You have until the next morning to decide. Call for me and I’ll arrange everything for you – Florence doesn’t really have to agree. Say the word and we’ll have him tied up, while you go back and tell the general that he’s made up his mind. 

It’s not lying if all roads lead to this, one way or another. It’s either that or death for the both of you. 

As Aster considered his options, the more he realised how shrewd the lieutenant truly was, to the point of driving them into a corner. There was no telling whether he spoke the truth or was simply driving a wedge between them, in a classic tale of divide and conquer. His Highness, at the very least, was someone Aster knew in the past – he would grow to be the emperor, terrorise the empire, and die in the end. 

But now an unknown variable presented itself in the form of Marzio Fontana, the general’s right hand man. A traitor, so it seemed, and one who wished to convince Florence to join his side. What choice led to the making of Emperor Sibylla? If they were walking the same, beaten path that Florence the scribe had trudged before, how do the paths diverge? 

He remembered his cellmate, then, and wondered how the voice would make of Aster’s current dilemma.  

There’s no outcome where you don’t get your hands dirty, the man had told him once. 

Aster argued that conflicts resolved with violence couldn’t possibly count as resolution, given the ‘eye for an eye’ principle. The man then countered that it was a funny point for an assassin to make. 

Right. When all else failed, Aster could simply resort to killing. Wouldn’t matter if he died, broke more bones, or permanently fucked-up a muscle or two. People like him weren’t made to think or decide – he lived straightforwardly, he would die the same. 

“Don’t even think about fighting in your condition,” a familiar voice snapped. 

And there goes the man of the hour: His Highness Florence the Bastard finally stepped inside, clad in a billowing coat. While Aster was dying and left in the mercy of their enemies, the other man had gone and got himself dolled-up. They fixed his hair, wiped his face off grime and mud, and even painted his lips. 

Like this, Florence looked every bit of regal as the emperor he used to be – or will be. It reminded Aster of the assassination attempts, and both of their vanities. 

“I–I’ll fight you,” Aster blurted out. Maybe it was a reflex.  

“Sure,” the man then poked a finger to his ribs, eliciting a painful yelp from Aster. “You can’t even stand.” 

“Can too!” Aster shot back petulantly, gathering himself to prove otherwise. A warm hand was placed on his chest, too gentle in its reprimand. 

He had to take a second to process that the hand was very much connected to His Highness. 

“Cut the bullshit, Aster,” he chided. Florence then leaned over Aster, using his free arm to adjust the pillows, making sure they fit snugly on Aster’s head. “You did this to yourself. It’s your fault we’re stuck here.” 

It was all too easy to melt from His Highness’ uncharacteristic gentleness, but luckily, Aster was an assassin blessed with focus, commitment, and sheer willpower. 

“You’re the one who wanted to talk,” he reminded the scribe. “I distinctly remember telling you that we should’ve just ran for the hills.” 

“We did talk! But when I come back I see you fighting the goddamned commander of this outpost! Have you lost your mind?!” 

“We were sparring. There’s a difference!” 

“You were losing.” 

Funny how he remembered everything so differently now. So maybe his life flashed before his eyes. Maybe he was a little beat. But losing wasn’t the term – about to die, is.  

“I could still fight,” he threw the covers away from him, suddenly finding them a bit too hot. “You–you distracted me!” 

Florence’s gaze remained steady. “You didn’t even look.” 

Aster bit his lip. That part was true. 

“You decked the commander in the face, though. I’m surprised you’re still alive.” 

A sigh. 

This time, Florence found it in himself to pick up the covers that Aster threw. But instead of giving it back, he simply began to fold it, similar to what he’d seen from distressed wives in the capital. “They can’t touch me – they need something from me. It’s like–” he restarted the folding, unsatisfied with a crease. “You know those annoying pieces at chess? The ones you always eat first but sometimes can’t?” 

Aster nodded. Remi Ferrand – his master – taught him a little about chess, if only because he needed an opponent. “The pawns.” 

“Right,” Florence undid the folding again. “The pawns.” 

Aster scowled. He snatched the blanket from Florence’s hands, although whether it’s frustration from inefficiency, or offence from His Highness referring to himself as something so small – Aster would never tell. “You said you and the lieutenant were able to talk. How did it go?” 

This time, His Highness visibly fiddled with his clothes. Never had Aster seen him so uncomfortable with himself, anxious to the point of near silence. Even as an emperor, His Highness wasn’t someone who looked down. 

Aster almost hated to pry the truth out of him, but it’s only with Florence that he could confirm whether the lieutenant’s offer was genuine. 

“It’s not–” Florence struggled to find the words, which was an unspeakable thing, especially for a scribe. 

“It’s not good,” is what he settled with. Then, with bated breath, he added: 

“He’s defected.” 

This is what Percival wanted him to find. 

It was one thing to hear it straight from a traitor’s mouth, and entirely another to have Florence break the news. Florence, who had been prepared to venture out on his own, all for the sake of finding out what became of their trusted lieutenant. 

Even with his garb, His Highness now looked more like a puppet instead of the strong, powerful tyrant that Aster knew he’d grow to be. Did he also wear the same lost expression in his past life? Was there anyone to help him make sense of it all? 

This Florence has yet to connect the dots, has yet to realise the crossroads in front of him. What did he choose? 

“...I never should’ve let you talk to him,” Aster mumbled, unsure what to make of the sudden weight on his chest. All he knew was that he found it harder to kill Florence when he was like this. 

And that won’t do. 

“No, that was on me. I insisted,” a sudden weight pressed next to Aster, causing a significant dip in his cosy cot. What the fuck. What the fuck. 

“I had a feeling this was the case, but it’s better to see it with my own eyes.”

“To see is to believe, after all.” His reply came out smoothly, totally not strained.  

Aster refused to acknowledge the person lying so close next to him. He kept his gaze at the swords, the armour, hell – even the roof of the hut – anything but the warmth of His Highness’ body, the smell of oils and perfume, and his collarbones peeking out.  

“Do you hate him?” Aster dared to ask. 

A moment of silence. 

And then: 

“I’m angry, of course. But hate…that doesn’t really matter. It makes sense, knowing that we’re all sent here to die. Only Percival gave a shit about the mission. The rest of us? We’re just…waiting for him to realise.” 

Aster felt as though he’d swallowed sand upon hearing those words. Tell him, his conscience urged. They would lose the battle anyway, the general would die anyway. Florence at least deserved to know the context behind the choice he was making. 

“Does it make me a bad person if I cared more about what the general would think?” Florence mused. 

Aster forced the truth at the back of his throat. “No,” he answered genuinely. “Not at all.” 

“It would break his heart, if he knew that his closest friend betrayed him,” the scribe’s words quieted down to a whisper. “Marzio gave me a choice, you know. Stay and join him, or go back and die.” 

Call for me and I’ll arrange everything for you – Florence doesn’t really have to agree. Say the word and we’ll have him tied up, while you go back and tell the general that he’s made up his mind. 

“What did you choose?” 

When Aster turned his head to look at His Highness, he found that the man was already looking. The expression on his face was determined, like he would burn the empire down, if that’s what it took. And what a marvel it was, Aster realized, to see so much life in those blood-red eyes. Perhaps that was what separated Florence the Scribe from Florence the emperor — the other had fire for eyes, while the other only had ashes. 

“I said you had to wait until you woke up first, obviously! But I have a plan.”

 Aster bit back a laugh. “Okay, then. What’s the plan.” 

His Highness had gotten so close that their noses almost touched. What a punishment this is, Aster thought, to close the distance and still be unable to do anything about it. 

“First, we pretend that we’re going through with it. Then, we’re taking that bastard Marzio with us. Kicking or screaming, dead or alive – he’ll explain his mess in front of the general by himself.”