Two years.

Two years passed since he first trekked down into the sunless Rift, into the abode of monsters and demons more imaginative than the most haunted painter. Two years he spent in the twisting landscape, familiarizing himself with throwaway features that would twist over themselves and spool into rock in a day's time. Two years among creatures too warped to speak, who meandered the mangled plains while they waited for their next chance to siege the city far above. Two years spent ransacking caches old and new just to tide himself over to the next one.

Yuuri said it was two years. He never doubted his friend, but each successive confirmation chipped away at the shock. Cybele's corruption, Sylvite's promotion, and the subtle hardening of his friend's features each confirmed it. Two years, and with what had he returned?

The flamewrick General knew he was no stronger. More skilled with the creatures they call ally, but little else had changed but for some muscle definition. He returned with no extra trinkets, magical or otherwise. No new intel. No new strategies. No extra youma partner.

But he felt better, for whatever that was worth. He understood youma better than before. He understood himself better than before, especially the flamewrought catastrophe always trying to crawl out of his insides and scathe. He came back with a dissolving relationship with his youma. He had put distance between himself and Schörl, and the rest of the team. He came back with his losses dulled — he could think about his family and swallow the knot in his throat.

It wasn't much to show for all that time, he knew.

It worried him — seeing Yuuri's face, seeing how gaunt he looked. How the years hollowed his eyes and stole the fat from his skin. Being stuck at the forefront of a permanent war cost the boy a lot, and though he still looked young now, Faustite wondered how many more years Yuuri could take before his hair went white from stress and his skin creased under the weight of his winces. Yuuri wouldn't be the only one, either; Sylvite's youthful whimsy would wear away eventually. Enough time passes and allies become enemies, enemies become allies. It felt, for a moment, like Cosmos and even Metallia were pawns in this persevering ploy.

Dwelling on it was pointless — Schörl taught him as much. There was yet more to do in the here and now: acquiring metal furniture with a high melting point, figuring out the bed situation (though he supposed that required a fire blanket), what belongings he would have and where he would keep them, and how he could enrich his spartan lifestyle in the bowels of the Barracks. He needed to soothe the permanent ache in his firelight gut. He needed to gather intel about missions. He had to plan a new routine.

Two years had passed, and Faustite needed to get back to work.