CW: Mentions of past child trafficking, mentions of murder, mentions of death

--

A blanket of anxiety drapes over the Fortress of Meropide in the weeks leading up to the Cull.

On the morning of, Wriothesley jerks awake in a cold sweat. "Shit," he murmurs, wiping at his brow. His hand shakes with nervous jitters, and if he stands, he might fall over on unsteady, uncharacteristic sea legs. He shouldn't be like this. He's prepared—or thought he was.

Sigewinne's face flashes through his mind, and that concerned frown that had pulled taut across her face as she patched up his hand. A sick feeling rises in Wriothesley's throat. His heart hurts, aches deeply. I don't want to die.

But this isn't about him. Wriothesley has nothing else other than himself, so it'd be better if he's thrown into that Arena. He's old and tired. The others can survive, the others can...

The others cannot. The others will eat each other alive. Meropide will lose the sleek automation that Wriothesley has helped cultivate over the years, and it'll fall back into the old days of dog-eat-dog gang activity.

He drags a hand down his face. "Shit," he curses again, finally pulling himself from bed. "Shit."

Wriothesley glances at the calendar that hangs on his wall. He'd known what day it'd be when he went to bed. He'd known when he'd woken up, but The Cull still doesn't feel real, even as he stares at the date circled in angry red.

Wriothesley just stands there and stares at that date, at his room, at nothing in particular. Drags a hand through his hair. Takes too long to get dressed. He wonders if there's even a point in folding his sleeping clothes like he always does.

He decides there isn't.

#

"You're late," hisses Sigewinne as they file into the large space of the Production Zone. The Fortress of Meropide has one redeeming quality, which is the constant work flow of building the Meks that aid those above grounds.

"Sorry," he mutters, slotting into the tight space next to her. There aren't many prisoners in the grand scheme of things—about a thousand and some change active prisoners. But those prisoners marry and have families, and those families have children; prisoner or not, anyone above the age of ten can be culled for the games.

There are several thousands crammed into the Production Zone, awaiting the morbid game of chance. This is no different from any other Culling Day, only this time they are not a drop in a bucket, separated by their region of origin. Today, the prisoners are the entire pool, the only pool, and the room is deathly quiet as they all shuffle into place.

At the end of the room a grand platform has been built. It's pretty, gilded in gold, the sort of finery that is misplaced in these depths. Wriothesley thinks about the money spent that could've bought them supplies, or food, or medicine, squandered instead on something that'll only be torn down within the same day.

The stage is flanked on either end by large screens. In the middle is a podium, and behind it is Focalors herself, standing there in a sleek outfit that glitters and gleams underneath blinding spotlights.

Wriothesley stares. They aren't far from the stage, and it's easy to get a decent look at her. Focalors is a slight woman, thin-framed and tired-looking, different from her over-filtered, Kamera-filmed self.

"It's like this is the last fucking place she wants to be," he says.

Sigewinne snorts. "Are you surprised? She's lived this, Wriothesley, and she gets to relive it every time they throw her up there to pull these damned names. You know as well as I do that the Grand Judge isn't a position worth any salt."

True enough. He's just never considered it, never thought he'd have to. The chances of being culled from Meropide has always been low when compared to the hundreds of thousands who live above ground. But now...

"You look like you're going to be sick," says Sigewinne gently.

"I'm not." Sigewinne gives him an unconvinced look. "I'm not, I swear. I'm just antsy. I—well, everyone is. I think."

Sigewinne is beyond the point of nervousness, having barreled right into grim acceptance. For such a small creature, she's a force of nature. Wriothesley wishes that he had an ounce of her strength. "Sige—"

"File in, file in," says a Garde, shuffling everyone into makeshift groups. There is no rhyme or reason. It doesn't matter as long as they're there, and no one would think about defying the orders to be in attendance. Defiance equals death, and that always comes in fours, inevitable and unerring.

It's too hot, too stuffy. They stand there for too long, and that thought sits heavy on Wriothesley's tongue like a hot brand. The entire thing is a show, pageantry that reminds him too much of the foster home.

Mother and Father would parade him and his siblings about and prospective buyers would mull over them like butchers looking over cuts of fine meat. He supposes in the end there wasn't much of a difference, just like there isn't now. It's all the same bullshit.

After an eternity, Focalors taps against the microphone, testing the sound. She waits patiently as the hall falls still, waiting for her to begin her speech with bated breaths. Focalors sighs, shrinking in on herself as she smooths her hands down the length of her skirt. That's nervous energy, Wriothesley realizes. Anticipation. Dread.

Sigewinne is right, Focalors would rather not, and as a Veteran she deserves that right. But Celestia is the law, and the law is the truth; and so Focalors is here to do as she is bidden. Wriothesley watches as her face shifts, a well-practiced mask falling across it, before she leans into the mic and yells, "Welcome! What a glorious opportunity to deliver the good news in person today!"

The Cull is usually broadcast across Electro Screens, but with everyone being plucked from the same place, Focalors has come to deliver the news on location.

Tittering falls over the people of Meropide. Wriothesley stiffens in place, and Sigewinne hisses a soft curse under her breath. It's real, this is real, they can't stop this.

"Four years of peace have come and gone, ushering forth a time of reflection and remembrance," says Focalors, launching into the well-known speech that they all practically know by heart. "You all know the histories, of course. Under the watchful eyes of Celestia those darkened times can be done away with by her radiance."

There is no need to repeat the old stories. Everyone knows that the dragons no longer hold power, the that Primordial One and the Second Who Came sit upon their fancy thrones in the sky, watching everyone squirm underneath that watchful gaze.

"It has been nine hundred years since that fateful day that Calamity ravaged these lands, both above and below the sea; nine hundred years since our laws were lifted into the sky for the betterment of all."

Wriothesley's mouth tightens at that.

"The Law governs all," she says, and Wriothesley mouths these damnable rules alongside her. "Loyalty brings success and fortune. Calamity awaits those who embrace rebellion. Betrayal cannot be forgotten, and so, we hold the Travails as a divine reminder that Celestia can and will strike down those who oppose them."

Focalors pauses, a wry smile spreading across her face. "This year is the two-hundredth and twenty-fifth Travails. A quarterly game. As stated in our previous announcement, this game will carry an additional rule in celebration of this timely event—all of those culled for the Travails shall be from the Fortress of Meropide, and Meropide alone."

A soft sigh. Focalors worries the edge of the podium with her fingers, her gaze shifting to stare off for a moment before focusing back on the crowd. She looks out at those awaiting the Cull, and says, "Once I stood right where you are. And now I stand here before you as the Winner of the twenty-ninth Travails, and Grand Judge of this momentous occasion. With the help of the Oratrice Mecanique d'Analyse Cardinale, I shall pull twenty-eight names."

She pauses, offering up a soft hum. "Typically it would be four individuals from each region, two male and two female. However, in light of this year's unusual standard, it merely shall be fourteen men and fourteen women."

The Oratrice is a thing of wonder, a device meant to randomize names, but also pick a spread that will ensure an entertaining game. This is what Wriothesley meant when he'd asked Sigewinne if it was truly random—and he knows it is. The Travails of years past have proven that no one is safe, that any and everyone is at risk of being culled. Focalors confirms this with her next words.

"With the Oratrice comes balance," she says. "It powers Celestia with its bright wisdom. It offers unbiased sight where otherwise it might be tainted, and it has picked for us twenty-eight heroes who will serve Celestia in this most honorable tradition."

Focalors turns then, gesturing to a Melusine who stands at her side. "Miss Sedene, if you would please."

A box is handed to Focalors, rectangular and flat, and made of stunning clear, glittering glass. "For the ease of explanation," says Focalors then, "I shall give a reminder that this Sea Glass is created by the Oratrice itself, unable to be tampered with, carefully attuned to my power alone. I am the only one who can dismantle this condensed Hydro with the Vision granted to me by our Blessed Celestia."

Wriothesley's neck pricks. Sigewinne sucks in a deep breath as Focalors's hand settles over the box, slowly dismantling it, tendril by tendril. Then she looks out at the audience, her gaze soft and empathetic.

"There is a saying that we often say in Teyvat, the most important of all the Heavenly Principles: Death comes in fours, inevitable and unerring. And so, without further ado, it is time to announce this year's Tributes."

Sigewinne's hand darts out, taking hold of Wriothesley's hand. She squeezes it and gives him an affectionate, encouraging look.

It feels empty. "Sige," he says, "this sucks."

"Yeah. It's..." Sigewinne doesn't finish. There isn't a point, not with Focalors prying open that box with her delicate fingers.

Wriothesley tries to remember just how she won her games. The Elite keep track, having their fan-favorites, and replaying old games on Electro Screen stations. The Travails can turn anyone into a murderer—but can it be considered murder if you're fighting for your life?

A question that Wriothesley has no answer to because what constitutes justice varies from person to person. But Focalors—she'd been younger than most. He remembers that. A small and slight thing turned vicious in the field when desperation curdled her heart. Wriothesley wonders if someone in this game will snap in the same way.

Focalors's fingers dip into that box, sweeping up the first piece of paper. The seconds crawl as she takes too long to unfold it, smoothing it out flat before scanning the name.

"First," she says, leaning into the microphone, her voice crisp and curt. "Baizhu."

Unfortunate. Baizhu isn't a bad man, he's just a sickly doctor who cares a little too much about his patients. Smuggling—that was his crime. Painkillers, medicines, anything to provide comfort to the infirm.

Sigewinne's nails cut sharply into Wriothesley's palm. "That's—" she hisses, before cutting herself off with an unladylike curse. "So much for my assistant, I suppose," she muses, her tone dripping with sarcasm.

Baizhu barely makes his way up to the platform, unsteady on his feet, bending like a reed in the breeze. Pity flashes across Focalors's face before melting away before most could notice. Baizhu stands proudly, though, his chin held high despite the way his legs shake, and Focalors offers him a short nod before moving onto the next.

And this is how it goes; Focalors takes her time pulling a name and reading it aloud, and the offered up Tribute shuffles to the stage in an awkward walk to their more-than-likely death. It's a grim show. Wriothesley stands there, stock still, jaw tense. Sigewinne is worse, her mouth pulled into a terse frown, eyes sharp and dark with hatred.

Gorou, a former General of the Fatui, originally stationed in Watatsumi Island. Diluc, a vigilante that plagued Mondstadt before being coined as a nuisance. Yelan, a former Qixing spy from Liyue. Rosaria and Barbara, two nuns who served the Archon Barbatos instead of the divine Primordial One.

Enjou, Itto, Tighnari, Itto, Jeht, Faruzan—Wriothesley's gaze drags along the Tributes that slowly line the stage. A spread, he thinks. That's what the Oratrice promised them all and so far, it's delivered.

"Beidou." Focalors's voice doesn't waver as she folds that slip of paper back up and sets it to the side. Kokomi. Bennett.

Wriothesley's head hurts. He grimaces, pinching at the bridge of his nose as he closes his eyes and counts to three.

Sigewinne tugs at his arm. "Wriothesley," she murmurs.

"Sige, give me a moment."

"Wriothesley." This time her voice is pulled tight, fraught with panic. He looks at her and sees that the corner of her eyes are tearing up.

And then he sees that everyone else is staring at him.

Focalors looks up from the podium, the next slip of paper caught between her fingers. She waits, her gaze drawing across the crowd, and then when no one comes forward, she repeats what is clearly his name.

Time stills. Wriothesley is caught in that moment. There is no dread, no slick and oily feeling creeping down his spine. It's just a dull throb that pounds in his head as his name echoes through it.

Sigewinne's claws dig into his palm sharply enough that he hisses, snapping back to reality. She pushes at him, and he staggers, barely catching himself on his next step.

"Later," he says, looking at her. Sigewinne's face is red with anger, and she does her best to not cry. "Later, Sige. We'll talk later."

He hopes. There's no knowing if he'll actually get that chance, but he manages to turn on his heel and put one foot after the other, heading for that platform of death. More names are called, blurring together as Wriothesley climbs the stairs to stand there and be gawked at.

And then he's twelve again, only it's Father showing him off for a handful of couples eyeballing him like a piece of meat. He squirms once in place. Bennett stands next to him, shaking in his boots, but manages to put on a brave face.

They all do, and that's no surprise. Wriothesley knows all of these people, he's broken bread with them, he's shared water and cots in the infirmary with them. Those from Meropide are made of stern stuff. They don't have the luxury of panicking.

Focalors moves to pull another slip—only for a shout to sound out from the audience: "I volunteer!"

Everyone in the room stills. Volunteers are exceedingly rare, even for those who want bragging rights, or a grim chance at guts and glory. The crowd parts, a slim body throwing itself away from the throng. "I'm Lyney," he yells across the space, "and I volunteer as a Tribute!"

Wriothesley's eyes narrow on the man. Suspicious. Lyney is... Wriothesley has managed to collect information about most in Meropide, but this boy has remained mostly a mystery. His sole affiliation is the House of the Hearth, which while they've kept quiet, Wriothesley knows there's something no-good there, even if he hasn't nailed just what. Lyney keeps to himself, only talking to his sister, but is, otherwise, non-confrontational. Volunteering for the Travails feels vastly out of character.

Focalors does not let her shock be evident. "Lyney," she repeats. There is nothing she can do to stop it, so she motions to the stage. "Take your place among the others—"

"Me too!" This voice is female. "I volunteer as well!" Lynette. Doubly suspicious. "I refuse to let my brother go into the Arena alone," she says to Focalors once she frees herself from the crowd.

This will no doubt be sensationalized; a boy volunteers, and then his twin sister right after. It's the kind of shit that the Elite eat right up.

"A surprise," says Focalors, forcing a smile onto her face and staring into the Kameras. "Well then, if the two of you will find your way up here."

Focalors looks discomforted, but presses on, ignoring the way that Lynette tugs at Lyney's hand as they make their way to the platform. Something's wrong. Wriothesley will have to keep an eye on them. Maybe if he—

He catches himself in his thoughts. He's already plotting as if he has a chance of winning. He doesn't. He doesn't, he doesn't, he doesn't—but Wriothesley also doesn't want to die.

"Ying'er," calls Focalors next, making Wriothesley's blood run cold. Ying'er, unlike the rest of them, slips into the aisle with a smirk on her face. She's dangerous. She's dangerous, and not in a fist-fighting kind of way. Wriothesley has always been thankful that he's never pissed her off.

Focalors pauses. "Two more," she says, her fingers dipping back into that back. "Both of them are female. The first being Collei."

No. No, no, no. There is a collective murmur from the citizens of Meropide. Collei is a young, sweet thing. She isn't even a criminal, she's a young woman who can barely stand on her feet, just one of the many infirm folk hidden away in Meropide because Celestia cannot stand the sight of anything that isn't perfect.

If he could, Wriothesley would volunteer for her. He waits. Silently begs for someone else to, as does the rest of the crowd in the room. There is a shocked, stunned silence. People hold their breaths, waiting to see what happens.

But nothing does, no one steps forward to spare this poor girl what will be her death. Collei is a strong young woman, but she will die in the Arena. Everyone knows it—most of all her.

Wriothesley's chest tightens as she slips from the crowd. Collei holds her head high, even as she walks down the aisle with a stuttered gait. Hard, rough scales line her forearms, making it hard not to stare.

Eleazar. One of Teyvat's curses, chipping away at the land. Karma. Celestia says it's the Third Descender's hatred turning the land, one last hurrah in the wake of their death. The why doesn't matter. No one cares about that; what they do care about is the pain it causes.

Collei has carried a death sentence since she was a child. This is why no one steps in, why no one volunteers to pay Tribute in her place—she's already going to die, so what's the point?

She deserves a quiet, peaceful death, though, and Wriothesley stands there with barely contained rage as she climbs the steps. She veers right past the entire line, shoving herself between Wriothesley and Bennett.

Collei sees his tenseness. They do not know each other well, but there is familiarity, and she reaches out to take hold of Wriothesley's hand for a reassuring squeeze. Ironic. Wriothesley appreciates it nonetheless.

The last name called is Klee. Focalors's expression halts entirely as a bubbly child barely ten barrels into the aisle with excited chittering. Wriothesley hadn't thought the dread could sink deeper, that it could sharp and gut him like a knife.

But while Collei is young, Klee is a child. And still, no one takes her place.

Klee, is smart, though. A pain in his ass more often than not. Wriothesley's cleaned up so many of her messes, and they've all learned to lock away anything that carries explosive risk.

He looks at Klee, who wears the cheerful smile of a kid as she stands at the end. Wriothesley knows better. He recognizes the taut line of the corner of her mouth. Klee knows that she's going to die and takes it better than most of the adults on the damned stage.

Wriothesley doesn't know what's worse—that she knows that, or that he'd end her life without hesitation if it means he gets to live.

The microphone gives sharp feedback as Focalors's collects the paper strips into a neat pile. "And with this, we have our twenty-eight Tributes who alone will shoulder the burden of our past misdeeds, and usher in another four years of prosperity in their wake. Let us give a round of applause. Blessed is she who is Celestia, and our Heavenly Principles in this wonderful opportunity!"

There is no applause, just unsettling silence that blankets the room.

Focalors doesn't force it.

#

They are whisked away by Gardes the moment that the live feed of the Cull is cut.

Wriothesley is tossed into his room unceremoniously and told to wait for further instructions. "Do I get to pack a bag, or something, at the very least?"

The Garde gives him a weary, tired look. "No personal effects," he says, sounding a little regretful. Wriothesley recognizes this man. Young, fresh into the patrolling force of Meropide only a few months prior. Kind enough, and known to toss inmates leftover clothing and boots that don't fit him well, as well as turning a blind eye to their black market bargaining.

"No surprise there."

The Garde pauses and then says, "Wait, I forgot—you're allowed one thing, a token to take with you."

Right. A token, a sweet opportunity to take something from home into the Arena, courtesy of Celestia's kind caring. Wriothesley surprises himself with how angry it makes him.

"What will you take?"

Several seconds pass before Wriothesley realizes that the Garde asked him the question. Wriothesley looks around his barren room. He has so little in personal effects. A threadbare blanket. A dingy, too-old mattress. A ratty pillow with clumped filling. He gives a bitter laugh, pulling at his face.

"Nothing, I guess. Nothing that'd be worth it, at least."

The Garde's mouth tightens, uncomfortable, as if he's never considered that. He lives down here too, as all the Garde's do, but he has... more. Things and effects. Wriothesley could, but he just doesn't. He's never minded much, until now.

He is angry. Wriothesley's been angry since the moment they announced the additional rule for the 225th Travails, but he hasn't allowed himself to feel it. Now he does, hot and slick, sliding down his spine before settling in his gut. It's poisonous. Oily. It makes him sick.

He stalks the length of the room, clenching his fist. None of this is fair. None of this is—

Wriothesley lets that anger boil over and punches the wall, the bones of his knuckles crunching with a sickening sound. The pain of it is good. A distraction. Already, Wriothesley finds himself calming down.

The Garde starts, and Wriothesley stops him with a wave of his hand.

"It's okay," he says. "I'm okay, I just..." Wriothesley drops to the edge of his mattress and shakes out his ruined hand. "I'm not one for sentimentality. I don't live in the past, or even much in the present. It's never mattered much."

Wriothesley expects, for a second, that the Garde might refute that. But the Garde surprises him instead by saying, "Things have always been bleak, huh?" A quick shake of his head has the man sighing. "As you said, it doesn't matter much. We're just here. Existing."

"A cog in an ever-turning clock."

The Garde offers him a small, wry smile. "I think a clock would have more—"

The door to Wriothesley's room slams open and Sigewinne flies through the space. Wriothesley barely catches her before she knocks him over. "Whoa, there—"

"Fuck Celestia," she spits. "Fuck the Travails, fuck Teyvat, fuck The Pri—"

"Language," hisses Wriothesley. He doesn't mean the expletives words, he means the terrible choice to curse the Primordial One's name.

Sigewinne's mouth snaps shut, but her face is still contorted by fiery rage. "I—" Then she sees his hand and her expression cools, causing both the Garde and Wriothesley to grimace. "Wriothesley."

"It's nothing, Sige."

She yanks at his hand, and Wriothesley yelps when pain lances through it. A soft click of her tongue. "Nothing, he says." Her gaze slips to the Garde. "Did that sound like nothing to you?"

"No ma'am."

"Stop torturing the poor guy," says Wriothesley.

Sigewinne snorts. "Always hurting yourself. Do I need to give you a refresher before you're tossed out there?"

"I know basic first-aid." She's drilled it into his brain over the decades.

"And yet, here you are, with a broken hand."

"A calculated choice, I assure you."

Sigewinne's expression is pinched, exhausted. She sighs, her grip on his hand loosening. Hydro coats her palm, and as she drags it across his knuckles, Sigewinne says, "You've got to be careful."

"I will be."

"Before it's too late, Wriothesley."

Wriothesley chuckles under his breath. "Wow, you've called me by my full name twice in a row. What'd I do?"

He knows what he did, and she knows that he knows. Sigewinne's expression is a combination of something scary and something exhausted. At least the Hydro is cool against his skin and sweet to the touch. Makes it easier to pretend that Wriothesley isn't scared shitless of her.

"Idiot," she calls him next. "I can't watch you—You're so stupid. You're going to get yourself killed out there."

A smile pulls at Wriothesley's mouth. "Thanks for the vote of confidence."

"You can't. Die I mean. Wriothesley, you can't die. But if you do, the others..."

Sigewinne is the strongest person that he knows, so when he sees tears well at the corner of her eyes, Wriothesley's heart cracks in two. "Hey," he says, batting her hands away. "Hey, Sige. Hey."

"I hate this," she cries. "I hate this, I've always hated this. Centuries of watching this and now you—I—"

Wriothesley pulls her close for a tight hug. Her fingers curl into his shirt, shoulders wracked with silent sobs. She doesn't cry—not in the traditional sense—but she shakes against him as Wriothesley pets the crown of her head.

"It'll be okay," he tells her. "Sige, it'll be okay."

It won't. It'll be the worst. It'll be brutal, and ugly, and violent, and it'll be a damn miracle that Wriothesley makes it out on the other end, but if he tells himself that it'll be okay, if he tells Sigewinne that, maybe there's a smidgen of a chance.

"You're old," she says, rather rudely. "You're going to have a heart attack out there."

"There are worse ways to die—" Sigewinne digs her nails into the meat of his forearm. "Ow, okay, point taken." He grunts when Sigewinne pulls away.

Wriothesley cups her cheeks, forcing her to look at his face. "Do you remember what we talked about before? If I don't come back, you'll—"

"You just said—"

"And I'm going to try my fucking best, Sige. I can't leave my best girl to run this place alone. But, if that happens, if I don't come back, you know what to do."

"I—"

"Not to interrupt," cuts in the Garde, "but they're paging me that your allotted visit is coming to an end. You've got about a minute before they make me kick her out."

"Sigewinne," says Wriothesley.

"Yes, yes, I know what to do."

Relief washes through him. He doesn't enjoy seeing Sigewinne like this, crumbling in on herself and falling apart, but everyone has their breaking point, even stone-cold Melusines with mean streaks.

It occurs to Wriothesley, then, that this might be the last time that he'll ever see her. What a fucking depressing thought. Sigewinne is so many things to him—she helped raise him here, and then she became his best friend. She grouses about his health, and shoves those god-awful milkshakes down his throat. There isn't another person he trusts in the entire damn world.

Wriothesley thumbs across her cheeks, and gives her a smile. "I meant that, you know. You've always been my best girl."

"I'm old enough to be your great-great-grandmother."

"And yet."

Sigewinne doesn't wipe at her face, she just stares at him with a pinched, forlorn expression that says so many things.

"I love you," he says to her. "You're the only person I've ever trusted. I'm going to do my damnedest to come back."

"Don't say that," snaps Sigewinne. "If you win, then stay the hell away from here. Take the fucking freedom."

Wriothesley laughs and presses a kiss against her forehead. When Sigewinne leaves, he feels heavier, but it's with newfound resolve and a sense of peace instead of dread.

#

Neuvillette's work is, typically, incredibly straightforward. He looks over his paperwork, signs a few things, oversees a few hearings, and then goes home for the night. He sleeps well enough. Wakes up in the morning and eats a decent breakfast, and then it's rinse and repeat.

He doesn't often engage with others. His nature as the Sovereign Hydro Dragon deems him relatively untouchable to most, which suits him perfectly fine. He doesn't enjoy personal encounters. Humans are strange, fickle creatures, and despite his age, Neuvillette has yet to sort out their idiosyncrasies, leaving him awkward and occasionally annoyed.

Every four years, though, there is one night which he dreads; a night full of headache, vexation, and not enough of his fancy water. Neuvillette is not a man who drinks, and yet, on this night, he considers pouring out a glass of fire water.

"It's clear, at least," says Focalors from across the room. She watches him like a hawk from here she's draped across the couch in her office parlor. "The alcohol. You can pretend it's water from Chenyu Vale, or wherever the hell the flavor of the week is from."

Vourukasha Oasis, thinks Neuvillette, but no one other than him would care.

Still, he pours himself a glass, if only to be polite. "Another four years, and another Travails," he says, uncorking the fancy decanter. The slosh of the liquid is too loud in the otherwise quiet room.

"Another year of you trying to shove mentoring off on me."

Neuvillette stills at that, takes a deep breath, and then turns to her. "More like another year of you shoving it off on me," he replies dryly. "It is, after all, your job."

Focalors snorts. "Blah, blah—"

"You are the only Veteran to hail from Fontaine." Not the only one still alive, but the only to have ever won. The prestige of winning comes with many boons; Ascension to Celestia, power and money, mentorship of future tributes, which— "Most take this honor with pride," finishes Neuvillette.

"Do you think we want to mentor new little chickadees just to send them to their death? We all hate this job." Focalors snorts again.

Neuvillette blinks. He doesn't understand why. Never has. It's merely just something that he's done, a part of the process. "You do everything they ask you to do, except for this. You bear the brunt of publicity for Celestia. You present the Cull and pull out the names, as well as conduct any of the press conferences."

"Something about looking approachable," mutters Focalors. "Sweet and demure, or whatever it is they like to throw around."

For the sake of marketing, Focalors is a good choice; she's petite, slight, and empathetic to the aftermath of the Travails. Even Neuvillette has seen this in the way her brow creases, or her sadness at the Cull over the decades. Still.

"And yet, you do it."

"What choice do I have? Besides, it's supposed to be random."

Four Veterans per region are picked at random to mentor a corresponding Tribute, but with Focalors as the singular winner of Fontaine, she is always guaranteed to be picked for every set of Travails. Focalors refuses to do this duty, which Celestia bends too, unwilling to risk losing her for other duties, so one of the positions always falls on the next best option: the Lead Arbitrator and expected future Chief Justice, maker of the Games.

Neuvillette didn't ask for the honor, but unlike Focalors, he is in no position to refuse. The Sovereign is to be loyal in the way his ancestors were, and so he does as he's bid. And, he has pity for Focalors who carries the trauma of winning. Neuvillette comprehends this, even if his understanding of humanity is stilted.

"I've already done enough work," continues Focalors, breaking into his thoughts. "I still do so much. Why should I need to do this too?"

Neuvillette's ears twitch, and he tilts his head in curiosity. Normally they give a little back and forth before he accepts his resigned fate. Never before has Focalors given insight as to what she's thinking. "It's an honor—"

"Honor," she interrupts. Focalors takes a drag of her own drink, choking on the fire water. "I've done my bid, you know. I went into that damn arena and came out on top. The things I did and saw—" She cuts herself off, rubbing her face. "I won. I won, and that was supposed to be it. Ascend to Celestia and become an Elite. But, as it turns out, there are terms and conditions, which you no doubt know better than anyone. Freedom comes at the price of being a damn slave."

Those are loose words that she would, otherwise, never say. "I think you are drunk," he replies.

"I'm..." Focalors glances at the cup. "Probably. But I'm also right."

"Miss Focalors—"

"I see them in my sleep. The ones I killed. The ones I came across, already dead. Four days in that Arena and I've relived them every night for centuries. I'm tired. Exhausted. Monsieur Neuvillette, I shouldn't have to guide others to their deaths. The pain of remembering is plenty enough. I've done enough."

Neuvillette sits there and thinks upon her words, the skin between his brows furrowing. "I..."

"I'm not asking you to understand," sighs Focalors. "And, for the record, I appreciate your help through the years. Mentoring a Tribute isn't easy, even for someone more... detached."

"I merely lack the same understanding," he tells her.

She hums at that, dragging her thumb along the rim of the glass. "Yes, well, it's something, at least." Focalors's eyes flicker to him. "This year, with everyone coming from Meropide, the Mentor pool was randomized among all remaining Veterans. I still got picked. Thanks to the fucking Oratrice, I guess."

"Language, Miss Focalors."

She snorts, waving his concerns away. "Either way, it's the same as always. I won't do it, and so—" She points to him. "Congratulations, you've been Culled for a wonderful opportunity." There is a sarcastic lilt to her voice, one that chills his blood slightly. "I was assigned the mean-looking one with all the scars. His file is on the table."

Neuvillette takes hold of the folder and flips through it. Wriothesley. No last name, no familial records, not even an age—just the mention of a sealed record before his incarceration, a life-sentence of servitude at Meropide as a result of his crime, and reports of his happenings once at the Fortress. Older, judging by the years that he flips through. Smart, Neuvillette can tell as he skims a page.

"He seems like a good Tribute."

"I guess you've never really been saddled with anyone who's had much of a chance."

Neuvillette hasn't. His Tributes of the past flash by in a blur, but they all wear the same faces and clothing, melting together into beings of little significance to him. "I am curious as to what those culled from Meropide think about all of this? Do they appreciate the chance for their sentences to be commuted? Do they fear death in the same way as those before them?"

Focalors gives him a calculated look. "When you meet him, why don't you ask him?"

Neuvillette thinks that he just might. He never has cared enough to do so before.