The world spun when his father grabbed his arm and whirled him towards a wall. His shoulder slapped the polished surface, the velvety tapestry hanging over it muffling most of the impact. Red-faced and nostrils flaring, the King towered over Cyrdel.

"First—why did you choose violence?" the King hissed, spit flying from his lips in a fit of anger. "Our people are not violent."

Cyrdel scoffed. "And you think the Sovereign isn't a mad woman because she talks well?" he said. "All of us will die if we do not turn to the same methods they're using against us. Against everyone."

Before the King could continue, Cyrdel stomped a foot on the floor, addressing the Council along with his father. "Look around you," he said. "The thief who attacked us and stole our people's shadows is affiliated with the Heiress who controls Cardovia. And now, an organization like them is visiting us, threatening us with sweet words and empty promises."

He met Master Philine's eyes. It's unclear whether the advisor was infuriated at him or at the entire drama unfolding inside the sacred council room. "The only word the Sovereign makes good of is destruction."

"Who are you to say such things?" the King demanded, wrestling the attention back to him. "You talk like you and that witch are best of friends."

Maybe they were, with how the Sovereign seemed to know everything going on in his head and all he lived through. He wouldn't put it past her to know what the Heiress and her agents have done to the Brownies prompting him to go on a journey towards the Temple of Souls. And when he was battling magical waterfalls and getting mixed up in an age-old war for this thing called the Virtakios, the Sovereign sent her invitation for cooperation to the Court of Varis.

It's like she knew when to strike, and the best time for it was when the Brownies were reeling from the loss of so many of its citizens that they'd bite the first chance a savior presented itself. Synketros aimed to be that savior, and because of that, it didn't count on its future subjects to reject their offer. Of course, she'd consider it an insult to her genuine civility. The Sovereign was a simpler creature than Cyrdel realized.

"I've been researching," he admitted to the King and Queen, as well as the Court of Varis. He couldn't hide it anymore now that the thing he feared the most was near their doorstep. "Since my encounter with the prophesied Virtakios, I've been exposed to the reality of the island beyond our territory. I took it upon myself to learn more to prepare us for the inevitable."

But none of them listened to him, even as he went as far as to feign anger just to get their attention. And as if knowing it's another perfect time to strike, the Sovereign appeared and smoothed out the flaws of their government for them.

"The Virtakios has a varichria helping her," Cyrdel continued. "You might have heard of Rikavien Torlin? Together with her brother, Rhys, they have been looking for ways to defeat these two organizations who have been underneath our noses all these decades and centuries. Cardovia and Synketros—I know of them because the former is responsible for the Shadow Crisis, with the aim to force Alkara's hand and help them in the siege against the Temple of Souls."

Now that they have seen how real their opponent was, and that the Sovereign wasn't as gullible and stupid as they thought, they stood in tense silence and meek observance. "They're never going to leave us alone," Cyrdel concluded. "After seeing our untapped potential in the Cardinic Wars after we abstained from participating, both of these organizations won't sit still and allow it to happen the second time. They will do everything they can to twist our arms behind our backs until we choose either of them."

"And I have been saying for us to choose another side—the Virtakios, who they seemed to be after," he jerked his chin in a vague direction he guessed Xanthy to be in. Wherever she was, he could only hope word would reach her. She promised she'd help. Maybe he would tell Ravalee to call her soul-half and explain everything going on. She'd come running just like he would to her aid.

The King stepped forward, eyes trained into Cyrdel without blinking. This might have been the longest time he had stared into the amber eyes reflecting his own. His father opened his mouth to say something—preferably something not stupid or stubborn—but before anything could make it out of his mouth, screams from the city beyond erupted in the distance.

Cyrdel's throat clenched. Blood drained from his face and emptied to his feet, freezing him in place. "They're here," was the last thing out of his lips before the sky outside the windows and past the pristine walls of the estate sparked into a show of orange and red.

A hand shoved him away from the door of the Council room. "Stay here," his father growled at him on his way out the door. "I'll deal with this."

The entire Court of Varis, with their white and red robes unfit for any kind of battle not fought with words, trotted after him. The Queen gave Cyrdel a lingering look before exiting as well. At least, if there was someone who could gain his sympathy, it's his mother. Despite her detached nature to political affairs, he had seen how she moved with anything related to her people and their hardships. War wasn't going to sit well with her either.

Another explosion rang from the distance, the quakes reverberating as phantoms all the way to the estate. Screams louder than those on the onset of the Shadow Crisis peppered the horizon—phantoms of the past threatening to swallow everything he knew and loved in the city. His city.

His father told him to stay put, but when did he ever listen to what the King ordered him? Cyrdel's fists clenched by his sides. His father shoved him aside and instructed him to sit back. Who was he kidding when he said he's planning on doing everything but?

The shrapnels never stopped coming. Cyrdel threw his arms over his head as more explosions crept closer to the estate. Out in the corridors, he had passed several Russets rushing towards where their king called. In the main hall? Probably. The throne room, being in the middle of the estate, would be safer. Would it hold against aerial attacks? Maybe. He should have built protective domes or something when he had the chance.

He swung himself into the curving staircase and tackled it from the Council room. No one gave him a side glance, not even the Russets. Most murmured under their breaths and among each other about the attacks coming from seemingly out of nowhere. Scouts had already returned from their posts in Depandes, and their word couldn't be any worse.

The traffic reached the throne hall. Its doors were already thrown wide open, inviting anyone who responded to the King's call of distress. Cyrdel squeezed through the gaps in the crowd, searching for the familiar mop of sandy hair in the sea of the different shades of brown. His breath hitched, his knees shook, and his head spun from all the horrors he's bound to hear come the field reports from the soldiers.

"Elshire has been informed through our comms," one of the Russet commanders reported, her deep timbre catching Cyrdel's attention in the vast cacophony of armor clanking and prayers to gods unseen being uttered. He turned west to find the King surrounded by a platoon of Russets, exchanging intel from various parts of the city. Which parts were hit? How about the nobles in Percester? The fields in Zalgend? The Temple in Toreza? Would everything be part of Synketros if they succeeded in taking over Depandes and the estate?

The next thing he knew, his chest heaved and he struggled to exhale despite taking in lungfuls of air. His head spun and his vision blurred. He had collapsed against a wall with no idea how he stumbled over to it. Voices blared against his ringing ears, his temples pounding with the raging rush of his own blood flooding his brain.

Strong wires wrapped around his arms, pinning them to his sides. Panic jerked his limbs, flailing to escape their bonds. "Stay still, Cyrdel!" his father's voice speared into his jumbled thoughts, blazing one clear trail through their wild forest. "I'm here. We're all here. It's fine. Breathe."

He tried—he swore to Pidmena he did—but his lungs refused to work beyond emitting a pained wheeze from his mouth. The ropes tightened, making him realize they weren't ropes. They're...arms. Around his shoulders. A hand was lost somewhere on his hair, locking his face against a shoulder and later, a crook of a neck.

The familiar scent of fresh fabric and flowers assaulted his nose, forcing his nerves to even out, to calm the hell down. What was he doing in here, wasting time? He should be inquiring about the state of his people, and not...this.

"Son, look at me," a gentle voice reached his ears as the hold around his form loosened. A hand cupped his cheek and he found himself face to face with his father. Not the King of Alkara and Penleth. Not the head of the Court of Varis. This man...he was just Cyrdel's father. Where has he gone all these years? "It's okay. It's all going to be okay."

He doubted it, but it's what his addled mind craved to hear. It's what he needed—more lies—just so he could feel good enough to function. Scalding tears burned the corners of his eyes and a soft thumb swept them away. When had his father learned to deal with whatever this was? Why was he with Cyrdel, and not out there, dealing with commanders and advisers?

"Father," he choked through his clenched throat. His voice sounded foreign against his fluctuating hearing. "What's the update? How can I help?"

A look of disapproval passed across his father's face. Looked like he was back to being a King now. "I told you to stay inside," he told Cyrdel. "You'll be safer there."

Cyrdel shook his head. "I would rather be helping my people rather than run," he said. "We have a duty to protect."

"And I have a duty to ensure my son lives," his father answered. The words he strung together should have never been found within a sentence from each other. Who was this man uttering them to Cyrdel now?

A stubborn and hurt part in Cyrdel's gut bubbled to the surface. "I can continue the dynasty just fine, Father," he said. "Let me help our people. Let me help you. I'm not a flower-child anymore. I know what I'm doing."

His father scoffed and clicked his tongue. "This isn't about the damned dynasty anymore," he said. "The last thing I want to lose in the face of war is my family. Please, Cyrdel. Take cover. Find your mother."

"How is the situation in Depandes?" Cyrdel asked. "In the other cities?"

The King's lips parted to reveal the answer. The ceiling snapped in a hearty boom, scattering splinters, debris, and shards to the polished marble floor. Blades unsheathed all around him in a synchronous wave. Despite having the pact of pacifists, the Russets could fight when circumstances called. They could do this. It's just another day in protecting their autonomy.

Outside the estate, fighting has already broken out. Metallic clangs echoed from the front gate to the other wings, riding over the excess claps of thunder-like explosions in the residential city. Forms pressed against Cyrdel, flattening him against his father as the soldiers herded them to somewhere safer. The throne hall wasn't built for aerial attacks nor were they safe here. It's a bummer Cyrdel only found out now.

"I'm not leaving you," Cyrdel answered the pleading look his father kept flashing at him as they turned tail and ran for the thrones. The vault. They should be looking for something inside it—a secret and a way to call for help. Perhaps the people from the other side would respond in their time of need. "We'll go through all of this together."

Because despite their altercations and differences in opinion and convictions, they're still a family—the only one he had left in this world and the only one he'd ever have. The entire throne hall shook as another explosion rang from the gardens. Cyrdel threw an arm over his head, feeling more debris settle on his scalp. How much longer before the entire ceiling collapsed on them?

The Russets around him suddenly raised their weapons in the air and charged forward. Cyrdel whirled to the cause of their aggression to find people clad in black from head to toe climbing down from the holes eaten by the incessant blasts on the ceiling. They dropped to the ground, each one bearing blades of their own.

"Don't let their blades touch you!" Cyrdel called, his voice carrying all the way to the end of the throne hall. He couldn't even address the Court properly before. Look at that. "It's Dwarven metal. The wounds won't heal even with magic!"

If they heard or understood him, they didn't give him an indication. Hope—it's the only thing he could do and what he's good at. He stuck his fingers into his toolbelt and drew the first thing he touched. He turned to his father. "Let's get you out of here," he said.

His father stood his ground. "I'm not running."

Cyrdel clenched his jaw. "Like how you can't lose me," he said. "I can't lose you too."

Russet and crimson flashed in his periphery. He turned in time for a dark sword to arc in the air, aiming for his head. A rush of armor whizzed in front of him. The blade bit metal. Sliced clean through it. Thrusted. Blood splashed, splattering all over Cyrdel's face, arms, and clothes. The soldier crumpled to his feet before melting into a clump of clay.

A guttural scream rose from his gut, maybe out of fear or of something else. The Synketrian who killed one of the Russets saw his opportunity and moved towards Cyrdel. Not this time. The device flew out of Cyrdel's hands, the button at the head already pressed. Gears turned and safety mechanisms unlocked. It didn't even hit the ground before metal shrieked and gave way to a huge blast of compressed magic.

Heat scorched the ends of his hair, but he forced his legs to move and push his father forward. The vault. They'd be safe inside it until they figured out how to survive this siege. Shadows danced behind him. Silver streaked in his periphery. His hands disappeared into his pockets and pulled out trinkets as fast as he could see black.

Nets sprang out of their windings. Barbs and hidden thorns zipped towards arms, legs, and necks in frantic aims. Smoke poured out from activated canisters, making tears choke the living lights out of them. Cyrdel coughed into his fists and warned his father to not breathe the plumes so much. His own eyes stung, but he forged ahead through the mist. He reached into the last pocket of his belt and came up with the last trinket. Nira's breeches. Not now.

He turned to his father to break the sordid news. Instead, his gaze craned up to the incoming ball of fire streaking through the sky, coming straight at...

Them.

Cyrdel threw his entire weight against his father just as the world around him burst into flames.