The sun had barely set when Elaine slipped away from the palace grounds, her cloak trailing behind her as she approached the old stables nestled at the edge of the western field.
The scent of hay and weathered wood greeted her like an old friend. As she stepped into the quiet space, a soft snort broke the silence.
There he was.
Solas.
The moon-kissed black stallion lifted his head from the stall door, eyes intelligent and watchful.
Elaine offered a faint smile, brushing her fingers over the soft velvet of his nose. "Hey, boy…" she whispered. "Let's go for a ride."
She saddled him gently, slowly, as though afraid to break the silence. It wasn't just any night.
It was the night of the Fireflies.
They only appeared once every ten years—tiny, glowing spirits that floated through the sky like stars set loose. Ronan had taken her to see them once.
When they were young. When the world had felt simpler.
She remembered his voice, the way he said, "If you're lucky, they land on your skin and bless your next decade."
They'd danced in a meadow then.
And tonight, against every warning in her gut, she'd come to that same place.
Just in case.
The clearing hadn't changed much—wildflowers bloomed in soft blues and white, and the grass swayed gently in the breeze.
She dismounted, letting Solas graze freely as she walked barefoot into the field. The sky was deep navy now, stars peeking through one by one.
She looked around.
Waited.
Listened.
No Ronan.
Just silence. Stillness. A hollow where hope had made its home.
With a sigh, Elaine sat on the cool grass and hugged her knees. A lump pressed against her throat, but she swallowed it down and let her head rest against her arm.
Then she began to hum.
A soft, broken melody.
The lullaby her father used to sing when the world felt too loud.
"Fly away little star,
Rest your head, near or far…"
The wind carried her voice, and with it came something strange—movement.
A rustle in the trees.
Not of threat… but curiosity.
Two deer stepped into the clearing. A pair. Gentle-eyed and calm.
Birds flitted into the branches above her, chirping quietly.
A squirrel padded up beside her, curling into the grass without fear.
She smiled softly.
"Guess I'm not alone after all."
And then… the fireflies came.
At first, just one.
Then a dozen.
Then hundreds.
Tiny golden specks filling the night like magic incarnate, weaving between the trees, floating above the grass, casting their glow onto her skin.
One landed on her shoulder and glowed brighter, then vanished.
Elaine tipped her head back and laughed, the sound soft and wistful.
Her smile lingered, even though her heart still ached.
Back at the place .
Eugene strolled into the palace dining room looking suspiciously… well-rested.
His hair, usually a little messy from spellwork or sleepless nights, fell in gentle waves. His skin? Glowing. Not metaphorically—literally. A faint shimmer of magical residue clung to his collarbones and neck like stardust. And his mood? Unbothered. Serene.
Too serene.
He sat down at the table like he hadn't just been thoroughly ruined the night before.
Rhysand looked up from his cup of tea, brow slowly arching. Arthur, mid-sip of his drink, paused.
Elaine leaned forward dramatically, squinting at him. "Are you wearing highlighter?"
Eugene blinked. "What?"
Artizea didn't look up."You're glowing."
"I am not—"
"You absolutely are," Arthur said, putting his cup down and pointing at Eugene's neck. "Is that a bite mark?"
Eugene instinctively slapped a hand over it. "No—it's a burn—spell accident—"
"You don't have spell accidents," Artizea said casually. "You look like you just stepped out of a goddess's temple."
Elaine gasped. "You did it. You slept with her!"
Eugene groaned, dragging his hands down his face. "Can we not—"
Arturia chose that exact moment to enter, completely missing the context. "Good morning, everyone."
Elaine turned to her mother."Mum. Eugene lost his virginity."
Arturia paused, then looked at Eugene. "Well. That explains why you're in such a good mood."
Gilgamesh, seated at the head of the table, didn't even look up from his paper.
"If he's glowing, it means he's finally letting out some of that pent-up magic. Good. I was worried he would explode by now. "
"—what—" Eugene sputtered. Then dropped his head onto the table. "I give up."
And a familiar, smug voice drifted in from his mind
"Don't be mad, darling. You started it."
Eugene didn't even look up.
"Go away."
The long table was overflowing with roasted meats, buttered vegetables, gilded goblets, and half-finished desserts. Gilgamesh sat at the head, regal and unbothered, sipping wine with Arturia beside him, discussing border treaties.
Elaine and Elegance argued over who deserved the last cream puff, while Julian calmly stole it behind their backs.
And then, at the far end of the table…
Arthur leaned in slightly toward Eugene, his voice barely a whisper as he caught his brother's attention:
"Hey."
Eugene didn't look at him right away. Still chewing, he raised a brow lazily.
Arthur grabbed a soft roll of bread, sliced it cleanly in half, and held up both pieces like a riddle.
Across from them, Rhysand arched an eyebrow, clearly catching on.
Arthur slowly pointed to one piece, then to Eugene, then the other piece, and pointed to Rhysand.
Rhysand, without missing a beat, brought his hands together in a little heart shape and smiled smugly—obviously referring to Julian.
Eugene blinked.
His eyes narrowed.
Arthur, still holding the bread like sacred scrolls, made a subtle motion—stacking one piece over the other in a gesture so ancient and cursed, it could only mean:
"Top or bottom?"
In bread language.
Eugene slowly placed both hands on the table, pushed his plate away… then leaned in.
So did Arthur.
Everyone else was still busy chatting.
Eugene calmly clasped his hands together. leaned forward closer…with the most bored expression imaginable, flipped him off.
Arthur rolled his eyes and tossed the bread back onto his plate. "Rude."
Rhysand laughed—low and warm.
Artizea looked up ."I don't know what you two are scheming, but it smells like jealousy," he said, still grinning.
Arthur leaned back, muttering under his breath.
" Smells like denial."
Gilgamesh, without looking up, casually added:
"If you children are done with your bread theater, someone pass the butter." The entire table burst into laughter—even Arturia cracked a smile.It was one of those rare nights when no one was fighting, planning, or on a battlefield.
Even Gilgamesh looked relaxed, sitting at the head of the table, sipping wine with that ageless calm.
Until—Fuck it.
He set down his cup and, with a slight edge to his voice, asked:
"So… what's his name?"
The entire table quieted.
Eugene, caught mid-sip, froze. "What?"
Gil didn't look up. "The one who's got you making bread signs at dinner. What's his name?"
All eyes turned to Eugene.
Around the table, forks paused midair. Glasses stopped halfway to lips.
Eugene stared down at his plate, jaw clenched. He refused to look up.
Arturia's head tilted slightly. "Him?" she echoed.
Elaine's brow furrowed. "…Him?"
Rhysand and Arthur both stiffened in sync, holding their breath like soldiers hearing the snap of a bowstring. Of course the king knew.
He was Gilgamesh—he always knew. Had they learned that by now.
Artizea looked at Eugene with wide, careful eyes. "Eugene…"
But Eugene pushed back from the table and stood. His chair scraped the floor sharply.
"Julian," he said, voice steady despite the storm behind it. "Father… his name's Julian."
The silence that followed was devastating.
Gilgamesh stared at him. No emotion. No fire. Just silence.
"Excuse me," he said.
Then, the king stood and walked away.
"Dad—" Eugene's voice cracked. "Dad—"
But he was already gone.
Nobody moved.
No one dared breathe.
Then, without another word, Eugene opened his own portal—white flames licking the edges—and vanished through it.
The room exhaled all at once.
Artizea turned sharply to Rhysand, voice low and shaking. "Tell me you didn't know."
Rhysand and Arthur exchanged a brief glance. Arthur muttered, "…Well, shit."
Elaine sat back slowly. "So he… likes boys?"
Arturia stood wordlessly. Her gaze lingered on the empty seat where her son had been.
Then, with a quiet, controlled urgency, she turned and left the room.
She found Gilgamesh minutes later, standing at the balcony of their private chambers.
The wind played with the ends of his golden robe. His hands were clenched against the stone railing, knuckles pale.
"Gil," she said softly.
He didn't respond.
"Gil." Her voice was firmer this time.
Still nothing.
She stepped beside him, placing a hand gently on his arm.
"He's still our son."
He flinched. Not visibly—but she felt it.
He sighed deeply, still facing away, until His voice came at last, low and raw, as if torn from somewhere deep:
"I'm Fine with it."
She turned to face him surprised by his answer. "Then what's the problem?"
He was quiet again, before finally whispering, He turned toward her now, his eyes filled with something… heavy.
"It's just… I wasn't prepared for that truth. Not from him. I thought — I was ready, but I wasn't. How could I not be ready? Im suppose to know how to be ready, especially for my own son, and i wasnt…"
Arturia's heart ached.
"You don't have to know everything," she said gently. "Whatever divinity you possess is irrelevant in the matter."
He smiled slightly. She was using his words against him.
"Your A Human Father. " she continued. " And we humans mess up."
Silence
"But our son needs you. Now more than ever."
Gil closed his eyes. The wind howled, but still—he stood there.
"My boy who never cried, even when he broke his arm in two places."
Gil let out a low laugh, sad and aching. "He doesn't like to eat food touching each other, Lactose and tolerant —he's just .. Special."
Arthuria stepped forward, gently resting her hand on his shoulder. "Maybe this is what this Julian sees, then."
He looked at her quietly. "Maybe," he echoed. "Maybe I just don't want to admit he's grown up."
Arthuria smiled. "He needs your acceptance."
Gil was silent for a long time. Then he asked, voice low: "Does he look happy?"
She nodded. "A little too happy."
Gil gave a dry chuckle. " At least I don't have to worry about a new grandchild."
She giggled,