---

Maya’s landing in Edmund’s arms wasn’t much gentler than her landing on the chandelier, and the rigid edges of his armour would be sure to leave her with even more bruises. But she didn’t care; at that point, she took little notice of her injuries, gasping instead with equal parts relief and surprise that she’d fallen into her Templar’s arms and not the marble floor. She clung to him like a life preserver, maintaining a white-knuckled grip on his armour as he sped away. The moment Maya braved a look beyond Edmund’s shoulder, she was rewarded with the sight of more pursuers, before they were abruptly cut back in a sickening shower of blood, the assailants falling screaming to the floor. She had neither the time nor presence of mind to decipher what she saw; they were chasing her, and then they were on the ground, with nothing separating the moments but a shadowy blur. Had Kasper come to her rescue? It was impossible to know; she only looked for a second before burying her face in fear.

Somehow, Edmund got the two of them out of the ballroom, but the shock of cold winter air comforted Maya none until several minutes had passed and the gunfire had faded into the distance. For a long time, she dared not look; but after a little while, the adrenaline of the situation began to subside, and in its place rose the pain she’d been ignoring. By the time Edmund boarded her onto a train - she was too distracted to wonder about its source or destination, only happy that it seemed to be staffed by Veradis soldiers and not Kaudian captors - her whole body was a dull thrum of pain, her individual injuries standing out sharply and troubling her more the longer she sat.

When the train finally came to a stop, every little movement was agony; each breath was accompanied by a sharp, stabbing pain, she couldn’t even hope to walk, and she was sure there were a hundred other injuries waiting for their turn to raise their voice among the aching chorus. Tears brimmed her eyes, but she didn’t make a sound. Her chest hurt too much to draw the breath to cry.

Edmund brought her inside somewhere, and a woman spoke to them, but Maya wasn’t listening. The relative calm was just insult added to injury, giving her nothing else to focus on but her pain. Edmund brought her to a new room, this one crawling with white-clad people in surgical masks and gloves, paramedics with the symbol of Incepta’s Star comfortingly embroidered on their uniforms.

Edmund set Maya down at last on a cot and turned to leave, but Maya didn’t let him. A spike of fear shot through her as he turned, and she caught his wrist before he could go, clinging to him with all her might.

“No! Wait!” she exclaimed, immediately cringing at the pain in her ribs. The tears that had been loitering in her eyes finally spilled over, and she hugged herself. Her voice came out as a quiet sob. “Don’t leave me.”

Edmund sighed, his back to Maya as she held on to him. After a moment, he relented and turned to face her. With the tiniest pulse of mana, the armor retracted back into the crystal on his chest, which he used his free hand to remove and pocket. He let Maya hold tightly on to his wrist as he took a step closer. “I will stay a moment as the healers do their work,” he said softly, with clear exhaustion on his face. He paused a moment, studying Maya’s panicked expression, before adding, “Take a breath. We are not in danger for this moment.”

Maya’s breath quickened, the relief of Edmund’s reply allowing the rest of her emotions to overwhelm her. She tried for a moment to close the floodgates, but it was no use; tears fell in droves and quiet sobs wracked her frame, Maya wincing as she cried and burying her face into Edmund’s arm. After a moment, a medic gently pried her off of him, Maya relinquishing her grip on his wrist only when a nurse coaxed her behind a curtain so she could disrobe for examination - and only after repeated assurances that Edmund wasn’t going to leave.

The examination was mercifully brief; the medic used a device to scan Maya’s painful spots (after a moment of convincing her that “everywhere” wasn’t a sufficient description) and diagnosed two cracked ribs, several breaks in her ankle, some puncture wounds on her chest, and a broad smattering of bumps and bruises.

“Half an hour in a Damias should do the trick for you, Your Holiness,” the medic concluded, placing an adhesive patch on her upper arm. Maya’s pain immediately began to subside, reducing quickly from all-encompassing agony to only a dull throb in her ribs and ankle. A new, potentially drug-induced calm washed over her, and for the first time since their escape, Maya drew a deep breath. She nodded.

The medic looked to Edmund. “Are you injured, Sir? We can take care of you while Her Holiness is in treatment.”

Edmund simply shook his head. “No… I’m fine right now. I’ll let you know if that changes.” He was lying through his teeth, but getting checked out was at the bottom of his list of priorities. He poked his head in to check on Maya, giving her his patented stoic nod. She seemed calmer by his approximation. “Maya… they’re going to keep an eye on you while I check in with Dame Albakova, but I will be here with one phone call. I’m not going to let these cultists hurt you.” Edmund’s hands balled into fists for a moment, knuckles white as nails dug into his palm. “I swear it.”

Maya was indeed calmer; the painkiller patch seemed to affect more than just her pain, but she wasn’t going to question it. She was, however, still uneasy when Edmund announced his plan to leave. She had a protest ready on her lips when she took notice of his tone; fists balled up and posture stiff, even in her growing medicated haze Maya could tell that her Templar was gravely serious. She wasn’t entirely trustful of the security of their new locale - she’d been confident in Giles’ security too, she recalled bitterly - but something about Edmund’s resolve was comforting enough to earn him a nod.

“Okay,” she reluctantly agreed, repeating the word she uttered just before her fall. This time felt like just as much of a leap of faith. As she allowed the medic to assist her onto a stretcher, she considered insisting that Edmund come back quickly as soon as he was free. However, something told her it didn’t need to be said.

---

---

Against his better judgment, Tyler followed orders. He should’ve been out there searching; every second the knights looked was a second the Kaudians got further and further away with their prize, but Tyler had to make no such concessions. He could trade seconds for minutes with ease. Of course, the weight on his shoulders made no attempt to help with that; Lucas in top shape was still a liability to carry along, let alone the sorry state he was in now. There wasn’t a spot on the planet Tyler trusted to harbor him while he searched right now either. If they could infiltrate the Giles estate in force, they could get anywhere.

So he made his way to the rendezvous point wordlessly, no matter how Lucas snapped. Ulysse wasn’t the priority here, the Scions were - he was. Even safely inside the fortifications of Stern Hill, Tyler kept Lucas draped across his shoulders, despite how his back ached for a respite. Nothing could be trusted and he would need to bolt at any moment. It wasn’t until they were all ushered onto the train that he finally let his Scion down. Far more gently than he had been the entire night prior, Tyler tilted his body and deposited Lucas onto one of the train seats. Unceremoniously, he dropped into the seat next to him and leaned his head backward with a sharp exhale. Yeah, he was gonna be sore tomorrow.

“You okay?” he questioned, head lulled to the side enough to barely catch sight of Lucas out of the corner of his visor.

Despite every single protest and curse and complaint he had on the way, Lucas was more relieved to be put down. At Tyler’s question, he lifted a hand, trying to see if whatever had happened was finished. He still felt extraordinarily weak and if something else happened he would just die, but at least he could move somewhat on his own.

“I’m alive,” He replied, letting his head rest against the wall and staring at a spot on the ceiling.

Tyler huffed in response, somewhere between a chuckle and a noise of exasperation. “Good enough.” He stayed slouched in his seat for a few moments, letting the noise of the train coax his heartbeat back to a calmer rate. It hardly worked.

“You know when I said shoot people that get too close, I didn’t mean literally right that second. I meant get the people I missed.” It was a petty gripe, but it was the first that came to mind. It was doubtful that Lucas knew the first thing about protecting himself - more likely he had a royal approximation of what he thought would protect him - so Tyler wasn’t exactly mad, but he still didn’t trust that idiot with a gun under anything but the most dire of circumstances.

Lucas let out an irritated huff. “I haven’t shot a gun in months, I needed to make sure I could still aim,” He replied curtly. “Pretty sure you missed the last dude that grabbed me. Or is that one my fault, too?”

“Well if you found out you couldn’t aim, that’s a civilian with a new hole in her head to deal with,” Tyler spat back, then sighed. “I’m not mad, I’m not blaming you. I’m giving you feedback on how you handled a shitshow, it’s never gonna be pretty. I’d rather iron out the issues now before this becomes a regular occurrence.” Evidently these bastards had a vendetta against him in particular or something. Or the Estoras, which probably made more sense.

Lucas’ eyebrows were knit together in frustration, but he decided to calm himself down before he would respond again. It was bad enough that the past few hours were essentially orientation for their Scion-Templar combination and he had to admit he hated how things turned out. He thought it was business as usual with the addition of some church knight following him around, he didn’t think he’d be getting attacked like this. The thought came with an unfamiliar anxiety that he hated.

“It sure sounds like you’re blaming me,” He muttered to himself. There was a tiny pause before he continued at regular volume with, “You really think that’s going to happen again?”

An annoyed puff of air escaped Tyler’s lips. Of course this guy couldn’t take criticism, why did he expect otherwise? Of course, he’d rather let that no-limbed moron run him through than try something like reassurance for his ever-so-pleasant Scion, so Lucas would just have to deal with whatever he considered Tyler’s nagging.

“It’s already happened twice,” he muttered, “And they showed their hand this time. That was a declaration of war, by someone if not the Kaudian government.” Especially if Irina couldn’t follow through on the search for Nadine. A second Scion captured would only embolden them. Even with Nadine recovered, they had no reason to relent after that display. The fact that they managed something like that in the heart of Veradis and killed a blessed Templar would be rallying point enough.

Gone were his carefree days, he supposed. Lucas hated the idea of having to constantly watch his back for enemies and jumping at moving shadows. But it would be necessary; if they sent that tin man after him, they wouldn’t be satisfied with the captured Scion of Lightning. He had debuted today and already there was some asshat after him–except now that the thought came to mind, how did they mobilize so quickly? The tin man knew where they would be, could manipulate time, could override his own control…was it possible that metal man could have visions, too?

Lucas closed his eyes for a moment, his hand to his head. The one advantage he had was gone and he really was entirely useless. No, he had been useless before the realization with a myriad of hazy visions and headaches that drove him to his knees. He winced a touch as his leg began to get restless. He figured he accidentally touched a bruise or something, as efficient as Tyler’s manhandling was, he ached all over.

“Great,” was his only response after a long pause.

Tyler didn’t respond at first. Lucas was thinking loud enough for both of them, and the Templar still didn’t know if he was the type of person who needed to be dragged out of his own head or just left alone. Not that he had much left to say anyway. Lectures on security were wasted on someone that would forget half of it to an adrenaline dump by tomorrow, and he was far too exhausted to bicker with him right now.

“I’ll kill them next time,” he announced in place of anything substantial, “I’m gonna take back whatever they took from Theo and then I’m gonna kill every one of them.” Tyler didn’t know how to ask the question he really wanted to, namely whether Lucas intended to be a burden. It was one thing to say he’d dedicate himself to the investigation of Theodore’s murder; it was another to contend with armed terrorists.

Carefully, he continued, “Going forward, I need to know whether you want me to do all the heavy lifting or not.”

Lucas wasn’t stupid, he knew what Tyler was trying to say. He dropped his hand and stared at him, clearly displeased. It wasn’t like he was trying to be useless! How in Incepta’s name was he supposed to know all this was going to happen?! But as quickly as the anger came up, it dissipated as he caught himself. No, it was a legitimate question. He couldn’t do anything against the tin man and he was sure he’d come back. Tyler won that time with his swordsmanship and tactics but would he get away with it next time? If Tyler fell, what then?

Then Lucas’ life was forfeit and he’d meet the same fate as Theo.

“I’ll do what I can,” He didn’t mean to give a non-answer, but for the first time in a long time, he was unsure. “But I wonder…if they took time from Theo, what do they still need me for?” It was a question with no real answer, but it bothered him the same way his magic failed him, troubling him greatly.

Tyler fully turned his head to look at Lucas now, a curious squint leveled at him beneath the impassive visage of his armored helmet. What did that mean? Was that an admission that, yes, he was useless, but he intended to do better, or was that a simple way to save face when confronted with the fact that he’d done nothing but hide behind Tyler’s leg the whole time?

“Maybe Captain Dickless wants a friend. Can’t have too many time-stoppers in your army, I’d assume.” If they could mass produce the capacity to stop time off Theo alone, there never would’ve even been an attack, they would’ve just whisked all the Scions away in the span of a second and left everyone but Lucas woefully confused.

“And I think you can do a little better than you did today. We’ll work on it.” It was a goad, but there was no bite to it. Tyler mused as if it were a passing comment about the weather. Not praise, not condemnation. It simply was.

More than one time-stopper? Then again, tonight was proof that it was possible. Somehow. Lucas almost wanted to reply with some senseless joke about not having any interest if there wasn’t a dick involved, but he kept it to himself. He’d have to work on keeping his calm, he had to admit that Tyler had a point in not exactly handling the situation well. If he had kept the man talking, he could have tried to get some answers.

He didn’t get a chance to think on it too hard as Tyler spoke again. Guess his Templar wasn’t deeming him a hopeless case just yet. Even if it was half-hearted or just a thought Tyler decided to think out loud, Lucas nodded. “I’ll do better,” He replied quietly. He almost regretted saying it out loud, feeling like a little kid trying to get approval.

“And if not, I’ll have to play along with Father’s house arrest,” Now that was another thing that had bothered him earlier, but considering the shitshow that went down, it was understandably put aside. He must’ve done something to piss his old man off, but he couldn’t really think of any one thing. It could’ve just been a culmination of everything, but why now then? Oh well, that was a problem for Future Lucas.

Speaking of the future, his eyes flickered towards the tunnel. “We’re probably heading for Veradis Castle. There will probably be a medic team on hand for us. That includes you, too,” He looked at Tyler’s arm, then at Tyler himself. “Don’t go playing hero, just get it wrapped up as soon as possible.”

“Pssh, I’m fine,” Tyler huffed. Sore? Definitely. Bruised? Maybe a little. Hurt? Hardly. Then again, if that weird sword had done anything else that he hadn’t noticed yet, it’d be better to catch it early. If his arm fell off from wasting Kaudian death-sword disease, he’d be no better than his opponent. Okay, he’d still be three limbs better, but that was beside the point. “Can you walk?”

Lucas raised a pointed eyebrow at Tyler. ‘Fine’, huh? Did Tyler think Lucas wouldn’t notice considering how much time he was on his shoulders? He momentarily ignored Tyler’s followup question. “You’re fine,” He repeated, incredulous.

“Peachy. It’s a bruise. I’ve gotten worse from people I like.” Yeah, yeah, Tyler would see the medic like a good boy. Hopefully no one else had a real injury, or he’d probably end up walking away while they were being treated and hate himself when he woke up in pain tomorrow.

“Nice,” Lucas commented, scratching his chin. “The most I’ve gotten is bite marks, but those don’t last.” He didn’t think he would appreciate getting bruised on purpose.

Tyler was glad his face was covered; the look he shot back at Lucas could’ve curdled milk. He made a disgusted noise regardless. “Wrong ‘like’.” Lucas better have been able to walk, or Tyler was going to let him crawl inside at this rate.

Aw, that wasn’t as much of a reaction as Lucas hoped to get. Oh well, better not to push it. He did, however, wiggle a touch. He still felt off and weak, but he could probably walk alright. He was going to take a bath, get drunk, and pass out ‘til the morning. Or at least, that was what he wanted to do, but there was something he could get here if Elijah was also around.

As Lucas lifted his leg, he suddenly remembered how Tyler kicked the tin man. “How did you do that kick again?” He asked. “Like…do you lean back and put all your force into it?”

Now Tyler could only stare back at him incredulously. Was that a euphemism for something? No, it sounded like he really was asking about a kick. An amused snort escaped his mouth. Even without the sudden tonal shift, it was absurd, really. That was a question people asked after a sparring round, not after watching him boot a terrorist into a table of food.

“Kinda? It’s a little more technical than that.” He entertained the question vaguely, mostly because he didn’t quite remember what specific kick Lucas was talking about. “Also depends if you’re kicking to make space or actually hurt.”

“So it wasn’t just for show, good,” Lucas nodded, a glint in his eye as he brought his hand to his mouth. It had been so unexpected and he hadn’t seen any knight do something like that before. “That’s the first thing I want to learn.” The element of surprise was vital, after all.

Unless he was fucking with him. The visor didn’t help in that regard. Whatever, he’d take that chance. It reminded him of some show he saw once as a kid and thought it looked cool. Of course, that was something he was never going to admit out loud, but so long as he could replicate it, then it was fine.

Tyler stared a bit longer, then - fuck it, he laughed. “Yeah, okay. We can do that.” There was a decent chance Lucas had horrible timing and would end up with his leg cut off when he inevitably tried it, but he had to start somewhere. Desperate times or whatever.

The prince was decidedly in a better mood than when the conversation started. He did, however, finally feel the adrenaline and weariness creep up on him at last. He nodded once again before making some half-assed attempt at making himself comfortable–though he was starting to feel aches here and there with each movement–and let out a tiny sigh of exhaustion.

“To think I was going to stay up all night,” He said, more to himself than anything as he closed his eyes. “...wake me up when we get there, or just drag me to whatever room they give me.”

Tyler hummed in affirmation. He had the strangest feeling Lucas would scream at him if he woke up being carried once again, but whatever. He’d gotten permission. Not that he felt like carrying the Scion anymore himself, so maybe Lucas had lucked out.

When the train arrived at their destination - Veradis Castle, apparently - Tyler disembarked and gave the duchess only enough attention to figure out where he was ordered to go. No disrespect to the Bachmeiers’ hospitality, but Tyler was no longer in the mood after the travesty of a party they’d just attended. He paid his due diligence to the medic, letting the woman prod her scanner into the many dark spots on his skin and let him off with only a wrapping over his wounded arm and an assurance that it looked like any other bout of blunt force trauma.

With that concluded, and without a Scion to babysit any longer, Tyler made for the ballroom. It felt wrong, allowing them to be separated - and even more wrong to think he was missing the prince’s company, if only in a roundabout, duty-bound way - but the debriefing sounded far more important than tucking His Highness in for a nap.

---

@Hero

---

The sprint out of the ballroom turned into a marathon as Jannick led Hollyhock through the darkness. Jannick’s lungs should have been burning, his body complaining about injuries and exertion, but he didn’t feel any of it; as he ran, it felt almost like he was floating, eyes and hands and feet without a body connecting them, with the only object in his mind reaching the fortifications at Stern Hill.

Jannick didn’t miss a step when a Knight ushered the pair of them through a solid wall; even if he wasn’t already familiar with this fortification from his policing days, he wouldn’t have questioned anything coming from a friendly uniform. The first pause he allowed since they fled the ballroom was sitting down on the train, Jannick ensuring Holly took the window seat so he could box her in, just in case. His whole body thrummed with adrenaline; it took several minutes on the train before a coherent thought even entered his mind, and that was only in response to a squeeze of his hand, ensuring that Holly was really there next to him.

He eventually gave Holly a cursory look-over, seeing that she didn’t appear injured, but the blood staining her arm concerned him until he found its source. His armour was full of it, in addition to a few dents in his pauldron and breastplate where the masked gunmen shot him. He was sure there were more dents he couldn’t see – by the Mother, with police gear he’d be dead three times at least from these injuries - but an exploratory wiggle told him nothing seemed broken, and if he ran this long without falling over dead, then he couldn’t have been bleeding much.

But the longer he sat, the more he felt the true toll of his time in the melee: no broken bones, that was good, but gradually every joint in his body started to ache, his neck grew stiff, and his shoulder seemed less enthusiastic about moving by the second. His free hand still gripped the shortsword he’d liberated from one of his attackers, and after a brief examination, Jannick was almost disappointed. Under all the blood, it was junk; maybe not the absolute bottom of the barrel, but pretty close. Terribly balanced and made of cheap steel, it looked like something he might have confiscated in a drug bust – minus the kitschy home modifications. This thing was bog standard, straight out of the bargain bin. If he’d have been able to see it in the light, he probably wouldn’t have entrusted his life to it.

Hollyhock was silent when it came time to disembark, and Jannick followed her lead, tucking his sword away for use as evidence later. A few times he thought to say something, maybe ask her if she was okay, but the words never formed. It was a useless question anyway: of course she wasn’t okay, she just lived through a terrorist attack and saw more death and destruction in the space of twenty minutes than most people ever experienced in a lifetime.

But she wasn’t injured – that was a good start. Instead, she wanted to wash up. Jannick followed dutifully behind, reasoning that he would see a medic about his shoulder after he was certain that Holly was safely put away. That was, until Holly threw him an all-too-familiar smirk and took off down the hallway.

Ambling along up until that moment in a sort of post-adrenaline haze, Jannick suddenly snapped to attention, almost bowling over the poor servant as he broke out after his charge. Foreboding questions flashed through his mind; had she seen something? Was the castle being infiltrated too? A quick glance around revealed nothing threatening, but his mind flooded with fear that he would lose her for a second time that night – and that this time, he wouldn’t be as lucky. It took Jannick’s now-cold and aching body everything it had to keep up with Holly, joints protesting loudly as she came upon a guest room.

Jannick burst into the room after her, stopping only when he saw that she wasn’t escaping through the window to lean against the door frame. He tapped his chest, breathing hard in the new open air as his helmet receded back into his gorget. His hair was damp and stuck to his forehead, but his eyes were wide with alarm.

“Why are you running?!” he demanded, heedless of his volume. “Mother’s tit, Holly, why do you always run away from me?!”

What Jannick had seen after he had charged into the room wasn’t the same Hollyhock that had sat in a cold silence. It wasn’t the smug Hollyhock that had decidedly managed to sprint away in full view. It was a Hollyhock that had tears welling, but a refusal to cry. A Hollyhock that kept her arms tight to her body so that she wouldn’t shake.

She could have refuted his words. She could have played the dozens as the two of them usually did. She could have explained why she felt that, in that moment, decided to run away. But she didn’t. Instead, she slowly approached the entry that Jannick had been leaning against. Her feet dragged each step. Her gaze avoided his face.

And Hollyhock slowly closed the door.

Jannick had more words waiting in the wings, ready to launch into a disorganized tirade about how Holly’s escapism habit could have gotten her killed, how none of this would have happened if she’d have just stayed by his side, how she needed to grow the fuck up and listen to him for once in her pompous, sheltered life - but it all died in his throat when he finally saw what was standing in front of him. Holly wasn’t getting on with her night, she wasn’t snickering at him. She wasn’t the bored, mischievous aristocrat’s daughter he was used to, nor was she one of Incepta’s glorious chosen like the stained glass window behind her. She was just a scared little girl coming apart at the seams.

He only watched in mute horror as Holly shambled closer, wishing he could recapture his words as she slowly closed the door. He stumbled back when the door nearly met his face, staring at it for a moment in stunned silence. He rubbed his face, inadvertently smearing it with half-dried blood from his gauntlet, and used all of his strength to drag himself down to Ballroom A. All anger had drained from him in an instant, replaced only by cold regret – for his outburst, and for everything else.

---

Sara's moment of fervor was short-lived. With Ionna's help, they had quickly dispatched the two enemies waiting outside, but her detect heat spell was almost unnecessary as the quiet of the woods outside drew her attention immediately to the sky and loud, rhythmic thrum of the helicopter making its way southeast. Sara reached a hand towards the vehicle in a futile gesture, cursing herself for not having the courage to learn a ranged fire spell. Of course, even if she did, assuming Nadine was on the helicopter, she couldn't risk attacking it. And as the endorphins wore off, as the zeal slowly left her body, Sara felt suddenly very cold despite the heat emanating from her gauntlets. In dejection, Sara turned to Ionna, knowing it was impossible for the two of them to catch the helicopter. "We should...regroup with the others."

Sara and Ionna were the last to arrive at Stern Hill. Sara quickly scanned the group, making sure that all besides the lightning pair were present, until her eyes fell on the hostile and disappointed frame of Theobald. She approached him, initially to make sure that he had not come to harm, but it soon became such that she approached him to receive her punishment. Was he going to kill her like he threatened? Probably not, not with this many people watching. But whatever it was, Sara felt she deserved it. She was already disappointed in herself for failing to save Nadine, so this would only add injury to insult. Sara looked up at Theobald with determination and defiance in her eyes. She had tried her best in an impossible situation, but she was ready to face her responsibility regardless. Though the slap rocked her, turning her head and upper body to the side, Sara stood her ground until Theobald turned away from her, after which she followed him through the rock face illusion and onto the train in silence. Throughout the ride, Sara did not dismiss her armor, not because she was still worried that they would be attacked, but because she did not want to reveal her fresh burns, knowing that such a hideous sight may be too much for the more sensitive among them to stomach. Yet the pain in her arms was catching up to her as the color left her face. Sara felt herself swallowing repeatedly to suppress a visceral disgust but couldn't tell whether this was from the disappointment of her failure or the fever that she was beginning to develop that left her body cold. Throughout the train ride, Sara sat upright, emptying her thoughts and trying to maintain composure, though she hoped in her mind that there was a medical facility at the end of the tunnel.

Duchess Bachmeier's introduction came and went like a blur as Sara realized that her fever was beginning to incite delirium. Afterwards, she shuffled off wordlessly to the medical team to get her arms treated. Only behind the privacy of a medical curtain did Sara finally dismiss her armor, allowing the medic to inspect her injuries. Seeing the severity of her burns, the medic offered a special procedure involving a salve and the use of casts that would allow the burns to heal with little to no scarring though the healing process would take significantly longer, so Sara insisted that he use the simple burn cream and bandage her arms; after all there was still work to be done. And a part of Sara felt that she should be 'branded' for her failure. She did however pop a few fever reducers before leaving.

Afterwards, Sara made her way to the ballroom, where she handed in her crystal without a fuss. She would understand if they never gave it back to her. Not only had she abandoned her duty to protect Theobald, she had failed to save Nadine and disobeyed Irina's orders to retreat. If her title of templar was revoked, perhaps it would be for the best. Theobald could have a new templar he could be proud of, and Sara could return to the orphanage and resume her life as a humble sister of the church.

---

The burden of their failure weighed heavy on Ionna’s back as she and Sara made their way to Stern Hill empty-handed. She could see it in the Fire Templar too, and found herself hoping, hypocritically, that the woman wouldn’t blame herself. Nadine had already been gone, and if she had truly been in that helicopter, what were Sara’s options? Blast it and the Scion out of the sky? If anything, Ionna had let them down. She was the Templar of Metal, and if she hadn’t been so hopeless when it came to magic, maybe she could have pulled it out of the sky.

But this wasn’t helping anyone—it certainly wasn’t helping Nadine. The best thing they could do was regroup and hope Dame Irina could organize some sort of rescue party.

Well, actually, that seemed to be about the worst thing they could do.

It seemed like they’d been there all of two seconds before Theobald marched over. The Scion of Fire didn’t look much worse for wear, but Ionna had expected as much; he was probably a more fearsome soldier than most of the Templars. She smiled, glad to see he and everyone else seemed to be in one piece, if not a bit shaken, and left to reunite with Dominka.

She heard the slap and whirled back around, having nearly mistaken it for gunfire. Theobald was already walking away, and Sara followed quietly behind. Ionna was dumbstruck, and deep inside her a tiny flame was incensed, but it was already too late to do anything as the lot of them were ushered onto the train.

Sitting beside Dom, Ionna spent the whole ride watching the Scion of Fire. He was cold. Deceptively inhuman. Her father’s warnings needled her, a mounting dread she couldn’t shake off. Had she been wrong? Was this really what he was? Surely Incepta saw more within him, but then again, her father had always said to trust her own eyes first—not out of sacrilege, she thought, but rather because blind faith was no faith at all. What some might see as a trial to endure, Ionna might see as a challenge to overcome.

So which was Theobald, trial or challenge? She was less sure than before.

Like many others, Ionna drifted through the introduction to their new abode in a daze that she didn’t shake off until the Templars were once again separated from their Scions. Looking around at the giant stained-glass windows, she was struck with a sense of déjà vu. Hadn’t they just done this? She supposed things were a bit more protected here, but still, trading one noble’s mansion for another didn’t sit right with her.

As the Templars entered the ballroom, she handed over her crystal. The attendant paused, glancing at her prosthetic, surprised that it hadn’t come off with the armor. Perhaps they expected she might hand it over as well. It got a snicker out of her.

“Sorry, disarmored, not disarmed,” she said with a wink, and proceeded into the ballroom with the others.

Part of her wanted to find Sara, commiserate, and tell the woman Nadine’s capture wasn’t her fault. But would that really help? Maybe it was better if she just gave her some space, and tried once things were a little less…raw. For now, she decided it was better to focus on quelling her own anxiety. She had a feeling a Dame Irina wasn’t going to be happy with them.

addressing:Bianca, Rosemary@Hero Theobald @Xiro Zean

---

Justinian glared at Bianca. He bared his teeth. He muttered every curse he could think of and several more he made up on the spot.

He did not fight her, however.

All of that had left him the moment his own element turned its back on him. By the time they were ushered onto the bullet train, he couldn't even manage the token resistance of anger or outrage. He could only sit in his seat, staring at his chest, scratching absently at the seemingly dim spot where the Incepta's mark had once shone prominently. He couldn't even get it to spark now. It brought out a chuckle—a dry, pitiful thing. Part of him was screaming to do something. Try and comfort the other Scions, one of whom was the closest thing he had to a friend who had just gone through that horror with him. To call out Theobald's casual abuse of his own Templar for something she was clearly eating herself up about. To stop feeling sorry for himself. But he couldn't bring himself to care. Theo's death, Lucas's coronation, his own lockdown, the stir-crazy feeling that had been eating him alive for years now—he was just too drained to even think about helping anyone else right now. 

Another failure to uphold his self-ordained task as a protector, another dry chuckle that only he knew the cause for.

The arrival at the Royal Castle was equally funny—to be surrounded by such glamorous finery after a night so terrifically awful, capped off by being offered rest and conversation in the princess' Snuggery. He might've made a note of how ridiculous it all was if he were in better spirits, but instead he followed the giant oaf of a Fire Scion on the way to the snuggery. He was halfway there when he realized he hadn't even talked to Bianca about it, but honestly, he didn't think he had it in him to face his captor right now. It would just lead to yelling. It always led to yelling. Or Silence. Or Passive-aggression.

As they approached the Snuggery, however, Justinian did his best to put on a least a passing resemblance to a smile. As much of a mess as he felt, he didn't need to put that on the young girl who had just gone through hell. What she needed now was any form of reassurance and. . . he could do that, right?

"Seems like it's just going to be the uh. . . three of us, Princess Rosemary?" Justinian manages a tired bow as he steps in, seeking to sink into the nearest soft object he could find and get off his feet. Every so often, he'd scratch at his chest, as he'd been doing the whole ride here.

---

Dominika awoke at Veradis Castle. The nightmare faded slowly behind the heavy walls. Left behind was a melancholy feeling, a bitter tasting drink laced with anxiety.

Kasper, the Scion of Shadows, had saved her. He had cut down several of her assailants to rescue her. His templar Zacharie had spirited her away in the seconds of silence that followed. She was grateful. She wasn't a fighter like some of the others. She had grown up on the docks. She could stand up for herself. She knew how to shout. She knew how to curse. She knew how throw a punch. But she didn't like hurting people. She hadn't killed anyone. Not yet. Instead, she had maimed. Remembering she was filled with nausea. The sound of bones crumbling, pulverizing between layers of unforgiving metal. The screaming that followed, maddened curses and weeping eyes full of endless pain. The scene of horror she had created played again and again in her mind like an infernal violin string being plucked asunder.

Guilt tugged at her heart. She had been forced to act. She had no choice but to defend herself. She had been attacked. She had been in grave danger. All the same, she felt mostly ashamed. She had been violent. She had been cruel. She had not intended to be. She had not wanted to be. She had maimed. She had maimed unthinkingly and unhesitatingly. She had sundered a limb with her powers. Was that really what Incepta wanted?

She wasn't so sure.

Maybe it was right that she had lost her powers. She had earned the pain she felt, the sickening lurch that overwhelmed her as her powers were torn from her. The weakness that had sent her reeling to the floor. Whatever the affliction was, it had merely lessened. It surprised her. How empty she felt. It was a dull, throbbing pain, that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. It had to have been much worse for the other Scions, enmeshed in their powers as they were, bound together by long years. She could remember months earlier, before she had become a Scion, it was not so long ago. To feel so different now, so foreign from that version startled her. And frightened her.

Surrounded by the finery of the castle, Dom did not feel terribly cheered. Fine places held no great comfort for her. She felt apart, out of place, and even more disconnected from the other Scions. Her shoulder hurt, but it was no great wound, merely an ugly bruise that would fade soon enough. In happier times she would have marveled at some of the metal work adoring the castle, but the her thoughts remained scattered.

She had felt as if she was still dreaming, watching someone else from afar as a medical team attended to her. Her joys were easy to number. She was alive. Ionna was alright. She held no doubts about her templar. She carried no volcanic anger like the the Scion of Fire. Ionna was brave. She had acted well. She had fought honorably. And she had been heroic. She had tried to rescue Nadine. That was all that mattered. To strike another for acting so selfishly seemed cruel and Dom could not approve.

"Your Holiness, you have a moderate bruise on your shoulder, I have applied an ace bandage that should speed up your recovery," the medic treating her said, returning her from the storm that crashed over her thoughts. She managed a quick, sincere thank you, before requesting a moment alone.

She saw herself as a brittle metal. Full of cracks following a heavy blow against a stronger object. She had wanted to run. She had wanted to do anything but fight. Wiping away unbidden tears, Dom took a slow, deep breath. She knew little of battle magic. She was inexperienced as a Scion. Her hands were shaped by the tools she had used to build ships. Her heart belonged to the ocean, to the distant horizon. And her mind was full of ideas. She knew metal. She knew her tools.

Metal could be melted down. Metal could be reforged. Metal could be tempered. She had to be strong. She had to become stronger. Tears could wait. They had to.

---

Dressed in clean clothes. Dom followed a servant through the winding corridors of the castle. Afraid of getting lost, she had asked for help in finding the Snuggery. A hot shower had offered only short relief, but at least the blood had washed off, it hadn't helped much that it wasn't hers. She did not bother with makeup, she'd had to reach back, to the shipbuilder she had once been. She thought only of the great project, the work they were engaged in for the Goddess. Steps had to taken. Dom would have preferred to remain in the quarters she had been provided. She longed to forget, to let images from the ambush fade. She wanted to retreat to her workshop, to bury herself in one of her personal projects. However, her feelings were not important. Her fears didn't matter. She had a duty. And she had a purpose.

Such lofty ambitions did not change the redness visible around her eyes. She couldn't help it. To cry in private seemed an acceptable response. Dom hoped that Nadine was alright. She liked the Marchioness, she had been so kind. It was impossible not to worry. To feel sorrow for the newly injured and dead. She did not need to wonder long what her predecessors would have done. She knew they would have fought. Mikhail Vadim and Maxwell Alderman, they were soldiers, commanders, and masters of war. It would have been nice to speak to them, they would have known what to do, she thought, trailing the servant as she politely recited the storied history of the castle.

In desperation she almost asked the kindly servant for advice, before the woman stopped abruptly and gestured towards a set of double doors, wrought from oak in a manner that spoke to Dom of the delicate ouch of a master woodworker. With a low curtsy, the servant vanished in a swish of her ornate dress, and Dom found herself standing alone.

Raising her hand, Dom knocked gently, before stepping uncertainly inside of the room as the doors opened for her, catching the tail end of Justinian's comment as she .

"Perhaps...we can be four? I would welcome some company on this night," Dom said with a smile only somewhat contrived. The other Scions might have answers. They shared her grim experiences in the ballroom. Even the poor child princess.

Every limb Lucas had felt stiff, like he had never stretched them before. His movements were on the sluggish side but he refused to let himself lag behind and have that banshee Dame Sonia or the ice witch Dame Irina come bark at him to hurry up. The conversation with Tyler had done wonders for his mental exhaustion, and he was determined to undertake his instruction and make himself somewhat useful. Duchess Bachmeier was as stern as ever, but she was about the same as a majority of the Bachmeiers. Once he had collected bandages to cover the spots where he was getting bruised–including one he had missed on left cheek, probably from where his face collided with Tyler’s armor repeatedly–he felt like he shouldn’t waste the opportunity he was presented with. Veradis Castle was home to him once and boasted a magnificent library. The Estora library bore him nothing in regards to his condition, so he was hoping he would have better luck here.

It was strange how a foreign castle felt more like home than his own did. Then again, a majority of his youth was spent here. That and he took every chance he could to stay outside of Estora Castle he could get. He needed no direction and went on his way, ignoring the looks he got from Templars as he went in a direction no others went. The palace was absolutely swarmed with palace knights; he assumed everyone was called to duty. Despite the night’s events, Lucas felt it was overkill; attacking some noble’s manor was one thing, but attacking Veradis Castle was just stupid and he doubted that the terrorists would do as much. Tonight’s attack was carefully calculated and relied on logic and tactic. They won their prize if Ulysse’s death and Nadine’s disappearance said anything, going any further would unravel their win.

He scratched the spot above the bandage on his face before he spotted Elijah. He wondered if he could get away with strong-arming the Archbishop into letting him leave. The one thing Veradis Castle didn’t have was his bed, and he wanted to sleep in it. His tracks already altered and he approached the man, only stopping when he realized he was talking to someone else.

Archbishop Elijah was in deep conversation with Henry Bachmeier, Rosemary’s grandfather. He looked the same as ever; his eyes were sharp and focused, his stature domineering whoever he interacted with, yet he was attentive to every word Elijah spoke. Not that Lucas thought Elijah would waste his time since Henry wouldn’t subject himself to a conversation he had no interest in.

Interrupting was in poor taste, but Lucas couldn’t help himself. He approached the pair and gave a respected bow. “Archbishop, Dowager Prince, I hope you’ll forgive the intrusion,” Lucas stated once his head was raised.

The archbishop gave Lucas a gentle smile. “Not at all. I am glad to see you here,” Elijah said. “I wanted to offer any comfort I could to the holy ones, but I fear the night’s events may have taken their toll and rest would be paramount to anything said. Will you not be resting, Your Highness?”

“I will, I just hoped to get some reading for the night,” Lucas’ initial desire to leave had evaporated in Henry’s presence, his eyes flickering to the man.

Elijah seemed to catch Lucas’ gaze and he looked to Henry. “If you’ll excuse me, then. Dame Sonia was kind enough to take over palace security, but I must offer her my support while Dame Irina debriefs the Templars.” He bowed to the pair and took his leave.

Lucas didn’t give Elijah much attention once he was out of sight, but now that they were alone, he wasn’t sure what he wanted to say. It was like the buildup to the moment had culminated in a quiet nervousness as he looked up at Henry, suddenly feeling like he was a child again.

For a moment, Henry paid him no mind; instead, as the archbishop departed, he whipped out a smartphone and tapped at it, seemingly engrossed in whatever he was seeing. After a moment, he pocketed it, turning a critical eye to Lucas.

“First my father’s funeral, and now this; does it always take a disaster for you to come visit?” he chided, raising a skeptical brow. His tone was matter-of-fact, but the Dowager’s hard-driving sense of humour was familiar to Lucas.

“Ah, but where are my manners?” Henry continued, motioning for Lucas to join him in a pair of plush leather chairs. “It is no longer Prince, but Scion, I hear. Still imitating your cousin, I see.”

The faintest hint of regret flashed over the older man’s face, but only for an instant; his features were schooled politely neutral by the time he sat in his seat. Once settled, Henry looked at Lucas frankly. “So, what do you want?”

An apology was on the tip of his tongue, but if Lucas was being honest, it would be an empty one. Besides, Henry would give him a tongue lashing if he did. True, he had distanced himself from Veradis after the death of Prince Aaron, and any legitimate reason he could have would just come off as hollow. He took his seat, taking care not to press his bloodied leg pant against the leather.

“That would be the fate of the Estoran Star,” He couldn’t really hold himself back after Henry brought up Theodore, but it was true. Theodore's shadow was large and Lucas didn't think it was possible to step out of it. But he didn’t linger on it as he decided to get straight to it; he couldn’t bullshit his own mentor. “I need something that’ll give me some insight into previous Scions. Ever since I inherited this magic, everything has gone to shit.”

“Doing your homework at long last?” Henry feigned shock. “I never thought I’d know the day when Lucas Estora sought out a religious education.”

Henry made himself comfortable, examining some speck on the armrest before continuing. “Considering you only formally became the Scion of Time this afternoon, I daresay you’ve set the speed record for things going to shit,” he suggested casually, before fixing Lucas with a piercing look. “But you’re not talking about the attack tonight.”

Lucas maintained eye contact, knowing that there was no use in waffling about. “No, although I’m sure the press will have a field day on how my debut will herald terrible luck for the next thirteen years or whatever bullshit they can think of,” That much they agreed on. He stopped, still guarded, but as he remembered telling Tyler, he knew it was better not to be alone in his struggle.

“My mana has been haphazard; publicly, I have been Scion for a week, but it’s been two. That first week was filled with seizures and attacks that have put me to my knees, and my holy sigil didn’t show up until seven days later,” He confessed in full, letting everything out. “And even after its appearance, things have been strange. I have a complete handle on my magic, but my visions result in a variety of physical ailments that have never been present on any of my predecessors. And said visions are incomplete, or hazy, or haphazard, none of which is right.”

He finally lowered his gaze, his heart thumping against his chest as his hand gripped the arm of the chair nervously. “And this morning, I foresaw a moment of camaraderie…with Theodore in my place.”

Henry listened quietly, growing visibly less enthused as Lucas went on. When he finished, the older man simply stared for a moment, examining each detail of the Prince in deep thought. Finally, he pressed into the armrest of his chair, muttering, “Nemo audiat.”

A blue ripple raced across every surface in the room, dampening all sound considerably. “And you thought it was wise to blurt all of that out in the middle of the library?” Henry asked condescendingly, rolling his eyes.

The prince stared at Henry, though he muttered, “I kept my voice down.”

“You used to keep your voice down when you chatted with your cousin past bedtime, too,” Henry shot back sarcastically, looking visibly agitated. It was a strange sight; the Dowager was always so composed, it was utterly foreign to see him not fully in control of his emotions. He looked away for a moment, apparently gathering his thoughts. “You weren’t lying; everything really is going to shit.”

Lucas was more than surprised at this sudden display; he was pretty sure he had never seen Henry like this. Even his cooing over his granddaughter was controlled, but this–if he didn’t know any better, he would think there was something that made the older man nervous. Henry Bachmeier, nervous! And unfortunately, that made Lucas’ anxiety creep up on him all over again.

“What do you mean by ‘everything’?” He asked, straightening up in his seat. “Because of the attack?”

“The attack is only a symptom,” Henry shook his head, waving off Lucas’ concern. “I mean everything. For one, this is all unfolding much sooner than it was supposed to.”

Henry didn’t elaborate, instead retrieving his phone as it buzzed repeatedly in his pocket. He scoffed at whatever the message was, tapping out a quick response before pocketing it again. He looked back up at Lucas, his gaze seemingly boring straight through the young Prince, before he conceded to whatever inward argument he seemed to be having with himself, and sighed.

“There’s a lot to catch you up on, Scion Lucas,” Henry stated flatly, standing up. “But there’s no time, not now. For now, you’ll have to settle for this.”

Henry murmured a spell, and a golden light pulsed under the fabric of his suit jacket, like a single glowing heartbeat. Reaching into that spot, Henry seemingly rooted around for a moment before pulling a long, silver object from his jacket: a tuning fork.

He motioned for Lucas to come closer, holding the tuning fork out for inspection. “My father gave this to me on his deathbed for safekeeping. But it was always meant for Theodore,” Henry explained. For all the tenderness the mention of an heirloom should have invoked, his tone was deathly serious. “Now, it belongs to you.”

There was a split second where Lucas absolutely hated how Henry referred to him. But he couldn’t dwell on that thought as his confusion wouldn’t get resolved, especially once Henry stood. Lucas stepped forward, biting his tongue to prevent himself from asking anything since it likely wouldn’t get answered anyway. The display of magic came as a surprise, but what was really the icing on top of the upside down cake was what Henry pulled out.

A tuning fork.

There was nothing different about it from the others Lucas had seen, even if it was a little bigger than a standard one. There was no hiding the mix of confusion and disbelief, though Lucas immediately looked up at Henry as he mentioned who it was meant for. He felt his chest tighten at the mention of Prince Aaron, but he didn’t understand anything.

“What is this for?” Lucas had to ask. “I haven’t played the piano since Theo died.”

Henry’s eyes burned, the older man clearly incensed, but he composed himself. “This is how you’re going to make sense of this debacle,” he hissed, “It was entrusted to William Bachmeier by Scion Anani herself, and now it’s yours.”

Henry took Lucas’ wrist, pressing the fork into his hand. He poked a finger into his chest, giving him a dangerous glare. “Keep it safe. Guard it with your life. If I hear you’ve lost it or let it get stolen, I will kill you with my bare hands.”

It didn’t seem like he was being sarcastic.

The glare was enough to silence any other question Lucas could have had. Granted, it was a tuning fork, so ringing it was likely the solution. But he almost wanted to call bullshit; now that he had it in his hand, the thing looked brand new. What kind of preservation techniques did the Bachmeiers have?! How could Anani have given this to William a thousand years ago if it looked like any old tuning fork he could get from a music shop? He almost wanted to ask if Henry was fucking with him, but he knew better.

His fingers gripped the tuning fork tightly and Lucas nodded at Henry. “Yes, sir,” He replied quietly. “I understand.”

Henry searched Lucas’ eyes for a moment longer, and apparently satisfied with what he saw, he removed his finger from the Prince’s sternum, moving instead to grasp him firmly by the shoulder. “May you walk in the light of the Goddess,” Henry blessed him like a father, every word utterly sincere.

With that, he dismissed the spell on the room, and the clamour of servants and guards was conspicuously audible from the hallway once more. Henry looked tired as his phone buzzed again, the Dowager snapping back to his usual temperament as he eyed the screen with haughty contempt.

“I have to go; and so do you,” Henry concluded, releasing Lucas’ shoulder at last. With that, he moved to exit the library, pausing only to add over his shoulder, “And try to visit sometime when everything isn’t going to shit.”

Lucas’ eyes never left Henry even as he walked away, and he caught himself reaching out to him. Part of him wanted Henry to stay longer, to stay with him. But ultimately, he put his hand down, knowing that he had no real justification for it. He was entrusted with something clearly important and was determined not to let Henry down. Of course, once Henry left Lucas alone, it was like everything came crashing down on him at once. The stress was giving him a headache, his anxiety gripped his chest and made it hard to breathe, and his exhaustion threatened to come back in full force. It was too much for one night.

Lucas placed the tuning fork in the pocket of his jacket, deciding that he had everything he needed from the library. He took in a deep breath and composed himself before departing.

Edmund Silvaine

In Collaboration with @Obscene Symphony

---

Edmund exited the medical room as Sara was entering, fresh out of his armor and starting to truly feel the exhaustion and stiffness that was setting in from a physically intensive evening. There was a slight comfort to the sting, however. It reminded him of his time as a Church Knight, when his work made a clear difference. He had kept his oath this evening, but that is all he could say for his abilities. Not that anyone else seemed to do better. The other Templars seemed to be caught off-guard as well, though most seemed to handle themselves adequately. Though, now that he thought about it, Sir Jacinthe was absent... along with his Scion. He hadn't seen either on the train, nor walking into the castle. He had nearly blocked out Lucas’ cry from earlier in the night. He had been fearless and well-skilled in magic. Guess neither were great defenses against bullets.

2 casualties at least, if they were lucky. This was bad.

Edmund pulled out his flip-phone, an indestructible little brick of plastic and internal electronics. He quickly scrolled through his miniscule list of contacts, before settling on a suitable name. He lifted the phone to his ear, waiting until he heard the line connect. Without waiting for a formal acknowledgement on the other end, he spoke in a hushed tone. "I need the duffel bag under my bed brought to Veradis Castle. Soldiers will meet you, they'll get the bag to me."

There was silence on the other end, before a confused voice on the other end responded. "Uhh... right. Ok."

"Keep the penthouse locked down. Maya is safe. I'll update the team when I have more info." He lowered the phone, ended the call, and quickly made his way to the nearest attendant. "An SUV from the city will be coming towards the Castle. Woman inside will have a bag for Sir Edmund Silvaine. Please pass that on to whoever is running point on security, and please ensure the bag makes it to my quarters. It's going to be a long night." With a swift nod, he turned to head off in the direction of Ballroom A.

Edmund was somewhat delayed in his arrival to Ballroom A. Upon entering, he didn’t much acknowledge the other Templars. An attendant stood at the door, holding open a box with several of the armor crystals. Edmund’s hand rested in his coat pocket, and the rifle remained slung over his shoulder. He shook his head. ”Not happening. Not yet.” He kept his fist closed around his armor crystal, hidden from view, and attempted to walk into the ballroom.

The attendant, a young woman wearing something resembling a Templar’s dress uniform, frowned. “Sir Edmund, I’m afraid I must insist,” she replied earnestly, stepping in his path and holding the box out to him for a second time.

Edmund’s stare was cold, the scowl returning in full force. ”You can insist all you like. I will do what I must to uphold my oath.” He quickly moved one leg forward, hooking it just past the attendant, and stepping forward yet again.

“Sir Edmund,” the attendant repeated, catching the larger man’s arm as he passed. She fixed him with a strong-willed stare. “Your oath is not endangered by submitting your crystal for data logging. I assure you it will be returned at the end of the meeting.”

Edmund stopped for a moment as he was held in place, silent and unmoving. His eyes were screwed shut for the moment, the swirl of fear and anger reaching a near boil in his throat. No amount of attempted prayers or recitations were quelling the waves of emotion overwhelming him. He turned his head to the attendant, opening his eyes while clenching his teeth. He hissed,”Tell that to Ulysse.” Muscling through the pain in his shoulders and back, Edmund shook off the grab with a quick turn of the torso and entered the ballroom.

“Sir Edmund, I would have thought you outgrew bickering with squires when you ceased to be one,” a chilly voice sounded from the side of the ballroom, where Dame Irina emerged suddenly from a well-concealed servants’ door. Edmund ignored her misplaced comment, instead simply turning his attention to Irina. She barely glanced up from the tablet in her hand, tapping a few more things before handing it off to another squire, who disappeared behind the closing door. The attendant with the box, apparently a Church squire, snapped to attention, only to be waved off by Irina. The young woman made for the same door, now only visible as a recessed panel in the wall, and received a few murmured orders from Irina before she, too, disappeared.

“We’ll deal with this later,” Irina continued, “For now, there are more important matters to attend to.” She made her way to the front of the ballroom, heels clicking as she gestured flippantly with one hand. It was a familiar signal, especially to those more recently out of Templar training: a signal to form up.

---

Rosemary’s voice carried through the majority of the room and greeted her guests before the princess would do so herself. She sat at a round table, slippered feet swinging back and forth without care. Her hands clutched a delicate looking cup but she made no effort to drink from it, golden eyes staring at the table.

The snuggery was elegantly decorated and looked to belong to someone much older than a six year old. The walls were painted a soft gue of gold and amber, flowing curtains draping the windows. The furniture was well maintained and carved of mahogany, a beautiful piano sitting in one corner of the room painted to match. Another corner boasted a small collection of what looked like picture books in an adorable reading nook. In the furthest corner was a miniature wooden castle bigger than the young princess that was modeled after the same castle they were currently in.

At the arrival of her first guest, Rosemary looked up from the table with a bright expression. “Sonia?” She asked, her expression falling a touch as she realized her protector hadn’t returned just yet. Nonetheless, she hopped down from her chair, revealing a simple, cream colored gown. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail with a blue ribbon, and tiny bunnies decorated the slippers she wore.

She picked up the skirt of her dress and curtsied properly. “Welcome, my honored guests,” Came a mechanical and well rehearsed greeting. “I am Princess Rosemary Clarabel Bachmeier Veradis and I am happy you decided to take up my invitation.”

Raising her head, she dropped her dress and looked up at each person, a tiny frown on her face. “...my heart is beating really fast so the Duchess said maybe this was a good idea ‘cause the party was scary,” She ended up admitting. “But we have tea here, and tea always helps ‘cause it’s warm and tastes like honey. Or I can read a story. I have Petey’s Pumpkin and Messy Marie and William’s Prayer so I can read and we can drink tea. Do you want a cup…?” She offered the room at large, looking at each Scion as her hand touched the table boasting a teapot and several empty cups.

---

Over the drum of the Damias at work, a pair of medical professionals approached the machine. One double checked the settings and made sure Maya was comfortable while the other placed a delicate chair down not too far from the Scion. After a few seconds, the curtain was drawn and the Templar of Water, Abram, cautiously led Princess Belle to her seat.

“Worry not, Princess, I was assured by the duchess that these professionals are some of the finest,” He assured her. Once Belle was properly seated, he knelt down next to her. “I have been summoned by Dame Albakova. I will return once our business is concluded.”

The blonde let out a heavy sigh. “I’ll be retiring after this; I’ve had too much excitement tonight and a bath sounds divine,” She admitted, wincing as she instinctively tried to wave him away. He nonetheless understood and bowed to her before leaving. She gave the room a look at last, letting herself look tired. Her eyes landed on the Damias and she realized Maya was in there.

Suppressing a giggle, Belle rested her chin on her right hand as her lips curved into a smile. “Oh my goodness, I think that gown may be your best look yet,” She couldn’t stop herself from teasing.

It had taken a few minutes for Maya to get comfortable inside the Damias. She was no big fan of small spaces, but the device did a good job of mitigating her burgeoning claustrophobia: it was lit softly, with a gentle breeze circulating fresh air throughout the glass compartment, and if she closed her eyes and focused hard enough, she could convince herself that she was laying in an open room rather than a glass coffin. It took a few tries, but she eventually relaxed, especially as the Damias’ healing effect started to take hold. Soon, she had nearly drifted off to sleep - until an unwelcome voice disturbed her.

Her eyes flew open at the sound, and for a second, panic gripped her as she was met with the sight of her reflection in the Damias lid, only inches away from her face. She didn’t get the chance to glare disapprovingly at her unwelcome guest; she had to close her eyes again and take a deep breath, willing herself to be calm and imagine a larger space around her.

“You’re awfully chipper for surviving a terrorist attack,” Maya finally shot back coldly, not opening her eyes. If the pain medication she’d been given dulled her irritation at all, she couldn’t tell. “Or did you avoid the mess by flushing yourself down the toilet?”

Belle let her laugh ring out. “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. I can’t say this is the first or last time I’ll be attacked,” She replied. “That’s the life of a royal, after all–people will always target the powerful and beautiful since they envy our position. I can see how that could be confusing since you’re only a Scion.”

“Oh, blow it out your ass, Princess,” Maya huffed, much too drained to bother coming up with a sly remark. Irritation was more welcome a feeling than the fear and panic that had previously seized her, but she was perilously low on patience for entitled brats. She felt around the Damias for a call button to have Belle removed from the room, but came up empty.

“Can’t they treat your broken nail somewhere else?” Maya complained, “Maybe if you go somewhere private you can bribe the medic for a pelvic exam.”

Belle was entirely amused by Maya’s words. “Projecting, much? I could be a friend and ask on your behalf if you’d like,” She said cheerfully.

The medic returned and checked on the screen at the base of Maya’s feet before turning his attention to Belle. She temporarily ignored Maya and gave the medical staff her attention, looking much wearier. “I still can’t move my arm. Is it broken?” She asked, a little worried.

“Could you tell me your symptoms, Your Highness?” The medic asked her.

“It feels weak and I can’t move it,” She frowned.

He paused for a moment before he tenderly touched her shoulder. “I believe it’s dislocated. Please fetch something for the pain,” He asked another medic before turning back to Belle. “I can put it back right away.”

The princess stiffened considerably, her smile widening. Her eyes flickered to Maya briefly and she cleared her throat. “Very well, then…” There was the tiniest waver in her voice, her eyes glued to the medic as he took his place next to her. “...I don’t suppose you could–”

“Please look at your friend in the Damias, Princess,” The medic instructed.

Belle let out a laugh, looking back at Maya. “Did you hear that? We’re frie–EEYAAAAAHHH!” Her sentence was punctuated by an unwilling shriek erupting from her throat. She immediately whipped her head back to the medic, furious. “Must you manhandle me so?!”

The medic, likely used to hearing such things, nodded. “Yes, Your Highness. This is the easiest way to go about it, but I urge you not to move your arm too much just yet,” He said as the other medic returned with a small tray that had what looked like several bandages and an ace bandage. “I promise, you’ll be right as rain in the morning. These will help you with the irritation, swelling, and pain, and they’re waterproof so you can have a bath if you so wish.”

Maya was about to unleash an even less polite insult when the medics returned, and she was forced to hold her tongue as the Princess got her arm looked at. Eyes still stubbornly closed, she huffed out a breath as Belle chided her, only to jump when she suddenly shrieked. Maya started to jolt up, thinking they were under attack again, but Belle’s complaint quickly banished her fear, replaced by a laugh that she struggled to conceal as a cough.

“Efficient here, aren’t they?” Maya teased at last, smirking. “I suppose even for royalty the tried-and-true methods are still best.”

Belle’s good hand gripped the chair tightly as she took in a deep breath, putting on a painted smile as she tried not to glare at the medic wrapping her arm up. “Very efficient,” Her words came between her gritted teeth.

She took in another deep breath to better compose herself, wincing a touch as the other medic applied a bandage on her upper shoulder. “Speaking of tried and true, I suppose you’ll be joining the others and accept the Crown Princess’ invitation?” She asked Maya. “I can’t imagine you’d pass up the opportunity to get a photo of the little princess.”

Well, Belle took the fun out of the situation awfully quick. Hearing her squirm was fun, but then she just kept talking.

Truth be told, it took a moment for Maya to understand what Belle was talking about. She had to think about it, gradually remembering bits and pieces of the speech she hadn’t really paid attention to in the first place. Something about the Rose Wing and the Archbishop’s orders. She had originally assumed they’d been brought to some Church property, but if Belle was to be trusted - a very big if - then they might actually be in Veradis Castle. Which made sense, she supposed, considering the wealth of security measures, but Maya was still uneasy.

“Unlikely,” she replied flatly, content to leave it at that until she remembered there were medics overhearing her. She cleared her throat. “These gentlemen warned me that I’ll be a bit weak after my treatment, and besides, I don’t imagine Her Highness is in a picture-taking mood.” Even if she was - and Maya herself certainly wasn’t - Maya had no idea where her phone was. Probably smashed in a thousand pieces back in the ballroom. And what a time to lose her phone; if she had it, she’d have already called Edmund to come and rescue her from this interaction. “I think rest is the best thing for me for now.”

Belle made a small noise of affirmation, watching the medics work. She managed to move her thumb a little, much to her relief. “What an entrance to the New Year,” She couldn’t help but muse, frowning. “I’ll have to petition Dame Irina for whatever information comes to light about the attack. Fortune favors the prepared…and I think anyone bold enough to attack a group of Scions won’t take it easy after their first try.”

She looked at Maya, her expression stern. “It goes without saying, but I hope you won’t let this shake you, lest it cause you to crack and crumble when there’s more to come,” She warned her. “But if you’re content to cry and cower, then I recommend hiding yourself somewhere and try not to let the paranoia take you.”

Belle’s look was lost on Maya, who had kept her eyes stubbornly closed throughout their encounter. Her expression was the picture of serenity; she might as well have been in a mud bath at her favourite spa. “I’ve already sent six heathens to the moon, Belle, my heart won’t break if I have to send a couple more after them.”

She said the words with utter nonchalance, but it was a lie. Even as she laid there, the very thought of the night’s events - and the memories it conjured - was almost too much for Maya to bear. She managed to keep her composure thanks to all the practice she’d gotten smiling demurely for cameras, but it took every fibre of her being to keep her breathing even, focusing on the thrum of the Damias to slow her heart as she prayed to the Mother to send Belle anywhere but here.

And the Mother answered, the sound of a chair scraping on the ground heard as Belle stood. “Stick with the ‘sweet girl’ act; the face of a psychopath doesn’t fit your preferred aesthetic,” She sighed, but she said no more as she waved off the medics and left.

---

Ballroom A filled gradually, the Blessed Templars eventually peeling themselves away from their charges to report for debriefing. As was perhaps expected, the ballroom was empty save for a white-clad attendant at the door who requested each Templar’s armour crystal. Dame Irina was absent at first; it seemed she had adopted Commander Fyodor’s “hurry up and wait” methodology. Tension grew as more Templars filed in, likely goaded on by the conspicuous absence of Sir Ulysse and Dame Sonia. Fortunately, anyone who asked after Sonia was soothed by the knowledge that she had been exempted from the debriefing to tend to Princess Rosemary; unfortunately, no such assurance was offered for Ulysse. Any conversation in the room was hushed, the night’s events weighing heavily on everyone.

The Templars were all unarmoured and in various states of disarray, many freshly out of medical treatment and sporting bandages or casts. Jannick, who forwent treatment, was the first to arrive, looking particularly agitated as he paced laboriously in circles, his eyes fixed blankly somewhere on the floor. With his armour dismissed, his uniform was surprisingly neat; a sharp contrast to the blood still smeared down his face.

Irina’s eventual entrance seemed to jolt the room awake, and any conversation immediately quieted. At her signal, the Templars lined up side-by-side, and for a moment, Irina was silent. She examined them each with a critical eye; to many, it would feel like being an Ordo Templi recruit again, submitting to morning inspection. Tilting her head up, it seemed that whatever she saw, she did not like.

“Tonight’s events are currently under investigation,” Irina announced at last, pacing back and forth as she spoke. It was an old habit. “Duke Giles is being questioned as we speak; additionally, several of the attackers were captured alive, and will be interrogated overnight. By sunrise, we will know exactly what happened, how the attack was carried out, who planned it, and their intentions. As it stands, it appears that the invaders were targeting Scions for capture; you will be informed when we know more. It is imperative that tonight’s events are kept as confidential as possible: the attack has enough publicity already, with the potential to spark widespread panic. Keep in mind that the chief desire of a terrorist is fear. We will not give it to them.”

Irina stopped pacing, turning toward the group. “You should know that Sir Ulysse is dead,” she informed them abruptly. Her posture visibly stiffened, and she paused for a long moment, but she maintained her composure. “At this time, Scion Nadine is unaccounted for. A search is underway; we will not stop until either she or conclusive evidence as to her whereabouts is found.”

She drew a breath, eyes hardening. “This is the threat you are up against. For some of you, this was your first exposure to real danger in your career as a Templar; for others, it would be better if it was.” Her expression darkened. “The Mother is truly with us; if she were not, your performance tonight would surely have ended catastrophically.”

“Like you, Sir Abram,” Irina’s sharp gaze locked onto Abram at the end of the line, who kept his gaze professionally forward. “You might as well have hung a neon sign around your Scion’s neck, with how she ran rampant tonight; I would think a Templar of your experience would know that attracting enemy attention is precisely never a good idea. Or you,” she moved on to Dame Bianca, “who made Scion Isabella look positively demure by comparison. You’re lucky your Scion didn’t kill a civilian with his reckless magic; it would have been safer for him to open fire into the crowd with a rifle of his own.”

“And speaking of,” she crossed to the opposite end of the line, eyeing Tyler, “It defies me how you decided that giving a delirious Prince a firearm was a good idea, or why you--” she turned to Edmund, “--concluded your acrobatic routine by shooting into the crowd yourself, but you’re both fortunate not to have bagged yourselves a stray Countess in the process.”

“But at least you were both acting in defense of your charges, which is more than I can say for these two,” she gestured to Ionna and Sara, moving down the line to tower over both of them, “one of whom abandoned her Scion to be rescued by Sir Zacharie--” she threw the mage the most commending look yet, which was only a slightly less disparaging glare, “--while the other left her charge to carve a bloody ream through the ballroom while she played at mother duck.” Irina fixed Sara with a chilling glare for a moment. The mark on her face did not go unnoticed, but Irina made no outward acknowledgement of it.

“Meanwhile,” Irina continued, turning her attention to Jannick, “Officer Weber here made the rest of you look like heroes while he waited to be rescued like a damsel in distress.”

Jannick glared defiantly at Irina, anger bubbling up inside him as the Dame’s piercing eyes bored dangerously into his own. They contended for a moment, but Jannick flinched first, tearing his face away in shameful and brooding disgust.

“You are not in training anymore,” Irina finally barked, casting an icy glare over the whole assembly. “You do not live in a world beyond danger; your chief adversaries are not stalkers, paparazzi, or rogue heretic preachers on the street. You are not babysitters,” she eyed Bianca, Edmund and Jannick in particular, distaste clear on her face. Her eyes burned with religious fervor. “You are Blessed Templars, the highest of the Ordo Templi, the holy aegis of the Mother herself, and you are all that stands between Her chosen and hordes of godless heathens bent on Her destruction. I expect you to act like it.”

Irina’s glare lingered on the assembled Templars for a moment, the weight of her words settling over the ballroom like a sheet of ice. Her absolute conviction was clear, as was her disappointment. Finally, she turned away, waving her hand dismissively. “You are dismissed,” she declared heartlessly, although she turned enough to point out Jannick, Sara, and Ionna. “Except for you; I’m not done with you three.”

@Hero @Scribe of Thoth @webboysurf @Mcmolly @Stern Algorithm

---

---

Ionna was no stranger to harsh teachers. In a lot of ways, Dame Irina reminded her much of uncle Dragomir, and their training regimes, while of course different on many scales, were similar in spirit, and certainly in rigor. They had similar expectations, and when they weren’t met, they expressed their disappointment in similar ways, right down to their expressions. It was what had made her tutelage under Irina more sufferable, while also quelling some of her own homesickness. Some days it really was enough just to hear another Rodion accent.

So, Ionna listened intently to the debriefing, and when the expected dressing-down came, she took hers on the chin. Frankly, it was harder to hear her criticisms of the others, Sara especially. Ulysse had been slain, there was no one else to look for Nadine. If anything, Ionna had been the one to hinder the Fire Templar’s search, though somehow she doubted that would have changed Irina’s opinion. Zacharie at least emerged relatively unscathed. That was good—she owed him big for taking care of Dom and Kasper. An extra cookie next time, maybe.

Either way, they were dismissed, and Ionna was a tad disappointed. She’d hoped for some good news, about Nadine, about the attackers, about anything. In her mind, nothing was beyond the ken of the church, and part of her had expected they’d arrive to find Fyodor waiting with the head of whoever had masterminded the attack. Sometimes it was easy to forget how human the church was. In its own way though, that was good.

But then Dame Irina called her back, along with Sara and the Wind Templar, Jannick. That, she guessed, was probably not good. Not for her, probably not for Jannick, but especially not for Sara. Ionna liked Irina, but she didn’t know her on a personal level. The woman was a soldier, and she was Rodion, and frankly her most recent experience with that combination left her extremely concerned for the only Kaudian in the room. If Sara ended up in her crosshairs, Ionna worried there might not be a Templar of Fire come daybreak.

That didn’t seem right. Sara hadn’t done anything wrong, or at least nothing any more wrong than the rest of them. She’d only followed Ionna after Nadine, and it wasn’t like Theobald had suffered in her absence. She shouldn’t be the one in the line of fire.

As the ballroom cleared save for the four of them, Ionna took a deep breath and reaffixed the smile to her face, before stepping forward. “What’s up, teach?” she asked, bubbly as ever. “Somethin’ we can help with?”

---

@Obscene Symphony@Stern Algorithm

“My father gave this to me on his deathbed for safekeeping. But it was always meant for Theodore–Now it belongs to you.”

Even people that lived under a rock knew that Theodore Estora was destined for greatness. The son of a duke yearned for more and dedicated his life to the betterment of people's lives. He was talented, he was charismatic, he was adored by everyone who met him. Even in private he was sincere and kind-hearted, a stark contrast from the majority of nobles whose masks were only loosely tied to their faces. When he became Scion after King Reginald passed, many had seen it as a natural progression. And it was; he immediately used his elevated status to do good and even began steps towards the unthinkable task of peace talks with a country that had warred with the Estoran Foundation for centuries. So it wasn't really surprising to learn that there were things Theodore was literally destined for, that there was something important enough that Henry had a thousand-year-old artifact meant just for him.

And now apparently Lucas had to deal with it.

As much as he knew that Henry would not have given something so precious to him if there wasn't a level of absolute trust, Lucas couldn't handle it at the moment. He wasn't going to toss the thing out the window or casually stuff it into a potted plant, but he was not ringing this thing right this second. Aside from his gut telling him that once he did there was no going back, it was just too much. He didn't want to be a Scion, he didn't want someone following him around all the time, and he didn't want to have to deal with some crazy robot man after his life. Now that the dust had settled, what was supposed to be a comforting return to a place he considered his childhood home was now filled with dread and anxiety and he didn't want that. Not here. Veradis Castle was supposed to be his sanctuary, he went so far as to avoid fucking it up with his presence all these years and tonight threatened the peaceful memories he wanted to preserve.

Lucas didn't even remember walking into his assigned room, but now that he was here, he figured he may as well change his pants--he didn't want to disturb Rosemary further with the sight of blood. He wasn't a fan of any of the shirts provided, so he stuck with the blue dress shirt he had under his jacket and a pair of black slacks. As he made to leave, he noticed the stocked mini-bar, noticing a particular brand of whiskey he had favored. A drink to calm the nerves wouldn't be the worst thing. If he showed up all jittery and jumpy, Rosemary would worry. Showing up blasted would probably achieve the same effect, but getting a buzz would be fine. Probably. Maybe. Despite his hesitance, down the hatch the alcohol went, and he left the room significantly calmer.

Or at least, he was fine until he heard that obnoxious 'clicking' of a pair of heels that he had personally tossed out a window once due to their incessant noise. Of course the Princess of Rosaria would pick the noisiest pair of heels to wear. She was rubbing her arm, expression unconcentrated as she walked, though once she spotted him, she put on that stupid scowl she always had on whenever he was the one she was looking at. Mercifully, she continued to walk right past him. Unfortunately, he was now in a fighting mood.

"The snuggery too childish for Her Royal Highness' taste?" Lucas asked.

Belle's footsteps came to a stop. He heard her let out a long sigh, but sure enough, those stupid click-clacking heels of hers stomped over to him. It was a genuine delight to know that just speaking was enough to illicit a reaction out of her. She placed her hands on her hips, her dress clinging to her in all the right places. Belle had earned her nickname, but like always, that beauty evaporated once she spoke: "Must you antagonize tonight as well? Don't you feel you've done enough?"

That said, Lucas was genuinely shocked at her words. "What the fuck do I have to do with the attack?"

"It was your debut. Clearly, it's a sign of things to come," She snapped.

Lucas couldn't help but just stare incredulously. "You're not hot enough to be that fucking stupid, just so you're aware," He informed her.

Her face turned red as she bristled with anger. Apparently he struck a nerve. "You--You are insufferable," She hissed.

He shrugged and waved her off. "Good to see you finally up to speed with the rest of the world," He commented as he continued on his way. Honestly, he hadn't planned on having yet another spat with the Rosarian princess, but she had a special way of saying dumb shit that pissed him off. She really acted like the attack was his fault! As angry as he was, however, there was a slight panic underneath it. If she knew about the tin man coming after him, she'd have a field day over it. Everyone would.

Whatever semblance of a good mood Lucas had was gone with that line of thinking, and by the time Lucas arrived at the princess' snuggery, his mood was foul. Rosemary stood next to the table, likely having offered tea, and the Scions of Fire, Earth and...he wanted to say the quiet chick was Metal. He wasn't a fan of Justice and he was pretty sure he saw the tall guy beat a woman on their way in, which left the chick as the only unknown.

"The one with a massive chip on his shoulder, the woman beater, and..." He gestured to Justice and Balder respectively before looking at...whatever the fuck this girl's name was. "A woman. Do be sure to behave." He walked around Rosemary and tapped one of the empty cups, watching as the little girl moved to pour him tea.

---

---

Dom felt a sudden red heat burning her cheeks as the Scion of Time stormed into the room and delivered a scathing joke...if it could be called a joke. Although she had heard far worse in the shipyards, there was something particularly embarrassing about being bluntly wielded as a weapon to mock another Scion. However, she could not say that Prince Lucas was not entirely wrong. Theobald seemed to be a man of fiery temper and explosive violence.

"I'm Dominika," Dom said, moving to smooth over the awkward moment. It had never been her fortunate or habit to interact overly much with the nobility before she became a Scion. However, the dockyards had seen plenty an upstart capitalist, sharp tongued and full of bitter reproach that they doled out freely. Insults rarely moved her and she cared little if jokes made at her indirect expense.

Stopping in front of the child princess standing near the table, Dom smiled and curtsied, "Some tea would be lovely, Your Highness, I am most pleased to have received your invitation. We should not be alone at times like this and I am glad to be welcomed into your wonderful room."

Accepting a cup of tea from the diminutive royal, Dom did not wish to bring up the ambush and the horrors that had unfolded, she could see no way to broach such a grim subject without seeming false in her optimism. They had been attacked. They had been ambushed. Scores of innocent bystanders were wounded and likely dead. She did not doubt many soldiers had likewise been harmed or killed. A templar among them. And a Scion was missing.

So Dom aimed to distract, "I always enjoyed the story of Messy Marie, my mother used to read it to me often, it taught me much about the importance of cleaning...but also the value of cleverness. What is your favorite story?"

addressing:Asshole Prince, Rosemary@Hero Theobald @Xiro Zean, Dom @Abstract Proxy

---

"Ah, didn't see you there Dom. My bad and come on in. More the merrier." *Justinian nodded to the newer Scion, but before he could continue, their host had come to address them. While the greeting was rote and practiced, the fact that she was able to string a sentence together at all was impressive after the night she'd just been through. Not to mention even trying to gather up the other Scion's to try and. . . decompress?

The kid is made of stern stuff than I was at her age.

Justinian couldn't help but remember the conversation he had overheard between Kaspar and asshole Prince with a tired grin. She seemed a better fit for Scionhood than either of them were turning out to be. Maybe Lucas was too quick to count her out as being just a child.

The scion of earth had just managed to relax when, as if summoned by his own thoughts, the man of the hour walked into the Snuggery to sling venom and glares as was his want. So much for any chance for this to be a moment of calm or ease.

"Speaking of stories,I wonder if Prince Lucas has ever heard about the one involving the Pot and the kettle." Justinian mutters, but doesn't push the confrontation. He was too exhausted to deal with the asshole right now, and causing a fight in the Princess' Snuggery was not how he wanted to end this night. Instead, he decided to sit down near Dom and Rosemary, reaching for a cup to recieve his tea with as he joins the conversation.

"I've always been partial to Petey and the Pumpkin. Used to play out the with my buds when I was a lil bit older than the Princess here." He taps a finger on the table, fishing for the memory as he continues to scratch at his chest through the fabric. "Of course, we didn't really have pumpkins in my hometown, so we tended to just get a cardboard box and paint it up like one before who ever played ol' Petey put it on their head and chased everyone else around."

---

Typical. A national tragedy had just happened, a Scion was in line to meet the same fate as Theodore, and the first priority was a performance review. Before their bruises even had a chance to fully darken, no less. Maybe Tyler's first fuck up had consigned every future templar to a brutal critique after they crossed paths with a heretic, in which case he sent his heartiest apologies to his colleagues. Either way, he wasn't particularly concerned with the contents of Irina's evaluation after that let-down of a debriefing. Tyler was no stranger to harsh reprimands and, of the many regrets he harbored from the night, handing Lucas a gun wasn't one of them. If he could do it again, he'd've given the prince a weapon earlier, quite frankly.

Were exhaustion not catching up with him, he'd have scoffed. Tyler wasn't here to entertain what-ifs. He protected his Scion and didn't get anyone killed in the meantime, what was the issue? Apparently she wasn't privy to the fact Tyler singlehandedly fended off a cyborg man that could've killed the entire ballroom by himself- wait, of course she wasn't. No one was. He almost spoke up, but they were ushered out of the room to make way for the second half of Irina's disciplinary hearing before he could raise his concerns.

Whatever. Might've even been for the best; if he rose the gravity of the threat right now, her lecture would probably be worse for the underperformers of the night. The sentiment didn't stop Tyler from planting himself right outside the door to the ballroom to await the Terrible Trio's exit. It was the next best thing to hunting down Fyodor and telling him instead, but Tyler wasn't certain if he was even on scene. They might've woke the poor bastard up and sent him to immediately coordinate the Church's response for all he knew.

Not that the waiting did him any favors. He had to tell someone, but there were a million other tasks that demanded his attention too. Nadine slipped further from their grasp every moment they spent standing around, and Tyler didn't have the high hopes Irina did that the nameless mooks would give everything up. They'd die for their false god and enjoy every moment of it, if they even knew enough to be of use to begin with. Tyler could be out there searching. If he didn't have Lucas to look after, he could've followed them back at the party.

That was another obligation to tend to; he didn't care that they were housed in the most secure building in Veradis, he needed to keep an eye on his Scion. That metal-dicked candy ass could waltz through security if he wanted to and the royal guard certainly wasn't going to stop him. Tyler toyed with his phone for lack of his ability to actually call Lucas - almost called Theodore's old number on accident, even. He'd have to rectify that.

How frustrating.

---

---

When Theobald had entered The Snuggery, the former soldier wasn’t quite sure what he was expecting. A secret gathering with royalty? An obfuscation of the Scions’ location? Maybe even a meeting with the Commander himself?

The giant had not understood that the Princess’ invitation to relax was exactly that. So when all that greeted him in the lounging room was a small girl nearly half his height and her personal tea set, he was at a loss for words.

Surely, there were more pressing matters than tea time? Was the young Princess so secluded that she did not understand the magnitude of what had occurred merely hours before? Yet, he could not, would not, speak his mind in front of the small child. It was above his station, after all, as though they may be equal as Scions she was still a member of a royal family.

”I accept your offer graciously, Your Highness.” Though he was uncertain of the meaning behind this small gathering, Theobald simply rolled with the punches as he took a seat for himself directly adjacent to the Veradis royalty.

His usual stern expression grew taut as he lowered himself into the chair, his knees bumping into the bottom of the table as the legs of the chair were too short for his towering height. Attempting to draw himself inward so as to not take up too much space, the former soldier mulled over the choices Princess Rosemary gave her guests and realized he had no idea what any of those terms meant.

”William’s Prayer.” Was that supposed to be the name of a type of tea? Theobald gently grasped his designated tea cup and glanced around.

He was not well educated in the art of tea time, but was there not supposed to be a servant holding the pot? Furrowing his brow, the giant looked almost comical in a seat slightly too small, hunched over and holding a piece of fine china between his thumb and index finger seemingly lost as to what he should be doing next.

Rosemary watched Theobald hold his cup and wandered over. She stretched over the table and grasped the pot, slowly pouring tea into his cup with an impressive balance–especially as the pot was something clearly meant for an adult to hold. But she poured his cup with ease and then poured out a second cup before turning her attention to Dominika, who addressed her.

Were it not for how stunned the former soldier was by the sight of the nation’s princess personally pouring him his cup, Theobald might’ve accidentally burned himself with the steaming hot liquid. Was that alright? Was he supposed to allow that to happen? Did he commit some sort of crime by allowing royalty to serve him as if she were a maid? Unable to look to the other Scions in the room for help with his personal dismay, as they were little more than commoners themselves, the giant simply sat in silence for a few moments to comprehend what he’d just witnessed.

Only for The Snuggery to be blessed with the presence of yet another royal. Someone with real political power, and perhaps the true reason that this gathering had occurred.

Theobald held no love for Prince Lucas, but neither did he find fault with him. So it was with but a twitch of his eyebrow that he took the slight against him with stride, recognizing that there was nothing he could do in retaliation to someone with a higher social position than himself.

In fact, with his mind upended by the presence of the royal duo, the former soldier finally started to feel what he had done a few minutes ago slowly sink in. He wasn’t supposed to explode on the Kaudian Templar, no matter his personal feelings or the circumstances behind it. Objectively, what he had done was in the wrong, and there would no doubt be consequences for his public showing of misplaced fury in the near future.

Not that he’ll ever apologize to the victim in question. The only thing he regretted was that he did not recognize the correct time and place for his outburst.

”Greetings, Your Highness,” Theobald started, attempting to rise from his seat to give the prince his due respect. With how cramped it was in his chair however, it took him a few clumsy moments of maneuvering his large body before he could bow his head toward the young man. He glanced in the Scion of Metal’s direction as she attempted to mediate between them, but spared not another thought as he drew his attention back to the prince.

”I am pleased to finally meet you personally. Are you here for the Princess?” His gaze drifted toward the small girl, curious of the relationship between them.

Lucas acknowledged Dominka with a slight nod, then took both his seat and cup with relative quietness. He was mid-sip when he was addressed, keeping his cup in hand as he looked at Theobald with the same curiosity one would give an unfamiliar plant.

“Yes,” The prince replied. “It’s been a long night for us, can’t imagine what it’s been like for her.”

“Perhaps more exciting than her usual life.” The former soldier returned to his seat and finally took a sip of his tea, his nose scrunched up from the feeling on his tongue. He did not understand high class taste. The best he could say about the tea was that it was at least less muddy than what he was used to on the warfront. “I have felt more alive tonight than I have in the past two years.”

He placed his tea cup down, pushing it off to the side with no intention to pick it up again. “How was your first taste of conflict, Your Highness?”

“Terrible. Which is what any normal person would think,” His response was quick as he scowled, clearly displeased at Theobald’s commentary on Rosemary. “If people associate this disaster with my debut as a Scion, it’s going to get very annoying very quickly.”

“I understand that feeling perfectly well.” Theobald was the poster child for unexpected events ruining one’s plans. At least from his own point of view. The giant slowly leaned forward, empathizing on some level with the prince while the cogs in his head began to turn. “But if you were to somehow overwrite this incident with an accomplishment, perhaps you can avoid the worst of it.”

The Scion of Fire clapped his hands together. “May I speak plainly, Your Highness?”

Lucas gave Theobald a weary look. “What about?” He asked.

“I and the Templar of Metal had noticed an irregularity in your magic during the afterparty, Your Highness. I hope it was not anything serious, as I would like to know if you could…” The former soldier was careful with his wording, not entirely certain of how the magic of Scions aside from himself worked and if bringing up the strange happenstance was a slight against the royal. “Perhaps, peek into the future to find where they had taken the missing Scion of Lightning.”

Lucas’ eyes turned frosty, though he remained somewhat composed. “Invoking prophecies requires permission from the church. I don’t really get along well with Marge, so I doubt she’d let me,” He replied, placing the cup down. “I lost my magic at one point, but I feel fine now.”

“I see.” Theobald released a sigh, his disappointment clear in his eyes. “I had hoped to hear otherwise. If we were to retrieve the missing Scion, and apprehend the cause of all this trouble, then this night might’ve been remembered as a demonstration of your power rather than a lack of it. I fear that the public will not see this as the fault of an outside party, but rather a negative omen of disaster compared to the peace under the previous Scion of Time.”

The prince’s eyebrows rose until Theobald finished talking. “It’s a good thing I couldn’t give less of a fuck to give in regards to public opinion,” He stated. “You people also seem to keep forgetting I’ve been Scion all of two weeks. But tell me, would it have been better if I had decided to play hero and put myself at risk instead of following proper protocol and evacuating?”

“You have been a Scion for two weeks,” the former soldier replied in turn, using the prince’s words against him as Theobald reached into his pocket on instinct. But, as his gaze drifted toward the young princess still in the room, his hand returned to the table and tapped at the surface impatiently. “And yet you have revealed that you are indeed capable of seeing into the future. If you were trained to use your power in combat, I would not envy the enemy that fights someone who can see their plans of attack before they even think of them.”

“The prophecies don’t work that way,” Lucas replied, rolling his eyes. “If I could just see what I wanted right before it happened, I would have known to avoid this conversation.”

Theobald blinked, the closest thing he could show to surprise, just before he released a deep chuckle. Rumbling like an oncoming storm, the hint of a smile gracing his serious features seemed to herald the former soldier shedding his attempt to steer the conversation. “I suppose you would have, Your Highness.”

“I apologize for taking up your time, you must have a lot on your plate already.” He pulled away from the table and leaned back into his chair, satisfied with what he was able to learn of the new Scion. Not the easy pathway to success he had been looking for, but at the very least the young prince did not seem to be someone he had to be wary of. “It is a bit late to do so, but I shall congratulate you for rising to your new station. The start of your tenure has been a mess, so let us hope all this business will be dealt with before it becomes too irritating for you.”

“Alright, you can go fuck yourself, too,” was all the prince offered as a response, picking his cup up again.

Despite the prince’s harsh words, Theobald couldn’t help but think of the prince as someone he should do business with. He might have drawn Prince Lucas’ ire by approaching the royal in the manner he had, but it was better to be plain with your desires. A noble who did not wield their status like a weapon was not a person he could use, which was indeed unfortunate, rather it was the bluntness and lack of adherence to decorum that drew the former soldier’s interest.

Perhaps he should treat the lordling differently. Not at the present moment of course, a change in demeanor would most likely be seen as disingenuous after his blatant attempt to steer the Scion of Time for his own benefit. But as he turned his attention away from the prince and toward the rest of the Snuggery, he thought it would be nice to speak with the prince again in better circumstances.

Once Lucas and Theobald had been served, Rosemary returned to Dominika. With all the grace of a lady-in-waiting older than she was, Rosemary poured out enough tea before she placed down the pot, offering it to the Metal Scion with her little pinky aloft. At the mention of Messy Marie and Petey and the Pumpkin, however, the façade of the proper princess cracked as her inner child shined through an excitement that had ignored the trauma of the night's events. She ended up turning on her heel and bolting towards the stepladder next to the shelves, unfolding it in front of the farthest one before hastily climbing up. Despite her rush, she knew exactly what she was looking for, and by the time the conversation ended, she returned with an armful of books.

She placed them down respectfully, laying them all out on the table for all to see. As opposed to the typical standard copies the Scions had likely seen in their lives, the age of Rosemary's books indicated that they were originals. Despite their age, however, they were clearly lovingly cared for, and the princess was delicate in her handling of them. The watercolor art shifted in colors from one story to the next, the characters simplistic and pleasing to the eyes.

Rosemary climbed onto the empty seat and sat on her legs, reaching over and tapping each book. "These were my great-grandpa's books when he was little," She explained as she tenderly opened the copy of William's Prayer in front of her. "He used to say this one was his favorite 'cause this is how the Goddess gave the world Scions and the pictures are really nice 'cause the painter that made the book did it 'cause my great-grandpa didn't have books with pictures and they only had words and he really liked the painting. He used to read them to me before I learned to read but now Sonia reads them to me before I go to sleep."

She barely took a breath as she talked, more interested in the portrayal of Incepta visiting Phoebus and Cynthia. While the characters were painted with outlines, Incepta was painted in entirely golden colors and was partially out of frame, likely out of respect. Rosemary lightly tapped the picture. "She kinda looks like the lady in my dreams. But I can't see her face...and the one in my dreams was crying," Rosemary frowned, but she didn't linger as she pushed the book aside and opened up another one. "This one isn't popular like the other ones--The Prince and the Pauper, this one's about a prince that has someone that looks just like him and they switch places but it's silly because the real Prince can't just go outside like the story, 'cause every time I wanna go outside Sonia always goes with me and there's guards. So silly."

She leaned over to her side and tapped Lucas' shoulder. "Which one is your favorite?"

The grumpy Lucas didn't look at her, a sour look on his face partially hidden by his cup. "Favorite what?"

"Your favorite story."

"The Redemption of Anani."

Rosemary pushed his shoulder, annoyed. "No, like a real story! Like Messy Marie or Petey and the Pumpkin."

That got Lucas to roll his eyes, though he controlled his expression as he turned his head to look at Rosemary. "I just said my favorite. They just never made a children's version of it," He explained calmly.

"Okay, then what is your favorite chil-duh-ren's- story?" She asked, mocking his emphasis.

Lucas stared at Rosemary for a moment before his eyes briefly scanned the books on the table. "...William's Prayer," He muttered, returning to his cup.

Satisfied, Rosemary threw her arms up in victory before focusing back on the book mentioned. "How old were you when got the si...si-gil," Her last word was slow and she had a little trouble getting it out, though she aimed the question at her fellow Scions.

"Twenty-four since it was just a week ago,"" Lucas replied, surprising Rosemary.

Encouraged by his response, Rosemary tapped her cheek. "Mine came when I was a baby!"

---

Dame Ionna’s comment earned her only a harsh glare as the dismissed Templars filed out. When the door slammed behind the last departing Templar, Irina did not speak; silence stretched almost too long, the Dame standing with her back to the assembled Templars seemingly examining a tapestry on the wall.

“I seem to recall three vows taken by every Blessed Templar when they receive their Blessing,” it was almost startling when she finally spoke, her tone sharp and accusatory even compared to the speech she’d just delivered as she kept her back to the assembly. “What was your final vow?”

The Templar of Metal’s hand shot up with an “Ooh!” like a student eager to show off that they knew the answer.

“To defend your charge with all your strength of arm, heart, and mind, at the cost of your very life!” She recited, seeming proud of herself for remembering.

Irina glanced over her shoulder, looking equal parts incensed and exasperated when she saw the source of the reply. She took a deep breath.

“Do you vow to defend your charge with all your strength of arm, heart, and mind, at the cost of your very life?” Irina recited the final vow from the Blessing ceremony verbatim, pacing back and forth as if in deep thought. “This is a solemn oath. It is a vow to the Goddess Herself that you will take the life of one person - one of Her ten most beloved children - into your hands, and preserve it at any cost, using every strength, skill, and faculty available to you. If you must run, you do it; if you must fight, you do it; if you must die, you do so with perfect satisfaction in your heart that you have done the Mother’s will.”

Irina sounded almost fond as she spoke, as one reminiscing on a much-beloved poem. But that glimmer of tenderness didn’t last long, and her gaze soon hardened once again, somehow even darker than before. She almost looked as if something personal was at stake. “And yet here we stand. Each of you abandoned your charge tonight; be it for an hour or an instant, it matters naught. I would ask what you have to say for yourselves, but I really don’t care; It would be well within canon law to strip the three of you of your Blessings right now.”

She paused for a long moment, then wearily sighed. “Lucky for you, the Commander isn’t available to degrade you, and although you make sorry shields indeed, your Scions still require your protection. Perhaps now more than ever. All the more vital to remind you of your duties.”

Her gaze fixed on Ionna and Sara. “Like you two,” Irina snapped, “You may recall that your final vow was to protect your charge. Not Scions in general, not whichever Scion is in need; your charge. That is your solemn and only duty.”

Irina held up a hand to cut off any potential rebuttals. “I do not care that Scion Nadine was missing. I do not care that Ulysse was incapacitated. I don’t care if every other Templar on earth is dead - your responsibility is to your charge. That is your only goal. Everyone else in the world is ancillary. If you somehow manage to keep your Blessings after tonight, remember this well: Never, never abandon your Scion for the sake of another ever again.”

“And you,” Irina addressed Sara. “Your vows were made to the Goddess, not your Scion. He may have been the one to administer your Blessing, but your power comes from The Mother, and your duty is owed ultimately to Her. It was Her to whom you vowed the protection and oversight of Her child. Your duty is not to obey your Scion, it is to protect him. If that entails dragging him, kicking and screaming, from the battlefield, so be it. You are not at liberty to allow him to fend for himself. See that it does not happen again.”

Irina stepped back at long last, waving a hand. “You two are dismissed.”

She was silent as Sara and Ionna departed, the hollow slam of the door echoing throughout the ballroom as Jannick waited, alone, for his turn on the breaking wheel.

“And you,” Irina finally growled, placing herself only steps in front of Jannick. He remembered her glowering down at him like this from training, but it felt a lot worse now that he knew she had something legitimate to be angry about.

“Those other two may have abandoned their charges willfully, but at least they did so in order to fight back,” Irina spat. “You, meanwhile, looked like a child lost in a crowd, barely holding your own against untrained heathens while you awaited rescue from your own charge.”

Jannick chafed under Irina’s critical gaze, his eyes fixed on some point on the wall behind her. If he were the Templar of Fire, that spot would probably have burst into flame.

Irina glared for a long moment before speaking, apparently wanting some explanation. “Well?”

Jannick kept his eyes stubbornly forward for a moment, trying to contain the petulant anger welling up inside him. A million comments came to mind, each more venomous than the last, but he was at least experienced enough not to let any of them surface. At long last, he only croaked, “I was outnumbered.”

“So was I!” Irina barked, pacing once again. “So was every other Templar in that ballroom! And so you shall be from now until you draw your last breath: there is a world of Godless heathens out there baying for the blood of your Scion, and only one of you. That is what Blessings are for.”

Irina scoffed. “Honestly. Six months as a Templar and you can barely break wind,” she mocked harshly. “You aren’t a cop anymore. You’re up against far worse than thugs and rabble on the Veradis beat. A pistol and some grappling doesn’t cut it anymore. You have been touched by the Goddess; you should be a force to be reckoned with, not a mild inconvenience.”

Irina looked upon him with contempt; Jannick stayed silent. “Remember what I told those two. You are not a public servant anymore. Your job is to protect one life, and one life only. If that means you need to climb over the bodies of civilians, so be it.”

Jannick finally met Irina’s eye, so incensed at the comment that he almost gasped. His mind swirled with rage at the audacity and callousness of that comment, and even more so that Irina showed no sign of insincerity. He could scarcely believe someone in her position could say something so brazen, or that someone as allegedly pious as her could even believe it. But he was ultimately so shocked that he could muster no reply.

“Good. Now get out.”

---

Outside the ballroom door, the squire who had collected the armour crystals earlier awaited the last three Templars’ departures. She stood with her ear pressed to the wall, eagerly listening for any snippet she could hear of the debrief. When Sara and Ionna emerged, she hurriedly jumped back into place, offering their crystals to them with a reverent bow of the head.

As the two lady templars departed, however, she noticed that they seemed troubled. “Hey, um,” she called, suddenly much less the firm and buttoned-up squire who had contended with Edmund, and more of a nervous, somewhat star-struck girl simply wanting to help. “I-I’m sure it must be hard to leave someone else’s Scion alone if they’re in trouble, but… remember that you guys aren’t the only ones looking out for them. That’s what we’re here for.” She offered a comforting smile. “So don’t feel guilty tending to your own Scions, okay? The whole Ordo Templi is here to fill in the gaps.”

The squire bowed as they left, hopeful that her encouragement could ease their concerns.

---

addressing:Asshole Prince, Rosemary@Hero Theobald @Xiro Zean, Dom @Abstract Proxy

---

Theobald and Lucas' bickering proved to be irritating but ignorable background noise as Justinian kept his attention focused on their host. He couldn't help but wonder what kind of tutors this kid had to be able to keep her composure better than most adults, but maybe that was just part of the resilience of childhood. Before his mind could linger on his own childhood, or what little of it he could remember these days, the princess' voice brought him back to the present.

She spoke quickly and with as much excitement as kids often did, and while the actual books she brought were much more valuable than anything he'd had at the same age, the stories were as familiar and timeless as ever. Justinian did raise an eyebrow at the statement of this 'crying woman' glancing towards Lucas but decided not to say anything about it. Best to let sleeping dogs lie for now, and besides, he doubted a six-year-old had any particularly prescient insights on what her dreams could mean if they turned out to be more than that. Still, maybe he could read up on the old scions of light to see if prophetic dreams from Incepta were a common theme. It felt more like the kind of thing that would happen to the Scion of Time, but he didn't remember Theo ever speaking of such things before.

Banishing the thoughts with a sip of tea, Justinian couldn't help but smile at the way Lucas and Rosemary interacted. Much of an asshole that the young prince was, he at least didn't have it in him to berate a child. It was, of course, the bare minimum of decency, but it still gave him a slightly better opinion of the man. Maybe they could really leave all that horror behind them, at least for one night.

"How old were you when got the si...si-gil,"

Justinian nearly dropped his cup at the question, body tighening like a coiled spring as thoughts he tried to keep to the edge of his mind sprung to the fore. As if on cue, he felt that same presence taking shape behind him. Any shift or movement made was accompanied by the long drag of claws on wood and the clatter of plates now all too similar to the clicking of chitanous plates on stonework. He doesn't dare close his eyes, knowing he'll see what he always sees. Instead, he tries his best to slow his breathing and set his cup down as gently as possible. 

". . . Eleven years old, about 14 years ago." He kept his gaze low, counting backwards from 100 in his mind. And old exercise to help center himself in the moment. Sometimes it helped, most of the time it didn't. But it helped to keep him from acting out or running off when his nightmares go the better of him.