To enjoy this chapter thoroughly, I recommend you read chapter 3 and 9 before devouring this one. They will help you understand what's going on.

He lays still on his side. His elbow is stuck at a painful angle so his fist can support his heavy head. His knuckles grind against his skull through his overflowing golden mane, pushing against his muddled ideas and thoughts. His hip, against the marble bench he warmed with his body, is starting to ache, pointy bone meeting immovably hard object and suffering from it.

However, he doesn't move. He doesn't blink. His eyes are fixated on a point, pupils reaching the rim of his blue irises, unmoving in a sea of red veins and yellowish sclera.

Breath is all he does and he does it erratically, winding long breath down his lungs a moment and forgetting he must exhale the other.

Under its crystal dome, the Glorygold dances. It is a foolish attempt to keep it well and thriving while gardeners and scientists seek the information long lost about the care it must receive to thrive. Books and knowledge was lost when their enemies had tried to multiply their emblem at a rapid pace, forgetting ancestral knowledge for magical violence and technical exploits.

Now that all but one Glorygold dances in their territory, they must take care of it lest it vanishes again from their grasp. They would not be able to stand back on their feet after another devastating loss.

Riser, neither a gardener nor a scientist, has opted to watch and see how this particular story would unfold. The beginning was exciting. It had a romantic flavor, reminding him of legends and ballads sung for lost heroes and lost flowers. The middle part where he stands, however, is bland and dry. Nothing is happening; nothing worthy of note for a legend in the making, yet Riser perceives this void as everything. This void makes him lose sleep, makes his lose his grasp on time and space. He is losing his footing, losing everything.

Myths do not usually speak of familial turmoil over flowers, after all.

His own story, the untold part of it, has derailed from its premises after he met a devilish boy and made a deal with him. He should have remained a nobody in the great ballad of the Phenex, but he brought himself to the forefront in the most bizarre, most impossible way possible.

The Glorygold swings, uncaring for his sorrows and worries. The sweetness the sight of it brought him has been long gone. Only a peculiar sour aftertaste is left on his tongue.

He closes his eyes with a sigh he masquerades as a long exhale. The familiar scents of the garden where he so often frolicked as a child are not soothing. The colorful flowers and exotic plants his family collected over the years have lost their shine. His haven has lost its power over his troubled mind.

Boots click against the stone path, disturbing his chaotic mind.

Riser opens his eyes. He cranes his neck and there comes Ruval, his eldest brother and heir to their forefather's lordship. The sight is familiar yet distant. Magic swirls around him, allowing his appearance to take on a delicate frame alike a bird. Minuscule golden feathers grow at the corners of his eyes, showing his pride as a member of the House of the Phenex and his attachment to their sacred celestial beast.

Riser doesn't remember the last time they were alone together. His magic pulls at his limbs, demanding he approaches the familiar flame of home that shines so near. He clenches his fists and refuses the call.

His brother pauses when he realizes it is indeed his sibling who is lazing his life away on a precious stone bench. His neutral expression turns tense.

"Brother," Riser calls. He rushes to his feet and stuffs his crumpled shirt into his pants to form a semblance of order and properness.

His brother, always preen and proper for that is how the heir of the Phenex should behave, diverts his gaze, neither looking at him nor acknowledging his existence. The path that goes through their garden forms a stone circle around the dancing Glorygold. He opts to walk on the side opposite of Riser, offering a passing glance to their emblem. He disappears behind the massive cloche as he circles it, his image distorted by the polished glass.

"Brother, may we speak?" Riser calls again. He catches the way his brother's curls move, pushed by the wind as the Devil picks up his pace.

All too slowly, his brother's face reappears as the cloche smoothes down to meet the earth, effectively covering the tiny flower they call their regained pride. He shows no change in expression as he avoids his youngest brother. He shows his back without remorse or a sign of acknowledgement.

His fire recoils in his veins. Riser can't contain his bitterness anymore. He is sparkle on the brink of casting a wildfire upon the earth, scorching his way through the thick fog of magic that surrounds his brother. "How long are you planning on treating me like air?"

The air changes, the smell of gunpower overpowering.

Ruval slows down. He twists his neck towards his sibling and his profile is visible in all its refined glory. His flowing white coat, made by their best tailors to look like fluttering wings, twists and turns slowly around his legs. His eye is lidded and his gaze offers nothing warm. He examines a family member as he would a stranger. The heir of family that prides itself for their affinity with fire exudes nothing but coldness in that instant.

Riser shuffles on his heels. He stops a moment later, for he is an adult and he will not be cowed by his eldest brother's scorn.

(He has not given his youngest brother a shred of attention or mercy since their father hugged him and called him his pride in front of their family and people as the Glorygold was placed under a cloche of crystal. He has not shown the simplest concern for him since vassals and common people started to eye him in a different light. There is nothing to expect except scorn and coldness, yet Riser hopes. He hopes and his brother is not kind with his feeble expectations either.)

"Air?" his brother intones slowly. A shallow smile twists his delicate features."Don't be so quick to compare yourself to air. We need air. It fuels our spirit and our fire. This element is free and unlimited, yet it doesn't dare nor care to steal anything from us." Riser cringes at the word 'steal'. Ruval continues on the same tone, appearing as a teacher guiding his student to knowledge. His frosty eyes reflect the Glorygold's shine soullessly. "Air has no need, for its very existence satisfies itself. It's everywhere, in every person, at every time, guided by Magick Herself. In its omnipotent state, it is also humble enough to answer our call and give itself to us."

Ruval turns on his heels, staring squarely at his sibling. His face does not show the roaring anger of a Phenex but the embers hidden deep under soot, still smoldering under their dark disguise. "For you to consider yourself air is an unjustified and underserved accolade, brother."

Their father would have added a sneer to adorn such harsh words, but Ruval is crueler in his apathy. His magic has not fluttered close to his brother's, not even once. Their old greeting, one they practiced since Riser was old enough to have a grasp on his birthright, has been forgotten willingly. They would normally poke at each other's magic, letting it wash over the other to feel safe and sound. To feel like home, wherever they would be. He marches out of their inner garden silently, his parting words lingering in the air and suffocating the only person left in the garden.

Riser messes with his tangled hair. Ruval is in a bad mood, that's all, he reasons mutely. Everyone's got mood swings. He will be back to his secretly cheerful self soon enough, masquerading as the ever serious son when he is the one who made exploding soups at posh suppers a tradition. Never mind he always professes it was Riser's idea, the youngest Phenex knows his brother's antics. He knows his brother.

Ruval will forgive him. One day.

(Will he? He forsook a family's tradition and left his little brother's magic alone and desperately needy willingly. Knowingly.)

He ignores the bitterness that taints his countenance. He plays with a finger that rests atop his forefinger, turning it until the metal is burning his skin.

The youngest feather of the Phenex flops down to the marble bench. His lips tense as he squashes his teeth against each other.

He kicks the air mindlessly. His brother is just bitter. He didn't mean it. His magic sings a chaotic song, shivering through his limbs as it searches for familiarity and a sense of belonging.

He kicks higher, aiming to the cloudless sky that mocks his drama with its guileless color.

They are birds of the same feather; they flocked, they flock and they will flock together. Phenex are strong together. Phenex prevails as one, he mouths.

He clenches the marble under him and it cracks, weblines splitting the once immaculate white stone around his fingers.

Or so his family's motto says. In truth, in the darkest corners of his consciousness where he dares lay his thoughts to mull over his fate, they are not a flock. Legends sing their courage and their unity. Rumors pretend animosity and mockery reign over their dinner table, when their ducal family dares to share one together. Riser has seen far less unity and far more viciousness than he would like to admit since the fateful Great Night and the boy Magick brought him bearing a flower of great importance.

They now act united in public, in front of fools and vipers.

Once upon a time, unity was not an act but an unshakable idea. It was a flickering light in the midst of all the shadows that loomed over his family.

He somehow brought more shadows upon them by trying to do well.

He almost, almost regrets ever meeting that devilish boy –and it was a boy, on the cusp of his teens - who showed him his flower.

He definitely regrets how he presented the Glorygold to his father, in front of everyone invited to their annual Great Night's festivities. He should have contacted his eldest brother and let him handle the whole process, thus staying out of trouble and light. Now, however it was done, whoever truly did it, everything that happened under the surface of his lie is unimportant. Riser brought the flower back where it belongs, in the heart of their territory. Their people will not forget. His family will not forget. Their vassal lords that are watching him with a newfound interest will not forget.

Already, they scheme and ponder if, perhaps, the third child of the Phenex would not do a better heir than his esteemed but not as accomplished eldest sibling.

Riser, the third son. Riser, the offering. Riser, the abandoned.

It is hilarious to think he could ever be anything else. He did his best to stay out of politics for so long, readying himself to his life as an unimportant but beloved young master. He allowed himself to be somewhat good in Rating Games because it harmed no one and Rating games, as their names suggested, were more playgrounds to pass the time and amuse the common people than anything else. It is a show of strength and he succeeded moderately, well enough to pride his people and bad enough to be quickly forgotten in the realm of possibilities. Panem and circunem. Bread and circuses. He was happy to be the circus. He was happy to be of help.

Harming his lord heir's prospects was never a thought he held. Helping him was what led his actions for years, masquerading and enjoying being nothing but an afterthought in scheming politicians' mind.

His only treason would have been to set a little lady phoenix free… but that, he cannot do anymore.

Riser Phenex was a lazy, unsuccessful, impolite, doomed young master until the last Great Night.

He had simply wanted to add one thing to his otherwise unknown story, one glorious achievement to be remembered by in the great scheme of things. His name, written in books and ballads as more than a simple word used to make a rhyme or remind the common people of wasteful lords and useless feathers. This one, one worthy feat spoken of when his name would resonate in conversations. Just one.

He told the boy to leave, never to return, in hope that he wouldn't have to share this honor.

He was too greedy. He had been a fool, seeking glory when his fate was to possess nothing, not even his own name.

The Glorygold does a sharp turn under its crystal protection. It raises its leaves towards the sky and shines softly. It emits light for no one's pleasure but its own. Their pride does what it pleases, always. No one can coax a particular dance or a certain glow out of it if it does not feel like it. Every moves and gestures it offers to its audience is a gift they might never see again in a lifetime. It is a sight to behold.

Riser looks away.

He stands to his feet. Surely, there are halls in this mansion of theirs that he hasn't haunted aimlessly yet. He thus wanders, observing the luxurious items that adorn. His home is never empty of treasures and there is always a new wonder to discover when he lets his gaze idly adventure.

Today is a beautiful he could spend outside, lazily walking the bustling markets and dark, cool alleys of the capital where blue flowers bloom and shine softly. He cannot bring himself to set a foot outside. Eyes follow him everywhere. Adoring eyes.

He has done nothing to merit this affection that follows him everywhere.

- I wanted to be worthy, but my greatest feat was to steal your glory-

"That's a bold move, brother."

"Bold moves can bring victory," Riser offers with a grin.

His pawn is a breath away from opening a path to the black King. Victory is assured, as long as his brother minds his queen and bites his other big bait.

Elegant fingers move a black knight. It engulfs the younger Devil's pawn and his plan for victory. Riser loses his grin. Darn it.

"Told you. You need to use that brain of yours," Rovil chuckles. He puts his ankle over his knee, lounging lazily on his oversized neon green seat. Most furniture that lounges in this small alcove of the inner garden are either atrociously adorned, inherently too big for their user or entirely too small for the use of anyone that is not a mouse. It shows the bizarrely fabulous character of the owner of this corner of the world.

Rovil has always been special, according to their mother. He liked to suck lemons as a baby and his addiction to neon colors was the talk of the castle during his entire childhood. Now, people just accept that the second son of the Phenex Marquis is a good kind of weird while the third son is a bad kind of wild.

Riser grumbles. He surveys the board of chess and chooses another path after much thinking. Getting a clean victory against his second brother has always been tricky at best. At worst, it is impossible. It s a shame he does not partake in the joy and grime of Rating Games. He would perform well, if only he had a peerage. Alas, his brother thinks nothing of New Blood or the new system put in place by the New Maous.

He enjoys his company nonetheless, as long as they do not speak of Riser's peerage. If they do, things tend to be torched.

(Riser will be the first to admit he is quite inflammable when it comes to his dearest New Bloods. His peerage is made of the finest and he will suffer no ill comments about them.)

"They asked me why I didn't accompany you," his brother starts nonchalantly. He moves his pawn elegantly, pushing it forward to certain death.

Riser recoils at the sentence. His very magic recoils, contracting into his bones. His movement is so jaunty a pawn falls off the board and clinks against the stone ground. He hides his troubled expression as he arches his waist and reaches for the little white pawn with an unnecessary apology escaping his lips.

His second brother, Rovil, has stayed on the fence about the rumored infightings in their family. He humors Riser with chess and flimsy chats and he follows Ruval in his diplomatic forays to better their relationship with the surrounding territories. For him to speak aloud about this, it must have been more than a simple question he was asked.

The very wording of that question is wrong. Riser accompanies his elder brothers, not the other way around. His brothers, be it his eldest or second one, are not a glorified third wheel he brings along on his travels when he finds enough patience for their antics. Rovil is the merchant of their family; he possesses a keen eye for business and an extraordinary talent for conversation. Neon might color his clothes, but gold colored is his mind.

Riser can't even talk with his fiancée without somehow offending her and her entire family tree. According to her words, her dead ancestors turn in their grave everytime he opens his big, useless mouth.

As for Ruval… he is the heir, the strong and meritorious one. He is their hope. The light that will shine on their path when his parents' light is gone.

Riser is not a necessity. He is an after-thought, a beloved one, but one nonetheless.

To ask why Riser was not with his brothers while they journeyed through the territory is a grave insult to his brother's statues.

"Ruval was not amused," his brother continues and Riser silently curses. Of course he wouldn't be.

"This stupidity will soon end," he mutters weakly.

Rovil tilts his head lightly. He offers a warped smile. "Tell that to our eldest brother. I am not your messenger."

The atmosphere turns sour.

Riser flickers his gaze from his brother's mane, so similar to his own, to the board. He punches a pawn forwards just for it to be eaten right away by a bishop. Darn Maous, he didn't see that one coming.

"He refuses to speak with me," he acknowledges softly.

Rovil hums. That's a fact their family has long accepted. Infighting is to be kept to a minimum in others' presence, however. So his family doesn't involve themselves in his miserable begging as he tries to weasel himself into his eldest brother's good graces again. It's deplorable, how little his tactics are working. Riser shows support for his brother at every turn, with every Nobles he meets, yet nothing seems to change.

People watch him with barely veiled interested. Ruval observes him. Perhaps he will soon try to actively fight him and undermine him. He has already forbade Riser's participation in his only guilty pleasure; Rating Games. Apparently, he is sickly and needs bed rest.

Riser is a Phenex. Phenex do not get sick easily. Everybody knows it's a ridiculous excuse to prohibit him from appearing on cameras and getting more popular than he already is.

"Mother is most upset with this situation," Rovil comments idly.

Riser grunts. His mother is most upset with a lot of things in life, yet she still lets her husband dictates her movements on the grand board of chess they call life. He swiftly moves his remaining knight around to ostensibly stand in the black queen's range. Rovil snorts and doesn't take the bait that would have cost him his queen and left his right flank defenseless to his little brother's rook.

"Ravel is learning chess with you?"

"She is," Riser acknowledges.

"I might have to teach her soon, then. I can't let you be the only one to shape her skills. How is our little princess?"

Riser spots a dot of light that flickers in and out of existence over his remaining bishop. The implication of that simple scene tastes like ash on his tongue. "She is well." Physically. Mentally, that is another story. "She would be happy to spend time with you."

Rovil raises his hands helplessly. "I don't live in the castle anymore and she can't go out. Poor thing must be dying with you as her only companion. I am quite certain you are teaching her how to be a ruffian."

"You should swing by more often, brother. We're all happy to see you here."

Rovil snorts. "That lie smells atrocious, little brother."

Riser doesn't find the words to defend himself. Rovil and Father had a rocky relationship since he decided to pursue a career outside of politics. It was for the good of the family and the inheritance, yet the Marquis took it as a personal offense. He sniffs and the air does smell like rotting eggs. He grimaces.

Rovil emits a sudden noise. "When was the last time you talked with Bashir?"

Riser stills. His arms shakes useless in the air, holding a piece. The question is sudden. Suspiciously so. "During the celebration of the Great Night. He was here, remember?"

Rovil scratches his hair with a pout. "Aww, I should have asked him then. Your little event made me forget everything in the heat of the moment."

He points his chin at the Gloygold that dances in the background, neither close nor far to their position. Riser doesn't turn to look at it. He has seen enough of it for an entire lifetime.

The younger Phenex put his fist on his knee, clenching the piece secretly. He keeps a tight rein on his magic, lest it tells a story Riser desires to keep chained to the deepest part of his soul. "Was it an urgent question? I might go down to the old district soon."

His elder sibling shrugs carelessly. His attention is the board as he speaks words that freeze Riser's blood. "I sent a boy to Bashir's library a few weeks ago. Clearly a New Blood. He was stalking me in the market, listening to my conversations with an acquaintance, even though he didn't know who I was. He didn't bow or acknowledge my rank, you see. I wanted to know if Bashir had been able to hammer some manners in that boy's head. If he had met another High Noble and spoken with such plebian words, he might have gotten whipped for it."

Bashir. A boy. The boy.

Riser acts like he would normally do. He humphs dismissively. He adds crossed arms to his façade because there is no such thing as overdoing it. "I don't know. I shall ask him next time I see him. Bashir likes to help street rats a bit too much."

Rovil observes him neutrally from under thick eyelashes he received from their mother. He is the only who possesses this feature and he adores to bat them to taunt their jealous sister. One moment later, he guffaws loudly, neutral façade gone. "Ah, Riser. You're too old to have his undivided attention anymore. Bashir needs to nurture new little ones, otherwise he might die of boredom in his kingdom of letters and old stories."

There is indeed a point of jealousy hiding under his skin. His magic sings at the thought of Bashir. It misses him terribly and Riser does too.

"I remember, before you were born, how magnificent he was in battle. And then," Rovil raises his eyebrows till they almost meet his hairline, "he chose to become a librarian. Quite queer a decision."

He shakes his head and there's true incomprehension residing in his blue eyes.

Riser feels personally attacked. Does his brother not know about retirement and enjoying one's life?

"As queer as your choice of clothing, brother. Neon pink is in fashion these days?" he snarls with a bit too much bite.

Rovil takes not offense to his sibling's tone. He, however, plasters a hand against his chest in a horrified stance. "Ultra pink and Queen pink are not neon, you heathen. They're fabulous and Mother has so many rolls of unused fabric sitting in our treasuries, it is a pure scandal we use it so sparingly."

Riser squints. He surveys his brother's clothing and comes to a conclusion that he knows will make their mother utterly furious. "You used Andras' silk to make yourself new clothes," he deadpans.

Rovil sniffs. He crosses his arms defiantly. "No one uses them. Not even Mother."

Riser contracts his abs to not guffaw like a ruffian. "How many did you dip in neon pink?" he asks as seriously as he can.

"A number I shall not share with you." Oh, Riser can already hear his Mother's screeches when she learns of the fate of her rolls of priceless fabric. It will be beautiful to see her rage directed at someone else.

Rovil, oblivious to the poor fate his ears will have to bear, points a finger at his brother's nose. "I see the greed in your eyes. You're jealous of my pure beauty. I will not share my silk with you, you bare-chested goon." His tirade ends with him throwing his hair back with a manicured hand. He would probably qualify his move as fabulous.

(Riser does not understand how women can swoon at the very sight of his second brother. Do they not see the sheer prissiness he exudes? Women must be blinded by his choice of clothing, he muses wisely.)

Riser twitches at the insult. A devious smile appears on his lips. His eyes gleam as he slowly pops another button open on his already dangerously gaping shirt and watches as his brother gags in disgust at his smooth skin. He barks a laugh.

Rovil covers his virginal eyes.

A bell echoes in the garden where they pass the time goofing around.

Rovil immediately stands up. He seems serious for once. "I need to go. Envoys are coming from the Fallen Angel's territories and they're bringing sweets with them."

"Your addiction to candies is deplorable," Riser teases.

Rovil sniffs fabulous, chin pointing towards the sky. He flaunts his silken coat that is obviously neon pink, whatever he claims, and leaves with much flourish.

Riser toys with the pawn he retrieved from the ground, rolling it between his fingers mindlessly. His gaze rests on their unfinished game, but his mind does not mull over his lost moves and the erratic tempo he used to try and budge his brother's own pace. His mind goes back to a reunion and a boy, brown haired and sharp tongued.

The light filters through the fluttering leaves that cover their alcove. It splatters dots and stains of yellow light everywhere, changing the ambience of his new brooding place of choice.

"My lord heir," a timid voice calls. "Do you need anything?"

Riser drops the pawn again. He blinks and notices two little black boots standing in front of him. He follows the outline of the silhouette that casts a shadow on his game of chess. A little maid, head lightly bowed and hands joined in front of her, stands there.

Their gazes meet and she looks down. He frowns.

"That is my eldest brother's title," he enunciates slowly. Suspicious, it is to call him thus. Suspicious and uncalled for. Have his brother's enemies grown the guts to assault his family's inner garden, now? How cocky. Riser will not stand for aggression on the sole place that offers him a semblance of peace.

(Or perhaps it is his brother who sends spies to his side, testing the water. Perhaps he truly believes his youngest brother wants to steal his birthright and his throne and wants proof of Riser's defection. Riser banishes the thought. Ruval is far more poisonous; he would invite him to a festivity and while they would sip vintage wine from their Father's personal cellar, he would grill and dig the truth out of his brother's heart as dancers and jolly people waltz around them to an enchanting tune.

The eldest son of the Phenex has a sense of class Riser has never been able to replicate successfully.)

The girl pales. Perhaps Riser's stony expression has something to do with her apprehension. "Forgive me, Third Young Master."

So she knows who he is. He pulls the corners of his lips into a quirky twist. It looks accordingly dark and brooding, fitting his current mood. It also deepens the dread that blemishes the little maid's physiognomy. He had time to practice it in front of his mirror, so alone he has been, and it works fantastically well on naughty young children.

"What are you doing in the inner garden? Did someone call you here?" he drawls, questioning. He relaxes against his seat, going as far as putting a leg over his armchair. He must appear detached and amused. That's his role. The role he chose when he was but a boy and he understood he would always be a threat to his beloved eldest brother's station as long as he tried to be great.

"I was told to attend to the lord heir's needs here," she whispers. Her head is dipping to a new low and he has troubles gauging her expression now. Her scent, however, is crisp and clear of dishonesty.

"Speak louder," he commends. His great kindness is tested when he has to strain his ears to understand what in the Seven levels of Hell is going on.

Her neck barely twitches as she moves her head upwards by a hair. Riser grasps her chin and tilts it upward. He searches for any sense of familiarity on her tiny face. "Are you a newly appointed maid? I do not remember your face."

Her cheeks burn against his fingers. He realizes belatedly that she is indeed blushing. He releases her then, fighting his own embarrassment. Whatever his reputation says of him, he is not a beast that will jump on any pair of legs that look vaguely female.

She bobs her head jauntily, free of his restraint. "Yes, Young Master. I started my apprenticeship three days ago."

Her honesty is almost painful to his ears. She was set up, as clear as day. He pities her as much as he pities the people who led her astray. His temper is not to be played with.

"The only people allowed to tread here are the family of the Marquis and their close friends," Riser drawls and she tenses in response.

"They told me I had to go," she admits too quickly. She doesn't have the nerves to be a good maid in his manor. A bit of intimidation and she is broken. A maleficent maid would have tried to twist her answer, spinning the truth into a terribly well stitched lie.

This one doesn't know how to lie. Truth trickles from her every word, from her every move. The way she grasps the tail of her immaculate braid just to flail with a nervous jolt a moment later, all too self-conscious under his scrutiny, spells fear. Her hands dust her skirts, then fiddle with the large ribbon that serves as a makeshift belt. She is restless and fearful and terribly honest in all her emotions. They taste heavy on the young master's tongue.

She is the complete opposite of Riser. It is a sight to behold, truly.

He does exactly that, silently observing her. He savors the drips of honesty and youth that escapes her countenance.

"I do not wish to have problems, Young Master," she adds quickly, staring at him from a strange angle. Her head is bowed but her eyes are up, watching him with an expression he identifies as respect. The scent of trust, light and fleeting, swifts by his nose and Riser breathes in. It is a scent he rarely savors at home, nowadays.

She trusts he will not be harsh, he muses.

(What is there to truly respect about him, he doesn't know.)

"You will have none," he assures her with all the gentleness he can muster. He will not admit her honesty has calmed his anger, but his actions had always spoken far louder than his words. "Give me the name of your superior."

She does, reluctantly. He nods and waves for her to go. "It will be dealt with. Do not worry."

She bows and skitters out of the garden, leaving him to his thoughts. Her scents follow her. A warm breeze passes and the last proof of her trespassing disappears.

My lord heir. He passes a hand through his mane of gold and snorts. "How ironic," he utters.

Lady Magick wants to spite him, it seems. She sends him a beautiful gift and then ruins him, one misstep at the time. Everyday, there's a new word or a new tone that drives him mad with the underlying content they dare to bear. Things he has heard a thousand times over suddenly become horrendous to his wrecked mind. Things he has experienced are now tainted, taking on different hues as he examines them more closely than ever. He has nothing else to do or to mind now that he is trapped in his own house.

The grand yet insignificant ballad of Riser Phenex had a twist he didn't foresee. How could he have imagined his beloved brother would one day mistreat him for a fault he has not committed? He has never yearned for the position that belongs per his birthright to Ruval. He doesn't desire the heirship. It is a powerful title with bothersome ties attached to it.

Riser steeled his nerves and strained his resolve when it all started. His nerves are a boat dancing on a furious sea, knowing a corral reef is near and each wave brings him closer to danger. His resolve is dying out. He cannot appear more sloven. His parties are infamous. His unbecoming attachment to his peerage is legendary. His flaws are part of the common small talk of his people. He is the wild third child and he has run out of way to appear a joke without becoming unpleasant to people he swore to protect with his life.

Riser reaches for his nose and taps it lightly. He does so in rhythm with an olden rhythm etched and carved on the walls of the capital of their territory.

How does the rhyme go?

"Welcome are the ardent and spirited flames," he recites slowly. "Welcome are the pure fires in our hearth for Magick will bless them."

A smile lights his face. It is crooked, he feels, but there is no one to gauge his expressions and interpret them now. He isn't pure hearted. To qualify himself as spirited would perhaps sound a fantasy tale to many. However, no one should be able to conceive the idea that he isn't ardent in his love for his family. He is a Phenex. His soul is fire, ardent and insatiable, tempered only by what he adores.

And yet, the world seems to believe otherwise since he came late to a most important party to celebrate the old Great Night that once ruled over their world. The fake sun created by the New Maous was set to blaze anew in a few minutes and everyone waited for it to appear and toast the New Year it would bring. To be late for such an important event would have brought everyone present bad luck. His father, for once truly seething at his antics, had been ready to reprimand his lazy behavior until he had seen what Riser was cradling so tenderly in his grasp.

He hugged Riser fondly and his son couldn't honestly remember the last time that had happened.

The Devil chuckles at the memory. His Father was proud of him for once and the sweetness of that realization was what made him strong for so long. Unfortunately, his Lord Father is not known for his steady affection. Sweetness is turning bland with each passing second and the wild young master of the Phenex is losing his fuel and his footing.

The grand twist of his existence is that now, people think he desires what he doesn't. People perceive him as a power hungry eagle trying to reach new heights, when he is but a lazy songbird. He wanted to open his wings and fly, yes, but only to sing more songs and be admired for his poetry.

He is not a great hero wandering between worlds to achieve domination. He is a small character in a bigger tale that, thanks to a bad decision taken on the spur of the moment, transformed into a frontliner who must fight the world and his beloved ones for things he doesn't desire. Others project a purpose and wishes on him, figuring he must hold the same baseless and bestial yearnings.

Yet again, he is a character with no name dancing to the tune others play.

(He is a Phenex and he committed the most heinous crime of desiring to be Riser.

He wanted a spot for himself. Something different, something that would make people look at him as something else as the spare of the spare, the breeding stallion they were selling to the Gremory. He wanted to be Riser Phenex.)

His comedy turned into a tragedy while he had his back turned.

-I need to be the greatest for the people I protect or so tells my story-

He saunters to the library of the most infamous Bashir Mumtaka, hidden under a cloak. He is not supposed to leave the safety of his castle in these troubled times, but he needs answers and Bashir will not come to him. So he steps into the old district, using shadows and alleys to lose the spies that follow his trails. Sights and spices lose their colors and odors as he focuses on his task. He cannot enjoy his capital now.

Finally, he sees the front door of a library where books are rarely sold, but souls are for the taking.

His magic busts the lock open effortlessly, eagerly wanting to be inside and to flutter around a most beloved friend.

Riser marches inside. Instinctually, his gaze searches the tall ladders that spatter the walls, seeking an agile old Devil that likes to climb dangerous piles of books and jump from one to another as if he were some kind of intellectual flying squirrel.

Bashir is exactly where he expects him to be, balanced at the top of a shelf. His legs are hooked on a ladder as he tidies the books' alignment. It would be a normal picture, then, but Bashir is everything but normal. He hangs from the highest step, torso dangling in the air as he does his work head pointing towards the ground, at the mercy of gravity. He acts as a bat today.

Riser watches him. His magic escapes his grasp and goes to poke the old Devil, asking for attention and a caress.

The old Devil immediately twists his torso, swiftly coming back to an upright position where the odds are far less in favor of his cracked skull. He beams crookedly at the young Devil that stands at the entrance of his humble abode.

"Ah, Riser! May your soul burn forever." He cups his hands together in a familiar gesture.

Riser copies it out of habit and true fire licks his palms. "May your fire never be extinguished."

Bashir Mumtaka slides down the ladder effortlessly. "What brings you to my humble library?" he asks as he marches into Riser's magic. His own power flutters close to the boy and there is home.

Riser admittedly basks too long in the pure happiness he feels before he remembers what made him leave his castle. The quest is distasteful now when he could simply enjoy Bashir's presence. "Rovil wanted to know if you were successful in hammering manners into a boy he sent you a few weeks ago."

Bashir tilts his head. A familiar teapot appears in his hands. "A boy?"

Riser surveys the door of the library, the elegant ladders and sculpted staircases that twist and turn into eerily distant and empty corners. He flickers his wrist and the spell that blooms on his hand pulse thrice before it vanishes. Had it not vanished, he would have left the premise immediately for he doesn't need another mouth running about his desires and the discord plaguing his family.

The library is empty and this is perfect because Riser knows the seeds of anger are sown and they will burst open if Bashir doesn't stop playing his little mind games. He doesn't want to, he doesn't want to break the last home he has, but he needs to put an end to the disaster he has brought to his family.

He sets his eyes on the older Devil. "The boy you brought me," he intones.

"Oh," Bashir frowns thoughtfully. "I don't quite recall all the names of the people who come and go here. There are so many and I am so old."

He dares to massage his back as if it were aching when he was perfectly apt and happy to hang like a bat from the ceiling a minute ago.

"Bashir," Riser barks. "You know who I am speaking of. Issei was his name. A New Blood by the looks of it."

Bashir stops his act immediately. His back straightens itself. A cup appears in his hand and he pours fuming tea in it. Wispy fumes hide his face from sight, alternating between thick fog and ephemeral strands of water molecules that dance in the air.

He extends his hand and offers the cup to his guest. "My dear, dear san'daki. Have you not obtained what you most desired? You are now the heir. Do not seek troubles. The boy is gone and no one but the two of us even knows about his existence. Forget he exists. He swore to disappear and he did so."

Riser zeroes on one argument Bashir laid out. "I am not the heir of my father."

Bashir chuckles. Another cup appears and he fills to the brim with tea. The teapot disappears with a flick of his wrist. "That is not what people say. Rumors have it the name that bears the heirship will soon change."

Riser stares at the golden liquid that smells like mint ice cream. It troubles his senses and his ability to hear lies. "Rumors are lying."

Bashir throws his head back and laughs gutturally. "Your eldest brother came here with his entire peerage," he intones slowly.

Riser pauses. He hovers between chaotic heaps of grimoires and perfectly lined rows of children books where the ever youthful Maou, Serafall Leviathan, winks happily. His heart races against his mind, both trying to outdo the other. He might die from a heart attack or an aneurysm at this rate and that's profoundly unacceptable. Phenex go down in battle. Phenex go down gloriously. Phenex do not fret over their eldest brother finding out about their wrong doings.

Bashir settles comfortably in a chair, elbows set against the armrest in a familiar position. His little smile tells he knows how much pain he is causing to his guest by offering information so slowly. "A Devil lordling coming in a humble library is bit… too much, don't you think?"

Riser opens his arms. "Your san'daki is a Devil lordling and here he is."

"You have access to my resources and my fire, Riser. It is as it should be. The old fire is helping the young sparks. Your eldest brother is not mine to help. If he wants help, he should turn towards his own san'dak."

Riser fumes. "He is my brother and our future lord. You should help when he asks for your hand."

The older Devil smacks his lips. His gaze on his guest and friend is too intense to be natural. Red tints his eyes gloriously. "Brother, he is. Future lord… that is up to debate."

His cup is thrown. Water moistens and ruins books on the ground. A special smell fills the library. Riser doesn't care. He points his friend menacingly. Another one who dare to project their yearning on his head. "You are lucky to be my san'dak. I should beat you for those heinous words."

Bashir tips his cup towards his snarling friend. "Lucky, I am, for my beloved san'daki is to be crowned."

Riser seethes and his wings spring free. His control over his magic is slack, wrecking havoc around him in a furious blaze.

Bashir has the gall to shrug in front of fiery might. "I am not the only one who speaks so. You brought our glory back. Our pride is at home, dancing where it should in the great gardens of the Marquis."

Riser inhales slowly. He feels his lungs with air. His wing sears paper, elevating the room temperature to one despised even by dwellers of the desert. He exhales and folds his wings. Bashir plays with words well. He plays with his temper better. To play his game is to lose.

"The boy brought it back. Not me," the third son of the Phenex enunciates slowly.

Bashir hums, neither agreeing with nor denying Riser's defiant claim.

The Phenex massages his temple. "Did you tell Ruval where to find the boy?"

"No."

Riser stares at his second father figure from under his lashes. "But you know how to find him."

"My heart's desire was already fulfilled," Bashir says. He glances up, to the ceiling. Riser follows his gaze and sees the flower that dances in his dreams and his nightmares alike. "The Glorygold is home," the old Devil whispers tenderly.

Riser understands there. The words used, the clear obsession with his flower, the wishful look at the ceiling…. Everything points towards an outcome that would explain why Bashir had all but busted in his bedroom as he was preparing for the Great Night celebration that was already in full swing.

It all clicks together, all the loose ends come into one and Riser always liked stories that had a well structured plot. His life story seems to be so too. "Wouldn't it be a tragedy if an old man were to lose his beloved flower?"

Bashir offer an amicable smile. "Are you threatening me, san'daki?"

"No such thing," Riser tilts his head. He was taught by the best and he will beat the best at his own games if he must. Bashir admitted he had a Glorygold in his possession with his question and that's a grave crime."I'm offering a deal where neither of us loses anything and wins everything."

Bashir lets an animalistic bark slip through his jovial façade. The warrior never died under the librarian. "You are already acting like a true lord."

"San' dak, I am not here to discuss my future prospects. Where is the boy?"

The snowy-haired Devil pouts. He crosses his arms and watches his guest with attention. "What do you want from him?"

"I want his help," Riser fires back.

His san'dak frowns thoughtfully. "How could a boy like him help you?"

Riser chuckles. Now that is just an absurd play to pass the time. "A boy like him brought me the lost flower of our territory, something the greatest fighters, the wisest sages and the slyest librarian couldn't do."

He glances pointedly at Bashir.

"So many tried, so many died, so many abandoned the quest like you did, willfully believing it would come back to us if Magick willed it. This very belief brought dissention and since our glory was not coming back to our wolds, it meant we were not…" Riser seeks a word that would explain the sheer depression that abated his people for so long. There are none. "…good enough. We paid our allegiance to the new Maous in blood, only to be repaid with contempt and a lost emblem. Even now, our people speak of this as if were too good to be true, as if Magick would take it back to abash our foolish hopes."

Riser flaps the air helplessly. "It is not glory we need. It is esteem. We need to believe we are as great as we once were. The legends you read me when I was a boy are all too crushing. There are no wars against a common enemy to bring us back to our feet. There are infightings. The biggest enemy is ourselves and if a boy can bring us some sense of peace and self esteem, then I shall use him as I see fit."

His tirade is done and silence settles. Riser pants. He has much spiel and poison to spout, but the words would be repetitive and he might start to sully his family's names while he is at it.

Bashir Mumtaka observes his seething friend silently. He is not a Devil to trifle with. Riser Phenex hoped to become as imposing as him with his mere presence, alas, his countenance still needs work.

Bashir does cave in, finally. "I sold him a seal. Amon's seal. He was adamant on this particular one for unknown reasons. He might be hiding there. His Master might be asking him to spy on Amon's forces."

Riser paces. "Might, might, might. Do you have anything but speculations?"

"I do not sell things. I lease them, for they always must come back to me."

The younger Devil pauses. "You put a tracker on his seal."

Bashir drinks from his cup. "You san'dak is not foolish enough to leave implicating evidences on criminals."

"And yet you sell them to criminals," Riser bites out.

Bashir sighs. "Books don't interest the younglings anymore. Except Issei. He was most interested in magic… he had a well of questions that sometimes were quite profound for a child so young."

"His interest dwelled on Sacred Gears too," Bashir adds as if it were a futile afterthought he voiced out loud for his own amusement. He is amused, Riser knows, but not because he spoke of stupidities yet again.

The young Phenex slams his hand on the table. Tea spills everywhere and he doesn't care for etiquette. The proper respect his relationship with his san'dak demands is ignored. Everything can only be ignored in front of utterly absurd stupidity. "The boy has a Sacred Gear and you waited all this time to tell me."

Bashir settles his cup on the table with a soft sound. He opens his mouth to speak and Riser raises his hands high in the air. He stands and his wings spring free, shaking. His knuckles appear under his tanned skin, stark white and hot with the fire that courses through his veins. He wants to scream and he does so.

Fuck it.

"Do you really have my best interests in mind, san'dak? Because I do not believe you do. You let me meet a potential enemy, one whose powers we know nothing of and now you tell me he has a Sacred Gear."

Bashir taps his table mutely with a refined index.

Riser has the worst kind of inkling creeping on his mind. "Tell me you know what it is," he whispers. He puts all his weight on the table for he fears the worst and his legs are buckling under him.

"The boy was silent on the subject. The tea had no effects."

Riser cackles. He cackles and wants to bang his head against a wall. Ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous. "The great Bashir Mumtaka has more ways than tea to discover the truth," he finally snarls.

"I am not a criminal," Bashir offers his open palms in a gesture of innocence as Riser scoffs. He concedes with the young Devil's expression nonetheless a breath later. "Had I forced him to talk, he would have left and our glory would have not been brought back to us."

Riser doesn't deny the logic, although it is faulty. Bashir couldn't have known the boy would bring their Glorygold back before it was sitting on a table in his library. "Do you know who his Master is?"

"No."

Riser falls on the closest seat he finds. "What do you know about him?"

"He changed his name. The first time he came, he told me his name was Hyoudou Issei. The second time he came, he asked for an ID with a different name on it; Hayashi Issei."

Issei, son of nobody, does have a last name. Interesting.

"He is Japanese," Riser comments. That's a useful lead, finally.

Bashir arches an eyebrow at the comment. "I did not know you were so versed in the nations that inhabit the Human World."

Riser twirls a ring around his forefinger. "My fiancée has an unhealthy obsession with anything that comes from that human country."

Bashir exhales a chuckle. "Ah, young Rias. How is she doing?"

Riser shrugs. This conversation is taking a turn he dislikes. The boy is supposed to be center of it, not his failing relationship with his explosive fiancé. "I don't know. I haven't heard of her since she left for the human world."

Bashir cocks his head to the side. He joins his hands on his lap, linking his fingers together. His gaze is intense and judging. "Fiancées, in my time, shared a bit more than niceties. Perhaps I'm just an old fashioned coot, but I believe it is time you seek her affection."

Riser tenses to not flinch. "She despises my attention. She said she would fight our arranged marriage till the end."

"What a ferocious little lady."

The sarcasm is all too notable in Bashir's tone. Riser stills. His marriage prospect is the matter that drew a wedge between his father and his san'dak. Bashir seldom visits the Marquis' halls when, once upon a time, he practically lived by his family's side as a guest of honor. Brotherhood in battle is supposed to be a brotherhood most celebrated and respected.

"You do not like her?" he tests the water, hoping for a different answer that would soothe his familial wars.

(Ah! No, no, no. Riser should be honest, like the little maid. He is yearning for the same rage and fury that made his second father figure swear he would never speak to the Phenex Marquis again as long as his farce of an engagement was standing. One person cared about his well-being and the ridicule of the situation. They were and are not indebted to the Gremory and yet they accept to be treated as debtors to please a Maou.)

"If she could back her claims of freedom or power with anything else than her brother's influence, I would be more inclined to like her."

Riser chuckles at the honest answer. His temper cools into a muddled sarcastic puddle. "I thought your dislike would stem from the fact that she might ruin a long awaited union between your beloved territory and hers."

Bashir stares at him with bright, bright eyes. "I think about you more than you might believe, san'daki. I know she refuses to hear anything about a proper Bonding and would prefer to be married to you, if wed she must be. Her family entertains the idea and your father is being useless, as usual. You do not deserve these hardships."

Riser is not a boy anymore and he will not sit on his san'dak's lap, requesting a story and some attention. He refuses to. His relationship or the lack of one with his future wife, no matter how much he despises the word, will not be discussed there. He squares his jaw and moves on. "You changed the subject. What else do you know about the boy?"

"He was secretive. I think his Master is not a High Noble for he feared to be swapped."

Riser waits for more. Nothing else comes.

"That's it?" he squeaks.

Bashir relents and shares all he knows. "He is more powerful than he appears. He is also far more clueless than he appears. He fought back the power of the Kaia tea, but he didn't know what it was," Bashir's gaze glazes over, lost in memories.

The young Phenex nods. "I will keep this in mind. Where is the tracker?"

A seal appears in Bashir's hand with a pulse of his magic. "I believe you know how to use this."

Riser extends his arm and opens his fist. "Yes, I do. You taught me yourself."

"San'daki," Bashir calls as Riser grasps the seal. He holds into the paper tightly, not letting go. "Don't you think it is curious how he came to me, your san'dak? I am the closest person to you in this whole city that does not dwell in the castle. He wanted to barter with you. Named you and asked for you, and only you. He chose you."

His grip on the seal slacken and Riser snatches it, half feral and half calculating, thoughts and theories about the situation and its consequences mingling with his sheer lust for answers and solutions.

"If it doesn't mean that Magick approves of the change in heirship, I do not know what does."

Bashir's conclusion haunts him all the way back to his bedchambers, in the castle.

-My legend is for others but a memento mori-

He watches the way light passes through the thin velum that bears the Amon seal. His legs dangle out of his bed as he lays still on his covers. The sun light hits his face with ardor and warms the atmosphere to a suffocating heat.

His meeting with the boy transpired only a few days ago. Riser feels a long time has passed. His life has taken on another kind of mayhem, one he is not fond of. Being imprisoned in his home is a torture. His peerage knows better than to disturb him while he broods over better days.

( –but were they really better?)

Frankly, everyone knows better than to bother their newly adored Young Master while he ponders the meaning of life and death. His famous tantrums are matters of his youth, when he was a child who disliked celery and dancing lessons and would fling his plate at a wall and get a timeout for his bad mouth. Yet, they became a part of the character he plays, as if he hadn't aged at all since his younger days. People are so gullible.

His family is distant at best. Gullible, like the rest.

He flicks his wrist and watches as red ink twists and turns into his personal golden seal. Bashir still remembers his spells and his mischief well after a lifetime of retirement. He knew, when he gave the boy the seal, that Riser would come for his head.

The golden-haired Phenex sighs. He is none the wiser. He could burn the seal and enjoys this new life where the heirship is offered to him by stupid vassals and stupider goons. Forget the boy. Forget the Glorygold. His story could become one of treason and civil war in a matter of seconds and he is so done with everything, it almost sounds sweet a thought.

He fiddles with the seal in plain sight. What's hidden in plain sights, he learnt, is best hidden.

The door of his bedroom squeaks open.

"Brother," a musical voice greets him. It is not a voice he wishes to hear.

A long flowering skirt breezes past his legs as his only sister settles herself by his side.

"Ravel," he greets neutrally. Nevertheless, he lets his magic escapes his grasp and embraces her in a familiar hug. Her power responds in kind gladly.

She arranges her skirts around her, a cascade of soft silk and ethereal beauty. Ravel is the only who receives Rovil's grace when it comes to the scrolls and rolls of fabric he keeps in his possession. His greedy brother knows to share with their most adored little sister.

"I spoke with our brothers," she commences softly.

He hums. He stretches his back, arching in into an arabesque on his soft bed. He feels his shirt straining against his chest, a mutiny against his flexibility. The picture perfect of a lazy cat, he offers unabashedly. He slips his seal under a pillow.

His mind is already writing a thousand scenarios to fill in the gaps of what his sister just uttered.

Ravel falls back on his bed. Wild golden locks escape her tight bun, tickling his nose. He curls around her, knees against her skirts and chin atop her flowering head. Her breath warms his naked throat as she speaks damning words. "They told me I was most foolish."

Riser coils an inch further around his baby sibling. He puts his lips against her forehead in a semblance of a kiss.

"Rovil?" he mouths softly against her skin.

The jewel of his family shakes her head, sending tremors across the bed. "He refused to hear anything after I spoke of peerages. He said he would be insulted to possess one and that it would stain me irremediably if I were to become his. Ruval was adamant I never speak of this again. He said I should abide by Father's words. Their advice was to wait for Father's decision and then make a formal complaint if his choice is unbecoming of me."

She cocks her head and their gaze meet. A tinge of red surrounds her blue irises. Her magic smells like gunpowder and bitter olives. "They do not seem to believe he would sell me like he did you."

Riser slowly pushes himself up until he is resting on his elbow. His necklaces click and dance, dangling in the air. He tries to find optimistic words to comfort his sister, yet everything sounds wrong to his musical ears. All he finds is his shadow looming over her still gaze. "Perhaps we were hasty-"

"Mother told me he thinks the Astaroth heir would be a fitting match for me," Ravel cuts.

Diodora.

Windows quiver and crack in his bedroom. His magic is restless and he wants to burn the world. That is not an information Riser was aware of and his knights will get an earful for not reporting this sooner. They are the damn best spies he could embark in his mad journey as a wild young master and they still fall short at the most important of times.

"When did she tell you this?" he inquires.

Ravel doesn't respond immediately. She catches a small trinket that hovers near her hair, tied by a fine silver chain to his shirt. She toys with it for a moment. Her magic pushes against his, restless. He feels as restless.

Finally, she speaks.

"This morning, when she was combing my hair. She tried to make him sound like a good man, telling that rumors were never to trust. She took you as an example, saying you have a good heart under your ruffian attire."

She grasps his gaping open shirt and tugs at a gold, gaudy button. Mirth dances in her gaze a moment. Riser reminisces about a pure young girl who aged too quickly for her own good. She is still a child and yet, here they are, scheming about her future marriage prospects.

Joy disappears from her countenance. "Are the rumors true about him?"

Riser twitches. He grasps her hand and squeezes it. "Which rumors?"

There are too many, sweet sister.

"Don't play the fool with me, Ris," she knows how to chide him already, copying their parents. She squeezes his hand, poking his knuckles. "Are they true?"

Riser relents. It is not her chiding tone that abashes his temper. Using his nickname she babbled when she was a baby and wanted him to play with her is deeply unfair.

He wants to be nothing but truthful with her. His sister is young and to be treasured. Priceless people like her shouldn't end up under the thumb of a being as disgusting as Diodora Astaroth. "Yes. He steals holy maidens away from the Church and keeps them as his pets in his peerage. After a while, they disappear and he finds new members for his entourage."

Ravel flattens his hand against her. She observes the big paws he calls hands. Her small digits do not reach the middle of his yet.

"He kills them," she utters. "He would not be able to have new members in his peerage if he didn't."

"There is only one known way to retrieve evil pieces," he admits softly.

One disgusting way Nobles should never think of. Obtaining a peerage member should be final. It is etched in their soul. It is carved in their magic. To reject the soul-bidding contract they made willingly is an abject farce.

"Which is why our choices in peerage matter must be sound. I know my lessons," Ravel deadpans.

"How knowledgeable you are," he says for he has nothing else to say.

Her brave tilt of her head tells him she has far more to add. "When will you formally introduce me in your peerage?"

Riser sighs. He shakes his head. The conversation he feared has come. "Not anytime soon."

She rolls onto her side and faces him squarely. "You promised I wouldn't have to Bond if I didn't want to. And this is not someone I wish to see, even less bond my soul to. Father is not as lax as the Gremory and will not allow a marriage to take place. They will all want a Bonding and I will be chained to a Devil so disgusting even the dwellers of 7th level of Hell wouldn't want him."

A brazen girl is reminding of his sacred duties as her brother, hair tousled and skirts covering more of his bed than of her. The picture would be funny if it were not their story unfolding.

"You promised." She tugs his trinkets, a chain holding him accountable for words he uttered years ago. "You promised, Ris."

Her broken whispers burden his heart.

Riser pushes himself to a sitting position. His back is turned to his sister for a moment and he finds the gesture hysterically fitting. He faces her a wing beat later and finds her eyes dry. It doesn't ease his rising guilt. "Father will not let you enter my peerage. Not right now. His eyes are on me. The lord vassals' eyes are on me. Do you imagine the scandal that will stain your reputation if I make you my bishop?"

She sits slowly. Her hands are joined on her lap and his chaotic phoenix is the picture perfect of a noble lady.

"It is a scandal I am ready to suffer through," she claims.

Riser shakes his head. He is the voice of reason in this conversation, which is a surprise in itself. Unfortunately, battling young damsels' willfulness has never been his forte. "It was a scandal we could shoulder. I was the wild third child and my actions would have been taken as a child's whim. Now, people will take it as a sign that I am challenging Ruval for the heirship." He runs a hand across his hair. Frustration makes him tug wild locks until he feels the familiar needle-like burns that follow tearing them off. He flings his hand, shaking off bits and pieces of his favorite attribute. It burns as it falls to the ground, filing the room with the scent of burnt plastic. "They may even begin to believe I want to undermine Father's position by taking you as a political ally."

She watches as his mane sings the surface of his Persian carpet. She hunches her shoulders in a position he knows all too well. He caved one too many times in front of her sulking bouts.

He tilts her head upward. "Ravel, before my actions and their consequences were trivial at best. No one cared. Accepting you as my bishop would have been seen as childplay between siblings. Not as me challenging Father's decisions."

She nudges his hand with her chin. "Challenging him didn't bother you before."

He cups her face gently and tries to entice her reason out. "We cannot appear disharmonious to the people. We cannot appear divided. I am in the spotlight now, but as soon as things have settled down, you will be part of my peerage and any bonding talks will be put on hold."

"I will have a fiancé by then," she mutters. "Breaking a pre-existent contract will be near impossible without Ruval's support. Diodora Astaroth will do with me as he pleases."

Riser quivers. Fury finally catches up with his frazzled nerves. No. No. Never. That monster will never put a hand on his little songbird.

"If Diodora Astaroth dares to think he can sully you, he will die," he grinds out.

"He is the brother of a Maou," she ruefully shakes her head between his palms.

He bends his waist to block her sight with his handsome face and offers her a wicked smile. "Has the wild third child of the Phenex ever cared about statues? I will burn him and dance on his ashes."

They stare at each other. Her pale lashes tremble over blue eyes that mirror his color.

She laughs a moment. Her shoulders sag the other. "Why did you bring back the Glorygold?"

He lets his hands slide from her face to her hands. He squeezes them again and offers no answer. His response would destroy the little respect his youngest sibling holds for him. He desired to be respected by many and thus lost the esteem of the people he wanted to please the most. That is the kind of twist even Bashir's stories couldn't have warned him of.

Ravel blinks rapidly. Her magic engulfs them, a sea of tears and unhappiness. "You could have given it Ruval and I would be your bishop today. You would have had greater say on whom I would marry than Father or anyone else. Even Mother would have to back down."

She stills then. She blinks one more time and he sees the shine of tears leave her eyes. She sniffs. Little hands go to her eyes and try to dry the sadness that leaks from her.

Riser reaches for her back and brings her in his embrace. He nuzzles her hair and rocks her back and forth.

"I will make this right, I promise." He kisses the top of her quivering head and tries to soothe her fears with pats and promises of better days. Over her golden locks, he catches a glimpse of the seal he still grips.

Half hidden under his disarray of pillow, Bashir's seal gleams, tempting him.

A sob escapes his little princess and his hesitation vanishes.

The sky is clear. He surveys the house that stands before his eyes. It's crooked, roof dangling over it like a tipped hat. Moss, cork and mint fight each at its feet, devouring the base of the walls in a flourish of green.

It is a house that seems out of a story, homely yet dangerous for monsters who possess kind features dwell inside.

Neither seals nor spells stopped his entrance. Riser doesn't relax at the fact that nothing barred his infraction. Some creatures do not need protections. Their existence alone is enough protection and he knows nothing about the boy he must seduce to his side.

He sniffs the air and tenses. Something looms in the air. Something ancient and powerful infiltrates the oxygen travelling to his lungs and presses against his skin. Whatever it is, it is mighty.

The boy inhabits a most interesting lodging.

He burns the seal in his hand with a flick of his wrist. In a room in the house, a seal combusts into flames.

He knocks on the front door.

A woman, young, opens the door. She wears a lovely red checkered tuque and clothes belonging to an older era.

He offers an amicable smile. His heart sings a victorious song. Her scent tells him all he needs to know. She, like the rest of her surroundings, smells like magic and nature. There's a heady hint of smoke and fire that thrills him beyond reason.

She watches him with curious eyes and a hint of worry.

He bows gallantly at the woman who was saved by his tears.

"Hello, m'lady. I am seeking Issei, son of nobody. Is he here?"

...

...

...

To clear any confusion you might hold: yes, the neon pink man Issei met in the market in the third chapter is Riser's second elder brother. That is him who sends Issei to Bashir's library, because he knows Bashir likes to take care of younglings. He knows because Bashir is Riser's san'dak.

What's a san'dak? Ddraig will give you a class on Devil's weird family rules next chapter.

Bashir intentionally didn't answer Issei's questions about Rias during his stay because he… doesn't like the girl. (he hates her guts, honestly.)

I had fun peppering the whole chapter with references to the first arc. I hope you spot them and have fun understanding them. ;)

Ah, it is fun when all the loose strands come together nicely, eh.

This chapter was supposed to also have snippets of Issei between the parts with Riser. But then Riser's parts became a whole lot longer than they should have been and I was not comfortable giving anyone, especially my readers, an enormous patchwork of nonsense. 10 thousand words is stretching my limits for a chapter and with Issei, it would have gone over 20 thousands.

Is Yasaka Issei's love interest?

No.

Did you make a reference to Highschool DxD in Hikari's chapter?

( ͡~ ͜ʖ ͡°) you're a bit too good at getting my clues.

Does Issei's connection to "Dream Issei" mask his scent to Devils? Can this Issei borrow more from "Dream Issei"?

It's a bit complicated and I can't unveil much without unfolding the whole plot, but… yes and no. My Issei can do far more than borrow.

ALSO! If anyone is ever interested in making fanart of my story. Look. Go ahead. Persephone herself will bless you. The bunny will give you cuddles. Issei will smile. Ddraig will not diss you for an entire minute. Hikari will offer to paint you back. Chiasa will share her coffee with you. Life will be beautiful.

Thank you for all the reviews, as usual. You're all sweethearts! Stay safe and stay healthy! Brood in your room like Riser!

25/05/2020