As if Fiesi needs more reason to regret letting Sarielle accompany him, she shakes him awake at the crack of dawn. Yet he hasn't the time nor the will to protest. Soon after, they're setting off into the rising sun.

"Are you sure you're okay with this?" Nathan asks as they prepare to leave. He's wrapped in the grey cloak, loose folds hanging off his slim form. It's easier to leave the garment with him rather than display its obvious Cormé-made nature to all of Aorila. "I'm just worried... I don't want to force you into anything."

Fiesi lands a hand on his shoulder. He hopes it doesn't shake too badly. "You're not the one forcing," he says, dropping his voice. "I'd rather do it for you than any of these mili zoí."

All too quickly, the glint of Nathan's smile vanishes. He drops his gaze. "There will be a way to remove my binds, right? We'll look for it?"

The early morning rays slice across his face, touching his pale skin in bleached yellow. The scar cut across his cheek screams its contrast. It shines as black as his eyes in this dim light. Swallowing the odd bite of unease, Fiesi draws him in, sliding his hand to Nathan's spine. "Of course," he whispers. "Together."

Nathan's eyes dart up to meet his. "Not a lie this time?"

A dark shard of memory slices at the back of Fiesi's mind. He forces himself to chuckle, giving Nathan's back a parting pat before he releases him. "I know better than to lie to you again."

His focus lingers on the iron shackles a moment longer than they should. They reek of Harlow's cursed magic, nearly as dark and tainted as the flames they seal away. The phantom stench of blood fills his nostrils. Shaking his head, he wrenches his gaze away, landing on Dalton as he retracts from his own embrace with Sarielle.

Fiesi can't hold back his snort of laughter. The Cormé captain is smitten in that moment, his giddy smile cracking the usual storms in his eyes. At least he doesn't blush quite as furiously as Nathan. It's a mystery how Sarielle has managed to garner such adoration.

Dalton shoves back the expression with the pinch of his lips as he turns to Fiesi. "I wish you luck."

Empty words. He rolls his eyes. "Whatever. Keep Nathan safe."

Lingering only long enough to note Dalton's brisk nod, he spins, holding a hand out to Sarielle. "Care to link arms and skip on our merry crusade?"

She chooses to punch his arm instead. "Let's get this over with."

They walk in tandem. Fiesi throws a couple of glances over his shoulder, locking onto Nathan's face each time, until the camp is swallowed by trees. Forests crowd as far as the eye can see, clawing their way up the sharp mountains to the west and cascading the gentle slopes to the south, albeit in a gnarled tangle twined with the bared claws of branches. Clouds nearly as dark as his grey tunic clog the sky like smoke. Winter is such an ugly season, and not only because he's beginning to lose feeling in his fingers. Perhaps it was a bad idea to leave his cloak behind.

Sarielle tugs at the hem of her own. "You want this?"

Tugging on a grin, he flicks his fingers, summoning a burst of flame to coil around his wrist. With a little focus, a single spark can leap from the rest, compressed heat that soon explodes into a tiny flicker of amber. Its warmth beats over his skin. "I'm good."

She twists her head away, hiding the reflected glint he catches in her eyes. "Show-off."

He opens his mouth to reply, but it's whisked away by his gasp. A familiar sensation cuts through him, sharp as a knife but thin and flimsy as paper, softened with the aura of something vaguely fragrant. It's enticing. Perhaps the knife is more a hook, latched somewhere between his ribs and dragging him forward. He's taken several vacant steps before he realises Sarielle is no longer beside him.

When he turns, he finds her lingering, hesitant, her nose wrinkled. She rubs at her arm. "Are you sure this is right?"

He hurries back over, stretching out a hand. "The barrier is designed to repel Cormé." He jerks back before she can take it, a sudden thought catching him. "Come to think of it, you might not be able to get through."

She levels his gaze. "You couldn't think of that before we got here?"

He shrugs. "I could just--"

"No." She snatches up his hand, pulling it towards her when he tries to slide free. "Drag me through if you need to. You're not going in alone."

He's no desire to restart last night's debate. With a sigh, he nods, leading them on through the thick wall of Jeía magic. It swirls around him, fresh and easy as a spring breeze, as the shape of ghostly wings on his back. Gentle flames wash up his arms. Beside him, Sarielle stumbles, clinging to him as if she instead faces a wild gust that threatens to rip her off her feet. Yet in only a few steps, it all settles.

Fiesi tilts his head back and breathes in the scent of his home.

It's no different from any other part of the forest, really, and yet he's sure the sky is a touch brighter here, the air light with a faint thread of birdsong. His lack of attention has extinguished his miniature flame by now, and yet the chill is chased from his skin by a new warmth. Aorila smells of freedom, of peace. It lacks the Cormé-tainted bloodstains, the whisper of war, the scar of weapons. He'd forgotten just how beautiful that felt.

Maybe, after all, they were right. He did need to come back here, more than he realised. He closes his eyes.

"Fiesi."

He exhales, flinching away from Sarielle's tap on his arm. "Give me a minute."

"Fiesi, there's someone--"

Her voice cuts off with a cry.

With a gasp, Fiesi whirls, his eyes snapping open as he reaches for the spear lashed to his back. His hand has barely closed over its shaft before a sharp pain slices his wrist. With a yelp, he staggers back, but a hand clasps his shirt and wrenches him forward. The sting of a blade meets his neck. It's icy cold. The eyes he meets are matching, every bit as pale and blue as frost.

Realisation washes through him in a surge. Grappling for that heated spark again, he channels it to his throat, pushing it out in an explosive burst. Freezing droplets seep through the collar of his shirt, but the sharp edge melts away.

"Jaci," he hisses. "Let go. It's me."

He strains against her grip, and she releases, her fingers opening slowly. Her eyes widen into pooled glaciers. Flowing sheets of silk identical in colour drape her in a sleeveless dress, its skirt cut just above her knees. A shock of raven-black hair tumbles in waves down her back, much longer than he remembers, swept back to highlight the soft, rounded lines of her face. The remaining hilt of her dagger breaks apart into the shards of ice that form it, condensing into crystallised letters pale against her dark tan skin. She tilts the back of her hand towards him in question. Fiesi?

He nods, taking a steady step back, palm open to her in a pacifying gesture. "Yes. I'm back."

Her eyes narrow, and the ice hardens, spreading as she curls a fist. He registers her intention too late. In a movement as swift and forceful as a raging waterfall, she draws back and punches him in the stomach.

Some of her ice must have trailed to the ground too, for he loses his footing and slips onto his backside. "Ow," he protests, wincing at the resulting throb. She glares right back. "Aren't you overjoyed to see me?"

She doesn't move. Ice skitters over her knuckles as if debating whether to form words, but it remains shapeless.

"You wouldn't have wanted to come," he tries. "Trust me."

The ice shifts, the beginnings of hesitant letters solidifying, yet before he can read anything she's snatching it all back into the narrow shapes of her daggers. She spins a neat semi-circle and her frozen blades clash against metal.

Sarielle holds her sword in a horizontal defence, her feet planted, her eyes fierce. "A cold fist to the ribs wasn't the diplomatic welcome I was hoping for. Can we put down the magic knives, please?"

Flame warming the pain from his chest, Fiesi leaps to his feet, making a vague effort to throw his arm between them. "Do as she says. Sarielle's with me." He presses all the surety he can into his tone, as much as his stomach twists. There are worse old friends he could have run into at the barrier. At the very least, Jaci has sense.

After a moment, she nods, withdrawing her daggers, although they don't dissipate as she dangles them loosely at her sides. She glances at him, and a trail of ice clambers up her arm, sketching out a simple question mark. He almost laughs. Sometimes, Jaci's silent markings are more efficient than real words could ever be. Opposite her, Sarielle lowers her sword, no less wary.

"So, you're a Nería." The slight tilt of her head betrays her curiosity.

Jaci dips her chin in reply. A chink of frost extracts itself from her blade, scrawling a quick word across her wrist as she jerks it forward. Cormé. She's referring to Sarielle, but her eyes are set on Fiesi, each burning question moulded into a sharpened needle.

Thankfully, Sarielle steps in while he fumbles over a response. "I'm sure Fiesi and I have a lot to explain." Her tone is startlingly measured for someone who must be rather out of her depth in this foreign territory. "I'll offer up my story, but I want to be speaking to the right people. Is there a leader you could take us to?"

Jaci's eyes flick a brief detour to her before she tilts her head, knowing the answer, checking for Fiesi's permission. He returns a nod, hoping it isn't too jerky. Better to get this part over with before his insides tie a knot large enough to strangle him.

She holds out a hand to him, forming smaller letters along her forefinger, shielded from Sarielle. He won't be happy.

"I'm aware," he mutters, shoving at her arm before she can write anymore. "As long as he doesn't punch me, he'll be doing better than you."

She only shrugs, the slightest amusement twitching her lips, before she turns and beckons them both. Her daggers have melted away now, although the icy magic that formed them will be shimmering just beneath her fingertips, ready to be called at a moment's notice. Sarielle starts after her, her stride purposeful despite the hesitant glance she throws over her shoulder in the direction of the barrier. He hurries to keep at her side.

"She seems nice," Sarielle says, voice low and dry.

"She's actually a delight when you get to know her. Great at practical jokes."

"Is she another one of your..." She trails off, but the intent is clear. Fiesi chuckles.

"Oh, no. Don't worry yourself. We're cousins. Jaci Agonia, daughter of my mother's sister." He's pleasantly surprised at how even he's able to keep his voice, enough to flick his lips upward in a smirk. "Not that I'd pick her anyway."

A ball of frost collides with his jaw, shattering on impact into a thousand shockingly cold shards. He calls a flame to burn them away before they can melt into his shirt.

"Hey! I was joking!" He looks up, catching Jaci's flashed glare. "Can you quit hurting me? This is a reunion, you know."

She flicks up a hand in response, icy words glinting in the brightening light. Voice may be silent, but ears work fine. They rearrange with the lightning efficiency of a colony of insects. Are you two together, then?

"Together?" Sarielle echoes, her confusion darkening into what can only be described as disgust, her nose screwed. She physically recoils from him. "Stars, no. That's... no."

"Alright," he snaps, bristling. "No need to make it sound so awful." A slow smile weaves its way back onto his face. "I'm a very good kisser."

She shifts a little further from him, her mouth scrunched. "Sure. You'll be telling me you're handsome as well."

"I am--" He flits his gaze to Jaci for aid only to meet her twinkling eyes, catch her silent snort of laughter. "You haven't changed."

Neither have you, her arm soon reads.

A chuckle of agreement rises only to crumble at his lips. He runs his tongue over them, glancing down as if to check whether the squirming in his chest is visible from outside. "You'd be surprised."

Her eyes linger on him a moment longer, dimming from teasing to something between worry and suspicion. None of the curiosities that tighten her expression sneak out. Instead, she leaps a few steps forward, dancing around a low-hanging bough, and slows to a stop.

Fiesi's stomach drops as he focuses on what lies beyond her. Forcing a deep breath, he curls his fists to quell the flames licking at his palms and follows.

The trees gradually thin, their web of bare limbs falling to a sparser pattern of spindles and sticks, scratches against the looming silhouette of Aorila. The rising sun glazes each pointed rooftop in amber, as if the village itself burns with an inner flame. Unlike the ordered streets of Cormé towns, Aorila is a jumble, houses on slants and tilts from one another, every open space scored by flame or drenched in an unnatural pool. That compelling taste of freedom grows stronger, tumbling through Fiesi's veins with a haste that nearly matches his racing heart.

There are figures marked out as well, too far to identify: one tiny form disappearing into a doorway, a couple more seated amongst the undergrowth. A thousand threads tangle and tug at his flame. So much magic, alive and enthralling, eager to welcome him home.

"Home." The word is heavy on his tongue, dipping lower. He averts his eyes to the ground. The real welcome he's about to receive won't be one of eagerness.

Jaci's sharp elbow knocks into his side, lifting his gaze to her. She waves a palm. Wait here.

Snatching for a smile, he bows his head. "As you wish, cousin dearest." Better that than acknowledge this crawling sensation, how jarringly that refreshing familiarity clashes with the feeling that he's being treated like a visitor. A stranger.

She speeds away, her steps soft and soundless. Her dark form soon blends with the rest of the shadows, deep and elongated by the low-set sun. He stops herself from watching her. It feels too much like clinging to something safe, focusing on just one detail when the bigger picture is too frightening. He's done enough of that.

"It's..." Sarielle trails into musing silence. Her eyes are lit with a dim sort of wonder. "Smaller than I expected."

"It used to be bigger." His eyes traitorously flick to the left, and he forces them to yank back. It's difficult enough taking in the present without drifting to the past. An awkward laugh trips out. "You know what happened there."

Her shoulders sag, sadness tinting her expression. "This is going to be so hard for Nathan."

He opens his mouth, an objection forming, a protest spurred by his nerves. He's the one suffering here. Does she not care at all? Why think of Nathan when Fiesi has struggles of his own?

Because you're not the centre of the universe. With a wince, he folds his arms over his chest. "Yeah," he says, for lack of anything more creative. "Yeah, it is."

Her head turns, and their eyes meet. Hers glimmer with a strangely soft light. "I hated you at first, Fiesi. Justifiably so, I'd say, but you're really not so bad."

He can't help but laugh. "Wow. You no longer hate me. What high praise."

"Oh, shut up. You know what I mean." She nudges his side. "You've grown on me."

The delight that curls warm inside him is surprising. For once, his grin comes naturally. "I suppose I'm required to say that you're alright, too."

"Come on. You like me really."

He hums, gaze flicking to scan her up and down. "Depends. I think we'd appreciate each other more if you understood just how good my kisses are."

She rolls her eyes, looking back to the village. "And I regret saying anything. I think we're about to have company."

He follows her gaze, and his grin slips. Jaci has reappeared, skipping ahead of two larger forms, her frost-coloured dress far overshadowed by the vibrant colours they're both draped in. Cloth as brightly red as fresh blood wraps the broad frame to her left, cloak swinging with every step. The man on their right wears azure.

Blue flames burst up at Fiesi's wrist, twining his forearm. He grits his teeth and shoves them back down. Subconsciously, he finds his hand has drifted to his side, searching for the edge of a similar cloak now absent.

"You people do love your colour," Sarielle says.

Fiesi looks down at himself, the grey shirt and tattered trousers, his cheeks heating. A stranger indeed. Will they even recognise him?

Another surge of his flame drags his attention up. A smudge of blue separates itself from his father's form, spreading feathered wings. His blood runs cold.

"We're screwed," he says as cheerfully as possible.

Rigel soars high into the sky, keeping at a distance as he circles them all, but his presence still tickles uncomfortably at the back of Fiesi's mind. A thread dangled just out of reach, jerking away when he attempts to snatch for it. He isn't sure what he'd say, regardless, nor does he particularly want to hear what Rigel might have to say. The last time they saw one another, his Synté was content to let Sarielle kill him. Fiesi responded by breaking every agreement they'd ever made and dashing into a burning carriage to save Nathan. Their bond isn't exactly at its strongest.

Still, there's a tendril of sadness that unfurls, some vague but chilling idea of betrayal. Despite their obligatory connection to one another, Fiesi had always considered he and Rigel as friends. He's being shown now how delusional that hope was.

What's more, if Rigel has spoken to his father, he'll know everything. There'll be no use in attempting to lie. Fiesi takes a nervous step back.

Sarielle's hand brushes his. He jolts it away, throwing her a sharp glance, curling his fingers over the brief tingle of warmth. Bringing a Cormé with him is bad enough. He can't afford to betray that he's relying on her company to merely stop him from bolting.

The instinct tremors in his legs as he senses red eyes lock onto him, narrowed and fierce. It takes all his energy to keep him stationary as the man marches towards him, aiming to shoulder past Jaci, although her agile hop carries her out of his way. Flames sneak out at Fiesi's palms. Plastering on a smile, he pushes up a little on his toes.

"Ischyri!" he calls with a wave, the fire skittering to the back of his hand. "So nice to--"

A hand bunches up his shirt, wrenching him forward. He stumbles with a squeak. Ischyri Olemis towers over him, a mountain of a man carved in the bulging curves of a rockslide, his thick brows accenting his thunderous glare. "You," he growls. "You little palil."

There's no use in straining against his iron grip. Fiesi's heels skim loosely over the grass, lifted off the ground. The fear shaking his chest somehow breaks out as a trembling laugh. "Did you miss me, alaí?"

Ischyri's bushy beard quivers with his growing fury. Foreign heat, harsh and scalding, presses in where his knuckles meet Fiesi's chest. He bites down on his yelp, more fire crawling up his arms. He's conscious of how much it's betraying. There's no hiding flames behind a fragile grin.

"Let him go."

The voice is resigned, riding on a sigh, a breath of chilling wind to harden the heat into something worse. Glare flashing, Ischyri releases him with a shove. Fiesi staggers back, panting, grasping for flame to balance him. His heart hammers in his ears as he meets a familiar, glowing blue gaze.

Gelani Kynig carries anger with a calmer air, quietly stern, and it pierces with twice the force. "Fiesi."

Fiesi ducks his head, losing faith in it before he can bend into a bow. "Father." He reaches up to touch his hair, hesitates, drops his hand into a fist at his side. It's a mess. Every bit of him is. "It's been a while."

"You can save your reunion." Ischyri practically spits the final word. "Where is the boy?"

───── ⋆⋅♛⋅⋆ ─────

Fun Fact: Jaci spawned from a short story focusing on a fourteen-year-old Fiesi that I started a while back. I gave up on it in the end, and I doubt its events are canon anymore, but I decided she was an interesting character and so reshaped her to fit here. What do you know, Fiesi does have a friend. She still bullies him though.

Lots of new characters to introduce here!! I'm gonna have fun with our new magical friends. Even if I keep forgetting how to spell Iscrhjsdfdkyi.

Oh, and I think it's important you know that alaí is an insulting term for an older/elderly person, and palil means brat. The latter was made for Fiesi, really.

- Pup