The sheer amount of blood pouring from her open wounds is what takes her by surprise. It comes thick and fast, but she’s been bleeding out like this for more than an hour, and it becomes clear that the amount of Aether in the atmosphere is stopping her and all the other injured soldiers from dying. The skin around the wound is red raw, throbbing and stinging, though the pain isn’t as bad as it was when she was walking up here.

At the very top of the mountain, it’s peaceful, a stark contrast to the horrors occurring in the city just below. Smoke billows from decayed buildings, streams of blurry dots rushing out of the city – people attempting to escape the horrors of the day - and every so often she can hear a shrill scream of terror, which is cut off abruptly. It’s hard to breathe at this elevation, a combination of the thin air and the suffocating presence of Aether, at least that’s what she can assume. For a moment she thinks it would probably be easier if she was down below clearing out the city with her soldiers at their side, but if she squints hard enough she can see glimpses of bright fuchsia capes among piles of bodies. She couldn’t tell if they died from flesh wounds or suffocation.

“You still bleeding?”

She starts abruptly at the voice, peering over her shoulder, sharp gaze locking onto the approaching figure.

Ro’mon is in much better shape than she is. His armour has been torn by sharp blades, but the extent of his wounds are limited to a black eye and a shallow scratch running the length of his right cheek. Despite the lack of injury, he’s caked in drying blood, and the sword dangling by his side is dripping with the liquid.

“Aye.” She pauses, searching his face as he sits down beside her. Something has changed in his expression since she last saw him, he looks darker, almost disturbed. In her fatigued state she dismisses it, but the hairs on the back of her neck stand. “How is my Mother?”

“Fine,” Ro’mon says quickly, his eyes locked stiffly on the horizon.

The silence that follows is deafening, and she squares her shoulders when it doesn’t subside. His posture seems relaxed, his breathing calm – no one would assume anything was wrong unless they observed his wild-eyed gaze. The fight had ended long ago, but he was clearly still feeling the effects of the adrenaline. It had been a brutal fight to enter the Crystal Chamber, though inevitably the Ruvian and Nininian forces had prevailed, Pinaon soldiers struck down and captured as the Crystal was destroyed. Those images would forever be imprinted into her mind.

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“Sa’fan.”

She turns to face him, pursing her lips as she observes his face. He still doesn’t meet her gaze.

“Aye?”

“Do you think I’ll be King one day?”

She furrows her brow, studies him carefully. “You are the next-in-line. I don’t see why you wouldn’t.”

A hum of contemplation escapes him. “But sometimes there are barriers to things that are meant to be.”

“What do you mean?”

He finally turns to face her, though now his expression is blank and unreadable, and it makes her heart jump into her throat. Black, oily talons of dread start clawing at her stomach, a small voice in the back of her mind telling her she needs to leave – but for what reason? She had no reason to distrust Ro’mon; he was her cousin, he was her oldest friend and future King. Perhaps he was acting bizarre, but it was their first battle where they were frontline and centre, their first battle as the leaders their titles dictated them as – she too was struck by the thrill of power.

Eventually, he shrugs, pushes himself to his feet by stabbing his sword into the dirt. He thrusts his armoured hand close to her face, and after a moment’s hesitation she takes it, grunting when her wounds begin to split open more. The view is even more spectacular standing, more is visible, but the stabbing pain distracts her as she uses her own sword to steady herself.

Ro’mon is unconcerned despite his intent staring, doesn’t reach out to grab her elbow to steady her. She sucks in a deep breath, gasping when he abruptly steps close to her and starts guiding her closer to the edge of the cliff.

“Pinao’s beautiful,” he says.

“It is,” she replies between sharp intakes of breaths. “Let’s go.”

He grabs her left bicep, holding it strongly, eyes holding hers firmly. “You wanted to know what I meant, aye?”

She frowns, shaking her head as she tries to pull away. “Aye, but, can it wait?”

“No.” There’s an edge to his tone that sends a shiver down her spine, and she clenches her teeth as she sways unsteadily. “Sometimes there are barriers, like you.”

She tries to tug her arm away one more time, but he pulls her close to him, and suddenly she can feel his grip through her armour. “What in the name of the Mother are you on about? Get off.”

“You’re my barrier, Sa’fan,” he tells her, and she ceases her struggle at the venom coating his tone. “I can’t risk it.”

“Can’t risk what?” she whispers. Her brows lift in mild surprise. “You think I’m trying to take your place? No, Ro’mon – what? I’m the Commander and that’s –”

“It’s no secret that they prefer you.” His voice is deadly now, stone cold and unfeeling. “Your Mother is the Queen. Maybe you’re of Ostalian blood but you still hold the people’s favour. It wouldn’t take much for you to take my place – they prefer you over me, we both know that. I can’t risk it. I can’t risk it.”

“Let me go.” Sa’fan says strongly, finally freeing herself from his grip; he advances forward again. She’s conscious of the cliff behind her, tries to step around him, but he’s bigger and stronger than her – he’s suddenly her barrier. “Ro’mon, stop. The Aether is getting to your head, you’re not thinking straight!”

“No.”

His hands land on her chest, and her attempt to grip onto his arms is futile, because she’s already falling.

And he’s already gone.