Fate's oddity volume 2, page 43
Everywhere I went, I broke formations apart. I cut the pins that held lines together, drove my daggers down to wedge into shield rims and force them wide, then filled the gap with fire until the enemy broke off on their own. I was in and out before they knew who had touched them, a shadow wreathed in light.
For once, the fire felt almost like the Blood Miracle—sharp, absolute, dangerous. It made me wonder, just for a heartbeat, where Krimson the man ended and Krimson the legend began.
Ruby Road wove around me like a second heartbeat. Celestia and Azazel stood back-to-back at the center, their spells overlapping into a storm of light and shadow that bound up both sides like chains. Murasaki darted in with her spear, using the flat end to sweep men off their feet, her movements sharp and vicious but never lethal. Tazrak played bulldozer, plowing through knots of fighters and dragging them clear. Rin and Seira pulled civilians out of danger, while Paprika’s tortoise glowed brighter and brighter, shields flaring to block stray swings.
It was chaos, but it was our chaos, and we were winning.
I vaulted onto a toppled cart, daggers flashing, and cut through a tangle of knights with fire trailing from every swing. Swords dropped. Shields broke. Helmets rang hollow as I cracked them with the butt of my blade. And every time, the fire kissed just hot enough to sear their pride, not their flesh.
Minute by minute, the tide broke.
By the time the last echoes of steel faded, the fighters lay scattered—some groaning, some unconscious, all disarmed. Ruby Road stood tall, bruised but breathing. My flames licked outward on their own, sweeping through the square. They touched wounds and knit them shut, rolled over bruises and lightened them, soothed rage into something almost human again.
Finally after everything, silence fell. A hush so deep it felt like even the spirits themselves were holding their breath.
I stood there, chest heaving, daggers dripping flame onto the cobbles. Words came unbidden, half command, half plea, all me.
“This is your city. These are your brothers, your comrades. If you fight now, you burn away everything you claim to protect. And trust me—I don’t want to be the guy who has to explain to the spirits why half the guard’s missing their eyebrows.”
The line broke—not with blood, but with sound. Weapons clattered to the stones, one after another. The square breathed again.
My knees wavered, the crown’s fire dimming, but before I could stumble Celestia’s hand pressed steady against my back, firm as a promise.
“We did it,” I whispered, not sure if I meant Ruby Road, the city, or just me.
For now, it was enough.
***
The sun had begun to set on Silvanus, glinting off a city that looked half broken, half reborn. The market square—where I’d nearly set my friends, and everyone else, on fire—was now a construction zone. Medics patched wounds. Royal councilors and the Levisdian envoys stood around trying to look wise while posturing, and Celestia’s uncle looked positively cross. He was probably disappointed this hadn’t gotten worse.
I was slumped on a step, sweat-streaked and running mostly on nerves. Celestia cradled my head in her lap, fingers combing gently through my hair, ignoring the city and the sidelong stares.
Paprika lingered on the edge of things, her tortoise familiar glowing faintly at her side. There was something otherworldly about her—distant, like she wasn’t quite part of us, even when she tried. Tazrak and Azazel were still busy hauling soldiers off the streets, while Seira, wrapped in a fresh bandage, was mobbed by grateful citizens pressing tokens into her hands. Rin shepherded families home, calm as sunrise.
Murasaki dropped down beside me without a word, nudging my shoulder with hers—rough enough to jostle, soft enough to comfort.
“Hey,” she said low, just for me. “You did good out there. You always do. Doesn’t matter how much fire you burn through, I’ll be right here. You can lean on me, y’know. Just this once. I promise not to make it weird.”
“I think we’re already past that, don’t you?” I shot back.
She smirked. “Fair.”
Celestia leaned down, whispering in my ear, “You may look half-dead, but as usual, you never shut up. Should I carry you back to bed, or will you manage to limp on your own?” Her tone was teasing, but her eyes were nothing but affection—and something hungrier, barely hidden. For someone raised in a palace, she had no shame about clinging to me in public, and even less about letting everyone know I was hers.
I grinned up at her. “Depends. Carry me and I’ll owe you. Carry me to bed and—well, you know I pay my debts.”
She laughed, bright even after everything. “You’d better. Of course, I’ll take my payment up front—or, if you’re lucky, maybe in the back.”
Murasaki groaned. “I’d really like for us to be a little less horny sometimes.”
Celestia moaned right back. “Saki, you know you’re the one who made me like this.”
“Thanks for the concern, Saki.” I gave her my best innocent smile. She didn’t buy it, just huddled closer with us instead.
Tazrak lumbered over and clapped me on the shoulder, almost knocking me off the step. “One for the legends, boss. You want a drink or a nap?”
“Both,” I said, and meant it.
Vivienne swept in next, hair immaculate despite the chaos, her smile sharp as ever. “What you did today will change how every nation looks at you—and the rest of the royal family.” She tilted her head. “Now, mind making space for me, princess?”
“By all means, you’re always welcome, Pinky.”
“Could you not call me that, purebred?”
They laughed, that odd mix of affection and spite only they could pull off.
“Stop posturing and give me huggies,” I muttered, proud and ridiculous all at once.
Paprika, quiet as always, slipped Milo a cup of tea, then melted back into the crowd—her smile shy, her presence grounding.
For a moment, it felt like we’d bought real peace. Even the city itself seemed to breathe easier.
Then came the movement from the palace’s direction. The royal knights marched in first, armor catching the last of the sun, forming a line that silenced the square. Behind them stood my parents—the city’s new holy trinity—solemn, battered, but united. The king, Queen Beatrice, and my mother, Kris, faced the square together.
The king’s voice carried across the hush, strong and sure.
“Silvanus, Gaia—today you’ve seen what fear can do. But you’ve also seen what courage can hold together. Ruby Road stood firm when this city was ready to tear itself apart. They proved hope is not fragile—it is stronger than steel, stronger than fire. They are not only defenders of these streets. They are the promise of our future.”
Mama Beatrice stepped forward, her presence soft but steady, the healer queen through and through. “Today we mourn,” she said, voice warm enough to reach even the farthest ears. “We mourn our wounds, our divisions, our mistakes. But grief will not be twisted into vengeance. Justice will come—true justice, not scapegoats, not mobs. We will not betray the fallen by answering violence with more violence. We will heal, together.”
Then Kris’s voice cut through, iron-strong and impossible to ignore. “This is not the end. I know what it means to lose everything—to watch a home reduced to ash and a people scattered. I know the bitterness that comes when trust is broken. But I also know the strength that rises when we stand together. Gaia will not be a house divided. Not while we live. Not while I still draw breath.”
The square held silent, every word landing heavy. For the first time all day, it felt like maybe the city believed.
We were called forward. Tazrak squeezed my arm. “You ready to play hero, boss?”
“Hush, I’m just talking to my parents.”
Vivienne brushed my shoulder. “You did more than you think, my Prince.”
Celestia kissed my forehead. “Stop being a party pooper, sweetie.”
The king’s final words echoed across the square:
“There will be a full accounting. Gaia endures. The Phoenix has shown us a better way. We will not falter in our convictions.”
Later, when the crowd thinned and the square finally stilled, Ruby Road regrouped in the palace courtyard—tired, bruised, but whole. Mom found me in the shade, resting a hand on my shoulder.
“I’m proud of you, you little goblin. You handled business, but don’t relax too hard. There’s still a culprit to catch.”
I met her eyes, feeling the weight of it all. “We’re not finished. But for now, I’ll take a hot cup of hope.”
Maybe my family leaned on me too much. Who exactly was the king here—Pops?
But for now, the city—and me—rested. And I let myself believe the peace would last.
Chapter 25: The Mercy of Knives
The following morning, the Levisdian envoys finally decided that, after everything—and despite failing to achieve their goal—it was time to leave. Many in Gaia had quietly hoped for reconciliation between the two countries, but those hopes were gone. It was now almost certain that relations would stay strained, maybe even worse than before.
The choice came from Prince Lucien himself, of course. You could call it petty ambition or selfish desire—for him, it was always about his own goals. It wasn’t that he couldn’t take the throne without Celestia at his side. The problem was the waiting—waiting for the slim chance his elder siblings had another heir, and then, if that heir was a daughter, waiting again for her to come of age. For Lucien, that was intolerable. To the rest of the world, it was more than disgusting—it was criminal. But in the Levisdian royal family, that was the way of things. It was how they had protected their legacy for generations, and how they meant to continue.
As they made their leave, the embassy courtyard pulsed with magic. Knights moved into formation, while mage-diplomats inscribed runes, calling up the spell that would carry them back across the border.
Prince Lucien stepped out in ceremonial green and silver, his face hard as cut glass. His retinue closed around him, armor shining in the morning light, the air heavy with the weight of departure.
He did not ask to see Celestia. He did not so much as send word to her chambers, though the fact that she had a guest room in the palace on paper—but in reality had never once used it, spending her days and nights with Krimson instead—may have had something to do with it. To him, she was never truly a niece. She had been promised to him since she was a child, shaped by law and blood into his future consort. In his mind she was not family, not even wholly her own person, but an extension of himself, a limb that had grown willful, pulling away as if it could act without him. To say farewell would be to acknowledge her defiance.
So he departed in silence. The spell-engines flared, a surge of wind sweeping the courtyard as the envoy vanished into shimmering light. No words exchanged, no glance backward—only the emptiness left behind, cold as the iron crest of his house that lingered in the air long after he was gone.
***
The city above was quiet, but in Silvanus’s slums, old debts never slept and secrets made their homes.
Krimson leaned against the arch of a crumbling walkway—scuffed boots, and a dour look. After the turmoil of the previous day, some would call it a win: they’d avoided total war, no lives were lost, and—though suspicion lingered—most had finally seen the truth thanks to Ruby Road. But it wasn’t quite that simple. The killer was still loose, and clearly had a bone to pick with Ruby Road. That was why he was here now. He made his way toward a figure lit by the weak orange glow of the streetlamps, the light casting more shadows than it banished.
The figure revealed itself to be Kris, who slipped closer without a sound. Light on her feet, heavy in presence—the kind that made you forget her status as a queen. Her black cloak was wrapped tight; the only splash of color was her scarlet hair cascading down her profile.
“You ready to go for a walk, boy?” she asked, her face alight with the tells of a mischievous scheme.
Krimson grinned, tension easing in her presence—but it was still early, and both knew whoever had picked a fight with them would soon regret it. “Yep, I’m ready,” he said. “Don’t know if I’d call this a walk, though. Doesn’t seem like it’ll be pleasant for anyone involved.”
She rolled her one visible eye, the smallest hint of a smile tugging at her lips. “I’d appreciate it if you’d stop feigning disinterest in our line of work. I may have trained you, but I speak nothing but the truth when I say this—you were born to be an assassin.”
Kris had started this life out of necessity—a choice for survival. Krimson, though, was born into the darkness, molded by it if you will. But it didn’t define him. If anything, he’d become who he was in spite of it. It didn’t make him good, kind, or pure. Krimson was a born killer, through and through. He’d been taught how to be what he was, but his talent and aptitude went even deeper. In every way that mattered, he’d mastered the arts of the assassin with the unexpected grace of a savant.
If anyone could name a weakness, it would be something rather unexpected. Krimson, ever since he was little dissociated from his actions with humor—a shield, a coping mechanism. And the only person who ever saw through it was the woman who’d raised and trained him: his mother, Kris.
But none of that got in the way of the work. Tonight was a mission for mother and son—the legend, and the one who sees through it.
They moved through the slums with purpose but zero leads, cutting across black markets, seedy bars, and those little outfits that turn dirty favors into clean coin. Every stop was the same: wary eyes, closed mouths, nothing solid. Someone out there had killed and tried to hang it on Ruby Road; whoever it was knew how to scrub a trail.
They worked anyway. Kris got doors to open with a look; Krimson slid silvers where words would only spook the room. And because titles change how you move, they also took mental notes—who ran what, which stalls fed a block, what could be licensed later without snapping the neighborhood in half. As royalty it was their responsibility to ensure that the country—even the slums—was a place they could be proud of. But that was tomorrow’s problem. Tonight was about a name.
Nothing came. Same as yesterday: no whispers that held, no thread to pull.
So after too long standing still, they did what you do when a trail refuses to exist—they decided to wing it.
Kris steered them toward a minor baron her internal audits at the magicite company kept flagging—an underling likely reporting straight to Stoll, who resigned right after Ludwig de Salvador’s “disappearance.” Everything about him smelled wrong, but—like the rest of this case—there wasn’t a scrap of proof. Which is exactly why they went. It was a leap of faith, and they both knew it.
Baron Pascal Veyron. A man with a minor title, and an even smaller footprint. The kind of man who kept his head down and his ledgers cleaner than his hands.
His place wasn’t a manor—just a narrow, two-story house on a quiet lane near the east canal. Whitewashed walls, a chipped crest over the door, one lantern burned out. No guards, just a sleepy maid and a dog that barked twice and decided it wasn’t worth the effort.
Krimson took the lock in a breath. Kris could’ve knocked and made the door open on principle, but they weren’t here for principle.
The Inside smelled like tea and old books. Veyron’s study sat off the hall—short shelves, a cheap rug, a desk with a wobble. Nothing flashy. He wore a shirt without the jacket, sleeves rolled, a ring too heavy for a man pretending to be poor. He froze mid-signature when he noticed them.
“This is… irregular, Your Majesty. Your Highness,” he said, trying mild and harmless.
“Relax,” Krimson said, shutting the door with his heel. “We’re just here to talk. Just making conversation.”
They were most certainly not.
Kris drifted past him, fingertips skimming the desk, the ledgers, the blotter. “We’ll ask. You’ll answer. Now, I don’t know if you’ve heard, but we’re old hands at this. If you lie, we may be less inclined to just talk.”
Veyron forced a smile. “I’m a lower baron with a shrinking stipend. I file complaints about potholes. I don’t know anything worth your time, Your Highness.”
“Great,” Krimson said. “Then you won’t mind clearing up a few nothings.” He smiled, and it didn’t reach his eyes.
He didn’t flash proof. They didn’t have any. What Krimson had was the tone you use when you already know, and a set of skills made for getting people to talk. What Kris had, however, was something worse.
“Who first approached you after Salvador’s ‘disappearance’?” she asked.
“No one,” Veyron said too quickly. “I withdrew from company matters immediately.”
“Funny.” Krimson leaned on the desk, easy. “Because I heard you still ‘helped’—little errands. Moving forms. Passing notes.”
“That’s absurd,” Veyron snapped, then softened. “I… I advised. Socially. Everyone was confused.”
Kris tilted her head. “So there were meetings.”
“I didn’t say—”
“You did.” Krimson tapped the blotter. “Let’s try a simpler lane. How many cutouts did Stoll make you use?”
Veyron blinked. “I don’t even—who is Stoll to me?”
“Okay, that’s at least three strikes, Mom,” Krimson said, smiling without warmth. “I think you’re going to have to cut his balls off.”
“I don’t want to touch his balls. You cut his balls off.”
“Nah, you do the dirty work. I play it easy—isn’t that how we’re doing it?”
“No, we’re not. We’re both going to torture him. Why do I have to explain that? Also, you cut his balls off.”
“No, you do it.”
The baron watched, aghast—members of the royal family casually arguing over who would geld him, who would make sure he never sired anything again—all delivered with a frightening, everyday calm. It was more terrifying that his life mattered so little than anything they could actually do.
