“Wake up! Wake up!” An all-too-familiar voice screeched into Shizuka’s ear. “It’s your big day!”

“I hate you,” he mumbled into the blankets, trying to retreat under his pillow. “Go away, Mika.”

“No sleeping in today,” his sister sang as she mercilessly yanked off his covers. “You can’t be late for the ceremony.”

He groaned, knowing resistance was futile but not wanting to haul himself out of bed yet.

Mika stole his pillow and started beating him with it, cackling as he curled into a defensive ball. She’d never stopped being gleeful to have somebody younger to pick on, even after her six-year advantage shrank when he hit his growth spurt.

“All right, all right, I’ll get up,” Shizuka sighed, finally opening his eyes.

He strides forward, propelled entirely by determination. It feels like his staff weighs triple its usual weight. The chaos of corpses and soldiers hinders his movements, the stink of the newly dead thick in the air, carrion birds already gathering. There is a thrum pulsing through the scattered groups of people, relief that it’s finally over even creeping into the wails of the dying and the groans of the injured.

There, a leather-clad figure, yellow-white hair a beacon among his dark-haired companions, armour brown-bathed-red-turning-brown. Shem hikes up his robes and starts running, staff forgotten on the ground.