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.

Fate/Atlast [Fate World Grail War]

Fate/Atlas [Fate World Grail War]

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