Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Ewron grips his letter so tightly in his hand that the wax seal might break.

"I don't want you to read it," he repeats for what feels like the millionth time. "It's—it's a very private letter. Very personal."

The postlady raises a brow. "Postal staff must inspect all letters. Supreme Leader's orders."

His face scrunches up in disbelief. "What? No, I asked him this morning. He never said—"

"Yes, he did," the lady interrupts. Ewron fights the urge to punch her in the face; he doesn't need to worsen his reputation. "It’s been the policy of The Regime's postal service ever since I started this job."

Ewron scoffs. "And how long ago was that?"

"A month ago," the postlady replies, and he stares at her with incredulity.

For an entire hour, he's been trying to send the letter he wrote for the Hussars, but he's been arguing with the woman at the front desk, getting absolutely nowhere. All he's learned from his time dealing with The Regime and their people is that they need to learn how to mind their own business.

Finally, the postlady relents, if only slightly. "If you're so insistent, I can charge you a fee to not look through it."

Oh, good. Looks like she's finally come to her senses. Maybe he'll have the letter shipped off within the next hour or two if she keeps it up. "How much?" he drawls.

"Seventeen brass coins."

He shrugs off his bag with a weary sigh. He's sure Ash gave him a few coins when he mentioned sending a letter to some friends, but he didn’t look to see how much it was.

Also, a seventeen-brass-coin fee is ridiculous. He could buy a nice-looking dagger for that price, rather than the right to basic privacy.

Annoyed, he hurls the bag towards her, but she doesn’t catch it. Instead, it falls to the floor. She looks down and tuts, as if it’s somehow his fault that a bunch of coins spills out.

"It’s not enough," she finally says, examining the coinage scattered at her feet. "You only have sixteen brass coins in here."

His brow twitches. "Boże, ja pierdolę," he curses, dragging a hand over his face. "That’s basically the same thing."

The lady shakes her head. "It’s behind the counter. I’m not picking it all up, and you’re not coming back here." She points an accusatory finger at his chest. If he had it his way, Ewron would've stabbed this lady where she stood and wouldn't even bother to clean up the body. It'll serve as a message to insolent service workers worldwide.

Ewron rolls his eyes. Whatever. He doesn’t even care. The Hussars probably don’t need his letter because they already know he’s the best assassin in the entire Polski Cave.

Obviously, they don’t need to be reminded that he’s infiltrated The Regime. They probably think he'll be back within the next couple of days—which he will be! Hopefully.

He mutters a few curses under his breath before stomping out the door. Frustrated, he tosses the letter into a nearby trash can.

This is his second day in The Regime, and it hasn’t gone better than the first. If he had a coin for every weird stare he’s gotten while walking down the street, he’d have enough to replace the ones that'd spilled on the floor.

There aren’t many things to do here. No wonder their leader spends all day in his manor. He'd do the same if his empire were this dull.

Maybe he can spend the time mapping out Ash’s home. His, too, technically. For now.

It feels empty. There are ornate designs along the many, many pillars; quite similar to the rest of The Regime's architecture, but that only adds to its hollowness. At least the apartment complexes along the street look somewhat lived in.

Though he did stumble upon a playpen as he was exploring this morning, Ash quickly kicked him out. He really wonders why that's even there.

Ewron could've sworn he heard a few giggles, too—much too high-pitched to be Ash's. Like a child's, almost. Two children, actually.

The Regime's air pollution must be getting to him.

As he makes his way towards the manor, he notices both Haiper and Ash sneaking off behind a building. He stops mid-step. Curiosity pulls at him to follow, even though it’s probably not the smartest idea.

A million possibilities flit through his mind. He could get caught, and considering the entire town found out he's a murderer (Within a day, if he may add. Do rumors really spread that fast around here?), It's probably not the best move if he wants to gain the Supreme Leader's trust.

For all he knows, it might be the breaking point to get him kicked out. If that happens, then what? The Regime's surveillance seems to be at the highest level constantly, so there's no other plan for this mission besides the one he came up with.

…Oh, he’s already made a few stupid decisions since he got here. What’s one more?

He looks around once, then twice, to see if anyone is nearby. The coast is clear, so he follows them, running on the balls of his feet to make as little noise. When he finally reaches the corner of a brick building—probably another factory, judging by the odor wafting through the air—he peers around the edge to listen in.

Ash has his hands behind his back as he walks. "How was your last trip to The North? I didn't have the time to ask before. I was too busy dealing with our new visitor."

"I understand," Haiper mumbles. He brushes his foot against the pavement. "It was pretty much the same as last time, only a little bit longer."

"And?" Ash prompts.

He glances around, as if he thinks someone is watching, but eventually responds, "I wrote about the specific details in my report for that day, but there was a lot of fighting. I couldn't tell what they were arguing about, though. They kept talking over each other..."

"Classic North," Ash laughs. A warmth blossoms in Ewron's chest at the sound, but he pushes the feeling aside. He has a mission to complete. "They truly are a disaster. It’s pathetic, really."

"Of course," Haiper nods. For a moment, there's silence as both men stare ahead. Confused, Ewron looks on. Then Haiper speaks up again. "I've been meaning to ask, Ash, what are you going to do with the refugee from the North?"

At that, Ash stiffens, demeanor shifting. He leans closer to Haiper, whispering something too quiet for Ewron to hear. Then Haiper nods, clearing his throat afterward.

Ewron would groan if it wouldn't give away his position. He might have been complaining about the lack of privacy, but that only applies to him—not to anyone else, especially not his targets.

Yes, he gets to make up rules like that.

“Anyway, are you planning to visit the…” Ash hesitates, the words barely passing his lips. “The, um, surrounding inhabitants of the Regime?”

"Tommy and Wichtiger?" Haiper asks, chuckling when he receives a nod. "Did you know they call themselves the… Horny Brigade?" Ash bursts into laughter, and Haiper joins in with high-pitched giggles, akin to a fox's. Wiping tears from his eyes, he adds, "But, um, yeah, I—I am... Do you want me to go now?"

Ash places a reassuring hand on Haiper's shoulder. “You can go whenever you’d like, Haiper. I trust you’ll get it done.”

Ewron blinks in surprise. That was oddly nice. Ashswag, Supreme Leader of The Regime, shouldn't be nice. Even if he wasn't paying the most attention, Aldo wasn't using the kindest language when talking about Ash's personality. Or Ash at all.

Also, he hasn't been nice to Ewron, so it'd only make sense. All Ash's been doing in the little time he's spent in his manor is belittle him. It's good to know that Haiper and Ash are close, though. He can use that to his advantage.

Maybe he'll kidnap him and use him as leverage. That's always worked for getting his victims to one spot in the past. Worse comes to worst, he'll just kill Haiper, and that's a high-ranking member of The Regime dead, leaving them weak. Better than nothing, no?

It’s hard to see from a distance, but Haiper seems to smile at Ash. "I think I should go now. It's better to get it over with," he says, pulling out a peculiar potion from beneath his belt. "I shouldn’t be gone long."

"I see," Ash replies, watching as Haiper uncorks the potion and downs it in one gulp. "Stay safe, Haiper. If things get out of hand, remember to use the sword I gave you."

As Haiper rounds the corner, he flashes a thumbs-up and mouths, “I will,” before vanishing from view.

Once Ewron hears his footsteps fade into the distance, he finally stops eavesdropping. He pivots to make his way back toward the manor, but just as he does, he catches the sound of Ash clearing his throat.

A sense of dread settles in his stomach, but he keeps walking. Surely, he didn't notice him.

"You're nosy," he drawls, and Ewron freezes like a deer caught in headlights. A beat of silence passes, then he adds, "And bad at hiding. I saw you."

Ewron attempts to sneak away. However, a sudden whoosh pierces the air, zipping unsettlingly close to his ear. In an instant, Ash appears before him, a smirk playing on his lips. "What'd you—" Ewron stammers.

Ash raises an eyebrow. "…Have you never heard of pearling?"

"Pearling?" Ewron echoes. That term sounds really stupid, but it makes sense that a man called Ashswag takes a liking to it.

"Enderpearls. Don’t tell me you don’t have enderpearls in The North?" Ash inquires, his tone half-teasing as he strides toward his manor, its imposing silhouette standing against the sky. Ewron trails closely behind, puzzled.

They don't really have enderpearls, whatever those are, anywhere. Not in the Polski Cave, at least.

"No, we don't," he mumbles. The light in his eye brightens twice as much when he realizes he could use this to his advantage. Really sell the fugitive idea. "They told us The Regime was behind on technology, but look at you guys! So advanced," he exclaims.

Ash only nods. He turns the handle to his front doors and even allows Ewron to enter before him. Ewron chuckles. His target's already lowering his guard.

Maybe this won't be such a hard job after all.

˖⠀🜲⠀˖

Ever since he was a child, Ash harbored hatred for the arrogant. As Ewron strides into his manor, carrying himself like he owns the place, it's clear that's exactly what he is.

The fact that he dares to do so is laughable.

He's a horrible spy. There's no way he could make it any more obvious who he works for, but if The North sent him as a spy, he must hold some level of importance. Ewron's got to have some information Ash can squeeze out of him.

When he takes a sharp turn to the left, Ewron hesitates to follow him before turning on his heel. Ash cocks a brow. "Where are you going?"

Ewron twists back to meet his gaze. "To my room," he replies.

Another obvious lie. Not only is the room Ash assigned to him in a completely different section of the manor, but it's only been a day since he got here. There's no way Ewron knows where his room is.

His chuckle is light with amusement. "Well, you're headed the wrong way, then."

Reluctantly, Ewron turns back around. A closer look at him now, Ash examines his face and finds it singed with embarrassment, highlighted by the pink in his cheeks. He bites his tongue to suppress a giggle.

"It's only my first day here," Ewron snaps, tone tinged with irritation.

It sounds like he's trying to start a fight. That, or he's trying to cling to some semblance of dignity. Frankly, Ash doesn't care about him enough to discern which is which.

He waves a hand behind him, signaling Ewron to follow. The sounds of worn-out boots against polished wooden planks that screech in protest echo in his ears. Ash smirks, gratified. He can picture the pissed-off expression on his face from here.

Of course, Ash walks ahead, while Ewron stays behind. Why would they walk side by side? He isn't an equal, unlike Haiper or Tubbo. Whenever he attempts to fall in step beside Ash, he quickly met with a sharp shove that sends him stumbling back.

Before long, they arrive at the war room. Considering the way Ewron looks around and straightens up, he must remember it. At least he isn't a total dunce, then.

Ash extends his hand, a silent command for Ewron to stay put. The spy grumbles under his breath but complies nonetheless. Under different circumstances, he might've found it endearing. Cute, even. Oh well.

Moving to the center of the room, Ash stands by the refectory table. The irksome sheet of blank paper sits atop it, too, and he fights the urge to tear it to shreds. That would be wasteful. Plus, there's no need to rip it apart anyway, because he's got a spy from The North right behind him.

Gliding his fingers along the paper’s edges, he beckons Ewron closer. Wisely, Ewron is at his side in seconds.

Turning to face him, Ash asks, demands, more like, "Tell me about The North."

Ewron's breath hitches at the question, eyes darting around the room as if surprised. Ash stares at him with skepticism. A spy should have an answer ready for a question like that. How incompetent must The North be?

Maybe they should learn a thing or two from The Regime and be more selective about who they allow into their ranks. Ash bets they'd take in a pile of manure if they could.

Eventually, Ewron seems to settle for a response. He taps his finger against his chin and says, "Well, what do you wanna know in specific?"

Great. He didn’t even give a proper answer. But Ash is determined to get what he wants, as he always does—because Ashswag, the Supreme Leader of The Regime, doesn’t settle for anything less. And right now, he intends to probe for information.

"I want to know the rankings," Ash deadpans. He relishes the way Ewron seems to squirm at that. He'd laugh, too, if he weren't trying to be serious right now. Maybe later.

Silence stretches out between the two of them, which is spent by the two men simply staring at each other. Ewron stares up at the ceiling, likely attempting to rack his brain for an answer. Based on the way his gaze falls to the floor, forlorn, his search yields nothing.

"Well, Vegetta's at the top—"

"I know that," he interjects. He's trying to dig beyond surface level here, thanks.

Ewron's nose scrunches up. "Well, you don't need to be a dick about it," he hisses.

Ash cocks his head to the side and raises his brows. "Do you know whose land you're on, Ewron?"

His attitude stops after that. Good. "Uhm, anyway, Aldo's right under him, I think?"

"You think?" he echoes.

"…They don't usually tell normal citizens about the rankings of the higher-ups," he shrugs.

So he's trying to avoid answering the question altogether with the 'normal citizen' strat, huh? Ash sees right through it. He applauds him for trying, though. The ruse would probably work on someone less astute.

He shakes his head. "Come on. Surely not." Ash steps closer, placing a hand on Ewron's shoulder, pressure barely there. "You seem like a capable man, Ewron. I'm sure they'd tell you something, right?"

Dropping hints about his spy nature will surely get under his skin. If he gets under his skin, then he'll be able to worm secrets out of him much easier.

Ewron shrugs off his hand. Ash waits for him to either snap back or accidentally let something slip, but neither happens. Instead, Ewron offers a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes and says, "Nope. Just a regular guy, you know? Sorry, it was so traumatic that I can’t remember much anyway."

Irritation flashes behind his sinuses. There's a certain haughtiness in his tone that Ash doesn't like.

He shifts his focus back to the blank sheet of paper, searching for the pen he was sure he had left right beside it yesterday. It's nowhere to be found. As he kneels to peer under the table, all he finds is emptiness staring back at him.

Pushing himself back up, Ash mutters curses under his breath. He turns to Ewron and asks, "Do you happen to have a pen?"

Unsurprisingly, he replies with a curt "No," because he's the most unqualified spy in the world.

For a moment, Ash considers summoning Haiper to deal with him right then and there, but he thinks better of it. For one, Haiper's on a mission right now, and two, that wouldn't leave him with any more knowledge about The North.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he takes a shaky breath.

It’s fine. He'll remember what Ewron says and take notes later—when he finally finds that damn pen.

Dragging a hand across his face, he lets it drop to his side. There are other matters he needs to attend to, people specifically, so he'll cut his losses and try again later.

"Okay," he huffs. "I was thinking, Ewron—how about we do this every day? I’ll dedicate my precious time to helping you remember your experience in The North. Sound good?"

He speaks to him like a child, and given how much of an idiot he proves to be with each passing day, he might as well be one.

Oh, and also, it's fun to watch him get riled up at it.

Putting on a bright, fake smile, he says, "Sure," through gritted teeth. It sounds like he'd forced the words out of him. He narrows his gaze. "That’d be nice, Ashswag."

Ewron says his name like it’s venom on his tongue, and Ash delights in it. He could listen to him spit it out over and over.

Ash steps closer, their chests nearly brushing together. Leaning in, he whispers, "It’s 'Supreme Leader'." As he sidesteps, he gives Ewron a light shove on the shoulder and sneers, "Welcome to The Regime, Ewron," before shutting the door behind him.

In hindsight, it's probably not the smartest move to leave an enemy spy in his war room, but turning back would make him look stupid, so he brushes it off.

God, he's so cool.

Head held high, he veers left and strides up a staircase, engravings adorning the railing, mirroring the designs of the towering pillars outside. Tubbo really outdid himself with the design. He’ll have to thank him for the millionth time when they meet again.

Ash doesn't even bother to check if anyone is following him on the way to his daughters' rooms. That northern spy would get lost trying to maneuver his grand halls, so there's no need.

With a confident hand, he twists the doorknob, and—

"Abba, why are you doing that?" a familiar voice chirps below him. It's almost comedic how fast his poise drops. When Ash takes too long to respond, Ghosty adds, "You look stupid."

He chuckles and reaches down to pet her soft, white hair. The light in her pale eyes brightens twice as much, and she giggles.

As she tries to step closer, she stumbles over a miniature version of The Regime's train, but Ash catches her in his arms just in time. "Ghosty, where's your sister?" he asks, thumbing her cheek.

Son is nowhere in sight, but she’s always been more introverted than her little sister, so Ash doesn't fret. Most of her time is spent in the pool he built for her downstairs. Notably, after she’d complained about being stuck in one room for months straight.

He’d given his daughters an entire section of the manor to roam freely, and now he's regretting it. Hearing Son and Ghosty laugh as they play warms his cold (at least, he likes to think so) heart, but it also leaves them exposed.

Maybe he’s not winning any “Father of the Year” awards by keeping his girls under wraps, but he’d rather deal with their incessant whining about it than face the possibility of their deaths.

Ghosty yanks Ash’s hand away from her face with unnecessary force, because her little brain still hasn’t realized that she doesn’t need to use all her strength for the simplest tasks. He bites back the urge to coo at it.

She runs across the purple carpet in the center of the room, searching for one of the many toys scattered throughout their playpen.

"Ghosty?" Ash echoes. She doesn’t turn to look at him. "Where is she?"

After a moment of silence, she finally replies, "She's gone."

Her tone is so matter-of-fact, as if they’re making small talk about the weather, although Ghosty probably doesn't even know what small talk nor the weather is.

The color drains from Ash’s face. He steps on one of the uneaten glowberries while practically sprinting over to her.

"What?" he yells, hackles rising. Son can’t be gone. She’s probably just playing in her pool. Ghosty hasn’t quite grasped how to articulate her thoughts, it's fine!

Still, desperation drives him to ask, "Gone? Ghosty, she's gone? What do you mean by that?"

"Went to play," she replies with a smile, dropping the toy from her hand and reaching out for Ash. Despite his anxiety, he picks her up.

He tries to prod her for more details about her sister's whereabouts, but all she says is things like, "She's out to play," or "The manor," and "I’m hungry. Can we eat?" It's really cute, but his panic drowns out any endearment.

Ash doesn't want to scare his girl, so as evenly as possible, he asks, "Where'd your sister go when you last saw her?" It comes out hoarse.

Unfazed, she continues to play with the ruffled hem of her dress. "Went that way. Maybe."

She raises one hand to point left and uses the other to bring her skirt to her mouth, chewing on it. Ash tries to tug the fabric away from her, but when she starts wailing loudly, he lets her nibble. Fatherhood is tough.

"Ghosty, are you sure she went that way? Did she say where she was heading?"

"I told you, Abba, she went out to play," she repeats. Again. While still chewing on her skirt.

Ash watches as drool drips down his arm, and he grimaces at the mess. What did Tubbo say she would start doing soon? Teething? Is this her version of that? Then again, Ash figures she’s past that stage, given how old she is now.

Oh, whatever. He doesn’t have time to worry about it. His eldest daughter could be anywhere in the manor right now, and that's assuming Ghosty isn't just lying to him for fun.

She reminds him of himself.

He rushes down a staircase and kicks open the door to the pool room he’d made for Son, nearly knocking the hinges off. It’s empty. A deep sense of dread settles in his stomach.

Ghosty tugs at his braid, making him wince. "Ow, Ghosty, don’t—"

"Abba."

"Yes?"

She drops her skirt, and the saliva makes the fabric stick to her stockings. Gross. "Are you mad?"

Ash huffs. Great, now she’s sad. He brushes wispy strands of hair from her face and tucks them behind her ear. "No, I’m not mad. I’m just worried about your sister, okay?"

"Abba," she repeats, ducking her head, as though she feels guilty. Ash already knows what she's about to say. "I lied. 'M sorry."

He smiles at her, a little contrived, like he's trying to force his lips upwards. It's awkward in its delivery, but it still reaches his eyes with genuinity. "It's okay. Do—do you know where she is, then?"

Ghosty gives a weak nod. Then, she points to the roof with her finger. Ash cocks a brow. When he still fails to get the picture, her tiny features scrunch up in frustration.

"She's… in the roof?" he guesses.

"No! She's not on the roof. Stop being silly, Abba." Her arms cross, and Ash stifles a giggle. It's hard to look intimidating when you're only three years old.

“Sorry, sorry.” Ash gently sets her down, and Ghosty makes an indignant noise in the back of her throat.

He wipes his drool-stained arm on his shirt. It only makes a bigger mess. In his peripheral vision, he catches Ghosty mimicking him, even down to the disgusted look on his face, which quickly transforms into a shared smile.

“She’s in her room sleeping. I wanted to explore with you, so I lied,” she admits.

“You’ve roamed these halls, what, a thousand times by now?” Ash takes her hand in his, and they make their way upstairs.

Mid-step, Ghosty pauses and gazes up at him. “I know, but this time felt different. I like spending time with Abba.”

She smiles after saying it, oblivious to the fact she'd said what might be the cutest thing Ash's ever heard.

Her warm smile momentarily silences the inner voices that whisper about what a terrible father he is, how unfit of a leader he’ll be, and how he’s destined to meet the same grim fate as the ruler he'd murdered in cold blood—

"Can you pick me up again? I don’t want to walk," Ghosty pouts, her eyes sparkling as Ash opens the door to their room, letting her inside.

Ash chuckles. "You just want to make a mess on my arm again, don’t you?" He raises an eyebrow playfully, but Ghosty is already lost in a battle with her dress. She takes a handful of the fabric—which isn't a lot, considering her size—and shakes her skirt.

He can't tell what she's doing. Maybe she's trying to shake the saliva off? It's not really working.

"This dress is nasty," she declares, looking down.

With a gentle smile, Ash kneels to her level, gently peeling her fingers away from the fabric. This time, she doesn’t object. "It wouldn’t be if you didn’t chew on it," he says.

Ghosty furrows her white brows, searching for a comeback. "No. Not true. It’s just—" she pauses, her brow scrunching in concentration. "—bad. It’s just bad."

Ash raises a brow. "You, or the dress?" he jests.

His joke doesn’t land. In a burst of defiance, Ghosty sticks her tongue out at him, blowing a raspberry. Her attitude doesn't last long. Immediately after, she crosses the already little space between them and whispers, "I'm sleepy."

Ash is unsure why they’re whispering, but he plays along, his voice low. "Do you want to go to bed?"

"I don't know," she mumbles. "I don’t want to miss out."

Since her typical day consists of waking up, eating, playing, and then sleeping, he can’t fathom what she thinks she’s missing. "On what?" he prompts.

"The man," she replies with an earnestness that only deepens his confusion.

"The man?" Ash echoes, rising to his feet. "Who’s that?"

Ghosty’s excitement bubbles over as she claps her hands and rushes to a nearby chest, rummaging through it with gusto. Moments later, she holds out a crumpled piece of paper, eyes sparkling with delight as she hands it to him. He stares at it, puzzled.

When he unfolds the paper, it reveals a stick figure drawing. A shitty one at that.

He gasps theatrically. "Wow, this is the most amazing drawing I’ve ever seen, Ghosty! …What is it?"

The messy scribbles form a figure with brown hair beside a familiar stick figure—himself. (Honestly, it looks nothing like him. Ash only recognizes it because he's become quite familiar with Ghosty's family portraits.)

Ghosty presses her cheek against his side, her little finger jabbing towards the unknown figure beside him. "It’s you and your friend. The one you took in."

Ewron. She’s talking about Ewron.

He brings the paper closer to his face. Oh, shit. It actually is Ewron. Poor Ghosty doesn't know about the conflict with The North—she's innocent and unaware that a spy infiltrated their empire. She thinks they're friends.

Close friends, too. There's a giant heart above the two of them, and he doesn't wanna think about the implications of that.

Wait a minute, how'd she even know about Ewron in the first place? Or even see him?

Was it when the bastard was exploring around his home and stumbled across their old playpen? It'd explain the… lack of detail on his figure, per se.

That doesn't explain what she means by 'took in' though. She was probably just being nosy. Ghosty's never liked to stay in one place for long after all. The girl would jump out a window for the fun of it if she could.

Actually, that sounds like something she would do. Maybe he'll have to reinforce the windows in her room again.

"You were sneaking around yesterday when I told you and your sister to stay put in your rooms, weren’t you, young lady?" he scolds, adopting as firm a tone as he can without guilt seeping in.

"It was Son’s idea," she shoots back. "She thought he was cool! Look, look." She points to the drawing again, her face lighting up. "Doesn’t he look cool, Abba?"

Ash can’t help but smile at her enthusiasm. Looks like it's Ash's turn to lie now. "Of course! But that’s only because you’re such an amazing artist."

In reality, both his daughters' drawing skills and Ewron are anything but 'cool.' However, the radiant smile illuminating Ghosty’s face makes every stretch of the truth worthwhile. He wants to give his girls the world.

Once he takes it over, of course.

He'll indulge in his daughter's fantasies, just this once. "Maybe you’re onto something," he muses. "What if you wanted a… friend to share something with you, Ghosty? What would you do?"

She raises her chin in thought. "Um, I'd tell them to have dinner with me. I'll have them tell me everything about them over dinner. Are you trying to take your friend out to dinner, Abba?"

Jesus. She's describing it like a date. "You really should get to bed, Ghosty. And how about a bath? That drool is starting to crust up," he redirects.

"It's not!" she protests. The stains sullying her dress beg to differ. "I'm not sleepy."

"You just said you were sleepy."

"I'm not anymore."

"Then it’s definitely bath time. Come on." He takes her hand and gently leads her toward the door, despite her exaggerated groans and whines. How her sister hasn't woken up is a miracle.

After what feels like an eternity of coaxing and flat-out begging, he finally gets her in the bathtub and reflects on her earlier suggestion as water soaks his clothes.

It’s not the worst thing he’s ever heard. Despite her phrasing, it sounds pretty promising. Ewron will be forced to talk with him, and it’ll be a challenge to fabricate lies on the spot with food in his mouth.

As he tucks Ghosty into bed beside her sister, he thinks he might just give it a shot.

˖⠀🜲⠀˖

Waiting is a big part of an assassin's life; waiting and waiting just to wait some more.

Waiting for missions. Waiting for the right time to strike. Waiting for the nice heap of coins you'll get rewarded with if you've done it all right. It's always been Ewron's least favorite part of the job.

Right now, he's waiting for Ash to leave his damn house so he can snoop around in it.

His calloused fingertips skim the fine, polished glass. It's certain to leave behind marks. Ewron doesn't worry about any consequences for it, though. Ash wants to keep him around, for whatever reason.

It's amazing how quickly he's started trusting him. Ewron knew to always rely on turning up his loquaciousness and charm; it never fails to lower people's guard.

He lets his fingers fall from the glass, having them brush against the refectory table instead. They come back coated in a light layer of dust. Clearly, the oh so great "Supreme Leader" hasn't been working as much as he claims.

Ewron dips his chin to examine the paper on the table. It's completely blank. Untouched. The creases in the corners show it's been that way for quite some time.

Glancing over the entire room, it hits him that he doesn't know what it’s meant to be. Surrounded by numerous scrolls, sheets of paper, and reports scattered about, he deduces Ash uses it as a planning space. A messy one.

The floor is marred with skid marks from pacing. It doesn't take a genius to figure out who the culprit is.

Ewron chuckles. Judging by the countless empty papers, Ash has done no work—so what's he pacing for? The imagery of him trotting back and forth is amusing, though, he'll admit.

Maybe he should try drawing instead. Ewron likes to think of himself as an amazing artist; the next Claude Monet, if you will. He’d be happy to offer Ash some lessons.

Besides, he'd actually be using paper instead of letting it waste away on the floor.

For a fleeting moment, he wonders what else Ash might do in his free time, but he whiffs away the thought. The first rule of being an assassin is to avoid humanizing your targets. That's when you feel guilt. Once you allow guilt to seep in, you flunk the mission.

Luckily, Ewron's managed to avoid such a fate, and has no intention of giving in to it anytime soon. After all, someone as skilled as him would never find himself in a situation like that.

He spares a glance at the window, and this time, nobody is standing outside. The coast is clear.

Ewron immediately spins on his heel, nearly knocking over some sort of painting as he heads for the door. Finally, he's gone. It took Ash long enough. What kind of business does he have standing around in the front yard, anyway

Since he's planning to snoop, it wouldn't hurt to bring a piece of paper to map out the place. It'll help with his mission. Maybe he can kill Ash in his sleep or something.

Ash wouldn't even notice if one of the papers around here went missing. Hopefully.

He pulls the pen that Ash had been nagging for earlier from his pocket and snatches a random sheet of paper from the ground. It’s dusty. Ewron wonders how long it’s been there.

With an unhurried hand, Ewron pushes the door open. An array of doors greets him. The only thing setting them apart is the engravings, accompanied by the occasional change in shade. Amazingly, Ash can somehow manage to discern which is which.

Time to put his artistic skills to the test. Ewron uncaps the pen, catching the lid between his teeth, and tries to sketch out the sight before him.

The tip of the pen creates two unsteady lines on the page. It’s not his best work, but it'll suffice. Next, he sketches a few arches intended to represent the much-too-fancy doors. As he continues, he frowns. The drawing isn’t turning out as he'd imagined, and it feels like too much effort.

Also, he’s getting bored. Ewron doesn't do things that bore him, so he crumples the paper into a ball and gives up. He doesn't even need to map out Ash’s manor—Ewron's sharp enough to remember it all in his head!

He haphazardly tosses both the pen and the paper (without bothering to uncrumple it) back into the mess that is Ash’s planning room. It fits right in.

Navigating through the expansive halls, Ewron takes a sharp left. A tall, elegant staircase stands to welcome him.

The intricate railings on the banister catch his eye, metal engravings reminiscent of the ones he's seen around the manor. While The Regime might be an authoritarian, fascist, and polluted nation, they sure do know how to decorate.

As Ewron ascends, his shoes leave unwelcome streaks of dirt on the polished wooden steps.

“Shit,” he mutters to himself. Does Ash have a maid? Or someone who can clean up that mess before he returns? He seems like the type of asshole who would have a person for that, even if he hasn’t spotted anyone around. Ash probably kills them if they don’t meet his standards.

Reaching the top of the staircase, Ewron notices a solitary door at the end of the hallway, set apart from its more elaborately adorned neighbors.

It's much more… childlike? Yeah, that's the word.

Ewron squints. A sense of déjà vu washes over him. The door looks oddly familiar—he swears it's the exact one he'd seen this morning. It wasn't in this section of the manor, though.

Well, he thinks. He's gotten lost in the maze of this house about a million times now. Maybe it was.

His curiosity draws him toward the door. He feels the cool metal of the handle under his fingertips. Just as he's about to give in to temptation and twist it, an unfamiliar voice breaks through the silence behind him.

"…Sir, what are you doing?"

Oh, shit.