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Assistant: Title: Butterfly Reign
        Author: SilentTeyz SilentTeyz 
        Chapter: 36/40 
        Summary: The royal family of Antarctic empire isn’t exactly close.Emperor Philza is always occupied; Tommy hasn’t seen Techno in months, and even if Wilbur is here, their relationship can be described to be strained at best.The royal family doesn’t need to be close, however, it only needs to be balanced, like the pillars holding the country above their heads – as long as they are strong and steady, the Empire will be too. It’s the principle that held Tommy’s back straight and his shoulders broad through the years of hardships and trials of errors; through yet another formal meeting where his father’s gaze would look past him and where his brother’s words would be filled with poison that makes the deepest parts of his soul ache.At that time, Tommy couldn't know that his family would find a replacement for him in the face of a commoner boy named Ranboo.
  ~🦋~
Tommy's family has replaced him. It's only fair that he gets to do the same.
        Contents: Chapter 36: And your feelings, they shown deep down from your soul
    

    

        
          
          
            “If there is one thing Emperor Philza cannot be accused of, it is of not being throughout. However…” His tone, which remained impassive throughout the conversation, takes on a hesitant hue; he glances discreetly over his shoulder, as if half-expecting someone to be listening in.No one was. He still lowers his voice into a half-whisper, “There was a woman. A cook, working in the kitchens. A few months before the termination of the palace workers, she had to abandon her position to tend to her sick mother. As she was leaving, she spotted the Emperor talking to a man outside the palace walls. She said that the stranger spoke in southern manners, and bore a dragon sigil on his sleeve. Philza called him Your Royal Highness.”There was only one male member of the Royal family of Esempi who could be addressed with those honorifics at that time. Dream heard himself ask, as his thoughts spiraled,“When did it happen in relation to the usurpation of the throne in Esempi?”
          
        

      
        
          The author realizes that might she might have a consistent pattern of hurting character's hands
            
            (See the end of the chapter for  more notes.)
            
      
  

  
  
    
    A lantern flickers in the forest as the city bells begin to toll. Like a vagabond spirit, it flits between the trees in the uneasy drone of strike coming after strike.  The distinct creak of wheels and thump of horse hooves echoes along the dusty road after the sixth; at tenth, a black carriage without any windows bounces from around the corner, pulled forward by a quartet of gray horses. Darkness chases after it like a pack of hounds, pouncing and nipping at its heels, reeling away as they’re burned by gleams of soft pale light.The silent coachman steers the carriage around an abandoned sawmill and stops in front of a crossroad, where a cloaked figure stands below a half-rotten, unreadable wooden sign. A footman dressed in all black opens the door just as the bells strike midnight. Under the hood, glowing green eyes squint into the opening, not for the first time in the past hour wondering if he’s walking straight into a trap.If there’ll ever be one last chance to walk out of this, it would be now. As he looks back at the palace, high at the towers standing vigil sentinel in the darkening sky, and higher yet at the shimmer of the Northern star rising above all shallow and trivial, Dream knows he’s long since made his choice.He grabs one side of the frame and pulls himself in one smooth leap. The door closes shut behind him.It is darker inside than Dream expected. There is only a small window in the ceiling, closed almost all the way by a sliding panel. As the coachman cracks his whip and the carriage begins to move, a thin sliver of moonlight sways between the sandalwood floor and seats upholstered in silk velvet of dark, vibrant burgundy.Dream’s eyes fall on a lantern hanging from a special hook. The candle inside has gone out, or was never lit in the first place. On habit, he looks around, but there is nobody in the carriage but him. He takes the lantern into his hands, opens it, and, cupping a hand around his mouth, blows. A moment later a small green flame dances at the end of the wick.Putting the lantern aside, Dream notices a stack of clothes on the opposite bench. Pants, shirt, a jacket with silver-buckled belt – all have been provided, down to the shoes and a pair of slick black gloves. He gets changed, feeling like with every piece, he’s shedding a part of himself and taking on the guise of a different person. Given his true nature, it should not be as uneasy as it is.Dream notices something waiting there next to a cushioned pillow as he folds his old clothes into a pile. He turns it over and stares at a white mask with a heart encrusted over the right eye with many tiny rubies and the top part shaped to look like a swirling golden crown. It looks well-cared for, but, unlike the clothes, isn’t new. He finds a few little chips on the side and the strap is not opened all the way, as if the hands of the previous wearer were shaking so much that they could not subdue a simple buckle.The carriage doesn’t show any signs of slowing down soon, so Dream decides to leave it for later and lies back. He tries to memorize the path at first, placing turns and twists into a map inside his head, but soon abandons that futile ordeal; on the rocky forest roads, right and left existed only in theory. In half an hour, Dream begins to suspect that the coachman goes in circles precisely to discourage people from the same idea as him.He clothes his eyes and imagines that, instead of a bouncing carriage, he is rocked aboard his home ship. Not wheels are squeaking in his ears but the three great masts under the onslaught of airborne currents, wind-strewn sails clapping like thunder. The waves sing sweetly in tandem, and stars tumble round and round in eternal waltz. Pressed back-to-back against him is his older brother, his presence as steadfast and unceasing as a mountain range. And somewhere below, suspended from the shrouds, with her flowing white hair and dauntless gaze fixed on the shimmering skyline, is Mom…The carriage stops, jolting Dream out of his slumber. His chest aches like someone wriggled a knife into an old, crystallized wound, and chipped away at the edges – not enough to bleed, but enough to remind him of their existence, as he fumbles about the buttons to rub at his racing, fearful, human heart. When someone knocks, Dream blows the lantern out like he shuns the yearning churning at the top of his stomach, and swiftly slides the mask over his head just in time for the door to swing open and let him through.The abundance of light blinds him. He covers his face with his hand, blinking through his fingers up at an enormous mansion sprawled before him. Tinted glass panels shine in the windows three stories high, birds chiseled into an entablature supported by a row of columns, veined gold and encrusted with jewels. Dream finds himself by the façade, ornamented by carefully trimmed boxwood hedges. There is a fountain with a mermaid statue in the middle with the tail splashing and such claws resting daintily over the rim that makes him remember sirens from the century-long stories cycling around the southern coasts.Further back are the gardens, beyond them – a stone wall, the last stand between civilization and the trees crawling for the light with crooked phalanges and brusque faces carved in bark. The woods grow so dense and so high there that Dream can see nothing but the teeth of pines gnawing on the heavens. Even the towers of the palace, visible from any point in the capital, are gone. Whoever built this place certainly didn’t fancy uninvited guests, or the crown’s attention, or both.Behind him, carriages move. Dream could not tell which brought him here even if he tried, so unremarkable and similar they are, down to the horses pulling them on. Men and women in lavish evening garments exit the vehicles and head past Dream, conversing in quiet voices. It strikes him that every single person he looks at is dressed exactly the same: black with gold suits, black with gold velvet dresses, gloves hiding every inch of skin. Some women have hidden their hair under wide-brimmed hats with thin dark veils similar to those that Dream saw on every portrait of the late Empress Kristin. Every face is hidden behind a mask, and every mask depicts one of the four card pips: clubs, diamonds, hearts and spades.A few glances shoot his way, and he’s struck by a peculiar sort of unease, like those people recognize him somehow but not the other way around. Which is strange, he muses as he looks in his reflection in the rippling fountain water, because I can’t even recognize myself.The new clothes completely transformed him. Dream has already been trying to dress like an Antarctic citizen, partly out of courtesy, partly because his traditional garments did not bode quite well with the northern weather, but didn’t exactly cater to the local fashion standards either.The pressure around his shoulders and waist come as an unpleasant novelty, and though the heel of the shoes is just a small one, he still longs for something flatter and less constricting. Emptiness loiters in his ears, around his neck and arms where jewelry used to jingle softly at his every step. The foreign mask fitted tightly over his face gives his whole appearance a kind of aloofness and dreariness that is the exact opposite of his very essence, which was to draw attention wherever he walked, good or bad.George has once made a rather crude remark that Dream dresses like he’s terrified that people won’t notice him otherwise. In his best, vexing George nature, he was right. All unique that remains of Dream is his golden hair and the thin strip of bronze skin between his head and the high, stiff collar. Not George nor Sapnap would recognize him like this; even his siblings, were they to see him right now, would struggle to see the familiarity amidst all the ways he looks a stranger –But that, he supposes, must be the whole point of this masquerade.Dream joins the thin trickle of people heading for the giant gilded doors. Everyone but him already seems to know their way around the place, so he allows the flow of the crowd to lead him through rooms and corridors, one more luxurious than another, until like a running creek they spill out into a ballroom so large it could comfortably fit the largest three-decker galleon in the Esempi’s fleet.His gaze moves from the silk carpet of dizzying azure and ember colors to fretwork covering every wall, and then up to the mural on the vaulted ceiling, depicting a battle of some kind from the Empire’s long history of warfare. Gold chandeliers are studded with real diamonds and each shine with the might of a thousand candles. Gemstones encrust so much of the visible space and furniture that, was Dream anyone but the crown prince of the largest gem-exporting country on the continent, he’d take it for colored glass. He tries to count in his head how much all this must have cost, but the numbers quickly surge into unfathomable.Dream moves with the fresh batch of guests across the ballroom and to the round tables placed around what looks like to be a stage. He scans the empty seats and finds one that is both secluded and has a good view of the rest of the room. Just as he settles in, a masked man walks out into the stage, prompting a round of vigorous applause.“Dear ladies and gentlemen,” he begins grandly once the crowd quiets, “Welcome to yet another gala organized by your faithful friend and servant, Jester. He asked me to pass along his gratitude to everyone for accepting his invitation, and wishes for you to fully enjoy all the pleasures his humble abode has to offer. Eat, drink, make merry until sunrise, and remember: everything that happens in Las Nevadas–”“Stays in Las Nevadas!” the crowd proclaims in a cheerful chorus.Though Dream could not see the man’s face, he knows he must be smiling. He whisks up a glass of champagne, shining gold liquid sloshing over the edges from the speed of the motion.“For Jester!” he yells at the top of his lungs, and cheers boom around Dream like fireworks. Waiters in black and gold appear out of nowhere with a new round of drinks: shining, sparkling, sloshing over the edges. Clinks of glasses pitch high notes into the quiet hum of music, the drone of conversations and the roll of soft, rumbling laughter. Mellowness festers in the air akin to saccharine wine fumes that stupefy one’s mind and lull their vigilance.Dream knows better than most that appearances tend to be misleading. Fragrant flowers can hide the smell of rot. Dazzling luxury leads the eye away from discomforting truths, like of servants flitting in the crowd with silver trays and uncorked liquor bottles being attentive to more than the guests’ wishes.Somewhere in the window, there is a ghastly flash of an archer with a loaded crossbow. Dream has a vague hunch that there is more stationed around the ballroom in places he would not suspect. Idleness is an illusion created to hide the simple fact: all of them are exactly where they’re wanted to be, like puppets placed around a stage.Where are you, Dream wonders, a spider in his own right, winding an invisible thread around his finger while others are tugged about by them blindly, the mastermind of it all?The noise of the crowd has picked up a notch. In one breath, the violins switch from a song almost soporific to spirited and lively. People stand from tables and whisk away their neighbors to dance. Two tables away a group of tipsy gamblers stack poker chips, and a servant dutifully joins them to act as the dealer.The speaker on the stage has given way to a heated auction. The host gestures vigorously at the pink diamond necklace behind a glass display case, describing its beauty in overarching detail. Then the bidding commences. The starting price doubles three times over until it finally goes to a pleased-looking gentleman in the first row.Dream listens only half-heartedly as more jewelry passes onto new owners from under the hammer, at least until something more interesting is brought to bid than some pretty stones.“Phoenix feathers,” the auctioneer announces as a keen murmur rolls through the masses. Dream tips forward in his seat. “Ointment made out of them can slow down aging, preserve youth and heal any scars. Because the phoenix bird cannot be captured nor contained, the feathers are extremely hard to come by…”And just as extremely illicit, Dream thinks as bidders try to outshout one another, until eventually, the lot sells at a hefty price equal to that of a cottage on one of the prestige capital streets. One after another, a necklace made out of siren teeth, an almost full unicorn skeleton, and an armor made out of dragon scales are rolled out onto the stage.Dream looks away at that, shivering like a cold knife has grazed his back, when his eyes fall on a boy at faraway table. He can’t place what makes him stand out, maybe his slender, lissome build, maybe simply how badly his jacket fits him, the hems drooping like a swallowtail – he only knows that something is familiar about him, in the way that a brick wall covered in ivy becomes familiar after walking past it almost every day, or the mechanical motion of a fan swishing up and down. The boy passes in the hands of a dark-haired man, and in return receives a parcel wrapped in a thick piece of cloth.The man, satisfied with the deal, puts the coin away. That’s when they notice that they are being watched. The boy whirls around, fixes his jacket and strides off to the closest exit, while the man makes his way towards Dream at a lazy, assured pace.“Good evening,” he tips his head. Under a mask with a large spade insignia, shrewd dark eyes evaluating Dream like a merchant might evaluate a particularly tempting but risky bargain. “Can I help you?”“What did you sell to that young man?” Dream asks.“Oh, one thing of extreme rarity, even by local standards – but I'm afraid I was only a middleman in this purchase, and I could not get my hands on another, should the interest arise... Not my expertise, so to speak.”“What's yours, then?”“Knowledge,” the man says with a smiling levity to his voice. “Rumors, privy conversations, secrets that nobles sweep under the rug. My job is to collect and distribute to paying customers. Sometimes I’m hired to follow people or to track down missing family members.”“So, you spy on unfaithful spouses and track down wayward offspring.”“If that is what my client desires, yes.”He speaks confidently but not with excess pride, with such impassion that it becomes clear that spying and investigating is indeed a job for him, means of earning money like any other. Kind of like George, without the ambitions and unsolicited remarks.Dream watches him silently for a long moment, then reaches under his jacket to bring out a golden earring shaped to look like grapevine. He lays it on the table between them, knowing that neither the fine craftsmanship nor the quality of gemstones would be overlooked.“Prove it,” he says.“What?”“Prove that your knowledge is worth the purchase. I want to know that your sources are reliable before I can guarantee any compensation.”“Very well,” the man says. “Then I shall tell you of an incident that happened at the Imperial palace recently. The guards are keeping as quiet as the dead, but the walls can hear, and they say that Prince Technoblade went rampant and attacked the foreign prince, maimed his friend, and would have strangled him to death if Prince Theseus hadn’t interfered–”“Enough,” Dream whistles out through tightly clenched teeth, suddenly much more appreciative of the mask on his face. He gestures for the man to take a seat. “Tell me about Emperor Philza.”The name comes out of his mouth involuntarily, like the thought that has been long ripening at the back of his mind, and bursts.If the man is surprised by his request, he shows no sign of it.“What do you want to know?”“Younger years of his life. Everything that was before his reign, and in the early period of it,” Dream says after giving it a quick afterthought. George has done his fair share of general probing long before they arrived in the Empire, but for all this ability to dig up the past, every attempt at investigating the period before Emperor Philza’s marriage to Empress Kristin has come up empty-handed. There was just an appalling gap in the history of the last thirty years that nobody could explain. There is a pause, and the man draws out, “You have chosen perhaps one of the only two time periods I can tell you little of. Some rumors here, some gossip there, nothing that is guaranteed to have any use.”Dream shakes off the temptation to ask, what’s the other one, and pushes the earring across the table. “Everything,” he repeats. “It is up to me to decide what I can use and what I cannot."“As you wish,” the man says, shrugging and pocketing the earring. “Philza was the first child of the late Emperor, and the only one who survived infancy. Four of his younger siblings have passed away in the crib. After the sixth, stillborn child, the wife of the late Emperor returned to her homeland in the far west of the Empire, not so far from the Badlands' borders, where she remained until a year or two ago when she passed from an ailment of the heart.”“I was not aware that the Emperor had any other family left, besides his children,” Dream says. “Most aren’t. Empress Dowager had not interacted with a single member of the Imperial family for almost thirty years. Emperor Philza was raised primarily by his father, the late Emperor, and later by his paternal grandmother when at the age of eight he and part of the court were moved to Crow’s Keep, dwelling of the Old Kings, after a supposed attempt on his life. He remained there until he turned sixteen together with his adoptive sister, Princess Clara, six years his senior.”That is something that Dream already knew through George, and at least explained why there was so little information on the Emperor’s early years – Snowchester, where Crow’s Keep was located, is an isolated place, and the gloomy keep itself is said to be haunted by the spirits of old monarchs from before the Empire’s conquering era. This is where Theseus is heading, Dream thinks through a pang in his chest. “Philza was crowned an Emperor at sixteen, if I am not mistaken.”“That is where the conflicting information starts. Some say that Philza was summoned from Snowchester after the late Emperor’s unexpected passing, others that the late Emperor died on the day of his son’s arrival.”“How convenient,” Dream huffs. “I assume people rumored that Philza had slain his own father to hasten his ascension to the throne.”“Naturally. Accusations only exacerbated after the late Emperor’s chosen bride for Philza died the day before the wedding.” “Philza was betrothed?” Dream’s eyebrows shoot upward.“Oh yes, to Princess Isey.” The man tilts his head down. “The poor thing fell down from a staircase and broke her neck. Unexpected frailty from a lady of the far north, as young as eighteen, and not known to be sickly or clumsy.”The fact that Philza was accused of his father's murder doesn't surprise Dream at all. Unless a dear ruler has been at his deathbed for months and months, the public will always find a way to spin the story as that of their heir's power l@st. They are right, sometimes. If Philza had a hand in the late Emperor's death, he would get away with it easily. The nobles wouldn't have a chance but accept the usurper unless they wanted to initiate a long and bl@@dy battle for the throne. At the time, Philza was the last of his dynasty.The mysterious death of a princess, however…Dream imagines what Princess Isey might have looked like – young, fair-skinned and thin-lipped in a way that people of the Antarctic tend to be the further up the map one travels, with the same ice in her gaze as Theseus', or with the sly squint of Drista's – and asks himself, how often does it happen that a young, healthy person fatally falls down some steps. “What else?” he asks, leaning forward. The man looks at him, and says, “Nothing.”“Nothing?”“Shortly following Philza’s ascension to the throne, the entirety of the palace staff was switched. Every man and woman at the key position, the maids, even the cooks – anyone who could recall the slightest specks of information of that time are–” he pauses, as if looking for the right word, “–unreachable. New hires were frequently replaced, so the workforce was not fully established until two years later. By then Emperor Philza started and won a war, wiped three ancient noble houses off the face of earth for scheming behind his back, and introduced his darling wife to the court.”“That can't be all of it,” Dream exclaims, nails digging into the table through the gloves. “Thousands of people are involved in directly and indirectly servicing the palace. Someone had to know something.”“If there is one thing Emperor Philza cannot be accused of, it is of not being throughout. However…” His tone, which remained impassive throughout the conversation, takes on a hesitant hue; he glances discreetly over his shoulder, as if half-expecting someone to be listening in. No one was. He still lowers his voice into a half-whisper, “There was a woman. A cook, working in the kitchens. A few months before the termination of the palace workers, she had to abandon her position to tend to her sick mother. As she was leaving, she spotted the Emperor talking to a man outside the palace walls. She said that the stranger spoke in southern manners, and bore a dragon sigil on his sleeve. Philza called him Your Royal Highness.” There was only one male member of the Royal family of Esempi who could be addressed with those honorifics at that time. Dream heard himself ask, as his thoughts spiraled, “When did it happen in relation to the usurpation of the throne in Esempi?”“Six or seven weeks prior to Prince Schlatt crowning himself a King.”Dream does not ask any more questions. Cannot, crushed by the weight of the realizations pummeling him one after another like stones in a landslide. A shiver racks him, sudden and violent, akin to the strike of a whip. Dream doesn’t get the chance to turn around before there’s a hand on his shoulder, and a blank mask leaning into the edge of his vision. “Jester invites you into a private lounge. I was instructed to bring you to him,” says another oddly familiar stranger. Dream has heard that voice before, but where?“You should go,” the man across from him says, not nearly as startled with the messenger’s appearance. “It won’t do to keep Jester waiting.” Clearly, he had nothing else to share. Dream gets the impression he regrets revealing the last bit of information. Or not. It’s really hard to tell, with his reserved manners and the mask. Dream wonders in passing if this is what people interacting with him feel.Dream goes to stand, inclining his head gratefully, when the man catches him by the wrist. “I do not know who you are,” he says in a lowered voice, “and what your grudges might be with the Emperor, but it is a dangerous road to walk on. Entire noble houses as old as the Empire itself were wiped off the face of the earth for scheming against him. There is a reason why Philza, the last of his dynasty, was able to hold onto power for over thirty years.”Here it is again. That caution, looks thrown over one’s shoulder, hushed tones. Like the mere mention of the two missing years could strike the man dead where he stood, or send an executioner for his soul. It made Philza sound like some arcane entity rather than a bitter old man who could not walk without a stick in a slight drizzle and seemingly lived off of demeaning his youngest son and heir– and considering what he has just learned, maybe it is not so far off from the truth. Dream, released as suddenly as he was grabbed, stands up straight and says chilly, “I’ll keep that in mind.” “This way,” says the messenger cheerfully, gesturing at a door leading out of the ballroom. Dream lets him guide him through arch-shaped hallways and several sets of stairs, unable to take more than a scarce note of his surroundings with his thoughts spinning like a whirlpool.Philza knew Schlatt. They met up in secret not so long before his infamous uncle murdered his own sister and took over her throne. Growing up, the only thing Dream knew of the Empire’s sovereign is that he took advantage of Esempi’s suffering to annex a large chunk of their homeland and abduct their citizens. At times his mother spoke of it with such heat and vigor that her eyes would grow blind with rage.As it happens with impressionable children and the parents they deeply adore, her words were planted in him like seeds in fertile soil, growing with the speed of duckweed in still waters. Even as Imperial soldiers stood bloodied and weary among the rebels as his mother’s flag rose in fire and smoke over the newly liberated capital of the Esempi, that hatred had grown too visceral to uproot.Two years later, on the  voyage home back from the Antarctic Empire, her ship went up in flames.The true culprit was found eventually, but by then Dream’s hatred had grown too visceral to uproot. The need for retribution swelled in him for more than a decade, as clouds swell in the sea before unleashing upon the world with the sorrow of a myriad pummeling knife points, black waters rising like abyssal roaring beasts, and flashes of lightning so frequent and so radiant across the nebulous torrent it seems as though the heavens are bleeding starlight.Facing the Emperor in flesh was akin to marching into a pyre. Wherever he looked, there was red. Each breath charred his lungs, sizzling coals piling all the way up to his throat, just a little shy of choking. By some miracle alone he willed his tongue to shape the words of greeting, and kept his composure every other time he had to negotiate trade and agreements as his brother’s proxy. The plan, George’s voice would hiss each time he felt like imploding, so he strapped his mask on tighter and clenched his fists tighter to dispel the sparks racing down his fingers. As time went on, it wasn't George but Theseus who began calling for his patience.Both faces are now lost to the wildfire that are Dream’s thoughts, singed and crumbling in the flames. Old feelings rise in him, memories touched up with new colors, brighter, more intense than ever. If what that man told him was true, then it changes everything Dream has ever known. His mother’s exile, the entirety of his childhood spent running from place to place in fear of being discovered and slaughtered like Princess Hannah was, the millions killed in Schlatt’s crumbling attempts to hang onto the crown, all the sacrifices Esempi’s people made to put the rightful queen on the throne, decades they were set back recovering from the devastations of war – all of it could have been Philza’s fault. The servant stops in front of a set of inconspicuous wooden doors. Dream would not heed them any mind if he was walking past them by himself, but the servant tugs the handle and opens one side, inviting him into the room – which is not a room at all, he discovers after stepping inside, but a small dark loft, with some plants for decoration and two chairs on the far side, one of them occupied. Quackity doesn't give off the impression of anyone remarkable. His hair is as dark as the coal extracted out of the Empire's deepest mines, framing a face balancing just on that tottering border where youthful shapes begin to harden around memories of old smiles and frowns. Dream would skim over him in a crowded ballroom and not spare him another glance, but here, in the low lighting, with the memories freshly stirred, he has an air about him that reminds  Dream of his uncle moments before his mother's ax had come down for his neck. “Baron Quackity,” Dream greets. “Prince Dream.” Quackity, reclining in the cushions of the chair, gestures amicably for Dream to take a seat. “Though here, we prefer to avoid the use of names and titles.”“Formalities, too, by the looks of it,” Dream remarks dryly, but he takes the seat while the servant comes forth with a tray. He puts it down on a low table between the chairs, uncorks a wine bottle, and pours it into two silver goblets.Quackity picks one and takes a slow sip, savoring the taste. Dream doubts he would have gone through all the trouble of inviting him here just to poison him, so he lifts the other one and swirls it around. Sweet heavy scent of wine hits his nose. He thinks of Theseus' eyes, bloodshot and glassy, and slowly puts the goblet down. “What is this place?” Dream asks, nodding at the ballroom. A good view opens up here of corner and nook, and of the same symbols repeating on the masks over and over, flashing in different patterns as the guests shuffle from place to place, move about in slow dances or remain in their seats. More than anything it resembles a complicated game of cards.The corners of Quackity's mouth jump upwards. He seems most pleased by the question, like a proud parent just waiting on an opportunity to boast about their beloved offspring.“You must know yourself that the life of a noble is a perilous territory,” he begins, twirling the goblet in his hand. “There are so many rules to follow, and unexpected variables to navigate. Surely it would have been much easier if there was a place to meet away from prying eyes, somewhere to conduct the businesses that toll collectors don’t need to know of, gather and sell useful information, rumors, and hire people for a… sensitive line of work.”“Spies?” Dream asks, remembering the man he talked to earlier.“More than just that.” Spies and hired killers, Dream thinks. “In Las Nevadas, one can find anything and anyone, unafraid of public disclosure and damage to their reputation.”“A network of everything illegal and of questionable morality concentrated in a single place, under the control of a single man," Dream concludes, curt as opposed to Quackity's overt descriptions. But he does not dismiss the baron's words, not at all – every word is picked apart for implications and carefully stored away for the future. He's sure that this is only the top of the iceberg. It would be a foolish thing for Quackity to reveal all his aces, and seizing the entirety of the aristocratic underground could not be a foolish man's doing“Impressive,” Dream admits. "I am curious as to how you were able to hide such a massive scheme brewing right underneath the crown’s nose.”If possible, Quackity’s grin grows wider. “Your mistake, Your Royal Highness, is assuming that I have to hide.”Dream muses on it for a second, and then a single thought crosses his mind that has him thunderstruck for three more. Quackity takes a healthy swallow of his wine, clearly savoring the moment realization strikes him for real and he gingerly touches the mask on his face.“King of Hearts,” Dream says, unsure if he should be horrified or bemused.“I assign aliases to others as I please, but this was Prince Theseus’ own choice. He found it ironic.” Quackity pauses. “He has a rather grim sense of humor, sometimes.”“So, Theseus knows all of this?”“I have not spent three years in the crown prince’s closest circle just teaching him how to hold a dessert spoon, Your Royal Highness," Quackity says, bemused but certainly not displeased by his reaction. "In truth, the credit goes to Prince Theseus just as much as it does to me. None of this would be possible if he hadn't been erasing all evidence of my activities before the papers make it to the Emperor’s table.”Quackity goes to refill his goblet, and Dream tracks the motion with his eyes. “I assume that Theseus receives a certain share from the profits.”“It is one of the sweet perks, though not the main course.” Quackity pauses to drink, and then he sighs, and his face takes on a distant, almost fond look. “When I had first met Prince Theseus, he was all but a child, unsure of how to navigate a world that held no sentiments for his age. But he was smart, and he knew what he needed was utter control of everything that happens behind the curtains. “People will always find a way around the laws, so we thought, why not permit them to do it, but on our terms and obeying the rules that we dictate.”Dream arches a brow. “For example?”Quackity puts the goblet down abruptly, thinks of something for a moment, and makes a brusque gesture. “Charlie, come here.”The servant, who has retreated to stand next to the wall after serving them wine, steps forward again and wordlessly offers his hand to Quackity.Quackity picks up the corkscrew from the table – a sharp thing of wrought iron. Dream eyes him warily, the necks on the back of his neck lifting. “What are you–”The tip of the corkscrew sinks into Charlie’s palm. Charlie doesn't even flinch, but Dream clenches the armrests with so much force that the wood crackles. “The blood of fae,” Quackity says, “dwindled in your people after a millennium of copulating with humans. Having met a member of the original species, I learned many fascinating things that are hardly documented anywhere else. They are able to fade in with their surroundings, and to affect it to an extent, are intolerant to pure iron, but the most curious of them all: their blood is poisonous to all living things.”Warm light surfaces between ragged seams of flesh torn apart by the corkscrew. Quackity sweeps up the goblet from the table – Dream’s, never touched in the end – and deftly holds it up beneath the wound. Liquefied gold trickles drop by drop into the quivering surface. The wine turns a shade lighter and then fades back into deep burgundy. “But you knew all of this already,” Quackity continues, his dark searching eyes plunging into Dream. “I wonder, which of the Esempi royals bleed gold? Definitely not you, or your confrontation with Prince Technoblade wouldn’t have looked half as gruesome. Maybe your older brother? Your younger sister?”Behind the mask, Dream stiffens. He doesn't answer but perhaps his silence is an answer of his own. He rises from his seat, every movement slow and deliberate; it feels like he'll lose his resolve and lunge at Quackity if there'd be as much as a disconcerting twitch. But Quackity hands him the goblet without as much as a word of protest and watches him tip it over some ferns in a pot.  In front of their eyes, the soil begins to turn black; the decay races up the long green stems and through every leaf until the whole plant is dry and dead. Stench of rot and chamomile layers a thick foul taste at the back of Dream's tongue. “How many times have you used fae blood as poison?” he asks quietly. “Never,” Quackity says, and it sounds surprisingly fervent. "Prince Theseus charged me with making sure that none of it ever surfaces in the Empire, and if it does, that it is terminated immediately.”“I don't believe you,” Dream tells Quackity bluntly, swiveling around to face him again. Waves of distress and disgust in him collide with one another and the rubble of it shoots outwards into a hard, full-body quiver. He's shaking like a reawakened volcano on his home island, just as dangerous and destructive.Before his rage could rain on Quackity in columns of fire and ash and debris, Charlie, maskless, stands in his way. Charlie, whose wound is stitching itself together before his eyes, Charlie, whose skin glows gold and eyes hold green fire brighter than King Schlatt's entire fleet burning on sunset waves, Charlie, who is almost as powerful and ancient as Callahan – the fae who's served the royal family for nothing short of two millennia. Charlie, who Dream realizes with a start, knows what he truly is. “You,” he says in disbelief. “You’re the one I saw in the archives.”“I needed to capture your interest,” Quackity b@tts it from his seat. He's tossed one leg over the over and seems remarkably unphased for a person caught in the standdown of two creatures who could easily raze him to dust if they were to go for each other's throats.Dream clenches and unclenches his hands to work out the burning heat out of his muscles. He braces his back against the wall and tilts his head down. Gradually the glow on Charlie seems to lessen, as does the tension in the air braced for the visceral roll of thunder. At no point Charlie looked like he truly meant to threaten Dream, but some primal part of him is eased all the same. “There is no end to your ambition and greed, is there?” Dream asks, peering at Quackity from under half-closed eyelids. “Being a measly backcountry baron, you managed to worm your way into the court, then into the crown prince's close circle, created all of this–” He gestures around himself, “– and decided to tie yourself to the Imperial family yet again by claiming Ranboo as your half-brother, whom in reality you staged a robbery accident for in order to inherit your father's titles and riches. Somehow, you also recruited one of the few remaining full-blooded fae to do your bidding, and now you want something from me.”Quackity doesn't reply, but he isn't smiling anymore. It's hard to tell what he is thinking behind his dark narrowed eyes. Dream pushes from the wall and strides to the balustrade,  simultaneously making two unwise decisions – turning his back on the very protective fae, and antagonizing the one who he is protective of – but Dream was never known to make good decisions in anger, or to hold his opinions when it concerns something he feels strongly about. “You surround yourself with all this luxury and flaunt your wealth by throwing extravagant parties – is it not to prove to all those people, who look down upon you because of your illegitimate roots, that you are no worse than them? It's pitiful to see, really, how hard you grovel for their validation and approval.”Of all reactions Dream expects from Quackity, this is not one of them: he starts laughing. “Riches–” he says in-between the shudders of his shoulders. He laughs so hard that tears spring in his eyes, and wipes them away as he presses his lips tight together so as not to let another chortle slip. “Riches,” he repeats, like it's the most hilarious thing he has ever heard. “The only thing I inherited from that foul man are gambling debts so great they outweighed all his land and assets.”Quackity rises from the chair, and stands next to Dream, leaning on the balustrade as he gazes upon the crowd below, which cheers as they notice him. “They disgust me,” Quackity says with a smile on his face. “All this worthless scum throwing themselves at everything glittering like a flock of mindless magpies. If you must accuse me of a fatal flaw, stop at ambitiousness, and I'll do the same. After all, it is you how has been preparing to wage war against the Antarctic Empire.”Dream stiffens. “What do you know?”“I know that your spies have been permeating the south of the Empire in large enough numbers that it aroused suspicion in Prince Wilbur's lady wife, and I know of your heightened interest in Emperor Philza's past, as well as that most of Duke's George research into the matter had stumbled upon a dead end. That is enough for our interests to align. So, I suggest this: a temporary alliance. Just until we can open the Emperor's vault, after which each of us can use the information hidden inside as we see fit.”There is a long, tantalizing moment where Dream considers agreeing. This is what he has been looking for all this time: an upper hand over Philza, blackmail in case he ever has to rip Theseus out of his clutches, or the power to destroy him completely and irreversibly in the eyes of his own subjects so that they would unanimously choose the son over the father. And now that there is a possibility that Philza could be related to the biggest tragedy the Esempi has seen in a hundred years, it could also be an outlet for Dream's anger on behalf of the victims of the war, justified at last. What else would the Emperor hide in an impenetrable vault, if not the evidence of his past crimes?But that would be Dream's choice. Not Theseus'. “I am afraid that your insight on my interests are outdated. I suggest that you refrain from meddling in my affairs from now on.”Quackity's invitation was Dream's last thread of hope of fixing his mistakes, but now he begins wondering if there was a thread at all, or if he's a drowning man deluding himself into seeing rescue.He turns around and is half-way to the exit when Quackity murmurs, "He is good." Suddenly, Dream's feet are bolted to the floor; he stops to listen, half-turned towards Quackity. “I once thought that to be an ill-fitting quality for an emperor, but there's a reason why men like you and me should never become kings.”Dream has seen the Baron before, but here, in the highlights of ballroom light, he's noting details that he would have easily missed otherwise, like an array of thin risen welts bridged across his fingers, thrumming away some rhythm on the rail. But Quackity isn't a swordsman, and neither is he a musician, and the scars themselves look much like from being repeatedly struck by some long hard stick. A metal ruler maybe, or a riding crop. Quackity grin like a man who can turn any tragedy to humor; quietly, to himself, Dream wonders how much practice did it take to perfect that particular skill.“I acted before according to what I thought that Theseus wanted, and it turned out poorly,” he pauses for long enough to say. "I do not wish to make the same mistake twice.”“You don’t want to make decisions on Theseus' behalf, so don’t,” Quackity says. “But if it ever comes down to him against the emperor, he’ll need all the assets he can possibly acquire.”For almost an entire minute Dream doesn't move at all. It is not the type of immobility that comes from being at rest, but rather that be is pulled in both directions with equal forces. Laughably, for the same exact reason, too– interfere further and risk upsetting Theseus' more, or do nothing and watch the catastrophe unfold in hopes there will be something left to save by the end.It is not really a choice at all. Even if Theseus will hate him for it, if there is the smallest chance that Dream can help, he'll take it. “Suppose I agree,” he says, slowly turning around. “But the vault is sealed. I’ve gone back there twice, and didn't find a single entrance except the one that requires the key in the Emperor’s ring, which he never leaves or takes off. Neither me nor Charlie can get close enough to steal it without alarming him.”The curtains on Dream's left ripple, and a figure steps out of hiding with fists clenched and lips pressed tight in determination. “But I can,” Ranboo says.
  
  

    
      
        
        
          The promised br!Dream POV chapter! Unexpected alliances, tiny sprinkles of Phil's backstory, fae lore, Dream's true intentions... What do you guys think? Are your theories coming true this far? :DInteresting fact! There is a oneshot in the same series as Butterfly Reign centered around Sally, where you can also find young Quackity and learn a bit more about him and Charlie. Here's the link for the lazy people Press'
User: Summarize the chapter based on the content provided, ensuring to follow the set format and emphasize key aspects within the specified length.
User: Summarize the chapter based on the content provided, ensuring to follow the set format and emphasize key aspects within the specified length.
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