“Well, as I said - we all benefit from this -” Paracelsus leaned back, taking his own advice and getting comfortable, “That is, except your boss.”

Gareland scoffed at that, “Then why should I agree? Have you considered that I might like my boss?”

“I’ve considered that possibility,” He said, looking away from her, trying to assert control of the conversation, “But I discarded that notion.” He looked back at her, tilting his head to appear confident, “I heard the way you mentioned that phrase, ‘my boss’, in Boulliard’s office.”

“Alright, then,” Gareland spat out, “Let’s hear it: What do I think of my boss? What might motivate me to stand against him?”

He recognized her tone; she was trying to suss him out, figuring he had some ulterior motive, which was true, to be fair. He deliberated for a minute in his head for a second, “To be honest? I have no fucking clue. All I can offer is money, revenge, or power. Pick your poison.”

“That takes some balls to stand up to me,” She replied, “And to claim you can offer all three of those? This must be some deal you’re offering.” She leaned back, “Tell me about it.”

“Well first, I’d like to thank you for hearing me out,” He bowed his head, now attempting to appear as small as possible, to let her slip in comfort, “The deal, simply put, is a simple transaction. I get a special treasure your boss has, you get control of his businesses, and Boulliard gets control of the casino.” He smirked, “Pretty good, eh?”

She laughed out, which wasn’t a good sign, all things considered, “And how do you plan on enacting this plan?”

He puffed at her disbelief. He knew it would take some convincing, but she wasn’t even open to the idea at all, it seemed. “Well, you get us an audience with your boss, for one. I can’t imagine he’ll be all too enthused with the idea of transferring leadership. Second, as I’m sure you have access to his books, we’ll collect evidence of his misdoings.”

“I’ll stop you right there,” She waggled her finger, “If he really does have these ‘misdoings’, what makes you think I am responsible for his accounting?”

There was something about that tone that spoke to him. He wasn’t quite sure, but he knew in that moment, with her defensive voice, that she had to be quite close to her boss, personally. For now, he’d decided to prod more at this fact rather than tip his own hand more.

“Why shouldn’t you?” He pressed, “He sent you to Yuriol for a reason.”

“I was sent there because I’m good at my job,” She bit, but was clearly receptive to his machinations, “Nothing more.”

“Of course,” He put his hands up in defeat, “That being said, you aren’t. All things considered, I saved your skin back there.”

“Oh? You really -”

“That’s not a dig at you,” He cut her off, “For the record. I apologize for making it seem so, I tend to trip over myself, sometimes.” He lied, to make himself appear more vulnerable, “You were honestly given an impossible task. Without the creator of the machines showing up when he did, there was nothing you could’ve done. You did do well, considering the circumstances.”

He knew he’d gotten her in that moment. She looked contemplative, and more importantly, she looked happy to be recognized; he was starting to form a clear picture in his mind. She wanted her boss’ praise, she was protective of him, but not overly so that she was totally unwilling to betray him, and with her age…

“You’re his daughter, I take it?” He was wagering everything on this. If he was wrong, he’d look like an idiot and lose any rapport he had been building.

“Adopted, but yes.” She looked solemn, but almost relieved to rid herself of the burden of secrecy, “My own parents were loads of shit.”

“I can’t relate, unfortunately.” He was telling the truth. Not that his parents were saints, or anything, but they both died before he was five years old. The closest thing he’d had to one was his older sister, and even then, parent was assuredly the wrong word. “But I can empathize.” He then pulled a small flask out of his jacket, “Drink?”

She swiped it from him with gusto, gulping it down in the blink of an eye. Paracelsus was hoping to have some for himself, but alas. Fairies weren’t known for being able to hold their drink, and he was soon about to figure out what type of drunk this woman was.

Her face was instantly flush, “You got a while to listen?”

So she was the type of drunk to spill her guts, then? Paracelsus had more than enough time to listen.

—

Gareland, known at birth as Gareyom Ustson, was the son of a noble family in Kolssonafell. This family, headed by Ust Merrison, was known for their lucrative gemstone mining business.

“Gareyom, get up, you lazy bum!” He heard the voice of his father, deep and gravelly, shout out.

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He was around eight at this point, and already expected to act as an heir to a great family should. His whole life was decided for him, and even the wealth and privilege he was entitled to brought him little comfort compared to the freedom he envied in his little brother.

“Alright, alright,” He groaned, willing his body to sit up and rub the sleep from his weary eyes, “I’m coming.”

He floated downstairs, his wings not growing at the same rate as his body meant it was hard for him to do so; he could teleport, thanks to his gift, but his father had explicitly forbade him from doing so in the house. He greeted his mother and brother with a simple wave, and the two of them reciprocated happily.

“Greet your family properly.” His father, legs on the table - which was surely ruder than whatever offense his son had committed - said in that same gruff voice.

“Hello father,” He bowed his head, “Mother,” Again, “Tobrien.” A third time.

“Hello, Brother!” Tobrien shouted, to which his mother giggled and his father groaned, “Good morning!”

Tobrien was the bright spot of paint on the otherwise dismal canvas of her family. Where as his father was controlling, and his mother complacent, his brother was pure - he loved with all of his heart. He did things with no expectation of reward, and he had a certain magnetism that was unavoidable. Gareland always thought he was a more fitting heir.

“Hello, you,” Gareyom ruffled his little brother’s hair, “Excited to start school?”

Tobrien was five now, and he was soon to be enrolled in a local private academy. Gareyom wasn’t worried, he was smart and made friends easily. What he was worried about was his father’s expectations. If they were even half of what he expected from himself, Tobrien was in for a world of trouble when he grew up.

“Speaking of,” His father, behind his newspaper, started, “I heard you received less than stellar marks on your most recent examination, Gareyom.”

“Less than stellar” was the perfect vague terminology for his father. In truth, the marks were only “less than” because “stellar” meant perfect. Stellar meant flawless, no mistakes.

“Stellar” was unattainable. At least this time, Gareyom could comfort himself, knowing his father wouldn’t dare strike him in front of his mother. Even if she never believed him, his father would never provide that proof to her face. Still, his glare was enough to send shivers down his spine.

“Well?” He had taken too long to respond, “Anything to say?”

“No, father,” He bowed his head, unwilling to meet his father’s gaze, “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

He was let off with a grunt this time, but he knew he would be hearing about it later.

—

Gareyom rubbed the fresh bruise on his face, applying some alcohol and feeling the all-too familiar sting as the pungent liquid hit his skin. He winced everytime, and everytime cursed his weakness. Not only physical, that was to be expected from an eight year old, but his mental weakness as well; he would never be able to stand up to his father, no matter how big or strong he got.

He remembered what his friend at the academy said, “Why don’t you just run away?”.If only it were that simple. If he left, the heirship would transfer to Tobrien, and he couldn’t risk his little brother becoming the target of his father’s abuse. There was also the issue of logistics, how would he slip away, how would he evade detection for long enough to board a ship, what would he do once he was far enough away?

“Gareyom?” His mother knocked, “Are you alright in there?”

“I’m fine, mother,” He lied, “I just took a spill at school, I’m dressing the wound.”

He hated hearing her remark about what a responsible young man he was. Why should he be responsible? Wasn’t it her job to protect him? Wasn’t it his father’s? He couldn’t stop the tears from flowing at this point. He was robbed of a childhood, robbed of a solid psyche, and robbed of the ability to free himself. That was, unless he took his brother with him. Of course, how hadn’t he thought of it before?!

Now the only question was how? It would be easy enough to convince his brother: he could just say they were getting on a ship, and that their parents would be following them, but how would they get on a ship? He had no money and no connections. No connections, that is, except for his friends at the academy.

—

“Say, Baltasar,” He said between mouthfuls of the gruel they called food, “Your dad sails boats, right?”

Baltasar, a giant, and Gareyom’s best friend and confidante, replied, “Yeah, why?”

“Is he sailing to any other shell anytime soon?” He asked, as casually as he could, so as to not raise suspicion.

“I think…” Baltasar tapped his chin in thought, “I think he’s sailing to Ashland soon.”

“Is it possible,” Gareyom was breathing heavily and twiddling his fingers nervously, excited and terrified at the prospect that he may be able to put everything behind him, “That he could take my brother and I?”

Baltasar shrugged, “I suppose. Is your family going to take a vacation?”

“No! I mean,” Gareyom cleared his throat, “No, I’m leaving. My brother and I are leaving.”

Baltasar, in his eight year old wisdom, asked, “But why? Don’t you like it here?”

Gareyom turned to him, and leaned in close, “I need you to keep this a secret, can you do that?” Baltasar nodded solemnly, as any kid would, “My father beats me.” Tears were welling in his eyes, which were already red and swollen from a strike he’d received that morning, “I hate it so much.”

“Hey, it’s alright,” Baltasar rubbed his back, ever so gently, “I’ll ask my dad. But you have to promise to come back when you’re older and see me.”

“I promise!” Gareyom said, and the deal was sealed.

—

It was now two weeks later, Baltasar had lied to his father, saying that Gareyom’s family was initially going to take a different ship, but had to split their party due to the other ship being overcrowded.

“Tobrien,” Gareyom shook his little brother’s shoulder, “Tobrien, wake up!”

Tobrien rubbed his eyes, blearily asking, “What time is it, Gareyom?”

“It’s eleven,” Which was far past their curfew, and past when his parents were asleep, “I know we shouldn’t be awake, but I have a surprise.”

“What is it?” He asked a little too loudly, which made his older brother pump his hands in a ‘quiet down’ gesture.

“We’re going on a trip!” Gareyom said excitedly, “But, mother and father are getting some extra sleep, so we’ll have to go ahead of them, and keep quiet.”

Tobrien, all too trusting of his older brother, grabbed his offered hand and awoke, hastily packing a few days of clothes in a rucksack he’d had since he was a baby, Gareyom led him, as stealthily as possible, outside, loaded them onto a carriage, and they set off for the coast.

Baltasar’s father stood there, waiting impatiently, “There you two are! You were almost late.”

“Sorry, Mr. Yurason.” Gareyom bowed his head in respect to his savior.

“You can call me Tukkus, young man.” He said, ruffling the fairy’s hair with his comparatively massive hand, “Let me help you load that luggage on.”

This was it: the beginning of his new life, and the end of his old one.