Fate/Atlast [Fate World Grail War]

renren_writes · Oct 5, 2022

PREMISE

Fate/Atlas takes place in a world where the Holy Grail War has become not only global in nature, building up far more in comparison to a regular Grail War to grant wishes, but is also heavily corporatised. Magecraft and the Grail War are well known among the normal populace, and several World Grail Wars so far have been documented and treated like annual events complete with company sponsorships, interviews with the servants and masters, and even political intrigue that has shaped entire countries' growth. All catalysts for summoning are stored in the Vatican vault, though some have been lost to time naturally and others are not summoned so conventionally, and the Grail vessel is kept under lock and key by the Pope in Vatican City as the rest of the world continues with its Grail War.

Masters and servants are celebrities of the highest caliber, though in an almost unreal sense to the public. Due to the knowledge that the (typically) human masters must die for an easy win in the Grail Wars, they're turned into sort of walking corpse idols that people cheer for and sponsor support to via the companies they represent and are backed by. If people were enamoured enough by a master and servant duo being backed by, for example, some Elon Musk-level corporate head, they would be able to send resources, money and perhaps even themselves to one of the company's locations to give aid to that duo. Rather than having it be incentive to lure people into thinking they get a say in the wish made upon the Grail, it's more taking advantage of people who get scarily into these kinds of things and want bragging rights about participation.

Magecraft is well known among the population and the Clock Tower has even started a purely theory course for regular people to take and understand magic better, allowing for the discovery of miracle lineages and even assistance to prominent families all over the world from means outside of the mage world. Though some traditionalists are against this and still keep their secrets, the harsh truth is that regular people are given a "pretty" version of magecraft that a baby could understand, and nothing beyond that. Likewise, most departments of the Mages' Association prefer not to let regular people get involved and instead just give them superficial tasks and research to aid in.

It is currently the time of the Fifth World Grail War, and the world governments and mage alliances are scrambling to pick masters and request catalysts from the Vatican before anyone else can. While it isn't first-come in the Vatican's eyes, they will readily accept people and groups who have stated clearly what their wish is - and the best way to get to the top of that list of prospective masters, even if you're lying or plan to double-cross someone down the line, is to either give the wish up entirely to the government/alliance that you represent or use the wish to reach Akasha. Thanks to most conflicts being resolved following the buildup to a World Grail War, it is considered akin to a duel between nations and generally preferred over regular wars due to the similar number of casualties seen in both. A massive clock keeps track of when the Grail is full enough to summon servants for a grand battle, and most governments make decisions on the approach to take based on the time between Grail Wars.

What is Fate/Atlas?

Atlas is a collaborative work that is mainly posted and updated on fanfiction.net! It started out as an SYOC (Submit Your Own Character) and I decided I wanted to not only share the story here and show off the submitter's characters, but also provide a place for more visual references for the readers of the fanfiction.net version! Atlas is a story that plays fast and loose with TypeMoon lore and uses original servants that were inspired by many users on forums who brainstormed servant ideas, thus resulting in this silly little thing. If anyone sticks around and reads, I hope you all enjoy and that each chapter isn't too confusing!

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TABLE OF CONTENTS
0. Prologue
1. Chapter One
2. Chapter Two
3. Chapter Three
4. Chapter Four
5. Chapter Five
6. Chapter Six
7. Chapter Seven
8. Chapter Eight
9. Chapter Nine
10. Chapter Ten
11. Chapter Eleven
12. Chapter Twelve
13. Chapter Thirteen
14. Chapter Fourteen
15. Chapter Fifteen
16. Chapter Sixteen (TBA)

renren_writes · Oct 5, 2022

Sudi Chandra

Credit to: renren-writes
Master of: Formerly Saber | Currently Assassin
Age: 24
Affiliation: The Vatican
Current Status: Alive
Command Seals: 3 remaining. An upward-facing crescent with a full circle beneath that evokes the image of a sun and moon, with a four-pointed star beneath the circle. First command spell used to call Saber inside a bounded field. Replenished first command spell after taking Louis Laurent Monet's during the servant trade as compensation for the ambush on neutral ground.
Notable Events:

Recruitment of Casval Crudelis Cecani as a mentor.
Removal of a parasitic curse burrowed in his heart.
Traded Saber for Assassin and Louis during the reparations meeting.

Jamal DuBry

Credit to: AdaviantheBear
Master of: Archer
Age: 25
Affiliation: United States of America
Current Status: Alive
Command Seals: 3 remaining. In the center, there is a small diamond. Surrounding that is another diamond with the top half of it having a flame design. The outermost has a bottom half of a diamond that fans out to form spread wings that is similar in design to the crest on his back.
Notable Events:

Covered up of his mother's murder at the hands of Archer
Allied with Alexis and Lancer after learning about Lancer's Noble Phantasm.

Alexis Gracel

Credit to: WitnessofFate
Master of: Lancer
Age: 27
Affiliation: Herself
Current Status: Alive
Command Seals: 3 remaining. Two diagonal bat wings with a diamond between the two, yet not connecting. A V symbol surrounds the bottom of the diamond and reaches below the bat wings.
Notable Events:

Collaborated with Assassin to summon Lancer, find Saber, and exchange information on Archer
Took an entire airplane hostage to make a deal with Jamal DuBry.

Avodt'ja Vinogradov

Credit to: Bluestar076
Master of: Caster
Age: 19
Affiliation: Slavic Confederation (fictional alliance of Slavic countries that joint govern as a super-country)
Current Status: Alive
Command Seals: 3 remaining. A trio of feathers, two of which resemble the frame of a family emblem, and the middle and third feather being larger than the others, facing upwards.
Notable Events:

Recruited Havi Wodan from the Norse High Council.
Killed and tamed the spectre of Pyotr, a baker from Norilsk.
Killed an entire train of workers in self-defence on her way from Norilsk to Moscow.

Amèlie Appiani

Credit to: Elements08
Master of: Formerly Assassin | Currently Saber
Age: 27
Affiliation: Monaco Royal Family
Current Status: Alive
Command Seals: 1 remaining/other 2 split between Louis and Citra. The roman numberal for 1 (I) with a forward slash connected to it, implying 1/(blank numerical).
Notable Events:

Ambushed Beatrice and attempted to steal with grail vessel with Louis Laurent Monette.
Successfuly threw Louis under the bus and blamed the ambush against Team Saber on him.

Louis Laurent Monette

Credit to: Zero-tan
Master of: Formerly Assassin
Age: 26
Affiliation: Monette family
Current Status: Alive
Command Seals: 0 remaining/other 2 split between Citra and Amèlie. The roman numberal for 2 (II) with a forward slash connected to it, implying 2/(blank numerical).
Notable Events:

Ambushed Beatrice and attempted to steal the grail vessel with Amèlie Appiani.
Forced to give up a command spell to Sudi Chandra after taking the fall for the attack on Team Saber in Vatican City bounds.
Handed over to Team Saber as compensation for the ambush within Vatican City bounds.

Citra Van-Alphen

Credit to: PyropeStar
Master of: Formerly Assassin | Currently Saber
Age: 27
Affiliation: Van-Alphen family
Current Status: Alive
Command Seals: 1 remaining/other 2 split between Amèlie and Louis. The roman numberal for 3 (III) with a forward slash connected to it, implying 3/(blank numerical).
Notable Events:

Bugged the phones of Louis and Amèlie to track their movements.
Forced Saber into using his Noble Phantasm.
Fought Saber and survived.
Traded Assassin and Louis for Saber following the ambush within Vatican City Bounds.

Holly Leighton

Credit to: TenaciousTurtleDuck
Master of: Rider
Age: 19
Affiliation: Clock Tower
Current Status: Alive
Command Seals: 3 remaining. A trio of stylized flower blooms, each branching off of a single stem. With each command spell expended, one of the blooms will fade away, with the last taking the stem along with it.
Notable Events:

Began planning the usurption of Lord Jastrum Archelot with the help of Natalya Argyris and Vere Renard.
Met with the witch Eulalie Trivia to investigate the murder of Olena and Anya Renard.

Liu Lan

Credit to: Atomi
Master of: Berserker
Age: 34
Affiliation: Spiral Manor
Current Status: Alive
Command Seals: 3 remaining. A stylised spindle with an orb at the bottom and a the needle pointing upwards, with a thread linking the tip of the needle to the orb in an S shape.
Notable Events:

Successfully ambushed and learned key information of Rider's identity

renren_writes · Oct 5, 2022

Casval Crudelis Cecani

Credit to: LuciferXIII Trollkaiger Green
Ally to: Sudi Chandra
Age: 27
Current Status: Alive
Notable Events:

Removed the parastic curse from Sudi Chandra's heart.
Discovered Saber's identity.
Called Saber out for his shit.

Natalya Argyris

Credit to: RevolutionaryCleo
Ally to: Holly Leighton
Age: 24
Current Status: Alive
Notable Events:

Allied with Holly Leighton to investigate the group that murdered her best friend.

Michael Montes

Credit to: Veldstad
Ally to: Citra Van-Alphen
Age: 28
Current Status: Alive
Notable Events:

Fought Saber and survived.
Agreed to succeed Citra's command spells if she dies before using them.
Cut off Saber's arm on Citra's orders.

Havi Wodan

Credit to: KaousuShin
Ally to: Avodt'ja Vinogradov
Age: 21
Current Status: Alive
Notable Events:

Executed Pyotr, a baker from Norilsk, on Adovt'ja's orders.
Correctly deduced Caster's identity.
Gouged out his own eye.

Sister Beatrice

Credit to: renren-writes
Ally to: Sudi Chandra
Age: 26
Current Status: Alive
Notable Events:

Survived an ambush from Louis Laurent Monette and Amèlie Appiani with minor burns.
Received the Shroud of Magdalene from Father Kiran Kotomine.

renren_writes · Oct 5, 2022

True Name: Lucius Tiberius

Class Skills:

Magic Resistance (B+)
Riding (A)

Personal Skills:

Imperial Privilege (EX)
Emperor of Blades (A)
Mana Burst (Demonic Flames of the Emperor) (A+)

Paramaters: NOTE - Paramaters unaffected by master/Saber's "default" parameters. Influence from Sudi is not applied.

Strength: A+	Agility: A	Endurance: A
Mana: B	Luck: C	NP: A

Identity Hints:

Roman emperor
Sword capable of healing even curses
Was slain by King Arthur in Brittany

Noble Phantasm(s) Shown:

Unknown Name - Unknown Rank - Anti-Unit? - Capable of healing wounds and curses
Floras Florent - Unknown Rank - Anti-Army? - A beam of read light sent towards the enemy with a swing of Florent, which branches into four beams and engulfs the enemy completely. Resembles a lily in appearance.

True Name: Antiope

Class Skills:

Riding (C)
Magic Resistance (B)

Personal Skills:

Divinity (B)
Golden Rule (Body) (B)
Affections of the Goddess (B)
Clairvoyance (B)

Paramaters: NOTE - Paramaters unaffected by master/Archer's "default" parameters. Influence from Jamal is not applied.

Strength: B+	Agility: B	Endurance: B
Mana: C	Luck: B	NP: A++

Identity Hints:

Daughter of Ares
Died before able to have children of her own

Noble Phantasm(s) Shown:

Skorpizo - Rank: A++ - Anti-Army - A bow belonging to Ares that fires a single flaming arrow that splits into hundreds of destructive projectiles that scatter and seek enemies.

True Name: Currently unkown

Class Skills:

Independant Action (B)
Magic Resistance (C)

Personal Skills:

Monstrous Strength (A)
Berserk (B)
Battle Continuation (A+)
Golden Rule (A)
Curse and Blessing of the Gods (A+)

Paramaters: NOTE - Paramaters unaffected by master/Lancer's "default" parameters. Influence from Alexis is not applied.

Strength: B+ (A+)	Agility: C (B)	Endurance: A+ (A++)
Mana: C	Luck: E	NP: C+~A+

Identity Hints:

Relies on rune magic (potentially Norse or Gaelic)
Influence in some form from gods

Noble Phantasm(s) Shown: N/A

True Name: Snow Queen/Jenny Lind

Class Skills:

Territory Creation (EX)
Item Construction (False) (A)
Magic Resistance (A)

Personal Skills:

Protection of the Fairies (A)
Natural Body (Winter) (A+)
Mana Burst (Ice) (A+)
Snow Fairy (EX)
Emotional Freezing (A)

Paramaters: NOTE - Paramaters unaffected by master/Caster's "default" parameters. Influence from Avodt'ja is not applied.

Strength: D	Agility: D	Endurance: D
Mana: A++ (EX)	Luck: B	NP: A++

Identity Hints:

Favours the Danish dish risengrod
Queen
Able to numb people to the cold with one kiss, make them forget their loved ones with another, and kill them with a final kiss
Has a noble phantasm called Djævlens Spejl

Noble Phantasm(s) Shown:

Djævlens Spejl - Rank: A - Anti-Unit - Full effects unknown

True Name: Currently unknown

Class Skills:

Presence Concealment (A)
Independent Action (A)
Magic Resistance (A)

Personal Skills:

Universal Bird's Eye (A)
Divinity (A)
Instinct (A)
Uncrowned Arms Mastership (A)

Paramaters: NOTE - Paramaters unaffected by master/Assassin's "default" parameters. Influence from Louis, Citra and Amèlie is not applied.

Strength: B	Agility: A	Endurance: A
Mana: B	Luck: B	NP: EX

Identity Hints:

Skilled enough with a bow to masquerade as Archer
Proficient in gathering information

Noble Phantasm(s) Shown:

Govardhan - Rank: A - Anti-Unit - A divine bow that, when combined with Assassin's Divinity and Universal Bird's Eye, converts arrows fired from the bow into single-target homing missiles that impose an intant death effect.
Name unknown - Rank: A+ - Anti-Army - An attack that rains down a shower of hundreds of deadly arrows, each as powerful as an A-rank attack.

True Name: Gwyn ap Nudd

Class Skills:

Magic Resistance (C)
Riding (A+)
Summoning (A+)

Personal Skills:

Battle Continuation (A)
Divinity (C)
Independent Action (B)
Psychopomp (A+)
Protection of the Fairies (A+++)

Paramaters: NOTE - Paramaters unaffected by master/Rider's "default" parameters. Influence from Holly is not applied.

Strength: C	Agility: B	Endurance: D
Mana: C	Luck: C	NP: A

Identity Hints:

Associated with the Wild Hunt
Fairy
First Noble Phantasm is a horse named "Du"
Psychopomp
Is known as the Holly King

Noble Phantasm(s) Shown:

Unknown Name - Unknown Rank - Unknown Class - A mount referred to only as "Du"
Unknown Name - Unknown Rank - Unknown Class - Summons of ghosts and phantasmal beasts belonging to the Wild Hunt

True Name: Currently unknown

Class Skills:

Mad Enhancement (C-)

Personal Skills:

Espionage (B-)
Honor of Misfortune (A)
Identity Crisis (E~C)
Madness Discernment (C)
Through the Looking Glass (No rank)

Paramaters: NOTE - Paramaters unaffected by master/Berserker's "default" parameters. Influence from Lan is not applied.

Strength: D~A	Agility: D~A	Endurance: D~A
Mana: C	Luck: E	NP: C+

Identity Hints:

Unstable personality
Refers to self as "Mousie"

renren_writes · Oct 5, 2022

Servant/Master Tracker

Chapter 6 Location Update:

Chapter 13 Location Update:

Art

Art by Altomi

renren_writes · Oct 5, 2022

00
Vatican City, Italy (Night)

It had been some time since Archbishop Elia had requested her presence. Almost years, his attention focused on his duties and the bishops under him, while she studied and familiarised herself with the vault containing the Vatican's relics. She was no more powerful than a deacon in these halls, no more influential, but she was kept around for reasons outside of her influence and rank.

Now, at the darkest hour of night, as soon as word spreads of the first mark on her body disappearing, Archbishop Elia called for her.

Flanked by bishops, she was led briskly to the underground sanctuary. How long had it been since she'd been brought here last? Since the Archbishop and his colleagues presented her before Cardinal Carmello and declared her in need of holy protection? Since the marks suddenly burned themselves onto her skin? She was surprised that she couldn't recall. It had become normal, this life—why count down to something you never even knew was happening? That was the mindset Beatrice held for a time.

Archbishop Elia was pacing back and forth when they entered the lobby of the sanctuary. Beatrice knew not to call out, the bishops announcing their presence for her, and the stress was evident on Archbishop Elia's face when he looked to them. He'd aged visibly since she last saw him. What was once just a barely noticeable pair of crow's feet had now become the wrinkled face of a shar pei. He was jittery where he used to be confident, shaky where he would once stand his ground.

"Thank goodness," he exhaled. The Archbishop hobbled over to the trio, and Beatrice took note of the cane in his hand. How long had he been using that, since she saw him last? "That wretched thing hasn't found you yet."

Beatrice was bewildered by the statement. She barely had a chance to get a word in as he spoke, mumbling to himself and occasionally glancing around as though watching the shadows.

"Archbishop?" she asked softly. He startled, hands gripping his cane so tightly she swore she heard his knuckles crack. Archbishop Elia was almost scared to death, paranoid to the point of concern. What was the wretched thing he was talking about? Was it the reason why she'd been called for after so many years of study? Related to the relics in the vault, even? "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, child, nothing. I'm glad you're safe. Has there been…" Archbishop Elia glanced around again. He turned around, ambling away as he gestured for the bishops to follow. Beatrice obeyed as well, eager to hear his question. "The markings—have the others left your flesh?"

"Oh. No, Archbishop. It's just the one," she reported. The Archbishop let out a slow breath. He muttered to himself again for a brief moment.

The underground of the Vatican was a place not many were permitted to enter, much less wander through the halls of. This was the first time Beatrice had seen this part of the holy structure. It amazed her, as their footsteps echoed through the tunnels, just how much was hidden from public view by the organisation. Cells in one hall, bedrooms and a library in another. A hall filled to the brim with reliquaries once thought to be lost, some of the relics recognisable from afar. The stairs they approached led to a thin opening above, leading to the next level, and Beatrice tugged at her habit from under her sleeves. Thanks to the garb provided to her to fit in with the other sisters, the marks were hidden near-perfectly from prying eyes.

She wondered if this place served as a bunker in times of emergency. Or if perhaps it would be too fragile to withstand something like an earthquake. Beatrice's mind wandered and wandered as she followed, practically on autopilot, and her feet carried her alongside the bishops. The more she thought about it, the more she noticed how far behind her peers she was in terms of the current situation. The secret coming and goings of magi and regular people alike, the members of the upper echelon who knew more than the others. She'd heard whispers of a rabbi from Israel having arrived to be given instructions, and a bhikkhunī from the Asia-Pacific region who had come with several monks in her wake. Beatrice had never seen so many different practitioners visiting the Pope at once, and as preparations continued following the marks disappearing from her body, she could only assume she would see more.

The oil lamps of the next floor illuminated the walls, and the structure was much more sound than below at a glance. Beatrice remained silent as she followed the men, Archbishop Elia muttering to himself once more, until finally they rounded a corner and were met with the familiar robes of a Cardinal. Elia bowed his head, as did the bishops, and Beatrice followed suit as they all extended a warm greeting to the older man. She hadn't met this Cardinal before. Was he sworn to the position while she studied in isolation? Possibly.

The Cardinal wiped at his face with a handkerchief and sighed with relief. His eyes strayed to a door further down the hall, gilded and tightly locked up with a plank of wood barring it shut. She wondered, briefly, what was behind the door, but it seemed she would find out soon regardless.

"It's inside," the Cardinal said. Archbishop Elia tensed and seemed to hold his head as he raised his head.

"W—With the candidates?" he croaked.

"Yes. We tried to stop it, but Greco was unfortunately slain in the attempt." All of them signed a cross over their torsos in respect for the dead. "It… claims that the one with the seals was among them. It wants to test its master."

"Of all the souls to summon…" Archbishop Elia shook his head and turned to Beatrice. "Sister Beatrice, your safety is of the utmost importance right now. Now that the first of the command seals have been distributed from your flesh, you must not let anyone know of your role in this upcoming war."

Ah, so that was what happened. The masters were finally summoning servants. She wasn't entirely familiar with it all, the terms as new as the magic she'd been taught for her own protection, but she knew enough. If anyone found out she was to be the Grail's vessel, there was a high possibility of being kidnapped or worse to monopolise the eventual wish she would grant.

Beatrice nodded and bowed her head again. "I understand, Archbishop. I vow to never reveal my role as anything other than a devout woman of the cloth."

"Good. Good girl. We're… going inside to see who the master of this wretched thing is. Can you handle it?"

"Handle it…?"

"It wanted a bloodsport to sate its wrath," the Cardinal said. "We were forced to agree to stop the violence from reaching the Pope. Lord knows what would happen if that thing decided to kill him on a whim."

"I know, historically, this was common among their people at the time," Archbishop Elia mumbled, "but this is excessive."

Beatrice nodded again. She was certain she would have to see a lot of blood when the World Grail War started, but being prepared for it was another matter. Better to get a taste of the carnage in the safety of home first, she thought. Better to see what kind of atrocities she would have to endure for the sake of the world's numerous wishes.

The doors were permitted to open for them. Beatrice peered through the entrance, beyond Archbishop Elia and the Cardinal—she wasn't sure what she wanted a peek of, to see within, but the silence inside was more surprising than anything else. A bloodsport was underway, and yet you could hear even the beats of a bird's wings. Beatrice was in awe as she saw the lamps illuminating the small opening within, the statues lining each and every wall made of marble and bronze alike. A circular setup, not unlike a colosseum, and elevated towards the far side of the room was another stranger. Not one dressed in holy clothing, she noticed, but in metal and leather and silk, his gauntlets curved to resemble claws and his red hair so striking that she couldn't help staring.

Under his feet, a corpse was crumpled up in a heap and left to dry. Once again the Archbishop and Cardinal made a sign of the cross, and when the bishops followed suit so did she. This must have been Greco, the one who had tried to stop the beast. So… the man lounging on a corpse like a cat in the sun was the servant?

The group moved along the outside of the ring designated for the fight. Within the expanse, pools of blood and discarded weapons were laid about as a testament to the events that had gone on in the room. Shoved aside to one corner, almost as though they'd been an afterthought, the bodies of younger people were on display and freshly deceased. Beatrice covered her mouth with her hand, averted her gaze, and focused instead on the two who still had life in them.

They'd been reduced to wrestling on the ground, visibly worn out from the fight already and bruised so badly that neither could see well out of one eye. Whatever weapons they had used were no longer held in their hands, the two young men only able to punch and kick and attempt to strangle the other whenever they got the chance. And the redhead was grinning the whole time, watching lazily as he appraised them both.

The Cardinal came to a halt just a short distance away from the man. He bowed his head, though it was hard to miss the grimace on his face as he did so.

"How does the fight meet your standards, Saber?" he asked, hesitant.

So he was the Saber class? Beatrice expected him to almost be a Caster or Berserker. Weren't the knight classes supposed to be more noble? She recalled the relics that could be used to summon a Saber, the legends attached to them—theoretically, she reminded herself—but she didn't recall a murderer being among them.

The redhead inclined his head towards the Cardinal. "Not nearly enough," he drawled. "It's quite pathetic, actually."

The Cardinal faltered. "Y—You seemed to be enjoying yourself?"

"Well," Saber went on, "sometimes it's the little things you appreciate." Saber pointed to Beatrice and the Archbishop, and they both bowed before him as well. "Who are these two?"

"Ah. Pardon me, Saber, but I invited Archbishop Elia and Sister Beatrice to assist in preparations for your master. You… will be representing the Vatican, I presume?"

A scoff. A snicker. Saber had an almost deranged smirk on his face as he looked back out at the fight. The young men—one blond and tall, the other dark-skinned and slender—were struggling to catch their breath. They were so obviously starved and dehydrated, forbidden to eat or drink until only one remained.

"What a joke," Saber muttered, loud enough that it seemed as though he wanted the Cardinal to hear. "Represent the Vatican? You, the apostates who abandoned the gods? Don't make me laugh. I'd sooner throw you to the dogs than represent you."

The Cardinal cleared his throat. "Emperor Theodosius declared—"

"Theodosius was a fool for making the Nicene Creed the official religion. A traitor and a coward." Saber sneered at the Cardinal. "Prithee, apostate, unless you have something useful to say, I advise you hold that tongue of yours before I cut it out myself."

The Cardinal blanched. He took a step back, bowing his head again, and their gazes all returned to the poor excuse for a fight happening in the background. Even with just this brief interaction, the threats lingering in the air, Beatrice could glean a few things about Saber—his potential origins, for one, and the mention of Emperor Theodosius helped the matter. It made sense that a Roman would be summoned in what was once their Empire. The issue now was which Roman. Too many of them were madmen for her liking, and it only served to fuel her anxieties as she watched the dark-skinned and blond young men fight.

The blond had picked up a sword again, slashing at the dark-skinned man, and she watched with growing concern as the dark-skinned man lost his two furthest fingers on his left hand. A long gash spread down his wrist, large dollops of blood dripping to the floor in thick puddles, and he stumbled back with a pained hiss. Saber was grinning as he watched, eyes darting from one man to the other, and Beatrice held her breath as she watched the blond advance on the other man.

In a desperate bid to escape one of the blows coming his way, the dark-skinned man threw one of the many weapons scattered about. It was swiftly knocked away, colliding with a loud twang against one of the statues nearby, and he scurried towards it like it was his last hope of life. The dark-skinned man, once again trying to escape from the advancing blond, flung his bleeding arm out towards him and splattered blood over his face—right in his eyes, blinding the blond for a brief moment. In that brief moment, the dark-skinned man seemed to notice what Saber, and even Beatrice, had already realised.

As the men scuffled once more, one blinded and the other bleeding out, Saber gestured to Beatrice and Archbishop Elia.

"Sister Beatrice, was it? Spectate with me, girl. You're the only one with a functioning brain, it seems."

The Cardinal and Archbishop Elia both paled and stared at her, terrified. Beatrice swallowed a lump in her throat and bowed her head, still watching the men wrestle once more.

"With all due respect, Saber, I must decline—"

"Don't make me repeat myself, apostate." He pointed to the ground beside Greco's corpse, snake-like eyes landing on her once again with renewed interest. Beatrice nodded, hurrying to stand by his side where he motioned. Saber seemed satisfied when she took her place, relaxing once more to watch the men fight.

The dark-skinned man was showing more fatigue than before, the blood loss clearly getting to him. The fingers still on his hand twitched, and Beatrice assumed his nerves had been badly damaged alongside the vein that had been severed. As they clashed, the blond more confident despite the blindness he was afflicted with, they moved closer to the statue that had taken a hit from the deflected weapon. It was the statue of Claudius as Jupiter, the late emperor's head plastered onto the young body of what was unmistakably the god of sky and thunder, standing in its nine and a half foot glory above them like a judge looming before prisoners.

Beatrice wasn't sure if it was the real statue or not. She couldn't recall if the Vatican had left the real one above, on display, or if this was the original piece that had been hidden from the public. So many replicas were made to preserve the imagery as best as possible, stored in the numerous vaults in case something happened, but she also had the feeling that Saber would never have approved of a fake being put on display in his presence.

"You see it, too."

She nodded quickly. It was hard to spot, but harder to lose once again after you found it. The ankles of Claudius had been cracked horribly, the abuse of the weapons wearing them down that even a butterfly could teeter the statue in any direction.

"Did you know," Saber went on, almost excited, "he did that with the others? Abused the luck he was blessed with?"

Saber's clawed finger pointed to the pile of bodies. "Tripped one, only for the fool to impale himself with the dagger he chose for combat. Jumped aside to dodge an axe, never even noticing that another from behind had charged with a spear and took the blow for him."

Beatrice glanced from the men to the bodies, and it was clearer now how some of them had died. The evidence was there now that she knew to look for it.

"He… truly is blessed," she said slowly.

"But blessings can only go so far, Sister," Saber continued. "Fortune only smiles on you for so long before you lose favour. I wonder how long his fortune will last."

The statue began to tilt. The dark-skinned man jumped forward, tackling the blond as best he could around the waist. He was almost too weak to push him, to knock him over, but his foot hooked around the blond's ankle and he slammed himself and the other man onto the ground beneath Claudius. Both were exhausted, but the fall had winded the blond more than the dark-skinned man.

"I'll let you in on a little secret, Sister." Saber gestured for her to lean down. She did so, anxiously watching as the statue began to fall—its shadow dwarfing the men. "Fortune is what allowed my master to summon me through the leylines."

Beatrice felt her heart stop. Through the leylines? Was that possible? No, a summoning circle and a chant was needed, there was no way Saber was telling the truth. But the wild look in his eye, the way he watched the men about to be crushed by the statue, there was no reason to lie there. He was enjoying himself far too much to need to spread tall tales. Not when he was so intrigued by the reality in front of him.

The statue toppled onto the men with a resounding shatter. There was a loud crunch, a pained scream, and when she looked back once more, she saw no sign of the blond. Only Claudius's statue where he'd been laying, and the dark-skinned man's arm trapped under the weight of the statue alongside the blond. He must've tried to roll out of the way, leaving it a second too late but certainly just in time to survive.

It was his right arm that had been crushed, and his left continued to soak the ground with blood.

Saber jumped up and began to applaud. He let out a satisfied sound, looking ready to burst into tears of joy.

"It's what Claudius would've wanted."

The Cardinal gawked at Saber. "To… To have the statue of his head upon the body of Jupiter… crush a man to death?"

Saber sniffed. "You wouldn't get it."

Something told her Emperor Claudius wouldn't get it either.

There was no further statement on the matter. Saber was skipping almost gleefully towards the dark-skinned man, already half-dead and sobbing in pain. The redhead squatted down next to the man, looming over him almost smugly, and the sinister smirk on his face said everything Beatrice needed to know about the dynamic to follow. Saber's master was nothing but a toy to the servant, and Saber wanted to see how long it would take that toy to break.

Poor man. Beatrice would pray for him in the coming days.

There was a brief exchange between the servant and master. The dark-skinned man slowed in his movements, fading from consciousness ever so slowly, and Saber could only smirk and reply softly each time, as though chiding someone affectionately. It was an almost sickening display, how he patted the man's head with a clawed hand, and then Saber drew his sword from its sheath.

The Cardinal and Archbishop Elia both panicked, sputtering at Saber and trying to run over in their robes as fast as they could to stop him. Saber kicked Claudius's statue off of his master's arm, revealing the mangled remains beneath.

"Another step," Saber shouted at them, "and I destroy your entire city."

The Cardinal skidded to a stop while Archbishop Elia fell to his knees, barely holding on to his cane.

Saber held the sword over his master, the tip grazing his skin, and Beatrice closed her eyes tightly. She couldn't bear to watch this part, not when the dark-skinned man had tried so hard to survive to this point. How could Saber make it all for nothing by just killing him—

"I will permit only Sister Beatrice to tend to my pusio. Any of you breathe in his direction, and your precious Pope ceases to."

Beatrice's eyes snapped open. The scene she had expected—an unfortunate execution, another body to clean up after—it wasn't there. Saber sheathed his sword once more, pleased with himself, and he grabbed the dark-skinned man by the scruff of his neck. One simple toss over Saber's shoulder, and Beatrice could see from the dangling, limp arms draped over Saber's back that something had changed. A glance at his left hand—two, three, four… five fingers. Had the pinkie and ring not been cut off? And the large spurts of blood, where had it gone? The blood on his fingers was already drying, and as Saber passed the holy men to approach her, she could see no sign of a wound along his wrist.

Saber handed the dark-skinned man to her, and he was barely conscious enough to try support his own weight as she grabbed onto him. His right arm wasn't the crushed mess it had been earlier. It was brand new, almost like nothing had even touched him, and if she'd been a bystander coming in long after the fight, she'd assume the blood all over him wasn't his own.

"Put him somewhere comfortable. If you must get help, at least have the decency to seek out the eunuchs."

And with that, Saber strode out of the makeshift colosseum. Beatrice stared after him. Before he so much as approached the doors, he vanished from sight entirely.

This was far from a blessing for the dark-skinned man, she told herself. Fortune wasn't smiling on him. Whatever served Saber, whatever he worshipped, it was not giving this man a boon.

renren_writes · Oct 5, 2022

01
Vatican City, Italy (Morning)

"Strategically speaking," Sudi contemplated over his breakfast, "my wish is moot now."

Saber stared at him across the small dining table. There was a horrified look on his face, disappointment mixed in. Sudi could take a few guesses as to why—Saber had made it clear that he wanted to see how far Sudi would go for his wish and whether or not someone could kill him in an attempt to stop him, so half of the fun being torn away from him was all but the greatest of sins in the redhead's eyes.

Three days had passed since the trial by blood Saber had demanded of Sudi. Not of potential masters, but simply Sudi. All injuries had been healed, and the few days of rest he'd been granted by the servant were spent making sure nothing healed wrong; the more he felt at ease with daily living, however, the more it became apparent that the Noble Phantasm used on Sudi did more than heal simple injuries. This was what he'd thought about listlessly during his stay in the Vatican. The applications of the sword, what its limits were, how to ask Saber such things without insulting him. Many things to ask, though some answered with its use on Sudi.

"You jest," Saber finally said.

"Not really."

"You jest."

Sudi sipped at his juice and licked his lips. "I'm serious," he went on. "My wish was medical in nature. Well—more along the lines of a spiritual healer's job."

A simple cure for a curse, which had been meant for Sudi in the first place but taken on by someone else. The Pope had been kind enough to keep his stepmother in the Vatican, isolated and treated daily by the best healers among the organisation, but they could only do so much against such black magic like this. They could alleviate the symptoms from his stepmother, but until they removed the curse from Sudi himself, she would simply continue suffering.

And Saber had healed him entirely back then, when he'd acknowledged Sudi as his master. His possession. Whether or not he'd intended to, Saber had removed his curse and cured his stepmother, eliminating the one driving foundation for Sudi's participation in the World Grail War.

"That silly little malady?" Saber scoffed and kicked his feet up on the table, just shy of Sudi's food. His panic was gone now, replaced with an annoyance at the new information. "How wasteful. I should be glad I chose to rid you of that little pest clinging to you, in that case."

"Pest?"

"The curse was a parasite. I assumed it weak, but perhaps I was wrong, if the Grail was what you needed to rid yourself of it." Saber pointed at Sudi, clawed armour drawing in the air all the while. Sudi would admit he was vaguely interested; even if he only knew it was caused by black magic, his stepmother never went into details when she redirected the curse onto herself. She only ever told him it was bad, and that it was beyond cruel to curse someone his age with it. He had his whole life ahead of him, after all, and she didn't want to lose another child this way. "Were I to venture a guess, it was supposed to drain you of your life force and, like a wasp of certain inclinations, emerge from your corpse fully grown."

"How lovely," Sudi muttered. Saber nodded in agreement, catching his dry tone with ease.

According to the redhead, what he'd sensed inside of Sudi was nothing more than the beginning stages of the curse—far weaker than it should've been for as long as it had been in there.

"Whoever bound themselves to you as your familiar did a fine job of pushing and pulling to keep the curse dormant for this long," Saber concluded. "It certainly wasn't me. Had I noticed sooner something leeching my power, I would never have held the tournament to test you first."

How thoughtful of him.

Sudi let out a low breath and felt himself relax. Saber wasn't wrong—his stepmother was a good mage, and she knew how to redirect the effects to herself. The only downside had been that her time would eventually run out faster than Sudi's, and Sudi would be left to face the curse on his own once she'd died. With Saber healing him, though, he could rest easy knowing the last family member he had was free as well.

"I'll introduce you to her," he told Saber. The servant leaned forward, intrigued. Sudi could see the questions he wanted to ask, but he started with the easiest answer. "She's been receiving treatment here anyway. Someone's bound to send Sister Beatrice with a message in the next few days that she's improving."

Saber let out a bemused laugh. "What a delight," he said idly. "Your blessings even take the form of people with their own will."

"You have a skewed view of what constitutes a blessing."

"What would you call them, then?"

Sudi pursed his lips. He pushed his plate away from himself, done with his food, and wiped at his mouth with a napkin. He'd never had to explain the happenings around him to someone before—his stepmother just went with it and understood it on her own, and even his father had a rough idea of how it worked before his passing. It wasn't a blessing by any stretch, but more like a series of lucky incidents that Sudi had the option to make use of. He just only had the chance to use that good luck when he was afflicted with equal bad luck.

He sucked in a short breath. "Miss Unsinkable."

Saber raised a brow. "Who?"

"Violet Jessop. Consider my situation to be similar to her own with ships." Sudi shrugged. It was the best he could come up with, in all honesty, and the similarities between the two were at least noteworthy. Violet Jessop was involved in three sinkings, one of them the worst in modern history, and she survived all of them. Even the last one, she'd come dangerously close to death and still pulled through. Every boat she stepped onto, she survived—it was only when she was in her early eighties that she passed, and even then it was due to heart failure rather than the sea claiming her at last. He held up his fingers, counting with them as he pondered aloud. "Three vessels belonging to the same class of liners. All within ten years. Even when injured by the last vessel, she survived."

Saber snorted. "So it's dumb luck."

"I'd rather call it coincidences," Sudi argued. "Luck doesn't take into account the odds of something happening. A coincidence does, at least. And for myself and Ms. Jessop, the odds were in our favour following unfortunate events."

"Dumb luck," Saber repeated, though this time he sounded more satisfied.

"You have a simple way of looking at things," Sudi said.

It earned him a sharp glare. "Do you insult me, boy?"

"I bite my thumb, but I do not bite my thumb at you, sir."

A scowl. A disgusted groan. Saber rose from his seat and picked up Sudi's plate, barely hesitating to set it aside on a cupboard for Beatrice to collect later. It surprised Sudi at times, how hospitable Saber could be. The servants he'd seen in archived footage of past World Grail Wars were always so haughty, above tending to their masters in such a way, yet Saber treated him more like a pet than a nuisance.

What had Saber called him that day, back in the makeshift colosseum? Pusio? The word sounded vaguely Latin, but Sudi wasn't certain of what it could mean. It had to be a term from Roman culture, though he couldn't think of a position in any sort of government that would be called such.

Sudi stood up and fixed his shirt, tucking it into his trousers properly. The mystic codes were made specially for him in less than a day, and the yellow raincoat that completed the ensemble hung from the back of his door on its own. The Pope had been informed by Beatrice of Sudi's particular quirk of danger finding him like a bloodhound, and so the clothes were no more than fabric armour to reinforce himself and prevent smaller injuries. Saber was already on the same page as him, fetching the raincoat and throwing it towards Sudi without a glance in his direction. Sudi caught it and shrugged it on loosely.

There were small loops on the inside of the coat for storing items within. Practicality was kept in mind for the design. "I should get some weapons from the priests," he noted.

"Mayhaps a Saint will be summoned," Saber said dryly, "and quoting the Old Testament at them will stop them in their tracks."

"It would sooner harm a Dead Apostle," Sudi pointed out. Saber rolled his eyes.

"They're the same thing."

Good Lord, he had to hear this. "In what way?"

"Leeches."

"That's not much of a reason," Sudi mumbled.

Their little debate died before it could even begin properly. A knock sounded from the door, and Saber's calm exterior confirmed it was Beatrice on the other side. He only grew agitated when someone different entered his senses, their footsteps the first giveaway before anything else.

The door opened and Beatrice poked her head in. She seemed less tense than usual, a small smile on her face when she caught sight of Sudi on his feet.

"Sister Beatrice," Sudi greeted her. Beatrice bowed in greetings.

"Master Sudi," she replied. Whatever news she had to share, it was bound to be good. Maybe news about his stepmother. He would rather make sure she was okay first before dealing with the intricacies of his role as a master. "Ms. Bianchi-Chandra is awake and wishes to see you."

"Thank you, Sister. Saber and I will find our ways there in a moment."

Beatrice hadn't looked this happy before since he'd met her. She was probably holding out for kinder news in the past week, already overwhelmed by the responsibilities thrown onto her by Saber, and he couldn't blame her. Sudi needed some good news about his stepmother, too.

He glanced at Saber, who was watching Beatrice intently, and continued, "We'll see her before the priests for the weapons—"

"Any news of servants, girl?" Saber interrupted him. Sudi furrowed his brows at him, confused. Why would Beatrice know? She was just a nun who was given the job of maid for the duo. He'd hardly seen her interact with any of the clergymen, but he supposed he hadn't left the room yet either.

Beatrice cleared her throat. "I haven't seen anything in the papers, Saber," she reported.

"Obviously. I'm asking if you have any news." Saber leaned on Sudi lazily, sighing dramatically as he did so. It just confused Sudi even more. Why would Beatrice know?

"Saber, what are you on about?" he deadpanned.

"The girl's the Grail," Saber said. It was so casual, so simple, but it caused both the humans in the room to freeze. Sudi in surprise, because Beatrice looked nothing like a homunculus at first glance, and Beatrice in horror, who wasted no time pulling her sleeves over her hands and hiding her face in her veil. "Oh, calm yourself. Why else would some old bastards get a random nun involved with this? You're neither an Executioner nor a mage, but you have enough energy cocooning you that you could be if you were permitted. You're not even a spiritual healer. And frankly, girl, you are by far the most inept nun I've seen yet. You don't even carry a rosary with you."

Beatrice reached up to her neck. Now that Saber mentioned it, he was right. Sudi had never seen her with one, or any religious symbols on her person at any point. Even Cardinal Carmello, who Sudi met first, wore the cross over his heart on full display.

"I'm not stupid, girl," Saber went on. He pointed lazily between Sudi and Beatrice, still nonchalant in his statements. "The two of you are the only reason I haven't run off somewhere to plot yet. My Grail is hidden in plain sight and looks nothing like the vessels of old, and my pusio has his mother recovering here. So I repeat—is there any news of servants?"

The silence that descended upon them was uncomfortable. Sudi wasn't sure where to look exactly. The sight of Beatrice so rattled was enough to make him nervous as well, but Saber's typical casualness about the situation just gave him whiplash. Sudi just stared at the floor with wide eyes, unable to find the words to speak or the will to look at either of them.

It felt like an eternity before Beatrice composed herself. Her breathing evened out, her body no longer trembling, but her voice was hollow with each word she spoke. Resignation rather than calmness, Sudi figured, and he once again couldn't blame her.

"Two," she reported. "Caster and Rider. I don't know where they've been summoned, nor by whom." She sucked in a deep breath. "Shall I report any others in the future?"

"Do so. I want to eliminate Berserker as soon as it's summoned," Saber announced. "A glass cannon, it may be, but the risk of a formidable master backing it is too great."

Beatrice nodded. She wasted no time leaving the room, barely even giving them a farewell. What little brightness to the mood there had been, it was now soured beyond repair.

"You have no tact," Sudi said after a time. Saber stopped leaning on him and fixed the coat over his armour.

"Tact is useless in battle," Saber stated. He seemed to realise what he'd said, and quickly backtracked, "Tact is for negotiations and peace treaties. I am not here to keep the peace."

Sudi didn't say anything in return. He simply stared. Saber dug his heels in.

"I am an emperor of the greatest empire known to mankind," Saber said sourly, "and I will do as I please."

And where is that empire now? he almost wanted to say. That would earn him a beheading, though, and it didn't take a genius to figure out that while Saber wanted to see if someone else could kill Sudi, Saber would do it himself if the need arose. Sudi wasn't one for combative sass and never held an attitude with those stronger with him, but even he acknowledged he needed to keep himself in check with Saber and his whims. Whatever pusio meant, he assumed it had boundaries that Saber would not let slide.

He sniffed and turned back to the door. "Let's just go see my stepmother."

"If you look at these satellite images on the screen, you can see a significant change in cloud activity around the northern Siberian area. There's been speculation as to what may have caused this shift in weather, but with the Slavic Confederation making their list of candidates public this week, it's very likely we're seeing the work of a servant summoned in the region."

The quick movements América Vargas made across the television screen were hard to ignore. Her co-anchor sat quietly on the other side of the newsroom, letting her speculate as the screen behind her showed exactly what she'd described—a map of Eurasia, covered in a thick blanket of dark clouds, with almost no land in sight within the borders of the Eastern Slavic region. It was an unprecedented change in environment no one had seen coming, especially when the area was far past its coldest months of the year.

"Now, we've been hearing rumours of masters being selected already—there's no shortage of paparazzi gathering outside the Vatican after they closed off all civilian access a few days ago." América waved a hand dismissively. "Until actual statements are made by the Pope, we just don't know for certain if these hold any merit. The Vatican has been involved in the past with enforcing the rules and sending out priests to each region that backs a master. It's nothing new. I want us to focus on this area for the moment and pick apart the possibilities, because I don't think we know of any magic that influences the weather this much, on such a scale, that doesn't involve the Clock Tower and its associates."

Her co-anchor nodded in agreement. "That's true. No one has announced a summoning yet, but a servant definitely has the capacity with enough resources to influence a territory. Why don't we take a look at some of the more notable candidates the Confederation released details on?"

América sat down at the desk beside him. In front of them, two stacks of papers detailed the very mages the Slavic Confederation had announced were in the pool to represent the region. It was a highly bureaucratic process that required many doors to be passed through, some with the weight of their name and others with money and influence, but past candidates that almost made it to the top always had a big organisation backing them.

From his side of the newsroom, Uwe Schulz looked over the first page and adjusted his glasses. He was far more experienced than América when it came to reporting a World Grail War, having interned during the third and hosting the fourth on their channel alongside his mentor.

"Forgive my pronunciation of some of these names," he quickly started. "My cyrillic was never the best, but our team has given an approximate phonetic spelling for each of them."

No pictures were shown, but on the screen behind him the letter П appeared with "Pe" written under it. "Going by the number of people in the allied parliament's opinions, Candidate Pe seems to have the highest chances of being the master of the potential servant. He's the head of his family, who participated in the old Fuyuki Grail Wars back in the 1860's. Now, historians among our viewers might recognise that that was the Grail War that refined the kinks in the system—no one actually won the Second Fuyuki war because they all died, and the overseer system was implemented following it. Candidate Pe has a lot of advantages in the form of notes and catalysts collected by his family over the years, but there was a slight issue that prevented him from being unanimously voted by parliament to represent the Confederation."

Under Candidate Pe's information, a quote from the high ranking mages in the government detailed the man's penchant for unpredictability. The Confederation had no use for a mage they couldn't keep in line.

América looked over the paper with her brows furrowed. "So tell me, Uwe, how important is it for the Confederation to have a mage they can keep a tight leash on? Regular people may have more advanced technology and varying other methods of combating them, but the point remains that a skilled mage with a servant at their disposal is hard to stop with conventional methods."

"That's a good question, América. I've noticed in past World Grail Wars that, when the Confederation narrowed down their list of candidates, the focus was more on loyalty than power. Plenty of backups are in place for the servant to contract with, should the master perish. It's how they won the last World Grail War—soldiers were given minor magecraft lessons that helped them participate, and the mage organisations provided the resources to the government to meet servant demand. Candidate Pe may be a stunning legacy, but if he can't take orders and fulfil his role to his country, why would they pick him?"

"With this in mind, may I make an observation, Uwe?"

Uwe nodded and gestured to América, handing her the spotlight. The map on the screen behind her disappeared, and she pointed to one of the candidates on her paperwork as a crew member approached out of view. As soon as América was done talking to them, the screen changed to display the letter Ж with "Zhe" written under it.

"Oh, this is an interesting one," Uwe agreed. América smiled at him.

"Candidate Zhe was definitely listed among the younger applicants, I noticed. But what stood out to me the most was that her reasoning for applying was to be accepted back into the Russian border—her whole family, actually. And if you look at the votes of approval listed for her, while there aren't many politicians backing her, Candidate Zhe has Leningrad vouching for her." América looked into the camera as the organisation's logo appeared under Candidate Zhe's information. "For those not in the know, Leningrad is the biggest mage organisation in the Slavic Confederation at the moment, mostly due to it being founded and expanded in Russia before spreading its branches to the other states in the Confederation. Now, Candidate Zhe isn't as remarkable with regards to family like Candidate Pe; frankly, there's nothing about her family because it's all been redacted, which is even more intriguing, but I digress. But having the support of the biggest collection of magi in Russia is nothing to sneeze at. Compared to Candidate Pe, who is unpredictable, Candidate Zhe actively seeks the approval of her homeland and wants to be welcomed back with open arms."

"A master desperate for approval is far easier to control than a master with an ego," Uwe noted. América nodded in agreement.

"My money's on Candidate Zhe in this scenario. Everyone on this list is more than qualified and deserving of the position, but the fact of the matter is that Candidate Zhe is the only one among them whose wish for the Grail will benefit the Slavic Confederation. If her family is allowed to practice under the guidance of Leningrad, who knows what we'll see in the future from them?"

"An excellent observation, América!" Uwe chuckled into the camera and took off his glasses. "Each generation just gets better and better at spectating these Wars. I'll put all my eggs in Candidate Zhe's basket, in that case. How about the servant? Any guesses based on the weather shift?"

América shook her head. "Our phone lines and social media are open to speculation, of course, but for now all we can venture is that this servant may have a relation to the weather phenomenon. But given how many legends we have rooted in the changing of seasons, among other things, I'll refrain from guessing for now. Uwe?"

"I'll do the same," Uwe agreed. "We may get lucky and have a representative of the Slavic Confederation reach out with a public statement!"

Both of them laughed as they set down the papers. Speculation came to an end for the time being, the camera zooming out and showing a splitscreen of the newsroom and a social media feed. Every five seconds, a message from a viewer would cycle through with their own thoughts as América and Uwe talked among themselves.

This was the point when Sudi entered his stepmother's room. When he and Saber arrived, she was propped up in bed and watching the television on the wall with a tired gaze. Though she was weathered and frail in her current state, Eugenia Bianchi-Chandra was still a graceful woman who was the image of a perfect mage from the Clock Tower.

Eugenia had practically raised Sudi after he spent years on his own while his father slaved away with work. She had no need to treat him so lovingly, especially when he and his father were otherwise normal people, and she even had her own children with the man to care for. But no matter what, no matter the issues that rose, Sudi was always her baby boy. Always spoiled him rotten and adored him like his own mother should've.

She was quick to mute the television when Sudi closed the door behind Saber. Eugenia smiled warmly at her stepson, and it felt like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders now that he finally knew the curse was gone. If Eugenia had died for his sake, Sudi would not have been able to live with the guilt. He would've begged Saber for death immediately.

"My star," she called to him. Her arms reached up for Sudi, and Sudi couldn't help smiling as he hugged her.

"I'm here, Mamma," he said. "How do you feel?"

"Fine, love, just fine. The nuns have been so kind and the priests tell me the Pope is so proud of you."

"The Pope is?"

Eugenia nodded. "I think you're in good hands with them," she told him. "You make sure you come straight back to the Vatican if anything happens, you understand?"

"I will, Mamma."

Behind him, he could hear Saber shift and move closer to observe Eugenia. Eugenia didn't even give the redhead a glance, focused on her stepson and making sure he knew she was okay. Sudi let out a slow breath and nodded over his shoulder.

"Mamma, this is Saber. He's who I summoned after you took on the curse's effects." He pursed his lips. "His Noble Phantasm dealt with it. You shouldn't have any trouble anymore."

Eugenia patted his head softly. "Look at you, so talented that you don't even need a catalyst or a summoning circle," she praised him. Sudi tried to hide his smile from Saber, if only to avoid later teasing. It was bad enough that he didn't know what a pusio was, but if he was called a mama's boy to boot, he may as well quit the War entirely.

"I'm going to keep participating until you're well enough to come home, though," he went on. Eugenia nodded in agreement, not even putting up a fight. "Saber said it was a parasite, so it might be best to check if there's anything under the skin that needs removing while I'm here."

"I'd sooner take you to a hospital in a back alley than let those apostates tickle your insides," Saber huffed.

Eugenia's eyes snapped to Saber. Her kind smile was still in her face, but now she was appraising Saber right back. She looked him up and down, unblinking, before she tilted her head innocently.

"How did you figure out the curse was a parasite, again?" she asked.

"I believe you've left your manners at home, dear mother. You should introduce yourself to a guest before interrogating them."

Her eye twitched. "You and I are both familiars tied to Sudi through a contract," she acknowledged, "but given that my bond goes so far as to put my life on the line for him, unlike your own, I believe I take precedence in this hierarchy we have. So answer my question, Saber."

Saber scoffed. "I am the boy's trump card—"

"And I am the boy's mother."

"The boy is twenty-four," Sudi mumbled.

He went ignored. He prepared himself mentally to order Saber to not kill his stepmother.

Saber glared down his nose at Eugenia. He was quiet, unwilling to answer, and it just made Eugenia's expression tighten. All the warmth she directed at Sudi had turned into a frigid chill towards Saber.

"Sister Beatrice had many things to say," Eugenia said slowly. Saber raised his brows ever so carefully. His glare turned into a more smug expression, and he relaxed some more as he took on his cocky smile. "Like what you dare to call my son. What you made him do."

"Prove himself? Madam, surely you know how important it is for both sides of the contract to be satisfied with the other's performance." Saber huffed a laugh as he smirked.

Eugenia blinked once. Her gaze moved back to Sudi, and it softened somewhat.

"I disapprove of him," she announced.

Sudi let out a low sigh. "You and most of the Vatican," he said.

"Make him kill himself."

He slowly met her eyes. Behind him, Saber scoffed and stormed towards the door.

"What impudence," Saber grumbled. "You should be worshipping the ground I walk on for the charity I performed."

"All three should make sure he does it," Sudi mused.

He heard Saber pause. The doorknob groaned under the grip of the servant's fist. Eugenia let out a relieved breath as she sank into her pillows.

"You had best be joking, boy," Saber growled.

Sudi turned his head, staring over his shoulder at the redhead. The rage on his face was barely restrained, a killing intent so great that even an Assassin servant wouldn't stay hidden if they'd expressed it. More than anything, Sudi was surprised Saber didn't dispatch him right there and then. What good was a fascination of whether or not Sudi could die by someone else's hand if Saber didn't test it out himself? Like a truly arrogant emperor, Saber didn't want to waste his time getting his hands dirty. Not when it was more entertaining to see others put on a performance.

As he stood, Sudi fixed his collar. The gloves on his hands were adjusted, the command spells on his right hand a constant presence he was aware of by this point. All things considered, it wasn't the worst choice in the world. Forfeit and go back to a peaceful life, since the people who cursed him would assume him dead by now. The rogue servant that terrorised the Pope would be gone and the Vatican could work with mages to ensure something like this never happened in the future. But realistically speaking… Sudi's voice was not faster than Saber's blade. Not from this distance, and not long enough to repeat the same command three times.

Tact was useless to Saber, but it was useful when dealing with him, he found.

"Saber," Sudi said slowly, "you're already aware my wish was to cure a curse. And you're smart enough to figure out who the Grail vessel is—it's safe to say you know why I wanted that curse lifted, now."

Saber sneered at him. "Because you're a pathetic mama's boy."

Eugenia sucked in a deep breath. Sudi held his hand out a fraction, stopping whatever lecture she had on the tip of her tongue from coming out.

"I am," Sudi admitted. "Because Eugenia is my only remaining family. I don't even have friends. Why keep them around when, as you've seen, I'm a regular Violet Jessop?"

"So you're a coward and pathetic."

"And I had the balls to demand your loyalty," Sudi pointed out. It was the boon he had requested when Saber had approached that night, as he bled out in the dirt. Not to be saved or to be healed, but to be given loyalty. Sudi knew far too well the consequences of an unspecific wish, always fascinated by the mistakes people made in popular books and shows he grew up on, and Eugenia's stories of past Grail Wars and its participants gave him a good idea of how most servants acted. They looked for the loopholes so they could look out for themselves. A master was just dead weight that happened to juice them up every so often.

Saber released the door handle. It was no longer a round shape, but now a crumpled heap of spikes and grooves. "Are you lecturing me?"

"I'm just stating facts." Sudi fixed his collar again. "It's a fact that you agreed to give me your loyalty. And it's a fact that disrespect to someone close to the one you pledge loyalty to is… Well I'll be, I believe that's also disrespectful."

"I promised you loyalty, not blind agreement and obedience."

"Loyalty is a vague umbrella term. Most who are defined as loyal share similar traits, such as respect and amiability with their master."

"Oh, I can absolutely be loyal without having an ounce of respect or fondness for you."

He hated that he was right.

Saber ran a hand through his hair and groaned out a sigh. He was clearly fed up with the argument, wanting to leave but not wanting to give up so easily.

"Perhaps I ought to call you something else," he decided. Eugenia brightened a little. She looked hopeful that, despite Saber's statement, some respect had been gained for Sudi's stubbornness. "You're far too much like a woman to be a pusio. All you do is demand things and quarrel."

"How crass," Eugenia muttered.

"Do not make me announce to the world something far more obscene, woman. I'm sure the last thing you want is to hear your star being called worse."

"I have a name," Sudi pointed out.

"Good for you."

"Use it."

Saber had an almost enlightened look on his face as he pointed to Sudi. "Pathicus," he decided.

"Absolutely not!" Eugenia snapped. Saber groaned loudly, cutting her off from yet another lecture she had ready, and he pointed at her next.

"Keep this up and I'll end the Bianchi-Chandra line with my own two hands."

"Do you think," Sudi jumped in, almost yelling above the two, "if my will is strong enough, I could use just one word to activate a command spell?"

Saber and Eugenia both stopped talking. It was hard to gauge the mood in the room, if he'd calmed at least one of them down, but as he stared at Saber and pointedly held up the hand with the command spells, he could tell he'd at least put a pin in the argument for the time being.

It felt like an eternity before any of them moved. Saber was the one who broke the silence, clicking his tongue as he turned on his heel once again. The door was opened swiftly, his form disappearing through it—and then, with an almighty slam, Saber yanked the door shut so hard that the knob was torn from the wood entirely. A small hole was left behind as the door slowly swung back and forth against the frame.

Sudi turned back to Eugenia. He gave her a pleading look.

"I love you, Mamma," he said. "But really?"

"I don't like him."

"You never liked any boy I brought home. You think I expected you to like an unhinged ghost?"

"Promise me you'll put him down if he tries to hurt you," she insisted.

Sudi reached down and took her hands in his own. He gave them a reassuring squeeze, smiling warmly once more. "I promise, Mamma. I won't make you bury another son."

"Good." Eugenia squeezed his hands back. She sniffed as she got comfortable against her pillows again, her eyes slowly slipping shut. All of this arguing was too exhausting for her in this state. "I want at least one of my boys to live a long life. You deserve that much."

He didn't think a long life was something a person should deserve. But he was glad at least one of them had hope for his future.

renren_writes · Oct 5, 2022

02

Vatican City, Italy (Evening)

Over the next three days, the marks on Beatrice began to disappear ever so slowly. The sigils for Archer and Assassin and even Berserker all vanished from her skin, and she did not want to face Saber's wrath for not reporting the latter. As soon as he was informed, Beatrice still cautious of him and even Sudi, who she knew meant her no harm, Saber marched himself to Eugenia's room and made himself at home to talk with her.

It was no secret that Sudi's stepmother hated Saber with a passion. She was protective of her son, rightfully so, and Beatrice had seen the rage in her eyes when she'd told Eugenia (albeit reluctantly) the trial Sudi had been put through. Eugenia had given up her own life to save her son, and one spectre tried to snuff it out while she was confined to a bed. But the days weren't all bad, she found as time passed. Sudi collected his Black Keys and his Ash Lock. The Executioners trained him, at least as best as they could, and what little skills he had with magecraft stopped short at reinforcement. He was a normal person with potential, certainly, but a normal person nonetheless.

So it was a surprise for Beatrice, on that fourth evening, when Eugenia finished her dinner and announced, "I've called in a tutor for Sudi. An old acquaintance's family member. Be on the lookout for someone in the Atlas Institute uniform."

"You… were part of the Institute, ma'am?"

Eugenia dabbed at her lips with a napkin. The colour had returned to her face properly, no longer looking like she was on death's door.

"How do you think I met Sudi's father?" she asked. "They were there for his parents' funeral. I believe it was the first time Sudi ever set foot in Cairo, too."

Beatrice furrowed her brows. "Chandra isn't a…"

"No. It's not an Arabic name. Sudi's grandfather was from India, initially. Same with his biological mother."

What a… strange family dynamic. Beatrice kept her mouth shut, uncertain of what to say. At times she wondered if she should pity Sudi, since he had no family left other than Eugenia—but then there were times when she questioned it, how alone he truly was if he'd only ever visited his family outside of Italy once. Who was to say his uncles and aunts on his mother's side would reject him? She could clean that his mother had abandoned him and his father when he was younger, but any other family members were never brought up. Did Eugenia even have extended family who would care for Sudi?

"Sister, darling," Eugenia cooed. Beatrice blinked, pulled free from her thoughts. "Don't exhaust yourself over it. We'll find our way somehow."

Beatrice let out a small sound. Easier said than done, she wanted to say.

"Will the mages be coming to the Vatican?" she asked.

Eugenia hummed, but shook her head. "I should've mentioned. I gave them my address, and Sudi wanted to go there in the morning to clean the place up a little. Would you like me to write it down?"

"No need, ma'am. I'll meet Master Sudi before he leaves in the morning."

The answer was enough to make Eugenia relax a little more. She sank into her pillows, already going into a food coma, and closed her eyes.

"His biological mother is a mage," she said. Beatrice looked at her again, brows furrowing once more. Why the topic of family again? Why his mother?

"And his father?"

"Goodness, no. Karim was just a simple watchmaker with no magic circuits whatsoever." Eugenia huffed a laugh. "His parents died believing magic to be a massive hoax. Egypt didn't have many masters during the Grail Wars, you see."

"So I've heard," Beatrice mumbled. Atlas Institute had masters, certainly, but never publicly. With the advent of the World Grail Wars, it was harder to become a master before someone else could snatch the spot from you.

Eugenia let out a low breath. She was quiet again, just for a few seconds, but it was long enough for Beatrice to assume her asleep. Beatrice silently gathered the dishes and cleaned what she could of the room, making sure there was no dust as usual. It was when she was about to leave that Eugenia startled her, her soft, slurred voice calling out.

"That bitch cursed my boy," Eugenia mumbled. "Don't let her find out he's alive, Sister."

Suddenly it all made sense why they couldn't go to anyone else in the family.

Prati District, Rome, Italy (Morning)

"You really don't look like a homunculus."

Beatrice glanced at him nervously. Rather than her usual habit and nun's garb, she was in more casual clothes and even had her hair down for once. Sudi had expected snowy-white hair, but it was pitch black and far too short to be like the typical Einzbern homunculi he'd heard about. It was hard to believe she was the Grail vessel, with how she looked.

"Am I supposed to?" she asked quietly. Sudi shook his head.

"No, of course not. It's probably safer for you, actually." He cleared his throat. In his pocket, the keys to the apartment were cold and sharp. It'd been less than a few weeks since he'd been in Vatican City, but suddenly home felt like… anything but after such a short time away. "Don't mind me."

She was clearly still watching him even after he'd looked away. It was awkward, to say the least, and Sudi gripped the keys in his pocket tighter to stifle his nerves. He had to have gotten used to being combative and speaking his mind with Saber, he thought, because it only dawned on him now how little he spent with other people outside of Saber and Beatrice since arriving at the Vatican. Even now, as he walked home to meet someone Saber had requested to teach Sudi basic magecraft while Eugenia recovered, Saber kept his distance and so obviously was guarded about the situation.

"Can I pull off… being a representative of the Church?" Beatrice asked him.

Sudi glanced back at her. She no longer had to wear the usual garb of a nun, the marks on her body disappearing as more servants were summoned, and only two on her back remained so far. It would've made more sense to wear her robes, but Saber had insisted on avoiding attention drawn to Sudi by having a nun stay at his side, especially with rumours of a master hiding in the Vatican.

He could understand the concern, now that she didn't look the part.

"You sort of are, I think?" He scratched the back of his neck, untucking some of his hair from his collar. "Just because you aren't dressed up doesn't mean you aren't… from the Church. You're just going to omit what position you hold."

"A lie of omission," Beatrice laughed to herself, bitter. "You're lucky I was made to focus more on my role as a vessel than as a holy woman. The Reverend Mother drilled it into us daily that lying was a sin."

He had a lot of things to say about that. Namely along the lines of Beatrice being a liar anyway, regardless of today, because she lied to the world about her status as the Grail vessel and lied to Saber by omission. Was she just as anxious as him? Beatrice had more sense than to say something he could easily refute—she wasn't combative by any means, but Saber was right to call her smart. Beatrice tended to consider her words in quick succession before speaking, to the point of almost sounding naturally composed at all times.

So Sudi just huffed a laugh of his own. "I never did understand some of those sins," he joked. "I can't imagine all the condemned who were punished for wearing linen and wool together."

"Just don't book a haircut today and I'm sure the big guy will look the other way."

Sudi gave her an alarmed look. "That's a sin?"

"Leviticus 19:27? Yeah. 'Ye shall not round the corners of your heads.'" Beatrice finally eased up a little, smiling slyly up at him as she tucked a short lock behind her ear. "Shall I go on?"

"Please, no, keep me ignorant." Sudi groaned to himself at the thought. "I'll end up on a weird diet and with a Godawful mullet by the end of this."

She giggled. The tension eased from his shoulders. Going home didn't feel as daunting anymore.

"You have the geis with you?" he checked. Beatrice patted the handbag slung over her shoulder gently.

"Primed and ready. It was smart of Ms. Bianchi-Chandra to write it up," she said.

Sudi nodded in agreement. "Apparently they agreed to come to harvest the parasite in exchange for the lessons, so it'd be reasonable to assume they might dispose of a master and servant early once they got it. Mamma really knows her way around these things."

"Is she like the other mages from Atlas?"

Sudi shrugged. "With the thought acceleration? I could never tell. It always felt like those uncanny mother instincts half of the time."

"It's pretty impressive she knows the Farion Crudelis Hiram," Beatrice noted. "She must've been an amazing mage."

Knowing the current head of the Crudelis family made her impressive? Sudi wasn't sure if he agreed with that. He was learning these things at the same time as Beatrice, after all, and he'd never once considered her magecraft and skills as impressive. Eugenia wasn't a person who carried her connections and name around like a weight that people couldn't ignore—she was the type to hike up her pants and get the job done herself, and she mentioned at times that she'd dipped her fingers in many magical pies.

Maybe it was because Sudi didn't focus on the magus side of Eugenia and her history with Atlas Institute. He'd just been happy to have a mother again, one that loved him, and younger siblings he could dote on whenever he wanted.

It really didn't take much to satisfy him, did it?

"I don't think Ms. Farion herself came, though," he mumbled. "So there probably won't be too many formalities to keep in mind."

"You can just let me and Saber do all the talking!" Beatrice insisted. "Saber, as much as I loathe to admit, does at least know what he's doing by requesting a tutor from Atlas and using Ms. Bianchi-Chandra's connections. And I was coached on all the questions and what the bare minimum answers should be, too!"

"Mamma really thought this through, didn't she?" he chuckled. Through the link with Saber, wherever the redhead was skulking in his spiritual form, Sudi could feel the distaste of Eugenia getting all the credit. It had been Saber's idea first, it felt like he wanted to say, and Eugenia just had the means of executing it for him.

It felt nice not having to listen to Saber argue the semantics of things. Sudi actually enjoyed the peace and quiet, the casual jokes that showed up between talks of business, and he barely noticed the time pass as they arrived at the small house he and Eugenia called home. Half-functioning as a business with the storefront being the front door and lobby, the small brass sign Karim Chandra had hung up for his services greeted them from the brick fence.

Thanks to the damage being limited to inside, and almost no blood to be found outdoors, no one knew better about the tragedy that had happened within. Sudi worked his jaw as he scanned the property for any sign of the Atlas Institute uniforms he'd been told about. Had Eugenia cleaned up inside? Cleaned up the bodies? Before they'd gone for the Vatican, that was. She knew he'd summoned a servant and wanted to waste no time finding them, but she also needed a spiritual healer's help as fast as possible to stave off his curse. His stomach lurched at the thought of the corpses still being inside, rotting after all the time spent away from the house. He would probably have to clean those up today, too.

Sudi felt bad for Beatrice, that she might have to witness this.

He let out a breath, almost to steel himself, but Saber's quick communication stopped him and Beatrice in their tracks.

'Two people inside the house. Alive. Don't waste a command spell for this.'

Sudi swallowed the lump in his throat and whispered the news to Beatrice. They both lingered outside of the property's gate, staring at the front door with wide eyes. He hoped that a fight wouldn't come to him, to his literal front door, so soon after Eugenia's recovery had begun.

Beatrice sucked in a deep breath and puffed out her chest. She stepped in front of Sudi and, with a determined expression, told him, "I've got one mark left. It's not against the rules for a Grail vessel to summon a servant."

"You can do that?"

"No clue."

"Sister, maybe we should—"

The store's door opened. Both of them froze, startled, as Saber manifested in front of them with his weapon drawn.

The woman that stood in the doorway raised her brows, the dark circles under her eyes a staggering sight. Saber was the first to take in her appearance and clothes, already analysing a potential battle, and he sheathed his sword with a tired sigh as quickly as he'd drawn it.

Purples and whites. A beret on her head that only the women of Atlas Institute wore with their uniforms.

"Oh thank God," Sudi wheezed. Beatrice doubled over and dry-heaved, all of her bravado thrown out the window now that she wasn't about to test whether or not she could actually summon a servant herself with just the marks alone.

Saber looked over his shoulder at the duo. He was almost cringing, disgusted.

"Have some decorum, fools," he scolded them. "A mage from Atlas is dirt compared to what will come."

The woman in the doorway cleared her throat. She left the door open, letting it fall against the house's walls softly, and nodded for them to follow her inside. Very cryptic, but with the geis in Beatrice's bag and Saber revealing himself so quickly, added with the Atlas Uniform he was told to look for, Sudi wasn't as nervous about walking through the door.

It was cleaner inside the house than he remembered. The store was organised and everything was back in its place, watches back in their displays under the counter. Even Karim's tools were neatly cleaned and put back on their shelves, far more organised than Karim had ever kept it himself. Eugenia certainly hadn't been the one to do any of this, Sudi thought, and no one from the Vatican had gone to their home as far as he knew.

"Did… you clean up in here?" he asked the woman. She was at the door leading to the actual home portion, beyond Karim's workstation and displays. His staff room, as he would jokingly call it.

"It was hard to navigate the house with everything in disarray," the woman said evenly. She sounded so detached and professional, no condolences in her tone about the scene she'd witnessed. "The bodies are in bags. We'll be leaving what to do with them to your discretion."

"Oh." Sudi glanced around the shop one last time before following Saber and Beatrice through the door after the woman. "Thank you?"

"Some warning would be nice, in future."

Oh, very curt. He wasn't sure if this woman was going to be a gentle teacher or not. It was stressful enough that his tutor was from Atlas, where they had funky shit going on with their brains for optimal sciencing, but a harsh instructor might be the tipping point. Maybe he'd be better off going down an Executor's route? There were bound to be some back at the Vatican who would teach him, since he was already being shown how to use the Black Keys and his Ash Lock.

Sudi set aside his hesitation as he shut the door behind him. Beatrice and Saber were practically his bodyguards now, keeping the distance between Sudi and the woman, and Beatrice's bravado was back on display as she threw her weight as the fake representative of the Church up in the air.

"I ask this for the sake of Master Sudi's safety," Beatrice announced. "Please take no offence if the answer is obvious. Are you the one Ms. Bianchi-Chandra had Atlas Institute send over?"

The woman paused her walking. The immediate area was also clean, no stink of death to be found and the blood mopped up from the floor. The only thing notable was the tears and fractures that remained in the furniture from the incident. She looked the trio up and down, assessing them with quick eyes, and planted a hand on her hip.

"No, not me," she told them. Saber was back on high alert. "Calm yourself. I'm a package deal with the one who was sent. He's my fiance and research partner."

"Oh. Congratulations." Beatrice sheepishly looked at the floor.

"Save your breath. It's not a marriage your people would call wholesome. It suits us just fine, though."

Saber huffed. "Political," he noted. "The woman made sure someone with a functioning brain was sent over, at least. Where is the mage?"

The woman narrowed her eyes. "Alchemist," she corrected Saber.

"Is alchemy not a form of magecraft?" Saber dismissed her flippantly.

Beatrice hissed at him to shut up. Saber looked ready to raise his hand to strike her, but Sudi quickly cleared his throat and held up his hand with the command spells. Saber didn't say anything out loud, but he was certainly getting used to communicating his annoyances telepathically.

'I just told you not to waste a command spell! You know I will not have an apostate order me around!'

Sudi gave him a pointed look, his face scrunching up into a grimace.

Saber lowered his raised hand and went back to his spiritual form, clearly seething.

"My apologies," Beatrice continued. The woman nodded once, understanding at least. "Then, do you mind if I just verify a few things with you before I let Master Sudi see him?"

"By all means. It's a wise decision."

"What's his relation to the head of the Crudelis family?"

The woman hummed softly. "Distant relatives, like all in the family. A more profound relationship they hold is consults. Farion asks him to debate, he obliges, and a decision can be gleaned for the head from the outcomes he hypothesises."

So he was a big deal to the head. Definitely someone worthwhile sending as a tutor and trustworthy to boot. At least to Farion, he was. Sudi still wasn't sure if Eugenia was on good terms with the head of the Crudelis family, or if this was a favour being cashed in begrudgingly.

"I assume he has at least five rooms, then," Beatrice pushed.

The woman nodded. "Six. Half of them prioritise mystic codes for his work. It's very efficient."

"Oh, he's good," Beatrice mumbled to Sudi, surprised. "That's genius-level for Atlas standards."

The woman cleared her throat. Beatrice scrambled for her next question.

"Master Sudi has an affliction that requires surgery to remove," she sputtered. "Saber doesn't trust the Vatican to remove it. Or to breathe the same air as him, if I'm honest. What's his level of surgical knowledge?"

"If you're asking how safe an operation would be," the woman sighed, "you're in safer hands here than a hospital. The thorough cleaning was to prepare for removal of the parasite. The Six Sources derive their magecraft from the human body anyway."

Both of them relaxed. While the home wasn't the most sterile of places for medical procedures, at least the woman and her fiance had done their best to prepare for surgery and knew what they'd be doing.

"Is that everything?" the woman asked.

Beatrice nodded. "All that's left is some insurance to make sure Master Sudi is safe. But we can discuss that once everything else is sorted out."

"Then by all means." The woman opened the door to the kitchen, where the pristine walls and tools that didn't belong to either of Sudi's parents stared back at them innocently. "Let's start talking."

Hampshire, England (Morning)

Sparring with a servant was very much out of a regular person's depth, even when the servant was holding back.

Ever since summoning Rider, things have been routine in preparation for the War and all whimsy had to be put on hold. Early every morning, before she watered the plants in the greenhouse and checked the security system, Rider would drag her out of bed and have her practice hand-to-hand with him. No master of his was to be weak, he declared that first day, even if they were of the same kin. She needed to be a source of pride, not an embarrassment tacked onto him and their species that relied too much on human tricks.

Breakfast would come after sparring, lovingly prepared by her family. Anxiety over Rider's presence had ebbed out somewhat, and they only needed to tend to his needs like a servant to a king to keep him happy. Not that they could disrespect him, anyway—he was one of the creatures only she could see under normal circumstances, no one else possessing those Mystic Eyes that she'd inherited from her father.

Most of the day afterwards would be spent going about her techniques and watching the news. Checking to see if any other servants had cropped up in the country. The longer they had to prepare, the better, and while Rider itched for a fight so desperately that he had to mop the floor with his master every morning in training, it was a relief to not jump headfirst into everything. Rider was free to patrol the property, keep people out, and she was free to learn from the mistakes that forced her into this War.

Holly Leighton had only wanted to find where she belonged in the world—or perhaps the world beyond this realm. She was undoubtedly her aunt's niece and her grandfather's granddaughter, her resemblance to their late son striking and undeniable. But the legacy of her mother always left her so empty, so isolated, and it had taken eighteen years to find out why. Eighteen years to rush headfirst into research that got the worst kind of attention.

A boot slammed into her stomach. Holly barely reacted quick enough, the vines around her arms quickly snaking over her waist to cushion the blow. She was still winded as she was flung several feet away, flat on her back and staring up at the orange sky.

"That's a terrible habit," Rider scoffed.

Yeah. Wandering not only in body, but in mind too. It was just hard to stay in one place when she was constantly on the lookout for something that would jump out at her and explain things.

"My bad," she groaned. Rider stomped over and loomed over her, hands on his hips and a frown on his face. It was amazing that she'd summoned him, she thought idly. He'd only responded because he'd heard the call of his people, the War far from his mind at the moment of contact, and she was his people. She belonged somewhere, with others. "I just keep thinking—"

"Because thinking clearly helps," he cut her off. Holly laughed weakly.

"I'll get the hang of it, I know I will. I never had to defend myself like this before."

"You were sheltered. The humans spoiled you."

She opened her mouth to refute it. She closed it. With another weak laugh, she agreed, "Maybe Grandpa. But that's what grandparents do. They dote."

"They coddle."

Holly slowly pushed herself up into a sitting position. She could feel an ache in her torso, and reminded herself to get some herbs to dull the pain while she tended to the plants. At least Rider didn't injure her so badly she couldn't function for a whole day.

"Things are… less violent than when you were younger," she tried. Rider raised a brow. "Our elders are allowed to give us what they couldn't have. It's not survival of the fittest."

Rider scrunched up his face into a tired sigh. He pinched at his brow with one hand before reaching down with the other. She took it, thankful, and he yanked her to her feet with ease. Holly was so small compared to him, but she was small compared to most people anyway. But to Rider, she was almost a child beside him.

"There will always be survival of the fittest," Rider reminded her. "Even now, humans have prettied the term up with that silly natural selection nonsense. It's the same thing. The weak die and the strong persevere, and if the strong aren't around to protect the weak, then those who were coddled will not survive beyond an hour."

He really did have a point. Holly wasn't fond of it, especially since she still hadn't really… come to terms with fighting actual people to the death. Taking a life was a whole experience no one should have to go through, for preservation or more nefarious reasons. A servant was already dead, plants could regrow, animals had functions in death; people, though…

"I just…" She bit her lip, anxious. "A life shouldn't end before it's supposed to."

Rider inclined his head, interested in her reasoning. Death was something he had an investment in, though she wasn't entirely sure why. Perhaps if she ever learned his true name, she would know. For now, she just knew he was a king of a species that wasn't human.

"If everyone is weak and one strong person slaughters them all… Wouldn't the strong person be lonely without someone around?" Holly cleared her throat. "The strong… like to fight others, right? If no one else is around—if they're all dead—then the strong will be alone."

"A life of solitude isn't a life of condemnation," Rider told her.

Holly sniffed. "For some people it can be."

His eyes narrowed to slits. Rider reached up, one finger outstretched, and he jabbed it harshly at her forehead. Once, twice, until Holly finally dodged his hand and rubbed the spot tenderly.

"Another terrible habit," he grumbled. "Have some pride. Death isn't the end. The soul may wither when left alive beyond its time, but it can be reborn into something new. If the strong is left alone with no one to fight, then his opponent is the very dirt he walks upon. He need not think of the future or the past, because he is where he belongs."

He went to jab her forehead again. Holly swatted away his hand. He was clearly trying to keep training as they spoke, keeping her reflexes sharp.

"You think too much about the future, girl," Rider scolded her. "The what-ifs and the will-bes. You're chained by your past and its whispers. You don't look at the big picture, ask yourself why you should become strong and not worry about the possibility of loneliness."

"Rider, I just found my mother's people—"

"And I am here. You still think yourself alone because I am not your mother, but you are still one of my people." Rider swept at her feet. She jumped back quickly. It was so weird how he could multitask a lecture and training so easily. "A home is not just a building of brick and mud. A kingdom is not just its king. One's kin is not just their parents."

Holly let out an uncertain sound. She hesitated again, mind wandering, and Rider's quick movements saw her flipped over into a grapple that saw her eating dirt with a surprised shout. Arm pinned under his knee and one hand holding the back of her head gently, stopping her from suffocating as she laid face-down on the grass, Rider let out a huff and continued to speak.

"Boil your desires to something singular and tangible," he instructed her. "I have many, yet I strive for battle. That is my basest desire. You want your mother, somewhere to belong, answers—but you're trying too hard to multitask and solve everything at once. What do you want right now, girl?"

What did she want right now?

Holly turned her head to the side, brows furrowed, and Rider let go of her. She just laid on the ground as she pondered the question. Everything she wanted, she couldn't take with her own hands. Especially not now, with that bastard from the Clock Tower breathing down her neck and holding her and her family hostage over this stupid War. Why he didn't summon a servant himself and participate, she never knew. Maybe he just liked tormenting people and exploiting them for his own gain. His wish was to turn the political tides in the Clock Tower in his favour, after all.

She couldn't do anything. She couldn't just run away with Rider and do whatever they wanted. She was stagnant, unable to travel anymore, and her searches for answers were indefinitely halted.

Holly worked her jaw. "I…" she started. Rider sat down beside her, languid and lazy as he watched the sunrise. "I want… freedom."

"Then freedom, you shall strive for." Rider patted her head softly. With regular humans, he would never be so gentle. Had she been a drop less of her mother's blood, he would not have been so kind. "And your other desires will be found along the way."

She rolled over onto her back and stared up at the sky as well. Soon she would have to water the plants and make sure no bugs had broken in to nibble on them overnight.

"Why do you want to battle?" she asked him.

Rider grunted once. "Battle makes one feel alive. War brings despair and grief, but you never feel more alive than when you have to fight for that life. I suppose I got sick of the dead at some point. I wanted an opponent who would try to survive me, rather than herd a wayward soul with no purpose or drive left inside."

"Was it ever lonely?"

"No. Never lonely. Dead, they may be, but the souls still had stories to tell. And on occasion, they would try to cheat their fate and prolong their lives." He closed his eyes and let out a long sigh. "Defy the natural order of things."

Holly let out a small hum. She laid her hands on her stomach, lacing her fingers together, and kicked her toes against each other.

"Hey, Rider?"

He grunted again.

"I really, really want to visit our people. But I can't go anywhere with Lord Archelot keeping an eye on me. He'll hurt my family."

"Is a king not enough to sate the appetite?"

Holly snorted a laugh and fought back a smile. "No, no, I'm honoured. Truly. And I see some of them here, loitering about! But it's not the same as a… a homecoming, I suppose."

"And what would you have me do, girl? You clearly bring this up for a reason."

"Would you fight a Lord of the Clock Tower if he was strong enough?"

Rider didn't hesitate. "No."

Holly sat up, horrified and ready to cry. Lord Archelot was definitely no pushover, so shouldn't he be a worthy opponent for Rider? Didn't Rider just tell her to strive for her freedom? And he knew now that Lord Archelot was keeping her trapped, so why—

"If I take your freedom for you," Rider went on, "you won't be truly free. You'll just be in a wider cage with a more lenient master, waiting for the day when your debt can be repaid."

Holly opened her mouth. A small squeak found its way out. She snapped her lips shut and tried her hardest to take the words positively. He was just trying to keep her on track. He was just making sure she accomplished it herself.

But she was no match for a Lord of the Clock Tower… Not right now…

The sun had fully breached the horizon. The new day was finally beginning, the rest of the world waking up to go about their lives. Rider pushed himself up to his feet and fixed his trousers, pushing off some dirt from the knees.

"I cannot take his life for you," he amended. "I can give you access to him. Give you a means to kill him. But I cannot take his life for you."

As he walked towards the greenhouse, Holly finally processed his words. A weight lifted from her shoulders, heart hammering in her ears, and she curled in on herself to keep from making a fuss. It was unspoken, the words he sent her way, but they brought a giddy smile to her face as warmth began to bubble in her chest. A sense of belonging that she still needed to get used to.

'I won't stand for one of my people being enslaved to a human, anyway.'

renren_writes · Oct 5, 2022

03
Prati District, Rome, Italy (Midday)

They never did sign the geis. If anything, a small argument had broken out because of it that Beatrice had been warned of beforehand. The geis was insurance, Eugenia has told her, but it would also cause a rift between them and Sudi's tutor if they took offence to the idea.

Rather than a geis, they wrote up a simple contract. The mages—alchemists—from Atlas Institute were civil and straight to the point; they honoured contracts and agreements as long as they were fair, and they knew how to conduct business in a way that wouldn't sabotage future relations. Casval Crudelis Cecani had laid out his terms very simply, and neither Sudi nor Saber had many arguments in return. Sudi didn't have a wish, but Casval did despite not having a servant. Sudi would follow through with what Casval wanted, and Casval would do everything in his power to back Sudi and Saber during the War.

"Maria and I have somewhat middling circuits," Casval explained. "But together, alongside your… potential, I suppose, we can allow Saber some more wiggle room for his abilities. Without killing you, that is."

"That's very generous of you," Sudi noted. Casval, looking more like a walking corpse than a man, gazed at Sudi with cold, calculating blue eyes. He was the epitome of overworked, and it made his answer feel just the right amount of in character for him.

"It's only logical that I support the one I technically sponsor. If you die and Saber refuses to take myself or Maria as a master, I lose my wish with you."

It was a very pragmatic approach to it all, and Beatrice was unsettled by it. But at least these two didn't treat Sudi like something to own—they saw him as more of a means to an end, one they could cooperate with willingly and break the deal off with whenever they saw fit. Pure business, no perverse pleasure.

Surgery didn't take long either. The mystic codes that Casval had brought made for excellent aides as he extracted the parasite from Sudi's chest. Saber hovered to the point of nagging as his master slept through it all, and Maria jotted down as many notes as humanly possible with each observation Casval made about what he found. Any lingering damage done to Sudi's insides (little to none, courtesy of Saber), the space where the parasite had taken root (the left ventricle, possibly to feed off of the oxygen in the blood), and the type of creature it resembled once its cocoon was pried open (a malformed caterpillar, which Casval noted was already trying to metamorphosize into its adult stage before Saber killed it). All in all, Beatrice watched them for an hour on the makeshift surgical table in the kitchen, and then another hour monitoring Sudi as he slowly woke up and inspected the stitches.

The caterpillar and its cocoon safely tucked away in a plastic box, Casval observed them both with mild interest.

"Curses are constantly evolving and becoming more complex," he thought aloud. "It used to be just the crest worms of the Matou family in Fuyuki that could function like this, but they were intended to boost the output of circuits rather than drain life. They only killed their host when they didn't take."

"Was it the Matou family that targeted Master Sudi?" Beatrice asked.

"No. These aren't worms. And it isn't evolving into a wasp." Casval pocketed the container and fixed his uniform. The lab coat over the top of it was slightly frumpled, but otherwise neat. "I'll speak with Ms. Bianchi-Chandra about what she noticed regarding the attack. Curses with a physical body are far easier to combat once you know how they tick."

Maria leaned down towards where Casval sat, showing him her notes. He scanned over him, humming lightly, and nodded in agreement.

"It would be likely," he mumbled. Maria circled whatever note she'd shown him and continued on with her brainstorming. Beatrice was surprised how well they worked together, not even needing to use words most of the time to get the point across and understand what the other was saying.

Sudi was groggy as he buttoned up his shirt. Beatrice hovered near him, slightly concerned, but Casval had been honest with how well he'd treated Sudi during surgery. Even as the painkillers slowly wore off and the skin around the sutures knitted itself together, typical of a healing spell, Sudi didn't seem too bothered by what should've been enough to knock a regular person like him out of commission for a few weeks. It was, in essence, open heart surgery—and he was up on his feet already.

"Make sure to rest for at least two days," Casval instructed him. Sudi rubbed one of his eyes and nodded, following along blearily. "The skin may look fully healed but you have to leave enough time for the heart to heal as well. I'd say avoid stress as well, but I doubt a certain someone will listen to that instruction."

"Thank you, Mr. Cecani—"

"Just Casval." The man stretched his arms above his head, the bones popping audibly. "I'm not that much older than you. Formalities are a waste of time anyway."

Sudi nodded. He glanced around the room, seeming to be searching for something, but Casval already knew what he was looking for. Beatrice helped Sudi stand steady on his feet as Casval pointed to the door that led further into the back of the house. There wasn't much to the rest of the small house, and Beatrice was surprised when he mentioned a garden out the back deep enough to bury the bodies.

"Anette, Eliza and Lao have been digging. The others helped clean up inside and bag the corpses. I'll hold off on disposing of them until you're done with whatever sentimentalities you have left to part with."

Sudi sniffed once. He considered for a moment what Casval said, not even blinking at the crude way his father and step siblings had been referred to. A little tact would go a long way, but Casval didn't seem to take any kind of soft treatment as efficient. Definitely the kind to rip off the bandaid without hesitation, but it would be a massive problem if the bandaid happened to deglove the wound in the process.

"You can take them," Sudi eventually decided. "Mamma and I didn't see what killed them. If it was magecraft, you might have more insights to who made the parasite. Certain families have certain methods, right?"

When he glanced at Casval, the man was regarding him with mild interest. His hand was back on his pocket, where the parasite and its cocoon were stored, and he finally nodded.

"Maria and I will set up a base here and erect a bounded field. I'll send you back to the Pope's care with a mystic code for contact purposes once you're done."

"I appreciate it, Casval."

Casval turned on his heel, moving for Maria and the notes she was reviewing. He was almost cynical in his response, his voice curt and matter-of-fact as he replied, "For now."

At least he knew he was a tough pill to swallow.

Beatrice pursed her lips and tugged Sudi's sleeve.

"Let's go. I'll… deliver a prayer for them. Send them off in peace for you."

Sudi nodded again. He was starting to wake up a little more, faster than she'd expected with everything considered. She supposed after all of this, he'd sleep like a baby for the next few days. He needed it, Beatrice decided.

In the tiny backyard of Sudi's home, there truly was a garden that had been torn apart for the rushed graves. Asters and hydrangeas strewn about, only a small bunch of marigolds left untouched thanks to the extra space beyond the graves. It was a saddening sight, at least to Beatrice, and it was made all the more jarring by the silver skulls mounted on artificial bodies moving around like wayward spirits. She'd seen the other three—Ahriman, Francis and George, Casval had called them—when they'd helped perform the surgery, but it was a lot to take in when you grew up with the face of death itself being the very same skulls you had to address now.

One of the skulls looked over at them, and it waved down the other two. One by one, the white body bags were carried over and set in front of Sudi and Beatrice in a neat line; one large, clearly containing Sudi's father, and two smaller, the bodies clearly no larger than what a pre-teen should've been. She'd never thought to ask how old Sudi's siblings were, or how old he was when Karim met Eugenia. She always assumed it was never long after his mother left, but now it sank in just how young these children were when they were murdered.

A skull brought over one of the garden chairs from the porch, and Sudi sank into it gratefully. Beatrice wasn't sure how much of the mystic codes were Casval's will and how much were lingering personalities imprinted upon them, but the kindness was appreciated nonetheless. She was even pleasantly surprised when, to her right, the other two skulls stood by her side and raised their hands in prayer. Almost as though joining her as she spoke for the departed and bade them a safe journey into the next life.

When Beatrice was done, it didn't take long for the floodgates to open. It was the most she'd seen him react to his situation all week, if she was honest—she hadn't even been sure if Sudi had been despairing or not up until now. So many ups and downs, all of them so close together, but now it was apparent why he never just reacted in the moment. Sudi never got peace, not from Saber or his own injuries, to actually process it all. He just had to swallow it all down, dissociate himself from it all, until he could find even just a second to let it all out and move on the next.

Long after she finished the prayer, Sudi sobbed into his hands and let everything out while he still could. Hunched over in the garden chair, elbows on his knees, it was no different to the funeral ceremonies she'd been present for that had a beloved family or friend die so suddenly in an accident. An idle, they're in a better place, wouldn't even begin to ease the pain right now.

The skull beside her shifted. It lowered its praying hands, head turning, and in the briefest of whispers she heard it speak. A combination of Casval's voice, and an unknown woman she assumed to be the skull's namesake.

"How obscene."

Beatrice blinked. Anger welled up in her chest. Whether or not it was Casval speaking through the skull or the skull itself saying it, Beatrice wouldn't stand for disrespect for those in mourning. She sucked in a deep breath, fists clenched by her sides as she turned to the skull—

And then she stopped. Her eyes followed its empty gaze, to the other side of the small yard. To where Saber stood, unnoticed by anyone as he leaned against the small garden shed. To the look of pure, unadulterated hunger on his face as he stared at his despairing master.

Yes, Beatrice thought as her anger turned to disgust. How truly, wickedly obscene.

Norilsk, Russia (Evening)

Pale lips brushed the old man's forehead. A shivering form slowly began to halt. Protection from the frost was finally granted upon the ancient bones that would never survive a second winter.

"Thank you, Your Majesty!" the old man sobbed. He dropped to his knees in front of his queen, as did his grandsons, and bowed so low he was kissing the snow. "Thank you for blessing this old man!"

It was a simple reward for a humble dinner in the queen's eyes, but to this man and his family, it was a mercy from freezing to death when summer should've been starting. Not a huge difference for Norilsk, the coldest place in Russia, but a few degrees could make all the difference.

Everywhere they went, the attention was on them. It was just like the previous Wars had proven—a servant and their master were celebrities in the modern world, a worldwide gamble for everyone to aim their hopes and contempt towards. No more than a show for entertainment, regardless of the casualties that came from the world's favourite "characters" striking blows. Even after plunging the entire northern region into a fierce winter in the middle of summer, the people of Russia adored Caster and worshipped the very ground she walked on.

The new lifestyle of being adored by her people was new to Dunja, but it wasn't unwanted. It just took a lot of getting used to compared to her family's past treatment.

"Rise," Caster ordered the old man and his grandsons. Her white fur robe fluttered in the wind. The staff in her hand, adorned with a large antarcticite star at its top, was pointed at him with its pommel. "I am not so malevolent as to punish a man for providing adequate resources."

He scrambled to his feet again. "Of course, Your Majesty! You're so kind!"

Dunja glanced around as people paused to spectate. There was never a dull day with Caster taking her trips into the city, away from the ice palace, and they never quite returned empty-handed. Today would be no different, though for very unusual reasons for a change. She wondered how the people would react to an outsider being allowed to serve Caster, of an alliance outside of the Slavic Confederation sending one of its people to assist however possible. As far as Dunja knew, the political side of things never allowed for such things to happen—but this one offered up research for Dunja, and Leningrad wanted nothing more than to allow her family to practice its craft seamlessly in the homeland once all was over.

She didn't need a tutor or a research partner. She could only assume this person was being sent as an ingredient as a sign of good faith between the two neighbouring powers.

"Dyevushka, you as well," the old man directed towards her. Dunja blinked, surprised, and white eyes flitted back to him. "You are such a good girl. Your forefathers are smiling upon you for your duty to your country."

Dunja inhaled softly. The words brought a warmth to her that still required some adjusting to.

She smiled and cast her gaze downwards. "Thank you, sir," she said, voice quiet.

"My boy Pyotr, he owns the cafe just around the corner from my house," he went on. "You come by whenever you want, no matter the time, and I'll make sure he has some sweets for you."

The old man acted like a stereotypical grandparent. She wondered if she'd been adopted as an honorary grandchild by him just for being present when Caster blessed him with protection against the cold.

"Risengrød," Caster announced. The old man looked back at her, brows raised as he smiled brightly.

"The pudding, yes?"

"The very same. I'd like to see how your boy can meet my standards." Caster looked at Dunja with a stoic expression, exuding the regality of a queen with her very being. "Any requests?"

"I've never tried risengrød," Dunja mumbled. "Is it nice?"

Caster smiled. It was an almost coy smile, and she reached out to tuck a lock of Dunja's mauve hair behind her ear. Some had apparently spilled out from under her ushanka.

"It's the perfect weather for it," she told her. Dunja nodded. Caster looked back to the old man, her smile still in place. "Have him bring it to the castle tomorrow before sundown. I'd hate to have your boy freeze to death in the middle of the night."

"Yes, Your Majesty! I'll tell him right away!"

The old man seemed to be doing well in the food industry, especially his grandson Pyotr. A simple stew and some mulled wine was enough to please Caster before they picked up their latest resource at the station, and they'd appealed to her enough to be given the chance to make a sweet of her choosing. Dunja bade the man and his family farewell as she and Caster were on their way, and while they walked at a leisurely pace she looked up what risengrod looked like on her phone.

A rice pudding served with cinnamon sugar and sometimes butter, overtly simple and usually shared around Christmastime. Little under an hour of total preparation and cooking time to boot. It looked rather fluffy, Dunja thought as she pulled up one of the pictures. It was clearly taken by someone who knew how to frame food to look like art while it was still warm in the bowl. It reminded her of a cloud, or perhaps cotton.

"Yes, that's the one," Caster praised her. "I haven't had it in such a long time. It's good to see the tradition has survived."

Dunja smiled to herself. She bookmarked a recipe for later. "It must be good if you're craving it," she noted.

"Extravagance is a sign of wealth and power, but sometimes it's the simpler things that are more worthwhile."

Dunja nodded in agreement. All the fancy foods in the world, and people could still lose themselves in a simple serving of bread and butter at three in the morning because a chocolate cake would be too rich. She supposed a good leader knew when something was too much and when something was just enough.

"Everyone really loves you," Dunja said. She pocketed her phone and pulled her coat tighter around her. Despite being given the kiss that made her impervious to Caster's freezing cold temperatures, Dunja still wasn't fond of the weather much. Snow was nice, but the bite of the chill against her skill was never pleasant.

"Everyone is afraid of me," Caster corrected her. Dunja considered the answer for a moment. She supposed Caster was right, in a way; if someone had shown up in the middle of summer and created a winter wonderland of her home, and she wasn't the master of that servant, she'd be scared as well. "We shall use this as a teaching scenario, Avodt'ja. This is how you'll keep a tight leash on your new pet."

Dunja gave her her full attention, walking closer to Caster as they slowed in their pace. People pointedly avoided them while they were in the middle of conversation, well aware that Caster hated being interrupted.

"There is no perfect way to rule," Caster instructed her. "There are only strategies one must adapt their reign to fit so that no one takes their throne. You can't always keep subjects loyal, but you can always keep them in line."

"What kind of example could you give?"

Caster tucked her snowy white hair behind her ear. The antarcticite earrings glistened in the rare bits of sunlight that peeked through the clouds. "Rule like a tyrant, and eventually your dogs will lose any fear they have towards you. They will bite. They will use the harsh training you put them through against you. A hunting dog knows only to hunt, not whom it hunts for. Rule like a pacifist, and without fail your people will take advantage of your kindness. Giving them everything makes them spoiled, and when you say no even once to their demands, they won't hesitate to rise against you for being unjust."

"So you find a middle ground?" Dunja looked up at Caster. Caster shook her head.

"You push and pull in different directions. You remain powerful, but unpredictable. If your subjects don't know if you should be punished or if you can be easily disposed of, they cannot act recklessly. The old man and his family—I did freeze this city over and many people have died, some of whom haven't even begun to rot because of the temperature. But I showed him mercy, only him, and he now feels he owes me a life debt for sparing him and only him from winter's wrath.

"His boy Pyotr, though… The old man knows that Pyotr needs to meet my standards. The time limit I set wasn't for his convenience, it was a warning to prioritise perfect execution and delivery of risengrod to the castle. Whatever happens tomorrow, I will not give Pyotr my protection. Even if he makes a perfect dish, he will still die in the night if he does not bring it on time and leave before sundown. I do not show him the mercy I showed his grandfather."

Dunja sniffed as she glanced around, watching people take pictures of them with their phones like celebrities walking down the street. They effectively were. "But Pyotr expects something now that he knows his grandfather was given protection for a simple dinner."

"Exactly. If Pyotr does everything perfectly, perhaps he will think he must do better. That he isn't as skilled as his grandfather. And if Pyotr fails to deliver, would his grandfather be upset over his death?"

She considered it. "No," Dunja said eventually. "Because he knows you'll take his protection away if he says anything against you."

"And thus the old man is forced to remain loyal to survive, to put the pressure on his family to do better rather than have myself pressure them in person. The Queen's standards are high, but the rewards are worth their lives."

"Forgive me, Caster, but…" Dunja cleared her throat. "That sounds borderline tyrannical at some points."

"Oh, I wouldn't go so far as to kill without necessary cause. Pyotr will not disrespect me by failing to meet my expectations, nor will I condemn the entire family for his failure. And make no mistake, I will not harm someone who has not harmed myself or my pride first." Caster reached over and patted Dunja's shoulder, almost pleased by the conversation thus far. "But I will certainly reward Pyotr in the afterlife. You, my darling, will make him one of your thralls and he can spend all the time he wants teaching you how to make anything your heart desires. You get to practise your magecraft, you may have all the sweets you desire with Pyotr's guidance, and Pyotr will have a second chance to impress his queen. Not every dead man gets that, you know."

She nodded. It made sense, even if it was a little cruel to kill Pyotr just to make him fight for a second chance as a ghost. But a spirit that had yet to pass on to its next life was free game, in a way, and they never seemed to complain when Dunja made use of them with her spells. She supposed Pyotr wouldn't have much to complain about either.

"So I should apply this kind of exercise of power to the one being sent over," she decided. Caster nodded, proud. "Very well. I'll keep an eye on them and see what I can use to push and pull with. I'll have the spirits keep an eye on them when I'm not around."

"Good girl, Avodt'ja. If I may recommend something, though?"

Dunja was all ears. Caster had that coy smile on her face again, but in the back of her gaze there was an almost sadistic glint.

"The mirror I showed you when I erected the castle," she started, and Dunja knew exactly which one she meant. It was hard to forget the things she saw in that mirror, how dismal and horrible the world and even Dunja herself appeared. Nothing good to come of the reflection, no hope to be found, not even a speck of beauty. Sometimes she wondered how she hadn't fallen into despair just looking at the reflection, a world of bright potential sullied by harsh possibilities, but Caster had said it perfectly herself: Dunja already knew the world was hideous and that it saw her the same way, she just hadn't acknowledged it yet. "As a sign of good faith, why don't you show them that Noble Phantasm? Simply say the mirror offers insight and ask them what they see. You'll be able to get a headstart on manipulating them."

It wasn't a bad idea. It just left a sour taste in her mouth, manipulating people in a way she herself couldn't stand to be treated. But perhaps it was best that the shoe was on the other foot for once, allowing her a chance to use such manipulation to bring her family back from the pits. She loved humans, she did, but her family couldn't remain the scapegoats for so much grief forever. Maybe certain humans deserved to be manipulated, and maybe Dunja could do so in a way that wouldn't kill them for her own gain.

She nodded. Caster patted her shoulder again, very happy with the outcome of their discussion.

Norilsk's transportation in and out of the city was mainly by freight train. Getting past the border into Russia was easy enough with the right paperwork, but it was making your way to Norilsk that proved to be the real test. When it snowed, especially in heavy blankets, it was harder for road and air travel without high risks involved. Norilsk's airport was more than operational during the wintertime, but Caster's weather phenomenon was unprecedented for the pilots to navigate. That only left the railway, which saw a spike in use each week for supplies and travels to and from Norilsk for politicians and members of Leningrad.

What Dunja knew so far was that the Norse High Council was sending this supposed ally. She could only assume it was to observe and, if need be, prevent Russia from winning the Grail War a second time in a row. Dunja wasn't too fussed, though; for all she knew, they could be hiding their intentions from the Norse High Council just like she was from Leningrad. They all assumed she wanted to wish for perfect spiritual resonance to perfect her magecraft and impress them enough to let her family back into the border, but Dunja's goals were far more straightforward. There was always something beneath the surface, and she couldn't be too quick to judge her new "ally" in the coming days.

The last train to enter Norilsk also happened to be the train the newcomer was travelling on, and Dunja sat patiently on the bench with Caster as the two reviewed her research papers. Dunja had a lot of catching up to do with her magecraft and Caster, naturally, was a fine tutor to bounce ideas with. Caster, in turn, adored these matter-of-fact discussions and listening to Dunja's thought processes. Caster had said once that Dunja's dedication to her research reminded her of a boy she'd known, but once the reminiscing had led to what had separated the two, Caster clammed up and dismissed the topic altogether. Dunja had found it easier to humour her and pretend she'd never learned of the boy's existence to begin with.

"We'll take the sleigh back to the castle," Caster decided as the sun began to set. It was hardly noticeable through the dark clouds that perpetually covered the skies. "Everyone already knows to dress warmly and stay indoors come nightfall by now anyway."

Dunja nodded in agreement. The sooner she could get back to the castle and prepare to take Pyotr's spirit once it left his body, the better. Not taking the proper time to review and triple-check everything made mistakes far easier to slip by unnoticed.

It was just shy of eight when the horn for the freight train blared in the distance. Dunja rose, as did Caster, and the two watched as a light through the snowfall began to grow larger. It took another fifteen minutes for the train to actually reach the platform and stop for the night, and even before any people could exit the containers, workers from Norilsk began unloading supplies. Half of the supplies were, naturally, intended for Caster to use as resources during the War; the other half was almost compensation for the city and motivation to keep helping Caster, as Dunja recognised many of the supplies sent weren't the bare minimum. They were luxury items and high quality medicine, the sort of things reserved for the one percent of the population.

Caster watched the supplies as they were unloaded, only to stop one group of workers as she spotted a stamp on the crate they carried. Caster must've requested specific items, Dunja thought, and she didn't argue when Caster left her on her own to discuss the supplies with them. She supposed they'd be slotted onto the back row of the sleigh to bring with them as well.

The true sign that the newcomer was due to emerge came in a uniformed soldier who exited one container on his own. He was armed, stood at attention once he approached her, and wasted no time in stating his business with Dunja. Her face was well-known throughout the country now, and she wondered in the back of her mind if her grandmother, still hiding in Dublin from their homeland, had found out yet that she had been chosen to fight in the World Grail War. That she had even applied against her grandmother's wishes.

"At ease," she told the soldier. It was a phrase she was getting dangerously used to saying on the daily.

The soldier relaxed some more, though he kept a steady stance regardless. "The mage sent by the Norse High Council has arrived and is ready for evaluation, Master Wagner. My colleague has all the necessary paperwork outlining his qualifications and a report of his physical and mental health. We found no traces of devices or mystic codes hidden on his person to report back to the Norse High Council with."

Dunja nodded once. "Good. Good job. Bring him out and keep an eye on him in the castle until morning. I'll look over the paperwork in the meantime," she decided.

The soldier saluted and, with her permission, returned to the container to fetch his colleague and the mage.

More than the adoration, having a position of power and using formal commands took a lot of getting used to for Dunja. At least the spirits she could control were akin to familiars and able to work with her on a telepathic level at times. Even then they could work with a vague direction or feeling passed onto them by Dunja.

She shook the thought from her head as soon as the soldiers stepped out with the mage. Easily six feet, almost a whole foot over Dunja in height, and the first thing she noticed were the bright, strikingly blue eyes that locked onto her immediately. Caster's eyes were just as blue, reminiscent of aquamarines at times, but this man's eyes were beautiful rather than ethereal. His hair was white like Caster's too, but highlighted with red streaks in some areas that clashed with his eyes. She supposed she wasn't one to talk, though—not everyone felt that mauve hair and white eyes were a match when coupled with pale skin that pinkened easily.

He was at least dressed appropriately for the weather, she decided. She tugged on the sleeves of her coat for good measure, making sure no snow had snuck in when she wasn't looking, and she immediately accepted the paperwork from the other soldier beside him.

Dunja flipped through the first few pages and pursed her lips.

"Name?" she asked him. The young man blinked slowly, and she began to notice the strange coldness to his gaze. Like a resting bitch face, as her grandmother had once called such an expression.

"Havi Wodan," he replied. What a nice voice, she thought. Did he sing? She wondered if he did. Caster might take a liking to him if she enjoyed his singing. Maybe enough to spare him from a frozen death.

"Age?"

"I'm twenty."

"Birthday?"

"April tenth."

Dunja sniffed and flicked to the next page. So far his basic information lined up well enough. "Parents' names?"

He paused. "Joel and Ira Wodan," he eventually settled on. Definitely something to look into, she decided. Most people didn't hesitate to name a parent unless they were in hiding like Dunja or, perhaps in Havi's case, adopted and well aware of who his birth parents were. Either way, she'd figure it out eventually.

She flicked to the next page. She did a double-take. A chart of a male silhouette, and on the front of the torso was a note. A rune she didn't recognise, even if her knowledge of them was basic at best.

"You have a rune on your chest?" she asked him. Havi nodded. "Explain it to me."

Apparently none of the mages who'd vetted him had thought to ask what it did. Judging from the notes, they'd tried to covertly investigate only to come up with some guesses at best.

"It's a rune to calm anger," he explained. Dunja flicked her gaze back to him. So it was definitely a resting bitch face rather than outright disdain for her. Poor man just looked like that. "I'm able to keep my focus without massive amounts of negative emotions affecting my thought process."

How convenient. She would have to let Caster take a closer look and see if he was telling the truth.

"Good enough," she decided. She tucked the papers into her coat's inner pocket and, as she turned to Caster, called out, "Caster! Do we have room for two more in the sleigh?"

Caster looked away from the crate she was inspecting—it looked like there were pieces of glass inside of it, all small enough to accidentally land in someone's eye without them realising—and looked over the men with a scrutinising gaze.

"I suppose," she eventually groaned. "But they leave at sunrise."

"Already told them."

"Good girl." Caster turned her attention back to the crate. "Have these delivered in the morning. You've all earned some rest, and I know just the restaurant to warm you right up."

Another reward for the old man and another expectation to lump onto Pyotr. How generous of her.

Dunja addressed the men again. "We leave for the castle when Caster is ready. All of you bundle up for the trip, by the way. It gets colder than it is now when you ride the sleigh."

renren_writes · Oct 5, 2022

04

Norilsk, Russia (Afternoon)

Pyotr showed up far ahead of time, risengrød in hand and pleasantries on his lips. Dunja could've sworn she'd seen a tinge of delight from Caster at the exceeded expectations, but the plan remained the same even as they ate in front of Pyotr.

She had yet to show Havi the mirror. She sent him straight to his room in the palace, one of Caster's ice familiars guarding him all night, and even now she let Caster have a go at him first to get a feel for him. The rune troubled her most, she thought over and over, and Caster was even pondering the same once she was done examining Havi and his circuits. Up until Pyotr's arrival, Caster had been locked away in her library and pouring over the extensive books on runecraft. Havi was settling, and this was possibly the best chance Dunja had to lead him gently to the mirror while making him prove the extent of his dedication. The Norse High Council sent him for a reason, but who knew what that reason could be? No matter how much Caster brainstormed with her last night, it all came back to the same two options: Either Havi was sent as a sacrifice so the Norse High Council would get into their good books and receive something from a Caster-class servant, or Havi was sent to stop Caster by the Norse High Council so the rest of the world would have a chance at winning rather than Russia once again.

It gave her a headache.

The risengrød was nice, though. She would've preferred it after dinner, but it was just the kind of thing for a midday snack in this chilly weather. Caster had been right about that much.

Across from her, nibbling quietly on his own bowl of the porridge, Havi didn't speak up the entire time. He just let Caster fill the silence with her praises for Pyotr, barely looking up to gauge the reactions of the room.

"Avodt'ja, how do you find it?" Caster asked her. At the end of the table, Pyotr eagerly looked her way with a hopeful smile on his face.

Dunja nodded. "It's nice. You were right about it," she said.

"Wasn't I? One must have an eye for these things."

Dunja nodded again. She made a mental note, linking it back to their talk about simplicity and small delights. Gaudy wasn't always good, and simple was often best—at least with food, she was starting to learn.

"I'm so glad to hear that, Your Majesty!" Pyotr piped up. He was addressing Caster still, his focus on her rather than Dunja, and Caster's brow twitched ever so slightly. It wasn't that Caster adored Dunja like she did the boy she'd told her about, but Caster was one for manners rather than peacocking about. If she found someone worth her attention, they were worth yours too.

"Would you have it again, dear?" Caster asked her. Dunja nodded.

"I—I can come by whenever, Your Majesty! Just say the word!"

Pyotr was too eager. He was obviously expecting the same favour his grandfather had been given. Dunja finished the last of her porridge and let out a slow breath. Havi was done as well, though he still had some leftovers to be put away. Did he not like sweet food? Or was he just not hungry? Dunja couldn't recall if he'd eaten or not—had Caster sent food to him? Taking care of another person was a lot to consider, but she supposed the tension in the air didn't help much either.

Caster smiled politely at Pyotr. She waved to Dunja, her voice sweet as she spoke. "Avodt'ja will show you further inside the castle," she declared. "You may pick a reward of your choosing."

"T—Truly?" Pyotr stammered. Caster nodded. She was kind in her silence as he pigeon-toed about on the spot. "Th—Then… May I please have a k—kiss, Your Majesty?"

Get a load of the balls on this guy.

The smile Caster gave him was sickly sweet. The silence that hung over their heads was a shade of dangerous that Pyotr couldn't perceive. Dunja wasn't sure if Caster would kill him now or leave him for herself and Havi to take care of, but what was set in stone was definitely a new spirit to command for Dunja.

"Of course. Here, boy," Caster prompted him. Pyotr was as red as a tomato as he scrambled around the table, ever eager to be rewarded. Havi's eyes slid over to Caster, watching as she rose from her chair, and even Dunja was surprised by how eloquent she was as she took Pyotr's face in her hands and leaned down. She pressed her lips to his forehead. "One to numb you to the cold."

And then Caster pecked his forehead again, and Pyotr's eyes blinked quickly for a few seconds. A dazed expression, almost clueless, but then he was back to recognising where he was and being pleased at the extra reward.

"And another to forget useless things," Caster finished. She let him go, satisfied, and turned to Dunja once more. "Show our guest where all the magic happens."

Dunja nodded, obedient. She stood up, pushed her chair in, and just as she was about to lead Pyotr away, Caster spoke up again.

"Avodt'ja. Why don't you show Havi around as well? He might be of some assistance to Pyotr in picking a reward."

The translation was sent loud and clear through the telepathic link between them. 'Test how far he'll go. Make him kill Pyotr for you. After that, the mirror.'

She licked her lips and nodded again, agreeing to the commands. Caster knew what she was doing with the situation, and it wasn't like Dunja didn't have wraiths at her disposal if Havi turned on her. More to the point, every single hall was decorated with suits of armour made of ice that were at Caster's beck and call—as soon as Dunja sent a call for help, Caster's skills as, well, a caster would be at the forefront.

Havi didn't hesitate to rise. Pyotr was in and out of his daze, focused entirely on Caster more than anything else, and Dunja had to nudge him to get his attention. Pyotr blinked at her, almost looking right through her, and he gave her a lopsided smile once he finally figured out she was standing in front of him. Havi hovered behind her, stoic face trained on Pyotr as the man moved. The brief intensity of the gathering was dispelled as quickly as Dunja could manage.

As they exited the dining hall and followed the corridor, Dunja's destination still undecided, she asked Caster what the second kiss had been for. She'd never seen the servant kiss someone more than once, and the second had clearly done something to Pyotr. Caster's reply was swift, almost a reassurance that the task would be easy: Everything beyond the castle walls were long forgotten to Pyotr, and there was complete confidence that he would remember how to make the porridge as a wraith even with his memory blocked out. Dunja supposed it made sense—in Pyotr's mind, the goal was more along the lines of bringing a delicious risengrød to Caster, which meant he would've followed the recipe down to the decimal and gone over it in his head as they sampled it.

The reassurance did serve to help. Dunja led Havi and Pyotr to the room Caster kept her mirror in with a little more confidence, and she didn't waste time with small talk now that she knew Pyotr wouldn't respond like he normally should've.

The large doors were flanked by two massive suits of armour—one armed with a sword, the other armed with a lance. Dunja watched them as she reached up and pushed the door open, and she swore she saw their helmets turn ever so slightly as she and the boys entered the room. Caster was watching through her ice creations, making sure they did as she ordered. Dunja nodded to the suits of armour, and she shut the doors while Pyotr and Havi scanned the room.

Dunja sucked in a deep breath and steeled herself. She didn't feel as bad about doing this to Pyotr when he'd shown so much disregard for her just to get into Caster's good books. It was Havi she was beginning to struggle with testing afterwards. He wasn't disregarding her, but he wasn't open either. Havi was just empty, and part of her wondered if he was some kind of homunculus disguised as a human after watching him eat in silence. So calm and collected, like there was just… nothing under the skin. A lack of something that made him seem human.

She would pick Caster's brain about the rune after this. Surely she'd found something similar in shape to it in her library by now.

"Her Majesty's treasure…" Pyotr sounded listless as he swayed on the spot. Dunja looked over her shoulder at him, and in the far side of the room, two lamps flared to life with a cold fire that bathed the room in a kaleidoscope of colour. Even fire made by Caster was ice at its core, like bits of sunlight trapped in snowflakes for all eternity, and Dunja couldn't help finding it pretty. Too cold, but still pretty.

"The mirror," Dunja announced. Pyotr looked at her blearily. The lamps revealed the mirror between them, cracked and floating in the air as though suspended in time. The mirror was vastly incomplete, and some shards were far too small to fit together properly just yet, but the vast majority of it had been restored in quick succession following Caster's summoning. "Look into it and tell me what you see. That's how we'll know what you want."

The way Havi gave her a sidelong glance, almost deciphering her words, gave her an idea that he already suspected the mirror. But Pyotr had no qualms, and he stumbled over to it with mumbles of a reward from Her Majesty being treasured forever. Dunja licked her lips again, waving Havi over as she stood by the door, and she leaned against the large slabs as though her small weight would barricade them shut.

Havi leaned down to listen, already aware she'd whisper something to him, and Dunja was almost struck by how pretty his face was. Perhaps he really was a homunculus, made to be as beautiful as possible to get Caster's attention. Or perhaps he was just blessed with good genes, something far more likely in her opinion. The Norse High Council would've announced if they'd sent a homunculus, lest they incite the wrath of the Slavic Confederation for trying to sneak one of their own agents inside.

"He needs to be disposed of," Dunja finally muttered. Havi's expression didn't change—his eyes just searched her face, almost analysing what she truly wanted, and she averted her gaze. Pyotr was frozen in front of the mirror, probably already seeing the ugliness within himself. "I can make use of him when he's dead."

Havi stood upright. He looked at Pyotr, still as analytical as ever, and Dunja was surprised by the reply she got from him.

"Do I need to be gentle with the body?"

Dunja was surprised. "No… Do what you need to."

He nodded. He was as composed as ever as he turned and walked towards Pyotr. He didn't even hesitate as he pulled something from the pocket of his coat.

On one hand, Dunja watched as he slid on a glove with various tubes running through it. In the other hand, he held what looked to be the hilt of a sword that was missing its blade, but as he shifted his fingers around the grip and clenched tightly, Dunja could see the colour draining from his knuckles for a brief moment. As Pyotr stared at his reflection in shame and horror, he never noticed the blade shoot out from the hilt of the sword in Havi's hand.

It was a beautiful sword. Dunja didn't even realise she was holding her breath as she watched a mixture of blood and ink drag down its blade, not until Havi began to hum to himself ever so softly. She couldn't place the tune at first, recognising it but not knowing it, and Dunja blinked as the sword was used not unlike a pen or a staff. Held out in front of Havi, blood and ink left a trail in the air that slowly took a more familiar shape of a rune she recognised. Not one she'd used, but one she knew of.

And then the tune's origin finally showed itself in her mind, fond memories of her grandmother singing the lullaby to her during the nights she couldn't sleep.

Algiz, Nauthiz, Ansuz and Inguz all drawn one by one. The combination necessary for Ath nGabla, a curse for combat that forbade more than one fighter to leave with their life, and a curse that only one party had to consent to in order to activate. The runes hung in the air for a moment, and when Havi pressed at them with the tip of his sword, a light shot out at Pyotr and briefly brought his attention away from the mirror. The air shifted, an almost invisible barrier surrounding the two men, and Dunja kept her distance as, without meaning to, she followed the lullaby in her head with Havi's hums.

"This mirror," Pyotr whimpered. He didn't even register the sword pointing at him, nor the situation at hand. "There's something wrong with it."

Havi didn't answer. He just hummed to himself as he casually approached Pyotr, sword not quite loose in his hand. He walks, sang the voice of Dunja's grandmother in her mind. He is coming. Closer.

When Pyotr tried to run past him, Havi kicked out at the man's ankles and sent him tumbling to the floor. When Pyotr tried to fight back, fists raised and fear clear on his face, Havi just drew more runes to keep him still enough to strike him down.

A rune that conjured storm clouds above them. A rune that made Havi faster. He was drawing this out for Pyotr, humming all the while, and her grandmother's voice kept filling in the missing words as she listened. He sneaks up behind you, and he's going to get you.

For once, Dunja could see why so many in the west saw Tili Tili Bom as less of a lullaby and more of a bad omen.

Another rune, this time sending a light shock at Pyotr that flung him into the invisible wall, right in front of Dunja, and she cringed when she heard the bones in Pyotr's body crack and pop upon impact. He was weak, battered and bruised, but Havi wasn't being too rough with him yet. It was almost like a punishment, like he wanted Pyotr to fight back and acknowledge the hopelessness of it all, to realise the mistakes he'd made in following them to the mirror.

"Stop!" Pyotr screeched at Havi. Havi flicked some of the blood from his glove onto the floor. Tiny droplets landed at his feet like a mist of spray paint. She watched Pyotr look around, searching for a weapon or an escape route, and then his eyes landed on her—finally seeing Dunja for the first time as a person, as someone he could address and listen to.

Pyotr banged on the barrier with his fists, tears streaming down his face as he screamed at her, "Help me! Stop him and help me!"

Havi was behind him in a split second, relying on the rune that boosted his speed, and without a second thought he stabbed the sword through one of Pyotr's feet and deep into the floor. It was impressive that he could break through the material of Caster's castle, but part of Dunja assumed Caster was allowing this for the sake of entertainment. She could see all within the confines of these walls, after all.

Before Pyotr could scream, Havi's other hand grabbed a fistful of hair and slammed his face into the barrier. Dunja flinched, pointedly avoided looking at the blood that hung in the air against the barrier. When Pyotr coughed and groaned, one of his teeth—or perhaps a large chunk of it—flew past his lips.

"How transparent," Havi noted. His voice was eerie in its calmness, almost no emotion behind it outside of a mild annoyance. Was that how the rune on his chest was meant to work? Keeping him this calm while allowing the bare minimum of negativity to shine through?

The sword was moved around, still lodged in Pyotr's foot, and the man screeched in pain.

"Call him off, you fucking bitch!"

Dunja's eyes widened. She stared at Pyotr, speechless for a moment. He'd turned so quickly from begging to demanding. To insulting her. She almost preferred him when he ignored her in favour of Caster, because at least then she wouldn't be screamed at in such a way. Maybe she deserved this for not telling Havi to make his death quick. Dunja would have to make sure she remembered to handle these things swiftly in the future.

Despite the pain he was in and the strong grip Havi had on his hair, Pytor still slammed his fists against the barrier as he snarled at Dunja. "I'll kill you! I'll kill you, I swear to God!"

Havi let out a low breath. "Even when you acknowledge her, you don't show respect. Do things work differently in Russia regarding masters?"

"I know who she is! We all know who she is!" Pyotr tried to reach back and punch at Havi's arm, but Havi was a tough target from this angle. "Those freaks don't deserve to come back here! They all should've died! You all should've died!"

Pytor knew she was… The whole town…?

She could've sworn they wouldn't put the pieces together. Her's wasn't the only family exiled from Russia. They couldn't have known which one she was from immediately. Dunja slid down the doors, her legs giving out beneath her, and landed on the floor with a sharp inhale. The ground was cold against her hands, almost to the point of being painful. Her ushanka had fallen from her head, hair spilling out in waves as she stared at Pyotr with wide eyes. She didn't dare blink. If she did, especially when he said those things, she would start seeing the day she almost died again.

"Hm."

The small grunt from Havi had Pyotr struggling even more. Havi pulled his head back, a small amount of blood visible on Pyotr's hairline, and Havi jammed his foot into the back of Pyotr's knee to hold him in place. He was practically bending man over backwards, and he was not gentle when he yanked the sword from his foot. Pyotr cried out, only for a second, and then the blade of the sword was plunged into his neck. His voice died with a squeak, any sounds coming out a gurgle of broken notes. Panic flashed over Pyotr's face for a moment, like he knew he was going to die—

And then when Havi pulled the sword out from his throat, he carved a rune into his skin and activated it. The blood didn't have time to gush out as crude scars began to form where his voice box should've been. Pyotr's voice was strangled and muted as he clawed at his throat, and he barely had time to catch himself as Havi dropped him to the ground without remorse.

"Irony is something to behold," Havi noted. He reached up and held out his arm, only to wipe Pyotr's blood off of the sword with his coat. "It is the old man who should be holding a grudge, yet he praises the one you condemn. You could easily escape with your life if you lie and play the part of a civil chef, yet you despise the idea so much you would rather go down screaming. You're being murdered, yet you still demand the one you hate most cater to you for forgiveness."

Dunja fought back the urge to blink. She didn't trust that she wouldn't see flames behind her eyelids. She just clenched her hands into tight fists at her sides, nails scratching along the ground, and stared at Havi in stunned silence.

Pyotr held his throat and tried to say something, but once again his voice came out as a mangled sound that belonged to an animal more than a person.

"You couldn't even poison the porridge," Havi told him. "You want so badly to be in Caster's good graces, but you refuse to acknowledge that Caster holds the freak in higher regard than you."

Another mangled shout, and Pyotr tried to spin around and throw a punch at Havi. Havi's reactions were as quick as a whip; the sword was swung upwards, and Pyotr's fist was flying past Havi towards the mirror.

"She could've made this quick and painless for you," Havi went on. Pyotr's face was red, rage mixing with newfound despair, and he clawed at Havi's trousers with his remaining hand. Havi pulled the leg back, free from Pyotr's weak grip, and he kicked the man in the jaw with that same impassive expression. "She still can. But do you think she will? Do you think mercy will be given when your final defiant words were only hatred?"

She wondered, briefly, if Havi would drag this out as long as he could. If he was actually angered by how Pyotr reacted, wanted to teach him a lesson in his dying moments. It was too hard to read him, but part of Dunja felt… grateful, almost. Were it her in there with Pyotr… Well, the fact that he knew who her family was had already floored her in the literal sense. Only her wish had been released to the public, and even Leningrad had promised not to reveal her true name.

This was for the best, regardless of Havi's reasons for dragging it out. She just wanted it to be over already so she could get on with making Pyotr's spirit her familiar.

Havi glanced at her once as Pyotr's strength seemed to leave him all at once. The man just laid on the floor, sobbing to himself, and cradled his stump arm against his chest. Dunja pursed her lips, her voice caught in her throat; she wanted to say something, but she wasn't sure what. Finish it? Torture him more? Take a break?

She opened her mouth, and she was stunned that she was still able to speak at all.

"Make it painful," she ordered Havi. The young man nodded slowly, blinking like a cat acknowledging its owner across the room. He drew runes on the floor with his sword, in the air with his glove, and he circled Pyotr calmly all the while. The man didn't even resist, embracing his horrific end with great reluctance, and once Havi was done laying out his ultimate punishment, he looked to Dunja once more.

"Kindly leave the room for a moment," he requested. Dunja was taken aback, not by the polite tone but by the request itself. "This isn't something a lady should see."

The words took a moment to process, admittedly. The change from being scorned by one person to almost being cared for in a gentle manner was giving her whiplash, and Dunja let out the breath she'd been holding as her hands unclenched. Her fingers shook, aching, as she finally allowed herself to blink for a few seconds. No flames. Everything was going to be fine.

"Okay," she finally said, voice shaking. Dunja tried to stand, only to fall back to her knees in shame, and she avoided looking at Havi as she moved away from one of the doors. She just knocked on it, calling out to Caster, and then one of the massive slabs slid open. The gauntlet of the ice knight outside reached in, and Dunja wrapped her arms tight around its clawed finger for good measure. Its smallest finger supported her legs as it lifted her from the ground, and she was able to watch, even if briefly, Havi finally put Pyotr out of his misery.

The door began to slide shut again. Through the sliver of a crack visible in that last split second, she watched Havi point the tip of his sword at the ground and slam it down with a finality to the movement. She was thankful he'd asked her to leave when she saw the sparks erupt around himself and Pyotr. The brightness of the flames shone through the gaps in the door, the explosion from within rumbling the walls dangerously. Pyotr couldn't even scream, and not a peep was heard from Havi all the while.

The knight slowly lowered her to the ground again. Dunja loosened her grip, feet touching the floor, and they gave out again as her panic rose anew. Had she known Havi would use such an eruption of fire and brimstone, she would've left sooner. She'd done so well avoiding the blaze of the past, but now a source for an inferno was right in front of her, still unknown whether he was friend or foe.

Pyotr's words echoed in her mind once again. She should've died with the rest of them in the fire. She would've been with her parents, wouldn't be hiding like a dog with its tail between its legs. Everyone outside of the castle had to hate her. How could they not? They were just better at hiding it than Pyotr.

The old man who thanked her for her duty to her country. The soldiers who answered her every beck and call. The workers who listened to the instructions she gave upon Caster's request to fetch resources. Each and every one of them had to want her dead just as much as Pyotr did.

Cold arms wrapped around her before she could collapse fully to the ground. Her head was pushed against Caster's chest, the woman's heart unable to beat and mimic something living. The only comfort she was given was a soothing coo and a hand patting her hair lovingly, all while Caster sat with her on the floor in a frigid embrace.

"My poor Avodt'ja," Caster murmured, far too affectionate in Dunja's distress. Dunja wasn't sure if she wanted to cry or scream or hurt everyone before they hurt her. "How tragic, that only I understand you in this world. How very tragic."

Tragic, indeed.

Monaco-Ville, Monaco (Morning)

The French were a menace to society.

Every time, without fail, these two would find a way to invade her space and make her regret needing to share a servant. Not a day went by when Citra wasn't reminded of how much she had to rely on others, to be democratic with her use of Assassin, and she hated it.

She stood with Michael and Anzu on either side of her. Her arms were crossed over her chest, expression pulled into a displeased sneer. On the floor of the drawing room lay one of her so-called subordinates, and dangling half-off the antique settee was the other. All around them, empty bottles of wine were scattered about alongside several emptied charcuterie boards. Only one still had crackers and cheese on them, a single pitted olive languishing dangerously close to the edge of one corner.

Citra sucked in a deep breath. One of them snored loudly. She didn't care to figure out which.

"Thousand euros says one of them chokes on the olive," Michael announced. He was watching the duo with deep contemplation, and Anzu glared at him.

"You don't have a thousand to spare," she argued. Like that was the important part of his statement.

"Missy, lend me a grand."

Citra looked up at him, unimpressed. Michael smirked and shrugged.

"Can't fault a man for trying." He rotated his arm, exercising the prosthetic at the joint in his shoulder, and let out a low sigh. "I almost don't wanna disturb the lovebirds."

Anzu leaned around Citra, staring at the form on the settee. She could see behind its back, and Citra watched as she scrunched up her face at the sight.

"He's got handcuffs on." Michael slapped a palm over his mouth, barely stifling the snort of a laugh that erupted. He scurried to Anzu's side to take a peek. "I don't even want to breathe the air in this room now."

"How scandalous," Michael joked. It wasn't outside of the realm of reality—the lone male of their begrudging little alliance was known for his scandals in the public eye. It made sense that the man who was notorious for sleeping around with the children of famous mage families and even non-mage elite would get involved with, arguably, a potential heir among Monaco royalty.

Truly, the French were a menace to society.

"We should be preparing," Citra grunted through her teeth. "Have Soren and Assassin returned yet?"

Anzu shook her head. Citra sniffed, displeased, and glanced down at her prosthetics. Perhaps while these two buffoons got themselves killed, she should do all the heavy lifting and keep her supplies up to date. Michael's arm needed another combover for any errors, anyway. Couldn't trust the Mages' Association to do mechanical mystic codes like a Van-Alphen.

She hadn't been happy about Michael being sent as a bodyguard at first, but he was far easier to work with than these two idiots. When she'd heard of his qualifications and even had Assassin test him, Citra had to agree that Michael was a good fit for a Grail War. Her confidence in her abilities was high enough to not name him as someone Assassin should contract with upon her death, but she definitely came to see his value as a resource over the past week or so. Too much of a joker for her tastes, but she supposed everyone had their flaws.

She sighed to herself and rocked back on her feet, the metal joints moving with ease. Perhaps it would be best to wait for Soren and Assassin to report on the Vatican's movements. Michael was more than happy to help her test Anima Galathea anyway. She may not have been fond of working with royalty and agreeing to split the wish, but they were gracious enough to provide the space needed for her experiments and repairs.

"Give them a scare," she decided. Michael smirked. He brought his hands together, prosthetic cracking the knuckles of his flesh. It wasn't particularly pleasing or unsettling to watch Michael rush in and destroy half of the furniture in one fell swoop. It was impressive, especially for a man who proclaimed himself a mercenary and, once upon a time, connected to the Mafia before the Association's Director poached him.

It was, however, notably pathetic how quickly her so-called allies were sent into a frenzy of screaming and fumbling about. Citra held back a disgruntled sigh as Michael reared up to demolish the young man in front of him, but the fist stopped short of colliding with the pale man's face when Citra announced, "Enough."

She only asked for a scare. She didn't feel like dealing with politics over letting Michael rough them up.

"You crazy asshole!" the young man screeched. His hands were raised to shield his face, both still cuffed with what Citra assumed was one of the little princess's parlour tricks.

A mop of beige hair poked out from under some of the broken furniture. One hand cradling her head, probably nursing a hangover, she was practically half-naked as she stood up with equal amounts of anger.

"Some manners would be appreciated."

Sometimes she wondered if the consequences for killing Amèlie Appiani and Louis Laurent Monette would truly be as bad as their families made it sound for her.

"Michael, I'll take a look at your arm after this. Wait for me in the workshop." Citra nodded back to the door with a blank stare. Michael didn't argue, shrugging again with his casual smile.

"Apologies, kids," he drawled at Louis and Amèlie. They weren't much younger than him to begin with, Louis only being less than a year his junior, but they were bratty enough at times to warrant being treated like teenagers. "I do hope your charcuterie night was enjoyable. I'd suggest a wine to pair with it next time, but I doubt I can outdo the French and Monaco royalty in that area."

And with that he gave a half-mock bow, exiting the room with a confident stride.

Anzu crossed her arms over her chest in displeasure. "I can't believe you two," she started.

Louis was ignoring her, scuttling over on his knees to where Amèlie was standing. His hands were held up to her, and she didn't waste time unlocking the cuffs.

"What's there not to believe?" Amèlie deadpanned. The cuffs fell to the floor, Louis freed and able to stretch his arms properly. Both of them took time to fix their long manes of hair as they spoke.

"I think the Build-A-Bitch wanted in," Louis snorted. Citra let out a small huff, unimpressed. She could do a lot better than these two, and that was within the walls of this godforsaken mansion alone.

"Have either of you heard from Assassin?" she asked instead. Louis shook his head.

"Let the man do his work," he insisted. Once his pink locks were untangled enough, he pushed all of his hair over one shoulder and gave it a gentle pat. "We only just sent him yesterday. Magic does wonders, but I don't see you with some time manipulation handy."

If only they could've used the research the Emiya family had conducted way back when. That would certainly give her some wiggle room with her experiments, she thought.

Citra watched as a pack of cigarettes that managed to survive the destruction was opened. Only one left, a small mercy for her morning she supposed, but the stink would still be unbearable regardless. Louis lit it with the small lighter in his pocket, took a drag, and didn't even put up a fight when Amèlie took it and did the same. Citra glanced at Anzu, and the woman wasted no time walking to the side of the room where the windows were locked and opened them up one by one.

"What time is it?" Amèlie grumbled. She patted the pockets of her pants, looking for her phone, and finally found it in the back pocket. Brows rose, another puff of smoke billowing from her lips. "We better get moving."

Did they now? Citra tilted her head just the smallest of degrees, jaw tight as she stared.

"And where are you going?"

"We have an interview today," Louis yawned. Both of them busied themselves with putting on their clothes properly, though there was no doubt they'd go out dressed to the nines for a simple interview. But Citra didn't recall one being scheduled.

"I wasn't aware we had one."

Louis let out a sardonic laugh. "Yeah, no. We is not all three of us. We is Amé and myself."

Of course. Everything they did, they did without Citra. Not that she'd complain, but she swore the whole purpose of sharing Assassin was to work as a democracy over these things and actually communicate. She was never told anything unless Soren was yelling at her or Michael happened to spy something for her. Even Assassin, a secretive man by nature, was more open with her than this.

The only thing these two were open with was their disdain, apparently.

"I see," she said eventually. Amèlie was out of the room with a yawn, and Louis followed shortly after without so much as a glance at Citra. She was very much the third wheel to their little romp, and she honestly wished they'd been unable to stand each other instead. Rather than going at it like rabbits, they'd be able to ignore each other in peace and not scheme behind one member of the alliance's back.

They were going to betray Citra at some point; she could feel it in her bones.

The room was silent without the two peacocks inside. Citra just clicked her tongue and, with a single wave of her hand, gestured for Anzu to follow her out of the room. Might as well stay in the workshop until Soren and Assassin came back, she told herself. Might as well keep up maintenance on Anima Galathea.

Credit where it was due, the royal family were quick to meet her demands for her workshop. Citra had asked it be installed underneath her living quarters, accessed by a secret entrance she would rig up herself, and they'd built it down to the millimetre to her demands in under a week. Right at the back of the walk-in ensuite, behind all of her mundane belongings and clothes, the lock to the entrance would open only when she presented her prosthetic eye to it. Not unlike a swipe card, and with spares given to Anzu and Michael for their ease of access in the form of actual cards.

It was almost her own little refuge now that she was in Monaco, away from her family. On display by her work station, Anima Galathea was kept under a small display to avoid anyone else getting their hands on it and sabotaging her hard work. Two large gauntlets for arms, and the massive mechanical legs that were connected to a back brace by wires and joints—she poured her blood, sweat and tears into the mystic code, and it was a relief to see the royal family take her seriously enough to give her ample space to keep it out of anyone else's hands.

Beside the work station were numerous screens, a map of various areas on display on each one. The screen with the map of the mansion was flickering the most, two dots moving along the blueprints of the building, and sitting in front of the screens with his prosthetic arm removed was Michael. He had an earplug in, chin propped on his other hand as she smiled wryly.

"They don't wait long to scheme," he said. Citra let out a hum.

Anzu tutted under her breath and shook her head. "They're so frustrating," she grumbled. Citra nodded in agreement, but didn't say anything. She just sat down on the chair next to Michael and pulled open one of the drawers with her tools inside, diving right into work on the arm.

"There's not a lot right now," Michael continued. "Lot of slurping sounds. I'd say they're aiming for a quickie before their interview."

"TMI, Michael." Anzu walked to the other side of the room and began tidying up some of the dust that had gathered overnight. "Are they seriously as smart as we're suspecting them to be?"

"It's not uncommon to find the Bonnie and Clyde types. Some are just more insufferable than others." Michael reached over for another earplug and slid it over to Citra. She didn't take it immediately. She focused on opening the panel of the forearm first. "Though I will say, the little miss was smart for suggesting this."

"Suggesting what? Defacing every room in the mansion each night?"

Michael sniffed. "Playing into the assumption they're spoiled, stupid rich kids."

Citra paused. She glanced at Michael from her peripheral, hands still as statues and grip steady on her tools. "Oh?" she finally piped up.

Michael pointed to the earplug. He didn't say much, eyes closing as he listened to the conversation now taking place. Citra had been right to bug their phones after their first meeting. Getting them drunk enough to not even notice the missing phones hadn't even been something she did herself—they celebrated at the meetup dinner before even summoning Assassin, and it was child's play for Anzu to pickpocket their phones and return them to their rooms after Citra was done tinkering.

She slid the earplug in and listened. There was a slight echo, a sign they were in the bathroom, and she assumed one of them had left their phone on the cupboard or by their towels.

"I think we should play an angle to alienate Citra," was Amèlie's voice. In the background, Citra could hear Louis brushing his teeth with a lazy hum.

"No one would believe anything I could do to her," Louis mused. "I think we should turn the public against the family itself."

"She doesn't seem to have issues with them, and her brother hates her guts. It'd be so believable if we spun a little tale about how inhumane the Van-Alphens are."

Louis spit and water drowned out some of the talking. But once it was done, they were clear again.

"Might be troublesome for other families, but who cares?" he went on. "Regular people don't know the fine details, so if we convince Soren to speak out against his family, they'll be shunned."

"I want to aim for a lynching."

Silence. Citra and Michael looked at each other, expressions equally calculating.

"Where were those command spells on her again?" Louis pondered.

"God, I hate that she used her own limbs for her mystic code. It would've been easier to command Assassin to cut off her hand and sever the connection. I'd wager somewhere on her torso."

"Oh? Are you wagering if one of us will find out, Amé? I didn't think the Build-A-Bitch did it for you."

"I do like mysterious things. And someone as unreadable as that with little to no reactions to the things we say is a mystery waiting to be unravelled."

A laugh from Louis. "Hard pass from me. She's pretty, but I'd prefer to pitch rather than catch. We both know she'd be too anal to give up any control."

A slapping sound. Did they just high five? Citra sighed and set down her tools. She rubbed at her brow and waved for Anzu.

"I need some tea," she announced. Anzu wasted no time leaving the workshop to prepare a pot for her. Citra finally looked back up at the screen, where two dots were shown in the floor plan of Amèlie's bathroom. "I don't know if I should be flattered or repulsed."

"I'd be disappointed. It would've been nice to see you ordering those two around."

She gave Michael a dry glare. He wasn't wrong, but the joke wasn't funny to her.

"I'll offer to go as a guard for them," he continued. "I haven't had any issues with the arm in a while, and your upgrades are as impeccable as ever. I'll throw their little scheme back at them."

"Oh?"

He smirked and pulled out the earplug. "Well, I'm just a guard dog with a clashing personality sent by the Association. I'd certainly be tempted to jump ship if offered by a more fun party."

Finally, Citra allowed herself to smirk. This was also why she'd accepted Michael in her entourage: He knew how people like Amèlie and Louis operated, and he played them for bigger fools than they ever could hope to make him out to be.

renren_writes · Oct 5, 2022

05

Mérida, Mexico (Evening)

Day 1 of the World Grail War

"You certainly are focused on the command spells."

Red eyes flicked to him, and Assassin held back the small laugh that he felt bubbling up. This one wasn't much for words, but she was definitely focused on what she wanted and where to go next following their little collaboration. Assassin had admittedly been intrigued by the catalyst found at one potential ally's (ransacked, tracked) home, and when you came across a servantless master wandering the streets for resources to summon with, well… One didn't look a gift horse in the mouth, did they?

She wasn't much of a talker, and his companion wasn't fond of interacting with her. But Assassin was nothing if not curious, and it wasn't like this went against his orders to gather intel about masters and servants in major areas of interest.

Lancer, however, was very amicable and friendly, even after knowing that his opponent was right in front of him.

"Maybe," Alexis finally muttered. Assassin kept his polite smile up and adjusted his hold on his cardigan. Civilian clothing was nice to wear, but the weather in this country was far too warm for the cardigan he'd packed on the flight over. "How long do you plan on lingering?"

Assassin tilted his head at her. It was an attempt at playing innocently coy that she never seemed to fall for. "Do you dislike my company that much, Miss Gracel? Or, perhaps, you no longer have a use for me now that you've summoned Lancer?"

"I believe it's you who has run out of use for me," Alexis fired back. She slid her glove back onto her hand and tucked it into the pocket of her lab coat. Her humble basement abode in the heart of Mérida's residential area was cramped, but only because of all of her things strewn about. Research papers and the like, though Assassin didn't miss the more peculiar items she kept hidden with herself. "You have the identity of a master and who their servant is, and I know you've been watching Lancer prepare his arsenal. Short of his Noble Phantasms," she went on, "you know everything."

He giggled to himself. "Not everything. But I will admit, it's a habit that comes with the territory."

A habit of gathering as much information as possible, planting eyes and ears wherever he could. Always being in the know. If Assassin wasn't two steps ahead of everyone else, or at the very least privy to the skeletons of their plans, it was too much of a risk to engage at all. He'd hardly qualify for the class of Assassin if he didn't follow through with that much.

Alexis was right, though. Assassin had narrowed things down quite a bit with his observations of Lancer today, and the runecraft he tried to covertly use was quite the hint to his region of origin. If there was one thing about the modern era, it was that they had so much information floating about in digital space for anyone to pluck at and use for their own goals. Someone who qualified as a Lancer and used runes narrowed it down significantly for Assassin, and he made sure Soren spent the whole day researching and compiling a list of potentials for his masters to go over when he returned to Monaco.

Assassin raised his hands and gave her an easygoing smile. "I'll leave you be, though," he conceded. "I'm sure you and Lancer have plenty of planning to discuss, and I still have five more servants to investigate."

She sniffed, displeased. "Is Saber really in the Vatican?"

"It seems likely. Not that I can pass through the bounded field without raising suspicion, of course."

Alexis let out a hum. She pushed herself away from the wall and walked quietly to one of the shelves near where Lancer was tidying up. The man certainly kept himself busy while the two talked, unwilling to play his hand but still being hospitable to their guest by making the place a little more seemly. She pulled a ring binder from the shelf, opening it with an unreadable expression, and Assassin peered at her with interest. For as antisocial as she was, Alexis Gracel seemed to value equal exchanges of knowledge. He confirmed where Saber might be, so it would make sense that she would throw a potential location his way too.

She did just that, yanking a page out of the binder and folding it in half.

"New Orleans," she announced. "While I was looking for a catalyst, they held a celebration for the summoning of a servant. That should be enough for you to look into, I take it?"

When Alexis handed the paper over, Assassin took it with a thankful bow. "Plenty," he replied. "And just a quick flight away from where we are now. Your efficiency is appreciated."

Another hum. She pushed the ring binder back into the shelf. She flicked some hair over her shoulder as that stony expression settled into place.

"If that's everything," Alexis drawled, "then please kindly get out."

"Till we next meet on the battlefield, Miss Gracel," Assassin chirped. He tipped his head to Lancer, who did the same with a small smirk, and he wasted no time walking back up the stairs to the abandoned house above the basement.

Soren and the machines were waiting for him in the streets. Though they were small, the mechanical animals were more than capable of keeping track of Soren for one of his master's peace of mind. Assassin wasn't entirely aware of the situation, because of course Soren didn't divulge the family secrets so easily, but it was easy to tell that Citra was paranoid over the idea of Soren running away from her. What Soren saw as a way to keep him in line was nothing more than his little sister's obsession with keeping her family together, combined with her constant fear of betrayal looming over her shoulder. When Assassin came out and waved, Soren just let out a displeased grunt as the two automaton dogs followed his every step.

"Are we done here?" Soren asked. He was as bitter as ever, displeased to be away from his own lab. The Van-Alphen siblings were truly birds of a feather, even if Soren hated it.

"Already sent through the information to the home base," Assassin reported. "Lancer. Uses runes. Likely of Gaelic or Norse origin. Very antisocial master. Very informed master."

Soren raised a brow. He pursed his lips and, ever so gracefully, bounced the papers against his shoulder as he surveyed the area. It was hard to discuss anything with Soren that wasn't business. It was hard for Soren to even weigh in on how he felt about things. The automaton dogs were always recording, always observing, always on the lookout for signs of betrayal that Citra had programmed them to sniff out.

"What'd you think of the master?" Soren asked eventually. Assassin let out a low breath, almost a laugh, and began to walk as he clicked his fingers in thought. Sparks flew from one hand by his waist, never enough to start a fire but still an unmistakable trickle of mana leaking out to survey his surroundings.

"I'm still stronger," he reassured Soren. The blond nodded, albeit uneasily, and followed without a word.

The biggest issue with a Holy Grail War—even more so with a World Grail War—was who would make the first move. Who would draw first blood. Assassin wouldn't dare try to pick a target to eliminate, let alone provoke, blindly. He was a well-informed man and his instincts were unparalleled, manifesting in a passive skill that bordered clairvoyance with its rank. Having three mages split the toll of powering him on top of the resources from their alliance only bolstered it, and Assassin wasn't going to waste the wealth of knowledge he was given that only Casters typically had access to.

There were, for certain, divine servants like himself in this War. But he felt no inherent danger from Noble Phantasms that targeted high divinity as a priority. Anywhere in the world, he would've felt the animalistic desire to avoid one of the cardinal directions and leave a servant to others to handle. Plenty of people would make alliances to remove nuisances if they all had the same risk of early elimination, and Assassin would gladly guide them to the target they all wanted gone. But with no such obstacle in his way, it was just a matter of how he placed his pieces on the chessboard now.

Assassin wasn't entirely full of hubris, but he was damn confident in his capabilities and skill set.

"New Orleans," he said. He and Soren were already close to the main streets, where Soren could hail a taxi for them to move for the nearest airport. "Archer is likely there. Our friend only said they held a festival celebrating a summoning, and I doubt they'd hold something so grand for a Berserker."

"Shouldn't we confirm Saber is in the Vatican for certain?" Soren asked. He flicked through some of the papers with a grimace. "I really doubt Lancer is going to be a good matchup with whoever Saber is, if the Church is backing them."

"Lancer is hiding something. Possibly divine intervention of some sort—I can't quite predict what it might be. But more than one someone has a hand in his existence as a servant."

Soren licked his lips. "Right. I'll… narrow it down to warriors with ties to gods?"

"Good and bad," Assassin decided. "Some warriors are forced to champion gods as a punishment, after all."

"Brilliant. Even more salt to rub in the wound when the Build-A-Bitch gets rid of him." Soren folded the papers in half and stuffed them into his backpack. He probably saw some of himself in the possibility of Lancer being forced into servitude and unwanted favour of someone stronger. Assassin found it intriguing, just how deep his grudge went. Had the roles been reversed, both of them knew Soren would not have been as kind to Citra by any means.

He smiled to himself and considered his options. Really, most people would be wanting to uncover the identities of the hidden servants more than anything. But misinformation was dangerous in a battle, and what was Assassin if not a king of information?

"Soren," he drawled. "Don't you think it's quite handy that my weapon is a bow and arrow?"

Soren looked up at him with an uncertain expression.

"And also rather fortunate that my masters have yet to allow me to show my face to the public as a servant," he went on. He directed his coy smile to Soren, then, and the young man's gaze turned from uncertain to impressed. Soren opened his mouth, closed it, and then waved down a taxi that was driving towards them.

Before the taxi pulled over, all Soren said was, "Just let that thing back in Monaco know. She'll waste that command spell trying to keep you in line before even thinking of what you want to do."

Well, there was no arguing there. Assassin fixed his collar and relaxed his shoulders, nodding along in agreement as he did so.

"Very well then, master."

New Orleans, Louisiana, United States of America (Late Night)

The voices of América Vargas and Uwe Schulz were distorted as the speakers of the television crackled. The screen, littered with glitches and broken lights around its spider web cracks, laid on the ground as the wires barely kept it from toppling over entirely. Almost ninety inches and hundreds of thousands of dollars down the drain thanks to a groundbreaking update broadcast to the world over. The image of a dark-skinned man in blue and white robes, bow and arrow in hand, was the last dreadful sight before the television died entirely and the cables finally snapped, glass shattering against the tile floor.

It was so quiet, only the pitiful struggling of electricity trying to find a path within the broken television filling the room as everyone waited with bated breaths.

Jamal had never felt so scared in his life, and it had been one hell of a life under his mother's rule so far.

Knuckles white by her sides and blood dripping from between her fingers, her nails digging so deep into her palm that Jamal was certain the pain only made her angrier, Alexandra DuBry turned her eyes to her daughters and husband on one side of the room. Her expression was restrained, but there was a thin pane of glass keeping her from exploding in front of them.

"Girls," she ground out through her teeth, "please leave the room."

The twins had different reactions, though that was to be expected. His little sisters had grown up viewing him very differently thanks to their parents' separate influences. Diane, the kinder of the two, looked warily to their father and hesitated to move at all. Stephanie, more and more like their mother by the day, was much more demanding as she groaned in annoyance.

"Don't break him too much," she said to their mother, indignant. "I need him to do my hair for a party tomorrow. You know how important it is that I look better than that Edelfelt idiot."

Alexandra scrunched her face up into a tight, restrained smile. Another huff from Stephanie, and then she was linking her arm around Diane's and pulling her twin out of the room with her.

As soon as the door was shut behind them, her husband tried to speak up.

"Sweetheart—" Angelo started. Alexandra held up a hand, firm and unwavering, without even looking at the man. Jamal kept his gaze to the floor, swallowing a thick lump in his throat as the connection between himself and Archer hung by a thread. She was trying to calm him, but her words had no effect as long as scarlet eyes were locked onto him.

Alexandra worked her jaw. At first calm, she carefully asked Jamal, "What the hell was that?"

Jamal sucked in a deep breath. He tried to think of the words, and Archer supplied him with many possible reasons for what the reporters had shown the world, but his hesitation in the face of his mother's wrath made him far too slow.

"I said…" Alexandra took a step forward, a fire in her eyes. That same fire spread through Jamal's veins, his skin burning and aching, and he dropped to his knees as the unmistakable punishment of his slave crest coursed through him. "What the fuck was that?"

One of her stilettos landed on his head, forcing his face into the floor, and then its heel was digging into one of his hands as he braced himself.

"Did you lie to me, you stupid—"

"I summoned Archer!" he insisted, pushing through the pain to make sure he could clear the misunderstanding. The person on television claiming to be the master of Archer—the servant that paraded himself as Archer, even—this had to be a tactic to draw someone out to fight them and assume them weak. "I swear! She even said so herself!"

"Your word means nothing to me, Blood Pig," she spat. Alexandra kicked at him, only pausing to catch her breath each time her husband tried to move closer, and by the time she finally broke the skin of his knuckles with her high heels, Alexandra composed herself and released the punishment keeping Jamal prone on the floor. He sucked in a deep breath, relieved to no longer be under the influence of the slave crest, and practically laid on his side as he nursed his wounds. His pain tolerance was high, but his mother's use of the slave crest always went beyond his limits.

Angelo hurried to his side and helped him up. Jamal kept his head lowered as Archer's reassurances tried to come through again.

"Bring that woman in here. Have to do everything my damn self around here."

He let out a shaky wheeze and nodded. As his father held him up, one arm slung over Angelo's shoulder, Jamal called for Archer to materialise in the room.

Archer and his mother were strikingly similar in appearance, which had been off putting for Jamal the first time he'd laid eyes on Archer. The same auburn hair, the same stature and regality, the same face to boot. One would swear that Alexandra was Archer's descendant, but Archer reassured him that there were no ties between the DuBry family and her own legacy. If there were, she told him, the DuBrys would have known and flaunted such a fact. And Jamal had known it to be true.

The only difference between the two, he found aside from their clothing and personalities, were their eyes. Alexandra's were a harsh crimson that were always filled with hatred towards Jamal, but Archer's, green as a glade on a mountain, were always so kind and patient. Always so encouraging.

Archer materialised between Jamal and his mother, making herself a shield in front of her master. Alexandra hated that Jamal had been the one to summon Archer—but it was more like Archer had chosen Jamal at the ritual, his blood being used by his sisters as a power source and thus more appealing to the servant in terms of a tether. Diane and Stephanie weren't as naturally gifted in their circuits as Jamal, after all. The servant was dressed down, her armour plating missing, but she was still in her usual clothes that were kept under the leather and armour. It was easy to figure out where she'd come from in this style, the obvious Greek clothing hard for anyone to miss in this day and age when Ancient Greece was a popular topic in media.

Archer tilted her head, almost playing innocent, and propped one hand on her hip.

"Mrs. DuBry," she drawled. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Alexandra ignored her. Red eyes flitted to Jamal again, and his head dropped reflexively.

"Use a command spell. She must answer all questions you ask truthfully."

"Alexandra, you would have him waste a command spell?" Angelo gawked. Archer moved to Jamal's other side, the man passing his son off to her to support him, and Angelo wasted no time rushing towards his wife. "I know you're upset about all of this, but for God's sake, isn't this enough?"

"That goddamn accident should never have been on Archer's radar!" Alexandra snapped. "Stephanie was supposed to represent us! She and Diane were going to put the Edelfelts in their place!"

"You used his blood as a catalyst! Of course Archer would seek him out!" Angelo held his face in his hands. "Alexandra, this is our son—"

"He is the help, and the help has no place above his masters!"

They bickered some more. This was how it always turned out when Jamal's slave crest was used on him. Regardless of his age and his lack of desire for power, to take from his sisters, Alexandra always acted like he needed to be kept in line and made to know his place. He knew it just fine; it was nowhere near the DuBry family in any capacity. Were his father to have his way, Jamal would be sent to his paternal family and allowed to hone his skills in peace, no need for such extremes or insults when what the DuBrys called useless were what mattered most to the Lyre family.

Another sharp pain. He doubled over just as he'd been able to stand again, and Archer held him up with an alarmed expression. Angelo was screaming now, the words a garbled mess in his ears, as Alexandra once again used the crest on him.

"You're going to use that command spell," she hissed. "And Archer is going to answer every single fucking question you're told to ask her."

It was probably for the best that he did as she said. Jamal cradled the hand with his command spells against his chest, nodding frantically. The pain eased once more, only by a fraction this time, and he threw Archer an apologetic look as he finally raised his head again.

The normally-smiling Archer was giving him a thousand-yard stare, almost as though coming to grips with something she had witnessed. He had never seen this expression on her face, almost robotic and calm as she released him and let him stand on his own. Angelo still tried to talk some sense into his wife, but there was no sense to be had if the woman never saw her son as anything other than a tool to begin with.

Jamal sucked in a breath as he ran the question over in his head. The pain eased some more, his voice able to find itself again, and he began, "Archer—"

A palm slammed against his throat. Jamal choked, stunned, and dropped to his knees as he gasped for air. His windpipe had been crushed in one blow, and Archer just gave him a small pat to the head in apology for the action.

"I think I've had quite enough of this," Archer sighed. Angelo left his wife's side, no longer arguing, and ran to cover his son with his own body. He was already assuming Archer was going to betray her master and find another, but Jamal could feel he was far from the truth.

Archer's feelings right now aligned more with protectiveness. Her empty stare landed on Alexandra as she ignored the father and son.

"I've no reason to hide anything from my master," she informed Alexandra. "I quite enjoy his company, if I'm honest. He's hardworking and studious, and he cares about his sisters far more than you do."

"Then just answer the questions," Alexandra snapped. She crossed her arms over her chest and scoffed. "If you really are an Archer-class servant, you can tell us your True Name and your Noble Phantasm. How do I know you hadn't lied to the idiot when you were summoned and the real Archer is out there?"

Archer sighed. "What do I gain from lying about something so trivial?"

"I expect perfection," the woman growled. "And if neither you nor the mistake can give me that, then what use are you—"

"Gods above, you're a pathetic excuse of a mother."

Alexandra gawked at her, offended. "How dare you—"

A flash of gold, Archer's red hair streaking across the room towards Alexandra. The woman barely had a chance to finish her remark when Archer's shield was bashed against her face. A loud thwang sounded out, the Dipylon shield barely even dented as Alexandra was sent flying across the room. It was a glorified backhand, wholly unnecessary in its show of force—but Archer would argue that Jamal's slave crest was no different, no less unnecessary.

Archer reached up and tucked some of her hair behind her ear, making sure it stayed out of her eyes. She looked to the ceiling, a hand over her heart, and she was almost mumbling to herself as Alexandra rolled on the floor in pain.

"Father, cast your gaze upon me," Archer seemed to pray, "for I am at war, and through war I shall honour your dominion. Grandfather, I act in the name of justice, for the brutality I am returning in kind is among the greatest sins a parent can commit to a fine, capable child."

"Oh dear God," Angelo whimpered. He held on to Jamal tightly as he watched Archer stride over to Alexandra. He was frozen in place, just like Jamal was, and briefly Jamal wanted to stop her. That was his mother, after all. But the more he considered—the more he registered Archer's prayer to her father and grandfather—the more he saw Alexandra the same way Alexandra saw him. They were just strangers in the way of the other, a master who'd beaten the slave so badly that a passing warrior had even found it excessive.

More pain shot through him. Jamal struggled to even see straight as he writhed on the floor in agony, Alexandra clearly trying to threaten Archer with him.

Archer wasn't swayed. She only sent an apology through their connection and a promise for the pain to end soon.

The crunching and squelching that came with every slam of her shield against Alexandra's face left Jamal nauseous, and even Angelo struggled to watch as both men held each other for safety. It felt like an eternity before the pain in his body subsided entirely, and while he still felt the slave crest in place—he had more than one master, after all—he still knew that one less person could hurt him with it from now on. Alexandra was a beaten and pulpy mess on the floor, right beside the television, and much of her blood, hair and bone clung to Archer's shield like a stain against a white sheet.

Jamal let out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding. Archer dismissed her shield and wiped her brow, unfazed by the brutal execution she'd carried out on her own master's family.

"My apologies," she said as she turned, and she was addressing Angelo as she spoke. "But even a matriarchy has boundaries it should never cross."

Angelo sighed heavily as he avoided looking at his wife's corpse. "What am I going to tell everyone? Steph—oh, Jamal, Stephanie is going to kill you for this."

"That will be unnecessary." Archer flicked her hair over her shoulder. She bent down, hands parting some of Alexandra's pureed flesh, and finally pulled out what she'd been looking for. One of the eyes hadn't even been damaged, merely popping out from its socket and being buried underneath bits of muscle that were strewn about. "Mortals use simple, everyday tools to change eye colour all the time. I've no plans to make my identity public if another wants to be the Archer in this war."

He tried to speak, but his throat only let him release the smallest of wheezes. Angelo was back to focusing on his son again, and the man began to sing a small hymn of healing to at least allow his son to speak once again. This was the Lyre family's magecraft—singing, their voices and words laden with mana that brought forth the same kinds of spells as an ordinary mage was capable of. Practically no one outside of the family could cast their magic like this, though, and it was a sort of special that Jamal liked to feel compared to the DuBry's blood magic.

Archer walked over to a nearby table, cutlery from Alexandra's dinner still untouched, and picked up one of the knives casually. She sharpened its blade with her fingernails, working ever so slowly as she waited for Jamal to heal. On one side of the room, which had been Alexandra's study and private space up until tonight, a portrait of herself, her husband, and her daughters hung proudly upon the wall for all to see when they entered. Archer grabbed her long hair and, without a shred of hesitation, began hacking at it until it was the same length as Alexandra's in the portrait.

The locks that fell disappeared in shimmers of gold before they even touched the floor.

"Archer," Jamal finally wheezed, his voice strong enough to reach her. She hummed, much like Alexandra would when one of the twins called out for her, and it was the first time Jamal had been given such a calm response. No, he thought, Archer always spoke with him calmly. Now that she was making herself look more like Alexandra, it just felt like, from behind, that his mother was still alive and suddenly showing him kindness. "You… Did you plan…?"

"Almost as soon as I heard about the servant parading around," she announced. The hair was done, and she fluffed it up to style it properly. She was starting to look more and more like Alexandra beyond the superficial similarities. "But Mrs. DuBry only has her eyes on doing what she wants. She wants the Archer servant, and doubt cast upon my identity so soon after she announced to the city that the Archer-class servant was summoned by her family seemed to be enough to throw her off. Were she smart, she wouldn't focus on punishing you, who had nothing to do with any of this. No one in this household had anything to do with what another servant chose to do. This is war, and in war you adjust your strategy to counter the enemy's own—not punish your soldiers because you were bamboozled once."

Archer shrugged and turned around. Her green eyes and chiton were the only indicators that she was Archer, not Alexandra, now.

"Killing Mrs. DuBry was selfish on my part, though," she admitted. "I was slain before I could have what she built for herself, and she squanders it so casually because her firstborn isn't just like her. Casting you aside because your very being, your soul, doesn't fit the mould of her family's magecraft… Despicable. Anyone worth their weight in gold would know a nexus of two opposing forces would find a way to make oil and water mix eventually."

Angelo was shaken as he paced around the room. Jamal watched his father, watched Archer, and he let out a low sigh as he flopped back onto the floor. Archer rushed to his side immediately, but calmed as quickly as she'd panicked when she saw he was just trying to catch his breath and rest.

It felt like hours before anyone spoke again. It was Angelo who broke the silence, finally looking at his wife's corpse and pinching the bridge of his nose as he held back a groan.

"Can you… confidently pretend to be Alexandra?" he asked.

Archer smiled innocently. "I'm a good actress," she responded. "But Alexandra DuBry won't be staying in the manor for long after tonight."

Beside her, Jamal sighed and agreed. "She wouldn't sit still and twiddle her thumbs after a slight like this," he reasoned. Angelo cringed, fully aware what his wife was like, and nodded. "What did you have in mind, Archer?"

Portsmouth, Hampshire, England (Before Dawn)

"Oh dear! Oh dear! Oh dearie me!"

So annoying, Rider thought, as she dodged the hatchet again and ran along the roadside daintily. First this little pest snuck into their territory, and now it had the gall to easily outrun his noble steed on foot. He hadn't expected much from a Berserker servant of such a small stature, but this was far too much to be considered reasonable, especially when the brunette was only running through Portsmouth in an attempt to escape her pursuer. Rider's steed was struggling to keep up with her, and that was no easy feat in itself.

Her poofy blue dress was almost all he could see of her each time she dodged one of his hounds, the wolf skidding down the street as it tried to keep up with her. It was almost ridiculous how effortlessly she avoided every attempt to catch her, constantly chanting that same little string of oh dears and oh mys.

Rider clicked his tongue and flicked the reins urgently. "Faster, Du," he commanded. The black stallion snorted, acknowledging his command, and it clearly began to push its limits to keep up with the Berserker servant as she fled.

Du leapt along the wall of one building, launching itself off into a full sprint with a loud gallop that echoed through the otherwise silent night. He thought it odd how Berserker fled instead of fought; even with Madness Enhancement at its weakest point, no servant that could be classed as a Berserker would willingly run from a fight. Especially not after provoking their enemy like this one had Rider, throwing sharpened kitchen knives in all manner of directions within the boundary Rider patrolled. He hadn't even felt her approach, almost like she didn't exist to begin with, until she directly antagonised him and ran for the town.

Rider readied his bow and held his aim true and steady as Du followed the servant as fast as Holly's support would allow. She would've been sleeping now, probably fatigued when she woke with the rising of the sun, and Rider was almost thankful that one of his kin had been the one to summon him. Were Holly a normal human, she would not be able to withstand the abuse on her life force that this chase alone would inflict. Du thundered over cars parked on the sidewalk and demolished post boxes, unsent letters raining down from the sky in his wake. Rider caught sight of the blue dress again as Du cut corners to catch up with her, and when he saw Berserker's entire form in his range, he let the arrow fly.

The arrow pierced her leg. She tumbled to the ground, rolling and laughing and screaming, until she finally slowed to a single spot in the middle of the road. There were already a few onlookers peering out their windows at the chaos, silently cheering from the safety of their homes as Du slowly trotted towards Berserker. The little brunette rolled over until she was sitting upright, and she giggled as she held her leg in apparent agony.

Such a weak physical resistance, Rider thought. Was her speed all this Berserker servant had to her name?

"Pitiful," Rider grunted. He set aside his bow, leaving it by the quiver on Du's hide, and he pulled a hatchet from its loop along his belt. "Brazen. But pitiful."

Berserker's giggles faded into hiccups. The smiling face morphed into something more pained, and she began to resemble a child about to throw a tantrum. Rider watched, unamused, as that tantrum came to life in front of him.

"You're so mean!" the girl sobbed. "Mean! Meanie! Look what you did to my leg! It hurts so bad!"

She wailed on the spot, throwing her arms and legs in all directions, and Rider wondered if she even felt the pain the arrow had inflicted. Irritating it would not be doing her any favours whatsoever.

"This is unfair!" Berserker went on. She pointed accusingly at Rider, tears streaking down her face and snot running from her nostrils. Rider cringed under his mask, disgusted. Human children, even if this one was a servant, were disgusting. "You with your scary mask and your mean horse and your angry dogs! It's scary! I'm scared! You're mean!"

This was pointless. Rider dismounted from Du, sighing heavily as he did so, and he twirled the hatchet in his hand. To think he wouldn't even need a single Noble Phantasm to handle Berserker, of all servants. Du may have been his mount, but he had yet to call the stallion's name and make use of the creature as one of his weapons, and without needing to use his trump card, the hounds he summoned were no more than ordinary black dogs found at a crossroad.

Rider walked towards Berserker with a feeling of dissatisfaction in his chest. His first encounter with a servant, one who was supposed to be a monstrous adversary, and she was nothing more than a snivelling whelp who only knew how to run.

"Cease your whining," Rider grunted. Berserker did not cease, instead only whining even harder and pouting up at him. "Have some dignity in your final moments, child."

"I don't want dignity! I want an apology!"

Rider sucked in a deep breath and tried to keep his calm. Why, he anguished, did his first opponent have to be a pathetic little parasite barely weaned from its mother's teat?

"You should be honoured," Rider admonished her. The child servant whined up at him, wiping fat tears from her cheeks and blowing her nose into a hanky she'd produced out of nowhere. What a delicate little thing. How in the world did someone like her end up in the Throne like Rider had? "Though your power may not remain, take solace in the fact that you shall join the Wild Hunt as my hounds return the remaining servants to the Throne."

She stopped crying abruptly. Big, blue eyes looked up at Rider, and there was no anger or fear in them. Not even disappointment. Berserker stared up at him, half of her face still smothered by the hanky, and her gaze was full of intrigue and excitement.

"The Wild Hunt?" she repeated, slowly and clearly. Like she was making sure she said it right. Rider felt uneasy all of a sudden.

He raised the hatchet in preparation to strike, moving forward with confident strides. "You'll find out what it entails soon enough."

It all happened at once, then. Berserker pulled the hanky from her face, that manic smile back in place as she stared at Rider with unblinking eyes. He hesitated, if only for a second, and he realised that her presence had once again vanished entirely. It wasn't unlike an Assassin's skill, being undetectable until killing intent was shown, but Berserker was odd. It wasn't that she disappeared—no, it was more like Rider's instincts registered her as an ally. As safe. As familiar.

He didn't like it. Rider's hesitation and Berserker's excitement. He didn't like it.

As soon as he recognised the change in atmosphere, something appeared beneath him. Rider looked down at his feet, at the concrete beneath one boot, and he watched with wide eyes as a line of mana from Berserker trailed from her own foot to the spot he stood. One at a time, in rapid succession, Hanzi characters appeared at his boot—water, heat, wind. The moment Rider removed his foot from the spot, if only to dodge a surprise attack, steam exploded from the ground where he'd stood and filled the street with an intense heat that pricked at his skin.

He lost sight of Berserker instantly. She'd been waiting for the moment Rider stopped registering her as a threat, to escape much more easily.

Rider clicked his tongue and whistled, calling Du to his side. As soon as he did, another flash of Hanzi appeared in his peripheral. Water, cold, blade. The moment they registered and Rider jumped away, towards where Berserker had been cowering, he heard Du let out a pained sound as the steam slowly faded and the glistening of thick, sharp blades of ice emerged from the ground, piercing the stallion from below. He watched Du fade in a slow dissolution of gold, and Rider barely had time to react before more ice was thrown his way.

He destroyed one piece aimed for his head with the hatchet. He was pinned to the building behind him when another piece collided with his midsection.

It wasn't large, nowhere near fatal, but he had no doubt Holly was feeling the strain of healing him now that a real battle had begun.

Rider let out a low breath and smashed the pieces of ice blades sticking out from his midsection. They snapped off like the wooden bodies of arrows embedded deep in the skin, and Rider barely hesitated as he pulled himself off of the half of the ice clinging to the wall. He peered through the mist as it slowly receded, Du unmoving now as it was half dissolved and unable to fight. Rider dismissed the stallion, clicked his tongue as he mentally tracked how much mana would be needed to even begin to restore the Noble Phantasm; Du wasn't an inanimate object that couldn't be broken like most Noble Phantasms, it was a living creature that Rider risked losing if it took too much abuse from his opponent. Certainly, he could summon all manner of mounts to ride into battle—but Du was the only one with a name to call out, to unleash his power on the battlefield.

This wasn't Berserker's doing, he decided. She was too unstable, despite her coherency, to have thought of something like this. It had to be her master. He couldn't feel the presence of an Assassin, and there had been no changes among the onlookers around them and their numbers. The master had been waiting, he thought, and they must've been waiting for a clue to his identity.

No matter, Rider told himself. Even if they knew who he was thanks to the Wild Hunt, they would know better than to challenge him directly.

"Did I do good?" Berserker's voice chirped through the mist. Rider tightened his grip on his hatchet and stepped forward, following the voice.

"Yes," came the response, and Rider furrowed his brows. A woman's voice. Whatever he could commit to memory, to track her with, he would hunt her down and put an end to this little attempt. There was no doubt the master had a plan of escape already in place, after all. "You did very good, Berserker."

"My lady is proud! We must celebrate!"

"When we finish up here, first."

Through the mist he could see the vibrant red of the woman's dress, swallowed up by the tan of her coat, and Rider picked up his pace. His footfalls were loud, a warning for her to brace herself, and the splashes of puddles under his feet echoed through the streets. The woman barely even flinched.

"Who do you think Rider is, Berserker?" the woman asked. "There's only so many involved with the Wild Hunt."

"He's not wrinkly and ugly enough to be Odin," Berserker drawled. He could see her poofy blue dress now, swaying side to side next to her master. Rider raised his hatchet, threw it in the direction of Berserker—only to see it knocked aside with a flash of silver, the plain kitchen knives once again flying from Berserker's grip. He wondered where she stored them. Probably in that ridiculous skirt. "And King Arthur is supposed to be a gentleman! But this meanie gave Mousie a wound!"

"Did he?" The woman sounded more amused than concerned, but the concern was still there. "How many does that make now, Berserker?"

Berserker's voice was back to its manic excitement when she spoke. Like she was happy to be injured by Rider after provoking him.

"One, my lady."

"Only one more for the next tier, then."

He didn't like this. Rider needed to figure out where to go from here.

Another flash of Hanzi. Water, door, open. The woman seemed to pick up Berserker, the little blue dress held up in front of the red, and then Rider heard the sound of a loud splash. No sooner had the splash echoed, he watched the dresses sink rapidly into the ground—into a puddle—before any sign of them was erased from the area entirely.

Rider whistled for some of his hounds. They materialised by his sides, the ghosts of the Hunt mounting them like war horses. Dead eyes stared at him, and he gave his swift order as he felt his wounds begin to close.

"Find a scent. Track that woman and the servant. Observe them."

The ghosts nodded their heads into a bow, and the hounds disappeared into the mist in search of the woman and her servant.

Rider let himself relax. He supposed now that he knew about it, the bigger nuisance here was the master guiding the servant. Perhaps even the bigger threat, pulling strings he had yet to see for himself on the puppet he'd chased down.

looker · Oct 21, 2022

Well this is the strangest berserk I've ever seen in a fanfic. And I think I have a good idea on what her identity is. Everything from her design, to her powers, to her general attitude all scream Alice from Alice adventure in wonderland to me.

And then theirs her master. A magus has to be very confident in one's abilities to think taking on a servant head to head is a good idea. The fact that this confidence doesn't seem misplaced is interesting.

renren_writes · Oct 30, 2022

06

Norilsk, Russia (Noon)

Day 2 of the World Grail War

A map of snowflakes hovered before them. As Dunja listened to the radio, headphones plugged in, Havi stood by Caster and took notes with occasional glances to the phone in front of him. A video was playing, the latest report from América Vargas and Uwe Schulz on the World Grail War.

It was no different to a war meeting, a map splayed before them and small ice figurines of the servant classes hovering idly in the air above Caster's hands. They were all silent, working on their own tasks intently, until paperwork was passed to Caster for reference. It was a very sound plan now that the World Grail War had begun, especially with Caster advising everyone to attempt a joint scrying effort once they got their crumbs of information from the media, and Dunja was slowly beginning to ponder which servant would be the most ideal to set their sights on first. Possibly the closest, she thought briefly, but the closest might be the biggest threat.

One figurine moved once Havi had announced the findings of Uwe Schulz and América Vargas. He watched as it hovered over the American continent, towards the top of the Gulf of Mexico. It was the Archer figurine, hovering just over an area that Havi vaguely recognised as the Deep South, and he pulled his headphones out from his ears as he watched her.

"Prepare for scrying after this," Caster advised him. Havi flexed his hands instinctively. A lot of blood, mostly his, was going to be needed for the scrying to work. "Maybe we'll find the Grail and whoever is guarding it first. It can never hurt to look around before we act."

Dunja handed a piece of paper to Caster. Caster raised her brows and let out a soft, "My, my."

The Assassin figurine moved to the same spot as the Archer, though a small distance away despite still being in the same state. Havi also raised his brows, though it wasn't much of an expression change on his end. He glanced around Caster, over at Dunja—the girl met his gaze, and then just as quickly she was averting her eyes and returning to her notes.

It was strange.

Havi couldn't tell if it was fear towards him or something slightly more positive. He didn't exactly mind being feared, necessarily, but to be feared by the person he was working under wasn't something that would help in the long fun. Fear bred mistrust, and mistrust led to an early grave for everyone around them. Even Caster, he told himself with another glance at the white-haired woman.

Figuring out her identity wasn't exactly hard, either. He wasn't sure if Dunja knew or not, and if she did, whether or not he was being tested. He knew Caster was testing him—especially with the mirror that Dunja led Pyotr to. Havi would've peeked into it, seen whatever horrors Pyotr had seen, if he hadn't been wiser; it was almost a miracle that he had been able to lead Pyotr there first, witness firsthand that this Noble Phantasm toyed with the mind. A mind as sound as Havi's was hard to shake, granted, but there was no telling how much power Caster accumulated in this environment. She'd plunged Norilsk and everything around it into an eternal winter. She controlled ice and snow to her whims, and she was even confident in her scrying abilities despite not using blood as a medium. A strong mage like Dunja didn't hurt, either.

Havi hadn't realised he'd been staring outright until Caster glanced over her shoulder at him. She smiled, blue lips pushing at her cheeks, and Havi blinked at her.

"Yes, boy?" she asked him. There was another thing he'd noticed—if he was right about her identity, which there was an extremely low possibility of being wrong at all—and he supposed it made sense in a strange, warped sort of way. Kaj was a bit more… aggressive than Havi was, that much was certain. The fictional boy was cynical and only liked things he considered beautiful, and only the queen herself and her snow bees had been good enough for him. Havi held no feelings towards any of it, honestly. Nothing was ever ugly or beautiful, there was no need to be angry or happy.

He looked away from Caster and almost reached for his chest. He hesitated, and then refrained fully from rubbing the rune carved into his skin. It was for the best that it was done, he told himself. His focus was much more clear compared to when emotions could cloud his sights.

"Your mirror," he said instead. "The devil made it, yes?"

Dunja still had her headphones in her ears, unable to hear either of them as Havi spoke softly. Caster hadn't seemed to speak to her through their link, otherwise Dunja would've looked over at them immediately. People did that as a reaction to most things, and while withdrawn, Dunja wasn't exactly trained in holding back her reflexes.

Caster tilted her head to one side. "Oh?" she mused. "You're asking me?"

"You know what it does. It's your Noble Phantasm."

"I didn't make it, though."

Havi glanced at her again. "You think yourself the devil?"

Her smile tightened.

"You're a smart boy, aren't you?" Caster was quick to change the subject. She was quick to lean towards his suspicions. "Such a way with words."

"Like Kaj?" he asked.

Caster giggled. She stepped away from the map, towards Dunja, and she gave the girl a small tap on the shoulder. Dunja pulled one headphone out of her ear, humming softly, and she pointedly avoided looking at Havi.

He'd have to wrinkle the fear out quickly.

"Avodt'ja, I'm going to show our guest something while you work," Caster cooed at her. "Why don't you tell Pyotr to make you more of that lovely risengrød while you work? I can't have my master go hungry."

A flicker of large, white eyes finally landed on him again. Dunja pursed her lips, setting down the radio in her hands, and removed the other headphone slowly.

"Okay," she replied in a soft voice. Caster's intentions with Havi were clearly sent through their link, and Havi gave a polite nod to Dunja in response to her permission. Dunja lowered her gaze again. A hand reached up to fiddle with her mauve hair. Havi made sure to take note of the small habit.

"I'll be gentle with him, dear," Caster reassured her. Dunja, somehow, managed to smile a little and huff a small laugh, amused by the statement.

Perhaps the idea of Caster being gentle was absurd to the point of comedy.

Havi watched as a small mist seeped in from under the study door, slowly clustering together to form a spectre of a white, almost shapeless sheet draped over something that was meant to be a head. It moved towards Dunja, an expression slowly forming where its face should be, and the despairing face stared at her as the spectre let out a soft, "Hooo…?"

"Do you feel up to making something, Pyotr?" Dunja asked the spectre. It nodded shakily, face almost sagging like rotted flesh, and it turned back to the door it came through. It didn't bother dispersing, instead phasing through the ice like a traditional ghost would. "He's kinder as a spirit."

"A wonderful ability to have," Caster praised. "Perhaps I can combine our magecraft to make something even greater one day."

Dunja smiled again at her, more confident.

Caster gestured to the door as she looked to Havi.

"The room Avodt'ja took you to last," Caster instructed him. "Where you slayed Pyotr for me."

He knew the room. It wasn't hard to navigate the ice palace—he was trying to avoid it, after all, because what use did he have for a room that proved as one of Caster's weapons?

Like always, the corridors of Caster's ice palace were silent and cold. It would get cold back home in Norway, especially in the winter, but this was a whole other level of frigid. Were it not for the first kiss she bestowed upon Havi, and even upon Dunja when she was summoned, apparently, they would be one of the corpses out in the exposed air that had succumbed to the elements. A small mercy, but a mercy Caster could revoke at the drop of a hat. Havi walked beside Caster, keeping a short distance between them for peace of mind—she was unpredictable, unlike Dunja, and her whims seemed more in line with what she liked rather than what she should do. Caster liked being sadistic. Caster liked testing people. Caster liked hoarding. Caster liked gaslighting.

Havi wasn't unaware of what she'd done to Dunja after he'd killed Pyotr. Caster had been hoping to find someone who hated her family, and while Havi himself did not know of the Vinogradovs' crimes, Caster knew enough from Dunja herself. She wanted Dunja reliant on her, to look at only her, and Havi pondered the possibility of both of them being a replacement for Caster's Kaj. Telling Dunja that she was the only one who would understand the young woman as she comforted Dunja from the trauma of another man's hatred, unfiltered and snuffed out by another's flames—what better way was there to appeal to someone when they were weakened to their core?

They passed one of the knights Caster had used to escort Dunja out that day. Its helmeted head slowly followed him as he and Caster walked by. She was watching him through her ice creations, always a predator even in her own domain.

"I do wonder how I can combine such interesting magecraft," Caster mused to herself. The doors to the Mirror Room were within reach, one slab sliding open as Caster approached. Her gaze, once from the perspective of the ice knight, moved to the young man beside her with cold blue eyes. "Such remarkable feats in the Age of Man."

Havi followed her into the room with little hesitation. All he wanted to do was keep his distance from her.

"You were written in the Age of Man, and your story was set during it," Havi pointed out.

"True. But I am, in my lore, a faerie queen of sorts. It is more fitting to say I belong to the Age of Fairies." She looked over her shoulder at him, smiling politely. The room was clean of all the blood and scorch marks left by Havi's handiwork. All that remained, like usual, was the mirror at the centre. "But then again, it doesn't matter when the magecraft was practised. A feat is still worth praise, even if it isn't True Magic."

"Why have you brought me here, Caster?" Havi asked.

She let out a soft chuckle. "You asked about my mirror, no? I have questions of my own I'd love to see answered, just like you. Why don't we lend each other a hand?"

He inclined his head towards her. Caster flicked her hair over her shoulder.

"The rune on your chest is such an intriguing thing. I had to put in work to try figure out what it is, and even then I'm only half-certain of its effects. You are but a blank slate for me to work with in my analysis—but then, perhaps the rune is what makes you so."

Havi briefly glanced at the mirror.

"Did the devil make it?" he repeated.

Caster was quick to answer. "It's called Djævlens Spejl. And some say it was a troll, not the devil."

"That was more than I asked for."

"I want more than you would've offered," Caster chuckled.

Sly woman. Truly greedy for the things she wanted.

Havi let out a low, quiet sigh to himself. He supposed it wouldn't do him any harm, since he was unable to feel the cold now. He unbuttoned his jacket, setting it aside on the floor behind him; Caster practically flew towards him as he pulled down the collar of his shirt, and she was intently examining the rune carved over his heart.

A final gift from his mother, and one that served him well to this day. Without it, the Norse High Council would've killed him on the spot. He was too dangerous a loose end without the restraint, and his mother knew that far too well.

"I don't know its name," Havi started, and that was the ideal answer he would've given if Caster had only said who made the mirror. "But consider it a block. A way to keep a clear mind. Negative emotions will only cloud judgement, and what comes with anger and sadness and grief only brings disaster."

There was an unspoken glee in Caster's eyes as she stood back up, no longer staring at the rune. "You didn't carve it. Ah, I wish I could pick at the mind of the genius who did. I almost want to see it break…"

"She's dead."

As quickly as he'd anticipated, her glee turned to annoyance. Caster clicked her tongue, dissatisfied, and looked back to her mirror.

"Regardless," she went on. "I think it would benefit us both to test its capabilities. A rune so old that I can't quite decipher its name; that even you, who specialises in runes, doesn't know either."

She gestured to the mirror. The shards floated and glistened like ice, glass reflecting the bare amount of light in the room against his skin. Havi sucked in a deep breath.

Her order was absolute. "Gaze into my mirror, boy. Show me how strong your block is against a devil's grotesque charade."

Damned if he did, damned if he didn't. If Havi refused, Caster would likely kill him on the spot for disobedience and spin a story to Dunja upon her return. If he obeyed, then there was every risk of the measures his mother took in his childhood being rendered moot. There were too many indeterminate outcomes with looking into the mirror, but then… Caster wasn't wrong about the benefit of testing the rune.

Before he took a step closer to it, to look at it properly, Havi lowered his gaze to the floor and said, "If it fails to block whatever emotions your mirror intends to stir, please kill me. What this rune blocks—I intend to bring forth on my own terms."

She was amused.

"Are you a danger to me, boy?" Caster cooed.

Havi considered his answer. "I will be more than what you see before you now."

Caster's expression was almost unreadable, if not for the brief flicker of excitement that he spotted when he looked back up. Havi wasn't sure if it was the challenge of the statement he made or the potential she could harness from his rune's failure to contain him, but whatever it was, she was enjoying it. This wasn't the gaze she gave to Kaj, Havi thought to himself as he stepped towards the mirror. This was simply the gaze she gave to her property.

He was, after all, in service to her master. Havi was no more than a servant to the servant herself.

Short of declining Caster's demands, there was nothing else standing in the way of his date with the Noble Phantasm. Havi fixed his shirt properly, a low breath huffed through his lips, and he finally stood in front of the mirror with his eyes fixed on his reflection.

It was nothing, at first—just his reflection, his same blank expression and neat attire. Caster was behind him, though not facing him, and he let his gaze wander away from his reflection to her instead. Ever so slowly the mirror worked its magic, and he watched as the back of Caster's head, with her long white hair, began to dye itself brown. Havi furrowed his brows. He was certain that Caster was the Snow Queen, but he didn't recall any depiction of her being brunette. Caster just kept away from him, not letting him see her face in the reflection, and before Havi could ask her why she wouldn't let him see what the mirror portrayed her as, he saw movement under his shirt.

Havi's heart stilled. His eyes darted back to his reflection, to the shirt that covered his runed chest.

Something in the reflection was trying to push against the inside of the shirt. Like it wanted to escape.

"What do you see, boy?" Caster probed. An ice bird flew down from the ceiling, landing on her outstretched hand, and its cold eyes met Havi's in the mirror. She was watching him through it.

Havi tried to find the words to describe his reflection.

"It's normal—" he began, hoping to describe the movement under his shirt, but the sight of long blonde hair tumbling from his open mouth stopped him. Havi clamped a hand over his mouth, the reflection choking on the hair as it did the same, and Havi swallowed thickly. The movement under the shirt began again, and he could see the shape of a hand pushing against the fabric this time.

He could hear Caster giggle to herself.

The rune thrummed against his chest and eased his panic, keeping him only mildly surprised by the sight as he began to calm. Havi removed his hand from his mouth, curious; the hair that was spilling out from his reflection's mouth was too silvery to be his own, far too long and wavy. It did look familiar, though, and Havi further furrowed his brows as he leaned closer to his reflection.

Caster was forgotten as he stepped closer to the mirror. He could feel the rune working overtime, Havi's anxiety the highest it would allow and then some; he parted his lips, watched more of the ivory strands spill through his teeth. His reflection choked, face becoming hollow and blue, but Havi opened his jaw as much as he could and pushed onwards. Whatever was inside him was suffocating him, and whatever replaced the reflection's rune was trying to break free from his chest.

Something that wasn't hair began to emerge from the matted mess in his mouth. Havi tilted his head somewhat, trying to get a better look, and he snapped his mouth shut just as quickly when he figured out what it was. One wide, blue eye stared at him full of malice, and it was an eye he remembered each time he had to do the bidding of the Norse High Council. No matter how hard he tried to keep his mouth closed, though, the reflection's was forced open—and so was Havi's, to his surprise. He sucked in a deep breath, stunned, as his jaw remained slack despite his best efforts to close his mouth again. More hair spilled out, the strands curling and snaking around his torso and neck, and Havi instinctively reached up to make sure it wasn't real. He felt no hair around his neck, nothing suffocating him, but his reflection was crying and clawing at the hair as it choked him more than it already had been inside of him.

The eye peered out at him. His mother—his birth mother, the one who drew the rune on him and sacrificed herself for his safety—glared at him with a hatred Havi had never seen before.

The shirt in the reflection bloomed red in the shape of the rune. Havi panicked, feeling the pain of the rune as it tried to calm him more and more against the might of the mirror, and when he pulled down the collar of his shirt he finally saw what was pushing against the fabric.

The reflection didn't have a rune over its heart. Honestly, the reflections chest cavity was wide open and exposed, his poor heart thrumming a mile a minute and bleeding from lacerations all over its surface. Hair was wrapped around it, the strands thin and stained with his blood, and they were moving like leeches as they began to wrap around his lungs and ribs. Squeezing. Cutting. Snaring.

From behind his heart he could see long nails push out from his flesh. The nails turned to fingers, all five digits slowly curling around the heart as its futile beats tried to shake it off. He saw his mother's crest on the wrist as the heart was slowly, painfully pushed out of his chest—not where the crest should've been, his rational mind told him, but it was there nonetheless—and Havi clawed at his chest, at the rune over his heart, as the nails began to dig into his poor reflection's heart and crush it in an iron grip.

His mother was killing him, he thought immediately. Havi couldn't breathe. The rune burned his chest not unlike the pain he expected his reflection to feel, and he looked back up to its face with some hope that it was holding on. That he was holding on.

The reflection's eyes were glassy. Lifeless. They stared blankly back at him, already clouding over.

Behind him he could see the brunette version of Caster move around, almost turning to face him, but he wasn't able to get a proper look at the mirror's "truth" surrounding her. The eye in his mouth retracted, the hair still parted for something to peek through—and then his mother's other arm burst through the corpse reflection's maw, reaching for the real Havi on the other side of the mirror.

Havi wasn't sure what happened.

He had to have passed out, he thought to himself when he realised he wasn't looking at the mirror. He was on his back, on the floor of the mirror room, and his chest ached as one hand clutched at his shirt for dear life. Havi could feel a cold sweat all over himself, the panic in his heart slowly subsiding like the rune was meant to ensure, and he closed his eyes again as he finally relaxed.

"Now we know your rune can withstand a Noble Phantasm," Caster cooed from beside him. He could hear her move around, sitting on the steps leading up to the mirror, and a cold hand brushed some hair out of his face. "But alas, it was never mine to begin with. I cannot use its full power, even having fully restored it."

"Lucky me," Havi croaked.

She giggled. She stroked his face again, pushing more hair away from his eyes. Havi's eyelids twitched at the touch.

"Humour me, boy," Caster went on. "Open just your left eye."

Havi furrowed his brows. But he obeyed, turning his head in the direction of her voice and opening his left eye.

Caster was gazing down at him, smiling coyly, and she was back to her white-haired self. She flicked some hair over her shoulder, pleased with her request, and nodded once.

"Now just your right."

She'd done something. He wasn't sure what, but she'd done something. Havi hesitated to even open his right eye after the left closed again. The rune was still weakened, but pushing through to keep him calm. He wondered if Caster's goal was to break it entirely, to unleash what he begged her to put down if the mirror did it for her.

His right eye slowly opened. At first he thought his vision was clouded, an eyelash having fallen into his eye; but it never ached, and as the eye opened even wider, Havi felt his blood run colder than the floor he laid on. Caster's hair began to turn brown again, her face changing to less of a death-like pallour. Blue lips turned red, the colour of a bold lipstick, and suddenly Caster didn't look like Caster. She looked human.

"What did you do?" Havi wheezed. Gloved hands grabbed either side of his face and held him steady.

"A piece fell into Kaj's eye," she recalled. "Back when the mirror first shattered. His eye and his heart. He always saw things with such negativity—nothing was ever beautiful. Nothing but my snow bees. But his hatred for everything was born from the shard in his heart, and I wondered over and over if he had ever reacted differently to just the sliver in his eye."

She stroked his cheek fondly. "Boy," Caster went on, "you are going to show me what changed. Show me a life lived seeing only the ugliness of the world."

Havi swallowed thickly. "Ugly," he muttered, "like your true self?"

A ghost of a smile. She was undoubtedly someone other than the Snow Queen, but forced to play the role.

"The woman who inspired the story," she said. "That's who I am. I broke Andersen's heart so thoroughly, that even now I am well known through the heartless character he created in my image. How powerful such a thing can be, hurting someone so much that you occupy their mind until death, and still the public keeps you alive."

A woman who broke Andersen's heart? Havi tried to even out his breathing as his mind raced. Who? Who? He hadn't researched the circles Andersen frequented—he only looked into the man himself and his stories. Was Andersen ever married? Wasn't he gay? Havi stared at the brunette, no longer able to breathe, until finally the countless personal research he did narrowed down the name of one woman in Andersen's life to inspire his writing.

Jenny Lind. The Swedish Nightingale.

His chest felt like it was ready to burst as he pushed himself up onto his elbows. Havi tried to back away from Caster, one arm slipping down the steps, and then he was tumbling down the small dip to the edge of the mirror room's floor. Was this what a heart attack felt like? If it was, it was kind of terrible. Havi weakly rolled onto his side and tried to sit up, but his legs were practically jelly and his vision was beginning to blur again.

Shit, the rune was going to make him pass out again and force him to remain calm. He was glad for the failsafe, but now of all times? Caster was testing him, that much was obvious, but who knew what she'd put in him next if he passed out again? A shard of the mirror in his eye was one thing, but Caster had all the resources she wanted in her palace—anything could be done to him, much less his mother's rune, and then Havi would be truly hopeless in his goals.

"Where are you going, boy?" Caster called. Her voice was light, teasing. "Off to cry to your master?"

A flutter of movement crossed his vision as he glared at the floor, at his hands. Small specs of white, no larger than dust, and they all floated in and out of his sight. One, two, a dozen, two dozen.

Havi could feel himself calm a little as he shakily reached with one hand to catch some of the dust, but it quickly moved away not unlike a bug about to be squished. His hand trembled in place, just long enough for one of the white specks to hover over his palm, until finally it landed atop his skin. It felt cold to the touch, even with his resistance to the cold granted by Caster, and as he brought the hand closer to his face—more landed on his palm as he did so, following the first—he could finally see what it was.

He wasn't wrong about them behaving like bugs. He should've known that, being the queen of the snow bees, Caster would have such creatures follow her around at all times.

The snow bees danced on his palm like petals falling from a branch, a delicate act that, on occasion, made the vaguest of shapes seen on snowflakes against his skin.

"Aren't they beautiful?" Caster whispered. She was right behind him, hovering over him, and Havi was surprised to find himself not even reacting. He hadn't heard her approach, but the snow bees… Was he transfixed? Mesmerised? Something about them just felt so soothing, especially after the horror he'd seen in the mirror. "They've taken a liking to you. My poor master has yet to be shown these lovely creatures, let alone earn their approval."

The mirror. He hadn't been able to see them before he'd looked into the mirror—no, before he'd had the shard of the mirror implanted into his eye. Havi swallowed thickly, his mind beginning to piece together the puzzle and further solidify his resolution.

Havi clenched his hand tightly shut. The snow bees gathered on his palm were all squashed, a few stragglers able to fly off before he could catch them as well. There was only a sprinkling of snow on his hand when he opened it again, and Havi let out a hollow laugh at the sight. He would surely faint from this—not from the pain, but from the stress—but it was necessary to prevent the rune from breaking. This would be his answer to Caster, his stand against her greedy scheme to make a false Kaj to experiment with her mirror, and then he would be able to focus on what he desperately needed to accomplish.

His hand barely shook as he drove the fingers into his right eye.

Hampshire, England (Noon)

"Am I… interrupting something?"

The woman's voice cut through their hurrying, the scene before her coming to a halt entirely as both Rider and Holly froze in the middle of their tasks. Holly was holding a potted plant with a sunflower in it, her skin and clothes covered in dirt from the garden and grass stains all over her hands. Rider was still nursing his wound, wrapped in the linen provided by Holly upon his return early that morning, and he carried all manner of gardening items in his hands with urgency. Both were wide-eyed and haggard, frazzled and frantic in their goal.

"The wards," Holly said softly.

"Must be down," Rider mumbled, eyes narrowing at the two adults who'd arrived.

"That's not good," Holly went on.

"No," Rider agreed.

They both resumed moving about frantically and carrying out their tasks.

Nat stared, bewildered, as the duo acted as though the two hadn't even said anything.

She hadn't expected a warm welcome, to be sure, but complete disregard was something else entirely. What Vere could gather from his cousin before arriving was… not what she saw in front of them. She expected the naive and impatient child that Jastrum had encountered and made into his pawn, not… this.

On her shoulder, Lena cocked its head to the side. The mechanical bird was analysing the situation as much as its human companions were, but it said more than Nat and Vere did at that moment.

"Preparation," the bird chirped in the voice of Olena Andreas. Nat reached up and petted the bird softly, urging it to quiet down, but it seemed to have a point. It looked like Holly and Rider were in the midst of preparing something, rushing themselves, and whatever they were preparing for had to have given Rider the wound he was nursing. "Enemy servant?"

Rider dropped the gardening tools atop one of the tables in the greenhouse with a frown. It looked like Lena was right.

"You've already encountered a servant?" Nat asked. She stepped into the greenhouse, Vere hot on her heels, and sidestepped Rider as he moved past her for the bags of fertiliser in the corner. "Hey, guys, slow down. What happened?"

Never mind that introductions hadn't even been given yet. Rider and Holly were four steps ahead of them already, having gotten into a fight with a servant.

Natalya was ignored very easily. She frowned, pursed her lips. She glared at both Rider and Holly as they met in the middle of their hurrying to begin moving a sunflower into a smaller pot to carry around.

She let out a heavy sigh and rubbed at her temple. She gave Lena a nudge and the mechanical bird was up in the air, just as Vere stepped forward to pat Nat's shoulder. This required a little more thought than she'd hoped, but it wasn't like she hadn't expected some difficulty. As Lena circled the inside of the greenhouse with its bladed wings cutting through air, Olena's voice echoed through the area with an obnoxious loudness to it that gave Nat flashbacks to simpler times.

"Look alive, everyone!" Lena screeched. "Heads up! Up! Up! No time for dilly-dallying! Very important business to discuss!"

It was quite the sight, watching Rider drop everything and lob a hatchet from his belt at the mechanical bird with an annoyed expression. The hatchet flew through the glass of the ceiling, out into the open air, while Holly stopped to screech at him and Lena dove back to the safety at Nat's shoulder.

"Rider tried to hit me!" Lena complained. "I'm not that annoying!"

Nat sighed and petted the bird softly. "You can be, at times."

"Unloved! Unloved!"

She looked back to Rider. The dark-skinned man was ignoring the smaller woman's protests as he picked up a small terracotta pot, replacing the one he'd dropped in favour of attacking the mystic code. Holly was all but nagging him, red in the face, and Nat was briefly reminded of Oleana at the sight of them.

She pushed the thought from her mind as quickly as it came to her. Sentimentality could wait for another time. Right now, she had more important things to handle.

"If I may finally have a moment of your time," she announced, stopping Holly mid-rant. "I have business to discuss."

Holly flexed her hands. She pursed her lips. She was obviously trying to be polite while she was registering the strangers in her home.

"How did you get here, exactly?" Holly finally asked.

Vere jabbed a thumb over his shoulder, pointing back to the main house. "Rosemary let us in."

Holly let out a strangled sound and looked at the floor for a moment.

"Right. Right. Did… Are you here on Clock Tower business?"

Now that was an interesting question. Not, Are you here to support me on behalf of the Clock Tower, but rather, Are you here on business? Was Holly not expecting help from the Clock Tower? She was their representative, though, and Nat gave Vere a wary glance.

"No," she said slowly. "If anything, I'm associated with Atlas Institute—my companion here has no ties with either. But we're here on personal business."

Holly seemed to brighten. "Oh. So Lord Archelot didn't send you?"

That got Vere curious as well. "Jastrum? No, he didn't send us."

She gave a scoff under her breath. "Jastrum," Holly repeated softly. "So you're friends of his."

"Family, actually." Vere took a step further into the greenhouse and tucked his hands into his pockets. Rider was openly sizing him up, and Holly was shrinking away from him. "Will that be a problem?"

Holly sucked in a deep breath. "Of course not," the younger woman said through gritted teeth. "How could I ever cause trouble for the esteemed Lord Archelot's family?"

Right. Definitely something going on there.

Rider set down the terracotta pot and put himself between Holly and Vere. Nat watched for a moment, gaze bouncing between the two as they stared each other down. Vere was tall, certainly, and his military training gave him more of an edge than most mages who focused more on magecraft than their own physical health; but Rider was a servant, and he had Holly as his master—perhaps with her family also supplying mana to him alongside her. Nat had done her research before coming here; she knew the Leightons had promising capabilities despite only being in their third generation, the grandfather and patriarch the first mage in their family line. She also knew that the previous heir, Holly's father, had disappeared and subsequently died, with his infant daughter appearing beside his body in possession of both his crest and mystic eyes.

Jastrum had noted that he'd picked up Holly after she'd travelled around England in search of specific leads, though he had no desire to elaborate beyond the fact that she'd drawn too much attention to herself in the process. It wasn't hard to recognise that Holly was being watched over by Jastrum as a way of probation—a condition with her life on the line that, if she succeeded, would free her and her family from whatever consequences she'd incurred in her travels.

Reckless. Just like Olena.

Nat raised a hand in front of Vere as she also moved further inside. "The connection is distant," she went on. "More to the point, Vere and I have no interest in Clock Tower business. Whatever deal you have with Lord Archelot, I couldn't give two shits about it."

Holly gawked at her. Rider raised his head, staring down his nose at her.

"And what do you give two shits about?" Rider asked.

"I scratch your back, you scratch mine." Nat propped a hand on her hip. "You've clearly encountered a servant and are trying to take countermeasures on your own, but from the looks of it, you aren't fully prepared to bounce back. Rider's still healing, and Miss Leighton is in a hurry to do… whatever it is you're doing." She shrugged lazily. "Focus seems to be split between healing Rider and getting everything ready, because it's fairly obvious you two were surprised and realised your wards were weakened."

Rider crossed his arms over his chest. "You offer yourself up so easily?"

"We're investigating something the Clock Tower absolutely cannot find out about," Nat went on. Holly peeked around Rider, eyes wide and brows raised.

"But… I have to…"

"Let's not beat around the bush. Lord Archelot is clearly making you do this. He didn't give us the full details, but the fact that he mentioned that you were doing this as a punishment for your past actions speaks volumes. You aren't working with the Clock Tower willingly."

Holly frowned. "Well, I'm not, but…"

"Miss Leighton. Take a look at your situation. You have someone from the Archelot family who may be able to pull strings for you and get you out of your predicament. You have an Atlas alchemist backing you. All I ask in return is for you to help as an entity not connected to the Clock Tower with our goal."

The young woman was hesitant, that much was obvious. But she was weighing her options, curious about Nat's proposition, and she didn't seem to be rejecting the offer immediately.

"What are you investigating?" Holly eventually asked.

Lena bobbed up and down on Nat's shoulder anxiously. Nat grabbed the bird and held it in her hands to keep it still, if only to give herself something to hold.

"Someone close to us was murdered," Nat said, keeping the details vague. "The culprit is a group of people, and that group has a foothold in the Clock Tower."

She was silent. Wide amber eyes watched her, almost looking for a sign that she was lying, but Nat kept her gaze firm and true. She didn't blink until Holly did, and she didn't relax until Holly did.

The brunette finally stepped out from behind Rider and gave the servant a small nudge. Rider, sour as ever, resumed moving tools around and carrying fertiliser.

"I'll put the kettle on," Holly told Nat. "We can talk inside."

Vere and Natalya finally let out relieved breaths. Progress, she thought. Finally, a step forward for Olena and Anya.

looker · Oct 30, 2022

Jenny Lind is doing her best snow queen impression, Havi is going to need an eye patch and Holly has made some new friends.

renren_writes · Nov 26, 2022

07

Puebla, Mexico (Night)

"One mole poblano for the handsome husband, and one torta ahogada for the beautiful wife. May you enjoy your meal and your honeymoon in Puebla."

The waitress walked back inside the small restaurant with a broad smile.

Lancer looked down at his meal with curious eyes. He hadn't expected his master to move quickly during the first few days of the war, but to remain isolated in Mexico and slowly cross the border by foot each night was far from his idea of proactivity.

Alexis licked her lips and began to dig into her torta ahogada without much fanfare. She liked Mexican food, she'd told Lancer when she'd stopped their trip in a less crowded area of Puebla. And since it was only her supporting Lancer as a source of power, it would do them both good to at least eat something during their trip. Her lies to the waitress came easily—she'd fished two old wedding bands from her bag and slipped them on her and Lancer's fingers, claiming they were on their honeymoon—and she asked Lancer about his spice tolerance before ordering something for him on her own.

"This is… not how I expected things to go," Lancer said.

"Patience is a virtue." Alexis let out a pleased sound after her first bite. "Oh, they do it better here than in the main streets."

"If you may permit me to ask, wife, what is our plan right now?" Lancer smiled tightly at her. "Ever since those two left for New Orleans, we've been rather stagnant ourselves."

"Anxious?"

"Confused."

"Eat up."

Lancer indignantly tore some turkey off the plate, making sure it was still covered in the black sauce and seed garnish, and he bit into it. Almost immediately he began to choke and cough, overwhelmed by the spices in the sauce that the chocolate included could hardly dilute.

Alexis pulled the plate towards her and spun it around, making sure only the rice was facing Lancer. Lancer frowned and picked at the rice instead.

He wiped at his face with a napkin and sipped his drink. She'd at least gotten him some good old fashioned ale, something that he drank often in life. "You forget my region didn't have access to these… unique tastes."

"Neither did mine," Alexis said. "I still like it, though."

"The world is much more aware of its neighbours' cultures than my time had been."

"More for me."

How irksome.

Lancer reached out and slid the plate back to his side of the table. Alexis looked up from her meal for once, finally looking at him directly, and Lancer couldn't help the childish pettiness he felt rising from within. While Alexis had been the one to propose they pose as newlyweds while they travelled, it was Lancer himself who'd begged for the chance to experience modern culture. No, beg wasn't the word he'd used—it implied he had no pride, and there was pride aplenty in his corporeal form. It was more like Lancer had negotiated a chance to experience modern culture, at least the modern culture of Mexico, before it well and truly became important that the two remain undiscovered.

They were already heading to America on foot, and as soon as they reached the border, Alexis would very likely waste a command spell to force him to remain undetected by the naked eye until the biggest hurdles eliminated themselves.

So perhaps Lancer was being childish and petty. But he was a greedy man, never satisfied with the things he'd be gifted thanks to his shameful curse, and the more Alexis agreed to his whims until they reached America, the more he demanded. He would only stop when a command spell was used, after all.

More to the point, it wasn't like Alexis wasn't easy on the eyes. He did find strong, robust women to be more his type, valuing a bride who could match him in a fight and slay their enemies by his side. But Alexis was strong in her own way. Not as a warrior, and not as a mage, but as… something else. Something enigmatic.

Alexis blinked slowly, waiting for him to speak, but Lancer held his tongue for the moment. Instead he gave her a once-over, not for the first time, and much like his appraisals of her ever since his summoning, he pondered for the umpteenth time just what exactly she was hoping to supply him with to keep up with the other masters who had sponsors backing them. As far as he could judge, mere food and sleep would not be enough on top of her magic circuits to keep him in a fight once his restrictions were lifted. Though not robust like the women he preferred, she did have her own assets that played into her appeal. Rather, with her curvaceous figure and well endowed chest, one might assume the dark-haired woman to be a deity of fertility rather than one of war.

Perhaps it was not only Odin who blessed him in this Grail War.

Lancer huffed a soft laugh to himself, smiling with all the charm his pretty face could muster. Perhaps another time, he thought as he slowly pushed the plate until it was between the two of them, Lancer could test the limits of what she would indulge him with before she grew weary of his greed.

"I would enjoy the meal more if my wife were to feed it to me," he told her.

Alexis was hard to read, as per usual, as she let the seconds pass in silence. Lancer already knew she wasn't one to be swayed by appearances and charm alone—Assassin had tried to get a feel for her motives using such tactics, befitting of his espionage talent. It really all came down to whether or not Alexis wanted to do it at all, rather than whether or not Alexis could be swayed by anything.

Eventually, using the same spoon utensils she'd touched her torta ahogada with, Alexis sliced some turkey into a moderate size and, committing to the act of having to babysit a grown man, blew on the meat to cool it. No amount of cooling would get rid of the heat in the sauce, but Lancer was almost satisfied with the effort she was putting in, even if her expression remained as unamused as ever.

She held the fork out with one hand and cupped the other underneath it, catching any sauce that dripped off. Lancer waited deliberately for a drop to land on her palm, and then he leaned forward to bite down on his food. Spicy as ever, but at least with the ale still fresh on his tongue, there was something to mellow out the heat and allow the chocolate to shine through.

Lancer had grabbed Alexis's wrist as he'd eaten the turkey. She made no move to pull away, head tilting back as she stared down her nose at him. Almost an expression of annoyance, perhaps at the idea that her servant may already be trying to betray her, and the expression remained when Lancer brought her palm to his lips and slowly licked the sauce from her skin.

None of the patrons paid them any mind. Lancer licked his lips with a smile and leaned back in his seat, letting go of his "wife's" hand as he did so. People often believed that the affection with which you received something would soften the blow of any discomfort it may bring—a soothing reassurance would make bandaging a wound a little less unbearable, a breathless laugh would make outlasting the cold weather less of a slog.

Lancer's mole poblano tasted just as unlikable as before.

Lancer held up a hand and sipped his ale again. "On second thought," he said once the burning subsided, "perhaps my wife should enjoy it for the both of us."

Alexis pulled the plate back towards her. She went back to her torta ahogada, clearly aiming to finish it before digging into Lancer's leftovers, and she was just as unimpressed as before as she ate the rest of her dinner. "You're trying to savour this far too much," she told him.

Was he, now? Lancer smiled sweetly, simultaneously amused and disappointed by her lack of reaction. He couldn't help wondering how far he could push, how much of his greed she would be willing to sate, even if she didn't seem to care for whether or not it ever came to an end.

Alexis was quick to finish off Lancer's near-untouched food as the waitress came over and refilled his ale. He supposed drinking would have to suffice, but the issue of how to supply him with mana would come up sooner or later. Lancer just hoped there'd be at least something for him to rely on, if only to keep up with Alexis's no doubt lofty demands as the War waged on.

He was halfway through his drink when a local teenager jogged past their table. He was sweating and calling out for someone named Daniel, and the one Lancer presumed to be Daniel replied from behind the register nearby. He was thankful for the open-walled entrance that showed off the small kitchen and beer tap, though the teen seemed more interested in something other than what Daniel was selling.

Alexis was staring at them as well when the teen shouted, "¡Daniel! ¡Tele!"

Daniel looked up from his phone with an unsurprised expression. "Ah. Mateo," he greeted. "¿Qué onda?"

"Prende la tele—"

Daniel was quick to cut Mateo off with a wave and a shake of his head. "Solamente efectivo."

"¡Deja de chingar!" Mateo shouted. A few patrons raised their brows at the teen as Daniel tried to scold him. The teen didn't give him a chance to say much, though, and even Alexis was interested when he spoke next. "Saber y su maestro—"

Daniel was scrambling for the remote for the TV propped up in one corner of the reception area, and Lancer was glad that it wasn't just the two of them that were interested in the update on Saber and his master. They had just discussed the duo with Assassin and their likely whereabouts, so of course they'd want to know if they'd been spotted in the media.

Alexis gave a quick gesture for Lancer to stay seated, and he was in no hurry to leave his ale behind in pursuit of the rumour mill. He let her scurry inside with everyone else as Daniel finally managed to turn on the TV, and Lancer glared at the leftovers of his dinner with a frown. He scooped up a little bit of rice and gave it a try—actually kind of nice, he thought as he went for a second bite—but he was soon reduced to a coughing, choking mess when one of the patrons gave an incredulous shout.

"¡Saber y su maestro jodieron!

Lancer thumped his fist against his chest as he wheezed up a soggy wad of rice. Alexis barely looked back at him, but at least the other patrons offered him their waters to help clear his throat.

Surely he heard wrong. Lancer wiped his chin with a tired glance at Alexis. The look on her face, which was taken aback while simultaneously impressed, made him even more stunned by the declaration the patron had made. No. In public? No. Surely not. No? No.

One of the older patrons yelled at Daniel to turn the TV off, and the man simply ignored them. Lancer paid more attention to the translation the grail provided, listening with anxiety, until he heard Daniel remark, "Look at them go."

Incredible. Lancer didn't even need to look to know a very suggestive mana transference was being broadcast on television for Saber's public reveal. And what a reveal he chose to make it.

Lancer was suddenly very dissatisfied with just a simple lick of Alexis's palm.

Alexis was back at their table before he even noticed. She pulled a thousand peso bill from her pocket and tucked it under her empty plate, and with a shout of, "Keep the change!" Alexis nodded for Lancer to follow her. He chugged the rest of his ale without hesitation and, with another grateful nod to the patrons who shared their water with him, Lancer was finally leaving the restaurant with Alexis in pursuit of their next plan.

He didn't wait for long to ask her, "What was it?"

Alexis wrinkled her nose and barely looked at him.

"Your PDA was tamer," was all she said. And then, "He's in Vatican City. We'll have to draw him out."

Lancer furrowed his brows. "We can't ambush him in Italy?"

Alexis faltered in her brisk walking pace. She opened her mouth—considered for a moment—and then closed it, lips pursed in frustration. Lancer hovered incessantly. He wanted so badly to force his way into her mind and listen to her thought process, but the grail would only allow for a consensual exchange of thoughts between master and servant. If only he could see what the gears clicking in place behind those eyes were meant to power; perhaps Lancer would know better how to help his master and ease her frustrations, especially if they're coming so soon after confirming Saber was in the Vatican's field of view.

She grabbed his hand and led him further through the streets of Puebla. Lancer raised his brow, almost surprised by the gesture until he recognised she wanted to pull him aside as quickly as possible. Lancer matched her pace, and soon it was him leading Alexis through the streets until he found an alley that stretched long enough for them to enter. Under the darkness and slowly escaping the noise of the night crowd, Lancer was able to find a small apartment lobby he could enter and he shut the door silently behind them as Alexis checked the staircase leading to the first floor. When they both nodded to each other, they headed for a nearby storage closet and hurried inside, just the light from the crack under the door giving them enough to see inside the enclosed space.

Lancer could feel his greed rise again despite himself. In a small closet, with Alexis pressed up against him as they spoke in hushed tones, it was hard not to want more after what he just heard.

He was almost bitter Saber had been able to charm his master to that extent while Lancer could only tease.

At this close proximity, he could feel the mana flowing from Alexis and into him, charging him with an abundance of magical energy that Lancer never expected to receive from the woman so soon into the War. Perhaps she wasn't even caring that she was charging him up, making him fit to be a proper servant even with his decreased parameters as a result of his curse. Lancer tilted his head innocently, leaning closer to whisper, and for the first time he noticed the two of them were the same height—just a little over six feet tall, Alexis never having to rely on high heels to achieve such a height.

"What troubles you, master?" he asked softly. Alexis was still silent, still chewing at her lip. Lancer reached up, his fingers brushing her chin. Her gaze lifted from the empty air she stared at as her thoughts seemed to race, and he could see her teeth were digging into her lip as she remained silent.

Lancer let out a small huff, amused, and parted her lips easily with his thumb. When he did, he could see cuts on the inside of her mouth that bled onto his thumb, and the sharp teeth that had managed to draw it in her deep thought. He was still dissatisfied with the knowledge of Saber's bold actions in front of the world, even if he hadn't seen them himself, and he closed the distance between their lips without hesitation. Alexis didn't push him away, nor did she express discomfort as Lancer sucked at her lips and lapped up the blood that had gathered in her mouth. She merely let out a slow breath, calming herself, and waited for Lancer to finish his extra helping of mana from her blood on top of the bodily contact.

It was far from a tender moment, but neither of them were the type for tender, he thought.

Lancer licked his lips and gave her a knowing smile.

"If it is the Vatican that troubles you, master," he murmured, "then perhaps it is the Vatican I must remove from your path to victory first."

"Too much of a risk," Alexis muttered immediately.

Lancer let out another breathy laugh. "Because you are like this? Or because they far outnumber us?"

He brushed his thumb over her lip again, and when he parted her lips, he saw the cuts were already healed—almost as if they'd never been there at all.

"Be it Saber himself or the executors of the church," Lancer pledged, "this old man will do his best to eliminate them for you."

Alexis closed her eyes and nodded once, pulling her face away from Lancer's hand.

"As you should," she replied, cold as ever. "A servant who can't even fight for his master has no place by my side."

"Then shall we make haste to Italy?"

"No."

Lancer blinked, surprised, and let out a confused, "Hm?"

Alexis was swift with her decision making, already ten steps ahead of him with her plan.

"We should target Caster first. She's the most isolated of them all, and most other servants have already begun to engage with each other. A foothold in Russia will do us some good, as well. If we can move from there to the Norse regions, you'll be supported by the land more than I can provide on my own."

She opened the closet door and left immediately after saying it aloud. Lancer stood there for a moment, smiling to himself in disbelief, and pinched the bridge of his nose as he mentally repeated her plan to himself. Always on the move, that master of his. Never staying to savour the moment. He supposed he should be thankful he even got that brief moment of indulgence and magical energy from her, but as was the nature of his curse, Lancer would never know satisfaction as long as he lived.

Perhaps, Lancer thought as he followed Alexis out into the streets, he would simply have to do a good job fighting Caster to be rewarded with even more.

Baton Rouge, Louisiana, United States of America (Night)

"I must say, you two have to be the biggest contenders in this World Grail War by far," French correspondent Aloïs Lavigne remarked. In the studio he sat in, he was perched on a high tulip chair that was as bright as his canary yellow suit. Across from him, in identical tulip chairs, Amèlie Appiani and Louis Laurent Monette sat with bemused expressions on their faces. "On the one hand we have Monsieur Monette from a very prestigious mage family in France, whose grandfather participated in the previous World Grail War. And on the other we have Mademoiselle Appiani of Monaco nobility, a high profile player with the backing of the royal family behind her. You two must be very proud to be working together."

The pink-haired man smiled and held his head high. "It's only natural that great lineages seek each other out."

"How everyone else is at each other's throats, I'll never understand," Amèlie chimed in.

"I understand you're in an alliance with a third mage from America," Aloïs probed. He was on the edge of his seat, eager for the details, as he gestured for the screen behind them to show paparazzi photos of their third member. "Tell us, what is it like working with a member of the Van-Alphen family? Their technological advances are remarkable; surely you get some use from it."

"Ah, actually—Michael, dear, come over here for a moment!"

The man Amèlie called for entered the view of the camera. His long hair was tied back in a half-ponytail, and he seemed to know what she was requesting as he pulled off his jacket without much fuss. The prosthetic arm attached from his right shoulder was in plain view, and Aloïs marvelled at the sleek design.

"Our dear Citra has a talent for magecraft involving machinery. Michael wouldn't be able to do much as a bodyguard without it, I'm afraid." Amèlie touched her face with a smile. "I've never felt safer in my life in his hands!"

Michael preened some more in front of the camera before retreating back to the buffet that had been set up for the crew out of view. The two mages smiled at Aloïs as he continued his questioning.

"And where is Mademoiselle Van-Alphen right now? I've seen neither hide nor hair of her." He looked past the cameras at the crew as if to double check. "Is she busy with other things?"

Amèlie feigned concern as she tiptoed around answering. She gave Louis a helpless look, and the pink-haired man shook his head dejectedly.

"I'm afraid our lovely Citra does not associate with us often, Aloïs. She locks herself away with her machines and only ever interacts with her assistant."

"Say it isn't so! Is there turmoil in your alliance already?"

Louis shook his head. "I don't know for certain, but I've heard that the Van-Alphens don't particularly work well with those of organic inclinations. I always believed it to be false, pure conjecture, but…"

He gave an anguished sound as he buried his face in his hands, dramatic as he withheld his concerns. The blonde patted his shoulder, solemn, as she shook her head in dismay. Whatever they wanted to say, it was grim—and Aloïs was foaming at the mouth to hear it.

"But…?"

Amèlie sniffed and dabbed under her eyes, trying not to smear her mascara as she wiped at tears. "Oh, Aloïs, the things her brother told us. I didn't want to believe it, truly, but it all makes so much sense when you think about it." She gestured to the photo behind them, specifically to the prosthetic limbs Citra had. "He told us secrets about the family magecraft, and it's just inhumane. To think they made poor Citra sacrifice her own arms and legs for her magecraft! And now that she has nothing else but her own heart and head left, she has to use living people as tools for her machines!"

Amèlie bursted into a fit of tears and collapsed onto the floor. Louis pulled his face from his hands, teeth gritted and eyes shut tightly, as he balled his hands into fists.

"To think such monsters were among our venerable community. Using living people as tools for their own means… The Van-Alphens should be ashamed."

"Is it okay for you to be telling us this!?" Aloïs was looking from the duo and to the camera at light speeds.

"The world needs to know. Citra is a lovely, kind-hearted young woman," Louis insisted. "We cannot let this family hurt their children any longer. Their meddling in this War will only end in the sacrifice of more human lives, Aloïs, and I will not stand for it—I swear on the Monette name that I will free these poor children from their living hell."

With her mascara running down her cheeks and her face puffy, Amèlie looked up from the floor and addressed the camera again.

"That is why today, Louis and I make a plea to our fellow masters," she said. "Especially to the master of Saber. Please, help us make sure the Van-Alphens don't sabotage this sacred tradition for their own gain. Saber, if you're watching, all we ask is that you send word to the Monaco Royal Family to meet—we'll even come to your territory as a show of good faith—and together we can—"

Archer's golden shield crashed into the TV with a loud, clattering bang. The store window the TV had been on display in was shattered beyond repair, other electronics caught up in the wake of its destruction. The shield rattled in its spot, trying to wedge itself free—and when Archer ran past the store, it flew out from the remains of the televisions and back into her hands.

Civilians screamed as they rushed to get out of the way. The fight had not been expected, especially not by those who were simply wandering at this late hour for various reasons. Be it nightclubs or having nowhere else to go, or perhaps even the football game happening nearby that local supporters attended until the late hours, there were many people out and about to witness this clash of servants—and many still who were swept up in the chaos.

Archer sprinted into the grounds of Louisiana State University with her shield attached to her forearm, her armour glistening under the street lights, and in her sights she could see the rogue servant masquerading as an Archer jumping from wall to wall in his attempt to outrun her. He was faster than her, only by some, and she gritted her teeth in frustration as the sprint became dire.

'Master, I'm going to use my Noble Phantasm. He's too fast for me to catch on foot.'

In the back of her mind, Jamal's voice echoed in reply, 'Do what you need to, Archer. Dad and I have plenty of supplies to support you for a few uses—only a few, though.'

'Understood. Then, please bear with me.'

Archer skidded and jumped in one powerful bound atop a nearby Beetle, golden bow materialising in her hand. The red and gold weapon was firm in her grip as she bent a knee and took aim. The arrow she nocked against it materialised in turn, and with her keen vision she watched the blue-robed servant jump from rooftop to rooftop with an almost curious hesitation.

That hesitation would be the death of him, she thought.

"O Father," she prayed, "I beg thee to smile upon me. I pray that my aim remains true and pure, and that the foes I slay in thy name honour your domain."

The arrow burst into flames, bathing her in a bright red glow as she trained it on the now still servant atop the roof of Lockett Hall. She felt her power course through her body, into the arrow, and Archer sucked in a deep breath as she prepared to let it fly.

"Skorpizo!" she announced.

The arrow soared through the air for a brief second before the light of the fire fizzled out completely. And when that brief moment of darkness passed, an explosion of fireworks hurtled towards the servant. Hundreds of arrows made of fire and bloodlust sailed through the campus of LSU, some colliding with the edges of buildings as that hurtled towards the servant like comets. More screams and even more blood, a few bystanders caught in the fray as the arrows burnt them to a crisp. Fires erupted on the buildings the arrows passed, and still a hundred more arrows were left to find their intended target.

And then a flash. An orange light of the heavens that almost threatened to drown out the cascade of arrows sailing towards him. Archer furrowed her brows, rising to her feet properly, and then she was raising her shield as the shockwave of the enemy servant's own counterattack knocked her off of her feet. Flaming arrows not unlike her own soared in her direction—far outnumbering her own arrows, Archer thought in shock—and each one collided with her own and set off a myriad of explosions in the middle of the LSU campus. Hellfire and debris rained upon the scorched earth as screams of terror died before they could even be given life, and Archer was flung back—back out of the campus, into a tow truck, and forced to fend off the flames with her shield while the steel frame melted behind her. And when the arrows ran out of her own to neutralise, they began to collide with her shield relentlessly. Archer stood her ground, her shield red hot and groaning under the pressure; when the last of the arrows finally landed, she could finally see the terrain better.

Where there was once a domain of learning and ambition, there only remained a blasted heath where no god dared look upon. The poor souls unfortunate enough to have been caught in the crossfire were people no longer, but only ashen remains with nary a corpse to bury, nor bones to return to the earth. The two Noble Phantasms destroyed all life in LSU, human or otherwise, and from the top of Lockett Hall, the blue-robed servant bowed politely to Archer.

Almost as though to thank her for her showing her Noble Phantasm so soon into their fight.

Archer raised her bow and hurriedly sang her prayer.

"Goddess of the Hunt, hear me, your faithful disciple—"

The blue-robed servant raised his bow and let out a shout: "Govardhan!"

This time, a single bolt of fire fired from where he stood—massive and weaving through the air, changing direction to throw her off balance. Archer withdrew her bow and began to run back, back towards a building she could use to slow its careening path, but the arrow showed no signs of slowing as it weaved and followed her every move.

The divine flames drew closer and closer. Archer turned, her shield raised, and curled herself behind it.

The arrow exploded upon impact, the burns against her skin almost unbearable as she was flung through wall upon wall of brick and mortar, as the figure of the blue-robed servant pursued on foot with his bow still in his hand. No matter how much Archer tried to slow her painful journey out of LSU's campus and towards Parade Ground Park, she only succeeded in injuring herself further before she was able to land atop her shield and ride it to a stop along the road leading into the park.

She wobbled to her feet and wiped the blood from her face. She could hear Jamal's panicked questions hammering away in her mind, but she ignored them as she turned to face the servant with her arms raised, poised to fight him head-on.

The servant walked calmly towards her with a smile on his face.

"My, my, perhaps I really should be the Archer for this World Grail War," he remarked.

Archer let out a slow breath. She could feel her wounds closing as Jamal and his father worked overtime to heal her.

"State your class, fraud," she demanded. The dark-skinned man chuckled lightly to himself.

"So serious. I think my bout of identity theft was a pretty interesting plan."

She sucked in a deep breath. "I've no patience for anyone who endangers my master with their antics."

"Ah, is that so? My apologies. Had I known, I would've made it quicker for the two of you."

Archer threw her shield at him. He swung his bow, knocking the shield away, and similarly took a stance when Archer closed the distance between them, immediately throwing blows in his direction. His movements were fluid as he twisted and turned with such flexibility that Archer resorted to grappling, but even that was a challenge for her to accomplish as he managed to twist one of her wrists and flip them both into the air, spinning Archer before slamming his palm onto her torso and sending her crashing to the ground. Archer choked and spun on the ground, sweeping her feet under him, and she managed to knock him off balance as her shield flew back towards them.

Just as it was about to hit his neck, slice at least partially through the skin, his hand snatched the shield and gripped it tightly in place.

"It seems I must apologise even more," he said. "I'm afraid your Pankration skills aren't a match for my overall abilities. Wherever I may perceive anything, I have eyes; wherever I stand, I understand all in the domain. Unrecognised for my abilities unless I am named, yet skilled enough to rival even Krishna in my full potential as an Archer."

Archer stood back up again, lunging for him, and she managed to land a few blows as she adjusted to fit his fighting style. He had to be a Hindu heroic spirit, for while Archer was not knowledgeable of how to fight like this servant, she knew enough about war to discern the tactics and varying martial arts used by her enemies. This man was skilled in Kalaripayattu, a worthy rival for the very up close and personal Pankration she knew best.

He frisbeed her shield past her, and then he lunged forward, fists raised as they began to exchange blows. For each kick she landed on him, he repaid her in kind with a harsh punch; they danced around each other, across the Parade Ground, tripping and chasing and fleeing, until they reached where her shield had landed. Archer called it to her, the shield speeding towards her—and then the servant delivered a hard blow to her midsection that threw her directly into the path of her shield.

Archer groaned and stood back up again. This was getting annoying, she thought, and as they inched closer to the columned building within the park, both of them seemed to think of the same thing as they raced each other towards it. Archer threw her shield, and it bounced between columns before flying back at the servant at rapid speeds. He blocked it—but not without taking a blow to his wrist, and the dark-skinned servant smiled at her with that sickeningly sweet politeness.

He stomped on the shield, practically kicking it up into the air, and punched the flat of it. It barrelled towards her, blocking her view, and Archer slid beneath it. She pushed her weight forwards, crashing into the servant, and with her arms securely around his waist, Archer threw him up into the air and over her shoulder. The servant tumbled along the concrete flooring, skidded to a halt—and then her shield collided with his back, a loud crack sounding out. He managed to grab it before it made it back to her, but rather than throw the shield, he used the momentum to throw himself at her faster than before. She blocked him and disarmed the shield, bouncing it against the floor and up into the air. Fists flew as they tried to shove the other out of the way to catch the shield, and Archer felt not only her own nose break from the pressure of his blows, but his nose also when the butt of her palm slammed into it just as the shield was about to land.

Archer grabbed the shield with one hand and blocked a blow with the other. His leg hooked around her ankle, dragging her back with him as he jumped backwards. Her back ached as it hit the ground; the servant somersaulted over the top of her and kicked up the shield again, and with his arm strapped against it, he threw himself downwards with an overhead punch. Archer rolled out of the way just in time. The concrete where she'd lain was shattered and split, a sizeable crater in her place; what little rocks she could grab were thrown at the servant, and when he raised the shield to swat them away, she slid between his legs and behind him. One hand grabbed the lower half of his robes, wrapping them around her fist as she yanked him back with her, while the other returned the overhead strike in kind with extreme prejudice.

He caught her fist with both hands. Her other was trapped in the robe. When she tried to stomp him, he was able to hold back her fist with one hand while the other caught her foot and twisted it until her ankle threatened to snap.

Panting, the servant remarked, "This has been very elucidating, Archer! Have you only one Noble Phantasm to show me? Or are you just a one-trick pony?"

"Bold words from a fraud about to be slain for his crimes," she hissed.

The servant's smile became even sweeter, almost to a threatening degree, and his voice took on an unsettling edge.

"Oh, dear Archer," he cooed. "If either of us has committed a crime, it isn't me."

Archer furrowed her brows. She pushed further against his grip, hoping to land the fatal blow that would either kill him or send him running with his tail between his legs.

"Paying to your father," he recounted, "and then praying to a goddess of the hunt. Fighting using Pankration and wearing the armour of the Amazonians. If you were a better warrior, more beloved by your patron goddess, would you not be more skilled than I at your own class?"

She felt the sweat run down her neck at his questioning. Whatever this charlatan was getting at, it wasn't good.

"Enough of this—"

"Was it worth it, Antiope?"

The way he cooed her name, almost as though belittling her, it was enough to send a chill down her spine. Archer stared, wide-eyed, down at the man hiding behind her own shield. He wasn't looking at her with a sweet politeness that made her sick to her stomach anymore. No, the look he gave her was one of retribution—of someone who sought justice against those who sinned.

Archer released him, and just as quickly, he released her arm and leg. In her haste to get away from him, some of his robe tore away and was still wrapped around her hand tightly. He dropped her shield to the ground as he slowly ambled his way back to his feet, and he let out a grunt as he cracked his back with the stretch that followed.

"What do you mean—" she tried, but he was quick to cut her off again.

"All this talk about fraud and theft," he drawled, "but you're a fool to preach such concepts to me, little traitor. Do not recite morals and righteousness to me when you are adorned with fickle armour and tainted blessings."

Archer held her breath. She couldn't move. A phantom pain began to blossom in her stomach, right at her womb, and her heart ached as she recalled the events that led to the end of her life.

The servant was back to his usual playful smile, giving her a polite wave as he spoke again.

"I had fun, Archer. Both with my ruse and with our fight. I hope your next opponent isn't fortunate enough to meet me before they have a chance to fight you. Finding out such details would be… Unfortunate for you."

He vanished in a glimmer of gold. Archer sucked in a deep, gasping breath, and dropped to her knees in stunned silence.

What a fool she was. She played right into his hands—revealing her Noble Phantasm so quickly and believing herself to be superior as an Archer against a man who pretended to be one.

Just like when she'd died, defeat tasted so bitter that it was unbearable.

looker · Nov 26, 2022

Lancer is apparently blessed by Odin and cursed with greed. If I knew my norse myths better I could probably make a guess just off of that but I don't so I will leave it to someone else.

Anyway Team Lancer is aiming for Caster right away. On one hand attacking a caster in their Territory seems reckless. On the other letting a caster buildup could be just as dangerous.

Losing an archery duel to Assassin, getting her Identity revealed, and having her trauma slammed into her face, this just isn't Antiope's day.

renren_writes · Jan 13, 2023

08

Dorset, England (Morning)

Day 3 of the World Grail War

"Monette…"

The grandfather clock ticked and tocked in the middle of the room. Perched atop a large ottoman in front of the ornate coffee table, Berserker kicked her legs in and out and sipped from a teacup slightly too large for her small frame. On the other side of the coffee table, lounging in a wine red grandfather chair, her master sat with one leg crossed over the other and her phone held in one hand, the other balancing her own teacup elegantly. The Turkish tea set belonged to the owner of the house—a family friend who owed Lan a favour—and it seemed the Kenyan purple tea available in the house suited Berserker's tastes enough to sate her for the time being.

Really, Lan had thought upon learning how to calm the servant, it was ironic that she was able to access so much tea in England to keep Berserker occupied. Had she been in China, certainly, the accessibility would be the same; but Englishmen were so fussy with their tea leaves, and even she would admit she occasionally experienced the same snobbishness. Some instant tea bags were just so bland, she reasoned, and steeping the loose leaves herself just made it taste the way she wanted.

Lan was scrolling through her social media feed as she took a sip, only to cringe at the sweet undertone to the flavour. Berserker had dropped one too many sugar cubes into the teapot as a whole, refusing to waste a larger amount on each individual serving because, "sugar was expensive". Industrial Age habits died hard, even when the one with said habits was already dead. Jun was in the kitchen, though, and to her relief, he offered to cut up some lemon slices for her to offset the sugar a little.

"Monette…" she repeated. She'd heard the name somewhere, she thought. It was something important, Lan thought, but it was hard to tell off the top of her head. Her only clue was the other master, the one allied with the Monaco Royal Family, who bore the surname for himself. He'd made headlines yesterday with his ally, even going as far as to single out his other cohort and her family. It was clearly a power play, Lan knew that much—and it was smart to air the dirty laundry of the Van-Alphen family to do so. The Spiral Manor supplied her with as much information as possible about the known mage families, but she hadn't had a chance to look at the alliance of three. Honestly, she'd predicted they'd implode on themselves one way or another for sole control of the servant; and lo and behold, Citra Van-Alphen was the first to be ousted thanks to her refusal to reveal herself publicly.

Jun entered the room, a tray of sliced lemons in his hands, and he set it down in front of Lan's seat on the coffee table. Lan smiled up at him, thanked him, and Jun smiled back as he dipped down for a chaste kiss before he resumed cooking.

"My lady loves her husband," Berserker chirped. Lan looked up from her phone, brows raised. Berserker hadn't seen the relationships Lan had with her team yet, only able to tail Lan as the two searched for the nearest servant to trigger Berserker's Tiers. In fact, ever since her summoning, this was the first time Berserker had met Jun.

"Yes," Lan agreed, reluctant. "That's right. And somehow, he loves me too."

Berserker blinked, her blue eyes changing pink, and she slammed her teacup onto the table.

"Do tell! I smell a story!"

"And who am I telling the story to?" Lan uncrossed her legs and reached down to grab a lemon.

"It's me, ma'am! Your trusty Rabbit!" Berserker was almost vibrating in her attempt to contain herself. "Please hurry! I'll perish before I hear the story!"

Ah, the White Rabbit. As far as Lan knew, only two personalities were available upon initial summon—and from the looks of it, it was the Dormouse and the White Rabbit. It was easy to tell who Berserker was just from appearance alone, but an easy deduction always came with a caveat. She was glad Berserker never outright demanded to be called by her True Name, only insisting she was someone else entirely.

She wondered who the next tier would bring forth. There were a lot of characters in Carrol's novel, after all.

"I suppose…"

When Jun walked back into the room, he had the breakfast for both master and servant in each hand. Nothing beat an English breakfast—baked beans in the middle of the plate, surrounded by proper bacon cooked just enough to be crunchy, some mushrooms and tomatoes grilled in the bacon fat, blood pudding cut into thin slices, thick and stout sausages sizzling next to two sunny side up eggs. Jun ran back into the kitchen, returning with two extra plates of buttered toast for Berserker and Lan, and then he was going back to fetch his own breakfast before joining them properly. Berserker set side her tea and poured him some, which Jun thanked her for sweetly as he took a sip.

"Since it's just the Spiral Manor aware of you being a master," Jun said around his toast, "I think it might be wise to pretend like you aren't one to everyone else we know."

Lan squeezed her lemon into her teacup, and the purple tea began to turn a vibrant pink. Berserker watched in awe and did the same, only to scrunch up her face when she took a sip. Not a fan of lemon in her tea, then.

"Since it's only father and Taio, it might work out," she agreed. "How do you propose we spin our story to our friends outside of the Manor?"

Jun rubbed his chin, thoughtful, before he looked at Berserker uncertainly.

"Perhaps we adopted."

Lan almost choked on her blood pudding. Adopted? Them? Was he serious?

"They know we lost the little one," Lan hissed.

Jun shrugged. "That's why I suggested it. Maybe we could say that there was a void that needed filling, and we came across the perfect little girl to fill it."

Both of them looked at Berserker. She had baked beans all over her face as she held a sausage in one hand and stuffed an egg into her mouth with the other.

"Maybe not perfect," Jun amended.

"Look at us. Think for a moment about how unbelievable that would sound, coming from us."

"Not entirely. If we go by the hormonal changes pregnancy brings, it wouldn't be unheard of for you to seek out something to care for after losing your own child. It's like how they save kittens without a mother—they present it to a cat that's recently given birth, and it'll be accepted among the litter."

"Are you comparing me to an animal, Zhōu Jun?"

"Never in a million years, my dear."

She stared at him. Jun smiled sweetly back at her.

"You've been awfully confident since Berserker was summoned," Lan noted. Jun let out a small laugh and cut into one of his sausages with his knife.

As he raised a piece of sausage to his lips, Jun said, "I guess the cover I came up with is partially true in my case. It's just… I suppose it feels nice to be able to look after something so small, and pretend that I can raise it and give it a quality of life."

Lan furrowed her brows and took a sip of her tea.

"You're projecting onto a murder machine."

"She's an adorable one, at least admit that."

Adorable was pushing it. No matter how much Berserker had her doe-eyed expression glued to Lan and a need for approval practically flooding off of her in waves, there was still a very manic and violent personality hidden underneath that Lan had to remain cautious of. Besides, there was always another possibility that neither of them had broached yet about her identity—that it might not be Alice Liddel they were looking at, but a combination of Wonderland itself. What may look like an innocent child could very well be a Jabberwock or Bandersnatch in disguise.

Well… Whatever she was, right now Berserker was just a little girl.

Lan finally sighed and smiled in defeat. "Alright. And what will our adopted daughter's name be, hm?"

"Lìméi," Jun replied, almost immediately.

"You sly dog," Lan drawled, leaning her chin on her fist as she sat back in her chair. "You already had this worked out before I gave the approval."

"I just know you so well that I knew you'd agree," Jun chirped.

Lan took a hefty sip of her tea, trying to hide her smile. A walking disaster in the making, Berserker was, but there was an undeniable charm to her that even Lan couldn't help but admire. Such a small thing, so unsuspecting, and someone as formidable as Rider had even let his guard down when she'd thrown a tantrum.

"What do you think of the announcement made by the masters of France?" she asked Jun. Her husband took a bite of his breakfast, contemplative, and sipped his tea.

"It's bold. Especially when a servant claiming to be Archer got into a fight with another servant." Jun reached into his breast pocket, and when he pulled out his phone, he was quick to tap on the screen for the article he wanted. "All of LSU was wiped out, as well as any people still on campus, and Tiger Stadium has been reduced to rubble. The fact that the War Memorial Tower is still standing is nothing short of a miracle."

"So it's possible that one of those servants belonged to them."

Jun nodded. "The Manor's gathered reports of someone in New Orleans claiming to be the master of Archer, but a servant also claiming to be Archer is something of note."

"They're playing mind games with each other," Lan decided. "I'd wager the servant claiming to be Archer is a different class that was famed for wielding a bow in legend. The master of New Orleans must be the master of Archer. Which means…"

She stabbed a piece of bacon with her fork.

"The masters of France are controlling the false Archer."

Two heads were better than one, she thought, but something told her that the masters of France weren't smart enough to come up with a ploy like this on their own.

"That's the other thing," Jun went on. Lan looked at him, brows raised. "The master with the false Archer wasn't one of the people announced publicly—rather, it was the brother of one of them."

Lan ate more of her breakfast as Jun relayed the information. It was becoming more and more apparent that the ones calling the shots weren't even the masters, but the servant himself. Who was this mastermind of a servant, to be pulling strings so effortlessly without his masters disapproving? Lan wanted to have Berserker face off against him, if only to see how well his smarts would aid him when it came to Berserker's peculiarities. A person with a working brain was the highest target on Berserker's list, after all.

Perhaps Rider should be put on the backburner now that they had the advantage of his identity on their side. It was easy to narrow down those involved with the Wild Hunt, and he didn't look human upon first glance. Lan already had working theories, but there was never any wisdom in placing all your bets on an absolute.

Besides, the name Monette still bothered her too much to leave it alone.

"It would seem this Grail War doubles as a masquerade," Lan mused. Berserker looked at her with a bright smile as she stuffed her toast into her mouth. "I suppose the mystique has its draws. But masks aren't meant to stay on forever."

She gestured to Jun to turn on the television to pass the time as they ate. He picked up the remote, pressing a few buttons, and then the TV flickered to life with Uwe Schulz giving a history lesson on the previous World Grail Wars. At first Lan stared as he went into details over previous competitors—even making mentions of the master and servant duo who had made the wish to make the Grail War known to the public and a worldwide spectacle. But soon enough, as Lan took another sip of her tea, he brought up the last World Grail War and its competitors with a friendly smile and sweet phrasing.

The glass cup shattered in her hand as she stared at the television.

Normand Novel Monette. No wonder the name of one of the French masters bothered her so much. The last Grail War had a relative of his participate—judging by the age and time difference, perhaps it was his grandfather—and it was a Monette who'd dealt irreparable damage to Lan's family as a consequence.

The footage played, the original commentary echoing through the room. Feng Xiuying, skewered on the Saber's sword, as her faithful Lancer servant cried out for her in the distance as Monette's ally assaulted him with the Berserker of the time.

Lan sucked in a deep breath. Her hand was bleeding, blood dripping all over her breakfast, and Jun was fussing as he jumped up and ran for the kitchen for the first aid kit. Berserker stared across the coffee table at her, licking her fingers clean of her food, and Lan blinked ever so slowly as she continued to stare at the television. She remembered being so young, seeing the dress her mother made for Xiuying stained red by her godmother's corpse. She remembered, despite it all, the way Xiuying had promised to come and watch Lan perform in a play at the same time the Grail War had begun.

Normand Novel Monette wasn't the winner of the last World Grail War, but he was the undisputed MVP. The people praised him, especially when he survived alongside the actual winner due to his innovative approach to the affair, and all Lan could remember about him was how much he'd made her mother cry when they watched him murder Xiuying in front of the entire world. How the world had cheered for an innocent woman's death, all because she was forced to take on the mantle of master by her family.

Lan let out a low, slow sigh as she slowly plucked the larger pieces of glass from her palm. Berserker stood up and trotted over, curious, and pulled a piece of glass out as well.

"Her dress looked like yours, my lady," Berserker mumbled. She studied the glass, and with an innocent expression, stuck out her tongue to lick the blood off of it like a child sneakily trying to stick their tongue into a power outlet.

Lan looked down at Berserker. Berserker stared up at her, tongue still out and glass still held up in reach.

"Go on, then," Lan sighed. And without hesitation, Berserker slurped what little blood she could get off of the shard. "It's the same dress, anyway."

When Berserker was done, she politely set the glass back into Lan's injured hand. Jun was back beside her, first aid kit in hand, and he sifted through the box for everything he'd need.

Lan sighed again and pressed her fingers to her temple, rubbing small circles into the skin, as Jun finally found the tweezers and began to pull out the shards one by one.

"That woman was a good friend of my mother's, Berserker," Lan explained. Berserker looked back at the TV, intrigued, but Uwe was done showing clips of Normand and Xiuying. "My mother made this dress for her, but it wasn't enough. It was never going to be enough."

Jun's movements were slow and deliberate as he dropped each shard into a small jar of water. Once he was sure he got all of the glass, he set to work dabbing the wounds with disinfectant.

"I managed to repair the dress, but there's only so much one person can fix when it comes to a Grail War," Lan went on. Berserker nodded sagely, though it was very likely the girl didn't understand what Lan was talking about. "But I think I have a better idea of how to go about things now. We've done what we needed to in England—Rider and his master are on their toes, and their allies from Atlas Institute have covered the areas they were lacking. If we want to bring out your full potential as a Berserker, we need to build up more tiers."

Berserker cocked her head to the side, still smiling innocently, and it was apparent that there was nothing—not even a shred of thought—going on behind those big eyes.

"Mousie only needs one more for the next tier, my lady," she chirped. Lan stared down at her, a small smile slowly forming on her face, and she hardly felt the sting of the disinfectant as Jun dabbed the cotton ball against her skin.

"Yes," Lan mumbled. "Just one more misfortune until the next tier. And I have the perfect target to trigger it."

Rome, Italy (Morning)

"Achoo!"

Louis sniffled and wiped at his face with his handkerchief.

He was held at arm's length by Amèlie, the woman disgusted by his fit of sneezing. He couldn't help it, but it wasn't like he could explain away why he was sneezing; Rome was just consistently littered with fresh flowers, and the pollen count was way too high for this kind of weather.

"Whose idea was it to go to Saber, again?" he asked. He folded his handkerchief and tucked it back into his pocket, but even he could tell his nose was still a little red.

"It's a joint blame sort of deal," Amèlie reminded him.

"I don't recall agreeing to that," he mumbled.

"And I don't recall agreeing to walking right into the Vatican without our servant," Amè fired back.

Louis couldn't fault her there.

With Assassin's run-in with Archer, which had cast more doubt on the American master's validity, they were left with few options to do on their own. Citra was no help—not that she ever wanted to be—and all they had was Michael on a good day. What else were they meant to do if they wanted to take Citra's command spell and oust her from the alliance? This wasn't like the silly mock survival shows on television—there were no immunity idols and there was no host to make sure everyone played fairly. They had to pander to a crowd and that crowd included other competitors.

It was just a rather shitty deal that they had to go see Saber and his master when it became apparent that, at the same time as their broadcast in France, Saber had very aggressively staked his claim on his master in front of the Pope and the entire world, practically announcing that he was dragging the young man to his chambers and never leaving until the grail was given to him on a silver platter.

"You put on the cologne I gave you, didn't you?" Amè asked him. Louis scrunched up his face at her.

"Obviously," he scoffed. "Not that I doubt my stunningly good looks and award-winning personality, but why would I pass up some extra help charming someone?"

"I don't see as many people throwing themselves at you," she said.

Louis pouted and stuck his nose in the air. "Well, the cologne only takes effect when you give it a little push," he said. "Didn't your so-called foster mother explain that to you?"

Amè smirked. "Of course not. I'd be making sure it was active at all times." She flicked some hair over her shoulder and adjusted her coat. "Having all eyes on me everywhere I go would be the goal, not one man and his servant."

Louis wasn't one to throw the term "attention whore" around liberally. However…

"I suppose if you want to play it smart and wait for the right moment, you may," Amè went on. "Who am I to dictate what the prestigious Monette family can and cannot do?"

Louis huffed a laugh through his nose. "Royalty, for one."

"Royalty to-be," she reminded him. Amè tucked her hands into her trench coat pockets and moved closer to Louis as they walked. Three paces behind them, on his own, Michael followed them like a vigilant guard. "Don't forget this Grail War is one big test for me. No Grail, no legitimacy."

"Rather tall order for people who have no one else around to sit on a throne," Louis said. Amè hummed in agreement. "It's obvious they want you to bring them the Grail so they can extend their own lives and claims to the throne."

"I suppose Monaco being such a small sovereignty is a silver lining in that instance."

Yes, the smallest after the Vatican, where they were headed now. It was fitting that the two smallest sovereign states reach out in some way to meet in the middle. Even if meeting in the middle meant walking right to the Pope's doorstep with nothing more than a man who may as well be considered Emiya Kiritsugu reincarnated to back them. Michael may have played the fool, but the Director of the Mage's Association warned them of the man known as the High Executioner for good reason.

Louis looked over his shoulder at Michael. Golden eyes stared back, a lazy smile on Michael's face, and Louis tried to smile back politely. Tragically, his charms had little effect on men who were straight—but Michael humoured him sometimes, fetching things for him and offering his insights. Louis just wouldn't hold his breath for anything more, same as how he regarded the perpetually anal Citra.

Michael looked away for a fraction of a second before his smile faltered. Louis slowed down, as did Amè beside him, and when they both turned to face Michael properly, the man waved for them to stop walking.

"Sorry, Princess, but I need to take a few minutes to check something," Michael told Amè. She furrowed her brows, confused, and tilted her head.

"Check what?" she asked.

Michael smiled knowingly.

"The rats in the alleys have many things to say, Princess," he said matter-of-factly. "It would do well to listen when they seek you out first."

Amè and Louis looked at each other. Amè finally sighed and nodded for Michael to go. They stood and waited outside of the cafe he'd stopped them at, and they watched as Michael disappeared into an alley. They couldn't hear him, nor could they see him when they peeked around the building to eavesdrop, and Louis let out a tired sigh when they retreated back to the cafe for a refreshment.

"He's too hard to read sometimes," he complained. Amè ordered an Irish coffee for herself—and she nagged the barista to make sure they used the bottle of Mad March Hare on the top shelf. When the barista looked at Louis, he said, "Doppio. And I want it made from Blue Mountain coffee beans. I don't care if you have to roast it longer, I'm not taking a shitty substitute."

The barista's expression fell at the two's orders. They trudged into the back of the cafe in search of the pricey blends Louis and Amè had demanded.

"So hard to find high quality cafes in Italy," Amè sighed. Louis hummed in agreement. It was like the collective standards of Italy dropped over the years. France would never make a fuss over customers asking for such luxury services.

Their drinks were subpar when they walked out of the cafe. Michael hadn't returned yet, still in the alley—or wherever he'd gone—and Louis let out a low breath as he fixed his sunglasses. He scanned the streets, the sunglasses every so often zooming into buildings and alleyways, and Louis sipped at his doppio. Amè stood beside him, taking a healthy swig of her hot coffee, and she sighed heavily at Michael's absence all the while.

Neither of them was the type to be patient, and Louis was almost disappointed Michael wasn't aware of this. Or that he probably didn't seem to care. Truly, he was Citra's dog through and through.

The more Louis looked around, the more he realised just how empty it was around here. Rome was meant to be a hotbed of tourism thanks to the Vatican, especially by people making pilgrimages to the city-state in the hopes of catching sight of the Pope or touring the Sistine Chapel. Instead, it was just… empty. The only people they'd seen were the occasional passerby and the staff at the cafe.

So when Louis saw people for the first time, he stopped and zoomed in with his sunglasses to check them over. Two nuns flanking a third, the taller ones with veils over their faces like they were in mourning. The nun at the front, with her vibrant red eyes, was unmasked and watching the path ahead as she walked into one building that seemed to be an apartment complex. Louis let out a soft hum.

They were preparing for a fight, he thought, but did they know that the masters of Assassin were here yet? He wondered.

He nudged Amè and she seemed to have seen the same thing. They exchanged smirks, and Amè ran back inside to quickly demand a bottle of water for their travels. When she was back by his side, handing off his water to him, Louis lifted his sunglasses and smiled as he walked across the street. Amè was right behind him, the two of them downing the rest of their coffees as quickly as they could, and they entered no long after the nuns had.

The nuns were on the stairs leading to the second floor, one of them talking in hushed whispers to someone already in the building. From what Louis could see, it was just the four of them—the man talking with the red-eyed nun was calm and collected, if thoughtful based on what she was telling him, and Louis uncapped his water with a smile.

The water rushed out of the bottle and gathered ambient precipitation in the building, growing in size as it zoomed in two large columns towards the veiled nuns and the man. The water slammed into them, throwing them across the room, and Louis felt a satisfaction in hearing the water freeze to ice and pin the man and the nuns to the walls. The red-eyed nun spun on her heel and looked down the stairs, spotting him and Amè immediately.

"You're the French masters," she mumbled. Louis smiled politely and let the cologne begin to take effect. The nun became dazed as he walked closer with Amè beside him. "What are you—"

"We're here to meet Saber," Amè helpfully provided. "I do recall you were on the television when Saber made his very public claim on his master."

"And for your information," Louis added matter-of-factly, "she's Monégasque."

The red-eyed nun gave him a disgruntled look. Louis and Amè proudly smirked up at her.

"What makes you think I'm with Saber?" the red-eyed nun asked. Louis snorted a laugh and hid his smile behind his fist.

"Darling, we're not stupid," he purred. "You've emptied the streets and lured us in here. And as much as Saber likes to play with his toys in public, someone from the Church had to have seen our interview."

The man Louis had hit with the water groaned and muttered something about Saber being annoying.

The red-eyed nun looked at the man and bit her lip. She glanced at the other nuns, and she gripped the front of her habit tightly in her fists.

"What do you want?" she demanded.

"We want to reach an agreement," Amè told her.

"Saber doesn't do agreements."

Louis huffed out another laugh. He looked down at the ground, where he could see the outlines their prey had left behind in their haste. In the small puddle of water on the ground, a pair of eyes not his own stared back at him. The old man's stern expression was hard to shake. Louis took a step forward, disturbing the reflection and smothering the puddle under his shoe.

"We'll just have to make him, then," he cooed.

The red-eyed nun sucked in a deep breath.

"You're risking your lives if you do that," she warned them.

Amè's laughter was almost infectious. It was a hearty laugh, the woman almost doubling over at the warning, and Louis couldn't think of a more fitting thing to tell a gambler such as Amèlie Appiani.

Amè wiped a tear from her eye with one gloved hand. She looked positively giddy. "Choupinette, that means the reward will be even grander."

She reached into her trenchcoat and didn't hesitate to brandish her Baby Browning. Amè aimed up at the red-eyed nun, not even flinching, and shot once. The red-eyed nun jumped out of the way and cried out, "Casval, now!"

The array beneath their feet lit up like a torch, and Louis watched calmly as the earth began to shift and ooze, circling them before snapping up like the jaws of a predator and engulfing them in a makeshift earthen cage.

The red-eyed nun ran towards the man named Casval, only to stop and gawk at the sight below.

The cage had encased their intended target, but that target wasn't Louis and Amè. Louis let out a snort of a laugh, once again hiding his smile behind his hand, and Amè bowed as the last of his veil of mist faded. What had been caged was a mere pair of dolls enchanted to look like them—Louis was skilled enough in illusions, but to have trickery also be part of Amè's skillset? Why, it was laughable how quickly the red-eyed nun had believed it was truly them standing on the trap set by Casval.

Amè stood back up to her full height. She giggled, and with the confidence of a seasoned performer, she announced, "And now, ladies and gentlemen, for our next trick! Some good old fashioned sleight of hand!"

She pulled a deck of cards from her pocket and, one by one, the cards lifted themselves from her hand and circled the duo like birds flocking to feed. The cards spun and multiplied, half of them real while the rest were facsimiles powered by Louis's skills, and as soon as Amè darted forward to run up the stairs, the cards followed suit.

The red-eyed nun went to block a card that came for her face—only to find it pass through her like a spectre. And so were the second and third, and as Amèlie reached the top of the stairs, the red-eyed nun was confident enough to try to attack. She lunged forward, eyes on Amèlie's gun, but before she could grab for it, three cards landed on her habit and began to glow. Amè jumped aside, past the nun, and Louis could only watch as the nun squeezed her eyes shut before the cards exploded.

"I'll take care of the ones up top," Amè called down to Louis. "You have fun with the rest."

The nun tumbled down the stairs, unconscious and covered in burns, and most of her habit had been burned away to show a mystic code beneath acting as armour. Louis let out a small sigh and ran a hand through his hair. Have fun, she said. Wasn't this just leaving all the heavy lifting to Louis until Michael picked the right moment to chime in?

The moisture in the air was his to manipulate, and a sizable orb of water hovered above his hand before splitting into three. He spun them with movements of his hand not unlike Baoding balls, and Louis stepped away from the puddle to wander through the first floor.

"Now then," Louis said to himself. He ambled over to the nun leisurely, the balls of water spinning as he pondered aloud. "For someone from the Church, you're rather unarmed and useless. What did those old journals say again? That the Pope was desperately looking for the last vessel during the previous war? I do wonder about that…"

He knelt down and lifted the shirt that was under her habit. Louis charged his hand with mana, the circuits beneath his skin glowing a bright blue, and when he pressed his hand against the nun's skin, a far more complex series of circuits lit up in response. Measuring was easy—and the ballpark she fell into was far from the average magus.

Louis smiled and merged the three orbs of water together. With a flick of his wrist, the water took the shape of a large scalpel and hardened at the tip to form a blade.

"Much appreciated for presenting yourself to us, mon bijou," he told her. "We'll take good care of your heart for you."

"Set."

Louis's heart jumped up into his throat. And his legs soon followed, his whole body flying back just before the gigantic blade of the Black Key landed where he'd been kneeling. This must've been the master of Saber, he thought as he stood back up. The enlarged Black Key had something on the hilt, and when Louis readied the water to capture it, two more Black Keys were thrown up into the air as the same voice repeated the incantation, "Set."

The Black Keys froze midair and a pair of glyphs materialised behind them. The blades were pointed at Louis, and he frowned as he took stance. This was a bit unfair, wasn't it? The master himself fighting Louis while Amè had fun toying with his allies?

Three more Black Keys were thrown up into the air, each one held up by a glyph and aimed towards Louis. A face peeked out from behind the larger blade embedded into the ground, gold eyes watching Louis through the dust, and Louis did his best to compose himself as he bowed in greeting.

"You must be the master of Saber," he said. The master of Saber said nothing. "I take it peace talks are off the table for the time being?"

Three blades rose, likely held between each knuckle on his hand. Louis let out a slow breath and readied for a fight.

"Violence it is, then—"

A form darted out from the other side of the blade. Louis whirled towards them, flicking blades of ice towards the retreating figure—a woman who was carrying the nun, and he managed to see three shards cut at her hair, her face, her leg. Almost as soon as he did, though, one of the Black Keys was fired directly at his position. He jumped back as the Black Key landed just shy of his foot—only to notice a light from a glyph behind him. As Louis whirled around and knocked the second Black Key away just before it could reach him from behind, the master of Saber darted out from his side of the giant blade.

So it was playing keep away with the grail, was it?

He jumped forward and sprinted towards the master, the water splitting into two and forming blades. The Black Keys rained down upon him, but each instance was a near-miss as mirages of Louis began to litter the ground floor and taint the master's perception. He watched the master run behind the stairs, towards one of the sets of tables and chairs further back in the building, and it dawned on Louis that this had to have been a real estate office that was cleared out for such a confrontation. He took note of a poster on one wall for a home selling for almost a million euros before his focus was back on the master, and he looked up again just in time to see a chair being thrown in his direction.

Louis sliced upwards, the chair splitting in half and landing either side of him, and he shaped the water into a hand as he reached for the master. The master pulled up the hood of his jacket and dove behind one desk, but like a viper striking its prey, the liquid hand slammed behind the desk and managed to grab the master in its icy grip.

As he slowed to a jog and then a walk, Louis let out a sigh and called the arm back to him. The master was still, looking to be unconscious, and his head was slumped down with the hood still in place. For a pesky little thing trained to use Black Keys, he was certainly easy to take down, Louis thought. He stumbled forward and reached for the hood, expecting to see the same dark skin and hair, but instead all he saw was smooth silver.

"Huh?" Louis grabbed the silver, lifting it, and the silver skull broke away from the clay body it was attached to beneath the layers of clothes.

He barely heard the footfalls as something crashed into him from behind. All he knew was that he felt intense pain in his side as the blade of a Black Key pierced his midsection.

Louis panicked. A warm body was pressed against his back, wedging the Black Key deeper, and the silver skull opened its jaws to bite down on his hand. In the reflection of the silver, that same stern face watched him with disappointment and contempt.

He shoved himself backwards and managed to jostle the master's grip from the Black Key, and as soon as he did, Louis whirled around and slugged him in the face with the silver skull. The master stumbled, but he didn't fall. Louis breathed heavily, his body on fire from the pain and stress, and he flicked out at the master with two fingers. The torrent of water slashed at him, the master barely dodging each slash, and with each dodge he would try to close the distance between himself and Louis.

Enough of this. His patience had its limits, small as they were.

The moisture in the entire ground floor gathered into a massive wave, and Louis all but launched the torrent of water at the master. The master was unable to dodge, but he seemed to have one last Black Key at his disposal, so small he'd been able to hide it in his pocket. The Black Key landed on the ground in front of him, and the blade expanded just enough to provide cover from the flash flood. Louis clicked his tongue, displeased, and drew the water back towards him. The Black Key tumbled over from the backwards and forwards motions, and when it fell, Louis lost sight of the master.

He shook his head, face scrunched up.

"How the fuck—"

The ceiling above him groaned. When he looked up, he saw more of those damn Black Keys embedded in the foundation. As it collapsed with the help of an array from the alchemist upstairs, Louis wrapped himself in the water entirely and froze it. He was plunged into darkness as the ice shielded him from the debris, and he seethed as he debated his next steps.

"Keep your eye on the birdy!" As the skeleton collided with her, her body turned into doves that flew in all directions from her trench coat. Casval wiped some blood from his face and looked around frantically. He hated these showman types. Always so slippery.

Casval felt the gun pressed to his back. He heard a seductive whisper of, "I told you to keep your eye on the birdy, handsome."

The pistol fired, point blank into his back, and it was a small miracle that his coat was able to be reinforced so quickly. Casval turned and elbowed the woman in the face, disorienting her, and he quickly wrestled the gun from her hand. He jumped back, aimed the small gun at her, and he pulled the trigger without even wavering.

A small explosion of glitter was fired instead of a bullet.

Casval was confused as he watched the small cloud of glitter ever so slowly descend to the ground, but he was on high alert again when he saw the woman smirking before clicking her fingers. Like the cards from earlier, the glitter caused a chain explosion right in front of Casval. His hand was burned, his grip on the gun lost, and Eliza picked him up just in time to jump away from the tail end of the explosion.

This plan was one of the worse ones Saber had come up with, but it wasn't the stupidest. Eliminating two masters right now made it easier to thin the competition, especially when these masters were away from their servant. Casval's insistence on placing traps and evacuating the area had proven fruitful, but there was only so much he and Maria could do in preparation when Saber was too busy taking up his master's time with frivolous things. Passionately staking his claim of Sudi by making out in front of all of the world aggressively was one thing, but to prevent Sudi from taking his lessons from Casval by sleeping with him almost nonstop? Things like that caused situations like these, damn it!

Casval clicked his tongue when he felt his connection to Ahriman adjust itself. The clay body he'd crafted for the skull had been separated from it, and Casval sent out a command to injure the enemy master as much as possible with what was available.

The woman walked towards him with a smile on her face, high heels click-clacking against the floor.

"For my next trick," she announced, "I shall disappear."

Casval hopped out of Eliza's grip and left the skull to join its fellow on the other side of the room. He'd dressed Eliza and Anette in the nuns' habit to help lure out the masters, and while Lao was down below with Sudi, Casval had no choice but to leave the other three to protect Maria and Beatrice as they fled.

"Watch closely now," she teased Casval. He gritted his teeth and knelt down to manipulate the concrete again, plenty more arrays left in the building to trap her in a proper cage. But as soon as the arrays lit up, bathing the second floor in a soft glow, Casval was caught off guard and paused, tensions running high and eyes searching desperately.

He hadn't even blinked and she'd just vanished. He wasn't so stupid as to be fooled by illusions, but the dedication to showmanship and trickery made it a little more difficult to keep up than normal. Casval called his Silver Skulls to his side, both Eliza and Anette covering him with their clay bodies. He peeked through the small gaps, running through his options over and over. Sudi was below, and separating the masters was the goal of their plan. The Black Keys were passable as makeshift shields. Sudi had Lao with him, too, and judging by the way Lao had separated from the clay body Casval had crafted, priority was going to disarming the mage.

If he could just find a way to keep this one from vanishing and exploding everything…

All of his focus went to his senses and reflexes. He closed his eyes, steadying his breathing, and somewhere in the room he could hear the soft click-clacking from earlier.

Right behind his ear, she let out a short puff of air and whispered, "I can't dazzle you with your eyes closed."

Casval whirled around and she jumped back, as predicted. What he hadn't predicted was powder to be thrown into his face, the small bag landing at his feet. Casval coughed and immediately encased the woman in the clay that made up Anette and Eliza's bodies. She was entombed, wrapped up with nowhere to go, and Casval was almost relieved as he felt himself stumble. The ball of clay landed on the ground with a heavy thud.

He coughed chestily into his arm, his eyes watering, and as Casval looked down at the small burlap bag at his feet, he was horrified when he made out a string of ingredients on the warning label attached to it—sarin, soman, tuban.

"You—" He dropped to his knees, the sensation in his hands already fading. He could feel his face sagging. "Used a—a fucking nerve agent?"

From inside the ball of clay, Casval could hear cracking and crunching. His hold over the clay was becoming weaker, and he was struggling to breathe when he saw her kick a hole through the bottom of the sphere with her high heels. Suddenly it was no longer Casval controlling the clay, but the woman herself, and she slammed the clay onto the ground with a very grandiose flick of her arms, standing among the fray with a proud smile on her face.

"You aren't the only one with an affinity for Earth," she said smugly. "But don't worry, handsome. It's an extremely diluted nerve agent. You'll be ready for round two after a breather."

She winked. Casval sucked in a deep breath. As the last of his capacity began to fade, he looked down at the floor—at the array he had left to activate. He supposed with Sudi's penchant for finding ways to survive, a little bit of scorched earth wouldn't hurt. If he had to make an assessment of the master below, too, there was a very high likelihood of this woman being caught in the crossfire due to his negligence.

The clay began to move and warp, forming chains that circled around her. Casval pressed himself to the floor, pushing all of his mana into the array, and the ground beneath them began to rumble and groan as the chains were wound tightly around him. As soon as he felt the ground move beneath him, already beginning to fall down onto the floor below, his attention moved to the chains that were wrapped around him. This woman was definitely formidable, but she had far less experience than Casval did. He was a seasoned alchemist of Atlas Institute, whose affinity for Earth allowed him to bind and sever as he pleased. As the woman ran for the window, only to fall with the rest of the floor, Casval pushed himself beyond his limits and sent lines of the chain rocketing to the ceiling.

The success rate was low, given his exhaustion and the nerve agent all but rendering him useless, but the fact remained that he succeeded anyway. He dangled from the ceiling like a fly in a spider's web, and he fell limp in his safety net made from the confines of his opponent's snare.

All he could do was watch from that point on, and pathetically watch he did—no sooner had the floor collapsed and Casval had saved himself, a new contender entered the fray. The bounded field erected around the building must have been weakened, he thought, and his stomach dropped at the sight of the man who climbed through the window and brought passengers along with him. Unconscious and slung over his shoulder was Beatrice, and struggling to breathe, on the verge of passing out, was Maria, trapped in a headlock with his other arm. She was clawing at him, the exoskeleton he wore under his jacket and the prosthetic arm taking almost no damage from her attempts to flee with Beatrice, and Casval stared blankly at the man.

He wished so much that he had enough energy to take him down as well. Casval knew the High Executioner, a man who may as well be the second coming of the Magus Killer, was a formidable foe for all of them—it was why he'd hoped the bounded field would keep him out. But it seemed even that wasn't enough, and Michael Montes smiled politely at him as he tiptoed around on the pieces of the floor still attached to the walls and foundations.

"Just hangin' around, I see," Michael joked. Casval wished he could give him a hard glare. It was bad enough he was paralysed, but to be subject to terrible puns while he was at it? There was a limit to his patience.

Casval's eyes darted below, and he could see the woman passed out among the debris and half-submerged in the flood on the ground floor. Sudi and the other master were still darting about, every so often a Black Key being thrown to keep distance between Sudi and the pink-haired mage. Maria's legs stopped kicking, and as soon as her eyes rolled back, Michael dropped her onto the nearby solid ground left behind from the floor collapse. Beatrice was still slung over his shoulder, no sign of waking up any time soon, and Casval watched as Michael hummed to himself and jumped down into the fray.

Michael landed right on top of Sudi, practically stomping him into the water after he'd dodged an icicle thrown at him by the mage, and Casval heard frantic splashing as Michael lazily held him down and regarded the mage.

"Tut, tut," Michael drawled. "You and the little princess are so impatient. Look how pathetic you two are right now."

The mage's anger flared. "Where the hell were you!?"

"I told you—the rats in the alleys have many things to say. It would do you well to listen."

Michael patted Beatrice's back with the hand holding her up.

"What would you two do if you'd accidentally killed the grail vessel?" Michael was very matter-of-fact with his speaking. "Her family line is very precious, you know. There's no backup if this one dies."

"I was going to remove her heart," the mage huffed. "We have plenty of creatures to insert it into. Control it."

"Can't control a force of nature. But I like your thinking."

The splashing beneath Michael began to slow down. In the back of his mind, Casval felt himself panic as he lost track of almost all of his rooms. Only one remained functional, the nerve agent potentially dulling his mental capacity, and all the room could cycle through was one train of thought: Where was Saber right now?

It seemed the assailants below wanted to spell it out for him—or perhaps the mage himself hadn't noticed either, in the heat of the moment.

"Where's the servant?" he asked. He was fixing his hair and trying to calm himself down.

Michael smiled sweetly. "I know how to set up a Bounded Field around a building, at least. Not for long, though. The Director was kind enough to supply me with a Mystic Code that would handle sectioning off a small area for a short amount of time. Not everyone is perfect."

"Not everyone is the scion of a great magus dynasty and legacy master in the Grail War," the mage pointed out.

Montes's smile was condescending as his face crinkled up. "Is that what your ol' pops tells you?"

The mage was quiet as he stared at him. Casval could swear he saw his eye twitch.

"You know what—" the mage began, only to stop when a flash of red from beneath the water blinded them momentarily.

Michael was quick to jump off of Sudi without even saying a word. The mage was still dumbfounded as the final player entered the foray—Saber materialised where Michael had been standing, manic and livid and a presence that took up the whole room just from his expression alone. One clawed gauntlet dipped beneath the water, yanking Sudi out by the back of his shirt, and when Sudi surfaced he was choking and gasping for air.

Saber chucked Sudi towards the woman, who was still unconscious atop the rubble. Sudi landed with a grunt, pained, and Casval met his eye when the young man looked up above to the suspended blond. Without words spoken aloud, it seemed Saber relayed an order to Sudi; Sudi snapped back to attention, pulling one last Black Key from his sleeve, and held it over the woman's throat as he watched Saber and the two men with wide eyes.

Casval could understand why Saber was angry. Saber often reminded Sudi to never waste his command spells, and to need to use one just to bypass a temporary Bounded Field on the off chance he died before it went down was enough to qualify as wasteful. On top of it all, if Casval had learned one thing about the Roman tyrant, he was possessive. He hated people touching his things, let alone breaking them, and with both his master and his grail so close to being lost in one failed ambush, there was bound to be more than a few nerves being struck right now.

Saber slammed a fist into his open palm, eyes glued to the master. Saber had a short temper, but this was beyond a simple tantrum.

"You dare," Saber seethed, "to covet what belongs to me? Me? The man his people called Caesar? The Sword Emperor himself?"

Saber moved within the blink of an eye. He was standing near Sudi for half a beat, then the next he was in front of the mage with his fist reared back and his sights set on the pink-haired man. Michael watched, impressed, as the mage managed to put a small sheet of ice between himself and Saber—but Casval thought it was useless, because in the end, Saber still slugged him in the jaw and sent him flying through the wall of the building, outside into the open.

No, Casval thought after a moment, it was probably useful in some sense. Without something to slow Saber's fist by such a fraction, the mage would've had his neck broken from the impact.

Saber's sights were set on Michael, and rather than charge forward blindly, he was mindful of the now-hostage in Michael's possession.

"Give me one reason to refrain from a scorched earth attack," Saber growled.

Michael smiled innocently.

"Ah," he drawled, "maybe I can give you a good fight?"

Saber inhaled sharply. "You jest."

"I won't go down in one blow, at least," Michael tried again. "I promise you at least five good punches before I go down."

The servant wasn't impressed.

"You wrong me tenfold," Saber reminded him, "and you claim it's just to offer me a good fight?"

"Oh, never. The wronging was wholly on the part of my employers. I was busy meeting with a contact." Michael adjusted his grip on Beatrice and chuckled heartily. "Offering a better fight than most useless magi can manage is my way of apologising."

Saber's nose twitched. He looked over at Sudi. Sudi had recovered a bit, still breathing heavily, and his grip on the Black Key was steady. Saber nodded up to Casval, and when Sudi looked up at him again, he seemed to take stock of the situation.

"Casval's been paralysed, I think," Sudi reported. "And Maria—I think she's unconscious."

Michael seemed to react to the name Maria. For the briefest of moments, his expression softened. But it was back to that same lazy smile again as he lowered Beatrice to show her front to Saber.

"The little princess has probably given the grail some minor burns, too," he told Saber. "I don't know the details for the paralysis, though, but if the young master Sudi would check her pockets…"

With one hand, Sudi patted down the woman's clothes and emptied every pocket he could find. He didn't even pause when he unbuttoned her shirt, revealing the top half of a corset beneath, and he only offered a muttered apology as he reached down the corset to check. He finally seemed to find something, pulling a small vial of liquid from between her breasts, and Sudi cringed for just a moment.

"That must be the medicine for it," Michael supplied helpfully. "A good magician has to keep some handy when using more illicit props like drugs."

Saber held out one hand to Michael. Michael, with a chuckle, passed Beatrice to him. In another flash, Saber was by Sudi's side and held his hand at his knee, offering him a step to the second floor. Sudi was thrown up by Saber with the vial, and Casval was relieved that he was within reach for Sudi to catch when he used the Black Key to cut him free of the chains. He couldn't see what was happening below now that he was laid into a recovery position, fed the medicine to combat the nerve agent, but he was at least laid within sight of Maria as Sudi checked her for a pulse.

If it was just them and the masters of France and Monaco, perhaps this plan would've been more successful. But when Michael had left the picture, Casval had foolishly hoped he wouldn't interfere without direct orders to do so. But when you were someone like the Fallingstar—the High Executioner, capable of being a one-man army—waiting for instructions wasn't in the repertoire.

Maria was still breathing as Sudi propped her head up properly, and he quickly got to work using what magical energy he had at his disposal to heal the wounds around her neck. Ever so slowly the bruising faded, as did the sores on her fingers and lips from clenching her teeth too hard, and for once Casval was proud of the progress his student had made.

Sudi wasn't skilled in more offensive magecraft—Casval wondered if his Origin outright destroyed any chance of even using jewels with predetermined spells imbued into them. He seemed more capable of manipulating his luck to survive, and when Casval, on a whim, had asked him to try to heal a papercut by focusing his magical energy into the cut, that was where they'd found his true talent. How ironic, Casval had thought, that the young man who'd been cursed in a way that only a first-rate spiritual healer could cure had the very same potential as his would-be saviour if Saber hadn't been summoned.

Maria's breathing evened out. Casval could feel the ground he was laying on, and below, he could hear Saber still giving Michael warnings. Casval was certain they'd be stuck there all day while they waited for the small stalemate to end, but as soon as Saber raised his voice again, angered, the woman was thrown unceremoniously up onto the second floor. She landed face-first on the ground, blood pouring from her nose and a large scrape about her brow.

"Tie that one up while you're at it!" Saber commanded, and Sudi rolled his eyes as he gently laid Maria back down.

renren_writes · Apr 8, 2023

09

Monaco-Ville, Mocano (Morning)

"On the phone." Anzu was running around the office frantically as Citra stared at the screen in front of them. "Get him on the phone. I want him on the phone right now."

The jet owned by the Van-Alphen family didn't see action often. Wealthy as they were, Citra's family never truly needed to leave their labs and mansions for supplies or meetings—correspondence was passed through ciphers and servants bound by geis, and long-standing alliances with other magi in the shadows often filled any voids in supply and demand. No, the jet was more of a personal expense that would be used for holidays at the best of times, and Citra regretted that today would mark the end of a long streak spanning generations of the jet never seeing use in an emergency.

But everyone except for herself and Assassin being stupid was one hell of an emergency.

The jet was built with an office rather than a lounge and bar so work could continue until the very last second before vacation began, and Citra sat in the leather chair in its middle with murder in her eye. Anzu had been busy contacting people—namely Citra's parents, who were opinionated on this shaky alliance they'd agreed to with the Monette family and Monagesque royalty.

The scene displayed before Citra was one of the rebuilt Roman Colosseum, two figures standing in the middle of the massive battleground as people piled into the seats around its perimeter. Seeing Saber wasn't a surprise, given that he owned the place, but when she'd seen Michael standing in the arena with him, shrugging off his coat with an easygoing smile, Citra's blood had begun to boil. And then to see the two incompetent masters she was allied with, handcuffed to the rails of the VIP booth they were sitting within, all while the enemy master kept a close eye on them? Oh, the audacity!

She could see Michael still had his phone with him. His hands-free device was still in his ear, and he made a small motion to put his hand in his pocket when Anzu called him the first time. But he ignored her calls, instead talking to Saber with that carefree look on his face, and Citra's fingers began to tear at the armrest of her desk chair. Leather tore and filling spilled out, and Citra stood up with a growl.

Seeing as the hands-free device was of her own design, it was child's play for Citra to make it answer her call when Anzu failed a fourth time to make him pick up. The mechanical eyepatch on her right eye opened, and she pulled the core into her desk with a heavy frown. The line buzzed once, and then she was watching Michael flinch on the screen as he was interrupted mid-sentence.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" she barked.

"Shit, little miss, I didn't know you could do that," Michael hissed.

"Answer the question, Montes."

Michael looked around, one hand reaching up for the device, and he seemed to want to pull it out. But as soon as he saw one of the cameras pointed at him and Saber, he smiled playfully and waved up at it.

"You're watching my big performance? Shucks, I feel like a kid at his first recital."

"Who the hell are you talking to?" Saber asked in the background.

"Oh, my boss. She's a real hardass when it comes to business."

"Your attention should be on me, fool." Citra watched as Saber turned on his heel to walk away. "You promised you wouldn't go down in a single blow, and I promise to kill all three of you if you can't even deliver that much."

Michael did what? Citra rubbed at her forehead with a pained sigh.

"Michael, what the fuck happened?" she asked, calmer now. No use getting snappy with Micahel—the man would just double down with his clownery and run off to do what he wanted, and Citra could only do so much from this far away.

She glanced at the map on her phone. About two minutes out of Rome. She charted a course for the colosseum, and then selected a landing zone just a little farther away to minimise the jet's damages.

Now that Michael was responding, though, Citra could unplug the wires from the mana core in her eye socket. The eyepatch slid back in place with a whir, and Citra stood up as she continued to listen to Michael.

"Well, the princess and the so-called scion of a noble magus family," Michael drawled, "jumped into an ambush with the idea of overpowering the ambushers."

Unbelievable.

"God, they're incompetent," Citra muttered. She stormed to the back of the jet, where Anzu was pulling her suitcases from the racks, and the largest one was set down in front of Citra. Each suitcase had different prosthetics in them, all of them built for different purposes. Regular arms and legs, hidden blades beneath said arms and legs, small peashooters, reinforced hands and feet, claws and talons. But what Citra needed right now was something better. "They make a plan to turn the public against me and join hands with Saber's master, and then they try to kill Saber's master?"

"Monkeys and typewriters, little miss," Michael drawled.

"Their plan wasn't exactly Shakespeare."

"It was the thought that counts."

She begged to differ.

"How long can you hold out against Saber?" she asked him. Michael made a very amused sound, and he paused—likely to walk away and get ready.

"I'm confident I can last a couple of minutes," Michael decided. "But any longer and this poor fool will have another arm to donate for science."

Citra let out a soft huff and opened the suitcase. The large limbs of Anima Galatea stared back up at her, and she looked over at Anzu. Anzu waited for instruction, not even bothering to ask if Citra was certain this was what she wanted to do, and when Citra nodded, Anzu set to work pulling each limb out and placing them where Citra could reach. The chest guard was placed over Citra's torso, and Citra unclasped her legs—handing each one to Anzu without a second thought. She slid one thigh into the left leg of Anima Galatea. It clicked into place, the mystic code coming to life with a citrus yellow glow, and then she slid her other thigh into its twin.

She stood taller than Anzu when equipping the legs, and Anzu lifted the arms of Anima Galatea to slot against Citra's upper arms. They too came to life with that same citrus yellow glow, and Citra ficked her hair over her shoulder once she was done flexing the hands and testing the legs.

She looked at the map on her screen. Ten seconds. Citra looked at the feed of the fight. It hadn't started yet.

"Little miss? I need to head off now. Saber was promised a fight, and I can't hold up my end of our deal if he just kills me on the spot for delaying."

Citra walked over to the door of the jet. It was wide, large enough to fit the large equipment in the jet that needed upkeep and replacing every few years.

"I'll be there soon," she told Michael. "Anzu is sending you coordinates to your phone. Try to keep Saber in that general section of the colosseum."

"Little miss?"

She didn't hang up. The mechanical eyepatch whirred. It cycled through the vision types before landing on something that displayed an analysis of longitude, latitude, sea level and wind direction.

Citra sniffed.

"Sixty-eight feet above sea level," she muttered. "I'll be there in twenty-nine thousand."

"Twenty-what?"

She opened the door and jumped out.

The wind battered her face, and Citra kept her real eye closed as the prosthetic mana core calculated everything for her. Anima Galatea was doing its best to minimize any injuries from the fall, its cooling system working overtime to prevent her from burning up. She wasn't jumping in from outside the atmosphere, but almost thirty thousand feet was no small distance. The numbers were crunched and quickly dipped from twenty-nine thousand to twenty-thousand.

Anzu sent the information of Saber's location to her prosthetic. Citra's eye, from this distance, began to search for the highest mana signatures below to lock onto.

She was knocked a little off course by a harsh gust of wind, and Citra rolled back on course with a hefty grunt. Fifteen thousand feet.

The prosthetic eye was finally able to lock onto a mana signature and adjust her coordinates appropriately. Ten thousand feet.

Citra enhanced her physical body with reinforcement magic and allowed Anima Galatea to activate its shock absorbers. Five thousand feet.

A burst of light below from Saber using one of his skills, likely hoping to kill Michael in one shot. Two thousand feet.

"Little miss!" Michael yelled into his hands-free device. "How long did you say you'd be?"

"One thousand."

"A thousand what!?"

"Nine hundred."

The hannya masks littered all over Anima Galata began to expel massive amounts of heat, slowing Citra's descent considerably. She could make out Saber's mana signature better now without the tracker telling her where it was, and it was a harsh red that reminded her of spider lilies. Citra continued to adjust her course as he moved around, and she could see a portion of the colosseum explode with debris out onto the street.

Son of a…

"Seven hundred," Citra told Michael. She heard him groan, and then saw Saber leave the colosseum in hot pursuit.

"The exoskeleton is still holding up," Michael reported. Good. The Clock Tower's Director didn't send her a magus killer with lackluster armour. Citra pursed her lips. "I'm using the feature you added to my arm—"

"I told you," Saber seethed, close enough that he was practically talking to Citra through the device, "to keep your attention on me."

More debris flying everywhere. Citra gritted her teeth as she watched Saber's signature move again. The hannya masks let out a burst of air, allowing Citra to correct her course.

"I—I'm alive," Michael groaned.

"Two hundred," Citra told him.

At the rate this was going, Michael wasn't going to be able to use the feature Citra added to the Director's prosthetic arm. Michael was capable of a smaller scale version of what Anima Galatea could do, but his arm wasn't built for the capabilities Anima Galatea was. The additional core inside of it that Citra made from his disembodied arm, sent by the Director in a velvet-lined box along with Michael in tow, only did so much for the man who relied more on his wits than his magical power to kill a mage.

One hundred feet.

Citra could see Saber clearly.

Micahel spoke in her ear, panting and sputtering. He was listing his injuries from each blow Saber dealt. And then, smugly, the skills Saber was most likely using.

Not once did Michael list Clairvoyance and Instinct.

Seventy-five feet.

Citra manually stopped Anima Galatea from slowing her descent. The heat stopped seeping out of the masks' mouths, and Citra flattened herself to fall faster.

Thirty feet.

Anima Galatea glowed brighter as she flexed her hands. She saw Michael lifted off the ground by Saber, and Saber lifted his sword with his other hand as the blade glowed that same harsh red—preparing to use his noble phantasm.

Twenty feet.

With one final boost, Citra released a burst of air from the soles of Anima Galatea's feet. She shot forward, arms outstretched, and was able to see Michael's expression turn into that of surprise as he looked past Saber and right at her.

Impact.

Citra crashed into Saber with enough force to throw them both into the building in front of Saber. He kept his hold on Michael, dragging the bloodied man with them as they bounced through buildings and destroyed businesses in their wake. One arm of Anima Galatea was firmly around Saber's waist, the other reaching for Saber's sword as the noble phantasm fizzled out and deactivated.

Saber lost his grip on Michael mid-tumble as they fell down a steep decline, crashing into cars and bouncing off of vans before finally they were up in the air again, flailing about wildly.

"I'm following!" she heard Michael say in her ear. She couldn't quite tell if he was or not, but when they flipped and rolled some more down the hill—Saber's hand pulling at her hair and Citra's mystic code just about breaking through his skin—she could barely make out the shimmer of Michael's exoskeleton in the distance, chasing after them as best as he could.

"Unhand me!" Saber snapped. They stumbled to a stop, just before the road leading to the River Tiber, and he lifted Citra off of her feet once his free hand dismissed his sword and grabbed her by the shoulder.

Citra gritted her teeth and sent a command to the mystic code. The hannya masks expelled a massive burst of heat and air, propelling them up into the air and into a stumble once again, and this time Citra aimed for the River Tiber. Saber may have had many skills at his disposal, but he wasn't an aquatic being. Short of being a child of the god Neptune, no Roman tyrant could boast the ability to breathe underwater and an advantage within its depths.

Saber cursed and punched Citra in the face. Citra took it like a champ, her fingers digging into his side even more, and she saw blood seep through his armour and onto her mystic code. She managed to grab onto one of his arms when he swung for another punch, and she wasted no time in breaking it. Anima Galatea's fingers snapped shut and clenched down like a vice, the hydraulics hissing loudly enough to drown out Saber's scream.

And then they plummeted, landing in the River Tiber gracelessly.

Bubbles flew out of Saber's mouth as he yelled at her, his broken arm still caught in her grip. A cloud of red appeared between them, the wound on Saber's side bleeding heavily enough to require medical attention, and Citra watched as the blood stopped seeping abruptly and the wound tried to close around her fingers.

Now.

The hannya masks lit up altogether, illuminating the dark water of the river and displaying Saber's face clearly to her. The mystic code whirred as the eyes of the hannya masks lit up brighter, and Citra smirked at Saber as he glared back.

And then Saber was in shock, expression pained as Anima Galata began to drain him of his Od.

She'd expected a lot, given he was a servant, but the faster it was drained from Saber, the more Citra's ambition grew. More, she thought as her lungs cried for air and begged her to leave the river. More.

She needed more power.

Citra could see Saber weakening as she sucked him dry. His pained expression still made it look like he was struggling, but there was an undeniable anger in his eyes as he glared down at Citra. They sank further and further into the river. And when their feet finally touched the ground, the very bottom of the river, Citra's prosthetic reported that they'd only sank around ten feet in total. But as it monitored her vitals, it also demanded a minimum of five feet between herself and the surface of the lake before she began to experience brain damage from a lack of oxygen.

Saber's eyes flashed red. Citra's eye widened. She sucked the last bit of Od she could out of him before activating the soles of Anima Galatea, and they were propelled up through the water and towards the surface at high speed. As soon as they breached the surface, hovering midair for a brief moment, she saw something flash over Saber's body. His mana signature spiked, and Citra threw him back into the water with a massive force behind her blow—just in time before a ball of heat and flame burst out from Saber, the shockwave throwing Citra off-balance and towards dry land again.

Saber dropped into the water just before the burst of mana, and Citra could only watch as Michael joined her, pulled her to her feet, while the River Tiber began to evaporate under the intense heat and begin to engulf the area with steam. But it wasn't normal steam, Citra noted. She covered her nose and Michael's, noting the rotting smell from the fine mist, and her skin began to burn and blister when it made contact with her.

She felt a tug at her arm. She looked down. Michael was pointing to where her prosthetics ended and her skin began, and she was unsurprised to see the flesh begin to necrotise.

This bastard not only had a divine sword as his noble phantasm, but his mana took on demonic properties. What a contradictory existence he was.

Through the steam, red eyes glowed as Saber stared at them. Citra prepared for a fight, for Saber to try and attack them—and attack, he did. His sword glowed by his side as the water of the River Tiber began to flow past him, the remnants untouched by his mana trying to fill what was drained from the influx of steam. It glowed white, briefly, as Saber announced the name of his noble phantasm, and then it turned red—as red as blood, as the spider lilies Citra was reminded of.

Saber lifted the sword with one hand. She heard cracking and snapping as his other arm repaired itself, no longer broken.

"Floras," Saber seethed, pointing the tip of his sword at Michael and Citra, "Florent."

Citra wasn't able to see the extent of what his noble phantasm could do. All she was able to see in the brief moment she and Michael analysed the situation was a beam of red light hurtling towards them from the river as Saber was submerged once again. And then, all of a sudden, the beam split into four—mimicking the petals of a lily as they splayed open in bloom, before finally descending upon Michael and Citra from all angles.

Michael grabbed Citra and drew her close to him, doing his best to make himself a human shield. Citra watched him, bewildered, as he reached up with his prosthetic arm and let it glow to life with the Soulstone she'd implanted inside of it. Was he planning to absorb the attack? Theoretically, it was possible. But only if the attack was pure Od, not mana, and while it would take up the master's magical energy to make such an attack happen, there was a difference between sapping the master's life force through the familiar and trying to absorb a concentrated attack made from converted magical energy.

It was a very heroic attempt at blocking the attack. But Citra wasn't able to theorise quite yet if Michael's efforts were in vain. The ground beneath them opened up, not unlike a rabbit hole, and both Citra and Michael sank into the hole just before Floras Florent would make contact. One moment all Citra could see was red, demonic red, and the next there was only darkness as the ground swallowed them whole and sealed them away from the outside world.

Sacramento, California, United States of America (Morning)

One month ago

This was the little miss?

Michael stepped off the plane with his suitcase slung over his shoulder. The private airport he'd been dropped off at was nothing to shirk at, and the funds the Director had used to send him to Sacramento weren't small. But the person he was meeting? Yeah, that was what you'd call small.

He let out a short breath and walked over to the sign being held up by a blond man who resembled her greatly. A brother? Perhaps a distant relative? Who knew with these mage families? Michael spent too much time doing dirty work for organisations and cleanup to bother paying attention to how their family structures worked. Even now, doing the Director's dirty work in handling rogue magi and nurturing his talents for the Grail War, Michael knew next to nothing about the families he interacted with and who was in charge of what.

The drive to the mansion was quiet and tense. Michael kept to himself, his one arm propped against the door as he stared out the window, and he couldn't help staring at the little miss every so often. All four limbs were replaced with silver prosthetics, so expertly crafted that they acted like real limbs as she moved and sifted through Michael's resume.

He wondered how she'd lost hers. He wondered if she'd ask how he lost his.

Michael was certain his resume explained why anyway.

It wasn't until they were actually in the Van-Alphen mansion that he was addressed properly by the little miss. She nodded to his suitcase—where his arm was stored—and deigned to ask him, "Who made it?"

Michael looked her up and down. "It says on the paperwork—"

"I know the fools from the Association made it," the little miss cut him off. "I'm asking if you know which fool it was. The Association Director claims you've been training to get used to it while fighting, but if it was made by who I suspect, then it'll be useless in a proper fight against a servant."

Oh? Michael, for the first time in a while, felt himself smirking.

"And you know better, little miss?" he asked.

"The Van-Alphens breathe this kind of magecraft," she told him matter-of-factly. "We sacrifice our life and limbs and even the lives of our kin for the pursuit of knowledge. And I will not permit third-rate magecraft in my home."

Third-rate, huh? If the Director had heard that, he would've laughed and tried to reassure the little miss that the prosthetic was fine.

Michael, though… Michael wanted to see her verdict. He lowered the suitcase and held it out to her. She didn't take it. She just gave him a blank stare, and then turned on her heel to walk off. It wasn't until she turned back around and glared daggers at him that he realised she expected him to follow. By the time they made it to her workshop, Michael was more than able to make a small map in his mind of all the shortcuts and hallways it took to get from the front doors to her workshop.

Citra Van-Alphen was something. He wasn't sure what the word was yet, but she was something. She didn't waste any movements and always held confidence in the things she said, and she definitely didn't mince her words when she spoke. If you wasted time beating around the bush, you weren't worth her time. She took his prosthetic out of his suitcase and took it apart piece by piece, examining each element of it with the care a master craftsman gave to their most complicated of creations. Citra wasn't the one who'd made this arm, but she seemed to hold a respect for the machine itself—as opposed to the creator, who she muttered all the while was "incompetent" and "wouldn't know how to wind up a jewellery box in order to make the little ballerina spin".

It was endearing, in a weird sort of way.

Michael looked the workshop up and down as she silently put the arm back together after adding her own additions to it. She leaned back in her chair and asked him, "Where's the other arm?"

She was referring to the real arm that had been cut clean off by the Director in the scuffle. Michael reached under the suitcase and shut it, and then when he pressed a button next to the clasp and reopened it, a separate compartment was revealed with his old arm kept in peak condition. It had yet to rot, but it was ice cold and rigid, suspended in perpetual rigor mortis.

"I'll be using it for your prosthetic's upgrades," she informed him. "I need you as capable as possible in the event this alliance doesn't pan out."

Michael tilted his head.

"Alliance?"

Without even pausing, Citra lifted the hem of her shirt and turned around. In the middle of her back, like a small blemish against pale, clear skin, a red mark was visible—like a bruise trying to blossom, blood still rushing to the injury.

When Michael moved closer, to inspect it, he could see what she meant. Those were command spells trying to form on her body, the Grail having selected her as a master for the upcoming War.

"You haven't summoned your servant yet?" he asked her.

Citra shook her head.

"The Monaco royal family and a family that participated in the last war," she explained, "have both reached out to my parents after finding out through a leak that I was chosen by the Grail. One command spell each, one servant between us, more mana for the servant to draw upon."

What a neat little deal. But Citra was expecting the alliance to fall through. She didn't even hide that much with her words.

"People are selfish beings," Citra said as she took Michael's frigid arm. She set it down on her work bench and pulled a marker from a drawer. As she drew surgical lines against the skin, she continued, "You can't put your trust in anyone. Ambition is a poison that pollutes interpersonal relationships, and masking is the only way to give others false hope that they can be relied upon."

"How cynical of you," Michael muttered.

Citra turned the arm over and squinted at a tattoo on the elbow. Michael missed that tattoo.

"Nihilistic would be the better term," Citra told him. He scrunched up his face at her, but she seemed to be ignoring him. "All bonds are temporary and the only bond you can truly form is with the self. It's a delusion on the part of humanity to try and forge bonds beyond the body and soul, and while some are content with the illusion of amity and happiness, in the end, what is it worth when it's all taken away? Was it ever real to begin with?"

She set down the arm and sniffed.

"I'm aware of what happened to your fiancee and your rampage within the Mage's Association." Citra motioned for him to follow her as she moved to the other side of her workshop. At least she was letting him know to follow this time. "And while it's not my place to say what you had was meaningless, it does support what I believe when someone you couldn't trust took that peace away from you. And now, as you wallow in despair, you become the dog of that very same man."

"Is there a point to this?" Michael sighed.

Citra glared at him over her shoulder.

"I don't trust the ones selected to be masters alongside me," Citra told him. "We may be signing a geis that splits the command spells and prevents them from outright killing me, but I don't trust them to not steal my control over my servant and gain the upper hand. Should I die without using my command spell, it'll go to the closest one of them as soon as my heart stops beating. And I don't want that.

"So, Michael Montes, what would you wish for if you had the Grail?"

Michael blinked at her. He looked down at his disembodied arm, and then over at the prosthetic on the other side of the room. He hadn't… thought much about a wish. He'd just assumed, all this time, that he'd never be allowed that ambition under the Director's watchful gaze. Citra was right—he was the Director's dog—but dogs could turn on their masters just as easily.

So what did he want?

"I should perhaps let you know that resurrection is outside of the Grail's capabilities," Citra added. "If you were hoping to bring your fiancée back—"

"I want," Michael said, voice soft, "to experience endless conflict and defeat."

Citra raised her brows. "Not victory?"

Michael shook his head. He smiled despite himself. "When Maria died, I was nothing. And I was running on autopilot when I went on my rampage in the Clock Tower. All the death and destruction as I made my way to the Director's doorstep—none of it had any meaning to me. I'd thought revenge would help me feel whole, but not a single life I took eased my conscience over Maria being caught in the crossfire.

"But when I fought Brishisan and lost, it was like I'd been brought back from the brink. The pain of my arm being blown off—the rush of thinking I'd won, only to be thoroughly curb-stomped after the Director brushed off every blow. It resurrected me. And the thrill of coming so close to death, of coming so close to reuniting with Maria, only to survive at the last second—I want to keep experiencing that. I want to keep losing, so that I'll be forced to grow stronger, and when something bigger than that bastard Brishisan comes along, I'll survive it as well."

Citra worked her jaw. She looked Michael up and down. It was silent for a moment, just a short one, before she opened a drawer in the desk she'd approached and pulled a scroll out from within. It was likely a geis, Michael thought, and she unfurled it as she weighed his answer in her mind.

"I think I'd like for you to inherit my command spell," she said eventually, "in the event that I die before I can use it. All I ask is that you don't kill me for it. You let me die when my time has come, no sooner, no later, and my servant shall henceforth be yours to command."

Vatican City, Italy (Evening)

Day 3 of the World Grail War

What a thorough mess this was.

Casval rinsed the cloth in the basin with a heavy sigh. The morning's events were a nightmare and a half, with all the masters of the alliance showing up on their doorstep, and it was hard to find many silver linings in the events that had transpired. Sudi had used up a command spell, Beatrice was almost kidnapped and suffered minor burns, and both Maria and Casval had been injured in the scuffle to the point of needing bedrest.

Casval, despite being hit with a nerve agent, hadn't suffered as much as Maria had, it seemed. He'd been hovering over her bedside for the past hour or so, tending to her as her fever from the stress and overworking tried to break, and the silence was almost deafening. His rooms were able to be reestablished as soon as he woke up, and his colleagues were back to work throughout the Vatican. Even Sudi was doing better, though the scare when Saber had disappeared to give chase to Michael Montes was enough to have Eugenia foaming at the mouth.

Whatever the Van-Alphen woman had done, it had affected Sudi through Saber. Casval was able to review security footage and even get Saber's account (when the man had stopped sulking and materialised in the room to brainstorm with Casval), and from what he could guess, the mystic code that had touched Saber sapped energy directly from Sudi through their link. It was dangerous, Casval thought, and he expected no less from a Van-Alphen, but it was also something he wanted to learn more about.

He reapplied the wet towel to Maria's forehead and sank into the seat by her dining table with a sigh. Dinner had been delivered, and Saber had eaten his portion, but Maria had yet to wake up and eat her own.

"I don't like them," Saber sulked. His arms were crossed over his chest, but Casval didn't miss the way Saber cradled his side with one hand. "It's obvious they're using us to end their alliance with each other."

"Yes," Casval agreed. He reached over and stirred the soup prepared for Maria. It'd already developed a skin on the top of it. Maybe he should ask the kitchen staff to wait before bringing food. Or maybe he should just put her on a drip until she was lucid enough to eat. Yes, he thought, a drip might be for the best. "I've been reviewing the interviews the French and Monegasque masters had participated in. They've done nothing but slander the Van-Alphen master. It's clear they intended to come here to appeal to Sudi and make him join hands with them."

"They got greedy," Saber noted. He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "They noticed we have the Grail. Why bother with an alliance when they could just take the wish-granting device and run?"

"Where are they now?"

"The dungeon. As livid as I am with the little mechanical master and her guard, I won't deny that they've piqued my interest. They did not dare covet what is mine, after all."

Casval gave him a dry stare.

Saber glared back at him.

"What, mage?" Saber snapped.

"Perhaps," Casval said through his teeth, "instead of wasting my student's time by bedding him all the time and treating him like your plaything, you should let him prepare for people like our prisoners."

Saber clicked his tongue. He stood up, one hand on the table, and he leaned over it to glare harder at Casval.

"What is your problem, Casval Crudelis Cecani?" he growled. "I know it doesn't stop at how often I choose to fu—"

"It's all such a waste," Casval interrupted him.

He watched as Saber processed the words. He watched as Saber, suddenly calm again, stood up straight and crossed his arms over his chest once again.

"Which part?"

"All of it," Casval muttered.

Casval stared down at his hands—and he clenched them tightly into fists.

"You've no idea the pressure we at the Atlas Institute are under," Casval went on, "to maintain the survival of humanity and avoid every possible doomsday we may face. The stress we are under when we realise our ideas will fail. The potential we have in the Grail to find the answer we desperately seek."

Casval looked over at Maria. He pursed his lips and sighed, reaching up to rub at his temples. What a waste, he repeated to himself. It was all such a big waste.

"Maria and I—even our colleagues—we all prepared ourselves to try and take a place among the seven coveted master positions," he groaned. "We are not extraordinary people, but together, we could maintain something. The victor of the Third Fuyuki War made certain that the burden wasn't just on one person, but many. She may not have intended for everyone to adore the Grail War, for it to be sensationalised, but she opened the doors for weaker individuals to band together and support a single servant under the same banner. All of us prayed we could take a spot, that maybe one of us would be selected by the grail, but we weren't."

And yet…

Casval gestured to the far wall, in the direction of where Sudi was resting, and he wouldn't deny that he was scowling as he spoke.

"And one day, I receive notice that I'm to mentor a master who summoned a servant by chance? No circle, no chant, no catalyst—just the ley lines and his Origin presenting an opportunity to exploit?"

He didn't miss the way Saber shifted on his feet and looked away. Casval inhaled sharply. "What?" he demanded.

Saber crinkled his nose and glanced in the direction of Sudi's room.

"There was a catalyst," he told Casval.

Casval stared, gobsmacked, and rose to his feet. "Did Sudi have it with him?" Casval asked, stunned.

The way Saber hesitated—he knew it would just lend credit to Casval's rant about what a colossal waste this all was.

"The ley line he summoned me through," Saber recounted. "The catalyst used overlapped with it. And this being Rome, my beautiful empire reduced to a mere city, it was only natural that I would answer the call before the one the catalyst actually belonged to."

The catalyst didn't even belong to Saber? Casval chewed his lip, frustrated, and his nails were digging into his palms as he clenched his fists tightly at his sides. Saber, in a rare moment of cooperation, sucked in a deep breath and moved towards the door. He opened it, and Casval could hear him call to a passing group of nuns with indignation.

"You there, apostates," Saber announced. Casval walked around the table and back over to Maria's bed, and he could see three nuns, two middle-aged and one elderly, shying away from Saber out of fear. "Tend to the woman while I take the mage somewhere."

There were so many things wrong about that order.

Casval sighed heavily and rubbed at his eyes when the nuns entered the room. They were frightened, obviously, and Saber's mere presence was enough to make them think their days were numbered. He may not have killed anyone during Casval's stay, but plenty of priests who'd tried to show sympathy to Sudi had had their arms and legs broken, sometimes both, by a very possessive Saber. Truly, Casval thought, perhaps the only people able to stand up to Saber were Beatrice as the Grail and Eugenia as Sudi's mother—though Eugenia definitely never backed down during an argument like Beatrice was prone to.

Frankly, Casval mused, it was a relief that Eugenia was on the same page as him when it came to Sudi.

Yes, the whole fiasco with how Saber was summoned and Sudi becoming a master by sheer luck was disappointing; but Sudi had undeniable potential despite how late in life he was learning magecraft. If he was better suited to healing—physical and spiritual—then Casval could teach him proper alchemy at Atlas and introduce Sudi to memory partition and thought acceleration. It was a waste to have him at the whims of a selfish servant like Saber, who cared little for preserving the world and more about turning it into his own plaything.

Even now, on the news, there was a buzz about how Saber's master was likely going to be the first to die. No prestige backing him outside of the Pope, who could do little outside of mediating in the War, and little training to compare to the other masters.

As Saber led Casval through the halls, it became more and more apparent how few people were actually allowed to delve this deep into the underground tunnels of the Vatican. Fewer clergymen and cardinals could be seen as they walked, and the fewer heads Casval saw bow, the more he felt a little more at ease. True, Saber could strike him down for being an inadequate teacher for Sudi and not trying harder to prevent the theft of the Grail. True, Saber could kill him for his words back in Maria's room and insist Eugenia find a new mentor. But Saber wouldn't.

For once, in the mere week Casval had known Saber, Saber was using his rational side of his brain. Laying his cards on the table, so to speak, and Saber likely knew those who witnessed his noble phantasm had an idea of which emperor he was. Even their enemies, imprisoned in the guest room while the third master of the alliance recovered from her near-drowning, had heard the name of his noble phantasm. Saber, in this moment, as he led Casval into the depths of the Vatican and straight for its vault of catalysts, was trying to create a firewall to prevent the exploitation of his True Name.

"Do you suspect someone among the other servants knows who you might be?" Casval asked once they were alone in the tunnels. Saber snatched a lamp from a passing cardinal who'd just finished making the rounds, counting the catalysts and ensuring none were missing.

"No," Saber said, confident. "But my noble phantasms have caveats."

"Don't they all?"

Saber gave him a sour expression. Casval just stared at him, unamused.

Saber huffed and turned the final corner that led to the vault. Its doors were sealed shut, the reinforced glass of the room littered in glyphs and runes to keep a barrier around it. Holy artefacts topped the barriers off, and Saber gritted his teeth as he set down the lantern and sneered at the priest standing guard.

"S—Saber," the priest greeted him. "T—To what do we owe th—the visit?"

"Cease your snivelling," Saber grunted. "I'm here to show the mage—"

"Alchemist," Casval muttered.

"—Mage," Saber said, louder, "where my catalyst is located."

The priest smiled nervously.

"I—I mean no disrespect Saber, but just to make sure—"

"By the gods, I won't break anything. Open the damn vault."

The priest bowed his head and scurried over to where the mechanism for opening the vault was. Saber sucked in a deep breath, moving closer to Casval, and he was muttering to the blond as the vault door slowly slid open.

"I will be weakened within the vault," Saber told him. The way he looked at Casval—it was like he was revealing a weakness of not just himself, but for all other servants. Casval didn't give any indication that he'd taken note of the information. Besides, Saber was more likely to tell him that now was as good a time as any to incite Michael Montes for round two. "A precaution, if you will. Familiars, and as a result, servants, tend to have trouble accessing their masters' magical energy. The vault creates a block, you see, and magi who rely on mystic codes will find their connection to them… disrupted."

"It's a basic security measure, Signor Casval," the priest chimed in. He seemed more confident now that he was addressing Casval, and Saber didn't scold him for jumping in. All he got was a sharp glare, but it was enough to make the priest shy away and clear his throat. "I—I'll log your time of arrival and the time you leave, Saber, Signor Casval."

"Appreciated, Father," Casval told him as they entered.

The inside of the vault was blinding, the harsh light feeling unnecessary while at the same time being just enough to not burn away the relics that couldn't endure a well-lit room. The initial rows were what Casval expected—reliquaries of previous popes, all labelled and dated on a clipboard for the last time they were removed from their casings. He was able to spot a section of a worn down stone tablet, words indecipherable, beside a snake skin that he could venture a guess as to who owned them, and when he inspected the clipboard underneath it, his eyes widened.

Catalyst last used: Third Fuyuki Grail War, December 20th 1938. Last removed from case: December 31st 2086, scheduled maintenance.

Was this the—

"Mage," Saber snapped.

Casval looked away from the catalyst with a scowl.

"Alchemist," he said through his teeth.

Honestly, was it so wrong to take interest in some of these catalysts? Casval hadn't been permitted to enter the vault on his arrival—Pope's orders, apparently, and Saber didn't seem to think it was important that Casval investigate the missing catalysts—so naturally he'd be drawn to some. Especially if one of them was from the Fuyuki Grail War that changed the rules of the game completely. Casval shook his head, clicking his tongue, and he turned away from the case with his hands clenched by his sides. Annoying.

When he joined Saber, they walked deeper into the vault—towards the very back, where some of the catalyst cases were missing completely.

Catalyst last used: Third Fuyuki Grail War, December 10th 1938. Destroyed during Third Fuyuki Grail War. Reported servant: Mary Tudor.

Catalyst last used: Second World Grail War, June 7th 1999. Stolen and hidden by Yggdmilennia family during Second World Grail War. Reported servant: Enmerkar.

Catalyst last used: First World Grail War, July 4th 1967. Destroyed by servant during First World Grail War. Reported servant: Gilgamesh.

Catalyst last used: Never. Stolen January 2021. Presumed destroyed. Speculated servant: Nikolai II Alexandrovich Romanov.

So the Vatican wasn't nigh impenetrable. Casval had studied some of the previous Grail Wars—though he was more well-versed with the events of the Third Fuyuki War than any of the World Grail Wars. The War had occurred at such a tumultuous time in history for the whole world, and the fate of the world had rested on the shoulders of the winner. The victor had made it so that every future Grail War held the same purpose, and almost all conflict between countries and alliances were documented, but held off on being resolved until their champions could fight on the public stage. Many lives were still lost this way, but far less war crimes were committed when only seven people were in charge of the fight. The masses fell into hysteria too easily, and the bystander effect was too deadly for an all-out war.

But to hear some catalysts were destroyed in some of those wars? Casval pursed his lips and bit back a sigh. Certainly, they were deadly weapons in the months leading to the Grail Wars, but that was history people were trying to destroy! How was humanity expected to learn from the past when its remnants were being erased from the present so carelessly?

Any one of those destroyed catalysts could've summoned a servant who'd wish for the salvation of humanity.

Saber didn't stop walking until he reached a case that looked to be in immaculate condition. The sword inside was glistening, the blade a mix of silver and gold. When Casval looked at the hilt and examined the small runs along the golden arches, he could vaguely recognise which region they'd come from—especially when combined with the vague Celtic knot underneath the cross at the base of the blade.

"Is this…" Casval squinted at it, intrigued, and looked down at the clipboard beneath the case.

Catalyst last used: Never. Last removed from case: December 31st 2086, scheduled maintenance. Speculated servant: King Arthur.

Casval sucked in a deep breath and stepped back.

"You're kidding me," he said immediately. He looked at Saber, who was decidedly not the matching gold to accompany the sword, and continued, "You're not King Arthur."

"Of course I'm not Artorius, the coward." Saber crossed his arms over his chest and stared at the sword—at Excalibur—with a sour expression. "And if I were, I'd sooner kill myself than play along with this game. He was too much of an indecisive king to be a real contender in a Grail War."

"Then what in the world caused you to come out?"

Saber sniffed. He pointed to the sword, and through the small patterning in the metal, he motioned to one spot in particular on the blade. Casval couldn't see it, though, and Saber recognised this. He scowled, opened the case—a small alarm sounded, and the priest from outside rushed in at full speed with Black Keys in hand.

"Father, stop!" Casval shouted. He got between Saber and the priest immediately. "He's just showing me something."

"I'm sorry, Signor Casval, but that catalyst is a high priority. The catalyst of the King of Heroes has been lost in the past—we can't risk the catalyst of the King of Knights to be lost as well."

Though the priest took stance, ready to strike if Saber made a move to destroy Excalibur, Saber was not fazed. He turned the blade over, inspecting each corner of it, until finally he found what he wanted. Seeing him hold Excalibur, it was so wrong. Saber was a dark man—his armour black and tyrian purple—and the blade was far too light to match him in appearance or personality. Perhaps someone less bloodthirsty than Saber, whose existence was painted by the blood of many, was better suited for Excalibur.

Saber stepped closer to Casval, holding the blade up to him, and Casval dared a look at the beautiful silver finish. There, between the small grooves in the sword's pattern, was a slightly rusted section that had to have formed due to blood that wasn't properly cleaned off of it. Given the spot the blood had gotten to, it was easy to miss even for the meticulous hands of the Vatican.

"Right there," Saber told him, voice low. "That was my catalyst."

The priest was confused. He blinked at Casval, and then at Excalibur, and his eyes lit up as he realised what Saber was showing Casval.

Casval's hopes began to die down as he connected the dots. Not only had Sudi been able to summon a servant through the ley line that happened to enter the vault beneath the Vatican, but had Saber's blood not been left on this sword, it was apparent who would've been summoned in his place. They could've had the King of Kings—Arthur Pendragon—fighting on their side and actually helping them. Excalibur was a weapon of legend—the weapon of legend!

And Saber had just… stolen that from them? Because the sword had his blood and was in Rome? Strengthening the call to the Roman emperor?

Casval sank down into a squat, his hands moving up to the sides of his head. His fingers clutched at his hair, messing it up, as he stared at the floor with a growing sense of horror in his gut.

They could've had someone better.

They could've had King Arthur.

Sudi could've had King Arthur!

"I…" The priest set aside the Black Keys and hesitated. "I know which emperor you are, Saber."

"Oh?" Saber gave Excalibur a swish, testing the sword out. He scowled and shook his head—clearly not to his tastes. "Do take a guess, Father. I'd love to see how educated a man of the cloth can be."

"W—Well… There's a legend of King Arthur interacting with Rome only once in his reign, I think. In the Vulgate Cycle, but also in a few earlier sources, like Historia Regum Britanniae. The earliest source recited the name as Glycerius, but over time it became… L—Lucius Tiberius."

Casval let out a pained groan and dug his nails into his scalp. God, it could've been great! Lucius Tiberius took something great!

"Yes, well," Saber said, carefree. "I'm sure you're aware that I crossed blades with Artorius when invading Brittany. A detestable little kingling. Tried to preach to me about what makes a good ruler and everything—he probably hoped he could appeal to my sense of nobility and make me call my troops back, but alas, nobility is for those who don't have the balls to take what they want by any means necessary."

And like that, without warning, Saber flickered past Casval's crouching form and beheaded the priest with Excalibur. Casval jumped up with a shout, stumbling back, and he looked at Saber with wide eyes.

"What the fuck, Saber!?" he screeched.

"Well I didn't make this trip for him to learn my True Name, did I?" Saber flicked the sword downward, and the priest's blood splattered in a long streak along the floor. "You should've shooed him out of the vault sooner."

"If you had waited—"

"And why," Saber hissed, giving Casval a sharp glare, "should I be the one to wait for him? I am the emperor, not him."

"You know what?" Casval stormed over to Saber and, though he shouldn't have been able to, snatched Excalibur from his hands. The sword was heavy, as expected of a knight's sword, and Casval placed it back in the case with a solemn expression. He was tired. He was stressed. He wanted so damn badly for time to turn back and for Arthur Pendragon to overcome Lucius Tiberius when Sudi had called forth a heroic spirit. "You say he's a coward, but what does that make you, Saber?"

He turned back around, brows furrowed. He didn't miss the way Saber sneered down at him, daring him to continue.

Continue, he would.

"All this time, what have you done? It's been almost a week since you were summoned initially. What have you done in that week?" Casval grilled him. "You complained about Berserker being summoned, according to Beatrice, and claimed you wanted them put down immediately, but have you? Did you even make a plan to beat Berserker? What about now, when you officially announced you and Sudi were master and servant in the War? What did you do, aside from dragging the poor man to your chambers and acting like you'd already won? What do you have to your name? A wasted command spell and a fight with another master, whose servant wasn't even present?"

Casval shut the case with a snap. He snatched up the clipboard and scrawled the newest date down for removal. Catalyst used: Fifth World Grail War. Last removed from case: October 23rd 2069, removed by NOT King Arthur, who SHOULD'VE been summoned, to ruin everyone's expectations.

"No matter how much I wrack my brain, Saber," Casval went on, "I just can't think of a single thing you've done or made plans to do that makes you deserving of your hype. But I can think of a million things that make you the exact same as the King of Knights, who you so quickly dismiss as a coward and a fool. Sure, nobility is for those who won't take things by force—but it's also used to separate those who use their heads and morals from barbarians like you."

Saber twitched. Casval heard him let out a low huff.

"Call me a barbarian again, mage," Saber said lowly.

Casval huffed. "Tell me, Saber, what even is your godforsaken wish for the Grail?"

Another low huff, but it sounded more like a laugh now. "Obviously," Saber told him, "I want to restore my empire to its former glory and rule it for the rest of time."

"In that case…"

Casval shoved the clipboard back into its place and stormed past Saber.

"I will do everything in my power to make sure you don't get your wish," Casval told him as he stomped back to the vault entrance. "And I hope you'll learn to be content with mediocrity."

looker · Apr 8, 2023

Casvel I'm sure that was that felt great to say and it was very cool to read but say that to Lucius's face doesn't seem like the greatest idea ever.

renren_writes · May 16, 2023

10

Hampshire, England (Evening)

"I recognise that man."

Rider lifted Holly up from the floor, having just flipped her over his shoulder during their training, and he stared over in the direction of Natalya and Vere. It was Natalya who'd spoken, the alchemist from Atlas Institute at a loss for words as she stared at her phone, and the military man beside her had his eyes narrowed in confusion.

"I don't know him," Vere told her. Natalya shook her head.

"You wouldn't. He's not someone I know personally, but I've seen him around Atlas." She pointed to the screen with her smallest finger, doing her best not to touch the screen. "We call him the Cemetery. His mystic codes made use of deceased Atlas researchers, and they were never classed as weapons because they're primarily used for assisting with research."

"That's morbid," Vere muttered.

When Rider looked down at Holly, the girl let out a huff of air as she stared at the duo. Despite showing up yesterday afternoon, there was still a lot of distrust with these humans from Atlas Institute who held a relation to the man shackling Holly to the Grail War. All they'd shared so far were a dinner, breakfast and lunch, the breakfast barely counting because they both took protein shakes and dove into their work as soon as they woke up, leaving Holly to eat in peace; it seemed that, as soon as they'd established a base of operations in the Leighton home, Vere Renard and Natalya Argyris were more than comfortable with continuing business as usual.

It wasn't that Rider minded—he actually acknowledged with a hint of pride that being so focused on their shared goal was a good trait to have. Holly could learn a thing or two in order to solidify her desires and chase them more confidently. But when they'd made their deal over dinner last night, being ignored by the duo as they investigated on their own wasn't part of it. In exchange for using Rider's help with the Wild Hunt to investigate the leads they had, Natalya was supposed to help train Holly's magecraft so they could be better prepared for Berserker. But as soon as they looked at the videos online of Rider's confrontation with her, they'd simply declared her to be Alice Liddell and moved on. Identity mystery solved, time for the murder mystery.

Rider strode over to the chairs they sat in and leaned down, one hand on each of their chairs. He cast a shadow over the phone, and it took a moment for the screen's brightness to correct in the shade.

"Is he useful?" he asked Natalya. "The Cemetery?"

Natalya looked up at Rider, brows raised. The woman may have been cold, but she wasn't stupid. While she hadn't opened up much to Holly and Rider about the goals she had and her capabilities, she hadn't declined help when Rider had offered it in return for her own help towards Holly. No, he thought; perhaps it wasn't just that she was smart. When Holly had confessed what Vere's relative was doing by forcing her to participate in the World Grail War, there had been a fire burning within that block of ice, melting it from the inside. Natalya had sympathised with Holly, refused to see injustice be carried out unpunished.

She knew that she couldn't leave Holly shackled by a man who blackmailed her.

"He could be," she told Rider. "But his brain's about the best part of him, if I'm being honest. His circuits are middling, and while he's in frequent contact with the Crudelis family head, it's pretty obvious it's just to pick at his brain." Natalya reached up and rubbed at her chin, contemplating something. "On paper he'd be a perfect ally for investigating Olena and Anya's deaths, but in practice… He's probably like all the other Atlas alchemists. Elitists who only care about the future of humanity, not the individual people."

Now there was an interesting opinion to have about her colleagues. Rider leaned up off of the chairs and grunted. He'd have to keep an eye on her decisions regarding this man.

Holly wandered over as she stretched her arms above her head. Being cooped up inside the house was making her restless, Rider noted, and even he was hoping to hunt down Berserker this evening. The trackers had found a scent, just briefly, but it vanished as soon as they'd found it. It vexed Rider, his precious Wild Hunt reduced to mere fools, and he was eager to finish the job with Berserker before her master could finish whatever plan she had in mind.

"So we should have a look at the old house in London by now, right?" Holly broached, clearly anxious to get out of the house. "Or lure out Berserker? Or do we perhaps want a spot of tea first?"

The last part was likely an attempt at sarcasm on Holly's part, which Vere picked up on as he looked up to glare at the girl. But Natalya didn't take note of it, and she barely looked up from her phone as Holly spoke.

"Some chai would be nice," Natalya agreed. "But if you don't have a traditional blend, black tea will be fine."

Holly threw her hands up and gave Rider a stressed smile. "She wants tea," Holly muttered.

The teen stormed off into the kitchen without another word. Vere stared, bewildered

Natalya did look up from her phone, though, and she nodded to Vere with a small smile. "Why don't you go help her? Four mugs can be difficult to carry without a tray."

Vere cleared his throat and glanced towards the kitchen. He seemed reluctant, but eventually he agreed to Natalya's request.

"Sure," he said. "I'll be back in a tick."

Rider didn't miss the way they parted—Vere hesitating, both because of Holly's combative position towards them and because he didn't want to leave Natalya alone with Rider, and Natalya lingering. She finally looked up from her phone, watching Vere's back with an almost indecipherable expression. Rider wasn't good with human emotions—both in his interest towards them and his understanding—but when he saw the way Natalya watched Vere, a human saying came to mind: Hate to see you go, but love to watch you leave.

Why she was happy to see him leave was the question. Why she hated to see him go was easy even for Rider to figure out.

He moved to Vere's seat and settled himself in it. Natalya's eyes flicked to it. At first the objection was on her face, clear as day—that's Vere's seat—but it died before she could voice it. Rider tilted his head to the side, intrigued.

"I knew of someone who fancied someone married," Rider told her slowly. Natalya bristled, confused, but kept her mouth tightly shut. "I will give you credit where it's due, at least you've waited until his wife is gone to begin your pining."

"It's not like that," Natalya said quickly.

Rider didn't un-tilt his head. He just raised his brows and threaded his hands together.

"It's not," Natalya insisted, firmer this time. Her peculiar iron bird sat asleep on her lap, but it seemed to stir as though reacting to its master, who was ready to defend herself more than just verbally. Natalya looked back down at her phone and opened a new tab. She began rapidfire searching for information on the fight in Rome, for the speculations about Saber. "I love both Vere and Olena like family. You'd be hard-pressed to find proper family among the Atlas Institute's researchers. The preservation of humanity is all well and good, but they're so stiff in their ways. I employ unorthodox methods to my research—combine both Atlas and Clock Tower research to make something new—and they reject me. Even my own father—"

Rider watched as Natalya caught herself and sucked in a short breath. She closed her eyes, frustrated, and set her phone down on the arm of the chair before running a hand through silvery-white curls.

"Vere and Olena were my whole world," Natalya tried again. She sounded calmer, more composed. "And when they had Anya, I was right there with them, playing the role of loving aunt. Losing Olena and Anya hurt me almost as much as it hurt Vere. And for me to—to lust for him like you claim—what kind of trash does that make me?"

And when Natalya stopped speaking, she finally looked Rider in the eye. Her eyes were a beautiful blue-green, reminding him of the colour of a lake during the clearest of days. Her stance was firm and unrelenting—that, even if she had feelings for Vere, she was a horrible person for coveting what belonged to someone else, even if that someone was dead and gone.

Rider let out a long hum, nodding his head a little as he contemplated. He could reply with an anecdote of his own—after all, he was trapped in an eternal struggle with the Oak King until the time came for Judgement Day, when they could finally decide once and for all who was entitled to the bride they both stole from each other. Rider could see the similarities, perhaps even give Natalya some hope that Olena would be reborn and take Vere back from her when she was at the twilight of her life. But humans were emotional, egotistical creatures; the smallest hint of betrayal between friends, be it on the side of love or morals, made them violent and prone to lashing out.

The lies they spun only made it worse when everything imploded.

He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. The iron bird on Natalya's lap awakened properly, and it began to chirp its reminders for Natalya to hydrate, lest she "dry up more than the Sahara". Natalya put a silencing hand on the bird's head, and it went back to sleep immediately.

"I don't envy humans and their ability to lie," Rider told her as soon as the bird returned to its sleep. Natalya raised a brow, confused, but didn't interrupt him. "We fae, we cannot lie. Even if we wanted to delude ourselves, to make ourselves feel better, to punish ourselves—only if we truly believe the things we say, can we speak falsehoods. I do not envy you, Natalya Argyris. You lie to yourself about the nature of your feelings, and you lie that the spectre of your sworn sister scorns you for your feelings."

"I do not—"

"What I do envy about humans, however," he cut her off, louder, "is that they can change. A life akin to the blink of an eye compared to the centuries we live, so fleeting that your lifetimes are mere footnotes in our own. But in such a short amount of time, you all become so different each time we encounter you. A long life spanning entire civilisations remains stagnant. It's the same cycle, the end always promised by never in sight. We fae cannot change. But humans—you humans thrive with change."

Natalya's hand was still on the bird's head. She gripped it tightly, almost as though holding herself back, and she looked away from Rider as she glanced instead in the direction of the hall leading to the kitchen.

"What are you saying, Rider?" she asked, almost sounding defeated.

Rider let out a grunt as he stood up. He planted his hands on his hips, following her gaze, and he let out a soft sigh.

"Your friend Olena was human," he told her. "And so are you and Vere. If I were to summon her soul from Annwn and show her those left behind by her death, would she be happy to see you and Vere stagnant?"

Natalya blinked. It was a slow blink, matching the pace of her mind as she processed his words, and it was clear she was taking the time to analyse everything Rider implied with such a question. Her eyes dropped to the ground, albeit briefly, before she reached for her phone and began inspecting the video of Saber's fight in Rome again.

"I'm not acting on my feelings," she told Rider eventually.

Rider shrugged. "I don't care whether you do or don't," he said simply. Natalya didn't even bristle this time, instead her gaze becoming somewhat exasperated as she looked up from her phone. "But with less guilt on your mind, you're a far better soldier for my master to rely on."

As soon as he said it, Natalya gave him a sharp look. The obvious went unspoken—that despite the capabilities Natalya had listed when both sides of the alliance laid bare their intentions, Vere was the actual soldier between the duo—and as they sat in silence, Rider felt Holly's voice prick at the back of his mind.

'Are you guys done in there? I've been holding onto this hot tea for five minutes now. It's so awkward waiting with Vere!'

Rider's lips twitched into a small smile. He let out a soft laugh, just a small one, and he sent back, 'Bring Natalya's tea in. When she's done, we shall set off for London.'

It was almost instantaneous. Holly scurried into the room with a big smile on her face, far more chipper than she was earlier while she was asking for their next steps. This time it wasn't hiding a desire to leave and a thinly veiled hostility towards Natalya and Vere; now Holly could feel the walls break apart around her as Rider gave permission to leave the grounds once again.

Finally, some progress, he thought. Rider stood by Holly's side as Natalya sipped at her tea, and Vere came back into the room with snacks to pair with the tea. It seemed Holly had pointed out where the biscuits were located, presenting a plate of rusks for Natalya to dip into her tea, and even Holly nibbled on one as she waited for the new members of their alliance to finish up.

"What's your call on that Cemetery guy?" Vere asked Natalya. Natalya looked at Holly, just briefly, before she sipped at her tea and cleared her throat.

"I can see if he's interested," she decided. "Last I heard, he and his fiancée were trying to summon a servant. Don't know if he succeeded. If he did, we could have an ally for a spell."

"At least long enough to deal with Berserker," Vere agreed. He caught himself, though, and looked over at Holly and Rider. "That is, if the ones calling the shots are okay with it."

Holly sniffed. "Who am I to question the decision of a member of the venerable Archelot family?" she asked, almost sour in her tone.

Vere pinched at his brow and stood up from his chair. Rider didn't miss the way Holly flinched, like she always expected the same treatment from Vere as what she got from his relative in the Clock Tower, but he didn't move to shield her from the man. Rider thought himself a good judge of character, and he knew a soldier like Vere wasn't swayed by familial politics. He never even associated with the Clock Tower, from what he'd learned from Vere himself, and the only reason he got involved now was because someone, hiding somewhere among the big organisations, had dragged him into it all by killing his wife and child. Vere wasn't a man who would punish Holly on the behalf of his relative. Vere was a man who couldn't give a rat's ass about what his relative got up to or aimed to achieve.

"Okay," Vere said, and he crossed the room to stand by Holly and Rider. Not threateningly, far from it—but Vere stood with his posture straight and his head held high, not even trying to look meek. No, he was confident and refused to make himself look smaller just to make Holly feel better. Rider liked soldiers who didn't cower away for any reason.

When he came to a stop in front of Holly, he didn't look angry. He just looked like his usual stoic self, and he looked down at her with as much sympathy as someone who had essentially been insulted could muster.

"We need to clear the air over this," Vere told Holly. Back at the chairs, Natalya watched with wide eyes as she sipped her tea. "I understand that my cousin is doing something that is, quite frankly, heinous to you. And I understand that you have been unfairly treated by him. I also understand that you hold a grudge against him and his family."

Vere sighed and let himself show a hint of weakness—exasperation and exhaustion.

"But Holly, I am not Jastrum. I have nothing to do with the Clock Tower or the Archelots. I don't even carry their name," he told her slowly. "I am not Vere Archelot. I am Vere Renard. And Vere Renard isn't here to make sure you're doing what you're told for Jastrum Archelot. Vere Renard is here to help someone precious to him bring closure to the tragic deaths of two innocent people who had nothing to do with any of your own business with the Archelots."

Holly pursed her lips. She reached up, fingers threading through her short, feathery hair, and some of her hair fell over her face as she looked away from Vere with watery eyes. Rider heard the smallest of whimpers, and then, clear in his mind, she accidentally broadcast to him, 'I always mess things up…'

Rider didn't get a chance to rebuke her for the self-deprecation. For one thing, she was far too inquisitive and curious to regret a lot of her pursuits. Even when he saw glimpses of her anger at Lord Jastrum Archelot during the brief letters he'd sent to her about her responsibilities, she didn't scold herself for making mistakes. Perhaps it was because the consequence of her cold nature to someone who didn't deserve it stared her right in the face—corrected her gently, rather than with a gleeful sadism like Vere's cousin did.

Whatever it was, Vere reached out and patted her shoulder softly. Holly whimpered again, and very softly, almost unheard, she muttered, "I'm sorry about your family…"

"Oh, bunty," Vere said, and despite his stony expression, he pulled Holly into a very reassuring half-hug. "It's not your fault. Don't apologise."

Holly laughed a little. "I'm not plump," she sniffled.

Rider chimed in, "You are quite like a lamb."

"Don't gang up on me." Holly wiped at her eyes, but she was struggling to hide her smile. At least she wasn't feeling as terrible now. Less trouble for Rider.

When Vere caught Rider's gaze, the servant gave him an appreciative nod. Child rearing was never Rider's talent. The Holly King had business with the dead, not with the living—he knew more about how to take a life than to guide it on the right path. Vere, seeming to understand this, nodded back.

As Vere stepped back from Holly and let out a slow breath, seemingly relieved, Natalya rose from her chair and set down her teacup. Teatime was over, it seemed, and she made her way over to the group with her arms crossed over her chest. The iron bird was awake now, quietly chirping atop her head as it looked around the room.

"I apologise if we're overstepping, Holly," Natalya broached. Holly, red-faced and puffy-eyed, sniffled and nodded. "Vere and I have been investigating this for a while, and I'll admit that if I were in the running to make a wish, I would keep Olena's goals alive with it. There are… not many people we can trust with this investigation. The people who—who killed Lena and Anya… They have their eyes on the Grail War like everyone else. So figuring out who to trust is… a challenge."

Holly sniffled one last time and nodded in understanding. "And I'm basically the best thing you could ask for," she mumbled. Natalya nodded, albeit reluctantly. "Rider is a psychopomp, meaning you could possibly reach out to the dead for answers. And I'm not willingly involved in the Grail War—there's less risk of me selling you out to whoever killed your… family."

"I'm glad you understand." The iron bird pushed off of Natalya's head and flew in the direction of the greenhouse—probably to look outside. Given what time it was, the sun was due to set any moment now.

Holly looked up at Rider, uncertain. Rider looked down at her, impassive.

Eventually, Rider sighed and threw his head back, rubbing at his brow with one hand.

"I already told my master that we would set out for London once teatime was over," he informed Natalya. The blue-green in her eyes brightened considerably, hope bubbling to the surface unabashedly. "If she died in London, it's likely that I collected her soul when she passed—or, less likely, that she'd been unable to pass on and evaded me until now. Regardless, I can attempt to call for her at the location of her passing and provide answers for you."

Holly gasped and looked at Natalya with wide eyes. "I can ask the fae nearby if they remember anything!"

Natalya and Vere blinked, confused. They were quiet for a moment, but before Holly could explain, Natalya seemed to figure it out very quickly.

"Mystic Eyes," Natalya declared. "That'll save a lot of time. Fairies can't be bought or blackmailed like people can." She looked at Rider, and something clicked into place in her gaze. "Nor can they lie. If you can reach a deal with them, we have reliable allies."

The group's mood had lifted considerably. Rider was almost proud of his little master's ideas, as well as her ability to click with people once all pretences were dropped. With only honesty between them, Holly could be her earnest and inquisitive self and put her all into helping. But it was an unfair exchange—a lot of this plan involved doing things for Natalya and Vere, with little in return. Certainly, they were going to ally themselves with Holly in the World Grail War as long as she allied with them against the group who killed Olena and Anya, but what did Holly get immediately?

Rider watched the trio carefully, wondering who would bring it up first. How long it would take Natalya and Vere to remind Holly that his alliance required equal treatment would speak levels of—

"But Holly," Vere said after a moment, concerned. "What do you get out of this? All we've talked about is how you can help us, but you haven't told us how we can help you."

Well. It didn't take as long as Rider expected.

As Holly took a moment to process the question, Rider chimed in, "You were having issues with a certain member of Vere's family."

Holly gasped. She reached out and grabbed Vere by the arms. Little five-one Holly made Vere, who was well over six feet, recoil in surprise. She didn't let him go, only leaning closer with a wide smile on her face.

"I don't know much about Clock Tower politics," she told him, "but what if I didn't have to worry about Jastrum anymore? What if he wasn't in charge?"

"Woah, now—"

"Is it because he's in charge of the Botany Department? Botany is, like, my whole thing! I'll be your assistant or something! If you let me wander around, I mean."

"H—Holly, slow down—"

"Does politics get in the way? Maybe you can appeal to other families to oust him! The Clock Tower is deadlocked—that's what Jastrum wants the wish for, anyway! To break the deadlock!"

Vere looked at Natalya with a pleading expression. "Nat…"

To Rider's amusement, Natalya wasn't exactly jumping at the chance to stop Holly. That calculating look in her eyes was ever-present, the rooms all at work with ideas and compartmentalising them.

Eventually, Natalya mumbled, "We could make use of Clock Tower resources to investigate internally…"

"Coup?" Holly was excited as she shook Vere. "A coup?"

Natalya cleared her throat and scrunched her face up. She waved a dismissive hand, almost as though to convince herself to dismiss the idea, and she hurriedly told Holly, "We'll work out the specifics after tonight. It doesn't even have to be Vere put in place—we could easily put your family in the Archelots' seat instead."

Holly let out a disappointed sound and let go of Vere with limp arms.

"I guess…" she grumbled.

Natalya and Vere both let out short breaths, though Vere seemed more relieved to have the subject dropped for the time being. They were silent again, just briefly, before another interruption came. Both Rider and Holly felt it—the breach of the security system they'd collaborated to make—and even the iron bird was flying back inside in a panic.

It was chirping, "Nat! People! Trespassing!" And that was all the justification Rider needed to dematerialise and rush outside.

Du was by his side as soon as he materialised on the plush grass outside, and the trees surrounding the Leighton home were rustling as someone shouted in surprise. Multiple someones, Rider noted—before finally, as he climbed atop Du, several hounds bounded out from the foliage with humans dragged behind them. Some of them had their arms in the vice grip of the hounds' maws, while others were dragged by their legs; the rare few that didn't get injured by the teeth, though, were dragged by the vines they were snared in from the traps Holly had laid around the property.

They all had cameras and microphones with them. One of them even wore a lanyard that, as Rider approached and peered down at them, declared they were a reporter for a news station that covered the Grail War.

Rider sneered. He sat atop Du as he heard Natalya and Vere run outside, both armed with firearms and moving with purpose, and he glared down at the intruders as one aimed a camera up at him.

"Who dares to trespass onto our territory?" he demanded.

The one with the lanyard sat up, even with the hounds snarling at them. They pulled their hoodie off of their face, and a young man stared up at him with a nervous expression.

"R—Richard Oakes from Channel 8 News," he stammered. "We reached out for an interview with the local masters in the area—"

"I have only one master."

"Y—Yes! Of course!" Richard hiccuped a little as he tried to find the right words. Natalya walked over to Du and Rider, and she looked almost unimpressed. "W—What I mean to say is—um—both masters in England! Of Rider and Berserker! Y—Your fight with Berserker and her master was incredible, by the way—"

Rider whistled.

The hound lunged for Richard's leg again.

Reminding him of the failure that was that first encounter? What a donkey.

"Rider, hey, ease up!" Vere ran over to Rider's other side, putting away his gun as he did so. The reporter stopped screaming as soon as the hound backed off and glared up at Vere. "He's just a reporter! You and Holly should be taking advantage of this."

Rider sneered down at Vere.

"And our original plans?" he asked, tone clearly annoyed. Beside him, Natalya nudged at his leg to get his attention.

"We can do it another night," she told Rider. "Or maybe at the witching hour."

Rider sucked in a breath through his teeth. The woman wasn't wrong with that suggestion. The spectres would be at their most powerful and active at the witching hour, compared to now when the sun was barely setting in the horizon.

Rider didn't like it, but he sneered and dismissed his hounds with another whistle. All of them released the camera crew and Richard Oakes, and he watched as they sprinted back into the trees like they were on the hunt.

"Alright, Richard Oakes," Rider growled. The young man was pale-faced and hyperventilating. "Interview me."

Over the North Atlantic Ocean (Early Morning)

Day 4 of the World Grail War

Archer took a sip of her sangria and let out a pleased sound. "Oh, Jamal, you should try this."

Jamal held up a hand and shook his head. He made sure to sip his own juice with a smile, letting her know that he was happy with his non-alcoholic beverage for the time being.

Ever since the encounter with the false Archer in New Orleans, both master and servant had sped up the process of leaving the country for Archer's ancestral home in Terme—what had once been known as Themyscira, capital city of the Amazon matriarchy. Despite Greek mythology being well known enough worldwide for Archer to be gifted a boon from notoriety, the fact remained that if another servant figured out her identity and was able to counter her accordingly, their running in the World Grail War would be tragically cut short before even a week passed. Going back home and declaring the area her territory, at the very least, gave her not only the home advantage, but also a territory to empower herself at.

After such devastation at Louisiana State University and the war memorial, as well as the false Archer's ability to stand on equal footing against Archer's pankration, both Archer and Jamal had been equal parts paranoid and anxious. It had only been two days since the encounter, but the false Archer's appearance had come out of nowhere following his reveal to the public. The magus families of New Orleans knew Jamal was the master of Archer in this Grail War, but to the rest of the world? Doubt was easily cast upon the DuBry family, especially after Archer's sound defeat at the hands of the false Archer. There weren't many people still alive to testify how the fight had gone, but the security cameras and few survivors were enough for people like Uwe Schulz and América Vargas to begin placing bets on who the liar was.

Despite how relaxed they looked to the others in first class, the fact remained that they had to keep up the facade of not only a cool and collected team in the Grail War, but also that of a mother and son rather than master and servant. Alexandra DuBry's death still hadn't been reported, the whole world believing the woman was still around, and the household in New Orleans had been waiting for Alexandra's meltdown following Archer's defeat—it never came, obviously, and that was when Jamal and Archer agreed to speed up their plans to leave America for the Grail War.

It wasn't that they hadn't already decided to do this, especially when Jamal did the research of where Themyscira was believed to be in the modern day. But they'd been holding off in the beginning before deciding when to leave. The plan had been to wait for a week and see who was the biggest threat, especially when Saber was only talked about so often due to the implications of a neutral observer like the church backing him, but they'd been forced to move now that their first conflict had ended in disaster.

Jamal wouldn't deny that he was a little excited to be moving around, free from the confines of the house. But this was too fast for him. He wanted his freedom, to be able to live as anyone other than his mother's Blood Pig, but being forced to run wasn't exactly a liberating freedom. His cage was just bigger now, and he had to find where the edge of the cage reached before it was too late.

Jamal downed the rest of his juice and set the glass aside. He rubbed at his forehead, tired.

"This is a mess…" he muttered.

Archer reached over and placed a hand over his, rubbing his knuckles reassuringly. When he looked over at her, she was smiling in that way that his mother never would've. Not to him. Even if she was posing as Alexandra DuBry, he knew it was Archer beyond a shadow of a doubt with how soft she was towards him.

"Things will improve," she told him. Despite witnessing firsthand the destruction the false Archer could wreak, she was as confident as ever when she spoke. Like Archer believed her own words. "A battle lost is a battle learned from. It won't be the same in Themyscira."

Jamal let out a slow breath and nodded, just a little. Everything was tipped on its head in less than three days, and now on the official fourth day of the World Grail War, he was scrambling for a plan and what was best to do after Archer established her territory. It wouldn't be as effective as a servant with the actual Territory Creation skill, but at least being on her home turf would give her an advantage against challengers.

If Alexandra had properly prepared Jamal for this instead of using him as an enhancer for the summoning so his sisters could be Archer's masters, maybe he'd have a better idea of what would help Archer.

One of the flight attendants walked through the aisle with a trolley, and Jamal glanced over at her briefly. When they'd boarded the plane she'd been in the bathroom, and her coworkers had informed him that she was always ill when the plane took off. Once they were in the air, Jamal had noticed how quickly she'd bounced back. Even now, she served drinks to everyone and took orders for warmer drinks with a bright smile on her face, almost like she'd never been sick at all.

Jamal took a peek at the trolley itself, and he pursed his lips when he didn't see any juice left on it. It was too early in the morning for sangria, too. Maybe he should get a hot chocolate like some of the other people in first class.

"Do you think we'll be safer there?" he asked Archer. The redhead smiled, proud, and nodded once.

"The city may be gone, but I'll be much closer to my former glory in its borders," she boasted. "And we won't set foot out of Themyscira unless we're forced to."

"Maybe we can outlive everyone by just staying home," Jamal joked weakly.

Archer let out a soft laugh. "As tempting as that is, I'm afraid my pride won't allow for it. I'd hardly be the daughter of a war god if I didn't participate in any war."

"A war of attrition counts," Jamal mumbled.

She just laughed again and sipped her sangria. She clearly didn't think it counted unless the war of attrition took place on a battlefield.

The flight attendant looped around the aisle and brought the trolley to a stop beside Archer and Jamal's seats. Now that Jamal got a better look at her—she wasn't the one who'd served their drinks in the first place—she was rather stunning. Her short hair was pinned back with hairpins and tucked under her hat neatly while her bangs framed her face, reaching her chin, and when Jamal tried to place what colour her hair was exactly, he could only settle on it being not quite brown, but not dark enough to be black. A lighter, artificial shade of black—dyed? Black hair was popular when people dyed their hair. It did suit her, he thought, and it made her red eyes stand out more than they already did, being such a vibrant colour.

But with the combination of the seat's elevation and the flight attendant's height, as well as her having to bend down a little to talk softly to Archer and Jamal, it was hard for Jamal to ignore the front row view down her loosely buttoned shirt. It wasn't that she was dressing with her cleavage on full display on purpose—it looked more like the dress shirt didn't fit her rather well-endowed chest, and Jamal felt his face heat up as he got more of a personal look at her than he intended. He looked away, to the window, and covered his mouth with his fist while the attendant spoke to him and Archer.

Archer downed the rest of her sangria and smiled politely back at the attendant. Not doubt she'd heard the panicked thoughts running through Jamal's head—one part repressed attraction that his upbringing forbade him from entertaining, as well as his own insecurities prevented entertaining, and one part mortification, because he wanted to conduct himself with at least a little chivalry, and letting his eyes wander down at a woman's breasts wasn't exactly polite behaviour.

She probably thought he was some kind of creep.

"Can I get you guys any refills?" the attendant asked. Jamal pursed his lips, unwilling to speak. He was… good with words, when he wasn't under pressure. But right now his embarrassment was too overwhelming to play the charismatic charm like nothing had happened. "Maybe some snacks?"

Archer chuckled softly and handed the flat tumbler up to the attendant. She seemed to peer at the woman's chest, just like Jamal had, and he hurriedly thought at her, 'Archer! We can't afford to be rude!'

"Thank you…" Archer paused, and she leaned closer to the attendant's chest. Oh, good Lord, did the Amazons have no concept of boundaries!? "...Alex."

Jamal sucked in a quick breath.

Oh. Her name tag.

He could recover from this.

He was all smiles as he looked away from the window. "My apologies. I thought I could see something below, but it was a trick of the light. Do you have any juice left at the bar?"

Alex, whose name tag he could see better now that she was facing him properly, fixed her neck scarf so her tag was less obscured. "I believe my colleague served you some pineapple juice?" she broached.

Jamal nodded.

"I'm afraid someone in economy ordered the last of it," Alex told him with an apologetic bow of her head.

"It can't be helped," Jamal said, voice soft. From what Diane would tell him about her experiences following Alexandra and Stephanie around to meetings, people got horrifically angry over minor inconveniences that wait staff couldn't help. He made sure Alex knew he wasn't upset as he spoke. "I noticed a few people ordering coffee in the row in front of ours. May I have a hot chocolate?"

"Of course!" Alex was smiling brightly down at him as she pulled a small notepad from her trolley. Gloved hands clicked open a pen as she turned to a blank page. "Now, do you have any dietary requirements? Preferences? We have Splenda and Truvia, and we carry soy, almond, low fat, lactose-free, and full-cream milk on all our flights."

He waved a hand gently. "Oh, just full cream and no sugar."

"Sweet enough already?" Alex giggled at her own joke as she wrote the order down. She looked at Archer with the same bright smile, and Archer, decidedly amused, propped her chin up as she rested her elbow on the arm of her chair.

"I'll just have water," she told Alex. "One ice cube. Something to balance the sangria."

"Of course, ma'am. Would you prefer I bring an unopened bottle and a new glass, or would you like it from the bar?"

"Bar is fine. I trust the water in first class isn't undrinkable."

Alex gave another giggle and bowed her head again. She returned to the trolley and walked out, and Jamal let out a slow sigh of relief as soon as she was by the bar at the far end of the aisle.

"Give me a heart attack…" he muttered.

"It's almost adorable," Archer mused, smirking. "It's like you've never seen a pair of—"

"I am not talking about how much I've looked at boobs in my lifetime." Jamal buried his face in his hands. "We are not opening a discussion that'll lead to you laughing at a non-existent Oedipus complex."

"I would never."

Her smirk said that she would, if only to tease him and get him to lighten up.

Jamal rubbed at his face and sighed again. Now that he wasn't as flustered, he was able to at least rationally pity Alex—her uniform was clearly a size too small for her tall stature and top-heavy build, and if he had to guess, she was probably waiting on alterations to arrive in the mail and had to make do. At least she seemed to enjoy her job. Being able to travel all over and relax in between serving food and drinks, it was almost the ideal job. More to the point, when she was on solid ground she was able to experience something new on paid company time; no doubt the airline funded classes for learning other languages and allowed her time off between flights to enjoy the cities she'd land in.

A flight attendant or pilot wouldn't have been a bad job, if he wasn't a mage, he thought. But then again, Jamal liked music too much—perhaps he would've pursued his desire to travel and be free by going on tours. Diane always told him what life was like for rock stars who bussed from state to state. It was like a never-ending party, every new face a whole new experience and each performance a rush of adrenalin that nothing could ever compete with.

That was basically a pipe dream now, Jamal thought with a frown. He supposed he'd have to just make do with whatever benefits he could get from being a master.

"Maybe we should do an interview," he thought out loud.

Archer was fixing her hair when she looked at him, brows raised. "Like what the other masters have done?"

He nodded. "Maybe we can set the record straight," he said. "People are assuming the false Archer is the real Archer because he uses a bow and claims to be a certain class. What if we used the press to—"

"I'd have to reveal my identity to the world," Archer told him. Her tone was apologetic. "And more to the point, Archer is not the only class I can be summoned as. I'm skilled with many weapons, being a child of Ares, but as a mere Archer I was only given one."

That… was fair. Keeping the rest of the servants from figuring out her identity was paramount right now—the false Archer had the advantage over her right now and even threatened to tell anyone he came across of her True Name. Broadcasting it to the world themselves was counterproductive.

Jamal hummed and rubbed at his chin. Until they got to Terme, what could they do? Simply hurling insults at the other servants until they came to their doorstep wasn't the only thing they could do, was it?

Maybe it was less of what they could do, and what they should do. And realistically, Jamal should have allies. He didn't even have a big corporation sponsoring him—it was all his father and Diane!

"Then maybe," he tried again, softer this time, "we ally with another servant and share resources?"

Archer let out an intrigued sound. She looked out the window with her lips tugged up into a small smile.

"Most servants appear to be in Europe right now," she noted. "And I doubt they're allied with each other yet."

"Operating with Themyscira as a territory they're welcome to gather in won't be bad leverage," he added.

"And if they can lead other servants to the territory," Archer finished, "I'll have an easier time picking them off until the final showdown."

He saw in his peripheral that Alex was walking up the aisles again—her trolley was loaded with drinks, and she was quick on her feet as she gave each person in first class their snacks and beverages. Jamal sat up a bit straighter, cleared his throat. Archer huffed a short laugh through her nose and looked out the window, arms crossed over her chest.

By the time Alex made it to their seats, the hot chocolate looked to be just the right temperature for Jamal to immediately begin sipping at. Archer's glass of water and single cube of ice was placed on the table between them, and Jamal gratefully took the hot chocolate from Alex's hands.

He didn't miss the beautiful foam art—somehow the warm milk and foam was able to be poured in a way that shaped a swan. Jamal smiled down at it, impressed at the talent of the barista, and Alex smiled at them both before delivering the rest of the food and drink to the other patrons.

The hot chocolate was just right. It tasted like they used proper melted chocolate for it, not just cocoa powder, and Jamal felt the tension ease from his shoulders as he took large sips. Jamal took a peek at some of the other flyers around them as he let his anxiety ease off of him.

He could see a couple of people dozing off, one woman even dropping her novel as she snored quietly against her chair. He caught sight of Alex hurrying over and shaking the woman awake, just barely, before electing to fetch blankets for everyone who was falling asleep. It made sense that people would be tired by now. Not only was it a ten hour flight from O'Hare International Airport to Istanbul, but there was a full eight-hour difference between New Orleans and Turkey. Everyone's internal clocks were struggling to keep up with a lack of proper sleep during the flight, and even Jamal would admit that, once they took the next flight from Istanbul to Samsun, he would be passing out for the next twelve hours in the safety of their hotel.

Alex made the rounds and cleaned up the other flyers' tables as she draped blankets over the ones who seemed cold, only leaving out those who briefly awoke to decline a blanket. By the time she made it to Jamal and Archer, who were both intrigued by how tired everyone seemed to be, Jamal gulped down the rest of his drink to give the empty mug to her. He scrunched up his face when that final glug of hot chocolate went down his throat—an odd taste was on his tongue, something he hadn't expected when it came to the drink. Perhaps the milk was expired? No, there would've been chunks in his drink. Maybe it was steamed too long.

Whatever it was, the strange taste of garlic on his tongue bothered him.

"I'm so sorry to be a bother, Alex," he muttered to the attendant. "Can I just get a glass of water?"

"Oh, of course. I'll be back in a minute with a bottle for you."

Alex was true to her word, but while she was gone, Archer looked Jamal up and down.

'What is it?' she asked through their link.

Jamal coughed into his hand and shook his head. 'I think the barista messed up the order. The milk must've been steamed too long.'

Archer crossed her arms over her chest just as Alex returned with the bottle of water. She looked at Archer and Jamal nervously, still smiling, and asked, "Is something the matter?"

"Oh, no, it's fine," Jamal said quickly. "I think my stomach just isn't agreeing with me today."

"Oh! Poor thing. I think we have some travel sickness chewies, but…"

Maybe it was just travel sickness. Jamal hadn't exactly eaten much on the flight due to the nerves of the previous encounters in America. The hot chocolate had been the richest thing he'd drank, too—far richer than the juice.

"I'll tell you what, I think there's a doctor in business class," Alex told him. "I'll go see if he's able to have a look at you. I can't give you any medication without a doctor's permission, unfortunately."

Jamal waved her off. "No, no, I'm sure I'll be fine. I just need to hydrate, right?" He waved the water bottle playfully. "And from the looks of everyone else, I don't think I'll have trouble getting to the restroom for a while."

Alex nodded, empathetic. "You just press the button on the side of your chair if you need assistance, okay?"

Jamal sipped on his water as Alex left once again. Archer looked him up and down a second time, and she sucked in a short breath.

"Master, you look, as Stephanie would say, jacked up," she noted. She leaned over and pressed a hand to his forehead. "You don't have a fever."

"I've never travelled by plane before," he said, shrugging. "Maybe it is just travel sickness."

Archer didn't seem convinced. For the next hour, as Jamal sipped at his water—some sips longer than the last—Archer tapped her shoe against the floor and peeked out into the aisle for any attendants present. Since Alex left, no one had come out to check on the other passengers; they were leaving everyone to their rest, waiting solely for the press of a button on the seat to be summoned. Eventually, though, Archer seemed to get fed up and just stood up with a huff.

She told Jamal she was going to check the bar and see if the milk had expired, or if anything else had caused his reaction. He didn't try to stop her—why would he? She was an Amazon warrior and effectively acted like his mama bear. Jamal couldn't do anything to stop her when she decided she needed to investigate something.

So Jamal just huffed a laugh and stared out his window as he waited. And when he finished the first bottle of water, he asked Archer to bring him back another.

Two hours and three bottles of water later, Jamal couldn't deny that maybe this wasn't travel sickness. He was chugging the water by the fourth bottle. No matter how much he drank, something just didn't click into place—his thirst wasn't quenched, his throat still dry.

He thought back to what Alex said about a doctor being in business class. Jamal decided that he wanted to have the doctor check him.

He leaned over his seat to check for the button on the side, and as soon as he did he felt his stomach lurch. Jamal felt a wave of nausea wash over him and he couldn't help vomiting all over the floor as his legs turned to jelly. Archer jumped out of her seat and tried to help him up, but Jamal pressed against her to try and get away. He could feel more vomit coming up—no one else was waking up to help him—and he managed to weakly tell Archer, "N—No," before he fell to the floor and began to shake.

Jamal felt like he was trapped in his body as his limbs stopped moving. He could hear his breathing coming out in watery wheezes. It all hurt. He was scared. He was terrified. Jamal felt Archer push him off his back and onto his side, one hand under his head as it kept flying back against the seat. She was calling out to him, panicking, and then she was screaming at the other passengers.

Jamal was thankful that he lost consciousness midway through.

When he woke up, Archer was cradling him as she cleaned vomit from his face and clothes. She was red-faced and hysterical, and when Jamal finally managed to see past her and at the other passengers, he was stunned silent. Every single one of them was still asleep. Some were even snoring away peacefully, like an emergency hadn't just happened right beside them.

Not a single flight attendant was present to help them either. Jamal coughed and tried to sit up, but his limbs were so weak. He was so thirsty.

'Don't speak,' Archer told him. 'Tell me what's wrong. I'm not a child of Apollo.'

Jamal worked his jaw. He almost replied out loud. He remembered the connection and reached for it weakly.

'I can't move. I'm so thirsty. Did I have a seizure?'

'I think you did. No one else is waking up. I think another master is on this flight—or perhaps someone hoping to take your command spells.' Archer wiped some sweat from his brow. 'I won't let them escape alive. I will take this whole plane down with me, if I have to.'

'Not yet.' Jamal wheezed and looked towards the far end of the aisle—where Alex kept disappearing to with the other attendants. 'I don't feel another seizure coming. Alex said there's a doctor. Find him.'

Archer nodded and sat him up against the seat. Jamal felt a sigh of relief escape him as he saw the red hair disappear through to the business class, out of sight. He felt his eyes slide shut, still clinging to the mental connection with Archer, and once again he let the tension roll off of his shoulders.

He must've dozed off a little. When he felt something nudge his shoulder, he startled awake and looked at who it was.

Alex was kneeling in front of him.

She was holding a phone up, the notepad app open and text the biggest size it could be without needing to scroll down.

You've been poisoned. Your cooperation will determine whether or not you survive to reach Istanbul.

Do not call your servant. Do not try to play any games. Do not think you have the upper hand in this situation.

As soon as Jamal looked away from the phone and at Alex again, the bubbly smile was gone. Instead, Alex regarded him with a cold, uncaring gaze. She pulled the phone back and typed something new on the notepad.

You have six hours left to live without treatment. Everyone else on the plane has two hours left. Choose wisely.

If she'd said what he'd been poisoned with, Jamal would've risked it. Maybe Archer could use her Riding skill—albeit with high risks—and land the plane somewhere closer to Portugal's waters. They were still over the North Atlantic, but how far from Europe they were wasn't something Jamal could guess. He just knew that this flight wouldn't stop anywhere before Istanbul, meaning those two hours were all they had to work with.

He weakly reached up for the phone. Alex glanced down at his hand. With a nonchalant movement, she slid the phone in front of him and let him sloppily type his reply underneath her message.

whatvdi you awanr

Alex didn't smile or express her happiness in his cooperation. She just snatched the phone back up and made her offer upfront with Jamal.

He was stunned at what she wanted—there had to be better ways to ask this. Ways that didn't include killing him and everyone on this plane if he said no.

You scratch my back, I scratch yours. I can help get rid of the servant claiming to be Archer, and you can get rid of someone troublesome for me.

And then, as though making her point clear, Alex took off one of her gloves. On the back of her hand, the same bold red as his own, he saw the shape of a V beneath bat wings, with a diamond in the middle of the wings.

Command spells.

renren_writes · Jun 17, 2023

11

Terme, Turkey (Noon)

Alexis Gracel was a liar.

Whether or not that was a good thing remained to be seen. But what Jamal knew, now that he was off the plane and had heard Alexis out, was that she knew how to lie without even flinching. And she knew how to lie about mass murder with the ease one would have when talking about the weather.

It turned out, when they landed and she'd administered treatment for Jamal's poisoning, that everyone else on the place had simply been drugged with sleeping aids. It was why no one woke up, why some of them took longer than the rest to fall asleep, and it was why Archer was more peeved than usual when facing down someone who dared harm her master. Not only had Alexis poisoned Jamal with a potentially lethal dose and given him a mere four hours to live at best, but she pinned the potential deaths of everyone else on him if he refused to follow her demands over the course of two hours. While Alexis stayed behind in the airport and hid among the crowds in Samsun, Archer and Jamal watched the passengers disembark and remark to each other that they'd slept like babies on the flight.

Running could've been an option, Jamal thought, but there was no telling what Alexis was capable of if she was able to hold an entire plane hostage and threaten Jamal and Archer without her servant even being present. And, he thought as what appeared to be her servant approached them while they collected their luggage, Alexis was quick to the punch when keeping track of him now that she'd laid her terms out.

Lancer was a very amicable man, Jamal noted. Youthful face and easy-going confidence that matched Archer's own. He was charismatic—there was no doubt about it—but something felt off the more he studied the man. To his credit, Lancer didn't immediately start any arguments and apologised for his master's behaviour. But that was where the points in his favour ended, Jamal decided, because as soon as the apology had passed through his lips, Lancer had added the very biased, "But…" that had him making excuses for Alexis with a smitten expression.

The bus ride to Terme was awkward. Lancer sat between Archer and Jamal and made little comments to Archer about the things that had changed since the "last time" she'd been in the area. Alexis had obviously broadcast that Archer was one of the Amazons, hailing from Themyscira, and Lancer was having his own fun in poking at her without outright telling her he knew her identity. Every so often Jamal would hear Archer's annoyed thoughts broadcast to him, and immediately after would come an apology and reassurances she wasn't upset with Jamal in the slightest.

It was a whole lot more reassuring than anyone else tended to give him growing up.

"So." Jamal's turn was short and snippy, and he didn't even look at Lancer when he spoke. "When is Alex joining us?"

They were wheeling their suitcases through the streets of Terme. Though Jamal and Archer had booked a room in a high class hotel, Alexis seemed to have her own little hidey-hole covered. Lancer had rushed over to Europe on her orders to look for somewhere suitable to infiltrate under the cover of night, and in the time it took for her to discover a fellow master at George Bush Intercontinental Airport—conveniently moving from one plane to the next to get to Turkey—she'd been able to send her orders to Lancer to set up shop in Istanbul until she found out the exact location Jamal and Archer were headed. Instead of boarding like a regular civilian, Lancer boasted that she'd charmed her way into someone else's uniform and even took their name tag. And now, instead of the comfortable hotel that Archer and Jamal had booked last-minute in their panic to leave America, they were being ordered to instead reside in Alexis's hideout with Lancer to keep a watch on them.

Lancer didn't seem to mind. He just carried Alexis's suitcases with a big smile on his face and led the way for his hosta— allies.

"In due time," Lancer informed him brightly. The white-haired man looked over his shoulder at the duo, who didn't match his enthusiasm. "My wife likes to be thorough."

Archer was sneering. "Your wife?"

"Ah, yes. Just something to keep in mind—we aren't public like you two are." He looked Jamal up and down, almost smugly, and did the same to Archer. As if laughing at what a pair the two of them made. "We're just a simple husband and wife, on a tour for our honeymoon. Completely innocent."

It wasn't just Alexis Gracel who was a liar; Lancer was one too.

Archer didn't miss a beat. She flicked her short hair over her shoulder and scoffed. When she blinked, her eyes went from green to brown.

"And we," she informed Lancer matter-of-factly, "are mother and son. Your cover isn't anything special Lancer—"

"Lance," Lancer cut her off, unbothered by her insult. "Come now, even with the whole shebang made public, who in their right mind would name their child a noun, of all things. Just Lance will do."

'Not even giving an inch,' Jamal thought to Archer. Of course Lancer wouldn't use a nickname close to his own name as a cover. Of course he'd just use Lance.

'He knows we'd take a mile,' Archer agreed.

As they passed the hotel they'd originally planned to stay in, Archer and Jamal felt themselves becoming mentally drained by the fuckery that was their first… Well, was it too charitable to call it an alliance? Whatever they could call it, it was already stressful enough with one half of the duo already almost killing Jamal—who, Jamal might add with some indignance, was still very motion sick even after being treated! Lancer didn't seem bothered by everything—his master's actions and even being left on his own with people who could turn against him in a heartbeat—and Jamal couldn't help wondering if this deal was going to benefit Archer and himself much in the long run.

It was surprisingly not long of a walk to reach Alexis's supposed hideout after they'd passed the hotel. Lancer opened a door to what seemed to be a rental unit, and as he led them through the pleasant little house to show them their rooms and amenities, it all culminated in Lancer opening a door that, on the surface, was supposed to be a utility closet near the bedrooms. Beyond the darkness of the doorway, the floorboard lifted and revealed a staircase that extended down beneath the house—almost like a panic room underneath the house, or a bomb shelter of sorts—and both master and servant followed him down into the basement of the house with bated breaths. It was a comfortable dwelling up above, fully furnished, likely by Lancer himself, and everything below the house was clean and far from the decrepit cave Jamal envisioned when he climbed down the ladder.

As soon as their feet touched the ground of the basement and they walked through the door in front of them, they were met with a very neatly organised dwelling with all manner of tools and lab items set up throughout. Beakers and bookshelves filled to the brim, magic circles scrawled onto the walls and floor and strewn about paper. The only tables in the room were covered in research material and vials of blood, and an organ cooler for transporting was propped up on the table farthest from the group. Lancer didn't hesitate to waltz over to it and open the lid, whisking out a bag filled with a pint of blood and drinking from it like Capri Sun.

"This is all our stuff," he drawled, sounding like he was giving a celebrity house tour. Archer and Jamal cringed in sync at the unlivable conditions beneath their half of the property. Where the hell were Alexis and Lancer supposed to sleep? "Don't touch the blood. My wife went through hell to get enough to last the stay in Terme."

"Does Alexis not have adequate circuits?" Archer asked, sneering.

Lancer gave her a condescending smile. "No, Archer, I'm just that high-maintenance."

Jamal could feel the tension in the air rising again. As much as he didn't like Lancer, he did at least want to avoid an argument where he could help it.

"Did you handle all of this while we were on the plane?" he asked. Lancer stopped sipping the blood and beamed, delighted to have his efforts recognised.

"I did," he boasted. "So glad you noticed. I'm sure you'll see for yourself in the coming days being around me, but people are very amicable with me in my current form. Make a few deals, line a few pockets, and you get a house with a very large basement within a single day."

Jamal tilted his head and stepped further into the room. As he glanced at one of the books on the nearby table, he saw a diagram of the human body and shorthand that he couldn't quite decipher.

"Do you have another form?" Jamal asked.

"One more powerful than this one, yes," Lancer told him. He paused to down the rest of the blood, and he licked his lips clean of any remnants as he spoke. "It has its drawbacks. I'd rather prepare in my current form before using my more powerful self."

Archer crossed her arms over her chest. She was holding back a scoff as she hurried to where Jamal was standing, almost protective of him. "And what preparations do you have in mind, then?"

Lancer let out a huff of a laugh. He moved back for the cooler and shut the lid, and then he was throwing the empty blood bag into a nearby trash can. Lancer seemed rather casual in his movements. He tucked his hands into his pockets, hip balanced on the table, and he smiled lazily as a glowing ripple appeared behind him and launched something at the table Jamal and Archer was standing at. Archer pulled Jamal behind her, materialising her shield at the ready, but the object missed them entirely and instead landed on the book Jamal was looking at—slicing it in half at the seam when it landed.

"Ah, shoot," Lancer hissed, smile gone as soon as he realised what he'd done. "She's gonna kill me for that. Archer, be a dear and pull that back out. I need to rebind the pages…"

When Jamal and Archer looked at what he'd launched at them, they saw a curious type of weapon. Certainly, it was the shape and length of a spear, but when Archer hesitantly pulled it from the book and gave it a twirl in her hand, there was no mistaking that this was a simple reed stalk.

Archer looked at Jamal with her brows furrowed. The reed stalk vanished in her hands as Lancer dismissed it.

'That can't be his Noble Phantasm,' Archer insisted. 'It's just a reed stalk.'

'Maybe it has conditions to be used with,' Jamal reasoned. 'Lancer did say he had a more powerful form he had to prepare for.'

They both looked to Lancer. The young man was fretting as he picked up both halves of the book and tried to simply push them together and make it look like they were connected. It wasn't exactly working out for him.

If he had to prepare for certain circumstances in order to make proper use of his Noble Phantasm, did that mean the reed stalk was this way because he wasn't in his more powerful form? It was disguised, just like him?

Jamal cleared his throat.

"What, ah… What was that, Lancer?"

"Well," Lancer said, slightly distracted, "a Lancer-class servant can't be without his lance. He'd just be a joke, otherwise."

"Right. Right." Jamal rubbed his hands together and pursed his lips. "Why is it a reed?"

"Well, that's because I'm not using it right now."

Lancer spoke like it was the most obvious thing in the world. After a final attempt at making the book look like it wasn't cleft in twain, Lancer recomposed himself and cleared his throat.

"You see, my unwitting allies," he drawled, "my lance is special. I'm sure you've seen the footage of Berserker's fights with Rider in England, no?"

They'd been fighting? Jamal and Archer exchanged alarmed looks. Lancer faltered again, taken aback by their confusion.

"Th—They've been at odds for days now," Lancer tried again. "Social media? Anything? Not even TV?"

"We paid more attention to the false Archer," Archer said slowly. "And his movements after he ambushed me in Louisiana. All other observations were handled by Jamal's mother."

Lancer sucked in a deep breath, but quickly calmed himself as he raised his hands in surrender.

"Right. Holding onto that knowledge for a rainy day. You can do the homework yourselves regarding Berserker." Lancer shook his head and crossed his arms over his chest. "What I was getting at, though—my lance has tiers, you could say. The more defeats I suffer in battle, the stronger my lance becomes. Think of it as the weapon learning from experience."

Jamal was quick to ask, "What do you mean? How does it get stronger?"

The silver-haired man shrugged one shoulder. "Take right now, for instance," he went on. "In a fight, my lance is rather useless and won't do anything to land a killing blow on any servant I fight seriously. But if I suffer a single loss, get my ass soundly kicked by my opponent, the lance will become stronger for the rematch. It officially becomes an Anti-Unit Noble Phantasm."

The explanation seemed to resonate with Archer. She gasped, almost intrigued, and she was nodding along with Lancer's explanation.

"On paper, you're a useless servant right out the gate," she said. Lancer cringed at the wording, but didn't argue. "But the more losses you build up, provided they're not fatal, the better you become in a fight against other servants."

"And that's if I don't use my other form," Lancer finished. He pointed a long finger in Archer's direction, and he was smiling as he spoke, clearly satisfied with the direction the conversation moved in. "We didn't just seek you out because we could scratch each other's backs, Archer, Jamal. I certainly have my weapons at my disposal, and I have my true form, but in order to save it for an emergency, I need to make my main weapon more formidable when wielding it. And in order to do that, I need a servant who outclasses me in terms of weaponry and Noble Phantasm at this very moment. A sparring partner, if you will—someone who can pretend to be my enemy to the public, so our own enemies never suspect us working together to bring them down."

It wasn't a bad plan. No, if anything, it was a very sound plan. Lancer got to strengthen his Noble Phantasm to at least an Anti-Unit classification, and in exchange he and Alexis provided somewhere safe for Archer and Jamal to reside. And then there was the whole part about scratching each other's backs—if Lancer and Alexis knew that they were having trouble with the false Archer, then that meant they wanted to help in exchange for getting rid of an enemy they themselves had. Given that Lancer had complimented their plan to lure someone into Archer's territory and face them with a buff, he probably intended to lead Alexis's enemy to their doorstep while Archer and Jamal waited with her Noble Phantasm primed and ready.

Despite how horrifically Alexis had proposed their alliance, using Jamal's life as leverage, it was a good plan.

Jamal nodded to himself. Everything made a little more sense now, terse as their first meeting was.

"So who do you want us to get rid of?" Jamal asked.

Lancer gave him a knowing smile. Despite the absence of Alexis, Lancer didn't seem lost whatsoever when he made the hit on the rival servant.

"I'm sure even those of you living under a rock," Lancer told him, "are aware of Saber's activities and location."

Norilsk, Russia (Late Evening)

"Oh thank goodness…"

In the two days that Havi had been unconscious, it seemed that Dunja had never left his side once. She was the first person Havi saw when he woke up, and she'd been the only person he saw at all in the hours following his awakening. As soon as he woke up, she was handing him a small mug of tea with raspberry jam mixed into it, and Havi felt the headache slowly subsiding as the hours passed by.

The right side of his face was freezing cold, no matter how much tea he drank, but it was bearable the more he got used to it. Havi had no idea why—attributed it to the shard inserted into his eye at first—until he'd heard a voice echo in his head and send shivers down his spine. Caster's voice, only speaking when Dunja had left the room to get Havi more tea and something to eat, and it was then that Havi noticed he wasn't missing his eye like he'd expected.

When Havi had stumbled over to the mirror in his room, he noticed immediately what was wrong with his appearance. The area around his right eye was a pale blue, frostbitten but not necrotic, and a smooth orb had replaced his eye after his brave attempt to dig it out with his own two hands. Havi blinked, let out a shaky breath, and he sank into a nearby chair as he stared at his reflection.

'It was a valiant effort,' Caster told him, her voice rattling between his ears like nails on a chalkboard. 'You did pull the eye out. But you owe me your life for freezing the artery and replacing the eye at Dunja's request.'

So that was what happened. Dunja had requested Caster make Havi a new eye after stopping the bleeding, and Caster took that as a chance to corrupt him with something more effective than a shard of the mirror. At least he wasn't seeing things in a way that showed its ugliness, he thought, but having a frostbitten face that he couldn't even feel in some parts wasn't ideal. He may not have used his facial muscles much to express himself, but Havi still liked being able to feel his face.

Dunja entered the room as he felt Caster's presence slip out of his head. Havi could relax some more, no longer feeling like he was seeing with two sets of eyes, and he kept the frozen prosthetic eye covered with extra effort to keep his right eye closed.

"Is it uncomfortable?" Dunja asked him, voice quiet. She set down a bowl of some kind of stew at the small table in the middle of the room. Caster was kind enough to fully furnish every room in her palace for all manner of needs—including eating and entertaining guests.

Havi tried to stand again. When he stumbled, Dunja rushed to his side and helped him stand. They both hobbled awkwardly to the table, and he sank into the chair she'd pulled out for him. Dunja, with more care than he'd seen in the time he knew her, practically nursed him back to health to the best of her abilities. She even made sure to blow on every spoonful of stew she held out to him, one hand cupped underneath to catch any spills.

After the third spoonful, Havi held up a hand to stop Dunja.

"It's cold," he told her. Dunja looked at the stew, anxious, and went to grab the bowl to heat it up. Havi reached out and grabbed her by the wrist, startling the girl but stopping her in her tracks. "The eye. The eye is cold."

Dunja sucked in a sharp breath and nodded. She blushed—one part in embarrassment from her misunderstanding, another part in something Havi couldn't place as she looked at his hand—and Dunja sat back down without any resistance.

"I…" Dunja was still quiet as she spoke. "My grandmother… When I'd get sick, she'd make me a bowl of zharkoye. Something hearty to make me feel better. I asked Pyotr to teach me—not that I did any good the first few times—" Dunja was almost rambling as she stared at the bowl of stew. "I promise I'm not feeding you my failure—this is all Pyotr's work. A—And I didn't want to leave you on your own. Not after—"

Dunja snapped her lips shut and bowed her head. She pulled away from Havi—he didn't even realise he was still holding onto her—and he watched as Dunja reached up to pull at her hair, anxious and on edge.

"Caster wouldn't tell me what happened when I walked in," she mumbled. "I got a little curious about why you two were going to talk on your own. And when I saw you like that—laying in all that blood—I knew she'd done something. She had to have. You wouldn't claw your eye out for no reason, right?"

Havi kept his breathing even as he listened. For all her quietness and naive obedience of Caster's authority, Dunja was a perceptive girl. But not entirely perceptive. Dunja had to have already known that all of Caster's ice creations served as her eyes and ears—did she not think Havi's new eye functioned with the same purpose?

Havi opened his mouth to speak, to answer her question—only to wince and scrunch up his face when he felt the skin around his eye burn in the way only frostbite could achieve. Havi reached up and pressed his palms to his face, hoping to warm it a little, but as Dunja left the room to fetch something to help with the pain, it became very obvious what that spike had been. No sooner had she left, the pain subsided and returned to its dull, numb ache.

This was a warning from Caster. She could hear everything Havi and Dunja said, and Havi would suffer for it if he said something wrong.

"Loud and clear…" Havi said through gritted teeth. He opened the eye again, and as much as he hated that Caster could still hear through him, it was ultimately pointless to hide what he saw from her as well.

Havi sucked in a deep breath as he saw Dunja enter the room again. She offered him a warm cloth to press to his face, but Havi turned it down as he steadied his breathing. His rune still worked as it should, but he had no idea what limits Caster would push him to in order to make it break. Her obsession with it was unhealthy.

For the moment, Havi thought, it was safest to keep this secret and work something out on his own with Caster. Surely she had ulterior motives for focusing on him so much—for comparing him to Kaj with her actions and desires.

Havi sucked in a deep breath. He watched as Dunja fussed over him, and he felt a little bit of guilt try to bubble to the surface—right before the rune over his heart throbbed and dulled the guilt into apathy.

"I was careless," Havi told Dunja. He reached up and held her hands, easing her back into her seat. Dunja pursed her lips and stared down at their hands as he spoke. "Caster promised to show me what she was looking through the crates of glass for when I arrived in Norilsk. She warned me that it would break if I touched it, but I wasn't careful. Some of the Noble Phantasm landed in my eye."

Dunja's eyes widened before she scrunched up her face and turned red. "I should've warned you about the mirror," she mumbled.

"Please, don't blame yourself." Havi squeezed her hands, trying to reassure her. "I was just careless."

"What did it show you?"

Havi blinked, surprised. Did she not know what the mirror did? No, maybe there was a better question here—did Dunja not entirely know what Caster's identity and story were? Even Havi, who'd figured out that she was in some parts the Snow Queen, was able to clock what the mirror was for without having to look into it. Andersen's fable was a staple back in his hometown—in many places that snowed heavily through Europe and Scandinavia.

Another dull ache behind his eye. Havi squeezed his eyes shut while Dunja wasn't looking.

I get it…

"It… showed me my past," he lied. The ache subsided a little more. Did Caster not want Dunja to figure out her identity? Why? "And unfortunately, my past is… not something I'd like to revisit."

Dunja let out a small sigh and nodded when he opened his eyes. It seemed that she had accepted his words as truth, but something was still bothering her as she held onto his hands tightly.

Eventually, though, Dunja asked him, "Do you feel alright coming with me to the village this evening?"

Havi stared at her, bewildered. "Come with you? To the village?" he asked. And then, as he recalled Pyotr, he added, "Is that wise?"

Despite herself, Dunja smiled. "Pyotr… Maybe he was right and everyone hates me," she mumbled. "Maybe they all know who my family really is and want me dead. But… Not everyone was outwardly cruel to me. Even if they hate me, they don't treat me poorly."

She shrugged.

"Maybe, to them, I'm just someone they tolerate. I think I'm okay with that more than the lynch mobs and witch hunts."

Was it really so bad? Havi let go of one of her hands. He reached up, one hand cupping her cheek, and it wasn't lost on him the intimacy of the gesture. But, he reasoned, Dunja seemed to warm up quicker to him when he used intimate gestures like this. The quicker she warmed up to him, the quicker she would support him taking down the Norse High Council. They were her allies after sending Havi to her, but he needed to give her every reason to side with him over them.

Dunja flushed an even deeper red, also keenly aware of how close this gesture made them, and she reluctantly looked up at him with white eyes. Come to think of it, Havi had never met anyone in his life with eyes that were white. Like a blank canvas waiting to be coloured—white like the snow cascading around the castle outside.

"Dunja," he said, voice soft, and her face was warm under his palm. "I'm in no position to judge. What exactly happened between this country and your family? Why do you want so badly to be here when there's so many people who despise you for existing?"

It was a heavy question to ask. Too heavy when the current situation was about Havi's eye and his recovery. But he truly did mean it when he said he was in no position to judge. After all the suffering he'd gone through because his own family was targeted by a higher government power, Havi couldn't exactly blame someone for whatever reasoning that government used to target them. Unless they were like the current Matou family, once known as the Makiri family, who were chased out of Russia almost six-hundred years ago, then Dunja's family didn't have much room to be blamed in this targeted attack.

Dunja sniffed and he could see her eyes start to water. As she thought about her answer, staring up at him, it seemed almost like she was reliving every formative moment before coming to the Slavic Federation as Avodt'ja Wagner, not as her true self.

Havi held back a sigh. Now was not the right time to push for answers.

He let go of her face and took her hand back in his own. He tried to smile as he asked, "Your grandmother, what is she like?"

Dunja relaxed visibly at the question. Yes, he thought; he'd moved far too quickly for her to reveal such weaknesses about herself yet.

"She's a wonderful person," Dunja said with a relieved sigh. She actually smiled a little as she spoke, her fondness for her grandmother more than telling. "When I lost my parents, she was all I had. She taught me everything I knew, and she was such a kind soul. Always so patient." Dunja winced a little. "I miss her. She told me not to seek out our homeland, and I ignored her. And now I'm stuck here while she's all alone. I'm sure she's upset with me."

She teared up again, but this time Dunja snatched her hands away from Havi's and wiped at her face with another sniffle.

"I just want her to be safe in our home," Dunja whimpered. "Is it so wrong for me to want my family to be treated like the other magi? Our magecraft isn't even that heinous—so many people do the same outside of Russia!"

"You're right," Havi reassured her. "Necromancy is common even in the Clock Tower and the Association."

Dunja fell silent. She froze in place, taken aback by his words. When she lowered her hands from her face, all he could see was horror and confliction mixing into hesitation. A simmering pot of negative emotions that Havi would've had shut down before they could even blossom at the surface.

"Dunja," Havi said slowly. He tried to look her in the eye, but she refused to meet his gaze as she turned away in her seat. "Dunja, what is your family's magecraft? Is it not necromancy?"

Dunja rose from her seat all at once. She knocked the bowl of stew over by accident in her rush to get away from Havi.

"It's nothing," she said quickly, almost too quiet to catch. She was hurrying to the door as she kept her eyes glued to the floor. "Get some rest."

Dunja practically ran out of the room. Havi tried to give chase, but he fell to his knees as soon as he rushed out of his chair after her. His legs were still too weak, his stomach still too empty, and Havi clenched his hands into fists as he tried to compose himself. He was too eager. He spooked her. He fucked it up—

Another pulse from the rune. Havi sucked in a steeling breath as he pressed his face to the floor. Calm. Calm. He was calm.

'What's the matter, you scheming little boy?' Caster's voice echoed in his mind.

Havi sighed and lifted his head—only to find a half-visible outline of Caster's silhouette along the wall. Havi furrowed his brows. He blinked. Hesitantly, he reached up and covered his left eye.

Caster's silhouette was more prominent in the room, not just on the wall, through the solid ice eye. Like the snow bees were clustering together to take her form. So this was how he intended to keep contact with him, he surmised; if Havi closed his good eye, the snow bees would gather for him to see through the frozen eye for him to communicate with her.

'Sad your scheming didn't work out?' she mocked him some more.

Havi sat up, folding his legs in front of himself, and he leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. He rested his head in his palm as it covered his left eye.

"Not everything has to be a scheme," he mumbled.

'But you agree some things are,' she countered.

Havi sniffed. "Some things," he agreed.

The snow bees dissipated, only to reform beside Havi and lean against him. Caster's silhouette went from adult to child-sized, small enough for him to see as she leaned against him. Havi sneered at the sight of it, and the snow bees reached up to boop his nose.

'Such a sour boy,' Caster cooed. 'And here I am, trying to throw you a bone.'

"I don't want a bone," Havi grumbled.

'Everyone wants a bone,' Caster reasoned. 'I'd like a bone.'

Havi sucked in a deep breath and held his face in his hands. He really did not want to have this conversation right now, but he supposed he had no choice.

"And what," he hissed, "could you possibly want as a bone, Caster?"

'Someone a little more… confident, to start.'

Really? Havi lifted his head and kept his left eye shut as he gave her a dry stare. Confidence was the issue, here? Dunja was doing a pretty good job of throwing her weight around as a government agent out here in Norilsk.

'Don't give me that look, boy. Everyone has ambitions, and I'm afraid Avodt'ja doesn't meet my own.'

"And who does?"

The snow bees were still for a moment. He figured they were emulating Caster staring at him, and Havi felt uncomfortable under their shared gazes.

Caster's voice was in a whisper, almost far away in his mind, as the snow bees slowly dispersed and returned to their aimless drifting.

'A man who wants to topple an empire,' her words whispered, 'is far more interesting than a man who wants to bring glory to one.'

Her parting words… Havi wouldn't deny that they confused him for a moment. But the more he sat on the floor and thought about it, building up his strength to stand, the more he realised that Caster was laying before him her goals and how they didn't align with Dunja's. Dunja wanted to make peace with the Russian government and bring her grandmother back home, to clear her family's name. But Caster, through her trials and the story of the rune on his chest—Caster knew that Havi wanted to destroy, not to make peace.

Caster wanted to destroy as well. No, maybe not destroy. When he thought about the motivations of the Snow Queen, he realised what she truly wanted—to be a force of nature, indiscriminate and eternal.

Caster wanted to expand the reach of her winter, not contain it.

Havi groaned as he rubbed at his face again. The frozen flesh was tough and solid compared to the warm, squishy skin along the rest of his face. It would take him a while to get used to it, he thought. It would take him a while to get used to a lot of this.

And as he laid back on the floor and stared up at the ceiling, hand resting over his heart, Havi found himself wondering something something that he could finally put into words after his talks with Caster and Dunja.

Would everything be worth the damage he had to make in order to reach his end goal?

Vatican City, Italy (Night)

"Is this why I haven't seen you all day?"

Sudi watched as Casval, not even pausing to look at him, loaded clothing into a suitcase at the end of Maria's bed.

"Partially," Casval said, and his tone was curt.

"Is there anything I can do to convince you to stay?" Sudi asked.

Casval did pause this time. His assistants continued to pack as Casval stood up straight and took his glasses off, rubbing at his eyes. The man looked more tired than usual, and Sudi had no doubt that Saber had something to do with it. Beatrice had been adamant that Saber had done something, having heard from the other nuns that Saber had taken Casval to the vault.

Given the corpse they'd pulled from the vault, too, Sudi was willing to believe Saber had done something. But ever since Saber had returned to his side—to sulk, mostly, clinging to Sudi like a child clung to a parent—Sudi hadn't had the chance to ask many questions. This was the first time he'd gotten some peace from Saber, and that was only because Sudi had demanded he patrol the Vatican to make sure no one else attacked them in an ambush. Just because all three of an enemy servant's masters were in their dungeons didn't mean that they were entirely safe from that servant.

And now, in the brief peace Sudi had, he was on a time limit with his investigation and plan.

"No," Casval eventually said. "You can't do anything. I'm afraid this is a skill issue that even I can't teach you how to fix."

"Maybe you don't need to."

Casval gave him a dry glare as he looked over his shoulder at Sudi.

Sudi sucked in a short breath. As Casval opened his mouth to snap at him, to demand what he meant and ask how stupid he was, Sudi held up a finger to silence him. Casval was taken aback, to say the least, and Maria was stirring awake as Sudi pulled his phone from his pocket. Though they'd seen each other near-daily as student and teacher, Sudi still insisted on exchanging phone numbers for something like this. Saber's hearing was too sharp to simply whisper his plans to someone—texting on a phone offered a little more anonymity, if only because the sound of the keys tapping didn't give away much to what was being written.

FROM: Me
TO: Casval
One favour, student to teacher. That's all I ask.

Casval's phone dinged. He took a moment to read the message, and his face scrunched up again at the sight of the message. Soon after, with rapid thumb movements, Casval sent his reply.

FROM: Casval
TO: Me
I have no obligation, even as your teacher

Sudi hummed. What a shame.

FROM: Me
TO: Casval
That's a shame. I could've used your expertise on what to do with the masters in the dungeon.

That gave Casval pause. He moved to Maria's side, and he handed the phone to her for her to read it over. The silence in the room was deafening, and as the couple typed messages to each other and quickly deleted them in quick succession, Sudi let out a slow breath and walked further into the room. He made his way to their small dining table and sank into a chair. He held up the hand with his command spells—and he lamented the loss of one just because he'd almost drowned. Maybe, if he'd trusted Saber a little more, the bounded field would've gone down under the pressure of Saber's Noble Phantasm.

Maybe.

But the more likely outcome was that, albeit briefly, the contract would've been dissolved between them and Saber would've been in limited time and mana thanks to his Imperial Privilege skill. Sudi may not have found his own life to be precious, but it was precious to someone else. Letting himself drown just to save a command spell? That would be an even bigger waste than dying without using any at all.

After a few seconds, he felt his phone vibrate in his hand. Sudi looked over at Casval, who was giving him a hard stare, and even Maria was scrutinising him with a keen gaze.

FROM: Casval
TO: Me
This had better be good

Sudi nodded and let out a slow breath. He briefly left the room, calling for a priest to bring a cane for Casval to walk with, and he was flanked by Maria and Casval as they stalked the halls of the Vatican in silence.

It wasn't his most inspired of plans. But it was a plan that exploited the technical rules being broken right now.

The trip to the dungeon saw them stop a couple of times for Casval to shake off pins and needles in one of his legs, the man gritting his teeth as his mystic codes supported his weight while Maria held his cane. The nerve agent used on him would take more than a day to shake off, Sudi thought, and he wanted to try to make it up to Casval—but his healing capabilities were rudimentary at best, and Casval hadn't taught him enough to combat a lot of modern poisons effectively.

The final time Casval had to stop, he said to Sudi, "I've been contacted by a colleague who is also allied with a master."

Sudi stood with his hands in his pockets, gaze downcast as he waited patiently for his teacher to properly move his leg again.

"Is that so," he mumbled, feigning interest.

"She doesn't expect me to jump at the call," Casval informed him, "but I won't deny the temptation. From what I've been told, the servant she works with is far more agreeable than Saber is."

"It's not a high bar to clear," Sudi agreed. "You'd have your victory assured with them."

"Victory was supposed to be assured with the Saber class." Casval leaned on his foot, and he was satisfied with it. Maria handed the cane back to him. "He probably hasn't told you everything about his identity and summoning."

"I can gather that it's a disappointment."

"It could've been Arthur Pendragon."

Sudi sucked in a deep breath and closed his eyes. That close, huh? He removed his hands from his pockets and ran them down his face with a groan. He could've had a servant that was more noble and respectful compared to what he got, and it was that close?

"The catalyst—"

"Excalibur."

Right.

Sudi sank down into a squat and groaned some more. Truly, this was a massive fuck you to the events of the day he was attacked. All that effort he put into surviving and making it to the Vatican to help Eugenia, and it turned out that his saviour—who didn't even show up to help him in his time of need, but instead threw him into an arena to determine his worth—was just another obstacle to overcome in order to survive.

Fate was a cruel and twisted mistress.

As he stood back up, Sudi pulled out his phone again and began to type. He let out a sigh as he held the phone up to Casval and Maria, and he hoped that this play would pay off.

We do not say a word about Saber's true identity. As far as the three stooges are aware, he's a knight of the Round Table.

Casval raised a brow at the message, but didn't object. If anything, the look on his face asked which knight they could possibly pass Saber off as.

Maria took the phone and began to type. When she held it up, Sudi and Casval both raised their brows and let out intrigued sounds.

In some versions, Mordred successfully became king of Camelot after Arthur's death. His sword is the sister sword of Saber's, too, so we can try to say that Saber is Mordred wielding Florent instead of Clarent.

It wouldn't be unheard of. Sudi nodded in agreement, and when he looked to Casval, the man was conflicted. It's a hard lie to sell, his face seemed to say.

They'd just have to become the world's best snake oil salesmen, in that case.

They resumed their walk into the dungeons and made it to the cells below. There weren't many, the Vatican never truly taking prisoners like this prior to the World Grail Wars, but on occasion, according to Beatrice, they'd imprison Dead Apostles for interrogation. Never to survive and leave to see another day, of course, but what little they could glean from their undead prisoners helped immensely with improving their tools and weapons.

As they passed a few guards, Sudi noticed one of them walking towards them with a tray of untouched food in his hands. Sudi raised his brows, especially at the untouched peaches and water, and he stopped the guard to take the tray from him. A bit weird, he thought, that the man they were about to see wouldn't eat. The woman was eating just fine, from what he could see through the bars they'd passed when checking her cell, and the duo of Michael Montes and Citra Van-Alphen had been treated a bit better than the other two with their own room above ground and three course meals.

Speaking of Michael and Citra, though, Sudi caught sight of them standing in front of the cell and arguing with the prisoner locked within—Louis Laurent Monette. The pink-haired man was snobbishly complaining to Citra as the blonde listened with an annoyed expression. She was seated in a wheelchair, Michael plastered to her side now that her prosthetics had been confiscated, and she looked just as angry as Sudi would've been if he were in her shoes.

As they approached, he cleared his throat. All three heads turned to look at the trio, and suddenly Sudi felt like he was about to do something very stupid.

"Maria," he said softly. "Can you find a chair for me? One for Casval, too. I don't want to keep him on his feet."

Maria glanced at Casval. Casval, anxious in the presence of Michael, sniffed and added, "Take Lao with you."

Maria and the mystic code both left for a few minutes to fetch chairs. They planted one on either side of Citra, and Sudi sat down on Citra's left while Casval sat on her right. All three of them stared down into Louis' cell in silence for a moment.

Sudi held up the tray. He asked Louis, "Was this not to your liking?"

"Ugh," Louis grumbled. His arms were shackled to the walls, loosely held up above his shoulders. "With what hands, genius? Also, where did you get those peaches? And the water?"

Sudi narrowed his eyes. "Sicily, and a faucet."

Louis scoffed. "I'll have you know I only eat the finest of food and consume the most expensive of drinks. Talk to me when you get your hands on some Shimizu Hakuto peaches and a glass of Acqua di Cristallo."

Sudi dared a glance at Citra and Michael. He could see Casval staring at Louis with a very disgusted expression, appalled by how spoiled he was in his position, and Sudi couldn't blame him. The literal royalty was being less of a brat than this guy. But when he saw Citra's face, he could only see resignation and disappointment. Effectively a, disappointed, but not surprised, kind of reaction.

"Alright." Sudi shrugged and set down the tray. He picked up one of the peaches and, as he crossed one leg over the other, he bit into its skin.

Peach juice dribbled down his chin and hand. He decided it was for the best that he didn't wear his gloves for this, and he paused to lick the juice from his wrist before it went below his sleeve.

Louis scoffed again, but it was a half-laugh at the same time.

"You think you're intimidating me, eating my food while I starve," he snapped. "But just remember, mon bijou, that this little homoerotic display of yours keeps me just as well-fed."

What a freak.

"And I hope you remember, caro mio," Sudi replied, "that everyone needs something sweet to help a bitter pill go down."

Louis paused. He was still smiling as Sudi took another bite of his peach, but the smile soon fell when Sudi opened his coat to reveal one of his Black Keys hooked inside. Sudi pulled it out, threw it up, and between bites announced, "Set."

The Black Key was fast and a mere flash of light was all the indication anyone got before it slammed into the wall behind Louis. Everyone was silent for a moment, stunned, and even Louis was frozen in fear as the dust cleared from the impact. Once it became obvious where exactly the now thin blade of the Black Key had landed, Sudi felt a rush of power rise in his chest.

He licked his lips of peach juice as Louis slowly realised his wrist had been pierced clean in the middle by the blade, and that a single command from Sudi would sever the hand—and command spell—from his body.

"I think we need to have a calm and respectful talk about attacking a master on neutral grounds," Sudi said, mostly to Citra. He turned in his seat, and he saw Casval's wide eyes take in the scene and quickly piece Sudi's plan together. But Sudi still had some surprises up his sleeve as long as Saber was out on patrol. "Don't you agree, Miss Van-Alphen?"

Behind Citra, Michael was holding back a smile behind his fist. Citra herself slowly turned to look away from Louis and his predicament, and she was also biting back a smile as she replied to Sudi.

"I agree," she said smoothly. "Reparations should be made for this faux pas my allies have committed."

renren_writes · Aug 18, 2023

12

Vatican City, Italy (Morning)

Day 5 of the World Grail War

Father Kotomine never imagined his family would be involved in the Grail Wars again. A hundred and thirty years since his great grandfather acted as overseer, seventy years since his grandfather had offered his services and was declined for the World Grail War's second tenure, and thirty years since his mother decided their family was no longer needed now that the Grail War broke free of the confines of Fuyuki.

Kotomine Kiran sucked in a deep breath as he stepped off of the private jet and fixed his collar. He was young, but not as young as Kotomine Risei had been when the Second Fuyuki Grail War had occurred, and he certainly wasn't as young as his mother was when she was forced to deliver him to term. But it still felt like he was far too young to have this responsibility on his shoulders—no one younger than forty should've been able to pose as an impartial judge in matters that magi extended their lifetimes to see through. But an order from the Pope was an order from God, and Kiran prided himself as being a devout man of God like his grandfathers before him.

From what he'd been able to gather as he'd nursed his mother back to health in Fuyuki—daemon possessions and banishing such foul creatures came at such a higher cost now that she was older—Saber had been hiding behind the neutrality of the Holy Church alongside his master and the Grail vessel, and on the grounds of technicality and with the knowledge that the master was under the protection of the Church until he was deemed safe from forces outside of the Grail War, it was determined that a master from outside of Italy broke the neutrality in order to attack Saber's master.

A messy affair, Kiran had heard, and it didn't help that the Atlas Institute was involved due to the master's allies and tutor putting their lots with him for the time being. With the offenders being largely independent magi who were only affiliated with each other and their own families, it was a serious matter that required overseer intervention—which Caren Hortensia was in no shape to assist with right now.

Messy, messy.

He exchanged bows with each priest as he was escorted to the audience hall. Of course this would be televised, the allure of magic and beloved fairy tales and history coming to life in a battle of ideals and supreme power appealing to more than just the average joe. Historians took an invested interest in the figures that appeared in these Grail Wars, to the point where Kiran witnessed Wikipedia articles being updated in real time over and over as streams from bystanders revealed more information about certain servants. But reporters always made up the majority of the crowds that gathered in public where servants and masters coalesced. Anything for a hot scoop. Anything for clicks on their articles. Anything for that sweet, sweet ad revenue.

Kiran sighed to himself as he was handed from one group of Swiss Guards to the next, until finally a guard with a halberd led him to the front of the conference hall from its wing. The large sculpture of Fazzini's La Resurrezione loomed over Kiran and the table in the middle of the stage, and he gazed up at the face of Christ before one of the Cardinals called him over.

"Father, you've arrived," the old man greeted in English. Despite Kiran having never left Fuyuki in his life, his mother still pushed for him to learn English growing up. Most of the world was making an effort to learn it so they could universally understand the mechanics of the Grail War, so Kiran should keep up with the trends, she'd said. Frankly, Kiran was more disappointed that he wasn't able to show off his near-fluent Italian—his aim had been to migrate to the Vatican and offer his services there if the church in Fuyuki was abandoned. At this point, only the Tohsaka family attended his sermons. "I take it your trip was fine? How is Sister Caren faring?"

"The Reverend Mother has seen better days." Kiran bowed his head a little as he spoke of his mother. "The pupils you've sent to her have been a great help, but she is devoted to her work."

"Ah. Yes. I did hear she oversees a convent now," the Cardinal mumbled. He was sweating enough that it began to bead along his brow. "S—Surely the nuns we've sent with similar constitutions aren't so swamped with work that the Reverend Mother has to step in herself?"

Kiran lifted his head a little. He glanced at the statue again.

"I'd hate to speak ill of the dead," he began, and the Cardinal held up a hand to stop him.

"I—I see," he mumbled. The Cardinal reached into his robe and pulled a handkerchief from it, wiping his brow profusely. He was turning red, starting from his forehead. "A matter for another time. Thank you for taking Sister Caren's place in this meeting."

Kiran stood up straight and offered up as kind a smile as he could muster. "It's my honour, Cardinal. My family has offered their services as overseers since the Second Fuyuki Grail War—it would be remiss of me to simply ignore the call when the Church needs assistance."

As the Cardinal gestured to the table at the centre of the stage, Kiran took note of the moderately sized crowd sitting in the seats below. Mostly reporters, from the looks of things, and the sheer number of cameras aimed at the stage kept him from letting his pleasant demeanour fall away. He simply smiled and nodded in greeting, and as he got closer to the table, the nun he recognised as being the Grail vessel rose and approached to greet him properly.

Kiran nodded for the Cardinal to return to his seat as he spoke with the nun. The box tucked into his robes might as well be delivered now, especially since Caren had insisted it be taken with him to "handle that brute of a servant during the meeting". He didn't get the nun's name, but when he handed her the black box and made sure she opened it in front of him, Kiran made sure to tell her, "A Holy Shroud. I'm sure if you're familiar with Sister Caren Hortensia's work in Fuyuki, you're aware of its effects."

Recognition blossomed in ruby eyes. The nun thanked Kiran profusely, and she was quick to wrap herself in the Shroud as she made her way back to the table. Her seat was right beside Kiran's it seemed, but she was seated on the side of Saber's faction. The Cardinal he'd spoken to was on the side of the independent magi.

At least they were trying to appear neutral. But with the brief peeks of burns on the nun's skin beneath her habit, barely visible at her jawline, it was obvious that the Cardinal hoped some repercussions could be made for an attempt on the Grail vessel's life.

Kiran stood between both sides of the table's occupants, and he announced to everyone in the hall, "The date is October twenty-fifth, twenty-sixty-nine, officially recognised as the fifth day of the World Grail War. The time is eight-fifty-two in the morning. Assuming the role of overseer in this matter, I, Father Kiran Kotomine, now declare this meeting of masters shall commence."

He still wasn't used to introducing himself the western way. He hoped the reporters took the hint that his use of English meant that Kotomine was well and truly his surname, but there was always one in these World Grail Wars who struggled to understand intentions behind words.

Kiran pulled out his chair and sat down as he regarded the opposing masters. Behind the master of Italy, Saber stood sourly with his arms crossed over his chest. His sword—his Noble Phantasm—had pointedly been placed in the middle of the table in a show of disarming himself. The opposing side's servant wasn't present yet, something Kiran both appreciated and wondered about, and as he regarded the trio of masters to his right, Kiran asked them, "Where is your servant, currently?"

The trio was a mismatched bunch. He recognised the pink hair of the Monette heir, because he'd seen clips of the man's grandfather wow the crowds of the last Grail War and for all his peacocking, Louis Laurent Monette bore a striking resemblance to a younger Normand Novel Monette. The smallest of them, a blonde woman with prosthetic limbs and mechanical eyepatch, undoubtedly belonged to the Van-Alphen family, and even Kiran knew how cutting-edge their technology was in the new age of magi that embraced modern inventions and improved upon them. The third member of this trio, though, Kiran didn't recognise. From what he'd heard, the third and final member of the alliance was associated with the Royal House of Grimaldi, but no one from the Grimaldi family in Monaco had sent correspondence to the Vatican to delay the meeting and support her. She was a beauty, just as much as the other two members of her alliance, but she'd clearly spent the night crying and scrambling for an idea of what to do now that the alliance was facing consequences for attacking another master on neutral grounds.

The Van-Alphen woman turned to face him, and the man standing behind her adjusted his footing as he crossed his arms over his chest.

"Our servant isn't in the country, Father," she reported calmly. "You see, I've left someone important in his care, and I'm hesitant to summon him without knowing that person is safe."

Kiran hummed. "You don't have other safety measures in place?" he asked.

The woman furrowed her brows. "I do," she said slowly.

Before she could add her, but, Kiran jumped in and commanded, "Summon him here. A matter concerning his masters concerns him as well."

The other two in the alliance didn't have much to say, and while the Van-Alphen woman didn't either, the look she gave Kiran could kill him ten times over. Whatever she was having their servant do, she deemed it far more important than this meeting. Bully for her, Kiran thought. She agreed to this meeting, so she should've been prepared for her servant to show themselves as well.

There was a brief moment of silence before the air behind the trio shimmered gold. A tall figure materialised, dressed in white and blue robes and with hair and skin a rich, dark brown. Ultramarine eyes surveyed the scene with a hint of amusement, and the servant didn't miss the way the reporters began to clamour and shout questions—practically ignoring the required silence for the meeting.

From what Kiran could gather, the master alliance was posing someone else as the servant's master. People were shouting for Archer to answer their questions, but Kiran gave it more than just a millisecond of thought. Someone else had already reported to the Pope the summoning of Archer, and it wasn't this alliance. It was a master from America, and from what Kiran had seen in the news, they'd even held a celebration in New Orleans for it.

The Pope yelled for silence, and the Swiss Guards moved in response. The reporters were quick to quiet down, but a couple were dragged out of the room with their camera crew when they tried to continue shouting questions, trying to plead with the Pope for the alliance's story. This was not the time nor place for such gossip. Right now, on neutral ground, all that mattered was the slight committed against the few rules the World Grail War employed.

Kiran folded his hands together and rested them on his lap. He stared at the servant with a blank expression.

"State your class," he commanded.

The servant was almost playful as he bowed and stated, "Assassin. I thank you for the invitation to my masters' hearing, overseer."

"Were you in battle prior to arriving here?" Kiran asked.

"No, overseer. I was establishing a territory for my masters elsewhere."

Kiran gave the Van-Alphan woman a sharp glare. To her credit, Citra didn't back down from her prior belief that Assassin was needed elsewhere.

With the servants both present and the parties involved seated at the table, Kiran breathed in a short sigh and continued.

"Will the members of the wronged party please state their names for the record?" he requested. Though no one was doing any bookkeeping right now, there were plenty of devices planted in the room on behalf of the major magi groups who dedicated their lives to the Grail War. Some members of the Atlas Institute strived for a solution to the ever-looming through of a doomed world, but not all of them wanted to risk their lives and crests in a Grail War to make that wish come true. Similarly, plenty of the homunculi in the Swiss Guard were created by those such as the Yggdmillennia clan and the Einzberns functioned solely to witness these events so the memories could be extracted at the current War's conclusion.

Even now, Kiran thought as he glanced past Saber's party, he could see a row of homunculi standing at attention among the ranks guarding the Pope.

From the end of the table, the blonde man began the introductions. "Casval Crudelis Cecani, alchemist of the Atlas Institute. I serve as an ally and mentor for the master of Saber. I am also one of the people attacked within the bounds of the Vatican City State."

"We were still in Rome!" the Monette heir snapped.

"The building the ambush took place in was past the border of Rome and Vatican City," Kiran droned. He stared holes into the man's head, displeased to see yet another interruption from the Assassin party. "Hold your arguments until it is your turn to speak. The wronged party may continue."

The woman with short purple hair and glasses perched on her nose adjusted said glasses before she spoke. "Maria Hawkins, alchemist of the Atlas Institute. I also serve as an ally for the master of Saber, though I am first a research partner for Casval. I am one of the people attacked within the bounds of the Vatican City State."

Kiran looked back at the Monette heir. The pink-haired man bit his lip harshly enough that it almost bled, but ultimately kept silent.

As long as he stayed quiet until his turn, Kiran wouldn't need to punish him more than he was already about to.

Finally, the master of Saber spoke up. "Sudi Chandra, master of Saber. I was attacked in the process of defending the current Grail vessel within the bounds of the Vatican City State, and a command spell was lost in the conflict."

"Can the Grail vessel attest to this?" Kiran asked, looking at the nun.

The nun nodded her head, almost bowing, as she told him, "I can attest to this. I also had a mystic code on my person that recorded the masters of Assassin plotting to find a new vessel if I died."

The Monette heir slammed his hands on the desk, aggravating the injury on his wrist as blood seeped through the bandages, and he yelled, "BULLSHIT!"

Before Kiran could even reprimand him, Assassin grabbed the man's shoulders and slammed him back down into the seat. Though his grip looked gentle, it was obvious the servant was hurting the man quite a bit as he held him back.

"Come now, master," Assassin cooed, still smiling brightly. "The overseer has told you already to wait your turn. This behaviour is unbecoming of someone of your status."

The pink-haired man was seething through the obvious pain he was in. Beside him, the woman representing the Grimaldi Royal Family sniffled and looked down at her hands in her lap. Kiran could see tensions rising in the alliance, even as Citra coldly ignored the duo in favour of glancing at Assassin. Her concerns laid elsewhere, it seemed, but those concerns could wait. She'd been the one to agree to this most vocally of the trio, which meant she wasn't in on the plan to ambush Saber's master and to try to take the vessel for themselves.

Frankly, in Kiran's eyes, it went against the rules to have a master guard the vessel unless they were affiliated with the Einzberns. But the Pope had deemed Sudi Chandra a master with no ulterior motives, and Kiran had been informed that any wish Sudi might've had was now moot thanks to Saber's interference. He served best now as a representative of the Church, and Kiran couldn't help feeling a little spurned at the notion. His great grandfather had been the one to oversee the Third Fuyuki Grail War. His grandfather should've played the part of overseer for a fourth one, had the rules of the game not changed so disastrously. They'd even contacted his mother to oversee this meeting. It felt almost like, in the past four World Grail Wars, the Kotomine family had been long forgotten and cast aside, left to die quietly in Fuyuki as they waited for the Pope to call for them.

No matter, Kiran thought as his gaze moved to the Assassin team. Worst came to worst, he could always find a way to adopt the master of Saber and play him off in the family tree as someone who was always intended to join the family. It wasn't like Kiran was spritely enough to raise a child while caring for his mother, either. Some strings could be pulled to have an orphan welcomed into the Kotomine family, if only to keep up appearances of being the family the Church relied on for such delicate matters.

The mother would have to be taken care of, though.

"The Assassin party may introduce themselves," Kiran announced. "Do try not to talk over each other, please."

To his credit, the Monette heir did let someone else introduce themselves first. Though, from the looks of things, it appeared that Assassin simply tightened his grip on the man's shoulders and silenced him, likely at the mental request of Citra.

Citra sat up straight and said, though with a cold and annoyed tone, "Citra Van-Alphen, one of the masters of Assassin. I was not present during the incident in question and only arrived at the tail end to prevent my associate from dying by Saber's hand."

The associate in question spoke up next. He sat beside Citra, all smiles and easygoing demeanour, and he chirped at Kiran, "Michael Montes, said associate. I was not present at first for the incident, however I won't deny taking part in some of the violence before my employer's arrival."

Kiran stared at him for a brief moment. Where he'd heard the name before escaped him, but judging by the uncomfortable expressions on the faces of Team Saber, Michael was probably well known in magi circles. He supposed what mattered was that Michael was being honest right now, if a bit casual about his actions.

Kiran looked to the Monette heir. Assassin, almost amusedly, seemed to tell him under his breath that it was his turn to speak now. The bandage around the pink-haired man's wrist was coated a deep red and clearly wasn't going to stop bleeding unless someone took a look at it. Best to finish this meeting quickly, Kiran thought.

"Louis Laurent Monette, one of the masters of Assassin," the pink-haired man said through gritted teeth. "I was… present at the inciting incident. And I maintain that the attack happened outside of the Vatican City State."

What restraint. Kiran almost wanted to give him a gold star.

The final member of the alliance spoke up now, and she was dabbing at her eyes with a tissue she'd pulled seemingly from nowhere.

"Amèlie Appiani, one of the masters of Assassin," she whimpered. "A—And I was also p—present for the inciting incident." She seemed almost remorseful as she whimpered some more and wiped away more tears. Kiran almost doubted them, but the tissue quickly becoming damp lended a bit more credence to her performance. "I would like to resolve this as p—peacefully as possible, Father Kotomine."

From across the table, Casval scoffed and rolled his eyes.

Kiran hummed once. This was certainly going to be a messy meeting. He sighed heavily and leaned back in his chair, resisting the urge to pinch at his brow with frustration. Despite everyone present being adults, they sure acted like children now that consequences were on the table.

"Yes, well," Kiran announced, more to everyone instead of just to Amèlie, "since neither Miss Appiani nor Mr. Monette were the ones in the alliance to agree to this meeting, as well as Miss Van-Alphen's lack of presence in this disagreement, I hereby rule that the decision of reparations and punishment will fall on the shoulders of Sudi Chandra and Citra Van-Alphen. You may confer in my presence, and Louis Laurent Monette and Amèlie Appiani may not have a say in the proceedings. Does the Pope allow this?"

Behind him, the Pope took little time to deliberate and gave a single, silent nod.

"I hereby hand negotiations to the master of Saber and the sole master of Assassin not present in the incident of October twenty-third, twenty-sixty-nine." Kiran gestured to both Citra and Sudi's alliance as Louis tried to speak up again, though he was quickly silenced by Assassin's grip once again. "You may begin."

Norilsk, Russia (Afternoon)

"Are you sure it's okay for me to stay another night?" Dunja bashfully looked up at the elderly couple, and not for the first time, guilt over what happened to Pytor surfaced in her chest.

Ever since she last spoke with Havi, Dunja had been… reluctant to go back to Caster's palace and face him. Never mind that he'd almost found out about her family and why they'd been chased out of Russia—it was bound to happen if she got too complacent. Dunja just couldn't help feeling like he was hiding something from her, especially when it came to the things Caster sought him out for in private. It wasn't like there was any mana transference happening—Dunja had reluctantly suggested it once, and Caster had compared the act to being intimate with a monkey, so there was little chance of Havi providing more than Caster already took from his agreement with Dunja. But there was… something there. Something Pyotr had reported to her, as she'd rode one of the several elk in Caster's stables, back to Norilsk to visit Pyotr's family.

Through the wails and groans of the dead, Pyotr had told her Havi was talking to himself in the room after Dunja had left. And Caster's name had been mentioned in his ramblings, which cast more doubt on what truly happened when Havi lost his eye that day. Caster had done something, and judging by how Pyotr described his way of speaking after Dunja left, she was continuing to attempt to wear Havi down for some kind of plan. Dunja just wasn't sure what.

Pyotr's parents, Veniamin and Polina, had been understanding when Dunja had shown up at their door. And when Dunja expressed a desire to sleep somewhere warm, away from the ice palace for once, they'd given her Pyotr's old room without hesitation. She'd thought Veniamin would resent her, but the old man had simply kissed her on the forehead and told her to sleep as long as she needed, and that a nice, warm meal would be waiting when she woke up.

Caster hadn't reached out to her the whole time she'd been here. Dunja knew she had to go back to the palace eventually, but the warmth within this modest house was… so tempting. It wasn't frigid and isolated like the palace was, and as much as Dunja was numb to the cold, she knew numbness only made her complacent. Eventually the cold might kill her, and she was only human. But compared to the heat of the flames that took everything from her, save for her grandmother, this kind of warmth felt… safe. Like something in Dunja was begging her to stay with them, to take Pyotr's place like a changeling, and hide away from the danger of the World Grail War.

Polina might get along with her grandmother, part of her reasoned. Perhaps they'd welcome Dunja and her grandmother as neighbours, arms wide open and big smiles on their faces. The old couple already let Dunja call them babka and dyedka, like she was one of their own grandchildren, and they were always so attentive to her needs and wants as she stayed the night and dined with them. Dunja hadn't planned on staying overnight, but it'd just happened after such a warm reception from the couple.

"Of course," Polina cooed, pinching Dunja's cheek as she walked past. The old woman served a plate of pelmeni and sour cream in front of Dunja, her lunch for the day. Even though it was nearing three o'clock, the couple had decided a snack was needed while the dispute between the masters of Saber and Assassin was televised. The TV was turned down low so they could hear Dunja talking to them—but it wasn't like they needed to hear anything anyway, thanks to the subtitles generated by the station. "I can't imagine how chilly it is in that palace. You stay as long as you need to, dear!"

"Her Majesty hasn't called for you, anyway," Veniamin remarked. While Polina and Dunja sat at the small table in the living room, Veniamin was wrapped up in blankets on his recliner in front of the TV. Even with a kiss from Caster to ward off the cold, his old bones still seemed to feel the chill. He'd told Dunja not to worry, that it was his arthritis acting up, and even joked that he might have to move to Moscow to better handle the winters. "I say we get to take up as much of your time as you want."

"Minya!" Polina scolded him. She smacked his padded shoulder as she passed him his plate. "Dunja has more important things to worry about than entertaining us!"

Dunja smiled a little as she glanced at her pelmeni. "I don't mind, babka. It's nice to take a break from all the planning and observing the other masters and just relax a little."

Polina came and sat beside her as the masters on the TV argued about reparations. Dunja wasn't entirely sure of what happened, but from what she could gather from this live event so far, it seemed that two of the three masters of Assassin had overstepped an ambush and had accidentally attacked Saber's master within the bounds of the Vatican City State—breaking World Grail War rules regarding neutral grounds and master conduct within them.

Dunja could argue that the master of Saber broke the rules first, by hanging around with Saber when a servant wasn't allowed on neutral grounds to begin with. But, she thought, it seemed he and the lone master of Assassin negotiating with him both agreed he was the wronged party when the other two only expressed an interest in allying with him, only to attack him and the vessel in broad daylight instead.

"I even learned how to make a bit of risengrød," Dunja continued. Polina made an interested sound and took a bite of pelmeni. "Pyotr taught me."

Polina silently chewed the pelmeni as she stared at Dunja. She didn't react immediately to being told her son had taught Dunja, but Dunja could see the gears clicking in her head. It was like Polina had forgotten she'd even had a son, and Dunja felt that guilt rise up again.

Eventually, Polina chirped, "Oh! That's right, he went to see Her Majesty with some. How nice of him to teach you. Did you enjoy it?"

"It was delicious," Dunja mumbled, trying to savour the casual conversation. "I'm glad to have tasted it. He's a very good teacher."

Another stare as Polina chewed her pelmeni. Dunja was a little worried. With how long she'd been chewing that one dumpling, the meat and skin should've been paste by this point.

Polina was quick to change the subject. Dunja felt almost ashamed at bringing up Pyotr so much.

"That reminds me," Polina said, almost absently. "How is that boy the soldiers brought over? The blond one."

"Oh. Havi?" Dunja looked down at the pelmeni and pursed her lips tightly. Now she could understand why Polina froze up every time Dunja mentioned Pyotr. It was… awkward. Dunja wasn't sure what to say, really, but she did her best as she mumbled her replies. "He's, um. His eye."

She pointed to her own eye awkwardly and cleared her throat.

"Gone," Dunja finished lamely.

"Oh, heavens, what happened to him?" Polina asked.

"Won't say," Dunja mumbled. "He and Caster are very… secretive about it."

She was worried Polina hadn't heard her, especially since Dunja's habit of speaking softly was something she struggled to curb, but Polina just nodded once and hummed. She swallowed the pelmeni she'd been chewing into a fine paste and picked up another dumpling.

"I'm sure they're simply trying to make things easier for you," Polina decided.

Dunja wasn't so sure about that. There wasn't enough on Havi's side, from what Pyotr reported to her, to figure out what it was he and Caster discussed, but the fact that he started by mentioning that not everything had to be a scheme set off alarm bells in Dunja's mind. It was bad enough that she couldn't figure out how Caster was able to communicate via telepathy with him—to know he might be deceiving her as well? That perhaps, like she'd known to expect, the Norse High Council had sent someone to try to kill her? Not everyone was happy that Russia specifically was participating again, especially since they won the last World Grail War. Havi had his own goals, as well. It could be any number of things.

It could also be her thoughts getting away from her. It could also be, in that brief sliver of hope that flitted through her mind, that Havi genuinely had no ulterior motives towards her.

Dunja chewed her lip and gave Polina an uncertain look. "I want to believe that," she mumbled, "but Pyotr said—"

Veniamin loudly cut her off. "Ah! I guess the meeting is a quick one! They've just shook hands and everything."

Dunja didn't miss the way Polina relaxed at her husband's distraction. She didn't miss the way Polina got out of her seat and moved closer to Veniamin, leaving Dunja alone at the table.

"What did they settle on?" she asked her husband. Almost as though remembering Dunja was there, she waved the mauve-haired girl over. "Come have a look, dear. I hear it's important to keep track of the Saber class. Aren't they the ones with the biggest advantage?"

Well… Polina wasn't wrong. Dunja scooped a couple of dumplings into her palm and dipped one in sour cream, and she ambled over to the old couple silently. As she munched the pelmeni, she watched the TV display the two groups shaking on the deal they've made.

The man with pink hair was screaming, and the servant she presumed was Saber was also screaming. Both of them were enraged, but the only one reacting with the same stressful tears that Dunja would've shed was a blonde woman with mascara running down her face.

"What on earth has everyone so upset?" Dunja asked herself, not expecting anyone to answer. She could read the subtitles well enough, but Veniamin seemed to want to fill the silence.

"I don't follow it all, but… I think they gave one of the offending masters' command spells to the master of Saber to compensate for the one he had to use on neutral grounds," Veniamin reported. Dunja could see the headline summarise the meeting as the other servant, who she presumed was Assassin (the headline mentioned Assassin was involved, but she'd sworn this one was Archer, so Dunja was just as lost as Polina was), dragged the pink-haired man to the other side of the table, kicking and screaming. The priest overseeing the meeting grabbed his hand, and Dunja assumed the command spell was taken as the priest then went on to shake the hand of the master of Saber. "And I guess the girl with the metal limbs said to take the whole man with them? He's very angry about it. The one that's crying said it was all his idea and he forced her into it by using his family name. You remember Normand? From the last War? That's his grandson."

Polina clicked her tongue disapprovingly. "Such disgraceful behaviour for a great man's descendant. Where did that family go wrong with this one?"

But it got more unhinged the more the headlines summarised the meeting. It wasn't just the pink-haired man being traded with the command spell—it was the servants themselves. The master of Saber had apparently said that handing over a troublesome ally to wrangle on top of their own troublesome servant was practically sabotage, and he'd demanded a trade of servants. The overseer had permitted it if the remaining masters of Assassin agreed, and neither woman had any objection. In fact, the one with the prosthetics seemed pleased with the outcome. She clearly wanted a servant that was capable of a higher output than an Assassin could manage, and having a Saber-class servant was practically an assured win for whoever summoned them.

And so the masters of Assassin became the masters of Saber, and the master of Saber became the master of Assassin.

Dunja almost dropped her pelmeni in shock.

"They're allowed to do that?" she asked.

"Oh, all the time," Veniamin scoffed. "I heard through the grapevine that our last master swapped with someone else before the War officially commenced. Something about being too disagreeable. It worked out in Russia's favour, though. Bet those fools in the Clock Tower are kicking themselves to this day."

Dunja hummed. She looked down at her dumplings, suddenly no longer hungry, and thoughts began to swirl about what this meant for her. There was no doubt that someone would target Caster sooner rather than later, what with Caster remaining largely neutral and focusing on expanding her territory and sway throughout the continent. But now it was a bit more difficult to tell who exactly would be coming for them. Saber made the most sense, given that he was the strongest and probably wanted a challenge—or, at least, that was what Dunja could gather based on the televised sightings of him alone—but his new masters had almost nothing mentioned about them in the news outside of a single interview led by the Monette master. Compared to most others, they were trying to remain covert. They'd even tried to pretend to be the masters of Archer, though that was obviously going to fall through now that the servant had been made to tell his real class to the overseer.

Maybe she should convince Caster to lend them her power to eliminate some of the other masters. Fighting a servant on even grounds was a death wish, even for Caster. There was only so much ice could do, and Dunja couldn't help worrying about her position right now.

Maybe the only solace she could take from this was that, while an anonymous tip had reported Lancer's summoning, neither hide nor hair of them or their master was spotted anywhere in the past week. Almost like they were ghosts, or even like Lancer's summoning had been a massive hoax.

Was the last victor still alive right now? Dunja frowned and forced herself to eat the pelmeni, refusing to waste it. The higher ups at Leningrad had given her a crash course about the man, and as far as Dunja knew, he wasn't on death's door and had been able to make his wish after his servant killed themselves to kill the Grail. And from what Dunja knew, his wish kickstarted the union of the Slavic Confederation. Was it worthwhile tracking him down and getting guidance?

Or was it more worthwhile to pull the souls of the dead masters from the realm of the dead and learn from their mistakes?

Dunja blinked, an idea striking her. Didn't Veniamin say that the pink-haired man was related to a previous participant? She chewed thoughtfully as she reached up to stroke her chin. Maybe if she utilised some resources from Caster and Leningrad, Dunja might be able to handle the masters in her own special way.

'Caster?' she called through her mind.

Caster didn't hesitate to reply, sounding amused. 'Oh, Avodt'ja. Have you been enjoying your stay with Pyotr's family?'

'I have. But I think we need to talk business now. Have you heard about the meeting between the masters of Assassin and Saber?'

A pause. Caster seemed to be checking something, judging by how long it took for her to reply. 'Havi just told me. What interesting news, right?'

'I think I know how to take my first step in dealing with the masters, Caster.'

'Oh?'

'I'm going to board the next train to Moscow and meet with the higher ups in Leningrad for some research. I'll keep in contact. Can you keep an eye on Havi for me?'

'Of course. Worried about him, are we?'

Was she? Dunja wasn't sure. She just knew that, even if she hadn't asked, Caster would've kept an eye on Havi anyway.

'The skin around his eye was terribly frostbitten,' she replied instead. 'I just want to know if I need to bring some medical supplies back with me once I'm done.'

She heard Caster's laugh echo in her mind. It was soft and playful, and no other reply came from her. Dunja tuned back into the couple beside her—and she noticed Polina was reaching for her, concerned.

"Dunja, dear," Polina broached. "What's the matter?"

Dunja smiled slightly and swallowed the pelmeni. "I was just doing some thinking," she said politely. "I might not be able to stay for dinner. Dyedka's mention of Moscow gave me an idea, so I'm going to go look into some things tomorrow."

"You are?" Veniamin groaned as he lifted himself out of his chair. He hobbled towards her, brows furrowed, and looked to his wife. "Polya, do we have any leftovers in the fridge?"

"Oh, you don't have to—" Dunja started.

"We have some stroganoff from lunch," Polina said hurriedly. She was scurrying out of the room as she spoke, and Dunja felt a little guilty already. Weren't they planning on eating the stroganoff for dinner? Surely they wouldn't waste any on Dunja, right?

She reached up and pulled at her ushanka as she fought back a blush. "You don't have to give me anything," she mumbled.

"Nonsense." Veniamin was ambling in the opposite direction of the kitchen, towards the bedrooms, and Dunja hesitantly followed. He was clearly looking for something, wandering into Pyotr's room for it, and Dunja stayed at the doorway as she watched him. "It's a long trip, even if the train moves quickly. You could go to the airport instead, but you don't want to risk airsickness. Aha!"

Veniamin picked up something from Pyotr's closet, where Dunja hadn't dared to look during her stay. She didn't want to pry too much, and Pytor's spirit got awfully bashful whenever she moved too close to his belongings. Naturally, she thought, even a ghost liked to keep things hidden from strangers.

Veniamin blew on the screen of the device he'd pulled from the closet, and she saw a small clamshell device with a case in colours reminiscent of aurora borealis. It was plugged into a cord leading into the closet, and Dunja tilted her head with her brows furrowed as she watched Veniamin unplug it and reach inside for the outlet. When he was done, it was easy to figure out what he'd been looking for—the device was a customised Game Boy, something Dunja hadn't seen in a long time, even when she'd tried to collect retro video games back in England, and a couple of cases with games in them that were clearly bootlegs, as well as the charger cable.

"I knew he kept this hidden away somewhere," Veniamin muttered. "Always acted so ungrateful when I bought it for him, but he managed to sneak it with him on trips to see his aunt."

Dunja was a little alarmed at the mention of the device belonging to Pyotr. As Veniamin handed it and the games and cable to her, she saw the titles of the bootlegs and felt even more guilt. She never would've guessed he was a fan of Pokémon Mystery Dungeon and Castlevania, just from their interaction at the palace. It felt like Dunja was learning something forbidden right now.

"Go on," Veniamin urged her, pushing the items into her hands. "Take it. Pass the time with the games. Youngsters like this kind of thing, right?"

Dunja sniffed and held the Game Boy close to her chest, unable to stop herself from cringing out of guilt. Veniamin didn't miss it, and he cupped her cheek in his hand with a soft expression.

"It's fine, girl," he reassured her. "I wouldn't give this to you if I didn't want you to make use of it. I don't understand the controls much, anyway, so it's no use to me. Polya isn't a big fan of the vampire game, either."

She couldn't help laughing a little. Dunja nodded and sniffed, eyes watering at the simultaneous kindness disregard. Kindness to Dunja and her needs, but disregard for Pyotr and his belongings. How could Veniamin give away his beloved son's belongings so easily? To his murderer?

"Thank you," Dunja mumbled. "I'll treasure it."

It didn't take long for the couple to send Dunja off with beef stroganoff and pasta packed in a tupperware container and some utensils, and the last train of the day waited patiently for her as she boarded with her things. The staff on the train were used to transporting supplies to and from other areas in Russia, but on occasion they were known to let a passenger sleep in their quarters if they had urgent business in Moscow and the airport was unavailable. Dunja got priority, as did any allies brought over from Moscow, and while the staff were unhappy about giving her a spare bunk to rest on, they let her on and left her alone for the majority of the trip.

Dunja's heart felt a little less heavy when she opened the Game Boy and started a new game for Pokémon Mystery Dungeon. She patiently answered each question on the quiz as the train began to move, the sun still up in the sky for the next few hours, and as the quiz came to a close and began to explain Dunja's personality, she couldn't help smiling at the result that came up.

She gave her little Pikachu avatar the same pet name her grandmother used to call her, and Dunja found herself smiling the whole time she played the game over the long trip back to the capital.

Moscow, Russia (Early Morning)

Day 6 of the World Grail War

When the train pulled into the station late in the evening, Fyodor Yeremin was about ready to walk back to his car and demand he be taken home. He had no patience for tardy people, especially when there were quicker options to travel with at their disposal, and after everything he went through for the motherland, he was owed the respect to show up on time when someone requested a meeting with him.

The train from Norilsk was more of a cargo train than a passenger train, so it was very rare that people other than the crew were riding with the resources sent to Norilsk. Normally Fyodor wouldn't need to stand around and wait, but Leningrad had practically crawled up his ass over meeting the current Russian master and assisting her with his wisdom. In his humble opinion, Fyodor's responsibility to the motherland was over and done with as soon as he made his wish for the territory to expand and form the Slavic Confederation. What could he possibly impart to a young magus to help her win this War?

Not to mention, there was the discourse surrounding her family and their exile. There was a reason the entire continent chased the Vinogradov family from the border and across the ocean, where they hid away in England—closer to their kind, in Fyodor's opinion, and it wasn't like the Clock Tower was moving quickly to exterminate the ones hiding in the forests of Britain.

This little freak should've stayed in England and played house with what little remained of her family.

Fyodor looked down at his watch and hummed, displeased. Despite the train coming to a stop, no one looked to be getting off right now. In fact, it'd rolled into the station at a snail's pace—likely the reason why it was so many hours late. Very odd, he thought, because the driver scheduled tonight was a stickler for arriving on time. Fyodor looked back to his assistant, who was holding up his umbrella as the light autumn shower thrummed against the black nylon. The young man was just as confused, and he waved a hand to send one of his puppets forward.

His assistant was a talented young man, skilled at making puppets that looked extremely human to the untrained eye, and Fyodor's limitless number of bodyguards all stemmed from his assistant. He bore a strong resemblance to Rider—Fyodor's Rider, Ivan Tsarevich—and it was the nostalgia that led to Fyodor keeping the young man, Matvey, around.

The puppet with red hair approached the train and inspected it at a distance. The engine of the train switched off, eventually, and Fyodor stared at the puppet as it approached the door and peeked inside. Matvey was closing his eyes to peer through the puppet's, and Fyodor saw the door move as the button inside was pressed to open it.

Matvey, though, was quick to get in front of Fyodor and shout, "Get back, sir!"

No sooner had he said it, and no sooner had the puppet peeled back its arms to reveal its hidden blades, a whole swarm of corpses flooded out of the door and trampled all over the puppet without regard for the potential life snuffed out beneath them. They were covered in cuts and blood, some missing their heads, and Fyodor immediately readied the magic stored in the rings on each finger. Two of the corpses were set ablaze as more of the puppets rushed forward to corral them back onto the train, and Fyodor searched the crowd for the little master among them.

Surely there wasn't a Dead Apostle on the train, was there? No, even if Russia was the best place to hide for their kind, none would be so brazen as to invade Moscow like this during the most publicised time around the world. Were they suicidal? There were less hectic ways to ensure death, Fyodor thought.

Spirits seemed to fly out of the burning and slashed bodies as they all dropped to the ground, unable to support themselves. Fyodor saw each spirit, bearing a passing resemblance to each corpse, fly back into the train almost out of fear. He tapped Matvey's shoulder, pausing his assault on the corpses, and Matvey called back the puppets to surround them.

No corpses moved in the same patterns as the Dead tended to. They didn't even try to search for food. There was no Dead Apostle controlling them, and Fyodor narrowed his eyes into slits as he watched the wide-open door again.

"Come out, now!" Fyodor commanded.

There were a few wails of ghosts from inside the carriage. Echoing in the empty darkness of the early morning hours, time ticking so closely onto the witching hour, footsteps came from the carriage as the wails subsided—something was calming the spirits, reassuring them, and Fyodor could hear the sound of metal scraping against metal from inside of the carriage.

Finally, after an eternity of waiting, Avodt'ja Vinogradov—nay, Avodt'ja Wagner, as she preferred the rest of the world to call her—walked into view and stared out the door, thousand-yard stare prevalent as she held a sword tightly in one hand. She was covered in blood—so much blood that Fyodor couldn't even discern her hair colour from this distance—and beneath the thick layer of blood, she nursed a wound on her stomach with her free hand, keeping pressure on the wound for Lord knew how long.

Fyodor could piece together what happened. But he wanted answers from her own mouth.

"Are you the witch?" he demanded.

Avodt'ja blinked slowly. She looked like she was ready to give up, and she didn't even say anything as she slumped against the frame of the door and nodded once.

"State your Witchcraft," Fyodor ordered her.

Avodt'ja seemed to hesitate—to almost give a snide remark as she gestured to the corpses and spirits around her with her sword—but eventually she used her words. "I control the dead," she told him, voice so small that he almost didn't hear her. "Pull them straight from the underworld. Anything that has passed the border between life and death is my familiar."

What a terrible magecraft. And Fyodor thought necromancers were reprehensible for tampering with the dead. At least there were only bodies to desecrate—not souls like this young girl tampered with.

"Did you kill everyone on that train?" Fyodor asked her.

Avodt'ja's gaze seemed to flare at the accusatory tone. But she remained calm.

"They stabbed me first," she told him, voice louder and firmer this time. "It was a direct sabotage against Russia's chances of winning this War."

Self-defence, eh? Fyodor could see it. He tapped Matvey's shoulder again, and the puppets went back to their idle-mode.

Regardless of his opinions of Leningrad welcoming a witch back into their country, Fyodor also believed that affairs of the World Grail War took precedence over past squabbles within the country. This event was meant to resolve these power struggles, so why wouldn't the motherland bring home a potential powerhouse from a family they'd once exiled? A master desperate to prove they belonged was far easier to control than a master desperate to throw their weight around.

Fyodor could see the reasons for picking Avodt'ja, if he cared enough to look deeper into it. For now, though, his concern was more towards whether or not killing an entire train of workers was worth it.

"Did you provoke them?" he asked.

Avodt'ja gave him a sour expression.

"Well?" Fyodor pressed.

"No," she snapped. "I was playing fucking—Pokémon Mystery Dungeon."

Now there was a game he hadn't heard of in years. Fyodor tried to think back to the days when he would help his daughter cheat the personality quiz in order to get the avatar she wanted. She was a big fan of Mudkip, but she was far from timid in order to qualify for Mudkip in the personality quiz.

Fyodor reached up to rub his beard, humming.

"What did you get?" he asked.

Avodt'ja looked confused. "Excuse me?"

"Your starter. What did the personality quiz give you?"

She sniffed and blinked, pausing only to attempt to wipe some blood from her face while holding the silver sword. It didn't seem to help, only serving to smear the blood some more.

"Pikachu," she said eventually.

"A hasty one, then." Fyodor grinned at her and gestured for Matvey to collect her things from the train. His daughter always used to get Pikachu, no matter how hard she tried for Mudkip. Fyodor knew what he was working with, in terms of how to deal with a young witch like Avodt'ja. "Alright. Dismiss the spirits and get a move on. We'll be burning daylight at this pace."

The girl looked up at the sky, squinting, before realising he'd meant to say that the sun would rise before they made it to Leningrad's doors at this pace. She heaved a sigh, almost exhausted, and she didn't move from her spot as she dismissed the spirits. The corpses all fell to the ground, properly lifeless, and the spirits she was controlling as familiars faded away—not quite released from her control, but hidden from Fyodor's sight and allowed to roam Moscow as they pleased. Fyodor could imagine they would try to head for their homes in the city, still believing themselves to be alive so quickly after death.

Avodt'ja squeezed her eyes shut, only to force them open again.

"Can I please get some medical attention?" she asked, breathless. "I've been pressing down on his stab wound for four hours already."

Fyodor let out a soft, hmph, and motioned to Matvey. A puppet moved away from the group, and it unbuttoned its jacket to reveal smaller hands wrapped around its waist as its torso compartment opened up, medical tools needed for stitching and disinfecting visible within.

"Leningrad can choose whether or not to heal you properly," Fyodor told her. "For now, you heal at the same rate as us humans. Understood?"

She didn't object. Avodt'ja simply kept her composure and let the puppet tend to her wound, gritting her teeth through the pain the entire time.

renren_writes · Nov 6, 2023

13

Over the North Atlantic Ocean (Morning)

Despite being the one who made the calls and agreed to swap servants, the Build-A-Bitch was certainly tense now that they had the best servant under their thumb.

Amèlie reclined in her chair on the jet casually, the streaked makeup still on her face and the glass of wine in her hand still breathing. Honestly, this wasn't the rawest deal they could've gotten. Sure, she had to shed a hundred or so pounds of dead weight with the third-rate magus in their alliance, but Amèlie was rather proud of the show she'd been able to put on. Proud that it'd been enough to make the bitch spearheading this alliance believe the Frenchman was the biggest culprit of the discord in the trio. And it wasn't like they lost a good servant—if anything, they'd upgraded from the lame Assassin and traded him in for the very flashy, very strong Saber-class servant. That was, like, an instant win right there.

"Are you a fan of red or white?" Amèlie asked Saber. Citra was pacing up and down the jet with Michael hovering behind her, constantly whispering reassurances to her and giving lengthy longitude and latitude updates every thirty seconds. It was obvious that the blonde had no regard for her remaining ally and brand spanking new servant.

Saber was seated across from Amèlie, silently seething as he glared at the distant view of the Vatican on the horizon. Honestly, even when he was brooding, he was rather easy on the eyes. He seemed like a total horndog, too—the man was practically marking his territory on live TV when he and his former master introduced themselves. Amèlie could work with a horndog.

"White," he said curtly. "Red is for plebeians."

Well, that was something they agreed on!

Amèlie slid out the small table extension from the wall beside them and set down her glass. She stood up and walked over to the makeshift wine cabinet she'd installed into the jet on their way out of Italy, and she wasted no time opening the bottle she'd already poured for herself and filling another glass. If everyone was going to get their panties in a twist over today's events, then the best Amèlie could do to smooth things over and get everything back on track was let at least one of her tense teammates indulge in some vices.

Louis had been right, after all. Citra was just a bit too anal for Amèlie to sink her teeth into. But Saber, on the other hand…

She held the fresh glass of wine out for Saber as she sat down in her seat again. Despite the makeup running down her face and her puffy eyes feeling itchy, Amèlie was confident she looked every bit the pitiful little people pleaser Saber probably already pegged her as. She'd claimed to go along with Louis's plan, despite being the one who pushed for it herself, with the white lie that she'd wanted to make him happy. And she'd claimed she never spent time with Citra because she was worried about doing something wrong and making her hate Amèlie.

The lynching that Amèlie had been aiming for wasn't going to come true anymore, but then again, all of that hinged on Soren. Without a servant by his side, breathing down his neck, the Build-A-Bitch had to leave him in the care of her mechanical guard dogs until the jet arrived. What would've been a seventeen-hour trip was significantly shorter, but after all of the stress of everything so far, was it not logical to assume that Citra had to sleep at some point? That she'd slip? If Soren were smart, he'd hesitate to run away from the paparazzi who'd notice him as the fake master of the fake Archer and spill his guts about his family's practices. And if Citra used the little spell she'd cast on him to punish him, it just meant more eyes on him as he writhed in pain in the middle of an interview—more people turning against the Van-Alphen family, no matter the technological advances they'd helped make in the world.

Saber took the glass from her with a surprisingly delicate hand. He swirled it with a sneer.

"Domaine Leflaive Bâtard Montrachet," Amèlie told him. "A little on the cheap side, but I find its hints of hazelnut and citrus to be… refreshing."

Saber scoffed. "Better than the swill that clown of a Pope had available."

"One would think, with wine being such a big deal to them," Amèlie mused, "they'd have better options available. It's almost insulting, that they equate it to the blood of Christ."

Saber gave her a sidelong glance, unimpressed, as he took a long sip of his wine. He didn't seem unhappy with it, but it was obvious that he was craving something a bit more worthy of his position.

Further down the jet, Citra suddenly let out a shout as Michael tried again to calm her. Apparently one number was off in his longitude and latitude updates, meaning that Citra's precious brother was on the move. Well, well, well. Seemed like her big brother was taking the first chance he got to start making moves now that Assassin wasn't breathing down his neck.

Amèlie smiled to herself as she sipped her own wine, and Saber didn't miss her satisfied expression.

"Well?" he prompted her, pulling her gaze away from Citra's budding meltdown. Amèlie looked at him with a smile in her eyes. "What makes you worthy of serving me, then? You sold out the apparent mastermind to that braindead plan—don't tell me your only strength was crying wolf."

Oh, what a lovely question. Amèlie tilted her head innocently at him, batting her eyes like a little doe discovered unawares in a forest.

"It was an unfortunate circumstance," Amèlie drawled. "I do so regret using that nerve agent on the Atlas researcher. What was poor, little old me supposed to do? He wasn't fond of my magic tricks and showmanship. How was I supposed to know that fraternising with the Monette family's heir was going to lead to a confrontation within the Vatican's borders?" She shrugged dramatically, swishing her wine. "I'm just an innocent bystander whose family, the Royal House of Grimaldi, allied with the wrong people. The poor little scapegoat who represents Monaco's royal family in this World Grail War. Oh, if only I didn't have to answer to them during such trying times."

Saber seemed to be following along with her words. She was offering up power—power he seemed to enjoy lauding over others—and because she was making no effort to hide her sarcasm, Saber could at least gather that she'd planned to throw Louis under the bus if taking the Grail vessel had failed. Despite the trouble she'd caused for Saber, Amèlie was confident that her worth and her plans for this Grail War were useful enough to consider her a partner in crime.

Amèlie didn't fully believe she was capable of winning this World Grail War. It was a monumental task, and she was a performer before a fighter, but she could see herself soaring through the public's gaze with all the cameras aimed at her. As much as she was willing to throw Louis to the wolves for everything, Amèlie wouldn't deny that she wanted to be the undisputable MVP of this War—like Louis's grandfather had been. She was beautiful, talented, knew how to sway a crowd. Who cared about sitting on a throne? Amèlie may have been adopted for the purpose of being Monica's successor, but the fact remained that the Royal House of Grimaldi would never accept an outsider as anything other than a pawn unless they could perform an impossible feat. Amèlie's talents were showmanship and running a casino. Even if she were to win the World Grail War, the goalpost would be moved until she either gave up and left Monica's care, or when she or the old farts pushing this standard died.

Realistically, she had no use for the family and their power, either. If Amèlie won, her wish would be for money—stacks upon stacks, enough money to make her rich enough to throw the economy into shambles in her wake, and no amount of dressing up and playing princess would give her enough to sate her taste for the finer things in life. She'd lived at rock bottom, ready to die in the gutter like those around her had, and she'd played little tricks to get by and survive each day. If there was ever a chance to prevent such a fate from befalling her again—if she could at least be known by name, to be talked about like something marvellous, perhaps become a folk hero deemed worthy enough for the Throne to induct her into its count—then the most televised event in the world was that very moment.

Saber finally cracked a smile—rueful, almost bemused—and he leaned his chin against his fist casually.

"What a predicament, indeed," he murmured. "A master shouldn't be following the orders of the common folk, no matter their rank outside of the Grail War, like a pitiful dog. You're not a common bitch, are you?"

A bitch, maybe. Common? Never.

"I wonder about that," Amèlie mused. She looked out the window. The landscape of Italy blurred with the rest of the surrounding countries. They weren't heading towards Monaco, from the looks of things. "What made you answer the summons, Saber?"

"A little whelp tried to answer it first," Saber said simply. "And I'd so hate to give him the satisfaction of walking this earth again."

"My, my. A shared catalyst?"

"Hardly. The fools at the Vatican didn't clean my remains from his precious sword. Would you care to know what that catalyst was?"

Amèlie laughed softly and sipped her wine. "Perhaps you should wait to show your hand, Saber," she advised him. "I cannot guarantee your other master will be as happy to hear your identity. All I need to know is that you're a powerful emperor of the Roman Empire, and you've been severely disrespected by the modern remnants of your home."

Saber hummed. He reached over, fingers brushing the window briefly, before he slid the cover down. Good, Amèlie thought. Whatever hangups he had with his old master and assistants was starting to fade from his thoughts. The more his focus remained on Amèlie, the more Amèlie could use him properly.

The Italian master was wasting his servant's talents as a representative of the Church. How could one hold such a handicap with the Saber class and not exploit that near-guaranteed victory the first chance they got?

"You've certainly a way with words," Saber told her. Amèlie bowed her head in thanks, gracefully taking the complement. "Now, go comfort your ally. Her hysterics are wearing my patience thin."

Ugh, just when she was getting somewhere with him. Amèlie gave him one last smile as she set down her wine and rose from her chair. Citra was still pacing, a crazed look in her eye as she'd started dialling a number on her phone over and over. Michael looked rather concerned, it seemed, though it was hard to tell if it was because of his job security or because he was worried about Citra.

Amèlie had always been cautious with Michael. As much of a fun time as he looked, with his joking personality and easy going demeanour—a casual power he held in his hands that made him untouchable, almost—it was hard to shake the fact that between the time it took for the alliance to be drafted and for the alliance to be accepted, he'd shown up out of nowhere and shadowed Citra like he was near-obsessed with her. Amèlie wasn't sure if it was actually the case, but whether Michael knew it or not, he always looked at Citra with a fondness that the shorter woman never seemed to notice. Far too focused on her work, on her brother, on trying to order Amèlie and Louis around.

What a waste, had been Amèlie's first thought. Despite the undeniable level of unhinged hiding beneath the surface, Michael was quite the catch. Amèlie didn't know much about what was going on in magi circles, but if Michael's mere name was enough to make an Atlas Institute researcher uneasy, then he had a degree of fame—or even infamy—that made him prominent among those with pedigree.

Truly, she thought again as Michael grabbed Citra's shoulder and rubbed circles into it with his thumb, it was such a waste.

Citra wasn't even all that remarkable thanks to all the metal on her body. But she supposed most men wanted toys more than women nowadays. Amèlie wasn't one to talk, though; her eyes were firmly on men with sophistication and recognition, which was why she'd even deigned to fool around with Louis in the first place. She supposed she'd wasted her own time with that one. The minute things got dicey, he lost his cool and made a fool of himself while Assassin scolded him like a petulant child on live TV. There was having standards to live by, and then there was simply being entitled.

As she approached, she could hear Citra trying to calm herself down as she rubbed at her temples with a grimace. The minute Citra opened her eye and saw Amèlie approaching, her anxiety turned to hostility. Michael backed away, hands raised as he smiled helplessly, and Amèlie was almost touched that he had enough sense to not step in between a potential cat fight.

"Sit back down," Citra ordered her. "I don't have the energy to deal with your shit right now."

Oh wow, even cussing at her. Citra was really stressed this time.

"Tell me the matter, love," Amèlie cooed. Citra scowled at her, disgusted. "I thought you'd be happy, having the Saber-class servant."

"I don't have the time to be happy, Ms. Appiani." Yikes, on a surname basis? At least it wasn't the full government name. "Soren is moving without Assassin keeping an eye on him and this jet can't fucking fly fast enough to catch up with him."

Amèlie made some soothing noises. She did her best to look amicable, and if she dared say so, she had Michael fooled right out the gate. "Michael, dear, won't you get Citra something to calm the nerves? Perhaps some tea—"

"Michael, fetch the yuzu wine," Citra ordered. Michael raised his brows, inhaling sharply, and he looked just as surprised as Amèlie that Citra was outright demanding booze at a time like this.

Amèlie cleared her throat. "Or alcohol. Alcohol definitely calms the nerves."

"What do you want, woman?" Citra snapped.

"Easy, now." Amèlie gestured to one of the several unoccupied seats. Citra didn't even move an inch as Michael headed towards the back of the jet and opened a hidden compartment Amèlie hadn't noticed. Damn robot woman, with her hidden mechanisms and trapdoors. If she weren't so anal about everything, Amèlie could've been the perfect partner to work in the spotlight for her while she hung back in the shadows. A magician's best tricks involved hidden compartments and sleight of hand. "I just wanted to apologise for all the trouble you've had to go through on my account."

Citra took in a sharp breath. Michael was back by her side with a bottle of yuzu wine and an empty glass, and before he could even attempt to fill the glass, Citra took the bottle and began to chug it. She held up one mechanical finger at Amèlie, glaring the whole time she drank, and Amèlie was impressed she could just down so much without taking a breath. The bottle was half-empty by the time Citra pulled it back from her lips.

She'd be a riot at the club scene.

Citra took in a big gasp of air. She went to down the other half of the bottle, but Michael gently took the bottle from her hands and capped it silently.

"We need you at least somewhat sober, little miss," he reminded Citra. "Lord knows when your parents will call."

It was the most emotive Amèlie had ever seen Citra. Normally she was so composed, so unfazed by everything, that it felt almost foreign to see her so worked up. Even when the negotiations had clearly been stacked against their alliance, Citra had been calm and collected. In fact, she'd spearheaded most of the demands before her offer to leave Louis behind in Italy as a punishment for him, ousting him from the alliance entirely by giving his command spell to the Italian master; the only falter had been when Assassin was demanded in exchange for Saber, simply because having to babysit Louis while managing Saber was almost akin to sabotage. Losing a covert servant was perhaps the only thing to hit her the hardest, but really, what kind of loss could they count it as? Sure, Assassin had wiped a portion of Baton Rouge off the map not long ago, but when she compared that to the sheer destructiveness of Saber's Noble Phantasm, the winner of the negotiations was very clear.

Amèlie had helped Citra get rid of Louis and replace Assassin with a stronger servant.

"Are you worried about Soren?" Amèlie asked gently. Citra's ire turned to her again, and she was still combative even as Amèlie made herself look as non-threatening as possible.

"Am I worried about Soren?" Citra echoed back at her in a mocking tone. "Who else would I be worried about, hm? I certainly don't have the capacity to care about the third-rate buffoon we dumped on the Vatican's doorstep, and anyone else of importance is right here in this jet."

"Aw, you think I'm—"

"Shut it. You're the equivalent to a bird's waste stained on the engine. If I had the time to care and be thorough, I'd have left you in that dungeon you'd crawled out of."

Well, someone was being a bitch about it.

Amèlie sighed and shrugged her shoulders. "Goodness, darling," she cooed. "I'm just as upset as you are that Father Kotomine made Assassin come all the way over here. His idea of casting doubt on the real Archer was expert thinking on his part, and making Soren out to be his master was a stellar way to make sure they were always together. We could've pretended we'd summoned Lancer, since their master hasn't come forward to acknowledge their summoning yet."

"At least you're aware of how severely your mistake fucked things up." Citra finally gave in to Michael's requests to sit down. She sank into the closest chair to her, face falling into her hands immediately, and her panic and aggression melted away into stress and defeat. "He keeps moving. He keeps moving and it's not towards the manor."

Amèlie wasted no time kneeling down in front of Citra. She rested her hands on Citra's cold knees, playing the part of comforting friend, and when Citra looked at her, Amèlie gave her a reassuring smile.

"Let's take deep breaths and work out what we know for certain," Amèlie said softly. "Cold, hard facts. Throw speculation to the side and establish what is certain. What other measures did you have in place for Soren's safety?"

Citra closed her eye and sucked in a deep breath. Ever so slowly, as though she were following Amèlie's advice privately, the stress began to minimise until it was barely noticeable. Citra's expression became relaxed, trained to its usual indifference; even her posture, which was half-slumped and curled in on itself, flipped outwards into a more regal posture that befitted someone with a perfect bluff.

Despite how much the Build-A-Bitch poised herself to be unshakable, Amèlie knew without a doubt that the past few days had been perfect to unearth one of Citra's weaknesses as a person.

What, oh what, she wondered, would Citra do if something did happen to Soren?

Amèlie had been considering helping free Soren from Citra's grasp, especially since his family was completely fine with the dynamic Citra had established, but now that she'd seen how much she lost her cool over him… Well, wouldn't that make her easier to take out so Amèlie could monopolise her servant for her own plans? Having to share… It wasn't exactly ideal.

"There we go," Amèlie cooed. "Are we calm? Do we have backups?"

"It doesn't concern you," Citra said evenly. "Go back to socialising with Saber. You'll be taken back to Monaco once I land in America."

Oh? Getting rid of Amèlie that quickly? The gall of her.

Amèlie hummed and tilted her head. "You know, dear," she went on. "With the right fortification on your part, the Prince's Palace would be a perfect place to keep Soren safe. If there's no reason for him to be running around America anymore, and you still want to use your workshop at the palace, it's a rather beneficial move to keep him within its walls. It was a proper fortress back in the early nineteen-hundreds, after all."

She heard Michael let out an interested sound. Citra inclined her head towards him, and Michael leaned down to murmur to Citra, "The little princess has a point. I found some very useful vantage points during my perimeter checks, and your mother's assistant will be able to stick by Soren's side when you can't. Or, heaven forbid, I could shadow him within the palace."

Citra let out a small groan as she narrowed her eye at Amèlie. She was clearly against it, at least enough to not agree right away, and Amèlie made a show of backing down as she pulled away from Citra and stood up.

"Well, if I'm to be sent back to Monaco, may I take Saber with me?" she asked. "I'd like for him to establish a stronghold somewhere, and given the way he was… described by his former master—"

"As troublesome, yes." Citra looked unimpressed.

"Yes… Troublesome was the word he used, wasn't it?" Amèlie cleared her throat. "I think it would be for the best that he has as little access to your machines as possible. Who's to say he won't throw a tantrum and start ruining your hard work? After such a powerful display with Anima Galatea, I'd hate for him to make a point of breaking it."

"I can hear you, wench," Saber called from his seat. Amèlie turned back to him with a smile, but he wasn't even looking. She could see, however, that he'd finished his glass of wine and was now drinking her own. The dick.

She turned back to Citra and sighed softly.

"For your peace of mind and to minimise any further stress," Amèlie continued, "leave Saber with me in Monaco while you track down Soren. I know you'd trust Michael to handle him with care far more than you would Saber, anyway. He's a good boy."

Michael preened at being called a good boy. Citra scrunched up her face, almost as though she was disgusted that anyone would imply she could try anyone in this jet, but she frowned to herself and cast a glance over in Saber's direction. She looked tired, almost exhausted, and she stared at Saber with an almost appraising eye as the silence dragged on.

And then, firmly, Citra said, "I want incentive."

She wanted what? Amèlie blinked and tilted her head at Citra. What kind of incentive would someone like her need? She clearly did whatever she wanted, just like Amèlie did, and she clearly held most of the power in the alliance thanks to the sheer amount of resources she had in comparison to Amèlie. And with Louis out of the way, Amèlie was going to have to take the time to find a new ally to oust Citra again. What kind of bullshit incentive did she need?

Amèlie smiled and hummed. "What kind?"

Citra pointed over at Saber. Saber, almost as though sensing he was being pointed at, spun his seat around and stared blankly at Citra as he sipped the rest of Amèlie's wine.

"I want a piece of Saber for personal use," Citra told them.

Saber raised a brow. He smirked, languidly rose from his seat, and he sauntered over to the women confidently. He downed the rest of the wine and licked his lips, and he leaned against Amèlie like an old friend getting close for a photo.

"Do you now?" Saber drawled. "Why didn't you say so sooner, ocelle?"

Wow. He moved on from his twink real fast, huh?

Citra glared at him. Michael shifted on his feet behind her.

"I suppose one arm will be enough," she mumbled to herself.

Saber let out a smug laugh.

"Yes, you are rather small… I could hold you in the palm of my hand, even."

It wasn't like Citra was all that small, Amèlie thought. She was only an inch or so smaller than Amèlie herself, and Amèlie fancied herself a good 5'7 and a half, and Citra couldn't be any taller than 5'6. It was only when she put on Anima Galatea that she became closer to six feet, but who was Amèlie to pick at semantics like prosthetic boosts?

Citra blinked slowly at Saber. She looked him up and down. She reclined in her seat with a disinterested hum.

"Then it's settled. Which is your sword hand?" she asked.

Hold on a minute, Amèlie felt like these two were talking about two very different things. Was this about to get messy?

Saber moved away from Amèlie and closer to Citra. He reached out with one hand, likely the sword hand in question, and Amèlie watched in stunned silence as Saber brushed his fingers against Citra's leg. They travelled up her leg, towards her skirt, and Saber was still smug as they pushed against the fabric.

"So nice to see someone throwing themselves at me with the right questions," he mused. "I suppose I might come to enjoy my new masters with some time and effort. I trust my sword hand will be more than enough of an appetiser, ocelle?"

Citra pursed her lips and crossed her legs. Saber chuckled, and when he dared to push at her again—to try and cop a feel again—Amèlie softly cleared her throat and took a step back.

"Well, if that's what's needed for Saber to come to Monaco with me—" she started.

"I don't want your sword hand," Citra interrupted.

In an instant, her hand lunged at Saber and grasped his throat tightly. Saber struggled a little, taken off guard, and Amèlie was almost impressed at the kneejerk fear response in Saber's expression. She'd heard from Louis while they were in the cells that Citra had come to clean up their mess herself, going toe to toe with Saber in a fight and surviving, but she didn't know the full details of that fight. She was more disappointed that she'd missed Anima Galatea in action—the more she could find out about its capabilities, the more Amèlie could prepare to take it apart down the line.

But the fear response turned back into a smugness, and Saber laughed breathlessly.

"Breathplay? Oh, you're far from vanilla, aren't you, ocelle?"

"Michael," Citra deadpanned.

"On it," Michael replied, and his response was instant and almost tense. Amèlie reached up and rubbed her chin in silence. Now this was some juiciness. Was Michael jealous of Saber? Or was he feeling a little territorial? Oh, she was going to have a field day trying to figure out how to manipulate this messy triangle.

Michael moved behind Saber, and Saber raised a brow at Citra. "A third member? Goodness, I suppose this alliance knows how to have a fun time. You there, uncommon bitch—get over here and make it a real party."

Oh, she had a feeling it was going to be a party alright. Just not the kind Saber was expecting.

"Clench your teeth," Michael told Saber. He was running his hands down Saber's arm, almost feeling the armour and muscles methodically, and he even began to move Saber's arm around at the shoulder to test its flexibility.

"A couple of sadists, aren't you?" Saber purred. "No matter. It all comes back to pleasure once the bite of the pain fades away."

This was about to be the funniest thing in the fucking world, Amèlie thought.

"Yeah, no," Michael drawled. "Sorry, your majesty, but men don't do it for me."

And then, without warning, Michael's prosthetic arm slammed into Saber's shoulder and dislodged it with an uncomfortably loud pop. It echoed through the jet, and at first Amèlie thought a bird had slammed into the nearby window at high speeds, but when Saber let out an angered, pained yell, it became apparent that it was very much the man in front of her who'd made the sound.

Michael was quick with his movements, befitting of his past work that Louis had told her about. Before Saber could even grab his sword, too busy trying to break Citra's prosthetic and get her off of his throat, Michael pulled it from its sheath and swung it up in one smooth arc. Saber's arm came off instantly, almost as though Michael had sliced through a stick of butter with a warm knife, and Citra reared back both of her feet to kick him square in the stomach once her mangled prosthetic released his throat. Saber stumbled back and collapsed to the floor, cradling the stump where his arm used to be, and he glared at her with wide, bloodshot eyes as he made animalistic growls and grunts through the pain.

Amèlie brought her hands up to her mouth—to hide her smile, certainly, and to muffle her laugh at Saber's wild misinterpretation of the situation, but also to feign horror at the brutal dismemberment she'd just witnessed. This was definitely going to make Saber favour her over Citra, she thought quickly, and if Amèlie could find alternatives to his power sources, then she'd be more than able to get rid of Citra without breaking the geis. Amèlie simply wasn't allowed to give the order to kill Citra, nor kill Citra herself; but there was nothing stopping her from swaying someone's opinion to believe they should kill Citra, and Saber was just handed a very good reason to kill at least one of his masters just now.

Or, well, unhanded.

"You dare—" Saber started.

Citra rose from her chair. Michael eagerly ran to her side and held Saber's arm out to her, and he cut off Saber with a playful, "Need a hand, little miss? It looks like it'd be real handy for you."

Citra swatted Saber's arm away from her with the broken prosthetic, scowling. "Stick to your day job," she grumbled.

"Oh? Being handsome? Or am I getting paid to be armed?" Michael was preening again as he looked back at Amèlie and Saber, waving Saber's arm at them as though bidding them farewell. "We'll turn back and drop you two off at Monaco. Oh, and little princess?"

Amèlie looked at Michael with wide eyes, still feigning horror at what'd just happened. He tossed Saber's sword towards her, and Amèlie jumped back to avoid the point of the blade lodging into her foot.

"You can handle patching up Saber's little injury, can't you? We've got our hands full, as you can see."

Even when commanding her to play a proper role of master, Michael was still cracking jokes. Amèlie nodded hurriedly as she picked up Saber's sword and hurried to his side—and she was going to give it to him, but Saber's rage didn't know which way it wanted to go. When Amèlie was in his rage, kneeling beside him, he moved to backhand her and shove her away from him. Thoughts flooded her mind, racing at breakneck speeds and repeating statements all over again, and while Amèlie was able to stumble back before he made contact, the thoughts slowly began to coalesce into something far more straightforward.

'Kill you,' Saber's mind raced, drowning out Amèlie's own thoughts. 'I'll kill you.'

Poor baby, Amèlie wanted to coo. But he didn't have to worry too much over it. He still had Amèlie as a reliable master.

And Amèlie had far more plans in mind for Saber than just one measly arm for research.

London, England (Late Morning)

"You're completely certain of Saber's identity?"

"Positive," Rider grunted. Cameras flashed around them as people on the street marvelled at the group. They walked together, everyone covering Holly's blind spots, as they headed for the Clock Tower. "I watched and waited for Mercury to pick up his soul from the battlefield. A troublesome invader should not be left unattended before he's guided to the afterlife by his homeland's psychopomps."

"It's so surreal," Holly mumbled. "I thought King Arthur was a myth this whole time, but if you were there on the battlefield to collect the knights who'd fallen in battle…"

Rider sneered at a reporter who tried to call out to the group, only to be blocked by Vere getting between them and Holly.

"Camelot had close ties to the Courts," Rider explained. "Avalon was not just the name of Arthur Pendragon's scabbard, after all, and Morgan le Fay's name was not just an aesthetic choice."

Vere let out a soft, intrigued sound. "Right… Her name basically means 'Morgan the Fairy', now that I think about it."

"Rather on the nose, considering how many fairies were running around in the open back then," Nat mumbled.

"She used many names," Rider said. "You've heard the old superstitions to never give a fairy your name, as it grants them ownership over it. It works in reverse, too. All of the names Morgan was known by throughout history—they were names she permitted those around her to use."

"So it was wise of Vere and I to only tell Holly our full names," Nat mused.

"Don't get ahead of yourself. She's just as capable of taking your names if you give them to her. She just lacks the mischief to take ownership of them the moment they're given to her."

Holly huffed and pouted. "I'm plenty mischievous."

Rider didn't comment.

While it was normally out of the question—totally, completely out of the question—for Holly to go to the Clock Tower and meet with Jastrum, the discussion about his "agreement" with Holly and the response from that Cemetary guy over in Italy pushed the group in favour of trying to form a temporary alliance with the master of Berserker. It'd been hard to get the message out—Rider spent all night last night sending spectres to relay the message in broken sentences, asking the master and Berserker to meet them at the Clock Tower for negotiations. Hell, they didn't even know if Berserker's master had heard the message at all. But it was a worthwhile trip to make, Nat had told Holly, because they needed to know just how much of a hold Jastrum had on Holly before they could make any moves.

Despite Holly's eagerness to kick Jastrum out, be it dead or alive, and put Vere in his seat, she was having reservations. Normally Holly was full of energy, eager to explore, and a trip to London felt long overdue after her last attempt to wander around in search of her mother's people. In search of answers to her own existence. A place to belong, even if her aunt and grandfather always reassured her that she had a place in the manor with them whenever she wanted it.

She clung to the scarf that hung loosely around Nat's neck and shoulders. It was Nat who led the charge towards the Clock Tower, walking confidently ahead of the group with her head held high. She clearly had a plan in mind, one that involved Holly a bit more exclusively now that they were on the same page with their goals, and the coincidental overlap of the Archelot family in their own lives just proved to give Nat more incentive to push forward. Holly hadn't been the one to spend the most time with Nat over the past couple of days—that was Rider, actually, but only because Holly had thrown herself into her magecraft and set to work restoring the border around the manor after the reporters had snuck in. Their plans to ask the local fae in London and for Rider to summon Olena's soul from the site of her death were put on hold because of that interview two days ago, and in the following days Holly couldn't find any peace and quiet to hear herself think. She was a social person, certainly, but this was the most people had ever paid attention to her in her life.

Nat and Rider had spent the most time together, only because Rider needed to know what questions Nat wanted to ask Olena and Anya when he went to search for them. Being an Atlas Institute researcher, Holly found it remarkable that Nat came so prepared for everything to document it all. Despite her mystic code, Aegis Olena, being more suited to defending Nat and acting as a reminder of her old friend, she'd been able to alter the bird on short notice to document and transcribe conversations that occur near it. All Nat had to do was set up a link to another mystic code in the manor that Rosemary wasn't using anymore—an old typewriter that would type out messages sent from other magi on its own before dinging to let Rosemary know the message was finished—and then give Lena parchment and ink to transcribe the conversation for Rider. They'd even gone so far as to inform Rosemary to stay by the typewriter while they were out today and tonight, just to make sure no one trespassed and stole the papers under their noses, and Holly wouldn't deny that she was a little jealous at how close Rider and Nat seemed to be.

It wasn't that she thought Nat was replacing her or anything. It was more… Yes, it was more like Holly really wanted a chance to forge a bond with someone for once. She was social, yes, and she was energetic, naturally, but beyond her family, Holly had never known friends or close relationships. She wouldn't call herself a bad judge of character—she'd clocked fairly quickly that Jastrum was bad news, even if she couldn't do much to avoid falling into his clutches—and Nat seemed to be… earnest, in a stunted sort of way. Like she wasn't used to having close relationships with others either. From the way she spoke of Olena, and from the way Vere treated her, it looked like Nat only had them to rely on up until recently; not so different to Holly, if she compared their situations, though Holly's lack of meaningful relationships was more due to isolation and sheltering from her aunt and grandfather, while Nat intentionally isolated herself until Olena had needled her way into her life.

She didn't want to toot her own horn, but with how Vere described his late wife to Holly during their own private moments, Olena was very similar to Holly. And Holly, feeling ever hopeful and not missing that the age gap between her and Nat was the same as Nat and Olena, had dared to wonder if Nat would take a shine to her for her similarity to Olena.

It wasn't like she wanted to replace Olena. It was more like she knew Nat was capable of being friendly with someone as extroverted and excitable as Holly. It meant Holly had to put in less work to make herself more palatable to someone in order to get close to them.

Nat wasn't exactly pushing her away when she grabbed onto her scarf to stay close to her as they walked down the street. If anything, she and Aegis Olena would check in on Holly with glances over her shoulder, if only to make sure Holly hadn't let the scarf go yet.

Aegis Olena seemed to be checking on Holly in this moment, as she stared at Nat's back with pursed lips. It was hard to focus properly with all the dark spots in her eyes from the amount of flashes around her.

"Chin up, hollyberry!" Lena chirped. It bounced on Nat's shoulder once. "I think you'll do splendid today!"

Holly gave the bird a helpless smile. "Thank you," she mumbled. "But… holly berries are poisonous. Should that be a nickname for me?"

The iron bird made a shocked expression somehow, jumping back in surprise.

"Oh my! Oh my, oh my!" it squawked. "What about hollyhock? Surely such beautiful flowers aren't poisonous, too!"

She chuckled softly this time. "No," she reassured it. "They only cause mild skin irritations, at best."

"And we're about to irritate this guy's patootie!" it declared.

Holly sputtered at the mental image of Jastrum with a rash on his butt. She covered her mouth with her hand, stifling her laughter, and when she glanced up at Nat again, she didn't miss the woman glancing back at her with a small smile. It seemed she'd been a little worried about Holly. Had Holly looked that uneasy about entering the Clock Tower?

Holly sniffed a little when she was done stifling her laughter. She smiled softly, staring at Nat's back again as Rider and Vere flanked her now that they were entering the Clock Tower gates. The heavy gates creaked open, almost as though welcoming the group, and they came to a stop as Nat turned back to the trio behind her.

"I've been thinking on things on the way over," she told them softly. "And I think it'd be more to our advantage if Vere and I take Jastrum's attention away from Holly while she talks to the local fae. Not to mention, if Holly has the same aversions to iron as the fae do, I don't trust the man to not have something prepared to weaken her while she's in his office."

"I was thinking the same," Vere agreed. He looked at Holly with a brief flicker of concern. "Has he ever taken you to his office…?"

"Once," Holly whispered. "I felt so sick when I left. I think he had a layer of iron built into the walls and ceiling."

Nat nodded once.

"Rider, I doubt you'll be permitted into the Clock Tower without good reason," she told him. "So I want you to try call upon Lena or Anya while we handle Jastrum. If you can't do it today, we'll try again tonight. I doubt, if Berserker's master actually showed up here, that Berserker would attack you in broad daylight. But if she does, you'll have Lena to back you up."

On her shoulder, Aegis Olena posed like a flamenco dancer.

"Now, I'm about to be very harsh to you both. All I ask is that you please don't take it too personally. If I was really this mad or disdainful of you, I'd ignore you outright rather than yell at you. Okay?"

What an odd thing to specify. Holly nodded once.

And then Nat slapped her harshly across the face.

"Don't just nod at me like a buffoon, fool!" Nat yelled. People on the other side of the gate stopped walking and peered out into the street to see what was going on, and Holly felt shame well up in her chest as she nursed her aching cheek. Rider bristled, almost immediately on the defensive, but Holly held up a hand to keep him at bay. "I said, do you understand?"

Holly could taste blood in her mouth as she swallowed and said, "Y—Yes."

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, Nat—"

Nat slapped her other cheek. Holly actually stumbled this time, and she felt tears spring to her eyes. Vere was tense beside her, and he was clearly fighting back the urge to help her back up.

"Are you daft? Is that it? I told you that it's Ms. Argyris and Ms. Argyris only, you insolent girl!" Nat flicked her hair over her shoulder and clicked her tongue. "If you're supposed to be the representative of the Clock Tower in this War, they might as well just give up. God, how stupid can you get?"

"Y—Yes, Ms. Argyris," Holly mumbled.

Nat sighed heavily, frustrated, and gestured to the street surrounding the gates of the Clock Tower. "Now get to checking the perimeter already. Last thing we need is Berserker getting the drop on us because you couldn't be bothered to do a proper check. Maybe she'll save us the trouble and get rid of you so someone else can be Rider's master," Nat muttered bitterly.

"Yes, Ms. Argyris," Holly repeated. She turned on her heel and began to stumble away, staying out on the street as Rider and Vere stared at her.

It was all an act, she had to remind herself. Nat just got done saying that this wasn't how she behaved when she was upset. It was just an act.

Acting hurt like a bitch.

"Oh, and Rider," she heard Nat say, almost like she'd forgotten he was even there. "You're not needed. Go back to the manor and wait for us there."

Holly heard Rider growl to himself. "My master—" he started.

"Oh, don't coddle the fool," Nat snapped. "A perimeter check won't kill her. Lena, make sure he goes back. You see him head in her direction, you know what to do."

A soft squawk from Aegis Olena. And then a pitiful, "So mean… Nat's so mean…"

"Shoo! I gave you an order!"

The group parted ways after that. Holly looked back in time to see Rider summon Du and mount, letting Aegis Olena rest on Du's head like a perch, and she caught sight of Vere and Nat watching her through the gate as it slid shut behind them. She rubbed her cheeks, the burn from the slaps slowly fading, but Holly still couldn't shake the ache as she felt them start to swell up a little.

She continued to follow the perimeter like Nat had said, but after a good fifteen minutes of walking, Holly was dismayed to not find any fae along the path. Maybe it was because she was too close to the Clock Tower, she thought, or maybe it was because there were too many people around.

When she made it, almost another half an hour later, to the back corner of the Clock Tower, she heard a grunt through her link with Rider that startled her.

'We're going to work on your self defence,' he told her.

Holly sent a whine back through the link. 'I wasn't supposed to block the slaps,' she reminded him.

'Regardless. If a mere slap was enough to make you stumble, I can't leave you alone with anyone bigger or stronger than her.'

Holly couldn't help smiling a little, even with the pain in her face. The way Rider got protective of her, it reminded her of her grandfather at times. She'd wondered, briefly, if Rider could pose as a surrogate father for her and teach her about her fae heritage. But it was very apparent in the recent days that he was more akin to a grumpy grandpa who had trouble saying outright when he was worried or proud of his grandkids. It was an oddly humanising trait to assign to him, but it was still somehow fitting of someone as old as Rider.

'I'll do my best,' she conceded. 'How far are you from Vere's old house?'

'Not far. The stupid iron bird is making me sick.'

'Lena can't help it.' And when Rider didn't reply immediately, Holly added, 'I haven't seen any fae near the Clock Tower.'

'I'd wager Jastrum Archelot's iron cage of an office is enough of a deterrent to keep any curious fae out. He must be paranoid that they'll retaliate against him if they can get close enough.'

What a stupid paranoia to have. Holly didn't even know she was half-fae until just last year. How the hell was she going to make enough connections with the stray fae in London in under a year, minus the amount of time spent in Jastrum's custody and being studied at the Clock Tower? Holly was an outsider to most fae, and while Rider had taken her under his wing immediately, he'd acknowledged that her human half had made him hesitate at first. She had no doubt that fae with less kindness towards humans would spare her a second glance.

Holly sighed and rubbed her cheeks. At least the cold weather was making it easier to reduce the swelling in her cheeks, but it still hurt a lot. The bite of the cold was still a bite nonetheless, and Holly couldn't help the childish whimper as she tried to warm up her nose with her hands.

Something moved past her line of sight, far too quickly for the naked eye to spot. Holly's own eyes, however, could track the frantic movements as they darted through the bushes nearby. Though there wasn't much of a garden next to the Clock Tower's main campus, there were still gardens that Holly could feasibly believe something small was hiding inside of. And something small was hiding in the bush of hydrangeas in between the bushes of azaleas and rhododendrons. Hiding and throwing tiny pebbles in Holly's direction, almost as though trying to get her attention.

Holly blinked slowly. She came to a stop, staring at the hydrangea bush. Another pebble was thrown towards her from it.

Sunflower, came the soft echo of a bell's chime.

Sunflower? the chime repeated.

Sunflower, come here, the whispers beckoned.

As though trying to show her where they wanted her to come, she saw a brief flutter of small, glittering wings peek out from behind the hydrangeas.

Well, Holly did set out to find fae to question about the fire. And they probably saw a lot of things near the Clock Tower from this spot. Not a lot, but enough. Holly sniffed and started walking towards the garden, taking care to make sure no one was watching.

Carpe diem, and whatnot.

"Hello?" she whispered. She pushed aside one of the branches of the shrub, and she saw something small retreat further into the bush. "It's me, the sunflower. Who called out to me?"

She started to crawl under the shrub, to see if any small fae were hiding among the roots, but the minute her hand reached for purchase under the large shrub, Holly lost her balance. It was like a burrow opened up beneath her the moment she approached, and she fell face first into the hole beneath the shrub with a surprised scream.

Holly tumbled and rolled, arms wrapped over her face as she felt twigs scratch at her skin and clothes. Blood seeped onto the vine wrapped around her waist, and the vine sprang to life to wrap her into a tight ball as she continued to tumble down the hole. She never truly stopped rolling until the ball of vines bounced at the bottom of the hole, and Holly held back bile in her throat as her stomach lurched ten times over. The descent had to have been less than a minute long, but the ball of vines still continued to roll until it bumped into something and came to a full stop. If Holly had to guess, it was the bottom of the hole. Knowing her luck, she'd just been lured into a little prank of a trap by some pixies who saw their chance to play a trick.

'Ugh… You never said anything about falling into holes…'

She didn't get a response from Rider. Holly reclined uncomfortably in the vines. She tried again, calling to him, but there was still no response.

Was she trapped in this hole with no way to call out to Rider? Holly looked down at her command spells with growing anxiety. No, she wasn't totally isolated. A command spell could summon him to her side, even if she was trapped in a bounded field or cut off from him telepathically. He may have been similar to a familiar right now, but he wasn't entirely a familiar—the Grail would make her command come true with enough willpower and determination.

Holly sucked in long, steeling breaths and calmed herself. First she had to see what this hole was like in terms of depth, and then she could see about climbing out on her own before using up a command spell.

On the other side of the vines, before she even had a chance to open them up and take a peek, she heard a woman's voice playfully regard the ball of ivy and give it a light push.

"Goodness," the woman's voice drawled. "How did you silly little things get such a big ball of ivy down here?"

Was she talking about the pixies? Holly looked in the direction of the voice. The woman sounded like she was right behind her, talking over her head, and Holly couldn't help instinctively tilting her head back and parting the vines just a little to see who was on the other side.

A dim light flooded through the opening, and Holly flinched. She squeezed her eyes shut, cringing, and that was all it took for the woman to get a proper look at Holly through the gap.

"Oh? Look how red your face is, dear," she cooed. "Is your lip bleeding? Oh, how daft of me—you've cuts all over yourself."

Holly pried her eyes open to take a peek at the woman. She'd expected to find a fairy on the other side—ethereal and with big wings reminiscent of a monarch butterfly. Perhaps with beautiful flaxen hair that fell in long tresses down her back. But when Holly's eyes focused and she could see the woman, albeit upside down, she looked… normal. Human, almost. She was unnaturally gorgeous, of course, but she didn't look the part of a fairy that she'd expected.

The woman's brown hair fell in curls around her shoulders, and her lips were painted red with a small beauty spot on her chin. The only thing remotely fairy-like on her were her robes, which Holly could see part of through the gap; loose and embroidered with bright colours like a chiffon, and if Holly tried to look hard enough, she could see something flutter at the woman's back like dragonfly wings for a brief, fleeting second.

She blinked at the woman. She stared up at her. The woman stared down with a motherly smile.

"Are you…" Holly started. The woman tilted her head, and it was only now that Holly realised her jade eyes were studying her. Holly's sentence trailed off, unable to finish, and the woman let out an amused laugh.

"Look at you," she mused. "Not quite a human. Not quite fae. Not a witch. Dare we call you a magus? Who's to say?"

"I…" Holly quickly blinked and lifted her head, breaking eye contact with the woman. She turned around in the ball of vines and sat up, backing away from her with wide eyes. "Are you… like me?"

"That depends." The woman's smile didn't quite reach her eyes. "What are you, girl?"

What was she? Holly furrowed her brows. She… wasn't sure. She knew what her parents were—a human magus and a fairy—but what did that make her? Something like Holly had never been seen before; it was why Jastrum held so much power over her, threatening her freedom with the possibility of being locked away in the Clock Tower and studied like a lab rat. Some folklore had musings about half-fae children, but it almost never seemed to fit Holly's description when she dug deeper.

She pursed her lips and looked away again. "I don't know," she admitted.

"Then I am not like you, girl," the woman said simply, "for I know what I am. But you're not here to ask what I am, are you?"

Holly dug her nails into the vines. "How do you know?"

"The pixies are nosy little things. And they do so love to gossip, especially when the Holly King is out and about among mortals, parading himself as a servant for the Grail War. What a terrible shame."

"Why can't I contact him?" Holly demanded.

"Why, you entered my territory. Did you think I wouldn't have defences in place to prevent a magus and their familiars from wreaking havoc?" The woman shook her head, tutting at Holly. "Oh, this won't do, girl. You've so much to learn, and not enough time. My domain doesn't linger in the passage of time like Avalon does."

So this was definitely the woman's domain? Holly swallowed a lump in her throat. Did that mean the pixies had heard the group's plan to ask around about the fire, and they'd led Holly to the woman for answers? Surely not, she thought. Surely this was just a trick or a prank. She'd have to climb back out and make sure not to eat anything while she was here.

"Come out of there already, girl," the woman prompted her. She turned away, almost as though to give Holly access to the small opening in the vines, and Holly caught sight of the fluttering she'd seen earlier. No wonder the woman didn't have any wings visible. They were just like a dragonfly's, like Holly had thought, but a significant portion of them was torn apart and damaged. Burn marks marred one wing, while the other looked like it'd almost been torn out of the socket in her back. The wings had obviously been a lot bigger, before they'd been damaged. "I don't make it a habit to get involved in the Grail Wars, but the Holly King took such great care to collect my Lenore back in the day, so I'll make an exception. The people who want this knowledge aren't even masters like you, anyway, yes?"

So she was doing this as a favour to Rider? Holly was a little less wary at that. Given what she knew of Rider, she was confident he wouldn't let a slight slide very easily. If the woman knew him somewhat personally, then she probably knew he was swift in his payback and justice.

Holly crawled to the opening and wiggled out. She tumbled to the floor, and when she stood back up again, she got a proper look at the bottom of the hole. It was less the very end of a ditch and more like a homely, underground cottage. The walls were smoothed and rounded, with doors leading to nowhere littering some walls, and old decorations and furniture were scattered about to make it feel more like a proper dwelling. It felt like Holly had stepped into a fantasy film where people had been shrunk and lived in old shoes and boxes like mice, and she was almost surprised to see pixies flitting about around the ball of vines when she stepped out fully. They all seemed to make themselves at home inside, some of them immediately curling up into balls and dozing off in a pile together.

The woman had already moved towards a stove and was boiling some tea, and Holly could smell the berries in the tea mixture as she cautiously approached.

"What… should I call you?" she asked the woman.

The woman chuckled and seemed to consider it. "Goodness, when was the last time I used a name? It had to be back before my Lenore passed on. Was it Hildegarde? No, that was the other child's name… Ah."

Despite her absentminded musings, the woman finally managed to figure out a name and looked back at Holly with an almost rueful smile.

"You may call me Eulalie. Or, if you're feeling formal, Madam Trivia."

Eulalie Trivia… She'd never heard of such a strange name before. Holly fidgeted on her feet and cleared her throat.

"I'm—" she started, only to recall not only Rider's brief lesson on the power of names and ownership to Nat, but also Eulalie's own musings that Holly wasn't quite human or fae. Holly wasn't even sure if the ownership of a name would apply to her from a human or a fairy. She wasn't willing to test it out just yet. "You… may call me Holly."

"Goodness, what a lovely coincidence," Eulalie said. "The Holly King summoned by a girl going by the name Holly. It's like you were destined to cross paths with him. Would you care for some tea, Holly?"

Holly wouldn't deny that she could do with something warm after all the cold air on her face and the tumble she'd taken, but she wasn't about to risk any of the other pitfalls humans fell for with fairies. She politely shook her head, apologising as she did so.

"Pity," Eulalie mumbled. "Willow bark tea is good for soothing pain. You'll have to settle for some aloe vera."

Holly could work with aloe vera.

"U—Um, Madam Trivia," Holly broached. Eulalie looked back at her as she poured herself a cup of tea, humming in acknowledgement. "When you said the pixies brought me to you—does that mean some of them do know what happened to Nat's friend? Or you do?"

"Straight to the point. I like that in a student. Very prudent." Eulalie gestured to the small dining table near the stove, and she sat down on one of the wooden stools as she stirred her tea with a small spoon. "I did not personally witness it, but the nature of my witchcraft has me rather fine-tuned to the passing of mortals. Everyone dies every day, but some die more brutally than others. Some die younger than others. Some don't even get the chance to be alive to begin with." Eulalie watched Holly as she sat down across from her. "When did this person's friend die, then? As I said, the pixies gossip, and I doubt you want to know how much agony they were in when they passed. I'd wager you want to know if it was murder, and if it was, what clues you might glean from the pixies' sightings."

It was that simple? Holly saw some pixies flutter over, crowding Eulalie, and some of them dipped their hands into her cup of tea and took sips of it. Eulalie didn't seem bothered—if anything, it seemed she'd poured the tea for the pixies instead.

"You just need to know when it happened?" Holly asked.

"Of course. The pixies do not lie, dear," Eulalie reassured her. "Only embellish a little."

Okay. Okay. Even if she was sort of stuck down here and couldn't contact Rider, this wasn't so bad, right? Holly picked at her fingernails and nodded a little. Yeah! This wasn't so bad!

With newfound determination, the whiplash from Nat slapping her and the tumble fading from her mind, Holly returned Eulalie's smile with her own confident one.

"I'll need some ink and paper, ma'am. Spare no details."

renren_writes · Jan 24, 2024

14

London, England (Late Morning)

Not being able to contact his master was the least of Rider's problems this morning, it seemed.

He should've known something was up when he noticed the small bounded field erected over Vere's old home. He should've sent the ironkind back to Natalya and returned to Holly's side. He should've had Vere come with him, or at the very least had one of the duo come with him overall. It was like the city of London was picking them off one by one, separating them from each other, and it all led back to the bullshit with Jastrum Archelot.

Regardless, Rider had entered the bounded field after losing communication with Holly. She knew she could summon him to her side with a command spell, and she didn't need to verbally announce the command either. The link was severed, either—it was just faint, like something was blocking him as her familiar rather than a sign of Holly's life fading. Regardless of their link, too, Rider was in-tune with the dead and dying in the immediate area thanks to his role as a psychopomp.

That was where the most damning problem presented itself.

"It's Mr. Not-Odin!" Berserker shouted excitedly. She waved her hands up and down, almost inviting Rider to approach, and the man beside her gently urged her to be a bit quieter. "Hi, Mr. Not-Odin! Is your horsie okay?"

The little servant irked Rider. The ironkind flying beside him squawked with equal amounts of volume, circling him in a panic.

"Oh no! Oh no! Oh no! Enemy servant spotted!" it screeched.

And then, out of nowhere, the blades of its wings detached from its body and formed a large circle in front of Rider, a projection of a shield covering most of his body while two wings hovered at his sides. Beams of energy charged at their tips, almost primed to fire, and the core body of the ironkind bird rested between Rider's feet.

What in the world had Natalya made this thing from, to be capable of such defense and offense?

The man with Berserker jumped in front of her, hands held up in surrender.

"We mean no harm!" he shouted. "I swear to you, we're here peacefully!"

Cheap words, Rider thought. He glared at the man through the transparent shield, making this stance known.

"What can I do to prove that we won't attack you?" the man went on. "Name it, and we'll do it."

"Did you consider that I'm not here for peace?" Rider countered.

The man faltered, but ultimately stood his ground.

Even if Rider did want a fight—to rid himself of Berserker once and for all after that humiliating defeat following their game of cat and mouse—something about this just felt off. How did Berserker and the man know to come to this house and erect a bounded field? How far in advance had they planned this? Rider knew they were watching Holly's family's manor, but to already know the location of their ally's former home? Something didn't sit well with Rider.

He shifted on his feet, still frowning, and he nudged the ironkind with his toes despite the burning sensation it caused.

"Down, creature," he ordered. "You've proven how quickly you'll respond to an ambush."

The wings forming the shield flew back to Aegis Olena's body, and the bird began to hover around Rider's head once more as the blades charging up the energy beams returned as well.

"I did good!" the ironkind chirped. "Rider praised me! Me!"

Rider turned his gaze to the man and Berserker.

"Alright, out with it," he demanded. The man relaxed somewhat, and Berserker clung to his leg like a child would her father. "If your explanation is good enough, I might spare your lives."

Seemingly unaffected by the threat, Berserker looked up at the man and said gleefully, "A 'maybe' is better than not living at all, no?"

The man huffed a small laugh. He reached down and patted Berserker's head almost lovingly, and immediately Rider could see the similarities with Vere. Truly, the psychopomp was a magnet for people whose loved ones had clearly died tragically—and this man was using the servant as a replacement for that loved one, instead of Vere's awkward attempts at being a calming presence to Holly.

"I suppose it is," he agreed softly. He looked up from Berserker and back at Rider, and he smiled weakly. "My name is Zhou Jun. My wife is Berserker's master."

"Your wife would risk your life to meet with me?" Rider scoffed.

Jun shook his head. "No, never. In fact, I begged her to let me come here. Lan, she's in full agreement of the alliance your master wants to organise. She just wanted to be thorough beforehand."

"Turn the tables in her favour," Rider corrected him.

Jun let out a guilty laugh, quiet and soft. "I suppose," he relented.

At least he was forthcoming about that much. Now they knew Berserker's master was definitely with Natalya and Vere, though, and Rider took a few steps forward. The house next to them was empty, and it wasn't the shambling mess of ash and charcoal that was left behind when it was burned down. It'd been rebuilt, certainly, and now people unrelated to Vere and Natalya lived inside of it.

"Why did you set up the bounded field?" Rider asked.

"My Lan, she's gifted," Jun answered. "She may not be an outstanding magus in terms of circuits, but her Mystic Eyes are priceless. She recognised your allies after looking around the area for traces of your master—she saw the fire."

Rider cocked his head. An enemy—or perhaps ally—with Mystic Eyes was nothing to scoff at. Depending on the kinds of Mystic Eyes, she'd prove to be invaluable, just like Jun claimed.

"What kind of Mystic Eyes?" Rider asked.

"Retrocognition." Jun sniffed. "I wouldn't say she sympathises with your allies, but… Lan's walked the path they're on before. Her wisdom would be indispensable."

Alright… If Rider was piecing this together correctly, Berserker's master went trawling through London for signs of Holly's past movements, just to get a better handle on Holly's capabilities—or perhaps learn her habits. Through that, she saw the fire that involved Vere and his family and later recognised Vere and Natalya from the interview Rider did that called for an alliance with Berserker's master. Piecing things together… She must've known, after figuring out Rider's identity, that he would come here as a favour to his allies. Knew he'd investigate by calling the spirits of the dead forth.

This woman was cunning. Meticulous. Jun wasn't exaggerating when he said she'd be indispensable.

"Fine," Rider scoffed. "Suppose I believe you. What could she tell me that the dead couldn't?"

Jun seemed to become uncomfortable, then. He looked away, almost as though overcome with a sudden wave of guilt, and he shifted on his feet. Behind him, Berserker looked up at him with wide, curious eyes.

"Would the victims have known who their killers were?" he asked Rider.

The mere question told Rider everything he needed to know—that Jun and his wife had already seen that what happened was murder, not an accident, and that they'd seen the killers' faces in the process. Or at least Lan had.

That was the key leverage Lan held over Rider's alliance. Names, faces, motives.

Leads.

Rider clicked his tongue and turned away from Jun. He stomped towards the house, frustrated, and his eyes flickered to the house. What had once undoubtedly been a cottage house with a lush garden was now replaced with a modern two-storey home built from brick and steel. What remained of the garden had been converted into an outdoor seating area, and the house's layout definitely swallowed more land beneath it than the cottage likely had.

This was a home suited for a family bigger than a husband and wife and their child. This was a house suited for a larger family that deviated from the nuclear build.

"The residents?" Rider grunted to Jun. The man tentatively stepped closer to Rider, Berserker closely trailing behind. The ironkind bird, despite not being able to blink, seemed to almost be glaring at the duo as it flew beside Rider.

"Asleep," Jun reported. "We were thorough."

"All this, just for me?" Rider scoffed. "Been a while since I've had something handed to me on a silver platter."

"Consider it a show of good faith," Jun told him. He looked out at the house with an almost pained expression. "One act of kindness out of the way, just in case the alliance doesn't work out."

Rider glanced at him. "What makes you think it wouldn't?"

When Jun looked up at him, the smile on his face seemed rueful. "I told you. Your ally walks the same path my Lan did. I know the next step if they can't find a middle ground."

Rider grunted. He looked back to the house. With a hefty sigh, he crossed his arms over his chest and crossed the threshold of the front gate, quickly moving through the garden and up to the front door.

Jun wasn't kidding about being thorough. A bounded field, sleeping residents, and even the doors and windows were unlocked. He wondered if they'd been out here every day, checking to see if Rider would show up to summon the dead. How long in advance had they anticipated this plan, to split up and investigate with the sources most strongly tied to them? Had Lan banked on an alliance being proposed? Or was this her quick thinking skills on display, just like the night she'd eliminated Rider's possible identities in one single attack?

The inside of the home was furnished the same as any other—family photos, vacation pictures, old furniture that'd survived several homes prior—and the first of the residents were easy to find sitting on the couch. Sprawled out and snoring softly, each resident of the house had Hanzi script written in ink across their foreheads. Hanzi for sleep, memory, and water, all in neat handwriting, and Rider dared to move closer as he peered at the slumbering residents. One was an older man, probably in need of in-home care with how withered he looked, and the one on the couch with him was a middle-aged woman who bore a strong resemblance to him. Sleeping upright on the floor, head propped up on the couch cushions, a teenager holding a game console that had been paused rested between them.

"Memory alteration," Jun told Rider as he entered the house. "When they wake up, whatever they dreamed of will be what they think they did for the duration of their sleep. Hazy, but not easily disproved."

"It'd be like they dissociated for an hour or so," Rider mused. "Perhaps Berserker's master is more resourceful than I'd given her credit for."

"Isn't that how you have to survive, most days?" Jun joked. "We can't all coast on divinity and raw power."

Rider turned his head, glaring at Jun, and the man's soft smile didn't falter in the slightest. Judging by how ballsy he was to make fun of Rider, the house was loaded with traps that were just waiting for a reason to spring.

Rider clicked his tongue and moved away from the trio. He stomped towards the middle of the house, where a long hallway led to the bathroom and laundry, and he peeked into each room with a scrutinising gaze. The house's layout wasn't the same as it used to be, but the remnants of the deceased wouldn't have parted from their spots. Sometimes dying in a place of high significance to the victim kept them tied there like an anchor, unable to join their loved ones when they inevitably moved on. All it took was enough looking around—two years wasn't enough time for a spectre to fade and wander, to get lost in the boundary between life and death. The ghosts were, at least to Rider, still rather fresh.

It took some time, but eventually he found just the link he was looking for. A sunroom, towards the back of the house and giving a nice view of the backyard and its small playhouse and shed. Rider grunted, shifting on his feet, and he gave a cursory glance at the hall, where Jun was following with Berserker, and he pursed his lips in distaste. He supposed he'd have an audience for this. The man had better savour the experience of witnessing the dead briefly interacting with the mortal plane once more. Rider was going to make sure he and Berserker's master weren't able to manipulate a situation to gather information a third time.

Rider huffed through his nose and held a hand up, motioning for Jun to stand behind him. "Don't come too close," he advised him. "I can't guarantee you won't get swept up in the collection process."

Jun took a step back, but he also let out an incredulous laugh. "Surely you aren't that careless."

"Care to risk a mere touch?" Rider countered.

The man was silent. Berserker, from behind Jun, chimed in, "Like patting my cute little head?"

Rider sneered at her.

He looked back to the small inklings of remains and held out his hands. Softly, soft enough that Jun couldn't hear, he beckoned to the deceased and held his palms open to the two remnants that approached him at a snail's pace. Reluctant, but somehow recognising who he was and why he was there. What fate awaited them after lingering for so long in their unmarked graves.

Though not at his prime as a servant, Rider still possessed skills that allowed him to do his job as a psychopomp. Part of that job was the collection of souls and the additions to his Wild Hunt, be they beast or man, and while he was limited in how many souls he could take as a servant, a solid thousand of them was plentiful when combined with his blessings as the son of the former king of Annwn.

The remnants took shape as his hands closed around the light, and soon Rider was grasping the frail hands of a mother and child—Olena and Anya, Vere's wife and child. Despite their frail appearances, both mother and child dazed and confused as they stared up at Rider, he could tell that Anya took after both her parents almost perfectly. Olena's dark brown hair combined with Vere's dark blue eyes, and the perfect amount of innocence a child her age ought to have. She had to be no older than six, and Rider wondered what the point in killing someone so young had been. The days of slaying your heirs to secure your position and prevent usurpation were long since passed, as far as he could tell—but then again, many magi were still stuck in the old ways.

Once clarity returned to the duo's eyes, Olena began to tear up and embraced her daughter with her free hand. Anya, similarly, tried to tug her hand from Rider's grip as she clung to her mother with a whimper.

"Hush, now," Rider whispered. Olena looked at him in horror. She hid Anya's face in her chest. "You will not be harmed, Olena Andreas. I come as a favour to your family."

"My family…?" Olena mumbled, confused. "Oh, God… Vere…"

"Alive. Fret not." Rider squeezed her hand in an attempt at reassurance, and he heard Anya's muffled sob that she wanted her father. "I'm going to offer you a choice once I'm done. But it's not a decision you can make lightly. Do you understand?"

"What do you want from us?" Olena demanded.

Rider hummed. "Your husband and friend need answers. I'm just here to ask the questions they needed passed along to you."

"Are they alright?" Olena's gaze hardened, but there was an almost sincereness to her expression. A softness, affectionate and warm. "Nat—is she okay? Did they get to her too?"

Rider shook his head. He could see her shoulders relax, her grip on Anya loosening enough to stop hiding her away from Rider. He was making steady progress, he thought; Rider had expected a bit more resistance before Olena would start cooperating. How nice for Natalya, to have a family that wasn't bound by blood that cared for her even in death.

He glanced back at Jun. He saw the ironkind was hovering near him, almost protectively, and it seemed to exchange a look with Rider. Not that its face could emote, but there was certainly something strategic in the way the ironkind sat between Rider and the others and folded its wings into its body as it perched onto the floor.

"It's been two years since your deaths," Rider relayed to the mother and daughter. Olena nodded once, a pained look crossing her face. "Natalya and Vere have made progress, but they've hit a wall. They had to wait for the World Grail War to start before they could find more leads on your killers."

"And if I'm talking to a faerie while a little Victorian girl stands behind a modern magus…" Olena mused.

"Yes. I am the Rider-class servant, and your family has allied with my master for this Grail War."

Anya peeked out from Olena's chest, eyes wide as she stared at Rider.

"Are you really a faerie, Mr. Rider?" she squeaked.

Rider shook her hand gently. "Faeries don't lie, little one," he said.

Anya let out a small gasp and tugged at her mother's arm. Olena let out a soft laugh, and Rider could hear Jun shift on his feet. He heard Berserker ask the man what was wrong, and Jun's voice shook as he whispered to her that he was fine.

Suppose Rider believed what Jun said about his wife walking the same path as Natalya. What reason did he have to get so moved to tears by a stranger's daughter? Unless he came outright and said what the situation his wife had been through was, Rider had every reason to suspect Jun was putting on airs to garner sympathy.

He focused on Olena and Anya again. He let out a slow breath.

"I don't have all the details," he warned her. "So what I'm about to ask is for my own curiosity. Do you know why you were murdered?"

Olena blinked, surprised. "Vere and Natalya never told you?" she asked.

"Our alliance is fresh. Frankly speaking, none of us expected to be able to pull you into a lucid state at this hour of the day. It was… How do mortals put it… The old college try?"

A soft giggle. "I see. Thank you for trying, Rider. I'm sure they appreciate it."

When Rider didn't respond, Olena let out a soft sigh and looked down at Anya. She reached up, brushing back Anya's hair from her face, and her face scrunched up in a mixture of regret and adoration.

"I just wanted to help people," she whimpered. "Advance modern medicine with magecraft. The world was already being exposed to mages for the last century, so I thought… I thought I could extend that knowledge to regular people who wanted to study. Maybe it was too lofty a goal, but could you imagine how innovative a hospital of magi would be? How fast the turnover rate for patients would be? I mean, some people have Mystic Eyes that can see what most can't—imagine if those who could see infections and diseases could work out in the open. It was all so… monopolised. I just wanted it to stop being that way."

Rider hummed, contemplative. Natalya did say, in the days leading up to this attempt, that Olena had been a controversial figure in the Clock Tower for her views. No doubt those like Jastrum Archelot, who sat in the aristocratic faction of the Clock Tower, vehemently objected to the idea of merging magecraft and medicine for the common people.

He studied Olena's face for a moment, eyes narrowing. Even if the aristocratic faction would so violently reject Olena's research, the neutral and democratic factions would've backed her. Right? The democratic faction valued talent over bloodline, and the neutral faction just wanted to do their research unimpeded. Surely they had to claim Olena as one of their own for her protection.

"How far did your research get?" he asked.

Olena cringed. She looked almost ashamed.

"It… wasn't my idea originally," she admitted. Quickly, though, she added, "I did think about it, don't get me wrong! Wondered if it was possible and all. But instead of having to start from scratch, I was able to find… Ah, is it okay for…?"

She nodded to Jun. Rider grunted.

"I'm sure hearing this will yield results for the alliance he wishes to form with my master," he said. "Carry on."

Olena gave Jun a dubious look. She turned back to Rider and sighed again.

"There was a family, back in the early twentieth century. One of their daughters had a similar goal to me, merging medicine with magecraft in order to help more people. It was a noble goal, and while the Clock Tower hadn't approved of the research, they didn't… stop her, per se. My spin on the research didn't follow her's, but it was a method that definitely had a high-risk, high-reward outcome."

"How does this family correlate to your death?"

Olena laughed once, softly. "They don't. Well, they do, but only as a catalyst for why I was attacked. You see, the whole family was exterminated back in the 1930s. The daughter conducting the research slaughtered her family after falling unconscious for six months. She'd… turned into a Dead Apostle through experimenting on herself. The details were redacted, but I could make out enough to know that I had to alter her research to avoid the same fate."

That drastic of a consequence? She did say it was high-risk, high-reward, but that was such a horrific level of consequence for trying to combine magecraft and medicine. Rider could feel his face pinching up in displeasure. With the way Olena had phrased it, too, that meant the Dead Apostle had been slain shortly after devouring her family. And if the Grail's information was correct, that was around the time of the Third Fuyuki Grail War. The Grail War that extended the system to become a global phenomenon.

He pursed his lips. Behind him, Jun stepped forward ever so slightly.

"I'm so sorry to interrupt," he said, voice gentle. "But you said the information was redacted. Did that mean her research was collected and held onto?"

Olena was surprised to hear him speak. "Ah, yes," she told him. "It'd been confiscated and it was under the watch of the Department of Botany. I was given permission to see by Jastrum, its Lord, because I was his cousin's wife, and… I suppose I should've made certain that it was alright to take notes on what I saw."

"Then—and forgive me for how crude this might sound—would it not stand to reason that you were simply killed for trying to continue research deemed worthy of execution thanks to its creator?"

There was silence in the sun room. Rider half-expected Olena to bristle. To bite back. He felt her grip in his hand tense slightly, but just as quickly it relaxed again.

She'd already anticipated a question that would place blame on her shoulders.

"No," Olena insisted. "I changed the formula. I wasn't going to make the same mistake as Alecta vi Raspeal."

Was that the name of the Dead Apostle? Rider blinked slowly, thinking about things for a moment.

If it wasn't a case of caution because of the risk of turning into a Dead Apostle, then what was it? The Clock Tower had confiscated the research, which meant it was in their hands. Rider knew the Department of Botany was part of the aristocratic faction, and if Olena had been able to access the confiscated research because of Jastrum's whims… It'd make sense, too, if it'd been the aristocratic faction who'd called for Olena's punishment once they figured out she meant to use the research for the betterment of others rather than to empower the nobility.

Then, in that case, did someone from the aristocratic faction catch wind of Olena's work? But who? Jastrum should've been the only one who knew, but why kill his cousin's wife so covertly instead of calling for a hunt to prevent another Dead Apostle from being created? Rider glared past Olena and Anya, the mystery irking him. There was just something missing. If it was Jastrum who'd called for her death, what was the motive? Was it really petty politics?

He would just have to ask the questions Natalya had laid out for him. Maybe something would jump out with those. Some sense.

"Alright," Rider finally said. "That was everything I wanted to know for my benefit. Now that I have some context, we can begin the questioning in earnest."

With determination in her eyes, Olena nodded firmly. Rider whistled sharply, calling Aegis Olena to his side, and the ironkind zoomed over to his side in an instant. Its eyes glowed red, indicating it was recording, and Rider had Olena say something to it. When the ironkind blinked and played back the recording, Rider could let out a sigh of relief as he heard Olena's voice repeat the words back.

It was time to get some answers.

"Do those answers satisfy you, dear?" Eulalie asked.

Holly looked down at her notes with wide eyes. She leaned back in her chair, breathless, and massaged her aching wrist as Eulalie sipped her tea.

"You're positive?" Holly asked.

Eulalie chuckled and waved a dismissive hand. "Not me, no," she joked. "But the pixies? I suppose they're quite positive of what they saw."

She was quick to dismiss the playfulness in Eulalie's voice. Her teasing didn't matter right now—no, what mattered was that she'd just dropped a massive bombshell onto Holly's lap and opened up a whole realm of possibilities for who could be the one who'd ordered Olena and Anya's deaths. And worse still, Rider and Holly had left Nat and Vere to enter the lion's den alone.

Holly read over her notes again, looking for anything to disprove what the pixies' testimonies pointed to. She didn't know a lot of the names, but the descriptions the pixies gave made it all the more easier to recognise some of the faces she'd seen during her first and only trip to the Clock Tower after Jastrum got a hold of her. Part of her felt like a fool, like she should've known that the men present during Jastrum's threats would be capable of doing such harm. And if you took the meaning of the triad part of Black Triad to mean three… Didn't that mean Jastrum had killed his own in-law? His own cousin's wife?

It didn't make sense. Vere wasn't even a contender for succession in the Archelot family. He didn't even use the Archelot name!

"This is horrible," Holly muttered.

"You're not satisfied?"

Holly blinked, startled, and held up her hands in reassurance. "Oh, no, I'm so sorry, ma'am!" she hurriedly said. "I didn't mean I was unhappy with the information, I just…"

It was just a tough thing to process. How did she even begin to break the news to Nat and Vere?

But, really, if Holly thought about it, it'd make sense if Jastrum was the one responsible for everything. Nat had said that she and Vere had uncovered the Black Triad's goals were to manipulate the World Grail War in their favour, and with Jastrum using Holly as a proxy to win the war… Yeah, something told Holly that if she and Rider made it to the end, Jastrum would show up out of nowhere and coerce her into making the wish he wanted. The motive tracked, at least on Holly's side of things it did, but how did killing Olena and Anya help with their goals?

Maybe Rider had better luck on his side with talking to the ghosts. Holly glanced over at the hole she'd fallen through a mere half an hour earlier, and she chewed her lip with growing concern. Should she use the command spell to summon him to her? Or should she ask Eulalie to let her out? Regardless, staying inside Eulalie's domain had cut Holly off from anyone outside of it until Eulalie decided to let her go.

"Worried, child?" Eulalie asked. Holly looked back to her, sparing a glance for her notes just briefly, and then folded her hands on her lap.

"I just don't know what I'm going to tell the others about this," Holly admitted. Eulalie leaned forward, elbows placed on the table as her chin was propped up on her knuckles. "I mean, I knew the bastard who forced me into this was crooked, but… He's related to one of my allies. I can't fathom why he would do what he did. Aren't they family? Shouldn't… Shouldn't the aristocratic mages value their bloodlines more than anything else? Why go so far?"

"It's best not to dwell on the why," Eulalie told her. Holly stared at her with wide eyes. But the why was the most important part. "If there's one thing I learned the last time I mingled with the children of man, it's that common sense and reason don't always lie at the root of their activities. You have the usual reasons, of course—love, money, power, revenge—but far too often, I find that there is simply no reason at all. They do it because they can, with no regard as to whether they should."

She… had a point. It was a point Holly didn't like, but it was still a good one. She knew Jastrum was trying to break the deadlock for the Clock Tower's factions through his wish, and he was lying to the Clock Tower Lords about sharing the wish for the betterment of mage society. Did it even matter why he wanted the wish? Why he lied to everyone? Why he threatened to make Holly into an experiment that the other Lords would never let see the light of day for as long as she lived? What mattered was that he was doing it to begin with. What mattered was the how in the equation. How they stopped him, how they anticipated his next moves, how they tricked him into thinking he still had the upper hand.

Nat was already working on the how. Somehow, Holly had a renewed sense of admiration for the woman as the realisation dawned on her.

Holly pushed herself out of her chair and let out a slow breath, calming herself. She smiled at Eulalie, thankful, and her determination was revived.

"Thank you for all this information, Madam Trivia," she said. Eulalie let out a hum, smiling knowingly.

"You don't want my opinions on who the people the pixies saw might be?" she drawled.

Holly shook her head. "No, I already have an inkling of who they might be," Holly decided. "And my allies are in the Clock Tower as we speak. Combined with what Rider might find out from Lena, I think the investigation will be fairly open-and-shut."

"What infectious confidence," Eulalie teased. "What do you plan to do, hm? Our kind hasn't involved ourselves with human politics since the Battle of Camlann."

Good question. Holly sniffed and propped her hands on her hips, back to frowning again.

"I did suggest a coup, but I don't think they're entirely on board with it," she mumbled. "Maybe I'll have to figure something out with Rider. I just wish my family's lives weren't in the palm of his hand…"

"From my experience," Eulalie drawled, "the Clock Tower mages are like a beast with many heads. Say you kill the man threatening your family—the man who killed your allies' friend and wife. Who's to say some of the other heads on the beast's body weren't particularly attached to the head you just cut off?"

"But then we've just got to get rid of those heads," Holly tried.

Eulalie shook her head. "Ah, ah. It's one single beast. If you remove too many of its heads, the remainder will begin to feel as though you seek to kill it entirely. And if they all come at you at once…"

"I'm right stuffed," Holly finished, dismayed. She sank back into the chair and held her face in her hands. God, she was so stupid. If she hadn't run off in search of faeries the moment she turned eighteen, she wouldn't be in this mess. Her family wouldn't be in this mess. Why couldn't Holly be satisfied with knowing her aunt and grandfather loved her? Why did she have to yearn for something more? To want to fill the void in her heart? Why couldn't she just settle for just shy of enough? "I'm so stupid…"

"Stupid is too harsh a word," Eulalie corrected her. Holly looked up from her hands, over at the woman who was now playing with her empty tea cup. "I fancy you to be more idealistic, given how this conversation has gone."

Holly scrunched up her face. "I guess I'm a little naive, being kept away from the world my whole life."

"I didn't say naive, either. I said idealistic." Eulalie looked somewhat annoyed now, her smile tight and her brows creasing ever so slightly. "You hope for the best case scenario and want to believe there's something beneath the surface to an issue, something to help you understand the things around you."

"But I don't want to sympathise with why Jastrum did anything he's done so far!" Holly insisted.

"And I never said you did. You're like my Lenore's first love, in a way. That girl was always so caught up in trying to figure out why people did the things they had to, but eventually she had to force herself to realise that some things happen for no rhyme or reason. Nature is fickle—we fae are fickle. Even elementals are fickle. Is that not the nature of sentience and imagination?" Eulalie tilted her head at Holly, and the look on her face was knowing. "Think about the options you have before you. Do you even want to kill that man?"

Kill him?

Holly's heart leapt into her throat. She shrank away from Eulalie as the woman drilled holes into her face with her eyes. Was killing Jastrum really an option she had? He probably deserved it, sure, but… That was a human life. Someone who occupied a space in existence. Someone with a family. Killing a person wasn't the same as killing a servant—a person can't be resummoned down the line, nor could they recover with enough time and magical energy fed to them by someone!

As much as Jastrum deserved everything Holly could throw at him, part of her refused to sink as low as him and get her hands dirty. She only wanted him kicked out of the Clock Tower and his power stripped from him. His power was what threatened Holly, not Jastrum himself—the same issue would've cropped up if someone else in the aristocratic party had found her instead of Jastrum. Being a Lord gave him a sway that any regular lecturer couldn't dream of. She just… wanted a different Lord in power.

"Killing him would make me the same as him," Holly insisted. "I'd be robbing a family of their son. Their brother."

"But what if it's your only option?"

Holly stared at her in horror.

"Oh, don't be so terrified, Holly," Eulalie chided her. "I'm a Bell Witch. I deal in the physical aspects of the dead, a perfect companion to our ever benevolent Holly King. I rarely have the opportunity to leave my domain unless there are cadavers to plunder."

"P—Plunder?"

"Of course. So much life can be had from the body of man," Eulalie announced. "Their meat feeds the animals. Their nutrients grow the plants. Their blood contains just enough magical energy leftover once their soul is extracted. The cycle of life starts and ends with a corpse, dear. Even we are not immune to that cycle—it just takes longer to carry out."

Even still… Killing Jastrum didn't sit right with her. Holly chewed at her lip and looked away from Eulalie. Maybe she could find another way with Nat and Vere. Maybe what information she and Rider had found in their excursion while Nat handled negotiations with Berserker's master could open up a new path. Maybe they could present Jastrum's crimes before the Clock Tower!

But if the conversation was going to keep coming back to killing Jastrum, Holly saw no choice but to change the subject.

"So how do you know Rider?" she asked hurriedly.

Eulalie's eyes went wide. And then she laughed, though it sounded partially annoyed.

"Just like my Lenore's bride," she hissed. "Quick to change the subject when you don't approve of it."

"I'm not a murderer," Holly fought back.

"And yet you participate in a murder ritual."

"Not by choice!" Holly jumped out of her chair and glared at Eulalie across the table. "My family was threatened! I was threatened! You said so yourself, I'm not a human, not a faerie, and not a witch! If I didn't comply, I would've been made into a lab rat!"

Eulalie sucked in a deep, silent breath. She rose from her seat gently, and she turned away from Holly to move into another room. Holly stared, bewildered, and the anger slowly left her body as more time passed. She wasn't sure what came over her—she wasn't normally so combative. Maybe all this talk of not having any other option, and the fact that Eulalie drew attention to Holly being half-faerie, it all just started to wear on Holly's emotional battery.

She was a right mess right now, wasn't she?

In her depression she tried to reach out to Rider again, hoping the connection would reestablish itself and let her seek his guidance. A man like him, who dealt in the deaths of mortals, surely had some ideas on how to best avoid a last resort like murder. Right?

Eulalie entered the room again, and she was carrying something in her hands as she approached Holly and coaxed her back out of the chair. Holly stared at her, stepping away from the table, and Eulalie held her hands out to Holly—still covering the thing in her grip, but Holly could properly see how a wooden handle poking out between her fingers.

"What's this?" Holly asked, tired.

"A gift," Eulalie told her matter-of-factly. "A favour from a Bell Witch, if you will."

Holly held up her hands to accept it, and Eulalie dropped the item onto her palms. A small silver bell was attached to the wooden handle, no larger than Holly's whole hand in length, and it was engraved in symbols she could vaguely recall tracking when she'd tried to travel the world in search of her mother.

"I may be destined to live in isolation until Judgement Day," Eulalie explained, "and one of my husbands may allow me freedom each May Day, but I have my ways to work around the deal my father made with them."

"So if I ring this…" Holly held up the bell and peeked inside of it. There wasn't even a clapper inside of it. "It'll summon you?"

Eulalie smiled knowingly at her.

"Like the Holly King, I can be called to collect things," Eulalie explained. "All I require is a payment in return for breaking my confinement to meet you. Who you offer as payment is at your discretion, though an additional fee will be made if you ask for a favour. I am long past my days of goodwill, Holly."

Eulalie reached for Holly's hands and wrapped her own around them, enclosing Holly's around the bell tightly.

"Prove to me you're not like my Lenore's bride, master of the Holly King," she whispered. "Only summon me if you intend to pay your dues."

A shudder ran through Holly. From what little she'd been able to glean from this conversation so far, it sounded like Lenore's bride had betrayed Eulalie's trust and went back on a deal they'd made. She almost wanted to know how the woman had done it, but stopped herself when she realised Eulalie might take it as Holly fishing for ideas on how to back out of paying Eulalie back for breaking confinement.

So instead she swallowed a lump in her throat and asked, "W—What kind of favour can I ask of you?"

Eulalie squinted at her as her smile grew.

"A choice," she told her. "One you'll need to make sooner or later. So why not expedite that process, hm?"

Holly withdrew from Eulalie. The bell was still clutched in her hands, and Eulalie didn't pursue her as Holly backed away, towards the hole she'd fallen through.

"When you finally decide to abandon your human half and fully embrace the heritage of our kind," Eulalie said, "ring that bell. The time of Holly Leighton can come to a close, and the chapter of Ceylin ferch Sebille can finally begin."

Holly's heart leapt into her throat a second time. Sebille—that was her mother's name. Did Eulalie know her mother? She opened her mouth, desperately looking for the words, for the questions she wanted to ask, but Holly couldn't even muster enough strength for her voice to move beyond the ground she was rooted upon. How did Eulalie figure out her full name? How did Eulalie know Sebille? Who was Eulalie, really? What did it mean if she helped Holly reach her mother? Did Holly's human half have to die to reach her faerie half's family? Eulalie only said she dealt in cadavers—what the hell did she mean by the favour being a choice Holly could make?

She was near-hyperventilating when a crash sounded out from behind her. Holly reflexively jumped towards the table, biting deep into her hand and smearing the blood on the vines wrapped around her waist. A whip of ivy wrapped around her wrist and cracked onto the floor, and the hulking form that finally crash-landed at the bottom of the hole let out a squawk. Large wingspan spread out, taloned feet kicking up in the air frantically, the face of the kestrel looked around quickly and in a panic as its beak opened and closed with great effort.

"Holleighton!" the giant kestrel screeched. "Where is Holleighton!"

Holly glanced at Eulalie, anxious about admitting to being the one the kestrel was looking for—but then again, Eulalie proved she'd already found Holly's name by her own means.

"I—I'm here," Holly squeaked. The kestrel was still on its back as it looked over at her. It tilted its head and tried to wiggle, to right itself, but it only succeeded in wedging its wing underneath itself.

"The Holly King seeks you!" it screeched again. "We must hurry!"

Eulalie backed away from the scene with an amused smile. "How rare for him to send one of the Adar Llwch Gwin for a trivial retrieval," she muttered. "I was going to let you out eventually."

Eventually? Holly tucked the bell into her pocket and hurried over to the kestrel, helping it up so it could flex its wings. The kestrel was definitely frazzled, but ultimately seemed to recognise that Holly was the one it was looking for. It nudged her, pushing her towards its back, and only now did Holly notice the crude harness wrapped around its body, tucked under its wings. If she wrapped Hedera Tenax around the harness, she wouldn't fall off. She climbed atop the kestrel, still surprised at the size of it, and wrapped herself tightly in place as it moved for the hole.

Holly dared a glance back at Eulalie, wary. Eulalie just raised one hand and waved curtly at her.

"Do tell my husband that he owes me tales of his exploits during this ritual," she informed Holly. "May Day cannot come soon enough."

With hardly another word in exchange, the kestrel began to push itself through the hole and drag Holly with it. The girl was bewildered, like a storm had just rushed past her, but as the kestrel climbed higher and the light of the outside world filled her vision, Holly could feel the link between herself and Rider reestablish itself at long last.

The first thing she called out to him was, 'Jastrum?'

The only thing Rider sent back in response was a firm, 'Jastrum.'

Trial by combat was not the method of securing an alliance Natalya had been expecting in the slightest.

Nor had she been expecting the one to issue the challenge to be Jastrum, not Berserker's master. But with what she knew about the man and why he'd forced Holly into participating in the World Grail War, it oddly tracked—he was just looking to see which ally for his pet project he should back, especially since he was guarded upon finding out Natalya was the Outcast of Atlas.

For what it was worth, Berserker's master had been amicable to the trial by combat. But when push came to shove and Natalya had interrupted her spellcasting enough times to knock her on her ass, it was becoming obvious that it wasn't talks alone that would potentially erode the alliance before it could begin; it was also the master's pride being wounded one too many times.

After finding out his cousin had come to visit him and commenting on the display outside, Jastrum had wasted no time inviting two other Lords into his office for discussions. It was imperative, he reasoned, that Holly's circumstances be taken into full account. And that, with all due respect, it was just so concerning that the Atlas Institute was trying to sway the Holy Grail War by implanting its people as allies to masters.

"You needn't worry, Lord Archelot," Natalya had said smoothly. "Unlike the Cemetery, I fully intend to chase out those who would manipulate the conflict for their own gains. A World Grail War is how the world settles its disputes, after all."

Jastrum Archelot hadn't been impressed with that declaration.

There were three things Natalya could glean after her fight with Berserker's master.

First—despite getting the drop on Rider, her skills didn't lie in physical confrontations. She clearly required time to prepare, and when Lord Archelot had appealed to her pride as a master when giving his reasonings for a spar, it was obvious that she didn't want to outright admit that she would lose in a physical fight. What spells she tried to make use of were consistently interrupted by Natalya, and she was quick to get frustrated.

Second—despite the veritable skill Jastrum had boasted about her as a member of the Embroidered Guard at the Spiral Manor, Berserker's master lacked in circuits compared to Natalya and even Holly. She was clearly straining with the spells she was casting, and if Natalya had to venture a guess, she was already keeping her focus elsewhere on another enchantment. Probably something to do with wherever Berserker was.

And third—the master of Berserker clearly did not like the Lords of the Clock Tower as they muttered among themselves the results of the spar. Despite her arrogance and lacking circuits, the woman was sharp enough to know that the Lords intended to use her as a pawn if she proved more useful than Holly.

With friends like these, Natalya thought…

They'd returned to Jastrum's office after the sparring match with an audience of students moving between lectures. It was obvious Jastrum was disappointed he couldn't dictate someone else be an ally to Holly once Natalya overwhelmed Berserker's master, and Natalya was displeased to find that since they'd left the room to spar, three new people had entered the office and were already waiting for the group to return. She recognised them based on presence alone, as it was hard to not recognise Lords of the Clock Tower when everyone ranted and raved about them and how troublesome the aristocratic party were. And lo and behold, two members of the aristocratic party were present among the trio who'd snuck into Jastrum's office while Natalya was preoccupied.

Casiphia El-Melloi Archibald was the spitting image of the pictures of her grandmother, Sola-Ui Nuada-Re Sophia-Ri. She was the same age as Jastrum, somewhere in her thirties, and she had a smug look about her as she sized up Natalya and Vere when they entered. Similar to her grandfather before her, Casiphia was skilled at wielding her family's Supreme Mystic Code, Volumen Hydrargyrum. A briefcase was beside her as she sat in a chair on the far side of Jastrum's office, perched like a gargoyle overseeing its territory. Her grandfather had participated as a master in the Third World Grail War, and while he was a shoe-in for a winner, his wish was dragged from his hands and his magecraft was sealed when the representative of the Yggdmillennia clan collaborated with the feared Magus Killer, Emiya Kiritsugu, to ensure no one won the Grail War if they couldn't. Naturally the Yggdmillennia clan and the Emiya family, now both recluses in their own rights, were long-standing enemies of the Archibald family—and anyone wielding the name El-Melloi, for that matter.

It was a damn shame that the young Lord El-Melloi II, who took over Kayneth's position while Sola-Ui raised their child and the Lord's sister came of age, never got to keep his position. Natalya had read his papers in her brief times studying at the Clock Tower with Olena. Such a shame to lose such a talented individual, all because his lineage wasn't noble. From what Natalya had heard, though, the Archisorte family adopted him after Kayneth's son was old enough to take over from his niece, Reines.

Closer to Jastrum's desk was Samis Nuada-Re Sophia-Ri, Casiphia's cousin once removed. The oldest in the room by far, the man was definitely pushing seventy and proudly wielded the Sophia-Ri name like a badge of honour. He was a skilled Spiritual Healer, from what Natalya had learned of him, and much like the rest of his family, his magecraft involved spiritual invocation that made him a shoe-in for a master in a World Grail War. There were rumours that, after Kayneth's death and his sister's narrow escape from the same fate with their son, Bram Nuada-Re Sophia-Ri had instilled caution into his son and made sure his hubris didn't get the better of him. He was wrinkled and grey all over, and one of his eyes was replaced with a prosthetic that was made from a finely polished and cut blue sapphire. Natalya's gaze lingered on him for a moment, pondering if it was an aesthetic choice or if it was something he'd acquired for special purposes. Her immediate thought went to the Lehrman family and their artificial Mystic Eyes, but that didn't make sense. The Lehrmans were neutral. Why have dealings with an aristocratic member to such a degree that they'd give him artificial Mystic Eyes? He shouldn't even be able to use it, especially since so much modification went into ensuring the body accepted the artificial eyes.

What did the sapphire eye serve a purpose as?

The only one Natalya didn't recognise was the blonde woman standing in the doorway, shutting the door behind them as soon as everyone had entered. She caught Jastrum thanking her, the name Cendrillon passing between them, but beyond that Natalya was lost on who she might be. An unknown party wasn't good, and it seemed like Berserker's master didn't know her either—despite the difficulty Natalya had making out her features, anything distinguishing about her, thanks to her Mystic Codes, it was obvious the woman was guarded when she entered the room with Natalya and Vere. The doberman beside the blonde woman sat at attention, staring at them all unblinkingly, and Natalya let out a slow breath as she forced herself to look ahead at Jastrum as he sat at his desk.

Without Aegis Olena next to her, she had to rely on her and Vere's own skills. The built-in weapons system would've come in handy here.

Jastrum languidly sank into his seat and smiled politely at Natalya. He didn't address her, though, and his focus shifted to his cousin instead.

"Now that my curiosity's been sated," Jastrum drawled. "To what do I owe the pleasure, Vere?"

Vere glanced at Natalya with a puzzled expression. Natalya kept her expression trained as she nodded once to him.

"You'll… have to forgive our interruption," Vere started. He stood at attention, military training still instilled into him. "I heard through our family's rumours that you found someone to represent the Clock Tower, and I wanted to ask a favour of you while you have the power of a servant on your side."

Jastrum didn't answer. Instead, it was Samis who asked abruptly, "Which member of the family?"

Natalya's eyes darted to him. From her peripheral, she could see the gloves on Berserker's master's hands glow a faint gold on the palms. She purposefully kept them folded over her lap to block out the glow from view.

Quickfire ideas for which Mystic Eyes he was wearing filtered through Natalya's mind. Mind reading? Potentially, but he would've reacted much quicker to the motivations Natalya was thinking about. Lie detection? A high possibility, especially if it allowed him to see the words a person said. Something relating to credibility? To emotions? Aura viewing? All possible, but not as likely as lie detection.

Next question: Why did he have to be present? Was he also involved in Holly's brief imprisonment? Potentially. The summoning of servants was treated as Spiritual Evocation, but Rider and Berserker weren't here right now. If Samis was here for other reasons, where did Vere and Natalya fall in Jastrum's plans to necessitate Samis's presence? Anyone's presence, for that matter?

Vere worked his jaw and glared at Samis. "My mother," he said pointedly, "has been boasting about it since Rider was summoned."

Samis let out a huff of a laugh, turning away in his chair, and Natalya saw him close his artificial eye as he smirked at Jastrum. Casiphia snickered to herself, and she crossed one leg over the other in her seat.

"Anything to stay on top of the reporters covering the War, eh, Jastrum?" she teased.

Right, if Natalya recalled correctly, Vere's mother was a distant relative of Jastrum's. Something about their mothers both being cousins, but Vere's mother marrying out of the family to a non-magus family when her circuits proved too weak and low in count to even bother learning the Archelot magecraft. She'd stayed in media, though—the Archelots had a solid foothold in the news, and the program hosted by Uwe Schulz and América Vargas was owned by the Archelot family not present in the Clock Tower, and Vere was part of the generation who'd gotten involved in the military.

She also recalled Vere mentioning his mother and Jastrum when they'd narrowed down the search for Olena and Anya's killers to the Black Triad, a group who sought to turn the tides of the World Grail War in their favour. If Samis's Mystic Eyes were of lie detection, then what Vere just said was truthful enough for him to believe he was a mere relative clinging to Jastrum's coattails for a favour.

Perfect.

"Yes, well," Jastrum sneered, more to Casiphia than Vere. "I suppose there's no secrets between family. Speaking of family, it's odd to see you with a magus from the Atlas Institute. Moved on to a new wife, did you?"

Natalya sucked in a short breath and pushed down her anger as forcefully as she could. As far as Vere knew, Jastrum never cared about his affairs and who his spouse was. He didn't even care that Vere had a child with Olena. Jastrum only found out that Olena was married to Vere when Olena approached him to refine her research with the material Jastrum kept under lock and key.

"I didn't," Vere said through gritted teeth. "I'm still mourning Lena and Anya."

Jastrum waved him off, scoffing. "It's been two years already," he told Vere. "I know it's hard, but think of the bloodline. We're a noble family, Vere. I don't have any kids of my own—who knows, I might end up picking one of my relatives' children as my heir. Don't you want a foot in the door to come back to the branch family? You can't be a Renard forever, you know."

Was he pushing his buttons intentionally? Natalya stayed still in her seat as Jastrum gauged Vere's reaction. The military man was still as a statue as he stared holes into Jastrum's face, and when no sign of a reaction came, Jastrum groaned and leaned back into his seat.

"Goodness," he whined, "take a joke! Even Zelretch has a sense of humour, for pete's sake."

Jastrum sat back up in his seat and composed himself again, sighing softly to himself. Casiphia and the blonde woman were watching Natalya with such intensity that it was hard to ignore their stares.

"I saw the display outside," Jastrum informed them. "I've known for some time that you sought out my little project before coming to see me, but from what happened at the gates, it's obvious you need help reigning her in."

"She's inexperienced and reckless," Natalya chimed in. Jastrum glanced at her, then at Vere, and Vere nodded solemnly. Jastrum pushed his focus onto Natalya, finally, and waited for her to continue. "She can hardly come up with a plan to save her life, and the fool's too busy playing house with Rider half the time. I'm sure you're well aware of her nature."

Jastrum's brow quirked. "Oh, the little business of her being half a faerie?" he scoffed. "Come now, who believes that?"

"Are you not a descendant of the Soot Witches in Britain?" Natalya countered.

The amused smirk on Jastrum's face turned more… intrigued. "Touché," he said softly. "I suppose nothing's out of the realm of possibility, not when we deem it impossible because we don't know better."

"I'm glad you see it that way," Natalya said. "I think the greatest failing humanity has is its ignorance to the unknown. As you're aware Atlas Institute dedicates its research and personnel to the preservation of humanity. Countless disasters have to be averted each century, and I'm sure we're all aware of the imminent threat sleeping in South America. Much work to be done, but so few chances to do anything meaningful when people are so ignorant. You can see why I take such issue with someone so… green wielding the power of a servant and command spells at her disposal."

Casiphia tilted her head and let her red hair spill over her shoulder. Natalya glanced back at her, expression still a blank slate as she noticed Berserker's master listening with mild interest.

"Someone with little experience is easier to keep a leash on, don't you say?" Casiphia chimed in. "She doesn't know better, and she has no allies but us. The girl has no choice but to rely on us."

"And yet she hasn't," Natalya pointed out. She turned her gaze back to Jastrum, and she made a show of sounding arrogant when she asked him, "Come now, has she even told you Rider's True Name? Any of his Noble Phantasms? Did she even inform you herself that Rider had encountered Berserker and soundly got his ass handed to him?"

Beside her, Berserker's master let out a soft huff. A laugh. Natalya felt her confidence growing further. Even Berserker's master found this funny. Any luck, she'd realise that Jastrum was the tail of the lizard that Natalya fully intended to cut off.

Jastrum wasn't too pleased with the reminder that Holly never contacted him. And it wasn't even him who spoke in response—no, the woman who went by Cendrillon decided to weigh in this time, pointing out something that had Jastrum turn red in the face from embarrassment.

"Don't you usually throw away the letters sent by the girl?" Cendrillon pondered. "Such a waste of my magecraft, having me burn them all."

"It wasn't important at the time," Jastrum said quickly. "Like you said, she's a greenhorn. I can't be expected to hold her hand through every step of the War."

"But you'll rely on her to win it, no?" Natalya countered.

Jastrum was clearly displeased by Natalya's point. He glared past her, at Cendrillon, but Natalya sighed and shook her head in disappointment.

"You're a capable man, Lord Archelot," she said. Jastrum turned his glare to her, and he tucked some of his long strawberry blond hair behind his ear. "I've no doubt someone of considerable talent could secure a position as Clock Tower Lord at such a young age. But it feels like there's loose ends here that won't be tied by simply winning the War. Holly could betray you at the last moment—I'm sure you prepared a geis to ensure she'd hand her wish over to you, but what if she uses Rider to intervene? Both servant and master are allowed to make a wish, after all. And with two of the aristocratic faction present in the room… It's clear to me that your wish relates to the political deadlock within the Clock Tower."

The Lords all collectively shifted in their seats. Samis was impressed, though only mildly so, while Casiphia turned her nose up in the air, less impressed that—shock and horror—the know-it-all from Atlas knew it all. Jastrum, at the very least, seemed the most frustrated of the three.

"I have her firmly under my thumb—" he started.

"Where is she right now?" Natalya demanded.

Jastrum's fist clenched tightly on the desk. He took a moment to calm himself before answering tersely, "I don't care enough for her to track her every movement. Could I not use you for that?"

"You could use me for something more profitable."

This got both Berserker's master and Cendrillon intrigued. Cendrillon pushed away from the door and walked over, her hand landing on the back of Natalya's chair as the woman leaned down and stared at Natalya with a mildly amused expression.

"An Atlas mage, speaking of profit?" she drawled. "Colour me surprised. I thought your kind were too righteous for that."

"Some are," Natalya agreed. "But if there's one thing you can count on, it's that we get our hands dirty. Constantly surveying the planet for a new possible extinction event, glued to our desks creating new Mystic Codes and formulas for humanity's survival, familiarising ourselves with… man-made things that may very well cause those extinction events. Sometimes you can't help but become familiar with how to take life in the process of trying to preserve it."

Cendrillon finally cracked a smile. She leaned away from Natalya, looking at Jastrum now, and she let out a quick chuckle.

"I like this one," Cendrillon decided. Jastrum and the other Lords shifted in their seats again, and suddenly Jastrum's demeanour changed from frustrated to amicable. Like Cendrillon's opinion held the most weight in the group's dynamic. Natalya still couldn't place which family she was from, but if she had this much sway, she had to come from a bloodline the trio respected.

"What did you have in mind, Ms. Argyris?" Jastrum asked slowly.

Natalya glanced at Vere. Then she glanced at Berserker's master. She rolled her shoulder and gestured to Vere and the master.

"Since this is regarding matters of the Grail War, it might be best for a potential enemy master to wait outside," she suggested. "I'm sure Vere can keep an eye on her."

Jastrum glanced at Vere. "And your favour?" he asked.

Vere bowed his head respectfully. "It was to allow Natalya to become involved," Vere told him. "Lena and I found her invaluable in weighing in on research."

Jastrum waved him off with a sound hmph. "Wait outside with Master Lan."

"Fill her in on the terms of our alliance," Natalya added. Jastrum scrunched up his nose at her, but waved again to dismiss Berserker's master and Vere. She was surprised Berserker's master was so agreeable and left with Vere, but Natalya had no doubt in her mind that the woman was already calculating the best options for eliminating the other masters ahead of time.

There had to be something the woman wanted. Something Natalya could move heaven and earth for. Something that Jastrum couldn't do for her.

As soon as the door was shut again Jastrum hung his head and sighed.

"What do you have in mind for keeping the girl in check?" Jastrum asked.

Natalya shrugged one shoulder. "We'll draw up a contract," she explained. "Lay out the terms in writing so there's no misunderstanding or loopholes. I want us to be as transparent as possible with each other."

Casiphia stood up from her seat and walked over, holding her suitcase in front of her with both hands as she came to a stop by Samis.

"A reasonable request," she chimed in. "But do Lord Nuada-Re and I have to be included in that contract?"

Natalya turned to look at them a fraction. "Only if you plan to listen in on this meeting and know the contents of the deal," Natalya said matter-of-factly. "The contract will include a non-disclosure policy."

"A very sound idea," Cendrillon said from behind Natalya. She waved a hand, and her doberman hurried over and opened its mouth wide—wider than a doberman should. Cendrillon reached inside and carefully pulled a quill out from it, flicking it once to rid it of any slobber. Natalya stared at it warily. It was clearly a Mystic Code of sorts, and Natalya almost didn't want to use it. But Cendrillon was too much of a wild card, too much of an unknown. "We can use my quill to make it binding. Do Lord Nuada-Re and Lord El-Melloi wish to remain?"

Casiphia rubbed her chin and glanced down at her older cousin. Samis hummed and nodded once. "We'll remain and sign."

How intriguing. Three Lords working together like this when Jastrum was the one sponsoring Holly. Natalya would have to look into things. It was like they were attached to the hip, unwilling to make a move without the other two knowing. Without Cendrillon's approval.

A pit was beginning to grow in Natalya's stomach. She already had a hunch that the people who were tied to the Black Triad were in the Department of Botany, but now was the time to test if her theory was true.

"I've managed to get a good grip on Holly Leighton's outlook over the time I've spent with her," Natalya explained. "She's someone who's been isolated her whole life by her family, and her grandfather has little in the way of sway in the magi community. If Holly was reckless enough to make a mistake while travelling the world, she's reckless enough to make a mistake worthy enough for… extermination."

"Oh?" Jastrum said, brow raised. "And when would that extermination take place?"

Natalya shifted in her seat and tried to be as concise as possible. "Ideally we eliminate the biggest contenders in the Grail War," she mused. "Have Holly ally with Berserker's master and lend resources to help get rid of the others. Caster's holed up in Russia, so there's no doubt that others will want to get rid of her and get a foothold in such a large territory. Saber's considered the most well-rounded class in the War, and his capabilities have been televised—he burned up a whole canal in Rome with his Noble Phantasm and almost eliminated Assassin from the running by killing two of his masters. Ah, forgive me, former masters. His new master, the Van-Alphen woman, could potentially stand toe-to-toe with servants thanks to her Mystic Codes and her assistant. You've heard of Michael Montes, yes?"

Samis let out a surprised sound. "I was there when he led a one-man siege on the Clock Tower," he marvelled. "The man was lucky the founder didn't kill him."

"He technically has the backing of the Clock Tower thanks to the founder sparing him," Natalya explained. "The man should be dead by all accounts, yet he was sent as a peace offering to the Van-Alphen family after they agreed to split their heir's command spells? A strong contender."

"So we make use of Holly up until the biggest threats are eliminated, hm?" Jastrum mused.

Natalya nodded. "I'll be transparent. Both Berserker's master and Holly know who Rider is. He's Gwyn ap Nudd, the Holly King. If we can get Rider to use his skills as a psychopomp on the other masters, it'll whittle down the numbers very quickly. Holly already has enough trust in me to allow me to handle negotiations, so I'm positive she'll lend Rider to me."

"Even after striking her?" Casiphia laughed. "She must be desperate for approval, hm?"

"Well," Natalya said softly, "mummy and daddy issues are already detrimental on their own. Imagine a child with both."

The three Lords all chuckled in amusement and nodded in agreement. Jastrum waved Cendrillon over and pulled some paper from his desk, and just as Cendrillon arrived by his side, he paused.

"So we're clear," he reiterated, "the deal is to eliminate Holly Leighton and have you replace her as a master?"

Natalya shrugged one shoulder. "I wouldn't use such a crude term like that," she said, trailing off.

"And what exactly did you want in exchange for all of this? How do I know you won't snatch the wish from me and use it for yourself?"

A good question. Natalya couldn't tell if Samis's eye was open, if he was using the lie detection, but she had to take a gamble. She had to refrain from sentimentality in her response.

"As annoying and invasive as Olena was," she sighed, "I won't deny she had some interesting ideas. My mother's family, the Argyris family, are highly suited for alchemy and transmutation. Olena's work happened to overlap with my own, and being an Atlas researcher, naturally I saw some worth in her research to help further the existence of humanity. But making medicine available to everyone, regardless of status? As noble as it is, that's a tall order for a no-name mage in the Clock Tower."

"Right, the Argyris family…" Jastrum tapped a finger on the desk a few times, contemplative. Cendrillon's smile was starting to fall as Jastrum kept her standing by his desk. "Your family has rather exemplary circuits, no? I believe that was why they were considered so valuable in the Clock Tower for alchemical research."

"That is true," Natalya said with a nod. "I don't have contact with any extended family on either side, but my mother did show me the way Clock Tower mages handled alchemy. It's very different to how Atlas makes use of it. I was rather outcasted for it."

"Yes, yes, the nickname. Such a terrible nickname for such a smart woman. You'd think they'd value innovation and thinking outside the box."

He was buttering her up. Natalya could smell what foul plan he was cooking up in that pea-brained skull of his.

The worst part was, she had no doubt the foul plan would look rather appetising once it was plated up and served before her.

"Unfortunately, we need plausible reason to eliminate Holly Leighton," Jastrum drawled. "She's far too averse to coming to see me, and it would be rather suspicious of me to visit her in the Leighton mansion. I refuse to let her die a martyr on live television, and I'd so hate for your reputation to be tarnished for killing her on my behalf."

Cendrillon's smile was starting to form again. Natalya didn't miss the way Casiphia and Samis both glanced at each other with knowing looks. Whatever Jastrum was getting at, the group had done it before.

Now or never. It was time to make the biggest bluff so far.

"If I may," Natalya chimed in. Jastrum tilted his head and hummed, gesturing for her to continue. "I'm aware that Olena's research was confiscated after her death, and what she was working on was rather… controversial. Enough to warrant an execution if it went too far."

Everyone was alert as soon as she said it. Samis's eye shot open and stared at her, and Jastrum's nails dragged along the desk. Even Casiphia was tense, one of the clips of her suitcase unlatching so gently that Natalya almost didn't hear it.

You bastards, she thought. These four were the ones linked to the Black Triad. These four knew Olena and Anya didn't die in an accident, but a warning. The motivation was clear as day. Three Lords in the aristocratic faction, faced with one Lord's distant relative trying to make magecraft dealing in medicine more widely available? No, it was in all three of their best interests to prevent Olena from perfecting her research. The Sophia-Re family would lose out on clients who wanted Spiritual Healers, the El-Melloi family would lose out on negotiations with other families for their relatives' services, and the Archelot family would lose its prestige in producing the only medicine everyone used up till now.

She just couldn't pin what Cendrillon got out of this.

"Calm yourselves," she sighed. Jastrum was glowering at her, almost appalled she dared to order them around. "I'm not here to get revenge. I'm here to make a deal, be it with you lot or with Berserker's master. What the hell could I even do on my own to topple three magi dynasties on their own home turf?"

Natalya shifted in her seat and tucked some hair behind her ear. Samis wasn't calling her out for lying yet, so she supposed she was pushing the truth far enough as she spoke.

"The method you used to have Olena taken care of," Natalya decided. "That'll be the method you use for Holly. Much of the world of magecraft is kept hidden from the public, making sure they're fed a sanitised version of it all, and I've no doubt that if Holly is charged with a crime terrible enough that it has to be buried, she won't be made into a martyr. I just need access to the material that incriminated Olena, and I can plant it on Holly's person."

Samis bristled as she spoke. He was appearing frustrated, likely because he couldn't peg something as a lie in her statement. She was presenting a plan she'd hoped would pan out.

"Even if you wanted access," he snapped, "that research is under lock and key of the Department of Botany. Only an Archelot can access it."

"I'm aware," Natalya said coolly. "It's obviously how Olena got her hands on it."

"So unless Vere Renard requests it—" Samis tried again.

Jastrum held up a hand. He glanced down at Cendrillon's quill, and then moved his gaze slowly to Natalya.

"And you're undoubtedly an Argyris?" he asked slowly.

"Lord Archelot, you can't be serious!" Casiphia snapped.

Jastrum slammed a fist onto his desk. He didn't raise his voice or yell at the other two, but the look he aimed at them was full of disdain. Samis backed down, cringing as he shut his eye again, but Casiphia had more to say.

"What happened to agreeing to things as a group?" she demanded. "You promised us—"

"I didn't realise my personal business was something you could dictate, Lord El-Melloi," Jastrum seethed. "You may be able to dictate your aunt's life as you see fit, but make no mistake, the Archibalds and Sophia-Ris have no say in matters regarding the Archelot family. Or do I need to remind you how low your family fell in rank after your grandfather pissed off the worthless rejects united under the Yggdmillennia banner?"

Casiphia finally backed off, face turning as red as her hair from shame. Natalya heard the latches on her suitcase slip back into place, and the woman turned away from the desk as she hurriedly tried to fix her blouse and maintain a sense of composure. Goodness, trouble in paradise. Perhaps the union between these three Lords wasn't as cohesive as she and Vere had expected from a group of murderers acting in each others' best interests.

Jastrum ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "Lord El-Melloi, Lord Nuada-Re," he said, trying to keep his voice steady. "You are dismissed. Cendrillon and I can handle the rest."

The cousins didn't put up a fight as they got up and left. When Natalya watched them leave, she couldn't see Vere or Berserker's master outside the door. With any luck, they'd left the Clock Tower premises and went looking for Rider and Holly. With even more luck, Natalya wouldn't find Vere dead in the street from a sudden betrayal and reveal that the alliance talks were a ruse.

Jastrum cleared his throat when it was just the three of them in the room. He fixed his tie, then his hair, and he smiled curtly at Natalya.

"Now," he said politely, "I believe we were discussing how only family can access the confiscated material?"

renren_writes · Sep 12, 2024

15

Terme, Turkey (Early Afternoon)

Alexis's fingers never stopped thrumming against the surgical table in the middle of her lair.

The brief two days that Jamal had stayed at Alexis's house had made a few things clear to him. The first was that Alexis was particular about when people were allowed into her lab. The second was that she never actually reciprocated Lancer's obvious passes at her, instead showcasing cold indifference and letting him do as he pleased with no opinion either way. And the third was that, despite their rocky meeting, Alexis was almost passionate about administering treatment to people whenever the opportunity arose.

He'd assumed that she was just a cold, shrewd kind of person, like his mother was—or maybe to a greater degree than his mother had been, as she seemed to hold nothing sacred outside of medicine and held no sentimentality towards anything that wasn't ensuring a patient's wellbeing. But after a day into their stay, Alexis was attentive to Jamal's recovery and even mumbled to herself that he was still struggling to shake off the effects of being poisoned. She even said, albeit reluctantly, that she was sorry for giving him such a high dose of arsenic. Imagine that! Sorry for poisoning someone with arsenic!

Even Archer was slowly getting used to Alexis's peculiarities. Whenever Alexis made notes about medicinal ingredients she needed, Archer was by her side and asking what they did specifically—probably in an effort to keep from feeding Jamal anything tainted again. Archer had even been impressed at how quickly Alexis had treated a child with a sprained ankle last night, while they were out getting dinner at a night market, and had even acquiesced to Jamal that a doctor like Alexis was handy to have on their side.

Jamal had even done his best to help this morning, when a man came knocking on their door in a panic as blood leaked from his head, and Alexis had walked in on Jamal singing a light aria to heal the wound with his magecraft. He'd been given a thorough scolding for not checking for things like concussions or fragments that needed to be removed from the wound, but after checking over the man herself, Alexis had conceded that Jamal had done a good thing.

"It's a lovely magecraft," she'd complimented him after a while. "It suits you."

Apparently she was already making herself known as a travelling doctor who worked after hours, and the man was a tourist who'd been robbed shortly after stopping in Terme. Everyone kept pointing him to the one doctor who wouldn't charge him an arm and a leg for treatment, and once everything was over and done with, he was finally able to recognise Jamal and Archer as they offered him a glass of water.

"You guys are far from the States," he'd mused. He spoke English fluently, and Jamal could hear the faintest of Brooklyn accents in his voice. "You doing that, uh, territory thing?"

Archer was vague as she'd smiled at him. "We're trying to stay under the radar," she'd lied. "Do you mind keeping our location a secret? You can post whatever photos you take online at the end of the War, if you'd like."

The tourist had snapped so many pictures and selfies with not only Jamal and Archer, but also Alexis and Lancer. Alexis had tried to tell him to delete the pictures, but the man had enough forethought to offer to make a vow to not post anything until the end of the War. He was a normal person, not a mage, but he seemed to understand what things like a geis meant in the world of magecraft.

When he was gone, Alexis went back to her lair and checked over the news on other servants. That was how Jamal found her downstairs when he brought some lunch down to her, proud of his attempt at making some jambalaya for lunch. It was nothing special, but when he'd heard that Alexis originally planned to hide in Mexico primarily because of their food, he knew he had to introduce her to some good Creole dishes.

Jamal anxiously moved closer to Alexis as she continued to drum her finger against the surgical table. A tablet was propped up on a stand as a highlight reel of the meeting between Team Saber and Team Assassin went down at the Vatican played, and she was only wearing one earphone as she tilted her head towards Jamal in acknowledgement. It was hard to read her expression, but if her reaction was anything similar to Jamal and Archer's, she was tense and on edge over Assassin divulging secrets to his new master while Saber was supported by two masters instead of one.

He set down the bowl of jambalaya in front of her, and Alexis only spared it a short glance before moving her gaze back to the highlight reel. Saber was screaming and pointing wildly at his very satisfied former master.

"You cook?" she asked absently.

"A little," he said. Jamal slowly slid into a chair next to Alexis, and he set down his own bowl of jambalaya in front of him. Wordlessly, Alexis handed him the other earphone and let him listen in on the highlight reel. "It's nothing special. Lancer said you like spicy food, and not to toot my own horn, but Louisiannans have the best experience with putting a kick into soul food."

Alexis let out a neutral hum as she scooped up some of the rice, catching some crayfish with it. It wasn't the crawfish jambalaya his dad had made for him when he was younger, and he didn't have access to any andouille sausage in Terme, but he was able to make do with some Turkish crayfish and smoked sausages from a local butcher. Archer had even picked out the ingredients herself after helping the tourist back to his hotel, excited for Jamal to cook something for the group.

Recreating the Creole seasoning from back home was easy when she got her hands on enough cayenne pepper to make it spicy enough to suit even Alexis's tastes. The rest was trying to remember how his dad would make it by taste and guesstimation. You couldn't go by numbers and measurements for these things—you had to go with your gut and your tongue, and Jamal was chasing the taste of home as he cooked the meal.

"Your plan," he tried, and he winced as he put the earphone into his ear, immediately hit with the expletives Saber was letting loose in front of the Pope. "Does it need to change much?"

Alexis was oddly calm as she took a bite from her jambalaya. She only paused to lick her lips, mildly impressed by the flavour, and began to eat it in earnest. "Not really," she said around her food. "My main issue wasn't Saber specifically, but his master's alliance with the Pope. It's… unfairly tipped in his favour to have the Pope in his ear and the strongest servant at his disposal. But now that Assassin is his servant…"

She leaned back and pointed her spoon at the screen—at Assassin's smiling face.

"He knows too many of my secrets. And he's humiliated Archer while trying to cast doubt on her identity to the public by posing as the Archer class," she recited. "I think it's safe to say our motivations have aligned a little bit better now."

Right. Jamal wasn't sure if this was an enemy of his enemy sort of deal, especially since Assassin gave off the vibe that people were too beneath him to occupy enough space in his mind to count as an enemy, but they definitely had a much better motivation to work together now. Whatever he could spill about Alexis and Lancer was just as dangerous as whatever weakness he could tip off other masters to with Archer. Honestly, Jamal wouldn't be surprised if he knew Lancer's whole deal—the bit about being blessed with weakness so the gods that hated him didn't notice him until he suffered defeats that made him stronger.

Assassin definitely knew too much, that was for sure.

Alexis paused as she frowned down at her bowl. She mumbled, "You overcooked the crayfish."

"I did?" Jamal felt his cheeks burn as he took a bite of some on its own. Ah, way too chewy. His dad's was always nice and tender, slightly sweet, and he supposed he let it sit for too long while making the Creole spice mix. "Sorry…"

"It's not inedible," she reassured him. "You just need practice."

They were silent as they watched the highlight reel again. The video of the meeting of masters came to an end, and Uwe Schulz was giving updates on what other masters and servants were doing so far. Jamal didn't miss the way Uwe noted there was no sign of Lancer and his master, only that the Grail vessel had reported Lancer's summoning to the Church, who then passed on the information to the news. Out of everyone, Alexis was doing the best at keeping a low profile. Even Caster and their master were making themselves known by covering the more isolated parts of Russia in blizzards and storm clouds, regardless of how little they'd run around and interact with other groups. If Alexis's goal was to remain in the shadows and emerge with Lancer as a surprise on the last servant standing, Assassin posed a heavy threat to that plan by exposing his theories on Lancer and giving the identity of his master.

It was very reminiscent of the old ways of participating in the Fuyuki Grail War. Despite the spectacle that was the end of the Third War, which spawned the World Grail War system, it was still important for people to remain covert and not involve the masses in the Grail War. Alexis felt like she was old-fashioned in that way.

But he did have to wonder what her wish was. What she was being so careful for.

As the screen showed footage of phone recordings of Rider and Berserker's encounter early into the War, the fight where Rider chased Berserker down before she'd escaped with her master, Jamal glanced at Alexis and cleared his throat.

"I hope it's not rude of me to ask, but…" Jamal pushed some of his jambalaya around with his spoon. "What are you hoping to get out of this?"

Alexis glanced at him as she scooped a big spoonful of the stuff into her mouth. She chewed thoughtfully, almost weighing her options as they held each other's gaze, and Jamal only just now noticed the little mole under her right eye. He was so used to keeping his distance that he'd never thought to look at her face properly, especially now that she wasn't in disguise as Alex the stewardess.

Eventually, though, Alexis swallowed her food and tilted her head. "If you'd asked me when I was younger," she mused, "it would've been to make my research come true. It was something I was passionate about, but it's all a pipe dream now. That's just how the dice rolls."

Jamal furrowed his brows. "But you could still wish for it," he pointed out.

"No," Alexis insisted. "It would be a wasted wish. I have something more important to wish for." She leaned back into her chair and let out a low sigh, her face pinching together in frustration as one hand reached up to run through her hair. "My parents died because of me. My sister, too. All because I got ahead of myself with my research. I want to undo the damage I did. I… miss them."

Oh… That was… an oddly heartfelt and sentimental wish to make. Jamal looked back down at his food and pursed his lips.

"If your family comes back, will you be able to pursue your dream again?" he asked.

Alexis let out a soft, hollow laugh. "Absolutely not," she said, amused. "I'd stay the hell away from the mistake that killed them and live the rest of my life in peace."

Jamal did laugh along with her, though less hollow than Alexis was. He could vibe with that, honestly. Even though his mother, the one who'd put the slave crest on him, was dead, his sisters and father were still his masters. Unless they died, which was the last thing Jamal wanted, he'd always be subject to the torture of the slave crest if he stepped out of line. It was just… disheartening that Stephanie was following in their mother's footsteps so readily and saw no issue with using Jamal's blood for her magecraft and using the crest to punish him.

Even Diane, her twin, could see how horrible their family was. And their father never spoke an ill word of the DuBry family once to his children. They saw the ugliness and horrors on their own. Stephanie was just the only one to embrace it thanks to her position as the most likely to succeed their mother.

"I feel you there," he eventually said. "What I wouldn't give to live a peaceful life without worry. To just… feel okay with everything."

Alexis reached over and paused the video on the screen. Jamal was surprised, looking back over at her again, and she'd turned in her seat to look directly at him.

"I looked into the DuBry family, you know," she told him. Jamal tensed up, but he tried to keep an amicable expression.

"Yeah?" he replied. "What'd you think?"

"How did a matriarchal mage family whose magecraft relies on blood as a catalyst come to have a master whose magecraft uses singing?"

She was suspicious, almost. Was she doubting he was actually a DuBry? Jamal cleared his throat and shifted in his seat quickly.

"I know I'm not the typical DuBry," he said. "But I really am one. My mother is—was the head of the family. My father is where I inherited my magecraft from, but I also inherited the perfect blood for magecraft that the DuBry family has. It's… actually more potent than my sisters'. But it's unheard of for the male children to inherit the crest of their mothers."

Alexis scrunched up her face. She shook her head and jabbed a finger at Jamal. "They'd harvest it from you, wouldn't they?" she accused.

Jamal reached for his sleeves and hurriedly pulled them down. He'd been careful to wear longer sleeves, but Alexis was aggressive in her accusation.

"Don't try to hide it from me," she scolded him. "You think I didn't get a look on the plane? You think Lancer hasn't had a peek while you're not looking?"

"Alright, alright," Jamal said, louder and with a hint of defeat. "I won't play dumb. It's just… a point of self-consciousness for me."

"Well," Alexis said, though without malice, "look at you. I'd feel like shit too."

"Gee, thanks."

Alexis's eyes narrowed into slits. "I'm trying to sympathise with you," she grumbled. "The sarcasm isn't necessary."

Right. She was right. Jamal calmed himself and cleared his throat. He pushed around some more jambalaya in his bowl.

"Sorry," he mumbled. "I, uh… I'm not used to people just… talking about it. Or people at all, honestly."

Alexis grunted and turned back to her own food. "I know the feeling," she said, distant.

"You?" Jamal was surprised. "You established yourself as a doctor in a foreign country within a single day! Your patients have complete and utter trust in you!"

"You've only seen the ones that know how to follow instructions," she countered. Alexis scooped up more jambalaya and chewed thoughtfully, and then added, "Besides, you have firsthand experience—my bedside manner leaves much to be desired."

"But they know you care—"

"Not about them," Alexis cut him off. Her tone was sharp. "I care about doing the right thing, and what's right is helping people. But I don't care about the people themselves. Why should I? If I weren't giving them something they could benefit from, they wouldn't care about me either."

It was… colder than he was used to with Alexis. Not in the way of being harsh, but almost vulnerable. Like she was admitting to something she was ashamed of, but hated that Jamal had the wrong idea about her. That he was putting her on a pedestal. He could see the small movements in her face, the frustration hiding beneath the indifferent surface, and for a moment Jamal could see himself. The him that was back at DuBry manor, putting on a brave face for Diane because of the shame he felt for being in so much pain. Pain that faded with time, that he became numb to with more exposure, but pain that made him feel inadequate as a reliable older brother. He was supposed to be the one his sisters could go to if they needed support, someone they could trust. But instead, he was just a blood pig like his mother had groomed him—no, forced him to be.

And it was so hard to not show how much it hurt when Stephanie started to view him as the same. Without his blood, he was worthless to the DuBry family. They wouldn't care about him, not even as a resource like they already did. He'd just be empty space in the home that had outstayed its welcome from the moment he'd been born.

Jamal licked his lips and pushed his bowl aside. Alexis welcomed the distraction to change the subject, even if that wasn't his intention.

"Don't skip your meals," she scolded him. "The body starts to break down its fat reserves and put on water weight to make up for it, and it fucks with your health."

Jamal couldn't help the laugh that bubbled up. She looked at him like he was crazy, leaning away from him, but she didn't stop eating her jambalaya.

"You're something else," he said eventually. And he had no ill intent behind the words. She really was incomprehensible and intriguing all the same. Cold and calculating one minute, factually mothering him the next. Dare he say it, she reminded him of the obligatory tsundere characters in those tokusatsu shows he'd watch when no one was looking. "A Pink Ranger, if I had to pick."

Alexis's unnerved look grew more intense. "Are you one of those weeaboos I hear so much about online?"

Jamal laughed again. He shook his head and wiped a tear from his eye. "Tokusatsu series aren't animated. They don't count."

"They most certainly do."

He laughed harder. Alexis was glaring at him. She'd finished her jambalaya, and almost as though spiting him, she reached over and snatched his own bowl to eat it as well. Really, when you got past the poisoning and off-putting attitude, Alexis had her charm points.

By the time Jamal stopped laughing, she was already done with his own portion and stacking the bowls neatly together to her other side, spoons tucked in together. Alexis looked contemplative, almost curious as she glanced at Jamal again, and it seemed her displeasure of his joke had washed away with something else on her mind. Jamal raised his brows, waiting for her to ask, but Alexis just stared at him through narrowed eyes and seemed to size him up.

"What?" he asked.

Alexis cleared her throat and waved a hand dismissively. "No, it's nothing," she said quickly. "I was going to ask—about why you'd need to wish for freedom—but it'd make more sense if you'd signed a geis under duress or—"

Jamal wasn't sure why the words slipped out so easily. He was always ashamed to even think about the fact that his mother had done this to him.

"It's a slave crest," he told her.

Alexis paused. She opened her mouth. Closed it. Brought a hand to her chin in thought.

"Hm," she eventually grunted.

"Unconventional, I know," Jamal joked. "But that's why I want to wish for my freedom. It's not an agreement that ended when my mother died. It's… carved into my existence."

"How unfortunate," Alexis muttered.

"I mean, you learn to live with it," Jamal tried. Alexis looked at him in disgust. Clearly she didn't like that answer. Jamal backpedalled a little. "W—Well… Compared to my mother, my sisters haven't used it as often. A—And my dad never used it! So with Mom gone… Y'know, it's like I never had it."

The more she stared at him, the more Jamal became nervous again. God, why did she have to have the same red eyes as his mother? Did he have a complex when it came to people sharing his mother's features? He was better with Archer now, but sometimes it was hard to shake. He quickly averted his gaze, almost ashamed, and Alexis let out a frustrated sigh.

"Show it to me," she demanded.

Jamal jumped out of his seat, startled. "Excuse me?" he asked quickly.

"Don't be dramatic. I want to see how bad it is," she explained. "Depending on the severity, you might not need to waste a wish on the Grail to get rid of it. Archer's posing as your mother, so why not just have her throw your mother's name around and see what level of spiritual healer you'd need to get rid of the crest?"

Alexis was thoughtful as she rose from her seat and gestured to him. Jamal looked at the floor, nervous, and Alexis sighed again.

"Off the top of my head, I recall there being a man named Kotomine Kirei," she mused. "But I doubt his grandson has the same level of skill. He was a notable outlier in his family. After him, I suppose you could reach out to families in the Clock Tower who specialise in spiritual evocation—they're typically the ones who'd be best suited for anything to do with the healing of the spirit instead of the body. But dealing with the Clock Tower is a chore… Not to mention, your foothold in Terme would be at risk if you head to England just for another shackle replacing the old one. Elsewhere? Maybe an alchemist might work. But there's only so much alchemy can do. The last thing you need is to suffer through it, I'm sure. Maybe we shouldn't be looking into Western magecraft, but Eastern? Could cut through the Caspian sea and make haste to Mongolia. But would they be open to supporting a master not from their country? China's out of the question, there's already rumours someone from the Spiral Manor is a master. Russia would gun for you the moment they found out you were across the border. Not to mention the headache living there… India would be out of the question, too, in that case. Japan, maybe? But then that loops back to the Kotomine family, and none of its members are on the level of Kirei."

She was going off on a tangent, more brainstorming to herself rather than telling Jamal these things. It was almost reassuring, how willing she was to think about how to help him, but it felt like this was too much of a burden to put on Alexis's shoulders to solve. This was Jamal's problem. Not her's.

"Um, Alexis?" he tried. Alexis paused and glanced at him, still in a ruminating pose. "You don't have to go this far for me. I'll figure it out."

"No," Alexis said firmly. "If I can make your participation in the Grail War pointless, I have one less rival in the way. I took a hippocratic oath, Jamal. I'd like to keep it, if I can."

Oh… Right. He was in the way, wasn't he? Jamal smiled helplessly at her and let out a defeated laugh.

"I suppose you're right," he muttered. "I'll just… show you the crest and let you do your thing."

Without much fuss, Jamal sat back down on the seat in front of her table and began to take off his shirt. It was embarrassing, despite how fit he was—he wasn't lanky or stick-like by any stretch, built more like a larger runner thanks to his exercise regime and constantly being at his family's beck and call, but the scars along his arms always looked too prominent, too thick; they didn't stand out in angry red lines like people with fair skin, but it was still off compared to his medium brown complexion. He didn't glance back at Alexis and check if she still wanted to examine him. No, that confirmation came when he heard the sound of gloves being slipped over hands and pulled taut for good measure.

"Interesting choice of tattoo," Alexis noted.

"Aha, yeah…"

The hands were on his back before he could try to explain away the tattoo—something fitting for a songbird shacked by his blood, black wings bound by crimson chains—but Alexis's fingers brushed his back with an unexpected gentleness. Jamal shuddered, surprised by the care she was giving him as she traced the tattoo, and he wondered just what she would use to see the slave crest in his very being. Maybe it was the same gift she used to see what her patients were sick with without even giving them a second glance. Maybe she could see the crest as a sickness in his blood like any other.

Alexis may have declared her bedside manner to be lacking, but this was the most gentle anyone other than Archer had been with Jamal in a long, long time. Even Diane was hesitant to show much affection out of fear of their mother punishing her.

Alexis hummed again. Her hands left his back, and Jamal couldn't help feeling cold in the absence.

"It's modified," she noted. "Not like others I've seen."

"She put it on me when I was seven," Jamal explained. "It, ah, makes my blood feel like it's boiling if I disobey anyone with the authority to punish me."

Alexis clicked her tongue. "Needlessly torturous. No wonder you said you have a high pain tolerance."

All he could do was laugh nervously again. Far be it from him to rationalise why Alexandra had chosen to be so malicious to her own son. In Jamal's humble opinion, the slave crest without the punishment was already going too far.

Alexis let out yet another hum, this time disapproving. "Could've done it myself if it wasn't so complicated," she muttered. "Who the hell is this thorough on a child?"

Her hands were back on him again, palms flat and fingers pushing at the skin. She was muttering under her breath now, almost sounding bitter, and Jamal barely got to catch it all and make sense of it.

"If only I had a reference… What did I write down again? Maybe if it was treated as the removal of a magic crest… I still need my notes, though… What did I write down?"

Before he could ask her what she was talking about, the door to the lair burst open with a loud thud. Alexis was quick to jump away from Jamal, on edge and alert, and Jamal felt like a deer in the headlights as he cringed at the sudden crash of the door being slammed open.

Lancer stood in the doorway, tense as he smiled. His face was red, having clearly eaten some of the jambalaya as one hand fanned himself, and he was loud as he declared, "By Odin's beard, did you cook this, Jamal? You must walk me through the recipe! Right this instant!"

Jamal may have been out of touch with most people on a good day, but he knew enough to recognise a man marking his territory because of jealousy.

He sucked in a steeling breath and moved from his seat. Despite Alexis's protests, Jamal excused himself politely and hurriedly put his shirt back on.

"You look like you need a sno-ball to wash it all down," he joked. Lancer nodded eagerly, almost desperate to separate Jamal and Alexis. "I'll write down a less spicy recipe for you."

Prati District, Rome, Italy (Early Afternoon)

"And what's up with this wallpaper? God, it looks like something a dog on the street dragged in after finding it in the mud. I can't even call it rustic—that's reserved for wallpaper that can be salvaged by furniture."

At the kitchen table, Sudi and Casval sat with their faces in their hands. Ever since the servant swap had taken place, the Pope had all but kicked Sudi out of the Vatican to keep up appearances of being neutral; sure, he'd been allowed to keep the Ash Lock and the Black Keys, and with the mystic code being fitted for him specifically, there was no need to return the raincoat. But everything else Sudi got out of the meeting? Oh, what little the Pope let him keep didn't even come close to making up for the new thorn in their sides.

With no choice but to head back to his family home, Eugenia in tow and resting in her room with an attending Maria, it seemed the former master of Assassin had decided that, if he couldn't be his old alliance's problem, he would be Sudi's problem. Even with Casval's attempts at chasing him out of the house with his own mystic codes, Louis Laurent Monette somehow kept finding new entrances to break in from. And every time he showed up again, he'd resume his complaints about the group's current dwelling with no regard for anything they said.

"A four burner stove? What are we, peasants? How the hell are you supposed to prepare your appetisers alongside the main meal? Where's the passion for the food?"

Sudi lifted his head just in time to see Louis angrily turning the knobs on the stove. Louis gave it a sniff, displeased, and went on to gawk, "And it's gas? Chouchou, the control of the heat needs to be precise in order for the food to taste good. How do you even live like this?"

"I can't believe I almost miss the aggressive flirting," Sudi muttered. Louis was already wandering into the living room, and he let out a horrified gasp at the sight of the drapes.

"Navy blue on red brick? Are you insane!?"

Casval's hand landed on Sudi's shoulder. He looked more exhausted than normal, and the man seemed desperate as he stared Sudi dead in the eyes.

"I value the survival of humanity," Casval told him quietly, "but humanity will survive without him. I will gladly do it myself."

"Was this house built by an amateur!?" Louis screeched.

"It might be for the best," Sudi whispered back, disappointed. "At this rate, he might be petty enough to sabotage us and leak everything to his old alliance."

"Best not to risk it," Casval said.

"Best not," Sudi agreed.

Between them, Assassin finally materialised and placed a hand on both their chairs. He'd been missing since they'd arrived at the home, calmly telling his new master that he wanted to familiarise himself with Rome before they made any major moves, and Sudi had allowed it. Without someone like Saber on their side—even if he never truly was—any fight in Italy with him would be a risky one. Servants got a boost in their home countries, and aside from having the strongest class, Sudi just lost the home advantage. At least Assassin's skills seemed to make up for it, especially his Presence Concealment.

Assassin leaned between them, smiling as always, and whispered, "Do keep him alive long enough to tell you what he knows about my old masters."

Casval slammed a fist on the table. "What in the world could he possibly tell us that you can't?" he demanded.

Assassin gave a small chuckle and suggested, "How to honeytrap one of them, perhaps?"

"He's gay!" Casval shouted.

For what it was worth, Sudi did also chime in, "He's engaged." The last thing they needed was to put pressure on Casval to cosy up with the other masters.

"What a shame." Assassin leaned back and straightened himself up. He looked over to the living room, where Louis was staring with narrowed eyes—no doubt his attention was caught by Casval shouting that Sudi was gay—before folding his hands behind his back and humming to himself. "Regardless, I'm sure he can have his uses. I hear my new master has a knack for surviving deadly encounters? Well, my old one has a knack for… happening upon things he wants."

Sudi was dubious. "I doubt the whole thing with losing his position as a master and being kicked out of his alliance was what he wanted."

"No, that's a fair point," Assassin said glibly. "But he does want to keep coming into your home. Have either of you been able to shake him this whole time?"

Hm.

Sudi didn't like that.

Both Sudi and Casval glanced behind Assassin, back to the living room where Louis was gawking at the fabric used to decorate the couch cushions, and they were just in time for Eugenia to stomp over towards the pink-haired man with Maria in tow. She had a rolled up newspaper in one hand, and the woman clutched her shawl at her chest with the other hand as she whispered obscenities at him in Italian. Louis was louder, scoffing as Sudi heard him call Eugenia a boudin, and then all the group could hear was more enraged Italian shouts as Eugenia began to beat Louis with the newspaper.

Sudi looked at Assassin. Assassin was smiling brightly.

"I really don't feel like it's worth keeping him around," Sudi told him.

"And yet, you can't shake him. Best to take advantage of a situation to gain the upper hand, even if it's a terrible situation."

"Even you agree it's a terrible situation," Casval fired back.

That made Assassin laugh, almost helpless, and he raised his hands in surrender.

"Fine, fine," he said airily. "I'll admit I'm only asking he stay for my own peace of mind. I can't help being the way I am, and I won't deny that I got a little attached to my former masters during my brief stay with them."

"Great, so we also have Assassin potentially sabotaging us to worry about," Casval groaned. He looked at Sudi, his expression near-pleading, but his words were certainly nowhere close to a plea to the other man. "Sudi, I only agreed to come to be a tutor for you and maybe take on the mantle of master if you found yourself unable to follow through. I need you to understand I have no obligation to stay after teaching you the basics, and I'm almost done with the fundamentals. I am taking a huge gamble in sticking around—be it the gamble of you winning and using your wish for good, or me taking your place and furthering the survival of humanity through the Holy Grail. But I am not a gambler. I prefer to operate on absolutes and statistics that skew heavily towards a desired outcome. I am not the kind of man who says a point-zero-zero-one percent chance of winning is a chance worth taking. That is a loss. A loss, Sudi."

"I know," Sudi tried, but Casval held up a hand to silence him.

He took a moment to compose himself, wiping the expression from his face to something more cold, trained.

"I am reminding you of this," he informed Sudi, "because every hour of every day, I am running through calculations and information that we have from doing nothing, and not a single time have I come up with something that results in anything that isn't a loss or a moot point. Confronting the alliance in an ambush? Sure, we dumped the weakest link in the group on them, but we got our access to the grail vessel revoked and a new nuisance to worry about in return. We stole a command seal by exploiting the neutral ground rules, but all three of us almost died because a magus killer showed up. A magus killer, Sudi!"

Sudi wasn't sure what to say. He wasn't sure what he could offer to make Casval stay. Really, he was right. While everyone else had been doing all they could to prepare, Sudi and Saber had just lounged around and made themselves at home at the Vatican. Casval was dragged here to teach Sudi the basics of magecraft, and it was more than obvious he had more stakes in this race than Sudi did. Sudi didn't even have a wish, meanwhile Casval was pursuing something so grand that he didn't even fathom that such a thing could be wished for.

Even the former Assassin alliance had been more organised than them, plotting to oust one of their members publicly while trying to steal the grail vessel. He'd bet that even Caster and Lancer and their masters were preparing something devious in the shadows, despite how little media presence either of them had.

He glanced back over at the living room. Maria had calmed Eugenia down as Louis sulked in a corner. He was fiddling with a little antique brass clock—the oldest of the clocks Sudi's father had repaired, and one he'd kept for himself to spruce the place up a bit after the previous owner told him to do what he wanted with it.

The owner had practically given away the expensive item, all because of a little oxidisation on a replaceable part.

Such a valuable piece, just given away for free.

Sort of like their nuisance of an heir.

Sudi blinked.

"I know how we can use him," he said, and Casval groaned softly.

"Did you not hear a single thing—"

"I heard you," Sudi said quickly. "And I'm trying to minimise losses. We've been operating with just your funding and the sponsorships of the Vatican, yes? If I die and you lose the War, this is a massive financial loss on your part. You're from a very big family, from what I can gather. What if you get a chance to participate in the next War, twenty, maybe thirty years down the line? Why would they give you that opportunity to represent the Atlas Institute when you wasted all that money and resources on this one?"

Casval stared at him. He narrowed his eyes, frowning, and sighed.

"Money's not an obstacle," Casval told him. "We don't value monetary gain over genuine talent and research. As long as I have some kind of result from this War, I'm not expelled from participating in the next one. Or trying to, at least."

"But Louis has more than just money." Sudi looked at Assassin, and there was a certain kind of glee in the man's eyes. He smiled back down at Sudi, hands folded behind his back, and he was practically broadcasting that Sudi had correctly deduced what to do with their new member. "You said he has a knack for finding what he wants. It's to do with his Origin, isn't it? I know enough to know it's basically etched into his existence, not something you can turn on and off."

Casval leaned forward. He seemed to be crunching the numbers, and his eyes lit up as he glanced at Assassin.

"What's his intellectual capacity look like?" he asked.

"My former master was the one behind all of the tabloids and interviews," Assassin reported. "He wrote up the scripts and knew exactly who to contact, and he accurately planned for how to get rid of one member of the alliance. Had he and his cohort not been thwarted so embarrassingly… I suppose you could say that the Van-Alphen name would be considered public taboo by the end of the seventh day of the War."

"So he can predict emotional responses and knows how to manipulate stories," Casval muttered. "Alright, Assassin, I'll bite. What's your personal evaluation of his abilities? I know he almost killed Sudi, but that was with the help of his so-called friend. What about on his own?"

Assassin eagerly pulled out a chair and sat down, a big smile on his face as he sat down and folded his hands over the table.

"I do love when information can be shared like this," Assassin started. "It's my forte, you see. The exchange of valuable information. The formulation of a plan. I'm in my element like this."

"My question, Assassin," Casval said dryly.

Assassin held up his hands in surrender. He let out a short huff of a laugh and began to answer Casval's question.

"I'm sure you've gathered what his elemental affinity is," he explained. "I've noticed he can alter the state of matter of the water he manipulates, on top of producing so much of it through condensation. You could say that Louis has a very intricate understanding of his capabilities and honed those skills throughout his life so far, so the difference between someone, say, like my new master—born both lucky and unlucky, with a knack for survival and healing—and a third-rate mage such as Louis… I'd compare it to night and day. He's put in the work on the theoretical and practical applications of his abilities. He's no master by any means, but certainly no novice."

"As expected of someone of his standing," Casval muttered. He pushed his glasses up his nose. "And what of—"

Assassin held up a finger and waved it back and forth. "Uh-uh," he cooed. "I'm not finished on this part. I like to be thorough, and despite your… capacity to fill in the blanks yourself with that brilliant little head of yours, I prefer to make sure no one at the table missed something important."

Both of them looked at Sudi. Sudi felt his face flush as he realised what the implications were; he was the slowest one at the table compared to the Alchemist with six rooms and the Assassin servant whose specialty was information gathering.

"R—Right," Sudi mumbled. "Thank you for your consideration, Assassin."

Assassin smiled brightly at him. Sudi wanted to sink into the floor in shame.

"As I was saying," Assassin went on. He gave a nod to the living room, and Louis was now obnoxiously asking Eugenia about another antique. It was easy to see that he was intrigued, though, because he held it so fondly and carefully as he gave the woman attitude. "I was able to do some digging and took a peek into some of his capabilities. He's what you'd call a 'solid' magus. Jack of all trades, master of none. If you can think of it, he's dabbled into it enough to do it at the drop of the hat, however rudimentary. I also found out, when I was summoned, that one of my former masters had done a full background check on him. You're looking at someone who holds the rank of Cause in the Mage's Association."

Casval hissed as he turned in his seat and glared at Louis. Sudi furrowed his brows and glanced between his tutor and his servant.

"Is that a bad thing?" Sudi asked.

Just as quickly as he'd turned to look at Louis, Casval turned back in his seat and shook his head. "It's nothing."

Assassin was amused as he waved a dismissive hand at Sudi as well. He regretted not learning more about how the organisations ran themselves and how to understand the basics from Eugenia sooner. Though, in Sudi's defence, being the humble son of a horologist didn't leave a lot of room for dabbling in magecraft.

But if he got into the semantics, he couldn't use that excuse either. He heard that his mother's family were well established mages in India, after all.

"Our friend possesses quite the mystic codes, as well," Assassin went on. "He was rather well prepared for the ambush, if I do say so myself. And with money not being an issue on his part, I'm sure whatever the situation calls for can be easily accessed through his help."

"I can simply make the mystic codes myself," Casval insisted. "It's actually a hobby of mine, and I trust my own abilities over the risk of the idiot sabotaging us."

"Then trust you can pick up on that sabotage attempt," Assassin reminded him. "If you are too clever to be tricked, as you claim, then there's no risk to your life or my master's life by letting Louis foot the bill for high quality items. I'm sure you'd tamper with them anyway to make sure they function properly."

Casval frowned at Assassin. He leaned back in his chair, and his finger tapped against the table at a slow, rhythmic pace. Half-second intervals that filled the room like droplets from a faucet.

"What do you want in exchange for all of this?" he demanded.

The look Assassin gave him feigned hurt, but it didn't last for long. Instead, he gave Casval a guilty smile and raised his hands in surrender again.

"I should've prepared myself for that question," Assassin said, more to himself than anyone else. "I did just acknowledge your intelligence and wariness, after all. But I digress. I'm giving you this information as a test. You see, as the servant of an alliance, I learned many things. Things that could turn the tide of the War in our favour. But I'm also a prudent man who believes in fairness. And more than fairness, I believe in finding the right people for the right job."

"And what job do you want us to do?" Sudi asked.

Assassin brought a finger to his lips, miming for Sudi to not speak. But it was playful, like he was just asked to give an example of a secret he'd kept—with his response being that it wouldn't be a secret anymore if he gave that example.

With an almost excited lilt to his voice, he told Sudi and Casval, "The task I want to test you for requires urgency. But that urgency will only kick in once that knowledge becomes public. So my lips remain sealed, and you two will focus on the task I'm going to give you. You'll find the test will benefit us immensely, anyway. Alchemist, I believe you have a grudge against Saber?"

"Who doesn't," Casval deadpanned.

"Right. Rather insufferable, wasn't he? I want you two to prove to me that you can use the resources available to you and exploit weaknesses of your enemies to win this War." Assassin leaned forward, and he seemed almost giddy. He was appraising Casval and Sudi all at once, almost as though crunching the numbers and making predictions for how this would all end. "I want you to get rid of my former masters and Saber as the first casualties of the War. And then we'll talk about the real issue of this War."

It was more work than they'd done so far. Was there a time limit? What if they did it wrong? Sudi couldn't get a read on what expectations Assassin had for them, and while he made himself out to be an open book who made his preferences known right out the gate, he was still holding a considerable amount back. From what Sudi could gather, Assassin didn't spend long with his masters at all—he was constantly on the move, barely keeping contact with them as he posed as the Archer class with someone else as his master. He was halfway across the world for several days. And he'd learned all of that about Louis? Citra being diligent in her research of her allies or not, that was still some intimate understanding he had of Louis. Assassin even had a suspicion of what his Origin was.

How much had he learned just from talking to Casval and Sudi like this?

Assassin let out a small, "Welp," and smacked his hands on his knees. As he rose from his chair, he informed Sudi and Casval with a chipper tone, "I'm going to go pay my respects to my master's late family. They're in the backyard, yes? You two think about how to prove yourselves capable of my ordeal in the meantime."

He vanished into the air, dematerialising as he presumably left for the backyard. Sudi and Casval both sighed heavily, though Sudi was more of a groan than a sigh as he looked to Casval with a pleading expression.

"Is this enough incentive to get you to stay?" he asked, almost begging Casval to say yes.

Casval weighed it up in his mind, particularly Assassin's own input on the matter. Sudi was no genius, so he hoped that whatever Assassin was in life was enough to convince Casval to give the alliance one more try.

Finally, Casval stopped tapping his finger on the table.

"It's a gamble," he prefaced. Sudi felt his heart sink. But Casval sighed and waved a hand at him, almost as though telling him to dismiss his disappointment. "But it's not the kind of gamble I won't take. I've seen the devastation Assassin left in Louisiana, and he's much more controlled than Saber was. More than that, he's actually working with you as a servant and valuing input and brainstorming. He's an intellectual before a warrior, which is what we need now that we're so far behind everyone else. Sudi, this is my final chance I'm giving this alliance. And if it fails, I go to England to help Rider. Do you understand?"

Sudi nodded. He pursed his lips, and hesitantly, he asked, "Is Assassin's promise to get back at Saber swaying your decision at all?"

Casval stared at him. After a beat of silence, he admitted, "It helps."

Well, Sudi wasn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

"So our real obstacle is trying to get our new friend to help us out," Sudi decided.

"Assassin didn't say he wouldn't give more information," Casval pointed out. "If we hit a wall, we can at least prove to him that we're not so proud that we can't ask for help. He's not only testing our ability to plan and execute a task, but he's also testing our ability to know when we're in over our heads. If we fumble at any point during a moment of hesitation or uncertainty, we fail."

Casval stood up from his chair and groaned a little. His hand went for his back, rubbing his hip almost, and Sudi could tell he was still a little tender from the ambush.

"I know plenty about his family," Casval went on. "I'll have Maria look into any potential weaknesses or soft spots we can appeal to. In the meantime, we're going to do this the old fashioned way. How good is your cooking?"

Sudi blinked at him. "It's decent?" he said, uncertain.

"Start figuring out what food he likes. We're busting out the psychology textbooks and swaying his opinion towards us—or at the very least against his former allies—until he freely gives us what we need."

Huh. Sudi nodded once, also rising from his seat, and he rushed towards the living room with his best attempt at a neutral expression.

At least Louis wasn't doing anything to warrant Eugenia screaming at him anymore.

Hampshire, England (Evening)

"A wedding!?" Holly screeched.

After their very eventful day at the Clock Tower, things had seemed to be wrapping up. Everyone returned to the Leighton manor to lick their wounds—some of them with actual wounds, like Holly, while others simmered over their verbal battle with the enemy—and it was already rather unsettling to have their former enemy sipping tea in the sitting room. But the bombshell Natalya had just dropped on them, alongside the agreement she and Jastrum had come to, was enough to make Holly jump out of her chair and stare at Natalya with a mixture of betrayal and concern.

It was very, very hard to tell when Natalya's act had ended. Holly wasn't even sure if she was even acting at all, now that she was smugly sipping her tea with Berserker's master and reporting her newfound engagement.

"It was an unexpected outcome," Nat mused. "But it's a step in the right direction."

Even Vere was taken aback, leaning over Natalya as he stared at her with narrowed eyes. "Nat, this is dangerous," he warned her softly. "Think about what they did to—"

"It's precisely why I'm pleased with this outcome," Natalya interrupted him. "It's about time my hands got dirty for this cause."

The sun was setting in the horizon. Holly's aunt had come out with refreshments not long ago, while everyone had gathered in the room and let out a collective sigh of relief. Rider pointedly avoided Berserker, hanging by the corner of the room in brooding silence, while Berserker sat with her master and gleefully sipped a teacup of her own. Berserker's master, Lan, sat on the loveseat with her husband as they nibbled on biscuits that Rosemary had gone through the trouble of freshly baking. Natalya was seated on her own chair closer to the loveseat, her tea half-finished and no longer piping hot, while Vere had been pacing back and forth beside her chair. And Holly? She'd been holding one ice pack against her cheek—occasionally switching to the other side—while Aunt Rosemary bandaged the cuts riddling her skin.

Rosemary was very upset that Holly had been the only one to come back with this many injuries, if any injuries at all. What was supposed to be a simple mission to gather information and check the former residence of the Renard family had turned into Holly falling through a hall after being slapped silly by Natalya in front of the Clock Tower gates.

And now a wedding announcement? Holly could feel her walls building back up systematically, glaring daggers into Natalya as the woman nonchalantly sipped her tea again.

"He hasn't decided who the marriage will be to," Natalya explained. "But I'll be entering the Archelot family one way or another thanks to this union."

"Swear to God, Nat," Vere said, voice tense.

"A honeytrap is certainly an interesting angle," Rider mused. He was still sulking in the corner, but he was staring at Natalya with an almost unreadable expression. Through the link they shared, Holly could feel the tinge of disapproval from Rider. At least he also had an opinion on this, even if he wasn't jumping down Natalya's throat for it. "A dangerous one, though. What exactly is the angle you're going for here?"

"Yes, do tell," Lan chimed in. She patted Berserker's head slowly, and the servant was practically preening at the attention. Holly swore her eyes had changed colour at some point since arriving here. "It's not every day that you see someone playing the Lords of the Clock Tower like fools."

"Normally that's your job," Lan's husband mused playfully.

They exchanged knowing glances and chuckled at each other.

Despite the lighthearted tone the couple took, the rest of the room was still tense enough to suffocate Holly. Rosemary finished disinfecting the last of the cuts on Holly's hands and motioned for her to lift her shirt, and she grimaced at the sight of the lacerations on her torso. All those brambles had been unkind to Holly, and she could see Rosemary thought the same thing.

She was just thankful the woman didn't launch into a lecture.

"I also would like to know what your thought process was," Rosemary said, and her tone was terse and clipped.

Natalya glanced at Rosemary, setting down her tea as she did so.

"Jastrum clearly used the confiscated material as a reason to have Olena killed," Natalya explained. "She studied in his department, so he clearly knew what her capabilities were and where her goals were aligned. Whatever she did, it would jeopardise the Aristocratic faction's hold on the politics of the Clock Tower. Magic has become sanitised to the masses, to the point where they'll believe anything as long as we string a lie strong enough to not unravel when one of them decides to study magical theory. The practices of the great families and the emerging magus families are kept under wraps, and even now, we're seeing one family being outcasted among the others. The Monette family was smart to portray the Van-Alphen family as a den of villains who experiment on human lives for research. Never mind that any long-lived family has done the same at least once in a generation."

"We know Olena was a threat to Jastrum's hold," Vere sighed. "There was no doubt about that."

"We also look at this from the standpoint of a businessman," Natalya went on. "Jastrum and the Archelots by proxy lost a talented mage in the process of labelling Olena as dangerous. Vere may just be from a branch family, but if Anya had proven to be talented enough as she got older, Jastrum could've adopted her as a younger sister and made her his heir. Jastrum had to cut off his own tail to escape the stalemate tipping in the Democratic Faction's favour. And he had three other families help him do it."

Natalya looked at Holly. Holly shied away from her, switching the ice pack to her other cheek as an excuse to block Natalya from her sight.

"The fairies described a woman who looked exactly like one of Jastrum's allies," she said. "All I managed to get was the name Cendrillon, but—"

Rosemary bristled, eyes widening as she jumped to her feet and her face turned red.

"Absolutely not!" she screamed.

Holly looked up at her aunt in shock. The only time she ever raised her voice like this was when Holly was in deep trouble, and she could feel her heart hammering faster in her chest. Rider was by her side in an instant, a hand on her shoulder, and Holly steadied her breathing to try and keep calm. Rosemary wasn't yelling at her. It was at Natalya. Holly hadn't done anything to warrant a lecture yet.

"You know the name," Natalya said, and it wasn't a question.

"I bloody well do! I've stood by and let you lot prance around my house like you own the place for Holly's sake, but damn it all, I'm not making an enemy of the Albas!" Rosemary ran a hand through her hair and snarled at Natalya. "This is too much, Ms. Argyris. I dare say I prefer being an enemy of just the Archelots compared to this."

Natalya looked to be in thought as she pondered what Rosemary was saying. Beside her, Lan hummed with mild interest and propped her elbow on the arm of the loveseat, resting her cheek on her fist.

"I've heard of the Albas," she mused. "They do the dirty work of the Clock Tower, yes? Enforcers, they call them. Suppose you should be thankful it wasn't Cornelius in the room with us, though the woman did bear a striking resemblance to him."

"We can use this," Natalya mumbled.

Vere looked at her in horror. "Nat, we were prepared to do whatever it took when it came to the Archelots, but this? Cornelius Alba almost reached the rank of Red—there's no telling what this woman is capable of!"

"You didn't see the way she acted during the conversation," Natalya said. "She seemed almost… amused at the discussion. Like she wasn't fully on Jastrum's side. It felt more like Jastrum was trying to appease her instead." She blinked slowly as she glanced over at Lan. "You noticed it too, didn't you? The way Cendrillon was the one Jastrum kept looking at for approval."

Lan nodded once. "I hear she even insisted it be her quill that you sign a contract with," she noted.

"About that…"

Natalya reached into her pocket and pulled the folded sheet of paper out, and she set it down on the small coffee table in the middle of the room. She unfolded it, and Holly caught sight of a line stating that Natalya was to marry the Archelot family member of Jastrum's choice as an adequate price for access to Olena's research materials. At the very bottom, two signatures could be found—one from Natalya, and one from Jastrum.

It looked to be an ordinary piece of paper, but then Natalya said, "This was a geis."

"Natalya!" Vere all but shouted.

"It's powerless," she cut him off. "The quill did something to it. I don't know what, but when she escorted me out, she said it had the power to negate contracts. Every single term on this contract that I'm bound to follow is now void. All I have to do is make sure Jastrum never finds out."

She looked up from the contract, back to Holly, and she went on, "Do you see what I mean about being able to use this?"

Holly wanted to believe it'd be fine if this was their game plan. Making a fool of Jastrum was okay, right? She wasn't as involved in this Black Triad business as Natalya and Vere were, but she was still a victim of Jastrum's cruelty. There was no doubt he'd already told someone else about her, but there was no telling who… She knew the other two Lords collaborating with him knew, especially since Natalya had come out and said one of them recognised Holly and tried to play coy about her lineage to throw Natalya off, but how many beyond that?

"This is still too much," Rosemary forced out. She was clenching her fists tightly by her side, hands shaking from anger. "If he wants a wife so bad, I'll marry the bloody prick myself, and he can leave Holly alone."

"With all due respect," Natalya said slowly, "Jastrum wants a woman of child rearing age from a reputable family. And you are not only in your forties, Ms. Leighton, but your family name doesn't amount to much right now, does it?"

Rosemary kicked at the coffee table, almost upending it, and Holly flinched as her aunt seethed. Rosemary turned to Rider, eyes wild and face red, and she practically commanded him, "Take her to Avalon right this instant!"

Everyone's eyes landed on Holly, then. It was only now that she realised that none of them had told Lan about her lineage, or that it was being used against her by Jastrum.

Holly withdrew into herself as Rider's grip on her arm became looser, like he was rejecting her. All she could feel was the cold bite of the ice pack against her cheek.

"I am a psychopomp," he reminded Rosemary. "Unless she's dead, there's no use in me taking my master anywhere. You don't even know if she'll survive the trip thanks to her human half."

"I don't care!" Rosemary shouted. And Holly felt dread from the words. Did she not care that Holly would die? "Anywhere is better than here! Anywhere he can't get to her is better than this!"

"I shouldn't have left the mansion," Holly whispered.

Rosemary flinched. She seemed to realise what she'd said and how harsh she'd sounded. The tension left her body immediately, and Holly shied away from her aunt as she knelt down and gently grasped one of her hands, trying to comfort the young woman.

"Oh, Holly, you're not in trouble," she cooed. "I've lectured you plenty for this already. Everything that happens at this point isn't your fault, alright? You just…" Rosemary pursed her lips and bit back a sigh. "I just wish… that your mother had kept you with her, rather than…"

Holly snatched her hand away. "I'd be a lot less of a nuisance that way, wouldn't I?"

"That's not what I meant and you know it…"

It didn't feel like it. She knew Rosemary resented Holly's father for being the one to inherit the family's crest, even though Rosemary had been the older of the two. And she knew she saw Holly as a burden when she got in trouble like this.

Rider sighed and pinched at his brow. He glanced over at Berserker, giving the servant the meanest stink eye Holly had seen him make yet, and he scrunched up his face as he looked back at Holly.

'She gave you something, didn't she?'

Holly tried not to let it show on her face that the two were communicating. 'She called herself Eulalie. She gave me a bell to summon her for a body to collect.'

'Don't reveal that you have it. As far as everyone else is concerned, you only spoke with the pixies. Worst comes to worst… Damn, maybe I could leave you in her care for a while…'

Would she be safe with Eulalie? She did say Rider was her husband, so it was likely, but she'd given Holly the very strong impression that she followed her own whims rather than agreements. Holly was something of passing interest, right? What happened after Eulalie figured out what Holly was? She'd have no reason to want to make deals with her or keep her around.

'She… did say she wanted you to tell her about this War when you're done with it,' Holly tried.

'The wanderlust is eating at her again,' Rider informed Holly. 'She hasn't seen the outside world of her own accord since before the World Grail War system was established.'

How terrible. Was that why she was so out of sorts? Or was Eulalie always like that?

Rider finally seemed to swallow what little pride he was comfortable setting aside as he faced Lan and her husband. His hands were firmly planted on his hips, a disgruntled expression on his face.

"Your husband said your goals might align with ours," he said. Lan glanced at her husband, and he laughed sheepishly back at her. A guilty as charged kind of laugh. "If this… blasted wedding is to occur, and Natalya isn't bound by the contract, how do you recommend we deal with this?"

"You're a warrior," Lan said smoothly. "You think of something."

Rider's brow twitched. "I don't deal in vengeance," he informed her. "I deal in—"

"Yes, yes, you deal in the deceased and war. How simple your kind must be, to not need to plan accordingly for anything and just follow your whims."

Rider opened his mouth to quip back at her, but thought better of it as he glanced at Berserker. He sniffed, putting on a cool expression, and he replied smoothly, "Well, I suppose I've never been so weak that I've had to rely on trickery like you and your servant. Pardon me for thinking to ask a so-called master of traps what to look out for."

That seemed to bother Lan. She rolled her shoulders, letting out a slow breath, and she took a moment to calm herself. She must not have liked blows to her ego, Holly thought. Yet another proud mage whose presence took up the room. No wonder Jastrum wanted to reach out to her.

Eventually, though, Lan leaned forward and picked up the contract. "I've heard of the Black Triad. Not really something I've followed closely, since it's not under my jurisdiction," she said. "But from my perspective as a member of the Embroidered Guard, I can say with almost full certainty that this group operates separate from the factions of the Clock Tower. A good way to put it is that while they are members of the Aristocratic Faction, the Aristocratic Faction is not aware of their alliance. And if they're trying to use Miss Leighton to get a wish from the Grail, it's fairly obvious what they're doing is in the interest of the Aristocratic Faction. They probably liken themselves to the shadow government that guides the faction out of the stalemate, or prevents anything from shifting the tides towards the Democratic Faction."

She flicked a finger against the contract, and she clicked her tongue.

"Right here. 'Natalya Argyris is to merge the crest of the Argyris family into that of the Archelot family crest as a show of good faith and loyalty to Jastrum Archelot.' You said so yourself that you're a special kind of alchemist, so Jastrum likely wants to utilise you as a tool for breaking the deadlock in case Miss Leighton doesn't work out for the wish."

"Is it correct to assume it's just power in any form that Jastrum wants?" Natalya asked.

Lan nodded once. "Power that benefits all three families. You said that woman, Casiphia, mentioned a promise after trying to object to an engagement? If you factor in the dynamic all three had with Cendrillon Alba, I'd say… All three of them scratch each other's backs, and they keep Cendrillon entertained by giving her something stimulating so that she doesn't grow bored with them and abandons them. I'd wager that the three hold as much power as they do by fudging the rules for each other. That's why something that was the business of the Department of Botany required the presence of the Lords of Spiritual Evocation and Mineralogy."

Holly felt her hopes dash in that instant. So even if she evaded Jastrum, she still had to worry about the El-Melloi family and the Sophia-Ri family hunting her down? Weren't those families huge? Not to mention, they had a ton of branch families—the Sophia-Ris were already branched from the Nuada-Re family to begin with! That was…

This was too much for Holly to handle alone.

She looked up at Rider, and she felt her chest cave in on itself. Rider reached for her, his hand back on her shoulder, and Holly couldn't feel her face anymore under the cold of the ice pack.

"I'd…" Holly swallowed a lump in her throat. "I'd like a moment to myself, please. I'll excuse myself."

Rosemary watched with a pained expression as Holly hurried out of the room. She didn't check for everyone else's reactions, too focused on getting out of the sitting room, and she only noticed Rider following close behind as he dematerialised behind her.

Holly made it to the greenhouse, her sanctuary, and she all but collapsed onto the path as she heaved and gasped for air. It was too much. There was too much happening. She was ready to usurp one man and put his family member in his spot, maybe make some deals to get her out of trouble, but this? Half the Clock Tower knew about her already! Jastrum promised he'd keep her existence a secret if she did as he said, and then he went and told his friends anyway!

Did Holly ever stand a chance? Was she even allowed to try?

Rider materialised beside her and sat down on the path, and for once he was cautious and caring. He rubbed a hand on her back, trying to soothe her, and Holly couldn't take it anymore. She burst into tears and wailed into her hands. She threw the ice pack with so much force that it crashed into an empty pot nearby.

For the longest time, all she could hear was herself. Even when Rider whistled for something, Holly didn't lift her head to check; she was so caught up in her spiralling thoughts and her sorrow that she just wanted to fall into another hole and dissociate with Eulalie for a while. Holly didn't want to think about her circumstances or what came next for her, because she knew whatever she did think of would be so despair-inducing that she'd never pull herself from her rut.

She pitied Rider, almost. She used to be so bright and cheerful, to the point where nothing got her down, and now he was stuck with a master who shut down every time she found out something horrific waited for her beyond the false narrative she was fed.

She wanted to go to Avalon too. It wasn't like she stayed here because she wanted to. Holly wanted to be where she belonged, just like everyone else.

Something cold brushed against her head, and Holly flinched enough that she stopped wailing. She almost choked on her tears as she gasped for air, and she felt light-headed and dizzy as she looked up in a hurry. At first she couldn't make out what she was looking at, or what the source of the cold had been; but then it came again, this time to her cheek, and Holly squeezed her eyes shut as she felt the shape of a hand stroke her swollen cheek.

It was such a loving, gentle touch. It felt like what she always imagined a mother's touch would be.

Holly slowly opened her eyes. Though faint, the setting sun made it easier to see what was in front of her. The vague outline of a person was standing over her, half-crouched as though trying to make itself the same size as her. And as the peeks of twilight rays hit the shape, Holly could faintly make out features where the face would be.

She didn't know this woman. But she seemed to know enough about Holly to want to comfort her.

"Poor thing," the disembodied voice whispered to her. Holly hiccupped as she stared, wide-eyed, at the spectre. Rider didn't seem surprised in the slightest to see the woman standing over Holly. "Look at what he's done to you. It's sickening."

She meant Jastrum, right? Then… Was this Olena? Holly opened her mouth to ask, but the words died in her throat each time.

The woman she assumed was Olena just stroked her cheek again and brushed some hair out of her face.

"My sin was hubris," she whispered again. "I thought myself untouchable as a member of the branch Archelots. I thought my work was too important for anyone to stop me. For that, I suffered. But you? What was your sin, aside from being born? No one is born deserving of suffering."

Her mouth didn't move, but there was a conviction on the woman's face as she looked away from Holly. She gave Rider a hard stare, her smile falling, and the disembodied voice whispered once more.

"I'll make him pay, Rider. So you had better bring me to the battlefield when his time comes."

Rider huffed, a half-laugh if Holly ever heard one, and he removed his hand from Holly's back. As the sun disappeared under the horizon in full, the rays of twilight fading with it, the spectre disappeared. The only traces left behind were the biting cold in Holly's cheek and the frost gathered on the path where she'd stood.

Holly looked at Rider, bewildered. Rider just rubbed his chin, thoughtful, and mumbled to himself.

"What a beautiful addition you make to my Wild Hunt, Olena Renard," he mused. "May your hunt be bountiful, once the time comes."

Fate/Atlast [Fate World Grail War]

Fate/Atlas [Fate World Grail War]

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