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An ancient tapestry of Graegor riding Bahamut hangs in a place of prominence in the royal nursery, situated between two tall stained-glass windows. Dion traces the image of the Eikon repeatedly with his eyes, keeping his chest out and chin up as the maids fuss over him. There’s a small tear in the ruffled shirt they’re currently shoving his arm into, and they’re debating whether it’s worth the hassle to request another one be brought up to his rooms.
“No one will be looking at him anyway, I don’t see why we should go to all the trouble…”
“But Graegor forbid someone does notice it. There will be hell to pay! Our heads, no doubt.”
“I don’t see why the little bast — erm, prince — even needs to attend the Remembrance Ceremony.”
“It does seem in bad taste.”
They exchange a conspiratorial glance, laughing.
Dion continues his silent outlining of dragon wings, never complaining as the women yank and pull, their fingernails scratching his delicate, pale skin. He winces and blinks back tears.
He cannot show any weakness. He learned that lesson before he learned to form complete sentences.
Ultimately, they decide to leave the shirt as-is. They’ll merely feign ignorance, or rather, blame him, should anyone deem it worth mentioning. Which, of course, they won’t. Prior to being named Bahamut’s Dominant, most of the kingdom didn’t even know of his existence.
When the women finally exit, it’s with a cacophony of shrill laughter that echoes through the room long after they shut the door behind them. He can hear their conversation soften as they walk away, not even bothering to lower their voices.
“If not for Bahamut’s blessing, the brat would have been disposed of years ago.”
“Indeed. He’s an embarrassment to Sanbreque. Better for him to have died in the womb and pass his powers on to someone worthy of the title of Dominant.”
“Now that his whore mother is dead, perhaps His Majesty will marry someone of equal status and restore honor to the Empire.”
“One can certainly hope!”
Dion sinks onto a low, velvet couch, hands clasping in his lap. He waits, knowing he will do whatever he is told, whenever that happens to be. Playing the role assigned to him is what keeps him safe. This, he knows better than most.
Sometime later, a knock at the door causes him to straighten; an older gentleman with kind eyes enters, inclining his head before approaching — Dion recognizes him as his newly assigned tutor, Harpocrates. Though they’ve only had a handful of lessons together, Dion wants to trust him. He’s not like the other adults in his life, the ones who talk down or around him as if he isn’t there.
But Dion’s been fooled before.
Harpocrates makes eye contact and addresses him as an equal, a jarring juxtaposition to the nursemaids. “Your Highness, it’s time.”
Dion allows his shoulders to relax a fraction, though he keeps the same neutral expression out of habit. When he gets to his feet, he glues his arms to his sides, suddenly afraid to reveal the hole in his shirt to one of the few people he imagines would care enough to notice it.
The last thing he wants is to cause a scene. It always ends badly for him.
“Shall we, sire?”
After a moment’s hesitation, Dion cranes his neck to look at the man. Harpocrates smiles, and Dion feels a question bubble up, unprompted. It’s out of his mouth before he can think to stop it.
“Master Harpocrates, what’s a whore?”
The man’s smile slips, and Dion immediately shrinks, expecting to be reprimanded — or worse. But to his surprise, Harpocrates drops slowly to one knee, taking both of Dion’s hands in his.
“Where did you hear that, my boy?” Dion averts his eyes to the floor, immediately regretting the question. Harpocrates lifts his chin with one gentle, wrinkled finger. “You needn’t be afraid. Nor should you be ashamed.”
Heart pounding in his chest, Dion swallows hard. “I wasn’t supposed to be born, was I?”
Something changes in Harpocrates' expression; an emotion that Dion doesn’t recognize. “Oh, my dear child.” Harpocrates pulls Dion into a hug.
The prince cannot remember the last time someone touched him affectionately; he isn’t sure how to react. He is careful to keep his hands to himself, inhaling the scent of parchment and ink that lingers on the man’s robes, an oddly comforting aroma.
Harpocrates, upon releasing him, states firmly, “Everyone has a place and purpose in this world. Do not let anyone convince you otherwise.”
Dion slowly nods. He doesn’t quite understand it, this business of being Bahamut’s Dominant, but he knows that is his role, and he will do everything he can to fulfill it.
For his father’s sake — and his mother’s.
When they eventually leave, Dion casts one final look over his shoulder; Bahamut’s glowing eyes seem to watch him, following his every step.
A trick of the light, no doubt.
The sky is a cruel, crystalline blue.
Upon the Lesage Family’s arrival at the Remembrance Ceremony, Dion’s father is immediately whisked away, people swarming around him like a cloud of excited bees. Two serious-faced dragoons swoop in to replace him at Dion’s side, escorting the prince to where other Sanbrequean guests are congregated, most notably the Council of Elders; Dion recognizes them by their funny hats, robes, and dull expressions that say they’d rather be anywhere else.
No one other than the guards pay Dion any attention, a blessing and a curse. He finds himself sandwiched between an array of dignitaries and politicians, the elegant, high-backed chairs no doubt dragged from near and far to accommodate the hundreds of nobles and their envoys.
From where he is seated, Dion can see his father, front and center in a place of honor. A woman with hair the color of ice in direct sunlight is leaning in to whisper something in his ear, her hand briefly touching the emperor’s forearm. Though he cannot explain why, Dion finds he dislikes her. Smiles should be welcoming, or at least reassuring — hers is neither.
With no one to talk to, Dion is left to watch adults he doesn’t recognize float in and out of earshot, muttering stiff greetings to each other. He wishes Harpocrates were seated nearby; the old man would at least distract him from the terrible feeling in his stomach, a queasiness that seems to worsen every time someone glances in his direction. Their eyes are narrow — calculating — as if wondering why he’s even there.
Dion wonders the same.
“Is this seat taken?”
The soft voice in his ear startles him. Dion whirls around only to be met by the sight of a boy with auburn hair and kind, round eyes, the sort of eyes Dion rarely sees in the palace at home.
“N-no,” Dion stammers. “Not at all.” He bows his head slightly, indicating the boy should take it.
He does so, and behind him, another boy, slightly older, with hair dark as night and the same delicate eyes, takes the seat adjacent to them.
When the two smile, warmth seeps beneath Dion’s skin, down into his very bones. He shivers, belatedly extending his hand in greeting.
“I’m Dion — of House Lesage.”
“Joshua of House Rosfield — and my brother and Shield, Clive.” Joshua takes Dion’s hand, pale fingers squeezing tightly. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Your Highness.”
Dion is taken aback; he’s heard of the Rosfields, of course. His first tutor was adamant that Dion memorize all of Valisthea’s prominent figures, and the Eikons’ Dominants especially. But this was Dion’s first time meeting one — someone like him.
A million questions spring to mind, but it isn’t the time nor the place.
“The pleasure is mine, Phoenix.”
Joshua giggles, though not unkindly. “Please, just Joshua.”
“We’d like to offer our condolences,” Clive interjects.
Dion’s head tilts in question. “Condolences?”
“For your mother. We were sorry to hear of her passing.”
From over his shoulder, Dion thinks he hears someone mutter, “Thank Graegor the whore is dead.”
He shifts in his seat, unsure how to respond; based on what he’s gathered, no one except him cares about his mother’s passing. Even his father has been painfully devoid of emotion and once scolded Dion for crying “where public figures could see him.” Both Dion and Clive watch him now, eyes filled with genuine compassion. It’s disconcerting.
Hoping to change the subject, he says, “I didn’t know her very well.”
“Regardless,” Clive inclines his head respectfully, “you must be very strong. My brother and I have each other, while you’ve shouldered this burden alone.”
“But not anymore!” Joshua announces. He takes Dion’s hand in his again, beaming. “Now that we’re friends, we can help each other.” Gone is any trace of formality; Dion is rendered speechless, unsure whether to take the declaration of friendship at face value.
For all he knows, the Rosfield children could have been instructed by their parents to get into his good graces; a political move that will pay off when he is inevitably appointed Emperor, and yet Dion finds he wants to believe them.
Friends. It would be a welcome change.
Joshua and Clive are looking at Dion expectantly, waiting. Dion can’t remember ever being asked what he wants — it’s always do this, go here, perform your role for the Empire…
He hesitates, words on the tip of his tongue when there is movement on the dais nearby; the ceremony is about to begin. In the distance, dark clouds are forming, threatening rain.
“Friends,” Dion whispers. What does he have to lose? “Yes, I’d like that.”
Thunder rolls; the storm bears witness to the youngest alliance forged in the Twins.
From that day forward, Dion clings to Joshua and Clive’s promise of friendship.
In the months that follow, letters are exchanged between the boys, and while feigning interest in political theater to his father, Dion learns about rising tensions with Waloed, major players of the international stage, and the Empire’s standing in the eyes of friends and enemies alike. He soaks up every drop of knowledge under Harpocrates’s tutelage, unironically determined to become a worthy friend to the Rosfields and the prince — and Dominant — his nation deserves.
Dion’s newfound interest in the Rosfields, though surprising, is in no way discouraged; strengthening the Empire’s bond with surrounding nations is deemed useful, and therefore, is celebrated. By extension, Dion is celebrated. And why shouldn’t he be? In doing something he enjoys, he catches the eye of his father and the court, earning their praise.
Then, the Night of Flames comes to pass.
His nursemaids gossip as he disrobes for a bath, a folding screen shielding him from their view.
“Did you hear? The Archduke of Rosaria was killed, and now Duchess Anabella is here in Sanbreque!”
“Oh my! Do you think she’s here to form an alliance with His Majesty?”
“That’s what everyone’s saying. Now that her sons are dead, what choice does she have? She may birth another Phoenix Dominant yet.”
Dion nearly slips from turning around so fast; he throws the partition aside, startling the women out of their seats on a low couch. Forgetting his state of undress, he demands to know, “Who would do such a thing?” His fists are clenched, muscles tensed as if to fight or fly, and he’s so distracted by his jumble of emotions that he doesn’t see the fear in the women’s faces.
“You truly don’t know?” one whispers.
He locks his gaze on her, and she flinches as if slapped.
“Tell me,” he growls, not recognizing his own voice. “I will make sure Sanbreque avenges its fallen allies.”
The women exchange a nervous look.
“Your Highness, it was the Dominant, Joshua Rosfield. He lost control of his Eikon and burned Phoenix Gate to the ground.” Something must happen to Dion’s face, because she clears her throat, averting her gaze to the floor. “And now Imperialists have seized Rosaria for the Holy Empire.”
“No.” He shakes his head as if to forget what he just heard. “You’re lying. It’s impossible.”
“On Graegor’s grave, I swear it’s true.”
Dion drops to his knees, vision darkening around the edges. He feels his heartbeat quicken, a violent heat filling him, so strong that it sprouts scales and wings and claws. There’s screaming, but it’s muffled, as if coming from underwater.
His feet leave the ground — the world fades away.
When he awakens from his nightmare fueled by eikonic rage, the Rosfields, his only friends, will indeed be dead. His quarters will be in shambles, the nursemaids missing.
The only thing left untouched will be the tapestry of Graegor and Bahamut, forever casting judgment on all who stand before it.
Dion will weep. But then he will rise, dry-eyed; wiping the dust from his knees, he’ll leave the room without a backwards glance, his path set.
“I’ve made my decision.” Dion’s voice, an awkward mix of ironclad conviction and pubescence, cracks through the royal library, interrupting the carefully constructed peace.
Rarely fazed by Dion’s outbursts, Harpocrates doesn’t look up from the tome in front of him. “It’s unlike you to be late, Your Highness.”
In several quick strides, Dion arrives at Harpocrates, his shadow disrupting the midday sunbeams by casting itself over the man’s desk. Dion clears his throat, ensuring his next words do not waver between two warring octaves. “You have been kind to me, but I cannot be swayed.”
Sighing, Harpocrates lifts his head. He closes his book with a gentle thud: A History of Valisthea, Volume II. “My boy, are you certain—”
“Please,” he interrupts. “I’m not here for a lecture.”
They maintain eye contact; Dion holds his breath, trying to hide his anxiety behind a mask of resolve.
“Becoming a dragoon is not the only way to achieve your goals,” Harpocrates says at last. “I know that the birth of your brother, Olivier—”
“Half-brother,” Dion snaps.
Harpocrates pauses, allowing Dion to turn towards the closest window to avoid saying anything treasonous. A steep drop gives way to ocean waves crashing on the shore. In the distance, a flock of seagulls circles carelessly on a summer breeze. How Dion wishes he could be a bird riding thermals on a day like today, and not a prince trapped in a family where one can be so easily replaced.
“I will become indispensable; I will lead by example, with a halberd in hand and Bahamut’s wings on my back. I will bleed the same as the rest of them. They shall never question my devotion to Sanbreque.”
At that moment, Dion’s not sure who he is trying to convince — his tutor or himself.
“You are already indispensable, my prince.” Harpocrates laugh rings hollow. “I, however, am useless if not for my ‘lectures.’” He begins to gather his things, rising to his feet with a bone-creaking sigh. “May Graegor’s breath fill your wings. I have no doubt you will achieve your goals.”
A knot forms in Dion’s throat. He swallows, hoping to dislodge it, but it stays put. He manages a muted, “Thank you.”
Behind him, Harpocrates takes shuffling steps towards the door; Dion counts every step, all while keeping his eyes towards the horizon, lest he go back on his word. He only realizes he’s holding his breath when he hears Harpocrates pause, the burning sensation in his lungs nearing unbearable.
“Your father shall have my resignation at first light. Farewell, my prince.”
When Dion finally turns, Harpocrates is gone.
It’s impossible to ignore how the chorus of conversation dies the moment Dion enters the dragoons’ training yard. Despite the sharpness of the sudden silence, Dion cuts through it, his footsteps ringing out confidently. Like two blades meeting, it’s an inevitable clash.
It’s a miserably cold winter’s day, and gray clouds hang low enough to create the illusion of heaven and earth reaching towards one another. The clouds are thick and fluffy, pregnant with the first snow of the season; due any moment now. But whether it hails, sleets, or rains fire—war cares not for creature comforts, and so neither do the Sanbrequois soldiers. They’ll camp outside tonight, a “character building exercise.” In truth, it’s just one of many practices meant to weed out weakness from within their ranks.
When Dion stops just short of the captain, the courtyard’s silence fills with nervous energy, threatening a different kind of storm altogether. Dragoons clump together in groups, no longer bothering to hide their curiosity; they know the signs of an impending fight when they see one.
“Captain,” Dion says, interrupting the man mid-sentence.
The captain pauses. He repeats his sentence without breaking eye contact and dismisses the dragoon in front of him before giving the prince his attention. While his face remains smooth and collected, his eyes narrow slightly.
“Your Royal Highness.” His bow is exaggerated — mechanical. When he straightens, his smile is clearly practiced. “How may I serve you?”
The words are out of Dion’s mouth before the captain finishes. “I demand an explanation. I’ve passed every test you’ve given me, and yet you still refuse to let me see combat. Why?” He gestures in the direction of the countless men watching. “I’ll fight every last one of them — whatever I must do to prove I’m ready — say it, and it shall be done!”
Chuckling, the captain pats Dion on the shoulder. It is clear by his nonchalance that he views Prince Dion’s concerns like that of a father entertaining the demands of a child.
“Your Royal Highness, there is no need to rush into battle. You will have your thirst for blood sated in due time; as Bahamut’s Dominant, that is assured.” He pats Dion again, gently nudging him in the direction of the castle. “Now, why don’t you go inside before you catch cold? We need you to remain in good health for many years to come.”
There is subdued laughter at the edge of the yard; Dion grinds his teeth.
“With all due respect, sir, I expect to be treated like any other cadet. I will remain at camp with the others.”
“My soldiers obey me.” The captain’s eyes narrow further. “Inside. That’s an order.”
The standoff that follows is excruciating for Dion, not because of the frost nipping at his exposed fingers, but thanks to the burning adolescent rage he has suppressed for years bubbling beneath his skin, mercilessly clawing and scratching at his insides, yearning for freedom.
“The only way I see myself going inside, captain, is if you knock me out and carry me.”
All laughter ceases instantly.
The captain’s calm facade fractures, revealing pure hatred beneath.
“Don’t test me, boy.”
The words are like adding oil to an open flame. All the anger and shame Dion has been holding back, the resentment towards his father’s new wife and son, the sorrow of losing his only friends, the frustration of not understanding his life’s purpose — at long last, reaches a boiling point.
Freezing outside, but burning within, Dion’s smile is unkind for the first time in his life.
“How quickly you forget your formalities when you stand to be embarrassed.”
The captain’s halberd flies at Dion so quickly that his only option is to react. He dodges, rolling to one side, and barely manages to avoid the next attack from above, a classic move for a dragoon.
There’s a sickening crunch as Dion’s back slams against the cobblestones in his effort to get away. Roaring fills his ears, the collective cheering of the dragoons for their leader — or, so he thinks — until he registers the pair of leathery wings cradling him, and the pale, wide-eyed faces beyond their curved edges, frozen in horror as red and white rains down from above.
Dion’s wings part like curtains to reveal the captain suspended mere feet above him, impaled like a pig on a spit, the man’s halberd held effortlessly in half-human, half-dragon hands.
His hands.
Blood drips down from the captain’s lifeless body, staining the freshly fallen snow around them crimson.
Dion screams.
It takes Dion a moment to register the knock. Once he does, he pulls his attention away from the churning waves below his window, clearing his throat.
“Come in.”
The young man who opens the door bows before stepping inside the royal suite, chestnut-brown hair and ocean-eyes bringing sunshine to an otherwise dark, rainy day. His metal armor, recently polished, reflects what little light is in the room.
“Terence.” Dion’s shoulders relax a fraction of an inch.
Terence is someone Dion has known since he was seven years old; from a family of minor nobles, he enrolled in the same monastery school when they were youths, studied under the same tutors, and was appointed as Dion’s squire at twelve years of age. After the prince’s maiming of the dragoon captain last year, Terence joined the Sanbrequois military in support of Dion despite the disdain it earned him from his peers.
For this reason and more, Dion counts Terence as a friend — his only friend since the passing of the Rosfields — and treats him as such, station be damned.
“I had a sneaking suspicion you’d be hiding in here,” Terence gently teases.
“You know I detest formal affairs.”
“I know.”
Dion watches as Terence wanders further into the room, lowering himself onto one of the high-backed armchairs placed strategically around the perimeter. They share a comfortable silence, Terence clearly waiting for Dion to speak, but happy to wait as long as necessary.
“What if it happens again?” Dion asks at last. He doesn’t need to clarify what he’s referring to.
“It won’t.”
“How can you be so sure?”
Terence doesn’t hesitate. “That’s in the past; you’re a different person now. The fact you were called to the front lines proves that.”
“No, it simply proves how desperate they are for Bahamut’s power,” Dion says, not bothering to hide his bitterness. “I am nothing except a weapon at their disposal.” He laughs flatly. “Or perhaps my dear stepmother finally convinced Father to let me die a war hero. Finally, I’ll cease to be an embarrassment to Sanbreque.”
Terence stands abruptly. “You are not an embarrassment.”
Dion does his best to smile and fails.
Joining him at the window, Terence puts a hand on Dion’s shoulder and squeezes hard. “And this time, I’ll be with you.”
There’s a flash of lightning outside. Seconds later, thunder rattles the windows; Dion finds himself grateful for the natural reprieve.
“I believe it’s time to go. I can’t afford to be late.”
Terence inclines his head, hand slipping back down to his side. “Right behind you, my liege.”
On their way to the Great Hall they need to walk past the royal nursery, the very same one Dion was raised in what seems like a lifetime ago.
They hear feminine voices as they draw near, the ornate door ajar, and Dion can’t help but slow to listen.
“Does it really matter what the little brat wears? It’s not like anyone will be looking at him.”
“I know, but Duchess Anabella will have our heads if she sees so much as a scuff on his shoes.”
An exaggerated gasp. “How dare you! That’s Empress Anabella!”
The women devolve into laughter, and Dion feels ice run through his veins from the all-too-familiar conversation. He takes a decisive step towards the nursery, ignoring Terrence’s exclamation ol concern.
All laughter ceases the moment Dion pushes the door open, and two women, a small, fair-haired child trapped between them, freeze in place, eyes widening in shock at being caught in the act.
“You should really keep your voices down,” Dion says with a smile. “What if someone important overheard you?”
They immediately begin to sputter excuses and apologies, avoiding his gaze by bowing their heads, but his attention is elsewhere. Striding into the room, he kneels at Olivier’s feet, taking great care to fix the boy’s disheveled clothing until not even a single strand is out of place.
Dion stands once he’s finished. “You’re dismissed,” he says.
“But Empress Anabella—”
“Don’t make me repeat myself.”
The women leave, nearly tripping over themselves in their rush, and Terrence remains posted at the door, watching to see what Dion will do next.
“Shall I take you to your mother?”
After a moment’s hesitation, Olivier nods. Dion hoists the boy into his arms with ease — was I this small at his age? he wonders. He tries not to think about those times.
“Brother, what’s an abomination?” Olivier asks as they make their way towards the door.
Dion stops in his tracks, heart beat quickening.
“Did someone call you an abomination?” Olivier nods. “Those women?” Another nod. Heart pounding in his chest, Dion swallows hard.
Before he has a chance to respond, lightning flashes, tossing a kaleidoscope of colors through the nursery’s stained glass windows — the thunder booms, and Olivier clings tightly to Dion, trembling with fear. In that moment, all of Dion’s anger fades away; he hugs his half-brother close.
“Don’t be afraid, little one. You know, I was called similar things at your age, but I’ve found it’s better to ignore it. A wise man once told me that everyone has a place and purpose in this world — don’t take the idle gossip of others too seriously.”
From the doorway, Terrence clears his throat. “Perhaps, His Highness should take his own advice.”
Dion laughs, conceding the point. “Perhaps I should.”
Before they leave, Dion takes one last look at the tapestry of Graegor riding Bahamut. The eikon’s eyes burn into him, full of light and promise.
Dion closes the door behind them, the latch catching with solemn finality. Beyond the palace walls, the thunder rolls, a sound that could be easily mistaken for a dragon’s roar.