Training Grounds - Earlier That Day
The wooden practice sword clattered to the cobblestones as Ardyn's grip failed. His arms shook violently, the simple act of holding the weapon suddenly impossible. Across from him, Therion lowered his blade, his smirk fading.
"Oi. You're white as a ghost."
Ardyn clenched his teeth. "I'm fine." He reached for the sword—
—and the world tilted.
The Collapse
The first thing Ardyn registered was the taste of iron.
Then the cobblestones, cold against his cheek.
Above him, the sky of Nachtspire wheeled—a dizzying swirl of witchlight and winter clouds. His fingers twitched, numb and unresponsive. The episode had come on faster this time. One moment he'd been arguing with Therion about his latest idiotic jump, the next—
"Hey. Eyes on me, princess."
Therion's face swam into view, his usual smirk replaced by something tense. His hands—usually so careless—cradled Ardyn's head with surprising gentleness, tilting it back onto his rolled-up coat.
"Breathe," he ordered.
Ardyn tried to snark back, but his tongue was lead. His vision pulsed black at the edges.
Therion's fingers pressed against his wrist, checking his pulse. "Yeah, yeah, 'I'm fine,' blah blah." His voice was light, but his grip was too tight. "You're about as fine as a one-legged stool."
Somewhere distant, footsteps approached. Therion's head snapped up, his body shifting to block Ardyn from view. "Back off," he growled—not to Ardyn, but to the gathering crowd.
A beat. Then the shuffling of retreating boots.
Ardyn's chest ached. Not from the episode, but from the realization: Therion had just protected him.
The boy who forgot his own birthday remembered exactly what to do when Ardyn collapsed.
The Aftermath
Therion half-carried, half-dragged him to a secluded alley behind the bakery, where the scent of burnt sugar masked the metallic tang still clinging to Ardyn's mouth.
"Here." Therion shoved a flask into his hands. "Drink."
Ardyn took a cautious sip—then coughed. "This is whiskey."
"And?"
"I'm thirteen."
"And I'm charming. Drink."
Ardyn did. The burn steadied him, even as his fingers trembled around the flask.
Therion watched him like a hawk, his usual restlessness replaced by a coiled stillness. "You're getting worse."
Ardyn wiped his mouth. "You're one to talk." He nodded at Therion's arms, where the silver cracks had deepened.
For once, Therion didn't deflect. Just leaned back against the brick wall, his shoulder brushing Ardyn's. "Guess we're a pair of broken toys, huh?"
The quiet admission hung between them.
Then Therion's grin returned, sharp and familiar. "Good thing broken toys are the fun ones."
Ardyn snorted—and for the first time since collapsing, breathed easy.
The Truth of Ardyn's Condition
Later, when the whiskey's warmth had settled in his veins, Ardyn finally put words to it.
"My body can't hold Aetherian," he said quietly, staring at his palms. "Not enough, anyway."
Therion stilled beside him.
Aetherian—the energy that flowed through all living things. Most people had just enough to sustain themselves. A rare few could channel it into Covenant abilities. And then there were people like Ardyn: born with a vessel too small, too fragile.
"Old man Harkin says there's only been five recorded cases in history," Ardyn continued. "Three died before they turned ten. The other two..." He flexed his fingers. "Well. They didn't last much longer."
The unspoken truth lingered: I'm living on borrowed time.
Therion was silent for a long moment. Then, with a huff, he knocked his shoulder against Ardyn's. "Guess that makes you special, huh?"
Ardyn blinked.
"Not just anyone gets to be one of five." Therion's grin was crooked, but his eyes were fierce. "Lucky bastard."
And just like that, the weight lifted—if only a little.
Because if Therion could joke about unraveling, Ardyn could joke about this.
They'd be broken together.