Chapter 1: Everlasting Light
Notes:
Welcome to the First ! and welcome to the main story.
You can find the prequel in the previous work of the series right here, if you didn't read it yet !Enjoy !
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
_____________
Absolutely nothing could have prepared Rhys for the shock that awaited him upon arriving in the First.
After drifting through the shadowed void, pushed, guided, drawn by the summoning of some stranger, he had finally reached his destination.
He landed hard on solid ground, sprawled out completely. As consciousness returned little by little, he tried to move—but the pounding headache triggered by the journey between Worlds only intensified. He was forced to keep his eyes tightly shut for a while before attempting to sit up.
He could hear his pulse throbbing in his skull, a harsh rhythm echoing through his temples. His hands came up, fingers pressing against his head as he pulled himself into a sitting position, joints stiff, body resisting.
He waited. Ten seconds. Twenty.
Inhale. Exhale. Deep, steady breaths.
Then, cautiously, he opened his eyes— and screamed .
The sound tore from his throat, hoarse and raw, breaking halfway through under the weight of sudden, overwhelming pain.
What a mistake.
Gods above, what a terrible mistake.
The light. The light . It was blinding. Merciless. His eyes burned as if seared by flame. As a Keeper— of the Night Clan—his pupils were not built for such brilliance. Not without warning. Not without protection.
His mouth opened, but no words came—only ragged, panicked breaths. He dropped his head forward, one hand still clutched to his temple, the other shielding his eyes in the crook of his arm. Elbow braced to his knees, he curled in on himself like a creature struck by lightning.
Rhys hissed between his teeth.
Am I blind?
He had felt his pupils snap shut, retracting to near nothing, and the pain had struck so deep it vibrated through his jaw, along his long canines. He bit down hard, trying to silence the tremor that had taken hold of him—from the twitch of his ears to the end of his tail, which lay curled tight and still against the ground.
He tried to breathe. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. His breath was ragged. But steadying. Bit by bit. His fingers pressed gently against closed eyelids, massaging the lingering sting. But as his senses settled, something else reached him.
Or rather—didn’t.
Silence.
Too perfect. Too complete. It wasn’t right. His spine stiffened. He sat up sharply. The silence pressed against him like a wall, heavy and unnatural.
Instinct took over.
One hand swept back over his shoulder, searching—
Yes. His staff. Still there.
His fingers curled around the familiar shape of it, and a measure of calm returned. He shifted, bracing one knee to the ground, every muscle primed. His ears twitched. His head turned slightly, listening.
He was in a world he didn’t know. Blind—or nearly. Sight failed him. So now, he’d rely on the rest. His heartbeat slowed. The tremor in his limbs faded. His breathing grew quiet. He waited. Listened.
And then— He heard it.
A sound. Subtle. Inescapable. Piercing.
A sound that would follow him, echo through him, for far too long.
A sound that would threaten to undo him, one day at a time.
The white noise of the light.
☾
It hit him deep in the gut—raw, instinctive—and he didn’t immediately understand what it was, or where it came from.
His head snapped up as the realization struck.
The sky , he thought. It’s coming from the sky!
For a moment, he almost opened his eyes again. Almost. But he stopped himself just in time.
Instead, he tried to sense his surroundings—anything. A monster. An animal. Some lurking threat.
Yet there was nothing but that sound. That soft, whispering hum.
Peaceful, perhaps, to some ears.
To his, it was maddeningly loud.
Even with his sight so violently impaired, he would have traded anything to hear some noise— any sound to break the pressure. A rustle. A growl. The battle cry of some fierce enemy charging him from behind.
Anything but this.
Anything but that suffocating silence, broken only by the insidious murmur of light itself.
"Anything", he let out softly, out loud.
Minutes passed. Long, dragging, endless. He didn’t let his guard drop once. And yet, a thought crept in—if the gods were merciful, maybe… just maybe… he really was alone. The contradiction of that thought almost made him laugh.
He had to move. He couldn’t stay like this.
A trembling hand passed over his face, slick with cold sweat. He pushed his hair back, tucking it gently behind his ears. His breath steadied a little. Calmer now, he reached for his forearm, where golden runes shimmered faintly against his pale grey skin. He muttered a quick incantation. Almost instantly, a veil shimmered into existence—like star-dust drifting over his eyes, dark and faintly glittering.
He pressed his hands to his face, whispering a prayer to Hydaelyn, hoping the spell would hold.
He and a Seeker friend had crafted it together in Ul’dah, back in the Black Mage guild. He usually used it in summer—when the sun was too harsh—or in winter, when snow reflected its brilliance with blinding cruelty.
It wasn’t a perfect solution.
But right now, it was all he had.
He braced himself for the pain.
He knew it would come.
Sitting up straight, spine rigid, he said another brief prayer—then slowly, cautiously, opened his left eye.
Pain flickered—sharp, but manageable.
Under the cover of his hand, he could feel his eye pulsing with the strain. He took slow, deliberate breaths, forcing himself to focus on the sound of each inhale, each exhale…
Anything to drown out the whisper that pressed against his thoughts like oil over water—cloying, dangerous.
He opened his eye further, just a little.
Blurred vision. A smear of color. Lilac.
He blinked hard, then shut his eye again.
Good. He wasn’t blind.
He repeated the same motion with his right.
No worse than the left. The relief was immediate. The pain was still there—like a needle threading from retina to skull—but it was manageable. He just needed time.
A shaky breath escaped him.
He narrowed his eyes into a squint, doing what he could to protect his vision. He could feel tears rising, but he held them back.
He turned his head, slowly surveying what little he could.
Lilac.
Everywhere.
The trees, the ground, the air itself.
A forest—or perhaps a wood. He couldn’t say for sure. He had never hated a color so viscerally in his life.
What the hell is this place?
A mote of dust drifted past his vision.
He blinked. Was his sight failing again? Was he hallucinating?
He raised a hand, reached toward the speck.
It passed through his palm.
“What the absolute fu—?”
His eyes tracked the floating particle. And as he followed its path upward, he forgot caution.
His already-sensitive eyes opened wide in spite of him, golden irises catching the light, reflecting it.
And then—he saw it.
The sky.
Clouds streaked with pale brilliance. Shafts of light breaking through them in radiant beams. Beautiful. Magnificient.
Monstrous.
His mouth fell open. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t look away.
Hearing the light was one thing.
But seeing it—truly seeing it—was another entirely.
Hydaelyn. Menphina. The Twelve—
Someone, please tell me this is a nightmare.
☾
He was going to throw up. Or faint. Maybe both. There weren’t enough words to describe how overwhelmed he felt.
Breathing had suddenly become difficult. Thinking, impossible.
He cursed the man who had summoned him here—who hadn’t even had the decency or basic hospitality to welcome him.
To help him. To show the slightest care, while he was left flailing in agony, utterly alone.
Rhys grabbed his staff and slammed it into the ground for support, using it to push himself up onto his feet. There was still a pounding in his skull—deep, constant—and he started walking. Wandering, really, through the forest. His legs moved on their own. He barely felt them. His body had taken over, survival mode kicking in while his mind shut down. He was no longer in control.
His eyes narrowed again, still barely able to cope with the light. He didn’t bother fighting the tears this time. They ran freely down his cheeks, carving silent paths through the grime and sweat. His head was empty. His steps mechanical.
Time passed—he didn’t know how long—before he noticed movement to his right.
Still dazed, he barely registered the shape.
If it was an enemy, so be it. He was defenseless.
He had nothing left. Not a thought, not a reaction.
But then he heard a voice.
A man. Speaking calmly. Smiling, even—as if this place was normal.
Rhys drifted closer, numb. His eyes caught on a flash of sky-blue, a ring on the man’s hand.
He tried to follow what the stranger was saying, but the words blurred together.
Until one question cut through the fog and slammed him back to reality.
“What are you doing here, in the middle of the night?”
The words echoed.
And hit. Hit hard .
Cold sweat returned instantly, sliding down his back beneath the black fabric of his robes.
He felt the dampness cling to his skin. His breath caught. His entire body tensed as a wave of panic rippled through him.
He looked at the man.
Then slowly, upward.
His mouth opened in disbelief. The reflected light caught on the tips of his fangs.
Night?
It’s night?
Where’s the moon? Why can’t I see it? And the stars ?
He spun in place, head tilted up, eyes straining. His pupils narrowed painfully as he searched the sky.
Nothing.
No moon.
Only clouds.
Only light.
Endless, searing light. So bright, so heavy, he thought it might crush him.
He turned back to the man, suspicion flaring briefly.
Was this a trick? Was someone playing with him?
Reality was too difficult to face.
Too foreign.
He tried to listen again, to make sense of the man’s words, but there was too much. Too fast.
His mind was still catching up.
He was the Warrior of Light, yes—but even he needed time to understand, especially when the rules of the world—any world—no longer applied.
He was good at black and red magic, skilled in combat and survival… But planning? Strategy? That had never been his job.
When the Scions needed a mind, they had Y’shtola. Thancred. Urianger.
He wasn’t the brain. He was the blade.
And when the time came to strike, he did so with precision.
But right now?
He couldn’t even think .
If he’d had the clarity, maybe he would’ve realized it:
That he wasn’t summoned here by chance.
That something was wrong. Deeply wrong.
That his friends had been here all along, trapped in this world of light and static and silence.
But there was no clarity. Just noise .
His mind buzzing, body trembling, he started walking in the direction the man had pointed out.
A city?, he thought. Here?
He kept going. Trudging through the forest, each step heavier than the last.
Twice he stopped to vomit—but his stomach was empty. Nothing came up.
He tilted his face to the sky, desperate, eyes straining once more.
He prayed.
To Menphina.
Prayed like he hadn’t in years.
And in that bottomless distress, that fog of pain and confusion, he didn’t even notice what lay ahead of him—just beyond the horizon.
A structure.
Towering. Proud. Familiar in all the worst ways.
The Crystal Tower.
☾
Rhys sat down again, trying to calm himself. It was too much. He’d lost all sense of time—had no idea how long he’d been in this world. Minutes? Hours?
He couldn’t tell.
He ran a hand over his face, trying to piece things together.
Once again, he returned to his breathing exercises.
If his mentor back in Ul’dah had seen him panic like this, lose his composure so completely, he would have been disappointed. It wasn’t the way of a Black Mage to give in to fear so easily. Rhys, who was usually so calm, had been pushed to his limits the moment he arrived here.
He tried to clear his mind. And only after a long, long while did the fog begin to lift, ever so slightly.
Good.
As long as he didn’t think about the Moon.
As long as he focused on his breath—on that alone—and not on the whisper of the sky, he could keep the panic at bay.
Then, far too late for his liking, a stark realization hit him. He spoke out loud, voice barely above a whisper: “I’m trapped here.”
He needed to find the one who had summoned him.
Hopefully, the man was in the city he was heading toward. He had so many questions, but his mind was still too foggy to form them.
One thing was certain—when he caught up with that wizard, they’d have a fierce conversation about all of this.
Rhys stayed seated for a moment longer, rubbing his eyes.
At least the tears had stopped flowing.
The veil was working perfectly—he was sure that in a few days the pain would fade, maybe even disappear entirely.
Alright, here goes nothing.
After the blows I’ve just taken, it would take a lot to knock me down again.
He placed his hands flat on his thighs, clapped loudly to steel himself, then stood up. He stretched, cracking his neck painfully as he tilted it to the side.
He had no idea what this adventure still held for him.
And he would soon learn it—at his own expense.
-
Rhys stumbled out of the forest, following a path that seemed well-worn between the trees, focusing on the trampled petals on the ground—purple, so very purple.
He might have admired the beauty of the landscape if he hadn’t felt so out of place, so threatened by that sky.
So distant, yet looming as if ready to fall on him at any moment, promising to engulf him in all its brightness.
There was something about those clouds.
Something about the infernal white noise that seemed to pour straight from the rays that unsettled him deeply. He wanted to hide, but the pale foliage of the trees offered no shade.
A nervous laugh escaped him as he realized he was drenched in that light with nowhere dark to hide. Behind him, his tail was alert, puffed up from the relentless goosebumps that refused to fade.
A Keeper in a place like this?
If someone had described this scenario to him a few moons ago, he’d have called it a cruel joke.
A very bad, very cruel joke.
-
Three figures stood a few malms from where he was, all clad in similar armor.
Rhys stepped forward and was met by a rather strange woman. He couldn’t help but stare as she spoke, so unusual was her appearance.
Never in Eorzea, not even in Othard, had he seen a woman like her : tall and lithe, always alert. Rabbit-like ears rising from beneath her long white hair. And she was immense.
Despite his own warrior’s build—firm and solid—Rhys was quite short for a Miqo’te.
She easily stood three heads taller than him.
Still, he held himself with dignity, back straight, boots planted firmly on the ground, head slightly raised as he answered her questions.
He could feel the headache creeping back, fueled by the firmness of her interrogation.
If he couldn’t enter this city, how was he supp—
Without warning, she lunged forward, chakrams drawn, taking an offensive stance.
Rhys turned just in time to see her strike down a flying creature that had appeared behind him. His brain still fogged, he watched, mouth agape, as the creature vanished in a brilliant shimmer.
Reduced to nothing.
He hadn’t even sensed it coming.
He squinted his sensitive eyes, absorbing the information she relayed: it was a transformed human.
Then his gaze dropped to the ground, locking onto the azure ring.
He’d seen that ring recently, but his flood of thoughts teetered on the brink of chaos, and he couldn’t quite place where.
-
Suddenly, hurried footsteps echoed nearby, and Rhys turned his head toward the sound.
Any distraction was welcome—he felt himself slipping again, losing grip on his sanity just like back in the forest.
He lifted his gaze and watched the newcomer approach, clearly having run to get there.
Despite his poor vision, the man was close enough for Rhys to notice the movement of his robes and hood, which fluttered around his silhouette as he came to a stop in front of him, smiling.
A gentle breeze blew in Rhys’s direction, the flowing fabric of the robes sweeping forward as the man halted.
Oh no. What the f—?
Rhys wrinkled his nose slightly, sensing that—
And just as he thought the situation couldn’t get any worse, his body acted on its own.
He took a sharp breath through his mouth—and before he could even raise a hand to cover it—he sneezed loudly right in the face of the person standing before him.
The two guards startled and drew their spears in an instant, but the female guard reacted immediately, unfazed by the loud sneeze.
With a fierce growl, she grabbed Rhys by the arm, twisting it behind his back, and forced him to the ground, kneeling.
Leaning forward, his face nearly touching the dirt, Rhys was mortified.
There was no way he’d survive in this world.
He closed his eyes, cursing his allergy.
What could I possibly have done in a past life, Hydaelyn, to deserve this many trials?
☾
Rhys heard a sharp yelp—so suddenly, so utterly offended in tone that for a moment, he couldn’t tell if it came from the man or one of the gods themselves. The grip on his arm loosened without warning, and he was released, unceremoniously but not without control. Lyna—that was her name—was speaking in hushed but firm tones with the newcomer. Rhys barely registered the words. His mind was still reeling, his body aching from the swift maneuver that had brought him to his knees, his head pounding with renewed force.
Then he heard it.
"Rhysard".
His name. Spoken softly. Kindly. Shockingly so. He lifted his gaze on instinct alone.
The man was leaning slightly toward him, a hand extended in apology, his voice laced with sincerity.
Rhys told himself he should be the one apologizing—after all, sneezing on someone wasn’t exactly the most dignified of greetings.
And yet... he couldn’t do it. Something in his pride, or perhaps just in the residual dizziness, refused.
He declined the offered hand with a small shake of the head and stood on his own, brushing his dark robes with an air of quiet defiance. One step back. He needed distance. Space to think. To breathe.
Even through the haze of his strained vision, the figure before him clicked into place.
It was him.
The one he had seen—felt—when the summoning tore him from his world.
The one whose voice had beckoned him through the rift.
This man was the reason he was here.
The reason for the pain in his chest, for the light that gnawed at his soul.
And he still wore that same hood. The same obscuring shadow over the upper half of his face.
Rhys wanted to lash out, to tell him how furious he was to have been dragged into this... nightmare. But he couldn’t find the words. Not yet. Not with his pride already cracked by humiliation, by pain, by the very air of this realm.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the man turn to Lyna and murmur something—likely about returning to the city. The Crystarium.
Then, almost as if it were nothing, the stranger used a fold of his ornate robe to discreetly wipe his cheek. Rhys did his best not to grimace.
Of all the moments for his cursed allergy to make an appearance...
-
The Crystal Exarch.
So that was his name—or rather, his title.
He spoke with composed elegance, his voice warm and precise, each word carefully measured. There was something comforting in it, something Rhys could almost cling to—despite everything. The Exarch spoke of the Scions—his friends—and at the mention of them, Rhys felt his breath catch. Then release. They were safe. Or safe enough for now.
“I’ll explain more later,” the Exarch added with gentle certainty. And then, as if recounting a tale long rehearsed in solitude, he began to speak of the world they now stood in.
The First.
A reflection of his own world, but fractured. Devoured not by darkness, as so many feared—but by light. A flood of light.
The words struck Rhys like cold steel to the ribs. That soundless sky, the ever-burning clouds above, the ache in his skull, the unbearable brightness—everything made cruel sense. Gooseflesh crawled along his arms again, his tail flicking once in agitation, and he did what he could to just—breathe.
He tried to absorb the words, but it was all too much. The story of an apocalypse. Of a world frozen in a false, blinding day.
The Exarch, perhaps sensing the weight pressing on him, did not press further. But he didn’t stop speaking, either. Instead, he pivoted—gently—toward fragments of history, simple anecdotes, names and places unfamiliar to Rhys, yet offered with enough rhythm to drown out the silence. As if the Exarch knew, instinctively, that to stop speaking was to invite the whisper of that cursed sky back into their bones.
Eventually, they came to a bridge—broad, wooden, with great arches of steel overhead that glinted faintly under the unyielding light. The air shimmered softly, disturbed only by the sound of footsteps and the gentle creaking of wood under their weight.
Beyond the bridge, the city unfolded.
Rhys stepped onto stone, onto paved ground. The architecture rose around him like a promise, unfamiliar but solid, shining faintly with an ethereal glow. Towers and terraces, balconies and winding stairways, all built in a curious harmony of function and grace. There was something beautiful here—something fiercely alive, despite the world outside.
And then the Exarch stopped, just before the gate. Turning slightly, his face still mostly hidden beneath that hood, he looked back at Rhys and smiled—genuine and serene.
“Welcome to the Crystarium, my friend.”
Rhys didn’t answer right away, he just nodded.
His throat was tight. His eyes still burned.
But he took another breath, deep this time.
And stepped forward.
-
Instinctively, the first thing he did was lift his gaze to the sky. And that was when, for the first time since arriving in this realm, he truly saw it.
Even with his blurred vision, there was no mistaking it. It had been there all along, standing proud and immense against the golden-orange sky, splitting the gradient of light with regal indifference. And yet, until now, he had not noticed it.
The Crystal Tower.
The shock of seeing it—here, of all places —hit him like a blade. His knees buckled beneath him. He staggered and dropped, crumpling to the ground without resistance. The Exarch reached for him with a startled gasp but was far too late to catch him in time. Instead, he knelt swiftly, one knee pressing into the stone as he came down to Rhys's level, his expression drawn with concern.
Is this real?
Rhys couldn't tell anymore. Everything since he had fallen into this world had felt like a waking nightmare. His voice barely rose above a whisper, roughened by fatigue, his accent curling gently around the syllables: “Is that… is it truly the Crystal Tower?”
“Yes,” the Exarch answered softly. “But… let us speak more of it later, if you’d allow. You look utterly exhausted.” There was patience in his tone, but had Rhys been in a better state of mind, he might have noticed the subtle, telltale tremble beneath it. “I imagine arriving on the First is no small trial for a Keeper of the Moon.”
But Rhys could no longer look at the Tower. He tore his gaze away with effort, swallowing down the rising tide of emotion. There was something… something in the Exarch’s voice. A note buried beneath the careful diction. A note that struck too deep, too familiarly.
He was losing the moon. He had lost his bearings. His senses were failing him, and his emotions were dragging him to ruin. But what frightened him most wasn't the pain, or the light, or the silence.
It was hope .
And hope, cruel and bright, was the sharpest blade of all.
He looked up at the Exarch again, no longer hiding his scrutiny. He examined him openly, unashamed. They were similar in height, though the other’s robes gave him a more imposing silhouette. That hood still cloaked the upper part of his face in shadow—likely glamour, some protective enchantment that obscured the eyes.
And then there were his arms. His neck. Rhys squinted through the blur. Blue. An ethereal, almost translucent blue that shimmered under the light—glowing, like the Tower behind them.
Like his Tower.
The Tower where it had all ended, five years ago.
Too many questions burned behind his eyes. None of them could find their way into words.
Something snapped .
Rhys knew he shouldn’t. Knew he was about to cross a line. One didn’t act so impulsively around strangers—especially not ones cloaked in mystery and magic. But his hand moved on its own. Slowly, hesitantly, he reached forward, toward the Exarch’s hood, seeking—desperate for—a confirmation he couldn’t even rationally explain.
The man flinched, leaning back just slightly, startled.
Maybe it was foolish. Maybe it was the allergy—he had felt it after all, back when the wind had blown the fur toward him. Was it the rabbit-woman, Lyna, or…?
Or was it him ?
A dark chuckle escaped him. It wasn’t humorous, not truly. Just frayed nerves and emotional exhaustion spiraling into absurdity.
He wanted to move closer. To inhale. To test the air. If it’s you, your scent will tell me. Even if I can’t see clearly, even if I can’t trust my own mind— I’ll know.
Because if this was who he thought it was…
The one who always laughed when Rhys sneezed from too much fur.
The one who had stayed behind.
The one who had sacrificed everything.
The one who believed in what was right, no matter how it hurt.
The one he had lost.
His throat constricted. His chest tightened. The name formed before he could stop it, and when it left his lips, it wasn’t spoken—it was offered , like a prayer.
“G’raha… is it you?”
And saying it— truly saying it—was too much.
The flood broke. His body gave in at last.
Rhys collapsed forward, unconscious before he even hit the Exarch’s arms. The robed man caught him with a gasp, hands tightening protectively around the Keeper’s shoulders, his own breath catching in his throat—shocked, rattled, motionless.
The name hung in the air between them.
Like a secret.
Like a wound.
Like a homecoming.
Notes:
If you're wondering, no, of course the Exarch won’t tell him the truth about his identity.
It would be too kind. And i guess we're all gathered here to suffer. To witness an impossible love. Impossible feelings. It will burn, but at a snail's pace ! (joke's on me, i hate snails).
-My WoL's name, Rhysard (Ryszard), is a polish name that i like a lot ! It's like 'Richard', you read each letter !-
I'm freaking out a bit because translating the story in english is awesome! It may sound weird, but putting words in another language kind of feel like rediscovering the whole thing. I can't wait to share this with you.
I really hope you'll enjoy it as much as a do ! :)
Chapter Text
Rhys awoke just as he had fallen asleep — that cherished name whispered softly once again, slipping forth like a mournful sigh.
For five long years, he had vowed to press onward. Vowed not to dwell upon the past, nor on all that might have been between them. He had vowed to hold dear every memory they had shared, from the trivial to the tender. He had vowed… to keep hope alive despite it all. He strove to focus solely on the joyous moments they once shared, rather than on the pain of their parting. The agony of losing one so dear, so close to his heart — like kin, with whom he had shared so much in such fleeting time.
He rubbed his weary face, then reached out with trembling fingers to grasp the thick cloth that veiled his eyes, still blurred and sore. Sitting upon his bed, back resting against the cool wall, he surveyed the chamber. Walls of warm-hued brick enclosed the room, furnished with only what was necessary, yet somehow imbued with comfort. His gaze fell upon the shuttered windows, through which pale light seeped.
The light.
The sight struck him with sudden clarity — the whisper of the heavens was still present. A shiver ran through his frame, making him tremble before he rose. Bowing his head, he examined the fabric — faint tendrils of ether escaped it, a spell surely woven into its threads.
He approached the lone door and hesitated before pushing it open and stepping out. There stood Lyna, steadfast and watchful at his threshold. Her eyes fell upon him as he emerged.
“I trust you found some rest,” she said, her voice steady and firm. “I apologize for earlier. I knew not you were a guest; I was but following protocol.” She inclined her head slightly, her features less drawn than when they had first met.
Rhys raised his hands, signaling her to stand, feeling uneasy amid such formality. “'Tis no big deal, thanks anyways… Lyna?”
She nodded, then gestured toward the long corridor before them. “I shall inform my Lord Exarch you have awakened. You must have many questions; he bade me bring you to him when you are ready.”
He nodded in return, then returned to his chamber to retrieve his scepter, lying upon a table and wrapped in fine cloth. Arching a brow, he sought Lyna once more and closed the door behind him. “Let's go.”
They descended the stairs into a modest hall. And then…
A burst of color struck him.
-
Rhys gasped in awe as he stepped into the wide expanse pulsing with life—a stark contrast to the apocalyptic world beyond. His eyes rose, drawn irresistibly to the colossal blue crystal domes towering overhead, their translucent walls shimmering softly as they shielded this fragile sanctuary from the harsh light of the sky. Around him, purple trees stretched upward. The grass beneath his boots was lush and green, a riot of life thriving defiantly here.
He was stunned. In the distance, voices floated on the air—laughter, bright and unguarded. The people moved with ease and joy so natural it made his heart ache. Was he the one broken? Was his stunned silence a sign of weakness? How could they carry such hope in a place that should have none?
Lyna caught his gaze, surprised by the storm of emotion etched across his face. With a graceful motion, she gestured toward the domes and the living world they sheltered. “Our lord Exarch poured his soul into this refuge—a tiny sanctuary carved from the chaos. No lifetime could repay what he’s done for us", she tilted her head back to the side, before motionning with her hand toward it. "Come with me. He’s waiting.”
Rhys nodded, though the world felt unsteady beneath his feet. He followed her beyond the protective dome, stepping once again beneath the ominous sky that threatened everything beyond these walls.
Before them stretched a vast, stone-paved plaza dotted with the same strange purple trees. To his right, rising like a beacon, stood the Crystal Tower. They walked side by side toward the towering steps that led upward, the gates looming like old sentinels—familiar and cold.
At the top, Rhys halted suddenly. His eyes swept the plaza, the trees, the buildings, searching.
The Labyrinth of the Ancients—it's gone !
Shock rooted him in place. The city had reshaped itself, adapting around the Crystal Tower. The plazza was both grand and humble, its cobblestones etched with delicate gold patterns. He let himself savor the view a moment longer, then turned to Lyna, who waited patiently for his attention.
“Are you ready, Warrior ?,” she asked, inviting but firm.
They approached the guard stationed before the towering doors. He nodded in greeting, verifying their identities, and stepped forward to open the gates. But to Rhys’s surprise, the doors swung open on their own. The guard stepped back, allowing the Exarch to emerge and welcome his guest once again.
Lyna inclined her head in farewell to Rhys, saluted her Lord and returned to her post silently.
“I’ve been waiting for your awakening.” The Exarch’s voice was calm, almost soothing, as he stepped aside.
"You didn’t have to come down,” Rhys said, a thin edge of bitterness slipping into his tone. He didn’t want to enter the Tower—not yet, and certainly not with this man. “We were just about to go up.”
The Exarch betrayed no reaction, remaining serene despite Rhys’s hostility.
“I wished to greet you myself,” he said with a gentle gesture inward. “Come. Follow me.”
And Rhys followed.
He exhaled a trembling breath as he crossed the threshold, jaw clenched tight to keep his anguish hidden. Memories clawed at him—painful, relentless.
I love you.
He rediscovered the Tower’s hall: twin columns of water framing each side, the hard stone floor beneath his boots, staircases rising on either side at the room’s far end. The Allagan teleporter.
His gaze dropped to the floor, expecting to find blood—his dried blood—from when he’d wounded himself deliberately with his rapier. The very rapier he’d left behind here, much to X’rhun’s endless scolding. It felt like a lifetime ago.
He couldn’t bring himself to look at the room’s center—where they had stood, where he had marked him before being literally overwhelmed, where they had said their farewells. No, it was too much. He forced himself forward instead, every step heavy with memory and loss.
✹
After all these years, here you are at last.
I have waited for you so long.
And now, you have finally returned.
The Exarch did not take his eyes off him, drawing on every ounce of restraint to keep his face unreadable—no hint of the storm inside that might betray him. Not stepping forward. Not pulling him into an embrace. Not whispering how much he had missed him, how proud he was of all he had achieved.
He read his friend like an open book. He knew exactly what filled his thoughts in this moment—who inhabited his heart. The words exchanged, the promises made.
He could have been swept away by emotion as well, but after a hundred years of crusading in the First, he had mastered an iron will over his every expression.
Still, he felt that resolve falter when those golden eyes lifted to meet his own—anchored deep within the shadows of his gaze.
☾
The Exarch watched him silently, patient. Letting him move at his own pace, as if he already knew.
“I have so many questions to ask, my lord,” Rhys said, unable to keep the edge from his voice.
The formal address was less respect and more a wall between them—a silent challenge. He saw the Exarch raise a hand, mouth opening—and he knew what he was about to say.
“No. I gathered you’re the leader of the Crystarium. You’re no ordinary man.”
Rhys himself hated when others spoke to him so formally. He was the Warrior of Light, knighted many times for his deeds, but when adults—or even children—addressed him formally, he felt awkward and corrected them.
The Exarch nodded, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
“I’ll answer your questions, Rhysard.”
Rhys’s skin prickled. Hardly anyone ever called him by his full name—only by the short form. Even Zenos had stuck to the nickname. He felt a flicker of defiance, as if sensing a silent taunt in return.
That small game sparked a pain deep in his chest. He wanted to keep distance, yet paradoxically felt drawn closer. He couldn’t believe it. Didn’t want to believe it. It was impossible—this man before him couldn't possibly be G’raha Tia. Before being summoned into this realm, he had been at Mor Dhona, seen the Tower with his own eyes, still standing tall. How could…?
He followed his guide, who gestured toward the teleporter. The aether swirled around them, and they appeared high up in the Tower. A gentle wind spiraled around, enveloping them.
Rhys turned sideways and sneezed so loudly it echoed up the spiral stairs winding above. Wiping his nose, he blinked wide-eyed.
Oh.
That came from him—not Lyna, after all.
He glanced at him, noticing the Exarch didn’t react, his face turned toward blue doors not far from their position. Taking advantage of his back being turned, Rhys looked down—and saw no tail peeking from beneath the folds of his robes. How could he live hidden like this? The very thought made Rhys feel dizzy, ears pinned back as if he were the one in hiding.
Finally, he turned his head and looked around.
On this floor, there was no stone in the walls or beneath their feet. He looked down—and thank goodness he wasn’t afraid of heights. They were high up, very high. Everything shimmered in blue, crystalline. Light filtered only faintly through the thick, imposing crystal that surrounded them. He lifted his gaze and realized they were nearly at the top, surely close to the throne, set on the outdoor terrace.
The Exarch let him wander, explore, before stepping toward closed doors that slid open when he raised a hand.
Rhys approached, stepping inside, still curious. Wandering the Tower like this felt truly strange. Knowing someone actually lived here—where fierce battles had been fought—made it feel even stranger. He found himself in a circular room, magnificent, with intricate paintings on the floor.
“It is here that your companions and me most often gather—be it to devise strategies, or simply to share news.”
He extended a hand toward the chamber.
“Should you ever seek me—at any hour, on any day—it is here you are most likely to find me. Simply speak to the guard at the base of the Tower, and he shall grant you passage.
These doors shall ever remain open to you, Rhysard.”
He raised an eyebrow, wondering how the Exarch could be so calm and polite. He moved around the room, slipping behind his host and giving him another careful once-over. The robes were so loose they revealed nothing.
“This Tower,” he began, eyes fixed on the folds of the robes, “is it really the same one from the Source? How… how is that possible?”
“Yes,” the Exarch replied, turning, facing him. “It is the Tower as you knew it in the Source. I… summoned it—just as I summoned you. Yet I cannot say from which era it hails, only that it answered the call.”
Rhys felt the small hope he’d been holding begin to fade.
His mind raced to make sense of it all. Still, he couldn’t stop himself from asking,
“Did… you find anyone inside the Tower when it appeared? Or was it empty?”
The Exarch shook his head. Rhys lowered his gaze, disappointed for having dared to hope.
“And what about my friends—the Scions? Where are they?”
The Exarch explained everything to him about the flow of time moving differently between worlds. How, due to a miscalculation, he had brought Rhys’s friends into this Reflection. Nearly five years for Thancred. Three years for Y’shtola and Urianger. And a year for the twins. Rhys was stunned. He had never imagined such a thing could be possible.
The shock on his face deepened when he learned of the vision Urianger had seen—their deaths, all of them, including himself, the Warrior of Light. A result of the destruction of the First, which had catastrophic consequences in the Source, where the poison of the Black Rose had almost wiped everything out.
He finally understood why he had been summoned.
But honestly, he didn’t know what to do to help in this situation. Once again, the fate of the world—or rather, two worlds—rested on him and those close to him.
He closed his eyes, focusing on the Exarch’s calm voice, which helped steady the pounding in his chest that threatened to burst. He listened intently until the Exarch asked,
“Have I earned a bit of your trust?”
Rhys knew he didn’t really have a choice. He was stuck here, and so were his friends. With everything the Exarch had just revealed, yes, he felt he could trust him… for now.
He nodded, catching the faint smile spreading across the man’s lips.
“I had meant to ask you sooner, but the opportunity never arose—are your eyes any better? No lingering discomfort, I hope?”
Rhys was surprised by the concern in the question. Then he remembered the thick cloth that had covered his eyes when he first woke.
Oh.
“It’s a lot better now, thanks.” Then suddenly it hit him. He spun around, ears twitching, alert. “Wait—what?”
But there was only silence. No whisper from the sky, here.
“The Tower blocks the sound of the Light?” he muttered, half to himself. “I was about to lose my mind with—” He glanced at the Exarch, who simply nodded. “That room where I woke up earlier...?”
“That chamber is a vacant suite within the Pendants, the inn of the Crystarium,” the Exarch replied with measured calm. “You were brought there following your collapse. It remains at your disposal for the entirety of your stay.”
Rhys scoffed quietly. “You can hear the Light in there. It’s unbearable. How do you put up with it day after day?”
The Exarch’s voice was calm as ever. “It has been more than a century. In all that time, only a precious few in Norvrandt have looked upon the sun... or stood beneath a true night sky.
My people—they have never known the rain, the chill of snow, nor the wind. Such wonders live on only in the pages of ancient texts", he let out a soft sigh before resuming. "This is the extent of their world. They have known nothing else.”
Rhys felt a pang of sorrow.
What a cruel fate.
He thought of the night sky—and something inside him cracked. “The stars…?”
“They remain, though the radiant sky conceals them.” The Exarch’s voice softened as he stepped closer. “Rhysard...?”
Rhys leaned back against the cool crystal wall, his hand over his chest.
Fuck. This world is really fucked up.
For a Keeper, not being able to see the Moon—to worship it—was tragic.
The Exarch hesitated, then reached out toward Rhys’s chest. Rhys jerked away sharply, pulling back his gloved hand.
Since G’raha, he had resolved not to allow strangers such closeness so easily. The pain of that loss had nearly undone him. The wound had healed, but memories of those quiet, comforting embraces lingered still.
Knowing the Exarch was likely a Seeker made things all the more difficult. Rhys wished to guard such moments jealously, unwilling to open that door again.
He rubbed his eyes roughly, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. Because, despite himself, hope was stirring once more.
“I won’t ask again,” he said quietly, meeting the Exarch’s unreadable gaze beneath the shadow of his hood. “Is that you, G’raha Tia?”
He stepped forward, narrowing his eyes to study the exposed skin of the man’s neck, searching for the scars he remembered.
But then he noticed—the skin there was strange, blue. Not skin at all. Crystal. His body was partly covered in shimmering mineral. He looked at the left cheek, then his right arm and hand—blue, translucent, glowing like the crystal walls around them.
“What happened to you?” he whispered, tears welling up. His hand reached out tentatively, eyes fixed on the familiar lips, then the cheek, then the neck.
“Rhysard,” the voice came, polite but distant, as the man took a step back. “I’m afraid you are mistaken. I know no one by the name ‘G’raha Tia.’I am sorry.”
Rhys sank to the cold crystalline floor, burying his face in his hands, breathing deeply to steady himself.
“The crystal which forms part of me—pray, do not concern yourself. It causes me no pain; I have learned to live with it,” the Exarch added softly, seeking to divert his thoughts. But it was to no avail.
“Please… go,” Rhys said quietly, feeling terrible for ordering him out of his own room. But he couldn’t calm down enough to stand. “I need a moment alone. Please.”
Without a word, the Exarch withdrew with silent grace, leaving Rhys alone in the quiet.
Fuck.
☾
We're gonna die.
Rhys found the strength to rise only much later—perhaps half an hour passed. The cold floor and wall pressed hard against his body, unforgiving and unyielding.
They were going to die. He was going to die. The thought pushed him to finally stand.
How was he supposed to even begin?
He was exhausted. Tired of being dragged into crusades and wars that sometimes felt so far from his own fight. Tired of being the Warrior of Light. Tired of carrying all that responsibility with a forced smile.
But did he really have a choice?
Not truly.
He left the Ocular, aware that he would soon have to leave the Tower altogether. To pass once more through the hall—laden with so many painful memories.
He lifted his gaze to the spiraling stairs leading to the upper levels and decided to make his way to the Throne Room—if it still stood, that is.
Reaching out, he activated the teleporter and ascended to the higher floors until he arrived at the Theater. In this shard, aswell, the floor was carpeted in deep red. He remembered the fierce battle against Amon fought in this very place. Slowly, he turned around, drawing in a deep breath of the air, crisp and pure with that distinct scent of crystal.
The doors leading outside were slightly ajar, and stepping through, he instinctively recoiled at the sight of the orange, cataclysmic sky hanging so close. Rhys scanned the surroundings, noticing new walkways and small bridges spanning the enormous basin that framed the circular hall. Protective railings encircled the space, preventing any accidental falls.
A figure cloaked in black and red stood with his back turned, a stark contrast against the tumultuous clouds. The Exarch was there, off to the right, one hand resting on the railing as he gazed toward the horizon.
Rhys exhaled slowly, hesitating to turn back.
Then he realized—if he was to work with this man, to be near him often, he first needed to apologize for his earlier behavior.
To start fresh.
He took a heavy step forward, glancing at the massive throne, then back to the sky, which seemed to whisper right into his ears—a sickening noise that made his fur stand on end.
“Pray tell, are you feeling any better?” the Exarch inquired before Rhys could take his place beside him, his hands resting gently on the railing.
“I wanted to apologize,” Rhys said instead of replying directly. His eyes remained fixed on the distant horizon, where the haze blurred everything into purple. “I’m just… not used to losing control like that. Twice now.” He rubbed his eyes wearily. Being so close to the sky in his current state was proving difficult. “It is merely that... these matters are somewhat delicate. And with all the disorientation—” He paused abruptly, fingers curling as he realized he was making excuses. For his own frailty.
The Exarch regarded him silently, allowing Rhys to speak at his own pace. Then, perceiving the strain beneath the words, he responded with calm assurance.
“Though you are the Warrior of Light, you are human, first and foremost. These are extraordinary circumstances—no soul could emerge unshaken." His voice was steady. Grounding. "You need not apologize for feeling overwhelmed... least of all in my presence.”
Rhys opened his eyes and turned to meet the composed and understanding gaze of the man before him. Patient, courteous, and imbued with genuine kindness.
“Would you care to join me for a tour of the city?”, the Exarch proposed, observing Rhys’s hesitation to speak.
The Keeper inclined his head. Any distraction was welcome. “I caught a glimpse earlier. I’d appreciate it.”
The polite smile that accompanied the offer brought Rhys a small measure of solace. The man bore no resentment. Perhaps even forgiveness. It was more than Rhys felt he deserved.
“Alright. Lead the way, my lord,” he said, falling into step behind him.
☾
The Crystarium was truly magnificent.
Receiving a guided tour by the city’s leader himself, Rhys felt slightly intimidated. The aura he radiated was so full of compassion, strength, and humility all at once that it was almost unsettling. Time and again, Rhys witnessed how the Exarch spoke to his citizens when they called out to him. So humble, kind, and smiling. He knew their names—all of them. The adoration they showed him was truly indescribable, and Rhys thought yes, maybe this was someone he could trust. It was impossible to fake such a facade without descending into madness. This man looked every bit like a saint.
As they walked toward the city’s entrance, where Rhys had previously fainted, he heard a strange noise.
He turned his head to the right and nodded in that direction.
“Those are Amaros—creatures of great loyalty. Their counterparts in the Source would be your chocobos,” the Exarch explained softly, as he opened the small gate to the enclosure. 'They are gentle by nature and thrive on physical affection.”
Such a fine distraction indeed.
Curious, feeling in better spirits, Rhys approached one of the beasts resting by the large fountain.
His hand hovered uncertainly before reaching out, fingertips brushing against the soft, warm muzzle. The creature leaned in, nudging gently against his palm, silently begging for more. Its large, dark eyes—deep pools brimming with affection—held his gaze, and Rhys found himself lost in their quiet tenderness as he scratched behind its ears.
He nearly toppled into the water when another amaro appeared, shoving him aside with insistent urgency. Caught between the two towering beasts pressing in from either side, Rhys’s eyes widened in helpless surprise. His dignity vanished in an instant. “My—my lord !', a gasp, "Come help me—!” he shouted, voice cracking with equal parts panic and amusement.
The Exarch didn’t budge, only shaking his head slightly. This time, he struggled to suppress a smile, lowering his gaze to hide it.
Oh, he enjoyed the show.
“Alright, guys, move it along, hop-hop! The gentleman said he wants some space!” Suddenly, a huge Amalja stood before Rhys and clapped the flanks of the two amaros, sending them galloping off in another direction. He then extended a hand to help Rhys back up.
Rhys had been moments from falling into the water. Had it not been for his steel-like thighs that kept him steady, he would have been even more embarrassed earlier.
“Greetings, I don’t believe we know each other?” the Amalja said, then turned toward the Exarch, and nodded a friendly "M'lord", in greeting. “What a pleasant surprise, it’s not every day I’m honored by your presence", he then turned toward the poor Keeper that was struggling, wringing out the bottom of his wet dress. "I am Szem Djenmai. Need one of my beasts?”.
"No, thank you—not today, at least", the Exarch said, a gentle smile tugging his lips. "My friend here, Rhys, was simply curious. He’s not from around here. But we’ll likely return sometime this week, though.”
Hearing his name pronounced that way confirmed to Rhys that he had walked right into his little game earlier. Rhys could only shake his head.
Some people were truly stubborn and cocky, and he wasn’t one to judge.
They then resumed their walk.
Rhys grunted, not liking his wet clothes and the bottom of his robe soaked through. From the corner of his eye, he saw the Exarch slightly turn his head toward him. “I apologize for not coming to your aid. I fear I am no longer young enough to risk the folly of attempting to part two amaros.”
Rhys raised an eyebrow at that. “Young? You sound like a garndpa,” he accused. The little he could see of the Exarch’s face and arms was smooth, firm, and youthful skin.
“I may not appear so, but I’m over a hundred years old.” He dropped this bombshell as they descended wooden stairs leading to a gigantic greenhouse.
Rhys stopped dead in his tracks.
During his studies of dark magic, he had never heard of any spell that could extend vitality. It wasn’t for lack of searching—he himself was obsessed with the subject, wanting to live long enough to be sure he’d be there when he woke up...
“How did you do it?” he couldn’t help but ask, staring at the face that looked so young. And was, apparently, in appearance.
The Exarch put a finger to his lips with a small smile, miming “shush.” “That’s a story for another time, my friend. I don’t want to overwhelm you with too much information.”
Rhys was deadly curious about the topic but didn’t press.
He rarely insisted.
“The Flood of Light came a century ago,” the Exarch continued, as Rhys stood in awe before the immense purple tree piercing the ceiling and reaching freely through the opening. “I summoned back the Tower a few years after the Flood, and the Crystarium, as you see it now, was built around it. We all lent our efforts to fashion this refuge—to make it a place of relative safety.”
“You have…” Rhys couldn’t find the words, tearing his gaze away from the tree to look at the people below, busy with their work, laughing, sometimes jostling. “You have led this crusade for so long? Why did you wait so long to reach out to me?” he asked, still having no idea what he was supposed to do here.
The Exarch stopped walking, gripping his staff to lean on as he walked. “We needed to make sure we could welcome you in a safe enough place. To learn more about the enemy,” he said quietly. “A place where you wouldn’t feel more cornered than necessary. And I’ve been trying to call you for decades, my friend,” he said, a smile in his voice. “But the magic I practice is unpredictable, and the results aren’t always what I hope for, unfortunately.”
Rhys looked around again. A city built by this man and his people.
A city of resistance in this apocalyptic world. A safe refuge for him, the Hero they’d been waiting for.
“I need to find my friends,” he said, his voice calm but resigned, determined not to let his emotions get the better of him again. Since arriving in this realm, everything had been so overwhelming. And he hated how easily that vulnerable side of himself kept slipping through.
“You’ll see them soon enough, don’t worry,” he said, raising a hand and inviting Rhys to continue. “I also wanted to apologize for giving you such a poor welcome. You were supposed to appear at the Ocular, like your friends, but I made a… slight miscalculation.” He ran his hand beneath his glamour, seeming to nervously rub his forehead. “I’ll give you other chances to make up for this mistake.”
And Rhys appreciated the gesture.
Yes, they were starting again on solid ground.
Rhys smirked and fell into step beside him. “Oi, because you sound like a good guy doesn't mean that i'll forget what you told me earlier,” he said with a teasing tone. "One day you'll tell me how the fu—the hel—", he growled, "how you managed to get this old".
☾
The Exarch was a nice, gentle, caring, painfully honnest bastard.
That was the conclusion Rhys had come to after the afternoon they’d spent together.
And, frustratingly, he was finding it hard to hate him.
Harder still to be cruel, or just mean.
They made their way around the city and finally stopped at a bar—The Wandering Stairs—and Rhys recognized the place. It was where he had been earlier, just after leaving the inn. The Exarch pointed to a nearby table, gesturing for him to sit, then went off to speak with the young Miqo'te who was busy working. A few seconds later, he returned carrying a pitcher of water and a glass, setting them in front of Rhys.
“If you’re hungry, please—take your time and order whatever you wish. Think nothing of the cost.” He raised a finger gently, anticipating his friend’s protest.
“I’m well aware I’ve asked much of you already, and I shall be forever in your debt for heeding my summons. You are my guest here, and I intend to treat you as such. So take this moment—enjoy the quiet while it lasts. Sadly… not every day will be so peaceful.”
Rhys was dumbfounded. He rose, facing him. “Thank you for staying with me,” he said. “My room at the inn?” he asked, turning his head toward the corridor in the distance.
“First floor. Check with the front desk for the exact number—Lyna collected your key earlier,” he said, turning back around. “If you need anything, I’ll be in the Tower. You have free access; the guards at its base have been informed.”
Rhys nodded, thanking him once more, watching him walk away.
Away, far enough to be swallowed by the light outside.
And he realized that, all morning—or afternoon, he wasn’t sure, couldn’t tell the time—he hadn’t paid attention to the Whisper. But now that he was alone again, it seemed to scream in the silence.
Goosebumps rose quickly.
-
He guessed it was sometime past midnight. He’d been back at the Pendants for hours now. The Exarch had introduced him earlier to Feo Ul—a Pixie, bright and strange—who had been assigned to assist him during his stay in the First.
They’d kept him company for much of the evening, spinning tales Rhys barely understood. Whispers from a realm he’d only just stepped into, fragments of a history that felt too vast to grasp.
He’d listened with quiet amusement, more at their boldness than the stories themselves.
But now, wrapped tightly in a thick blanket and lying wide awake, sleep continued to elude him. Not with all the noise outside—not the kind that startled, but the kind everyone here simply accepted. The sound of a world that never slept, because it had never known silence.
Rising slowly, stiff and chilled, he stretched, dressed, and slipped from the room. He tucked the key into a fold of his robe and made his way toward the Tower. Maybe there, in that strange place of echoes and stillness, he’d find the quiet his mind craved.
The Quadrivium shimmered faintly in the light, its crystal arches glowing like starlight caught in glass. Rhys paused, letting his gaze trace the delicate lines of the blue crystal domes—flawless, majestic, shaped by hands that clearly knew beauty as a language.
The halls were empty.
Stepping outside again, his tail bristled and curled closer to his leg as the light washed over him—too soft to blind, but enough to make him feel exposed. He shivered.
The long stairway to the Tower’s massive doors waited. He climbed it backward, slowly, watching the great square behind him. The Exedra, with its impossibly purple trees, basked in everlasting light. Across from the Tower stood the Rotunda, crowned with its own shimmering domes, twin jewels set into the city’s heart.
At the top of the stairs, he gave a nod to the guard, who responded with a silent dip of the head and moved to open the heavy doors. They parted without a word, and Rhys stepped inside, greeted by the familiar scent of fresh-hewn stone and the crisp bite of crystal-cooled air. The doors closed behind him with a deep, resonant thud, the sound rippling through the vast, empty hall.
Silence wrapped around him like a shroud, broken only by the gentle murmur of the fountains nestled along the edges of the chamber.
He walked to the center of the room, his eyes drawn—unwillingly, yet inexorably—to the place he’d avoided all day.
He had healed. He had told himself he’d moved on, turned the page. But here, standing on that spot, the memory of their parting struck him with a force that hollowed his chest. He sank to his knees, head bowed, caught in the sharp, unyielding grip of recollection. He had promised himself not to dwell. To carry forward only what had been good—what had been theirs.
But still, he could not rise.
Instead, he sat, pulling his knees in and adjusting his robe to trap warmth. The hall offered little of it.
The Exarch had claimed there was no sign of G’raha.
Perhaps that was the truth. Or perhaps he lied—with all the calm, calculated skill of someone who had mastered the art. Rhys’s thoughts spun in circles, trapped in the question that refused to let go: if it was him, why the secrecy? Why deny it?
The voice matched—but not perfectly. Familiar, yet altered. Older, wiser, tinged with something heavy and ancient. The way he spoke, the curve of his smile… echoes. Ghosts. Hints of someone Rhys had known—someone he had lost.
It didn’t make sense. The Exarch was said to be over a century old, a master of arcane power and forbidden knowledge. His G’raha had been twenty-five. A scholar, yes—but no sorcerer. No wielder of time-warping magicks.
Maybe he was a descendant. A distant relative. Maybe nothing at all.
The not-knowing gnawed at him.
Then—“Rhysard?”
The sound of his name, spoken softly, gently, pierced the storm of thought.
Rhys looked up from where his arms had folded across his knees. The Exarch stood nearby, silent as a shadow. He hadn’t heard him enter.
Slowly, he stood, brushing down his robe and rubbing his forearms, chasing away the cold that clung too closely now.
“I can’t sleep,” Rhys said softly, softer than intended, his voice barely more than a murmur. “The noise outside… it’s unbearable.” He spoke before the question could come, offering the truth without being asked. He still couldn’t quite face the Exarch, not after the storm of doubts that had churned through him.
The Exarch was silent for a breath. Then, gently, “Go to the Ocular, I’ll join you shortly. Just give me a moment.”
Rhys gave a small nod and stepped past him, reaching out toward the familiar pulse of the Allagan cube.
-
He waited in the Ocular, passing time by pacing in slow, measured steps before finally settling into the chair facing the desk—just beside the small staircase that led up to the mirror. The silence pressed in around him, filled only by the quiet hum of crystal and the distant, steady pulse of the Tower.
The soft creak of doors opening made him look up. He rose instinctively as the Exarch stepped inside, arms full. Without a word, he crossed the room and held out a thick, freshly laundered blanket, still carrying the faint scent of lavender and warm linen.
“Take this. You’ll need it,” the Exarch said, voice calm and composed. Then, turning slightly—as though to compose himself—he added, “Come with me. I’ll show you the way.”
Rhys blinked, caught off guard, but nodded and followed without a word. Together, they stepped into the teleporter and descended deeper into the Tower, leaving behind the familiar upper halls for something colder, older.
“The chill down here is sharp at first,” the Exarch said as they approached a deep crimson door. “But it warms quickly. Wrap yourself well, Rhysard.”
The walls around them had changed—half rough stone, half softly glowing crystal. This floor felt older, more elemental, untouched by the elegance above.
Rhys tightened the blanket around his shoulders, its weight a comfort against the encroaching cold.
At the Exarch’s quiet command, the door opened.
They stepped inside.
Shelves lined with books stretched endlessly into the dim light, each spine neatly aligned, each volume untouched by dust. Rhys inhaled deeply—no musty air here, only the clean scent of stone and crystal. It was strange, and yet oddly comforting. A scent unique to this place.
He pulled the blanket tighter around himself, ears folding back against the persistent chill, and followed closely at the Exarch’s heels.
Then the main room opened before him—and he stopped short, caught off guard by the unexpected grandeur.
A massive stone hearth sat nestled in the northern corner, dormant but imposing. A thick red-and-gold rug spread across the white marble floor, softening its gleam. Plush armchairs and two wide sofas circled a low white table, arranged with care and purpose. The room itself was triangular, the walls subtly curving inward, lending the space a quiet intimacy.
“This place…” Rhys began, voice low, tightening in his throat. “I had no idea the Tower held a library.”
“This wing is sealed by very ancient magicks,” the Exarch replied, moving toward the hearth. “Only I may enter.”
He raised a hand and murmured something under his breath—a spell, gentle and fluid. In response, flames bloomed in the fireplace. They hovered just above the logs, casting no smoke, only warmth.
Rhys sank to the rug in front of it, drawn to the fire’s heat as if it were sunlight after a long winter. It reminded him of Coerthas, of snow and bone-deep chill—and the blessed relief of warmth.
“The hearth was designed to protect the books,” the Exarch said. “No risk of open flame. No chance of damage.”
Rhys glanced up at him. “Ancient magic, then.”
It made sense. Only one with Allagan blood could command this Tower so freely. The thought stirred something unwelcome. He tried—without much success—to picture the Exarch with glowing red eyes. All he could see was his face. G’raha’s face. Better not to think on it.
The Exarch settled into one of the armchairs. Rhys, still bundled in the blanket, chose the one opposite him. The warmth had begun to fill the room in earnest now, chasing the cold into the corners.
“I had intended to show you this place another time,” the Exarch said, his voice carrying a note of malice. “But it seems this may be the only place where you’ll find rest tonight. Forgive me—I wish I had a finer offering to give.”
Rhys blinked, surprised. Why apologize? He should be the one embarrassed—for wandering the Tower like a ghost in the night.
“This is more than generous,” he said quietly. “Thank you, my lord.”
“If you wish,” the Exarch replied gently, “I can arrange proper chambers for you here in the Tower, starting tomorrow". He tillted his head slightly. "Would that ease your stay, perhaps?”
—what the fuck.
A Saint.
This guy's a saint. Truly.
“That’d be great,” Rhys said, blinking owlishly, ears twitching despite himself. “And I’ll help however I can.”
The Exarch smiled faintly and gave a small nod.
“Very well. It shall be as you wish.” He reached into the small bag he’d brought along with the blanket. “Here. Help yourself.”
Rhys opened the bag with curiosity. Inside was a steaming cup releasing a soft, sweet aroma, and two neatly wrapped sandwiches nestled together. He looked up, holding the cup in one hand and the sandwiches in the other, eyes still wide with surprise.
“It’s not much, but it’s what I could find at this hour,” the Exarch said quietly, rising as if to leave.
“Wait,” Rhys said, noticing the awkward hesitation in the man’s movements. He’d prepared food for him—even after the coldness earlier. “I don’t know how to express how grateful I am. Truly. I appreciate everything you’ve done.”
He had been here for almost a full day now. So many emotions had churned inside him. He wanted to resent the man. To put distance between them—some kind of wall.
But he simply couldn’t.
There was something about him. Something in his grace. In his quiet authority. And yet, despite all that power, he was still… reachable. Kind. Gentle. Open.
Instincts kicking in, again, he wanted closeness with his kin.
The Exarch's calm, suddenly guilty voice grounded him. “I brought you into this place. It’s my duty to care for you,”. He gestured toward the fire, lowering the flames, then withdrew a soft black cloth from his robes. Placing it gently on the table, he added, “This is enchanted. It will soothe your eyes.”
Rhys accepted it, feeling unexpectedly cornered by such kindness.
“Thanks,” he said quietly, returning a polite smile.
“Rest well tonight, Rhysard,” the Exarch said as he turned away. “Do not leave this room for long—lest the door close of its own accord and bar your return.”
Rhys glanced at the shelves. He loved books, but it was far too late now.
“I won’t leave until morning,” he promised, exhaustion settling in. He gave him a sharp look, then feeling bratty, bowed in defiance, smile crooked. “Thanks again, Your Highness. I bid thee a good night as well.”
✹
The Exarch had considered the possibility that Rhys might wish to settle within the Tower, but he had never truly believed it would come to pass.
He’d found a quiet corner for him—one floor above the Ocular, just above his own chambers. It was the wing once reserved for the closest of the royal family: a large bedroom and an even larger bath, connected by a small, circular room. It was this cozy space that the Exarch chose to furnish for his friend. He knew Rhys would prefer something intimate over grandeur. Small rooms suited miqo’te best—they could claim the space as their own and feel at ease far more quickly. The large room next door would be Rhys’s to arrange as he wished.
A soft smile curved the Exarch’s lips in the stillness of the quiet room. Rhys was here, in the First, with him, at the Crystarium. After all these years, it was almost unimaginable that this nightmare might finally be reaching its end. He would help save the Source.
Then, unexpectedly, the Exarch’s thoughts turned to Rhys’s allergy—and a light laugh escaped him.
Even after all this time, he still sneezed right in his face. Truly, Rhys had never stopped catching him off guard. “You haven’t changed, Rhys. You’ve grown, yes—but you’re still a brat.
I might have called you my brat once… but I lost that privilege long ago.”
He sighed softly, then called for Lyna. There was a move to be made.
☾
Rhys teleported in front of the Ocular’s gates the next day, only to find them firmly closed. He had no clue what time it was — he’d come straight after waking.
From above came muffled noises, faint echoes. He climbed the spiraling stairs until he reached a landing like the one below.
Azure and gold doors stood wide open, voices light and easy drifting through. He spotted Lyna’s ears in the distance. She turned her head as he approached, and Rhys’s eyes widened when he saw the room meant for him. The bed he’d woken in the day before, along with nearly all the furniture, had been moved here.
He hadn’t waited around for her to get the place ready. Not that it surprised him — he’d bet the Exarch would sooner throw himself off the Tower than bother waking him up to help arrange a room. Rhys shook his head, both annoyed and amused, and greeted them as he stepped inside.
The walls were a deep blue, almost swallowing the light. They were coated with a membrane that rendered them nearly black to the touch. Curious, Rhys ran his palm over the surface as he approached the Exarch, who stood mid-spell—face and arms raised toward the ceiling, staff pointed skyward.
Then came the soft step of retreat behind him—Lyna, more heard than seen. Rhys looked up.
“Constellations?” he muttered without thinking. The dark ceiling shimmered faintly with stars, subtle and soft, neither disturbing the quiet nor the shadows. He recognized each one—, the Arrow, the Scales…
“What is that?” Lyna whispered, confusion coloring her tone. She’d never seen anything like it. “It’s… familiar, but totally alien.” Her gaze flicked between the Exarch, her mouth slightly open, and then back to Rhys. For the Exarch to grant him a place in the Tower—and now this—who was this mystel that had the Exarch going to such lengths?
The Exarch brushed a hand over his brow beneath his hood, then looked at the two. “I shall explain, Lyna. We have books on the subject within the Cabinet of Curiosities. Moren will be most pleased to share his knowledge.
And you, Rhys—ard.”He cast a brief glance at Rhys, raising his hand toward the ceiling.
“Does this meet with your approval?”
“Don’t think I deserve all this,” Rhys said, still staring at the glowing ceiling. “It’s damn beautiful though. Thanks.” It wasn’t a replacement for the moon nor the stars, but he appreciated the effort.
The Exarch offered a faint smile, rare but genuine.“This room is meant to remain in shadows. But should you require light, take this.” From his robe folds he pulled a blue-and-white crystal that shimmered softly in the dark. “Infuse it with ether, and it will glow as brightly as you wish.” He handed the crystal to Rhys, then moved toward the doors.
“Warrior,” Lyna called with her harsh yet friendly tone, “Come join me on the other side of the wing soon — I’ll show you the kitchen.” Her purple eyes dropped to him. “You must be starving.”
Rhys looked up, grinning dispite himself and flashing his sharp teeth. “Yeah, I’m starving. Give me a sec.”
She left, her boots clicking on the crystal floor.
The Exarch touched the door, and the membrane spread, covering wood and glass.
“Make yourself at home,” he said. “Explore the Tower as much as you want. Use the teleporters freely. But stay out of the basement — we’re still having some… issues there.” He turned, hanging his staff on his back.
Rhys was baffled. The lengths this man went to make him feel welcome were completely unexpected. Seeing the Exarch reach for the teleport cube, ready to vanish, Rhys called out, raising his voice just a little.
"Oi, my lord, wait!”
The figure stopped, hood shadowing his face as he turned his head slightly, waiting.
“Sorry for sneezing on you yesterday!” Rhys blurted, unsure if he’d heard right, but he thought the Exarch laughed — a deep, amused sound, not the polite chuckle he was used to.
The Keeper ran a hand over his face, then rested it on his hip, eyes sweeping the room. He closed the door, plunging the chamber into darkness except for the faint constellation lights overhead. Rhys’s vision was still blurry, but he longed for it to clear, to take in the starry display properly.
-
He found Lyna, who showed him the small, simple kitchen.
“It’s always stocked with just the bare essentials,” she said, opening cupboards and pointing out the fruits and vegetables. “Our Exarch likes to cook from time to time, even though I tell him he doesn’t need to go to all that trouble. He’s got other, more important things to deal with.”
Rhys couldn’t help but chuckle. That man was stubborn as hell.
“He often goes out gathering very early in the morning, and after talking with others, he usually comes back nearly empty-handed", she raised her arms in exasperation. "Because in the end, he gives everything away instead of thinking about himself first,” she went on, her tone firmer, but the amusement in her voice didn’t escape Rhys. “Try to reason with him a bit, now that you share his Tower.”
His Tower.
It felt strange to think that he, too, was going to live here. That he was, right now, inside this historic monument once inhabited by the Allagan royal family.
By Emperor Xande himself.
“I’ll do my best, but he sounds pretty stubborn. No promises,” Rhys said, then realized he might have been a bit too blunt — maybe even rude again.
To his surprise, Lyna just nodded. Sometimes words were useless. She’d certainly seen some things during all the time she’d spent around him.
“Thanks for everything, Lyna. I’ll fix myself something to eat then,” he said, turning on the water to wash his hands. “You want to join me?” he asked, noticing her stiffen slightly.
“I’ll pass this time, Warrior. I’m heading back on guard duty soon, over at Lakeland,” she said, giving him a respectful nod.
“Until next time, then,” he replied, walking her to the teleporter.
She paused, then added softly, “Cinnamon, honey, and apple—that’s the hot drink he likes best.” Her eyes met his. “Don’t be too hard on him. He can be clumsy sometimes, but we take care of each other here.”
Before he could answer, she vanished in a swirl of ether.
☾
Rhys spent a long while exploring the Tower—or rather, pacing up and down its endless stairs. He made careful note of where the teleporters led, etching a mental map of the sprawling edifice. He was right: the throne terrace of the former Emperor Xande stood three floors above the Ocular, and two floors above his own quarters.
Rubbing his forearms, he wandered through the crystal-blue corridors. The Tower’s interior was cool—not as cold as the library, but a steady chill that sent shivers down his spine if he stayed still too long. After all, they were perched high above the city.
Passing the Ocular, he spotted the Exarch buried in paperwork. Not wanting to disturb him, Rhys retraced his steps and continued downward.
The Tower was nearly empty. Some doors were sealed; others barred. The few rooms he found were richly furnished and adorned. He teleported back to the main hall and opened the doors to leave. A guard nodded in greeting, which Rhys returned.
He descended the stairs and crossed the Exedra, bathed in harsh light and muffled sounds, before seeking refuge beneath the azure domes and heading toward the Musica Universalis—the city’s bustling marketplace.
Near an armor merchant, Rhys paused, eyes sharp as he examined chainmail pieces. After four years accustomed to long black robes, he craved a change. He didn’t feel safe outside, with the Sin eaters prowling. Battle was unpredictable—he needed proper armor.
He looked up at the merchant, asking about the materials and the gems embedded in the set he’d chosen. The man seemed surprised but answered, using terms Rhys barely understood.
Damn.
It looked high quality, and he could always ask the Exarch for more info later. Rhys asked about the price, but the merchant raised a hand, stopping him.
“You’re a friend and a guest of our Exarch. He asked me to give you whatever you want, all on his tab.”
Rhys froze. He was used to earning every bit of his gear, working hard for it. Having it handed to him like this made his skin crawl. He tried to protest, but the merchant was firm.
“I’ll take it. I’ll come back if I need adjustments,” Rhys said quietly, silently promising himself he’d repay every Gil someday.
The merchant packed the armor into a box and handed it over. Rhys’s eyes caught a thick storm-blue cloak nearby. He reached out, fingers brushing the soft, sturdy fabric. It wasn’t made for a Miqo’te—more like a Roegadyn or Elezen—but perfect for bundling up during cold naps in the Tower.
“I’ll take this too,” he said, pulling out his pouch and cutting the merchant off before he could protest. “On me. A gift for the Exarch.” It was a lie, but it worked. He paid the steep price—and gods, it was worth it.
With his haul in hand, Rhys made his way back toward the Wandering Stairs. At the bar, he set down the box. The Miqo’te—Mystel behind the glass smiled warmly as he took his order.
Rhys asked for pastries, wrapped carefully, and two hot drinks. “Compliments of the house,” the bartender said. If this kindness kept up, he’d lose his mind.
He balanced his loot, praying nothing would spill, then started back up the Tower stairs. Halfway up, a guard caught up to him and offered to carry his bags.
“Just the top two—food, don’t want it spilling,” Rhys smiled gratefully. The guard took the sacks and climbed alongside him, then opened the Tower doors, wishing him a good evening.
“Thanks. You too. Soon’s the next shift, I hope?” Rhys called after him. A laugh answered, and the guard nodded
Evening.
It was late. How did he know? No idea. His internal clock was completely off—time slipped away beneath the unchanging sky.
-
Rhys made his way to the Ocular, and the doors were still open. He set the box down on the floor, the noise making the Exarch—still bent over some documents—look up.
"Good evening," he greeted him. "Been shopping?" he asked, seeing him straighten up.
Rhys tossed the cloak over one shoulder, carrying the bags closer. The Exarch’s expression shifted—surprise, almost outrage—as Rhys plopped down on the cold floor near the desk, completely at ease.
“What are you doing?” he asked, watching Rhys unwrap the heavy cloak and settle against the wall.
“Sitting down. Grabbing a bite,” Rhys replied, laughing at the Exarch’s still-outraged look. “Got pastries and a hot drink. Sweet stuff. Come on, you deserve a break after the long day.”
“Are you cold?” the Exarch asked, eyeing Rhys swathed in the thick cloak.
“Nothing I can’t handle. Seen worse.”
“Don’t sit on the floor like that. Come, take this.”
He pulled out a chair with a courteous gesture. Rhys rose and accepted it.
The Exarch then moved to a door on the left, opening it to reveal a simple bedroom—his own, it seemed. He fetched a small stool, closed the door behind him, and returned to sit at the desk beside Rhys.
“Excuse the mess.”
He straightened scattered papers and notebooks into a tidy stack at the corner of the table.
Rhys unpacked the food and hot drinks, steam curling upward. “Though I brought this,” he said with a grin, nodding at the pastries, “seems you picked up the tab.” He shot a mock accusatory glance at the Exarch. “I can cover my own expenses, but I appreciate the gesture, my lord.” He nodded toward the box near the door. “Got some gear too. You’ll let me know what I owe.”
The Exarch glanced toward the box, mouth opening slightly as he caught sight of what was inside.
✹
The Exarch didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. What peeked out of the box was gear of the finest quality, forged nearly a century ago by the master artisans of their time. It was armor he had once worn—armor crafted specifically for him. Armor he’d carried into battle, hidden beneath his robes. The stones and crystals embedded within it helped draw ether from the surroundings with an unnerving ease and speed. The lining was made of the finest fabric, embroidered with countless runes. The mail was tough, yet remarkably light.
Rhys had no idea what he’d just claimed. But the Exarch’s sharp eyes hadn’t been deceived: thanks to him, Rhys now possessed the most precious set in the entire city—if not all of Norvrandt herself. That armor was meant only for display, never for sale. Yet the Exarch had made it clear: everything his guest desired was his to take. The look the armorer had given him was more than surprised.
And that pleased the Exarch deeply. He had tried his best to support Rhys at every turn, but time and again his help was declined. He ought to stop being so overcautious—yet he simply couldn’t. Everything he’d built during this century was to bring Rhys back into this world. He had vowed to do whatever it took to make him feel at home. But if his generosity caused discomfort, he would restrain himself more.
He ran a hand over his face, feigning thoughtfulness. Perhaps Rhys could keep the armor—he would never truly know.
“It’s fine quality gear, but the price is fair,” he said, lowering his hand to take a sip of his drink. “Try it on later. If it suits you and you want to keep it, we can discuss terms.”
Rhys didn’t know it yet, but the battle was already lost from the start.
☾
The next morning.
Rhys woke in the dim gloom and set about opening the great doors, letting in a gentle wash of light. He was surprised to find, neatly piled in a large basket, an impressive stack of warm blankets and soft throws.
For someone so old, the Exarch was spoiling him far too much.
He must see me as a son—or maybe even a grandson.
Mysterious as he was, Rhys wouldn’t have been surprised at all.
Notes:
Kill him with kindness and love !
Chapter 3: Hollow
Notes:
I had a few days off, and I'm gladly spending it writting ! So *dramatic flourish* here's the new chapter.
Tell me if you like it !
-TW for mild horror and graphic description of shifting.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
_________________________________________________________
It had been four days since Rhys arrived on the First.
And truth be told, he was beginning—bit by bit—to settle into life here, nestled within the quiet rhythm of the city. He often caught himself thinking that, if the world weren’t teetering on the edge of disaster, this might’ve been the kind of place he’d have loved to call home.
He still cherished the deep forests and shaded glades of Gridania, where he was born—but there was something about the Crystarium. Something intangible, a subtle warmth that tugged at his sense of belonging. A kind of ease that he couldn’t quite name, but felt all the same.
He stepped out of the wide, mist-filled bathroom, tousling damp hair with his fingers before pulling on his clothes. His gaze drifted toward the bed—and then to the corner of the room, where a towering pile of blankets and throws had appeared the day before, just after he’d returned from the Ocular.
The Exarch had noticed he was cold. And in the blink of an eye, he'd acted—swift and sure, as if ensuring Rhys’s comfort were the most natural thing in the world.
Rhys let out a slow sigh as he rubbed a fresh towel over his hair. He wasn’t used to this—being looked after with such quiet attentiveness. Having someone so genuinely kind, so endlessly patient with his moods and silences. The Exarch had no doubt witnessed unspeakable things in his long life. And yet, instead of hardening him, it had made him gentler, steadier. Stronger.
Rhys couldn’t help but admire him for that—more than words could say.
He stepped out of the room, retrieving a book nestled in the folds of the many blankets draped across his bed, before teleporting straight to the Hall. The day before, he'd spent hours in the Cabinet of Curiosity and had borrowed a tome chronicling the Flood of Light.
The Warriors of Light of the First—those who had banished the Darkness.
The blinding deluge that followed.
Minfilia.
He had lingered most of the afternoon in the Ocular, curled up in an armchair his host had brought in for him. Wrapped snugly in his cloak, he’d read in comfort, losing himself in fragmented pieces of history while the Exarch worked nearby. Now and then, he’d ask a quiet question, seeking clarity, drawing out more of the story from the one who had lived it.
When the ground returned beneath his feet, he paused, letting the shift in space settle around him before crossing the Hall. He pressed a hand to the massive doors, brow furrowed in thought. The anniversary was drawing near—five full years since the Tower on the Source had been sealed. And this time, he wouldn’t be able to make the journey to Mor Dhona. Wouldn’t be able to sit at the threshold and recount his stories, as he had each year since.
The ritual would have to wait.
With a slow exhale, he shook the thoughts from his head and pushed open the doors. The familiar hush of the Crystarium greeted him as he stepped into the Light once more.
He made his way back to Moren.
☾
"You do have any knowledge of black magic!"
That was the greeting Rhys offered the Exarch when he met him at the threshold of the Ocular, later that day. He couldn’t help himself this time—his curiosity had gotten the better of him.
He’d just returned from the Cabinet of Curiosity, where he’d planned to pick up a few texts on black magic as it was practiced on this Shard. He hadn’t expected the librarian to tell him that the most insightful volumes were kept in the Tower itself—some even annotated in the Exarch’s own hand, gathered over his long existence.
He watched as the Exarch parted his lips slightly, then nodded.
Lowering his head, the man reached for his bronze staff and tilted it toward the cool blue light.
"It was forged to channel both white and black magic—separately," he said, holding the staff out to him. Rhys took it with care, feeling oddly honored.
He ran his palm along the smooth surface, over the crystals and gentle curves. He could feel the power embedded within it—the twin forces of ruin and restoration, dormant but ready.
He dared a glance up at the Exarch, then offered his own scepter in return. The surprise that crossed the older man’s face as he accepted it—holding it with both hands—was unexpectedly genuine.
"The craftsmanship is... remarkable," the Exarch murmured, brushing his fingers lightly across the weapon.
"Paikea Eureka. Forged by a truly gifted artisan," Rhys replied. "It was a hell of a journey getting it, but..."
He winced a little and added quickly, "Sorry to rumble, I'm sure that's not what you're here for. Here." He extended the bronze staff back to its rightful owner, unaware of how much the Exarch had wanted him to continue—but the man said nothing either.
Rhys slid his scepter back into its place across his back and folded his arms, tilting his head slightly.
"The books on black magic—are they in the sealed library within the Tower?"
The Exarch gave a small nod.
"I do have a collection tucked away in an adjacent room—and some within the main library itself. I’ll take you there, if you'd like. But first..." He paused, voice softening.
"Tell me—how are you feeling?"
Rhys raised an eyebrow. This guy was always so concerned about his well-being.
"My vision’s fine. My body too. The shock of the first couple of days has faded."
He looked up at him, steady.
"So… is it time to get going?"
The Exarch nodded. "Tomorrow, if you feel ready." He gestured toward the seat across from him. "Come, sit with me."
They settled on either side of the desk.
“As I told you when first we met,” the Exarch began, his voice steady, “your friends are here. But those most readily within reach are the twins.”
A faint smile touched his lips. “Both are out in the field—Alisaie, in particular. You may go to them, if you wish. Hear the truth in their own words.”
His expression grew more solemn.
“It will be… an experience. To witness with your own eyes the rot that festers beneath Norvrandt’s light.”
Rhys felt a wave of relief crash over him.
It was real. He was going to see them again. Knowing they were alive was one thing. But seeing them… That was something else entirely. After everything that had happened—every terrifying moment when one of the Scions had collapsed, unresponsive, unreachable—he’d been so afraid.
And he’d been angry, too. Furious at the one who had caused it. It had felt so personal.
But now… with time, and distance, he couldn’t bring himself to hate him.
Not anymore.
Not when he saw how deeply he carried his guilt. Not when he had spent the last century trying to save both worlds.
"I think… we should go see Alisaie first," Rhys said, just as the Exarch raised a hand gently.
"You’ll have to go alone, I’m afraid, Rhysard. I can’t go with you—much as I would like to."
Oh.
Disappointment bloomed in his chest. But then he remembered—the Exarch couldn’t be away for too long. He was, after all, the one holding this city together.
The Exarch unrolled a map of Norvrandt, pointing out a marked location.
“Amh... Araeng?” Rhys repeated, the unfamiliar name clumsy on his tongue.
A faint, amused smile curved the Exarch’s lips.
“It is a desert region. Though the Light smothers the sky, the sun endures—veiled, but present. Its heat lingers by day… and the chill, by night.”
Rhys gave a reluctant nod. Desert regions weren’t exactly his favorite—but he didn’t have much choice.
“There’s something I need to take care of before I leave,” he said, rising to his feet as the Exarch carefully folded the map again. “And I may need your help with it, my lord.”
The Exarch looked up at him. “If you need me, I’ll be right here. All you have to do is come find me,” he replied, standing as well, and walking him to the teleporter.
☾
Rhys made his way back to his room, leaving the door ajar as he slipped out of his robe.
One by one, he removed his equipment, folding each piece with care and placing them on the small table before turning to the box.
He hadn’t yet tried on the armor—not since he’d bought it. But now, with the Exarch having confirmed the materials used in its making, the moment felt right.
He began with the lightweight trousers, appreciating the smooth feel of the fabric against his skin. The cuisse-length greaves and sabatons were crafted from mithril—surprisingly comfortable—with soft leather behind the knees, which bent easily as he tested his stride. A few steps told him all he needed to know: the fit was nearly perfect.
He reached for the chestpiece and paused. The interior was fully lined. Linen, laced with runes. His eyes widened at the sight of the detailing—an unmistakable piece of war gear, made for mages. Designed for a Mystel, slightly taller than him.
The main body of the armor was a composite of mithril and reinforced leather. The metal cinched tightly around his waist like a corset, rising slightly to cover the lower sternum. The base of the corset curved up just so before tapering down along the upper thighs, accentuating the slim line of his waist. A fabric collar rose high along his throat, and a second, more elaborate mithril collar extended up from the clavicles, arching around his neck in a graceful curve that doubled as protection.
Black and deep blue leather straps were fixed across his back and chest, studded with sapphire-colored crystals and connected to elegant mithril pauldrons. Only the gloves and bracers were free of metal—made entirely from supple leather that moved with him.
It wasn’t a perfect fit—yet—but it allowed for freedom of movement, and that alone was a pleasant surprise. He’d have to return to the armorer to have a few sections tailored down—he’d expected as much.
He reached behind his back, trying—and failing—to fasten the corset fully on his own.
Of course.
Still, he moved through the room, testing the weight of his steps in full gear before reaching for his scepter. He wasn’t used to this—he had never worn a full set of armor before.
The feeling defied description.
There was something unsettling about being clad in real armor—true armor—not the flowing robes and woven sigils he was so used to. This wasn’t a garment meant to channel aether or to move unseen through ancient woods. This was meant to endure. To take hits and keep standing.
The weight was foreign. The pressure across his torso, the resistance at his joints, the faint clink of metal with every breath—it should have made him feel restricted.
But it didn’t. He liked it.
There was a solidity to it, a quiet strength in how the mithril hugged his frame and the reinforced leather moved with him. It grounded him in a way that magic alone never had. Wrapped in that armor, he felt less like a scholar of the arcane and more like a force meant to shape the battlefield itself.
It wasn’t what he was used to—but it felt right.
He felt powerful.
Like he could take on anything the world dared throw at him.
✹
The Exarch had long since trained himself in the art of self-control.
It had taken centuries of disciplined effort—restraining impulses, mastering instinct, maintaining the composed mask he now wore like a second skin. Once, in a much younger life, he’d been spontaneous, impulsive even. But those days had been buried under the weight of time and necessity.
So when he turned toward the doors at the sharp sound of metal striking crystal, he expected to see Lyna storming into the room, perhaps with another urgent update.
But it wasn’t Lyna.
And for a moment—he nearly unraveled.
There stood the Warrior of Light, clad in the armor that had once been his.
The same armor he'd worn through countless battles.
The same armor he had bled in. Lost in.
And yet—won in, too.
Seeing Rhys wearing it sent a shiver down his spine. His breath caught, and before he could stop himself, his hand rose to cover his mouth, hiding the expression that threatened to break free. Something primal stirred in him—old instincts, long buried, stretching awake at the sight.
The way the corset clung to Rhys’s waist, sculpting his form in a way that was both elegant and painfully familiar—it was too much.
He forced his gaze upward, seeking refuge from distraction, but his eyes landed instead on the soft curve of Rhys’s left ear.
And that was worse. His heart lurched.
There, still visible after all this time, was the mark he had left.
The fur hadn’t grown back where he’d bitten him. It wasn’t obvious at a glance—his friend’s fur was long enough to hide it most days—but from this angle, the inner side of the ear, where greyish-blue-tinged skin met fine veins traced in rose tones, it was unmistakable.
His mark. He was going to lose his mind.
Since Rhys’s arrival, he’d done everything he could not to look at it. To not remember.
But here it was, bold as ever, with Rhys standing in his armor like some divine test of will.
He was so caught in the flood of thought that he didn’t even hear the question—until he realized Rhys was watching him with mild concern, head tilted, brows drawn slightly together.
“Forgive me,” he said quickly, as if waking from a dream. “My thoughts wandered. The armor… it suits you. Remarkably so.”
He cleared his throat, hoping it would cover the hoarseness creeping into his voice. “Ah… you asked me something, didn’t you? My apologies—would you mind repeating it?”
Rhys stepped closer, calmly turning to show his back. “I need your help,” he said. “I can’t fasten the straps back here on my own. And the corset—it’s a little loose.” He placed a hand over the mithril that hugged his waist. “It needs to be tightened. It’s throwing off the balance of the whole fit.”
He glanced back over his shoulder as he spoke, only his eyes and the bridge of his nose visible above the high mithril collar.
Oh, by the Twelve.
☾
Rhys stood still, straight-backed, waiting for the Exarch to respond.
But no answer came—at least, not in words.
Instead, he felt the man’s hands come to rest gently against the cold metal cinched around his waist. There was a soft thrum as crystal touched crystal, and the quiet hum of aether stirred faintly in the air.
The Exarch’s hands moved slowly, brushing over the front of the corset, fingertips tracing the engraved runes with something almost like reverence.
Rhys lowered his gaze, watching those hands glide across the metal.
He thought about stepping forward—about breaking the contact—but his body refused to move, feet seemingly rooted to the floor.
The air in the room had shifted. Thickened. As though something invisible had crept in and taken hold of the space between them. He parted his lips slightly, trying to draw in a deeper breath, one hand tightening around his scepter for grounding.
Then, the Exarch’s hands slipped around to the small of his back, working at the leather straps that held the corset in place. The bindings loosened just enough to allow him to re-tie them properly, and Rhys could feel the careful precision in every motion.
When he finally tightened them again, he slid two fingers between the lining and the metal, testing the fit, checking that it was snug—but not restrictive.
The motion pulled Rhys subtly backward, and without thinking, the Exarch steadied him, placing one hand gently between his shoulder blades.
“Breathe into your belly. Deeply. Please.”
The words were murmured, barely more than a whisper—and Rhys obeyed. He took a deep breath, feeling no strain against the armor.
But he did feel something else.
An ache. A pull. Something low and magnetic curling deep in his gut.
He exhaled with a trembling breath. “That’s perfect, thank you,” he whispered back, unsure why they were whispering now—but it felt right. Necessary. As though anything louder might shatter the fragile balance of the moment.
One hand slid back to his waist. The other moved lower, fingers curling around the decorated strap inlaid with crystals. He guided it down, threading it through the small loops crafted along the rear of the armor—until it reached the base, just above the curve of Rhys’s tail.
Rhys was mortified.
Not since that one time—five years ago, when they had marked each other—had he felt anything close to this kind of pull.
He had tried being with men in the years that followed, tested his own feelings, wondering if that moment had meant more than it should have. But no—he had come to realize, without much doubt, that it wasn’t his path. That he wasn’t drawn that way.
And yet now…
Now, images flickered through his mind, unbidden and unwelcome. Blurred, heated flashes from a morning he had locked away. The wild way his friend had pounced on him. The bite—so deep, so deliberate—still etched into his skin. The desperate way he had begged for one more kiss.
“Rhysard?”
His name, whispered gently, broke through the haze like a sudden gust of wind. He flinched and made a startled sound in response, a sharp exhale that signaled he was listening.
“Would you... mind letting me go?”
Rhys blinked, slowly lowering his gaze.
His hands were still wrapped tightly around his scepter, held upright in front of him, knuckles white. He frowned, confused—until he turned his head and realized what the Exarch meant.
His grip loosened. The scepter slipped from his hands and clattered against the floor.
And he felt something inside him cave in.
His tail—his tail—had coiled itself around the Exarch’s crystalline wrist, the rich auburn fur stark against the sapphire and gold.
He tried to move, to retract it, but the tension running through him made the motion sluggish. It was clenched too tightly, like the rest of him—caught between fight, flight, and something far more dangerous.
“I—I’m sorry,” he stammered, reaching around with one hand to loosen it manually. “I don’t know why that happened. I didn’t mean to. Forgive me—it was… inappropriate.”
His voice trembled on the last word as his fingers fumbled with his own fur, untangling the mess he hadn’t even noticed forming.
He didn’t dare lift his head.
He knew—knew—his pupils must be blown wide, and he had no idea where this sudden sense of urgency had come from.
Since his arrival, yes, he’d been curious about the Exarch.
Yes, he’d caught himself staring, noticing similarities to G'raha. But never—not once—had the thoughts been impure.
So why now?
With trembling hands, he adjusted the leather guards on his arms, feigning composure even as his thoughts spiraled. He cursed his host, quietly and thoroughly, for still having one hand resting against his waist. Somehow, the warmth of his palm seeped through the metal, through the linen, through his skin—burning like a brand against the small of his back.
Something about this was wrong.
Wrong... and horribly familiar.
The hairs at the nape of his neck rose on end. His instincts screamed at him—run, get out, he’s going to pin you to the wall. Or worse: stay. Let him sink his teeth in and claim you all over again.
The contradiction paralyzed him. He was split in two—frozen between instinct and craving, logic and heat, utterly lost. He couldn’t think. Couldn’t decipher what he needed anymore.
His ears pinned flat against his skull, and he exhaled sharply through parted lips, trying to find breath. But it only got worse when he felt the Exarch’s hands slide forward again, pressing gently, subtly—guiding him back in a silent, unmistakable invitation.
Then he heard it.
A single step.
The man had moved closer. He wanted to pull him in—to press him to his chest, to hold him, here and now.
Rhys felt a fresh wave of horror wash over him as his tail betrayed him again—curling upward, winding itself around the Exarch’s waist, pulling him closer.
No. No, no, no.
His gloved hands found the Exarch’s, still resting against his abdomen. His fingers trembled. He should push him away. He should break the moment before it became something neither of them could undo.
But he didn’t.
Not yet.
Instead, his fingers traced over the man’s wrists—slow, uncertain, lingering. And it was then, in that unbearable quiet, that he realized his body was reacting painfully—aching with frustration and need he hadn’t even allowed himself to name.
Then the words came. A whisper, so soft it almost shattered.
“Push me away,” the Exarch whispered, voice trembling, brittle with something barely held together. “Please… I beg you. Push me away.”
Seven—fucking—Hells.
The Exarch's words contradicted his actions—and in that instant of unbearable clarity, Rhys understood.
They were both terrified.
Horrified by what was unfolding between them. Caught in the pull of something primal, inescapable. Slaves to instinct, to a desire neither of them wanted to name.
And both of them fighting—desperately—to keep it at bay.
Rhys turned his head slightly, searching for the other’s presence—needing to see, to know—and felt it: the brush of the Exarch’s hood as he leaned in from behind, the soft fabric brushing against his fevered brow.
“Step back,” he whispered, the words edged with a low, fierce growl. But even as he spoke, his tail tightened shamefully around the other’s waist, pulling him closer still.
He felt like a hypocrite.
He was a hypocrite.
He couldn’t bring himself to push him away.
He tilted his head upward, finally—no longer shielded by the high collar of his armor. And there he felt it: warm breath ghosting over his eyes. The fine gold detailing of the Exarch’s hood cooled the heat of his skin for a heartbeat. And it burned all the more for it.
This… this was everything he’d feared since G’raha.
The danger of proximity. The trap of familiarity. The way a single touch could resurrect a hunger he had buried so deep he thought it had died. He’d spent years avoiding this—avoiding anyone—refusing to let closeness take hold again.
And now here he was. Cornered. Caught. Powerless to stop it.
His body remembered what his mind had sworn to forget. And desire, wild and unyielding, surged forward—unstoppable.
He’d told himself he was safe with the Exarch.
That this—whatever dangerous craving still coiled deep in his chest—wouldn’t be a risk here. He had trusted himself. Trusted him, at least enough to ask for help adjusting his armor. But it was clear now. They were both drowning in the same hopeless pull, both equally torn apart by it.
Rhys’s breath hitched the moment he caught the scent of his skin—that close. And then he tilted his face back, just slightly, brushing the tip of his nose along the curve of his chin. He wanted to inhale him. To taste him.
The need was blinding, ruinous.
He couldn’t stop.
He let his nose trail downward, beneath the line of his jaw, toward a patch of uncrystallized skin. And when his lips barely grazed it, when he felt the Exarch shudder and exhale—a tremulous, wrecked sound—it sent fire tearing through him, a hunger he couldn't reason away.
And then the Exarch lowered his head toward him.
That was the moment Rhys realized just how dangerous this was. How close they were to falling—utterly and completely.
It snapped through him like a jolt.
He moved—forced himself to.
One step forward. Toward the open doors.
He felt those hands let go, reluctantly, their parting a painful slide of fingers over palms, like burnt edges. The soft rustle of robes behind him told him the Exarch had stumbled back—one step, then another. Maybe three.
He could still hear his breath, ragged and uneven, mirroring his own.
“I’m going to the armorer,” Rhys said—barely above a whisper, but the words tasted like iron in his mouth. “I’ll be back later.”
He stepped out of the room.
Every footfall was an act of defiance—against gravity, against instinct. A miracle his knees didn’t give out under the weight of what had almost happened.
The loud clamor of metal on stone echoed behind him. But it was nothing compared to the noise in his head.
✹
The Exarch, for one reckless, genuine moment, considered throwing himself from the top of the Tower.
Truly.
To lose his composure like that—to come that close to giving in to his base instincts—it sickened him.
That wasn’t who he was. Not anymore. He had buried that man, sealed him away within the Tower long ago, left behind at the Source.
And yet… when he’d felt that tail wrap around his wrist—cling to him, seeking out his touch—something inside him had snapped.
Because even if Rhys still doubted the truth, still questioned his identity… his body had remembered.
It had recognized him.
And that realization had shattered what little restraint he had left. The howl of his instincts had roared, take him back, he was once yours, he will be again.
It had taken every ounce of willpower not to bare his teeth. Not to slam him against the wall and mark him all over again.
He hadn’t realized how much of himself he’d kept on a leash until that moment—until it nearly broke.
Now, he was drained. Hollowed out. Ashamed.
And utterly, hopelessly undone.
☾
Rhys took the teleporter, crossing the entrance hall without a glance to anyone, shoving the grand doors open with more force than necessary.
The crisp air hit him like a slap, and he bent forward, bracing his hands against his knees as he struggled to catch his breath.
In. Out. What the hell just happened?
He knew the answer. Gods, he knew. That wasn’t the question—why had it happened? Why now? Why with him?
The clang of metal to his left jolted him upright, heart hammering against his ribs. One of the Tower's guards stood there, watching him with furrowed brows. Rhys felt his face flush hot, shame surging to the surface like bile. Not just from being caught in a moment of weakness, but because he had been weak.
He hurried down the steps, the weight of his armor clattering against itself, echoing louder than his footsteps. With every stride, he could still feel the Exarch’s hands on him, phantom warmth against his skin, the echo of a breath against his neck, like a ghost he hadn’t invited back.
Frustration twisted in his gut—at himself, at the Exarch, at whatever cruel gods decided now was the time for all of this to come undone.
-
The armorer had been scandalized when Rhys mentioned altering the armor — shortening it, adjusting it so it would fit him just right — but in the end, he had agreed. Because Rhys was a friend of their Exarch.
Rhys ran both hands over his face, doing his best not to think of him. Not of the chaotic effect he’d had on his body… or of the effect he’d clearly had on his in return.
He slipped into a loose robe the man handed him, while he set to work on the metal and leather. They spent most of the afternoon together, fitting and re-fitting each piece, making sure everything sat exactly as it should.
Once they were fully satisfied, Rhys gathered the entire set. He would need to clean and polish every piece before tomorrow. It would keep his hands busy — and his mind, hopefully. And he knew exactly where he could go to do that.
-
He returned to the base of the Tower—and stopped short when he saw the Exarch descending the steps in the distance.
Instinctively, his body tensed, every muscle ready to turn him the other way. He didn’t want to see him. Truly, deeply, didn’t.
But pretending he hadn’t would only delay the inevitable, and Rhys was too tired to keep dancing around it. He exhaled through his nose and shook his head, resigned. No, he didn’t want to talk about it. Not yet. Not like this. But they had to, eventually. Better now than let it fester.
He stayed where he was, waiting at the bottom of the stairs, arms crossed over his chest, watching as the Exarch spotted him. The man hesitated—slowed his steps, then sped up, then slowed again. Rhys might’ve been annoyed if it weren’t so oddly endearing.
The mighty Exarch—commander of magicks older than time, steward of an entire city—looked, in that moment, entirely lost.
Rhys huffed a breath of laughter despite himself, almost stumbling on the box he had let down at his feet. The Exarch was trying, very subtly, to turn and head back toward the Tower. It was such a poor attempt at escape that it drew a laugh from Rhys, soft and genuine, which he stifled behind his hand. His feet were already moving before his mind caught up. He climbed the steps two at a time, the distance between them shrinking fast.
The Exarch’s head dropped lower with each step he took.
“Where are you going?” Rhys asked once they were level.
The answer came too quickly, like a shield raised mid-battle.
“To inform Szem I’ll need an amaro for you tomorrow.”
Rhys blinked, then tilted his head. “Then let me accompany you to the Rotunda.”
The Exarch gave a small nod, barely more than a breath of movement. Together, they descended the wide stone stairs and crossed the open plaza. The silence between them was heavy, though not yet suffocating. Each kept his gaze fixed forward, careful not to glance sideways.
When they reached the threshold of the Rotunda, Rhys veered off the main path without slowing.
“This way,” he murmured over his shoulder, leading them into a quieter corner of the garden, near the tall plants clustered close to the wall.
He turned back just in time to see the Exarch rubbing his forearms, head still bowed, as if hoping to disappear. The moment stretched—and then the Exarch spoke first, voice just above a whisper.
“Rhysard… I owe you an apology. My behavior was—unworthy of the trust you’ve placed in me."
Of course. They had both come prepared to say the same thing.
Rhys raised a hand to stop him. “I apologize too. We both crossed a line. I should’ve stopped it sooner. And—” he paused, shifting his weight, hands braced on his hips as he took a few distracted steps, “—you looked just as lost as I did.”
He said the last part quickly, almost under his breath.
“Let’s just… not talk about it anymore. It’s done. It’s over. Agreed?”
But the Exarch wasn’t quite finished. He opened his mouth, stubborn even now.
“It won’t happen again. If you’d rather return to the Pendants, your room is still—”
“No,” Rhys interrupted, firm and without hesitation. “I’m staying in the Tower.”
Better that than lie awake all night, haunted by that godsforsaken sky. At least inside, the silence made sense.
He finally looked up at the man beside him, and was struck, without warning, by a sudden shyness.
It came out of nowhere—unwelcome and disorienting—as his eyes brushed over the lower half of the Exarch’s face. His gaze lingered, far too long, on his lips. Then dropped to his throat.
And that was enough.
He turned away sharply, one hand running through his hair. “I’ll be busy most of the evening,” he said, voice rougher than intended. “See you tomorrow, I guess.”
He bowed dramatically, just to pester him, then he walked back toward the Tower, the box tucked beneath one arm, his steps steady, never once looking back.
-
He had finally started making use of the large, empty room connected to his chambers on the left. He’d tucked his gear into one corner, along with a modest assortment of supplies—oils, cloths, brushes, and polish for leather and metal alike.
One benefit of having a ridiculously spacious bathing room—and a tub far too big for a single occupant—was that it made cleaning armor surprisingly convenient.
He was seated now on the floor, legs crossed atop a thick blanket, carefully brushing down a piece of leather—his cuirass, now fully dry. He turned it slowly in his hands, flipping it over to check the inner padding, then back again to run his fingers along the edge, ensuring the embedded crystals were still securely in place.
It really was a masterpiece, he had to admit. A custom piece, clearly crafted for one purpose: to amplify dark magicks. It shimmered faintly even in the soft lamplight. He traced one of the sigils with his thumb, quiet admiration warming his chest.
Tomorrow loomed on the edge of his thoughts, heavy with anticipation.
But the moment he thought of Alisaie—of seeing her again after so long—he couldn’t help but smile.
He wondered how much she’d changed.
If she’d grown.
If she still threw herself into things without thinking, or if time had tempered her just a little.
He hoped not too much.
☾
He woke early the next morning, far earlier than he’d expected—especially after the chaotic night he’d had.
True to her word, Lyna had rapped a few sharp knocks against his door on her way to the mess hall, before beginning her dawn shift.
When he’d first learned that she’d been taken in and raised by the Exarch himself, he’d been genuinely surprised. But in hindsight, it explained so much—her fierce protectiveness, the way she spoke about him, sharp as a blade yet laced with quiet affection.
That he had managed to raise a child alone, all while burdened with the weight of an entire city’s safety, was no small feat.
Rhys took his time preparing breakfast, joined—unusually—by the viis who kept him company this morning. Her sleep schedule seemed to be as skewed as his own, and unlike her lord, she didn’t hesitated to assist with waking him. The Exarch, Rhys knew, would never dare disturb his rest. But Lyna had agreed.
He wanted to leave early—before the desert sun reached its punishing zenith. Even if the sky was perpetually clouded now, the heat remained a constant, oppressive force. Best to be airborne before it worsened.
He’d been tempted to ask her about the nature of her bond with the Exarch—but held his tongue. From what little he’d gleaned of her, it would likely make her uncomfortable. And so they ate in a silence that was oddly soothing.
Once she’d taken her leave, Rhys suited up, piece by piece. Everything buckled perfectly this time—the fit was exact, the armor secure.
As he moved, he found himself thinking again about his staff. He’d left it at the Ocular when he’d… fled. Fled the room, the presence, the heat of that moment.
He exhaled slowly, as if trying to dispel the memory.
Closing the door to his quarters behind him, he teleported to the lower floor.
The door was open. He knocked lightly on the frame as he stepped in, announcing himself. The Exarch stood with his back to him, facing the enchanted mirror. At the sound, he turned, and with a flick of his fingers, dismissed the image shimmering in the glass—Lakeland, from the look of it.
"Shall we be off, then?" he asked, descending the shallow stairs that led into the room.
“If my mount is ready, I can leave right away,” Rhys replied.
The Exarch stepped to his desk, retrieving the staff he’d left there after recovering it the day before. He picked it up carefully, holding it in both hands, and offered it to Rhys.
“Don’t forget this,” he said quietly, before turning toward the main doors, clearly expecting Rhys to follow.
-
They left the Tower behind, crossing the city in silence, their footsteps echoing lightly off the quiet stone streets. Their destination was the Temenos Rookery, where the Amalj’aa handler was busy tending to a young amaro, guiding its beak toward a trough of fruit and grain.
At the sound of their approach, the beastmaster looked up and dusted himself off, rising with a heavy grunt before moving toward another amaro—this one older, larger, and already saddled.
He gestured to the sturdy creature and handed the reins to Rhys, patting the creature’s broad flank with a practiced hand. Rhys accepted the reins with a firm grip, then leaned forward, smiling broadly as he pressed his forehead to the amaro’s. His other hand reached up to scratch at the soft, feathered underside of its jaw. The bird let out a delighted yip, nuzzling into the contact before clacking its beak happily.
“He’s being unfaithful to you, Exarch,” the Amalj’aa rumbled, his voice echoing deep through the roost.
Rhys’s eyes went wide.
What did this guy just sa—?
“It isn’t for lack of affection on my part,” came a voice just behind him—soft, close.
Rhys felt the faint brush of the Exarch’s sleeve as he stepped up beside him, reaching out to stroke the creature’s head with a practiced hand.
“But I suspect he knows. He can sense an adventure coming. I’ve not the luxury of taking him out as often as I once did.”
Ah. Rhys blinked in realization. Of course—this was his amaro. His personal mount. He turned his head toward him.
“What’s his name?”
“Strawbaby,” the Exarch replied, evenly.
“Straw...baby?” Rhys repeated aloud, the sound of it breaking through the quiet with the weight of absurdity. Saying the name in his head had already made his lips twitch, but giving it voice tipped him over entirely. A laugh burst out of him—sharp, undignified, utterly childish.
The Amalj’aa joined in at once, a hearty, rolling laugh that shook his massive shoulders. “Hearing the Exarch say that word aloud will never not be funny,” he added with glee.
Rhys lost it.
He doubled over, clutching his ribs as tears prickled at the corners of his eyes. The Exarch, still and silent beside them, wore a smile that could only be described as… mischievous. Fond and long-suffering in equal parts.
“All the credit goes to Lyna,” he said mildly, as if this were a completely reasonable turn in the conversation. “She named him… gods, thirty-five years ago now? She was very young.”
That made Rhys wheeze harder. The Exarch glanced between the two men gasping for breath and added, almost philosophically, “She struggled with pronunciation, you see. Wanted to name him Strawberry, but…” He lifted both hands in a gesture of helpless surrender.
Then he paused, casting a furtive glance over his shoulder—checking the area like a man avoiding divine retribution. Only when he confirmed Lyna wasn’t nearby did he release a soft exhale of relief.
That was it for Rhys.
He leaned into Straw's long neck, pressing his face into the downy feathers of the creature’s chest, snorting as he wiped tears from his cheeks.
“Oh, gods,” he muttered between lingering chuckles. He took a few steadying breaths, calming himself at last. “I needed that. Before flying off into who-knows-what… that was exactly what I needed.”
“Ready to take to the skies, my friend?” The Exarch’s voice held a warmth that was impossible to miss—threaded through with amusement, barely concealed beneath the polished calm. Rhys nodded, tightening his grip on the reins before giving a small leap, settling astride the amaro’s broad back.
The creature stirred beneath him, spreading its wings wide with an elegant stretch, then upwards—feathers catching the light, body quivering with anticipation.
The Amalj’aa had already turned, lumbering off to retrieve his own mount from the far end of the courtyard.
The Exarch, meanwhile, stepped closer to his beast, smoothing his hand along its muscular flank. He lifted his head to gaze at Rhys, eyes serious beneath the softness of the glamour.
“Should anything seem… wrong, you are to return directly to the Crystarium. No diversions. Promise me that.”
His voice—low, steady, and entirely sincere—settled in Rhys’s chest like a weight. That unshakable calm of his, paired with something else beneath it. Worry, perhaps. Or affection, however hard-won.
He nodded, barely whispering a: "I promise."
“Straw,” the Exarch murmured, pressing his forehead to the creature’s in a gentle farewell, “I’m trusting you with my friend. See him safely there and back again.”
He lingered a moment, voice barely above a whisper.
“When you return… we’ll go out together again. I promise.”
The amaro gave a soft trill, nudging him with playful insistence. The Exarch chuckled, scratched behind one ear, and pressed a kiss between its eyes. “Don’t drop him, all right?”
Rhys blinked, startled by the intimacy of the gesture. He hadn’t realized he’d leaned forward, drawn in by the quiet exchange—by the man so openly tender with the creature in his care.
Behind him, his guide’s voice called out, “To Amh Araeng!”
Their mounts leapt into motion as one, wings beating strong and sure. The wind rushed against his face as they rose higher, the city falling away below them in a blur of rooftops and domes.
He looked down once, catching a final glimpse of the Exarch standing in the courtyard, head tilted skyward, eyes on him.
A pang of something bittersweet settled in his chest.
He wished the Exarch were coming with him.
At least for this first journey beyond the city walls.
. ☾ .
Amh Araeng.
The name alone conjured sand and sorrow.
A desert region, one that mirrored Thanalan back on the Source, at least geographically. Rhys tried to focus on the ground below, on the barren, sun-bleached landscape stretching endlessly beneath him—not on the way the clouds pressed so closely above, or how the veins of radiant light shimmered through them like cracks in reality. And certainly not on the sound.
That sound.
Somewhere in the distance, a low hum grew louder, unnatural. He turned his gaze westward—and froze.
A vision of crystalline horror filled the horizon.
A wave, jagged and unnatural, shimmering like shattered glass catching the dying light. It seemed to surround the entire southern edge of the desert, rising like a tidal wall from a nightmare. He couldn’t quite understand what he was seeing, but it chilled him to the core.
He landed moments later, the heat pressing down on him like a living thing. Even this early, it was stifling. After thanking his guide with a short nod and a firm grasp of the forearm, Rhys dismounted and started on foot. He didn’t want to think about what he’d seen. He didn’t want to imagine what it meant. He had to find Alisaie.
That task, at least, was grounding.
He followed half-formed paths through dust and stone until he reached a settlement—Mord Souq, they called it. Small, nestled between crags and canyons. Just enough shelter to survive, but not enough to feel safe. There, a young woman spotted him and waved him down.
“Rhysard?”
She was Hyuran, blonde, with a smile that warmed the air around her. He blinked, surprised she knew him. But she introduced herself as Tesleen, and said she worked with Alisaie.
“She spoke so much of you,” she said, laughing softly. “And you’re not exactly difficult to describe. A greyish-skinned Mystel with red hair and golden tattoos on his cheeks? Quite rare in these parts.”
Her kindness was immediate and disarming. She offered to take him to the inn where she worked, and he followed.
The Inn of the Last Rest was unlike any place he’d ever seen—carved into a sunlit cavern, open to the air above. And yet, despite the golden hue of the stone and the filtered warmth, a strange melancholy lingered here.
Tesleen explained its purpose as they walked: a hospice of sorts. A place where those on the verge of transformation—those slowly succumbing to the Light—could pass their last days with dignity and companionship. The ones called sin eaters were not born monsters. They became them.
He listened in silence, heart heavy.
There was a boy there—Halric—whose skin had turned to something like porcelain, pale and brittle. His eyes were vacant, lost in a place no one could reach. Rhys stared at him for a long moment, the quiet of the inn settling over him like dust.
It was the first time he truly understood.
The scale of what was happening here. The decay.
The horror of it—not just dying, but losing oneself before the end. Becoming something else. Something unrecognizable. Something dangerous.
He left with the image of Halric still carved into his memory.
Following Tesleen’s directions, he made his way back into the desert. The heat was suffocating, the silence louder than ever. But eventually—finally—he saw her.
Alisaie.
And for the first time in a long while, he smiled without hesitation.
Oh, how little she had changed.
Rhys could see it in an instant—the same sharp glint in her eye, the same fierce energy, cloaked in all the fire and bravado she could muster. And yet, beneath that, he could still feel the quiet warmth, the affection she had always tried so poorly to hide.
He smiled at her, fangs on full display. He wasn’t as physically affectionate as he used to be—not with most people—but his inner circle was another story entirely.
The twins, Thancred… they were more than comrades; they were family. So when he pulled Alisaie into a tight embrace, ignoring her grumbles and half-hearted protests about his armor’s edges, he felt no hesitation. She squirmed, scowling, but her fingers tightened slightly at his back before she shoved him off.
"You brat, I missed you", he said, flicking her forehead.
And he truly did. He had missed her a lot. And, judging by her crooked smile, the feeling was mutual.
They spent the better part of the afternoon clearing out minor sin eaters that lingered near the settlement. Quick, vicious things—but thankfully, not particularly strong.
It was Rhys’ first time fighting in the full weight of his newly-fitted armor, and the difference was undeniable. He could feel the way the enchantments pulsed around him—the flow of aether through runes, the resonance of crystals. But he also felt… restricted. The armor was snug and heavy in places he wasn’t used to.
It wasn’t uncomfortable, but unfamiliar. As a black mage, he didn’t often need to dart or dash, yet the adjustment made itself known in every movement.
Still, fighting beside Alisaie made everything easier. Their synergy, honed over years of shared battles, was as sharp as ever. Fierce grins were exchanged mid-spell, blades and fire meeting in lethal tandem.
It wasn’t joy they felt—but it was close. A kind of release. A breath in the midst of suffocating dread.
-
Later, they returned to the inn, where Tesleen was preparing supper. The scent of herbs and roasted vegetables curled through the cavern, comforting and warm. The three of them settled around the fire.
And for only the second time in his life, Rhys heard the tale of the Warriors of Darkness.
Tesleen spoke in quiet tones, her voice thoughtful, her words edged with reverence and sorrow. She told their legend—how they had fought to bring darkness to a world drowning in light. How they had opposed the Flood. How they had paid the price.
At first, Rhys had been stunned. Praising darkness? Cursing light? It felt backward. Unnatural. Even blasphemous. But as he thought on it—truly thought—he realized how natural it must be for this world. Here, Light was the enemy. And the stories they told reflected the cost they had paid.
He was still sitting with those thoughts when a voice rang out across the courtyard.
“Where’s Halric?! He’s gone!”
Panic.
The calm shattered instantly as several people stood at once. Rhys and Alisaie exchanged a glance, then ran. They searched in widening circles around the inn, shouting the boy’s name. Under the everlasting light, the sun was lower now, heat rippling over the rocks.
It was nearly half a bell later when they found him—though Tesleen had found him first.
And they were too far. Too slow.
They could only watch.
A figure—tall, humanoid, with great feathered wings and a blade in hand—stood before the boy. A sin eater, fully transformed, wholly monstrous. Tesleen threw herself between them, her own blade drawn, a scream tearing from her lips as she struck one of its wings clean off.
But the retaliation was immediate.
The sin eater’s sword pierced through her chest—
—and then came the light.
Not the kind that warmed.
Not the kind that saved.
It poured from her wound like molten gold, sizzling, blinding. Her scream tore through the air.
Rhys felt it in his bones.
Alisaie screamed too—raw, helpless.
But it wasn’t over.
The true horror had yet to begin.
Tesleen fell to her knees. Her hands trembled. Her eyes… emptied. Her skin, once warm, turned a pale, sickly porcelain.
And then the wax began to pour.
White and thick, like candle tears, it spilled from her eyes, from her mouth, from every line of her face.
And she wept.
Even as her body became still, even as her mouth froze open in a silent scream, she wept.
The wax covered everything—her face, her features, her humanity. And then, around her, a cocoon formed.
She emerged anew. Winged. Silent.
One of them.
Together, the two sin eaters rose into the sky, disappearing into the burning clouds.
Rhys and Alisaie were left on their knees in the dust, the heat forgotten.
Both of them wordless. Shaken.
Undone.
. ☾ .
The return to the Crystarium was shrouded in complete silence.
Alisaie was devastated. Rhys, shaken beyond what he thought himself capable of enduring.
So this was the rot festering through the First…
People, twisted into angelic-looking monsters, harbingers of ruin and death cloaked in light. A beauty so cruel it turned the stomach.
Upon landing, Alisaie dismounted first, her body already in motion before the amaro had fully touched ground. She was preparing to leave.
The grief is going to hollow her out, Rhys thought bitterly. From what little he had witnessed, she’d been close—very close—to Tesleen.
And knowing Alisaie, she’d want to mourn her in solitude, without eyes on her pain.
It was her way. It always had been.
Still, he placed a hand on her shoulder, gently. Just to be sure.
“You heading back to the Pendants?”
She nodded, eyes lowered, lips tight.
“All right. Be strong, all right? I’m here if you need anything.”
She took off like a storm, no reply, no backward glance. She’d need the night. Possibly longer. And there was nothing he could do about it. He knew that if he tried to comfort her, tried to stay, she’d shut him out.
Or worse, lash out. So he let her go. It killed him to do so, but he respected her silence. She needed this time to begin mourning. Alone.
As he watched her disappear into the street, a familiar figure emerged from the plaza near the Aetheryte.
Alisaie walked past the Exarch without so much as a look. No word.
Then—
She stopped. Her head tilted slightly over her shoulder, listening. The Exarch’s voice was too quiet for Rhys to hear, but it held her there. Rooted.
A moment passed, and then another.
Finally, she gave a short nod, resumed walking. And then she ran. Toward the inn. Away from everything.
Rhys had only just found the strength to slide off his amaro, but now stood still, as if turned to stone.
Tesleen’s screams still rang in his ears.
The sin eaters. The light. The transformation. The utter helplessness.
He didn’t know how to fight something like this.
Didn’t know if it could be fought.
The truth was brutal and unrelenting.
-
The Exarch joined him not long after, his approach quiet, measured. He reached out, gently taking the reins of Rhys’s amaro—hands still clenched tight around them, knuckles pale with strain.
“Welcome back,” he said softly, cautiously. “I... saw what happened.”
For a heartbeat, Rhys didn’t understand what he meant.
And then he remembered.
The mirror at the Ocular. A scrying device, like a crystal ball—one that could show fragments of events far beyond these walls.
He lowered his gaze to where the Exarch’s crystalline hand hovered near his own on the reins. So close.
Then, slowly, he let go.
The Exarch guided the beast toward Szem, waiting patiently behind them. Only then did Rhys lift his eyes—and found genuine concern etched in the man's expression. No mask, no mystique. Just quiet, sincere worry.
He extended a hand toward him, open, waiting.
And Rhys took it.
He didn’t know why—
Didn’t think, didn’t hesitate.
He simply reached out, fingers grasping that crystal hand, head bowed as a shaky breath left his lungs. A surrender, maybe. Or just the need to keep standing.
The Exarch didn’t let go.
“Come,” he murmured, gentle pressure guiding him forward. “Let us go home.”
Rhys stood his ground. “What did Alisaie say?” he asked quietly, his voice barely above a breath. Worry clawed at his insides, sharp and insistent. Maybe he should have said more to her. Maybe she would have listened. She was older now—perhaps more willing to accept comfort, to let someone in.
“She is upset. She wishes to be left alone—and in her own manner of speaking, came close to a threat.”, came the quiet reply.
-
They teleported to the Ocular—still hand in hand.
Not once had their fingers loosened, not even when passing the guards stationed at the base of the Tower. The heavy doors closed behind them with a resonant clack, just loud enough to muffle the startled sneeze Rhys gave from the closeness of the teleport.
He crossed the chamber in slow, uneven steps and sank onto the small stool in front of the desk, dragging the Seeker with him. His body pitched forward, elbows braced against his knees, his free hand cradling his forehead. The other was still firmly locked with the Exarch’s.
A cold sweat clung to his skin. His eyes couldn’t seem to focus. His heart was hammering so hard it felt like it might tear right through his ribs. The delayed shock of what they’d seen, of what had happened, was hitting him all at once—and it was devastating.
They didn’t speak. The silence was heavy, but not unwelcome.
Rhys kept holding his hand like a lifeline, gripping it so tightly he was sure it must hurt.
But the Exarch said nothing.
He simply stayed there, steady and still, and let him hold on.
“This rot consuming your world,” Rhys began, voice low and strained, “I didn’t expect it to be this bad.”
He felt a hand settle on the plated curve of his shoulder.
“Since becoming the Warrior of Light… I’ve never seen anything so abhorrent.”
His eyes slipped shut—and there she was again.
Tesleen’s face, frozen mid-scream, mouth agape, an image scorched into the front of his mind.
He gasped, eyes flying open, lungs burning as though the air had turned to fire.
He reached forward without thinking, grasping the front of the Exarch’s robes with trembling fingers, pressing his forehead to the man’s abdomen. That familiar warmth, that impossible stillness—it grounded him more surely than anything else ever had.
A hand slid gently behind his head, fingers threading through sweat- and sand-dampened strands of hair.
“I… I’m sorry,” he murmured, voice muffled. “I’m completely shaken.”
To admit such things aloud—so easily, so freely—was unlike him. He was used to locking fear away in the corners of his heart, hiding his grief behind silence and duty. But here, now… with him… something had shifted.
He felt like he was breaking, and he didn’t care that he wasn’t alone when it happened.
“You’d be more worrying if you weren’t shaken,” came the reply—low, sonorous, like thunder rumbling behind closed skies.
“That was your first transformation,” the Exarch added, quietly. “The first is always the hardest.”
He felt the man’s fingers press gently against his scalp, grounding him further, soothing him without words. Rhys let his breath slow, nose brushing fabric that smelled of parchment, stone, and something cool and clean. Something like him.
“You brought me here so I could help you,” Rhys said quietly.
He paused, his breath shallow.
“I don’t know how to help you, my lord.”
And then, softer, his voice barely carried.
“And now…”
His fingers curled tightly around the crimson sash draped across the Exarch’s waist.
“I keep falling apart in front of you. This is the third time already.”
The sound that escaped him was a broken growl, half-sob, half-frustrated noise that only made him feel worse.
“I keep showing weakness! I’m not like this, I’m not tactile—not like this, not with anyone.”
His words cut off sharply, hands still clenching the fine fabric like a lifeline.
The Exarch’s reply came without judgment, without hesitation.
“I’ve told you this before—and I will again, as many times as needed.”
A pause, warm and unwavering.
“You are human. To feel… to show those feelings—it’s natural. There is no shame in it.”
Rhys felt the Exarch’s hand lift from his hair, followed by the soft metallic click of a clasp being undone just above his head.
“Would you mind shifting a little?” he asked, voice low and unfailingly polite. “Just there—thank you.”
Rhys lifted his head obediently, just enough to see the Exarch unfasten the white and gold drape from his robes. Before he could ask, the crystalline hand returned to the back of his head, guiding him gently back to rest against the warm fabric now uncluttered by ornamental weight.
Eyes closed, Rhys let himself lean in again, fists tightening in the folds of his robes, holding on to them like they were the only thing anchoring him in the moment.
“To entrust me with your vulnerabilities, Rhysard… is something I hold in the highest regard.”
The soft brush of fabric whispered against his hair, and something about the sensation—so careful, so deliberately gentle—settled him even as it sparked a strange tension beneath his skin.
“I may have summoned you, yes,” the Exarch continued calmly, “but as an ally, I must understand your limits. Falling apart is not a failure.”
His hand moved with quiet precision, brushing sand and sweat from Rhys’s hair—each touch deliberate, careful.
“We are allowed to fall apart,” he murmured. “It shapes us. It teaches us. And it does not make us lesser.”
His fingers slipped forward to the longer strands near Rhys’s face, and Rhys instinctively leaned back, offering more space, trusting his touch.
“What matters is that we rise again.”
The Exarch pressed the edge of the draped cloth to Rhys’s forehead, lingering just a moment before slowly, delicately brushing it over his eyes—an unspoken invitation. Rhys let them close. The cloth passed lightly over his lashes, barely a breath of contact, reverent.
“I must confess, I’m flattered. That you find comfort in my presence… it is a kindness I do not take for granted.”
Rhys blinked his eyes open, lifting his head just enough to meet his gaze.
And suddenly—it hit him.
The distance between them. The intimacy. The way the Exarch’s hand still lingered near his temple. How close they stood, how his voice—so low and patient—had coaxed him down from the ledge.
It was appropriate, in a sense. It was kind. Grounding.
But it was also too much.
The realization crashed through him like cold water: he was being comforted. Cared for. Almost mothered—like a child.
And in his already fragile state, that quiet blow to his pride was a little too much to bear.
"I'm not usually this… tactile." The words left him strained, almost bitter. “I’m not this fragile. I don’t understand what’s pushing me to seek comfort from you like this.”
He forced himself to pull away, sitting upright with a rigid spine, both hands pressing down on the armored plates of his thighs. His eyes refused to meet the Exarch’s. “And to be honest—since I got here—I disgust myself. I don’t recognize the person I’ve become.”
The more he spoke, the more something twisted inside him. A coiled knot of shame and fury, tightening with each breath.
“I couldn’t even walk on my own after getting off that damn amaro, and Alisaie did. Her friend died, gods damn it! Right in front of her!” His voice had risen without him noticing, now cracked and raw. “And I needed you—you, to hold my hand! Literally hold my hand!”
He lashed out, shoving away the crystalline hand that had hovered uncertainly above him.
“Why are you so soft with me? Why do you allow this?” His voice trembled now, but it didn’t stop. “I’m a man. I’m the bloody Warrior of Light. I don’t need to be coddled when I break down!”
The sob hit like a strike to the chest—sudden, jagged. His own body betrayed him. He let out a hoarse cry, strangled and furious, and bent double. Elbows on knees, fingers tangling in his hair, he gripped so tightly he felt the sharp sting of nails against skin. Something metallic filled his mouth—he’d bitten through his lip. He didn’t care.
“I’m going to lose my mind if this keeps going—and Menphina forgive you, but if you try to offer me excuses, just—just leave me the fuck alone!”
But even as the words left him, even with his whole being screaming get away from me, his arms trembled forward.
Reached out blindly. A sound escaped him—shattered, pleading. His body moved of its own accord, throwing itself forward again, head pressed into the familiar warmth of cloth and scent and safety. He clung tightly, fists twisted into robes, as if anchoring himself to a world that was fast crumbling around him.
He hated this. Hated how open he was, how shamelessly he sought this comfort.
Hated that the other man accepted it.
Hated that he was kind.
That he was still kind.
The Exarch remained still, frozen, as though one wrong move might reignite the storm.
But after a time, he moved.
Slowly, gently, he reached up and laid the edge of his drape over Rhys’s head—shielding his face, not restraining, not hiding. Just offering. A soft, symbolic veil, a silent gesture of dignity, allowing Rhys to weep without witness.
And so he did.
-
They stayed like that for a long while, until the tears and muffled sobs finally quieted, leaving only the sound of Rhys's uneven breathing.
And then came the mortification.
Rhys couldn’t bring himself to look up, couldn’t even think about meeting his shadowed eyes. He’d let everything out—every crack in his armor, every twisted knot in his soul—and in the process, he’d lashed out at the one person who least deserved it.
That wasn’t who he was. He never did that. And now that he had, he promised himself it would never happen again.
-
G’raha’s voice rang through the cavern of his thoughts, soft and insistent.
“You take care of everyone else… but who takes care of you?”
He had been the first to worry about him. The first to see past the titles and bravado.
Rhys had thought about that, more than once. About how desperately he wanted—needed—someone to be there for him. Someone who could help gather the broken pieces when he returned from battle—not just broken in body, but in spirit too.
-
And now, shame twisted in his gut like a blade. He had struck out at the Exarch, who had only offered compassion. It was inexcusable.
He reached up and pulled the white cloth from over his head. Held it close to his chest as he straightened without a word.
The Exarch stood still beside him, stiff as stone. His arms hung at his sides, his head bowed low—expression hidden.
But Rhys didn’t need to see his face to know. He had hurt him. Deeply.
He deserved the worst for that.
When the Exarch finally spoke, it was with that formal tone—the one reserved for councils and command rooms. Cold. Distant.
“You have every right to feel as you do,” he said firmly. “And I must apologize as well… I overstepped the bounds of hospitality.”
The words cut. Not for what they said, but how they were said.
His voice—usually so warm, so gentle—was now void of all personal inflection. As if retreating behind a mask.
"I will always be here should you need anything. Please… try to get some rest tonight."
He was dismissing him.
Rhys looked up to find that familiar face, so often lit with quiet joy, now closed off. Emotionless. As unreadable as the mask he used to wear.
A hollow ache spread in his chest.
He nodded silently, then turned, stepping out onto the landing. Without another glance, he teleported to the upper tier, leaving behind the man he’d hurt most—and the weight of his own remorse.
☾
Finding himself in the dim silence of his room, Rhys realized he was still clutching the drape to his chest. He raised it to his face, hating himself as he inhaled near one of the untouched folds. That familiar scent lingered—subtle, laced with the unmistakable coolness of crystalline aether that always clung to the Exarch’s robes.
Disgust welled up in him.
With slow, mechanical movements, he removed his armor piece by piece, setting each one down with care on the floor. He’d clean it tomorrow. Right now, he couldn’t bear to do more.
He washed quickly, fingers digging into his scalp to rid it of the sand clinging to his roots, scrubbing until his skin burned. Then he slipped into a long, loose black robe that trailed against the floor, and sat on the edge of his bed—blank, numb, adrift.
When he finally lay down, the sight of the ceiling above brought it all back. That quiet moment, that tenderness—the way the Exarch had covered his head with the cloth, shielding him from the weight of his own shame.
It was too much.
He couldn’t let things end like that. He had to fix this. He had to.
He sat up again, his jaw clenched, determination slowly overriding the fog of exhaustion. Grabbing the white and gold drape from beside him, he stood. His hands trembled slightly as he gripped the fabric, but his steps were certain as he made for the door.
-
He hadn’t expected this.
The door to the Ocular was still slightly ajar, and through the gap, he saw him inside—seated on the small stool, hunched over, his face buried in his hands.
His head was so low.
I deserve death for causing him this kind of pain.
Rhys broke into a run before his mind could even catch up with his body, the door slamming shut behind him with a sharp echo.
The Exarch looked up at the sound, startled, and Rhys dropped to his knees before him. His breath caught, his chest heaving, and he reached forward with a trembling hand—hesitating, never daring to touch the skin of his face.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, voice cracking under the weight of it. “Truly. I’m—”
He couldn’t finish. The words choked in his throat.
But his eyes, wide and aching, said the rest.
✹
The Exarch was frozen, unmoving.
Rhys’s damp hair brushed lightly against his face as he lifted the man’s arms and placed them around his neck, coaxing him to hold on. His own arms wrapped securely around his waist, guiding him forward to the very edge of the stool, gently parting his legs so he could settle between them. He held him tightly, face buried against him, grounding himself in the quiet presence he had nearly driven away.
“I’m the greatest fool alive. And you’re like an angel in this chaotic world, my lord,” he murmured, voice low and unsteady. Then a pause. “No—wait. Not an angel. Gods, that’s a terrible comparison here, I’m sorry…” He mumbled, visibly unraveling.
A soft laugh escaped the Exarch’s lips, the kind that slipped out before thought could catch it. He slid one arm around Rhys’s shoulders, leaning down slightly to rest his cheek against the crown of his head.
“You’re so kind,” Rhys whispered, “you bring such calm… such comfort to everyone around you, just by being there…” His voice cracked as emotion welled up again, and he pulled him in closer, fingertips gently pressing circles into his back. “And people—especially here—need that kindness. I have no right to tell you how to act. If you want to coddle me, go right ahead. It’s working wonders.”
The Exarch blinked, startled by the honesty of the words. He hadn’t expected to hear something so impossibly soft, so direct.
“I panicked when I realized certain things… and I’ll never be able to apologize enough for how I acted.”
The Exarch slowly leaned back, sliding his hands along Rhys’s shoulders to create a small distance between them.
He still wanted the closeness, still craved it, but there was truth in what had been said. Too many liberties had been taken. It wasn’t right. Not by his measure.
“…Rhysard,” he said, his voice a hushed thread of breath.
He saw him freeze at the sound of his name, still on his knees, his head dipping down, hands clasped tightly together in his lap, as if bracing for what would come next.
“Thank you for coming back,” the Exarch said softly, lifting a hand to Rhys’s face—gentle, steady, inviting his gaze. “Thank you… for apologizing.”
A soft glow bloomed in his palm, the faint threads of aether weaving through the still air—a healing spell, simple and precise.
“And… thank you for forgiving me.”
Rhys closed his eyes as the Exarch’s magic brushed against his skin, warmth sealing the shallow wound at his lip. The glow lingered, casting a gentle radiance across both their faces—quiet, comforting.
“I’ll try to be more mindful,” the Exarch murmured. “To tread with greater care. I would never wish to make you uncomfortable.”
“Please don’t change,” Rhys murmured, eyes still closed. “Truly.”
“In time, you’ll grow stronger—there’s no need to rush. Don’t worry, all right?”
He waited until Rhys met his eyes again, then gestured toward the armchair. “Come. Sit with me.”
Rhys nodded and crossed the room, settling into the chair. The Exarch brought the stool closer, sitting beside him.
“When I was much younger,” he began, voice low and reflective, “I threw up the first time I saw a sin eater.”
He caught the widening of Rhys’s eyes—disbelief, perhaps even concern.
“At the first transformation…” he added, a short, hollow laugh escaping him, “I fainted. Couldn’t sleep for days after that.”
He fell silent for a moment, gaze distant—lost in memory.
“When the Crystarium first began to take shape, I found myself surrounded by people who looked to me as their savior. Their last hope.”
A breath.
“But I felt… utterly alone. I had to be strong—appear strong—at all times. Because if I faltered, if I gave in to fear or doubt…”
His voice softened, barely more than a whisper now.
“There would be no one left to keep the ship afloat.”
He laid a hand over his chest, fingers curling into his robes.
“Not choosing someone to confide in back then…” he said softly, “will always be one of my greatest regrets.”
He drew a slow breath, gaze distant but steady.
“It might have spared me so much pain. Just knowing—truly knowing—that someone listens… accepts your flaws… holds you up when you fall.”
His voice faltered, the next words carrying the weight of a long-held vow.
“So I swore to myself—if ever I had the strength, if ever I was given the chance… I would be that person. I would stand by others. I would become strong enough to protect them. To shield them from the torment I had to endure alone.”
A pause. The quiet between words felt almost sacred.
“And I would listen. I will listen. Because no one should slip quietly into madness… the way I nearly did. Time and again.”
Rhys stared at him, utterly stunned. If he had admired this man before, it was nothing compared to what he felt now.
“Kindness, compassion, gentleness… they cost nothing,” the Exarch said softly. “And yet they mean everything.”
His shrouded gaze lowered slightly, as if reflecting aloud more than speaking to be heard.
“There is nothing in this world that brings me greater joy than seeing my people smile. To know they feel safe enough to share their fears with me—even if many still hesitate.”
A quiet breath.
“What you said earlier… it moved me. Truly. I will treasure those words.”
He reached up, fingers brushing the edge of his hood, tugging it gently forward—half a gesture of composure, half of habit.
“The Crystarium… what we’ve built here… is my greatest pride. The road to it was long, and the burden often heavy. But we endured.”
He looked to Rhys with quiet gratitude.
“And I can never thank you enough—for standing with us. For helping to protect what took a century to create… and a lifetime to dream.”
☾
His words pierced straight through Rhys's heart. He didn’t know what to say—nothing he could think of felt worthy of an answer.
The Exarch had just laid himself bare before him, in the most humble, disarming way imaginable.
And Rhys was moved all over again.
The Crystarium truly had a leader of gold—someone who gave everything he had, with nothing asked in return.
He had to clear his throat softly before speaking, a few long moments later.
“You’ve created something beautiful—somewhere people can feel safe, even with horrors prowling just outside. You’ve come a long way… You have every right to be proud of yourself. You deserve to be.”
He saw him dip his head again, a faint, quiet smile playing on his lips.
“I heard what you said… and even though I should’ve asked long ago—would you… want to be my confidant?”
He hated how foolish the question sounded, and had to push back the part of him screaming that asking such a thing was a surrender to weakness.
“It would be an honor, Rhysard,” the Exarch replied, voice low, his gaze still on the floor.
“I’m sorry again. For how I lashed out earlier. It’s… inexcusable.”
Rhys shut his eyes, mentally berating himself all over again.
“If you weren’t who you are… I don’t think I would’ve lasted two days here. You helped me. You stood by me when I was at my worst. Gave me a place in this tower. And now, you’re encouraging me to open up—to accept myself.” He lowered his head in shame. “Thank you for taking such care of me, even though I don’t feel I deserve this much kindness… or tenderness.”
“You’re forgiven,” came the Exarch’s whisper, and Rhys could hear the smile woven into it.
And then he realized—seeing him still hunched, still unmoving—that the Exarch wasn’t just awkward.
He was terribly shy.
The urge to reach out struck Rhys again.
The urge to hold him. To reassure him. To lift his face and see him smile, if only to erase the pained expression he’d worn earlier.
But he didn’t move. He’d already crossed so many lines today.
The Exarch finally ran a hand over his face and stood.
“Do you think you’ll be able to sleep tonight?” he asked, simply.
Rhys hesitated. He wasn’t sure.
“I’ll try. I’ll do my best.”
He rose to his feet as well—and only then did he notice he was still holding the cloth in his hand. He hadn’t let it go once. Embarrassed, he offered it back, ears flicking downward. The once-pristine white was now creased and dulled with wear.
“Thank you,” the Exarch murmured, taking it back. “Here—this is for you.”
He turned to the desk, opening a drawer with gentle hands.
Rhys blinked in surprise as the Exarch held out a soft blue wall clock.
“You’re a saint,” he blurted before he could stop himself, accepting the gift as though it were made of crystal. It was—truly—something that would help him immensely.
“Thank you. For this. And for everything you’ve done since I arrived.”
The Exarch nodded, bowing his head slightly, as he so often did.
“Sleep well, my friend. It’s been… a long day.”
Notes:
While editing, I realized just how long this chapter ended up being.
I personally enjoy reading long chapters, but how do you feel about it? Would you prefer shorter chapters, or should I keep going with this format?
I don’t mind splitting it in half if that would make it more enjoyable for you.There’s a lot going on, and I like to pack it all in—because, mark my words, I HATE cliffhangers! Whether I'm reading or writing, I just can’t stand them ✨️
Chapter Text
Kholusia.
They landed near a rocky stretch of shoreline, and Rhys dismounted, murmuring quiet praise to his mount for a job well done. He took a moment to look around—the landscape was stark, jagged. Towering mountains and high plateaus carved the horizon, with only the occasional rolling hill breaking the severity of it. In the distance, he could just make out the faint trails of chimney smoke—signs of life, perhaps a village. That people could live in such a desolate, exposed place, with no visible protection, made his skin crawl.
He found Alphinaud soon after, and the sheer joy of seeing the young man again was rivaled only by the pride that surged in him as he listened to him recount his adventures. He had grown—Rhys could see it in his posture, in his gaze, in the conviction of his words. The boy who had once looked up to others now stood tall in his own right.
Alphinaud laid out the plan he’d been quietly crafting: a way to slip into the island city Rhys could just make out in the distance—Eulmore, the place where answers waited.
They spent several days refining that plan. In the meantime, they lent their hands to the locals. Rhys came to understand that life here was lived on the edge—raw, precarious. Yet many refused to leave. This was their home. Their land. They would endure, no matter the cost. Brave souls, hardened by decades of struggle, unflinching in the face of daily horror. A century, he reminded himself. They’ve endured this for a century.
At night, sleep was elusive. The ever-present brightness in the sky, the constant murmur gnawing at the edges of his thoughts—it wore on him. Even with the toll the days took on his body and mind, it would take him hours to drift off. The whispering never truly left him.
He had asked Alphinaud how he had managed to get used to it. The boy had laughed, a little sheepishly, and admitted it had taken nearly two months before sleep came easily—and even now, the whisper still lingered at the edges of his dreams. Strangely, that comforted Rhys. To know he wasn’t the only one.
-
Eulmore felt like a cruel joke—an insult painted in gold. Everything about it made Rhys's stomach turn. The way its people lived, sheltered in blissful ignorance or willful denial, was sickening. And their ruler, Vauthry… more grotesque than he could have imagined.
The only redeeming aspect of the whole wretched city, Rhys thought, was the couple he and Alphinaud had been placed with.
The Chais. Eccentric, certainly—but in their own strange way, endearing.
Rhys had quickly learned to keep his distance from the husband, Chai-Nuzz. A simple sneeze—loud, unintentional, and far too close—had startled the poor man out of his skin while he had been curiously inspecting his long Keeper fangs. Ever since, Chai-Nuzz had kept a wary eye on him and seemed reluctant to linger too long in his presence.
Dulia-Chai, on the other hand, was delighted by him. She took no issue with his quiet intensity and seemed thoroughly pleased by his every contribution to their household.
They fled the city after Alphinaud openly insulted Vauthry to his face. The young man’s composure, the calm conviction with which he carried himself in that moment, left Rhys speechless. What was happening within those walls was beyond belief—like some twisted parody of power. That the so-called ruler kept two docile sin eaters at his side made Rhys’s skin crawl. That the people of Eulmore were treated like goods, like property to be bartered and displayed, was nothing short of appalling.
They made their way back to the Kholusian shore together, returning to the usual rendezvous point. The Amalj’aa had promised to pass by twice a day with the mounts, should they wish to leave.
☾
Rhys offered a hand to Alphinaud to help him dismount from his amaro, but the young man declined with a polite shake of the head, landing lightly on the ground with a newfound ease.
Returning to the Crystarium felt like a breath of fresh air. Rhys felt comfortable here—grounded, even. He lifted his gaze toward the Tower on the far side of the Rotunda, its presence steady and constant, and set off alongside his companion, wondering if Alisaie was still in the city or had already set out again.
They crossed the bustling streets, greeting familiar faces along the way, before ascending the wide flight of stairs that led to the colossal doors. Rhys paused just short of them, gesturing loosely in their direction.
“I’ll go get us something for dinner. Go on ahead to the Exarch—I’ll meet you both shortly.”
He saw Alphinaud nod in acknowledgment before turning on his heel and bounding back down the steps.
Rhys made his way toward the Wandering Stairs and placed his usual order—triple portions. He hesitated briefly before ordering something for the Exarch as well, then settled on a honeyed drink he knew the man enjoyed. The thought of seeing him eat with any enthusiasm was rare at best, but a comforting beverage felt like a safe offering.
While the mystel behind the counter busied himself with the order, Rhys dropped heavily into a nearby chair, resting his elbows on the table.
He pulled off his gloves, worn and scuffed from travel, and tilted his head back to gaze at the crystalline domes overhead. Yes—he liked it here. And he truly admired the immense effort that must have gone into building a city like this. Absently, he wondered whether all the crystal scattered throughout—woven into architecture, glowing gently in the dim—had come from the Tower itself. It would have been incredible, if so.
His daydream ended when the bartender placed a large sack of neatly wrapped food and bottles onto the table. Rhys thanked him, stood, and stretched briefly before setting off again, making his way back toward the Pendants.
He had negotiated the matter of expenses with the Exarch, firmly. As promised, he had repaid him for the armor—and insisted he would not be covered for anything else, save for meals. That, he hadn't managed to win. The Exarch had been immovable on the subject, oddly resolute, and would hear no argument. Rhys felt a twinge of guilt every time he came to collect a meal, but told himself it was fair compensation, in its own way.
At the Pendants, the steward informed him that Alisaie had already retired for the night. She rarely ventured out these days, caught in the throes of grief. Rhys ascended the stairs, his thighs protesting with each step. The only real complaint he had about this place was the stairs—too many stairs, too many levels.
He reached her door and knocked softly, the food parcel cradled in one arm, and waited patiently in the quiet.
Honestly, he hadn’t expected her to open the door—but she did, nevertheless. And she looked…
He pulled a pouch from the large sack in his arms, offering it with a faint smile.
“Hey, sis'. I thought you might like a little late-night snack.”
She gave a small nod, reaching out with both arms to take the warm parcel. She held it against her chest, eyes falling shut. Rhys had never seen her quite like this before. He knew she would never allow anyone to see her truly broken—not even him.
“Alphi just got back—with me,” he added, gesturing vaguely over his shoulder toward the Tower. “We’re going to have dinner up there. Do you want to join us?”
“Not tonight. Maybe tomorrow.”
He wouldn’t press her. The fact she even suggested tomorrow on her own was already a victory in his eyes.
“Enjoy the food, it's still warm. I’ll see you tomorrow, alright?”
He placed a hand on her shoulder, giving it a soft squeeze before turning away.
If he found his own pride difficult to manage, he knew Alisaie’s was sharper still—more volatile, more deeply rooted. She was younger than him, fiercer, and even more reluctant to show emotion. He understood, as painful as it was.
-
What a blessing — that silence.
A shimmer of aether coiled and flickered about him as he stepped out onto the Ocular’s balcony, the doors left just barely ajar. It was a quiet habit of the Exarch’s, that unspoken invitation. Rhys, hands full and shoulders sore, nudged one side open with the weight of his body and slipped inside.
He hadn’t realized just how much he’d missed this place — the serenity, the quiet dignity in every stone and pane of crystal. And then his gaze landed on the familiar silhouette, framed by books and the soft glow of lamplight. The Exarch stood with his back turned, but even that slight, unmistakable curve of his shoulders sent a rush of warmth through Rhys’s chest.
A grin found its way to his lips before he could stop it.
“I’m back,” he said, the words light and sincere.
The Exarch turned at the sound of his voice, and in that moment — just a smile, a glance — Rhys felt it again: the weight of something grounding, something safe. But his smile faltered slightly as he spotted the towering stack of books, precariously teetering on the desk.
He moved instinctively to sit on the floor, as he often did in this place. But a quiet, scandalized noise from behind made him pause mid-motion — and he turned, caught, like a child about to do something forbidden.
“Welcome back to the Crystarium, my friend,” the Exarch said gently, already gathering the books. With practiced ease, he cleared the desk, arranging the volumes in neat towers along the floor. Then he motioned toward the seat he’d so clearly freed for him.
Rhys gave him a grateful look before setting down his bag and pulling up the chair. Alphinaud followed suit, folding his hands on the table like the diligent student he’d once been.
Rhys began unpacking the meal he’d gathered from the stalls — warm parcels of bread and spice, little clay jars of sauces and stews. He served without ceremony, as though the act had become routine, comforting.
It had.
“I stopped by to see Alisaie,” he said as he handed out portions. “I thought she might like something warm to eat.”
He glanced toward Alphinaud, who said nothing — but Rhys could read the silent gratitude in his expression. They had spoken of Amh Araeng on the way back. Of grief, and guilt, and the slow ache of helplessness.
The Exarch, ever the host, remained standing beside them — refusing the seat Rhys had once again tried to offer. He accepted the honeyed drink with a quiet word of thanks, fingers curling around the cup with reverence.
“She opened the door,” he said softly, as though the words might startle the moment away. “That alone speaks volumes. She didn’t speak much, but… I believe she’s finding her way forward, slowly. The wound is still fresh. But that brat is made of strong things.”
He looked down into his cup for a moment, his voice quieter still. “She’ll endure. And she’ll emerge stronger for it.”
-
They lingered over their meal, sharing accounts of Eulmore — the absurdity of it, the quiet rage it inspired, the surreal cruelty of a city rotting behind golden gates. It was a relief to speak of it, to name what they had seen aloud, as if doing so might lessen its hold. For a little while, conversation and warm food were enough to ward off the weight.
At length, Alphinaud pushed back his chair with a soft scrape of wood. “I think I’ll head back to the Pendants,” he said, running a hand through his tunic. “Today’s been… long. A bit of rest would do us good.” He turned toward Rhys with a quiet smile. “Will you come?”
Rhys shook his head gently. “I’ll stay a while longer. Sleep well, Alphi.”
The young Elezen nodded, gathering his things. “I’ll stop by and check on Alisaie, if she’s still awake,” he added, glancing toward the Exarch with a flicker of gratitude.
“Thank you—for keeping an eye on her. I know she can be… difficult, when she’s hurting.”
The Exarch inclined his head, his voice steady, soft. “I care for those under my watch. Whether born of this world or not — if someone finds shelter here, I’ll offer what I can. That is my duty.”
There was no self-importance in his tone. Only conviction.
Alphinaud gave a final nod before slipping out the door, leaving the room quiet again, touched by the hush that always follows good company departing.
Rhys let out a breath, half a laugh. “I couldn’t bring myself to tell him I’ve got quarters in the Tower,” he murmured, rubbing the back of his neck. “Felt far too indulgent to say aloud.”
✹
They kept the comfortable silence stretch between them, before the Exarch broke it, leaning slightly in his seat, toward his friend.
“May I ask… how you’re feeling, Rhysard? If it’s not too much.”
The Exarch’s voice was calm, inquisitive. Rhys turned his head toward him, arms loosely crossed, and considered the question for a breath.
“Honestly?” He caught the Exarch’s small nod. “I feel like I’m about to collapse from exhaustion.”
The words were barely out before laughter bubbled up — light, incredulous, and entirely sincere. The kind of laugh that came only when the body had given everything it had, and there was nothing left but aching limbs and a flickering will to remain upright.
“Seven Hells,” Rhys gasped between bouts of laughter, “I don’t even know if I can get out of this chair.” He wiped at the corners of his eyes with the back of his hand, his glove slipping from his lap and falling to the floor. He glanced at it — and made no move to retrieve it. No chance he’d manage to bend that far without crumpling in on himself.
“Your world,” he said, shaking his head with another helpless laugh, “is in a sorry state. I haven’t the faintest idea how I’m supposed to fix any of it.” He leaned forward, one hand clutching his stomach, the other supporting his head as the laughter overtook him again.
Across the room, the Exarch stood still — arms crossed, lips parted slightly in surprise. He was visibly fighting the urge to smile, if not laugh outright. Rhys looked positively intoxicated.
“What in the world did you drink?” he asked softly, half-curious, half-concerned. “You’re not… glowing, are you?” he asked at last, watching the way Rhys grinned, wide and toothy, his fangs gleaming in the lamplight. He looked… utterly carefree. And far too pleased with himself.
“I had the same thing you did,” Rhys replied, waving a hand lazily through the air, as if to shoo away any concern. “Don’t worry about me. I’m just… relieved to be back here.”
Still, the Exarch stepped forward, eyeing the drink on the table.
He picked it up and gave it a cautious sniff, raising one pale brow under the shadow of his cowl. Rhys looked on, clearly entertained.
“Oh, Rhys…” the Exarch murmured with a soft, knowing sigh. He set the mug down—far out of Rhys’s reach. “Either there was a mix-up with the order… or you definitely didn’t drink the same thing as I did.”
“I don’t usually handle alcohol well,” Rhys admitted, still smiling far too brightly.
“I can see that, my friend,” the Exarch said, shaking his head with quiet amusement.
“Stay right there. I’ll return in a moment—all right?”
He took the mug and disappeared up the staircase. Rhys didn’t move — just melted deeper into his seat, every inch of him heavy with fatigue and amusement.
The Exarch returned soon after, carrying a tall glass and a pitcher of chilled water. Relief swept through him when he saw Rhys still sprawled in the same position.
He poured the water carefully and set the glass in front of him, sitting on the low stool nearby. “Come now… just a little. It will help clear it from your system—I promise.”
“Thank you, G’ra—”
Rhys opened his eyes, squinting hard as he focused on the man before him. “My Lord,” he corrected himself with effort. He took another sip from the glass, struggling slightly, before resuming.
“You know… the people in Eulmore are completely insane.”
He shifted in the chair, making himself more comfortable, head leaning back against the rest with a soft exhale. “They actually believe they can reach paradise. I’ve never heard anything so absurd.”
“Vauthry holds some… rather fixed ideas,” the Exarch replied delicately. “The diplomatic relationship between Kholusia and Eulmore is complicated, to say the least.”
Rhys turned his head slightly, cracking one eye open. “Your people told me they wanted to name you King of the Crystarium,” he said, then let his head fall back again with a sigh. “Why did you refuse?”
The sudden change in topic caught the Exarch off guard. He opened his mouth to respond, searching for the right words, but Rhys was already speaking again—his voice softer now, almost solemn.
“You’re far too humble to wear such a title… but I intend to give you Eulmore.”
The Exarch stared at him, stunned into silence. Of all the things he expected, such a declaration was not among them. He raised a hand, gently trying to slow the momentum of the conversation.
“Rhysard, I don’t seek—”
“Only a King who does not wish for a crown,” Rhys said, lifting the water glass again, “can ever be worthy of one.”
He took a long drink, then rested the cup back on the table with quiet care.
“I’ve never met anyone more deserving than you.”
There was a long pause—quiet, not awkward, but heavy with meaning. And finally, the Exarch offered a small smile, inclining his head slightly.
“Then… I thank you for your words. And in that case, I shall accept Eulmore—gladly.”
Rhys shot him such a wide grin that the Exarch had to avert his eyes—even from behind the dim veil of his glamour, it was blinding.
“You’ll be the finest monarch this world’s ever known, I don’t doubt it for a moment.”
He paused, lips parted as if caught by another thought, then grinned again. “Lyna’s not going to take the news well, though.”
The Exarch gave a quiet huff of laughter, already sensing where this was going.
“Princess Lyna,” Rhys declared, and then burst into a laugh so loud and sudden it nearly tipped him backward in his chair.
The Exarch tried to hold back his amusement. It was a losing battle, especially with Rhys’s eyes squinting in delight, his whole face alight with mischief.
“It is far too late to be entertaining such ideas,” the Exarch muttered, still shaking his head, rising from his stool. “Come on now—off to bed with you, my friend.”
He watched Rhys attempt to stand, only for the man to pause mid-motion with a low, sheepish groan.
“I’m stiff as a board—Gods above, help me up my Lord, would you?” Rhys reached out a hand, palm open in surrender.
The Exarch took hold of his forearm without hesitation and pulled him to his feet. Rhys managed a few steady steps before pausing.
“Wait—my staff,” he muttered, turning his head in search of it.
“I have it here,” the Exarch replied calmly, holding the ornate weapon in his free hand. “Come on. I’ll walk you upstairs.”
He placed a steadying hand at the small of Rhys’s back, guiding him gently toward the stairs.
☾
Rhys awoke slowly the next morning, greeted by a soft, welcome darkness. The only light in the room came from the faint glow of the wall clock—its painted numerals dimly illuminated, casting a muted shimmer in the gloom.
Then came the pain. It struck him all at once, sharp and unforgiving.
He tried to push himself up on one elbow, only to feel it sink deep into something plush.
He was wrapped in a nest. Laid out atop two—maybe three—thick blankets, his body curled on his bed, still wrapped in his blue cloak and swaddled in yet another heavy cover. He was cocooned, warm and bundled, like someone had tried to preserve him.
What the…?
With a groan, he sat up, pushing off the layers that had been tucked around him. Every muscle ached, even through the comfort that surrounded him. Sleeping in armor—brilliant idea, truly—had left him stiff, sore, and more than a little bruised. At some point, someone had removed his boots, though the rest of his gear remained.
And then, like a wave crashing down, the memories returned.
The night before. The drinking. The things he’d said. The way he’d said them.
"Fuck!", he cursed, shooting up—too fast—scrambling onto all fours, only for his foot to catch in one of the twisted blankets. He pitched forward, landing with a clatter on the crystalline floor, metal shrieking against crystal in a graceless heap.
Everything hurt.
His entire body throbbed with protest, his head pulsing with the dull ache of a hangover, and he wasn’t even sure how he was supposed to get back on his feet.
For a long moment, he lay there, cheek pressed to the cool floor, limbs splayed.
Maybe… maybe he’d just go back to sleep like this.
Maybe his body would cooperate better in a few hours.
-
A knock at the door startled him.
“Is aught amiss?” came the Exarch’s voice, muffled but clear through the wood. He didn’t enter.
Rhys groaned, pulling off his vambraces with slow, stiff movements. He sank to the floor, resting his back against the side of the bed.
“All good. You can come in,” he called, voice rough with sleep and shame.
The door opened, spilling unforgiving light into the room. They locked eyes across the threshold. The Exarch paused, hesitating for a moment before stepping forward.
“I’m truly sorry about last night,” Rhys said as he watched him kneel carefully before him, a soft smile curving the other’s lips.
“You are not at fault,” he said, his voice soft with warmth. “Even so… the moment we shared remains dear to me.”
He reached out, hand lifting—not toward Rhys’s face, but past it. Toward his right ear.
“Do forgive me,” he said with a faint smile, “but may I be allowed to—ah—coddle you a little, this early?”
Rhys blinked, confused, but gave a small nod, unsure what he was agreeing to.
Then he felt it—gentle fingers brushing through the fur of his ear, carefully straightening the tufted skin where it had folded awkwardly in sleep.
Oh.
His breath caught. He hadn’t noticed. Gods, what a sight he must’ve made.
With infinite care, the Exarch fixed the ear’s shape and, as if on impulse, gave a small scratch at its base.
Rhys startled—then tilted his head back involuntarily, instinct guiding him closer to the sensation.
“You fell asleep halfway through the door last night,” he murmured, his fingers tracing slow, soothing patterns. “I hadn’t the heart to wake you… nor the audacity to undress you.”
Rhys exhaled a long breath. “Thanks for putting up with me,” he said, leaning in further, the ear flicking lazily forward. “You can keep going, if you like,” he added before he could stop himself. “It’s been… gods, it’s been so long since anyone’s done this.”
His voice turned soft, almost wistful.
“And it feels nice. So nice…”
“Tell me if I ever cross a line, Rhysard,” the Exarch whispered, never pausing his touch. His hand cupped the ear gently, fingers dragging up its length in slow, deliberate strokes before traveling up to his forehead.
He brushed aside long strands of hair, revealing the curve he knew lay hidden there—the fine, elegant line that trailed from temple to the very tip of his ear.
Rhys closed his eyes, utterly still. Letting himself be held, touched, cared for.
For once—just for this one morning—he didn’t resist it.
He placed a hand on the floor to steady himself as he leaned forward, resting his head against the Exarch’s shoulder. He was completely lost in the moment, his free hand absently clutching at the folds of the man’s robes.
The Exarch had to fight the sudden, powerful urge to press a kiss to the top of his head—or to the base of his ear. Instead, he chose to speak, his voice a low murmur:
“I was in the midst of preparing lunch when I heard the commotion. Would you care for a plate… once you’ve changed?”
“Yeah, I'd like that,” Rhys answered, his voice muffled slightly as he nuzzled his forehead against the Exarch’s shoulder. “I’m starving.”
The Exarch combed his fingers gently through Rhys’s hair, cradling him with delicate care. He felt him lean in again, pressing back into the contact without hesitation. And then, quietly, as though wrestling with the words, Rhys spoke again:
“You remind me of a friend I once had.”
Once had. The Exarch noticed the past tense.
“I mean… that I have,” Rhys corrected, though the ache in his voice remained. “I don’t know why, but there’s something about you. You’re alike in ways I can’t explain. And yet… completely different. It’s strange. Unsettling, even.”
He paused, as though debating whether to go further.
“I’ve thought a lot about who you might be. The only thing I’m certain of is that you must be Allagan. Like him. Only your people can command the Tower like this, after all.”
The Exarch froze. For a heartbeat, he forgot how to breathe. He hadn’t expected the conversation to turn this way—certainly not now, not like this.
He struggled to find a reply, but Rhys continued before he could speak.
“But in the end, it doesn’t really matter who you are—or who you were—before becoming the Crystal Exarch. I’m sure you have your reasons for all the secrecy.”
He pressed his forehead once more against his shoulder, voice soft.
“I just… I hope that one day, you’ll trust me enough to tell me. I’d really like to see the face of the great leader of the Crystarium. I bet you have fine red eyes. It’s a shame to keep them hidden, if that’s true.”
The gentle strokes had stopped. The Exarch’s hand was still, suspended in Rhys’s hair.
And just like that, Rhys realized he may have said too much. Speculated too boldly. Reached too far.
“It’s only right that you question it,” the Exarch murmured. “Truly, I would worry more if you didn’t.”
Rhys smiled faintly against his shoulder before slowly pulling back from the embrace.
“Forgive me,” he murmured, breaking the moment. “I’m not exactly clean.”
He looked down at himself, grimacing faintly. “You’ve been too polite to say anything, but it must be… unpleasant to be this close to me right now.”
Now that he said it, it hit him—he hadn’t bathed in two days. His armor was still caked with blood and grime. He must have smelled terrible.
The Exarch didn’t answer with words.
Instead, he rose fluidly to his feet, slipping an arm around Rhys’s waist as he did so, lifting him gently without effort. He didn’t let go once they stood level—instead, his hands slid carefully to Rhys’s back, pausing there, asking without words.
Their eyes met—shadowed with wide-eyed, and the Keeper gave a small nod.
The Exarch drew him close, resting his cheek on the crown of his head, holding him with exquisite care.
“I wish I could be the one out there, fighting,” he said softly. “But such days are, I fear, behind me.”
His voice was calm, but Rhys could hear the longing beneath it.
“It is you who fights on my behalf now,” he said. “You who stands where I no longer can.”
His hand moved gently through Rhys’s hair, fingers combing with slow, deliberate care. Rhys closed his eyes, breathing him in — the scent of crystal dust and aged parchment, cool and otherworldly.
“You sweat in my stead. You bleed in my name. You—quite literally—soil your hands where mine remain clean.”
And then, a kiss. Pressed to the top of his head.
Rhys flinched. It wasn’t rejection—just startled instinct.
He leaned back slightly, hands pressed to the Exarch’s chest, tilting his head away and out of reach.
“There’s no need to offer apology for such things,” the Exarch said softly, sensing the doubt behind Rhys’s retreat. “You are a warrior. Such trials come hand in hand with the life you've chosen… or rather, the one you've been given.”
He placed a hand gently over Rhys’s, where it rested upon his chest — a quiet tether.
“If apology is owed, it is mine to give. Time and again. For drawing you into this cause… and never granting you the chance to refuse it.”
A thin silence followed. Words sinking in.
“You’re doing your best… despite the circumstances, I suppose,” Rhys said, his fingers curling into the fabric of the Exarch’s robes. Once again, he wanted to step back—but couldn’t bring himself to move.
“So are you,” the Exarch replied, voice tinged with guilt, loosening his hold ever so slightly.
Hearing the guilt in his voice, Rhys felt a flicker of unease himself. Because… yes, the kiss had caught him off guard—but he had liked it. More than he wanted to admit. And now the question was burning inside him, begging to be asked. Because this tension, this thing between them—it wasn’t going away. It was back with the same intensity as before, and Rhys had never been good at pretending things weren’t there.
He hated ambiguity. Hated unspoken feelings. And with the Exarch, everything was wrapped in ambiguity.
He felt the man’s hands, still resting at the small of his back—loose, weightless. There was no pressure, no restraint. He could pull away at any moment.
But he didn’t.
Instead, Rhys found his arms winding around the other’s waist. He tilted his head upward, just enough to tuck the curve of his nose beneath the Exarch’s chin.
From an outside perspective, the position was… compromising, to say the least. Rhys was keenly aware of it, and it made his head spin—to be this close, this reckless, this vulnerable. His entire body pressed against the other’s, breathing in the scent that lingered so close, then exhaling a trembling breath.
It shouldn’t have felt this natural. This right.
He had never felt this way about another man—except for G'raha. Never wanted physical closeness so badly. And the strangest part… was that the Exarch allowed it. He didn’t flinch, didn’t push him away.
“My lord,” Rhys murmured, voice dangerously low. “Do you see me as a grandson? Or as a man you feel the need to protect? Shelter?”
He felt him tense, ever so slightly.
“I need to know.”
His heart pounded in his chest. This was nothing like what he’d known, years ago, with G’raha. That had been innocent, gentle—this was… something else. Fierce. Burning.
He drew in another breath, and felt the Exarch’s hands shift—slowly gliding upward from his lower back to rest at his waist.
“Not quite,” he said, quiet and sure. “I see you—just as you are.”
Rhys’s breath caught. “Then I’m not going insane,” he whispered. “You feel it too… this pull between us?”
He hadn’t meant to be so blunt—but the moment felt sealed off from the rest of the world. In this space, this stillness, there were no walls. No need for denial.
No taboos.
The hands at his waist tightened, fingers digging into the metal of his armor. The sound of crystal against it whispered through the quiet.
“I confess, it has gnawed at my sanity these past days,” he said, voice low. “But I cannot yield to it. We cannot.”
Rhys frowned, pulling back just enough to meet his glamoured gaze.
The man’s expression had shifted—no longer soft, no longer unsure. He looked serious now. Controlled. And terribly, terribly resolute.
“There are things I cannot, in good conscience, allow myself,” he murmured, a tremor in his breath. “However deeply I might long for them.”
He exhaled and pulled Rhys’s face gently back against his neck. The Keeper closed his eyes, feeling the cold edge of the Exarch’s golden hood crest pass just beside his cheek.
“What are you hiding,” Rhys whispered, completely lost in him, “that’s so terrible you’d go to these lengths?”
The Exarch held him closer.
“Just as I summoned you here, so too do I have a part to play in this tale,” he said, his voice distant—as though already half-turned toward some higher purpose. “A mission was entrusted to me, and I accepted it. I wish I could speak freely… but I cannot. Not yet. Perhaps—when we reach the end of this story—I’ll allow myself to tell you everything.”
His fingers returned to Rhys’s hair, stroking it with gentle familiarity. Silence settled between them again, thick with the weight of all that remained unspoken. Then, slowly, the Exarch raised his left hand—the one unmarred by crystal—and placed it with care against Rhys’s cheek, guiding his gaze upward.
“Until that time,” he murmured, brushing a thumb along his skin, “we would do well to show restraint.”
Rhys stared at him, heart pounding. “You’re just as much a prisoner here as I am,” he said at last. “This was forced on you, too.”
But the smile the Exarch gave him—gentle, aching—broke something deep within him.
“You’re wrong,” he replied softly. “This path wasn’t forced upon me. It was offered. And I chose it—willingly.”
Rhys couldn’t bear to look at that sad, compassionate smile anymore. That quiet nobility.
He didn’t deserve it.
Even if he could have had him—truly had him—he never would have been worthy. Not in this life. Not in a hundred lifetimes.
And now he found himself once again backed against that same wall—the one where love was unreachable, and hope came with a price too steep to pay.
He had let himself grow attached again, far too quickly, far too deeply. And even though he’d fought it—fought the feeling, the urgency—it had already taken root.
The battle was over before he knew it.
And once again… he had lost.
“You’ve already spent a hundred years in this hell,” Rhys murmured. “You’ve witnessed so much suffering.”
He lifted his face, his cheek still cupped in the Exarch’s hand.
“You must have suffered too,” he added, his voice catching.
He moved one hand from where it rested at the Exarch’s back, reaching up to gently touch the crystal at his neck. His fingertips met the surface—hard, cold, unyielding. "Suffered so much."
It chilled him to the bone.
More than anything, in that moment, he wanted to warm him. To ease the unnatural cold locked in his body.
“I assure you, I’m perfectly fine, Rhysard,” the Exarch whispered, though his voice trembled with emotion as he looked into his eyes—eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "Truly."
“Come, sit with me. The floor’s cold—and you’re barefoot,” he said gently, guiding them both to the edge of the bed.
He sat, and Rhys followed, folding beside him, willing the tears not to fall. The cold of the floor had clung to him, just like the cold in him. And the thought of it broke something deep within.
“Is it truly impossible?” he asked, his voice hollow. “For us to be together?”
He needed to hear it. Needed the confirmation, even if it would leave him emptier than before.
It wasn’t normal. None of this was. Not the way he craved closeness with someone he barely knew. Not the way he exposed his heart so recklessly, so bluntly.
But somehow, it felt like the only way to breathe.
“I’m sorry,” the Exarch said softly, pressing his cheek to the top of Rhys’s head, his arms encircling him, strong and slightly warm despite everything. “We mustn’t give in to these urges—even when they come with force.”
He pulled him closer.
"Let’s be each other’s anchor, all right?” he whispered.
Rhys nodded against him, still not fully understanding—but grateful, at least, for his honesty. He recalled the other day, how the Exarch had begged him to pull away, to resist him.
They had a mission. That had to come first.
If he said it was impossible—if he believed it was selfish to share his private life with anyone—then Rhys had to believe him. The Exarch was a man shrouded in secrets, wielding ancient and dangerous magicks. But he had the integrity to be clear rather than risk breaking something precious over time.
“I would never wish my choices to bring you pain,” his host said gently.
“And I cannot offer promises I may never be able to keep.”
His voice lowered.
“Had this been merely physical… perhaps we might have made it work. But alas…”
He shook his head, letting the words trail off into silence. He didn’t need to finish the sentence.
What existed between them went far beyond physical desire. There was something deeper growing in the quiet between words—something unspoken but undeniably real. Affection. Understanding. Perhaps even friendship, though it hadn’t yet had time to fully bloom.
The more he spoke, the worse Rhys felt.
He was so selfless. So careful with the hearts of others. And Rhys could do nothing but accept it—even if every fiber of his being screamed in protest. The pain was deeper than it should have been, disturbingly so. It unsettled him, how hard he was taking this. How hollow he suddenly felt.
How much he wanted.
Not just wanted—wanted him for himself. Exclusively. Possessively. And that terrified him.
"I'll do it anyway, in your stead", Rhys whispered. "I promise that if we—when we'll succeed, we will allow this". He stopped for a heartbeat—
“—This thing between us,” he resumed, quietly, “It’s not… normal.”
He closed his eyes, letting the truth fall freely from his lips.
“It’s too strong. Too fast. Too…” He shook his head. “Too much. I’ve never—I’m not even supposed to be attracted to men. And believe me, it’s not for lack of trying to prove myself otherwise.”
A low, guttural sound vibrated in the Seeker's throat, silencing him for a moment.
“When we’re this close,” he continued, pressing his fingers into the fabric of the Exarch’s robes, clutching at his back, “I feel like I’ve known you my entire life. Like I’ve been waiting for you for my entire life.”
He felt unmoored, untethered—but he didn’t care. There was no shame in speaking it aloud. No fear in being vulnerable here, with him.
“But the truth is… I barely know you. I’ve only been here ten days. We haven’t really shared anything—anything tangible. And I’m trying to understand. Is it something deeper? Is it instinct that drives this? That lets us recognize so clearly the one who’s meant for us?—", he was mortified. Allowing himself to say the final words. "—Our mate ?”
He didn’t receive an answer right away—only silence. Perhaps there was no answer. Perhaps the Exarch was just as lost as he was, just as helpless in the face of something that had never had the chance to become real. Something they were both denying the right to exist.
But then, the answer came.
“Come now, don’t be sad,” he whispered, voice thin with the effort to remain light. “You could find someone far better than me out there. Someone younger. Someone who doesn’t make you sick.”
And yet, despite his words, his grip on Rhys’s shoulders tightened just slightly, as though he couldn’t quite bear to let go.
Rhys had to bite back the truth. That no—strangely, it was him he wanted. Saying it aloud would’ve been selfish, cruel even, in light of everything. But it didn’t stop the feeling from digging its claws into his chest, burning low and constant, refusing to let go.
They sat together in silence for a while, a quiet, hesitant embrace growing steadily deeper. Rhys didn’t know what he felt anymore. He was in his room—no, in his room, within the Crystal Tower, sitting on his bed, wrapped in the arms of one of the city’s most enigmatic leaders. The sheer improbability of it made his head spin. The conversation they were having, even more so.
He didn’t want to let go. And he didn’t want to be let go. Because he knew the moment they pulled apart, this moment would become the past. And he wasn’t ready to lose it yet.
He shifted slightly, lifting his head from where it had rested against the Exarch’s chest until the cool surface of the crystal at his neck pressed softly to his cheek. It grounded him, and also made him ache.
He took a breath, gathering the courage to speak again.
“Can I have a real hug?” he asked, voice stong and steady.
The Exarch paused—just for a moment—before he gently moved a hand beneath Rhys’s armored thigh, guiding him to straddle his lap. Rhys didn’t hesitate. Slowly, carefully, he climbed onto him, mindful of the mithril plates threatening to snag the soft fabric of those impossibly fine robes.
It was the first time he’d ever found himself like this, seated on another man’s lap. And yet... it felt right. It felt natural.
He let out a short, nervous laugh and wrapped his arms around the Exarch’s shoulders, encircling the hooded head in his embrace, drawing him in.
“Thank you,” he whispered, his breath trembling against the fabric of the hood. The Exarch tightened his hold around Rhys’s waist in response, a hand rising to stroke the back of his head in quiet comfort.
“For bringing you to this world without consent, I offer my deepest apology,” he said softly, his breath ghosting beneath Rhys’s collar.
“And if the circumstances had been different… perhaps I could have given you the tenderness and the love you were never meant to be denied.”
Rhys pressed his cheek gently against the top of the Exarch’s hood. He didn’t know what to say—had no words.
A moment passed. That cool breath continued to brush against his neck, a whisper-soft reminder of the man who held him, until the silence was broken.
“Rhysard.”
The name was spoken quietly, and Rhys murmured a reply without moving. He still didn’t want to let go.
“Rhysard,” the Exarch repeated, and this time, there was something different in his voice. It was soft again, but tinged with unmistakable pain.
It was enough to make Rhys finally lift his head, his eyes falling to the other’s face.
And then he froze.
A single tear was slipping down the Exarch’s cheek.
The sight cut through him, and before he could second-guess himself, Rhys lifted a hand to brush it away. His fingers lingered, tracing the sharp line of crystal that climbed his cheek. The back of his fingers grazed the curve of his jaw, then drifted to his lips—hesitant, reverent.
“What's happen—”
He didn’t finish the hushed-sentence.
The Exarch’s hand—cool, crystalline—slipped down inside his collar, fingers brushing the nape of his neck with astonishing tenderness. And then, gently, they urged him downward.
Toward him.
Gods.
Rhys had wanted to kiss him, but never once had he dared. He didn’t have the courage, didn’t want to be rejected or pushed away. And yet here he was—invited. Silently, yes, but unmistakably. A kiss, offered not as indulgence but as recognition. Between two lost souls who somehow, impossibly, belonged to each other.
Rhys leaned in, breath shaky, and whispered a soft, trembling “Yes” against his lips—just before the Exarch closed the last inch between them.
His eyes fluttered shut.
The kiss was light—achingly light. Gentle. So tender it was almost unbearable. Two soft, fleeting kisses pressed to his lips, chaste enough to shatter him.
Emotion rose like a tide, overwhelming and warm. This, after all these years, was what he had been searching for.
He kissed him back, letting the contact linger. His hand resumed its quiet path along the line of his jaw, then down to rest at his throat—shy, restrained, almost afraid to want more.
Eventually, the Exarch pulled back, just as slowly as he’d begun. But he didn’t go far. Their foreheads hovered close, breaths mingling in the silence they couldn’t bring themselves to break.
They stayed like that for a while, their foreheads nearly touching, their breaths shared in the fragile space between them. The closeness was stifling—and yet neither of them pulled away.
The Exarch’s breath trembled against his lips as he leaned back just enough to whisper, “We shouldn’t.”
But the words contradicted everything else about him—the way he wet his lips slowly, the way he leaned in again, his mouth parted, breathing Rhys in like he couldn’t help himself.
“If you go too far,” Rhys whispered back, voice low and just as breathless, “I’ll stop you.”
His own lips parted in invitation, and he inhaled that cold, ethereal breath again. It felt intimate in a way nothing ever had—sharing air, heat, restraint. The Exarch kissed him again, a bit deeper this time, and Rhys smiled into it without meaning to. He felt the answering smile in return, and it undid him completely.
There was something right about this. Something simple, unspoken, true. The gentleness, the hesitance—it wasn’t passion born of lust, but of connection, of aching understanding.
Rhys melted against him, lowering his hand to push the heavy hood back, careful not to let the gold spike graze his skin. He tilted his head, angling just enough to feel the change in the kiss as the Exarch opened his mouth further, catching Rhys’s lips in his own and gently sucking. It was clumsy—hesitant, unsure—but that only made it more real.
He felt one of the Exarch’s arms tighten around his waist. And then suddenly, they were shifting—tilting—until Rhys was lying flat against the bed, the soft mattress catching the back of his head.
His breath hitched.
He reached up instinctively, cupping the Exarch’s face in both hands, and gently drew him back—away from his lips, away from temptation.
They had to stop.
He had to stop.
And he knew it.
But, by the Seven Hells, he wanted just a little more.
It was such a strange feeling—to be the one lying beneath someone, to be the one pinned to a bed. The one being held down.
And Rhys realized—it was perfectly okay.
He parted his legs slightly, allowing his weight to settle more comfortably between them.
The Exarch hovered over him, his breath calm and steady, fanning across his face. He still seemed in control of himself, composed. He gave the faintest nod—silent permission to continue.
Just a little more.
Only a little.
The Exarch swallowed, then took one of Rhys’s hands—the one now resting on his shoulder—and brought it to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to his palm.
“Forgive me,” he murmured in that deep, low voice. “I’m a little out of practice.”
Rhys gave him a soft smile, his hand on his cheek moving to the side of his neck, slipping into the hood to press lightly, guiding him back down.
"Don't you dare", he whispered against him, his breath tingling his lips, "you're fucking perfect".
The Exarch gave a quiet chuckle in return, small and shy, before leaning in again.
Rhys felt the tip of his tongue brush against his lips—a light, testing stroke—before he kissed him once more. So gently. Always so gently. Just enough pressure to say I’m here.
And then everything changed.
Rhys licked his lips in return, asking wordlessly for more. A little deeper. A little closer.
And the Exarch gave in.
Rhys let out a shaky breath as the kiss deepened, his hands gripping the front of those long robes when he felt the cool slide of a tongue slipping past his lips. The angle was awkward at first, but the Exarch adjusted, tilting his head to make room.
He was so cold.
Gods above.
Their tongues slid against each other, slow and searching, before the Exarch settled more fully atop Rhys, a shattered, broken sound escaping him—half-moan, half-mewl. His guard had slipped, just slightly, as emotion swelled within him: desire, yes, but deeper than that—need. Pure, raw need for closeness.
He traced the tip of his tongue along Rhys’s fangs, and a fierce growl rumbled from his chest when Rhys gave him a playful bite in return.
That was the breaking point.
It had to stop.
Propping himself up on one elbow, Rhys pressed a hand firmly to the Exarch’s chest, pushing him back—not harshly, but with enough insistence to make him pull away.
It wasn’t easy.
Not with the Exarch’s weight still on him. Not when every fiber of his body was aching to surrender, to lie back and let go, to let himself be taken apart by those cool hands and reverent lips. But he forced himself to move. His arms and thighs strained as he helped guide the Exarch upright, returning them to the position they’d started in.
Rhys remained straddling him, still seated in his lap, face to face.
With one final push to the chest, he gently eased him back, their lips parting in slow resistance—his tongue trailing across the other’s one last time, their mouths brushing in one last sensual farewell before his tongue slipped back into his own mouth. The kiss broke with a soft, wet sound.
Seven—fucking—Hells.
“Wow… well then…” Rhys murmured, dragging a hand down his face as his whole body buzzed, trembling with the effort of calming himself. He slowly shifted, resettling on the blankets, pulse racing.
He could still hear the Exarch’s breath—shaky, uneven—but he didn’t dare look up. If he looked at him now, it would be over. They’d fall again, willingly, headfirst into something they couldn’t take back.
He’s mine, Rhys thought, pupils growing wide. Gods help me, i know he’s mine.
Something had happened. That thing between them, it grew. Rhys could feel it.
Blinding possessiveness, utter bliss and something feral was blooming in his every being.
The silence stretched, broken only by the sound of their ragged breathing, before the Exarch finally spoke—his voice low, hoarse with restraint.
"I want you so much," the Exarch whispered.
There was no need to define what he meant. The hunger in his tone was unmistakable, echoing the raw tension still pulsing between them like a live wire. It throbbed in the air, thick and volatile, threatening to ignite again—to consume them both in a blaze of feeling too big, too dangerous to name.
They stayed like that for a long while, trying to calm themselves, to smother the fire sparked from embers they’d both believed long dead.
Eventually, the Exarch broke the silence again.
“This… can’t happen again.”
He reached out, palm open. Rhys took it without hesitation, still avoiding to look at his face, lacing their fingers together.
“It would only wound us in the end.”
Rhys didn’t argue. He couldn’t. Those kisses—they had been gifts. Treasures he would keep close to his heart for as long as he lived. It was already more than he deserved.
“Thank you, Rhysard,” the Exarch said softly, lifting their joined hands to his lips.
“Vauthry is mistaken. Paradise does not lie in Eulmore—it is not something to be bought, nor seized by entitlement. Paradise is here, upon this star… wherever the heart dares to rest.”
He pressed a trembling kiss to the back of Rhys’s hand.
“And for one fleeting moment… I glimpsed it—with you.”
Rhys forgot how to breathe.
They felt it—both of them. This unbearable, beautiful thing that had bloomed between them. But they had to set it aside. Walk away from it. For now.
Why, Rhys didn’t understand. The Exarch wouldn’t say, not yet. And it was driving him mad. He wanted to shout, to rail against the injustice of it—but all he could do was nod, defeated.
“As difficult as it will be… once we walk through those doors, we forget what happened here,” the Exarch said quietly. “We take the lesson with us. And we begin anew. Properly. Platonically.”
Rhys nodded again, silent, allowing him to speak.
“I’m afraid,” the Exarch admitted. “Afraid of losing control. Of overstepping. Of doing something… I cannot undo.”
He raised Rhys’s hand again, pressing a kiss to his fingers—this time lingering, trembling ever so slightly.
“Because if we allow ourselves certain pleasures…” He faltered, color blooming across his cheeks. “We may never be able to stop.”
Rhys finally looked at him, lips parted at the sight of his blushing face, so vulnerable and sincere.
“I can feel it—your feelings…” His voice cracked.
He took a breath, barely steady.
“But I need you to trust me. Fully. Blindly, even. I know what I ask is unfair.”
“I’m trying—and failing—to keep myself in check. Fighting what I want.”
He gently lowered Rhys’s hand from his face, resting it between them, as if grounding himself.
“Please… don’t tempt me. Not if it can be helped. If the tension grows too much—walk away. Gods, strike me if you must,” he added, with a laugh so thin it barely passed for humor.
“So long as we remain chaste—as friends—I can endure it. I want your closeness. I need your presence beside me.”
Slowly, he raised a hand to Rhys’s cheek, fingertips brushing the golden tattoos etched into his dusky skin with reverence.
“But if even that becomes too much… if it hurts to be near me and want more…”
He hesitated—then met Rhys’s gaze fully, expression laid bare, raw and open under his cowl.
“Then go. I’ll understand.”
A pause, heavy.
“And I won’t blame you.”
Rhys knew he was underestimating himself. He had never pushed him, never cornered him. Every time they'd gotten close, it had only taken a word, a gesture, for him to freeze—unable to move forward.
“Alright,” Rhys said gently. “Just… don’t pull away. This tenderness you show—this thing between us—it’s helping me more than you know. It’s what’s getting me through.”
“So long as it stays under control,” the Exarch replied. “No more deep kisses. No lingering touches.” He let his fingers brush Rhys’s chest piece, tapping it lightly. “And don’t ask me to fix your armor.”
Despite everything, Rhys let out a small laugh. Gods, they had both been mortified that day.
“Are we of one mind in this?” he asked quietly, searching Rhys’s face for certainty.
Rhys nodded. “Yes.”
“Good.”
Rhys pushed himself up, his limbs aching inside the constraints of his armor. He extended both hands to help the Exarch, who was still seated, to his feet. The moment they were face to face again, standing apart with space between them, Rhys suddenly felt shy.
Even after everything.
The words.
The touches.
The kisses.
This man—this stranger, in many ways—who had pulled him into another world. Who’d torn his friends from their own. Who led a city of survivors and rebels. Who had to remain strong in the face of everything. Who surely carried a terrible power beneath his serene, careful surface.
This man had just peeled him bare.
And let himself be seen.
It made Rhys feel inexplicably timid. Vulnerable. How had they opened themselves up so quickly—so recklessly—to one another again? How had they so easily shared their fears, their doubts, their longings?
A warm hand cupped his cheek, gently pulling him from his thoughts. He looked up, startled, eyes wide.
“Do you… still wish to share a meal with me?” the Exarch asked, his head tilting slightly to the side.
Gods. He was… adorable.
Rhys had never thought he’d feel that way about another man again—especially not him.
“I need to wash up first,” he murmured, laying his hand gently over the one still resting against his cheek.
“If that’s what you need, then go,” the Exarch said softly. “I’ll be just across the hall. Waiting.”
Rhys nodded, though he felt hollow inside. They were so close—so close—yet impossibly far. Moments like this wouldn’t come again for a long time. Maybe never. Not unless their mission succeeded.
“Let me say goodbye properly,” he whispered, his voice hoarse.
One arm slid around the Exarch’s waist, the other rose to cradle the curve of his neck. His fingertips brushed the edge of the crystal embedded there—cool, unmoving beneath his touch. With the back of his hand, he swept the hood away. “Please,” he added, and the word tasted like iron on his tongue.
It shouldn’t have needed permission.
Not if he truly belonged to him.
“Of course,” the Exarch murmured, bowing his head slightly in offering.
Rhys leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to the tender spot just above his Adam’s apple—between the ridged, crystalline veins that crawled up his throat. Slow. Reverent. Then he drew back, tilting his head slightly, wordless in his invitation.
The Exarch’s hands found either side of his neck—cool, steady—before his lips lowered to that same place. They lingered there, breathing into the kiss.
But then, instead of pulling away, the Exarch leaned forward, arms sliding around him in a slow collapse. His head dropped into the crook of Rhys’s neck, hood slipping back, and for the briefest instant, Rhys caught the glint of snow-white hair before the man turned his face into his skin.
Gods.
Rhys held him close, arms wrapping around his veiled head, eyes slipping shut as he simply felt.
Felt the chill of his body against his own.
Felt the flutter of lashes brushing his skin as the other man breathed him in.
Felt the soft kisses—gentle, trembling—ghost across his throat.
Felt the weight of everything they hadn’t said, everything they might never say.
It was too much. And yet—
He did something he hadn’t done in years.
Right here, feeling utterly safe in his embrace, feeling like he truly belonged—
—He purred.
Low and soft, the sound vibrated deep in his chest, a tender rumble that made the Exarch tighten his arms around him with a breathless, broken little exhale.
The purring trembled. Shook. Broke—cracking with the sobs that tore suddenly out of Rhys’s throat, raw and aching and real. He buried his face in the other’s shoulder, breath catching as his body trembled with it.
He was coming apart in his arms.
His heart was breaking. Shattering.
The Exarch shifted slightly, never letting go. One hand rose to guide Rhys’s face down, just enough for their lips to meet—gentle, slow, a touch so sweet it hurt. Rhys parted his lips, and the purr spilled between them, vibrating in the space where breath met breath, tongue met tongue. A final caress. A quiet plea.
Their farewell.
Their last kiss—for now.
And Gods, it was agony.
Rhys broke it slowly, reluctantly. His forehead came to rest against the Exarch’s, and he stayed there, still breathing him in. He felt fingers slide up into his hair, brushing through the short strands at the nape of his neck, grounding him even as everything inside him came undone.
“It is my hope that, in time… we may continue from where we parted,” the Exarch murmured, barely above a whisper.
Rhys said nothing.
He wasn’t supposed to feel this shattered. Not after barely two weeks.
But it wasn’t just that.
This moment—this person—mirrored a pain that had already left deep grooves in his soul.
G'raha. The past. The instincts he couldn’t quiet. The eerie parallels that weren’t quite the same, but close enough to drive him mad.
He clenched his jaw, doing everything in his power to hold back the tears stinging his eyes.
Without another word, he turned and walked toward the washroom on the right, the silence behind him heavy and unbearable.
☾
Rhys had dressed in a long black robe—loose, flowing, as per usual. He didn’t know how he was supposed to live now.
He had tasted paradise.
And now, he had to walk back into hell.
Literally. To earn his happy ending, he would have to endure every trial first.
He would have to be strong.
That, at least, he knew how to do.
It was part of the job—Warrior of Light.
He whispered a quiet prayer to Menphina before stepping out of his quarters, making his way down the crystalline hallway.
The door across the way was slightly ajar. He pushed it open fully and left it like that—just in case he'd need to flee.
A stew was simmering gently on the hearth, the rich scent wrapping around him like a warm embrace. Judging by the texture, it had been cooking for quite some time. It looked—and smelled—incredible.
Rhys’s eyes widened as he took a seat across from him. “You could feed the entire Crystarium with that,” he said, eyeing the size of the pot.
The Exarch gave a small nod, smiling. “Once you’ve eaten, would you care to join me in Lakeland?”
“Is this for your soldiers?” Rhys asked, his ears perking up.
“I used to prepare meals for Lyna before her shifts—when she was younger,” he said as he rose to retrieve a pair of plates. “In time, she began to find it… rather embarrassing.”
A faint smile touched his lips, fond and a little rueful.
The Keeper rose as well, reaching for the ladle. “And so, to spare myself her wrath—and the inevitable awkward silences—I began bringing meals to the patrols stationed near the city’s edge,” he added with a soft huff of amusement.
“When time permits, of course. On days not consumed by reports… or sin eater incursions.”
Rhys smiled softly as his tail gave a small flick, brushing against the small of the Exarch’s back. The man tilted his head slightly at the contact, then returned the smile—warm and honest.
“You don’t need to fill my plate that much,” he said gently. “I don’t have much of an appetite.”
Rhys had noticed that. The Exarch ate very little, and what he did consume was usually sweet—comforting. Pleasure food.
He suspected it had something to do with the crystal winding across his body, but he didn’t ask. Not yet. The instinct to protect that boundary was too strong.
“My Lord, tell me… did you bring her strawbaby tarts?” Rhys asked, mischief dancing in his voice. “Or strawbaby jelly ?”
The Exarch blinked, momentarily stunned by Rhys’s audacity—equal parts caught off guard and quietly entertained. But he couldn’t suppress the small smile that tugged at the corner of his lips.
He shook his head slowly, shadowed eyes narrowing with mock sternness.
“Careful what you say,” he murmured, his voice low and threaded with amusement. “These walls have ears. Really big ones, actually.”
Rhys grinned, entirely unrepentant.
They sat at the table, and Rhys had to consciously stop himself from watching him eat. From staring, like a fool, and making him uncomfortable.
“Thank you for the meal,” he said instead, finally taking a bite, still smiling onto himself.
The flavor hit him at once. Warm, rich, perfectly seasoned. “This is amazing. The vegetables are so tender—they just melt in your mouth.”
He paused.
Risked a glance.
Like your kisses.
“Thank you,” came the soft reply, almost bashful.
This—this gentle, domestic moment, after everything they’d said, everything they’d done—was somehow more disarming than the kisses had been.
The ordinary was devastating.
Notes:
Take a shot each time my woL breaks down.
He's a crybaby but i love him anyway.But well, I feel like I need to apologize
From now on, it will be only longing and pain.
Chapter Text
The next afternoon, just before evening fell, a knock echoed through the main door of Rhys’ quarters.
The Keeper stood quickly. He was in the adjacent room, where he kept all his gear—busy cleaning, organizing, making sure everything was within easy reach should the need arise.
Truth be told, he expected to find the Exarch waiting on the other side. So when he opened the door and saw Alisaie standing there instead, surprise lit up his face—followed by a broad smile.
“Well, someone finally agreed to settle in the Tower!” the young Elezen declared with an unexpected smirk.
Rhys stepped aside to let her in, gesturing toward the room without a word. He’d meant to ask how she was doing—really doing—but held back. If she wanted to speak about it, she would.
“At least you can’t hear that awful noise up here,” he remarked as she stepped inside.
She grinned at that—something sharp and playful.
“Is your brother here as well?” he asked as he made his way back into the other room.
She followed, her gaze wandering over the walls, lingering on the dark membrane stretched across them... then lifting upward.
“He’s downstairs,” she replied absently. “Are those constellations?”
She had stopped mid-step, rooted in place, eyes fixed on the ceiling above.
It struck him then—it had been over a year since she’d seen a night sky, even a fabricated one.
He came up behind her and rested his hands gently on her shoulders, eyes also drawn to the shimmering points of light above them.
“It has its perks, being here with him after all, doesn’t it?” she asked quietly.
Rhys let out a warm laugh, nodding.
“I didn’t trust him at first,” she admitted, “but he’s proven himself. He’s a good man, Rhys.”
He didn’t need the convincing—he was already more than convinced—but the words still meant something. Coming from her, they meant a great deal.
“Don’t tell him I said that,” she warned, noticing his smile.
“Yes,” he agreed softly. “He cares deeply for his people. He tries his best.”
“He coddled Alphinaud and me so much when we first arrived,” she said, rubbing her forearm as if to chase away a sudden chill. “I didn’t think there was a soul in this world who could rival our mother in that regard.”
Rhys burst out laughing as he crossed into the left-hand room. Oh, yes—he remembered the same treatment all too well when he had first arrived. The sheer amount of negotiating it had taken… Gods above. That man was so stubborn. So endearingly stubborn. Always trying to do things right, as if he had something to prove.
And yet he was the beloved leader of this city. Everyone knew he didn’t need to try that hard. But he did. He always did.
He called out to Alisaie as he pushed open the door. “You’re just in time—I have something to show you. I was going to wait, but…” He shrugged, letting her step inside with him.
Her brows knit as she looked around. The room was vast, with two small tables set up near the door. Upon them rested pieces of armor and his black mage robes—his duelist attire neatly arranged. And then, by his staff, enclosed in a long glass case…
He saw her eyes light up as she approached.
“The Exarch introduced me to a pixie,” he explained. “A fae tied to me in a way that lets me bring things across the rift—from the Source to the First.”
She reached forward with reverence, fingers brushing the glass, before carefully lifting the red and gold rapier from its place. Her touch was cautious, respectful.
“I haven’t even had a chance to test it,” he added, watching her expression with a soft smile. “It’s been a few months since I recovered it from Reisen Temple—after defeating Suzaku.”
She infused the blade with a touch of aether, testing its weight and balance. When she released it, she was surprised to see the blade ignite, casting a warm orange glow across the crystalline walls—and lighting up her face with it.
“Oh, wow… it’s beautiful,” she breathed.
She moved slowly through the room, shifting her stance into a few familiar combat forms, as if sparring with an invisible opponent. A faint smile curled her lips.
“A little heavy, though,” she noted, glancing over her shoulder. “I remember when we first met—you were a full-time Red Mage back then.” Her gaze dropped pointedly to his black robes. “Don’t you miss it?”
“Terribly,” he answered without hesitation. “I brought back my gear and my focus crystal for that very reason. I’ve been thinking about picking it back up again.”
He caught the way her eyes lit up—he’d always known she looked up to him, that she’d likely chosen her own path partly in his footsteps.
“Would you be interested in training with me sometime in the next few days?” he asked, arching a brow.
The grin she gave him was sharp and fierce.
That’s what I want to see, he thought. That spark back in her eyes. Life returning to her face.
“Just say the word and I’ll be there,” she replied, handing the rapier back with a nod. “Though, I imagine you’re rusty as hell. And let’s not forget—you’re getting old, Rhys. I won’t go easy on you.”
He barked an exaggerated, offended laugh and bumped her shoulder hard enough to make her stagger a step.
“Care for a walk?” he offered, rubbing the same shoulder before slinging an arm around it in a casual embrace. “We’ll drag your brother along too. He won’t have a choice.”
She nodded, and the two of them headed toward the door—only to find Alphinaud standing just outside, breathless and flushed. He’d clearly taken the stairs rather than the teleportation pad to reach the upper floor.
Alisaie burst into laughter at the sight of her brother’s red face and heaved shoulders, while Alphinaud threw a puzzled look at Rhys.
What in the world had put her in such a good mood?
“I just came from downstairs,” he panted. “The Exarch wants to speak with us.”
“Is it serious?” Rhys asked, instantly alert.
Alphinaud shook his head. “No, nothing like that. Just… something important.”
“Alright then. Let’s go.”
Alisaie stepped onto the teleportation pad first and vanished in a shimmer of light. Rhys turned to Alphinaud, a knowing smile on his lips. “I’ll fill you in on what had her laughing later. Come on—use the pad.”
With a brief shimmer, they too reappeared—this time at the entrance to the Observatory, its doors wide open.
The Exarch was waiting just inside, standing before his great mirror. He greeted them with his usual gentle smile, eyes warm as they stepped into the chamber.
Rhys sniffed the air lightly as he entered. There was something… unfamiliar.
✹
"I took the liberty of bringing you something light to eat—given how late it is," the Exarch said gently. "I hope it suits your tastes."
He handed each of them a large, steaming bowl of soup. The rich aroma filled the room, and the warmth of the porcelain was a comfort in their hands.
“I’d like to take advantage of this moment—while you’re all here—to share more details about our enemies. The sin eaters.”
His focus shifted to Alisaie. She met him and gave a terse nod, her fingers tightening around the bowl with visible frustration. Good. He had her full attention. He hadn’t wanted to rush her into the conversation, but the situation left them little choice—and now, at least, he had her consent. That was enough.
He let them eat in peace for a few minutes before speaking further. He tried not to stare at the other Miqo’te for too long. Tried—and failed.
He caught Rhys looking up at him, their eyes meeting for a brief moment. The expression he found there was shy, soft—almost endearingly so.
Focus.
He opened his mouth to begin, but the words caught in his throat. That one glance had thrown him completely off balance, and whatever sentence he’d rehearsed vanished like mist.
He cleared his throat quietly and brought a hand to his lips in an attempt to recover his composure.
Across from him, Rhys ducked his head, a small smile playing on his lips.
This was going to be difficult.
They had both, it seemed, gotten themselves into quite the mess.
☾
Rhys did his best to stay focused on the Exarch’s explanations. He fixed his gaze on one of the pale blue crystals adorning the man’s robes, just beneath the high collar. It was easier than looking at his face—too easy to get lost there.
The Exarch described the different types of Sin eaters identified so far, and the roles they appeared to serve within their hierarchy. At the top were the lightwardens. The more Rhys heard, the more he tried to imagine how they might be defeated—but the truth was, no real solution presented itself.
His eyes drifted upward again, just slightly, and found the Exarch turning toward him as he continued to speak.
What did he see in me? Rhys wondered. What could he possibly have seen—enough to reach across the rift between worlds and summon me from the Source?
The Exarch’s belief in him seemed to exceed anything he believed about himself. It felt impossible, unreasonable. He had to be hiding some kind of contingency plan—some ace up his sleeve. There could be no other explanation.
Still, the Exarch’s voice remained gentle, steady, as he shifted seamlessly to the subject of the various shards and the Source, explaining the dynamics between them, what caused the Calamities, and what would likely lead to the downfall of the First.
His words were clear, measured, and carried the weight of years spent studying these fragile threads between worlds. Rhys felt a chill as the Exarch prepared to introduce a new topic—only for the doors to burst open with a thunderclap, making the twins and even the Exarch himself start in surprise.
Lyna stormed in, breathless, panic in her voice.
“Holminster Switch has come under attack. A lightwarden is leading it.”
Orders followed swiftly. The decision was made to regroup at the city gates in five minutes and head out together.
The nightmare was beginning again.
Rhys realized he wasn’t wearing his armor and broke into a sprint toward the stairs. Alisaie followed close behind without a word.
He tore off his robe and slipped into his armor with practiced efficiency, each motion sharp and purposeful. Alisaie was already helping—tightening the straps, securing the corset. Neither of them needed to speak; they moved like old partners, each gesture automatic, synchronized. He seized his staff, and the two of them bolted outside.
The others had just arrived. Without wasting a breath, they set out together—crossing through Lakeland, heading for Holminster.
Straight into the heart of the storm.
☾
The Exarch insisted on joining the battle, conjuring from the aether a radiant white shield and sword that gleamed like starlight. He took the lead as they stepped into the heart of the nightmare, swearing to protect them all.
The path through the village was grueling. Horror met them at every corner—villagers mid-transformation, some already lost to madness, others attacking their own. It was impossible to be everywhere at once, to save everyone.
Rhys cursed his lack of mobility as a black mage, worsened by the restrictive weight of his armor. More than once, he felt the Exarch—swift and vigilant—move behind him, blocking a deadly blow with a sudden shield slam, always guarding his blind spots.
Alisaie danced through the chaos with the sharp grace of her red magic. Lyna spun with lethal precision, chakrams whirling. Alphinaud stayed close, focused, shielding the group and helping any survivors they came across. And the Exarch... he was remarkable. With his skill alone, he could have easily served among the royal guard. Rhys couldn't help but be in awe—not just of him, but of how far the twins had come. They were no longer the fledgling adventurers he’d once met.
And yet, he himself felt like dead weight.
Black magic was powerful, yes—it tore through their enemies with ease. But the casting time, the immobility... it wasn't sustainable. Not in a world like this, where every battle seemed designed to catch you unaware. He needed freedom of movement. Needed agility. And gods, he regretted not bringing his rapier with him.
It felt like an eternity since they’d entered Holminster, when, suddenly, Rhys saw a figure in the distance—a Sin eater.
But not just any Sin eater.
A flicker of memory exploded across his vision. Blonde hair. Gentle eyes. Wax sealing a shattered face. Wings.
Tesleen.
His breath caught in his throat, and he turned toward Alisaie—she had seen it too. He saw the way her hands trembled on her weapon, and for a moment, he feared she would collapse.
But instead, she let out a cry—a scream forged in grief and fury—and charged.
The Exarch called out her name, catching up in a blur of white and silver, planting himself before her with shield raised. “We’ll bring her down, Alisaie. But don’t throw yourself into danger—let’s face this together. All of us.”
That moment—that surge of fire in Alisaie’s eyes—was what broke Rhys from his stupor. The others had already moved. He followed, gathering his strength, and dove into the fray.
For Tesleen.
For justice.
☾
The lightwarden of Lakeland had fallen.
According to the Exarch’s earlier explanation, the Light, once released, was meant to seek out the nearest soul—drawn like a moth to a flame. That soul would absorb its power, become a new Lightwarden, carrying forward the cursed legacy of the last.
And Rhys saw it—that blinding brilliance spilling from the creature’s broken husk, hovering for a heartbeat… then drifting toward him.
He stepped back. He didn’t even realize the scream tearing through the air was his own. Panic clutched his chest like a vice. Did the Exarch mean to sacrifice him? His wide, disbelieving eyes turned toward the paladin.
“Don’t be afraid, Rhysard,” the Exarch said gently. “It won’t hurt you. Trust me.”
The voice was calm. Kind. But it barely reached him through the roar of panic flooding his senses.
And then—Alphinaud.
He was just behind him. Close. Too close.
If Rhys moved, if he fled—it would take him instead.
No.
No.
Something within him shifted. Locked into place.
Rhys stepped forward.
The Light struck. It pierced into him—not with pain, but a force so immense it stole the breath from his lungs. His knees nearly buckled. Even when he closed his eyes, the whiteness remained, searing through thought and flesh and bone alike.
Then, suddenly—it was over.
Or rather... changed.
Something stirred within him. Deep and foreign. Heavy. As if something ancient had awakened.
Instinct surged before reason. His arm lifted skyward, unthinking—and he released it. All of it.
A thunderclap cracked the silence. Energy erupted from his core, roaring into the heavens.
And before them all—Alisaie, Alphinaud, Lyna, the Exarch—the impossible happened.
The sky broke.
The ever-present, endless Light tore open, riven down the center. A pillar of darkness—cool, absolute—rose from Rhys’s body and punched into the heavens, unraveling the day.
And then—
Night.
Real, living, star-strewn night.
For the first time in a hundred years, the First knew darkness again.
And it was beautiful.
-
The clang of metal rang out behind him. Rhys turned, startled—only to see the Exarch drop to one knee, bowing before him.
Before him—the one now bearing the Light’s blessing.
Him, immune to its corruption. Him, who could absorb the power of the Grand Purifiers without succumbing. Him, who could become the key to saving the First.
And them—who now had a weapon strong enough to see their mission through.
They, the Warriors of Darkness.
Rhys stood motionless, too shaken to grasp the weight of what had just happened. But deep down, something shifted. The question that had haunted him since the moment he’d arrived… had finally found its answer.
“Come,” the Exarch said, rising. “Let us return to the Crystarium. The people will be in uproar—we have a victory to celebrate tonight, my friends!”
Lyna was the first to move, already racing ahead, no doubt to begin organizing the city's defenses and celebrations. Alisaie looked dazed, but stable—her eyes distant, mouth pressed in a thoughtful line. Alphinaud walked close at her side, steadying her with soft words.
They made the return journey in a rare, reverent silence.
All four of them kept glancing up at the sky. The stars were only just beginning to emerge, scattered like promises across a canvas still streaked with white. The Light was retreating, but it would take time before true darkness blanketed the region again.
The Whisper—the maddening hum that once clawed at the mind—was still there. But softer now. Fading.
Rhys lingered behind the group, lost in thought, until he noticed the Exarch had slowed his pace to match his own. The others moved ahead, leaving the two of them alone beneath the shifting sky.
He glanced sideways, uncertain, only to find the Exarch already watching him.
“You were magnificent,” the Exarch said quietly, as though afraid to disturb the hush that had fallen over the world. “You gave my people something they haven’t known in a century.”
Rhys looked up. The stars were faint still, clinging shyly to the heavens—but they were there. Real.
He blinked hard.
“I didn’t mean to,” he murmured. “I just… I didn’t want Alphinaud to—” His voice caught.
“You chose,” the Exarch said, gently. “When it mattered most, you chose.”
They walked a few more paces in silence.
Then, softer still: “Do you understand what this means?”
Rhys exhaled slowly. “That I’m a weapon now.”
The Exarch stopped walking.
“No,” he said. “That you are hope.”
That word—hope—settled in Rhys’s chest like a stone dropped in deep water.
He didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure he could.
“And I’m proud of you,” the Exarch said, his voice barely above a whisper.
He extended his hand—the one unmarked by crystal, warm and human.
Rhys didn’t hesitate. He reached for it, his gloved fingers closing tightly around the offered touch, anchoring himself in the quiet steadiness of it.
“How do you feel?” the Exarch asked, his gaze searching Rhys’s face. “Any pain? Discomfort?”
Rhys hesitated. "I don’t know,” he said honestly. “It’s hard to describe.” He lifted a hand to his temple, brows drawn. “The sky—it’s like I can hear it. Not with my ears, but… inside. Like it’s rumbling through me.”
His voice dropped to something softer. Almost reverent.
“And the night… it’s really come back.”
They walked a few more paces in silence before the Exarch slowed and gently tugged Rhys to a stop. Rhys followed without question, letting himself be guided.
Then he noticed the Exarch shift subtly, angling his body just enough to conceal their joined hands within the fall of his robes. With a warm, almost conspiratorial smile, he called out toward the path ahead.
“We’ll catch up shortly. Go on—start the celebrations!”
Alphinaud turned, concern flickering in his eyes. His gaze moved from the Exarch to Rhys, then to the sky still unfurling its first shy stars. "Don’t linger too much either, Rhys. You’ve just…” He gestured vaguely upward, as if the miracle above them could explain itself.
Rhys nodded, waving awkwardly at Alisaie's half knowing—disbelieved smile.
"See you in a bit," she said, voice drained.
And with that, she turned to follow her brother and Lyna into the city lights.
-
Once they were alone again, the Exarch’s fingers tightened gently around Rhys’s. Not to restrain—but to anchor. To reassure.
“Come,” he said softly, guiding him just off the road. “Let’s sit a while. If that’s all right with you.”
His voice held no urgency, only care.
As if, for this moment, the world could wait.
He led him down to the lakeside, where the water shimmered faintly beneath the shifting sky. They settled together on the gnarled roots of a mauve tree, shoulders barely brushing, breathing in rhythm with the evening air.
For a long moment, they simply sat—quiet companions beneath the vast, darkening canvas.
“Would you like to play a game?” the Exarch asked, his voice calm and steady, like the gentle lapping of the lake.
Rhys blinked, caught off guard. A game? From the Exarch?
Still, he tilted his head and offered a soft nod.
“All right, then… where do you think she is?” The Exarch’s eyes lifted to the stars slowly unveiling themselves above. He didn’t need to name her—Rhys knew exactly which celestial light he meant.
Rhys bowed his head briefly, smiling to the ground. “Thank you,” he whispered, voice raw and sincere. “For everything.”
When he looked up again, his eyes caught the fragile beauty of the stars, faint and distant, returning at last.
“I’m going to guess… there.” He raised his free hand, pointing gently off to the right.
Beside him, the Exarch nodded and pointed in the opposite direction. “Then I’ll take the left.”
They sat in companionable silence, gazes fixed on the heavens, hands still linked. The moon might not yet reveal herself—hidden behind clouds or perhaps still rising—but the wait already felt worth it.
After a while, Rhys shifted closer, weaving their fingers together more securely.
“And you?” he asked softly. “How do you feel? After a hundred years without seeing the night sky?”
The Exarch exhaled quietly, a low chuckle escaping him—soft, almost disbelieving.
“If I’m honest… it hasn’t quite settled yet. As if I’ve stepped into a dream, and the waking world still feels just out of reach.”
Rhys held his gaze on the stars, daring not to meet the other’s face—not when he felt this vulnerable, this exposed. Then a thought pressed on him, making his chest tighten.
Tomorrow, the sun would rise.
Would the Exarch be able to bear it?
“I only had to wait two weeks to see my moon again,” Rhys murmured, voice barely audible. “That’s nothing compared to your hundred years without the sun.”
He hesitated, voice dropping even softer. “I know you’re a Child of the Sun, my lord.”
Beside him, the Exarch was still for a heartbeat—then, a soft exhale.
“I suppose I haven’t been very subtle,” he said with a small, rueful smile.
“I’m allergic to your fur,” Rhys admitted with a sheepish smile, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “I knew it the moment I arrived—right here, at Lakeland, when I first saw you.”
He tilted his head slightly, inhaling the faint scent lingering in the air. His eyes softened. “And then… you smelled so good. You’d made a nest for me. And you gave yourself away when you meowed,” he added, counting off each point on his free hand's fingers with a growing, fond smile.
“I have no defense,” the Exarch replied simply, releasing a polite, resigned laugh.
Rhys leaned closer, his voice warm with genuine curiosity. “Tell me—how do you manage to keep your ears and tail covered all the time? They must get so sore.”
There was no teasing in his tone, only sincere wonder. They were already close, but speaking about these small, personal things made it feel deeper, more intimate. Each shared moment like this pulled them closer.
“I’m used to it,” the Exarch answered casually, with his deep gentle voice. “When you’ve been around as long as I have, you stop noticing those sorts of discomfort.”
“Liar,” Rhys said instantly, amusement bubbling through his voice.
The Exarch looked up at him, stunned. His mouth parted slightly in disbelief.
“I wore hats for years—even ones with holes—and they were still uncomfortable.”
“You’ve seen through me again,” the Exarch sighed, lowering his head and tugging slightly at the edge of his hood.
Rhys couldn’t see it, but he imagined his ears twitching beneath the fabric—and the image alone nearly made his heart melt.
When the Exarch looked back up, his face was now fully hidden in shadow. The night sky had spread further overhead, deepening, softening everything. Rhys glanced around and saw patches of darkness beginning to settle over the ground.
“Do you feel better now?” the Exarch asked, watching him quietly as he took in the changing world.
Rhys focused inward for a moment.
The humming was gone. He hadn’t even noticed it had faded.
“I do,” he murmured, voice low and steady. “The humming feels distant now... like a far-off memory.”
He lifted his gaze to the sky once more—and then froze.
“Look,” he whispered, disbelief curling the edge of his smile. “Up there.”
The Exarch gently released Rhys’s hand, but before he could step away, his arm slipped around Rhys’s shoulders with quiet assurance, drawing him near. Together, they stood side by side, eyes locked on the unfolding sky above.
The crescent moon hung slender and delicate—no more than a faint whisper of silver light—but to them, it was the most beautiful, the most awe-inspiring sight he had ever known. And there it was, shining quietly on the right.
Rhys closed his eyes.
He brought his hands together, bowed his head, and prayed.
Again. And again.
Time slipped away in the stillness, heavy with hope and reverence, their shared silence stretching on as the night deepened around them.
-
Rhys finally lifted his head after a while. His friend hadn’t let go of him for a single moment, and as he turned his face toward him, it took every ounce of effort to push the words past the tightness in his throat.
“May I honor the tradition with you?” he asked, voice still low.
“Of course,” the Exarch replied, with no real idea what tradition Rhys meant. But the warmth and immediacy of that answer made the Keeper’s heart swell.
Rhys gave a shaky smile, thinking back to all the times his mother had done this—for him, for his sisters.
“Prayers,” he explained, gently coaxing the Exarch to sit so they were facing each other. “And kisses,” he added quickly. “Chaste ones!”
The Exarch gave him a patient, bemused smile, folding his hands neatly atop his knees and waiting.
“Trust me,” Rhys murmured, eyes already closed. “I won’t look. I promise.” He lifted his hands, fingertips lightly brushing the front edge of the Exarch’s hood.
The Exarch flinched, instinctively grasping Rhys’s wrists. But after a pause—long enough to see that Rhys’s eyes remained truly closed, his expression reverent, waiting—he slowly let go.
Rhys murmured a quiet thank-you when the Exarch let him go. Carefully, blindly, he lifted the edge of the hood, fingers fumbling until they found the Exarch’s forehead, soft beneath a fine fringe of hair. He leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to that warm skin.
“May she grant you her protection.”
He lowered the hood again, properly this time, though his eyes remained closed. His hands sought the top of the Exarch’s head, still covered, and he placed another kiss there.
“May she grant you love.”
His voice cracked, the weight of those words pressing deep into his chest. Tears threatened, burning behind his closed lids, refusing to be held back.
Still blind to the world, he bent lower, tracing the ancient ritual’s path—its final verse meant only for lovers brave enough to speak it.
His lips brushed the crystal embedded in the left side of the Exarch’s neck, nuzzling close.
“May she grant us a home.”
He heard the Exarch’s breath hitch, a soft gasp—he understood now, even without knowing their customs. Rhys had to pause, overwhelmed, before shifting to the right. And may Menphina forgive them both—he felt the Exarch tilt slightly, giving him more space, welcoming him in.
Accepting.
Rhys’s chest tightened, the ache of wanting to hold him overwhelming, but he stayed still, reverent, as if the moment itself was sacred.
“May she grant us a family.”
He couldn’t give the final blessing—the kiss on the lips would cross the line the'yd drawn the day before. Instead, his thumb traced the Exarch’s trembling lips, feather-light, savoring their vulnerability before pulling away.
He wiped a tear away, feeling hollow, exposed—like a part of him had bled out onto the cold night air.
Turning from the Exarch, Rhys rose to his feet, and faced the sky he loved—the vast, silent witness to their hopes. He tilted his head back, face bathing in the moonlight, tears spilling freely down his cheeks, soaking into the cold steel of his armor.
Softly, barely a whisper, he spoke his last prayer:
“May she grant us happiness.”
Before he could fall apart completely, the Exarch’s arms wrapped tightly around him from behind. His face pressed against Rhys’s back, so close, so impossibly intimate—against the cold armor, near his tail.
“Thank you,” came the fragile whisper, trembling with emotion.
Rhys felt the tremble ripple through him—through their hands intertwined, through his heart pounding wild in his chest.
And in that embrace, fragile and fierce, they found a moment of peace—of fragile hope against a world that had stolen so much.
“I should return,” the Exarch said at last, releasing Rhys with a reluctant breath. “Before someone starts to worry and comes searching.”
He rose, his footsteps light, but he lingered just behind Rhys.
“Take your time tonight. I’ll see you soon.”
But despite his words, he didn’t move.
His feet felt rooted to the earth, as if leaving were a betrayal neither could bear.
The silence stretched between them—heavy, thick, and raw with all they couldn’t say.
“Rhysard.”
The voice was a whisper, fragile and hesitant, almost afraid.
Rhys didn’t turn. He couldn’t—not yet. The world felt fragile beneath his feet, his heart unraveling.
The Exarch longed to hold him—to return the four sacred kisses, to answer the prayer with his own touch. But he knew it would only deepen the ache, make the pain harder to bear.
Instead, he stepped close one last time, gently running his hand over Rhys’s head, stroking along his ears, down and back, slow and careful, again and again.
“I am… truly sorry.”
His hand lingered as long as it dared. Then he turned away, leaving Rhys beneath the moonlight, the sky above them still darkening, still healing.
☾
Rhys took his time, letting the storm of emotion settle. Slowly, he returned to the tree's roots and reached behind him, fumbling with the buckles of his breastplate until it came free. He set it beside him, the pale grey of his skin glowing faintly. Then came the arm guards, the gloves—each piece laid down carefully, deliberately.
Rising again, he stepped toward the lake’s edge, wading into the cool water until it reached his knees.
He closed his eyes, bent forward, and cupped the icy water, pressing it to his face. The shock of cold was sharp—clean—a brutal anchor pulling him back from the edge of his own unraveling.
One deliberate step further, then he plunged beneath the surface, surrendering fully to the chill that wrapped around him like a baptism. It clawed away the lingering glow of Light that had clung to his skin for weeks—burning, radiant, unrelenting.
When he emerged, his eyes found the sliver of a crescent moon above.
He waded back to shore, soaked and dripping, water tracing rivulets down his bare chest, but he felt no chill—only purpose. His movements were distant, ritualistic, driven by a force beyond himself.
Whispering an ancient spell, he summoned a small glass vial into his palm. Inside, golden powder shimmered like starlight caught in sand. He uncorked it and dipped a trembling fingertip into the dust, tracing sweeping lines across his clavicles—each stroke a silent vow. Along his waist, his abdomen, his biceps, the sacred script took shape—runes etched in flowing curves, binding him to an old, fierce promise.
“I will do all I can to ease the sickness in this world,” he vowed, voice barely more than a breath.
Capping the vial, he stood tall beneath the moonlight, the golden markings gleaming faintly against his skin—a quiet armor of faith and fury.
“I’ll give whatever’s needed to see this through. For his people. For us.”
He lifted his gaze to the city’s distant silhouette, cloaked now in shadow. The pale, nightmare clouds had begun to recede, along with the lesser sin eaters. Tonight’s victory—hard won and hard fought—would ripple through countless lives.
His voice softened, cracked with both resolve and sorrow. “Watch over us, Menphina. And if I am to fall—let me return here. Let me come home to him.”
Gathering his armor beneath one arm, Rhys turned away and began the slow walk back through the dark woods.
Tomorrow night, when true darkness claimed the land, he would return to wander these woods under the full shroud of night.
-
Rhys reached the bridge leading to the Crystarium’s entrance. Its wooden arches were aglow, casting warm light over the path ahead. From a distance, the city shimmered—soft pools of light illuminating corners, domes, and rooftops. All these years, they had held on to hope. Hope that one day, they might light those lanterns again. The gentle blue glow mirrored that of the Tower, of the very crystal domes above them.
He crossed the bridge at a slow pace, savoring the sight. He passed through the Rotunda, pausing to stroke the amaro who greeted him with eager huffs and restless wings. Then, he wandered to the Aetheryte Plaza, taking in the beauty of the Crystarium by night. It was even more magnificent than by day. The air rang with the laughter of children, shrill and joyous, and the sounds of adults celebrating, voices lifted in cheer and song.
He ascended one of the spiral staircases and stepped out onto a balcony overlooking the Exedra and the entrance to the Tower.
A smile curved his lips.
They had set up tables and chairs, blankets spread out across the stone, people gathered close in small clusters. Food and drink were being shared freely. Moren sat nearby, easily recognizable even from afar, a book open in his hands. He read aloud to a group of children seated at his feet, their wide eyes drinking in every word.
His companions were there too. The twins sat on the wide steps leading to the great doors, close beside the Exarch, who stood leaning against his bronze staff, ever watchful.
The sound of footsteps behind him made him turn slightly. It was Lyna.
She came to stand beside him, resting her forearm on the railing, her gaze sweeping first over the plaza below, then upward to the sky. “What you did tonight,” she said quietly, “no one will ever forget.”
He studied her profile, calm and solemn in the moonlight.
“You’re soaked,” she added, finally turning to look at him. “May I ask what happened?”
He ran a hand through his damp hair, slicking it back, droplets trailing down his bare back. “Where I come from, my people worship the moon,” he said, nodding toward the sky. The crescent was just barely visible, hidden behind one of the crystal spires of the Tower. “The warriors of my tribe… we vow to protect our people. In life, and in death. And this—” He turned toward her, and she startled slightly at the sight of the gold paint glimmering against his pale greyish skin. “This is a testament. A promise that we’ll continue to fight, even beyond the grave.”
She stared at him, visibly struck. “I’ve never heard anything like that. It’s… noble.”
“We use paint. Or tattoos.” He lifted a hand to his face, where two golden lines crossed each jaw. “Tattoos are enough to show our resolve, but…” He shrugged. “Sometimes, when we’re especially driven, we paint the body as well.”
Lyna nodded, raising a hand toward his arm, but hesitated and let it fall. “I’m not of your people. I don’t follow any deity. But…”
Her gaze shifted—he didn’t need to look to know where, or rather who, she was looking at. Smiling faintly, Rhys summoned the small glass vial again and nudged her gently with his elbow.
“It’s the intent that matters,” he said. “In this world—your world—anything can happen at any moment. We’re never safe from the next attack.” He gestured to the mug in her hand, and she passed it to him. “The skin needs to be slightly wet. May I, Lyna?”
She inclined the mug toward him, and he dipped a finger into the drink. Then, as she leaned down—gods, she was tall, she practically had to kneel—he drew his finger slowly from her forehead, down the bridge of her nose, and along her chin. She closed her eyes as he applied the powder, exhaling softly to keep it from scattering.
“Let’s do our best, Lyna,” he said, stepping back, then dipped his fingers again to moisten the inside curve of each ear, painting there too. “You look fierce. Ruthless.” He meant it—and said it with pride. She truly was a formidable young woman.
Lyna opened her eyes and extended her arm. They gripped one another’s forearms in quiet solidarity.
“You should join the others. Everyone’s waiting for the Warrior of Darkness.” She tilted her head toward the plaza below. “Don’t keep them waiting.”
Sadness twisted in his chest again—but he pushed it down. This was a time to celebrate. They had defeated the lightwarden. They had survived. He had reclaimed the moon. Offered the Night back to them. Bestowed blessings on the one he cherished the most.
He slid his breastplate back into place, leaving the metal corset loose beneath, its laces hanging half-fastened against the leather along his back. The bracers and gloves remained in his hands. With a final nod—resigned, but steady—he turned and descended the stairs toward the flickering lights and distant echoes of celebration below.
☾
Rhys stepped out into the Exedra, the fatigue settling over him like a warm, heavy cloak. The crowd was dense and lively, and he made his way through it as best he could. Laughter, chatter, music—it all blended together, wrapping the square in a festive haze.
A small voice pierced through the noise.
“It’s the Warrior of Darkness!”
He glanced down just in time to see a very young mystel—blond hair, wide blue eyes—dash up to him and press her tiny hand against his greaves. Her voice rang clear and bright through the square, and instantly, every head turned his way.
Cheers erupted. Hands clapped him on the shoulders in celebration, warm and hearty. He flushed, overwhelmed by the sudden tide of attention, awkward in a way he hadn’t felt in years. The little girl beamed when he tousled her hair gently. Then she ran off to her friends, no doubt already recounting her tale of the encounter with wide-eyed wonder.
Rhys shook his head, smiling despite himself, trying to respond to as many people as he could. Their joy was infectious, their voices so animated and full of gratitude that, after a time, he felt himself beginning to relax.
Then he felt it—that familiar touch, light as a breath, settling at the small of his back, under the loose piece of armor.
He turned and found him there, beside him, wearing that ever-steady, reassuring smile.
“Look at them,” the Exarch said softly. “They’re happy. Because of you.” His voice was quiet, reverent. “I do not believe I could ever thank you enough for what you’ve done tonight.”
He helped Rhys shrug off the last of his gear, carefully taking his bracers and gloves to ease the weight from his arms.
Together, they made their way to the base of the Tower, where the twins lay slumped against the steps—sound asleep, bodies curled together in shared fatigue. The night had exacted its price from them all, in ways both visible and unseen. Each had faced a battle no one else could fight.
“I’ll walk them back to the Pendants,” the Exarch murmured, his voice low. “Then I’ll head home myself.”
He hesitated, then asked, even softer, “And you? How are you… really?”
Rhys understood. This wasn’t about wounds or exhaustion.
“Better,” he said quietly, gaze lingering on the moonlit stones beneath their feet. “Not whole. But better.”
Rhys couldn't look at him, his heart was still aching. He turned his gaze toward his friends, still asleep.
Mooving with silence and purpose., he knelt beside them, the moonlight casting his shadow long across the stone. For a moment, he just looked at them. So young, and yet they’d seen more than most ever would. Fought more. Endured more.
He reached for Alphinaud first. Gently, he brushed a strand of hair from his brow and leaned in to press a kiss there — feather-light and careful not to wake him.
“May she grant you her protection,” he whispered, his voice no more than a breath, “and her love.”
He kissed the top of his head next, the gesture instinctive and full of quiet affection, then turned to his sister.
Alisaie stirred faintly as Rhys touched his temple, but didn’t wake. The kiss to her brow was just as soft — a vow more than a blessing.
“May she grant you her protection,” he said again, lips brushing against pale hair, “and her love.”
He lingered for a heartbeat longer, resting a hand gently over their clasped fingers. There was something sacred in the moment — a stillness, as if the world were holding its breath.
“You’ve both done enough for one night,” he murmured. “Rest. You are not alone.”
He then turned to leave—but a soft sound stopped him.
Alphinaud stirred, lashes fluttering before his eyes opened fully. He blinked up at Rhys in a daze, then pushed himself up, careful not to wake his sister.
“…Rhys?” His voice was thick with sleep, confused, but not alarmed.
Rhys offered him a small, tired smile. “It’s alright. You’re safe. Everyone is.”
Alphinaud looked around, brow furrowed, taking in the celebrations around. “Did… did I fall asleep here?”
“You weren’t the only one.”
A familiar voice answered this time. The Exarch stepped into the moonlight, quiet and composed, his hands folded in front of him. He gave Alphinaud a gentle nod before glancing toward Alisaie, still curled up, her breathing steady and deep.
“I thought I might escort you both back to the Pendants,” he added. “You’ve more than earned a proper bed.”
Alphinaud began to rise fully, and Rhys knelt beside Alisaie and slipped an arm under her knees, another behind her shoulders.
“I’ve got her,” he murmured.
She didn’t stir this time, as he lifted her. Her head rested against his armored chest, her arms slack, completely surrendered to sleep. The trust in that—both unspoken and complete—moved something deep in him.
Alphinaud stepped in beside him, adjusting his cloak and rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
They walked in silence through the cool night, down the stone path lit by the Tower’s soft blue glow. The Exarch fell into step on Rhys’s other side, keeping pace, his presence calm and grounding.
There were no words. None were needed.
When they reached the Pendants, Rhys carried Alisaie to her chamber and laid her gently on the bed, brushing her hair back before pulling the blanket over her shoulders. She sighed and turned into the pillow, still deeply asleep.
Alphinaud paused at the door, watching with unreadable eyes.
“I think she’ll be alright,” Rhys said quietly.
“Yes,” Alphinaud replied. “I think we all will.”
And the Exarch—silent behind them—smiled softly in agreement.
-
A few bells later, Rhys finally made his way inside the Tower.
The Crystarians truly knew how to celebrate, and he—well, he wasn’t quite used to this kind of revelry. At one point, a bard had handed over his instrument at Rhys’s request, and for a good half bell, the Warrior of Darkness himself playing familiar melodies became one of the evening’s main attractions.
Between the ones who insisted he try their favorite drinks, those eager to spar just for fun, and the many curious about his magic, Rhys had reached his limit for social interaction.
He had enjoyed spending time with them, truly. There was warmth in their joy, a sense of unity that filled the night air. But after the long, demanding day, he was more than ready to retreat, find a moment of quiet—and simply breathe.
Tomorrow will be another day.
Notes:
Yes, I do love the twins !
I wrote this 2 years ago, way before the rework. And today, reading what I wrote, that black magic was difficult, breaks my heart :')
Next chapter will be longer, see you next week !
Chapter Text
Rhys was far too excited to sleep. After tossing in his sheets for a good two bells, he finally sat up with a sigh, resigned. He was tired—gods, he was tired—but sometimes the body simply refused to listen.
His gaze lingered on his black robes, but after a brief hesitation, he reached for his red mage attire instead. A nostalgic smile curved his lips as his fingers brushed over the crimson fabric. He’d set aside his red mage career four years ago when he began studying black magic. It had been a long time coming—after that talk with G’raha, just before he sealed himself away in the Tower, they’d spoken about dreams. Rhys had confessed one of his own: to walk the difficult path of the occult arts. And he’d finally dared to try, realizing life was far too short to keep waiting.
He’d only drawn his rapier on a handful of occasions since then—not nearly enough for his liking. But that would change today. Seeing Alisaie laughing and sparring again, back in Amh Araeng, had stirred something in him—rekindled that old obsession with red magic. He’d forgotten how joyful it could be: how fluid, how clever, how exhilarating.
A grin pulled at his lips. Yes—he was going to have a little fun today. And he’d go find the girl later, once she was up. She was likely still asleep, like most of the city.
He pulled on his crimson Dalmascan draped top, a gift from Hancock—and one of his favorites. Sleeveless, with a wide front opening that exposed a sliver of his chest in a sharp V. The back was just as daring, another V dipping at the nape of his neck. A white fabric sash cinched the garment at the waist. He stepped into his red and gold trousers, then into the tall, dark brown boots that reached mid-thigh, trimmed in golden details.
He stretched a little, testing the range of motion. Gods, it felt good to wear this again—light, unrestrictive, and easy to move in.
Next came his short gloves, his two golden armbands, and finally, his brand new rapier. He fastened it to his belt, the anticipation nearly buzzing in his chest.
Today, he’d put it to the test—and he couldn’t wait.
With that, he teleported down to the entrance hall and stepped out into the quiet dawn.
The guard by the gate was asleep on his feet.
Rhys had to stifle a laugh. Poor man. He was probably just as exhausted as the rest of them—and deserved a bit of peace.
☾
He hadn’t expected to find anyone at the Wandering Stairs at this hour. And yet, a few hardy souls were already there, gathered around the tables, eating breakfast.
They called out to Rhys, waving him over, and he joined them gladly. This newfound notoriety in this foreign world still felt strange—but seeing people light up just because he was there? That, at least, was something he dealt often with.
They ordered him a hearty breakfast, and he had no chance of refusing. They were still quite drunk, arms slung over each other’s shoulders as they sang and ate, and Rhys couldn’t help but think—gods, they were probably going to spend the entire day like this.
“Oi, pour the man a drink!” one of them cried—a blonde-haired elve—pounding the table with his mug.
They launched into stories next—some exaggerated, some outright fabricated—punctuated by raunchy jokes and sudden, heartfelt declarations of love for their wives.
“I tell ya, if I die tomorrow, at least I die knowin’ Nalla makes the best bloody roast in all of Norvrandt," one said, eyes misting. "And she... she—,”
Then, out of nowhere, he burst into tears mid-sentence. The table fell silent—until another man began weeping with him, and then a third, and the next thing Rhys knew, three grown men were clinging to each other under the table, sobbing about roast dinners and radiant wives and the meaning of life.
He was crying with laughter. Just last night, he’d shed tears of his own—for someone who wasn’t even his husband. The absurdity of it all hit him at once, and he had to bury his face in his hands to keep from losing it completely.
And just when he thought things couldn’t possibly escalate—
“Have you ever seen the Warrior of Darkness?” the blonde one asked reverently, out of the blue, eyes wide.
The others paused. “He’s sitting next to you, you cabbage.”
“No, no—seen him,” the man insisted, dramatically placing a hand over his heart. “Eyes like dying stars. That voice. When he speaks, my soul leaves my body.”
“Oh gods, he’s off again,” someone groaned. “Someone pour a bucket on him.”
“I’d let him ruin me,” the man declared with feeling.
The table exploded.
Tankards slammed. Laughter erupted so loud it rattled the windows. Rhys had to grip the bench to keep from falling over.
They were an absolute mess—but they were enjoying themselves, and gods, it was infectious. It would make for a fantastic memory.
…If any of them managed to remember it later.
Rhys glanced at the tankard pushed temptingly toward him. He was sorely tempted—but then looked at the three grown men now sprawled on the floor in a pile, one of them loudly sobbing about "the way he walks, you don’t understand!" and decided against it.
He’d laughed so hard his ribs hurt.
-
After nearly one bell later, he excused himself and made his way toward the Quadrivium. The sun just rose.
Tilting his head back, he admired the way it filtered through the domes overhead—rays of light, gentle and golden, so unlike the oppressive brilliance they’d once known.
And then, quite suddenly, he realized he wanted to see his Exarch.
Desperately.
He wanted to stroll with him through the city. To see the way his face would soften, as he stepped into the square. He just wanted to see him happy.
Crossing the lawn freshly trimmed the day before, he made his way down toward the Exedra. The sun still clung to the shyness of dawn, half-veiled behind wisps of cloud.
He turned toward the Aetheryte plaza—just in time to spot a familiar figure in armor. Lyna, already out and about this early, flanked by two guards.
He caught up to them easily, receiving cheerful greetings once more. They were heading to Lakeland, and Rhys decided he’d tag along.
☾
The air felt cleaner now, no longer choked by blinding Light. Three of the four of them wore wide smiles as they took in the view before them—still tinged in violet, but no longer so bleak. There was shade beneath the trees now, and the woods looked far more welcoming than they ever had.
A few other guards were already stationed nearby, and Rhys found himself wondering whether they’d actually slept during the night—or, like him, had been too wound up with excitement to even try.
“The woods will be a lot safer now, without the sin eaters,” Lyna said beside him. “But we still need to stay vigilant.”
They were walking side by side, and as Rhys glanced around, he realized they’d reached the very spot where she’d slammed him to the ground when they first met. He felt a smile tug at his lips as he tilted his head up to look at her.
“Lyna, think you can help me warm up?” he asked, voice light with mischief.
She looked surprised but nodded, beckoning him a little further, to the edge of the woods. They’d just begun their stretches when Alisaie stormed in like a thunderclap.
“You trying to get a head start on me, Rhys? Is that what this is?”
No 'good morning', no 'how are you'—but that was Alisaie through and through, and he adored her for it. She drew her rapier with a grin and lunged at him without preamble.
He dodged with a laugh, springing back, his own smile wide. Oh, this was going to be fun.
Lyna reacted instantly, stepping between them and raising a hand toward each of them like a long-suffering chaperone. “Alright, alright—warm up first. I’m not having either of you pull something because you’re too impatient.”
Three guards on their way to Fort Jobb paused as they passed the scene, exchanging a look that said what now? before wisely deciding not to get involved. They continued on, leaving behind the trio as they began their not-so-calm warm-up.
-
A dozen guards from Fort Jobb arrived a little while later—clearly just as excited about the sparring as the others. Spirits were high, and everyone seemed eager to test their mettle. Lyna, their ever-stern commander, allowed the break from routine with a pointed look.
“Just for today,” she warned.
And just like that, an impromptu tournament was underway.
It was the perfect opportunity for Rhys to work on his balance. Red magic truly was fun, and they all had a fantastic time of it. Alisaie was visibly frustrated after their duel—Rhys might’ve been a bit rusty, but his skill level had barely diminished.
By the time the sun stood high in the sky, someone arrived with arms full of baskets—packed with food and water. They formed a loose circle in the shade, sharing a quiet meal together. The air was filled with laughter and the usual exchange of stories. Whenever someone looked about to end a joke on something a little too risqué, they’d hesitate, remembering the young Elezen among them—only for Alisaie to stun everyone with a few scandalous tales of her own.
Rhys tilted his face up toward the sky, smiling. Yes, they really had changed these people’s lives. They’d brought them real weather, and rid the region of the sin eaters. They had every right to be proud.
“I’d like to correct something,” he said suddenly, loud enough to catch everyone’s attention. They all turned to him. “There isn’t one Warrior of Darkness. We were a team. I didn’t do it alone.”
A brief silence followed, as they took in his words—and then came the cheers. Someone shouted, “He’s as humble as our Exarch!” and Alisaie nearly spit out her drink, knowing full well that Rhys could be a shameless braggart when he wanted to be—mostly just to annoy her.
Rhys flushed at the comparison. He was not humble. And he’d never dare compare himself with him. The Exarch was in a league of his own. “He’s… incomparable,” he said at last. “You truly have an exceptional leader.”
The words came from a place of honest, swelling pride—and when he glanced toward Lyna, it was with a meaningful look.
He missed him. He wanted to see him.
That was all it took to spark a new wave of stories—this time all about the Exarch. Every tale was more endearing than the last, yet each was told with genuine respect. It was clear just how much these people adored their leader. Devotion, affection, deep gratitude—it shone in their voices. And with every story, they’d glance toward Lyna as if to ask silently: 'is this okay? are we crossing a line?'
And so Rhys learned a few little gems that only made him admire the man even more.
“My favorite’s the one about his amaro!” someone blurted—and then, dead silence.
Rhys stopped breathing.
Alisaie, of course, who hadn’t heard that particular story before, perked up immediately. “Wait, what about his amaro?” she asked, all innocent curiosity, the beginnings of a wicked grin forming.
Another pause. Lyna looked so utterly stone-faced that Rhys honestly wondered if she was still breathing.
He wanted to laugh—desperately—but he couldn’t. Absolutely could not. It was like looking at Y’shtola when she was about to annihilate someone with a single word. Lyna reminded him of her in more ways than one. And as much as he loved teasing Y’shtola, he didn’t know Lyna nearly well enough—and she was very much surrounded by her soldiers.
So instead, he stood up and cleared his throat. “I think that wraps up the session, don’t you?” he said brightly.
Everyone sprang to their feet in record time, muttering agreements and scrambling to disperse.
He had to bite the inside of his cheek not to burst out laughing as he turned and offered a hand to Alisaie to help her up. The look she gave him was evil, and he feared she might press the topic—but she didn’t. Saints be praised.
He counted to ten in his head before speaking. “Thank you for everything, Captain,” he said with a respectful nod toward Lyna. “We should hold more tournaments like this. Seems to do wonders for morale.”
“Of course. I’ll speak with the Exarch—we’ll see what can be arranged.” Still a touch pale, she saluted them both and made her way back to her post.
☾
Alisaie stopped halfway up the steps of the Ocular, doubled over with laughter, clutching her stomach.
“By the Twelve, Rhys!” she wheezed, and he gave her a small shrug with a helpless grin.
“He must’ve been mortified when he realized what he’d said!” She slapped her thigh, wiping at her eyes. “If I’d known, there’s no way we would’ve kept straight faces!”
Her laughter started anew, and he couldn’t help but join her. Their voices echoed loud and clear through the spiral columns of the staircase, climbing all the way to the vaulted heights.
Rhys reached out and laid a hand on her arm, trying to contain his own laughter.
“Wait—keep it down. The Exarch’s probably sleeping.”
They paused for half a second.
And he knew it was over the moment she gave him that wide, mischievous grin and burst out laughing all over again.
“Alisaie. He’s going to come up here and pull your ea—”
The doors creaked open slightly on their own, from within.
Oh, shit.
The laughter stopped immediately.
They exchanged a look.
“I don’t know why I followed you up here,” Alisaie said suddenly, taking a step back. “I was supposed to go meet Alphinaud, actually. I’ll see you later!”
She spun on her heel and all but bolted toward the teleportation pedestal, throwing a hand toward the aetherial cube. Her laughter drifted up the stairs again, echoing faintly from the hall below.
Well. That had been very loud.
And she’d just left him to face the consequences alone.
Rhys shut his eyes for a moment, then slowly leaned through the still-ajar doors.
His face lit up when he spotted the Exarch in his usual spot—head slightly bowed, arms crossed, the faintest smile playing on his lips.
Rhys stepped inside, leaving the door half-open, and walked toward him, stopping by the edge of the mirror. His ears flicked back a little.
“Sorry for the noise,” he said, sheepishly.
The Exarch raised his head toward him—and whatever words he had meant to say caught in his throat. His mouth fell slightly open, gaze trailing slowly from Rhys’s face downward.
Even if his eyes were concealed, Rhys could feel the way he was looking at him—really looking at him—and then came the low, reverberating growl.
The door shut with a sharp thud behind him.
Rhys took a step back at the sudden weight of the atmosphere.
Oh no.
The red mage outfit.
Another step back. Then another.
He heard his name—soft, low, almost disbelieving.
He needed to leave. Now.
But he made the mistake of glancing too quickly toward the door, searching for the handles—
—and the Exarch moved.
He pounced.
Rhys barely had time to react before hands caught him at the waist and slammed him back against the desk to the left. His legs bumped against the edge, unbalancing him, and he ended up half-sitting on the wood, scattering papers to the floor. His arms shot forward on instinct, grabbing fistfuls of his host’s robes for support.
He blinked hard, vision reeling. His guard had been completely down.
He hadn’t expected this.
Not so forcefully.
Not so suddenly.
Not from him.
He let out a low growl as he felt the Exarch part his legs, pressing himself closer, seeking every inch of contact. A crystalline finger traced beneath Rhys’s chin, tilting his head upward. Rhys struggled, trying to pull away, to push him back—but found himself powerless. Instead, he lifted his face willingly, feeling the Exarch lean down to trail his lips along the sensitive skin of his neck. Warm breath, gentle touches betraying the fierce urgency he’d just shown.
“I can’t control myself,” the Exarch whispered, voice a rumbling murmur against his skin.
He tilted Rhys’s head further, descending to dote on the skin over his collarbones—where Rhys had painted himself with gold just the night before.
Rhys fought an almost inhuman urge to fall backward onto the desk beneath him. His body suddenly felt weak, utterly at the mercy of the man holding him—and secretly longing to be so.
The Exarch’s hands slipped beneath the draped fabric at Rhys’s sides, sliding under his arms, all the while continuing to kiss the heated skin exposed on his chest. A soft moan of satisfaction escaped him as his fingers grazed bare muscle along Rhys’s back, exploring with gentle reverence.
His face dipped again, the tip of his nose tracing a path down Rhys’s sternum before slipping under the fabric, pressing kisses to the warm skin hidden there.
It was too much. Rhys had to stop him. The exquisite torment was unbearable, but he couldn’t let this go any further. Summoning all his will, he loosened his fists curled on the fabric in front of his robes and placed both hands on the Exarch’s jaw.
“My lord,” he called, breathless.
He lifted the man’s face, trying to meet his shadowed eyes and pull him back to equal footing.
"Look at me."
He didn’t have to plead—the Exarch obeyed with a soft, obedient sigh.
“Can you... calm down?” Rhys asked, voice trembling with desire and frustration. He wanted it. He could have it. All he had to do was let himself fall.
But they couldn’t. Not yet. The restraint was maddening—especially knowing how much the other wanted this, how much fire burned beneath that calm exterior.
The Exarch parted his lips but no words came. His hands slid out of the red drape and settled over Rhys’s, still framing his face. They trembled slightly, and Rhys felt himself losing his mind when he caught sight of those lips—tinged golden with traces of the pigment still clinging to his skin.
Rhys parted his mouth, breath hitching, fingers tightening on the fabric of the Exarch’s hood, torn between pulling him closer or pushing him away.
Seven Hells.
He saw the tongue flick out, wetting those lips—and nearly died of frustration.
“We mustn’t give in to these urges—even when they come with force. Let’s be each other’s anchor, all right?”
Those words echoed sharply in Rhys’s mind, pulling him decisively from his trance.
He released the Exarch’s head and pushed him away with force, pressing him flat against his sternum. The sudden shove stole the breath from the other man, and Rhys took a cautious step back. Seizing the moment, he rose swiftly and made a break for the door. Behind him, the low, dangerous growl resumed—a fierce reminder of what was at stake.
He stepped onto the landing, using his body to block the door, heart pounding fiercely, mind racing. They had come dangerously close to crossing a line.
He waited, attuned to the ragged breaths on the other side.
“Are you… calm now?” His voice was tentative.
A low, husky response followed, slow and strained: “I am—No… not yet.”
Rhys closed his eyes for a moment, steadying himself before speaking again.
“I’ll be waiting upstairs. Come to me when you’ve cooled down.”
He took a deliberate step forward. “But I won’t hesitate to send you tumbling down these stairs if you try to come out now.”
He hoped the warning would hold. Yet, beneath it all, he knew he’d never have the heart to act on it.
He took another step, then another, eyes fixed on the door. When nothing moved, he vanished upstairs.
☾
Rhys had draped his blue cloak around himself and sat patiently on his bed. They couldn’t stay like this—it was bound to spiral out of control. They’d been lucky Alisaie had left just before.
Three sharp knocks on the wooden door jolted him upright, nerves suddenly tightening. He hesitated, buying himself time. “Are you feeling any better?” he called through the door.
“Yes. I truly am sorry,” came the weary reply.
Slowly, Rhys cracked the door open and peered inside. The Exarch’s head was bowed, his hand nervously rubbing his forearm. Rhys stepped aside, allowing him in. “Why here?” the man whispered, watching as he followed him into the spacious room to the left.
“Sometimes you have to fight fire with fire. Sit—there’s much we need to discuss.” Rhys drew two armchairs together and gestured for him to sit.
A heavy silence hung between them until the Exarch finally looked up and exhaled deeply, noticing Rhys still wore his cloak.
Gently, Rhys took one of the Exarch’s hands resting on his thigh. “Is it the outfit?” he asked quietly, searching for understanding.
The Exarch paused, searching for words. “I’m not certain. The surprise—yes. The attire—perhaps. And…” He passed a trembling hand over his face. “The paint.”
Rhys considered this and offered a tentative solution—risky, but worth the try. “This is the outfit I feel most at ease in for this discipline. I'll switch to something that hides my butt, if you'd like", he said with a tinge of a smile, "but I won't change my draped top.” He squeezed the Exarch’s hand softly. “I’m sorry—you’ll just have to get used to it.”
“Of course. I will do my best.”
“Look at me.” Rhys lifted the Exarch’s face with his other hand, which had dipped once more. “I’m going to take off the cloak now.” He saw the tension tighten in the other’s body. “Stay seated. Try to hold on—it won’t be long. We’ll talk afterward.”
He stiffened even more at Rhys’s words. Rising from his seat, he stepped in front of him, keeping a cautious distance. “Don’t move.” With a sharp, decisive motion, Rhys shrugged off his cloak—no slow peeling to drive him mad. A flush rose to his cheeks as he felt the burning weight of the Exarch’s gaze, even though his eyes were veiled by the glamour. The tension surged back—thick, fierce, almost destructive—and Rhys saw the Exarch clench his hands, the crystal seeming to crack beneath his grip.
“Hold on,” Rhys murmured, trying to soothe him, silently praying to Hydaelyn, Menphina, or any deity willing to listen as he turned, offering his back.
He heard the Exarch’s heavy breaths, and his own breathing quickened in response. Steeling himself, Rhys grabbed the cloak and wrapped it back around his shoulders. His legs trembled as he moved to sit again. The intensity of it all was overwhelming—he’d never experienced anything like this before.
The Exarch ran both hands over his face, then leaned forward, elbows on knees, palms pressed against his eyes as he fought to regain control. A sudden wave of compassion washed over Rhys—he knew that frustration must be tormenting him.
After a moment, the Exarch uncovered his face and gave a small nod, signaling he was steadier.
“Tell me what you felt. What…” Rhys blushed deeply at the nature of the question, unable to meet the Exarch’s eyes. “…what caught your attention. Your impulses.” He quickly added, “I’m sorry for asking so much.”
He didn’t need to look to know the Exarch was mortified. Yet, to Rhys’s surprise, he spoke honestly.
“I wanted to grab you and kiss you. Pull you close, run my hands over your waist,” he growled low, “and bite your clavicles. Touch the exposed part of your chest again.” He paused, the pressure building again, then exhaled shakily. “I wanted to kiss the nape of your neck—where your skin shows, where it’s open. I’m desperate to do it. And… I’m sorry, but I want to grab your...backside. Feel it under my fingers.”
He stopped, panting. “Rhysard, I’m sorry.”
Rhys remained still, barely daring to breathe too deeply. Hearing such raw confession—even if it was in answer to his own question—was painfully overwhelming.
“What I’m suggesting… go ahead. But don’t linger. We need to demystify this, or you’ll always be tempted.” He saw the Exarch nod in agreement. “Just… don’t kiss me on the lips, or I won’t last. And please, try to keep any… audible reactions to yourself.” Rhys wanted to die of embarrassment. “Save the kisses and bites for last. And don’t bite too hard.” He still couldn’t believe they were actually doing this. “If it ever gets overwhelming, tell me. And if I think it’s too much, I’ll stop you. I’ll lock you in here.”
He wasn’t convinced at all. The Exarch ruled the Tower, after all—he could open any door he wished. But knowing him to be reasonable… when himself, Rhys took the risk as the Exarch gave a slow nod.
Taking his hand, Rhys helped him to his feet, standing close, face to face. “This is a terrible idea,” came the low, sudden voice.
Rhys took his other hand too, squeezing them gently. “I trust you. You have more self-control than anyone I know.” He smiled softly, pressing his forehead against the Exarch’s, hidden beneath the hood. “You may jump me, yes. But you always listen when I speak.” He rubbed his hands lightly, giving tender little nudges. Rhys slipped off the cloak again.
He felt the affectionate return of the gesture before the hands relaxed, settling on his waist. Okay, starting like this, no hesitation. Okay. This will be fine. Perfectly fi—
The Exarch’s hands pressed softly against his waist, over the red fabric, and he exhaled sharply. “May I have your permission to undo the belt?”
And may Menphina forgive him, Rhys nodded.
He untied the knot, letting the deep V of the draped fabric fall open, revealing everything beneath. Warm hands traced over bare skin again as the Exarch stepped closer. He savored the smoothness, the taut muscles beneath, his touch reverent.
“We just finished training,” Rhys murmured, forcing his mind away from the exquisite sensation. “My skin’s probably still a bit sticky. Sorry.” He realized even his crystalline hand felt warm to the touch, today.
His friend growled softly as his palms slid upward, tracing over his stomach, then the firm chest once again. He made a slight pause, gripping Rhys’s arms, gently squeezing the defined biceps several times. A trembling breath escaped him before his hands glided up his neck, fingertips lightly brushing the clavicles.
“Thank you for allowing me,” he whispered low, before trailing his hands back to Rhys’s waist, pressing into the skin.
Rhys arched instinctively, feeling those broad, warm hands exploring his back. Mortified, he realized he had just let out a quiet moan at the touch. The hands froze, silently seeking permission to continue.
“Go on,” Rhys murmured.
The hands resumed their journey, sliding lower along his back, the thumbs accidentally grazing the base of his tail. Both halted just before the touch drifted to his rear. He pressed all his fingers there, savoring the contact, breathing ragged once again.
“I want you…” came the breathy whisper against his ear, fingers kneading the tender yet firm flesh.
Again, a second squeeze—Rhys wrapped his arms around his waist, feeling the slighty warm breath near his ear, as he kept whispering, "so much..."
A third time, the Exarch pulled him close, bodies pressed tightly together. Rhys rose onto his toes, arching slightly to grant him fuller access—those hands sliding lower still, cradling him with greater need. The heat between them flared, their hips aligned, locked in tense, aching closeness.
A fourth and final time, he felt a pulse of need throb against him—and he responded in kind, matching it with equal intensity.
A low moan slipped from his lips, his whole frame trembling from the overwhelming closeness. For a moment, he stayed there—caught in the warmth, the pressure, the unspoken ache between them.
Then, slowly, the Exarch’s hands eased their way back up his spine, no longer grasping, just holding. Rhys drew in a shaky breath and, with a reluctant murmur, shifted his hips back, just enough to give them space—just enough to steady them both.
He felt the Seeker rest his forehead atop his own head, breathing with his mouth open—shallow, rapid breaths.
“I need a moment,” came his deep, hoarse voice.
The Exarch eased back slightly, settling down again and pulling Rhys with him, hands still resting on his hips. Sitting astride his thighs, legs to one side, Rhys leaned back to meet his face—both undoubtedly flushed.
Rhys lifted a trembling hand, brushing against his cheek. “Breathe,” he urged gently. “Take your time.” He leaned further back toward his knees.
As long as one of them kept a clear head, this kind of moment could be managed. At least, in theory.
“Are you alright?” he asked gently, and the Exarch nodded. “Great.”
Rhys pressed a quick, chaste kiss to his lips—purely out of habit. His own surprise was evident as he opened his mouth in shock, mumbling, "I'm sorry about that", while the other simply smiled shyly, cheeks rounding in an adorable way as he lowered his head, nodding again.
This man was going to be the death of him.
And then, as if a switch had flipped—his shyness vanished.
“Rhysard, I want to…”
With one hand cradling the back of his neck and the other resting in the hollow of his back, the Exarch gently tilted him back, exposing his neck. Rhys gasped sharply at their closeness, feeling vulnerable and clutching the front of his robes. He saw the Exarch lower his head, the fabric of his hood brushing his chin, before his lips trailed over his collarbones.
“You smell so good,” he murmured, inhaling deeply before planting firm kisses on the skin, softly licking and nibbling. He let out a low growl against Rhys’s skin at the sounds the other couldn’t contain, then continued his tender ministrations to the other side, savoring the texture and taste.
“I wish I could clean you the way we do…” he whispered, his rough, feline tongue tracing the slight hollow above the bone. “…every little corner.”
His left hand slid down to Rhys’s backside, squeezing it again as he growled low against him. Then he bit a little harder, flicking his tongue out to suck on the skin.
I want to bite you. I want to claim you. I want to ravish you. I want to make you happy. I want you all to myself.
Rhys could almost hear his thoughts swirling between them. He felt completely cornered.
He laid a hand atop the Exarch's head, stopping his delicious attentions.
“Don’t mark me.”
Rhys’s pupils were fully dilated; he’d reached his limit.
“Stop.”
If the Exarch left marks, he was certain he would lose his sanity.
The Exarch growled again, clearly frustrated at being denied more time. He helped Rhys sit properly and then guided him to his own chair, steadying him. Rhys was barely able to stand and curled into the seat, frustrated and desperate—and he was far from alone in that state.
“Wait,” Rhys said, still gasping. “Go to the room next door for a little while. I need… to be alone.”
The implication was clear enough to make the Exarch growl again, jaw clenched tight.
-
Rhys was no longer used to handling his personal matters alone. Usually, when the need arose, he could easily find a partner. But today, his frustration was unlike anything he’d ever experienced. The thought that the Exarch, having retreated to his own room, was likely doing the same only drove him further into agitation. He wasted no time finishing what he had to do.
In the ensuing silence, feeling as if his body had drained of all strength, he heard the faint sound of water running in the bathroom.
Slowly, he stood and tossed the cloth he’d used into a corner. He cracked open the door, and the other room was instantly bathed in soft sunlight. He returned to his chair, resting his head in his hand, waiting for the Exarch to join him.
He didn’t have to wait long. The Exarch soon approached, knocking gently on the door and announcing himself, despite the door being ajar, before stepping inside.
They were safe now. Or so Rhys thought—now that the tension had been released.
But then the Exarch stopped a few steps past the threshold. He drew in a slow breath… and froze.
Oh, shit.
He was, oh, so wrong about that.
A shiver rippled down Rhys’s spine. He knew exactly what had just happened—the Exarch had caught his scent, still lingering thick in the air.
Slowly, deliberately, the Exarch stepped forward and knelt before the chair where Rhys sat.
“My lord...? You—”
“Rhysard,” he murmured, resting his face against Rhys’s thighs, just below his stomach.
We are doomed.
The man murmured something inaudible, spoken in a foreign tongue, so close it was almost a breath against him. Then he turned his head slightly, still nestled against Rhys, and gently took hold of his bare right hand—where Rhys had removed his glove to attend to his earlier needs.
We are so doomed.
Rhys had to close his eyes. It was almost too much to bear. He felt himself stiffen again as the Exarch lifted his hand gently to his face, inhaling deeply.
Hard. He was hard again.
Seven hells. If one day he's mine, we will never leave this tower.
Then, with the softest touch, the Exarch pressed a kiss into his palm. His lips traced along each finger, slow and reverent, before his tongue slipped out. The Seeker let out a low, breathy moan as he began to lick the dusky skin of Rhys's palm—tenderly, almost worshipfully. It was intimate in a way Rhys had never known, sensual to the point of madness. He couldn’t help the subtle lift of his hips, which made the other’s head rise with him.
Another murmured phrase followed—still in that foreign tongue, broken and breathless. Rhys didn’t understand the words, but the raw emotion behind them made his chest ache.
So unguarded, so sincere—it was no wonder he couldn’t bring himself to speak it aloud in the common tongue. Some things were too sacred for that.
Rhys fought to steady himself—doing everything he could to stay calm, not to rush him, not to stop him. But he nearly lost that battle the moment he felt the soft flicks of his tongue slip between his fingers, cleaning every corner, just as he’d promised.
This man was driving him mad. Mad with desire.
At last, the Exarch stilled, though he didn’t let go. He held Rhys’s hand gently in both of his, stroking the center of his palm with his thumb. His hand was so large. Rhys exhaled softly and curled his fingers around the warm digit, gaze dropping into the shadows beneath the glamour. The Exarch had lifted his head, parted lips barely visible beneath the hood, watching him.
He was still too far away.
I’m losing my fucking mind.
Rhys slid down from the chair to the floor, kneeling before him, eyes locked on the hidden gaze, fingers tightening gently around that thumb. He raised his other hand to cup the side of his friend’s face, thumb tracing softly under his eye, feeling the flutter of lashes against his skin.
“I wish I could look at you, Exarch,” he whispered—no titles, no formalities. Just truth.
No more games.
Rhys began moving his hand slowly, sliding up and down that finger while keeping their eyes somehow connected. His lips parted as his breath quickened. It was such a simple touch, yet it undid him. And when he felt the Exarch’s eye close beneath his thumb, and heard that shuddering breath escape—
“Yes... just like that. Slowly,” Rhys whispered.
His fingers traced the sensitive tip of the thumb with aching tenderness.
How he longed to hold more than just that finger—to bring him such pleasure.
The Exarch struggled to breathe, his finger moving slowly, deliberately, against Rhys’s—urging him to open his hand wider. The sheer weight of what they were doing struck Rhys like a thunderclap. He adjusted without hesitation, holding his fingers apart just so, palm half-open, thumb pressing firmly into his own skin as he stroked faster and faster.
He could almost picture it—feel it. The shape. The heat. The imagined weight of it in his hand. And the thought thrilled him so deeply he felt himself tipping, dangerously close to losing control.
Lifting his head, which had been bowed in focus, Rhys felt his eyes flutter shut. The Exarch seemed lost in the same haze, his own lashes trembling, breath shallow.
“Exarch...” Rhys whispered, his voice barely holding together.
At last, the Exarch opened his eyes—and lifted the hem of his white drape to cover his mouth. “Come to me,” he murmured, his voice deep, raw, and utterly inviting.
Rhys placed a hand on his thigh for balance and leaned in, tilting his face toward his. A quiet, aching sound escaped him as he pressed a kiss to the fabric that separated them. He could feel the shape of the Exarch’s lips beneath, parting slowly to match the curve of his own, then closing over the cloth with aching restraint.
The frustration was unbearable. Unlike anything he’d ever known.
He let his head fall forward onto the Exarch’s shoulder, his grip loosening as he wrapped both arms around his neck. "I am sorry", he managed, voice shaking. Overwhelmed by a wave of helpless longing, he fought back tears, sitting quietly on the Exarch’s thighs and holding him close, gently.
The fire had vanished as quickly as it had flared.
The Exarch returned the embrace, resting his face against Rhys’s neck and pressing a soft kiss to the skin there.
After a long, quiet moment, he finally spoke—his voice calm, measured, steady—as he stroked Rhys’s back and the nape of his neck with patient tenderness. “This is why we mustn’t give in,” he murmured. “Intimacy… it can destroy us.”
Rhys nodded against him. He knew. He had always known. They couldn’t afford this. But resisting… was agony. So cruelly difficult.
“May I hold you? Just for a moment?” the Exarch asked softly, fingers brushing his ear, sensing how still he had become in his arms.
Rhys nodded again, wordlessly. Ready to accept anything—everything—his friend was willing to give. Everything he allowed himself to offer.
Gently, the Exarch tilted Rhys’s head, guiding it to rest against his shoulder rather than his neck. Then, with the tip of his nose, he traced the short hairs at the nape of Rhys’s neck, moving slowly as he pressed tender kisses along each pronounced vertebra. Rhys closed his eyes and leaned into the warmth, breathing in the comfort—the quiet, aching tenderness of it all. The Exarch’s kisses were soft and deliberate, his arms tightening to hold him close, protectively, like something precious.
And again, tears threatened. Not from pain this time, but from the sheer depth of that gentle care. Rhys pictured it—being in his arms like this after they’d made love, cherished and cradled, treasured. How fiercely he longed for that future. How desperately he wished it could be real.
He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, a soft smile forming in spite of himself. “Thank you,” he whispered, feeling the Exarch’s lips still brushing his skin with featherlight affection. He shifted slightly, and the crystalline hand found his ear, caressing it with the same delicate reverence, while the other continued to stroke the back of his head.
A quiet, contented purr rumbled in Rhys’s throat, unable to hold it in. He was overcome—by the peace, the warmth, the security. The care.
☾
Rhys woke slowly, his limbs aching. He opened his eyes, trying to recall what day it was, what time, and where he was.
He realized he was wrapped in his blue cloak, comfortably settled in his bed, surrounded by blankets. The Exarch had made him a nest again, and he smiled, imagining him carefully folding the covers, doing his best not to wake him.
He slipped out of bed, noticing that the Exarch had taken off his boots so he could be comfortable and not dirty the sheets. He shook his head, thinking how truly the best companion one could hope for. Tonight, he would pray again for the success of their mission. More than anything, he wished for there to be no more secrets between them — that they could finally allow themselves to live their story.
-
For the second time that day, he peeked through the slightly ajar door of the Observatory, unsure if it was appropriate to enter despite the invitation.
“Come in,” the deep voice reassured him, and he stepped inside. “Did you rest well?” came the gentle question, accompanied by a small smile. Unable to resist, Rhys moved closer, wrapping his arms gently around him. He felt the Exarch’s arm slide around his shoulders, a light kiss pressed at the base of his ear.
“Yes. Thank you for your kindness, my lord,” Rhys replied before stepping back, putting some space between them. “After everything we went through, I hope it was worth it?” he added, head bowed.
The Exarch descended the few steps, circling him slowly, reading his body’s reaction. “Look,” he said, returning to stand before him and offering a trembling hand. “I can’t stop shaking, but it’s manageable. Fighting fire with fire was a risky gamble, my friend.”
Rhys finally looked up at him. “Definitely.”
“But, Rhysard,” the Exarch warned, “no more surprises, alright? Dress as you wish, but cover yourself next time—or at least warn me before you step through the door.” He ran a hand over his forehead. “You’re driving me insane. And I truly mean that.”
“I’m sorry for making you lose your composure like that,” Rhys admitted, running a hand through his hair and exhaling. “And for not having the strength to push you away, even though I knew I should—though you never asked me to.”
“Words… simply wouldn’t come out. Though I thought them loudly enough.” The Exarch turned coyly toward the mirror.
That he was shy now, after all they’d shared, was genuinely unexpected. Rhys decided to change the subject, sparing him further discomfort.
“Were you busy before I arrived?” he asked, gesturing around the room.
“Lyna just left.” The Exarch faced him again. “She stopped by to invite me to an event with the guards—and to share a few details about your morning exploits.”
He smiled, warm and unhurried, before stepping back. “Next time, don’t hesitate to include me. I’d rather enjoy that.”
Rhys was at a loss for words—there was too much to process. What caught his attention most was Lyna’s presence here. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “My lord.” His tone was firm. “Lyna came?”
The Exarch tilted his head slightly.
“You…” the Keeper stifled a laugh. “Today really is the day for mishaps. Seven Hells, you’ve got something right here.”
He stepped closer again, glancing at the door to make sure it was properly closed. Then, reaching out, he pressed his thumb firmly against the Exarch's full, golden lower lip. So surprised by the gesture, he didn’t move. After the contact, the Exarch took a step back, and a flicker of horror crossed his face, half-hidden in shadow.
“The light’s a bit dim here, but…” Rhys gently rubbed his fingers, spreading the pigments. “These are made to glow in the dark.”
Rhys saw the Exarch almost pull back his hood to run a hand through his hair. “She’s seen more embarrassing things,” he said, sounding a bit lost but resigned. “She hasn’t said a word. Though I did catch her smiling once…” His face twisted back into horror, and Rhys couldn’t help but laugh, the deep sound echoing in the small room.
“Lyna’s a grown woman. She must be glad you’re having some fun.” He laughed still, then quickly composed himself. “Thank you again for earlier. I didn’t expect to fall asleep like that.”
The Exarch regained his composure as well, leaning lightly on his bronze staff. His voice dropped, low and deliberate:
“Dozing off while I’m trying to charm you… that can be a little hurtful, you know.”
That voice—deep, calm, edged with quiet mischief—made Rhys falter.
“Exar—My lord—You! You don’t… you wouldn’t—”
Completely thrown off, tripping over his words, Rhys was at a loss. The Exarch chuckled softly, openly this time—teasing.
“You weren’t trying to seduce me!” Rhys blurted out, flushing. “If you had been, I would’ve felt it!”
He stumbled on, flustered. “And I wouldn’t have fallen asleep in such a… dangerous, vulnerable position!”
Mortified, he gave the Exarch a light punch on the shoulder.
The Exarch laughed—warm and full—and for the first time, smiled wide.
Rhys could only stare, cheeks burning. That smile was devastating.
"You're actually a little shit, aren't you, my lord?", he mumbled under his breath.
Silence. Stunned silence followed.
And then—
The laughter, surprized but far for offended, resumed, bringing a soft smile to Rhys's own lips.
He knew instinctively that if the Exarch had the chance, he would have pulled him close and kissed him.
The man hummed playfully. “Am I presentable now?” he asked, gesturing vaguely to his face. Rhys stepped closer to inspect him, resisting the urge to lick his thumb and wipe away the remaining pigments. Instead, he took the corner of the red drape hanging from his robes and gently wiped the Exarch’s lips, silently signaling him to moisten them, while averting his gaze. “Thank you.”
They stepped back, putting some space between them again. Rhys gestured toward the door. “It’s still daylight. Would you like to come outside with me, into the sun?”
-
They arrived at the Exedra, walking side by side.
“Come on, let’s take a walk. We’ve got a few bells left before nightfall.”
They made their way toward the city’s gates, and Rhys asked him to wait a moment.
He returned a few minutes later, walking beside Straw and gently guiding him by the reins. The amaro let out a joyful cry at the sight of his master, who smiled and reached out to stroke the space between his eyes. The creature lowered himself to the ground in invitation, and the Exarch mounted in one fluid motion, running a hand over Straw’s tufted ears as the beast turned his head back to nuzzle him in greeting.
Rhys laughed softly, watching the pure happiness in the amaro’s large, dark eyes. Straw was so excited he rose to his feet immediately, and Rhys had to tighten his grip on the reins.
“Shall we?” he asked, glancing up at his companion.
“Ride with me, Rhysard,” the Exarch said, holding out a hand. “He’ll carry us a fair distance. Come—let us go together.”
That smile—it undid him all over again. Rhys couldn’t say no. He reached out, grasping the crystal hand, and let out a startled sound as he was pulled up with unexpected ease.
“Crystal is strong,” the Exarch said with amusement. “It requires little effort on my part.”
He shifted slightly. “Come—sit in front of me. Otherwise, should you sneeze, we may traumatize poor Straw.”
Rhys burst out laughing, imagining them both toppling from the sky—then quickly sobered. No, that wouldn’t be funny at all. He twisted carefully, swinging a leg over and slipping in front of the Exarch with smooth agility, mindful not to cause a scene.
He felt the Exarch’s hand catch the edge of his draped fabric, just beneath his arms.
“Please don’t tickle me,” he murmured with a faint smile, glancing back at him.
“Let’s go!”
-
Rhys felt his ears flatten in the wind, but he kept his eyes wide open.
The view of Lakeland from above was breathtaking.
“If we’re lucky,” he said, “maybe one day we’ll see this whole region covered in snow.”
He felt the soft brush of the Exarch’s hood against the back of his neck as the man leaned slightly to admire the landscape.
“All those woods blanketed in white… it would be incredible.”
A quiet hum of agreement answered him.
“Or the red and pink foliage in autumn…” the Exarch murmured, clearly imagining it himself.
“Look over there,” Rhys said, pointing toward the lake. The Exarch followed his gaze.
“They’ve gone swimming in that freezing water—brave souls.”
Rhys laughed, his voice catching in the wind—then felt the Exarch’s arm gently wrap around his waist.
“We are building a better, safer world,” the Exarch said, his voice firm with quiet conviction.
“They are only beginning to understand what it means to live in peace. I pray they’ll have cause to laugh like this—every single day.”
They flew in silence for a while longer, until the amaro gradually began its descent.
“There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask,” Rhys said, tension creeping into his voice.
“About what you said earlier—that there are things you can’t allow yourself.”
He hesitated. “You told me it wasn’t something you could explain, and that I had to trust you.”
He pressed his thights gently into the amaro’s sides, feeling the beast prepare to land.
“I’m listening,” came the reply behind him.
Rhys turned slightly to face him.
“Is it something like what happened last night?”
He saw the Exarch’s mouth begin to move, but pushed on.
“Because… to be honest, when you asked me to take in the Light, I didn’t trust you. Not really. I only did it because—if I hesitated—Alphinaud would’ve been closest.”
He lowered his gaze, exhaling sharply at the memory of that terrible pressure.
“So tell me. Is it something like that again? Am I supposed to trust you that blindly?”
“Yes.”
The response was quiet, immediate—and honest.
Rhys didn’t need to ask again.
“It’s dangerous,” he said.
And he knew it was true.
“We live in a dangerous world. One must learn when to take the right risks… and when to wait.”
His voice softened. “But Rhysard—look at me.”
He reached out, touching his cheek with a light, tender hand.
“I would never make a choice that placed you in true danger. All those years I spent striving to bring you back to this place… I had time to plan. Time to understand our enemy.”
His fingers brushed gently over the golden markings on Rhys’s skin, his gaze steady.
“All I want is to save this world. And yours, if I can.”
His voice was calm. Devastatingly calm.
A chill ran down Rhys’s spine, a bad feeling gnawing at the back of his mind. He felt the sudden urge to pull him into an embrace, to keep him safe, just for a moment longer.
“It’s not only myself I’m worried about,” he murmured. “I just hope that, when the time comes, I won’t regret this. I want to see it through too. This nightmare… it has to end.”
“We’ll all wake from this nightmare soon, my friend,” came the quiet reply.
“I trust you completely, you know. Even if the feeling isn’t mutual.”
He smiled, gently—without bitterness, without blame.
“I’ll give you a reason to trust me more. All right? But it’s important you keep your own judgment—don’t let your feelings cloud it.”
Rhys lowered his head before deftly dismounting. He stretched out both arms, inviting the Exarch to descend as well, even though he knew the other needed no help.
“We’ll see what the future holds. Come.”
He smiled as he felt him lean forward, melting into his embrace while stepping down. A soft, polite laugh tickled his neck as he sneezed twice.
Rhys closed his arms around him, sliding his hands down along his side. Beneath the layers of fabric on his right flank, he felt a hardness — the skin there was crystallized.
“May I know exactly what you are doing?" his friend whispered by his ear, a teasing smile audible in his voice.
“I…”
Caught in the act, Rhys was momentarily flustered, stumbling for an excuse. His friend chuckled softly, brushing a kiss along his ear.
“I believe I promised you a walk,” he said after trying to regain composture, offering his arm in a gentlemanly gesture. The Exarch slid his arm through, resting his free hand atop Rhys’s biceps. Rhys took the amaro’s reins with his free hand, and they set off, strolling slowly through the mauve woods. The sun still hung in the sky, its orange rays filtering through the branches.
“Would you like to head back to the lake for sunset? We probably have about an hour left.”
“If that’s what you wish. I will go wherever you go—I have no preference of my own.”
He felt the soft squeeze of the Exarch’s hand on his arm. All that mattered was spending time together, while they still could.
-
Several Crystarians had had the same idea, and they were quite surprised to see the Warrior of Darkness and the Exarch himself come here. They took their time chatting quietly, exchanging the latest news. Rhys began to recognize familiar faces among the small crowd. Everyone stood in awe as the sun set over the horizon, beyond the water, some even wondering if it would truly rise again the next morning.
Then the sky darkened once more — the second night in shadow. The crowd quickly dispersed.
Rhys dusted himself off as he stood, noticing his friend, offering a hand to help him up as well. The Exarch rose but wobbled slightly; Rhys steadied him with a hand on his shoulder, frowning. “I stood up too fast,” the man said.
Straw also got up, then lay down again at their feet, inviting them to mount. Seeing the slight weakness in the Exarch’s movements, Rhys helped him up and settled him comfortably. Taking the reins, he guided the amaro forward, walking at its side.
“My body… weakens if I stay too long away from the Tower. I haven’t closed an eye all night; the fatigue is catching up,” came the soft confession. “I apologize for the inconvenience.”
Rhys looked up at him. He had never questioned the crystal that adorned his body, nor other delicate matters, though his curiosity was fierce. Hearing such a confession both surprised and deeply worried him.
“As long as you know your limits, I suppose all is well.” He offered an encouraging smile. “It doesn’t bother me at all; I appreciate your company.”
They walked slowly through the woods, a gentle breeze stirring the leaves.
“Did you get to enjoy the sun today?” Rhys asked, walking backward so he could watch him.
He saw his smile — such a tender smile.
“I spent nearly the entire morning in the throne room, watching it,” he said, stroking Straw’s head. “Seeing it again after a century did me a world of good.”
Rhys was so glad to hear such a confession.
“Seeker,” he said, beaming.
“Seeker, indeed,” he repeated, tilting his head back to look at the night sky.
“My lord?” Rhys asked, a playful smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
“Yes?” the Exarch replied, already smiling, knowing a tease was coming.
“Do you have red eyes?” Rhys asked, all innocent mischief.
A low, rich laugh rumbled from the Exarch, echoing softly through the quiet woods.
“Perhaps,” he said, still gazing up at the stars.
“Nice try, Rhysard.”
Notes:
For many reasons, this is one of my favorite chapters in the story. I love writing silly scenes
I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did!Btw... thinking about spicy scenes and writing them are two very different things. We all get the giggles, I guess!
But… I’ll tell you a secret. I’m actually super shy when it comes to that kind of content, despite the fact that, in my head, I'm wose than a filthy whore
And this is me, now, realizing I have to actually post some of that “risky” stuff online :The day I'll post the very graphic smut I wrote for this story, I will die of embarassment
Not me already freaking out—
Chapter 7: Fae touched
Summary:
Enter Thancred, Minfilia, Urianger and Emet-Selch !
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Moments of calm never lasted long.
Rhys was sprawled across his bed, sleepily thumbing through an old crystarian journal when a knock came at the door. Late morning, already. He’d only just finished his nap, after the post-dawn training, and was meant to meet the twins for lunch before long.
With a languid stretch, he rose, fastening his rapier at his hip. He opened the door mid-yawn, covering his mouth with one hand while extending the other in welcome—eyes narrowing in a smile, still hazy with sleep.
Without hesitation, he drew the Exarch into his arms, exhaling a low, contented breath when one of those familiar arms curled around his waist and held him close.
They allowed themselves these morning embraces—unguarded, instinctive things.
“My lord", he called, voice low and groggy. "I wasn’t expecting you,” he murmured, lashes lowering as gentle fingers brushed along his ear, folding it back.
“Did you spend the night out again?” the Exarch asked, stroking just beneath his eye, tugging softly at the tired skin there. Rhys offered a guilty smirk. The Exarch sighed.
“Rhysard, you need to sleep at night. That’s three in a row.”
“I do sleep. A few hours, here and there.” He stepped back—reluctantly. “I’m making the most of the darkness while it lasts. Who knows when duty will drag us away again?” He paused. “Going back to that land drowned in blinding, rancid light…” His nose wrinkled. “It won’t be easy. But I won’t have a choice.”
“Speaking of which…” The Exarch’s tone shifted, pulling Rhys’s attention sharp. “Will you come downstairs with me? The twins are waiting—and there’s something I want to show you.”
Rhys’s tail gave a quick flick, betraying his interest. “And you didn’t open with that?” He smoothed down his tunic, gave his hair a sharp shake, and flicked a stray strand from his eyes.
“That was the plan,” the Exarch murmured, ducking his head with a soft, sheepish smile.
And truly—Rhys could never resist him.
“Then let’s go,” he said, his voice warm. “No sense keeping them waiting.”
-
The mirror in the Ocular shimmered, its surface rippling to reveal the skies over the Lakeland. Eulmoran airships hung there—black shapes against the blue sky—circling like predators.
They had been there for some time now, a looming threat. After the slaying of the lightwarden only two days earlier, it was inevitable: diplomacy would sour, and trouble would follow.
The Exarch raised his hand, murmuring an incantation. A veil of invisibility settled over the small gathering of Scions just as Lyna stepped aside to admit Ran’jit—Eulmore’s envoy and commander of its armies. His armored escort flanked him like shadows.
He came with a singular purpose. The Oracle of Light—Minfilia—had fled Eulmoran custody, aided by a mercenary somewhere within Lakeland. Today, Ran’jit demanded the Crystarium’s cooperation in tracking her down.
The Scions, unseen, exchanged sharp looks. Minfilia.
A name they had not expected to hear again.
-
The afternoon waned, and the Exarch summoned his council to decide the course ahead.
Would they risk open war with Eulmore—or stand down?
The verdict was swift and unanimous. They would do everything in their power to foil Eulmore’s plans. An attack strategy was drawn up on the spot: drive them from Lakeland.
The Scions set out alongside Lyna and the Crystarium’s soldiers. The Exarch remained behind, in the city, ready to defend the civilians if the fighting spilled too close.
And then—everything moved at once.
Clashes of steel. The roar of explosions. Clouds of soporific dust blooming across the battlefield. The plan unfolded without a hitch: Minfilia secured, the enemy lines in disarray.
Then came the duel with Ran’jit. Rhys was fast, but the man’s speed was inhuman, his strikes relentless—each one a killing blow narrowly turned aside. Rhys faltered.
And then, out of nowhere—Thancred. Gunblade drawn, cutting in to take his place.
Before Rhys could catch his breath, the ground shifted beneath him—magic tearing him away from the fight, setting him down a short distance from the fray.
Rhys loved the man. Absolutely loved him like a brother.
Everything was happening so fast.
How did Thancred—?
The thought barely formed before he saw it: a figure advancing through the chaos, bronze staff raised. Ran’jit froze in place mid-strike.
And in the Exarch’s other hand… a small, glinting Allagan teleportation cube.
No.
Rhys’s stomach plunged. The thought of him facing Ran’jit alone—so far from the safety of the Tower—sent a chill knifing through him.
He reached his hand toward him, panic sharp in his chest.
"My lord, no!"
No.
No.
☾
A white sky stretched overhead, humming with an odd, unearthly resonance. Pink—every shade imaginable—spilled across the landscape in rolling fields and twisted trees, until color itself seemed to saturate the air. Rhys narrowed his eyes against the strange brilliance, struggling to take it all in.
Welcome to Il Mheg—a fae realm, home to the pixies. Beautiful, yes… but men had learned to fear them.
One comfort cut through the dissonance: Thancred. It felt good—better than he expected—to see his friend again, the man who had long since become like a brother to him.
“Well, look what the tide dragged in,” Thancred drawled as Rhys approached.
“And here I was thinking you’d be taller by now. Or grew a nice beard,” Rhys shot back, grinning.
Thancred smirked. “Careful. I’m still faster than you.”
“I'm thougher. Oh, do you want to try me ? The warrior of Light and Darkness both ?”
“Mm later," he smirked. "Not sure the pixies will agree,” Thancred said, casting a glance at the surreal landscape. “They might turn you into a toad just for bragging.”
Rhys laughed, a fragment of the tension in his shoulders easing. “Gods, I’ve missed this.”
“Missed me, you mean.”
“I said what I said.” He gave him a solid clap on the shoulder—firm enough to speak volumes. “It’s good to see you, brother.”
Thancred’s answering smile was small but genuine. “Likewise. Now let’s try not to get ourselves killed in this madhouse.”
They stepped into the eerily still domain, the quiet here somehow heavier than silence. Thancred carried instructions given to him by the Exarch himself: should the battle at the Lakeland turn against them, retreat to Il Mheg. Find Urianger—who, for reasons beyond understanding, had made his home here—and, if the opportunity arose, destroy the region’s lightwarden
And in the midst of all the madness, one thought refused to leave him.
The Exarch.
Rhys told himself the man would be fine. Of course he would—he’d held this city together alone for over a century. He was powerful, brilliant, always three steps ahead.
But that didn’t stop the knot of worry coiling tighter in his chest with every passing hour.
A low mist began to creep across the ground, curling around their boots. And then the games began.
The pixies were cunning—merciless in their mischief—and the delight they took in their tricks was theirs alone. Thancred’s patience for them burned away quickly.
It was only after securing a tenuous bargain with their hosts that they found Urianger. Rhys summoned his own pixie, Feo Ul—whom the Exarch had introduced him to upon his arrival in this world—and they, in the way of their kind, negotiated for their stay to pass untroubled.
Urianger stood waiting, hood down, the strange light glinting off his calm features. Rhys was still catching his breath when he stepped forward.
“Three years,” Rhys said, quick and quiet.
“Too many moons,” Urianger replied in that deep, deliberate cadence. “Yet ’tis a joy to behold thee again, hale and whole.”
Rhys smirked faintly. “And apparently half-pixie now.”
“Aye,” Urianger’s mouth curved, “though I would fain think my allegiances unchanged.”
“Wouldn’t be so sure,” Alisaie cut in, arms crossed. “You’re practically speaking their language.”
Alphinaud gave a small smile. “And looking rather at ease for someone who’s supposed to be helping us destroy their lightwarden.”
Urianger’s brow lifted, but there was the barest flicker of amusement in his eyes. “Rest assured, my friends, I remain thy steadfast ally—though I would counsel care in this realm. Its laws are… not our own.”
Rhys watched him, quietly startled by how comfortably he stood in this strange place, speaking to the pixies as though among old friends. In that moment, he could almost have been one of them.
Urianger had changed in the three years since they’d last met—settled into the First as if it had always been his world. It was good to see: Urianger smiling, at ease, the air of solitude about him softened by the company of others.
Truth be told, Rhys had never felt particularly close to him. There had always been too many shadows around the man, too many mysteries unsolved. Yet here, in this bright and perilous land, he saw him in a different light. And the sight warmed him in ways he hadn’t expected.
-
Urianger took his time recounting the vision he had witnessed while passing through the Rift between worlds—a glimpse of the terrible fate awaiting the Source. The Black Rose, a man-made plague, would sweep across the realm, claiming thousands of lives… including Rhys’s own.
Hearing the prophecy again struck just as deeply as the first time. It was terrible. Relentless. It felt inevitable. The only hope of averting it was to save the First—prevent the Eighth Umbral Calamity by any means necessary. And that meant one thing: the lightwardens in each region had to fall.
Over the four days they remained in Il Mheg, they learned more of the one who ruled here—Titania, the pixies’ current king. Once, they had fought bravely against the lightwarden that plagued the land, but in striking it down, they had absorbed its Light. It had changed them, twisted them, and the chaos they could unleash had forced the pixies to seal them away within the great castle.
“To be clear,” Alisaie said, arms folded, “we’re going to walk into a faerie castle, unseal a corrupted king, and try to kill them?”
Thancred smirked. “Sounds like a Tuesday.”
Rhys sighed. “If this is your idea of a normal week, brother, I’m worried about you.”
To reach the castle and end Titania’s reign, the road ahead would be long—relics to recover, alliances to forge with the other peoples of the region: the Nu Mou, the amaros, the Fuath…
On the shores, the Eulmoran army fared little better. The pixies led them in maddening circles, unraveling their wits and keeping them far from the other visitors who had come to see justice done for their king.
When at last Titania fell, the victory was hard-won. The battle had driven them all to their knees. Rhys took in the Light, restoring balance to the skies of yet another realm.
The oppressive clouds of brilliance peeled back, revealing blue once more—blessed blue—and with it came the blessed silence: no more low, ceaseless hum gnawing at the ears.
Rhys, chest still heaving, glanced at Thancred. “So, Tuesday?”
Thancred gave a crooked smile. “Told you.”
The pixies chose their new ruler that same day—Feo Ul.
☾
Their return to the Crystarium was swift. The Eulmoran army had pursued them this far but had been driven back to their last strongholds. Still, a gnawing fear clung to them—that something might have befallen the city in their absence, which had already stretched close to a week.
They crossed the wooden bridge leading to the city gates late in the afternoon and found the Crystarium alive and bustling, just as it always was.
Relief washed over Rhys. Everything seemed normal here. He had struggled to sleep in recent days, worry knotting his stomach—not just for the safety of the city, but for one person in particular.
The small group crossed the Etheryte Plaza in near silence, descending the steps toward the Tower. But their path was blocked by a figure stepping out behind them—his presence unmistakable, his voice steeped in mockery.
“I am Emet-Selch, Ascian,” the man announced with a dramatic sweep of his arm, stepping into view.
“Solus zos Galvus,” Urianger muttered behind them, disbelief thick in his voice.
The Ascian smiled, unbothered.
“A pleasure to finally meet the famed Scions,” he said, offering a mocking dip of the head. “And you, Numi’a.”
Rhys’s expression hardened. His hand went to the hilt of his rapier, instincts flaring, rage burning low behind his eyes.
“How dare you—”
Emet-Selch laughed—quiet, amused, far too calm.
“Touchy. Fair enough—Rhysard. But really, why waste time on niceties when we could skip to the fun part?”
Rhys’s voice was like steel drawn slowly from its sheath.
“If by ‘fun’ you mean lies, riddles, and half-truths, then please—by all means. We’re listening.”
“Ah, Hero,” Emet-Selch said, stepping closer, “always so quick with the retort. I rather like that. Makes things interesting.”
Just then, Thancred’s voice cut through the air, sharp as a blade. “Fun? You mean your usual brand of manipulative bullshit?” He stepped forward, eyes blazing with contempt. “I swear, one day I’m going to gut every Ascian I run into—and you’ll be first.”
Rhys matched Emet-Selch’s step but glanced at Thancred with a grin. “Careful, brother. Keep that fire burning for the real threats.”
The man—ascian— was taller than Rhys and Thancred reunited, but they were not impressed. At all.
Thancred sneered. “If I don’t burn them now, they’ll burn us later.”
Rhys didn’t disagree. He turned his eyes on Emet-Selch, calm but cutting.
“So what is it you want? Hiding in the shadows doesn’t suit you anymore?”
“Collaboration,” Emet-Selch replied smoothly, lifting a single gloved finger, savoring each syllable. “But I do hope you’re prepared to cooperate. Enemies who talk tend to last longer.”
Rhys’s smirk sharpened, his voice a quiet warning. “I’d advise you to watch your tongue—alliances break faster than necks.”
Emet-Selch’s eyes gleamed mischievously. “Wise words. I’ll remember that… for now.”
With a theatrical bow, he vanished in a swirl of starlight, leaving the Scions exchanging a brief, tense look.
No one here trusted him. But for all his theatrics, Emet-Selch had sparked a fire they wouldn’t soon forget.
-
They teleported in one after the other, each stepping into the Tower’s familiar magic. The Ocular’s door was already open—an unmistakable invitation. He was watching. He always was.
“Welcome back, my friends,” came that voice. Deep. Unmistakable.
Rhys exhaled through his nose, closing his eyes for a brief moment.
Gods, he’d missed that voice.
He stepped into the room, measured and calm, his gaze dropping to the polished crystal beneath his boots. He didn’t look up—not yet; he didn’t know how he would react, and they were not alone.
Thancred was the last to enter, followed by Minfilia, who quietly closed the door behind her.
Minfilia gave a small smile, bowing her head. “I am Minfilia, the Oracle of Light. It is an honor to finally meet all of you.”
They took their time exchanging proper greetings, and talking about Il Mheg.
But tension laced the air the moment the topic turned to the Ascian. Understandably. There was no agreement yet—only fragile understanding.
The conversation carried on until Urianger, ever the diplomat, suggested they reconvene later at the Wandering Stairs for dinner.
A quiet nod passed around the room.
-
Each of them had gone to freshen up at the Pendants, agreeing to meet again later that evening.
As usual, Rhys was the last to leave.
He paused at the threshold, casting a glance back to confirm the room was empty. Only the Exarch remained, standing still beside his mirror, weight subtly resting against his staff.
Rhys approached with measured steps, stopping just short of him. His hand reached out—not for the man himself, but for the edge of his white drape, brushing it between calloused fingers.
“Are you alright?” The familiar voice was gentle, laced with concern.
Rhys gave a small nod, then stepped forward and closed the distance, wrapping his arms securely around the Exarch’s waist. The motion was firm, instinctive.
“I’m afraid to open my eyes,” he said quietly. “Afraid I might lose control.”
“Then keep them closed,” came the answer, calm and steady. A warm hand settled atop his head, fingers resting between his ears with quiet reverence.
Rhys drew in a breath, resting his cheek against the crystal at the Exarch’s neck. The faint coolness of it grounded him.
“I was so worried when I saw you facing Ran’jit, just before you teleported us away,” His voice dropped lower. “I knew you'd be fine. But, still.”
“Don’t trouble yourself on my account,” the Exarch murmured, brushing his hair back. “I’m still here. And you—how do you feel?”
Rhys opened his eyes, keeping his gaze low. He focused on the familiar embroidery that ran along the edge of the Exarch’s hood.
“So far, no changes. My body’s holding steady.” He felt the Exarch nod against him, fingers moving to trace the short hairs at the base of his neck.
Rhys hesitated a second longer, then lifted his face to meet his.
“I probably shouldn’t say this now,” he said, voice low and rough-edged, “but I’ve missed you."
Rhys felt the sudden stiffening in his arms—a silent yet unmistakable barrier—and knew he had to stop. Yet inside, a storm raged unchecked: the ache of longing, the desperate hunger for connection crashing over him like a tidal wave after their brief separation. His gaze drifted upward, fixating on those soft, pale lips, heartbreakingly close—a fragile hope kindling in his chest.
His fingers brushed the edge of his jaw, coaxing him forward with a silent plea. Just one step closer. Just one breath between them.
And the Exarch moved—leaned in, close enough for Rhys to feel the cool breath between them.
“My lord,” Rhys called softly. “May I… be permitted a kiss? Just a peck.”
He already knew the answer. Of course he knew. The Exarch wouldn’t allow it. Couldn’t. But the words escaped him anyway—fragile, aching things that needed to be said. Just once.
He watched the silence stretch, unbearable in its quiet clarity.
Then came the inevitable: a hand—firm, steady, pressed to his shoulder with a gentleness that only made the refusal worse.
“No,” the Exarch said, voice low, thick with quiet grief. “Rhysard… please. Don’t.”
Rhys stepped back at last.
His whole body trembled, restraint and despair cracking under the weight of his longing. He turned away, needing distance, needing to gather himself before the tension in his chest broke loose into something he couldn’t control.
“I’m sorry,” he said at last, low and rough. “For letting it show. For being this… weak. When it comes to you.”
Silence stretched again between them, thick and suffocating.
The rejection burned far deeper than he’d expected, yet a part of him knew he couldn’t have let it go further—not yet.
“I cannot offer you the tenderness you deserve, no matter how dearly I wish I could,” the Exarch said, his voice low, threaded with quiet regret. “If apologies are owed… they are mine to give.”
Rhys heard him shift behind him, then the quiet thud of the staff as it met the floor. The Exarch settled on the small steps.
“We have allowed ourselves too many… liberties, of late. We were hopeful—perhaps too hopeful. Greedy, even, for something more. And it is only natural… to wish for more.”
Hearing the Exarch excuse himself like that crushed Rhys even more, the weight of their shared restraint settling heavily upon his heart.
“We’ll have to stop the hugs then,” Rhys said quietly, feeling an emptiness settle inside him as the words left his lips. “I might go mad, but I don’t want to pull away from you.”
He turned to look at him, but the Exarch kept his head bowed, only the top of his hood visible. Rhys sat down beside him, keeping a respectful distance. “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”
The Exarch lifted his face, nodding gently. “It’s alright. Don’t worry. After all the times you had to push me away because of my impulses, I know it’s not easy to handle.”
He turned his face toward him, “we are only human, after all.”
“The difference is, you’ve always acted on instinct,” Rhys closed his eyes for a moment before continuing. “I acted out of need—because of my feelings. Not desire, just the simple joy of feeling you close and sharing a kiss.”
He drew his knees up, resting his forehead against them. “Because I’m happy to see you. Because I missed you. Because I’m relieved you’re safe. I have no excuse for my behavior.”
A silence followed his words, and Rhys knew the Exarch was trying to find comforting words—or maybe more apologies for him.
But he was indefensible this time. There was no coherent defense to offer.
This man simply couldn’t bear to see others torment themselves with needless suffering.
Rhys chose to keep up appearances, sparing him the pain of searching for the right words. He stood, clearing his throat softly to catch his attention and extended a hand.
He saw the Exarch lift his head and grasp his forearm before standing. “Come have dinner with the others too. They’ll be glad, and I think a little relaxation in good company won’t hurt us.”
He offered a small smile, though he knew it wasn’t very convincing.
To his surprise, the Exarch nodded again. “Very well. I’ll join you later.” He motioned toward the door. “You should get some rest before then. I’ll leave the door open—come call me when you’re ready, alright?”
His smile was equally sad. Both tried to put on a brave face.
In vain.
Neither was fooled, but both had the decency to stay silent.
Rhys resisted the urge to pull him into an embrace. He closed his eyes briefly, exhaling, before nodding in return.
“See you soon, my lord.”
☾
The Wandering Stairs were lively, tonight.
Rhys arrived accompanied by the Exarch, stepping out from the shadows into the soft glow of blue and gold lanterns. They soon spotted Thancred, just emerging from the Pendants. With his usual ease, Thancred greeted Rhys with a friendly slap on the bare shoulder, then paused—visibly surprised—before offering the Exarch a nod of acknowledgment.
“Where’s little Minfilia?” Rhys asked. In Il Mheg, they hadn’t been apart for a moment, so it felt strange to see him wandering alone.
Thancred pointed toward the bar. “She wanted to stay a bit with Urianger. He’s been showing her around town and mapping out the evening’s plans.” A faint smile tugged at his lips.
They made their way forward until they saw the twins seated, Alisaie waving them over enthusiastically. A sudden buzz rose as the Crystarians noticed the presence of the Warrior of Darkness—and their Exarch as well.
They gathered around the round table, pulling another close so everyone could sit together. Rhys settled beside Alisaie, Thancred following suit.
Urianger and Minfilia joined them, having spotted their arrival. Smiles spread freely. A quiet evening was all they hoped for after their adventures in the faerie realm.
“It’s good to have you with us tonight, Exarch,” Alphinaud said, turning his head to his right to address his neighbor. “It’s rare to see you join us for meals out!”
The Exarch lowered his head slightly, clearly unprepared to be the topic of conversation so soon. “Yes, I suppose so. One must learn to savor the good moments, no?”
Suddenly, someone behind him made the group jump, slamming his mug down on the wooden table. “Well said, boss! We’re all glad to see you too!” The man was clearly well into his cups, and all eyes turned toward them.
Thancred threw his head back and laughed heartily as the mystel came to take their orders. Rhys shook his head, watching his friend order two more mugs for the drunken man who’d just spoken.
Good grief, this was shaping up to be quite the evening.
-
Several Crystarians had pulled their chairs closer around the small group, invited to join in the conversation. Rhys realized they didn’t treat them as untouchable gods—instead, they were so open and at ease that it felt almost disconcerting. And much better that way; a people who bowed before them would have felt cold and distant. The friendly atmosphere lifted Rhys’s spirits considerably as the evening wore on.
He dared a glance across the table and couldn’t help but smile, seeing the Exarch talking with a young pregnant woman. She seemed to be asking him to place his hand on her belly, but he hesitated. It was because of him—his influence, the love and devotion he’d shown—that this people were what they were: kind, open, and friendly. He led by example.
A gentle pressure on his boot drew him from his thoughts. He looked down to find a blonde head topped with large, pale-furred feline ears peeking up at him. The young mystel stretched out her arms. Rhys slid his chair back slightly and lifted her onto his lap.
She looked up at him with wide blue eyes and a bright smile as she realized what he’d done. “Good evening, Rhys the Warrior of Darkness!” Her ears twitched happily—just as Rhys suddenly sneezed, a fierce, unexpected blast that echoed wildly beneath the crystal domes like a thunderclap.
His hand flew up to cover his mouth and nose, eyes squeezed shut as if bracing for impact. The room fell utterly silent, everyone frozen mid-breath, waiting to see what would happen next.
Then—out of nowhere—a deep, rumbling laugh burst from the Exarch, shaking the very air with amusement. All eyes darted from Rhys, still mortified and red-faced, to the Exarch’s broad grin.
For a moment, Rhys felt like the mighty Warrior of Darkness had just been undone by a single, catastrophic sneeze—and honestly, it was ridiculous.
The laughter still echoed faintly when the little girl—Riqi-Tio, Rhys remembered now—had been there when they first arrived at Lakeland, completely unfazed by the commotion, scampered up to Rhys with an impish grin. She plopped the lute gently onto his knees as if nothing had happened.
“I stole it from the big brother over there!” She pointed at a bard half-slumped in his chair.
The bard glanced down at his belt, left and right, and realized she’d indeed taken his instrument. He laughed loudly, raising his mug in their direction before choking on his drink, which shot out his nose as he coughed and laughed uncontrollably.
Three other burly men banged their fists on the table in delight at the scene, and even Minfilia smiled coyly at the chaos.
“Can you play tonight, Rhys?” Riqi-Tio asked, eyes sparkling with hope. She raised a finger as if remembering something very important. “Please?” Rhys knew there was no escape.
He whispered something to her, and she stood, leaving the lute on his knees. Rhys plucked the strings, testing their sound. Then he looked up just as the little girl went over to the Exarch, who had parted his lips slightly. She beckoned him closer, and he leaned down to hear her secret.
A faint smile crossed his face before he nodded. He whispered back, and the girl held out her arms for him to lift her onto his lap. One small hand rested gently on his crystal arm, its blue glow matching her eyes. She beamed at him before waving at Rhys across the table.
He gave them both a wink and began plucking the strings.
Thancred recognized the tune from the first notes—it was an Uldian chant, almost like an anthem. He stood, fist pressed to his heart, and began to sing loudly, though somewhat drunkenly, accompanying Rhys who tried to focus on the melody.
With Thancred shouting off-key in his ear, it was hard to concentrate, but Rhys laughed along with everyone else. Singing the anthem of Ul’dah here felt utterly surreal. Yet the music was infectious, and some even began to dance to the tune.
Minfilia was shocked to see Thancred like this, but she laughed heartily too. He sang terribly off-key, but no one could doubt the passion in his voice—he was utterly devoted.
✹
The Exarch was left speechless.
He’d heard Rhys play the lute once before, but from afar. Now, with a front-row seat, every note reached him clearly—warm, bright, and brimming with care. Rhys had truly learned; he had practiced, worked for this. The thought filled him with pride… and a deep, aching nostalgia.
How he wished he could join in—sing the familiar verses praising the twin deities who watched over Uldah. The words hovered on the tip of his tongue, aching to be set free. But he couldn’t risk it; the Scions would know at once that he came from the Source.
In his lap, the little mystel giggled, her small hand resting on his crystal arm. She was warm, impossibly warm, and the sound of her laughter softened the weight he always carried. His smile came without thought, gentle and unguarded.
Rhys had sent her to him, asking if he had a request. Such a simple gesture, yet it settled heavily in his chest, an unspoken thread binding them in the middle of this crowded, noisy room.
He let his gaze linger, just for a moment longer than he should have. The way Rhys’s head bent slightly toward the instrument, the quiet concentration in his eyes, the curve of his mouth as he coaxed each note into life… It was far too easy to imagine this as something ordinary—an evening at home, not a rare reprieve between battles.
He lowered his gaze quickly, masking the indulgent thought before anyone could see it. And yet, deep down, he wished this moment could stretch on endlessly, untouched by duty, untouched by time.
☾
Thancred collapsed back into his seat, utterly spent after his boisterous performance. Rhys shifted the mood, letting his fingers weave a slow, gentle ballad—something calmer to soothe the energy in the room. He followed it with another, the audience leaning in, listening with rapt enthusiasm.
Then, without warning, the sky flashed white.
Every head tilted upward toward the crystal domes. The room fell deathly silent before a distant rumble rolled through the air. Moments later came the patter of raindrops, their sound against the glass enclosing them in a cocoon of soft percussion.
The twins exchanged wide-eyed looks and grinned before dashing off, gesturing for the others to follow. They crossed the Quadrivium and stopped before the open expanse of the Exedra.
It was the first storm since the return of the night.
The first rainfall.
The first thunder.
In a hundred years.
The space lay open to the air, the scent of rain and freshly dampened earth sweeping in to fill it. Rhys drew in a long breath—he had always loved that smell. And then it struck him…
His gaze drifted to the Exarch, who was helping the little mystel down from his lap. The man’s eyes were fixed on the great dome above, a faint smile curving his lips. Yes… the scent was like his. Gentle, intoxicating. It tugged at memories of Rhys’s childhood home in the woods, waking to that same fragrance after a night of rain.
The thought made his chest ache.
A sudden impulse struck—one he smothered instantly—to go to him, to draw him in, to breathe in the skin between jaw and neck where that scent would be strongest.
A hand came to rest on his shoulder. Startled, Rhys looked down to find Urianger watching him with an unreadable expression—steady, measuring. It was not a passing glance; the man had seen exactly where Rhys’s attention had lingered.
Rhys held the look for a heartbeat too long before forcing himself to move. Urianger said nothing, and Rhys was grateful for it—though the weight of that silent understanding followed him as they helped Thancred to his feet and joined the crowd streaming outside.
Beyond the doors, the Exedra was alive with voices:
“By the gods… the sky’s weeping!”
“It’s cold—feel it on your skin!”
“I thought it would burn… but it’s soft.”
“It smells… different. Like the air’s been washed clean.”
Alphinaud spoke over the murmurs, explaining in simple words what rain and storms were. The townsfolk listened, rapt, eyes wide as water streamed from the heavens. For many, this was the first time they had ever seen such a thing.
And for all its strangeness, it was beautiful.
-
The festivities lingered on, the crowd gathered along the wooden steps of the Quadrivium. The storm had passed, but the rain still fell in a steady curtain. The moon, veiled by drifting dark clouds, cast a muted glow over the square as the evening air turned cool.
From the corner of his eye, Rhys saw someone approaching from his right. The Exarch was making his way up the steps, holding two steaming mugs. A warm, sweet scent drifted toward him. Rhys accepted his with quiet thanks, resting it on his drawn-up knees. The Exarch lowered himself beside him.
“Did you enjoy the evening?” Rhys asked.
“Very much,” the Exarch replied warmly. “It’s always a pleasure to share moments like these… all together.” He smiled, lifting one hand slightly before letting it fall again to cradle his mug in both palms.
He had meant to brush Rhys’s ear—Rhys knew it.
But instead of leaving straight away, the Exarch remained seated beside him. For a time, neither of them spoke. The sound of the rain filled the quiet, a soft, endless rhythm, as their shoulders rested a hair’s breadth apart. Rhys could feel the faint coldness radiating from him through the cool damp air, and the simple nearness made his chest ache.
He caught the Exarch slightly turning his face toward him once, quickly, as though weighing words he chose not to say. Rhys lowered his gaze to the steam curling from his cup, afraid that if he looked up again, he might not find the will to hold back.
At last, the Exarch rose with a soft breath. “I should be heading back. If you’ve been out in the rain, make sure you dry yourself properly before you sleep, alright?”
He knew full well Rhys’s bad habits—sitting on the ground, lying in the damp, never bothering to change or dry off properly when soaked. For all he seemed impervious to the cold, he adored warm embraces and heavy blankets. It was, as always, a paradox.
Rhys had to fight the urge to reach for him, to pull him in for even the briefest contact. “I’ll be careful,” he said instead, craning his neck to look up at him. “Have a good night.”
He watched the Exarch walk away, pause to exchange a few quiet words with Urianger, the two of them retreating slightly to speak in low tones.
Rhys closed his eyes and took a sip of the drink, nearly coughing as the heat caught in his throat. Setting it aside to cool, he reached for the lute at his side.
A ballad began to take shape beneath his fingers—soft, wistful notes winding through the sound of the rain. The melody was quiet, but heavy with longing, and the air seemed to still as he played. When he finally let the last chord fade, a murmur rippled through those nearby.
“That was… beautiful, but sad.”
“Like a memory you don’t want to let go of.”
“I felt it here,” someone said, pressing a hand to their chest.
Rhys offered them only a faint smile, unwilling to let them glimpse the truth behind the sound.
Still, some had noticed the shadow in his expression. They didn’t comment further, but their eyes lingered.
Rising, he crossed the open space to where the bard lay slumped, deep in drink. He placed the lute gently in his arms before settling down beside him, sipping at the cooling drink in slow, thoughtful swallows.
From a distance, he watched the others laughing, enjoying themselves, and a part of him ached to wallow in his own gloom. But he couldn’t—not here, not tonight.
He finished the drink, returned the mug to the counter with a word of thanks to those still working late, then made the rounds to bid goodnight to the rest.
The rain was still falling in sheets as he crossed the Quadrivium once more. He didn’t hurry, letting it wash over his skin, beads of water striking even the sensitive skin of his eyelids.
At the Tower entrance, he stepped inside, teleporting directly to his quarters. He stripped and, for once, dried himself thoroughly—even his hair.
He didn’t bother dressing again, sliding into the comfort of his blankets. His eyes closed before his head had fully settled against the pillow, sleep claiming him in an instant.
Notes:
Writting Emet is so much fun, bro is chaotic af ♥
One day i'll loose my mind and write a oneshot (ooor even a full story) about him. Because he deserves some love as well !Next chapter should be quick to update !
Chapter 8: Madness
Notes:
Like promised, here it is !
I'd say 'enjoy', but...
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The two days that followed were mentally exhausting. Resisting the urge to make certain gestures demanded constant, deliberate effort. So when the Exarch finally spoke of their next destination—Rak’tika—Rhys felt a wave of relief. They were set to depart the following afternoon, just after lunch.
Emet-Selch had made an appearance that morning, materializing in the Tower’s entrance hall as though he owned the place.
“Good news,” he’d said, his voice dripping with that infuriating mixture of charm and mockery. “I’ve decided to accompany you to your next destination. Call it… scholarly interest.”
Rhys had crossed his arms, leveling him with a wary glare. “Scholarly, right. And I suppose your sudden generosity has absolutely nothing to do with whatever scheme you’re brewing?”
“Scheme?” Emet-Selch feigned a wounded gasp, pressing a hand to his chest. “Rhysard, please. I prefer the term visionary planning. It sounds far less sinister.”
Thancred, leaning casually against the wall, let out a short laugh without humor. “Visionary or not, I can’t say I’m thrilled to have an Ascian tagging along. You’ll forgive me if I keep a close eye on you.”
“By all means,” Emet-Selch replied smoothly. “Though if you intend to watch me the entire journey, I hope you don’t mind being thoroughly bored.”
“Trust me,” Thancred shot back, “I’ll find ways to keep myself entertained.”
Rhys shook his head at the exchange, though the corner of his mouth twitched in reluctant amusement. “This is going to be a very long trip.”
-
Rhys stepped out of his quarters later that morning, only to be surprised by the sight of the Exarch standing on his landing beside the teleportation cube.
“Oh.” The man’s tone suggested he hadn’t expected to see him either. “I was actually coming to ask if you’d like to return to the library.” He took a small step back, as if suddenly aware of how close they were standing. “A few weeks ago, you asked me if I had any tomes on black magic.”
Rhys’s ears perked immediately. “Yes! I’d love that.” A genuine, wide smile spread across his face, excitement bubbling in his chest. “Now? Can I—”
The Exarch gave a quiet laugh, lifting a hand in gentle interruption. “I appreciate your enthusiasm. I can take you there whenever you wish.” Rhys felt his tail twitch behind him at the promise.
“All right, then—now, I suppose?” he said, grinning, and the Exarch laughed again, the corners of his lips curving in that disarmingly endearing way. Rhys had to look away before it became too much.
“Just remember, it’s rather cool in there. Take your cloak if you wish.”
Rhys spun on his heel, skidding slightly on the crystal floor and nearly losing his balance. He caught himself with a hand braced forward before bounding into his room. Snatching the cloak from where it lay on his bed, he returned in a rush, shutting the door behind him. Draping it over his shoulders, he declared with barely contained eagerness, “Let’s go!”
-
The library doors creaked open, and they stepped inside. The familiar chill of the place seeped into Rhys’s skin almost immediately. He followed his host toward the hearth, watching as the Exarch coaxed the fire to life, much like he had on their last visit. They lingered there for a moment, letting the warmth settle in.
“Would you like to stay with me for a while?” Rhys asked quietly, not daring to look at him.
“Of course. I’d be happy to—you know that,” came the reply, the smile clear in his voice. “Come, I’ll show you the shelves.”
Keeping his cloak wrapped around his shoulders, Rhys walked with him toward the nearest bookcases. Some of the volumes were in languages he didn’t recognize. The Exarch let him wander for a while, giving him time to explore, to take in the space. Then, catching his eye, he gestured for him to follow.
“This way.” He led Rhys to the section on magic—black, white, red, and summoning. “Among all these shelves…” He guided him to two full cases. “…I hope you’ll find what you’re looking for.”
Rhys, practically buzzing with excitement, shrugged off his cloak. The room had warmed enough—and rather quickly. “I think… I could spend a lot of time here,” he admitted, grabbing a random volume before glancing up with a genuine smile. “Thank you.”
“I’m glad it pleases you,” the Exarch replied warmly. “If you’d like to borrow anything, you may take as many as you wish—so long as they stay within the Tower. Agreed?”
Rhys nodded, glancing down at the book in his hands. A small laugh escaped him as he realized he couldn’t make sense of a single word. “Is this… Ancient Allagan?” he asked curiously. Some of the characters looked familiar—G’raha had similar books, dense and impossible to read, which he translated into the common tongue in his spare time.
The Exarch leaned closer to see. “It is,” he confirmed. “But there are plenty in the common tongue as well. Let’s see…”
Together, they began sorting through the shelves, setting aside the ones Rhys could read and the others for later, making the search far easier for his next visit.
☾
They left the library in the soft glow of mid afternoon. Rhys had stopped briefly at his quarters to leave behind a volume on black magic before returning to the Exarch. Tonight, they would join the others at the Stairs—one last evening together before tomorrow’s departure.
They descended the Tower’s steps in quiet tandem, sunlight spilling over them in warm, unhurried waves.
As they crossed the expanse of the plaza toward the Quadrivium, the Exarch spoke of their next destination. From his measured, almost reverent descriptions—deep-shadowed woods, the hush of ancient trees—Rhys felt certain he would love it, perhaps even find in it some echo of the Twelveswood.
Rak’tika.
He tipped his head back to the sky. The rain had lingered until dawn, and now the air was crisp, clean, threaded with that intoxicating scent of wet earth. He stopped without thinking, closing his eyes to draw it in fully, letting it fill his lungs until it ached.
When he looked back, the Exarch was still speaking, gaze fixed ahead. Only when he noticed Rhys had fallen behind did he pause, turning toward him.
And there it was again—that stance. Steady. Waiting. Watching.
Seven hells. The sight of it sent a sharp ache twisting deep in Rhys’s chest.
These past few days, Rhys had only seen him within the Tower, surrounded by that soft, bluish light. He hadn’t realized how accustomed he’d grown to it—until now. The change hit him like a blow, leaving him unsteady, caught completely off guard.
The Exarch’s skin, usually so pale, was now kissed with gold, glowing beneath the sun. He must have taken advantage of its return, savoring its warmth, letting it seep into him—worshipping it, perhaps.
Rhys felt his breath falter.
That tan only made the crystalline blue streaking his cheek all the more striking. His smile seemed brighter too, sharper somehow, and his lips—gods—his lips looked so soft, so full, so impossibly pink—
Rhys' mouth fell open, breath quickening. Everything in his mind seemed to snap loose at once. He was losing control with startling speed, and there was nothing—absolutely nothing—he could do to stop it.
“Oh, no…”
He caught the Exarch by the arm and spun him around, pulling him toward one of the mauve trees at the foot of the Tower.
“Vanishing spell. Now.” His words came out in a rapid tumble—he wasn’t sure they were even intelligible.
The Exarch’s was quite surprised, confusion flickering across his face as he gripped his staff and began to chant. The moment the veil of magic settled over them, Rhys pushed him hard against the wide trunk—without a shred of ceremony.
The Exarch realized far too late what had just happened.
That tension… that dangerous, possessive energy radiating from him—
“We agreed. No more surprises.” Rhys’s voice was so low, so rough, he barely recognized it himself. Instinct had taken over, stripping him of reason.
The bronze staff clattered to the ground. The Exarch’s hands clamped around his forearms, trembling. “Rhysard…” It was almost a growl—a warning.
Rhys slid one hand up to his neck, the other curling around his waist, pressing himself flush against him.
“You look absolutely delicious like this.”
He dipped his head, nose brushing over the cool flesh between the twin columns of crystal that rose along the sides of his neck.
“This color suits you so well… you’re like—” His tongue flicked out, tracing the skin just below the hollow of his throat. “…chilled caramel.”
He buried his face against him, inhaling deeply, a low, steady purr rumbling in his chest. Gods, he smelled divine.
“Rhysard!” The Exarch tried to push him away, hands braced against his chest, but Rhys didn’t budge. Even smaller as he was, his warrior’s strength—Hydaelyn’s blessing—made him immovable.
✹
The Exarch watched his friend straighten, eyes opening, pupils beginning to dilate. “I’m sorry for—” he heard him begin, but the words never reached their end.
He wanted to give in as well—but he couldn’t.
Not this time.
For once, he was the one who had to keep the other at bay, and it was excruciating. Every nerve, every instinct in his body screamed at him to reclaim what was his, to take him right here at the base of the Tower—in full view of the world—so that all could see they belonged to one another.
He felt Rhys’s breath ghost against his lips and had to turn his head sharply away. If he kissed him now, it would be over.
Rhys’s mouth found the crystal along his cheek instead, his tongue flicking, leaving a trail of fire in its wake.
The Exarch’s breath hitched sharply as he grasped at the plunging, open collar of the crimson drape that fell loosely across his bare chest.
“I wonder… if you let the sun touch every inch of you,” the Keeper murmured. Gods. “If I were you, I would have,” he added. With a slow, teasing motion, Rhys slid the fabric further off his shoulder, exposing the uncrystallized flesh.
Oh, no—it’d given him confirmation. The low, guttural sound that came from Rhys in response was almost feral.
“Rhys, stop, please!” His voice was urgent now, but it wasn’t reaching him. He was too far gone—too deep in that primal, unrelenting need.
“I want to…”
The Exarch felt both hands slide down his back, gripping his rear with such firm, unabashed strength it knocked the breath from his lungs. “…see you.”
His eyes fluttered shut, as the Keeper pulled their hips together—pressing their lower bodies tight, the state they were both in unmistakable.
“I want to…” Rhys licked deliberately along the curve of his jaw, then pressed a sharp fang to the sensitive skin with a teasing bite, just enough to sting. “…sink my teeth into your flesh.”
He breathed heavily against his skin, eyes shut as if lost to the sensation.
“Let me go!” The Exarch tried to command him, but it came out weak—far too weak against temptation like this. And gods, the way Rhys rolled his r’s when he was like this—low, deliberate—was devastatingly seductive. The whole situation was impossibly unfair.
“I want to…” Rhys pressed in closer, rolling his hips in a slow, sensual grind, their lengths dragging in a rhythm that left no room for thought. “…feel you inside me.”
The Exarch was finished. Completely and utterly undone. KO'd.
“You're driving me mad, Exarch.”
The sudden shift—from formal address to intimate, stripped of titles—hit him like a blow, again. But he barely had time to register it. Rhys had already wrapped his arms around his neck and, with a single surge of strength, lifted himself up and wrapped his thighs around the Exarch’s waist.
“Yes,” Rhys growled as the Exarch’s hands slid beneath him—first steadying him at the backs of his thighs, then lower, gripping him firmly. "Touch me". Rhys arched into the contact with a low, hungry sound, moving with a sensuality that made the world beyond them vanish.
In one last flash of clarity, the Exarch turned his face, pulling it from where it had been buried in Rhys’s hair, and shouted out a name toward the sky.
“Emet-Selch!”
The look Rhys leveled at him was enough to send a shiver down his spine—dangerous, primal. A low, feral growl followed, so deep and resonant the Exarch was certain someone, somewhere, must have heard it.
“You dare speak another’s name… an Ascian’s name… while I—”
His voice was pure instinct—possessive, raw, edged with the hunger of a predator. The air around him seemed to thrum with heat and danger.
“Rhys…” the Exarch whispered against him, his voice trembling. His thoughts were unraveling, dissolving like a man drunk on something far more potent than wine.
His left hand lifted, curling around the base of Rhys’s tail in a gesture that brooked no doubt, a declaration of claim. He gave it a slow, deliberate tug.
The response was immediate.
Rhys arched against him with a sharp, breathless sound, hips grinding down in a slow, sinuous rhythm that made the Exarch’s breath catch. Every movement was a stroke against his control, a stripping away of restraint.
And then—he saw it.
As if in slow motion, every detail seared into memory. Rhys tilted his head back, spine bowing in a sensual arc, another long gasp falling from parted lips. Then his gaze dropped, heavy-lidded eyes locking with the Exarch’s beneath the glamour’s dim shimmer. His tongue flicked over one sharp canine, the gesture sinfully deliberate, a guttural growl rising from deep in his chest.
“Mine…”
He was going to mark him. Right here. Right now. Out in the open.
The Exarch’s hand—still wrapped around Rhys’s tail—trembled before he let go. Without hesitation, he pushed back the sleeve of his left arm, baring his shoulder in silent offering.
“…Only yours,” he breathed, his voice just as low, just as possessive. Skin laid bare in surrender.
Then—
A sharp snap of fingers split the air like a crack of thunder.
The veil around them dropped in an instant.
“The gentleman asked you to let him go.”
The Ascian emerged behind Rhys as if from thin air.
With a fluid, precise motion, he slipped an arm between them and pulled the Keeper back against his chest, separating their bodies in one swift, decisive movement that left the Exarch no time to react. His other hand shot out, pressing the Exarch firmly against the trunk of a nearby tree, keeping them apart with ease.
And gods, the Exarch wanted—achingly—to push past the restraint, to reclaim what had been stolen mid-moment.
Emet stood tall, solid as stone and twice as imposing, his power undeniable. Only an Ancient could hold back two Miqo’te males in the throes of such need with the same ease one might separate squabbling children.
Rhys writhed in the Ascian’s grip, feral and relentless. He lunged forward, arms reaching for his mate—not to fight, but to reclaim. Then, abruptly, he turned and sank his teeth into Emet’s arm.
Hard.
Once. Twice. Again.
The white glove bloomed crimson almost instantly, torn apart by the violence of his bite. Flesh gave way beneath his canines, and the Ascian hissed—not in pain, but in bemused surprise.
“By the star, he’s insatiable,” Emet muttered, more entertained than angry. His grip tightened around Rhys’s midsection, locking him in place like a wild beast refusing to be caged.
“Somewhere else,” the Exarch said, his voice rough and low, fighting for control—dignity—against the haze that still clouded his thoughts.
Another snap of fingers.
And the world vanished in a shower of stars.
-
They rematerialized on the threshold of the Ocular.
“You should be ashamed of yourselves—doing things like that out in the open. At your age!” The Ascian laughed heartily, only to dip his head with a wince as another vicious bite sank deep, striking bone. With a sharp, precise motion, he struck the back of Rhys’s neck, dropping him instantly into unconsciousness.
“I knew you were out there. I could feel your darkness.” The Exarch was doing his utmost to remain upright, his voice steady despite the strain. "You have my thanks. He… lost his composure somewhat.”
Emet barked another laugh, rich with amusement. “Somewhat? That’s putting it mildly.”
His gaze dropped to Rhys, now limp in his arm, his head lolling, arms dangling toward the floor.
“I must admit,” he went on, eyes gleaming, “I never imagined you two to be quite so… spirited. Why not see it through to the end?”
The question hung in the air like a taunt. He studied the Exarch with open curiosity, but when the silence stretched and no answer came, the gleam in his eye sharpened into something cooler.
“You owe me, Exarch. Don’t forget it.”
“Take him to Room 145. In the Pendants,” the Exarch said quietly, pressing a trembling hand to his brow. “And make sure he doesn’t leave before late afternoon.”
Emet gave a mocking little bow, his lips curling into a smirk. He raised his bloodied hand in a lazy salute, then turned to mist and vanished in a slow breath of aether—leaving only one last maddening line behind, his voice echoing into the empty space:
“He bit me.”
-
The Exarch pushed one of the heavy doors open—then collapsed to the floor, breathless, his chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven bursts.
So this was what it felt like, to be overwhelmed by one's mate.
He had felt it—how deeply, how
☾
Rhys woke with his entire body aching. He was lying face-down on a bed, in a room he almost didn’t recognize.
The only thing he knew for certain was that he wanted to die.
A deep chuckle to his left made him whip his head around.
“Some things truly don’t change, even after millennia, my dear Rhysard.”
Emet-Selch was leaning against a wardrobe, arms crossed, regarding him with a look of pure amusement.
“What…?” Rhys had no idea what was going on—or what the Ascian was even talking about. “What are you doing here?”
He sat up on the bed and ran a hand over his face. He felt dried blood on his lips and chin—and when he glanced down, his eyes caught sight of Emet’s left hand, ungloved, deep bite marks still visible along the skin.
He looked up, meeting golden eyes not unlike his own. “What…?”
Emet laughed heartily, pressing a hand to his brow. “You look thoroughly overwhelmed.”
He watched as Rhys shot to his feet in a panic, hand flying to his hip to check for his rapier. Then, without a word, he sprinted to the door—only to find himself blinking at the opposite wall, having been forcibly teleported back. He slumped against it, dazed.
“Your dear Exarch insisted you stay here a while longer,” Emet said with exaggerated solemnity. “Presumably so you could… cool off.” He raised both eyebrows dramatically.
He caught the flick of Rhys’s eyes toward the window. “Don’t even think about it.”
With a wave of his wounded hand, the shutters slammed shut with a decisive crack.
“It’s just you and me now.”
Rhys closed his eyes and counted to ten.
Then he slid down to sit on the floor.
Pressed his palms to his ears. Tugged at them, hard.
“…I suppose I should thank you,” he said at last, voice tight.
“Ah!” Emet threw both arms into the air, voice rising an octave. “You’re surprisingly quick to see reason. I’m delighted.”
He crouched beside him, head tilting with childlike curiosity. “I’ve witnessed some truly bizarre relationships in my time. But yours? I can’t say I understand it.”
Rhys didn’t respond, and Emet merely shrugged at his silence.
“You’ve still got a little while to collect your thoughts before the curfew ends,” he said as he stood, leaning once more against the door.
“I thought Ascians were supposed to be busy,” Rhys muttered, his voice low and rough. “What does an Original like you get out of all this?” He looked up at him, eyes sharp. “Why help us—interfere with…” He gestured vaguely around the room. “With this kind of situation? A curfew, really, Emet?”
Emet’s expression cooled, just slightly. He closed his eyes.
“I have my reasons. And I haven’t lied to you—I do want to cooperate. To understand your motives. Just accept the help and stop asking questions, Rhys.”
“What gives you the right to call me Rhys?” he growled, pressing a hand to his brow.
Emet laughed again, unabashed.
“I had a feeling that would ruffle your fur.”
And for a moment—just a fleeting moment—Rhys could almost forget the mess he’d landed himself in, distracted by their maddening back-and-forth.
But godsdammit, he was in trouble. Deep trouble. And he would need to make a choice—soon. A serious one.
“I won’t try to leave again. Just…” He refused to break down in front of him. “Give me some space. I need to be alone.”
His voice was so drained, so hollow, that the Ascian gave in. With a flicker of aether, he vanished—though Rhys could still feel his presence just outside the door.
He pushed himself to his feet, trembling, cursing under his breath. Cursing his instincts. Cursing himself.
-
Emet had the decency not to enter—at least not physically. A shimmering cloud of stardust drifted through the room before sliding open the window shutters and slipping outside. A silent message: the curfew was lifted.
But Rhys didn’t move. Fear rooted him to the spot, dread knotting in his chest at the thought of facing him again.
Still, he knew he couldn’t avoid it forever.
-
The sun had just set, casting the room in a gentle twilight.
He forced himself to rise and step outside, feeling like a condemned prisoner about to face his executioner.
He left the Pendants, silently praying not to run into anyone. He knew the slightest encounter might tempt him to flee from his responsibilities.
-
The Keeper stood motionless before the slightly ajar door of the Ocular. A sliver of light bled through the gap—an invitation unspoken, impossible to misread. Still, his hand hovered uncertainly. Then, something he rarely allowed himself to do: he knocked, soft and hesitant, his head bowed in shame.
He had to be sure. He had to know this wasn’t a dream—that the door was open for him, truly.
His heart pounded like a war drum in his chest. He wanted to run away.
“Come in. I have been waiting for you,” came the Exarch’s voice from within—calm, measured, impossibly composed.
The sound made Rhys’s gut twist. He hated how steady he sounded. How it only highlighted the chaos inside him.
He slipped in quietly, shutting the door behind him with trembling hands. The Exarch sat with his back turned, hunched slightly over his desk, the slow scratch of quill on parchment the only sound between them. Rhys’s throat tightened.
He couldn’t speak. He didn’t deserve to.
He crossed the room like a ghost and sank to his knees beside him, head low, unable to lift his gaze.
“Rhysard?” The Exarch turned, alarm in his voice now. The chair creaked as he pushed it back, reaching out—hands gentle, familiar, warm—as they cradled Rhys’s face, trying to coax his chin upward. “What are you doing?”
Rhys flinched under his touch.
“Please…” he whispered, voice taut with unshed grief. “Don’t look at me.”
The words were small. Barely a thread. But they held the weight of everything he couldn’t say.
His voice shook. He clenched his fists to keep from breaking.
“I can’t bear it.”
“I don’t blame you,” the Exarch said softly, his hands still cradling Rhys’s jaw with aching care. “If anyone should understand what you’ve felt… it’s me. I’ve put you through this more times than I can count.”
His thumbs brushed slow, soothing circles over Rhys’s cheeks—gentle, grounding, unwavering.
“Did you ever resent me for it?”
“No. Never.” The answer came without hesitation, from somewhere deep and instinctive.
“But…” Rhys’s voice cracked. He drew in a breath, shaky and uneven. “Every time…” The words caught in his throat, raw and jagged. “Every time I asked you to stop, you did. But me…”
He pulled away abruptly, shoving the hands from his face with a desperation that bordered on self-loathing. “I feel like a monster. An animal. I couldn’t. Even when you asked—begged—I couldn’t stop.”
At last, he lifted his eyes to the Exarch’s, tears threatening. “I’m a damn beast, do you hear me? No! Don’t come any closer.” He shoved him away as the Exarch had begun to kneel in front of him, but Rhys recoiled, stumbling backward until his spine hit the bottom step of the mirror’s platform with a thud.
The pain barely registered.
“Why are these feelings so damn strong?” he whispered, broken, desperately searching for answers, clutching at his own chest like he could tear the agony out by force.
“It’s not normal.” He wiped his dry cheeks fiercely. “Why do I feel like I’m dying when you push me away?", His hands scrubbed harshly at his face, as if he could erase what he was—what he feared he’d become.
"What the hell is happening?!”
✹
The Exarch waited patiently for him to calm down before speaking. He was just as worn, just as broken, and knew he couldn’t offer the answers Rhys so desperately sought.
“Rhysard, I am… five times your age. I have gained much experience over the course of my long life.”
He lowered himself to sit on the floor as well, but kept a respectful distance.
“I have learned patience. I have mastered control in countless situations. Yet… you know how I am with you. I listen—always—but I am forever on the edge, though it may not seem so at first.”
He saw Rhys lift his head slightly, turning his nearer ear toward him to listen.
“You are still young. It is only natural to struggle with control—particularly when you believe the feeling is mutual.” He paused, as though weighing whether to continue, then said softly, “Especially when it is with the one you would call your mate.”
Rhys’s sharp inhale was unmistakable at the word.
“Nature—at least for the Mystel—is sometimes cruel… primitive, even. Do not punish yourself for it. You have my forgiveness. This is not your fault.”
The Exarch felt a deep guilt gnawing at him over the whole situation. He should never have asked Rhys to mark him. Nor should he have marked him in return. And he could never explain why, not without risking the revelation of his true identity.
☾
“How do you always find a way to forgive me?” Rhys’s voice cracked, thick with raw, unbearable anguish. “I nearly marked you earlier. And you'd almost let me do so.”
He squeezed his eyes shut, as if the memory seared him from the inside out. A violent shudder rolled through him.
“You said... if it ever became unbearable, I could walk away.” His hands flew to his face, fingers digging in, like he could hold himself together through sheer force of will. His breath hitched. “Well, I think I’ve hit my breaking point.”
He choked on the next words.
“We have to stop. This—” his voice broke, fracturing mid-sentence, “—it’s tearing me apart.”
The dry sob that escaped him cleaved through the silence, sharp and sickening, a sound like something dying.
The Exarch stood frozen, rendered speechless by the force of it—by how utterly helpless he was in the face of Rhys’s unraveling.
“I can’t do this anymore,” Rhys whispered. Every syllable bled desperation. “You have no idea how much I’ll miss you. Do you hear me?” He gasped for air. “How much I need you.”
His tears poured freely from his golden eyes now, but amidst them bloomed a trembling, hollow smile—one of self-contempt and bone-deep sorrow.
“It’s not just your body I crave… Gods, no.” His voice was hoarse, unsteady. “It’s you, your soul, your everything. And I don’t just want you… I need to be yours. I need it more than air, more than anything.”
He laughed. A broken, fragile sound that cut deeper than any blade. "More than anything" he repeted, "I need to be yours." His gaze fell to the floor. He couldn’t bear to look at him.
“I wanted—no, I needed—one last kiss, one last embrace. But I can’t ask for that.” His breath faltered. “Not after what I nearly did. Not after what I became. I don’t trust myself anymore… not with you.”
He rose, unsteady, every limb shaking as if carrying the weight of the whole sky.
“No. I don’t trust myself at all when it comes to you.”
And then, before the Exarch could find his voice, Rhys turned and walked away—toward the door, toward the end of something he couldn’t even name.
“Meet me in the throne room,” he said, without looking back.
Then he was gone, and the silence he left behind wasn’t silence at all.
It was grief. Still breathing. Still bleeding.
-
The Exarch stood stunned, utterly unprepared for how things had unfolded. He hadn’t expected Rhys to take the situation so seriously—nor to carry such heavy guilt. He hadn’t fully grasped the depth of his suffering, though he had sensed it wouldn’t be easy.
And now? What had Rhys said? To meet him in the throne room.
He rose with effort, steeling himself, and followed.
-
The terrace of the throne room was slick with the remnants of last night’s rain, the crystaline floor still glistening beneath the pale moonlight. Rhys stepped into its center, boots echoing softly, the air heavy with silence. His eyes never left the great doors.
He was waiting for him.
And he was fighting the tears again. He was tired. Tired of being so weak and soft.
It felt like standing at the edge of another goodbye—one he wasn’t sure he’d survive.
He was about to lose him. Not to death. But to duty, to restraint, to a distance that would be all the more unbearable for how close they'd once been.
And that, truly, was worse.
At last, he saw him approach—slowly, almost painfully, leaning on his staff as though each step cost him something. His silhouette emerged through the dim corridor light like a ghost from a half-remembered dream.
Rhys’s throat tightened as he looked up—not at him, but at the moon, impossibly close at this height, watching silently from above like a divine witness.
“I will swear an oath,” he said, and his voice was hoarse, low with emotion. “Here, under Her watch.”
He didn’t wait for a reply. If he stopped now, he might never speak again.
“Until the day we fulfill our mission—or the day you decide to accept me, to accept us—I swear this.” He swallowed hard. “I will do my best not to tempt you. Not with my words. Not with my body. Not even with a look.”
His hands trembled at his sides, clenched into fists, fingernails biting into skin.
“I will keep my distance. I will speak to you only when necessary.”
A pause—raw, agonizing. “Touch you… only if it is truly necessary.”
His voice cracked on that word. Necessary. As though that was all they were allowed now.
Another wave of tears threatened to break free, and he paused—just for a moment—to steady himself, gathering what little composure he had left.
“I will return to you only when you are ready to receive me. When it won’t hurt you to have me near.”
Finally, he dropped his gaze from the moon, looking at him—really looking, as though he were trying to memorize every fragile detail of the man he still loved.
“May She witness it. I am yours… even now. Even if I have to wait a lifetime to be held again.”
And with that vow, cast beneath the moon’s silent judgment, he stood unmoving—offering everything, expecting nothing.
Not even forgiveness.
A soft sound stirred behind him, but he dared not look back. Instead, he sank to his knees, conjuring a vial of powder in his left hand. Fingers dipped into a nearby puddle, he traced the water beneath his eyes, down his neck, and over his exposed sternum.
As he applied the pigments, delicate golden patterns shimmered to life—under his eyes, curling upward at the edges; five slender lines descending along his neck to his collarbones; and ancient runes glowing faintly across his chest.
“Rhysard, wait.” The voice behind him quivered with emotion.
“Yes?” he whispered, still refusing to turn.
“May I… perform the Blessings?”
Rhys closed his eyes, uncertainty weighing heavy. Was he ready? Did he truly want it?
“Use the petrification spell then—the same you used on Ran’jit.” He began to turn but stopped himself. “If, at any moment, I try to break this… use that spell. Please—do it for me, and against me.” His voice trembled, raw and urgent.
“I give you my word—you will not break your oath.”
“I want us to see this through. I hope you don’t hate me for what I’m about to do.” Rhys's voice cracked, fragile as glass. “Please… don’t hate me.” He lowered his head, his body leaning forward slightly, steadying himself with trembling hands.
“I could never hate you. I don’t blame you—I understand. And I’m truly sorry.” Rhys heard the break in his voice, a desperate effort to hold back tears that mirrored his own. “I will miss you more than you know. My affection for you will never fade.”
They lingered in silence, the world holding its breath.
“Can you stand?” he asked softly. Rhys wasn’t sure. He tried, but his strength failed him. He shook his head, feeling the other move closer. He couldn’t meet his gaze—it would shatter him. He closed his eyes as he sensed him kneel before him.
“Do you remember the prayers?” Rhys whispered into the quiet night.
“I do.”
Time seemed to pause, suspended between heartbeats.
“We’ll see each other again tomorrow afternoon,” he murmured, voice barely more than a breath. “I’m going to miss you. Miss you like crazy, Exarch.” The formalities slipped away, and it broke him inside. “This closeness. This ease between us. This bond. I’ll cherish it every day, even if I seem indifferent. I’ll probably do terrible things just to keep control.”
He heard the heavy silence surrounding them and felt the urge to throw himself off the Tower.
“I will come back alive. Every time. Smile at me whenever you can, whenever you see me return. Your smile…” He broke down, pressing a hand against his mouth to stifle a sob. “Your smile is a true ray of sunshine. It’s all I have in my heart. And I need you so much.”
He heard the Exarch gasp, his own walls breaking down in response.
“Stop, please,” the Exarch moved closer. “Sit up, Rhys.” He lifted his head with eyes still closed. Oh, he was in a terrible state—and with those markings, he looked almost frightening.
“Are you ready?” he asked then, deep voice as gentle as ever.
Rhys hesitated. How much more do I still have to lose?
He let out a shaky breath and slowly raised a trembling hand, slipping it beneath the Exarch’s hood.
And the Exarch allowed it.
Rhys’s fingertips brushed his brow, then drifted upward, threading through his hair before finding his right ear.
The fur was impossibly soft, and beneath it, the skin so thin, so tender. He touched it with reverent care, afraid to startle him—afraid to break the moment.
The Exarch leaned into his hand, the ear giving the faintest twitch against his palm. Accepting him. Accepting the quiet, intimate touch.
Then he bent forward, just enough for his forehead to rest against Rhys’s, as the Keeper traced gentle nails at the base of his ear—coddling him, for the first and last time.
Rhys gave a faint nod, his heart breaking all over again. He withdrew his hand slowly, fingertips lingering against the curve of his cheek in one last, trembling caress.
“Break,” he heard him whisper softly. The sensation was unbearably raw.
He felt the Exarch’s hands gently cup his face, thumbs brushing away the tears he hadn’t realized were now falling. Cool breath passed over his eyelids—then the press of a kiss to his forehead, as light as the evening wind.
“May she grant you her protection,” came the soft prayer, solemn and sure.
His hands rose to Rhys’s head, fingers sifting gently through his hair before pausing… and placing another kiss there, this one lingering.
“May she grant you love…” The word faltered, trembling on his lips, as though his heart had caught on it.
Then the Exarch bowed his head, and Rhys’s breath hitched.
He hadn’t expected him to do it—
to follow the next step of the ritual, the one meant only for lovers.
Soft lips pressed to the side of his neck—slow, reverent, intimate in a way that made his chest ache. “May she grant us a home.”
A kiss followed at the hollow of his throat, over his racing pulse, before drifting to the other side. “May she grant us a family.”
Rhys couldn’t move, even if he wasn't petrified. He hadn’t known what to expect, but it wasn’t this—this care so openly laid bare. He drew in a shaking breath—
—and then felt the Exarch’s lips upon his own.
A kiss, feather-light and heartbreakingly tender, so full of meaning it made him shudder. His tears spilled freely, and in the stillness, the last prayer was whispered against his lips:
“May she grant us happiness.”
He felt the Exarch’s forehead press softly against his, a fragile, desperate connection.
“I didn’t say it back earlier,” the voice cracked, trembling with truth. “But I… I need you as well, Rhys. Please don’t ever doubt that.”
Their noses brushed, a quiet, intimate touch that made his heart shatter all over again.
“Do what you must, my Warrior of Darkness. And come back to me.”
The Exarch rose slowly, pressing tender kisses to both of Rhys’s ears—so full of adoration and sorrow that Rhys felt his chest tighten. If tomorrow was truly the end, it had been worth every moment they shared.
“Until tomorrow, my Warrior." The claim was like a knife through the heart. "Please try to sleep. Don’t let the cold get to you. Don’t stay outside all night.”
The sound of footsteps retreating left an aching silence behind. Only when the door clicked shut did Rhys feel the weight of his solitude.
The spell was undone.
He tried to lift his hands, but exhaustion won.
He collapsed, his head striking the damp floor sharply—and yet, he didn’t feel the pain.
He drew a shaky, ragged breath and forced himself to stand again, trembling with everything he was feeling—loss, love, fear, and hope all tangled together.
Notes:
See you next week for more !
Chapter 9: Indifference
Chapter Text
The night had been far too short.
Sleep had taken an age to come, but his eyes were so heavy, his skin so raw that Rhys eventually drifted off for a few bells. Before returning to the Pendants for the night, he had retrieved his cloak. It carried the faint chill of crystal, and for a moment he nearly cast it aside. Instead, he held on to it through the long hours until morning.
He rose at first light, opening the window to let the cool morning air spill into the room. This afternoon could not come quickly enough—he needed something to occupy his mind, or the wait would drive him crazy.
Dressing swiftly in his dalmascan red attire, he stepped out, locking the door behind him before following the long corridor toward the spiralling stairs that led down to the ground floor.
At this hour, the Stairs lay silent and empty. It was still far too early, an there was no celebration ongoing.
A shiver ran up his arms, and the air beside him seemed to tremble. An instant later, a figure emerged from a swirl of shadow right next to him.
“Don’t start taunting me first thing in the morning." He didn’t bother to turn, continuing on until he pushed open one of the great doors leading outside. "I don't have the patience for it today.”
Beyond lay Lakeland, its colours muted beneath a thin veil of mist. He leaned his elbows against the railing that ran the length of the canopy.
“Rough night?” The Ascian’s voice came from just beside him, and Rhys felt his arms tense as the man settled casually against the rail. When he turned his head, he caught the faint recoil in Emet’s expression.
“By your Twelve, Rhys. What in the—”
He could imagine the sight he made: paint still smeared across his skin, eyes surely red and swollen, nose raw. “Go on, say whatever you like, Emet.”
“Someone die?” came the question, calm yet curious. He nodded absently.
“In a way, yeah.” He meant himself.
It felt as though he had left his body, his heart, in the throne room the night before—what remained now was little more than a hollow shell, a weapon waiting to be aimed. “And what brings you here so early? Hoping to collect some fresh gossip?”
“What an accusatory tone,” Emet drawled, before his voice shifted, quieting. “Yes, I came for the morning’s gossip… but I think I’ve changed my mind.”
Rhys closed his eyes as the throb of an oncoming headache began to bloom. “Go away.”
“No.” A pause, then with the faintest hint of mischief: “We’re going hunting.”
“What are you on about now?” He turned fully to face him, unable to fathom what Emet’s aim was in all this.
The Ascian’s gaze swept him from head to toe, lingering on the rapier at his hip. With a sharp click of his tongue, he dismissed it with open disdain. “Put that toy away. Fetch your staff.”
Rhys’s brow furrowed at the sheer condescension in his tone.
Emet lifted a hand, and from the void itself there materialised a massive black staff—his own, no doubt—its presence dark and commanding.
“Go on,” he said, almost lazily. “I’ll be waiting right here.”
-
Rhys didn’t know why he obeyed—but he did.
He made for the Tower, teleporting straight to his quarters. His rapier was set carefully back in its case, and his hand closed around his staff. He didn’t bother with robes or armour; he had no wish to linger here a moment longer.
He knew the Exarch would have felt him arrive—the way he always did. And no one else entered unannounced at any hour of the day or night; he—and Lyna— were the only ones allowed. The others had to be announced.
He returned to find Emet exactly where he’d left him. The Ascian’s eyes lit with a fierce smile at the sight of the staff in his grasp.
“You can be reasonable when you choose to be.” The Ascian gave him a mocking smile, leaning in with pure insolence. “Numi’a.”
Rhys shoved him with his shoulder at waist height, growling his indignation.
“Filthy Ascian—who do you think you are?” he spat at his feet. “'tis the second time already. You’ve no right to call me that—you’re not of my clan.”
Emet straightened, dramatically extending a hand toward him, entirely unruffled by the insult.
“Oh, I think I know exactly who I am.” His grin widened as he began to count them off on his fingers, voice dripping with amusement. “I’ve seen your Menphina with my own eyes. I’ve watched men split into subraces," he mimicked feline ears with his hand. "I’ve shaped civilizations. I am an Ascian—an Original one. The oldest mage alive. Father of Allag. Bearer of ancient tongues. Founder of empires. He-Who-Walks-Between-Stars. Breaker of chains. Mother of dra—” He stopped, smirking as if in on a private joke. “Oh… you don’t know that one yet.”
Rhys stared at him, unimpressed. “I couldn’t care less about your achievements. Ascian. Allagan. Emperor—” He snarled the last word. “Garlean.”
Emet’s smile only widened with every venom-laced word, his expression almost indulgent.
“Finished, savage?” he asked, wiggling the fingers of the hand Rhys had all but shredded yesterday—like the savage he was accused of being.
“Shut it,” the Keeper growled again. “Call me Rhys if you must. I don’t care.” He stepped back to size him up, refusing to crane his neck to meet his gaze. Emet really was tall, and a bit of distance was necessary. “So—are we standing here all day, or are we hunting?”
Emet barked a laugh, then offered a shallow, mocking bow, arm extended to the Keeper.
“Kholusia or Amh Araeng?” he asked. Rhys shrugged.
He took hold of the Ascian’s forearm, and the two vanished in an instant.
☾
The blinding light swallowed them as they arrived in the desert. Rhys’s grip was tight on Emet’s forearm, claws all out, digging into the thick fabric of his arm. Suspended in midair, he felt anything but at ease.
“Find your prey, Rhys,” Emet said, bowing at the waist, talking next to his ear, his voice laced with amusement. “Make them pay for the injustices you feel. Set yourself free—I’ll be the last to judge you for acting like a rabid beast.”
Rhys felt his vision narrow. Hatred. Anger. Frustration. Sadness. Despair. That sudden, crushing loneliness.
"Show me how you yield black magic. Be Merciless."
“There,” Rhys pointed toward what looked like a loose cluster of sin eaters prowling the sands.
In the blink of an eye, he was teleported there—boots sinking into scorching sand as he broke into a run.
He was going to unleash himself.
-
The morning had burned away in a blur.
The desert heat pressed down like a vice, choking the air from his lungs. Rhys was gasping, sweat slicking his skin, his red drape hung loose and heavy around his hips, held only by his belt.
His flesh gleamed under the unforgiving light, the golden markings blazing fiercely despite the sweat that poured over them. They would stay etched into his skin for days—two, maybe four—if he didn’t obsessively claw at them while bathing.
Emet-Selch didn’t join the fray. He lingered on the caves at the edges, slipping between patches of shade like a ghost, eyes never leaving Rhys.
An Ascian bathed in so much light was an anomaly—his power muted, shackled by the brilliance.
Rhys’s jaw clenched, the irony twisting in his gut. Here he was, fighting beside an Ascian of all people. It felt like a cruel joke the gods played on him. He fought almost hand-to-hand, casting spells while risking it all with every move. He dodged attacks by the barest margin, refusing to tend to the scratches that marked his arms and parts of his back.
One creature, wielding a razor-sharp blade, nearly caught his face. He twisted away just in time, but the strike clipped long strands of his hair, severing them with brutal precision. His right eye was almost fully exposed now—and he didn’t care in the slightest. He’d lost all desire to please anyone, and his new asymmetrical fringe wasn’t something he was going to fret over.
He made a subtle gesture and, in the blink of an eye, Emet pulled him through the aether—depositing him not in the chaos of battle, but in the shadows of a cave. The Keeper’s frown deepened. This was nowhere near the cluster of sin eaters he had indicated. They were inside the cave, away from the fight.
Emet’s lips curled into a smile, eyes glittering with amusement as he drank in the raw, unrestrained fury in Rhys’s stance.
“We should probably return to the Crystarium,” he said lightly, as though sensing—and thoroughly enjoying—Rhys’s irritation.
Without warning, he caught Rhys’s staff in one hand, the motion sharp, like an adult confiscating a dangerous toy. “I understand we’re bound for Rak’tika this afternoon?”
Rhys reached for it at once, but the effort was wasted. Emet’s grip was unyielding, his height and presence a wall of challenge. The sheer audacity of this ancient being was staggering—and infuriating.
“We?” Rhys repeated, his voice tinged with disbelief.
“Yes. As I said, I want to learn more about you Scions. Those were not idle words.”
Emet smirked, letting go of the sceptre. “When you arrive, clean yourself and tend to your wounds." He points a gloved finger into the Keeper's bare chest, raising a brow. "Don’t needlessly worry the others."
Rhys shot him a dry look, pushing his hand away. "Yes, mother.”
Emet chuckled, stepping back into the deeper shadows slowly gathering around them. ”You know, for someone so fierce, you’re surprisingly easy to boss around.”
Rhys growled. “Fuck you!” at the same time, with a snap of Emet's fingers, they vanished.
They reappeared at the threshold of the Ocular.
But glancing back, he found Emet gone—vanished without a trace, leaving only the silent watch of the gods.
Disgusted at having spent the morning with the Ascian, Rhys nonetheless knew—deep down—that it had done him good. He had channeled some of his rage and frustration toward a real enemy.
He only hoped their escapade would remain a secret among the other Scions. The thought of Thancred’s disappointed gaze was something he preferred not to entertain.
☾
He had taken the time to wash and close his wounds, but his outfit was in no state to be worn again—full of sand, soaked through, and stained with blood in several places.
He returned to the room where he kept his gear and searched for a while before finding nearly the same outfit, but in black. He had no intention of wearing his robes, even if he owned an impressive collection of them.
A black drape, cinched at the waist with the same belt, the pleats fell to his knees, split high enough to give him freedom of movement. Tall black-and-gold boots. Gloves that reached almost to his elbows, their cuffs adorned with golden bracelets set with crystals. He fastened a few more crystals to his belt, leaving all his red mage equipment behind. He would clean it when he returned.
Despite what he had told himself—no. He wanted to wield black magic. He was in an explosive frame of mind and had no intention of showing mercy. With his friends at his side, he knew they would cover him. They had worked together for years, knew his positioning, his limits. And now, he was far more familiar with the enemy.
He was halfway to the door before he paused, glancing back at the unmade bed. With a sharp exhale, he snatched up a light sheet and threw it over his shoulders. No sense making things harder than they already were.
When he reached the Ocular, the door stood open, the low murmur of voices spilling out. Pushing it wide, he found everyone already gathered.
Heads turned. Smiles faltered.
Beyond the orange cloth draped over his shoulder, there was something… off about him. His face was shuttered, the markings along his skin fiercer, harsher than usual.
“Rough wake-up, Rhys?” Thancred broke the tension, giving the cloth an experimental tug.
Minfilia flinched at the sight of his eyes and neck—and screamed outright when Emet strolled in behind him. She could see it plainly: the darkness that clung to him, oppressive and suffocating, despite the small, pleasant smile on his lips.
It was as if he weren’t capable of wiping out everyone in the room with a snap of his fingers. Literally. He greeted the group with a shallow bow before leaning lazily against the crystalline wall, content to watch.
Rhys tilted his head toward his friend. “A bit rough, yes.” He rubbed at his right eye, dislodging a newly short lock of hair that had been tickling his eyelid. “But I’m looking forward to the woods. You know I like them.” He forced a smile, but the silence that followed told him enough—he probably looked more frightening than reassuring, with the faint glint of fangs behind his lips.
“Good. Everyone’s here.”
Rhys lifted his head and fixed his gaze on the mirror behind the Exarch, because he couldn’t bring himself to meet his face. The fatigue in the man’s voice matched his own.
The Exarch explained the situation in Rak’tika and informed them that he’d been summoned to Vauthry following his clash with Ran’jit—which meant Eulmore, directly. Rhys bit back the urge to warn him to be careful, to tell him the man was cunning, dangerous, unpredictable. But he had to trust him. He was a city leader, for gods’ sake—had been for a century. He didn’t need Rhys’s advice on how to rule. Rhys hardly knew how to do it himself.
Rhys, Thancred, Minfilia, and Urianger would head into the Rak’tika Greatwood. Alphinaud would go to Kholusia; his sister, to Amh Araeng. They would split up in search of the remaining Lightwardens.
“Hold on,” Thancred said, pointing at the Ascian. “He’s actually coming with us?”
Emet arched a brow. “Do not point, child. It is rude," he clicked his tongue. "Grant me the benefit of the doubt. Let me join you—just this once—and you can pass judgment when the expedition’s over.” He raised both hands in mock surrender. “I daresay my help will prove useful. Just try not to bore me.” With that, he took his leave, tossing Rhys an amused look before vanishing.
The group exchanged glances, silently wondering if they could truly work alongside an Ascian. It was Alphinaud, surprisingly, who spoke in his defense. Being the voice of reason among them, his opinion carried weight—and in the end, they agreed to give Emet the chance to prove himself.
Rhys was the first to leave when the meeting ended—something so rare that Alisaie was caught off guard. He hadn’t even spoken to the Exarch. She frowned, ready to follow, but Urianger stopped her with a hand on her arm.
“Whatever trials he faces, it would be wise to let him meet them alone.”
“But—” she began, glancing toward their host, only to relent with a sigh. She knew she was hardly in a position to demand answers from him. He’d given her the space to work through her own burdens, and she owed him the same courtesy.
“…All right.” She stepped back, defeated.
☾
Rak’tika did, in fact, resemble the Black Shroud.
The trees towered high above them, their dense canopy letting the brilliant light filter through only in scattered shafts.
For a fleeting moment, Rhys wondered if they’d somehow slipped back to the Source. But the ever-present, heavy thrum in the air quickly grounded him in reality. No—there was very much an enemy to hunt here.
They made their way through the forest, joined by their new recruit on the proverbial ejection seat: Emet-Selch. Who, apparently, had nothing better to do than tag along on their little adventures. Watching him stride among them was both surreal and absurd—tall, draped in imperial Garlean robes, always ready with a biting remark, a smile fixed permanently to his lips.
Thancred was delighted. Minfilia, traumatised by the oppressive weight of his aura. Urianger and Rhys were the only ones who bothered to answer him when he spoke.
And Rhys thought, gods, what a scene it would be when they found Y’shtola again. She, who didn’t trust the Exarch. Who had secluded herself in this forest because she thought him suspicious.
He couldn’t help a quiet chuckle. No, she was not going to be pleased to see an Ascian among their ranks. She was going to give them all an earful. And he was looking forward to it.
-
Their stay in Rak’tika was nothing short of remarkable.
The reunion with the Scion—who now called herself Matoya—had been… unsettling. She had embraced black magic, and at first had taken Rhys for a Lightwarden, so radiant was the Light within him.
She hadn’t recognised him.
The chill that passed through his heart then… through both their hearts… was glacial.
Physically, Rhys felt no different, yet he knew that, in time, something would inevitably change. Still, he had chosen to place his trust in the Exarch’s assurances about it all.
During their stay they met the people Y’shtola had made her own—whom she had led, in her way, for the past three years. The Night's blessed. Their rituals were hauntingly beautiful, stirring in ways that lingered long after.
Truly, Rhys loved the Crystarium, but he could easily imagine himself living in that small village. It felt like home in its own right—deep in the woods, wrapped in shadows, surrounded by people wholly devoted to a cause. People who prayed and painted themselves.
And he did not go unnoticed. Often, heads turned as he passed, and not solely because his reputation preceded him. No, it was something else—something dark, nightly, dangerous… familiar.
He bore the same ritual paints they did, and more than once, he’d been approached late at night with an invitation to pray together. Alone. Or with others.
And each time, he had held back. He didn’t know why. But he had.
-
One evening at the camp, after they had returned from an expedition, Rhys took advantage of the fact that Y’shtola was the only one still awake among their friends to draw her aside.
The fire crackled, voices murmured in the background, but he hardly heard them. He spoke her name quietly, and when she looked his way, he leaned in.
“Tell me… do you know much about Mystel instincts?” His voice was low. Her ears flicked, a subtle tell.
One elegant brow arched. “You’ll have to be more specific than that, dear.” There was a lilt of amusement in her tone. “I am acquainted with them, yes.”
He shifted, settling back into his seat before leaning forward again. “Let’s say that—”
“Rhys.” She lifted a hand, silencing him as neatly as she might still a careless novice. “Spare me the scenic route. Out with it.” Her lips curved, just faintly — the smile of someone who knows you’re about to embarrass yourself and will let you do it anyway.
He swallowed. “Fine.” He stared down at his hands, fingers twisting together. “I’ve been feeling an… abnormal attraction toward someone. Almost destructive. And it’s mutual.”
She said nothing. The silence demanded more.
“They’re a Mystel, too.”
That made her lean in — not hurriedly, but with a deliberate air, as if to scent out every layer of his discomfort. His already soft voice dropped to a whisper.
“I’ve never been drawn to males before. I mean I did, once, but it was years ago. But him… it’s not just physical. I feel real affection, though I barely know him. It’s not normal — it happened far too suddenly, and we’re both… a little overwhelmed.”
He scrubbed a hand over his face, cheeks burning.
Still, she remained silent, head tilted, as if appraising a particularly intriguing specimen. Then, with maddening calm, she raised a single finger.
“Wait.”
And so he waited — trapped under her gaze, mortified.
“Is it one of my people?” she asked at last.
Rhys froze. He couldn’t tell her who it was, and chose instead to stay vague. She didn’t press.
“Very well,” she said, with a small shrug. “It does seem a little sudden, but such things can happen.”
He nodded, waiting for her to continue.
“Between a male and a female, the female may find herself courted… quite vigorously,” she mused, her pale gaze lifting back to his face. “Between two males, however… I’m less certain.”
Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “Have you been close? Physically?”
Rhys went still. There was no point lying. If he wanted answers, he’d have to be honest.
“Yes,” he said at last, his voice unsteady. “Touch my hands — look how they’re shaking. Just thinking of him… of the touches we shared…”
She placed a cool hand over one of his, and the flicker of surprise on her face might almost have been comical.
“We’ve… shared a few rare kisses. Tender embraces. Chaste caresses.” He ducked his head, mortified to speak the words aloud. “And… less chaste ones. Just with our bodies pressed together.”
The memory was too vivid — too dangerous. He rose abruptly, disgusted by the way his body betrayed him.
She stood as well, catching him by the arm. “Come,” she said, tugging him away from the firelight. “Walk with me.”
He raked a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply, and followed as they left the camp behind.
“Tell me…” Her voice softened, though her gaze stayed sharp. “…did you attack each other? Feel the urge to claim?”
“Yes,” he admitted, his voice almost a growl. “It’s unbearable.”
“Does that need outweigh the feelings you share?”
“I’d like to say no, but… sometimes the urges are so strong I can’t think straight.” He hated admitting it. “He, on the other hand, manages to control himself—more or less. Better than I do, certainly.” He raked a hand through his hair again, hesitating. “I want to spend my life with him. And I’ve known him less than a month.” He lifted his gaze to her. “I hope that answers your question. It’s… difficult.”
Her expression shifted, caught somewhere between surprise and curiosity. She seemed to weigh her next words before asking, “Have you marked each other?”
He froze, his entire body trembling at the mere mention of the word. And that was answer enough.
“Why wait,” she pressed, “if you both feel it’s the right thing to do?”
“Because it’s complicated. I can’t bind myself to someone who exists on another reflection. If something were to happen here… I don’t know how I’d survive once we returned home.” He told himself it was a safer explanation than the truth, though in essence it amounted to the same. And as the words left him, he realized he meant them—truly. The realization made him draw a sharp breath, dread surging like a wave, one more weight added to the growing pile crushing his chest.
“I don’t know what I’ll do without him. I… I don’t know, Y’shtola. It’s driving me out of my mind.” He sank into a crouch, clutching his head in his hands.
His anguish was almost tangible, creeping into her own chest like a contagion. She knelt beside him, laying a steady hand on his shoulder. For a moment, her expression softened with a private grief she didn’t share. Rhys looked dangerously close to breaking.
“You’re absolutely certain you haven’t marked each other?” she asked, her tone careful but pointed. “Not even in the heat of the moment, when neither of you was thinking clearly? Because looking at you now…” She let the thought trail off, her knowing gaze speaking louder than her words.
“I’m certain. I would remember!” His hand drifted unconsciously to his left ear—and he almost collapsed then and there. No, it was impossible. His G’raha was in the Tower, in Mor Dhona. He recalled again, and again, the last glimpse he’d taken of it before traveling to the First. Only yesterday, he’d seen the Exarch’s left shoulder bare. No tattoo. Even in the state he’d been in, he had noticed that detail. The Exarch was not G’raha Tia. He was certain—utterly certain—of that now. And it was impossible for one man to exist in two places, in two worlds, at once.
“In that case,” she murmured, giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze, “perhaps you are simply meant for each other.”
The words made something inside him wither.
“If the feelings are as strong—or stronger—than the physical pull, then nothing can drive people to such a state except fighting against the very nature, the very fate, that binds them.”
“I don’t know where I stand anymore. It’s… terrible.” His voice was low, raw, as he tried to steady himself, to absorb words that were cutting him to pieces.
Bound by fate to the Exarch. The same man that pulled him between worlds. That defied fate itself. Which would make him, in truth, his life partner.
There had been a time when Rhys had thought perhaps G’raha was meant to be that partner—but they had never had enough time to nurture what had only just begun to blossom.
“I hope you find the strength to rise again,” Y’shtola said at last, straightening before offering him her hand. “You have no choice but to rise, Rhys. To keep moving. No matter how much it frustrates you. No matter how deeply it grieves you.” She paused, eyes softening. “We will save this shard. We will keep them all safe. And if I must find a way to travel the Rift itself to keep us from losing contact, I will.”
Those were the words he had been waiting for, without knowing it.
He stood with effort. “We will save this shard,” he echoed.
☾
The days passed, each unlike the last—every one of them brimming with new trials and discoveries.
Their travels had brought them to Fanow, a village built high among the trees, home to the Viis—tall, imposing rabbitfolk like Lyna.
They immersed themselves in the region’s folklore, but their respite was short-lived. An Eulmoran detachment had tracked them to the depths of Rak’tika, and the party soon found themselves ambushed amid the crumbling grandeur of ancient ruins. Ran'jit was there, waiting.
The battle that followed was both treacherous and brutal. In its wake, they lost their newly reunited friend—swallowed by a yawning abyss.
The shock was still fresh when Emet, who had vanished shortly after they first entered the forest, reappeared without warning.
What came next silenced them all—he pulled Y’shtola back from the Lifestream as effortlessly as one might pluck a pebble from a pond. The ease of it was staggering, a stark reminder of how unpredictable—and dangerous—the Ascians’ powers truly were.
Her recovery took several days. When at last she was well enough to travel, they resumed the hunt for the great Sin Eater. Their latest lead brought them to another set of ruins, where they prepared for yet another assault.
The fighting was fierce—fiercer than anywhere they’d been thus far. The sin eaters here seemed driven by a particular savagery, and Rhys threw himself into the fray with relish, pushing his limits with every strike. Thancred kept a watchful eye, but more than once had to call him back, catching him straying too far into danger without so much as a warning.
And Emet surprised them yet again.
They had seen murals—ancient, fading scenes—and he had explained their meaning. Whether his account was true, none of them could say; after all, the events he described had taken place thousands of years ago. Yet Y’shtola regarded his words with striking gravity—and that was no small thing.
The revelation that Hydaelyn and Zodiark were primals had landed like a thunderclap. To hear that the history they knew was not the history that had actually been lived was equally hard to believe. They longed for answers, but patience would be the price of them.
Rhys no longer knew what to think of Hydaelyn. He had already begun to question Her, seeing the state this reflection was in—but to learn She was a primal… Even bearing the Blessing of Light, he could not shake the thought that he might already be enthralled. Guided down this path without ever realising it.
☾
Y’shtola was bidding farewell to her people while the rest of the group waited for her before setting out. She would return in a few days, but her absence would be felt. She was always there for them—their anchor, their leader.
And the closer the moment of departure drew, the more Rhys found himself thinking that no—he did not want to leave. He did not want to see the Exarch. He did not want to suffer again, feeling him in the same room. He had no idea how he would react. Now that the thrill of the journey had faded, he did not know how he would manage his feelings. He wanted only to forget, if only for a night.
A hand touched his arm, just above the glove, and he looked down. A young Hyur met his gaze, her eyes saying more than her lips.
“Why not stay a while tonight?” she whispered.
He lifted his gaze, and then he saw him—
Standing just behind her, hand clasped around hers, was a Miqo’te Keeper—like himself—yet so striking it made his pulse stumble.
Hair and fur so white they caught every shard of moonlight. Eyes a shade of pink so deep they nearly bordered on red. For a dizzying heartbeat, Rhys’s gaze lingered on the curve of those lips, the line of that jaw—overlaid in his mind with another face. Softer, yes, but just as unyielding.
Something twisted tight in his chest.
The man’s mouth curved into a slow, almost coy smile, half invitation, half challenge. Rhys stepped toward him without thinking, shoulders squared, breath catching. His hand rose, deliberate, to rest against the man’s neck.
A stunned silence fell over the camp at such a brazen display for all to see. Thancred let out a whistle, but Urianger caught his forearm to still him. Y’shtola folded her arms, head tilting slightly, ears pricked in sharp attention.
“If the Exarch asks…” Rhys’s hand slid upward, brushing over the man’s lips, coaxing them apart just enough to glimpse the sharp fangs beneath. "Tell him I'm fine."
His fingers traced the light-brown curve of the cheek, the moonlight blanching it pale. "Tell him not to worry."
For a heartbeat, his touch lingered, as if seeking something—something that wasn’t there. Slowly, his hand drifted higher, grazing the fur-soft tips of the ears. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”
Thancred’s hand came down over Minfilia’s eyes.
Rhys gave a low growl, seized both their hands, and led them away at a determined pace—wherever they intended to take him to pray.
He did not wait for an answer. He hadn’t realised until that moment how desperately he needed an escape—at least until he saw that white fur, those almost-red eyes.
☾
Next morning, at dawn.
Rhys dressed slowly, fingers moving with deliberate care in the cave’s dim, firelit gloom. The scent of sweat and smoke still clung to him.
The two who had shared the night with him lay tangled in rugs and pelts, limp and senseless after he had driven them past the edge—one, then the other—until they collapsed beneath the weight of his hunger.
And yet… the hollow in his chest remained. No, not hollow—aching. Starved. Something was missing. Someone.
He closed the bite marks he had left on their throats, erasing the evidence. He’d forbidden them to mark him in return—no teeth, no unnecessary touch—and they had obeyed without question, pliant to his will. They had recognised something in him. The one who had brought the Night. The one who felt… known, familiar.
And still, it tasted of nothing.
A sharp pang of guilt twisted through him. Even if he and the Exarch were not… whatever it was they had shared or had never shared, the thought of what he had done—what he had taken for himself in those dark hours—made his stomach churn.
The fire inside him flared again when his mind lingered on the Exarch’s face, half-shrouded in darkness, waiting for him in the Crystarium. That heat would never fade, no matter how many bodies he used to dull it. All he had done was scrape the edge of the ache, leaving it raw and thudding in his chest.
He stepped from the cave shortly after dressing. The cold air hit him like a clean blade—sharp, bracing. And just in time, the Ascian appeared.
No words. No smile. Only a nod of acknowledgment, and a hand extended in silent invitation.
Rhys crossed the distance without thinking, guilt and pain entwined in every step.
“Lakeland.”
-
Emet set him down at the lake’s edge before vanishing once more.
Rhys walked the short distance to the city gates, nodding to the guards standing watch, allowing them at last a chance at rest.
The city and its outskirts were blessedly calm, a welcome contrast to the ceaseless stir of Rak’tika. He had always liked the Crystarium—he liked it very much.
Reaching the base of the Tower, he drew in a deep, steadying breath before pushing open the great doors and closing his eyes. The familiar scent—crystal, clean air—enveloped him, soothing and achingly familiar. This was home, perhaps foolishly, but it was home nonetheless.
He moved toward the Allagan cube—and froze.
Seven Hells—no.
No. Why him. Why now.
Rhys should have gone to the Pendants first.
They regarded each other in silence for a heartbeat. Then the Exarch’s lips curved into a faint, welcoming smile.
That smile. So shy. So gentle, always.
I don't deserve him.
The man stepped aside from the cube, giving Rhys room to approach. “There seems to be some movement near Lakeland,” he said, gesturing toward the main doors. “I just… wanted to be certain.”
Damn his voice—so unsteady, so betraying how much he cared. How much he wanted to ask simple questions, such as "how are you feeling?", or "are you okay?"
Rhys gave a brief nod, now keeping his gaze fixed on the floor as he moved past toward the cube.
He fled.
Like a thief, he just fled. Unable to stay near him.
Once inside his chambers, he stripped off his clothes and set the bath to fill—almost scalding.
He bathed for half an bell, maybe more, scrubbing until his skin burned. He felt unclean. Filthy.
And all the while, a single, desperate thought clawed at him: Please, let him not have noticed. Let him not have caught the scent—the faint trace of the others still clinging to me.
Even from afar, the weight of what he’d done pressed on him, sharp and insistent. He had told the Exarch he would do… disgusting things, all to maintain control. Yet now, the truth of it gnawed at him, sour and wrong. It wasn’t power or discipline he felt—it was guilt, mingled with a longing that made the ache in his chest sharper than ever.
-
He took his time reapplying the paint to his skin and cleaning his gear before slipping into one of his long black robes. He was fastening the crystals at his waist when the door to his chambers slammed open, the crystal wall shuddering with the impact.
Alisaie.
“There’s an attack on Lakeland.”
He snatched up his staff and hurried after her into the hall.
“Eulmore—war’s broken out,” she said. “The Exarch’s asked us to activate the levers around the city so he can raise the protective barrier for the civilians.”
Rhys stopped short. “How is he?” He’d seen him leave for Lakeland earlier. A terrible rumble rolled through the air—if something had happened to him…
“Shaken more than hurt. He’s waiting on us to do our part. Now come on, Rhys—move, for the love of the gods!”
And they ran.
Their boots rang against the crystal floors, the sound echoing off the vaulted halls.
Out in the streets, the early morning calm was shattered by the toll of warning bells. Crystal panels in the outer walls shimmered faintly, the city’s defenses stirring to life.
Alisaie darted ahead, nimble as a shadow, weaving between merchants hastily shuttering their stalls. “East lever’s closest!” she called over her shoulder.
The air tasted of storm—metallic, heavy—and each tremor underfoot carried the distant roar of battle. Rhys gripped his staff tighter, forcing himself to focus on the task, though his mind kept circling back to the Exarch: shaken, not hurt. He clung to that.
They reached the first lever, half-hidden behind a column of crystal. Alisaie threw her weight against it, and with a deep, resonant hum, the first segment of the barrier flared to life.
“One down,” she said, already sprinting toward the next. “Don’t fall behind now!”
They raced to activate the rest of the levers, running like the damned. Where was Emet when you actually needed him?
Rhys caught sight of soldiers spilling from the city gates, disappearing into the treeline. If only they would hurry—he needed to join them.
Yet, despite the pull of battle, his feet carried him elsewhere. He had to see him.
The Ocular doors slammed open. The Exarch stood before the mirror, staff grounded at his side, his back rigid with focus. He turned at once, hood casting his face in shadow, and his hand rose in a swift, defensive curl of magic.
“Why are you—?” The question cut off, sharp and wary.
Rhys closed the distance, hands raised in surrender, eyes wide and desperate.
He longed to reach out, to run his fingers along the line of the Exarch’s neck—but he stopped himself. He could not.
Instead, he let his gaze roam, taking in every inch: the tilt of his shoulders, the tension in his arms, the grip on his staff, the steady rhythm of his breathing.
His eyes memorized the curve of his jaw, the way the light hit his features, searching for any sign of harm.
Each glance reassured him, yet made the ache worse—the longing to touch, to hold, to simply confirm with skin what his eyes already told him.
Gods, I love you so much. Please, stay safe.
He dragged a trembling hand across his own face, grounding himself, trying to push down the rush of emotions.
Relief surged, fierce and raw. He was okay.
Without another word, he turned and left, swift as he had come.
Behind him, the Exarch remained, whole and unharmed, unaware of the storm Rhys had just endured—both the fear and the restraint, the love and the guilt.
-
Outside, the battle was nothing short of brutal.
Sin eaters everywhere.
Fingers white-knuckled around his staff, loosing spell after spell into a sky choked with flying creatures, Rhys was feeling more alive than ever. He felt like he had a purpose, here.
Every impact of claw against ward, every inhuman roar rattled his bones. His black robes, already dust-stained, tore in places, clinging to his skin with sweat and blood.
Thancred shouted from a few paces away, warning him to fall back, but Rhys shook his head, jaw clenched. He had to hold the line, protect the others.
Nearby, Lyna fought valiantly, but Rhys caught sight of her faltering under a sudden surge of enemies. With a desperate roar, he launched himself into the fray, his magic flaring wildly as he carved a path through the sin eaters to reach her.
A jagged claw slashed across his forearm, tearing flesh and sending a burst of agony through his arm. He barked a curse, gritting his teeth as he grabbed Lyna’s hand and pulled her free.
The wound burned fiercely, and he could taste blood in his mouth from a graze on his cheek, but Rhys refused to show weakness.
For how weak he was in the presence of the Exarch and his feelings, he always was adamant in the battlefield.
The barrier around the city shimmered faintly in the distance—a fragile hope that had to hold.
He cast another spell, channeling every ounce of strength left in him, turning the tide momentarily. His breaths were ragged, his body trembling with exhaustion and pain.
Still, they stood.
Still, they got each other's back.
-
Later that afternoon, the return to the Ocular was brief.
They found the Exarch seated on the small steps, his posture heavy, as though the battle had drained him to the marrow. One by one, they delivered their reports on the situation beyond the city walls.
The Crystarium itself had been spared—its inner streets and civilians untouched. The barrier had held, forcing the enemy back and denying them entry.
“My meeting with Vauthry… did not end well,” the Exarch said, his voice carrying despite the weariness etched into his features. “War is now inevitable.” He paused, the faintest shadow lacing his words. “But there is another matter—worse still.”
Vauthry was no mere tyrant. He was akin to a primal, wielding the power to bend others to his will—and he had very nearly ensnared the Crystal Exarch himself. They might have lost him entirely had he not taken the safer course, sending only a projection in his place.
Rhys shut his eyes, a slow, simmering rage coiling within him.
He had almost lost him—and hadn’t even known.
Oh, but he would make that wretched primal pay. He longed to see him burn, to unleash Hell itself upon him. The thought alone made his body tremble, every muscle taut with anticipation for the fight to come.
He didn’t even realize he was growling under his breath until Y’shtola’s hand came to rest lightly on his shoulder, her blank gaze searching his face.
“We’ll have his head,” she said at last, her tone measured but edged with steel. She turned to the rest.
“If you can still stand, come with me. We have injured to tend to—more hands will be welcome.” Without another word, she slipped out the door.
Rhys moved to follow, but Thancred’s hand caught his arm.
“See to your own wounds first.” His eyes flicked to Rhys’s back, where his robe hung in tatters, thin lines of fresh blood visible through the fabric.
“I will, brother,” Rhys replied, already heading for the door. “Don’t trouble yourself over me.”
✹
Thancred was the only one who stayed behind after everyone else had left. After all, he was the only one among them without any skill in healing magic.
The Exarch lifted his head, noticing the man’s lingering presence. Raising the barrier—and holding it for so long—had drained him completely. Even standing was a struggle.
“You should talk to Rhys,” Thancred said at last. “He usually listens to you. Ever since Rak’tika, he’s been…” He gestured vaguely to the ceiling, exasperated and unsure where to begin. “He’s been reckless. I can’t watch his back all the time.”
“I don’t think—” the Exarch started.
“Exarch. I saw him out there today. On the front lines. With that damned staff, no real armor to protect him.” Thancred’s gaze dropped, the memory still vivid and painful. “He fought like a man possessed. And yes—it’s admirable, his dedication to the mission. But there are limits.”
Hearing this chilled the Exarch as much as it did Thancred. Yet he wasn’t sure he was the right person to confront Rhys about it. He could only imagine the turmoil Rhys was facing—and feared more than anything that it would one day cost him his life.
“Did you see his eyes?” Thancred pressed, worry bleeding into his voice. “He looked dead inside. Like he doesn’t care anymore—whether he lives or dies.”
The words struck deep. If he hadn’t been sitting, he might have collapsed under their weight.
“I’ll see what I can do,” he managed, steadying his voice by sheer will.
“Did something happen between you two?”
The question caught him off guard, but he kept his composure. Guilt churned in his gut, sharp enough to make him feel sick.
“I’m… not sure,” he lied without hesitation. “Get some rest, Thancred. I’ll keep you informed.”
Thancred ran a hand through his hair, exhaling heavily. “That kid’s going to be the death of me.”
-
The rest of the day passed swiftly, busy as they were.
The spagyric clinic was crowded, the civilians helped carrying furniture outside, on the Exedra, where more wounded could be tended to.
In a rare moment of calm, Alphinaud pulled Rhys aside and insisted he undress so he could tend to the wound on his back. Rhys found it pointless—better to conserve their efforts and aether for those who truly needed it. He barely felt the pain from the torn flesh, the patches of skin scorched raw.
All his thoughts fixated on Vauthry. Killing him for the insult. Cutting down the rest of the Lightwardens. Helping the people of the Crystarium in their time of need.
“My attempts to track down the Lightwarden in Kholusia have all come to nothing,” Alphinaud said quietly, cleaning and closing the wounds. “Alisaie has had more luck than I in Amh Araeng.” His tone was calm, measured. “We discussed it yesterday, once the others returned. We’ll likely head to the desert once things settle here.”
He stepped close, placing a hand gently against Rhys’s face to close a shallow cut on his cheek. “Where were you yesterday, Rhys? Thancred told us you were taking part in the festivities, but…”
“Yes. That’s what I was doing,” Rhys replied shortly. “And it’s a good thing I came back when I did.”
He couldn’t bear to imagine what might have happened if he had stayed away any longer.
“Alisaie mentioned she was concerned ab—”
“No.” Rhys rose, unwilling to continue. “We’ve wasted enough time. Let’s get back to work. Subject closed, Alphi. Please.”
Alphinaud knew there was no point pressing further.
-
The chaos finally eased in the middle of the night.
Rhys caught Urianger’s eye and gestured toward the twins, sitting side by side on the ground—fast asleep, utterly spent. They had given everything, and had earned their rest.
He gathered Alphinaud into his arms, waiting for his friend to lift the other twin.
They passed near the entrance of the clinic, where the air was thick with the scent of blood, crushed herbs, and the sharp tang of tinctures. Soft lamplight painted the walls in warm gold, but the heaviness in the room spoke of exhaustion more than comfort.
Rhys had only meant to pass through on the way to the Pendants, but movement in the corner caught his eye.
Lyna was heading for the main doors.
He went to her without thinking.
“Captain,” he greeted quietly. “You took a nasty hit.”
She gave a faint, wry smile. “It’s nothing. I’ve had worse.”
He stopped just before her, letting his eyes linger—once—on the damage she tried so hard to downplay. The fabric of her uniform was torn, a dark stain peeking from beneath fresh wrappings.
“I’m glad you’re safe,” he said simply. “You should rest for the night.”
That earned him a sharper look. She seemed ready to argue, but his gaze didn’t waver. After a moment, she exhaled, some of the tension easing from her shoulders.
“You fought well,” he added, softer now in the face of her stubbornness. “Some of your men are still fit to stand watch—they’ll keep Lakeland safe in your stead.”
Her eyes lowered in a rare show of fatigue. She dipped her head slightly—not quite a bow, but close enough. “Thank you for your concern.”
He hesitated, glancing behind him where Urianger waited, then leaned in a fraction. “I need to ask something of you… Watch over him—the Exarch—in my stead. Just… make sure he’s all right.”
Something flickered in her expression—surprise, yes, but also quiet understanding. She studied him for a long moment, her gaze steady enough to make him feel far too exposed.
“You know I always watch over him. But yes, you have my word,” she said at last, her tone carrying more weight than the words themselves.
“Thank you, Lyna. We’ll be on our way,” he said, glancing to the sleeping Alphinaud in his arms. “See you tomorrow, all right?”
Her eyes shifted to the young man, and she nodded. Then she acknowledged Urianger with another nod. “You’ve earned your rest as well,” she said before bowing her head properly. “And… thank you for coming to my aid earlier.”
With a short nod of his own, Rhys stepped back, catching Urianger’s patient silhouette still outside. They had places to be, but leaving Lyna without saying anything—without ensuring the Exarch had someone watching his back—had never been an option.
They parted ways in the Quadrivium, Lyna heading toward the Stairs, the Scions toward the Pendants.
They carried the twins into Rhys’s own room, where he tucked them gently into bed.
Leaning down, he pressed a light kiss to each of their foreheads before turning out the lights and stepping back.
Urianger’s hand came to rest on his arm, drawing his gaze upward.
“Y’shtola and Thancred await us at the Stairs, if thou wouldst join them. Minfilia hath just gone to bed—she hath laboured well this day.”
He nodded, following Urianger downstairs. He still needed à bath, but it ciuld wait. Time with his friends might do his spirits some good.
As they reached the Quadrivium, they spotted Emet. He greeted them with a shallow bow before fixing his gaze on Rhys.
“You look terrible.”
Scowling, Rhys showed him the middlefinger. Pointing out the obvious when he was already upset wasn’t helping.
Urianger pressed something into his hand—a linkpearl. Ah. He understood. How, he couldn’t say. Shame flooded him.
“Rhysard?”
The voice rolled through the night air—low, rich, utterly unmistakable. It struck him like an arrow, sinking deep before he could brace himself.
His chest tightened painfully. Gods, he had missed that voice. The warmth in it. The strength. The way it could quiet storms in his mind—if only he’d let it.
“Have you a moment? It’s important.”
His throat closed. His body leaned forward without permission, instinct clawing at him to go, to answer, to close the distance.
“Seven Hells, no.”
The words slipped out before he even realized he’d spoken them. Emet raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised to hear him curse at anything other than himself.
Rhys’s gut twisted.
All he wanted was to be here with him tonight—to mourn those lost alongside the Exarch, to ease the weight of his sorrow. To hold him close and let the world fade for a moment. The man carried so much, so many responsibilities, he deserved a reprieve, even just for a night.
A sharp pang of guilt stabbed him. He couldn't stay. Couldn't give him the affection he deserved.
I shouldn’t even want this. Not after what I’ve done… after everything I left behind.
Care clashed violently with responsibility, Rhys felt the weight of both pressing down on him—heavy, suffocating, inescapable.
He turned to Urianger, fist tightening. “Thank you for this. I won’t be staying tonight after all.”
Then he lifted his gaze to the Ascian : “Rak’tika.”
He spoke the word quietly, yet everyone heard it. And just like that—before the stunned eyes of all his friends and the Exarch—he seized the Ascian’s arm, and the two vanished in a swirl of darkness.
The ease, the unspoken understanding between such an unlikely pair was undeniable. This was not the first time they had done this.
-
Rak’tika thrummed with noise and light, even in the dead of night. The celebrations would rage on for days—unceasing, sleepless.
Materializing in the heart of the camp, Rhys’s gaze swept the crowd with the precision of a predator, locking almost instantly onto a pair of white feline ears in the distance. The pink eyes lifted to meet his.
He growled low, closing the distance in long, decisive strides until he had the Mystel pinned against the tree where he’d been resting.
The look the man gave him—and the arm winding around his waist—left no room for doubt. Rhys hooked his hands beneath his thighs, lifting him effortlessly, and crushed his mouth to his in a fierce, hungry kiss against the rough bark.
He caught the man’s wrists, pressing them above his head, denying him the chance to touch. A low, feral sound rumbled from the other as he tried to bite mid-kiss. Rhys’s dangerous glare sent the ears flattening instantly—the spark of rebellion flickering out, replaced by sudden docility in his grasp.
Emet watched from the side, surprised, before breaking into slow, sardonic applause. Cheers and whistles erupted across the camp. After all, there were many ways to release the pressure of battle—choosing flesh over bloodshed was hardly the worst. Emet thought with mild amusement that Rhys would certainly be asking him to return here more often.
Rhys was drowning in the tangle of conflicting emotions. The mouth pressed against his only summoned memories of another body—one he couldn't have.
The sight of the Exarch moments before—the way he had carried himself, unshakable even under the weight of loss—struck him so sharply it left him trembling.
He wanted to call the Exarch’s true name, to anchor himself to that presence—but he couldn’t, he didn't know it. And speaking his title would be even worse with everyone listening.
So when his lips parted, what escaped was instinct. A name bound to memory, to the Allagan royal line. Someone close. The nearest thing his heart could find in the dark.
His voice broke through the kiss, barely audible, the word slipping past his lips instinctively: “Raha.”
Even as it left him, a stab of guilt pierced his chest. This isn’t him. I shouldn’t…
But reason drowned in the flood of need and pain. Broken inside and out, he clung to the man before him. He didn’t know his name. Didn’t care. Tonight, it was “Raha,” even if it was wrong, even if it twisted something inside him, it was the closest he had to the Exarch.
Tears burned his eyes, furious, devastating, before spilling hot down his cheeks. He didn’t wipe them away. He didn't care.
He only wanted to lose himself.
He just wanted to forget.
“I hope you managed some rest today,” he murmured, though even to his own ears the words sounded strange, as though spoken from far away.
A nod answered him—slow, almost dazed.
“Good,” he whispered darkly, voice shaking with hunger and rage against himself. “Hold on tight.”
Then he pulled him closer, and he took him—here, without ceremony. In front of everyone, without hesitation.
Just like the animal he was.
Just like the animal he knew he had become.
✹
Meanwhile, in the Crystarium.
The Scions and the Exarch sat around the table in heavy silence, their appetites long gone after the day’s harrowing events.
It was Thancred who finally broke the quiet.
“He’s not well,” he said, voice low and taut. “What could have put him in such a state?” He glanced around at his companions, searching for answers that weren’t forthcoming.
Y’shtola remained silent, her expression unreadable. She had sensed the tension between the two men earlier that day. Something was wrong—deeply, profoundly wrong. She lifted her sightless eyes toward the Exarch, waiting for him to speak, though she feared what she might learn.
Thancred pressed on, voice serious. “I’ve only seen him like that once before. It was after—”
“G’raha Tia.” Y'shtola said, voice steady and strong.
The name landed like a stone in still water.
The impact was immediate, the Exarch felt it like a blow, and he forced himself to turn his head slightly toward her, feigning only mild interest.
“I’ve heard that name before,” he said evenly. “Rhys asked me once if I had found him in the Tower, when he first arrived.”
“He was a dear friend to Rhys. Losing him left a wound he never truly healed from,” Y’shtola added, her tone steady but heavy.
She cursed her blindness once more—wishing she could have read the Exarch’s expression, to see if his neck bore tattoos. His scent was unmistakable—Miqo’te—but she refused to believe he was the same man Rhys had spoken of just nights before.
She spoke in the past tense. They all knew that G’raha Tia would not be waking anytime soon.
“After G’raha sealed the Crystal Tower on the Source,” Thancred continued, his jaw tightening, “Cid—another of our friends—asked us to watch over him. Said he was… unstable. A few weeks later, he threw himself into studying black magic. Said it helped keep his mind off things. But something darker started to emerge. I couldn’t say exactly what.” He glanced toward Y’shtola, herself clad in black.
A brief silence fell before she spoke. “He was far more open when practicing red magic. But when he dons those black robes, he becomes… not quite another person, but far more consumed with destruction. His record as the Warrior of Light has only grown more fearsome since taking that path.”
Urianger gave a slow, deliberate nod. “He had taken up his rapier once more, Y’shtola—before we set out to join you. And soon after, he reclaimed his staff.” He cast a brief glance at the Exarch, but said no more.
“In any case,” Thancred said, voice sharp and tense, “he needs to stop this madness of playing black mage on the front lines. If he wants to die, it won’t be under my bloody watch!”
He stood abruptly, the slap of his palms against the table ringing sharply in the quiet room.
"And what does he think he’s doing with that Ascian? Why won’t he come to us instead of tearing himself apart like this? Gods damn it!”
Turning away, he paced the room, struggling to burn off his fury. Watching his friend spiral like this was driving him to the edge.
“Sometimes,” Urianger said gently, “one doth find it easier to unburden one’s fears to those beyond our most trusted circle.”
He was observing Thancred’s restless pacing and the way he ran his hands over his face. The man was already overwhelmed caring for Minfilia; adding more worries was more than he could bear.
Y’shtola gave a small, silent nod.
“With such confidants, one may reveal weakness—the shadowed, untempered self—without fear of disappointment, without the weight of expectation pressing down upon the spirit,” he continued, keeping his gaze deliberately from the hooded figure seated opposite him.
“If Rhys finds solace, or some measure of understanding, in the company of Emet-Selch and… others… then it must be permitted, so long as it serves to temper the storm within him.”
Rising as well, Urianger added, “Yet the resolution of that which troubles him must come from within. Should he seek not our counsel, there exists little else we may do. All that remaineth for us is to watch and to wait.”
“Wait for him to destroy himself before our eyes?” Y’shtola shot back, brow furrowed. “I don’t think I can stand by and watch that, Urianger.”
“Then we remain vigilant,” Urianger replied, voice steady, composed, yet carrying quiet authority. “That, and naught else, is within our power. I shall speak with his Ascian companion—and endeavor to temper Thancred’s own ire, that it may not cloud his judgment.”
He bid them goodnight and left to find his friend, who had wandered to the Exedra.
The Exarch sat frozen, cursing himself and the whole situation. Alone now with Y’shtola, he knew he would not leave this encounter unscathed.
“I am blind, so I cannot see you,” she said bluntly, her voice cutting through the silence. “But tell me honestly—are you G’raha Tia, or do you have any connection to him?”
He answered swiftly. He had considered telling her the truth but doubted she could keep it quiet, especially with her friend in such distress.
“No,” he said evenly. "And I am sorry. It seems everyone here… wishes, in one way or another, that I were that man."
Rising, he added, “I will do what I can to help him—if he allows me. But I fear I am… not enough to convince him.”
He turned to leave, but her voice followed him, relentless and impossible to ignore. Frozing him in place.
“At Rak’tika. Thancred told me you were close—friends, even.”
He could see where this conversation was heading.
“Yet that’s not the feeling I get when I’m around you. You’re distant. But somehow very close at the same time.”
He drew in a slow breath, the barest shadow of a pained smile tugging at his lips. “I suppose that is all I am permitted—to be close enough to see, and not close enough to shield him from what he must endure.”
Her pale eyes made him uneasy; there was no escaping her gaze. “I’ll tell you again, as many times as it takes—I don’t trust you. I will never trust you.”
She rose from her seat.
“Rhys’ heart is clearly broken. If you are the cause of this entire charade, do us both a favor—do him a favor. Make things right. Or at the very least, do everything you can to help him before it costs him his life.”
Without waiting for an answer, she turned and walked toward the Pendants.
The Exarch sat back down, straightening his posture.
By the Twelve.
This situation had spiraled far beyond what he had imagined, and he felt utterly powerless. The thought of Rhys in such torment made him sick—but he had a promise to keep. Yet he could not help if he kept running away like this.
Exhausted, he found no strength left to walk back to the Tower. Gathering his reserves, he focused deeply, the ether around him swirling.
In a flash of blue light, he vanished.
He reappeared on Rhys’ bed, inside the Tower.
Sealing the door from within with a flick of his crystalline hand, he reached for the blue cloak among the blankets.
Removing his hood, he pressed the blue fabric to his face, inhaling deeply.
Cinnamon. That sharp yet sweet scent—from the same pigments the Keeper had long applied to his skin, seared into its memory.
He let himself linger there for a heartbeat, imagining Rhys’ warmth, the closeness he could not claim, the hand he could not take.
Helpless longing coiled in his chest, fierce and private. He ached to be near him, to hold him close even for a moment.
He closed his eyes, pressing the cloak a little closer. Helplessness coiled in his chest like iron, but he could not despise him—not even for the night Rhys would spend elsewhere. He would simply hold onto this fragment, this quiet nearness, and let it carry him through the hours.
Sleep was urgent, but so was the faint comfort of imagining Rhys near—safe, even if only in memory.
Notes:
I want to apologize again, because this chapter is a lot to take in, and writing it was super painful for many reasons.
A lot of things are just wrong, and I'm plenty aware of it. You can call me out if you want, I am prepared ! (I am not).
They’re both broken, lonely, and in pain. But I promise it will get better. Please bear with him, he’s a mess. And he's just human, trying his best.Also… can you forgive me if I post a meme?
He'll kill me if he sees this. Rhysie in his emo-BLM-phase.
See you next week for more !
Chapter 10: Wake up
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Rhys woke late, muscles aching with a dull, insistent pain.
Warm breath ghosted against the back of his neck. An arm draped across his waist—someone pressed close, still lost in sleep. For a moment, his heart stuttered in confusion. The weight, the heat, the slow rhythm of a body against his own—his mind reached for someone else before reality caught up.
It’s not him.
A shiver ran across his skin. He eased the arm away, careful not to wake its owner.
He would not be ungrateful.
This Mystel had given him what he craved, willingly. Rhys looked down at the spill of white hair against the pillow and tugged the heavy fur blanket over his bare shoulders. He could not despise him. That weight belonged to himself alone.
Had the Mystel not been here… he didn’t know what he would have done. Perhaps sought Emet again—but in the state he was in, that would have ended badly. If not for the attack on Lakeland, for the sheer scale of loss, he might have surrendered entirely to the darkest of urges.
He shut his eyes, brushing his fingertips over the ear peeking from under the blanket.
“Thank you… and I’m sorry for exhausting you.”
The words might never be heard. They were a confession whispered into the hollow spaces of his own guilt.
It was not him Rhys wanted. He wasn’t even sure of the Exarch’s eye colour—or his hair. All he’d seen were a few strands while holding him. His imagination, fueled by frustration, far too easily blurred into fantasy. It was dangerous, and wrong, to reach for the shadow of the Exarch in another’s arms.
-
He rose carefully, taking pains not to wake the Mystel, and began to dress.
The tattered robe remained draped over his shoulder; only his black trousers, long boots, and gloves stayed. From a pocket, he drew the linkpearl Urianger had given him the night before, activating it as he made his way toward the water’s edge, outside the camp.
“Rhys—art thou well?” Urianger’s voice resonated instantly in his ear. They had seen him with Emet yesterday, and shame prickled at the back of his mind.
“I’m fine. I’ll be back in the city soon.”
Murmurs echoed in the background, and Urianger bade him wait a moment.
“The Exarch is here with me,” he said at last. “He would know if thou desirest that he send his amaro to bear thee hence.”
Guilt twisted in Rhys’s gut. He could not take that amaro—not while he was still steeped in the scent of another, not while he felt so… unclean.
“I’ll take a relay from Rak’tika to Fort Jobb, then walk the rest of the way. Don’t worry.”
He bent one knee, cupping his hands to splash water onto his face, scrubbing the sleep—and the shame—away. “Thank him for me, though.”
Urianger murmured the words back before focusing again.
“I should arrive soon,” Rhys repeated. “Are we leaving for Amh Araeng today?” He hoped the answer would be yes. He longed to throw himself into the fight, to forget.
“Nay. Our journey hath been delayed until the morrow—or perchance the day after, should the young ones’ weariness so demand. The twins and Minfilia yet slumber. They must rest this day—on that point, there shall be no negotiation.”
There was the faintest trace of amusement in Urianger’s voice. Rhys could well imagine Alisaie attempting to bargain her way out of such an order, and the thought drew a reluctant smile from him.
“Sure thing. I’ll see you later, Urianger.”
“Take thou care, Rhys.”
☾
Riding through the woods on the amaro’s back proved unexpectedly restorative. A fine rain had begun to fall, carrying the rich scent of damp earth and wet foliage.
Rhys lifted his face to the sky, inhaling deeply as droplets kissed his skin. He knew that once he left the shelter of the trees, he would be thoroughly drenched—but for now, the forest offered a quiet reprieve.
He urged his mount forward in a steady gallop, patting its flanks in muted praise. The animal seemed to savor the ride as much as he did, its rhythmic strides a soothing counterpoint to the relentless thoughts at the back of his mind. Soon, a mauve horizon emerged through the curtain of rain. Rhys pressed his ears back and pulled his torn robe over his head as he left the protective canopy of the forest.
Fort Jobb appeared sooner than he expected.
The soldiers stationed there were fewer in number, and weariness marked their posture—but the sight of him seemed to spark something in them, a quiet lift to their spirits. They allowed him to keep the amaro at his side until the entrance to the Crystarium, a small concession to his rank and the stubborn rain—a tacit understanding between them.
Reaching the bridge, Rhys tapped the animal’s flank one last time, a soft farewell. The amaro turned, its ears flicking in acknowledgment, before melting into the mist with its kin. Rhys watched it go, then continued on, the bridge beneath his boots echoing softly in the damp morning air.
-
He stepped into the tower, soaked through.
Turning slightly, he wrung out his robe in a rough motion, then ran his fingers through his hair, trying to squeeze out as much water as possible.
He was freezing, and all he wanted was to sink into a scalding bath upstairs. That was the only reason he’d come back here—for his daily baths, the meetings, and to collect new gear.
He teleported to his floor, boots skidding across the crystal surface.
He caught himself on the doorframe to avoid a fall, squatting to remove the wet boots before standing again, clutching them in one hand.
“Break.”
Shit.
He froze before his open door, one hand on the boots, the other gripping the frame.
Heart thudding, he closed his eyes as footsteps echoed closer from behind.
Damn it.
The Exarch passed him without a word, slipping briefly into the room. A moment later, he emerged with a thick blanket.
He felt the warmth brush against his shoulders as the Exarch retrieved the soaked robe hanging over his shoulder, draping the heavy fabric around his shivering frame. The heat seeped into his frozen body, and for a brief moment, the world outside—the rain, the chill, the missteps—fell away.
“I’m sorry to do this… but you leave me little choice.” The Exarch's voice was low, measured. “Urianger and Thancred remain downstairs.”
Rhys heard him step further into the room. “Rhysard… please. We need to speak of something serious.” He paused, letting the words settle. “I will speak, and you may simply listen—if you wish.”
No.
He didn’t want to talk. He didn’t want to be in the same room as him. He just wanted to wash, to strip away the scent that clung to him despite the rain.
Being in his presence, smelling like… like someone else, made him sick. He didn’t know how the Exarch managed to endure it. If the roles had been reversed, he would have gone mad—enraged.
“If you feel able, step inside and sit upon your bed,” the Exarch continued, voice calm but insistent. “Open your eyes if you agree. I will restore the enchantment immediately afterward.”
He left him a choice, in part—speak here, or not—but he would not allow him to evade the confrontation.
Reluctantly, Rhys opened his eyes—and froze. The Exarch's hands... were trembling. His arms quivering.
He watched the Exarch turn and advance into the room, leaving space for him. Then, with deliberate care, the restriction was lifted.
Rhys set one foot in front of the other, eyes fixed on him despite knowing he shouldn’t. He had missed him. “Let me wash first before your scolding,” he muttered under his breath.
The Exarch’s calm firmness cut through, gentle yet unyielding. “No, Rhysard. Sit.”
He obeyed, heavy with guilt. Perched at the edge of the bed, he lowered his head, feeling the spell reassert itself. The sensation remained just as unpleasant, yet inescapable.
The Exarch approached again. He picked up another blanket and placed it beneath Rhys’s feet, shielding them from the cold floor. Then he draped another over his head, letting it fall across his back.
He was keeping him warm. Even after everything, he remained considerate. More than he deserved.
“Your friends are terribly worried about you.”
Another blanket slipped to the floor beside him. The Exarch sat on it at his feet.
Rhys lowered his gaze and saw the crystalline hand carefully working to remove his soaked right glove—gently, without ever touching his skin. He realized he could no longer feel his fingertips; beyond the petrification, they were numb from the cold.
“I know what you’re going through isn’t easy, and we’ve spoken of it before,” the Exarch said, placing the glove on his own knee, atop his robes. “Still, I can scarcely imagine the depth of your suffering.”
He began to remove the other glove, each movement deliberate and tender, as always. “You may seek comfort elsewhere,” he admitted, his hand trembling again. Rhys knew it was the fury beneath, restrained but unspoken, that caused it. “To say I don’t care would be a lie. But if it helps you endure, to release your frustration… then so be it.”
His hand shook so violently that the glove slipped to the floor before he retrieved it. “I can live with you seeing others. But, Rhys… there is one thing I cannot bear. Look at me, please.”
Rhys had no strength to meet his shadowed gaze. He couldn’t.
“Please,” the Exarch repeated, calm and unwavering, “lift your gaze.” His composure was remarkable. It gave Rhys just enough courage to finally look. “Do what you must, with whoever you wish—even with Emet—if it allows you to vent. But,” he raised a hand, close to Rhys’s cheek, “do not put yourself in unnecessary danger.” His voice softened, cracking slightly at the end, and Rhys felt an unbearable weight of guilt.
The Exarch waited a moment, collecting himself. “The point of all this is to see it through. It won’t mean anything if you lose your life in the process.” He leaned forward, folding the edges of both blankets over Rhys' forearms and hands, pressing his own hands gently atop the thick fabric.
“Be careful with black magic. Your friends believe it influences you poorly when you’re unstable.” He tightened his grip slightly; the concern in his voice was unmistakable. “Do not take unnecessary risks. I am patient, and I forgive far more than most would. But I would never forgive you if you fell in battle chasing the thrill that makes you feel alive.”
He had gone far too far in his selfishness. All he had wanted was a distraction, something to pull his mind away from it all—and in the end, he had almost destroyed everything. He could feel himself being drawn in, seduced by the whisper of destruction that black magic promised, yet he had not denied himself. He relished the effect it had on him, granting him strength—enough to crush anyone in his path. The realization hit him with blinding clarity: he was drunk on power. Drunk on destruction. He wanted them all to burn—the sin eaters, Vauthry. He wanted to cast them into the deepest pits of hell and unleash the reflection of the plague that weighed upon it.
The Exarch’s spell lifted, and Rhys bowed his head forward, shame-heavy.
“Look at me, Rhysard,” the Exarch said, voice calm and even. And Rhys obliged. “Thancred is right—you look half gone already. Let some life return to your eyes.” He paused, as if gathering his thoughts, then continued. “Tomorrow, I will remain at my mirror. If I see you stray from caution in the slightest, I will bring you here—immediately. And yes, I am capable of it. You need not ask.”
Rhys was no longer under the spell, yet he remained frozen. He had never imagined he could push them all so far. He had only meant to live his own life on his own terms, yet collateral damage was impossible to avoid when surrounded by people who truly cared.
A stiff silence stretched between them.
“I don’t have enough words to tell you how sorry I am,” the Keeper finally admitted.
“I do not need apologies. Show me your words through your actions.” The Exarch's voice was firm, almost icy. He was upset—deeply—at Rhys for not taking better care of himself, for not cherishing his own life, for venturing so far beyond danger. “If you will not do it for yourself, then do it for me. Should you fall, I would surely follow you into the Ethereal Sea in the moments that came after.”
Rhys looked away.
He didn’t know what to say. Shock, disbelief, and awe tangled in his chest. He was stunned by such an admission.
After a moment, he stood and tossed the blankets to the floor on the other side of the bed. He moved toward the bathroom. “You could have waited until I had bathed before having this conversation. I feel shameful and utterly foolish.”
“I did not wish to wait outside your door, nor to risk you escaping again, as you did yesterday.” His tone was calm, unyielding. “You need not justify yourself in any way. Do what you deem necessary to survive.” He hesitated slightly, then added softly, “You do not belong to me.”
Not yet.
Rhys lowered his head again, taking another step toward the bathroom, signaling he wanted the conversation to end. “Put all of this in the wash… or burn it,” he added, glancing at the blankets, steeped with the scent of another male. No further explanation was needed.
He turned slightly and saw the Exarch rise, placing his gloves on the bed. They looked at each other without a word, and the air between them crackled, taut with something unspoken, something dangerous.
“Go in there,” the Exarch said, nodding toward the bathroom. A low, guttural growl rumbled from him, and it shook the air. “Hurry, please.”
Rhys became painfully aware of his own state: half-naked, soaked, smelling like another. No matter how much control the Exarch usually wielded, it was almost miraculous he hadn’t snapped already, lost entirely to instinct.
He forced himself forward, just as the Exarch raised his staff, muttering the words of a spell.
The threshold of the bathroom glowed, then the staff sailed toward Rhys, who caught it just in time.
The Exarch turned, and Rhys saw him trembling—his entire body quivering with helplessness, frustration, and barely restrained fury. “Close the door,” he said, the words low but vibrating with suppressed intensity. Rhys watched him clutch the bedframe, knuckles white, before slamming the door shut.
Rhys set the staff carefully on the floor, then sank to the ground against the door. From the other side came a growl low and dangerous, vibrating through the wood. His ears flattened against his skull as a dull thud echoed when the Exarch pressed his body against the other side of the door.
He was right there.
So close yet so out of reach.
A crisp noise rose, then. The faint scraping of claws against wood.
Behind that door, he knew the Exarch was struggling—not just with frustration, but with something darker: possessiveness, a fire barely held in check. The air seemed charged with it, the kind of quiet threat that made the skin prickle.
Every sound, every shudder of the door, carried the weight of a man who was usually so composed and controlled, now dangerously close to losing it.
He had never imagined seeing him like this. And a part of him hated himself for having driven him here. For having exposed him to the raw, unfiltered edge of what Rhys knew could be dangerous—and devastatingly intimate—anger.
☾
He spent nearly a full bell washing, scrubbing until his skin was raw in places, the friction leaving faint streaks of blood. Each movement was methodical, almost ritualistic, a desperate attempt to cleanse more than just the rain and grime clinging to him.
The Exarch had told him to do as he wished—and he meant it. As long as Rhys remained alive, remained safe, the rest was immaterial. Nights with others, indulgences of desire, even reckless choices—permissible. The weight of that freedom, given so unflinchingly, pressed on him.
Rhys closed his eyes tightly, rubbing at his ears as if to block the thought. In the Exarch’s place, he could never have accepted such liberties, even if they were the right choice.
Beneath that calm, measured exterior lay an iron will—terrifying in its strength, admirable in its discipline. It was a resolve built to govern, to protect, and to endure. After decades, the Crystarium had flourished under it. It was no surprise; it had been shaped by decades of relentless determination.
If the Exarch claimed there were things he could not share—more now than before—Rhys believed him. There had to be compelling reasons for the man to keep so much of himself shrouded in mystery.
Rhys forced himself to breathe, to stop the spiral of guilt and self-recrimination. He would do everything he could to make things right. And he would have to face his friends.
But the thought of leaving the room made the world outside feel suddenly vast and menacing.
A shadowed part of him whispered darkly, urging him to step out, to vanish. The Ascian must be waiting somewhere, lurking, ready to draw him into another sin eater hunt. It would be simple—so simple—to leave, to ignore the concern of others, to live solely through the act of destruction. A faint, guilty smile curved his lips—and he caught himself.
No. He mustn’t.
He finally stepped toward his door, easing it open and peeking inside. The room was empty. Polished splinters littered the floor, a subtle reminder of the weight of his friends’ vigilance.
He had lingered there, half in shadow, for nearly half a bell, waiting until the trembling in his chest had calmed enough to allow him to step out the room.
The bed was stripped bare, save for two light blankets and his cloak. Instinctively, he lifted the cloak to his face for a brief check—and froze.
The scent hit him instantly. Sweet, unmistakably familiar, and sharp with the crisp tang of cold crystal. Every fiber carried it.
It's his scent.
The realization struck him like a physical blow: the Exarch had slept in this bed, wrapped himself in this cloak, while only hours before he had lain with another.
Nausea rose in his chest, sharp and insistent.
Rhys collapsed onto the bed, enfolding himself in the cloak, clutching it as if it were the only lifeline in a storm.
He drew a slow, trembling breath, letting the scent fill his lungs, and a wave of warmth washed over him—contradictory, almost cruel in its sweetness. Comfort and torment intertwined, tethering him invisibly to someone so near, yet entirely untouchable.
Pressing the cloak harder against his face, he felt the weight of it as if it were a body beside him. His fingers traced its edges, memorizing the contours, the weave, as though by touch alone he could hold onto a fragment of him. He buried his nose deeper, inhaling the mingled notes of rain, crystal, and that indefinable essence that belonged wholly to the Exarch. With every breath, his pulse slowed, the tension in his chest loosening fraction by fraction.
Memories came unbidden: the Exarch’s hands, slow and precise, each gesture measured yet tender; the patient strength in the way he had held him; the quiet command of presence that had kept Rhys steady. The sensation replayed itself through the cloak, uncoiling the taut muscles and shuttered nerves he had carried for days.
A tear slipped because the sting of his allergy, and a loud sneeze echoed in the room.
Closing his eyes, he imagined the Exarch there, steady and unshakable, allowing him to lean in, allowing him to simply be. Each inhalation was a dagger and a balm at once, ache and relief tangled so tightly he could not distinguish one from the other.
He pressed the cloak to his heart, forehead resting against it, and let himself dissolve into the sensation. The simplest trace of someone’s essence—captured in fabric—could disarm him entirely, quieting the anxious mind and relaxing every taut muscle, leaving only a fragile, aching peace.
For the first time since taking his oath, Rhys allowed himself to simply exist in that closeness, to inhabit a moment of intimacy without fear, without pretense, and without shame.
And then—
“You’re not a little too old to be playing kitten with a blanket, Rhys?”
Alisaie’s voice froze him. He hadn’t expected company—and hadn’t even heard the door open. He peeked out from under the cloak, and she laughed at the sight of his ears poking out.
“I’m practically naked under here, Alisaie. Give a warning next time.” He inhaled again, sneezing loudly, making her startle.
“What are you doing, practically naked in a blanket, Rhys!” she laughed, leaning back against the doorframe.
He lifted his head and gave her a wink—one she could interpret however she wished. He saw the tips of her ears flush before she began to stammer.
“I’m joking. Go fetch my black robe over there—the one with the gold trim, please.”
“You have five robes with gold trim,” she crossed her arms, giving him a judging look.
“The one with… never mind. Just bring me one.”
She stormed off to grab his clothes, fuming. He took advantage of her moving away to slip the staff under the bed; he had left it by the door when he entered. She tossed the robe at him, and he sat on the bed, pulling it on quickly.
“Everyone downstairs is speculating about you,” she said, voice flat but edged with mischief. “They were drawing straws to see who’d get stuck interrogating you.”
Rhys closed his eyes. Damn. His voice came out more tired than he intended. “And you lost?”
“No,” he heard the smile in her reply, and opened his eyes, looking at her. “I figured it’d be better if you showed up while they were still deciding. It’s something I like to do,” she shrugged insolently, “and it catches everyone off guard.”
He sprang up and tackled her playfully, ruffling her hair. She let out a sharp squeal that echoed off the walls.
“You’re sure we’re not related?” he teased, tugging her ear. “Because it seems to give you power when you’re clearly in the wrong.”
She shot him a glare, then shrugged again. “Keep talking, kitten. Just don’t get too comfortable.”
“Go on. Tell them I came out of the bathroom and you saw me naked, and that’s why you screamed,” he said, raising an eyebrow suggestively. She swatted his shoulder with a growl. “They’ll figure it out, don’t drag me into your nonsense.”
She teleported away, shaking her head. He realized suddenly just how close he’d been to falling apart—but her presence had kept him grounded. His gaze fell on the cloak on the bed. That, too, had helped him hold it together.
Everything important to him was right here. He had nothing to fear in facing the others. All they wanted was his well-being. And if he got scolded for it… well, he deserved it.
He retrieved his black boots and grabbed his staff. He hesitated for a moment, staring at it, searching for answers in that deep ebony color. He wasn’t sure if it was the black magic that had driven him nearly mad, couldn’t be sure. He decided to keep it—and to be careful.
-
“I deal with patients, Alphi. I’ve seen more naked people than I’d ever dare admit—you know that!”
Hearing that as he stepped onto the landing of the Ocular was the last thing he had expected. Their laughter, their teasing—it was a balm. For the first time in a week, Rhys felt a measure of calm settle over him, even as he prepared to meet their eyes.
For once, he felt like himself again.
The door was closed, but he did not hesitate. He pushed it open as if entering his own home. A shy smile curved his lips, quickly giving way to laughter as he took in the tableau before him.
The Exarch’s expression struck him first—slightly stunned, mouth agape, hand frozen midair.
Thancred had his hands clamped over Minfilia’s ears, trying to shield her from any potential obscenities.
Alphinaud held Alisaie firmly by the collar, his usual stern expression melting into surprise at Rhys’s appearance.
Urianger and Y’shtola stood side by side, arms crossed, faces alight with sly, teasing smiles.
Alisaie’s fierce grin seemed to say without words: Feeling strong now?
Rhys leaned forward, brushing at his eyes. It had been far too long since he’d laughed like this, and the sensation was pure, almost liberating.
“Do you think Emet drugged him?” someone murmured, voice dripping with curiosity.
“If I hear that name one more time, I swear I’ll throw myself off this damn tower,” Thancred growled, attempting sternness—but the edge of amusement betrayed him. “No offense, Exarch.”
Rhys’s laughter spilled over, rich and unrestrained, making his stomach ache. “None taken,” the man said softly, his voice gentle and warm, as always.
And then, Rhys was pulled into a hug. He didn’t know who had grabbed him first, but within moments, everyone had crowded around him in a tight embrace—everyone, that is, except Y’shtola.
The weight of it pressed against him from all sides, heavy and suffocating in the best possible way. He struggled not to collapse under the sheer force of their concern, his arms barely keeping pace as he returned the gestures.
“I’m truly sorry… for all of this,” he murmured, voice low, almost lost in the press of bodies. “I didn’t realize you cared so much about me.”
Thancred’s light-hearted tone cut through, though it carried a subtle sting of hurt. “I can teach you how to wield a gunblade if you want to stay on the front lines, Rhys.”
“You know I’ll steal the spotlight from you, brother,” Rhys teased, pressing their foreheads together as Thancred ruffled his hair, eliciting a laugh he hadn’t realized he needed. “I’m sorry.”
One by one, they pulled back slightly, each smoothing his hair or patting his shoulders, fully aware that he disliked the fuss. Urianger’s hands reached up, gently adjusting his ears. “If you do not wish to speak of your troubles, that is your choice, Rhys,” he said quietly, but with unmistakable warmth. “But do not put yourself in danger; we all depend on you to return safely to the Source.”
The air vibrated around them, and a towering figure emerged from the void, materializing beside them.
“Oh no, you don't!” Thancred drew his weapon, stepping immediately between the Ascian and Rhys.
“I come in peace,” the figure said, raising both hands in a deliberate, unthreatening gesture. “I have already spoken with your two friends. Fierce, even if their appearance suggests otherwise.” His gaze flicked to the Exarch, then to Urianger. “If Rhys chooses to stay with me, I will ensure his safety.” He frowned slightly at the Hyur. “You have no understanding of what we do together.”
“What worth has the word of an Ascian?” Thancred’s patience snapped. “Explain yourself—what could possibly justify this?”
Emet glanced at Rhys, then back to the Exarch. Rhys silently prayed he wouldn’t disclose too much.
“He releases tension,” Emet said smoothly, inclining his head in an exaggerated bow. “I take him hunting sin eaters. We serve the safety of Norvrandt, after all.” He lifted a finger at the group’s shocked expressions. “I remain near him at all times. Nothing serious has occurred.”
The Exarch stepped forward, deliberate in every movement, his calm voice carrying an authority that brooked no challenge. “Anything can happen. Original or not, you cannot prevent a fatal blow—sin eaters are swift and vicious.”
Emet’s audacious shrug broke the tension. “If he dies, I can bring him back. As I have done with your companion here.” The words hung in the air, chilling in their implication. Rhys had never considered such a possibility—yet part of him felt a strange relief.
The Exarch moved further, subtly positioning himself between the Ascian and Rhys. His hand brushed over the fabric of Rhys’s dark robe, guiding him behind with protective care.
“I do not speak for Rhysard, yet I must caution against these practices,” the Exarch said evenly. Rhys resisted the urge to reach for the hand so near his own. “If he wishes to continue, let him—but within limits.”
Thancred muttered under his breath, tension taut in his posture, fingers twitching on his weapon.
“Ensure nothing threatens him,” the Exarch continued, his voice steady. “If I learn he suffers harm… or worse, dies and is restored—I will not hesitate. Our cooperation will end immediately.”
Rhys felt the room tighten around him, the weight of expectation pressing in.
Alphinaud and Alisaie exchanged wary glances, Urianger and Y’shtola stood calm and measured, and Thancred remained alert. Yet beneath it all, a strange warmth spread in Rhys’s chest. They cared. Deeply. Terrifying, humbling—and comforting all at once.
Emet-Selch straightened, arms crossed, a faint smirk curling his lips. “You are quite hard in business, Exarch,” he said, glancing briefly at Rhys. “And what say you, Rhys?”
Rhys hesitated, feeling the complexity of the moment. He would have been lying to deny the thrill, the strange satisfaction, of his excursions with Emet. “You help me, in your twisted way, to face my problems,” he said, pausing to let the words settle. “But I promised… to be more careful from now on. We can continue our escapades, but you must stop me if I push too far. Like the other day, when you took my staff.”
Emet’s grin sharpened, predatory and pleased. “See? I am not irresponsible. I took the staff because he was being reckless.”
The room stayed silent. Emet’s pout and crossed arms only highlighted his amusement at the stalemate.
“Rhysard is old enough to make his own decisions, and he will bear the consequences,” the Exarch said, his voice firm and unwavering. His words carried authority, settling most disputes before they could surface. Some lowered their heads in reluctant acceptance; others kept Emet under silent watch.
“I will not be much present for your expedition to Amh Araeng,” Emet said, a trace of satisfaction in his tone. “A meager consolation, perhaps.” His gaze flicked first to the Exarch, then to Rhys. “If you need me, call. I will hear you.”
With an almost theatrical bow, Emet vanished, leaving a charged silence in his wake. The room exhaled collectively, tension easing—but only slightly, leaving a fragile calm in its place.
-
“What was that?” Thancred burst out the moment Emet vanished. “Even if he’s helped us, who does he think he is?” He shot a glare at Rhys. “And you… you actually feel comfortable around him? You really think he’s helping you through all the mess you’re dealing with?”
Rhys felt heat rise to his cheeks but nodded faintly. His eyes flicked toward the Exarch, who stood a short distance away, expression calm and unreadable. A small, almost imperceptible nod passed between them—silent acknowledgment that he had, indeed, kept himself safe.
Urianger stepped forward, resting a steady hand on Rhys’s shoulder. “Be careful, Rhys. If he can help you, then good. I’m glad. But… be careful.” Rhys lowered his gaze again, absorbing the quiet weight of his mentor’s concern.
Thancred exhaled sharply, tension still in his stance, while Urianger patted him on the shoulder. “This evening, at the Stairs, if you wish,” he said, raising a hand in farewell. Together, the two left, leaving Rhys alone for only a moment before Alisaie stepped forward.
She wrapped her arms around him from behind, pressing her face to his back. No words were exchanged—stubborn, like him, unwilling to linger in vulnerability—but the embrace was grounding.
Alphinaud remained a step behind, eyes soft yet betraying his disappointment. “I knew it was bad, but not this bad. If there’s anything I can do… you know you can come to me, right?” Rhys leaned into the hug he offered.
“I don’t want to burden anyone with these things. I never wanted to burden anyone, truly. I’m sorry for worrying you so much.” Alphinaud embraced him fully, and Rhys felt a subtle weight lift from his chest.
One by one, the twins departed, leaving Y’shtola behind. Arms crossed, her expression stern, she regarded him with sharp eyes.
“He is the one you were talking about, Rhys,” she said, her voice low but firm.
Rhys knew immediately who she meant. What she meant. How had she guessed?
“You have his scent everywhere,” she answered the silent question, eyebrows furrowed. “And he’s not subtle in the slightest. Even blind, I could sense it.”
“He’s like that with everyone,” Rhys murmured, though he knew the argument was already lost. “Let’s not talk about it, please, Y’shtola.” He couldn’t bring himself to look at the man beside him, but he felt him shift subtly behind him, sniffing.
“Whatever you do with Emet, I have nothing more to say. You’re grown, and you know we’re counting on you to keep yourself in check.”
She stepped closer, still arms crossed. “I heard someone already lectured you, so I won’t repeat it.” Her gaze flicked to the hooded figure beside him. “Keep the promise you made to him. Be careful, from now on.”
Y’shtola paused at the doorway, as if weighing her words one last time. Then, with a quiet, almost sorrowful sigh, she shook her head and left. Silence filled the room, leaving Rhys with the faint warmth of Alisaie’s hug still clinging to him and the Exarch’s calm presence quietly anchoring him in the corner of his mind.
-
“I should go, too,” Rhys murmured into the silence that had settled between them. They were alone, and he didn’t trust himself.
“Wait,” the Exarch said softly. Rhys knew immediately what he meant.
“The blue cloak… I smelled your scent on it,” Rhys admitted, tilting his head. “It… kept me steady.” No shame, only honesty. “I wrapped myself in it.”
For a heartbeat, the Exarch’s calm gave way to something more vulnerable. “I did the same last night when I entered your room by accident,” he said, voice restrained, almost guilty. Rhys wondered how he had even gotten in by accident.
He made to turn and leave the room, but his gaze fell on the mage's hands. He stepped forward again, head lowered, and placed one hand over the Exarch’s, which he had been trying to hide in the folds of his robes all this time—but had been very visible when he had defended him against Emet.
“I am sincerely sorry,” he whispered, noticing the state of the Exarch’s hand.
The Exarch lifted it slightly, understanding what he intended. Rhys didn't dare to press the tips of his fingers against the skin. He healed the shallow scratches left by the splinters earlier.
“I have two other sheets on my bed,” he said, unable to lift his gaze. “I left the cloak upstairs. I’ll come get it tonight before returning to the Pendants.”
He finished closing the wounds, releasing his hand, hoping the Exarch understood what he was trying to say. Finally, he lifted his gaze—and saw him smile. The corners of his mouth lifted first slightly, then more pronouncedly. He had understood.
Rhys cleared his throat, stepping back three paces before speaking. “Your staff is under my bed,” he said, feeling ridiculous, but the Exarch merely nodded. “Thank you for earlier. Thank you for what you said to Emet, and the others.” He lowered his eyes again, unable to meet that broad smile. “Thank you for opening my eyes. And I’m—”
“If you apologize one more time, I swear I’ll make you break your oath by kissing you, Rhys.” Hearing his name, and those words, made Rhys’s ears perk up. “Supposed to be a threat. Now, out.” His voice was firm, but a trace of amusement lingered unmistakably.
“I… I’ll,” he stumbled over his words, flustered. “I’ll get some air.”
-
The next afternoon, Rhys found himself wandering through the wide, rain-washed expanse of Lakeland. The air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of damp earth and new growth—a sharp contrast to the heavy tension and heat that had occupied his thoughts the night before. He needed space to think, to clear his mind of Rak’tika’s allure and Emet’s shadow, if only for a few hours.
His friends remained sluggish, drained from their exertions and the lingering aftereffects of the aether they had spent.
Beside him, Straw moved with quiet purpose, sniffing at the earth and low branches, ears twitching at the occasional birdcall. Rhys held the reins loosely, allowing the amaro to follow its own rhythm, feeling a rare lightness as he inhaled the purified, rain-sweetened air.
Passing the sentries along the path, some instinctively stepped back, recognizing the bard astride the creature. Its barding shimmered in the signature Cristarium blue and white, adorned with intricate red, gold, and black detailing marking the Exarch’s care. A faint, respectful smile followed a few nods of acknowledgment. Lyna was absent today, leaving a small hollow in the familiar scene.
“Good morning,” Rhys called softly to one of the younger guards, who stiffened and returned a small bow. “All well today?”
“Yes, sir,” the guard replied, voice steady though a trace of fatigue lingered. “Your people and the families remain safe. The repairs continue. Slowly, but surely.”
Rhys nodded, eyes scanning the familiar faces of the sentries. “That’s good. Remember, take care of yourselves, too. Even small recoveries matter.”
The guard inclined his head, words unspoken but understood. Rhys moved on, offering brief greetings to a few others, his presence calm yet commanding respect.
A guard stepped forward, holding a small bag of treats for Straw. “For the amaro, sir,” he said with a small smile.
“Thank you,” Rhys replied, bowing slightly. He offered a treat, and Straw clapped its jaws in delight. “Good boy. Let’s see how the wind feels today!”
With a light push of his heels, he climbed fully onto Straw’s back. The creature rose smoothly into the air, circling once to survey the glistening landscape before lifting toward the distant borders of the fae kingdom. Rhys let himself lean forward slightly, arms loose, feeling the thrill of flight and the weight of worry lift from his shoulders.
“Steady,” he murmured to Straw, who responded with a soft, approving nicker. “Feels good, doesn’t it? The air’s… different up here. Cleaner. Freer.”
The wind tugged at his ears, and he allowed himself to breathe fully—letting the rain-washed Lakeland and the quiet, endless sky clear the last shadows of his guilt and doubt.
“Keep going, Straw,” he whispered, a small smile tugging at his lips. “We’ve earned a little peace, at least for today.”
-
In Il Mheg, the locals greeted him warmly. Rhys moved among them, checking on the various peoples, quietly pleased to see how they’d adjusted to the return of night. Even the Pixies seemed less shrill, flitting about with curious, gentle energy, friendlier than before.
He couldn’t resist a touch of whimsy—or perhaps something more tender.
Sliding down from Straw’s back, he wandered into the golden and pink meadows, gathering flowers with careful fingers and tucking them into a small bag. Near Grandmirroir Lake, he let Straw drink and cool off, the creature’s reflection rippling in the water.
Kneeling on the grass, Rhys wove the stems into a simple crown. He had seen his mother and sisters do this countless times, and now, for the first time, he crafted one for another male, a small, unspoken gesture of care.
“Hope you’d like it,” he murmured quietly, more to himself than anyone else, pressing a palm to the crown as he whispered an old preservation spell, fixing its color and vitality.
Smiling at the result, Rhys retrieved a small, rune-inscribed scroll from his bag and carefully wrote a few lines. The words were simple, almost playful, yet threaded with a sincerity he rarely allowed himself to voice: a note to accompany the crown, a token of thoughtfulness he could not yet speak aloud.
He folded the scroll neatly and tucked it into the bag alongside the crown, feeling the weight of it as a tiny tether to someone who had become quietly central to his world.
The wind ruffled his hair as Straw emerged from the lake, droplets sparkling in the sunlight. Rhys offered the creature another treat, watching it shake its waterproof feathers and send a fine spray into the air. He laughed softly, ruffling Straw’s plumage before shaking his own wet hair, then sank back onto the grass, arms crossed behind his head.
For a moment, he allowed himself to simply exist—unrushed, untangled from worry.
His thoughts drifted to the night before: retrieving the cloak, feeling it surround him as though it were the Exarch’s arms themselves, a comforting and grounding presence. One blanket was missing from his bed in the Tower; he knew the Exarch had claimed it, likely wrapped in it, just as he had. The thought drew a soft smile to his lips, a quiet acknowledgment of the closeness they had begun to share.
He would deliver the crown and scroll, he decided, not as a declaration, but as a small bridge between them. A gesture to show that even in the quietest moments, his thoughts were not entirely his own.
-
He had meant to return Straw to the Rookery at the Cristarium, but the amaro was far too eager to fly.
With a low, joyful call, it leapt into the air, gliding above the city. Rhys’s hand rested lightly on the reins, the wind tugging at his hair, the exhilaration of height and speed stealing away the last of his lingering tension. Passing close to the Tower, he caught their reflection mirrored in the crystal—a sharp, almost dizzying reminder. I live here now, he thought. This Allagan monument, once a cage, a crucible… now home.
Signaling Straw to land, the amaro touched down in the Exedra square, half-shaded beneath the mauve trees near the Musica Universalis. Rhys leapt down, and Straw stretched its long wings, nudging him with a joyful push of its head.
“Apparently your kind can talk, Straw,” he murmured, running a hand along its face. “If not, that’s fine. Everyone moves at their own pace. You still have a long life ahead.”
The creature blinked at him, eyes intelligent and shining. It opened its beak as if to speak, then let out a cheerful cry, pressing its head playfully against him.
Rhys laughed softly, the sound swallowed by the gentle rustle of leaves and the low hum of the city. “All right, all right,” he said, stroking Straw’s neck. “We’ll get you back soon.”
A small, eager voice rang out behind him. He turned to see Riqi Tio, eyes wide and shimmering with excitement.
“It’s the Exarch’s amaro!” she exclaimed. “Hello, Rhys! The Warrior of Darkness!”
Rhys smiled, crouching slightly to meet her gaze. “How are you, Riqi-Tio? Come closer—you can touch him if you like. He’s very gentle.”
The girl edged forward, placing a tentative hand on Straw’s head. “It’s so soft!” she whispered. Her gaze then darted toward the spagyric clinic, catching sight of a hooded figure approaching with a basket.
Rhys’s grin widened. He beckoned her over with mock seriousness. “I have a mission of the utmost importance for you. A mission from the Warrior of Darkness himself. Can you help me?”
Riqi Tio nodded vigorously.
Rhys handed her the crown. “Place this on his hood, if he lets you,” he instructed, nodding toward the Exarch, noting her tiny recoil. “And give him this as well.” He handed over the scroll.
With a squeal of delight, she darted off, calling, “Exarch!” Her small voice carried, bright with excitement.
Rhys settled back onto the floor beside Straw, the amaro’s warm chest feathers brushing against his side. He stroked its plumage, watching the scene unfold with a light heart, feeling the rare, quiet joy of a world momentarily at peace.
✹
The Exarch had just finished visiting some of his soldiers recovering in the clinic. He had helped prepare a few remedies with his knowledge of white magic and had taken the opportunity to speak with Chessamille, who managed the facility.
Stepping outside, he felt the familiar weight of exhaustion settle across him. These men and women—whom he had watched grow, whom he had seen born, whom he had guided over the years—were fighting for survival within the Crystarium. Some had fallen, some were now incapacitated, and others were luckier, suffering only minor injuries.
He wished he could do more for them. But he could no longer be on every front at once. That evening, he had stayed in the background, guarding the city’s inhabitants, yet the sense of helplessness lingered.
And he wasn’t even supposed to think about Rhys. He drew a slow, steadying breath, convincing himself that he could keep his mind focused on duty—at least until tomorrow.
The late afternoon sun warmed his back as he began walking toward the Tower. His cloak waited there, along with a brief respite he desperately needed. His energy hadn’t fully returned, and his thoughts weighed heavily.
Then, a voice called his name.
Looking up, he spotted a small Mystel racing toward him, cheeks flushed, eyes wide. She ran as though she might burst from sheer urgency, and he instinctively knelt, setting his basket down beside him. What’s happening? Another misfortune?
The child reached him and beamed, motioning for him to come closer. She leaned in, her tiny face hovering near the ear hidden beneath the hood, a whisper meant for his ears alone—but somehow carrying all the force of her youthful certainty.
“The Warrior of Darkness has a gift for you. Will you accept it?”
His eyes widened beneath the glamour, and his gaze darted around. There—bathed in sunlight under the tree, beside Straw—Rhys was sitting, a broad, teasing smile across his face.
What…?
“I gladly accept. Thank you, Riqi-Tio,” he said, his voice calm but edged with surprise. The child revealed a flower crown, that had been hiden behind her back until now. He inclined his head slightly, silently granting permission, and she carefully placed the crown atop his hood, her grin radiant.
“Thank you very much,” he murmured, keeping his tone steady. “And this?” His fingers accepted the folded scroll she offered.
“That’s another secret, I think,” she shrugged, pointing toward Rhys.
Unfolding the parchment, he felt his chest tighten. Black runes ran across it, and a note was written, neat and flowing:
⋆ ☆
A crown for my Prince.
In your image, simple yet lovely.
These are flowers from Il Mheg. I hope you like them.
A little change of scenery never hurts, now and then.
—Rhys.
☆ ⋆
He pressed the scroll against his chest, striving to maintain a neutral expression. Only a polite smile betrayed him as he glanced back at the child, who seemed to linger, waiting for something more.
“Thank you, you are the best,” he said again, softly. “Say hello to your parents for me, okay?”
He placed a gentle hand on her head, retrieved his basket, and rose to his full height.
“See you tomorrow, Exarch! The crown suits you—you look like a princess!” she called brightly, her joy infectious.
He let out a soft chuckle, glancing toward Straw and, just beyond it, Rhys—watching with that teasing, warm gaze that made his chest tighten in ways he couldn’t quite name.
Lowering the crown into his hands, he inhaled the delicate scent of roses and gold blossoms. The faint hum of magic lingered, a preservation spell keeping the petals vibrant and alive.
He smiled again, wider this time, letting the faintest laugh escape behind the blossoms, savoring a moment that was entirely theirs, without duty, without pretense—just the two of them, quiet and close in heart, if not in body.
☾
Evening fell quickly. Emet was still absent, decidedly nowhere in sight. Rhys landed once more at the city’s edge, having wandered deep into the far reaches of Lakeland's mountains. The region had revealed itself from a fresh perspective, one he hadn’t taken the time to appreciate before.
He left the amaro at the Temenos Rookery, watching as it hurried to drink despite having sipped from the lake only minutes earlier. Straw shook himself, giving Rhys a few affectionate nips at the top of his chest before retreating to its nest.
Rhys stretched, cracking his back and neck, and felt a rare lightness. His friends were surely waiting for him at the Wandering Stairs.
He absently ran a hand along his staff, resting it against his back. Today, he hadn’t felt the call of destruction, nor the familiar rush of frustration. After more than a week of suffering, it felt… good, in a quiet, grounding way, to feel even a little normal.
By the time he reached the usual table, everyone was already seated. Everyone, that is, except the Exarch. They had started dinner without him and waved as he approached. Rhys slid into the empty seat between Alphinaud and Y’shtola.
“You smell like pollen,” Y’shtola remarked, wrinkling her nose slightly. “Where have you wandered off to this time?”
From across the table, Urianger answered. “I perceive the faint fragrance of home upon you,” he said, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “How fare our friends in Il Mheg?”
The twins and Thancred exchanged grimaces. Their memories of the fey realm weren’t exactly fond—the Pixies had been trying. Some moments had been pleasant, yes, but much remained to be forgotten.
“They’re well,” Rhys replied, a soft warmth in his voice. “You’re missed, Urianger.” He nodded toward Thancred. “Take him with you—he could use a little holiday.” Thancred shot him a murderous look, and Rhys returned it with a cheeky wink.
“How are you holding up, Rhys?” Alphinaud asked quietly, the question everyone feared to voice.
Rhys hesitated, weighing his words. For the moment, he was fine. But he knew the fragility of such calm.
“For now… I’m fine,” he said, lowering his gaze to the plate in front of him. “But I’ll need you all to keep me in check if I start acting the fool tomorrow. The Exarch said he’d teleport me straight back to the Tower if need be.”
A tense silence settled over the table.
“Leave your staff here,” Y’shtola said, her voice calm but firm. “Bring your rapier instead, Rhys.”
All eyes turned to him, waiting.
“We’ll see… I can’t make promises,” he said finally. He wasn’t ready to abandon black magic—it thrilled him—but red magic had its own draw. For him, fun often outweighed raw destructive power.
“Rusty as you are, a little red magic wouldn’t hurt,” Alisaie teased, smirking. Rhys met her gaze, bracing for verbal sparring.
“Alisaie, do I need to remind you of our duel the oth—”
“Ah!” She jumped up, pounding her fist on the table. “You could’ve done better, and you know it!”
Alphinaud ran a hand over his face, chuckling softly, while the others shared small, knowing smiles.
Everything was almost like before.
Almost.
-
Rhys stayed out rather late that evening, walking with Thancred along the quiet paths of the Pendants. The night was still, the remnants of rain clinging to the stone and crystal, and Rhys found himself explaining—again—his interactions with Emet.
“I know he’s… complicated,” Rhys said softly, glancing at his friend. “But he helps me. Genuinely."
Thancred crossed his arms, brow furrowed, but there was a hint of resignation in his voice. “I’ll never fully trust him. You know that. But… I understand you. Just don’t let him get the better of you, Rhys. You hear me?”
Rhys grinned, giving his shoulder a light, friendly punch. “Don’t worry. I’m not a fool.”
They lingered a moment in silence, the quiet comfort of shared understanding stretching between them. “I guess that’s the closest to approval I’ll ever get from you,” Rhys teased.
Thancred snorted, shaking his head. “You godamned brat.”
Eventually, Rhys made his way back to his suite, brushing off the damp from the grass where they had spent hours after dinner at the Quadrivium.
The air was crisp, and the full moon hung beside one of the Tower’s spires like a silver sentinel. He paused, closing his eyes for a moment and whispering a brief prayer of thanks before continuing inside.
The bedroom was empty, quiet except for the faint hum of the Tower’s energy. Rhys picked up a crystal from his desk and infused it with a thread of aether, casting a soft, warm glow across the room. The light danced over the furniture, settling on the familiar corners of his sanctuary.
The cloak lay neatly folded on the bed, just as it had the day before. The other blanket was still missing. Rhys smiled faintly, imagining the Exarch wrapped in it, perhaps sighing in quiet satisfaction.
He chuckled, chastising himself inwardly for being so captivated, yet unable to stop the smile. Lifting the cloak to his face, he inhaled its comforting scent. A slip of parchment fell onto the bed, and Rhys picked it up, moving closer to the glowing crystal so he could read it clearly.
⋆ ☆
"I very much enjoyed the flowers.
Thank you for caring for Straw.
Sleep well, Rhys. Until tomorrow."
—E.
☆ ⋆
He sank onto the bed, stunned.
Perhaps they had finally found a solution to his turmoil. Exchanging words—and garments carrying each other’s scent—worked wonders, soothing his heart and body in ways he had never imagined possible.
The fire, the desire, the frustration, the distance—all of it seemed to melt away in the presence of this quiet tenderness. Perhaps, for now, he could live like this.
Ignoring it had only made things harder. The answer had been here all along. Simply knowing he was cherished—by him, and by his friends—was a balm he had never realized he needed so desperately. Their nearly unconditional support was comfort he had never expected to crave.
He carefully placed the parchment in the next room, securing it in the small wooden box where he kept his crystals. Sitting at his desk, he began writing one last note for the day. Rising, he gathered his Red Mage attire and rapier, then returned to the bedroom. He lifted the cloak as well, stepping onto the landing and teleporting down one floor.
The door was ajar.
He peeked inside—and there he was.
The Exarch had brought a chair into the Ocular, as he often did late at night, angled slightly toward the luminous mirror. He sat with his legs drawn up, wrapped in a dark brown blanket, quietly reading.
The crown of flowers rested lightly against his chest. The hood was down, and his face was partially hidden in the folds of the blanket. If it hadn’t been for his crystalline hand resting on the page, Rhys might not have recognized him at all.
He looked so at ease, so far from the imposing figure he normally projected—the leader, the ancient mage. Here, he seemed normal, even vulnerable.
There was something achingly familiar about the posture.
Years ago. His friend, reading a complicated book, perched on a tree branch, back comfortably against the trunk. Legs pulled up to his chest, sticking out his tongue when he saw Rhys approach.
Jumping from his perch, landing beside him, shaking the reddish fur of his ears and making him sneeze, before retreating back into the tree.
The chase that followed.
Both of them scolded by Rammbroes.
Rhys let the memories sweep over him. The day was approaching. Surely it would fall after their return from Amh Araeng, which explained the swell of nostalgia and sentimentality.
He stepped back carefully, retracing his steps, and climbed the stairs silently to his floor. From his landing, he teleported into the hall, keeping his presence hidden.
-
In his suite at the Pendants, Rhys shed his clothes quickly, setting his staff against the wall. He opened the shutters, letting the pale moonlight cut across the room, and laid out his rapier and Red Mage garments neatly on the bench, boots aligned beside them.
He turned off the light and eased into bed, folding the two blankets into a compact nest before wrapping himself in the thick, soft blue cloak. He pressed his face into it, inhaling its comforting scent, and ran a hand along the back of his ears. It was a small reprieve, but one he accepted fully—like a silent acknowledgment of what he was missing.
Tension in his body eased slightly, but the ache remained, steady and sharp. He missed him. Deep down, that would never change. The void it tried to fill could not erase the reality of two Lightwardens standing between them, looming threats that demanded his focus.
Rhys tightened his hold on the fabric, closed his eyes, and allowed himself a single, controlled exhale. A silent plea passed his lips—not for comfort, not for relief, but for the certainty that the waiting would end, that the work would not stretch on endlessly, and that, in the end, he would see him again.
Notes:
Riqi-Tio is the best girl and I do love her !
See you next week for more !
Chapter 11: Drifting away
Notes:
Amidst the 9th Umbral calamity that, us, players, are experiencing, here is the new chapter.
And, oh boy.
I was scared of posting this one, but here we go.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
_______________
Sunlight spilled into Rhys' room, brushing his face with warmth. He drew in a deep breath, clutching the cloak close against him, keeping his eyes closed.
He imagined waking up in his arms, after a night of undisturbed sleep.
Perhaps one day they would have that chance.
He hoped for it with all his heart.
He let out a low sigh, pressing his face into the fabric, and indulged in a few more precious moments of rest.
-
The meeting at the Ocular had been scheduled for late morning.
Rhys arrived last, having first dropped off a few things in his suite upstairs. The room fell quiet as the door opened, all eyes turning to him.
His red attire caught the light, the long dark boots fitting snugly, his rapier at his side. The intricate markings showing along his forearms, neck, and chest.
“You didn’t bother with face makeup this morning, Your Highness?” Alisaie teased immediately, a sly smile tugging at her lips.
“Not today,” he replied, stepping forward to ruffle her hair before raising his gaze to Y’shtola. “No black magic for the coming days.” She nodded, uncrossing her arms in agreement.
The door opened again, and Emet appeared, leaning casually against the wall. Nobody greeted him, and he pouted slightly, though a faint, knowing smile lingered on his face.
The discussion began over the Lightwarden in the region, but it quickly took a darker turn when young Minfilia suggested invoking the true Oracle, the Minfilia from the Source, to aid them.
Rhys stilled. The thought was dangerous: for such a merging to take place, one of the two would inevitably vanish. Forever.
Thancred’s jaw clenched. He stepped forward, close enough to shield her with his presence. His voice, low and taut, trembled with barely restrained fury.
“You can’t be serious, Minfilia. Do you understand what you’re suggesting? Merging with her means one of you disappears—gone, permanently. Do you truly know what that means?”
Minfilia’s gaze did not waver. “I do. And I’ve thought about it every day since all this began. But it’s the only way forward. Too much depends on it.”
“That’s not your decision to make alone!” Thancred snapped, stepping in front of her. “This isn’t a game! You’re risking yourself in a way that… that I can’t just let happen. We—”
His words faltered, voice thickening with frustration. “We can find another way!”
She shook her head, a faint sadness flickering in her eyes. “No, Thancred. I’ve weighed the alternatives. There’s no other solution that will give us what we need. I need to do this—for everyone. For all of us.”
He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply, his shoulders slumping slightly. “I just… I can’t watch you throw yourself away like this. You have to trust that there’s another way, any other way.”
“I do trust,” she said softly, almost a whisper, “but this is the path fate has laid before us. I’m prepared to accept it. Please… don’t try to stop me.”
Thancred’s fists clenched, and for a long moment he simply stared at her, torn between anger, fear, and helplessness.
Finally, he stepped back, his voice dropping to a tense murmur. “Gods help us all… If this is truly your choice, then I’ll… I’ll support you. But I won’t like it. Not one bit.”
Frustration and helplessness boiling over, he stormed out of the Ocular, leaving for Amh Araeng alone, expecting the others to follow later.
-
Rhys was the first to exit the room once the discussion ended. The tension was thick, and he could see the strain it placed on Thancred. Yet, once again, there was nothing he could do—it was Minfilia’s choice, and he would not interfere.
He paused near the door, speaking over his shoulder, his voice calm but firm. “Wait for me by the amaros. I’ll join you shortly. I have one more thing to take care of first.”
With that, he teleported upstairs, pushing open the door to his suite. He retrieved the cloak he had brought back and picked up the staff he’d left on the bed that morning. He held it in his hands, staring at it. He would likely regret not taking it with him, but he couldn’t allow himself the temptation now, not with the stakes so high.
Descending to the threshold of the Ocular, he noticed the door was closed.
Raising an eyebrow, surprised, he rapped on the golden wood. “It’s me,” he called, announcing himself, feeling an odd flutter of hesitation.
The door cracked open, and he stepped inside, closing it behind him.
The Exarch was adjusting his chair, the left door wide open, the desert stretching beyond the grand mirror.
Rhys approached, holding out the staff. “Keep it safe here, away from me. I don’t want to lose control if I return here during the desert mission.”
The Exarch straightened, taking the weapon and setting it against the chair.
“I won’t take my eyes off you in combat,” he said, voice firm. “Red magic requires close quarters, but you have speed on your side. Don’t put yourself in unnecessary danger, understood?”
Rhys lowered his gaze. “I’ll do my best.”
He watched as the Exarch settled into the chair, back straight, turning slightly away. The desert beyond the mirror shimmered in the disgusting light, unforgiving.
Rhys unfolded the cloak he’d carried in the crook of his arm and stepped closer. The Exarch lifted his head, surprised to see him still there.
Carefully, Rhys draped the cloak over him, smoothing the folds beneath his chin. “Keep this for me too,” he said softly.
The Exarch parted his lips, astonished by the gesture. “If you need anything, return to the Crystarium. I’ll open the door for you if I sense you entering the Tower,” he said, his voice gentle but steady. “Bring Straw along. If the mission drags on and you need… comfort.” He lifted the cloak to his face, letting his words sink in.
Rhys heard him inhale deeply. “Come find me,” the Exarch continued, pressing the blue fabric against his cheek, rubbing it lightly. “I’ll be right here. The trip is quick.”
☾
The desert hadn’t called to him.
Sure, he had spent countless days here hunting, but returning for official matters was different altogether. The Everlasting Light hung steady in the sky, casting its pale, unyielding glow across the dunes.
Shadows stretched faintly, giving the landscape a sharp, surreal clarity. Rhys’s boots crunched on the dry sand as he walked alongside Alphinaud, who seemed lost in thought.
He cast a quick glance at his companion and gave a subtle nod. No one would bring up Tesleen. If Alisaie wanted to pay her respects at the empty grave they had prepared, she would do so in her own time—and on her own terms.
-
The week that had passed was grueling. Each day was heavier than the last, a slow accumulation of fatigue and grief.
Rhys slowed his pace near a jagged outcrop, looking ahead. The small figure of Ryne adjusted her satchel, squinting toward the far-off mountains.
He had never felt especially close to her, yet she was now one of them. Had been, ever since Thancred first appeared with her at his side. Like them, she carried a burden too heavy for her years—more than any child should be asked to bear.
But she endured. She was brave—too brave. There had a sharp intelligence in her eyes, a spark that reminded him of the Oracle, tempered now into something wholly her own.
Watching her, truly watching her for the first time, he felt a flicker stir in his chest—warmth, a protective instinct, and perhaps a quiet relief that she had survived when so much else had been lost.
His dearest friend Minfilia was gone. And he had not fully realized it had happened.
Sensing the shift in his posture, Alphinaud drew closer. “She’ll need guidance. More than we can give in this wilderness.”
Rhys nodded faintly. “I know. And we’ll do what we can. But… she’s strong. Strong enough not to let fear master her.”
Silence stretched between them, filled only by the cry of a hawk wheeling overhead. Rhys brushed his fingers along the hilt of his rapier, taking quiet comfort in its weight. His thoughts slipped to the Tower—to the cloak left behind, and the quiet solace it still represented. A single fragile thread of connection, amid the storm of chaos.
“Rhys,” Alphinaud said gently, pulling him back. “Are you… well?”
He met his friend’s eyes, offering a small smile. “I’m well enough. I just want this madness to end.”
They pressed onward. Every footstep was heavy, but Rhys forced himself forward, steady, unyielding. He thought of Thancred—still recovering, shoulders bowed by sorrow. They were fragile, and yet resilient, a reminder that even amidst loss, life refused to yield.
At last they reached the encampment. Rhys lingered at the edge, watching the scattered fires burning low against the desert’s endless sweep. The land was harsh, merciless… and yet there was a beauty in its relentlessness, a quiet lesson in endurance. He inhaled deeply, the dry warmth searing his lungs, grounding him.
For a fleeting moment he let himself imagine the days ahead: battle plans scrawled in the dirt, strategy whispered under canvas, rare bursts of camaraderie, and perhaps—if fate allowed—a breath of peace. The desert had stripped them raw, but in its cruelty it had revealed their strength. And within the exhaustion, the grief, the relentless march forward, a fragile spark of hope stirred.
He kept his composure, but the shadows in his mind did not belong to black magic. No, the whispers threading through him were different—fainter, yet more insidious. A voice that had followed him ever since he first took in the Light. It lingered now, quieter, but no less present.
He hadn’t returned to the Crystarium during the campaign. There had been no time for loneliness—not openly. He buried it under duty, under necessity. Only one frustration broke through his discipline: the truth he hadn’t yet dared to touch—that Minfilia was gone, utterly, beyond recall.
-
On the eighth day, they cornered the Lightwarden. The battle raged with merciless intensity, a storm of light and steel. And when Rhys struck the final blow, the torrent of retribution fell upon him.
The Light tore through him.
Pain ignited in a white-hot blaze, far sharper, far deeper than anything he had ever known. In Rak’tika, it had been a distant sting, a warning. Now it was a blade lodged in his chest, splitting him open from within, ripping through bone, blood, and will alike.
The force sent him to his knees, a strangled gasp tearing from his throat, ragged and trembling. The hum rose, insidious and relentless, threading through his skull, weaving through his veins.
Whispers—sweet, insistent, cruel—clawed at his mind, pressing him toward the brink, drowning reason, threatening to erase him entirely.
Every nerve burned. Every muscle trembled. Yet he held fast. His fingers crushed the hilt of his rapier, white-knuckled, as if the cold steel alone could tether him to the world. His jaw ached from the force of his clench, his body shook with the strain, yet he remained—present, aware, himself.
The brilliance of the Light clawed at the edges of his sanity, promising to consume him wholly.
But he would not allow it. Not here. Not now.
Each pulse of agony was a vow: not yet. Perhaps later, in the silence of solitude, he might falter. But not before his friends. Not while the world still counted on him.
-
Urianger carefully secured Rhys on Straw, ensuring that no sudden movement could send him tumbling should fatigue overtake him mid-flight.
“Maintain thy composure, Rhys,” he murmured, his voice calm but firm. “Shouldst thou fall, I shall be unable to intercept thee midair.”
Rhys gave a slight nod, adjusting his position. “I’ll hold. Don’t worry.”
The air grew heavier as they neared the Crystarium. Each flap of the amaro’s wings sent a sharp gust against his face, and despite his efforts to remain composed, his exhaustion was evident in the tense set of his shoulders. Urianger’s eyes never left him, scanning constantly for any sign of faltering.
Below, the crystalline city shimmered, a beacon of sanctuary.
Alisaie flew slightly behind, her frame tense, eyes darting between Rhys and Urianger.
“Keep him upright,” she muttered, more to herself than anyone else. “He can’t lose consciousness now…”
Finally, with a controlled descent, the amaro touched down on the crystalline plaza. Rhys exhaled sharply, shoulders sagging as if he had been holding the entire weight of the sky above him. Urianger was immediately at his side, steadying him, speaking low words of reassurance.
-
The Exarch waited at the Rookery when they landed in the Crystarium. Through the mirror, he had seen it all—his Warrior collapsing to the ground, wracked by pain and Light, and he hated himself for allowing it. But there had been no other choice. Only Rhys could bear that brilliance, and for the plan to succeed… sacrifices were unavoidable.
Rhys moved with measured steps, though the persistent ringing in his head made every sound sharper, every breath heavier. He trailed the others toward the base of the Tower, shadows stretching long in the evening light. No one lingered; rest called to them all.
“We can do the debrief without you, Rhys,” Y’shtola murmured, her voice gentle. “You handled yourself admirably, and you’re exhausted.” She cast a brief glance at Thancred. “You as well—go rest. We’ll meet again tomorrow.”
Their encouragements echoed softly around him. He relented, acknowledging the truth in their words. The pain he had endured was unlike anything he had ever felt—not against Nidhogg, not against Zenos. Today, he had truly been cornered, pushed to his limits.
His rapier remained at his side, its weight grounding him, a reminder that he still stood. “Alright. See you all tomorrow,” he said, voice steady though his body trembled with residual strain.
Barely any sleep in recent days, and the searing, consuming pain—he had come closer than ever to collapsing. That he hadn’t passed out was nothing short of a miracle.
Despite himself, he followed the others inside the Tower. “I’ll sleep here tonight,” he added simply, teleporting upstairs. He didn’t glance toward the Exarch; he feared the pull of wanting, of collapsing into his arms in front of everyone. Yet beneath that fear was a sharper, more private longing: to be cared for, held, cherished, coddled—by him, and only him.
He entered his room, leaving the door open. The familiar space offered a sliver of safety. Crossing to his small arsenal, he carefully set his rapier in its box before sinking into one of the two chairs. For the first time in days, he allowed his body to slump completely, every muscle releasing its tension, even if only for a few stolen moments.
He needed to wash, to shed the day from his skin. Every inch of him clung to the red dalmascan attire he had worn under the unforgiving desert, sand pressed into seams and folds, scratching, biting, reminding him of every step across the dunes. His boots were tight with grit; his collar irritated the back of his neck; his scalp itched mercilessly from sweat and dust alike.
But exhaustion held him in place.
The chair beneath him had never felt so heavy, and every part of him ached with the weight of the day. He only wanted to wash, to feel water running through his hair, and then—finally—collapse into bed. His hands shook as he loosened his belt, pulling off his red drape to wipe his face and upper chest.
His thoughts drifted, untethered and relentless. He did not know what awaited him when he absorbed the light from the final Lightwarden. He could feel, deep in his bones, that this one might—could—be the end. He had sworn to protect this world, yes. But he had not sworn to die for it.
And yet, voices lingered in his mind, tugging at him from every angle. The Exarch, patient and unwavering, assuring him that he would never put him in true peril. Y’shtola, steady and exacting, promising that they would save that reflection. He wanted to believe, oh, he wanted desperately to believe them—but doubt gnawed like a persistent shadow, and the risk remained, unknowable and looming.
Tilting his head back against the curve of the chair, utterly drained, he closed his eyes, surrendering to the weight pressing on his body and mind.
-
A searing, unrelenting pain tore him from sleep, hurling him to the cold cristalline floor.
His knees dug in, heart hammering, breath ragged. He screamed, drenched in sweat, hair plastered to his forehead, body trembling violently.
The world around him burned white—blinding, endless—and his mind unraveled. Fear gripped him utterly. He could not move, could not even hear his own breath.
A creeping, desperate thought clawed at him: This might be it. I’m dying.
Dying.
Collapsing onto all fours, head hanging low, a trickle of saliva slipping free, he felt the icy grip of terror sink into his bones. Every instinct screamed that he was slipping away, alone, into nothingness.
And then, as suddenly as it had begun, it vanished.
The relief was fragile. He tried to rise onto his heels, but his body felt alien, heavy, uncooperative. A flicker of brilliant light danced before him, and instinctively he braced, heart hammering, ears buzzing.
The Exarch’s words—urgent, shouted, impossible to fully comprehend—pierced the haze.
The Exarch.
He was here. He had come.
With trembling effort, Rhys reached out to him, arms shaking, eyes unfocused.
The Exarch sank to his knees beside him, and Rhys pressed against him, circling his arms around the man’s head. The Exarch held him tightly, offering every ounce of his presence.
“I’m here,” the man whispered, voice raw.
“I… I can’t breathe… I can’t…”
A crystalline hand traced along Rhys’s nape and jaw, tilting his face to coax him to breathe. But the Keeper clung harder, desperate, pressing into the cool safety, the only place that made sense. His body shook, tears soaking the Exarch’s robes, breath ragged and broken.
Please… don’t let me die here. Not like this…
“I’m here, my love,” murmured the Exarch, lifting his chin carefully, voice low.
Rhys pressed himself harder, crushing his face into the neck he had longed for. The ghost of pain still flared in his head. And there was something else—
“I missed you,” he gasped, voice cracking, raw with fear, trying to focus on him. On his mate.
“I know. I feel it,” the Exarch whispered, holding him as if letting go might shatter them both. “I am here. Always.”
Hands clawing at shoulders, nails digging in, Rhys anchored himself to something real, something solid. Every inhale burned, every heartbeat thundered, the voice in his head was clearer—but the Exarch’s murmurs and touch drew him back from the edge, tethering him to life and warmth.
“Good… that’s it,” he murmured softly, voice trembling. “Breathe, Rhys. In… and out. Slowly. I’ve got you. Every breath. You’re safe.”
Rhys shuddered, trembling against him, a single sob escaping—then, with a suddenness that startled them both, he began to laugh.
It wasn’t joy. It wasn’t even relief.
It was jagged, manic, a sound so wrong it froze the Exarch’s breath.
The laugh tore out of him in shreds, high and broken, tangled with sobs until the two were indistinguishable—an awful, hysterical noise that echoed off the crystal.
His nails gouged into the Exarch’s shoulders, clinging with a desperation that bordered on violence. Tears streaked his face, his breath hitching, laughter bubbling up again, ragged and raw.
And then, through that fractured laughter, a voice broke—his, but not his. Low, distorted, trembling with something vast and terrible:
“We will claim him.”
The Exarch went still, his blood turning colder as the realization struck him:
The Light is talking to me.
Rhys’s eyes were wide, unfocused, pupils drowned in brightness, his mouth twisted in a smile that was not a smile.
“Rhys—!” His voice cracked as he clutched him tighter, heart hammering. “No. No, focus on me. You are not theirs. You are not the Light’s to claim!”
But Rhys only laughed harder, choking on it, his tears streaking down his cheeks.
It was madness, hysteria, the sound of a man dragged between worlds. And still that other voice laced his own, mocking, triumphant:
“He belongs to us.”
“Stop!” The Exarch’s shout broke into desperation. His crystalline hand shook as it cradled Rhys’s face, forcing his gaze down from the blinding void above. “No! Look at me. Look at me, Rhys—you’re mine. Mine to hold, mine to love. They cannot take you from me, do you hear?”
Rhys’s body writhed, laughter breaking into violent sobs, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he collapsed again against the Exarch's chest. The Exarch pulled him in closer still, his own tears falling unchecked, voice breaking as he begged against his hair:
“Please—don’t go where I cannot follow. Don’t let them take you. Not after everything, not now. Stay with me. Stay with me!”
The manic laughter dwindled at last, splintering into broken whimpers.
Rhys sagged in his arms, trembling, clinging weakly as the last of the madness ebbed. His breaths came ragged, shallow—but human again, his voice hoarse and small:
“…I’m here…”
The Exarch pressed his lips hard to Rhys’s temple, eyes squeezed shut, his entire body trembling with the force of relief. “Yes. Yes, you are. And you’ll stay. You will stay. I won’t let them claim you. Not while I live. Not ever.”
✹
“Urianger!” the Exarch called from the arsenal room, greeting the Elezen that rushed by their side on the floor.
He had summoned him through Rhys’ linkpearl. The man had run through the sleeping city at this late hour to reach them—to help.
“Thank you for coming so swiftly. He nearly fell apart, right here.” The Exarch’s voice trembled despite his effort to keep it steady. He gestured to the warrior fast asleep in his arms, still cradled close as if he dared not let go. “He is exhausted. Run a bath, please. Lukewarm. He burns like fire.”
Urianger crouched briefly, his keen eyes noting the tremor in Rhys’s body, the clawlike grip still tangled in the Exarch’s robes. His lips pressed thin. “How long did this fit endure?”
“Too long,” the Exarch admitted, his throat tight. “I thought—” He swallowed. “I thought he was slipping away before my eyes.”
“’Tis no common faint,” Urianger murmured, his voice low. “Each bout doth gnaw at his strength. And thine as well, my friend.”
“Do not concern yourself with me.” The Exarch clutched Rhys a little tighter, as though to shield him from the very words. “Just—help me see him safely through this night.”
Urianger’s eyes softened
Their fears were confirming themselves. He could only hope that when the final Lightwarden was absorbed, Rhys would have enough time to channel it safely.
He lifted Rhys carefully into his arms and crossed to the bedroom, laying him on the sheets.
Sitting beside him, he recounted haltingly what had just transpired. With gentle fingers he brushed the damp strands of hair from his beloved’s face, tucking them back to reveal the pallor beneath, the fevered sheen upon his skin. His lips—those lips he had once dreamt of kissing—were cracked from heat and strain.
Urianger’s steady voice cut through the hush. “Thou canst give him into mine hands. Dost thou wish to handle this thyself, or shall I?” His tone was careful, as though each word might test the Exarch’s already frayed composure.
The Exarch’s reply came hoarse, almost defensive: “I… I will bear him. Only—help me.” He rose, lifting Rhys once more, and carried him into the bathing chamber.
Urianger had already prepared two towels, his long hands testing the water’s surface. He looked up for confirmation.
The Exarch nodded faintly, breath tight. “I would ask your assistance, if you please,” he murmured, supporting Rhys upright and guiding him toward Urianger.
Urianger’s eyes softened as he stepped forward. “Then I shall see to undressing him. Canst thou endure to remain?” His voice was low, but laced with a warning: he knew full well how deep the Exarch’s instincts ran.
“I can,” the Exarch answered at once, though his hands trembled where they held Rhys. “Leave him in his underclothes. Nothing more. I’ll fetch something for him to wear afterward.”
Urianger inclined his head gravely. “So be it.” With slow, meticulous care, he eased off Rhys’s boots and set them aside. His movements were respectful—granting the Exarch time to master himself.
The Exarch turned away briefly, gathering one of Rhys’s black robes—loose, comfortable, the kind he favored when he wished only to rest. “You can start. I will wash his hair myself. Miqo'te ears can be quite sensitive.”
Bringing the robe into the bedroom, he busied himself with the bed: smoothing the freshly washed linens, folding the blankets into a soft nest. At the head, he set Rhys’s blue cloak against the pillow, so it would be there when he woke.
The sound of the bathwater rippling carried faintly into the room. The Exarch closed his eyes for a moment.
There was no one else in whom he would entrust his beloved’s body so, save Urianger. After all, the man already carried his secret—he had confided it to him willingly.
-
He returned to the bathroom—and drew a sharp breath at the sight of Rhys under the faint light.
His face was deathly pale. The Exarch’s eyes flicked across him with clinical precision, taking in every fresh wound, every mark left behind.
He moved to Urianger’s side, rolling up his wide sleeves as his friend eased Rhys forward, tilting his torso so his back was more accessible.
The Exarch took over, his hands gentle as he massaged the taut shoulders, washing the parched skin before working his way down the scar-laced back. So many scars—thin pink streaks traced over grey-tinged flesh, a stark and painful contrast.
Urianger leaned him forward again, steadying a hand at his nape, tilting his head back.
The Exarch turned his attention to Rhys’s hair, working the soap into his scalp with deliberate care for a long moment.
Then he shifted to the ears, cleaning them with painstaking gentleness. Instinct tugged at him—he had to fight the feral urge to lap at the fur, to indulge that primal need.
Instead, he guided Urianger to tilt the head slightly to the side and carefully massaged the tender skin, avoiding soap or water within. He gave all his focus to the task.
“You truly love him, do you not?” Urianger’s voice came low, reverent, as he washed Rhys’s face with the same delicate care.
Lowering his hood, panting softly with effort, the Exarch’s reply came at once. “With all my heart.” He leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to Rhys’s brow.
Urianger watched in silence, his expression unreadable but not unkind.
At length he spoke, his voice grave: “I have scarce seen thee thus unguarded, old friend. Thy mask falleth swiftly when his well-being is imperiled.”
The Exarch did not look up. “What mask is worth keeping, if he is lost?” His words came hushed, broken by the steady trickle of water over Rhys’s hair. “I swore… I swore I would protect him. Yet tonight he slipped through my fingers. I have never feared so much.”
When the hair was rinsed, he checked his temperature again, pouring in more lukewarm water to soothe him. They lingered until his expression softened, less tortured even in sleep. The Exarch smoothed a healing balm over his cracked lips, sealing the deepest fissures.
Urianger took his measure once more, then nodded.
Together they stood. Urianger kept Rhys steady as the Exarch rinsed the soap from his body, then guided him out of the great bath onto a towel. The Exarch draped another across his head, blotting away water, drying his face, chest, arms, and back. With Urianger holding him firmly, he closed several of the open wounds he had noticed earlier. Then, reaching for the robe, he and Urianger dressed him, slipping him free of his soaked undergarments, drying his legs and feet before signaling to carry him back.
Urianger laid him in the nest prepared on the bed, covering him with his blue cloak and an additional blanket.
“Will you manage the rest?” the Elezen asked quietly.
The Exarch nodded. “I’ll dry his hair. And stay for a while—to be certain.”
“Very well. Should you need aught, you know where I may be found.” Urianger’s hand rested briefly on his shoulder.
“Thank you,” the Exarch whispered. “As ever, your aid is invaluable. Go rest a while. Keep Thancred company, if he’ll have it.”
The sad smile Urianger gave him was answer enough.
“Good night, Exarch. Watch over him well.” And with that, he closed the door behind him.
-
Drying his hair proved more difficult than expected, but at last he managed to draw out most of the dampness.
Replacing his hood and glamour, the Exarch removed his shoes and sat at the edge of the bed.
For a moment he hesitated—then carefully drew back the blankets that cocooned his friend and slipped down beside him, turning so they lay face-to-face.
From time to time, he heard Rhys’s breath hitch sharply, saw the faint contortions of pain shadow his sleeping features. The Exarch lifted a hand and brushed his cheek with the gentlest touch, before cautiously drawing him closer, gathering him into his arms.
He longed to lower his hood again, to be nearer, but the risk of sparking his companion’s allergy stayed his hand. He kept mindful of the rigid golden spikes, holding him carefully against his chest.
He could have cherished the moment—having him this close, as he had dreamed so often—if not for the gnawing fear that hollowed his heart.
Sliding one arm beneath the pillow, he guided Rhys’s head to rest against the crystalline plane of his upper chest, cool to the touch. He pressed his own cheek against the crown of his hair, fingers combing through the still-damp strands, rocking him in a slow, tender rhythm.
“Sleep, Rhys,” he murmured. “Sleep. I’ll stay with you.”
✹
Several bells passed before he felt the body in his arms finally surrender to true rest. Rhys’s breathing had settled—deep, steady, slow. No more ragged gasps, no fleeting grimace of pain. He still ran a little hot; the fever had come and gone in waves through the night, flaring, ebbing, then rising again. Now, at last, it seemed to be waning.
The Exarch exhaled in quiet relief, though his vigilance never wavered. He shifted slightly, intending to reach for the towel he had left behind to wipe the sweat from Rhys’s brow, but he was stopped short—a hand clutching at the front of his robes, an arm cinched tight around his waist, knuckles fisted in the folds at the small of his back.
A faint movement: Rhys’s head turned, nuzzling against the hollow of his throat, his breath a shiver against bare skin. He inhaled deeply, as if to draw his scent into himself, and sighed—a long, heavy sound, the kind that spoke of safety at last.
The Exarch’s resolve wavered. He made no further attempt to pull away. Instead, with his free hand, he gently wiped the dampness from Rhys’s forehead, his temples, the curve of his cheek. He pressed a light kiss to the tip of one ear, then traced down the nape of his neck, soothing along the length of his back.
With care, he slipped the blanket away, leaving only the familiar blue cloak wrapped around them both.
He knew he ought to let him be, to grant him the space to rest alone. And yet—leaving now was unthinkable. This was his duty, after all: to remain, to keep vigil, to ensure that Rhys did find proper rest in his embrace. A part of him swelled with quiet pride to be the one who gave him such safety, such comfort. And yet, he could not help but feel selfish for clinging to it.
So he stayed. He would not sleep—sleep was a distant, unnecessary indulgence for him now, reserved only for those rare times when his body demanded it. He could, on occasion, doze for the simple pleasure of it. But tonight, he would not risk drifting off. He would remain, watchful, for as long as it took.
When Rhys burrowed closer still, sliding upward to press his entire weight against his chest, the Exarch yielded again, easing flat onto his back to cradle him fully. His hand returned to the tangle of hair at his crown, stroking back the strands with slow, measured care.
And before he could stop it, before he even realized—something rose from deep inside him. A vibration low and steady, trembling through bone and crystal alike.
Purring.
The sound startled him. He had not purred in decades—had forgotten the shape of it in his throat, the pull of it in his chest. For a moment he panicked, strangling the noise into silence.
But Rhys stirred faintly, pressed his ear to that same chest, and sighed, soothed by it.
And so, helplessly, the sound returned—soft at first, cautious, then stronger, a steady thrumming beneath the cage of his ribs. It was shameful, selfish, dangerous… and yet, it was so natural. As if his body, denied for so long, remembered what his mind had tried to bury.
He lay there, holding him, heart aching. How perilous, to give himself over even a little. How cruel, that such tenderness felt both like a promise and a farewell.
Still, he did not stop. He could not. The purring lingered in his chest, quiet and constant, while Rhys slept in peace, the faintest smile softening his fevered face.
For that moment—just that moment—the Exarch let himself believe he could be enough.
And then—
“Raha?”
The Keeper's voice was distant, low, as if carried from another world. His breathing remained steady, slow as the tide. He was asleep. Speaking in dreams.
The Exarch froze, stricken. To hear his name—his true name—fall from Rhys’s lips like that wrenched tears unbidden to his eyes.
“Yes?” he breathed, scarcely daring to speak, his thumb tracing lightly over the golden markings of his cheek.
“I love you.”
Oh.
The words struck like a blade through his chest. He went utterly still, unable even to breathe.
Rhys did not stir. His chest rose and fell in calm rhythm, untouched by the turmoil he’d unleashed. He was deeply asleep. It was not his waking mind that spoke, but something deeper—his soul, laid bare in its most unguarded truth. Words he could not admit in daylight had spilled free in the safety of dreams.
And yet, deep down, he had always known.
The Exarch pressed a trembling hand to his mouth, stifling the sob that tore out of him like a wound breaking open.
He bent close, voice shaking, his whisper a vow. “I love you too, Rhysie.”
Rhys let out a soft exhale, behore talking again:
“Then why don’t you want me anymore?”
The words fell flat, hollow, echoing from some cavernous depth. His unconscious spoke with cruel simplicity, unsoftened by denial or restraint.
The Exarch shattered.
His heart broke in an instant, the grief too sharp to contain. That Rhys should ask such a question—not with anger, not with hurt, but with that terrible, lifeless emptiness—was unbearable.
“It’s… complicated,” he whispered, eyes screwed shut against the flood of pain. “I am so sorry. I have no choice.” He pressed his lips to his forehead, and—unable to stop himself—ghosted the lightest kiss across his mouth before pulling away. "Know it to be true," he murmured, broken, "I love you more than you can imagine."
Rhys' lips opened slightly, welcoming the cool breath that was so close. The warm words that came forth.
“Don’t leave yet,” came the monotone plea. “I miss you.”
The Exarch's body shook. Every instinct screamed at him to stay, to curl close and never let go. And yet he forced himself to rise, because if he stayed, he would never leave again.
He tucked the blankets snug around his Keeper, unclasped his white drape and put it against his sleeping face as a small comfort. He then kissed his marked ear, lingering a moment, fingers stroking gently through his hair. “Sleep. Rest, my love. You need it.”
And then he saw them—tears slipping silently from behind Rhys’s closed eyes, trailing down his temples into his hair.
“Don’t go,” Rhys whispered, his voice a hollow ruin, stripped of all life. "Please, don't go."
It was too much. Far, far too much. The Exarch bent and kissed him one last time, soft as a breath, his own tears falling to mingle with Rhys’s.
And then, tearing himself away, he slipped from the room and closed the door with shaking hands.
A teleport carried a floor below, on the Ocular—only for his knees to give way the instant he arrived. He collapsed, one hand clamped over his mouth to muffle the sound. But it was useless. The sobs that ripped out of him were raw, brutal, shattering.
He wept as though his very soul were unraveling. For he was not ready. He had never been ready to leave him.
All he had ever wanted—all he still wanted—was more time. More time with him. More time for their story. Time to live it, instead of watching it slip away, stolen by fate.
-
He did not hear the footsteps at first. His own broken sobs drowned out everything, his body shaking so hard he thought he might shatter apart like the crystal embedded in his skin.
“Exarch.”
The voice was soft, deep, unbearably gentle.
He froze. He had no strength left to compose himself, no mask to slip into place. Again.
Urianger was in the Ocular as well, had been seated in the chair.
And for once the Exarch could not summon a word, could not summon a smile, could not summon anything. He turned his face aside like a child caught weeping.
“Leave me,” he croaked, voice hoarse and cracked.
Urianger did move. Slowly, he crossed the floor, each step measured, until he sank to one knee before him. He did not touch him, not at first. Only bowed his head, as though offering silent witness to the ruin before him.
And then, gently, his hand reached out—hesitant—and rested on the Exarch’s trembling shoulder.
The dam broke.
The Exarch lurched forward, clutching at Urianger’s robes as though drowning, burying his face in his chest. His cries ripped through the quiet like jagged glass, desperate and raw, muffled against the cloth but no less terrible. Urianger closed his eyes and held him, broad hands firm and steady as he let his friend unravel.
“He said my name,” the Exarch gasped between sobs. “In his sleep—he said—he said he loves me.” His voice broke, splintered, dissolving into another wave of grief.
Urianger’s embrace tightened, but he said nothing, only listened.
“And then he asked—” his voice cracked on the words, nearly lost. “He asked why I don’t want him anymore. Gods, Urianger, he asked me why—” His breath hitched, ragged. “He begged me not to leave, and still—I left.”
He collapsed again into shaking silence. The Astrologian’s throat worked as he fought to master his own sorrow, but his voice when it came was soft as a prayer.
“Thy burden is a cruel one, my friend. Crueler still for the truth his soul already knows. Yet… even in dreams, he reaches for thee. That is no small grace.”
The Exarch trembled, clutching tighter, as though Urianger’s words were both balm and knife.
“I wanted more time,” he whispered. “Just—more time. To hold him, to love him, as if we had a right to it. But we don’t.” His voice fell to a rasp, barely more than breath. “We never did. And still, I wanted.”
Urianger rested his cheek against his’s hair, eyes closing, and held him all the tighter.
They stayed there in the quiet, two men bound by grief, one weeping out his heart, the other steady as stone, bearing the weight with him. And in the silence between sobs, the Exarch’s broken plea lingered, aching, eternal.
More time.
✹
Urianger had taken his leave in the middle of the night. Sleep had eluded him, troubled as he was by Thancred’s grief, and at last he had departed the Tower altogether in search of stillness. The Exarch had not tried to stop him. He understood.
And so the night stretched on in silence, and he remained where he always did—in his chair in the Ocular.
The night had bled into morning, a book lying open in his lap, though his gaze rarely lingered on the page. More often, it strayed to the enchanted mirror before him, where he watched the slow rise and fall of Rhys’s breath as he slept in the darkened room above.
He had sealed the Ocular door with careful wards, unwilling to risk another soul intruding and discovering what he was doing. He hardly needed the mirror—he could sense who entered and left the Tower at any given time, and the one he longed for was still sleeping soundly—but precaution had become second nature. A single misunderstanding was more than he could bear.
It was the first time he had ever done this. Never once, in all the years, had he spied on him while he slept. The temptation had been there, gnawing, but he had resisted—resisted the risk of glimpsing something that would rend him with jealousy, as it had too often in Rak’tika.
Rak’tika.
The very name had become a wound he could no longer endure.
-
Later that morning.
The knocks at the door were expected.
The Exarch sensed four new presences in the Tower. He waved a hand in front of the mirror, and the image vanished. He gestured toward the door as it opened, rising to greet Lyna.
“My lord", she greeted. "Three visitors for the Warrior of Darkness, if he receives guests,” her voice calm as ever. She motioned for the three figures behind her to step forward. Ryne, Yshtola, and Urianger entered, greeting the Exarch with respectful nods.
They immediately inquired after their friend’s condition. Thancred and the twins were still asleep. The poor man had endured a turbulent night, plagued by nightmares the moment he found rest. Grief would not come easily.
“I want to make sure he’s alright… internally,” Ryne said, stepping closer. “Yesterday, the light within him was so intense—it was terrifying.”
“I’ll accompany you upstairs,” he replied, turning to Lyna. “Thank you, Captain.”
She inclined her head, and they all left the room together.
The bedroom was still shrouded in darkness, the only light spilling softly from the open main door.
They entered quietly. Yshtola was the first to reach his bedside, brow furrowed. Ryne joined her, sharing the same anxious expression. The miqo’te lifted her gaze to meet hers, and Ryne understood—they both felt it.
The young girl crouched at the foot of the bed, her hand hovering over Rhys’s back, while Yshtola stepped back, signaling the Exarch to follow. They moved aside, speaking in hushed tones.
“His body is…” she began, covering her mouth, searching for words. “He… he’s starting to resemble a sin eater—nay, a Lightwarden. The aura, the light—it’s blinding.” Goosebumps rose along her arms as she spoke.
“He still needs rest,” the Exarch murmured, his voice low. “He cannot yet face the last foe.”
She turned sharply to him, shock and disbelief etched on her features.
“Because you intend for him to… take down the last one?” she whispered, keeping her voice low. “In his condition? He will not survive. I will not let him go to Kholusia.” Her arms crossed, her tone resolute.
He knew she was right. And yet… he had no choice.
“He can do it,” he said softly, though even as he spoke, not a single part of him truly believed it.
“He's your mate. How can you say such things, allow such things?” She kept her voice calm, but the edge in it was undeniable. “You’re willing to sacrifice him for your world? You don’t care for him half as much as he cares for you!” Suddenly, a low, simmering anger flared beneath her words.
“Aye… he shall endure. Of that I am certain,” Urianger said, stepping forth in quiet support. “The will abideth within him, Y’shtola. Grant him but a few days more, and he will rise to the task. This I do not doubt.”
The shock etched across her face was painful to witness. She was right. He wouldn’t be able to contain the light—but the plan was already laid out, meticulously, secretly.
Without another word, she moved toward the teleportation cube and left.
The Exarch felt a pang of betrayal. She was the one who was blind in this situation, yet also the most lucid.
“I pray he endureth, even unto the last,” Urianger murmured, his brow knit with quiet concern. “I shall bend mine every effort to see all proceed aright.”
“Exarch?” Ryne approached, her voice small, frightened. “Rhys… he won’t… he might not survive in the state he’s in right now.”
He lifted his gaze to her, forcing a calm smile. “Do not worry, Ryne. We have the situation under control. There is a card we have yet to play,” he said gently, knowing she would not press him. Y’shtola would not have hesitated.
The three of them returned silently to the room. Urianger went to fetch one of the chairs from the adjoining room and settled beside the head of the bed. “I shall remain here with him,” he intoned, voice calm. “He did not partake of sustenance last night, did he?”
The Exarch nodded, inclining his head in gratitude. “Almost nothing. I’ll wake him in two bells, if he’s still asleep. He needs strength… and hydration.”
He watched his friend, lying on his stomach, hair tousled, mouth slightly open, the tip of one fang visible. “I’ll bring him something to eat. You can count on me,” he said, kneeling by the bed, brushing the hair from Rhys’s face. “Rest well, Rhys.” He tried to reclaim the white drape Rhys had clutched under his face, but it wouldn’t budge.
"I shall retrieve it for you before he awakens,” Urianger said, offering a hand to help him rise. “See you shortly, Exarch.”
“I want to stay a little longer too,” Ryne said, settling at the foot of the bed. “I’m really worried about him… and… I don’t want to see Thancred right now.”
A brief silence fell. The weight of the situation pressed down on everyone—it was delicate, precarious.
“I’ll be in the Ocular, or at the other end of the hall, if you need anything,” he said, turning toward the door. “Thank you. Both of you.”
☾
Rhys woke with a groan, feeling a hand forcibly unfold his fingers. Instinctively, he opened his mouth, ready to bite, defending what was his.
What’s happening?
His eyes opened, trying to make sense of the world. A sharp, splitting headache hammered through his skull, and his attempt to sit up ended in failure. Strong hands stabilized him, helping him into a half-sitting position.
Urianger.
His friend was there beside him. But what was going on? Squinting, he tried to focus, to catch the features of the Elezen’s face.
“Take thy time, Rhys. Thou didst give us no small alarm but yesterday,” came the voice, distant, echoing in the haze of his mind. “Ryne, prithee, go and summon him hence."
Rhys turned his head, catching a glimpse of a flash of red hair as the girl disappeared from his line of sight.
Why was Ryne here?
“Close thine eyes. Awake slowly, in good time. We shall converse anon," Urianger said gently. Rhys gave a slow nod, closing his eyes.
-
He was on the verge of drifting back to sleep when he felt Urianger’s hand on his forehead. “Art thou ill at ease? Dost thou suffer aught?”
“My head… hurts,” he murmured, pressing a hand to his right temple and lowering his gaze. “What happened?” His eyes fell on the black robe he was wearing.
The Exarch entered the room, carrying a generously laid tray.
Seeing him like that, Rhys realized he wasn’t wearing any undergarments. His body reacted instinctively, and with just the thin fabric of the robe against his skin, it was impossible to ignore. He quickly clutched the blue cape, covering himself properly from the waist down, and drew the blanket at the foot of the bed over himself as well.
Despite the state he was in, his body betrayed him. When he absently scratched his head, he caught the faint but unmistakable scent lingering in his hair. The cape. But somehow, this time it seemed stronger, more present.
Lost in his thoughts and the throb of his headache, he didn’t notice Urianger speaking. A gentle press on his shoulder drew his attention.
“Partake of sustenance, Rhys. Thou must restore thy strength.” Urianger’s voice was patient, insistent. At the same moment, the Exarch set the tray beside him on the bed: a carafe of water, fresh fruit, a steaming bowl of soup, some vegetables, and fish.
Hunger hit him immediately.
He grabbed his utensils and attacked the food with surprising appetite.
“Pray, what is the last thing thou dost remember, Rhys?” Urianger asked.
Remembering last night's events seemed to be... complicated.
Rhys scratched his head again, trying to focus. "I collapsed on the chair upstairs", he started. Then he froze. "The light. The pain." He remembered the horrible pain.
Urianger nodded. "Anything else ?"
Rhys shook his head, frowning. It was blank. He couldn't remember past the excrutiating pain.
“Thou… didst faint shortly thereafter, and in no small measure,” Urianger went on. Rhys lifted his eyes as he talked. “Thou wert taken by a grievous fever and lost consciousness,” the Elezen glanced at their host before returning his gaze to Rhys. “I took the liberty of bathing thee, that thy temperature might be tempered, and I likewise attended to thy garments.”
Rhys parted his lips slightly, laying down his utensils, finally daring a look at the Exarch. How could he remain so calm, hearing something like this?
“I don’t remember any of it,” he whispered, almost to himself. “Thank you… for all of this, Urianger. I’m sorry I worried you… I mean, all of you.”
It was impossible that he hadn’t been there last night. There were inevitably unspoken things between them now—Rhys wasn’t foolish enough to imagine that the Exarch hadn’t worried about him, hadn’t stayed close. Not when he’d been just a floor below.
He didn’t want to dwell on it. He picked up his spoon and took a tentative sip of soup.
“I’m relieved to see you doing better, Rhys,” Ryne added quietly, her tone timid. “I’ll return to the Stairs; the others should already be up for breakfast as well.” She leaned closer, resting a hand lightly on his back, as though seeking to read the very soul beneath his skin. She drew back slightly. “It seems… stabilizing, little by little,” she said, placing her hand over her heart. “See you later, perhaps.”
“Thank you for coming by, Ryne,” he murmured, still trying to process the morning. He just wanted to eat, and to drift back to sleep. For a little while longer.
“I’ll head back down as well. If you’re still hungry, there will be more on the kitchen table,” a gentle voice said, and Rhys closed his eyes for a moment at the calm reassurance. “Rest, Rhysard. Take all the time you need.”
Rhys looked up clearly, and realization struck him. Something was off.
His white mantle wasn’t attached to his robe. He lowered his gaze to his left hand, opening and closing his fist, then brought it to his face, inhaling sharply—the scent of earth, and cold crystal. It was potent.
His body reacted instantly. Seven Hells … he was almost certain he’d held the cloth in his sleep. But he didn’t dare ask, not with Urianger present.
He opened his mouth, words forming, dangerous if spoken.
In the end, he said nothing, merely nodding in acknowledgment.
-
He awoke again in the late afternoon, groggy and disoriented. Urianger was gone, and every door was closed, leaving him in near-total darkness. The pounding in his head had eased, but tiny white specks danced before his eyes with each blink. For a fleeting moment, fear gripped him—were these remnants of the Light? The particles he had absorbed?
Pushing himself upright, he hurried from his room, teleporting to the throne hall outside. A trembling breath escaped as he glimpsed the low sun dipping toward the horizon. One hand passed over his face while he moved to the edge of the walkways. The cold stone beneath his bare feet made him flinch—he hadn’t even noticed in his haste. Leaning against the railing, he gazed down at the city sprawling far below.
A cool breeze slipped through the fabric of his robe, tracing icy fingers along his ears.
Yesterday, after absorbing the Lightwarden’s essence, he had felt a surge within him, a spark ready to ignite. What might happen in Norvrandt if it erupted again? Would the sky be flooded with light once more?
His hands still trembled from the nightmare that had preceded his awakening.
A weight fell onto his shoulders, and he looked down to see the vibrant blue of a drape settling around him. He bent forward, resting his forearms on the railing, head lowered, unwilling to meet the newcomer’s gaze.
“You slept with me last night,” he murmured, barely audible. He felt, rather than heard, the quiet presence of someone settling to his right, leaning against the railing as well. No reply came—he did not expect one; it was not a question, merely a statement.
“I don’t remember,” Rhys admitted, pressing his forehead against his crossed wrists. “I find it… rather unfair.” He was not disappointed at being held, but at having missed fully savoring the moment. These quiet, intimate fragments—shared in the stillness—were exactly what he had wanted, what he had longed for.
“Was it as pleasant as I dare imagine?” he whispered, almost afraid of the answer.
A pause stretched between them, heavy with unspoken thoughts. For a fleeting moment, he wondered if the presence beside him was even real. He turned his head slightly and caught a hooded profile facing the horizon.
Yes. It was him.
“I was watching over you. You were unstable,” came the calm, deep voice. Another pause. “The closeness… it was pleasant, indeed.” The steadiness of that voice struck him—how could anyone maintain such control in a moment so fragile?
“How are you feeling now?”
He forced himself to remain strong, to not give in to the weight of emotion. The sadness radiating from the other was already heavy enough; there was no need to add to it.
“My headache’s gone. But… I see white specks when I blink,” he admitted, glancing down at the city below, the tiny lights drifting like fireflies. “When I woke, I thought the light had returned to the sky… so I came out to make sure everything was all right,” he confessed.
And then, the thought clawed at him. “I… I broke my oath.”
The Exarch turned fully toward him. “No. You did not.” His voice trembled slightly with restrained emotion. “You were not conscious when I held you. I was the one who made contact. You were in my arms, in the shelter of the tower.” He lifted his face toward the sky. “You were safe. Out of reach from witnesses. Fully concealed from the moonlight. You did not break the oath.”
Rhys parted his lips, almost ready to argue that it wasn’t how it worked. But he let the words die on his tongue. It was okay. They were okay. Nothing had been violated; no boundaries crossed. That was what mattered.
“I am deeply sorry for the trials you must endure,” the voice came closer, measured, steady—and Rhys realized he had taken a step toward the man without noticing. “Rhysard… I need to know. Will you trust me… for what comes next?”
The next—the final Lightwarden.
In his current state, the thought was almost unbearable. The pain he had endured before would surely be magnified tenfold… or perhaps worse, in ways no one could predict. Yet the Exarch’s voice carried a certainty that left him dizzy. How could he be so sure?
“You’ve never given me a reason not to trust your judgment,” Rhys said after a pause, voice rough from fatigue. “But… it feels like a suicide mission, given the condition I’m in.”
They remained silent, the wind whipping around them. The low hum returned to his ears. He pulled the folds of his cloak tight against his skin, shutting out the chill. “I… I don’t know where I stand,” he admitted, shaking his head. “I wish I could trust you blindly, but my survival instincts scream otherwise.”
“Could you trust your other instinct?” came the quiet, steady question. “Could you send me to the slaughter, if it were the only way to save this world?”
Rhys looked up, horrified. “Of course not. Never,” the words spilling out before he could stop them.
“I feel exactly the same,” the Exarch replied, his skin warm in the glow of the evening sun. “That’s why, when I say I would never do anything to put you in real danger, I mean it.” His hand lifted, hovering near Rhys’s face, then retreated at the last moment. “Take your time. You will go nowhere until you’ve recovered. Let’s return inside—it’s getting cold.”
“I will,” Rhys said, lifting his tired yet resolute gaze. “I will bring down the last Lightwarden. Having reserves doesn’t mean I won’t do it.” He felt the weight of inevitability pressing down. “If I don’t… we all risk perishing.”
A life against a world—and its reflection.
He began toward the teleporter, laughing softly, a hollow sound devoid of mirth. “If the worst happens… we’ll ask Emet to bring me back.” He teleported, head lowered, ears flattened, oblivious to the pained expression and the outstretched hand left behind.
-
Leaving the tower, he felt the familiar pull to wallow in his misery. To hunt. To summon the Ascian and endure his endless, hollow chatter.
But he did none of it.
He went to his room, retrieved his boots, and dressed properly, slipping into another black robe. He stepped out unarmed, holding his cloak under his arm. One level down, he opened the door left ajar, laid his cloak on the desk, and slipped out before the Exarch returned. He didn’t want to see him now—his heart bled too much, torn in every direction.
He stood again at the edge of madness, overwhelmed by so many conflicting signals. He didn’t know what to think. He didn’t know who to trust. But he didn't have a choice.
-
It was still early for dinner, but the Sairs were already bustling.
Rhys spotted Alphinaud and Urianger from a distance and made his way over to their table. This—this was exactly what he needed. The company of friends he had worried so much, his selfishness having burdened them.
“Rhys, what are you doing up?” Alphinaud asked, turning toward him, genuine concern in his expression.
Rhys let out a quiet sigh. “I’ve spent the day resting. I’m fine, don’t worry.” He looked to Urianger. “I want to spend time with you both. Honestly… I’m afraid for what comes next.” For the first time, he spoke his fears so plainly. Both friends froze at his words.
“Hah!” The air swirled beside them as Emet appeared, materializing between Urianger and Alphinaud, seated at the place before the Miqo’te. “Do not underestimate yourself. I believe you have the potential to achieve your goals.”
Alphinaud jumped to his feet, shocked at the sudden appearance from nowhere. Rhys didn’t even glance at him. Urianger, unsurprisingly, remained calm. Curious eyes from passersby drifted toward them, and Emet gave a slight wave, a crooked smile tugging at his lips, making them uneasy, before turning his attention elsewhere.
“Where did you come from like that, Emet?” Rhys asked simply. “Were you spying on us?”
“No,” he said, gesturing behind them toward the Quadrivium. “I was simply here. I saw you pass by, so I listened in. Would you care to join me?”
Rhys considered his offer seriously. The air around them seemed to vibrate with tension. His two friends were visibly worried. “Not today. It’s already late.” He lifted his eyes to meet Emet’s, just as golden. “Tomorrow, perhaps. Late morning, if you’re around.”
His friends kept their faces carefully neutral. Rhys, however, didn’t look at them—he fixed his gaze on the man before him. The small smile tugging at his lips. “I’ll be around.” He rose and made a deep bow. “I wish you a pleasant evening, gentlemen.”
Emet didn’t teleport away; he walked with an effortless calm, as though time itself bent to his will, toward the Exedra. Perhaps he was heading to the Tower? Rhys didn’t want to think about it—not today.
He lowered his gaze, not watching him leave. Even though his friends had allowed him time with the Ascian, knowing what he was capable of, he felt shame.
“He believes you can do it, Rhys. To hear him say that… I’m honestly surprised,” Alphinaud broke the silence. “We must not give in to defeat. We must hold hope.”
“Perhaps not everything is lost, after all,” he murmured, shrugging, though he didn’t truly believe it. “But I’d be lying if I said it didn’t reassure me… even if I can’t tell whether he was sincere.”
-
Rhys felt hollow. Fatigued. Overwhelmed. Every muscle ached, every thought spun.
He returned to the Tower late, the night pressing against him like a weight. Even after the evening with his friends, laughter and warmth still lingering faintly in his memory, his mind couldn’t escape the shadow of the last Lightwarden. His body ached for rest, yet his heart ached even more—for the one he could not be close to, yet could not leave behind.
He retrieved his cloak, folded with precise care on his bed, then moved to the next room. A parchment, a few trembling words written, he carried it down a floor, hoping it might bridge the distance he could not cross in person.
The door was closed.
A knock, gentle, hesitant. It opened by itself.
“These doors will always be open to you.”
The Exarch sat as always, quiet, steady, reading by the mirror.
A blanket across his lap, he turned his head and nodded in greeting, before returning to his reading.
Rhys moved his chair beside him, placed it just so, across from the mirror. His hands shook as he laid the parchment on the blanket near the Exarch’s stomach, as he turned to make a nest on the chair.
He just wanted this tonight: the closeness, without touching. Just feeling him close.
Curling into himself, hiding in his cloak, he rested his head against the armrest, tail drawn close.
And the silence pressed in, disturbed only by the sound of the pages turning. Or the shifting of robes, when the Exarch reajusted his position, unfolding his blanket so it lay atop Rhys as well.
They were sharing.
And then—he heard the voice.
Soft. Deep. so gentle.
Each word a balm and a blade all at once. The Exarch read aloud, a language unknown, but Rhys did not need the words. The sound alone settled over him like a warm hand against a frostbitten heart.
The gentle rhythm of his breathing. The rustle of robes. The quiet, patient presence beside him. The knowledge that he was not alone. That someone had stayed. That someone had watched over him while he slept.
And yet, it hurt.
It hurt because he had missed it. Missed the weight of comfort. Missed the chance to press close and whisper his own trembling truths. Missed the chance to let himself be weak, to let himself lean, to let himself feel entirely safe. He had been held, and he had not even known it.
Tears prickled, unbidden, at the corners of his eyes. He did not dare move, did not dare disturb the fragile, aching peace. He let the sound wash over him, the subtle cadence of a voice that belonged only to him. The Exarch’s presence was a lifeline, a tether to a world that could otherwise shatter in the weight of his fear and grief.
And somewhere deep in him, behind the exhaustion, the ache, the regret, a fragile, trembling thread of hope unfurled. He belonged here. He belonged to this quiet, unbearable, beautiful presence. He belonged, even if only in these stolen moments, in this whispered sanctuary of the night.
Tonight, just like this, he allowed this closeness. It wasn't what he truly wanted, but it was good enough.
Good enough.
He tried to convince himself that, indeed, that was good enough.
He closed his eyes, letting himself fall, letting himself ache, letting himself cry, quietly, silently, in the comfort of a love so fierce, so impossible, it left him breathless.
✹
⋆ ☆
"Let us cling to hope for a gentler tomorrow.
I long for the chance to fall asleep in your arms once more,
to hold you close, to keep you warm,
to cradle you through your dreams, and to kiss you when you awaken."
—Rhys
☆ ⋆
The Exarch folded the parchment, placing it carefully within the pages of his book, a quiet weight of sorrow settling over him.
Rhys lay there beside him, asleep, yet clinging to the proximity they shared. Despite everything they had said, he would inevitably shatter that fragile heart soon.
His Warrior of Darkness had become far too attached, and the Exarch had been too weak to push him away. Now, it was too late to hide his own feelings. All he could hope was that Rhys would believe his lies when the time came.
His throat tightened. He traced a hand along Rhys’s back, feeling the faint, rhythmic rumble of his sleep.
Gently, he lifted him, careful not to disturb the balance, and carried him upstairs to his bed. Rhys’s eyes opened as his back met the covers, pupils widening as he gripped the front of the Exarch’s robes, startled, searching for understanding.
“It’s all right,” he whispered, voice low and steady. “You looked very uncomfortable downstairs.”
The Exarch caught sight of those golden eyes, shimmering with something he could not deny—love, raw and unwavering, for him alone. For a moment, he faltered, unable to mask the torrent of emotion welling inside.
They are so beautiful, he thought, so full of affection, and they are mine, even if only for a moment.
“Sleep well, Rhys,” he murmured, every word a careful exercise in restraint, every fiber of him wanting to brush a kiss across his forehead, a cheek, an ear, the lips he longed to taste again.
He pressed his hands gently over Rhys’s, inviting him to release the grip.
But Rhys’s fingers clung tighter, startled by the sudden nearness, and the Exarch cursed himself for not finding the right words. “She is watching, tonight,” he whispered, a sharp reminder of propriety that nonetheless jolted Rhys into letting go.
His hands loosened, the backs of his fingers grazing the Exarch’s palms one last time before he finally released them completely.
And still, the weight of that small, fleeting touch lingered, a silent testament to everything left unsaid.
_______________
Notes:
I wanted to cut this chapter in half, but I choose to keep everything together because I don't like cliffhangers.
I know it's a thing authors do, to keep the readers on edge, but it's just not me ฅ≽^•⩊•^≼ฅ--
About the whispering and the voices.
I'm a bit late to explain, but now is the right moment: I always imagined it while playing the MSQ for the first time: that we could hear the remnants of the previous Lightwardens that were now stuck inside of us. That they could alter our judgment, and bring out our worse.
Not unlike the way Fray puts our nose in our own bullshit, if you did the DRK questline.
But here with the sin eaters, it would be focused on our 'sins'. For Rhys I imagine it to be linked to his thirst for power, of destruction, that leaded him toward the Black magic. And of course, some darker aspects of his life, like his aversion to show weakness, or the frustration and the ache of being parted from the one he truly desire.
It can be seen as a bit fucked up, but I really like to think this way. They are sin eaters. They want to make him his, to carry their legacy of destruction ! At first I wasn't sure it was a good idea to make the Light 'talk' through him, but I really liked it. It's twisted and wrong.
My boy is tormented because of the Light, and I know it's frustrating to see him take the worse decisions sometimes. He's trying to figure things out, to just take one step after one other.
I wanted to make it feel real. Make him feel human, with all the missteps, the awkwardness and fragility that results. But I guess if you're still reading, by chapter 11, with all his antics, you're pretty ok with that. I hope !--
Aaaaand anyways, as always I am sorry for the brutal chapter.
I hate writing our dear Exarch in such pain. He already suffered so much.
I'll prolly go to Hell. But at least Hades will welcome me like a beloved guestIf some of you want to chat, you can find me Here. Or on discord, eventually ! But I fear you won't fully understand what I'm saying because my french accent is quite something
See you next week for the new chapter !
Chapter 12: Indulgence
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Rhys woke in the middle of the night, unable to find sleep. He had spent nearly the entire day in slumber, yet now his body felt wide awake. He turned restlessly beneath the sheets for a while, until it struck him—he was in the Tower, not in his suite at the Pendants.
The faint, cold scent of crystal hung in the air. He breathed it in, then infused the small shard with aether, its soft glow illuminating part of the room. That was when his eyes fell on a folded slip of paper resting atop the bed. His ears pricked instinctively, apprehension flickering through him.
He unfolded it.
⋆ ☆
"I had dearly wished to remain at your side tonight.
Alas, circumstances would not allow it.
May the morning find you well.
A kiss from me,"
—E.
☆ ⋆
Oh.
Heat surged across his cheeks without warning. They had kissed before—he knew his touch, his warmth—but to see it written, so tender and deliberate, stirred something altogether different. He closed his eyes, recalling the kisses they had shared that morning in this very room. This very bed. So gentle, so sweet… yet burning with a quiet fire.
The chemistry between them was undeniable.
He rose quickly, forcing himself not to linger on such thoughts. Otherwise, he would drive himself completely mad—and he had little intention of asking Emet to take him into the woods at this hour. He could already picture the amused smile the other would give him.
He pushed his thoughts elsewhere. To something he needed to do, though he wasn’t even certain what day it was. He had lost all track of time.
The realization chilled him instantly.
-
He ran a hand through his hair, glancing around. He grabbed the crystal, two blankets, and his cloak, folding the cloak roughly before teleporting to the Tower’s hall. At this hour, he was hardly likely to be interrupted—neither by the guard, nor by Lyna should she decide to arrive. Unless, of course, some disaster struck, which he was absolutely determined to avoid.
Since arriving in this reflection, he had not paused to truly take in the Tower’s entrance hall. Memories of this place had begun to mend, yet the faint ache lingered, a subtle sting beneath his skin.
He laid the bundle of blankets in the center of the hall and draped his cloak over his shoulders, cocooning himself against the sharp chill. The air bit, clean, and the silence pressed in around him.
The water columns on either side whispered in soft, steady murmurs, leaving the stillness unbroken. He lifted his gaze to the stairs, climbing, climbing, impossibly high. He wandered forward with heavy steps, trailing his hand along the gilded doors of colossal scale.
“I love you.”
A wistful smile touched his lips. He missed his friend—truly, deeply. He gazed at the spot where they had stood five years ago. It felt as if it had only been yesterday. He remembered every detail—his face, the color of his eyes, the softness of his fur, the warmth of his skin. His voice was beginning to fade in memory, retrievable only if he focused, recalling the cadence of his words, the subtle rises and falls of his tone.
He unfolded the two blankets just enough to sit upon them, wrapping his cloak tightly around himself. The floor was sharp with cold, as if it might pierce the layers of fabric.
"Hey, you brat," he greeted to the stillness.
His hand drifted to his left ear, tracing the mark there. The scar had healed quickly, yet he remembered the bitterness of those first days, when he touched it and felt nothing—the sting, the faint ache—all gone, leaving only memory.
“I’m sorry… I don’t know if I’m late this year or not,” he murmured, his voice carrying in the quiet. “I’m not at home. I’m far from you. And yet… somehow, being here, I feel closer to you. I’ll bring you your gift when I return.”
It had become a quiet ritual, every year: slipping through the labyrinth to stand against the Tower’s doors, speaking to him, recounting his adventures, offering memories in return. Even now, the habit felt like a bridge—small, fragile, but enough to make the distance between them almost bearable.
“This year has been… trying,” he said softly. “I went to a new continent—Othard. We fought a fierce war there, faced enemies with no mercy.” He stretched the blankets, curling onto his side, wrapping his tail around himself as he settled in. “You would have loved it, I’m sure of it. There’s a place called the Azim Steppe—endless, green plains, absolutely breathtaking.”
He paused, chasing back the tears that threatened to fall. He never let himself cry when he came here, when he spoke to him. These moments were meant to be shared in warmth and quiet joy, though sometimes the effort felt almost impossible.
“I lost so many companions there… but we prevailed. And it was beautiful, seeing people finally taste freedom after such oppression. There’s someone there you would have liked—Lord Hien. A bit of a hothead, like you. We shared a lot of good times; he’s a true friend. I hope… I hope you might meet him one day.”
A small, wistful smile crossed his face as he remembered their escapades across the Steppes with Sadu and Magnai. Yes, G’raha would have loved to see the fights. Maybe even join in. Perhaps… one day.
“So much has happened. We had talked about traveling to other continents, but we could never have imagined the wonders the universe holds. I’m… on another reflection now.” Saying it aloud felt strange, almost unreal. He couldn’t quite believe it himself—the story of the original primals, the sheer scale of it all.
“This world is drenched in light. They’ve faced something terrible, tragic. I was summoned here to help… but I don’t know if the path I’ve taken is the right one.” He curled his tail around himself, fluffing the fur at its tip with a nervous hand. “I’m afraid… afraid I might lose my life here. Lose everything I hold dear—my friends, all who rely on me… even the chance to see you again.”
He pulled the cloak further over his head, cocooning himself as best he could. The tips of his ears were painfully cold, but he barely noticed.
“I think… I’ve become friends with an Ascian, though I can’t admit it, not to myself, not to anyone.” A hollow ache gnawed at him. “And I’ve met someone here… someone who keeps his past hidden—I don’t even know his true name. But he is so much like you… and yet, being close to him makes me feel like I’m betraying you, in some small, terrible way.”
He let the words hang in the silence, his heart heavy, wishing G’raha could hear him—not as a report of events, but as a confession of longing, of fear, and of a closeness he could barely name.
He wasn’t entirely certain of his feelings toward G’raha, not really. He had been attracted, yes, even intensely curious. They had shared countless moments of complicity, had been true friends.
Like brothers, in a way—but with something more. Something forbidden, something he had never dared to explore. The morning they had marked each other, his heart had broken, yes—but was it because of the marking, or because he was about to lose a friend so dear?
Or was it simply because he loved him and had been far too slow to realize it?
He would never have the answer to that question. He loved him, yes. He cherished him. Adored him. He did not deceive himself—G’raha was a friend very dear to his heart.
His feelings had been a tumultuous mess, and he remained uncertain. He wondered, if the opportunity ever arose, whom he would choose—him or the Exarch. And with horror, he realized he did not know the answer. Despite his instincts, wild and insistent, whispering clearly who he would choose, his reason whispered something else entirely, and the contradiction was maddening.
Sometimes he felt as if he were betraying the memory of his friend when he thought of the Exarch in such a way. Yet, in some sense, nothing had ever been decided between them in the past. They had marked each other, yes—but for a secondary purpose. They had kissed, yes. The Seeker may have spoken those words before sealing the Tower—but perhaps they had been meant in friendship, in a brotherly way.
Perhaps G’raha had always felt something for him, and had recognized it, embraced it far more quickly.
He might never know the answer to that either.
All of this had not stopped Rhys from moving forward in the years that followed. He had never fallen in love. He had countless adventures, but none accompanied by feelings remotely resembling love. He had never cherished anyone else as he had G’raha. Yet this had not prevented him from pressing onward—painfully, yes, but onward. He had not remained trapped in his past, tethered to a memory or an endless string of “what ifs.” They had promised to find each other again upon his awakening, if the Gods willed it—but nothing had been planned beyond that. He wanted, sincerely, nothing more than to see his friend once again.
“When I spend time with him,” he admitted aloud, closing his eyes and smiling, “sometimes it feels like being with you.”
It was selfish, perhaps unfair to say, but it made him appreciate the other even more. “I know you’d like him too."
-
Later that night, he finally rose from the floor, where he was curled in the blankets. Stretching to ease his sore limbs, he let out a low growl as he gathered the linens with him. Whithout second thinking, he teleported swiftly to the Ocular.
The door stood open, and there was the Exarch, in his usual place despite the late—or early—hour. Seated in his chair, reading quietly, the orange quilt draped over his crossed legs—just as he had been earlier that evening.
“My lord?” Rhys called, stepping into the circular room. The Exarch turned his head toward him, lips parted in mild surprise.
“Is something troubling you, my friend?” he asked, marking his page before closing the book.
A sudden wave of self-consciousness swept over Rhys.
Why had he come here? He shouldn’t be here. He should stay away.
“Everything's fine,” he said, lowering his head. “I’ll see Emet later,” he added, letting the words slip free. “I won’t do anything reckless—not in my state. I just wanted to let you know we’ll leave in the late morning.” He felt compelled to speak the truth, to prevent misunderstandings. “You can use the mirror if you wish to reassure yourself.”
The Exarch rose, setting the quilt and book gently on the chair.
“Thank you for letting me know,” he said, his deep voice calm, comforting as ever. “Take care of yourself… and have fun, I suppose?” A faint smile touched his lips, neither judgmental nor dismissive.
Rhys nodded, untangling his blankets to hand him the cloak. “I’ll leave all this upstairs,” he said, “and return to finish the night at the Pendants—if I can find sleep.” His gaze dropped to the orange sheet resting on the chair, and the Exarch smiled again.
“There you go,” he said softly, offering it to him.
Rhys was flustered by the simple gesture—the quiet, effortless understanding between them.
“Enjoy your night as well,” he whispered, finally leaving the room.
☾
Emet was in a playful mood today. He had appeared when Rhys called, but pouted at the sight of his rapier, and the fact that he was clearly unwilling to fight.
They wandered along the beaches of Kholusia, through the half-carved caves. There were few places here where the Ascian could feel at ease—the space so open, the light so harsh.
At Rhys’ request, Emet spoke vaguely of the Originials and the Convocation of the Fourteen, and he listened with rapt attention. He had always been curious about the Ascians—these enemies so easily cast as villains.
Lahabrea had done nothing to soften that perception; the man was pure madness, pure despair, Rhys realized slowly. And Emet… he too carried his own quiet tragedy. They were all tragic, each in their own way.
Rhys stole a glance at the Ascian, slouched as ever, as though bearing the weight of countless worlds upon his shoulders. And yet there was that faint, perpetual smile. The way he spoke of friends long gone from this world. And still, here they were—two souls with irreconcilable goals, yet spending time together, learning one another, uncovering motivations. Rhys knew that no matter what Emet said, the Scions would never join his cause. They would never allow the Scourge of Light swallow the First.
Emet’s melancholy was palpable, and Rhys shifted the conversation. Something about him broke his heart in ways he couldn’t fully grasp. Like with the Exarch, there was an uncanny closeness, almost warmth—friendship in the face of enmity. It was entirely bewildering.
“You’re a Black Mage, Emet, right?” he asked suddenly. The Ascian’s lips curved into a sharp, mischievous smile.
“Certainly the finest, the oldest that exists across all the Shards.”
“Do you know a spell that could extend one’s lifespan?” Rhys asked innocently, not expecting to draw Emet’s ire. He watched the Ascian freeze mid-step, lowering a look of sheer disgust onto him.
“You want to live longer? To continue putting obstacles in my way, making my life miserable for hundreds of years?” His expression remained tightly shut, but his tone carried a teasing edge. “I wish no one a longer life. I will not answer that question.” He resumed walking, leaving the Miqo’te behind, who had to run to keep up. Emet’s legs were so long; he moved far faster than Rhys could.
“But… is it even possible?” Rhys pressed. The look he received in reply said everything.
“To see all those you cherish die one by one, to be the sole survivor—take it from my experience, the solitude this path brings is no blessing.” The weight on Emet’s shoulders seemed heavier than ever. “You risk going mad along the way, before ever reaching your goal.”
Rhys thought of his Exarch, struggling here for a century, with no confidant. Who had shared the depths of his own trials, the edge of the madness he had narrowly escaped. Could he, Rhys, truly be strong enough? Would his shoulders bear the weight of watching all his friends vanish, being the sole heir at the end of it all, after countless years? Starting over with new Scions, continuing the wars, fighting injustice? Would it all ultimately be worth it?
He did not want to dwell on such questions. For five years, he had set a singular goal: to live long enough to see his friend again. Even if it meant waiting centuries, it had seemed achievable. But hearing the testimonies of those who had completed this path, the road appeared truly treacherous.
Emet noticed his silence and chose not to press, nor ask why he had posed the question, nor probe his motivations. The Keeper's suffering was clear, and he doubted he would reveal the truth. He called him by name, and with a faint flourish, made his staff appear before Rhys’ astonished eyes.
“Do you want a duel, Rhys?”
And Rhys was completely taken aback.
“I don’t stand a chance against you! Red magic won’t do a thing, Emet!” He shook his head, muttering curses under his breath.
Emet, utterly unbothered, produced another staff—slightly smaller, but just as lethal-looking—and tossed it toward him. Rhys caught it with a gasp. A faint, wild smile tugged at his lips as he took a step back, keeping his distance.
“Not here. We’d risk drawing the Eulmorians’ attention—and blowing everything to bits, this close to the shore,” he said, eyes narrowing.
Emet laughed, low and rich. “Always practical. Very well… then choose your battlefield.”
Rhys hesitated, eyeing the staff in his hands. “I… suppose anywhere but near the shore is fine. But don’t expect me to go easy!”
“Expect nothing,” Emet replied with a sly grin. “You’ll find that your stubbornness is your only weapon.”
Rhys hesitated for a moment, then nodded. Within seconds, they were teleported to the Crystarium, appearing before Alisaie.
She stifled a gasp as dark vortexes spiraled around them, and Rhys shot her a devilish grin. “Want to watch the fight? He challenged me, and I’m pretty sure I’m about to get flattened. You’ll enjoy the show.”
“The fight… really?” She glanced at him, her smile wary but amused, then looked up at the Ascian—towering nearly three times her height—judging whether she dared spend any time near him.
-
Rhys managed to hold his ground—more or less. But Emet was truly one with his destructive magic, moving with such effortless precision that it felt almost unfair. And for what it was worth, Rhys lacked the black robes, the crystals, the runes that would have made combat easier. He was in his red attire and cursed himself for it.
The final blaze that struck threatened to singe the fur on his ears, while Alisaie doubled over, laughing freely.
She challenged the Ascian herself, and Rhys could clearly see that Emet was holding back against her. But she was too furious to care; she lunged at him, shrieking in frustration, tumbling repeatedly across the mauve flowered ground of Lakeland.
“Rhys! Give him your rapier! Let’s make this a fair duel!”
Rhys wasn't sure it was a good idea, but he saw Emet vanish his staff and extend a hand toward him. Was he… practicing Red Magic?
He passed the weapon over, hesitantly, and Emet examined it carefully.
“I don’t know how to use this,” he said with a shrug. Rhys hesitated again before handing over his red crystal as well. Emet took it, focusing intently for several minutes.
He rose a brow toward Alisaie. “Show me, then, little one.”
The Ascian's combat stance was perfect—and for the first time, Rhys saw him stand fully upright, commanding the space around him.
Alisaie charged, and he easily sidestepped, eyes fixed on the weapon, trying to understand how to channel his aether into it. He studied Red Magic on the fly, dodging Alisaie, experimenting with spells.
Then he seemed to grasp it fully, unleashing hell once more—but this time with Red Magic. He teleported toward the young Elezen, making her vanish with him, only to reappear a short distance away.
Good heavens. He had almost killed Alisaie. As easily as that. And he had instinctively saved her.
Rhys felt a wave of terror and rushed to call an end to the session.
He ran toward them, who had reappeared a little farther on, only to hear Alisaie laughing uproariously at Emet’s discomposed expression.
“Teach me that! How did you make it so strong?” she demanded. Emet simply shrugged, calm as ever, a faint smirk on his lips.
“You’re the professional here,” he said, handing the weapon back to Rhys, who quickly stowed it at his side, retrieving his crystal as well.
“Talent, certainly. I’ve had a natural affinity for magic… for millennia.” Emet crouched to her level, studying her intently. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. One day, you’ll surpass him.” His yellow eyes flicked toward Rhys, and he knew immediately he had just created a serious problem—Alisaie would be training harder than ever from now on.
Emet straightened, a crooked smile twisting his lips. “Size-wise, at least, that’s already certain.”
Rhys felt his ears flatten back in indignation. Commenting on his height was unfair. “Oh, you fucker! ” he roared, tail fluffed, straight behind him. "Size, really ? you damned Asci—"
“Of course,” Emet replied with mock innocence, teleporting to flick his forehead, “It’s the first rule of magic duels : annoy your opponent any way you can.”
Rhys growled and charged, teeth gritted. “Size or not, I’ll–”
“–Try not to embarrass yourself too badly,” Emet interrupted, sidestepping effortlessly, his grin never fading.
☾
Rhys was utterly spent by the time he reached his suite in the Tower that evening. Alisaie was probably in a similar state—they had gone at it for quite some time, trading challenges, swapping weapons, breaking their own black and white balance to make things harder.
He opened the door to the still-dark room and immediately lit it with his crystal, the soft glow filling every corner.
“Oh.”
On his bed lay a tray, laden with a basket of sandwiches and a carafe of water. And a small note.
He loved his notes. He hurriedly pulled off his gloves and picked it up to read.
⋆ ☆
“Something to sate you a bit upon your return.
I hope the outing did you some good.
Have a pleasant evening.”
—E.
☆ ⋆
The Exarch knew he would come back for a wash before heading to the Pendants.
Placing a gentle kiss on the note, Rhys folded it carefully and tucked it away in his wooden box, safely with the others.
After washing and eating, Rhys stepped out of his room—and realized he hadn’t returned his orange sheet that evening.
He frowned, trying to remember if he had brought it here that morning. He wasn’t sure. The night and day were blurred since he'd fainted.
With a quiet sigh, he teleported to the floor below. The door was closed, and voices filtered through: Lyna, Glynard, Moren, and others. Ah—so they were holding a meeting, even this late into the evening.
He returned to his suite at the Pendants and found the throw exactly where he had left it, on his bed.
Of course.
He picked it up and inhaled lightly; the scent on it was faint but unmistakably familiar. He didn’t bother turning off the light, undressing and trying to settle down despite the fatigue. The day had been long and exhausting in his state, but at least he had managed to clear his mind for a little while.
☾
The following afternoon, Rhys finally found the Exarch in the Ocular, the door having been left open.
He was at his desk, still buried in papers. He looked up as his friend approached, gesturing for him to sit. Rhys shook his head, feeling a twinge of guilt at disturbing him.
“Could you open the library door downstairs for me, please?” he asked.
The smile that greeted him was serene.
“Of course,” the Exarch said. “You go ahead; I’ll catch up with you in a moment.”
-
The Exarch appeared in a flash of blue light at the door just seconds after Rhys arrived. He froze, stunned, watching the mage materialize from seemingly nowhere, then blinked as he unlocked the entrance with a spell before stepping inside.
A flame leapt from the Exarch’s outstretched hand and settled in the fireplace at the far end of the triangular room. Rhys trotted over, positioning himself in front of it, letting the heat seep into his chilled body.
"Thank you," he said, his face warmed by the flame.
Behind him, he heard the Exarch placing objects on the small table, before suddenly feeling a blanket drape over him. He lowered his head, hands clutching a thick, blood-red throw. It was the first time he’d seen it.
Could it be…?
He brought it to his nose and almost toppled over, sneezing violently three times in rapid succession.
Yes. The scent was everywhere.
He must sleep with it often, he realized.
Sleeping without the hood on, the fur pressed into the fabric. His eyes watered from the sharp allergy, and he wiped them with the back of his hand before turning toward his host, who was seated on one of the sofas, arranging papers, ink, and books neatly on the flat surface. Oh. He was going to work here, stay here with him.
Rhys hugged the throw tighter around himself before rising, heading toward the shelves the Exarch had shown him last time—the ones reserved for magic.
Curious, he began to examine what the Allagans had written on the subject. He took his time selecting two volumes, translated by the Exarch himself, and a third on white magic. Since red magic was a balance between black and white, he was eager to see what had been said about it as well.
He settled on the other sofa, arranging the cushions on one side to create a comfortable reading nook. Looking up, he met his friend’s encouraging smile. He looked… utterly endearing.
“Thanks for staying with me,” Rhys said with a playful wink, prompting the Exarch to lower his head ever so slightly. Rhys slipped off his boots and curled up against the cushions, tucking himself snugly into the blanket before opening his book.
-
They remained in comfortable silence for a long while, one reading, the other working.
“My lord?” Rhys spoke suddenly, eyes still fixed on his pages. He heard a soft sound in response, a small acknowledgment that he was being listened to.
“Would you teach me the basics of white magic, one of these days?” he asked, genuinely curious. He had picked up that book first, before the volumes on occult arts.
“Of course, if you wish,” the Exarch replied, his voice gentle, drawing Rhys’ gaze toward him. “I am by no means the best in this discipline, but I will do my utmost to guide you.” Rhys noticed the way the Exarch’s crystal arm caught the firelight from the hearth, shimmering softly.
“I could show you the rudiments of red magic in return, if you would like,” Rhys said with a small smile, picturing him wielding a rapier. Standing as straight and commanding as Emet had yesterday, the image set his mind alight. A sudden flush warmed him at the thought of the Exarch in his own crimson robes, so close to the body, and he carefully untangled himself from the blanket.
“I am far too old to practice red magic; I might break a bone or two,” the Exarch said with a soft chuckle, and Rhys reminded himself that, yes, he was old—even if he scarcely seemed it.
“This will be an excellent chance to test my full-power healing magic,” he added, rising and stretching, taking a few measured steps in front of the fireplace.
Rhys wanted to bring up a certain subject, though he hesitated, unsure how to approach it.
As usual, he chose not to beat around the bush. Sliding onto the plush rug near the table, turning toward the Exarch, he said plainly, “There is something important I would like to tell you.”
The Exarch set down his quill, lifting his head and folding his hands. Waiting for him to continue.
"The last few days, I've been reckless," he confessed. "I almost broke my oath. And as you must have noticed, even right now, I already take far too many liberties."
He dropped the bomb.
“I think… I’m going to reconsider my choice, and retract my oath.” Rhys spoke bluntly. “I know it’s unfair… to all the suffering that’s fallen upon us.” His gaze remained fixed on the Exarch. “You, me… my friends. Especially my friends, who’ve had to endure my instability.”
The Exarch listened carefully, his half-shaded face revealing nothing of judgment. “It was indeed a severe trial for everyone,” he said at last, noting the pause as Rhys waited for his response. Silence stretched between them. “What would be the consequences of retracting an oath in your culture?”
Rhys stretched his legs forward, rubbing his sore thighs. “A retracted oath is far less harshly punished than a broken one.”
“You did it because you lacked confidence, because you did not trust yourself. Has something changed since then?” The Exarch’s voice was calm, steady. Whatever his own opinion—whether the choice was wise or reckless—he left the decision entirely to Rhys, offering neither guidance nor judgment.
Rhys thought back to Emet’s words about solitude, feeling the weight of something monumental pressing on him.
Something immense, dangerous, was coming in the days ahead. He knew there would be consequences. He was almost certain he would not survive the trial.
A quiet laugh escaped him. “Everything has changed,” he said, recalling the trials they had endured. “And at some point, it’s better to retract an oath before breaking it completely. I will do nothing beyond what we already do—I will not tempt fate.”
The Exarch nodded in quiet acknowledgment.
“I would have told you to take your time to consider it,” he said, “but… you will likely leave for Kholusia soon. I do not wish your mind to be burdened before the battles ahead.”
Rhys dropped the second weight from his chest, allowing himself to be vulnerable. The Exarch never judged him.
“I am terrified of facing the last Lightwarden,” he admitted, head bowed. “If anything were to happen… I would want to hold you one last time. To kiss you, one last time. To dare speak certain words—very selfish words. All without guilt, because I would have retracted the oath just before my death.”
A heavy silence followed his confession.
Then the Exarch rose, the soft rustle of his robes marking his movement, and stepped toward him.
Lowering himself to one knee, he placed a hand gently on Rhys’ head, between the ears. “I cannot make this decision for you, Rhysard.”
Rhys closed his eyes, inhaling his scent, so close.
“But please… do not take back your oath for my sake.”
The chill of his hand against the base of his ear sent shivers through him. “I miss you,” he whispered, softly, yet with remarkable composure.
“I am right here, with you,” the Exarch replied, rubbing his fingers tenderly along his ear.
“I know,” Rhys murmured, keeping his head lowered.
The Exarch nodded and rose. “Do what you feel is right.” He extended a hand, which Rhys took to rise as well. They were both turning their faces away from each other.
“Resume your reading, Rhysard. And if any questions arise, do not hesitate, all right?”
Rhys nodded in turn, settling back on the divan and curling up once more in the warm blanket.
-
Later, that evening.
His room at the Pendants was hushed, the lanternlight dim, the rain’s murmur seeping faintly through the shutters.
Rhys sat at the little desk in his suite, elbows braced against the wood, hands tangled in his auburn hair.
He had sworn. He had promised.
Distance. Restraint. Control — an oath he had clung to as though it were a lifeline.
And yet, the thought gnawed at him, unrelenting: what if something happened? What if the chance to speak, to confess the obvious, slipped from him forever?
The words left him in a whisper, almost too soft to hear. “I can’t keep it. Not like this. If anything happens, I want—” His throat closed around the rest. He pressed a hand to his forehead, trembling. “I want the right to hold him. To tell him what he means to me, even if he already knows.”
He shut his eyes tight, forcing breath past the ache in his chest.
The oath had been meant to shield them both, to guard against temptation and ruin. But what shield would it be if it stole from him the chance to give love, if fate struck too soon?
“I retract it,” he said, stronger this time, the words firm though his voice shook. “Not to betray him. Not to dishonor him. But because… if I lose him before I’ve spoken, before I’ve held him one last time—” His shoulders shook, and he bowed his head. “I could never forgive myself.”
He let his hand fall against the desk, fingers spread, grounding himself against the grain of the wood.
“I love you,” he breathed into the quiet, into the shadows and the silence. “And if the moment comes, I’ll tell you. I won’t let fate steal that from us.”
Even if that would only last a few moments, he just wanted to be his, fully.
The room held his wish, the rain and the moon bearing witness beyond the window.
Alone, Rhys lifted his gaze skyward, unaware that the time he feared losing was already burning away, faster than either of them could grasp.
☾
The next morning, Rhys peeked into the open door of the Ocular, his cape in hand. He hadn’t brought it yesterday either, he didn't dare walking outside, under the moonlight. Shame was hard and unyielding.
The room was empty, the mirror showing Eulmore from a distance. He stepped forward, easing the folds of his red attire, his boots clicking against the floor.
Climbing the small steps, he studied the scene intently. He had no idea how the mirror worked, or how it granted access to such visions. Allagan magic had repeatedly proven itself... peculiar.
His ears twitched at a sound behind him, and in the next instant, the Exarch appeared at his side, also facing the mirror.
His tone was serious and betrayed a deep exhaustion. “The situation in Eulmore is dire. We will need to intervene very soon before another attack occurs.”
Ah.
“I am ready to go. I feel no discomfort, no pain,” Rhys replied, turning slightly to meet him.
Him.
The man he loved so deeply. The man who was so wise. The man who was always so gentle.
The man who nodded at his words, turning toward him—and just smiled.
"How are you, my friend?" he asked.
Rhys knew he wasn't talking about the light.
"I'm fine," he answered, lips parting in shock as the Exarch extended his arms, awkwardly but unmistakably, in a silent invitation.
Rhys inhaled sharply, ears flattening back, eyes growing wide.
Dear gods. He's proposing a hug.
He was taken aback.
Utterly.
But he took one hesitant step forward. And slowly, he laid his hands on the mage’s chest, fingertips brushing the pale blue crystals decorating his robe.
He lifted his gaze to look at him, and the coy smile that stretched the Exarch's lips warmed his soul.
Leaning in, face pressed against his neck, Rhys inhaled deeply as he hugged him around the waist with cautious hands.
The feeling of having him in his arms was everything.
But he didn't dare squeezing too much.
Didn't dare wanting too much.
Because they already walked this road, and it was a slippery one.
He felt the Exarch’s arms slide over his shoulders, drawing him close, holding him gently against his heart.
Tail swishing in pure contentment, Rhys closed his eyes against him, letting go of his fears.
The Exarch was so cold. But his hugs were so warm. He was so perfect.
A broken mewl escaped Rhys as he fully savored the embrace—his comforting scent, his reassuring presence. After all those weeks without barely single contact, it felt like being offered a huge glass of water after crossing the desert.
I missed you like crazy. He did not dare speak the words aloud this time.
The Exarch shifted them slightly so Rhys could glance at the mirror from the corner of his eye, then rested his cheek atop the Keeper’s head, smoothing his back in tender touches. He lifted a hand, extending it before the mirror, and the image shifted: Sin eaters scattered across the land, far from the villages.
None of them did talk. They stayed here a little while, fully enjoying each other's embrace in the quiet.
The Exarch scrolled through several perspectives, showing Rhys the full extent of the area.
“Can you see anything you want from the mirror?” he finally asked.
He rarely asked questions, telling himself the answer would likely remain unspoken.
He felt a thumb absentmindedly caress the skin of his neck. “More or less, yes. Weather permitting as well,” came the quiet reply.
“Can you see the Source from here?” he went on curiosity opening the door.
“I cannot, unfortunately.”
“Oh.” Rhys paused a few seconds before venturing, “I’ve never asked you… but how did you find me? You knew my name.”
A soft, low laugh rumbled against his cheek, and he couldn’t help himself—he nuzzled closer. His ears tucked under the Exarch’s chin, tickling gently while spreading his scent across his skin.
Gods, I love it when you hold me like this.
I love your laugh.
I love being the reason you smile.
You are so kind. I don't deserve you the slighest, but I'm glad you want me as much as I want you.
He was overwhelmed by the love he felt toward this man.
Here, in his arms, he belonged.
So lost in this tender moment, he almost forgot his own question. But then, he heared the Exarch's voice above him. So close.
“After more than a month here, you only ask me now?” he said, amused. “The Tower was not the only artifact I brought into this World. I also retrieved books recounting the deeds of the Warrior of Light from the Source.” He brushed Rhys’s hair at the back of his head before putting his hands on his shoulders, easing slightly away. “Your deeds.”
Rhys was utterly stunned. “And you… you managed to find me,” he whispered, incredulous. “To bring me here.”
“It was no simple matter. The magic I wield can be quite cunning.” A quiet sigh followed.
Rhys turned fully to the mirror. The crystalline hand shifted the reflected images again. Lakeland.
“I monitor the flow of time. You should be able to return home soon, once everything is concluded,” the Exarch continued.
Once everything is concluded.
Rhys shivered slightly, a deep unease curling in his chest. The premonition was bad—he could feel it.
“My lord.” Rhys turned to face him again. “Thank you for the hug,” he said, stepping back reluctantly. “It’s such a joy to share these embraces again, in the morning,” he admitted, lowering his gaze. If he looked any closer, he knew he’d melt back into the warmth of those cool arms.
“The pleasure is mutual,” he said softly, his deep voice gentle and steady. Rhys could hear the smile in his words. “Are you certain there’s no lingering trace of the Light within you?” the Exarch asked, motioning for him to sit by the desk. He took the stool himself, leaving the chair for Rhys.
“I feel nothing. I don't even see the speck anymore when I blink. And," he let out a sigh as well, sitting. "We cannot afford to waste any more time." Turning slightly, he kept watching the mirror from his seat. “Please let me know as soon as we have a departure date.”
The Exarch nodded, turning to the mirror as well. Then he retrieved the cape Rhys had left folded on the desk. “Thank you,” he said, a quiet, affectionate smile on his lips.
“I forgot to bring it yesterday. I was… distracted,” Rhys admitted, shame flickering across his face. “Retracting a vow is not a simple thing.”
“No harm done. Do not trouble yourself,” the Exarch replied, his voice warm and unwavering. “Tell me… how does it feel, having done so?”
He didn't expect the question. But, knowing the Exarch, of course he'd ask. A soft smile tugged Rhys' lips. G'raha and the Exarch were so similar.
He rested his chin on a fist. “About Menphina?” he shrugged. “I think I’ve already proven myself enough over the course of my life. My choices haven’t always been the best; I’ve made countless mistakes. We all do.”
He paused, noticing the Exarch nod in acknowledgment. “But I’ve grown from the experience. It wasn’t suffered in vain. Being kept away from you was a terrible trial… I would have preferred facing a primal. But I gained a certain control over myself. Sometimes it’s hard to keep my thoughts clear, but as long as I don’t let myself be carried away, everything feels manageable.”
He stopped, then continued, his voice lowering at the implication. “Menphina is the deity of the Moon… and of Love. If there’s any deity who could understand my choice and my motivations, it’s her. I was honest in my retraction. I fear nothing—I know she forgives me.”
A gentle silence fell. The Exarch showed no reaction, merely listening with the patience and warmth that always defined him.
Rhys straightened, then rested his head against the back of the chair, slumping slightly.
And dared to ask.
“Be honest with me, my lord. Do I disappoint you?”
The Exarch gave a small, measured movement back. “Disappoint me?", he seemed so confused that, if Rhys wasn't so on edge, he'd barked a laugh. "In what way?”
“By showing weakness like this. Again. Sometimes I feel as though I fail to live up to my own reputation.”
“You are…” The Exarch paused, choosing his words carefully. “No… you do not disappoint me. You are not weak, Rhysard. You are simply human.” He straightened on his stool, leaning slightly toward him. “You have needs, fears… hopes, dreams.” He extended his hand, and Rhys pressed his own against it. “I am here, right by your side. I am honored that you trust me enough to be vulnerable, to allow yourself to share your struggles and weaknesses.”
A faint smile curved his lips. “It may be the most selfish thing I’ve admitted in the past century,” he confessed with a small laugh. “But that is how I feel with you. Selfish. And you are the only one who will hear me confess it.”
Rhys was left speechless, at a loss for words.
“What you call weakness is actually strength. It takes courage to speak as you do. By admitting your faults, acknowledging your weaknesses, you open the path to growth. Look at me, Rhysard.” He gently lifted his chin, which had been bowed. “I am proud of you. Proud of who you are, of what you represent. Proud of what you've done on the First, so far. Especially with your weaknesses. Because no one is perfect.”
Oh, how he wanted to kiss him right now. This man always had the right words to appease his turmoil.
Rhys didn’t know what to say, knowing nothing he could offer would equal the weight of that praise. Instead of apologizing as he normally would, he chose what felt right.
“Thank you for accepting me as I am. You are far too good to me,” he murmured, restraining himself from collapsing under the intensity of such devotion. The Exarch had blind faith in him, and only now did he fully realize it.
“Thank you for not apologizing,” the Exarch replied, still smiling softly. “Had you done so… I would have kissed you.”
Rhys’ ears twitched before he realized, and he stammered. “I’m sor—” But he was pulled into another embrace, the Exarch’s deep, amused laugh filling the room. Rhys felt his shoulders shake against him and returned the hug, closing his eyes, completely overwhelmed by happiness and comfort at being held.
"My lord?", he asked, sitting upright, putting some distance between them again. "Yesterday I said I wouldn't do more than we were already doing. But I need to ask. Are hugs truly allowed, now?"
He was being a little shit, and he knew it. But something felt off about this situation. The Exarch was being surprisingly open despite everything that had happened between them.
The Exarch gave a faint nod.
With a silent gasp, Rhys didn't dare moove. He wanted to stay in his arms. Had longed for it the past few weeks.
But he didn't want to be too greedy.
It felt too soon to act like nothing had happened.
The desctructive sexual pull between them. The oath he'd sworn. The tears. The misery that followed.
But as always, the Exarch seemed to understand his thoughts. He just smiled at his flustered state, rising slowly from his seat.
“Would you like to take a walk before breakfast?” Rhys asked, rising aswell.
“I would have loved to, but I am expecting visitors soon. I prefer to remain within the Tower for the time being.”
Rhys nodded, guessing it was another of the Exarch’s many strategic meetings. “May I stay with you while you wait? I wanted to finish my reading,”
“Do you really need to ask?” the Exarch said, smiling. “Do you want to return to the library?”
-
They settled in as they had the day before, each on their own sofa, wrapped in the warmth and scent of their respective blankets and capes.
“Depending on what’s decided today, it’s very likely the expedition to Kholusia will be tomorrow—or the day after,” the Exarch said as they made themselves comfortable.
“Then let’s make the most of our day,” Rhys replied, leaning slightly toward him and offering a book. “Page 42. Would you read it to me?” He noticed that the Exarch hadn’t brought anything down today.
“Of course.” The Exarch took the book, adjusting the cushion behind his back. He glanced at Rhys again, then tapped the space beside him. “You may sit next to me, if you like.”
The invitation was almost magnetic. “I might want to cuddle if I sit there,” Rhys admitted, shifting to make himself comfortable in his spot.
And then—
The Exarch rested the book against his stomach. And, for the second time that day, opened his arms in a quiet, unmistakable invitation.
Rhys’s ears twitched, his heart catching.
He longs for my embrace, just as much I do.
He propped himself up on his forearms, staring at him, stunned. “Really?” he whispered. The Exarch simply nodded.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, the small voice returned, warning him, reminding him that this was unusual—that it shouldn’t feel so natural, so allowed. But just as Rhys had made his choice yesterday, perhaps the Exarch had reconsidered his own boundaries as well.
Still, he didn’t move. To be offered such closeness was almost terrifying after all the restrain.
The Exarch’s soft laugh reached him, low and amused. “If you feel shy, it’s alright. The offer still stands.” Reclining against the corner of the sofa, he draped his cape across his lap. “Page 42. How to distinguish power from quality.”
“Wait.” Rhys couldn’t even manage a full minute before speaking, caught between eagerness and restraint.
He pushed himself up and moved toward him, suddenly acutely aware of his own shyness. He wanted nothing more than to lie against him, but the thought of doing so outright made his chest tighten. He had worked so hard on his restrain, and being offered the chance to do as he please was frightening.
Instead, he lowered himself to the floor, settling onto the soft, plush rug between the sofa and the table. Seeing the Exarch’s startled expression made him laugh quietly. Leaning forward, he wrapped his arms around the man’s waist, gently urging him to part his legs just enough to make room, allowing them both to settle comfortably.
Oh, how he sighed, melting against him, letting the comfort of being pressed so close wash over him. The Exarch carefully pulled the red blanket up over his shoulders, draping it over Rhys’s back, then let a hand rest in his hair while the other kept hold of the book.
“I only agree because the rug is thick,” the Exarch said, his deep voice carrying a faint chuckle. “I’d say we’ve both made some real progress.”
“Yes,” Rhys murmured, nuzzling against him. “None of this has been wasted. I can mostly control myself… though sometimes it’s still difficult.” He pressed his face into the folds of the Exarch’s robes at his waist, inhaling the calm, familiar scent.
the Exarch brushed his fingers over Rhys’s visible ear, and Rhys purred, pressing a gentle kiss to the fabric, feeling a shiver of warmth creep through him. The Exarch’s crystalline fingers traced lazy patterns along his scalp, the touch both steady and tender.
“Your reading is… perfect,” Rhys whispered, closing his eyes, letting the words drift over him like a lullaby. The room felt safe, suspended, almost outside of time, as the Exarch’s calm voice carried through the quiet.
He couldn’t help but shift slightly, burrowing closer, resting a cheek against the Exarch’s side, fingers curling lightly around the fabric of his lower back, gripping the base of his concealed tail. A tiny smirk touched the Exarch’s lips as he noticed the claim, but said nothing, letting Rhys take comfort however he wished. The subtle warmth of their shared proximity, the faint scent of the Exarch lingering on his robes, made every small detail feel sacred, each heartbeat more meaningful than the last.
Rhys let himself relax completely, caught between sleep and wakefulness, between the lingering tension of the past days and the security of this quiet moment. The gentle, rhythmic rustle of pages, the soft press of hands and arms, it all wove together into a cocoon of trust and closeness—he was home here, in this space, with this man.
He belonged.
He was his safe place.
-
“Rhysard?” The Exarch interrupted his reading, his voice soft as he called his name.
“No,” Rhys murmured, holding him closer, unwilling to let go.
“No…?” the Exarch asked, tilting his head.
“You’re going to tell me your guests have arrived,” Rhys said, clasping his robes with both hands.
The Exarch set the book on the small table beside them, then extended his arms, lifting Rhys gently onto his lap. Rhys exhaled as his face brushed against the crystalline curve of the Exarch’s neck, wiggling slightly to find a more comfortable position. He slid a hand into the hood, caressing the nape of his neck. Oh—there was crystal there as well.
He felt the Exarch’s hand trail along his back, to the base of his tail, the touch light, delicate, chaste.
“Thank you for this moment of tenderness,” the Keeper whispered. “Truly, from the bottom of my heart.” He pressed his face into the Exarch’s neck again, letting his fingers graze the crystal, tracing lightly along the tied-up hair at the nape.
“I should be the one thanking you, to make such things possible,” the Exarch murmured, his voice brushing Rhys’s ear.
That whisper, ghosting across his skin, made Rhys’s heart stutter. His body followed faster than his will—heat coiling low, unbidden, urgent.
He was hard, instantly. Fuck. He shifted again, mortified, and, by the subtle twitch under him, realized with a jolt that he was not the only one.
The fragile restraint between them shuddered. The door to reckless desire remained locked, but the glowing claws of longing were already licking at the edges, reducing the latch to embers.
Lost in this quiet moment of intimacy they had both longed for and desperately needed, they managed—miraculously—to resist the fire that usually consumed them. To hold back. To savor the closeness without surrendering to it. This was a blessing. A rare, precious gift.
Rhys drew back with effort. “We should stop,” he said, kneeling away on the couch. A nervous laugh broke from him, his ears pinning low. “I’m not strong enough to sit on your lap and behave.”
The Exarch nodded, reaching out to help him down. "It was my mistake. I have been carried away."
Rhys wrapped his cloak about himself, careful not to tempt him further, before smirking, "we need a damned chaperone."
The Exarch shook his head, amused.
“Come,” Rhys coaxed, taking his hand and tugging gently. “I’ll see you upstairs.”
They made their way out of the calm room, the flame returning to the mage's core with a spell.
Rather than simply ascending in a blink, they chose to teleport to the floor just below the Ocular and take the stairs up—stealing a few more moments, just for themselves. Because they could.
“You know, my lord…” Rhys began, giving his hand a light tug. The coolness of his palm, the steady weight of his presence, was almost too much—his chest ached with the happiness of it, so sharp it felt like a wound.
The Exarch glanced down, a knowing smile already curving his lips. He was bracing himself—Rhys was about to talk nonsense.
“…I could always ask Y’shtola to chaperone us,” Rhys teased, mischief glinting in his eyes. “Oh wait, no. Best not. She’d probably chop your di—”
“Rhysard!” The plea rang sharp, scandalized, as the Exarch tugged firmly at his hand.
Rhys burst into laughter, the sound echoing up the crystal stairwell.
When he dared look at him again, he found the Exarch almost scowling—so uncharacteristic it sent him doubling over, clutching his knees with his free hand.
“Alright, alright, I won’t talk about your—”
He was cut off with a startled yelp as his foot slipped against a crystalline step. The Exarch caught him at once, an arm circling his waist, steadying him with quiet strength.
For a moment, words failed them both.
Rhys was pressed against him, the blanket slipping loose from his shoulders, gathering in the crook of the Exarch's arm, in his back.
“Be careful, kitten,” the Exarch murmured.
The word hung in the air like a forbidden charm.
Kitten.
Rhys opened wide eyes.
Flustered, he tugged the blanket back up, hiding himself beneath its folds as he took careful, deliberate steps forward.
When Alisaie called him this, it didn't threathen to make him fall on his knees.
Kitten.
He risked a peek behind his shoulder, and let out a pleased gasp seeing how the Exarch seemed distraught at this slip.
He was about to tease him about the pet name, when—
—the Exarch vanished.
He had teleported away.
He had fled.
Shock was followed by roaring laughter as Rhys sat on the cold steps, shaking his head, utterly amused.
Gods, he loved him. He loved him so much.
Notes:
Writting G'raha Tia as the Exarch is always a pleasure.
He is so kind, so gentle, he shatters my heart every single time I hear his voice. (Yes,I do Love Jonathan Bailey and I was absolutely not okay when I watched Anthony's season in Bridgerton. I was blushing like crazy, because daaaaaaamn his voice in some situations)-
Anyway ! Here is some fluff that our boys earned at last. The last chapters had been rough (and it's not over yet, be prepared for the last one that is to come).
Hope you're still enjoying the story, so far.
See you next time for the final chapter of Conceal from Moonlight!
Chapter 13: Hope, everlasting
Notes:
It is a long chapter, 16k words, so make yourself comfortable, take something warm to drink and enjoy!
It would feel cruel to split this one in two (like I almost did by accident while editing), so here you go !TW for blood !
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
________________
The evening passed quickly. The small party had gathered at the Stairs, dining together as usual. Y’shtola had returned to the Crystarium that morning, having spent the last two days among her own. The Exarch, however, was testing her patience more than ever—she trusted him not in the slightest.
Rhys understood her point of view, but he and the rest of their friends had chosen instead to place their faith in his plan: to bring down all the Lightwardens and secure Norvrandt.
Y’shtola lifted her chin, indicating a point just behind Urianger.
“There he is. I wonder what we’ve done to deserve the honor of his company tonight,” she said, her tone sharp with bitterness.
It wasn’t entirely fair—the Exarch often left the Tower to spend time with the Scions. Rhys turned his head and saw him approaching their tables.
“You’ve got to be joking,” Thancred muttered, equally displeased. “And what the hell is he doing here?”
For indeed, following in the Exarch’s wake was none other than Emet-Selch, that familiar sly smile fixed on his lips.
The group fell silent as the two of them reached the table. Emet sat down as if he owned the place, sliding easily into the empty seat between Alphinaud and Y’shtola, crossing his legs and arms as he waited.
“Tomorrow morning, you depart for Kholusia—if no one has any objections,” the Exarch said. His voice was steady, though beneath it lingered a hint of weariness; he had been caught up in back-to-back strategy meetings for the past two days. They all exchanged glances, then nodded. “I will meet you by mid-morning to brief you before you set out.”
“How bad is the situation?” Alphinaud asked. He had attended a few of the meetings himself.
The Exarch lowered his head slightly. “Bad enough. Get some rest tonight—you’ll need your strength.” He lifted his head again, turning it toward Rhys. “Are you quite certain you’re well?”
All eyes fell on him, and Rhys felt cornered. “I’m fine, truly. No pain, no discomfort.”
Ryne and Y’shtola, however, seemed to be searching his soul.
“It has stabilized, yes, but…” She shook her head, letting the sentence trail off. There was no point in finishing—it would only be another one-sided conversation, where she voiced her doubts and he reassured her. “Get some rest, Rhys. You look better, but don’t overexert yourself.”
“And why are you here?” Thancred’s glare was still fixed on Emet.
“Here to gloat over our struggles, no doubt,” Y’shtola said, her temper razor-sharp.
He lifted his hands in mock surrender. “Must I need an excuse to wish to spend time with you, my little ones?” His tone was so infuriatingly mocking that Rhys nearly had to bite back a smile. “Even if you win this war, I’ll have my opportunities, later. Much later.” His golden eyes hardened beneath the curve of his smile. “You have but one life, and in time you’ll vanish. But I’ll remain here, pursuing my designs until my cause is fulfilled.”
A heavy silence fell.
“Don’t make such faces, really.” He rose, resting one hand upon the table. “Tomorrow morning, I’ll tell you a story. You’ll like it—especially you, young lady.” His gaze slid toward the Miqo’te, who met it without expression. “Now then, enjoy your evening.” He sent a sly wink toward Rhys and Alisaie before vanishing in a drift of starlight.
No one acknowledged what had just been said. Sometimes indifference was the sharpest weapon. Though much could have been said—like the glances that drifted toward the young Elezen, calmly sipping her juice as though nothing at all had happened.
“I’ll take my leave as well.” The Exarch seemed to look at each of them in turn before his gaze settled—just a little too long—on Rhys. It did not escape anyone’s notice. Nor did the step he took forward, toward him, before stopping short. “Good night to you all.”
They all bade him farewell, save Rhys, who watched him walk away, his eyes never leaving his retreating form. A silence hung over the table.
“Go on, Rhys,” Alisaie urged.
“Disgusting,” Y’shtola muttered.
“What’s going on?” Alphinaud asked, bewildered.
A low laugh came from Thancred.
A dramatic sigh from Urianger.
Rhys felt his ears flatten, a prickle running over his skin, mortified beneath the weight of their gazes. “What?” he asked, stupidly—unable to think of anything else to say.
“Do us all a favor and go. It’s written all over your face. And his.” Alisaie marched toward him, grabbing his arm and tugging him to his feet. “Go—and stop looking at him with those… those eyes in public.”
“Alisaie!” Alphinaud looked aghast at his sister.
“He’s so old,” came Thancred’s amused remark.
“He’s polite. And he has a beautiful voice,” someone else countered. Thancred turned, dumbfounded, to the source—Ryne.
“Oh no, no—you! young lady, it’s definitely bedtime.” He was scandalized. Far too young, in his mind, to be commenting on a man’s voice.
“What the…?” Rhys was mortified. They were talking about this—as if it were normal conversation. When they had just been told they’d be heading back to the front tomorrow.
“Rhysard. Hurry up, or I’ll tell him to come fetch you myself.” Alisaie’s smile was positively wicked. “Go and unstick him a little.”
Thancred broke into laughter, clapping a hand on the young Elezen’s shoulder.
“I don’t—we don’t do that sort of—” He was utterly lost before their knowing reactions. They knew. They had sensed it. And he wanted the ground to swallow him whole.
He turned his head toward the Exedra, where he could still glimpse that distant silhouette. “Seven Hells,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “I’ll be back later. And Thancred—stop waggling your brows like that.”
He dropped his rapier onto the table and bolted after his friend, who was already vanishing into the distance.
-
“Exarch, wait!”
Rhys slipped through the great doors the guard had left open at the sight of him running. He caught up quickly, and the other turned slowly at the sound of his voice, lips parting in quiet surprise at the sight of him.
The heavy doors rumbled shut behind, and Rhys closed the distance. The Exarch’s arms lifted toward him, measured as always—like everything he did. Like an old man’s gestures. But he was his old man, and Rhys loved him with all his heart. He slipped one hand behind the hood, the other circling his waist, pressing their foreheads together with a gentle knock. He felt the Exarch’s arms wind about him in return, one hand brushing against his tail and stroking it softly.
“I wanted to wish you good night. Properly.”
A quiet laugh. “So you came to give me a goodnight kiss?” There was a smile in his voice.
Rhys stammered, struggling to form words. “No—but if you’d like one, I could give you one.” His hand slid along the edge of the hood until he found cool skin. The Exarch’s mouth parted slightly, closed again, opened once more—yet no words came. Rhys had unsettled him.
“I’m sorry. That was a poor joke,” Rhys muttered, lowering his head, shame warming his cheeks. Truth was, he had meant it, if only for a fleeting moment.
“I would very much like a goodnight kiss, Rhys.”
His ears flicked upright at the sound of his name spoken so intimately. A gentle hand came to rest atop his head, stroking softly, coaxing them higher, before sliding beneath his chin to lift his face.
Oh.
Seeing him so close was utterly disarming.
Rhys blinked quickly, pulling his head back just a little, creating space between their nearly touching faces.
This is dangerous. He is dangerous.
“Are you sure?” he asked, voice hushed, his hands still clutching the small of the Exarch’s back, fingers trembling with the effort of restraint.
The man’s smile was gentle, steady. He nodded once.
A kiss. Just a kiss. Yes—he could give him that. Gladly, painfully gladly.
Rhys leaned in again, nose brushing against the other’s cheek, drinking in the scent of his skin as though it had been denied to him for years.
How I’ve missed you.
He lingered there, savoring the closeness, before pressing a kiss to his cheek. His lips curved into a smile as he felt the Exarch’s cheek round beneath his own, mirroring the smile.
“Rhys,” he whispered, amusement softening the words. “You may kiss me—truly. As you wish to.”
And then— blankness.
His mind collapsed into silence. Weeks of careful distance, of wanting but never daring, shattered in an instant.
“Truly?” he whispered back, his hands twisting tighter into the Exarch’s robes, trembling with a desperate mixture of restraint and longing.
A quiet hum. Then fingers guided his chin, tilting until his mouth—
Gods.
—was aligned with his.
“Oh,” Rhys breathed, surrendering at last, all strength leaving him, his body tipping forward into the Exarch’s arms as their lips met.
The Exarch caught him, one arm firm around his waist, the other cradling the back of his head, steadying him as though he’d been waiting for this collapse all along.
Rhys parted his lips eagerly, unable to hold back, pulling the other’s mouth into his with aching tenderness, smiling as he felt him respond with shy sweetness. His lips were soft, his every movement careful and measured. Weeks of yearning poured out in that single touch—soft, trembling, endlessly sweet.
The Keeper broke away only a fraction, whispering against his lips, “How I love your kisses… always so gentle with me." His arm shook as it circled the Exarch’s neck, pulling him back in, tilting his head, seeking him again. “I’ve missed you beyond words.”
This time their mouths lingered, lips brushing, pressing, retreating only to meet again. Slow, tender, endless. A smile shared between each kiss, joy and ache and relief tumbling together.
Simple. Sweet. Divine.
When he finally drew back, it was only far enough to whisper, hesitant:
“Are these… really allowed?”
The Exarch’s eyes remained hidden behind the glamour of his hood, but Rhys could feel the weight of his gaze nonetheless—steady, aching, full of something he could not name. A breath shivered from him before he lowered his brow to Rhys’ once more, as if to steady them both.
“It is alright,” he said softly. A pause, heavy with all that went unspoken. “…For tonight.”
The words pressed into Rhys’ chest like both a blessing and a warning, so fleeting and fragile that his heart clenched around them.
Something felt off.
Looking at him, Rhys felt a pang of fear through the chest.
Something was off.
But as the Exarch leaned in again, the hood engulfing nearly all of Rhys’ face as their mouths met once more, the protest withered on his tongue.
Gods, this felt forbidden. To kiss him—so freely, so suddenly.
The Exarch was endlessly gentle, as if Rhys were something fragile, precious. His hand slid from the back of Rhys’ head to cradle his cheek, thumb brushing over the tattooed skin, fingers tilting his jaw just so. The slow, deliberate glide of those cool lips against his was almost unbearable, too much to endure without breaking.
Rhys eased back again, breath ragged.
“Not that I’m complaining,” he managed, voice frayed, “but… how? Why?”
Because deep down, he was terrified. Terrified of what this meant, of what it might cost. It felt like a last feast before an execution.
Something was off, he reminded himself.
And then, like a blade to the gut, a suspicion slammed into him. His stomach dropped.
There is no way he's taunting me like this. As wretched as his kin his, he can't possibly—
Horror flashed in his eyes.
“You’re not Emet in disguise, are you?” He stumbled back, heart hammering, disgust sending shivers up his spine.
The arms that had held him loosened instantly in shock.
“I swear to the gods I’ll kill you, you absolute bastard!” Rhys roared, hand flying instinctively to his side—only to find the spot bare. Fury surged hot in his throat as realization followed. “How dare you use him—!”
His rapier. He’d left it on the damned table.
“Rhysard—!”
The Exarch’s voice cut across his fury, sharp with shock, then broke softer, imploring. He took a step forward, hood lowering just enough that the glamour seemed to shiver around him. “It is me.”
“Prove it,” Rhys spat, his ears flat, tail lashing like a whip. His chest heaved with the violent beat of his heart. “Drop the hood. Show me.”
He was being utterly unfair, and he knew it. But right in this instant ? He didn't give a shit.
A silence fell, deep and dreadful. The Exarch did not move to obey.
Rhys’ blood ran colder still.
“You can’t,” he hissed, voice fraying to something ragged. “Because you’re not him.”
But then—
“I cannot show you,” the Exarch said, and the words trembled like glass under strain. “Not because I am false—but because I am myself. If I revealed too much, if you saw me as I am, I fear I would never again have the strength to turn away from you.”
The confession cracked something in the air between them. His bare hand hovered, faltered, then braved its way to Rhys' arm, resting there, steady but not restraining.
“Kitten,” he whispered, the slip of that name deliberate this time, soft with yearning. “You know it is me. You feel it here.” He pressed the hand lightly to Rhys’ chest, above his racing heart. “Do not doubt what your soul already knows.”
Rhys’ breath stuttered. The anger bled from him in shivers, replaced by the dizzy ache of fear, of love, of too many questions tangled in his throat.
“…Gods damn it,” he murmured at last, voice breaking. “You make me lose my mind.”
The Exarch’s hand tightened faintly on his arm, not pulling, not pushing—simply there, a steady point in the storm. Rhys stared at him, chest heaving, lips parted as though he might hurl more accusations—yet what spilled out instead was a shuddering laugh, halfway to a sob.
"You make me lose my mind," he repeated.
And then he gave in.
He closed the space with a sudden, ragged need, seizing fistfuls of the Exarch’s robes, crushing their mouths together in a kiss that was all desperation. No careful tilt of the head, no hesitation—just the raw ache of someone terrified of losing, terrified of believing too much.
The Exarch yielded with a soft sound that broke apart into a sigh, arms enveloping him at once, lifting him closer as if afraid he might vanish. His cold lips moved against Rhys’ with a new urgency, parting wider, letting him in. "It is me," he repeated. Their teeth nearly clashed in their haste, but neither cared—there was only the rush, the consuming relief of this is real, this is you, I know you.
Rhys' tail coiled around the Exarch's waist, binding them together in an intimate embrace. He leaned in, his lips meeting the Exarch's in a series of fervent kisses and gentle bites. Each press of his mouth was a promise, a silent vow that left them both trembling with anticipation. His voice, when it came, was a ragged whisper, muffled against the Exarch's lips. "Don't ever—scare me like that—"
The Exarch's response was a soft, trembling whisper, more a prayer than a promise. "I won't." The words hung in the air, a fragile promise that seemed to shimmer with the weight of their shared emotions.
They drew breath against each other, foreheads pressed close, their hearts beating in sync. The moment stretched out, a delicate balance between restraint and surrender, until neither could hold back any longer. They fell into another kiss, deeper and more intense than the last, as if both feared it might be their only one.
“Hold me,” Rhys managed to gasp, his voice barely more than a breath. “Please… hold me.”
The Exarch obeyed without hesitation. His hands mapped the curve of Rhys’ sides, lingering as if to memorize him, before one slipped lower to tug teasingly at his tail. The gesture was greedy, reverent, all at once. A possessive palm cupped the swell of Rhys’ butt, squeezing with a firmness that sent shudders racing up his spine.
This is him.
“Those are yours. Only yours to hold,” he whispered hoarsely, pulling back just enough to breathe, his forehead dropping against the Exarch’s shoulder. “And this…” A bold hand lowered to cup him through the robes. “This is mine.”
The heat was undeniable. He was hard beneath Rhys’s touch, arousal straining against the barrier between them. A soft pant slipped from the Exarch’s lips as he bent to kiss the base of Rhys’s ear, his smile curling warmly against sensitive skin.
“How come you are so hot down here?” Rhys asked, his breath uneven, startled by the burning heat under his palm. The Exarch was usually so cold—
“Because,” came the low, seductive purr, “it yearns to go somewhere far warmer.”
Oh, dear Gods above. This man will be the death of me. The thought was equal parts fear and exhilaration, making his knees threaten to buckle. Again.
Cold breath ghosted against his ear, grounding him even as his body trembled. He couldn’t resist anymore. His hand pressed harder, caressing him through the cloth, his body pressing flush as he tightened his grip around him. The Exarch answered with his own greedy hold, kneading his rear with a maddening need, the unspoken plea clear in every touch: don’t stop.
Rhys arched slightly to allow more room, to go lower still. And the man obliged again, his fingers slipping beneath the folds of his red drape, the sensation sharp and intimate against the thin fabric of his trousers.
“Careful,” the Exarch murmured, his voice a velvet purr, each word gliding like silk over raw nerves. “If you keep touching me like that, I might forget all restraint.”
Rhys shivered, biting back a moan. The way he said it—measured, deliberate, achingly calm—left him utterly unraveled.
The Exarch was unfairly smooth.
He always had been. Even now, in the haze of their wanting, his every word was chosen to tease him further, to make him ache.
“Are we… are we okay?” Rhys whispered, his voice unsteady, as though he were dreaming or drunk on something far stronger than wine.
A slight nip at his ear made him shudder from head to toe.
"I am quite alright," came the answer. "Still on control. And you?"
For once, both of them were lucid. Lucid—and teetering on the edge of a door they had only cracked open in fleeting, dangerous moments.
"Yeah," he said, a slow breath escaping him. "This is dangerous."
The moment stilled.
His hand was still against his hardness, and the Exarch was still holding him. But none were moving.
Realisation struck. This shouldn't be allowed.
Whether the Exarch's boundaries seemed to blurr, he wasn't sure it was wise to go all the way. Not when this very man had told him so, many weeks ago.
"We can keep kissing if you'd like," the Exarch's deep voice cut his thoughts. He was right against his ear, the soft touch of the hood touching Rhys' face. "But—" A gentle pressure of his fingers reminded Rhys he was there, grounded in a muted claim. “But if you want more—”, and gods, his voice was a dark promise laced with something unholy. "—just say the word. And I’ll take us upstairs. To your bed.”
Rhys’s breath caught, his body thrumming with every heartbeat. The words coiled around him like a spell, low and deliberate, pulling at all the threads of restraint he had left.
Say the word, he’d said.
They couldn’t. He shouldn’t. He needed rest, and if they went upstairs, neither of them would see a moment of sleep. Yet his mind betrayed him—already stripping away those flowing robes, already imagining his mouth trailing along every inch of skin, leaving marks, biting, giving himself over completely.
Rhys closed his eyes, leaning into him, letting himself be held, though his body burned with need. He wanted to say it, to surrender, to let the Exarch carry him upstairs and lose himself in the dark.
“We shouldn’t,” he murmured. The words tasted bitter even as he said them.
They were still holding each other.
“No,” came the soft reply. “We should not.”
"Can we just—" Rhys didn't know how to voice his plea. "Shit," he ran his free hand through his hair, before glancing up to him.
But the Exarch understood. He bent slightly, slipping his hands behind Rhys’s thighs before lifting him, urging him to cling tighter as he carried him forward.
Rhys' back pressed against the gilded doors as his legs wrapped tightly around the Exarch’s waist. His dick was pressed against the man's stomach, and he could feel the swell beneath, nudging firmly against him.
Moving gently one against the other, they let themselves feel.
“At my return,” Rhys said, still rolling his hips against him, arching so the hard line of his arousal dragged across his butt. “I’ll give you all of me.” His thumb brushed over that full, tempting lower lip—and his friend caught it, biting softly before drawing it into his mouth.
The wet heat of his mouth made Rhys’s ears snap upright, his tail lashing helplessly. “Yes,” he moaned, undone by that intimate hold. His mouth was hot, he realised. “Everything you want—you’ll have it.”
His finger slid slowly past those lips again and again, the hot, silken drag of tongue curling around him, sucking with steady insistence. It was obscene, devastating, the rhythm mimicking the thrust and slide of something far deeper.
He wanted him. Wanted him. Wanted. Wanted. Wanted—
The Exarch's tongue tightened its hold, circling the tip of his finger with a teasing precision, before teeth nipped at the pad, a sharp contrast to the gentle suction. He could hear the soft moans, feel the vibrations against his skin.
A jolt of pure pleasure surged through him as he felt the Exarch's hand slip beneath his trousers, skin against skin, the stroke slow and careful, filled with an intensity that left him breathless. He was almost folded in half, trapped between the wall and the Exarch's arms, the hardness of him pressing against his rear, a promise of what was to come.
And then—everything was blue. Crystal blue.
A sneeze, sudden, followed the teleport, and as Rhys' head eased back from the shock, he was laid on a hard surface.
Wood, polished.
They were on the Ocular. Seven Hells—
Shutting his eyes, head resting on the desk, he moaned as the Exarch parted his legs wider, leaning on him.
He was standing on the edge of the desk, bewteen his legs. And, Gods, he was rutting against his butt.
Rhys swore weakly under his breath, sliding his hand to the man's neck under the hood. "We can't go all the way."
"No. Not all the way", the Exarch repeated, voice low.
The mage ground against him, one hand buried in Rhys’s trousers, stroking with ruthless precision while the other braced against the desk. His breath came ragged, a low ahh spilling as his body bent closer, every line trembling with need.
Rhys couldn’t look away—his face, his hand, the relentless stroke had him unraveling. Gods, it was too much. He wanted him inside, craved him, every nerve screaming. Their restraint was hanging by a thread.
As if hearing the plea in his silence, the Exarch slowed to a crawl.
“It’s dangerous,” he rasped, voice frayed. “If I keep touching you, I will—Rhys… here.” His hand left him, palm open. The meaning was clear.
With a guttural growl, Rhys seized himself, head thudding back against the wood as the Exarch withdrew. The sudden absence burned—until fabric rustled, robes shifting.
His eyes flew open. The Exarch was freeing himself.
Propping on one elbow, Rhys’s mouth parted at the sight. “I want to see,” he whispered, watching the mage’s hand close around his cock.
Seven hells. There it was.
He pushed higher on the desk, panting, stroking faster. “Let me watch,” he pleaded, biting his lip against the moan tearing loose.
And the Exarch let him.
Still standing between Rhys’s spread thighs, he braced one hand to the desk, the other pumping himself in hard, merciless strokes. The folds of his robe barely hid the flick of his wrist, the slick, obscene sounds echoing in the stillness.
Rhys matched him stroke for stroke, his thighs shaking on the polished wood, undone most of all by the sight—the hood shadowing his face, the robes falling open, his cock gleaming in his fist.
Beautiful.
Savage.
Undone.
“Gods—” Rhys moaned, back arching, voice breaking. He couldn’t stop watching, couldn’t stop matching his rhythm. “You’re—ahh—you’re beautiful like this.”
The Exarch faltered at the words, just for a breath—then stroked faster, harsher, every groan ripped raw from his throat.
Rhys whimpered, ears flat, tail lashing, guttural sounds tearing from his chest. His belly tightened, fire coiled low, bliss threatening to shatter him.
Through the shadow of his hood, his eyes burned. “Don’t,” he rasped, voice wrecked. “Let me hear you.”
"My lord," Rhys panted, "Exarch—", his strokes faltering, breath breaking in ragged moans, his sounds tangled with the Exarch’s, the two of them straining, tormented, denying the final step.
The air was thick with heat and musk, every breath steeped in raw want. The Exarch’s legs trembled against the desk; Rhys writhed atop it, taut and desperate.
“I need you closer,” he gasped, sliding forward until his thighs dangled over the edge. The Exarch filled the gap at once, pressing close, their heat colliding. “Come,” Rhys pleaded, tilting his head back—only to shudder when the crystalline hand clamped to his nape, forcing him higher.
“I want you,” the Exarch growled against his mouth, voice fever-hot and fractured. “Gods, I want you—” His lips crushed down, teeth breaking skin with the forceful impact, copper flooding their tongues.
The kiss was hot, slippery, and Rhys felt his consciousness fade away when the Exarch slipped his tongue inside his mouth, deepening with scorching heat.
The way the man moaned as he caught Rhys' tongue against his own was obscene. And the way he was pulling his tongue out of his mouth, sucking on it, still moaning as he took saliva and blood alike in his own mouth...
Swallowing everything.
Rhys nearly spilled from that alone, his cock twitching in his fist as the Exarch licked the blood away, greedy for more. More. More..
His eyes, molten gold, locked on him, his own fist blurring. “Don’t hold back,” the Exarch hissed.
“I’m not,” Rhys growled, baring bloody teeth, fighting the urge to pass out from the sheer intensity of everything.
The slap of wet fists filled the air, every moan harsh and animal. Restraint wasn’t delicate—it was brutal, shackling them, and they strained against it with every stroke.
“Do you like it?” Rhys gasped, voice jagged, vicious. “Watching me fall apart for you?”
The Exarch’s hand faltered, mouth open on a gasp. “I do.”
Rhys’s body trembled with hunger. He wanted to kneel, to take him in his mouth, drown on him—but instead he writhed and purred, “Come for me, my lord,” rolling the r, his wicked smile audible in his voice.
The Exarch jolted, pumping faster, veins standing taut as breath tore from him in sharp grunts. Rhys arched high, spread wide, ears flat, tail thrashing against the wood, moaning deep and raw.
“Rhys—” His name cracked, ripped from him like a curse and a prayer.
“Yes—yes, let go for me—” Rhys begged, almost sobbing, his own fist tightening.
The Exarch groaned, long and low, his hips thrusting into his hand. Then he broke, spilling with a shudder, hot streams painting his hand. His moan, a deep ooh, echoed through the chamber, harsh and unrestrained.
The sight undid Rhys.
He came with a broken moan, thick ropes spilling over his own chest and stomach, his hand still trembling over himself. His release was sharp, staggering, his body jerking as his moan joined the Exarch’s in a perfect, shattering harmony.
For a heartbeat, the only sound was their panting, the wet slide of their hands slowing, the aftermath of pleasure vibrating in their bones. Every muscle twitched, every breath a ragged draw that felt like fire in their lungs.
But with the storm of climax came something darker. Fierce. Instinct clawed up from the marrow of their bones—violent, primal, irresistible.
Biting.
Marking.
Claiming.
I want to make you mine.
They both felt it at once. The pull. The need to claim.
Rhys surged forward onto his knees atop the desk, feral, seizing the Exarch by the front of his robes and dragging him down. His breath tore free in harsh pants as his lips crushed against the mage’s throat, fangs grazing crystal. He wanted to break skin, to leave his mark, to taste him—
A jolt of pain snapped through his jaw, crystal cutting his teeth, shattering the fantasy. He clenched his mouth in his hand for a second, brown narrowing with the pain, then with a snarl ripped raw from his chest, watching the Exarch's face, he wrenched back and buried his fangs in his own arm.
Flesh split under the savage bite, hot copper flooding his mouth, spilling past his lips in a scarlet gush. The taste was maddening. He bit harder, still looking at the Exarch's shadowed face, tearing, until blood streamed down his chin.
Opposite him, the Exarch’s restraint broke in mirror. His jaw locked on his own forearm, growl muffled but savage, guttural, shaking him to the bone. Blood welled thick and fast, running over the leather bracings of his arm as he bit down until his body shook with the violence of it.
They convulsed together, two predators caged, writhing against their own flesh rather than each other’s. Their growls, their muffled snarls, the wet slap of blood dripping to the floor.
At last, their bodies gave. Spent, shuddering, undone, Rhys pitched forward into the Exarch’s arms, dragging him down by sheer weight. The mage buckled to his knees on the floor, clutching Rhys even as his strength failed.
Rhys’s head hit the desk on the way down with a dull thud, a burst of white stars exploding behind his eyes, before he slumped forward, chest heaving, breath hot and ragged against the Exarch’s bowed head.
Bloodied, trembling, mouths torn and wet, they clung to one another.
With trembling hands and a head still ringing, Rhys loosened his belt, his crimson drape falling open to bare the hard planes of his chest. He wiped the seed staining his stomach with the cloth, then lifted his gaze to the man beneath him.
The Exarch tilted his hooded head, lips finding the newly revealed skin. He dragged them low, slow, reverent, heat spilling from his breath as he kissed the hollow between Rhys’s pecs.
“My lord,” Rhys whispered, taking the mage’s hand with a trembling gentleness, coaxing his soiled palm upward.
The Exarch yielded, shifting until his back pressed flat against the desk’s polished wood. His crystalline hand slid beneath Rhys’s thigh, guiding him astride his lap, settling him there with unspoken care.
A low, rough hum broke from Rhys’s throat as he lowered himself, glancing down to the palm in his grasp. His breath hitched at the sight—the Exarch’s semen thick across his skin, mingled with fresh, bright streaks of blood.
Deliberate, reverent, Rhys dipped his fingers into the mess, mixing them together until they blurred into one. He smeared the mixture across his own chest, dragging it slowly over his skin.
Our first time being this intimate.
His bare torso gleamed with streaks of red and white, glistening under the lantern light.
“Ah… ah—” The Exarch panted, unable to look away from what Rhys was doing, each sound dragged raw from his lungs.
Rhys painted higher, up over the curve of his throat, then lower—smearing it across his cock, his thighs, the ridges of his stomach. His breaths were ragged, broken.
Gods, witness this. Someday this man will be mine, and I will be utterly his.
With hands still slick, he summoned the small vial of golden powder. He wiped his fingers roughly on his trousers before dipping two of them into the glittering dust. Then he scattered it over his chest, tracing it into the blood and seed. The powder clung to his damp skin, gleaming against greyish flesh, catching in the sweat that streaked down his body.
The usually golden markings were almost bright orange because of the mixture with red blood.
The Exarch froze. His breath left him in a ragged moan, his fists curling tight against the floor as he stared—at Rhys, gilded and bloodied, marked in their union.
“Wicked white…” the mage choked, his voice breaking apart.
Rhys felt him harden again beneath him.
Tilting his head back, his throat bared and painted, his chest streaked with seed and shimmering gold, his golden eyes blazed. He was gone—utterly lost in the ritual he could not yet complete.
One day, I hope… he will be painted in my blood as well.
“Look at you, my beautiful warrior,” the man whispered, dragging a hand up to the nape of Rhys’s neck, forcing his posture straighter before leaning in, nuzzling the side of his throat. “Are you all right?” His voice was low, tender, against damp skin. “Your head?” He pressed careful fingers into Rhys’s scalp where it had struck the desk.
“’m fine,” Rhys slurred, dazed. “You?”
They lingered in the silence, coming down together from the high.
“I am… all right,” the Exarch admitted after a pause, his breath still uneven, shaky. Then, softer, rueful: “But I do not think I can stand just yet.”
“Same," Rhys chuckled, "'m dead," his head finally dropping, numbness thrumming pleasantly through every limb. He lifted his friend’s face and pressed a lingering kiss to the cool facet of crystal at his cheek.
“'Twas… gods, that was good. Unexpected, but so very good.” He winked, playful despite his own shaking, and smiled when the Exarch turned his face into the crook of his neck, shy once more. “Honestly,” Rhys murmured, softer now, “that wasn’t what I meant to happen when I came here. I’m sorry.”
“I know,” he murmured back, voice muffled against him. “Don’t worry. Just… let’s stay like this a while, please.” Rhys remained straddled across his lap, cheek nestled atop his hood.
“You know,” Rhys whispered, hands obediently resting on his shoulders as he breathed him in, “you smell even better when you’re satisfied.” He leaned closer, drawing in the air around him, then against the warmth of his neck.
The Exarch gave a low laugh, tightening his hold as he breathed deep against the unmarked skin of Rhys’s nape. “So do you,” he whispered, voice molten with heat. “And you’re already exquisite to begin with.”
Hopeless—that was what they were. Rhys could scarcely believe he smelled as intoxicating as the Exarch claimed, yet the tremor in the mage’s breath, the way his arms locked him close, told him it was true. He could feel it: that same fever running through them both, raw and relentless.
“Even when you haven’t bathed,” the Exarch murmured, lips grazing lower, his tongue flicking lightly over the bare curve of Rhys’s shoulder. A shiver ran through him, gooseflesh rising everywhere that hot mouth lingered. “When you sweat, too—you’re so…” His voice frayed into a growl as his tongue pressed harder, rough ridges scraping in a slow, dragging stroke that made Rhys tremble. “You smell divine, and all I want is to make you sweat more. In my arms. In my bed.”
Rhys gasped, sharp and helpless, visions flaring bright—of sweat-slick bodies entwined, of the Exarch’s heat pounding into him until he forgot his own name. His breath hitched when those lips fastened over a tender patch of flesh, sucking with aching slowness, hungry, wet. Saliva slicked his skin. He was salivating at the very idea of marking him.
He’s throbbing beneath me. Gods, I want it—I want him—again. And again. And again.
The tongue returned, circling and teasing, lingering with desperate intent—a plea without words, begging to sink teeth into him, to mark, to claim. Rhys felt his control splinter. His own fangs ached in his mouth, instincts roaring.
But he dragged himself back, breaking the contact with a ragged groan, pressing his forehead hard against the Exarch’s. “We should retire for the night,” he whispered, though every syllable trembled with denial. “If you mark me now, I won’t sleep a moment. And neither will you.”
The soft, broken sound that tore from the mage’s throat nearly undid him. Rhys shut his eyes tight, holding fast to the last shred of restraint.
He shut his eyes tight at the broken little sound that escaped his friend. “I want it too,” he admitted softly. “But first—we have a mission to complete.”
They lingered a few moments longer, gathering themselves before finally rising. “I need to change,” Rhys muttered, grimacing at the clammy stickiness on his skin. It was an unpleasant reminder of how far things had gone.
"We made quite a mess, here," the Keeper said, witnessing the blood and white sticky fluids on the crystalline floor.
Looking toward the Exarch, he smiled, seeing him readjust his robes. Oh shit—
He turned, realizing that he was still quite indecent himself. He covered his lower half with his smallclothes and trousers and arranged his drape around him. Somehow, somewhere between the ritual, the cloth had slipped from his arms and rested loosely around his hips.
“Come, let us go upstairs,” the Exarch said, extending a hand.
Fingers laced, they crossed to the Allagan cube and let it carry them upward. The teleport left Rhys sneezing—as it always did—and the sound made the Exarch laugh softly under his breath. They emerged onto Rhys’s floor, but he didn’t open his door right away. Instead, he hesitated, lowering his voice.
“I’ll… go and find the others before I sleep.”
“Are you staying at the Pendants tonight?” the Exarch asked.
“Yes,” Rhys admitted, sheepish. “I can hardly rest knowing you’re just one floor below. And—” his ears drooped a little, then flicked back up, “I do need to actually sleep tonight.”
“Then let me bring you my blanket. You’ll rest better with it.” The smile in his voice was unmistakable, warm and tender. He bent close, his crystalline hand brushing Rhys’s cheek as he pressed a kiss to his forehead.
Rhys gave an unrestrained, boyish laugh, nuzzling against him like he didn’t want it to end, silently asking for more. Another kiss followed. Then a third. The Exarch’s lips were so soft, shaped by that faint, almost shy smile he wore.
They lingered there, wrapped in each other’s presence, unwilling to break the spell. Tomorrow would come with duty and distance, with careful words and masks. But here—in the hush of this private moment—they could be nothing but themselves.
Rhys’s fingers tightened gently around the cool hand still cupping his face. The moment was slipping. He could feel it.
His lips trembled as he drew a breath, words catching in his throat like thorns. He wanted—no, needed—to ask, but asking felt unnatural, dangerous. Every past refusal had cut him raw.
The Exarch’s thumb brushed across his cheek, his other arm curling around Rhys’s waist, steady, gentle. “Do you wish to ask me something?” he murmured.
Rhys lifted his gaze to that shadowed face, heart racing. He raised a hand to trace the line of the Exarch’s jaw, brushing a fingertip across his lower lip. His voice came as little more than a breath: “Please.” Ears flattened back, eyes shut, too afraid to meet his shadowed gaze.
If he refused now, Rhys knew it would break him. But this wasn’t just desire—it was need.
“Oh, Rhys…” The words were so soft, aching. The Exarch inclined closer.
A small, helpless sound escaped Rhys—half mewl, half sigh—as the Exarch’s arm drew him in, swaddling him in robes, in warmth, in the familiar scent he craved. Their lips met in a tender kiss, slow and deliberate, a promise made in silence.
The Exarch kissed him with aching care, as though savoring each second, giving him everything he could in that fragile moment.
When at last they parted, lips still brushing, Rhys whispered, “Stay with me, please.”
The Exarch stilled, then asked softly, “What do you want? Tell me.”
Rhys pressed his face against the front of his robes, voice muffled, boyishly earnest. “Cuddles. Nothing more.”
Something in the mage’s hold tightened—protective, relieved. Without another word, he slipped an arm around Rhys’s shoulders and guided him gently forward, pushing open the bedroom door.
-
The soft half-light of the room enveloped them, the Exarch’s crystalline arm guiding him close, urging him toward the bed. “Let’s behave,” he murmured, his deep voice low and gentle. “I’ll grant you a cuddle break—just this once.” He lowered his head, pressing a tender kiss to the side of Rhys’s neck. “Because I care for you very much,” he added, teasingly.
A soft, low laugh escaped Rhys in the stillness of the room. “I care for you very much too,” he said, moving around the bed toward the bathroom door. “Come on, let's change first,” he added with a small grimace. “It’s… uncomfortable otherwise.”
To his surprise, the Exarch followed him into the bathing chamber.
“Here,” Rhys said, holding out a towel, water gurgling in the sink. "Let's clean up a bit, we are messy."
-
They only cleaned their hands. Their scent was still covering them, and it would be inacceptable to let it go, to wash it away.
Rhys took his red attire off, that was soaking wet with sweat. He pulled soft pants and wrapped himself in the orange sheet that was on his bed. Laying upon it, he closed his eyes, breath steady as he waited for the Exarch to return.
He'd went downstairs, retrieving his personnal blanket.
And Rhys did not have to wait long. The door opened, and with it the last trace of light was swallowed from the room. It was pitch dark.
“What are you doing?” he couldn’t help but ask, hearing footsteps draw closer across the crystalline floor. His curiosity burned too brightly to keep silent.
“Come,” the Exarch whispered, settling down beside him, the blanket falling on the end of the bed. The mattress dipped under the man's weight, and Rhys all but rolled into him, caught and steadied in waiting arms. A sigh of contentment escaped him as he felt himself held close, face to face. “For a little while,” the Exarch murmured, pressing a kiss to his brow, “let us pretend we are… ordinary.”
Rhys didn’t at first grasp what he meant, but he welcomed the embrace wholeheartedly.
“Are you comfortable like this?” the Exarch asked softly, drawing the cloak higher around him.
“Very comfortable,” Rhys whispered back. He slipped an arm free of his cocoon and let his hand wander up his friend’s back—only to freeze in shock.
Silken strands slid through his fingers.
His hair was loose.
The hood was lowered.
His face… uncovered.
Rhys drew in a sharp breath, lips parting. Then he remembered—his own ears were bare as well.
“Do not make any sudden move,” the Exarch murmured, his voice faintly trembling.
He was anxious. Exposing himself in this way had been his choice, yet it was far from easy.
“I’ll not move more than I must,” Rhys managed, the words rough with emotion. “Thank you—for trusting me.” He leaned into the embrace as the Exarch’s hand rubbed slow comfort along his back.
Tentatively, he let his fingers comb through those long strands before trailing upward to cup his cheek. He brushed aside the hair that had fallen across his friend’s face, and felt the shy curve of a smile against his palm.
I don't need to see your face to know that you are beautiful.
A beautiful soul.
It felt unreal—like some fragile dream—being here, in this bed, with him.
Rhys reached behind him, fingers groping blindly until they caught at a loose sheet. He drew it forward and draped it gently over his companion’s head, veiling those telltale ears.
The gesture was simple, instinctive, and yet it stirred memories of foolish play with G’raha, leaving him smiling through a wash of melancholy. He burrowed into the Exarch’s chest, fitting his crown beneath the man’s chin, his cheek resting against the faint, living warmth of crystal at his throat.
“You can't show me your face,” Rhys murmured, his voice scarcely more than breath, “but… could you tell me your true name?”
For a heartbeat there was silence, stretched taut—until at last came the quiet reply.
“My name—like the man I was before I donned this mantle—no longer matters. That man is gone. And all that remains… is the Exarch.”
Rhys huffed a soft, helpless laugh against his chest. Gods, he was stubborn. But he would not press.
“Very well,” he murmured instead. “Then tell me, Exarch… tell me of the moments that made you happiest.”
He longed to know him—if not by name, then by memory. That was what mattered. More than sleep, more than the temptation pressing at the edges of their closeness.
More than surrendering to desire.
“Ah…” The Exarch hesitated, a low hum resonating in his chest against Rhys’s cheek. "Let us see..."
Tears pricked Rhys’s eyes, gathering hot and unbidden. He knew—he knew—that somehow, this would be their last night together.
He sniffed quietly, trying to hide it, swiping at his face with the edge of his sheet. His lips trembled as the Exarch’s arms only closed more firmly around him, as if to shield him from the very world. The very morning.
Without words, the Exarch knew.
He cleared his throat, though his voice carried a faint tremor. “Many years ago,” he began, brushing a featherlight kiss over Rhys’s ear—an unbearable tenderness that only made Rhys’s silent sobs come harder, “Lyna lost herself in the Tower.”
I love your voice.
“She was so small then,” the Exarch continued, his fingers stroking the nape of Rhys’s neck, soothing, steady. “It took me a few bells to find her. And when I did, she was terrified. She clung to my robes… and called me father.”
Rhys couldn't help but smile amidst his tears, lips tightening to avoid another chocked sob.
“That day,” the Exarch went on softly, a smile threading through his voice, “I understood, at last, that I was the one she saw as her guardian. Her family.”
Rhys lifted the hand that clung desperately to the front of the Exarch's robes, fumbling upward until his fingertips brushed the smile he heard in that voice. The Exarch turned his lips into his palm and kissed them—so gently, so tenderly it broke him all over again.
I could listen to you talk for days.
“Another time,” the Exarch went on, voice steadying as he sank into recollection, “was the day the children of the Crystarium managed to sneak into the upper gardens. They came tumbling down, arms full of flowers they had no business picking, shouting my name as if I were part of their game. They crowned me with a circlet of blossoms.” He huffed at the absurdity of it, yet there was no disguising the affection. “For that afternoon, I ceased to be a keeper of burdens. I was simply… theirs. A playmate, someone who laughed with them under the unforgiving Light.”
Rhys pressed closer, drinking in every word. His throat ached with the weight of it—how these little moments had carried the Exarch through endless solitude.
"Just like you did, a few days ago. I was reminded of that beautiful day, and it made me smile."
I do love your smile.
You deserve happiness. You deserve the world.
The Exarch was quiet for a long while, his hand still tracing slow, soothing lines along Rhys’s back. Then, with a breath that trembled on the edge of wonder, he said,
“And of course… the day the night returned.”
Rhys felt his chest tighten. He didn’t dare move, afraid even the smallest motion might shatter the reverence in his voice.
“I had dreamt of it for so long,” the Exarch went on softly, almost to himself. “Imagined it countless times, convinced myself I could picture it clearly. Yet nothing—nothing—could have prepared me for the reality.” His voice caught, thick with feeling. “The stars overhead, the cool darkness wrapping around the Crystarium… the way the people gasped, fell silent, and then—” A hearthy laugh. “Then they wept, and sang, and prayed all at once. That was one of my happiest memories,” he confessed. “That moment. Seeing you step back into my city that night," his arm curled tighter around Rhys as he pressed a kiss on the soft fur of his ear. "Seeing you step into my life.”
Dear Gods above. If you are listening...
Rhys swallowed hard, his throat too tight for words.
The Exarch’s voice trailed into silence, and for a long moment only the quiet hush of their breathing filled the dark. His hand stilled against Rhys’s back, resting there as though even that small contact might anchor him.
I am begging you.
When at last he spoke again, his voice was low, almost fragile.
“There have been highs and lows throughout my long life,” the Exarch continued, his voice soft, fragile. “I would endure every bitter memory again if it meant I could relive this," he squeezed gently Rhys in his arms, "—this present, once more.”
The tears that had nearly dried returned to the Keeper’s golden eyes. It seemed—impossibly—that the Exarch was truly giving him his farewells.
I know I am not worthy of him. But, please...
“All the moments we’ve shared… and even this very moment we share now… are the happiest of my life.”
Rhys opened his mouth to reply, but only a choked sob escaped.
Please let us have this, just a moment longer.
He was not ready to let go.
Not ready to die.
Not ready to let something awful happen. To him or, even worse, to the Exarch himself. His trembling hand rose, brushing over the exposed face of the man he loved so fiercely.
Fingers traced the damp sheen over his eyes, and he realized—he was not the only one crying.
No. No, no, no—!
Please. Please! Don't cry.
Rhys pushed himself up on one elbow, heart breaking.
The Exarch could no longer maintain his composure either. He was crying, yes, but it didn't show in his voice.
If someone is truly listening.
Help us.
We need a miracle.
Rhys leaned in, gently easing him onto his back, lips finding his, quivering. He captured the other’s mouth tenderly, letting their tears mingle, making the kiss slick and shivering with emotion.
The Exarch’s hands rose, cradling his jaw, returning the kiss with equal gentleness.
“I lo—” Rhys began, only to have the Exarch silence him with another kiss.
“Please… do not say it,” the unnaturally steady voice whispered.
I love you. I love you. I love you.
Yesterday, today, tomorrow, forever. Even in my death—our death—I will love you endlessly.
I will return for you. When you gaze at the moon, I will be there.
When sadness finds you, look into your heart, and you will find me.
Rhys curled closer, clinging to him, both weeping silently, arms entwined.
They lingered in that quiet, sacred stillness, until Rhys dared to speak again.
“Those are great memories” he whispered, lifting the Exarch’s head against his chest, rocking him gently, as though holding the world in his arms. "Tell me more, Exarch."
The man gently opened the sheet, resting his face against Rhys' bare chest. "What do you wish to know?", he asked, voice never breaking the stillness of the room.
Rhys was still sobbing quietly.
Everything.
I want to know everything about you. In case something happens to y—
"Tell me everything you feel comfortable sharing", he pleaded, kissing softly his forehead.
Craddling him, fingers stroking his fine hair, Rhys closed his eyes and listened.
And sharing his heat, he could feel how the Exarch's body was growing warmer.
Could feel how natural it felt to have this man fitted in his arms, in his embrace.
Could feel how his own heart was breaking, hearing him share stories of his past.
Could feel the softness of his lips against his, when they shared a tender moment between stories.
Could almost hear his I love you in the low hums of pleasure and comfort when Rhys dared to slip his hand under the bundle atop his head, gently scratching his ears.
And just like that, until late that night, they shared affection. They shared fragments of their lives in hushed tones.
Until, inevitably, sleep claimed him.
☾
Thank you, Exarch.
Thank you for everything.
I will forever be indebted to you.
You who showed me what love is.
Who showed me what pure devotion is.
Who showed me that it is okay to let go of our fears.
Who showed me that it is okay to be weak.
I love you. I forever will.
Even in slumber, he wept.
And when he woke, he wept.
The Exarch had left him, sometime before dawn.
He had laid the blanket against him, comforting him in his sleep with his scent.
Rhys smiled despire the tears. Being held to sleep was already good enough.
Good enough.
Good enough...
☾
The next morning, Rhys hurried to change in his room at the Pendants before joining the others, who would soon gather downstairs.
As he passed through the inn’s door, he noticed a folded note: Alisaie, scolding him for leaving his rapier on the table the night before. That, apparently, X’rhun had been right—he really was a brat. She’d taken the weapon and promised to return it to him later that morning.
He laughed despite the lingering sadness, shaking his head, literally disarmed.
He stepped into the room, donned his ebony Dalmascan attire, and left almost immediately.
Stopping briefly at the Stairs, he took a moment to have breakfast. To enjoy a few quiet minutes before heading to Kholusia, where the ambient Light always killed his appetite. Just thinking about it made him queasy.
Damn.
Sure enough, the desire to eat vanished almost instantly. Still, he forced himself to finish his meal before heading toward the Tower.
At the foot of the crystal monument, he ran into Alisaie, who handed him back his rapier.
“Ready?” she asked, her expression serious.
“Ready,” he repeated, lying without shame, adjusting the weapon at his waist and draping an arm over her shoulders as they set off together. “Let’s go.”
-
They stepped onto the teleportation cube, pushing open the slightly ajar doors of the Ocular.
Everyone was there—even Emet. Rhys gave a brief wave, then moved to stand beside Y’shtola, who was once again taunting the Ascian.
His gaze flicked to the hooded figure before the mirror. Anxiety gnawed at him—the looming battles, the weight of what was to come—but he forced himself to focus elsewhere.
His eyes drifted to the desk, then the floor. Everything had been cleaned.
A small, rogueish smile curved his lips. Looking up at the Exarch, he felt an irresistible urge to tease. After dreaming of him most of the night, it was almost painful to resist. Amid the noise of Y’shtola and the Ascian, he casually slid a hand along his chest, fingers brushing lightly over the black fabric as if adjusting it. Subtly guiding the Exarch’s gaze toward the motifs he had painted here the day before.
He then sent a subtle wink, then feigned attention to the verbal sparring nearby.
Was he being too bold? He felt the Exarch’s gaze cut through him like a finely honed blade. A shiver ran along his spine, which he masked with a small cough before looking back. Arms crossed, the Exarch wore a faint, knowing smile. Rhys’s chest warmed, and he couldn’t resist anymore. He parted his lips, flashing a fang, and traced it lightly with the tip of his tongue.
“Rhys.”
The whispered sound sent a jolt through him. He hadn’t realized how close Thancred had moved, and the Hyur’s expression of shock only made his heart beat faster. Thancred. Shocked.
“Yes?” he dared, innocence feigned but failing spectacularly. Thancred laughed, slapping him on the shoulder. Everyone turned toward them, and Emet stepped forward.
“Before your dear Exarch gives you the instructions for Kholusia,” he said, moving to the center of the room, “let me clarify something.”
The room shifted, and he quickly explained the reflections, much as the Exarch had done before. But this time, he lingered on another point: the fragmented souls scattered throughout the Source and the thirteen reflections.
Everyone listened attentively, without exception. Rhys couldn’t take his eyes off the Exarch. He turned his head—no, his whole body—toward him, narrowing his brows as he scanned him from head to toe. Every movement, every line of his face, seemed impossibly familiar. He couldn’t help stepping a little closer, compelled to study him more closely. The Exarch, sensing the scrutiny, shifted slightly toward him.
Could it really be possible that the Exarch is one of G’raha’s reflections?
The thought struck him like lightning—it explained so much. Since the very first time he had arrived here, this seemed the most logical answer. He had toyed with countless theories, but this one… this one felt right.
Their heights were roughly the same—though time could blur such details. Both Miqo’te. Both with lips so full, so achingly tempting. Their voices carried a similar timbre, yet each held a distinct edge. Even their scents—so alike, it made his chest tighten.
He lingered there, unable to tear his eyes away, studying the subtle movements, the way the Exarch held himself. Every glance, every slight motion sent a shiver through him, a strange ache of recognition and longing.
“Why would Hydaelyn do such a thing?” someone asked.
“Ask her yourself,” Emet replied, bitterness lacing his tone. “You seem so close already.”
-
Departure was imminent.
No one was surprised that Rhys lingered slightly behind, asking them to wait just five minutes. The door closed softly, and Rhys couldn't even move from his spot. The Exarch descended the small steps, reaching him and placing a hand gently on his face.
“Is something wrong?” he asked quietly.
Rhys lifted his gaze, all insolence vanished. He was utterly serious. “I’ll return victorious… for you,” he said, staring straight into the glamour. “For Norvrandt. And for us.”
His companion didn’t look away. “Take care of yourself, alright?” He lifted Rhys’s face with one hand, palm against his jaw, thumb brushing his cheek. He remained silent for a long moment, and Rhys knew he was truly watching him—really watching, as if it might be the last time. His face was tight, controlled, not even a hint of a smile, and Rhys could sense the effort it took to hold back his emotions.
“I intend to have a long discussion about all of this… once it’s over.” Rhys stepped closer, bridging the small distance between them, and laid a hand on the small of his back, feeling the solid weight beneath the fabric. “Before I go… can I… can we…?”
He didn’t need to finish the question. The Exarch answered him with a soft kiss, lips brushing his in a way that lingered far longer than it should, shattering the world outside this moment. Rhys’s eyes fluttered shut, chest tightening, shivering at the simple, devastating contact. When he parted slightly, their breaths mingled, close enough to feel every shiver, every tremble.
“Sleep in my bed while I’m away. I left all my blankets up there,” he murmured, tilting his face up to nuzzle the tip of his nose against his. “Thank you… for everything. See you soon.”
The words were almost a lie, carrying hope wrapped in uncertainty.
They were simple, but every touch, every glance said more than words ever could. And he hoped… he hoped it truly would be soon.
☾
Kholusia had become a waking nightmare. When the Scions arrived there, following Ryne’s guidance, they knew the Lightwarden was close—but none of them had expected it to be Vauthry himself. His deeds had been unspeakable. And after their confrontation in Eulmore, he had fled, soaring over the balcony and vanishing northward.
The days that followed were grueling.
Repairing the Ladder—their sole means of reaching the upper mountains—demanded every ounce of strength. Emet was present at its inauguration, his gaze distant, as though lost in some long-forgotten dream, sharing fragmented pieces of his past. His words, as ever, seemed aimed at Rhys alone: cryptic, layered, heavy with meanings only he was meant to unravel.
Yet Rhys could not. What he felt instead was the loneliness that clung to the Ascian, a pang that struck his heart each time he glimpsed it.
From what little Emet had spoken, his story seemed unbearably tragic—losing every soul he had ever loved, his home, the very world as he had known it. Rhys often wondered how he had endured across millennia, clinging to that single purpose: forcing the Rejoining of the Source and its reflections. And though Rhys worked against him, a shadow of guilt still followed.
For despite all their differences, Emet remained by their side, offering truths about the world no one else could. He was enemy, yes—but at times he felt almost like a companion, not a villain.
If it ever came to blows between them, it would be bitterly hard. Rhys found himself hoping they might reach some form of accord, in this life at least. As Emet himself had said—should their current plan succeed, he could always strive for another Rejoining in an age when none remained to oppose him.
“Oi, you old freak,” Rhys called out as the mage turned his heel to wander gods-know-where.
Emet glanced back, a brow arched.
“Will you stay around once we’re done here?” The words slipped out before Rhys could catch them. The man was a nuisance, yes, but he was also… fun to have around. Not that he’d admit that aloud ever again.
Emet turned fully, arms folding across his chest, his posture slouched and careless. “Oh, you want me around?” he asked, his tone laced with teasing amusement.
And before Rhys could muster a retort, he added, “Aren’t you tired of seeing me everywhere already?” The way his brows lifted—gods, he knew. He knew about the other night.
Holy hells. He knew about the other night!
“Don’t push your luck, you bastard!” Rhys snapped, flustered, waving him off before turning away.
The nerve of the man.
Emet’s laugh followed him as he faded from sight, light and mocking—yet beneath it rang something hollow, echoing in the Light-washed land.
-
Rhys lifted his gaze, staring at the enormous isle looming in Kholusia’s apocalyptic sky. Vauthry’s lair. It felt impossibly distant, untouchable, yet somehow achingly present in his mind. Alisaie stood beside him, eyes fixed on the same target, but Rhys barely registered her presence.
Winged sin eaters sliced through the sky, guarding their master, their movements a taunt he could feel in his bones. A low, mechanical hum reached them, and his pointed ears twitched instinctively. Small drones buzzed against the protective barrier surrounding the isle, detonating on contact. The explosions rattled him, and he shook his head in frustration. They had no real idea how to reach Vauthry.
A voice called from behind, and he turned, instantly recognizing Urianger. He hadn’t come alone. His Exarch was with him.
Rhys had only seen him twice before on the field—and both times had been at Lakeland.
What is happening ?
But here he was, so far from the Crystarium, so far from the Tower, standing amidst chaos.
Why is he here ? Why does he seem so... happy to be here?
A shiver ran through Rhys’s body. He wanted to call out, to demand he retreat, to make sure he was safe—but he couldn’t. Not with friends around, not with so many eyes on them. So he held himself back, his gaze measuring every subtle shift of the Exarch’s stance, searching for the faintest sign of discomfort, the tiniest hint of strain.
Though they were side by side, the distance between them felt endless, like a chasm he couldn’t cross. His chest tightened, heart hammering, every instinct screaming to step closer, to shield him, to reach him—yet he stayed his feet, restraining himself as they made their way back toward the Ladder. Each step was a quiet torture, the awareness of the Exarch so near, yet impossibly far, pressing on him with a weight he could scarcely bear.
-
They were going to bring the isle down—with the help of a Talos.
The idea was audacious, even a little absurd, but Chai-Nuzz was convinced it would work.
It would take tremendous effort to construct, and they called on all their allies across Norvrandt to help. Reinforcements arrived by the afternoon and immediately set to work, each fully absorbed in their assigned tasks.
Rhys was tasked with gathering the materials needed to build the machine’s core, and he headed to the Dwarves’ settlements to acquire them.
He was accompanied by his Exarch, who had insisted on coming along. Rhys tried to focus on the mission, but it proved nearly impossible. The Exarch moved among the others with an ease that drew him in, genuinely at ease, even laughing lightly as he spoke with them. Every glance, every subtle gesture, every shift in posture seemed to pull Rhys’s attention away from his task.
Rhys found himself studying him, wondering if some good news had reached him, if something had happened to brighten his mood. Even when he tried to look away, he caught himself stealing glances, memorizing the way the light caught his features, the warmth in his smile, the quiet confidence in his movements.
Rhys shook his head, forcing himself to think of the mission, but the pull was irresistible. The Exarch’s presence hung over him like a constant, unspoken gravity, impossible to ignore, even as they walked together toward the Dwarves’ halls.
-
They left the village of Amity, heading northwest. Only then did Rhys feel the urge to voice his concerns about his friend’s well-being. He called softly, “Are you sure you’re… okay?”
The Exarch turned, smiling—so wide, so radiant—that a shiver of pleasure shot through Rhys’s body. His ears twitched, and he ran a hand along his back, holding his tail in check as it swished restlessly.
“I am alright,” the Exarch replied lightly.
Rhys’s chest tightened. He drew back, reluctant to trouble him with his worries. If he was happy here, then that was enough. He knew his friend well enough to trust him to care for himself.
Still, he stepped closer, lifting his hands to pull back the hood that shadowed so much of his face. "I missed you these past few days," he murmured, brushing a thumb across the crystal of his cheek.
The Exarch leaned into his touch, lips curving into that disarming smile.
Rhys leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to the corner of his lips. “Hello,” he breathed. The Exarch’s soft reply tickled against his own, “Hello,” whispered against his lips.
Closing his eyes, Rhys nudged the hood higher with his nose, letting his face slip beneath it. He pressed a tender kiss to the left eye, then the right, feeling the brush of lashes tickle him. A quiet laugh escaped him, and the Exarch’s coolness pressed closer.
“You’re… impossible,” the Exarch said softly, though the smile never left his face.
“And you love it,” Rhys teased, offering a small, mischievous grin. He extended a hand. The Exarch took it without hesitation, fingers lacing together naturally.
The liberties he allowed himself could have been scandalous.
-
The Dwarves were insufferable, putting them through endless tests, yet his companion seemed to be genuinely enjoying himself. Especially once they entered the mines, where he drew his sword and shield of light again, clearing the path and protecting both Rhys and their local guide from the sin eaters lurking in the tunnels.
Rhys couldn’t tear his eyes away. The way he moved—so fluid, so playful—captivated him. The way he pressed close against him under the pretense of protection, a mischievous smile tugging at his lips, made Rhys’s heart skip.
At one point, he leapt lightly across a gap, and Rhys nearly dropped his rapier in shock when a flash of tail appeared beneath his robes.
“Watch it!” Rhys exclaimed, though his voice carried a mixture of exasperation and amusement.
The Exarch only grinned, leaning slightly closer, letting their shoulders brush. “Or… you could watch me,” he said, voice low and teasing.
Rhys was left shocked speechless.
☾
They arrived in Amity in the late afternoon, the materials secured after a day of exhausting labor. Rhys went to deliver them to Chai-Nuzz, and when he returned, he couldn’t find his friend. He searched until he spotted him, leaning against a massive rock on the cliff. He was asleep—so exposed, so vulnerable in the wild, dangerous open. Rhys let out a low growl, settling beside him and nudging gently, trying to draw him close against his chest.
The movement stirred him awake, and his eyes fluttered open. Relief softened his features when he recognized Rhys. “Forgive me—I fear I drifted off for a moment,” he murmured, head dropping as he took in Rhys' careful positioning. He shifted forward onto his knees, sliding between Rhys’ legs, back pressed against his chest. Rhys wrapped his arms around him, drawing him close, cheek resting against the ear hidden beneath the hood.
“I suppose I don’t need to tell you to take care of yourself,” Rhys murmured, voice low, almost reverent. “You already know.”
The Exarch tilted his head slightly, the tip of his nose brushing against Rhys' jaw. “Thank you for worrying about me,” he said softly. “This… body isn’t what it once was.” He paused, almost reluctant. “You are owed an explanation. In truth… I have bound myself to the Crystal Tower, that my years might be prolonged.”
Rhys froze. He hadn't expected the Exarch to talk about such things.
The man let the words settle, before resuming. “One life alone was not enough to see Norvrandt saved. I may draw upon the Tower’s energies, yet the farther I stray, the weaker I become.” He raised his crystal hand, turning it slowly so the sunlight fractured across its surface. “Such is the price of calling upon its power time and again.”
The question Rhys had harbored since his earliest days in the Crystarium finally had an answer. So this was how he had endured so long. So dangerous, so reckless, so unbearably solitary.
Rhys took his hand, pressing it to his lips. Flesh or crystal—it mattered not; it was all precious to him. "Thank you for telling me," the thought that his friend had spent countless years summoning him here, sacrificing his own health, made him ache with both awe and sorrow.
“What will you do when all this is over?” the Keeper asked, voice hushed, shifting the topic as guilt pressed at his chest.
The Exarch leaned into him, tilting his head back into the hollow of his neck.“I want to spend my time with you, of course,” he murmured, the words almost shy. Rhys smiled, brushing a hand over the front of his robe where he held him. “And I’d love to see more of Norvrandt—with you.”
Rhys let out a low groan, hearing his words.
The Exarch only chuckled. “Until my strength fails and I must return… I’ll rely on you to guide me home.”
“Home,” Rhys repeated, soft, almost a whisper. He tightened his arms, pressing a kiss to the hood. “Anything you want,” he whispered. “I’ll gladly come with you.”
His friend shifted to face him, sitting snugly against his thighs, close enough to drink in his features. He pressed his nose to Rhys’, brushing softly, and Rhys closed his eyes, savoring the coolness of his body and scent so near.
Rhys slid a hand to the side of his neck, guiding his cheek to press against his, lips trailing to the soft curve of his jaw and then his cheekbone. He lingered with tender kisses, lips gliding over skin in a gentle rhythm, savoring both the smooth warmth of flesh and the cool shimmer of crystal.
The Exarch tilted his head, lips finding Rhys’ mouth. Rhys moaned softly, tilting his own face to match, returning each press and glide with equal care. He felt the Exarch’s arms curl lightly around his neck, each touch feather-light yet grounding, allowing himself to be kissed again and again. Every contact was delicate, more a caress than a grasp, each movement measured and intimate, lips meeting lips in quiet, tender waves.
Tears threatened to spill, but he refused to let them. This—this was love. Real, deep, undeniable. He loved the man before him wholly, and he felt it mirrored in every gesture, every press of lips. “Me too,” he whispered between kisses. “Me too. It’s mutual.”
The Exarch called his name, broken, halting, and Rhys couldn’t bear to look. “So… mutual.” He guided his hand to the nape of the Exarch’s neck beneath the hood, drawing his face closer to the warmth of his throat. “You are tired. Rest a little longer,” he whispered, caressing his hair tenderly, noting absentmindedly that it was tied back. “Urianger will contact me when preparations are complete.”
☾
Vauthry had been struck down after a brutal, bloody battle that night.
Rhys was torn between the searing pain wracking his body and the impossible vision unfolding before his eyes. His senses were in disarray—he barely realized he was on all fours, doubled over, retching light as the Exarch stood before him, smiling faintly, a magic circle enclosing them both. The robed man was drawing the light from him, claiming he had used him—used him and his Blessing—to escape the First. To leave for another world, one not drowned in sorrow and desolation.
With each pulse of energy the Exarch drained, Rhys felt clarity begin to creep back into him.
He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. He was always so sincere, so gentle with me. Wasn’t he? Gods, was it all a lie?
Rhys couldn’t think straight, could only feel the white-hot pain and struggle to hold his gaze on the man before him, though waves of blinding radiance kept tearing across his vision.
From somewhere distant, he heard the sharp crack of crystal shattering.
Then, impossibly clear amidst all the chaos in his head, Y’shtola’s voice reached him as though whispered directly into his ear: “He meant to sacrifice himself from the very beginning.”
He—what?
Rhys tried to rise, but his body betrayed him. Pain, light, disbelief—it all pressed him down.
The Exarch was going to die? He had planned to… what?
A wave of force burst outward from the spell, sweeping the place. Through the gale, through the agony and the blinding brilliance, Rhys saw it: the exact moment the dark hood was thrown back, revealing at last the face of the man he had come to know so closely these past months.
His vision was blurred beyond bearing, the world a haze of brilliance and agony—but with that distance, he couldn't see clearly his features. Only this: the red eyes meeting his, the pale rose of fur and hair. His friend. His Exarch. His mate.
Is he... telling me goodbye?
He couldn't hear what he was saying. But his face. His expression, even from far away, it was unmistakable.
Rhys tried to shake his head, but the motion only sent knives through his skull. He couldn’t breathe, but still he clung to that face through the waves of light spilling across his eyes.
Don’t you dare. Don’t leave me. Not like this.
The Exarch bowed his head at last, and Rhys understood—the man was ready to take all the light within him, ready to carry it into the Tower and hurl it into the rift. Ready to vanish, forever.
Rhys opened his mouth to cry out, but his throat was fire, no sound came. He thrust out his hand, begging him silently, come closer, please, let me reach you—
And then—
The gunshot.
A sound so alien it seemed to tear the world apart. One single crack that echoed like thunder, swallowing every other noise, even the roar of the light.
Rhys froze, heart splitting open. His friend lurched, the spell shattering mid-flow. The staff fell from his hand. His body pitched forward.
No—no no no, please gods, no.
The Exarch’s face twisted with pain, and he crumpled to the floor.
For a moment, Rhys could not move. Could not breathe. His whole body went still, as though time itself had ended. Then the weight of it hit him.
He’s been shot. He’s dying. He’s dying, and I can’t reach him.
A strangled scream tore free, but it was no human sound—only light gushed out, streaming from his mouth in a torrent. His body convulsed as he tried to crawl forward. Every muscle burned, every bone screamed, but he dragged himself anyway, desperate, frantic.
Too far. Too far. Always out of reach.
Let me hold you. Please, just one last time. Let me kiss you, tell you it’s all right, that we’ll find each other again. Don’t leave me without letting me say it.
But his arms buckled, his body betraying him. He slammed to the ground, sobbing, choking on light, unable to do more than claw the stone with his nails.
And then the voice—Emet’s.
The sound of him sliced through Rhys like a blade. The cause of all this. The shadow at the heart of the ruin. Rhys wanted to rip him apart, but he could not even lift his head.
He heard the words. The Exarch was not dead. But Rhys soon would be, his light flooding Norvrandt, damning everyone he loved.
I don’t care what happens to me. I only care that he’s alive.
Emet rose, and with a snap, the Exarch vanished.
“No!” Rhys’s voice still would not come, only the thought, screaming inside him until he thought he would break. Bring him back! Don’t take him from me!
His fury was useless. His body collapsed under the weight of it.
The last thing he heard before the dark closed in was Thancred’s curses flung at the Ascian, and Ryne’s desperate cry, her footsteps pounding as she reached for him.
☾
Rhys tried to open his eyes, but they felt heavy, numb, as if his very lids had been weighed down with stone.
Flashes of what had happened slammed into him—scenes of loss, of violation, of helplessness. He hoped—prayed—that it had all been a nightmare. That when he opened his eyes he’d be somewhere safe: his suite at the Pendants, the Tower, anywhere but here. Or better yet… home, in Empyreum, at the Source.
He drew a shuddering breath, forcing his lids open. The ceiling above him was unmistakable. The spagyric clinic.
No.
It had been real.
He turned his head, slow, deliberate. He took him. The words tasted like poison on his tongue, but he spoke them anyway, loud enough to echo, though no one was the intended listener. Someone was there. Ryne—eyes wide, frozen, staring as if Rhys were some cornered, furious beast.
“I’m going to kill him,” Rhys whispered, calm, almost eerily so. But his gaze flickered, blurred. The menace in his voice was undercut by desperation, by the tremor he could no longer suppress. The girl shrank back, terrified, and screamed Thancred’s name.
Something snapped.
Rhys was on all fours in an instant, a roar of pure fury ripping from his throat. The growl deepened, primal, a vibration that carried through the floor as he surged forward—but someone’s arms locked around him from behind, gripping his chest.
“I’m going to kill him! I’ll rip him apart!” he bellowed, teeth clenched, claws of rage sinking into the world around him. Urianger arrived beside Thancred, attempting to restrain him, but Rhys’s mind wasn’t on friends, or reason, or safety. All that existed was the Tempest, and the one who had been taken. He would find him. He would.
He bit down on the arm restraining him, hard, tasting iron and frustration. His head was jerked upward, and Lyna was there in a heartbeat, her grip a vice, helping the Scions pin him to the ground. His rage bled into every muscle, every thought—a storm trapped in a cage.
Urianger knelt, opened a small pouch, and blew powder across his face. He felt the world tilt, spinning, screaming in his ears—but even as darkness took him, a growl vibrated deep in his chest, low and threatening, promising that this wasn’t over.
-
When he woke again, the chatter around him died instantly. Someone gripped his arms. Another held his thighs. A third pressed firmly against his head, preventing him from moving—or from biting anyone.
“Give me a sign when you feel calm, Rhys,” Y'shtola said from the edge of the bed, her voice steady but heavy. “In your state, if you let your emotions run free, you risk transforming. And if you transform, you won’t be able to rescue him.”
The words hit like ice water. Rhys’s mouth opened, exhaling long and slow. He forced himself to focus on his breathing, to regulate it, to wrestle the storm inside him into submission.
It was harder than he expected.
But silence was no silence. Every breath of wind screamed. Every mote of stillness keened.
The whisper of the sky had returned. It clawed at his ears—maddening, mournful, endless—as if the heavens themselves wept in lament. Shards of radiance drifted, unmoored, cruel in their serenity, like the laughter of ghosts.
The Everlasting Light was back on Norvrandt's sky.
It took him a long moment to rein in the tempest inside.
“Good. Ryne managed to mitigate some of the damage with his Oracle of Light powers, but we don’t have much time,” Y’shtola said, her hand pressing against his chest to gauge him. “How’s the pain?”
Pain? The thought barely registered. But he forced himself to assess it.
“Fine,” he growled, low and harsh. “Bearable.”
He tried to move, to sit, but the hands holding him refused.
“If you transform here, Rhys,” Y'shtola continued, each word a dagger of reality, “we’ll be the first to become Lightwardens. The citizens of the Crystarium will turn into sin eaters. That’s not what you want for his people—or for your friends, is it?”
The words cut straight through him, sharp and undeniable. Anger flared hotter, but he forced it down. He must stay calm. Slowly, he lifted his gaze toward Lyna, who was securing his head.
Her calm mask betrayed her worry in the crease of her brow, but she didn’t speak.
“I’ll bring him home, Lyna,” he murmured, low and threatening, as if even the shadows might hear. “Dead or alive, he’ll return.”
He turned to Thancred. “How long have I been asleep?”
“Almost one full day, since we returned from Kholusia,” came the reply. The hands holding him tightened slightly, expecting an eruption.
He closed his eyes again, exhaling long, slow, deliberate. A day and a half outside the Tower. How long could the Exarch survive before exhaustion finally broke him? Could prolonged separation from the Tower kill him? The thought clawed at the edges of his mind. Panic rose—but he buried it, letting it fuel something colder, sharper: control.
“Alright,” he said finally, voice low, a dangerous edge threading through it. “Let’s not waste more time. Release me—I’ll behave.”
His friends loosened their grip, watching warily as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood. Head down, ears back, drained—but coiled like a spring. A storm ready to strike. He might be a bomb ticking within fragile skin, but that could wait. Now, there was only one thing that mattered: retrieve the Crystal Exarch.
Every step, every breath, every heartbeat was a promise: whoever had taken him would answer for it.
-
Lyna had given him a key—one the mage had entrusted to her before leaving for Kholusia the day before. Rhys followed her to the Ocular and stopped at the threshold, staring at the empty room. The documents on the desk were perfectly arranged, untouched.
Seeing the space so bare was unnerving.
He exhaled deeply, forcing himself to calm, and then joined Lyna in front of the right-hand door. She handed him the key, nodded once, and left, leaving him to face it alone.
Rhys inserted the key and opened the door, unsure of what to expect. Books and documents were scattered across the small room, and a control screen sat at the far end. He stepped inside, his eyes sweeping over the space, and then something caught his attention, making his mouth part slightly.
There, resting on a small table, enclosed carefully in a crystal box, lay a rapier. A rapier that felt impossibly familiar. Beside it, folded neatly in its own crystal box, was a red jacket.
He turned back toward the screen—and, as always, the echo appeared without warning. A sharp pain shot through his head, and images began to flash before his eyes.
⋆ ☆ .
Urianger and the Exarch.
The Exarch, without his hood. The Exarch, whose voice carried a tone… unnervingly familiar.
Impossible, Rhys thought.
He couldn’t grasp what he was seeing. The Exarch in the echo had nodded when Urianger asked him to confirm that he was indeed G’raha Tia.
The Exarch wasn’t one of G’raha’s reflections. He was G’raha.
Impossible, Rhys thought again, eyes shutting.
It was impossible. He couldn’t make sense of what was unfolding before his eyes.
He watched the vision play out, utterly powerless, unable to pause it to even take a breath.
The Exarch was explaining his story, his goals, to Urianger. The informations were staggering, so improbable it might have been ripped from fiction. For more than three hundred years, countless people had depended on him—the Warrior of Light—even after his death in the Source.
His Exarch. His friend. His G’raha. Praising him with admiration, with tenderness. Ready to sacrifice everything, just as so many others had already done for this singular cause: to change the fate of the Source, in this reality. For him.
What the hell is happening—it can't be. He can't be him.
. ☆ ⋆
Rhys took a moment to center himself as he returned to the present. He placed a hand on the translucent crystal box, staring at the rapier inside. It was the one X’rhun had given him—the one he had forgotten in the Tower’s hall the morning it was sealed.
He didn’t dare look at the red jacket. His own, the one he had draped around G'raha’s shoulders before parting.
His hands trembled, and he couldn’t calm them.
It was impossible. This situation was impossible.
Even after the vision the echo had shown him, even after clearly seeing the Exarch without his hood, even after hearing him affirm that he was G’raha Tia… it was impossible.
Since gaining access to the echo’s power, this was the first time he had felt that his own eyes had deceived him. That his ears had deceived him.
He had denied the Exarch's identity for so long that even now he couldn’t bring himself to fully believe it.
Just as he couldn’t process that this was his rapier. That this was his jacket.
He pressed a hand to his chest, forcing himself to suppress his emotions—his anguish, his confusion. He couldn’t let them take control, not when he was so unstable. Not when he was literally on the verge of exploding.
He turned and left the room, locking the door behind him.
At the Ocular, he forced himself not to look around, focusing on the door as he opened it and teleported to his floor. He grabbed one of the blankets from his bed and wrapped himself in it, inhaling the scent of his friend that had lingered on it, while walking toward the left-hand door.
He stopped short. The room had been cleared of all equipment.
The Exarch had tried to teleport himself—and the Tower—into the rift, to pour the light into it and die. That was why Emet had intervened. He had been compliant enough, but could not accept that the light be permanently banished from this reflection, since a blight of light was necessary for the Rejoining.
In essence, he had saved his friend’s life.
But Rhys couldn’t reconcile the thought. That man was now being tortured, forced to explain how he had achieved such a feat of traveling across space and time.
Rhys returned to the Pendants, where all his belongings were perfectly arranged in his suite. He looked at his armor, running a trembling hand through his hair. Then he glanced at his scepter, left on the bed by the Exarch. It seemed to whisper to him.
It was time to unleash hell once more. He had nothing left to loose.
☾
It took them two days to track Emet to the Tempest, deep beneath the seas off Kholusia. One calamity followed another, each story darker and more tragic than the last.
Bismark. The Ancients. Amaurot.
Remaining calm amidst such horrors was nothing short of miraculous. Yet, with the support of his friends, Rhys managed to stay focused, erecting a barrier between himself and his emotions. His hatred for Emet had softened slightly, seeing the anguish etched on his adversary’s face as he witnessed the ghost city he had created. Still, if defeating him was the only way to free the Exarch, Rhys would do it without hesitation.
And there he was, standing before them, revealing his true name, stripped of all titles.
Hades.
He refused to release their friend. There would be no compromise this time. It was him, or them.
The battle was ferocious. Hell itself seemed to erupt from him, his darkness so absolute that every strike carried grief, despair, and fury. Shadows surged toward Rhys, attempting to snuff out his light, striking relentlessly, countering every attempt at defense.
Yet, in the end, he was defeated. And when he spoke his final words to Rhys, guilt welled up in him despite the victory. Guilty for destroying a dream, a plan that had been millennia in the making, for snuffing out a life’s work that had endured through death and devastation.
Rhys couldn't take a step toward him. His mind was in total dissaray.
He took the light from me.
He made a miracle.
Emet’s hand twitched slightly, reaching for Rhys. "Remember that we once lived." And in that final motion, the bond between them—teacher, friend, ancestor, legacy—felt unbreakable, even as he faded.
☾
He was once again surrounded by his friends, and the truth hit him like a physical blow. The light within him had been completely dissolved—vanished during his confrontation with the Ascian.
Footsteps echoed, and everyone turned as the Exarch approached the small group, head lowered, hood pushed back, apologizing for all the secrets he had kept over the years.
Rhys stared, eyes wide, fixed on his face. He couldn’t take a single step forward. He could only whisper his name, voice hoarse, as those red eyes lifted to meet his own: “G’raha?”
It felt like a dream.
It shouldn’t be possible to see him here, when he was supposed to be asleep in the Tower, in the Source.
It wasn’t right to see this face, framed by crystal, clad in those robes, speaking in that voice.
It was as if two people he had loved in his life had somehow merged into one. He didn’t know what to think, deciding instead to act as though everything were normal—in a dreamlike way.
His friends remained silent, careful not to disturb the fragile, crucial moment. Most of them had witnessed, years ago, the depth of Rhys’s despair when he had lost him, and more recently, the same torment again.
Rhys’s behavior seemed unusual to them—simultaneously close and detached—but they knew they had no right to interfere.
✹
The Exarch looked into his friend’s eyes—truly looked—for the first time in a hundred years. And what he saw was as clear as crystal. He was broken.
Completely broken. And it was entirely his fault.
The golden gaze of the Keeper was slightly unsteady, unable to focus properly. He didn’t dare approach, keeping a respectful distance.
Tears pricked at the Exarch's eyes as he heard Rhys speak his name despite his state, and he did nothing to hold them back.
“Yes… it’s me,” he replied, brushing his eyes with the back of his hand, seeing no reaction from Rhys. His friend simply stared at him, eyes wandering briefly over his robes before returning, as if trying to make sense of an equation.
In a desperate gamble to provoke a reaction, the Exarch placed his hands behind his head, pulling his hood down over his face. He didn’t have the energy to maintain a glamour—he could collapse at any moment.
He lowered his head slightly, eyes hidden beneath the dark fabric, and the next instant he was drawn into a tight embrace. Rhys’s body shook violently against his, every breath ragged.
“You’re here,” Rhys whispered. “You’ve come back to me alive.”
He was truly broken, caught in denial. Everyone present realised it in that moment. The shift in his behavior spoke volumes.
The presumed betrayal of the Exarch.
The shock of his planned sacrifice.
Seeing him fall to the ground after the gunshot.
Learning his true identity.
Knowing that his other half was agonizing somewhere and he was powerless in that moment.
It had been too much. The calm façade he had forced himself to maintain for two days had done nothing to ease it.
The metal of Rhys’s armor scraped harshly against the crystal embedded in the Exarch’s throat. The sound made him flinch, and he shifted them hurriedly, fumbling, whispering broken apologies over and over as if the words themselves might heal the wound.
“Yes. I’m here, Rhysard,” the Exarch murmured, his voice unsteady as he slipped a hand behind Rhys’s head, fingers sinking into his hair. He stroked the strands with trembling care, as though afraid the smallest misstep would shatter him further. “It is alright… I felt nothing,” he lied, gentle as breath, drawing him close, guiding one of Rhys’s shaking hands against his own chest, where his heart still beat.
Rhys pulled back just far enough for their lips to touch. The kiss was fleeting, desperate in its fragility. He seemed unconcerned about the others watching; he was in a half-dazed state.
“I love you,” Rhys whispered, the words almost breaking in his throat as he pressed them against the Exarch’s mouth. “I love you so much.” His thumb traced tenderly across his face, brushing away the smear of blood at the corner of his lips with reverence.
And then, without hesitation, he bent to lift the Exarch in his arms. The Exarch could feel the strain in every muscle, the trembling that came not only from effort but from something deeper.
“Let’s go home,” Rhys breathed, the words half-command, half-prayer. “We need to get back… to the Crystarium. To the Tower.”
He turned to their friends, who watched with worry etched across their faces. “Quickly… let’s move.” His voice was calm, but his breathing betrayed him. He wasn’t supposed to lift him so easily—not in his exhausted state—but Rhys carried him, straining through each step, adrenaline coursing like liquid fire through his veins.
And the Exarch didn’t dare tell him he could walk.
He knew his mate needed this—needed to feel that he could be there for him, to take care of him. Because that’s exactly what he would have done in his place.
Rhys was broken. Returning fully to reality was going to be difficult, and they would need extraordinary patience to help him heal.
Notes:
Thank you for sticking until the end with me, I hope you enjoyed it !
If you have some spare time, I would like you to tell me in the comments what you liked about the story so far, and what you didn't like. The next part is already written, but it will help me for my future works, and I always appreciate readers' opinions on the story itself and character growth !
I love writting angst but man, this chapter was so difficult to write, because I had to take so many breaks.
The second part of the main story, Bask in Moonlight, will follow soon. And it will be... lighter ! *wink*
- Just a heads up, there won't be canon events from the 5.X patches because I don't want to get back to heavy angsty stuff. I just want my boys to finally have a good time, because damn ! they deserve it. ✨️
- What you should expect : the reward of having suffered through all 13 chapters of sadness ! heart to heart confrontations, a whole bunch of teeth rotting fluff. And of course, shameless smut! (And I will die of embarassement)Thank you in advance if you take the time to write a tiny something, and also thank you for your support until now :)
For those who had subscribed, I will post a 14th chapter here right before posting the first one for the next part, so you'll know when it's up ! I'll prolly join some silly memes or screenshots as well! because, why not ?
See you around soon !
hyi on Chapter 1 Sat 26 Jul 2025 09:30AM UTC
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