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There was no time for the conspirators to question their leader as they headed eastward for Infernus.
They had just escaped a huge warrant for their arrest from all the leaders of Pandora by the skin of their teeth. As always, they were more than prepared, having an escape route planned months in advance—a backup, always in case.
As for the next step, well, while heading to Infernus when escaping Luminara had always been the decided option, it would be a lie to say that the conspirators weren’t at least a little apprehensive. They hadn’t the time to let Infernus know of their arrival through letter or device, and now they just had to show up unannounced on basically enemy territory. Being from Pandora in general, they figured it would create an unavoidable divide between them.
All the conspirators had to guide them was their trust in their leader, that Fluixon knew what he was getting them into, and that they wouldn’t be turned back to Pandora or executed on the spot.
Most especially, Thomas had no fear as they approached the volcano, heat exuding out from the mountainous landscape. He knew that for all of Fluixon’s craze, he was a man with utmost preparation, and that was reliable.
Thomas kept close to Fluixon’s side, keeping a watchful eye on their surroundings and for any possible pursuers or ambushes. The air was burnt with smoke and ash and few members sputtered out harsh coughs as it infested their lungs.
It wasn’t asked of him, but rather instinctive at this point, to act akin to Fluixon’s shield, ready to lay down his life, if Fluixon so required.
He heard Fluixon hum beside him as their fingers brushed when Thomas accidentally stepped a foot too close up the rocky incline. Not out of disapproval, but instead just shy of contentment. Thomas only enjoyed that reaction internally, but did not link their hands together. It was not the appropriate time for that.
As they reached the top of the volcano, there were several gasps and sounds of astonishment at the sight of the castle. Thomas himself was not exempt from this, he too was just as impressed.
It’s not like they had never seen it before—in photographs and newspaper clippings—but the grand sight of it simply could not be captured in a single blurry image.
Its castle was suspended at the centre in the mouth of the volcano by massive, reinforced metal chains. Lava bubbled below them, popping and sizzling like it was waiting hungrily for its prey to fall in.
As soon as the Conspiracy stepped foot on the bridge, they were immediately halted by several guards.
Fluixon obviously took the wheel, briefly explaining their presence and requesting a meeting with the Queen of Infernus. Thankfully, he was as convincing as he was charming, and after a minor back and forth, the guards eventually let up and slowly escorted them to the throne room with careful eyes.
The inside of the palace was just barely cooler than its outside. Heat transferred from below their feet and into the halls, effectively trapping it within the chambers.
The throne room was just as impressive as its outside, large and magnificent. Darkly coloured deepslate walls were accented by bits of gold, mirroring the colour of the burning lava below.
Queen Cynikka sat beside her husband, King Harvest, and was surrounded by her own encore of servants and guards alike.
Thomas had heard of the queen very few times from his own leader’s mouth. It was rather rare for Fluixon to talk about his history in Aculon as the topic had always seemed too bitter on his tongue, but Thomas was always allowed that luxury of that less than infrequent occurrence—the privilege into his precious leader’s mind as his closest member. He shelved those thoughts for later to focus on the present matter.
From her throne, the queen eyed the new arrivals carefully, a certain cold look on their face in contrast to the extreme temperatures.
“To what do we owe the pleasure of more squandering Pandora citizens?” Queen Cynikka asked from her throne, her voice laced with casualty, yet still carried the weight of authority.
But, before their leader could formulate a response, the queen’s face twisted. Her eyebrows furrowed a moment, then her eyes widened as her face lit up with recognition.
“Hold on—Fluixon, is that you?”
Fluixon smirked. “Did you miss me, my dearest sister?”
“Oh, save it, little crow.” Queen Cynikka huffed. “What sort of trouble have you gotten yourself into to drive you to finally visit?”
All the members of the Conspiracy started giggling at the nickname, Thomas included. Fluixon snapped his head around and glared at them.
They didn’t pay the look much mind and he turned his attention back to the queen as they quieted down.
“Cyn, please, can’t it just be a family visit?” He hung his arms in mock surrender, a mischievous glint in his eyes.
“You know too well that’s not how our family works,” The queen answered, rolling their eyes. “And it especially does not seem that way when you have an entourage right alongside you.”
“Alright, alright…” Fluixon said, defeated. “My group and I have been… compromised. We know war is coming to your doorstep and we would like to unify under Infernus for your protection, and for ours.”
Queen Cynikka considered for a moment. Thomas could suddenly notice more of the family resemblance, especially after studying Fluixon’s expressions for so long. A crease formed on her skin between her eyebrows and brought a tapping finger to her lips as she thought, the way Fluixon’s would as well.
“It depends, what can your entourage provide for me in return?”
“Why not call it simply a family favour?”
The queen raised an eyebrow pointedly. Thomas thought that expression looked rather familiar as well.
Fluixon sighed. “Fine, what do you require?”
It was interesting to see how easily Fluixon bent for his sister. Thomas supposed it was a combination of desperation and likely some actual level of respect for them.
“I’ll let you stay here, provided you and your crew help build up our defenses.” The queen offered. “I know you all have significant prowess in trapping.”
“We accept.” Fluixon said immediately, nodded firmly. “We appreciate your generosity, Queen Cynikka.”
“Of course, Prince Fluixon.” They smiled. “We’re family afterall, aren’t we?”
Eventually, the palace settled into a low, wary quiet—less from exhaustion than from curiosity. Word spread fast in Infernus, and the return of one of the queen’s long-lost brothers traveled faster than most rumors ever did.
The Conspiracy clustered around a long table in one of the lower halls, blueprints spread wide across its surface. It reminded Thomas uncomfortably of their bunker back near Luminara—same hunched shoulders, same murmured arguments over angles and pressure points. Fingers traced corridors, marked chokeholds, debated where traps would be most effective.
Fluixon lingered at the edge of the table, arms crossed tight against his chest. He listened without truly listening, eyes tracking the exits more than the plans.
“I need to clarify something with the queen,” he said at last. Not an excuse—an obligation.
As he stood, Thomas felt it before he saw it: the brief hitch in Fluixon’s attention, his gaze catching on Thomas for half a second longer than anyone else. Then Fluixon turned on his heel and headed for the doors.
Not quite an invitation, but rather, an expectation.
Thomas followed anyway, because he always did.
Queen Cynikka waited in one of the adjoining chambers, posture composed in that precise, practiced way that came from years of holding a throne together with bare hands.
Fluixon stopped a few paces away, and Thomas remained just behind his shoulder, observing close and carefully. Mostly out of fear for Fluixon more than himself, but that wasn’t atypical either.
The silence filled the emptiness of the room, suffocating the gap between them. Years of unspoken ruin pressed down on them with the fall of an empire, shouted orders swallowed by fire, a childhood fractured and scattered across islands that might as well have been worlds.
Cynikka was the first to move. She turned fully toward him, eyes sharp—but uncertain, too, in a way she didn’t bother to hide.
“…You’ve got a new hand,” Cynikka said, after a beat.
Fluixon’s fingers involuntarily twitched at his side. Thomas resisted the urge to settle them.
Fluixon sighed, a superficial smile rolling in on his face. “You always did notice the wrong things.”
Cynikka smiled back, a knowing one. “Someone had to.”
She looked at it openly now—not with pity or horror, but with the careful attention of someone cataloging damage they understood too well.
“I didn’t think I’d ever see you in this palace,” she said quietly. “Not after Aculon.”
“Not really a choice now, was it?” Fluixon replied, slightly more playfully.
Her smile returned and Cynikka took a step closer, then stopped—her gaze shifting, just briefly, to the figure at Fluixon’s side.
“And you didn’t come alone,” she observed.
Her eyes settled on Thomas, curious rather than suspicious.
“Well?” she said, glancing back at her brother. “Are you going to introduce him, or should I start guessing?”
Thomas hadn’t moved. He stood half a step behind Fluixon’s right side, close enough that their sleeves brushed when Fluixon shifted his weight.
Fluixon stiffened.
He hadn’t realised—hadn’t decided—when Thomas had become non-negotiable.
“Cyn, this is my…” Fluixon trailed off, his words stumbling to an end.
Thomas felt the hesitation like a weight pressing down on his chest. He wondered, briefly, what Fluixon was trying to choose between. Titles never quite fit right when it came to them.
Follower?
Friend?
Loyal dog?
“…Thomas.” Fluixon finished.
Cynikka blinked once. Slowly.
“Your… Thomas?”
Before the pause could stretch into something more than awkward, Thomas stepped forward. He took Cynikka’s hand with practiced ease and pressed a kiss to her knuckles, ignoring the glare Fluixon shot at him.
“Thomas,” he said warmly. “Second in command. It’s an honour, Your Highness.”
“Oh, please,” Cynikka laughed, eyes alight as she glanced back at her brother. “You’ve found yourself quite the charmer.”
Fluixon moved immediately, plucking his sister’s hand out of Thomas’s grasp. “He’s a show-off.”
“When was the last time you held my hand like that?” Cynikka shot back, grinning. “When you were five?” She hummed thoughtfully. “He’s certainly got you wrapped around his finger.”
Colour crept up Fluixon’s neck as he released her hand rather deliberately, muttering under his breath.
Thomas shrugged, his grin unrepentant. “I’ve picked up quite a few pleasantries from him.”
“My brother? Pleasant?” The queen raised an eyebrow with a mischievous smirk. “Don’t make me laugh!”
Thomas clasped a hand to his chest, feigning offense. “Please, your highness, I don’t want to make him seem any more pathetic than he already is.”
Fluixon kicked the back of Thomas’s knees without warning. Thomas stumbled forward with a startled laugh.
“Don’t punish him for defending your honor,” Cynikka said, amused.
“That wasn’t defense,” Fluixon snapped. “And you know it.”
They spoke for a while after that—the light conversation drifting off into something more serious.
They delved into defenses, supply lines, and how the strain was already beginning to show among Cynikka’s people. It seemed ironic to say that this line of discussion was safer ground. Familiar.
Fluixon loosened slightly as the conversation turned practical, retreating into plans and contingencies the way he always did.
Thomas listened more than he spoke, watching the way Fluixon and Cynikka mirrored each other without meaning to. The same tension in their shoulders. The same habit of scanning the room even mid-conversation, as if danger might bloom out of thin air.
Fluixon was a paranoid man, much like Cynikka, his thoughts constantly haunted by prospects of what could happen and any other sorts of possibilities.
What was annoying to most was what was most endearing to Thomas. Paranoia stemmed from fear, from concern—concern for himself and concern for others. It’s not necessarily to say that Fluixon was a caring person, perhaps still far from that. But, he cared. The way that developed into his most unlikeable behaviours and rather cold nature, that was what was most alluring.
Yet, where Fluixon was more cold and calculating, it seemed that Cynikka developed a more noticeable care of others, spiralling into impulsivity.
At some point, the conversation lulled. Cynikka leaned back against the table, arms folding loosely as her gaze drifted between them.
“For all your planning,” she said, quieter now, “you’ve always been terrible at pretending you don’t care.”
Her eyes lingered on Thomas for a fraction of a second longer than necessary.
“I’m glad,” she continued, “that at least you got to choose your love.”
The words settled heavily in the space between them.
Fluixon didn’t look at Thomas.
His jaw tightened. One hand curled at his side, fingers digging into his palm as if anchoring himself to something solid.
“Yeah,” he said at last.
The corridors gradually emptied as the night settled over them. One by one, members of the Conspiracy peeled away toward their assigned rooms, voices lowering, footsteps fading into the hum of the palace.
Thomas fell back into line without thinking. He always did.
“Thomas.”
Fluixon’s voice cut in low behind him.
Thomas turned. Fluixon stood a few paces away, hands tucked into the sleeves of his coat, expression unreadable.
“Cyn didn’t give you a room,” Fluixon said.
Thomas blinked once. Then nodded.
That wasn’t unusual.
Sometimes after late meetings in the bunker or staying up near dawn drowning in mounds of paperwork, for many nights, Thomas’s room would be left untouched.
‘Too far,’ they said sometimes. ‘It’s more convenient.’
Fluixon hesitated, then turned without another word and headed down the corridor. Thomas followed him into the chamber, the door shutting softly behind them.
They didn’t have their things from Luminara. Someone—Cynikka, probably—had arranged clothes for bed anyway, and likely for the rest of the Conspiracy as well.
The fabric was silky against their skin, thin and breathable, clearly made with the heat of Infernus in mind.
It looked almost strange to see Fluixon without the heaviness of his coat, not that Thomas hadn’t seen him without it before. Just that, with the weight of war closing in on them, it was rare to see Fluixon carry a lighter weight.
However, even as they got into bed together, lying side by side, Thomas could still notice the tension in Fluixon’s shoulders—not quite lost, never quite lost.
Fluixon turned to face Thomas, most likely sensing how long the other had been staring. Though, he looked at him with lidded eyes, his expression not annoyed but tired, exhausted.
Thomas reached out, his fingers lightly brushing the hair out from Fluixon’s face. A small, typical gesture. But as he was about to retreat, Fluixon stopped him with his own hand.
“Sorry,” Fluixon said, finally breaking the silence, his voice quiet.
Thomas stared a moment, letting his hand rest on Fluixon’s cheek.
“For what?”
“For earlier. For…”
Fluixon bit down on his bottom lip, his gaze flickering to the ceiling.
“For not saying anything,” he added quietly. “Back there.”
He exhaled sharply. “Never mind. Forget it.”
Thomas considered, his mind drifting back to Cynikka’s words.
Ah, he thought. The labels.
“I don’t need to be anything to you, Fluixon,” he said softly.
It wasn’t entirely true. They both knew that. But Thomas was done trying to ask for more.
He continued, his voice still gentle. “Just let me be here.”
Then, Fluixon pushed himself halfway upright, bracing an arm beside Thomas as he leaned over him. His dark hair spilled loose over Thomas’s chest, tickling his skin. Those sharp, poison-coloured eyes searched Thomas’s face—and widened, just slightly, with something like hurt.
“Don’t say that,” Fluixon said sharply. Then, softer, “don’t say it like you’re disposable.”
“Like how Saps was?” Thomas blurted before he could stop himself.
“Don’t—” Fluixon shook his head once. “Don’t mention him right now. I just—I can’t afford to cut anyone else loose.”
Fluixon’s head fell, his gaze drifting back down lower, away from where Thomas could see him.
Thomas lifted both his hands, cupping Fluixon’s face gently, helping him look back up. Thomas’s thumbs traced the sharp lines of his cheeks as if he could soften them, erasing tension where he could.
“You couldn’t get rid of me if you tried,” Thomas murmured.
Fluixon leaned into the touch without thinking, forehead resting briefly against Thomas’s.
“You don’t leave me,” he said quietly. It wasn’t a request. Not an order from his leader—it was a plea. “No matter what happens, you stay with me.”
Thomas didn’t hesitate. “You already know I’ll be there.”
Fluixon swallowed. He closed his eyes as if to take in the answer
“And when—if I die…” he finally said, allowing himself to be held up simply by Thomas’s hands. “I want you to be there.”
His fingers on Fluixon’s face halted.
“You’re not going to die,” he said, firm, his grip involuntarily tightening. “I won’t let that happen.”
He couldn’t let it happen.
May every blade pierce him once before he ever let one touch Fluixon—any arrow, any trap. Thomas was certain that until his very last breath, he’d keep his leader alive. That will was unshakeable.
The only will he’d ever bend to was Fluixon’s alone.
“If I do,” Fluixon said anyway, his voice wavering, “you’ll stay.”
“That was never in question,” he said just above a whisper, like a declaration. “There’s nowhere else I could be.”
Fluixon’s grip tightened in Thomas’s shirt. His voice dropped, barely there.
“I need you.”
Fluixon hesitated once before he bent down slowly, his eyes fluttering closed. Thomas wasn’t stunned by this, sighing against his mouth as he met him halfway.
It wasn’t the first time they’d kiss, far from it, and Thomas had already memorised the shape and taste of those thin, cracked lips. Hard from his usual scowl, bore into arguments and discussions of war, assassinations.
It should’ve been bitter, but Thomas didn’t think there was anything sweeter.
He knew where to push and pull, where to bite, where to make Fluixon unravel like a neat ribbon coming undone.
Kissing had become a comfort for Fluixon—Thomas’s steady presence all-too reassuring.
Thomas didn’t mind it, and probably a little more than didn’t mind.
He lifted himself up, almost forcefully pushing Fluixon with him and switching their positions. He lay Fluixon onto his back and Thomas was the one leaning over him now, pressing his leader into the sheets with his lips.
“Wait—” Fluixon gasped, pushing Thomas off him just long enough to speak. “Thomas, I—”
The word caught. Whatever came next never made it past his throat.
Thomas startled and pulled back immediately. He waited—gave him space, gave him time—but Fluixon said nothing. His jaw clenched, eyes fixed somewhere just past Thomas’s shoulder.
Then it clicked.
Affection.
That was it. Of course. Too unfamiliar on Fluixon’s tongue. Too unarmored to survive being spoken aloud.
Thomas’s expression softened. He leaned back down, close to Fluixon’s ear.
“You don’t have to say it,” he whispered, pressing gentle kisses along his jaw. “Not ever.”
Fluixon hummed, content but also disappointed—moreso it seemed in himself then Thomas as he lifted his chin to allow Thomas his neck.
Thomas’s face warmed into a smile and he began moving down Fluixon’s throat, slowly kissing along the lines.
“So long as you let me take care of you for the rest of my life,” he said between them, drifting to his collarbone.
He could feel Fluixon begin to tremble beneath him. Not the leader. Not the Architect. Just Fluixon—warm, flushed, waiting.
He was like a gift, his walls paper thin as his skin—coming down as he was unwrapped. Only Thomas would be allowed to see him weak like this. Vulnerable.
Thomas moved up his lips and kissed him again, softer this time.
“I devote myself to you,” he murmured.
Fluixon’s fingers clenched in the sheets and Thomas felt Fluixon’s breath stutter beneath him, warm and uneven against his throat.
Thomas pulled back just enough to look at him.
Like this, quivering beneath him, Fluixon looked utterly delicate, like a flower yet to bloom. Not the leader that sat at the head of their table during meetings, a cold and calculating look in his eyes.
He looked a mess now, his hair sprawled out with sweat clinging to it and his face. Thomas could make out the pink dusting Fluixon’s cheeks and he reveled in just how flustered he could make Fluixon.
“I’d wait a thousand lifetimes more if it’d meant I could kiss you like this again.”
Fluixon slowly brought his hands up, cupping Thomas’s face carefully, like he was unsure how firm he should hold.
Thomas startled as Fluixon’s thumbs brushed along his jaw—the mechanical hand colder against his cheek—but he melted as Fluixon drew him in, resting his forehead against Thomas’s own. He felt the stutter of Fluixon’s breath up close, almost shy.
“Then,” Fluixon murmured, voice barely there, “kiss me again.”