OF

ASHES
AND
FALLEN
EMPIRES
1
 The story does not truly start here.

No fairytales ever do– no, stories like these

often begin in simpler places. Simpler
stories, ones that belong to the people and
not the kings. Stories that are told around
campfires, told around the butter churn, and
whispered around hearths. Stories told to
children as they’re tucked into bed, gentle
warm hands soothing their brows and
speaking with low tones as they relay the
stories of grandeur and magic. Fairytales are
often piled upon– one magic spell becomes
two. A mother changes the prince’s name to
2
 her own dear son. Jacob was once told
stories like these.

arc I.
the greatest glory is not in never falling
The dais is cold under his feet, the throne behind him toppled over with the force of the fight.

In front of him are two men– one tall, dark hair tied up neatly on the back of his head, helmet
under his arm. The other bears a crown, covered in glittering stones that are surely priceless.
They’re both wearing armor, stained red with the blood of good men, and Jacob seethes in his
position.

“Lay your weapons down,” he demands, voice shaky and echoing in the hall. Around them are
bodies– guards he once knew by name each, now only smears on the floor at the feet of gods.

Not gods, he reminds himself, staring the emperor of the Antarctic Empire in the eyes. Just men.
Men that can be defeated.

“He’s so young,” says the dark-haired man, the one and only General Peregrine. Jacob’s seen
him once or twice in person, when he was very very little. Only in picture books since then. He’s
not addressing Jacob- his head is turned to the side, gaze flicking onto the emperor and a wry
expression on his face. “When they said boy king, I didn’t think they’d mean infant.”

“I am not an infant,” Jacob hisses out, fists clenching at his sides. He has the urge to stalk out
and punch the man as hard as he possibly can, so much anger brewing in his gut, but by the gods,
they have swords, and he does not. “I am King Jacob, and you must lay your weapons down–”

3
“Your men have abandoned you,” General Peregrine says, snapping his eyes back at Jacob and
making him stiffen in surprise. His irises are red, terrifyingly so. “Your advisors are gone or
dead, the guards slaughtered or captured. You stand alone in front of a tipped-over throne and
bearing no crown. You are not the king of anything.”

“I am king,” Jacob insists, because he is, because he inherited this kingdom as a baby and he has
grown up here and he has loved here and Julian had told him many times, every night of his life
that this is his birthright. “This is my kingdom, and you will lay your weapons down.”

General Peregrine hefts his sword higher with one hand, fingers gripping the hilt despite the slick
blood staining the leather. “You are in no place to make demands, child–”

“Alan,” the emperor murmurs, voice echoing out among the high quartz arches, the hall that
Jacob has played in and governed in for fourteen years. Where Julian had brought him food over
late-night strategy meetings and Lili had shown him how to cast a fire rune and Bella had tended
to the plants lining the rim of the room. All the plants are dead now, Jacob notes. Wonderful.
The emperor reaches out, placing a hand onto the general’s arm and lowering it with a gentle
nudge, a careful push. “Enough. We’ve won. He knows that.”

“I am King Jacob,” says again, eyes darting around the room. The plants are dead. The banners
are ripped, and the men lie dead at his feet. Julian is nowhere in sight. Lili is gone, Bella is–
somewhere. His castle is being overrun and he is stuck here in the epicenter. This is the eye of
his storm, staring down an emperor who has caused him so much stress in the past five years. His
voice pitches high. “I am king, and you will lay your weapons down–”

He is not crying. He’s a monarch.

“Peregrine,” the emperor is saying again, “he’s a child–”

“He’s a monster–”

“That’s what they said about you, too–”

4
Voices, floating over his head and discussing him in a tone that means he should be paying
attention, but it’s very hard to do so when he’s sucking in breath after breath of panicky air and
shuddering through something akin to the Red Cough, a respiratory sickness that had ravaged
their kingdom when Jacob was six. It takes a moment, but he manages to center himself, catch
his breath, hold back any remaining tears. (He’s already spilt plenty.)

Emperor Gaunt is staring him down from across the room, blue eyes as cold as the ice that comes
from his kingdom. Calculating, evaluating. Jacob is brutally alone at the pinpoint of his gaze, and
he feels it in his very soul.

“The city has been taken,” the emperor says, not without kindness. “The castle is breached, and
the throne room half destroyed. You have two choices here, my young lord. Surrender and come
peacefully or die on your overturned throne.”

Jacob is a king. He was raised to lead, and he does it well. He knows he does. There’s evidence
of it in the lands surrounding his capital, in the happiness of his citizens, in the proud gleam of
Lili’s eyes. But he’s also a child afraid to die.

He goes willingly in the end, hands out and palms up, and the kingdom of the Eastaughfee falls.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
The story does not truly start there.

No fairytales ever do– no, stories like these often begin in simpler places. Simpler stories, ones
that belong to the people and not the kings. Stories that are told around campfires, told around
the butter churn, and whispered around hearths. Stories told to children as they’re tucked into
bed, gentle warm hands soothing their brows and speaking with low tones as they relay the
stories of grandeur and magic. Fairytales are often piled upon– one magic spell becomes two. A
mother changes the prince’s name to her own dear son. Jacob was once told stories like these.

He can remember long, sleepless nights when he was little. Nights when the stars would drag on
forever, when the moon hung in the sky past it’s welcome. He’d crawl out of bed then, feet cool
on the marble floors of his home. Most of all he can remember the curtains; they were great tall

5
shimmering things made of fairy-wing gossamer, and they would billow in the nighttime breeze
as he padded his way down the hall and to another room. A room with a shining golden handle
and carved oak doors to match his own, the moonlight gleaming against the floors and walls.
Sometimes, the light had been enough to see by. Others, Jacob would light a candle and let that
guide his way.

The door would creak open. He’d slip inside, latching it shut once more, and then make his way
to the bed across the room. When the monsoon seasons were abounded, he’d make sure the
windows were shut tight and then crawl into bed. Like clockwork, the sheets would be lifted, and
Jacobtucked under a warm arm.

“Tell me a story,” he’d plead, and Adalla would sigh, and begin a tale.

There were repeats. Of course, there were– for all the stories Adalla came up with or knew,
Jacob came searching for double or triple that. But they all often played out in a similar tune.

A bad man would come and take something from the hero. Sometimes the hero was a lost
princess, or a man taking his cabbages to market, or a soldier who’s loved ones were slaughtered.
Sometimes the hero was a young king. Sometimes, the hero shared Jacob’s own name. Adalla’s
voice would be husky from sleep and yet she’d still whisper her way through a plot, describing in
detail the golden blond of the princess’ hair or the way the cabbages rolled off the man’s cart and
into the mud. Though the cast of characters changed, each story played out the same: the hero
would face a challenge, and then fight back against their villain. Victory was always on the side
of the beloved protagonist– little Jacob would cheer and hush himself at Adalla’s insistence, eyes
wide in the dark and curled up under sinfully soft sheets. The heroes always won, even if the
journey there had been difficult.

He’s choosing to believe his story has only just begun. There is no way his story ends now– not
when a villain has just come and swept his whole world out from under his feet.

The horse beneath him clips across the square, footsteps uneven, and Jacob nearly pitches right
off the side. He probably wouldn’t even complain if he did– considering his hands are tied
together at the moment, it’s not exactly his fault that he can’t hold on as they ride. He can try,
fingers grasping at the reins as though his horse is not being led by the one in front of him. He
can see the back of the emperor’s head– dark hair, helmet still tucked away. It’s so easy to
imagine an arrow notched in a bow, imagine his shot being straight and true. The red that would

6
spill from the wound. Just as red as Jacob’s blood, as the lifeline keeping them all together and
human. There’s a cut on his forearm, the edges of his shirt stained red, and a wound clogged with
dried blood and sweat. It probably needs to be tended to, but he’s a little busy being kidnapped
and escorted out of his own kingdom at the moment. He tears his eyes away from the spot on his
arm and looks around.

Stivale is a brilliant city. Limestone from the southern quarries built it up long ago, back in days
that Jacob has only read about. The streets are cobbled and worn, a system of sewers and
waterways connecting the entire stretch of city. Houses lean against each other, some of them
stacked like blocks, others stretching long and low. Jacob has poured over maps of this city ever
since he was a baby, studying the lines of its architecture and tracing chubby fingers along the
creases of its livelihood.

Normally, the streets would bustle with people. Markets would stretch down long streets, people
flitting this way and that. Stalls with their colorful banners and tents dyed with every shade you
could think of. Businesses would run, children would laugh, and the streets would be filled with
the sounds of life going on. Jacob is nostalgic for it now– now, when the air is cold and stale,
when the only sounds are those of shutters pulling inwards, or the march of men on foot as they
go door-to-door and pronounce the city as fallen.

Stivale is anything but fallen, Jacob thinks stubbornly as he glances around. He catches the
glimpse of small hands on a windowsill before they’re snatched away, and a curtain drawn over
the hole. It has simply receded– a turtle pulling its head into its shell, where the air is warm and
safe and there is no need to worry about the chill that soldiers and kings bring with them.

The flags of the Antarctic Empire are everywhere. Cobalt blue with a shining chrysanthemum
plastered in the middle, proudly displayed over every street corner. Soldiers in fatigues meant for
colder winters up north crowd around them, mostly celebrating amongst themselves as they
gather. Occasionally, they pass a pile of corpses being loaded onto wagons. The bodies are
mostly golden– Jacob forces himself to stare as they pass by. Those are his people they
slaughtered; he reminds himself. Lili’s voice echoes– and it is your fault.

Once and a while, there is a mix of blue against the gold. It’s vengeful and awful, but Jacob can’t
help but be slightly satisfied that someone got a good hit against the enemy.

7
“Your Highness,” someone says, and there’s the patter of boots on cobble and then a messenger
is up by the emperor’s side. Jacob watches. “Most of the city is subdued, save for some holds in
the palace’s innards. They await your council.”

“Tell the lords to meet us at the campsite,” the emperor says without hardly a thought. “I need to
get some things secured before we have a meeting. Let Lucianne know I want men posted at
every third street corner for now– at least two.”

“Yes, your highness,” the messenger replies, ducking their head low. Smiling. They’re all
smiling. At Jacob’s misfortune, at the suffering of his world. “Praise saints.”

“Prime be with you,” the emperor says, and then waves his hand and the messenger disappears
into the streets once more. Jacob watches, eyes trailing the stones that make up the
interconnected roads of his home.

He’s left Stivale before. He’s gone to the seaside, spent time in other kingdoms, and had
delegations in outer-rim towns. But he’s never done so as a prisoner. They’re approaching the
main gate now. He can see the shape of it looming over the tops of buildings in the distance,
maybe five or six blocks away. Carvings litter the top and sides of the archway, and Jacob
squints in order to see his favorite. A lady, her head bent in prayer, a shawl wrapped around her
shoulders as she presses her fists to her shoulders. He can’t see her face from this far away, but
he knows from a hundred times before what she looks like. Weathered by rainfall, her lips
pursed, nose a little cracked. If Jacob really squints, she nearly looks like him.

With care not to fall off his horse, he brings his bound hands firmly up to his chest and mimics
her pose. Praying isn’t any good in wartime, Adalla’s told him that a thousand times over.

But…

They’ve lost now, haven’t they?

“Marvolo,” someone says, interrupting his flow of thought. He brings his hands down abruptly–
the horse underneath him lurches and he nearly topples off once more onto the dusty roads that
still smell faintly of iron. He risks a glance over his shoulder– behind him, General Peregrine’s

8
eyes are ahead on the road, or perhaps the chrysanthemum on the back of the emperor’s cloak.
“The gate. Should we not go around?”

Jacob knows a thousand ways out of this city. He almost offers up a few.

“No,” Emperor Gaunt says, not turning to look behind at either of them. “We’ll go out the way
we came in.”

“If you say so.” If Jacob had to guess better, the general sounds grumpy. He doesn’t bother to
tease. He doesn’t dare. It takes him a few moments to process why exactly Marvolo wants them
to exit through the main gate.

Ahead of them, a crowd of people is gathering. Women, children, any men left in the capitol.
The remaining guardsmen from the central palace. Jacob’s face burns.

After an eon of silence, he finally speaks up. “Not this,” he says quietly as the horses plod
onwards. His voice cracks, and he hates it. “Please.” Not this shame, his people, looking upon
him as he rides away a prisoner.

General Peregrine’s voice is steady when he asks: “Would you rather a bag over your head? I’m
sure they’d still recognize you from your finery alone. But you wouldn’t have to look them in the
eyes.” It’s clear from his tone that he thinks it’s a cowardly move– the emperor is scoffing ahead
of them, and Jacob’s cheeks feel like they’re on fire. He’s sure his face is bright red, ears even
more so, and ahead of them the people start to turn and look.

“Fuck off,” he says quietly, straightening his back a tad, keeping his eyes forward. A bag would
be humiliating and worse, claustrophobic. As the horse lurches underneath him and they keep
moving forwards, people begin to gasp and whisper. Then louder, they talk. They shout. At one
point, things began to be thrown.

Jacob just lifts his head high, fingers clutching the tack until his knuckles go white. He pretends
the words he can hear don’t sting.

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 ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“I will not lie down like a dog,” Jacob spits. The tent around them is lavish. He refuses to look
away from the men who brought him inside. He’s exhausted. His knees wobble. General
Peregrine is surveying him with a glacial grace, then swoops down to look at him, eye-to-eye.

“Woof.” Peregrine’s face is close enough to his that he can feel the hot breath on his cheeks, his
nose, and it makes him scrunch his nose. The insinuation that is being made makes Jacob want to
scream in anger. His vision blurs out into red; he doesn’t see the way The Emperor’s face
smooths over in mild irritation behind the General’s head.

“Alan,” the older man says, lilting and easy, hiding his true annoyance. “Don’t antagonize.”

“Why not?” The General turns, sending a glare towards his Majesty that only the inner circle of
royalty is allowed to. “He’s killed more of his people than we have. He deserves to feel a bit of
shame.”

“Has he not felt enough?” Marvolo asks, eyes narrowing. The anger in Jacob’s gut is fading a bit,
replaced by confusion. “We paraded him out of the city like a prized steed, a war conquest, a
prisoner made of gold. That is enough shame to send most men to their knees. He has come to us
like a dog to heel–” and then is when Jacob catches the eye of the emperor, the way the light
catches the blue and turns the sky into ice– “and that is surely enough for today.”

“I am not a dog,” Jacob reiterates, clutching his fingers behind his back in a desperate effort to
keep his hands to himself.

“Hush, pup,” Peregrine says without removing his gaze from the emperor. They seem to have a
silent battle, a language Jacob is not fluent in, and he’s forced to wait in simmering rage as the
two finally come to an agreement. Peregrine ducks his head– Marvolo brings his higher, and
steps forward as the General moves back.

“Come along,” Marvolo says, gesturing with one hand. Jacob stays where he is as the emperor
brushes past, blue finery coarse against Jacob’s own silks. He still refuses to move, staring ahead

10
at the tent wall like perhaps he can burn a hole through it and run out into the sun. He is not a
dog. He is not a dog.

“Child,” the emperor says. He doesn’t touch him– good thing, because Jacob doesn’t trust
himself not to bite. But he can feel his presence nonetheless, a hovering giant above his left
shoulder, the kiss of air against his skin as someone exists in the space behind his own.

“I am not a child,” Jacob says fiercely. The General laughs, ducking his head down in order to
pull his cloak off and drape it across the war table, scattering a few chessboard pieces.

“Alan,” the emperor scolds, then his voice gets louder as he turns his attention back to Jacob.
“Jacob. You must be tired, and hungry. You are a prisoner, but an important one, and I will not
suffer someone your age to be mistreated under my care. Come along.”

This is a test.

Jacob sticks his feet into the muddy grass mats and refuses to move.

His story, his legacy, is not that of a dog’s. He will not heel.

Marvolo pauses once more, and Jacob watches Peregrine as his eyes track the emperor over his
shoulder. After a moment of stalemate, there’s a quiet sigh.

“It is either come with me or stay where you are all night, pup,” Peregrine says. Jacob wrinkles
his nose at the nickname– but still, refuses to move.

“Let him be,” Marvolo says. There’s the rustle of tent fabric behind him; senses heightened; he
feels like his veins are filled with fire. Prime, he thinks quietly to himself, holding his head high
and still, refusing to move, help me get through this.

“I’ll stay,” Peregrine offers. “Keep an eye on him. Go rest, old man.”

11
“Respect your elders,” the emperor shoots back. The simple act of comradery and familiarity
behind them makes Jacob want to shout again. How can they be so casual when he’s standing
between them, vibrating with anger and disgrace? How can they bicker like old friends when
he’s right there? It seems wrong, but Jacob isn’t in a position to question right now.

The tent rustles, and then the overbearing presence of the emperor is gone and it’s just the
general and the child king.

Jacob watches as Peregrine stands there for a moment, hands braced on the table and eyes
focused on a spot just over his shoulder and then, shifts to Jacob himself. Eyes locked, black
versus blue, Jacob watches as the General glances him over and then pushes up off the table.

He braces as the man walks over.

Prepared to take a hit, Jacob finally lowers his head. There’s a huff above him– Peregrine towers
over him, with the cloak gone it’s just his chest plate to see, enchantments humming louder and
louder as he approaches.

Contrary to Jacob’s expectation, the general doesn’t raise a hand against him– or he does. But as
Jacob flinches, the hand coming up doesn’t strike. Instead, it rests on top of Jacob’s head, a
warm weight, fingers sinking into the fluff of his hair. It hits him then– he is no longer wearing
his crown.

He can’t remember when it came off.

“If you’re staying here,” the general says, voice low, “then you will stay exactly there. Horses
sleep standing. No reason you can’t as well.”

“I’m not a fucking horse,” Jacob says then, a bit of bravery racing through him. “Stop comparing
me to animals. Besides, I’m not tired.”

He tilts his head up, and above him, the general is smiling.

12
“Very well then,” he says, and then the hand on Jacob’s head is gone and the general turns, once
again turning his back on Jacob. He could fight now– but this is Peregrine, one of the favored
warriors of the Blood God, and there’s no way Jacob would be able to run or fight. If he tried–
well, he doesn’t want to think about the potential punishment.

“Screw you,” Jacob says quietly, and then a bit louder as his courage seeps back: “Fuck you. I
hate you.”

The general glances over his shoulder, one hand hesitating on his cloak as he gathers it up in his
hands.

“You’re allowed,” Peregrine says, “to hate us.”

Jacob doesn’t dare step forward and follow him to the table, around the room, even as Peregrine
flits around and slips his cloak onto a rack, unclips various weaponry from his hip. It’s only once
he’s placed those down does Jacob actually give the tent a once-over, studying the space around
him.

For a war room, it’s… comfortable. Rugs litter the floor haphazardly, not entirely covering the
beaten-down grass but enough to make it bearable to stand on. The long table stretches out
before Jacob, the chessboard pieces of battlefield markers now scattered from where Peregrine
had disturbed them. The tent walls are traditional canvas– outside, he can hear the sounds of a
camp going about its business. An enemy camp, but a camp, nonetheless. He can hear horses,
smell fires, the strong scent of coffee–

Oh, no. That’s coming from inside the tent, across from him as Peregrine pours himself a drink
out of a steaming mug. Jacob’s not a fan of coffee himself– he watches as Peregrine tips his head
back and swallows it black, before sitting himself in one of the large wooden chairs and leaning
back against its carved head. There’s a book halfway down the table. Peregrine reaches for it,
snags it, and then opens it in front of him.

Silence, but for the sound of humanity around them and the shuffle of pages as the Blood God’s
warrior reads.

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Jacob feels sick to his stomach.

It’s all settling in now, as he stands here and watches one of his most dangerous enemies read a
book like he’s on a fucking vacation. Jacob’s home has been cut down by the most merciless of
people. His country, his people– he’d failed them. He’d given up, in the end, and now he’s
standing here like a servant as he watches his captor’s gloat. Lili must be coming for me, he
thinks, as heavy stones settle in his gut. He must be. There is no other option– Lili got away so
she could come back and rescue Jacob when the time was right. He wouldn’t have just left him
to the mercy of these monsters, would he? Absolutely not. Jacob steels himself in that resolve.
Lili, his friend, his advisor, his sister– she would not have left him.

He has to be steady now, waiting. Patient. The time will come. His stomach roils and the scent of
coffee is stronger now, making him want to throw up. He can see the mug Peregrine is holding,
dark brown glaze over terra cotta pottery. His vision tunnels.

The time will come.

Jacob’s knees buckle, and he is unconscious before he hits the floor.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

It’s strange, waking up. It happens all at once.

He takes a minute to settle. His chest is still rising and falling slowly, giving the illusion of sleep.
Pillows lie soft under his cheek and fingers, and he curls his legs up towards an uneasy stomach
and hums to himself, a comfort. They smell like pine and amaranth, not– lavender. Not like
normal. His breathing picks up a bit, and then he takes a moment to push himself up. Pillows
cascade to the side and something warm and heavy slips off of him– a blanket, crumpling to his
waist as he squints and peers around the room.

He’s still in a tent. That’s good, but also not. Good because he’s not in jail, and his hands are no
longer tied together. Bad because he’s not in the palace, not in the city, and it seems like it’s
nighttime from what little light he can see beyond the tent walls. Canvas flaps distantly, and
there’s the crackle of fire. He turns his head and snags the candle that’s sitting on a desk nearby,

14
feet silent as he pads onto the ground. His shoes are gone; nowhere to be found when he scours
the small area, bare toes poking into the wild grass and dirt that’s been tamped down over time.

The siege had taken longer than Jacob had thought possible. Endless days and nights without
rest, trying to find a solution that did not end in a defeat. Three of them in a row, with Lili beside
him the whole time.

Lili. His chest pains at the very thought of his advisor, his sister. He’d lost her in the battle. He
wonders if she’s okay, if she’s alive. Perhaps another prisoner of war. Jacob knows she’s smart
enough to avoid traps if she's careful.

Jacob hadn’t been smart enough. He’d wandered his way through a deserted palace into a throne
room laden with doom. He resists the urge to slap his own head in hindsight. What’s done is
done– Jacob knows he’s got to get out of this damned war camp before morning comes, before
someone realizes he’s gone. They don’t think he’s a threat; he’s going to take that as an
advantage while he can. Because Jacob knows one thing and that is this: if you’re alive and
breathing, you’re a threat. No matter the stature of a person or their mental capabilities, anyone
can be dangerous. Emperor Marvolo has a lot to learn, Jacob muses as he sets down the candle
he’d picked up in favor of getting on his hands and knees to peer under the cot he’d woken up
on. He’s still looking for his shoes. Dumbass.

There’s a murmur of voices outside– Jacob is up in an instant, glancing around the room for
anything that could be a weapon. There’s not much; this is a bedroom, not the strategy area he’d
been in before with the General and Emperor. This isn’t a place made for violence and loss, it’s
just a place to rest.

There are blankets.

Jacob doesn’t hesitate. The fabric tears easily under his shaking fingers, picking at threads and
seams until the decorative lining rips off in his hands. He wraps it around one hand, staring down
at the dark blue of the Empire, and steels his nerve. Ligature is better than nothing.

There. He is no longer unarmed. Something in him settles, creeping to the side of the tent and
straining to listen.

15
“–not a sign,” someone is saying. Jacob bites the inside of his cheek and doesn’t breathe. “Not to
be brash, your Majesty, but are sure it was smart to take him as-is?”

“Speak freely, Lucianne.” That’s the Emperor’s voice no doubt. Tired but alert. Jacob hears the
ruffle of canvas and the voices grow just the slightest bit clearer. “It’s fine. Alan’s here, see?”

“Hullo.” The General’s voice is lower, less alert. “Lucianne.”

“Alan.”

“How’s it been?” Marvolo asks.

“Kid passed out a few hours ago. Come down from the stress, I think. He’s in the back.”

The emperor sighs. Jacob grits his teeth. “Poor thing.”

The one they were calling Lucianne before snorts– laughter. Jacob blinks. “He’s the enemy,
Marvolo. Not some street orphan for you to pity.”

“He looks the part of street orphan.” Something rattles, and there’s the splash of liquid as the
smell of coffee becomes the slightest bit stronger. Jacob scans the room around him, especially
the walls. There are people in the next room over– the only thing between him and them are
some thin, blanket-like fabric walls. He’s not going out the front. He scans the ground and where
the canvas tent meets the earth, looking for any place that isn’t taut. He’s small enough– it might
be worth it to creep out of the bottom of the tent and just run until someone notices he’s missing.
There’s a bit next to the cot he was sleeping on that seems looser than the rest– Jacob shuffles
over, making sure to walk an even heel-to-toe in order to stay silent as a conversation is held in
the space six feet to his left. “Thing is as skinny as a bird. I’m sure he’s been cooped up in that
palace of theirs for ages now.”

“Exactly,” Marvolo says with a sigh. More rustling– people are sitting down, Jacob thinks, as his
fingers scrabble against the canvas and dirt in order to try and get a grip. “It’s a bit unorthodox,

16
but he’s what? Fourteen? Born the same year of the Cataclysm, you’ve heard the rumors. I’m not
killing a kid.”

“He reminds you of Tom, doesn’t he?”

“Shut up, Lucianne.” It’s a taunt. The voice dubbed Lucianne only laughs in response. “Who’s in
charge here, again?”

“Sorry, your highness,” Lucianne says with another snort-laugh. Jacob scowls. Dumb idiots.
Motherfuckers. It may be unbecoming to cuss out people in his head, but it’s better than the
alternative of doing it aloud. “I’ll be sure to watch my tone. Now–” a shift in his voice, the clatter
of a mug against wood. “–the city’s under control. People are under curfew for now, until we
have secured the lockdown. Sunset. The palace has been taken completely. Any dissenters are
currently in the palace jail. A few guards, some advisors.”

Jacob grits his teeth and pulls on the canvas a bit harder. There’s give, but not enough for him to
slip out from under it. He trails a hand along the underside of it, searching for the point where a
stake drives through, and finally, he’s got his hands on it. A solid pull does nothing. Another
hardly makes it shift. When he runs a hand alongside the top of the spike, magic sparks at his
fingertips and an engraving dip under the pads of his fingers. Dammit.

“Thank you,” Marvolo says with a hum. “We’re going to pack up tomorrow, I think.”

“So quick to get out of the capital, hm?”

“We need to get up north before the winter freezes over Osprey’s Lake,” Peregrine cuts in, his
voice still low and raspy. Jacobgrimaces to himself, opening and closing his mouth in an
approximate yet mocking version of Peregrine’s speech as he keeps talking. “Otherwise, we’d be
forced to take the northern pass and that would take ages.”

“...you’ll be staying here,” Marvolo says after a moment of silence. Jacob holds his breath,
staring stubbornly at the stake still lodged in the ground. He lets out a huff of breath, pushing
himself once more to his feet and staggering slightly as the blood rushes to his head. “You, a few

17
others, I’ll draft the agreements tonight. Since the young king is coming with us, negotiations can
be had properly when we get to Raven’s Flight.”

Jacob freezes.

He’d put the idea of traveling north out of his mind for the moment– it’s too painful for him to
want to confront it. He doesn’t want to be ripped from his homeland, and yet here he is, in the
enemy’s tent with a ripped blanket as a weapon to defend himself and eavesdropping on plans to
ship him up north. North, to Raven’s Flight.

To the Empire’s capital city, where all hopes of escape fly out the window as if they were birds
themselves.

“Lucianne, you’ll be in charge, I think,” the emperor is saying, oblivious to Jacob’s panic one
room over. “Handling things here– keep the camp up with the soldiers but move a base of
operations to Stivale’s palace–” And Jacob is spiraling again, as he stands and listens to the
emperor instruct one of his men to truly invade the last safe place. His home.

He’s so out of it, he doesn’t notice that Peregrine has gone quiet. Too quiet. There’s a rustle of
fabric, and then light pours in as the blanket serving as a doorway is pulled back. Jacob blinks in
the sudden rush of lamplight and voices– the blanket in his hand has gone slack, but he’s quick
to tighten it once more.

“Brat’s up,” General Peregrine says gruffly. There’s a moment where everything is frozen–
Jacob, caught in the gaze of the three like a startled fawn, Marvolo half out of his seat, Peregrine
pushing aside fabric–

And then Jacob’s gritting his teeth and taking his chances and bolting. He refuses to be brought
north; he refuses to just give up so easily. He books it, toes digging into the soil as he heads left
and then feints right– and is pleasantly surprised when the general falls for it. He delights in the
surprised expression on the older man, weaving his way to the left and ducking under the
blankets and fabrics in a sure-footed manner. This is not the first time Jacob has had to run and
duck and weave. Never more has his life depended on it.

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The emperor is already at the doorway of the tent, hand thrown out wide to stop him. Behind
him, Peregrine is wheeling around on his heels and the other– Lucianne, now revealed to be a
woman with brown hair and it’s not important, none of that is important because Jacob is diving
beneath the table and bumping his way around chairs and then coming out the other side.
Someone’s shouting– his name, thrown out into the wind. A candle is knocked over, and a foot
stomps out the flames. Jacob whirls around and knocks a coffee mug onto the floor, the contents
seeping into the earth as the shards spill out across the mats. Marvolo is shouting still– Lucianne
is as well, and Jacob pays neither of them mind.

He’s got the blanket in hand, ripped into a long stretch of gaudy blue. He winds it around one
hand, pulls it taut with the other, and then launches himself at the emperor.

None of them were expecting him to. Of course, not– but Jacob knows he’s not getting out of
this without a fight. He’s at least going to leave bruises if he can. The blue loops around the
emperor’s neck in a flash and they both tumble to the ground, Jacob shouting wordlessly as
someone yells and guards pour in through the door–

He’s knocked off the emperor before he ever gets the chance to really show him his teeth. The
man is left gasping as Jacob is knocked to the floor, hands on every inch of him as he’s pressed
into the dirt, into the shards of ceramic he’d knocked over only seconds ago. General Peregrine is
barking out orders, one hand on Marvolo’s shoulder as he helps him to his feet, and the rest of
the faces and voices blur together.

Jacob’s cheek hurts. They rip the makeshift weapon from his fingers.

“Enough,” Marvolo is saying, pushing Peregrine’s hands off his shoulders and waving a hand.
Jacob can only catch glimpses from where he’s being held into the dirt, but he bares his teeth
anyways and hopes to Prime that’s shown them. He’s not a force to be trifled with. Boots come
into his vision, and a moment later General Peregrine is peering down at him.

“Let up a bit,” he orders roughly, and the hand on the back of Jacob’s neck vanishes. He lifts his
head and glares– Peregrine glares right back.

“Impudent child,” he spits. Jacob pauses, gathers up the spittle in his mouth, and then sends it
flying.

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General Peregrine lifts a hand and wipes the reddish-tinged spit from his cheek with a scowl.

“Alan.” The emperor is once again in view– a hand on the general’s shoulder and eyes on Jacob.
Icy, blue, quite the opposite of his voice. “I’m alright.”

“He tried to strangle you, Marvolo–”

“And hardly succeeded. I’ll just bruise.” The emperor ghosts a gloved hand over his neck, still
looking down at Jacob. He bares his teeth. That’ll show this motherfucker. If he wants to treat
him like a dog, then dammit, he’ll act like one.

“Not even worthy of being called a king,” Peregrine says with vicious cruelty, and a tiny, tiny
part of Jacob wilts.

“Fuck you,” he says harshly, wincing at the way the words pull at his cut cheek. “Fuck you, fuck
your empire, fuck everything you stand for. Monsters. You’re all monsters.”

“We’re all monsters in someone else’s eyes,” Marvolo says evenly, and he takes Peregrine’s
place, crouching in Jacob’s eyeline. He studies him, and Jacob wriggles stubbornly. He won’t be
kept down like this. He won’t.

“We should sedate him,” someone says, behind Jacob where he can’t see. “Just until morning. I
can call a runekeeper over here.”

“I really don’t think we need to,” Marvolo says, glancing up and over Jacob’s head. “There’s no
way he’s getting out of this camp–”

“Doesn’t mean I won’t try, bitch,” Jacob immediately bites out. His whole body has turned to
slush. He’s never been in the icehouse– only the cooks and kitchen staff were allowed. But he’s
swum in the ocean, felt the cold tides wash over his body more than once. Like the rushing
water, chill is poured down his spine at the mention of someone putting him to sleep. His mouth
moves before he can think about it, fuelled by panic. “I won’t stop. I won’t. Not until you’re all

20
dead and I’m back in my goddamn palace and the empire is dust. Dust. Fuck you. Fuck you , and
all your men, and I hope mine killed as many as they could before you slaughtered them like the
monsters you are.”

Marvolo’s eyes are a startlingly similar shade, all of a sudden, to Jacob’s own. He didn’t clock
that until now. Lili always said his eyes were like the dark grounds. Marvolo is more akin to a
glacier.

He looks away, once again over Jacob’s head.

“Get a runekeeper,” he says, and Jacob starts to shriek, thrashing against the guards restraining
him as panic takes hold. “And tell them to bring some healing.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

In the end, Jacob never gets to watch Stivale disappear into the distance behind them. There is no
moment when he is able to stick his head out of the carriage door and lay eyes on his city for a
final time. No poetic words for when the golden domes of his home disappear into the mist, no
laments for what could have been. The interior of the royal carriage is shades of white and blue,
intricate painted designs catching Jacob’s eye as he sleepily stares at the ceiling. The carriage
hits a rut in the road– they jolt, and for a moment he has a view outside of the window, and then
he’s back in his seat and staring at the ceiling once more as magic settles his nerves. Behind
them, the walls of Stivale fade.

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