The city where Ardyn was born gleamed under the winter sun, its white stone towers and arched bridges standing as a testament to Aldemire's dominance. Unlike its rival kingdoms—locked in endless border skirmishes and trade disputes—Aldemire's northern flank was secured by the impassable Ashen Peaks, giving it an unshakable stronghold. The royal banners, embroidered with silver wolves, fluttered proudly over a city that had never known siege or surrender.
Yet, for all its grandeur, Nachtspire still had its quirks. The canals never froze, thanks to some long-forgotten engineering marvel. The streetlamps burned with moonflame, a soft silver glow that never dimmed. And, of course, there was Therion Duskbane—currently attempting to balance on a market stall awning while chewing on a stolen apple.
The Reckoning
Ardyn crossed his arms. "You're going to fall."
Therion scoffed. "I don't fall. I strategically reposition."
With that, he let himself tilt backward—
—and vanished mid-air.
A second later, he reappeared beside Ardyn, grinning. "See? Flawless."
Ardyn wasn't laughing. He grabbed Therion's wrist, turning it to the light. Thin silver scars pulsed faintly under his skin, like cracks in glass. "You're getting worse."
Therion yanked his arm back. "It's fine. I've got a plan."
"A plan? You forget your own name half the time!"
"Yeah, well, names are overrated." Therion tossed the apple core into the canal. "But I've been thinking—if the Covenant takes pieces of me every time I jump, what if I take them back?"
Ardyn blinked. "…What?"
Therion's grin turned sharp. "I've been practicing. Every time I jump, I focus on a memory—something solid. A place. A face. A feeling. And I don't just leave it behind. I anchor it. So when I jump again, I can pull the pieces back."
Ardyn stared at him. "That's insane."
"Or genius."
"Or suicidal."
Therion shrugged. "Either way, it's working. Mostly."
A gust of wind sent a shiver down Ardyn's spine. Somewhere out there, beyond the mountains, he wondered what Lyria would say about this. If she'd laugh or call them both idiots.
Then Ardyn, flicked Therion's forehead. "Next time you 'strategically reposition,' warn me first."
Therion's laugh echoed through the square, bright and unburdened. As if the cracks in his soul were nothing.
As if he wasn't slowly coming undone.
The sun had long since dipped behind the Ashen Peaks, leaving the city bathed in the silver glow of moonflame lanterns. Ardyn leaned against the railing of the Moonbridge, watching the reflections dance on the dark water below. Beside him, Therion balanced precariously on the stone ledge, kicking his heels against the weathered granite.
A comfortable silence stretched between them—until Ardyn finally spoke.
"Just how much Aetherian does it take," he asked quietly, "to keep recalling yourself like that?"
Therion stilled, his boots pausing mid-swing. For a moment, the only sound was the distant laughter drifting up from a riverside tavern.
Then he grinned. "Enough to make the Covenant sweat."
Ardyn shot him a look.
Therion sighed, relenting. He held up his hand, turning it slowly in the lantern light. The silver scars along his wrist pulsed faintly, like veins of liquid starlight. "You know how they say Aetherian is in everything? The air, the stones, even the damn water we drink?"
Ardyn nodded.
"Well, for most people, it just... sits there. Like rainwater in a barrel. But for Covenant users—" He flicked his fingers, vanishing for a heartbeat before reappearing an inch to the left. "—it's more like a river. Flows through us, but we can't hold onto it. Not really."
He tapped his chest. "Every time I jump, I carve out a little piece of myself to pay the toll. But the Aetherian?" His lips quirked. "That's the fuel. The more I use, the more I need. And the more I need..."
"The more you lose," Ardyn finished softly.
Therion's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Bingo."
Somewhere in the city, a clocktower chimed. The sound hung between them, heavy with unspoken questions.
Ardyn looked down at his own hands—steady for now, but always one step away from failing. "And me?"
Therion's grin returned, sharp and familiar. "You, princess, are the rarest kind of bastard." He nudged Ardyn's shoulder. "Born with a cup that won't hold a damn drop."
The laugh that escaped Ardyn was half bitterness, half relief. Of course. Of course he'd be the exception.
Above them, the stars burned cold and distant—watching, waiting.
As if they knew something the boys didn't.