Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

In his four years as a Silvermane Guard, Gepard has soldiered through the deadliest of freezes fighting against the unrelenting edge of the Fragmentum. Backwater Pass’s chill should be nothing in comparison, yet as Gepard stumbles out of the trolley into the frozen night, the dip of temperature along the outskirts of Belobog stings ferociously at his face.

Perhaps this means that Gepard is still too soft. That Gepard is still a sheltered noble accustomed to the readily available heating of the Administrative District. He looks behind his shoulder at the stationary trolley, whose open doors beckon him to make the smart choice and return to the Administrative District. He hesitates for too long, and the chance leaves him. The trolley closes its doors and departs.

Gepard takes a deep breath and centers himself. This is just another mission. This is no different from marching out into the snowy wasteland to face down the Fragmentum. So like a soldier ready for war, he marches down the street.

Backwater Pass is dimly lit. The heaters and street lamps that pepper the streets of the Administrative District are woefully sparse here. Despite this, the glow of vibrant restaurants and rowdy bars permeate the streets. The people here on the edge of the Fragmentum make their own warmth, even as they are being slowly forgotten by the nobility at the head of Belobog.

It’s this warmth that Gepard dances along the edge of, too aware of his status as an outsider here. It’s not unheard of for a noble to visit Backwater Pass, but never openly and almost always for activities better performed away from the scrutiny of the Administrative District. Gepard usually regards these nobles with distaste, but tonight he is the noble with unscrupulous intentions.

Uncomfortable, Gepard buries his face deeper into his turtleneck and hurries towards the next building he sees. A neon sign proudly announces “Bert’s Tav rn”, except the “s” is flickering sadly, soon to join the dead “e”. A portly, middle-aged man slouches on a stool by the bar’s entrance, staring disinterestedly into the street. Gepard reaches for the door handle, ready to fall into the tavern’s warm glow and lively din, when an arm suddenly snaps out in front of his body.

“ID?” the man on the stool grumbles, arm outstretched. He's not attacking. Gepard forces himself to relax.

“I’m sorry?”

The man stares at him, unimpressed. “You got your ID on you, kid? You know, the little card in your wallet that tells me you’re over eighteen?”

“I, yes, I have it, but—”

Gepard clams up when the man glares at him. “But what?”

But my ID has my name on it, Gepard thinks in a panic. It says Gepard Landau, and there’s no way you wouldn’t recognize my surname.

As a Guard, Gepard is well-acquainted with drinking laws in Belobog. He’s had more than enough encounters with drunk, wealthy university students in his early years as a private, yet somehow, it completely escaped him that a bar would ask for his ID. The social clubs that Mother took him to never asked his age—but they didn’t have to, of course. Everyone knew he was the young master Landau. Gepard’s an idiot to assume his privilege would extend here. 

The man on the stool is apathetic to Gepard’s internal meltdown. He glares at Gepard. “Look, kid, if you can’t prove you’re old enough to be here, you gotta scram. Now.”

The man begins to loom larger, as if tensing for a fight. The soldier in Gepard nudges his body towards a fighting stance, even as the reasonable side of Gepard raises his hands placatingly. “I’m sorry, sir, I don’t mean to cause any trouble. I just—”

Gepard cuts himself off. He just what? Ran to a bar to drink his sorrows away just because he disappointed his father again? Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe he should just go back to the Administrative District, back to being haunted by his failures from years ago.

Before Gepard can back away, the door swings open with a woosh. Gepard leaps backwards to see a lean, blue-haired man slouch lazily against the doorframe, arms crossed, brow raised. He looks between Gepard and the man on the stool with exaggerated confusion.

“What’s going on, Bert? Why the trouble for my friend here?” the stranger questions.

The man on the stool—Bert—scowls. “He’s obviously not your friend.”

The stranger raises a hand to his chest in theatrical offense. “What does that mean? You don’t think I could be friends with Tall, Blonde, and Handsome here?”

Gepard’s eyes dart to the stranger. He doesn’t know what to make of the nickname. Bert just scoffs derisively and says nothing.

The stranger continues, gesturing his hand aimlessly in the air. “Bert, we’re pals, right? You think you can do your pal a solid and let this fine gentleman into your lovely establishment?”

“I’ve known you for less than a week,” Bert deadpans.

“And that’s plenty of time to build a lasting friendship,” the stranger declares grandly. “Come on, Bert. When have I ever led you astray?”

Bert scrutinizes the stranger. Something unspoken seems to pass between them, before Bert huffs and turns back to face the street.

“Go have fun with your ‘fine gentleman,’” Bert scoffs disdainfully.

The stranger looks at Gepard, and Gepard flinches at the sight of the greenest eyes he’s ever seen peeking through a curtain of artfully side-swept bangs. The stranger grins and nods towards the bar interior.

“Shall we?”

Gepard stands stiffly, glancing uncertainly between Bert, the busy interior, and the stranger looking expectantly at him. The stranger finally sighs and puts a hand on Gepard’s shoulder, guiding him inside.

“Sorry about Bert. He can be a bit…unaccepting,” the stranger whispers into Gepard’s ear, making him shiver violently. Gepard leans away from the man’s lips, but it only serves to press his shoulder more firmly against the man’s hand.

“Thank you for your assistance,” Gepard chokes out lamely.

The stranger scrutinizes him with surprising intensity, which, for some reason, makes his knees weak. Gepard averts his gaze, but not before seeing the man’s lips quirk up into a smirk. The man spares him by saying nothing and nudging him gently towards the bar, where a petite, dark-haired woman sits looking at them with visible interest.

“Found some fresh meat, brother? You have impeccable taste,” the woman coos as they approach.

The man plops himself casually onto the stool beside the woman. “Blondie here was being harassed by our good friend Bert. You know me, always helping the little guy out.”

The woman giggles. “He doesn't seem like much of a ‘little guy’, but that's how you like it, isn't it?”

They both turn to look at Gepard, and Gepard stiffens. The woman raises her brow. “Well, ‘little guy’? Are you going to sit down?”

The man pats the stool beside him, opposite the woman. “Don’t worry, I won’t bite. Unless you want me to.”

The man winks. Gepard grits his teeth, fighting back the red threatening to flood his face. He briefly considers sitting beside the woman instead, but the cunning smile on her face raises Gepard’s hackles more than the man’s insouciant grin, so Gepard carefully lowers himself onto the stool beside the man.

The moment Gepard sits down, a glass of amber liquid slides to a stop in front of him. Gepard catches it and looks up, startled.

“Hey, I-I didn’t order this drink,” Gepard calls out to the retreating bartender, voice fading as the bartender pointedly ignores him. Gepard clutches the beer hesitantly, looking to the man beside him in askance. The man just waves his hand in the air lazily.

“On the house, for Bert’s friends,” the man explains.

Gepard frowns. “I am definitely not Bert’s friend.”

“Ah, but you’re a friend of a friend of Bert’s, and that’s practically the same thing,” the man replies cheerfully, snapping his fingers.

Gepard squints. “I’m not your friend, either.”

On the man’s other side, the woman snorts a laugh. The man just groans and puts his head into his hand. “Oh, come on! You, too, Blondie? What’s a guy like me gotta do to make friends around here?”

The man’s theatrics, exaggerated as they are, begin to make Gepard feel guilty. He folds away his anxious, untrusting thoughts and digs for a sincere apology. “I’m sorry. That was rude of me. I’m grateful that you helped me, even when you didn’t have to. I’m open to getting to know you better, if you’ll forgive my rudeness.”

Gepard winces at the clumsiness of his words. His cheeks warm at the strange looks that both the man and the woman regard him with. He returns his gaze to his amber drink refracting prettily under the bar’s moody lighting, silently reciting Serval’s breathing exercises to calm his tense shoulders.

 “Why so serious?” the woman finally snickers. “Someone needs to work on his sense of humor.”

Before Gepard’s shoulders can clench even more, the man tuts scoldingly. “Not everyone shares your avant-garde sense of humor, my dear. Why don't you leave our new friend alone?”

The woman scoffs. “How boring. Fine. We’ll play by your script.”

Gepard looks up to catch the man and the woman staring at each other, sharing some intense, silent conversation that Gepard is not privy to. Gepard is forgotten. As if drawn by a magnet, his eyes drift down the elegant cut of the man’s jaw, down the hollow of his sternum, down the swell of his triceps exposed by his rolled-up sleeves. A flash of green at his peripherals snaps Gepard’s eyes up to the sight of the man now looking probingly at him, and Gepard jerks his gaze back to the glass in his hands.

The silence is suffocating, so Gepard tries, “I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name.”

The man opens his mouth, but the woman quickly interjects, “Ast Rickley. His name is Ast Rickley.”

“Yep, that's me, Ast Rickley,” Rickley agrees easily. “And my sister here is Deline Cion.”

“See-on?” Gepard asks.

“See-on,” Cion repeats, nodding. “C-I-O-N. See-on.”

“It’s my pleasure to meet you, Ast Rickley, Deline Cion,” Gepard says formally and extends his hand. He falters when all Rickley and Cion do is share an amused glance with each other. Finally, Rickley takes his hand and turns to face it palm down. He leans in and, to Gepard’s mortification, presses a kiss to the back of Gepard’s hand.

“And what might your name be, noble sir?” Rickley queries with a flourish.

Gepard winces and pulls back to hover over his drink. “Is it that obvious that I'm a noble?” he evades.

Rickley smiles teasingly. “Our eyes are trained. We wouldn't be able to tell otherwise.”

Gepard doesn't know how to respond. He doesn't know if that playful twinkle in Rickley's eyes is laughing with him or at him. He looks around for anything that might tell him what to do next. He eyes the untouched beer cradled between his hands and suddenly feels very rude.

“Could I get you a drink?” Gepard tries. 

Rickley quirks a brow. Gepard is suddenly overwhelmed with dread. Was it presumptuous to assume Rickley would want a drink? Was it insulting to offer to pay? Did simply reciprocating a kind gesture mean more than he intended?

“Just him? Do I get a drink, too?” Cion whines.

Gepard startles and looks at her. “Oh, yes. I'm sorry, yes. I'd be happy to get both of you a drink.”

Cion giggles. “Oh, forget it. I'm gonna catch some air. Have fun, you two!”

Cion springs up, meeting Rickley's eyes once more as she prances past the bar and out the tavern. Gepard tenses as he's left alone with Rickley, who turns away from the door to set those shadowed green eyes back on Gepard.

“So kind of you, Blondie! I'll take a Moscow Mule,” Rickley exclaims.

Gepard hides from that green stare by waving the bartender down. His hand fumbles when he hands his shield to the bartender. When the bartender returns with the drink, Gepard doesn't look at Rickley as he slides the glass towards him. A nudge to his side startles him into looking back at the man.

“To new friends.” Rickley raises his glass with a wink.

“To new friends,” Gepard mirrors.

Their glasses clink. Gepard stares at Rickley's hooded gaze and he tilts his head back, fizzy, acidic flavor saturating his mouth. A bead of liquid settles at the corner of Rickley's mouth before the man's tongue suddenly flicks it away. Gepard looks up. He meets green eyes. He snaps his gaze away, caught once again.

“So why this hole in the wall, Blondie?” Rickley hums. “There's a number of classy bars closer to the Administrative District that might be more to your liking.”

Gepard considers answering honestly. He considers admitting that his ex-fiancée recently began a courtship with a man from another noble family, a man whom she likes much more than she ever did Gepard. That this news reminded Father of Gepard’s own failed engagement four years ago. That Gepard was too weak for Father’s cold, silent disappointment, so weak that he ran all the way to Backwater Pass.

Instead, Gepard wipes the condensation from his glass. “I just wanted to try something new,” he says vaguely, lamely. He does not say that “something new” is an understatement. That it isn't just being in Backwater Pass that was new. That being in a seedy bar at all is new. That drinking beer at all is new. That nightlife in the Administrative District is not an option when at any moment, someone who knows his family might see him doing—doing—

Doing what exactly? Drink cheap beer instead of champagne? Talk to strangers? He's killed Fragmentum monsters in much more appalling acts, yet the same people who would eye him for venturing into a dive bar would praise him for his bloodshed.

A less innocent option crosses his mind, and Gepard shudders. He risks a glance at Rickley, just to flinch and look down when it becomes apparent that the man's gaze has not left him at all. At the edges of his vision, Gepard sees Rickley's lips curl into a dangerous grin. Gepard's heart begins to pound.

“You've come to the right man, Blondie! Ast Rickley is great at introducing friends to new experiences. If you're here for a good time”—Rickley's voice lowers—“I'm happy to oblige.”

A thigh presses against his under the table. Is Rickley propositioning him? Of course he is. Gepard's sheltered, not stupid. The tall, lanky man with dark blue hair, endlessly green eyes, and an easy smile is laying an opportunity on the table, and Gepard has to respond. Gepard doesn't know how to respond. He shouldn't respond. He shouldn't be drinking in a bar, on the cusp of something with an incredibly attractive man whom he met only a few awkward minutes ago.

“I,” Gepard says. “I'm here for a good time.”

Rickley's grin is attractive, but not nice. The man leans in closer, and Gepard finds himself leaning in as well. “So how much of tonight so far was 'something new'?”

Gepard hesitates, then gives up his pride. “Almost everything. I've never been to a bar before this.”

“Are you underage?”

Gepard scowls. “No, of course not. I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

Gepard doesn't realize that Rickley had closed off until the man relaxes. “So you're a sheltered goody-two-shoes, and you're counting on your pal Ast Rickley to change that for you.”

“I don't appreciate the way you worded that.”

“Well, I appreciate you telling me what you like and don't like, both here and in other contexts,” Rickley says with an easy smile.

Gepard raises a brow. “What other contexts?”

Rickley hums, taking a swig. “Friendly contexts. Very friendly contexts.”

“I thought friends don’t flirt with each other,” Gepard dares. He and Matilda certainly didn't.

Rickley sighs. “What boring friends do you have, Blondie?” 

Gepard almost leaps out of his chair when a hand touches his thigh and begins drawing circles on it. Gepard asks almost deliriously, “Are we friends?” 

Rickley leans in. His lips brush Gepard’s ear, his breath tickling the side of Gepard’s neck. “I think we’re more than friends, Blondie.”

Gepard trembles at Rickley's words. Rickley's cheshire grin widens. It's devastatingly attractive. Gepard doesn't bother hiding his stare. His inexperience, his awkwardness, his family's expectations all suddenly seem incredibly distant. Is this what alcohol does? 

Gepard sees his reflection in Rickley’s half-lidded eyes. His flushed, off-kilter face is wrapped by the green of Rickley’s desire. Gepard likes it. He likes it a lot.

“I like your eyes. They're beautiful,” he says.

A hand settles on his waist, burning his skin through his coat. “Wanna get out of here, Blondie?”

Rickley is asking the wrong question. He shouldn't ask whether Gepard wants to, but whether he should. Whether he even could. Whether he's ready for whatever will come with the night.

But it's too late. Like a man tied to a trolley, Gepard can only go forward. Forward he goes, leaning into those green eyes, closer and closer, until the heat of the man's breath ghosts on his lips, until he's so close that he can't look into those green eyes anymore. Their lips press together chastely. When Gepard pulls back and opens his eyes, Rickley's grin has morphed into something smug.

“I'll take that as a yes.”

—

At first, Rickley suggests that they go to Gepard’s room, which happens to be a suite in the Landau estate. When Gepard can’t stop himself from noticeably balking, Rickley quickly pivots and instead suggests his own upstairs room at Bert’s very own establishment.

“This place is also a hotel?” Gepard asks, surprised.

Rickley laughs. “Hotel is a very generous description, but yes, I’ve been staying here in a spare room with my sister.”

Hotel is indeed a lavish description for the modest room, the threadbare carpet, and the rowdy noise of merriment from downstairs that shakes the nightstand every now and then. It’s a far cry from the Grand Goethe Hotel, which is Gepard’s only frame of reference, but it’s perfectly suited for what will happen next.

Gepard doesn’t let himself think. He throws off his coat and shoves Rickley onto the bed. Rickley plummets onto the creaky mattress with wide eyes and a startled laugh, an expression more real than any other that Gepard has seen tonight. Gepard's pulse quickens. He wonders how many more expressions he can pull from this unknowable man.

“Woah there, Blondie! Someone's eager,” Rickley huffs.

“Are we doing this or not?” Gepard huffs impatiently.

Rickley giggles. “Where's this sudden gusto coming from, shy guy?”

From alcohol. From adrenaline. From the knowledge that if he falters now, he'll cower and run away. He is a soldier on the frontline, facing an insurmountable enemy. Fear is not an option.

Gepard ignores the tendrils of anxiety clawing at his chest as he crawls atop Rickley. “Tell me what you want,” the soldier in him demands.

Rickley laughs hysterically. His grin grows sloppy and wide. His eyes are glittering. Rickley throws his arms around Gepard's lower back, his hands squeezing the globes of Gepard's bottom. A man's groping my ass, some distant part of Gepard thinks.

“I want my hands on your cock,” Rickley purrs.

Gepard feels his stomach drop when he feels a hand wander to the front of his trousers. He shoves the feeling away by surging forward, capturing the man's lips with his own. He misjudges, and their teeth clack together painfully. Rickley laughs, a puff of air against Gepard's mouth, before he tilts his head, and their mouths slot together like puzzle pieces.

Gepard feels himself hardening as soft lips slide against his and a hand traces circles around his bulge. It's incredible. It's terrifying. Gepard pushes himself harder into Rickley's mouth. He loses himself in kissing that sly grin off the man's face, into desperately running away from the panic bubbling in his stomach. It takes a shove to pry Gepard away from those lips.

“Woah, woah, woah!” Rickley exclaims. “What's the rush? Slow down.”

Gepard realizes that the man is no longer teasing the bulge of his pants. Disappointment and relief swirl in a nauseating cocktail inside his stomach as he stares down at glittering green eyes, swollen and shiny lips, and a devastatingly attractive face.

“I'm sorry,” Gepard says, half-hard and abashed. “Was I too rough?”

Rickley laughs. He seems to do that a lot. “That was as hot as Qlipoth's balls, babe. But my mouth can only take so much of a beating.”

Babe. Babe. Babe. The last time he heard that word was when Matilda awkwardly called him “babe” two months into their engagement, then pointedly never said it again. The word meant nothing to him then. It lights a fire in his chest now.

“Don't be crass,” Gepard says, desperate to stop thinking about his one and only relationship.

Rickley smirks and leans up to slap a wet kiss on the underside of Gepard's jaw. “What do you think you signed up for tonight?”

Arousal. Terror. Inadequacy. Escapism. Gepard has no idea what he signed up for. He leans in again, more conscientiously this time, and Rickley eagerly meets him halfway.

The slower pace does feel more comfortable, to Gepard’s surprise. His racing thoughts begin to settle, and the blood begins to flow straight to his dick. Gepard makes a muffled moan when Rickley tangles a leg with Gepard’s, the movement creating a sudden, delicious friction against his crotch. He breaks apart to gasp brokenly and stares down at the half-lidded expression of Rickley underneath him. A noise escapes the back of his throat, almost a growl, and he tangles his hand into Rickley’s hair and pulls the man’s mouth back onto his. Gepard devours him, swallowing the sweet moans and grunts that he teases from Rickley's mouth, but it's not enough. He wants more. Fuck, he wants this man.

Gepard is startled out of his desire when he's flipped on his back. Rickley crawls over him like a predator pinning down its prey, his wanton green stare making Gepard's cock throb painfully. Gepard's heart races as Rickley pulls Gepard's sweater up, exposing his bare skin to the cold air. Rickley whistles as he trails his hands across Gepard's body, chasing Gepard’s skin as Gepard clenches his stomach unwittingly.

“Has anyone told you you’re incredibly hot, Blondie?”

Rickley leans down. Gepard gasps when he feels fluttery kisses against his sternum, down between his pecs, trailing through the planes of his abs, past his belly button. He's straining painfully against his fly when Rickley reaches the edge of Gepard's trousers, and Gepard can't stop himself from thrusting towards the man's face. He gasps needily when Rickley dodges backwards, tutting teasingly.

“Ah, ah, ah, who said you were allowed to do that?” Rickley giggles. “I'll have you know, I have a very delicate face. Can't have random men punching it with their dicks, not even gorgeous blondes like you.”

Gepard covers his eyes with his forearm. He's never been this embarrassingly hard in his life.

“You talk too much,” Gepard grits out.

Gepard freezes when his fly unzips. “Shall I put my mouth to better use, then?”

A finger trails down his boxers, right over his bulge. Gepard trembles, but he can’t bring himself to pull away. He's paralyzed, an animal playing dead in the face of a predator.

“You're so hard.” Rickley sounds pleased.

Cold air rushes to the head of his cock as Rickley pulls his boxers down. He tenses when a hand gently pulls his arm away from his face.

“What’s wrong, darling? You’re hiding from me,” Rickley coos sweetly, staring down ravenously at Gepard.

Gepard bites his lips, desperately holding back the pathetic sound trying to escape his throat. Rickley watches the movement with dark eyes. The low chuckle Rickley makes goes straight to Gepard’s groin.

“There's the shy guy I met at the bar.”

Then he swallows Gepard's dick whole.

Gepard yells a muffled shout. His hips jerk up involuntarily, but he’s pinned down with surprising strength by Rickley’s sculpted arms. Heat surrounds his shaft. His cockhead hits something soft and malleable—is that the back of Rickley’s throat?—before Rickley pulls his lips back to the crown of Gepard’s dick and sucks. Pathetic sounds Gepard didn’t even know he could make bubble from his throat. He bites his lips harder and tastes a metallic wetness on his tongue.

A wet something—a tongue?!—trails up and down his shaft teasingly. Rickley presses the flat of his tongue firmly against the bottom of Gepard’s shaft and slides it up torturously slowly. When the tongue reaches the rim of Gepard’s cockhead, it flicks. Gepard seizes, but Rickley pins him down again. Rickley’s cruel tongue draws figure-eights on the tip of Gepard’s cock, and Gepard distantly realizes that the mortifyingly whorish gasps filling the room are from his very own lips.

The tongue gives way to a leisurely bob, Rickley’s mouth moving up and down on his cock far too slowly. Gepard’s cock throbs greedily, pulsing as it leaks precum into Rickley’s mouth. The thought of painting the man’s sinful mouth with his ecstasy makes something in Gepard snap, and he begins snapping his hips into Rickley’s mouth, even as some part of Gepard screams at himself to not hurt Rickley.

But Rickley doesn’t even flinch. He releases his death grip on Gepard’s hips, letting Gepard freely fuck down his throat. Loud, wet slaps and choked grunts sound from Rickley’s mouth, and Gepard pushes himself up to look at Rickley, simultaneously concerned and enthralled at the thought of seeing the man take his dick so easily. He meets the man’s gorgeous green eyes, sees the stretch of his lips around Gepard’s thrusting cock and the saliva dribbling down his chin, and Gepard feels the last of his sanity break.

Gepard throws himself back onto the bed. He digs his palms into his eyes until stars explode across the backs of his eyes. He wants to scream. He wants to cry. Ast Rickley is beautiful, stunning, and masculine. He looks nothing like a woman Gepard is supposed to marry.

When Gepard dated Matilda at eighteen, she once pulled him onto her bed, yanked his pants down, and wrapped her mouth around his cock. It had done nothing for him, just as the word “babe” had done nothing for him, just as Matilda's doe eyes and delicate curves had done nothing to help him forget that this woman was the wife his father wanted him to have. That even if his father approved of Matilda as a partner, Gepard would be flayed to his core if his father found out that he had his dick inside the mouth of a woman who was not yet his wife. He could not forget, and he could not want her, and eventually, she distanced herself from him with the knowledge that he would never satisfy her.

He could not forget then, and even now, fucking the hot, sinful mouth of the most attractive man he's ever met, he does not forget. He remembers Matilda. He remembers his father. He remembers the guards. He remembers his duty. He remembers.

Gepard doesn't realize that Rickley's ministrations have stopped until a hand tugs his palms from his face. He stares wide-eyed at the inquisitive green eyes above him, watching as the man's eyes widen with something alarmed, then empty like a bucket being drained.

“You alright there, Blondie?” Rickley asks cautiously.

Gepard breathes shallowly. “Yes. Why?”

Rickley leans back, straightening himself into a straddle around Gepard's legs. “Let's just say Blondie Junior doesn't seem so happy to see me anymore.”

Gepard stares blankly. The euphemism finally registers, and he lurches upright, pulling his legs out from under Rickley and twisting his hips away. His shoulders tense. He can't look at Rickley.

“Sorry about that,” he says uselessly.

Rickley laughs behind him, but it sounds hollow. “Don't worry about it, Blondie. Alcohol can do that to ya. Lucky for you, I'm a pretty easy-going guy.”

Gepard swallows. “Thanks,” he mutters, having nothing better to say. He tugs his sweater down, buttons up his trousers, and wipes the blood from his lips. He waits for Rickley to break the silence, to berate him for his inability to be a proper lover. Rickley doesn't. Instead, Gepard hears rustling sheets and the distinctive snap of a lighter being lit. Smoke wafts through the dingy room. Gepard breathes it in, letting its acrid sting dull the tension swirling in his heart.

“Is your throat okay?” Gepard finally manages, still looking away.

“Hm? Oh, from the throatfucking?” Gepard flinches at the bluntness of Rickley’s words. “Don’t worry about me, Blondie. I’ve taken worse.”

Something ugly prickles inside Gepard at Rickley's words, at the thought of other men abusing Rickley’s throat. He shakes the feeling away to focus on the man lounging comfortably on the bed before him, seemingly unaffected by Gepard’s inability to follow through.

“I think you're very attractive,” Gepard says.

Rickley chuckles. “Well, thanks, sweet pea. You're quite the looker yourself.”

“That's not—” Gepard exhales deeply through his nose. Rickley's blasé expression is a poor companion to the pitiful look on Gepard's own face. “I'm trying to say that that had nothing to do with you. I just…don't work right, sometimes.”

Rickley raises a brow and slowly drags his eyes up and down Gepard's figure. “On the contrary, I think you work perfectly well.”

Gepard shivers. He shakes it away. “I'm not saying this to pity myself. I'm just sorry if I've made you feel like you were inadequate in any way.”

You're the most attractive man I've ever met, Gepard doesn't say.

Rickley blinks slowly. His mouth curls around the cigarette pressed against his lips. “You're too sweet, honeybunch.”

Something is wrong with Gepard. Rickley’s words are sweet, but for some reason, they don’t feel like a compliment. Gepard stares at his calloused hands curled in his lap. He sighs.

“I suppose I should head back to the Administrative District.”

Rickley raises a brow and puffs a cloud of smoke in the air. “You sure a pretty boy like you will be safe walking all that way at night?”

Gepard huffs wryly as he pulls himself off the bed and grabs his coat from its lonely spot on the carpet. “I think I’ll be fine. In any case, I took the trolley.”

Gepard shucks on his coat and pats it down, habitually smoothing out its wrinkles. Something about that action makes him pause and frown down at his clothes.

“Something wrong, dear?” Rickley pipes up when Gepard stands frozen for too long.

Yes, something’s wrong. Gepard falls back on his training, cataloging everything that should be in place one by one. Is he physically well? Yes. Mentally well? Well enough. Prepared for the cold? He’s been through worse. Is his gear ready? No, he’s off-duty. He has no gear. He should have nothing on him except the clothes on his back and the shield in his wallet—

His wallet.

Gepard pats his coat pocket, where he keeps his wallet. His heart drops when finds nothing there. He begins patting down the rest of his body, around his pants pocket, digging through the inner pockets of his coat. When he feels no bump of leather, he starts scanning the ground in circles. The scuffed carpet reveals nothing. Gepard's pulse begins to race. 

“Is something wrong?”

Gepard snaps his head up. Rickley's green eyes bore into his. Gepard forces out a chuckle. “No-nothing's wrong. I just seem to have misplaced my wallet, so I might not be able to take the trolley after all. But that’s alright. I don’t mind a night walk every now and then.”

It’s true. Gepard has no qualms about walking at night. That’s not the problem—not that there should be one from Rickley’s perspective. Still, Rickley stares for far too long. Gepard turns away and begins searching the room, unwilling to deal with Rickley’s invasive looks on top of his missing wallet.

He’s in the middle of reopening the nightstand drawer for the third time when Rickley asks, “What does it look like?”

“Brown,” Gepard answers absently. “With a snow bear keychain.” Which Lynx gave him for his birthday.

A jingle snaps his head up. Gepard's eyes widen when he sees a plastic snow bear dangling in front of him.

“Is this your wallet?” Rickley asks, hovering over him. 

Gepard jerks upright and nods stiffly. “Yes. That's it.” He takes the wallet and holds it tightly. “Where did you find it?”

“Under the bed, silly. It must have flown away when you threw your clothes off in such a hurry,” Rickley teases.

Gepard blushes on reflex, but the officer in him frowns. Something seems wrong with this explanation. His coat pockets are usually buttoned closed, precisely to prevent his wallet from falling out accidentally. He looks at Rickley, who looks back with steady green eyes. Gepard feels the paranoia drain out of him, and exhaustion swells in its place.

“Thank you so much, Ast,” Gepard says sincerely. 

Rickley looks blankly at him. “Ast?”

Gepard falters. “Sorry, Rickley. Should I not have called you that?”

Rickley pats Gepard's shoulder. “Not at all, pal. I think it's safe to say we're on a first-name basis by now.”

Gepard blushes, but instead of looking away, he allows a small smile. “Something something new friends?”

For a second, Rickley’s expression is unreadable. Gepard feels embarrassment wash over him before Rickley breaks the moment with a wink. “Now you’re catching on.”

Gepard tries to smile in response, but something about Rickley's response makes him look away and fiddle with his coat. He slips his wallet into his pocket, buttons it closed, and clears his throat pointlessly. “I should—I should get going.”

Rickley buries his cigarette into the ashtray on the nightstand and leans back against the wall. “Don’t sound too eager, Blondie.”

Gepard winces. “I-I just—Thank you for tonight. For your patience. And for everything.”

Rickley smirks. “My pleasure.”

Gepard swallows. “I’ll go now.”

He stays still, despite his words, taking in the sight of Rickley relaxed against the bedroom wall, partially-coiffed hair draped teasingly over the shadowed green of his eyes. Gepard then walks out the room. He walks down the stairs. He walks out the tavern, ignoring the shout of Rickley’s sister, whose name he can’t remember. He doesn’t stop walking until he reaches the trolley station, and as he slows he realizes that his heart is pounding and his lungs are ballooning as if he’d run a marathon.

The trolley has minutes before it arrives, so Gepard unbuttons his coat pocket and pulls out his wallet. He thumbs through its contents, itemizing with the methodicalness of a soldier. His shield. The photo of his sisters. His ID card. He digs the card out of his wallet and stares at it, losing himself to the hypothetical of leaving it in a dodgy bar in Backwater Pass, landing it in the wrong hands, and drawing a scandalous line straight back to Officer Gepard Landau, the son of the captain of the Silvermane Guards.

Some self-preservation instinct stops him before he can imagine Father's reaction. He thinks about Ast Rickley instead, his playful quips and his patience with Gepard's stiltedness. He thinks about Rickley’s inquisitive green eyes and his effortless attractiveness. He thinks about how lucky he is that Rickley so easily found Gepard’s missing wallet when Gepard himself practically tore up the room to find it.

The ring of the approaching trolley jolts Gepard out of his thoughts. He shoves his card back into his wallet and remembers himself. What is he doing, daydreaming about a complete stranger? This is the last he'll see of Ast Rickley, and this is the last he’ll make the mistake of indulging in pleasures he shouldn't.

Gepard climbs into the trolley, shaking his head as if the memories of this night were nothing more than dust on his shoulders. It's time for Officer Gepard Landau to return to his duties.

Chapter Text

That would indeed be the last Gepard saw of Ast Rickley. But one year later, Gepard has the misfortune of meeting one Sampo Koski, instead.

Gepard's induction into lieutenancy launches him right into an elaborate web of petty crime. First, droves of toilet paper are purchased by a Mrs. Karen under rumors of an impending lockdown, just to be resold at quadruple the price. Second, whispers of an unreleased Mechanical Fever album incite a frenzy that ends with a manic noble giving tens of thousands of shield to a Mr. Hollywood for a fitness test audio recording. Third and worst of all, a completely false rumor spreads among high society that the Landau son fancies redheads. Gepard suffers a horrible few weeks of red-wigged women flirting with him before Pela discovers that the vast majority of wigs were purchased from a Ms. Ginger, who conveniently disappears.

In the subsequent weeks, Pela traces each pseudonym's thread back to a single name: Sampo Koski, an elusive individual who does not exist in any records in Qlipoth Fort. Rising discontent among naive but influential victims forces the Guards to divert their resources into capturing the scam artist, but operation after operation fails. The shadows under Pela’s eyes become more and more pronounced, and Gepard grows more and more hesitant around her rapidly shortening temper, before—finally—Pela lands a breakthrough.

“The Limestein engagement party,” Pela snaps when she catches Gepard’s squadron on their return to Qlipoth Fort.

Gepard stumbles, almost dropping Earthwork. “The Limestein engagement party?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Pela growls irritably. “I know you’re invited. I’m certain Sampo Koski is going to be there.”

Gepard straightens. His discomfort around the party wars with the excitement of securing a lead, but he’s rescued from responding when a grizzled man, his downturned mouth framed by noble wrinkles and silver hairs, steps forward from the squadron.

Captain Leonard Landau gazes down sternly at Pela. “What is the situation, Officer Sergeyevna?”

At the captain’s direct address, Pela reigns in her moodiness. “Rumor has it that not every member of the noble class is happy about Matilda Limestein’s and Victor Herrero’s engagement. I have reason to believe that there may be saboteurs attending the party, and I believe that Koski may be one of them.”

The premise makes sense. The Limesteins are one of the wealthiest and most influential noble families in Belobog, while the Herreros are a minor house that clings to relevance through a seat on the Architects’ adjudication panel. The Limesteins themselves likely would have preferred an engagement to a more notable family, like the Rands or the Landaus—but Gepard painfully remembers how well that went.

Father is not pleased with Pela's information. “These are hefty accusations against the noble families of Belobog.”

“I present no accusation,” Pela responds flatly. “My sources tell me nothing of whom these saboteurs are affiliated with. I only know that some of these saboteurs have been complicit in Koski’s past crimes, and that an engagement party between two noble families fits our profile of Koski’s targets.”

“And how is this any different from the various other opportunities that have ‘fit our profile of Koski’s targets’?” the Captain retorts. “The Silvermane Guards have diverted many resources from the frontline following your leads to dead ends, Intelligence Officer.”

“The difference is that you and your son have an ‘in’.” Pela’s tone is steady, even as Gepard tenses for what comes next. “Lieutenant Landau and Ms. Limestein were once promised to each other, were they not?”

Pela is nothing but factual, but her bluntness makes Gepard’s body tighten as if ready to salute or bow at any moment. He waits for his father to make some remark about his failed engagement, but Captain Landau does nothing but nod thoughtfully.

“Let’s discuss this in a strategy meeting. Intelligence Officer, soldiers, you are dismissed.”

Gepard salutes along with Pela and the guards in his squadron. He slinks after the dispersing crowd, but is stopped in his tracks when an arm cuts off his escape.

“Watch your posture, Lieutenant,” Father grumbles.

Gepard’s spine straightens painfully, and he looks his father in the eye. Staring into his father’s eyes is like staring into the sun, but Gepard forces himself not to look away. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

“Stay vigilant, Son. Our relations with the Limesteins are important. We’re fortunate that they’ve remained friendly even after we were forced to break off your engagement.” Gepard flinches. “Do take care to keep things that way.”

“Yes, sir,” Gepard forces out.

Father walks away, the metal clicks of his footsteps drowned away by the pulse racing through Gepard’s ears. Gepard does not know what it means that his body is more tense under his Father’s gaze than it ever was on the frontline of the Fragmentum.

—

The engagement party is important to both the Silvermane Guards and the Landaus, so even though Gepard hates parties, even though Gepard avoids mingling, even though Gepard dreads facing his ex-fiancée and the man she happily promised herself to, Gepard digs up the suit buried in his closet, dry cleans it, and makes himself presentable.

He’s not brave enough to go straight to the party, though. He hides in Serval’s workshop for as long as he can, staring morosely at his dying First Snows while Serval putters around. 

“You shouldn’t let Father pressure you so much,” Serval remarks as she tinkers with a machine. “Anyone with working eyes can see that you and Matilda had no chemistry. It's on him and Mother for forcing you into an engagement that was never going to work out in the first place.”

“Father doesn’t pressure me,” Gepard says stiffly, ignoring Serval’s disbelieving snort. “And my past engagement is irrelevant. I just don’t want to go to a party and socialize.”

“Have you considered getting disowned, baby bro?”

Gepard buries his face into his hands. “Please don’t joke about that.”

Serval laughs unsympathetically, but she makes up for it with a quick hug. “Since that’s not an option, you’ll just have to face your duty, Geppie.”

Serval says “duty” like a slur, but Gepard dutifully steps away from his First Snows and dutifully pulls his coat over his shoulders. He waves bye to his sister and steps out of the Neverwinter Workshop, walking towards the Limestein estate with the unquestioning obedience of a soldier.

For the first time in five years, Gepard steps foot through the grand Limestein estate gates. An elaborately tiled stone path winds up to a stately manor, whose artisanal brick walls and elegant spires paint a beautiful backdrop for the crowds of nobles walking the path. Geomarrow sculptures decorate the path’s sides, and in the distance, a sizable garage displays an impressive collection of buggies of various makes and models. It’s every bit as grandiose as Gepard remembers, a stark contrast to the spartan practicality of the Landau estate.

When Gepard reaches the manor doors, he presents his invitation to the guard, who doesn’t even glance at it when she sees his blond hair and blue eyes. Walking through the doors is like crossing into the past. Gepard walks past the sitting room where he once waited for Matilda to descend for their dates. He walks through the hall where Matilda’s older brother Wallace once threw a potato at him. He walks past the flowerpots by the stained windows where he and Matilda once made half-hearted attempts at growing Ball Peonies. The ghosts of the past threaten to drown him, so he grits his teeth and clears his mind. The festivities are being held in the ballroom, so he goes there.

He enters the ballroom, and immediately, too many familiar faces turn to eye him. Gepard's hackles rise against his will. He doesn't know if those keen expressions are truly too interested, or if his paranoia is rearing its head. Gepard hurriedly slips between swathes of ornate dresses and classy furs, marching towards the posted Silvermane Guards with what he hopes is an air of unapproachable authority. To his dismay, he's stopped in his tracks by an unpleasantly familiar voice.

“Lieutenant Landau, how nice of you to grace us with your presence again. Did you tire of our grand estate once you got bored of my sister?”

That snobby, reedy voice… Gepard breathes deeply, straightens his back, and turns around with a polite smile.

“It’s been a while, Wallace. Please extend my thanks to your family for welcoming me to the Limestein estate once more.”

“That's Lord Wallace Cambridge Limestein to you,” Wallace sneers, glaring down at him through his spectacles. “Extend your thanks? Empty words from a man who abandoned my sister as soon as he could. But I understand. I, too, would be intimidated by the responsibility of marrying into the great Limestein family.”

Gepard does not want to argue with a man a decade his senior about a relationship he can barely bring himself to think about, but before he can flee the conversation, a manicured hand bearing an elegant ring brings a drink into his view.

“It’s lovely to see you, Gepard,” Matilda says. “Wallace, go away.”

Gepard’s stomach drops. Matilda stands before him with a well-tailored man at her side, her arm outstretched with a glass of wine. Gepard woodenly takes the proffered drink as Wallace scowls at his sister and sniffs, “I'm defending your honor, Matilda.”

“Thank you, but I don't need it. Why don’t you defend your own?” Matilda responds drily. 

Wallace glares petulantly at Matilda but thankfully says nothing more. He gives Gepard a nasty look, then stomps away in a huff.

Free from the snobbier Limestein, Gepard sips at the drink and looks somewhere past Matilda’s shoulder. Between the gaps of her glittering Geomarrow earrings, a waiter flits between groups of nobles who peek at them with prying eyes. Gepard can't see much else of her staring past her shoulder, but he supposes that she must look very beautiful right now.

“I apologize for my brother,” Matilda says. “I’m afraid he hasn’t changed since you last saw him.”

Gepard dutifully cracks a smile, but he still cannot look her in the eye. “He’s just protective of you. I can understand that.”

A moment passes as Matilda seems to wait for something, before she finally sighs. “Gepard, please meet my fiancé, Victor.”

Gepard raises his gaze. It’s easier to look the brown-haired, bespectacled Victor Herrero in the eye, even with their shared history with Matilda. He extends a hand, which Victor clasps.

“A pleasure to meet you,” Gepard says sincerely.

“The pleasure is mine,” Victor returns. “I’ve heard many good things about you from Matilda.”

Gepard falters. He scans through Victor’s words for any sign of sarcasm, but Victor’s expression is serious. “You’re too kind,” Gepard mumbles awkwardly. He desperately scans the room for anything that might save him from his own awkwardness, latching onto the movements of the waiter as if watching fireflies dance in the night sky.

“Gepard, let me be frank,” Matilda says. Gepard jerks at the very words she spoke to him when she broke up with him five years ago. “Victor and I want to thank you for coming. We understand that you’re not here just for pleasure.”

Gepard’s focus sharpens. He nods stiffly. “I am as much a Silvermane Guard as I am a Landau. Please let me know if there’s anything I can do to ensure that the party goes smoothly.”

Matilda worries at her lip. It’s one of the only expressions Gepard can read on her, a tell of anxiety. When words seem to fail her, Victor steps forward in her place.

“Allow me to provide some context. You must be aware of the Herrero family’s namesake, right?”

Gepard blinks, thrown by the sudden quiz. “You’re referring to the Herrero ring, Mr. Victor?”

“Yes, the Herrero ring, crafted by our progenitor and the eponym of our very surname ‘Herrero’—blacksmith. Up until now, my family has always passed the ring down to our sons and daughters, keeping it within our family.”

Up until now. Gepard’s eyes flicker to Matilda’s left hand, to the elegant ring on her finger. He looks at Victor in shock.

“Is that…?” he trails off, jaw agape.

Victor nods solemnly.

The Herrero family ring is not a wedding band. It is a one-of-a-kind masterpiece crafted by the very founder of the Herrero house herself, bearing a centerstone chiseled from an unknown mineral that has never since been found on Belobog. To the Herreros, the ring is more than a priceless object; it’s a symbol of the Herrero family's very noble legacy itself. Gifting it away—and to a more powerful family at that—is almost blasphemous.

A million thoughts race through Gepard’s head. A gift so valuable has to be controversial. Gepard had assumed that the Limesteins and their allies were the reluctant party in the engagement, given the look of Victor “marrying up”, but now, it's evident that the Herreros would practically lose as much as they would gain through this engagement. Suspicions fly in Gepard's head, but the weight of prying eyes silences him. Instead, he gives voice to the only truth he learned through Victor's admission.

“You must love Matilda very much,” Gepard says softly. 

Victor blinks, seemingly taken aback. He then nods solemnly. “I do.”

Gepard turns to Matilda and finally meets her eyes. “I'm happy for you. If there's anything that troubles you or Mr. Victor, please let me know. The Landaus will do everything in our power to ensure your engagement goes smoothly.”

Matilda curtsies. “Thank you, Gepard.”

When she rises, her expression seems smoother. Victor steps forward with a hand on his heart.

“Matilda and I thank you for your support, Lieutenant.”

Matilda and I. Not the Limesteins and the Herreros, Gepard notes.

The waiter approaches their retinue. Gepard absently places his empty glass on the tray, beside Matilda’s and Victor’s. Matilda curtsies and Victor bows, and a group of congratulatory nobles takes the opportunity to sweep the happy couple away. Gepard is left alone with his troubled thoughts and the weight of inquisitive eyes all around him.

—

Gepard spends as much time as he can standing guard at the charcuterie table, nibbling on crackers and balancing drinks in his hands in an attempt to appear busy. When his loitering finally borders on rude, he takes to marching between the posted Silvermane Guards, speaking to them with all the unapproachable authority of a lieutenant. 

He's exchanging reports with a pair of guards when he catches sight of his father staring down expectantly at him from the upper landing like an overlord. Spine snapping straight, he gives the two guards a polite dismissal before dutifully climbing the stairs.

As soon as he reaches the balcony, Father demands, “I saw you speaking to Ms. Matilda and Mr. Victor earlier. What did you say?”

“She thanked me for coming, and I assured her that the Landaus would ensure that the party goes smoothly,” Gepard replies too quickly. It’s the truth, but the way Father scrutinizes him makes him feel like a liar.

“Anything else to report, Lieutenant?” Father continues, unreadable.

Gepard hesitates. “Mr. Victor has gifted Ms. Matilda the Herrero ring as an engagement gift.”

Like Gepard’s, Father’s expression shutters with shock. “The Herrero family ring? Are you certain? Have you checked that it truly is the Herrero ring?”

Annoyance flares at Father’s skepticism, but Gepard bites it down. “Mr. Victor told me so himself. I see little reason for him to lie about this.”

Father stays silent as he regards Gepard’s information. It makes Gepard tense, as if he had all but spit in his father's face. Whatever he's bracing for never happens, as Father only takes a slow gulp of the wine in his hand.

“Stay vigilant,” Father warns. ”There’s now more at stake than a petty criminal making mischief. We are a valued ally to the Limestein House. Our honor as Landaus is on the line.”

“Yes, sir.” Gepard salutes, relieved to be in complete agreement. Resolute, Gepard leans into the railing beside his father and watches the ballroom floor below.

Time passes. The ballroom crowd thickens as fashionably late nobles make calculated appearances. A waltz begins on the lower floor, where the gentry line up and curtsy to the warm voice of the violins. Gepard watches it all in almost a companionable silence, safe from the social machinations of the dance floor at his reserved father’s side.

The peace is broken eventually. Father clinks his empty glass against the railing in distaste. “Our staff would have taken this glass by now,” he mutters.

On cue, a man clad in a white dress shirt appears with a tray. “Right away, sir,” he says. Gepard twitches, suddenly disturbed. 

“Thank you,” Father returns politely, even as he scowls in annoyance. He places the glass on the tray and turns back to stare over the railing dismissively.

Gepard straightens himself from his lean into the railing. He cranes his neck to follow the waiter's retreating back, unsettled by something he can’t quite place. He watches as the waiter descends the stairs with light, graceful steps. He watches as the waiter approaches another group of partygoers, bowing dutifully as they return their empty glasses. He doesn’t notice how long he stares at the man until a cold voice snaps him out of his trance.

“Lieutenant,” his father snaps. Gepard jerks his gaze away from the waiter.

“Sir.”

“You seem preoccupied, Son.”

Gepard falters, confused. Father only calls him “son” when angry. “I apologize, sir. It won’t happen again.”

Father looks at him coldly. “Ensure that it doesn’t, Lieutenant.”

Gepard doesn't know what he did wrong. He returns his gaze to the lower floor, hoping to see anything that might explain or otherwise distract from his father's unexplained displeasure. All that meets his eye are the circular movements of the gentry below.

It's almost a shock then, when something almost imperceptibly disrupts the perfect rotations on the dance floor. Too early! the ghost of his tyrannical waltz instructor screams in his head, but Gepard frowns and hones in on the movement. It's a ripple of bodies fighting against the current of a crowd. An imperfection. A disturbance.

A couple pushes through the dancing throngs. Matilda and Victor break out to the side of the dance floor, almost stumbling. Matilda clasps Victor’s hand and pulls him to the side. They lean in to whisper to each other, faces unreadable at this distance, but Gepard easily reads it in the rigid lines of their body: panic.

“Father,” Gepard says, back straightening. “Ms. Matilda and Mr. Victor seem to be distressed.”

In that moment, Matilda and Victor look up and catch Gepard’s eye. They hurry towards the stairs, pushing through bodies like a pulse through water.

“Lieutenant,” his father snaps, but the pulse has already reached them. Matilda and Victor climb onto the upper landing, striding hastily toward Gepard and his father.

“Lord Landau. Lieutenant Landau.” Matilda curtsies as if speeding through the motions. “We require your assistance.”

“What’s wrong?” Gepard urges.

Matilda’s face is pale. “My engagement ring—the Herrero ring—has gone missing.”

The gravity of the situation sinks in. The Herrero ring is eight hundred years of heritage to a struggling noble family. To lose such a precious gift… The Limesteins would become public enemies of the Herreros, and Victor and Matilda would be torn apart politically.

“Ms. Matilda, I need you to recall as much as you can,” Captain Landau says firmly. “When did you first notice the ring missing?”

“Just five minutes ago.”

“When do you last remember seeing the ring?”

“I-It was on me when I was talking to Gepard.”

“Can you retrace your steps? Tell me everything you did this evening, from the beginning of this party to now.”

Gepard tunes out Matilda’s and Victor’s responses as his mind begins to race. The unease he couldn’t quite place is swelling. He scans through his memory to pinpoint when exactly he began to feel antsy, but the image of that waiter picking up his father’s glass keeps returning to the forefront of his mind. Why was Father so angry with him when he looked at the waiter? Why was he so preoccupied with the waiter in the first place?

His thoughts return to the light-footed waiter descending the stairs. Approaching another group of nobles as they absently place their glasses on his tray. The complete lack of regard from the nobles as he meanders casually into their space. Gepard thinks back further, to white fabric flitting to and fro while he patrols the party. The ever constant presence of trays and pressed white shirts as he talks to his guards. A ghost of white flickering in the background as he’s accosted by Matilda and Victor.

Gepard’s stomach drops when he realizes. That waiter was the very same one he saw behind Matilda when she last wore the ring.

“It was him!”

A finger pointed to his face snaps him out of his thoughts. An irate Wallace Limestein jabs at his face before Victor hauls him back by the shoulders.

Matilda glowers at her brother. “Wallace, that’s enough! Go back downstairs.”

Wallace struggles against Victor’s grip, but he’s too scrawny. He collapses backwards into Victor’s chest, face red, eyes glaring venomously at Gepard.

“No, stop defending him! Think, Matilda! The last time you had your ring was when you were talking to him. Who else would have a better motive to steal the ring? He’s your ex-fiancé and a Landau! To undermine the Herreros, turn the Limesteins into their enemies, and ruin your engagement all at once? How perfect for Gepard Landau,” Wallace spits.

“That’s enough,” Father growls, his face reddening dangerously. “You will not make baseless accusations against my son.”

Wallace breaks into a loud, furious rant, but Gepard barely registers it. He tunes out his father’s darkening expression, the murmurs that swell around him, the prying eyes that peer hungrily up from the ballroom floor. Instead, he steps away from the commotion, wading through the crowd of vultures to step down the stairs. He stops halfway and just looks. Scans the crowd for a waiter who makes him uneasy.

“—epard! Where do you think you’re going?”

Absently, Gepard recognizes those distant shouts as his father’s, but they leave his mind entirely when his eyes snag on a flash of white. Gepard’s world narrows to a white figure disappearing conveniently through a service door.

Gepard runs.

Glass and red fly through the air. A piercing shatter. A nearby scream, and echoing shouts.

Gepard barely realizes that it's his fault. The waiter he surged past—not his waiter—has fumbled his tray of priceless wines onto the ground.

A bellow of his name through the ballroom. “Gepard!” his father's roar echoes. Gepard doesn't hear it. He slams through the service door, where his quarry has fled.

A flash of white coattail disappears around the corner. Gepard chases.

A crash as a floor lamp is thrown onto his path. Gepard leaps without pause.

A sharp turn that has Gepard slamming against the wall—wasted seconds!—before he pivots and lunges after the fleeing figure.

The thief careens suddenly to the right. Gepard lurches after. It’s a dead end. A sitting room with an open window.

A white figure curses and leaps for the window. Gepard lunges. An arm escapes to the outside before Gepard's vice grip catches an ankle. His fingers bite into his prey. He yanks.

They tumble to the ground together. Gepard twists, forcing the thief onto his back. Gepard tightens his hold on the thief’s leg. He dodges a panicked kick. He heaves himself onto the flailing thief, insensate to the criminal’s grabs and punches.

Gepard slams his forearm against the struggling thief’s neck, squeezing out a choked wheeze.

“By the authority of the Amber Lord the highest, you are under arrest for trespassing, theft, and impersonation,” Gepard recites through the blood roaring in his ears. “As agent of the Supreme Guardian, I herewith temporarily strip you of your freedom of action and speech. When you are tried by the adjudication panel, you…”

Green eyes.

The fight drains from Gepard’s body, leaving him chilled to the bone. Gepard stares at green eyes and wonders if he’s dreaming. Nails down Gepard's back. Hands digging into his thighs. Smoke wafting through the air. He wonders if he’s drowning in another mirage of sly grins and cunning green eyes, doomed to wake up any minute anxious and aroused.

A slash of white breaks through the man’s kissable lips, and Gepard dazedly realizes that the man is grinning toothily.

“Congratulations! You caught me!” Ast Rickley wheezes. His breath ghosts onto Gepard’s neck, electric and teasing. Gepard jolts and flips Rickley over roughly, breaking the spell of those green eyes.

Gepard shakes uncontrollably, overwhelmed by a nauseating cocktail of emotions. He latches onto the most familiar one—fury. 

“You,” Gepard snarls. He doesn’t recognize his own voice.

“Me?” Rickley’s voice is muffled against the floor.

“You are a liar and a thief,” Gepard hisses. The words are impotent, incapable of expressing even a fraction of the rage Gepard feels right now.

“That’s not what you’re supposed to say when you sweep a man off his feet!” Rickley wails dramatically.

Gepard’s hands shake. He wants to claw Rickley with his hands. He wants to slam Rickley’s head into the ground. He wants to press his body against Rickley’s back and crush him to death. He does none of those things. 

“Get up,” Gepard says.

“Um, Lieutenant, I’m a little bit trapped under your thick, muscular thighs—”

Rickley squeals when Gepard forcefully drags him up and throws him face-first against the wall. ”Get. Up.” Gepard bites out darkly.

”I did! I did!” Rickley squeaks.

Gepard’s shaking. He’s too rough. He needs to calm down. He breathes in and out. He forces his hands to relax from their death grip and methodically pats down Rickley’s body.

“Hey!” Rickley whines. “Getting felt up is sexy and all, but you should really take me out to dinner first.”

Gepard loses control of himself, digging his hands painfully into Rickley’s waist. “Where’s the ring?” he snarls.

Rickley laughs. “Wow, you’re feisty when you’re mad.”

Gepard crushes Rickley into the wall. “Where is the ring?”

Rickley giggles hysterically, arching against him suggestively. “Lieutenant, is that your gun poking into my back?”

Gepard almost lurches away, but he stops himself just in time. He glares wildly into Rickley’s sly grin and barks, “Stop that right now!”

Rickley grinds back against Gepard’s crotch. “Why, Lieutenant? You seem to like it.”

“The ring,” Gepard chokes out, desperately clinging to the threads of his rage.

Rickley looks back at him with a sultry look. “I think there's something else you want, Lieutenant.”

“What is going on?”

Gepard drops Rickley to the ground and hurtles to the opposite side of the room. But it’s too late.

Leonard Landau stands at the door of the room, face purple with rage.

It's quiet. 

Gepard doesn’t speak. Father doesn’t speak either. The decorated room fades away into a barren space with just him and his father's ballooning fury.

Rickley shuffles noisily. An unwelcome interruption. “The more the merrier!” he chirps jarringly. “I’ll just go ahead and take my leave—”

“You will stay right where you are, and you will tell me what you were doing with my son,” Father says.

“What did you think we were doing?” Rickley says, suddenly guarded. 

Father closes the door behind him and locks it with a deafening click.

“I think,” Father says quietly, “that my son fled his post after being accused of a heinous act of theft, abandoned his ex-fiancée during a time of crisis, made a very public spectacle of destroying the Limesteins’ property, just to chase after a waiter and—” 

Father interrupts his crescendo, and his voice returns to quiet. “And do what? You tell me, Son. Explain this to me, right now.”

It's quiet.

Gepard begs his vocal cords to move.

“And do what?!” Father screams.

The scream galvanizes Gepard. He rushes out, “It’s not what it looks like—”

“So you know what it looks like?” Father roars. “You know that it looks like you spat all over your ex-fiancée’s face? That you stole her engagement ring, sabotaged her relations with her in-laws, then abandoned her for a—for a romp with a waiter?”

Father slams his fist into the wall. Gepard flinches as if he were the one hit.

“You humiliated her!”

Gepard feels himself shrinking, shrinking into a ball, into the tiniest microscopic atom that floats in nothingness and doesn’t exist. Father never yells. Not at the guards. Not at Gepard. And if he did, Serval was there. Not at Gepard. Never at Gepard.

“You are lucky that I found you, and not Ms. Matilda,” Father snarls. “Only the Amber Lord knows the shame you would have inflicted on her. As if running away from your engagement weren't disgraceful enough.”

Father's voice returns to calm. “So explain to me, Son. Explain why you ran away. Explain why you’re here with this waiter, and not by Ms. Matilda's side.”

It's quiet. 

Even if Gepard had any explanation, someone cut out his vocal cords. He’s mute. Numb. Insensate. He is a body without a brain.

“Explain!” Father screams, spittle flying into Gepard's face.

“I,” his body stutters, and completely, utterly fails.

A loud, dramatic sigh. Rickley yawns, stretching his arms into the air. “Alright, two Silvermanes is a bit much even for li’l ol’ me. I admit it. I stole the ring.”

Gepard’s neck pivots towards Rickley like a machine. Father, unlike Gepard, is a functional human and pins Rickley back against the wall.

“Ow! Getting manhandled by two Silvermanes in one day? Must be my lucky day!” Rickley snickers as Captain Landau wrenches his wrists into handcuffs. 

“Where is the ring?” Captain Landau demands, unfazed.

Rickley rolls his eyes. “Ugh, like father, like son. It’s right here. Ahh.”

Rickley sticks out his tongue. A gleam catches under his tongue—the ring. Captain Landau does not hesitate to stick his fingers into Rickley’s mouth, prying the ring out even as Rickley gags and complains.

“Who are you?” Captain Landau asks coldly.

“I am but a humble waiter for the Limesteins, also the favorite punching bag of the Silverma—Ow! You can’t just yank a man’s shoe off like that!”

Captain Landau doesn’t even blink as he upturns Rickley’s dress shoe and jewelry clatter to the floor.

“I see seven additional counts of larceny on the ground,” Captain Landau says calmly.

“Oh, come on! Don’t you Silvermanes have a sense of humor? Also, who’s to say I stole these—Woah! Okay! There’s no need to go for my other shoe! I’ll cooperate.” The Captain’s face does not so much as twitch as Rickley equips a smarmy smile. “I have many names. Mrs. Karen, Mr. Hollywood, Ms. Ginger. Do any of these ring a bell?”

“Sampo Koski,” Gepard's body says. His vocal cords are back.

Rickley—no, Koski winks at him. “Correcto, Geppie.”

Koski yelps as Captain Landau grabs his other shoe, but Gepard is deafened by the sultry curl of his name in the criminal’s mouth. Geppie. Geppie. Geppie. So similar to Blondie. The echo is comforting amidst the muffled sea of his barren mind, so he clings to those playful syllables with the little consciousness still left in his body.

He's forcefully surfaced to reality when Captain Landau parks the cuffed Koski right in front of him, whose green eyes dance despite hobbling on two shoeless feet. Gepard's eyes slide away to look somewhere past his father's shoulder.

“I need to document this crime scene,” Father says evenly. “It would be best if you brought the criminal out of the manor. You apprehended him, after all.”

Gepard’s defective body flinches when Father holds the ring towards him. His lungs fail when Father’s hand tenses around the ring, but all Father says is, “Good work, Lieutenant.”

Gepard's arms pull into a salute, and his fingers pocket the ring safely in his jacket pocket. Koski grins wickedly as he’s marched out of the room, leaving behind Leonard Landau and the abyssal room that snuffed out the spark in Gepard's body. Step by step, Gepard's muscles begin to work again. His mind returns to his body. Sensation returns to his fingertips. All he feels are the cold metal of Koski's cuffs, and the wrinkled fabric on Koski's right shoulder.

“Your dad’s a nice guy,” Koski says flippantly over his shoulder.

Gepard just looks at him. He doesn’t know what expression he’s wearing, but Koski’s eyes dim when they catch his face. Koski is silent for the rest of the walk.

Matilda rushes to Gepard as soon as he enters the ballroom. “Gepard, what is going on?” she demands, voice tight.

Gepard's body stiffens when a crowd swarms around them. From the masses, Wallace jeers, “Isn't it obvious? He ran because he stole your ring.”

“Weren't the Landau heir and Ms. Matilda engaged at one point?” someone whispers too loudly in the crowd.

Before the rumors can swell like a noxious cloud, Gepard pushes Koski onto his knees and lets Mr. Gepard, heir of the Landau family, take over.

“This is the criminal Sampo Koski. You may know him from his previous frauds as Ms. Ginger or Ms. Karen. The Silvermane Guards have been in pursuit of this criminal for months. Today, he impersonated a waitstaff to approach Ms. Limestein in what was meant to be a moment of celebration, and committed the heinous crime of stealing the Herrero ring.”

Gepard removes the ring from his jacket and raises it high. The crowd murmurs as the ring glints under the orange lights of the ballroom. He reaches to give it to Matilda, hesitates, then gives it to Victor instead. Victor takes the ring solemnly and slips it onto Matilda's hand, stunning the nobles of Belobog into silence.

“Sampo Koski will be brought to justice for his offenses against the Herreros and the Limesteins,” Gepard proclaims.

A lone clap breaks the silence, then suddenly everyone is clapping and cheering. An older man wipes tears from his eyes. “What a beautiful moment,” he exclaims. “To see these noble families come together despite their differences, in the name of justice and love… The future of Belobog is truly bright.”

Gepard thinks of the countless soldiers who perished on the ever-expanding frontline and feels empty. He smiles absently and nods at no one, just to stiffen when he sees Koski's green eyes gazing consideringly at him. It's too similar to the way Ast Rickley looked at him, so Gepard pulls Koski to his feet and pushes him into the arms of two nearby Silvermane Guards. 

“Take Mr. Koski to Qlipoth Fort and inform Officer Sergeyevna and Commander Rand of the proceedings,” Gepard orders.

The guards salute. “Yes, sir!”

His soldiers take Koski and his knowing green eyes away, leaving Gepard alone with his defective body.

Gepard stays at the party and works on autopilot, soothing unsettled guests and taking witness reports. He tracks down wealthy nobles who suddenly notice that their valuables are missing. He answers empty questions with equally empty responses. By the time the party slows, his body has finally quieted into something he can call his own again. It's enough for Gepard to realize that the cotton in his limbs is a bone-deep exhaustion, and that he should leave.

When Gepard finally exits the manor, Matilda steps in front of him.

“Gepard, thank you. Truly,”  she says, her doe eyes shining.

Matilda reaches to hug him. Gepard jerks away without thought, then immediately stiffens.

“I,” he chokes out. 

When no more words come out, Matilda just steps back and nods. “Thank you, Gepard,” she repeats before she steps away and lets him go. There's something final in her departure, but Gepard must be broken because all he feels is relief.

—

When Gepard finally returns to Qlipoth Fort at 4 AM, exhaustion dragging his feet like shackles, he’s met with the sight of Pela burying her face into her hands. 

“Pela, what happened?” Gepard asks, alarmed.

“Koski escaped,” Pela says flatly.

—

It's surprisingly easy to find Koski. One hour later, when Gepard finally collapses onto the bed of his condo, a lilting voice pipes from the window, “Tough day, huh, Geppie?” 

Gepard flies out of his bed, fists braced. A dark figure perches on his windowsill, eclipsing the waning moon. The moonlight glints green against the edges of the figure’s eyes. A slash of white tears through the darkness, which, as Gepard's eyes adjust, solidifies into a toothy grin stretched across a chiseled face. Sampo Koski leers at him from his seat at the windowsill, one leg up, chin propped on his palm.

“Do you want to get arrested twice in one night for trespassing?” Gepard growls, shockingly unsurprised that Koski knows where he lives. 

Koski yawns lazily. “I'd just escape again.” 

Gepard's head throbs. He reaches for the gauntlet at his bedside, and Koski raises his hands in surrender. 

“Woah there, soldier! I'm not here to fight. In fact,” Koski's voice drops conspiratorially, “I might have some juicy information for you.”

Gepard's hand does not leave his gauntlet, but he does not put it on. He narrows his eyes at Koski. “Why should I trust anything you have to say? You're a proven liar.”

Koski pouts. “Geppie, please. You can't go around making unfounded accusations against hardworking businessmen like me. Business is about trust. Don’t you trust me?”

“Don't call me that,” Gepard snaps. He takes a breath and composes himself. “How could I trust you? I don't even know your real name.”

Koski blinks. “The name's Sampo Koski, like you said. Does poor Geppie have memory problems?”

“Not Ast Rickley?” Gepard retorts coldly. 

Koski’s eyes widen comically. “Who's Ast Rickley?”

Gepard slips the gauntlet onto his hand and flexes his fingers threateningly. Koski rolls his eyes with exasperation.

“Oh, you big baby. Ask me something else. I have so many names, I can't keep track of them all.”

Gepard searches for any hint of recognition in Koski's amused expression. “How do you know who I am?”

“You didn't hear this from me, but”—Koski's voice lowers to a whisper—“those folks at the party had a lot to say about you and the bride-to-be. How could I not know the great Gepard Landau? You were practically the highlight of the party!”

Shame threatens to overwhelm Gepard, but he shoves it away to focus on the criminal before him. “Why are you acting like we haven't met before?” he pushes.

Koski snaps his fingers. “You’re right, we have met before!”

Gepard leans forward, heart racing. “Yes, we have.”

“Yep, at the party, when you so lovingly shoved me into a wall and accused me of theft! How could I forget?” Koski agrees cheerfully.

Gepard stares. The inscrutable grin remains pasted on Koski's face. Gepard doesn't know whether to feel relieved or disappointed.

He switches gears. “How did you become a waiter for the Limesteins?”

Koski's eyes glint. “Now you're asking the right questions. I was put forward to the maitre de on a recommendation.”

Gepard frowns. A recommendation could only come from a noble family or their staff. Koski just threw a critical piece of information onto Gepard's lap, seemingly out of the kindness of his heart. Why? Why would Koski give this away so easily?

Once again, Gepard's eyes wander over Koski's features. That sharp chin, those downturned lids, that toothy smirk—there's no doubt that Sampo Koski is the same Ast Rickley from one year ago. Gepard doesn't know why Koski refuses to acknowledge their unfortunate encounter, but the fact that Koski is feeding intel to the Silvermane Guards from Gepard's window—not Intelligence Officer Pela’s—means something. It has to mean something. Gepard just needs to pull that meaning out from Koski, piece by piece. 

“Why didn't you run away?” Gepard asks. 

Koski tilts his head. “You'll have to be more specific.” 

“When my father entered the room and I released you.” The memory kills something inside of him to recount, but Gepard pushes forward. “You were already going to leave through the window before I caught you. We wouldn't have been able to stop you.”

“You expect li’l ol’ me to jump through a window? I'm not suicidal!” Koski exclaims, blatantly ignoring his perch on Gepard's sixth-story window. “Besides, poor Geppie was getting a nasty grilling from his scary old man. How could Sampo Koski leave him to his fate?”

“Father was protecting me,” Gepard says. 

Koski's brows rise incredulously. “Blink twice if you need help.”

Gepard sends Koski a scathing look. “I'm serious. Father was protecting me.” He takes a deep breath, mentally cataloging all the signs that Father had intervened on his behalf. “The Silvermane Guards had sectioned off the wing we were in. Father made sure that he was the only one who could find me, not Wallace, not Matilda, nor anyone who'd have interest in undermining the Landaus. He let me take credit for your arrest, even though he was the one who arrested you and recovered the ring. Everything he did was to put me in the best light possible,” Gepard says with absolute surety.

Koski's expression is disbelieving. “Did he protect you or your reputation?”

Gepard turns away. “You wouldn't understand. They're one and the same.”

Koski mutters something disparaging about nobility under his breath, but Gepard ignores it, preoccupied with the one question that has been haunting him the whole night. He breathes deeply, then turns to face Koski. 

“You protected me, too, Koski. Why didn't you run away?” Gepard's gauntleted hand clenches. “Why did you let yourself get caught?”

Koski's expression is amused and unkind. “Careful, Geppie. I wouldn't ascribe noble sentiments to a businessman, if I were you. I just wanted to improvise a bit. Simple as that.”

Koski’s mask is unshakeable. Gepard loosens his fist, disappointed by the gulf between them. “Leave now, before the sun rises.”

“Ah, ah,” Koski tuts. “I still have my piece to say. Sampo Koski is a great improviser, yes, but his client was expecting more of a…Romeo and Juliet than an All's Well That Ends Well.” 

"Who are Romeo and Juliet?" Gepard asks.

Koski snorts. "Not the point, Geppie." Annoyance replaces the mirth on Koski's face as he barrels on. “My client won't be happy that I was apprehended so publicly, and red-handed at that. The Silvermane Guards would be doing me a favor to…deal with her. Consider this information—free of charge, I might add!—a plea to save me from hiding out in that stuffy Underworld for longer than I have to.”

Gepard's jaw drops. “Traveling between the Overworld and Underworld is punishable by death.”

Koski smacks his forehead. “D’oh, you've done it again, Sampo! Looks like that's my cue to leave.”

Gepard lunges for Koski, but the criminal hurtles out the window before he stumbles across even half the room. Gepard is left alone in his bedroom, his only company a pounding headache and the misfortune of having met Sampo Koski once again.

—

One month later, Gepard apprehends Gloria Herrero, Victor's aunt, for conspiracy to rob the Herrero ring. On the day of her arrest, she spits on Gepard's face. 

“That ring belongs to the Herreros. The Landaus have no right to interfere in Herrero affairs,” she hisses.

Another month passes before Gepard is summoned to Gloria's adjudication. Architect Justicia Herrero, Gloria Herrero’s aunt and Victor's grandmother, looks icily into Gepard's eyes as he gives his expert testimony to the adjudication panel. She wears a face of stone as she votes with the other architects to sentence Gloria to three years of house arrest. When Gepard receives a commendation from the Supreme Guardian, Architect Herrero applauds along with the delighted crowd, but the weight of her stare feels like the chill of an oncoming storm.

So life goes for Gepard Landau. A hero. A champion of Belobog's noble families. The Silvermane Guard who put a stop to Sampo Koski's shenanigans once and for all. He is a walking, breathing lie whose truth is being a sheltered, insecure noble so pitiful that a career criminal couldn't even pickpocket his wallet. The overwhelming relief Gepard feels at finally being deployed back to the frontlines is yet another sign that something is fundamentally wrong with him, but Gepard lacks the will to care. Let Mr. Gepard Landau handle the political theater. Lieutenant Landau’s battlefield is the unrelenting Fragmentum.

It’s on a patrol through the Snow Plains that Gepard spots Sampo Koski digging through an abandoned shack. Gepard doesn’t hesitate. He leaves his soldiers to their shouts of surprise as he races forward, blood pumping through his muscles, feeling more alive than he has in months.

Something’s wrong with him. Something is definitely wrong with him. The sight of Sampo Koski darting through the snow should not fill Gepard with this much life. Yet when Koski skids to a stop atop a steep drop and whips around with a smarmy grin, all Gepard can think is, Why did you save me? 

Koski does not answer the silent question. Instead, he salutes mockingly. “‘Til next time, Geppie!” Koski yells cheerfully as the rest of Gepard's squadron catches up to them. Then their world explodes into smoke.

Chapter Text

Gepard doesn't think he slams his door particularly violently, but a cloud of dust rains into his face anyways. He sneezes and pushes into the apartment, stumbling when his right foot catches on a discarded cardboard box. Earthwork falls against the wall with a clatter. Gepard takes a moment to survey his condo.

The condo is a mess. Piles of empty boxes form an intimidating cardboard fortress in the living room. A mound of clothing covers three-quarters of the couch, left there to either eventually be folded into his closet or thrown into the washing machine. Of the three planters he'd left on the windowsill, one is knocked over and the remaining two contain only the yellowed skeletons of what used to probably be Sunshine Bamboos. All in all, the condo is exactly as he'd left it three months ago: a disaster. An apt welcome back to his civilian life.

Gepard sheds his layers with a sigh, haphazardly throwing the discarded uniform atop the couch's pile of laundry. He navigates the obstacles expertly to enter his bedroom, in which his pristine, military-made bed sits surrounded by cluttered surfaces. For a moment, he just stands there, wondering if this is how every evening of his mundane, civilian life will go. Standing in a bedroom that is simultaneously messy and unlived. Reading case files at his desk until he falls asleep. Pretending to be a well-adjusted citizen of Belobog.

A sharp chill interrupts his gloomy thoughts, and he shivers. He frowns, confused, then snaps his gaze up towards the source. Gepard scowls at the sight of his open bedroom window and stomps up to it. He slams the panes shut, just to reveal a small note sticking to the inside of the glass that reads in a flowery cursive: Welcome home Geppie <3

Gepard crushes the note in his fist and throws it into the wastebasket. Breathing measuredly through his nose, Gepard makes the executive decision to not let Sampo Koski ruin his return from the frontlines. Gepard forces his posture to lighten and sits at his cluttered desk. He sweeps aside piles of old case files to clear a space for his new case files freshly obtained from Qlipoth Fort.

He’s absorbed in Pela’s notes about Sampo’s latest racketeering ring when a violent pounding at the main entrance makes him jump. Gepard rolls his eyes, prays to the Amber Lord for some patience, and reluctantly trudges to his door.

“Serval, I just got back,” Gepard grumbles as soon as he opens the door.

“Happy early birthday!” Serval shouts, completely ignoring Gepard’s complaint. “So lovely to see my dear baby brother again after three months. You are coming to our show tonight.”

Without waiting for a response, Serval barges into his condo with the entitlement of an older sister. She tsks as she kicks aside a cardboard box on her way into his room. Gepard ignores her and looks down at Lynx, who waits at the door like a polite, well-adjusted human being.

“Hi, Lynx,” he says warmly, pulling her into a hug.

“Hi, Gepard,” Lynx responds. “Pela says she's sorry she can't see you for your birthday. She told me to give this to you.”

She hands Gepard a small, wrapped package, which Gepard takes with pleasant surprise. Pela is hardly mean, but she can certainly be absent when immersed in her work and her hobbies. That she wished him a happy birthday, even when miserably ill, even when Gepard has been gone for months, makes Gepard feel awkward and warm.

“Tell her I said thank you for the gift, and that I hope she feels better soon,” Gepard says, making a note to take over Pela’s paperwork on his next visit to Qlipoth Fort. “How have you been, Lynx?”

Gepard spends the next few minutes listening attentively to Lynx’s research and shoving a mug of rejuvenating herbal tea into her hands against her protests. When Serval drags herself out of his room, hands on her hips, Gepard is forced to set the mug down to brace himself for her incoming tirade.

“Gep, leave Lynxy alone for a sec. We need to talk about your closet.” Serval crosses her arms. “First of all, what is that pile of clothes doing on your couch and not in your closet? Do you even know if they’re dirty or clean?”

Gepard scowls. “I’m on the frontline for half the year.”

“You’re lucky our parents don’t know you live like this,” Serval barges on without care. “I don’t know how you managed to convince them to let you move out, but both of them would have an aneurysm seeing the state of your living room.”

“I don’t need them to judge me for my living room when you do plenty of that yourself,” Gepard snipes.

“Whatever. Your disastrous lifestyle habits are not my concern. What is my concern, however”—Serval’s eyes glint ominously—“is that you have nothing to wear for the show tonight! You can’t show up to a Mechanical Fever show in a tuxedo, baby bro.”

Gepard sighs. “I can’t go. Father and Mother are expecting me tomorrow morning for breakfast.”

“And what does that have to do with tonight?” Serval wheedles. “Father and Mother can’t control what you do the night before.”

Gepard cringes. “I really can’t, Serval. I have to wake up early tomorrow.”

Serval rolls her eyes. “Seriously? You only get a month back in the city at a time, and you’d rather spend it stalking your favorite criminal?”

“I do not have a favorite criminal,” Gepard snaps. Before he can explain that reading case files is not stalking, Lynx interjects.

“I think you should go. I’m going, too.”

Gepard looks at her, surprised. “You’re going to Serval’s show?”

Serval throws an arm around Lynx and pulls her into a hug. “Yep. You wouldn’t want to miss out on Lynxy’s first show, would you?”

Gepard frowns. “Serval, you know that your shows aren’t in the safest area.”

“Don’t worry, Geppie. I’m not letting her out of my sight,” Serval mutters.

“I’m not a child!” Lynx exclaims, struggling out of Serval’s hold. “I can take care of myself!”

“Sorry,” Gepard and Serval say simultaneously. They share an abashed look when Lynx pouts and crosses her arms.

“So are you coming to the show or not?” Lynx huffs, annoyed.

Gepard looks down at his tea and hesitates. “Well…”

Gepard thinks back to his own first show. He loves Serval dearly, but the deafening blast of the speakers, the invasive press of sweaty bodies all around him, and the ever-present feeling of being a square peg trying to fit into a circular hole were overwhelming to a young, uninitiated Gepard. Gepard knows that quiet, introverted Lynx would not fare any better. As much as Lynx would resent him for it, Gepard loves his little sister too much to abandon her to the chaos of Serval’s concerts.

Gepard sighs once again, taking a moment to mourn his quiet night of reading case files. “I’ll come. But I don’t have anything to wear.”

He immediately regrets his decision when Serval’s eyes glint dangerously.

“Leave that to me, baby bro.”

—

One horrifying trip to the commercial district later, Gepard stumbles out of the trolley clad in clothes he would never wear out of choice. The darkness of the night is his only consolation, hiding the tight, distressed pants that squeeze his protesting thighs and the indecent dip of his barely buttoned dress shirt. Gepard pulls the lapels of his overcoat together, attempting to hide his exposed chest. He resents how clumsy his body feels in these clothes, how unprepared he is for potential combat.

Belobog’s underground events are held in an abandoned warehouse along the edge of Backwater Pass, once used to store newly manufactured robots that would be shipped down to the Underworld. The warehouse has found a second life as a club and venue for local artists, of which Mechanical Fever will be the headliner tonight. The location is far too close to a memory Gepard had sworn to bury years ago, so Gepard can't stop himself from glancing along the shadows cast by the dim streetlamps, dreading the sight of green eyes peering at him from the dark.

For better or for worse, this never happens. Gepard enters the warehouse without any harrowing encounters with past mistakes. Instead, a blinding strobe of lights assaults him, making him blink dazedly. He glances down to see Lynx stagger concerningly against the flashing lights and pounding music.

Before he can shield Lynx from the commotion, a hand tugs him through the crowd. Serval pulls them out of the dancing masses and away from the deafening speakers. They approach a bouncer standing beside a fenced-off table, who nods at Serval’s approach and unlatches the red rope to let them pass. Serval sits Lynx down on the worn loveseat, leaning over her with concern.

“You okay, Lynxy?” Serval frets.

Lynx's face is pale, but she straightens stubbornly. “I'm fine, Sis. When are you playing?”

Serval glances at Gepard, then looks back to Lynx. “We still have a bit. I need to do some rehearsals with Pela's sub.”

“Then you should go. I’ll be fine. I just need a bit.”

Serval steps back and sends Gepard a firm look. “Take care of her.”

“Of course,” Gepard responds just as firmly, even as Lynx huffs, “I can take care of myself!”

Serval disappears into the dancing throngs. Gepard rounds on Lynx. “How are you feeling, Lynx? Do we need to leave?”

“No!” Lynx shouts with surprising vehemence. “Don’t leave. And stop hovering. I just need a moment.”

Gepard steps back obligingly, watching intently as Lynx breathes slowly. The beads of sweat disappear from her forehead, and her pallor clears. She looks up into Gepard’s concerned gaze, and to his relief, her eyes are clear and alert.

“I’m fine, Gepard,” Lynx huffs, annoyed. “I can hear you worrying from here.”

Gepard carefully picks his words. “Did you expect the show to be…this much?”

Lynx sighs. “I thought there might be an adjustment. I’m too used to the quiet of the Snow Plains.”

“Why did you decide to come?”

For some reason, Lynx tenses. “It gets boring out there, you know. There’s not much excitement in the Snow Plains except for the Belobog Caveman.”

“I thought you loved the quiet,” Gepard states, confused. Then, “The Belobog Caveman?”

“Oh, I’ve been meaning to tell you.” Lynx jumps on the topic with surprising eagerness. “I think I’ve discovered a new creature out in the Southern Snow Plains. It’s pretty tall and stands on two legs, like a human. I’ve seen it around the abandoned houses by the cliffside. I think it also ate from my caches once.”

Snow Plains. Human. A familiar feeling of dread crawls up Gepard’s spine. “Are you sure it’s not a Fragmentum monster?”

Lynx shakes her head emphatically. “Absolutely not. The morphology is completely different. There’s no Fragmentum corrosion or sharp edges around it—well, except for the spikes on what seems to be its shoulder. It’s much more human than it is monster.”

“Does it have blue hair?” Gepard asks faintly.

Lynx frowns thoughtfully. “I don’t know. I’ve never been close enough to notice.”

“Good,” Gepard says darkly. “Stay away from the Belobog Caveman.”

Lynx mutters another protest for her independence, but Gepard barely registers it. Instead, Gepard fights to swallow the anger that washes over him. Sampo Koski will not ruin his return from the frontline, Gepard repeats to himself darkly. And Sampo Koski will keep his nefarious, untrustworthy person away from his little sister, or so help him Qlipoth, Gepard will throw him into the dungeons of Qlipoth Fort, never to laugh his idiotic laugh and leave annoying messages at Gepard’s bedroom window again.

Gepard is so preoccupied with drafting nasty notes to leave on his window that he fails to notice a shadow cast over him. A cough jolts him out of his fuming, and he looks up, startled to see the familiar face of Victor Herrero standing over him.

“Mr. Victor!” Gepard exclaims awkwardly, rising from his seat. “What are you doing here?”

“Just Victor is fine,” Victor says as he politely shakes Gepard’s hand. “I heard from your sister that today's show would include a special performance, so I opted to attend.”

“A special performance?” Gepard echoes, brow furrowed. Then, more confusingly, “You know Serval?”

“She was my upperclassman in the Academy. My close friend played the keyboard in her band. I still stop by her workshop to watch her performances on occasion.”

Gepard blinks and recontextualizes everything he'd known about the straight-laced Victor Herrero. Where Gepard once thought him introverted and serious like Gepard himself, it seems that he may actually have more in common with the charismatic, talented Serval.

Speaking of sisters, Gepard winces at the sight of Lynx sitting quietly aside. He clumsily gestures towards Lynx.

“This is my younger sister Lynx. She's a close friend of the drummer in Serval's band.”

Victor extends his hand gracefully. “It's a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Lynx. Do tell Ms. Pela that I hope she feels better soon.”

Gepard twitches. So Pela is also familiar with Victor Herrero. This newfound knowledge makes Gepard feel odd, so he tries to move the conversation in a different direction.

“Do you play any instruments?” Gepard tries.

“I dabble here and there, but I'm no expert.”

Gepard regards Victor with suspicion. “Then Pela's sub for the drums…”

Victor raises his hands in surrender. “It’s not me,” Victor says. “I enjoy partaking in many forms of art, but music is not my expertise.”

Lynx pipes up from her seat. “Then what is your expertise?”

“I enjoy photography,” Victor replies pleasantly. “I find magic in breaking representational art into its core components, like color, texture, and composition. I suppose you could refer to my style as impressionistic.”

Lynx sends Gepard a wry look. “You’re very artsy. Unlike Gepard.”

Gepard reddens, but Victor is ever gracious. “My family has a legacy of artistry, though we’ve shelved this for politics in recent years. Our history certainly pales in comparison to the Landaus’ military prowess, however.”

Gepard averts his gaze from Matilda’s husband. An unbidden memory of Matilda’s last few words to Gepard before their separation comes to mind. Do you care about anything besides duty? Matilda’s disappointed voice asks.

He’s saved from excusing his own stiltedness when introverted Lynx, of all people, pushes forward the conversation. “What do you mean by ‘politics’?” she probes questioningly.

“My grandmother is on the Architects’ adjudication panel. She believes that the best path forward for our modest family is to leverage our political influence rather than to honor our roots in the arts.”

Lynx tilts her head. “You disapprove.”

Victor smiles wanly. “I suppose my grandmother would rather I have a less…romantic temperament. Ironically, I think Matilda has more in common with her in that regard than I do.”

Victor’s words make sense. Matilda has always been ambitious and no-nonsense. Because of this, Leonard and Cara Landau had thought that Gepard’s dutiful nature would appeal to her. Unfortunately, all Gepard had accomplished in their brief engagement was disappointing both her and his parents with his irredeemable clumsiness.

Gepard pushes the ugly thought away and forces himself back to the present. He remembers reading a bulletin welcoming a batch of new hires into Qlipoth Fort’s administration. He turns to Victor and offers sincerely, “Give my congratulations to Lady Matilda for her new position in the Architects.”

Victor nods graciously. “I will. Matilda will be happy to hear your well wishes.”

Gepard does not point out the obvious lie. He fades back into his seat to let Lynx add her own complaints about the political pressures of her research expeditions. Victor and Lynx dive into a surprisingly energetic discussion about the politics of Qlipoth Fort, leaving Gepard to bite his tongue at the uncomfortably critical remarks thrown out in front of him.

Gepard hovers for as long as he can, watching Lynx out of the corner of his eye, but their lively conversation eventually surpasses Gepard’s social batteries. He stands up stiffly, wincing at the hush that falls over their lively discussion.

“I'm going to get a drink. Will you be okay, Lynx?” he mumbles.

“I'm not a child,” Lynx retorts predictably.

For once, Gepard accepts her claim. He slinks away from the table, desperately in need of a drink.

—

It takes some effort to shuffle to the nearest bar and order the only club-appropriate cocktail he remembers. When the Moscow Mule slides in front of Gepard, he clutches it with both hands and stares glumly out into the warehouse.

At first, he glances frequently at Lynx and Victor’s table, but when the vigor of their conversation does not falter, Gepard looks away, throat strangely tight. He then tries to surveil for suspicious activities, but putting on the airs of a Silvermane Guard while every other clubgoer dances, sings, and drinks makes him feel like a child playing pretend. Eventually, he resigns himself to getting tipsy with his copper mug, wondering how Sampo could possibly like such a limey drink.

He doesn't know how long he stands against the wall nursing his drink. It's long enough for the energetic drum and bass of the dance floor to die down into a sudden quiet, leaving the crowd to murmur like white noise. Gepard perks his head up. Is Serval about to play?

“How is everyone doing tonight?” Serval's shout booms through the speakers.

The crowd screams, making Gepard wince. He cranes his head, trying to catch a glimpse of the stage. To his disappointment, even with his respectable height, all he sees are the black silhouettes of taller heads. He lifts onto his toes and catches a glimpse of his sister's vibrant expression, just to stumble into a nearby woman when a couple forcefully shoves past him.

“Watch it,” she whips around and snaps, the beads in her hair flying around her face.

Gepard raises his hand placatingly. “Sorry. That's my bad,” he mumbles.

The woman seems to bite back her next acerbic words to consider Gepard. She breaks into a smile. “Buy me a drink, and we'll call it even.”

Gepard can't stop himself from blanching. He looks anywhere but at her face and stutters as he takes a step back, “S-sorry! I'm not—I can't—I'm sorry for bumping into you.”

He whips around and flees right as Mechanical Fever launches right into their opener. It's one of his favorite songs, a catchy tune he’d hum on patrol in the Snow Plains. The world must be laughing at Gepard.

The clamor and movement of the warehouse swallows him into anonymity. He stops fast-walking when he reaches an empty wall a safe distance from the dance floor. There’s no hope of seeing Serval from here, but it’s for this very reason that Gepard can hover miserably in peace, muttering the lyrics to Serval’s catchy song under his breath. Gepard looks down at his half empty mug. At least he has alcohol for company.

He’s in the middle of taking a reluctant sip when a breath ghosts onto the back of his neck.

“Not a fan?”

Gepard jumps, spilling half of his drink onto his shoes. He whips around, his lips pulled into a snarl. “Koski! What are you doing here?”

Instead of answering, Sampo gazes sadly at Gepard’s mostly empty mug. “What a waste of a perfectly good drink.”

Gepard looms threateningly. “Answer me, Koski. Why are you here? What do you want with my sisters?”

Sampo blinks innocently. “What’s wrong with Sampo Koski enjoying a good show every now and then? My world doesn’t revolve around you, dear. I didn’t even know you had siblings.”

“Bullshit,” Gepard hisses. “Lynx told me herself that she saw you out in the Snow Plains. And now you’re here at Serval’s concert? That’s not a coincidence!”

“Geppie, you’re really overestimating how much I know about you and your family.”

Gepard’s steps forward, jabbing a finger into Sampo’s chest. “That’s a lie and you know it. You know far too much about me. You have one more chance to tell me now”—Gepard’s eyes flare—“what are you doing at my sister’s show?”

Sampo doesn’t break the stare of his green eyes. He says, “Nothing much. Just this.”

A warm hand envelops Gepard’s hand, pulling it and the mug in his grasp towards Sampo’s grin. Sampo’s burning hand tilts Gepard’s hold forward. His lazy smirk breaks apart to catch the mug’s rim between his plush lips. Gepard stops breathing when Sampo gulps the remainder of his drink, those green eyes pinning him relentlessly into a dumb stupor.

Sampo breaks from the mug with a luxurious gasp, licking a bead of alcohol from the corner of his lip lavisciously. Gepard wrenches his hand out of Sampo’s grasp, heart rabbiting frantically.

“What are you doing?” Gepard barks stupidly. He wildly glances around for familiar eyes that may have seen too much.

“Being a vile, vile thief,” Sampo answers sweetly, snapping Gepard’s gaze back onto his infuriating amusement. “Anything you want to do about that, Lieutenant?”

Gepard knows he’s falling into Sampo’s trap, but he clings to the lifeline Sampo has thrown him anyways. “Put your hands up right now, Koski.”

“Are you arresting me, Lieutenant? Just for taking a little bit of your drink?” Sampo simpers.

“No,” Gepard snaps and steps further into Sampo’s space. “I’m arresting you for your four outstanding arrest warrants.”

He reaches out and clutches Sampo’s wrist tightly. Sampo looks down at his trapped wrist thoughtfully, then back up into Gepard’s glare.

“Looks like you’ve caught me, Lieutenant. Are you going to keep me out of trouble tonight?”

“Yes,” Gepard spits out.

“Good,” Sampo says, strangely pleased.

Gepard follows fixedly when Sampo turns his body to the side, but all he does is wave the bartender down with his free hand. He slides the empty mug towards the woman and says smoothly, “A Cosmo and a Moscow Mule on Ringo’s tab, please.”

“Another fake name?” Gepard hisses bitterly, fixated on Sampo’s lazy lean into the bar counter. With a start, Gepard realizes that the smudges around Sampo’s eyes are too intentional to be exhaustion or grime.

“I have many names,” Sampo hums with a quirk of his mouth, causing the muscles on his neck to twitch slightly. Gepard’s gaze falls to his exposed neck and notices for the first time tonight that violent bruises peek out behind the strap of his tank top. A compulsion to trail his finger down the purple marks almost overwhelms Gepard, but he forces it back by squeezing Sampo’s wrist tightly.

“You’re staring,” Sampo observes.

Gepard jerks up to meet Sampo’s smoky green eyes. “Stop giving me a reason to stare,” he growls.

Sampo’s brows rise. Too late, Gepard realizes the implications of his words.

“I’ll stop watching you once you stop being a criminal!” Gepard corrects hastily, flushing a deep, scarlet red.

It’s too late. Sampo’s eyes glitter with glee. Gepard, in his mortification, barely registers the clink of drinks being set on the bar counter. Sampo hands Gepard a glass of bright red liquid, which Gepard can only take dumbly.

“That’s unfortunate,” Sampo hums as he picks up the remaining copper mug. “I think you’ll have to watch me all night.”

That's all the warning Gepard gets before Sampo suddenly darts out towards the dancing crowds. Gepard tightens his grip around Sampo’s wrist stubbornly. He dives through the path Sampo cuts into the dance floor, drink cradled protectively against his chest. When his path to Sampo is suddenly cut off by an oblivious couple dancing far too close to each other, Sampo twists his wrist out of Gepard’s grasp to interlace his fingers with Gepard’s. Sampo pulls Gepard through the suffocating crowd, and Gepard ignores how tightly his hand squeezes Sampo’s.

Eventually, Gepard snaps to his senses. He plants his feet and tugs Sampo to a stop.

“Where are you going?” he shouts over the roar of the crowd.

Sampo whips around and cants his head towards the right. “To a better view of the stage.”

Gepard's head snaps to the right. True to Sampo’s word, Serval’s charismatic presence stands in clear view atop the stage. Her head bobs as her fingers dance across the neck of her electric guitar, sounding a raw, agile melody into the warehouse. Gepard jumps at the sight of an automaton direwolf behind her shoulder flailing its arms every which way. It takes an alarming moment to realize that the saw usually on its arm has been replaced with long sticks, and that the sticks are pounding rhythmically into a drum set.

“Is that a direwolf playing the drums?” Gepard remarks in disbelief. Then he squints his eyes, and his horror multiplies. “Is that Dunn?!”

Liaison Officer Dunn sits before a keyboard, running his fingers across the keys with clear ease. His body sways, and his eyes close as he plays a sweet piano interlude.

“Who’s Dunn?” Sampo asks.

“As if you don’t already know,” Gepard snaps pettily. As a liaison officer, Dunn frequently travels between the Silvermane garrisons to coordinate transports between the outposts and Qlipoth Fort. Sampo, ever scampering across Belobog and the Snow Plains, has certainly seen and heard of Dunn before.

Sampo’s head tilts. “Oh, that Dunn. For someone so talented on the keyboard, he’s pretty bad at singing, you know? My ears are still bleeding from karaoke night.”

“When did you go to karaoke with him? Aren’t you a criminal?” Gepard asks, dumbfounded.

In the background, the roar of the guitar sends the crowd into a frenzy. Sampo’s affronted gasp is drowned out by the cheer of the audience. “Absolutely uncalled for, Geppie. The only thing criminal about me is my razor-sharp wit.”

“Shut up,” Gepard barks in the absence of anything better to say, but the words are distracted. Gepard’s mind races with the unexpected information about a coworker whom, up until now, Gepard had thought he knew fairly well. Sampo is a rat and a liar; Gepard shouldn’t trust his words. Yet Sampo's nonchalant familiarity with Dunn's musical talents makes Gepard wonder how much he truly knows about his own friends and family.

He’s startled out of his thoughts by fingers snapping in front of his eyes. “Ah, ah,” Sampo tuts. “You’re thinking too much, Geppie. I don’t think you’re drunk enough.”

Gepard startles when a hand once again wraps around his and pushes his held glass towards his face.

“Are you trying to poison me?” Gepard accuses pointlessly.

Sampo rolls his eyes. “I’m trying to help you relax, you poor, high-strung man. Isn’t it your birthday?”

“Tomorrow,” Gepard corrects automatically. “How do you know when my birthday is?”

Sampo ignores him and presses the glass against his lip. “Drink,” Sampo says sweetly.

Sampo’s smoky eyes compel him. Gepard drops his lip obediently, letting the thin red liquid pour into his mouth. Sampo mirrors him, taking a hearty swig of his mug. In the background, the warehouse thrums with music and screams as Serval’s full, sonorous voice booms through the speakers. It fades away as he stares into Sampo's eyes, letting the sweet, refreshing liquid coat his tongue.

“This is really good,” Gepard remarks, surprised at Sampo's apt choice.

Sampo’s eyes twinkle with amusement. “I thought you'd enjoy something girlier.”

Gepard scowls. “I apologize if good taste is girly to you.”

Sampo throws his head back and laughs freely. The sight of Sampo's Adam's apple bobbing under the skin of his bruised neck makes Gepard's heart beat faster.

“You're a pretty funny guy, Geppie. I don't think you get enough credit for that.”

Something weird squirms in Gepard’s chest. Gepard glowers, trying to hide his blush behind his glare. “Stop teasing me.”

Sampo pauses, letting his eye drift up and down Gepard’s far-too-exposed figure. “I can't. You’re just so hard to resist.”

A violent red floods Gepard’s face just as Mechanical Fever enters a frantic finishing drumroll, cymbals and snares flashing like the fireworks going off inside Gepard. He hides his face behind his free hand, but it’s not enough to stop himself from catching a flash of Sampo’s pleased smirk.

A slower song starts. Another one of Gepard’s favorites. It seeps into his veins like molasses, making him feel suspended in a strange, magical moment.

“Careful, Lieutenant,” Sampo starts innocuously. “If you don’t keep your eyes on me all night, my hands might wander.”

Gepard practically leaps into the air when a thumb hooks into his belt loop. The ghost of fingers at his pockets jolts Gepard out of his stupor, and he slaps the hand hiding his face onto Sampo’s, holding it still.

“What are you doing?” he demands, high and panicked. Sampo’s fingers are—they’re far too close to—

It was a mistake to remove his hand from his face. Nothing protects him now from Sampo’s coy look, peeking through long lashes.

“Can’t you tell, Lieutenant? I’m turning myself in.”

Gepard falls helplessly into green eyes, just as he did three years ago in a nondescript bar at Backwater Pass. Distantly, he realizes that they are swaying to the music. Somehow, Sampo’s intimate whispers have created a bubble around them, a small, private world where Gepard and Sampo can exist alone within an impossibly dense crowd. It's a moment in purgatory, where critical questions like why is Sampo here and what would Father think slip through Gepard's fingers like water.

“Are you trying to steal my wallet again?” Gepard chokes out.

Sampo doesn’t meet his eyes. To his horror, Gepard realizes that Sampo is staring at his lips.

“There are other things I’d rather steal,” Sampo says slowly.

Gepard’s breath hitches. His eyes drop to Sampo’s plush lips, pressed teasingly by the gentle bite of Sampo’s upper teeth. It would take almost nothing to lean in and close the distance.

“Stealing is illegal,” Gepard states dumbly, anything to stop him from succumbing to Sampo’s spell.

“I can’t steal what’s freely given,” Sampo retorts lowly.

The suggestion invades Gepard’s fantasies. Sampo’s temptation weaves into his cells, splitting him apart by the seams. Sampo digs his claws in further, tilting his head so that their clashing noses no longer block access to his lips.

“Where’s your courage, Lieutenant? I’m right here, aren’t I?” Sampo whispers huskily, his breath ghosting onto Gepard’s lips.

Gepard stares into Sampo’s blown pupils and smells the sour tang in his breath. “I can’t,” he chokes out pathetically.

“Why not?”

Gepard pushes Sampo back by the chest. “You’re drunk,” he throws out desperately. “I’d be taking advantage of you.”

For a moment, Sampo stares blankly. He breaks out into a wild, uninhibited laugh, clutching Gepard’s hand against his chest as he wheezes. Sampo's cackles die into a low, mocking growl that pierces through Gepard.

“Really, Gepard? Is that the only thing stopping you from kissing me?”

Yes. Yes. Yes. The only thing stopping Gepard from capturing those sweet lips that have haunted his fantasies ever since he tackled Sampo Koski into the ground of Limestein Manor—is excuses. Gepard Landau wants Sampo Koski. Gepard Landau wants Sampo Koski with every fiber of his being. And the slow, romantic music and the anonymity of the dance floor is simply the world telling him that surging forward into Sampo Koski's waiting lips would be the best decision of Gepard's cold, miserable life.

Some lifeline of sense holds Gepard still. Sampo seems to realize this, sliding his fingers through the baby hairs on the back of Gepard’s neck. Gepard shudders and whimpers helplessly as Sampo trails his nails down the sensitive nape of Gepard’s neck, slowly, firmly. Sampo's eyes darken with promise. He leans into Gepard's ear, and Gepard can only tilt his head to the side and expose his neck eagerly.

“What will it take for you to kiss me already?” Sampo hisses.

The glass in Gepard’s hand falls to the ground. Gepard yanks Sampo into him by the shirt. Sampo’s forehead knocks into his with an oof, but Gepard does not care. He threads his other hand into Sampo’s hair so he can straighten Sampo’s head and line Sampo’s waiting lips up with—

“So how is everyone doing tonight?”

Serval’s booming voice douses Gepard in cold water. He shoves Sampo away far too roughly, too overcome with shock to register the miffed expression on the man’s face.

“Very funny, aha,” Sampo mutters.

Gepard flinches as a stranger beside him jumps and screams wildly. He stares wide-eyed at Sampo, heart racing, hands shaking, shell-shocked as if he had fought for his life.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” Sampo sighs. “It’s not like I took your virginity.”

You almost did three years ago, the words come to mind impulsively. Gepard beats them back, appalled by his own gall.

He’s saved from having to reassemble his scrambled brain when the plucks of an acoustic guitar sound through the warehouse speakers.

“Y’know,” Serval speaks casually atop the gentle strums of her guitar, “Despite the Fragmentum… Despite the Eternal Freeze… Belobog is a pretty wonderful place to live.”

Cheers from the audience. Gepard would agree, if he weren’t currently arrested by the stare of the most gorgeous man he’d ever met and almost ravaged.

“There’s so many things to be grateful for. Music. Friends. Family. The fact that we can all be here today, taking this moment to let go and enjoy life, despite all our struggles. Making new connections. Celebrating the ones we have.”

Connections. Letting go and enjoying life. Gepard swallows thickly. There has been far too much of that tonight.

”None of this would be possible without the brave soldiers risking their lives everyday on the frontline.”

Gepard freezes. Sampo suddenly leaves his mind entirely. He jerks his gaze up to the stage, where Serval sits on a stool, strumming an acoustic guitar serenely. No. No. Serval had better not—

“My brother is one of these brave soldiers,” Serval continues, careless of Gepard’s mounting horror. “His birthday is tomorrow. And tonight is the first time that Mechanical Fever will perform this song dedicated to him and all the soldiers fighting for our city.”

The people around him scream and jump, overcome with excitement. Gepard falls deeper and deeper into a hole.

“Happy birthday, Geppie! This song is dedicated to you!”

The crowd erupts. Gepard curls into himself as Mechanical Fever launches into its finishing piece. It’s a slow, nostalgic acoustic melody, one that Serval would find boring and one that Gepard would hum as he tends to his mediocre garden. It would be sweet if Gepard weren’t deafened by the roar of his stuttering heart.

Gepard needs to disappear right now. He tries to lunge into the gap between a swaying couple, but he’s shoved back heedlessly. Gepard stumbles right into Sampo, who straightens him with a firm grasp on his arms.

“Woah there, Geppie. What’s the rush?” Sampo peers into Gepard’s eyes with a frown.

Gepard stares wide-eyed into Sampo’s probing look. His thudding heart drowns out the tender plucks of Serval’s guitar.

“Did you do this?” Gepard chokes out faintly.

Sampo’s eyes dart back and forth across Gepard’s face. “Did I do what?”

“Set me up to be publicly humiliated?” Gepard bites out in a panic.

Both of Sampo’s brows rise. “You have a funny definition of ‘public humiliation’, dear. Most people would be flattered if their rockstar sister wrote a song for them.”

“Everyone’s laughing at me,” Gepard accuses.

Sampo snorts. “No one's laughing at you. No one here besides your friends and family even knows who you are.”

“Everyone knows who I am,” Gepard snaps, frustrated beyond measure. “Everyone knows that I am a Landau.”

Sampo grins. “Oddly self-centered of you, Geppie.”

Gepard shudders, clutching himself against the waves of anxiety and horror crashing into him. “Sampo, you don’t understand. If anyone who knows me sees me at one of Serval’s shows with—with a criminal, I’d be torn to shreds.”

Sampo huffs sarcastically. “I didn’t know the gentry of Belobog could be so barbaric.”

Gepard closes his eyes tightly. “Stop. I’m not in the mood to be made fun of.”

Sampo, thankfully, falls silent, leaving Gepard to gasp for air. The smooth, slow tenor of Serval’s voice and the gentle roll of cymbals in the background submerge Gepard’s mind in a fog. He barely registers leaning his head against Sampo’s shoulder, too preoccupied with staring at his feet to hide his blond hair and blue eyes.

“I have to go,” Gepard says tightly. “I can’t be here.”

Gepard takes a blind step backwards, just to stumble as he collides with another body. Sampo’s hold on his arms tightens, pulling him back into Sampo’s chest.

“I’ll show you out,” Sampo says above him, tone oddly grim.

Gepard can only nod mutely. He watches as Sampo cranes his head to peer over the swaying bodies of the crowd, cursing under his breath. Sampo uses his mass to shoulder a path through the throngs, pulling Gepard firmly into his bubble. It's far too easy for Gepard to sink into the shield of Sampo's protective hold and forget the press of strangers all around him.

Serval's melodic voice ends with a slow pluck of the guitar. The people around them, in unison, stop breathing: a suspended moment. It shatters into an explosion of cheers and whistles, shouts and screams, barrages of flailing arms that batter at Sampo and Gepard. Everyone loved Serval's sweet, thoughtful song. Everyone except her selfish, pathetic brother.

The crowd surges forward in adoration, reaching for the stage. Sampo is suddenly torn away from Gepard. This time, Gepard is the one to reach for Sampo’s hand and curl his fingers between the other man’s. He fights through the bodies blocking his path to Sampo and pulls him close, desperate to escape the suffocating crowd together.

They break through the throngs of the dance floor. The warehouse’s double doors are in sight. Gepard's panic narrows onto the light at the end of the tunnel. He tightens his hold on Sampo’s hand and pulls him toward their salvation.

“There you are, Gepard! We’ve been looking for you.”

Gepard’s body seizes at the painfully familiar shout. He releases Sampo hastily and turns around to face his little sister.

Lynx and Victor come to a stop before him, glasses in hand. Lynx’s eyes are shining, so unlike the cloudiness that consumed her when they first arrived at the warehouse.

“Happy birthday, Brother!” she shouts, raising her glass in the air. “Did you like Serval’s song?”

“Happy birthday, Lieutenant,” Victor echoes with a small smile.

Years of propriety force his cheeks to pull into a wide, fake smile. “Lynxy! Did you plan this with Serval?”

Lynx nods eagerly. She’s the most excited he’s seen her in months. “Serval has been writing this song for you for weeks. We thought it’d be a great birthday gift, especially since you’ve been away on the frontlines for so long.”

“That’s so sweet of you, Lynxy,” Gepard enthuses meaninglessly. “Were you in on this, too, Mr. Victor?”

Victor shakes his head. “Not at all. Your sister just invited me to the special day. It’s the least I can do to show you my support given all you’ve done for me and Matilda.”

Gepard laughs unconvincingly at Victor's fake praise, averting his gaze. He flinches when he sees Lynx looking at him with a small frown.

“Gepard, are you okay?” she asks.

Gepard’s throat closes at the direct question, feeling far too seen. He’s mute for too long, before Sampo—Why is he still here?—speaks up in his place.

“Don’t you worry, little Ms. Landau. Geppie here has just had a little too much to drink.”

Lynx looks at Sampo, startled. “Ringo? Why aren’t you backstage with Serval?”

Gepard jerks. He whips around to look at Sampo, who smiles and does not meet Gepard’s eyes. “I have to give my congratulations to the birthday boy, don’t I?”

Victor frowns and squints. “Do I know you, Mr. Ringo?”

Sampo winks. “Oh, I’m sure you do. I get around the music scene. But, as much as I’d love to chat”—Sampo’s palm presses into Gepard’s back, urging him forward—“I need to take poor Geppie out for some air—”

A slap rings out. Gepard smacks Sampo’s hand off his back. A hush falls over their group, but Gepard doesn’t care. He looks at Sampo and feels the muscles of his face contort into an expression he doesn’t recognize on himself.

“Why are you here, Ringo?” Gepard asks far too calmly.

Sampo raises his hands appeasingly. “Are you sure you want to do this right now?”

Gepard swipes at Sampo's arm. His fingers close around empty air as Sampo steps back easily.

“Why. Are. You. Here,” Gepard fumes.

Sampo equips a winning smile. “So lovely to see you, little Ms. Landau, and so lovely to meet you, Mr. Victor. Unfortunately, it's time for Ringo's curtain call.”

Gepard lunges, but Sampo just dodges aside gracefully. Sampo breaks away in a sprint, waving cheerfully behind him.

“‘Til next time, folks!” he shouts in the distance.

“Sampo!” Gepard roars gutturally. He tears after the fleeing criminal, leaving Lynx, Victor, and the suffocating warehouse behind.

—

Sampo runs like a hare. An oversized pest with a talent for escaping. But unlike sensible prey, he frequently slows to dance just out of Gepard’s reach.

“Woah!” Sampo shouts when Gepard picks up the very dumpster the vermin perches on. Sampo flits away easily, prancing onto the pavement. “I haven’t seen you this angry since Limestein Manor, Geppie!”

With a roar, Gepard hurls the metal dumpster onto the spot where Sampo stands. It crashes onto the pavement with a deafening clack. “Get back here, you scumbag!”

“The sweet names you call me!” Sampo cackles behind him. Gepard whips around just to see the criminal dart away. Gepard growls and sprints after.

It’s not long before Sampo leads him to a dead-end alley. Sampo doesn’t falter at the sight of the oncoming wall. Before Gepard can bodily tackle him onto the ground, Sampo leaps against the wall and swings onto a nearby balcony. Relentless, Gepard jumps after. His hand brushes the edge of Sampo’s dress shoes before he falls awkwardly back onto the pavement with an oof.

“Ouch,” Sampo hisses sympathetically above him.

Gepard glares up furiously at Sampo’s insouciant grin. He picks himself up and snarls, “Get down here at once, criminal.”

Sampo swings his legs over the balcony railing and sits on it lazily. His legs swing back and forth as he gesticulates into the air. “A rose by any other name would smell as sweet!” he announces nonsensically.

Gepard picks up a nearby trash can and flings it at Sampo. Sampo ducks back behind the balcony railings, which clang loudly at the impact of the trash can.

“Oh, dear!” Sampo squeaks. “Your murderous rage doesn’t do much to convince me to come down, you know?”

“My fists will convince you to come down!” Gepard shouts.

Sampo just laughs. He looks down at Gepard with sparkling eyes. “Look at all that righteous fury! Don’t you feel better already, Geppie? Getting out of that stuffy warehouse to chase after your favorite criminal?”

Gepard tightens his fists. He does feel better. The cold air of Backwater Pass grounds him. The adrenaline pumping through his veins repels the fog of panic that overwhelmed him in Sampo’s arms. Gepard wonders if Sampo purposefully led him into this chase to exorcize his mounting anxiety.

Still, Sampo has crossed the line. Gepard steps forward and snarls, “You have two options. You can either come down and accept your arrest, or you can explain what involvement you have with my sisters.”

Sampo whistles. “So protective of you. That’s kind of hot.”

Gepard’s brain stutters. No. He refuses to play Sampo’s game. “Answer the question, rat.”

Sampo grins. Gepard tenses when the criminal swings off the balcony, dropping onto the pavement with a skillful roll. He emerges from the roll just out of arm’s reach, hand perched lazily on his hip.

“I’ll be generous, Lieutenant,” Sampo declares, gesturing with his free hand. “I’ll give you both. My cooperative arrest, as well as the answers you seek.”

Gepard takes a step back. He glares at Sampo with open distrust. Sampo just looks entertained at his suspicion.

“I have no involvement with your sisters,” Sampo says. Before Gepard can explode at the obvious lie, Sampo continues, “Not anymore, that is. The job I’ve been contracted for is complete. Money has exchanged hands. You can rest easy that your rockstar sister and little Ms. Landau will not see me again.”

Gepard grinds his teeth. “That’s not good enough. Why were you involved with my sisters in the first place?”

Sampo smiles enigmatically. “Unfortunately, I can’t say.”

Gepard looms threateningly over Sampo, who looks back with unflinching amusement. “And why can’t you?” Gepard demands.

Sampo winks. “Because I promised Serval that I wouldn’t tell.”

The direct mention of Serval’s name ignites the anger waiting in Gepard’s veins. Gepard swipes blindly for Sampo’s arm, just to close on empty air once again.

“Stay away from my friends! Stay away from my sisters!” Gepard shouts frantically.

Sampo’s grin widens. “Your protectiveness is cute, Geppie. Truly.”

“Don’t you dare get close to my sisters ever again!”

Sampo laughs. “I was just attending a show, Geppie. Nothing more than that.”

Gepard grabs at Sampo’s shoulders. Sampo ducks under his grapple gracefully. “That’s bullshit!” Gepard barks. “You’ve obviously been getting into trouble in the warehouse.”

Sampo’s brows rise. “Why do you say that?”

Gepard growls in frustration when Sampo dodges another grab. “I’m not blind,” Gepard spits out. “I’ve seen those bruises on your neck.”

Gepard startles when he successfully twists a hand into Sampo’s tank top. He looks questioningly into Sampo’s green eyes, which stare back with even more surprise.

“Oh. Oh, dear.” Sampo's expression turns pitying. “These bruises aren't from fighting, Geppie.”

“Oh, so you get choked for fun, then?” Gepard snaps.

Sampo smirks. “Why, yes, I do. Among other things.”

Gepard begins to snap something about low-life thievery before his brain stutters to a stop. He looks at the purple blots on Sampo's neck, some of which form imprints of fingers clenching tightly, others winding a trail past his clavicles. It's a trail Gepard has only ever dreamed of mapping with his mouth. A trail, Gepard suddenly and keenly realizes, that someone else has recently already traveled.

Gepard releases Sampo’s shirt as if burned. In this moment, Gepard's world expands. His mind stretches past its limits. With the unforgiving sting of new perspective, Gepard sees that the small, private world he and Sampo shared in the club was a mirage borne of hunger and loneliness. All the secretive glances, all the daring touches, all the sweet words—they weren't the building blocks of something private and special. Gepard, fool that he is, assumed too much without even realizing that he yearned for something private and special in the first place.

The epiphany swallows him. It's simultaneously too much and nothing at all. Too much for the walls that shield him from unspeakable truths. Nothing at all, because all that has been revealed to him are facts that he's known all along. That he's lonely. That he's nothing special. That he doesn't have a place even among his family and friends. That his heart’s deepest desire is for someone to prove him wrong, prove that he's not alone, that he's not defective, that he's wanted—

—and Gepard, fool that he is, had unknowingly pinned these hopes onto Sampo Koski, who swept him away from his lonely spot against the wall and into a magical, fantastical illusion.

How pathetic.

With muted calm, Gepard accepts his mistake. He accepts his naivete in reaching for more than he was given. He accepts the gaping hole that has suddenly become apparent in his heart.

Sampo’s expression is entertained, a stark contrast to the yawning void inside Gepard. “My, my, you almost look more upset about my hickeys than about me spending time with your sisters,” he snickers.

Gepard regards him blankly. “It's none of my business what you do with other people. You are under arrest.”

Gepard steps forward, and Sampo dances back playfully. “For what, Lieutenant?”

“You have four outstanding arrest warrants for your previous crimes, Koski.”

Sampo pouts. “Back to last names, Geppie? And here I thought you were warming up to me.”

“My personal feelings are not relevant to your arrest.”

Sampo titters as he backs away. “They sure seemed relevant when you were trying to bury me six feet under for my completely friendly and legal connections to your sisters. Don't tell me”—he gasps dramatically—“are you jealous that they get to spend more time with me than you do?”

Yes, Gepard accepts calmly. He's jealous of his sisters. He's jealous of his sisters for being passionate and driven instead of broken and lost. He's jealous of Sampo for fitting so easily into Gepard's own friends and family. He's jealous of that unknown stranger who placed those love marks on Sampo's neck. None of this matters. Gepard has no place in any of their worlds.

Sampo’s back finally hits the alley wall. Gepard flips him around unceremoniously and twists his arms behind him. Sampo just laughs, unperturbed.

“What loving touches you have for me, Geppie,” he coos.

The words shatter something in Gepard.

“Do you say that to everyone you sleep with?” Gepard snarls.

Immediately, Gepard regrets his words. The hurt in his tone, the wobble in his voice—it's far too much to reveal to the criminal Sampo Koski. But it's too late. Gepard can't take back those unspeakable feelings. They can only echo blatantly in the night air, a backdrop to the blankness that slowly washes over Sampo's face.

It’s like watching a painting in reverse; the shapes and colors seep from Sampo's once lively portrait. The sharp grin smooths to a neutral press of the lips. Quirked brows return to rest. Sampo's beautiful, twinkling green eyes become captured in a blank stare, and the fall of his lifted lids cast his irises in shadow. Gepard would marvel at how much power his words hold over Sampo, if he weren't plummeting into the ever-widening hole in his heart.

The absence of Sampo's chatter makes Gepard realize how unsettling it is to have a still Sampo. A silent Sampo. There's no mocking remark. No offhanded joke. Sampo is completely blank. Until—

“Oh, dear!” Sampo exclaims with plastic brightness. “Business calls! It was fun playing cat and mouse with you, Lieutenant, but alas, I must depart.”

Sampo begins to pry himself out of Gepard's grip. Gepard tightens his hold, suddenly furious.

“Really?” Gepard hisses. “You're going to leave now? After mocking me and playing me for a fool all night?”

Sampo hums. “A businessman does not pick his hours, Lieutenant.”

“Are my feelings that repulsive to you?” Gepard spits out.

Gepard's world is turned upside-down. Literally. His back slams painfully onto the alley pavement, and he flinches when something sharp slices a thin, neat papercut into his cheek.

Sampo looms above him, grinning widely. The full moon is a perverted halo behind Sampo’s blue locks, making him look sinister and unapproachable in a way he never has before. Gepard flinches as Sampo outstretches a hand, but all that happens is that the wicked, purple blade embedded in the pavement beside Gepard's cheek flies back into Sampo’s hand.

“It's just business, Lieutenant,” Sampo says, folding away the dagger perfunctorily. “No need to get so personal.”

Gepard glares at him from the ground, channeling all the frustration, humiliation, and rage into this one last look.

“Go ahead and run, coward,” Gepard growls, then the night catches up to him. He throws an arm over his face before his face can distort into something weak and pathetic that will inevitably disgust Sampo once more.

It's silent. Gepard can only hear the thin gasps of his labored breaths. He doesn't dare check if Sampo has left.

“Happy birthday, Geppie,” Sampo finally says dully.

The alley returns to quiet. When Gepard finally pulls his arm from his face minutes later, all that meets his bleary eyes is the glow of the uncaring moon.

—

The walk back to the warehouse is calm. Gepard traces the path of his and Sampo's destruction in reverse. It's a slow process. It gives him time to silence the cries of his aching heart into something more easily ignored.

A figure huddles by the double doors of the warehouse, barely illuminated by the orange cast of a nearby heater. They look up at his approach, and Gepard just barely catches the long blonde locks and baby blue eyes of his older sister through the darkness. Serval pushes away from the warehouse wall and hurries towards him.

“Gepard, where have you been?” Serval frets. “Lynx said you ran off suddenly. Do you know how worried we've been these past thirty minutes?”

Gepard regards his sister coldly. “How do you know Ringo?”

Serval blinks, then her expression darkens. “Seriously, Gepard? I'm worried out of my mind for you and you go and ask about some random guy?”

“He's clearly not some random guy,” Gepard snaps.

Serval bristles. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Gepard throws his hands up. “I don't know, Serval. You tell me. All I know is that Lynx thought he'd be backstage with you.”

Serval looks at him incredulously. “Why does it matter if I have him backstage?”

“Because he's a criminal!” Gepard shouts. “Because his name is not actually Ringo! Because he's Sampo Koski, a scammer, a wanted criminal, and a damned pest! Because you shouldn't even be talking to him because he'll screw you over six different ways and then laugh about it!”

Serval looks taken aback by Gepard's unexpected explosion, but the fire returns to her glare quickly. “I didn't know he was a criminal, so don't you dare lecture me about how I should have known better. And for your information, Ringo is the reason tonight was even possible.”

“What does that mean, Serval?” Gepard exclaims wildly. “What, in the Amber Lord's name, is that supposed to mean?”

“He found the direwolf parts for me!” Serval shouts. “He sourced them and sold them to me for cheap! He's the reason I was able to modify that automaton to replace Pela in such a short amount of time! And yes, I let him come backstage as a thank you for making sure I could still give you your fucking birthday gift, Geppie. Sue me.”

Gepard stares at Serval, then begins to laugh. “Is this some kind of messed up joke?”

Serval reels. “Excuse me?”

Gepard can't stop the vitriol from flying out of his mouth. “You and Sampo set me up to be publicly humiliated, is that it?”

Serval looks shocked. Then furious. “So all those weeks I spent writing a song and planning this surprise for you were a joke?”

“I don't know,” Gepard laughs wetly. “It sure felt like I was the punchline of a bad joke.”

Something about Gepard's words douses the indignation on Serval's face. Her expression cools into something stony.

“I'm sorry you hated my birthday gift so much,” she grits out.

The hurt in Serval's voice breaks through the fog of Gepard's aimless rage. It drains from him, leaving him with nothing but the numb regret of hurting his sister.

“I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that,” Gepard says tiredly. “I just—I had a bad experience with Sampo tonight, and I took it out on you. I'm sorry.”

Some of the stone on Serval's face chips away. “Did he do something to you?”

Gepard looks away. “Stay away from him, Sis. He's nothing but trouble.”

Serval pauses for too long. Her eyes scan across his face. It makes Gepard tense at what she might pry from his words, but all she does is nod solemnly.

“I'm sorry that he was here tonight. I won't get involved with him again.”

A small weight lifts off of Gepard's worn shoulders. “Thank you.”

They fall silent. Gepard shuffles his feet. Serval's grim stare does not fall away from Gepard's expression.

“Did you really hate the song that much?” she asks quietly.

Gepard winces. He puts a hand to his forehead, urging his sluggish mind to put together a coherent sentence from the scrambled feelings in his chest.

“I didn't hate the song at all, Serval,” he says emphatically. “That's not what I meant. I really appreciate you writing me a song and honoring me tonight. No one’s ever done something so thoughtful for me. I just—”

Gepard breaks off with a frustrated sigh, digging his hand into his hair. How is he supposed to put the emptiness inside him into words? How can he possibly explain the mismatched puzzle pieces that make up his faulty heart? The feeling of contorting himself into shapes he doesn’t fit? The impossibility of belonging to the city he loves, then being mocked for it in the most public way possible?

There are no words. Charismatic, passionate Serval couldn’t possibly understand. At that moment, the chasm between them seems unsurpassable. Even more vast than the muddled space between Sampo and himself.

“It was too much?” Serval tries for him.

Gepard sighs. Close enough. “Yeah,” he admits. “Kind of. I’m sorry, Serval.”

“Don’t be,” Serval says gently. “I should have been more considerate. I know you don’t like to be in the spotlight.”

Gepard’s drained heart quivers at the disappointment in Serval’s voice. He pulls her into a hug. “Don’t apologize, Sis. Thank you for thinking about me.”

Serval hugs him back tightly, wordlessly. Gepard is grateful for the silence. He’s not sure he has any words left to try to bridge the impassable gap between them.

They hold the hug for far too long, a broken excuse of a brother and his sister in the cold of Backwater Pass’ night. Finally, Serval steps back and looks into her brother’s eyes pleadingly.

“Lynx, Dunn, and Victor are waiting to do a toast to you inside. Will you come back in and celebrate with us?”

Gepard takes a step back before he even realizes it. There’s not enough feeling left in his heart to wince at the crestfallen look that overcomes Serval’s face.

“I can’t,” Gepard says emptily. “I need to go home.”

“Okay.” Serval puts on a brave smile. “Good luck with our parents tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” Gepard says quietly. “Tell Lynx I said bye.”

With that, Serval lets him go. Back to the trolley. Back to his scattered case files on Sampo Koski. Back to existing in a messy condo, waiting to be summoned by his parents in the morning.

Happy birthday, indeed.

—

Who is Gepard? An overprotective brother? A dutiful son?

Gepard stares at his reflection in the silver plate below him. His serious blue eyes peek out between the smear of sauces and foodstuffs. They reveal no insights about who Gepard Landau is, save for his apparent distaste for spinach.

“Gepard, stop playing with your food and eat your greens,” Mother sniffs.

Gepard looks across the dining table at Cara Landau, whose blond hair is braided and pinned neatly atop her head, whose blue eyes are mirrored by sapphires dangling elegantly from her ears. She’s the picture of elegance, a beautiful swan seated next to the stolid, dour lion that is Leonard Landau.

Gepard ducks his head politely. “Yes, Mother.”

Before his fork can pick at the leaves on his plate, Father grumbles, “There’s no need to coddle Gepard, dear. Let him make his own decisions.”

The corners of Mother’s eyes tighten as she continues eating from her plate in silence. Gepard returns his gaze to his plate and pretends he saw nothing.

They eat in silence. The only sounds of the spacious dining hall are the clink of cutlery and the shifts of napkins wiping primly at their faces. Gepard remembers a time when Father would recount epic stories of his battles at the frontlines, romanticized and censored for Gepard’s, Serval’s, and Lynx’s young ears. He remembers when Mother would scold Father for telling gorey stories at the dinner table. He remembers when Father would sneer at Mother for her rigid propriety. Now, they are silent. Leonard and Cara Landau have long since learned that speaking to each other is a futile, troublesome endeavor.

The moment Gepard forces the last bit of green into his mouth, a presence hovers over his shoulder. Gepard nods a polite thank you as the staff takes his empty plate from him. He wipes his mouth clean and stands.

“May I be excused?” he asks robotically.

“You are excused,” Father says. “Spend the afternoon as you see fit.”

“Don’t forget to respond to your birthday letters, dear,” Mother says. “We wouldn’t want to offend the other families.”

Gepard’s head aches. Listening to Father and Mother is like juggling two separate conversations at once. He bows to both of them wordlessly and leaves the dining room.

Gepard climbs the stairs and walks down the west wing of the Landau estate, where his former study room resides. The study is spotless despite being unused for a year, marred only by the stack of letters and wrapped baubles set atop the desk. Gepard sighs, pulling back the elaborate throne chair to sink tiredly into it. He allows a moment of weakness, hunching into his seat and rubbing his bleary eyes, before he forces his back to straighten and his hand to pull from the pile of letters.

The first letter is a flowery letter from a minor family, offering empty platitudes for his service as a Silvermane Guard.

The second is from the matriarch of another noble family, thanking him for recovering their stolen jewelry from one of Sampo’s schemes this past year.

By the time Gepard reads the tenth letter, his forehead is resting on his left palm. At the conclusion of the letter, he tosses it aside and buries his face into both hands.

Who is Gepard? A noble? A Landau? A Silvermane Guard?

Letter after letter thank him for his service. Distant relatives remark at how much he’s grown after last seeing him at some ball years ago. Senior guards compliment him for following in his father’s footsteps. Each one tells him who he is in a cacophony that drowns out his own timid voice.

A cousin. A coworker. A family friend.

A courageous man. A role model. A hero.

Gepard covers his ears as if he could block out their discordant voices. The scrawled lines of each discarded letter seem to lift from their pages, swarming around Gepard like flies. Gepard, you are a soldier. Gepard, you are a good man. Gepard, you are your father’s pride and joy.

Gepard grits his teeth. He bats the unwanted voices away and pulls the next envelope from the pile. He almost laughs when he sees it signed, Matilda Oxford Herrero.

Gepard dutifully opens the envelope. He blinks when two pieces of paper slide out, one folded parchment bearing Matilda’s familiar tight cursive, and another folded piece of cardstock. Gepard picks up the letter and scans down the page. It goes as expected. A birthday wish from Matilda and her husband. Praise for his character. Thanks for his involvement in recovering the Herrero ring. A typical performance of noble pleasantry, until it’s suddenly not.

I remember you had a fondness for flowers, Matilda writes. We were terrible at growing them, but I recall your excitement when we tried anyway. Enclosed in the attached card are a collection of spring seeds. I hope these seeds bring you joy in this coming year.

May your twenty-fifth be filled with Sunshines and Rainbows.

Your friend,
Matilda

Gepard sets aside the letter and unfolds the card, revealing a scattering of seeds. He stares at it blankly. He folds it away carefully and sets it on the table. He decides not to think about Matilda’s letter and instead works through the rest of the envelopes.

He reaches the last one: a letter from Bronya Rand herself. In many ways, it’s the same noble pleasantries as the previous seventeen letters. The celebration of his services. The compliments to his honorable nature. The wishes for a happy twenty-fifth birthday. Yet Gepard knows that Bronya’s elegant script belies the awkward, serious, and sincere young woman who weathered the miserable blizzards with him deep in the Fragmentum. Everything Bronya says is sincere. Every praise of his character, his service, his duty. She means it all.

You are the best of us, Gepard. Belobog’s indomitable spirit lives through you. Even in the darkest of times, I know, when you are out on the frontlines, that there is still hope for Belobog’s future.

The letter ends with a stiff apology for failing to attend Serval’s surprise performance, and an earnest offer to grab lunch at Qlipoth Fort sometime. Gepard folds it away neatly and sets it with the other opened letters.

He’s done. Eighteen letters from various noble families, all opened and read. Eighteen letters with eighteen different suggestions of who Gepard is. Gepard leans back into his chair and stares at the patterned ceiling.

Who is Gepard? A brother? A son?

He’s a poor brother. He flounders when Lynx no longer needs his protection. He’s selfish and unappreciative when Serval spends weeks and weeks preparing sweet gestures for him. When he’s not flubbing his relationships with dear sisters, he abandons them for months at a time.

He’s not a good son either. He can’t count how many times he’s disappointed Father and Mother. He sees them even less than he sees Serval and Lynx. On dark, lonely nights, he even admits to himself that he actively avoids them.

Then what else? A Landau? A noble? True, but ultimately meaningless. Titles he did nothing to earn.

A terrible ex-fiancé? Also true, no matter how much Matilda and Victor try to politely deny it.

A naive conquest? Gepard’s breath hitches painfully. He’s not ready to think about Sampo and the coldness in his eyes when he realized the extent of Gepard’s yearnings.

So what else? An honorable man? A role model? The “best of us,” as Bronya says?

Gepard shudders. He can’t be those things. No matter how much Bronya and the other Silvermane Guards repeat it, Gepard is not those things. But as Gepard looks into his calloused hands, he realizes that he may not have a choice. He is a Landau. He is not a coward. He doesn’t run away from what the people of Belobog need him to be.

So who is Gepard? A dutiful soldier?

Gepard thinks back to the frontlines. To the frigid sting on his face when he removes his helmet. To huddling in makeshift shelters, waiting for blizzards to pass by. To patrolling the Snow Plains every morning and night, searching for signs of Fragmentum activity. The battles he fights alongside comrades. The simplicity of punching a hole into the Fragmentum shadewalker so that he and his comrades may live another day. The cold, clear duty of a Silvermane Guard: defend the people of Belobog with your life.

A calloused finger twitches under his gaze. Gepard admires the scars of his training for the first time. He does good, he realizes. He does a lot of good on the frontlines. And—he glances back up to the letters gathered at the corner of his desk—the rest of Belobog agrees.

Gepard stands up. He walks down the stairs. He pulls a passing maid aside and mutters a question into her ears. She simply points him down the hall to the library. He enters the library, where Leonard Landau sits at an armchair shuffling through folders of case files.

“Father,” Gepard says.

Father looks up from his folders, peering through his spectacles with a frown. “What is it, Lieutenant? Have you already finished with the letters?”

“I’m penning a reply to Lady Bronya,” Gepard lies. “I wanted to speak to you on an important matter.”

Father sets the open folio down on the side table. He turns his body to face Gepard, regarding his son with all his noble severity.

“Speak.”

Gepard breathes deeply. “When will you depart for Everwinter Hill?”

Father looks unblinkingly at Gepard. “I plan to return to the frontlines this Friday. Do you have a purpose in asking, Lieutenant?”

Behind his back, Gepard’s hands shake. He pushes forward, ignoring it.

“I wish to return to the frontlines with you on Friday.”

Father’s brow furrows, which makes Gepard tense. “You’ve only been back for two days, Lieutenant. You already wish to leave?”

Gepard wills his voice not to wobble as he speaks his truth. “There’s much to do on the frontlines, Father. I want to go where I’m needed.”

“Belobog’s defense does not need any particular soldier,” Father corrects harshly. “You will not be missed on the frontlines for a measly month.”

The thought of being unneeded hurts. Still, Gepard presses forward. “Even so, I want to serve. What greater honor is there than to defend Belobog on the frontlines?”

Father does not respond to Gepard’s obvious brown-nosing. He simply pins Gepard in place with his furrowed brows, his creased frown lines, and his icy blue eyes. For a moment, Father looks as if he were about to reprimand Gepard, but whatever words he readied to tear Gepard apart never come.

“Alright,” Father says simply. “You are expected at Qlipoth Fort at 0500 on Friday. Don’t be late, Lieutenant.”

The relief that washes over Gepard is immense. No more confusion. No more wondering what place he has with his own friends and family. Gepard is a soldier who protects Belobog with his life. Nothing more, nothing less. Mind clear and resolute for the first time in two days, Gepard puts everything he has into his next salute.

“Yes, sir.”

Chapter Text

Gepard Landau is a Silvermane Lieutenant posted at Everwinter Garrison. His days are usually simple—manage the garrison, train soldiers, and lead patrols—but today is anything but. Today is the day Liaison Officer Dunn and Captain Landau arrive at Everwinter Hill, ushering in a new season in the war against the Fragmentum.

Gepard stands still in the camp square amidst the commotion of soldiers around him. Inexperienced soldiers scramble around him to their positions, energized with the scent of oncoming change. The senior officers bear much more somber expressions, all too familiar with the seasons of war. Every three months, fresh soldiers, fresh food, and fresh equipment feed the Everwinter Garrison—all to replace everything that has been lost in the previous three months. Weary soldiers are relieved, free to return to their loved ones in Belobog for a measly month. Fresh recruits arrive with bright eyes, just to be thrown straight into the ugliness of war. So life goes in the unending war against the Fragmentum.

A horn blares. The scurrying soldiers settle to a stop, senior officers falling in line beside Gepard’s shoulder and privates aligning neatly into rows surrounding the square. The distant clack, clack, clack of marching metal boots grows louder as the caravan approaches. A metal head peeks out from the slope of Everwinter Hill, then another. Then tens. Then hundreds.

Two hundred incoming soldiers and twenty carts halt their march with a single, unified slam of the halberd. Gepard slams his halberd to the ground in return, and the hundreds of soldiers surrounding him echo him in a thunderous clap.

“Captain Landau! Liaison Officer Dunn!” Gepard shouts.

At the front of the procession, Father stares icily into Gepard’s eyes as he returns his halberd to the rest position. “At ease, soldiers.”

A wave passes through the camp as each body returns their halberd to their side. “Yes, sir!” the shout echoes among the many.

The camp descends into a hubbub. Gepard has no time to think in between assisting Dunn with assigning beds to the new arrivals and organizing soldiers to safely stow away the fresh supplies. In the spare moments after barking at a private to haul a chest of medical supplies to the infirmary, Gepard can only privately thank the Amber Lord that he only has to deal with this once every season, unlike Dunn’s every day of his life.

The hassle concludes at sundown. Gepard leads the evening line-up with exacting swiftness, concluding his day by sending the soldiers of Everwinter Garrison off to dinner. He ducks into the administrative lodge with a sigh, just to be halted at the entrance by a hard slap on the back.

“Good work on the hand-off today, Lieutenant,” Dunn says cheerfully.

Gepard returns Dunn’s cheer with a smile. “That was all you. I just stood there and looked important.”

Dunn laughs. “Humility isn’t a good look on you, Landau!”

Gepard follows Dunn into the cabin lounge, where senior officers gather around a poker table, fiddling with the shield in their hands. Gepard tenses when he catches his father’s imposing gaze, but all Father does is nod and return his attention to the table. Gepard settles beside Dunn onto a couch at the side of the room, absently watching the poker game in between bursts of Dunn’s chatter.

“—twenty graduates from the Academy! Can you believe it?” Dunn’s cheery voice filters through Gepard’s daze. Gepard focuses his attention onto Dunn’s gleaming eyes, frowning as he processes Dunn’s words.

“Is that our class of privates this rotation?”

Dunn grins. “Yes, sir. You’ve got twenty young chicks taking flight under your attentive wing, Lieutenant. The future of Belobog is in your hands.”

Gepard huffs a laugh, mildly awed by Dunn’s unflappable cheer. “Are there any up-and-coming soldiers I should watch out for?”

Dunn hums. “Private Kyle was the top of his class. He’s bright, motivated, your typical star student. There’s also Private William, but…well…”

Gepard raises a brow. “Well?”

Dunn sighs. “I spoke to him on the way here. He’s a bit…nervous. I’m not sure he’ll do well out here.”

Gepard frowns. “He’s gotten this far.”

Dunn winces. “I don’t mean that he’s incapable, Lieutenant. Private William had exceptional grades. But he kept seeing specters out in the snow and insisted that someone was following us. I worry that the influence of the Fragmentum won’t be kind to him.”

Dunn’s fears are reasonable; the Fragmentum can and will corrupt weak minds. But Gepard’s chest tightens as he wonders about what exactly William saw. Dress shoes that leave no footprint in the snow? Green eyes peering out from dead trees?

He banishes his suspicions away to rest a hand on Dunn’s shoulder. “I’ll look after him,” Gepard promises solemnly.

Dunn’s smile returns full force. “Thank you, Lieutenant.”

Gepard squeezes the man’s shoulder, then lets his hand fall back to his side. “When will you be marching out?”

“In the morning. May Qlipoth have mercy on the drunk fools scrambling to pack their bags ten minutes before we leave. They’ll be sorry they slept in when they wake to my horrible singing.”

Gepard feels his smile slip at the mention of Dunn’s musical talents, unwelcome feelings from Serval’s surprise birthday performance welling up in his throat. He covers it up quickly with chuckles to accompany Dunn’s loud guffaws. Gepard freezes when the all-too-familiar growl of Captain Leonard Landau interjects.

“Music outside of leisure hours is prohibited at the garrisons, Liaison Officer.”

Dunn stiffens, straightening sheepishly. “Apologies, Captain. It was a tasteless joke.”

“And you, Lieutenant.” Gepard straightens when Father’s gaze lands on him. “I notice that you haven't packed. Will you be one of those ‘drunk fools’ scrambling to sort their affairs minutes before departure?”

“I won’t depart tomorrow morning,” Gepard informs his father with a racing heart.

Father looks displeased. “Then when?”

“When the rotation is over,” Gepard answers stiltedly.

Father’s jaw twitches. “You plan to stay at Everwinter Hill for another three months?”

Longer, Gepard knows not to say. As long as I possibly can.

Father’s mounting displeasure is interrupted by the noisy clack of shield being thrown onto the poker table. Father’s head whips around to meet the eyes of a gruff, older soldier dealing cards around the table.

“Leave your kid alone, Landau,” the man—Officer Gilbert—huffs. “Let him stay at the frontlines if he wants to.”

Father’s stare returns to Gepard, peeling him apart second by second. Then Father turns back to the table, taking with him the force of his judgment. Gepard finally allows himself to sag into the couch.

“Sorry,” Dunn whispers beside him.

Gepard grins humorlessly. “We’ll have to suffer your singing some other time.”

—

Everwinter Garrison consists of cabins and zones that surround a camp square. To the south, a gate opens to a brick path winding down through the Corridor of Fading Echoes and leading to the Silvermane Restricted Zone. To the north, a heavily-fortified gate leads down the northern slope of the hill into the Northern Snow Plains or, if one were to double back, deep into the ravine that cuts straight through the hill’s mountain range. It’s this ravine, not the hill, that is the namesake and purpose of Everwinter Garrison.

Everwinter Ravine is an efficient system of death; once a week, the Silvermane Guards funnel monsters into the ravine from the neighboring snow plains, then rain hellfire onto the chokepoint. The ground is littered with artillery shells and the corpses of elite Fragmentum monsters, which no longer dare to venture into the ravine. Because of this, and despite the horror of the ravine, it’s an ideal training ground for young privates.

It’s this ravine that Gepard leads the twenty recruits to now, ushering the bright-eyed privates onto the gear lift that descends straight into the heart of the ravine. He nods at the lift operator.

“How long?” the soldier—Soldier Evans—asks.

“About four hours. I’ll fire a flare when we need the lift,” Gepard answers.

The soldier salutes. “I’ll inform the next operator on shift to expect you, Lieutenant. We wouldn’t want our privates to get stuck down there in their first week.”

The soldier laughs and slams the control panel. The gear jerks into motion with a loud crank, and Gepard doesn’t have to look behind him to know that the privates are glancing about in terror.

“W-will we get stuck in the ravine?” an anxious private—William, Gepard recognizes—squeaks over the whirr of the working lift.

Gepard sighs, making a note to speak to Evans about terrorizing new recruits. “We won’t. A guard is assigned to the lift at all times. Even if protocol fails catastrophically and we are unable to operate the lift, we can simply take the long way through the northern gates.”

They finally land at the bottom of the ravine and are met with the grim sight of rows and rows of cannons embedded into the cliff walls overhead. When all twenty-one bodies step off from the lift, the lift stutters and ascends, abandoning them to the ravine.

Training begins. Private Kyle is bright-eyed and talented as promised. Pelted by the snowfall of the ravine, Gepard watches the young soldier skillfully cut down an incineration shadewalker with his newly-issued halberd. Some wistful part of Gepard thinks about how much Kyle reminds Gepard of his younger self, so dedicated and so eager to please.

Private William, on the other hand, could not be more different.

“Is there something wrong, Private William?” Gepard calls out when the young man stands staring at the distance for far too long. William startles violently, fumbling with his rifle before jerking into a salute.

“N-no, sir! I just—that snow—I was—um.”

Gepard stares helplessly as William dissolves into nonsensical babbles. Private Kyle, ever helpful, pipes up.

“Private William thought he saw something in the snow. That's why he was looking there.”

Gepard frowns. He peers out, but all he sees is a haze of white wind and the scattered ashes of dissolved Fragmentum monsters. He looks consideringly at William, wondering what exactly the young man keeps seeing.

“I appreciate your watchfulness, Private, but we are in Fragmentum territory,” Gepard corrects gently. “Protecting our fellow soldiers from the Fragmentum is our top priority, right now.”

“Yes, sir,” William mumbles out.

Gepard has to bite his tongue at the misery that crosses William's expression. He glances around at his surrounding squad of privates. Now is not the right time to ask more questions.

“That's enough for today,” Gepard announces. “We are returning to camp, soldiers.”

A resounding pound of halberds onto the snowy ground. “Yes, sir!”

Gepard hoists Earthwork over his shoulder. He opens his mouth to pull the squadron into formation when—

CRACK.

—a gunshot cracks right past Gepard’s ear.

A hush falls over the group. Gepard turns to look at the offending gunman.

Private William stands frozen in a pristine firing position. The weight of twenty shocked eyes piercing into him jolts him into quickly relatching the safety on his rifle and slamming its butt to the ground. He shakes like a leaf as he shouts, “S-sir! I-I apologize. I—I shouldn’t have—I—”

William chokes on his words and cowers. Gepard wouldn’t be surprised to see the young man tearing up under his helmet. Gepard opens his mouth to speak, but Kyle interjects hastily.

“Private William shot down an imaginary weaver behind you, sir! He wasn’t shooting at you, sir, he was just…”

Kyle’s voice fades away as Gepard levels his stare onto the young man.

“Private Kyle, I understand you’re being a friend to Private William, but you do him a disservice by not letting him speak for himself.”

Kyle flinches. He salutes. “Yes, sir! Sorry, sir!”

Gepard looks behind himself. True to Kyle’s word, the disintegrating ashes of a beheaded imaginary weaver lie on the snow, just visible through the fog of howling wind. Gepard can’t help raising his brows, impressed. That William had seen the monster at such a distance, at such low visibility, and shot it clean through the head right over Gepard’s shoulder…

Gepard turns back to regard Private William, who staggers under Gepard’s gaze as if he were the one shot. Once again, Gepard wonders what exactly the skittish but keen-eyed private saw on his march to the garrison two weeks ago.

“Did you see a monster behind me?” Gepard asks.

William nods frantically as he chokes out, “Y-yes, sir.”

“Did you shoot at the monster?”

“Y-yes, sir.”

Gepard takes pity on the trembling private. “Good work, Private. You have a keen eye.” He looks up with narrowed eyes at the prying looks of the other privates. “I assume the rest of you are busy getting into marching position?”

The privates scatter like cockroaches into formation.

“Yes, sir!” they shout in varying states of chagrin.

Gepard marches the privates to the lift and fires a flare. Despite the privates’ worst fears, the lift obediently descends after a minute. The posted operator salutes to Gepard as he and his soldiers step off the gear. Gepard dismisses the squadron, watching with mild amusement as the young soldiers scramble out of their helmets and into the camp like children running into a playground.

When he catches the slouched form of Private William slinking away, he calls out as non-threateningly as he can.

“Private William. I’d like a word.”

The young man freezes in place, then turns around with terrified eyes. So much for non-threatening, Gepard thinks wryly. Gepard doesn’t comment on William’s nerves, instead tilting his head to the right.

“With me, soldier.”

“Y-yes, sir!” William stutters.

Private William follows Gepard into the administrative cabin, where Gepard’s private office resides. His face grows increasingly pale, as if marching to his death. When Gepard closes the door and catches sight of William’s horrified expression, he’s torn between laughing and sighing.

“At ease, Private,” Gepard says as gently as possible. “You’re not in trouble. I just want to hear about what you saw out in the snow in a more private setting.”

Despite Gepard’s best efforts, William only tenses more. “I-I apologize, Lieutenant. I won’t shoot recklessly in the future.”

Gepard gives in to the sigh. “I don’t think you shot recklessly. I think you neutralized a threat efficiently and precisely. That’s exactly what a good soldier would do.”

William’s eyes widen owlishly. “R-really?”

Gepard almost smiles at the wonder in William’s voice. “Really. Now, would you tell me in your own words what happened out there?”

William hesitates, but Gepard can see in the young man’s body that his walls have fallen. He starts with stumbling words, but his voice gains strength as he recounts seeing wisps of miasma in the distance while Gepard and the other privates were preoccupied with the incineration shadewalkers up close. When Gepard presses William on where exactly the weaver came from, William recites headings and distances with shocking precision. Gepard is thoroughly impressed.

“You have excellent eyes, Private,” Gepard remarks.

William shakes, but his eyes glitter. “Th-thank you, Lieutenant.”

A troubling thought crosses Gepard’s mind. He looks consideringly at William. “Liaison Officer Dunn reported that you saw something on your way to the garrison.”

William instantly wilts. “I-I apologize, Lieutenant. I was imagining things.”

“I don’t believe that,” Gepard says sternly. “You’ve given me no reason to doubt your eyes. Would you tell me what you saw?”

Sorry, Dunn, Gepard thinks privately. I don’t think William is as paranoid as you believe.

William seems conflicted on taking Gepard’s faith to heart, but he speaks anyway. “I-I thought I saw someone following us. I was near the back of the caravan, and I kept seeing a figure in the snow. B-but when I checked around during our stops, I didn’t see any footprints, or anything at all, in the snow.”

“How long do you believe you were followed for?”

“S-since we left the city. At first, I thought it was another soldier behind me, but the numbers didn’t make sense. No one besides the graduates were assigned to the rear, a-and everyone in my class was accounted for.”

“Did this person do anything besides follow the caravan?”

William cringes. He glances back and forth, then chews his lip. He begins to shake. Gepard frowns.

“Did they do something to you?”

William cowers. “N-no! Yes—I-I don’t know. When I went to get my ration pack, I saw that my cookie was missing. Kyle gave me his because he knows I like the cookies, b-but—! There was this soldier, he, he looked like he was laughing at me, and I didn’t recognize him at all, and he just kept winking at me—”

William’s speech dissolves into babbling. Anger at Sampo’s shenanigans bubble up inside Gepard, but Gepard is careful to not let the scowl show on his face. He rests a hand on William’s shoulder in an attempt to calm the young man down, but instead, William jumps into the air.

“I’m sorry, sir,” William gasps like a dying animal. “I apologize for my behavior.”

“There’s nothing to apologize for,” Gepard says firmly. “Thank you for the report. It’s important for me to know whether there are threats around the garrison.”

Gepard’s firm tone succeeds in snapping William out of his babbling. The private stares at Gepard, then sags. “I-I wouldn’t put so much weight on my words, Lieutenant. I’m not sure of what I saw.”

“I have reason to believe your concerns are legitimate,” Gepard says evenly. “There’s a known criminal who takes to sneaking around Silvermane outposts and stealing our supplies. He has been inactive for the past few months, but your report is consistent with his past behaviors.”

William stares with wide eyes. “Is he dangerous?”

“No,” Gepard answers sourly. “Just annoying.”

Some part of Gepard balks at the notion that Sampo Koski is not dangerous. Sampo has never hurt Gepard—not physically, at least—but the wild glint in his eye when he pulled a dagger on Gepard’s bumbling feelings was anything but harmless.

Still, Sampo has never directly harmed the Silvermane Guards. Gepard acknowledges that truth, no matter how much his throat squeezes at the thought of Sampo’s beautiful green eyes. When Gepard looks at William’s trembling expression, Gepard is certain that, for all Sampo would enjoy toying with the nervous boy, Sampo would not cross the line.

“Thank you for your help, Private. Please inform me of any sightings you have in the future,” Gepard orders.

William salutes shakily. “Y-yes, sir.”

“You are dismissed.”

William ducks his head and mumbles, “Yes, sir.”

Gepard unlatches the door and holds it open politely. William begins to slink away timidly. Gepard hesitates. His heart suddenly squeezes as he’s forcefully transported to his own moments of stuttering shame and embarrassment.

“Private, wait.”

William turns back uncertainly, awaiting Gepard’s words.

“You’re an excellent soldier, Private William,” Gepard says gently. “You have excellent foundations, excellent spatial awareness, and excellent instincts. The Silvermane Guards are lucky to have you.”

William gapes at Gepard. His eyes shine brightly as he draws himself up and stutters, “Th-Thank you so much, Lieutenant!”

Gepard finally allows a small smile. “Go enjoy your leisure time, Private.”

“Yes, sir!” William shouts.

Gepard grins as William dashes out of the cabin with new vigor. His smile fades as he looks back down into his calloused hands. At least he’s helped one young man find his way in this cold world, even if he himself has no place in it.

A headache rises as he thinks about William’s sightings. Gepard closes the door and sits at his desk. In the privacy of his office, Gepard allows himself the weakness of resting his aching head on one hand. It seems that Gepard must confront the fact that, like the inevitability of the rising sun, Sampo Koski has crawled out of whatever hole he was hiding in to torment Gepard once again.

All Gepard can do with this knowledge is laugh. There truly is no escape from what Sampo Koski does to Gepard’s heart.

—

It's been half a year since Sampo realized the extent of Gepard's feelings and disappeared from Gepard's life. Half a year of a steady, uncomplicated existence of defending Belobog from the Fragmentum. In hindsight, Sampo's disappearance, much like the criminal himself, was too good to be true.

Gepard grits his teeth as he blocks the swing of a shadewalker's halberd with his gauntlet. He wrestles the weapon out of the monster's grip and thrusts it straight through the monster's heart. The cloud of ash that drifts from the monster's chest brings no satisfaction to Gepard. Instead, some maudlin part of him thinks about the hole in his own heart.

Gepard twirls the halberd grip into a hurl, launching it and the impaled monster across the snow. With a roar, Gepard wrenches Earthwork from his back and slams it onto the ground. The impact of the guitar case sends a shockwave that tears the two remaining shadewalkers into shreds. His chest heaves as he stares into the ashy remains of the decimated Fragmentum monsters, but they fail to explain why Gepard's heart still hurts so much after six months.

A tentative clap, then an enthusiastic smattering of applause. Gepard snaps out of his bloodlust and looks up. Twenty young privates stand to the side and clap eagerly.

“That was so cool, Lieutenant!” an overly daring Private Popova gushes. “Can you teach us how to do that?”

Gepard inhales deeply. Then with his exhale, he folds away all the unhappy images of blank green eyes into somewhere safe and secret. The twenty privates before him deserve the whole of Gepard’s attention.

“Master your halberds and rifles first,” Gepard announces. “Then we’ll see about specialty equipment like mine.”

The privates seem to take his words to heart. They grow quickly, like Sunshine Bamboos eagerly reaching for the sun. Their forms become pristine, their handling of weapons exact. Their bickering dies down, and they begin to slip into formations with the ease of wearing a well-worn glove. The latest squadron to join the Silvermane Guards becomes a true team, and Gepard could not be more proud.

In a terrible, mocking backdrop to the delight of the privates’ successes, Sampo Koski becomes a menace to the camp. Missing rations and medical equipment become all-too-frequent occurrences. Sampo weaves his nefarious schemes into the very air of the camp, an inescapable reminder of his constant presence. But worst of all—and Gepard hates, hates, hates how much this bothers him—Sampo avoids Gepard like the plague.

Sampo Koski steals supplies, but Gepard only knows this through reports from soldiers assigned to sorting the camp’s caches. Sampo Koski plays pranks on soldiers, but Gepard hears this secondhand from the grumbling gatekeepers when he returns from patrols. Where Sampo would once torment Gepard directly, leaving irritating tokens at Gepard’s window, dancing in and out of Gepard’s sight, and burying his fingers into Gepard’s hair to whisper filthy suggestions into Gepard’s ear, Sampo now hovers out of reach. Sampo’s avoidance should be a blessing from Qlipoth Themself, but Gepard hates it.

Gepard despises it.

His simmering anger comes to a climax on the eve of an oncoming blizzard. Gepard leads his squadron back to the garrison early to avoid the storm, only to feel his shoulders draw tighter and tighter at the unusual state of the camp. It’s late in the afternoon, when usually soldiers carrying tools and bags would march back and forth in their chores and routines. Instead, the square is barren, save for scattered pieces of armor being skipped along the stone ground by the rising wind.

Something has happened. Gepard dismisses his privates, but before they can scatter, a nearby officer accosts them.

“Privates!” the officer shouts. “You are needed at the supply station at once!”

Gepard frowns at the harsh order. Supplies work usually involves heavy lifting and strenuous labor. The privates are exhausted from a day of fighting, not to mention the already intensifying winds of the imminent storm. Nonetheless, they obediently hurry towards the officer.

Gepard’s interjection halts them in their steps. “Officer Swanson, what is the meaning of this?”

Officer Swanson salutes respectfully. “Sir, our supply crates urgently need to be secured for the oncoming storm.”

Gepard narrows his eyes. “I was under the impression that the stationed soldiers were responsible for this task.”

“Our stationed soldiers are currently incapacitated. Your squadron are the only available hands.”

Gepard’s brows rise incredulously. "All of them are incapacitated? By what?”

“Gas,” Swanson responds stoically. “Those that are active are under strict orders to guard the camp’s borders and search for the perpetrator. We do not have the manpower to perform a manhunt and prepare the camp for the storm, sir.”

Gas. Sampo Koski. Gepard clenches his fist, struggling to keep his expression neutral.

“Go, privates,” Gepard orders with gritted teeth. “Officer Swanson, I need a brief on the situation. Now.”

The privates scurry away. Gepard listens to Swanson’s terse words, feeling the rage flare inside him along with the intensifying wind. An attentive soldier had finally noticed something off about one of the men tending to the supplies, and this had led to a frantic chase after Sampo Koski that had culminated in the deployment of several smoke bombs. The camp immediately entered a lockdown, and the remaining soldiers at camp were sent out on a manhunt, leaving all the rote tasks of keeping the camp running forgotten.

Gepard dismisses Swanson. He hurries to the caches, gritting his teeth against the snow that begins to batter violently against his helmet. When he reaches the rows of stacked crates, Gepard rushes to the stumbling form of a private struggling to tie rope around a tower of crates.

“Lieutenant!” The shocked voice of Private Kyle is barely audible through his metal helmet and the howling wind.

Gepard grabs the rope from Kyle’s arms and tugs it efficiently into a knot. He turns to the private and shouts, “Tell the other privates to return to their cabins! I’ll handle this.”

A stack of boxes threatens to collapse. Gepard quickly slips beside it, holding up the wobbling tower with his shoulders. He begins to wrangle the rope in his grasp around the tower, but he catches the form of Private Kyle still standing hesitantly to the side.

“Private Kyle, you have been dismissed,” Gepard snaps.

Kyle hesitates still. “Sir! This isn’t work that a lieutenant should have to do.”

Gepard growls as he pulls the rope taut. “A lieutenant will do whatever is necessary for the good of the Silvermane Guards. You are dismissed, soldier.”

Kyle is frozen for a moment more before he salutes. “Yes, sir! Thank you, sir!”

Kyle’s form disappears into the thickening white winds. A part of Gepard unclenches at the sight. This is Gepard’s mess to fix. Gepard refuses to let his privates suffer for Sampo’s crimes.

In the minutes it takes to secure the remaining stacks, the howling wind rises to a shriek. The white fog of Belobog’s everwinter swallows everything beyond a few meters from Gepard, but Gepard refuses to drown in the swarm of white. He pushes through the vindictive winds, fury and defiance fueling every laborious movement of his body. He will fix Sampo’s mess. He will fix this even if his fingers fall off his hands in the process.

The crates are secured. Just one task left. With all his strength, Gepard forcefully unrolls the tarp secured to the side of the supply area. The unrolled tarp lashes at Gepard’s helmeted face. Gepard accepts the beating unflinchingly, wrestling the struggling tarp’s eyelets into the hooks that line the ground of the supply area. Slowly, painstakingly, Gepard pins the tarp over the stacked crates, sheltering Everwinter Garrison’s crucial supplies from the blizzard’s cruel winds.

His arms are screaming by the time he secures the last corner of the tarp. He staggers to his feet and stumbles around the perimeter of the supply area, checking once more that everything has been secured. Everything is indeed secured. Gepard, through sheer stubbornness and anger towards Sampo Koski, has single-handedly completed a job usually performed by an entire squadron.

Take that, Sampo, Gepard thinks bitterly.

The howling wind drowns out his thoughts. Fury at being silenced strikes Gepard like a blazing lance, and he rises indignantly against the deafening storm.

“I know you’re out there!” Gepard howls into the wind.

The wind snatches his words away. It only ignites the waiting fire inside him, like sparks from a striking flint.

“Are you that afraid of me?! Am I that repulsive to you?!”

He makes a wild, animalistic noise, staring down the storm and what it hides.

“Come and face me, you coward!” Gepard screams hoarsely.

There is no answer. Or maybe there was, but the Eternal Freeze’s selfish winds stole it away. It doesn’t matter. Gepard knows better than to wait for Sampo’s reply.

Gepard turns his back on the wicked winds and stomps away. He only makes it a few steps away from the supply zone before his rage turns cold. The freeze of the blizzard seeps into his very lungs. It suddenly plummets Gepard into a deep, paralyzing chill, halting him midstep. 

What if Sampo is out there in the storm? Hunted? Cold? Alone? 

Gepard's body acts on its own. It turns around and marches right back to the supply zone, despite the rational voice inside him that screams that Sampo has always and can very obviously take care of himself in the frigid snow plains. But his body is deafened to logic. Instead, an overwhelming need to do something compels his every footstep right up to the hooked corner of the tarp.

Gepard's mutinous fingers fish out a key from his belt. A master key to all the warm, sheltered cabins in Everwinter Garrison. The consequences of losing such a vital object fail to stop his hands from securing the key to the hook. He leaves it there and steps back.

The chill squeezing his heart lifts, and Gepard's mind and body are one again. For a moment, he just stares at the key flailing on the hook and, despite everything, cannot bring himself to do the sensible thing in taking it back.

He walks away from the key and prays to the Amber Lord to keep Sampo safe and warm throughout the storm.

—

When Gepard walks into his office the next morning, the winds have calmed, and the master key lies safe atop Gepard's desk.

Gepard can only hate himself for how relieved he feels at what that means.

—

Gepard doesn't realize that three months have passed until he stumbles across all twenty privates sitting drunkenly behind the training grounds nursing bottles of moonshine. They freeze mid-laugh upon his approach, staring at him with wide, panicked eyes.

“Lieutenant!” Private Kyle gasps in horror. “I apologize, sir! We’ll clean this up at once—”

“Come join us!” a particularly daring and drunk Private Bosko shouts. “We can’t celebrate the end of our first rotation without you!”

So Gepard suddenly gets roped into an impromptu and illicit party celebrating the conclusion of the privates’ first three months in war. Gepard is simultaneously exasperated and touched by the audacity of his privates. He toasts for the majority who have chosen to return to Belobog at the end of the week, and he allows himself to secretly feel pleased that both Kyle and William have chosen to stay. He ends up tipsy enough to launch into a speech celebrating the privates’ accomplishments, much to their raucous applause, and they, in turn, take turns thanking him for all he has done for them. It’s boisterous, loud, and merry. It makes Gepard feel warm.

The privates’ upcoming departure changes very little in Gepard’s schedule. He shuffles soldiers between squadrons and reorganizes his patrol schedule to block out training time dedicated to integrating the new blood into his squadron. His plans are completely upturned, however, when he meets with Dunn and Captain Landau on the eve of their departure.

“You are to return to Belobog tomorrow morning with Liaison Officer Dunn,” Father commands.

Gepard stares, uncomprehending. It's only when he glances at Dunn's apologetic expression that the words spear through him.

“Captain, I have unresolved obligations at the garrison,” Gepard blurts out too quickly.

Father's visage grows ever colder. “What exactly are these so-urgent obligations preventing your return to the city?”

Everything, Gepard wants to shout. I run the garrison. I slay monsters. I train new soldiers. I breathe life into the future of Belobog. This is where I'm useful. This is where I belong.

What comes out instead is a pitiful, “I have a patrol to lead tonight.” It’s pathetic, but Gepard was sincerely looking forward to his first patrol in the Northern Snow Plains with Kyle, William, and the new men in his squadron tonight.

Father's eyes narrow at Gepard's pitifully inadequate answer. “I will take over the patrol. You will return to your quarters and pack. You are dismissed, Lieutenant.”

Panic tightens its cruel grip on Gepard’s throat. He rushes out frantically, “Father, please—”

“You will address me as Captain,” Father snarls, eyes flashing. “You are dismissed.”

Gepard’s throat closes completely. The harshness of Father’s tone tells Gepard that he can’t afford to make any more mistakes. He salutes on reflex, then his legs take him out of the cabin. Before he can wander to wherever he’s going, a hand grips his shoulder tightly.

“Gepard, wait.”

Gepard turns around to face Dunn. Dunn’s eyes swim with pity, which only makes Gepard’s throat close tighter.

“I’m sorry. I tried to talk to him, but your father is convinced that you should return to Belobog.” Dunn hesitates, then pulls a weak smile. “Look on the bright side! You’ve been away for almost a year. You deserve a break.”

Gepard just stands there, unable to do anything but stare at Dunn’s fading smile. His throat refuses to work, locking away all the eloquent explanations for why a return to Belobog would be anything but a “break”. His life’s work is out here on the snow, yet in the blink of an eye, he’s torn from it for the crime of somehow displeasing his father yet again. What is there for him in the city? A dysfunctional family? An unkempt condo? Maybe a few acquaintances?

Gepard takes a deep breath and forcibly cuts off his spiraling thoughts. It’s just a month. It’s hardly a death sentence.

“It’ll be nice to see my flowers again,” Gepard manages. He doesn’t mention that they’re probably all dead.

Dunn brightens and slaps Gepard’s shoulder heartily. “That’s the spirit! I’ll see you in the morning.”

Gepard’s face contorts into some pleasant expression that successfully sends Dunn off to sort out the hubbub of the camp. Gepard almost follows; there’s so much to hand off now that he can no longer lead the garrison, so many notes, so many reports, so many ongoing initiatives. But Gepard is no fool. Gepard is no longer the oblivious young child who eagerly barged into his father’s war meetings to “help” however he can. Everwinter Garrison is a well-oiled machine that has existed long before Gepard was even born, and it certainly won’t fall apart in Gepard’s absence.

Some cruel part of Gepard wishes it would.

—

Sleep is a fickle thing, fluttering just out of Gepard’s grasp. To spend his last few hours at the garrison asleep feels like a sin, so Gepard resigns himself to staring at the whorled wood of the cabin’s ceiling, wondering how his privates are faring under his father’s much more draconian leadership.

Through the window, the black sky begins to turn a deep navy, heralding the incoming dawn. Gepard rises out of bed, grabs his single suitcase, and marches to the meeting point at the camp square.

He’s early. The only bodies at the square are Dunn and the busy forms of several dutiful soldiers tossing crates onto the wagons. He walks up to Dunn and greets him with a small nod.

“Is it time to wake the soldiers with terrible singing?” Gepard teases.

Dunn grins. “Only if you don’t tell your father.”

Gepard chuckles. “You’re in luck. I don’t think he’s returned from patrols, yet.”

They share a small laugh as they haul crates onto the wagons and tie them down. The work accelerates as bodies begin to stream into the square from the barracks, and Gepard carefully equips a pleasant smile for the privates who are surprised to see him with the caravan. It sits awkwardly on his face, askew, like a sock two sizes too large. He’s no Dunn, endlessly cheerful. He’s no Sampo, impenetrably amused.

What he is is efficient. Too soon, the frenzy of gathering departing soldiers and their belongings concludes with soldiers lined up between wagons in neat rows, Gepard and Dunn at the head. Resignation settles in Gepard’s heart. It’s time to leave.

A disturbance at the back jolts Gepard out of his subdued thoughts. He exchanges a glance with Dunn before, very faintly, over the whistle of the winter wind, a hoarse scream becomes audible.

“Lieutenant! Lieutenant!”

Gepard whips around, pulse suddenly roaring. That’s Private William’s voice, torn and shredded. He’s running before he’s even aware of it, dashing past the shocked expressions of lined-up soldiers and towards the northern gate, where William’s harrowing shouts originate.

“Private William!” he shouts as he skids to a stop. His breath catches at the sight of William’s torn uniform and the blood splattered across his chest. The private staggers forward with a death grip on his rifle, an uneasy gatekeeper at his side.

“Lieutenant,” William gasps. “The garrison is under attack. They—the Fragmentum—they ambushed us on our patrol. There’s thousands of them coming up Everwinter Hill, sir.”

Shocked exclamations behind Gepard. Gepard clenches his fists, too aware of prying eyes.

“Where from? Where is the rest of the squadron?” Gepard demands.

“They’re c-coming from the Northern Snow Plains. It’s as if thousands spawned overnight. The others, they’re leading as many of the monsters as possible into the ravine as we speak. Captain Landau, he—he wants you to deploy the cannons, sir.”

The cannons. Father has led his squadron and the horde of monsters into Everwinter Ravine, where artillery line the cliff walls to rain death onto trapped Fragmentum monsters—and men.

“He wants to deploy the cannons?” Gepard grits his teeth. “How will the squadron escape the ravine before we fire?”

William sobs. “They won’t. They’re surrounded. They’re blocked off from the lift.”

Gepard stares. His father is down there. The men he trained for three months and shared drinks with are there. Gepard thinks back to his bitter thoughts last night, wishing that the camp would fall apart with his departure. Ice chills his heart at his foolishness.

Gepard turns around to see the many troubled soldiers, some stubbornly remaining in line, others flocking anxiously around him and William. An officer steps forward, slamming his halberd in a salute.

“We are ready to man the cannons at your command, Lieutenant,” Officer Swanson affirms.

Gepard looks at Swanson. “No.”

Swanson’s voice is steady in its confusion. “No?”

“We will not fire the cannons while our men are in the ravine,” Gepard says calmly.

“Please confirm. You are overruling Captain Landau’s command?” Swanson states testily.

“Captain Landau is indisposed,” Gepard declares, voice booming through the two-hundred soldiers standing before him. “As the most senior officer present, I am your commanding officer. We are not deploying the cannons. Not yet. Are you with me, soldiers?”

Uneasy glances between soldiers. A beat of silence meets Gepard’s burning expression before Dunn steps forward and slams himself into a salute.

“Yes, sir!” Dunn shouts.

The dominoes fall. In a wave, two hundred soldiers join in and roar a resounding, “Yes, sir!” that shakes the very ground of Everwinter Hill.

Gepard doesn’t have time to feel heartened. “Officer Swanson, I need you to arrange defenses along the northern wall. Liaison Officer, send the wagons out of the garrison and to the restricted zone at once. Soldiers, be prepared to fight for your lives, but more importantly, be prepared to run.” Gepard’s stare narrows as pulls Earthwork into his hands. “We may have to abandon the garrison.”

“Captain Landau would defend the garrison to death,” Officer Swanson sniffs.

“Captain Landau may very well be dead right now,” Gepard snaps, and Swanson stiffens. “Now go! We need to defend the walls at once!”

Swanson salutes and runs off with a shout, taking with him a majority of the soldiers. Dunn roars at the remaining soldiers, who run to the wagons and begin racing the cargo out the southern exit of the garrison. Gepard glances at the lift and feels for the standard-issue flare gun secured to his belt. He grabs Dunn’s shoulder, whirling the man around.

“Dunn, listen to me carefully,” Gepard hisses. “When you see my flare, I need you to raise the lift, then fire the cannons. I can’t do this from below.”

Dunn’s voice is shocked. “You’re planning to go into the ravine?”

“Yes.” Gepard pulls away with a hard slap on Dunn’s back. “Private William and I are counting on you to get us back to safety.” Gepard turns around to face the tattered and bloody William. “Private, are you ready to lead us to the rest of our comrades?”

William salutes. “Yes, sir!” His voice is the clearest it’s ever been.

Gepard and William rush to the cliffside, where the rusted gear lift perches over the deadly ravine. Gepard barely registers hurried footsteps chasing after them as he steps onto the lift and slams his fist into the control panel. The gear emits a soft whirr just as Dunn skids to a stop at the cliffside, looking down at them as they descend into hell.

“You better come back in one piece, Landau!” Dunn shouts.

Gepard does not reply. There are no promises in war.

—

It takes thirty long seconds for the metal gear to clank against the bottom of the ravine. The commotion of the mobilizing camp is inaudible here in the depths. All he hears is the deafening whistle of the wind and the shriek of Fragmentum spawns in the distance.

Gepard slams Earthwork into the ground. A shimmery film blinks over his and William’s bodies. With a snarl, he hoists Earthwork over his shoulder and charges.

The first flock of spawn disintegrates when Gepard leaps and slams Earthwork into the fray. It’s not enough. Clouds of coldspawn and flamespawn buzz and shriek, intent on Gepard’s form. They swarm around him, battering claustrophobically into his barrier.

“Stay close, Private!” he shouts behind him “I’ll cut a path.”

“Sir!” William affirms.

Gunshots and slams. The clatter of spawns pelting relentlessly into armor and barriers like a hailstorm. This is wrong, Gepard realizes. There shouldn’t be this many monsters in the ravine. The ravine was purged by artillery just three days ago. Where did all these monsters come from?

A hoarse roar in the distance. The voice of a human. Gepard’s pulse quickens.

“That’s them!” William gasps.

“Forward!” Gepard snarls. He heaves Earthwork back over his shoulders and sprints, William at his heels.

A tortured scream. Gepard is just in time to see an everwinter shadewalker bury its halberd into a soldier’s shoulder. William’s rifle cracks open the shadewalker’s head as the soldier falls. Gepard roars and slams Earthwork into the ground, its shockwaves rippling into a gossamer film protecting the soldiers before him.

“Lieutenant!” the collapsed soldier gasps. It’s Private Bosko, who just three days ago handed Gepard a bottle of moonshine and invited him to sit with the privates.

Gepard rips a strip of cloth from his cape and presses it tightly against the private’s injured shoulder. “Apply pressure on the wound.” He rises and sees far fewer soldiers than expected. “Where are the others?”

“Missing in action,” Captain Landau growls at the other side of the group. The glare he fires at Gepard is wild and furious. “Why are you here, Lieutenant? You were ordered to deploy the cannons.”

Gepard can do nothing but accept the loss of his soldiers immediately. “We are expected at the lift, Captain,” Gepard states coldly. “The cannons cannot be deployed without my signal.”

Father’s eyes flash with ire. Whatever vitriol he readied is interrupted when a halberd slams into his back. The oily film of Earthwork’s barrier ripples as it deflects the halberd. Father whirls around, but the incineration shadewalker’s head is already falling into the snow.

“Right behind you, Captain!” Private Kyle shouts as he withdraws his halberd.

Father looks back at Gepard. He doesn’t break the burn of his frosty blue eyes as he bellows, “Soldiers! Assume formation. We march to the lift at once!”

With practiced efficiency, eleven battered bodies slip into a tight formation, Father at the helm with his lance and shield, halberds at the sides, the injured in the middle, and Gepard shielding the gunners at the flank.

Their rough phalanx advances steadily. Frostpawn and flamespawn batter their bodies relentlessly, but Earthwork’s shield holds strong. Halberds cut through shadewalkers that close in on the sides. Bullets rip apart distant weavers before they can blast at their formation.

Distantly, Gepard realizes that this is his privates’ first true test of war. Three months of training is all that stands between life and death for the remaining privates. It has to be enough. It has to be.

It’s enough, until it isn’t. A sharp crackle pierces through the chaotic shrieks of the monster swarm. Gepard hears William’s horrified shriek, “Behind us—!”

It’s just enough for Gepard to pull Earthwork in front of his body, summoning a shimmering barrier at their flank. Daggers of ice fly into their bodies from behind. The barrier pulses with the impact of the unnatural ice before, finally, once the barrage relents, it flickers away completely.

“An ice-out-of-space,” Gepard snarls. The hulking ice monster roars as it charges for its next attack, black miasma swirling around its faceted body like a nauseating poison.

“Captain!” a soldier cries.

Gepard snaps his gaze to his father, who’s locked in place by ice crawling up his leg. Fury courses through every artery in Gepard’s body. It meets at the palm of his right hand, glowing a desperate, blinding, blue. With a roar, he smashes the ground with his gauntlet. Spears of ice sprout furiously down the ravine, impaling countless monsters and walling off the hulking ice monster.

Gepard rushes to Father. He smashes the ice prison with his gauntlet, but it doesn’t so much as wobble.

“What are you doing, Lieutenant?” Father snarls. “Return to formation!”

“I won’t leave you behind!” Gepard yells. He punches again, and this time, a hairline crack forms.

“You and I both know that this ice won’t break through normal means,” Father growls. “Return to the garrison and deploy the cannons!”

An ominous crack from behind. Gepard’s ice wall won’t hold forever. He looks wildly around and catches William’s horrified gaze. He makes a decision.

“Private William, I need you to shoot the ice with your rifle,” Gepard orders, heart racing.

William looks into Gepard’s burning stare with wet eyes. “L-lieutenant, but his leg…”

“Do it,” Father snarls. “Anything to get this pigheaded Lieutenant back to his duty!”

William doesn’t hesitate any longer. He raises the rifle, points it to Father’s encased leg, and shoots. The crackle of ice falling apart is drowned out by Father’s nightmarish scream, which claws down Gepard’s spine like nails on chalkboard.

The moment Father falls free, Gepard swings Earthwork to the front of his body and lifts Father onto his back. He stumbles under the added weight before he straightens. He roars at the gathered soldiers, “To the lift! Go!”

They sprint just as the ice wall falls apart. The gear lift is just a short distance away. The swarm surges towards them like a voracious storm, reaching, grabbing, clawing to swallow them forever. Gepard grabs the flare from his belt and fires it.

He’s the last to leap onto the gear. The lift creaks to life just as he lands, rising rapidly above the hellish hordes. A frigid claw buries itself into Gepard’s uniform leg, and he almost slides off the lift. He’s jerked to a stop by his arm.

“Hold on to me!” Father shouts above him. One hand is clenched tightly around Gepard’s wrist, the other in a vice-grip around the gear railings.

Gepard bares his teeth, holding tightly onto Father’s arm. He slams his free boot into the head of the hulking ice monster. It digs its claws deeper into his leg, until a gunshot explodes its shoulder, splitting its arm from its body.

The body of the Fragmentum monster plummets into the abyss.

“That was my last bullet,” William says breathlessly.

Gepard pulls himself onto the lift. “Good shot, Private,” is all he can say before the ravine bursts into deafening explosions, burying the monsters in a fiery grave.

—

Dunn is there when the lift reaches its apex and the eleven survivors stumble onto land.

“Captain Landau! Your leg!” Dunn exclaims in horror.

Father ignores Dunn, staggering against Gepard’s shoulder. “What is the status of the garrison, Officer?” he grunts.

Dunn instantly returns to professionalism. “We’re fending off waves at the northern slope, sir. They keep coming.”

“Even after shelling the ravine?” Gepard asks in disbelief.

Dunn’s voice is grim. “I’m afraid so. There’s no end in sight.”

There’s only one option. “We have to evacuate the garrison,” Gepard states darkly. “We will withdraw to the restricted zone and close the gear bridge. They can’t cross the chasm.”

Gepard glances at Father, tensing for the inevitable disagreement and accusations of cowardice. But they don’t come. Captain Landau just stands there, face pale, jaw tight. Concern swells in Gepard, but he pushes it away. There’s no time.

“William, Kyle, take the Captain and carry him to the restricted zone. All of you are now under Dunn’s command. Dunn, I need you to organize our safe retreat with the soldiers in the restricted zone. Call for backup and organize the troops. Make sure they’re ready for us.”

Gepard passes Father into the privates’ arms. Dunn steps forward.

“And what will you do, Lieutenant?”

“I will organize the rearguard with Officer Swanson,” Gepard answers simply.

“Sacrificing yourself again?” Dunn’s voice sounds almost angry.

“I have Earthwork, and I have my gauntlet,” Gepard states flatly. “I am the best person for the job.”

“Do you know how devastated Serval would be if anything happened to you?” Dunn snaps.

Gepard can’t afford to think about Serval right now. He can’t think about Lynx. About Mother. About Sampo, who might still be in the camp, or worse, out in the snow with the monsters.

“Then ensure nothing will happen to me, Officer,” Gepard says coldly. “I’m counting on you to call for reinforcements."

Gepard doesn’t let Dunn respond. He sprints away to the northern gate, Earthwork in hand.

—

The plan is this:

The one hundred gunners and cannoneers of Everwinter Garrison will form two lines at the rear, the first line facing the incoming swarm, and second behind the first. On cue, the first line will fall back behind the second line. The second line will take over firing on the advancing monsters. And repeat, until all the several hundred soldiers of Everwinter Garrison have safely retreated through the bridge into the restricted zone.

Gepard stands at the rearguard now, activating Earthwork to engulf the line of soldiers in a barrier.

“Fire!” he screams.

Fifty soldiers roar in unison as gunfire rains onto the incoming monsters, blocking out the morning sun.

“Fall back!” Officer Swanson calls from behind.

The gunners around Gepard turn back and run down the southern slope of Everwinter Hill, dashing madly towards the Corridor of Fading Echoes. Gepard stays in place, holding Earthwork’s barrier with gritted teeth until the gunners fall into position, and Gepard himself can fall back.

“Fire!” he screams again, summoning his barrier once again.

And so on. Line by line, they fall back down the hill and into the corridor. Gepard’s hands shake. His left leg, clawed into by that ice monster, aches. Earthwork sputters in his arms, overdrawing his gauntlet’s energy to power its immense shields. His right hand is numb, frosted over from the overuse of his gauntlet. But the plan is working. His soldiers are retreating safely, line by line. There are no casualties, despite the growing horde of monstrosities. Gepard has to hold on.

Gepard falls back once again. He’s shocked when, this time, a hailstorm of artillery rains onto the swathes of monsters, engulfing them in shrieks and explosions. Gepard glances back, heart soaring.

“Cover the rearguard!” Dunn’s voice echoes from the towers of the Silvermane Restricted Zone, which lies so, so close.

The answering roar of the cannoneers posted at the towers of the restricted zone crashes through the sky like thunder. Gepard’s chest heaves. They’re so close.

“Fall back!” Officer Swanson screams again.

The line of gunners run back, and this time when Gepard glances back, he sees them running down the gear bridge and straight into the restricted zone. Gepard sprints to the waiting backline of soldiers standing tense at the edge of the bridge. This will be the last line to fall back. This is the last stretch before the soldiers of Everwinter Garrison retreat to safety.

“Fire!” Gepard screams one last time, bracing Earthwork firmly into the ground.

The last line of gunners opens fire. Spawn, shadewalkers, and weavers cry and fall apart under the combined hellfire of the rearguard and the artillery from the restricted zone.

Then suddenly, a familiar crackling sound.

Gepard throws everything he has into his gauntlet. A wall of ice rises, but it’s pitiful compared to the spears he summoned in the ravine. It shatters against the daggers of monstrous ice shards that rain on the gunners. But it stops the shards from reaching them.

“Fall back!” Gepard screams hoarsely. “Fall back, now!”

The gunners falter, confused. Officer Swanson is the one who should be giving that command. Gepard whirls around wildly.

“I said, ‘Fall back!’” he roars.

The ice wall shatters into miserable pieces just as the gunners turn back and run. A terribly-familiar ice creature, faceted, looming, monstrous, growls and lunges at Gepard with its one claw. Gepard whips Earthwork in front of his chest. It shatters when the monster’s claws pierce straight through, throwing Gepard back onto the snow-covered stone.

Gepard staggers to his feet. Earthwork lies in pieces beside the monster. A pang of regret echoes through Gepard. Serval will be sad to hear that her beloved invention lies broken in the snow.

The monster curls its one claw into the air, charging up a ball of icy miasma above it. Behind it, shadewalkers and spawn creep past the artillery fire. Gepard glances to his side. How convenient. The monster launched him right next to the bridge’s control panel.

Gepard activates the control panel. A loud crank echoes as the gear whirrs to life. He punches through the panel with his gauntlet, sparks of electricity flying from the dying screen, trapping the monsters and Gepard himself on the other side of the chasm.

“Gepard!” someone howls across the chasm.

The ice monster releases its flurry of ice. Daggers spear into the ground around him as he lunges for safety. He rolls to safety—or so he thinks, until he’s pulled back by his arm. Gepard looks at his right hand. Oh. That’s a spear of ice goring straight through his gauntlet’s palm, pinning him to the ground and seeping poisonous ice all over his right hand.

Gepard is defenseless. Earthwork is gone. His gauntlet is broken. Still, when the ice monster wraps its claw around his chest, pulling him and his pinned hand up from the ground, Gepard kicks the monster’s head with all his strength.

Distantly, as he bashes his left hand repeatedly into the monster, Gepard thinks that he’s lucky his impaled hand was already frozen numb from his overuse of the gauntlet. This could have been a lot more painful.

He wonders, as he claws at the cracks between the monster’s armor, if Sampo is safe in the restricted zone.

Gepard suddenly falls to the ground. He wheezes as his lungs slam against the stone. A breeze blows across his face, before something lands neatly beside his cheek with a quiet shlick.

Gepard glances to his left. A purple knife embedded into the ground. He looks up at the monster. It writhes, a horrible gash cut clean and deep across its body.

Gepard’s left hand curls around the knife grip. He rolls to his feet and raises the dagger. He plunges it into the monster, and it screams as the last of its evil frost explodes from its armored body and fades away to dust.

Gepard staggers to his feet, head ringing. Using a weapon with his left hand was strange. Maybe he should train to be ambidextrous.

It takes a few blinks for Gepard to realize that the ringing is not just in his head. He turns around to face the restricted zone and sees the distant, blurry bodies of Silvermane Guards gesturing frantically at him. They’re shouting, Gepard realizes. That tinny noise is their shouting.

“—run—bridge—!”

Gepard bets Sampo is ambidextrous. That seems like exactly the nifty but understated talent that the criminal would have.

“—bridge—stuck—!”

Gepard frowns. That was a strange sequence of words. He squints at the bridge and watches its rotation.

There is no rotation. It’s not moving.

Sound rushes back through Gepard’s ears. He hears the screams of the Fragmentum monsters far too close behind him. He hears the desperate shouts of his comrades, “The bridge is stuck! You can still make it! Run, Lieutenant! Run!” And lastly, but most importantly, his eyes narrow like a laser onto a small, toothed gear connected to the turning mechanism of the bridge that stutters, jammed, because of a second purple knife wedged in its teeth.

Gepard’s body moves. His legs pump. His arms swing beside his torso. He sprints. And when he reaches the lip of the chasm, barely disconnected from the path of the partially rotated bridge, he leaps.

He flies.

He tumbles onto the bridge painfully, left hand clenched tight around the purple knife that slaughtered the ice monster. Something flies away into the sky, a blur of purple. Immediately, the bridge groans and turns, trapping the horde of monsters at the other side of the chasm safely away from the restricted zone.

The bridge jerks to a stop. Gepard rolls onto his back as concerned bodies flock to him. He recognizes the frantic voice of Kyle shouting above him, “Lieutenant! Lieutenant! Are you alright?”

Gepard ignores him. Instead he glances at William beside him, who stares up to the sky at something only he can see. Gepard smiles, jealous. He wishes he could see Sampo, too.

—

Gepard is forced back to consciousness when Father barges into the infirmary, dogged at his heels by a frantic medic.

“Sir, sir! You’re injured! You can’t—!”

“Leave!” Father bellows thunderously. “I will talk to my son!”

The medic cowers under Father’s torrential rage, then scuttles out the double doors of the infirmary. Gepard lets himself feel sorry for the unfortunate medic before Father’s irate gaze lands on Gepard lying vulnerable on the infirmary bed.

“What were you thinking?!” Father thunders. “Ordering the fall-back early, destroying the control panel—What in the Amber Lord’s name were you thinking?!"

“The Fragmentum monsters were too close. I had to—,” Gepard begins.

“Don’t spout that drivel at me!” Father sneers. “You could have done any number of things. Instead, you chose the most foolish, imbecilic path forward. Are you mad, Son? Have you hit your head?”

He probably did. That must be why Gepard is screaming at his father like a man possessed, “I did what was necessary to protect Belobog! I swore to protect this city with my life as a Silvermane Guard!”

“Damn the Silvermane Guards! You are my son!” Father howls.

The blasphemous roar tears from Father's throat like needles. Immediately, Gepard feels his words die in his throat. Gepard can only stare dazedly at Father's red face, at Father’s sharp blue eyes that pierce crazily into Gepard's own. Father's chest heaves as if he were fighting for his life.

“You. Are. My. Son.” Father utters, the words slow and painful. “I don’t care what oath you swore to the Silvermane Guards, to the Supreme Guardian, or to Qlipoth Themself. You are my son first and foremost. And you, of all people, should know better. A Landau never takes the easy way out.”

The words hit far too close to something Gepard refuses to acknowledge. He reels, attempts to stutter a protest, and utterly fails. All he can do is lie back as he's peeled apart and revealed in his shameful entirety to his very own father.

“You are my son,” Father repeats forcefully. “Do you understand?”

Gepard doesn't. His head is ringing. He doesn't understand what Father wants from him. He doesn't understand why Father would tell him to be a dutiful soldier all his life, just to explode when Gepard finally fulfills his purpose. He doesn’t understand why his father sounds so distraught at the thought of Gepard dying. But there's only one correct response.

“Yes, sir.”

Father's face contorts, as if in agony. His icy blue eyes seem to stretch to infinity, leaving Gepard to fall endlessly into the void of his father's pupils. The lines of his face are marred with a baffling despair. A deep and irredeemable disappointment in Gepard Landau, once again.

Eventually, Father’s face smooths. The deep creases disappear into an impassive countenance. “Lieutenant, it has become apparent to me that your judgment may be compromised.”

Gepard’s stomach drops. It can’t be. Is Father about to dismiss him from the Silvermane Guards?

“I apologize, sir,” Gepard rushes out in a panic. “I’ll prove myself—”

“You will prove nothing, Lieutenant,” Father interrupts coldly. “When you return to Belobog, you will seek out a counselor from the health department, and you will not return to the frontlines until you complete six months of counseling. Am I understood?”

Six months of counseling. An eternity away from the frontlines for a service provided to soldiers whose minds were too broken for combat. Gepard would wonder why stoic, unflappable Leonard Landau would mandate psychological counseling, of all punishments, if he weren’t so relieved to still be a Silvermane Guard.

Gepard can only accept his father’s mercy. “Yes, sir,” he chokes out.

A medic barges into the room, double doors slamming loudly against the infirmary wall. “Captain, I’m going to have to ask you to return to your room,” he says calmly.

Father turns away. His voice is old and worn when he says, “Get some rest, Lieutenant.”

Father leaves.

—

Tick. Tock. The sound of a grandfather clock. Goosebumps prickling his flesh. Green eyes in the darkness.

This is what Gepard hears, feels, and sees. This is Gepard’s world, a murky dream amidst darkness.

“Like what you see?”

Beautiful green eyes. Gepard squints. Eyes aren’t supposed to talk.

The green eyes aren’t alone. They come with an artful cascade of hair. A cold grin. The dancing movements of a hand twirling a knife in the air, glinting a pretty purple in the moonlight. Gepard struggles upright. “Sampo?” he wonders groggily.

The grin widens. “Got it in one.”

Gepard stares at the green eyes, suddenly reinvigorated. Qlipoth, Sampo is as beautiful as Gepard remembers. He thought Sampo was avoiding him. “I thought you were avoiding me.”

Sampo laughs his impenetrable laugh. “I was busy, darling. Clearly, you were, too, given your sorry state right now.”

Sampo whirls the knife to point at Gepard. Gepard suddenly realizes he’s lying in an infirmary bed. It’s night. There are bandages all over his body and something strange about his arm. He looks down, confused, then squints back up at Sampo’s rigid grin.

“Are you mad at me?” Gepard asks.

The knife twirls. “Whatever for?”

Gepard frowns. “You look like you’re about to run away.”

Sampo scoffs. “Like you ran away to the snow plains?”

Gepard scowls. He’s aware enough to know that he should be offended. “That’s different.”

Sampo pierces through Gepard with his green eyes. “I don’t think it is. See,”—Sampo twirls his knife to point at himself—“a fool like me runs to the next big thing, the next flashy distraction. A fool like you”—the knife-tip stares accusingly at Gepard—“runs to his death. Which one of us is the bigger fool, Geppie? Hm?”

Gepard frowns. “You are mad at me.”

Sampo’s beautiful green eyes roll to the back of his head. “Aha, save me. You’re so difficult when you’re drugged out of your mind.”

He’s drugged? Oh. That makes a lot of sense. Sampo is always so enlightening.

“It’s okay if you leave,” Gepard suddenly says urgently. “I won’t arrest you.”

Sampo’s expression is amused. “I don’t think you could get out of bed in this state, much less arrest me.”

Gepard’s brow furrows as he wrestles with his thoughts. He wants to say something, something important. It’s the most important thing he could ever say, and he needs to say it right now.

“You don’t have to stay,” Gepard stumbles out clumsily. “It’s okay if you want to leave. I won’t force you to stay. You can leave whenever you want.”

At that, Sampo falls silent. Gepard jerks, suddenly panicked.

“I’d like you to stay, though,” Gepard rushes out. “I’d really like you to stay. But you don’t have to. Just”—his voice becomes small—“if you want to.”

Sampo suddenly stands up. Oh, he was sitting on the windowsill. The knife twirling in his hand gets closer, because Sampo himself is getting closer. Is Sampo about to stab him? Were Gepard’s words that offensive?

Gepard follows the knife intently as it gets set down on the bedside table. He startles when a grinding sound pierces through the natter of the grandfather clock. He looks up to see Sampo sitting on a chair by his bedside, his green eyes unreadable in the dark.

“Why did you leave that key out in the storm?” Sampo asks.

Gepard frowns. He racks his brain until hazy memories of anger and concern filter through. He glares at Sampo.

“I was mad at you, you know,” Gepard huffs accusingly.

Sampo doesn’t flinch. “I had gathered. So why leave the key out, then, if you were so mad at me?”

Gepard’s brow furrows. “Why did you save me? I would have died if not for you.”

“That’s not how twenty questions works.”

Gepard’s expression sours. “What do you want me to say? That I don’t care about you? Unlike you, I’m not a liar.”

Sampo, smug bastard that he is, smirks at Gepard’s insult. “The drugs really bring out the spice in you.”

Gepard tilts his chin up imperiously. “The drugs only make me say what I think.”

Sampo smirk fades. “I know. You’re a heartachingly honest man. With and without drugs.”

This is wrong. Sampo shouldn’t look like that, so still and quiet. Gepard struggles onto his elbows, leaning forward into Sampo’s face.

“What’s wrong?” Gepard urges, scanning intently across Sampo’s expression.

For a moment, Sampo looks back blankly. His dull green eyes are beautiful in the dark, and it makes Gepard’s heart gallop just as much as it makes him frown with worry.

Sampo leans forward. Their lips meet. Gepard can’t help whimpering in shock before he lunges forward greedily, gasping like a drowning man.

Something changes in Sampo at Gepard’s unabashed need. Sampo’s mouth becomes punishing. Gepard is swept away by the force of Sampo’s furious lips, moaning pathetically as Sampo sucks on Gepard’s bottom lip and bites. Gepard lets himself drown in Sampo’s intensity, lets himself be devoured by the greedy, open-mouthed kisses that Sampo stamps into his skin. Qlipoth, he almost died without experiencing this again. He almost lost the elation of Sampo’s lips forever.

Gepard trembles with the force of his longing for Sampo. He reaches to wrap tenderly around Sampo’s waist, to pull the man closer and hold him gently in his arms, but oh. There’s no hand. Gepard has no right hand to place at Sampo’s back. Gepard has no right hand.

Gepard pulls back, eyes wide. He meets Sampo’s half-lidded ones, which blink to alertness at whatever’s showing on Gepard’s face.

“Where’s my hand?” Gepard utters, confused.

A shadow falls over Sampo’s expression. “It was amputated.”

Gepard blinks, fitting the information into his understanding of the world. Gepard’s right hand was amputated. He’ll never be able to play with Sampo’s hair, run a finger down Sampo’s cheek, and tenderly pull Sampo closer to him with his right hand. He’s lost that chance for good.

“Oh,” Gepard says sadly. “Okay.”

Something magical happens on Sampo’s face. Gepard watches, entranced, as the man pulls his lips back to bare his teeth, but it’s not a smile. His eyes darken. His jaw tenses. The cords in his neck tighten. Gepard places a hand—his left hand—onto Sampo’s taut neck, and Sampo jerks away.

“Go talk to your sister about your gauntlet,” Sampo says, standing up abruptly. He outstretches his hand, and the knife at Gepard’s bedside flies back into his grip.

“Are you leaving?” Gepard asks, resigned. His lips are still throbbing from Sampo’s euphoric kisses.

Sampo stops. His chest expands as he breathes in. He shudders as he exhales.

“‘Til next time, Geppie,” Sampo’s cheery voice answers.

And Sampo disappears once again into the night.

Chapter Text

The wooden doors of Qlipoth Fort creak loudly when Gepard enters Bronya’s office. Three heads swivel to stare at him. Lynx, Pela, and Bronya stand in a circle by the acting commander’s desk, halted mid-conversation by Gepard’s sudden appearance.

“Commander, you called for me?” Gepard breaks the silence hesitantly.

Lynx, without a word, walks past Gepard and out the office. Gepard reaches to hug her as she walks by, but she doesn’t spare him a glance as she shoulders past him. He looks at Pela and Bronya, confused at Lynx’s cold reception.

“Give her space,” Pela says quietly. “It’s not everyday that her brother almost dies on the battlefield.”

Gepard flinches. It didn’t even occur to him until now how his sisters would be affected by his near-death.

“I’m glad to see you back, Lieutenant,” Bronya gently interrupts his self-loathing. “We feared the worst when we heard the reports of the battle on Everwinter Hill. Your actions have prevented many needless deaths, and I’m relieved that yours is among them.”

“Barely,” Pela mutters.

Bronya sends a sharp look to Pela then returns her solemn gaze to Gepard. “Thank you for all you’ve done for the Silvermane Guards. I will see to it that you receive a commendation.”

Gepard ducks his head respectfully. “Of course, Commander. I will gladly lay down my life for Belobog.”

Bronya and Pela glance at each other. Somehow, Gepard immediately understands that his words have failed some unspoken test.

“Intelligence Officer, I’d like a word in private with Lieutenant Landau, if you please,” Bronya says pleasantly.

Pela nods. “Of course.”

In an unfortunate echo of Lynx’s earlier exit, Pela walks past Gepard as she exits Bronya’s office. Pela slows as she passes by his shoulder.

“Glad you’re alive, Gepard,” she mutters. Her eyes flash meaningfully through her lenses as she pushes up her glasses. “I’m glad the restricted zone bridge malfunctioned when it did.”

Gepard looks sharply at Pela, but she’s already out the door, her kitten heels clacking lightly on the stone of Qlipoth Fort. Gepard closes the door behind her, taking the moment facing away from Bronya’s scrutiny to steady his suddenly shaking hand. Does Pela know about Sampo’s involvement with Gepard?

Gepard folds the panic away. This is a problem for future Gepard. He turns around to face Bronya with a steady expression.

“Please, have a seat.” Bronya gestures to a spare chair beside her desk. She moves around the desk to sit primly in her cushioned seat, watching expectantly as Gepard settles.

“Let’s get through business, first,” Bronya says, professionalism smoothing her features. “The Supreme Guardian has approved your medical leave. You are expected to remain in Belobog for six months to recover from your injuries, during which you are expressly forbidden from engaging in Silvermane Guard activities. You will be paid your full salary, of course, and you will have unlimited access to the medical resources offered by Qlipoth Fort.”

Bronya picks up a sheaf of paper on her desk, her eyes darting back and forth across its face. “There is an extra condition for your medical leave. You are required to attend weekly sessions with a designated mental health practitioner. Failure to complete this program may result in a delay in your return to duty. Am I understood?”

“Yes, Commander,” Gepard affirms, subdued.

The papers are turned and pushed forward before Gepard. Bronya primly grabs a pen and taps at the bottom of the page. “We’ll need your signature and date here.”

Bronya offers him the pen. Gepard hesitates, corrects his impulse to reach with his right arm, and folds the pen into his left hand. Gepard feels a frown form on his face as he pins the paper down with his right elbow. The frown progressively deepens as his shaky hand digs a mockery of his previously elegant script into the paper. Once he finishes, he pushes the pen and his childish scratches back to Bronya, studiously avoiding her gaze. Bronya says nothing as she accepts the signed documents.

The papers flutter as Bronya stows them away. Her voice is soft when she asks, “How are you, Gepard?”

Gepard glances around the room, trying to stall for an answer. He doesn’t want to be standoffish to kind Bronya, but he also doesn’t know what answer Bronya wants from him.

“I’m alright,” he settles on neutrally. “A little tired from the trip. Hungry. It’s refreshing to be back in Belobog after so long.”

Bronya’s eyes flicker. “A year ago, I promised to grab lunch with you for your birthday. Now it’s already almost your birthday again.”

Gepard blinks. He hadn’t expected Bronya to remember her offhanded promise in her birthday letter.

“Would you have time this week for me to treat you to lunch?” Bronya asks softly.

Gepard hesitates. Bronya’s offer is sincere, but Gepard knows how busy she is.

“I’ll let you know when I’m available,” Gepard evades weakly.

The fall of Bronya’s expression is so subtle that Gepard almost misses it, but the brand it burns into Gepard’s mind is inescapable. It almost makes Gepard rush to say yes, he’d love to have lunch with Bronya, he’s so damn lonely. But Gepard has always done what’s best, and Bronya’s time is better spent on important things.

He leaves Qlipoth Fort haunted by Bronya’s crestfallen expression.

—

Gepard’s next destination is Neverwinter Workshop. Dread accumulates with every footstep he makes, but he marches forward regardless. He can’t avoid this visit. He owes it to Serval to face her, no matter how much her disappointment terrifies him.

The door to Neverwinter Workshop tinkles as he pulls it open. The warm glow of the shop and the sharp smell of machinery soothes him slightly. He’s fond of Serval’s shop, so cluttered and lively and homey and filled to the brim with Serval’s personality. It’s the opposite of the Landau estate in the best ways.

The door clicks to a close behind him as he steps over the threshold. “I’ll be out in a second!” Serval’s muffled voice shouts from the back of the store. Serval stops in place when she rounds the corner and meets Gepard’s eye. She says nothing. Just stands there staring.

Gepard’s shoulders grow increasingly tight under her unrelenting scrutiny. He reaches to fidget with his wrist-cuff before he remembers that he shouldn’t touch the bandages around his stump.

“Hi, Sis,” he offers weakly. “It’s been a while.”

That, evidently, was the wrong thing to say. Serval turns away and begins grabbing the tools on the worktable to hang them in their proper places along the wall. Gepard winces at the obvious anger in her sharp movements.

“I’m sorry,” Gepard says haltingly. “Earthwork was destroyed in battle. I wasn’t able to recover the pieces.”

Serval slams a pair of pliers onto the desk, making Gepard flinch. “Really, Gepard?” she says testily. “That's what you're apologizing for?”

Gepard falters. “I’m not sure what to say,” he admits.

“I couldn’t care less about Earthwork,” she snaps frostily. “I can just build another shield generator. You know what I can’t build another of?” She looks up furiously. “A brother.”

Horror overcomes Gepard at the sight of the wet sheen in Serval’s eyes. He rushes out, “Serval, I’m really sorry—”

“No. Stop. You don’t even know what you’re apologizing for.” She turns away and angrily shoves the pliers onto the wall. “I can forgive you for abandoning me and Lynx for a year. I can forgive you for being a coward who’d rather run away to the frontlines than talk about his feelings. I can forgive you for not writing once that entire time. What I absolutely cannot forgive is the way you insist on throwing your life away like a piece of garbage!”

Serval throws her hands up at the end of her shout, whirling around to glare wildly at Gepard. Tears are streaming freely down her cheek now. The sight pulls Gepard toward his sister, hand outstretched to do something, anything to rid her of those horrible tears.

“Serval, I am so, so sorry. The last thing I want to do is hurt you with my actions—”

“By the Amber Lord, you still don’t get it!” Serval shouts. “Stop caring about me and start caring about yourself!”

Gepard’s throat closes. A sob wracks Serval’s frame as she pounds her fist on the table and cries, “Gepard, you are my brother!”

The déjà vu slams into him. The sight of Serval’s grief and despair overlays with his father’s furious expression contorted into agony as he screams, You are my son!

“You and Lynx are my only family,” Serval chokes out through her tears. “Don’t you know that? If you were gone…you’d break my heart. You’d break my heart in two, Geppie.”

Who is Gepard? A brother? A son? A soldier? “I’m sorry,” he whispers uselessly to Serval. To Father. To Belobog.

Serval buries her eyes into her hand. She takes a deep, shuddering gasp.

“No, Gepard. I’m sorry.” Her hands fall to her side as she pierces Gepard with red-rimmed eyes. “I’m sorry that I wasn't a good sister. I’m sorry that I haven’t done enough to support you. I'm sorry that I made you feel like your life was worth giving up.”

“That’s not how I feel,” Gepard denies automatically, even as the truth of her words sinks into his bones.

“Then don’t do that ever again,” Serval demands without pause. “Don’t give your life up for something as stupid as honor and duty.”

I won’t, Gepard tries to say, but the words catch in his throat. He urges his throat to open, but his body once again defies him.

Serval just looks at him and his limp, defective body. She doesn't look surprised. Just sad.

“I love you, baby bro. You know that?”

“I love you, too,” Gepard returns uselessly.

Serval looks away. She wipes away imaginary dust from her counter. “How long will you be in the city?” she asks quietly.

“Six months.” Gepard hesitates. “Father’s requiring me to attend therapy while I’m here.”

“That’s the only good thing he’s ever done for you.” 

Gepard doesn’t respond. He doesn’t want to return to the old argument about their parents right after bringing his sister to tears.

“Come see me more often, okay?” Serval demands.

The answer is easy. “Of course.”

Gepard can do that much for his sister, at least.

—

When the young man at the health department—the “care coordinator”, as he called himself—pulled Gepard aside and asked him his preferences for a therapist, Gepard had arbitrarily answered, “A woman.” He envisioned a stereotypically middle-aged woman in a lab coat and a professional demeanor. Instead, his therapist is a younger woman who wears large glasses, a messy bun, and a thick, patterned sweater that Serval would call garish.

“My name is Jess,” she says from her armchair opposite Gepard. “It’s good to meet you. I look forward to getting to know you.”

She says this softly and kindly, like a gentle breeze carrying snowflakes across the city. She reminds Gepard of a more soft-spoken Pela.

“It’s nice to meet you, Dr. Jess,” Gepard returns politely.

“You’re welcome to just call me Jess. Dr. Jess is fine, too, if that’s more comfortable for you.”

Gepard shifts in his seat, uncomfortable. “Thank you, Dr. Je—Jess.”

The first session is a simple interview. At Jess’ request, Gepard recounts a broad overview of his life. He’s a Landau. He has two sisters. His father is the Captain of the Silvermane Guards. His mother was a lawyer before she married into the Landau family. He lived a typical noble childhood rife with private lessons and social functions before attending the Belobog Military Academy and graduating summa cum laude. He’s been a Silvermane Guard ever since, risking his life and his appendages in service of protecting Belobog.

Gepard has never told his life history before; the people he meets are usually all too aware of his background. He’s too conscious of the movements of his jaw, the way his muscles stretch and curl with his vowels. He feels self-centered, as if he were bragging.

But Jess doesn’t even blink at his monologue. “I always like to ask my clients this: what would you like to get out of our sessions together?”

Gepard looks down. “My father would be the better person to ask. He’s the one who sent me here.”

“Unfortunately, your father is not the one attending our sessions,” Jess replies wryly. “What would you like to work on? What would you like to see different in your life?”

Gepard looks around, searching the bland room futilely for an answer. “I’m not sure,” he finally admits. “Maybe that’s my answer. I’d like to figure out what to do with my life.”

Jess smiles. “That’s an excellent goal. We can definitely work towards that.”

Jess then outlines the plan for Gepard’s counseling. They’ll speak about Gepard’s life, whether about the past or about moments that come up in his day-to-day. They’ll identify areas of need and practice coping skills to address them. They’ll track his progress with questionnaires every two weeks. It’s uncomfortably vague, and Gepard wonders how he can possibly talk an hour every week about the nothing he does all day, everyday.

Gepard’s skepticism must show on his face because Jess gently asks, “What do you think about our plan?”

Gepard hesitates. He doesn’t want to be rude, but he doesn’t want to lie.

“I’m just not sure how much focusing on random moments in my life will fix whatever there is to fix about me,” he confesses.

Jess nods. “You have a point. Sometimes, the reasons why we struggle are deeper than what we can show in a single moment. But let me reframe that sentence for you. Instead of the word ‘fix’, why don’t we try the word ‘understand?’ How can talking about the moments in your life help you understand more about yourself?”

“I’m not sure there’s much worth understanding about myself,” Gepard says quietly.

Jess smiles. “Gepard, are you familiar with crossroads?”

Gepard frowns. “Like a split path?”

Jess nods. “Yes, exactly. Everyday, every moment, we encounter a fork in the road, whether we realize it or not. That, just now, was a crossroads.”

Gepard humors her. “What were the paths?”

“In one path, you choose to voice a mean, cruel thought about yourself. ‘There’s nothing worth understanding about myself,’” Jess echoes, and Gepard flinches. “What do you think a different path would have been?”

Gepard’s throat closes up. His mind buzzes with static.

At Gepard’s expression, Jess gentles her tone. “We humans are creatures of habit. The more we go down a path, the more we’re likely to choose it again. Eventually, we might lose sight of other paths altogether. We might forget that we had a choice in the first place.

“This is where I come in. I’m here to help you see these crossroads that you may have forgotten. I’m here to help you realize that you have power over how you feel about yourself. What I can’t do is force you down one path or another. That’s a decision only you can make.”

The truth of Jess’ words seep into his body, leaving him feeling sticky, uncomfortable. “I understand,” he concedes stiffly.

Jess softens at Gepard’s visible discomfort. “Well, that’s the poetic way to put it. Really, I’m just here to talk.”

“I’m not good at talking,” Gepard mumbles.

“Who is?” Jess says. “We’re all just stringing words together and hoping it means something in the end.”

Gepard debates admitting to Jess that sometimes, his throat refuses to form words at all. Ironically, the words to explain it fail to come, so Gepard says nothing at all.

—

As a soldier, Gepard’s life was busy and structured. As a civilian, Gepard has nothing to do besides go to his medical appointments. His daily battle becomes a tedious siege of boredom.

Everyday, he pulls himself out of bed and smooths it to military standards. He listens to the guided meditations that Jess has provided him. He cleans his amputated stump and redresses it with fresh bandages. He does what little exercise he can within the confines of his condo and the restrictions of his healing arm. He buys salads and soups from the nearby deli, because he can’t be bothered to relearn how to cook with one hand.

He visits Serval’s workshop everyday, partly out of guilt and partly out of sheer boredom. She’s busy with customers more often than not, but on quiet days, Gepard sits at her shop until late, watching her slowly convert his broken gauntlet into a prosthetic. Their moments together are awkward and largely silent, broken by the occasional stutters of conversation. Still, Gepard visits. He promised he would, after all.

At night, Gepard's dreams are violent glimpses of Father's shattered leg, William's bloodied uniform, and hills of disintegrating monsters. Inevitably, his slumbers end with the gleam of knowing eyes. Sometimes they're beautiful, green, and shadowed. Other times, they're blue and peering through a glinting pair of glasses.

One morning, after waking up violently with Pela's too-knowing words echoing through his mind, Gepard sneaks into the administrative halls of Qlipoth Fort. He strides toward Pela’s office with as much authority as he can manage, but he's unexpectedly stopped by an uncomfortably familiar face.

“Gepard? What are you doing here?”

Matilda’s doe eyes are wide with some unnamed emotion, her arms wrapped tight around a binder. Gepard tenses, an unwelcome reflex in Matilda’s presence.

“Matilda,” he greets stiltedly. “I was on my way to speak to Intelligence Officer Sergeyevna.”

Matilda frowns. “I thought you were on medical leave.”

“I am,” Gepard confirms sheepishly.

Matilda’s frown deepens. “So you’re not supposed to be working.”

Gepard’s eyes skitter away from Matilda’s face against his will. Qlipoth, it’s been almost a decade since their engagement. They're entirely different people now, a seasoned lieutenant and an ambitious law clerk instead of two fumbling students. How is Gepard still this awkward in Matilda’s presence?

“It’s not work,” he mumbles. “I wanted to speak with Pela on a personal matter.”

Matilda opens her mouth to say something, then visibly reconsiders. She adjusts the binder in her arms.

“I’m glad to see you healthy and about,” Matilda says simply. “Give Officer Sergeyevna my regards. I’m afraid I’m needed for an adjudication hearing, otherwise I’d walk with you.”

“No need,” Gepard says too quickly, then winces at his rudeness.

Matilda takes it in stride. “Have a good day,” she says pleasantly.

Gepard fast-walks the rest of the way to Pela’s office. He knocks on her door, waits for her answering “Come in,” and hurriedly shuffles into the office. When he closes the door behind him and glances at Pela sitting at her desk, her brow is raised.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she remarks.

“Something like that,” Gepard mumbles.

“Come, sit.” Pela gestures at a spare chair. “I know why you’re here.”

At that, Gepard forgets about Matilda entirely. He gulps as he sits down and watches Pela fumble for something under her desk. She pulls out a long metal case, setting it on the desk between Gepard and herself. She opens it, its lid swiveling ajar at its hinge.

A familiar purple knife rests in a felt mold.

Gepard looks at the knife, then looks up at Pela observing him scientifically. It's a sight straight from his nightmares.

“I presume you recognize this weapon?” she asks.

Gepard stares back. “What do you want to know?”

Pela shuts the lid and pushes the case toward Gepard. “Nothing. I already know what I need to know. In fact, I suspect I know more about this weapon than you do.”

Gepard sets his hand atop the proffered case. Pela continues, unbothered.

“This weapon was obtained from the Battle of Everwinter Hill, as you know. You passed out with it in your hand, after all.” Pela sends Gepard a droll look. “I was curious how a weapon could be sharp enough to cut through an ice-out-of-space’s armor, strong enough to resist the force of the turning bridge, and precise enough to be thrown to such a degree of accuracy. So I took it upon myself to secure it for study by the Intelligence Department.

“What I’ve found is that the material is completely unknown to our records. There is nothing inherent to the weapon’s structure that would enable its accurate movement; no nano-drones, no built-in propulsion, et cetera. It’s controlled by an entirely external energy, possibly one that this mystery material is attuned to. It’s likely that this material predates the Eternal Freeze, and we’ve lost all knowledge of it to time.” Pela looks at Gepard pointedly. “One might even call it an ancient relic.”

The connection to a certain ancient relics dealer is not lost on Gepard. He eyes Pela warily. “Why are you telling me this?”

Pela shrugs. “I thought you’d want to know. Consider it a thanks for all the intel you’ve provided me over the years from your…underground sources.”

Gepard tenses at the wording. “You don’t have any objections to these ‘underground sources?’”

“Absolutely not.” Pela’s eyes sparkle. “He’s been quite helpful over the years, don’t you think? Whatever you’re doing to get information from him, keep doing it. It makes my job easier.”

Gepard drops all pretenses. “I thought you hated Sampo.”

“I thought you hated Koski,” Pela returns pointedly. Gepard winces, panicked at being caught. Pela rolls her eyes.

“Relax,” she mutters. “I’m on your side. Though”—her wry expression turns serious, making Gepard straighten—“let’s keep this from Bronya and Madam Rand for now.”

Gepard frowns. “That’s borderline treason.”

Pela sends him a sharp look. “What’s treason? The Silvermane Intelligence Department is simply leveraging all its resources to perform its duties.”

Gepard grits his teeth. His honor screams at him that keeping secrets from the Acting Commander and the Supreme Guardian is wrong, but the horror of having the world see his connection to Sampo for what it is paralyzes him. Just Pela knowing felt like walking into his own execution. If his friends, his sisters, his parents knew… He can’t even imagine it. His throat seizes painfully at even the suggestion of it.

It takes some time to wrestle his voice back under his control. “You’re right,” Gepard admits gruffly.

Pela’s looking at him with concern. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Gepard says stiffly. “I should get going. Matilda says ‘hi’, by the way.”

Gepard takes the case enclosing the knife and tucks it under his arm. He rises from his seat, then hesitates.

“How’s Lynx?” he asks somewhat desperately.

Pela’s look is pitying. “She’s still mad at you.”

Gepard sighs. “I figured. Thank you for the help today.”

“Any time,” Pela says sincerely, even as she’s already burying herself into her next stack of papers.

—

That night, Gepard returns to his condo to the sight of Pela's case empty and ajar on his bedside table. The knife that was once within now twirls figure-eights into the air, whirling around the deft hand of one Sampo Koski.

“Nice case,” Sampo simpers from his seat at the windowsill. “What a thoughtful token of appreciation for the dagger I lent you.”

Gepard eyes Sampo as if he were a cornered animal, ready to bolt or lash out at any moment. “You should thank Pela, not me,” Gepard says cautiously, careful not to twitch any part of his body.

“Little Ms. Intelligence Officer gave a gift to dear ol’ me? Hm. Maybe I should work with the Silvermane Guards more often.”

Sampo remains relaxed. He makes no move to lunge out the open window. Gepard feels his body loosen as confusion takes the place of wariness. Why is Sampo here? Why is Sampo still here? He’s just sitting there, menacingly beautiful. What is Gepard supposed to do?!

“Would you like some tea?” Gepard blurts out, then bites his lip in a panic. Was that too much?

Sampo blinks. “Is this a clumsy ploy to arrest me?”

Gepard hides his nerves by rolling his eyes. “Do you really think I’m that sneaky? Besides, I’m on leave. I couldn’t arrest you even if I wanted to.”

Sampo breaks into a sunny, untrustworthy smile. “Then how can I refuse?”

Gepard doesn't allow himself to feel surprised. He points a warning finger at Sampo. “Stay here. I need to brew the tea.”

He exits the room before Sampo can reply, unwilling to entertain any false promises that might rain from Sampo’s dishonest tongue. Gepard needs to brew tea. He has no thoughts to spare about whether Sampo will truly stay or run away at the first chance.

Gepard stalks to his kitchen cabinet and leafs through his neglected bags of loose-leaf tea. He decides on an inoffensive green tea, digs the tea strainer out from the recesses of the cabinet, and meticulously measures out an appropriate amount of leaves on his kitchen scale. He dispenses a precise amount of hot water from his water heater, lowers the strainer into the mug, and sets a timer for exactly one minute. He stubbornly ignores the voice that sounds oddly like Serval laughing at him for going through so much effort to make a damn cup of tea for a wanted criminal.

The alarm startles Gepard out of the embarrassment that he was definitely not feeling. He removes the strainer and carries the mug back into his bedroom. Something wound impossibly-tight inside Gepard unclenches at the sight of Sampo lounging on his bed like a stretched-out cat, eyes closed, arms folded behind his head. He hides the relief with a scowl, setting the mug on the nightstand.

“I didn’t know this was your bed,” Gepard snipes. 

An eyelid cracks open, revealing that beautiful, arresting green. “Is that cup of tea for me, dear?” Sampo sing-songs lazily.

“It’s for my right hand,” Gepard retorts sarcastically, sitting at his desk. “Get up and drink before it gets cold.”

Sampo obligingly rises. He grabs the mug by the handle, resting it gently on his other hand.

“Where’s yours?” Sampo asks.

Gepard blinks. He didn’t even realize that he neglected to brew a cup for himself.

“I don’t have enough hands to carry two mugs,” he quips, only half-joking. He’s probably much less thoughtful of the inconveniences his physical disability causes him than he should be.

Sampo tsks. It’s a lighthearted sound, but somehow, Gepard can hear displeasure in the noise. “I thought your sister was making you a prosthetic?”

Gepard wonders why Sampo knows this. “She is, but it’s not ready. It’s difficult to augment a weapon into an accessibility tool. I probably won’t be able to depend on it for everyday tasks, anyways. I’m more likely to freeze everything in my building than I am to successfully write a letter.”

“Then why not get a second prosthetic? For home use.” Sampo winks.

Gepard glares at Sampo for the innuendo, then promptly ignores it. “Even then, I can’t wear a prosthetic all day. It's unhygienic. It's uncomfortable.” Gepard shrugs. “It seems simpler to just…adapt to having one less hand.”

Sampo sips his tea. “Sounds to me like you’re choosing to make life more difficult for yourself.”

Gepard lip quirks up. “You sound like my therapist.”

The horror on Sampo’s face makes Gepard break into laughter. “That’s the worst thing you could possibly say to me!” Sampo wails.

Their banter goes on as if Gepard and Sampo having a tea party weren’t a bizarre occurrence at all. Sampo comments on the tea, spurring Gepard into a passionate lecture about the art of tea-drinking. This leads to a question about Gepard's dead plants, making Gepard flush and mutter excuses for his poor green thumb. Somehow, this turns into a discussion about alcohol and, eventually, into an argument about Gepard's taste in drinks.

It's shockingly easy. The quips roll off his tongue with the ease usually reserved for Serval, but unlike with Serval, nothing Gepard says makes Sampo flinch. Sampo retorts easily with a low, burning tease that ignites excitement in Gepard's veins. Gepard’s heart races with the thrill of fighting a verbal battle, with picking apart the possible meanings behind those sharp words.

Inevitably, the mug empties. Sampo glances down at it with something approaching surprise.

“Thank you for the tea, dear,” Sampo says sweetly as he places the mug back on the nightstand. “It was lovely.”

Gepard falters. The magic of the moment broke with the clink of the mug on the nightstand. Gepard is at a crossroads. Let this be the end? Or…?

“Sampo, I”—Gepard hesitates, then musters all his courage—“I enjoyed having tea with you.”

“Is that what we call ogling your tea-drinking partner nowadays?” Sampo teases.

Gepard flushes. He privately concedes that that was an accurate description of the past fifteen minutes.

“I-I have a few other tea varieties,” Gepard stumbles forward. “Would you like to try a different one next time?”

Gepard’s courage evaporates immediately. He clams up, shoulders tense. He can't bear to look at Sampo's reaction, so he glares a hole into his bandages instead.

“Sure,” Sampo says. “Let's do this again.”

Gepard's head snaps up to Sampo's nonchalant expression. He can't stop himself from beaming. “Really?” 

Something closes off in Sampo's expression, even as Sampo smoothly says, “Really.”

Gepard falters at Sampo’s coolness. He realizes with sudden clarity that he recognizes this blankness on Sampo's face. It's the same unreadable expression that crossed Ast Rickley's face when Gepard had clumsily mentioned something about being friends. It's the same deadness in Sampo's portrait when Gepard had exploded with jealousy outside the nightclub.

It's the expression Sampo wears when he's about to disappear.

Gepard equips a strained smile. He gives Sampo an out. “I'll clean the mug,” he says, taking the mug in hand and walking out the bedroom.

When he returns to the bedroom, Sampo and the knife are predictably no longer there. Gepard sighs and collapses onto his now unmade bed. He allows himself to feel the tumult in his heart. The childish excitement of holding Sampo’s beautiful green gaze all to himself, even for a mere few minutes. The confusion of yearning for a man who saves him so selflessly in one breath, then slams shut like a locked door in the next.

Gepard wonders what crossroads Sampo is faltering at.

—

Therapy is okay. Despite Gepard's apprehensions, Jess has no difficulties finding an hour's worth of discussion every week from Gepard's clumsy rundowns. Talking about his everyday nothings as if they were meaningful leaves Gepard feeling stretched out and sore, as if exercising an unused muscle. But it's okay. And Gepard becomes better at it.

“I’m surprised that Sa—Rickley actually came back for tea,” Gepard admits one day. “He didn’t seem comfortable with returning.”

“This is the friend who helped your sisters plan a birthday surprise for you?” Jess asks.

Gepard considers that statement, confused. He had never thought of Sampo’s actions at the club in such an innocent way before.

“I don’t know whether we’re friends.” Gepard looks down at his hand. “It’s strange. When I put his actions into words, he’s been reliable. Kind, even. But the things he says and the way he acts around me… I can’t tell what he actually thinks about me.”

“His opinion seems important to you,” Jess observes.

“It is,” Gepard admits. “I’d like to get closer to him.”

The admission is a relief, like opening a window to let fresh air into a stale room. It’s astounding. Just a few months ago, Gepard would have fought to his dying breath to keep that secret buried forever.

“I don’t have a good relationship with my family,” Gepard confesses another day, his voice low with a lifetime of guilt.

“You’re not close to your sisters?” Jess asks.

“I’m closer to them than I am to my parents, but the three of us don’t have much in common. And we haven’t been on good terms lately.”

“Why is that?”

“Because I almost”—for some reason, Gepard’s throat suddenly squeezes—“I almost died in battle.”

Jess’ eyes soften. “I’m sorry. That must have been traumatic. Both for you and your sisters.”

Traumatic? Gepard hadn’t thought of it that way. “I suppose.”

“Would you not consider it traumatic?”

Gepard pauses, assembling his thoughts into coherent words. “Death is a reality of being a soldier,” Gepard states factually, “so I don’t think much about it. I’m alive. There’s no point in imagining hypotheticals where I am not.”

Jess’ eyes flicker. She seems to consider her words carefully. “How do your sisters feel about the risk you put yourself through as a soldier?”

This question is much harder. The words catch in Gepard’s throat as he forces out, “Th-they’re not very happy with me.”

Jess must notice Gepard’s labored breathing because she quickly pivots to a more mundane topic. The relief Gepard feels is shallow because surely, the way his voice betrays him at the slightest difficult question means that something is wrong with him.

He voices that thought in another session.

“I don’t know why I can’t talk about myself without freezing up,” Gepard grits out, frustrated. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

Jess looks at him attentively. “What brought this up?”

Jess guides him through his thoughts with careful questions until Gepard’s mouth wraps around a truth that he has always known but had no words for. He’s ashamed of himself. He’s ashamed of the way he thinks, the way he feels, the way he acts. And when someone shines a spotlight on those ugly parts of him, he, like a deer in headlights, feels far too seen.

“I don’t want to react like this,” Gepard hisses. “I don’t want to be afraid of being seen.”

Jess’ look is gentle. “Isn’t it natural to be afraid of things that might hurt us?”

Gepard scowls. “How is talking about myself going to hurt me?”

Jess’ lip quirks up. “You make a very good point.”

Jess offers to focus their future sessions on processing the deep-rooted traumas that keep their cruel grips around Gepard’s throat. She warns Gepard that the experience might be uncomfortable, and that Gepard needs a solid grasp on his coping strategies to face the discomfort. Gepard agrees to the change without a second thought. Gepard Landau does not run from danger, physical or not.

—

That may have been a mistake. Therapy is much more exhausting now.

Gepard leaves a session one afternoon with what feels like smoke smothering his chest. His head is muted, as if submerged underwater. Thoughts swim away from his grasp like fish. He doesn’t register returning to his condo until the door slams shut behind him, forcing an involuntary flinch from his body.

Dust rains on him. The stump where his hand once was aches. The living room is still covered in cardboard boxes. His plants are still dead. Gepard wades heavy-footed through the pigsty to his bedroom door, ready to collapse onto the bed.

“Welcome home, honey,” Sampo purrs, looking up from a book in his hand. He’s once again invaded Gepard’s bed, head pillowed comfortably on his arm.

The warm sight of Sampo curled on his bed breaks through the clouds in Gepard’s head. “Hello,” Gepard greets quietly.

Sampo raises a brow. “No complaints about me stealing your bed, this time?”

Gepard shrugs off his coat and throws it into Sampo’s face. The man flails and sputters under the assault before tossing the coat to the bottom of the bed.

“Chamomile or oolong?” Gepard asks.

Sampo wipes an invisible tear from his eye. “Whichever will soothe the pain you’ve inflicted upon my heart.”

“Chamomile, it is,” Gepard announces drily.

On his way to the kitchen, Gepard accidentally kicks a discarded box. Suddenly, devastatingly, Gepard realizes that Sampo has surely seen the horrendous state of his condo over the years, that Sampo has surely formed his opinions about Gepard’s inability to live like a proper human being. An overwhelming need to fix this right now drowns Gepard. He pivots away from the tea cabinet and instead riffles through a drawer for the tool that he knows he bought long, long ago.

The boxcutter is pristine from lack of use. Gepard pushes out the blade, startling when it shoots out further than he intended. Doesn’t matter. It’ll still fix the problem. Gepard walks urgently to the tallest pile of boxes and kicks it onto the ground.

Gepard is tearing through a flattened box with the knife when a voice startles him.

“What did that box do to—Aha’s tits!” Sampo jumps when Gepard’s left hand goes awry, shooting the boxcutter into the wall. Gepard glances at the thrown boxcutter, then at his hand, lost.

“Sorry,” Gepard says, feeling like a child.

Sampo looks at him incredulously. “Should I be concerned that you tried to off yourself with a boxcutter?”

Gepard sits back on his folded legs. “I was just cleaning up the boxes.”

Sampo crouches down beside Gepard. “As I was saying,” he starts drily, “what did those boxes do to you?”

Gepard looks into Sampo’s eyes, which are now attentive instead of incredulous. They’re beautiful. Even now, they ignite in Gepard a desire to care for the man behind them.

“Have you eaten?” Gepard asks.

Sampo raises a brow. “Do you plan to avoid all of my questions today?”

“I'll cook for you,” Gepard announces, determined.

Sampo begins to protest, but Gepard is too abuzz to hear his complaints. He walks up to the kitchen drawers and opens all of them until he finds his neglected kitchen knife. He picks it up and holds it before him.

“Okaaay,” Sampo says. “How about we put down the knife?”

The knife isn’t enough. He needs a cutting board. Oh, and something to cut. Vegetables? Meat? He can’t remember the last time he bought groceries. Oh, he still has those cans of ham. He can fry the ham and add them to the instant noodles he probably still has in the pantry. Protein and carbs. No vegetables, but that’s okay. It’ll work.

Gepard drops the knife on the counter and scrambles to the pantry. He pulls out the can of ham and a packet of noodles. He digs through all his kitchen cabinets until he finds the cutting board. The pot and pan are fortunately easily found on the stove, left there from the last time he used and cleaned them.

When he returns to the kitchen counter with an armful of supplies, Sampo has the knife in hand. Gepard scowls.

“Guests aren’t supposed to cook,” Gepard sniffs.

Sampo holds the knife out of reach. “I’m a home invader, not a guest.”

“Sampo, I need the knife to open the can and cut the ham.”

“You’re going to stab yourself,” Sampo groans, exasperated, before he sighs. “Okay, let’s compromise. I’ll open the can, and you can cut the ham. Okay?”

Gepard frowns, but the compromise is easy enough. “Okay,” he agrees reluctantly.

He hands the can to Sampo, who pricks at it with the kitchen knife. Sampo curses. “Qlipoth’s left tit, this knife is so dull. You’re going to hurt yourself.”

The knife disappears somewhere into Sampo’s clothes. Gepard’s jaw drops with indignation. “Did you just steal my knife?”

A familiar purple knife appears in Sampo’s hand. He slices the top of the can off like butter.

“Spare me the heart attack and use this,” Sampo sighs, placing the purple knife and the opened can back on the counter.

Gepard frowns. “How is a weapon any safer than a kitchen knife?”

“This isn't just any weapon. It won't cut you, no matter how hard you try.” Sampo sends him a sunny smile. “Don't try, by the way.”

So Sampo has a pair of selectively-sharp knives made of mystery metal, if Pela is to be believed. Gepard can’t even bring himself to feel surprised. Gepard considers the possibility of Fragmentum dust mixing into the ham before he promptly decides that if Sampo doesn't care, he doesn't care either.

Gepard pounds the can onto the cutting board until the ham plops out. He wraps his left hand around the purple knife's handle, then immediately pauses. Should he hold the ham down while he cuts? He pins the ham down with his right forearm, but his arm covers most of the meat's surface. He hovers the knife over the sliver of exposed meat hesitantly.

“Need help, Geppie?” Sampo drawls. He's leaning against the counter, watching Gepard with scientific interest.

Gepard scowls. “I can do it myself.”

He slices through the ham with indignation. The meat gives way to the blade like paper, but his cuts are crooked and uneven. The ham wobbles more as he moves down the block of meat, until the remaining ham slips out from under his forearm entirely.

“Shit,” he swears. Something buzzes intrusively under his skin as he straightens the errant block back under the knife. It feels like bugs trying to burst out of his veins.

“Just call if you need help,” Sampo sing-songs pointedly. Gepard's hand clenches painfully around the knife grip.

“I said I'll do it myself!” Gepard snaps. Sampo blinks, taken aback, and Gepard whips his head to stare at the half-cut meat, mortified.

Sampo doesn't comment on Gepard's outburst, but the silence is worse. Gepard clenches his teeth and presses the trembling knife into the meat. It only nicks the skin of the ham before his arm suddenly twitches, and the knife shoots wildly awry. The impossibly sharp edge bounces harmlessly into Gepard's forearm as promised, but Gepard flinches anyways. The knife clatters loudly onto the cutting board. Gepard stares at it, shocked.

“...I did say, ‘don't try,’” Sampo sighs, breaking the silence.

The flies buzz incessantly inside Gepard's head. He forces himself to breathe deeply, then takes inventory of his senses. The kitchen counter is splattered with bits of foodstuff. On the cutting board, uneven slices of ham are scattered beside a sad lump of meat. Gepard's right arm trembles as rays of phantom pain shoot up from his stump. In the background, wind whistles through his open bedroom window.

“You're right,” Gepard says once the buzzing in his head grows muted. “Cooking was a bad idea.”

Gepard steps away and pulls a wastebasket to the counter. He lifts the cutting board to pour its sad contents into the trash, but a hand to his arm stops him.

“Now, now, Geppie, there's no need to waste food,” Sampo sighs.

Sampo guides the cutting board back on the counter. He gently tugs the knife out of Gepard's grip, twirling it deftly in his hands. He presses the knife's edge to the meat.

“How thick should I cut it?” Sampo asks.

Gepard watches how elegantly Sampo's fingers curve around the ham and feels ashamed. “A little thicker,” Gepard mumbles.

It takes less than a second for Sampo to cut the remaining ham into neat, even slices. “What next?” Sampo asks.

Gepard looks at the pot and pan atop the stove. “We need to fry the ham.” Gepard gathers up the shreds of his dignity. “I’ll cook the noodles.”

Sampo doesn’t protest as Gepard fills the pot with water and places it atop the stove. Gepard watches the heating pot emptily, dropping the noodles into the water once bubbles break its surface. Sizzles sound from beside him, and the smell of salty, fried meat wafts into his nostrils. It’s not long before the cooked noodles and slices of ham are curled atop a chipped plate.

“Shall we eat?” Sampo hums beside him.

Gepard grabs a fork from a drawer and outstretches it towards Sampo. Sampo rolls his eyes and grabs another plate from the kitchen cabinet.

“‘Why, yes, Sampo! I’d love to share a meal with you, Sampo!’” Sampo’s cheery expression drops into a stern look. “Grab another fork and take a seat.”

Gepard does as he’s told, cowed. He watches like a scolded child as Sampo dumps a respectable portion of noodles onto the second plate and sits opposite Gepard. When Sampo meets Gepard’s frozen gaze, he smiles brilliantly.

“After you, chef.”

Some chef you are, a vicious part of him sneers. Gepard can’t muster the energy to argue against the reflexive self-hatred. Jess would be disappointed.

Gepard’s catastrophic internal dialogue is not Sampo’s problem, so he dutifully digs his fork into the noodles. They eat in silence. It’s a small consolation when Sampo sets his fork down on his empty plate picked clean of food. Gepard still fed Sampo a meal, even if Sampo himself did most of the cooking.

Some time passes before Gepard realizes that he’s been twirling his fork aimlessly around his plate. He sets the fork down and folds his hands onto his lap. Mother would have scolded him for playing with his food.

“Not going to enjoy your hard work?” Sampo asks casually.

Gepard looks up tiredly. “Sampo, I hardly did any work at all.”

Sampo rests his chin on his hand. “Is that what's ruining your appetite?”

Gepard sighs. “No. I already wasn't hungry.” He stands up from his chair. “I'll do the dishes.”

He balances the two plates and forks on his left hand and brings them to the sink. He glances at the sponge automatically, then stiffens when he notices the obstacle. How is he going to wash all these dishes with just one hand? 

It's the same dead end over and over. The same routine of bumbling around like a fool just for Sampo to step in and save him from his own incompetence. Alone, he could avoid the challenges by not doing anything at all. With Sampo here, with Gepard's urge to provide for him, Gepard is forced to confront the things he can no longer do.

Gepard doesn't realize how tightly he squeezed his eyes shut until the noisy spray of sink water startles them open. Sampo scrubs the plates clean, humming an unfamiliar tune under his breath. Gepard watches helplessly as Sampo towels the plates dry. When Sampo puts the dinnerware away into the cabinets and drawers, the buzzing under Gepard's skin bursts.

“I’m sorry,” Gepard blurts before Sampo can say anything.

Sampo's brows rise. “For what?”

“For making you cook and clean. You shouldn't have to do that.”

Sampo looks exasperated. He looks like he wants to say a million things, but he just sighs. “Weren't you planning to make tea?”

Qlipoth, that feels like years ago. The reminder grounds him. There are many, many things that Gepard can't do—no, that Gepard hasn't yet figured out how to do—but Gepard can brew tea. Gepard can definitely brew tea.

He makes one cup, then at Sampo's pointed look, he makes another for himself. Sampo takes one mug in hand, and Gepard grabs the other. They sit back at the dining table, sipping at their tea.

“You know, if we pretend this tea is cheap beer, it's almost as if we're at a tavern,” Sampo muses.

Gepard looks up from his tea. “Did you just compare my tea to cheap beer?”

Gepard's quip rewards him with an amused quirk of Sampo's lip. “You know what we do at taverns, Geppie?”

“Sleep with strangers and get robbed?” Gepard answers dubiously.

Sampo smiles brightly. “No. We get drunk and overshare our troubles and woes with strangers. So, what’s on your mind, stranger?”

Gepard looks at Sampo with wary confusion. “What is this?”

Sampo sighs dramatically. “I understand. It can be hard to open up to a stranger you know nothing about. I'll go first.” Sampo gesticulates grandly. “My name is Tatalov, the Great Garbage King, Lord of Waste Management, Ruler of all Lordly Trashcans. I forgive you for not knowing my name.”

Gepard blinks. “Is this a metaphor?”

“As the Great Garbage King,” Sampo barrels forward, ignoring Gepard’s confusion, “I have seen a great many landfills and met many trashcans. In one landfill, I met a laundry basket who had the misfortune of being constructed of subpar materials. She was, quite literally, falling apart at the seams.”

Gepard looks at Sampo with interest. “Is this someone you actually know?”

“What was that?” Sampo squawks, perplexed. “I couldn’t hear you.”

Sampo maintains his baffled expression until Gepard gets the hint. Gepard sighs. “I apologize, Your Highness. I meant to ask, ‘What was the laundry basket’s name?’”

“Her name is not important,” Sampo sniffs haughtily. “All you need to know is that she had a singular sense of wit, molded by her unfortunate lot in life. She used that wit to shape the world in her image, but her time was fleeting.

“To the world, she was a force of chaos. But in the privacy of her dumpster, she suffered many difficulties. Her frayed threads could barely hold the dirty clothes inside her body. Her lid had almost entirely detached at its hinge. I, Tatalov, witnessed the truth of her existence by chance. And I, Tatalov, moved by the dignity of her existence, accompanied her in her last moments of receptacle-hood, until she withered away in her dumpster.”

Gepard holds his breath. He waits for more, but Sampo offers nothing else.

“So that’s a little bit about the Great Garbage King Tatalov,” Sampo chirps suddenly. “And you, stranger? What is your name?”

Gepard wants to rewind. He wants to ask how much of Sampo’s tale is truth and how much of it is fiction. But Gepard recognizes from the unwavering grin on Sampo’s face that Sampo will offer no answers.

“My name is Toy Soldier,” Gepard says instead and cringes.

Sampo doesn’t react to the mortifying name. “Lovely to meet you, Mr. Soldier. What brings you to the tavern?”

“I needed a drink,” Gepard says hesitantly. At Sampo’s encouraging nod, his voice gains strength. “I had a difficult day at…the dollhouse.”

“And what do you do at the dollhouse, Mr. Soldier?”

“I…” Gepard desperately scrambles for a metaphor. “I learn how to dance with the ballerinas.”

Qlipoth, please have mercy and strike Gepard down where he sits. Why would he make such a ridiculous analogy?!

Sampo doesn’t giggle or laugh or tease. He tilts his head with attentive interest. “What’s so difficult about dancing with the ballerinas, Mr. Soldier?”

“I-I’m not made to dance,” Gepard sputters before the analogy solidifies in his mind. “I’m a toy soldier, you see. I’m wound up, and I march in a straight line until I run out of energy. The ballerinas, they’re balanced and symmetrical, and they don’t need a key to wind them up. They just dance.”

Sampo hums. “And you don’t?”

“No,” Gepard says, voice gaining urgency. “I pretend. I imitate. But I’m just a broken toy soldier marching to a different beat.”

“What a cruel thought to say about this toy soldier,” Sampo muses, and Gepard startles at how similar his words are to Jess’. “Why are you learning to dance?”

“Because that’s something I should be able to do,” Gepard says almost feverishly. “But I don’t know how. All I’ve known is how to march in a straight line. I thought that was enough, but evidently, it’s not. Not even close.”

The metaphor is approaching too close to reality. Gepard takes a shuddering breath.

“I don’t want to play this game anymore, Sampo,” he pleads, voice cracking.

Something unguarded flashes across Sampo’s beautiful green eyes, but the slip disappears so quickly behind an easy smile that Gepard doubts his eyes. “Your tea’s getting cold, Geppie.”

Gepard glances at the tea, lost. “You’re right.”

Lukewarm tea slips smoothly down Gepard’s throat. Despite everything, it soothes Gepard’s nerves. He follows Jess’ grounding technique once more, listing what he notices with his senses one by one. He ends with the sight of Sampo’s eyes looking back guardedly across the table.

“Sampo…” Gepard trails off, weighing the consequences of his words. “Why do you help me so much? Not just today, but in all the time I've known you.”

Gepard is ready for Sampo to stiffen and disappear, but Sampo just looks distantly into his mug. “Do you not need help, Geppie?”

Gepard glares. “That's not what I asked.”

Sampo's eyes pierce through Gepard. “Why are you so entitled to my answers when you haven't figured out your own?”

Gepard grits his teeth, frustrated. “Sampo, I just want to understand you, but you run away whenever I try!”

“Understand yourself first,” Sampo says bluntly. “Your attention is worthless to me as long as you keep disregarding yourself.”

Gepard wants to shout. He wants to curse Sampo out for his callousness. But a memory of a distraught Serval suddenly strikes him like a bolt of lightning through his heart. 

By the Amber Lord, you still don’t get it! Stop caring about me and start caring about yourself!

Gepard feels unwell. He feels like he's been pushed off a cliff and is tumbling in freefall. The winds of his rapid descent seem to rip through his very atoms and forcefully rearrange them.

“You're right,” Gepard gasps. “I need help. I really, really need help.”

Sampo looks at him from across the table. “Some people aren't so lucky. Some people don't get any help at all.”

“I know,” Gepard whispers, pained. “I have so many people who care for me. Serval, Lynx, Dunn. You.”

“I’ve never met a man so beloved,” Sampo says, “yet so alone.”

Gepard closes his eyes. In the black canvas of the backs of his lids, the crossroads becomes clear. In one path, Gepard goes the way he always has. He cowers from the light. He avoids outstretched hands. He struggles silently. He languishes in his apartment, alone, waiting for the chance to once again risk his life on the frontlines. It would be easy. It would be comfortable. Gepard has long since proven to himself that he can exist indefinitely living for nothing at all.

There’s another path, one where Gepard is no toy soldier waiting for someone to wind him up. He moves out of his own power. He outstretches his own hand. He holds onto one of the many reaching for his own and does not let go.

Gepard glances down at the one hand he has left. He flexes his calloused fingers and sees for himself how it still moves. When he looks up, he’s unsurprised to see the chair across the table empty and Sampo gone.

“Sampo Koski,” Gepard breathes slowly, taking time to feel the fit of the name in his mouth. “How do you see me so well?”

That’s all the time he can spare on thinking of Sampo Koski and the way he sees right through Gepard. Gepard rises from his seat and puts both mugs in the sink.

Gepard has a lot to do tomorrow.

Chapter Text

There’s a coffee shop in the Administrative District that makes a latte at just the right temperature with just the right amount of cream and sugar. It has quaint, latticed chairs and the luxury of open-air seating along a bustling street of white-collar workers on their lunch breaks. Gepard takes Bronya there because he knows that she has a caffeine addiction that she refuses to admit to.

“I'll admit, I did not expect you to actually reach out,” Bronya confesses over her cup of coffee.

At the other side of the table, Gepard winces. “I'm sorry, Bronya. I shouldn't have blown you off.”

“Don't apologize,” Bronya says kindly. “I understand that the past few months have been difficult for you.”

Gepard smiles wryly. “I wouldn’t describe lounging in my condo all day as ‘difficult.’”

“Rest is difficult in its own way.” Bronya sighs wearily. “Why else would I be so bad at it?”

Gepard laughs. His shoulders relax as he remembers that Bronya is kind and humble and would never find Gepard’s clumsy attempts to connect unflattering.

Unlike the outskirts of Belobog, a popular cafe in the heart of the city is never cold. Gepard’s coffee warms his hands, and a nearby heater blankets the rest of him as he chats with Bronya. They talk about Gepard’s leave. They talk about Serval’s work on his gauntlet. They talk about Gepard’s amateur garden. When Gepard runs out of stories to share, he decides to do the unthinkable and ask about Bronya instead.

“Do you like the work you do as Commander?” Gepard asks.

Bronya smiles. “I do, despite all the stress. It makes me happy to lead others for the greater good. Even the bad parts feel like opportunities to make progress.”

Gepard thinks about leading patrols, training privates, and organizing Everwinter Garrison and wholeheartedly agrees. He then thinks about his father, the Captain of the Silvermane Guards, and falters.

“Bronya, I apologize if this is a strange question, but…” Gepard hesitates. “Do you think you would have chosen to be the Commander if you weren’t the Supreme Guardian’s daughter?”

Bronya sips her coffee thoughtfully. “I’d like to say so,” Bronya muses, “but the reality is that I cannot say that with absolute certainty. I’ve known nothing else besides my duty to Belobog. Does that make my choice to be the Acting Commander faulty?”

Gepard frowns. “That doesn’t sound fair. Why should your past disqualify you from making meaningful choices?”

“I don’t think it should,” Bronya agrees, “but I simply don’t know what I would have chosen in another life. Certainly, my political adversaries never let me forget that I’ve known nothing else.”

Another puppet ruler being groomed, a disgruntled Architect had once drunkenly sneered within Gepard’s earshot at a party.

“You shouldn’t listen to the opinions of people who want to undermine you,” Gepard growls.

“I know.” Bronya’s expression is resolute. “I know what path I’ve chosen. I know what difficulties it entails. I stand by that choice everyday because, faulty or not, it’s my choice. Nothing, not the flaws in my decisions, not even the circumstances of my birth, can take that away from me.”

Respect courses through Gepard. Bronya Rand is the most excellent person Gepard has ever known, and every inch of Gepard itches to express that.

“There’s no Supreme Guardian I’d be more honored to serve than you, Lady Bronya,” Gepard says wholeheartedly.

Bronya is visibly embarrassed, but her lips pull into a teasing smile. “Don’t let my mother hear you say that.”

“It’ll be our secret,” Gepard whispers conspiratorially, and Bronya throws her head back and laughs.

—

The renewed gauntlet hisses a breath of steam as it splits apart to welcome Gepard's stump. Its panels shift and click into position one by one, until the padded metal locks itself perfectly around Gepard's stump. Gepard imagines himself flexing his missing hand. The segmented fingers clench obediently.

“How's the fit? The responsiveness?” Serval asks over his shoulder.

Gepard tilts his wrist experimentally. The hand rotates a complete, unnerving 360.

“I need to get used to it,” Gepard answers honestly.

The day at Neverwinter Workshop is spent throwing Gepard into a series of tasks. Gepard punches through a piece of scrap metal with no difficulty. He entombs it in ice with ease. He destroys three pens attempting to write the alphabet before Serval jerry-rigs a pen holder into a compartment in his thumb. The resulting text is stiff and unnatural, but much better than what his left hand can produce.

“The mechanics need more calibration,” Serval mutters to herself, engrossed. “There's just not enough training data, yet. Maybe I can run simulations with that direwolf in the closet…”

“This is already plenty, Serval,” Gepard interrupts. “I'll bring it in if you want to keep working on it, but I'm more than happy with what you've already built.”

Serval's expression is skeptical. “Are you just saying that because you're too proud to accept help?”

The dismissive retort automatically readies itself on Gepard's tongue, but Gepard forces himself to pause and consider the question. You do need help, Gepard reminds himself firmly. You've already accepted this.

“I have been wondering…” Gepard admits hesitantly. “Do you have anything to make household chores easier?”

Gepard flushes when Serval's eyes widen in shock. “What chores?” she asks after a pause, visibly restraining herself.

“Cooking. Cleaning. Cutting. Doing the dishes. Stuff like that,” Gepard mumbles through his embarrassment.

That focused intensity returns to Serval's eyes as she begins chewing her thumb. “I could make a prosthetic specifically for housework, but it might be more practical to research accessible design…like using rotary cutters instead of traditional kitchen knives…or what if I added spikes to the cutting board…?”

Serval is lost in her many ideas. Gepard feels himself relax as the moment of vulnerability passes without even an offhand remark. Maybe opening up to the people who love him isn't such a big deal after all.

In the coming weeks, Serval closes her shop early to devote her evenings to her new side projects. She nags Gepard to drop by and test her latest prototypes. She forces him to haul strange contraptions back to his apartment and return with detailed reports on how practical they were.

One day, while examining the bowels of his opened gauntlet, Serval suddenly doesn't ask, “I hear Mother’s been hounding you to visit.”

Gepard looks up from his book, startled by the unexpected topic. “Yes. She wants me to come by and see Father.”

Serval’s tone is carefully disinterested. “How is he?”

Gepard does not point out the tightness of his sister’s hands. “Mother tells me his prosthetic arrived yesterday. They have an appointment to retrieve it from Qlipoth Fort tomorrow.”

“Do you know what model?”

“I don't know,” Gepard answers apologetically. “I’ll ask when I visit the estate.”

Gepard does not ask why Serval wants to know this. He leans into his seat and pretends to read his book, waiting for Serval to decide the direction of the conversation.

“I can't imagine Father is happy about being away from work,” Serval remarks with aired carelessness.

Gepard huffs a laugh. “Mother keeps complaining about how he’s trying to ‘captain’ the house, now that he doesn't have soldiers to boss around.”

Serval snorts. “They get along like oil and water.”

Gepard doesn’t comment. He carefully avoids having an opinion on his parents’ relationship.

Serval, however, is much more outspoken. “I don’t know why they married in the first place if all they were going to do is fight,” she scoffs. “I don’t know why Mother takes care of Father even now, with how much she disdains him.”

“Duty,” Gepard answers simply.

Serval sends Gepard a withering look. “The same ‘duty’ that led you to your engagement with Matilda?”

Gepard looks down. “Ouch.”

Serval visibly wilts. “Sorry, Geppie. I’m an asshole.”

An awkward silence blankets them, an all-too-common occurrence in their tentative dance of a rebellious sister and a dutiful brother searching for a middle ground. It’s a familiar crossroads. He can accept this as the outcome of their conversation, ending another visit a world apart from his sister. Or he can keep trying, keep reaching out to one of the few people in his life who love him.

Gepard chooses to try. “How is Lynx? I haven't seen her since my return.”

Serval glances up somberly. “She's away on a research expedition. I don't know when she'll return.”

“She’s avoiding me,” Gepard despairs.

“Give her time,” Serval comforts. “She loves you too much to stay mad at you for long.”

There’s something unsettlingly familiar about Lynx’s avoidance of him. The realization crashes into him like a breaking wave.

“Is this how you and Lynx felt when I left for the frontlines?”

Serval looks at him carefully. “I didn't want to draw the comparison.”

Gepard closes his eyes. He's an awful brother—but no, he shouldn’t think that about himself. If you wouldn't say that to a friend, why would you say that to yourself? Jess’ voice asks pointedly in his head.

Gepard pushes the cruel thought away. “I'm sorry for leaving you and Lynx behind,” he says quietly instead.

Serval sets down the tweezers in her hand with a sigh. “Don't be, Geppie. Every Landau has run away one way or another. You to the frontlines. Lynx to the Snow Plains. And me to this little workshop of mine.” A wry smile twists Serval's cheeks. “You know, for all that we Landaus are supposed to be brave, we sure are a sorry bunch of cowards. Too stubborn to admit something's wrong, yet too afraid to stay through the storm.” Serval laughs limply. “How ironic is that?”

Gepard stands up. He circles around the workshop counter and pulls his sister into a hug.

“Maybe it's normal to be afraid. Maybe it's normal to run away,” Gepard argues.

Serval sags into him. “I've pushed away everyone who's ever cared about me. Mother, Father, Cocolia, and now you.” She trembles in his arms. “You left and almost died because of me.”

“None of that is true,” Gepard denies sternly. “Our parents were cruel to you. Madam Rand was—I can't speak to your relationship with her, but you yourself said that she changed. People change. People grow apart. That's not your fault.”

Gepard's voice becomes urgent. “And Sis, don’t ever blame yourself for my poor decisions. I left because I was lost and afraid. It was everything to do with me and nothing to do with you. Besides,”—Gepard’s voice softens—“I’m here now, aren’t I?”

Serval pulls back to look at Gepard with her sad blue eyes. She breaks the heaviness with a small puff of laughter. “Wow, Geppie. That was shockingly emotionally-intelligent of you. Is this the power of therapy?”

“It only cost me a hand,” Gepard deadpans.

Serval barks a startled laugh. Gepard smiles, pleased.

“When did you become funny?” Serval gasps. “Your big sis can’t handle it.”

Unbidden, Sampo’s bright green eyes flash into Gepard’s head. “I learned from the best.”

Silence again, but this time the comfortable wordlessness of two people who’ve known each other all their life. Gepard lets himself breathe the air of the workshop, absorbing with every breath the wisps of Serval’s life, her hopes, her struggles. His eyes drift to the untouched electric guitar gathering dust against the workshop wall. Madam Cocolia’s abandoned guitar. A memento of a possibility that died long ago. Gepard wonders how much of his sister’s pain comes from what that languishing guitar represents.

“Serval,” Gepard calls out. “Do you still remember the song you wrote for my birthday?”

Serval looks up from her tinkering, surprised and a little wary. “Of course. Why?”

“Do you think you could play it for me again? I don’t think I ever gave it the appreciation it deserves.”

Serval’s eyes are wide. “Right now?”

Gepard fidgets. “If you’re amenable.”

“If I’m ‘amenable,’” Serval mocks softly. “Dork. Of course I’ll play it for you, Geppie. It’s your song.”

That night, the soft strum of an acoustic guitar pours out the windows of Neverwinter Workshop, thawing the chill of Belobog’s winter sky.

—

On the morning of Gepard's visit to the Landau estate, Gepard painfully rolls out of bed before dawn, panics when he realizes that he hasn’t watered his Sunshines in weeks, then sheepishly calms at the sight of dark, wet soil in his planters. He leaves a tumbler of tea and a handful of candy on the windowsill as thanks and rushes to catch the early morning trolley.

He’s late, despite his best efforts. When he enters the drawing room, Mother stands from her seat and kindly points out, “You’re late. Even Lynx had the grace to arrive early.”

Gepard, already mid-bow, freezes. He looks up to see Lynx rising sullenly from an armchair, glaring at the ground.

“Where are your manners?” Mother reminds him sharply.

Gepard lowers himself quickly to Lynx’s and Mother’s responding curtsies. Mother, appeased, leads them to the dining room. Lynx doesn’t look at Gepard as she sits at the table. Gepard can do nothing but quietly sit as well.

The waitstaff bring out a warm spread of grilled meats, pickled cucumbers, soups, and porridges. The typical Landau family breakfast begins, a suffocatingly silent affair broken only by the jarring clicks of cutlery.

Gepard is first to speak. “Is Father not eating with us?”

“He’ll join us after breakfast,” Mother replies. “I’m afraid he’s currently occupied.”

With what? Gepard knows better than to ask, even though he knows that Father has little to do at home. He gives a tepid, “I see,” and falls silent.

Mother wipes her mouth primly with a napkin. “It’s good to have you back in the city, Lynx. How long have you been away on your research expedition?”

“Two months,” Lynx answers blandly.

Mother sniffs. “You and Gepard, always out in the Snow Plains, just like your father. Too much cold and isolation dulls the wits. It freezes the grace and subtlety out of you.” She eyes Lynx’s stiff form. “Lynx, keep your elbows off the table,”

Lynx visibly bristles as she slides her arms off the table. Gepard tries to send her a sympathetic look, but she glares into her plate instead of meeting Gepard’s eyes.

Mother calmly observes Lynx’s obvious displeasure. “You’ll thank me for these lessons, Lynx. Propriety is the first line of defense for a Landau.”

“I’m more concerned about not freezing to death than accidentally offending someone by leaving my elbows on the table,” Lynx replies tersely.

“A naive thought.” Mother’s voice is almost grim. “The worst monsters are not Fragmentum creatures but men.”

A waiter carries away Mother's empty plate as she sets her utensils onto the table. Mother turns to look pointedly at Gepard.

“You’ll see as well, Gepard. Your father, for all we disagree with each other, knows very well to wield propriety as a shield.” Mother rises gracefully from her seat and smooths out her skirt. “Lynx, come with me to the drawing room. Gepard, will you please fetch your father from the library?”

Gepard bows. “Yes, Mother.”

It’s a short-lived relief to escape Lynx’s quiet displeasure and Mother’s discerning eye. Gepard's pulse quickens against his will as he ascends the stairs and strides down the hall, even as he knows that there’s no danger awaiting him in the library.

When he reaches the threshold, Father is sat before a table smothered with open books and papers, scribbling intently onto a parchment. His noble form is almost slouched over his papers, and the line of his left pant leg is uneven, betraying the shape of something unnatural underneath. Gepard can’t help but blink at the sight. Father looks almost…small.

Gepard flinches when Father looks up from his writing and straight at Gepard. “State your business, Lieutenant.”

“Mother would like you to join us in the drawing room,” Gepard replies stiffly.

Father places his pen onto his table and leans back into his chair. The movement pulls up his pant leg slightly, revealing the shine of a chrome ankle.

“Close the door, Lieutenant,” Father rumbles ominously.

Gepard does not gulp. “Yes, sir.”

Gepard closes the door as softly as possible, taking the moment to breathe deeply. He stands at attention when he turns around to face his father, who pierces through Gepard with a severe look.

“How is counseling?”

Gepard resists the urge to look away from his father’s stare. “It's been well,” he replies evenly. “Dr. Jess has been very constructive these past few months.”

“Mm.” Father's eyes slide to Gepard's side. “And your gauntlet? Did Serval do this?”

Gepard's shoulders tighten at the mention of his sister. “Yes, sir.”

“And it's a quality product? Sturdy? Functional?”

“Yes, sir,” Gepard forces out. “It hasn't failed me in the months I've used it.”

Father nods. “Serval's craftsmanship has always been excellent.” He leans down and pulls up his left pant leg, revealing a column of chrome. “This is the leg prosthetic provided by Qlipoth Fort, the Q-Leg. Standard issue. Neuron interfacing. Before widespread adoption of this model, our veterans were forced to settle with mechanical solutions, springs and hydraulics that could only approximate the responsiveness of an organic limb. Do you know who was on the team that developed this technology?”

Gepard swallows. “Serval?”

Father drops his pant leg, covering the chrome limb. “Yes.”

So that’s why Serval asked about Father’s prosthetic. That doesn’t explain why Father has just mentioned Serval for the first time in years.

Out of nowhere, Father asks, “What does it mean to be a Silvermane Guard, Gepard?”

Gepard straightens at the sound of his proper name. “‘I will constantly protect the last bastion of humanity, Belobog,’” Gepard recites obediently. “‘I will be loyal to Belobog, the Architects, and the Supreme Guardian. I will carry myself with courage, justice—’” 

“I did not ask for the Oath, Lieutenant,” Father growls. “Tell me in your own words: what does it mean to be a Silvermane Guard?”

Gepard’s mind races. What is the test here? Does Father doubt his loyalty to the Guards?

“To be a Silvermane Guard is to protect Belobog and all its people,” Gepard says firmly. “Every day we hold off the Fragmentum is another day for all the people to savor.”

“That’s incorrect,” Father dismisses flatly. Gepard’s eyes widen with shock. “You’re not a protector. You’re not a guardian. You’re the right arm of the Supreme Guardian, no more, no less. You are obedient. Impartial. Infallible. A limb that acts as told.”

What are these cynical words coming from Father’s mouth? Father has never spoken about the Silvermane Guards like this before, as if they were a mindless, ignoble cog in a machine. Gepard doesn’t know what to think.

“If this is about the Battle of Everwinter Hill, I stand by my decision to retreat,” Gepard declares, hiding his trembling hands behind his back. “We can regain lost territory. We cannot regain lost lives.”

“This is about more than one battle, Son,” Father snaps. “This is about the burden you carry as a Silvermane Guard. As a Landau. It’s not enough to be good. To be honorable. To care for your family, your community, and your fellow man.” Father’s eyes flash dangerously. “You must be perfect, Gepard. Any sign of weakness will ruin you. Serval failed to understand this. Look at where she is now.”

Gepard wants to protest. He wants to rebut with anecdotes of privates sharing moonshine behind a training ground, of privileged heirs holding fast onto their imperfect resolutions, of forsaken daughters carving out warmth amidst the unforgiving freeze. Belobog lives off the deeds of flawed people, Gepard wants to argue. But none of these are Gepard’s stories. None of these are Gepard’s truth.

“I swore an oath to defend Belobog,” Gepard says instead. “If I have to make imperfect decisions to do so, then so be it. Let them ruin me, and not the city I love.”

Father’s face contorts into a grimace. He opens his mouth, but no beratement, no censure, no words come out.

“You are my son, Gepard,” Father finally says.

Has Father always looked so weary? Has Father’s wrinkles always cut this deep? “Yes, sir,” Gepard says because despite all these months of introspection, Gepard still does not know what Father means when he calls Gepard his son.

Father closes his eyes. He rises stiffly from his seat. “Let’s not keep your mother waiting.”

So the test is over. Gepard nods stiffly. “Yes, sir.”

A whirr sounds from under the pant leg as Father painstakingly steps away from the chair. Gepard takes a half-step forward before he remembers himself. It would be an insult to Leonard Landau’s honor to assist him. Gepard swallows the sickly feeling in his throat and follows Father out the library.

They descend the stairs. That’s when it happens. A horrible thud echoes through the halls of the Landau mansion. Gepard sees nothing in front of him, in the space Father’s proud back once occupied.

“My lord!” someone shouts from the bottom of the stairs. Gepard looks down.

At the foot of the stairs, Father is flat on the wooden floor, legs splayed behind him, heaving himself painstakingly onto his arms. Beside him, a maid tries to pull him upright. Gepard stares at the alien scene, uncomprehending. Gepard has never, ever, seen his father flat on the ground before.

“Father!” Lynx cries.

Lynx appears from around the corner, distraught. Gepard snaps out of his confusion and rushes down the stairs to his father's side.

“Sir! Are you okay?” Gepard hesitates before he reaches for Father's arm.

Father pulls away, the motion throwing his upper body back towards the ground. “You are dismissed, Lieutenant,” Father snaps through gritted teeth.

“Sir…” Gepard steps back uncertainly. He looks back at Lynx helplessly, who stares at them from the arch of the hallway, aghast.

Mother sweeps into the hall like a stormcloud. She plants herself between Gepard and his father, looking stonily at the siblings. “Gepard, Lynx, it was lovely to have you for breakfast. I'm afraid we must cut your visit short.”

Lynx makes a noise of protest. “But Father is—”

“Your father is fine,” Mother interrupts coldly. “Belén, please escort Gepard and Lynx to the foyer.”

The maid steps in front of Gepard and Lynx, blocking the sight of Mother pulling Leonard Landau to his feet. “We must go, young masters.”

Lynx looks back with wide eyes as Belén hurriedly ushers them away from the staircase. Gepard glances back just in time to see Father slump against Mother's shoulder before both figures disappear behind a wall.

They're herded to the foyer. Belén bows deeply and disappears into the house, leaving Gepard and Lynx to linger by the front door in a thick silence. Gepard helplessly observes Lynx's unhappy expression as she stares down at the ornate rug beneath her feet.

Lynx's first words to Gepard in months are not what he expected.

“Father…” Lynx mumbles. “He doesn’t seem well, does he?”

“He's fine,” Gepard asserts. “He's recovered from worse.”

“If you say so,” she mutters.

Gepard reaches to place a hand on her shoulder but falters, uncertain whether his touch would be welcome. “Father is strong. His wound has healed, and he's received the best prosthesis Qlipoth Fort has to offer. He will be fine.”

Lynx absorbs Gepard's reassurance with furrowed brows, inhaling breaths that shake her whole body.

“How have you been?” she asks suddenly.

Gepard does not let himself visibly react to the unexpected question. “I've been trying to relearn how to cut vegetables with one hand,” he says lightly. “Serval has been working on a project to make that easier…”

He regales a lighthearted tale of Serval creating a spiked cutting board that looked more like a pre-Freeze torture device than a kitchen implement. The comparison ignited a terrible spark of inspiration in Serval, and she promptly threw Gepard into several combat trials wielding nothing but a vicious cutting board. They quickly discovered that the cutting board, while very fun and novel, was a mediocre bludgeoning tool, a terrible shield, and an even worse projectile.

The playful story fails to banish the pensiveness from Lynx’s eyes. “Everything’s changed so much since I’ve been gone,” Lynx mumbles.

“How so?”

“You, Serval, Father… All of you are different now. For Qlipoth’s sake, you and Father don’t even have the same body anymore! Everything’s changing right under my feet, but I’ve buried my head far too deep into the Snow Plains to notice.” Lynx shudders. “How much of the world has already passed me by?”

Gepard doesn’t know what to say. Lynx looks at Gepard with a jumble of emotion. Frustration, hope, fear—Gepard can't parse the individual feelings from the complicated whole.

“I don’t want to be angry at you anymore, Brother,” she whispers like a confession.

There’s something welling in Lynx’s eyes. Fear? Shame? Gepard rushes to soothe her. “It’s okay to be angry, Lynxy. I wasn’t good to you.”

“That was months ago,” Lynx snaps.

“There’s no deadline,” Gepard replies gently. “It’s okay to be angry even now.”

Lynx’s furrowed brows cut a deep trench into her expression. Her eyes are so wide, so owlish. They stare at Gepard as if searching for something. Pleading for something that only Gepard can give her.

“Gepard, just—” She breathes deeply, then wraps her hand around his. “The world's changing, and I don’t want to waste my time with you being angry over stupid bullshit.” Her voice fades to a whisper. “We have so little time.”

Gepard envelops Lynx’s small hand in both of his. “We have all the time in the world.”

Lynx laughs sadly. “Don't make promises that you can't keep.”

Gepard squeezes Lynx's hand tightly. “I'll keep it, Lynxy. The world may change, but you, me, and Serval won't.”

Something wavers in Lynx's sorrowful expression. “You promise?”

“I swear it on the Preservation,” Gepard says firmly.

Lynx’s small hand squeezes back.

—

Gepard’s last session with Jess is anticlimactic.

“I don’t feel particularly changed,” Gepard admits accordingly. “Just more self-aware.”

“It was never the goal to change you, Gepard,” Jess returns softly. “There was nothing wrong with you in the first place.”

Gepard smiles wryly. “That’s very kind of you, but then what was the point of these past six months?”

“To empower you,” Jess answers easily. “To help you realize that you can take your health and happiness into your own hands. Just look at everything you’ve accomplished in just six months. Does that seem like nothing to you?”

Even Gepard at his most cynical can’t deny how much his routines and relationships have changed for the better. Even so, Gepard can’t brag so flagrantly about himself.

“There’s still so much for me to work on,” he compromises.

“That will always be true. Our time together is neither the start nor end of your journey. It’s just one step of the many you will take and the many you’ve already taken.” Jess smiles. “Of course, I, or another mental health provider, will always be available if you decide you need a helping hand.”

Gepard smiles back. “I appreciate it, Jess.”

Jess’ professional calm cracks to show something almost like respect. “You know, Gepard, many people never reach this point. Many people grow old and learn too late that they’ve never taken a step from where they started.”

Suddenly, an unbidden image of Father tumbling down the stairs flips Gepard’s stomach. Gepard hides his nausea with a strained smile.

“Don’t speak too soon,” Gepard jokes. “That may very well be me next week when my leave ends.”

Jess looks through Gepard. “Somehow, I doubt it.”

It’s bittersweet leaving Jess’ bright office for good. There’s relief in going back to the ways things were before, but there’s also fear. Fear that Gepard will fall apart in the absence of a guiding hand. Fear that the past six months will have amounted to nothing. Fear that all those small, precious moments he had built with Serval, with Lynx, with Sampo will disappear once he returns to active duty.

His breathing stutters at the thought of Sampo. Here is the big question that Gepard has spent six months stubbornly avoiding, imminent and avoidable no more: what will happen to his quiet nights with Sampo once Gepard returns to the Silvermane Guards? What will happen to their strange conversations, their odd tea parties, built upon a fanciful house of cards?

Sampo’s hold on Gepard’s troubled heart is impressive; it almost makes Gepard miss the serious, elegant brunette clutching a thick binder by the medical wing’s entrance. Almost.

“Matilda,” Gepard greets in surprise.

“Gepard,” Matilda returns evenly. “I have been asked to escort you to the Supreme Guardian.”

Gepard falters. “May I ask why?”

“That is best discussed with the Supreme Guardian.”

Foreboding. Gepard hides his sudden anxiety with a nod. “Understood. Shall we?”

The walk through Qlipoth Fort is tense, but this time, it's not because of Gepard’s past with Matilda. Gepard’s mind churns out possible acts, decisions, and mistakes from the past year that would warrant a personal visit to the Supreme Guardian. He forcefully cuts off his thoughts when his breathing becomes too shallow and instead focuses on the sharp clicks of Matilda’s heels ahead of him.

The double doors creak open to reveal the grand expanse of the Supreme Guardian’s ceremonial office, which was designed to inspire awe in the common people. Now, however, the supplicants and administrators of Qlipoth Fort are notably absent. Only the Supreme Guardian, whose imposing figure is haloed by the towering windows behind her, condescends upon them from the raised platform of her desk.

The door slams shut behind Gepard, startling him into a salute. “Madam Guardian.”

Madam Rand’s rich voice booms through the office. “Mrs. Herrero, thank you for bringing the lieutenant. Lieutenant Landau, please come forward.”

Instead of departing, Matilda ominously steps to the side, leaving Gepard to present himself on the sunken aisle alone. He comes to a stop before the ceremonial desk, craning his neck to look up at the Supreme Guardian.

“Lieutenant, how has your leave been?” Madam Rand asks pleasantly.

“It has been restful,” Gepard answers politely. “I’m grateful for the chance to spend time with my family.”

“I understand your leave ends next week. How do you feel about your return to duty?”

“Eager,” Gepard says over the heavy thuds of his heart. “Six months is far too long to be away from our fight against the Fragmentum.”

A faint smile deigns to appear on Madam Rand’s face. “How dutiful. A respectable quality to have as a leader of the Silvermane Guards. Lieutenant, I must admit that I did not call you here for chitchat.” Madam Rand casts her gaze to the side, past Gepard’s shoulder. “Mrs. Herrero, would you begin the proceedings?”

Matilda bows demurely. “Yes, Madam Guardian.”

Matilda addresses Gepard. Her tone is practiced as she announces, “Gepard Lvovich Landau, it is my pleasure to inform you that the thirteen Architects of the adjudication panel have found you deserving. This is not a judgment that was made lightly. The panel has reviewed the recommendations and testimonies of your many peers and superiors to reach this decision. The Architects and the Supreme Guardian would like to reward you for your impeccable service to the Silvermane Guards with a new title.”

Gepard, who turned to listen to Matilda with a plummeting heart, speaks. “What is this title, Mrs. Herrero?”

At that, Matilda glances at the Supreme Guardian. Madam Rand smiles benevolently from behind her desk.

“The title is Captain of the Silvermane Guards.”

The silence is so complete that a pin drop would have pierced it. Too many beats pass. Gepard realizes that the leader of the last bastion of humanity is looking at him expectantly.

“Madam Guardian.” Gepard swallows thickly. “May I ask what happened to the previous Captain?”

Madam Rand’s expression is motherly. “The former Captain Landau has retired. We have been operating with an acting Captain for the past several months.”

Gepard did not know that. Gepard, who just visited Father a few weeks ago, did not know that. The ground is splitting apart right beneath Gepard's feet, and Gepard is struggling to keep his footing.

“This is a great honor,” Gepard's mouth says to fill the silence. “There are many officers in the Guard who are more senior than I am. I'm surprised that they rejected this opportunity.”

Madam Rand sighs. “Lieutenant, let me be frank. You are the only Guard I have brought into my office for this discussion. Both the former Captain and the acting Commander have put you forward as a suitable replacement. Your peers and your reports have nothing but praise for you. The Architects and I have simply agreed on what is obvious: that you are the best candidate to become the next Captain of the Silvermane Guards.”

Father and Bronya recommended him? “Thank you, Madam,” Gepard says, because there's nothing else he can say.

The Supreme Guardian gazes down at him solemnly. “I am a busy woman, Lieutenant. Be frank with me as well. Will you accept the honor of being the Captain of the Silvermane Guards?”

There is only one right answer. There has always been only one right answer.

“Yes, Madam.”

The Supreme Guardian stands from her desk. She grabs a rifle from its proud place on the wall. She steps down the podium to stand before Gepard and his pounding heart. Gepard sinks to one knee as if pulled by the gravity of the Supreme Guardian's icy stare. The Supreme Guardian places the barrel of the rifle onto Gepard's shoulder.

“By the power vested in me by the Architects and Qlipoth's unyielding guidance, I dub thee now, Gepard Lvovich Landau, Captain of the Silvermane Guards.” The rifle lifts from Gepard's shoulder and slams into a salute. “Arise, Captain.”

By some act of Qlipoth's grace, Gepard does not stumble as he stands. Madam Rand places a tender hand on his shoulder and smiles kindly.

“Do right by Belobog, Captain Landau. Mrs. Herrero, will you please take our new Captain to the signing room?”

Matilda bows deeply. “Yes, Madam Guardian.”

Gepard follows mutely as Matilda leads him through the innards of Qlipoth Fort and into an empty, soundproof room furnished plainly with a small table and two chairs. Matilda sits opposite Gepard at the table and pulls out something unwieldy from her binder.

“As spokesperson of the adjudication panel, I will now present to you the terms proffered by the Architects.”

A thick packet thuds onto the table. Matilda flips through the papers perfunctorily, underlining text passages and signature spaces as she does so.

“These pages cover the terms of your employment. Your start date is Monday, September 18, 699 AF, seven days from now. These sections outline your salary, your benefits, and so on. This is the background check authorization. This is the non-disclosure agreement. Here, the Oath of the Silvermane Guards and the addendum for the Captain. This is the release of liability for injuries obtained on duty…”

And so on. Finally, Matilda pushes the papers and the pen neatly towards Gepard.

“Please take as much time as you need to review the documents.”

Every time Gepard advanced through the ranks of the Silvermane Guards, Gepard has sat in an identical signing room and reviewed these very forms with some administrator. This would be his fourth time. His eyes skip across the familiar phrases: “apprehend criminals” (like Sampo Koski), “conflicts of interest” (like Sampo Koski), “neutralize threats to Belobog’s peace” (like Sampo Koski)—

Gepard sets the papers down and breathes. He grabs the pen and clutches it because it gives him something to do besides think about how Sampo Koski stands in direct conflict with the duties of the Captain of the Silvermane Guards.

The strange conversation with Father in the Landau library resurfaces. Father’s probing questions and strange warnings take new shape. Was this the test? To see if Gepard would be a suitable Captain? To recommend Gepard to the Supreme Guardian as his successor? Because Father is retiring?

Images flash through Gepard’s head. Father slouched at the library table. Father tumbling down the stairs. Father flat on the ground. Father leaning against Mother’s shoulders. Father is retiring. Father is no longer the Captain of the Silvermane Guards. Father is now just Leonard Landau, an old man with a prosthetic leg who fell down the stairs.

Gepard doesn’t realize that he’s dropped the pen onto the table until Matilda slides it in front of him. Gepard looks down at it, shellshocked.

“Gepard…” There’s something questioning in Matilda’s expression. “I thought you’d be happy to become Captain.”

Gepard is dumbfounded by the personal question. “Matilda, I’ve been working toward this my whole life.”

Why does Gepard’s voice crack when he says this? Why does his hand shake uncontrollably?

Matilda looks at him with something like pity. “It’s not too late to change your mind. Until you sign these papers, the title is only ceremonial.”

Here’s his chance to go back to the world as it was before. Except it won’t go back, will it? Someone else will still be Captain. Father will still be a crippled old man. Lynx was right. The world is changing, and Gepard is scrambling to keep up with his new reality.

And if he accepts the position? Gepard would be busier than he ever was as a lieutenant. He would no longer be stationed at a single garrison, instead traveling between all Silvermane Guard operations in a matter of days. What had he promised Lynx? The world may change, but you, me, and Serval won't. Would Gepard truly be able to keep his promise?

And what about Sampo? What will happen to his quiet nights with Sampo?

“Gepard?” Matilda calls out.

The beautiful green eyes disappear from Gepard’s mind, replaced by the tawny browns of Matilda’s concerned, doe-like eyes. The transition leaves Gepard feeling sick.

“Matilda,” he begins shakily. “I will accept the title.”

Matilda considers him. “Are you sure?”

Is he? Gepard nods. “Yes, I am. I want to serve Belobog to the best of my ability.”

The more he speaks, the more the clouds clear from his mind. What is Gepard’s truth? He loves Belobog. He loves his family. He has always felt most at peace protecting the people he loves. These are the fundamental truths of Gepard Landau, and they’ve only become clearer in the six months he’s spent relearning himself.

His heart aches at the thought of losing zany experiment sessions with Serval. Of losing intimate conversations with Sampo. But as grateful as he is for the opportunity to slow down and understand the people in his life, Gepard can’t deny the buzzing under his skin that crescendos every hour he spends trapped in his condo waiting to do more than just pass time. He loves his family. He’s terribly fond of Sampo. But he’s not meant for this still, silent life.

Gepard is happiest doing good for the people he loves.

…

But what about Sampo?

What will happen to his quiet nights with Sampo?

…

Gepard folds the pen into his prosthetic. A compartment opens, and a claw extends to stabilize the pen. It’s the very same mechanism that Serval jerry-rigged for him when Gepard first equipped the modified gauntlet months ago. It now seals his signature and his fate permanently onto Matilda’s papers.

It’s done. Gepard sets the pen back on the table. Matilda gathers the papers and thumbs through them meticulously.

“Gepard,” Matilda says suddenly. “Your nomination was exceptional. Twelve out of thirteen Architects on the adjudication panel approved your new title. Only eleven Guards in history have achieved this.”

“Thank you, Matilda,” Gepard says, subdued, because he is not sure why Matilda would tell him this.

Matilda looks intently at him. “It would have been a unanimous decision with any other panel.”

Gepard blinks. Matilda does not break her gaze, almost as if prodding him to do something with this information.

“Who,” he begins, then catches the way Matilda nods imperceptibly. “Who gave the nay vote?”

Matilda taps her nails pensively on the table. “As a servant of the court, I cannot say.”

The Herrero ring catches the light prettily as it follows the movements of Matilda’s left hand. Gepard stares at the innocent gesture. Matilda is not someone who fidgets.

“I understand,” Gepard says after a pause. “Your duty to the law comes first.”

“As does yours, Captain,” Matilda returns smoothly. 

Matilda rises from the desk. She escorts him to the door. When she turns around to face Gepard, the expression she wears is almost wistful.

“Good luck, Gepard. I wish you all the best.”

“Thank you for looking out for me, Matilda,” Gepard returns quietly.

The world is changing. There’s no time to falter over new enemies and unresolved partnerships. So as Gepard leaves a captain instead of a lieutenant, he does not look back when the doors of Qlipoth Fort close behind him.

—

Gepard needs to tell Sampo about his promotion.

Serval had been conflicted but understanding. Lynx had been quietly congratulatory. His parents had already known, weeks before Gepard himself did. Only Sampo Koski, the man he is awfully fond of, remains unaware that in just a few days, Gepard will become the leader of the institution sworn to arrest him.

The opportunity comes when Gepard is least ready. Gepard is wiping down his stump with a towel when something crashes loudly past the closed door of the bathroom. He immediately faces the door in a martial position, cursing himself for leaving his gauntlet on his desk.

“Didn't quite stick the landing, Sampo,” a familiar baritone groans from the bedroom.

The fight drains from Gepard's muscles, leaving surprise and confusion in its place. Sampo's appearances are usually silent and carefully staged to startle Gepard when he looks over his shoulder. This, however, is loud and unintentional. This is unusual.

“Ugh. You're slipping. You should know better. Aeons, I almost miss my mask.” Sampo snickers at some unexplained joke.

It’s startling how much Sampo, whose words are always carefully woven, speaks nothings to himself in private. Gepard feels like a voyeur enjoying secrets he’ll never earn. He braces himself as he reaches for the door, to expose himself, apologize, and tell Sampo about his promotion, but Sampo’s next words paralyze him.

“Justice, my ass,” Sampo mutters. “At least hire proper hitmen…”

Gepard eavesdrops with a plummeting heart as Sampo riffles through the bedroom. “Nat’s gonna kill me. ‘Stop getting hurt, Sampo!’ It's not my fault people want poor ol’ Sampo dead. Well, maybe it is. Fuck. Where does he keep the first aid kit?”

Gepard slams open the bathroom door. He doesn’t think; his arm flies up to block the plunging purple knife.

“Fuck!” Sampo fumbles his grip on the knife.

The knife clatters harmlessly onto the ground. Gepard doesn’t bother glancing at his uncut wrist, stomping forward into Sampo’s space.

"Are you in danger? Is someone trying to hurt you?" Gepard demands.

Sampo scrambles backwards, bumping blindly into Gepard’s desk. “Fucking fuck! I thought you were visiting your sister!”

“Where are you hurt?” Gepard barks, his chest tight.

“I’m not!” Sampo chitters. “I’ll get out of your hair. Sorry for the surprise stabbing.”

Gepard rounds on Sampo before he can stagger to the window. It’s alarmingly easy to herd Sampo into the bathroom until the backs of Sampo’s thighs press against the counter.

“It’s not your legs,” Gepard decides, eyes roaming across Sampo’s form. “Then where? Where are you hurt?”

Sampo’s eyelashes flutter flirtatiously, a weak distraction. “In my heart. You don’t trust my words, Geppie?”

Something peeks out from under Sampo’s collar. Gepard grabs the lapel of Sampo’s jacket, and Sampo’s hand shoots up to grip his wrist painfully. The deathgrip loosens almost forcefully, and Sampo redirects the aggressive gesture into a coy stroke down the flesh of Gepard’s hand.

“How bold of you, Lieutenant,” Sampo purrs. “I didn't think you had it in you.”

Gepard looks pleadingly into Sampo’s too-bright eyes. “Sampo, please. I won’t force you to stay. Just let me take care of you before you leave.”

Sampo goes limp as if Gepard had thrown one of his own smoke bombs at him. His loose hand, still circled around Gepard’s wrist, follows as Gepard gently pulls the jacket off his left shoulder. Gepard hisses, pained at what it reveals: a gash that runs violently down Sampo’s arm.

“It’s not what it looks like,” Sampo says tightly.

It takes several moments for Gepard to realize that Sampo isn’t referring to the cut. There are dark purple bruises marring Sampo’s neck, an uncomfortably familiar sight that makes Gepard frown despite his best efforts to control his expression. Gepard isn’t sure what it “looks like” until a horrible thought chills him to the bone.

The snarl tears savagely from his chest. “Did the person who hurt you mark you?”

Sampo’s eyes go wide. “Fuck no! I got these bruises days ago.”

The vehement denial is a tiny consolation while Sampo’s arm is still weeping red. Gepard breaks his gaze to dig through his bathroom’s shelves.

“They're from a fight a few days ago,” Sampo babbles, unprompted. “Some very unsexy grappling was involved.”

Gepard tosses the first-aid kit onto the counter. “Do you have any other injuries?”

Sampo laughs hysterically. “Geppie, I know I can be a bit of a jokester at times, but I'm serious. These bruises are actually from fighting, not—”

Sampo hisses when Gepard tightly winds a roll of gauze around Sampo's wound. “Sorry,” Gepard whispers soothingly. “We need to stop the bleeding.”

Sampo's wide green eyes bore a hole into the side of Gepard's face as Gepard holds the gauze tight, keeping pressure on the wound. They hold their poses like statues, Sampo pressed uncomfortably onto the bathroom counter and Gepard bracketed between his thighs. Sampo's purpled Adam's apple bobs as he swallows. Gepard observes it absently before he returns his focus to the reddening gauze.

Eventually, the gauze soaks with red. Gepard wraps another layer of gauze and holds it tight. Gepard's heart throbs at the almost inaudible hiss Sampo exhales at the pressure. He wants to run a hand down Sampo's arm in apology, but his only hand is occupied by keeping the gauze in place.

“I think the bleeding has stopped,” Sampo says quietly, startling Gepard out of his daze.

Obediently, Gepard unwinds the dirtied gauze, pleased to see the wound crusted with maroon instead of weeping scarlet. He tosses the dirtied gauze carelessly on the floor. He turns on the water in the sink, and Sampo wordlessly outstretches his arm.

Cleaning Sampo's arm feels like a sacred ritual. The running water washes away the hurt from Sampo's wound. Gepard gently pats the wound dry with clean gauze. He dabs antiseptic onto Sampo's wound with all the care he can muster from his shaky hand. He pastes zipper sutures down the line of the gash one by one and, with Sampo’s help, pulls them tightly close.

The gauze winds reverently around Sampo's wound once again. Sampo, unprompted, pins down the end of the wound gauze with his free hand. This gives Gepard the freedom to tear apart strips of medical tape with his teeth and meticulously tape down the dressing.

At the last corner of gauze taped down, Gepard gives in to his overworked heart. He collapses his forehead on Sampo's uninjured shoulder, savoring the soothing shift of muscle as Sampo tenses beneath him.

“Such drama. You're acting like you're the one who got injured,” Sampo mocks, voice odd.

Gepard looks up at Sampo's plastic smirk. “You never answered me. Do you have any other injuries?”

“Just the bruises.” Sampo replies, his cheeks tense.

Gepard smudges a bruise with his thumb, as if he could wipe it away. “I'm sorry. I can't do anything to treat them.”

Sampo's throat jumps under his touch. “I didn't get them from sleeping around, if that's what you're thinking.”

“Sampo,” Gepard exhales, “the only thing I’m thinking about is whether you’re okay.”

The plastic smile cracks. Sampo scours Gepard’s face rapidly, leaving tingles on Gepard’s skin where his eyes land.

“I thought you'd be more upset about the bruises,” Sampo says, strained.

“They don't make me feel good,” Gepard admits, “but we're not… You and I aren't…”

Gepard gives up on wrapping his mouth around the words “courting”, or “dating”, or “involved”. “You're free to do what you want,” he says instead. “That includes enjoying yourself with other people.”

Sampo looks unblinkingly into Gepard's eyes. “I haven't.”

Gepard is too tired to know what to do with that claim. “Alright,” he accepts simply. “Would you like some tea?”

Sampo doesn't answer, staring frozen at Gepard.

Gepard gives him the out. “I'll prepare the tea.”

The motions to make tea are second-nature now. Gepard could perform the ceremony with ease, but he lets himself linger on each step. Better to give Sampo ample time to leave, Gepard reasons as he stares at the steeped leaves. His fingers twitch at the thought of Sampo hiding alone in a dark hole, shoulder bleeding, neck bruised, unaware that Gepard would once again hunt him as a wanted man in mere days, but Gepard swallows the emotion and reminds himself that he promised not to force Sampo to stay.

He doesn’t bother making a second cup, cradling the completed drink in his hand and turning around. He almost drops it at the sight of a cardboard box with a jagged smile hovering silently behind him, only a breath away from his face.

“Shit!” Gepard gathers himself and glares at the green behind the cardboard box’s unnerving eye holes. “Sampo Koski, what in the Preservation are you doing?”

Under the dim kitchen light, Sampo is a shadowy figure wearing a crude mask made of cardboard, a haphazard expression of mirth gashed into its corrugated face. He almost looks inhuman. Paranormal.

“That’s not my name,” Sampo says with deathly quiet.

The oddness of the situation makes Gepard breathe shallowly. Gepard’s mind races. What is Sampo doing? Why is he wearing a cardboard box as a helmet? Why does he sound so…so corpse-like?

It’s a game, Gepard realizes. A game like Tatalov the Garbage King and Rickley the too-friendly stranger, and Gepard must play along.

A jarring clink as Gepard sets the mug down on the counter. “What is your name?” Gepard asks.

Sampo tilts his cardboard head as if pondering. “Pinocchio,” he finally says. “My name is Pinocchio.”

“Pinocchio,” Gepard repeats. “Who are you?”

The dim kitchen light catches white on bared teeth behind the jagged edges of the cardboard smile. “I’m a liar. I’m a deserter. I’m a murderer. I’m the vanguard of Joy Themself, herald of laughter and change to the miserable rocks of the cosmos. Do any of these things mean anything to you?”

“I’m not sure I understand,” Gepard answers cautiously.

A low laugh. “How can you? You’ve never seen the stars.”

Another inside joke that Gepard doesn’t understand, so Gepard lets himself be obtuse. “They’re up in the sky, aren’t they?”

The cardboard box smiles viciously at Gepard. “They’re closer than you think. Sooner than you think.”

Gepard is even more lost. Not a single response comes to mind, so Gepard lets himself ask the question he truly wants to ask.

“Pinocchio,” Gepard starts carefully, “where did Sampo Koski go?”

Sampo sneers. “Sampo Koski ran away. He ditched you, abandoned you, left you for the dogs, however you want to put it.” He chuckles mockingly. “I wouldn’t take it personally. He does that to everyone.”

Gepard’s brow furrows. “What a cruel thing to say about Sampo Koski.”

The callback to Sampo’s remark about the Toy Soldier does not go well. Gepard gasps as he’s slammed back against the wall, a corrugated sneer hovering a hair’s-width from his face, a purple knife pressed against his throat.

“Who is Sampo Koski? An outsider? A criminal? A fool?” The knife digs deeper into Gepard’s throat. “Do you even know?”

Recognition jolts Gepard. Who is Gepard? he had asked himself months ago, and now, the man he knows as Sampo Koski is hissing the same question into Gepard’s face like a threat.

“Sampo Koski is the man I drink tea with,” Gepard answers, his throat bobbing against the uncutting edge of the knife. “He’s funny. He’s clever. He’s a surprisingly good cook. He waters my plants when I forget to. He teases me for anything even remotely embarrassing about myself. He keeps me company on quiet nights.”

Sampo giggles. “All these words just to say nothing at all! You don’t know Sampo Koski at all, do you?”

“I know he’s very, very good at running away,” Gepard continues steadily. “I know I have no chance of catching him.”

The knife goes deeper into Gepard’s neck, but still it doesn’t cut. “Then why bother chasing at all?”

The answer is easy. “Wouldn’t you try to stay with the people you care about?”

The knife clatters to the floor. Sampo tears the haphazard mask off his face and throws it onto the ground, hair askew, eyes wide, chest heaving. He reaches a hand towards Gepard’s chest and fists it tightly into Gepard’s sweater.

“I wouldn’t,” Sampo snarls.

“Who wouldn’t? Pinocchio or Sampo?” Gepard covers Sampo’s shaking fist with his hand.

“I wouldn’t,” Sampo growls before he smashes his lips onto Gepard’s.

Gepard tries to say something—a shout of surprise? A moan of pleasure?—but Sampo swallows the sound whole. The hand on his shirt wanders up to claw Gepard’s vulnerable nape, sending shocks of sensation through his limbs and straight to his groin. Gepard grabs Sampo’s shoulder, his uninjured shoulder, to—to push him away? To ground himself against Sampo’s radiant attractiveness? Whatever it is, it’s gone the moment Sampo drags his crotch slowly, firmly against Gepard’s own.

Gepard throws his head back and stumbles against the wall. Only Sampo’s thigh, shoved right into his throbbing cock, keeps him stable. His head swims with lust, but his mouth is free from Sampo’s gag.

“Sampo,” Gepard moans. His head swims, and he suspects the whiplash of Sampo’s moods is just as much at fault as the pressure against his cock. Is this still a game? Gepard tries to ask, but the words fizzle away into a weak whine as Sampo grabs Gepard’s hips and drags them deliciously over his thigh.

“Yes, babe?” Sampo breathes huskily into Gepard’s ear.

A memory lances through Gepard. Ast Rickley, mouth wrapped prettily around Gepard’s cock, moments after calling him “babe,” moments before robbing Gepard blind. It’s just enough of a shock to break through the fog of lust in Gepard’s head.

Gepard pushes Sampo away. “Sampo,” Gepard exclaims breathlessly. “What’s going on?”

Sampo’s pupils are blown under a half-lidded curtain of eyelashes. “Whatever you want, babe. Don’t worry. I’ll do the receiving for li’l Geppie’s first time.”

It takes a second for the meaning to click. Gepard’s face flushes with red as he bats away images of Sampo underneath him, solid and firm in a way a woman isn’t.

“Sampo,” Gepard pleads with a trembling voice. “Let’s sit down and have some tea, okay?”

Sampo steps closer, his heady sensuality smothering Gepard’s senses. “I’d rather get to know you in other ways.”

“No,” Gepard groans. “I won’t do the wrong thing.”

“The wrong thing?” Sampo breaks into laughter. “We’ve been dancing around each other for years. What could possibly be more right than you finally fucking me?”

The words fly carelessly into the air, unretractable. Gepard had never, ever expected Sampo to be the one to say the quiet part out loud, and not right before Gepard’s duty tore them apart for good.

“I won’t,” Gepard forces out through gritted teeth.

Gepard can practically see the frost spreading across Sampo’s face. “Do you not actually want me?”

Gepard almost laughs in disbelief. “Sampo, look at me,” Gepard gasps, aggrieved. “Of course I want you. I'm crazy for you.”

The press of his throbbing cock against his trousers is blatant and painful. Every inch of Gepard's body is flushed with heat. The lust has taken over every muscle on his face, leaving Gepard slack-jawed, gasping, and staring greedily at the most handsome man Gepard has ever and will ever meet. Qlipoth, how can Sampo possibly doubt how much Gepard wants him?

“Then why?” Sampo hisses, crazed. “Why won't you just fuck me already?”

The searing heat of Gepard’s barely-restrained desire explodes into a cry of frustration. “Because you’re more important to me than my desire for you, Sampo! Because I treasure my time with you. Drinking tea with you, cooking with you, and arguing with you about random shit has been the best part of my past six months. Qlipoth, you’ve been the best part of my past several years. I won’t ruin that with an impulsive mistake.”

“A mistake?” Sampo's grin grows barbed. “I don't think I'm that bad of a bed partner.”

Gepard makes a frustrated noise. “That's not what I meant. Sampo, I can't go back to how we were before. I just can’t. I can't go back to distrusting you and lusting after you at the same time. I can't go back to mindlessly craving your body instead of learning you, all of you. So please, if all this is to you is fulfilling a fantasy, I can't do it. I can't.”

Sampo's eyes blaze like a green inferno. “Oh, but we’re already going back to how we were before! Aren’t we, Captain?”

The door closes. The pen drops. So Sampo already knows.

Of course he knows. Sampo knows everything about Gepard, even the things Gepard tries so desperately to hide from himself. Gepard takes a shuddering breath.

“Yes,” Gepard exhales. “I'm going to become the Captain of the Silvermane Guards. We'll go back to how we were before. Me, a Guard. You, a wanted man.” His voice grows stronger just as much as it gentles. “But I can still choose how I want this to end, and I don't want to end with you as just a night of passion. I want to end with you as the man who stood by my side during the most difficult moments of my life. The man I care about.”

Sampo's eyes are dull and endless. “Choice,” he parrots mockingly. “Did you choose to become Captain? Or did that mask just happen to fall into your lap?”

There it is, masks again. Gepard doesn't let that shake him from his truth.

“I'd choose it for myself either way.”

Sampo's voice is harsh. “Why?”

“Because I love Belobog just as much as I care about you.”

Sampo falls deathly silent, as if Gepard had cast a curse on him. His eyes are frozen mid-stare. His cheeks are pulled back taut in a grimace of a smile. Sampo’s face twitches, as if torn between a million expressions, a million possible responses.

“You,” is all Sampo manages before he bursts into wild, frenzied guffaws. “Aha,” Sampo gasps, convulsing with laughter. “Aha, please. No more.”

Gepard watches Sampo’s performance with sorrow. “I don’t know who Aha is.”

Sampo laughs as if he’s never heard anything funnier in his life.

Eventually, the laughter dies, and with it the manic spark in Sampo’s eyes. Sampo slumps into a dining chair and stares vacantly at the ground. He’s looking at the discarded cardboard mask, Gepard realizes suddenly. Gepard tries to pull Sampo out of his daze by setting the forgotten mug of tea in front of him, but Sampo doesn’t look up.

“I’m sorry,” Gepard whispers, pained. “I wanted to spend more time with you.”

“No,” Sampo murmurs. “I understand better than most. We all have our roles to play in the grand theater of the universe.”

Sampo's dull eyes meet Gepard's, but he's looking at something far past Gepard. Suddenly, achingly, Gepard wonders if Sampo’s outburst was about Gepard at all.

“Sampo, I care about you,” Gepard urges. “Being Captain won't change that. If you ever need me, I won't put Belobog in danger, but I'll do everything else in my power for you.”

“You're too sweet,” Sampo recites as if reading from a script.

“I'm serious,” Gepard says firmly. “I swear it on the Preservation.”

That returns some awareness to Sampo's eyes. Sampo blinks slowly as he looks properly at Gepard.

“You're too sweet,” Sampo says again, almost a whisper.

Don’t make promises that you can’t keep, Lynx had warned him, but Gepard reaches for Sampo's hand anyways. He brings the hand to his face and kisses it softly, hoping to convey everything he doesn't have words for in that one tender action. For a suspended moment, Sampo examines their linked hands, his eyes darting minutely across the fit of Gepard’s calloused hand around his own. Sampo looks away and slips his hand out of Gepard's grasp.

“I should have brought wine,” Sampo muses absently. “Your promotion deserves a celebration.”

“As long as it doesn't taste like shit,” Gepard jokes, desperately searching for levity.

Sampo smiles. “I'll make sure to bring a dessert wine.”

The smile is vacant. Gepard wilts.

“Okay,” Gepard whispers.

Chapter Text

The building next to him explodes into a storm of fireballs.

“What the fuck!” he screams.

Burning shrapnel slice his raised arms, which shield his face. There’s no time to wince. He turns down the alley and runs.

Run, boy. Don’t stop running.

Through the crackles of the inferno, he hears the faint, rhythmic slaps of footsteps in pursuit. Suspicions confirmed, he throws a smoke bomb behind him. Coughs and hacking. He veers sharply into a narrow gap between two forsaken buildings.

The footsteps come to a stop just as he clambers to the lip of the roof. Six of them. He silently squirms out of the thin space and onto the roof, pressing himself flat into its surface.

“The fuck did he go?” a raspy voice growls below.

“Close the perimeter,” an authoritative voice booms. “He can hide all he wants. He’s not leaving this area.”

The footsteps fan out, fading in different directions. Four sets go in each cardinal direction, and the remaining two march through the alleyway’s nooks. All six are up and about, despite his smoke bomb. The clanging of their movements betrays metal. They’re prepared, armored, and ready to kill, whoever they are. They’d slaughter him, maskless as he is, in an instant.

He crawls across the roof to the other side of the building, listening to the rustle of bodies below him. There’s a shaft hidden in the basement of the adjacent building, but the building's only entrance is a broken second-story window along the main street. It’s out of view, and he doesn’t trust his memory enough to throw his knife blindly around the corner. He’ll have to jump down onto the street and run until he can get a clear shot at the window.

Both the alleyway between the buildings and the main road are guarded. A confrontation is inevitable. He manifests one blade into his left hand and takes comfort in its solid weight. He grins wildly, letting adrenaline puppet his expression like a mask.

I’ll stay and fight.

No, you won’t. You can’t do this.

Footsteps in the main street right below him. That’s his cue. He plummets down and crushes the figure mercilessly into the ground. Crunch.

One down.

He sprints off the fallen body toward the adjacent building. Alarmed shouts. Another body lunges into his path from the alleyway. The armored figure braces a halberd. He raises his knife in turn, smile stretched wide across his face.

“Hello to you, too!” he coos.

Run, boy. That’s all you’re good for.

The feint is too easy. The armored figure raises the halberd to counter, but that’s the wrong move. The halberd strikes where he was, but he’s already past the armored figure sprinting down the street.

The broken window is in sight. He angles his body, winding up his throw and preparing his last smoke bomb. In his peripheral, two bodies slide out of the original alley. One with a raised rifle.

Run, boy. Don’t look back.

The gunshot CRACKS deafeningly just as he cracks out of existence. Smoke covers his disintegration. He reatomizes in the dank inside of the building, right next to the knife embedded into decaying wood.

His pursuers will be confused by his disappearance, but not for long. He recalls the knife and drops stealthily through the broken floorboard straight into the basement. The beep of the deactivating cloaking device is painfully loud. He slips quickly into the claustrophobic drop it hides and feels the air dance as it reengages above him.

Light extinguishes. He’s in complete darkness, held aloft only by his feet digging into opposite sides of the narrow shaft. He clambers down the steep, thin shaft unfazed until his feet touch rock.

He climbs. He crawls. He reatomizes across humanly-impassable spaces. Rocks cut into his palms. Dust smears across his face.

Run, boy. Run, boy. Run, boy…

He runs until he reaches another world. Warm, orange light greets him as he shimmies out of an uncomfortably narrow crack in a rock formation.

“Home, sweet home,” he sighs, spreading his bloody arms open to mockingly embrace the Great Mine. At least no overworlder will pursue him here.

A frown contorts his face as he reviews his memory of the hitmen. He recognizes their steel plating and their planted, inflexible stances. They’re simpleminded, these Guards, too accustomed to fighting enemies that always attack from the front. Are the Silvermane Guards also trying to kill him now? Did she rope Gepard into her ridiculous assassination attempts?

No, that’s out of character. Sweet, honorable Gepard must not know about this. That means these Guards are either not acting in an official capacity, or they’re not Guards at all.

“I don’t know what this adds to the story,” he complains, examining the debris pockmarking his forearm. “We don’t have the budget for political intrigue and gratuitous fight scenes.”

No one answers, predictably. He sighs, dropping his bloody arms back to his sides. Assassination attempts by those in power is usually the point when he’d pack his bags and jump to the next planet, but Jarilo-VI hasn’t entered its next act yet. Until the Astral Express takes the stage, he’s stuck here waiting for a years-long intermission to end.

He shrugs. “The show must go on, I guess.”

There’s only one thing to do. He takes his worn body up the ramps spiraling out of the Great Mine, drafting up excuses for his injuries to avoid Natasha’s wrath.

Take the mask and run, boy.

—

In the heart of Backwater Pass’ quarantine zone, Gepard stands before the burnt shell of a building. The wind carries the faint smell of charr and, from the distance, the familiar shouts and rhythm of marching Guards. Gepard raises his head. There they are, approaching rapidly: Intelligence Officer Pela and her escort of soldiers.

They come to a stop before Gepard. “Captain Landau!” the youthful, determined voice of Soldier Kyle shouts at the helm of the team.

“At ease, Soldier,” Gepard acknowledges. “Mission report?”

“No altercations, sir,” Kyle enunciates. “We evaded two clusters of shadewalkers along Wicker Street, only four blocks away from a populated residential area. I’ve marked their locations on the map. We should consider containment measures before the Fragmentum activity spills over our quarantine lines.”

Gepard takes the map from Kyle’s outstretched hand and peruses it grimly. He rolls it up and looks through the slits of Kyle’s helmet to the determined brown eyes behind.

“Good work, Soldier,” Gepard praises before he sighs. “We will send a team to Wicker Street as soon as we can. Please assist Team Ninety with the containment effort in the northern quarter in the meantime. They need reinforcements.”

Months of familiarity with Kyle’s mannerisms allows Gepard to catch the slight slump of the young man’s shoulders. Despite the disappointing orders, young Kyle does not complain. He salutes firmly and shouts, “Yes, sir!” before he darts off to the north with his team.

Pela is left standing small and serious beside Gepard. “Poor kid,” she mutters, looking at Kyle’s retreating back. “It must be hard seeing your neighborhood fall apart like this.”

It’s not a personal attack, but Gepard winces anyway. Poor Kyle indeed, forced to watch the Fragmentum tear through his childhood home while his commanding officer only issues useless commands. He folds away the upsetting thought to focus on Pela and the burnt building.

“Any findings on the destroyed building?”

Pela skims her notes. “Remnants of an explosive network were found inside the building’s basement. The building was likely rigged hours before the actual detonation itself. We found signs of an altercation that led to an alleyway on Hearth Lane between Sixteenth and Seventeenth Street, between four and seven persons involved. There is residue on Hearth consistent with Koski’s smoke bombs. Besides that, nothing. The trail disappears in the middle of the street. No bodies.”

Gepard exhales deeply. “So Koski got away.”

“It would seem so,” Pela confirms drily.

Qlipoth, what did Sampo get himself into? His safety is now another headache to add to the migraine that is the Fragmentum eating through Backwater Pass. Not for the first time, Gepard wishes that he could summon Sampo to his window to see whether he’s alive and well, but Sampo hasn’t appeared at his bedside once since his captainship began. All Gepard has seen of Sampo is the gift-wrapped bottle of wine that mysteriously appeared on his nightstand on the last night of his leave.

“Do we know who was responsible for the explosion?” Gepard asks. “Koski? His combatants? Someone else?”

Pela adjusts her glasses thoughtfully. “They’re organized, whoever they are. They cleaned up so thoroughly that we had a hard time finding any conclusive evidence. Koski is very familiar with our methods, is he not?”

Sampo wouldn’t do that! Gepard almost shouts aloud. He wrestles back the frantic cry for Sampo’s decency with the cold, undeniable truth that Sampo has the full skill-set required to bomb a building in the most vulnerable neighborhood of Belobog, then vanish into thin air.

“Please open a case when you return to Qlipoth Fort,” Gepard says mechanically. “We will allocate Guards to the case when we can.”

Pela side-eyes Gepard. “Backlogging the case already? Are our troops stretched too thin for even one or two officers to look into Koski’s activities?”

The skepticism in Pela’s tone prickles more than Gepard thought it would. He tamps down the hurt and repeats the spiel he has given countless times in the past few weeks.

“All soldiers deployed to Backwater Pass are allocated to containing the Fragmentum. Please file a petition if you have need of the Silvermane Guards elsewhere.”

Pela snorts. “And yet the Fragmentum still razes Backwater Pass.”

And yet, indeed. Gepard closes his eyes.

Gepard repeats what the Supreme Guardian told the war council when Bronya mentioned Backwater Pass’ ailing defense. “We’ve deployed all the soldiers we can to Backwater Pass. The situation on the frontline is too dire to spare any more men. Maintaining the frontline is our utmost priority.”

Pela examines the eerily empty streets of Backwater Pass. “Isn’t protecting the people of Belobog our utmost priority?”

Gepard had thought so, too.

“Please file a petition at Qlipoth Fort,” he says instead.

—

They lose Backwater Pass entirely next month. Gepard barges into Bronya’s office the moment he registers those grim words in the daily briefing.

“Give me a battalion to recover Backwater Pass,” Gepard demands.

“Denied, Captain,” Bronya replies immediately.

The pained expression on Bronya’s face makes Gepard swallow his protests. He sighs, recognizing both of their powerlessness.

“What about relocation efforts? Is there a plan to house our displaced citizens?” he tries instead.

“We have an agreement with the Goethe Hotel to house those who have nowhere to go, but the agreement expires next week.”

Gepard’s expression hardens. “And after that?”

Bronya's expression is frustrated. “I don't know. We don't have any more funds for disaster relief.”

Gepard thinks about Kyle spending months fighting for his childhood home just to watch it fall into ruin anyways. He clenches his gauntlet into a fist, wishing childishly that he could just punch through the Fragmentum invading Backwater Pass.

Once upon a time, Gepard thought that the Captain of the Silvermane Guards was the most powerful soldier in all of Belobog. Now, as Captain himself, all he sees are dead ends. He sees a neverending stalemate against an unknowable enemy. He sees decades and decades of tireless battle that only magnify the slow, undeniable recession of the frontline. He sees war councils that unchangingly enforce their mysterious “priorities,” even as pieces of Belobog chip away in the status quo.

Gepard exhales deeply. If he's powerless as Captain Landau, then he'll simply act as Gepard Landau.

The next day, in the miniscule time window that is his lunch break, Gepard rushes to the Goethe Hotel. When he arrives at its grand lobby, a crowd of plain-clothed figures circles a red-faced old man fuming behind the reception desk.

“What do you expect from me?” the old man bellows. “I have a business to run!”

“We don’t have homes, you greedy bastard!” a man in the mob screams.

Old Goethe’s face is almost purple. “Don’t give me that, you hypocrite! I know what sort of ‘establishments’ your kind run. The Fragmentum is just Qlipoth’s divine justice catching up to all of you!”

The mob convulses with rage, a mass of contorted expressions and outstretched hands ready to tear everything apart. Old Goethe’s rage falters and fear takes its place.

“What is going on here?” Gepard snaps sharply, stepping authoritatively into the lobby.

The cold clicks of Gepard’s metal boots shocks both Old Goethe and the roiling crowd out of their rage. In unison, bodies move aside and heads turn to stare at the young captain cutting a line to the reception desk. This is Gepard demanding respect and attention just as Father once did, Gepard realizes suddenly. The realization tilts his world ever so slightly.

Old Goethe recovers his simpering, fluttery demeanor. “Oh, Captain Landau! It’s so good to see you! I am in a predicament, you see. Our…valued guests from Backwater Pass are rather disgruntled with the terms of our agreement.”

“The agreement is that you’ll leave us homeless in mere days!” a woman shrieks.

Old Goethe bristles. “Good! You ungrateful lot don’t deserve any charity from the Architects!”

A jar shatters against the wall, just missing Old Goethe’s head. The old man yelps and ducks under the desk. Gepard stiffens as the crowd surges forward with righteous anger. This could go very, very bad.

The sharp clatter of falling coin pierces through the fervor before it can escalate into something terrible. Atop the reception desk, a bloated sack sags and spills out a trickle of shield. A hush falls over the lobby of the Goethe Hotel. Gepard retracts his hand from the dropped sack calmly.

“Four thousand shield,” Gepard announces. “This should be more than enough to cover a two week’s stay for everyone here.”

Someone gasps in the background. Old Goethe gapes at the pile of shield from behind the safety of the desk.

Gepard raises a brow. “Is this not enough?”

Old Goethe rises, folding his hands together hastily. “O-of course it is, Captain! Qlipoth Fort’s generosity is impressive and greatly appreciated!”

“These funds are not from Qlipoth Fort but from a fellow citizen of Belobog,” Gepard corrects. “If I were to lose everything, I'd hope my neighbors would be kind to me. Wouldn't you hope for the same, Mr. Goethe?”

Old Goethe winces, his fingers freezing mid-grab over the shield. Gepard turns his back on the old man to face the crowd gawking at him. He scans over each countenance, young and old, and takes in their shared anger that flickers like a hearth’s last flame. He wonders how many of his own soldiers would fit in this weary crowd. His heart aches with sorrow. He owes all the people of Backwater Pass an apology.

Gepard sinks into a deep bow. “As Captain of the Silvermane Guards, I’ve failed you. I’ve failed to protect your homes and your loved ones. I’ve failed all the people of Backwater Pass. I'm sorry. I swear on the Preservation that I will return your homes to you, and until I do so, you will always have a roof over your heads.”

He holds the position, letting his apology sink into his bones. When he rises, he sees faces in the crowd glance at each other in confusion. One bold voice screams from the rear, “Sorries don’t replace lost homes and lost lives!”

Gepard bows his head in concession. “You’re right. Four thousand shield and a promise is nothing compared to the cost all the people of Backwater Pass have already suffered. Still, I hope that what little I can offer now brings you even the slightest comfort until I return Backwater Pass to you all.”

He glances back at Old Goethe, who startles at the renewed attention. “I’ll return in two weeks with more funds. Please take care of our brothers and sisters in the meantime.”

“Y-yes, sir,” Old Goethe stutters feebly.

The crowd parts like water as Gepard walks away from the reception desk. The entrance doors don’t even finish closing behind him before the lobby explodes into muffled whispers. They’re silenced by the slam of the double doors, but Gepard doesn’t need to hear the clamor to know that Goethe Hotel lobby is in a fuss over his actions.

The satisfaction of using his trust fund money for good is tainted by the thought of what Mother and Father would think about his charity. What his parents don’t know won’t hurt them, Gepard reminds himself as he hurries back to Qlipoth Fort. And even when they inevitably find out, Gepard knows he will not change his decision.

Gepard has chosen his path.

—

A speck of maroon peeks out amidst the white haze of the Snow Plains. Gepard lurches forward, compelled by an unknown force. His arm reaches toward the red silhouette that, despite how furiously Gepard’s legs pump, continues to grow smaller and smaller and eventually fades to white. Gepard staggers to a stop and bites back a furious shout.

Gepard pushes away his frustration and reminds himself that Sampo must be well if he can escape Gepard so easily. He redirects his agitation to the three thinly-dressed accomplices, who are surrounded by his soldiers. Gepard thinks about the paperwork to check in three frostbitten detainees into the Qlipoth Fort infirmary, and his mood sours further.

His soldiers make way for Gepard to stride up to the suspects. “I, Gepard Landau, Captain of the Silvermane Guards, order you to relinquish your futile resistance. In the name of the Amber Lord the highest, I hereby arrest the suspected accomplices of Sampo Koski under the charge of accessory to theft.”

The pink-haired woman sputters. “Accomplice? With that guy?”

“You will be brought before the adjudication panel, where you will be given the opportunity to defend yourself against the accusations.” Gepard pauses. “Clemency may be given for information on Koski’s activities.”

The gray-haired man shakes his fist, outraged. “Screw you! I ain’t a snitch!”

He wheezes when the black-haired man next to him elbows him and hisses, “Caelus.”

“We’re not friends with that scoundrel!” the woman shouts. “Did you see how fast he ditched us?”

Don’t take it personally. Sampo Koski leaves everyone behind, a ghost wearing a cardboard box giggles into Gepard’s ears. Gepard furrows his brow and pushes the memory away.

“I’m a captain, not an adjudication panel. As a Belobog citizen, you have the right to defend yourself, but that can only take place under the scrutiny of the Architects, not now.” Gepard waves to his soldiers. “Guards, take them away.”

The three misfits collapse into each other in varying states of shock. “March, do something!” Gray-Hair screeches.

“W-wait!” the woman interjects shrilly. “We're not even from this planet! See, look at this photo!”

Not from this planet? An absurd thought. Still, Gepard can't help but wave his men off and peer at the photo that the young woman holds out with shaky hands. In it, a hazy blue-white sphere swallows most of the frame. An ethereal marbling stretches across the sphere, like paintstrokes across a frozen pond's surface. Midnight black peeks over the curve of the sphere’s shoulder, unfathomable in its endless darkness. That’s space, Gepard realizes suddenly. Space and stars.

A ghost in a cardboard box whispers into his ear. The stars are closer than you think. Sooner than you think.

Gepard jolts. He steps back, heart thudding. He regards the three outworlders with renewed wariness.

“Speak the truth now. Who are you and what business do you have with Belobog?”

The dark-haired man, who has remained stoic until now, steps forward. “My name is Dan Heng. My comrades are Caleus and March 7th. We are the trailblazers of the Astral Express. We are here to assist Belobog with its crisis.”

Dan Heng enunciates “Belobog” carefully as if it were a foreign word. Gepard frowns. “You’re referring to the Eternal Freeze.”

The “trailblazers” share a glance. “Yes,” Dan Heng says.

There is clearly something that the outworlders are not sharing, but Gepard has already asked more questions than a captain should. Still, there is one burning question that is completely under Gepard's jurisdiction as Captain.

“Are you truly not Sampo Koski’s accomplices?”

March 7th makes a face. “Do we look like we willingly spent time with that guy?”

“What March 7th means,” Dan Heng interjects drily, “is that that man happened to be near our landing site. Besides leading us toward the city, he has no association with us.”

Gepard is not particularly reassured by this answer. That Sampo just happened to be near the outworlders at their arrival, that Sampo just happened to lead them to Gepard’s squad… There’s too many conveniences to be explained away by chance, especially not when Sampo Koski is involved.

But this doesn’t make sense. Sampo Koski is at worst a petty thief and at best…many things that Gepard can’t afford to think about right now. What business would Sampo have with the stars?

How could you understand? a wicked cardboard smile hisses. You’ve never seen the stars.

Gepard flinches. Sampo’s nonsensical outburst has been suddenly, annoyingly poignant lately. He shakes away his persistent confusion and worry for Sampo. If what these strangers say is true, Gepard has much greater priorities than the Sampo’s strange games.

“This decision is beyond us,” Gepard declares. “If what they say is true, then only the Supreme Guardian may decide their fate. Our job is to present them before her. Nothing more.”

Gepard turns, and the tail of his cape flaps behind him. He glances backwards expectantly.

“Outsiders, follow me. Belobog lies beyond this blizzard.”

Something unfamiliar buds inside Gepard’s chest as he escorts Caelus, March 7th, and Dan Heng into Belobog. The ease with which these outworlders explore an alien planet, the familiarity with which they speak about the Fragmentum… Maybe this is real. Maybe the solution to their lost neighborhoods and their wavering defense is right beside Gepard marveling at the city he’s devoted his life to. The nascent feeling blooms, and suddenly, Gepard recognizes it, an old feeling Gepard hadn’t even realized he’d become a stranger to:

Hope.

—

The very next day, Pela slams open the doors of the war room and declares, “Sampo Koski has taken Commander Rand and the outworlders.”

The dismay that descends the war council is immediate. Several officers rise from their seats. Some shout in anger. The more stoic officers simply look flatly at Pela standing wearily by the double doors. Gepard finds himself halfway off his seat, boring into Pela’s eyes as if all his agonizing questions would be answered by staring.

“Quiet!” the Supreme Guardian roars. The energy of the council dies immediately. Supreme Guardian regards Pela with the full extent of her intensity. “Intelligence Officer, explain what happened. Now.”

Pela recounts apprehending the outworlders outside the Goethe Hotel. She recounts their escape into Backwater Pass. She recounts tracking them down and pinning them under the commander’s careful orders. She recounts passing out to a sudden smoke, then waking to see everyone accounted for except for Commander Rand and the fugitives.

An uproar rises in the council once again. An officer snaps something to Pela, who bristles and snaps back with equal vigor. The movement freezes as the Supreme Guardian slams her fist onto the roundtable. She booms something with her frigid, unforgiving voice, plummeting the council into silence.

“Captain, did you hear me?” The Supreme Guardian’s tone is flinty.

Gepard jolts as the Madam Guardian’s question finally pierces through the ringing in his ears. “Yes, Madam. We encountered Koski with the fugitives when they arrived in the Southern Snow Plains. They claimed that Koski’s presence was a coincidence and denied any further association with him.”

The Madam Guardian pierces into Gepard with her wintry eyes, freezing him to the core. She breaks her gaze, and the tendrils of ice wringing Gepard’s heart thaw and recede.

“Captain, organize a search for the missing party. Use as many resources as you see fit. This is top priority. Intelligence Officer, you are to assist Captain Landau with the search effort. I expect every document you have on Koski on my desk when I return to my office. Everyone else, I trust you will handle our existing concerns appropriately. Meeting adjourned.”

“Yes, Madam,” the room choruses in unison.

As Gepard exits the war room, he’s pulled aside by a tug on his sleeve. Gepard follows as Pela strides briskly through Qlipoth Fort’s halls to her office. When the door closes behind them, Pela turns around to send him a wry look.

“Looks like we have the manpower to investigate Koski now.”

Gepard reels, stung. “I never said that we shouldn’t investigate him. His actions before weren’t severe enough to justify reallocating our forces.”

Pela sighs. “That wasn’t an attack. I’m not doubting your judgment. I know you’re too righteous to give Koski a free pass.” Her blunt expression softens. “Just be careful, okay? Don’t be too surprised when Sampo Koski doesn’t turn out to be who you thought he was.”

Gepard’s face turns to stone. “I think Sampo Koski is a scammer, a thief, and a treasonist.”

Pela sighs again. “Right. Is now a good time to talk about the search? We have a lot to do.”

Gepard nods stiffly, and Pela jumps straight into business. For a bitter moment, Gepard envies her ability to brush Sampo off her thoughts as if he were nothing but a criminal. Instead, Gepard is left wondering why Sampo—why clever, funny, and quietly caring Sampo, who washed Gepard’s dishes, who drank Gepard’s tea, who had never once harmed a Guard before—would commit high treason and kidnap Bronya.

Gepard pushes away his bitterness. Pela is just doing her job. It’s high time Gepard does his own.

The next morning, the Supreme Guardian summons him for an update. Gepard, fatigued from a night of organizing a strike team with Pela, commits the grave sin of allowing his curiosity to break out of its cage.

“Madam Guardian, forgive my impudence. What crime have these outworlders committed?”

Gepard resists the urge to slap his mouth shut in horror. It’s a perfectly reasonable question for the Captain of the Silvermane Guards to ask. Madam Rand would not fault him for it.

Indeed, the Supreme Guardian answers him readily. “They seek to steal a powerful artifact known as the stellaron, claiming it to be the source of the Eternal Freeze.”

Gepard hesitates. “So they seek to end the Eternal Freeze?”

He regrets his too-sympathetic words the moment they leave his mouth. Gepard stiffens, waiting for the Supreme Guardian to inflict her judgment upon him.

Instead, Madam Rand appraises him thoughtfully. “Captain, what do you know of the calamity that befell our planet seven hundred years ago?”

The question surprises him. The tale of the Great Calamity is a bedtime story every Belobogian knows by heart, and Gepard recites it now faithfully.

A faint smile appears on the Madam Guardian’s face. “How studious. A perfect recitation.” Her expression turns patient. “Captain, have you ever found it strange that the Eternal Freeze descended just as our invaders were overwhelming our forces? Have you ever found it convenient that our invaders were swept away at its onset? What do you think would have happened to our civilization seven hundred years ago had the stellaron not intervened?”

Gepard swallows. “We would have been eradicated.”

“Indeed. What these outsiders claim to be a curse was our salvation.” The Supreme Guardian’s expression tightens. “Do not take their words at face value, Captain. They have ulterior motives and will portray their mission as more noble than it truly is.”

Gepard bows his head, feeling the doubts in his chest loosen. “I understand, Madam Guardian. Thank you for bestowing this humble servant your wisdom.”

The Madam Guardian’s expression is motherly. “Of course, Captain. Now, please tell me: how goes the search?”

Gepard tells the Madam Guardian about the Silvermane Guards’ and the Intelligence Department’s joint expedition to scour Backwater Pass for traces of Bronya’s disappearance. He describes the days’ worth of interviewing witnesses and involved Guards, and presents their transcripts. He recounts Pela’s sleepless night poring through Sampo’s previous sightings in Backwater Pass, narrowing down likely paths the criminal retreated into.

“And what of searches in other districts?” the Supreme Guardian asks.

“A manhunt on the surface will be unfruitful,” Gepard states. “Koski has likely taken them to the Underworld.”

Suddenly, the wise, benevolent expression on Madam Guardian's face disappears behind a vicious glare. “This man has passage to the Underworld? Why has he not been apprehended yet?”

Gepard does not let himself betray his shock at the sudden change in demeanor. “We've apprehended him multiple times, but he has always escaped. We've spent years scouting the areas he's sighted in, but we have never found a passage to the underground. In the five years that Koski has been active, we have not found any other individual capable of traveling between worlds.”

“I did not appoint you to hear excuses, Captain,” the Supreme Guardian snarls. “I don't care if you see a hairline crack in the ground. Secure any breach using whatever means necessary. If they do not emerge within a week, we will take drastic measures. Am I understood?”

“Yes, Madam.”

“Good,” the Madam hisses. “Otherwise, I may have to reinstate Officer Swanson as acting Captain. Have I made myself clear?”

Gepard lowers himself deferentially, baring himself before the Supreme Guardian’s fury. “Yes, Madam. My deepest apologies. I have failed you.”

The Supreme Guardian turns her back to him coldly. “Get out of my sight.”

“Yes, Madam.”

Gepard exits briskly, feeling his pulse race under his skin. It’s an unnervingly familiar sensation. It’s the same ice that crawls through his veins when he stands before Father’s steely gaze.

He quashes the trembling voice inside him that asks why the Supreme Guardian couldn’t give the same urgency to Backwater Pass in months as she gave to three outworlders in a day.

—

Gepard tells himself that his scheduled departure for the restricted zone is not running away from the Supreme Guardian’s displeasure. Despite this being true, Gepard still feels like a liar.

He’s poring over maps with Dunn in the restricted zone’s war room when a knock on the door raises both their heads. Dunn shouts a welcome, and the familiar head of Liaison Officer William peeks into the room nervously.

“C-Captain, Lady Bronya has returned to Qlipoth Fort. The Supreme Guardian has ordered a lockdown in c-case the fugitives followed her.”

Gepard looks up from the map sharply. “And there are no updates from the soldiers guarding the underground passages?”

“No, sir.”

“How did the commander return?”

“U-unknown,” William answers nervously. “She claims to have been safe in the Underworld in her absence.”

“The Underworld…?” Dunn wonders beside Gepard.

Bronya's return means Sampo's involvement. Gepard straightens away from the table. “Thank you for the report, Liaison Officer. You are dismissed. Lieutenant, I'm afraid I have to cut our meeting short. Please organize a caravan and a team of twelve soldiers to leave for Belobog at dawn.”

William, ever dutiful, salutes and departs the war room. Gepard briskly rolls up the map and folds the papers into his binder. It takes several moments of shoving the documents into his briefcase before he realizes that Dunn never responded to his command.

“Lieutenant, do you acknowledge?” Gepard snaps.

“Acknowledged, sir,” Dunn responds evenly. “I'll prepare the convoy. But respectfully, Captain? Take it easy tonight.”

Gepard pauses his motions to inhale deeply. “We are in a state of emergency, Lieutenant.”

“We'll get through it,” Dunn assures confidently. “The Silvermane Guards are right behind you, so don't get too worked up by yourself.”

Gepard closes his eyes and wishes desperately that he could internalize Dunn's unyielding optimism. Once upon a time, he probably would have been able to, at least in the moment. But now? He's been Captain for a few months too long.

“Thank you, Lieutenant. I’ll keep that in mind,” Gepard says, because he does genuinely appreciate Dunn's support, powerless as it is.

Belobog is deceptively tranquil in the morning light when he returns. The Administrative District is stripped bare of its usual crowds by the Supreme Guardian’s curfew. Gepard orders his twelve soldiers to fan out in pairs to scour the barren streets for evidence of a sly, blue-haired man with shifty hands. He marches into Qlipoth Fort in the meantime.

“I'm very sorry,” a harried administrator grovels, blocking the hall to the Supreme Guardian's private office. “The Supreme Guardian is busy.”

The oily, simpering tone of the administrator grates Gepard's nerves. “I am the Captain of the Silvermane Guards,” he snaps sharply. “It is of utmost importance that I discuss Commander Rand’s return with the Supreme Guardian.”

The administrator smiles appeasingly. “The Supreme Guardian will brief you at her earliest convenience. In the meantime, would you like a coffee?”

Gepard swallows his rage. He gives a curt, “No, thank you,” before he strides out the building. He distracts himself from the fury boiling in his blood by scanning the crowds of the Administrative District for haunting green eyes.

Nothing. Absolutely nothing. After two hours, he recalls his men in defeat and sends them to a lunch break instead. His head hurts. He glances down at the broken barrier generator attached to his hip and wonders if it’s a sufficient excuse to visit Neverwinter Workshop. He usually avoids interacting with his sister while on duty, but the need to just talk to someone who won't scold him or stonewall him swells demandingly inside him. Just once, just this once, he gives in to the urge.

The familiar doorbell of Neverwinter Workshop tinkles as he enters, and it inspires an ingrained response to sag and let the comfort of Serval's homey shop embrace him. The reception desk is unsurprisingly empty; he almost never visits during the day. He waits patiently by the entrance until Serval rushes into view.

“G-Gepard, it's you!” Serval exclaims. “I didn't think you'd have time to visit with things so tense on the frontline.”

Something is wrong with the way Serval is holding herself. She’s stiff. Fidgety. Like the petty thieves he once interviewed as a private.

Gepard physically shakes his head, banishing all the nasty, untrusting thoughts that follow him from work. “Things are manageable. The latest wave of monster attacks has slowed. I'm back in the city to take care of a few matters, but I'll be back on the frontline later. I thought I told you?”

Serval hems and haws. Gepard’s shoulders rise against his will with every strained sentence coming from her usually outspoken mouth, but her voice gains strength once Gepard mentions his broken barrier generator. She scoffs at the Silvermane engineers, and they fall back into their familiar banter. Relieved, Gepard feels his shoulders relax.

“Oh, and why's the city under curfew all of a sudden? Has something happened?” Serval asks out of nowhere.

The tension returns full-force. Gepard desperately chases it away, unwilling to be suspicious of his sister when he has no one else to trust. “I…I’ve been instructed to keep it quiet,” he evades uneasily, praying to Qlipoth that Serval will drop the topic.

Serval smirks and coos, “Li’l Geppie, so grown up now, looking down on his civilian sister…”

The tone reminds him painfully of Sampo. He forces away another unwanted thought and gives in, explaining Bronya’s reappearance and the potential return of the fugitives. The conversation goes in a lighter direction when Serval laughs and mentions Pela’s doubled workload, but Gepard is unable to fully relax his tense shoulders this time.

Their conversation dies. Gepard swallows, forcing down the gummy words sticking to his throat. There’s no place for Gepard’s troubled thoughts here, so he steps back to remove himself from the sanctity of Serval’s workshop.

“Hey! Wait a sec,” Serval calls out. “Those intruders, I wanted to ask. What crime have they committed?”

Gepard pauses. He thanks Qlipoth that he’s facing away from his sister so he doesn’t have to disguise the clench of his jaw.

“They're plotting to overthrow the Architects and bring harm to the city,” he answers as neutrally as possible.

Serval makes a thoughtful sound. “Reminds me of the accusations against me. Cocolia's methods haven't changed.”

Gepard glares over his shoulder, oddly stung. “Don't say that, Serval. I know that you're still nursing a grievance against the Supreme Guardian, but this isn't a joking matter.”

Serval makes some flippant remark that is comforting in its rudeness. Gepard dons a strained smile and promises to visit for Serval’s next rehearsal. That’s enough to appease Serval and allow his escape from the once-comforting workshop.

Gepard’s head throbs as he flees. The poison in his chest, which was supposed to abate in Serval’s presence, bounces and swirls nauseatingly. Gepard almost lifts his hand to clutch his chest before he remembers himself.

He can’t shake the horrible feeling that Serval has been lying to him for the past fifteen minutes.

—

Serval was indeed lying to him.

This is not shocking. What is shocking is how easy it is to completely and utterly accept the fact that Serval has betrayed his trust, just as Father, Mother, and the Supreme Guardian have.

The snow batters Gepard's face as he stands before Serval and the fugitives, blocking the path out of the restricted zone. Despite his many layers, ice chills him to the marrow. Never in his decade of fighting against the Freeze has he felt so numb.

“Step away from the intruders, Serval,” Gepard orders flatly. “Walk over slowly and stand behind me. You're different from them.”

“I'm sorry.” Serval sounds genuinely apologetic. “We have an understanding. I stand with them.”

She stands with the outsiders? The fugitives? The insurrectionists? One year ago, Gepard stood at the lip of this very chasm and fought a storm of Fragmentum monsters so that Serval and everyone else he loves may live another day. Where was she on that day? Where was she when Gepard failed to protect Backwater Pass? Where was she when the Supreme Guardian threatened, stonewalled, and undermined Gepard at every attempt to do right by Belobog?

“You don't understand,” Serval pleads. “The one preventing us from getting close to the truth is Cocolia herself.”

“Do you think you can act as you please because the Supreme Guardian didn't recognize your version of events?!” Gepard bellows.

What right does Serval have to rebel when Gepard has remained loyal all his life? Gepard doesn't throw a fit whenever he disagrees with the Supreme Guardian. Gepard falls in line when the Supreme Guardian tells him to fall in line. Gepard stays silent when the Supreme Guardian tells him to stay silent. Yet Serval would dare claim that Gepard doesn’t understand?!

No, Gepard understands very well. Gepard understands the desperation in Serval's stance, the very same desperation she held when she clung to him after the Supreme Guardian disgraced her and Father disinherited her. This isn't about the fugitives at all. This is about Serval's unfinished business with Madam Rand, disguised pathetically as a noble mission to save the world.

Serval’s voice wobbles, but her glare is strong. “I’ve said my piece. Whether you believe it or not is up to you. Regardless, you should know your sister’s never been one to back down. If there’s something you uphold, you should uphold it to the very end!”

“Save your explanation for the judges!” Gepard roars with a ferocity that shocks him.

What is this spite? What is this rage? Gepard didn’t even know he felt so bitter about this. Why does the sight of his sister standing against him instead of with him make him want to cry like a little boy?

It’s because Serval is a fool blinded by the past claiming to champion the future, a voice that sounds like his father hisses. Captain Gepard Landau, right arm of the Supreme Guardian, must show her exactly how misguided her false convictions are.

Gepard extends his right arm. The precious gift from his beloved older sister whirrs and glows a threatening blue.

“This isn't like our childhood games, Serval. You won't get any leniency from me,” Gepard snarls.

Show me, Serval, the boy inside Gepard begs. Show me that your conviction is more than just bitterness. Show me that your conviction is something I can believe in, too.

And when she does, bringing Captain Gepard to his knees, that little boy is quieted to sleep.

—

If there’s one benefit to the unrelenting waves of monsters assaulting the Silvermane Restricted Zone, it’s that Gepard and Serval have no time to talk.

Years of growing up around Serval’s moods have attuned Gepard to the tension festering between them. It’s evident in the glances Serval sends him in between slaughtering waves of monsters. It’s evident in the way Serval hovers beside him, too conscious of his movements. Gepard notices, and Gepard ignores. Right now, Captain Landau’s greatest priority is defending the restricted zone. His fallout with his sister is just as unimportant as the aches in his beaten body.

Gepard is bludgeoning a weaver to dust when a wave ripples through their bodies. An echoing scream follows a moment after, ringing out from the peak of Everwinter Hill. Beside him, Serval falters midswing against a shadewalker. Gepard punches through the shadewalker before it can slash at Serval’s distracted frame.

“Serval!” Gepard snaps. “Focus!”

Serval swings around wildly to face Gepard. “That was Cocolia. The trailblazers are fighting Cocolia. I thought they were just going to see the stellaron.”

Gepard swings Earthwork in a wide arc, batting a wave of monsters into the ground. “You’ve made your decision to stand against the Supreme Guardian,” Gepard states more coldly than he intends. “Don’t regret it now.”

Gepard jolts when he feels a pull on his arm. He whips around with a raised fist, just barely stopping his momentum at the sight of Serval clutching his sleeve with a trembling hand.

“Gepard, please,” Serval begs. “I need to be up there.”

In that moment, Gepard sees that Serval is a mosaic of pieces held together by the strength of her resolution. Serval has always been like this, so stubborn, so strong, so insistent on standing contrary to Gepard. But Gepard also sees how the tethers between her parts stretch ever further apart. Gepard sees how close she is to shattering.

Gepard aches in body and in soul. Something in his heart breaks once more as he decides to put aside his pain to do right by his sister.

“Lieutenant Dunn!” Gepard roars. “Take charge of the defense! Serval and I will go to Everwinter Hill.”

“Yes, sir!” Dunn booms.

Gepard slams Earthwork into the ground once more, renewing the oily film protecting his soldiers. He falls back wordlessly, but Serval stands in place and faces him. Soldiers charge past Gepard into battle, much like the snowflakes surging past Gepard as he stands still in the blizzard. Unspoken words brim behind Serval’s glimmering blue eyes like welling tears.

“Let’s go,” Gepard says before those words can spill over.

Serval hesitates, then nods. They rush away from the battlefield and toward the shrieking winds circling the peak of Everwinter Hill.

As they approach the foot of the hill, Gepard realizes that the thickening air is not a figment of his imagination. The storm grows colder, its flurries more dense, and gulps he swallows in his haste prickle his throat with a sharp frost. Yet the stone path remains clear of snow. Gepard shudders when he realizes the flurries glimmer in the air like Fragmentum dust.

Gepard glances to his side, concerned by how Serval is faring in the unusual storm. Instead, his eyes catch on a smear of darkness that shwips right past Serval’s head and buries itself into a stone column behind them.

Immediately, Serval’s guitar crackles with static. “What was that?” Serval growls.

Gepard stares at the purple hilt peeking out of the stone column. The knife jiggles before it suddenly removes itself and flies backwards. Both Gepard and Serval recoil on instinct as the blade cuts through the air between their heads. It disappears into the storm.

“Show yourself!” Gepard yells into the white, heart suddenly racing.

A quiet sound somehow pierces through the shriek of the storm. Clap. Clap. Clap. A painfully familiar silhouette, with its tousled hair and its spiky shoulder, emerges from the white. Sampo Koski strolls into view leisurely, slapping his hands together slowly.

Sampo throws his arms wide open. “Serval! Geppie! So glad to see you've made up. Family drama is always fun, but what's the point of conflict without its resolution?”

Serval bristles. “You.”

Sampo chuckles. “Yes, me. Y’know, your brother said the same thing when we fatefully reunited.”

The inappropriate rush of finally seeing Sampo face-to-face pierces through the pain wracking Gepard’s body and mind. He bites it down and steps forward, gauntlet clenched.

“Sampo, this is official Silvermane Guard business. Step aside, and I’ll forget that you’re in a restricted area.”

Sampo smiles apologetically. “Sorry, Geppie. I can't let you pass.”

Gepard’s jaw drops. So now Sampo is stonewalling him, too? 

“Excuse me?” Gepard chokes out. “You disappear for months, blow up a building, lead outworlders into Belobog, kidnap the acting Commander into the Underworld, and now you’re keeping us away from the Supreme Guardian?” Gepard laughs in disbelief. “Who the fuck do you think you are?!”

“I'm just a nobody making sure the show goes smoothly,” Sampo answers smoothly. “This isn't your story. I don't think you'd want it to be, anyways.”

“Sampo!” Gepard's voice breaks. “The fate of the world is not a show!”

Serval steps forward, guitar crackling menacingly in her hand. “Step aside, Ringo, or I'll beat you black and blue until you can't walk anymore.”

Sampo shudders theatrically. “So terrifying! That's why you're the scary Landau, not dear Geppie over here.” An exaggerated expression of regret contorts Sampo's features. “Alas, not even fear can shake a good actor from his role. I'm very sorry, Ms. Serval. I'm not moving.”

Something snaps in Serval. “You will not stop me from reaching Cocolia!” she roars.

Serval swings her guitar before Gepard can stop her. The air shivers as it carries arcs of electricity from Serval’s guitar strings toward Sampo’s unfaltering grin. Sampo skitters aside, and the bolt strikes the empty patch of ground where he once stood. But it’s an opening. Serval darts forward in his absence.

Suddenly, Serval is gone. Where her body stood is now a void rapidly being refilled by flurries of powder. Gepard rushes forward, alarmed. He almost trips when Serval reappears sprawled before his feet, pinned onto the cracked brick path by a knife through her sleeve.

At the foot of the stairs, Sampo’s expression is smug. “I just did.”

“Fuck,” Serval wheezes.

Gepard drops to Serval’s side. His eyes dart across her form, but nothing indicates that just a second ago she no longer existed, save for the knife through her sleeve. He removes the knife and helps her to her feet. He bares his teeth at Sampo, letting fury overwhelm the stabbing betrayal of seeing Sampo, the same Sampo who cooked for him and shared tea with him, attack his beloved sister.

“Don’t you dare lay a hand on her!” Gepard thunders.

Sampo looks between them, entertained. “You’re such a sweet brother, Geppie! Don’t worry. Serval’s perfectly fine. A bit nauseous, maybe. Reatomization’s no walk in the park if you’re not used to it.”

Gepard can’t trust Sampo’s nonsense anymore. He plants himself between Sampo and Serval and activates Earthwork’s barrier. Sampo’s smirk fades to a wry grin.

“I suppose I deserve that.”

Gepard tightens his grip on Earthwork. “Sampo Koski, this is your last chance. Do right by Belobog and stand down.”

Gepard swallows before his voice can crack once more. What’s happening to his voice? Why does it wobble? Why does his body inch to raise Earthwork at Sampo’s slightest movements? Is Gepard afraid? Of clever, funny, and harmless Sampo who sat with Gepard and listened so kindly during his darkest hour?

Not harmless, not kind, a voice sneers inside Gepard. Sampo Koski may have been every one of those qualities, but the stranger standing before Gepard is not Sampo Koski. In fact, Sampo Koski might not even exist. Sampo Koski might be a lie, just as Ast Rickley was.

Gepard might be the fool who fell for the same trick twice.

The world shatters just as Gepard does. A wave rips through Everwinter Hill, tearing up brick from the broken path and slamming Gepard mercilessly onto the ground. Gepard feels his organs shift as the wave passes through him. For a terrible moment, the blizzard's howl rises to an ear-piercing shriek that threatens to burst his eardrums. Then just as quickly, silence swallows the storm's scream whole.

The ringing in his ear fades, revealing a complete and eerie silence. Gepard uncurls and staggers to his feet. The raging blizzard is entirely gone, snuffed out by the blast. A few arm's-lengths away, Serval hoists herself up from the cracked ground with a groan.

“What was that?” Serval slurs unsteadily. “Gepard, what was that?” 

Gepard yanks Earthwork forward when the air distorts and Sampo reappears. Sampo doesn't look at them. Instead, he stares up into the open afternoon sky, where a slowing wave of Fragmentum dust glitters rainbow in the revealed sunlight.

“I think Cocolia is dead,” Sampo says simply.

Gepard sags as if the last strings of his will were cut. Serval makes a choked gasp and falls to her knees.

“Did you plan this?” Gepard demands hoarsely. “Get the trailblazers to assassinate the Madam Guardian? Stall us until the deed is done?”

Sampo chuckles. “You flatter me, but I’m no mastermind. I’m just a hardworking businessman.”

“You've already won. You don't have to lie anymore.”

Sampo’s smirk is patronizing. “I didn't win, Geppie. I wasn't a player in the first place.”

“Just stop!” Gepard cries, voice breaking. “Stop lying! I don't need this from you, too!”

Pleading to a proven liar to stop lying? How pitiful. If Gepard's broken voice grates his own ears this much, Gepard can only imagine how unpleasant he must sound to someone as unflappable as Sampo.

His patheticness does something to Sampo. The smug smirk loosens. For one suspended moment, Sampo opens his mouth and hesitates.

“Bronya,” Serval chokes out, shattering the moment.

Gepard looks where Serval stares. His breath hitches at the sight of Bronya, the outworlders, and another stranger stumbling down the stairs, all visibly wounded. Gepard rushes to the wavering party. The sound of Serval’s heels follows closely at his side.

In the following weeks, when Gepard sits down and tries to recall what happened after reuniting with Bronya, all he grasps is a blur of evasive explanations swept away by much more pressing concerns. Only one clear memory pierces through the fog: the sharp, biting disappointment of looking behind him and realizing that Sampo has once again left him without a word.

—

There is a strange tranquility in Belobog in the week following Supreme Guardian Cocolia Rand’s death. For the tens of millions of hearts beating in the city, the days go as they always have, waking, eating, working, loving, and sleeping. Admittedly, the weather patterns in the Snow Plains were strange, as was the unusual, unacknowledged energy of Qlipoth Fort recently. But these distant details matter not in the immediacy of everyday life.

The peace fractures when Qlipoth Fort announces an inauguration for Bronya Rand. The districts of Belobog break into whispers. They quiet in Central Plaza, right within earshot of Qlipoth Fort, but the curious glances persist. Refugees cluster in the Goethe Hotel lobby, hissing among each other amid glaring at the hotel owner adamantly ignoring them from the reception desk. Deep in the Southern Snow Plains, a young woman funnels a pinch of Fragmentum-tainted snow into a sample tube, wondering what the strange meteorological anomalies mean for the future of Belobog.

The uncertainty reaches its peak when Bronya Rand marches onto the raised platform at the Central Plaza. Seven hundred years of legacy towers a bright blue behind her in the form of Everwinter Monument. When she speaks, all the ears of Belobog listen.

“People of Belobog, hear me! Today we gather here to celebrate our victory, but it was a sacrifice made by a mighty guardian that delivered us this opportunity. She dispelled an evil that cost us seven hundred years of suffering, and in the process, she paid the ultimate price.”

With each word, Bronya Rand paints an image of a bright future atop the bittersweet sacrifice of their former Supreme Guardian. She colors the dewy yellows and oranges of a sun peeking through the last snows of winter. She draws tentative lines between the Overworld and Underworld, a sketch of a unified Belobog marching together out of crisis.

Cocolia Rand’s funeral is much more private. The service is held at the heart of the Silvermane Guard Restricted Zone, secured by the entire force of the restricted zone garrison. Only Lady Bronya, her top officials, her closest confidants, and—controversially—Serval Landau, stand before Madam Rand’s closed casket.

In Lady Bronya’s inner circle stands Captain Gepard Landau, who watches dutifully as each mourner approaches the casket. He watches Lady Bronya rest light fingertips over the casket’s surface and whisper a prayer into the clear sky. He orders his soldiers to stand down as his estranged sister curls over the casket and presses her forehead into its smooth wood. Eventually, he approaches the casket himself and, unable to muster any other words, whispers an empty, meaningless, “Goodbye.”

The cannons roar their mournful cries. Then it’s over. Cocolia Rand has been sent off into Qlipoth’s grace.

Gepard lingers, observing the other mourners in their quiet. Some leave immediately. Others attempt to console Bronya, who suffers their ingratiation with a sad smile until the underworlder woman attached to Bronya’s hip shoos them away. Serval slumps away from the officials, staring at where Cocolia Rand’s casket once stood. Gepard wonders where he stands in this spectrum of grief, with the officials who only care about what this means for the future, or with Serval, who sags as if sinking bodily into the past.

The funeral brings peace to no one. Serval disappears into her workshop. Bronya buries herself in erecting a new Belobog. The bitter, cruel grip around Gepard’s heart only tightens, until one day, Gepard decides to resolve it once and for all.

When Gepard knocks and opens the door to Bronya’s private office, his eyes meet with Bronya’s kind gaze and the underworlder’s dark glare.

“Lady Bronya, may I speak to you?” Gepard asks.

“No need to be so formal, Gepard,” Bronya says kindly. “Seele, would you give us a moment?”

Seele scowls fiercely at Gepard but obligingly steps away. When she reaches the doorframe, she turns around to face Bronya and visibly softens.

“Call me if you need me, ‘kay?” she mutters gruffly.

A smile breaks through Bronya’s weary expression. “Of course.”

The door closes softly behind Seele’s exit, submerging Gepard into the quiet of Bronya’s private office. The usually pristine desk where Bronya sits is in complete disarray. Stacks of papers loom impressively over the sticky notes scattered atop the desk. One tower seems to have fallen, scattering its sheaths like confetti around the foot of the desk. Bronya herself perches behind her paper fortress, shoulders stiff, back painfully straight, greeting Gepard with a faint smile as if fatigue weren’t smeared underneath her eyes.

“Would you like something to drink?” Bronya asks once Gepard sits down.

“I’ll pass. I have some questions about what happened to the late Supreme Guardian.”

Gepard is too tired to cringe at his own bluntness. Likewise, Bronya just sets her pen down and regards him seriously.

“What would you like to know?”

Gepard considers the list of questions he had prepared. “Is the Eternal Freeze truly over?”

“Not exactly,” Bronya answers frankly. “Its source has been neutralized thanks to the trailblazers, but it will take many years before the climate of this planet stabilizes, likely at least a lifetime.”

“Was the late Supreme Guardian conspiring to prevent this?”

A shadow casts over Bronya’s expression. “Yes.”

Gepard had already known this, but the explicit confirmation makes his heart drop to his stomach anyways. Gepard scrubs a hand down his face, mustering up all his courage for his last question.

“Then Everwinter Garrison, the frontline, Backwater Pass… Were those all meaningless?”

Bronya does not answer for some time. When she does, her tone is weary. “I don’t know, Gepard. I don’t know to what extent these missions were designed to fail. I don’t know how much impact those missions had in the end. All I can say with certainty is that dissolving the Fragmentum and the Eternal Freeze was not a goal for my mother.”

Icy tendrils crawl over Gepard’s heart, as if Cocolia Rand were still alive and glaring at him. Gepard blurts out, “Why didn’t you say these things in your inauguration speech?”

At that, Bronya falters. Creases form at the corners of Bronya's eyes as she closes them tightly.

“You have to understand. Belobog needs hope. I couldn't tell the people the truth about Mother, not when our city is still on the brink of destruction.”

“I understand your decision,” Gepard says numbly, “but why couldn't you tell me the truth? Why didn’t you tell me until I asked you?”

Bronya flinches. The darkness under her lids underlines the widening of her eyes.

“I—” She swallows. “I'm sorry. I assumed you already knew, and it slipped my mind completely to speak to you personally. That was wrong of me as a leader and a friend. How can I make it up to you?”

Apologies are such powerless things. They're an attempt by the transgressor to smooth over their own failures by patching a gaping wound with a bandage. They don't bring back what was lost, as Gepard painstakingly learned himself mere weeks ago in Goethe Hotel's lobby.

But Gepard's feeling of abandonment and betrayal is nothing compared to his own failure to defend Backwater Pass. It certainly pales when compared to the overwhelming grief etched in every line of Bronya's harried expression. Gepard steps out of his body and sees himself airing petty grievances against a woman whose mother passed on and left her the remnants of a struggling world. Shame eclipses the bitterness.

Gepard channels Dunn's supportive energy. “Respectfully, Lady Bronya? You can make it up to me by taking it easy tonight. You've had a long week.”

Bronya’s expression only becomes more pained. She wraps her arms around her sides, as if clutching herself.

“Gepard, let me fix this,” she whispers hoarsely.

“There's nothing to fix,” Gepard says kindly. “What I said before is still true. There's no Supreme Guardian I'd be more honored to serve than you, Lady Bronya.” He pauses, then adds gently, “But I do appreciate your apology. Thank you.”

For a moment more, Bronya stands like a little girl, clutching herself and staring at Gepard with stricken eyes. The mirage disappears in a blink as Bronya’s expression smooths and her posture straightens.

“Thank you for raising your concerns, Gepard. I’m grateful that you trust me enough as a friend and a leader to speak honestly with me. If anything else troubles you, please let me know. I will always make time for you.”

Bronya’s gray eyes, even through the poise, are so, so sad. Gepard did this to her.

“Thank you, Bronya,” Gepard says softly, inadequately.

I’m sorry, he doesn’t say because he doesn’t want to burden Bronya any further.

When Gepard exits the office, he meets Seele’s dark eyes from where she leans against the wall. Her expression is flinty, as if accusing Gepard of everything he’s done wrong in the past seven months. Gepard breaks his gaze. There’s another mistake to add to that list. 

—

The odd rectangular device jostles in Gepard’s gauntlet grip as Gepard pokes at its screen with his index finger. He racks his brain to replay March 7th’s overly-exuberant brief on Qlipoth Fort’s newly-issued “phones,” struggling between its many screens before he rediscovers the messages window. There’s only three rows of conversations so far: Pela’s, Bronya’s, and Serval’s. He taps Pela’s portrait and presses the underlined text in her last message. A video opens, and Bronya Rand comes to life on his phone screen.

Bronya’s tinny voice sounds from Gepard’s gauntlet as he walks alone through the darkening streets of Belobog. The already-sparse crowds this close to the condemned Backwater Pass disappear entirely as street lights flicker on one-by-one in Gepard’s wake. The escalating chill as he approaches Belobog’s outskirts is a welcome nip piercing through the fog in his head. With every step, Bronya’s voice haunts him.

“In her last moments, the Supreme Guardian told me her greatest regret...the order to seal off the Underworld from the Overworld.”

Gepard raises his head and peers to the south. Only four blocks away, hidden from sight by the looming buildings along this street, is yet another piece of Belobog abandoned by the so-called regretful late Supreme Guardian. Bronya’s voice continues on, speaking solemnly about consequences and guilt. Gepard sinks into a bench and stares dully at his screen.

Once during his leave, when Gepard felt unusually sad about the state of his condo, Jess had told him to reach out to the people who care about him. Now, sitting alone on a bench at night, Gepard realizes that he can’t. Serval is grieving. So is Bronya. Lynx is away. And speaking to his coworkers about his doubts would be incredibly inappropriate. There is simply no one for Gepard to talk to about the poison in his heart, save for the pixelated Bronya dancing across his screen.

“What a bunch of rosy lies.”

Gepard jumps to his feet and whirls around. A fashionable woman he has never seen and hadn’t heard coming smiles at him.

“Why do you say that?” Gepard probes warily.

The woman giggles. “Oh dear, am I about to be arrested for sedition?”

“Opinions are not sedition, and the Architects respect that.”

“So honorable of you, Geppie,” the woman coos. “If every member of the Architects spoke like you, maybe I would believe that.”

Gepard’s eyes widen. “Sampo?”

Sampo pulls off the brown wig. “Got it in one.”

Gepard swallows, trying to wrest his suddenly-racing heart under control. He scans Sampo up and down, taking in the mussed blue hair, the decorated green eyes, the classy pantsuit, and the fashionable brown overcoat. Sampo leans on one leg with a lazy grin and bounces the wig breezily in his hand. The juxtaposition of Sampo’s masculine ease with his feminine outfit ignites an unexpected appreciation in Gepard.

“Why are you dressed like that?” Gepard asks dumbly.

“Ah. Like the outfit?” Sampo twirls around dramatically, making Gepard snort despite himself. “Turns out supporting a coup doesn’t make you very popular with law enforcement. But it is a great excuse to doll yourself up.”

Gepard does like the outfit. In fact, Gepard has yet to see Sampo in an outfit he doesn’t like. Instead of voicing this, Gepard tucks his phone away and points out the inconsistency in Sampo’s logic.

“Lady Bronya has already cleared your charges. There’s no need to disguise yourself.”

Sampo looks thoughtful. “Huh. Did she?”

Gepard looks at Sampo sharply. “Is someone in the Guards giving you trouble?”

Sampo flutters his eyelashes. “So concerned for me! You’re always such a charmer, Geppie.”

For some reason, Sampo’s evasive flirting stings more than it usually would. Gepard turns around, hiding the twitch of his jaw and banishing the uninvited memory of cleaning away the hurt from Sampo’s wounded arm.

“Please report any misconduct to Qlipoth Fort. We will address it as quickly as possible,” Gepard says stiffly.

Sampo chuckles, much too close behind Gepard. “Aw, Geppie. Why so cold all of a sudden?”

Something snaps in Gepard. He whips around, glaring into Sampo’s too-close eyes.

“Who is Aha?” Gepard demands.

Sampo blinks. “Bless you.”

“How did you know where and when the trailblazers would arrive?”

Sampo shrugs. “I didn’t.”

“Where did you get those daggers?”

“I found them somewhere.”

“Why are you here?”

Sampo’s expression brightens. “To see my darling Captain, of course!”

Gepard’s eye twitches. “You’re not an overworlder.”

Sampo pouts. “Gee, what happened to a unified Belobog?”

“You're not an underworlder, either.”

Sampo's eyes widen. “Woah! I'm not?”

“No,” Gepard responds flatly. “You're an outworlder, just like the trailblazers.”

Sampo dons a smug, entertained expression and says nothing.

Gepard scowls. “Not going to deny it?”

Sampo examines his painted nails. “To be fair, I never said I was from the Underworld.”

“A lie of omission is still a lie.”

“You know very well that I'm a liar.”

“I do,” Gepard snaps, “but it still hurts to be reminded. Almost everyone I love and respect has lied to my face in the past few months: my parents, Madam Rand, Bronya, Serval, and now you. Lynx is the only person who hasn't blatantly lied to me, only because she's not even in the city right now. Forgive me for feeling upset that I don't even know who you are anymore.”

Gepard’s mouth snaps shut. The urge to spew out every drop of poisonous frustration inside him still beats against his ribcage, but he breathes until it settles. He's already said too much. Exploding at Sampo for every slight Gepard has experienced doesn't help anyone, least of all Gepard himself.

“To be fair,” Sampo repeats lightly, “even I don't know who I am.”

When Gepard looks up from his roiling unhappiness, he catches Sampo looking at him unreadably. Sampo glances away when their eyes meet. His fingers twitch, as if itching to twirl knives that aren't there.

“Sorry,” Sampo says. “For lying to you. And for everything else you went through.”

Gepard waits, but Sampo says nothing more. Sampo just stares at the sky with overblown interest, keeping Gepard at the corner of his eye.

It's very telling that Sampo's weak apology contains no promises to do anything differently in the future. But what does Gepard expect from Sampo, who in one moment kisses him breathless and in the next vanishes into thin air? Even in anger, Gepard can see how difficult it must have been for Sampo to acknowledge Gepard's hurt at all.

Gepard sags. He rubs his eyes. The thought of feeling endlessly bitter over Sampo's unchanging cowardice is exhausting. He looks up at Sampo, who stands in his elegant outfit with one foot pointed away, somehow simultaneously ready to flee yet anchored to the spot. The sight is almost comical. Absurd, even. Gepard exhales something almost like a sad laugh and lets the bitterness fade.

“Thank you for apologizing,” Gepard acknowledges.

Sampo glances at Gepard. “That’s it?”

Gepard frowns. “What do you mean, ‘that’s it?’”

Sampo smiles airily. “Well, I didn’t expect my heartfelt apology to go so smoothly. I would’ve thought our dear Captain had a lot more pent-up rage than that.”

Sampo’s not wrong. Resentment rattles the bars of his ribcage and demands to be acknowledged, but Gepard once again swallows the upset with a deep breath.

“I’m not going to take out my frustrations on you, Sampo. I don’t want to be an angry person.”

Like my father, Gepard doesn’t say, but the flicker of Sampo’s gaze implies that the unspoken words were heard anyway.

“Why not?” Sampo hums. “This filthy, unrepentant criminal can take a beating.”

“You’re not a criminal anymore,” Gepard reminds Sampo tiredly. “Lady Bronya has cleared your charges.”

What a shame she has. Gepard is not strong enough to deny how enticing the thought of chasing Sampo through the streets is. Gepard’s muscles itch to puppet his weary skeleton into lunging after a fleeing Sampo, into digging his fingers around the meat of Sampo’s wrist and screaming at the man until Sampo answers every question and doubt he’s inflicted Gepard. He sees it now, the imprint of Sampo’s unshakeable smile as Gepard explodes in his face. Sampo has always been so unaffected by the worst sides of Gepard. Gepard hates himself for how deeply that comforts him.

Gepard steps back and contains his trembling hand behind his back. Still, something of his selfishness must show on his face because Sampo is looking at him consideringly.

“Want to see a magic trick?” Sampo chirps.

Gepard tenses. “Why.”

Sampo smiles brightly and holds up something in his hand. “Is this your phone?”

Gepard sputters. He paws at his coat pocket and finds nothing there. “How did you—?”

Sampo’s already gone. Reflex takes over. Gepard finds his legs propelling himself after Sampo’s disappearing form, his face stretched into a vicious snarl he didn’t know his numb body could still muster. His heart races. His lungs swell. His head sharpens. For the first time in weeks, Gepard awakens.

Sampo’s pace is punishing. Every brush of Gepard’s gauntlet against Sampo’s overcoat is met with a sharp turn or an unexpected obstacle. Every close call, every missed chance is followed by a sly backward glance from Sampo. His beautiful green eyes twinkle with a mesmerizing mirth before he darts forward, leaving Gepard dumbfounded in his wake.

Gepard pursues, patient and relentless. It’s only a matter of time before Sampo slips. And he does. He turns and glances at Gepard for far too long, their eyes catching under the shadow of a looming building. Time slows. Green seeps into Gepard’s body from the windows of his eyes, burning him from the inside out. Then suddenly, Gepard’s gauntlet catches fabric, and time snaps back into place.

Gepard lunges forward and pulls. Sampo careens into Gepard’s body, yelping when Gepard’s arms wrap tightly around him. He scrabbles violently against Gepard’s chest and shoulders in a futile attempt to escape, but Gepard holds on tirelessly, patiently, because Gepard knows that he will win. Hand-to-hand combat is his battlefield. Sampo lost his advantage the moment he allowed himself to be caught.

A jab to his side startles Gepard. He glares at Sampo, incredulous. “Are you trying to tickle me?”

In between furious wriggling, Sampo smiles widely. “A lady has to defend herself.”

“Stop that!” Gepard barks.

Sampo makes a kissy face. “D’aww, does Geppie want me to kiss his bruised ego better?”

At that moment, Gepard does something unthinkable. Instead of standing by as Sampo teases him, Gepard slips one arm under Sampo’s shoulder and another under Sampo’s opposite thigh. Gepard watches with dark satisfaction as Sampo’s smirk vanishes and his face pales.

As Sampo’s feet lift off the ground, Gepard feels the death-grip around his heart loosen. Poison leaves his lungs in a furious scream. Gepard puts seven months of helplessness, betrayal, and frustration into this one movement.

Gepard slams Sampo onto the ground.

…

Qlipoth, why is it so liberating to be violent?

To give in to his anger.

To be cruel and spiteful.

To do the wrong thing, and to not be afraid that unflappable, resilient Sampo will think of him differently because of it.

Midfall, Gepard breaks out of form to wrap an arm around the back of Sampo’s head. They hit the ground with a shared wheeze. Sampo’s head bounces harmlessly against the cradle of Gepard’s arm. They lie there tangled together, Gepard pinning Sampo to the ground beneath him.

They gasp for air. When Gepard’s lungs settle, he adjusts the arm cradling Sampo’s head to rest his hand against Sampo’s blue locks. He holds Sampo's head gently against his shoulder, too conscious of the way Sampo’s chest presses against his own with every heaving breath they share. Sampo is so human like this. So present and immediate. There’s no mystery here, no nagging doubts, no unknowable secrets. In Gepard’s embrace, Sampo is just a man who makes Gepard feel so, so much.

A chilly breeze prickles the back of Gepard’s neck, a reminder and a warning about who and where they are. Gepard musters all of his self-restraint and pulls away from Sampo’s warmth. He forces his flushed, wanting expression into a firm look.

“Give me my phone,” Gepard demands.

There’s something strange about the grin on Sampo’s face. It’s not as cartoonish as it usually is. It’s muddied with colors that a skilled actor like Sampo would be careful to exclude.

Sampo heaves himself onto his elbows and brings his face toward Gepard’s, close enough that his warm breath whispers against Gepard’s lips. He leans his chin over Gepard’s shoulder, drawing a tingling trail as the skin of their cheeks ghost against each other.

“I hope you feel better after playing cat-and-mouse,” Sampo murmurs into his ear.

Sampo’s lips meet Gepard’s cheek just as a familiar click-and-hiss sounds behind Gepard. A bone-deep panic strikes Gepard.

“Wait! Don’t go!” Gepard begs.

It’s too late. The smoke bomb bursts into a cloud of smog. Gray haze begins to creep over the glint of Sampo’s smile. “Sorry, Geppie. Business calls.”

Gepard makes a wounded sound and throws his arms around Sampo’s form. His arms close around nothing but wisps of smoke, stagnant and cold where Sampo was once alive and warm. Sampo must have already teleported away, leaving Gepard to embrace nobody in the smog. Gepard’s eyes water from the smoke in a mockery of grief.

Gepard stumbles out of the haze. He wipes his eyes and coughs. Fresh air replaces the pollution in his lungs, and clarity replaces the inappropriate sadness in his heart. There’s no reason for Captain Gepard to mourn Sampo’s routine and expected disappearance. That chasing after Sampo was the happiest Gepard had felt in months is irrelevant.

His coat pocket vibrates, making Gepard jolt. Gepard fumbles at the pocket and pulls out a familiar rectangular device. He clumsily activates its screen and sees a notification awaiting him.

It seems that Sampo has left him one more gift.

Unknown

thx for the exercise

txt me sometime ;)

Chapter Text

It’s not a shock when Serval calls Gepard and Lynx to Neverwinter Workshop and announces that she plans to join the Astral Express.

“Himeko said I was welcome to join,” Serval explains from behind her workshop counter. “Caelus says they’ll pick me up when they return to Belobog next month.”

Serval’s inability to meet Gepard’s eyes is a familiar sight from the past few weeks. Her avoidance doesn’t do much to Gepard anymore besides prickle a distant feeling of loss. Lynx, however, who just returned from the Snow Plains, shoots up angrily from her stool.

“And what about us?” she says tightly. “You’re just going to leave us behind?”

Serval’s hands clench atop the counter. “I’m doing what’s best for me.”

“I’m sure running away is what’s best for you,” Lynx scoffs. She storms out of the workshop, the entrance bell tinkling in her wake.

Gepard glances at Serval. She’s still glaring down at the counter, pointedly ignoring Gepard’s presence. There’s nothing for him to do here. He runs out of the workshop after Lynx, leaving Serval to her silent misery.

When he catches up to Lynx, she’s huddled alone under the canopy of a trolley stop that’ll take her to Belobog’s southern exit. Lynx does not acknowledge him as he sidles up to her. They stand silently shoulder-to-shoulder under the canopy’s shadow, watching people and automobiles pass by in the light snowfall, until the emotion simmering under Lynx’s skin bursts.

“Why aren’t you stopping her?” Lynx blurts out.

Gepard blinks. “Why would I?”

“Because she’s obviously just running away.”

Running away to the Snow Plains, to the frontline, to the stars. Gepard sighs.

“Maybe that’s a mistake she needs to make.”

“And you’ll just let her?” Lynx exclaims, indignant.

“Do you like it when I tell you what to do for your own good?”

At that, Lynx falters. She turns away from Gepard and scuffs her shoe against the ground.

“I know you two are fighting, but won’t you miss her?” she whispers.

“Of course I will,” Gepard says quietly. “Who else is going to remind me when I’m being an asshole?”

In truth, Gepard still feels numb from the sight of Serval standing against him with the trailblazers. What is Serval’s abandonment of Belobog but another betrayal to add to the list? But his obligations to Bronya, to the Silvermane Guards, to the new Belobog leave Gepard with little time with his hurt. Time and distance have dulled the simmer and allowed him to accept that Serval’s betrayals—like Sampo’s, like Bronya’s, like the world’s—have little to do with Gepard himself.

So Serval’s abandonment does not burn Gepard as it did before. But young Lynx, who hasn’t had time to digest the new Belobog, who almost lost her brother for good a year ago, sniffles quietly beside Gepard.

“I guess we can still call her,” she mumbles. “And I still have you and Pela.”

“You’ll always have me, Lynx.”

Lynx rolls her eyes. Gepard pretends not to see their wet sheen. “Stop being sappy.”

“Someone has to take Serval’s spot as number one sap in the Landau family,” Gepard jokes.

Lynx snorts. “Please. That’s always been you.”

The hit to his pride is worth it. Lynx straightens out of her slouch and wipes her eyes, more ready to face the new world.

A distant ring raises their heads. The trolley has arrived, ready to take Lynx out into the Snow Plains. Its doors open just as Gepard outstretches his hand.

“Shall we go home?” Gepard asks gently.

Lynx takes his hand, and the trolley doors close behind them.

—

Unexpectedly, Sampo is the one who texts first.

Sampo

ur goose is gonna buy some firearms tmrw

Then, two more texts: a series of numbers—coordinates—and a time.

Gepard assumes “goose” means Peter Gusev, the linchpin of the rapidly-developing black-market arms trade in the Underworld. He immediately forwards the tip to Pela, who responds with an address within Backwater Pass. Gepard storms the location the next day, braced for an ambush. Instead, he catches a Silvermane Guard officer red-handed handing Silvermane-issued weapons to Gusev.

Gusev and the officer are swiftly dealt with, but the implications are concerning. Sampo’s intel is clearly not charity; he somehow benefits from Gusev’s arrest. How Sampo could possibly be involved with Gusev and the corruption within the Silvermane Guards worries Gepard.

More texts come regardless of whether and when Gepard responds. Unsolicited intel. Links to videos. Images of strange online jokes—never of Sampo himself and his surroundings. Gepard reaches three conclusions from the texts:

One, that article Pela sent about texting etiquette is complete nonsense. “No double-texting” is as ridiculous of a rule as it seems, if Sampo's unbothered back-to-back messages are any indication.

Two, Sampo prefers texting Gepard over speaking to him in person. Despite the obvious practical reasons for Sampo's distance, Gepard suspects that the main reason is the safe barrier that their phone screens cut between them.

Three, Sampo will not answer questions about his life outside of Belobog. Conversations end disappointingly at any hint of probing, and Gepard learns quickly not to ask.

Desperate to learn more about Sampo, Gepard clings onto what little insights he can. Each image of dancing cats confirms that Sampo is alive. Each burst of rapid-fire texts reveals Sampo’s ease with this alien technology. Each inexplicable joke is a breadcrumb from the trail Sampo has drawn across the universe. Gepard even asks Dan Heng for databank entries about Aha, but even the Astral Express’ information is disappointingly vague. Gepard weaves these precious scraps into a shoddy portrait, but the man that stares back at Gepard is a mask. Whoever he is, he’s not the man who burns so warmly in Gepard’s arms.

The first insight into the real Sampo comes when Dr. Natasha arrives on the steps of Qlipoth Fort.

It has been three weeks since Bronya’s ascension; Wildfire’s visit to Qlipoth Fort was inevitable. For once, Seele is absent from Bronya’s office. Instead, Dr. Natasha, leader of Wildfire and the picture of calm resolve, stares up alone at Bronya and Gepard from the sunken floor of the petitioner’s stand.

“I understand this may be a bold ask,” Natasha speaks in her smooth alto, “but Wildfire seeks to solidify the relationship between the Underworld and Overworld through this exchange. Your medical supplies will plant the seeds of trust among our people.”

“How did you source these supplies previously?” Bronya asks.

“Recycling materials from refuse sent from the Overworld is how we obtained our generic supplies, but specialty equipment was covertly sourced from the Overworld,” Natasha almost smiles. “You must be familiar with our supplier.”

“Sampo Koski,” Gepard speaks up for the first time, voice heavy.

Natasha is impressively unshaken despite essentially confessing to stealing from the Silvermane Guards. Bronya, too, appears grudgingly impressed by Natasha’s resolve. Bronya prods a little more, but Natasha’s poise is unbreakable. She finally relents.

“The medical supplies were already yours; now, we simply make this exchange official,” Bronya announces. “Captain, would you organize the logistics with Dr. Natasha?”

Gepard bows. “Yes, Madam. Dr. Natasha, would you like to exchange contact information?”

“Gladly, Captain,” Natasha answers.

Natasha meets Gepard again later in the week, armed with meticulous logs and talking points. Alone with Natasha in his office, Gepard finds himself thoroughly impressed by her stalwart leadership. It's a jarring contrast to Sampo's smoke and mirrors, which makes her alliance with Sampo all the more perplexing.

“Mutual benefit,” Natasha answers when Gepard asks why she would work with Sampo. “I needed supplies for the clinic, and Sampo needed a foothold in the community.”

“Surely there were easier ways to establish a relationship with Wildfire than stealing from the Guards,” Gepard mutters.

“There were,” Natasha says drily. “I was happy just having ears in the Overworld.”

Gepard glances at Natasha carefully. “It seems almost noble of him to go to such lengths for you.”

“Perhaps,” Natasha allows, “but I would caution against ascribing such…selfless qualities to Sampo. I've worked with Sampo for six years now. Our working relationship is so smooth precisely because I assume his actions, even the kind ones, always have selfish motivations.”

Gepard can’t help but smile. “That sounds like something he himself would say.”

Natasha looks at Gepard consideringly. “Yes, he'll be the first to tell you he's a heartless businessman, even as he plays hide-and-seek with the children.”

The image twinges something in Gepard's heart. Suddenly, overwhelmingly, he aches for Sampo.

“Do you know where I can find him?” Gepard blurts out.

The curtain that falls over Natasha's eyes is unnervingly abrupt. “I'm afraid I don't,” she says curtly. “Let's return to discussing medical equipment.”

Natasha does not give him the chance to fumble through an apology, speaking over his wince. Gepard can only swallow his chagrin. Embarrassing as the misstep was, Gepard is relieved that Natasha is unwilling to betray Sampo’s whereabouts to a stranger.

Natasha does not discuss Sampo again, but the damage has already been done. Gepard's imagination runs wild. How did Sampo, freshly arrived at an unfamiliar planet, reach the Underworld? Did he meet Natasha before or after meeting Gepard at that bar? How often does he play with the Underworld’s children? Is he close friends with Natasha, as her tight-lipped regard makes it seem?

The questions itch. Sampo won't answer questions about life outside of Belobog, but maybe, just maybe, if Gepard asks something small about his life in the Underworld…

For once, Gepard texts first.

Gepard

Dr. Natasha told me what you did for her clinic. That was very kind of you.

Sampo’s immediate reply lifts a weight from Gepard’s shoulders.

Sampo

?

thats a funny way to describe freeloading off her hot water

Gepard

I meant supplying her with medical equipment from the Silvermane Guards.

Sampo

o

i have no idea what ur talking abt!!

i wud never borrow from the silvemane guards

Gepard

OK. Whatever you didn’t borrow, it was kind of you.

Qlipoth Fort has an agreement with Wildfire. You don’t need to worry about not borrowing anymore.

Sampo

great!

ill never think about not borrowing again

Gepard laughs. A strange, soft glow warms Gepard’s core and compels him to keep Sampo’s attention just a little longer.

Gepard

Serval plans to leave with the Astral Express.

Sampo

o?

good for her

i think shell like trailblazing

A few seconds later:

Sampo

how do u feel abt that

Gepard smiles at the awkwardly shoehorned question.

Gepard

Bittersweet. She’s not speaking to me right now. I hope I can at least say goodbye before she leaves.

Do you know if she will be safe? Dan Heng assures me that the Astral Express will protect her.

Sampo

ya shell be fine

trailblazers look after each other

u interested?

Gepard

In what?

Sampo

going to space?

Gepard? In space? The suggestion makes Gepard’s stomach shift as if digesting an entirely foreign food. It’s also an uncomfortable reminder of how small-minded he must seem to Sampo, an outworlder with a universe’s worth of secrets and experiences.

Gepard decides against probing into Sampo’s past and responds straightforwardly.

Gepard

I don’t think so. There’s too much to do in Belobog.

But I will miss Serval. I’ll have to figure out who to spend time with when she leaves.

Probably Lynx.

Sampo

ur other sister?

lol

calm down social butterfly

Gepard flushes.

Gepard

Who else is there? My other friends are my colleagues. I can’t tell them everything.

Courage suddenly strikes Gepard.

Gepard

Are you offering?

Three dots appear and dance inside a bubble. Gepard sweats. How does a rectangular block make him feel so irrationally panicked?

Sampo

geppie my friend

u need friends who r not family or coworker

tho for u thats basically the same thing

have u heard of work life balance

Embarrassment overtakes the disappointment of Sampo's avoidance.

Gepard

You're not my coworker.

Sampo

i totally am

u caught a big goose w my intel

ur welcome btw!!

Worry prickles at the reminder of Gusev.

Gepard

Why did you want the Guards to apprehend him? Was he threatening you?

Sampo

its bc i have a raging hard on for jusrice

Gepard sighs. He drafts an earnest plea for Sampo's safety, then immediately deletes it because all that will achieve is radio-silence from Sampo for the rest of the day. He plays along with Sampo's crudeness instead.

Gepard

Did you have to phrase it like that?

Sampo

ya

im horny for the law

gotta remind the law of my thick

throbbing

Gepard rolls his eyes and stops reading. Maybe Gepard does need other people besides Sampo and his sisters to talk to.

—

Gepard’s wish is fulfilled through an unexpected text.

Unknown

This is Victor Herrero. Lynx gave me your number. Would you have time to grab lunch this week? 

The notification stops Gepard in his tracks in the middle of Qlipoth Fort. He pinches himself. When the text does not disappear, he messages Lynx to make sure he's not going crazy.

Gepard

Victor Herrero texted me. He said you gave him my number?

Lynx

O yeah I did

I was working with him on a project

He said he wanted to speak with you so I gave him your number

Gepard

Should I be scared? 

Lynx

Of Victor?

Haha

No he just wants to talk about his project

He's a nice guy! You got this!

The cheeky support is a bit too similar to Serval’s teasing to soothe Gepard’s nerves, but Lynx is right. Victor is just a man. So what if he’s the husband of Gepard’s ex-fiancée? So what if the last time they interacted was at Gepard’s disastrous birthday concert, during which Gepard literally ran out on him?

He sends Victor a confident, unanxious affirmation and does not spend the rest of the day reliving his every embarrassing interaction with Victor.

Gepard’s busy days make time pass far too quickly. Too soon, he finds himself standing outside a trendy restaurant in the commercial district wearing a hastily-pressed dress shirt and fidgeting with his cufflinks. He sees Victor the moment he rounds the street corner in the distance, but falters at waving to him from so far away. So Gepard pretends not to see Victor until the man is close, then raises his hand.

“Hello, Victor,” Gepard greets normally.

“Hello, Captain. Thank goodness, I thought you were ignoring me,” Victor jokes.

“I didn't see you,” Gepard mumbles feebly, but Victor has already turned his attention to the restaurant host.

Victor's restaurant choice is a trendy brunch spot casual enough to wrinkle Mother's nose but respectable enough to reveal Victor's good taste. As they settle in a booth, Victor enthuses over the excellent presentation and creativity of the menu. Gepard nods along helplessly, trying to pretend that he doesn't eat soldiers' gruel most days. But Victor's enthusiastic speech inevitably quiets, and silence descends like impending doom.

The tension snaps when Victor pulls out his phone. Gepard's heart sinks to his feet. Is Gepard too boring even for easygoing Victor?

“I have something just for this,” Victor murmurs as he fiddles with his phone. “Ah, found it. Ahem. Did I tell you that I recently adopted a dog?”

Gepard's urge to jump out a window stutters like a screeching record. “...No?” he ekes out weakly.

“Yes, well, I have a habit of feeding the strays near the commercial district on my way home. Normally they don't follow me home, but there was this one stray…”

Victor tells a story of secretly harboring a stray dog in a closet of the Herrero manor for a few days before Matilda finally stumbled upon it. Matilda was not pleased. Victor had to ply her with sweet gestures for a week before she softened up to both him and the dog.

It’s a sweet, engaging story, but silence and awkwardness inevitably descend again. Victor glances at his phone again and says, “By the way, I've been trying to learn the guitar. I’ve been practicing one of your sister’s pieces, actually.”

It takes jumping through a few anecdotes for Gepard to realize that Victor is following a list of conversation topics on his phone. The epiphany knocks Gepard's self-consciousness askew. If Victor can so shamelessly work down a literal list of talking points, why is Gepard losing his mind at the thought of being stiff and awkward?

After Victor describes his and Matilda's difficulties with dieting, Gepard hesitantly chimes in with his own experience of relearning how to cook with one hand. Victor quiets and nods attentively. Gepard's voice picks up strength. The conversation smooths, and Gepard feels less like a hostage to his own awkwardness.

They share stories up until their dishes arrive, and Gepard is relieved to fill his mouth with food instead of words. Gepard savors the comfortable silence until their plates clear and Victor sets his utensils down ominously.

“I must admit, Captain, I didn’t invite you out just to socialize,” Victor says. “Would you forgive me for talking shop?”

Gepard wipes his face with a napkin to hide his sudden anxiety. “Go ahead.”

Victor leans forward conspiratorially. “Are you familiar with ‘blogging?’”

Gepard blinks. That sounded nothing like, you’re awkward and unpleasant and Matilda loves me more than she ever did you.

“No,” Gepard answers faintly.

A blog is an abbreviation for the term “web log”. It describes, per Victor’s words, a “personal, self-published online magazine that anyone can post to the internet.” Victor has filled his own nascent blog with articles, essays, and albums of Belobog’s art, culture, and history, researched and crafted by his own two hands. One of these articles, titled ‘A Not-So-Everwinter Night’, features a heartwarming photograph of Lynx’s shy smile battered by light snow as its banner image.

“This is the project you were working with Lynx on?” Gepard asks, staring wide-eyed at Victor’s phone screen.

“Yes. For two weeks I joined Lynx in the Snow Plains, interviewing her and recording her experiences through photography and the written word. What you see here is the result of those two weeks.”

Gepard scans through the article in awe. Serval has always been the token genius of the Landau family, but if Victor’s retelling of Lynx’s research is any indication, Lynx’s expertise deserves just as much recognition.

A blurb at the bottom of the page makes Gepard’s eyes boggle. “One million views?”

Victor smiles. “It blew me away, too. But you know what’s most exciting about that number? Half of that figure is outworlders. There are people out there entirely disconnected to our history now taking an interest in Belobog.”

“Your words have reach,” Gepard gulps.

“Somehow,” Victor chuckles bashfully. “But enough of old articles. I want to discuss something new with you.”

Gepard’s eyes widen. “What do you have in mind?”

“The working title is ‘Marching Towards a New Belobog’, ‘marching’ because of the Silvermane Guards, and ‘new Belobog’ because of, well, the recent circumstances. I was hoping I could accompany you in your work and document the good work of the Silvermane Guards in this new age. You would have final say on what goes into the article, of course. Would that be alright?”

Disbelief has entirely replaced Gepard’s anxiety. Why would Victor ask him? Gepard is no beacon of hope. He is just a soldier doing what he must, unlike Bronya, who bears the weight of Belobog’s future on her shoulders.

What, then, would Bronya do? Bronya would love this. It’s a much-needed positive light on her nascent guardiancy and an opportunity to connect with the cosmic community. But what would Captain Gepard do? What can he even show Victor that would inspire hope for the future? How can the actions of the Silvermane Guards show Belobog rebuilding itself anew?

The idea hits him with a gasp. “How comfortable are you with going into active Fragmentum zones?” Gepard blurts out.

Victor blinks. Whoops. Gepard probably should have eased into that question.

“I’m intrigued,” Victor muses, “though I am untrained in combat. I trust you to keep me in good health.”

Gepard nods. His mind races. He’ll need to file a petition, gather a company’s worth of soldiers, requisition supplies for a month, and assign a protection detail to Victor, but Bronya is no Madam Cocolia; Gepard is certain that Bronya will eagerly approve everything he asks for and more.

“Then I accept,” Gepard declares. “I have just the operation in mind.”

—

There has always been a contrast between the bright, bustling Administrative District and its cold, gloomy neighbor Backwater Pass, but never has the line been so stark. Dead stillness reigns over the forsaken neighborhood, quarantined away by a fortress of temporary barriers. This morning, however, the rhythmic echo of metal-toed boots cuts through the silence. Two hundred Silvermane Guards march toward Backwater Pass before halting in unison right at its edge.

“Stay close to Soldier Kyle’s team at all times,” Gepard reminds Victor one last time. “I will be unable to personally watch you once we’re inside.”

Victor nods solemnly, bracing his camera. “Understood.”

Gepard slams Earthwork into the ground. “For Belobog!” he roars.

The Backwater Pass Recovery Operation begins.

On the first day, the Silvermane Guards claw back a small neighborhood from the Fragmentum. A reconstruction crew swarms the area the moment Gepard announces it secured. Within days, the neighborhood transforms into the base of operations for the Silvermane Guards in Backwater Pass.

In a week, they cut a line straight through the heart of the neighborhood, connecting the Administrative District to the agricultural district on the other side. Bisected, the Fragmentum swarms become much thinner, thin enough that Gepard splits his company into three platoons and orders each to fight towards Belobog’s northern walls. Another week passes, and the entire northern half of Backwater Pass falls under Silvermane control.

Less than four weeks into their campaign, all that remains within the Fragmentum is a small neighborhood near Backwater Pass’ center. Former residents have taken to hovering around the edges of their base, silently watching their comings and goings. Gepard’s nightly duty becomes being the bad guy shooing onlooking civilians away, but each passing day, the crowds become larger, and the thrum they leave in the camp ever louder.

The day of their last excursion arrives. Gepard emerges from his tent before dawn. There’s a few civilian stragglers at the camp’s edges being ushered away by the night guard, but Gepard pays them no mind. He begins to turn away, but the echo of a haunting face stops him in his tracks.

What is this? Why does his pulse race? Gepard turns back to the stragglers, and his eyes catch on a stout, middle-aged man. There's something maddeningly familiar about the creases on that rotund face and the downturn of those weary jowls, and the deja vu itches horribly. Gepard racks his head until the memory hits him.

“Sir,” Gepard calls out.

The man flinches violently. Gepard raises his hands and tries to look small.

“Apologies, I didn't mean to scare you. You were one of the temporary residents at Goethe Hotel, weren't you?”

The man nods without meeting Gepard's eyes.

Gepard smiles. “I’m glad you could witness this day. What is your name?”

The man glances back and forth between Gepard and his surroundings. The panic in his expression makes Gepard falter. Did Gepard say something wrong?

“Bartholomew,” the man finally chokes out.

Gepard nods and lets the man go with a platitude. The strange interaction leaves his mind entirely when Soldier Kyle approaches him and informs him that the troops are ready to march.

The final battle is anticlimactic. The meager clusters of Fragmentum monsters do little to prevent Gepard’s forces from reaching the last Fragmentum tear and trapping it within a suppression field. Gepard and his soldiers watch as the electric blue of their machinery intensifies around the tear, swallowing up the miasma of the Fragmentum. Then blue glow and black miasma disappear alike, leaving behind nothing but cold air.

There is no more Fragmentum in Backwater Pass.

The Silvermane Guards are too disciplined and cynical to celebrate just yet. Gepard marches his soldiers back toward the base with stern professionalism. They round a corner, and a distant, writhing mass of bodies comes into view. Gepard halts his soldiers in dismay.

“Is that the Fragmentum?” Soldier Kyle whispers beside him.

“I hope not,” Gepard mutters before he raises his voice. “Guards! Prepare to engage!”

Did the Fragmentum retake an area of Backwater Pass in their absence? How horrible, if so. This would undo weeks of fighting. His soldiers raise their cannons, rifles, and halberds, continuing forward with grim expressions.

The mass shifts as they approach, as if surging towards them. Gepard unholsters Earthwork and readies it. He squints, trying to make out the monsters in the swarm. Then Kyle makes a sound of shock.

“Captain,” Kyle calls out tremulously. “That’s not the Fragmentum.”

Gepard’s breath hitches. Kyle is right. That is no swarm of Fragmentum monsters. That is hundreds of humans lining the barriers of Backwater Pass, staring at them with wide, unblinking eyes.

Gepard orders his soldiers’ weapons down. They march past the silent crowd, more uncertain than they would be facing monsters. The weight of their expectant, unreadable stares weighs heavy on Gepard’s armored shoulders.

A projectile flies out of the crowd. Gepard flinches toward Earthwork on instinct, but he stops himself just as a bouquet of white flowers lands before his feet. Gepard gingerly picks up the First Snows, symbols of resilience and awaited return.

“Thank you,” he calls out into the crowd.

The crowd ignites. Roars break out, shaking the ground of their march like a stampede. Flowers, chocolates, and cheers rain onto Gepard’s soldiers. Hands reach over the fenceline, offering gifts and tearful thanks to passing soldiers. The barriers bend at their joy, earning muffled shouts of surprise from the young and seasoned alike.

It has been a long, long time since the Silvermane Guards have been so celebrated. Emotion slams into Gepard. He steps toward the fenceline, clutching the First Snows to his chest.

“People of Backwater Pass, hear me!” Gepard shouts. “Your home is once again yours!”

The people of Backwater Pass, in all their shapes and colors, echo a thunderous cheer. Gepard looks breathlessly across their once-weary faces, heart swelling when he sees more than a few familiar faces from Goethe Hotel. In the background, a camera shutter clicks.

A woman screams out from the crowd. “Kyle! Kyle!”

Gepard glances back at Kyle, who makes no move to leave formation.

“I’m sorry, Captain,” Kyle says sheepishly. “My mother is very excited right now.”

“Go see her,” Gepard says.

Kyle’s eyes widen. He hesitates. Gepard raises his voice to address every other soldier in his command.

“This goes for everyone here! If any of you have a loved one waiting in the crowd, go see them! You’ve more than earned it.”

It takes a second more before their organized rows to break. Swathes of soldiers rush toward the overjoyed masses. It’s a happy mess that Father would have never allowed, but Gepard can’t bring himself to care over his breathless elation.

They did it. Backwater Pass is back in the hands of the people.

The setting sun brings illicit moonshine and raucous drunkenness to the camp. Gepard hides himself inside his tent, pretending to be deaf and blind to his subordinates’careless joy. He startles when Victor calls out to him from outside the tent.

“May I enter?”

Gepard shouts an assent. Victor slips into the tent with a bottle of wine in hand.

“This is a 659 AF vintage. Care for a drink?” Victor offers cheerfully.

It’s easy to smile at Victor now. Victor’s constant presence and curious questions, nerve-wracking at first, are now familiar. The click of a camera shutter has become part of Backwater Pass’ ambiance.

“Where did you even get that?” Gepard huffs.

“I took it from my grandmother’s cellar before we left,” Victor whispers conspiratorially. “I’ve been saving this for the big day. And now, we drink!”

Victor uncorks the wine and pours it into two shoddy plastic cups. The thought of Mother’s appalled gasp if she were here makes Gepard chuckle inwardly. Victor raises the cup high, and Gepard mirrors him.

“To Belobog,” Victor toasts.

“To Belobog,” Gepard echoes with a full heart.

Gepard throws back his head. The deep red liquid slides richly down his throat, leaving a satisfying burn in its wake. Not as good as a Cosmo, Gepard thinks with a smile.

When Gepard sets the plastic cup down onto the ground, Victor is looking at him expectantly.

“I didn’t just come by to drink wine,” Victor admits with a guilty smile. “I’ve written up an outline of the article, which I plan to publish as soon as I return to the Administrative District. Care to take a look?”

Victor extends his notebook. Gepard's eyes dart over the bulleted list. It's comprehensive, accurate, and a glowing portrayal of the Silvermane Guards, but…

“Why is so much of it about me?” Gepard asks self-consciously. “Shouldn't this be about the Silvermane Guards?”

Victor raises a brow. “Are you not a Silvermane Guard?”

Gepard tugs his collar. “Yes, but…”

“People don't connect to institutions. People connect to people ,” Victor explains passionately. “You're the Captain of the Silvermane Guards. The people of Belobog understand what it means to be a Silvermane Guard through your deeds and your sacrifices.” Victor breaks into an easy smile. “But if you're uncomfortable, I can remove the personal touch. I want the article to be something you're happy with more than I want to write it in a certain way.”

Gepard weighs his embarrassment. He decides he’s being childish. “If highlighting me helps people better connect to the Silvermane Guards, then do it.”

“Are you sure?”

Gepard nods resolutely. “Yes. Do what you must to make the article good.”

Victor grins. “I can certainly do that.”

A comfortable silence descends as they share the wine. Tonight, instead of treating Gepard to a rapid-fire sequence of interview questions, Victor savors the vintage wine with close-eyed satisfaction.

“We should do this again,” Victor says suddenly.

Gepard blinks. “Collaborate on an article?”

“No—well, yes, but not what I meant.” Victor grins. “Let’s grab a drink once we’re back in the Administrative District.”

What is this strange feeling? Has Gepard been so out of touch socially that a simple invitation from an acquaintance would feel so odd? Gepard’s mouth curls into a small smile. “Let’s do it.”

So Gepard achieves his second victory of the day: he makes his first new friend in years. How funny that ten years later, Gepard would, on his own, befriend the man Matilda fell in love with. Gepard smiles into his cup, bubbling with happiness.

How they’ve all grown.

—

The morning after Gepard returns to his bereft condo, Gepard wakes up to two cryptic messages from Sampo. One is a web link. The other is a string of pictograms that Pela had helpfully informed him were “emojis”:

Sampo

👀🔥👌😩

Curled up in his bed, Gepard stares up helplessly at the emojis. He opens the link, hoping it will provide context. He almost drops his phone on his face at the image that overtakes the screen.

A man’s portrait displays proudly like a painting. The man’s face is turned slightly to the side and frozen mid-shout, revealing the sharp cut of his jaw, the stern ridge of his brow, and his corneas that gleam an ethereal blue under the sunlight. Sweat dribbles down the taut cords of his neck, revealed by the turtleneck zipped down to his clavicles. The white fabric of his uniform swells around the bouquet of First Snows clutched to his chest, cutting a masculine, noble silhouette across the clear blue sky.

That’s Gepard. That masculine idol is Gepard.

Gepard sits upright, red-faced. Sampo’s message suddenly seems incredibly suspect.

Gepard

Do I want to know what those emojis mean?

Sampo

they mean ur HOT

victor is a GREAT photographer

The typing indicator continues, but Gepard closes out of the conversation before his face explodes from heat. This proves to be a mistake because the image and its accompanying article once again swallow his screen.

Gepard skims the article with a masochistic curiosity. The bare beats in Victor’s outline are still present, but strung together with sentences they weave a lyrical ode to Gepard and the Silvermane Guards. Gepard feels his eyes widen increasingly as he navigates Victor’s musical words. All Gepard did was the right thing. How did Victor make it sound so… beautiful?

A notification catches Gepard’s attention. He registers the words “geppie” and “lick” before he forces his eyes to stop working and navigates blindly to the conversation textbox.

Gepard

How did you find this?

Sampo

lol

some of us use the internet

Gepard

What does that mean?

Sampo

it means ur handsome heroic face is trending no 1 in belobog

hav you seen the hashtag?

Gepard

Hashtag?

Sampo sends a link. A forbidden box opens. The “hashtag” is an unending wall of mortifying posts about handsome soldiers interspersed with celebration for Backwater Pass. Gepard scrolls for as long as he can before he finally decides that no living human should be as red as he has become. He throws his phone onto his bed and buries his face into his pillow.

When his body no longer feels seconds away from evaporating, Gepard grabs his phone. Several flirtatious messages from Sampo await him. He forcefully ignores every one except the last.

Sampo

aww did i make geppie shy?

Gepard

Yes.

Sampo

HAHA

ur so cute

wish i could see how red u r in person ;)

Gepard’s synapses are fried. That’s the only possible explanation for why he replies with:

Gepard

Then come.

Sampo’s typing bubble disappears. Gepard stares blankly at the screen, overheating for a very different reason now. A demon possesses Gepard’s fingers.

Gepard

I'm red all over

You did this

Come see what you did to me

Sampo

Sampo doesn’t reply for a torturous minute. When he finally does, all that comes is a plain, simple:

Sampo

damn

Sampo does not message Gepard again, but Gepard is quickly distracted from his panic by a slew of excited texts from Pela and Bronya. The next day, Sampo sends an unrelated image of a head sticking out of a toilet. Thus Gepard’s clumsy attempt at flirting fades away, and yet another instance of Gepard overstepping their unspoken boundaries is forgiven and forgotten, never to be mentioned again.

—

It’s unfair to Caelus that his mere presence dampens Gepard’s mood. It’s not entirely Caelus’ fault that his return to Belobog is another tick in the countdown of Serval’s departure. Caelus is probably a perfectly nice person when he’s not sabotaging Gepard’s relationships with his sisters.

To prove that Gepard holds no bitter feelings toward Serval’s future crewmate, Gepard agrees to Caelus’ request for him to volunteer at the Everwinter City Museum. Caelus proves easier to work with than expected. Whatever his eccentricities, whatever sister-stealing tendencies he has, Caelus is funny, adventurous, and terrifyingly efficient when rewards are offered. Gepard grudgingly admits that he and Serval would make good friends.

Gepard’s warming opinion toward Caelus instantly shatters when one day, after logging his arrival at the museum’s front desk, Gepard looks up and freezes at the sight of green eyes.

“Hello, Captain!” a horribly familiar woman chirps. “Are you here to volunteer, too?”

Gepard coughs. “Yes, I am, Miss…?”

“Poisson,” the woman answers. “Brughel Poisson. May I sign in?”

Gepard stands dumbly for a second before he realizes he’s blocking the ledger. “Oh, yes, of course,” he stammers as he shuffles aside.

What in Qlipoth’s name is Sampo doing at the museum, in disguise no less? Volunteering seems like a terrible excuse. Then theft? Maybe a favor for Caelus? Maybe for Gepard? Gepard peeks as Sampo scrawls his name, entry time, and assigned room in an impressively elegant script. His heart flips when he realizes that Sampo is assigned to the same room as he is for the entire two-hour shift.

The two hours pass quickly. Gepard has no opportunity to speak with Sampo with the swathes of visitors demanding the attention of the hero of Backwater Pass. Gepard can only stare torturously at Sampo in between his stammered lectures, watching the way Sampo’s hands stay primly folded, not once approaching the displayed artifacts. An odd feeling of loss wells in Gepard as he watches Sampo ramble about this and that with complete professionalism. Whatever Gepard had expected from Sampo’s presence, it was not…absolutely nothing.

The crowds thin out as their shift approaches its end. Theirs is the last in the day before the museum closes. As they put away tables and stack chairs, Caelus bursts out from one of the side rooms and cheerfully calls out to them.

“No way, I can’t believe you actually showed up! I thought for sure you’d—” He glances at Gepard and blanches. “Oh, I didn’t know I scheduled the two of you together.”

Gepard’s eyes narrow dangerously. “I take it you know Ms. Brughel Poisson, Caelus?”

Caelus points somewhere behind Gepard. “Look! Is that Cocolia?!”

Gepard does not look. Instead, he watches with exasperation as Caelus sprints away and hurls himself out of an open window.

“Three out of ten,” Sampo tsks beside Gepard. “He needs some pointers on proper self-defenestration.”

“Do you know much about jumping out of windows, Ms. Poisson?” Gepard asks mildly.

Sampo smiles with his pretty, painted lips. “That’s information for the second date, Captain.”

Gepard’s face heats. A giggle in the background startles Gepard into scanning his surroundings. There’s a lingering group of young women in the museum lobby who turn their heads away right as Gepard’s eyes meet theirs. Mortification surges, but when Gepard looks anxiously back at Sampo’s beautiful green eyes, the burning embarrassment quiets into something softer.

Sampo does not glance back at the eavesdropping women, but his expression visibly cools. He curtsies gracefully and steps back.

“Apologies, Captain, I’ve overstepped. I’ll take my leave.”

Panic spears through Gepard. No, that’s not what Gepard wants at all.

“Wait,” Gepard blurts out.

Sampo pauses. “Yes, Captain?”

Gepard is too exposed. There’s eyes on his back watching his every broadcasted feeling about the beautiful Brughel Poisson standing before him. These women will talk. By the morning, people will know that Captain Gepard Landau, hero of Backwater Pass, has been making eyes at a woman.

But the thought is not as terrifying as Gepard expected it to be. Gepard scans Sampo from head to toe and takes in his fashionable, smart dress. His parents would not entirely disapprove of Brughel Poisson’s poise and attire. And if they do, so what? Who cares what Father, Mother, and the rest of Belobog think about Gepard’s very normal interest in a beautiful woman?

“Have you had dinner, Ms. Poisson?” Gepard asks before he loses his courage.

Sampo’s doll-like lashes flutter in surprise. “I haven’t. Why?”

“Would you like to have dinner with me?”

Murmurs explode in the background, thumping like the staccato of Gepard’s heart. Gepard forces his red face to not shy away from Sampo’s considering expression.

“I was joking about the second date.” Before Gepard's heart can drop to his feet, Sampo's expression gentles. “But how could I refuse?”

Gepard musters a wobbly smile as his heart swells. It's probably part of his act, Gepard reminds himself desperately. The reminder does nothing to stop him from outstretching his arm and grinning stupidly when Sampo hooks his delicate hand into the curve of Gepard's elbow.

They walk out of the museum and away from prying eyes. As the setting sun backlights their retreat, Gepard feels faint with giddiness. Gepard is going on a date with the man he’s adored for years!

The giddiness fades into panic. Qlipoth save him. Gepard is going on a date.

The last time Gepard had gone on dates was when he was eighteen and Matilda still blushed around him. Despite being the designated leader of their outings, Gepard had actually done very little planning. Mother had given him a profile on Matilda and a list of activities she enjoyed, which Gepard had studied and followed without a second thought.

Now, at twenty-eight and trying not to glance too frequently at the beautiful man beside him, Gepard urgently scrubs his brain for a restaurant Sampo would like. He immediately rules out the trendy, bustling shops along the Central Plaza, too aware of how Sampo hides behind makeup and a wig. He eliminates the quieter fine-dining restaurants as well, unwilling to lock Sampo inside a box for an hour or more. A recent memory surfaces; Victor, bless that man, had introduced Gepard to a street lined with food trucks shockingly near a park Gepard visited regularly in his youth. Gepard turns to Sampo and tries not to look too relieved.

“How do you feel about street food?” Gepard asks.

“Delighted,” Sampo answers cheerfully.

Night falls as they take the trolley into a quiet residential neighborhood. Street lamps click on, illuminating the rock faces that line the brick road. Gepard leads Sampo along the orange-lit path to a cluster of food trucks, whose headlights bloom enticingly at the groups of townsfolk flittering between them. They come to a stop right outside the lively circle, and Gepard glances at Sampo to gauge his interest.

“Do you want to look around? I’ve only been here once, so I’m not very familiar with the options,” Gepard admits sheepishly.

Sampo’s eyes dart back and forth carefully. Gepard glances around, too, wondering what hidden threat Sampo is looking for amongst the tidy rock gardens and the neat townhouses of this wealthy neighborhood.

“I’ve heard the pirozhki truck here is good,” Sampo comments.

“Then we should try it,” Gepard declares. He places a gentle hand on Sampo’s back and ushers him into the circle.

There’s an elderly man waiting for them at the helm of the pirozhki truck, whose jolly face is etched with a lifetime of smiles. His eyes light up as they step up to the side of his truck.

“Captain!” the old exclaims. “What can I do for you? And who is this lovely lady at your side?”

Gepard flushes, feeling his skin prickle at the sidelong glances of a few nearby townsfolk. Sampo saves him from freezing in place by stepping forward with a curtsy.

“Brughel Poisson. It’s lovely to meet you, Mr. Volkov. I’ve heard the most wonderful things about your pirozhkis.”

The old man—Mr. Volkov—thrums with excitement. “Wonderful! Wonderful, indeed! To have the honor of serving the Captain of the Silvermane Guards and his lovely lady friend—please, take your pick. Anything you want!”

Gepard mumbles his usual choice of beef and admires how Sampo hems and haws just right over the menu to charm Mr. Volkov. He’s captivating in his role as Brughel Poisson, charismatic and gregarious in a way Gepard will never be. Something soft overtakes Gepard’s expression, and when Sampo glances at Gepard's face during a breath between words, Sampo’s expression flickers ever so slightly.

“Two beef pirozhki and two salmon pirozhki!” Mr. Volkov shouts, setting a bag on the truck counter. Gepard extends a handful of shield, but Mr. Volkov tuts and pushes Gepard’s hand away.

“On the house for the Captain and his beau.”

Gepard’s eyes widen. “No, I can’t possibly—”

“Bah!” Mr. Volkov shouts. “Get out of my sight and go spend time with your pretty lady!”

Chastised, Gepard slinks away with a bag of pirozhkis in hand. He meets Sampo’s green eyes and sees the mirth dancing in them.

“Let’s eat,” Gepard huffs before Sampo can say anything annoying.

Sampo smirks. “Gladly.”

They sit down on a secluded bench a comfortable distance away from the hubbub of the food trucks. Gepard hands Sampo a pirozhki, who takes it in a delicate grip. Gepard watches from the corner of his eye as Sampo takes a small, ladylike nibble. Then his jaw drops when Sampo shudders and tears savagely into pirozhki.

Sampo stiffens at Gepard’s open-mouthed surprise. His ravenous pace slows into calm, painfully-restrained bites. Regret slams into Gepard. He looks away and bites into his own pirozhki in silence, heart aching at the thought Sampo denying his furious hunger because of Gepard’s gawking.

When the last of the salmon pirozhkis disappears into Sampo’s maw, Gepard wordlessly offers the bag with his one remaining pirozhki. Sampo simply pulls out a napkin to delicately pat at his face.

“Thank you for the lovely meal, Captain,” Sampo coos.

Gepard hesitates. “If you want more, I’m happy to—”

“Captain,” Sampo interrupts coyly, “you can’t just buy a lady’s company.” He leans into Gepard’s space and whispers low. “I’m not some prostitute you took off the street, my dear.”

Gepard flushes. “I didn’t mean…”

His voice trails off into a breathy gasp when Sampo runs a long, painted fingernail torturously down the side of his neck.

“You look so pretty with that red all over you,” Sampo purrs.

On cue, blotchy red spreads further down Gepard's neck. Gepard trembles, thinking of their heated texts.

“Proud of your work?” Gepard dares.

Sampo’s coy smile stretches into a sharp, unladylike smirk. “Very.”

“I didn’t think you’d actually come see it,” Gepard murmurs.

Sampo’s expression darkens. “How could I not when you asked me to come so sweetly?”

Sampo is probably expecting Gepard to get flustered, to falter, but instead, want surges through Gepard’s body. His thumb presses against the edge of that sharp grin before he can stop himself.

“Would you like to go somewhere more private, my lady?”

To Gepard’s great satisfaction, Sampo doesn’t quite manage to prevent his lips from falling slightly open in surprise. Gepard thumb swipes gently across Sampo’s open lips before he pulls away.

“There’s a park nearby that my father used to take me to.” Gepard glances at Sampo slyly. “Did you think I meant something else?”

Sampo recovers with a dangerous smile. “Careful, Captain. Two can play at that game.”

They rise from the bench, but before they walk away, Gepard makes one more stop at Mr. Volkov’s truck. Sampo watches with endless green eyes as Gepard orders six more pirozhkis then wordlessly hands the bags to Sampo. Gepard pretends not to notice the way Sampo’s hands clench around the bags.

The sun has completely set by the time they reach the park, but Gepard navigates its winding trails with practiced ease. Gepard steps off the brick path and onto the dark tundra grass, extending a helping hand to Sampo. Sampo’s right hand folds sweetly into his left. He leads Sampo gently through the hidden path, listening for the crunch of grass beneath Sampo’s heels. He hears none. Gepard’s heart aches when he thinks of why Sampo would walk so silently.

Eventually, a familiar stone wall appears in the moonlight. Gepard presses his left palm into its sensor panel, and its metal gate slides open obediently. Small Geomarrow lamps light up as they walk by, illuminating the brick path. Gepard leads them forward until stone arrangements and shrubbery give way to an open square where a looming monument pierces the dark sky.

“Where are we?” Sampo asks with audible caution.

“We’re in the memorial garden of the Rhonda Landau Memorial Park,” Gepard answers. “My family owns this park. We opened most of it to the public some hundred years ago, but the memorial garden is closed to the public most of the year.”

Sampo raises a brow. “Did you sneak me into your family’s fancy private garden?”

Gepard smiles teasingly. “I did say we’d have privacy.”

“Bad boy,” Sampo says with a sultry curl. Gepard blushes and laughs.

Sampo approaches the amber monument. His neck cranes up at the armored, womanly figure raising a halberd into the air.

“Is this Rhonda Landau?”

“Yes.” Gepard pauses. “Do you know who she is?”

“Of course, I do!” Sampo exclaims. “What well-bred citizen of Belobog doesn't know Rhonda Landau?”

Gepard chuckles at Sampo's theatrical offense. “Rhonda Landau was the commander who led the Silvermane Guards into battle against the invaders from the sky seven hundred years ago. She also happens to be my great-great-many-greats-grandmother.”

Sampo scans the statue up and down. “And this is a monument to your many-greats-grandmother?“

Warmth bubbles in Gepard’s chest at the genuine curiosity in Sampo's tone. Gepard steps closer to Sampo, brushing his chest against Sampo’s back as he points to the base of the monument.

“Not just to her. If you look here, you'll see the name of every departed Landau who served the Silvermane Guards. One day, my name will be here, too, as will Lynx’s.”

“Not Serval’s?”

Something pangs in Gepard's chest. “No,” he whispers. “She was dishonorably discharged. And in my father's eyes, she's not a Landau anymore.”

Sampo turns to look at Gepard. The movement brushes their cheeks together ever so slightly. Sampo opens his mouth as if to say something, then closes it.

“Makes sense why she wants to leave,” Sampo finally says.

Gepard smiles sadly. “Yeah. It does.” 

Gepard remembers that he's on a date and looks up to see Sampo observing him carefully. Gepard steps back and outstretches his hand.

“May I show you something else?”

They continue up the brick path until the landscaping once again gives way to a moonlit field. Gepard settles on a bench looking into the field, sighing as the warmth of an overhead lamp seeps through his shoulders. Sampo sits delicately beside him, staring out into the swaying foxtails in silence. 

“My father used to spar with us here,” Gepard reminisces. “Serval hated it. The moment she finished her undergrad, she gave up the halberd and picked up the guitar. I was the only one of my siblings who didn’t mind the training.”

“Lynx didn’t enjoy it, either?”

A twinge of regret echoes through Gepard. “She never joined us. She was frequently ill as a child. We coddled her too much. I think that's where her need to explore came from.”

Sampo hums. “Sounds like your family churns out little rebels.”

Gepard chuckles. “Maybe. Except for me.”

Sampo grins. “I don’t know. I think you have some rebel in you.”

Sampo may have a point. Gepard is sitting with a former criminal disguised as a woman in the Landaus’ private garden. Fond, Gepard brushes his pinky over Sampo’s.

“Maybe you bring it out in me.”

Sampo’s humorous expression flickers into something unreadable. He looks down at their touching hands. For a heart-wrenching moment, Gepard wonders if he should pull away. But Sampo doesn't. So Gepard doesn't. Gepard gives in to his selfish heart and keeps that small, precious contact firm against the line of his pinky.

“Serval is leaving soon,” Sampo says suddenly, still staring down at their hands.

“Yeah,” Gepard confirms.

“You're very calm about this.”

Gepard's lips quirk up. “Is that so strange? Lynx said the same thing.”

Sampo shrugs. “I’ve been told that most people would be sad to see someone they love go.”

Gepard pauses. A strange instinct urges him to consider Sampo's words carefully. There's an unasked question buried under Sampo's unaffected tone, one that Gepard falls just short of making out the shape of.

“I've grown up with departures all my life,” Gepard answers slowly. “Lynx is gone most of the year. So am I. And Serval has left, too, in her own ways. Absence has never scared me. What scared me was not knowing whether they’d come back.”

“And did they?”

“They did,” Gepard says firmly. “They came back every single time. So no, it doesn’t scare me to see Serval leave. I know she’ll return when she’s ready.”

Sampo does not respond. He continues staring unmovingly at their hands. Gepard trails his eyes down the line of Sampo’s somber profile, wondering what distant vision has captured Sampo’s focus. Whatever it is, Gepard pulls Sampo’s hand into his own so that Sampo is not alone in facing it.

“Besides, isn't there a saying for this?” Gepard adds gently. “‘If you love someone…’”

“‘...let them go,’” Sampo finishes.

Sampo looks up. The deep, endless emerald of his eyes makes Gepard's heart squeeze. Overcome with affection, Gepard leans forward and presses his lips gently against Sampo's cheek. His left hand tightens around Sampo's, and for one indulgent moment, Gepard imagines that Sampo squeezes back.

When Gepard pulls back, there's a familiar, impenetrable sheen over Sampo's eyes that Gepard now recognizes as a muted panic. Gepard releases Sampo's hand and smiles gently.

“I need to go,” Sampo spits out rapidly, as if the words had burst out of his chest.

Gepard's smile becomes small. He folds away the expected disappointment and stands up. “Can I drop you off somewhere?”

Sampo rises as well. “Nowhere that would be proper for you to follow, Captain.”

The dismissal is clear, but Gepard still pauses. He forces back the thought of unknown assailants ambushing Sampo on his way back to…wherever it is he stays, unwilling to disrespect Sampo's wishes. But whatever concern Gepard reveals in his expression makes Sampo hesitate too.

“I’ll text you when I’m home,” Sampo offers.

Sampo’s thoughtfulness softens Gepard’s worry. “I’d like that.”

Sampo stays still. Then, light as a snowflake, Sampo leans in and presses his mouth to Gepard’s.

“Goodnight, Captain,” Sampo murmurs against his lips.

Sampo turns and walks away before Gepard can respond. Gepard watches him go, raising his fingertips to feel along his still-tingling lips. Gepard searches the imprint for the usual ulterior motives, for the heat of impulsive desire. But he finds none. Sampo's kiss was a just kiss for kissing's sake.

Out of nowhere, Natasha's warning echoes. His actions, even the kind ones, always have selfish motivations. If Sampo’s selfish desire is kissing Gepard under the moonlight…

Gepard smiles stupidly into his hand.

—

Sampo fulfills his promise. As Gepard crawls into bed, Sampo sends an animated image of a dancing cat with the message, just got back.

Gepard sits upright with worry. He sends his reply before he can think better of it.

Gepard

This late? 

Sampo

i took the scenic route

Gepard knows better than to push. He sighs and resigns himself to a tumultuous sleep, drowning in twin fantasies of tenderly holding Sampo’s hand and watching him run away bruised and bloodied.

The joy of Sampo's presence makes the lonely morning-after all the more devastating. Gepard finds himself wishfully grabbing two mugs out of his cupboard, then staring at them with furrowed brows. Tepid dissatisfaction heightens into adoration and worry, twin feelings that meld into the same conclusion: Sampo should be here at Gepard's side, where Gepard can protect him and cherish him. Why, then, does Sampo run away?

Gepard has been so careful not to push Sampo, but maybe that’s the wrong approach. Being brave with Sampo had paid off before. Maybe, just maybe, if Gepard just asked…

Determined, Gepard messages Sampo.

Gepard

I really enjoyed yesterday. I have the day off. Would you like to come over for tea?

The “read” marker appears instantly. Gepard sets the device on the dining table and waits. It's over an hour later when the reply finally arrives.

Sampo

thats a bad idea geppie

Gepard bites down the disappointment and crafts a careful reply.

Gepard

Because I care for you? 

Sampo

for many reasons

Gepard

We don't have to do anything. You’re welcome to spend time here as a friend.

Sampo

ur a sweetheart

ull make someone very happy one day

Gepard stares at the screen. He can't bring himself to reply. The minutes tick down before another message comes in like an afterthought.

Sampo

sorry

Gepard's day goes as normal. He does his laundry. He wipes down the counters. He catches up on paperwork. There's so much to do and no time to spare on unproductive thoughts.

When he catches himself breathing heavily at the sight of two empty mugs atop the kitchen counter, the fragile illusion shatters. He collapses into a chair and clutches at his sweater, as if that will do anything for the unwelcome tightness in his chest.

“Go away,” Gepard says aloud as if casting a spell. “I have things to do.”

The bruise of a silly little text still aches. Furious with himself, Gepard scrabbles unthinkingly at his phone. It isn't until the filtered drone of the dial tone pierces through Gepard's ears that Gepard sees the “Serval” written big and bold on his screen.

Isn’t that funny? Even when they’re not on speaking terms, the first person Gepard thinks to call is Serval. Maybe Gepard is still the little boy he thought he left behind long ago, throwing tantrums at minor hurts and running to his older sister to fix his boo-boos.

The dial tone cuts off into Serval’s staticky, cautious voice.

“Hello?”

“Serval…”

“Geppie, what's wrong?” Serval rushes out, alarmed.

Oops. His tone was too watery. He forces cheer into his voice.

“Ah, nothing, really. I just thought I'd get a call in before you leave Belobog.”

“Aw, does li’l Geppie already miss me?” Serval coos without missing a beat. “Y’know, you used to cry your eyes out whenever I left for school. You'd scream your lungs out and slobber all over the place. Mother had to lock you in your room at the start of the school year so you wouldn't run after me naked and screaming.”

“Well, I certainly don't do that anymore,” Gepard huffs, embarrassed. “How is packing?”

Serval groans and launches into a rant about her messy room. Gepard listens with a long-suffering patience borne from a lifetime of Serval’s self-inflicted complaints. They exchange a volley of jabs that almost convinces Gepard that things between them are normal again before the conversation lulls and leaves Gepard alone with the unrelenting tightness in his chest.

“Are you going to tell me what's wrong now?” Serval asks tentatively.

Gepard swallows the ball in his throat.

“Um. I think I've just been rejected. Or, uh. Dumped. Not that we were in a relationship. We were just…talking.”

Serval is silent for a moment before she asks, “Is this about Koski?”

Gepard's heart stops briefly. “What? Why would you say that?”

“It’s not hard to guess. I suspected ever since your birthday concert, but when we saw him at Everwinter Hill…it was obvious that there was something complicated between you and Koski.”

Flies buzz inside Gepard's skull. “You can’t tell anyone.”

“I won't,” Serval assures. “I haven't.”

“I'm serious.”

“So am I, Geppie. I'll take this to the grave. I swear this on the Preservation.”

His pulse stubbornly continues to throb under his skin despite Serval's firm promise. Out of habit, Gepard summons Jess’ soothing voice—tell me five things you see, four things you hear, three things you feel—until the panic becomes less all-consuming.

“Gepard?” Serval sounds worried.

“I'm here,” Gepard croaks.

“You know I wouldn't ever judge you for who you like, right?”

“Even if it's Sampo?” Gepard jokes shakily.

Serval huffs a laugh. “Okay, you're toeing the line, but still no judgment from me.” She hesitates. “Why do you like him?”

Serval's poorly-hidden incredulity pulls a wobbly smile from Gepard. “He's kind,” he says softly instead of playing into Serval's disbelief. “He's helped me, supported me, sacrificed himself for me so many times over the years. He acts like he's a heartless criminal, but, Qlipoth, do you know why was stealing from the Guards at all? It was to bring Natasha medical supplies they didn't have in the Underworld. He's the most quietly selfless person I've ever met.”

“But?”

Gepard's adoration falters. “But what?”

Serval scoffs. “Please. I hung out with him back when he was still Ringo. I know there's a ‘but.’”

“Um. The ‘but’ is.” Gepard's throat closes. “The ‘but’ is…” He scrubs his stump over his mouth pointlessly. “Sorry, the words aren't coming out.”

“It's okay, Geppie. Take your time.”

Serval's unusual gentleness breaks the dam. Words leave him in a desperate flood.

“But he always leaves. And everything's always a joke. And I've spoken to him for years now, but I still don't know anything about him. And every time I get close to learning something about him, the real him that's kind and wonderful and selfless, he disappears, and I can't chase him or tell him I want him to stay because I know it'll just push him away more. He always leaves, and I don't know what to do to convince him to stay.”

“You shouldn't have to convince him of anything,” Serval growls. “Koski's commitment issues are not your problem.”

It’s strange hearing these words from Serval, who will leave him in mere days. Gepard can’t bring himself to reply. When Serval speaks again, her anger is noticeably restrained.

“And just now, when he rejected you…?”

“I asked him to come over. All he said was that I'll make someone very happy one day.”

Serval makes a sympathetic noise. “For what it's worth, that's true.”

“Even if I want that someone to be Sampo?”

Serval sighs. “Geppie, forget about making Sampo happy for a moment. Does Sampo make you happy?”

“Sometimes,” Gepard answers truthfully, painfully.

“Sometimes isn't good enough,” Serval retorts bluntly. “Your partner shouldn't make you feel like they'll only be around half the time. Gepard, how long have you been waiting for him to accept your feelings? A year? Two?”

Longer, Gepard doesn’t say. “Something like that,” he mumbles.

“Has he opened up to you once in all that time?”

“No.”

“Do you think that will change if you continue to wait for him?”

“...No.”

“Then you know Koski’s a dead end, right?”

Gepard does not reply. His throat is gummed with welling feelings.

Serval sighs. “Look, I understand what it's like to be swept away by someone who cares for you. I understand how special it feels to have someone see you when no one else does. But you have to realize that that person in your head who's sweet and caring and fills those aching holes in your heart—that's a fantasy of them. In reality, people are…complicated.

“You want my opinion? You deserve better. Koski’s a walking red flag, and good riddance that he’s finally found the decency to stop stringing you along. I know that right now you might feel like you'll never find someone like him again, but I promise you that you will. There's millions of guys out there for you to meet—more now that we've reconnected with the cosmos. You'll find someone who’ll love you the way you deserve.”

That Serval said “guys” and not “women” is not lost on Gepard, but it's drowned out by the static in his head. There's only one pathetic cry that breaks through the white noise.

“Why can't that person be Sampo?”

Serval sighs deeper than Gepard has ever heard.

“That's for him to answer, not you.”

So this is the conclusion to years of yearning for Sampo: being stonewalled by a choice that Sampo won't ever make. No anger comes at the thought of Sampo's cowardice. Instead, all Gepard feels is a sad acceptance.

“Geppie…” Serval starts quietly. “Don't wait for him, okay? Take it from your older sister. Don't waste your time.”

The sadness in Serval's voice echoes Gepard's own. He replays their conversation with a new perspective and comes to a realization.

“You, too, Sis,” Gepard returns softly.

“What?”

“Don't waste your time living under Cocolia’s shadow.”

Serval falls silent. She doesn't speak again. Gepard frees her with a gentle goodbye and ends the call.

—

Something changes in Serval after their phone conversation. On the day the Astral Express is scheduled to leave, Gepard does not dare hope as he watches her stare with tumultuous eyes at the spare guitar in her workshop.

In the end, Serval decides not to leave. Instead, she and Gepard bid Caelus a warm farewell at Everwinter Hill and return to Neverwinter Workshop, one less guitar in hand.

“I'm sorry,” Serval admits afterward in the quiet of her lovely workshop.

“What for?” Gepard asks.

Serval laughs wetly. “What’s there not to be sorry for? I’m sorry for betraying your trust. I’m sorry for not standing with you. I’m sorry for trying to run away.”

Gepard lets her words wash over him. He could say something lighthearted and strong to lift the somber mood, but instead, he decides to be kind to his bruised heart.

“Thank you, Sis,” Gepard says sincerely. “I needed to hear that.”

With Serval's decision to stay, Gepard breathes freely for the first time in weeks. Only his heart continues to ache uncomfortably for a love that will go nowhere.

One cold morning, out of habit, Gepard opens his text conversation with Sampo. Sampo's last message languishes forlornly on the screen, a limp sorry. Gepard opens Sampo's contact page. His finger hovers over the word “Block.” And he thinks.

Serval had told him to stop waiting, to move on, but what does that mean? Does Gepard have to go on dates with strangers before he's “moved on”? And then what? Gepard will live as he always has, rebuilding Belobog, caring for his plants, and spending time with his loved ones, just with another person in Sampo's place? Is Gepard even unhappy having Sampo in his life?

No. He's definitely not unhappy. He’s not happy, either, but he’s not miserable like he once was, constantly fighting the urge to crawl out of his own skin and disappear. He’s rebuilding Belobog. He’s helping people. He’s making tentative friendships. And he’s achieved all these small victories with his own power, not Sampo’s. Gepard's life has marched forward just fine even with Sampo hovering frustratingly out of reach. So what does he achieve by tearing Sampo out of his life?

Resolve soothes his indecision. Serval would very much disapprove of his actions, but Gepard can't find it in himself to care. He leaves Sampo's contact page and sends a message without a second thought.

Gepard

Serval changed her mind.

Sampo

?

Gepard

She's staying in Belobog. 

Sampo

!!

congrats! 

thats good right?

u werent like

tryna conveniently get rid of her right

Gepard

Don't project.

Sampo

wut

did u just

accuse me of secretly wanting to disappear ur sister?

uncalled for

sampo koski would never

Gepard

I know. You're a good person. I like that about you.

The dancing dots stutter to a stop. Gepard watches as they reappear, disappear, reappear, then disappear for good. Gepard puts away his phone, at peace with his dead-end love for Sampo.

Gepard’s life will march forward whether Sampo is in it or not. Gepard is in no rush to run toward something new. He has time.

He can wait.

—

Geppie's sweetness always hits like a space train at the worst possible times. He would normally send a reply, probably something wishy-washy that roundaboutly reminds Gepard that his sweetness is better directed elsewhere, but he's frozen by the sound of metal boots crunching rotting wood right below him.

It's irrational, he knows. The cloaking device attached to the beam he lays on makes him and his phone's glow invisible amid the blackness of the safehouse's rafters. But hiding seems to be ingrained in his body. Probably a trauma response from a past role he doesn't remember.

“I'm telling you, he's not here,” the figure below him huffs.

A crackle of static through a radio. “Then wait him out. He'll come back eventually.”

Oh, dear. He's trapped in the rafters of his own safehouse. He knew he shouldn’t have risked the museum trip. He fantasizes about the Guard below him being akin to Peak: lazy, narcoleptic, and quick to give up on a stakeout. Then he remembers that the Silvermane Guards are tightasses and deflates.

Well, nothing for it. It's just him, his phone, his stash of pirozhki, and his murderous pal grumbling below. An opportunity to escape will come. He can wait.

The blue glow of the phone screen breaks through the midnight black of the safehouse. He switches thoughtlessly between different apps until he catches himself rereading Gepard’s messages. He allows himself to draft a message whose contents don't matter except for getting Gepard’s attention. He closes the conversation before he succumbs to the urge to send it.

A notification appears at the top of his screen. His eyes glaze over it, then he snaps alert.

Giovanni

The ipc is coming next month

See you soon

He stares unblinkingly at the messages. Good news? For the first time this year? It's too good to be true. Aha is setting up a joke, and he's the punchline.

Fuck it. He needs this. He'll gladly look the gift horse in the mouth for this modicum of joy. Finally. Finally. No more running and hiding. He's leaving Jarilo-VI and its petty assassins behind.

And what perfect timing, too! Belobog is healing. The Worlds have reunited. Natasha has her medicine. Serval decided to stay. And Gepard is—Gepard is becoming Belobog's beloved Captain. It's a storybook ending. A happily-ever-after with no unresolved business whatsoever. He can leave without looking back.

His finger slips. Gepard's messages somehow appear on the screen.

Geppie

You're a good person. I like that about you.

That's funny, he wants to say. I should be saying that to you.

But even a selfish, heartless bastard like him knows better than to voice that thought. He's indulged enough. It's time to let sweet, darling Geppie move on to better things.

He closes his phone and lets his face contort into its well-worn grin.

Onto the next role.

Chapter Text

Something changes in the shape of Sampo's texts. It's nothing overt, nothing like a change in the frequency of Sampo's texts or a prickle of frost between the curves of teasing words. If anything, Sampo's texts become quicker. Easier. Looser with the hidden rules and expectations armoring Sampo's every word.

Gepard has no time to ponder Sampo's unusual shift before another matter consumes his attention entirely: a summons to Landau manor, right before the busy season of the Solwarm Festival.

Gepard wakes up before dawn feeling hatred for the world and its insistence on the arrival of the dreaded day. His only consolation is the emptiness of the early-morning trolley. Gepard stares out the trolley window at the lightening sky as he braces himself for a claustrophobic day tip-toeing around his parents. He's out of practice; it takes more effort to chase away his tension than usual.

Something niggles his brain at that thought. When was the last time he rode this trolley to his family home? It dawns on him that it's been almost a year. Gepard hasn't visited his parents since shortly after he became Captain.

Strange. Mother usually nags him into visiting at least four times a year. Is Gepard a bad son for not noticing his parents' absence until now?

He folds the guilt away with a sigh. He can't afford to start this day lingering on his inadequacies as a son.

As Gepard travels away from the Administrative District, cramped stone apartments give way to thinning arrangements shrubs, walkways, and houses. The trolley drops Gepard off where rows of quaint houses give way to stone gates and swathes of luxurious space, the line between the suburban rich and Nobleshire's truly wealthy. A familiar suited man, the Landau family chauffeur, stands beside a parked buggy and hails Gepard. The chauffeur silently drives Gepard right up to the foot of the manor.

To his discomfort, Mother is watching him from the stoop as he exits the buggy. Her long, navy skirt flutters in the wind, giving her the silhouette of a watchful ghost. Gepard approaches her austere figure and bows.

“You've been busy, Captain,” Mother comments once he rises.

“I have,” Gepard replies simply.

Mother frowns at the curtness of his reply but says nothing. She turns toward the open doors of the manor and glances at him over her shoulder.

“Come in, Gepard.”

The Landau manor's sitting room is Mother's pride and joy, the culmination of the decades of collecting and restoring antiques she had devoted herself to after abandoning her law career to become the lady of the Landau family. She leads Gepard to it now, taking her throne in its elegant armchair. Her velvet shoes tuck in primly into the base of the armchair, brushing against the luxuriously-patterned rug beneath. The chandelier above her dangles prettily in the early morning light, matching the gleam of her bejeweled earrings.

Mother gestures at the side table, which holds a tea set and a tray of crackers, spreads, and cheeses. "Please, have a bite."

Gepard sinks into the chair beside Mother cautiously. "Where's Father?"

"It's rude to reject offered food, Gepard."

Gepard stifles his sigh. He obediently grabs the butter knife and slathers a thin layer of caviar onto a cracker. Mother picks up the teapot and pours a stream of amber liquid into a cup, observing his nibbling meanwhile.

"How is the food?" Mother asks.

"It's delicious. Thank you," Gepard recites dully.

"I'm glad," Mother responds pleasantly. "Belobog's celebrated Captain deserves only the best."

Gepard's shoulders tense. He shouldn't feel this unsettled that word of his deeds have inevitably reached his parents.

"The people love you," Mother continues conversationally, "especially the common folk. You've given much to Backwater Pass. Out of your own pocket, too, if Mr. Korsic is to be believed."

Gepard flinches. Damn Mr. Korsic, the Landau family accountant. Gepard didn't even know that Mr. Korsic still had access to his accounts.

"It was the right thing to do," Gepard says stiffly.

"Was it?" Mother wonders. "Was it right of you to sacrifice your own worth to shoulder Qlipoth Fort's failings? What of the next time Qlipoth Fort inconveniently runs out of funding? How many of the people who you aided to your own detriment would do the same for you? How many of them even thanked you for your kindness?"

At Gepard's tight expression, Mother relents her barrage and sips her tea. "I suppose I can sympathize with the desire to act outside of Qlipoth Fort's purview," she allows. "There are many Architects who live to see that nothing gets done."

Gepard shifts, uncomfortable. "You shouldn't speak of the Architects that way."

“Why? It's true. As I said, the worst monsters are not Fragmentum creatures but men.” Mother smiles wryly into her teacup. “Though it seems you have slain one of them.”

It takes a moment for Gepard to process Mother's words. He looks up, confused and alarmed.

“I have slain no one."

“Perhaps not personally," Mother hums, "but someone has. Now the world has changed irreversibly, and little Bronya must take her mother's place.”

Gepard inhales sharply. “Are you insinuating that the late Supreme Guardian was a monster?”

Mother looks at Gepard. “I am no fool, Gepard. And neither is your father.”

Gepard looks back at Mother with wide eyes. He doesn't know what to think at the suggestion that Mother—that Father, the former Captain of the Silvermane Guards—knew all this time how little Cocolia Rand cared for Belobog. Father's cold words from months ago echo ominously: You’re the right arm of the Supreme Guardian, no more, no less. Was Father warning him then about what little good he would do as Cocolia Rand's Captain?

"Let's speak of happier topics when we see your father," Mother says. "He deserves to enjoy his retirement, does he not?"

Gepard swallows his questions, recognizing the dead end in Mother's uncompromising stare. "Yes, Mother."

Mother sets her emptied teacup atop the side table and rises. "Come. Let's see your father."

Surprisingly, Mother does not lead him up the stairs and into the main office. Instead, she follows the hallway until they reach a rarely-used guest room that Gepard barely remembers. Mother raps the door with two quiet, perfunctory knocks. A gravelly voice calls out in response, and Mother opens the door.

Leonard Landau sits at a coffee table gazing out of an open window, pen nestled idly in his right hand. He turns to look at them as they enter.

"Cara. Captain."

Gepard salutes. "Sir."

Inwardly, Gepard wonders if he should have saluted to a man no longer his superior. But Father makes no verbal correction, just sets his pen down expectantly as Mother and Gepard sit in spare chairs.

"You've been busy, Captain," Father rumbles. "Your mother has much to say about your accomplishments."

The blunt response that Gepard gave to his mother is nowhere to be found in front of Father's flinty gaze. "Yes, sir," Gepard says quietly instead.

"Why don't you tell your father about Backwater Pass?" Mother suggests.

Father frowns disapprovingly. "Let the Captain speak for himself, dear."

Gepard quickly glances away from the tightening around Mother's eyes. He obediently dives into a retelling of the Backwater Pass Recovery Operation, summarizing the expedition he led and his collaboration on Victor's article.

"It doesn't surprise me that Backwater Pass was lost," Father grumbles. "The Fragmentum has been encroaching on that area for years."

"It receded slightly when the s—Eternal Freeze ended. We took that opportunity to mobilize and recover the district."

That was too close. It felt so natural to discuss the classified stellaron with his father, as if Father were still a high-ranking soldier with security clearance. Gepard tenses when instead of skipping over Gepard's near-slip Father seems to scrutinize him carefully.

"And the Supreme Guardian approved of your work?" Father asks.

Gepard stops himself from gulping. "Yes, she has been very supportive."

Father's brow furrows as he seems to think over Gepard's words.

“Actually, Gepard has been seeing a woman,” Mother says out of nowhere.

Gepard stiffens in shock. Father’s brows shoot up to his forehead.

“Mrs. Maukins saw our son by Landau Park with a young lady the other day,” Mother continues conversationally. “She told me Gepard was quite the gentleman to her.”

Father's eyes pierce into Gepard's. "Is this true?"

Gepard's heart patters at a rabbit's pace. The last time Gepard spoke about a woman to his father, he couldn't bear Father's disappointment and fled to Backwater Pass in shame.

"Y-yes, sir. I accompanied a Ms. Brughel Poisson after volunteering at the Everwinter City Museum. But we aren't courting. It was just one evening."

Father grunts. "A shame. I would have liked to meet her."

Gepard flinches, horrified at Father's unexpected interest in meeting Sampo's persona.

"There will be others," Mother consoles. "Now that Gepard is putting himself out there, I'm sure he'll bring the right woman along to meet us."

This time, Gepard glares at Mother for her presumptuousness. Mother meets his betrayed look with unapologetic placidity.

Father nods, unaware of their silent exchange. "Good. Do invite the right woman to Landau Manor when you find her, Captain."

"Yes, sir," Gepard responds automatically. Only habit prevents his voice from wobbling in confusion.

To Gepard's great relief, Mother asks Father about his investment properties, sending Father into a lengthy lecture about the legal intricacies of renovating a building. Mother does not blindside Gepard again with further unwanted disclosures of his personal life. The conversation ends peacefully when Father dismisses them to return to his writing.

As Gepard follows Mother back to the sitting room, a tight feeling drags his feet to a stop. Mother pauses and turns to look questioningly at his darkening expression. Irritation is a familiar feeling in his parents' presence, but this time, instead of submitting to his parents' intrusions, it clings stubbornly to Gepard. Gepard struggles against his annoyance a moment more, struggles to be the good son his parents expect him to be—

No. He is an adult. His mother has no business invading his privacy. Gepard squares his shoulders and looks Mother in the eye.

"Mother, I don't appreciate you telling Father that I'll bring a woman to the manor without discussing it with me beforehand."

Mother lowers her head in acknowledgment. "I apologize. That was rude of me. I only wanted to soothe your father's concerns."

"His concerns?"

"You're twenty-eight now. Your father and I married when he was twenty-one."

Gepard cringes. He remembers how eagerly both Mother and Father arranged his engagement to Matilda because of that very concern. He had gone along with it then, too meek to say no, but now, a decade wearier, he has no more patience for his parents' meddling. He juts his chin up and glares at Mother.

"I'm not interested in dating right now," Gepard states firmly.

"That's alright," Mother says to Gepard's wide-eyed shock. "But there's no harm in letting your father hear what he wants to hear."

Gepard frowns. "That's dishonest."

"The truth is hard on the weak," Mother says almost wearily.

“Father is not weak,” Gepard points out.

Mother looks at Gepard and says nothing.

—

Later, when Gepard has a spare moment walking through Qlipoth Fort's halls, he sends an offhand update to his siblings' group chat about visiting the estate. Serval replies with a wry consolation. Lynx responds with a strange question.

Lynx

Is father okay?

Gepard

What do you mean?

Lynx

He fell down the stairs the last time we visited

Gepard

He seemed well. Mother says he's focusing on his investments.

Lynx does not respond, and seemingly, that is that. But Gepard recalls Lynx's horror at the sight of Father crumpled at the base of the stairs, her worry for Father's well-being that didn't alleviate no matter how much Gepard reassured her. Wasn't Father downstairs in the guest room during Gepard's visit too? Did he relocate to the first floor to avoid further accidents traveling down the stairs?

Doubt stabs at Gepard. He briefly considers confiding in Sampo about his unease, but what would he even say? "Lynx is being weird about my father's well-being, and now I feel weird about it too?" Sampo would only say something shallow in response to the inexplicable agitation raising the hairs on Gepard's back.

Gepard swallows his apprehension. Father is strong. His sleeping arrangements and his strange interest in Gepard's love life don't change that.

Then the IPS Outreach lands in the Northern Snow Plains, and Gepard forgets about Father's strangeness entirely.

—

The IPS Outreach is a looming, alien beehive of sleek metal panels as large as an entire wing of Qlipoth Fort. Black-armored troops swarm from its entrances, surrounding Gepard's team of Silvermane Guards and jabbing at them with their futuristic stingers.

"Stand down, field personnel," a confident, authoritative woman booms from the apex of the beehive. She looks at Gepard. "You too, soldiers. No need for violence. I just want to speak to your leader. Peacefully."

The woman allows Gepard to send a hasty, misspelled text to Bronya. To his displeasure, Bronya agrees to the meeting. Gepard reluctantly escorts the woman, Topaz, and her personnel into the city, keenly remembering what happened the last time he welcomed outworlders into Belobog.

The IPC are so much worse than the trailblazers.

The next day, Gepard finds himself marching through the Administrative District, echoed by the thundering footsteps of the platoon trailing him. As they race into the nearest trolley, his mind grasps at any feasible plan to stop the IPC from invading Rivet Town.

What tools do the Silvermane Guards have? They have Wildfire's mining robots, but Belobog's clanging automatons look pitiful compared to the IPC's sleek, hulking mechas. They have Belobog steel, but his brief encounter with the IPC in the Northern Snow Plains already proved how ineffective it is against alien armor. They have March 7th's and Caelus' assistance, but Gepard is very aware that the Astral Express are on friendly terms with the IPC. Compared to the wealthy, gargantuan IPC, the Silvermane Guards have nothing—no tools, no weapons, no allies.

You have Sampo, a wishful voice inside Gepard whispers. He grits his teeth. No, he doesn't. Even if he did "have Sampo", he would be breaking their unspoken rules if he were to ask Sampo about his knowledge from beyond the sky.

Gepard's eyes squeeze close. What's more important? His fragile, unfulfilled friendship with Sampo? Or defending Belobog against the IPC?

It's incriminatingly difficult to make the obvious choice.

Gepard

What's the best way to neutralize an IPC soldier?

The read indicator shows immediately. There's a gutwrenching pause before the reply comes.

Sampo

bombs

The panic Gepard didn't even know he was feeling relents. He shakily folds away the overwhelming relief of not chasing Sampo away and responds tersely.

Gepard

Bombs?

Sampo

ya

like those hand robot things that go boom

Gepard

Are you joking?

Sampo

im serious

ipc armor cant deal w explosives

trust me id know

Gepard is too wound up to laugh. He sends a quick thank you to Sampo before he shoots a message to Natasha requesting double the automaton spiders for deployment. Darkness blankets Gepard as the trolley descends into the Underworld's tunnels. It's time to show the IPC everything this backwater planet is capable of.

—

Once again, the Astral Express miracles a storybook ending. The IPC stop their assault on Rivet Town. Bronya takes Topaz to the Pillars of Creation, oddly assured that Topaz will see the unyielding strength of their world. That should have been the end of the IPC crisis, but as Gepard's trolley ascends into the Overworld, Gepard receives two bone-chilling texts.

Pela

We have reports of ipc personnel in nobleshire. Can you take a look?

Unknown

Gepard this is your mother. There are strange men at the estate. Please come.

Gepard doesn't bother waiting for a transport for his Guards. He shouts at his accompanying soldiers to continue toward Qlipoth Fort and leaps off the trolley as soon as its doors open. A cab slows to a stop at the intimating sight of the Captain of the Silvermane Guards hailing. Gepard shoves an entire sack of shield in the cab driver's face and firmly orders the driver to take him to Nobleshire.

Unlike Sampo, Gepard cannot teleport. He's forced to pass the maddeningly-slow twenty minutes of the drive reaching conclusions that turn his mood darker and darker. There's no conceivable reason for the IPC to officially take interest in Nobleshire; all Belobog's noble families have to offer an intercosmic conglomerate are unusable currencies and meaningless antiques. This trespass is meaningless, cruel terrorism on privileged but still-helpless civilians like Mother. Gepard's blood roars with fury.

Townhouses give way to empty space. A crumpled, uniformed figure by the stone walls of Nobleshire catches Gepard's eye. He shouts to the cab driver and jumps out the buggy. The lone Silvermane Guard, a private first class, twitches as Gepard approaches.

"Captain," the Guard groans. "I'm sorry. I couldn't stop them."

There's blackened hole at the thigh of the soldier's uniform, revealing a charred, reddened patch of meat. She's lucky; the laser must have cauterized the wound before it could bleed, leaving her in agony instead of dead. Gepard remembers his morning decision to pull Guards from nonessential posts to fight against the IPC, and his jaw clenches.

"How many of them?" Gepard asks.

The Guard looks down. "Two with laser guns. They made contact about thirty minutes ago. I'm sorry, Captain."

Gepard huffs at the soldier's unreasonable shame. "What's your name, Soldier?"

"Ekaterina Orlova, sir."

"Soldier Orlova," Gepard says firmly. "To stand against two of the IPC is far beyond what anyone would ask of you. You were excellent. You have nothing to apologize for." Gepard looks at the cab driver. "Sir, I'm afraid I have to bother you again. Would you take Soldier Orlova to the Qlipoth Fort infirmary?"

"Yes, sir," the driver agrees readily.

Gepard carries Orlova to the buggy's back seat and closes the door. He sends a brisk update to Pela. He stays just long enough to watch the buggy pull away, then breaks into a sprint toward the Landau estate.

—

The Landau courtyard would be a tranquil sight if not for the ajar front door that Mother would never allow. Gepard slows his sprint into a careful march as he enters the manor. His gauntlet clenches into a tight fist at the sight of dirt smeared across Mother's usually-pristine entrance rug.

"This is the Silvermane Guards! Put your hands up!" Gepard bellows.

No one answers, not a maid, not his Mother, not the trespassers. Gepard pushes into the entrance hall and startles when the tearful expression of a maid peeks out from behind a service door.

"Master Gepard!" Belén whispers. "Thank Qlipoth you're here."

"Where are Mother and Father?" Gepard whispers back urgently. "Are the attackers still here?"

"The lady is safe with the servants. Your father, he—we tried to take him too, but—" Belén bursts into tears. "Your father went to fight the trespassers!"

Gepard's blood runs cold. "Where?" he demands.

"I don't know!" Belén sobs.

Gepard forces his voice to gentle. "Stay hidden and keep everyone safe. Don't worry. I will take care of this."

Belén shudders and nods. She disappears behind the service door just as Gepard receives a text from Pela: backup on the way.

Cold, clinical training overtakes the impulse to run through the Landau manor's familiar halls. Gepard clears each room as if he'd never seen it before, eliminating potential assailants from nooks and angles with methodical precision. A clear trail of destruction leads into the west wing, mud smeared across beautiful rugs, cracked vases thrown on the ground. There's a nearby scream and crash. Gepard stalks toward its source with predatory calm.

Gepard swings into the sitting room with a snarl. "Silvermane Guards! Put up your hands!"

The sitting room is a scene of carnage. There's a crack in the wall beside a skewed painting, and at its foot is a assemblage of splinters that was once the side table. The chandelier lies crumpled on the ground, coating the patterned tile and lovingly-weaved rug with scattered glass. Beside it, a blackened hole in patterned tile betrays the beam of a laser gun.

Two IPC personnel point their guns at a fallen man at their feet. Beneath them, Father scrambles backwards on cracked tile. He thrusts the burning end of a candelabra at the looming IPC soldiers above him.

"Gepard, stand back!" Father shouts, his lion's roar cracking. "These men are assassins!"

One trespasser raises his gun at Gepard. Gepard's gauntlet flares, and an ice pillar knocks the gun out of the soldier's grip. Father scrambles to his feet and lunges forward with a scream. He bounces back harmlessly when Earthwork's barrier slices between him and the IPC trespassers.

"Enough!" Gepard snarls, too furious to feel shocked when Father obediently stills.

The barrier swells with Gepard's rage, forcing the IPC soldiers backward. The disarmed IPC soldier pounds his fists against Earthwork's barrier. He falters when Gepard stalks up to the barrier and stares down at them coolly. Gepard's blood roars to throw the IPC soldiers onto the ground, to make them crawl on their backs as Father did, but he swallows the rage and replaces it with the deadly levelheadedness of a captain.

"Why are you in my family's home?" Gepard asks coldly.

"IPC business," the disarmed soldier sneers. "It doesn't concern you natives."

"Henry, that's the captain of their military," the other soldier whispers urgently.

The sleek panes of their helmets are unreadable, but the visible pause in the first soldier's movements is not.

"'IPC business,'" Gepard echoes calmly. "Are you suggesting that you grievously injured a Silvermane Guard, trespassed on my family's property, and terrorized my family on Ms. Topaz's orders?" Gepard's eyes narrow. "Should I confirm that with Ms. Topaz myself?"

The disarmed soldier puffs up as much as he can while pinched between Earthwork's barrier and the sitting room wall. "What are you going to do? Leave a voicemail?"

Gepard takes in the soldier's bravado with detached superiority. Gepard has seen their comrades fly into walls at the hands of a mere automaton spider.

"Ms. Topaz is with the Supreme Guardian right now. It would take only a second to message the Supreme Guardian about your 'IPC business.'" Gepard allows the cold fury to melt into his features. "Here is what is going to happen. I am going to escort you outside. In several minutes, a team of Silvermane Guards will arrive to escort you back to the IPS Outreach. You will leave with them peacefully, without giving me more to tell Ms. Topaz. Am I understood?"

The IPC soldiers exchange a glance. The quieter one pipes up hesitantly. "We need the phase rifle back."

Gepard slams his boot onto the gun. It crunches miserably under his foot. He grabs the bent scrap and commands Earthwork's barrier to squeeze the IPC soldiers to the manor's exit. When the Silvermane Guards finally arrive, Gepard hands the contorted gun to a waiting Guard.

"Take this gun to Ms. Topaz," Gepard orders.

The soldier salutes. The Silvermane Guards jab halberd tips into the IPC trespassers' backs, herding them away. Gepard watches unyieldingly from the stoop until that reprehensible alien black disappears from estate grounds.

—

When Gepard returns to the sitting room, Father is crouched behind the armchair, hands clenched around the candelabra in a white-knuckled grip. Gepard has no time to falter at Father's blatant terror before Father notices him and storms up to him.

"What is going on?" Father demands. "Who were those men? Why were they dressed like that?"

"They were soldiers from the IPC," Gepard explains. "They were—"

"Who are the IPC?!" Father screams.

Gepard quiets, but there's none of the terror that usually suffocates him in the face of his father's rage. Instead, he's startled by Father's wide, bugging eyes, the grimace pasted into his wrinkles. Startled, because he realizes with abrupt clarity that what this is, what Father's shouting and screaming is—is a tantrum. Father is throwing a tantrum.

Gepard gentles his tone. "The IPC is an outworlder commercial organization. They're visiting to speak with Bronya about integrating Belobog into the—"

"They're targeting the Commander?!" Father shouts, eyes wide. "Gepard, this is an insurrection. They want to tear Belobog apart through its noble families!"

Gepard's words die in his throat. The Commander? Insurrection?

Father has stopped yelling, but instead, he paces the room, muttering crazily to himself. "Who are they?" he hisses. "Are they the Maukins? The Herreros? Are they Underworlders? Cocolia shouldn't have lifted the decree. It protected all of us."

Cocolia? The decree? What is Father talking about?

Distantly, Gepard thinks that he should stop Father's insane ravings, or at least leave so he doesn't witness the indignity of it. But he's rooted to the spot, an unwitting audience to his Father's crumbling.

"Leonard."

Mother stands at the entrance of the sitting room, a haunting picture of elegant sadness. The hem of her skirt brushes against cracked tile as she strides up to Father, snapping Father out of his mutterings.

"I told you, Cara," Father growls. "I told you they were after us."

"Gepard is here," Mother says soothingly. "Nothing bad will happen on the Captain's watch."

This seems to appease Father. Mother holds her arms out to support Father's weight, and Father sags into her. She helps Father past splintered furniture and broken glass, sending a meaningful glance to Gepard as they pass by him: I'll explain.

Mother disappears past the ajar door. Gepard is left rooted to the ruined sitting room, mired in its uncanny brokenness that creeps further and further into the foundations of his world. Unwelcome flashes of a splintered puzzle invade his mind; Father's tumble down the stairs. The terror in his eyes as he faced down the IPC. Mother's unusual weariness. Father speaking of Cocolia as if she were still alive.

Maybe this is normal, Gepard negotiates desperately. Maybe this is a natural reaction to the stress of fighting alien combatants.

No.

This isn't normal.

The sheer, unintelligible terror in Father's eyes isn't normal.

A shadow casts over the scorched crater in the tile before Gepard's feet. Gepard looks up to see Mother once again at the door, scanning calmly across the destroyed room she so painstakingly decorated. Mother walks past Gepard. She reaches the armchair, brushes off the splinters from its cushion, and sits primly, as if she weren't surrounded by the carnage of her beloved sitting room.

"Why does Father think Cocolia Rand is still the Supreme Guardian?" Gepard blurts out.

"Because that is what he chose to believe from what I chose to tell him," Mother answers plainly.

Gepard's eyes narrow. "What did you tell him?"

Mother makes to grab a teacup that isn't there, then folds her hands onto her lap.

"That Backwater Pass was lost to the Fragmentum. That the Architects had a breakthrough regarding the Eternal Freeze. That the Supreme Guardian was able to quell the Eternal Freeze and the Fragmentum because of it. That the Supreme Guardian renounced the Underworld quarantine decree because it was no longer needed."

Gepard stares, horrified. There's nothing of the trailblazers, nothing of outworlders, nothing of Cocolia Rand's passing in that retelling.

"And he believed you?" Gepard chokes out.

"Why wouldn't he?" Mother says tonelessly. "Everything I told him was true. Your father simply heard what he wanted to hear."

Gepard's jaw clenches tightly. Dishonesty from Sampo and the Supreme Guardian is one thing, but from his own mother…

"You're a liar," Gepard accuses.

Mother's expression hardens. "Do you think your father wants to hear that he spent decades serving a monster for naught? You saw what happened when he was confronted with a truth he didn't want to hear."

"Stop pretending that Father's meltdown was normal!" Gepard shouts.

"Gepard, I am your mother," Mother says tightly. "Whatever grievances you have against me, you do not speak to me this way."

Gepard forces himself to breathe deeply through his nose. A voice that sounds like Serval shouts at him that his mother deserves none of the respect that she didn't grace him, but something deep in him urges, You're better than this.

"I'm sorry for raising my voice," Gepard grits out. "Will you tell me what's going on?"

Mother's prickly expression smooths to stillness at Gepard's peace offering. Only her chest moves, rising and falling with deep breaths.

"Your father is sick," Mother finally says. "Qlipoth Fort believes it to be chronic Fragmentum sickness."

Fragmentum sickness is a well-known boogeyman among the Guards. Gepard had seen more than his fair share of medical tents filled with hallucinating soldiers covered in Fragmentum dust, trembling as if the powder were draining their life force. But few days' rest was usually enough to return the soldiers' wits. Chronic cases only occurred in those who lived and breathed the Fragmentum—as Father did for decades as Captain of the Silvermane Guards.

More pieces fall into place. Father's retirement. His fall down the stairs. Lynx's fear. The Landau manor's unusual silence. Father has been ill for at least as long as Gepard has been Captain. And he and Mother have, for some Qlipoth-forsaken reason, kept this hidden from their children for just as long.

"Why didn't you tell us?" Gepard demands, his blood curdling with emotion.

"It was for the good of the Landau family," Mother answers evenly.

Gepard scoffs. He sputters. He chokes out half a word before he looks away and tears at his hair with his sole hand.

"Seriously?" Gepard wheezes. "You care more about the 'Landau family' than telling your children their father is seriously ill?"

“Who exactly do you think is the 'Landau family?'" Mother bites out sharply. "Your third aunt once removed? Your late uncle, who passed before you were born? It's you, Gepard. You are the Landau family. All three of you—yes, even Serval—are the family we've sacrificed so much to protect. Everything—everything!—we do is for your sake."

"So controlling us, lying to us, and disowning us was all for our sake?" Gepard exclaims.

"Yes," Mother says coldly, unapologetically. "Your father and I have only wanted the best for all three of you."

Gepard laughs incredulously. “How can you possibly know what he wants? You didn't even talk to him before this!”

“I know what he wants because he's written it down.”

Gepard begins to demand why Father's writing of all things matters before the last piece of the puzzle reveals itself in Mother's words. Fury dies on Gepard's tongue. A gaping void of disbelief swallows him.

“What does that mean?” Gepard chokes out.

Mother looks at him and says nothing.

“Mother,” Gepard begs tremulously. “What do you mean by 'Father's written it down?'”

Mother's expression is stone as she says, “It means that I am the executor of your father’s will.”

A will.

Father wrote a will.

A list of everything he won't be able to do for himself after death.

Gepard stares at the solved puzzle, but it doesn't change shape. The rotting portrait of this broken family in this broken room stares back at him.

“When did he write it,” Gepard whispers.

“Nothing's certain. It's just a precaution—”

“When. Did. He. Write. It.”

Mother's lips purse into a thin line. “In June.”

“You knew he was sick enough to die,” Gepard states numbly. “You knew for three months, and you didn't tell us until now.”

Finally, Mother's unrepentant calm cracks. Her expression sags, and exhaustion sinks into the creases of her face.

“We didn't want to worry you,” she says.

Gepard can't muster the disbelieving scoff. He walks away, stepping over scattered glass on his way to get as far away as possible from his liar of a mother.

Mother calls out as he departs. “Gepard, you must not tell anyone of this besides your siblings.”

“More secrets?" Gepard says flatly.

“Listen to me!” Mother shouts, stunning Gepard into a halt. She collects herself and explains with strained quiet, “There are people who would would benefit from your father's illness. Don't let them know about his condition. Give your father some peace. Please."

Gepard looks over his shoulder. He narrows his eyes at Mother's wilted figure, rage, despair, and betrayal swimming nauseatingly in his stomach.

"Father's not the only delusional one in this household," Gepard says coldly.

He abandons Mother to sit atop her broken throne in her ruined sitting room.

—

Neverwinter Workshop is unusually silent. The sun has set. The new assistant Molly has left for the day. Serval's five guitars lie untouched against the back room's wall, wondering why their creator has chosen not to play them in the merry night of Solwarm Eve.

Instead, Serval stands beside Gepard in Neverwinter Workshop's upstairs kitchen, staring down emptily at the ringing phone atop the island counter.

"Hello?" Lynx's youthful voice sounds out from the tinny speakers.

"Hey Lynxy," Serval greets quietly. "Gepard is here too."

Gepard clears his throat. "Hi."

"Hi Gepard," Lynx echoes with audible uncertainty. "Is something wrong?"

Serval exchanges a helpless glance with Gepard. She collects herself with a deep breath and asks into the phone, "Do you have time to talk?"

Lynx has already set up camp against the protective wall of a rocky hillside, so she listens in silence as Gepard haltingly explains what he saw and learned at Landau manor. Serval is no happier listening to his stumbled explanations for the second time, fists clenching tightly against the counter as Gepard once again reveals Mother's deception.

"I guess you were right, Lynxy. Father is unwell," Gepard finishes lamely.

"Yeah," Lynx responds with no humor. "Do you know how long Father has to—?"

Lynx's voice cuts off abruptly. Gepard sympathizes; he can't say it either.

"I don't know," Gepard admits, hating himself. "I don't know anything about how advanced the disease is, how he's being treated, or if he's even going to—if he has a deadline. Mother didn't tell me."

Serval scoffs. "Typical. Always fucking us over 'for our own good.'"

"Will you come back to visit?" Gepard asks hurriedly, dodging Serval's vitriol.

"I have to," Lynx says sadly. "The world's changing, isn't it?"

Gepard's throat dries up. He painfully recalls his promise to Lynx over a year ago, that for all the changes the world threw at them, their small family would stay the unchanged. Lynx doesn't seem to begrudge him for his broken promise. She chats with them a little longer before she departs, leaving Gepard and Serval huddled silently in the chill of Serval's dinky kitchen.

"Will you visit too?" Gepard asks hesitantly.

Serval sends him a dry look. "I don't think I'd be welcome."

Serval says this offhand, as if she couldn't care less that her dying father wouldn't want to see her. Gepard lets her have her pretense and instead quietly asks if she has anything to drink.

The smirk that lifts Serval's expression is a second too slow to be genuine. She reveals a six-pack of cheap beer from the back corner of the refrigerator—"Sorry Geppie, no vintage wine here"—and slams two bottles onto the island counter. Serval lifts her bottle high in the air. Gepard mirrors her.

"Happy Solwarm to the fucked-up Landau family!" Serval shouts.

Glass clink together in agreement. Serval throws her head back and pours the beer down her throat. Gepard sips at his bottle tepidly, watching in silence as Serval drinks herself away. Serval's false vigor begins to lag once she finishes the second bottle. When she cracks open the third bottle, she sags against the counter and stares down distantly at the fizzling liquid.

"I should have just left," Serval whispers into the bottle, deafeningly loud in the silent kitchen.

You don't mean that, is the truth Gepard knows better than to say aloud. He takes a swig of his beer and allows Serval to imagine a life in the stars without obligation to a family that's hurt her over and over.

Serval does not drink more. Their carefree drinking is over, decayed into something morose and stagnant that threatens to bury Serval.

"Can I stay over? I'm too drunk to make it home," Gepard lies.

Serval snorts but keeps her end of their unspoken agreement to not call each other out on their lies. She ushers him into the guest room and silently pulls him into a hug that lasts too long. She steps back, smiles sadly at him, and disappears into the hallway. There's a clinking of bottles and a slam of the refrigerator door before Serval's soft footsteps fade behind the click of a closed door.

Gepard keeps vigil until the muffled sobs from Serval's room fade into silence.

—

For better or for worse, Serval has alcohol to lull her to sleep. Gepard, instead, lies sleeplessly atop the made bed. Unwanted thoughts muddle his head now that he no longer has his concern for his sister to distract him.

What is a Landau? Brave? Honest? Selfless?

Gepard thinks of Mother. Her unyielding calm. Her blatant, unapologetic deception. Her willingness to indulge the fantasy of dying man she holds no love for. She's a selfish, cowardly liar.

But, Gepard thinks with reddened eyes, she's also every bit a Landau.

For some reason, Gepard thinks of Sampo, the second biggest liar in his life. The title almost makes Gepard laugh, but it rings true; none of Sampo's mistruths shook Gepard's pillars as much as Mother's had. To think that Sampo's astronomical deceptions could be upstaged by Mother, of all people… Gepard absurdly wonders if Mother and Sampo would get along.

Gepard's heart pangs. He misses Sampo, no matter how much he tries to drown out the longing with understanding and logic. He tries desperately to convince himself again that Sampo's coldness would only make his vulnerability sting worse—but who is he kidding? Gepard knows very well that Sampo will skirt around his grief. He's unhurt by this. Instead, Gepard is ashamed that, despite all his growth, despite all he’s made himself into his own person, Gepard has fallen back inescapably into the orbit of the broken Landau family. Admitting this to Sampo, who's already seen so much of the Landau family's rottenness, feels like a crushing defeat.

But Gepard is just a man. He succumbs to defeat and messages Sampo.

Gepard

Are you awake?

Sampo

yea

y u up

Gepard

I’m with Serval.

Sampo

oo

late nite party?

Gepard

No.

Gepard begins to elaborate, but suddenly, everything drains from him. He instead stares with burning eyes at the chat window, waiting for Sampo to respond.

Sampo

did something happen

Words. Gepard needs words. He musters the simplest words he can and sends it limply.

Gepard

I just learned that my father might be terminally ill.

Sampo does not respond for several minutes. Gepard idly wonders if Sampo has run away.

Sampo

do u wanna play aw

Gepard

Aw?

Sampo

aetherium wars

im tryna build my team rn

wanna play

The name Aetherium Wars is surprisingly familiar; Dunn had raved about the game when Gepard visited the restricted zone days ago. Gepard feels no enthusiasm at the thought of playing, but even a boring game seems better than lying sleepless for several more hours in the darkness of Serval’s guest room.

Gepard

How do I play?

Sampo sends him a link. Gepard clicks it, then is startled when the downloading progress bar is overtaken by vibrations of an incoming call. After a moment of disbelief, Gepard accepts the call.

“Hey,” Sampo drawls, long and drawn-out.

“Hi,” Gepard responds through his surprise. “Why did you call me?”

“‘Cause it’s easier to set up the game over a call. Did you download the game yet?”

Sampo is patient with him as he fumbles with his one hand through the game's menus. Eventually, he settles on setting the phone flat on the pillow while he sits cross-legged on the bed. A soft huff escapes Gepard as he thinks back to how Sampo helped him with the same unspoken patience through the early days of his leave. He wonders with a dry mouth if Mother helped Father in the exact same way.

Walls of text pull Gepard away from his morose thoughts. Gepard was expecting something rote and mind-numbing, like the bizarre boyfriend-collecting game Pela plays when she’s sick of paperwork. Instead, Aetherium Wars feels like taking an exam. Gepard squints through long passages, but he quickly gives up on reading when Sampo's soothing voice summarizes the game much more enjoyably.

"And here's your team!" Sampo announces.

A trade offer overtakes Gepard's phone screen. Gepard presses "Accept" and watches, bemused, as lights flash, horns blare, and celebratory banners fly across the screen, all to reveal…a line of Silvermane Guards.

“Really?” Gepard huffs.

"The lady doth protest too much," Sampo says nonsensically with a barely-repressed laugh.

Gepard rolls his eyes. "So how do I play?"

"Same way in real life: beat the shit out of me! Hold on. I'm starting a custom lobby."

Gepard accepts the invitation that flashes across his screen. A dramatic countdown begins.

"Do you have any better advice than 'just win?'" Gepard asks wryly.

“Eh. There’s a bunch of team-building and combos and stuff, but all of that is beyond me. I just send out my li’l explodey bots and go boom.”

“That really is your go-to strategy for everything,” Gepard mutters.

“Worked against the IPC, didn’t it?” Sampo says cheekily.

The reminder of the IPC's sound defeat in Rivet Town almost brings a smile to Gepard's face. Then he remembers how Father had raged helplessly against those armored invaders, and his mirth fizzles to nothing.

Their match starts with a flash of pretty lights. Four spiders explode in a row, wiping Gepard’s entire team of Silvermane Guards and ending the match in a draw.

“Was that supposed to be fun?” Gepard grumbles.

Sampo snickers. “Sorry. Let’s play again.”

This time, Gepard hunches over his screen and glares intently at the game. His lieutenant survives three exploding automaton spiders, but he doesn’t have enough health to survive the last explosion. To Gepard's shock, instead of detonating, Sampo’s last spider rams weakly into Gepard’s lieutenant. The lieutenant counters with a flurry of stabs, slaying the spider and summoning a cheerful victory banner across Gepard’s screen.

“You let me win!” Gepard explodes.

Sampo makes a noise of innocent confusion. “What do you mean? You won fair and square.”

“You let your last spider die on purpose!”

“It was a mistake, Geppie. Truly.”

“We’re playing again,” Gepard snarls. Sampo bursts out laughing when Gepard slams the rematch button.

Sampo does not rise to Gepard’s competitiveness. Instead, he entertains himself by inventing creative ways to suck all the joy out of the game. Gepard’s intensity gives way to exasperation and confusion as he watches Sampo lock himself into an infinite loop of healing. Sampo seems almost bored of the game despite being the one to suggest playing it.

“Do you usually play games like this?” Gepard asks.

“Nope,” Sampo says, popping the P. “Life is enough of a game for me.”

“Oh." Gepard pauses. "Why are you playing, then?”

“A favor for a friend.”

Sampo’s “friends” are a forbidden topic. Gepard lets the conversation die, watching with waning enthusiasm as Sampo’s trotter once again heals off all the damage Gepard has done to it.

“Want to talk about your father?” Sampo asks casually in between another round of pointless attacks.

Gepard sighs. “What’s there to say? The IPC attacked the manor. I found out that Father has chronic Fragmentum sickness and might not get better. The end.”

"They attacked—" The disbelief disappears from Sampo's tone, replaced with careful sympathy. “His illness seems sudden.”

“Apparently not,” Gepard scoffs bitterly. “He’s been sick for a while. Mother just never told us.”

"When did he get sick?"

"I don't know. Probably before I became Captain."

"That's quite a secret to keep for so long."

"Another secret to add to the list," Gepard mutters.

Gepard realizes in the ensuing silence that his body has crumpled into itself. He forces himself to uncurl onto his back, lifting his head so his bangs don’t dangle messily over his bloodshot eyes.

“Sorry about your father's illness,” Sampo offers. His tone is soft, projecting sympathy, but Gepard has known Sampo long enough to detect an undercurrent of something pensive in his voice.

“It is what it is,” Gepard says quietly, because he doesn’t want Sampo to linger on his numbness if Sampo doesn’t know what to say about it.

There’s a breath of silence. Then Sampo asks lightly, “Want to watch something? I’m sick of this game.”

“Only if you forfeit,” Gepard grumbles.

Sampo laughs. “As you wish.”

Sampo talks Gepard through a suspiciously convoluted process of changing settings on his phone and installing various software until a video shows on Gepard's screen. To his surprise, it's an alien romantic comedy that is just ridiculous enough to numb Gepard's unwanted thoughts. Gepard curls up on his side, listening to Sampo's running commentary on unrealistic CPR and insufferable in-laws. It's a soothing white noise that miraculously makes Gepard's eyelids fall lower and lower despite all that is crumbling around Gepard.

"Sampo?" Gepard murmurs after the movie ends.

"I'm here."

Gepard's eyes close tightly. Qlipoth, how deeply he aches to hear those soft words whispered beside him.

“Wish you were here,” Gepard mumbles, too worn down to stop himself.

Gepard struggles valiantly against the tide of sleep for one last note of Sampo's voice, but sleep sweeps him away into oblivion with nothing but Sampo's loud silence.

—

In the living room of a luxury suite aboard the IPS Outreach, a fool listens silently to the sound of steady, sleeping breaths filtering through his phone speakers. It's surprisingly difficult to place his finger over the "End Call" button; something weak in him aches to listen to Gepard's sleep the whole night like a pining lover. But he's not playing the role of a pining lover. So he snuffs out the soothing hum of Gepard's breathing, rises from Giovanni's sofa, and paces about the living room, lost to his troubled thoughts.

On October, 699 AF, shortly after Leonard Landau stepped down as Captain of the Silvermane Guards, a group of men attacked the fool while he was wandering the Overworld. This was the first of the many attempts on his life since, which have only increased in reach and frequency since Cocolia's passing.

According to Gepard, Leonard Landau likely fell ill around the same time.

What an odd coincidence.

He reviews his calendar. In a month and a half, after the Aetherium Wars tournament ends, he’ll leave Belobog and its odd coincidences for good. There's absolutely no reason to concern himself with Leonard Landau's strange illness in the meantime. No reason at all, save for clear blue eyes emptying of color, a warm voice fizzling away into something limp and broken—

His teeth grind together painfully.

He glances at his phone screen and notes the early hour. Qlipoth Fort will open its doors to its administrators soon. He slips into the ship's halls and climbs out a side window, sending a quick text to the sleeping Giovanni as he sneaks past IPC soldiers patrolling in the dark.

There’s something he needs to confirm before he leaves Belobog.

Chapter Text

All of a sudden, Gepard is keenly, painfully aware of how inadequate he's been as a son, and how he needs to fix this right away, before—before—

Bronya does not show any surprise when Gepard begins to ask for more time off in Belobog. Dunn, ever reliable, covers for Gepard in his absence. Their unquestioning support makes Gepard wonder how much his friends know about Father's condition. Do they know from gossip, rumors? Or do they do because Gepard's crumbling is pathetically transparent, despite his best efforts to keep himself together? Prying eyes loom over him, an audience to his failures. He can almost sympathize with Mother's mandate to keep Father's illness a secret. Their burning gaze makes it all the more urgent that he has to fix this, fix this right now before—

He visits the manor twice a week. Mother always invites him in and feeds him in the foyer, but in half his visits Mother staunchly refuses him passage to Father's now-permanent downstairs quarters. Gepard struggles not to bristle at Mother's obstructions, but with the constant reminder that Mother willingly lied to him for half a year…it's difficult not to see an enemy in Mother's cold eyes.

"There are many things you don't understand," Mother says after another day of stonewalling. "Your Father had many burdens as the head of the Landau family. I want to prepare you for what to expect after he passes."

Gepard stiffens. He's forcefully chased away every intruding thought of this topic ever since the attack on the manor.

"In the eyes of the law, you are the eldest of your siblings," Mother continues. "Since Serval has been disinherited, the Landau name will—"

"Father's still here," Gepard interrupts. "We don't need to talk about this."

Mother eyes him dubiously. "Your father's health is poor, Gepard."

"How poor?" Gepard snaps before he can stop himself. "You've told me nothing about his condition besides the bare minimum!"

A grimace flickers across Mother's expression. "You've seen him, Gepard. Is that not enough?"

Qlipoth, Gepard wishes it were. The strong, unyielding edifice of Leonard Landau, Captain of the Silvermane Guards, fractures more and more with every outburst Gepard witnesses. Sometimes, they're about nothing at all. The worst ones that have Mother swiftly and abruptly herding Gepard out of Father's room are about Gepard and his siblings. About how Serval is a selfish, traitorous shrew. About how delusional Lynx can't be bothered to pull her head out of the snow. About how Gepard is his only redeeming child, but why has he not married yet to carry on the Landau name? Why?

Gepard suffocates the bubbling panic in his gut. "I want to see his medical records," he demands shakily.

Mother lowers her head. "You'll have to request them from Qlipoth Fort. I'll help your father write a letter of release for you."

All of Gepard's roiling anger drains from him. Mother's easy compliance tears away the shroud of spite from her austere figure, leaving behind an exhausted woman who is not his enemy. Still, he can't bring himself to apologize. Gepard musters a stiff nod and leaves without a goodbye. What's the point? He'll inevitably return to this fucked-up family. He can't escape. All he can do is fix as much as he can, before—

—

Sometimes, all that greets Gepard after work is the view into his unlived condo. It's not as dreary of a sight as it once was. Dust no longer rains on him when he enters. The fortress of boxes has long since diminished into a single stack of cardboard. The randomly-strewn laundry now piles out-of-sight in his laundry basket. Yet on days when twelve-hour shifts weren't quite mind-numbing enough, his traitorous mind overlays a familiar image of a dirty, unloved pigsty over his eyes. His throat closes at the reminder of his past. And instead of doing the right thing, instead of clearing the growing mess, Gepard goes straight to sleep. Ghosts don't follow him into oblivion, after all.

Other times, the glow of an unread text breaks through the dreariness of his condo.

Sampo

hows ur dad

Gepard

Not great. He seems more tired than last week.

Sampo

:(

send this to ur dad for me

Then Sampo sends a flowery, sparkling animated image that proclaims in flourished, purple calligraphy: Sorry Your Doctor Sucks. Feel Better Soon.

It's always something irreverent, something that makes Gepard huff a laugh then feel guilty for reacting. Gepard should probably be offended by Sampo's flippant attitude—probably would have been offended years ago—but he sees the disguised thoughtfulness behind Sampo's frequent check-ins. He takes what little improvment to his mood Sampo's words give him.

It's easier to urge his body into a pretense of self-care on the days when Sampo messages him. Sampo's teasing stirs something inside Gepard, a memory of a time when someone patiently took care of him and Gepard wanted to be a better person because of it. Every counter wiped, every shirt folded fixes something. It doesn't fix his father—

How could an awful, awful son like Gepard even presume to fix the great Leonard Landau?

—but it's something.

—

Lynx returns to Belobog. Panicked protectiveness overtakes self-loathing. Before Mother can contact her, Gepard swiftly asks her to join him on his next visit to the manor. Lynx agrees.

He's sleepless the night before the scheduled visit, cataloging everything Lynx will be forced to confront in the morning. Father's skeletal figure. His tremors and dizzy spells. His moments of aimless, undignified rage. Gepard feels at the edges of the widening pit inside him, marvels at how it threatens to swallow him entirely, and futilely wishes that Lynx will never have to feel the same. He wonders with sudden clarity if this desperate desire to shield is why Mother chases Gepard away during Father's worst moods. He doesn't know what to think about how easy it is to empathize with his liar of a mother when looking into Lynx's vulnerable eyes.

Reality disappoints his nightly fears. Lynx's eyes are clear under the rising sun instead of red-rimmed and sobbing. Her voice remains even in their quiet trolley conversations. For some reason, Lynx's calm only makes Gepard's hand clench tighter.

When they arrive at the manor's doorstep, Mother's judging gaze is for once pointed away from Gepard.

"How lovely to see you, Lynx," Mother comments mildly. "Your father thought you might avoid the manor for another year."

Gepard glances worriedly at Lynx. He catches a flicker of tension in her expression just as it fades away.

"It's good to be back, Mother," Lynx responds diplomatically.

Mother guides them through the manor halls with fraught small-talk. They pass by an open, taped-over door frame that earns a second, questioning glance from Lynx. Her footsteps slow as she cranes her neck to peek past the tape. She blanches at the sight of the ruined sitting room, devoid of elegant furniture, padded floor-to-ceiling with an ugly gray tarp pockmarked with boot-prints and debris.

"Is that…" Lynx mumbles.

"Don't dawdle," Mother says without looking back. "Your father is waiting to see you."

Lynx glances at Gepard with wide eyes. He sends her as sympathetic of a look as he can muster. They quicken their steps to catch up to Mother, who continues to march forward without looking back. Her brisk pace only slows to a stop once they reach an closed door.

Mother raps her knuckles against the door.

"Gepard and Lynx are here to see you, dear," Mother announces.

Muffled shuffling sounds through the door. Mother waits a second before opening the door, but it's not enough to hide the tail-end of Father's struggle upright on the bed. His weight sinks into the blue bed sheets as if the mattress has had ample time to memorize the mold of his body. Pill bottles and medical devices lay scattered in arms-reach atop the windowsill. An empty chair sits pointed watchfully toward Father's bed, out-of-place as if used so frequently that the servants have given up on returning it to its rightful place. Father's gaunt expression contorts into sternness as they pull up chairs around his bed.

"Captain," Father growls. "You've returned already. Are the Silvermane Guards so idle that their Captain can go gallivanting around whenever he pleases?"

The habitual wince from Father's disapproval never comes. Instead, all Gepard can think is how pale Father's face looks.

"I'm sorry, sir," Gepard forces out belatedly. He tries to add, you're more important to me than the Guards, but the words catch in his throat at the sight of Father's icy glare.

Father levels his glare at Lynx. "And you. I'm surprised to see you this time of year. Has your expedition ended early, Researcher?"

"Yes, sir," Lynx answers, subdued.

Father glances about. "Serval isn't here."

Gepard and Lynx exchange a startled look. Mother interjects smoothly, "She promised to come next time."

A shared grimace with Lynx. Serval made no such promise. Gepard is not looking forward to the fallout of Mother's efforts to make that lie a reality.

A maid comes in to set a platter of tea onto the side table. Gepard can't stop himself from peeking with pained curiosity as Mother lifts a teacup to Father's lips. Father brings his trembling, bony hands to the sides of the cup in a pretense of supporting it. The cup tilts slowly, arduously for what should have been a simple task of drinking.

The cup clacks noisily onto the tea tray. "Is there something on my face, Researcher?" Father growls.

Lynx starts at Gepard's side. She breaks her obvious, wide-eyed stare to look down at her lap.

"No, sir," she says quickly.

"Leonard," Mother says.

Father's narrowed gaze lands on Gepard. "And you. I thought you finally had the sense to find a woman. Where is she?"

Gepard breathes thinly. "I—"

"Leonard," Mother says again, more sharply. "Did you take your medicine?"

"I don't need it," Father growls.

"Your medications make you a more pleasant man, dear," Mother says, voice clipped.

Father's expression grows sullen. Childish. "I don't want them!" he suddenly fumes. "They're a waste of money, they don't work, and they only make me feel worse!"

Gepard lowers his eyes at another of Father's increasingly frequent tantrums. He glances at Lynx and feels his heart squeeze at the quiet realization on her face. This is Lynx's first time witnessing Father's childish outbursts. This is Lynx's first time seeing Leonard Landau's thundering, terrorizing reprimands as nothing more than aimless, immature anger.

Mother's lips thin into an uncompromising line. "I am taking Lynx and Gepard back to the foyer. You will not speak to them until you take your medicine."

Father snarls wordlessly at Mother. When she rises and motions for Gepard and Lynx to follow her, he throws a skeletal arm out.

"Wait," Father gasps, as if raising his arm had winded him. He sinks back into his pillows and gestures at the pill box on the windowsill. "Well?" he demands hoarsely.

Mother gestures at Gepard and Lynx to sit down. She gathers a handful of pills from box and helps Father take them into his mouth. Mother raises the teacup once again to Father's lips. Father swallows with a pained grimace.

Several minutes pass in silence before Father's expression relaxes. "I apologize for my outburst," Father says gruffly, unexpectedly. Gepard almost chokes on his own spit, and Lynx inhales sharply. Gepard quickly schools his expression when Father looks at him and asks, "Have you found a woman worth introducing to us, Captain?"

Sampo, his heart whispers. "Not yet, sir," he answers.

Father frowns with visible disappointment. Gepard feels his stomach twist.

"No man can accomplish everything on his own, Captain," Father warns. "Not a day passes without me thanking the Amber Lord for your mother's presence by my side. There will come a day when you, too, will need a woman's unconditional love and support."

Gepard dares not breathe as he glances at Mother's reaction to Father's words. What lies behind Mother's expression of stone? Resentment? Grief? Love? He suspects that Mother hasn't loved Father in a very long time—possibly ever—yet here she is still. By Father's side.

"Look at me, Son," Father snaps. Gepard's gaze catches onto icy blue obediently. "Promise me you will find a partner. Someone who will love you as you love her back."

Sampo, Sampo, Sampo, his heart sings. "I promise, sir," Gepard says shakily.

The routine promise appeases Father for now. His attention turns to Lynx, who mumbles reserved replies to a litany of probing questions in a mockery of a conversation. It's unnatural and awkward. Neither Lynx nor Gepard remember how to have a conversation with their father. It seems like Father doesn't remember, either.

Eventually, the painful interrogation slows down like sludge; something in Father's medicine must be calming him. His baritone quiets. His eyelids droop. His words slur disturbingly. When Father's head begins to bobble, Mother silently rises and herds them out of the room. The door to the downstairs guest room closes with a gentle click.

The walk through the manor is silent, devoid of niceties. When they arrive at the foyer, Mother extends her hand instead of bidding them goodbye.

"Gepard," Mother calls out. "The letter of release."

Gepard stares at the outstretched paper. He doesn't know what to feel. Surprise that Mother actually followed through? Distrust? Anger? Anger would be so much easier than whatever this slurry of emotion is.

"Thank you," Gepard says dully. He takes the paper.

Mother regards him with crease-lined eyes. She looks sad. She curtsies politely and leaves Gepard and Lynx to the foyer.

In the ensuing silence, unwanted feelings well in Gepard's throat. He distracts the panic away by searching Lynx's face for any sign of horror or dismay, but disappointingly—disappointingly?—all he finds is quiet pensiveness.

"I'm sorry you had to see Father like this," Gepard blurts out.

"Why are you apologizing?" Lynx asks. "I'm not a child. I don't need to be sheltered from the truth."

There's no bite in Lynx's voice, but Gepard winces anyways. He struggles to put together an apology, to explain that he just wanted to spare Lynx from the horror that struck his heart at the sight of Father's decay, but that old, familiar grip around his throat squeezes tight.

Lynx looks at him with concern. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Gepard chokes out, glancing away before an irrational anger flares on his face. He should be the one worrying about Lynx, not the other way around.

"Okay," Lynx says. "I'm going to grab lunch with Pela. Do you want to join?"

"I have to get Father's records," Gepard answers, voice taut.

"Okay," Lynx says again, quieter.

Lynx leaves. The moment the grand manor doors click close behind her, Gepard sags. What is he doing, getting offended by his younger sister's concern? Is it not enough to be a disappointing son? Must he be an unpleasant brother too?

Old demons circle him mockingly. Who is Gepard? A shitty son? An overbearing brother? An unwanted lover?

His taut fingers dig creases into the letter of release. He has a convenient answer right in front of him: Gepard is a man who will visit the Qlipoth Fort Infirmary and learn the truth of his father's illness. No more, no less.

—

That night, Gepard returns to his condo with Father's medical records in hand. Gepard showers, cleans his stump, brews himself a cup of tea, and sits down at his desk to read the papers. He painstakingly sorts the notes by date and wades through unfamiliar acronyms and jargon to piece together a vague story of Leonard Landau's decay.

It begins a year ago with Leonard Landau's fall down the stairs. No acute injuries from the fall, but ongoing phantom pain and lethargy are initially written off as a natural consequence of medication and losing a limb at war. Leonard Landau's Q-Leg is submitted to Qlipoth Fort for investigation, but no defect is found. Pain medications are changed to alleviate side effects.

Still, the symptoms persist. Disorientation, mood instability, and sleep difficulties come next. A psychiatric referral results in a diagnosis of PTSD. Psychiatric treatment is added to the ongoing pain and prosthesis treatments.

Still, the symptoms persist. Physical therapy becomes too painful for Leonard Landau to comply with. Qlipoth Fort now suspects that the illness is more than psychosomatic. A blood test reveals elevated levels of Fragmentum particulates in Leonard Landau's blood. Thus, the final diagnosis and its ensuing treatment: Chronic Fragmentum Sickness.

Still, the symptoms persist. Despite all expectation, despite the historical success of the treatment, Father only worsens. Hallucinations, delusions, moments of forgetfulness become routine. Treatment becomes aggressive. Qlipoth Fort no longer deems Leonard Landau capable of independent living; Cara Landau becomes Leonard Landau's caretaker, and later, his conservator.

The story ends two weeks ago with a rejected recommendation for inpatient hospitalization. There is no destination, no conclusion. Instead, the words "end-of-life care" jump out mockingly from the paper.

Gepard swallows as the undeniable truth sinks into him. Father will not get better.

The papers fall onto the floor as Gepard pushes back from the table forcefully. His body shakes with adrenaline. He has to do something. Surely there's something he can do. Like what? Punch Father's disease into the ground? Ha! He can't even tell his father that he cares about him. He stands up and stumbles to the open window, gulping the cold, stinging air with desperate breaths.

He has to do something. He has to do something, even if that something isn't making Father's horrible disease go away. Wouldn't a good son do something for his dying father? Something kind and caring? Something to show his love and support?

His mind churns sluggishly for any gift, any gesture, any kind words he could give to Father…and finds nothing. He doesn't know what Father needs. He doesn't know what Father wants. He doesn't know anything about Father. He only knows his father's stern words, his harsh expectations, his ailing health…

Qlipoth, what kind of son knows nothing about his own father?

In the end, Gepard simply collapses over his bed and folds his left hand around his stump in an imitation of a prayer. For the first time in years, he prays. Thoughts and prayers for Father's good health, because Gepard has nothing else to give.

—

Gepard is standing in Serval's workshop when the doorbell tinkles and Cara Landau enters. For the first time in years, Mother and Serval face each other like opponents to battle, their strikingly similar features contorted mirroring expressions of displeasure. Serval shouts, “Molly, break time!” sending Molly scampering out the front door past the regal Lady Landau. The three of them are left in silence.

“What do you want,” Serval finally snaps.

Mother's frown deepens the creases on her forehead. “Watch your tone, Serval. Your father wants to see you and your brother tomorrow.”

“So now my parents want to see me?” Serval scoffs.

Mother's eyes narrow. “Your father's illness is getting worse. He isn't going to recover. He wants to see his children while he still has time.”

The announcement of the inevitable brings a dull ache to Gepard's stomach. Serval turns away and pretends to wipe the counter.

“I don't see how that's my problem,” Serval says coldly.

“Serval.” Mother glares at her. “He is your father.”

“Not according to him,” Serval mutters. She stomps away into the backroom and slams the door.

Gepard looks at the closed door, then looks helplessly at his own mother. Mother meets his eyes with exhaustion.

“You know when to come,” Mother intones quietly. “And please talk to Serval. Don't let her make a decision that she'll regret.”

She ghosts away, her petticoat fluttering limply in her wake. Gepard waits quietly in the workshop, listening as the muffled growl of an electric guitar grows louder and louder, as if to drown out the sounds of broken families and unanswered regrets. Eventually, his phone buzzes with a text from Pela. He leaves his sister to bury herself in the backroom.

—

When Gepard arrives at the Landau estate, Serval is already sitting in the foyer, hair tied up in a proper bun and drowning in a modest gray peacoat that Gepard hasn't seen her wear in years.

“We're waiting for Lynxy,” Serval says without looking up.

Lynx arrives fifteen minutes later. Her clear eyes meet Serval's red-rimmed ones. Lynx reaches out to hold both of their hands.

"Ready?" Lynx asks, enviably calm.

Gepard squeezes her hand and tries to channel Lynx's steadiness. Serval inhales a shuddering breath and nods. They walk together through the manor they once called home.

When they enter the guest room, Mother rises from her and curtsies to them politely. A beat later, Father's eyes drift sluggishly to Serval and linger, a double-take that would have been a quick snap of the eyes in a healthy man. Serval flinches then bristles at the attention.

"Serval," Father rumbles. "You look different."

"Did you expect me to look the same after ten years?" Serval growls.

"Serval," Mother snaps. "Show your father some respect."

"Some father you are," Serval scoffs.

"Enough," Father interjects before Mother breaks into sharp words. His coarse voice momentarily thickens with a hint of steel before it collapses once again into something reedy and thin. "I did not call you here to fight, Serval. I wanted to see my eldest daughter again. Please put aside your animosity to grant this man's dying wish."

Serval's face twitches between warring emotions. She finally settles on pursing her lips together tightly that the red fades from her lips. Father's eyes linger hazily on Serval's unhappy form. He closes his eyes in a slow blink and turns to Gepard and Lynx.

"Researcher. Captain. It's good to see you both."

Gepard bows. Beside him, Lynx curtsies politely.

"When was the last time we were all together like this?" Father muses.

No one speaks. Mother answers after a beat. "Serval's graduation."

Father's face pinches. "When was that?"

"Twelve years ago," Serval answers, her voice terribly low.

Gepard watches the minute shifts in Father's expression as the answer sinks in. Father coughs a weak noise that could have been anything from a laugh to a sigh.

"Well, we're all here now," Father exhales. "Under Qlipoth's grace."

Silence descends once more. Father's gaze grows distant, as if the man within the bed-bound figure drifts further away from the guest room of the Landau mansion.

"Did you have something you wanted to tell the children, dear?" Mother nudges.

A flicker returns to Father's gaze. "Yes. All three of you, take a seat."

There's four seats circling Father's bed. Gepard crams himself into one of the vacant three. When they finally settle into the small space, Gepard's shoulder presses against Serval's, and his leg brushes against Mother's skirt. To be penned in so tightly by family should have been suffocating, but instead, it feels like standing in a phalanx with his fellow soldiers. Reassuring.

"As you all know, I am dying," Father begins simply. Gepard feels Serval's flinch echo into his own body. "Soon, I will no longer be the head of the Landau family. Things will change once I pass. Do not worry. Your mother and I have prepared accordingly. Your mother will help you all with the transition once I am gone.

"But that is not why I've called you here. Estates, inheritance, legalese—all this can be done over paper. Seeing your faces, seeing how you've all grown…" Father's hand raises toward the nearest of his children, Lynx. "…That is something I can only do in this precious moment."

Lynx stares with wide eyes at the shaking, outstretched hand. She encloses the it in both of her own, quelling the trembling. The smooth skin of her youth looks jarring against Father's frail, wrinkled hand.

"How you've grown, Lynx," Father sighs. "Your entire hand once fit in my palm. Are you happy exploring the Snow Plains, Researcher?"

"Yes, sir," Lynx says, her voice steady despite the sadness lacing her words.

"And is your friend Ms. Sergeyevna good to you?"

"Yes, sir," Lynx says again with surety.

Father's hand twitches under Lynx's—a faint squeeze. "You've always known who you are. Who you want to be. You've never wavered even when your own father tried everything he could to stop you. Never let that go, Lynx. Follow the path you've forged with the pride of a Landau, and know that I will always be proud of you."

Lynx's breath shakes. "Y-yes, sir," she says again, her voice gummed with emotion.

Father's icy eyes hover over Lynx's watering gaze and her trembling lips. His cloudy gaze drifts listlessly to Serval's.

"And you, Serval. My eldest." Lynx releases Father's hand to allow Father's bony grasp to reach toward Serval. "I'm so grateful to see you again. I worried that you were lost to me forever."

Serval leans away from his grasp, into Gepard's shoulder. Her hands dig painfully into the base of her seat. "You were the one who didn't want me for a daughter," she bites out venomously.

Father's untaken hand falls limply onto the bedsheet. "I understand that you hold resentment toward me. I do not blame you. To be divested of family is a cruel punishment. You've suffered much from my decisions."

Father's face contorts into an expression that looks bizarre on his sturdy features. Is that…regret?

"My eldest," Father groans as if the words were torn from his chest. "My passionate, brilliant Serval. You were the fire of the Landau family. You deserved to shine bright instead of having your spark doused. You did not deserve this fate. I'm sorry."

Serval scoffs. "You're ten years too late, Leonard."

"Serval," Mother snaps. "Is this appropriate right now?"

"No," Serval snarls. "You don't get to tell me to be quiet. That's what you do: stand by and say nothing when your daughter gets witch-hunted for doing the right thing!"

"Serval," Father mumbles. "We did what we thought was best for you."

"Best for me?" Serval rises from her chair. "Throwing me away was what was best for me?"

"Serval—" Father mumbles again, but Serval's cry tramples over his feeble voice. She screams, "How could you say that—!" before Mother shoots up with an harrowing screech of her chair. Serval falls into a shocked silence.

"You're always like this," Mother thunders. "Selfish. Shortsighted. You didn't even stop to think what speaking out against the Supreme Guardian would do to your family. You forced us into an impossible choice, and now you blame us for doing what we must to protect the family. Think, Serval. What do you think Madam Rand would have done to your siblings if we didn't distance ourselves from you? What do you think she would have done to you?"

"Shut up!" Serval howls. “Just shut up! You always make excuses! Family this, family that—shut the fuck up! You don't even love him!" Serval jabs wildly in Father's direction, chest heaving. "Why are you here, Cara? Why are you standing by a husband you don't even love, pretending you actually give a damn about your children?”

Mother's voice is frigid. “I suppose you wouldn't know the meaning of family, Serval.”

Serval reels back as if physically struck. Tears stream openly down her face. She wails a terrible sob as she rushes out of the room. Gepard rises to chase after her, but Mother's limp voice locks his legs.

“Gepard, please. Don't leave your father too.”

Gepard's heart tries to pound through his ribs. He breathes deeply and forces his legs to collapse back into the chair.

“You shouldn't have said that, dear,” Father croaks.

Mother side-eyes Father. Gepard can almost hear her acerbic retort, You’ve said worse, before Mother sits down and smooths out her skirt.

An outstretched, skeletal hand distracts Gepard from his heart trying to beat itself out of his chest. It's Gepard's turn. Gepard wills himself not to shake as he takes Father's hand in his, to steady Father's trembling hand like a good son instead of rattling it further.

"Gepard," Father calls out. "My son. My pride."

Gepard reels at the sound of his proper name. "Sir," his mouth answers out of habit.

"Lieutenant at twenty-three. Captain at twenty-seven. Hero at the Battle of Everwinter Hill. Ally of Backwater Pass." Something warm flickers in Father's normally frigid gaze. "Gepard, I'm so, so proud of you. You are the greatest son I could have asked for. I thank Qlipoth every day for what a fine man you've become."

Gepard stomach revolts. He can't listen to this. "Father, please, you don't have to—"

"No," Father gasps. "Listen to me, Son. A dying man realizes things. My last revelation—my greatest regret—is that I've failed you."

The word lashes through Gepard like a whip: failure, failure, failure. Father's voice grows rough, scoring gashes through Gepard's panicking heart.

"I fear that I've taught you the wrong lessons," Father groans. "I fear that I've taught you to be cold and unyielding. I fear that I've taught you to fight but not to love. The anguish I will carry until my last breath is the thought that I've poisoned you irreparably, that you will be alone in life because of me—!"

Father shudders. To Gepard's horror, tears trail down Father's cheeks.

"Please, Gepard," Father whispers. "Don't be a regretful old man like me. All I want for you is to be happy. Find a woman you love, and be happy."

The universe narrows to a single point, October 21, 700 AF, in a guest suite of the Landau estate. Gepard hears the natter of a grandfather clock, tick, tock, tick, tock, as each second deepens the hole in his stomach. Chilly pinpricks of Belobog air raise goosebumps on his flesh. Gepard falls and floats in a mire. He's never felt more dead. He's never felt more unfortunately alive.

Too many beats pass. Gepard is still sitting next to his dying father, even if his body is no longer his. “Yes, sir,” his mouth says.

Father's brow wrinkles. His muted blue eyes flicker. Gepard can't read his father's expression. Father’s wrinkled hands tighten around Gepard's—when did his father’s grip become so weak?—before Leonard Landau lets go. 

“You must be busy, Captain. Return to your duties.” Father wheezes. 

Gepard's body salutes on reflex. “Yes, sir.” 

Father's gaze wanders to Lynx. “You too, Researcher.”

“Yes, sir,” Lynx says quietly.

Neither of them leave. Father's expression grows stern. “Cara, please escort them out.” 

Mother rises dutifully, dress falling around her like a ghostly curtain. She presses a delicate hand against both of their backs and ushers them downstairs. She stops at the living room. Her gaze lingers on their expressions. 

"You're welcome to stay in the manor as long as you would like," Mother offers almost gently. "Serval, too."

Mother drifts away to take her enduring post at Father's side.

An indeterminate amount of time passes. Gepard is just aware enough of the world past the blizzard inside him to know that Lynx has not left him despite his unsightly twitching. Must it always come to this? Gepard wonders deliriously. Must he always fall apart with Lynx as his audience?

“Gepard,” Lynx says tentatively. “You know he wasn't asking you to marry a woman, right? He was asking you to be happy.”

Gepard feels his heart freeze over. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

Lynx's owlish eyes blink up at him. “Gepard, I know you're gay. We all know you're gay. I think even Father knew, even if he couldn't bring himself to admit it to the very end.”

“Don't.”

“Father is traditional. He thinks happiness is marrying a good lady and having a big family. That doesn't have to be what happiness means for you. You don't have to—”

“Don't. Please.” Gepard is shaking.

Lynx snaps her mouth shut. Her eyes widen and tremble—or is it Gepard's own vision that's trembling? “Gepard, I—I'm sorry.”

Gepard laughs wetly. “You didn't do anything wrong, Lynxy.”

Gepard pulls her into his arms just as his vision disappears behind a deluge of tears. Lynx makes no comment on how desperately he clings to her, just clutches him tighter as tears pour out in lieu of words. He knows. He knows that Father loves him. He knows that Father wants the best for him, even though—because—Father has endlessly torn him apart and remade him in the shape of a soldier. Father loves him, and Gepard loves his father, but none of that matters because Father is going to die. Father and his stoic love and deep-cutting hurtfulness are all equally going to die. Father is going to die knowing that Gepard will never become the man he wants him to be.

Look at him, bawling over a man who broke him, loved him, made him, failed him.

Gepard releases Lynx with a bitten-off sob. He wipes the tears from his cheeks and straightens with the dignity of a captain. He pretends not to see the pity in Lynx's watery gaze.

"Let's find Serval," he says with a voice that doesn't tremble.

—

Dawn in Boulder Town announces itself not with golden hues breaking a black sky but with the clamor of miners trudging to another day of labor. In the luxury of a clinic office, a fool pays no attention to the hubbub outside. Instead, his eyes trail across a constellation of ink mapped onto scattered papers atop an otherwise-neat desk.

The ink tells a grim story. A once-shredded, painstakingly-reassembled crime report stutters through multiple sightings of Fragmentum corpse tampering in the formerly-quarantined Backwater Pass. Oleg's meticulous script reports an unexplained influx of black-market medications into the Underworld. A jargon-filled doctor's note lists Leonard Landau's matching prescriptions. Qlipoth Fort Infirmary's neat logs records the names, date, time, and assignments of its on-duty nurses and aides. One name in particular makes him scoff.

He leans back into Natasha's creaky office chair with a sigh. No matter how many times he rereads these documents, the tale they tell remains the same: someone in Qlipoth Fort has been tampering with Leonard Landau's medications for a year, poisoning him with the very Fragmentum dust his doctors were trying to treat.

"How ironic!" he singsongs.

He considers his options. The perpetrator's identity complicates things. Tipping anyone in Qlipoth Fort would be a risk. He could tell Gepard directly, but the thought of personally and intimately witnessing the horror bleaching those baby blue eyes makes him wince. Maybe he could just leave a text? He's about to leave Belobog anyways.

Sad blue eyes flash accusingly across the back of his eyes.

"What?" he whines. "Haven't I done enough?"

Gepard's stupidly beautiful face looks forlornly back at him. He scowls at it helplessly. It's not like he has time to do more.

The door creaks open. He banishes his hallucinations and looks up with a bright smile. "Ms. Natasha, you should really learn to knock!"

At the door, Natasha raises a brow. "You're sitting in my office. In my clinic. Reading my notes."

"And I'm so grateful for your endless generosity. Truly!"

Natasha sends him an unamused look. She sighs, then gets straight to business.

"Vache had a lab in the Southern Snow Plains," she says.

He tilts his head inquisitively. "Oh? Did you find him?"

He knows she didn't. He spent one of his first nights on Jarilo-VI in that laboratory, although he couldn't make it into a proper safehouse until its resident researcher disappeared years later.

"No. He passed years ago," Natasha admits. "But his research bore fruit. He called it Blizzard Immunity. The Silvermane Guards use it to this day."

The naked vulnerability in Natasha's words worms uncomfortably through his skin.

"Well, it's nice that something good came from his horrible experiments!" he tries. He winces and adds, "Sorry about his passing, though. That's…unfortunate."

"There's no need for sorries. I found closure. That's enough." She looks at him with a quiet expression. "I wouldn't have known about my brother's fate had you not delivered that letter to my parents. Thank you, Sampo."

Aha's third nipple, Natasha's genuine gratitude is almost as uncomfortable as her grief.

"Not a problem, Ms. Natasha!" he chirps buoyantly. "Always happy to do a favor for some rent-free office space."

He internally sighs in relief when Natasha rolls her eyes instead of saying more. Good. One more loose end closed with minimal discomfort. Now what to do about Geppie's bore of a father…

Natasha makes no move to exit the office. Instead, she looks at him thoughtfully with crossed arms.

"Are you going somewhere?" she asks.

He hums absentmindedly. "Just taking a vacation."

"Should I expect to see you again?"

He almost laughs. Nat has always been too perceptive for her own good.

"Ask the stars, not me," he says with a smile.

There's clearly something unpleasantly sincere that Natasha wants to say, but by Aha's grace, his lazy, inattentive grin convinces Natasha to settle with a sigh.

"Safe travels," she says.

He chuckles. "Not if I can help it."

Natasha's disapproving look is a comfortingly familiar sight. He'll miss it, he admits. But the universe's stage doesn't wait for performers who linger. All he can do for this little planet is tie a neat, tidy ending before Belobog becomes just another title on his ever-growing list of credits.

Natasha sends him one last inscrutable look before she closes the office door behind her. Something in him relaxes in her absence. He returns his attention to the troublesome papers atop Natasha's desk.

A buzz from his phone steals his attention.

Unknown

You owe me a favor

He raises a brow. Whoever this business associate is, they'll be sorely disappointed when he literally disappears from the face of the planet.

Sampo Koski

who is this

Unknown

Lynx Landau

Pleasant surprise overtakes him. Did the littlest Landau wheedle his number from one of her siblings? His smiles indulgently. He can spare time for li'l Lynxy.

Sampo Koski

lynxy!!

my fav landau!

u finally got around to txting me

try sending something less scary next time

Lynxy

My father passed away two days ago

His mirth dies like a candle's flame. His smile remains pasted to his cheeks for a second more before it, too, belatedly dies. He tries to muster up any flicker of entertainment, but he remains empty. He doesn't have a chance to reassemble his mask before Lynx widens the hole inside him.

Lynxy

Gepard is missing

He left the manor last night

He isn't responding to our messages

Can you find him?

Sampo Koski

y me

Lynxy

Because he's your actual favorite Landau

He shuts down his phone. The documents glare at him from the desk. Phantom blue eyes stare at him, accusing in their sadness. He glares back.

Aeons, how many times has he gone off-script to soothe that kicked-puppy look? How many times has he risked himself out of the goodness of his heart? How many years has he spent learning those blue eyes better than he knows himself? Hasn't he done enough?

The answer is obvious. He grits his teeth and dismisses the documents into his inventory. When Natasha returns to her office minutes later, she finds nothing but an empty office and an open window.

—

It takes him longer than he would like to sneak into Gepard's condo. Giving in to his impatience would mean leading his pursuers straight to Gepard—an unacceptable outcome. He spends precious time setting up false trails, teleporting between dead ends, and switching between multiple disguises before he is alone enough to climb through the window of Gepard's sixth-floor bedroom.

The bedroom is messy and devoid of life. He risks calling out Gepard's name, but there's no reply. He searches each room carefully, frowning at the accumulated mess. When did Gepard stop doing his laundry? And the dishes? The condo is woefully uninhabited. He gives up and slips out the window.

He sneaks around Qlipoth Fort next. He leaps from windowsill to windowsill, hidden by the hum of his cloaking device, but his body tenses all the same at the sight of uniformed Guards through the glass panes. Gepard better appreciate his efforts, he thinks with annoyance. But he finds neither Gepard nor his appreciation in Qlipoth Fort. He hurries away from the awful fortress with considerable relief.

He checks Neverwinter Workshop. Neither Serval nor Gepard are there. He tries Eversummer Florist next, but his increasingly desperate search is unfruitful. He's running out of ideas. How can such a handsome, predictable man be so hard to find?

A couple walks by hand in hand. The answer hits him. He slaps his forehead, exasperated by his stupidity.

He races to the first place he should have visited.

—

The stone gardens of the Rhonda Landau Memorial Park are disappointingly plain in the daylight, unremarkable compared to the vast greenery of Vonwacq or the endless blues of Lushaka. He was absolutely delusional to find them charming under the moonlight, in the presence of a sweet blond man with a soft look in his eyes. He chases after the lingering whispers of that gentle ghost now as if once again bewitched. They lead him to a familiar stone wall with its metal gate swung ajar.

Something tightens irrationally inside him as he passes by the memorial garden's sacred boundary. He retraces glimpses of fond looks and echoes of low whispers until a familiar spear emerges to pierce the horizon. He braces himself—for what? Geppie couldn't hurt him if he tried—before he rounds the corner.

At first, he sees nothing but a statue. He blinks and realizes that the stillness crumpled before the monument is a hunched body. It stares at the new name etched into the monument's placard, heedless of the dirt marring its white uniform pants. He swallows thickly.

He approaches the kneeling figure with loud, projected footsteps. When the messy blond head doesn't so much as twitch from its vacant stare, he lowers himself onto the grass beside the still body, leaning back casually on his palms.

"You left the gate unlocked," he says. His own voice sounds strange.

Gepard doesn't react. For some reason, this makes the fool's hands clench into the soil.

"I would've brought something to drink," he rambles. "Maybe a beer. Or some vodka, depending on how drunk you want to be. But I was in a bit of a hurry. Sorry to disappoint."

Still no response. He bites his cheek and tries to piece together a script. Should he offer his condolences? Should he mention that Lynx asked him to find Gepard? Should he tell Gepard about his father's poisoning? The documents flutter pointedly in the back of his mind. How is he supposed to slip that into the conversation when Gepard is like this?

He hates this dull, suffocating silence. His mouth rushes to fill it before he can stop himself.

"Welcome to the first day of your new life," he chirps. "What's the first thing you're going to do?"

Finally, Gepard looks up.

"What," Gepard says.

An alarm goes off inside him. That blank expression on Gepard's red-rimmed eyes is a warning. But his impulsive mouth races ahead of him, encouraged by the break in Gepard's awful stillness.

"You're a free man now, Geppie," he rambles. "There's a whole world awaiting you now that you don't have your nasty ol' man yelling at you for everything you do. So what'll it be? Quit your job? Open a flower shop? Find a cute boy to date?"

His cheek contorts into a wink against his will. Gepard stares at him, empty blue eyes coloring with an emotion that slowly but surely solidifies unmistakably into fury.

"Sampo," Gepard says slowly. "Are you suggesting that I was waiting for my father to die?"

His cheeks are frozen into a smile. "Of course not, but—"

“But what?” Gepard interjects, voice trembling like an earthquake. “But he was a shitty father? But he was an angry, abusive man who deserved to die?”

Finally, he wrests his traitorous cheeks under control. The smile disappears behind what he hopes to be solemn sympathy. "But I thought you would feel relieved," he says truthfully.

"Relieved?" Gepard echoes in disbelief.

He shrugs. "At least a little."

Gepard stares at his placid expression. He can see the moment it sinks into those blue eyes that, yes, he really just said what he just said.

“What's wrong with you?” Gepard chokes out.

A lot, he almost says.

Oops. He's misstepped. He's improvised the wrong lines, delivered them with the wrong emotion, muddled his timing. He empties. His mask returns to rest. The script racing through his thoughts disappears like a paper crumpled and thrown away. He is a blank slate as he watches Gepard's expression crack into brittle shards.

"Sampo. My father just died," Gepard gasps. "Why would you say that?"

He watches with scientific detachment as Gepard looms toward him, jaw clenched, fists curled, rage streaking wetly down the angles of his face. Does Gepard want to punch him? Arrest him? Is that how he can fix this? Would that do what this fool's empty words failed to do and make that horrid expression on Gepard's face go away?

A hand rests on his chest. He doesn't blink as it tightens into a ball around the fabric of his shirt, ready to accept whatever hurt will be inflicted. But the fist doesn't move. Just clenches tightly around his shirt and holds on.

"Sampo," Gepard cries. "Look at me. Are you really just going to sit there and—and just—?"

And what? the actor wonders. He waits for his cue, but Gepard just chokes on a sob and stares at him with pleading, weeping eyes.

"I don't know what you want from me," he admits tonelessly.

Something dies inside Gepard's eyes. The fist drops limply. Gepard turns away and becomes a kneeling statue once more.

"Get out," Gepard says.

He doesn't move. He should probably tell Gepard about the poisoning.

"Get out before I arrest you for trespassing," Gepard says.

He can't, he realizes. He can't tell Gepard that his father was murdered, not without etching that awful, horrid expression deeper into that gentle face. He buries the documents away. One last secret.

"You shouldn't stay here," he says instead. He's trying to say something bigger, but that's all that comes out.

"Leave!" Gepard howls. "That's all you want to do anyway!"

He watches a tear drop from Gepard's jaw onto the ground, soaking into the earth like the acceptance that seeps into him. Gepard is right. He's not a real person capable of something as sincere as staying. He turns away and puppets his legs into walking out of the garden, ignoring the whispers of ghosts as he passes by. He messages Lynx.

Sampo Koski

hes in the memorial garden

he wont leave

u shud go get him

Lynxy

Thank you for finding him

The job is done. He closes his phone and searches the horizon for the direction of the IPS Outreach.

Something metallic glints in the shadows between distant trees.

He teleports into the shadows before he can even think and slams down the butt of his knife hard. The figure in front of him crumples like a ragdoll to the ground. He kicks the military-issued rifle away from the unconscious figure's hands and prods the body until it faces upright. The wrinkled mug of a slack-jawed, middle-aged man greets him. His grin sharpens when he recognizes the face.

"You're unlucky, Acting Captain Swanson," he coos. "You caught me in a bad mood. And depending on why you happen to be oh-so-close to the Landaus' private garden, you just might make it worse."

He looks away from the ugly, unconscious man to stare at his hands, fascinated by the way they tremble with emotion. Moments ago, inside the memorial garden, he was an empty cup, drained of false emotion by the black hole that was Gepard's soul-sucking grief. Now, his patchwork seams burst with itches. He paces frenetically around the unconscious body, scratching himself as a rainbow of feelings oozes from him. He tries to scoop the sludge into his masks, then laughs when muddy slop pours out from their edges.

Aha's tits, it's almost like he's a real person! He hasn't been a real person since—since—

He cackles. He can't even remember!

His laughter stops abruptly as calm shutters into him. He's not a real person. He doesn't have real emotions, real words, real sympathy to give. But he can make terrible things go away. He can take an ugly truth and bury it under so many masks that it ceases to exist.

In the depths of his inventory, the incriminating documents rustle in demand. He considers them, then examines the unconscious body before him. A smirk slowly stretches across his face. He grabs the man's collar and readies his knives.

"Let's have a chat with your employer," he chirps before he and the unconscious man blink out of existence.

—

The sun is once again peeking over the horizon when he ties his last loose end. When he finally returns to Giovanni's suite, Giovanni is reading on the living room couch, obviously waiting for him.

"Your 'quick walk' took a while," Giovanni comments without looking up. "Ms. Topaz isn't happy with the delay."

He smiles. "Tell her I had some debts to settle and that she, of all people, should understand."

"I will not tell her that," Giovanni says dryly. "Ready to go?"

He opens his mouth then pauses at an unexpected buzz from his phone.

Geppie

What you said yesterday was out of line, but I know how hard it is for you to be there for me. Thank you for trying anyway.

He stares unblinkingly at the text until his eyes begin to water from dryness. His inventory is silent where rustling once echoed. Colors seep through his seams. One last secret, he reminds himself through the wetness in his eyes.

He removes Sampo Koski from his phone. Geppie's messages disappear. All that remains is a blank slate.

"I'm ready," he says with a grin.

Chapter Text

Grief is a storm that comes and goes.

The days following Father's death are the slow steps up the slope of a wintry mountain. Gepard places one foot at a time into the imprints in the snow before him. Eat. Sleep. Clean. Check the mail. Simple, familiar duty urges him forward like the encouraging touch of parent. Climbing should be easy. He's done this all his life, after all.

But too often he inexplicably trips on nothing. A glance at his Captain's uniform, once filled out by his father's broad shoulders, and Gepard finds himself kneeling on the ground staring at the drying tear stains on his carpet. The sound of soldiers marching by on the street, and his throat balloons until he can no longer breathe. An untucked corner of his military-made bed, and he loses himself into furiously tearing the bedsheets off his mattress and smoothing them over and over. The slightest uneven ground, and he's plummeting off the cliffside in the howling wind.

Grief is a raging storm that slices through him. Tears the shabby house from its broken foundation and shreds Gepard's heart with its jagged debris. It leaves Gepard wheezing through his closed throat, trembling from the sickness in his chest, disgusted by the wetness dripping from his eyes and his nose.

But the storm always passes. It strips him of despair and joy alike. Then Gepard pushes himself onto his feet and trudges back up the mountain one step at a time, as Father taught him.

—

The path to Qlipoth Fort is a trail of footprints worn deep into the ground by Father's heavy boots. Gepard marches along, planting each foot in the vast space his father left behind. People on the street greet him cheerfully as he passes by. Gepard waves back as if he hadn't been watching his tears splatter onto his bathroom sink mere minutes ago.

It's immediately obvious who in Qlipoth Fort knows about Father's death and who doesn't. An administrator's gaze lingers too long, then flickers away when Gepard meets his eyes. A passing officer nods to him with unusual gravitas. Bronya's secretary does not ask why when Gepard asks to speak with the Supreme Guardian. He walks alone down the long hall leading to Bronya's private office.

"Seele, a moment, please," Bronya says as soon as Gepard enters.

Seele meets Bronya's eyes, then looks at Gepard with an awkward grimace. The doors close behind Seele's back. Bronya inhales a shuddering breath.

"Gepard, I am so sorry about your father," Bronya whispers.

Good. Gepard doesn't have to rehash Father's passing. He's not sure his hoarse throat would allow him.

"I need one week off to sort Father's affairs," Gepard states simply.

Bronya's eyes widen. She trembles in Gepard's place, as if she had stolen all the anguish from Gepard's unfeeling body.

"Three weeks," Bronya counters.

"I only need one," Gepard explains. "There's nothing urgent besides the funeral, and Mother is handling most of the work."

"You need time to mourn, Gepard."

"One week is enough."

"No," Bronya chokes out. "No amount of time in the world is enough."

Irritation begins to prickle through the numbness. "What would you have me do, Bronya?" Gepard growls. "Linger on something that already happened? Waste away over something I can't change? The world moves on. There's more work to be done. The Silvermane Guards need their Captain."

"No more than their Captain needs his rest," Bronya retorts.

"You didn't take a single day off when Madam Rand passed," Gepard snaps.

"And it was awful!" Bronya shouts. "My mother died spitting in the face of everything I believed, yet all I could do was move on because the world demanded it. I will not have you suffer the same. Three weeks, Gepard. That's final."

The pained fervor in Bronya's voice cracks into something brittle by the end of her outburst. Gepard, who just rode the rollercoaster of her emotions, feels his annoyance wash away into shame.

"I'm sorry," Gepard mumbles.

Bronya's eyes soften. "Don't be. You deserve to give your father a proper goodbye."

"You did, too," Gepard whispers.

Bronya smiles sadly. "Thank you," she says with painful sincerity. "Go home, Gepard. Do whatever you need to do in these three weeks."

Gepard goes.

—

On the fourth day of life after Father, Cara Landau publicly announces the passing of her late husband and the former Captain of the Silvermane Guards Leonard Dmitrievich Landau. Friends, acquaintances, and near-strangers bombard Gepard with written sorries. This disturbs Gepard's familiar cycle of anguish and numbness enough for him to read through and be done with the unwanted consolations once and for all.

He reads his mail first. There's a letter from every significant family in Belobog, as well as from coworkers, business partners, even complete strangers. He skims through elegant sentences briskly, unwilling to let polite recollections about his father provoke his grief from its slumber. Replying is tedious, mind-numbing, and insincere—but that's everything he desperately wants to be right now.

He scrolls through his phone next. There's tens of missed calls and voicemails from familiar names—Dunn, Pela, Victor.

"—Landau, I just heard the news, and I am so, so sorry—"

"—I know what it's like to lose someone. I'm sorry that you have to experience it too—"

"—nothing I say can possibly take away the pain you must feel—"

"—don't worry about work, okay? I'll hold things down in the restricted zone for as long as you need—"

"—I'm looking after Lynxy. She won't be alone. I hope you aren't either—"

"—if you need a friend, I am just one call away—"

It's much harder staying aloof to the quiet, pained voices of friends and acquaintances. Everything blurs together. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Gepard blinks rapidly until the haze clears.

His unread texts are thankfully lighter. There's a text from Victor asking to meet and discuss something with strange urgency. There's a text from Pela, a pretty, hand-drawn portrait of Bronya in the style of their old wanted posters.

But Lynx's texts unexpectedly hurt. She, unlike him and Serval, has found the strength to message regularly in the past week. There's a picture of burnt marshmallows over a lit hearth. One of Pela's deadpan expression. An unanswered question about whether he prefers cinnamon or butterscotch. A selfie of a botched makeup attempt. Lynx looks fine. As if Father's passing hasn't destroyed her. The ensuing surge of envy sickens him. Gepard forces it down and replies: Cinnamon. Sorry I just saw this.

Gepard leaves Lynx's conversation and his unsettling jealousy. He scrolls, searching for comfort in Serval's texts. His thumb stutters instead at the sight of his last message to Sampo.

Gepard

What you said yesterday was out of line, but I know how hard it is for you to be there for me. Thank you for trying anyway.

Fuck. Fuck. He doesn't want to remember that day in the garden. The gaping wound of Father's last breath was the worst pain Gepard had ever felt, worse than losing a hand, worse than the humiliation of his failed engagement, worse than the sting of Sampo's rejections. And Sampo was there to witness it.

Gepard clutches himself. His fingers curl tightly into the fabric around his right arm, mimicking the comforting embrace he so desperately wanted from Sampo in the garden. Instead, Sampo had mocked him. And Gepard, too stupid with pain to see through Sampo's front, had chased him away.

"I know that's not what you meant to say," Gepard calls out shakily. "Come back."

The message was read over a week ago. Still no Sampo. Gepard hugs himself tighter, longing bleeding into grief. He can't stop himself from messaging Sampo throughout the day.

Gepard

Would you like to come over for tea?

Gepard

I'm on leave if you're worried I'm going to arrest you.

Gepard

Sorry. I know you said it was a bad idea.

Gepard

Are you ignoring me because of what I said at the garden?

No reply. Not even a "read" indicator. Loneliness washes over Gepard. He begins to draft a plea for Sampo's forgiveness, a confession of how much he wants to not be alone right now—

His fingers halt on the O of his sorry, arrested by a darkness pounding demanding and persistent behind his eyes. Gepard's fingers clench punishingly around his phone when he finds a name for the feeling: Anger.

Gepard can't delete the aborted apology fast enough. His thumb swipes through several discarded messages—How dare you—You're so self-centered—You mocked me while I was grieving—before he barks a strangled shout and throws the phone onto his bed. Fuck Sampo. Fuck him and his mixed messages, his avoidance, his infuriating ability to always make Gepard the loser in his stupid games. Gepard did nothing wrong. Sampo and his twisted words don't deserve a single second more of Gepard's guilt. The only person who deserves to consume all of Gepard's thoughts is—is—

His eyes water again. The wave of grief crashes into him and drowns him. He rides its turbulent swells until the storm quiets, leaving him with swollen eyes and dried salt tracks down his cheeks.

He lies down and stares at the ceiling. He's blessedly empty—the calm after the storm. The storm will come again, but for now, he savors his reprieve.

—

Qlipoth Fort announces a public ceremony to honor the late Captain Landau in the Rhonda Landau Memorial Park, which the widow Cara Landau generously offered as a venue. All are welcome to pay respects.

On the dawn of ceremony day, Gepard forces himself to his feet, despite how his eyes still water at the slightest provocation, despite his overwhelming desire to lie down and never wake up again. He shaves. He irons his dress shirt. He slips into the black suit Mother mailed to his condo the day before. He takes the trolley to the park.

A hush descends the setup crew when Gepard walks into view of the ceremony's clearing. It's hard to distinguish the pointed silence from the cottony dullness that has constantly muffled Gepard's ears since Father's passing. Gepard ignores both and walks to his designated seat beside his mother. The broad rim of her black, flowered hat tilts as she nods in greeting.

"You're early," Mother observes. "A good impression to leave as the new head of the Landau family. Let's hope your siblings don't ruin it with their tardiness."

Gepard doesn't respond to Mother's pretenses.

Mother sighs. "I know this is hard on you, but the world won't wait for you to be ready. Look around."

Gepard stares at the ground a moment more before he sighs and looks. Heads turn away and working motions resume in uncanny unison. Gepard flinches, unsettled. The afterimage of many, many eyes staring at him burns into his retinas.

"They're always watching," Mother says. "Remember that."

Gepard prays to Qlipoth that the storm stays dormant today.

The park opens first to the noble families of Belobog. Gepard watches stonily as familiar faces approach in groups. George Limestein, who once passed his daugher's hand to Gepard every weekend, greets Gepard and Mother with eloquent sorrow. Wallace Limestein even manages to twist his usual sneer into a pained grimace as he offers Gepard a long-winded but sincere condolence.

There's the Maukins, whose lady clasps both of Mother's hands in hers and whispers quietly to her. There's the Villiers, who bring giant bouquets to leave at the memorial display. There's the Rands, one of whom takes one look at Gepard and wordlessly pulls him into a hug. Gepard hugs Bronya tightly back. He wishes desperately that he was a better friend to her months ago in her own time of mourning.

Then come the Herreros. Architect Justicia Herrero is austere as she goes to Mother and speaks words of comfort to her. Gloria Herrero stands by her mother's side. Gepard looks away, unsettled by the sight of a woman whom he once arrested, then flinches when his eyes meet Matilda's. He looks down, takes a deep breath, and meets her eyes steadily.

"Gepard," Matilda says softly. "I'm sorry about your father. I know you loved him dearly."

"Thank you," Gepard says. "He thought very highly of you."

It's the wrong thing to say. Gepard can see the thought manifest between them, that Father's regard for Matilda was exactly why he wanted to wed Gepard to her. Gepard bites his lip. He wills the grief not to surge out of his body through his eyes.

"Where's Victor?" Gepard blurts out. He needs a friendly face right now.

Matilda's expression closes. "He's ill."

"Oh." Gepard pauses for too long. "I hope he feels better soon."

The Herreros move away. Matilda whispers a quiet thank you and floats away with them. Gepard returns to staring at the memorial display, letting the hurt of Victor's absence drown out his everlasting grief.

The public arrives. A large crowd forms, spilling past the arranged seats into the open grass. The two seats to Gepard's right remain empty. The ceremony is about to begin.

Mother sighs. "So your siblings didn't come. I expected this from Serval, but not from Lynx."

Mother's words ring true. Here Gepard is, the responsible son alone at a public ceremony he doesn't want to attend, once again abandoned by Serval, Lynx, and even his friend Victor. Gepard trembles, startled by the vicious bitterness that abruptly stabs through him. He breathes deeply and begins to count silently, drowning out the gurgling of his leaking grief with numbers.

One, two, three…

When he reaches five hundred and nineteen, his concentration wavers just enough to hear a man's eulogy booming through the speakers—

"—to him, we were not just comrades-in-arms. To him, we were all his brothers, sisters, and children, his to guide, his to elevate—"

Gepard almost laughs incredulously. Who are these strangers to say they were family to Leonard Landau? Gepard was his father's son. Gepard was Father's to guide, Father's to elevate, even if this soldier spent far more time with Father on the frontline than his own son did. Even if this soldier likely knew Father better than his own son did. Leonard Landau is Gepard's to mourn. Leonard Landau is Gepard's dead, lifeless, buried father—!

Gepard's eyes grow hot.

Horror strikes Gepard. No. He can't cry. Not when everyone is watching. He tries to resume his count, but where was he? Four hundred? No matter, he can start over. One, two, three—

The flood gates crumble. Grief overflows. Gepard gasps as his eyes boil over and warmth spills onto his cheeks. He looks down, hoping stupidly that his slicked-back hair will hide the wet blobs splattering onto his lap.

Whispers rise around him. He hears his name. Gepard stares at his blurry lap, too afraid to look up.

"Gepard," Mother warns quietly beside him.

Gepard squeezes his eyes shut. "I know."

Tears trail helplessly down his cheeks as he sits awaiting Mother's castigation. Instead, her hand comes to rest atop his own just before Gepard drowns under the turbulence. The torrential storm sweeps him away into a timeless, sightless void. There's only him, his dead father, and Mother's wrinkled hand atop his.

But the storm calms, as always. Gepard resurfaces from the quieted waves damp and disgusting. Mother's hand is still over his. Gepard lets her warmth seep into his chilled, shaking body. He opens his eyes and recoils bodily at the sight of the Herrero family leering at him like voyeurs.

"Look ahead, Gepard," Mother whispers, squeezing his hand. "Don't let them break you."

Gepard latches onto Mother's hand like a lifeline and looks ahead.

Eventually, the tear-tracks on his face dry completely. Eventually, the Herreros direct their ogling elsewhere. Eventually, the service ends. A gentle shuffle murmurs as people rise from their seats and move across the clearing to pay respects to the memorial display. Mother finally lifts her hand from Gepard's. She rises from her seat, and Gepard sluggishly rises with her.

"Captain?" someone says.

Mother halts beside him and wrinkles her nose as if she smelled something strange. There's an unfamiliar elderly woman standing before them. She's wheeling a cart laden with white flowers and boxes.

"I'm sorry, ma'am. You have the advantage of me," Gepard mumbles through his sticky throat.

The elderly woman smiles, her laugh-lines deepening. "Don't apologize, Captain. We've only met once. I was one of the refugees at Goethe Grand Hotel. You gave my home back to me. And now, I hope to give something to you."

The woman pushes the cart forward. Gepard dutifully steps forward and grabs the cart for her.

"This is from the people of Backwater Pass," the woman explains. "It's not as grand as giving your lost home back to you, but it's what we have to give. We feel for your loss, Captain. The people of Backwater Pass are with you during this time of pain."

Gepard looks between the woman and the cart. His breath hitches at the sight of lovingly-arranged flowers, baked goods, handwritten cards, and knit clothing covering the cart's entire bottom. The bouquets are all First Snows, the very same flowers the people threw at his feet when he concluded the recovery campaign months ago. Gepard's eyes once again grow hot.

"What is your name, ma'am?" Gepard asks unevenly.

"Marie Ammond," the woman says.

The gentle, sympathetic smile on the old woman's face is barely distinguishable through the tears blurring the world. It's such a shocking contrast to the Herrero family's leers that Gepard's eyes spill over once again.

"To Ms. Ammond and the people of Backwater Pass," Gepard warbles through his tears, "thank you."

Ms. Ammond bows deeply. She shuffles away. Gepard wipes his eyes and clings to the cart, ignoring the judgment radiating from Mother.

—

A violent pounding pulls Gepard out of his stupor. BAM, BAM, BAM. It sounds like someone trying to break down his door. He slips out of bed in his wrinkled, days-worn clothes and shuffles lethargically to the door.

Sunlight assaults his eyes as soon as he opens the door. He winces and barely distinguishes the cross-armed silhouette of his older sister through the noon sun. Serval looks terrible. Her long, straight hair is tangled into knots at the blue tips. Her face is bare, revealing the dark shadows under her eyes. Her unhappy gaze sharpens into disapproval as she scans his body up and down.

"Get dressed," Serval orders flatly. "You're not going to waste away in your man-cave."

Gepard rubs his aching head. "Why."

"Because you, me, and Lynx are going to have a picnic."

When Serval declares something, that's that. Gepard trudges to his closet, changes into a fresh set of thermals and a passably clean sweater, and at Serval's pointed look, shaves. He exits his building feeling more clearheaded than he has in days, enough to realize how much he's missed Serval.

"How have you been?" Gepard asks as they ride the trolley.

"Like shit," Serval says plainly. "You saw how I was back at the manor."

The wail that tore out of Serval's lungs as she stormed out of Father's room scratches down Gepard's spine like nails on chalkboard. Silence descends oppressively as Gepard finds nothing suitable to say.

"Um," Gepard finally mumbles. "I've also been unwell."

Serval glances at him. "Yeah?"

"Let's just say my Sunshine Bamboos died. Again."

Serval smirks. "Should we also plan a funeral for them?"

Gepard rolls his eyes. "Very funny, Sis."

Serval's responding snort is encouragingly genuine.

The trolley slows to a stop. Serval rises, and Gepard follows. To his surprise, Serval leads him to a small, unimpressive patch of tundra grass far away from the wealthy suburbs of their family park. Lynx sits on a gigantic blanket at the center of the field, surrounded by swollen bags and a small Geomarrow lantern. She perks up when she sees them and waves.

"You're prepared," Serval teases as they sit on the blanket. "Are we going camping in the middle of Belobog?"

"I wish," Lynx sighs. "Hi, Gepard."

"Hi, Lynx," Gepard mumbles. He cringes at the bitterness that surges inside him at the sight of Lynx's lively expression.

Fortunately, Lynx does not seem to notice Gepard's internal conflict. She gestures to the bags beside her, which on closer inspection are filled to the brim with an impressive assortment of glass food containers, wrapped sandwiches, and utensils.

"Are you hungry? Pela and I bought a bunch of food this morning. Sandwiches, salads, fruits, drinks, you name it." Lynx holds out something in her hand. "Want to start with a cookie?"

Gepard hesitates. He hasn't been hungry for days, but he can stomach one cookie for Lynx's sake. He takes the cookie from Lynx's hand and brings it to his mouth.

"Pela and I baked these cookies," Lynx states proudly.

Gepard's hand freezes midair. Lynx baked these? He looks at the seemingly-normal cookie apprehensively.

"Relax," Lynx groans. "Pela did most of the baking."

"They're actually good," Serval reassures.

"'Actually?'" Lynx parrots, offended.

Gepard takes a bite. The cookie melts into a pleasant burst of cinnamon on his tongue.

"They are actually good," Gepard agrees, astonished.

"My older siblings are so supportive," Lynx grumbles. Serval snickers. Gepard finds the neglected muscles in his cheeks lifting into a smile.

The sun slowly descends from its apex as they lounge on the blanket. Gepard warms his hands around a thermos of over-boiled tea as his sisters chatter over a meal of sandwich halves and sliced fruit. Listening to his sisters' idle gossip is not much different from the hours he's wasted staring at his phone in the past weeks, but it's startling how much nicer it is to do nothing under the sun in his sisters' company.

"I've been staying at Pela's for the past two weeks," Lynx mentions as she grabs an unopened can of sardines. "It's like an extended sleepover. A childhood dream come true."

"Reminds me of the 'camping trips' you two used to have at the manor," Serval teases mid-chew.

Lynx smiles nostalgically. "When Pela and I set up a tent in the yard while Mother watched us through the window? We did something similar a few days ago. We spent an entire day building a blanket fort in her living room, then slept in it overnight."

"Was that what you were doing during Father's ceremony?" Gepard asks as lightly as possible.

Lynx hand freezes over the can's tab. Serval stops chewing and glares at him. Gepard flinches at the thickening tension, but he chooses not to regret his words and steels himself for the answer.

"…No," Lynx answers quietly.

"Lay off, Geppie," Serval warns. "I didn't go either."

Gepard's tone curdles with defensiveness. "I'm not attacking her."

"Well, it sure sounds like—"

"Stop," Lynx snaps. "Stop shutting him down. He's right to ask. I should have gone."

Serval's mouth clicks shut. Lynx looks down at her lap, fiddling with the tab of her can.

"Why didn't you go?" Gepard asks again, softer.

"Because…" Lynx pauses, struggling with her words. "Because that ceremony wasn't for us. It was for a bunch of strangers who don't even care about us. And I just—I didn't want to put on a show about…this."

Lynx pulls her knees to her chest. Gepard's heart twists, torn between sympathy and bitterness. Lynx isn't wrong about the ceremony being a spectacle, but unlike her, Gepard went anyway. Unlike her, Mother went anyway. If Lynx is as much of an adult as she insists she is—

His escalating thoughts break abruptly when Lynx hides her eyes behind her hand.

"I wasn't doing anything important," Lynx mumbles. "I was just watching a movie with Pela. It wasn't even something new. We watched it a million times before." Lynx sniffles. "I'm sorry, Gepard. I should have gone."

Jealousy, loneliness, and betrayal tug Gepard's heart in different directions, but his body proves wiser than his hurt. His arms pull Lynx to his chest without hesitation. When his mind catches up to his body, he pulls Serval into the hug too. He holds his sisters tight the way Bronya held him at the ceremony, the way he wished Sampo held him in the garden.

"No, Lynx," Gepard whispers into her hair. "I'm sorry. You don't have to do anything but heal."

No amount of time in the world is enough to mourn.

Serval's hand settles on his back. He meets her sympathetic, approving gaze over Lynx's hair. Eventually, Lynx breaks out of their embrace, wiping her forearm across her face. When she looks up, her cheeks are ruddy with embarrassment instead of tears.

"Thanks," Lynx mumbles shyly.

Later that day, when the setting sun bathes the sky with gold and Gepard and Serval once again sit side-by-side on the trolley, Serval upends him with a quiet confession.

"Y'know, Geppie," Serval starts softly, "when you asked me earlier how I've been, I wasn't being completely honest. Don't get me wrong; I have felt like shit. But I think the past few days would've been a lot worse if you and Lynxy hadn't brought me back to the manor after I ran out."

Gepard stares wordlessly at Serval. She smiles ruefully at his shocked expression.

"I'm glad my last words to him weren't basically 'You're a shit father,'" Serval says softly. "So thanks. For not letting me end things in a way I'd regret."

Gepard inhales, unsettled by how similar Serval's words are to Mother's. Don't let her make a decision she'll regret, Mother had murmured in Serval's workshop like a premonition. Only now, after seeing the weary peace in Serval's eyes, do Mother's words suddenly rattle Gepard's bones with self-consciousness.

Did Gepard himself say goodbye to Father without regrets?

Gepard swallows his doubts. This isn't about him. This is about Serval and Lynx and Gepard navigating a shared loss together. He bumps his shoulder into Serval's.

"I'm glad we could help," Gepard says gently.

—

There's a strange hush in Qlipoth Fort when Gepard finally returns. It's charged. Disquieting. An administrator passes by Gepard staring at the ground. The usually-chattering groups of former college friends and coworkers float by in silence. Loneliness tempts Gepard to believe that the world is still mourning his father alongside him, but he remembers how quickly Qlipoth Fort moved on after Cocolia Rand's death.

One pair of footsteps slows to a stop as Gepard passes by. "Matilda?" Gepard calls out softly.

Matilda looks alarmingly tired. Her blouse is untucked, a lapse in professionalism she normally would have never allowed.

"Gepard," Matilda greets with unusual reservedness. "It's good to see you back. I hope you're well."

"It's good to be back," Gepard says politely. He glances around cautiously. "Did something happen while I was out?"

Lines crease at the corners of Matilda's eyes. Her mouth opens in reply, but it clicks shut once her eyes drift past his shoulder.

"Welcome back, Captain," a familiar voice greets behind him.

Gepard frowns. He can't quite identify the weathered voice beyond noting the clipped words of an older soldier. He turns to greet the unknown soldier but startles mid-turn at a flash of billowing robes in his periphery. His head snaps back to see Matilda walking briskly away without goodbye.

"Don't mind Mrs. Herrero's rude departure, Captain," the soldier chuckles behind Gepard. "She's stressed about her latest project."

Gepard turns and examines the unnamed soldier with furrowed brows. He's seen this wrinkle-lined face at his father's side at Everwinter Garrison many times before. He pushes away the pang of loss inside him and places a name to the face.

"Officer Swanson," Gepard acknowledges.

"Lieutenant Swanson," Swanson corrects.

Gepard hides his surprise behind a blink. "Apologies, Lieutenant. I've just returned from leave, so I'm behind on the news. You were promoted?"

Swanson nods. "By recommendation of the Architects themselves, for my service as Acting Captain while you were indisposed, among other things. A shame that your father isn't here to witness it."

Swanson's mention of Father prickles unpleasantly. Gepard nods to hide the involuntary wobble of his cheeks.

"Congratulations," Gepard forces out.

"Thank you, boy," Swanson says graciously.

Gepard frowns. "I am Captain. Address me as such."

Swanson sighs. "Apologies, a slip of the tongue. I was thinking about old times with your father. He was so proud when you were born. You were his little soldier." Swanson lowers his eyes. "We all miss your father, Captain. My deepest condolences for your loss."

The consolation leaves a bitter aftertaste. Gepard's tone is carefully even as he replies, "Thank you, Lieutenant. I'm afraid I must take my leave. The Supreme Guardian is waiting for me."

Swanson nods in goodbye. Something glints in Swanson's eyes as he turns away. Gepard is too busy struggling against the grief stirring from its slumber to examine it.

—

When Gepard's hand wraps around the ornate handles of Bronya's office doors, he realizes he's afraid. It's not the constant chill he felt in Cocolia's presence, nor the paralyzing anxiety he felt in Father's. It's the shame of facing a friend who's been far kinder and more patient to him than he deserves.

Gepard steadies himself. He opens the door. Low, hissed whispers between Bronya and Seele quiet as both turn to look at him. Gepard's eyes widen at sheer exhaustion etched into Bronya's face before her expression lifts into something warm and pleased.

"It's so good to see you, Gepard," Bronya greets earnestly. "How are you?"

Bronya's genuine appreciation simultaneously warms Gepard and reminds him of how inadequate he's been as her friend. He tries to answer her kindness with sincerity of his own.

"I'm good, given the circumstances. Thank you for giving me time to grieve. It was incredibly thoughtful of you."

Qlipoth, that was a painfully inadequate summary of how much Gepard appreciates her and how much he wishes he treated her better. He debates adding more, then hesitates at the sight of dark, puffy bags under her eyes.

"Are you well? You seem tired."

Bronya's pleased expression wilts. Seele crosses her arms and mutters something under her breath. Gepard frowns in alarm when no one answers him.

"Bronya, what's going on?" Gepard urges.

"Fuckin' Sampo's what's goin' on," Seele growls before Bronya can answer.

Gepard jolts. "Sampo?"

Seele looks at him impatiently. "Sampo Koski? Blue hair? Punchable face? Bane of everyone's existence?"

"Seele," Bronya says.

"What?" Seele snaps almost petulantly. "It's true."

Gepard hasn't forgotten Sampo. Gepard has simply spent every waking moment of his past weeks pushing away every thought of Sampo because the slightest reminder of the man's radio silence makes Gepard ache to his marrow. Hearing Sampo's name for the first time in weeks from Seele, of all people, is a splash of cold water to the face.

"What did Sampo do?" Gepard asks as evenly as possible.

Bronya sighs. She grabs an ominously thick binder from her desk and hands it to Gepard.

"You should read the second page," Bronya says reservedly.

Gepard glances down and flips the binder cover. The second page is a crime report. Recent, from a little under a month ago. Written by Officer Amos Swanson.

Gepard snaps alert at the unpleasantly familiar name. He reads about Swanson's scuffle with Sampo Koski. He reads about how Swanson pushed past his injuries to pursue Koski all the way to an abandoned building in the outskirts of Belobog. He reads about how Koski escaped, but the safehouse within the building did not. He reads the ultimate line of the report: Recovered thousands of documents revealing a long-term, systematic infiltration of Qlipoth Fort.

Gepard flips through the bulky binder. He recognize audits, transcripts, investigative reports, and adjudication judgments. There are almost a thousand papers within this binder marked with the number "1" alone. Three more identical binders sit in a pile on Bronya's desk.

Amber Lord above, what did Sampo get himself into?

"Is this why Lieutenant Swanson was promoted?" Gepard blurts out.

Bronya blinks in surprise. "Yes, mostly. He was also overdue for a promotion. He's been at officer rank for over twenty years, despite serving as Acting Captain multiple times." Bronya grimaces. "But that's not what we should discuss right now.

"You may have noticed that the atmosphere in Qlipoth Fort has been tense. Swanson's discovery of Koski's safehouse spawned the largest internal investigation in the history of Qlipoth Fort, and what that investigation revealed of Koski's infiltration has…" Bronya sighs, "…resulted in almost fifteen percent of our administrators being let go."

Gepard goggles. "Fifteen percent? They were all working with Koski?"

"Most of them unknowingly," Bronya explains tiredly. "He goes to them with different names, different identities. Quite a few of them 'outsourced' their work to him. Word spread of how efficient Mr.-or-Ms. Something-Or-Other was, and our lazier administrators gave him more and more unauthorized access over the years.

"There's also quite a few Guards in his network," Bronya continues reluctantly. "He usually bribes them on the frontline with food, alcohol, and cigarettes. We lost quite a few officers to the investigation, even a lieutenant. That's another reason why Swanson was promoted."

"Is there any department that Koski didn't touch?" Gepard exclaims.

Bronya massages her temples. "Only the infirmary."

"Great," Gepard mutters. "Just the infirmary."

"Rat bastard," Seele agrees heartily.

"The investigation is ongoing," Bronya continues. "Administrators are still being brought to the adjudication panel to determine whether they should be let go. Koski is once again a wanted man. Captain, I'm counting on you to organize the Silvermane Guards to catch him."

"Yes, Madam Guardian," Gepard agrees, even though the thought of once again hunting Sampo as a criminal makes his stomach twist in confusion.

Bronya's eyes lower with exhaustion and regret. "I'm sorry that this is the Qlipoth Fort that you returned to, but the circumstances cannot be helped. Take the binders and read them at your earliest convenience. Return to your duties, Captain."

Gepard salutes and turns to leave. He hesitates, then turns back to face his old friend.

"Take care of yourself, Bronya. You deserve rest too."

Bronya's exhaustion-lined eyes soften. "Thank you, Gepard. I will."

The grand office doors click shut behind him. Gepard sags against its decorative panels and breathes. When he feels sufficiently detached from Bronya's weariness and Sampo's ill-timed shenanigans, he turns to walk down the hall.

A short, spectacled figure blocks his path. Gepard jumps.

"Pela," Gepard exclaims. "You scared me."

"Welcome back, Captain," Pela says flatly. "Do you have time for a chat in my office right now?"

Gepard frowns at the unnerving intensity of Pela's stare. "I do. What's—?"

"Not here," Pela interrupts. She whips around and stalks down the empty hall with harsh clicks of her heels. Gepard has no choice but to hurry after her.

—

As soon as Pela enters her office, she stalks to her desk and buries her hands into a overflowing heap of documents. Papers flutter to the ground as she riffles furiously. Gepard closes the door quietly, wary of provoking her short temper with a loud slam.

"I'm assuming Bronya just briefed you about the Koski situation," Pela states without looking away from her search.

"She did."

"Did anything about the brief seem strange to you?"

Gepard thinks. He thought that Sampo injuring Swanson was out-of-character, but he suspects that Pela wouldn't appreciate that answer.

"Nothing in particular," Gepard says instead.

Pela makes a noise of frustration. She grabs a paper and shoves it forcefully into Gepard's hand. "Read this."

Gepard peers down at the paper. He frowns as he recognizes his gauntlet's stiff handwriting.

"This is a report of frequently missing medical equipment in the garrisons that we tied to Koski." He shoots Pela a confused look. "Why am I reading my own report?"

Pela sighs. "He stole rarely-manufactured items that were distributed to the frontline once in a blue moon. How did he know when we had them in stock?"

Is this a trick question? "Presumably the same way he knew everything else about Qlipoth Fort's internal workings."

"So he must have had access to the infirmary inventory," Pela says shortly.

"Yes," Gepard agrees. The realization hits him. "But the internal investigation revealed no infiltration in the infirmary."

Gepard's epiphany slows Pela's mounting impatience. She removes her glasses and massages her temples, looking much more exhausted than intense now.

"It's not just that," Pela says. "If it were just a missed detail in a bureaucratic investigation, I wouldn't be so worried. But I cross-referenced the infirmary's records. It's not an oversight; the records are actually missing."

Pela's voice grows sharper. "Then I checked Koski's file for other instances of missing medical equipment that the Guards have tied to him. Guess what? Those were gone too. Disappeared as if they never existed. The one you have in your hand only survived because it accidentally found its way into Lynxy's backpack ages ago. I didn't find it until Lynx stayed over after—after what happened to your father."

Gepard watches as Pela blinks at her own stumbled words. He crosses his arms, irritated by the deluge of unwanted revelations of Sampo's untrustworthiness.

"So what does this mean, Pela?" Gepard asks tiredly.

Unexpectedly, Pela pauses. She places her glasses back on her nose and adjusts it unnecessarily, as if stalling. When finally she speaks, her voice is slow and careful.

"It means that someone—likely Koski himself—destroyed all evidence of his tampering in the infirmary around the time of your father's death."

Silence.

For once, Pela breaks first. She looks away from Gepard's burning stare and pushes her glasses up her nose.

"What are you implying, Pela?" Gepard asks coolly.

Pela doesn't meet his eyes. "You're not dumb, Gepard. You know what I'm implying."

"Say it."

Pela makes a frustrated noise. "I'm saying that there's a chance that Koski was involved with your father's death."

Gepard uncrosses his arms languidly. He doesn't know where this sudden unshakable calm came from.

"Why?" Gepard asks.

"Because there are suspicious discrepancies in what actually happened and what our papers—"

"No," Gepard interrupts. "Why would he kill my father?"

Pela flinches at the harshness of his words. She exhales deeply and places a hand on her forehead.

"I should've have brought this up," she mutters to herself. "Not like this. Not so soon."

"What reason does Sampo have to hurt him?"

Pela's head snaps up. Her icy eyes pierce ruthlessly through him.

"The reason is you, Gepard."

Gepard's unnatural calm finally snaps. His eyes boggle.

"Me?"

"Yes, you," Pela snaps. "Koski knew your father wasn't good to you. It's not a stretch to think that he intervened for your sake."

Gepard stares at Pela. He waits for her to realize how ridiculous she sounds, but she never does.

"That's absurd," Gepard says.

"Why?" Pela echoes pointedly.

"Sampo doesn't do charity," Gepard explains with fraying patience. "Even if he cared about me to that extent, he wouldn't dirty his hands for something that was not his problem."

"But he has," Pela points out. "He saved you at the Battle of Everwinter Hill."

Not just then, Gepard doesn't say, thinking of Sampo confronting Father at Limestein Manor, Sampo pulling him away from the lonely wall at Serval's concert, Sampo sitting across the dining table playing make-believe with him.

"It cost him nothing to do that," Gepard argues stubbornly.

"He lingered long enough to see Everwinter Garrison fall instead of fleeing to safety. He revealed himself to the Silvermane Guards throwing his daggers to you."

"That has nothing to do with Father's passing."

"He's always been obsessed with you."

"He knows I care about my father!" Gepard shouts. "He wouldn't do that to Father because—!"

—because he knows it'd hurt me. The unspoken conclusion rings nauseatingly sweet. Gepard slams his mouth shut before he can give voice to those damning thoughts.

In the backdrop of Gepard's too-earnest words, Pela remains frustratingly silent. Her eyes are probing pinpoints of blue that irritate Gepard's frayed nerves.

"The evidence is circumstantial," Pela finally relents. "It's impossible to say more than that Koski might have been involved with your father's passing. No one else has drawn the connection yet. I wanted you to be the first to know."

Gepard inhales deeply. He forces himself to acknowledge that Pela's blunt revelation is a kindness to him, no matter how much it chafes.

"Thank you for informing me," Gepard says begrudgingly. "Is there an investigation underway?"

"About Koski's connection to your father's passing? No." Pela's eyes narrow. "Strangely."

"Let's keep it that way," Gepard declares. "No formal investigation until you and I discover more through our own channels."

"I agree," Pela says quietly, "but not for the same reasons. Things are messy for you right now, Gepard. Don't lose track of what's real and what's not."

Gepard bristles. "What does that mean?"

Pela looks through him. "I'm doing this for Lynx. Who are you doing this for?"

Gepard swallows when he realizes that he doesn't have an answer.

—

It's idiotic, but Gepard's first thought after locking himself in his office is to message Sampo.

Gepard

Are you in danger?

Gepard

Do you need help?

Gepard

Please let me know if you're ok.

No reply. The frantic, unread messages sit mockingly next to the lonely, pining texts from a week ago. Gepard wonders if Sampo is secretly reading his messages and snickering at his desperation.

No. Gepard can't waste time twisting himself over hurtful hypotheticals when Sampo is being accused of something as ridiculous as assassinating Gepard's father. He pushes away the familiar pang of grief and steels his resolve for the tedious endeavor of reading thousands of annotated documents.

For once, there's little interruption to his office time. Gepard idly wonders if Bronya secretly cleared his schedule for the day. Still, by the time the sky beyond his windows turn orange, Gepard's head is throbbing and two-thirds of the first binder remain unread. Gepard pities the poor soul who had surely spent weeks compiling this organized mountain of evidence.

With tired, idle curiosity, Gepard flips to the title page for the compiler's name. He jolts at the neat, printed letters: Compiled by Matilda Oxford Limestein Herrero of the adjudicators' office.

Gepard rubs his sore eyes. The name remains the same. He makes a call with his office landline. He waits with an uncontrollably jittering knee until a familiar, exhaustion-lined face appears at his door.

"You called for me, Captain?" Matilda says.

"Mrs. Herrero," Gepard begins, restraining his racing thoughts. "Apologies for calling you so late in the day. I had a few questions about the investigative reports you compiled about Sampo Koski."

As Captain of the Silvermane Guards, Gepard should be spending most of his time on the battlefield away from Qlipoth Fort's politics. In reality, Gepard finds himself too often tangled a web of intrigue he's woefully unsuited to navigating. Gepard struggles into his bureaucrat's hat now and probes Matilda with careful questions. Unfortunately, unlike Gepard, Matilda is a natural politician.

"The evidence in those binders is complete," Matilda says. "The only documents withheld are trial documents for ongoing adjudications or documents deemed irrelevant to the investigation."

"How do you decide whether a document is relevant to the investigation?"

Matilda directs him to a page at the end of the binder crawling with teensy letters. Gepard forces himself to read the first few ant-like rows before he gives up and raises his straining eyes to Matilda's composed expression.

"As you can see, it's a very rigorous process," Matilda states tonelessly. "You can be assured that nothing important is missing from those binders, Captain."

Gepard's eyes narrow. He's seen that stony, emotionless look on Matilda's face before, on the day Gepard took her to an opera before she stiltedly dumped him at the footstep of Limestein Manor. Matilda is hiding something unpleasant from him.

"Mrs. Herrero," Gepard says sharply. "Are you certain that there's nothing you're withholding from the Silvermane Guards?"

"Captain," Matilda answers with a hint of steel. "You and I are Guard and law clerk. We both swore an oath to serve our stations first and foremost. Everything I am allowed to share about the investigation has already been recorded in those binders on your desk. I cannot tell you any more than I already have."

The tightness in Matilda's normally-even voice reveals her fraying patience. Gepard exhales in defeat.

"Alright, Mrs. Herrero. Thank you for answering my questions. You're free to go."

Matilda lowers her eyes. "I'm sorry, Gepard," she says with strange regret. She worries her lips as if holding back words, then hurries out of his office.

—

It only takes two days for Gepard to catch up on three weeks' worth of missed work. There's little to do besides being stonewalled by the slow, systematic weeding out of Sampo's influence. On the third day, Gepard gives in to his frustration and leaves Qlipoth Fort in the evening, earlier than he ever has as Captain. He turns left instead of right at the end of the plaza and takes the trolley to Rhonda Landau Memorial Park.

The public stretches of the park are sparsely dotted with its routine passerbys and dog-walkers, a stark contrast to the overflowing swathes of pews and mourners that filled it just weeks ago. The quiet sight feels like Belobog is correcting itself after Father's death. Gepard tries fruitlessly to internalize the park's peaceful normalcy as he enters the memorial garden.

Rhonda Landau's victorious figure looms condescendingly above Gepard as he steps into her long shadow. The setting sun bathes her shoulders with an amber halo. It feels like a poetic metaphor.

Gepard has never been good at poetry.

"Father," Gepard says to no one, then becomes hopelessly mute.

Minutes pass in silence. The wind whistles impatiently through the bushy rows of cottongrass flanking Rhonda Landau's sides. He could stay here for hours trying to speak over it as he did the day Sampo found him in the garden, but he suddenly remembers Sampo telling him not to linger. Gepard decides to take Sampo's advice. He lets go of his unspoken words and takes a defeated step back.

A nearby slam of the metal gate stiffens Gepard. Another person just entered the garden. Repeated, blunt clicks echo louder and louder up the stone trail winding through the garden. A figure in an elegant, black dress comes into view past the shoulder of a stone arrangement. A startled noise bubbles from Gepard's throat.

"Mother?"

Mother eyes him with equal surprise. "Gepard. I didn't expect to see you here. Did you come to visit your father too?"

Gepard hesitates. Admitting to speaking with ghosts feels like shaming everything Father taught him about being strong and resolute. But Mother does not force a response from him. Instead, her startled expression quiets, and she steps past Gepard to look into Rhonda Landau's steely eyes.

"Your father did not care much for civilian life, but he fretted over this monument," Mother says softly. "'It's what the people see when they hear the name Landau!' he'd say." Mother scoffs almost fondly. "He was always away on the frontline so caring for this monument fell onto me. As did many of his domestic duties."

Gepard watches as Mother swipes a thumb across the bricks lining the raised flowerbeds beside Rhonda Landau. She examines the dust on her finger ruefully.

"Is the monument my responsibility now?" Gepard asks, uncertain.

Mother's thumb drops. "No," she says dully. "The domestic duties are still mine. You don't have to worry, Gepard. You can continue to be Captain in peace."

Gepard can't tell if the emotion in her voice is resentment or grief. He doesn't know what to do with Mother's foreign moroseness, so he falls back into the clear-cut lines of a Guard conducting an investigation.

"Mother, I'd like to know more about Father's illness," Gepard says.

"Surely you've read his medical records by now," Mother says dismissively.

"I want to hear what happened in your own words."

Mother interlaces her hands. "Do you find his passing suspicious?"

Gepard's prepared questions die in his throat. He doesn't breathe as he stares at Mother's calm, wilted figure.

"Yes, I do," Gepard says faintly. "You're not surprised."

Mother strokes runs her thumb across her clasped hand. "No, I'm not."

Gepard's fist clenches into a tight ball. He didn't think Mother could betray him any more painfully than she did concealing Father's illness, but the twisting in his gut tells him otherwise.

"How long have you suspected?" Gepard grits out.

Mother exhales. "Your father declined rapidly. Too rapidly. The possibility that his decline was unnatural does not surprise me as much as I wish it does."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Gepard says brokenly.

"My answer remains the same," Mother says evenly. "We didn't want to worry you."

"Don't give me that bullshit!" Gepard snarls. Both he and Mother wince at the spite in his voice. "Qlipoth, do you ever get tired of lying to your children?!"

Mother says something about raising his voice, but Gepard is deaf to everything but his swelling rage. It mixes hideously with his soul-rending grief for Father. For Father, who took a hammer and chisel and beat out every uneven edge in Gepard until all he was was sharp edges and straight lines. For Father, who held Gepard's hand in his last hours and told him he was proud of him. For Father, who might have been murdered, and Mother knew the entire time.

Something awful clicks into place inside Gepard.

"Who's to say it wasn't you?" Gepard utters.

Mother glances at Gepard. "Pardon?"

"Who's to say you weren't the one who murdered Father?"

For the first time in Gepard's memory, Mother's expression stretches into shock. Her eyes widen. Her mouth drops open. She inhales a sharp breath.

"Excuse me?" Mother chokes out.

The thought snowballs into an avalanche that pours destructively from Gepard's mouth. "It makes sense, doesn't it? You gave up your career for him. You just told me he abandoned all the domestic duties to you. And we all know you haven't loved him in years. You had every reason to want to be rid of him."

"You think I killed my husband?" Mother says tremulously.

"What am I supposed to think when my own mother keeps lying about his death to my face?" Gepard hisses.

Mother stares at him, frozen, unblinking. Slowly, subtly, her expression shifts into something alien. The line of her plucked brows flattens. Her nostrils flare ever so slightly. The corners of her mouth pull her jowls into a sharp crease.

"When were you going to tell your father that you prefer men?" Mother asks softly.

Gepard stumbles at the devastating blow. His heart pounds furiously against his ribs.

"W-what?" Gepard wheezes.

"When were you going to tell him that you never loved Matilda?" Mother continues, twisting her knife into Gepard's gaping wound. "When were you going to tell him that you never wanted to be Captain? That his training and expectations hurt you deeply?" Mother's fists clench. "You would resent me for hiding the difficult truth from my children when you couldn't even be honest with your father before he passed?"

Mother steps forward. Gepard almost falls as he staggers back.

"You want to know why someone killed your father?" Mother marches onward. "Because people hate us. Because people hate that the Landaus have curried favor with the Rands for hundreds of years. Because people hate that your father married a working woman. Because people hate that your father chose you to be his successor to the Silvermane Guards. Because, despite everything your father and I did to protect our family from these stupid resentments, the people who hate him still murdered him in cold blood. That's why. Are you happy to finally know the truth, Gepard?"

Gepard's heart skips erratically. He's only ever felt this uprooted in Father's presence.

"Th-that doesn't explain how they did it," Gepard stumbles out through his chattering teeth.

"It's not hard when you're rich," Mother says venomously. "All you have to do is pay someone amoral enough to do it."

Gepard recoils as if hit. Materialistic, unscrupulous Sampo Koski.

Mother does not take another step forward. The sharp, contorted lines on her face smooth into something colder, less alien, and Gepard's thumping heart slows into something that feels less like imminent doom.

"You've had a difficult month. I forgive you for your outburst," Mother says frigidly. For a horrifying moment, Gepard sees her expression crumple with pain before she turns her back to him and stares up at Rhonda Landau.

Behind Mother's back, Gepard flees the memorial garden under Rhonda Landau's eternally judging gaze.

—

Gepard runs.

Amid the harsh slaps of his boots against Belobog's stone sidewalks, Gepard feels a funny kinship with Sampo fleeing from unpleasant encounters, leaving people behind. But Sampo must be much better at running than Gepard is because Mother's words nip furiously into him with every pump of his legs, every foggy breath that escapes his winded lungs. He can't even bat them away because every cruel word that left Mother's mouth was true.

Gepard is a hypocritical liar.

Gepard had never once been honest to his dying father.

Father died proud of a dishonest, cowardly son.

Gepard trips. Muscle memory ignites his nerves. He twists his torso and rolls harmlessly across the chilly Belobog ground, slowing to an anticlimactic stop. He lies on his back and gasps for air. He hasn't exerted himself this much since Sampo goaded him into a chase to make him forget the pain of Cocolia Rand's betrayal.

His chest aches. He misses Sampo so, so much.

It's late enough that there's no one around in the Administrative District to gawk at Gepard's embarrassing display. Gepard pushes himself to his feet and staggers single-mindedly toward the only trolley station in all of Belobog that connects to the Underworld. There's only one other person who boards the the trolley with him, a coal-smeared, gray-haired man who squints at Gepard then promptly falls asleep in his seat. The descent underground bathes Gepard in soothing darkness.

Boulder Town looks alien with its dim Geomarrow lighting and the borderline hostile gawking of its residents. Gepard retraces the steps he took when he met with Wildfire for the first time after Bronya's succession. The ruddy metal exterior of Natasha's clinic is immediately familiar even after months, even with its lightless windows. Gepard pushes against the unyielding main doors, then raps his knuckles on its panes.

Silence. Muffled noises seep out from under the door. The windows alight slightly orange. A shadow falls across the doors' blurry plastic panes.

"We're closed," a woman's voice says brusquely from behind the door.

Gepard surges forward. "Dr. Natasha, this is Gepard. I need to speak with you. Please."

A click. The door cracks open ever so slightly. Natasha's violet eyes peek through warily.

"If the Silvermane Guards wish to speak with me, they should come during clinic hours."

"I'm no Captain right now," Gepard says brokenly. "I come as myself."

The eyes scan across his face. The door swings open, revealing Natasha's stoic expression.

"Follow me," Natasha orders, motioning him in.

The ground floor of the clinic is barely lit by a single Geomarrow lantern glowing on an empty reception desk. Natasha leads Gepard skillfully through the dark and up a creaky stairwell. The sharp smell of antiseptic seeps into Gepard's nose as they pass by what must be the patient ward. They ascend until the stairwell ends at a door labeled with a paper that childishly announces, "Wiches Docter's Office"

The room inside is small and homey, furnished with cabinets lined with stuffed toys, what looks to be a dining table repurposed as an office desk, a cheap swivel chair, and a well-loved couch. A side door leads to what surely must be Natasha's living quarters. Gepard looks around slowly, overlaying Sampo over the plain room that he surely spent many hours in. Did Sampo lounge on the worn couch while Natasha worked? Did he climb in through her windows as he did Gepard's?

The click of a shutting door jerks Gepard out of his yearning.

"Speak," Natasha says coolly.

Gepard takes in Natasha's wary expression. He gathers himself with a deep breath.

"I'd like to speak with Sampo."

Natasha's face closes. "You're at the wrong place, Captain. Did you have anything else, or shall I see you out?"

Panic seizes Gepard. He rushes out, "Dr. Natasha, please. I understand your reluctance to trust me. But I swear to you, in the Amber Lord's name, that I mean no harm to you or Sampo, and that I do not come on anyone's behalf but my own. I just need to speak with Sampo. Please."

Gepard's voice cracks audibly around Sampo's name. Bemusement falls across Natasha's expression.

"Why do you need to speak with him?"

Gepard searches for words, true or not. Nothing comes. He swallows and stares imploringly into Natasha's probing eyes. Whatever she sees makes her look down at her desk with furrowed brows.

"You misunderstand," Natasha says quietly. "I'm not withholding Sampo's location out of distrust or protectiveness. I simply don't know where he is. He left."

Gepard's breath hitches. He feels as if he's plummeting to the ground. It's the same freefall he felt seeing how easily March 7th reduced Belobog into an orb drowning in the blackness of space.

"Where did he go?" Gepard asks, afraid of the answer.

Natasha looks up solemnly. "To the stars."

To the stars? Where Gepard can't reach? Foolishly, Gepard glances out the window toward the sky and sees the craggy ceiling of the Underworld instead. Not that being underground matters; Gepard could scream Sampo's name at Belobog's highest peak, and Sampo still wouldn't hear him. Gepard trembles when he realizes that he already attempted that very scream into the void. His pathetic, yearning texts to Sampo remain unread even after almost a month.

A hoarse cry rips itself from Gepard's throat. "Why?"

Natasha looks at him cautiously. "I'm not sure what you're asking, Captain."

"Why did he leave now? Right after my father—"

Gepard chokes on nothing. He scrubs his hand down his face and squeezes his eyes tightly shut. All he hears is Sampo's lax, uncaring voice saying over and over, crueler and crueler, Welcome to the first day of your new life. You're a free man now. I thought you'd be relieved.

"Doctor, please tell me," Gepard pleads. "Why did he leave? Did he give you a reason?"

"He didn't tell me why," Natasha says lowly. "All I know is that he'd been preparing to leave for months."

Pain rends Gepard's chest. He begins to shake with nausea. Sampo prepared for months to—to—

I thought you'd be relieved. I thought you'd be relieved. I thought you'd be relieved.

Did Sampo really kill his father?

"Is that why you're looking for him?"

Gepard looks up at Natasha's wide-eyed shock. It takes several seconds to realize that he wailed his despairing question aloud. He swallows down the bile at the back of his throat and looks desperately at Natasha's worried expression.

"Do you think he did it?" Gepard asks tremulously.

Natasha's expression turns serious. "Sampo only acts on what he believes to be business. Did you or your father have any business with him?"

"It wasn't business!" Gepard snaps, overcome with frustration. "It was—"

It was what? A joke? A fling? Gepard's anger flies astray until it splats onto the ground as a muddy, confused mess. There's more than concern in Natasha's attentive expression now. There's also pity.

"He wouldn't do that," Gepard continues unsteadily. "He's not that type of person."

"Sampo is not a man who allows himself to be known. Everyone who knew him saw a different face—"

"Mask," Gepard blurts.

Natasha considers him. "Everyone saw a different mask," she corrects. "It's impossible to say what type of person he was."

Gepard's voice becomes small. "You think he could have done it?"

"Sampo? No. But the man behind the mask?" Natasha looks solemnly at Gepard. "I think there's little that that man is incapable of."

"I thought he was your friend," Gepard says feebly. "I thought you'd think the best of him."

"I…respected him," Natasha admits. "But you can't truly be friends with a stranger."

How cruel. Gepard wonders if Sampo would be hurt by Natasha's words. Gepard wonders if he'd expect them and not care. A broken laugh escapes in between a sob before Gepard hangs his head low in defeat.

How long has it been since Gepard met Sampo? Six, almost seven years? Has Sampo ever been honest to Gepard once in that time? Has anyone in Gepard's life not distrusted Sampo? What reason does Gepard have to believe that Sampo didn't, wouldn't hurt Father when everyone else believes that he would?

"You don't know him, Captain. No one does," Natasha says quietly.

Gepard shakes his head. "I don't want to believe that."

"I can't tell you what to believe," Natasha says gently. "He was certainly a different person around you than he was around me. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe what you saw was real."

Gepard clutches himself. The nausea fades just enough for him to feel the truth of Natasha's words. Gepard doesn't want anyone's opinion of Sampo but his own. Gepard needs to find Sampo himself before he can decide what to believe.

"Where did you last see him?" Gepard asks through a hoarse throat.

Natasha's eyes flicker with sympathy. She walks to a cabinet and pulls something from its bottom shelf. She hands a strange, cylindrical device to Gepard.

"Wildfire recovered this from one of Sampo's known safehouses after his departure. We don't know what it is besides that it originated off-planet." Natasha's eyes soften. "Maybe it can help you find him."

Gepard clutches the cylinder tightly to his chest. This strange, alien thing is his only link to Sampo, who may or may not have murdered his father.

"Thank you, Dr. Natasha," Gepard whispers.

—

It's deep into the night when Gepard returns to his condo. He wades pass the accumulated cardboard boxes in his living room and carelessly shoves the unread mail off his desk. He sets the device atop and stares at it. He formulates a plan.

First, Sampo is beyond the reach of Belobog. Gepard needs to look to the stars to find him. He needs to find knowledgeable outworlders and somehow convince them to assist a nobody from an isolated planet—

No, first, is contacting the trailblazers. Surely, the Astral Express will assist Gepard, even though they're about to embark on a new expedition, even though none of them particularly like Sampo—

No, first, is bringing the device to Pela. She's trustworthy and curious. She'll learn more about the device, even though she has just as much experience as Gepard does with outworlder technology. She'll research the device quietly, without alerting anyone else in Qlipoth Fort, with what little assistance Gepard can provide her, and eventually maybe discover something about Sampo.

Gepard's jaw clenches. If that's the plan he has to go with, he needs to start as soon as possible.

Gepard digs through the piles of unwashed clothes in his closet. He finds the old, dusty expedition backpack he was issued almost ten years ago. He'll contrive some sort of expedition that requires Pela's presence. Once far away from Qlipoth Fort's watchful eyes, he'll smuggle the device to her in this pack.

He's too shaken as he shoves the bulky device into the pack. He jerks the device in frustration, then drops the cylinder in shock when it begins to glow from one end. It looks like a flashlight. Strange, garbled noises begin to emit from its other end.

"Ciziwcry? Franas kuhsnatable dakfrane. Gecpriful freflusnadbo kovuing cedcro."

Gepard stares dumbly at the glowing cylinder. When it doesn't convulse, or explode, or do anything more horrific than speak strange noises, Gepard cautiously lifts it in his hand. An invisible force slams through Gepard. Gepard stops breathing when the sharp, staccato syllables suddenly morph into intelligible, expressive words.

"Really?" a feminine voice huffs. "This is how you greet me after ghosting me?"

Gepard's mouth slams shut. The woman keeps rambling.

"Look," she drawls. "You know how things work between us. I help you, you help me. This is me cashing in the favor you owe me. Helloooo?"

Mutual favors. Us. Gepard listens raptly.

"Aha's tits, are you still mad about the dead-sister thing? I told you, she won't actually be dead! Aeons, that ball of ice really killed your sense of humor."

So there's a not-dead sister. And someone, a transactional ally, whom Sampo is ignoring. And a ball of ice that is probably Belobog's planet. Random facts, random nothings, but maybe, just maybe, Gepard can assemble them into a trail that will lead him straight to Sampo.

In his trembling excitement, he fumbles his grip on the device. He catches it and swallows his noise of surprise, but the woman still falls deathly quiet. Seconds pass before she finally speaks again.

"You're not Sampo."

The annoyance has evaporated from the feminine voice. It's replaced by a sharp, dangerous curiosity.

The cat's out of the bag. Gepard hardens himself. He orders into what he thinks is the strange device's microphone, "Identify yourself, outworlder."

The responding giggle is enough to confirm that the translation works both ways. "'Outworlder?' That's cute. Tell me, stranger, how did you resonate with this beacon?"

Gepard slots the device's name into his memory. He speaks the first lie that comes to mind.

"It's mine. Why wouldn't I resonate with it?"

A tsk makes the beacon crackle with static. "So he really left Jarilo-VI without telling me. How insulting. I'll have to remind him what respect between friends is." The voice darkens with menacing glee. "As for you, stranger, I need to teach you a lesson about touching things that aren't yours."

The cylinder begins to glow hot and red. Gepard shouts in alarm and throws the beacon across the room, flinching at the glowing cinders that scorch his palms. The beacon begins to rumble. It shakes so violently that it lifts into the air. It swells like a super-heated battery. And then it explodes—into a harmless shower of confetti.

Red flakes shower prettily onto his carpet. They scatter unnaturally into an organized pattern. Gepard watches as a glowing image of a smiling, close-eyed fox fades away to nothing.

The wind outside his condo whispers, See you soon.

Chapter Text

The Ark

40 Days of Dance at the End of the World

All the Masked Welcome

—

Plip.

Plip.

Plip.

Something is dripping.

The sound is directionless. It could be behind his damp back, or under his muddy shoes, or all throughout the humid air like Aha's laughter. It beats steadily under the crunch of detritus under his feet. It might be the source of the pervasive odor of rot here on the planet's surface. He avoids thinking too deeply about what's inside the murky liquid splashing his ankles with every footstep.

A large metal structure, bright and gaudy to compensate for its rusting steel, slowly peeks through the gray fog. It gradually solidifies into a looming, curved shape that flares into a sharp peak—the bow of a ship. Puddles begin to ripple ever so slightly as a thudding bass travels through the ground. The percussive dripping disappears under the rumble of approaching club music.

There's two masked borisin beside what would be the ship's hull, one chipping away at the structure's rust and the other smearing a thick black tar over exposed metal. They glance at him warily as he slows to a stop before them.

"Can we help you?" the one with black-stained claws growls.

He waves the poster in his hand. "I heard there was a party at the end of the world. Am I invited?"

"You're not," the other red-furred borisin growls. "Get lost."

"Listen, pal." He winks. "I'm good friends with Namaah. Zhey'll want me inside."

Black-Claws scoffs. "Yeah, right."

"You don't believe me?"

The borisin jabs a tar-stained finger at his smiling face. "Try that line again when you're wearing a mask."

The two borisin break into howls of laughter. He pouts and sighs. Time to do things the hard way.

Loud guffaws crack into startled yips as a blade whizzes past the borisins' ears. The blade buries itself deep into the ship's hull before the shape of a man reatomizes with a fist clenched around the blade's grip. He grins down at the slack-jawed borisin as he manifests his other blade in his free hand. The red-furred borisin falls down to his knees in anguish.

"I just fixed that part!" Red-Fur howls.

"Sorry!" he shouts down, not sorry at all. He throws his other blade up the hull and continues his climb, feeling the tempo of the bass travel up his knives' hilts and into his finger-bones.

The muffled bassline and background chatter grow sharp as he hauls himself over the ship's railing. He briefly glimpses a huddle of colorful bodies scattered around rotting wood tables before his foot slips and he lurches over the rusted metal railing. He tumbles onto the paneled floor with an unceremonious oof.

The sounds of music and merriment fall eerily silent.

"No need to stop the party for li'l ol' me!" he shouts from the ground, waving an airy hand. "Carry on."

Silent, masked stares answer his stagger upright, but he's too used to playing the fool to be perturbed by the jeers. A white pillar sat on a bar stool begins to rustle. It lifts from its seat, sending shimmering waves rippling down its tall form before floating toward him with slow, sharp clicks. It slows to a stop an arm's-reach away from his smiling face.

"Children, I'm afraid we have a party-crasher," a sonorous voice rings from within the waterfall of white.

"Hey! I was invited!" He flaps the damp poster and jabs it. "It says right here: 'All the Masked Welcome.'" He throws his arms open. "So here I am! Where's the tequila?"

Behind the white tower, a man in the crowd lifts a half-empty bottle in offering before the pepeshi next to him yanks his arm back down with a hiss. The white curtain parts to reveal a beaked, porcelain mask that bores into him with its lone, narrowed eye.

"Where is your mask?" the porcelain mask sings.

He winks. "Come on, Namaah, don't tell me you don't miss this handsome face."

The narrow-eyed suspicion flares wide. The dusty white pillar ripples apart into feathery segments, revealing a fleeting glimpse of a thin body dwarfed by matted wings.

"I remember you," Namaah warbles in wonder. "You're that boy from long ago. You're the Elated One's chosen."

The crowd behind Namaah bursts into whispers and wide-eyed glances. The kindly-offered tequila bottle slips out of the man's slack-jawed grasp, shattering explosively on the deck.

The fool laughs lightly amid the murmuring. "Oh, please! There's no need to call me silly names."

Namaah's gaze sharpens. "Then what should we call you, Emanator?"

"Sampo Koski," he says automatically, then winces. "Well, that's the most recent name. I'm looking for a new one at the moment."

"Sampo Koski," Namaah repeats, tasting the name on zher tongue. "I expected Giovanni, not you."

He snorts. "Giovanni left this shithole as soon as he could. He's probably at Pier Point by now."

Namaah chirps zher birdlike laugh. "And you chose to stay on Mabbul-I instead of go with him? On a planet that drowns half its people every few months?"

"Of course! Apocalyptic floods, endless parties, and relentless squalor sound way more exciting than listening to Gio rant about his latest gacha game." He dons an expression of charming bashfulness. "On that note, I do need shelter for the flood. You wouldn't happen to have a spare room, would you?"

Namaah laughs at his fluttering lashes. "Unfortunately, Mr. Koski, I must inform you that the maskless are not welcome here, no matter how infamous they may be. Will you be leaving now?"

Music begins to hum on some invisible cue. Three figures rise from the tables behind Namaah, a foxian with a sharp sword, a pepeshi wearing a suspiciously-bulging trench coat, and a hulk-like man with brass knuckles. The fool keeps his smile firm as they loom toward him. His phone buzzes. He ignores it.

"I'm afraid I can't," he sighs. "I have nowhere else to go, you see."

Namaah smiles, revealing the hills and valleys of zher jagged teeth.

"Children." Zhe waves a hand. "Escort him out."

Clap.

Clap.

Clap!

Clap!

A drumline of snaps and claps begins to rumble. It gallops like the quickening of his heart. The foxian, pepeshi, and man circle him to the beat, grinning sharply behind their plain masks as the hungry crowd presses in on them. The crowd chants feverishly.

"Fight!"

"Fight!"

"Fight!"

"Fight!"

He laughs bawdily like the showman he is. "Are you all this starved for a good show?"

He's surrounded by enemies. His fragile mortality sends heat jittering through his body and into his dagger-like grin. He sees the solid floor of the ship-deck ripple to the livening bassline like molasses. He laughs freely, overcome with excitement to run, fight, die—

Aha whispers to him to drop to the ground. He drops just as the massive man's fist flies over his head, fluttering his hair in its slipstream. A low growl sings over the clattering beat.

"There lived a certain man in Russia long ago…"

He feels more than sees the foxian dart in behind him, sword braced. He feels the side of his neck dribble blood from the kiss of sharp steel.

"He was big and strong, in his eyes a flaming glow…"

He imagines the world turns on its head. The foxian slams onto her back as he flips onto his feet. The sword goes flying. It stabs through her shoulder, pinning her to the ground with a yowl.

"Most people look at him with terror and with fear…"

The pepeshi tosses aside his trench coat, flashing the world with his long, girthy phase gun. It begins to whirr just as the hulk throws another earth-shattering punch.

"But to Moscow chicks he was such a lovely dear..."

He slides between the hulk's legs and behind the cover of a flipped-over table. The first shot of the phase-gun hits the hulk's shoulder with a sickening smell of burnt flesh.

"He could preach the Bible like a preacher—"

He grabs the table by the leg and slams it over the pepeshi. The crowd cackles, and someone breaks a rotting chair over the pepeshi's head. The pepeshi screams as the rioting crowd swallows him.

"—full of ecstasy and fire…"

He jumps when something warm throws itself into his side. Someone from the crowd crawls onto him like a monkey.

"Aha's tits!" the man screams. "I've always wanted to be stepped on by you!"

"But he also was the kind of preacher—"

He wrenches the man by the hair and uses him as a meat shield. The man takes the hulk's kick to the groin. The man screams in either the worst pain or the most decadent pleasure of his life.

"—women would desire."

He throws the writhing man into the hulk, sending both men tumbling over the railing. The thud of their impact is drowned out by the thumping music. He straightens and looks back into the crowd with a wicked grin. Namaah stares back with zher lone eagle-eye.

"Let's dance, Namaah," he coos.

"Ra-Ra-Rasputin! Lover of the Russian Queen! There was a cat that really was gone…"

The crowd screams and heaves, bobbing the deck's floor with every beat. He darts in and pulls Namaah into a spin, but Namaah uses the momentum of zher twirl to wrench him into a spin in turn.

"Whoa!" he laughs, following as zhe tugs him into a pass. "You can lead if you want!"

"Let me make this clear, Mr. Koski." Zhe places a hand on his waist and pulls him close as they spin. "On the Ark, I am the leader. And I certainly don't let maskless men lead me."

"Ra-Ra-Rasputin! Russia's greatest love machine!"

"Darling, can't you tell?" He leans in and whispers into Namaah's feathered ear. "I don't need a mask to have fun."

He interrupts Namaah's startled squawk by twirling zher into a waiting woman's arms. The woman dips zher dramatically to the floor, and zhe elegantly places the back of zher hand on zher masked forehead.

"It was a shame how he carried on…"

"He's back!" Namaah croons. "Our emanator is back!"

A resounding cheer ripples through the crowd. Something explodes in the background. There's a ear-piercing screech as one of the ship-masts breaks and crashes onto the deck. The people only scream louder, climbing over the broken pole and dancing.

"Hey!"

"Hey!"

"Hey!"

"Hey!"

"He's back!" they scream. "He's back!"

"Indeed I am," he booms grandly. "Now let's get this party started!"

A hand tugs him toward the bobbing crowd, and another shoves an unopened wine bottle under his nose. He uncorks the bottle. Alcohol sprays over the rioting crowd, eliciting screams of delight. He laughs uncontrollably as he spins, pouring wine into open mouths. Mabbul-I's gloomy, gray sky blur across his vision, until a spot of blue freezes him mid-spin.

There, a gap in the clouds showing blue, blue, blue—until the gray swallows it whole. He stares at where the beautiful blue once was, feeling inexplicably, irrationally chilled by its ignoble death.

Someone smashes a bottle over his head and reminds him who he is. The laugh tears out of his chest like a parasite that's eaten everything inside him.

He laughs, and laughs, and laughs.

—

Hours later, long after the gray fog of daylight faded into darkness, the fool leans against the railing of the captain's deck, staring down at the destroyed deck below. There's still a gaggle of folk howling near the broken mast, but their teetering resembles sleepwalking more than it does dancing.

The party deck is a disaster. Splinters cover the cracked dance floor. There's a large, conspicuous bloodstain where the foxian swordswoman was stabbed into the floor. Scratch marks and dents, too many to explain from one day's party, pepper the deck and the walls. He spares a moment of pity for the poor sod who'll have to clean up this mess.

In his immediate view is an unconscious body atop a broken table that insists on resembling a Silvermane Guard's corpse abandoned to the Snow Plains. It's unnerving to look at, so he stares up instead at where a towering, gargantuan skyscraper—the Cloudspire—reaches beyond the clouds. He inhales, imagining the crisp, ozone scent of the Cloudspire's upper floors instead of the watery rot of the earth. He entertains the thought of ditching the Ark and hiding away high above the clouds, if only to avoid the horrible odor.

"There's no excuse," he mutters under his breath. "The Underworld was literally underground, and it didn't smell like death."

He flinches, then scrubs a hand over his face. What the fuck is wrong with him? His past roles should stay in the past.

"Since when did you start getting hangovers?" a teasing chirp sounds behind him.

"Since I got old," he lies without missing a beat. He's not hungover, but it's an easy excuse for the strange emptiness suffocating him right now.

"Are you going to look me in the eye when I speak to you?"

Long, long ago, when the fool's mind wasn't so full of holes, the fool stayed on Mabbul-I for some time. Namaah had sheltered him then, a fact he has no recollection of but knows with absolute certainty due to the logical conclusion that he would have drowned otherwise. So they must be friends. Or rather, as friendly as two Fools can be.

Despite what Sparkle claims, he knows the meaning of friendship. Its expectations. Its conditions. Its traps. So he turns around and faces Namaah with a friendly smile.

"If you wanted to see my handsome face, you could've just asked."

Namaah titters. "Arrogant boy." Zher gaze sharpens. "I heard something curious from the Tavern. A Fool by the name of Sparkle has been asking for you."

His mood plummets at the mention of Sparkle, but he forces his smile not to waver.

"Ah. She's a business partner. You know how business is."

Namaah's voice lowers with warning. "Will your 'business' with her reach the Ark?"

He equips a winning smile. "Don't you worry about a thing, Namaah! She doesn't know I'm here. I intend to keep it that way."

Namaah scrutinizes his lax smile. Zhe trills, pleased and victorious.

"So that's why you came to Mabbul-I. You're hiding from a spurned woman."

He stifles the urge to roll his eyes and chuckles instead. "You got me."

"Don't worry," Namaah says. "The Ark has quite a few husbands who are indefinitely away on business trips. You'll fit right in."

Namaah says something else, but he suddenly and abruptly becomes deaf to everything else zhe has to say. He looks out onto the party deck, sees a dead Silvermane Guard, then looks into the night sky. His phone buzzes. He ignores it.

Namaah falls silent. Zher probing gaze burns into the side of his face.

"I've offended you," zhe observes.

He huffs. He thought he escaped unsolicited psychoanalysis after he left Natasha behind in Belobog. Something twists inside him at the reminder of Natasha. He pushes away the unwelcome feeling with a laugh.

"Nonsense!" he exclaims. "You know I have no sensibilities to offend."

Namaah's raptor-like gaze softens uncharacteristically. Zhe places a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"You must be tired. I'll show you to your room." Zher sympathetic expression disappears behind a cunning glint like a broken mirage. "Let's talk in the morning. I have a job for you."

—

On the first day, Namaah says let there be light. So the fool climbs the Cloudspire's floors to a hardware store right below the cloudline, convinces the jaded old man behind the counter to "donate" his best stage lights to the Ark, and installs the lights onto the remaining upright masts. That night, two out of five new lights fall and shatter when an inspired reveler decides to throw darts at the stage lights instead of the dartboard.

On the second day, Namaah says let there be a firmament separating the waters above and the waters below. So the fool scavenges scrap metal from wrecked ships and floodpods, delivers them to the two borisin he met outside the Ark, and helps them patch holes in the hull and deck. That night, a group of dancers play a game of shot-put and throw one of the fallen stage lights into the side of the ship, tearing a jagged gash down half the hull.

The third and fourth day pass similarly with menial jobs and immediate destruction of progress. By the fifth day, the fool begins to wonder about his jobs. By the sixth day, the fool begins to wonder about Namaah. Namaah may be a Fool, but the futility of zher tasks is beginning to seem foolish.

On the seventh day, there is no job. Instead, Namaah calls him to the captain's deck and offers him a drink. They toast and look down at the still-ruined party deck, where every denizen of the Ark celebrates their rest day with yet more revelry. Namaah's porcelain mask fails to hide the naked tenderness in zher gaze even from the fool's peripheral vision.

"You've been a blessing to the Ark, Brother," zhe says unexpectedly. "Things were dark before you arrived. But your presence here proves that the Elated One has not forgotten us. There's still joy to be found for my children."

He stifles his sigh. He's too accustomed to his comfortable anonymity on Belobog for Namaah's unwanted expectations to be anything but suffocating.

"Don't give me too much credit," he jokes. "There's still a few gaping holes in this ship I haven't managed to fix."

Namaah laughs. "There will always be holes, my dear."

He smirks back. "You think this ship will still float?"

Namaah hums unconcernedly. "Probably."

Probably. He dislikes the word "probably." Words like "probably" and "maybe" invite Aha's attention at the most inconvenient times. Belobog had far too many probablies before he intervened.

"Perhaps we should celebrate after we've fixed the ship," he suggests, tone carefully casual.

"Ridiculous," Namaah says immediately.

He glances down at the party deck and winces when a drunk reveler steps on a pile of splinters and shrieks in pain. Natasha would've torched the Underworld for this level of negligence.

"Don't you think some nicer decor would set the mood?" he tries.

Namaah's smile thins to a straight line. "If we do not have joy, then we have nothing. We will celebrate, Mr. Koski, broken ship or not."

The warning in Namaah's eye is clear, and, despite what Sparkle claims, he does know how to be a good friend. So he changes the subject with a joke and does not ask about Namaah's Elation again.

—

The flood starts with a deceptively gentle rain that coats his skin with a warm, wet shine.

Then the rain does not stop.

Days pass. The puddle atop Mabbul-I's barren surface climbs tenaciously higher. He and the two borisin barely manage patch the hull's holes before the newly-formed sea lifts the Ark off the ground.

That afternoon, Namaah calls zher children to circle around zher. They stumble over themselves to reach zher, but the longer the fool watches, the more he sees a restlessness underlying their eager obedience. It's not a restlessness borne of joy. It's desperation. But Namaah silences their antsiness with a flare of zher great white wings.

"Children of the Ark," zhe booms. "Today, Mabbul-I's vengeful waters have lifted our sanctuary off its anchors. But instead of fearing the tide, we welcome it to carry us closer to Elation. We defy the suffering of this world with our joy! From now to the day the flood ends, we dance!"

The people of the Ark burst into frenzied applause. The fool claps along and does not point out that they've already been dancing everyday, every night. He observes the faint tremble in Namaah's wingtips. Zhe's restless too.

"I understand it may be difficult to find joy in these circumstances," Namaah croons. "Worry not. The Elation has gifted us ways to find Them."

A squirrely man travels around the circle, handing each person an item to each hand. When he reaches the fool, he drops a small, chalky orb into the fool's left palm and places a cup of a purple wine in his right. The strange orb is unfamiliar; the fool has no recollection of ever seeing it. Yet he knows like he knows Aha's ever-present gaze that the pill in his palm is a very strong hallucinogen that he's taken many, many times before.

Namaah raises zher hands, lifting the pill and the cup into the spotlight. "Walk with me, children, on the path to Elation!"

Plop. Swish. Namaah drops the pill into zher mouth and pours the wine in after. The fool glances around subtly at the ripples of masked figures following in suit. His eyes catch on Namaah's pointed, unblinking stare. He, too, places the pill in his mouth and lifts his cup to his lips. He meets zher look steadily as the cup empties.

Later, when Namaah is deep in zher fifth cup of wine, he leans casually over the Ark's railing and opens his mouth. The unswallowed white pill drops from under his tongue and disappears into the waves.

—

The Ark forgets its woes. About its barely-held-together masts, about the thinning waterproof tar along its hull. But the fool remembers. The fool watches soberly as more scratches, breaks, and cracks bleed through the Ark's walls.

During the daylight, while the Ark sleeps off the previous night's bad decisions, the fool takes the Ark's dinghies to the still-open docks along the Cloudspire's length. He climbs above the clouds into wealthy, unconcerned neighborhoods. He works. He convinces. He prepares.

Aha blesses him with a golden opportunity when a wealthy man within earshot demands a neon green floodpod to be destroyed. "It's hideous!" the man retches. The fool haphazardly throws together a costume and a backstory and convinces the man to exchange the floodpod for a rare artifact from the exotic planet Jarilo-VI.

(The artifact is a useless tangle of circuitry ripped from Gepard's old, destroyed Earthwork).

When he returns to the Ark, he slips the floodpod's keycard into his knife's hidden compartment. He hides his gathered supplies inside the floodpod and tethers it to Ark. He sleeps easier knowing that his escape plan is secured right under the Ark's nose, figuratively and literally.

It's not like anyone on the Ark would be sober enough to find it.

—

At night, Mabbul-I's black skies strobe orange with lightning in a divine light show. It's a clear mandate by Aha to party the night away. So every evening, he spits out his pill and parties like the good Fool he is.

It's too easy to convince his peers that he, too, is high on the ecstasy of life. The clenching jaw, jittery eyes, and unchecked rambling come naturally to him even without the white pill's aid. Every night, after he finally escapes to the quiet of the captain's deck, he stares down at the boisterous party deck and avoids thinking about what that means.

It's dull watching other people have fun. Despite his best efforts, his mind drifts into unwanted questions. When should he abandon ship? Why did he even come here? Where will he go next? Who is he?

Run, boy. Run…

"I didn't expect you, of all people, to be a wallflower."

He straightens. He equips his grin. He turns to face Namaah.

"Honey, you're always seeking me out in private," he coos, heart thudding. "You're going to give a man the wrong idea."

Namaah crosses zher arms. "It almost looks like you're not having fun."

He jabs a thumb toward the captain's cabin. "I was just checking up on the sound system. You can't have a party without good music!"

Namaah coolly examines his plastic smile. Zhe begins to speak with deceptive gentleness.

"You know, Brother, you were a sorry, pathetic whelp when you first crawled onto the Ark. It vexed me to see such a miserable boy earn the gaze of the Elation. There wasn't a single shred of joy in you, no matter how much you pretended otherwise.

"When word spread of your deeds, I assumed I was wrong in my judgment of you. But here you are again, crawling onto the Ark, hiding away from revelry, no mask in sight." Namaah's eye narrows. "It makes me wonder why the Elated One chose you."

Something knocks from within the holes in his head: potential answers. Because I'm hilarious, is one. I don't fucking know, is another. Instead of voicing them, his smile stretches into sharp points.

"Some friendly advice, Namaah? Jealousy isn't a good look on you."

Namaah flicks an invisible pest off zher shoulder. "The Elation's blessing is wasted on you."

The world deafens and flashes blindingly white just as the ground gives out from under them. Darkness slams into him just as his feet slam back against a tilted floor. He stumbles into the railing of the captain's deck as the fireworks fade from his vision and his eyes adjust to the darkness. He sees Namaah beside him struggle to zher feet on the slanted ground.

"Looks like the lightning took out one of our masts," zhe comments. "Nothing that can't be fixed tomorrow."

He squints through the flashing stagelights. One of the masts is once again broken. The Ark is listing slightly due to its now uneven weight. The revelers below only seem enthralled by their newly-slanted surroundings.

A group of dancers drifts down the sloped deck. One of them, a drunken borisin, floats dangerously close to the Ark's edge. The fool's eyes narrow. That's Red-Fur, one of the borisin assigned to fixing the Ark's hull.

"That borisin is going to drown," he points out.

"Let him," Namaah says.

The borisin's name isn't Red-Fur. His name is Maral, and his friend Black-Claws is Teumer. They begrudgingly shared their names with the fool when he helped them patch the gash torn into the hull by the thrown stagelight. Maral staggers dazedly toward the edge of the deck, his eyes focused on something invisible in the distance. Someone stumbles into him. He careens over the edge of the deck and into the black waters.

The fool doesn't realize he's moved until he's shoved back by an arm. He looks between the thin, reedy hand pressed against his chest and Namaah's cold, porcelain glare.

"Do not stop my children from finding Joy," Namaah hisses.

He waves an incredulous hand at the deck below. "This is Joy?"

"It is," Namaah snaps, just as another of zher children cannonballs into the waves. "Don't you see? This is a wonderful thing! Look at them, fearless and laughing in the face of all this shit and misery! Look at them!"

He looks just as the black waves swallow a pair of lovers lost in their last embrace. His stomach lurches nauseatingly.

He steps back. "You've changed, Namaah."

"And how would you know that?" Namaah's eye narrows. "I know what it costs you to be Their emanator."

"I wouldn't befriend the leader of a suicide cult," he spits out with a certainty he doesn't feel. "Your Elation is flawed. There's no joy to be had when you're dead."

"There's none to be had living on this miserable planet either." Namaah's wings sag. "Please, Brother. You've seen the rot of the Floodgrounds. You've seen the apathy of the Cloudspire. My children have no future here. It would be a mercy for them to find a Joyful end."

He looks into Namaah's beseeching eye and tries to find the Joy zhe refers to. All he sees is the reflection of his limp, plastered locks and his empty green eyes.

He's old for a Fool. Practically decrepit. There aren't many Fools older than him, save for those primordial folk who've tempered their merriment into something wickedly sharp. Looking down at the writhing, senseless bodies on the dance floor, he keenly feels every astronomic second of his age.

Once, he would've been down there. Dancing the night away as people drowned. Plugging up the gaping holes inside him with merriment until nothing remained of him but ecstasy.

Now, he thinks of the Underworld. Of Natasha and Seele and Hook. Of Cocolia Rand sealing them away so that they may slowly destroy themselves in their abandonment. The Ark of another world.

Sparkle was right. He really has lost his sense of humor.

He slaps away Namaah's hand and walks resolutely toward the captain's cabin. Something tries to invade his mind and force his body still. He shakes off Namaah's pitiful attempt at tuning with a scoff and slams the cabin door in zher face. He rips out the sound system's cables, strangling the thudding music into a screeching death.

There's no more music to disguise the thunderous crashing of waves. He hears the the laughter and chatter of the party deck quiet before lightning once again tears through the night sky. The roar of crashing cymbals drowns out everything. The thunderclap fades to reveal the party deck's screams of fear and confusion instead of merriment.

Something moves far too close to the Ark's railings. He throws his knife out the cabin window into the party deck below. He reatomizes in the path of a stumbling borisin who lurches away from the Ark's edge at his sudden appearance. The borisin pants and whines with dilated pupils.

"Maral?" Teumer whimpers. "Is that you?"

Something violent stabs through him. He pushes Teumer into the safety of the deck more roughly than he intends.

"Sorry, folks. Party's over," he says emotionlessly to the crowd.

For the first time since he's arrived on the Ark, Namaah's children look uncertain. They huddle together and glance at each other with slouched backs. They flinch and clap their hands over their ears at the sound of crashing waves. A woman begins to hyperventilate. A pepeshi begins to cry.

A ripple travels through the crowd's hunched bodies. The people part to reveal a damp, white cloud that floats austerely toward him. Namaah stops an arm's-reach away and bores into him with zher lone yellow eye.

"To your cabins, children," Namaah announces serenely. "We'll party more tomorrow."

Namaah's children seep away from the party deck like the rivulets of water dripping from zher soggy feathers. Zher gaze does not leave his as they're left alone on the tilted deck. Zhe suddenly throws something at him. He catches it neatly between his index and middle fingers.

"What's this?" he asks, glancing down at the card in his hand. His breath hitches when he recognizes the key to his hidden floodpod.

"Your backup plan," Namaah sneers. Zhe turns zher back to him. "Get out. The Ark is for those who pursue Elation. Not you."

—

The floodpod is a hollow, almond-shaped boat that's not tall enough for him to sit straight and barely long enough to fit his prone body. The bottom half of the almond is a compartment for his painstakingly-gathered supplies and the boat's machinery. At the almond's apex is a windowed hatch staring straight into the gloomy sky. Living inside the floodpod will be a claustrophobic, miserable ordeal. But he'll live. That's already far more generous than he expects from a spurned Namaah.

He assesses his situation as the floodpod's dinky motors take him away from the Ark. He doesn't have enough food and water to last the rest of the flood. His phone only has so much battery, and its incessant buzzing only drains it more. He needs a solution for temperature and sanitation as well.

He could solve all these problems with money.

He sighs. It always comes down to money.

The Ark's vaults are out of reach now, and he has no cash. He could ask Silver Wolf for his payment for the Jarilo-VI job—but no, she'd tell Sparkle his location right away. He'll have to make do with what this shithole planet has to offer.

So he docks at the Cloudspire and prepares. He obtains four battery packs. A autosanitizer. A respirator. Canned food. Bottled water. A water filter. He performs maintenance on his thermoregulator. He plans, tracks, and budgets. He ignores the buzz of his phone.

Once, he finds a child hiding atop a stack of crates in a flooded, abandoned apartment. Her defiant, amber glare reminds him of Hook. Something compels him to give his only allocated snack bar of the day to her. The ferocity with which she scarfs the shitty bar makes something ring piercingly from a hole in his head. That day, he uses the ache of his stomach to drown out the knocking of things begging to be remembered.

Run boy. Run. Run. Run…

—

One day, while he's looting the empty floor of the Cloudspire along the floodline, he stumbles upon a freshly abandoned tiki bar. He pilfers unopened bottles of alcohol from underneath the bar. He's even lucky enough to find a forgotten pallet of ramen in the storeroom.

He knows Aha is smiling upon him when he finds the karaoke room. He makes a noise of glee and wades through the ankle-deep water onto the raised platform where the microphone stands. He taps the microphone. His smile stretches wide when a low thud echoes through the room.

"Testing, testing!" he trills into the microphone, preening at the responding echo of his voice. "Ladies, gentlemen, and everyone in between! You're in for a treat! It's not everyday that a Fool of my caliber performs!"

He pauses for imaginary applause before pointing out somewhere into the audience.

"I dedicate this performance to my favorite rockstar with a hot brother! Serval, this is for you!"

He imagines the fervent scream of the audience and the groan of a flustered brother. The shitty wood platform shakes as he air-guitars and wails at the top of his lungs.

"I come home, in the mornin' light / My mother says, 'When you gonna live your life right?'"

Lightning flashes outside the windows. He thinks of blue eyes and cold winter days.

"Now I know what a fool I've been / But if you kissed me now, I know you'd fool me again..."

The storm pounds deafeningly against the stone walls. He sings on regardless.

"And even as I wander, I'm keeping you sight / You're a candle in the window on a cold, dark winter's night..."

Something wet splatters onto the mic cover. Is that slobber or rain?

"Livin' alone / I think of all the friends I've known / But when I dial the telephone / Nobody's home..."

He sings his shriveled heart out. Who needs the Ark? Who needs Belobog? Namaah was wrong. There's plenty of joy to be had on this planet, right here, right now!

A disgusting odor pierces through his delight. His nose wrinkles, then he jumps at the sight of black water submerging him to his knees. He drops the microphone and hurries out the window of the tiki bar. He tries not to breathe in the scent of death as he flees.

—

He wakes up inside the floodpod to the unpleasant sensation of wet socks. He groans in dismay, then jolts up in alarm. He bangs his forehead against the ceiling and swears at the sight of a wet puddle at the bottom of the floodpod.

He loses the next moments of his life to panic. When he comes to his senses, he's stacked his perishable supplies atop a tower of empty boxes safely out of reach of the accumulating water. He tears open the machinery compartment and investigates. One of the floodpod's two water pumps stutters feebly as it valiantly attempts to keep the flood outside the pod.

He breathes deeply. It's not the end of the world. He'll find supplies to fix the pump. Meanwhile, he'll dump out the seeping water himself. It's not so bad. No worse than dodging assassins nonstop for a year.

He spends the rest of the day throwing water out the floodpod's hatch. It's not so bad. The holes in his mind whisper to him and keep him company. And in the brief moments he powers up his phone, so do Sparkle's incessant texts.

When he settles down for a meal, he finds an entire box of ramen soaked through with floodwater. He opens a packet anyways because he's a fool. The noodles inside are noticeably and predictably wet.

A week's worth of food gone, just like that.

He throws the box out of the hatch and continues dumping water out of his shitty floodpod. No use crying over spilled milk.

—

The water inside the floodpod rises steadily higher. It becomes obvious that he can no longer leave the pod for extended periods of time without risking the pod flooding. So he gives up on his mission to find a replacement pump and focuses on throwing water out the pod.

One evening, he decides to reward himself for his hard work. He cracks open the hatch and lights the lone cigarette he bummed from a janitor in the Cloudspire. He inhales, savoring the faintness that swaddles him like the smoke cottoning his lungs. Aeons, it's been over six years since he last smoked. How virtuous Sampo Koski was! He snorts. Hardly.

In truth, he had no intention to quit smoking. Cigarettes were simply too valuable to be wasted on Sampo Koski. The Silvermanes on the frontline bent over backwards for mere minutes of escape. Addictions were currency. And Sampo Koski knew the value of currency.

The glowing orange tip nears his fingers. The end of his last cigarette. He snorts, remembering his last "last cigarette" from over six years ago, extinguished against a bedside ashtray in a seedy tavern on a hick planet. It was a stupid end, in hindsight. There was at least another minute left in its lifespan. Instead, it died as a failed, fidgeting attempt to drown out the rueful look of a handsome, morose blond man whom he just failed to rob—

The cigarette falls from his fingers. It lands sadly in the puddle at the bottom of the floodpod.

"Fuck," he says because it seems fitting.

He ignores the buzzing of his phone.

—

He wakes up with a gasp. He's cold.

And wet. And shivering. A natural consequence of being constantly drenched for days now.

He shudders when he realizes that his body is ankle-deep in water. He retracts his legs and curls into a ball. He double-checks that his thermoregulator and autosanitizer are still running. He makes a note to steal a session in a healing pod as soon as the flood recedes, just in case he procured any brain-eating worms.

He does the only thing he can: pour water out of the floodpod. He keeps his mind busy as he works. He tallies his food stores. He calculates how many cigarette packs he can buy once the flood ends. He methodically blocks every number Sparkle attempts to contact him with.

On the last percentages of his third battery pack, he gives in to his impulses and scrolls through his phone. He watches funny videos. He looks at pretty men and women and imagines the feel of their bodies. He likes pretty things. Pretty things make him forget how cold he is. And Gepard was the prettiest of them all.

Out of habit, he moves to open a picture album before he abruptly remembers that Sampo Koski and his pictures no longer exist. Damn. He never got the chance to jerk off to that stunning picture of Gepard in Backwater Pass.

The absurdity of that thought shocks him into a laugh. Of all the things to regret! It was an amazing photo, though. He saved it the moment he saw Victor's article, but some twist of discomfort stopped him from doing more than ogle it frequently. He deeply regrets his uncharacteristic prudishness now. He's too miserable for even the thought of Geppie's gorgeousness to get him hard.

He thinks about Gepard anyway. Imagines the cut of his jaw, the furrow of his brow. How large and steady his hands were. How his collarbones framed the cords of his neck so enticingly. How he gasped and writhed atop a ratty tavern blanket. He thinks about how expressive those baby blue eyes were, of that stomach-rending look of sad, patient love that showed every time the fool wanted to run away—

He buries his head into his hands and shivers. He's so, so cold.

—

On the last day of rain, he doesn't sleep. Instead, he watches as the waterline ascends to his belt.

He debates abandoning the floodpod, but where can he go? He's burned bridges with the only people on this planet who'd tolerate him. He could cling to the outside walls of the Cloudspire somewhere above the cloudline, but he risks getting spotted and shot down. How would he eat? Drink? Stay clean? He doesn't have enough space in his inventory for all his supplies.

He decides to wait out the last day.

Hours drift by in a sleepless fugue. The water reaches his belly button. He shifts into a kneel, trying to keep his upper body unsubmerged. He looks out the hatch window. He sees orange skies and endless rain.

Run. Run. Run.

"I can't," he mutters. "There's nowhere to go."

Don't stop. Just keep running.

He clutches his head. "I said I can't!"

He grits his teeth. The holes in his head just don't get it. There's so many things he can't do. He can't be warm. He can't stop shaking. He can't feel full. He can't go back to Belobog.

He gasps at the pain that rends his chest at the thought of Belobog. Images and sensations drown him. Three tiny bodies tackling him and cackling. The roll of purple eyes as a doctor teaches him how to sew a patient's stitches. A shared look of shock with a rockstar as a tone-deaf soldier shrieks horrendously into the karaoke microphone. A sad, tender look that should have never been given to a fool like him.

Blue eyes.

A gentle hand.

Tea.

Noodles.

Flowers.

Rocks.

Moonlight.

A kiss.

He gasps for reprieve. He's drowning in both mind and body now.

Run, boy. Don't stop running.

He doesn't remember who that voice belongs to. The Elation took his memories away just as it stripped him of his name, his identity, and every other source of misery in his life. And the Elation too will drain him of the Belobogian colors suffocating him until nothing remains of him but holes.

"Let me forget," he begs. "Strip me of my wants. Leave me with nothing but joy. Please."

Tear it all out. Tear out the begrudging friendships with stern doctors and scythe-wielding vigilantes. Tear out the hide-and-seek with street urchins who call him Uncle. No more tender, secretive looks from blue eyes. No more gentle hand wrapping gauze around his torn arm.

He closes his eyes. He'll count to ten. When he opens his eyes, he'll see nothing but joy.

What he sees instead is a notification on his phone screen.

Friend

you've been ignoring me

He doesn't have it in him to scoff at the contact name or laugh at Sparkle's awful timing. Instead, he hisses in sudden, biting annoyance.

█████

take a hint

Friend

rude

that's not how you treat an old friend

did you forget everything i did for you?

i gave you the jarilo job

He shouldn't have responded. He wants to bury his head under a pillow and forget about warm tea and warm looks. Instead, he's sitting in a tiny boat waist-deep in dead-body soup.

Friend

are you still mad about the penacony script?

lol you're so sensitive

it's called a JOKE

i for one think it'll be hilarious to see that control freak freak out about his dead sister

Maybe it's the scent of death swimming around him. Maybe it's the horrible, lingering image of a beautiful blue-eyed face contorted in agony over a father's death. Whatever the reason, his usual, begrudging patience for Sparkle's bullshit is completely, utterly gone.

█████

youre fucked up sparkle

im not helping you with your games

Friend

you don't have a choice

you know why?

He moves to block another one of Sparkle's numbers, but an image flickers onto the screen before he navigates away. Beautiful blue pinpoints overtake his vision. He pushes his face into the screen, panting like an addict scenting a fix for the first time in months.

His mouth dries when he takes in the rest of the image.

The image scorches loudly into his retinas, forcing the cold, the filth, the misery, the flood into irrelevance. A darkness balloons within the crumbling holes of his mind. It fills his empty insides, swells past his seams, and paints him with an emotion he didn't know he could still recognize:

Rage. An apocalyptic, incendiary rage.

█████

what did you do to him

Sparkle sends a space anchor address.

Friend

come find out :)

He stares at Sparkle's mocking words a moment more before his body jolts into motion. He shoves anything and everything useful into his inventory. He bares teeth and his blades. He pulls up Sparkle's coordinates and presses it with a shaking thumb.

He evaporates from the floodpod, leaving behind empty air and a sinking ship.

Chapter Text

Lunch is one of the precious few times Gepard can meet with Pela during work without scrutiny. Slipping into the Intelligence Department with two meals in hand has been a common enough occurrence in their past eight years as colleagues, after all. What was once a favor for Lynx to keep Pela company has now become a convenient excuse to converse privately over a shared meal—which would have been lovely had the topic been anything but Sampo, who may or may not have murdered Gepard's father.

"You should eat," Gepard suggests, sliding a plate with a sandwich across Pela's desk.

Pela doesn't look up from the phone in her hands. "I'll eat when I figure out where Koski went."

Gepard resists the urge to sigh. Ten years ago, when Gepard was a cadet feeling annoyed by the constant presence of a reticent, smart-aleck girl in his little sister's life, Gepard would have never guessed that he would one day take over Lynx's role as the friend who makes sure a stressed Pela gets fed.

"I don't think Lynx would like to see you skipping meals," Gepard tries.

"That device you described was useless," Pela mutters, ignoring Gepard's mothering entirely. "It's a modified synesthesia beacon, a hand-held, long-range version of telepathy implants that outworlders have. It's too common to give me any clues about Koski's location." Pela's voice begins to speed and contort. "I couldn't find anything about anyone named Sampo Koski. These Masked Fools have so many pseudonyms that it's almost impossible to track them down. I don't know how to do this. I'm no outworlder. I don't know how to dig up secrets from the stars."

Pela collapses face-first into her desk, rattling the sandwich plate precariously. Gepard nudges it away from the edge of the desk with quiet sympathy. The world has grown astronomically in less than a year. For someone like Pela, whose livelihood depends on knowing as much about the world as possible, it must be a terrifying change.

"Maybe we should focus on Belobog instead of the stars," Gepard suggests gently. "Did you look into the dates I gave you?"

"Midyear 695 AF, almost six years ago," Pela recites. Her head perks back up with renewed intensity. "I did. There was a blip of unusual missing belongings reports and sightings of unknown beasts in the Snow Plains. I cross-referenced Wildfire's records and confirmed Koski made his first appearance in the Underworld shortly after. You were right. Koski likely arrived on Belobog around then." Pela's eyes narrow. "How did you know?"

Six years ago was when Matilda publicly announced her engagement to Victor, sending Gepard running into Backwater Pass and, embarrassingly, right into Ast Rickley's bed. But that's a private memory. For all he's come to terms with his yearning for Sampo, his throat still closes with terror at the thought of speaking openly about his strange love.

Gepard hesitates for too long. Pela rolls her eyes. "Fine. Keep your secrets." Her expression turns serious. "You should know that I don't think Koski came to Belobog alone. Every Guard who reported a sighting of strange beasts outside Belobog saw two creatures, not one."

Gepard nods. That must be Ast Rickley's sister with the strange name and cruel smile, whom he never saw again. The room falls silent as Gepard keeps that realization private.

"What about your end of the investigation?" Pela asks. "Did your mother tell you who she thinks targeted your father?"

Bless Pela for changing the topic. "She wants me to stop investigating Father's passing," he answers resignedly. "She seems wary of whoever may be involved."

Pela chews her pen thoughtfully. "It is awfully convenient that Qlipoth Fort is being purged right after your father's passing. It almost seems like someone influential is taking advantage of Koski's fall. Orchestrated it, even."

Hope that Sampo wasn't involved in Father's passing flutters in Gepard's chest before he recognizes how foolish it is and quashes it.

"Do you think Sampo was working for someone powerful when he destroyed those medical records?" Gepard asks.

"I think it's likely." Pela clicks her pen decisively. "Our next step is clear; we need to look into the rich and powerful who might have wanted your father"—Pela's voice falters—"out of the picture."

"You can say dead," Gepard says gently.

Pela winces. She looks around the room, sees the untouched sandwich, and takes a large bite of it in lieu of responding. Gepard exhales the ghost of a laugh, simultaneously endeared and saddened by her discomfort.

"So that's what convinces you to eat?" Gepard teases. "Talking about my dead father?"

Pela chokes on a bite and glares at him. "Shut up."

The tension passes just like that. Gepard allows himself a small smile at the thought of his mourning leading to something as kind as making sure Pela gets fed.

—

No one said it aloud in Pela's office, but Gepard knows they both thought of the Limesteins when the words "rich" and "powerful" were uttered. The name clings to him as he lives his routines in Qlipoth Fort, dredging up faded nightmares of failed engagements, crushing disappointments, and vicious rumors. When his eyes meet Matilda's tired gaze in the halls in passing, the loose threads of old guilt inside him tighten into a heavy ball.

When the Landaus and Limesteins ended their engagement years ago, Gepard and Matilda were at the forefront of high society's gossip. People said many things about Gepard—things close enough to the truth that his chest still aches recollecting them. But Matilda suffered the worst of the gossip. She was too plain. Too unappealing. She didn't know how to please a man. Accusations that were never flung at Gepard because he had the privilege of being a man.

It makes sense to suspect the Limesteins. The Limesteins have reason to begrudge Gepard and his family for staining their reputation. But to silently hold onto a grudge for over decade…? Gepard thinks back to Father's funeral, to George Limestein's quiet sympathy, Wallace's stilted condolences, and Matilda's lowered eyes. He fails to find hatred in their faces.

But Gepard failed to find the lies behind Mother's serene calm. And he failed to realize the meaninglessness of Sampo's attentions on the night of Gepard's worst birthday, when Gepard wanted so badly to believe someone saw him instead of a faceless wallflower in a crowd. And he failed to suspect Sampo even after his heartless words in the Landau garden.

Does naive, desperate Gepard Landau truly know what other people think of him?

Gepard squeezes his eyes shut until his haunting thoughts explode into starbursts. He needs answers, not doubts. He needs to act, to speak with the Limesteins face-to-face and see for himself whether they've betrayed him. Like a soldier. Like a man.

He fails to convince himself that he's not just running away from his thoughts.

—

There's a stack of boxes in the attic of the Landau manor filled with Father's forgotten belongings. Gepard does not know why Mother has avoided clearing it out, but her laxness benefits him now as he unearths a box with a fading label proclaiming, "property of George Limestein." Gepard opens the box and glances at the labeled book spines lined inside: Belobog Real Estate Law: A Comprehensive Guide; Can I Retire? Living Without Running out of Money; Preparing Heirs: Transitioning Family Wealth and Values to the Next Generation—

Gepard closes the box. It takes an embarrassing amount of time for the heat behind his eyes to fade. He thanks Qlipoth that Mother didn't witness his near-crumbling and carries the box out the manor.

Snow drifts gently from the sky the next day when Gepard carries the box to Limestein Estate's gates. Within the warmth of the guard booth, the Limestein gatekeeper mutters into his radio and waves him in. Gepard brings the box all the way up Limestein Estate's snow-pelted footpath, past the faint mirages of walking Matilda up these very steps long ago, and sets the box down gently on the manor's sheltered porch. He breathes deeply, reminds himself that the past is in the past, and knocks on the manor's grand front doors.

The wind whistles through the needles of nearby conifers. Gepard resists the urge to shift his weight and stands straight with his arms behind his back. One of the doors creaks open after a weighty pause. Wallace's pinched features regard him tiredly.

"Captain Landau," Wallace sniffs. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Gepard pauses. Wallace has never liked Gepard, but his displeasure has always been loud and vivid, not limp and worn as he is now.

"No need for formalities," Gepard attempts. "I'm not here as Captain. Mother and I were sorting through Father's things. We found these books he borrowed from your father. I'm here to return them."

Gepard lifts the box in offering. Wallace leans over and squints into the box with visible suspicion.

"Is this truly a personal call, Captain?" Wallace almost growls.

Gepard hesitates. "Yes. Did you have business with the Guards, Lord Limestein?"

Wallace's expression grows cold. He averts his gaze and looks out into the Limestein garden's white expanse before he calls back into the manor, "Mr. Duffey, carry these books to the den, please."

A butler emerges from behind Wallace and takes the box from Gepard's hands. The butler disappears into the manor, leaving Gepard and Wallace standing atop the great Limestein stoop in tense silence. Gepard wonders if he was mistaken in thinking Wallace's family didn't despise him. He swallows the urge to flee and squares his shoulders.

"Pardon me, Lord Limestein, but I didn't just come to reminisce. I wanted to ask if your family could offer a good word for some friends of mine who've recently…exited Qlipoth Fort and are in need of employment."

Gepard spent yesterday's lunch break rehearsing that spiel with Pela, who assured him networking was an excellent cover for probing into whether the Limesteins were involved with Qlipoth Fort's purges. Wallace's responding snort shatters Gepard's delusions of becoming an actor.

"You're awful at this," Wallace marvels. "A lifetime of polite society hasn't taught you even a modicum of subtlety. Spare us the theatrics and get on with your investigation, Captain."

Gepard's ears burn with embarrassment. "Let me be frank, then," he coughs. "Have the Limesteins seen or heard anything strange recently?"

Wallace lifts his chin haughtily. "Well, two Silvermane Guards knocked on Limestein Manor's door. Rather forward, don't you think?"

Gepard's expression sharpens. "Another Guard was here? Who?"

Wallace examines his watch with aired disinterest. "A Lieutenant Swanson. Persistent fellow. He harangued my poor mother about such-and-such about my sister so much that I had to take over as door-greeter. I have half a mind to tell him he's chasing after a married woman." Wallace's lips curl into a sneer. "Are all your subordinates so brutish, Captain?"

Gepard barely notices the jab under his churning thoughts. There's no ongoing investigation in Qlipoth Fort involving Limestein Estate. Gepard would know. Why, then, is Lieutenant Swanson, who exposed Sampo and was promoted for it, visiting the Limesteins without official cause?

"When did he visit?" Gepard asks sharply.

"He's visited two or three times a week for two months now."

Two months ago was when Father passed and Sampo disappeared.

"What did he ask about Matilda?"

"He's convinced Matilda stole from Qlipoth Fort and hid the contraband at the manor," Wallace sneers. "He's wrong. Matilda would never violate her oath. She also hasn't visited since he started harassing us."

Wallace's face visibly falls. Gepard swallows, uncertain how to comfort a man who has never liked him. He raises his left hand and rests it tentatively on Wallace's shoulder. Wallace looks at the hand as if it stank, and Gepard quickly pulls away.

"I'm sorry," Gepard says, heartfelt. "I won't intrude further. Thank you for your time, Lord Limestein."

Gepard bows and steps back.

"Wait."

Gepard halts and looks at Wallace. Wallace's hand has lifted from the door and hovers half-outstretched toward Gepard. There's a strange distortion in Wallace's expression that quickly disappears behind a curtain of pride.

"My sister is an ambitious, capable, and strong woman," Wallace declares. "She built herself a successful career and a loving marriage in spite of our parents' doubts. She's used to fighting for herself because no one else will."

"I know," Gepard says softly.

Grandeur falls from Wallace's expression at Gepard's easy agreement. Wallace swallows and looks Gepard in the eye. "So she may not always know how to ask for help."

Gepard searches Wallace's raw, pleading expression for answers. There's no hatred in his spectacled brown eyes, only love for his dear younger sister. Gepard's suspicions fly askew. How could this soft, loving Wallace possibly have murdered Gepard's father?

The stolen glimpse into Wallace Limestein disappears as Wallace breaks his gaze and stares out into the snow.

"Thank you for returning my father's books," Wallace says distantly.

Limestein Manor's doors click shut.

—

Thirty paces away from the manor down Limestein Estate's main footpath is a landing where a curtain of conifers opens to frame Limestein Manor's stately facade. Gepard descends the stairs to the landing, pauses, and looks back at the snow-pelted manor with a strange sadness.

Ten years ago, when Gepard arrived at Limestein Estate for his weekly dates with Matilda, Gepard's feet would fail him as soon as they touched this landing. It was as if the very sight of Limestein Manor froze him solid. Cold hardened his meat and sinews, preventing him from turning back and running straight out the estate's grand gates. Eventually, the memory of Father's severe expression would thaw his stiff legs and carry him to the front door and into Matilda's tepid embrace.

For the first time in his life, he mourns for young Gepard. He was so damn afraid. So afraid of disappointing Father. So afraid that world would see through his interest in Matilda and uncover the strangeness of him. So, so terrified by the enormity of what Sampo made him feel.

Now Father is dead, and Sampo is gone, and Matilda won't even look him in the eye, and the time he wasted frozen with fear seems like another tragedy to add to the gaping hole Father's death gored into him.

Something gentle tinkles beyond the curtain of trees. Gepard stills and tilts his ear toward the trees. It's a familiar Solwarm holiday jingle, ringing months too early to be usual. Gepard shakes his head. His regrets are making him hear things.

STILL STUCK, TOY SOLDIER?

Gepard whirls around, heart racing. He sees no laughing face, just trees and snow.

"Hello?" he shouts. "Is someone there?"

No one answers but the jingling Solwarm bells beckoning him forward. Gepard swallows. He looks between the two paths leading out of the landing—a crossroads he's visited countless times before, he realizes. Up the stairs are the manor doors that will never open to him again. Down below is the gate that will take him back to his lonely status quo. Gepard looks toward the trees, toward his third path. The bells jingle. His foot lifts and plants into the powdered grass as if possessed.

Matilda loved Solwarm, Gepard remembers randomly as he breaches the Limestein forest. During their engagement, she would not-so-subtly mention the two-person sleigh stored away in one of the Limesteins' forgotten sheds. She wanted him to drive her through Nobleshire's main roads and show off their perfect union, as her father did her every Solwarm in her childhood. When she dumped him at the foot of Limestein Manor, he was shamefully relieved that that particular wish of hers would never come true.

The jingling grows louder. Gepard's steps speed up inexplicably. He rounds a tree and stops at the sight of a small wooden shed, shockingly unkempt for a building standing in Limestein grounds. Gepard cautiously steps forward and wraps his left hand around its chilly doorknob. He turns it slowly and holds his breath when the door clicks open without resistance.

Dust overwhelms him when he steps inside. He sneezes and blinks at a unexplained glow painting white shapes at the junction of two wooden walls. The glow alights the gray dust disturbed from his approaching footsteps. There in the corner of the room is a two-person sleigh, its seat occupied by a glowing, ringing phone singing a cheerful Solwarm tune.

The digital bells echo deafeningly.

Gepard reaches into the sleigh. When his gauntlet wraps around the phone, the phone dies with an ear-piercing, digital screech. The shed plummets into silent darkness.

Gepard jerks back, spooked. He hurries out the trees and slows only once he reaches the main footpath once more. When he confirms he's alone, he looks down into his gauntlet. In his palm is a cold, dead phone with a shattered screen. He holds down the phone's power button, but the screen predictably refuses to light.

Gepard did not clench tightly enough to break the phone; it was broken before he touched it. He wonders, unsettled, how a dead, broken phone could have possibly sung a ringtone loudly enough for him to hear it from the footpath.

Is Gepard going crazy? Did he hallucinate the lit phone screen? Did he hallucinate the ringing bells?

Gepard slips the broken phone into his pocket. He'll sneak into Qlipoth Fort's labs after hours and find answers tonight, but for now, he refuses to waste more time lingering in Limestein Estate and the past.

He exits the decorated gates without looking back.

—

Gepard lingers in his office until his stump aches from wearing his gauntlet and his eyes burn from reading too many stale documents. He looks out his window at the night sky and walks out into the empty Qlipoth Fort halls, returning the salute that a lone night guard grants him as he passes by.

No one sees him veer into the unlit Intelligence Department labs instead of exiting the building. He flicks the light switch, illuminating rows of worktables with sterile, white light and starting Pela upright from where she laid face-first on a pillow of drool-stained papers atop a desk.

"Gepard! What are you doing here? It's"—Pela glances wildly at the wall clock—"almost midnight!"

Gepard closes the door behind him, torn between exasperation and concern. "I'm here to research a new lead. What are you doing in the labs at this hour?"

"Researching," Pela groans, rubbing her eyes. "Don't nag me. Lynx nags me enough. And don't think you can look into a new lead without me. Give me whatever you have so we can investigate."

Pela makes grabby hands. Gepard reflexively leans away from her grasp, but his half-formed order to go home and rest dies on his tongue when he realizes how helpful even a sleep-deprived Pela's expertise would be. Gepard sends a silent apology to Lynx as he concedes to Pela's demand and pulls up a chair to her desk.

Grogginess in Pela's expression fades into a familiar look of concentration as she examines the phone and digests Gepard's brief. Gepard barely ekes out his last syllable before Pela rises abruptly from her seat, walks to a wall-side cabinet, and begins throwing various tools from a drawer atop the counter.

"This is an IPC-imported model," Pela mutters in rushed, staccato syllables. "It should have a record of import and sale. We can match the phone to its owner. Dust for fingerprints. Find the phone's last known geolocation…"

Pela stumbles toward a computer terminal like a woman possessed. Gepard sighs and resigns himself to a long night.

Gepard watches Pela perform esoteric maneuvers on the terminal keyboard before she snaps at him to make himself useful and dust for fingerprints. He does so dutifully, transferring the powdered prints onto tape and aligning each captured print into the scanner bed with care. When he returns to Pela's side, Pela has opened a map of Belobog and is clicking between red dots scattered across the display. One clicked dot elicits a noise of victory from her.

"This phone last pinged a cell tower in Nobleshire on October 24, 700 AF," Pela announces.

Gepard straightens. That's mere days after Father passed. A thought tries to peek through his muddy, grief-stained memories of the week following Father's death, but it disintegrates into smoke as soon as Gepard grasps it.

"This is the coverage area of the tower," Pela continues. "Do you recognize this neighborhood?"

Gepard squints. Pela has circled a part of Nobleshire right on the boundary where sprawling, gated plots give way to reasonably-sized homes and townhouses.

"This is the part of Nobleshire where minor noble families live," Gepard answers. "I can't tell you which. My family isn't close to the smaller families."

Pela grimaces. "It's going to be difficult to investigate nobility, minor or not. Especially unofficially. I don't think these families will take kindly to an undercover intelligence officer knocking on their door."

Gepard winces as his earlier conversation with Wallace comes to mind. He smothers his useless embarrassment with his resolve.

"I'm a Landau," Gepard declares. "I'll speak with them."

Pela's brows rise. "Throwing around your last name? That's out of character for you."

"I'll do what I have to do to solve this case."

A bright ding from her computer terminal startles Pela out of her disbelieving look. She rushes to the computer keyboard with startling intensity, Gepard's uncharacteristic willingness to socialize forgotten.

"Fingerprints are done," Pela declares. "There are two matches. One is Matilda's. The second is…" Pela's brows furrows. "Victor Herrero's."

Gepard frowns. "Victor's?"

Pela nods. "His prints are older than Matilda's. And there are many."

Suspicion bubbles up inside Gepard. "Can you look up the import records for this phone?"

Pela's fingers whizz across the keyboard. A new window pops up with the characteristic sleek, minimal formatting of IPC recordkeeping. Her finger points to a row in a neat table.

"'Astraphone 700 Plus, serial number XXXXXXX, sold to Victor Corona Herrero,'" she recites, eyes widening. "This is Victor's phone."

Dread settles in Gepard's stomach. This hidden, shattered phone being Victor's can mean nothing good.

Eight years of close collaboration as colleagues makes their migration to the gigantic evidence wall in Pela's office second-nature. Together, they print documents, pin them to the wall, and draw notes and lines between each piece of evidence. The web grows worryingly thicker, the piecemeal image of their shared conclusion more disturbing, until finally, Pela pins the circled map onto the dense spiderweb and steps back with gravitas.

"To summarize," Pela begins, "Victor's phone was damaged to a nonfunctional state two months ago somewhere in the edges of Nobleshire. Somehow, his phone then ended up inside Limestein Estate. Around the same time, Lieutenant Swanson began regularly visiting the Limesteins, supposedly to recover a stolen item on behalf of the Fort. Is this correct?"

Gepard nods solemnly.

Pela glares at the wall. "How did the phone end up in Limestein Estate?"

"Matilda must have hid it there," Gepard answers, certain. "She's the only one who remembers that shed and has the means to reach it secretly."

Pela slaps a sticky note onto the map that simply says: Matilda?

"But why hide it there?" she mutters. "Why not fix it, or throw it away, or replace it?"

"There must be something important on that phone. Something Matilda tried to preserve." Gepard's gauntlet tightens. "Something Lieutenant Swanson doesn't want to be found."

Gepard exchanges a long look with Pela.

"Do you think Victor saw something he shouldn't?" Pela whispers.

"I think he did more than see it." Gepard's eyes slide to the shattered phone laid atop Pela's desk. "I think he recorded it."

Gepard's statement hangs heavy in their shared silence. The phone's cracked facade gleams tantalizingly under the sterile office lights.

"When did you last hear from Victor?" Pela asks suddenly.

Gepard's breath seizes. He pulls out his phone and races to his texts with Victor. Victor's last messages, two months ago, were condolences shortly after Father's passing and an urgent request to meet. Gepard had contacted Victor thrice in the two months since, once two weeks after the funeral and twice more in the following weeks. When no reply came, Gepard assumed that Victor had soured on their friendship and let the man be. Only now does Gepard realize his messages were never received.

Gepard

Sorry for the late reply. Things have been difficult.

Matilda told me you were ill. I hope you feel better.

Do you still want to meet? I'm free Thursday evening.

Gepard

I hope you're well. Is this week better for you?

Gepard

Did I do something wrong?

A lump forms in Gepard's throat as he makes one more attempt.

Gepard

Are you OK?

He presses send and stares at the send indicator. Seconds pass. The words "not delivered" appear under his futile message.

"Victor hasn't spoken with me since Father passed," Gepard chokes out.

"I haven't heard from him either," Pela mumbles.

They look at each other. Gepard blurts, "Matilda said he was sick. I thought—"

Gepard bites off his useless excuses. Stupid, selfish Gepard. Too caught up in his grief and loneliness to notice his friend disappeared. Too hurt by Victor's absence, so similar to Sampo's, to realize it was suspicious. Too blind to examine Matilda's unusual exhaustion or her strange discomfort around Lieutenant Swanson.

"You couldn't have known," Pela ekes out uncomfortably.

Gepard squeezes his eyes shut, unable to muster a response to Pela's awkward attempt at comfort while cresting the wave of self-loathing washing over him. If Gepard hadn't visited Limestein Estate, hadn't hallucinated the sound of bells that led him straight to the hidden shed, Gepard would have never known his friend was in danger. Gepard would have lived believing Victor gave up on him, as if Victor's time and priorities revolved solely around stupid, selfish Gepard—!

GONG, GONG, GONG…

Hurt reflexively stabs through him at the familiar peal of funeral bells. Gepard's eyes fly open.

"Do you hear that?" Gepard whispers.

Pela looks at him like he's crazy. "Hear what?"

Imaginary, hallucinatory funeral bells interrupting his spiraling thoughts. Mourning Victor, mourning Father, mourning Sampo, who also disappeared a few days after Father's death…

A few days after Father's death.

Suddenly, the vapors of Gepard's earlier déjà vu solidify into painful recognition. It steals his breath, seeps into his muscles, curls his left fist into a point, and lifts it toward a plot of land inside the circled area.

"This the Herrero estate." His finger trails to a sticky note pinned over the circle: last pinged October 4, 700 AF, 23:13. "This is the exact date of Lieutenant Swanson's altercation with Sampo." His hand falls limp. "This is also the last day Sampo spoke to me."

Pela's throat bobs as she swallows thickly. She peels a sticky note from her stack, scrawls messily on it, and slaps it next to the map: Sampo Koski gone. She says, hushed, "So Lieutenant Swanson was in contact with both Koski and Victor right before they disappeared."

Gepard nods, mute.

Pela wordlessly peels another sticky note. She presses it into the center of the spiderweb and draws a line from it to every other pinned paper on the wall. It reads, underlined thrice:

AMOS SWANSON

Gepard stares at the name. Amos Swanson, veteran soldier, recent hero of Qlipoth Fort, his late father's colleague, a supposed comrade. The messy letters of Pela's handwriting distort Swanson's name into a slithering, untrustworthy thing.

Pela begins to pace. "We have to find out what happened to Victor. We have to find out what's on that phone." Her hands clench into small fists. "If I knew more about outworlder technology, I'd be able to recover the phone's data. But I don't. So that's a dead end."

Before Gepard can comfort her, Pela suddenly swings around pins Gepard in place with her wide, shadowed eyes.

"We have to find Koski. He's the missing link between everything: Swanson, Victor, Qlipoth Fort, your father."

Gepard swallows the emotion that wells up his throat at the mention of Sampo. "He knows something," he agrees as evenly as he can, "but we can't find him on our own. We need the Astral Express' help. And Bronya needs to know that foul play is happening under her nose in Qlipoth Fort." Gepard draws a steadying breath. "I'll schedule a meeting with Bronya first thing tomorrow morning. We'll tell her everything."

Pela looks worriedly at him. "You don't have to tell her everything."

Gepard's heart clenches. She's referring to his strange, twisted love for Sampo. Gepard looks away, unable to meet Pela's concerned expression any longer.

"I'll do what I have to do to solve this case," Gepard echoes.

—

Despite Pela's protests, Gepard accompanies her to the foot of her door and watches attentively as she disappears out the chilly Belobog night and into the safety of her apartment. He then takes the trolley in the opposite direction to his condo and spends a grand total of four hours there before dawn and duty once again summon him back to Qlipoth Fort.

In the past, despite Gepard's best efforts to suppress it, marching up Qlipoth Fort's long stairs at dawn felt like dragging himself to his own execution. Gepard felt this dread keenly as fresh-faced cadet and the much-anticipated golden child of the Captain of the Silvermane Guards, and he felt it again in the short months he served as Madam Cocolia's obedient hammer. The old, faded terror returns with vengeance as he climbs now to lay himself bare before Bronya's judgment.

Who will Bronya see when Gepard enters her office? A friend who neglected her when it was her turn to grieve? A direct report who acted in secret behind her back? Or, worst of all, a Guard who fraternized with a notorious criminal—another man at that?

Gepard stops midway up the stairs. Passing guards and administrators glance at him briefly and look away when nothing remarkable shows in his taut expression. But inside, his throat closes, his lungs refuse to expand, and panic squeezes his guts and twists.

Think, Gepard! What did Jess say about anxiety attacks?

Five things he sees. Four things he hears. Stone stairs, frosted windows, gray skies. The trolley's clamor, passing gossip, Belobog's chill, and his heart still beating inside his chest.

"Gepard."

Gepard does not jump thanks to the deep breaths Jess' voice instructs him to take. He turns to look at Pela standing below him on the stairs, who appeared behind him sometime while he struggled silently. Her eyes are shadowed with sleeplessness, which only makes the worry in her gaze all the more striking.

"Are you okay?" she asks quietly.

Gepard nods, numb with calm. "Let's hurry. Bronya is expecting us."

—

Seele is notably absent when Gepard and Pela enter the Supreme Guardian's office. Bronya herself stands by the wall-length windows behind her desk, looking at them with a solemnity appropriate for how unusual a last-minute meeting with both the Captain of the Silvermane Guards and the Head of the Intelligence Department is. Bronya takes the bad news well, but the too-tight clasp of her hands betrays her restrained distress.

"A missing civilian who might know too much, a Guard going rogue harassing his family, and the timing of the purge and the late Captain's passing…" Bronya exhales. "It almost sounds like someone is trying to tear apart Qlipoth Fort from the inside."

"Not just someone," Pela mutters. "A Lieutenant of the Silvermane Guards."

Bronya grimaces. "And you think Koski is connected?"

Pela glances at Gepard. Gepard clings to his calm and explains, "We think he collaborated with Lieutenant Swanson to remove evidence of foul play around my father's passing. Possibly even"—Gepard's voice hitches—"contributed to his death. But their collaboration must have gone sour. He had an altercation with Lieutenant Swanson on the same day Victor's phone was last live and the same day Koski himself left Belobog."

"How do you know Koski left on the same day?" Bronya asks.

Gepard clenches his hand into a tight fist before it can tremble. Here it comes, the moment his strange, twisted love is dragged into the open.

"I spoke with Dr. Natasha. She confirmed that Koski had been planning his departure for some time. And he—he stopped reading my messages after that day."

Bronya's brows rise. She looks between Pela and Gepard questioningly.

"Gepard has been in contact with Koski as an informant at my request as Head of the Intelligence Department," Pela explains. "If there's an overreach, it's mine, not Gepard's."

"No," Gepard snaps. "I reached out to Sampo on my own. And not just…" Against his wishes, his voice wobbles. "Not just for work."

Pela looks at him sharply, but Gepard ignores her stare to put all his willpower into meeting Bronya's startled eyes. Bronya would have believed Pela's lie had Gepard been more of a coward, but Gepard refuses to be a toy soldier frozen with fear at a crossroads. Not anymore.

"I see," Bronya says after a pause. "How long have you been in contact?"

"Five years," Gepard answers. Six, if he includes the night at the tavern and Sampo's year-long absence afterward.

"When he was a criminal," Bronya clarifies.

Gepard doesn't wince. "Yes."

"And he might have been involved in your father's passing."

"…Yes."

"I see," Bronya says again. Her mouth clicks shut in damning silence. For several seconds, her mouth opens with aborted responses before she finally musters out, "Gepard, I can't condone the Captain of the Silvermane Guards fraternizing with a known criminal."

An unexplained peace washes over Gepard the moment his greatest fear takes shape through Bronya's mouth.

"You shouldn't," Gepard agrees.

"I can't afford to be seen as corrupt so early into my guardianship. Not when Belobog's future is a stake."

"You don't have to explain," Gepard says softly. Bronya inhales sharply as if Gepard had slapped her.

"Gepard, I empathize with what it's like to" —Bronya's voice hitches—"love differently, but I have to be Supreme Guardian first and foremost. Your association with Koski cannot continue. Not while you represent Qlipoth Fort." Bronya's expression twists with pain. "Why, Gepard? Why compromise your career for him?"

Gepard's mouth opens before he realizes he doesn't have an answer. He never actually chose between Sampo and his career. He just mindlessly marched forward and yearned desperately for Sampo anyway. Even when he accepted captainship and closed the chapter on Sampo's nightly visits, he still ached for him, his left flesh hand straining for Sampo's beautiful, frustrating, ever-retreating back while his gauntlet hand clenched tight around his duty.

Bronya's incredulous eyes burn into him. Gepard scrambles for an answer. He remembers his late night phone call with Serval months ago, when Serval told him not to wait for someone he'd never have.

"He's kind to me. He cared for me when he could have taken advantage of me. He's funny…companionable…and…"

Gepard forces his mouth close, shaken by how weak his words sound now. How could this be? He said the same things with such conviction to Serval months ago.

Pela isn't looking at him anymore, instead grimacing at the ground. Bronya is staring at him with sorrow.

"Oh, Gepard," Bronya breathes.

"Oh, Gepard!" someone cries. "I really have you wrapped around my finger, don't I?"

There's a moment of disbelief before facing death that most people never overcome. Gepard, however, dedicated years of his life to squashing every human feeling he has toward danger and death. He unslings Earthwork before he can think. Bronya, too, jerks her rifle up and unlatches its safety in the span of a blink.

"Stop!" Gepard bellows, planting himself in front of her gun.

His desperate roar miraculously stills Bronya's trigger finger. Pela, who manifested her laser drones a second after Bronya drew her gun, hesitates as well.

"How sweet!" Sampo coos behind Gepard. "I suppose there's something flattering about being defended by a white knight with no self-respect."

Fury flashes across Bronya's face. Gepard erects Earthwork's barrier just as the tip of her bayonet whips over Gepard's shoulder toward Sampo's heart.

"Don't shoot!" Gepard shouts, heart pounding against his ribs.

"He insulted you," Bronya hisses darkly.

"He has information," Gepard urges. "We need to speak with him."

The tip of Bronya's bayonet does not waver from its deadly trajectory. Pela spats under the whirr of her charging drones, "I don't want to hear another word that comes out of his mouth."

"I agree with our handsome Captain," Sampo chimes in brightly. "Why don't we all have a nice, friendly chat? Sampo Koski is a great conversationalist. I'll gladly answer your questions if you answer mine."

Sampo's lilt drops to a low, emphatic purr that wraps delectably around the word "mine" and forces a shudder down Gepard's spine. Despite his better judgment, Gepard succumbs to the urge to glance backward at the source of his yearning. The sight of Sampo lounging lazily on an open window's sill dizzies Gepard. Sampo looks gorgeous. Sampo looks dangerous. Sampo looks warm. Sampo looks like sharp edges that'll cut flesh the moment Gepard pulls him into his arms.

Gepard swallows, throat dry. Has Sampo's smirk always looked so mean?

Pela's shaky whisper draws Gepard's attention back to the two women in front of him. "We're on our own, Bronya. He's somehow blocking my SOS signal. I don't think we can fight him with just the three of us. "

"He's unarmed," Bronya observes with narrowed eyes.

"He's an outworlder following a foreign Aeon," Gepard urges. "We don't know what he's capable of."

For a tense second, Bronya's stoic expression darkens with the bloodlust of a sniper. Gepard clenches Earthwork tight, bracing himself for the unthinkable.

"All right," Bronya concedes flatly, unmoving in her cold aim toward Sampo's heart. "We'll play your game, Mr. Koski. Answer this: why did you leave Belobog, and why did you come back?"

Sampo laughs, unperturbed. "Not even going to lower your gun, Supreme Guardian? Lucky for you, Sampo is a forgiving guy, so I'll let the faux pas slide." Sampo hums thoughtfully. "Why did I leave, you ask? Because my job was done and there was no more joy to be found on this planet. Why did I come back?" Sampo leers. "To see my darling Captain again, obviously!"

Pela's drones vibrate the air with her rage. "Take this seriously, Koski!"

"Did you really just ask a Fool to take something seriously?" Sampo sneers. Any possible response is interrupted by the inspired gleam lighting up his green eyes. "Ooh! Ooh! I have a question! What made you fall for me, Captain?"

Sampo's lashes flutter flirtatiously as Pela's drones begin to crackle threateningly. The drones quiet when Gepard places a steadying hand on Pela's stiff shoulder.

"Your kindness," Gepard answers quietly because Sampo is not very kind right now. Sampo's face lifts into a delighted sneer—

"Why were you working with Lieutenant Swanson?" Bronya snaps before Sampo can mock Gepard's response.

Sampo pouts. "You're no fun, Supreme Guardian." He massages his chin in a performance of thought. "Lieutenant Swanson, Lieutenant Swanson… Ah, my good pal Lieutenant Swanson! We worked together a lot of things. A lot of nasty, unethical, but profitable things that only businessmen of my ilk would be willing to do." Sampo smirks. "I don't think you want to know the details."

Beside Gepard, Pela hisses through gritted teeth, "I don't think this 'talk' has been very productive."

"Ask better questions then," Sampo coos. A frenzied giggle bursts from his chest. "My turn! My turn!" He raises an arm into the air and sings, "O Captain! My Captain! How often do you touch yourself thinking about me?"

Pela snarls wordlessly. Bronya's grip tightens around her rifle in disgust. Gepard stills them with a warning glance, turning back to face Sampo once he's certain they won't attack.

"I don't anymore because it reminds me that you left," Gepard answers plainly. Sampo hoots loudly, kicking the backs of his feet against Bronya's office wall like a child.

"Oh, this is too good!" Sampo squawks. "Good job, Sampo! Good on you for bagging someone so pathetic."

Strangely, Gepard is calm. Sampo's constant, mean-spirited barbs dissipate into nothing like snow melting under the sun, as if the terror of exposing his own twistedness to Bronya's judgment has eclipsed every other fear in his life. On the other hand, Gepard has never seen Pela so outraged, has never seen Bronya glare at someone so hatefully. Gepard decides to seize the opportunity his unnatural calm gives him.

"Bronya," Gepard says. "Let me ask a question."

As soon as Bronya realizes what he wants to ask, her expression fractures with pain. Pela, too, hisses harshly, "Don't. He'll just hurt you."

"I have to know," Gepard states.

Bronya's lips press into a thin line. Pela's face crumples with misery. Neither say anything more to stop him. Gepard inhales deeply and turns to face Sampo with all the lifetime's worth of resolve and courage that Father painfully cut into him.

"Did you murder my father, Sampo?"

Sampo's entertained expression falls curiously still. In that moment, the foolish, desperate hope that Sampo would never do something as cruel as harm Gepard's father blossoms bright.

Then Sampo's mouth stretches wide.

"Of course I did! He deserved to die." Sampo's hands slam together in a piercing clap. "Last question! How do you feel about taking a nap?"

Sampo's words echo incomprehensibly in Gepard's mind. Of course he did? Is that all Sampo has to say about Gepard's dead father? Like salt to the wound, Sampo stares past Gepard as if his apocalyptic grief were invisible. Instead, Sampo bares his teeth excitedly at Bronya.

Alarm breaks through Gepard's numbness. Bronya's eyes widen. She lifts her sagging rifle back up to Sampo's chest a second too late—

Gepard lunges for Bronya just as Sampo disappears. His left hand wraps around her forearm just as her head wrenches back with a gasp muffled by the arm suddenly crushing her throat. Gepard looks past Bronya's shoulder and sees a monster with glittering green eyes trapping her in a chokehold. With his free arm, the monster plunges a syringe into the exposed meat of Bronya's shoulder.

The last thing Gepard hears before the world disintegrates is Pela's scream.

—

The familiar sting of storm and ice blasts into his face. Gepard slams onto a bed of snow, writhing aimlessly until his nausea abates enough for him to briefly remember which way is up. He rolls to his knees, paws frantically for Earthwork, and finds nothing but snow. When his head jerks from a barely-repressed gag, he glimpses Bronya vomiting into the snow on all fours beside him.

Familiar dress shoes and gray pantlegs cut into his view of the powdered ground. Behind them, something round and blue floats in the near distance, half-obscured by white flurries.

"Whoops! I forgot how poorly space virgins handle space anchors," Sampo whistles, peering down at them with revolted fascination.

Bronya retches. The noise hitches unnaturally, as if something is constricting her throat.

"Gepard. S-something's wrong with me," she chokes out.

Gepard rises and stumbles to Bronya. He lays his arms protectively over her stiff shoulders, glaring up furiously at Sampo's entertained expression.

"What did you do to her?!" Gepard roars.

Sampo's head tilts coyly. "Nothing permanent. Now if you'll excuse me, I'll take the Supreme Guardian off your hands."

Gepard's gauntlet flashes cold. A wall of ice spears up where Sampo stands, forcing him to evaporate into a shower of red sparks. Gepard wastes no time sliding his arms under Bronya's shoulders and hauling her to her feet, looking intently toward the familiar peaks of the Southern Snow Plain's hills. Thank Qlipoth that Sampo did not teleport them far from Belobog. His phone buzzes furiously inside his chest pocket. He prays that's Pela tracking them and sending reinforcements.

Bronya wobbles strangely on her legs. Gepard urges, "We have to run. He could come back any second."

"Can't," Bronya whimpers.

He doesn't acknowledge the fear that lances through him at Bronya's worryingly stiff form. He throws her over his shoulder in a fireman's carry and sprints as fast as he can through the blinding storm.

He barely dashes ten meters before his heavy boots catch on something. He has just enough presence of mind to slip Bronya off his shoulder as he falls so he doesn't crush her under the weight of his armor. His face slams into the snow-cushioned ground, jarring his teeth and sending starbursts of pain through his head. The obstacle that tripped him withdraws with a giggle.

"How clumsy of you," Sampo snickers above him.

Gepard sweeps his leg out behind him. A satisfying screech tears from Sampo's throat as he, too, falls onto the ground. Ice freezes over his form, trapping him to the ground. Gepard hauls himself onto his legs and sweeps Bronya's collapsed form into his arms, not daring to question his luck in catching Sampo off-guard with a trick he copied from the victim himself.

"Ge—," Bronya coughs in his arms.

Gepard looks down. Horror washes over him at the sight of Bronya's facial features contorting unnaturally, as if her face can't decide between going limp or taut.

Something stings the back of his neck. He ignores the unexplained sensation and runs singlemindedly, until suddenly, his arm seizes and involuntarily releases Bronya onto the snow.

Gepard digs his heels into the snow to turn around and pick up Bronya once again. His legs inexplicably fail him. He slams him face-first onto the ground. He pushes his chest up with violently trembling arms before a blunt force slams down his back and forces him back into the snow.

The metal of his gauntlet creaks sickeningly as a dress shoe crushes it. It flies off his stump with a violent kick, rolling unevenly to a stop far out of Gepard's reach. Gepard wheezes when the tip of the shoe slams into his stomach and rolls him to his side. He meets the waiting green gaze of Sampo Koski looming dangerously above him.

"No more ice bullshit." Sampo slips a hand invasively into Gepard's chest pocket and slides out his incessantly buzzing phone. "No more eavesdroppers, either."

Gepard flinches when the phone drops right beside his face and Sampo's shoe slams down on it with a CRUNCH. The brown dress shoe lifts, revealing the dark, spider-webbed screen of a broken phone. Just like Victor's.

The sting at the back of Gepard's neck pulses ominously with heat. He raises his twitching left hand to the back of his neck. His trembling fingers trace the shape of a syringe barrel and a thin, protruding needle buried into his skin. He gasps in shock when a hand yanks it unceremoniously out of his neck.

"You should apologize for making me waste a dose on you, Captain," Sampo purrs as he straightens from his lean over Gepard's collapsed body. "It's not so easy finding a nonlethal paralytic like this, you know."

Gepard forces his uncooperative neck to crane his head toward Bronya's unmoving figure, trapped, helpless, sunken into the snow. Rage and horror magnify the trembling of his hand.

"W-why are you doing this?" Gepard tries to snarl.

Instead of answering, Sampo raises the empty syringe to the blizzard's winds, peering at it thoughtfully.

"Do you know what this toxin is called, Captain?" Sampo pauses as if Gepard had answered. "Salsotto’s Folly. Named after the miserable planet that slowly, eventually stopped rotating altogether. It’s an inspiring story about the lengths people will go to survive, but when every day becomes a constant, desperate chase after the one thing keeping you alive, are you truly alive? Are you not as inert as the planet itself?"

Sampo tosses the empty syringe aside and meets his eyes. "I know you can’t really appreciate the grandness of this story, Captain, seeing as you’re from a primitive, backwater planet, but I’m sure the themes are familiar to you. Civilizations existing just for the sake of existing? Never changing for better or for worse? How boring is that?"

Sampo is talking nonsense. Gepard chokes out, "Let Bronya go. P-please."

"I wouldn’t be such a worrywart, Captain," Sampo hums dismissively. "The poison’s harmless! It's more uncomfortable if you fight it." Sampo glances down at Gepard’s clenched fist with amusement. "Like that."

Despair gouges out a hole inside Gepard. He stares into Sampo's jagged grin and instead sees a shattered reflection of himself. How could Gepard be so broken? How could he so wholeheartedly love a man this cruel? Gepard grits his teeth and swings his fist at Sampo. His arm seizes with a stab of pain, and he falls to the ground with a cry.

"Oh dear, so stubborn!" Sampo nudges Gepard’s taut arm with his foot, making Gepard's fingers twitch painfully. "Fortunately for this miserable planet’s future, your precious Supreme Guardian is much more sensible. She knows not to fight a losing battle."

"Let her go," Gepard slurs with his failing mouth.

Sampo places a finger on his own chin with mock contemplation. "What an intriguing idea now that you say it twice! Unfortunately, I have need of your Supreme Guardian yet."

Sampo scrutinizes the scene before him. He tuts and twists his hand into Gepard's cape.

"The staging is all wrong," he complains.

He drags Gepard through the snow, cursing heartily. "Aha’s nuts, how much do you weigh?" he gasps, affronted by Gepard’s dead weight. Gepard’s body gouges a messy cut through the snow as Sampo struggles to maneuver him. Finally, Sampo wraps his arms around Gepard’s chest and unceremoniously throws Gepard against a rock. Gepard can no longer wince at the pain that echoes through his body.

Sampo disappears to curse and shuffle out of Gepard's view. He returns minutes later to plop something carelessly onto the rock beside Gepard, stepping back proudly as the familiar gray of Bronya's hair settles onto Gepard's shoulder.

"There," Sampo pants. "Both of you in frame and presentable."

Sampo puts his face far too close to Gepard’s. Gepard tries to close his eyes but can’t fully. He helplessly watches as Sampo scrutinizes his face with a thoughtful pout.

"Do you think he’d be more or less offended if you smiled for the camera?"

Sampo grabs his cheek and tugs it up. The invasive touch makes Gepard’s face flush red with anger.

Sampo suddenly releases his cheek and stumbles back, eyes wide. Gepard takes the chance to glower ferociously at Sampo, channeling all his hurt and anger into his eyes. Sampo doesn’t even seem to notice, lifting a hand to his mouth in a disconcertingly demure gesture.

"Oh," he says softly. Then more loudly, "Oh. Oh! Ha ha, ahahaha!"

He explodes into manic laughter, the force of his guffaws throwing his frame into violent tremors. His eyes tear as he tosses his head back, and his raised hand claws at his hair. Sampo looks deranged in his mirth, unhinged in a way that he never had been before. He finally gathers himself, suppressing his cackles into small giggles that shake his body occasionally.

"Oh, it all makes sense now, why he told me so little about his adventures on this planet. Him and his bleeding heart." He leans in again and lifts Gepard’s chin with a finger. "You’re just as pretty as I remember, Blondie."

Gepard's eyelids flinch at the sound of a camera shutter. Sampo skips away, tapping furiously at his phone with a gleeful smirk, abandoning Gepard to his stomach-dropping revelation. The childishness of this Sampo, his meanness, and now, the nickname Sampo hasn't used since he was a stranger named Ast Rickley in a seedy tavern in Backwater Pass…

"You're…not…Sampo," Gepard wheezes with the last of his strength.

Not-Sampo looks back at him and smiles cruelly. "Took you this long to notice, Blondie?"

Of everything Not-Sampo has said, this wounds Gepard most. Stupid, selfish Gepard, blind to the truth of everyone around him, unable to even identify an impostor of the man he's foolishly loved for years. Gepard does not know Sampo Koski at all. This vicious, sadistic Sampo might as well be the real one after all.

Not-Sampo paces back and forth, nose buried in his phone. He only looks up to leer lecherously at Gepard.

"Tell me, Blondie," Not-Sampo titters. "Did he tell you you're prettiest blond he's ever fucked? Or maybe you were the one chasing him down alleyways and making sweet, sweet love to him while pretending to be your precious Supreme Guardian's good, loyal dog?" Not-Sampo shrieks with laughter. "Oh, Sampo, you’ve truly outdone yourself! You got attached to a nobody."

Abruptly, Not-Sampo jerks upright and turns away from Gepard.

"You sure came running, Friend," Not-Sampo sneers to no one. "Was it the Supreme Guardian that got you here so quickly? Or was it the sight of your sweetheart crumpled up like a broken doll against that rock?"

"Why don't you stop wearing my face, Sparkle?" an identical voice purrs from the blizzard.

Shock reignites Gepard's losing struggle against the poison. He desperately tries to force his head toward the source of that voice, but his eyes remain locked on Not-Sampo's back. Gepard watches in horror as bright red seams split down Not-Sampo's arms until his filleted flesh literally falls apart, igniting into red and orange sparks that dissipate into the howling wind. A small, petite figure emerges from the disintegrating shell, her bare shoulders shaking violently with laughter.

"Welcome to the party, Sampo!" Ast Rickley's sister from six years ago proclaims. "We've got everything you could possibly ask for: the leader of the now-free world, your boyfriend, and your good friend Sparkle, all in the exact same spot you and I landed together on this shithole planet six years ago! Hurray!"

Red confetti explode into the air as invisible hands clap in riotous, hallucinatory applause. Gepard begs his neck to crane toward the man surely just out of Gepard's view, but his body fails him.

"You really went all out, setting up a temporary space anchor for me," Sampo remarks coolly. "Too bad it's run out of charge. It'd be more of a party with better friends like Giovanni around, wouldn't it?"

Twin brown pigtails bounce as the sister—Sparkle—tilts her head coyly. "Aw, am I not enough of a friend for you? You really hurt a girl's feelings saying things like that. Why didn't you introduce me to your lovely boyfriend? You even skipped town on me!" Sparkle's voice lowers to a threatening purr. "It's almost like you don't value our friendship as much as I do."

Sampo's tone is unreadable as he says, "Friends don't sabotage each other's work."

"Friends follow through on their promises," Sparkle hisses suddenly. "We had a deal: I help you infiltrate this hick planet; you help me with Penacony. If you hadn't blown me off for months, Blondie here wouldn't have had to suffer."

Pain stings Gepard's scalp when sharp fingernails dig viciously into his hair and yank his lolling head up. The invasive touch flees Gepard's mind entirely when his eyes lock with a new pair of dull, green eyes that darken profoundly when they meet.

Sampo looks awful. Dark smudges underline his blank, lightless eyes. His normally-coiffed hair lies limp and plastered to his cheeks. His skin glistens damp yet un-iced, despite the freezing winds battering his still frame relentlessly. This Sampo has none of the perfect attractiveness of the Sampo fabricated by Sparkle. This Sampo looks brutally, miserably real.

Is he real? Gepard wonders deliriously. Or is Gepard being played for a fool once again?

Sparkle drops Gepard's head carelessly back onto the rock. The disappearance of impenetrable green eyes from sight stings far more than his head banging against rock.

"Oh, don't look at me like that," Sparkle yawns. "This is your fault, not mine. You're a businessman. You should know the consequences of not keeping your end of the deal."

"Here's a deal: fix this and leave."

Sparkle snorts. "And what do I get in return?"

"Your life."

"'My life,'" Sparkle parrots mockingly before bursting into laughter. "Why so serious, Sampo? It's like you lost your sense of humor along with that mask of yours. Can you even call yourself a Fool anymore?"

"I don't need a mask to kill you."

There's a heavy, unexpected silence that seems to balloon from within Gepard's lungs and through Gepard's skull. It muffles his ears with the distant, familiar shriek of bells ringing. A high-pitched laugh pops the bubble of silence.

"Loosen up, Sampo!" Sparkle squeals too brightly. "We're friends! Friends prank each other all the time! Look, here's the antidote. Just a harmless joke, see?"

Footsteps crunch under the howl of the blizzard. Gepard's pulse quickens when he realizes he can just barely see Sampo's shoulder past Sparkle's figure. Sampo seems to grab something from Sparkle's outstretched hand.

"What's this?" Sampo's voice is uncharacteristically cold. "There's only one syringe."

Sparkle giggles. "Oh, Sampo, I only brought one dose! I was only planning to have a little fun with the Supreme Guardian, but your blond beau insisted on getting involved."

"You still haven't learned when to end a joke, Sparkle," Sampo says, much quieter.

"It's no joke," Sparkle says hastily, and this time, Gepard can clearly hear the nervousness in her voice. "I don't have more than one dose with me, honest to Aha. So don't you kill me before I get the second dose to you in Penacony, okay?"

Sampo says nothing, but something in Sampo's expression reignites Sparkle's bold, irreverent glee.

"So, Sampo," she coos. "Who will you save? The Supreme Guardian? Or your handsome soldier boy?"

There's only one correct answer. Gepard glares at Sampo's shoulder, as if the force of his stare alone could compel the man to release Bronya from her misery. 

But Sampo exists to torment Gepard. Sampo laughs darkly, then turns to lock eyes with Gepard. Gepard's eyes widen as Sampo strides toward him, trying desperately to force his rigid muscles into shaking his head. All he manages is a twitch of his cheek, which Sampo blatantly ignores. 

Sampo kneels down to Gepard's line of sight, sending heat pumping through Gepard's confused heart. He places a hand on Gepard's face and turns it to the side. The pull on Gepard's tense muscles stings just as much as the gloved hand on his skin warms. Gepard can't help the pained wheeze that escapes his throat. Sampo's eyes flicker to his at the weak noise. He doesn't know what Sampo sees, but those endless green eyes promptly lock onto the meat of Gepard's shoulder and plunge the syringe in.

The relief is almost instant. It burns like icy regret for Bronya's still-frozen figure, for Sampo's empty gaze, for Gepard's stupid, selfish heart.

"That's what I thought," Sparkle mocks from behind them. Sampo's expression blackens, then clears into something unreadable.

Gepard’s neck is the first to relax, then the muscles on his face. He lets out a weak gasp and marvels at the feeling of his eyelids fluttering. He doesn't wait for the antidote to reach the rest of his body before he turns to shout at Sampo for wasting the dose. All that comes out is a strangled gargle.

Sampo's hand doesn't leave Gepard's twitching cheek. His green eyes continue to bore blankly into Gepard's, even as he calls out to Sparkle, "Happy with the performance, dear?"

"I suppose this is a good enough B-plot," Sparkle muses.

A shout breaks through the howl of the icy wind. Sparkle looks somewhere behind Gepard's shoulder, expression entertained.

"Looks like the cavalry's coming. Don't get caught. I can't give you the second dose if you don't make it to Penacony."

Gepard blinks, and Sparkle disappears in a shower of red sparks. All that remains of her is a floating white mask, which purrs, "Enjoy the frostbite, Sampo Koski. Find me in Penacony when you've regained a sense of humor."

The mask evaporates into a flurry of snow.

—

Relief runs cool and warm through Gepard's body, cool where the antidote steadily seeps into every stiff, burning muscle and warm where Sampo's hand continues to cradle Gepard's cheek. Gepard closes his eyes, shuts out the distant shouts of approaching soldiers, and savors the almost loving touch. He can't help the hurt gasp that escapes him when Sampo tears his hand away.

Gepard heaves his shoulder against the rock to push himself onto his knees. He careens forward uncontrollably, caught only by Sampo's arms. 

"Whoa there, Geppie," Sampo chuckles humorlessly. "You're gonna hurt yourself flailing around like that."

Geppie. Geppie. Geppie. Qlipoth, he missed that stupid, affectionate nickname that never once left Not-Sampo's mouth. His unresponsive left hand twitches, trying to cling onto Sampo's jacket and never let go.

Sampo briskly rights him against the rock and stands up. He turns away from Gepard, ready to disappear into the blizzard. An undignified sound escapes Gepard's throat, and he forces his body to collapse into Sampo's retreating leg. Sampo stumbles and whips around to glare at him.

"What are you doing?" Sampo hisses.

There's so much Gepard aches to say, but all he manages is a pain-filled, "Don't."

Sampo shakes his leg, but Gepard just wraps his one responsive arm tighter around Sampo's thigh. Sampo swears and bends down to pry Gepard's fingers off one by one, but Gepard's stubbornness holds strong. Sensation returns to Gepard's right arm. He places where his right hand would have been over Sampo's trembling, freezing hands still working furiously at Gepard's fingers. Sampo flinches at the phantom touch and laughs wildly.

"Aeons, Geppie, I can't do anything about your precious Bronya, so mind letting me go before your Guards catch me?"

"No!" Gepard cries, and Sampo stills. "You always leave! Don't leave!"

The words tear through his throat like needles ripping through his vocal cords. Gepard coughs and buries his face into Sampo's leg. Sampo's leg burns like a furnace through his slacks, so firm, warm, and real. But maybe he's not real. Maybe he's skin wrapped around a Geomarrow furnace. Stupid, selfish Gepard can't tell right from wrong, truth from lies, so he clings desperately to the warmth and prays to Qlipoth to please, please let it be real.

Sampo is so still that he seems to be the one paralyzed. Gepard doesn't dare look up, terrified that the moment he does Sampo's gaunt, beautiful face will burn away with red sparks and leave a monster behind.

"You really won't let me go," Sampo states like a dull, unpleasant fact.

A twinge in Gepard's heart silences the paranoia and lifts Gepard's eyes to Sampo's haggard face.

"How could I let you go when you look so sad?" Gepard whispers, aching.

Sampo reels backward as if Gepard punched him square in the face. Colors flicker rapidly across his mask in a lightshow of bruises until Sampo collapses onto his knees as if his strings were cut. Gepard flinches, ready to defend himself, but all Sampo does is hunch forward and shake. It's such a convincing display of defeat. Despite his better judgment, Gepard places his hand tenderly on Sampo's cheek in a mirror of Sampo's earlier warm gesture.

"What's wrong?" Gepard mumbles, soft.

A weak gasp escapes him when Sampo's forehead falls onto his shoulder. Gepard's arms tremble, half from poison and half from the overwhelming desire to pull Sampo into his embrace. Sampo's limp body screams with every tempting, vulnerable curve, hold me! HOLD ME!

It's too good to be true. Sampo falling into Gepard's arms instead of running away can't possibly be true.

Love possesses Gepard's left hand to lift and splay over Sampo's broad back. A glint past Sampo's shoulders stills his right arm from following his left. His dented gauntlet calls out a warning to Gepard from the snow, still out of reach but much closer than it was before.

"I'm so cold," Sampo whimpers, trembling like a leaf. "I'm so, so cold."

Wetness wells in Gepard's eyes and immediately freezes in the brutal cold. Qlipoth, Gepard wants to believe it. He wants so badly to believe that this Sampo wants nothing more than for Gepard to hold him. Twin truths pull his heart in different directions, tearing it in two.

He loves Sampo.

He can't trust Sampo.

Sampo would never hurt him.

He has no idea what Sampo is capable of.

Gepard's right arm defies him and lifts shakingly onto Sampo's back. His missing right hand curls softly into the back of Sampo's hair, acting out the fantasy of pressing the love of his life close so that he may never feel cold again.

He's unsurprised when Sampo buries a knife in his gut.

Agony lances through Gepard's side, but his right arm has already pointed torward his gauntlet. He knows before the knife teleports him away that ice has clawed up Sampo's treacherous arm. Gepard reappears pinned to a dead tree, gasping both at the burn in his gut and the horrid sight of Sampo frozen mid-stab by the pillar of ice encasing half his body.

Ten meters away, Sampo stares at Gepard in an open-mouthed stupor. His dull green irises pinch his pupils into pinpricks of shock. He looks as if Gepard had forced his fingers under his mask and torn one gruesome strip of it off his face.

"You don't know this because I've only done this before we met," Gepard gasps through the pain in his side, "but I can use my gauntlet without wearing it if it's close enough."

The crunch of many boots in snow is audible now. The Silvermane Guards are close. What's unfrozen of Sampo shivers violently like paper in the wind. A plastic smile returns to Sampo's face like an obligation.

"No hard feelings?" Sampo coos, trembling pathetically.

In that moment, Gepard's universe narrows onto the despicable Sampo Koski and crystallizes into a mission Gepard must complete no matter what. Determination drives Gepard to wrap his hand around the knife's hilt, slide it agonizingly out of himself. Determination drives him to toss the knife aside, stagger to Sampo Koski, take off his bloodstained captain's coat, and wrap it gently around Sampo's shaking shoulders. Sampo breaks his uncomprehending stare at where the discarded knife paints the snow red to look up into Gepard with wide, abyssal eyes.

"Better?" Gepard murmurs as shouting Guards reach them.

For the first time, Sampo's expression crumples.

Chapter Text

The first word Gepard manages to choke out when Dunn rushes to him is, "Knives."

Dunn's arms hook under Gepard's arms and drag him backwards through the snow away from Sampo's cowering form. "Don't speak, Landau," Dunn says lowly. "You're bleeding."

"Don't let him touch his knives. He uses them to teleport," Gepard gasps, unable to tear his eyes away from the sight of six rifles pointed point-blank at Sampo's shivering, smiling form.

"Acknowledged, sir," Dunn says with none of his usual cheer. "We won't let Koski escape."

Gepard bites back a pained noise as Dunn pulls him away from the sight of Sampo's ghastly figure and slides him onto a stretcher. He forces himself to breathe evenly through the pain as Dunn and a paramedic carry him into the warm, shadowed interior of a medical truck. Dunn steps away, leaving Gepard staring up at the smooth metal of the truck's ceiling. A wet smack and a barked laugh reach Gepard's ears before the slam of the truck's back door silences the outside commotion. The laugh settles sickeningly in Gepard's stomach. That was Sampo laughing—no, crying out in pain.

Machines and paramedics clatter around Gepard's prone body. Something warm beside Gepard leeches through his pain and nausea. He turns his head to the side and recognizes Bronya's limp form on another stretcher beside him. Her eyes are closed, her expression deceptively relaxed, as if she were asleep. Gepard imagines her screaming silently, slamming her fists against the confines of her still body, and tastes bile in his mouth.

A needle pricks through the inside of his right elbow. A man suddenly comes into view, cutting open his uniform top and pressing thick gauze over his seeping wound.

"Is the Supreme Guardian alright?" Gepard hisses through the pain.

"Worry about yourself, Captain," the paramedic replies sternly. "You've got a deep penetrating wound in your right upper quadrant. Depending on what was damaged, you might never see the frontline again."

Something cold seeps through his body at those words. Captain Gepard Landau, never to fight for the Silvermane Guards ever again…? The firm press of machinery into his abdomen pierces through his chilling thoughts with a sting of pain. Beside him, the paramedic drags the medical equipment up and down his stomach and stares at a monitor with increasingly furrowed brows.

"I don't understand," the paramedic mutters. "The weapon penetrated deep into your abdominal cavity, yet somehow not a single organ was punctured. The cut is so clean, you won't even have a scar. It's as if the knife didn't want to hurt you."

Gepard feels his stomach swoop. "Is that so," he says faintly.

The paramedic looks at him firmly. "Don't get any ideas, Captain. You could have died. It was sheer luck that you didn't."

Gepard closes his eyes and tries to convince himself the light, fluttering wooziness in his head is from blood-loss and nothing more. It was just luck, he repeats to himself. It was just luck that Sampo hadn't cruelly torn his life's purpose away from him.

—

The ride back to Qlipoth Fort is a haze of pain dulled by weak painkillers. Lightning jolts through Gepard's sutured abdomen at every lurch of the truck. Eventually, the spikes of hurt quiet when the truck rolls to a stop inside Qlipoth Fort Infirmary's ambulance bay.

A frantic clatter of heels rushes to his bedside as soon as the truck door crashes open. "Gepard!" Pela shouts, more panicked than he's ever heard. "Are you okay? Is Bronya—?"

Pela stills when her eyes lock onto Bronya's prone form. Gepard pushes himself onto his elbows with gritted teeth. Several heads snap to him in alarm.

"Where do you think you're going?" Pela hisses at the same time a paramedic snaps, "Don't move, Captain!"

"Where is Koski?" Gepard demands to the room.

Pela gapes at him. "Gepard, he stabbed you. And he did this"—Pela gestures emphatically at the still body beside him—"to Bronya!"

"By order of the Captain of the Silvermane Guards, I am to be informed of Koski's whereabouts," Gepard booms through the truck's back.

Pela chokes on nothing. She gawks at him with a mix of incredulity and budding anger. A paramedic breaks the thickening tension. "The arrest party arrived before us and transferred the detainee to the dungeons. Maximum security cell Nol."

Pela swears when Gepard pulls the IV from his elbow and staggers to his feet. A waiting aide offers him a robe, which he grabs with a curt nod and hurls around his shoulders. Gepard staggers out the truck and into the infirmary's empty halls. Pela falls into step beside him, her expression stormy.

"Gepard, you're walking around with a hole in your stomach," Pela hisses, "that he put into you!"

"He didn't hurt me," Gepard states. "He won't even have left a scar."

Pela goggles. "Are you insane?"

"I need to know why he didn't hurt me."

Pela's mouth opens to deliver a surely scathing retort, but it clicks shut as they pass by a nurse wheeling a cart. She sinks into a disapproving silence and follows Gepard sullenly.

Beneath the lowest basement of Qlipoth Fort are three floors of detention cells, each increasingly packed with automatons on standby as Gepard descends. Sampo's cell is on the lowest. The stairs to his cell are sealed off by a thick metal blast door at the end of an isolated corridor on the second-lowest floor, lined on both sides by an array of idle machines ready to activate at any unauthorized access. Today, however, the machines are accompanied by two unexpected figures who turn to face Gepard and Pela when they approach.

Gepard flinches when he meets Matilda's blanching expression. Beside Gepard, Pela inhales sharply when she recognizes the Guard standing beside Matilda as Lieutenant Swanson, the man at the center of the spiderweb of oddities Pela and Gepard painstakingly sketched in her office.

"Mrs. Herrero. Lieutenant Swanson," Gepard greets, fighting to keep shock from his voice. "You are not assigned to this post. State your purpose."

"Captain," Lieutenant Swanson's familiar gravel sounds. He pauses to tilt his helmet up and down Gepard's unkempt outfit with slow, deliberate disdain. "If you must know, we're escorting a visitor to cell Nol."

Gepard's eyes narrow. "I was not informed of any visitors to the prisoner."

"I was unaware you needed to be informed of such trivial matters, Captain," Swanson sneers.

The mocking emphasis on Gepard's title makes Gepard's hand clench into a tight fist. Gepard allows himself to fantasize about throwing Swanson to the ground and beat the answers out of him. Only Matilda's bizarre presence and Pela's small form standing beside him, stiff and—despite her best efforts to suppress it—uncertain, stay his hand.

The blast door suddenly rumbles and unseals with a sharp click. Cold air escapes through the widening gap of the blast doors. Gepard's eyes widen as the distinctive, long drapery of an adjudicator's robe emerges through the gap.

"Architect Herrero," Gepard coughs, a noise of shock disguised as a greeting, before he tilts forward into a bow. "Please forgive my lack of decorum. Lieutenant Swanson and Mrs. Herrero just informed me of your visit with the prisoner."

Gepard straightens from his bow. Hair rises along his arms as Architect Justicia Herrero of the adjudication panel drags her eyes uncomfortably over his thin robes.

"Architect Matilda Herrero," she corrects coolly. "Address my granddaughter-in-law with her new title."

Gepard looks sharply at Matilda, who quickly looks away. For the first time since encountering her outside Sampo's cell, Gepard realizes that long, flowy robes, half-obscured by the binder she clutches to her chest, have replaced her usual blouse and skirt. Gepard's eyes burn into the curtain of Matilda's hair as she adamantly avoids his gaze.

"Another promotion?" Pela pipes up for the first time since entering the corridor, her eyes darting between Lieutenant Swanson and Matilda.

"The Architects reward the deserving," Architect Herrero answers coolly. "Lieutenant Swanson has informed me that my granddaughter-in-law's internal investigation was critical in flushing out Mr. Koski's spies and collaborators from Qlipoth Fort. I can think of no more deserving an accomplishment to justify the appointment of a new adjudicator to the adjudication panel.

"Congratulations, Architect Matilda Herrero," Gepard says blandly. "Given the special occasion, I suppose I can overlook your unannounced visit to the dungeons."

Matilda winces at Gepard's barbed words. The creases of Architect Herrero's jowls deepen dramatically.

"My granddaughter-in-law will be adjudicating her first hearing this week," Architect Herrero announces mildly. "This will be Mr. Koski's hearing. Passing judgment on the Supreme Guardian's attempted assassin would be a landmark case for any adjudicator, much less a junior one. Can you blame me, Captain, for wanting to meet the criminal that could make or break her career?"

"Alleged assassin," Gepard corrects pointedly.

Architect Herrero's lips flatten. It almost looks like a smile, which makes Gepard tense.

"I heard a very concerning rumor," Architect Herrero says quietly, "that Leonard Landau's passing was unnatural. Now the Supreme Guardian has also become unwell. My grandson, too, has been ill for several weeks now." Icy blue eyes glance at Gepard. "A grandmother worries."

Gepard forces himself not to flinch at Architect Herrero's barely-unspoken accusation that Sampo has poisoned both Father and Victor. An implied accusation outside of a hearing from an adjudicator—a figure of unbiased justice—is almost unthinkable. And using Father's death as the ammunition? Fury burns in Gepard's gut.

"Is it proper for the head adjudicator to spread unsubstantiated rumors before a hearing?" Gepard can't stop himself from snapping.

Architect Herrero's expression turns black. Suddenly, a cold, unexplained dread swells up behind Gepard's eyes. The world muffles as if clawed hands grabbed his head and forced it underwater. In the distance, a tinny, ringing noise crescendos.

Gepard blinks. The ringing disappears. Architect Herrero no longer looks at him, instead staring ahead as if Gepard weren't worth her time. She strides to the holding area's exit, heels clacking sharply against stone floors.

"I trust that the Silvermane Guards will uncover the truth," she says without looking back. "Do take care to bring the culprit to justice, Captain."

Matilda hurries after her without meeting Gepard's eyes. Swanson follows after, leveling Gepard an ominous look as he leaves. Gepard glares at his retreating back. When the door of the corridor clicks shut behind all three visitors, Gepard releases his taut back and shudders.

"What was that?" Gepard hisses.

Beside him, Pela looks at him with wide eyes. Her eyes dart deliberately to the idle automatons around them. The back of Gepard's neck prickles under their watching gaze. Gepard swallows, understanding. Anyone could be listening.

"I'll meet you in your office later," Gepard says.

He goes into Sampo's cell.

—

In Gepard's first year as a Silvermane Guard, a great number of his civil assignments had been to arrest border violators—overworlders and underworlders alike who, in the early years of Cocolia Rand's sealing decree, tried desperately to reach the other side. These crossers were held in the very maximum security cells Sampo currently occupies. The cold, dim descent hasn't changed in the decade since. It unearths buried memories of young Gepard ignoring the tightness in his chest as he escorted ordinary men and women down into containment for Belobog's greater good.

The stairs end in a dark room lit only by a spotlight glaring down at a circular energy barrier in the center of the room. Red-eyed cameras stare through the barrier from every angle. Inside the barrier, Sampo sits on a cot hugging his curled legs to his chest. Neither the bloodstained captain's coat nor his red jacket wrap around his shoulders. Instead, he wears a thin, thread-worn gray jumpsuit with its sleeves rolled up to his shoulders. His hands jitter strangely over his exposed forearms, as if scratching or peeling his skin.

Sampo's head rises at the sound of Gepard's heavy steps. His blue hair parts to reveal a distant expression that stretches into a smile, but all Gepard sees is the blooming purple bruise over Sampo's left eye. The left side of his face is taut due to swelling, turning his crooked smile into a grimace.

"Hello, Handsome," Sampo croons. "You look comfortable."

Sampo's swollen face attempts to leer at the slip of Gepard's chest that peeks through his loosely-bound robes. Instead of embarrassment, Gepard feels a bright flare of pity for Sampo's cold, battered state.

"You look like shit," Gepard says honestly.

Sampo's smile cracks wider. "Enjoying your Guards' handiwork?"

Gepard frowns at the blatant attempt at emotional manipulation. "No more than I enjoy yours."

Immediately, Sampo's eyes drop to Gepard's abdomen. Sampo's crazed smile stutters like a video skipping frames. Gepard clenches his fist, unsettled by the undeniable evidence that Sampo's mask is slipping over what he's done to Gepard.

"What did Architect Herrero say to you?" Gepard asks.

A laugh passes through Sampo's chapped lips. "Jealous, Geppie? Don't worry. Our esteemed Madam Architect merely went on a righteous diatribe about what I did to the Supreme Guardian."

"What did you do to the Supreme Guardian?" Gepard asks carefully.

"Don't you know?" Sampo purrs. "You were there!"

One of Sampo's clawed hands drags down his arm, leaving red trails. Gepard follows the revealing motion, then looks back at Sampo's jagged smile with uncertainty. Sampo may be guilty of many crimes, but two statements remain true: one, Sampo was not the one who confessed in Bronya's office to murdering Father. Two, Sampo was not the one who plunged the paralytic into Bronya's veins. So shouldn't Sampo defend himself?

"It wasn't you who paralyzed Bronya," Gepard tries to state, but his neutral tone curls like a question.

Sampo's head tilts with performative curiosity. "Are we getting philosophical? The poison was the gun, but I certainly pulled the trigger."

Gepard frowns. "No, you didn't. It was Spar—"

"Don't take my achievements away from me," Sampo interrupts with an edge to his sunny tone. "I'm quite proud of my feats. Not everyone is savvy enough to take out the big shots in Qlipoth Fort, retired or not."

There's a glint in Sampo's wild green eyes that Gepard is startled to recognize as anger. Gepard wants to gawk. What game is Sampo playing at, claiming credit for Sparkle's actions? Then Sampo's last words slap Gepard across the face, sending him reeling.

"What do you mean, 'retired or not?'" Gepard demands.

Sampo smiles and says nothing.

"What do you mean, 'retired or not?'" Gepard repeats, louder.

Sampo's smile is stone.

"Are you saying you actually murdered my father?!" Gepard shouts.

Finally, Sampo speaks, eyes sliding past Gepard's shoulder. "Careful, Geppie. Yell any louder and Little Ms. Intelligence Officer might break down the door and shoot me on the spot."

Gepard follows Sampo's gaze. He's staring directly at a camera. Gepard shudders and turns away, running a hand through a hair. Sampo is riling him up, likely purposefully. Calm down. Stop playing right into Sampo's hands. Stick to the facts. Sparkle said those awful things, not Sampo. Sparkle hurt Bronya, not Sampo. But Sampo was the one who stabbed Gepard. Sampo disappeared after Father died. And Sampo—the real Sampo—just admitted to murdering Father—

Sampo's plastic smile and Not-Sampo's sneer blur together. Gepard digs his palm into his eyes until stars burst behind his eyelids. What's the truth? What's the lie? Gepard's heart hurts. Gepard's torn stomach hurts.

Gepard's eyes fling open at the throb in his abdomen.

"You could have killed me out in the Snow Plains," Gepard says hoarsely, meeting Sampo's too-bright eyes, "yet here I am, still walking, due for a full recovery. If your goal was to take out key figures in Qlipoth Fort, why spare one Captain but kill another?"

Sampo's eyes widen crazily. His purpled one, too swollen to open completely, twitches.

"Due for a full recovery?" Sampo whoops. "You got lucky, pal! I tried to gut you! Sampo Koski must be losing his touch."

Sampo wheezes and shakes in an approximation of laughter. Gepard watches him tremble, searching desperately through Sampo's violent mirth for anything to have faith in. All Gepard finds is a crumbling, flaking mask that reveals…

…nothing. Nothing at all. No truth, no substance, no man underneath. Just disappointment.

Gepard sags. The coiled tension in his heart unwinds and crumples. He watches Sampo shake through the last of his giggles until the smile falls off Sampo's bruised face.

"You're a liar, Sampo Koski," Gepard spits out.

Gepard walks away, unwilling to hear any more lies.

—

It takes all Gepard's poise to ascend to Qlipoth Fort's ground floor with his back straight and his expression blank. Inside, his heart roils. The roiling just barely crests over the lid of his self-control when he catches sight of two unpleasantly familiar figures in a nook inside the empty hall.

"Lieutenant Swanson," Gepard booms.

The two figures jump as his voice ricochets loudly off the walls of the narrow hall. Swanson's armored figure steps back from looming over Matilda, whose back presses tightly against the wall. Gepard clearly interrupted some fraught, threatening, and secretive conversation.

"Is there a problem?" Swanson sneers, bristling.

Gepard glares openly at Swanson. "Yes. The patrol along the northern gate is understaffed thanks to Koski's arrest. Go reinforce their ranks at once."

Swanson inflates with defiance. "Participating in patrols is far beneath the station of Lieutenant."

"This is an order from your Captain, Lieutenant."

Gepard uses his greater height to loom over Swanson's bluster unblinkingly. For a moment, Gepard thinks Swanson will do the unthinkable and challenge him. Then the signature heavy footsteps of a squad of Silvermane Guards sound from the mouth of the hall, and Swanson snaps back into obedience. Swanson swallows his dark glare and steps away in resentful silence. Gepard watches until the unpleasant man disappears from sight.

Gepard returns his attention to Matilda, whose slumped shoulders stiffen upright. She must have relaxed once Swanson left, Gepard realizes with interest.

"Captain," she rushes out before he can speak. "You're injured. You should be resting."

Gepard ignores her thinly-veiled dismissal. "I'm afraid I have an important matter to discuss with you in private. With me," he tells Matilda with dangerous calm. He looks back just long enough to confirm Matilda fell into step behind him before he beelines to the nearest private meeting room.

Matilda's expression is stone when the door clicks shut behind her. She clutches her binder to her chest like a shield.

"You and Lieutenant Swanson seem good friends," Gepard can't stop himself from commenting sardonically.

Matilda's lips tighten. "We are. He put in a good word for me to my grandmother-in-law, after all."

Gepard ignores the absurd lie. "And why did your grandmother-in-law visit the prisoner unannounced?"

Matilda stares emotionlessly past Gepard's shoulder. "The elder Architect Herrero has already given you her answer, Captain. I cannot add more besides an apology for breaching protocol."

Gepard has accompanied Pela through enough interrogations over the years to recognize when a line of questioning hits a dead end. Pivot and attack, Pela's perfunctory voice reminds him. So Gepard steps forward and forces his gaze into Matilda's line of sight.

"I haven't heard from Victor in some time. Is he still ill?"

Matilda doesn't turn her face away quickly enough to hide the widening of her eyes.

"He's recovering," she says too quickly.

"For two months now?"

"His illness was severe. But he's recovering now."

Gepard considers Matilda's apathetic expression. It would have been a convincing display had Gepard not known how much she loves her husband.

"I know Swanson did something to him," Gepard says lowly.

A twitch breaks out in Matilda's taut jaw. "It's uncouth for the Captain of the Silvermane Guards to throw out baseless accusations," she says coolly, echoing Gepard's earlier jab outside Sampo's cell.

"Baseless?" Gepard scoffs. "I have Victor's phone, which you tried to hide in Limestein Estate."

Something mean in Gepard rejoices when Matilda's eyes widen into shiny orbs. The binder in Matilda's arms clatters to the floor as she lunges for Gepard. Gepard doesn't so much as flinch when she crashes clumsily into his chest and jostles the wound in his belly.

"Where is it?" Matilda cries.

Matilda paws clumsily at his empty pockets. Gepard stares in silent apathy at her frantic, scattered expression. It twists into rage. She slams her small fist uselessly against Gepard's chest.

"Give. It. Back," Matilda snarls.

"Why?" Gepard asks, voice cold.

"Because!" Matilda shouts into his unmoved expression. "That phone is the only thing keeping Victor—!"

Matilda shudders and bites her lip. The sight of tears welling into her decorated eyes dampens Gepard's spite with surprise. Gepard pulls away from her clumsy pawing, steadying her with a hand to her arm when she stumbles at his movement.

"Keeping Victor what?" Gepard asks, more concerned than angry now. "Tell me, Matilda. I can help."

Matilda wrenches away from his touch. "There's nothing to help," she says, voice clipped. "Victor is recovering. He will be fine soon."

Realization jolts through Gepard. "Is Swanson threatening Victor to blackmail you?"

"Victor will be fine," Matilda repeats forcefully and tearfully, all but confirming Gepard's wild theory.

Gepard steps away, thoughts racing at the speed of his pulse. "But blackmail you to do what?" Gepard mutters, thinking aloud. "Swanson put in a good word for you so Architect Herrero would appoint you to the adjudication panel. Your first hearing is Sampo's." Gepard's eyes widen. "Is Swanson blackmailing you to judge Sampo guilty of treason?"

Matilda wipes her wet eyes. "Koski is guilty," she says thickly. "There's no evidence to suggest otherwise."

Because no one has even looked for evidence otherwise! Gepard wants to scream. He swallows the outburst and thinks.

Motive, opportunity, and means—the three components needed to make a crime. Matilda just answered how Swanson obtained the opportunity and means to orchestrate Sampo's downfall, but the motive remains troublingly blank. Why would Swanson so badly want Sampo's demise? What happened between them right before Sampo fled the planet?

Gepard thinks back further. He remembers Sampo's last visit to his condo over a year ago, when Sampo crashed through Gepard's window with blood running down his arms. Sampo has hinted several times that rogue Guards were after him. Was Swanson the one who shredded Sampo's shoulder that day? Is that enough to explain the lengths Swanson is going to to ensure Sampo's downfall?

Gepard's mind itches. He's certain he's missing a piece to this puzzle.

A quiet sniffle snaps Gepard out of his thoughts. He looks at Matilda's miserable expression and gentles his voice.

"You know this is wrong, Matilda," Gepard urges. "Victor wouldn't want you to save him this way. Tell me where Swanson is keeping Victor. We can rescue your husband and take down Swanson without sacrificing an innocent—" Gepard swallows. "—without compromising your integrity as a woman of law. I can help, Matilda, if you let me."

"Enough," Matilda whispers, staring at her shoes. "Let this end."

Something in Matilda's posture gives Gepard pause. There's more than fear and concern in how studiously Matilda avoids his gaze, Gepard realizes. Matilda is hiding. Matilda is ashamed.

"Your promotion," Gepard breathes, struck with realization. He looks at her with new eyes and sees a stranger. "Swanson didn't just blackmail you, did he? He bought you with your promotion."

Matilda's taut shoulders seize. Her head snaps up to glare wetly at him.

"You think you're so infallible, Gepard? Everyone has a price. Everyone has something they want." Matilda's voice hitches. "Or something they can't lose."

"What can't you lose, Matilda?" Gepard says lowly. "Your husband? Or your career?"

Matilda jerks backward. For a moment, Gepard thinks she will slap him.

"I married for love," Matilda spits instead. "Something you wouldn't understand."

The words echo shrilly in the ensuing silence. Gepard watches with detached curiosity as Matilda's enraged expression slows, then falters into regret. There's no need to look so guilty about your words, Gepard wants to tell her. Their loveless engagement doesn't sting anymore.

Instead, Gepard saves his words. Matilda is a dead end that closed its door to him a decade ago. Gepard looks at Matilda until she can no longer meet his gaze. She hunches over, hastily grabs her splayed binder, and hurries out of the room in an attempt to outrun her shame.

—

Pela is staring grimly at her monitor when Gepard wordlessly enters her office, dark emotions from his confrontation with Matilda mixing nauseatingly with the burn in his gut.

"I saw your conversation with Koski through the security system," she says without introduction. "Koski confessed on camera. It's an open-and-shut case with a recorded confession."

"He's lying," Gepard snaps. "The person who attacked Bronya wasn't him."

Pela listens silently as he explains what happened in the Snow Plains. How Not-Sampo poisoned him and Bronya and toyed with them both. How the real Sampo appeared, and Not-Sampo's disguise fell away from Sparkle's skin. How Sampo chased Sparkle away, rescued Gepard from his paralysis, and failed to kill him even when he could.

His voice intensifies as he recollects his confrontation with Matilda after visiting Sampo. How Swanson intimidated Matilda and coerced her with the threat of Victor's safety. How her promotion into the adjudication panel coincided with the opportunity to judge Sampo guilty for the severest of crimes. How the punishment for high treason has always been death.

"I'm certain there's a conspiracy against Sampo, and Victor's disappearance is connected," Gepard rushes out. "Pull up the security footage of Architect Herrero's visit to Sampo. If we figure out why they arranged this visit, we might find something that clears Sampo's name."

Pela does not move.

"Well?" Gepard huffs, impatient.

"There is no footage," Pela exhales.

Gepard stares at her. "What?"

"I was watching your conversation," Pela begins slowly. "Koski confessed to murdering your father. Then when he looked at the camera, the recording froze. Our entire security system malfunctioned. I had to reboot everything. When the system was back online, all our security footage from the past year had become"—Pela rotates her monitor into Gepard's view—"this."

Gepard blinks. A golden trash can with bulky arms and legs dances back and forth across the black screen, bouncing between monitor walls like a screensaver. In the corner, the white text usually displaying a date and time is garbled and fractured. Pela taps a button to increase the volume. The shrill, merry sound of jingling bells and laughter echo through the monitor's speakers.

"Is this a joke?" Gepard exhales.

"Not mine," Pela mutters.

"How convenient that footage of their conversation disappeared before we could see it," Gepard growls. "What are they trying to hide?"

Pela winces. "Gepard," she says, pained. "Bells are associated with the Elation. The corrupted security footage played bells. There's only one person in all of Belobog with ties to the Elation."

Gepard bristles at yet another accusation against Sampo. "You don't know that."

"Look at the facts, Gepard." Pela's voice grows hard. "This isn't the first time key documents suddenly disappeared. Koski destroyed the medical records implicating him in your father's murder long before this 'Sparkle' arrived, and now, Koski destroyed the footage of his confessions, too. Swanson and Matilda are suspicious, but at worst, they're merely taking advantage of Sampo's crimes. Regardless of what conspiracy they're involved in, the fact remains that Koski tampered with Qlipoth Fort. That Koski assaulted Bronya. That Koski murdered your father."

Hurt stabs Gepard at Pela's blunt words. Gepard clings to the only accusation he can deny with confidence. "Sampo didn't hurt Bronya! Sparkle did!

Pela looks away. "There's no evidence that Sparkle exists besides your word."

Words die in Gepard's throat. A chill washes over him.

"You don't believe me," Gepard whispers.

"I think your judgment is clouded when it comes to Koski," Pela says, not meeting his eyes.

Gepard stares at the side of Pela's face. "You think I hallucinated two Sampos in the Snow Plains."

"The Snow Plains have elevated Fragmentum levels," Pela explains with scientific detachment. "Couple that with the cognitive dissonance of holding affections for your father's murderer, and the mind can play tricks on you."

How long has Gepard known Pela? Ten years? More? Yet not once in the years of their tested and enduring friendship does Gepard remember Pela dismissing him so coldly and brutally as she does now. Unlike with Sampo, there's no hope of convincing himself that Pela did not mean what she said. Pela does not lie. Pela sincerely does not think Gepard is trustworthy.

Gepard does not gasp or sputter or shout at Pela's half-turned face. Instead he steps back with one foot, then two, feeling colder than he ever has before. He turns and marches out of her office without a word. Pela does not chase after him. Good. Gepard isn't sure what horrible words would come out of his mouth if she did.

—

Reliable Dunn is the one to finally find Gepard and force him back into the infirmary.

"I saw the wound," Dunn says seriously after Gepard sullenly climbs back into his bed. "You're strong, but you know as well as I do that many men have died from less. Rest, Landau. Lieutenant Swanson and I will take care of everything."

Gepard's stomach heaves at the unwelcome name poisoning Dunn's words of comfort.

Two torturous days pass with Gepard locked in an infirmary room, guarded by a rotation of familiar faces. Officer Kyle. Officer William. Officer Bosko. The wearied faces of the men who were once Gepard's bright-eyed privates kills any of Gepard's daring escapes before he attempts them. At night, when Gepard is finally spared privacy from the constantly-visiting medical aides, the countdown to Sampo's hearing ticks maddeningly loud. Gepard forces his spiraling thoughts toward productive things. Finding Victor. Preventing Swanson from doing more harm. Gathering evidence that Sampo is not guilty of the crimes he's accused of. Wondering what, exactly, Architect Herrero said to Sampo in private.

On the third day, he learns from Officer William that Pela interrogated Sampo behind his back.

"When?!" Gepard can't stop himself from barking.

Officer William looks at him cautiously. Gone are the days when the meek man would have flinched at his harsh tone. "The interrogation happened last night, Captain. Intelligence Officer Sergeyevna led the questioning. I and four other Guards observed. We have confessions on the record for all his charges, of unlawfully infiltrating Qlipoth Fort, of attempting to assassinate the Supreme Guardian and...and of doing the same to the late C-C-Captain."

For a moment, William reverts to his stuttering days when his voice constricts around the mention of Gepard's father. Gepard stifles his anger over Pela's betrayal away to tell William calmly, "Thank you for informing me, Officer."

Gepard closes his eyes, overwhelmed. He doesn't see William hesitate before he leaves.

Minutes in quiet solitude pass by, but no amount of meditation or breathing exercises soothes the sludge of panic and anger that begins to coat Gepard's insides. Gepard tears the IV from his arm and leaps to his feet, ignoring the sudden beeping of the monitors at his bedside. His bare feet patter furiously against linoleum as he paces, unsure if he's running from his thoughts or chasing them. Sampo's hearing is in less than a week, Gepard thinks. It's an open-and-shut case with a recorded confession, Pela's voice echoes bitterly in his head.

When a voice interrupts his howling thoughts, it's not the voice of an exasperated nurse, as he expects.

"I know you're an exceedingly strong man, Captain," Dr. Natasha's soothing voice sounds, "but I don't need to be a doctor to tell you that pacing with a hole in your body is ill-advised."

Gepard breathes deeply. The shift of his diaphragm sends a satisfying flare of pain through his belly that drowns out his anger. He wills his expression into something less frightening and raises his head to look at Natasha's watchful form standing beside the closed door to his room.

"Apologies, Doctor," Gepard says more gruffly than he intends. "I have a lot on my mind."

Natasha's expression flickers at the unspoken reference to Sampo's imprisonment. She approaches, undeterred by his heavy breathing and intensity, and stops just within arms reach.

"May I see your wound?" she asks, eyes locked onto his abdomen.

Gepard nods wordlessly. He pulls aside the wings of his robe to expose his abdomen, but Natasha's clinical gaze banishes any embarrassment before it surfaces. Seconds later, she steps back from the angry red of his wound with furrowed brows.

"So it's true," Natasha says slowly. "Sampo attempted to gravely injure you."

The barest hint of disbelief swims in Natasha's voice. Gepard secures his robe over his stomach. "Does this surprise you, Dr. Natasha?"

Natasha's gaze flickers. "It concerns me what else must be true if word of your assault is."

Gepard does not miss that Natasha evaded his question. He burns to chase down Natasha's answer, to yank out those fantastical words, I would have never expected Sampo to hurt you—

—but Sampo did hurt him. Sampo stabbed him. Although that hurt far less than staring at the side of Pela's face and hearing her methodically call him delusional.

The sludge swells violently at the reminder of Pela's dismissal. Gepard clenches his fist until the pain in his palms drowns out the slurry of emotion. He bites out, harsh, "Why are you here, Dr. Natasha? To tell me again that Sampo can't be trusted?"

"I've been summoned to Qlipoth Fort as a witness," Natasha says factually, ignoring the accusation in his voice. "I am to give testimony to suggest Sampo obtained the toxin from beyond the sky. In exchange, your adjudicators will not wrongly accuse me of supplying Sampo with the toxin myself, and the Underworld will not suffer the consequences of Sampo's games."

Anger flares. Gepard snaps, "You, too? Sampo's worked with you for years! How could you throw him under the bus?"

"The one throwing Sampo under the bus is Sampo himself," Natasha retorts. "Do you not see how Sampo has made it convenient to accuse him as the perpetrator? I cannot publicly defend him without drawing malicious eyes to Wildfire. All I can do is pray to whatever Aeon he follows that the noose he's walking himself into has some greater purpose than a fool's death."

A fool's death.

The world nudges sideways. Gepard looks at Natasha sharply, pulse quickening at the thrum of something unsettling just barely unburied by her words. Sampo is playing a role. The hanged man. The sacrificial lamb. A morality play on Belobog's stage, written by malicious forces behind the curtains.

Is Swanson the director of this play? Is it Matilda? Someone else?

Why orchestrate this elaborate plot at all?

And why would Sampo play along with his scripted demise so readily?

"You can't stand by and let him throw himself away," Gepard demands.

Natasha looks at him. "I told you, Captain. I can't openly defend him."

"We can defend him in other ways. We can find evidence. The truth will reveal that he's not guilty, Doctor. Not of Bronya's paralysis."

"And what of his other crimes? And the enemies he's made through them?" Natasha asks quietly. Gepard flinches, shaken into silence by the unspoken reference to Father's death.

Something gives in Natasha's stern expression at his silence. Natasha sighs, clasping her hands together.

"Captain," Natasha says sadly. "I am a doctor. But even I can't save someone who doesn't want to be saved."

—

The doctor discharges Gepard the evening before Sampo's hearing. The wasted days in bed bite at Gepard's heels and spur him to run through Qlipoth Fort's halls, but Gepard forces himself to linger in the suffocating infirmary wing just a moment longer.

The setting sun is bathing Bronya's infirmary room a pretty orange when Gepard slides open its door, painting an idyllic image of a still body sleeping atop a neat bed, an empty chair askew beside it, and flowers on the bedside table. Deja vu punches the breath out of him. Gepard forces himself to unfreeze and sink into the waiting chair. This isn't Father's deathbed, he repeats to himself like a mantra. This isn't Father's deathbed.

When his shallow breaths slow, he raises his gaze to Bronya's frozen form. The windowlight cuts a golden square from Bronya's placid face. He considers the pretty view, then lowers the window's blinds until the light no longer hits her closed eyes. The monitors beside her bed beep steadily, reassuring him of her otherwise good health. Gepard wonders if she's awake, if her helplessness against the light blaring at her eyes frustrated her.

Gepard glances at the clock by her bedside. He has at least an hour alone with Bronya before a nurse will check up on her. He hesitates, then places his flesh hand delicately over Bronya's.

"Sampo's hearing is tomorrow," Gepard announces quietly. "If—When they find him guilty, they'll transport him to the restricted zone right away and execute him."

Gepard swallows. He forces his next words out with difficulty.

"The party to his execution is already arranged; the twelve adjudicators and a security detail of thirty Silvermane Guards will travel with him to his execution. I won't be leading the escort. Pela will." A pained smile twists Gepard's lips. "I suspect Pela took my responsibilities from me on purpose."

Pain rings through Gepard. Tomorrow, Pela will take Sampo Koski to his sacrificial altar, purging Qlipoth Fort of its sins with his death. A perfect betrayal. A poetic end.

"You were there, Bronya," Gepard chokes out. "You saw what I saw. The whole world—the Guards, Pela, Natasha, even Sampo himself—is telling a different story than the one I witnessed. Tell me you saw what I saw. Tell me I'm not crazy. Please."

Bronya does not answer his plea, yet Gepard hears the worst in her silence. He shudders and holds himself, curling under the weight of poisoned memories crashing atop him. He remembers shaking at the foot of Rhonda Landau's statue days after Father died, wishing desperately that Sampo would hold him until he stopped hurting. He remembers how Sampo trembled the same way moments before he stabbed him. HOLD ME, his body cried, echoing Gepard's own loneliness. Gepard's eyes well with grief. How can Sampo be such a good actor? How can Sampo so flawlessly fake that agony that almost destroyed Gepard?

Tomorrow, whatever is real in Sampo Koski will die along with his lies.

Gepard allows himself to feel the shape of that fact. Removes the nasty thoughts that whisper nothing real will have been lost. Cups in his palms the crumpling feeling those words provoke. Unwinds the tangles of grief, betrayal, and yearning and feels the vibrations of each thread in his heart.

Sampo Koski—all of him—will die.

As the brambles clear, a fork in the road becomes clear.

Gepard is a toy soldier stuck at a crossroads. The road ahead has never looked so treacherous. He looks at Bronya, the strongest person he's ever known, and aches.

"How did you find the strength to do what you believed?" Gepard wonders.

Bronya does not speak, but she gives Gepard his answer. He gives her hand a final squeeze before dropping it and walking out the room and down what may be the last path he will ever take. Something jingles under the heavy thuds of his footsteps. It sounds like distant, ringing bells.

—

Two hours before Qlipoth Fort will awaken to Sampo Koski's hearing, Gepard descends to the lowest level of Qlipoth once again. Only idle, red-eyed machines witness his footsteps down the spiraling staircase leading into cell Nol. When Gepard's feet leave the stairs, a lone, hunched shape under a glowing spotlight lifts its head from its crossed arms. Sampo sits on the floor, knees pulled to his chest, back pressed against the side of his cot, watching with glittering green eyes through oily strands as Gepard comes to a stop just outside the energy barrier.

"Officer William tells me you haven't been eating," Gepard says.

Sampo's chapped lips curl into a faint smirk. "No offense, Geppie, but Prisoner Soup isn't to my taste."

"Eating will help you look better for your hearing," Gepard says, carefully objective instead of soft.

"But soup could have anything in it," Sampo drawls, then wrinkles his nose. "Like milk. What if I'm lactose-intolerant? You'd really force poor ol' me to have the runs in this tiny jail cell?"

Gepard almost dismisses Sampo's rambling, but the possibility of truth in that joking tone gives him pause. Has Sampo not been eating because he's wary of being poisoned? Gepard digs out an unopened energy bar from his pocket and passes it through the barrier in offering. Sampo's eyes drop like weights onto the sealed packet.

"What's this?" Sampo chirps. "My last meal?"

Gepard stares blankly at Sampo's grinning face. Sampo's bruise is now a constellation of black framing his empty green eyes. Pain pounds in Gepard's chest. Gepard turns away and leaves.

"Wait," Sampo says.

The word escapes thin and sharp like a gush of wind. There's something odd in the shape of that lone, rushed word, odd enough for Gepard to pause and look back. Sampo outstretches his hand toward the barrier. Gepard looks at the calloused hand, imagines threading his fingers through it, and pushes the bar through the barrier instead.

Sampo tears it open and wolfs it down with the same barely-contained desperation he had when he was Brughel Poisson eating pirozhki on her date with Gepard Landau. There's something fractured in the glance he gives Gepard while licking his fingers clean, but it disappears behind a sheen of green.

"Y'know, if I die, so does your precious Supreme Guardian," Sampo remarks airily. "I'm the only person in this side of the galaxy who can find the antidote for her current affliction."

Gepard struggles to keep his expression flat. "You already tried this in your interrogation. I read the transcripts."

"You'd really let me die like a dog, Geppie?" Sampo whimpers mockingly.

Gepard's heart pounds with agony.

"You really don't want to die, Sampo?" Gepard snaps, voice tight. "Your hearing is your last chance. Today is the last day for you to defend yourself with the truth. So swallow your lies and let it speak, if you truly want to live."

"If it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, is it not a duck?" Sampo proclaims like an actor delivering a monologue.

Gepard tears his gaze away. He can't bear this anymore, catching glimmers of something true swimming under Sampo's words just for it to be drowned by performance. The sleepless night sinks its claws between his ribs and drags him down into a deep sadness.

"You know, Sampo," Gepard begins roughly, "not a single person who knows you knows what to think about you. Serval despises you, yet she's only ever spoken of Ringo fondly. Dr. Natasha warns me not to trust you, yet she entrusts the entirety of the Underworld's medicine to you. Seele insults you every chance she gets, yet she doesn't hesitate to include you in Wildfire's ranks. You've left a great, contradictory mark on this world."

On me, Gepard's heart cries.

"A man once told me that my affections for him were worthless as long as I kept disregarding myself," Gepard chokes out through his thickening throat. "So I echo the same words to you. Don't treat your life so frivolously, Sampo. Don't take these memories that Belobog has of you and defile them with a fool's death."

Gepard swallows before he says too much in front of eavesdropping ears. Here he is, holding his bleeding, beating heart in his palms before Sampo's dull eyes. Sampo smiles at it in empty, plastic silence.

"You forget, Gepard," Sampo says, quiet. "I am a Fool."

Something vibrates in Gepard's chest pocket, interrupting any outburst of emotion Gepard may have had. Gepard's hand flinches toward his pocket before he remembers himself. Sampo's keen eyes drop to Gepard's chest anyways.

"Who's texting you this early in the morning?" Sampo teases, a performative smirk in his voice.

Gepard stares, feeling the roiling in his gut slow. Sampo wouldn't know that Gepard's phone is destroyed because Sparkle was the one to destroy it. Gepard walks away, lingering on one more piece of evidence that Gepard hadn't hallucinated Sparkle to scapegoat Sampo's cruelty after all.

—

Two hours later, Pela accosts Gepard on his way to Sampo's hearing.

"Gepard, what did you do?" she demands.

Gepard slides his eyes over her shoulder, to the lines of Architects filtering through the courtroom's grand doors. "Not now. The hearing is about to start."

Pela's mouth drops into the beginnings of a shout. Gepard brushes past her and stalks into the courtroom, refusing to feel guilt over treating Pela so coldly.

Sampo's adjudication begins at sunrise. Two Guards march Sampo out a side door. A mechanical collar around his neck simultaneously pins his arms behind his back with an energy field and serves as a macabre fashion statement. His audience is humble—a handful of unimpressed Guards and Architects seated in the courtroom's audience pews, Dr. Natasha, and a still Bronya wheeled out on a gurney by a medical aide—but the wink Sampo throws the room lacks no showmanship. Sampo strolls to the lonely lectern at the center of auditorium and slides into place behind it. His back faces the audience, and his winning smile faces the twelve adjudicators condescending from the elevated pulpits above him.

"Sampo Koski, at your service," Sampo purrs.

"Do not speak out of turn, defendant," a stern, bearded man sat at the center of the bench booms. "This is your only warning."

The hearing is a rapid-fire barrage of accusatory questions. Sampo, to Gepard's disappointment, confirms each accusation without protest.

"Do you admit to bribing Qlipoth Fort officials with goods, favors, and shield?"

"Of course."

"Do you admit to knowing that Leonard Landau's passing was unnatural?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Do you admit that you are responsible for the poisoning that led to his passing?"

"Why, yes."

"Do you admit to likewise inflicting the Supreme Guardian's current state of paralysis?"

"I certainly do. My greatest work yet."

At that, Gepard feels Dunn, who sits on the pew beside him, clench his fists with restrained anger. A few rows ahead, Dr. Natasha looks down at her lap as if she can't bear to look at Sampo. Pela, who sits somewhere behind him, bores her eyes into the back of Gepard's head. Gepard, in turn, stares at Sampo's, silently demanding the man to stop playing his inexplicable games and defend himself.

Sampo does not answer.

Witnesses are called up to the pulpit for public interrogation. Sampo stands aside, expression smug and watchful as Pela recounts her interrogation. Gepard looks down at his clenching fists, pushing down the anger and hurt that swells at Pela's voice. Then Natasha takes the stand. No, she does not recognize what toxin is affecting the Supreme Guardian despite her vast knowledge of Belobog's medicines. No, she does not know where it was procured. Yes, it's possible it came from beyond the sky. Yes, she knows that Sampo has access to worlds beyond the sky.

The time to vote comes. A law clerk stands in the depressed center of the auditorium, facing Sampo and the audience behind him. One by one, the law clerk announces a charge. One by one, the adjudicators raise their hands.

Gepard watches Matilda. Her expression is empty each time she raises her hand.

On December 3, 700 AF, before the sun reaches the peak of Belobog's everwinter sky, all twelve adjudicators of the adjudication panel agree on the following: Sampo Koski is guilty of four counts of aggravated assault, one count of first-degree murder, and three counts of high treason.

The unanimous sentence is execution.

—

There's a critical window of time after Sampo's sentencing in which the Guards need to prepare the caravan that will take Sampo to his execution. Gepard is keenly aware of this as he marches out the courtroom, adrenaline coursing through his veins as he hears the furious clicking of familiar heels following behind him.

"Gepard!" Pela shouts.

Gepard ignores both her and the questioning gazes of passing officials, striding forward without pause. He reaches his office and throws open its door, coming only to a stop when he and Pela are both safely inside.

"Gepard," Pela snarls, slamming the door shut behind her. "I know what you did last night."

Gepard, who is all-too conscious of the time, pretends to read the clock on the wall. "The execution party is departing soon. Your presence is needed at the back gate."

"Don't you ignore me, Gepard!" Pela shouts, her temper flaring. "I saw the security logs! You entered the evidence room last night and opened all the safes! Did you take Koski's belongings? What in Qlipoth's name are you planning?!"

Something buzzes in Gepard's chest pocket. Gepard's jaw twitches at the unfortunate timing. Pela's eyes drop to his chest.

"Did you take Victor's phone?" Pela demands then gasps. "How did you fix it?"

I didn't, Gepard doesn't answer. The mechanical joints of his gauntlet flex.

"Sorry, Pela," Gepard says, remorse breaking through the chill in his voice.

Pela's gaze snaps up too late. The air above Pela's head distorts as she tries to summon her drones, but a lattice of ice shoots up from her feet and swallows her. A fist of ice steals the glasses from the bridge of her nose and crushes it. The glasses' lens flicker blue as the drone controller embedded in its frame shatters.

"Gepard!" Pela's muffled scream sounds through the ice. "Don't do this!"

Gepard's heart twists when he hears fear, not anger, distorting her voice. He buries his regret under resolve. He locks his office door behind him, abandoning Pela to scream and pound her fists from within her icy prison.

—

At Qlipoth Fort's rear gate is a secure supply road that leads out of Belobog's northern gate and eventually winds into the Silvermane Guard Restricted Zone. Gepard arrives there five minutes too late, drawing the eyes of every Guard and Architect there to his approach.

Six wagons stand in a neat line, each headed by three-wheeled vehicles manned by a soldier. The familiar cool gazes of the adjudicators regard him in pairs from the backs of each wagon. Ten soldiers surround the caravan of wagons. In front, twelve more soldiers encircle the smiling, collared form of Sampo Koski with his arms pulled tight behind his back. Gepard recognizes several. Officer William. Officer Kyle. Lieutenant Swanson.

"Captain Landau," Swanson sniffs at the front of the formation. "We were expecting Intelligence Officer Sergeyevna and her machines, not you."

"Intelligence Officer Sergeyevna is occupied by an unforeseen cyberattack on Qlipoth Fort's machines," Gepard says shortly. "I am here to relieve her of her post."

"This is highly irregular," Swanson protests. "The assignments were decided days ago by the interim Captain."

"By you?" Gepard remarks, flat. "Well, the Captain of the Silvermane Guards has reassumed command. And as you know, the Captain has final say over all Silvermane Guard assignments. I am relieving Officer Sergeyevna of her duties because she has greater priorities." Gepard lowers his voice. "Captain's orders."

Dozens of eyes flick between Swanson and Gepard. Gepard stands tall and firm before the crowd of Architects and Guards, Lieutenant Swanson puffing angrily to his front. It's the same scene as that fateful day on Everwinter Hill, when Gepard stared down Swanson and defied his father's orders to sacrifice his soldiers' lives to defend a lost garrison.

"Lieutenant Swanson," Architect Herrero calls out from her wagon with a strange lightness to her voice. "Let the Captain do what he wants."

Gepard looks at Architect Herrero with narrowed eyes. Her aged face is creased into almost a smirk. Suspicion flares like fireworks, but Gepard tamps the feeling down and accepts the opportunity without question.

The party sets off to Sampo's execution with no more delay.

—

As the supply road winds away from the heart of Belobog, its protective stone walls and overhead netting give way to a cheap chain link fence, then to open air and ramshackle buildings. Backwater Pass is no longer infested with Fragmentum monsters, but its residents still have scars. No one wants to live this close to Belobog's walls, so there's no need to guard this distant stretch of the supply road from desperate robbers either.

A faint voice from a decrepit building reminds the caravan that there are other threats besides robbers.

At the front of the formation, Swanson halts midstep. The Guards flanking him freeze, too. Their sudden stop ripples through the caravan, earning disgruntled noises from the wagons of adjudicators at the rear.

"What's the meaning of this?" one adjudicator, a man with gray streaks in his brown hair, shouts. The soldier driving his wagon dares audaciously to shush him.

The complaints die down as the adjudicators finally recognize the blanket of tension that settled over their security detail. Gepard cocks his ear in the direction of the eerie voice. A collective shiver ripples through the Guards as the woman's voice speaks again.

"—Architects rememb—else we—forget—distant past—"

"T-that's Madam Cocolia's voice," Officer William whispers, fear distorting his voice.

A low murmur emerges from the huddling Guards. The Fragmentum has made the Silvermane Guards incredibly superstitious about the dead rising from their graves. Even Swanson, the oldest of the security detail, clenches his gauntlets tight around his lance.

"Lieutenant Swanson, take Officer William and Officer Kyle with you to scout the building," Gepard commands in a hush. "Regroup at once at any sign of Fragmentum activity."

For once, Swanson makes no complaint. He waves over Gepard's two brightest reports and disappears into the dark of the abandoned building. In minutes, Kyle's keen instincts and William's sharp eye will realize that something is off about Cocolia's haunting cries. In minutes, the three most competent soldiers in Sampo's security detail will find a Silvermane-issued recorder wedged into the building's wall, endlessly replaying a recorded speech from the late Supreme Guardian.

Gepard whips his head to glare at Sampo, who blinks guilelessly back.

"You," Gepard growls. "Is this your doing?"

"Uh," Sampo says eloquently.

Gepard steps menacingly closer. Sampo smiles in what Gepard knows is genuine bafflement. He squeaks when Gepard grabs his collar and yanks him until he's inches away from Gepard's glare.

"Is this a trick?" Gepard shouts, drawing eyes to them. "Did you use your heinous outworlder science to tamper with the dead?!"

"Oh, the curse of being too competent," Sampo wheezes. "I get credit for things I didn't do."

His Guards circle around them, raising their weapons warily at Sampo. Gepard pulls Sampo even closer until their noses brush.

"Promise me you'll save Bronya," Gepard growls, too low for the Guards surrounding them to hear.

Sampo's eyes flare with realization.

"As talented as I am, I can't promise the impossible," Sampo evades.

"Sampo Koski is capable of anything," Gepard says with conviction. "Promise me you'll save Bronya."

Gepard sees his shadowed, blue eyes reflected in Sampo's electric green. His gaze drops to Sampo's throat when Sampo swallows.

"I promise," Sampo whispers, breath ghosting across Gepard's lips.

Sampo's word is all Gepard has. It has to be enough.

"—a new world—arise—," Cocolia sings.

Earthwork activates just as Gepard lets a spherical object roll out from his sleeve. One keen soldier just barely barks a shout—

Hiss.

The world outside of Earthwork's barrier erupts into smoke.

CRUNCH. Sampo's collar easily shatters under the crush of Gepard's gauntlet. A bright crackle sounds underneath the alarmed shouts of Guards and Adjudicators alike as the energy field restraining Sampo's arms fades. Gepard slams two thin objects into Sampo's chest.

"Hurry and teleport us away!"

Sampo's unbound hands lift to grasp the purple knives Gepard presses against his chest. He throws one blindly through the smog before Gepard's stomach does the telltale somersault of sudden teleportation. Gepard swallows a gag as they slam into the wall of a building thirty meters away from the smothered caravan. He forces his wobbly legs into a run after Sampo's retreating back, praying to any higher being who hears him that Sampo knows how to escape.

Pain flares in Gepard's gut at every footstep. Gepard presses his gloved hand to his belly, then curses when it comes away bloody.

A loud CLANG too close behind him startles him. He glances over his shoulder and sees Swanson, William, and Kyle bursting out from a metal door. Shit. Sampo teleported them right next to the building Swanson went into.

"Shoot them!" Swanson roars.

Adrenaline races through Gepard's veins as William opens his stance and raises his rifle. Gepard unslings Earthwork from his shoulder, but the rifle doesn't look at Gepard. It points past Gepard instead, at Sampo who easily outpaces Gepard. Gepard's heart seizes. William does not miss his shots, and Earthwork's barrier activates too slowly to stop a bullet after it's shot. William is going to shoot Sampo in his back—

—except William's finger hesitates over the trigger.

The pause is enough. Oily film ripples into the bullet's path. The sound of shattering glass rings as Earthwork's half-formed shield gives. A yelp ahead of Gepard tears agonizingly through his heart. Sampo stumbles but rights himself and keeps running. William the marksman has missed Sampo's heart and pierced his thigh instead.

Gepard blindly throws a wave of ice behind him and runs after Sampo's lopsided sprint. Startled shouts is all the confirmation he receives that his ice has delayed their pursuers. A trail of blood paints the path ahead. Gepard curses again and chases after it.

The splotches of red grow closer together. They begin to curl and swerve, revealing that Sampo has given up on outrunning his pursuers and is instead attempting to evade them. Gepard presses his hand tighter to his belly, trying not to add to the bloody trail. The clanging of metal behind him is multiplied, now. His Guards have recovered from the smoke bomb.

The bloody breadcrumbs swing into an alleyway. Gepard lurches around the corner, coming to a stop at the sight of Sampo hobbling toward the alleyway's dead-end wall. Gepard has chased Sampo enough to know that a dead end is no barrier for even an injured Sampo Koski. He turns around and plants himself at the mouth of the alleyway, ready to hold off his soldiers to bide precious seconds for Sampo's escape.

Earthwork's barrier shimmers into place just as a swarm of soldiers breach the corner. Halberds slam into the oily film in ineffective disunion. Sloppy. The next Captain should better prepare the Silvermane Guards for sudden, unexpected treachery.

Gepard makes the mistake of glancing behind him. His eyes widen at the sight of Sampo frozen against the end of the alleyway, staring blankly at his back.

"Why aren't you running?!" Gepard screams.

Sampo flinches as if Gepard had shot him. The painful sight distracts Gepard just enough for Earthwork's barrier to shatter under the next swing of axes.

Gepard reactivates Earthwork as he stumbles back, but his soldiers know Earthwork's weakness too well. They shred through half-formed film before it can solidify into a solid barrier. When his back stumbles into Sampo's paralyzed body, Gepard flares the fingers of his gauntlet. With a roar, he draws all of Earthwork's power into his gauntlet and punches the ground.

CRACK.

A thick sheet of ice swallows them entirely, filtering the yellow light of Belobog's sun into a deep blue. Gepard falls to his knees, Earthwork sputtering with sparks, veins of ice streaking up his arm. Blood seeps uncomfortably through the belly of his uniform. Sampo's body is warm against his back.

"Sampo," Gepard gasps over the shouts outside the dome of ice. "Do your tricks. Get out of here."

Sampo splays his hands, opening his empty palms to the air. "Sorry, Geppie. I have no tricks left."

"Heave, HO!" Swanson shouts just past the ice.

A loud BOOM against the ice dome wrests a flinch from Gepard. Cracks spread across the ice beside Gepard's ear.

"Can't you teleport away?" Gepard bites out hoarsely.

"I can't just use any space anchor on a whim," Sampo says, softer at Gepard's desperation. "I need a phone. Among other things."

BOOM. The spiderweb of cracks beside Gepard's head spreads. The dome of ice won't hold for long. Gepard inhales the sight of Sampo's resigned smile and looks past the ice to the sky in supplication.

Please, Qlipoth, Gepard weeps. Please, Aha. Do what I can't and save him.

The sound of ringing bells.

Gepard looks down at his chest. Digital bells, distorted and crackled, not imagined by the way Sampo's head whips toward Gepard's breast pocket. Gepard slips his remaining hand into his pocket and removes Victor's broken phone. It blares and shudders and glows, announcing through its cracked screen a call from an unknown number.

"That call is for me," Sampo says hoarsely.

Gepard wordlessly hands Sampo the damaged phone. Sampo's pupils narrow into pinpricks the moment the phone touches his shaking hand. The call ends, but the screen remains lit. An interface that resembles a network of nodes overtakes the screen.

"There's your phone," Gepard says, voice barely above a whisper. "Now go."

BOOM. Chips of ice break off beside Gepard's head. Gepard closes his eyes, ready to release the dome the moment Sampo vanishes from his side.

"Come with me," Sampo chokes out.

Gepard's eyes flare open. "What?"

Sampo gesticulates wildly. "I get it. Space is big and scary. But there's lots out there! There's even another shitty ice planet where you can freeze your ass off! Kalevala, it's cold and miserable, just like Belobog. You'll love it, I promise!"

BOOM. Pain flares up Gepard's stump. "Sampo—"

"If you don't leave, she's going to do awful things to you," Sampo almost begs.

She. Suspicion flares like fireworks.

Gepard turns to fully face Sampo. He tunes out the ear-piercing shriek of breaking ice. He trails his eyes over Sampo's crumpling expression one last time. Over the lovely slope of his cheeks and the sharp ridge of his brow. Over the shattered glass of his green eyes.

"I'm not going anywhere," Gepard exhales. "Belobog is my home."

BOOM.

The ice shatters.

"Run, Sampo," Gepard roars. "Run!"

Sampo's body seizes. That's the last of Sampo Gepard sees before something large and heavy collides with his head. Pain bursts across his skull. Black swallows his vision. Despite everything, Gepard knows he made the right choice when his flesh hand reaches for Sampo and feels nothing but cold, empty air.

—

Run, boy. Run, BOY. RUN BOY—

The universe reassembles his body midair. Gravity mercilessly yanks him back-first into a hard floor. He wheezes, breath knocked out of his lungs, and tries not to hurl at flare of agony at the bullet wound on his thigh. Sparkle's unwelcome head comes into his view, leaning over him with open-mouthed surprise.

"How did you use this space anchor?" she gawks. "I didn't send you the address."

He makes no move to get off his back and stares up at the familiar ornate ceiling of The Reverie Hotel's suites. "Divine intervention," he chirps with a brightness he doesn't feel.

Sparkle rolls her eyes and steps out of his view. "I guess there's perks to being Aha's favorite toy. Welcome to Penacony, Brother. Glad you made it in slightly less than one piece."

Mildly injured and out of immediate harm, the fool does what he does best: examine his options. One, forget about his promise to Gepard and disappear into the cosmos. Two, think about fulfilling his promise to Gepard, then disappear into the cosmos instead. Three, fantasize about fulfilling his promise to Gepard, then disappear into the cosmos instead. So many options. So many possibilities.

"Sparkle," he calls out. "Where did you put my mask?"

There's a pregnant pause before Sparkle's voice warbles with delight. "So I didn't imagine it! I thought there was something funnier about Jarilo-VI this time around." Her voice lowers to a conspiratorial whisper. "Sampo Koski, is there really a new emanator on Jarilo-VI?"

"No spoilers," he sing-songs. He knows without looking that Sparkle pouts and rolls her eyes.

Sparkle launches into an unprompted rant about rocks and mutes, but the crescendo of phantom bells drowns out her shrill complaints. Tinnitus is so much worse as a follower of Elation, he thinks wryly. He listens, against his will, to the echoes of what Aha had silently whispered to him through the crackly speakers of Victor's phone.

RUN ALL YOU WANT, BOY. THIS STORY WILL END ONE WAY OR ANOTHER.

He smiles dreamily into the Reverie Hotel's ceiling and fantasizes about running beyond the Elation's grasp.

Chapter Text

One moment, Gepard is dead to the world. The next, someone has shoved a railroad spike through his skull.

Gepard scrabbles upright against the scratchy surface he lays on, then cringes when a blinding light causes the skull-splitting sensation to flare. It takes several seconds of squeezing his eyes shut against the bombardment of light for his agony to dull enough to peek at his surroundings. The scratchy surface he sits on is a threadbare cot. There's a squat toilet in the corner and a sink beside it. A familiar gossamer energy barrier surrounds him. He's in one of Qlipoth Fort's maximum security cells, completely and utterly alone.

His Captain's instincts demand him to assess the situation. He pushes past the stabbing pain of his concussion to search his memories for a marker of time. Loud thuds. An ice dome. Warmth against his back, and when he looks behind him, green eyes wide and pleading. How long has it been since Sampo's escape? Hours? A day?

Gepard knows better, but he glances around his surroundings for an answer anyway. Cot. Squat toilet. Sink. Barrier. Beyond the barrier, a too-bright spotlight casts every crevice of his cell in unavoidable light. Past its blinding rays are small red dots embedded in the ceiling—red-eyed cameras watching his every illuminated move. There's no window, no clock, no sunlight. Nothing but timelessness. Does it matter how long it's been? the stark shadows cast by the spotlight whisper to him. This could be forever.

Gepard recoils from that thought. Determined, he scoots to the edge of the cot and tests his palm against the barrier. It ripples a familiar rainbow around his contact but refuses to bend. He recognizes Serval's technology. If Gepard were a funnier man, he'd accuse his older sister of being the one to trap him in this cell.

Gepard knows best that using blunt force against Serval's barriers is a futile endeavor. He leans back with a frown, twitching at the strange sensation of something foreign pulling through the skin of his abdomen. His stitches. He'd completely forgotten about his stab wound; his skull-splitting concussion had overshadowed it. But now, the wound gapes open concerningly, speckled with dried blood. He glances at the red-eyed cameras above him with furrowed brows. Shouldn't someone tend to his wound now that he's awake?

The sharp gasp of his cell door unsealing startles him right on cue. The hair on his arms prickles from the whoosh of disturbed air. Then the echoing click of shoes against stone stair steps spurs his body into stumbling off the cot, buzzing with anticipation.

A stout, white figure rounds the corner of the staircase. Gepard does not know who he expects, but the face that greets him stutters his mind to a halt. Half of him insists that he knows this face. The other half insists that those features do not belong with the drab white scrubs draping the visitor from shoulders to ankles. But all of him screams with shrill, ringing alarm—

"You shouldn't be here," Gepard blurts.

"Who are you to tell a nurse of Qlipoth Fort where she ought to be?" Gloria Herrero, Victor Herrero's aunt and Justicia Herrero's daughter, retorts from the foot of the stairs.

Gloria's white scrubs gleam bright in the spotlight, burning an afterimage into Gepard's retinas. Gepard's eyes dart across the uniform, searching for evidence of forgery. Wide pockets. Embroidered hemming. The silver patch emblazoned at the heart, not unlike Gepard's official Silvermane Guard badge. The uniform is legitimate. Gloria Herrero is, by all appearances, a staff member of the Qlipoth Fort infirmary visiting Gepard's cell on official business.

Gloria's hands hold a silver tray angled just so its contents are out of Gepard's sight. At a wave of her hand, a platform emerges from the wall to take the tray from her. She grabs from it thin, purple gloves that she stretches over each hand with a loud, ear-piercing SNAP. One of her gloved hands picks up something Gepard can't see. Adrenaline wrenches its grip around Gepard's spine when she turns to face him with a smile that doesn't reach her eyes.

"How odd it is to see you from this side of the barrier, Mr. Landau," Gloria Herrero says quietly. "It feels like it was just yesterday when you threw me into a cell not unlike this one." She takes a step toward him. "I must take a look at your wound."

"I refuse," Gepard says, heart pounding.

Gloria steps closer. "All citizens of Belobog have the right to medical treatment."

"All citizens of Belobog have the right to informed consent in medical treatment," Gepard retorts. "And I do not give my consent."

The lines of Gloria's gloves glimmer white as she approaches. The lines of Gloria's smile grow thicker as her head eclipses the spotlight, casting Gepard's face in shadow.

"Come now, Mr. Landau. Qlipoth Fort takes no pleasure in leaving prisoners in unnecessary pain."

"Don't take another step closer," Gepard snarls with a severity that shocks even himself.

Gloria stumbles to a stop. Her startled expression momentarily flattens the hills of her cheeks. Then she dons her sweet smile again, drawing deep shadows into the creases of her jowls.

"You're just like your father," Gloria almost purrs. "So stubborn. And so paranoid at the end of his life. But you're right." Her gloved hands lower. "You're conscious and of clear mind, and your injuries are not life-threatening yet. You have the right to refuse examination and treatment."

Gepard's glare does not waver as Gloria steps away even as the spotlight blares painfully into Gepard's eyes once more. A flood of questions surge into the firm line of his scowl. Why bring up Father? Why talk about Father's last moments of madness as if she were intimately familiar with them? Why compare Gepard refusing medical treatment to Father's death?

Gloria Herrero is a nurse in Qlipoth Fort Infirmary. When and how she assumed the position, Gepard does not know. But she could have been a nurse while Father was ill.

She could have been Father's nurse.

The accusation pounds against Gepard's clenched teeth. You killed him. You killed him. You KILLED HIM.

A warning cuts through his mounting rage, reflexive now after so many years of navigating Sampo's games. Stop. Think. There's too many leaps in logic to immediately assume Gloria Herrero was involved with Father's death.

Gepard folds the lashing rage away into a tight square and glares back at Gloria's patronizing expression. He wonders if Gloria Herrero will spit in his face again, just as she did so many years ago when he arrested her for plotting against Victor's and Matilda's engagement.

"No matter," Gloria sighs instead. "I'll be back when you're delirious from infection."

Gloria withdraws, disturbing the silence of the cell with her rustling scrubs. She retrieves the tray from the waiting platform and disappears behind the curve of the spiral stairs. Gepard hears the soft plods of her footsteps disappear behind the closing cell doors, but still, Gepard does not allow himself to deflate. The red eyes still watch, and the only retreat from their unnerving gaze is the inside of Gepard's chest, where his heart pounds as furiously as when Gepard fought an ice monster at the foot of Everwinter Hill.

—

The violent gasp of unsealing cell doors jars Gepard from timelessness again. Gepard lurches to his feet, fist clenched in a readied punch. Again? This soon? How long has it even been since Gloria Herrero intruded in his cell?

The click of footsteps crescendos ominously once more. A shadow casts onto the foot of the stairs, but instead of Qlipoth Fort's white scrubs, the hem of a gray skirt peeks into view. Gepard's body, sluggish from petrification, continues to hold taut even when familiar, calm expression meet his.

"Did I startle you, Captain?" a soothing voice sounds.

Belated relief punches the breath from Gepard's lungs. Gepard deflates, lowering his fist.

"Apologies, Doctor Natasha," Gepard exhales shakily. "I—yes, you startled me."

Natasha wears the same solemn expression and prim gray dress she wore during Sampo's hearing. In her hand is a brown briefcase that, despite being completely innocuous, draws Gepard's wary gaze.

"No need to apologize, Captain," Natasha says, unmoved. "It's my oversight for intruding unannounced. I'm here because I've been informed that you refused medical treatment from Qlipoth Fort. Perhaps a private practitioner would be more agreeable to you?"

All the paranoia that left with his exhale swells once again.

"Who sent you?" Gepard growls.

"Officer Pela," Natasha answers simply.

Gepard's distrust crumbles into something tumultuous and confused. He winces at the ensuing flare of pain at his temple. He turns his head away from the red-eyed cameras and his bittersweet feelings.

"Do what you must," Gepard mutters, sinking back onto the cot with a hand to his forehead.

On the other side of the barrier, Natasha sinks into a kneel, unlatching her briefcase and setting it on the ground. She, too, pulls gloves onto her hands, but briskly and without the loud slaps of Gloria Herrero's sharp movements. The barrier welcomes Natasha's hand, melting into a rainbow film around her arm as she reaches for Gepard. Her leaning head casts Gepard's face in shadow, just as Gloria Herrero's did when she approached him despite his refusals.

Abruptly, Gloria Herrero's sickly-sweet smile flashes over Natasha's calm expression. Gepard leans out of Natasha's reach, eyes narrowing. Natasha's hand pauses its approach, her eyes darting to his.

"I'd like to feel the skin around your wound for signs of infection," Natasha explains calmly, as if talking to a spooked animal. "May I do that, Captain?"

Sampo had a funny way of baring his teeth. His smile drew wider the more he distrusted.

"How do I know you're telling the truth?" Gepard growls, mimicking the grinning Sampo of his memories.

"I suppose you don't," Natasha answers reasonably. "You can only hope that my ten years of schooling, my oath to ethical medical practice, my decade of unyielding service to the Underworld's lone clinic, and our history of perfectly agreeable interactions mean that I would not harm you."

Gepard considers Natasha's answer, then drops his tenuous hold on his suspicion. He leans forward and allows the oily touch of Natasha's barrier-encased hand. Her hand darts perfunctorily around his pink wound before retracting. The barrier follows her retreat, bouncing back into a solid wall.

"Temperature is normal," Natasha declares. "No sign of infection yet."

Natasha riffles through her open briefcase. She returns to the barrier with a soaked gauze. The barrier once again deforms around her outstretched hand, but the gauze phases through the barrier and threatens to touch Gepard's wound.

"It's gauze and antiseptic to clean your wound," Natasha explains without prompting.

The cold sting at his abdomen is a welcome shock, so delightfully sharp and exciting compared to the dull constancy of his past…however long it was. For a fleeting moment, Gepard is outside Belobog's walls, confined to a medical tent, engulfed in the weary camaraderie that follows a concluded fight. Then Natasha's head moves away, allowing the full glare of the spotlight to into his sore eyes.

When Gepard has finished wincing, Natasha is outstretching both hands in offering. One hand splays open to show small, colorful tablets. The other holds an empty cup.

"Antibiotics and pain relievers," Natasha announces. "To prevent infection and manage your concussion."

Gepard grabs only the pills and unceremoniously swallows them in one swig.

"Thank you, Doctor," he says begrudgingly.

"You're most welcome, Captain," Natasha says, setting the cup aside. "Do you have any questions for me?"

"What time is it?" Gepard asks, blatantly ignoring the medical nature of her question.

"It's 1700," Natasha answers without hesitation. "It's been three hours since you were arrested and taken to Qlipoth Fort's dungeons."

Three hours? That eternity of isolation and headaches was only three hours?

"What has happened since my arrest?" Gepard asks, distracting himself from his bubbling dismay.

"I don't know much," Natasha admits. "I only heard word of your arrest when Officer Pela knocked on my hotel door and requisitioned me to treat your wounds. As far as I know, word of Sampo's escape and your arrest isn't public. I know nothing of what Qlipoth Fort has done since your arrest."

Gepard is both relieved and disappointed to swallow his question of how his former comrades have taken his betrayal. He pivots to a topic Natasha can confidently answer instead.

"Have you heard any news of Sampo?"

"Nothing," Natasha answers. "He's certainly not in the Underworld, if that's what you're asking."

So Sampo is well and truly gone. Relief should be all Gepard feels, but years of tangled emotions surge up Gepard's throat, making him bodily choke. Sampo has run away, abandoned him, thrown his pitiful affections away—but no! That's not what happened this time, Gepard reminds himself sternly. Sampo is gone because Gepard saved Sampo. And Sampo will come back and save Bronya, in turn.

Right?

Gepard looks into Natasha's eyes and sees nothing but patience in them despite the pathetic figure he must make. What did Sampo see in Gepard's eyes during his visits? Did Gepard provide Sampo any comfort the way Natasha soothes him now? He recalls how desperately Sampo ate that unopened protein bar. He chews his lips in hesitation, then carefully forms a question with his mouth.

"How easily could you have harmed me just now, Doctor?"

The only sign of Natasha's surprise at the sudden change of topic is a slow blink.

"Pardon?"

"When you examined me and treated my wound," Gepard says, willing his voice not to shake, "how easily could you have harmed me instead?"

Natasha looks at him unblinkingly, so still that Gepard barely sees the rise and fall of her breaths. When she finally speaks, she enunciates slowly as if every word were laced with considerable thought.

"There are many ways to render a treatment inert, or even actively harmful, whether accidentally or otherwise. Normally, we rely on standards and processes to ensure this doesn't happen. But processes can fail." Natasha pauses, then says quieter, "Processes have failed."

"I hope you haven't poisoned me," Gepard jokes, startled by his own gall. Qlipoth, Sampo truly has rubbed off on him.

"We've had enough of that in Qlipoth Fort recently," Natasha quips back easily with a wry smile. She peels off her gloves and tucks them into a paper sleeve with practiced ease. "If that is all, Captain," she says, closing her briefcase, "I will see you tomorrow at 0900."

Gepard latches onto Natasha's words with embarrassing desperation. Tomorrow at 0900, a Qlipoth-given marker of time!

Natasha does not acknowledge the gift she's given him, disappearing up the stairs and through the cell doors. Gepard draws every piece of himself inward, collapsing himself into something dense and unmovable, facing his timeless isolation once more.

—

Several visits from Natasha pass. Three days of captivity concluded, according to the clock Natasha's visits have so generously granted him. In the middle of her second visit, the door to Gepard's cell had unsealed for Gloria Herrero.

Gepard, who, at the time, was sitting on the cot wincing at the antiseptic Natasha sprayed on his belly, shot to his feet the moment Gloria came into view. Something must've shown in Gepard's expression because Natasha took one look at him then planted herself between him and Gloria.

"The prisoner is already receiving treatment," Natasha said firmly. "Your assistance is not needed."

Gloria gave several half-hearted arguments, but Natasha batted her away easily. She skulked away up the stairs with her thin-lipped smile, leaving Gepard with a fist curled so tight that his nails felt moments away from drawing blood. Natasha's gaze lingered on him for the rest of the cleaning, but she ultimately said nothing and departed with her usual briskness.

Twice a day, an Officer Shilov descended into his cell to deliver a tray of soup and dry bread. When Officer Shilov next returns, she'll once again find the untouched tray pushed to a corner of the barrier. Gepard does not dare accept the food, now that he suspects what Sampo was so wary of during his captivity.

Sleep dances even further out of reach on an empty stomach. Gepard tries to convince his painfully-alert mind that he's somewhere else comfortable and unwatched. He's sitting at his dining table in his condo, hand curled around a warm mug, ignoring the piles of mundane paperwork lying on his desk. Someone sits across from him, listens to his stilted conversation, and teases him warmly as if Gepard's awkwardness were no matter at all. He's warm, sleepy, and safe. And not alone.

But intrusive sensations prod him awake. The itch of his prisoner's rags. The ache of his concussion. The tantalizing smell of untrustworthy soup. The chilling touch of air against his naked, aching stump. Fatigue begins to rust the carefully-maintained barriers in his mind. When he finally drifts away from pain and hunger, the currents carry him into horrific possibilities.

It would be so easy for Sampo to simply never return with Bronya's antidote.

It would be so easy.

The image of Bronya—Father—still on her deathbed is damningly easier to imagine than a Sampo that doesn't run away. A Sampo that keeps his promises. Gepard might as well have slaughtered Bronya with his own hand by helping Sampo escape. Just as someone—Sampo—Gloria Herrero—Gepard, the failed son!—murdered Father!

The loud wheeze of the blast doors jolts Gepard from his nightmares. His heart speeds up, having learned to panic at unexpected noises outside of routine visits. Several sets of heavy footsteps descend, announcing six Silvermane Guards who stop outside the barrier. At the front and center, Lieutenant Swanson.

"Lieutenant," Gepard greets, heart pounding.

"Acting Captain," Swanson corrects, narrowing his eyes with a promise of retribution. "I'd like to ask you some questions, Prisoner."

They shackle him and drag him out of the cell.

—

The interrogation is miserable. Not because of the heavy metal collar chafing Gepard's neck. Not because of the uncomfortable bite of the metal chair digging into Gepard's legs. Not because of the looks of careful apathy on the faces of men who once greeted Gepard with admiration and respect.

No, the interrogation is miserable solely because Acting Captain Swanson, who has already decided what he wants to believe, seems to believe the best way to get the answers he wants is to hammer Gepard with the same questions over and over again.

"It wasn't him," Gepard grinds out for the fifth time.

"Then who was it? A fragmentum monster?" Swanson sneers.

"No. It was his outworlder colleague who assumed his form to kidnap and poison Bronya. Her name was Sparkle."

"No one else reported a sighting of this so-called colleague. Not even Koski himself."

"Koski lies," Gepard says stonily.

Something gleams in Swanson's eyes. "Yet you believed that he could and would return to cure the Supreme Guardian?"

"Have you found another way to save the Supreme Guardian?" Gepard almost snaps.

"Yes or no, Prisoner."

Gepard's jaw clenches in irritation, which he immediately regrets when pain shoots up the side of his head. Stay calm, Gepard, a voice that sounds like Mother warns. Gepard exhales forcefully.

"Yes, I believe Koski will return," Gepard grits out word by word.

Victory curls Swanson's lips into a smirk. Swanson leans back against his chair and hums.

They repeat this song and dance five more times. Yes, Sampo promised to heal Bronya. Yes, Gepard released Sampo with nothing but that promise. Yes, Gepard believes Sampo will return to heal Bronya. Yes, he believes Sampo will not flee, despite Sampo's extensive criminal history. Gepard mouths the words over and over until the emotion behind them turns to ash. It no longer matters that he doesn't quite believe his own words because his delivery has become flat and unyielding through repetition. He wishes keenly that Pela were here interrogating him instead because Pela, at least, knows better than to waste her own time.

Gepard's imprisonment seems to have turned the narrow-eyed looks Swanson shot Captain Gepard into open loathing. Gepard doesn't remember Swanson disrespecting Father like this. No, whatever mysterious, inexplicable grievance Swanson holds is against Gepard and Gepard alone, even though Gepard has no idea—not a fucking one—what awful thing he had done for a man his father's age to despise him so viciously.

"What's your problem with me, Lieutenant Swanson?" Gepard snaps suddenly. "What about me upsets you so?"

Swanson's choked noise cuts off another repetition of his accusatory questions. His head reddens and swells, not unlike the way Father used to suck all the air out of the room when ballooning in rage. Swanson explodes out of his chair and slams both hands onto the table.

"Men don't have problems with boys," Swanson spats. "And certainly not with spoiled, insubordinate brats like you."

The room falls silent. Behind Swanson's blustering figure, one Guard breaks his blank expression to shoot a wide-eyed look at a fellow Guard beside him. Swanson catches the direction of Gepard's eyes and abruptly seems to realize what he's shown to his soldiers. He turns around wildly and glares throughout the room, turning back to glower at Gepard only once every one of his Guards is staring ahead neutrally to his satisfaction. Gepard meets his gaze with steady, unblinking judgment. Sure enough, Swanson bristles at his unimpressed look.

"Take the prisoner back to the cell," Swanson snarls. He storms away from the table, pauses, then throws a nasty look over his shoulder at Gepard. "And throw away the prisoner's next meal."

The blank-faced Guards obediently drag him back to his cell.

—

There's someone waiting for him when the Silvermane Guards prod him with pointed halberds down into his cell. Gepard snaps his head up, wide-eyed, then winces at the stony expression on Pela's face. He slinks through the barrier with his head down and sits on his cot like a lowly criminal. No one speaks, not even after the rhythmic shuffling of the heavy-footed Guards disappears up the stairs and out the blast doors.

It's quiet.

Pela is the first to break the silence.

"I wasn't allowed to even speak to you until your interrogation concluded," she answers his unasked question. "The Architects want to avoid conflicts of interest."

Gepard nods awkwardly. "Swanson was a poor substitute for you."

The tepid compliment falls flat. Gepard considers appending it with something else—I'm sorry for tricking you—drawn anything new lately?—have you found Victor's whereabouts?—but there's no trace of Landau courage in him. In the ensuing, drawn-out silence, Pela adjusts her glasses, looks at a wall, and fiddles with her sleeve. Then, she scoffs at nothing.

"Let's get this over with," Pela bites out, her tone sharp. "One, you're an asshole for trapping me in your ice. Two." Pela pauses to exhale with a shudder. She glares at him. "Why didn't you trust me to handle the Koski situation?"

"Why didn't you trust me?" Gepard retorts, wincing when it comes out pained instead of defiant.

"How can I trust you when your choices have led you to this?"

Pela waves her hand over Gepard's ratty slippers, his naked stump, and the threadbare burlap of his prisoner's uniform. Gepard juts his chin up in defiance of his embarrassment.

"I made the right choice."

"You certainly made a choice," Pela snaps. "Now, I have to see one of my closest friends hurt and starving inside a dungeon meant for Belobog's worst criminals, days away from getting p-put down like a rabid animal!"

The crack in Pela's voice disrupts Gepard's simmering anger. Gepard's stomach twists when he realizes that Pela's dark circles are puffy from dried tears. Pela pauses her tirade to remove her glasses and rub the corner of her eye, and that fleeting action breaks Gepard's heart.

"Pela—" Gepard tries.

"Do you know what you've done to your family?" Pela interrupts angrily. "Lynx hasn't gone a single night without crying herself to sleep. Serval's a bad day away from committing another act of sedition. Your mother hasn't been seen in public since the Silvermane Guards announced your arrest. And the Architects," Pela spits out with disgust, "they speak about a 'new normal' as if you and Bronya are already gone."

"Sampo will return to save Bronya," Gepard repeats out of reflex, numb.

The look Pela gives him is plain with pity and disbelief, but Pela bites back her retort until the indignation fades from her posture and weariness takes its place.

"Well, Gepard," Pela finally says, "you're locked up in a cell. You have no choice but to put your faith in him." She steps back and gives him an exhausted look. "Maybe you should have faith in your actual friends, too."

The doors to the cell seal shut after Pela's departure, trapping Gepard with that pointed message and too many churning thoughts. Faith? Trust? Why accuse Gepard of lacking those qualities? Gepard is no Sampo Koski, no flaky, distrusting creature. But then the cold years of running away from his sisters, from the city he doesn't quite fit in, from the disaster of an engagement with a woman who happily discarded him assault his bare skin with the ferocity of a blizzard, turning Gepard to ice. Maybe Pela is right. Maybe he and Sampo are not so dissimilar. Maybe Gepard has, once again, fled the warmth of everyone who he holds dear to sacrifice himself for a man who may or may not ever come back. Maybe this eternity of spotlights and watching red eyes is just another prison of Gepard's own making.

Gepard lies down and covers his eyes with his arm. He's in his condo, at his dining table, drinking a hot cup of tea with unexpected company who always comes to his side at his lowest hour. Not alone in his self-made prison.

Not once throughout his wakefulness does he manage to believe it.

—

When Gepard jerks awake with a gasp, his heart is racing and his cheeks are wet. He has no time to feel embarrassed at his weeping when the white glare of the spotlight forces a wince through his body. Blood races through his arteries like a silent alarm, drowning out his disorientation. He stumbles to his feet, reflexively clenching the gauntlet that isn't there into a tight fist.

Ba-bump. Ba-bump. Ba-bump.

The frantic heartbeats from his nightmare persist into his waking one. The cell looks bleached and hollow, as if something has sucked all color from the room. Sudden realization draws his eyes to the ceiling. Up above, where a constellation of red dots once stared down at him, is a black canvas.

Someone has disabled the cameras.

A fleeting fantasy rushes over him. Is Pela trying to rescue him from Qlipoth Fort's dungeons? Why would she want to save you, Gepard? a spiteful voice scoffs reflexively. A quiet noise silences the thought before it can begin to hurt. Every fiber of Gepard's body screams at him to LISTEN.

There. A distant clang-clang. Gepard counts one, two seconds before it happens again. Qlipoth Fort's maximum security cells are supposed to be airtight and silent. That ambient, metallic noise wasn't audible before. But it's familiar. Gepard bites off a sharp inhale when he realizes that it's the rattle of steam traveling through the metal pipes of the floor above him—which should be inaudible through the cell's thick blast doors.

The door to his cell is open.

Footsteps.

Someone is coming.

Gepard punches the barrier. THWACK. The oily membrane ripples around the impact of his knuckles but holds strong. Unsurprised, Gepard searches the cell for a weapon instead. The squat toilet is useless. So is the sink. The metal frame of the cot could gravely injure someone if thrown, but it's fused to the floor. Gepard could pull it loose, but it'd take far too long without his gauntlet. There's not even a blanket on the bed that he could improvise into a garrotte. To prevent prisoners from injuring themselves, a distant, encyclopedic voice in Gepard's head reminds him.

The steps are getting closer.

There's nowhere to hide. No weapon to wield. Gepard faces the mouth of the staircase and braces himself. There are few people in Belobog who could disable Qlipoth Fort's security systems. Sampo is gone. Pela is done with Gepard. That leaves a stranger descending into Gepard's cell, where he is alone. Unwatched. Vulnerable.

Ba-bumpBa-bumpBa-bump

The spotlight extinguishes. Gepard reels at the sudden darkness, straining his burning eyes into focus. He freezes like snow-hare when he just makes out a ghostly silhouette standing at the foot of the stairs.

"Who are you?!" he thunders, courage cresting to drown his terror.

The spotlight turns back on. A silver mask that obscures everything above the cheeks faces him. Gepard flinches at the rosy cheeks and the long-metallic lashes that curl up into a clawed hand that grasps a gigantic, pearlescent gem that looks oddly familiar. Icy blue eyes peek through pinpricks, familiar in a way that inexplicably draws nausea into his stomach. A gloved hand floats up to the nose of the mask. It grasps it gently, then pulls it away.

The silver face gives way to the lined, unsmiling face of Architect Justicia Herrero.

That small flare of suspicion that ignited during Sampo's escape explodes into an inferno. Gepard begins to tremble. He can't tell if it's rage or terror that rattles his bones.

"Did you kill my father?" Gepard asks hoarsely.

A twitch breaks the flat line of Justicia Herrero's mouth. A smirk.

Gepard slams both fists, the flesh and phantom one, into the barrier.

"YOU KILLED MY FATHER!" Gepard howls like the storm inside him.

A distant, muffled part of Gepard realizes that he's crying again. An inhuman noise tears from his throat as he begins punching the barrier over and over, wishing to any unholy power that can hear him that the cracks across the barrier were the cracks of fracturing bone. He'll kill her. HE'LL KILL HER. The Architects are right to put him down, he thinks hysterically. He's a savage, bloodthirsty animal who's one flimsy barrier away from pummeling an old woman to a pulp.

A dull ache at his hand gradually pulls him from his rage. He looks down, uncomprehending, at the sight of bloody, misaligned knuckles. He suddenly realizes with icy dread that his emotions don't just seem out-of-control. Something—someone—is amplifying every twisted emotion in his trembling body.

"Are you done?" Justicia Herrero asks from the foot of the stairs.

"What have you done to me!" The question rips from his throat like an anguished cry. He lurches forward, moments away from clawing at the barrier like an animal before the bite of his dislocated fingers cuts through his frenzy.

"Nothing," Justicia Herrero says calmly. She motions her hand over his shivering form as if presenting an animal at a zoo. "Everything you're showing the audience is just you. Your savagery, your pitiful sobbing, your dull mind… All of that is you."

Too much of Gepard is screaming to register any hurt at her derisive words. He wants to peel off his skin until all the rage, despair, and hatred pour out of him into an ocean.

"W-why did you kill him," Gepard snarls through his chattering teeth.

Justicia Herrero smiles coldly. "Who's making baseless accusations now?" The mirth disappears behind a placid look. "But I'll humor your question, Gepard Landau. Your father was simply in the way of someone more suitable for the position. So I asked my favorite daughter to get rid of him."

Swanson. Gloria Herrero. Gepard sobs, then pulls himself out of the whirlpool of despair by squeezing his protesting knuckles.

"What does Sampo h-have to do with this," Gepard gasps through his tears.

Something dark flickers across Justicia's placid expression. "The businessman couldn't handle his own deals, so I had to handle them myself." Justicia makes a thoughtful noise. "And handled them, I did. For an actor as experienced as he, he was so quick to fall in line. He cared dearly about the integrity of the script, after all."

Justicia's musing expression fades into contempt.

"But then the noble and honorable Captain of the Silvermane Guards betrayed his liege and freed her attempted assassin."

The spotlight blinks off, then on. Gepard lurches back when the eerie silver mask alights inches away from Gepard's own.

"What am I to do now that the villain has disappeared and a fallen captain has taken his place?"

Justicia's icy eyes burn into his. It's the same wintry look she leveled Gepard when she was forced to sentence her own daughter Gloria for attempting to steal the Herrero ring. Its meaning is now clear. Now that Father has perished and Sampo is gone, her lightless eyes have fixed themselves on a third person who slighted her family—Gepard.

Justicia Herrero steps back. She begins to pace languidly, even as Gepard tracks her with jerky movements of his head.

"I never, ever thought you capable of deviating from your role so gravely," Justicia sighs with projected remorse. "Shame was supposed to be your shackle. You were supposed to be too ashamed to act, too ashamed to be anything but the gallant white knight you pretend to be. Now, I have to find a different way to control you." Gepard's eyes snap down as Justicia's hand disappears into the pocket of her robe. "Fortunately, there are many other shackles for a foolhardy man like you."

Gepard flinches into a block, but no weapon comes out. Instead, Justicia Herrero bares a flat piece of paper at him. It's a picture of himself conversing with Wallace Limestein at the foot of Limestein estate, hazy and speckled as if it were taken zoomed from a great distance. Gepard shudders, chilled. How long has Justicia Herrero been watching him?

"Evidence of you trespassing on Limestein Estate," Justicia Herrero explains. She shuffles to the next paper. "Unreported, after-hours use of the Intelligence Department labs." Then the next. "Your private lunchtime meetings with Intelligence Officer Sergeyevna at her office." The papers fold together into a neat stack in Justicia Herrero's hands. "I can see the headlines already. 'Intelligence Head and Captain Perform Illegal Surveillance of Belobog Citizens.' You may have already lost everything, but your Intelligence Officer friend still has much to lose."

Some part of Gepard wants to laugh hysterically at the thought of Justicia Herrero twisting their investigation of her own crimes into a narrative that benefits her. That part consumes him, and he begins to giggle.

"A-are you blackmailing me?" he chokes out in between laughs, then laughs harder because that's exactly what she must have done to Matilda. To Sampo!

"We're making a deal," Justicia spits out. "Behave yourself during your hearing. Go gently into that good night. Don't resist the ending I have written for you, and I promise that the only downfall of this epic will be yours. Do we have a deal?"

Justicia watches him darkly through his final peals of laughter. His mirth leaves through his lungs along with the rest of his breath. Gepard stares at Justicia Herrero's mask, wet-eyed, trembling, face twisted into a smile frozen mid-fracture.

Then he spits on Justicia's face.

Justicia Herrero's clumsy stumble backward is so viciously satisfying that Gepard forgets about the barrier blocking his spit. Then the spotlight begins to shake and strobe. Gepard's world flashes between Justicia's bared teeth and utter darkness. A shrill ring distorts the vitriol spat from Justicia's snarl.

"You'll regret that, boy. You don't know ʷwͪhͣoͭ you've angered."

Gepard falls onto his butt. He scrabbles back, overcome with an all-consuming terror that doesn't entirely feel like his own. His mouth drops open into a scream, but his voice has been stolen. All he can do is cower as the porcelain mask looms over him, its cheeks bloody, its spider-leg lashes curling into claws, shuttering rapidly in the flickering spotlight.

"Perhaps I was too hasty to give up on shame as a restraint," Justicia Herrero says lowly, her voice resonating oppressively through the frigid air. "Shall we test it, Gepard? How much shame can you tolerate before I break that infamous Landau will?"

Gepard's throat refuses to work, but his watery eyes glare in defiance.

Justicia Herrero smiles. "I look forward to your hearing, Gepard Landau."

Justicia Herrero walks away. As soon as cell door sucks shut, the spotlight stops flashing, the red eyes on the ceiling blink open one by one, and the world realigns itself with its ticking eternity. Gepard is left shivering in the middle of the cell, clinging desperately onto his dislocated fingers so he doesn't fall apart under the lingering haze of Architect Herrero's profane powers.

Chapter Text

It takes several hours for the voice Justicia Herrero has stolen from Gepard to return. Gepard only discovers that it's still missing when Natasha visits and demands to know what happened to his swollen knuckles, which he had reset himself once he stopped trembling. Gepard opens his mouth to tell her everything the Herreros have done, then finds himself mute. Natasha looks at him with a perplexed expression for the rest of her visit, then disappears with something restless in her footsteps.

Alone, the memory of Justicia's oppressive powers consumes his thoughts. Gepard wishes he were thinking of productive questions. Like: How did she obtain such fearsome power unnoticed? Is it tied to that mask? Is Justicia Herrero also a Masked Fool like Sampo? How can that possibly even make sense?

Instead, all Gepard can think about is how thoroughly Justicia Herrero unraveled him. The insensate rage, the uncontrollable sobbing that far outstripped even the worst swells of grief right after Father's passing, the looming terror that his emotions would literally tear him apart at the seams, and worst of all, the horror he felt toward himself in the aftermath. He couldn't reconcile Gepard Landau, brother, son, soldier, with the animal he'd become. With the creature that Justicia Herrero had said was wholly, entirely him.

Is that all he truly is?

Gepard hastily gathers himself when a thundering of footsteps descends into his cell. Thirteen Guards headed this time by Lieutenant Dunn, thankfully. Without his helmet, Gepard can see the troubled set of his brows. Dunn's eyes skirt away from Gepard's gaze, as if painfully aware of what his exposed face reveals to Gepard.

"Stand up," Dunn says after a loud pause. "We're here to escort you to your hearing."

Gepard nods wordlessly. He's been waiting for this ever since the terror from Justicia Herrero's visit quieted. He bows his head obediently for the soldiers to clasp the heavy metal collar around his neck, then allows them to herd him forward onto his stiff legs.

Qlipoth Fort's grand courtroom is located on the main, entry floor of the building. Gepard's maximum security cell is at the bottom. This normally wouldn't faze Gepard, but by the time he crests his third flight of stairs, his legs begin to burn. By the sixth, his chest heaves big, shallow breaths that still fail to quell the ache in his lungs. Embarrassing. It took less than a week of captivity to leave Gepard huffing and puffing as much as he did when he contracted pneumonia as a boy. What would Father think? What do the soldiers around him now think seeing their former Captain struggle up the stairs? Whatever they think of him, they stay silent throughout his heavy breathing. Dunn grabs his arm and steadies him when he stumbles over the lip of the final stair.

There was an ambient bustle before Gepard breached the main floor, but a hush has noticeably fallen around him. Passing administrators quickly look away when his gaze brushes over theirs. The heavy clatter of their armored group is glaringly loud in the silence. The sudden, sharp clink of something hitting a nearby window is even sharper.

Gepard looks out the window. He barely glimpses a Silvermane Guard tackling a man on Qlipoth Fort's terrace before Dunn barks at him to move along. Something thunders past Qlipoth Fort's walls: the deep thrum many, many people shouting at once. Gepard looks questioningly at the people around him, perplexed when not a single soldier breaks their forward stare to acknowledge the commotion.

"Wh—" Gepard forces his wobbling throat into compliance. "What's happening outside Qlipoth Fort?"

No one answers him. They pass by a window facing the Qlipoth Fort's front terrace. There's an intimidating line of Silvermane Guards blocking the front landing. The wordless shouting briefly clarifies into the distinctive, rhythmic drumming of many people chanting in unison—"We want answers! We want answers!"—before the window disappears behind them.

"Are they here for me?" Gepard dares to ask.

Dunn finally responds. "We're not here to answer questions, Prisoner."

Dunn leads him through a winding side hall that avoids Qlipoth Fort's main passages. A passing flash of blond makes Gepard jerk his head up and his heart swell painfully. A name rips out of his throat.

"Serval!"

"Gepard!" Serval cries back. She lunges forward just to be blocked by Dunn's wide frame.

"Move along, Serval," Dunn says, audibly pained. Serval ducks to Dunn's right, but Dunn catches her with a solid arm. Halberds cross in front of Gepard's body, halting the forward step Gepard didn't even know he took.

"Is Lynx here, too?" Gepard almost begs. Qlipoth, he can't bear the thought of never seeing his little sister again.

"Stay strong, Geppie," Serval gasps, fighting Dunn's grapple. "You'll see her again soon, I swear. Just hold on a little longer. As long as you can."

Two more Guards join Dunn in restraining Serval's spirited struggle. She kicks and curses them, going momentarily limp only when a delicate hand rests on her shoulder. Gepard can't help straightening his posture at the sight of Mother's tall, elegant figure standing behind Serval.

"Behave, Serval," Mother says. "You'll only cause more trouble for your brother."

Serval yanks her arm out of Mother's touch with surprising fury. She steps away from Dunn, glaring daggers at Mother.

"You don't get to say that," Serval seethes. "Not when you're about to testify against him."

The ground suddenly wobbles beneath Gepard's feet. Gepard's head whips toward Mother. Mother meets his shell-shocked expression with stony eyes and pursed lips.

"Why?" Gepard can't help asking. The sound escapes in a gust of air like a whimper.

Mother's lips thin so tightly that the red disappears from her lips. Gepard stares at her, refusing to blink even when a push from behind forces him to stumble. Gepard looks and looks and looks for any hint of an answer from the woman who raised him, until her unresponsive face disappears behind closing doors.

Gepard staggers into the small, cramped waiting room with nothing but static on his mind. The pressure on his back shifts to urge him downward. He collapses onto the chair without resistance, staring blankly at the nondescript door ahead of him that he belatedly recognizes as the entrance to the courtroom.

"Your hearing is about to begin," Dunn murmurs beside him. "They'll call you to the stand soon."

The touch at his shoulder squeezes. Gepard idly realizes that that's Dunn's hand resting warm against his prisoner's rags. Dunn says nothing when Gepard leans back against it and squeezes his eyes shut, counting each breath he takes until the static drowns out everything.

—

Gepard's entrance into the courtroom is pathetic compared to Sampo's.

Sampo had made the long, awkward walk to the pulpit at the center of the auditorium look so effortless. So unbothered. A veritable catwalk, compared to the stiff, awkward steps Gepard takes. He tries and fails to ignore the familiar faces—Pela, Natasha, Serval, even Bronya lying flat on her gurney—in the packed audience at his periphery. The faces disappear behind him when he turns to face the adjudicators' bench, but their invisible gazes only scorch hotter into the back of his neck.

A man with a silver beard and thick brows at the center of the bench orders him to introduce himself. Gepard scans across the twelve unmoved sets of eyes above him, over Matilda's vacant gaze and Justicia Herrero's chilling one.

"Gepard Lvovich Landau, twenty-eight, current Captain of the Silvermane Guards," Gepard announces through a scratchy throat.

The bearded man is Head Adjudicator Friedrich Stoll. Gepard remembers him to be quiet, stern, and quick to shout orders when Gepard sabotaged Sampo's execution caravan. Architect Stoll describes the structure of the hearing with a dryness belying the countless times he's explained this before. Individual adjudicators will lead topics related to Gepard's crimes, calling forward witnesses or directly questioning Gepard to present an argument on Gepard's innocence or guilt. Gepard can, in turn, question the witnesses or speak directly to the adjudication panel in his own defense. And once there are no more topics, the panel will vote on Gepard's guilt.

A thin, spectacled woman sitting to Stoll's left, Architect Vorontsov, is first to speak. "I'd like to discuss Sampo Koski's escape and the defendant's role in enabling it."

A procession of witnesses passes through the courtroom, entering from small side doors that lead to waiting rooms identical to the one Gepard just left. Once they finish testifying, they join the audience one by one. Liaison Officer William describes Gepard's betrayal during the escort to Sampo's execution. An intelligence officer Gepard doesn't recognize presents security footage of Gepard's visits to Sampo's cell. Swanson marches to the stand with a skip in his step and shares Gepard's incriminating answers from his interrogation. Finally, Architect Vorontsov questions Gepard himself.

"Acting Captain Swanson claims you aided Mr. Koski's escape on the premise that he would return to cure the Supreme Guardian. Do you affirm this as your motivation for releasing the convict?"

"That was one of the reasons, yes."

"What other reasons did you have?"

"That Sampo Koski was not guilty of the crimes he was convicted of," Gepard answers as resolutely as he can. "He did not assault Madam Rand. Nor was he involved in my father's passing."

"Are you claiming that Leonard Landau's passing was natural?"

"No."

"Then what cause do you attribute to his death?"

"Don't answer that question," Architect Stoll interjects quickly. "Architect Vorontsov, keep your questions relevant to Sampo Koski's assault of the Supreme Guardian. We'll discuss Leonard Landau's passing later."

Gepard's relief at avoiding the topic of his father's murder is short-lived. Architect Vorontsov launches another question without pause.

"In your interrogation, you claimed that a third party—not Sampo Koski—delivered the paralytic to the Supreme Guardian. Is this correct?"

"Yes."

"Please describe this third party to the court."

"Her name was Sparkle," Gepard announces, ignoring the nervousness prickling his skin. "She had red eyes and long brown hair tied up into pigtails. She was about this tall." Gepard raises his left hand to his chest. "She wore a red dress and a white mask. She's Koski's associate from beyond the stars, a fellow Masked Fool."

"So Mr. Koski was familiar with this 'Sparkle?'"

"Yes."

"Why did Mr. Koski not mention this Sparkle in his testimony?"

Gepard shifts uneasily. "Koski mentioned 'taking credit' for his achievements, so I suspect he was motivated by some Masked Fools custom to avoid mentioning her."

"Objection." Justicia Herrero stands again. "Hearsay."

"Sustained," Architect Stoll rumbles. "Defendant, answer without making unverifiable guesses."

Gepard swallows. "I don't know why he didn't mention her."

Architect Vorontsov writes something down, letting Gepard's damning words sink into the silent courtroom.

"If this Sparkle was responsible for the Madam Guardian's poisoning, why did Mr. Koski accept his charges no contest?" she continues.

Gepard's eyes flit to Justicia Herrero sitting at Architect Vorontsov's left. "I believe he had incentive to accept the charges."

"And what incentive would that be?"

Gepard hesitates. He glances around for a comforting look, despite knowing better. All he sees are cool, disinterested stares.

"It would be in an adjudicator's best interest to have a straightforward hearing," Gepard declares with all his Landau courage. A murmur rises up from the audience behind him. He forces himself not to look away from the expressions of disbelief and indignation that overtake the adjudicators' faces. He's chilled when he notices that darkness has cast over Justicia Herrero's expression.

Architect Vorontsov's voice seems to drop an octave when she next speaks. "Are you accusing the adjudication panel of influencing the convict's testimony?"

Justicia Herrero stares at him with warning and promise of retribution. Gepard's eyes narrow as he glares right back into her icy eyes.

"Not the entire panel," Gepard says coolly. "Just Architect Justicia Herrero."

Harsh whispering explodes behind Gepard. The sharp pound of a gavel breaks through the commotion.

"That's enough," Architect Stoll interjects sharply. "This discussion exceeds the scope of the current topic. Architect Voronstov, finish your questioning. The defendant will formally present his accusations"—Architect Stoll punches out that word with an emphasis that makes Gepard flinch—"in his rebuttal."

Architect Vorontsov resumes her questions with a notable harshness. She points out Sparkle's ill-suited dress in the deathly cold of the Snow Plains and the lack of any other evidence besides Gepard's word of Sparkle's existence. She forces Gepard to verbally admit, one-by-one, each treasonous action he performed the day of Sampo's escape. She concludes with a speech warning the court against blindly believing the words of a man who invented a character to excuse a convicted criminal's actions. Gepard accepts Architect Vorontsov's assault of his mind and character with numbness. Pela has already prepared him for this.

"Thank you, Architect Voronstov," Architect Stoll rumbles as the thin woman sits down after her speech. He looks at Gepard sternly. "Defendant, you made a serious accusation against a member of the adjudication panel. Explain yourself now."

—

The elaborate conspiracy of Father's murder, Sampo's scapegoating, and Victor's disappearance is an epic that takes minutes to tell from start to end. Spite quickens Gepard's tongue into a barrage of sordid accusations against Justicia Herrero. Strangely, Justicia lets him speak without interruption. Gepard only realizes why when his dry mouth closes on his last word and he sees the unimpressed expressions of the adjudicators above him.

After a weighted pause filled only by the scratch of pen against paper, Architect Stoll sets his pen down and commences to tear each of Gepard's accusations apart.

"Suppose Architect Herrero truly conspired to murder your father. How could she have done so?"

"Her daughter, Gloria Herrero, is a nurse in Qlipoth Fort infirmary. She would have the means to interfere with his treatment."

"Was Mrs. Herrero assigned to care for your father?"

Gepard's lips thin. "I don't know."

"What did she do to interfere with his treatment?"

Gepard fails to find an answer.

Then, Victor's disappearance:

"Do you have any evidence to suggest his absence is nefarious?"

"His phone was broken around the same time his supposed illness began. I traced its last known location to the Herrero Manor. Then it was somehow relocated to Limestein Estate afterward."

"How did you obtain all this information?"

"I found the phone on Limestein estate and analyzed it in Qlipoth Fort's labs." Gepard carefully avoids mention of Pela. "You can examine it yourself. It was on my person on the day of Koski's execution, so I assume the Silvermane Guards have custody of it."

Architect Stoll orders the intelligence officer on standby—notably not Pela—to retrieve the phone. While the officer is gone, Architect Stoll scrutinizes Gepard's claims with a fine-toothed comb. How is Gepard so certain that the damage was not accidental? If Victor has truly been taken forcibly, who subdued him? Gepard has just mentioned Swanson and his harassment of the Limestein family when the officer returns empty-handed. There is no broken phone in any evidence safe in Qlipoth Fort.

Gepard wishes Pela were in his line of sight so he could send her a sharp, pointed look. Instead, he can only meet the adjudication panel's gazes, which have chilled.

"You claim Architect Herrero removed your father from his position to install Mr. Swanson as Captain of the Silvermane Guards, correct?" Architect Stoll continues, colder.

Gepard feels Swanson's glare burning into the back of his neck. "Yes."

"And Mr. Swanson has been collaborating with her in return?"

"Yes."

"Are you claiming that Architect Herrero ordered her own grandson to be taken away?"

Eyes dart to Justicia Herrero, who scowls down at Gepard with shock and offense.

"Yes," Gepard snaps, disgusted by her performance.

No one else on the panel sees the delight twinkling under Justicia Herrero's veil of hurt. Every pair of eyes except one turns to glare at Gepard.

Finally, the topic turns to Sampo.

"What would Architect Herrero have to gain by convincing Mr. Koski not to fight his charges?"

"Koski knew too much. She wanted him silenced."

"What did he know?"

"The Silvermane Guards have three binders' worth of ways Koski spied on Qlipoth Fort. He could have known any number of things an adjudicator wouldn't want to be shared." Gepard stares into Justicia's abyssal eyes. "Such as the truth of my father's death."

The murmuring from the audience has risen again during the crescendo of Gepard's exposé. Architect Stoll pounds his gavel again to silence the auditorium. He delivers his next question dropping each word like a heavy stone.

"You claim that Sampo Koski was a Masked Fool, that he had otherworldly powers beyond Belobog's comprehension. Why would someone so powerful bend to the will of an ordinary Belobog citizen?"

Gepard's eyes dart to Justicia Herrero in disbelief. How can no one see the ill will and malice in her eyes? No mask obscures her crow's eyes nor her wrinkled jowls, but Gepard can still see its spider-leg lashes and porcelain skin in the inhumanity of her gaze. It's as if something supernatural has forcibly pried Gepard's eyes open and refuses to let him blink.

"Because Architect Herrero is no ordinary citizen of Belobog," Gepard answers through his mounting, unnatural discomfort. "Architect Herrero has also made use of otherworldly powers."

"Now Architect Herrero has extraterrestrial powers, too?" Architect Stoll echoes almost derisively.

Gepard blinks away Justicia Herrero's porcelain mask. He looks grimly at the condescending looks of the adjudication panel. They don't believe him. And they never will, if Gepard doesn't say something to sway their opinions right now.

"I've seen and experienced her scheming and her powers myself. As have Sampo." Gepard's eyes dart to Matilda. "As have Victor. But Victor is gone, Sampo is gone, and I am prostrated before you as Belobog's greatest traitor. We have all been silenced here in this sacred courtroom, where truth and justice are meant to prevail.

"But the voice of truth is not entirely lost. There are more of us out there who have witnessed and suffered the indignity of Justicia Herrero's plots." Gepard bores into the empty pits of Matilda's eyes. "Victims of Justicia Herrero, please. Speak up. If you know the truth, let it be heard!"

Gepard's entreaty echoes through the vast space of the courtroom. Seconds pass in heavy, telling silence. Among the unmoved gazes of the adjudicators, Matilda stares at him with something emptier than apathy.

"I believe the court has given its answer," Architect Stoll says coldly. "Are there any further comments on the topic of Gepard Landau's accusations?"

Justicia Herrero smiles lightly. "I think we've said everything there is to be said about the defendant's remarks."

So ends Gepard's crusade for justice: with a snide remark and its ensuing round of chuckles. Gepard does not let his head fall. He does not let himself feel ashamed for speaking the truth.

But Architect Herrero smiles chillingly. The whites of her teeth seem to promise that she will make him feel the deep, encroaching shame warded against by nothing but the weakening threads of his stubbornness.

"I will now present the next topic: Leonard Landau's murder," Justicia Herrero announces, sending Gepard's stomach plummeting to the ground.

—

The wound of Leonard Landau's passing is like the wound on Gepard's stomach, temporarily put aside for greater concerns, but still raw, jagged, and one bad tug away from weeping red once again. And here Justicia Herrero is, about to bury her fingers deep into unhealed flesh and pry it open for all the world to see. No amount of breathing exercises stops Gepard's breaths from going shallow.

Architect Herrero calls a name that has Gepard clenching his fist so tightly that it turns white.

"Cara Landau."

Mother takes the stand with her long, gray dress and trademark elegant solemnity. Her gaze skips over Gepard's ashen expression and coolly meets Justicia Herrero's.

"State your name, age, and occupation for the court."

"Cara Landau," Mother says tonelessly. "Fifty-eight. Unemployed widow of the late Leonard Landau."

The examination begins with simple questions about Father's job. Mother answers with plain, scientific reporting.

"And how have his duties as Captain of the Silvermane Guards affected him?" Justicia asks.

"The same way it affects most Silvermane Guards with his extensive record of service," Mother says with a slight bite to her otherwise even tone. "It made him paranoid, irritable, and prone to outburst."

"What were his outbursts like?"

Pain prickles where Gepard's nails dig into his palm. Mother, unruffled, answers, "He shouted. Sometimes at me, sometimes at the help, sometimes at the children."

"Was he violent?"

"He threw household items."

"At you?"

"No."

"At the children?"

"No. He threw them against the wall."

Justicia hums. "Is it true that he disinherited your eldest daughter Serval?"

"Yes."

"And your son?"

"What about him?" Mother says almost dryly.

Justicia Herrero's eyes narrow. "How was your husband's relationship with your son?"

Between the panic and indignation of having his family's dirty laundry aired out, Gepard realizes in a strike of lightning that there is bad blood between Cara Landau and Justicia Herrero. How was Gepard so blind? How did Gepard not notice before the disdain with which Mother stares up at Architect Herrero?

"It was complicated," Mother says, slow and deliberate. "Gepard looked up to his father, and Leonard likewise saw the potential in Gepard. But Leonard was hard on him. He expected great things from his only son."

Stop talking, Gepard wants to shout at Mother's cool expression. STOP TALKING!

"And how did your husband react when your son failed to meet his expectations?"

"He shouted at him," Mother says dispassionately, uncaring of how every word drops Gepard's temperature by a degree. "He punched walls. He broke vases. He shredded our son's playthings in front of his face. He told him that he was no true Landau for whatever mistake he made. Then he would have him do drills until nighttime and go to bed without dinner. It was practically routine."

Gepard is simultaneously overheating and chilled. His friends are listening to this. His colleagues are listening to this.

"And how was your son affected by your husband's treatment?"

Something in Mother's expression loosens. "Gepard was a sweet boy. He was creative, curious, and had a big heart for all things. He used to cry when his older sister left for school. He had such a bright smile. Such bright dreams." The apathetic curtain falls across Mother's face once more. "Gepard stopped smiling. He stopped talking and laughing. Instead, he trained and studied, day in and day out. He became everything a good soldier needed to be."

Finally, the frost crawling over Gepard's appendages cracks through his supports. Gepard plants his palm onto the pulpit to stabilize himself. Father is Gepard's. Father's expectations, his abuse, and the ways he's molded Gepard are no one's business but Gepard's. How dare Mother share this with the world? How dare she?!

Unintelligible whispers sound from the audience. Gepard's hackles rise at the noise of their gossip. When he looks up at the adjudication panel, condescending looks have mellowed into dismissive pity. Anger pours liquid-hot through his veins when he meets Matilda's sorrowful gaze.

"Would it be reasonable to say your husband hurt your son deeply?" Justicia Herrero asks with an air of solemnity.

"Yes."

"Would it be reasonable to say your son resented your husband?"

Gepard waits for Mother to correct Justicia.

"Yes," Mother says instead.

Gepard's head shoots toward Mother. The sharp movement sends him into a vertigo that mixes nauseatingly with his horror and indignation.

"I don't—!"

"Quiet!" Architect Stoll explodes. "Speak out of turn once more and you'll be charged with contempt of court."

Gepard musters all his willpower to slam shut his mouth despite the fury bubbling up his throat.

"Did your son resent your husband enough to wish harm upon him?" Justicia continues.

Mother pauses. Her eyes finally flicker over to Gepard. Gepard hopes the hatred in his eyes hurts her.

"You're asking me if Gepard's love for his father was enough to triumph over how deeply that man hurt him," Mother says almost sadly. "No one can answer that but Gepard himself."

Justicia Herrero places her papers down with finality. "I have no more questions."

Architect Herrero gives a speech full of lies and bullshit that Gepard tunes out to protect what remains of his dignity. She concludes with a pointed observation that Gepard Landau has motive to want his father gone, and the connections with a criminal capable of ensuring it. Architect Stoll asks Gepard for his response.

"I loved my father," Gepard declares with his chin up. "He meant the world to me. No matter our differences, I would not resort to murder"—Gepard spits that foul word out—"to resolve them."

Gepard's jaw clicks shut. A moment of silence passes.

"Is that all you have to say?" Architect Stoll prods.

Gepard could say so much more. Gepard could say how deeply he respected Father. Gepard could say how Father's death almost destroyed him. Gepard could say how Father's approval was the only thing that could soothe that constant fear that Father himself beat into Gepard. But Gepard doesn't want to talk about this. How dare they talk about this? How dare they defile Gepard's love and fear for his father by turning it into a talking point?!

"Yes," Gepard grinds out, one unbroken thread away from screaming.

"This concludes the topic of Leonard Landau's passing," Architect Stoll announces. "We've reached the end of our topics. If there is nothing else, the panel will commence voting."

Two hands rise into the air. Ten heads swivel curiously between two women at opposite sides of the bench, who likewise regard each other with wary surprise.

"Did you have something to say, Architect Herrero?" Justicia Herrero asks Matilda with a dangerous softness.

Matilda's hand falls. "No. Please go ahead, Madam Architect."

Justicia eyes her granddaughter-in-law a moment more before she straightens her back and addresses Architect Stoll. "I have one more topic I'd like to present to the panel."

Architect Stoll frowns. "This isn't on the agenda."

"I apologize, Architect Stoll," Architect Herrero says silkily. "I had originally thought this topic irrelevant and unnecessary, but the defendant's testimony has revealed to me that this is actually a subject of great importance."

Justicia Herrero's pupils thin into pinpricks of black that burn into Gepard with something anticipatory. Almost gleeful.

"I'd like to discuss Gepard Landau's improper conduct as Captain of the Silvermane Guards."

—

Let her talk, Gepard seethes to himself. There's nothing more she could say that could insult Gepard as gravely as twisting Father's death for her own agenda—again! His rage flares bright and incessant as she calls an unfamiliar name as a witness. A stout, portly man emerges from a waiting room and slinks to the stand with nervousness.

"State your name, age, and occupation for the court," Justicia Herrero orders.

The man's round features twitch anxiously as he answers her. "Bartholomew Abramowicz. Forty-three. Unemployed."

Gepard frowns. Something in the way he avoids Gepard's gaze is strikingly familiar.

"Mr. Abramowicz, it says here that you're a resident of Backwater Pass. Is this correct?"

"Yes."

"How long have you lived in Backwater Pass?"

"I was born there. I moved out for college and during the fragmentum infestation, but besides that I've always lived there. Including now."

Recognition hits Gepard. This was one of the refugees he sponsored at Goethe Grand Hotel when Backwater Pass was completely lost to the fragmentum! He remembers the stout man hiding at the back of the protesting crowd, practically jumping when Gepard addressed him. Why would Justicia Herrero call this man to testify against Gepard?

"Have you ever been employed in Backwater Pass?" Justicia Herrero continues.

"Yes. I used to own a business there before the fragmentum destroyed it."

"What was the name of your business?"

"Bert's Tavern."

The name echoes in Gepard's uncomprehending ears, as if the universe were demanding that Gepard brand that random pair of words into his flesh. But the words are not random. "Bert's Tavern", with the s flickering sadly and the second e succumbed to darkness, violently drags out a memory Gepard had buried long ago. Time drags to a halt as Gepard stares at the man on the witness stand, the same man who almost kicked Gepard out of his tavern for not showing an ID almost seven years ago.

Bert of Bert's Tavern.

The seedy tavern in Backwater Pass where Gepard first met Sampo.

Where Sampo sucked him off.

Something loud cracks through the courtroom. Gepard looks down and sees cracks running along the wooden edge of the pulpit crushed by Gepard's hand. Everyone in the adjudication panel is staring at him. Gepard can't see behind him, but he knows everyone in the audience is looking at him, too.

"Is there a problem, defendant?" Justicia Herrero asks. The glee in her voice seeps through Gepard's veins like poison.

"No." The denial comes out as a wheeze.

"Are you certain?"

"Continue your questioning, Architect Herrero," Architect Stoll interrupts sternly.

Justicia obeys with a smirk.

"Mr. Abramowicz, can you describe your business for the court?"

"It was mostly a bar, but we also offered food and beds for our customers."

"Beds? What for?"

Everyone in the room knows Backwater Pass' reputation. Everyone knows why a seedy tavern in Backwater Pass had beds.

"Well, people liked to meet up there," Bert explains uncomfortably. "We had lots of folks using our beds to…have a good time with each other."

Justicia Herrero smiles as if her teeth were closing around prey. "Do you recognize the defendant?"

Someone gasps from the audience behind Gepard.

Bert meets Gepard's vacant eyes, then flinches away. "Yes. That's Captain Landau."

"Did Captain Landau ever visit your establishment?"

"Yes—"

"Objection!" Matilda shouts, shooting to her feet. "This line of questioning is irrelevant!"

Gepard looks at her, dazed and confused. He sees Matilda's horrified expression as if through a filter, unable to even begin to wonder why this, of all things, is the attack against Gepard that she stands against.

Calm down, Matilda, Gepard thinks absurdly. The worst is yet to come.

"Overruled," Architect Stoll rumbles. "Continue, Architect Justicia Herrero, but get to the point."

Matilda sinks into her seat like a stone, looking stupefied. Does Gepard look like that, too?

"When Captain Landau visited your establishment, was he alone?" Justicia asks. "Or was he meeting with someone?"

"He was meeting with someone."

"Do you recall who?"

Justicia Herrero's eyes gleam as bright as the spotlight in Gepard's cell. Here it comes, Gepard thinks hazily.

"He was meeting with that criminal, Sampo Koski," Bert says.

Someone screams. Gepard's flickering synapses belatedly recognize the outraged cry as Serval's, but Architect Stoll has already ordered Guards to drag her out. The auditorium is a cacophony of gasps, whispers, and urgent shushing periodically broken by the slams of Architect Stoll's gavel, yet no one pays it heed. Only the emphatic BANG of the courtroom's gigantic doors closing on a cursing and shouting Serval sucks the courtroom into silence.

Architect Justicia lets the strained, unnatural silence drag longer. Gepard feels his consciousness withdraw from the gazes—Mother's, Natasha's, Pela's, Dunn's—burning into his back.

"Do you know what they did during their meeting?" Justicia finally continues.

Bert's voice is weak. "Just the usual stuff."

"Please be more specific."

"They used the beds." Bert sounds pained. "I heard them."

There's no gasp of horror or hissed gossip. There's only silence, which is so much worse.

"When did this meeting happen?"

"It was a long time ago. Probably around six or seven years ago."

"Thank you, Mr. Abramowicz," Justicia Herrero says pleasantly. "You may take a seat."

Bert steps down from the witness stand and walks to the front row of the audience pews. Yet Gepard cannot hear his footsteps. A vacuum has formed around Gepard. It sucks out all air and noise from the bubble around him, so that the only sound he hears is the thick rush of his pulse through his ears. The rhythmic swish simultaneously crescendos and muffles. Gepard feels as if he's fractured in two, and half of him is floating away from his body, out toward the space Sampo escaped to.

"I'd like to ask the defendant some questions," the half of him irremediably tethered to his humiliation hears Justicia Herrero announce.

—

Shell-shock makes Gepard stupid. When Justicia asks him why he met with Sampo, out from Gepard's clumsy mouth rushes a sloppy, incriminating jumble of excuses.

"I didn't know him then. It was before we knew him as a criminal. It was my first time meeting him."

"Did you continue to 'meet' him?" Justicia asks with a nasty smile.

Gepard jerks. "Not like that!"

"Did you continue have carnal relations with him?"

"N-no!" Gepard chokes out, the half-truth wringing his voice. "He gave me intel—"

"So you used his assistance to gain an unfair advantage as a Silvermane Guard?"

"His tips helped us do good for Belobog—"

"We are not talking about Belobog. We are talking about you. Did you or did you not collaborate with Koski throughout your career?"

Gepard swallows. "I did."

"Did you ever disclose your collaboration with Koski to anyone in Qlipoth Fort?"

Gepard can't throw Pela under the bus. "I did not."

"So would it be correct to say your achievements—the very ones that earned you your position as Captain of the Silvermane Guards—are not rightfully yours alone?"

"I did the work. Koski merely brought me informat—"

"Yes or no, defendant."

"I didn't—"

"Yes or no."

Gepard's head swims. His mouth, against his will, forms his answer.

"Yes."

Justicia Herrero's smile widens.

"To summarize, you had relations with Koski in an establishment of ill repute. Upon discovering he was a criminal you continued to associate with him. He gave you favors"—Justicia's lips curl with implication—"which benefited your performance in the Silvermane Guards. All the while, he infiltrated Qlipoth Fort. Is this accurate?"

Gepard stares down at the pulpit's surface. "Yes."

"Speak louder, defendant."

It takes all of Gepard's strength to raise his voice above a whisper. "Yes."

Justicia's voice curdles with derision. "Everything you've ever done as a Guard is called into question. How can anyone trust you to be Captain anymore?"

There's no answer. There's not a single answer Gepard can give because, truly, how can his friends, family, and colleagues trust a corrupt, deviant Captain like Gepard?

Architect Stoll, of all people, is the one to rescue Gepard from his devastating speechlessness. "You've made your point, Architect Herrero," he says with a frown. "Move on."

Justicia Herrero sneers a moment more, as if about to disobey and condemn Gepard further. The ugly expression fades into something more calculating.

"Earlier, you denied any desire to harm your father. Is this correct?"

“Yes."

"Was Mr. Koski fond of you?"

"I don't know."

"Was he aware of your poor relationship with your father?"

Gepard's breath hitches as he realizes Justicia's trap. "Yes."

"Would you say he was willing to harm others on your behalf?"

"I—" Gepard feels faint. "I don't know."

Justicia Herrero waits, letting the unspoken implication seep into every inch of the deathly-silent courtroom.

"This concludes my questioning," she finally announces, rising from her seat. "I would like to address the people of the court."

Most adjudicators give their speeches to each other from the unreachable height of the adjudicators' bench, yet Justicia Herrero walks elegantly from her seat and down into the defendant's pit. She begins to wander the pit, raising her voice, gesturing at Gepard and at the audience behind his back.

"Adjudicators, today we heard many examples of Gepard Landau's failed judgment. He attempted to evade the rightful consequences to his actions by inventing a fictional perpetrator to shoulder the blame for his crimes. He willfully and recklessly fraternized with an enemy of the state, the very one for whom he betrayed his country and stands before you in judgment now. He has hurled baseless and deeply offensive accusations against the men and women who uphold Belobog's highest standards of justice. Perhaps this was merely poor judgment. Perhaps he was manipulated by his aberrant desires. Perhaps prolonged exposure to the fragmentum has twisted his mind into delusions of conspiracy. Whatever the cause, it is evident that Gepard Landau is unfit for the station of Captain of the Silvermane Guards. We must remove him from his post before he can do any more harm.

"It is indisputable that Gepard Landau knowingly released our Supreme Guardian's attempted assassin. The punishment for such a severe act of treason is usually death. However"—Justicia pauses to inhale, as if drawing the room forward into her speech—"today we all heard his deeply unfortunate upbringing. Harsh parenting and years of military service took a kind boy and changed him profoundly. Would it not be cruel to send a man whose mind was broken through no fault of his own to his death?"

Gepard raises his head. The gleam in Justicia Herrero's eyes is anything but empathy.

Architect Herrero sweeps her hand grandly across the courtroom. "Look around! Qlipoth Fort's Grand Courtroom has never been this packed! See the Silvermane Guards, the architects, the friends and family who took time out of their important work to attend Gepard Landau's hearing. And still, there are crowds outside unable to fit in this courtroom, waiting to hear the outcome of this trial. Gepard Landau has inspired us all, despite his compromised mind." Her voice swells like music. "So let us have mercy on the broken Landau. Let him live the rest of his days in his mother's care and his family's manor, where he can do no more harm nor be harmed. Let us finally grant this hurt young man the peace he needs to heal, Qlipoth willing, and sentence him to no more than house arrest for life."

Like a conductor of a great composition, Justicia Herrero sweeps her hands close. She suspends the breathless silence a moment more before she begins her ascent back to her rightful place on the adjudicators' bench. The room breathes with her every footstep. What a kind adjudicator, they must think. House arrest for life is an absurdly lenient sentence for a deviant treasonist like Gepard. But Gepard knows that that sentence is not his punishment. Gepard is serving the penance Justicia Herrero intends for him right now.

The part of Gepard floating high above spectating his paralyzed body admires how Justicia Herrero put him in this pathetic state with only a fancy speech. No shouting. No throwing items against the wall. Yet look at Gepard, shoulders hunched, eyes glazed, and head bowed in mortification. The only reason he hasn't started shaking uncontrollably is because every fiber in is body is stretched to its limit. He's as paralyzed as Bronya.

He's as paralyzed as Bronya?

Something flickers in the icy wasteland inside him. Comparing himself to Bronya, who hasn't moved a muscle in weeks? Ridiculous! What a weak, dishonorable child you are, Father snarls. No true Landau would be so despicable as to make light of another's suffering.

Shame warms his frostbitten extremities. It thaws his neck just enough to crane his head up and look into Justicia Herrero's lightless eyes. You're a coward! Father howls like a wildfire. You make a mockery of Bronya's sacrifices to submit to this!

Like the countless times Gepard stared down the point of a fragmentum monster's halberd, like the countless times a soldier he broke bread with screamed their last cry right beside him, everything shrinks beneath the only purpose of Gepard's life: to do the right thing.

"Do you have a rebuttal, defendant?" Architect Stoll asks. His words are sharp, as if this were his second time asking.

"Yes," Gepard forces out. "I—" His throat suddenly constricts. "I." He swallows. "I'd like to ask the witness some questions."

There's a resignation in the air as Bert once again sits in the witness' stand. Everyone thinks that whatever Gepard will ask is merely delaying the inevitable. Their opinions don't matter. Nothing matters except the imminent and unacceptable sin of disappointing his dead father once again.

"Bert, right?" Gepard begins roughly.

Bert looks somewhere to the right of Gepard's dead gaze. "Yes."

"Do you remember the day I visited your tavern?"

"Objection," Justicia Herrero calls out. "Asked and answered."

"Sustained," Architect Stoll declares. "Defendant, the witness has sufficiently demonstrated his recollection of the event. Ask a new question."

Gepard is too numb to feel shaken by the interruption. He continues, low and flat, "Sampo Koski was already at your tavern before I arrived, correct?"

"Yes. He'd been staying at my tavern for a few days by then."

"Was he alone for his stay?"

Bert blinks, as if suddenly remembering something. "No. He and his sister were sharing a room."

"Objection, relevance," Justicia interrupts again, voice tighter.

Architect Stoll looks questioningly at Gepard. "Is Mr. Koski's sister relevant to any of the charges presented against you today?"

"Entirely," Gepard's mouth says. "Allow me to continue my questioning, and you will see she is intimately involved with one of Sampo Koski's false charges."

"Objection overruled," Architect Stoll rumbles. "Architect Herrero, let the defendant finish his questioning before posing any further objection."

There's no joy at his victory over Justicia Herrero. There's only the calm of a soldier going for the kill.

"Can you describe his sister's appearance?"

"Yes. She was short. She had brown hair tied up in pigtails. I don't remember what she wore that day, but when I saw her a few weeks ago she were a short red dress and a white mask."

The silence is deafening. Gepard takes a trick from Justicia Herrero's playbook and lets it sit, seeping deep into every listening ear. He watches her wrinkles twist into the same macabre expression she wore when Gepard spat at her face. Too numb to feel afraid, Gepard unwinds the unexpected lifeline Bert threw to him.

"You mentioned seeing her recently. When?"

"About two weeks ago." Bert pauses. "A week and five days."

Right before Sampo's alleged assault on Bronya.

"Where were you when you saw her?"

"I was walking back to my apartment from the commercial district." Bert frowns. "I don't know how she found me. I don't know how she even remembered me after so many years. She went up to me in the middle of the street and started asking about him. Koski. How he's been, where he's at, questions like that. It sounded like she was trying to find him."

"Did she tell you her name?"

Every soul in the court holds their breath. Bert hadn't been in the courtroom when Gepard testified about Sparkle. Bert couldn't have heard Sparkle's name through Gepard's mouth.

"Yes," Bert says, eyes lit with recollection. "Her name was Sparkle."

The court descends into chaos.