Chapter Text
Once upon a time in a faraway land, a king lived in a burnished-black castle. The king was kind and benevolent, beloved by the subjects of his kingdom and treasured by the queen and their prince. Though war ravished his kingdom, the king fought valiantly against the opposing armies to protect his home, his family, and his people.
But then, one summer’s night, the sovereign of the opposing army’s nation came to the castle and offered him a peace treaty to end the war that had wounded both kingdoms. Relieved to see peace on the horizon, the king welcomed the opposing sovereign and his honor guard of automatons into his castle. Eager to discuss terms of peace, the king gathered his trusted advisors and took the opposing sovereign to the throne room, allowing for members of the tired honor guard to rest with members of his army. Discussion was carried deep into the night, and a treaty crafted by the hands of two sovereigns, ready to shed the blades of war and to take up the olive branch. But while pens were pressed to parchment, shadows moved throughout the king’s castle, not only clad in red and white, but in black and gold, too. And when the king’s name was inked upon the parchment, those shadows tore into the bed chambers and took what the king cherished most.
Though the king realized what was taking place, the shadows had already begun their flight. Betrayed by the opposing sovereign, the king fought through the shadows invading his castle, desperate to save what had been taken. The king chased the shadows, following them through his kingdom to the far reaches of his land. But there, on the edges of the Nebulawood, was where what he cherished most lay dead. With the queen’s life stolen, and the prince lost to the depths of the Nebulawood, the king broke, cradling the body of his queen and the torn robes of his prince. The opposing sovereign, having taken what the king cherished most, cast a powerful curse upon the king and his country. The king turned into a hideous beast, and his subjects turned into the very same automatons the opposing sovereign commanded.
Amused by his loyalty to subjects he could not defend, the opposing sovereign enchanted a collar for the beast. Though the magic the beast commanded protected his subjects from becoming mindless puppets loyal to the opposing sovereign, it did not save him from the collar chained to his monstrous throat. Should the beast prove worthy to have the loyalty of even one outsider in the span of twenty years, the curse cast upon him and his kingdom would be broken, and his lands and people ceded to him, safe from the opposing sovereign’s future conquest.
But, should the beast fail to rally a single man to his cause by the time those twenty years were up, the beast would perish by the enchanted collar, and his subjects would be destined to become just the same as the loyal automatons that made up the opposing sovereign’s army. Though the beast tried to reach out to neighbouring villages, no one would heed his call, instead turning tail and fleeing for their lives.
Unable to overcome his monstrous form, the beast concealed himself within the walls of his castle, with nothing but his magic to show him glimpses of the world beyond his borders. And as years passed, the beast fell into despair, resigned to live the remainder of his life as a beast; for who would ever swear fealty to something as hideous as a beast?
“Hello~! Anyone at home in there~?”
A stupid question, really, especially when he knows for a fact that the sound of his hammer striking hot iron is easily heard through the metal door of his workshop. A question that is annoyingly loud enough to be heard over the sound of his hammer striking hot iron. A question he fully plans to ignore, with the plausible deniability of his workshop being much too loud for words being spoken through a door. He knows it’s futile to ignore him, but it’s the best he has in his rather black mood.
“I’m giving you until the count of three to come greet your guest before I wander in there myself!”
Rolling his eyes, he does his best to focus harder on the knife he’s trying to shape. A butcher’s cleaver, to be exact, but for now he simply needs to draw out the shape some. It looks close to what it should be, but it’s not quite there yet. Some more time in the furnace, perhaps, to soften the iron a little bit more.
“One!”
He almost doesn’t hear him over the strike that may have been harder than necessary. It has the intended effect, helping to lengthen the shape, but it also puts a rather ugly dent in the center of the spine. Not ideal for a brand new cleaver. He’ll have to make this one a bit of a larger cleaver to compensate.
“Two!”
He flips the blade on his anvil, and readjusting the grip he has on it with his tongs, he begins hammering again. Slowly, the shape begins to draw out the way he wants it to. If he could just finish this shaping, then he could find something in him to deal with the nuisance on the other side of the door.
…
He wouldn’t truly enter a live workshop, would he? In those ridiculous layers of his?
“Three!”
Oh, yes. Yes he would.
The workshop door bangs open at just the right moment that he strikes the iron again, sending a shower of sparks cascading to the door. It must be sheer luck and stupidity alone that keeps those layers from going up like tinder. It doesn’t stop them from singing, no, but at least there isn’t an uncontrolled, human shaped fire in his workshop.
“Come now, Clarus! I thought we were friends! To think that you would attempt to immolate me!”
He can’t help but snarl as he picks up his cleaver and shoves it into the furnace to keep it from hardening up. No doubt this conversation will take some time, and it’s better to keep his iron hot than allowing it to cool too much. He flips the visor of his welding helmet up with perhaps more force than necessary, and he turns to scowl at his intruder, who is, of course, in enough frilly little layers to act as petrol to an open flame.
“You know damn well the risks of sauntering into my workshop in your usual get-up, Izunia.”
One big, calloused hand rests over Izunia’s heart, and a look of mock hurt flashes across his face.
“Oh, so it’s Izunia now, is it? Whatever happened to good old ‘Ardyn’?”
“Ardyn is smart enough to back off when I’m working. Izunia is a moron who tempts fate.”
Of course, Izunia takes it all in stride, making his petty desire to refer to him as Izunia even in his head even stronger. He simply dusts off his outer duster and tilts his hat a little more strongly over his head before strolling even farther into his worship. At the very least, Clarus has confined his one active project to the furnace. All of his others are either waiting to be worked or are resting after their quenching.
“If you’re going to be hissy and pissy at anyone, you should be hissy and pissy towards your daughter. She is the one who granted me entry, after all.”
“Iris is an angel and I ask you to keep her out of your mischief making. I have to deal with enough of it as is.”
Izunia lets out a rather dramatic huff, one that somehow smoothens a small part of his temper no matter how much he would rather remain angry, and speaks with his head bowed and chin tucked against the awful frilly collar of his awful frilly shirt.
“I suppose I could refrain from teaching her any more tricks of the trade.”
Clarus rolls his eyes and turns back to his work, inspecting the metal of the cleaver in the furnace.
“The last thing she needs are more ways to stop my heart. Damn near keeled over when she came home with those pilfered colors of hers. Still feel my heart stuttering any time someone pokes around the trees out west where I had her bury the damn thing.”
“I assure you, Clarus, I had no part in her endeavours. She did that all on her own.”
Clarus fixes a glare on him over his shoulder.
“And I’m sure she just figured out how to climb a damn flagpole in the middle of the night in the middle of a damn Imperial camp on her own.”
Izunia, at least, has the decency to look a little guilty. His grin is a little watery, and he shrugs in that overly expressive way of his, shoulders and hands and all.
“In my defense, I’d only really taught her how to scale limbless trees. I never imagined she would use that knowledge to that degree.”
“She’s an Amicitia, Ardyn. The lot of us are full of dumb ideas and the strength to carry them out.”
“And what of Aquila?”
Even the mention of her name still makes his heart clench with grief, but he powers through it.
“She may not have been an Amicitia by blood, but she was an Amicitia in every other way.”
“A fool?”
“No. Never.”
The silence in the workshop rings loud for a moment before Clarus sighs.
“Perhaps she was… A bit reckless, but never a fool.”
Silence again, before Ardyn whispers to him.
“My apologies, Clarus.”
“It’s fine,” he says.
It isn’t, not really. He doesn’t think he’ll ever really be happy the same way again, now that Aquila isn’t here with them. But Ardyn doesn’t need to know that, even if he probably already does. And in such a short span of time, he’s crumbled the anger Clarus had wanted to hold onto and has him referring to him as Ardyn in his head again.
“It’s fine.”
Clarus turns back to his cleaver, still heating away in the furnace. By now it’s hot enough for easy shaping, and after flipping the visor of his welding helmet back into place, he moves it from the furnace and back to his anvil.
“If you actually need something,” Clarus mutters through his helmet. “Say it now. Otherwise, get out of my workshop before you go up in flames.”
“Actually,” and Clarus barely represses a sigh as he flips the visor up again. “I did come with a purpose. One other than bothering you during your lengthy work hours.”
Ardyn glances about the workshop, as dedicated to his theatrics as ever, before he approaches just close enough to lean into Clarus’ space.
“Word on the wind is that a group of Falxfangs are on their way to Keycatrich. Seems they’ve lost something from their pack, and are looking to reclaim it.”
Clarus swears something awful. Just what he needs, days after Iris had stolen that damnable flag. A group of Imperials marching their way towards the village on another manhunt for the slightest of slights. He bellows his son’s name, and when Gladiolus comes tumbling to the workshop door, Clarus peels his welding helmet and gloves off.
“Finish up this cleaver. I’ve sudden business to attend to.”
“You know I never finish them the same way you like them,” he says, catching the tools Clarus tosses him.
“It just needs a final shaping and a quenching. Are you a blacksmith or not?”
“Apprentice blacksmith, according to you.”
“Then it’s an opportunity to learn and impress me.”
“You always say that.”
Clarus doesn’t respond, untying his apron as he marches past Gladiolus through the workshop door and out into the rest of the house. He passes by the kitchen on his way to the front door, and Ardyn soon isn’t the only person who’s following him.
“Where are you going?”
“Are the books balanced?” he asks instead. His response is a put upon grunt.
“You know I keep on top of the books.”
Clarus opens his mouth to ask another question, but is cut off before any words can escape.
“Yes, and the order ledgers, and the inventory, and the groceries. All I’ve done all day is keep track of things. So come on, where are you going?”
“We’re going to the market, Iris.”
“Can I come with?”
“You’re grounded still, Iris.”
“Come on, please~?”
Once he’s able to hang his apron on one of the hooks in the foyer, Clarus turns to look at his daughter. It’s the wrong move, naturally, but he has still yet to remember just how powerful her puppy-dog stare is. She has it set to the absolute maximum, with her hands clasped in front of her chest, her eyes big and bright with unshed tears, and her bottom lip wobbling in the perfect way she knows he knows he’s a sucker for. Clarus is about to cave, he just knows he is, but Ardyn whispers into his ear, and makes that cave-in just a little bit more dignified.
“I suppose the young lady could always help carry your chocobo feed.”
“What?”
“You can come,” he decides, turning back to the foyer to grab his wallet and keys. “But only to assist carrying everything back home.”
The groan Iris makes is an extremely despairing sound, something that Clarus more expects to come out of Ardyn’s mouth, but she makes no other complaints otherwise as she scrambles to put on her boots. Clarus exits the house and holds the door open while Ardyn and Iris follow him out, and once the door is shut and locked once more, he begins his trek out towards the main part of Keycatrich.
“What are your plans now?”
“Ah, that would be to round up my collection of rabble-rousers and ensure they are adequately disguised for the approaching Falxfangs. You know how fond those beasts are of young adults with black hair and blue eyes.”
Clarus grunts in agreement, and secretly thanks the Astrals for gifting his children with brown hair and brown eyes. Having not only a traditional Lucian-born son with black hair and blue eyes, but also a son of questionable Nifl descent makes for a rather curious and suspicious household indeed.
“I’ll let you know if I find your raven and chicabo. The usual way, of course.”
Ardyn bows deep and low while they walk, something Clarus just barely manages to see from the corner of his eye.
“As always, you have my gratitude. Take care with your shopping, Clarus. The Falxfangs are ravenous today.”
“Of course.”
And with that, Ardyn splits off from them, trotting off of the well worn path and onto the packed desert earth, towards the farther edge of town. Clarus watches him leave for but a moment before picking up the pace and marching towards town. All the while he can hear Iris on his heels, following along with a quicker step to make up for the lack of length in her stride.
Others are already out and about in Keycatrich, some darting across the cracking streets to different buildings, others humming and hawing at the few vendors that have sales windows open. Like himself, it appears everyone else has picked up the pace on their own business, no doubt eager to be off the streets once the Imperials arrive. Just as the Imperials have never been fond of Lucians, they are not fond of the Imperials either. With tensions between both groups so high, and with more civilians living in Keycatrich than Hunters, it’s simply easier to get out of their way and away from their ire.
Clarus knows that, unfortunately, he must be out and about when the Imperials arrive.
Though his stride is long, he does slow himself down when they breach some of the larger crowds. People weave around him, and Iris steps even closer, wrapping an arm loosely around one of his so as to not get separated in the crowd. Clarus takes his time heading towards his usual stops, with the Cullness Munitions vendor once more parked within the center square of Keycatrich, right where other vendors set up their own little stalls and booths filled with oddities and knickknacks.
Clarus lifts a hand in greeting when he approaches, and so begins his usual routine of shopping. He trades small talk with the vendor, swapping minor stories from both Keycatrich and wherever else this particular vendor has been recently. Clarus asks after what scrap he’s found, and the answer is his usual. Some steel, some iron, a small chunk of copper, plating from a defunct crawling tank Lucis once was able to fund. Clarus takes it all, trading a hefty portion of gil for a heftier box of scrap. He catches sight of Iris gazing at a shield, and though he doesn’t want to encourage her rebellious activities, he notes the thought down for later.
From Cullness Munitions to Selkie’s Sylkis, the interactions are one and the same. He trades a story about Gladiolus’ recent flub with the forge for Selkie’s story about one of her employees unknowingly shittalking Chocobo Sam directly to the man himself. Iris points out a new type of green they haven’t had the chance to try yet; the Pahsana fruit, something that’s supposed to coax even the flightiest of birds into standing their ground against wildlife.
“It doesn’t always work,” warns Selkie. “But with a treat this sweet, Chocobos always hate to pahsana it.”
The pun is so bad and so clearly a cheap advertisement schtick that Clarus is tempted to turn around and leave, Chocobo feed be damned. But Iris laughs, loud and snorting, and they grab a few anyway. And though Iris puts up a token fuss, she still hefts the three bags of greens with barely a struggle.
Feed and scrap secured, Clarus leads Iris back towards the house, taking slow, measured steps so that Iris, who arguably has the heavier load, can keep up without straining herself. People are kind enough to sidestep them and leave ample room for Clarus and Iris to pass, and while it’s something Clarus appreciates, he needs to take his time. At the very least it gives Clarus the chance to not only spot Ardyn’s runaways, but to also bark their names to get their attention. Thankfully, the two troublemakers decide to approach them instead of running off to do whatever it is they like to do.
“Hi Noctis! Hey Prompto!”
“Hey Iris.”
“Yo, what’s up!”
“Hiding from your old man?”
“You know it!”
Clarus snorts, grumbling a soft “I resent that statement.” Though Ardyn certainly isn’t any spring chocobo anymore, he most certainly is younger than Clarus by at least a decade. This is something Noctis, Prompto, and Iris all seem to remember after hearing his grumbling if their cringes and uneasy grins are anything to go by.
“You’re not that old, Mister Amicitia.” Prompto tries to backtrack. Clarus still feels a bit sour, no matter what happened earlier with Ardyn to soothe his woes, and he most certainly does not feel like taking any prisoners today.
“Prompto, I am 55 years old, and Ardyn is 43. If he is old, then what on Eos am I?”
Prompto winces hard, while Iris whines at his side about being nice. Clarus rolls his eyes, but does cut the two troublemakers a little bit of slack. If he hadn’t had his hands full with his box of scrap, he would have reached out to ruffle Prompto’s hair. Instead, he hefts his box of scrap a little bit higher in his palms and jerks his head towards the direction of Ardyn’s house.
“I’ll let it slide, but only if you two run back home. In case you haven’t noticed, trouble is coming to town, and it isn’t your usual brand of trouble.”
At this, all three kids seem to sober up, with Prompto and Noctis trading uneasy looks and Iris looking up worriedly at him.
“Falxfangs,” he says by way of explanation, and both Prompto and Noctis pale a little bit at the word. “Caught wind of a pack making its way to Keycatrich. Best if you boys laid low for some time until they’ve passed.”
“Y-Yeah, sounds like a plan.”
“Thanks, Uncle Clarus.”
“Whistle for your handler before you make it home, too. You know how he gets about you both.”
“Yessir, Mister Amicitia, sir!”
“What about you and Iris?” Noctis asks.
“We’ll be fine. Brown hair and brown eyes inspire little of their ire.”
“You sure?”
Clarus rolls his eyes, and starts marching off before the two of them can keep chattering about their worries for him any longer, though he does bump his hip lightly against Noctis’ when he passes.
“We’ll be fine, Noctis. Now go home, before they pick up your trail.”
He hears Noctis and Prompto trading a hasty goodbye with Iris behind him before the thud of their boots start to leave them. “And don’t forget to whistle to Ardyn!” he calls over his shoulder while Iris catches up, and hears both Prompto’s eager affirmative and Noctis’ more aloof assurance. He shakes his head, but continues to walk towards his own house, slowly making his way through the parting crowd with Iris at his heels.
As they trudge their way home, Iris walks a little bit more closely to him, and he truthfully cannot blame her for it. Despite her recklessness, she’s a smart kid and it’s clear she’s already put two and two together about why the Imperials are coming to Keycatrich.
“We’ll be okay, Iris,” he tells her, his voice low and soft. “I won’t let anything happen to you or Gladio.”
She says nothing back to him, but she does follow him a little more closely, and it’s more than enough to have Clarus sighing through his nose. It’s all he can do, for now, to lead her through the crowd and back towards the house. He isn’t naive enough to assume that the Imperials won’t reach Keycatrich before they make it back to the house, but a small part of him hopes they do, if only so that Iris can hide from them within the confines of the house, where Imperials have no warrant to search them nor question them on their activities.
They make it a fair distance towards their home, and with no sign of Imperials, Clarus truly starts to believe they may not encounter them at all. He knows it’s stupid, but for the sake of Iris, he tries to believe they’ll make it without them bothering them. And once they return home again, Iris can hide away inside with Gladiolus, and Clarus can tend to the chores outside.
Iris trips, some time between making it to their dusty street and their house, and one of the bags of greens spills open while she skins both of her knees. She’s strong, and definitely not a little kid anymore, but 15 or not, Clarus still sets his box of scrap on the ground to help her back to her feet and brush dirt off her knees before they work to pick up the fallen greens.
Clarus hears them before he sees them, but it still does little from keeping his heart from beginning to pound when he spies them marching around the corner of the street, all shining steel and white and red and armed. Iris falters beside him, greens clutched a little too tight in her hands, but Clarus ignores the approaching Imperials, instead guiding Iris’ hands to release the greens back into the bag before nudging her to keep picking up the spill.
“Clarus Amicitia.”
The warped voice forces what few of the longer hairs on the back of his neck he has left to stand on end, but Clarus remains calm while helping Iris pick up the greens.
“General Glauca,” he says, forcing his voice to remain neutral and relaxed. “Didn’t expect to see you or your men back so soon.”
Men is a term Clarus is using very loosely, and he knows that Glauca knows it as well. Men weren’t the amalgamation of metal and magic. Those walking with Glauca are nothing more than Magiteks, incapable of thought or feeling, only of following an order given to them and fighting until their bodies are so dented and twisted they physically cannot move any longer.
Glistening armor, equal parts metal, liquid, and magic, steps into Clarus’ view before a massive hand grabs a green a little farther out of Clarus’ reach and offers it to him. Clarus bites his tongue and accepts the green from Glauca’s hand, storing it back into the bag where Iris is dumping the rest of the spilled greens.
“We were in the area once more, after an inspection of Longwythe. We are merely passing through.”
A lie, and one both Clarus and Glauca are aware of. There is no passing through when it comes to the Empire. With all of the greens secured once more in the bag, Clarus gets to his feet and brushes off his knees of the dirt that clings there. Iris physically hauls the bags back into her arms, ready to set off again. Glauca stops her before she can pick up the spilled bag, and instead picks it up himself. It takes everything in Clarus’ power to keep himself from gritting his teeth at the sight.
“You needn’t waste your time with us,” he says, already reaching to take the bag back from Glauca. But the man in liquid metal does not relinquish the bag of feed, and instead hefts it over his shining shoulder.
“There is no such thing as a waste of time when helping the commonfolk is involved.” is what Glauca says to him. Clarus doesn’t manage to keep himself from grinding his teeth, but he can’t brush the general off, so instead he thanks him.
“Kind of you to help us when you’re busy.”
“No trouble at all.”
And the general of the Niflheim army follows them all the way back to the house, the clanging of Magitek soldiers chasing his and Iris’ steps while they carry the scrap and feed. Iris practically clings to Clarus’ side, and truthfully, he would have it no other way with the whole Imperial squadron marching behind them. It feels more like he and Iris are being led to the gallows, rather than receiving assistance from a passerby, but he firmly keeps the thought to himself. The trip is otherwise made in dead silence, with neither Clarus or Iris willing to break it, and with Glauca no doubt watching their every move.
Once at the house, Clarus sets his box of scrap down on the front step and turns to take the bag from Glauca, now that there is no need of him being there. Glauca refuses to give up his bag of feed, instead turning his head this way and that.
“Where would you like to have this set down?”
“There’s no need, General Glauca. I can take it from here.”
“And what of your back?” he asks in that warped voice of his. Clarus blinks at him, a little lost for words, before Glauca continues to speak.
“I assume you had your daughter carry the heavier of the loads due to an injury of some kind. I merely do not want to exacerbate any wounds.”
Clarus can hear Iris snort from where she’s repositioning the two bags in her arms, but he does not acknowledge it, and from the look of things, Glauca doesn’t acknowledge it either.
“It would be my pleasure to take this to its station for you, Clarus.”
Again, he can’t just brush the general off, not without looking the slightest bit suspicious, and so he acquiesces.
“Follow me. I’ll show you to the stables.”
The walk around the side of the house is just as dreadful as the walk to the house, with the only grace being that Glauca leaves his Magitek behind and follows Clarus and Iris on his own. It’s not a particularly far walk, even with the added on portion of the house specifically for Clarus’ workshop, but it feels like centuries before they round the house to the back, where a modest pen and chocobo stables come into view. The three birds are out and about, of course, and are enjoying what is usually a normal day in the Leiden sun. All three become excited at the sight of Clarus and Iris, doubly so at the sight of feed bags, even if one of them is over the shoulder of a walking nightmare.
Clarus directs the general to set the bag down on the ground against the wall of the stable, where Iris is already trotting over to set hers down. The general does so without complaint, placing the bag of feed on the ground with more care than one would think possible for a giant of metal and magic, and Iris scampers off, back into the house and leaving him to deal with Glauca on his own. Foolishly, Clarus thinks that to be the end of it. Thinks that, now that Glauca has assisted him with the task he didn’t need assistance with is finished, he would be on his way.
Of course, the general offers a giant metal hand for the chocobos to sniff when they come running to the edge of the pen, excited about feed and uncaring of who gives it.
“Wonderful birds you have, Clarus.”
“They get the job done.”
“What are their names?” Glauca asks, giving one of them a scratch under the jaw. Clarus mentally sucks at his teeth, because he just knows Glauca will not be thrilled with the names, but once again cannot brush him off.
“The crimson cock you’re petting is Enkidu, the grey hen is Crepera, and the ruby hen is Antirri.”
For a moment there is silence while Glauca continues to pet along the underside of Enkidu’s chin, and the moment feels torturous at best while Clarus waits for his thoughts.
“Rather traditional names,” is what Glauca finally settles on, his voice neutral and bland. Clarus can’t help but feel he needs to defend his birds.
“House Amicitia was said to have the blood of beast tamers in them, and Lucian legends depict the head of the beast tamers to have had a great dragon at his beck and call named Enkidu. It’s a traditional name for the birds of House Amicitia. And my son had a fancy for the Rogue Queen when he was little. Hundreds of others in Lucis are named similarly.”
Glauca finishes scratching Enkidu, only to be immediately harassed for a scratch by Antirri. Once more, the general is silent while he doles out pets to the chocobos in the pen before finally speaking up again.
“And Antirri? What was her name based on?”
An odd question, one Clarus likely thinks to be something to keep him from getting suspicious of Glauca’s probing. He responds all the same.
“Antirri, like antirrhinum. They were one of my late wife’s favourite flowers.”
Glauca hums, and it’s a grating sound, especially with his voice modulator in his armor. Clarus is grinding his teeth together once again, waiting for Glauca’s next sentence. No doubt it would be something cruel or harsh, something that he would claim simply ‘came out wrong’ about Aquila. It is by her doing, after all, that Clarus is on a first name basis with General Glauca, no matter how noble her intentions had been.
A shrill whistle interrupts them, one Clarus is all too familiar with. It sounds like Prompto’s whistling, long and loud and shrill with a few twirling chirps. A call to Ardyn, to let him know that both he and Noctis are safe at home. And while it is a relief to Clarus to hear his whistling, to know that they’re safe, it is also a dreadful thing, watching Glauca turn from his chocobos to look towards the town where the whistling originated from.
“Well, it seems I must be off,” Glauca starts, giving a final pat to Antirri before backing away. “There is no rest for the wicked, as I am sure you’re aware.”
“Of course. Thank you again for your assistance, General Glauca.”
“It’s my pleasure, Clarus. Take care, and stay out of trouble.”
Clarus says nothing, though it doesn’t seem Glauca expects him to. The general turns and escorts himself off the property, around the side of the house and collecting his Magitek. Clarus listens as the clanking of steel on packed earth travels farther and farther away, until finally he can’t hear it any longer. Then, and only then does Clarus heave a sigh of relief. He hopes that he won’t have to see Glauca or any other Magitek again for quite some time. A foolish hope, he knows, but a hope nonetheless. After all, the Amicitias are known for their foolery.
