Chapter Text
In his last moments, as darkness surrounded him, Julius reached into his soul, into the shredded remains of his magic and yanked, as hard as he could. Unravelling time—no, changing it. Removing himself. Altering what he could. Resetting the timeline and giving them a chance for a different future.
*
Yami leant against the solid stone of the tower, observing Yukari lead his Dark Knights into formation, a defensive shield up as they smashed a door in, scrolls floating by their sides. In, out - two bodies strung between them. One, they lay on the cobblestones; the other, trussed and bound, hung between two of the squad.
The stupid idiots must’ve decided to fight. Yami sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. He couldn’t entirely blame them. Jack might insist that this was a liberation, not an invasion, but when a squad of foreign soldiers pounded on your door, he doubted it felt like it.
A wisp of smoke curled up from the ground, the acrid taste heavy on his tongue, making him cough and spit. He should have been satisfied, should have been celebrating. In the courtyard on the other side of the tower, under the watchful eyes of his army, the final column of Royal Knights lay slumped against one another, faces smeared with ash and lined with exhaustion; in the distance, isolated flares of magic popped into the sky, disappearing as the last pockets of resistance were overrun by the rebels. He’d come in first, he’d won - so why did it feel like he was the only one in the race?
“Yo, musclehead.”
Yami didn’t bother looking to see who it was. “Yo, string bean.”
“Not bad for four weeks' work.” Jack peered down at their handiwork as the Knights carried on their house-to-house search.
Yami grunted and punched Jack’s shoulder. “Your guys weren’t that shit.” The guy was a pain in the arse, but he could fight and he could drink and there wasn’t anyone else around who’d have the balls to call him out - except Ichika.
Jack swayed and then cackled, rubbing his arm. “Yours are fuckin’ terrifying.”
Yami shrugged. Terror got results. It confounded your enemy, overwhelmed them, and allowed you to win, get out, and leave someone else to mop up the mess. It was practically the clan motto.
With a grunt, he shoved himself off the wall, taking a last look at the city. He could watch all night - he’d rather watch all night - but then Ichika would come and get him, which would only make things worse. Now came the bit that he usually left to everyone else, the bit that, if he were being honest, scared him in a way the clarity of war never did.
Now comes the part where you’re out of your depth, boy, whispered a voice that sounded just like his Dad.
Bullshit, he told it.
Jack smirked. “You ready?”
Yami shot him a dirty look. Jack knew exactly how much Yami was dreading the next few days; Jack and Ichika both. And yet they were shoving him forward with the glee of people who got to eat the jam without paying the consequences. The thud of his boots on the stairs echoed like a countdown. The consequences, the ones that had them pushing his buttons and his limits, were all on him.
Damn Ryu and his grand plan, damn himself for going along with it, and damn this stupid country for being in such a mess that he, Yami Sukehiro, Lord of Destruction, looked like an actual fucking option.
*
Ichika sat in the middle of the table, a frown line creased between her eyebrows, books and neatly labelled documents in front of her. Jack threw himself into a chair beside her and plunked his boots on the table, arms behind his head. A faint rumbling snore came from further down where Dorothy Unsworth, current Queen of the Witches, snoozed. She’d already congratulated Yami on their victory, giving him a big hug. It was them. The alliance. The ragtag bundle of foreigners, witches, commoners and peasants who’d brought the Clover Kingdom to her knees. Poor bastards hadn’t stood a chance.
“My beautiful palace, what have you done to my beautiful palace?” The fat man’s dented crown threatened to slip off his rumpled head. The strange clipped accent of the nobles was different to the lilt of Jack’s rabble, but even so, Yami understood this moron. What a waste of space.
The others could go either way. They both stared straight ahead, the redhead’s jaw clenched so tight he might break his teeth with the pressure, the silver man cold as fresh steel only the tic under his eye giving him away - that and his ki, of course. At least they understood what had brought them here and what came next, which was more than the fat man could say.
Yami dropped into his seat. Why did winning never feel that way once you stepped off the battlefield? He never said this to anyone else; they thought he was weird enough back home. The other generals loved this bit. Some of them remembered their favourite surrenders better than their wedding days, how that daimyo had cowered, how this warlord had raged, the desperate offers people would put on the table to save face. Fuck that. Give him a battlefield any day of the week. You knew where you were on the field - it was you vs them, and everyone knew who the winners and losers were and which side they were on.
“What’s the deal, Ichika? Who’s this fuckin’ loser?” Having spent a month tearing through the towns and villages of Clover, Yami knew whose side he was on. The fat man hiccuped, pawing at the red head whose jaw clenched tighter. If Ryu acted like that- Yami suppressed a grimace.
“The ‘fucking loser’ Sukehiro, would be the king,” Ichika replied in cloverian, drumming her fingers on the table top.
“Ex-king.” Jack came to life, a snake eying up a rodent. “And he’s mine. Remember?” Jack’s focus didn’t waver for a moment. No matter how crazy Jack might allow himself to appear, he was entirely sane. Hard-boiled, yes. Damaged, sure. Mad? No. Jack’s anger burned cold and righteous. You simply needed to appreciate his point of view. And stay on the right side of it.
The red-haired man, Fuegoleon Vermillion, one of Clover’s two great warlords, inhaled, as if to object to Jack’s comment.
“He’s the rightful king of Clover, and you’re a filthy commoner.” The man with the tic got there first, silver-haired and simmering with yoryoku - no, Yami reminded himself, in Clover they had mana - practically trembling with rage, the emotion pouring through his ki. Nozel Silva, the other warlord. Not that it mattered. They wouldn’t get anywhere near their grimoires until there was a magic-tight settlement, the consequences of which would make Jack’s threats look like a toddler tantrum.
“We’re willing to discuss terms of surrender,” Fuegoleon said, his voice deep, “His majesty will abdicate the throne in favour of your… chosen candidate and in return you will abide by the truce.”
Chosen candidate. He’d decided that both Ryu and Ichika had lost their minds when they’d suggested the plan to him, but how could you argue with the man who could see everything and your little sister? Certainly not with both at the same time.
Jack swung his legs down, leaning across the table, his crazed grin widening. His look screamed, come and have a go.
“Way I see it, Vermillion” - Jack savoured the word, like it was his plaything - “is that we’ll abide by whatever we want to abide by. We won. You lost. Sucks to be you.”
The silver-haired warlord flushed red. “You traitorous ingrate. You dare stand against your King. Your rightful rulers. Your-”
Jack pulled his mana, the magic bathing the room in green, holding a shimmering blade to the noble’s throat. The phantom magical flames teased the royal’s neck, Nozel’s adam’s apple bobbing close to the edge. “And that, Silva, is how you ended up in this mess in the first place,” Jack cackled.
Ichika coughed. “We have agreed terms,” she announced, tapping the documents in front of them, clearly bored with this conversation.
Yami couldn’t blame her. He was bored too. He should’ve brought a drink. They’d gone through the decent sake in week one, and wine was a rare luxury, but the local drinks weren’t all that bad. There was a nomotato moonshine out of Hage you could clean your katana with.
The room had gone quiet and Ichika was looking at him expectantly. He glanced down at the document and the words leapt off the page. Marriage contract. Shit. His fingers itched to grab his katana, to run out the room and never look back. He put his hands on the table. He never actually agreed to this part of the deal.
How had he got himself into this? He was just some kid from Goshu with strange yojutsu, a temper and a handy knack for breaking stuff. All he wanted from life was to help Ryu fulfil that dream of his by doing what he was good at, do right by his team, keep an eye out for his kid sister, and have some fun now and again. So how had he got himself made King of some dumb country he’d barely heard of, with weird food and weirder people, and married to boot? Damn Fate, she was a slippery little thing if you took your eyes off her, even if just for a moment.
“I know I promised, Ichika.” Yami leaned over and lowered his voice. “But this is a dumb idea. Why don’t we sort all the big stuff out and leave the marriage bit for later? Maybe in a year. Or two.” Or never. The door had never looked so good.
Ichika’s glare could light a bonfire. “We’re not going through this again, Sukehiro.” She seemed to think it was so straightforward. She seemed to think it was so straightforward. “We have support from the commoners and peasants thanks to Jack, support from the witches, thanks to Dorothy,” the rumble snorted, then continued, “and now we need the nobles. You” - and she jabbed a finger at him to make her point - “need a noble wife. It gives you credibility. It lets the noble realm save face. It makes the transfer of power more palatable to those two-“ she jabbed at the warlords this time “-and makes it easier for you to become king.”
That was the other part that Yami wished they could put off for a year, or two, or forever.
“And seeing as I’ll be doing most of the work, it makes it easier for me.” And there it was. The ace up her sleeve. “So quit bitching.”
She turned back to the room and smiled across the table at where the fat man was still blubbering about his wallpaper or some shit, and the warlords were taking Yami apart with their eyes.
“As I said, for tonight, I want a simple transfer of power,” she said.
“Not without the marriage accords.” Fuegolon, the hard-nosed fire guy that he was, interrupted her. “What’s to stop you changing your minds - and then he’s in charge,” he jerked a thumb at Jack, who was sharpening an actual blade, Yami noticed, the metallic snick like a finger raised at the room. Yami started to grin and only just stopped himself. Trust Jack to go to the effort of finding a physical weapon purely so that he could sit here and piss on them. Yami’d been in Clover for long enough to understand some of their rules: magical items were one thing. Pulling a weapon told your opponent they weren’t worth your mana. Jack’s smirk was wider than the blade and Yami had to fight back against the urge to laugh.
Hardnose was still yapping - “No. We stood down on the basis that you were here to make this work for everyone. So make it work.”
You could tell a lot from a general by how they managed a defeat. Some would throw their forces into a meaningless defence when all was lost, for no reason. Others knew when to end it, when to accept their losses, resign the board and stop play.
“Fine.” Ichika turned to Yami and produced more documents from scrolls only knew where. Everywhere he turned, someone was waving a sheet with her seal attached and bossing people around. “Pick one so that we can write it into the damn document and get this done.” She laid four pieces of paper on the table before him.
He should've interrupted earlier and insisted on the wine. He’d even take the swill right now.
The documents looked innocent enough. He scanned the first two, starting with the pictures and then the names and details of their birth.
“Are you kidding me? They’re babies.” Ichika had to be joking. He waved the papers in the air. “You think I’m going to marry a child?”
The warlords couldn’t know what he was saying, but they were entirely focused on him, bodies rigid, and the silver-haired one’s hand twitched down toward where his grimoire would be, if he still had it.
“They’re thirteen - you don’t have to marry them now. Just agree and we’ll figure it out later,” Ichika said.
“I’m twenty-six! They’re babies!”
He turned to the men across the table and enunciated in his best fancy cloverian, “I. Not. Marrying. Babies.”
“You sound like an idiot.” Ichika rolled her eyes, tucking her hands into her sleeves. “You’ve had years to learn this language, Sukehiro, and you still sound like an infantry grunt.”
“Whatever.” Not his fault Jack’s crew were fun to hang out with, and he’d never been one for ten fancy words when one would do.
Fuegoleon sagged into his chair. Nozel released his clenched fist, rubbing his hand over his face.
Shit. These guys honestly thought that Yami might try to marry one of these kids.
He looked at the papers again. Noelle, one of the Silva candidates, was Nozel’s little sister. Well, that explained a lot. Yami would’ve torn the place down if some creepy old dude was trying to marry Ichika against her will. Mimosa, the Vermillion child, was Fuegoleon’s cousin. Frickin’ weirdos. Nice to know how highly they thought of him. A faint bitter taste crept into his mouth, tasting of high-grade tea and smelling of jasmine. Fuck it. They could think what they liked. Not his problem.
Yami carefully put the two sheets of paper to one side and turned his attention to the others.
“Oh, fuck no.” He slapped the paper down.
“What now?” Ichika snatched the paper and glared at him again. The full glare. The one that she gave when she wasn’t getting her way.
Jack peered over to see the sheet and started to laugh. Bastard.
“I’m not marrying that woman, she’ll eat me alive.” It had taken him plus three units to subdue the fire mage long enough to take hostages at Kiten, and even then, it’d been Jack who talked her down. Probably by boring her to tears with his political ramblings, although she’d done a good job of seeming interested. Jack was still sniggering. Shame she hadn’t burnt his face off when they’d finally taken her into protection - or whatever they were calling arresting people these days. The insect might insist that she was a mensch, but there was no way on his scroll that Yami was going anywhere near that crazy lady.
Hardnose couldn’t speak Hino, Yami knew this, but the redhead was hiding a smirk behind his hand. Yeah, right.
“No crazy sister.” He glared at Fuegoleon, who grinned back at him.
“I’ve got enough already,” Yami muttered to himself in Hino, wincing as Ichika smacked him on the arm with her big book of noble wives, or whatever it was she was using to torture him with today.
Nozel stared at the table.
Yami reached over to pick up the last piece of paper.
“No!” - Ichika got there first and slammed the book on his hand.
“Ow! That hurt.”
“Stop being a big baby.” Ichika waved the paper at him. “You made your choice. You said ‘no’ to all the others, so this is the one.”
There was no way this fourth choice, the unknown one, could be as bad as the other options. No way.
Nozel looked at him with what, had he not been Lord Yami Sukehiro, the Yami of Clan Yami, warlord and barbarian usurper, might have been sympathy. His yoryoku curled, a sense of unease unfurling in his gut.
“I think we should write it up tonight.” Fuegoleon looked suspiciously innocent. Nozel didn’t object, although his ki seemed conflicted.
Yami's neck prickled. “Write up the marriage, but leave the name blank. I get to meet her first,” he said.
The warlords exchanged glances. “I disagree-” Fuegoleon started.
“He’s getting married,” Ichika interrupted. She stood and placed three fingers on her heart in the Clover symbol of a promise given. “He’s getting married to a noble-born woman from a great house of Clover. On my scroll and my clan, I swear.”
Fuegoleon regarded her for a moment. “Within the next three months.”
“One hundred days,” Ichika countered. Then kicked Yami under the table.
“Remind me who won again?” Yami asked under his breath.
“We need them, Sukehiro. We need them to make this work.”
He got to his feet and slowly, reluctantly, raised three fingers to his chest. “I will get married to a noble-born woman from a great house of Clover within the next hundred days.” A hundred days, three months. What difference did it make? His neck prickled, his gut churned, and every instinct told him to run.
Ichika pushed the accords over the table. “Now, sign.”
Jack filched the final paper from Ichika’s pile while she wasn’t looking. And began to laugh, and laugh, and laugh.