Kyyre was a little dazed, both hands planted on the bar as he stared into the polished wood, thoughts slipping through his mind like water through cupped fingers. Well, not really thoughts—more like white noise, static humming between his ears, an empty sort of disconnect that kept him just far enough removed from the present to feel weightless. His eyes had drifted off, unfocused and glazed over, his mind floating somewhere far from the crowd, from the tournament, from the mess he had willingly walked into.

Leon’s voice pulled him back. The sound of his name, or maybe just the shift in tone, something steady cutting through the fog. Kyyre blinked up at him, slightly disoriented, his expression unreadable save for the flicker of recognition behind his pale pink eyes. His lips parted slightly, but he didn’t get the chance to ask what? before his gaze shifted and landed on the bartender, who was watching him expectantly.

Order. Drink.

"Vodka," he said, quick, but too quiet. The words barely made it past his lips, and for a horrible second, he thought she might not have heard him, that she might ask him to repeat himself. He wasn’t sure if he had it in him to say it again. His voice already felt thin in his throat, strained around the edges. But whether she caught it or not, she moved away without a word, leaving Kyyre to exhale in something close to relief.

Honestly? He didn’t even care what she brought him. If it wasn’t vodka, he’d drink it anyway. The thought of correcting her, of speaking up again, felt like too much effort, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to deal with whatever weight came with it. It wasn’t the drink that mattered—it was the distraction, the sharp burn that might help keep him tethered to the moment instead of drifting off again.

Leon spoke, his words smooth and easy, though the flicking of his tail betrayed the sharpness beneath them. Kyyre turned his attention back to him, watching with pale eyes that were still fighting to stay grounded, to pay attention, to be here.

"This is your first tournament, isn’t it?"

It wasn’t a question, not really. It was a statement, an observation, spoken with the kind of certainty that made Kyyre’s stomach twist.

He blinked, slow and deliberate, before finally nodding, dragging his fingers across the bar in a lazy, aimless motion. “Yeah.” His voice came out softer than he intended, but he didn’t bother correcting it. Instead, he let the word settle between them, feeling the weight of it press down against his ribs.

He hesitated before adding, “I was never meant to compete. Not really.” The words felt strange on his tongue, like something he hadn’t meant to say out loud. But it was the truth, wasn’t it?

His gaze flickered toward the crowd, toward the expectant faces that would be watching, waiting, anticipating the moment he either proved himself or broke apart entirely.

Leon wasn’t wrong. They weren’t people here. They were entertainment.

He had never been meant for this.

He exhaled softly, rubbing his temple with one hand, fingers pressing just a little too hard against his skull. “It’s exhausting already,” he muttered, half to himself.

—

Astrid wanted to vomit. Genuinely, violently wanted to let go of Andromeda’s hand, keel over, and retch onto the cold stone floor at just the thought of intimacy with her. It sat in his stomach like spoiled meat, like something curdled and rotting, festering in his gut.

"It was never my intention to put you in a bed," he said, voice clipped but measured, forced into something neutral despite the disgust curling at the back of his throat. He tried to coach his tone into his usual cadence, to mask the way his stomach twisted, but there was something just a little too tight in the way he spoke, an edge just sharp enough to slip through.

Andromeda continued speaking, and he listened—at least, technically. The words reached him, but they barely stuck, the overwhelming nausea clouding his thoughts, making it difficult to focus on anything beyond the simple need to put as much space between himself and this conversation as possible.

"As I said," he hissed, voice cutting through the stagnant air like a knife, "if I find a scratch on him, two people are dying before the tournament even begins."

His words were a warning, but his departure was a promise.

He turned sharply, sweeping down the hall with quick, purposeful strides, his cloak flaring slightly behind him as his pace steadily increased. His fingers twitched at his sides, curling into loose fists before flexing open again, as if trying to shake off the lingering sensation of Andromeda’s hand in his. His jaw was locked tight, his teeth grinding against each other, every muscle in his body wound tense with barely restrained revulsion.

By the time he reached the door to his quarters, he could barely keep himself together. He didn’t wait for the guards, didn’t acknowledge their presence—he just grabbed the key himself, wrenching it from its place and jamming it into the lock with a sharp twist of his wrist. The door slammed behind him with enough force to shake the frame, but he barely registered it.

He made it to the bathroom just in time.

The nausea that had been clawing at him since the moment Andromeda had spoken finally reached its breaking point, and he doubled over the toilet, retching violently, his body shuddering with each wave of disgust. His fingers clutched at the cold porcelain, his knuckles white as he coughed, spitting out the last remnants of bile, trying to rid himself of the sheer vileness of it all.

He braced himself against the sink, breathing heavily, eyes squeezed shut.

Disgusting. Utterly vile.

Kyyre barely registered the bartender setting the drinks down. His mind still felt like it was lagging a few steps behind, caught somewhere between the static in his skull and the weight pressing down on his ribs. His fingers twitched against the polished wood of the bar, idly tracing invisible patterns as his focus wavered, slipping through his grasp like sand. He might’ve stayed in that half-dissociated state if not for the sudden motion beside him—an arm swinging across his line of sight, intercepting his drink before he could so much as reach for it.

His attention snapped upward, locking onto Leon with a slow blink of mild bewilderment.

The other man brought the glass to his nose, sniffing at it with a sharp, scrutinizing squint before handing it over without a word. Kyyre accepted it hesitantly, fingers wrapping around the chilled surface. A flicker of something—annoyance, maybe—flared in his chest, but it fizzled out before it could become anything real. He didn’t have the energy to question it. Whatever reason Leon had for the odd gesture, it wasn’t Kyyre’s problem. He just wanted something to take the edge off.

Raising the glass to his lips, he took a slow sip, letting the burn of alcohol coat his tongue, sharp and biting. It wasn’t enough to drown out the gnawing sense of disconnection, but it was something.

Leon’s voice cut through the low hum of the tavern, his words drawing Kyyre’s focus like a hook sinking into his ribs.

"Weren’t meant to compete? Did your parents have some plan to get you out of it?"

Kyyre exhaled through his nose, his grip on the glass tightening slightly.

It wasn’t an unreasonable assumption. Plenty of heirs had ways of weaseling out of the tournament, whether through politics, bribery, or sheer force of will. But his parents? They never had a plan for him. Not beyond the vague expectation that he’d stay out of the way, keep his head down, and avoid embarrassing them any further than his very existence already had.

That was supposed to be his brother, not him.

What a conveniently placed sickness.

“No,” he said finally, voice quieter than he meant for it to be. His throat felt tight, the single syllable scraping against the back of his tongue like sandpaper. He took another sip, longer this time, as if the alcohol could wash away the bitter taste of the truth.

Leon kept talking, his words rolling off with a casual ease that Kyyre envied.

"Either way, we’re stuck in here now. From what I’ve seen, they’re all rather fierce this year."

Kyyre’s gaze flicked up, catching the brief flash of realization in Leon’s expression.

"Not so much so we’re in trouble, obviously. They’re just a lot more competitive, is what I meant."

Kyyre huffed softly, a sound that wasn’t quite amusement but wasn’t outright disdain either. He knew what Leon really meant. It was the same thing everyone else was thinking but didn’t want to say outright—this year’s competitors were ruthless. Hungry. The kind of people who wouldn’t hesitate to claw their way to the top no matter how many bodies they had to step over to get there.

And Kyyre?

He wasn’t like them.

He was here because he had no choice. Because the alternative—staying home, being swallowed whole by his family’s disappointment—was somehow worse than throwing himself into the fire and hoping he didn’t burn too badly.

"You’ve made your appearance. You can always slip away now."

Kyyre tilted his head slightly at that, considering.

Could he?

The idea was tempting. Vanishing into the shadows, avoiding the stares, the whispers, the scrutiny. But it wasn’t that simple. He wasn’t allowed to disappear, not really. He might not have the raw presence or the unwavering confidence of Andromeda, but that didn’t mean he was invisible. Not when there were eyes watching, waiting for him to stumble.

Instead of answering, he downed the rest of his drink in one go, letting the burn settle in his stomach.

Leon leaned in then, his voice dropping to something hushed, gravelly.

"Forewarning, the first thing is an obstacle course."

Kyyre stiffened slightly. His fingers tapped against the counter, a slow, measured rhythm.

He’d expected combat first. Some brutal show of strength to weed out the weak before anything else. But an obstacle course? That could mean anything.

Leon continued, describing the hazards in a quiet murmur—whirling spikes, mud, blades, the whole thing sounding more like a death trap than a trial. Kyyre wasn’t surprised. It fit the pattern. The people running this tournament didn’t want heirs who could simply survive; they wanted ones who could endure, who could tear through their competition without hesitation.

His stomach twisted, but he didn’t let it show.

Instead, he met Leon’s gaze evenly, expression unreadable. “Thanks for the warning,” he muttered, his voice still carrying that distant, flat tone. He wasn’t sure if it made a difference. He wasn’t sure if anything would make a difference.

But at least now, he knew what was coming.

Kyyre glanced at the bartender, but shook his head. More alcohol wouldn’t help. A hangover tomorrow wouldn’t, either. His limbs still felt heavy, weighed down by the exhaustion creeping at the edges of his mind, but he forced himself upright.

“Um,” he mumbled, fingers twitching at his sides. “I best get going. I’ve got a… uh… meeting. And you probably want to sleep, too?” He glanced at the ground, shifting uncomfortably. The words felt clumsy in his mouth, too stiff and unnatural, but he pushed through. “Anyway. Uh. If I don’t see you until then, best of luck with the tournament.”

There was another pause—too long, too awkward—before Kyyre looked up again, wracking his brain for the proper way to part.

La bise? Absolutely not. The very thought sent heat creeping up his neck.

A handshake? Too formal. Too stiff.

A shoulder bump? That felt too casual, something friends would do, and he wasn’t sure where they stood.

Instead, he settled for a small nod, abrupt and a little awkward, before turning on his heel and rushing out of there before his own indecision swallowed him whole.

He let out a breath as he moved down the corridor, his steps brisk and measured. The tavern’s warmth quickly faded behind him, replaced by the cool stillness of the hallways. His eyes flicked back and forth, scanning for movement, making sure no one was around before he slipped further into the quiet depths.

By the time he reached Astrid’s door, his pulse had steadied, though the weight in his chest remained.

The guards paid him little mind. One of them took the key and unlocked the door, pushing it open with a practiced ease. Kyyre didn’t waste time, stepping inside quickly, the familiar scent of incense and something sharper—like metal—filling his lungs.

"Azzy?" he called nervously, eyes flicking across the seemingly empty room.

For a moment, there was nothing. Just silence, heavy and expectant. Then—

A soft cough. The sound of fabric shifting.

With a quiet exhale, Astrid pushed himself out of the bathroom, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before straightening to his full height. His expression was unreadable at first, shadowed by the dim lighting, but the tension in his shoulders eased slightly as he took in Kyyre’s presence.

"Ky," Astrid murmured, voice low, warm in a way that made Kyyre’s stomach twist. “Welcome, welcome. Go ahead and sit.”

Astrid’s gaze flicked briefly to the side, acknowledging Asteria curled around Kyyre. The snake lifted her head slightly, flicking her tongue out in lazy amusement, but Astrid pointedly ignored her. If she decided to test his patience tonight, she’d be spending the evening in the drainpipes.

Kyyre hesitated for only a second before stepping further inside, the door clicking shut behind him. The flickering glow of the room cast long, wavering shadows against the walls, and he suddenly felt very aware of how exhausted he was.

“You look like shit,” he muttered, but there was no bite to it. Just quiet concern, buried under the usual bluntness of his words.

Astrid let out a breath that was almost a laugh, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You’re one to talk,” he shot back, before motioning again toward the bed. “Sit,” he repeated.

Kyyre sat, but didn’t speak right away. His fingers fidgeted slightly against his knee, his mind turning over everything—the tournament, Leon’s words, the looming threat of the trials. It all felt like too much, pressing down on him like a weight he couldn’t quite shake.

After a moment, he exhaled sharply through his nose, leaning forward slightly. “Obstacle course,” he said simply. “That’s the first trial.”

Astrid’s expression remained neutral, but there was a flicker of something sharp in his gaze—calculation, interest.

“Whirling spikes, mud, blades,” Kyyre continued. “Apparently, anything goes.”

Astrid hummed, thoughtful. “How’d you find that out?”

Kyyre hesitated for a fraction of a second before answering. “Leon.”

A brow arched slightly, but Astrid didn’t comment on it. Instead, he nodded, settling back into his seat. “Good,” he murmured. “That gives us an advantage.”

Kyyre wasn’t sure how much of an advantage it really was. But at least now, they knew what they were walking into. If anything, he’d want to save Astrid; or at least warn him, and hope whatever the fuck these idiots did wouldn’t kill him.

Kyyre knew he could handle himself.

Astrid?

Eh..