’I don’t want to be away,’ Julian thought bitterly.

Should he just declare war on the entire world? Should he just run away with Alaric and Lucius?

They could build a new identity, and he could work for them.

The thought was selfish, trying to strip the Duke away from his authority and Duchy to live a scrappy life.

"I’m sorry, Lucien," he said, bringing his hands to his face and trying to hide his tears, but Alaric held his hands and then kissed the corner of his eye.

Alaric didn’t answer with words. He buried his face in Julian’s neck, his ragged breathing the only sound in the room besides the crackle of the dying fire.

"It’s fine, Julian. It’ll be fine," he rasped, sweat trailing down his temple. "For now, just forget about everything else and focus on me."

He moved with a desperate, heavy rhythm, as if he could physically weld their souls together, so that no matter how many miles lay between them, the connection would never snap.

As the hours toward dawn ticked away, the fire in the fireplace dwindled to glowing embers, casting long, flickering shadows across the room.

Julian lay wrapped in Alaric’s arms, listening to the steady, heavy thrum of a heart he had come to rely on more than his own.

​He looked at his hands—the same hands that had brought a dead flower to life and pulled a child back from the threshold of death. Healing the sick and feeding the hungry.

To the world, these were the hands of a Saint, a divine vessel meant for altars and worship. But as he felt Alaric’s rough palms, calloused by sword hilt and reins, Julian knew the truth.

​To be a Saint was to belong to everyone, a hollow icon stripped of its humanity. But to be Julian was to belong right here, in the cold, honest embrace of the North. In the arms of the one person who would think of going to war just for his sake.

​He realized then that his trip to the Holy Empire wasn’t just a diplomatic mission or a gamble for peace. It was a war for his own identity.

He was going into the heart of the ’Light’ to prove that he wasn’t a sun to be worshipped, but a man who loved, who feared, and who had a family waiting for him in the snow.

​"I’m not a Saint, Lucien," Julian murmured into the darkness, his voice barely a breath. "I’m just a scholar who found home in the right place at the wrong time."

​Alaric’s grip tightened, his chin resting atop Julian’s head.

"The world can call you whatever it wants, Julian. But I know who you are. I know you are mine."

​As the first hint of grey light began to bleed through the heavy curtains, Julian didn’t feel like a divine being about to fulfill a destiny. He felt like a traveler about to cross a dangerous sea, holding onto the memory of the shore to keep from drowning.

"It’s tomorrow," he murmured. "We’re leaving tomorrow,"

Alaric held him tighter as if he didn’t want to let go.

"For now, I’d like to believe tomorrow is still far away, Julian. Do not remind me." Alaric murmured. "Go to sleep now,"

"Okay,"

Preparations for the final dinner were in full swing, and the kitchen was a buzz of activity.

It should have been a banquet for other nobles to attend, but with how many rations had been given to the ailing commoners within the manor walls, they could not afford to host a grand event.

For the delegation from the South and the Holy Empire, however, the spread was sufficient. Yet, even then, what should have been a celebration was nothing but a cold, formal collision of powers.

Alaric had nothing to celebrate, obviously, so he remained quiet. He sat at the high table, with Julian positioned between him and Lucius, Julian’s hand resting almost constantly on the boy’s shoulder.

Opposite them sat Elian, looking as serene as a marble tomb, while Zane lounged to the side, watching the tension with the focus of a man at a theater.

"How are you preparing for your departure tomorrow, Saint?" Elian began, trying to strike up a conversation at the suffocatingly quiet dinner table.

Before Julian could respond, Alaric set his wine glass down with a heavy thud that made the silverware rattle.

"The arrangements have changed, Purifier," Alaric stated, his voice a low, dangerous vibration. "Julian will not be going to the Holy Empire alone. My son, Lucius, will be accompanying him."

Elian’s hand, which had been reaching for a piece of bread, paused. His pale blue eyes seemed to glint, and a slow, knowing smile spread across his face.

"The Young Lord? A surprising addition, Your Grace. Though perhaps not an unwelcome one. The Holy Empire is a place where the young find much... inspiration."

"He is there as a guest from the Viremount Empire’s Alaric Duchy, not a pupil for your altars," Alaric cut in, his eyes turning into shards of ice. "I am giving you a strict warning, Elian. Do not mess with my boy. He shall stay with Julian. You are not to preach to him, you are not to involve him in your rites, and you are not to lead him into your shadows."

Elian tilted his head, his silver hair shimmering in the torchlight. He didn’t look intimidated; he looked pitying.

"I cannot command the Heavens, Duke Alaric," Elian replied smoothly. "If grace is bestowed on the child and his eyes are opened to the Truth, there is nothing that I—or anyone—can do to stop it. The Light does not ask for a father’s permission before it claims a soul."

Julian’s lips thinned into a hard, white line. He gripped his fork so tightly his knuckles turned a ghostly white, the metal biting into his palm. The skepticism in his gut was curdling into a dark, protective rage. This was why he was against Lucius going.

"Grace or not, I will not permit it," Alaric hissed, leaning over the table until he was inches from the priest’s face. "I shall stop my son from looking into that obnoxious, blinding light of yours, even at the cost of being called a heretic by every tongue. Do not test the lengths a father will go to keep his son’s mind his own."

Elian simply closed his eyes and offered a shallow bow. "Faith is not a cage, Your Grace. It is a mirror. One only sees what they are ready to become."

Zane let out a soft, sharp chuckle from the corner. "A heretic Duke and a Saint who threatens witchcraft. Truly, this is the most interesting delegation the Holy Empire has ever seen. I do hope the Pope has a strong heart."

Julian didn’t join the conversation. He simply looked down at Lucius, who was idly separating the veggies from the protein on his plate, contemplating which to eat first.

He sighed and brushed the child’s head.

He wanted Lucius to have no worries, just like this.

"I will take it that I am taking my student out on an excursion to another Empire so he can see more of the world." Julian finally joined the conversation, his gaze sharp and firm as they landed on Elian. "So, do not try to ruin our learning session with your sermons. Is that understood, Purifier?"

Elian took a moment, his lips still curved, and then he bowed his head.

"Understood, Saint."

Though he probably had other plans cooking up in that white head of his.

Julian just had to be careful.