He didn’t dream well; the sparks of the evening nightmares whipped across his mind and spellbound him to the cavern floor. They’d been disastrous pieces and slivers of chaos, horrific images, treacherous, serpentine, asp-like quandaries, and he’d bellowed once or twice, calling out for someone, something, to take it all away or to call for his soldiers – he wasn’t certain what it’d been in the interim. But when his eyes opened, when the shadows and ghosts no longer lingered on the edge of his vision, there was only Orsino, staring at him from the entrails of darkness, shaking his head. The boy repeated the fox’s gesture, swinging his skull from side to side in hopes of rattling the burdens away, but they’d return later, he was certain, and the foretold exhaustion pulled at his frame; too young to hold all the mantles, all the cloaks, all the daggers, all the schemes together.

The kitsune wandered to the opening of their chosen cave, and the boy followed, loosening his muscles, tightened from imagined battles, from illusionary wars, glancing over the horizon, across the grand sky with all its outlined precipices, summits, and peaks. They had to protect it, every damned day and evening, and the thought fused into his heart (for father, he promised, pretending as if his oaths and assurances still carried any weight), pulsed through his chest, and set the searing fire in his motions.
 
His movements were restless entanglements of a soldier, whipping along borders, sauntering past patrol outposts, clinging to bits and portions of savagery, of nefariousness, of wicked notions so he could think of anything else but grief, but tasks, but miseries. Orsino followed, just as decadent, enriched and infused with the notions of bestial, cunning, crafty devils, pondering when Erebos would truly fall into the denizens of the deep, or if he’d rise, gallant and virtuous as ever, pretending he’d never been touched by the darkness curled and coiled through his abhorrent entity. Together, they were distorted rhapsody, a blend of persecution and mayhem, of protection and guidance, because the youth never knew just quite where to put his feet, and the other wanted naught more than annihilation – breathing insurrection, corruption, and pretenses. All the iniquity in the world was bound to his sentiments, to his ruminations, to his scales, and beautiful, sweet, venomous anarchy. Erebos would follow suit – the kitsune believed in the slate, trusted in it.
 
But the fox couldn’t dwell any further on the matter, because the General’s attention was solely riveted on beasts lurking near the Sentinels, mired at the border, and the prince thrust his way through lingering snow and puddles – eyes focused entirely on the matter at hand. Was there an intruder? Was there an ambush, bestial forms knowing when they were at their weakest, at their most vulnerable? Was this why his father had always circulated, always maneuvered, always calculated towards surrounding their kingdom in his power? Did it fall to him now, son of the Reaper, to continue the tradition? He speculated, he clawed, and a growl stuck to the back of his throat, deciding to wrestle with the circumstances as best he saw fit.
 
On his arrival, he heard the girl’s outcry, stifled the hushed annihilation brewing in his chest, and laughed. It was a charming sound, not poised or tossed out of masquerades or simulation; truly loosened from his lungs by raw amusement. “Best be careful,” he called out, reaching the ridge, the outline of snow and empty, sentinel stares, “They’re dangerous to intruders.” Then, he turned his stare briefly to Wessex, nodding his head, applauding, commending, proud to see her there, guarding the herd she barely knew or understood. Perhaps he’d been right to put his trust, his gallantry, his hopes on her – he gave her a beaming, exuberant, wild smile, then a slight wink, ensuring some matter of his motions were out of amusement, jokes, and not the pernicious slide roaming between their decaying watchers. “Wessex,” he spoke, bright and noble, a regal essence carved away from those nightmarish tangents floating through his skull, nodding at her like a good soldier, then putting his entire attention on the youth wandering their hillside.
 
He recognized her, once his eyes had narrowed, once his mind had carved out memories. He’d seen her first by the Veins of the Gods, when they’d been tasked by Kisamoa (Kaos), when all he’d wanted to do was be left alone, and the world had flocked to his side, one by one, entrenched them in amusements, distortions, and absolute stupidity. She’d been there again, on the gnarled, twisted roots of the Spectral Marsh when everything had gone straight to hell, and he could’ve sworn he’d watched her run to the bone monster, and a lady, coated in silver, had launched out to save her. Curious, he obliged the remembrance, gaze softening a fraction. “I remember you from the Veins, then Kao’s reveal.” His head tilted, an inquisitive demon luring more into his spellbinding webs. “Was your savior mended?”