Chapter Text
His island was quiet. Too quiet.
Saparata had rebuilt his home high on the cliff, overlooking the endless sea. The walls were sturdy, the roof solid, but the silence inside pressed in on him like a vice. No laughter, no plans whispered over maps, no familiar voice calling him a fool and smiling all the same. Just the steady crash of waves against stone and the creak of wood shifting in the wind.
He tried to think of a time when he wanted this solitude. Fought for it.
And yet every day, without fail, his steps carried him to the same spot near the water, where a crude stone marker jutted from the earth. Fluixon.
“This beach could be your own home.”
His fingers dug into his skin.
“You can see the sun perfectly from here.”
Even Fluixon deserved to rest somewhere beautiful.
He stared at the marker until his vision blurred.
“Idiot,” he muttered. “You dragged me into your war. You turned on me. And I…” His voice caught, the words curdling in his throat. “And I let you die for it.”
He remembered the way things had been before.
The long nights spent talking about what they could build. The way Fluixon had always carried himself like fire barely contained, reckless and brilliant, and how Saparata had admired it. Of course, he never voiced these thoughts.
Honestly, he never got the chance before all the betrayals. The traps that forced them onto opposite sides. Saparata had told himself that his fury was just, that he hated Fluixon for choosing paranoia over him. Even during their final moments together, he wanted Fluixon dead.
But when the dust settled, the truth was merciless: he hadn’t just killed an enemy. He had killed the only bond he had left.
And of all the things that Saparata remembers, it’s the way Fluixon’s shoulders dropped after taking a lethal hit. The way his entire body relaxed.
Sitting beside the grave, Saparata’s ears perked up at the sound of footsteps, but he didn’t reach for his sword. What point was there when everyone had claimed peace months ago?
“Can’t say I’m surprised to see you here,” a voice said.
He glanced up to see Cass, the young leader of the Coalition.
“It’s my island,” he scoffed. “Where else would I be?”
She hummed, eyes sweeping the shore. “That’s not what I meant.” Her gaze softened as it met his. “My offer still stands.”
“And while I respect the offer, you know I can’t take it. Everyone knows I only had one wish.”
Cass’s shoulders dipped. “I don’t mean to offend. It’s just… no one deserves to be alone, especially a hero.”
“I’m no hero.”
He hated how the citizens congratulated him, as if murdering his friend was something worth celebrating.
“Why are you here, Cass?”
She settled beside him, reaching into her bag.
“I’m sure you heard about Thomas’s trial.”
Saparata had. The man had turned himself in only hours after Fluixon’s death. Loyal to the end.
“I did.”
“Well, apparently, he only surrendered after retrieving something first.” She drew out a worn black book, pressing it into Saparata’s hands. “His last request was for me to deliver this to you.”
The leather-bound journal was battered, edges frayed, and pages warped from too much use.
Saparata’s hands shook as he opened it.
The handwriting on the first page hit him like a punch. Sharp, familiar strokes. Fluixon’s.
“I checked it already for safety,” Cass said quietly, eyes lowering. “But even I’m soft for a dying man’s plea.”
“Thank you, Cass,” Saparata murmured, voice low and uneven.
She stood, brushing sand from her clothes. “Just remember, the Alliance will always welcome you.”
Then she left him alone with the book.
He devoured each paragraph, heart pounding harder with every word. The months leading to the Battle of Infernus, recorded in painstaking detail. Plans. Doubts. Fears. Even their conversations. Saparata’s heart clenched once realizing how much Fluixon valued his words. Seeing them written here was like watching his memories bleed onto the page.
And then written in messy cursive.
“My biggest regret is forcing Saps to be my enemy.”
He froze. The beach tilted, his breath ragged in his throat.
Saps.
“Why are you calling me Flux?”
“It’s a nickname? Friends typically do that.”
“If that’s so, I’m calling you Saps.”
Even on his final day, Fluixon had seen him as a friend.
The grief he had buried tore free, savage and relentless. He had hated Fluixon because it was easier than admitting the truth—but here it was, undeniable. Fluixon had cared for him. Always had. Even at the very end.
The journal slipped from his hands, falling open in the sand. His chest ached. His pulse thundered. He wanted to scream, to tear the book apart, to burn it before it hollowed him completely.
But then the leather began to glow softly, light searing through the cracks of its battered spine. The sound of pages turning at inhuman speed echoed in his ears.
A new line etched itself into the final page, glowing white-hot in handwriting he didn’t recognize: “Don’t worry. We can change the written history.”
The light swallowed him whole.
When Saparata opened his eyes, he was no longer on his island. He stood in the crowded streets of a village alive with shouts and laughter. Banners of the Cass Coalition fluttered overhead.
His fingers dug crescent moons into the soft leather. Confusion prickled at him, until fragments of a nearby conversation made his blood run cold.
“Did you see the Yggdrasil postings?”
“Do you think they’ll really attack Pandora?”
“They’re calling a summit in a few weeks—”
Saparata’s mind stilled.
The war hadn’t happened yet.
His grip tightened on the journal. His lips curved into a thin, broken smile.
Fluixon was alive.
—
The journey to his island only confirmed his theory.
The Common Wealth’s harbors were untouched, the famous invisible hand wasn’t standing on the hill. The markets of Cass Coalition bustled with carefree merchants, no black-ribboned memorials on the gates. And worst of all, the great port of Tricolor lacked the towering marble effigy of the fallen Queen, the statue that in his memory shadowed the entire harbor.
Even when faced with all these facts, his chest was tight.
He just needed to see one more spot. His home island.
The familiar silhouette broke the horizon. He ran the boat ashore, barely remembering to tie it off, and took the hill in a blur. Grass and sand covered his boots. The smell of fresh-cut timber and damp earth rose in the afternoon air.
Then he saw them.
Standing in a clearing that should have been the foundation of his home. Instead, there were stacks of freshly chopped planks that stood like miniature towers around a small campsite. Voices mingled with the thud of hammers as a few figures sat on a small makeshift scaffolding.
And at the center of it all, purple sleeves rolled to his elbows, eyes filled with purpose, stood Fluixon.
Alive.
The sight stopped Saparata cold. For a heartbeat, the entire world narrowed to the small figure directing the others, his black hair caught the afternoon sun, a violet sheen Saparata had once traced with his eyes when no one looked.
Memories slammed into Saparata—blood pooling beneath a broken body, the final twitch of hands that had always run hot.
His knees nearly buckled.
He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Then, before reason could catch him, his legs were moving.
“Fluixon!”
Several heads turned toward the shout.
Fluixon startled, raising his hand before Saparata barreled into him and wrapped him in a crushing embrace. He buried his face in the other man’s hair, clinging as though the earth itself might drag him away. His knuckles ached from his tight grip.
“Wha—S–Saps?!” Fluixon stumbled back a step, catching both of them before they toppled on the dirt. “What the hell?”
Someone near the campfire laughed.
“Didn’t you just leave this morning?” One voice teased as another scoffed. “Man, you miss him that much?”
Their voices were distant, muffled against the roaring in Saparata’s ears.
Alive. Warm. Breathing.
Not a corpse.
It was enough to break him.
Fluixon gave an awkward little laugh, patting at Saps’ shoulders. “Okay, alright, it's good to see you too, but you’re acting really weird. Did something happen out there?”
Saparata released his grip, taking a small step back. “…I’m just glad you’re here.”
Flux blinked, violet eyes narrowing in confusion.
“Well, since you’re so excited to be back,” he said slowly, “maybe you can settle this for me.” He jerked his thumb toward two men standing by a pile of wood. “They’ve been arguing about the roof for an hour.”
“If you say oak one more time—”
“Oak is a classic, Thomas,” Hvyrotation snapped, bare chest gleaming with sweat. Thomas dragged a hand through his brown hair, exasperated. “Classic doesn’t mean good. Jungle wood has a better color, and everyone knows it.” He eyed Hvyrotation with mock disgust. “And for God’s sake, put a shirt on.”
Flux huffed and shot Saparata a look of long-suffering amusement. “See what I’m dealing with? I swear, it’s not even their house.”
Saparata hummed, half-present, still tasting relief like iron on his tongue.
Flux tilted his head, studying him. “What happened in the forest? You were supposed to gather food, not… come back empty-handed and—” his gaze sharpened, “clingy.”
“Rude,” Saparata said automatically, the old rhythm of their banter slipping into place. “Pretty sure your loud group spooked away any animals... I’ll try again later.”
A quiet voice cut through their exchange. “Saparata, which wood do you prefer?”
Gotoga approached with his usual measured grace, eyes as unreadable as a still lake. Saparata’s hand twitched, memory flashing of a quick blade striking him with deadly precision.
“Jungle,” he managed.
Gotoga nodded once and drifted away to inform the others.
Fluixon’s gaze flicked to Saparata’s clenched fist, then back to his face. He said nothing.
—
Night settled heavy and warm. The group gathered around the campfire, their laughter softening into tired murmurs as sparks spiraled upward. Saparata sat on a log nearby, staring into the flames until Fluixon dropped onto the seat beside him.
“Listen,” Fluixon began, voice low. “3Below’s serious about moving everyone north at dawn. Claims he found the perfect spot near Yggdrasil to start the bridge.”
Saparata kept his expression carefully neutral. “And you’re nervous.”
“It’s stupid,” Fluixon snapped back, frustration sharpening his words. “We should be uniting all of Pandora, not wasting manpower on a bridge the Yggdrasil fanatics will use to raid us. You’ve seen their art. They want to strip Pandora bare, and they won’t care who gets hurt.”
Saparata’s chest tightened. He remembered this night exactly, remembering brushing off Fluixon’s concerns. Unknowing of creating the first crack between them. Not this time.
Fluixon leaned forward, eyes sharp and searching. “You’re an outsider. What do you think?”
The question hung between them like a drawn blade.
Saparata swallowed, heart hammering. “3Below wants to see the best in people,” he said softly. “But it’s foolish to think everyone on Yggdrasil wants peace.”
Fluixon blinked. Relief softened his shoulders. “I’m glad you also see it. I was worried you’d side with the bridge idea.”
“Well, of course,” Saparata said quickly, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “But your instincts for politics have always been better than mine. I trust your judgment."
Fluixon snorted, ears reddening in the firelight. “You’re acting so damn weird today.”
Maybe he was.
But Saparata didn’t care.
Because deep down, he already knew what had to be done. He wasn’t foolish enough to think he alone could change the world, but at the very least, Fluixon would never stand alone.
And this time, Saparata would protect him, no matter what it cost.