Fyron paced, anxiously awaiting news of Analie's arrival. Though he'd never met the girl, it seemed he felt connected to her; perhaps knowing her story and having worked closely with her cousin for years was enough to forge such a connection. 

“Fyr, sit down. Your pacing is making me nervous,” Jerika snapped, snagging his belt and pulling him down into the chair beside her. 

“Sorry.”

Micaiah laid a heavy, comforting hand on Fyr's shoulder, “You're nervous; that's understandable, but channel it into something useful. Walk down to the guard station and pick up gossip, or check in with the staff and ensure her room is ready, play with Rin and keep him out of our hair. Something.”

A small smile formed at Micaiah's last suggestion, but it was soon gone as Fyron considered his options. He sighed, then nodded, “Guard station it is. I'll bring back all the latest gossip for you.”

He stood and was halfway out the door, before he turned, a mischievous smirk on his face, “Guess that leaves Rin to you!”

And then he was gone. Jerika snorted a laugh at the look of exasperation and dread that crossed Micaiah's face, “You should have just assigned him a task. Giving him options means giving him a way out.”

A heavy sigh escaped Micaiah as he dropped into the chair Fyron had vacated, “I know, but I hate pushing people into things they will dislike. If I can give options and have them choose, even if I influence their choice…”

“It feels like less responsibility, like if it turns out badly, it shouldn't be your fault.”

There was no question in Jerika's comment, and Micaiah wondered if she too knew that feeling or if she could simply read him that well. He nodded, and hung his head. Perhaps it was for the best that he had been disowned and all but exiled, he would have made a terrible leader.

A flurry of activity outside drew their attention just as Fyron burst through the door, little Rin on his heels.

“The viscount has closed the gates. He's not letting anyone in or out.”

Micaiah stood, his anxiety surging, igniting the need to pace. Once in motion, his mind began to slow, focusing on the problem at hand, “How long?” when the three just stared blankly, he clarified, “How long does he intend to keep us cut off?”

Fyron answered grimly, “Until the mages within the city are wiped out.” 

Micaiah froze. It took only seconds for the initial shock to give way to rage, “He dares to-”

Jerika's calloused hand slipped into his, her grip firm and comforting, “We won't allow it. The mages have been persecuted enough.”

Micaiah nodded, now resolute, hints of plans and contingencies already beginning to form, “Fyr, call Ami. We'll need her help with getting people to safety. Rika, find me somewhere safe and quiet to plan. Gods help us but I don't think there will be any coming back from this."

‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐

The “war council”, as Fyron had jokingly dubbed it, met quietly in the back room of a seedy tavern. Soldiers under orders from the viscout had already visited Micaiah's home and torn it apart, taking any staff members still working away in manacles. Micaiah, Jerika, and Fyron had luckily already left on errands or… well, he'd seen Rika fight and the last thing they needed were dead soldiers; it would give the viscount a legitimate excuse to harass the mages. 

Amitie had scattered her men throughout the city to keep an eye on things and protect whoever they could without provoking the soldiers with bloodshed. 

Micaiah swallowed hard, the city map before him fading as his eyes unfocused. He had to either make the viscount see reason, or if worse came to worst, depose the man, but either of those things meant reclaiming that part of himself he'd buried upon leaving the capital. It meant using the political training he'd excelled at but hated. It meant taking responsibility for something much larger than just his household and the occasional runaway mages. 

Strong hands settled on his shoulders and firmly worked at the knotted muscle of his neck and upper back. As those talented fingers dug into one particularly stubborn knot, a sound bordering on indecent slipped from his mouth. He heard chuckles, then the pressure lessened but those fingers didn't stop until he was limp as a dishrag. Then warmth caressed his back, along with the barely there impression of chapped lips upon the back of his neck.

“As much as I appreciate your skilled hands, it is your strategic mind I value most, Fyr. Get over here and help me think.”

Fyr dropped into the chair next to Micaiah, leaning across him to snag the map. So close. Too close. Micaiah struggled to hide his reaction, forcing himself to think of the most disgusting things his mind could conjure: the sight of rotten food writhing with maggots, the smell of charred flesh, the feel of eels against his skin… oh good, the awkward tenting of his pants was gone. Now what were they saying?

“... I think that could work.”

His mind gradually returned to the task at hand, even as he felt judgemental stares searing into him from every side. “What?”

Fyron rolled his eyes but good naturedly explained the plan again. Micaiah felt his eyes widen; that… well, while not winning them any friends politically, that might just work to save the mages. In fact, it was the only way he could see forward long term. It would require careful timing and the gods' own luck but...

“Let's do it.”

‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐

Mirren paced. It was all he could do. The gates remained closed, his charges were exhausted and the two they'd picked up along the way were still unconscious, though for how much longer was anyone's guess. 

Corsha grabbed his hand as he paced past, pulling him down beside her, “Sir Mirren, you're just tiring yourself out and annoying me. If we have no plan, we must wait. Surely, the others are working on the problem too, just from the opposite side. Perhaps they will have better luck.”

He sighed, running a hand over his face, “You're right that they're in a better position to do something about this mess. However, they're also in the most danger as they have nowhere to run.”

Analie suddenly perked up, surprise on her face, “Mages coming. Three of them, unhurried, no sigils. They're nearly to the gates.”

Mirren looked toward the city, anxiety gnawing at him. Were there mages hoping to sneak out? Or was the viscount just marching mages out of the city now instead of slaughtering them? Or had the mages inside managed to work a miracle?

“Stay here. I'll check it out. I'll whistle for you if it's safe.”

He approached slowly, keeping out of sight as much as possible, until he reached the gate. The now open gate. A dozen or more guardsmen were tied together and being marched out of the city. Overseeing their exodus was the prince flanked by his newest rescues, Fyron and Jerika. 

“Your highness! What…?”

Micaiah smiled, though it seemed forced, “Mirren! Welcome to Fireden, the newly established nation of mages.”

‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐

Micaiah stared sightlessly into the fire, late into the night, his thoughts a muddle. For all that declaring independence and creating his own nation was the only way he could see for the mages’ long term safety, he feared the inevitable retaliation from the capital. They were still little more than a single city containing a few dozen half trained mages against the whole of a country who already hated them. The former viscount had chosen to take his own life, and the lives of his family, rather than be forced from his city in disgrace, further complicating their position. The guardsmen still obviously loyal to the late viscount were exiled but no doubt some remained attempting to quietly undermine him. The nonmagical inhabitants of the city were staying quiet so far but that coukd change at any moment. He still needed to-

 “Micaiah?” Jerika called softly, her arms snaking around him in a tentative hug, shaking him from his thoughts. She simply held him for a time before asking softly, “This okay?”

He nodded, unsure of how else to answer her. Her warmth, the strength in her arms, and the firm but gentle way she held him soothed anxiety he hadn't noticed was building so high. Her embrace felt right in that moment. 

He turned ever so slightly and pressed his lips to her cheek, “Thank you.”

Though seemingly surprised by the display of affection, she didn't pull away. If anything, she held him tighter as she asked, “For what?”

“For… everything. You and Fyron have made me rethink everything, made me take responsibility for the lives I impact, made me a better man.”

Her smile slipped slightly, returning strained, though her voice betrayed nothing, “Can you thank the fire that burns a village and forces renovation? Or the storm that leaves such devastation in its wake that improvement becomes necessary? We brought trouble into your life, upended it completely, what you made of the aftermath has nothing to do with us and everything to do with you.”

He could tell she would not be persuaded otherwise. Not yet. But he could be patient. For now they could agree to disagree.