man he’ll never have, then it’s an irony so twisted it’s almost funny.

It’s just another weakness. And in this world, there’s no room for weakness. 

Notes:

Vespasian might be a little meowmeow, but he also sucks. Planting seeds like that to lead to Zenos doubting Laku’s acceptance in the garden? Uncalled for.

Chapter 7

 

Zenos doesn’t look back as he walks away, his footsteps ringing heavily over the stone corridor. But before he reaches the door of the throne room, he stops, yet his back stays turned. 

“Tell my father what you wish,” he says, calm and controlled, yet with a sense of warning. “Tell him whatever you feel you must. But do not dare, ever again , to pry my feelings from me like some trophy to bring back to him.”

Vespasian’s gotten far more than he’d bargained for tonight. A window into his cousin’s heart. More than any gossipy servants could spy. 

And more than he’s able to keep out of his mind.

As he passes the throne on his way back to his guest chambers, he finds it empty. Zenos, too, must have retired for the night.

He idly ponders on the burden of the seat of power. It is everything Vespasian has ever wanted, but for his cousin, he’s chained to it. He surmises it was easier to submit to the shackles when nothing else enticed him, but now… In the wake of that beast…

He feels uneasy, though not at the prospect of Zenos’s future or what it may bring. No, he keeps drifting to their conversation. To the expression on his cousin’s face when he spoke of this connection, this need.

The drive to have what he wants, to chase that which cannot be caught.

Torches flicker along the walls with each breath of wind flowing through the open door, the fire dancing off the gold of the throne itself. Vespasian stands before the steps, staring up at it, his heart still constricted.

What is he doing? He shouldn’t linger here. The hour is late, the palace staff has long since gone to sleep. 

But something keeps him rooted to the spot.

He imagines his cousin sat there, day in and day out, in cold isolation. A man who wanted so much more. He wonders what it would feel like, being in the prince’s place.

Would he be able to carry the weight? Or would he crumble under the chains, unfulfilled in the responsibility?

The words of the nobles back at the party return to him. This infatuation, no doubt, has hastened Varis’s need to find his son a bride. The duty of siring an heir is an essential one, after all; one which Vespasian knows will be in his own future, as well. Especially if—when—Nerva takes the throne, making him crown prince in Zenos’s stead.

It’s an idea hard to swallow, like tar in his throat. To be tied down, to a woman, no less? He would only repeat the cycle of unhappiness perpetuated by his own parents. Yet, was that not the right way? When has a royal ever married for love?

Or obsession, or whatever it is Zenos wants.

He slowly crosses the stone floor, climbing up the steps to the throne itself. They’re steeper than his feet remember. 

The armrest’s gold chill meets his fingertips. He glances around, his pulse quickening in his throat, as if he’s about to be caught. No one is there to catch him. He’s completely alone.

Yet… he does not sit. He finds himself not wanting to. Instead, he walks its perimeter, his fingers trailing over every curve, every edge, every line. Is this power? This cold, heavy, throne? This seat of responsibility? Or is it something deeper, something more primal and innate? Control. Influence. The ability to push and pull. 

It’s been his goal for so long that the question seems almost absurd. 

There is something… missing, he figures. Something that cannot be filled with this alone. Something deeper. A desire to feel. To truly know. To see more of the world than just its power… or its riches.

Just what is it like to chase something with such intensity? To want something so desperately, that your world will crumble if it’s not obtained? It’s a fantasy that makes him ache.

 

He doesn’t sleep well that night. His dreams are strange, twisted things, of clashing steel and the rush of blood. And a dark-haired figure, always out of reach, always running ahead. Waking before dawn, he finds himself unable to doze off again. Something weighs on him, something he can’t seem to set aside. 

Even with the sun streaming in through his windows from a fresh, bright blue sky, he feels… hollow. For once, he is not eager to leave his bedchambers and begin another day.

The palace seems eerily vacant as he makes his way towards the dining hall. There are servants, of course, but it’s still too early for the men he arrived with to have awoken. Or much anyone else.

Except… is it? 

He spots Zenos in the empty hall, eating alone at the opposite end of the long table. He hasn’t noticed Vespasian yet, instead staring off into space, his fork idly spun between his fingers.

Vespasian approaches and takes a seat across from his cousin, though he doesn’t speak. Zenos finally glances up as the chair scrapes over the floor. His frown deepens.

“You’re up early,” Vespasian remarks, trying to sound casual. 

Zenos grunts in response, and his gaze focuses back into nothing.

A similar frown mars Vespasian’s face as the lack of greeting grates him. “You don’t speak to your guests very often, do you?”

There’s no answer for several beats, before finally, Zenos glances at him again. He studies Vespasian’s expression, his eyes unfriendly as always. “I do not need to.” 

The words are blunt, the implication clear: If I do not speak to you, you should take the hint.

Vespasian does not, in fact, take the hint, even as it blares him right in the face. He simply doesn’t want to. “It’s not exactly polite to ignore one’s breakfast company, you know,” he says, with a touch of his father’s arrogance.

“Politeness is an unnecessary construct,” Zenos responds flatly. “I see no reason to waste my time on pleasantries.”

Such frustrating words, such a foul attitude. How does someone this high-ranking have so little regard for proper manners? Or common decency, for that matter.

“Is it too much to ask for a simple ‘good morning’? Maybe some pleasant banter? I’m told conversation can be a good way to make sure this… thing you’re hunting stays interested.”

With each word, he could swear he sees a muscle in Zenos’s forearm tighten. Good.

Zenos’s voice, however, remains even. “The ‘thing’ I hunt…” he repeats, spits Vespasian’s choice of descriptor with such contempt for it, “does not value such empty nonsense, and neither do I.”

“Oh? And what does he value?” Vespasian asks with a hint of mockery in his voice, but also curiosity. He’s not the most experienced when it comes to romance, nothing quite so deep and all-consuming, but even he’s starting to get the gist of this. 

When Zenos doesn’t respond, he continues, trying to elicit something from the prince. He’d think him a brick wall if it wasn’t for the subtle, subconscious signs of irritation he portrays. “Come now, cousin. Surely you can at least attempt a civil conversation with me.”

“Civil?” The corners of Zenos’s mouth turn up, and he tilts his head in apparent disbelief. “You are either blind, or a fool.” With each blunt word, his voice grows colder. “You are neither a guest, nor a friend, nor a companion. You are Varis’s errand boy. A spineless, pitiful insect, sent here to do the dirty work that my father does not wish to do himself.”

The words sting. Vespasian’s resentment bleeds into his scowl. 

“And you are the crazed, bloodthirsty brute whose obsession with a man he barely knows is the laughingstock of the entire empire. You are nothing like your father, nor your ancestors, either.” He leans back in his chair. “What a fall it must be, for the great prince of Garlemald.”

The words come unbidden, and he’s almost shocked by his own vitriol. So much for civil discussion.

Zenos clenches his fist around the fork enough to bend, his jaw set. If he wasn’t sure before that his words had an impact, then there’s no question now. 

He keeps going.

“What would our great-grandfather think, if he saw you now? Running around after some savage animal of a man like a child after a ball? Obsessing over him like a mad dog.”

Zenos is tense now, every muscle rigid. 

“If you wish to leave this palace alive,” he all but growls, “I would suggest you stop talking.”

“Oh, would you rather talk about something else? How about how you’ve thrown away everything your family has worked for, just for some petty lust.”  Vespasian leans over the table, staring his cousin down.  “How pathetic do you think you look, to others? They mock you, cousin. Behind your back, they sneer. They all know you’re mad, not just me.”

“And you are brave enough to say this to my face, are you?” For a moment, Vespasian thinks he sees a flicker of something like a snarl cross those lips. “And dull enough to think I care?”

But then it’s gone, replaced by a measured glare. 

“You are bold, little insect. And suicidal.”

“I’m just telling you like it is,” Vespasian says with a shrug. “Though I can understand why you wouldn’t want to hear it.” He leans back in his chair again, staring back at his cousin. “Because if you were to listen, you’d have to accept that everything I say is true, wouldn’t you?”

That might be the end of it, he supposes, but then… a slight twitch of fingers against the tabletop. A voice, sharp and clear. A hint of anger in it… and a cold edge of madness. 

“I have no further patience to deal with you, and no desire, either. I will not tell you again. Stop… talking.”

Vespasian crosses his arms over his chest. He meets that hateful glare, refusing to break eye contact. 

Finally, however, he finds it difficult to maintain it. His heart pounds, something anxious claws at the back of his neck, cold sweat soaks through his shirt. He doesn’t want to back down, but… despite what his cousin says, what his mother says, he is not suicidal. So he does cease his barbs and concentrates instead on his breakfast.

The rest of the meal is eaten in silence, and as soon as he’s done, Vespasian stands.

“I wish you luck, cousin,” he says, “in your… pursuits. Hopefully you’ll come to your senses.” 

He leaves without another word.

Previously, he’d planned to see the city while he’s here; that is what he packed so many outfits for, after all. Now, however… He doesn’t know if it’s the confrontation, or the strange, twisted thoughts he’d been dealing with since last night, but the very soil of Ala Mhigo gets him restless. 

The sooner he can return to the capital, the better. Perhaps he can find something else there to keep his mind occupied.

He asks his escorts and the palace staff to prepare for his departure. The response is hesitant; it’s clear they hadn’t expected him to leave so soon. But they do as he asks, and preparations are made. 

Finally, he exits the den of the monster.

Notes:

Do you ever write something and wonder how the characters keep talking themselves into places no one sane would go? Vespa babygirl if you had not shut up when you did you would have gotten a fork in your eye. Why are you like this.

Chapter 8

Vespasian takes into flight, carried by the airship, like he fled the barrel of a gun. The farther he gets from land, the more it dawns on him: any further days spent in the prince’s presence, stoking his ire, would have only risked cutting his remaining ones short.

His tongue had been far too sharp. He knows. There’s no one to blame but himself and his own arrogance clashing harshly against that of his cousin. He tries not to dwell on it, but despite the increasing physical distance, it doesn’t get any easier. The flight back is a long one, and unhelpfully offers too much time alone with his thoughts.

There remains something in his chest, a nagging feeling that won’t go away. He can’t keep himself from drifting back to what he said at breakfast. 

Sure, he could lie to himself that Zenos’s yearning didn’t touch him. That it’s not that deep, just a fleeting fancy.  Yet the way he reacted, the way his fist clenched…

It was only rage, a petulant tantrum from a spoiled prince. Not worth a second thought, let alone this fixation. This is what he tells himself, but the memory haunts him, anyway.

A received call gives him a welcome respite from his ruminations.

“Father,” he picks up readily.

“Vespasian.” Nerva’s voice comes through clear. “I hear you’re returning home early.”

The men of the IIIrd do not tarry in their messaging, it seems. Vespasian is impressed. “You’ve been made aware already? I’ve hardly spent a bell on the ship.”

Or has it been more? He’s lost track of time.

“News travels fast,” Nerva replies curtly. Knowing him, Vespasian presumes his father asked his men to let him know as soon as he left the palace. “I expected you by next week, at the earliest. Any particular reason you’ve cut your trip short?”

Vespasian searches for words, unsure how to best explain his decision. “I had a… confrontation,” he says simply, trying to conceal any shame. “It seemed like a good time to take my leave.”

“I trust you’re unharmed?” his father asks in haste, and despite the alleged trust, concern shines through.

“I’m fine,” Vespasian reassures. 

He’d known his father would worry, though it still feels strange to be fussed over like this. But then, Nerva isn’t merely concerned for the wellbeing of a son, but also the wellbeing of his heir.

“Care to share what caused this?” Nerva asks. 

Vespasian frowns. What could he say? That he’d had a… difference of opinion, with Zenos? That he’d insulted his cousin to his face? 

He has to say something , so he opts for one word. “Politics.”

“I see.” Nerva seems to accept this. But there’s a pause before he speaks again.

“Vespasian, be careful. You may think you’ve learned the ways of the court from your studies, but you’re young yet. And not nearly experienced enough to be getting into scuffles with princes.”

“I know,” Vespasian responds bitterly.

He can’t tell whether the advice is merely that: a word of concern, or a reminder that he’s still too inexperienced to play with the big boys. Either way, he bites down on his annoyance, reminding himself that his father is right.

The line is quiet for several heartbeats. Then: “I expect you to report to me as soon as you return,” Nerva says. “I want to hear from you what happened, in detail.”

“I assume His Radiance expects much the same,” Vespasian points out, and his face sours. “Which, do you reckon, should take precedence?”

“You’ll see to your father first,” Nerva replies sternly. There’s no question, no room for argument there. He’s not only his father—he’s his commanding officer, and for now, he has absolute control over Vespasian’s life. 

Vespasian has to bite back several retorts. There’s no point in arguing. He agrees, after all; he would much rather take his father than his uncle for company after such a stressful trip.

Yet, how would Varis react to perceived stalling? He may not have his son’s monstrous reputation, but the way he gripped onto his collar flashes in his mind’s eye and makes him wince.

“As soon as you’ve returned to the capital,” Nerva continues, “I’ll have some work for you as well.”

“Work, Father?” Vespasian repeats, surprised by this. He’d assumed that returning to the capital meant a return to normal; taking control of his boring, personal affairs until the next time his father summoned him. To hear that there will be work… it piques his curiosity.

“You should know better than to inquire over the line.” Nerva’s tone carries the harsh suggestion that indeed, Varis could have someone intercepting every single one of their calls. “We will speak in my office.”

Vespasian frowns but responds with a “Yes, Father.”

He has little option but to accept, as much as he may want to know just what ‘work’ his father has planned. Nerva’s work is nearly always related to the crown; if this work involves Vespasian this soon after his trip… is he finally getting the responsibility he’s been yearning for?

He has to wait until the airship reaches the capital to find out. Which, unfortunately for Vespasian’s impatience, is an agonizingly long time. He paces the airship continuously, until he’s sure he could walk the length of it with his eyes closed.

 

Finally, he lands, and makes his way to Palatium Novum as quickly as he can—though not without stopping at a tailor to re-arrange his attire. By the time he shows up at his father’s office, he assumes he at least looks the part of a prince-in-waiting… even if he doesn’t quite feel that way yet.

His father sits behind his desk, the dark wood shining dully beneath the light of the room. A thick file folder sits at the center of it, and next to it, a silver pen. 

Weariness colors his features; something Vespasian has seen many times before. It is the natural state of his father, yet this time, it seems more pressing.

He doesn’t look up when Vespasian enters. “Close the door.”

Vespasian does as he’s told, his hand lingering on the knob before he lets it go. Slowly, he makes his way across the office until he reaches the desk, and stands, waiting.

Finally, Nerva looks up. He studies his son for a moment, his gaze sharp with scrutiny. Then, he gestures to the chair in front of his desk.  “Sit, boy.”

Vespasian settles into the chair, trying to ignore the fact that he’s being treated like a child summoned for a scolding. He keeps his eyes fixed on his father, waiting with apprehension building in his chest.

“First things first.” Nerva steeples his fingers. “You spoke to Prince Zenos, did you not? I want to know what happened between the two of you, during your stay in Ala Mhigo.”

“We… didn’t exactly see eye-to-eye,” Vespasian mutters. 

He debates how much to tell. The last thing he wants is to sound like a brat, complaining about his cousin. But he doubts he can tell a half-truth and hope his father won’t realize, so he decides to be as honest as he can. Even if the memory still rankles.

“What was the conflict about?” Nerva asks. 

Vespasian is tempted to respond with something casual, to avoid answering the question directly. But he’s taunted by his father’s stern tone only moments ago, and decides against it. 

“His… obsession, as you have no doubt heard. With Eorzea’s champion. I tried to make him see reason, but it had no effect.” He doesn’t admit what he was really doing—lashing out at being ignored. “So we argued.”

“His obsession,” Nerva repeats the words, his brow furrowing. “So it is true, and he admits to it.”

His expression tells Vespasian this is not what he’d expected to hear. 

“How long has this been going on?” Nerva asks, his voice still flat. “How long has he been pursuing this person?”

“I don’t know, but it can’t be long,” Vespasian relays his conclusions. “It’s only in the past sennights the rumors reached my ears, and you know how sharp they are for such whispers. I must assume some delay in when they landed in Garlemald proper, but still…”

Nerva leans back in his chair, and the leather creaks. “Do you know what this means?” he asks. 

“It means plenty,” Vespasian nods, then voices his own train of thought. “He has zero plans to bow under his father’s heel about this matter, which might spell disaster for Varis. I did try to find a connection with him through that, but…”

He winces. “I may have ruined that potential support, with the argument.”

Nerva closes his eyes. When he opens them again, he gives his son a stern look. 

“You are an intelligent young man, Vespasian. And you’re the future of this family. But your impulsive tendencies are a weakness, boy.” His every word is measured and even. “This… insubordination of ours… there are those who will use your inability to keep that tongue of yours in check against you. The world is not so generous that it will forgive your carelessness.”

Vespasian wants to protest, to say that he couldn’t keep his tongue in check, because something about his cousin had just set him off. But he knows better than to argue.

“I know, Father,” he responds, but can’t resist adding his grievances. “You must understand, he was intolerable .”

Nerva frowns. “This is no justification. If you cannot set aside your pride and your temper enough to deal with a man such as Zenos, how do you expect to lead an entire empire one day?”

Vespasian’s eyes narrow, and he can’t quite keep the sting from his voice. “So I’m expected to simply endure his arrogance and lunacy?”

Then he sees he’s proving the point, and purses his lips tightly shut. “I will work on it, Father.”

“You will ,” Nerva says pointedly. “I want you to start by writing the prince an apology. Be humble, but not weak. Apologize for your words and your attitude. Do whatever it takes to maintain a semblance of politeness in future encounters.”

Vespasian doesn’t respond. An apology ? For his cousin’s attitude, he had to apologize? Zenos himself said he cares not for politeness, so why extend this olive branch wrapped in it?

He grits his teeth and nods, refusing to voice his indignation.

“Good.” Nerva leans forward, tapping a finger on the folder. “This is the work I have for you, in light of what you’ve told me about your cousin. You said Zenos was obsessed. Well, so is Varis. Obsessed with finding a way to put an end to this madness and save Garlemald from public embarrassment.”

Vespasian perks up at this. He’d been given scarce responsibility so far; anything his father gave him now, he would take seriously. 

“Yes, Father?” he asks, not bothering to conceal his eager curiosity.

“Varis had someone put together a report,” Nerva explains. “All the information they could gather on the object of his son’s fixation.” 

He slides the folder across the desk, into Vespasian’s waiting hands. 

“Look it over, make notes. Keep it in mind for future encounters, in case it can give you something to work with.”

Vespasian takes the folder with both hands, running his fingers over the cover. He doesn’t want to think about the contents yet, though. There is something else he wants to ask first, that’s been burning in his chest since he stepped into the office.

He hesitates, but only for a moment, before gathering enough courage to speak. “So… Do I get more responsibility now?”

Nerva doesn’t say anything for several heartbeats, and Vespasian is certain he’s about to be told that he still isn’t ready.

“You do,” Nerva subverts his expectations, and he’s clearly noticed the eagerness in his son’s voice. “But your lack of restraint has made me reluctant.”

Vespasian nods. “Understood, Father.” 

He wants to ask what the responsibility will be, but decides against it. If his father wanted him to know, he would have said something already. He can wait, if he has to. For now, he is just grateful to hear it is on the table.

“There is something else,” Nerva continues. “Something you must not forget, regardless of the responsibility that is given to you.”

“And what’s that?” Vespasian asks, with some trepidation.

Nerva leans forward, fixing his son with an intent stare. “Do you remember the purpose of the royal bloodline?”

Vespasian nods. “Glory, everlasting.”

“Yes, and a symbol,” Nerva adds. “A symbol of the very soul of Garlemald. We carry the essence of the Empire within our blood.”

Vespasian goes quiet, though the words echo in his mind.

“This is not a fact you are to take lightly, my son,” Nerva continues. “You represent the Empire with every word and action you take. You carry on the heritage of a legacy. Remember that at all times, and you shall serve this country well.”

Vespasian is well aware how serious the words are. He knows how much is at stake. But something still lingers, a bitter taste he can’t quite wash out.

He can only blame Zenos and his words of disloyalty. Those thoughts are not his own. He cares for his country, with the same fervent flame his father does, and he can prove it.

“I understand, Father,” he says quietly.

Nerva studies his son for a moment. 

“Good,” he says, and if he suspects Vespasian’s internal conflict, he does not speak of it. Instead, he gestures to the folder still clutched tightly in Vespasian’s hands. “You should start reading that.”

“I will, once I have reported to His Radiance,” Vespasian grumbles in resignation. “I’d better make it to the palace before official summons find me.”

Nerva nods. “Then you’d better head out. Dismissed.”

Vespasian returns the nod and heads to the door. From the corner of his eye, he witnesses his father’s posture slumping in exhaustion the moment his back is turned, and a sharp pang of worry fills him.

He doesn’t turn around; he affords his father that dignity. “If there is anything weighing on you, let me share that load, Father,” he says gently. “If not me, then Vergilia at least.”

“Worry about your own workload, boy,” Nerva says sternly. “I do not need your help, and I do not need your concern.”

Despite the coldness of his tone, he does not sound angry. Only tired.

Vespasian sighs. “Very well.”

Father does have a point; his assignments have suddenly stacked, the folder in his arms the heaviest of them in the literal sense… but the apology remains more challenging to carry, when it comes to his ego.

Then again, challenges grow character, don’t they? That is the creed written in the Garlean genome. He shall tackle it later, and make a damn good letter of it.

It will have to wait. First there is the audience with Varis, which he’s certain won’t be pleasant. And then there are the contents of the folder—which, from what he’s gleaned about the beast-man it describes, he suspects will be even less pleasant. 

He has a busy time ahead of him… but if there is one thing he’s learned from studying his father and his work, it is that true leaders never relax. There is always something demanding their attention, calling for their time, requiring their effort. 

It’s a way of life that he’s grown accustomed to, and one he’s grown to think of as ‘normal’. Even as it drags his father to the ground.

Notes:

Little pissbaby tantrum boy gets told off for being a meanie at the playground

Chapter 9

The family driver takes Vespasian to the Emperor’s gates. Tall above the rest of the capital stands the massive tower where his throne resides, stretching far beyond the high walls which surround the palace. It never fails to make Vespasian feel so very small. The sky itself echoes his mood; overcast and dark, like a heavy storm will soon break the quiet of the night. Which seems appropriate, given his current outlook…

The guards outside salute as he arrives, but they do not open the gates for him. Instead, one of the soldiers leads him around the bounds. He will not be walking through the front entrance, like he would for a normal visit… but through a place he’s never been before. A new route added since his uncle’s renovations of the palace, no doubt. After the ‘exile’ of their family branch, as Nerva once put it in a jealous hiss, he has gone through great efforts to make what once was home so completely alien to his own kin.

Vespasian wonders, for a moment, if this is merely a strange coincidence. Perhaps there’s something particularly important up the palace’s other routes at the moment, forcing the guards to take him around. By the time they reach the back doors, however, his unease has transformed to full-blown suspicion. It could be discretion, but who would bat an eye at a Galvus at the palace? A fish in the sea, a bird in the sky. So, Vespasian cannot help but assume the worst of his uncle’s motives. Is this a psychological play, to put him on edge before he has yet to even enter? If so, he hates to say it, but it’s working. 

He has to stop to straighten his clothes before he finally steps into the palace. After braving the labyrinthine backways, the halls he’s walked a thousand times before greet him, but there’s something cold, something… hollow about them tonight. The servants and guards that line them greet him with stoic nods, but there are no words spoken—and fewer smiles.

And finally, as he reaches the throne room by elevator, the heavy double doors are opened to him in silence. There stands Varis, a tall, imposing presence in the dim light. He does not sit on the throne. Vespasian cannot recall him ever sitting on the throne.

“Ah, Nerva’s little lackey,” Varis’s deep baritone resonates in the quiet of the room. He steps forward. “I understand you have a report for me.”

“I do, Your Radiance,” Vespasian responds. He gives a slight bow of his head and gathers himself. With his father’s words still echoing in his mind, he forces himself to show no trace of his irritation at the insult, nor his discomfort in his uncle’s presence. Varis doubtlessly hates being kept in suspense, so Vespasian carries on. “I spoke with your son,” he says, “and I believe he has begrudgingly agreed to stop his hunt.”

Varis’s expression does not change. “Is that so?” he asks. It’s flat, but there’s a clear edge of suspicion to it. “You were able to accomplish in one day what my own men could not?”

The bumps of a dodo rise all over Vespasian’s arms. He had resolved to lie—that was the agreement with his cousin—but what happens if Varis sees right through it?

“I appealed to various things,” he explains. “His honor, his reputation, his obligations for the throne, and your certain retaliation should he refuse, of course. None worked, as I assumed they wouldn’t. Then I pointed out his beast lacks the higher reasoning to reciprocate… whatever it is he feels, and he began to bend.”

A tense moment passes as Varis considers his words. “That convinced him?” His tone suggests skepticism, and not a little disdain. Vespasian wonders briefly if the Emperor is offended by the truth that he’s unable to convince his son himself.

“I believe so, Your Radiance,” he answers carefully. The suspicion in Varis’s voice sets him on edge, but he forces himself to stand straight, to speak with confidence.

“You believe so?” The question is sharp. A bit too sharp; Vespasian gets the sense it’s not entirely directed at him, but is more of an exclamation of Varis’s displeasure with the circumstances. “You’ve brought me a ‘belief’, then. A ‘belief’ that my son may have stopped pursuing this creature, because of a few words you said.” Varis pauses, studying him with his piercing eyes.

Vespasian fights the urge to shrink back. There is something about standing before the Emperor… something that takes even the most powerful man down several notches, and leaves him trembling like a child. Be humble, but not weak , his father warned. He stands his ground, meeting Varis’s gaze steadily. He keeps his back straight, his hands clasped in front of him, and speaks in a steady voice, “A ‘belief’, perhaps—but one based firmly in fact, based on the way your son was when I spoke to him.”

“ Your facts,” Varis counters. “Your interpretation of my son’s reaction, which I highly doubt I will receive in a report.” He studies Vespasian for a long time, during which the boy tries not to squirm. “And I ask you again, boy—how are you so certain I can trust your word? What makes you an authority on what my son is thinking?”

“I do not claim myself any more of an authority than yourself,” Vespasian responds. Was that too thorny, to remind Varis of his lack of control or comprehension of his own ilk? Perhaps, but it had to be said. “I can only relay what I saw on his face and heard in his words.”

Varis’s eyes narrow. “And what you saw and heard, you took as the truth?” he asks.

Vespasian swallows again, but speaks again despite the intimidation. “Your son is many things,” he says, “but he does not strike me as a liar, or a particularly good actor. His face is of stone, but it can be cracked.”

To Vespasian’s surprise, Varis responds with a slight nod, though his expression remains as harsh as ever. “You make a good point. Zenos does not have it in his nature to deceive. He’s never had need to, and would probably find little success should he attempt to.” 

Varis steps closer, studying Vespasian with that same intensity as he did moments ago. Despite his height, the Emperor is much larger than him; he has to look up, just a bit, to meet his gaze. 

“But you realize you’ve done nothing more than plant a seed of doubt in my son’s mind,” Varis continues. “One that will linger, and may influence his actions… but will likely remain, for a time, completely unbloomed. And what happens if you are wrong? If your ‘belief’ proves false?”

Vespasian had expected to be questioned… but he didn’t expect the questions to be quite so difficult. He doesn’t want to give the impression of self-doubt, but neither does he want to answer Varis in a way that might make the Emperor more suspicious.

“But now that there’s a seed,” he says, measured and confident, “it can be watered. Anyone could now add to the pile of proof the Warrior won’t give Zenos what he wants, and the growing vines might just keep him still.”

“And what exactly is that proof?” Varis asks in response. That same hawk-like gaze stays on his nephew, sharp and calculating. He’s listening to everything Vespasian says, judging his words, his facial expressions, any subtle mannerisms he might show, and Vespasian feels it in his bones.

“Anything you want.” Vespasian’s trepidation does not show when their golden eyes gauge each other. “Your son may not be so inclined, but are you above lying to him?”

Varis’s lip curls, though not in anger. It’s more like approval, but Vespasian can’t be sure. He can only hope. 

“I am not above lying, if I must,” Varis answers, “if it will do what’s best for Garlemald.”

The answer did not specify anything about lying to his son, in particular. A small detail, perhaps, but one that does not go unnoticed. Only uncommented upon.

“Then I assume you’ll find ample proof,” Vespasian says instead. “And in that case… I expect I’ll hear of your son’s change of heart soon.”

Varis nods, then abruptly turns away. Vespasian stands stiff in the same position, uncertain if he should leave, if he was dismissed. But Varis only makes it three steps before he stops, and without turning around, speaks again. “You may go.”

Vespasian has to fight the desire to give a visible sigh of relief as he makes for the large doors. Before he can reach them, Varis’s voice stops him in his path. 

“And, Nerva’s boy?”

Vespasian dreads to face the Emperor. Nevertheless, he obeys when told, turning to him once more.

“If anything you said is false,” Varis continues, “If my son continues his hunt… if anything further happens that causes me concern…”

He pauses, and freezes the blood in Vespasian’s veins.

“Then you shall answer to me, personally.”

Vespasian has heard a fair share of threats throughout his life, both blatant and veiled, and it’s nothing he isn’t used to. But the threat from Varis has a particular bite to it, one that makes every nerve in his body shiver. It’s not like the empty warnings of many Garlean nobles, who speak simply—with no real power, no real action, nothing to back it up. 

Varis has power. A lot of power. And he’s not afraid to use it.

“Yes, Your Radiance,” Vespasian answers, carefully, keeping his voice steady despite his lungs nearly refusing to function.

His fear doesn’t show, but it pounds in his chest. He gives a slight dip of his head, and then turns on his heels once more for the door, making his exit as quickly as he can. He’d be ashamed to admit later that he practically runs out of the throne room. 

The moment he’s through and out of sight of the guards in the corridor, Vespasian leans against the wall and breathes a sigh of relief, his heart still racing. That was… intense, to say the least. 

He pushes himself off of the wall and straightens, taking one more deep breath. The next steps are to report to his father, then handle the matter of the apology. He’s not looking forward to either one. The latter shall have to wait until tomorrow. With his nerves this frayed, he cannot foresee eloquent words flowing from his pen. The former, however, he can manage.

 

Fortunately, when he returns home, his father is still awake. Vespasian did not expect anything else. He enters the study and closes the door behind him, crossing the room to stand beside his father’s desk. 

“Father,” he says. “There is an update regarding the situation with Zenos.”

Nerva looks up from his work. “Speak, boy,” he says. “I trust it’s good news.”

“It is… mixed, at best,” Vespasian admits ruefully.

“Then speak truly.”

Vespasian stops to gather his recollections, then gives a detailed account of his conversation at the palace. He tries to keep the more personal aspects to a minimum, focusing more on his interaction with Varis—and what was said between them. It’s an uncomfortable retelling. 

Nerva is a master at hiding his feelings, but from the look in his eyes, Vespasian can tell that his father is… worried. Not for himself, but for his son.

“I take it you find nothing here to ease your mind,” Vespasian says when he finishes, with a note of uncertainty to his voice. “That I didn’t handle it as well as I should have.”

Nerva puts down his pen and folds his hands together on the desk. 

“Vespasian, you did fine,” he says, after a moment. “As well as you could have. This situation… it is not one that can be easily managed, and any manner of approach might have a risk.”

Vespasian stares at his father.  He’d expected a lecture, a barrage of criticism for his inability to smooth things over. But the words are… encouraging. Not the scolding he expected.

Nerva meets his eyes, then sighs. “I know you better than you know yourself, my son. I know that you are a young man who wants . Who wants to prove himself worthy. Whose pride is stronger than anything.” 

Vespasian can detect a familiar hint of exhaustion in his father’s voice. And perhaps… a hint of regret. He doesn’t respond immediately. His father’s assessment is nothing he hasn’t heard before. He wants , yes… he wants to be the powerful man his father is, he wants the respect and authority that comes with the title and position. Nerva knows this from all of their long discussions, how eager he is to prove himself and take on the Empire. 

Is that what his father regrets? The son who is like himself, perhaps a bit too much?

“I cannot say you handled things perfectly,” Nerva continues, “but if you asked me how you could have, I could not tell you. This situation is far too delicate. Far too dangerous . I am… concerned for you, Vespasian.”

“Concerned?” The word catches Vespasian by surprise, and he repeats it back to his father with a flippant laugh. “I assure you there’s no cause for concern, Father. I can handle this.” Or can he? He speaks with confidence, yet the way his heart nearly stopped in the throne room is all too fresh in memory.

“I simply worry Varis is taking out his hatred of me on you.” Nerva sighs, opens a desk drawer, and pulls out his flask. He takes a swig. “If so, I am sorry.”

Now that’s a word even rarer on his lips. His pride, that which Vespasian inherited, prevents its escape in most circumstances. Yet… “There is no need to apologize, Father,” Vespasian responds. 

He’s not entirely sure how to deal with his father’s unusual display of concern. It’s not something he ever expected to face. He mirrors his own back at him when he speaks again. “Are you… drunk ?”

Nerva chuckles, his eyes crinkling. “Don’t pretend you’ve never seen me drink before, boy. The flask is for after the work day. I’m merely enjoying a drink before bed.”

That’s true. Vespasian has seen his father drinking before, many times, even clinked glasses with him since he turned of age. But he still has never seen him drunk . Nerva prides himself on remaining sharp, alert and in control. For a moment, that thought is more concerning than the situation with Zenos.

“In any case,” Nerva says dismissively, “this mess with your cousin is not entirely your burden. I cannot let you take the fall for my sour relations.” His eyes have regained that sharp edge, and he’s fixed Vespasian with a look that shows that while he’s being unusually sincere, his demeanor is not to be mistaken for weakness.

“Then what is to be done?” Vespasian asks. He’s not about to protest Nerva’s involvement—not with the rattles from Varis’s threat still fresh. The only problem is, he isn’t sure what his father is planning.

“In the following days, I will summon my council,” Nerva clears that uncertainty. “I shall tell them of this situation, and of the threat from Varis. I shall make them aware your intervention is what has allowed the crisis regarding his son to pass for now, if not completely.”

The council. 

Vespasian nearly splutters in surprise. Even in the midst of trying to handle this situation, the council is an intimidating thought. So many nobles, so many opinions, and they all have to be appeased.

“You’ll need to be there as well, boy,” Nerva continues, as though he’s reading Vespasian’s mind. “I want to see how your conduct holds out before their eyes. In particular, I want to see how you present yourself.”

Vespasian takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. He’s dealt with the members of the council before. They are the same men and women he’s grown up around, watched argue and gossip, spoken with in public and in confidence, heard praise of how wise he is since he could barely talk. He’s not frightened of them. But their scrutiny if he was to be introduced as a peer is a very different matter. And he has a feeling his father’s assessment on his performance will be all the more critical, if they are watching.

“Don’t let them intimidate you,” his father says sternly, noting his silence. “You are a member of the royal family. You are more powerful than any single soul on that council. You have nothing to fear from them, you hear?”

“I’ll remember that, Father,” Vespasian answers. 

But he nevertheless cannot shake the jitters at the thought of facing the whole council. He’s never addressed them as a group before, only as individuals. He’s sure the combined impact will be… interesting.

Nerva gives him one last penetrating look, as if trying to determine if his son really does have nothing to fear. “Good,” he says after a moment. “Then I suggest you get some sleep, boy. You look as fatigued as I am.”

Vespasian can’t help raising an eyebrow in response to his father. “And you, Father?” he asks, trying not to sound too concerned. “Do you plan to stay up drinking for much longer?”

Nerva scoffs, but the crinkles in the corners of his eyes return. “I will put the flask away shortly, if you do not kill me with your fussing first.”

“I’ve no intention of killing you, Father,” Vespasian says, managing a small smile in response. “Even if you drink yourself to sleep instead of sleeping properly.”

“I did raise you better than that,” Nerva snarks. “Now, go. Off to bed with you.”

The order reminds Vespasian of his youth, being dismissed from his father’s study so that he could get to bed at a respectable time. He didn’t always listen back then; sometimes, he continued to pester his father all night long. He never fully succeeded at disturbing his father’s work, but it was good fun anyway. But he’s grown up now, and things are different. No more pushing his luck.

He takes a step back and makes a slight bow. “Goodnight, Father,” he says, and turns to leave. He can hear the sound of Nerva uncorking his flask again before the study door shuts behind him.

He’s not surprised. Not really. But he does feel a pang of concern for his father’s health, just as he does every time he catches Nerva with his flask. He hasn’t quite wrapped his head around the fact that his father is not infallible. That even he has his vices. Still, there’s nothing Vespasian can do about it. Nothing, except hope his father doesn’t drink himself to death before morning. 

His stomach clenches at the thought, and he grimaces. Good glory, now he’s turning sentimental .

Walking past his mother’s door on his way back to his does not help. He briefly considers knocking, just to let her know he’s back, but he stops himself. She must already know of his unscathed arrival, yet she has made no effort to see her son. Like she’s still mad at him.

It’s whatever, he tells himself. She’ll speak when she’s done sulking about him having his own life and desires. For now, he must sleep.

Chapter 10

The next morning, he is up early and already at his desk with both the folder and a stack of empty parchments. Yet, while his pen spins between his fingers, he actively works on neither. He is stuck on phase one: deciding which to tackle first.

His original plan was to begin with the apology, to get it over with. But what if something found between the folder’s pages offers him a new angle for appeasing his cousin? It could happen. Or maybe his ego is just stalling.

He stares out the window, thinking. There is little excuse for not writing the apology first. He could have had it penned by now, if he wasn’t so intent on avoiding the matter, but his curiosity regarding the contents of the folder is too strong to resist. Yet, with Varis’s threat hanging over him, he’s desperate to set the record straight with his cousin. If anything happens that causes him concern, he said—how would any of it be Vespasian’s fault? He tried his best, damn it.

That memory is what solidifies the decision for Vespasian. There’s no guarantee he’ll find anything in the folder that could change Zenos’s mind, but there is a chance his life could be on the line if he takes much longer to reach out. His jaw clenches, and his hand tightens to a fist around the pen. He’s never been good at apologies. But he’ll do it.

He takes a deep breath. Then another. And another. Steadying himself. He uncorks the inkwell, dips the pen in it, and lowers the tip to the blank page of parchment before him. 

The pen stays there, unmoving, for the longest moment. Finally, with another breath, he writes the opening salutation. 

Dear cousin.

The words stare up at him from the page, simple and bland. It’s not a good opening. It’s too stiff, too formal. He should change it, try to come up with something less like a letter to a distant relative he barely knows, and more like a true friend who’s concerned about a serious fight. A friend wouldn’t use a sterile address like ‘Dear cousin,’ would he…?

Then again, Zenos himself put it the best: he’s not his friend. He thinks what he’s doing is frankly disgusting, and he regrets nothing of what he said. It’s already dishonest that he has to apologize for something he carries no guilt over, but it would be over the line to address him as ‘friend,’ when he’s not. They may all share blood, but Zenos and his cousins are not equals.

It’s a fine line to walk, addressing a relative and a rival at the same time. Vespasian sighs, his gaze lingering on the word ‘cousin.’ Sure, whatever. Let’s keep it. He taps the pen against the inkwell in annoyance, as if it and not his own uncertainty is the cause of the slow progress. Then he lets out another sigh and puts the pen to the paper again, finally adding the rest of the salutation. 

Dear Cousin,

I am not good at apologies. In fact, to be frank, I hate them.

It’s honest , at least. Zenos should know he’d rather pull out his own tooth than write an apology. But the words give him pause when he considers how they sound: too strong, too harsh to be coming from someone trying to apologize. Not to mention that they’re… well, they’re childish . A child whines about how he hates apologies, because he doesn’t want to take the time to make one. Vespasian winces as he crosses out the line.

He returns the pen to where he left off and writes again.

I must admit that writing this is not easy for me. I am not used to apologizing, and I feel uncomfortable doing so now.

Yet, upon reflection of my word choices during our breakfast, I recognize it is in order.

There. That’s better, isn’t it? But it’s… not enough. Just saying he knows he made an error is hardly an apology. There’s no substance behind it, no genuine regret. Zenos will see right through it. 

Vespasian closes his eyes, fighting the desire to crumple up the paper and toss it aside. No. He can’t give in to that urge. This is much too important to mess up. And if he has to write the damn thing twenty times to get it right, he will.

The pen touches the page again. It doesn’t move. A drop of ink spreads on the paper.

A frustrated sigh escapes his lips, and he leans his head in his hand. He doesn’t want to express regret. He’d much rather Zenos be the one to apologize for his pig-headed behavior, for his inability to accept the truth when presented so clearly. But if that were to happen, if Zenos were to be the one to concede, it would be a miracle. It falls on Vespasian to be the bigger person. He grits his teeth and makes another attempt, forcing the words out onto the paper. 

I regret our argument at breakfast. I said things that were… unkind. Unwarranted. Wrong.

At least it’s something. Not a real expression of remorse, but no one should expect him to genuinely express such sentiments. If Zenos doesn’t feel any regret, why should he? Still, his hand shakes as he writes the next lines. 

I should have found other ways to communicate my concerns. Better ways. But I got upset, and lost control of myself. I am aware it is unbecoming of me.

I hope what I said has no bearing on our agreement. I have spoken to your father, and it went as I suggested. However, for the plan to succeed, it is imperative no one involved makes a rash move.

The words come easier now. He actually feels relief as he writes them, as much as he hates that he has to write them at all. Maybe the hard part is over. If he can make it through the first paragraphs of groveling, surely the rest is easy in comparison.

Please, do not think worse of me for my outburst. I acted impetuously, in anger. I did something I’d never have done outside the heat of the moment. It is not even that I dislike you—in fact, I believe we could be stronger working together.

He stops. What he’s written is true, he realizes. He doesn’t actually dislike Zenos. He can’t stand the man sometimes, but he has to admit that they complement each other… at least, in terms of strategy, and in their thoughts on the current Emperor. They could be powerful together, no doubt. It makes the apology a little easier to write.

If you can forgive my mistakes of judgment, I am more than ready to put this fight behind us. There is too much at stake to allow ourselves to remain divided.

There. He’s done it. He’s managed to get through a complete apology. Even if it’s a little empty, even if it’s only half true, it’s done.

He signs it with flourish:

Your cousin and hopefully, ally,

Vespasian yae Galvus.

He sets the pen down and leans back in his chair, folding his hands across his middle. It’s a strange sensation that has come over him. There’s a sense of calm, now that it’s done, mixed with the familiar pang of nausea which takes over whenever he has to grovel before another person. The question now is, what will his cousin make of this? Will he be moved by the apology? Zenos better read it, at least. He went through all this effort for his sake, after all!

Fine, that’s a lie. It’s entirely for his own hide’s sake. But he’s going to pretend otherwise, all the way through rewriting it to rid it of overlined sentences and ink blots.

He’s just about finished, a few hours later—with how much precision he gave each curvature of each letter, it had taken much longer than he expected in spite of his attempt to get it over with quickly—when someone knocks on the door. 

“My lord?” a muffled voice calls from the other side of the wood.

Vespasian looks up from the parchment, a slight frown furrowing his brow. “Yes?” he calls back, hoping his impatience doesn’t tint his voice. He only had a few measly sentences left…

“Your mother requests your presence at luncheon.”

Vespasian sighs and sets the pen aside, rising. “Thank you. Tell her I will be there shortly.”

He straightens his clothes and wipes a few stray drips of ink off his fingers, then heads for the door. For once, it’s not just out of obligation that he goes to see her, but because he actually wants to do so. He hopes against hope that she wants to apologize as well, that just maybe… at least she won’t refuse to talk to him again.

 

The journey through the hallways is brief, and before long, he stands on the threshold of the dining hall. Carried to his ears from within sounds the faint murmur of conversation. He briefly hesitates, his hand on the knob, taking a breath. Be calm.

As he pushes the door open and makes his way inside, his eyes take in his lunch company. His father is already seated at one end of the table, speaking quietly with his mother; they look up as he approaches, their eyes meeting his. 

“Vespasian,” Nerva says, when his son reaches them. “Come, sit. You look hungry.”

The air between his parents chills him as usual, like he stepped into the wilderness of the Eblan Rime. His lips press together in a thin, tight smile, trying to ignore the cold disdain emanating from their bond. He’s gotten used to their strange relationship over the years. In spite of their apparent mutual dislike, their strange feud that he’s never been able to comprehend, they have a certain… understanding, perhaps, between them.

He’s not certain how to describe it, when words like ‘love’ seem so utterly inapplicable. Mayhap just ‘marriage’ will do.

Without another word, he steps around the table and takes the seat across from them. “Thank you, Father,” he responds, his gaze shifting automatically to his mother. She avoids his glance, as if something on the far wall is suddenly fascinating to her. For a moment, he simply watches her, waiting. He’d hoped she would want to talk, that this invitation was not just a formality forced on her by his father’s presence, but rather a genuine attempt to reconnect. But the way she’s staring out the window, pointedly ignoring the fact her son is even there… 

He sighs, looking down at the empty plate in front of him. It was foolish to hope. He should have known she would remain silent and cold, that their argument was not so easily dismissed. It always took so much to reach her, to soften that hard shell of stubbornness and pride that she wraps around herself like a cloak. He should have known she wouldn’t reach out. 

He shouldn’t be surprised, or even disappointed. He just is. And with that disappointment comes the sudden wave of anger that is all too common when he’s around her. 

He opens his mouth, about to say something sharp and harsh, to give voice to his resentment for her silence. Why was I even expected to be present for lunch, if you won’t look at me, won’t say a word to me, won’t even acknowledge my presence? Do you expect me to just sit here quietly, like a good little boy, and pretend everything is rosy between us just because Father is watching—

“Shall I have the servants bring the food out?” his father asks, his tone casual, as if he were unaware of the tense current passing between his wife and son across the table.

Polistea pulls her eyes away from the window and looks towards her husband, finally speaking. “Yes, have them bring it. I’m starving.”

Vespasian swallows his words in response to that, biting his tongue. Of course. She’ll communicate with his father, talk to him, just to avoid having to speak to her own son. 

He doesn’t say anything. He’s not about to give her even the satisfaction of seeing his irritation.

“I asked for a particularly fine spread today,” Nerva continues, looking between the two of them. “The cooks outdid themselves. A veritable… feast, really.”

His father is trying to lighten the mood. Vespasian recognizes it, and appreciates it, but he doesn’t even bother acknowledging it. He keeps his focus on his mother, watching her response.

She’s looking pointedly at his father now. “Oh? I suppose I should see if the cooks’ efforts have really paid off.”

She pauses, and glances at Vespasian for the first time since his arrival, the look holding a sort of challenge. 

He meets her gaze with his own, unblinking. Go ahead, his says. Ignore me and go along with your little game, if it makes you happy. Let your spite for me win over the simple desire to speak to your only child.

Her lip twitches. It’s a very small thing. Anyone who wasn’t intensely studying her, watching her like a hawk, waiting for even the slightest hint of movement or response, might not have even noticed.

But Vespasian sees it. His own jaw tightens a fraction. He’s always known his mother stubborn to the extreme. He’d always thought of himself the same way—as stubborn as his mother. But he’s not. Not like her.

That’s the truth of it. Even stubborn men sometimes reach the end of their limits.

“Why did you invite me?” The words come like a dagger.

His mother doesn’t respond to Vespasian’s accusation, doesn’t even look at him. Only his father addresses him. 

“Vespasian—” he begins, a warning in his voice.

“No,” Vespasian says calmly, his eyes not leaving his mother’s face. 

That catches his father’s attention. And that tone in Vespasian’s voice—he’s never spoken that way to him.

“No,” he repeats, more calmly. “I want to hear the answer from her. Why did she request my presence?”

His mother finally turns her head toward him again, though she remains silent. 

Nerva sighs heavily beside her, and Vespasian can easily visualize the look he’s giving his wife without even having to glance over. “Tell him, Polistea,” his father says sternly.

Vespasian doesn’t miss the flash of irritation that flirts across her face. Even now, when her husband is clearly on his side, she still fights to avoid any sort of discussion with him. 

“I simply thought we should eat together,” she responds coolly. “As a family.”

So now she wants to be part of the family. Vespasian has an urge to say something, to make some scathing remark about how it’s a little late to care about familial togetherness, but his father’s presence stays his tongue.

Instead, he responds with a neutral, “I see.” That’s all he says. No snide remarks, no sharp accusations, no attempts to bait her into responding. Just a simple acknowledgement of her words.

It’s enough to throw his mother off balance. She’s used to him reacting. She’s used to seeing him lash out. Her silences and cold words are what get a response from him, and she uses them as a weapon. 

But he’s not reacting this time. Her eyes narrow, searching his face for emotion. There is none. Even his eyes, fixed on hers, are completely without sentiment, like he brought his cousin’s impassiveness back from Gyr Abania as a souvenir.

And they stay that way as food is brought in. Fixed on his mother, but revealing nothing. He doesn’t speak; neither does she. Not while the food is set out in front of them, not while it’s passed around, not while it sits untouched in front of him, while the silence stretches out like a yawning chasm between them.

It’s only when his father clears his throat and starts to eat, breaking that silence with a clatter of silverware on porcelain, that his mother finally turns her eyes back to her plate and picks up her fork.

Vespasian’s hand moves mechanically to pick up his own and begin eating as well. He takes a bite, and though he can recognize the food as well prepared, he can’t taste it. His mind is too tuned in on the silence, on the fact his mother still refuses to truly communicate with him.

It’s agonizing. His mother does this deliberately. She waits for him to crack, for him to give in and start talking, because she knows eventually he will. But if he can help it, he won’t. Not this time. He’s sick of always being the one to take the first step, to reach out, to try to ease her stubborn heart. He cannot be forced to give two insincere apologies in one day, not when she is the one who should offer them.

The meal continues and ends that way. Nerva tries to interject with small attempts at making conversation, comments on politics and the like, but in the end even he gives up on trying. By the time the final course has been served—some sort of mousse that Vespasian doesn’t bother touching—there is nothing but unbearable, stubborn quiet between the three of them.

He breaks it with the scrape of his chair’s legs as he stands, and a curt “Thank you for the meal.” 

With the silence shattered, the tension in the air snaps taut, like a high-strung wire. His father opens his mouth to say something—to acknowledge the obvious, to ask what this cold, impersonal attitude is, to comment on it at all—but Polistea beats him to it. 

“Vespasian,” she says tersely, as if the name was dragged kicking and screaming from her.

He pauses mid-step and turns to face her. Her eyes are not entirely cold when they meet his, and a flicker of something blinks at him, as if there might be the beginnings of regret in those grey depths. 

“Yes, Mother?”

“Before you go…” she mutters. A strange thing, to hear her muttering.

She purses her lips, as if the right next words elude her, the ones that will be the least personal, the least revealing. But she apparently fails to express what she wanted to, because what comes out of her mouth is not what he’d expected to hear. 

“You’ve lost weight,” she says abruptly.

He blinks, surprised. “Have I?” he asks, glancing down at himself. It’s a strange thing for her to comment on, especially during this silent standoff.

She gives him a quick, critical once-over. “You have,” she says, her eyes traveling down, then back up, taking in his lean frame. “I can tell by the way your collar fits.”

Vespasian frowns down at his collar, pulling at the edge with his fingers. He’s never noticed that it seems looser… 

He looks back up at her. “What does that matter?”

“What does that matter?” she repeats back at him, her gaze hard again. “Do you think I don’t care about how my own son is doing, simply because we’ve had a disagreement? You don’t think I notice when you’ve neglected yourself?”

There it is, the bite he inherited from her, coming out like Vespasian had forced it. It takes him aback, this unexpected, genuine outburst of raw concern, to the point all he can do is stare. He’s so stunned by it that he forgets his own resolve. “My weight is not a concern,” he hears himself say. “I’ve simply been more occupied lately.”

“And what have you been occupied with, that would distract you so much you have no time to eat?”

“Polistea,” his father pipes up, in an effort to quell her rising temper. It’s the same tone he takes with Vespasian for his sharp words.

She glances at her husband, and her face visibly softens.  “I’m simply worried about him, Nerva,” she responds. “Can’t you see he’s worked himself too hard?”

“Perhaps it is true that he’s been busy,” Nerva says, looking between his son and wife. 

Here we go, Vespasian thinks, now he’s getting involved. He has to flee the scene before it grows worse. “I can take care of myself,” he deflects the concern. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a letter to finish and reports to read in my room.”

His mother’s face hardens again at the mention of the reports. She gives him a scathing look as he walks away, as if about to argue his claim of self-sufficiency. 

But his father speaks up again, his voice mild, though firm. “Allow your son to leave, Polistea,” he says. “He is not a child, and needs no mothering.”

That’s the last he hears before he shuts the door behind him, but he doubts his mother will let it lay to rest.

Chapter 11

His father’s words still ring in his ears— needs no mothering, needs no mothering —as he makes his way back through the halls.

He’s not just a child, of course. He’s not the little boy who used to cling to his mother’s skirts, who begged her to pick him up in her arms and hold him for just a moment. He’s not a little boy who needs to be coddled, who needs his mother to tell him to eat, to sleep, to take care of himself. 

He doesn’t need her mothering. He doesn’t need her.

Or does he? 

His steps slow down, hesitating, as he recalls her expression, the fleeting spark of concern in her eyes. That single, brief moment of honest emotion—did that mean she really cared? Or was it just a slip in the face of her stubborn will? 

He doesn’t know. He has no idea what she truly thinks of him, at all.

When he reaches his door, it no longer calls for him. What he needs now is not solitude—no, he needs to complain . Or better yet, talk about something entirely different with someone who understands him, without snapping at him.

So he makes for the elevator instead, heading out of his parents’ floor and into the arms of other relatives. At first, he considers Titus, to see if he is well enough to be out of bed, perhaps to give Grandmother Arrecina some company in caring for him… then, he decides against it. Titus is far too much like his own father; what he would receive is advice he doesn’t want right now.

No—he needs the ears of a peer. Thus, he presses the button to his cousin Sabina’s floor.

It’s silent as he exits the elevator. She’s probably still getting ready, now that he thinks of it. It’s still early in the afternoon, after all—and she is one to take full advantage of having no responsibilities as princess.

Still, he knocks on her bedroom door, listening for footsteps, or any other sound to affirm her presence.

For a moment, nothing. Then he thinks he hears a sound from the other side of the door, the clank of something dropping to the floor, and a curse.

“ Ugh, watch it, Vipsania! ”

A faint, muffled voice responds—something about carelessness and stupidity , but the rest is too faint to make out through the door. He frowns and knocks again, then waits.

There’s more muttering from the other side of the door—an angry reply from the princess, a sharp retort from her handmaiden. Then footsteps approaching the door; he folds his arms behind his back, waiting.

It is Vipsania who opens the door, with a thin, flustered smile. “Lord Vespasian, what a nice surprise—”

“Vespa?!”

Vespasian’s curious peeking above the lady-in-waiting’s shoulder to witness the mess of the room is interrupted by his cousin dashing to the door, in her dressing gown and with rollers still in her hair.

A smile starts to pull at the corner of his lips at the sight. It’s one thing to witness her in a carefully-crafted outfit designed with the intention of charming others, looking every inch the royalty she is. It’s quite another to see her so casually, in the process of the careful ritual all that glamour requires.

He watches in amusement as she pushes past the servant—“Vipsania, out of the way, you silly cow!”—and flings herself at him, throwing her arms around his shoulders and pulling him into an abrupt hug. He can’t help but smile as her embrace knocks the air out of his lungs. 

“Cousin,” he greets her with a wheeze, patting her back as he returns the squeeze with less lethal force. “I take it I’m interrupting? Is my timing perhaps not ideal?”

She pulls back to look at him with a grin, her makeup half-finished, looking like a complete work in progress. 

“Not ideal is putting it lightly,” she replies, and releases him with an impatient sigh. “I’m getting ready for a date, so you’ll have to endure this horrific sight for another few minutes.”

He stifles a chuckle. 

“I think I can bear it a little longer,” he responds. “Do I get to know who the unfortunate man you’re about to torment with your beauty is yet? Or…” he adds slyly, “perhaps the unfortunate lady?”

She gives him a sharp look. “Neither,” she answers, and points a finger at him. “And don’t try to get any blackmail material out of me, mister. No juicy gossip this time.”

He raises his hands in a gesture of resignation, a mock look of hurt on his face. “I would never dream of it. I am simply concerned for the safety of whoever it is you’re torturing,” he says. “Poor souls, what have they ever done to deserve such punishment?”

She rolls her eyes and pushes the door open wider. “Oh, do shut up and come inside, if you’re going to get in the way of my preparations anyway. No sense letting you hover out in the hall.”

He chuckles, and moves past her into the room. 

It looks like a small cyclone has blown through it, leaving cosmetic debris everywhere. It’s more disorganized than her room has been in years, given that she’s usually so concerned with appearances. The cause of the commotion upon his first knock becomes apparent as his eyes fall upon the powder case on the floor, its contents scattered across the marble.

He watches as she pushes away the handmaiden, who’s apparently been trying to clean up the mess, and moves deeper into the room. 

“So?” he asks, raising an eyebrow as Sabina now makes her way back to her vanity set, covered in small bottles and brushes, followed by ever-suffering Vipsania who leans down without a word to resume cleaning the fallen powder. “If you’re not prowling for an unsuspecting victim, who are you going out with?”

“A friend,” she says, picking up a brush and starting to apply something to her face. 

He watches her in the mirror in the meantime, admiring the way she can manipulate her features, transforming herself from a giggling girl to a haughty socialite in just a few strokes.

“ Just a friend?” he presses, turning to look at her directly. “No hidden romance going on, then? I’m certain your mother would simply be thrilled to hear you’re making friends instead of pursuing eligible suitors.”

“Oh, don’t you bring her into this,” Sabina snaps, but it doesn’t reek of true upset. They’re far too used to trading verbal spats to be easily offended.

Nevertheless, he admits his low blow. Not many summers have gone by since Flavia wir Galvus, her mother and his aunt, perished under a sudden, inexplicable illness. Her medal-adorned husband departed in battle a mere moon after, leaving Sabina with her very own floor of their residence, and two parent-shaped holes in her heart.

The timing of Flavia’s death—at the cusp of the fight for succession—is still highly suspect to him, as it was to grief-stricken Nerva at the time. Foul play by Varis was surmised by every member of the household, but no matter how deep Vespasian dug, he struck no proof. The coroner found no toxins in her body, nothing to cause alarm.

But, Varis had always had a vested interest in chemical weapons. It was too perfect to be a coincidence.

He falls silent as her glare burns into him, chastened by her anger. He hadn’t meant to strike such a sore spot, and had only intended to tease. He knows the loss of her parents still hangs over her like a fog. He’d simply wanted to distract himself from his problems related to his very alive but very irritating mother, and the bickering between them always provides that. 

He watches as she goes back to her makeup, and sighs. “My apologies. I didn’t mean to bring up such unpleasantries.”

“Well, you did,” she says, though her shoulders relax a fraction. She glances up again in the mirror. “And yes, just a friend. We’re going to a concert of the royal orchestra.”

He raises his eyebrows. The royal orchestra?

Sabina has never been interested in any form of culture, as far as he can remember. They’ve been out together on numerous occasions, but always to parties, balls, and other frivolous social events of questionable worth. The royal orchestra seems a bit— refined , for her taste.

“And you’re actually interested in this? You?” he can’t keep himself from asking. “It’s a concert, isn’t it? Of classical Garlean music, no less. It could go on for hours .”

She rolls her eyes again. “ No , I’m not interested,” she says, and glances at him via the mirror again. “Of course not. I could hardly endure such dull fare for hours, and we both know it.”

She applies a bright lipstick, then those lips widen into a smirk. “ But the second violinist in the orchestra happens to be exceptionally talented. And exceptionally handsome, which makes it almost worth my time.”

He stifles a laugh, amused and impressed by the depth of her deception. Not only does she pretend to have cultured interests, she even uses that to bait and lure the musicians. Clever girl.

“And what do you intend to do once you have the second violinist’s attention?” he asks. “He’ll hardly have time for you between performances. I doubt even you’d go so far as to proposition him and hope he can sneak away during an intermission.”

She sighs dramatically. “You’re a skeptic, aren’t you? And such a cynic. You really don’t think I can seduce an orchestra player if I try? You should know better than that, Vespa. Men are simple creatures, after all. I only have to give him a smile, perhaps a glimpse of my collarbone while we talk, and he’ll do whatever I want.”

His lips twitch, betraying a smile. “I’m certain I shouldn’t take the bait, because it’ll only serve to feed your ego,” he says, “but I’m intrigued anyway. What if he has a family? Or maybe he’s not interested in women at all, even ones with collarbones.”

She huffs, but the teasing gleam of her eye meets him in the mirror. “If he is so inclined, then perhaps I’ll throw you a bone and send him your way, cousin.”

“Your generosity is so very touching.” Vespasian rolls his eyes. “I’d certainly have a delightful time with your sloppy seconds.”

That earns a laugh, and she looks away from the mirror to fix him with a look of amused reproach. “You only say that because you know I find the idea so very distasteful. Well, two can play that game. I’ll have you know the conductor is also quite handsome, and he’d be ecstatic to show his gratitude to a young, eligible nobleman if he asked for his favor afterwards.”

“I’m not quite desperate enough to attempt to seduce a fifty-year-old man who’s far too interested in a symphony for his own good, thank you,” he responds dryly. “Besides, I’m fairly certain the conductor of the royal orchestra has a wife.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Since when has a wife stopped anyone in this family from pursuing what they want?”

His cheeks flush. It’s an entirely unfair question, and they both know it—in the light of their family history, he has no reasonable basis on which to stand. And knowing she’s right only rankles, causing him to respond with a flippant—albeit weak—retort. 

“You’re hardly in a place to moralize about illicit affairs, cousin.”

She scowls at that, but again it’s not genuine. 

“And you’re hardly in a place to criticize me for having a little fun,” she replies. “I thought you’d be more interested in letting loose yourself, instead of moping around all day. You do realize you look like a walking corpse when you brood like this, don’t you?”

“Well, I’m sorry I’m not the picture of cheerful amusement at the moment, Sabina,” he responds, a little snappish. “I’ve had a rather disappointing lunch. If you really must know, my mother and I had a bit of a falling out this morning.”

That catches her attention, and she turns to look past Vipsania still crouched at her feet to study him. Her gaze is sharp, but for once there’s no mockery in it. “Oh? You and Lady Polistea had a spat, did you? What did you do to manage that?”

“Nothing,” Vespasian insists with his arms crossed. “She believes that just because I’m taking more responsibility in Father’s plans, I’m not taking care of myself.”

“Ah, so she’s only being a mother , then? Well, I can see why such a thing would offend her oh-so-independent son ,” she snarks, a hint of condescension coloring her words.

The patronizing tone is met with a twinge of annoyance. “That’s not the point,” Vespasian says. “I know she does it out of concern, but it’s the way she concerns herself—the way she talks to me, as if I were still ten years old. It’s so condescending, and frankly insufferable. Surely even you can agree she’s overreacting.”

She lifts an eyebrow, obviously unconvinced. 

“Is she, though? Is she really overreacting? Even I must admit—you do look a mess, cousin,” she tells him. “So thin, so tired… if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were having some private little existential crisis.”

His face flushes again, and he looks away. 

Damn her for being so astute. No matter how good of an actor he is, she can see through him like glass. Oh, how humiliating that is.

“I believe anyone would, were they forced to deal with our dear cousin in Gyr Abania like I have,” he grumbles.

“That’s true,” she agrees. “Anyone would.”

She considers him for a moment longer, and glances at her nearly finished makeup. 

“Alright, clearly you need a respite from your worries. So I have a proposition for you.”

He looks back, eyebrows raised. He knows that tone, and that gleam in her eyes. It runs in the family. She’s scheming.

“Forget all your troubles,” she says. “Forget your brooding, forget your annoying mother and her ridiculous concerns, forget your duties. Don’t think about work, or politics, or the future—just come with me tonight.”

He opens his mouth to object and immediately closes it again. He knows what he should say: he should refuse. He has duties to focus upon, concerns to worry about. He has little time to squander, particularly on mindless diversions with this soubrette.

But in spite of what he knows he should say, what he wants is the opposite. Maybe he has been working himself too hard, maybe he is becoming too much like his father. And maybe the one thing he needs right now is the temporary fix she’s offering.

“I’m in.” The acceptance comes before he can stop himself. He doesn’t want to stop himself. “But first, teach me how to cover these eyebags.”

“So there’s hope for you yet,” she responds, smiling like the coeurl that got the cream. “Now quit hovering and get over here so I may slap this makeup on you.”

Notes:

Nerva having a niece is canon per Encyclopedia Eorzea III, so of course I had to take that concept and run.

Chapter 12

Shivering outside Lucius Concert Hall, Vespasian scolds himself for not picking a thicker coat. Living in the capital, warm coats are most of what he owns, of course—but any true Garlean knows it is a sliding scale from coats meant for a mild chill to ones for when your eyes freeze shut on your face. The situation is not quite that dire, but he cannot help but complain mentally as he hugs himself for warmth.

“When is your friend supposed to show up, again?” he asks Sabina, who’s checking herself in her pocket mirror and performing last-minute touch ups to her lipstick.

“Soon,” she reassures with a hint of sharp impatience at her cousin’s whining.

He’s half tempted to make a scathing remark about said friend not taking his precious time seriously, but decides against it. Instead, he silently watches her adjust the bow of the scarf about her neck again, with a sense of resignation.

If she’s bothered and cold, she doesn’t show it. Of course she doesn’t—this sort of situation, as freezing as it is, has never deterred her from anything she’s set her mind on. Instead, she’s still the picture of elegance and grace, not even shivering as she waits, as if she doesn’t notice the ice-cold wind at all.

Meanwhile, he has to suppress the violent clattering of his teeth. He knew it was chilly when he left his room—and when isn’t it?—but it didn’t cross his mind that it would take this long for their company to show up, or that he’d be forced to wait outside the concert hall, exposed to the elements, until they arrived.

He should be used to this by now, should know better than to expect the world to bow to his whims and expectations. But as his cousin fusses with her scarf even though she clearly isn’t cold, he can’t help but complain again. “Perhaps this friend isn’t coming at all,” he suggests.

Sabina glances up with a scowl. “She is ,” she insists. “Stop being so impatient, or I might decide to go in without you.”

“ You invited me!” Vespasian reminds her in indignation, completely missing the white-haired lady approaching them.

“I’m only joking,” Sabina responds, rolling her eyes at his overreaction. 

There’s no time for further bickering, however, as she suddenly straightens. “ There she is now.”

“Were you waiting on me?” the woman asks, with humor in her tone that entirely lacks any remorse for her tardiness. Vespasian purses his lips, but doesn’t comment on it.

“How kind of you to finally arrive,” Sabina says, her voice dripping as much sarcasm as she can muster. “I thought we’d be frozen stiff by the time you deigned to show up.”

So now the cold bothers her, Vespasian thinks.

“Oh, quit the drama,” the friend says with a brief laugh, a chilly sound like the howl of the wind, before her gaze falls on him.

Before she can comment on his presence, Sabina speaks up again. “Cade, this is my cousin Vespasian. Vespa, this is Cadensia. Daughter of the conductor.”

As she turns her attention on him, he swallows any snarky remark he was about to make. He’d prepared himself mentally for some pretty little ingénue, but this woman—this Cadensia—is hardly what he was expecting. She’s no blushing maiden, that much is immediately clear.

“Hopefully the conductor myself, when his time passes,” Cadensia adds with a sly smile. Her ambition radiates from her ice queen demeanor, sparking a recognition in Vespasian.

A fellow aspirant for filling paternal shoes. He can respect that.

“Charmed,” he responds with a smile and a nod, his arms falling to a more relaxed position on his side to give less of an impression of a shivering child.

“And you must be Lord Nerva’s son, yes?” Cadensia asks, shooting him a curious look.

He nods again, not surprised she recognizes him. Any son of Garlemald’s most powerful family would hardly go unnoticed—and any less would have been a grave insult. Still, having that connection acknowledged makes him bristle just a bit. After so many years, he is still known primarily for his father rather than for himself.

“ The Nerva yae Galvus’s son,” he nevertheless responds with pride. Even if he’s forever stuck in the shadow, there’s some comfort in knowing the shadow belongs to such a powerful force.

“My father is a busy man, but he does well by his duties,” he continues. “ And he has a keen eye for the arts, even if he has little time to enjoy them.”

“He sends frequent funding to the hall,” Cadensia responds with some amount of gratitude. “If that’s a measure of his taste in music, then I take it your own interest is equally refined.”

“Of course,” Vespasian assures. Even if he hasn’t taken much interest in the arts himself, due to a similar lack of time, he still has the proper tastes of a nobleman. And he intends to prove his knowledge by not letting the evening go to waste with poor entertainment.

Cadensia’s lips form a knowing curve that says she can see right through him. “Good,” she says regardless, then gives Sabina a teasing glance. “Perhaps then you can explain to me what exactly is so fascinating about the second violinist when he looks and sounds absolutely ordinary.”

“Yes, my cousin was most insistent on coming to see him tonight, though I’m not entirely certain why,” he responds, and shoots a quick glare at Sabina. “Apparently he is ‘especially talented’.”

“It might be difficult for you to understand, given that you have the eyes of a blind rat,” Sabina snaps back, “ but he has a beautiful neck and nice shoulders, which makes his playing ten times better.”

“ Neck and shoulders, ” he repeats, shaking his head. “Truly the most discerning of opinions when it comes to music, cousin.”

“He also has nice hands,” she retorts, apparently not caring how absurd she sounds. “And he plays quite passionately.”

“Why don’t we head inside before you miss all that passion?” Cadensia suggests with a sly smile. “Would be a shame if we wasted the best seats arranged for us.”

“Indeed,” Vespasian responds eagerly, though he tries to keep down just how much he desired the rescue. “It would be a greater shame if I had to freeze to death out here listening to my cousin’s shallow taste in men.”

“Like you’re any better,” Sabina jabs back as she takes Vespasian’s arm to head inside.

While he thinks Cadensia’s out of earshot, he whispers, “And you thought to push me at your friend’s father, did you?”

She smiles and tightens her grip on his arm, as if to silence any complaints. “Yes,” she answers, with an air of triumph. “Yes, I did.”

He hisses in return, “And you don’t find that’s—”

“That’s what?” Cadensia smiles innocently, and colors Vespasian’s cheeks a vibrant red. “Improper? Uncouth, perhaps? Don’t worry. I care not for which young men my father takes to his bed.”

His flush deepens even further, much to his horror. He stammers, struggling to come up with any response before finally mumbling, “I, ah, I didn’t—”

“I’m only poking fun,” she reassures him. “I promise you, my father isn’t interested in men less than half his age.”

“Oh.” The word comes out awkwardly, and he clears his throat before finally regaining control of his composure. “Right. Well, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that either way. A man’s preference for other men is his business, but I assure you, I do not intend to—”

“I know,” she responds, still smiling with a hint of amusement. “As I said, I was only teasing.”

Not really certain what he’s supposed to respond with, he nods, and hopes the awkwardness of the exchange fades as soon as possible. 

Unfortunately, his cousin chooses that moment to poke more fun at him, unwilling to let Cadensia take all the stabs. “Well, you really are a walking disaster tonight, cousin,” she says, chuckling. “First your inability to deal with your mother’s concern without throwing a tantrum, and now this attempt at conversation.”

“ She was the one throwing the tantrum,” he insists.

The comment only earns him a look of amusement and derision from both women, and he grumbles indignantly as they enter the concert hall.

Thankfully, the teasing ends there, and the focus is turned to the interior: still as opulent and grandiose as he remembered from his youth, and filled with the lively chatter of nobles in their best garments. The seats are all lavishly crafted of dark wood and red velvet, and an ornate balcony rises up over their heads, spanning the front of the entire room like a massive birdcage suspended in the air.

No matter how many times one sees it, it continues to be impressive—and Vespasian has seen it less than he’d like. As attendants take his group’s coats and they’re seated in the royal gallery, reserved for his bloodline, his eyes still gravitate towards it.

He idly wonders if Varis and his son ever took advantage of the best seats granted to them. Probably not. What a waste of Solus’s legacy—and that of Lucius. As he’s served a nice glass of red, he takes a sip to wash the foul taste of having spoken to his less than pleasant relatives out of his mouth.

The sound of the orchestra tuning behind the heavy, velveted curtains snaps him out of his thoughts, and the lights begin to dim over the audience. Conversation gradually dies down around him as the curtain draws back, and he can finally see the musicians in their rows before the empty podium, waiting for the conductor to arrive.

The moment of anticipation before the show starts is always enjoyable, and he finds himself leaning forward in his seat as he waits. He can see why his cousin finds the second violinist appealing to watch now—he’s a young man with a very slim build, and his neck, as she said, is particularly long, emphasizing his graceful, elegant movements.

He watches as he places the violin between his jaw and shoulder, how his slender fingers maneuver the bow, how his brow furrows above long eyelashes in concentration, rehashing the sheet of notes in front of him. Managing to tear his eyes away for a fleeting moment, he glances to his side and sees his cousin in a similar state of trance.

That’s when he has to stifle a laugh.

Her eyes are, as the commoners would say, eating the young man alive; they follow the curves of his neck, his shoulders, his hands, everything about him that her cousin pointed out earlier. He has to admit—it is rather funny to see the normally confident, poised, self-assured, beautiful woman so completely lost in the spectacle.

But he also has to admit he gets it. A little pang of envy punches him in the gut as he watches her watch the violinist.

He used to enjoy things like this more, when they were younger and less worried about responsibilities—or he was, while she never seemed to grow out of her lackadaisical attitude. He’d found the music thrilling, the performers fascinating to watch, like they told the story of a grand battle, with its ebbs and flows and tension. But he’d grown so preoccupied with more pressing matters, and these affairs didn’t hold as much appeal anymore. Or perhaps he merely told himself they didn’t.

As the orchestra wakes their instruments, the very first song certainly awakes a wave of nostalgia. It crashes into him—suddenly he’s eight, sitting in his father’s armchair, listening to the radio with him, humming along together. Back when Nerva still had the joy left to hum.

Next he’s twelve, spending time with Vergilia’s nieces—both younger than him, but brimming with talent and drive. The elder laughed as his hands clumsily keyed the piano, then sang the notes with beautiful clarity as she taught him the right ones, ones which certainly evade him now. Yet, he can still recognize some chords.

That nostalgia only deepens as the concert continues, and as each piece evokes memories he’d forgotten he’d even had: a lullaby his maid sang to him as a child… a song he himself used to sing with his cousin at some ball… the one that first gave him the courage to approach a pretty boy and ask him to dance, both of them giggling as they swayed to the music, young and naive and foolish and happy.

All the while, while his ears sway with him in the past, his eyes glue onto the second violinist and the present. He watches as the young man leads the melody for his whole section, his hands dancing on his instrument, and wonders how he can make something that’s basically just an oddly shaped wooden box sound so powerful. The way he plays portrays such passion it makes Vespasian ache with envy, because it looks like he lives off of the music, like it fuels him.

He only looks away from the violinist when the song crescendos and the orchestra brings the piece to its final, sweeping finale. The music fades, and the lights over the theater go back up.

Applause rings through the air, and the musicians stand from their instruments as one to bow. Vespasian joins in clapping appreciatively in the wake of the music as another memory flits through his mind: his aunt’s hand on his shoulder, and her hushed voice in his ear. “Keep applauding, my boy,” she told him. “Even if it was only mediocre, the most important thing is to make people feel appreciated, isn’t it?”

Good advice, important advice, which has carried him through a situation too many. But in this circumstance, the applause is more than warranted.

The second violinist rises again after his bow with the rest, and looks up towards their seats, scanning the gallery. 

Something about his stare—a sort of intensity that comes across even a distance of thirty yalms—stirs a blush on Vespasian’s cheeks. The man has noted their royal presence, of course he has. For some reason, the fact makes Vespasian self-conscious.

Sabina has noticed too, and she leans into her friend’s shoulder in a vain attempt to conceal her giggles. 

Vespasian, however, knows it’s his eyes the musician’s met. And he smiles.

Notes:

This took so long to write I'm convinced my brain just doesn't want Vespasian to have a nice time -_-

Chapter 13

Notes:

I wrote too much so y'all get two chapters today. Feast

The bed Vespasian wakes in is not his own. This takes a moment to dawn on him, in his haze of sleep-addled confusion. 

The ceiling stares back at him with unfamiliar patterns, and sunlight streams through the window into the corner of his eye. He’s also wearing less clothing than he should, judging by the softness of the sheets against his bare chest. 

Then, as he rolls over on his side, he remembers. Last night, the concert, the drinking afterwards…

And the violinist’s slender back facing him.

He stares, wide-eyed, wondering what sort of strange fate has led him to wake up in the bed of the very man his cousin has been pining for. 

His gaze lingers a little too long, because the violinist suddenly turns towards him, a slow smile spreading across his otherwise blank face. “Well, morning there.”

He flushes when caught, and looks away. 

He’s always found mornings after difficult. The idea that he may have said or done something absolutely embarrassing in the midst of a drunken stupor is always nerve-wracking. And since there’s no good way to find out, it always results in a few minutes of awkward silence.

Fortunately, the musician seems perfectly happy to fill the silence. “You know, we didn’t get properly introduced last night, what with the drinking and the… ah, other things.” He shoots Vespasian a smirk, and lifts himself into a sitting position.

“You must know who I am,” Vespasian mutters, rubbing the sands of sleep out from his eyes. Between his grogginess and his hangover, he has no room in his brain for humbleness.

“Of course I know who you are,” the violinist responds. “ Everyone in Garlemald knows who you are.” 

He makes no move to get out of bed—instead, he just turns to rest his back against the headboard and stretch his legs out in front of him.

The reminder of course makes Vespasian just a little uncomfortable. 

He is used to his fame, but sometimes he just wishes he could be an ordinary man. Someone without a legacy to uphold, without an expectation of perfection. In the world around him, he’ll never be that, and everyone he meets will only ever see the name of his family hanging over his head like a dark cloud. 

He rolls onto his back, away from the man, and props himself up on his elbows as he takes his turn to smirk. “But you… you will have to introduce yourself.”

The comment earns him an eyebrow raised in challenge, before the violinist chuckles under his breath. “And so I shall.” He pauses, as if making a show out of composing his next words. “My name is Accius. And it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lord Vespasian.”

“ Just Vespasian,” he responds with a shake of his head. “No Lord, no titles. That’s all formality, and in this situation, it’s completely unnecessary.”

“ Just ? That’s very humble of you.” Accius laughs. “For a member of the royal family, I mean. Usually, your lot makes a point of having people address you properly.”

“Less so when I’ve just woken up in their bed,” Vespasian quips back.

Accius nods, still sporting an amused smile. “Fair enough. Though it wasn’t my fault last night, if memory serves me right. You were the one who propositioned me, so don’t try to act so modest.”

Was it him? Vespasian’s head pounds as he tries to recall the night before. Vague scenes drift back to him, but his head is such a mess of aches that they’re difficult to distinguish as his own. The taste of wine on his tongue, the violinist’s laughter, their hands… 

His ears burn at the memory, and he hopes to each of the savages’ hells and whatever his own imagination can conjure that he didn’t do or say anything too mortifying. He does vaguely remember Sabina yelling at him, so it must be true. Oh well. She’ll get over it. Call it a payback for all her teasing and poking fun.

“How about you?” he asks, shaking himself out of his vain attempt at recollection, deciding that it’s only fair to get his own retaliation in. “Do you always sleep with fans of your performances?”

Accius shakes his head. “No, it’s not a habit. Nor do I make a habit of bedding the sons of powerful men out for a night of drinking. So congratulations, you’re special.”

“I highly doubt Nerva will have your head for this,” Vespasian jokes, but a frown befalls his features. What will Father think? He fled the estate without warning for a night of fleeting fancy, rather than work on the tasks assigned to him. Hell, even the apology —which he hoped to finish well before afternoon yesterday—still lies on his table missing its last lines.

Accius seems to pick up on the troubled expression on his face, as his smile fades and he tilts his head to the side. “Something on your mind?” he asks quietly.

“… Merely that I should head home,” Vespasian mumbles in reply, fumbling for his discarded clothing.

“You’re quick to leave. Are you so ashamed of being seen with a commoner that you have to make a hasty retreat?” Accius asks with a half-grin. “You didn’t seem to mind all that much last night.”

“No, it’s not that,” Vespasian reassures just as he’s located his missing underwear. “I simply have work to do, of the royal sort.”

And he’ll be royally fucked if he doesn’t do it.

“Ah, duty calls.” Accius gives a mock-salute from where he sits. 

Vespasian snorts at the ridiculousness of the action, but says, “Indeed it does,” as he pulls on his briefs.

Soon enough he’s starting to look presentable again, if only in the most basic of ways. He glances back over at Accius, a somewhat hesitant, awkward smile pulling at his lips. “Last night was… pleasurable. Thank you,” he adds, the words only a little bit stifled.

“Very,” Accius responds, and returns the smile. Then his gaze takes on an appraising quality. “Tell me one thing, however, before you leave.”

“Yes?” The questioning tone in Vespasian’s voice only barely covers up the hesitance. He can only guess what the man is going to ask, after a night like that.

Accius studies his face for another moment, before he finally asks, “Do you actually enjoy music? Or is that just an excuse you give to indulge in the vices of those around you, for the sake of appearances?”

Vespasian’s guard is pushed right off. “ Excuse me? ”

He’d been expecting something along the lines of ‘Can we do that again sometime?’ , not a pointed question about his taste in the arts.

“There’s no need to play dumb,” Accius responds with a little sigh, and leans himself back against the headboard. “I’ve heard too many aristocrats say they enjoy ‘these quaint little performances,’ because it’s expected of them. I wish to know: do you like it, or are you just being a noble?”

It takes a moment for the meaning of the question to really sink in. That, or his headache is making thinking more difficult. Vespasian gives the violinist an annoyed look, but finally admits, “I was taught to appreciate music from a very young age, and it’s as natural to me as breathing.”

“And yet you don’t take much time to visit these places, unless you’re dragged along by a pretty woman who wants to watch an attractive young violinist,” Accius accuses with a hint of amusement.

Vespasian has to stifle the urge to snap back with something about how he’s simply been too busy with royal matters in recent years to attend—matters more important than the other man could ever comprehend—because he can’t help but feel defensive. So much of his life is spent in an effort to meet other people’s expectations, and here he was supposed to enjoy a night away from them, but some virtuoso isn’t content to let him enjoy even that.

“Let me assure you, there’s nothing wrong with not enjoying these things,” Accius continues, as if to soothe his discomfort. “I only ask because it’s tiring to watch people pretend they like something, so they can put on airs in front of their aristocratic peers. You don’t need to pretend in front of me , because I don’t care if you really like it or not. You can be honest.”

“Honest,” Vespasian repeats, and snorts. The word sounds so foreign to him now. 

He’s supposed to maintain a certain image in front of others. Nobility requires masks, and honesty is a rare commodity when everyone is putting on the pretense that they’re better than the rest. He’s had enough practice in this masquerade to know how to lie with ease, but right now, his headache and the lingering effects of the alcohol are making it difficult to summon the necessary effort.

“Well?” Accius asks, when he still says nothing. 

Vespasian swallows a groan, and lets his head sink into his hands. “ Of course I enjoy it. And no, it’s not an excuse to indulge a vice. I grew up with all of this. Opera, live music, performances from the finest musicians and thespians in Garlemald. And no, I don’t pretend I enjoy it because it’s expected of me.”

“Good.” Accius nods in what seems like satisfaction that his test has been passed. 

He pushes himself up from his lounging and swings his legs over the edge of the bed. “I wasn’t going to kick you out if you didn’t, but I would have given you points for your honesty,” he says with a grin. “You get a passing grade, at least.”

“I did not ask to be graded,” Vespasian jabs, straightening his shirt.

The smile still won’t leave Accius’s face as he steps up to him, and pushes a hand up under said shirt, to trace his fingers against his back. “You’re prickly when you have a hangover, aren’t you, Lord Vespasian?” he murmurs.

Vespasisn’s gaze falls to the hand exploring his skin, and his ears flush. 

When was the last time someone touched him just because they wished to? When was the last time someone touched him like this, without a goal in mind or anything to gain from it?

Then Cadensia’s words return to him: his father funds the concert hall.

Maybe this violinist thinks there is something to gain, after all. The flattered tingles where his fingers roam fade as soon as they surface.

“Get your hand off me,” he mutters, and jerks his body away. 

He’s not naive enough to think that a musician would actually be interested in him for any other reason than who he is. The moment anyone realizes he’s the son of Nerva yae Galvus, his status is all that’s relevant. The idea of being seen as only a means to an end makes him feel cheap.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to overstep my bounds,” Accius responds smoothly. 

Vespasian can’t tell if the apology is genuine, or if he’s only saying it to pacify him. Regardless, he’s tired of the awkward atmosphere in the room, and he wants nothing more than to just hurry back home and get on with his day. 

He looks around for his boots with a deep sigh. “I should get going.”

“Aww, so soon? You’re not going to stay for breakfast?” Accius teases. 

When Vespasian just scowls in response, he shrugs. “All right, your loss.” He flops himself back down onto the bed, and folds his hands over his chest. “Leave if you must.”

Like a corpse in a coffin. The drama of artists. Vespasian doesn’t look back at the ridiculous sight as he locates his shoes and coat and prepares to leave into the cold outside.

The chill in the air bites bitter against his skin after Accius’s warm bed, and the light falling snow isn’t helping to lift his mood.  He’d hoped the night could have simply remained a good memory in his mind, but the violinist seemed intent on ruining it with his petty, childish games and tests. He decides to just forget about the entire encounter, and push his memories of the night to the back of his mind. 

He should be worrying about more important things, such as the apology he should have finished drafting, instead of allowing his thoughts to wander over to the curve of a man’s neck, of his back, of his waist… or of what those calloused, long fingers would feel like exploring his body again.

He shoves those thoughts away as quickly as they come. If there is one skill he’s had practice with, it is ignoring his desires and pretending they don’t bother him. 

He has far too much work to do to let himself indulge.

Chapter 14

Every step booms like thunder as he walks the halls of his home, even as he tries to sneak in quietly. Passing servants on their morning rounds give him strange looks, which he responds to with glares and hushes that tell them to keep their mouths shut about his state or the time he’s returned.

It’s all over their faces: Look, it’s the prodigal son, back after a night spent doing who-knows-what.

But they’re not so stupid as to voice it out loud. They simply duck their heads and move aside, and resume their duties as soon as he’s passed by. And he does so briskly, eager to return to his room, away from the judgmental stares of people.

Until the ajar door of his father’s office brings his feet to a halt.

Voices carry into his ear from inside; not only his father’s, but also his grandfather’s. He cannot make sense of any words due to the hushed tone, but their presence grants hope that he can sneak by unnoticed.

It is a vain hope, however, as a floorboard creaks under his feet as soon as he shifts his weight. 

The sudden halt of conversation inside the room is deafening, and he knows his chance of escaping without being spotted has already fled. He pauses, wondering if they can be convinced they merely imagined the sound, but the silence stretches on for just a breath too long. 

Finally, his grandfather, in a hoarse voice, calls, “Vespasian?”

“ There the boy is,” Nerva’s voice comes after, and Vespasian’s spine straightens right up as he tries to gauge how much disappointment it carries.

He takes a deep breath before stepping just inside the door frame, his eyes on the floor. Neither disappointment nor anger has come into play yet, but he can feel both of them lingering in the air, just waiting to pounce the moment his guard falls.

“I trust you had a good night?” Nerva asks in that measured way he does whenever he’s working himself up to something. 

Of course, Vespasian is far from an idiot. His father rarely uses that tone unless he already knows the answer to his questions.

“… Yes, thank you,” he responds curtly, and finally risks a glance up to see if he can decipher anything from the expressions on their faces. 

His grandfather’s is inscrutable, as usual, but his father’s lips are pressed together and his eyes are fixed on him like daggers.

Then Titus breaks into a bark of laughter from his wheelchair. “Just like you and your sister, these kids,” he jabs at his son, seeing his sour face.

“ Father ,” Nerva says in a tone of warning. 

Vespasian is about to ask what his grandfather means by his remark, but the look his father shoots in his direction stifles him again. It’s clear the matter at hand is one of urgency, and he is in no mood for any side commentary.

“Sit, boy. And shut the door.”

He swallows down a protest before he even thinks about voicing it, and does as instructed, stepping inside to close the door behind him. 

The click of the lock echoes in the tense, silent seconds as he sits down, his hands in loose fists in his lap. His gaze falls on his shaky fingers uncurling and curling again.

“Look at me,” Nerva says after the silence has stretched on for too long. 

Vespasian obeys, and finds nothing to reassure him. Father’s stare is cold, but the anger has finally surfaced in his voice as he continues, “The next time you want to stay out drinking until the small hours of morning, without calling to say where in the hells you are, don’t .”

“Forgive me,” Vespasian responds, because it’s the default statement when one is chided. It only now dawns on him that he carried no communication device. He can only guess how long his father spent awake waiting for his return, and as he sits under his piercing glare, a rush of shame finally crashes down on him.

“And don’t even try to claim you’re an adult when you behave like some spoiled brat,” Nerva continues, and sighs. Just when it looks like he’s about to continue, however, he’s interrupted by Titus.

“ Enough , Nerva,” the old man mutters, and Vespasian watches his father’s shoulders tense at the interjection in a manner all too familiar. “Scold the boy later. We’ve more pressing matters to attend to right now.”

Nerva gives a reluctant nod, and leans back in his chair. 

Vespasian wants to find relief in the death of the verbal dressing down, but the tension in his father’s features has only increased now. He’s starting to believe that it’s not just his nightly escapades that provoked this summons.

“We received a letter earlier this morning,” Nerva begins, a hint of trepidation showing in his voice. “From Varis, directly.”

His father’s words spark a jolt of fear in him. He’d been so caught up in his own antics last night, that he hadn’t even bothered to wonder if Varis would be doing anything as well. 

The letter is bad news, certainly. He can’t think of any regards from his uncle that would be greeted with enthusiasm.

“What does he want?” Vespasian asks, doing his best to keep his voice steady. 

Nerva’s face doesn’t change, but there’s still something lingering in his eyes—and in Titus’s—that makes Vespasian dread the answer.

“A meeting,” Nerva responds after a moment. 

The word sounds harmless, but there’s something about his father’s tone that makes Vespasian shiver. There is no way his uncle would want to simply sit down for tea, or to catch up.

“With me?” The question falls from his lips with a heavy weight. “We already met to discuss his son. I’ve nothing new to report.”

Unless Varis does, and is about to make him ‘answer to him personally’ for an unpleasant new development, like he threatened. His chest constricts in terror he tries to push down.

“ No ,” Nerva responds. “With me.” 

A mixture of relief and confusion washes over Vespasian.

He’s been expecting Varis to take his ire out on him in some way, so his uncle’s decision to summon his father instead comes as a surprise. There’s also the fact that Nerva seems just as—if not more nervous as him, which does nothing to reassure him.

“Why would he want to see you?” he demands to know, his gaze passing between his father’s and grandfather’s faces. 

If there’s some plot or scheme brewing, he thinks he has the right to know about it. He’s tired of being treated like a child, and left in the dark about everything simply because he’s the youngest.

“Don’t concern yourself with it,” Nerva responds with annoyance. “It’s my problem. It has nothing to do with you.”

“You’ve chosen to tell me, Father,” Vespasian retorts, unwilling to accept restrictions on what should awaken his concern. “That has made it my problem too.”

Nerva takes a breath, and his expression softens by a smidge. “Your concern is appreciated, but if you want to help, then keep your head down and your nose clean until this is over. Understood?” 

Vespasian just nods and tries to pretend he doesn’t see the look his grandfather gives his offspring.

“Your uncle is unpredictable lately,” Titus says quietly, shaking his head. 

Vespasian’s attention turns to the elder, and he asks, “Do you think the meeting is some kind of trap, then?”

The old man shrugs and sighs. “I don’t know what Varis is thinking anymore,” he responds with a scowl. “Especially concerning you.”

The response is disheartening, to say the least. If Titus doesn’t know what Varis has planned, then chances are nobody does, and this meeting could be dangerous. That thought makes his heart beat all the faster, and his palms grow slick with sweat.

“ Vespasian ,” Nerva repeats, taking the liberty of breaking in. There is a definite edge in his voice, which makes Vespasian snap back to focus. “You are not to get involved in this. I want you to remain in the estate until I return, and keep your contact with others to a minimum.”

“What of the council meeting?” Vespasian asks.

“ That can wait until after my return,” Nerva responds, with a tone of finality. When Vespasian opens his mouth to respond, he shoots his gaze in his direction, and says, “Not another word, boy. You will stay here, and you will do as I say.”

His jaw snaps back shut, and he swallows down a bitter protest. He’s a grown man now, not a child, but he knows better than to challenge his father on anything at the moment. Especially after staying out all night, and after the man has received such a stressful invitation.

“Good,” Nerva says. “Now get out.” 

And with that, Vespasian rises and heads for the door. 

His stomach still churns, and his palms are still slick with sweat, all from the sheer force of his father’s voice, even as he adds softer again,

“And, Vespasian? Your mother is beside herself with worry.”

Vespasian pauses, his hand frozen in place on the doorknob, and he wants to yell back that he didn’t ask his mother to worry about him. He just wanted to enjoy the night like any other person. 

But he doesn’t say any of that. Instead, he responds, “Yes, Father,” and flees the office.

Once safely outside, he leans against the door until his heart rate finally declines. He should have known it was a mistake to leave the estate overnight, but damn him for not wanting to be trapped behind his father’s walls for just one night.

Now his parents are worried, and he knows where his father is going requires the utmost caution. And, to top it all off, he can’t even leave the estate at the moment.

A sudden wave of resentment wells up inside at being forced to stay put when he just wants to escape it all. It doesn’t escape him that he has by all intents and purposes been grounded, like some unruly brat. Irritation rises in his throat as he tries to push the thought away. Why is it that he’s expected to adhere to his father’s words without question, when he’s old enough to drink and bed other men?

He walks faster, to put more distance between himself and the damned room, when Titus’s voice stops him.

“Vespasian, wait.”

Vespasian pauses and takes a deep breath as he turns around. If he was going to be rebuked for his insolence towards his father a second time, that would just about complete his day before it begins.

“You’re angry,” his grandfather observes, and Vespasian responds with a curt nod. 

“Of course I’m angry,” he says. “I’m being treated like a kid, when I’ve done nothing wrong except enjoy a night out on my own.”

“You aren’t being punished for going out,” Titus responds. “You’re being ordered to stay put because it’s dangerous to leave the estate right now. Nerva is worried.”

Vespasian scoffs and shakes his head. “It’s always dangerous to go anywhere,” he mutters. “There are always risks out there. But do I get told about them? No . Because I’m just a stupid boy, and my parents don’t trust me to be mature enough to handle things myself.”

Titus simply sighs in response, and says, “Your father loves you, and he just wants to keep you safe. If he didn’t trust you, he wouldn’t bother to try to protect you.”

Vespasian grits his teeth, and scowls at the man.  He knows that what his grandfather says is true, but he doesn’t want to listen to it right now. All he wants is some time alone, to let out his frustrations, without having someone lecture him.

Titus senses this. Further comments on the topic will only aggravate Vespasian more, and he seems to understand that.

So, he changes it. “How was your concert?” He steers his chair to him, close enough that Vespasian gets a better look at his expression. He expected mockery, or more scolding for his misadventure, but there is only real curiosity.

The bluntness of the question surprises him. It takes every part of his self-restraint not to snap at his elder for prying. 

Finally, though, he manages to rein back his annoyance, and responds with, “… It was fine.”

“ Fine ?” his grandfather asks. “That’s all it was? I would have assumed that you would have some more than that to say about your night. Did anything interesting happen?”

The thought of what happened with the violinist flashes through his mind, but he doesn’t dare share that information. Instead, he responds with, “The concert was fine, and the music was fine, and that’s it .”

Titus gives a small laugh. “Easy with the attitude, my boy. I’m not interrogating you.”

Vespasian takes a deep breath, and says, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you, Grandfather. I’m just… frustrated, right now.”

“I know you are,” the old man responds. “And it’s my fault for pushing you on the details of your night. I should have known better than to annoy a caged animal.”

Vespasian gives a snort of amusement, despite himself. When he glances at his grandfather, he can see that he is wearing a tiny smirk, which only serves to amuse him further.

“I’m glad to see you still enjoying your youth,” Titus continues, with a gleam in his eye. “Us men of this family notoriously lose that skill too soon.”

“ If I’m allowed to enjoy it,” Vespasian responds with a small smirk of his own. “Without being grounded, that is.”

“One or two nights of staying in the estate can’t be that bad,” Titus responds. “Especially when you’ve already enjoyed a night out on your own.” His look suddenly turns serious again, and he says, “I hope you know that you’re being protected, boy. And not restrained.”

Vespasian swallows a harsh laugh, and looks down at the floor. He really doesn’t need any more reminders about how his father wants to keep him safe. He feels so weak again, being told not to get too close to the hearth because he might get burned.

“Don’t look so glum,” Titus says, and gives his arm a reassuring squeeze. “I’ll have a word with Nerva, and tell him not to be so hard on you, if you won’t be so hard on him in return. He’s doing this for you.”

“Deal,” Vespasian responds, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. 

He can’t help but feel better when he sees that his grandfather is taking his side. It serves as a reminder that he has someone who is still treating him like an adult in this household.

“Good,” Titus says. “Now get lost, boy, before I decide to tell you all the ways I used to make your father’s life a living hell when he was your age.”

Vespasian grins at the remark, and bows his head. “Yes, Grandfather,” he responds. Once Titus nods his dismissal, he turns to leave, and heads back on his original course towards his chambers.

His grandfather has loosened up since the civil war, certainly. Perhaps relinquishing his vying for the throne to his son was partly responsible; perhaps the newfound laxer attitude is his way of coping with his sustained injuries. Either way, Vespasian likes the softer, less serious handle he takes on things these days, though he remains as sharp a politician as ever.

He’s looking forward to hearing his thoughts when the council does finally meet. Hopefully, he’ll have less of a pounding headache when the time comes.

Chapter 15

Vespasian plans to spend the majority of the day nursing both his hangover and his foul mood. He orders servants to draw him a bath and to fix him a cure for his pains and nausea, and broods about his father’s snippy attitude.

He supposes he gets it. If he was to meet with Varis again, he would be on his last nerve too—more than he already is.

He manages to get a solid few hours of peace before his cousin comes barging into his chambers without even a hint of warning. 

Sabina, it seems, is completely oblivious to the fact he is supposed to be grounded . She storms into the room, slamming the door shut behind her, and stalks over to where he lounges on his couch and sips at a cold cup of tea. 

By the time she stops directly beside him, he’s staring up at her with a resigned grimace on his face. “Let me guess,” he grumbles, slumping lower into the couch, “you’re here to shout at me for ‘stealing your man’?”

“Not why I’m here,” she sniffs, folding her arms across her chest. “If I wanted to yell at you, I would have done so last night.”

He rolls his eyes. “I have the faintest recollection that you, in fact, did.”

“You do?” she asks as she sits, forcing him to lift his legs or else have them crushed under her weight. “I don’t.”

“That’s not surprising,” he responds, shifting his legs up to rest across her lap. “You were absolutely smashed by then.”

She snorts. “I do remember meeting a charming oboist, so your transgressions are forgiven.”

He leans his head against the armrest, taking a deep, dramatic sigh. “That, and you already got your revenge by snitching on me to Father, didn’t you?”

She feigns an insulted expression. “I didn’t snitch on you. When Nerva asked where you were, I simply informed him of the truth.”

“And that information just so happened to land me a lecture and get me grounded for the foreseeable future.”

“Don’t be so dour!” She lightly swats him on the leg that now lazily dangles off her lap. “At least now that Nerva’s told Varis to back off your case, you’ll have more time to go out afterwards.”

…

“What?”

He lifts his head to look up at her through slits. “ What do you mean, Father’s told Varis to back off?”

Dread coils in the pit of his stomach. That , of course, would explain why his father was so on edge this morning, why he told him to be careful tonight. Suddenly his headache worsens tenfold, as do his nausea and frustration with his current situation.

“How do you know about that?” he asks, sitting up and swinging his feet back onto the floor. “Father didn’t tell me .”

Sabina’s eyes widen and her lips zip, like they’d slipped out a secret. “Oh? Maybe you weren’t meant to know.”

He definitely wasn’t supposed to know about that.

He stands up and paces in front of her, rubbing a hand over his face. “How did you find out?” he asks, the words rushing out in rising urgency. “Does anyone else know?”

“I overheard your parents,” she admits. “Some servants might have, too. I doubt anyone else.”

Except Titus, if their conversation in the office was any indication.

Vespasian swears under his breath. His frustration and anger rear in his chest, but he tries to keep a lid on them for his cousin’s sake. “What do you know?” he inquires again as he runs his fingers through his hair, yanking at the knots that have formed. “About what Father told Varis, that is.”

“I just heard him reassuring your mother that he was going to intervene.” She shrugs. A frown pulls at her brows as she watches his pacing. “I would think that’s a good thing? Nobody wants that geezer in their business.”

He briefly pauses his anxious steps to shoot his cousin a withering scowl. “I don’t think you understand the severity of the danger my father is putting himself in by interfering with Varis’s plots,” he responds. 

He starts to pace again, hands tugging at his hair and heart picking up an anxious, rapid beat. “He’s putting himself and us in danger,” he continues. “You know what Varis is like. He holds a grudge like nobody’s business, and Father’s only going to get him angrier, by trying to—” 

He stops himself mid-sentence and glances off to the side as he swallows, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

“By… by trying to protect me.”

His eyes flick back to lock with hers. His mask has always been prone to slipping when he felt vulnerable, and oh, is he vulnerable now.

“He can’t keep doing this, Sabina,” he mutters. “He can’t keep putting himself in harm’s way for my sake.”

“And I’m sure he knows that,” Sabina responds. “But you’re still his son. He still has his right to feel that he should shield you. Especially with Varis breathing down your neck—and his.”

She scoots forward on the couch and pats the space beside her, signaling him to sit back down. He moves to her and slumps back onto the seat.

Despite his annoyance and distress, he feels some of the strain beginning to drain out of his muscles just from the comfort of sitting beside her. He can’t help but let his head fall to rest on her shoulder.

She reaches up and runs a hand through his hair, gently untangling the knots that his own hands created. “You’re really worried about him, aren’t you?” she asks unusually softly.

His gaze falls on the patterns of his rug, tracing them in an effort to ground himself. Sharp geometry, repeating in on itself, makes more sense than the chaos his life has devolved into.

“You know what Varis is capable of,” he mutters. “Better than most.”

She gives a soft hum of agreement. “Yes, I do. And you shouldn’t be as concerned for your father as you are. I’m sure he can handle himself.”

He knows she’s trying to reassure him, and for that, he’s grateful. But it doesn’t stop the worry from gnawing at him like a ravenous beast, nor does it cease his mind from spinning with all the possible ways this could end horribly for his father. For their entire family.

“Besides,” she continues, sensing that her words did nothing to ease the tension in his shoulders, “I doubt Varis would be so stupid as to kill his own cousin in broad daylight. He has enough scandal to deal with his son as it is.”

That, Vespasian knows, is a fair point. But he’s still plagued with doubt and anxiety. 

He lifts his head off her shoulder and glances at her intently through his messy hair. “I’m assuming you came in for a reason other than to tell me Father’s ‘helping’ me?” he queries in order to try and distract himself.

A wicked smirk forms on her lips in response, as she gives him a sly sidelong glance. “Are you implying I wouldn’t simply want to spend time with my favorite cousin?” she asks, feigning an air of offense.

“That is not as much of a compliment as you think it is, when the competition is… well,” Vespasian snorts. He remembers once more that he is supposed to be finishing his apology to the bastard in question.

“A fair point,” she laughs. “But, as it so happens, I do have news for you,” she continues, and her smirk shifts from wicked to coy.

Vespasian lifts his head again, eyes narrowing in interest. “Go on, then,” he prompts her. “Don’t keep me in suspense.”

She glances around the room, as if checking for possible eavesdroppers. When she finds none, she leans in close, cupping her hand around her mouth and lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

“You see, this handsome oboist I met…”

Oh, is he glad it’s more stories of her boy hunts, not anything more dire. Zenos’s hunt has messed his life up thoroughly as it is, and with the news about his father, his will to withstand any more issues is at capacity.

(Meanwhile, somewhere with issues…)

Steeling his nerves, Nerva makes his way into the throneroom that should be his. Yesterday, he sent a letter to his cousin the Emperor to lay off his son and the threats he made on him; to find himself summoned afterwards was not entirely surprising, as he can admit his tone had been less than friendly. However, he shows none of his earlier trepidation standing in front of Varis.

“It seems you’ve found something in my missive worth discussing in person, cousin.”

Varis eyes his kinsman with a level gaze, not pleased with the letter he had received. He could have had Nerva whipped for his audacity, but he decides against it. For now.

“Come off it. You are here to speak on behalf of your son.”

“As I understood it, you already spoke,” Nerva retorts, “and you threatened his life.”

The cold reply takes Varis off his guard for a split second, but only that. His frown deepens.

“I simply shared my displeasure in seeing your son turn out no better than his father.” His tone is as cutting as he can make it, eyes narrowing.

Nerva’s jaw tightens and his eyes narrow in turn, but he keeps his temper.

“The boy is no threat to you,” he states coldly. “He doesn’t deserve to pick up your slack in disciplining your son—who certainly isn’t better than his sire.”

That makes the Emperor’s face contort into an ugly scowl. “Zenos is many things,” he says with a low growl, “but he at least has not turned tail when the going gets too rough. Which is more than I can say for you, cousin.”

At least none in my household spend their time chasing the tail of an Eorzean sellsword, Nerva is tempted to strike back, but holds his tongue, despite the hit to his pride.

“Is this why you sent for me?” he asks instead. “To toss baseless insults my way?”

“I am simply pointing out the truth, as I always have,” Varis replies, the growl still present in his voice. “You’ve always been more suited to licking the floor than to sit on a throne.”

“Do not speak to me as if you’re above making mistakes yourself,” Nerva counters, his own voice becoming as cold as ice, “Or do you not see how your son turned out?”

“My son is not the subject of this discussion,” Varis snaps. “Yours, on the other hand, is. And he will learn to act like a Galvus ought to, even if I have to drill it into his thick skull personally.”

Nerva’s demeanor, in contrast, stays carefully guarded, save for the thin slits of his eyes and the drum-like beat in his chest. “By taking it out on him, should Zenos continue stepping over the line, as if he’s at fault?”

“If he continues to stick his nose where it doesn’t belong,” Varis retorts, his temper flaring more, “I see no reason why I shouldn’t take it out on him. I’ve warned him more than enough to stay out of my way—if he is too stubborn to listen, then he will have no one to blame but himself for getting hurt."

There’s no stopping Nerva from scoffing. “You are the emperor, Varis, and you can’t keep your own son in line, but it’s somehow the fault of a boy five years his junior if Zenos is unruly.” He shakes his head. “Your hypocrisy is beyond me.”

Varis takes slow, threatening steps away from the throne to approach and glare down at Nerva with a burning look in his eye.

“And your cowardice and insolence is beyond me, ” he hisses in a low, furious tone. “I will not tolerate either of it. If your son cannot keep his mouth shut, then I will make sure he can’t move that damn tongue of his—even if I have to cut it out myself.”

“Zenos doesn’t need my son to besmirch his own name,” Nerva remarks, unflinching. “You, however, will need to go through me to harm a single hair on his head.”

“Oh, I would love to,” Varis growls through clenched teeth, “and I would beat you to a bloody pulp, if it wasn’t for my respect for our shared blood.”

Respect for his blood? After killing his sister and crippling his father? That’s rich. Nerva watches as Varis turns his back on him, fighting his lip from curling into a snarl.

“Your boy has wit in him, Nerva—I don’t know where he got it from, but one of these days, someone will run out of patience for his rumors. Who will save your son from their incurred wrath then, hmm?”

“I will do so if need be,” Nerva states, without missing a beat. “I take responsibility for it. What about you, as a ruler, Varis, and as a father?”

His frown deepens, as does the drumming in his chest; however, it takes a moment for him to realize what it is. Fear. Fear which he pushes right down, until it weighs at his feet and keeps them still.

Varis stops in his tracks with a withering glare, his eyes burning like a wildfire. “You think I don’t?” he asks, his voice dropping into a low, thunder-like rumble. “You really think I don’t take responsibility for my son, cousin?”

“You want my candor?” Nerva’s voice does not tremble. “No, I do not think you do. Otherwise, you would not have Vespasian do your dirty work.”

The accusation makes Varis fall quiet, his gaze burning into Nerva’s own. He lets out a harsh exhale and closes his eyes, then turns away, his heavy armor and long cape making the movement loud.

He must know there’s truth to his rival’s words…

“Which is it, cousin?” Nerva continues. “Do you want his nose in your business, or do you not? Because by continuing to rope him into Zenos’s affairs, you keep it firmly buried in there.”

Another harsh exhale. Varis pinches the bridge of his nose, willing the headache he can feel coming on to go away. 

“And what do you suggest, in your infinite wisdom?” he mutters, not looking in Nerva’s direction.

“I suggest you deal with your spawn, and I deal with mine.”

Oh, if only it were that easy, Varis’s face screams as his head turns to toss Nerva a sideways glare, but he doesn’t say that part out loud. 

“Do you truly believe your son can stay out of trouble?” he asks instead, sharply. “I have seen him in action. He is a pest. Always has been. He will meddle with matters which are not his own.”

“My son will know when to pick his battles,” Nerva says, his voice taking a more formal tone. “Yours needs to learn who it is proper for him to court. If that is too much for him, then he has only himself to blame.”

Hearing that makes Varis’s jaw clench once more, but before he can lash out against the subtle insult, something else catches his attention. 

A knock at the door interrupts the conversation, and a voice sounds through it. “Your Radiance. I have important news.”

Notes:

Oh man, my chapter's looking a bit short... I wish there was a staple of FFXIV writing to help me out here...

The ominous 'meanwhile':

Chapter 16

Sabina leaves, and with her the welcome distraction. Vespasian’s hangover-induced headache is gone, but something else pounds in his brain: Father is in danger. Father is in danger. Father is in danger.

The worry and anxiety consumes his thoughts again. He doesn’t know how to keep the panic at bay. His father has already suffered so much at the hands of Varis’s cruelty… and yet, he continues to try and stand up to him for the sake of his family. 

He continues to put himself in danger, to put himself in the line of fire for his sake. It’s… 

It’s maddening.

For a moment, he wonders if he could intervene. He finds the gun his father gifted him, grips it in his shaking hands. The guards might just let him through through mere status, he might just be able to…

No. Stupid idea. He would only make everything worse. How useless he is in this situation. How helpless…

… And what exactly is he trying to accomplish, staring at a gun and feeling pitiful? He needs to move, do something , if only to escape from his own spiraling fears.

The folder on his desk catches his attention from the corner of his eye. Right. Nerva is out there risking his hide for his sake, and he has yet to even open the files he tasked him with reading. Reluctantly, he places the gun back in the drawer and reaches across for the folder. He’s not in the mood for military files right now, not when his life is in so much turmoil, but he can at least do this. 

He can at least try and get the task off of his plate, so his father isn’t left with the added worry of him being uncooperative on top of everything else.

The folder gives a thump as it hits the wood, replacing the still unfinished letter, which he swats aside like a persistent gnat. Finishing it is an impossibility with his unsteady hands; even with the heft of these documents, they will be dealt with faster.

There it is, that strange, foreign name, now in its entirety: Laku Fiver. It’s obvious from the very first page that whoever Varis made put this together did their research. It begins with reports from events in Eorzea leading up to the destruction of Praetorium, the first time the Warrior of Light was officially considered a threat, but it then goes on to his alleged crimes from even earlier points in time. The writer adds it’s merely conjecture based on similarities in the attacks, but there had been a significant amount of unsolved arsonistic murders of soldiers all across the lower regions of Ilsabard between ten and four years ago that certainly fit the pattern.

He scans the information, frowning. These files may be thorough, and he can tell a lot of time and effort has gone into their compilation, but he can’t help the little voice that whispers in the back of his mind that this whole thing is pointless . There are few details on the Warrior’s motivations for his crimes, and the accounts of his actions are second-hand. Why bother going through all this trouble, when these papers likely won’t reveal anything new or interesting at all? 

But the more rational part of his mind tells him to quit being difficult. He’s not some schoolboy struggling with his homework.

The wide-eyed stare of a young, dark Viera boy meets him from the accompanying images of security footage. It is difficult to connect this creature, just a boy, into such violent acts. He’s not exactly the picture of innocence—even at this age, he doesn’t have the expression of a peaceful adolescent, more something akin to a cornered animal—but he looks so small , his features so youthful. A child, almost, even though the report describes him as an older teenager, not much younger than Vespasian is now.

And yet, he apparently has the skills to burn buildings to the ground and kill squadrons of soldiers in cold blood. A shiver runs up his spine, and he quickly turns the page, not wanting to linger on the image of the boy’s piercing scarlet eye.

He has to suppress a grimace as he sees the next page contains diagrams of the burnt out remains of a military station, corpses of men still strewn in blood and ash. He knows this was the Warrior’s doing, yet he’s still uneasy seeing the extent of the carnage and damage caused by this one Viera. 

He’s seen reports before, and he’s heard stories from survivors and witnesses… but the pictures make it so much more real , and much harder to distance. It’s difficult to see the damage and know his less-beloved cousin flirts with someone responsible for all of this.

He has to take a deep breath before he can continue, as the images and stories make the nausea in his stomach well up increasingly. The accounts from surviving officers and soldiers are even more vivid in detail, many describing the Warrior as a ‘monster’ or ‘demon’ and expressing their fears of meeting their own ends by his hand.

The account of a senior officer who barely escaped the burning of the base is particularly disturbing, knowing there are legati who did not. The magic used must be strong, to cause such damage to aether-resistant gear…

It’s not just the magic that’s impressive, though. The report states that the Warrior has remarkable physical strength in addition to the spells, which is likely how he’s able to hold his own even when surrounded. But the magic is probably the most concerning factor to consider, if the officer reports are accurate. He can strike with both magic and brute force, and have the added advantage of not being particularly vulnerable to enemy magic. What an unfair hand, to be born with that kind of power.

He skims through these deeds from years ago, as he finds them irrelevant to the current issue revolving around the ‘Demon Rabbit of Eorzea’—regardless, some details stand out to him. He had not known much of the Warrior’s party’s presence in Azys Lla, nor his hand in Lord Hydrus’s death.

Vespasian recalls said event well. Upon the body’s return to the capital, Varis did not leave his residence for weeks upon end, and most nonessential establishments were closed in solidarity with his mourning.

Young and naive as he was, and unfamiliar with the man in question—never a friend of Nerva’s—he mostly bemoaned a cancelled party he wanted to go to. His father, meanwhile, thought to strike while his cousin’s guard was down, but clearly failed to deliver a lasting blow.

He still remembers the whispers and rumors that went around about Varis ‘slacking off’ by secluding himself—ones which his own mouth may have spread. He may not think highly of his uncle, nor did he back then, but he did get the gnawing sense the gossip was unfair. If the Warrior’s involvement in Regula’s demise is factual, then Varis’s reaction was understandable. He’s sure Nerva only stayed productive through Flavia’s death through the knowledge that he had to, or else let the throne slip through his fingers.

He sighs, feeling more uneasy as he moves on. The information and accounts only seem to be getting more gruesome.

The reports continue to describe in excruciating detail the sheer amount of death the Warrior has left behind, and the extent of the destruction accompanying it. The body count grows higher and higher, and the accounts more chilling, until—

He stops at a familiar name on the page. 

Zenos yae Galvus. Finally, relevance.

He devotes more attention in examining the material before him. This is much more interesting than the other details in this pile of papers.

There is a report on Zenos’s siege of Rhalgr’s Reach and decisive victory over the Warrior, of course. It had been significant enough news that Vespasian had heard of it; not through noble gossip, but straight from his father’s military intel. No, that is not the interesting part.

The writer appears to have some first hand knowledge of the Warrior and his party from their time in the East, and their interest is focused almost solely on his interaction with—as he could have guessed—Zenos.

Which, of course, means the contents of the report are likely going to be more salacious and less factual.

The text describes in detail Zenos’s intrigue with the Warrior, how he fought him in the first place, and how his ‘sick obsession with his skill and power’ led him to the actions he performed afterward. According to the report, Zenos’s behavior was a deviation from his usual stoic self, and he began to engage physically with the Viera—a change from the ‘normal’ battle Zenos engaged in.

Of course, the report’s writer seems all too fascinated by the concept of ‘their strange and unhealthy attachment to one another.’ An attachment which would be hard to swallow, had Vespasian not already confirmed it from the prince’s mouth itself, but the apparent obviousness of which makes him groan in frustration. Sure, the reports describe arguments over the subject in the XIIth, that a sizable number of Zenos’s underlings still stubbornly held onto the belief that the Warrior’s acts were simply senseless terrorism, like they had always been… but how could they not see it?

It is all horribly irritating to him, in truth. His cousin’s obsession, the clear attachment the Warrior has to him in return… Why him, of all people?

He has some understanding of Zenos’s attraction. The sheer power the Warrior wields and his skills in battle are impressive—and it is easy to see why Zenos would be drawn to someone who proved a match for him. Not to mention, the attached images no longer portray a frail bunny, but a physique more matching the alleged feats. That, and a taunting grin that seems proud of them.

But it still does not make sense for a monster with a clear wish for Garlemald’s ruin, this feral beast, with animal rage in his eyes… to reciprocate those feelings. And it’s all the more baffling to him. He was not merely manipulating Zenos when he said it’s unlikely.

Perhaps this Laku is a good enough actor to pull it off, and Zenos is too blinded by his own feelings to realize he’s being played? No, Vespasian doesn’t think such a savage’s intelligence could be high enough.

There must be some other explanation for the actions not only speculated upon, but documented within these pages. A gruesome image of mangled bodies jumps out from the paper, chopped apart and arranged to spell out in the Eorzean alphabet: ‘CHASE ME’ .

Glorious Solus, is this truly what his cousin has fallen for?!

The Warrior’s brutality, and his obsession with Zenos, are so clearly a danger to all, and yet the Prince is too blinded by—by what?! What in the Emperor’s name has possessed him?

More importantly, what in the name of anything is Vespasian supposed to do about this?!

He closes the folder in disgust, sick to his stomach from reading about more barbarities, the way the Eastern armies have dwindled by this monster’s mere presence in the region. His head spins. How exactly is he supposed to try and fix things now? How can he pull his cousin from the jaws of such a dangerous creature? How can he avoid the Emperor’s wrath? How can he save his father?

Burying his head in his hands, he slumps over in his chair. He can’t do this. He’s completely useless . A useless child, just some pampered, soft little noble, sitting at his desk and doing nothing at all to help anyone. Just sitting here and allowing things to progress toward chaos and ruin. What power does someone like him hold? 

What is he supposed to do ?!

He picks his head back up, turning his eyes to the windows. Perhaps he could just—run, and leave all of this behind. Disappear somewhere new, somewhere far from politics, from court, from—

Coward. The inner voice that interrupts his spiraling sounds a lot like his father’s, but it is not. It is his own. How dare you even think that.

He’s a Galvus by blood, royal by birthright. He’s been sheltered and coddled, yes, but he’s also come to understand the burdens that come with such status. 

He has a responsibility to his people. He cannot just run off. The thought is just ridiculous on every level: a Galvus in the line of succession, hiding in some foreign land like a fugitive? And, it wouldn’t fix any of the issues back home anyway. It would just make things more difficult and confusing than they already are.

He grips the sides of his desk, trying to steady his thoughts. He needs to calm down, think rationally. He can’t solve problems in this state of mind. He’s not weak, he’s Nerva’s son, he’s capable of fixing this.

But how ?

 

A knock at the door.

“Lord Vespasian?”

He startles, before scrambling to regain his composure. “Yes?” he calls out, trying to keep the tremble out of his voice.

“Your lord father has returned,” the servant’s voice carries through.

Right. He forgot he asked them to let him know the moment Nerva came back home. In a split second, he attempts to analyze their tone: is Father wounded? In a casket?

By Solus, he thinks, his heart leaping into his throat as he tries to read between the lines of such a simple, emotionless announcement. 

“Where is he?” he manages to choke out.

Is he okay? Does he need help? Those are the first thoughts that spring into his panicked mind. His father has always been strong, and always been capable, and always come out on top—

He has to fight down the urge to run to him in blind worry. He knows, on some deeper level, that Nerva wouldn’t want anyone but the medical staff to see him in the case of—in the case of severe injury.

“He is in his study,” the voice replies, still flat and emotionless.

Vespasian rises from his chair. It clatters as the legs catch against the carpet, and he takes no moment to push it back into place.

Remain calm. Keep your composure. Everything is going to be fine. He repeats a mantra in his head. Father will be just fine. He’s always fine. Everything is always fine.

He speeds out of his room and into the hallway, his legs shaking and his heart still pounding.

Everything will be fine. Father will have been a little roughed up, yes, maybe, but it will be fine.

He makes it to the study and he doesn’t bother to knock, opening the door and stepping in.

Nerva is unwounded, as far as he can tell. He stands by his desk, the top of which Vespasian has never seen in such disarray; strewn across lies a map of the Empire, copious notes in his father’s handwriting, and his ciphered list of co-conspirators.

He lets out a breath of relief, a weight he didn’t realize he was carrying lifted from his shoulders. Nerva looks fine, he doesn’t look dead—

He clears his throat, trying to sound normal. “Father, you are—you’re well?”

“Better than well,” Nerva responds, his eyes not leaving the papers or his hand his pen. “And so are you, boy. Varis has more important matters to attend to than to lash out at you, and we have the perfect opportunity.”

Vespasian almost sinks from a wave of relief, but he restrains himself. He should have known Father would have a plan, of course he has a plan—

“Opportunity?” he asks, moving closer to the desk.

“Close the door, Vespasian,” Nerva orders with a manic energy the likes of which his son hasn’t heard from him since the last time he tried for the throne.

That’s a tone he knows not to argue with.

Vespasian instantly obeys, walking over and shutting the door to the study. He turns around, crossing his arms and staring at his father.

“Doma has fallen to the rebels,” Nerva explains, more hushed, and crosses the country off the map. “The local girl Zenos placed as viceroy was slain in her castle.”

Vespasian’s breath catches. “By the Warrior?” he asks aloud. The thought should make him uncomfortable, as it does. His cousin is obsessed with the savage that is tearing down his father’s empire. And now, with Doma gone, with his failure there made even more apparent…

“Do you think…?” He isn’t even sure what to ask. What the hell is going on?

Nerva hums, rubbing his jaw as he ponders his son’s question. “I don’t know for certain, but it is likely,” he muses, tapping his pen against the desk. “Zenos sent out an order to pull what troops he can back from the area. The savages have proven more clever than expected.”

“He must be preparing to defend his hold of Ala Mhigo, then?” Vespasian guesses.

“As any general worth their salt would,” Nerva grumbles, looking back down at his notes. “But, as it happens, that is good for us.”

The gears in Vespasian’s brain turn, in sync with his father’s. “You are thinking of spinning it as Varis’s failure, yes?” he guesses. “A failure to control his son, leading to catastrophic loss of territory. Such an accusation will be hard to argue against.”

“Indeed,” Nerva confirms. “The failure in Doma was Zenos’s, that much is true enough. But, for allowing him to remain where he is, Varis should also be held responsible. For allowing such a thing to occur, and, more importantly, for failing to hold the heir and his own son accountable for such a loss in the Empire’s resources, and lives.”

“Father,” Vespasian says tentatively. “You are intending to put this forth in the council, aren’t you?”

“Of course,” Nerva confirms, his eyes falling on his list of allies, “but time is of essence. We can ill afford to wait until next week; it is better to get ahead of the knowledge of Doma’s loss reaching the general populace. I shall be calling an emergency meeting for the morrow.”

Vespasian takes a shuddering breath, trying to comprehend what his father is proposing. Tomorrow? That is only a few hours from now! If Nerva wants to be able to get the council to back him on this, and even potentially be willing to remove Varis in exchange for his own claim to the throne—

“How am I supposed to help?” he questions, before realizing how rude that sounds. “Uh—I mean, you want my help, do you not?”

“You need not concern yourself with it,” Nerva says. “As I said, Varis’s attention will be—”

“No,” Vespasian interrupts, and his father’s head jerks sharply to look at him. “I want to help, Father. You promised me the council’s audience, and I plan to capitalize on it.”

He flinches at his own boldness— but Father’s expression eases into something more like a smirk, and he nods.

“Very well, then,” he says softly. “You should think of what you are going to say then, boy. You have some hours, but not many, before your moment to shine arrives.”

Vespasian’s spine straightens on its own volition as new confidence surges through it. “Yes, Father. I’ve already made progress with my cousin, after all.”

Chapter 17

Notes:

Special thanks to my friend Frankie for letting me borrow a weird funeral director xoxo

Vespasian would be ashamed to admit how late he stayed up rehearsing what he would say in front of the council. An actor on stage in front of a new, discerning audience, he’s well aware his lines must be delivered to perfection, given their complicated nature.

It’s a delicate dance he must perform; to appease his cousin enough for him not to do anything too rash, but to keep his indiscretions up just enough to stay in harmony with Nerva’s plans. Enough to feed the gossip mill, but not so much he would bring upon the Empire its ruin by seeking a man so dangerous. And to portray all these plans to people much wiser, much more experienced in this playing field than him, in a way they will approve.

He is running on a lot of coffee.

In the early hours of the morning, when the sun first peeks its lazy head over the horizon, he changes into his nicest, most ornate clothes, makes sure his hair isn’t a completely disheveled mess, and steels himself for the meeting.

His anxiety rears up again, but he tries to shove it down. He wants to present himself as a competent, reasonable, useful person. Not as some sniveling, cowardly little boy. Most of these people might have known him when he was five, but he will not let them continue viewing him like they did back then.

He straightens his back, lifts his chin, and forces himself out of his chambers, heading in the direction of the Council Room.

Be polite, but assertive. Assertive, but respectful. He repeats the words in his head as he walks, mentally preparing himself for the confrontation. It is possible, very possible, that things could go terribly, terribly wrong. At one point, he had his doubts about this whole plan. If he’s being completely truthful with himself, he still does have some doubts.

But it is too late to back out now. It is too late, because he has reached the room.

He takes a deep breath, steeling himself once again, before pushing the doors open and walking inside.

He keeps up the confident facade, not betraying any of the nervousness as he scans the surroundings. About a dozen people are already seated around the oblong table. There are his parents, of course, and grandparents; Nerva sits at one end of the table, with taciturn Polistea by his side, like she doesn’t particularly want to be here. On his father’s other side sits Titus, and by him Arrecina, who smiles warmly at him as he walks in. The seat next to his mother is reserved for him, intimidating in its importance; he does not yet approach it, instead taking in every other face in the room and giving polite nods to everyone who meets his gaze.

Lady Vergilia, of course, sits with her tribunus, and finding her at the table does steel his resolve; if anyone here believes in him, it is her. Servilius het Brutus, on the other hand—the spokesman of the Populares—makes him avert his gaze, as do several of his closest confidants from the party. He knows Varis’s recent actions, and Zenos’s for that matter, have recurred the displeasure of their supporters and aligned them firmer with Nerva. Still, he’s terrified of messing it all up and losing the favor of the second most major political faction in the Empire.

A sudden hand touching his sleeve almost makes him yelp out loud. “Varis threatened you, did he?” the lady asks. “Just in case, would you like to share the color of your funeral flowers in advance?”

It would sound like a threat, if it came from anyone else but the funeral director who worked on his great grandfather and aunt’s funerals. Both beautiful ceremonies, which showed great love for the craft—love which speaks now as she asks such a morbid question. Even knowing the good intentions, however, does not lessen the fact that it was not something he needed to hear with every ilm of his bravery already frayed.

“Yellow,” he manages to utter. “The brightest you can find. But you need not fret, Lady Libitinus—I plan to survive his wrath.”

He sees her raised eyebrow, the way the corner of her lips quirks just so; Ah, this boy. Just like his father. But he is not his father, not quite.

He’s never felt more exposed in his life. But she simply pets him on the arm, giving a slight smile. “Of course you do, dearest. May Solus favor you.”

He manages a smile in return, before turning away from her and walking to his seat. May Solus favor me, indeed.

The words stay in his mind as he sits down, glancing around at the council members and their attendants once again. It’s difficult to miss the way some of them are staring at him. The eyes of curious councilmen and -women, eager to see if this young upstart will succeed—or if they need to make funeral arrangements for him, too.

An awkward silence falls before one of the seated men, Verulus goe Longinus, finally clears his throat from across the table. “It is a pleasure to have your presence here today, my lord,” he says with a slight dip of his head, eyes flicking toward Nerva. “But I do wonder about the reason for this… sudden meeting.”

Nerva stands from his chair, and Vespasian takes it as his cue to remain seated. “I called this meeting to bring to light a problem that we have been facing, and ignoring for too long,” he begins, as several members of the council turn their heads to give him their attention. “And that problem is Prince Zenos.”

Nods from the council in each direction Vespasian’s eyes dart. This is good.

“We have all witnessed the actions of the young prince,” Nerva continues, pacing behind his son, “the reckless abandon with which he has endangered the lives of our citizens and our troops, and his complete lack of accountability for it. We have all seen, first hand, the damage he has caused as of late. The loss of Doma is merely a symptom of a larger problem, and one which must be addressed immediately.”

“Surely the prince’s actions are something his father should rectify,” says Mettius het Albinus, frowning, and the murmur of agreement from others in the room has tension settling in Vespasian’s shoulders. “While his behavior is deplorable, the issue could easily be solved with a stern talking-to from Varis himself.”

“One which he has refused to give, as it stands,” Nerva points out, “and therein lies the issue. He has answered with inaction all this time, and only recently did he elect to send my son to relay his message, rather than confront his heir himself.”

All pairs of eyes turn Vespasian’s way, needles sinking into his skin and halting his breath—before he forcefully regains his composure. He manages to hold his head up high, shoulders lifted and spine straight. He knows his father’s attention is on him now, too. If his first words as part of the council are weak, he will undermine any chance of his father and his plans being accepted.

He wets his lips briefly before beginning to speak, and is unsurprised to find his throat dry.

“It is true, what my father said,” he says regardless in what he hopes is a strong voice. “I have recently returned from a visit to Zenos’s palace. In his current mood, he is utterly unreachable for his father. He… cares not for Varis’s commands and sees no issues with his behavior.”

“What did he say to you, Lord Vespasian?” Lord Brutus asks from across the table. “Surely the young prince didn’t harm you, did he?”

“I did escape unscathed,” Vespasian confirms, “but it was an uncertain outcome. In fact, when Varis approached me about the matter, he all but said he was sending me to my demise, in a brazen act of kinslaying.”

There’s a murmur of shock from the table, and Vespasian spots a smile or approval on his father’s face that confirms he’s doing exactly what he’s supposed to.

“To be so bold…” Lord Longinus shakes his head with a grim frown. “What has the Empire come to? The Emperor threatening his own flesh and blood. A direct descendant of Solus, treating another like his enemy.”

Titus takes a sip of his drink.

“That is a very accurate assessment,” Nerva interrupts, resuming his pacing. “And I would argue it is symptomatic of how Varis runs this Empire. As our Emperor, he should be able to control his subordinates, should he not? He should be able to keep the interests of the state first, and not be swayed by the tantrums of his spoiled princeling.”

Another tense silence settles over the room, and though Vespasian cannot see his father’s face with his back turned to him, he can hear the smug smirk in his voice. “So the question for us to consider is this: Would we be safer under the iron fist of Varis, or the loving embrace of one who has the interests of the people, of the true sons and daughters of Garlemald, close to heart?”

It’s a loaded question, and Vespasian knows it well—and one appealing directly to Populares interests. There is no way anyone at this table can answer that they support Varis with a straight face, not after his recent failures and what they have all witnessed Zenos do. The question is, who will they turn to? And will the support of one party be enough, with the Optimates still holding majority seats in the Senate?

He feels like a tightrope walker, about to plunge a malm deep as he waits for someone to respond.

Vergilia, finally, is the one to break the silence. “Your words ring true, and the choice is an easy one,” she says slowly. “You speak well of the people and their happiness; you always have. You speak of love, and a desire to protect this empire.”

All eyes turn to her, and the smile he sees on her face is one of pride. He remembers the way she used to sing to him when he was young. “You are right to question the current rule, and wrong to doubt yourself and the people’s support of you. We should have never entertained the idea of allowing someone else to take the Imperial throne, because only one man—taking after his father before him—is worthy enough to sit on it. Needless to say, you have the IIIrd’s full support.”

It’s words that could get her removed as legatus, were they to reach the wrong ears, and her face says she’s entirely aware. Nerva meets that smile for a split second, his own softening to match, before Polistea coughs unsubtly and he returns his attention to the matter at hand.

“Of course, such changes require… proper action, to be put into place.” He glances around the table. “Action that has to be coordinated and well thought out before a complete transfer of power can occur. I would be a fool to think I can do it all on my own, after all.”

A few of the council members nod, and Vespasian can see their minds working, the way they’re all thinking the same thing. They all think of the power they could hold, how this upcoming revolution could benefit them.

“And we as a handful of noblemen would be fools to attempt it all by ourselves, without the support of the people.” The comment came from the side of the table which houses the Populares, of course, and they raise an important point. Vespasian may have spent his young years whispering in the ears of nobles about his father’s graces, but he has neglected the much more sizable population that carries the Empire on the backs of their hard work.

“My colleague is right,” Servilius says, standing up from his chair. “Without the support of the people, any actions we attempt to take will fail.”

Nerva nods, and glances briefly at his son. It is his cue to add something to the discussion, to say something that will sway the council more firmly to his side. His mind goes blank, trying to recall what he’s rehearsed for this meeting. To think and speak under this pressure and with all these people’s eyes on him is… exhausting.

“I have witnessed firsthand,” he begins, grateful for the stability of his voice, “how the higher echelons’ support for my father has begun to rise—at events with Varis himself present, no less. When it comes to people whose Varis’s failures more directly influence…” He meets the stares of the councilmen head-on, to put more weight on his words, “It’s just a matter of piercing through my uncle’s propaganda, is it not? Of opening their eyes to a better option?”

Mettius nods along thoughtfully. “A great many people are unhappy with Varis’s rule,” he points out. “Many of the working class feel… forgotten. Like they have no voice in the Empire they are expected to uphold.”

The Populares members nod their heads in unison. 

“They all have a great deal of respect for the Galvus family,” Vergilia adds. “I believe, if given the opportunity, they would prefer to transfer their support to a member capable of handling their needs better.”

“Then we are all in agreement,” Nerva says, and it’s obvious in his tone that there’s no debate left. “We will begin to focus our efforts on making the people see the flaws in Varis’s leadership, and show them that a better future, under a better ruler, is in their grasp. The only issue, of course, is doing this right under Varis’s nose, without being hanged for treason.”

The room erupts in a soft flurry of whispered murmurs, like a flock of birds. The words are soft, but the meanings are heavy. There is tension in the air, but excitement, too, at the prospect of what’s to come.

Vespasian’s thoughts drift back to Zenos, to the way his sword soared through the air and pierced the Emperor’s spy straight through the heart, to their shared words of disloyalty towards the man in charge. What would he think, if he knew of this meeting? Would he think of it as treachery, or would he be in support of it, too?

Zenos is hard to predict. A creature dangerous and deadly. But if he was to be swayed to Nerva’s side… he could be an asset, a powerful one. His skill with a sword, his reputation for being unbeatable and feared on the battlefield, could be exploited if the need arose.

If only he could be torn away from the Warrior of Light’s claws…

Vespasian raises his hand, to the level of his face, marred by a pensive frown but otherwise even. “To return to the topic we began this meeting discussing,” he says, “I believe I know how to handle the rising problem of my cousin.”

The low murmur dies down in an instant, the council members turning their attention to him. “Do go on,” Nerva says, voice even.

Vespasian swallows any vestiges of nervousness. “I happen to have on good authority there is no love lost between father and son,” he says, and the twinge of disdain he saw in Zenos’s eyes fills his mental gallery again. “He could be turned against Varis, if wielded correctly.”

“If wielded correctly,” Titus muses. “That would require an immense amount of control. Zenos is a wild beast, not a tame one. He will not submit to anyone’s will.”

“No, but perhaps he could be persuaded, since our interests align in this matter,” Vespasian points out.

“And who in Solus’s name do you propose would be the one to do the persuading?” Mettius asks, frowning, and the stares of the council members burn through Vespasian’s skin.

“Myself.”

A stunned silence, before he continues, headstrong, “I require only a stay in Ala Mhigo—”

“Absolutely not,” Nerva rebukes him, with finity only a father can give.

Vespasian presses his lips together tightly, to fight the defiance that wants to bubble up and spill out of his mouth. Of course Father would forbid him from doing this, from doing anything with the potential to put him in danger. Of course he would be shut down immediately, in front of the entire council.

“You will do no such thing,” Nerva reiterates, “under any circumstances. I will not have my son putting himself in harm’s way.”

Anger boils somewhere deep in Vespasian’s stomach—anger not at his father, at least not completely, but at the entire situation, how he is once more being treated like he’s still just a boy. He can’t keep quiet now. “I am still perfectly capable of keeping myself safe,” he says in a measured voice. “You will be happy to know that, despite the numerous chances I must have given my cousin, he has not yet killed me.”

“Yet,” Nerva counters with a grim face. The rest of the table is watching all this unfold, some subtly, some openly staring. It’s mortifying. “That’s a risk you’re not taking again. I won’t allow it. No matter what might be accomplished.”

“Then what can I do?” The lords and ladies of the council, no doubt, must be judging him for using this space for a spat between father and son, but he must ask. “I refuse to be sidelined in something so important. I didn’t graduate with the marks I did to sit idly when history is in the making.”

He’s said just the wrong thing. He can see his father’s eye twitch, and the flash of anger in them. 

“This has little to do with your schooling. We are not discussing the history in the making, but the present and the future of the Empire. And until you are of the right age, you don’t get the right to make those decisions.”

Nerva pauses, jaw tense as he takes a breath. “You will not be risking yourself in some hare-brained scheme to convince Zenos to aid us.”

“What is the right age, Father?” Vespasian demands sharply. “By twenty-one, Zenos had quelled rebellions. And what have I done? What have I got to do?”

“You are not Zenos, and we should all be glad for it,” Nerva snaps, and Vespasian flinches at the edge of his tone. “You, my son, are worth a damn in the way our Empire is shaped. You are more than a sword. You will contribute in other ways, ways that won’t get you killed.”

Vespasian grits his teeth in indignation, forcing hot tears of embarrassment to stay in their ducts, and bites back a scathing retort. If he fumbles in front of the council, Father will never allow him to be in attendance again. So, he quells his temper.

“Then at least let me have a direct contact in Ala Mhigo,” he negotiates instead. “I’ll stay here, out of danger, but maintain an audience with Zenos.”

Nerva considers it for a few moments, the grim frown unmoving from his face. He stares his son down, until finally he gives a small nod.

“One contact,” he acquiesces, as if it pains him to say it. “If one single thing goes wrong, you will cease all communications. Understood?”

“One,” Vespasian agrees with a sharp inhale and a nod. That his father has agreed to this much shall be enough for now, though he still feels like a scolded child in front of these esteemed men and women, who no doubt see him as no better than a screaming toddler right now. He notices he has risen in his seat, and gingerly sits back down, pursing his lips before he lets more frogs out. “Thank you, Father.”

He hasn’t the faintest clue who to send in his stead. As fun as they are to spend time with, none of the young nobles he associates with would last an hour in Zenos’s company. He falls silent to consider his options, until the solution is handed to him from across the table.

“If I may offer,” Lord Brutus pipes up, “my son would be up to the task. He was of the XIIth before his battlefield injury; his return to their ranks shall not raise any eyebrows, with recent requests for reinforcements.”

Vespasian looks over his way. He knows the man’s son in passing—the Doman adoptee, wasn’t it?—though not enough to assess his qualities. Then again, he’s not exactly in a position to be picky, and he can’t risk asking too many questions lest his father gets suspicious again.

“I trust your evaluation,” he says, and looks at Nerva. “Does this arrangement satisfy you, Father?”

It appears to, or at least Nerva chooses not to press the issue, for he gives another nod. “It does,” he affirms, then addresses the others in the room once more. “Does the council have anything else to bring up before we end this session?”

No arms rise before Nerva bids them all farewell and dismisses the meeting. Servilius approaches Vespasian as he rises from his seat, offering a kind smile. “Not the smoothest end, yet still a success,” he muses.

“Quite so, Lord Brutus,” Vespasian says with a polite nod.

Servilius’s smile widens, and he places a supportive hand on Vespasian’s shoulder. “Don’t mind Nerva’s caution,” he says gently. “It is a father’s nature to worry.”

Vespasian quirks an eyebrow. “Shall you be alright as one, sending your son to an active warzone?”

Servilius lets out a laugh. “Asahi is a grown man who can handle himself,” he reassures him. “And I know he will serve the Empire well on this mission. Do not worry about it.”

Vespasian relaxes a fraction at that. “I suppose you’re right,” he says. “For the sake of both our prides, though, I hope I am right to trust his competence.”

He does wish his own father had this confidence in him, and to have this confidence in his agent, when the time comes. He smirks softly, to disguise the hint of worry in his voice and to put up a brave face. “So, when may I come over for tea and to properly acquaint myself?”

Chapter 18

Notes:

I felt insane writing this. Like a mad scientist mixing volatile chemicals that should not be mixed.

In preparation for the meeting, Vespasian does his due research on this Asahi rem Brutus.

All military reports he can find paint a picture of an accomplished young man some five years his senior, a quick riser in the ranks and an erudite graduate of the academy, besides. Promising for the task Vespasian would have him perform. The man suffered no heartache fighting against his Doman people during their rebellion, it seems; he fought valiantly until a strike from the rebels removed him from the field and brought him back home to work under his father.

Then there is the familial connection to the recently deceased Doman Viceroy, Yotsuyu goe Brutus; a fact he surely should have registered by virtue of name alone, but which shamefully slipped his notice. The passing of the woman is still fresh in his mind. From what he’d heard, Yotsuyu had been harsh and unforgiving, but still much admired by the Garleans who could look past her background for the way she made the region finally kneel to the Empire. Definitely a controversial choice on Zenos’s part, but one that seemed to work; up until recently, when her castle came down like a house of cards.

It could be a good touching stone for a personal rapport. Vespasian, too, knows the pain of loss of family. Perhaps using that as a link to strike up a conversation may be a good idea—after all, they have to speak about something other than the task at hand, right? He’s not sure how much Lord Brutus has explained to his son about what’s expected of him in Ala Mhigo, and he’s hesitant to just dive head-first into it. Better to play it safe for now, and see how Asahi approaches the matter.

When the time comes—and having asked his father’s explicit permission to head out, just in case—he makes his way to the Brutus residence with his head held high. He is welcomed at the gates, the guards recognizing him, and led inside by one of the servants, deep into the heart of the estate. Servilius stands ready to greet him.

“Ah, young Vespasian, welcome to our humble home. Come, come! You’re early,” he says with a smile. “My son is still out on an errand, but he should be back to join us for tea shortly. Come, we can wait in the lounge.”

Vespasian manages to return the smile, although the thought of having to keep up small talk until Asahi’s arrival has him nervous already. It’s not that he won’t be able to, of course—it is a familiar territory, one he excels in much more than the treacherous labyrinths of politics—but he’d rather do something productive. Nerva doesn’t rest, and neither should he waste his time on idle chit-chat.

He follows the old lord into the lounge and settles into a comfortable armchair. “Thank you for having me”, he says, punctuated by a dip of his head.

As the servants bring over a steaming tea set, Vespasian takes in his surroundings of dark, rich woods and white leather furniture. A warm fireplace crackles nearby, a welcome respite from the cold outside, and a large family portrait looms above it. Asahi sorely stands out next to his pureblood adoptive parent, with his much shorter stature and his foreign features—but he’s not a bad looking boy. He has an intelligence about his eyes that Vespasian could use.

Servilius follows the trajectory of his eyes to the painting, noticing the way they appraise it. “Handsome lad, my son,” he says with a tinge of fatherly pride, and moves to sit in the armchair next to Vespasian’s. “One of the finest graduates of the military academy, too, if I may boast a little.”

“You may,” Vespasian hums thoughtfully, trying to remain as polite as possible, even though none of this is news to him after the reports he pored over. “A very well accomplished young man, I’ve no doubt.”

The servants pour them both a cup, and Servilius takes a slow, thoughtful sip. “And also a bit of a romantic, if you can believe it,” he adds with a soft chuckle.

Vespasian hides a snort in his tea. A romantic? Somehow the idea the man is a lady-killer is harder to swallow than the impressive credentials listed in the military files.

Servilius smiles knowingly. “Not what you would have expected, I take it?” he says, and Vespasian flushes in embarrassment. “No, you would not suppose it just by looking at him. It’s a hidden talent, so to speak. Although he has had the misfortune lately that the object of his affection is not available at all… ah, but don’t let me bore you with details.”

Curiosity flashes in Vespasian’s eyes at the last tidbit. This could be a convenient in, especially if Asahi’s object of affection is a member of Zenos’s entourage.

“I am not bored, not at all,” he reassures. “Did they reject him, or is there a complication of distance?”

“Oh, it’s neither, I’m afraid,” Servilius chuckles and shakes his head. “More like something standing in between them. A… personal issue, we could say, which prevents any possibility of a liaison.”

The older lord takes another sip, a long one. “How old are you again, my boy?”

Vespasian doesn’t miss the pause to consider the words, and that along with the unexpected question rouses his curiosity further.

“I’m twenty-one, sir,” he replies, lifting his own cup to his lips again. “Why ask?”

Servilius nods, and sets his cup aside on the table next to his armchair. “Good, good,” he says, avoiding the question, and his inquiring eyes find Vespasian’s gaze. “You have some experience with love, boy? A special someone you fancy?”

Vespasian splutters, nearly spitting out his mouthful of tea mid-sip, and he’s grateful he had the mind to swallow first. “ Love… ” he repeats, and feels the burn on his face spreading to his ears. “Not exactly.”

The old man’s smile turns into a grin. “Not for lack of offers, I assume,” he jests, and Vespasian almost outwardly cringes at the way he puts it. “Have you got your eye on someone at all?”

Thankfully, the line of questioning ends due to Asahi finally stepping in through the door.

The young lord is dressed in an off-duty version of his military uniform, white and crisp, and appears to be deep in thought as he enters, before he looks up and sees Vespasian already present. He freezes momentarily, but is quick to recollect himself, putting a charming smile on his face as he bows to both men. “Lord Brutus, Lord Galvus,” he gives a greeting and a nod towards each of them.

“Ah, Asahi! Good to see you back,” Servilius says, standing up. “My son, just the man I needed to see. Come, sit, and let me pour you a cup of tea. You look weary from your trip.” He motions for Asahi to take the third armchair, right across from Vespasian, as the younger lord obediently pads across the lounge.

Servilius busies himself with filling another cup, and Asahi carefully perches himself on the edge of the seat, like a cat prepared to pounce on an unsuspecting mouse. His dark eyes flick from his father to Vespasian, before settling on the latter’s face. His expression remains neutral, even as the silence between the three of them stretches.

After handing the cup of tea to Asahi, the elder Brutus sits back down in his armchair. He sips from his own cup and watches the two young men with a knowing smile.

Vespasian feels as if something is expected of him, and takes the initiative himself. He takes a moment to gather his thoughts and clear his throat. “I’ve been told you are quite the talented officer,” he says, as he sets his tea down.

Asahi’s eyes narrow fractionally at the statement, looking him over with a bit more caution this time, before the smile returns on his lips. “It is quite kind of you to say so,” he replies, his voice smooth as silk. He brings a dainty hand to the cup, but doesn’t partake on the tea just yet. “I’m guessing you’ve seen more than one mission report on me, if you hold me in such high regard.”

“I did my reading on what manner of man I might be working with,” Vespasian admits with a smile of his own, watching Asahi drop a sugar cube and another into his tea. “Nothing bad or too personal, I assure you. Merely military files from my father’s folders.”

Asahi hums with appreciation as the sugar begins to dissolve in the hot drink, and he swirls the spoon around. “Oh, no worries at all,” he reassures him. “I do not mind. It’s the duty, you know. The same as what the great and mighty Zenos yae Galvus expects of me.”

Something in Asahi’s tone causes Vespasian to freeze for a short moment, but he recovers quickly and conceals his reaction behind another sip of tea. “I take it my cousin is a demanding legatus, hm?” he asks afterwards, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible.

Asahi sets the cup back on the table, and the corners of his lips quirk up into a wry smile. “Oh, yes, very demanding,” he says, and laughs. It’s a soft, melodious sound—but it holds something sharp. Something bitter. “Quite a taskmaster. Very high expectations. He keeps us all on our toes.”

“I hear you’ve been off the field for some years now?” Vespasian inquires.

Asahi’s eyes flick up to him, and the smile vanishes in a swift moment, replaced by a piercing glare. But after a second he relaxes, just a smidge, and the charm returns to his face.

“Yes, a minor brush with death.” He gives a light shrug. “Had to spend some time back home recovering from it. But I’m perfectly fine now.”

Vespasian hides a wince at how casually Asahi talks about almost dying. “I am glad to hear that,” he says, and manages to keep his voice neutral. “Although I imagine you miss the action.”

Asahi lets out a dismissive huff. “You definitely read those reports.” He shakes his head and chuckles softly. “I do, yes. But I understand the need for me here,” he adds, his voice taking on a different, almost clipped edge, as if he’s trying hard to suppress something.

Vespasian gives a polite laugh. “I understand. I’ve half the mind to go with you, despite my father’s orders.”

Asahi’s eyebrows raise at that. “Oh, do you now?” He leans back in his armchair, folding his fingers on his lap.

Vespasian shrugs. “I’ve had enough of being stuck at the estate,” he says, sipping on his tea again, trying to maintain his nonplussed facade. “Watching from the sidelines when I could be making things happen for myself. Being in Ala Mhigo would provide an… opportunity to actually contribute.”

Asahi hums thoughtfully, tilting his head and regarding Vespasian with a more inquisitive gaze now than before. “You’re quite a rebel, aren’t you?” The teasing lilt of his tongue sharpens ever so slightly. “Your father is dead set against it, and you still wish to go against his will.”

“I am not saying I will,” Vespasian corrects. Father would have his head, if the rebels didn’t first. “But the heart yearns, doesn’t it?”

Asahi’s lips twitch into a smirk, and he inclines his head in acknowledgement. “Oh, I know that feeling all too well,” he says, and there’s a dark, almost resentful undercurrent to his words that he doesn’t try to hide. He picks up his teacup again, swirling the liquid around, his eyes fixed on Vespasian.

There is a spark that runs between their gazes, one that almost speaks the language of understanding. Whatever the phonetics, Servilius quietly vacates his chair—trying to be sneaky about it but not escaping Vespasian’s notice—to give the two space to conversate by themselves.

Vespasian doesn’t take his eyes off of Asahi after Servilius leaves, and he suspects he’s caught a glimpse of the real person behind the curated exterior. Something in the way he spoke, in the way he looked at him just now, has piqued his curiosity even more. And then there is that subtle hint of resentment, something more, something beyond the military. There is some personal issue at play here.

And just like that, the moment passes, and Asahi’s expression smooths over again, hiding the underlying acerbity that he’d allowed to seep through. He takes a measured sip from his cup, and when he sets it back on the table, the mask is securely back in place.

“Quite a bold desire, wanting to march into Ala Mhigo,” he says, with a tilt of his head. “But why is it, exactly, that you wish to play hero?”

“For my country, of course,” Vespasian says like it’s a given. For his father’s country. “Is that not the same for you?”

Asahi laughs, a short, sharp sound devoid of any mirth. “Oh, it is, yes,” he says, and shakes his head. “That’s the expected response, but I’ll tell you a secret.” He leans forward in his chair, like he’s about to spill some confidential information. His eyes lock with Vespasian’s.

Here it comes. There is a glint of something in Asahi’s eyes, a hint of the bitterness again, but the smile on his face stays put as he continues.

“Do you want to know why my heart really cries out for Ala Mhigo?”

Vespasian knows better than to dismiss a chance at intel, so he nods and leans closer in attention. “A hidden motive, as it were?” he asks, and Asahi lets out another one of those laugh-like sounds, nodding.

“Something like that,” he says, and drums his fingers on his thighs. “Something… oh, how to put this.” He looks off into the fire for a moment, then his gaze flicks back to meet Vespasian’s again.

Vespasian feigns an innocent look, like Lord Brutus did not already give him a hint to the nature of what he is about to hear.

Then Asahi leans forward even more, vacating his chair, bringing his face closer, so close that he’s invading Vespasian’s personal space. “Have you… ever had a passion for someone, so deep it burns at the very core of your soul?” he asks, his voice lowered to a soft murmur.

Vespasian is acutely aware of the closeness, but he swallows the urge to lean back, instead remaining stiffly in place and attempting to keep up the appearance of calm. “I can’t say I have,” he replies, his own voice also lowered. “Not in the way you refer to, at least.”

Asahi lets out another soft laugh, and shakes his head. His breath is warm, and it tickles against Vespasian’s face—but the other boy doesn’t seem to realize the effect he’s having, because he doesn’t put space between them.

“Well, believe me when I tell you, it’s all-consuming.” The way he’s speaking is both hypnotizing and a little disturbing. “So very powerful . Enough to drive you mad.”

A chill at the back of Vespasian’s neck, as he notes the familiarities of the sentiments. A feeling all too similar to what he experienced in Ala Mhigo, all too recently, when Zenos recounted his own feelings for the Demon Rabbit of Eorzea.

“Like a sickness,” Asahi continues, in a low, almost reverent voice. “Like an infection that spreads through you and seizes control. You try to fight it, but… but you can’t. You find yourself drawn in, again and again and again, chasing a single scrap of attention you get from them.” The smile is gone on his face now, replaced by a grim, resigned expression.

It begins to dawn on Vespasian then, the nature of Asahi’s passion as he calls it. And it is an extremely disquieting realization, because he knows who it must be that Asahi is referring to. It could be no other than Zenos himself.

But before he can process the thought further, Asahi’s hand is suddenly just above Vespasian’s knee, pressing down with a subtle strength as the older boy leans in even closer. The breath against his face scalds, and something like a jolt of electricity runs down Vespasian’s spine. He wants to get up, turn away from this intensity, but Asahi’s eyes reflecting the fire behind him have him pinned in place.

“It is a madness,” Asahi whispers, and Vespasian is shocked to hear the trembling in his voice. The hand on his knee squeezes, almost painfully so, and the look in Asahi’s eyes, in that moment, makes Vespasian’s blood run cold. Pure obsession.

“But oh, how glorious,” Asahi murmurs, and his hand slides up Vespasian’s inner thigh, just a few ilms, and the touch of his fingers traces burning patterns across his skin even through the fabric of his trousers. “How glorious it feels to have that attention.”

It is a nightmare. Vespasian wants nothing more than to shove Asahi’s hand away, but he is paralyzed in place, trapped in the grasp of that gaze and that voice. He dares not move, or say anything, in case it would snap whatever spell it is that Asahi is under.

Asahi’s fingers tighten again, and his stare sears into Vespasian’s, making him shiver. “To be held. Possessed , even,” he continues, and he’s barely even looking at Vespasian’s face anymore. His attention is drawn somewhere else, to his mind’s eye, to the images of some other person.

No, not just anyone. Vespasian knows exactly who, and the knowledge sits ill in his throat as it bobs in response to this overwhelming inferno.

Asahi’s touch clutches, clings, trying to take hold of something just out of his reach. Vespasian wants desperately to wrench himself free, to flee, but still he remains motionless, his body frozen in place by the gaze and the words pinning him to the armchair.

When Asahi speaks again, his voice is low, hoarse, barely more than a whimper. “To have him look at me… to have him touch me—” And the last word is a ragged gasp, and there’s that trembling again, that hint of helplessness.

“Asahi…” Vespasian makes himself speak at last, trying to keep his voice from devolving into a strangled choke. Asahi’s hand still clenches on his leg, as the other boy lets out a shuddering exhale and presses closer still, his mouth almost touching Vespasian’s cheek.

“ Do you know what it feels like? ” Asahi asks, and the words send breathless tingles to the back of Vespasian’s neck. He tries to wrestle back the rising dread, but it’s a losing fight.

Another shiver, another gasp escapes Asahi’s lips. Vespasian tries to avert his eyes, but a strong hand grabs his chin and forces them back, locking him into Asahi’s inescapable orbit.

“To want someone… so desperately…” A murmur, and the hand on Vespasian’s chin moves up to cup his face, thumb rubbing against his lips. “So achingly , that it’s all you can think about. All you can see —”

And suddenly it’s all too much, way too much for Vespasian, it has to stop, and he finds the will to reach up and grasp the hand on his face, fingers digging in as he moves it away by the wrist with a jerk. He scrambles to his feet, his chair rocking with the sudden movement, and takes a hasty step back, his heart thumping in his ears hard enough to drown out the rest of the world.

Asahi blinks, looking dazed, like he’d been woken up from a trance. The moment is over, the blazing fire vanishes, but Vespasian is left with the feeling of disorientation, like the very earth under his feet has gone soft and unstable. Meanwhile, Asahi sits back on his own armchair, legs demurely crossed like nothing he just did was out of the ordinary. The mask of politeness firmly back on, he lifts his cooled cup of tea and his eyes fall upon its stirred surface.

“That is why I’m rather intent on taking this mission, you see,” he explains, like it needed to be explained.

Vespasian can hardly trust himself to speak, but he manages to get some words out despite his heart still hammering against his ribcage trying to escape. “Yes, quite… understandable,” he mutters, and rubs a hand over his feverish forehead, willing himself to calm down.

Asahi chuckles and sips from his tea with an ease that feels all wrong given the situation. “Forgive me for the sudden confession,” he says, and there is a glimmer of something in his eye, a hint of the madness that flared before. “It was… rather improper of me.”

“I… no, no, it’s quite alright,” Vespasian mumbles a lie. He tries to school his features into something less unsettled, but every time he looks at Asahi, he can’t help but recall the mania in the older boy’s voice and eyes. The touch, the warmth. His body is still trembling.

Asahi seems unbothered by the fact, and simply gestures at Vespasian’s empty chair. “You might want to sit again,” he says, in a tone so pleasant and noncommittal that it could almost be taken as a friendly suggestion.

As innocuous as the offer is, by all sensible logic, Vespasian now sees hot coals scattered across the seat.

“No, thank you,” he blurts out much too rapidly, then recaptures his tact. “I just mean, I have much to do in preparation for the mission.”

Asahi’s eyebrows lift slightly, and he sets the cup back down again. He’s clearly not fooled by the excuse, but his smile remains in place, carved from the smoothest porcelain. “I see,” he says, the look he gives like a dagger, piercing into Vespasian’s very being.

Vespasian gives a polite nod, as stable as he can muster in his state, and turns to leave. “I will… get back to you about the specifics, later,” he says, and only sees his steps were too hasty and his words too insincere when Asahi’s fingers suddenly grip the tail of his coat.

“Wait.”

Vespasian’s heart lurches when Asahi stops him in his tracks. He can’t bring himself to turn around, can’t bring himself to meet the other boy’s gaze again—he knows he’s been exposed, seen through, but he tries a shaky, quiet protest. “I… I should be leaving…”

“Please,” comes a quiet plea, shocking in its softness. When Vespasian finally turns, that deranged flame he so feared does not meet him in Asahi’s dark eyes, but instead something desperate, begging. “You know I need this.”

Chapter 19

Summary:

Something deep within Vespasian clenches when he sees that expression on Asahi’s face. He was never trained to resist pleas, not as a child, not as an adult. His father hated them, saw them as weakness, but the truth of the matter is he taught him no defenses against them.

He closes his eyes, trying and failing to collect his thoughts. The grip on his coat still holds, strong enough to keep him in place, weak enough to stop him from trying to detach himself.

“You say you need this,” he mutters and takes a shaky breath, willing himself to look into Asahi’s eyes, looking for something, anything that is grounding and real, something to latch on to. And he finds something real in the other’s expression, alright—the mask shattered on the floor, replaced with a sincerity that wounds and the smallest quivering of a lip. “You say it’s your passion, your desire. But is it really worth such madness? To lose what’s left of your mind in that chase for a scrap of attention?”

“You don’t understand,” Asahi breathes, and he tightens his grip on Vespasian’s coat, knuckles white. “You don’t understand… ” He has the look of a man drowning, reaching out blindly for anything to grasp onto, and there’s an ache of empathy in Vespasian as he witnesses it.

But it does not change the truth of the matter, nor the futility of it, and Vespasian speaks again, and he hates himself for how cold he sounds to his own ears. “I do understand,” he says, softly. “As much as I can. But it will lead to your detriment in the end, Asahi. You cannot keep going like this.”

Asahi gives a strangled laugh, his arm trembling. “And what would you have me do instead?” he asks. “Give up on it? Give up on him ?” The last words are hissed out.

Deja vu, again, to a conversation in an Ala Mhigan throne room. But this time, there is no Emperor to force certain sentiments out of Vespasian. Only his own choices, own options, and the fact he still needs this wreck of a man for his own ends blaring in the back of his mind.

All of it together creates a maelstrom inside Vespasian’s chest, a chaos of conflicting feelings and needs. He knows, he knows it’s wrong to use someone like this, to manipulate that broken, obsessive core that Asahi has become. But he needs to, because the mission is more important; anything for the Empire. And if he can somehow keep Asahi’s obsession from driving him past a limit, then maybe it is acceptable.

He can’t give up on this, he simply can’t.

“No. But I would have you temper this…” He hesitates, seeking the right term. “Obsession.”

Asahi scoffs, a sharp sound that does little to veil the bitter defiance. “Oh, temper it, is it?” he says, and the fingers on Vespasian’s coat loosen a little, but not enough to let go. “Like it’s a wildfire you can simply throw water on and expect to die out.”

“I can’t very well send a dog in heat in front of my cousin,” Vespasian retorts, and his tone rings familiar in his ear. A copy of his father’s when he demands him to still his sharp tongue.

A moment when Asahi seems to snarl , jaw tensing until a vein pulses on the side of his face, but he does not snap back. But it also brings out the other boy’s fragility, the wounded animal look in the way he swallows and draws in a deep, ragged breath. “Is that all I am?” he asks, and the hand drops from the coat. “A dog ?”

“Is it,” Vespasian repeats, “or can you behave enough that I won’t lose all shreds of dignity by association?”

Asahi flinches; the words hit their mark without mercy. “I—I can,” he mutters in defeat. “I can behave. You know I can.”

Vespasian’s heart twists at the resignation, at the obvious hurt underneath it all. But he can’t allow himself to be affected, he simply can’t , so he straightens his coat to smooth out the wrinkle Asahi’s touch left on it. “You will be on your best behavior,” he says sternly. “You will be civil and courteous and polite. You will not touch him unless you have to. You will not flirt with him.”

Asahi sucks in a breath, and he looks ready to start another protest, but before he can say a word, Vespasian speaks again.

“You will do as I say.” He keeps his voice calm despite the way he is shaking inside, despite the dread and uncertainty; his face carefully neutral, almost emotionless. “Do you understand?”

The look on Asahi’s face is one of a wounded beast caged and collared. “Yes,” he says, more of a hiss than an actual word. “I understand.”

Vespasian glares at him down the bridge of his nose. He towers above him in stature and in rank; he can scarcely believe he let the enormity of this provincial pipsqueak’s desire make him feel small.

“It’s a delicate thing I’ll need you to balance,” he continues. “My cousin’s attachment to the Warrior of Light must be reined in and kept tabs on. Can you do that?”

Asahi’s glare is no less fierce, even from the lowly position, and he opens his mouth to retort but Vespasian’s last words manage to stop him before his spill out.

“Yes,” he repeats, although it comes out more of a grumble. “I can.” Vespasian has seen that stubbornness before, the defiance that flares in the eyes, and he knows from experience it takes effort to stamp down. Even if the place he has found it before is in his own mirror.

He lets out a long, slow breath. He has to bury all doubt Asahi will keep his end of this arrangement, the stubborn, spiteful creature that he is. But that makes him all the more uncertain about the whole idea of it.

He’s sending a wild dog on the loose, he realizes, and he’s not sure whether it will end up biting or licking.

“You will listen to me,” he warns. “I’m serious, Asahi. If you mess this up, if you show even half of what I saw here today in the presence of my cousin, the whole thing is off, do you understand ?”

Asahi’s lip twitches, and Vespasian can see the dark thoughts churning behind his eyes. But he manages an answer at last, a stiff, curt nod. “I do understand, my lord,” he replies, and for the moment he is at least trying to be composed.

“And if he speaks to you about that blasted rabbit, don’t make those faces,” Vespasian spits. “You’ll get cut in half.”

Asahi bristles, and looks like he wants to argue, but his shoulders sag and he slumps back into the armchair, looking more petulant than truly furious. “Yes, my lord,” he mutters again, and his hands clench and unclench on the arms of the seat, like he wants to strangle the very air around him.

Watching Asahi’s hands twitch brings back the memory of how it felt to have them touching him, the leather of the chair squeezed like his thigh—and it makes Vespasian shiver. He doesn’t know what to do with these feelings, but he knows he must ignore them because there is no other choice. So his voice is cold when he speaks again.

“You will arrive at Palatinum Novum tomorrow after lunch,” he orders. “I shall meet with you then.”

There is another curt nod from Asahi, and his eyes are dark as thunderclouds. “Very well,” he grumbles out and slumps further into the armchair, like it’s the only thing keeping him from exploding into pieces right then and there.

A moment’s silence follows and it is painfully thick, pressing in from all around. But finally Asahi speaks, and his voice holds a glimmer of that defiance from before. “If I might offer a suggestion,” he says, and the words are carefully casual.

Vespasian narrows his eyes, wary of what might follow. “Yes?” he asks, his own voice a touch sharper than he intended. It crackles like a spark in the air, and Asahi’s eyes glint with something like satisfaction.

“I simply believe it best to be honest about certain things,” Asahi muses, and offers a little smile that could almost be endearing if it didn’t look so damn evil . “You really need to fix your cravat, my lord.”

It’s Vespasian’s turn to sport that indignant, resentful pout. How dare he , the very reason for his dishevelment, poke at him for it. Nevertheless, he straightens the garment, poofing it out like the chest of a pigeon, and gives a scowl.

“Noted,” he sniffs.

Asahi gives a sharp ‘hmph’, and that almost-pleasant smirk remains on his lips when he leans back in the armchair, legs crossed and fingers tented over his knee. “I simply thought to be helpful, that’s all,” he says, voice dripping with mock innocence.

Vespasian rolls his eyes and tries his best to stomp down on the urge to reach over and smack the back of Asahi’s head. “Is that all?” he asks instead, cold as the very heart of Garlemald. “Or do you have more ‘advice’ I should heed?”

Asahi’s lips twitch again, like he’s holding back a giggle, and his eyes twinkle with something too close to mischief for comfort. “Oh, I may have one more,” he begins, and the glint only grows brighter, “if I’m allowed to, of course.”

Vespasian sighs, half exasperated, half resigned and full irritated. “Let’s hear it, then.”

Asahi’s expression is now one of pure smugness, and he leans his chin into his palm, regarding Vespasian with a look that borders on mocking. “It might be beneficial, my lord,” he points out, “if you were to invest in a better tailor.”

Vespasian tweaks his admittedly ill-fitting collar once more, and his mother’s stiff upper lip not only flashes in his mind, but repeats on his face. His jaw clenches and blood rushes into his cheeks as he stares Asahi down. This wretched, broken man… It should be easy to find a devastating comeback that would wipe that smug grin off Asahi’s face, but his brain only produces smoke.

And Asahi seems to know.

“I will see you tomorrow,” is all Vespasian can say, not really a defense, his tailcoat swishing with his agitated turn. “Don’t be late.”

Asahi’s smirk widens—Vespasian can’t see it behind him, but he can tell —and he gives a little bow from his seat, which creaks from the shifted weight. “Of course, my lord,” he replies without a quarter of the expected respect behind the title. “I’ll be there on the dot.”

Vespasian balls his fists resisting the urge to pull him from the armchair and throw him straight at the nearest wall. But he knows better than to give in to the violent impulse, so he only gives Asahi one last withering look before striding towards the door, fuming.

Of course the bastard wouldn’t let him keep the higher ground.

He can feel Asahi’s gaze on him as he leaves, a prickle on the back of his neck. It takes every last shred of control to not turn back, to not let his face show how affected he is by those piercing, dark eyes. He storms through the door, shuts it harshly, and leans back against its solid surface, finally letting out a shuddering sigh as the tension drains from his body.

“What are you looking at?” he barks at the estate guard, whose perplexed stares he feels in his temples without even looking their way. The men immediately snap his spine straight and their gazes forward.

“Nothing, my lord,” comes the quick reply from one, and Vespasian can hear the confusion in it. The guards are no doubt bewildered at the sight of him, disheveled, cheeks flushed with lingering anger, leaning against the door like his legs refuse to carry him.

He sucks in a breath. He has to appear composed at least to the servants, to anyone who might have witnessed the previous scene. If knowledge of this reaches the rumor mill, he will never hear the end of it.

Not to mention if it reaches his father . The very thought sends a shiver down Vespasian’s spine. He doesn’t care about the gossipy nobles—he’s used to them, has grown thick-skinned enough over the years to let their snide comments slide off his back. One cannot survive in that scene without being able to withstand what they dish out.

But his father would not react kindly.

A wave of nausea washes over him as he straightens from the wall, his hands smoothing down his coat, his breaths coming in careful succession. This is not the time or place for a mental breakdown. He needs to go straight to his room, get a fresh outfit—preferably one that fits—fix his hair, compose himself again. He will not allow himself to crumble. Not because of some Doman whelp.

And yet that Doman whelp has gotten under his skin, crawled into his veins and made a home there like some parasite. He can still feel the ghost of those hands on him, touching him, grabbing, roaming in that utterly shameless, bold way.

As if he had any right to do so.

And the warmth that rose to his face, the shiver crawling up his spine…

No. NO.

He doesn’t have the time or energy for this now, or ever. He has to focus on the matter at hand.

His driver must be giving him odd looks through the rearview mirror for the entire ride home. He does not check, merely sulks with his arms and legs crossed, his face sour and mood thoroughly ruined. His thoughts are a maelstrom, a cacophony of anger, frustration, humiliation, guilt. He wants to punch the door, he wants to scream.

He wants to…

He wants to—

He pushes that thought away as if it were poison, locks it in a box and buries it deep in the back of his mind to never look at it. He cannot. He simply cannot .

 

The journey home passes in a blur, a sickening mix of anger and twisted, awful desire, the humiliation a bitter taste that refuses to fade from his mouth. Finally, the car stops, and he almost stumbles out of it, his usually graceful exit an awkward fumble, but he manages to regain his balance before the driver can notice. Hopefully.

The estate looms before him, his home. The doorman gives him a puzzled look, but the glare Vespasian turns on him is apparently enough to discourage any questions. He hurries past and up the stairs, into the elevator.

His eyes are drawn to the mirror on the side. His hair is tousled, a cowlick sticking out at the side, and his cheeks hold a hint of that dreaded blush. A messy caricature of the dignified aristocrat he tries to portray to the world.

The elevator dings, the doors open. He hurries away, and his footfalls resound on the marble floor of the hallway.

“How was your visit?” Nerva’s voice yanks his feet to a halt so abrupt his heart nearly stops.

Vespasian spins around, turning to face his father, his thoughts in disarray. The man stands at the door to his study with a pile of paperwork tucked under his arm, regarding him with a piercing gaze.

He can only wish in vain his father can’t read anything from his flushed cheeks as he scrambles together a semi-convincing reply. “It was… productive.”

Even to his ears the statement sounds stilted and awkward, but his father merely gives a nod and motions for Vespasian to follow. “Come, we must speak,” he says, leaving no room for refusal.

Vespasian’s heart jackhammers in his chest. It takes all his willpower to put one foot in front of the other, to follow his father into the study. The door closes behind them with a heavy thud.

He stands awkwardly in the middle of the room, his eyes darting around searching for some escape, but there is nowhere to hide. His father takes his seat behind his desk, spreads the paperwork out in front of him, then peers at Vespasian over the rim of his reading glasses.

“Sit,” he says, gesturing towards the armchair across from him, and Vespasian obeys like a puppet, his limbs heavy and clumsy.

The silence that follows suffocates, and the paperwork doesn’t hold his father’s attention. His gaze is solely focused on Vespasian, studying him like a hawk.

Finally, after what seems like an era, he speaks, removing the spectacles off his nose. “You do not seem well, my son.”

The words are a blow to the stomach, but Vespasian tries to hide it, pasting on a thin, brittle smile. “I am fine,” he says, the sentiment coming out strained and false. 

His father’s expression does not change. “You look feverish,” he observes, his voice cool and clinical. “And troubled.”

Vespasian shifts in his seat. He wills himself not to avert his eyes, but it is difficult to hold that sharp, penetrating stare. “I am a little fatigued, is all,” he mutters. “Today’s meeting was… taxing.”

His father raises an eyebrow, and the look he gives Vespasian tells him the old man sees through the veneer with ease. “Do you remember when you were a child,” he asks, his tone almost wistful, “and I told you of the importance of composure?”

Vespasian straightens like a plank at the reminder, the lesson a sharp, clear image in his mind. Control your emotions, his father had told him. A Galvus must be unshakeable. How embarrassing he still needs to be told, more than ten summers later.

“Better,” Nerva acquiesces. “I hope you had a better manner of presentation before the young Brutus. How was he?”

Vespasian forces out a curt reply: “Much more arrogant than expected.”

Nerva nods, the hint of a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. “And did he give you trouble?”

Vespasian debates whether he should insist that he handled the situation with grace, but what he sees in Nerva’s eyes tells him they’ll see right through any attempt. Instead, he rolls his eyes and huffs. “He was unmanageable,” he admits, whinier than he’d like, but honest. “I don’t know what’s become of my life, Father. I’m surrounded by madmen.”

To which Nerva’s lip twitches, and then to Vespasian’s surprise, he breaks into a cackle.

“Welcome to politics, son.”

Vespasian gives his father a bewildered glance, taken aback by the sudden laughter. It is a welcome break from the oppressive silence, but he can’t help but feel a touch of annoyance at being mocked. “It’s not funny, Father,” he protests, bristling. “That man is awful.”

“You will meet many more awful men in your career, boy,” Nerva says, “and you’ll be forced to shake hands, smile and nod. Then you’ll go home and wonder if you’re the only one in the entire country who keeps his wits about him.”

Vespasian wants to protest that it is not fair , that he should not have to suffer the indignity of dealing with the likes of Asahi, but he bites his tongue. He knows his father well enough to know that he would offer naught but a scoff at his complaints.

So he only crosses his arms and slumps into the armchair, sulking.

“Composure,” Nerva reminds again, but Vespasian merely huffs and slouches deeper.

“Let me live, Father,” he grumbles. “I believe I deserve to slouch after my ordeal.”

The words belong too much to a petulant brat, and Vespasian winces internally when they reach his own ears. But Nerva merely gives a huff in response.

“I shall allow it this time,” he says a touch lighter, a trace of a smirk on his face. “But do try to appear as a grown man when you meet with him again.”

Vespasian sighs. “I did manage to invite him over tomorrow,” he shares. “I only hope we can keep our discussion of Zenos as topical and… sane as possible.”

Nerva gives his son a look that borders on incredulous. “Tomorrow?” he repeats in disbelief. “You did not think to, I don’t know, arrange some preparations first?”

Vespasian fidgets in his seat, feeling the heat rise to his cheeks. “I just wanted to get the meeting over with,” he mutters, sounding more like a child than ever.

Nerva shakes his head, the disbelief still on his face. “My boy, your impatience will surely be the end of you someday,” he scolds, but his words sound more exasperated than anything else. “I will make sure the room is prepared, and I’ll have the staff get ready. Leave it to me.”

Vespasian gives his father a grateful nod, the tension in his shoulders easing a touch. “Thank you, Father,” he says, his words heartfelt. “I… I really don’t know what I’d do without you.”

It slips out without thinking, but perhaps it needed to be said. His father has made him worry way too much lately, on top of every other challenge he faces. He does not wish to face them alone.

For a moment, Nerva regards his son with a softer expression, the sternness fading from his features. “You’ve done well enough, I suppose,” he says gruffly. “And as I said in front of the council, you have yet to make the mistakes Zenos has. Just… control your temper around Servilius’s boy. We would not want to sabotage our most valuable alliances.”

Vespasian nods again, knowing full well he has failed at that quite miserably already. “I will be on my best behavior,” he says, the promise hollow in his mouth. 

The expression of Nerva’s says he will be keeping a very close eye on him.

Chapter 20

Vespasian has zero appetite for lunch, but knows he should eat something in preparation for today’s tribulation, since breakfast similarly sickened him. When he asks this one favor of his stomach, it churns in discomfort. He pokes at his food, attempting to force down a few bites, but each mouthful sticks in his throat like glue. His mind is too consumed by the image of Asahi’s smug smirk, flashing in his memory every time he closes his eyes.

If there is anything he should be glad for, it’s his father borrowing his meeting room. Way less personal, like a shield in front of him. He imagines Asahi’s fingers browsing through his bookshelf, critiquing his tastes, sitting down on his bed—

He’s surprised what little he’s managed to nibble down doesn’t come right back up.

Asahi’s presence lingers like a demon hovering in the air, his mocking face everywhere he looks. Those hands, always so close, always reaching out to him like a serpent coiling around its prey…

He finishes up, pushes the plate away. There is no way he can force himself to another bite. The thought of eating makes his stomach want to flip itself inside out, the nausea that has been his companion for the entire morning refusing to go away.

He glances at the clock. A bell until the torment in his mind materializes into reality.

Time crawls by. He finds himself pacing up and down the length of the hallway, willing his forefathers’ stoic and unyielding portraits to lend him strength, and the clock to tick faster. The anticipation is eating him alive; every time he glances at the clock, the minutes have barely moved forward.

He stops by every mirror to straighten his collar. He took ages last evening to select an outfit he hopes he’s not too skinny for; he had the house tailor give it a touch-up, the servants iron it out twice to be safe—in his desperation, he even asked Sabina to give her opinion. She did not roast every fiber of the garment, so it will have to do.

He checks his reflection one last time, smoothing down any perceived rumples and adjusting his cuffs. The suit must be impeccable, not a thread out of place, otherwise Asahi will find something to mock. He will likely find something to mock anyway, but any chance Vespasian can mitigate it, he will take. The thought of the other’s sharp tongue makes him clench his jaws, his heart beating with a strange mixture of anger and something else, something he does not want to name.

He steps away from the mirror, takes a deep breath. The long hand of the clock creeps ever closer to the hour. There’s no use stalling any longer. 

If he’s to survive this meeting, there is only one way: he will have to act , put on a performance worth the finest theatre. Asahi is playing with him, making a mockery of him, his insults needles jabbing into his ego. And he will be damned before he lets himself be made into a fool.

He has made a habit of walking with his head held high and his shoulders back. Today, he tries to draw himself even straighter. He makes his steps precise, his strides confident. His father will not be physically present to watch him, but he imagines the man’s gaze anyway, his disapproving frown if his composure starts to crack. The thought alone strengthens his resolve.

When Asahi steps out of the elevator, he keeps that posture, like something fragile and valuable nested upon his head and one wrong move would shatter it. He allows himself one polite nod, and that is all.

“Asahi,” he greets him, on purpose dropping the unwarranted ‘lord’. “Welcome.”

Asahi’s gaze roams over Vespasian, a quick, thorough perusal, taking in every ilm of him. His expression is that of a connoisseur inspecting an interesting piece of art. 

Then his lips curl into a smirk, the sharp edge of mockery glimmering in his eyes. Vespasian’s knuckles turn white as he clenches his hands tightly, forcing a smile of his own.

“You took my advice,” Asahi notes, and Vespasian bites his cheek, willing himself not to humor the jab with a response.

“Let us skip the pleasantries,” he says, curt, cutting. And the ridicule , he wishes he could add, but knows it would only please Asahi. 

He forces his feet into motion, leading the Doman through the halls and towards the meeting room. The space is sterile and impersonal, the furniture chosen in such a way that it allows for no comfortable way to sit or lie down. Paperwork  and documents cover the long table, stacked and cataloged by Nerva’s trusted staff. 

Vespasian takes his seat at the head of the table and motions for Asahi to sit on the other. “Can I offer you anything?” he asks, a little brusque. “Coffee, tea, something stronger perchance?”

Asahi takes a seat as well, his movements elegant and fluid. His smirk has been replaced by a neutral, almost polite expression. “Tea, if you have it,” he responds, his tone as formal as the room around them. 

Vespasian nods, calls for a servant, and gives the order to prepare a pot of their finest import from Kugane. The footsteps disappear into the adjoining kitchen.

He turns back to Asahi then, his gaze cool, his thoughts racing on how to steer the meeting in a direction that might be manageable. He drags his finger on the table’s smooth surface, pointing towards the files in front of the other man. 

“Open the top folder, if you will,” he says. “How familiar are you with this intel?”

Asahi picks up the file and opens it, leafing through the papers, glancing over the details. Sharp and calculating, until Vespasian is quietly taken aback with the sudden change from mocking brat to rattled, growling beast.

“The savior of the savages?” he spits out the moniker. “Very.”

“And?” Vespasian leans in, eyes wide. Asahi’s change in mood fascinates him. He is hardly the first to resent the Warrior of Light and his antics, but the hatred in Asahi’s every word is something altogether different: fierce and alarming.

Asahi’s eyes flare with something like bloodlust . Not the playful desire to fight which Zenos carries, but a vicious, spiteful rage. “The bastard deserves nothing short of a sword through his heart,” he growls, his fingers clenching so hard they turn white.

Vespasian has seen a lot of men and women filled with anger, but Asahi’s expression borders on inhuman , so full of raw emotion it can barely be contained. An image flashes in his head, of Asahi straddling the Warrior of Light with a sword in his hands. He shakes the thought away as quickly as it comes.

Asahi composes himself as well, his expression shifting to something more resembling his usual self. “I wonder why Zenos has not simply run him through yet,” he ponders out loud, almost casually in comparison to his momentary vitriol, but he retains an undertone of it.

Because he’s running him through in a different sense, you blind fool, Vespasian wants to retort, but worries Asahi would leap across the table like a rabid rat. He keeps his mouth shut instead, his expression betraying none of his inner thoughts. Asahi’s still volatile, liable to burst out at any moment, and he has no desire to be the victim of any misplaced violence.

Yet, this is what he has to work with, and what he has to send to Gyr Abania, where the beast Asahi so despises will roam. How delightful.

This is not how he thought this meeting would go — he expected mockery and arrogance, but not seething fury. It throws him off balance, but he recalibrates himself fast, borrowing once more from his father’s strict demeanor. “You can’t reveal any of that in front of Zenos, either,” he reprimands. “He looked like he wanted me dead for merely calling his Warrior a ’thing’.”

Asahi snorts, a sound so raw and feral it doesn’t fit with the rest of his exterior. “That ‘thing’ and all its savages should be quartered and thrown in a ditch,” he growls. 

Vespasian can’t help but shudder at the words, the image they carry in his head so vivid it returns the sickened churning of his insides.

Asahi must see the change on his face, because his own expression softens a touch. His mocking smirk returns, a sly edge glinting in his gaze.  “Oh, you must have a weak stomach, then,” he says, a hint of condescension in those words that burns .

Vespasian grits his teeth, refusing to let Asahi get to him. He has the upper hand here. The other man is so driven by his own rage, it leaves him open to attack. And Vespasian has honed his own skills, his own tactics, in just this manner. 

He forces a smirk of his own. “I merely take issue with such barbaric methods,” he says, his tone casual, as nonchalant as he can muster. “There are more… sophisticated approaches to handle an uprising.”

If his jab has any effect on Asahi, the man gives no hint of it. Instead, he leans back, crossing his arms. “Like diplomacy,” he says, and the scoff in his voice makes it clear what he thinks of that particular route. Pathetic .

“Or perhaps… distraction ,” Vespasian suggests, his smirk widening. He has the other man’s attention now, and he will pull its strings.

Asahi leans forward, his ears perked. In the man’s ire, he’s all too easy to manipulate. “Distraction,” he repeats, his eyes meeting Vespasian’s, now a touch more focused.

“Exactly,” Vespasian nods, his smirk turning into something a touch more self-assured. Good boy, he’s halfway tempted to say, but knows the other man would eat him alive for it.

When the servants return with their steaming tea, Asahi drops an absurd amount of sugar into it with unwarranted force. Vespasian wonders if he is attempting to conceal the taste of his own venom. He doesn’t comment on it—his visage turns more serious instead, and he clears his throat.

“If you don’t have the means to remove two strong magnets from each other, shouldn’t you simply keep them far apart?” he asks rhetorically. “I want you to devise situations to keep the rebel party away from Ala Mhigo, when you’re there. Any distraction from their goal will do.”

All of Asahi’s arrogance now gone, all that’s left is interest. “It is possible,” he says, his voice quiet, almost as if he was talking to himself more than Vespasian, and lowers his eyes again as if divining possible scenes on the surface of his tea. “Disturbances within their ranks, unexpected skirmishes… it would keep them too preoccupied to even think of marching toward the palace, much less actually do it.”

Vespasian nods, keeping his expression as cool as he can. He has Asahi wrapped around his finger, and it is a rush, a sudden spike of energy through his veins. “Exactly,” he says, and Asahi’s gaze is locked with his. 

His pulse races, and Asahi must hear it when he leans closer. “You… are smarter than I originally thought,” the man across the table admits, and the backhandedness should sting, but all Vespasian feels is a smug satisfaction. He is almost amused now, his earlier uneasiness drowned in the victory. Asahi’s anger has melted like wax in the sun, replaced by something like fascination. 

“You should know not to underestimate me,” he says, light in contrast to Asahi’s earlier threats.

Asahi’s gaze lingers on him, its intensity pinning him to his seat. Very suddenly, he laughs, a short chuckle that rings through the air. “You are so very unlike Lord Zenos in every possible manner,” he says. “It’s ridiculous.”

Vespasian scoffs, straightening his cravat. And we should be glad for that, his father echoes in his head.

“Should it be surprising?” he asks. “We had quite the differences in upbringing, for one, despite our shared tutors.”

The look Asahi gives him in return reeks of pity. “You were coddled in a nice, safe nest of a home,” he says with a sneer. “Never once having to face your flaws or shortcomings. You are spoiled, that is what you are.”

Vespasian bristles, his irritation flaring. “You know nothing of me,” he snaps, his voice like steel. “Just because I do not share your zeal for violence—”

“You wouldn’t have the first idea of violence,” Asahi cuts in, and his smug smirk is back to bother him.

There goes all elation at the compliment, snide as it was. Vespasian has to throttle every instinct to lash out, with deep breaths and a calming sip of his tea, his eyes closed for a couple meditative seconds. This is an unproductive use of meeting time.

The worst part is, Asahi is undoubtedly right in this regard. The few times Vespasian has been subjected to violence, he has crumbled like wet paper after a touch. To make up for his lack of brawn, he has honed his mind and his tongue to sharp weapons, and his looks and charm have always afforded him an entourage to protect him in one way or another even when his father was not present. 

But this self-important prick doesn’t need to know that.

“I merely prefer to solve matters with words, not swords,” he retorts, keeping his tone mild, even though Asahi has thoroughly gotten under his skin again. “You may think me pampered and weak, and that’s fine—but at the end of the day, I am the one giving you your orders, and you are the one who will be carrying them out by my command, whether you like it or not. So perhaps you should remember to show your superiors some respect.”

Asahi’s schadenfreude falters momentarily, and Vespasian hopes his words wound deep. But it takes only a couple seconds for him to mask any ire again, returning that horrid smirk to his lips. 

“Of course, my lord,” he says saccharine. Insufferably condescending.

“ Good. ” Vespasian bites back his disgust to get the conversation back on track; his tone leaves no doubt he sees right through the insincerity, but he will let it slide for now.

He points to another folder on the desk. “Take a look at this one next,” he orders. “I’ve compiled potential weak points on the Gyr Abanian soil that you may want to use to your advantage.”

It was a task which kept him up late, again, but the material was interesting enough that his eyes stayed open just to read it. He learned much of the schisms of local tribes, and of Lord Baelsar’s old elite force of Ala Mhigans with tensions within the army itself; internal and external conflicts both which could be wielded to cause strife.

He watches as the man flips through the papers, and by the look that slowly takes over on his face, the material is indeed as interesting to him as it was to Vespasian. “This is… quite in-depth,” Asahi murmurs, his gaze flickering over the pages, “and precise.”

His words seem honest, and they gift Vespasian a smidge of pride. He had poured more time and effort into this than he would ever admit, but it seems well worth it now.

“I couldn’t simply leave you to your own devices and hope for the best,” he cannot help but get in a thinly-veiled insult himself, as a comeback for all he has suffered.

Asahi’s gaze snaps up at him, but then his lips tilt into a smirk. “You don’t trust me, my lord?” he asks, and his tone is jeering once more. 

After a pause, he adds, “Smart,” and looks back down into the folder.

“So you doubt your own expertise,” Vespasian quips, then sips on his tea again. “Interesting.”

“I merely doubt yours ,” Asahi retorts, the words casual, almost lazy once more, but his eyes are fixed on Vespasian. They might be horribly disrespectful, but heat from earlier has fizzled out. All in all, it’s less nerve-racking. 

Vespasian decides not to give in to the obvious bait, and instead takes another unbothered sip from his teacup.

There is silence for a good couple minutes, interrupted only by the sound of shuffling papers, Asahi leafing through the pages with an absentminded motion. 

Vespasian takes the opportunity to study the man, to compare him with the last image of Zenos that has been seared into his memory. They are very different themselves, the two men. He tries to remember if Zenos ever looked at him with the same intensity that Asahi used to pin him to the spot mere moments ago, and he comes up blank.

No, he figures. Zenos had that vacancy of a soul in his stare, using his menacing presence and reputation to cause jitters in him instead. He didn’t need to try , because his mere aura was enough.

Asahi would no doubt hate this observation, but Vespasian can tell he does have to try. Nothing about his behavior—except perhaps the unfiltered rage he witnessed—is an accident, or in any way uncalculated. He is more similar to himself  in that regard, as much as it pains to admit.

He wonders, though, if that intense stare shares any similarities with how Zenos looks at his beast.

“You think too loud,” Asahi mutters, not lifting his gaze from the folder. “I can practically hear the thoughts in your head.” 

Vespasian snaps into attention, caught off guard that his observation was caught out. “Nonsense,” he denies, trying to regain his composure. Asahi, of all people, should not be this good at reading him. “What am I thinking of, then, hm?”

“You’re eagerly awaiting more compliments like a pup at the bowl, aren’t you?” Asahi guesses, not lifting his gaze from the file, but that smug smirk makes a reappearance. “I bet you stare at your precious daddy like that when you bring him your finished homework.”

It should be satisfying that the guess is so far off, but Vespasian’s face burns with humiliation. It’s true — when his father nods in approval after he has listened to one of his reports, he gains the very same rush he did when Asahi said he might be smart after all. But to have it pointed out is mortifying.

Asahi looks up at him then, eyes narrowing in amusement at the horror on his face. And there is something else there, in that gaze as well. Recognition, perhaps. Or maybe something even more like understanding . It makes Vespasian’s head spin on some profound level, and he decides that changing the course of the conversation is the only thing he can do now. 

“Focus on the file,” he snaps.

The smirk on Asahi’s face fades into something unreadable—could it be disappointment?—but he turns his gaze back to the papers in front of him without protest, his movements snappier, almost like some of that earlier irritation has returned. Vespasian’s uneasiness from earlier builds in tune with the shift, like the air before a storm. This man is a dangerous variable to throw in with the prince and the beast—a loose cannon, ready to explode. He is a weapon, but a weapon of dubious precision. And he’s the only weapon Vespasian has.

He watches as Asahi studies the sheets, his eyes narrowing at certain details, his fingers now tapping the desk in a lazy rhythm while he reads. As much as he dislikes the man and his attitude, Vespasian can admit that he is… efficient. Adequate. And if his earlier reaction is anything to go by, he, too, has a thirst for praise and recognition for his work—that, and a fervent desire to be close to Zenos. He can use both, push and pull the strings to make his puppet do what has to be done.

The question is which will work better — carrot or stick? It’s a good moment to test the waters in this very regard, so he clears his throat once more. “You will do your utmost to keep these plans a secret from the prince, yes?” he prompts, his voice mild.

Asahi’s gaze flicks up at him, irritation once again flaring in those eyes. “Of course,” he says, sharp and precise, almost snappish. He might be Vespasian’s weapon, but his loyalty is to his prince first and foremost.

Vespasian cannot help but smirk, as he knows he has hit a point of weakness. He is getting to know the man. “Good,” he murmurs. “You understand just as well as I that it’s for his own good the savior of the savages is kept away from him.”

Asahi’s expression darkens, his eyes narrowing once more. He’s all too aware his prince is besotted with that beast, like an addict to some filthy narcotic, and hates Vespasian for pointing it out. 

But he must understand the necessity of his request. Everything would be ruined if the prince got wind of their plans and their true nature as distractions for his prey—and Asahi would be the first whose head would roll.

It is with gritted teeth that he speaks, “I will do whatever it takes.”

Chapter 21

Once Vespasian is certain enough that the pawn he’s moving into the playing field understands its role and purpose, he bids him farewell for the night. When Asahi finally parts from him, a weight lifts off his shoulders. He feels more confident now, their plans have a better chance of succeeding—and perhaps he might have gained an advantage in this little tug-of-war of power and influence, as well. 

He decides on a late-night walk to clear his head, strolling through the gardens of the estate. The night is still young, after all, cold but clear. His breath forms white puffs, his feet crunch over the frosty grass. He walks by what used to be his mother’s garden—long unvisited in her apathy, the plants overtaken by creeping weeds—and the thought of her makes him shiver. It’s just the night, he thinks. He’s still shaken by his encounter with Asahi, and his mind’s playing tricks on him.

He rounds a corner, heading to the pond. Despite the biting chill this and most times of the year, it’s the one place his mother has always found relaxing. Vespasian never found the appeal in a hole filled with mud and murky water, but tonight, he decides to humor her fondness. He walks up to the edge, his eyes on its dark surface: there’s a layer of ice on top of it, thin and brittle, and as he steps closer to it, his gaze fixates on the reflection of the night sky above. Starless, clouded, pitch-black like the pits of Asahi’s eyes.

The ice creaks under him—it breaks with a snap . He loses his balance, one foot slipping out from under him, and falls to his knees as he tries to catch himself from tumbling face first into the water. The fangs of the cold make him gasp as shock courses through his entire system. His trousers soak up moisture, clinging to his skin; gritting his teeth, he begins the struggle to get out of the pond with all the poise and elegance he can muster, which is hardly an ilm.

A swish of his head to one direction, then another, to make certain nobody saw his blunder. Only then does he attempt to squeeze the frost-cold water out of the fabric before it freezes into his skin, cursing under his breath. Asahi’s fault, this misfortune too. He’ll be glad to send him off tomorrow and have him out of his sight for the foreseeable future. He can scarcely believe he’s only suffered the man for two days… how much torment such a short time frame can contain.

Vespasian finally manages to stand up with a grimace. The trousers still cling to his legs; he’s going to have to change once he gets back to the comfort of his chambers, where no one, real or imagined, will mock him. He mutters an endless stream of insults to no one in particular, to Asahi and his wretched attitude, to fate, and to Zenos and his foul, filthy beast, while he tries to brush dirt and grass from his backside.

When he’s more presentable again—or at the very least mostly free of debris and ice—he decides the night is ruined. The cold and wet clothes have thoroughly soured his mood again. He turns around, marching back toward the main house with brisk steps, the only way to keep himself from shivering.

 

The next morning, on his way to the airship landing, he feels again as if he’s about to plunge into freezing waters. One more time he has to see Asahi’s stupid mug. One more, then he will only have to listen to his voice in reports. Which is definitely also a nuisance, but a smaller one.

In his pocket burns the yet unsent, but finally finished apology letter. He figures he might as well hand it over to his agent and trust him to deliver it to its recipient, rather than risk any unknown carriers snooping on his mail. He revised it a final time, late last night; given the changed circumstances in Doma, he felt the need to stress the importance of cooperation.

He has no faith that Zenos will listen, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

Asahi is already waiting by the airship when he arrives at the landing. A servant at his feet hurriedly loads the last of his luggage into its storage compartment. Vespasian scowls at the sight—a whole retinue for one man, as if he was some high ranking officer or dignitary.

“Good morning, my lord,” Asahi says, noticing his arrival, and gives him a short bow as a courtesy. The faux-polite attitude doesn’t fool him anymore—he knows what kind of poison hides under that porcelain smile.

”Morning, Asahi,” he nevertheless responds with a small nod of his own. “You look prepared.”

“I am,” Asahi answers, his gaze returning to the last of the bags being packed. He also looks confident, expectant ; his hands want for something to do, moving absentmindedly at his side, the nails drumming against his thigh. “Not a thing out of place,” he murmurs, and there is something hungry in his eyes, like he can’t wait to be off.

“Your enthusiasm is admirable.” Vespasian looks the man up and down with his usual cold appraisal, not caring if it’s obvious. The truth is, what makes him uneasy this morning is not Asahi himself, but more the thought that Zenos is the likely cause of this eagerness.

He fishes the sealed letter from his pockets—it has been hidden there for hours, as if he was trying to forget about it. “Here. For the prince.”

Asahi’s eyes narrow as he looks at the envelope, and his hand pauses its fidgeting. “For him ?” he asks, raising an eyebrow, and Vespasian resists the urge to roll his eyes.

“Who else?” he snarks and hands the letter over, forcing himself to remain steady at the touch of their fingers through their gloves.

“I see how it is.” Asahi mutters the words so quietly they are barely audible, and he takes the envelope, still eyeing it like it might contain a venomous snake. Vespasian watches as the man carefully pockets it, seemingly resigned to his fate. Carrying correspondence, like a glorified delivery boy. Asahi’s arrogance must be taking a blow over this. Yet, he should be grateful—it’s an excuse for a direct audience with Zenos, should he know how to wield it.

“Do keep an eye out for him,” he asks of him. “Take note of his behavior, every detail, even the ones you might consider unimportant.”

“Of course,” Asahi promises, his lips tilting in a hint of a smirk, the expression gone as quickly as it appeared. “ Every detail.”

An uneasy shiver runs down Vespasian’s spine. A dangerous tool, indeed.

The servant finishes loading the baggage and steps back, bowed low at their feet. Asahi turns around to give one last look over the ship, then his gaze wanders up to the clear dawn sky above, and he takes a deep breath through his nose. There is a new energy around him, feral in nature, as if he was a hound on the edge of picking up a scent.

“One more thing,” Vespasian breaks through the haze of anticipation that has befallen him, taking a careful step closer, as if worried he’d bite.

A sharp turn of Asahi’s head his way, a hesitating twitch in his own fingers, but he reaches out and tucks his hair behind his ear to hook a communication device to it. “Keep this on at all times,” he mumbles, the rush of blood in his head louder than his words. “Charge it every night.”

Asahi gives him a frown—perhaps he finds the gesture insulting, as if he couldn’t be trusted to remember to make use of such a simple device. But he holds still and allows Vespasian to fiddle with the clasp and the connection. “I know how a communicator works,” he mutters, his breath tickling Vespasian’s wrist.

“I’m sure you do,” Vespasian replies with a thin, patronizing smile. He gives the man’s earlobe a slight tug once the device is in place. “But I need to know I can reach you at any given moment.”

A shudder goes through Asahi at the touch—he looks down, his shoulders suddenly tense. For a split second, the veneer of composure fades, his expression slipping into something Vespasian cannot quite read—annoyance or discomfort, though it might just as well be pain or anger, it’s hard to say. Either way, something twisted and pleased burrows into his own chest.  Emboldened by the rush, he reaches out and grabs Asahi by the chin, forcing the man to look up at him.

“Make sure you answer.” He says the words in an almost-growl, watching Asahi’s eyes with narrowed focus. He is very much aware of the servant still standing by their side; he could be listening, but right now it doesn’t matter. Asahi has to know where the power lies.

“Yes,” Asahi utters, and now his shiver is clearly visible, like tiny ripples through a pond. His eyes are wide, his jaw set; his teeth grind together, the fingers twitch again, like he wants to reach out but can’t—blatant signs of defiance.

Vespasian’s smirk returns full force. Good. It takes effort to rein himself in, to remember they are in public, to control himself. He releases his grip on Asahi’s chin—the fingers let go with reluctance, like they want to stay. He can’t help but fixate on the small, red imprint on the man’s cheek, the place his thumb dug into the skin.

It’s satisfying, in a way, seeing him shaken like this. He wants to see him crumble more. He wants to put him in his place, make him learn.

Asahi’s face is composed once more, no trace of vulnerability left to find, and when he speaks, his voice remains even and calm as if nothing had happened. “I need to go.” He gives Vespasian a curt nod, and without waiting for a farewell, turns on his heel and marches up the ramp.

Vespasian stares after him, in his mind a mix of conflicting thoughts and feelings: frustration, satisfaction, irritation, desire. It’s a dangerous concoction, and he cannot help but wonder if perhaps he’s pushed Asahi too far… if he’s pushed himself too far. But it’s too late to change things now.

Asahi vanishes through the door of the airship, and soon it begins to rise into the early morning sky. When it has disappeared as a black dot on the horizon, Vespasian finally finds the strength to turn away. He stands in silence; the only sound he can hear is the thumping of his own heart, too fast, like a drum, and he tries to think through the confusion in his head but finds it hard to focus.

The moment has dissipated and left him hollow—what’s he supposed to do now? His mind is a whirlwind, he has no idea what comes next. He has no idea what will come of this.

It would be all too easy to fall prey to overthinking, to let his paranoia take over. But he forces the thoughts down, his hands balled into fists, and takes a deep breath. One step at a time , he tells himself; an internal command he repeats until the anxiety and agitation ebb away, leaving him calm and focused.

With that energy, it’s easier to head back home and face the tasks ahead of him on his end. While he’s content with sending someone else where the action happens, that doesn’t mean he will stay idle while he waits for results. He anticipates being called into his father’s office for another minor report; his feet slow down as he passes the slightly ajar door, but his name doesn’t reach his alert ears. Instead, the telltale pitch of his parents’ arguing does.

He shouldn’t linger, shouldn’t listen. Their disagreements—usually petty and insignificant—are none of his business, and he has learned many years ago that it’s better not to interfere in their arguments. However, they do provide a moment of distraction, a familiar background noise among all the chaos. Curiosity, as always, proves to be stronger than willpower.

That curiosity soars ever higher when Polistea raises her voice, and he hears, “You think he’s safe just because you kept him in the capital, do you?”

Vespasian’s hands curl up again. He knows this argument, has heard it before, but never with this… sense of urgency.

His father’s voice responds, quieter than his mother’s but more tense; he’s obviously trying to keep it down at least a little, though it’s rather clear they expect no one to be close enough to listen. “He will be safe with me here.” The words are firm, though there is something like pleading to them, something Vespasian rarely hears from him.

“Of course,” Polistea scoffs, and he can envision the gesture that came with it, the hand held out in the air like ‘this much of an idiot’ , the rolling eyes—worn moves in this age-old dance. “Because Varis will simply forgive and forget, won’t he?”

“We’ve dealt with that for years,” Nerva insists. Vespasian takes a step closer to the door, so that he can catch a glimpse of his mother’s profile in the strip of light the crack provides—and the snarl on his father’s lips.

“So you’re waiting for a repeat of the Last Gala, are you?” Polistea spits. Vespasian’s heart pauses in time with Nerva’s fist hitting his desk.

Emperor Solus’s Last Gala? Vespasian cannot recall anything too special about the occasion, besides his great-grandfather’s last appearance in public before his death.

“There will be no repeat of anything—” Nerva hisses the words, struggling to contain his frustration. It takes him a moment to continue, but his voice is a fraction softer once he does, though it remains bitter. “We’re watching the boy, have been for years. And no one would be foolish enough to try something.”

Try what?!

“Try something,” Polistea echoes, her voice dripping with contempt. “Don’t act the fool with me, Nerva. It’s him, you know him as well as I do, and you can be damn sure he is scheming. The only question is, how long until he acts.”

Her steps and her voice come closer, and Vespasian scrambles to hide behind the corner. “The more you let our son play his games, the more danger you’re putting him in. Remember I told you so when you find him dead.”

“I will not let him live a life of paranoia,” Nerva counters, and there is a thump as he stands up, the desk shaking. This time, his words come in a near-shout. “This family will not be ruled by fear!”

Polistea’s voice remains eerily calm in response, a contrast to Nerva’s anger that’s as unsettling as it is fascinating. “No, we’re ruled by you, aren’t we?” More a statement than a question, and the sound of her steps pauses. “And your need to be in control of everything.”

“That’s—” Nerva tries to protest, but she plows on, her voice like a sharp knife slicing into the wounded ego of her husband.

“Everything, even when it’s to our detriment. Even when it means risking—” She stops mid-sentence, and the room falls quiet enough that Vespasian can hear his own heart hammering in his ears, too loud for comfort.

He doesn’t want her to finish the statement. Neither does she, because next her heels click on the floor again, and her steps lead her out of the office. Vespasian dares not to breathe, until their sound fades down the hallway and only the slam of her door carries all the way to his ear.

There is a beat of tense silence, then a deep, ragged breath that rings with exhaustion and defeat. Vespasian can picture his father clearly: head in his hands, elbows propped on the desk, his shoulders slumped.

But he cannot face him, cannot reveal what he has overheard. He cannot step into the office in its aftermath, not now. His head spins and he struggles to sort through the accusations and blame, the warnings and regrets, all of it spilling over each other in his mind. He stays where he is, in the shadow of the corner, fighting the urge to sink down to the floor.

His father approaches—the world stops moving, holding its collective breath, waiting to see which way this will go. But Nerva doesn’t come out, and doesn't find him. Instead, the door closes as silently as it opened, and the sound of the lock sets Vespasian in motion.

With this much weighing on his mind, he must retreat to his chambers, as well.

Notes:

Sorry that my gen fic turned out so gay u_u it will happen again

Chapter 22

The walk to his room feels like a march to the gallows. Vespasian does not wish to think, but that conversation’s echo will not be silenced; it plays over and over, each run adding new questions on top of the others, until it all becomes one big jumble.

What happened at the Last Gala? He was seventeen at the time; it’s not like he got too wasted to remember. If there was a tragedy, he would know.

… Right?

He has vague recollections of the event: the music, the guests, the lavish décor, the food, the people—too many of them, all dressed in their finest and eager to win his great-grandfather’s favor in his last years of life. It was an exhausting evening, and by the time it was over, he was more than ready for some rest in the privacy of his own room.

But the specifics are blurry, an incomplete sketch. Every scene carries a sense of wrongness in its midst, like something had been amiss the entire time.

He collapses on the bed, shooing off the feeling of eyes on him, which avert their glares whenever he turns to look. A headache begins to form; he rubs his temples trying to soothe its thumping touch. The thoughts still clamor for attention, and it’s an effort to drown them out in something other than paranoia.

How futile and silly this is, how stupid he’d find himself at any other time for listening to vague feelings, reading too much into an argument between two people who do a lot more fighting than being civil to each other nowadays. Yet hours pass and he barely perceives their rush, because his fears run faster.

He has taken to pacing the room, his feet carrying him to every corner, until he is finally sick of it, sick of himself , of this useless agitation, the need, the desire, the urge to seek the answers to his questions, the need to know —

A buzzing ringtone interrupts him, cutting through the anxiety. His chest stutters as he remembers the device attached to his ear. Trembling hands fumble for the tiny switch. After a moment taken to school his frantic heart, his voice is surprisingly steady when he speaks. “Yes?”

“It’s me.” There is a rustle of static in the connection, the signal traveling over a great distance, and the words have a metallic edge to them. But even through all that, Asahi’s tone is crisp and clear and confident. Hearing it sends a shiver down Vespasian’s spine.

If he wound back the clock to this morning and told himself he’d be happy to hear that voice as an anchor to the present, he would never believe it. He has to suppress the urge to say I’m glad you called , because it would be too honest, too needy, and Asahi would never let him hear the end of it. Instead, he clears his throat and leans against the edge of the desk, forcing a calm he does not feel. “Is everything alright?”

The line goes silent. Vespasian’s pulse quickens in his ears, waiting for the answer. Then, an amused chuckle crackles through, and he can imagine the accompanying knowing smirk. “I should be asking you, yes? You sound like you’ve been pacing a hole into your floors.”

Vespasian does not let out a huff of indignation. “That’s what you’re going with, really?” he drawls. If he’s trying to sound offended, he fails spectacularly, the words too close to a whine to be taken seriously.

“Is it not the truth?”

A hint of a teasing challenge in the words makes Vespasian’s breath catch, just a bit, and he cannot help but rise to the bait. “If I had been pacing—which I wasn’t —” he insists, “it’s not because of you.”

“No?” The skepticism is clear even across the distance, as is the amused disbelief. Vespasian wishes he could reach out and swat the other man across the head. “Who, then? Your father, perhaps?”

“Frankly, my business is mine and mine alone,” Vespasian deflects. “More relevantly: I assume you’re calling because you landed in Ala Mhigo?”

“So I did,” Asahi answers. There is a sound in the background of the call like the rustle of cloth being moved around, and Vespasian imagines him lounging on a bed perhaps, his shirt open at the top. He has to close his eyes to fight the desire to get a visual of the scene. “Almost no hiccups. Almost .”

“Almost, as in…?” he asks. “ Almost everything went well? Almost you managed to do your job? Almost you managed to not piss off the locals already?”

“I could not get an audience with Lord Zenos. That is all.” Words given through gritted teeth.

The tension in Asahi’s voice draws Vespasian’s attention immediately, because there is more to the irritation than simply failed plans. “It sounds like someone was uncooperative,” he observes, and a smile threatens to spread across his lips.

“The crown prince is simply preoccupied with…” Asahi searches for words, biting back a hiss as the pause draws out, “… his own business.”

“The Warrior?” Vespasian stifles a snicker—though the image of the beast rampaging around the city brings a frown back to his features. “He’s reached Gyr Abania already?”

“No,” Asahi responds bitterly.

Vespasian has to snort, because he sounds like a sulking child who got denied his favorite toy. “Then what matters have him so busy?” he prods.

“I haven’t discovered yet,” Asahi admits, his words laced with so much disappointment that it’s a wonder he doesn’t choke on it. “The man is infuriatingly hard to reach.”

“I don’t know,” Vespasian must taunt. “I got my audience rather easily, last time I visited.”

“You are impossible,” he hears Asahi grouse, and can imagine his frustration clearly even without the picture to go with it. He must be absolutely fuming; Vespasian would bet all his garl his agent is biting his cheek in impotent rage. “ You have… unusual circumstances.”

“You speak as if my cousin cares for my blood any more than yours,” Vespasian retorts. “Maybe I’m just more likeable.”

“You’re more tolerable when you stop talking, perhaps,” is the caustic reply, and that does make him laugh.

He would argue the point more for the sake of riling Asahi up, but an errant thought crosses his mind. “Did you hand off the letter, at least?”

“I did,” Asahi says, and his voice softens into a more civil tone. “My contact will deliver it to the man it was meant for.”

“You’re a hundred percent certain they can be trusted?” Vespasian inquires, the nagging worries about his parents’ words still fresh. “I would not like for my sentiments to be… misused.”

“He’s one of my men from Doma, relocated here,” Asahi explains. “I would trust him with my life.”

Vespasian’s mind can rest just a smidge easier, then. “ Your life,” he muses regardless. “But mine is expendable, you think?”

“Not expendable,” Asahi snaps back, the harsh tone surprising Vespasian enough to pull him out of the teasing. “Don’t twist my words.”

The bite is gone as he continues, the words softer, more careful. “You’re safe, I can guarantee you that. And I… apologize if I don’t sound very reassuring,” he adds after a pause. “I’m simply… frustrated with the situation. It’s a minor snag, just a minor snag,” he repeats, and it is more for his own sake than to soothe.

“I’m sure you’ll catch a glimpse of him, eventually,” Vespasian tries to reassure, though a hint of amusement pulls at the corner of his lip.

" A glimpse ,” Asahi repeats in a grumble, and Vespasian can almost hear the roll of his eyes. “The man is avoiding me,” he mutters, more to himself, as if trying to put the pieces together. “What is he up to…?”

“That is for you to find out,” Vespasian says, shrugging as he sits down on his table, pushing aside stray papers and stationery. “Do whatever it takes. Secure entry to his scientists’ facilities. Follow his movements in the field.”

The scoff on the other end of the line makes it clear what Asahi thinks of the suggestion. “You act as if I could simply stroll unhindered into one of their research labs, like a walk in the park.”

“With your natural charm and friendly manner?” Vespasian teases, the words falling from his mouth before he can stop himself. “They’ll roll out the red carpet for you in no time, surely.”

“Ha ha, you’re so very funny,” Dry, bitter words, all sarcasm and exasperation on top of that. “Do you have ideas that aren’t meant to make me want to strangle you, by chance?”

The mental image of a frustrated Asahi, hair tousled, shirt disheveled, with his hands wrapped around Vespasian’s throat is not an unpleasant one to say the least. In fact, a shiver of entirely inappropriate desire runs down his spine, and he has to swallow the sound of it.

“Perhaps you’d like to try blackmail,” he muses instead, tapping his pen against the tabletop to dispel the unwelcome energy. “Leverage a lab technician or something to provide you access. A bit more unsavory, but it would get you places.”

“You have a devious mind,” Asahi mutters, and Vespasian can hear him moving around again, a hint of satisfaction in the sound. “I’d say I’m surprised, but I shouldn’t be. You have all the best qualities of Garlean royalty, don’t you?”

The statement makes Vespasian freeze, caught off guard by its sincerity, and it takes him a moment to find a response. “I would take that as a compliment, if you didn’t say it with so much distaste,” he counters.

“I’m sure you would,” is Asahi’s reply, though there is a hint of amusement in it. After a moment, he speaks again, more seriously. “I’ll see what I can dig up. Your insight was helpful,” he adds, like it pains him to say it.

“ That is as close to a ‘thank you’ as I’ll ever get, isn’t it?” Vespasian drawls, fighting back a grin.

“You’re not entitled to thanks,” Asahi grits out in response, sharp enough to cut. “But you’ll take your wins from me when I bestow them.”

“You’d better.” Vespasian stretches his shoulders, sets the pen in his hand back onto the desk. “I could always recall you and send someone more competent.”

If it wasn’t a political blunder akin to spitting in Lord Brutus’s face, that is, but Asahi doesn’t need to know that. The man goes eerily wordless on the other end of the line, and it takes everything in Vespasian to keep his expression carefully neutral. He can picture the glare sent his way, the scowl on his face, and he has to stomp down the urge to antagonize him further—he just has to wait. Just another few seconds.

And then he’s grinning, because he was right of course, and Asahi does not disappoint. “Like who?” is the biting retort.

“One of my father’s spies, perhaps,” Vespasian pretends to ponder. “They wouldn’t need to be told where to look.”

“You wouldn’t actually—” Asahi starts, then cuts himself off mid-sentence as he exhales, his frustration palpable. “Fine,” he eventually mutters, begrudgingly acquiescent. “I see your point. I’ll find what you want and deliver it. Satisfied?”

“Delighted,” Vespasian says, and he doesn’t bother to hide the smug satisfaction lacing his tone at the sweet taste of his small victory. “I’ll await your next report.”

“Yes, your highness,” Asahi hisses with venomous derision.

Vespasian is about to hang up, or to perhaps give one last retort just before he does, when a thought catches him—the finger on its way to the device pauses. “Before I go,” he says, “did you attend the Last Gala some years back, by chance?”

The question surprises Asahi, judging from the confusion in his silence. After a beat, he responds, “Alas, no; the Doman rebels kept me busy at the time. Why ask?”

Vespasian frowns in disappointment, yet tries to sound casual. “Ah, I was just recalling the affair. Though my memories of the occasion are admittedly fuzzy.”

It stands to reason, then, that Zenos was likewise occupied; Vespasian certainly doesn’t remember his presence. In fact, whenever he did make appearances at social events—likely at his father’s behest—it was much more notable, even if he mostly sat in some corner with a drink, staring ahead like his mind was anywhere else. Nevertheless, if what Vespasian’s parents are hiding from him is about their family… his cousin might know something about it.

“If you do manage to catch that audience with Zenos,” he therefore asks of Asahi, “do take a break from your ogling to ask him about it, if you can.”

“ Ogling ?” Asahi repeats with indignation. “I don’t ogle .”

“Fine, your respectful looking.” Vespasian rolls his eyes. “You know what I refer to.”

“Admiring, more like.” He can hear Asahi’s pout—and why does he find it so endearing? “There is nothing wrong with appreciating his physical abilities.”

That makes Vespasian chuckle, a bit more bitterly than he intends, as he pushes off from the desk. “Physical abilities. Right. I’m certain it’s your profound respect for prowess in combat that brings forth your fascination.”

Another pause over the line, as Asahi audibly struggles to keep his response measured, his voice clipped. “ Prodigal combat prowess.”

“What an important distinction,” Vespasian muses, with dripping sarcasm. “I hope you heard the order and your brain didn’t fry itself at the very mention of his name.”

“You’re insufferable,” Asahi mutters, “insufferable, insufferable, insufferable .” From there it is just a litany of muttered profanities, too low for Vespasian to make out, but it sounds adorable, in a way.

He chooses not to get hung on that thought. “I’ll leave you to your tantrum,” he decides. “Try to get your head back on straight when duty calls.”

“Don’t,” Asahi starts to warn, the words bitten off when Vespasian presses the off-button on the call. He’s left with only the mental image of Asahi’s affronted expression as the device quiets down.

Standing still, listening to the beep that signals the call’s end, his finger still pressed on the button, he wonders if Asahi is doing the same—if, maybe, he’s fighting the urge to call back. He can picture it; his jaw clenching, his hand balled into a tight fist, his breath coming in harsh puffs—how he would react in turn, and how much fun it would be to tease the man just a little further. He could get him even more riled up, he’s certain.

Enough, he tells himself, letting his hand drop. His palm makes a soft thump against the desk he finds himself backed up against again. He’s being foolish, letting his mind run away with him, and it needs to end. Asahi is irredeemably aggravating, a blight upon his otherwise pleasant day—yes, his perfectly pleasant day, not at all marred by any suspicious arguments or ghosts of galas past. He ought to remember that instead of entertaining the notion of having fun with him.

Pushing past the image flashing through his head of Asahi, flushed with annoyance or exertion— no , that thought in particular is not helpful in the least—he makes his way over to a cabinet, retrieving a bottle of liquor.

He doesn’t need the drink. It’s merely a matter of drowning out the multiplying plagues in his mind.

Chapter 23

With liquid courage or liquid stupidity in his veins—and really, what’s the difference?—Vespasian speeds to the elevator. Too agitated to let sleeping dogs lie, he’s on his way to find the truth one way or another. He knows his parents won’t tell him anything if he asks. Unfortunately for them, they weren’t the only relatives present at the gala.

He did consider Sabina first, but figured she likely doesn’t know much more than he does; she was what, fifteen or sixteen summers then. She spent her time with other noble teens, while Vespasian tried so hard to be grown with nary a year more.

No, there’s another person, one with a better grasp of the goings-on in Garlemald’s higher levels than an adolescent girl: a relative that is perhaps less of an open book than his cousin, but not without insight. Grandmother Arrecina was the one who lifted the idea of the party off the ground, after all. If anything foul befell her father-in-law or any esteemed guest, she would have been made aware. That is the hope Vespasian carries, at least.

His finger taps the elevator’s highest number, his mind made up—and for better or worse, he’s going to get answers .

The ride up, though short, drags almost unbearably slow in his anticipation—by the time the door dings open, he’s quick in motion. He marches down the hall, striding towards his grandmother’s quarters, the half-empty bottle of liquor clutched tightly in hand.

Knocking forcefully, he calls out with little patience, “Grandmother. Are you within?”

No reply greets him.

His eyes narrow in annoyance at the continued silence. He knocks twice more, each time harder. “Grandmother,” he calls again. “Open up. I need to speak with you.”

Still silence. A bad sign, which likely means she is with her husband; unlike her daughter-in-law, it was a frail chance to find her cloistered in her room alone during socializing hours. While Vespasian has some foolhardy belief that Arrecina might keep his secrets, Titus would no doubt tell Nerva the moment he stepped out of line.

Ah, to hell with it, that line has already been brazenly trampled over the moment he downed half that bottle and breached the upper floor. The answers he could glean remain worth it. He mutters the warranted profanities under his whiskey-tinted breath and takes yet another swig for encouragement before pressing on towards the next best alternative.

The lounge where he expects to find his grandparents is only a few doors down, and the door is unlocked; he strides in without further delay, making his presence known. “Grandmother, I must speak with you.”

As expected, the two sit at the couches, enjoying the fine tea they’ve come to be so fond of over the years. Arrecina raises an eyebrow at her grandson’s rather unbecoming state, but it is Titus who chooses to speak first, his attention turning up from the steaming cup in his hand. “Is that your father’s liquor?” he asks, and there is both concern and disapproval in his measured gaze.

“Can’t I have one thing in this house that is mine?” Vespasian snaps without his inhibitions to stop him. “No, Grandfather, it is from my own cabinet. But my choice of drink is not what I’ve come to discuss.”

“Watch your tone,” Titus reprimands. “Have you no shame to walk in here half-drunk, demanding our time?”

Arrecina sets her cup back onto the table with a careful clatter, an oddly satisfying sound which rings loud in his inebriated state. “Sit,” she tells him, gesturing towards the couch across from them and the low table in between.

The seat creaks under the petulant force with which Vespasian lowers himself onto it. “I shall cut right to the chase,” he says with an impatient snip. “What happened at the Last Gala?”

It irritates him, the way the two eye him as he plops himself down, as if he were a child throwing a tantrum—almost as much as the following silence. It is, however, nowhere as disconcerting as the unsubtle darting glances shared between them.

Arrecina purses her lips, then asks, “Whatever do you mean? It was a pleasant evening, as I recall.”

“I can tell you’re not being honest,” Vespasian accuses, raising his chin in challenge—and a small bit of satisfaction at being able to do so, if only due to the alcohol. “There’s something you’re not telling me. Some incident that happened.”

“Such accusations,” Arrecina chides him. “Do you so readily believe everyone to be lying to you all the time? One might start to think you paranoid.”

“This is no baseless worry, Grandmother,” Vespasian sighs in frustration, his brow furrowing. “If it truly was nothing, why do my parents speak so hushed about it? No such secrecy is afforded to any old event.”

“Have you talked to them about it?” she counters.

Vespasian scoffs as she pushes him back to square one. “You and I both know how much my father appreciates me asking questions he doesn’t care to answer.”

“Then don’t go to him,” she says curtly, “go to your mother.”

Vespasian considers the suggestion as he sits there, staring at her contemplatively. His grandmother has a point—it makes much more sense to approach his mother, rather than his father. For her numerous faults, at least she’s direct.

That being said, he’d rather crack the bottle gripped in his fist on the coffee table in front of him and eat the resulting shards of glass.

Arrecina seems to intuit his thoughts, because her gaze softens—her next words turn from calculated ice to something more maternal in its affection. “Why is this so important to you, darling?” she asks, leaning forward. “There are more productive ventures for you to dedicate your energy to, surely.”

The question—the care in her tone—sparks a flash of guilt in him. The last vestiges of his temper melt away in response, leaving him with nothing but self-directed shame. He looks away, taking another swig of liquor to quell the unpalatable emotions at the pit of his stomach. “I just want to know,” he mutters, avoiding her gaze. “If it concerns me, I’m entitled to know.”

“And what if it doesn’t?”

Titus’s voice causes Vespasian to look up, his grandfather’s eyes staring at him over his cup with a pointed, piercing sternness. It leaves little room to doubt that he, at least, is perfectly aware of what happened.

That, and it serves to irk him and reawaken his ire before it can fully lull itself to sleep. “I know it does, because it left my mother’s lips in connection to my name.”

The revelation brings another quiet exchange of looks between the two, before Arrecina sighs, placing her hands upon the table—one of them reaching over it to rest atop her grandson’s knee.

“Vespasian,” she says, once again taking on the gentler notes, “this was something we wanted to keep from you for a good reason. Your parents wanted to ensure you didn’t carry around an unneeded burden.”

“ Unneeded burden ,” he repeats bitterly. “Who are you to decide something for me? Is it so wrong to want to know the truth? Am I nothing more than a helpless child in your eyes still?”

She pinches his leg with a harsh touch, enough to make him wince. “No one thinks you are helpless.”

Titus, meanwhile, is not in the mood to soften his words with honeyed tones. His eyes remain harsh as he speaks, “You’re certainly capable and resourceful, but you are still rash and hotheaded, and prone to acting on impulse.”

“I don’t act on impulse ,” Vespasian sputters, the accusation of such a thing leaving a horrid taste in his mouth. “I assess situations before enacting an appropriate response. Besides, how am I in the wrong for getting provoked? I’m merely reacting, it’s perfectly sensible.”

Arrecina lets out another sigh, her eyes betraying a certain weariness. “You are as bullheaded as your father,” she says in an almost fond manner, “if not more.”

“You’re trying to distract me,” Vespasian accuses—but she only pats his knee with an almost condescending gesture, as if he is some petulant brat.

“And it is working.” She gives a smirk, a sly edge he wouldn’t expect from an aging woman. She retreats her hand as she senses its failure in giving its attempted comfort. 

Titus remains less amused. He sets his cup down and leans back with a striking seriousness. “We all think it best if you don’t know what happened. Especially because of your recent… association with Zenos.”

His cousin’s name shoots Vespasian’s eyebrows up on his forehead. “It’s about him ?” he questions. “How? He wasn’t present.”

Another brief silence—another shared look, wordless communication honed in their ruby marriage which he cannot hope to crack.

Arrecina speaks this time. “No, no, not something he personally was a part of. Merely…” 

“An unfortunate consequence,” Titus helpfully supplies in her stead.

“Unfortunate. I see,” Vespasian mutters, not entirely convinced by that description—and judging from the looks of it, his relatives are not so keen on explaining whatever unfortunate deeds befell the gala that night.

Fine, let them keep their secrets. Enough games, enough vague hints. Vespasian rises from the seating, forcing himself to look down at the pair across. 

“I’ve had it with your cryptic murmurs,” he bites out, harsher than intended. “If neither of you will tell me, I’ll go ask Mother as suggested.”

Arrecina makes to stand after him, but Titus holds a hand up to stop her. “Very well,” he tells Vespasian, resignation in his voice. “Do so, if that is what you wish. But remember my words, boy: you may not like the answers you find.”

He unparks his wheelchair, backs away from the couch, and wheels away from the room past Vespasian before his brain can generate a response, much less vacate the space himself.

Arrecina, on her part, can do nothing but sigh. She glances at her husband’s retreating back, waits for him to disappear behind the corner, then speaks quietly. “Don’t blame him,” she implores, and Vespasian gets the feeling she refers to more than this reaction. “He may be as allergic to apologies as the rest of your lineage, but he is not without remorse.”

Vespasian pauses, hesitates—the alcohol-fueled drive within him fizzled out with his grandfather’s exit, now leaving in its wake only a lingering feeling of confusion and concern. 

He turns back to face her. The weight of her gaze pierces as deep as her husband’s. “Remorse?” 

Her next words come out gentle, her eyes still not leaving him. “For many things.”

For a long moment they only stare at each other, as if she’s peering into his soul. A strange feeling; he always found those eyes calculating, cool, the eyes of a wholly assimilated Galvus by matrimony—now they feel soft .

He does not have the ability to deal with any of this while intoxicated. “What a mess we are,” he mutters, “the lot of us.”

“I won’t argue there,” Arrecina agrees, her shoulders sagging. “We have tried our best to guide you over the years, you know, to help you avoid following in our… less than stellar example.”

Despite the situation, Vespasian finds himself chuckling, because oh , are they far behind in that task. “I’m afraid it is too late to worry, Grandmother. I’ve already inherited your propensity for petty gossip and my father’s scheming and stubbornness.”

“Yes, darling, a Galvus through and through,” she says with a sad smile. “I’m loath to see the name drive yet another to the bottle.”

Just one of many of the family’s vices , he thinks with a bitter kind of amusement—and he can practically hear her echoing those words. He sighs, bringing a hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose; the pounding in his head makes a reappearance as the liquor’s effects slowly fade. “I need more drink.”

Arrecina does not try to argue—instead just returns his sigh with a sharp inhale and stands, rounding the coffee table with the kind of resigned look only a woman married for decades to a man can make. “At least allow me to assist you to your room,” she says, extending her hand to grab his. “You are in an unfit state. I doubt the staff wishes to stumble upon you like this in the hall.”

While he doesn’t appreciate her fussing, the less proud part of him does know he is in no shape for stealth. Thus, he lets her grab his hand and follows along with her lead. 

No words would fill the space between them as they trek for the elevator, if not for the occasional soft grumble about how he takes after his father too much. He wonders if she ever did this for Nerva, young and bold and rebelling against the authority of his own father. It is hard to imagine him allowing himself such weakness, but Vespasian is not him. He will never be half the man he is.

It is only as the elevator arrives and the door shuts that his grandmother addresses him again. 

“You must understand, love,” she says quietly, “we never wanted to keep this from you. But some things are better left untold.”

“I will be the judge of that, when I learn the truth,” Vespasian responds. He only meets her stare and the tired lines on her face through the mirror.

“You are so young, and I do worry about how this knowledge may influence you,” she murmurs, barely more than a whisper. “Please, do try to keep an open mind.”

With a mechanical ding, the elevator arrives at its destination—but she gently grabs his arm before he can march out with haste. He turns to her and finds that same strange look from her sitting room, and the discomfort returns in full force. He wants to pull away from her, but he is trapped; her wrinkled fingers wrap around him with a strength he didn’t expect from a woman of such age.

“Promise me you’ll be careful,” she pleads—the sudden note of desperation catches him by surprise, and he cannot bring himself to deny her.

“Very well. I promise.” 

Whether he actually intends to hold to that, well… that’s an entirely different matter. He will, as ever, react in a manner sensible for the situation at hand.

The tension leaves her as she gives a single relieved nod—he takes it as his cue to free himself from her grasp and make his way down the hallway. His mind already races with half a dozen questions, and his heart matches the speed in trepidation about confronting his mother. She will no doubt comment on the stench of whiskey which clings to his breath, and the slur of his words—but if she’s going to judge anyway, then he shall give her reason to.

It takes every shred of manners he learned through his childhood not to simply barge into her bedroom, but he does knock—rather insistently—on the door. There is a pause, then a quiet “Please wait a moment,” and he can only bite his tongue and steel himself. 

Time ticks by, and he is about to knock again when the door finally opens, revealing Polistea. Few words describe what he is met with—the only ones that come to mind are that she looks utterly unwell. He can’t recall the last time he’s seen her eyes this red, or this unenhanced by heavy makeup.

It leaves him stunned into silence, until she breaks it with a question. “Are you drunk?”

“Have you cried?” he deflects with ease, unable to leave the shock out.

Her eyes, red though they might be, narrow with annoyance. “That is not an answer.”

She moves forward, firmly pulling him into the room by his shoulder. He allows this, a ragdoll to her whims as she closes the door from eavesdroppers and onlookers; what she should have done in Nerva’s office if she wished to avoid this outcome. The space is as neat as ever, the bed carefully prepared, the furniture arranged with refined taste and tidiness—nothing like his own quarters as of late.

“Neither is that,” he points out, fighting the vertigo brought about by the insidious combination of his drunken state and the sudden pull. He holds his ground, just barely. “I have more pressing questions, however.”

“Of course you do,” she sighs, exasperated. “You are as relentless and driven as your father.”

She takes a seat at the edge of her bed, smoothing away invisible creases on her dress in what he knows is an attempt to regain composure.

“I heard you and him talking,” he reveals without filter. “About the Last Gala.”

Her eyes snap up to him, widening in something akin to panic. “Oh, Vespasian, please—”

“Don’t try to tell me to forget about it,” he commands, cutting her off before she can even finish the sentence. “Not until you tell me what happened.”

“Must you be in such a state for this conversation?” she snaps, rising from the bed in agitation. “You cannot even stand, you are swaying on your feet!”

“If it wasn’t this, you’d find another excuse,” he accuses. Her grimace knows he’s right. He’d surely be too hungry, or too young, or too irresponsible, however many insults she could come up with. Anything to undermine his right to his own life.

“You’re not ready,” she argues, a pleading note to her voice he despises. “I’m trying to protect you from it. It’s not an easy thing to hear.”

“You’re trying to protect yourself from how Father would react if he knew you told me!”

She recoils, as if physically struck, and he relishes in her stunned silence for a long moment.

That is, of course, until she finds her voice again. “Enough of this,” she snarls with an astonishing lack of grace. “You are drunk and you are tired . Go rest.”

“No, Mother.” He takes a step closer, as steady and unyielding as he can make it. “I know it’s to do with Zenos. If I am to convince him to give up his chase—which I will —I must know everything of relevance. Especially if it concerns myself.”

“You want to know everything ?” she echoes. “Not the curated snippets you so enjoy being spoon-fed by court gossip? Are you certain?”

He nods, firm and resolute—to his own surprise, his drunkenness seems to drain out of him as the confrontation unfolds, washed away by a tide of determination.

She looks at him, searching for something in his gaze, a flicker of hesitation perhaps—she won’t find it. He’s made up his mind. The next words out of her mouth are quiet, chilly. “Very well.” 

He swallows; dread and excitement swirls within him, the latter taking an uncomfortable lead, and he has to remind himself his mother is about to reveal something grave.

“Take a seat.”

Chapter 24

Summary:

In this chapter, you will play as Asahi rem Brutus.

Resonatorium —that is, Asahi has learned, what the largest facility under Lord Zenos’s control is called. He’s yet to find out why it is called as such, but if everything goes according to plan today, he will know that and more.

Before he marches in, he should report to the lesser Galvus. He lifts a finger to his communicator, then waits. And waits. Strange; he figured Vespasian rather punctual, yet here he is, listening to the beeps of the device as it waits for the connection to be established. He begins to wonder if something is amiss, when finally, Vespasian picks up.

“Yes?” The voice on the other end is gruff, like someone who was disturbed from a deep slumber. Yet it’s not just that, Asahi can tell.

“Every time I call, you sound closer and closer to death,” he muses jokingly. It goes unappreciated, as the only response he gets is a soft hiss and the sound of shifting fabric. Perhaps his guess wasn’t far off. “Were you still asleep at this hour?”

“None of your business,” Vespasian mumbles, barely audible—Asahi has to decipher the meaning from below the rustling static of the device. “Anything new to report, or are you merely calling to antagonize me?”

The annoyance is obvious even through the fuzzy connection. Amusing, honestly. But Asahi does have some actual business, so he supposes he’ll lay off the jabs for now… and the small gnawing of worry, which he swats away as soon as he notes it.

“I’m outside the Resonatorium,” he tells the Galvus. “All I need to do is enter and speak to the scientist who’s been operating it. After that, I’ll know everything I need to.”

“And they’ll just tell everything to a mere centurion?” Vespasian questions.

“A senior centurion, actually,” Asahi corrects, haughty and a hair superior—just bordering on insolent, really, but he cannot block the pride seeping in. “‘Mere centurion’? Please. Do not demean my status, when you yourself are too cowardly to take up a proper role in the military.”

“I know what your title is; it is you who forgets mine,” Vespasian snaps. Even more of a temper than usual, it seems. His deep breath buzzes with static, and the temptation to yet another impertinent remark is strong, but Asahi stills his tongue. “Turn up the device’s sound reception and keep me on the line. I need to know you’re not ruining everything.”

Asahi snorts. So that’s how it is. “No ‘thank you’ for bringing information right to your doorstep, no, no. It’s fine. That’s fine.”

He fiddles with the device regardless, and the sound becomes more clear.

“All set,” he informs Vespasian. “Now, don’t you fall asleep on me.”

“I’ll have you replaced one of these days,” Vespasian grumbles, muffled against what must be a pillow. It may make the threat less credible, but Asahi seethes anyway.

Try it , he almost prods, but resists. They may be empty words, but Vespasian may very well fill them if he goads too much. Instead, still haughty, he retorts, “Perhaps you should replace yourself with a competent commander, then. One who is more capable than just sitting back and barking orders.”

“I’m not in the mood for this, Asahi,” comes the response, sharp and humorless. “If you want to keep this job, do it well. And don’t forget who you’re speaking to.”

Asahi only barely bites down the urge to spit something like ‘how could I forget, you keep reminding me ,’ and settles for a scoff and a roll of his eyes. He won’t apologize, and he certainly won’t keep his mouth shut about how little he likes Vespasian, but he knows well enough that he at least can’t make fun of the man’s title… or for having Lord Brutus’s ear.

Instead, he decides to be polite this time. “Understood.”

“ Good ,” is all Vespasian says, then the line goes silent. He must have muted himself. Very mature.

The word coward sits right on the tip of Asahi’s tongue, begging to be said, but he swallows it down and keeps silent. It’s better to focus on the task at hand and the looming building ahead—dark steel clashing against the local terracotta but unassuming in its special importance next to other structures of Imperial make.

He doesn’t care for being treated like a dog by a man too small for his coat and his name, taking orders from someone with such an unwarranted sense of superiority, being silenced and threatened, but…

… he cares even less for Lord Zenos’s continued obsession with the savior of the savages, and will do what he can to destroy that.

 

He approaches the guard stationed at the gates, who looks his salute and identification over before nodding and stepping aside to open the Resonatorium and allow him in. Asahi doesn’t wait for any further prompting; he strides inside with purpose, his footsteps echoing in the sterile halls.

He has a scientist to speak to and orders to complete.

The Resonatorium is as strange on the inside as it is on the outside. Odd instruments fill it, the purpose of half of which Asahi doesn’t recognize, but the man he’s come to speak to isn’t hard to find. He has a small office right next to a control chamber, where he’s fiddling with something.

He looks up on hearing Asahi’s footsteps, confused to see such a low ranker approaching him. That’s what Asahi has learned that manner of appraising eye means, anyhow.

“Aulus mal Asina, I assume?” he gives a greeting and his sweetest smile, concealing what he thinks of such an expression. “I am Asahi rem Brutus. I’d like to discuss your work here and how it might benefit my cohort.”

“Ah, indeed.” Aulus looks Asahi over with a curious glance, before gesturing for him to step inside as he returns to his seat, motioning for one across the desk from him. “You said your name was Brutus?”

“I’m a ward of the house,” Asahi confirms with a nod as he takes the offered chair, sitting politely with his hands on his lap. They curl into fists and he tries not to audibly grit his teeth as he asks, “You’re familiar with my sister, yes?”

Aulus’s eyebrows rise in vague intrigue. Asahi is not sure whether it’s that he’s surprised to hear of Yotsuyu, or that he is the one to bring her up. Either way, he settles into his own seat before he responds.

“Yotsuyu goe Brutus,” he says, with enough authority—or unwarranted self-importance—to make the title feel like just another name. “The late viceroy of Doma, yes? My condolences.”

Asahi’s fists curl tighter at the mention of her title, at the mention of her at all. She’s dead and gone, yet any reminder of her still riles him up to no end. Really, the less said about her, the better; the only thing the wretched whore ever was good for is exploiting her undeserved prestige to gain a foothold for himself.

He bites the inside of his cheek to stifle the snarling anger growing within his chest, forcing civility to stay in his tone. “You’ve done an excellent job here, from what I understand.”

The man’s ego no doubt inflates, with how he preens under Asahi’s praise. He sits up straighter, as if to show himself more favorably. “Thank you,” he says, voice as smarmy as his little self-assured smirk. “It’s only thanks to Lord Zenos’s generosity and the resources he’s provided that I’ve been able to perform quality research.”

At least someone around here puts the appropriate respect onto the name. Even so, this bastard likely cares for naught but the funds. He cannot possibly appreciate enough how lucky he is to bask in his lord’s favor.

“What is said research on, if I may ask?” Asahi inquires. “Does it relate to your previous interest, by any chance?”

“My research ,” the scientist replies, as if the very word and all it entails has been imbued with some greater importance only he understands, “relates to Lord Zenos’s interest in the Echo.”

Of course. Of course the man’s going to be smug about his lord’s bizarre obsession with the damn savages’ magic. Asahi nods along in faux-interest. “Fascinating.” He makes a show of folding his fingers together and resting his chin upon them, leaning closer as if enthralled. “And this has been bearing results, I presume?”

Aulus’s expression is nearly insufferable, thirsty as he is to have someone show such interest in his work. He’s one of those men, then; one who loves the sound of his own voice. Asahi is reminded of a certain someone undoubtedly listening in.

“Oh yes,” the scientist says, adjusting one of the buttons on his sleeve. “Significant advances have been made. Once everything is… in place, send any volunteers in your cohort our way. Preferably of the Garlean genome.”

Asahi can just barely keep himself from snickering in response; he knows of the man’s previous experiments. He’s one of Zenos’s preferred scientists, after all. He also knows of the bodies—volunteer or otherwise—left behind in his path, mangled and grotesque beyond recognition.

He forces a small smile, pretending as if he knows naught of his little lab’s dark secrets. “Excellent news indeed. I look forward to seeing what you lot will achieve.”

Aulus’s smirk curls back into place, and it’s so smug that it takes every bit of Asahi’s self-restraint not to wipe it right off his ugly face.

“You will,” the scientist says, the words dripping with unearned arrogance. “Rest assured. We’re nearly finished with the final tests that will pave the way for the next phase."

“That is great to hear.” Asahi reckons he has learned everything he is going to learn in this room, and that he has sufficiently buttered this buffoon up. He sweetens his own smile and tilts his head a few degrees to appear as innocuous as possible. “If I may be so bold as to impose upon more of your time,” he asks, “could you take me on a tour around the facility? It could be most enlightening.”

Aulus blinks, doubt crossing his features; as it seems, he was not expecting that request. His lips purse in contemplation for a few moments, as if weighing out the pros and cons in that narcissistic head of his. 

He shakes his head.

“Your enthusiasm is appreciated,” he says. “However, the deeper corridors of the premises are accessed strictly by higher order only.”

Asahi expected that answer, though he’s not surprised to hear it. Such a paranoid man, this Aulus. He nods respectfully, as if he accepts this decision, then rises from his seat. “Very well. Thank you for your time, then, I shall take my leave.”

Aulus’s smirk returns, a smug little gesture that just nettles Asahi all the more.

“Of course,” the scientist says, the oily tone just as nauseating as his expression. “I wish you good luck finding your way out.”

Asahi’s teeth grit once more, this time out of vexation rather than fury. He hides the reaction, however, with a respectful little bow before he turns and marches out of the scientist’s office.

“Still awake?” he whispers to the communicator once out of earshot.

“Yes,” comes Vespasian’s voice over the line, almost instantly. “And listening. Mal Asina? My cousin’s propensity for scandalous hires speaks for itself.”

A snicker escapes Asahi’s lips, one he has to quickly swallow back as he looks over his shoulder at the security cameras lining the walls. “He’s a smarmy little bastard,” he murmurs, ducking off to find a more secluded area. “And full of himself, to boot.”

“One would assume you familiar with such an attitude from the mirror,” Vespasian jabs.

The snide comment earns a sneer from Asahi, but he holds his tongue. He can insult that pompous bastard in his head, but he doesn’t want the security staff of the Resonatorium to know of his… colorful language.

“Ha ha.” The false humor in his tone is drier than the desert which surrounds the building. “Was that everything you needed to learn?”

“Was it?” Vespasian rebuffs the question. “I’m not the one who has to use this knowledge to sabotage the rebels’ advancement. Are you sure you can’t sneak your way deeper in?”

That just elicits another scoff from Asahi. “No ‘please?’ Nor ‘thank you?’ Nothing? Just demanding I risk my hide sneaking down?”

He’s not sure which irks him more: the fact that Vespasian has no concern for his well-being, or that the man has to ask at all. “There’s a security clearance,” he reminds him. “You know these scientists are hyper paranoid. I’m not getting in.”

A grumble filters from the other end, one that comes off as both irritated and thoughtful at the same time. He can picture the man, tapping his chin in contemplation as he looks off into the distance.

“I know that,” Vespasian replies after a moment. There is an impatience in it that almost veers into desperation. “You’re absolutely certain there isn’t some… way around it?”

Just then, the putrid stench of death carries into Asahi’s nose and nearly makes him retch. He lifts his head to locate the source: a lab technician with a filthy coat and an overworked slouch, sporting the sourest expression and the messiest mousy grey ponytail Asahi has ever seen in his life. A pathetic creature, but not without its uses.

“There was one suggestion you made yesterday that could work,” he muses quietly, careful not to be heard by his newfound target.

Asahi hears Vespasian make a noise of curious acknowledgement, but his attention stays on the technician. He’s not sure how anyone could look so miserable; the portrait of a Garlean who has given up on life. And one who likely cares so little about his job he could be extorted, if he figured out with what.

“What is it?” Vespasian’s voice snaps Asahi out of his thoughts, a reminder of his presence at the other end of the communicator line. Right, he’d better get to it, then.

He glances around, ensuring the hall is empty and the cameras trained elsewhere, then approaches the man with a false air of sympathy.

“Are you well, sir?” he asks gently.

The man didn’t notice Asahi’s approach; he jolts in surprise, then stares at him stunned that anyone’s speaking to him. After all, the workers here are just lowly laborers, easily passed over and barely considered more important than tools.

“… I’m fine,” he mutters, giving Asahi a tired glance before self-consciously attempting to rub a dark stain off his lab coat.

The motion draws Asahi’s eye to his name tag. “Tiberius jen Laelius,” he reads it out loud, for Vespasian’s sake as well as to feed the gears in his own mind.

“A relative of van Laelius, no doubt,” Vespasian muses. “I believe he does have family in the scientific field.”

Asahi nearly rolls his eyes at the insinuation that he doesn’t know his military history enough to arrive at the same conclusion. Instead, he continues to observe the man. He’s an interesting one for sure; his family has seen its fair share of glory, and yet, it appears this… Tiberius has ended up here, working in such a state of disrepair.

A pity. He’s almost sorry to do this.

“Does Lord Marcius know you toil yourself to death in such a demeaning manner?” he asks, carefully balancing concern and thinly veiled disdain, bordering on threat.

“Excuse me?” the man splutters.

It brings the faintest of smirks to Asahi’s lips. This is going very according to plan; his feigned concern has hooked the man, who now stares at him with wide disbelieving eyes, perhaps wondering who is this stranger who dares ask him such a question.

“I’m just wondering,” he reiterates, “if Lord Marcius—or the rest of your family, for that matter—are aware of the conditions in which you work.”

“What do you care if they are or not?” Tiberius snaps. That shock has now evolved to anxiety, and Asahi must resist a smile of satisfaction. The man glances around, afraid one of his fellow workers will overhear their conversation.

“You see, I have a friend in the court…” Asahi hopes Vespasian has enough sense not to read too much into his words. “The word of your misery could easily reach the right ears .”

His words are enough to put the fear of a thousand savage gods into that technician. The man’s already pasty skin pales further at Asahi’s implication. He looks over his shoulders as if waiting for someone to come get him, then returns his fearful gaze to him.

“What— What is it that you want?” he squeaks.

A slow and sly smirk curves Asahi’s lips, now completely unveiled in his confidence that he’s got this idiot right where he wants him. “What I want,” he murmurs, “is to look around the Resonatorium. And I want you to give me the security clearance to do so without arousing any suspicion.”

The man gapes stupidly, wishing intently for this to be a joke. It looks ridiculous on his face, and Asahi holds back a laugh at his expense. 

“I—I can’t just do that,” Tiberius stammers out, glancing once more around the empty hall, “Someone will—”

“No one will know,” Asahi reassures him. He braves the stink that emanates from him and takes one step closer, then lowers his voice to soothe. “No one has to know. And if you do… I certainly won’t mention anything to my contact at court.”

The technician stares at him, clearly warring with himself. Asahi can see the wheels turning in his mind, calculating the worth of his job against that of his reputation back home. There is no reward for him at the end of this, surely, but there must be some path out of the rat maze that leads to less punishment.

Finally, he bites his lip and sighs. A heavy, defeated sound. “… Fine ,” he hisses, averting his gaze while his mouth contorts into an ugly scowl. “I’ll… see what I can do.”

Bingo. What a perfect victory. If the poor guy wasn’t such a slimy little sod, Asahi would give him a pat on the back for his trouble. He’d rather not risk any germs, however, so he instead simply thanks him and offers a polite smile, all while inwardly celebrating. This is one way into the facility, all thanks to this spineless creature and his family lineage.

“Did you hear that, my friend?” Asahi murmurs to the communicator once his reluctant new ally’s back turns. Vespasian must be at the edge of his seat. “Operation infiltration is a go. Wish me luck.”

Notes:

Oh, you wanted Galvus family secrets?? Not yet. Have a worm instead. And some other guy. And also a rat, courtesy of my friend Frankie again. So weird to write Tibby's government name. Who is Tiberius, I only know this soggy man :/

Chapter 25

Notes:

Small warning for some gore in this chapter! Also for simp worms left and right

Watching Tiberius lead him into the labyrinthine halls of the deeper Resonatorium, Asahi gains the impression he is the type of rodent to know how to avoid security measures. All the better for his purposes, but it does make him watch him more closely. He’s still hunched into himself as he surveys his surroundings, and a low mutter leaves his lips, of which Asahi can only discern “she will kill me.”

Asahi’s interest piqued at the man’s muttering, he frowns as he studies him. “Who will kill you?” he asks bluntly.

Tiberius startles, nearly tripping on his feet, as if he hadn’t realized someone heard him. He gives Asahi a brief glance like a dagger tossed over his shoulder. “My supervisor,” he stammers, looking every bit the cornered rat he is. “That is all.”

Ah. A common enemy for them both: a power-tripping superior. Something Asahi can definitely sympathize with. He hums in response, allowing the man to get back to his paranoid mumbling under his breath. Until he asks, “I don’t suppose this supervisor is someone I’m allowed to meet, then?”

“She’s… busy,” the technician grumbles. He whips his head from side to side to ensure the coast is clear, then guides Asahi to a hallway that looks like the rest; long, cold, metallic, empty. No sounds of people or motion come from the dark rooms on either side.

Asahi wonders how the man can tell these halls apart. It all looks the same to him: grey and monotonous.

“Busy?” he echoes. “With what?”

The man goes quiet, deciding whether he should answer, then sighs. “Meeting with the prince about something.” He pauses, then adds, “But she has eyes everywhere.”

“Is that so?” Asahi murmurs, his voice coached flat and indifferent even as just the word prince makes his heart skip a beat.

“And security cameras,” Tiberius continues mumbling. “She—”

Thump, rattle, right next to their ears. Asahi almost jumps, and Tiberius does , hissing and cursing under his breath. Someone—some thing laughs; as Asahi turns to the direction of the sound, he sees a caged Ananta with her palms to the glass.

“Who doesss?” she asks. “My Lady?”

Asahi can’t stop the cold shiver that crawls down his spine at the sight of the creature. Still, he forces a calm expression onto his face.

Tiberius swallows hard, his knees buckling. He tries to speak, but no sound comes out of his mouth, which has contorted to an ugly grimace of hatred. After a moment, he manages to croak out, “Nobody, you horrid beast.”

The creature leans right into the glass, unsettlingly wide eyes boring right into Asahi’s. She tilts her head, her forked tongue laps the air. “Does Ssshe know you’ve brought a friend?”

The words hang heavily in the air, and fear radiates from the man next to Asahi. For a moment, he thinks they’ve been caught. Until he realizes the creature means no threat. How could she? A trapped beast holds no power over either of them. Rather, she’s taunting them.

His eyes narrow in a glare, and an expression of scorn crosses his face. “Be quiet,” he snaps at the snake woman. “No one needs to know.”

“You hide from My Lady’sss grace?” Obsession seeps from her words, and something clouds those offputting eyes—something unnatural which makes Asahi’s skin crawl. “You should know, careless ratsss get their tails in knotsss.”

Something isn’t right with this thing. The temptation to turn around and walk away is strong, but Asahi reminds himself he is already in this deep. He would sooner be caught and hanged than let some snake intimidate him. “And you should mind your business if you know what’s good for you,” he retorts, trying to sound as impervious as possible.

The creature’s mouth opens, and her teeth—too sharp, far too sharp—snap together into a twisted smirk. “Or what?” Her fingers drum against the glass, and her gaze remains fixed on Asahi while she continues to speak. “What do you think will happen if My Lady finds out you are sssspying?”

“I’m not spying,” he lies. “Tiberius here is giving me a tour.”

“Just ignore her,” Tiberius suggests through gritted teeth. He’s found his feet again, beginning to scurry away from the cage.

This time, the creature’s gaze snaps to the technician, and there’s malice in it that wasn’t there before. Her smirk becomes a snarl and her lips curl back, exposing her too-sharp fangs in their full length.

“Did your sssuperior give you permission to do this, vermin?” Her voice is sharp and biting, with no hint of the earlier mockery.

“Ignore her,” Tiberius repeats, storming faster away from the cage, like he couldn’t stand one more second next to it.

“You can’t avoid Her punishment, Tibby!” she calls out after him, rattling the glass—Asahi scrambles to catch up with his guide, startled by the sound. “Ssshe will put you in that death machine and toss you in the pitsss!”

The screeching, inhuman voice calling out to them is enough to make Asahi shiver in true disgust. He almost feels sorry for the technician, but reminds himself that this fool put himself in this position before he hurries after him.

Tiberius, or Tibby—Asahi must admit the monster’s disdainful nickname suits the man much better—doesn’t respond to the horrid creature. Instead, he only picks up his pace, muttering ‘be quiet ’ over and over as he leads Asahi away from the wretched thing.

“What is up with her?” he asks with an unconcealed scowl—with how openly Tibby is showing his similar feelings, he feels no need to hide.

“ That ,” Tiberius says viciously as they walk down the hallway, the sound of the creature’s laughter following them as they go, “is Lady Minerva’s pet project.” He spits the name out like a curse. “Or, was. She should have been thrown in the pits with the rest of them when we moved on from the experiment.”

“And why wasn’t she?” Asahi asks with the slightest hint of condescension. He can’t help it; the man is an idiot, and he has far better things to be worrying about than some petty squabble with a creature locked up in a cage.

Tibby is quick to scoff, even as he continues to glance over his shoulder towards where the beast still hisses. “For ‘continued observation of her tempering’, she said.”

Tempering. That would explain the vacant eyes and the strange obsessive behavior. It does, however, raise new questions to replace those it answers. “If I’m not mistaken, the eikon the Ananta worship is Sri Lakshmi,” Asahi ponders, “but I get the impression that is not the ‘lady’ she referred to.”

“The creature doesn’t worship any gods,” Tibby mumbles, his brow furrowing as he continues to march down the hall. “Not anymore.”

“Your lady, then?” They turn the corner and the creature’s cage is finally gone from sight.

Tibby does not even bother to answer verbally, only gives a vague grunt that just screams ‘who else?’ . Annoying, but Asahi supposes it was an unnecessary query; his mind readily supplies the name to go with the title.

“Such a feat,” he concurs, “switching a tempered beast’s target of worship to oneself.”

“She has been obsessed with the science of tempering for years ,” Tibby says. “This isn’t the first creature she’s broken. Just the first that still lives to annoy me.”

And isn’t that an unpleasant thought. Asahi doesn’t envy Tibby’s position; dealing with not only that snake, but Lady Minerva herself day in and day out must be a torment in a league of its own. Dealing with the buzzing pest in his ear suddenly doesn’t seem so bad. All he can do is give a sympathetic ‘hm’ in response, and the line of inquiry dies down as he considers the implications.

If there have been more than this one Ananta, the tensions between the army and the tribe must be running even higher than Vespasian’s reports suggested. It’s hard to concentrate on that, however, as he thinks of Lord Zenos currently stuck with a madwoman. Something in him curls at the thought of his beloved in close quarters with someone like that . He knows the man can take care of himself, but that woman’s attention… it doesn’t sit right with Asahi.

The two men reach an intersection. Tibby thinks through his next path. “They’re probably still sanitizing the main chamber,” he mumbles, mostly to himself, then raises his voice just enough for Asahi to hear it better. “You’ll have to be satisfied with the footage.”

“Footage?” Asahi understands perfectly well what Tibby means, but repeating the word grounds him back to the moment. His earlier musings are as good as gone now.

Tibby just nods, not even bothering to look at him. “As I said, the entire Resonatorium is rigged with security cameras. You can access the footage on any monitor in the vicinity.”

Right. Of course. “I assume you can also delete it, if we’re visible in it?” Asahi asks, glancing at him from the corner of his eye.

Tibby shrugs, then returns the look. “Can, but you risk raising suspicion. The guards are usually too overworked to check the footage.” He pauses, his eyes narrowing, then adds, “Unless they’re looking for someone, that is.”

“Such as if a snake-woman was screeching their name in the hallways?”

The man flinches at the word ‘screeching’. “Yes, that is a risk…”

The hall falls quiet. No doubt they’re both considering the possible consequences of getting caught. 

Tibby finally sighs, shoulders drooping. He glances around again, checking one last time. “Follow me. I know a place where no one will look.”

Asahi falls in step, following close behind as Tibby leads him further down the hall. The air between them is thick and heavy; Asahi can practically hear his own thoughts bounce off the walls. He would almost prefer the inane prattling to the stifling silence.

It’s a long while again before Tibby speaks, and Asahi startles when he finally does. “There’s a terminal about two halls down.” His quiet, mumbling voice carries an edge of nervousness. “A maintenance room… it’s often unmanned, unless there’s a major malfunction.”

Asahi just hums in acknowledgement, filing the information away. The two continue their journey in persisting quietude, until finally they stop in front of what looks like a utility closet. Tibby opens the door for Asahi to go first.

The room is surprisingly spacious for its small size and contains only a few consoles and some chairs. Asahi can tell it’s not used frequently, judging by how dusty everything appears. He turns to ask Tibby how to access the feed, only to be shoved aside. It takes all of his self control not to send that rat into the wall.

Tibby gives a low, insincere apology as he sits down in front of the screen. With a swipe of his card and a few swift keyboard strokes, the display changes to a multitude of window feeds showcasing the Resonatorium.

Asahi steps behind him and peers over his shoulders to get a better look at the screen. There’s so much happening all at once, so many cameras to keep track of. He’s beginning to think this was a far more difficult task than—

“Here. Watch.”

Tibby’s voice pierces through his mental complaints, his gaze brought back to the monitor. The man presses some keys, and the screen quickly changes from live footage to a recording, the date of which speaks of this morning.

The feed shows a large chamber with two pods fit for a person connecting to a surface not unlike a hospital bed with various pipes. At first glance there’s not much going on; all he sees is a number of scientists working around the device, Tibby among them. Despite its peculiarity, it is hardly the most enthralling show.

“Be patient.” The soft command is enough to keep Asahi’s attention there for a few minutes, watching the technicians at work. Until finally, finally , something happens.

A man in his undergarments is brought to the bed by two guards and strapped down. He does not struggle, does not test his restraints—simply lies there with his chest heaving and waits in tense anticipation, just like Asahi on his side of the screen. Some moments later, a loud whirr sounds and the pods light up. The pipes shake with the power transferred, the man’s body tenses like a taut wire. Then a bright flash of light, a splurch, and a blood-curdling scream.

Asahi watches with nary a wince as the light fades and reveals the man’s cranium blown across the mattress, grey matter dripping down the metal leg of the bed. His remote companion, however, has more of a reaction to the mere sound. “What was that ?!”

Asahi suppresses a snicker at Vespasian’s weak stomach, not to let Tibby know they have company.

As if he was heard, however, the squeamish prince gets his answer: “ That is a failed process.” Tibby grimaces as he pauses the scene on the screen, but there’s no hesitation in his voice. It’s as if the horrific act is more a routine annoyance than a scene from a man’s execution—and undoubtedly the reason he reeks like a corpse. “One of many. The Resonatorium has yet to give successful results. Lord Aulus, Lady Minerva and the research division are still ironing out the kinks.”

“Tempering?” Asahi asks. Tibby scoffs as if he’s stupid. He bites back his ire.

“No,” Tibby says. “The Resonant, of course.”

The new term piques Asahi’s interest. “The Resonant?” he inquires, his brow furrowing. He knows of the Resonatorium as a facility, but he’s never heard the specific term in any context.

Tibby doesn’t respond at first; the scientist is too engrossed in typing commands on the screen to bother with further questions. Once the video feed is closed and replaced with other footage, he explains like teaching a particularly dull child, “It’s a form of aether manipulation. The machine can transfer aether from one source to another. The hoped end result is unlocking magic in the Garlean genome with the Echo—or a copy of it, the Resonant.”

Asahi nods to show he’s still listening and manages to keep at bay an insulted growl. What the man described sounds… well, to be honest, it sounds like lunacy. A part of him wonders how seriously he should take this explanation, but that part is overpowered by his more rational side. The Resonant, while a ridiculous notion, is certainly not an impossible one. Such an invention could be a significant technological advantage. Or, it means nothing and leads to nothing, and this project is a complete load of shite.

But Lord Zenos believes in it. That is the reminder he gives himself, and the one that makes him believe in it in turn. It must be worth some merit, it must . The fact that his beloved prince is currently a guinea pig in this machine… it sends a shiver down his spine.

Tibby tabs onto more recent footage and the Ananta’s familiar screams fill his ears. “Now, let’s just pretend that never happened…” he mutters as he deletes the evidence.

“Wise choice.”  Asahi’s own tone is quiet and tense, his expression schooled into one of absolute impassiveness. He tires of glancing over the man’s shoulder and sits down on a nearby chair, watching the monitor switch from channel to channel.

“Wait.” Something catches his notice. “Let me see that one.”

A few quick keystrokes later, a new feed displays on the entire screen. There are only two figures in the room, one on a bed similar to the one he saw before, but he cannot see either of their faces—at least, not yet. Tibby scowls at the sight of the wine-haired woman’s back, which feeds his assumption that this might be Lady Minerva.

The other—a Miqo’te, he spots a swatting tail—hisses while the woman says soothing words that don’t hit their mark. “You’re only going to hurt yourself if you don’t comply.”

The feline-featured woman writhes as she is strapped down to the machine, her face still hidden from view behind the scientist’s body. Asahi notes the faint white glow of a magitek collar.

“ You’re the one who’s going to hurt me,” the woman responds. Her voice is weak, but loud enough to be picked up; the grit behind the words carries through. It’s a sound he’s heard many times before, on many different people.

Something about her stirs his memory. He squints his eyes, tilts his head as if it will allow him to see past Minerva. “Is there another camera in this room we could access? I think…”

Tibby doesn’t need to find one, as Minerva moves to the other side of the bed, circling the captive catgirl like a vulture. She finally comes into view. Her hair is a disheveled mess, strands sticking to her forehead, and sweat glistens on bronze skin covered in dried blood and dirt. The dark circles under her eyes are pronounced, and her body trembles both in exhaustion and obvious pain. She’s been beaten down and worn out, but she lifts her chin defiantly as she looks at Minerva.

It is just as Asahi thought. He knows this woman.

Chapter 26

Summary:

In this chapter, you will play as Vespasian yae Galvus.

“ What do you mean they have the Warrior of Light’s friend?! ” A noise of disbelief leaves Vespasian’s throat at the news. All blood drains out of his face. “A friend?” he repeats, and his voice cracks. “Asahi? You’re—you’re certain of this?”

“I saw it on the feed,” Asahi confirms. The device faintly picks up him tapping a hard surface. As relieved as Vespasian should be that his one and only connection to Gyr Abania survived the excursion unscathed and managed to retreat to solitude without catching unnecessary attention, he finds it difficult to focus on the silver lining. “I don’t recall her name, but it is the Miqo’te dragoon he keeps in close company.”

Attempting to process the onslaught of information he has been handed has Vespasian’s mind racing. His hands clench into tight fists at his side. “How did they even capture her?” he wonders aloud, unable to keep his outrage leashed. “No—more importantly, do you understand what this means? The Demon Rabbit won’t take this lying down. He’ll storm the facility and head straight for Zenos, no doubt, and then…”

“And then I imagine Lord Zenos will relish the chance to meet him,” Asahi finishes the thought for him through clenched teeth. For a beat, it seems like that’s all he has to say—until he speaks again in a voice nearly lost to the device. “It almost sounds like that was the plan all along.”

“To have him provoke a conflict?” Vespasian questions, horror sinking deep into his words. He takes shaky steps towards the window, hoping for a calming view; the garden outside remains still and peaceful, blissfully ignorant of the impending catastrophe. “This is madness .”

“One should have expected no less from Lord Zenos.” Asahi has returned to a more reasonable volume and pitch, but his words are dry and filled with irritation. “Do you see now why I was hesitant to share? You’re acting irrational.”

“ Irrational ? Really, Brutus?” Vespasian opens the window and lets the cold breeze in, yet he still struggles to breathe. That is still what everyone thinks, isn’t it? He’s irrational, he’s too childish to react with grace, so better not tell him anything. Better keep him in ignorance as he walks to the slaughter. “My life is on the line. Tell me, then, what is the rational response to that?”

Asahi doesn’t even bother with the usual condescending tone. Instead he sighs, showing the first hint of genuine fatigue with this entire situation he has uttered since they first spoke on the matter. 

“I don’t claim to know the proper reaction,” he says strangely softly, “but I can only advise you to stay calm.” The hint of exhaustion turns into a faint note of worry , and even that much surprises.

Vespasian presses the side of his head against the window, taking a moment to close his eyes. It is a rare gesture of vulnerability for him, one he usually only permits himself in the privacy he knows is lacking. At least Asahi cannot see him.

“Calm,” he echoes, trying to keep from breaking down. “Yes. I’ll—I’ll stay calm.”

No doubt Zenos stayed calm as assassins surrounded him in that brothel, after all; but then again, he could afford to. He has the brawn to shrug off any number of assailants. In comparison, what could Vespasian have done against the retaliation, if the hired killers did drag him away from the palace for their plot? What could he do now, if Varis struck again?

How stupid and blind he was to think the handsome fellow showing him all that attention at the ball had no ulterior motives—but then, who could have known it was to kill him ? Sycophants and bootlickers he can deal with for a night, but that crosses several lines. He wishes aunt Flavia still lived so he could show his gratitude for her watchful eye. Back then, he was under the impression she thought his company too old for him… and that may, in all fairness, have also been true. The conspiratorial whispers with the others prowling on young Vespasian like wolves were still the worse crime.

His heart clenches—this time, neither from rage against a threat to his life, nor annoyance at his agent. “I was too naive,” he realizes aloud. It comes out as a whisper. “I really am as much of an idiot as everyone makes me out to be.”

He half expects Asahi to agree, but no such remark comes. Whether or not it is out of genuine sympathy or a desire to be pragmatic, to not stir his emotions even further, he can only guess. At this point, he doesn’t care. He swallows hard, fighting the strange sensation of moisture rising to his eyes. He hasn’t cried in years, not even in private, and he’s not about to have this be the time to break that particular streak. Not while on the line with Asahi, who will no doubt be able to tell. He has to compose himself, and quickly. 

“I should go,” he manages, pushing off from the windowsill with a deep breath. “I can’t just… sit around anymore. I need to… do something .”

“What exactly is it that you can do?” Asahi immediately questions. Though it lacks the usual acerbic tone,  it still stabs straight to the heart.

Not knowing an answer to such a question only heightens his desperation to act , an urge that threatens to consume him from within. “I don’t know,” he bites out with frustration and the beginnings of unwelcome tears creeping into his voice. But he can’t wait for death to come calling. That much should be obvious, no?

Again, Asahi goes quiet; maybe he’s trying to come up with a careful response. Vespasian tries to hold his sanity as he waits for him to speak, but he’s always had issues with controlling his temper, and it’s only been getting worse lately.

“Just say something—” he blurts out, and he hates how strained it sounds, how on the edge of breaking he is.

“Calm down ,” Asahi finally repeats sternly—to his horror, it makes him go silent, just as if he had clapped his hand over his mouth. 

Even worse, a few more traitorous tears make their way to his eyelashes, and he’s forced to close his eyes so as not to let them escape.

His agent’s voice comes through the communicator again, lower and gentler this time. “… Take a deep breath.” 

He follows the command without question, only a deep, shaky inhale, one that stutters. He holds it for a few seconds, then lets it out slowly. The action does help keep a better reign of his emotions, though the tears cling like stubborn leeches and are not so easily chased away.

“Listen,” Asahi says in an even voice, the complete opposite of the turmoil inside Vespasian, “I don’t know what’s going on at your end to have you this out of sorts, but I’ve got this. I have a plan. It will buy us some time.”

It’s a thrown lifeline, the first sliver of hope in the whirlwind of anxiety. It makes him choke on the air in his throat—or perhaps, that is merely the effect of the panic attempting to strangle him—but his gratitude cannot be overstated. 

“Time,” he echoes, clinging to that promise. “Anything will do, at this point.”

“Good,” Asahi replies with a note of approval. He sounds like usual self again, and maybe that’s for the best. Vespasian’s mind is a maelstrom of conflicting thoughts, and if his agent at least stays predictably annoying, it’s one less factor for him to handle. 

“Trust me,” Asahi continues. That almost feels like a joke between them, considering the circumstance.

Vespasian wipes his eyes with the cuff of his sleeve. “What choice do I have?” 

Asahi gives a small huff on the other side, perhaps in lieu of a laugh. “None. And don’t even think of your nonsensical plan of replacing me.”

The moment of levity is welcome, but short-lived; Vespasian’s anxiety creeps back with a vengeance after the brief relief vanishes. His shoulders begin to shake ever so subtly as his third eye hits the glass. “This all feels too much for me to deal with,” he hears his own voice mutter, cracking despite all his efforts to suppress it.

“You don’t have to deal with everything ,” Asahi says softly. It is an attempt at comfort, and that knowledge in itself is somehow more surprising than the words. “That’s my job, yes?”

“What a poor job you’ve been doing,” Vespasian retorts weakly, too tired to even spit enough venom to make the insult convincing. “At this rate I’ll be dead within the month.”

“Your faith in me is truly touching,” Asahi replies dryly. Then, quieter, “Stop despairing. I’m not about to let that happen, you know.”

Vespasian almost laughs in a half-hysterical manner, but he catches himself before the sound can leave his throat, a weak noise being the only audible result. “You’re an agent,” he says, quiet and distant in his own ears. “Not a miracle worker.”

“I’m also a commander,” Asahi reminds him, with clear annoyance that he has to again, “and I’ve encouraged men ten times braver into situations ten times as dangerous. So chin up, Galvus.”

Vespasian snaps right back into attention. His head, as if under the spell of a hypnotist, rises from the cold surface of the window, and his shoulders lose the defeated droop they had taken on.  “Don’t act like I’m some wet-behind-the-ears recruit,” he grumbles, some of the fight returning to him. “I’m capable of taking care of myself.”

“Then why have you given up? The Vespasian I know is usually as stubborn as they come,” Asahi points out with a scoff. “You were so eager to pick fights before I left, yet now you’re ready to roll over and show your belly?”

“I’ve not—” he sputters in indignation, but stops himself from getting worked up again. “You’re right,” he relents bitterly. “I’m being a coward.”

Asahi gives a surprised noise. Maybe it’s the fact that he surrendered so quickly. “I… yes, indeed.” He’d likely had some elaborate jab in mind, but his heart isn’t really in it. “It’s good to hear you acknowledge it.”

“Why do you even care?” Vespasian questions, exasperated. The young Brutus is impossible to understand; he can’t figure out if the irritation brewing is at him, or at himself. “Shouldn’t you be jumping for joy at my suffering?”

“Perhaps I would, were your fate not tied to mine,” Asahi replies with a sigh. “I still maintain you’re being overly melodramatic. It’s pathetic, if I’m being completely honest.”

“And I suppose you think I should just be stoic and take the situation in stride?” Vespasian deadpans, not amused by the back-handed sympathy. “‘Tis the Galvus way, is it not?”

“You could stand to tone it down a notch,” Asahi says, and a tinge of the earlier exhaustion returns. “I don’t enjoy seeing you go off the deep end like this. It makes you impossible to work with, amongst… other things.”

The implication makes him pause in surprise—he’s tempted to ask what exactly he means by that, but something stops the words from leaving his mouth. Perhaps it’s the fact he thinks he won’t much like the answer, or perhaps it’s the shame it’s going to bring him to hear he’s truly acting in an unbecoming manner for someone of his standing. His thoughts whirl, caught in a vortex of confusion…

… Until something surfaces, which he almost forgot in his earlier panic. “Wait a moment. You said you have a plan.”

“I do,” Asahi confirms. “You might not like it. But I consider it an improvement to you having some sort of breakdown.”

“Consider my mood stabilized,” Vespasian gives a caustic, barely true remark. “Let’s hear your grand scheme.”

A knock sounds at the door, straightening his spine and making him grip tightly to the windowsill. Right now? He’s well aware he looks like a mess, and certainly is in no mood to receive visitors. He’s just about to simply pretend he isn’t in, when he hears his father’s voice:

“Vespasian?”

He sighs. “Ah. I’ll have to call you back; my father needs me.”

Asahi hums an acknowledgement, and Vespasian ends the call. A long sigh passes his lips in his vain attempt to compose himself. He rubs his face with the back of his hand, hoping it will help wipe away any remnant of the earlier tears he failed to suppress—it probably won’t do much, but he’s not about to let Nerva see him this rattled.

“Father,” he calls back with as much composure as he can muster. “One moment.”

He takes a look at himself in the mirror. His hair is a mess, his shirt crumpled from having passed out in it after drinking himself into oblivion. The telltale puffiness of his eyes cannot be hidden in such short notice. There isn’t much he can fix besides the haunted look on his face, but it’ll have to do. Another deep breath. Time to put on his ‘everything is fine and I’m a perfectly responsible adult’ facade.

“Come in,” he says, forcing his voice to remain steady. His heart threatens to pound right out of his chest, the adrenaline about to overtake him again, and he prays it doesn’t show physically. He doesn’t know which is more terrifying: another assassination attempt, or his father’s disappointment at his reaction to learning of the first. He has no choice but to face the latter.

His father enters with caution, regarding Vespasian with a worried frown. He shuts the door behind him gently, careful not to let the sound startle him. Vespasian finds the look disarming; his father has never been the type to coddle him like this, usually the first to make sharply worded corrections when his behavior wasn’t up to standard. It isn’t helping his nerves in any capacity.

The uncertainty of the situation is sending his brain off the rails. Usually they meet in Nerva’s office, which has clear rules for how he’s to act. Here, in his domain, no such script exists; he’s uncertain whether his father’s presence in his space makes him even more vulnerable, or whether it means he should be its king.

Nerva takes a step forward, and Vespasian has to actively stop himself from moving backwards in kind.  “My son,” his father says. The worry in that simple word nearly sends him into a tailspin. “We need to talk.”

Vespasian swallows a lump in his throat. He knows what to expect, yet he’s still afraid to hear it. He steels his shoulders and does his best to stand straight, to not collapse into a trembling mess. His father watches him with such uncharacteristic softness, one which wakes a strong urge to look away. 

“Of course,” he tries to say, but his voice is so shaky he has to pause and swallow hard again. What comes out is a pathetic croak.

What it gets him is a look of understanding, of sympathy. “Sit,” his father instructs. It takes everything in him to obey. The bed still lacks a proper tidying up, with its sheets tangled and unmade, one of the pillows thrown haphazardly to the floor. His foot grazes a near-empty bottle next to it. The shame weighs heavily on him.

He takes a seat on the edge of the bed, and he notes his father doesn’t choose to sit next to him, instead favoring the soft armchair across. The distance only serves to make him feel more on edge, the silence in the room far too sharp. 

His father gives him a moment, studying his expression closely. Then, finally, he speaks. “Your grandfather told me what happened.”

“You’re aware, then.” Vespasian grips the sheets tightly on either side of his thighs. It’s all he can do to not fall apart in front of him.

“So are you,” Nerva responds, with the cadence of a man who doesn’t know how to breach the subject, either.

“I’m… yes.” Vespasian sighs and lowers his gaze to the dark, crumpled sheets. Seconds pass, where neither of them seems to know what to say; his father looks unsure of himself, and that is the most troubling factor of all. His father is meant to be strong . Stoic and unyielding. Yet he’s sitting there, looking as uncomfortable as he feels.

What does he see? Some weak, terrified child? Another part of Vespasian, quieter and more fragile, wants him to see it. Comfort me , it whispers, and it’s almost too tempting to give in to the desire. Almost. But he can’t allow himself to show his father that—what, he’s scared? The very thought makes him feel more helpless than ever.

“You knew about it… and didn’t tell me.” The accusation slips out before he can stop it. It’s a betrayal, the knowledge that they all knew about the attack and kept it from him, on par with the attempt itself. They protected me , some kinder part of his brain whispers, but right now, the hurt drowns it out.

“We were trying to keep you safe,” his father echoes the small voice already shoved to the back of Vespasian’s head. To his credit, he doesn’t deny it. “Your grandfather insisted you remained ignorant, and I believed it to be for the best, too.”

“Safe…” The word tastes like ash on Vespasian’s tongue. “How? By letting me dance on the cliff’s edge, ignorant of the sheer drop?”

“That’s not it.” Nerva shakes his head. “Vespasian… you need to understand. We did not keep silent to belittle you—we did not want you to live in fear. The assassins were dealt with, you were safe. There was no need for you to worry.”

“But I could have known, don’t you see?” Vespasian asks in exasperation, unable to keep the raw panic out. “You speak of my safety, yet you let me walk blind into a potential deathtrap, all in the name of some misguided notion that what I don’t know can’t hurt me. Tell me, Father, would I have not been more careful at the recent party if I knew to be wary of Varis?”

“Perhaps you would have,” Nerva admits, but he then shakes his head and levels a stern look at his son. “But what then? How many of your events would you have missed, hidden away from all potential threats? How many of your friends would you have pushed away just to avoid the risk?”

“I… you…” Vespasian starts, then falls silent. He has no counter to such logic, and it burns and churns within him like a pot of acid.

“We wanted you to keep your youth,” Nerva adds in remorse. “I’ve no clue why you’re such a needle in Varis’s eye, but he had no right to entangle a teenager into an irrelevant quarrel. Nor does his current bullying of you have a justification but pure spite.”

“I’m an adult now,” Vespasian retorts—a pitiful argument, he can see that himself—and he slumps forward with a dejected sigh. “And I would prefer you treat me as one.”

His father lets out a sigh of his own. “You are, and I am quite aware of it. But you are still so young. We wished to shield you from the unpleasant truths for as long as possible. It is a parent’s prerogative, is it not?”

“You’ve failed at the task, if that has been your goal,” Vespasian mutters sourly. “I already know about the world. I know the Senate hates my family, I know we’re in a delicate political state… how little do you think of me, if you consider me so ignorant of the circumstances I exist in? That my uncle wants me dead fits far too well into the puzzle.”

“We did not think you wouldn’t figure it out eventually,” Nerva clarifies in his vain defense. “We merely wished for you to not carry the burden of such knowledge while you were a boy.”

“And I’m still a boy to you.”

“Don’t be difficult, now—” The admonishment Nerva was about to deliver halts when he takes a proper look at his son. Whatever he finds in Vespasian’s expression stops him, and his shoulders fall. His son is so weary beyond his years.

“Father,” Vespasian interjects. The word crawls out of his throat like a dying spider. “I think you should leave. Please.”

It hits his father like a stone—Nerva’s expression shifts first into one of deep concern, then, as if he has come into an epiphany, sadness. He straightens in his chair with a quiet dignity in his motions. 

“If that is your will,” he says, betraying none of the hurt his face may hold—and Vespasian is struck by a bitter thought, that he was a fool for expecting anything different.

As Nerva walks to the door, no longer meeting his eyes, he stops. “I will stop at nothing to keep you safe,” he gives a solemn vow. “Remember that.”

The words should be comforting. They should be enough—they’re what he wanted to hear all this time, what a part of him still wants to hear. But there’s another side to it, bitter and twisted, and it rears its ugly head when his father’s back is turned on him. 

“I’m not sure I believe you,” he responds quietly. “Not anymore.”

No answer, but Nerva freezes, his fingers curling and uncurling on the handle. Then he’s gone. All that’s left is the heavy weight that falls on Vespasian’s heart.

Chapter 27

Nerva yae Galvus is always right. Vespasian, out of everyone, is the staunchest believer in this. But now, cloistered in his room just like his father said he would be, he wishes he wasn’t.

He sits there thinking. Going over and over everything that was said, every exchange in the past few days, moons, years. All those times his family failed to warn him, all those times he was blind to danger, despite his attempts to find it. Every time he’s been kept safe, like some delicate little bird. 

In the darkest hours of the night, he reaches an undeniable, awful conclusion: for all their insistence on the contrary, his family doesn’t think he’s capable. 

All the doting affection now confines him like a prison, a golden cage designed to keep him safe but trapped no matter how much he wants to spread his wings. They will protect him from any and all harm… 

… but they won’t ever stop. They’re too convinced he can’t take care of himself, and they’ve decided to keep him ignorant forever. He will never make his mark in politics. He will never make a name for himself outside of Nerva’s son . Not while coddled like this.

His privilege, his family’s money and name and power, has blinded him his entire life. He’s never had to lift a finger to gain anything, and his abilities have not been tested in the real world—his skills in combat, his knowledge of politics and policies, his aptitude in anything outside of courtly etiquette and fashion, they were never required to be honed to perfection. He might as well be a puppet, dancing on his father’s strings. But if he cuts them, he will fall straight to Varis’s jaws.

The room closes in around him, stifling like a tomb, like drowning, and the thought of the endless walls surrounding him hurls him back to the edge of panic. Yet, he won’t leave its safety.

For days on end, he stews in his new knowledge and his helplessness. Calling Asahi back is forgotten under the rot which spreads the more he stays idle. What started as a well-stocked cabinet does not stay as such for long.

Then, the monotony breaks. Sabina invites herself into his disarray, not bothering to knock before she barges in.

This is what makes him rise from the nest of his sheets—to be seen in his unshowered and disheveled state is an indignity, that much he still understands, but to lie like a corpse must be worse. He has a reputation to keep.

“Sabina!” he greets, and doesn’t need to feign exasperation. “What brings you here so early in the morning?”

“Vespa.” The nickname has never before been said so deadpan. “It’s three in the afternoon.”

He glances at the clock in the corner. Sure enough, it is three o’clock. “Oh,” he says with a shrug. “I suppose I lost track of time. Busy.”

“Yes. You do look very busy,” she responds dryly, taking a look at the room with a critical eye. “Busy collecting dust.”

He resists the urge to look down at himself, where he’s sure some of said dust inhabits his untidied hair and the rumpled shirt he still has not changed out of. He is suddenly and sorely aware he must absolutely reek.

“What do you know of my dust?” he deflects instead of admitting to any fault in his current state.

She scoffs. “Must you ask? You , gossipmonger, should know the walls do talk. Or rather, the servants do. Vipsania knows all about your lethargic moaning.”

Great, even more fuel to the rumor mill. As if his situation wasn’t bad enough. He scoffs and makes a dismissive hand gesture. “It’s nothing, just a… bout of melancholia, is all. A temporary indisposition.”

“Temporary enough to make it to the party tomorrow?” Without waiting for the answer, she heads to his wardrobe and begins to browse.

He winces. The party? How can he possibly be expected to go, when he hasn’t left the room for days, let alone made himself at all presentable? “Tomorrow?” he repeats, feigning nonchalance. “Are we expected to attend some social affair on such short notice?”

“The spring gathering at the Merula estate?” Sabina takes a forced break from appraising his clothing to give him a strange look. “It’s hardly short notice. You’ve lost control of your life.”

Vespasian shakes the fog out of his head to reach for his catalogue of information on House Merula. They cannot be described as Varis’s most loyal supporters; even so, he doesn’t trust his safety at any event anymore. If it will prove to his family that he can take such grave news with grace, however… he must attend.

“Of course, how silly of me to forget,” he forces through his fears. He should go—it’s good PR to stay visible and in good spirits, and going to a party is the easiest way to do that. It will send a message to Varis, that he is hale and well and unbothered by his threats.

On the other hand, he’s exhausted just thinking about it, and more than a little unhygienic…

“You look dreadful.” Sabina’s voice shakes him and recaptures his attention from smelling his own pits. She still stands by the wardrobe, regarding him with a slightly more sympathetic expression now than moments prior. “When was the last time you bathed?” she asks, then stops him as he counts with his fingers. “Too long. Go wash yourself. I’ll find something for you to wear tomorrow.”

A flush rises to his cheeks. He certainly feels grimy, and he can’t argue that it wouldn’t make him feel better to have a shower and shave off the light stubble on his face… Perhaps bleach his roots, before they become entirely unacceptable.

“Fine,” he surrenders to her help. “Don’t look through my drawers.”

This earns him a smirk. “What would I find in there, secret lovers? A stash of lewd pamphlets?”

“There could be,” he throws back. “All my exes too, and various other skeletons. Be surprised.”

With as much dignity as he can, he strides towards the bathroom, ignoring the weight of her jests following him all the way there.

 

He underestimated how much looking like a person again would improve his mood—and how much time it would require to achieve his standard. But achieve it he does.

Sabina’s taste does not betray him; she has taken his own well into account. The floral corset carries his posture even as his trepidations threaten to drag it down, the cropped black fur coat gives him a broader, less vulnerable silhouette. With his heels, he reckons he matches her height; unless she’s chosen ones as high. The man in the mirror is a far cry from the swamp monster under his blankets the day before. It’s a strange feeling, to see something beyond a pathetic mess of a son. He fixes his golden choker and takes in the elegant and regal ensemble with a surge of confidence from looking like Prince Vespasian again.

The confidence near slips from his hands when a voice calls to him on his way to meet his cousin in the lobby. “Vespasian.”

He stops short in his tracks, then slowly turns. “Father.”

Nerva’s gaze is level, his features controlled. He looks as he always does—stoic and imposing. It’s as if the last words between them hadn’t been spoken.  He takes a few steps closer and looks his son over in quiet scrutiny.

Vespasian stands his ground, chin tipped up to stare straight ahead to his father, unbothered. He will not shrink away. This is a test, one to check how well he has recovered from the last he’s been seen—and the last thing he wants is to fail.

His father stops in his perusal and gives a small nod which he can only hope is of approval. Then, “You look well,” he says, voice neutral, as if he’s simply commenting on the weather. “Where are you off to?”

“Lord and Lady Merula’s gathering,” Vespasian reminds him. “You won’t be in attendance, then?”

“No,” Nerva responds simply, and shakes his head in a manner of dismissal. “A business dinner has kept me from accepting the invitation, I’m afraid.”

They stand in silence, while Vespasian wrestles with a desire to ask, is it safe? Will I be okay?

It is pathetic, such a need. He bites it back.

His father takes a step forward, but the distance between them never quite shrinks. Vespasian wonders whether the action is meant to bring them together—if Nerva is worried, but doesn’t know how to express it. “Don’t stay out late,” he says eventually. “I expect you back by a respectable hour.”

“I’ll return when I return,” Vespasian rebuffs, in a vain attempt to project independence. He turns and leaves for the elevator.

“Young man!” Nerva calls after him. Vespasian almost stops. The old command lingers in his shoulders and tugs at his nerves—the strings of a puppet. For a moment, he considers obeying like a good, dutiful son.

But the moment passes. He strides onwards with his shoulders squared and his head held high, his heels clicking on the floor with defiance.

 

The Merula estate rests near the mountains, farther from the capital. Every time Vespasian has visited, he’s wondered how they stand the long commute day in and day out. He watches as the snowfields pass by in the train window. Soon they’ll thaw for a few measly weeks, then return with a vengeance. Such is the truth of the climate, but he gets to journey in the warmth of a luxury suite.

Sabina sits across from him, studying her own reflection in the glass of red in her hand. She looks impeccable, as always—intimidating but in a different manner to his father. 

“Nervous?”  her soft voice cuts through the rhythm of his thoughts.

Of course he is—fear has been an unwelcome roommate for days now, but one he won’t give the satisfaction of acknowledgment. “Not at all. Should I be?”

His cousin raises an eyebrow in suspicion, her lips pressed thin. She takes a slow sip of the wine, savoring every drop of the tart liquid. “Oh, you are,” she states, matter of fact. “You’re hiding it well, I’ll give you that. Your hands are shaking, though.”

Vespasian balls his fists and sticks them behind his back. “I’ve a lot on my mind,” he mutters in shame.

She nudges her head in the direction of the bottle which she partakes of. “You’re certain you don’t want to get the pre-party started?”

“And end up completely smashed on their sofa, like last time?” he snarks. “No, thank you. Once was already disgraceful enough.”

He ought to stay sharp tonight. Intoxication will do him no good in defending from Varis. That, and he’s indulged way too much lately as is.

“Suit yourself.” She shrugs and empties her glass in a single, large gulp. She then pours a new one, swirling the liquid in the glass and stealing glances at him with raised brows.

She looks like she will ask more questions about his nerves that he isn’t prepared to answer. The communicator in his ear spares him, but brings startling new worries. Right. Asahi.

The connection is instantaneous. He catches the agent in the middle of an agitated tirade. “—are you?”

“… What?” Vespasian brings a hand over his ear, hiding the little contraption from sight. Even if his cousin doesn’t notice, it’s best to stay careful. “I’ll be right back,” he mumbles in her general direction and scrambles to his feet. He must depart the suite—only right around the corner. If someone attacks, Sabina will still hear his screams.

“You better be,” she comments as he passes her on the way out, but she’s already occupied with her second drink. He doesn’t answer, focused on getting to the other side of the door as fast as he can.

He leans against the wall and adjusts the device. “What do you mean?” he asks, hushed under the closing door’s hum. He’s already at his limit, and Asahi’s foul attitude doesn’t help.

“Ah, so you aren’t too good to pick up the call,” Asahi berates. It’s a quiet hiss through clenched teeth. “All those rules about keeping this thing on at all times, and now I’ve failed to contact you for days ?”

Vespasian’s torn between annoyance—who is the man to speak to him like this?—and guilt that he has indeed been radio silent, without a thought spared to the other side of the link. “I’ve been preoccupied,” he responds, defensive and unwilling to admit he only found the blasted thing under his pillows this morning. “And I’m on my way to a party, if you must know.”

“A party?” Asahi exclaims. “You’re going to a party? Has your brain finally rotted away?”

“It’s called an illusion of normalcy,” Vespasian retorts. The sound of clashing steel on the other end startles him.

“You call that normal ?” Asahi practically barks into the call. It drowns under grunts, heavy breathing and more steel, then something hissing like the caged beast at the Resonatorium.

Vespasian grips onto the communicator tighter, as if the force of the commotion could make it fall off.  “Care to update me on your own circumstances right now?” he asks, the unease creeping to his voice. “It sounds like a warzone.”

“I am in a warzone!” Another sharp sound, closer—and that of cut life, or so Vespasian assumes. His heart stops for a beat, before Asahi continues, “The rebels attacked. They’re woefully understaffed. This shall be over before it truly begins.”

“Then why are—” Why are you even talking to me?! Vespasian wants to yell, to shake the man until he comes to his senses. “Shouldn’t you be fighting?”

Only the sound of clashing weapons and more heavy breathing answers him for torturous seconds. Then Asahi replies, “There’s a lull in the action right now,” oddly casual. “I had a moment to spare. They’re retreating; we shall give chase.”

“… You should probably keep the communication link on hold,” Vespasian sighs, rubbing his temple. “In case—”

In case you die, he was about to say, but the words burden his tongue like lead.

“In case what?” Asahi’s tone is teasing. “You’re worried about me? That’s adorable.” 

Vespasian’s hand clenches into a fist. “Don’t be stupid—” he starts, and it takes every onze of his control to keep the words down to a whisper. “—you know what I meant.”

Asahi lets him stew in it as he gives a command to his men to not give ground, to catch them. The thud and rustle of boots on dirt fills the earpiece. “I didn’t call to get fussed over,” he remarks as he runs. “You never asked about my plan. So I shall tell you now it is proceeding apace.”

“What plan?” Vespasian asks. He’s well aware his unawareness is his own fault, but he shall not apologize for it. The sound of the attack continues, yet Asahi’s breathing doesn’t waver from its rhythmic rise and fall. He’s in complete control.

“I’ve stoked the Butcher’s insecurity,” Asahi says, quiet but proud. The footfalls slow down; he must be hanging back to gloat in peace. “She guards the bridge as we speak, and she’s desperate to prove herself. Desperate enough to further antagonize the Ananta, the unrest of which I’ve spread rumors of, I’d wager…”

“You’re provoking her into a conflict,” Vespasian realizes with some awe, which he attempts to conceal. Asahi needs not develop even more of an ego. “And using the rebels’ attacks to rile her up even more… You have her all wrapped up, don’t you?”

“She’s young and foolish, and wholly undeserving of Lord Zenos’s attention.” Some of the earlier vitriol returns to Asahi’s voice. “She invites everything she has coming for her. If the rumors of the two of them are true, I’ll…”

“… What, make it even more painful for her?” Vespasian asks. “Your vengeance is understandable, but be careful, Asahi. Her failure will already be enough to ruin her career.”

A deep breath, before Asahi continues, calmer. “You’re right,” he admits. “Her failure to respond to the snake problem she herself started by supplying them to the Resonatorium will prove her weakness as a commander. It will . I still have a few tricks up my sleeve to ensure it.”

It’s admirable self-control, and something to be celebrated, when it comes from a man who has such a temper. A small smile forms on Vespasian’s lips, and he wonders if Asahi even registers the change in his own behaviour. Likely he is too focused on the coming battle. “And what are these tricks, exactly?”

“Remember our ratty new acquaintance?” Asahi asks. Vespasian has to jog his memory to do so; the initial backlog his mind offers of the facility contains only screeching monsters, exploding skulls and captive catgirls. Insignificant lab technicians were the least of his concerns. “I strongly suggested he find me any reports he can on the experiments performed on the Ananta, and he provided. It will be tricky, but should the powder keg remain unlit, I can leak them to the tribe.”

“That does sound… like it has potential,” Vespasian acknowledges. The more information Asahi offers, the more intrigued he becomes. “If you leak the experiments to the Qalyana, you’ll have them in an uproar.”

The cacophony of battle carries through stronger again. Someone formidable must have joined the fray; Vespasian’s heart sinks as he listens for the snarls of a sawback. None come, yet he stays on edge.

“But concentrate on the current uproar now,” he orders. “Next time, don’t call me in combat.”

“You’re that concerned, eh?” Asahi says with a tinge of the cockiness Vespasian so despises making a return. “Don’t worry yourself, my sweet prince. Though you do make a rather terrible distraction.”

Vespasian clicks his tongue, more to suppress the flutter of his heart at the word ‘sweet’ than out of annoyance. The casualness would normally be a cause for ire, but all Vespasian can focus on is the fact the man is in the middle of battle and still has the gall to tease him. “Don’t get yourself killed,” he snaps back instead of addressing the comment, then cuts the line of communications.

And just in time—the train comes to a stop. There, right up the hill, lies the location of his next challenge.

Notes:

All respect to the Stormblood writers but I did have to add a bit more context to the Qalyana part than that Fordola is apparently colorblind.

Aaand as a thanks for sticking with my nonsense for this long, have some extra art <3

Chapter 28

Lights of the estate gleam in the distance in a mockery of the impending darkness. Vespasian’s stomach churns and his anxieties race with his heartbeat under his coat, yet he raises his chin and marches on. He and Sabina lean on each other to brave the frosty steps in their heels. His cousin jokes about the silly gait they must take on, but he’s too preoccupied to share her mirth.

“Who called you to get you so pensive?” she asks while making teasing kissy faces when they’re about halfway up. “A new paramour?”

That pulls a snort out of him, equally amused and flustered. “As if,” he gives a flippant response and turns his gaze to the building they’re advancing on. He can’t help the shiver of anticipation, and it’s nothing to do with the cold. “You think I’m entertaining paramours in between all this?”

Sabina laughs at his reaction. Her hand grabs his arm tighter, pulling him up the steps. “And why wouldn’t you?” she asks. “I bet it’s a pretty boy. Someone with an attitude just like you.”

“Don’t be silly, cousin,” he tries to brush off the subject. “I’ve no time for pretty boys, and most certainly none for attitude .”

“That is fair,” she lets it go with a shrug, before yanking it back for another jab. “I doubt a pretty boy would have the patience for your recent moping.”

“Moping!” Vespasian splutters. He gives her a shove in response. “I do not mope !”

She holds steadfast, not budging an ilm despite the slippery surface. “Rot in bed, then?”

“That—” he starts, then deflates, realizing he cannot win that argument. “Fine,” he snaps. “Perhaps I have not been the most… lively, but that’s not moping .”

“Oh no,” his cousin replies in mock-seriousness. “You wallow . There is a difference indeed.”

“ Whatever you call it ,” Vespasian retorts, nudging his head at the doormen ahead, “not a word of it tonight. I’m here to do the opposite.”

Sabina snickers as they reach the top and are welcomed in by waiting staff. “Of course. You’ll be the life of the party ,  sweet cousin.”

Sweet. Great. Will the word haunt him all night? “I’m always the life of the party,” he tells her, trying to sound more offended than he actually is, before turning an especially fake, wide smile on the closest servant.

 

It takes all his willpower not to falter upon entering. Fashionably late as they were, the venue is already filled with aristocrats and their plus ones; some stand in clusters by the buffet, some dance, and the rest are dispersed across couches and the edges of the room, in groups of two or three. Tales from his grandmother resurface from his youth; as former tribunus of the IIIrd, she often said the ballroom was not that dissimilar to the battlefield. Never did Vespasian take the words as seriously as tonight.

Sabina browses the crowd for familiar faces—or a particular one. “Licinia should already be present,” she thinks out loud. “Did you hear she and her parents will be performing later?”

“Vaguely,” Vespasian nods, then scans the room himself, searching for danger in any pair of eyes he meets. In the dim light, they gleam like drawn blades. “You reckon her aunt is in attendance?” he asks, though he doubts Vergilia’s schedule allows for it. Her presence would soothe and secure him, but it’s too much to wish for.

“She’d make the atmosphere more bearable,” Sabina agrees. She pulls him through the sea of bodies, greeting every face they recognize with an incline of head and a wave, all the while heading for the buffet and hoping to catch sight of Licinia early on.

Vespasian grabs her sleeve before she can make a fool of herself. “Decorum, cousin,” he tuts. “Always greet the hosts first, then your friends.”

She throws him an incredulous, unamused glare complete with petulant pouty lips. That particular lesson was driven into their heads throughout their childhood, and still, she sometimes forgets herself. “You’re starting to sound like my mother.”

“She was right, you know,” Vespasian jabs. For his part, he’s comforted that from certain angles, his cousin looks much like his previous savior.

“Don’t you—” she starts, but she’s interrupted from further argument by a voice behind them. 

“Ah, Lord Vespasian and Lady Sabina!”

The greeting comes from the mouth of Lady Merula, one of their hosts for this lavish event, with her husband in tow. Vespasian smiles and bows to them, and his cousin follows with her curtsy, albeit a second later still grumpy from his jibe.

“Glad you two could make it,” Lady Merula adds with a pleasant smile. “We wondered whether you’d turn up after the… recent events.”

Vespasian’s heart leaps into his throat and lodges there. How much does she know—and how does she know? He releases a polite laugh to dissolve the tension building inside him. “My father has the fires set by Doma’s fall well under control,” he says, choosing to concentrate on the common and easily-leaked knowledge and ignore what else she could have meant. “As for me, my visit to Gyr Abania was… rather short. Not nearly enough for scheduling conflicts.”

“Of course, of course,” Lord Merula affirms. Lady Merula looks at him strangely, but any further comments on the subject are put on hold for now. “How is your mother? I’ve not seen her in forever, with how occupied she is with her charities.”

Her charities. Yes, certainly. Not at all choosing to seclude herself like a bitter old woman. The smile pulling on Vespasian’s lips hides all true feelings. “She is well,” he lies. “Occupied, as you said.”

“A shame,” says Lord Merula—and Vespasian, to his horror, begins to see the conversation turn towards a topic he’d rather not breach. “She’s always had such a charming presence. We still remember all the evenings of delightful company at our estates, when you and your little cousin here were still little rascals running around.”

“We were never rascals,” Sabina jumps in, her eyes narrowed. “We were simply curious. Isn’t that right, Vespasian?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dare to disagree,” Vespasian answers lightheartedly. “Simply two children exploring the world. You were gracious to host us, and even more gracious to let us explore all there was to explore.”

“Oh, it was nothing,” Lord Merula answers and gives a dismissive wave of hand. “Your mother was the one to encourage it, in fact. She was always eager to allow you to experience the world, in your own little way. We didn’t mind, as long as we could keep an eye on you.”

Something about the statement sits ill with Vespasian, but he doesn’t comment on it. It’s better to veer the conversation elsewhere.

“Allow us to express out appreciation, for your hospitality then and now,” he says and retrieves a bottle of wine—the finest he had left after his bender, wrapped up for the sake of appearances. The lights reflect off the black glass like the emerald sheen on Lady Merula’s midnight hem, and he gives an amused hum. “Ah, matching your dress, my lady—unintentional, I assure you. But may I say, you look stunning.”

“Oh, is this one of those fancy imported vintages?” Lord Merula asks while his wife offers a flattered giggle. He takes the bottle and reads the label, then lets out a whistle. “That it is. Thank you, both for the visit and for the gift, Your Highness. Come, come, there are many others here who I’m sure would be happy to exchange pleasantries with you.”

With a guiding gesture from Lady Merula’s manicured fingers, the pair are pulled to the buffet and the social game of keeping up appearances. Vespasian’s mood drops by a fraction every time he has to smile and entertain the same idle aristocratic chatter. He’d shine here under normal circumstances. Currently, it makes him want to gouge his eyes out with the nearest fork. The need to uphold a perfect image is painful; he fears one scrape will reveal the ugly truth beneath the crumbling layers of paint.

Many times, the conversation veers to Zenos, and each time he has to carefully toe the tightrope of acceptable gossip. Each mention of his liaison blares Varis’s warnings in his head, but his well of spite begs to overflow with exactly what he thinks of the subject.

He struggles to rein in his irritation. What could possibly be so fascinating about the crown prince? Of course he is good-looking, of course he has talent—but that is where the good qualities end. His cruelty, his disregard for lives, his blatant apathy for anything and anyone aside from murder and one horrible rabbit who somehow manages to be worse… it sickens Vespasian. How Varis has even a modicum of faith that either of them can control such a man is a mystery beyond his comprehension.

“Haven’t you heard? Allegedly he sleeps with his centurions too,” he can’t help but spread his discontent in the form of libel he doesn’t believe in. A man with a look of yearning like he saw on Zenos doesn’t bat an eye at lesser entertainment… or so he judges his cousin in particular. “And formerly the departed viceroy, I’m sure. Why else promote someone so incompetent she’d let her own castle crumble onto her?”

It’s harsh, but not about the Warrior of Light. If Varis has a problem with it, he should have said so in his threats. And perhaps he should have raised his son better.

One of the gossipy hens laughs, high-pitched and obnoxious. “You’re not wrong about the salacious little viceroy at all. Everyone is aware of that juicy business—but where on earth did you hear the centurion part?”

“Insider knowledge.” Vespasian shrugs and smirks. If he chose to drink—and by Solus’s grace, does a drink sound good right now—he’d take a sip for emphasis. Alas, vigilance wins. “That, and it makes sense, doesn’t it? What’s more likely, that he favors a gaggle of Ala Mhigans for what, skill , or that he has more base reasons behind it?”

The gossipers share glances amongst themselves, taking his statement into consideration. It shouldn’t be plausible, but then again, enough air of confidence will elevate any fanciful tale into unquestioned truth. “He’s been acting stranger than usual lately as well,” one of them adds to the tune of a chorus of agreement. Good , Vespasian thinks. What better way to let out steam than to slander someone’s name.

That is until one of them, an older gentleman, lowers his voice for him alone. “You’d best be careful with what you say, young prince. There are a number of… eager ears tonight.”

Vespasian’s mouth clams shut and further claims of impropriety lock themselves away. Was that a thinly veiled threat, or is he being paranoid? He glances to his side, where the guarding presence of Sabina is nowhere to be seen.

He feels naked without her; his ears strain to pick up the sound of her laughter somewhere in the banquet hall. The crowd has swallowed her, and though he’d like to believe in no reason to worry, his imagination whispers: it did so in a bid to isolate you.

He looks back to the stranger, trying to keep the panic in his eyes at a minimum. “… Indeed, I shall mind my tongue,” he mutters, quietly willing his heart to slow.

The old man flashes him a toothy smile, one which doesn’t reach the eyes. “Good lad,” he says—and it’s clearly patronizing, for while it’s meant to soothe, there is the hint of a warning. Vespasian swallows down the urge to snarl at him, and watches as the man leaves with a pat to his back. His gaze drifts to the nearby windows in want for air, when a new voice cuts through his thoughts.

“Nerva’s boy!” Servilius het Brutus comes in with a less threatening clap on his shoulder. It soaks some of the rigid fear out; finally, a trustworthy face. Or, he should be. Vespasian has the power to send his son to his death and destroy his alliance with Nerva if he isn’t.

He lets out a sigh of relief. “Lord Brutus,” he greets. “You are a welcome sight indeed.”

The man lets out a hearty laugh and pats his shoulder again, in the manner of an old family friend. This time his hand stays there. “Are the vultures giving you trouble, lad?” he asks as his gaze sweeps over the crowd.

“You know how they are,” Vespasian replies with a sigh, before leaning closer. “They’re eager to gossip more than ever of late.”

“Of course they are; you lot have given them plenty of material,” Servilius scoffs. He narrows his gaze at the crowd, searching for a face. His eyes settle on one of the groups, who are deep in conversation about something he can’t hear from this far.

Vespasian takes a peek as well, trying to gauge whether they are more than harmless busybodies, but fails to see anything suspicious in their midst. Only then he realizes there is a third pair of eyes studying the same men: his cousin’s, staring from across the room with a contemplative frown.

“ Don’t ,” he mouths a warning she won’t hear nor heed. He doesn’t want her to get involved in whatever might be happening, especially with her penchant for meddling. To his chagrin, her gaze remains narrowed, its intensity palpable even from afar.

At that moment, she raises her head and sees she’s being watched in turn. Their eyes meet, and the slightest shake of his head is enough for her to take the hint and cease. Vespasian lets out another sigh of relief—then turns his attention to where Lord Brutus still studies the crowd with a pensive expression.

“Say, my boy, would you object to some fresh air?” the older man asks, his hand tightening on his shoulder.

“No, not at all,” Vespasian answers. He lets himself be led away from the mass of gossipers and gawkers, in the direction of the terrace. The air outside is cold enough to bite, but a vast improvement to the tension-fraught atmosphere indoors.

Deja vu rewinds the scene; it recasts the stocky, greying man with a woman with a violet updo and a blue dress, whose discerning eye was much like Nerva’s. It assigns malignant actors’ lines to the suspicious group. Vespasian tries not to listen, but the parts fit all too well.

They arrive on the moonlit terrace, where the noise of the party is distant and muted. The lights have been dimmed in an attempt at a dreamy atmosphere, though it only adds a melancholic veil to the scenery. Lord Brutus leans on the railing, and Vespasian copies him; they stand there in a moment of silence.

“How’s my son faring?” the lord speaks up eventually.

Vespasian’s gaze drifts to the multitude of stars. If he has to compliment the countryside, the clearer night sky is one aspect he can appreciate. He thinks to himself, before shrugging; said son is competent by all means, but not exactly what he would call an inspiring subordinate. “He is fine,” he says, and struggles to add anything positive. “He is a… dutiful fighter.”

Lord Brutus laughs, amused by the tepid praise. “You’ve no need to give me flowery speeches,” he says, and turns to admire the stars as well. “Loyalty is most important in his line of work, and it would be a lie to say he lacks in that.”

This, Vespasian can agree on. “Yes. Yes, he is loyal,” he says, and leaves it at that. Then, he can’t help but steer the conversation to what worries him the most, now that they’re on the topic of his son. “Has he reported anything… unusual to you? Or, has he let on about any problems he might be experiencing?”

Lord Brutus considers the query for a moment, before shrugging with a chuckle. “That boy has not called at all, nor sent a letter,” he sighs. “But I’ve known his nature since I adopted him. Keeps to himself, that one, dedicated to the results he brings.”

“You are still not worried about him in Gyr Abania?” Vespasian asks. He steals a glance at Lord Brutus’s profile, trying to gauge his mood. If he is, he hides it well.

“Worrying never helped a man,” Lord Brutus answers easily. “So no, I am not. He is of a capable stock and can fend for himself. I take it there’s a reason you ask this night of all?”

Vespasian nods with a furrowed brow. If only my father believed in me like so , he wishes while staring at the mountain tops in the distance. That much his home does have in common with the Gyr Abanian landscape; he wonders whether Asahi has stared at the highest points around him and missed home.

“He was in the midst of a skirmish last he called,” he divulges. “Seemed to be holding his own. But the tides can turn fast with these things.”

Lord Brutus hums in thought. “They can, but I take it you’ve not had first hand experience,” he says with a twinge of good natured teasing. “You’re not the kind to stand on the frontlines, are you? Too valuable for that.”

Vespasian’s face burns from the accusation, though not untrue, and he gives a weak smile. “It is a dangerous environment,” he replies, trying to defend his cowardice in a half-joking manner, “and unlike your son, I lack the skill and training for it. Why risk unnecessary harm?”

To his surprise, Lord Brutus lets out another hearty laugh. “You don’t need to defend yourself in my eyes, my boy,” he says. “I know you; you’ve always been of a different kind than the lowly soldier folk, haven’t you? Soft of hands, soft of heart, but so sharp of wit; I was sure you’d end up as a poet for how you preferred the ink to the sword.”

Vespasian’s ears might as well be on fire now. He turns away, hoping the other man won’t see it. While he is aware of his own incompetence at arms, having it pointed out so directly is humiliating. He lets out a long, shaky breath and wishes he could change the subject. “I… I was cursed with an uncooperative temperament to follow the path of a warlord, that is true. I much prefer the mind over the body.”

“It is a strength your father shares,” Lord Brutus remarks with a comforting smile. “Treasure it.”

The mention of his sire has Vespasian’s mood dip, though he tries not to let it show. After all, the lord would hardly be aware it is not a welcome one.

“I try to,” he says, trying to keep the conversation as light as it was at first. It’s all but impossible in the atmosphere of the night; though even in the midst of his own fears, his thoughts wander to the danger Asahi must face in Gyr Abania. “Is it a good time to admit I envy your son?” he asks and tries to sound casual.

“Envy?” Lord Brutus’s laugh is even louder this time, an explosion unto the silence. Vespasian has to check whether heads in the hall turned in the direction; luckily for him, the chatter inside must’ve still overpowered it. “And what do you find enviable about my boy, pray tell?”

The breath out of Vespasian’s nose forms a cloud of fog in front of him. He raises his gaze to the highest peaks again. “For all his troubles, at least he’s not stuck here.”

Before a response, the device in his ear beeps again. “Mention the pugnax and prepare a stick, I suppose…” he mumbles.

The strange words draw Lord Brutus’s attention, and he arches an eyebrow when Vespasian speaks to himself. “What did you say, my boy?”

“Your son is calling,” Vespasian deems it safe enough to confide. “He’ll be cross with me if I don’t pick up.” Again .

His judgment was sound, for the lord nods in understanding and backs away. “I’ll watch the door,” he offers.

Vespasian can’t tell whether he is simply excusing himself or offering to keep them safe, but he’s grateful regardless. With the older man standing guard, he allows himself to accept the call.

Asahi’s voice wheezes, strained and winded. The sound makes Vespasian’s chest tight with worry. “My prince,” is his greeting, without a trace of his usual mocking. “There’s a situation.”

“What situation?” Vespasian’s voice comes out snappier than he intends it to, yet barely above an exhale. His gloves stick to clammy palms and his fingers tremble—he’s almost unwilling to hear the answer.

“The savages have captured Castellum Velodyna.” The news makes Vespasian’s blood freeze. “Their savior is back on the field.”

His eyes widen, his head spinning at the gravity of it all. His mind races to piece the picture together, until the one person he feared the most appears in the middle of the puzzle. “The… the savior is there? The Warrior of Light? Did you see him?”

“No,” Asahi rolls one boulder off his chest, but leaves a landslide’s worth of other worries intact. “The bull of Ala Mhigo is no joke, either. But I’m fine, I assure you. My men and I retreated when their flag rose.”

The mention of the resistance commander is little more than a footnote in comparison to the Warrior. “Thank Solus,” Vespasian mutters. The pounding of his own pulse rattles in his head. “Retreat was the right call. You don’t need to be careless.”

“You have no faith in my abilities,” Asahi retorts, and though it’s supposed to carry a raw edge, it falls flat when coupled with his panting. “If I’d stayed, I’d be as useless as those incompetent fools in the command tent.”

“You’d be dead , is what you’d be,” Vespasian snaps, unable to contain the conflicted emotions. “Have you no care for your own life?”

“Are we going to go over this again?” Asahi sighs. “I’m alive, don’t worry over me.”

“I’ll worry as much as I damn well please,” Vespasian spits, then realizes how ridiculous he’s reacting to words he’s been dying to hear. He takes a deep breath. “What of the plan?”

“The Butcher is on my hook,” Asahi assures. From the sound of it, he's picking up pace, most likely heading deeper into the wilds to avoid detection. In between the rustling of dry grass, Vespasian can hear a smirk. “My sources say she has a hostage of the serpentine sort. Additionally, I’ve bribed a Skull to escalate conflict should it arise.”

“… The Ananta will rip the man to shreds,” Vespasian points out with a grimace. The image is enough to make him queasy. “If rem Lupis doesn’t for the insubordination. What exactly have you offered to make it worth it for him?”

“A substantial sum,” Asahi replies, like it’s the most clear answer in the world.

“Money won’t be enough,” Vespasian makes an educated guess. “The savage recruits remain ever most loyal to their own hides.”

“You’re right, of course. That’s why I’m adding… let’s say, certain information regarding his parents.”

Vespasian lets out a slow whistle in return. “That’s dirty , Asahi. And it’ll cost you a lot of coin, I’m sure.”

“Yes,” Asahi admits, “but his loyalty is worth it. There are few among the enlisted savages with better chances of doing significant damage to the Ananta than that one. As a bonus, it’s likely the Butcher is too preoccupied to catch wind of the plan.”

“You could still sweeten the prize,” Vespasian offers. He purses his lips, knowing it’s risky—but these plots leaking to rem Lupis, and through her to Zenos, is even riskier. “You may as well offer citizenship. To him and said parents both. I’ll make sure it happens, once it is safely disconnected from the event.”

Asahi only offers his breathing and the sound of his measured steps in short bursts. “That would be…” he starts, then stops again, leaving the words unsaid.

“Easily traceable to me,” Vespasian acknowledges. “But it is as my father always says. Anything for glory, yes?”

“You’re full of surprises, highness,” Asahi replies with an unfamiliar tinge of awe in his words. When he speaks again his voice is even lower than before, a harsh whisper only barely carried by the link. “Very well. I will offer him the deal, should the plan require it.”

“Good,” Vespasian says and exhales, feeling the tight coils of knots in his stomach loosen. “Keep me updated until then, and stay alert. I’d much rather see you return with your skin intact.”

The footsteps cease. The breath halts. So does his own, as he hears the hiss, “ Shit. ”

Notes:

Long chapter today! Who would have thought a party where various persons of interest or intimidation tug a guy in each direction would bloat. I could have left the call for the next one, sure, but I love a cliffhanger in case you haven’t noticed :))

Chapter 29

Vespasian’s stomach drops to his feet. “What? What is it?”

Cold sweat beads on his neck at the sound of the curse. It was not of someone running into a minor inconvenience. Every worst case scenario offers itself too readily in the millisecond’s silence that follows. The rapid pace with which the dirt rustles under Asahi’s feet afterwards does not help. He hears a thud, like a back hitting something hard, then a hurried breath before everything fades again.

He stands in frozen, speechless horror. It is impossible to think when the most feared possibilities run in circles, each more dreadful than the last. His mind, overwhelmed, tries to reach out for a sound, a sign, anything, but it is as if he had gone deaf. He can only hear his own shallow breathing.

“Asahi?” he asks. His shaking voice falls far from the commanding tone he intends. “Answer me!”

All he gets is the click of the device. Each sound from the surroundings carries through now, among them what Asahi no doubt intended to share, and the reason for his panic:

The approaching clanking of sabatons. Leisurely, self-assured. A death knell.

Vespasian’s knees threaten to give in. His vision swims, the world around him blurring and spinning. If it’s who he fears approaching his agent, it’s over. Asahi will soon be nothing but a red stain on the ground. His hopes of making a change will lie shattered with him.

Nothing will stand between him and his own end under Varis’s blade.

“Everything alright, lad?” comes a call from behind the rush of blood in his ears. He wants to yell at the man to shut up, to not make a sound, lest his son be found. But he holds his tongue and his breath, his arms shaking from how hard he grips the railing.

Clank.

Clank.

Clank.

“You’re all white. Do you not feel well?” the voice continues, and is soon joined by the concerned look of Lord Brutus by his side. He might as well stand behind a veil, his calls distorted like Vespasian was underwater, drowning. His wide-eyed sight tunnels into a focused stare at nothing on the white ground below, with the rapid footfalls a staccato in his ears. His thoughts, wild and scared, refuse to accept the imminent doom.

Not this. Please, not this.

Any further words from Lord Brutus get swallowed under a loud thump as the steps pause some distance away. The world comes to a stop. For one eternal second there is only dead silence.

Then, a voice, too low and gravelly for Vespasian’s imagination to match to a face. For a blissful moment he figures he must have been mistaken, that it is not the Demon Rabbit who hunts Asahi, but the words must belong to such a beast: “Everyone around here exterminated. Heading back soon.”

Exterminated . Like vermin. The word echoes like a shot. A cold, metallic taste fills his mouth. He struggles to breathe.

Clank.

Clank.

Clank.

Each step approaching wherever Asahi hides from the killer now booms like a wardrum. Vespasian stands rooted on the spot, unable to move a muscle. Asahi makes a tiny retching sound. Instinctively, he hushes him, before silencing himself, as if the warrior could hear. The footfalls fall to nothing.

Vespasian’s teeth grind from the tension in his jaws. The ringing in his ears grows louder with each beat of his heart. He swallows, his throat dry and raw, and squeezes his eyes closed as hard as he can.

Clank. Clank. Clank. The steps resume. They grow more distant.

Asahi’s shallow exhalation, the rustling of leaves, the chirping of a bird—Vespasian can suddenly hear all of these, and they’re overwhelming.

The device crackles to life. Asahi’s voice, the tiniest of whispers, fills his ear. “I’m in the clear, for now.”

A wave of immense relief washes over Vespasian in a shiver. “You’re… unhurt?” he asks, thick and raspy despite himself.

“Unhurt, unspotted,” Asahi confirms, still whispering, “but ugh , I won’t get the stench of burnt flesh out of my nostrils for weeks .”

“That’s all you can complain about?” Vespasian scoffs. “You just faced a rampaging monster who single-handedly cuts down entire legions! I’d say a smell is the least of your troubles.”

“If you were here, your weak stomach wouldn’t fare any better,” Asahi retorts, and Vespasian can almost see him grimacing—he sounds like he wants nothing more than a bath. “It sticks to your skin, to your hair, and the worst part, it gets in your mouth.”

“I don’t want to hear about it,” Vespasian replies with a shudder. There are few things more disgusting he can imagine, but that’s his last concern right now. “You’re alive and well, that’s all that matters.”

He can’t help his note of reproach. “You should never do that to me again.”

The beat that follows makes him wonder if Asahi’s heard him. Just as his distress begins to rebuild, the reply comes, though he can barely make out a mumble. “You think I had a choice in the matter?”

“No, I suppose not,” Vespasian relents. Arguing is pointless when he runs so low on any sort of energy due to the whirlwind of the past minutes. His hand reaches to pinch the bridge of his nose to push away a budding headache. “But you will be more careful in the future. If not for yourself, then for me. I will throttle you to the ground with my own hands if you make me worry like this again.”

Asahi’s chuckle comes through, a dry, raspy sound. “Is that a promise?”

“It’s a guarantee,” Vespasian answers, his temper as even as he can muster. Then he remembers the elder Brutus and nearly jumps out of his skin when he turns to see him still standing nearby.

He shoots him a quick, apologetic smile. “Any regards you’d like to pass to your father?” he asks Asahi, half-tempted to scold him more. Perhaps Servilius is wrong and he should worry for his reckless idiot of a son.

“No need,” Asahi answers, exhausted. He must have dropped to his knees and is resting as they speak, trying to collect what little strength is left to him. “… but I will speak to you again soon, highness. I’ll let you know how everything transpires.”

Asahi doesn’t wait for a response and terminates the call on his end before Vespasian can say another word.

He removes the device just to glare at it in his hand, his emotions in disarray. He wants to smash it into the railing, yell at the world, shake Asahi until his teeth rattle—but all he can do is turn away from the view to face Lord Brutus. His face must be as pale as a sheet of paper, showing all the colors of the storm he’s just barely wrestled in his head. He tries to smile again, but can’t make the corners of his mouth rise more than a fraction of an ilm.

“I apologize,” he says. “There was a… small complication. Nothing to worry about, I assure you.”

“It takes more than that to trick me,” Lord Brutus counters, as astute and relentless as he is. “I’m old, lad, not daft. You look like you’re moments from falling over.”

“You have no idea how right you are,” Vespasian sighs, but tries to brush off the concern. “I’m fine. But for the love of everything that’s good in the Empire, please don’t tell Father.”

Lord Brutus gives him such a hard look like he might just tell Nerva anyway, but he simply turns and shakes his head. “Don’t be a fool. He has quite enough on his mind as it is; I’m not going to add more.”

Vespasian holds his hand to his forehead and leans against the railing. The piles of snow no longer spin in his vision, but the dancing flakes are enough to cause nausea. “You’re right,” he grumbles, frail and weary and barely above the wind. “I’ve certainly done naught to help with my histrionics.”

“That’s not what I said,” Lord Brutus says, firm but not unkind. “You’re no saint. Your father is no saint. I’m no saint, for that matter. Nobody expects you to be one, either. You simply… must play your part, with the best of your ability. That’s it.”

“Play my part,” Vespasian parrots, the concept as displeasing on his tongue as if he had filled his mouth with mud, when all he wants to do is curl up. He’s heard it far more often than he has the patience to count, from a multitude of mentors and tutors. It’s as little of a comfort now as it was then.

“Yes, of course,” he exhales. A shiver runs over his shoulders from the cold. He lifts his other hand from the railing to clutch the fur of his coat. “I’m trying. Perhaps tonight has me forgetting my lines.”

“You’re only human,” Lord Brutus replies, a note of compassion in his words he keeps reserved for the younglings. “Even the Emperor has moments when he’d rather forget his role. Sometimes I think your father too would like to forget all about the throne if only for a while.”

“Now that’s a bit too far.” Vespasian laughs humorlessly. “The throne is all he thinks about.”

“Besides you,” Lord Brutus adds with an admonishing look.

“Yes. Besides me.”

Despite his disagreements with his father as of late, he knows it to be true. Still, there are no more words in him anymore, as though everything in the world—except the chill of the air—had been snuffed out. There’s only the numbness where his heart should be and the dull pain in his head. He stares at the endless landscape, thinking in silence for a while.

“Let’s head back,” Lord Brutus offers, his warm, heavy hand coming to his shoulder and squeezing it gently, “before you pass out from the cold. You won’t be able to play any part if you’re blue in the lips and dead on the ground.”

Vespasian chuckles, as weak and broken as he feels. He’d like nothing more than to head back home already, to the comfort of his room, and push all of this aside. Maybe forever. But he knows it to be a distant dream. “Sometimes I think I’d rather be just that,” he mutters under his breath, too low for his company to hear. Then he reminds himself that it is what Varis would make of him, and he rebukes the sentiment. The snow shall melt, and these worries as well. For a time.

He tucks the communicator back into his ear and nods at Lord Brutus, not bothering to hide his fatigue now. It’s a waste of precious time before he must conceal it safely away from less well-meaning actors. “Lead the way.”

The walk back inside is as brisk as his legs carry him, or even too fast for that. The warmth of the hall is welcome, and the scents of roasted meat and spiced mulled wine are almost enough to drive the imagined reek of burnt flesh out of his nose. Though after Asahi’s description, he doubts he can conjure anything as abhorrent as the real thing.

 

Now that the prompt has reminded him of his place and purpose, the rest of the party is much more routine. As fake and forced as his interactions are, he has found himself again—the mask gives more comfort than the raw, wounded skin underneath. He dares not utter another word of Zenos, but he idly listens to whatever others may have to say. It’s pertinent for him to know, after all.

It is as monotonous as he expected. There’s no shortage of the usual topics: complaints about the Empire’s state, war rumors and heroes, family gossip… and, inevitably, the talk turns to the crown prince. More of the same, all things he has heard a hundred times; his shameless escapades, his disgraceful conduct, his lack of manners. Vespasian listens with a faint, tired smile on his face. They don’t know the first thing.

He finds Sabina sitting in the lounge just in time for Licinia’s performance. Trying not to collapse too hard on the armchair next to her, he greets her with an over-dramatic toss of his head against its backrest. “I hope your party has been better than mine.”

“Oh, I’m having so much fun right now,” Sabina says with an air of boredom only the aristocracy can achieve, not even turning in his direction. “I’m thinking how soon it’s appropriate to take my leave without losing face, and whether there’s any point in trying to do it now. You?”

“Not even staying to hear Lici’s show?” He tuts in disapproval, as if he doesn’t share the sentiment. “She’ll be cross with you.”

“My heart bleeds,” she replies dryly, and finally faces him. “But I suppose I have sat down solely to see her, the rest of them be damned. So I’ll stay for her sake, but not a second longer.”

“Is that what we’ve been reduced to?” Vespasian muses, one corner of his mouth tugging into a rueful smile. “Staying at parties just to avoid our relatives’ and family friends’ disappointment. How… common .”

“You need to stop thinking about Zenos, Vee,” Sabina pokes deadpan. “You’re starting to sound like him.”

Vespasian gives her an incredulous look. “Me? Sound like him? ”

He shakes his head, a scoff on the tip of his tongue. “That’s a bold and unfounded accusation. I am not the one running around with who-knows-what and causing a public spectacle.” A grimace of disgust colors his face. “I doubt he has a modicum of sense in his brain. It’s a miracle we’ve not been conquered by a pack of rabid animals yet, since that seems the only thing that can keep his attention.”

“All the more reason to stop thinking about him,” Sabina says, as bluntly as usual. “He’s not your problem, he’s a pain in the arse. Leave his headache to his father, and focus on something else for once.”

“If only I could,” Vespasian grunts, crossing his arms as he leans back in his armchair. It’s easy for her to say; she has no idea what web he’s entangled in.

Or does she? Her frowns towards the men suggested otherwise. He gives her an uneasy glance, before Licinia arrives on stage and grants Sabina her wish as his attention turns toward her.

Her songs get as much applause as they deserve; even Vespasian in his rattled state finds himself truly smiling when she finishes, though her performance doesn’t quite take his mind off his troubles. There’s no shortage of praises that follow. Vespasian catches a glimpse of her in conversation with Sabina before she makes her way further in the audience. He finds no reason to go talk to her—for one, if he needs to exchange more words with any more guests, friend or foe, he may just die on the spot.

It’s a good time to make his escape, while everyone’s distracted with the singer. It has gotten late; the party begins to slowly, but steadily wind up. Nobody pays attention to those who leave, too busy with their own conversations in groups and pairs. Those who remain stay much too caught up in their own heads.

He nudges Sabina with his elbow. She shoots him a raised eyebrow, but only needs a pointed dip of his head to the door before she gets the message. She nods curtly, and the two slip out into the night.

The chill and the howl of the wind, previously biting, is a welcome change to the chatter and the smoke. Vespasian keeps to himself as he and his cousin walk back to the station; as they sit to wait for their train, however, he can no longer hold his tongue.

“Sabina,” he pries her attention from the imperial flag waving in the breeze, “I ask for your honesty. How much have you heard about my recent conversations with the family?”

Her eyes narrow. Then, she cocks an eyebrow. “Why?” she asks with an air of nonchalance—but he knows her better than that. His question has caught her off guard, that much is evident.

Vespasian raises a corner of his mouth into a wry smile. “You’re avoiding the question. Which means you know something . And I don’t doubt you of all people have a sharp ear.”

She turns away from the flag and to him then, her expression still as unreadable as it was before. She holds his gaze for a long moment, like she too is trying to read him, as if he’s some book to crack open. Then she averts her gaze, and he only has her profile.

“What is it you wish to know?” Her words almost vanish under the wind. “Be specific.”

So she is willing to beat around the bush for as long as he allows. He inhales deep, then releases it in a puff of fog, his head turning back toward the estate atop the hill in the distance.

“All I wonder is whether you’ve kept an eye out for assassins tonight, cousin.”

In his peripheral vision, Sabina’s lips purse. His words strike a chord, and a sharp one at that.

“Of course I have,” she says, the bite evident. “What does that have to do with anything?”

He surveys her from the corner of his eye. Nothing of the sincerity in her stare reveals any rotten secrets beneath. Of course she’s cautious, after what happened to her mother; if she has worries of that nature, they don’t necessarily have anything to do with him. The wind picks up, nipping at his skin and forcing the flag to wave violently. In the dark and lonely night, the sounds of the distant city reach them in a low whisper.

He can sense it in the air. She’s thinking . Thinking about whether she should divulge anything, even just some scrap of information. After another long pause, the frown returns to her face.

“You’re behaving strangely tonight,” she accuses. “And you’re asking strange questions. What is really happening?”

The cold air burns inside his lungs. In another world, another life, another time, perhaps he could have divulged his every worry. If he could be as candid now with her as he has been in the past, how much easier things would be. Now, the truth is the last thing he can tell her—and he’s not certain which one of them he is protecting.

“Nothing is happening,” he lies effortlessly. “I’m simply tired.”

She gives him a sideways glance— the sort that says I know you; you’re not getting away with this one . He has seen her use it dozens of times before. “You wouldn’t be talking about assassins if nothing was happening.”

“I simply wonder what caught your attention about that group of men at the party,” Vespasian turns the accusation back on her. “That is all.”

She falls silent, her lips drawn into a thin line. He’s certain she has plenty more to say, but she’s holding back. Then, she shakes her head.

“They were suspicious,” she admits. “They made me uneasy. So I kept an eye out.”

Vespasian gives her a searching look. “That’s it? Why didn’t you say so in the first place?” 

Her reluctance to offer the information was strange, but her reason is plausible enough. Maybe he’s more paranoid than he has any right to be. Certainly, he shouldn’t take it out on an innocent girl.

“You were acting even more suspicious than them ,” she says and shrugs. “One could think you were hiding something.”

The conversation veers a tad too close to the truth, so he tries to think of something clever to say. Before he can come up with anything in time, a screech of metal interrupts them. The lights of the train come to a stop at the station, and the moment of truthful conversation is gone like it never took place.

Now that they’re not talking, the air hangs heavy with something he can’t resolve. He’s tempted to say more, but figures it’d probably be even more awkward. They’ll both be better off if tonight stayed left unmentioned and forgotten as just another ordinary, routine gathering. 

They step onto the train, into the merciful calm of their private compartment. Vespasian sinks back against the plush seats, his exhaustion finally catching up with him now that he is out of the cold, away from all those nobles and their scrutiny. At least he can get away. While the mounds of snow pass in a blur, he thinks of those of sand, and Asahi in their midst.

His relaxation halts with a spike in his blood as it dawns on him: just as Castellum Velodyna kept the rebels away from Ala Mhigo before, it now does the opposite under their control. Asahi is trapped in the wilds of the Fringes.

Chapter 30

Upon returning home, Vespasian doesn’t skulk around. His gait shows none of his fatigue or nerves. He’s returned early like his father wished; what more can he ask for? Vespasian won’t bother groveling. He marches inside the house, and the servant greeting him in the vestibule hurries to take his coat.

Judging from the low murmur of conversation from the drawing room, his presence was sorely missed. It’s all but confirmed when he approaches and hears his father’s hurried whispers: “What do you mean you lost sight of him?”

Vespasian pauses just behind the doorway, his exhaustion forgotten. His father is in a mood, his voice rising to a hiss, and there’s only one person he could possibly be reprimanding. He paces the room with a frantic energy, his palm pressed to his forehead. “You know damn well that fanatic sect was in attendance, and now you’re telling me—”

A servant notices Vespasian leering in and gives him a nod, so he steps in without hesitation. 

“Father,” he starts with a pleasant smile on his face, “what’s the matter? Did something happen while I was away?”

Nerva’s head snaps in his direction, and he can practically see the steam rising from his nostrils. The wrinkles on his forehead are much more pronounced from the anger twisting his face, but as his gaze lands on his son, all fury slowly bleeds from him.

“Give Lord Brutus my regards,” Vespasian continues, “and my thanks for the company. Though I would prefer if you told me your worries to my face next time, rather than asked an ally to chaperone me behind my back.”

His father’s gaze turns steely. It’s a look Vespasian can recognize well, though he rarely was at the receiving end of it. It used to be reserved for whenever he and his cousin had combined their chaotic brains and done something particularly stupid.

“You’re an adult, Vespasian,” he says, his voice low and measured. “One does not chaperone adults.”

Vespasian tilts his head and shoots a smile, sickly-sweet and insincere. A passive-aggressive move of a high caliber, but it’s better than saying what he truly thinks of the statement. “I thought so too,” he agrees instead, then turns to leave.

“Sit down.”

It’s a command more than invitation, and it stops Vespasian in his tracks. It makes him turn around, reluctantly, and he fixes his father with an annoyed look. 

“I would like to have a word with you,” Nerva elaborates.

Vespasian’s eyes flick between his father’s frown and the door, contemplating the wisdom of walking out anyway. He decides against it and does as he’s told. He sits, keeping his back straight and his arms petulantly crossed, and waits.

Nerva ends his call with a murmured apology before joining him at the seating.

“You’re giving me attitude,” he accuses after the silence has already begun to stifle.

“You’re sending spies after me,” Vespasian fires back, his voice just as composed as his sire’s.

That provokes an eyebrow-raise from Nerva, as much an acknowledgement as a challenge to keep going. Vespasian accepts both. “I may be your son, but I will not grovel like your servant,” he says with a barely contained simmering fury, “and my attitude , as you so eloquently call it, would not exist in the first place were you to trust me .”

“I do trust you,” Nerva protests. He has adopted a different tone—the quieter one that always has a veneer of sincerity in it. “But we live in dangerous times, as I’m sure you are aware. I simply want to make sure you remain safe.”

Vespasian averts his furrowed brow. “Do I get to know what threatens my life this time? Or are you going to keep me in the dark again?”

Nerva studies his son’s face, his own blank. He takes his time to answer, and when he does, his words come out slow.

“The royal family is well-loved, but not well-liked by all,” he says, and there is a hint of hesitance in the way his mouth tightens. “There are certain factions who would rather see the Galvus dynasty come to an end, and those very factions have grown increasingly bold in their plans. We have no reason to suspect that they’re after you in particular, but I’m taking no risks.”

It’s all words meant to soothe the tension—a tale straight from the history books. Vespasian rolls his eyes. “Are you honestly trying to tell me the dissidents have suddenly grown competent?”

“Competent? No,” Nerva spits as he reaches across the table for a bottle placed in its middle. “Impatient, rather. Vengeful, for the way Doma has fallen and Ala Mhigo teeters.”

“So they’re coming after my dear little head?” Vespasian asks, unable to help a wry smile from tugging at his lips. The thought is laughable. “Because I so clearly command the military and navy, and they’ll gain a huge advantage by putting an end to me.”

Nerva scoffs in derision. “A Galvus is a Galvus to the most insane of them, and you might be perceived as more vulnerable than someone like Varis or Zenos,” he says as he pours his drink, and another for his son. “Then there’s the other end of the political spectrum. Varis’s most rabid sycophants might always come after us both, too.”

Vespasian accepts the drink as it’s offered, if only to have something to occupy his hands. His mind whirrs at his father’s words, though he takes care to maintain an unruffled exterior.

“Why not pit them against each other, then?” he suggests coolly. “No time to slit any royal throats if they’re at each others’, hm?”

Nerva shakes his head, as if the suggestion is the most ridiculous thing he’s heard in his life. “You do not know the lengths they will go to achieve what they want. You must stay out of this. That’s an order , understood?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dare,” Vespasian says with a dismissive wave of his wrist. “But someone else could, if I spoke the right words in their ear, you know?”

Vespasian’s comment is so obviously meant to be facetious that even Nerva can’t hold his irritation back. He gives him a hard stare. “I am warning you, son,” he growls, the edge in his voice a sharp knife he so obviously wants to throw. “Do not engage with them, do not speak of them, and do not spy on their meetings, understood?”

“Fine,” Vespasian agrees unwillingly. “I won’t get involved, if I’m so ineffective. Would you like to know what is going on with what I have been involved with, however?”

Surprise breaks through Nerva’s discontent, and his eyes narrow with suspicion. There’s an undercurrent of worry to it—a worry he refuses to voice.

“And what would that be?” he asks cautiously.

“I’m so glad you asked,” Vespasian drawls. He kicks out his legs onto a nearby stool and takes a sip of the bitter liquid in his glass.

He concentrates on the positives while he spins his tale; there will be time to think of Asahi’s strandedness later. It’s more important to him right now that his father understands his successes.

“Velodyna has fallen?” Nerva regardless gets caught on the wrong thing.

“Well, well. Looks like I know something you don’t.” Vespasian gives the now half-empty glass a spin between his fingers.  “Yes, the resistance captured it some hours ago. My field agent was present at the scene.”

Nerva looks more disbelieving than impressed. His fingers grip his glass with barely concealed restraint. “I find your claim dubious at best. Are you so certain he’s not simply spouting lies at you?”

“ Please ,” Vespasian scoffs. “He’s an insufferable little worm, but to lie about something that makes my job and his exponentially more difficult? Hardly plausible. Is it so difficult to believe I’m making moves of my own?”

Nerva still eyes him with skepticism, but there is a trace of begrudging respect in the look he gives his son.

“Let’s assume what you speak of is true,” he says, and a note of ire remains that he’s unable to suppress. “Your little friend is telling the truth, and the rebels have actually got their hands on the castellum. Where will this lead next? What will they do with it?”

“What do you think? They’ll push further north.” Vespasian finishes the drink to hide a proud smirk. “And Zenos, in his obsession, won’t do a damn thing to stop it, so they’ll do it near undeterred. That is, unless I preoccupy their war rabbit with something more pressing. Something like… I don’t know, an eikon from a local tribe of beasts.”

Nerva’s mouth draws to a thin, unhappy line upon hearing those words. “An eikon ?” he says, and for a moment, he is shocked into speechlessness. “Are you mad, boy? You’re well aware that summoning is illegal.”

“Yes, yes, but instigating one is not, last I checked,” Vespasian retorts, tiring of explaining himself. “Even if it was, I’m approximately three steps removed. The blame will fall on rem Lupis and her gaggle of Ala Mhigans—not my agent, and certainly not me.”

Nerva narrows his gaze. “Do you expect me to applaud you for this reckless move? For involving yourself with dissidents and summoning monsters —“ he scoffs, “like it’s some plaything to pull out whenever you feel you’re not getting enough attention? Have you lost what little sense I ever gave you?”

A bitter taste dwells in the back of Vespasian’s mouth, and it’s not only from the liquor. “Is it too much to ask you to have faith in me, Father?”

Nerva’s stern face softens just barely upon hearing the words, but even that much is more than one should expect. “It is not that I do not have faith in you,” he says, his voice lowered. “It is that you go around acting before thinking of consequences, and it worries me. You frighten me.”

It’s not enough to placate Vespasian’s disappointment. He puts the glass down louder than necessary as he rises to his feet, towering over his seated father with his heels.

“Then just wait and I’ll show you something truly frightening,” he states, then storms off.

It earns him an exasperated sigh, so quiet it could easily go unheard. Nerva leans across the table and watches as Vespasian turns on his heel.

“Where are you going?” he calls after him.

“To change into something less frivolous,” Vespasian responds. “I’ve a ‘little friend’ to save.” The last part he adds only to himself.

His father looks after him as he leaves, noting his tense back’s sharp edges, and lets out another sigh. The last thing Vespasian hears before he is gone is a muttered “Foolish child.”

He stomps away from the room, his mood getting darker the more he thinks about his father’s disappointment. Of course he would not be happy! He was never happy with any of his decisions—the ones that failed, the ones that didn’t fail but weren’t up to standards, or the ones that might be successful, but were doomed to fail based on his father’s lack of vision. Still, his chin remains high as he walks the hallways, caring for none of those he passes by nor what they might think of his dour expression.

He enters his room and closes the door behind him with one hand while shrugging out of his clothing with the other. The corset falls to the floor, the tight pants are shimmied off his thin, long legs, and Vespasian moves on to undo his hair, letting the blush-pink locks fall loose.

The only sound in the room is him rustling through his dresser, trying to find something more worth taking seriously. When he’s done, he’d look more at home among generals than a fine society party—and that was the plan. He has no medals to adorn his sleek uniform, but it will have to do. He pulls each black leather glove on and snaps it taut against his wrist, making sure everything is in its right place. After one final look at the mirror, he’s satisfied enough that the coat’s fit is perfect, the hair is neat, and the expression on his face is cold as steel.

He may not be a legatus himself, but he knows who to turn to in his hour of need. Without stopping to let his father know, he heads out again, this time to see Lady Vergilia.

 

A towering building with numerous windows waits for him downtown. It’s the headquarters of the IIIrd legion in the capital, as well as its legatus’s main residence. The guard stationed at Lady Vergilia’s door stops him in the hallway. “The legatus isn’t entertaining visitors at the moment,” he says, eyeing Vespasian up and down.

With a scathing look and crossed arms, he stands his ground. “You know who I am.”

The guard falters, shifting beneath his helmet. He’s one of the legion’s newer recruits—it is abundantly clear from his youthful cheeks and how nervous he acts in royalty’s presence. He opens his mouth to try and protest again, but closes it thereafter. “Of course, my lord.”

“That’s what I thought.” Vespasian could get used to this new, sharper self. Less a concealed pocket knife, more a sword.

The door leading to the lady’s office opens for him. His obstacle salutes and steps aside.

Lady Vergilia’s office is decorated in a taste befitting her station. Simple but grand, elegant, and most of it dedicated to the Garlean war effort. Maps, diagrams and battle plans crowd the room, taking up desks and walls. They are interrupted only by a shelf adorned by numerous medals and a few portraits. One in particular catches Vespasian’s eye: of her and Nerva in their youth, when his father’s hair was longer and more unruly, and his smirk full of mirth. His arm is around her shoulder, and she too smiles.

Someone clears their throat, making him turn around. Lady Vergilia stands by the window, her gaze set to him with a hint of suspicion. Outside her armor, she’s much less imposing; an ordinary woman in a nightgown. While her expression is relaxed, her posture is still that of a soldier.

“You’re here at an unusual hour,” she observes, then tilts her head. “And dressed for a war meeting, no less.”

“I wish to get your advice,” Vespasian explains, awkward and unpracticed. He is in no position to command her, not in her residence in the small hours of the night.

“My advice?” Vergilia takes a step closer, her expression softening. “Of course. But you could have asked me in the morn, and given me time to put some proper clothes on. What’s so important that it can’t wait until we’re both rested?”

Vespasian’s confidence drains away under her gaze. He shifts on his feet. He had been so sure of himself just a moment earlier, but now, being confronted with a woman who’s had his father’s attention for longer than Vespasian can remember—longer than he’s lived, even—it begins to look like a fool’s plan.

“Tell me,” Vergilia implores, her tone not unkind. “You rarely come to me. It has to be something you think your father does not need to know about.”

“I just don’t need, nor want him doing everything for me,” Vespasian mumbles. He sits down and fiddles with the soft texture of his armchair’s velvet.

Vergilia’s lips pull into a faint smile, one full of amusement. “You’re growing up,” she teases, and moves to sit on the edge of the same table where the maps are spread. “What is it you need my advice with?”

Vespasian glares at her, unsure if he should be offended or flattered. In the end he chooses to be flattered, for at least she is the kind of person whose opinion he respects. 

“Have you heard what happened to the castellum of Velodyna?” he finally asks.

She nods. “The news carried to me just before. I was in the process of writing to your father, as a matter of fact.”

Vespasian perks up as he hears those words. “So you do know,” he says eagerly. “What is the viceroy’s response? Will he try to reclaim the bridge? Reinforce around the area?”

Vergilia shakes her head. “None. Word is that Zenos has decided that the area is no longer worth the effort,” she says with a shrug. “The risk is too great to push our forces any more into the land. That means we will retreat soon.”

Vespasian frowns. “What if one of his men was stuck on the wrong side?”

“In all honesty, I doubt he would care.” Vergilia’s eyes are on him again, sharp and shrewd. “Why your interest? Is there a man you can’t afford to lose?”

“Yes.” Vespasian swallows. “My agent, Asahi rem Brutus. From what I could glean, his squadron is… gone.” He grimaces, unwilling to discuss the phantom of burnt flesh that hits his nose again. “I fear he’s all on his own. Easy pickings for the Warrior of Light, should he search the area again.”

Vergilia’s mouth is a thoughtful, tight line as she takes in the information. “Your agent, hm? I suppose you think him irreplaceable?” she asks, trying to gently mask her doubt.

Vespasian looks down at the floor. “My father was quite clear. You heard him—I get one agent.”

He doesn’t examine the feeling, but the thought of Asahi all alone and exposed to beasts the likes of the savior of the savages shoots a pain into his chest.

“And he does happen to be the son of a powerful Populares figure…” A moment of silence in which Vergilia’s judgment rests on him, sharp and penetrating. When she speaks, her words are much calmer than he feels. “And so you intend to save him.”

Desperate eyes meet hers. “What choice do I have?”

There is a long moment in which Vergilia stares at his pleading gaze, her thoughts running unreadable. Then her shoulders fall in defeat, and she shakes her head. 

“Solus help you,” she says, not unkindly. She inhales deep, getting ready to speak an unpleasant truth. “You’re aware I can’t spare men for this. A rescue mission behind enemy lines…”

Vespasian’s face darkens. “No men at all? What if I told you the enemy champion will be preoccupied?”

“The Warrior of Light?” Vergilia raises her eyebrows. “Doing what, exactly? The only distraction big enough to pull him out of the area is…”

Her words hang in the air. “What are you planning?” she murmurs after a pause.

Vespasian holds her gaze for a moment, then lowers his eyes, entertaining the fantasy of telling her. Surely she would agree—what other choice could there be? But she is his father’s lover, his ally, and he can’t risk another stark refusal. 

“Nothing you need to know about,” he says instead with grave finality. “Let me worry about that part. All I need is a few soldiers—no more than one squad with a flying vehicle.”

Vergilia sits in silent contemplation. “… Fine,” she says eventually. “I’ll grant you what you wish. But only a small scouting party. Nothing more. They are not to interfere with the enemy unless they’re under active attack, and they’re under no circumstances to engage the Warrior of Light, is that clear?”

Vespasian releases a held breath. “I would never ask that of them,” he agrees with a relieved smile. “I will provide rem Brutus’s coordinates once I get back in touch with him.”

Vergilia nods, more to herself than anything. The plan is clear, and she is more than capable of acting on it. But as she watches Vespasian stand up, a last thought crosses her mind.

“Vespasian,” she calls gently, and he turns to her in curiosity. “This agent of yours… What is so special about him?”

He slows in his step, suppressing his fluster. “Didn’t I just tell you? He’s the only one I have.”

She studies him for a long moment, and the corner of her mouth twitches upward. “Indeed,” she murmurs. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re more than a little fond of him.”

Vespasian opens his mouth to protest, to insist that the notion is ridiculous, but the words won’t come out. In the end, he decides on simply scoffing, rolling his eyes, and making a face—which only serves to amuse Vergilia even more.

She tuts in a manner half mocking, half fond. “Now go. Get back in touch with your agent, and set everything in order. I expect to hear from you as soon as you have—don’t keep me up any longer than needed.”

Vespasian shifts on his feet, embarrassed that he did not protest harder. But he’s gotten what he wanted, and he’s smart enough to recognize a dismissal when he hears one.

“I won’t,” he says, and starts to move, before pausing at the door. “And… thank you, ma’am.”

Vergilia’s eyes soften further as she watches him go. “Your father will hear of this,” she says and, despite the stern words, there is an approving tone to them. “Whether you get what you want or not.”

Vespasian pauses in his tracks, and the anxiety comes flaring back. “He doesn’t need to,” he insists, and Vergilia cocks her head.

“Perhaps,” she muses, “but if this is important to you, then surely it’s something he should know about too.”

As much as he wants to, he cannot lash out at her. Instead, he settles for a scowl.

“Good night, Vergilia,” he says, and slams the door on his way out.

Notes:

Vespa should be mad at his dad more often. His sass was so delightful to write<3

Chapter 31

If Nerva has anything more to say to his son, he has no time for it before Vespasian locks himself into his room. Only now does he realize the servants tidied it in his absence; no such observations could pass through his earlier determination of choosing his outfit. As he collapses upon his bed, he wills it to give him courage for his call.

In the solitude of his own space, the nervous flutter of his heart booms louder than he’d like. His fingers tremble as they hover over the communicator. What if Asahi doesn’t pick up? Ridiculous , he scoffs at himself—Asahi should hardly be in any danger now that the Demon Rabbit has retreated. Still, he can’t shake the unease until he’s made sure of it.

He hesitates for another few moments, then forces himself to press the button. The device begins to beep, then a new beeping joins as they establish a connection.

“Oh, good,” he hears a weary groan, “this thing isn’t out of energy.”

Relief washes over Vespasian like a balm when he hears the familiar voice, choppy as it is. After the tense meetings with his father and Lady Vergilia, it is a welcome wave. 

“Asahi?” Vespasian’s voice cracks. “Can you hear me? The connection seems shaky.”

“It is,” Asahi complains back. “And it isn’t my fault. It’s this blasted forest. I’m surprised I’m getting any reception at all in this place.”

Just the thought of where Asahi might be is enough to send a shiver down Vespasian’s spine, but he forces himself to remain calm. “Nevertheless, it seems to be working right now, and that is enough,” he says, and clears his throat. “Are you alright? You haven’t run into the Warrior of Light again?”

“No.” Asahi sighs deeply. It crackles with static. “Only beasts even more animalistic. And let me tell you, they are not fond of me. I had to take shelter in a ghost town. That’s where I am right now.”

It’s as Vespasian feared, then. His face sours. “Near Black Rose’s defunct testing site?”

“Yes, I think,” Asahi says. “Though I’m not entirely sure where that is, exactly. I just followed the path until I saw a settlement up ahead, and when I got there, well…” He trails off, and Vespasian can picture the unease in his frown. “It’s… eerie. Old huts, not a single living person in sight. The only thing I could salvage is water from a stream.”

Hearing that doesn’t help Vespasian’s nerves in any way. He curls his fingers around the communicator, squeezing it. “I wouldn’t drink it, if I were you. Who knows if the toxins remain; you’ll have no way to tell.”

“You’re right,” Asahi agrees, and there is a sound of splashing, as if he’s dumping the water somewhere. “It’ll be better to go thirsty.”

Vespasian sighs in relief. “Good. Good. Don’t be hasty about these things.”

“These things, my lord?” He can hear Asahi’s smile, and the thought should not please him as much as it does, when the bastard clearly mocks him.

“Don’t be cheeky with me,” Vespasian warns, but there is no force in it. “It’s not as if I am eager to lose you.”

“I did tell you not to worry,” Asahi reminds him flippantly. “You’re starting to sound like my mother.”

“I thought Lord Brutus was a bachelor?”

“My birth mother, obviously .”

Despite his worries, the corner of Vespasian’s mouth tugs into a smile at the light-hearted back and forth. “I am not being overbearing,” he insists, though he’s uncertain whom he’s trying to convince. “I am simply being a sensible commanding officer who wishes to have his agent back in one piece as soon as possible.”

“I’m touched you care so much, my lord,” Asahi intones, and it’s a wonder how easily he can go from teasing to smooth as if he had been trained for the task. “Don’t worry. I still have my wits and my sword. If I’m patient and careful enough, I won’t be a snack for beasts.”

“No, you won’t,” Vespasian murmurs, half to himself and half to Asahi, and leans back to look at the ceiling. Despite the confidence Asahi attempts to exude, he can tell the anxiety has wormed its way into him. It brings out a protectiveness that usually stays hidden beneath his layers of princely pride. 

“Just… stay put for now,” he commands. “When morning comes, a scouting party in the IIIrd’s fastest airship will return you back to safety.”

“You’re sending for me?” There is a hint of disbelief, but mostly Asahi’s voice is gentle. “My lord, you don’t have to—”

“Of course I have to!” Vespasian insists. “What, should I leave you to the rabbit’s claws instead?”

“I just mean, Lord Zenos will notice me missing soon enough,” Asahi explains, each word ringing with delusion. “He’ll rescue me, surely.”

Vespasian’s eye twitches at the mention of his cousin’s name, and he presses the communicator tighter against his ear. “Don’t count on it. That man is too busy making a fool of himself to consider you.”

“Do you really think that?” Asahi asks, so sincere that Vespasian winces. Does he not realize the truth of the situation, how utterly forgotten he is? Why does he still insist on idolizing Zenos, despite all the evidence to the contrary?

Vespasian doesn’t have the heart to give him a straight answer. Instead, he tries to change the topic back to something more important. “This is beside the point. Regardless of whether Zenos remembers or not, you’ll come back alive. My men shall bring you to safety under the cover of darkness. Don’t turn them away just because they’re not his.”

Asahi stays in thoughtful silence for so long that Vespasian starts to fear the connection snapped. “I suppose you’re right,” he agrees eventually, and with a sigh to boot, one which rings heavy with defeat. “It’s not as if Zenos would be coming personally to bring me back, anyway.”

“No,” Vespasian says, and the word slips out too forcefully. He clears his throat, embarrassed by the show of emotion. “No, he probably wouldn’t.”

“Right,” Asahi agrees slowly, and there is a long moment in which the line goes quiet. In that space, Vespasian can hear his own ragged breathing echo between his ears. Is it normal to feel this way? Is it normal to be unable to speak? He opens his mouth to say something, anything to salvage the situation—but the words lodge themselves in his throat.

Asahi breaks the awkward silence first. “… You know, my lord,” he says, his voice lower than usual, and more strained. “You’ve never told me what you think of that whole… ordeal between Zenos and the Warrior of Light.”

Could something so crucial be a discussion they’ve cast aside? He knows Asahi’s opinion on the matter, loud and clear, but perhaps he really has kept his own to himself. A knot forms in Vespasian’s gut, though he doesn’t know what to attribute it to: the topic itself, or the tone with which Asahi brings it up. “There isn’t anything to think which hasn’t been repeated by every noble mouth in the Empire,” he responds tiredly. “His infatuation is beyond foolish. Embarrassing, even.”

“Embarrassing, yes,” Asahi agrees with venomous enthusiasm. “I cannot understand why he would… lower himself like that, no matter his reasons. To take interest in that savage, to indulge in his attention… it’s degrading.”

“It is.” Vespasian bites on his lower lip, torn. Asahi is being so agreeable, so willing to open up, but all the while the knot in his gut tightens. Even as he tries to find the right words, he is acutely aware that these complaints do not come from innocent concern over Zenos’s wellbeing.

“That savior of the savages is a barbarian, a beast,” Asahi continues. “If Lord Zenos must take an intimate companion, he has hundreds at his disposal. He should not be consorting with an Eorzean little— ”

As he hears Asahi’s vitriol, upset boils deep within him—and before he has the time to stop it, the words are out of his mouth, sharp and hard: “And would you include yourself on that list?”

“What?” Asahi asks after a stunned quiet.

What is happening to Vespasian? His heart throbs, and his thoughts are muddled. “You heard me,” he continues. Asahi’s breath hitches at his clipped words, and there is a certain satisfaction in it.  “Would you allow Zenos to take such liberties with you?”

“I—” Asahi makes a strangled sound like a cough, and Vespasian envisions the borscht-red of his cheeks. “Of course, if he wished, who am I to deny him? I exist to serve him—”

It’s so absurd, so much so that Vespasian bursts into laughter. It flows past the stone in his chest like a river, only rushing forth louder when Asahi’s sputtering increases.

“ My lord! ” Asahi chokes out, but Vespasian can’t—won’t allow himself to stop. The laughter floods out of his throat. It’s ridiculous and bitter and freeing , and he laughs and laughs and laughs until his gut hurts.

When it peters out, he sighs, feeling lighter. In the dimness of his room, the bundle of pillows next to him almost takes Asahi’s resting form, a warm fantasy where his agent is safe with him and not in a desolate hut at the risk of beasts and beast-like villains. Though he’s well aware the man would rather find himself in Zenos’s sheets instead.

“Are you done?” The question cuts through the mirage. Vespasian blinks in surprise, coming back to reality. Despite the biting words, a clear note of embarrassment accompanies them, and Vespasian can’t help the curl of a smile on his lips.

“I apologize,” he manages to utter, though still breathy. “You’re just rather cute when you’re flustered.”

Whatever possessed him to say it must’ve been a helpful spirit, because this is delightful . It’s a little mean, he knows, but he has to take his entertainment where he can get it. Asahi chokes on his words at the tease, and when his sputtering ceases, what comes out is a half-strangled whine.

“This is highly unprofessional,” he wheezes eventually, but Vespasian only chuckles, amused to no end.

“But no less true,” he says pleasantly. His mental image of the man sports such a petulant pout that his endearment swells.

“You’re shameless ,” Asahi retorts weakly, still not sounding like himself at all. “It’s unbecoming of a prince of Garlemald to—to—”

“Oh, come on.” Vespasian’s cheeks hurt from the grin breaching upon them. “I deserve the levity after the scare you gave me today.”

“You… You deserve worse, you pompous—” Asahi continues with all the indignation he can muster, and Vespasian just laughs.

“You sound like you’re about to pop a vein,” he says, and Asahi lets out an undignified squeak.

“I very well might,” he spits back, then pauses. The embarrassment creeps back into his voice when he speaks next. “… Stop laughing at me.”

Vespasian’s lips twitch—how he wishes to be able to see the glare of Asahi’s eyes right now—but he does as he is asked. “If you insist,” he murmurs, though his amusement stays and carries over. “I will hang up, if you cannot handle my appreciation.”

“Wait.” Vespasian expected more whining, another adorable reaction, but what he gets instead shocks him. “Don’t hang up.”

He blinks, his fingers going momentarily slack in surprise. Asahi is suddenly so sincere, so lacking in all the usual snark. “I…” Vespasian manages, but the rest of his sentence dies in his throat before it can be born.

“Please, my lord,” Asahi continues, and hearing him so quiet, so serious, is an experience. “Don’t hang up yet.”

Vespasian hesitates. What exactly has he unleashed—what is he to do now? Asahi’s plea rings in his ears, in all its urgency… he can’t.

“Very well,” he says, too low, but Asahi makes a sound of relief. “I won’t.”

“Thank you.” Asahi’s voice is breathless, and, oh Solus, he sounds so… vulnerable. It’s making Vespasian’s head spin. The words of protest, the teasing complaints—all of it is gone, and in their stead is an open, unguarded sincerity he hasn’t ever heard before.

It gives way for a silence that stretches beyond its length, before Asahi mumbles, “Nobody answers on the squadron’s line.”

“They’re probably busy with some urgent matter, is all,” Vespasian offers an innocent explanation, but it’s not nearly as reassuring as he’d hoped. It rings hollow, a feeble consolation, and he can only hope that Asahi is distracted enough not to notice—and yet, judging by what follows, he isn’t.

“No, my lord,” his agent says, dejected. “I saw… a few of them. I’m not naive. I know the savior of the savages got the rest too.”

“… I see.” Vespasian had assumed so, but to have it confirmed… Of course it wouldn’t be long before Zenos’s infatuation would bring about a new price to pay in blood. Not for the first time does Vespasian wonder how much the bunny-eared bastard will be allowed to bleed the Empire.

“You’re certain he’s no longer in the area?” he seeks reassurance again, willing his voice even.

“Positive,” Asahi affirms, unable to mask his distaste. “I kept watch until I was certain of it. He won’t be back in the area for now.”

Vespasian exhales, the muscles in his shoulders relaxing, though they remain tenser than ideal. “I’ll inform the scouting party of his movements. I don’t want any of our people caught unawares.”

Asahi does not respond. Vespasian almost thinks their conversation is over, that he’ll be left alone with only the silence to keep him company.

Instead, a scoff rings through the line, then Asahi murmurs, “You’re surprisingly considerate of the men under your command.”

Vespasian opens and closes his mouth, startled by the off-handed jab. “What is that supposed to imply?” he asks, the edge creeping back into his tone. “Have I not risked my neck enough to help you? Do you really think that little of me, Asahi?”

“It implies that you’re usually a vain and spoiled brat,” Asahi explains. “You put on this mask of being above it all, of only considering your own comfort and pleasure. I didn’t know you actually cared.”

“And here I thought we were having a moment,” Vespasian snarks, dry and unimpressed. “Instead I hear you still cradle some stereotype of me in your little head. Very impressive.”

“Little head?” Asahi asks, and already he sounds less serious, something more like his normal self returning. “Did you just imply I’m stupid?”

“Single-minded, at the very least.” It’s a conflicted feeling, to have pulled his agent out of the murky thoughts of dead men and back into the banter. “My thanks that you’ve managed to keep my cousin’s name off your lips for at least a minute or two.”

“Are you jealous?” Asahi asks, and Vespasian can imagine the smirk on his face clear enough to punch it. “You certainly act like it every time I bring it up.”

“As if,” he responds more defensively than he’d like. “I simply tire of hearing the same thing over and over again. There is more to life than Zenos, you know.”

A good reminder to himself as well, in the midst of all this turmoil, but Asahi doesn’t pick up on the irony. “I don’t know,” he teases coyly, and Vespasian would roll his eyes at the insolence if it deserved such a reaction. “Are you certain you’re not just tired of hearing my praise of an objectively superior individual?”

“Objectively superior my foot,” Vespasian gives a long-suffering sigh, unamused. “He’s not even a tenth of the man you credit him for.”

The resulting tirade to his claim he tunes out while writing the promised report to Vergilia, something he’s aware he already put off while humoring Asahi in his loneliness. It takes longer than intended, a consequence of an agent that refuses to shut up, but eventually the missive is sent. He stretches, rubbing at the back of his neck with a huff, and considers ending the call.

Then he remembers the other’s quiet admittance, and hesitates.

“You know… you sounded more serious tonight, in the beginning,” he takes advantage of a lull in Asahi’s rant, light and casual, stopping it in its tracks. “You weren’t as bratty.” He isn’t sure whether to be surprised or not when Asahi doesn’t deny it.

“Not that I dislike the change,” he adds. “I’m merely wondering if the scare really affected you that much.”

“I…” Asahi trails off, before sighing. The bravado from before is gone, replaced with something quiet, something tired, and it causes Vespasian to frown. “To be honest, my lord?”

“You haven’t held back your candor before.”

Asahi makes a noise, half laugh, half sigh. “No, I suppose I haven’t.”

He pauses, and when he speaks again, it’s quiet and subdued. It’s an oddity that makes Vespasian’s skin prickle, though he can’t identify why.

“I must admit, my mind may have been somewhat preoccupied with thoughts of mortality, in a way it hasn’t been since…” Asahi cuts off, and Vespasian’s frown deepens. “And now I have a report to file, and… and dead men to name, and—I don’t know how he will take my… cowardice.”

“Cowardice,” Vespasian repeats. “You think you’re a coward?”

“How can I catch his favor,” Asahi grits his teeth, “when I cannot face the one who holds it now?”

That’s all it comes back to once again: a desire for affection, from a man so incapable of offering it. Vespasian has seen it time and time again, but it still leaves him flabbergasted, how one man’s approval can hold so many in a chokehold.

”There’s nothing cowardly about avoiding a monster,” he reassures, in lieu of his more scathing thoughts. “If anything, it’s self-preservation. You can’t do your work if you’re dead.”

“And what of those under my watch?” Asahi asks, cold and resigned, with no anger behind the question. “I failed them. What does it say, that I live and they don’t?”

“That they’re dead and you’re not,” Vespasian states coldly. “That’s what being a leader entails. It’s not about self-sacrifice, it’s about knowing your limits and those of the men you command. Do you think it would’ve helped them if you joined them?”

Asahi says nothing. The silence stretches between them. “You think too little of yourself,” Vespasian continues. “You act as if what you do means nothing, as you seek to… impress , but the work you do would be much more difficult to come by without you. I know you don’t care for the recognition, that only Zenos matters to you, but I do appreciate you.”

“Gratitude means little to me,” Asahi murmurs eventually, but his usual sharpness is nowhere to be found. A statement, rather than a challenge. “Unless it’s spoken by him.”

“That’s what I said.” A tired response, something of a surrender. “I’ll still stay on the line until I hear the airship of the rescuers, if you need me.”

“Stay,” Asahi’s request is quiet, and Vespasian frowns again.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he reassures, but can’t entirely keep the confusion out of his voice. What is it that keeps him here, listening?

“No, I meant—” Asahi cuts off, then sighs. “Never mind, it’s—it makes no sense. Just… stay on the line, my lord.”

An admission of weakness, something that rarely seems to happen with this agent. “Whatever you want,” Vespasian says, sinking back into his bed, the fatigue of the day weighing him down.

Now that the silence falls upon them once again, he’s hyper-aware of every background noise on the line. Crickets chirp, and a soft breeze rustles through the trees. The faint sound of water can be heard, and the distant howl of a foreign animal he doesn’t recognize. On his end, there’s no such symphony. His window, firmly closed, muffles what little the snowscape could offer, and the thick walls keep the activities of night time servants away.

“Is it snowing?” It’s a mundane question, and out of nowhere.

Vespasian makes a noise of agreement. “Quite heavily. The forecast promises more in the upcoming weeks.”

“Snow.” There’s something wistful in Asahi’s voice. “Such a rare treat in Doma. It hardly snows this time of year. You know, my village was in the north, a stone’s throw away from the castle—” he cuts off, and Vespasian thinks that maybe he’s forgotten his company. Then he’s back. “So we got a little more. It was always quite something in the winter, but not nearly enough to prepare me for the academy…”

“It’s different to anywhere else,” Vespasian agrees. “The snow is beautiful, but it’s always there…” he trails off, and sighs. “I’ve always been fond of spring. When you’re finally getting away from the cold, the first flowers bloom, and the weather starts to turn. When everything comes back to life again.”

“It’s a mockery of spring, what the capital has,” Asahi snorts, but it’s not a jab at Vespasian this time.

“Oh, I know.” He can’t help grinning at that. “You never know what you’re going to get when you go outside. Is it freezing, or is the sun shining right in your eyes, or has the snow from last night already melted into a wet, cold sludge? It’s a mystery.”

Asahi laughs. “And here I can scarcely tell what season it’s supposed to be at all.”

It’s strange to be lulled into such comfort with the topic of weather of all things. Vespasian’s eyes slowly draw shut, the weight of the hour pulling on each weary bone in his body. No protest wakes him when he dozes off on the line—all signs point to slumber having tempted his agent into a similar state.

 

A beeping in his ear startles him awake, his arm wrapped around the pillow next to him. Battery low, the communicator warns, but it takes its sweet time to break through his fog.

“Mm… Asahi?” is his first conscious thought instead. “What time is it, do you know?”

The chirping of birds is the first to respond from the other end, before Asahi shifts with a groan. “Just past dawn, I’d imagine.” His voice is thick with sleep, but he’s awake, if only just. “What’s—is that… something beeping? I can hear a beep…”

“I need to charge my communicator,” Vespasian murmurs as the incessant noise finally registers. As does the word ‘dawn’. “So much for the cover of darkness then. What is taking the rescuers…?”

Asahi makes a noise of complaint, and Vespasian has the image in his head of the man curling into a pillow, before acknowledging he likely has no such luxuries. He would have been lucky to find one moth-eaten blanket. “The sun rises early here,” he mutters, his voice already fading as Vespasian’s dying device picks up less and less of it. “It was foolish of you to hope.”

“They’ll get you in broad daylight, then,” Vespasian retorts with confidence he doesn’t feel. He grips onto the communicator, like the act would keep it live.

Then, there is a sigh, weary and resigned, yet with a tinge of fond amusement. “Do you know what would be even more foolish?” Asahi asks. “If they were lost . If they got the directions wrong and are looking for me in the middle of the mountains, instead, or if they’re not coming at all—”

It’s faint, but the low hum of an airship engine breaks through the beeping. “I told you,” Vespasian exclaims in triumph, the surging joy lifting him to sit on his mattress. “I told you I’d save you.”

“You did,” Asahi acknowledges in pleased surprise. Before his voice is swallowed by the engine’s roar coming ever closer, he adds, “Vespasian,”

Vespasian never learns what he was going to say, as the connection dies then. So be it. He can face the day pleased that his agent is safe and sound.

Notes:

4k words of self-indulgent gay banter. But necessary self-indulgent gay banter I promise.

Chapter 32

In no shape for his usual morning routine, Vespasian opts for a bath and takes his time to rid himself of the fatigue. When he returns to his room, he’s refreshed and his mood has lifted in the knowledge that Asahi will be alright.

The relief sticks with him as he gets dressed and prepares for the day, but it’s tainted by a smidge of uncertainty—the man might be fine again, but he is still out there with his enemies, too close to the Demon Rabbit’s claws for comfort. And there is also the question of what he hadn’t gotten to say…

Ah, well. Surely he’ll share it when they get back in contact. Vespasian leaves the device to charge while he heads for the dining hall.

Breakfast is uneventful, only punctuated by the news on the radio: much talk of the war, nothing he doesn’t already know, with less dire snippets in between offering a vain attempt at levity. In his distraction, his thoughts keep straying towards his agent, if they ever left him at all. It’s been long enough for him to have hopefully had his wounds treated, or at least a chance to rest properly before they send him off again.

He’s almost finished his coffee when he hears his father’s agitated voice in the hallway. A familiar sound, especially lately, but right now he cannot muster any sympathy.

“You heard of my operation, then?” he calls out to stoke the fire.

“Oh, I heard.” The man’s footsteps approach the doorway, and the older Galvus is decidedly not pleased. Of course, these days he rarely is. “I wouldn’t care, if not for the fact I heard it from Vergilia first. Was it so difficult to file a report?”

“Doesn’t sound like you don’t care, to me.” Vespasian takes the last sip of his coffee.

Nerva narrows his eyes, then shakes his head with a frustrated sigh. “Not everything revolves around you, Vespasian,” he counters.

“Maybe not,” Vespasian agrees, amused. He puts the mug down with a soft click . “But you can’t deny that my plots interest you.”

His father huffs, but it isn’t a denial. “They ought to. You’re my son.”

“And you ought to be the emperor,” Vespasian retorts, almost cheerful. “Yet both of us are stuck.”

Nerva scowls. His son’s insolence never puts him in a good mood, but the reminder of his own position seems to especially do it. “Don’t jest about such things,” he mutters a warning. This would cause Vespasian no end to his amusement, if it wasn’t such a touchy topic. Briefly he wonders if these are the faces Varis makes at Zenos—and if Nerva’s praise of him ‘not making such mistakes yet’ will be revoked. “What will it take for you to stop this unnecessary attitude? I tire of it.”

“It would be wonderful to get to enjoy the last remnants of my breakfast without getting berated for my choices, first of all,” Vespasian points out. His wonderful morning is at high risk of souring the longer this conversation goes on, so he vacates his seat. “What was it I asked of you? To believe in me?”

Nerva stands in the doorway—he neither moves out of his way, nor makes any attempt to block his exit as he approaches. His features soften in acknowledgement. “You think you’re the reason I’m annoyed at the moment? No, no. I’ve my own irritants to deal with.” The words slow Vespasian’s steps, and he finds himself halted a couple malms from his father. “Your mission was a worthwhile one; Brutus will be pleased to hear my family and legion spared no expense to ensure no further harm to his.”

Vespasian isn’t often rendered speechless, but now is one of those times. He stares at his father, searching for any hint of a lie, or trickery, or a hint that this is all a joke—but it seems genuine. “You mean that,” he says slowly as he processes the admission. “You’re actually pleased?”

“Of course,” Nerva says. “I told you to honor the alliance, and you have. Though you must know that if something out of your control did happen to your agent, you would be granted another.”

The words should be reassuring; a reminder that, even in the worst case, he would not have failed. But the thought of replacing Asahi feels wrong, somehow—to imagine him gone… no, unacceptable, it wouldn’t be the same.

“I will keep a tight grip on him,” he says, and there’s a defiance about it, even while his father looks at him in a sort of approval he’s seldom received before, his lips curled in a little smirk.

“See that you do,” Nerva responds. His expression softens further, and he reaches out to adjust the collar of his son’s coat—a familiar gesture from simpler times. The ire has washed off his features.

Vespasian hates to bring up its original cause, but his curiosity wins in the end. And perhaps a desire to lessen his father’s worries. “Will you share with me what bothered you before you walked in, father?” he asks, gentle fingers seeking reconciliation via a dance across the gloved back of his hand.

Nerva pinches his nose and detaches himself as he leans against the door frame. “I would have spared you a headache if you hadn’t asked,” he grumbles, “but if I don’t tell you now, you will dig up the knowledge yourself, won’t you?”

Vespasian smiles at the disgruntled sigh. Oh, how well Nerva knows his son. “It’s in my nature,” he says, and they both know there’s more spite in the reply than anything else. “It’ll save us some time if you would let me in on the gossip.”

“Figures,” Nerva adds, pauses, then to Vespasian’s surprise, speaks. “I’ve tried to curry favor with the IVth in the wake of Doma’s loss, making preparations for the likely event the regions under their control will be inspired to follow suit in rebellion. Van Gabranth remains unreasonable, however, and my generous offers for support have gone unheard.”

An unexpected but not unwelcome answer. It’s a smart idea, one that’s bound to save them a world of pain in the future. Even if the IVth is known for their pride, it’s hard to argue with the offer of some financial support, or an extra shipment of weapons and troops upon request.

“How so?” Vespasian asks.

“He will not entertain the notion of aid, even to secure his position,” Nerva explains with a furrowed brow. “My attempts at negotiation have yielded no more than a vague commitment to ‘keep my offer at the forefront of his mind.’ I doubt he plans to follow through.” This is the sort of matter that could keep his father up at night and fuels a frustration that makes the words come with a startling bitterness.

“What could possibly be the reason…?” Vespasian wonders out loud. “You would think he’d care more to defend the lands bordering the ancestral homeland. Maybe he’s lulled by the knowledge that the beast currently terrorizes our troops on the opposite corner of the Empire?” He grimaces at the thought of losing Locus Amoenus to the rabbit and its savages. There would go his holiday plans.

“One might think so,” Nerva agrees with a huff. “There must be something else at play here, some political scheme. But if such is the case, I am loath to even consider entertaining it.”

“A shame,” Vespasian sighs. “I would have loved to spend some time in the East. It’s quite the view in the spring there…” Now he might never safely see the trees Asahi mentioned in sleepy murmurs before drifting off into dreams. It isn’t a particularly pleasant thought, but he pushes it back. Instead he ponders his father’s predicament for a moment before addressing the real concern.

“If the IVth is no longer willing to negotiate, would your efforts not be better spent securing the support of the XIIth?” he suggests.

Nerva barks out laughter. “If it’s reason I seek, then Zenos is less a step down and more a flip into a canyon,” he sneers.

“But his loyalties to Varis are nonexistent,” Vespasian says. “Don’t you think that’s worth a consideration?”

“His loyalties are non-existent in general,” his father retorts. “He cares for nothing but violence for violence’s sake. It may make him a decent general, but hardly a stable political ally.”

“No, you’re right,” Vespasian agrees thoughtfully; an imaginary katana flies past his head, but it could as well hit him between the eyes for how capricious his cousin is. “Still, that lack of loyalty might allow us… leverage.”

“In any case, his legion will hardly be of use after he’s thrown every last man to his pet.” Nerva shakes his head, which must be building up a migraine judging by how he holds it. “The reason the IVth interests me is the power they could spare against the Ist’s might. No more, no less.”

“You’re looking for a military solution for a political issue,” Vespasian observes, tilting his head. “That’s not your style, father. You usually prefer avoiding conflict.”

“I prefer to be pragmatic,” his father corrects. “A conflict will take place either way; Varis favors that language, and I’ve accepted that. I would simply prefer it to be one we can hope to win.”

“Ah.” Vespasian hums in thought. He is well aware of Varis’s tendency to solve problems with violence before diplomacy—and that his brand of the latter oft comes as threats he hardly bothers to veil. “You’re right, of course.”

His mind drifts to Asahi. It’s a bit ironic. His agent thrives in the middle of such strife.

“How do you intend to proceed with the IVth?” he asks after a moment of contemplation. “Is it worth trying again, or is your patience used up already?”

Nerva’s sigh tells him what the man’s decision is. “As of now, I’m not willing to waste any more effort on it. I’d hoped we’d have enough in common to reach an understanding, but I’ve met little but insolence and stubbornness. Let the IVth drown its pride in the mess of the East.”

Vespasian nods, but there is yet some stubbornness of his own in his frown. “And you’re certain I can’t help? Have a good word with someone in their local office, or…?”

There is a small, amused quirk of his father’s lip at the question. “It’s endearing you still think you can charm anyone into doing your bidding after all these years, my boy,” he says, patting his son’s shoulder, “but trust me when I tell you I’ve tried.”

“They seem quite dedicated to being unreasonable,” Vespasian concurs with a shrug that is half an attempt to shake the hand off in offense to his tactics being demeaned as ‘endearing’. “But I will see what I can dig up. If not now, then perhaps they’ll change their tune when they’re up to their eyes in trouble and in need of a helping hand.”

“A kind thought, though I hardly give it much hope,” Nerva says. “What about your schemes? Where have you spent your morning?”

Unnamed shame stops Vespasian from sharing his night spent on the line with Asahi. There is no way his lack of proper sleep doesn’t seep from every cell of his body and tell on him. “Just contacting my agent about the rescue,” he downplays it. “Now that he should be safely en route to Ala Mhigo, I…”

His mental calendar browses upcoming events. No matter how he strains his memory, nothing of note pops up for today. Asahi should have nothing new to report so soon, either. Listlessness fills the space left behind.

“Now you have nothing to do,” his father finishes, familiar with the type of boredom his son struggles with.

The lack of activity is the worst part of it. No task to keep his mind occupied, not even a minor crisis to attend to. Just a day of peace, and that’s where the trouble begins. It breeds restless thoughts, of which he needs no more.

“I’m afraid that’s the long and short of it,” Vespasian confirms, not even trying to hide his displeasure. “This day promises to be dreadfully dull.”

“Only if you make it so,” Nerva observes, which is a thought that makes Vespasian grimace.

“Oh yes, I suppose I can always read, or… I don’t know, take up embroidery,” he bemoans. Truthfully, he’d sooner shoot himself than join his mother in needle-pricking his fingers.

Nerva does not comment on his sarcasm. “I heard there is a Populares meeting tonight,” he reveals instead. “Servilius won’t be joining this time, but attendance from one of our own would send a signal of support.”

This revelation is enough to get Vespasian’s attention. He perks up. “Oh, is that so?”

Populares meetings are infamous affairs where the common folk gather to vent their frustrations and woes about the government. It’s a prime spot for gossip and intrigue, the only downside being the type of people one has to deal with there. It’s definitely not a high-brow crowd, but perhaps one Vespasian should familiarize himself with.

“They call them meetings,” Nerva continues, “but they are little more than a free-for-all where the lowest common denominator screams their discontent into the air, then acts like something has been solved. You always did enjoy the drama, didn’t you?”

His words ring a little too true for Vespasian’s liking. Of course, even if it is mostly a farce, it means it has plenty of opportunity for scandal…

“I will admit it’s entertaining enough,” Vespasian concedes. “If anything, it’s good to keep an eye on the unrest brewing in our citizenry… and to have some measure of understanding of their issues and concerns.”

“You sound like a Populares yourself,” Nerva remarks, and Vespasian scoffs. “And you will have to be on your guard. They don’t look too kindly upon the higher-ups.”

“You wouldn’t send me straight to the most regicidal of them,” Vespasian says with a flippant wave of his wrist. “I know how to handle a mob.”

Nerva sighs. “Be careful either way. I doubt there will be any true violence, but the unrest in the air is enough to spark something stupid. One cannot be too careful.”

“Of course I’ll be careful,” Vespasian promises, and his mental wardrobe already seeks his more inconspicuous clothing—a shame, because what he already wears looks damn good on him. With the confirmation of his visit in mind, a thrill bubbles up inside. It will be an entirely different atmosphere from the usual noble events, and quite the distraction from the emptiness of a free day. Not to mention, the trust his father puts in him heals some of the recent hurt. 

“Oh, and, Vespasian?” Nerva asks as his son prepares to leave. Vespasian stops to look back at the man; there’s a grim overcast to his features. “Don’t do anything that puts you in danger for the sake of some cheap entertainment. Stay low.”

A twinge of disappointment returns. “Believe in me,” Vespasian requests once more, though they might as well be talking in a circle. He’s gone before he hears the reply.

 

The meeting is set in a small local theatre. A dim flicker in comparison to Lucius Hall’s radiance, the interior is cramped and dull, the walls stained with damp soot despite the best efforts to make it presentable with fresh paint and new carpet. A sense of age seeps from every corner, and the air is thick with the smoke of cheap cigars, the smell of cheaper liquor, and the sweat of countless bodies cramped into place. Vespasian makes a face at the less-than-sanitary circumstances, but his attention is caught by the number of people filling the room. Every seat is taken, the aisles packed, and these people certainly don’t have the refined taste to appreciate a fashionably late entrance—the sea of eyes on him pins him still, before he pushes through the nerves and carries on.

His hand darts to the dagger at his belt when someone else’s grabs his shoulder. It then retreats, and he too chooses to keep his weapon concealed. The whipping of his head in the stranger’s direction reveals a broad, rust-haired fellow—one who could be much more threatening, did he not flinch like so when their eyes met.

“Your highness,” the man stutters, performing a shaky salute, “I apologize if I… startled you. I just wanted to say, your presence is appreciated, and…”

Vespasian relaxes minutely at the sight of that shaky salute, answering the gesture with an ‘at ease’ -signal before continuing on his way. It comes as no surprise that he is approached—he’s of the crown, after all. He supposes he cannot be too mad at an attempt to draw his attention.

“Of course,” he says, with as much patience as he can muster. He can’t even look me in the eye, for Solus’s sake. “You were saying?”

“I’m a bodyguard by training,” the man explains. The words come as one jittery flood. “No harm shall come to you here, my lord.”

Vespasian has to suppress a scoff. He stops to look at the man—truly observe him. He’s big, sure, and muscular, but the look on his face is one of a puppy ready to be kicked. It’s uncertain if an attacker will be undeterred by that.

“I would have come with my own entourage, if I deemed it necessary,” he says, almost a chastisement. “But I would appreciate your watching my back, yes.”

The man relaxes and flashes a nervous smile. It is awkward and a bit goofy, but an honest gesture, one Vespasian wouldn’t get from the guards in his father’s employ. “I promise, I’ll protect you with my life, I…”

“Yes, yes, thank you,” Vespasian says again to cut him off from that particular path. “Tell me, what’s your name?”

The man blinks in surprise, his expression going slack with incomprehension. “Ah… my name?” he repeats, like the notion hadn’t even occurred to him. Once it finally dawns on him, he rubs his neck sheepishly. “Oh, yes! Of course, my name… my name is…” He pauses, eyes darting around like seeking something in the air.

If he keeps on like this, it’ll be the death of both of us, Vespasian thinks. Then the crowd quiets, and someone steps upon the stage.

Chapter 33

The spokesperson in Lord Brutus’s stead, a lanky, bespectacled man in his thirties, taps the mic and clears his throat. He’s not someone of any acclaim that Vespasian knows of, but these people’s respect for him fills the space their chatter’s vacated.

“Good evening,” the man begins. “My name is Maxima quo Priscus. I am glad to see you all here tonight.”

Already, it’s clear this one is in his element. He walks the stage like a master of his domain, waving, greeting individual members of the public in the first row. Vespasian is begrudgingly impressed.

“Now, I’m sure that we have all much to discuss,” Priscus intones. His soft confidence commands attention without an issue, a presence that isn’t diminished by the humble background. “I would like to hear your thoughts… but first, we have a very special guest tonight. I hear a member of the royal family has graced us with his presence.”

Vespasian grimaces as pairs of eyes zero in on him, including the ones on stage. A small murmur fills the room, compelling him to answer the attention. He’s no stranger to it—in different circumstances, that is. Here, every move he makes is a blunder to him.

“Vespasian yae Galvus, I assume.” Priscus raises his hand to wave at him. As if this was just a routine occurrence, Vespasian thinks in annoyance. He nods back, trying his best to appear casual and relaxed, and not let the attention make the hairs on the back of his neck rise.

The silence that follows begs for his input, so he forces his sweetest smile and waves back, both to Priscus and the audience. It’s a touch too royal for the occasion. “Please, view me as just another supporter,” he implores, trying to keep a humorous touch to hide his discomfort. “I’m here on behalf of my father, yes, but tonight I’m one of you.”

The crowd’s reception to his words seems good enough—an affirmative murmur is a good sign. Priscus gives him a smile in return, a charming one that does make him feel more at ease. “Good to hear, you’re welcome in our midst,” he says, and it sounds both sincere and like a well-practiced line. “Now… let us begin.”

Priscus’s words are followed by applause; Vespasian takes that as a signal to find his seat. It’s a bit cramped, and people have to scoot to let him sit, but he manages. His newfound companion follows suit close by.

For a while, the discussion proceeds as expected. There’s a passion to these people that surprises him, yet they’re neither as violent nor unruly as he braced himself for. Their grievances ring legitimate, and he finds himself nodding in agreement despite the bitter truth of it. They are not mistaken in the belief that they are treated as no more than a workforce, as a means to further the crown’s wealth and might. While not as well-spoken as Servilius about it, they have enough heart to make up for what they lack. These men and women grow tired of being treated as pawns to be discarded when their usefulness is spent. And they grow angry, too, at what they perceive as a blatant misuse of their labor, their taxes—a sentiment he knows his father would sympathise with in private, and one that makes him appreciate the trust put in him in attending this rally all the more.

One man speaks of his friends outside the capital; he made the long trip here just for this event, and he had to do it alone as none of those without citizenship were allowed on the train. A woman nearly losing the grip of her tears recounts how the meager recompensation given for the passing of her eldest on the battlefields of Doma is not nearly enough to feed her remaining four children. Vespasian finds himself torn—he wants to jump in to promise help for these people, though he knows his words are a plaster to a broken arm at best, a slap in the face to a man stabbed in the stomach at worst. These people deserve so much more, yet he is but a single man, whose power within his own family leaves him wanting.

As the meeting drags on, Vespasian’s attention drifts at times, wandering to his self-appointed bodyguard. For someone of his size, he looks quite uncomfortable, squirming in his seat and scratching behind his ear as his eyes dart about the room. There’s an eagerness there, though, a look of admiration on his face as he listens to the people. Something in it draws Vespasian’s curiosity, and he can’t help but wonder what is going on in the stranger’s head as the discussion around them unfolds.

“Now,” Priscus’s voice rings out just when Vespasian is about to lose interest in the rally. It cuts through and forces his concentration back, a clear sign the main event is drawing in. “I understand how the hardships you face every day may lead to the desire to take action. Each of you must be aware of the risk you’re already taking joining us tonight, so I shan’t beg for more of your hides.”

It’s the first Vespasian awakens to the retribution that would face a commoner for what Varis could spin as treason. He joins his bodyguard in fidgeting with his hands, his gaze lowering, not thrilled with his own chances either. But anyone else here certainly has it worse.

“That being said,” Priscus continues over the somber silence that befell the crowd, “memberships are always open, and every bit of support means the world.”

Another beat of silence follows, and the people share glances between one another. A few stand to leave, some whisper to their neighbors. The woman’s words come back to Vespasian, and he is reminded of the heavy risk these people are already taking in making their grievances known. Yet, here they are, with their hearts so easily won, he muses.

The first hand raises into the air. A woman, her hands roughened and calloused from a lifetime of hard labor, stands and salutes. From there, it spreads like wildfire, with the room bursting into applause as more and more rise to join.

Emboldened, Vespasian raises his own hand, and the sight quiets the raucous cheers. “I’d like to make a donation,” he takes advantage of the lull, “to the tune of five hundred million garl. I shall hope it comforts you until such an occasion the throne warms you instead.”

To call the result a stunned silence would be an understatement. At first, there are even a few incredulous chuckles, as more than a few think it’s some form of jest. But it doesn’t take long for the crowd to accept the generosity, and he is rewarded with applause loud enough to drown even the speaker on the stage. One corner remains that does not join in. Vespasian never was a master lip reader, but he can imagine their murmurs about ‘traitors to the throne’, or else ‘a false flag’. He pays them no mind. It’s not a concern, not from these regular people he is trying to support. The only true threat is the crown, which already constricts his head. How much more furious could Varis possibly get at him?

When the cheers die down, he is treated to another brilliant smile by Priscus, who bows deeply in gratitude. “Thank you is not enough for such a gesture, my lord,” the man croons. “But it will have to do, and we greatly appreciate your support.”

Vespasian merely smiles back, but inside he’s torn, not by the sum of the donation—he has more money than he knows what to do with, and can toss out much more without it even making a dent in his account. No, what shakes him is what his father would say, when and if he finds out. A brief glance at his self-appointed guard reminds him there are too many loose ends to this; the whole world could know he donated within a few days, no matter the promise of secrecy. He can only hope the man does not notice where his attention went, or else he’ll have to explain himself, and this is not the time nor the place.

After a few more words of encouragement from Priscus, the meeting slowly comes to an end. Vespasian has to bite his tongue to restrain himself from expressing his disappointment; as enlightening as this entire affair was, he had hoped to hear something with more substance, more… action. The regular folk grow weary with their lot in life, yet a fire still burns in them—a blaze of unity that awakens envy in him. But naught is fed to the flames but their own shouted grievances. Perhaps his donation will be more of a kindling.

The crowd disperses, many people stopping to thank him as they pass. He maintains his regal demeanor and his charming smile, giving each a polite nod. Priscus is among the last to approach, and he has more than idle gratitudes to share. “May I borrow a while longer of your time, your highness?”

Vespasian was looking forward to returning to the manor, but cannot reject the request without being rude. On the contrary, he should be glad to be approached by someone like Priscus—a well-spoken leader with a vision, even if it goes against the status quo.

“Lead the way,” he agrees and stands up. He spares a glance at his bodyguard, whom he finds staring at him with the eagerness of a dog. He considers dismissing him, but then thinks better of it—who knows if danger lurks backstage. “May my companion here join us?”

“Of course.” Priscus nods and tosses a look of approval at the man. “Leonius is a loyal friend of the cause.” The familiarity between the bodyman and the organizer surprises Vespasian, but his curiosity is interrupted by Priscus beckoning to follow. “This way, please.”

He leads them to a small conference room right off the stage. The theater’s spirit still lingers here, even if the function is modified: a wig head rests on the windowsill with a comb, and in the corner stands a full-body mirror. It’s more comfortable, even if it’s not so luxurious. Two couches beckon him to sit with an ashtray laid out on the table in between, and a few bottles of liquor sit in a rack nearby.

Vespalian graciously accepts the seat offered. Leonius stands guard by the door, and Priscus props himself on the other couch, pouring three glasses of bourbon. If someone walks in, the scene would look much like some conspirator meeting. Perhaps it is one.

“Forgive the informality,” Priscus says as he pushes one of the glasses towards Vespasian. “I’ve found it most effective to have my discussions in private. I can only assume you found the main event less than substantial?”

Vespasian allows himself a sigh as he reaches for the drink. “I did expect… more,” he admits, without much enthusiasm. “I hope you understand my curiosity—I’m interested to hear what comes next. There is only so much time you can spend shouting about the issues before it grows stale.”

“It is an important part of the process,” Priscus insists as he takes a sip of his drink, but he’s not offended by the critique. “It keeps the public invested. But if you’re looking for something… more tangible, I’m afraid we have to delve into deeper matters, my lord, and I’m not sure if you are prepared for what lies ahead.”

“You should not underestimate me, Priscus,” Vespasian warns, but the wry smirk on his lips as they part from the glass speaks of his levity. “I’ve found myself digging deeper holes, lately.”

“Please, call me Maxima,” the man returns his smile. “We’re all comrades in this room.”

Vespasian finds himself amused by that, enough to forget to mind the familiarity. “Very well, Maxima. But this makes me curious—what is it you think I am not ready to hear?”

Priscus, or rather, Maxima takes a big gulp before looking him in the eye. “As you may be aware, the Populares movement has been rather fractured over the years due to, hm…” He pauses to think. “A disagreement over how things are to be done, and a… disappearance of certain key figures. It has led to much discord and many splinter groups. I’ve been attempting to unify them for years, and you see the fruits of my effort tonight.”

“Quite,” Vespasian agrees. Though he’s still listening earnestly, he lets his gaze wander across the face of Leonius, who has trouble meeting it. Is it out of respect, fear, or something else? “And what would it take to unify them, if even generous donations don’t suffice?”

“That is a riddle I’ve been trying to solve. As it stands, there are still those who would rather have you and your father’s heads than your generosity—if I may be so frank.”

Vespasian doesn’t show surprise, even though he didn’t expect such candor. “I appreciate your frankness,” he says, before taking another gulp of his drink, “but I doubt I’d be sitting here, discussing this with you with my neck intact, if you shared the sentiment.”

“Certainly not,” Maxima agrees. “I have to give you credit for your generous gesture, and I hope these contributions will help in swaying others. But the movement requires more than funds to rise. I’m confident I can unify them behind a common cause, but for that, I need a catalyst. An event that will rally people under the same banner.”

It’s Vespasian’s turn to lean back, his arm leisurely draped over its rest in a bid to signal confidence. “And to support my father?” Because that is all it comes back to, always.

“That much may be achieved through further contributions,” Maxima reassures, with just a bit of hesitation. “You will not know such support instantly, and it may never be a truly unified stance, but you could see a shift. In due time.”

Spoken like a true politician. The doubt shines through enough for Vespasian to return it. Two can play this game.

“You seem disappointed.” Maxima closes his eyes and sighs. Careful consideration goes into every word, and Vespasian can tell. There is sincerity there, though he treads lightly in fear of missteps. “I’m afraid a miracle isn’t in the cards here, my lord. The movement needs time before the sentiment swings—it’s in my humble opinion that it already leans towards you and yours. It’s my sole goal to bring it to completion, for the good of all. It’s not just your uncle who is to be overthrown—it’s his system, too. I’m sure you would agree with me on that point.”

“I can’t deny that I would like that,” Vespasian says, his voice lowered. “But let’s get to the heart of the problem. You spoke of a lack of a catalyst.”

“A common cause.” Maxima nods, pausing to refill his glass and gesturing to see if Vespasian too wants more. He shakes his head, so the organizer simply reclines back on his couch with his fresh drink. “It’s a question that has been haunting me since the movements split, yet none of the solutions have been feasible… until recently.”

Vespasian leans forward. “Let me guess: until the fall of Doma, you mean.”

“Precisely,” Maxima confirms. “A massive loss of life and territory, which could have been avoided if the Empire treated its denizens with dignity. Many even here in the Capital suffered losses, as you’ve heard tonight—and elsewhere, people fear for their lives.”

"And those loyal to the Empire feel betrayed," Vespasian continues for him. The liquor is slowly taking hold, letting his lips loosen more than before.

“That is an accurate assessment.” Maxima nods in approval. “I have observed a rise in unrest in other provinces. The citizens there tire of the Imperial army’s presence, of their sons and daughters dying in pointless skirmishes…”

“It isn’t pointless. I’ve read the reports.” Vespasian can’t help but come to the army’s defense. He had heard of their efforts, the struggles faced, the sacrifices made. “They fight and die to maintain order. To keep the beast of terrorism at bay.”

Maxima gives him a weary smile. “Perhaps. But to them, it feels pointless. Just another part of the machine grinding over them. That’s what they feel, and that is what matters.”

Vespasian can’t come up with a counter to that. It’s hard to argue the commoner’s perception of the conflict with statistics and casualty reports in their favor, not to mention the way his cousin throws lives at the Demon Rabbit like chewtoys at a spoiled puppy.

“At any rate,” Maxima continues, “the situation is already volatile. It just needs a spark.” He pauses for a dramatic effect, to let the thought sink in.

Vespasian understands what the man is getting at. “I’ll see what I can do. What I can say.”

 

He expected a variety of reactions from his father. Critique, most certainly. But the way he hangs his head, supporting it with his hand, was not at the top of the list.

“You donated how much?”

Vespasian tries to remain unfazed by the question. He has prepared plenty of reasoning, though to be called out about it already hollows out the justification as empty words. “Five hundred million. Pocket change, really.”

“Pocket change to you , but none of those in the audience.” Nerva shakes his head.

“I have the funds to spare,” Vespasian retorts. “And, as you must know, charity does wonders for public image.”

“Yes, when it’s not the earnings of a dozen people’s lifetimes,” his father snaps back. He vacates his office chair to roam the room. “Past a certain point, we funnel the money to the party in silence . We don’t scream our support from the rooftops for the whole Empire—your uncle included—to hear!”

“What, like we are to hide our support?” Vespasian stays seated, leaning back in the chair facing his father’s desk in matched exasperation. “We’re supposed to remain quiet until the very moment a coup is executed? You yourself have said being vocal is part of the work! I was only doing as you asked, but now the moment I put my own effort and money into this, I’m getting chewed out. Make up your mind, old man!”

The response cuts through his father’s resolve like a sword through butter. Nerva stops his pacing and looks at him unblinking. Then, he sighs and rubs his temples. He looks a lot older like this.

“My mind was made up by you, and this… donation.” His voice is quieter now, and it makes Vespasian feel bad. “It’s already too late to do anything about it, I’ll admit, but I need you to stop. There is no point in painting yourself a target.”

Vespasian hesitates. Seeing the tired look in his father’s eyes makes him question his own decision, even if just for a moment. “You don’t understand,” he says, his own voice quieter, too, “the people were… moved. Moved in a genuine way. Their emotions were raw and real, the pain and frustrations they’ve been carrying… they feel unheard. It was the perfect environment; I couldn’t just be a passive observer, Father. I had to do something .”

“Yes, which is why you should have stuck to being an observer.” Nerva sighs. “You can say they felt heard, but all they heard was you flashing your fat coin purse around. Not every commoner out there sees the benevolence behind this. Some might see nothing more than a mockery of what they hold dear.”

The suggestion stings. “That’s not… I was sincere.” Vespasian doesn’t sound convincing even as the words leave his lips. But he was . It isn’t just a play to further their cause. “I wasn’t just doing it for show.”

“I’m not accusing you of that now, am I?” This time, Nerva doesn’t sound as angry. “I’m sure you had the best of intentions. But you cannot do that. It wasn’t necessary. It puts you in the crosshairs.”

“I’m already in the crosshairs, lest we forget.” It’s not like Vespasian can remove the whole issue of Zenos from his mind even if he tries.

Nerva ceases his pacing, returns to his desk and steeples his hands in front of him in troubled contemplation. “That is all the more reason not to make the situation worse. No more donations, no more of these… appearances,” he orders firmly. “I’m asking you, as your father, to not do anything else. Don’t get involved more than you already are.”

Vespasian tries his hardest not to look away, but the stern glare from the man grows heavier and heavier. “I can help.”

Nerva gives him a look that makes him regress like he’s ten again. “We don’t discuss this further. No more support. You can talk and keep an eye on the situation, but that is as far as it goes. I won’t entertain the notion of you involving yourself directly.”

Vespasian swallows a bitter pill in his throat. It drops to his stomach, weighing it and his gaze down. No longer able to meet his father’s eyes, his settle instead on an inkwell on the table. “If you regret your decision to send me, just say it to my face,” he pushes out.

“I don’t.” His father’s answer comes quick, without hesitation, but it isn’t without its note of pained reluctance. He seems about as unenthusiastic about this course of conversation as Vespasian. “I sent you because I trusted you. I hoped you would show the self-restraint and discretion to make sound decisions, but apparently… I was wrong, wasn’t I?”

That sets Vespasian off. He whips his head back up in a rush, looking the man in the eyes again, ready to let words burst out of him, but catches himself at the last moment and reins it in. Composure . He takes a breath and regains control over his mouth before speaking again.

“No,” he says, in a more controlled fashion. “It was an impulsive decision, but… it was not a wrong one. I will not apologize for it.”

He stands, ready to leave, when Nerva’s weary voice pauses him. “One day you’ll see I’m trying to protect you, not strangle you. I only hope it’s not too late then.”

There are words of protest brewing on his lips before Vespasian bites them back. He knows his father is not trying to spite him, and arguing back will help neither of them. So, he swallows the objections and says nothing, only giving his father a nod of acknowledgement before he takes his leave.

Against all bitter indignation and spirit of rebellion, he takes the order to heart. He preoccupies his following days with pointless, vapid, painfully unproductive matters of leisure: he calls up old friends, he sees a play—a rather mediocre one, it turns out to his disappointment. He revisits his pile of unread books. All the while he keeps the charged communication device in his ear and awaits updates to reassure him that anything he’s done has made any difference.

Someone has noticed his efforts, certainly. The response is vibrantly clear, blaring into Vespasian’s eye the moment he steps back into his room after an evening of socializing. A bright yellow bouquet adorns his rug.

Chapter 34

Deducing who sent this gift is not the difficult part. Varis’s involvement is apparent even before Vespasian dares to take a closer look at the flowers; no venomous snake or spider leaps out, but the Imperial throne’s seal on the otherwise blank card makes fear jump in his throat all the same.

No, the mystery is how his preference for funeral flowers reached the Emperor’s ears. And that is what plunges the manor into chaos. Within minutes, every corner is checked. Servants are questioned, the guards are drilled, even the slightest creaks of floorboards are scrutinized on the security feeds, but nothing is found. Vespasian sleeps in a guest room—or attempts to, failing miserably—while his own is combed from floor to ceiling.

In the morning, exhausted and miserable, he watches his father continue to battle the situation, not without a touch of bitter resignation. His father, who was already not too keen to get him involved in the movement directly, is now thoroughly on edge about him. Nerva paces and worries, barking orders without a moment to catch his breath.

“I should be allowed to pay him a visit,” Vespasian finally says, to a scoff in return.

“Absolutely not.” Nerva looks ready to slap him for even considering it. “You will not go anywhere near that damned palace until I can ensure your safety.”

“Perhaps he’d lay off if I explained myself,” Vespasian follows up, though the thought makes him queasy. The bouquet is long trashed, but the warning hue of its petals is seared into his eyes.

Nerva looks at him as if he had just grown a second head. “You think he’ll be swayed by words? Are you insane?”

Vespasian shrinks in his chair. He idly holds out his hand, a gesture a servant would usually respond to with a glass of something that might cheer him up. But none are left to fulfill his request, as his father suspended each and every one for the time being. Until they sort out who leaked what was said during the meeting.

“Despite everything, he’s still family, right?” The desperation boils Vespasian’s voice, bubbling up in foolish hopes he doesn’t even believe in himself.

Nerva’s face tightens as his expression goes grimmer, not quite believing what he’s hearing. “You mean to tell me you think appealing to his familial ties would save your ass from this? Your blood only matters to him spilled.”

The gruesome image chips even more at Vespasian’s composure. He leans back in his chair and looks at the ceiling of the drawing room, at the intricate shapes running across its painted surface, but the pattern does nothing to soothe his thoughts.

“So what do I do, then? Stay trapped here until you resolve it?”

“Exactly that.” Nerva’s answer rings out with an undeniable tone of finality. “Until I am one hundred percent certain you’ll be safe, you’re not leaving the manor. No one comes in without being thoroughly checked. I’ll have no one slip through the cracks on my watch.”

Vespasian wants to protest, to break free of the invisible bonds holding him down. He wants to run to the palace and slap Varis over the head, to shout questions at him until he receives answers. But his father’s stern refusal is a wall he cannot climb right now, leaving him to sink into the cushions in defeat.

“Where is Vipsania?!?”

Sabina storms out of the elevator, the improperly cheery chime of which drowns under her outrage. Vespasian looks up as his cousin stomps across the room like a bull on the warpath. He’s always found it a strange sight, her usual flippant attitude burned away by her fearsome temper. It’s that temper that drives her to his father now.

“The servants are temporarily suspended,” Nerva explains. “Your maid will be back if she’s found innocent.”

“What?!” Sabina shrieks as she comes to a screeching halt. Her disbelief leaves her speechless until the words spill out in a rush. “You suspended our servants? All of them?”

“We’re investigating a breach in security,” Nerva begins to explain, but is interrupted. 

“Don’t be ridiculous. Vipsania would never do such a thing.” To be denied her usual routine brings out every entitled ilm of her personality.

“I cannot take any chances.” Nerva is immune to her vitriol. He’s seen it countless times, over all manner of small things—so has Vespasian, who takes the chance to take his mind anywhere but here. “We’re questioning all of them until the culprit is found.”

“But I need my hair done before tonight!” Sabina looks like she’s about to cry. “And my makeup, and my clothes—who’s going to help me?!”

Nerva gives her a look that clearly says ‘you should know better by now.’ “I’m sure you can find a way to get dressed by yourself, yes?”

“And look a mess?!” She’s still seething. “There’s supposed to be a party tonight.”

That’s when Vespasian perks back up to attention. “There is?”

Nerva shoots him a disapproving glare before turning back to speak to Sabina. “It is of no consequence to you. You’ll both miss it,” he informs her in a way that makes it clear there’s no arguing against it.

“But—” she begins to try anyway, but one look from Nerva is enough to make her shut up.

“Your mother would destroy me from the stream should I let you roam free after an active threat against the house,” he hisses. “And since she is not here to tell you to stay put, you listen to me, young lady.”

The order bleaches her face and forces her to swallow whatever words she had gathered to throw in his face. “Yes, uncle,” she mutters in what could pass for obedience, if it weren’t for the indignant pout that still quivers on her lip.

Once Nerva feels satisfied, his attention turns to Vespasian. The look on his face betrays his irritation. Vespasian offers nothing but a shrug in response, with which he hopes to signal that he’s staying out of this debate.

“I could help with your hair anyway,” he offers his cousin instead. Another pointless endeavor, but if that’s the only problem he’s allowed to assist with, so be it.

His cousin immediately drops her dismay and gives him a brilliant smile. “Thank you, Vee!” she trills. It’s a stark difference to the raging girl from seconds ago. 

Nerva has heard enough. “You two have fun,” he grumbles and stands up to retreat to his office.

Vespasian watches his father leave, and the moment the door closes behind him, Sabina grabs his wrist. “Come on!” she tugs on his arm. “My room, now.”

He doesn’t protest, not that he could fend off her onslaught of determination anyway, stronger as she is. She’s a tornado, pulling him along with little regard for any objections as he’s dragged along to her floor of the building.

“Your dad can be such an ass,” she huffs as she sits at her vanity, untying the messy bun her hair was held in. Plum strands poof up in entirely undesirable directions, and Vespasian senses an ordeal in front of him.

“He’s just worried for my safety…” Vespasian tries to defend him, but finds it difficult to disagree with what she’s said. He picks up a brush and starts to run it through her hair, trying to shape it back into something manageable.

“Then what’s me going to a party have to do with it?” She crosses her arms, meeting his frown through the mirror. “And what’s this nonsense even about? Someone gave you flowers?”

“Someone sent me flowers,” Vespasian corrects as he works through some of the tangles. “And they didn’t exactly come with a card of admiration, if that’s what you’re implying.”

“Do you know who they came from?” She cranes her neck to try and turn her head to look at him. It ruins his work.

“A lackey of Varis, quite obviously,” he grumbles and gives her hair a tug to fix her head’s angle. She howls like a coeurl in response. “Not only were they sent straight to my room, the culprit knew how to avoid the security. And they would only know my preference for funeral flowers if they were present for one confidential meeting.”

“That’s…” She starts, but then trails off as realization dawns over her face. “Oh. That really is, like… a threat?”

Vespasian nods along to her words. “Yes. I think he is trying to scare me into compliance.”

“Which is why Nerva suspended all the servants,” she continues, as it all comes together for her. “And you can’t leave the manor because it’s too dangerous to let you out where he can…” That thought leaves her wordless, and her concern for his safety finally silences her outrage over not being allowed to attend a party. “But then, why blame the hired help?” Her eyes regain that sharp look from before. “Why isn’t he rounding up all his guests?”

Vespasian can’t answer right away as he focuses on a rather nasty knot in her hair. “Because he can’t. It would ruffle too many feathers if he came out and accused his closest allies of such a thing.” She lets out a grunt and turns her head again, but this time, he keeps her in place. “Hold still,” he warns through gritted teeth, and she complies.

Once he manages to loosen up the tangled patch, she speaks again. “What are you going to do about it, then?”

“That’s the worst part: I’m not allowed to do anything,” Vespasian complains. He grabs a hair pin off the table and holds it between his teeth. It morphs his voice into a growl fitting for his frustrations. “I’m supposed to sit pretty while Father runs himself thin trying to put out all the fires by himself.”

She winces as he pins her hair up, but the grimace morphs into a scowl at the answer. “That doesn’t sound like you. Do you really intend on just twiddling your thumbs? You won’t conduct your own investigation?”

A ceruleum lamp lights up above his head. “I could. I know enough about the council to get started while stuck here.”

She gives him a smirk from the mirror. “And a bit of meddling shouldn’t upset Nerva too much. That’s how he raised you, after all.”

“Indeed.” Vespasian smirks back, as the familiar rush of adrenaline starts pumping in his veins in preparation for another venture outside the boundaries set by his father. “And I am nothing but a good son.”

He starts another braid and recounts what else was said during the meeting. To his relief, he can’t recall anything that would compromise the entire coup if Varis knew; yes, he revealed to the council his mission, then, and yes, Nerva spoke of his own suitability on the throne, but none of that incriminates them enough for Varis to retaliate further. His recent outburst must be more about his misadventures with the Populares, he surmises.

There was something said, however, that now gives him pause. He stops the braid midway, furrowing his brow. “Excuse me for a moment, cousin,” he says. “I must make a call.”

She gives a noise of protest and huffs. “Do you have to do that now ?” But he ignores the complaints as he walks out the door, one finger on the communicator.

He closes the door behind him and leans back against the wall. He could hear a pin drop in the empty hallway, the usual bustle of the manor eerily still, only faint footsteps reaching his ears. Some security guards patrol the premises, but none even throw him a suspicious glance, much more concerned with what could threaten him. With the coast clear, he waits for the call to go through. When he hears the affirming beep, he wastes no time to speak. “Asahi, are you there?”

There is a small delay before the connection comes through, static crackling on the line, but he soon hears Asahi’s voice. “I’m here.”

“I’ve news which could bode ill.” Vespasian finds no reason to delay the topic. “Varis knows of our cooperation.”

“Frankly, my lord, I do not care.” Asahi’s more high-strung than usual. “I have my own issues to tackle. What would the Emperor even do with the information?”

The flippant response stuns Vespasian. “I don’t know, but that is hardly the point. This shouldn’t have happened. He has the power to do something to us, perhaps expose us and force my father to shut the operation down.” His tone of voice turns sharp and impatient. “And what could possibly be more important right now?”

“Wasn’t it him who asked you to deal with Zenos to begin with?” Asahi questions, but then continues before Vespasian can come up with a retort. “It’s of no consequence. That I’ve been demoted matters more.”

Vespasian’s mouth drops open in disbelief. “You—” He takes a breath, his mind running wild with the information he’s just been fed. “When did this happen?”

“When I reported my squad dead.” A shameful confession whistles through Asahi’s grit teeth. “It was spun as my failure as a commander.”

“As opposed to an unavoidable slaughter facing a monster.” Vespasian winces. He does not envy Asahi’s position. But then that means… “You had audience with Zenos, then?” he asks, his eyes lighting up.

Asahi scoffs. “As if. Just some tribunus of his.”

Vespasian’s brow falls. The opportunity was dangling in their faces, but Asahi, for all his skill as an agent, failed to capitalize on it. “I see…” He takes a deep breath and tries to keep his voice even. Even his annoyance can only last for so long before his conscience takes over. He knows that anger would be wasted on the man; none of what happened was his fault. “Perhaps it’s for the best. Zenos himself might’ve given a worse punishment.”

“And why exactly should I consider this the better option? My career and reputation are ruined. My future is uncertain.” It’s clear from Asahi’s tone that he doubts it very much.

“Yet your head remains on your shoulders, does it not?” Vespasian argues.

“What good is it, if he won’t even glance my way?”

His closer cousin chooses that moment to shout a demand through the door, interrupting the conversation. “Vee, are you done yet?! My hair won’t braid itself!”

Vespasian closes his eyes and lets his head fall to the wall. “One moment,” he says weakly in a shout before addressing Asahi again. “Listen, I’m sorry you’re suffering, but you don’t have the luxury to back out now—and much less to die pointlessly at your legatus’s hands.”

Asahi remains too stoic to show his vulnerability, but finally gives an affirmation of his agreement. “Very well. I will… continue the efforts.” His resolve remains weak, but no matter how bad his mood, he understands his obligations.

“Good. Don’t forget all you can do from behind the lines.” Vespasian straightens up and rubs his forehead. “You’re more valuable doing that than getting a sword through your chest.”

No response comes from the other side of the line. He isn’t sure if Asahi is done speaking, still contemplating his words or having a sulk, but no more words are forthcoming, so he carries on. “What else has transpired on your end? Has the plan worked?”

“Yes and no.” The reply finally comes. “From what I’ve heard, a summoning did take place. Unfortunately, the eikon-slayer must’ve made short work of it.”

Vespasian lets out a sigh. “Of course.” It’s yet another set-back, but after the information he’s gleaned from Asahi, he can’t even complain as loudly as he’d like. “Any reports on the aftermath, at least?”

“None, my lord, although…” Asahi’s words flee through his teeth again. “It’s probably just the troops’ ghost stories, but… I did hear rumors that the beast prowls the outskirts of the city. It seems unlikely to me that he has approached that fast.”

Vespasian’s blood runs cold. “He’s… already there?”

“So they say, but I’m telling you,” Asahi continues, his tone even, “those rumors always get wild. It’s in people’s nature. It likely was just some animal, nothing strange.”

“And what if it’s not?” Vespasian strangles a curse that threatens to slip past his breath. “Asahi, we need a new plan. We can’t let Zenos come into contact with him.”

Through the raging river of worry, he can hear Asahi give a snort. “A plan? Sure, tell me, how are we to chase him away?”

He can’t think of an answer to that question, as much as he hates to admit it. He can only stand in the hallway and bite his lower lip as his mind continues to race, spinning and spinning in useless circles.

“Vee!”

Sabina’s call snaps him out of his thoughts. “One moment, cousin!” he shouts back, before addressing Asahi again. “I have to go. Family stretches me thin over here too.”

“Oh, yes, I can hear the princess screeching for  you.” Asahi’s mockery comes to the surface again. “I’ll contact you when I have some solid leads… I should hope to come up with something by then. Try to have fun, my lord.” He hangs up before Vespasian can protest again.

“Bastard,” Vespasian mutters under his breath before returning to his cousin’s room. “Sorry I took so long.”

“You’d better be!” she jabs as soon as he walks back in, but her impatience fades to curiosity when she catches sight of his expression. Vespasian had tried to school his features into neutral serenity, but concern casts a clear shadow. “That was an awfully long call, you know. Someone important?”

“Someone who will help me receive less flowers, hopefully,” Vespasian huffs as he sits back down. Sabina’s half-finished hair renders itself a tedious task in comparison to his more pressing worries. He stares at the loosened braid hanging from the side of her head yet unconnected to the one on her other temple, and cannot deny its necessity anyway.

“Don’t avoid the question,” she scolds. “You’re terrible when it comes to keeping secrets.” She cranes her neck to look at him again, but this time, he’s aware of her tricks. He gives her a light swat for her efforts.

“This is what your stubbornness gets you.” Despite the circumstances, he smiles when she yelps in irritation.  He holds her head in place and resumes braiding as he considers how much he’s willing to divulge. In the end, the answer is nothing. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head, Bibi.”

“Such a condescending sentiment, don’t you think?” She makes a haughty noise. “You of all people should know.”

“I’m choosing not to comment.” True to his word, he changes the topic. “By the way. If you had to distract Zenos somehow, how would you do it?”

She gives a little hmph , but the question does manage to steer her thoughts to other things. “Distract him… I suppose any old party wouldn’t do. He’s too boring for that nonsense. What is he into, anyway?”

“Besides bloodshed, you mean? Beats me.” Vespasian shakes his head. He finishes the braid, proceeding to pin it in place. “If only there was something to pull him back to the capital…”

“Perhaps if you offered him a new toy to play with? You know, like one of those hunting parties he craves so much.”

Vespasian sighs aloud. “As much as I wish for that, I fear there’s a shinier toy where he resides now. He’d have to be forced .”

“Force him, then.” She turns to grant him an innocent look. “Arrange a royal affair so significant he cannot miss it.”

A royal affair, one which would force Zenos to return, would be…? His thoughts race, trying to find a scenario which would serve as the perfect incentive. Then it hits him. “Nothing short of a wedding or a funeral.”

Chapter 35

Vespasian wills his brisk steps to jog his brain as he leaves Sabina’s room. It’s not an impossible idea, is it? He doubts he could persuade her into biting the bullet for him, attached to her flights of fancy as she is, so only one option on the front of matrimony remains: himself.

A single male heir on the market is the most valued of all; even though his preference for men has been common knowledge since he first sexually awakened, he has received countless requests to wed some lady or other. He has always put off such suggestions. He’s not ready to be tied down, has no need for a wife to complicate things, nor for heirs of his own while Nerva stays in good health. A husband he could be, if the need really came to it, but the thought still sits wrong. But he doesn’t have to enjoy marriage. It’s just a tool. A means to an end. His own parents taught him as much.

By his age, his father had been wed for several years. Varis, too, if memory serves him correct. If anything, Zenos making it past five and twenty without a wife to saddle him down is the great anomaly. But Vespasian is not another black sheep of the flock. He’ll just have to suck it up.

“Duty before love,” he mumbles to himself as he takes the elevator down. How difficult could it be? A loveless marriage to stop a maniac in the making seems not a terrible sacrifice, at least in theory.

Browsing his prospects takes up the next several bells. He’s saved every letter sent to him, of course, in the event he ever had to reconsider. Now, he thanks his younger self for his precocious foresight. Names of importance blur next to another on the pages: daughters of legati, of respected senate seats, thrown at him in a desperate bid to get any step closer to the throne. He wonders how many had tried their luck with Zenos before settling for the consolation prize—and how many prides were wounded that he, too, would turn them down.

He appraises each and every woman, taking into account all of their merits and flaws. Political aptitude, manners, personality… he would have to make do with whichever one is the best match. A cold, calculating process to compare them in his mind like the purchase of a car or a weapon. He cannot help but think of them more like commodities than people. When it comes to the actual decision, none of them stand out. He’s read every word their families have written, knows their histories in intricate detail. He’s met some of them, even. But somehow, he can’t imagine any as a wife to him . Not a single profile suits his needs, and dread digs a pit in his stomach.

… Or hunger, he realizes, when a low churning growl resounds from his gut. Figures. By this hour, usually meals would already have been served; today, no one remains to do so.

Perhaps the chefs were an exception. He treks to the kitchens to find out if food waits for him there.

The corridors remain eerily silent, only the rhythmic clacking of his own steps keeping him company. His ears only catch more noise much closer to his destination. The clatter of pots and pans indicates at least someone is still around, and the faint smell of cooking fills his nostrils. Relieved, he makes his way to the source. Expecting a chef or two, members of the staff he scarcely comes to contact with, nothing could have prepared him for whom he meets instead:

Slaving away at the stove, dressed not in her finest dress but an apron, stands his mother.

He hasn’t seen her at all since she spilled the secrets to him. Her makeup has returned, a flawless mask, and her hair is gathered in a neat, intricate bun that brings the hairdo he gave Sabina to shame. For all her cold grace, she nevertheless fits the space she now occupies, chopping ingredients with a practiced touch.

Vespasian has to blink several times to make sure he’s not watching a hallucination. The sight of a princess doing kitchen work is so outlandish it cannot be real. He freezes just outside her newfound domain, before he finally regains the presence of mind to speak.

“What in the world are you doing?” He steps forward, his eyes never leaving her. “Did—did Father put you up for this?”

Polistea doesn’t face him, still keeping her focus on the counter. “No.” The flat, emotionless voice gives no hint to what goes on in her head. She dices a carrot with a precision that does not fit a noblewoman. “This is by my own initiative. I shall not starve while he fails to govern his household.”

Vespasian lets out a noise of disbelief. “So you have decided to play housemaid?” He still cannot believe his eyes as he walks over and looks down at the sizzling meat on a pan. “Can you even cook?”

She sneers like he had insulted her. “Not all of us were born into this nonsense. Did you come here merely to gawk, or will you make yourself useful?”

That response shuts him up. He picks up a nearby knife and follows her example, trying to chop up some carrots like she had. His clumsy attempts pale in comparison to her confident, quick ministrations. She glances at him out of the corner of her eye, then lets out a sigh. “Stop. You’ll cut your fingers off like that.”

Shamed, he sets down the blade and instead stands still in light of his own uselessness. The domesticity of it all is so foreign to him he doesn’t know how to react, yet it’s too fascinating to look away from. Her slender fingers and neat, long nails move with the dexterity of a fighter despite their prettiness. She takes no more than a fraction of a second to dice each ingredient, not making a single mistake.

One of the nails points to a measuring cup to the side. “There. You can mix the stock.” More an order than a suggestion. “I’ve already chosen the spices and cut the garlic; you can manage that much, can’t you?”

Vespasian swallows a smart comment and picks up a cup, measuring out water. He dares to look up from his task from time to time to marvel as his mother works on the dish, trying to commit her movements to memory. He finds himself trying to compare this side of her to the one he last saw. That woman, the wounded bird, is nowhere to be found; her ephemeral existence only lasted that one night. But neither is this any other version of her he’s met before.

Not a word leaves either mother or son. Vespasian occasionally steals a look at her face, but her gaze never leaves the task at hand. He’s been granted a rare moment of closeness, something his childhood self would have begged for. Now that he has it, years too late, he tries and fails to find anything to say.

The quiet only lasts until the moment the ingredients have been put in the pot. Then, from the corner of her critical eye, Polistea studies him. “You’re pale,” she observes. “What have you been up to?”

Vespasian can’t argue; he should have stayed in Ala Mhigo for a day or two longer, if only to upkeep his tan. It still stings that her first observation is, as always, a flaw in his appearance.

“You didn’t hear?” Bitter words fall from his lips. “I’m dealing with death threats. Again.”

She gives him one of the blank looks so typical of her, someone used to putting up a facade at all hours of the day. It’s an expression so devoid of feeling that he doesn’t dare to believe she cares about the matter. But then, perhaps she does. “Yes, the flowers. Your father told me.”

“So you’re on speaking terms?” he cannot help but ask.

The corners of her painted lips turn down ever so slightly. He spots the brief crack in her mask before she fixes it. “We have reached an understanding,” she states coolly. “We cannot afford to quarrel at times like this.”

“Never thought I’d see the day.”

She gives him a glare which says exactly what she thinks of his comment. He holds it for a moment before he relents, letting his eyes’ trajectory fall to the floor tiles.

The moment of intensity dissipates, but leaves in its wake yet another awkward silence. Polistea tosses the vegetables and meat into the pot while Vespasian busies himself with fiddling his fingers, desperate to find something to say. His mind races, but all he can focus on are the names of women who could fill a role like hers next to him.

“Mother,” he starts, “I must ask you a question, and it may not be one you’re keen to answer.”

“Then perhaps it’s not a question you should ask.” At the end of her stern warning, he hears a hint of intrigue. She may not show it, but her curiosity rears its head.

So he goes ahead with it. “How long was your courtship period with Father?”

Something sparks in her. She abandons the cooking and turns towards him, as though trying to see through him. Vespasian doesn’t know what she hopes to find, but the search is thorough, leaving him on edge. If he’s stepped on a landmine of taboo, it surely feels like it.

Finally, she speaks—quietly, barely at a whisper. “Perhaps three months in total.”

He winces. “That’s too long.”

“Too long? Foolish boy, we rushed it.” She shakes her head, her expression filling with regret even as she tries to conceal it. “Most of it was preparations for the wedding.”

“So the courtship itself was… even shorter?” Vespasian is aghast. “You hardly even knew him at that point. Did you even—” He can’t finish the question out of pure embarrassment.

He doesn’t have to. She picks up his hint, the disapproving twist of her mouth back in full force. “What a vulgar notion. No, of course I didn’t sleep with him.”

His cheeks turn scarlet red, and his bafflement only intensifies. “And yet you still agreed to marry him?” He tries to imagine himself in the situation. He cannot. “You were barely grown. Why did you accept him?”

In that split-second, she looks fragile—like that broken bird again. “He was hardly my worst option,” she says, and the vulnerability is gone, replaced by detached practicality. “Some of my other suitors were twice, thrice my age, and none as royal.”

He lets out a snort. “I suppose you were willing to do whatever it took for the highest status.”

The comment makes her expression tighten. It does not go unnoticed. “My marriage was in my best interest.”

“And Father’s as well, wasn’t it?” Vespasian can’t look away as her shoulders tense up—he’s struck a chord. “You were of like mind. That’s why you accepted his proposal.”

“Oh, he was in a bigger rush than I was.” Her hand tightens on the ladle, her lips parting in a scowl. “Looking to marry and perhaps conceive to make waves before the birth of your cousin. For all the good that did him.”

Vespasian’s eyes widen. “That was… the motivating factor?”

As if to make herself look smaller, she busies herself with the pot again. “He didn’t wish to be outdone.”

It’s an odd revelation. Vespasian had always assumed his parents’ match to be a normal union of convenience. He has never before considered the rush or its cause, his father’s desire to outshine Varis—the timing never dawned on him. “Typical Father.”

“You’re no better.” The comment catches him by surprise, though it shouldn’t, not from her. While her back is turned, the stiffness in her posture persists as she continues working at the stove, her grip too taut on the ladle as though she fights to keep her emotions in check. But is she wrong? No, he supposes she is not. What a twisted irony that his ambition to marry traces back to the problem of Zenos as well, just like his father’s. Although he doubts he was this much of a threat when he was but a babe in the womb.

He lets out a humorless laugh. “I’m his spitting image, I’m aware. Here I am, about to make the rash decision of marrying someone for the sake of duty, and I’d make the betrothal as rushed as I could.”

If she’s surprised, she doesn’t show it. “And do you think it will make you happy?” she asks, her words heavy with an unusual lack of judgment. She glances over her shoulder, stern as ever, but something gleams in her eye.

“Happy?” He scoffs, his face scrunching into a look of denial as a conflicted feeling washes over him. “It’s not about happiness, Mother. It’s about the fate of the Empire.”

“It always is about the Empire with you and your father.” She sighs deeply, as though disappointed in herself for failing to teach him the truth. Her truth.

“You were its symbol once,” Vespasian points out. “You were Domina Garlea. You should sing its merits.”

“I once did.” The ladle dips into the pot, set down to rest. She finally, finally spins back toward him, and her stare is one of resigned sorrow. “But I’ve learned that being a symbol is not the same as being a person, nor is it much different from being a slave.”

His heart aches at the unexpected pain in her voice. Like all glimpses into it, it vanishes as soon as it appears, hidden behind the stone walls she’s built around herself. Vespasian’s brain races to find a way to prolong the contact, desperate to see something he’s never seen before. He takes a step forward and reaches out for her arm. She remains unflinching under his touch, like a statue, a doll. He’d think her made of porcelain if not for the warmth of her skin.

“Mother, I…” He pauses, unsure how to continue, but then her expression hardens. The moment has passed, and she yanks away her arm with more force than necessary. He’s pushed away from her yet again.

“Don’t think you’ll make any difference,” she snaps, before she schools her voice. “You’ll consign yet another woman to this, you’ll sire an heir who will do the same, and so it will go until Garlemald crumples and another throne rises from its ashes. Don’t pretend otherwise.”

His eyes widen as her scathing words bite into his skin. It’s impossible to deny her claims when he’s going to do precisely what she describes. “What else could I do?” The question bursts out of him as his blood starts to boil. “What else could either of us do but what is expected of us? We play our roles, and we do our duty.”

“I know you have a better heart than him,” she continues, returning back to the cooking. He only gets to speak to her back. “You’re kinder in a manner he lacks. But that is not enough for you to escape your fate.”

He doesn’t know if it’s even a compliment—a ‘better heart’, what does that even mean? What’s wrong with Nerva’s? He opens his mouth to protest, to ask for a clarification, but she remains steadfast in her work in a way that tells him the conversation is over. In the end, all he can do is sit down and simmer in all she’s said, like the meat and popotoes in the stew.

“This won’t be ready for another hour or two,” she says sharply when he does not speak. “Go back to your room.”

Vespasian remains seated. “May I not stay here?” he finds himself asking against his dignity, his voice strangely weak. “I don’t wish to be lonely.”

He doesn’t know why he does it. Maybe it’s a search for his lost childhood.  Maybe he’s just trying to cling to moments of rare honesty, or even to defy her.

“You’re an adult now,” she derides. “You can’t go whining about loneliness like a little boy.”

Vespasian can only frown at her with his mouth shut in defeat. She’s cold, she’s bitter, she’ll never give him affection on a platter. He knows that perfectly well, and yet he’s desperate for it. He could continue to debase himself for a scrap of it, but he can also stand his ground in defiance. “Then, like an adult, I can choose where to spend time in my own house.”

He glimpses something in the narrowing of her eyes, another crack in her mask. She remains outwardly defiant, but he suspects the request has done something to her. She’s just never learned how to communicate it.

“You will be underfoot,” she warns. But she does not tell him to leave.

“So be it.”

What follows are the fastest idle hours of Vespasian’s life. They do not share a word more, nor does he surmise she would respond even if he tried to. She browses the cabinets, unfamiliar with her working space but knowing what she seeks. He tries to pass time quietly, but restlessness takes hold. His mind wanders back to what she told him, and he wracks it to find a counterargument. He can’t. Her words ring true. There’s no escape.

He’s fled the idea into absentmindedly scrolling the pages of a recipe book when a clack of ceramic-on-table pulls him out of his mire. She’s set down a bowlful of stew in front of him. A delicious yet unfamiliar scent wafts to his nose, cozy in its warmth.

“I don’t believe I asked you what you were making,” he says, breaking the stretched silence.

“Miner’s stew,” Polistea answers. She returns to the pot to pour her own portion. “My father used to make this for me.”

Vespasian stares at the bowl, then at his mother. He’s heard of the dish: a simple but filling meal cooked in a big pot, often by the blue glow of a ceruleum miner’s campfire. Rustic, common, unheard of in the royal family’s residence. He imagines chewy ovibos meat, before acknowledging the kitchen’s bounty must have granted his mother better; much more likely, the delicacy that melts in his mouth is imported from the ancestral homeland. The popotoes, too, are cooked to perfection. He cannot help the sound of bliss that escapes him. He takes another hearty spoonful, savoring the taste and the moment. The stew is delicious, but that is hardly where the meal’s significance ends. He pictures a younger version of his mother, a little girl sitting by a fire and eating the very same. It’s a thought that causes his heart to both ache and lighten, a strange sensation he cannot describe.

“This… I had no idea you could cook like this,” he marvels. This, something so far removed from everything else he’s known about her, was the furthest from expected.

“There’s no need to sound so surprised,” she says and gives him another one of her haughty looks. “It’s a simple thing to learn.”

But it is not a simple thing to see her perform. To have seen her work by the counter, her slender fingers chop and crush and pour and stir—and now, to see her sat across from him without a veil of discomfort in between, like they were family after all. He cannot help his fascination.

She has stopped eating and turned to look at him, her gaze sharp. “What are you staring at?”

Vespasian flinches. “Nothing, I was just…” And he feels like a boy again, being caught doing something he’s not supposed to be caught doing, like stealing flowers from her garden.

She studies his face. He wants to hide away, but his body remains frozen where it is, unable to break eye contact. Then her mouth twists into a wry smile. “You’re looking at me as if you’ve never seen me before.”

His breath stutters. He can’t deny the statement. He thought he knew his mother; the singer, the needleworker, the noblewoman, the philanthropist. The Empire’s doll, who smiled and laughed in public, but showed none of that warmth at home. But now, he’s found more than a crack—a new door entirely.

He can’t stop the words from falling from his mouth. “Perhaps… perhaps I haven’t.”

Chapter 36

“Father, how fast can you arrange a bride for me?”

The question comes with not a small amount of guilt. He doesn’t want to make a woman as unhappy as his mother is—but it can be different, can’t it? She could be someone he can rope into his plans, someone to scheme with. They could both clandestinely see men on the side and simply be each other’s confidants. Still, the thought gnaws at him.

His old man spills a drop of ink on his desk with the force he places his pen back beside its pot. “Are you serious? Are you actually serious?”

In addition to disappointing his mother, Vespasian knows bringing this to his father’s already full table makes him a horrible son. “It would stop him, right?” he attempts to explain himself. “Zenos, I mean. He would be forced to attend the wedding.”

Nerva picks up on the logic, but purses his mouth. “Yes,” he agrees, “it would force him to return, in the short term. But at what cost, Vespasian?”

He shrugs, unable to answer. The question churns an uneasy feeling in his gut. He has the answer for the interim, but not beyond that. The marriage will serve as a distraction, but then what? Zenos will go right back to where he left off in a matter of days.

His doubt must give him away. “You haven’t thought this through, have you?” his father asks, and his voice is filled with concern, not the annoyance he deserves.

“I’ve thought of it enough,” Vespasian insists, defying common sense. “I don’t mind sacrificing my happiness if it means stopping this madness.”

“It’s not only about that,” Nerva adds. “How do you suppose the populace will view a frivolous royal wedding at the time of such unprecedented threats?”

Vespasian hangs his head. “I didn’t think of that.”

“Of course you didn’t.” His father huffs in exasperation. “And I can’t arrange such an affair so soon, with all the planning and preparation needed. Nor can I very well just pick a woman, either. She will need to meet your approval.”

“I can’t afford to be picky,” Vespasian tries to argue back. “The beast approaches Ala Mhigo’s gates. My agent and I are stumped on how to stop him. Should I not then try to pull Zenos back here?”

“By any and all means, but you still can’t afford to marry a woman you cannot stand.” Nerva gives a disapproving shake of his head. “Don’t be so blinded by desperation that you make an error.”

Vespasian, in return, offers a sideways glance. “You’re managing just fine.”

His father lets out a laugh, but there’s a grim edge of mirthlessness to it. “Yes, yes, say what you will. But let me tell you this: my marriage was a mistake, and it has come back to bite me. I am doing you a favor.” 

Vespasian looks up at him, searching for some sign to confirm he’s heard it right. This is something he’s always suspected—and it was difficult not to, through the yelling and the stretching silences that followed between husband and wife. Yet, he never had the confirmation straight from the source. “You’re telling me you regret it?”

Nerva’s response is instant, certain: “I cannot regret it. Not when it gave me you.”

Vespasian’s eyes widen. He can’t help but stare. “Well then, if you don’t—“

His father cuts him off. “Regret is not the same as remorse. I do not regret my marriage, but I do admit my failings and my foolishness. Take that into consideration in your own choice.”

Vespasian’s mouth snaps shut. The urge to retort prickles on his tongue; it’s a familiar one, and he knows to hold it back in this office. “I will, Father,” he says quietly instead, his eyes cast toward the floor. “I just… wish there was another way to buy the time we need.”

Nerva leans back in his seat and lets out a heavy sigh. His exhaustion casts shadows that linger under his eyes even if he tries to conceal the emotion in his voice. “As do I, my boy. As do I.”

Vespasian nods mutely. The pause drags on, heavy in the air. He still wishes to protest, but his father’s weariness is apparent in every line on his face. How much stress has the man endured? How many heaps were added by him? Ruefully, he rises to his feet and takes his leave, but the little sound of his father crumpling behind him halts him. His heart aches. He can’t keep what rumbles in his mind like thunder to himself.

“We should kill Varis.”

He turns around. The words have left his mouth unexpectedly, like a storm bursting from the clouds.

The suggestion must have stunned his father, because instead of a response, he simply blinks. “That is a treasonous thing to say, Vespasian,” he eventually manages to utter.

“So what?” An indignant response more suited for a whiny brat, but Vespasian finds himself standing at wit’s end with nothing else to offer. “If he can brazenly threaten my life, I should be able to speak my mind about it.”

He can see his point has hit home in the way his father grimaces as if hit by a physical blow. Nerva closes his eyes and takes a slow breath, his shoulders slumping. A quiet admission lingers in the air after he speaks again: “I won’t deny you’re right. I have thought about it.”

Vespasian quells the sense of triumph in his mind, focusing instead on the idea weighing his father down. “So why haven’t you done it?” he asks, despite the tightness in his throat.

Nerva gives another weary sigh. “Do you think I haven’t considered the risks? Believe me, I have planned out each and every detail. Yet, there is always something, a consequence, a downside, a flaw in the plan. No matter the scenario, it all leads back to one unfortunate truth: it’s not the right time.”

Vespasian’s face falls. “Not the right time? When will it be the right time? How bad do things have to get before it’s justifiable? The longer we wait, the worse things get! If we don’t stop Varis now —”

His father's voice rings out, sharp with impatience. “What you don’t seem to realize, Vespasian, is that time does not favor anyone. I am painfully aware of how bad things are getting.”

The outburst strikes Vespasian with the reminder that his father is every bit as frustrated as he is, with no less worry and fear. His spirit falls, and his next argument comes out of his mouth barely in a murmur. “I know you are. I… I am just at a loss of what to do when nothing works.”

Nerva’s frown eases when he hears the words, and he too seems to see his own shortness. He motions to Vespasian with a request to stay and listen. “Let me ask you this, then: If Varis died tomorrow, what do you think would happen?”

Vespasian cannot take the offer to sit back down, not with this much nervous energy in his limbs. The answer does not immediately roll off his tongue. When he manages to find some semblance of it, it still stumbles out shaky and uncertain. “Why, we remove the danger, of course. Why would you—”

“And then what?” Nerva slices through his reply.

Vespasian opens and closes his mouth, trying to string together a coherent conclusion. But what he finds is unsatisfactory; it sounds too hopeful even to his own ears. “I imagine things will get better—“

But again he’s not allowed to finish. “That’s the naivety of your youth. You think it will be easy . That your troubles will end when Varis lies dead at our feet. I promise you they will not.”

This is the last thing Vespasian wants to hear. Yet he knows his father never speaks these things lightly, so he listens—and he hears the hidden question, the test of his acumen:

“Think, son. If Varis is killed, who would assume power next?”

It only takes seconds until things click into place. Vespasian manages to suppress the urge to cringe. He doesn't say the name aloud; he doesn’t need to.

Nerva’s withering look yet contains a smidge of approval that his son has caught on. “ Exactly . That is why it cannot be rushed. Because if Zenos takes the throne now, we will find ourselves with tenfold the problems we currently have with Varis.”

All logic states there should be no argument. Vespasian attempts anyway. “Varis has the support of the people—Zenos doesn’t, not after… all this. Could that not be used in your favor?”

“My favor in what empire?” The coldness in Nerva’s eyes, along with his statement, sends chills down Vespasian’s spine. “He lost one of his territories already, and his grip on the other falters. The provinces would not react with pleas for a different sovereign; they would react with revolution , as they already have.”

Vespasian closes his eyes in defeat. Even if against all odds Zenos had the support of the provinces, Vespasian does not fool himself on the man’s mental state. Zenos would lead the Empire into ruin. “You’re right, Father, as you always are,” he is forced to concede, “but I don’t need lectures—I need solutions.”

Nerva rubs his temples. His expression is one of a man trying to contain a flood with a mop. Still, he summons a smidge of sarcasm. “And what sort of solution are you seeking from me that I am not already trying? If you have some miraculous plan that I have overlooked, I would love to hear it.”

The bitter comment pulls Vespasian’s lips into a scowl. He knows his father is not trying to dismiss his worries; the man has the right to be irate after fighting a losing battle for so long. Yet the desperation which burrows deep makes the words bite. “I wish I did have a solution for you,” he finds himself hissing back. “That way I wouldn’t be in the dark and scared out of my mind, worrying about what will happen to you, to me, to our family.”

His outburst casts a flit of surprise across Nerva’s face; it vanishes as quickly as it appears. The fatigue burdens him like lead. “I never asked you to worry about me, Vespasian. I can handle myself.”

Vespasian wants to snap back that it is hardly fair of his father to think so little of him, that of course he would be concerned. But despite their recent spats, they should be on the same side and this argument leads nowhere. So he exhales an exasperated breath and mutters, “It’s hard not to.”

Without a word, Nerva rises from his seat and closes the distance. Vespasian is acutely aware of how he looks; he’s still standing, but his nerves send tremors through his veins. He straightens up instinctively when his father stands before him, to match his height—did he always match it? It was only yesterday that he was small enough to sit on his knee.

For a beat, Nerva simply looks him in the eye with a strange, unreadable expression. Then, he places both hands on his shoulders. Vespasian can’t recall the last time his father has touched him so gently, like his steady, guiding hands could crush him under the responsibility they carry if he didn’t take such care.

“I cannot prevent you from worrying about me,” Nerva tells him, “but there is something I need you to understand. You are strong, you are clever. You have the determination and the skill to accomplish so much, and your potential knows no bounds. That I do not doubt. But you are still my son, my boy. My precious boy. Forgive me that I wish to keep you safe for as long as I can.”

Vespasian holds himself together like a statue. Every fiber of his being wants to melt against his father like he did as a small boy, to feel the comfort of a paternal hug and hide from responsibility. Yet he stands there, unspeaking and still, with his hands clasped by his sides and his jaw set in stubborn determination to keep his pride, because he is a grown man, not a child desperate for tender comfort.

But the despair which builds in his bones begs to differ. Helpless under its strain, he compromises: he allows himself to rest his forehead upon his father’s shoulder. A single moment of weakness. He closes his eyes and breathes in deep, drawing what little strength his father’s presence can grant. As he does, Nerva brings up a hand to cradle the back of his head. It is an unusually open display of affection, and Vespasian’s walls crumble before his eyes.

He is no longer the young man desperate to prove his worth—he regresses to the vulnerable boy who only wishes for his father to hold him.

Nerva lets out a quiet hum as Vespasian leans into him. Slowly, with the hand upon his clavicle, he pulls his son against his chest in a rare fatherly hug. The other drifts up to run through rosy locks, his thumb catching on the strands, and his voice comes out in whispered reassurance. “You’re going to be alright, my boy. You’re going to be alright. I swear to you that you will. You only need to be strong a little longer.”

The tender tone and the warmth of the embrace nearly bring Vespasian to tears. He wants to be a child again. He wants to be small and naive and have his problems handled for him like they were no bigger than a scraped knee. He wants to live a life with no care in the world. He wants things to be different. But he can want and want from the bottom of his soul without the world offering him an ilm.

Knowing this, he presses himself against his father harder, grasping at the back of his cloak, refusing to move. But his composure claws itself back up from the pit it wallowed in and he inhales deep to steel himself, to return to who he is meant to be. “If I’m to be strong, then let me be of assistance,” he implores—no, demands, his voice now without tremors. “I can help track down Varis’s spy. Or check the council for possible cracks within the lines.”

The moment of vulnerability passes, but Nerva’s reluctance to let him go doesn’t. Still, he gently pulls away from Vespasian, his hands remaining on his shoulders. His voice remains firm when he speaks. “There is nothing more for you to do on that front. I’ve caught and dealt with the intruder.”

Vespasian blinks away his repressed tears in surprise. A dozen questions rush past his tongue. “When was this? I—why did you not ask me for my help? You shouldn’t—”

His father raises a hand, the gesture silencing the barrage. Vespasian knows better than to carry on; he falls silent, though his thoughts still whirl inside his mind like wasps in a disturbed nest.

“It didn’t take too long,” Nerva says. “For all his intimidation, Varis remains predictable. As I had thought, he’d repeated the trick he’s used in Ul’dah and elsewhere; knowing his habits, I should have vetted the servants more to begin with.”

You should have, Vespasian thinks, yet suppresses the urge to say it out loud. His hands fidget by his sides, desperate to have something to do. It is an uncomfortable feeling, to be left in the dark about such important matters, and this one hits hard. He struggles to swallow with his throat so tight.

His father, as if reading his mind, speaks again. “You would have been the first person I called for had the need arisen, my boy. But everything went smoothly, and no further risk was posed. You have no reason to worry.”

Vespasian opens his mouth to retort, but the words come out in a strangled whisper. “I am supposed to be your ally. I am supposed to help when you need it. Instead, I’m left in the dark like your useless— your—”

Your useless son. Your useless son who cannot do anything right.

He bites back the last remnants of his dignity and swallows the rising bitter emotions. He remains still, his hands again clenched into tight trembling fists. “Forget it,” he adds in a resentful grumble. “At least there shall be no more flowers in my room.”

“No more flowers.” An authoritative edge returns to Nerva’s gaze, even as sympathy still reigns. “And no more talk about this matter. You will let me do my work while you focus on yours and your own safety. Understood?”

He says it with an air of finality, and Vespasian knows full well there is no disputing that order. He gives a jerky nod, forcing his jaw to relax and his hands to loosen. Yet even as he complies, his mind still buzzes. Part of him wishes to press the issue, and an even bolder part of him even dares to hate his father for the situation. He wants to demand answers, to be part of the plan, and to throw a fit if necessary.

But his father shows such fatigue that Vespasian does not find the heart to argue. So he grits his teeth, tamping down the thousand objections and his feelings on the matter. He doesn’t dare to meet Nerva’s eye.

“Very well, Father.” A well practiced line, delivered the same as always despite his irritations. “I’m off to my room. Mother prepared a meal, by the way—you should eat if you haven’t.”

If his wife’s lowering of her station shocks Nerva, he doesn’t show it. He responds with naught but a low noise of acknowledgement, and Vespasian takes the chance to make a sharp exit with a click of his boots. He doesn’t stop to look behind and witness his father deflate back onto his chair, nor slow down until he leaves the study far behind.

Even with the threat passed, the hallways remain devoid of bustling servants. Still, he keeps his head down as he hurries towards his room, feeling like a child running away. A child who never learns, a child who throws fits, a child who cannot even—

He catches the fraying thread of thought and cuts it before it worsens. Dwelling on it will help nobody. If he’s not to be wed, nor will a funeral drag Zenos home instead, he will have to refocus his efforts onto Ala Mhigo, Asahi’s demotion be damned. He resolves to contact the agent first thing in the morning as he shuts his door behind him.

Notes:

Long time no chapter!!! Artfight along with its preparations kept me busy and then it was a struggle to get back into the swing of writing, but I'm back now. Next month I'll be taking part in TWB&EBC's Enabling Fanfics 2025 in the absence of FFXIVwrite, so the next chapter will likely take a while too; but expect these characters in at least a few of the short fics during the event! And when I return to this, things will start to pick up pace >:)