Chapter 60


Arcos is a shit-show, and I am smack dab right in the middle of it. If you could have picked the seediest cess pool of corruption outside of the capital, this is it. The problem is, Count Thibault is such a calculating man that no one could have realized it.

I give him credit. He has covered all his integral weaknesses with crafted stories and flawless handiwork. Threading in Plegian allies with refugees and hiring "mercenary bands" from their military is ingenious. No one would dare question the origins of the poor refugees flooding the gates in the name of sanctuary from the risen. As for volunteering to host the nobles' upcoming summit? It's not unknown for hosts to bolster their ranks with hired hands to enhance security. It doesn't help that he has friends in the capital covering for him, based off what the twins said. I've got the odds stacked against me on this one.

That hasn't stopped me from doing my job. If anything, I've grown to relish the challenge. Thibault couldn't have a worse enemy than me. I know the systems of Ylisse like the back of my hand. If anyone can find an exploit in his plans, it's the biggest time anomaly this side of the impending apocalypse.

Over the last week I have been doing all I can to understand more about the enemy here in Arcos. I've had correspondence with our contact inside the castle. Xian'li has been serving Count Thibault since he first arrived here twenty years ago. Bought from slavers, he was freed and rose the ranks to the Count's right hand. According to Vic, Xian'li was utterly loyal to the man well until recently. When Plegia moved in and the Count chose sides, Xian'li was found to be torn between his Count and the safety of his family. With Vaike in the army and the rest suffering under whatever a Plegian controlled future could bring, Xian'li chose them.

Today I was promised a copy of all the scheduling involved in the party coming up. Guard routes, dinner times, servant tasks...this and castle schematics to boot. The catch? I would have to be the one to retrieve them. Xian'li is not capable of getting these smuggled out. As the Count's favorite, Xian'li has no friends in the castle to help him. Caught between the Count's paranoia and the staff's desires to take his place, every move he makes is watched. I'm alone in retrieving his plans. Daunting? Maybe. Impossible? Not with a shadow hopping Risen at hand.

Getting the General to recover the documents will not be as much of a worry as it is getting in. I've studied castle defense enough to know that weaknesses are usually covered by magic perimeters. I left early at daybreak prepared for the long process of feeling out a weakness in those perimeters, thanks to ingenious teachings from Miriel and Ricken. By noon, I found my first proper exploit! Just...not how I would have liked to.

The weight of my shifting body threatens to displace me off the shoulders of my Risen ally. Below, the swirling oils of kitchen waste mix with the human refuse that empties from the count's abode. Carved into the base of his castle, the slow winding channel uses a crude aqueduct system to filter garbage for the keep's residents. The murky waters reach the waist of the General. Its sour-sweet smell is just enough to unsettle my stomach forcing me to breathe shallow breaths through my mouth.

My bones creak in protest beneath weary muscles that struggle to maintain their place above my head. My arms work through another round of dismantling the complicated web of magic protecting the castle. The process of undoing another's magic is a long, arduous process requiring painful accuracy. If the magics cross too close and touch, or collapse outright, the alarm sets off. The whole activity could be infinitely easier if the environment weren't so offensive to my senses.

My frustrations leak out between the teeth of my clenched jaw. "I hate that this is the only weak spot we've found in this castle so far."

The General's grasp on my legs tightens causing its harder points to push painfully through my clothing. I wince in discomfort and bite down hard on my tongue, diverting attention from the pain back to my work. Water sloshes about his armor as he settles into a new position of comfort. I'm not sure what senses he still has, but the remaining ones leave him in an equal state of discomfort. "It's understandable. No man in his right mind would attempt infiltration through the waste tunnels."

"Well, I'm no man." I glance down at him and break into a pathetic grin. "Just a really stupid woman."

He doesn't laugh at my joke, but I do feel something. A wiggle of emotion that could be amusement if the General wasn't already so dead inside, literally and metaphorically. Even my focus can't ignore the fourth time he readjusts himself beneath me. I frown, unable to do anything but offer empty supportive words for his discomfort. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"No," comes his answer, as thick and hard as a boulder.

I wince. "I guess even Risen have standards. Sorry about this."

"Stay your apologies and focus on the task." I can hear the suction of that rancid muck beneath the waters pull away from his boot while he shifts again. A fragile lacing of desperation clings to his gruff demand. "Please. Something slithered by my feet."

I nearly lose focus, my fingers tangling too close to the magic for comfort. I take a deep breath, voice shaking in both fear and disgust. "For the love of whatever deity you prefer, do not drop me."

"Perhaps, work faster?"

Instead of arguing the finer points, I swallow my tongue and resume deconstruction of the perimeter ward. The concentration is mind-numbing.

"I just have to rework this spell to recognize you." Sweat rolls in beads down my forehead, and my fingers shake dangerously from fatigue. Only until the last thread is undone do I dare to breathe out more than a whisper of air. Letting my relief flood free is more liberating than the actual feeling of accomplishing success.

I close my eyes and feel out the results. The perimeter ward is much like a netting of interwoven ley lines. By carefully undoing the original caster's work, I can simultaneously weave in my own to keep the spell from falling and activating. The "opening" I've made is a doorway large enough to let a single individual through at a time. Feeling a swell of pride, I can't help but crow over my handiwork. "Finished! See, that wasn't so -"

There is a gurgle from the depths of the keep. It grows louder, bringing with it the burgeoning stench of overripe fruit. The disposal chute before us vomits up a fresh helping of ingredients to add to the ill-smelling stew below us. It empties to our feet with an impressive splash, some of the outward spray splattering over the chest plate of the Risen beneath me. His dim eyes blink at the soiled apple peels that adorns his armor's center, and he watches it slide in an agonizingly slow descent until it falls from his armor with a slimy plop.

I wiggle off a crust of sopping bread that managed to land on the tip of my boot. I chuckle, lost in utter awe over the situation. "On the bright side, that was the midday disposal. There won't be anymore waste deposits until the evening dinner."

"This brings me no comfort," the General grumbles, swiping away the goo left behind.

"You don't have to do this," I remind him, probably for the fifth or sixth time. That's something I feel I always must reiterate with him. Working with me, the General has choices. I'm no overlord like Grima. I want him to feel like this is a mutual partnership.

He doesn't respond, just shaking his helmet back and forth. The General starts his motions back toward shore one heavy step at a time, the sudden jostle forcing me to grab tight to his shoulders. He wades through the water and onto the bank where he kneels. I slide down his back and feel nothing but relief for dry ground. I start to unfold the edges of my coat I had tucked into the hem of my pants, pausing briefly to point at the garbage shoot before us. "This will bring you up to the servant's quarters, if my general architectural knowledge serves. Washing rooms and kitchens. You should be able to spook about and get through to the head steward's chambers nearby. Xian'li said he left the schedules to all the servants there, including routines for the summit."

"Fair enough."

I brush out the wrinkles and fluff out the last of my clothes before standing up straight. "Getting the guard rotations will be trickier. Only attempt it if you can manage the time to copy down the relevant facts." I eyeball the heavy gauntlets on his wrists. "If you can even write with those."

"I can remove them, if I please." He sighs in exasperation. "Anything else?"

I bat my eyelashes and grin sweetly at him. "Steal me a slice of pie from the kitchen?"

And that does it. Pushed to his limit, the General's moan of defeat echoes through my head. He turns swiftly and trudges through the muck. I rush up to the edge of the bank and wave at him, "Oh, come on! It's only a joke!"

I feel guilty. Just a little. Grinning to myself, I turn back and stumble up the rocky embankment to the bustling world above. Checking that the coast is clear, I climb back out of the alley and slip into the throngs of people walking up and down the city's streets. There's a skip in my step as I head for the crowded market of the noble's district.

This upcoming summit is going to be a doozy. Just the thought of it makes me ill. Mark my words, something bad is going to go down. It's been so long since I sent my message out to the Shepherds. I had hoped that one of Henry's crows would return with a message for me. I could have warned them not to come for me but I haven't heard a thing. And there's no way I could have missed any of their arrival. The appearance of the Shepherds would have been on the mouths of everyone in the city.

I have no idea how to feel having not heard nor seen a sign from them. A part of me falls to doubt and fear, dwelling on the darker what-ifs. A dangerous state of mind to be in when I need to be as alert as ever. It's been hard to quell, but I can't let such things wear me down when so much is riding on my shoulders. On that note, I do have another task at hand. This one is an appointment I can't miss. A unique type of information gathering, but still pertinent for the future.

Strolling into the market reminds me much of Ylisstol's. It's a focal point of the community. Colorful vendors hawk their wares along an open, park-like space. Hardy trees provide shade to the few flowering mountain plants they've managed to line the walkways with. While not as rich in product diversity, there's still a tinge of exotic spice mingling with the rich scent of timber that rises from the lumberyards.

Here, tucked away from sights, a mysterious little tent is set up. The brown cloth is as average as it comes. What gives it personality is the ornamentation. Strands of dried herbs waft on the breeze over the closed entrance. Flower garlands drape in long arcs around the top of the pitched tent. The scent of the herbs offers that of bitter earth, and, combined with the fresh smell of flowers, gives a unique, if not exotic, atmosphere of its own. Colorful, handwoven mats of Feroxi design decorate the front and invite the eye to ponder over the mysterious darkness inside.

This morning a line of noblewomen of all ages stood in line before the tent. Wrapped in furs to stave off the chill of the mountains dewy sunrise, they stood huddled and whispering behind raised hands to debate their futures. Hours later, the line has dispersed. I can only bet Asche is glad for the rest.

Nearby, Sigrún keeps a watchful eye on her brother's practice under the guise of babysitting the little ones. Along with a few other youths, she volunteered for the duty for ease of access to Asche. Primarily in charge of Vaike's kin and a few neighbors, she is culling their maddening energy with lessons. Her strict rules and iron fist over snack time keeps her kids in line, another of her mother's traits that shine through.

I step over the bodies of the children flipped about in different postures. They all work in quiet with focus directed on the charcoal scribbles that are meant to be runes. Val lies on her stomach with legs kicking back and forth through the air. The tip of her tongue sticks out as she tries to write the word "apple."

"Missing a rune there, kiddo." I catch her blunder and kneel down beside her. I drag a finger through the dirt above her work to compare the words. "Like this."

Val stares at the words with narrowed eyes. She hems and haws over the two, then they both go wide. She slaps her forehead and moans in the dramatic way all little ones do. "Oooooh."

I ruffle her hair once, earning a squeal of protest, and make my way over to Sigrún. Her hawk-like glare briefly flickers to me. Her fingers drum in endless rhythm over the shaft of the bow lying in her lap.

"How's babysitting going?" I say, coming to a rest beside her.

Sigrún flicks her braids over her shoulder, the defined contours of her face growing sharper in her disapproval. "The children are smart. Their talents are being wasted in the slums."

I raise my hands in surrender. "You don't have to convince me. I'm all for advocating education to the masses." I glance back at the tent. "Speaking of the masses, how's your brother doing?"

Sigrún tips her chin in the same direction. "Still playing charlatan." Saying all she wishes to on the matter, Sigrún's abruptly changes topic. "Did you get the information you seek?"

I flinch at her blunt questioning of such sensitive materials. I lower my voice in response. "In time. I'll get it from my cohort later."

"The shadow?" she asks, unimpressed.

"Yeah. He's good at that. So, for now, I wait." I watch the tent flaps push aside to reveal two young nobles rush out. The man and woman are linked by the arms and dash away, their giggling whispers following after them. Speaking of fortunes... "Now that I have time and the line is gone, your brother did owe me a reading."

Sigrún snorts and shakes her head in disbelief. "Are you sure you want to? The future has not been kind as of late."

I laugh under my breath. I walk with my back toward the tent and wave my fingers about in ominous patterns. "What do I have to lose? I'm already possessed."

Sigrún rolls her eyes and gets up from her seat. I hear her pawning off responsibility to another as I duck into the tent.

The richness of herbs is overpowering in the tent, enough to almost make me sneeze. I waft away the smokey haze settling around my face. Surrounded by dozens of lit candles, the shadows play eerily in the dim atmosphere of the tent. Asche clashes with the darkness in his white traveler's robe. His walking stick leans on a stand next to him disguised under the trappings of bones, beads, and other odds and ends.

He raises his face at my approach. In my cheesiest impression of a noble, I greet him enthusiastically. "Excuse me, good man. How much for a reading on this fine afternoon?"

Asche's face is quite confused as he processes the overly played greeting. The satisfaction of watching his face twist into amusement over the slow dawning of recognition is a reward in itself. He settles into a wide grin, and he throws both arms out in welcome. "Ah, Robin! For you, dear lady, it is complimentary."

I approach a strange assortment of crystals and stare into their smokey depths. "I saw your line earlier. Looks like you had a busy day."

He laughs. "Quite animated! Despite most folk scoffing at the notion, I have had a fair number of curious takers. Maidens and lovers caught up in affairs of the heart. They're still young enough to believe in the impossible."

"But, you're not exactly a fraud." I hear Sigrún enter the tent behind me. A stray gleam of sunlight catches across the crystals' surfaces blinding me. I blink away spots as Asche speaks on.

"No. I'm not." The sound of tiles scraping off a wood surface mixes with the sad truth of his situation. "Yet, what is my proof but word alone?"

Sigrún approaches Asche's side. Feeling her near, his hand gropes around in the space behind him before collecting up a small bag. He tosses it in her direction, the sound of coins rubbing together bringing a glimmer of pleasure to her face. She weighs it in her palm, contents sagging over the edges of it. "This much will keep us comfortable for a while."

Asche clucks his tongue and wags a finger at her general direction. "Dear sister, remember; not all the spoils are ours. We planned to reimburse our hosts for their hospitality." Sigrún's momentary displeasure is replaced with a somber nod. While she moves to secure their funds, Asche turns back to address me. "In all sincerity, was there something you specifically needed, Robin?"

I shuffle over to the mat before him and settle in. Tucking my legs beneath me, I lean closer into the small circle of light lit between us. The scent of cedar from the candle is overpowering. "I meant what I said. I'm here to dabble with the future. At least, I would like to know what's coming."

"Indeed?" Asche tilts his head in thought, long hair falling over his face in a golden curtain. "The line has disappeared, so I suppose I can close shop for now."

Asche pours the tiles in his lap back to their place in a cloth bag. His sister seems to know his trade well as she is already at hand with a worn-looking velvet bag to trade for his current. Asche unties the silvery drawstrings and turns it upside down. From its depths, a set of bone tiles spill out on the white cloth laying before him. These pieces, yellowed in age, have their runes etches deep with a painted coating of rusty brown that looks like dried blood.

The first hollow thud of bone on earth shatters my sense of placement. A vacuum sucks in the sound of the outside world leaving me keenly aware of only my breathing. The shadows deepen in the corners of the tent and gobble at the weakest edges of candle light. My heartbeat becomes one insignificant pulse in a vast breath of space that seems infinitely unknowable.

"You feel their power?" A hand presses on my shoulder and I leap in the air at the words in my ear. I turn my face and find myself nose to nose with Sigrún's coy smirk. The smoky charcoal and yellow mineral she uses around her eyes brings out the brown of her irises, a shade that matches her mother's. She claps her hand down once on my shoulder in dismissal and then retreats to the far side of the tent. "That is the feeling of forgotten magics. Ancient rites long lost since the time of our ancestors."

"R-right," I small weakly, still shaken from the scare. I think the feeling would leave, but the heavy pressing weight of before remains. Sigrún is right; something old is at work here.

Asche runs his fingers through the pile of runes, mixing them over and over in an unknown rhythm. Every candle flame seems drawn to him, and their lights cast his shadow across the back of the tent in a constant change of shapes. At his fingertips, pure and raw magic forms. It is small, but it runs deep into the world around us.

"I may have mentioned this before but, for clarity, know that nothing I say is for certain. The very notion of seeing the future is a tad misleading. One may say I am seeing your surest path. Actions you take will keep you on that path, or help you divert it wholly." He holds up a tile and flips it between his fingers for me to see. "I only advise the potential of your own decisions. What has occurred in your past to affect things, what you do now with those actions, and where they could lead you. Everything is changeable. Nothing is set in stone."

I nod in understanding. "You're offering the telling of probability. My overall odds for a set of events to occur."

He lets the tile slip and catches it mid-descent. "In that, you would be correct."

I find my left hand slipping over the top of my right, the brand a grim reminder of one of my many outcomes. "That's fine with me. Knowing where my path may be going can help me make some changes to my plans."

Asche pulls the messy set of tiles toward him with both hands. The runes build in a small mound before his crossed legs. He turns a non-existent gaze on them, never removing his touch from the tiles. He breathes in deep, and his voice sounds much smaller than before. "Tell me, Robin. Is there anything you're hoping for?"

The corner of my lips quirks up. "To not die a virgin."

Sigrún chokes in surprise, her sudden coughs sending the flames around us sputtering. Asche tilts his head in my direction. His eyebrows rise toward his hairline, the opposite direction from the downward dip of his mouth. "As I am being serious, I would ask my client to be so as well. I cannot see without pure conviction from you."

"I, uh, sorry." I clear my throat and sit up straighter, feeling a tad guilty for ill-placed joke. "I just want to know what my path holds. Bad? Good? It doesn't matter. Where are my steps taking me?"

Asche's expression does not improve. "A broad response. I will...do my best with that." He scoops both hands through the tiles and, in an impressive fashion, manages to engulf the whole set. Asche raises both palms to his down turned forehead. A rapid muttering of words engulf our private sanctuary. Asche's light whispers wrap around my head and take hold of it with phantom hands. My vision fogs over, eyes fluttering shut, and the world grows lighter. There is a rustling in the ether of space between magic and the realm of the living. A phantom manifestation I can feel breathing down my neck, running its hands through my hair, my skull. Its nails reach deep into my mind, touching the innermost thoughts.

Before me, Asche finishes his words. The final syllables of his unknown language disappear under the crash of tiles over the earth. My attunement to the arcane kicks in unhindered. The uncolored splash of magic that erupts from the impact rises into the air around us in shower of glittering strands. A spiderweb built from thousands of incorporeal possibilities reaches into the cosmos of time. In all its beauty, I find myself breathless with the sight.

Asche's magical aura and, surprisingly, Sigrún's glow around them like the halo of the sun around a solar eclipse. Their auras are almost blinding to look at, like daylight glinting off fresh snow. It's like that which all clerics carry, but far more intense. And, unlike a cleric's silver color, the siblings are the purest white, something I have never seen before. Peering down at my own hands, the purple haze of my own resembles a toxic curse compared to the brilliance of Asche and Sigrún. Was it always so murky looking? I use to be able to see my fingers crisply through the violet sheen. Now, it's like looking into a smudged lens.

"The vast cosmos of possibility," Asche says. The blurred shadow of his arm waves a hand through the lines of infinite universes, the incorporeal lines untouched by his movement.

"No kidding," I whisper. I open my eyes wide, the phantom touch of the arcane still glittering before me in their surreal light as the dull saturation of reality fades back in. "I've seen a lot of strange things so far, but this is definitely the most impressive."

"I'm glad someone is finally able to appreciate its beauty," he chuckles. "Now then, shall we see what fate wishes to say?"

Sigrún leans in closer, fingers tapping along her elbows with the anticipation of his reveal. I find myself doing the same, leaning up to sit on my heels for a better look at the tiles below. My vision adjusts to the darkness of the tent, searching out the tiles in the breaks of candlelight flickering wild around us. The pungent sting of winter's cold clings to the air and freezes the very tip of my nose.

"This speaks of past," Asche says, "and is what has led up to your question. Circumstances that fuel your desire for knowledge of the future. What propels your actions and outcomes." He passes his hand over the various tiles, touching each one lightly on the top. Almost all of them lay flipped to the blank side, save four. Two sit before him, the others are outliers having bounced away from the main shuffle of tiles. They lie closest to me, the foreign runes looking like a tied ribbon and a short pronged trident, respectively. The ones closest to Asche resemble a pairing of "L" shapes and a solid, downward line. He rubs a thumb over the top of his closest tile and frowns.

"Jera," Asche sighs into the air, "and Isa, again."

"Jera? Isa?" I parrot, looking to him for answers.

"Nothing we didn't already know." Sigrún's body sulks inward. A low growl of disappointment precedes her turning away, her attention now focused on tasks elsewhere.

Asche brushes away the unused tiles and presses one finger to the top of the rune he calls Jera. His eyes, partially opened before though never truly focused, close in concentration. There's a shudder in the air, like a strumming of a single note. It flows out from him and passes through me, a shock that brings up hairs on my arms. Yet, as fast it came, it disappears behind me and continues on as an echo into the greater unknown.

"I see..." Asche draws up stiff, both palms coming to rest on his knees. A frown adorns his features, the discomfort he harbors alien to his typical jovial candor. Asche stops speaking, his mouth pressed thin in thought. The sudden quiet does not go unnoticed. Sigrún walks to his side and lowers herself to her knees. She rests a hand on his shoulder, the concern a visible blemish over her features.

"Asche, can you hear me?" she asks him. Her brother doesn't respond, so she jostles his shoulder once.

Asche's eyelids flutter, the rapid movement of his eyes visible under the skin. His mouth moves to silent words, a flurry of breath leaving his lips.

I reach forward and rest on both palms, ready to crawl forward if his now pale form falls. "Is he okay?"

Sigrún holds a hand up to prevent me from moving further. Her eyes narrow in suspicion, and then she fully backs away herself. "Don't interrupt," she whispers, breathless, "he's actually divining."

Asche sucks in a gasp of air, his whole body shuddering as if returning to his first waking moment of life. His rigid body goes slack, rolling forward in a slow descent as his fingers dance through the air for his runes. His tone is detached, airy and far away. His pointer and middle finger settle over the runes closest to him, dragging them across the cloth and drawing up creases.

He separates the two and leaves a finger pressed to the top of the one possessing the two parallel 'L' shapes. "All things begin, all things end. Jera is the full circle. The one year. Spring to summer, fall to winter, and to spring once more. From the end, a new beginning." Removing his finger, it hops to the second, the downward stroke of a line. "Isa, the eternal ice. Immovable, the greatest of obstacles."

Sigrún sits back and leans against a support pole, one leg drawn up to her chest. She has her face pressed to the back of her thigh, one eye locked upon the two runes. "Time, frozen eternal," she whispers in great mourning.

"The never ending time loops," I surmise myself. I take no joy in deciphering the meaning myself, the very act of voicing my thoughts a great drain on my spirits. "The former Robin's cycles of continued failure. Princess Lucina's eternal pursuit of Grima."

Asche does not respond to our miniature exchange, only listening patiently until Sigrún and I have no more to say. Perhaps there isn't anything else to say. We all know how things came to be, and how it has brought us to where we are today. He resumes by leaning over the cloth toward the side closest to me, engulfing the whole length of the material to reach the runes by me.

"Othala. Inheritance both of spiritual and physical significance," Asche speaks of the left tile, the one like a tied ribbon.

"Algiz. Protection, either divine or material in nature." The last rune sits on the right, though a little different from the others. All runes currently out are, as far as I can tell, facing Asche. This one looks to be upside down, so the tile faces me instead. "Inverted."

"You've inherited something. A mission. A dream." Asche's impassive diction drops to a low, mesmerizing chill that tingles my spine. "A presence."

My fingers clamp down around my branded hand and I mutter under my breath, "Just great."

Asche drones on like a soulless puppet. I'm glad his eyes remain shut. I'd hate to think of what his eyes might look like. "The inversion of the shield. Algiz is often the link to the gods. The divine protection they offer our mortality, whether it be wisdom or weapons." He reaches out and grips my wrist, the cold almost like the that of death on me. "You are linked tightly to our gods, but they do not protect you. This one, it strangles you."

"What does it all mean?" his sister asks him.

A flicker of recognition brings a flush of something almost human back to his features. "This has had gone on far longer than we thought. We are but newborn sparks in a sea of dying stars." The moment dies, and darkness devours his features again. "How many holes have been torn open in the fabric of our cosmic design for these selfish, fleeting dreams?"

"This is getting meeeeta," I drawl, trying to wrap my head around the depths this is delving into.

Sigrún shakes her head. "It is no wonder the gods fear Grima. No being should have such power."

Summoning up courage I truly don't have, I ask the foreboding question. "So, what does this all interpret as?"

"The past is thus," Asche says, spreading the tiles around and away from where they sat. They tumble in all directions, a mess of chaos. "There is no longer a past. There is no longer a future. Time is cyclic, ever turning from light to dark, birth to death. A generation burns, then withers. In its time, that which is new begins the same patterns, but carries forth the progress of the old. Adaptation. Wisdom. Dreams. Yet, no longer is that the way of things. Time is forced into a repeating circle of stagnation, caught in the very middle of a life it yearns to shed so it may breath anew. It cannot regrow, it cannot carry on. There is no end. There is no beginning. All is frozen, the future impassable."

Asche sits back on his legs. He raised his hands to grasp the air around his throat, pantomiming a squeezing motion. "The root twists around you. You do not want, nor deserve this. But, it is with you. A vision. A vengeance. A longing. There is a divine aura on you. Its anger reaches far back, farther than our generations remember. Yet, there is fresh scent of mortality that obscures the past from revealing anything else."

He pauses, then reaches toward the air. He punches it and draws back, as if pulling an unseen strand of thread. "But, Naga has touched you. Gently. A delicate breath of air. You are the progenitor of divine interests, and bear a misfortune for it." Asche drops his hand, turning a lidded gaze upon the candle flickering next to him. "I do not envy what hangs about you."

"This sucks so far. Can I get a refund?" I grumble. My fingers dig into the material of my shirt, stretching the cloth thin.

Sigrún shushes me by raising a finger to her lips. The ochre around her eyes glitters like gold when they narrow. "Asche doesn't fall into trances like this unless the Father is guiding his hand. You should be honored." She pauses, then adds, "Or afraid."

The sound of shaking bone draws our attention back. Asche lets out a new roll of tiles, and they tumble about in no divine fashion I can see.

"The present," he declares.

My lips press tight, enough to disappear from my face. In truth, I don't want hear anymore.

Most of the tiles remain face down again, only a slightly larger amount showing this time. Some fall closer to me, others the center. Asche chooses to address the one nestled between me and the center pile. Almost as if it were a bridge. The "R" shape matches its name.

"Raidho, the traveler's domain. A cart towards the journey both mental and physical." Asche creates an imaginary circle around the central pile of runes, then points to the space between it and myself. "Inverted and outside the world's influence. An outsiders place in a scene not theirs. In its negative space, you have been sent upon a journey without your permission. Far from home with no clear path to travel."

"The world at its center lies in opposition." Asche's hands travel over the cloth to the two runes resting over each other in that circle, the spot he dubs 'the world'. The upper piece is adorned with a solid vertical line attached to another slanting line to create an acute angle at the tip. It rests over a diamond shaped rune, as if asserting dominance over the other. "Uruz, the great oxen beast of two heads. A being of great aid, or grave destruction. The head that is benign has his head away, and that of anger shows. It battles against Ingwaz, divine grandchild of the earth. Great violence and aggression meet the disruption of the home's foundation. Conflict arises and the stability of life is lost. War is wrought both seen and unseen. Multiple battles rage, none seem destined to win."

Sigrún and I share a worried gaze. Whether he understands his own words or not, Asche moves on to the last rune, the piece that rolled to a stop before me. It faces him in the proper direction, looking like a "P".

"Perthro, the divine mystery," Asche declares. He pulls the cloth closer so the tiles are all in his reach. He physically handles the rune he called Perthro. Asche spins the tile between his fingers, concentrating hard on the piece. "The unknown continues to fog your mindset. There is no peace in your mind. Your path is in darkness. You heart is in darkness. Your very essence is darkness. You have some idea of how to move forward, but are unable to enact with conviction given outside forces interfering with your movements."

Sigrún leans in and whispers between us. "Sound accurate so far?"

It's not so much a question as it is a smug statement. She can see on my face just how eerie this feels for me. I pull my sleeve all the way over my hand, the consistent chanting of his use of the word darkness disturbing me. Still, not all of this is totally a shock to hear. If he's going to really impress me, it's going to be with his forecast of the future. I understand the readings. He's building the path I've chosen to travel. With that foundation in place, he can view the highest potential for my future to reflect on and change my way. If I can change my way...

Past and present concluded, Asche gathers up his runes for one final reading. The most important of all. The potential culmination of all my efforts thus far. He shakes his hands and lets the runes go. The tiles are a resonating wave of possibility spilling out over the cloth canvas promising an infinity of potential.

"The future is now cast."

Several runes spill out, the most out of all the readings. Only one rune chooses to fall close to me this time, falling just shy of my feet. The etching of a "B" adorns the tile. It must hold some odd meaning since it causes Sigrún's face to twist in surprise, her widened eyes falling on me. "Berkana?"

"Is that good?" I say to her. I shift in discomfort, moving out my legs from under me. Pins and needles sting the muscles under my skin.

A dry rasp of a chuckle escapes her throat, and she shrugs a shoulder. "That depends on you."

Whether Asche takes a cue from his sister, or had meant to do so all along, he starts with this Berkana tile. Pointing to it, his tone is a note higher. "Hallowed granddaughter of light and nature. She promises growth, new beginnings, and potential." Asche moves his head so his eyes align with the space over my head. He almost appears to carry a smile. "You are going to be a mother."

I- I don't know why the statement affects me so much. All along I've been dealing with my alter ego's kids, three of them now with Grima in the mix. I suppose it's the fact that Asche is reading my future, the effects of my present and current actions, that makes this real. He's not talking about Grima or the past Robin. This is me. My future. And the steps I'm taking there have led me to this revelation. I mean...just, wow.

An uneasy nervousness settles into my stomach. Who? How? When? The anxious hum in my brain clouds my concentration. It's hard to focus when such an unexpected statement comes at you. Regardless of my own feelings, Asche continues on with his assessment, and it only makes his earlier statement that much more real.

Asche raises a hand, his eyes fluttering about under his eyelids as they follow something in rapid circles. His fingers grasp around air, then let go and swipe in a downward arc. He clenches the air again, chasing an unseen target.

"These two will be lively. They will cause you no end of trouble. They move with energy around you, already playful. Labor will be swift."

Two? Like twins? The twins? Oh my God, I actually inherited them both? I've got to carry around two kids at once for nine months? My poor, poor body...

"One is weak. I think with anyone else this might not have survived the crossing of souls. Yet, there is a strength in her now. It comes from you. What once would not have come to pass becomes reality when your unique presence is tied to her."

Asche opens his palm and cradles an invisible object within it. He tilts his head to the side, a calm sort of wonder conveyed in his gentle movements. "She should not be, though in another way he should not. One cannot be where the other is. However, two are now one. In that way, they can be."

He releases whatever it is he sees, lifting up and opening his fist wide as if releasing a captive bird to flight. "But two are not alone, and now you've made three. From this, what was now impossible can be possible again. Three. Sacred three. Always three in destiny."

His hidden gaze falls on me. He strikes with a cobra's precision, catching up my left wrist and raising it to eye level. Asche presses his thumb over the beating of my pulse on the inner side of my wrist. The action somehow amplifies the beating of my own heartbeat in my head.

"You carry a silver cord on which the third lives. The other end is imperceptible to see. So faint it may break at a moment's notice. What was severed has been restored, but can be so easily broken again. She does not want this. If you lose the ties that bind you, there may not be another way for you to succeed...or survive."

He releases my wrist. It falls to my lap, impossible to lift. I've lost my motor skills, his words leaving me numb to everything. Vague as it is to him, I've got a bit more foreknowledge to put the pieces together. My eyes are all I can will to move. They search the top of my hand for that unseen cord.

Two becomes three? What was severed has now returned? A soul bound elsewhere hovering around, not wanting me to leave?

Oh hells. Oh hells. Oh hells.

I fixed it. I fixed Lucina's past. How the fuck did I... we're not...I didn't...

"Robin? Are you alright?" Sigrún shakes my shoulder, waking me from the haze that's overcome my vision.

"No," I whisper.

Sigrún pats the same spot in a gesture of comfort, but the effort doesn't reach her eyes. "While unfortunate to hear, I hope you can stomach more. He has yet to conclude his reading."

"Well, whoop-dee-doo." My face is already in my hands, emotions swimming. Asche's voice is an ominous roll of thunder on the horizon of my conscience.

Before him, three runes have fallen in an almost perfect triangle. The apex point is shaped almost like a cross, though the middle bar is drawn at a downward angle leaving it crooked. "Nauthiz, the embodiment of human struggles. You will face a trial you most overcome through your own willpower. It will attempt to consume you whole. How you choose to face it will determine the fate of our world."

"There are only two outcomes." He draws a finger down the sloping sides of this triangle to each of the lower points. To the left, there is a rune carved like a "D". To the right, an "S."

His sister pulls at one of her braids in a nervous set of repeated motions. "He never declares a set number of outcomes. It's impossible. The paths of our future are infinite. There cannot be only two futures."

Asche interprets the left one first. "Thurisaz, the great enemy of mortal kind. The destroyer of life. That which battles the ancestors for eternity dominion. It can take the form of any evil in order to accomplish its mission. Utter destruction of the world of the living."

Asche takes up the piece and holds it up against the candlelight. The flames behind it draw an ominous aura around its edges. "Grima's ascension. The end of our known world. Nothing will survive this path."

I choke on the next breath I swallow. The tent's inner atmosphere has dropped ten degrees, or perhaps that is the chill of my own fears engulfing me. Either way, I pull up my arms and rub the skin to try and muster up any warmth I can. "Why does it seem so final this time?"

"Because it is," Asche says without missing a beat.

"Asche?" Sigrún moves to reach for him, thinks better of it, and draws her hand back. "His forecasts have never been so grim."

"I'm sure the other option is better," I say, though I'm not convincing anyone with my false optimism.

Asche's palm hovers over the last rune, no difference in speech, despite the upturn in this one's meaning. "Sowilo, the sun. Victory. The reaching of goals. This is the rising sun to mark a new beginning long denied our world."

"So there's hope for us?" I dare to ask him, the hints of something positive almost too much to wish for at this point.

Asche picks up the rune and stares at it for a long moment, then picks up Thurisaz. He weighs the two like a human scale, the two destinies fighting for supremacy. After a few seconds, he sets Sowilo to the side and presses Thurisaz before me, pushing it forward in offering. "Sowilo is far from reach. To touch the sun is a nigh impossible task for a mortal."

He extends his palm and beckons his fingers forth in invitation. I look to Sigrún for guidance, but she is as lost as I am. Unsure what else to do, I crawl toward him. Asche finds my marked hand and pulls it forward, leaving me struggling to maintain balance on just one arm. Pulling me with him into the center of his scrying cloth, he halts our advance before the jumbled pile runes. With his free hand, he draws in all the tiles before him. Then, taking my hand, he presses it down into the pile before his sister can intervene.

"Asche! What are you doing?" Sigrún calls to him. His sister kneels behind us, hands twisting against each other in nervous fumbling. Her dark eyes catch mine, round with confusion. "I've never seen him like this."

"Has he – Hey!" I yelp in surprise as he presses my hand against the cold pieces. The world fogs over. A wet blanket of whispering voices invade my skull, infinite and solitary all at once. Thousands, maybe millions of voices speaking in tandem, yet not one of them decipherable to my understanding. Tongues that are both familiar and foreign, and some downright alien. I grasp at my head with the hand still in my control, the captive one curling deep against the earth.

"A warning," something, someone whispers through the madness. A firm, but gentle touch settles over the back of my hand. It brings the first traces of warmth to my cursed affliction since the blackness spread through my veins. It sinks deep, past my skin and into my bones. It fills the very marrow and presses weight against my muscles. I lose autonomy, the force flexing my digits tight around the smooth surface of Asche's runes. I feel one taken from my grasp, and Asche's voice breaks through the nausea-inducing whirlwind my conscience has succumbed to.

"Dagaz. The dawn."

The quiet voice from before echoes, dubbing over Asche's voice so that it becomes the more dominant of the two. "You face an awakening, child. A dawning of revelations that will unravel all of your truths. All of the lies. Lies that you've carried since birth after birth after birth."

"Asche, your grip -" Sigrún's voice clips in between the flurry of information pouring in before it is overtaken again. Something presses my palm against the rune left in my grasp. It burns hot, the design on it white hot and searing through my flesh so it burns over the mark of Grima.

"Thuriasz clings to you in many forms. It holds your hand. There is blood on it. The blood of betrayal. A betrayal that will lead to your true awakening. The beginning of the end."

"A betrayal," I whisper to myself, mimicking the voice. The blackness slithers away and clouds part before my eyes. The musk of bone dust and ancient paper assaults my nose. Iron and rust dance across my tongue from the broken splits in my lip. There is a heady sensation of euphoria that thrums from my head to my toes. Power crackles at the tips of my fingers, electric sparks dancing over the slick, wet lifeblood that drips fresh and hot from my glove. The body is once swam in no more than a few steps behind me. Despite standing in the center of this tower, this graveyard of a defeated past, I am all but alive in this moment.

I want to laugh in the ecstasy of my victory.

I want to weep in the failure of my mortality.

I want to scream in defiance over a past and future I refuse to accept as my own.

The illusions around me slip away like a velvet curtain. Colors bleed down the canvas of reality, wrapping my vision in the comfort of familiarity. The boisterous selling of wares drowns out the ephemeral whisperings of madness. The warmth of the afternoon sun reminds me I'm alive in my own skin and not that of another.

My heart is beating against my chest so hard I press a hand over it as if it would stop it from bursting out. My equilibrium shakes from the buzz of adrenaline my body is drunk on. At some point I had disengaged from Asche. I find myself pressed to the far side of the tent. The canvas strains under my back,my whole form angled as far away from Asche as the space allows.

Sigrún is beside her brother's slumped form. She holds him by the shoulders and adjusts his body so he rests against her. Supporting his lower back with one arm, she uses the other hand to tap his cheek in light pats, calling his name.

The air is heavy with raw magic, my senses still sensitive to the phenomena. When I blink, I see... something. Someone. Just for a moment. Almost like a mist behind them, shimmering fractals of a snow-like essence. It, he perhaps, is tall and frail with old age. One limb is extended to Asche's shoulder to connect their bodies. He raises his head and looks at me.

There is a ripple over the mist, the mirage of a man's features clearer in the darkened edges and highlighted contours it possesses. A wizened elder with a grand beard watches me with mournful eyes. His body is engulfed in robes that are ancient by society's standards, things seen only in murals. Most curious of all are the pointed tips of his ears protruding from under his thinning hair.

A whisper tickles my ear like the summer breeze, its words a broken plea. "We have failed you. Forgive us."

When I open my eyes again, the vision is gone. Only a final word carries on with me before ceasing to be completely.

"You must find Tiki. Protect her."

"Tiki? Is Tiki alive then?" I turn around and search the tent for a sign, any at all, of the man. "Where is she?"

Nothing more is spoken.

My legs finally give out from shaking so hard. I collapse in a mess, trying to process it all.

"He's breathing." Asche is finally stirring, much to Sigrún's relief. She holds him closer, smiling unabashed as his eyes open. "Ancestors, I haven't seem him like this since the time the ancestors came to us and asked our help in returning to the past."

"Sigrún? Sister?" Sigrún helps him into a seated position. He holds his head in one hand, golden hair bunching in wild knots between his fingers. He presses the sleeve of his shirt to his nose, then pulls it away. A smear of blood stains the cloth and his skin from where it trickles out. He hums in surprise. "Odd. I do believe I lost my thoughts there. I hope I didn't say anything too alarming."

Sigrún reaches for one of the pouches at her belt. She extracts a handkerchief and presses it to his face to stifle the bleeding. She masks her relief with an exaggerated huff of disgust. "You gave us an earful alright, you idiot."

The absurdity of it all causes me to laugh out loud. Not jovial in any aspect, the harsh rasp of it draws great concern over Asche. Dabbing at his nose, he says with great hesitance, "I suppose I will regret asking this, but what happened?"

Sigrún takes charge in recounting the events. Asche lost all lucidity while the rune telling occurred, leaving nothing but a blank in his time frame. He remains pensive throughout the recollection, only speaking in small questions until the end. We share our collective experiences, though he doesn't seem as shaken as us. I guess being a skuld, this just another normal day. His interest only sparks upon my account of the figure behind him. Asche pauses in cleaning up his runes, letting his fingers sift through them.

"I must say, you are luckier than most. The all-seeing father guides the telling of the future. What you saw must have been his shade."

"I saw...a god?" I can't help but take the suggestion with some hesitation. Not that I could disregard the possibility, but the notion seems bizarre to me. Not the most devout, the persona of an actual god in some form of reality is a bit much to expect. Then again, I'm summoning windstorms from my fingertips on a daily basis.

This is just making my head hurt all over again.

"I don't know why he mentioned Naga's daughter again. Why would our pantheon be interested in Naga's line when there is so much else to fight for?" Sigrún raises in good point.

Asche shakes his head, smiling at the mystery of it all. "That is part of our quest. Aside from supporting our Ylissean brethren, we were tasked to investigate Tiki's disappearance. But, that is not for us to question, only to enact."

"Yeah, well, faith is good, but be careful it doesn't cloud your judgment," I warn him. "Ylissean and Plegian faithful have started a lot of wars in the name of their gods' actions."

"You are in your right to be concerned, given the world's current circumstances" Asche says, "but, that is for me to distinguish. I trust in the hand that guides."

Finishing with his cleaning, Asche ties the bag and hands it to his sister. She stands to put them in a safe place among their possessions. I have immense admiration for Sigrún. I have not seen her once complain or grimace at helping her brother. The fact that she aids him unequivocally is a testament to her character, no matter how sour she likes to be seen as.

Asche reaches for his staff and places it along his lap. He handles it with great care, an obvious comfort to him. I see his hands tend to idle more when it is not in his grasp. "More importantly," he continues, "it sounds as if Grima's rise hasn't been truly circumvented yet."

The tent goes quiet, even Sigrún's movements as we reflect on the point. All over again, the fear from earlier presses down on my shoulders, an oppressive beast of a burden. I breathe, trying to maintain a calm knowing that time is not now. "Nothing has been changed, the events leading up to the resurrection are still the same. I know what happens in the first moments of Grima's resurrection."

"That figure warned me I'm still on that same path of betrayal." I open both palms and stare at them. The scene flashes back in front of my eyes, darkness splitting the light. Blood smeared over the glove, the cackling of a foreign voice in my head, the cold consuming loss of utter defeat. My body jerks in revulsion. I throw down both hands to my sides, eyes clenched shut it denial.

There's a long pause, neither sibling responding. It takes a minute or so for my pulse to return to normal. By that point, my lip is already splitting open from how hard I've bitten down in an effort not to scream.

"I'm... sorry," Sigrún speaks, the first true hints of concern she ever exhibited for me.

I exhale through my nose. "Don't be. All this...all this means is that I have to work harder."

Asche claps his hands together, trying to lighten the dismal mood. "That's the spirit. Optimism!"

Sigrún frowns in disbelief and nudges her brother's shoulder. "I don't think that's optimism. She looks ill."

Maybe I am. I hold my branded hand in the other, rubbing my thumb over the top of it. The skin is ice cold, no amount of friction warming it. A dull headache is left in the wake of this. Peeling back the top of my glove, I notice the veins appear deeper in color than before. Great.

"Your hand. Something wrong with it?" Sigrún asks me. "Is that your marked hand?"

Asche adjusts his staff so he can sit up straighter. He turns his face to me, fingers playing along the base of the wood. "Ah yes. The brand. You have made mention of it before. Has this impacted it somehow?"

Has it? Boy, let me tell you!

"I may have downplayed the severity of it. It's not just a mark." A nervous set of chuckles from me deflates into a lingering frown of quiet. "It's almost like a living curse at this point."

"A ...what?" Sigrún stares at my arm with new interest. One more wary than curious.

If Asche's ears could move, they would have perked up with the rest of his body. He rests the staff on the floor before him, leaning his torso over it. "Curse? How interesting. May I inquire more about it?"

"It's not a...I don't know what you could define it as. It's a part of me, that's all I know." Initially, I'm hesitant to show anything concerning this damnable mark. Then again, these two are like Lucina. They've encountered Grima's handiwork first-hand. Maybe they've seen this before? I don't know. It can't hurt to try.

My fingers linger at the top of my glove. "I'll show you, if you promise not to exorcise me or something."

"Of course, we are here to help one another. After all," Asche says, unaware of much he's going to regret his next words, "how bad can it be?"

Slipping it off, I expose my arm in all its afflicted glory.

"Ancestors," Sigrún breathes out. Bottles rattle in a crate she stumbles into. She trips back and lands on the top of it. Sigrún clutches at the wooden charm that hangs around her neck in reflex. Perhaps invoking the protection of some spirit. "No wonder the telling was so grim."

Asche reacts to his sister with surprise. Unable to see what she does, he tilts his head between us.

"Asche, use your magic," Sigrún tells him.

Ever the gentleman, Asche asks for my permission before doing anything. I have nothing to hide and invite him to do as he wishes. I move closer to him, rolling up the sleeve so he can inspect my arm.

Asche runs a palm over the afflicted area, his warm skin something alien to feel on an arm that has been a sheet of living ice for almost two months. His curiosity is born of morbid circumstances, and he appears apologetic even as he investigates. "This is fascinating. It's almost as though pure magic is running in your veins. Not as it does naturally, but as if your very blood were substituted with such."

"That's where you can see the lines under my skin," I say, though he needs no help.

Even without sight, a magic user like him can sense raw magic in most any medium it touches. His senses allow him to hone in on the marked area easily, tracing the veins with precision.

"This is unhealthy. I've never felt dark magic so alive before," Asche says, perplexed over the state of my body. "As if, perhaps, magic gained sentience? I...Hm. I do apologize. It it hard to describe accurately."

He releases his grasp on my arm and I take it back, eager to cover the hideous skin with my sleeve again. "Not many people can. I've even tried asking the Einherjar with all their old wisdom. The only one with a strength in magic is Katarina, but her expertise is war tactics. She's not classically trained enough to identify my troubles. I was told a college raised mage like Merric could work, but I don't have him accessible at the moment."

"The Einherjar?" Sigrún perks up and looks to her brother.

"I wonder...Sigrún do you think -" Asche doesn't have to finish, his sister already heading to their supplies.

"While I cannot say I have an answer to your direct problem, I may be able to help in another way, worrying as this is." A knowing smile spreads across his lips. "I happen to know someone."

"Okay, you have my attention," I say. My whole body tingles with wonder. With the twins telling me the Einherjar were all but destroyed in their time, I'm beyond curious to know what Asche is thinking in his head. Why this smug familiarity?

Sigrún continues to rifle around for something while he speaks. "You do recall that Khadein has a strong background in magic? The grand mage Gotoh established the country and taught his most famous students from the walls of his academy. Though, it was but a small center of teaching compared to the grand building it is now."

I run through the basic history of Archanea. What was fun game lore has turned into essential knowledge to survive. Once Archanea's premier state of the arcane, Khadein housed the university and the strongest continent's strongest mages, such as Marth's companions, Merric and Linde. The fallen country is nothing but a large province in Regna Ferox. It's famous university survived the Schism, but its pedigree has fallen to the likes of Ylisstol and Dohl Legata. "I do recall, but that was centuries ago. What has that got to do with the Einherjar?"

"Well, allow me to share a fascinating fact. My father was deemed a protector of the Einherjar who were in possession of the Ylissean army. This world's guardian, Anna, fought actively with Ylisse and Regna Ferox. She brought with her these same fabled spirits. He would carry the Einherjar not in use for safe keeping and transport them about in times of need. When he was separated from his kin during Grima's uprising, the Einherjar were lost with him. The rock slide that took out his troops and nearly claimed his own life made such valuable tools lost to us."

Sigrún approaches, a box carved with ornate designs in her grasp. She passes it to her brother, the exchange almost reverent in its careful handling. Asche lowers it into his lap, the dark red wood catching the candlelight in a beautiful effect. He runs a hand over the carved leaves that wreath the lid before drawing a hand over the marred, but still golden, clasp. It opens with an audible 'click,' and he turns it around for me to see.

"All but one," Asche beams.

It's an Einherjar. The border of this matches the other spirits I carry. In the center, a woman stands. Her thin figure is hidden under the drapings of a mage's dress. It's old in style, akin to that worn in Marth's era. The pale pink of her outfit brings out the deep chestnut highlights in the expertly fashioned updo she wears. In her hands, she cradles a tome with loving care.

I run through my memory of Marth's companions for an identity. He had plenty of female teammates, and a good number of those knowing the arcane. However, the tome in this woman's arms just begs to be noticed, giving me the impression it's a powerful artifact. Given that, there's only one I can guess to fit the traits I see.

"Is that Linde?" I ask, almost breathless in anticipation of the reveal.

Asche chuckles in amusement. He reaches inside and extracts the Einherjar before putting aside the box. "I see you are as good with your history as you say. I am heartened to hear that our past has not been so easily forgotten in the future."

Asche turns the card between his fingers, rubbing his thumb over the edge in thought. "Linde is the only card our father recovered, months later after returning to search the area. The box was empty and all the contents missing, except for this one. The great mage, Lady Linde, was caught between the brambles nearby and protected from view by the foliage."

Sigrún sits beside her brother, crossing her legs before her. "Grima's lackeys found them. It was probably known our father had them if the Einherjar were put in his safekeeping during the masquerade of Grima's identity."

"A boon for us, I say," Asche grins, displaying Linde for me to see once more. "If there is one who could help, I think she is a prime candidate."

I raise my eyebrows in surprise. "You can summon her? Then, at some point in time, Kellam transferred permissions to you."

"A most fortuitous thing, that. Lady Linde is quite powerful in the hands of my sister and I." Asche continues, pleased with my responses so far. "My mother is a descendant of Linde, after all."

I ogle the poor kid like he just declared himself the incarnate of Naga. Did he just say what I think he said? He's descended from Linde? Holy mackerel! That's huge!

"She is a very good teacher, if a little dramatic -"

"A lot dramatic," Sigrún interrupts.

" -But," Asche carries on, unfazed by her quip, "Linde's patience is a blessing, especially with working alongside my difficulties. Point being, my friend, is that I can offer assistance in your pursuits."

"Can we summon her now?" I say, hoping my eagerness isn't as obvious as I feel it is.

Asche laughs lightly, shaking his head. "Patience please. We are in the middle of a crowded market. I would prefer some secrecy when summoning the Einherjar."

"Yeah." I deflate into a grumpy ball of folded limbs. Of course he's right.

Asche pulls back the Einherjar so I have no chance of taking it from him, not that I would. I'm not that desperate. Yet. "Fear not, I believe I can help with your immediate concerns."

I press my fingers together, inhaling deep. The promise of ridding myself of this affliction a dangerous hope to wish for. "How, exactly?"

Asche explains himself as if it were another mundane spell to execute. "I assume I must simply seal the progression. Not as hard as you can imagine with the proper amount of counteractive magic."

"This is dark magic, you said. It could be a curse. You would need light magic for it, but that's- " I trail off watching Sigrún's grin grow wider with every word.

"Impossible?" Sigrún teases with a slow, drawn out chuckle. She curls a long strand of hair around her finger, pulls, and watches it unravel. "The impossible has become reality more often than not. Look at you, for example."

The haze of excitement overtakes my vision. I lean forward on my hands, almost falling over. "You know light magic?"

"And Sigrún too, though hers is mostly offensive in nature." Asche says. To enhance the point, Sigrún runs a finger over her bow. The weapon, propped up against the tent's side, ignites faintly. Runes etched deep into the lacquered wood glow with a soft light the same as that from a healer's staff.

"Light magic has been gone for a thousand years," I utter in shock, unable to process this.

"Sometimes you just have to look in the right places," Asche says. He takes the Einherjar in his possession and returns her to the box that protects her. "Sigrún and I were born in the eastern mountain slopes of Regna Ferox. Among the ruins of an unknown civilization and the ancient, overgrown trees, our rebellion hid. Native Feroxi sought refuge there during the Schism and remained hiding while the world changed around them. With them the remnants of our modern people hid from the dragon's reign. In the darkness, we found our lost light. Those there remembered the old ways even more ancient in their nature than our distant ancestors knew. I suspect this is the closest to original magics Naga and the divine dragons taught to the fledgling race of humanity."

I sit back on my knees, a hand pressed to the contours of my chin. I'm lost in thoughts over the potential of what this could bring to our society. "This is huge. No modern practitioners, outside of what was preserved in healing schools, have existed."

Asche nods in agreement. "Well, of course. I would not be scoffed upon so often in my profession if that were the case. True skulds died with light magic eighteen hundred years ago."

More than ever, I wish I were with the Shepherds. To hear such possibilities would mean even more to them than I! "Miriel and Ricken- my cohorts, that is- are delving into water and ice magic. Another lost realm. They have been so close. Between that and this discovery, so much of the past is coming alive!"

"With Grima's impending rise, such surprise should be easily overcome. Anything seems possible with the futures past," Asche gestures to himself, then me, "and futures to come clashing within the present."

"I've come to notice." I grasp the sleeve of my right arm, rubbing over the material in anxious circles. My voice is small and jitters with excitement. "I can't believe you can actually do something about this."

Asche closes Linde's box and hands the Einherjar back to his sister for safekeeping. "I'm well versed in curse extraction after the last war. I have already been at work in this time. You have noticed my father's visibility growing among your peers? Also, please move your arm here."

Asche pats the empty space next to him. I crawl over to the spot and tuck my knees beneath me. His empty hands wave close to the air around me in search of my arm. I lift the afflicted one and present it, hesitant in how he may react to taking it. He fingers brush over the sleeve of my coat and his fingers come to rest over it. Drawing my limb closer, he takes it with a gentle touch to rest over his knee.

"Excellent. That's comfortable, I hope? Now, as I was saying, my father bears a curse of his own I have managed to suppress exponentially thanks to an amulet he carries. I may or may not have worked my charms on my own mother to have her "gift" it to him."

"You mentioned that bef- Ow!" I flinch at the burning shock that runs up my arm. I jerk back and yank my whole body away from him. I cradle my elbow against my chest and wiggle my fingers open and close to rid them of the tingling.

"I'm sorry to say this may be uncomfortable as I realign the natural balance in your body. Dark and light magic run through all living things in some fashion or another, though yours is...remarkably abundant. I see what the Einherjar could mean, though I am also at a loss for why."

"That's for Linde then," I say returning my arm to resume his work.

Asche holds tight to his staff with one hand, channeling his magic through to the other. An orb of white light engulfs his hand, obscuring it behind a veil of opalescent shine. He presses it back to my arm, and the sensation returns. Not as bad as before, but the uncomfortable warmth remains. It's like a hot bowl of soup you begin to hold for too long. A slow, building heat that starts to grow painful the longer its pressed against. The light grows and expands over my exposed skin. I can vaguely feel the consistent pressure and release of his fingertips as they trace runes over my arm.

"I find that the pains accompanying healing can be lessened if one turns their attentions elsewhere," Asche suggests to me. "This will take time for me to figure out. Perhaps you would like to discuss something? Sing a song? Have a snack?"

"Why don't you elaborate on what you said about your father's curse. Kellam never made any mention he suffered such a thing, though that would explain some- Ow!"

Asche pauses, the light fading to a dim glow as he lets me fight off the newest sting of pain. "Ah, yes. My father. A sad tale, truly. All my grandmother's fault actually, though she would never know. We did not know her long having rescued her at a time where her health already suffered in Grima's diseased lands. I learned enough though." His magic intensifies, along with the pain as he continues his work. I focus on his voice, hoping the concentration on his story will distance myself from the hurt.

"I'm not sure if he has told you of his past, but my father was one of several boys. He was, like all children, needy for attention among his many siblings. And, as younger ones do, they lash out in actions or voice for that recognition. Though, he was louder than most I suppose. He grew so bad that my grandmother asked for help from everyone she could reach. Eventually, that led her to an herbalist in the hills."

Sigrún scoffs from her dark corner. She lets the bowstring she is tightening go, the vibration loud in this tiny space. "Hedge magery. No reason she should have trusted the woman."

Asche moves his work further up towards my elbow. He leaves a trail of light magic swathed around my arm. The burning continues to travel up to my shoulder, leaving my whole arm inflamed and sore. "Alas, she did just that. And, to help cull his attitude, the herbalist gave our grandmother an old folk charm to enchant him. That, if worn, the more he screamed and cried, the more he would lose his voice. It would grow worse and worse until he had none at all. The perfect way to teach a disobedient child a lesson."

Sigrún sets her bow down across her lap and stares at the ceiling. The gruff disapproval in her tone is hardly concealed to us. "It was a cursed amulet. The thing would have worked if you had a counter spell to remove the curse once enacted."

The weight of their grandmother's action comes to full realization in my mind. I press my eyes shut in sadness, her terrible decision now known to me. "No one knows light magic to counteract it."

"Exactly. That old crone dabbled with magics she didn't understand. It was merely assumed the 'enchantment' would simply go away," Sigrún spits out in contempt. "The curse went away just like everyone thought because it took the victim with it. Given enough years, my father would have simply faded from view completely."

"Jeez," I say to myself. Picturing such a loyal, helpful guy like Kellam suffering such a state of life is just unfair. He doesn't deserve that! The idea that he could be forgotten for good, like he never touched our lives, is frightening. I don't want to think I could suffer that side effect even though most of us tend to. Not Raimi though. What has made her so special?

"If it were to get worse, how did he end up with your mother? Surely he would have be unable to keep her attentions so easily," I question them.

"If an instructor of light magic still lived, it would be easy for them to see the latent strength of my mother's light magic. It runs as strongly in her as the rest of my ancestors. She is a...how would you describe it Sigrún?" Asche asks, turning an inquisitive face upon her.

"A natural counteractive." Sigrún says, a smile cracking her stone-like countenance. "Standing next to him dampens the effects."

That's...both hilarious and adorable.

"Of the millions of souls our planet inhabits, he meets the one immune to his curse." Sigrún's taciturn persona crumbles completely. A sliver of warmth, like a lone sun ray, casts across her sharp features. Her voice raises an octave to something more pleasant than her usual gravel. "It's right out a folk tale."

"That's the most romantic thing I've ever heard," I gush, reveling in joy for my friend. Kellam, buddy, you always deserved so much more than the butt of a punchline. I'm so happy for you!

Asche moves his staff forward in his lap, pushing it out across the distance to where his sister rests. The bottom pokes her between the ribs, causing her to leap to her feet in surprise. "Sigrún does love it so. She's a romantic at heart, even if it may seem the opposite."

Sigrún raises her foot as if to kick his staff away with the full force of her strength. She holds it back in mid-air, sizing up his walking stick, before choosing to nudge it away with a gentle tap of her inside foot instead. "S- shut it, Asche," she warns him, eyes darting to the side in a display of guilt.

The burning sensation of the spell's intrusion in my skin recedes to dull cold. Asche withdraws his hand, and the white light illuminating the space between us dims to nothing.

"Well, that is as good a place to end as any. I think I'm done with my work after all." Asche boasts with a brush of both hands. The last remnants of the silver magic sparkles off into the void around us. "How does it look?"

"What? You're done?" I yank up the sleeve as far as I can and turn my arm about. I flex my fingers open and closed, the heat of my skin so foreign to the touch. Color has sunk back into the skin, the only veins visible back to that healthy, blue-ish hue. The mark remains as it was, no more threatening than a tattoo on my skin. I could cry, the relief of such a crushing disaster free from my soul. It takes everything in me for the tears welling up not to spill over.

My voice cracks halfway in emotion. "It's all gone. I look normal again. Asche, you don't know how much this means to me. I could hug you right now, you magnificent healer!"

"I can hear the gratitude. While the oddest of things, it was not hard to pull under control. The spread of that, hm, magic essence I'll say, was easy to the gather back and suppress. Easy to corral to its source, as if it only needed a nudge. I could almost say that it healed itself, once given the chance."

"That makes no sense, Asche," Sigrún says.

"Indeed, the whole matter is bizarre surrounding our friend here. What a frightening thing you've come to possess. There is already so much you have voluntarily taken upon yourself. Our world's fate is rooted deeply in your namesake's actions. If there is anyway I can help lighten that burden, I would do so in a heartbeat."

I rub my eyes with the cuff of my sleeve, blinking rapidly. I can't stop looking at my arm, marveling at its normalcy. "It amazes me how much you kids are willing to sacrifice in the name of this hidden war we're all fighting. I'm indebted to you. This world's gods can take me if I don't repay it with everything I have."

"We all have something- " Asche pauses then turns his head to the side of the tent. He waves between Sigrún and I to quiet down. Raising his voice to almost a shout, he calls out to someone beyond. "A customer? I apologize but I am doing no more work today after this."

"Is someone there?" I mouth to Sigrún. She nods, pointing to the far wall of the tent.

A shadow steps close to the tent's wall, growing smaller in size on approaching the entrance. A woman's hand appears between the drapings to push the heavy cloth aside. Her voice comments unimpressed with the surroundings as a familiar dark haired female steps in.

"This... look authentic," our friendly (or not) local Plegian mage in disguise comments upon removing her cloak's hood. She flushes out the trapped lengths of her raven hair, fanning it out across her back.

"Is that Tharja? Hello again! It feels as though I see you all the time now," Asche chants in greeting. The same overenthusiastic greeting one uses when addressing an unwanted customer.

Tharja crosses both arms and rests them over her chest. She steps closer toward the center of the tent where we all sit. The mage stares down at us, frowning. "Oh. You again."

Tharja's dark brown eyes are almost black in the tent's limited lighting. It flits over the siblings faces, then lands on mine. Her forehead wrinkles in surprise. "Robin?"

I wave from my hunched position, feeling in some way judged by her presence. "Tharja, hey. What are you, uh, what brings you here?" I say, fumbling to pull on my gloves.

"Indeed, no need to hide. You know you're welcome among us. It won't do either party any good if you skulk around like that," Asche says, unable to see the icy glare his sister gives him.

"Noted." Tharja picks at a strand of dried herbs hanging before her face. She gives it a sharp sniff, wrinkling her nose at the scent. Dropping it, she steps around the plants, speaking with a clear disapproval of her surroundings. "You're fortune-telling now?"

Sigrún bristles in defense, hands clenching so tight to her bow the knuckles have gone white. "What's it matter to you?"

Asche pats at the space between them in a motion to calm her down. Sigrún huffs and turns away, sulking. With his sister's temper defused, he addresses Tharja with a distant politeness lacking his usual enthusiasm. If I had to guess, I would say Asche is being equally guarded in his own way. "I agree, it may look strange. But, one must make money with the talents at hand."

Tharja stalks around the tent lifting bottles and appraising the Feroxi decor. She picks up a carved stone and holds it up against a sliver of light falling through a hole in the tent's ceiling. "Takes a lot to proclaim something so bold. Scrying isn't popular in Ylisse."

"Ah, but I am not scrying. I am divining. Charting the future!" Asche proclaims with a clap if his hands.

Instead of answering him, she turns it around on me. "You believe this, Robin?"

Yep, I am feeling judged. Thoroughly. Unlike her, I know this is real. That does little to put a salve on the burn my reputation is taking in Tharja's eyes. My chuckles tremble with nerves, and I shrug both shoulders, unsure what to say in my defense. "I'm inclined to believe anything is possible nowadays."

Tharja clucks her tongue in disapproval and rolls her eyes. "Divining isn't real. It's a lost art like all light magic." She turns on Asche and squints down at him, growling in reprimand over his profession. "You're either lying, or you're scrying."

"You appear confident in calling me false," Asche says.

"I've seen enough mask scrying under different pretenses. Gives true practitioners a bad name," the Plegian counters.

"True, but such is the natural perception given it's dark magic. I assume those you saw were dabbling at the College. Dark magic is forbidden there, I hear. Quite the temptation."

My head swivels almost completely off my neck, the feeling of someone twisting a fist in my gut building a wave of sudden nausea. "What?"

"Scrying is a branch of dark magic," Tharja says, adding quickly, "Not that I'm familiar with it. I've just seen others using it under false pretenses."

But, I scryed before. I used it in Ironhold at Lucina's suggestion. I've dabbled a bit since, but I'm not very good. Does that mean I'm compatible with using dark magic? Something tells me this has to do with the mark on my hand. That might not be a good thing to admit in Ylissean circles given it's outlawed, just as Tharja said.

"Whatever you are doing, you're leaking magic like water from a broken hull. It won't be just my attention you gather if you don't stop." Tharja sets down the stone in her hand with a sound of finality. "That's the only warning I'm going to give you."

Aaaaand panic sets in. I leap to my feet, dusting off my pant legs. "Seems like a good time for me to leave then. Not like I learned anything, right?" My laughter is anything but convincing, causing Sigrún to groan in disgust.

"I...yes. That sounds to be best," Asche says.

The three of us share a look of understanding. A lot has happened. More than I can process. I went from a terrified low in his reading to breathtaking heights seeing my arm return to normal. There's new information to taken into account. This is crazy for me now, but imagine what this will be like for poor Lucina!

Ah. Right. All the... information.

Including...her... brother...

Hells.

We make our farewells brief so Tharja doesn't have to linger around. It's best to get her removed before she notices something else.

Sigrún marches over to the tent's entrance and open one of the flaps, letting in the afternoon sun. I duck my head away, blinking away spots. Sigrún holds it back under one arm and gestures outside with the other. "Out. No refunds," she hisses.

Tharja is out in a heartbeat. I pause, just to nod in farewell, a lot of unspoken thoughts left between the three of us.

As I the tent flap closes, I hear Asche say to himself, "The dampners should have stopped magic from detection. How odd..."

It really is like stepping into another world. The warmth of the sun on my face and the sound human activity in my ears makes recent events seem all but a foggy dream. I stand in place and just take in the environment, desperate to take in a feeling of normalcy.

"What were you looking for?" Tharja has stopped ahead of me upon realizing I was not following. She pulls her hood back over her face, shadowing it from the light. The last vestiges of summer have passed and the heat has remained, but the mountain air makes things feel cooler. "I felt the magic. He had to have been scrying."

"Does it matter?" I pull my own coat closer around my neck to stave off the breeze.

"No." Tharja waits for me to fall in line with her so we can walk side by side. "But, I have a knack for finding things. I can help you find it if you remember where you lost it."

I was not expecting- Actually, I should have expected Tharja would be nosy. Drat. I need something to say. Anything! Uh...

"It's a person. I lost them on the roads. They're probably too far away or something," I tell her, giving myself a mental pat on the back. Nailed it.

Tharja makes a non-committal hum. She lowers her face in thought, obscuring the entirety of her figure. "Are they back in your home country?"

Dammit Tharja! Stop asking questions! That last admission carried some truth in it and I'd rather not think about the fact that we're all far apart!

I plaster on a fake smile and wave her off in dismissal, flipping the conversation on her. "Don't worry about it. But, what are you doing over here? Are you still on patrol?"

Tharja stares out from the edge of her hood, her eyes challenging my answer. Eventually, she sighs and drops her dim gaze to the ground. "No. I'm off duty until tomorrow."

My arm travels up and grasps at the wrinkles of my sleeve around the elbow. My arm may be healed for now, but the events around it are still fresh in my mind. I'm not sure I want to think about such heavy ramifications just yet. I...I'd rather just embrace the freedom of the moment. Embrace my returned humanity. And, maybe not dwell on the million issues I need to sort out.

"Perfect, I'm hungry and need company. Let's go." I grab Tharja by the crook of her arm and drag her eastwards, towards the edge of the market district. She squawks in an unappealing fashion, causing her skin to turn to the color of tomato paste. She relents a few steps, then anchors herself down by her heels to resist.

Turning, I find Tharja's dark eyes studying my profile with a critical eye. I raise my eyebrows in question, urging her to speak her mind. A slight glare overtakes the embarrassment set of her face. "You're a presumptuous one," she accuses of me.

I cock my head, challenging her. "That a problem?"

"No," she says flat and abrupt. Slowly, a cat-like grin spreads across her lips. There's a dangerous twinkle in her eyes as she purrs, "I like that."

With no further objections in place, the two of us make our way. While getting close to Tharja could be a grand tactical move, I'm also doing so to ensure her spot in the near future with our Shepherds. Given how different our meeting has gone, I'm not sure what it could take to get her to join. I'm not privy to her feelings about her position in Plegia or what the change in war has done to her loyalties. Only thing I know for sure is she's still got a major soft spot for Robin, er...me. Flattering, to be sure. Tharja's ten kinds of hot and got the dark and mysterious vibe going on. Not necessarily my thing, but I'll take the compliment. Might have even entertained something if not...I don't know why. Just the thought of flirting seems wrong somehow. Or, maybe it's better to say it doesn't interest me. There's not as much thrill there as when I tease C-

Never mind.

I take us to a bustling little inn, Anchor's Down. The nautical themed facility is run by a lovely Rosannese widow and her three daughters. It's a popular gaming den with a promise of three cooked meals a day. It makes it perfect for any outing.

"This place?" Tharja appraises with a clear lack of enthusiasm.

While Anchor's Down can be rowdy, it has the best food available for patrons like me. There is better food at the other inn, Ignacio's. However, the snooty attitudes of the patrons prevent me from eating at the other establishment. Suffice to say, I parted ways with the place on less than stellar ends.

"Anchor's Down is the only one around where the upper classes won't look done on your station and potentially spit in your food," I say scowling in disgust over the memories. Should have punched the owner in the face.

'Perhaps the lower district would be better for a...member of the simple folk such as yourself,' he said, twirling that pencil thin stripe of a mustache he had. Pah!

Tharja pauses. The air around her drops to a chill, a cold that matches the coal black of her irises. "Did someone do that to you? Give me a name and I'll make sure..." Tharja bites her tongue, thinking over what to say, before continuing with careful wording, "...to report them for proper discipline."

Aw, how sweet. Is Tharja willing to hex someone on my behalf? Appreciative as I am, I've already got revenge for myself and all the others mistreated at the establishment. My grin is toothy, and I rub my hands together in mischievous glee. "I already rigged their pantry with a convenient infestation of corn flies. Looks like the Count is going to have to hire someone else to cook for the big party."

"Impressive," Tharja joins me in a delicious set of evil cackles that causes one father nearby to eye us warily and push his children further away.

It's weird. Tharja and I bonded very quickly. Faster than many of the Shepherds even. I guess Tharja's "attraction" for me has given her a proactive edge in trying to get to know me. Stranded and without my social network in such a trying time, I've latched onto her as well. Maybe more than I would have in any other situation.

"You're alright, Tharja," I tell her while holding open one of the large oak doors.

"Most would call you strange for saying so," Tharja smirks. She sashays past with a little extra swing to her hips. She calls back, "Luckily, I like strange."

Anchor's Down is a dimly lit open space, the only structures permanently attached to the floor being the bar top along the north wall. A fireplace rages on east side, wide enough to engulf the three tables before it. There are no windows here, only the light of many candles lit along the sconces planted to the walls. There's always a haze of smoke hanging just under the ceiling. It's a spicy mix of the locally grown herbs the residents of Arcos use for their pipes.

Tharja and I maneuver through the maze of cluttered tables. I have to duck under the flailing arms one lucky man at the cards table throws out in victory. Aside from that, we get to the bar unscathed. It's quieter here with most patrons staying on the floor. Rosemere, the inn's matron, greets us with her graveled voice. On our pittance, we pass on any dinners and order a single course of soup. One may scoff at that simplicity, but Rosemere never skimps on ingredients.

Our meals come quick from her kitchen, and soon we're spoon-deep in our bowls of steaming broth. Nothing too special, a clear soup of the garden vegetable variety. At least it has chicken for protein.

After a few mouthfuls, Tharja ignites a conversation. "Is Arcos different from your own home? You seem comfortable here."

"Yeah. A lot, actually. I'm from somewhere a lot colder and on the ocean's shore." Even the aquatic theme Anchor's Down hosts are different from my world. There's a plethora of mounted creatures on the inn's walls that are nothing like back home. I lock eyes with the dead ones of a particular specimen that hosts two large, boney rusks from the sides of its mouth. Never would have swam with a fish like that!

Tharja looks toward the ancient Mariner's map hanging on the wall. She searches its curled, yellowing edges for a hint of where I may exist on their still largely uncharted world. "Why did you come here?"

My good mood falters. I pause, my spoon hovering between the bowl and my open mouth. Thinking, the only thing I can come up with that's better than a lie is the actual truth. "Misfortune. I mean, dead people are walking and the continent's at war. I took refuge where I could."

She may be curious about me, but I have my own inquiries. I've been trying to wheedle some information out of them that could help me with this Plegian infiltration. This could be a good chance to do so.

"What about you? The citizens give you a wide berth, so I assume you aren't a local. The College is in the capital, right? You're pretty far from home," I say.

Tharja refuses to look me in the eye. She pokes her spoon at the floating bits of carrot in her broth. "Yes."

Okay, not helpful. Can't expect she'll spill her secrets easily though.

"Capital is still recovering after that huge battle I heard about. I hope your family is alright. Are they all into- ," I wave my hands in a poor attempt to recreate the weaving of a spell. "Magic?"

"It's expected of those in my family." Tharja goes to drink from her cup, pauses, and stares into her reflection deep inside. "I didn't have a choice."

"Sorry to hear," I murmur, wishing I could offer more condolences than that. The bitterness laced in her explanation reminds me of the same tone my mother carried. How her family business was the only future worthy to pursue in her relatives' eyes, which led to her estrangement. Except, in Tharja's case, there was no alternative.

Tharja turns a blank glance to me. "I suppose you aren't bound by such expectations given how far you've traveled."

"I..." People in this society are bound so tightly to class. Regardless of gender or station, someone my age simply traveling with no work intent is uncommon, if not unconventional. Though, to be fair, I'm not actually a random traveler. "My mother actually pushed me away from her guard work."

At least that isn't a lie.

"That sounds..." Tharja trails off, staring toward the ground. She's struggling not to show jealousy, and fails in the deflation of her tone. "That sounds nice."

An uneasy quiet settles around us. I don't know what I could say further that wouldn't be false sentiments. I've come to know Tharja as someone who is very independent and carries a quiet attitude that tends to put her at odds with people. Very rarely, I catch the darker parts of her hiding behind the sass and pointed jabs she uses to keep others at bay.

Feeling worse than before, but unable to do anything, I focus on just passing the time with food. I push in mouthful after mouthful of soup, hoping each bite is more than the two seconds it feels like.

"Kind of bland," I babble. "Chicken doesn't do anything for the broth. Needs-"

"Rosemary and thyme." My eyes dart to Tharja. The end of the spoon dangles from her finely manicured fingertips. She taps the end of the spoon against her chin, contemplating over a thought before deciding to add, "Onions too."

"I was gonna say that." My eyes widen with the glee of a child on Christmas. I feel the butterflies of excitement, the first time since coming here. Have I...found a fellow cooking aficionado?

Tharja doesn't notice, dipping the spoon back in the broth and stirring it around. She picks up a potato then lets it drop back into the bowl with a wet 'plop' sound. "I'm familiar with herbs."

"You cook?" I say, hoping, and praying, she says yes.

"Sort of. More so what was taught to me at the...the College. Medicinal, one could say."

Good enough of an answer for me. I set down my utensil and lean forward on both arms. "What pairs best with roast griffon?"

Tharja takes a minute to think before stating with confidence, "Sage, basil, and a sprig of Tawny root." She tilts her head to the side and startles back in suspicion at my hovering interest in her opinions. She narrows her eyes. "Why?"

"No reason," I say, quick to dismiss her inquiry for more pressing matters. There's an herb she mentioned that I've never encountered before. "Tell me, what's Tawny root?"

"It grows along the bogs of..." Tharja catches herself, shaking her long hair in dismissal. "I'll just let you borrow a touch of it."

I rest my head on my chin and look across the counter to where the innkeeper is cooking her orders. The rack of dried herbs above her head shifts with a puff of smoke that emits from the oven below them. I sigh, depressed that I still lack a strong understanding of the natural foods in Archanea I have yet to discover. "You must be a useful apothecary in your regiment. Knowledge of herbs and how to use them can fix a whole lot of situations. I wish I knew more than beyond cooking."

"I do like mixing." Tharja presses her hands together, hiding the curl of her smile. It looks rather impish in the red glow of the fires burning from the oven. "I enjoy seeing the successful results of my labor even more."

"Must be a nice feeling being able to help those in need," I say.

"Yes, very," Tharja 's smile twists into an even more devilish grin that brings the tinge of the fire to reflect off her eyes, "...helpful concoctions."

Something tells me we're not talking about an innocent stomach cure. Tharja's magic was highly lauded in the game. Black magic. She's been friendly so far, but I can't forget she got a reputation. Hexing and cursed potions are all fair game to her.

Before I can reply, the whole counter shakes with impact. Tharja and I push our stools back and leap away. Our plates clatter and spill food about from the tremors that run along the wood surface. To our right, a man pushes weakly off the bar with one arm. The other is pressed to his lip where blood smears across the exposed skin. His body teeters, but he wins in the struggle for balance. He pulls it back and the familiar face of one of Tharja's troop mates stares back at us.

"Whoop, sorry ladies," the man starts to apologize, his hand raising to the brim of his hat in order to tip in our direction. Upon realizing who we are however, his hand freezes in place. He emits a dour, "Oh, just you Tharja." Having come to be used to me over the two weeks I've been appearing in their circle, he offers me a begrudging frown. Hey, it could be worse!

"Ranalph," Tharja responds with an equal tone of dismissal. "I would act surprised if such buffoonery weren't expected of you already."

A skillet comes down where the man's hand lies, just missing his fingers. He flinches and pulls away under the verbal assault that flies from the innkeeper's heavily accented tongue. Rosemere waggles a bony finger at him. Wisps of gray hair pop out her messy bun and hang about her face in a way that accents her frazzled temper. "Hey! Get your dirty hands off of my bar. I just paid the damages off from the last lot of you!" She thrusts the same finger out across the floor to a table situated in the back of the room. She hollers louder than a dragon's roar to get their attention. "You there the captain, right? Act like one and get this fool out of here."

"Men," the innkeeper mumbles under her breath. She slaps her dirty rag down and watches Ranalph struggle to maintain his balance. The hard edge of her weary gaze drops and she turns to us with kinder words. "You ladies alright?"

"Fine, thank you," I say. I push our chairs back in place and let Tharja sit before following.

Rosemere picks up her rag again and begins to scrub hard at the counter top, as if imagining rubbing away Ranalph's face. "They come bothering you again, just give a holler."

Ranalph lets out a yelp when he's thrown almost over his feet. He stumbles away from imposing figure yelling at him."Your brains fall to your ass? You sure are acting like it!" the newcomer, Vasto it seems, yells over his soldier.

Ranalph hobbles back, gesturing about in no certain way. "Sorry, Captain. Was just-"

"Oi, shut up 'n get back 'ere ya cheating mongrel," one of the others yells. Sirin? Freckled lady married to the red-headed archer, I think? She stretches around in her chair and waves to me. "Sorry, Canada!" She stares a moment at the mage next to me, then adds, "You too, Tharja."

The acknowledgment catches the other woman off guard. While divided at first, Tharja's frequent appearances at the training grounds with me have warmed her up to others. Not exactly comrades in arms, but they at least greet her on arriving. Leagues over the other mages. I don't know where they skulk off too, though given they are probably Grimleal, I don't want to know.

Tharja roles her eyes at the gesture and turns her back to them. From my vantage, I can see the conflict warring in her mind. Her shoulders rise in discomfort. The tiny flick of her wrist that's meant to be a wave looks more like a defeated gesture of dismissal. While some of her cohorts disregard her again, Sirin laughs and nudges her husband before turning back to their game.

I lean over and pat her shoulder in sympathy. "Are you allergic to friendship, Tharja?"

She just frowns deeper and sinks further into her seat.

Vasto is still beside us giving Ranalph a piece of his mind. The captain grabs Ranalph by the collar of his tunic and shoves him back toward the far table. "I don't give a damn what you were doing. Get off the floor and stop drawing unnecessary attention."

Vasto appears ready to apologize, stops, and looks over the woman next to me. "You're here, Tharja?"

"Captain," she replies, sullen and uninterested.

"And Canada? What a surprise seeing you in our neck of the woods."

I press my elbows against the bar and lean on them in a casual pose. "Only part of the woods I'm welcome."

Vasto kicks the underside of the bar and watches a cockroach scuffle out. "Probably better off. Ignacio's has an infestation, I heard."

"I heard the same," I say, quickly turning to take a sip of ale from my mug. More so to hide the mischievous grin of pride I'm wearing.

Vasto pokes his long nose over our food. It wrinkles, causing the crinkles around his narrowing eyes to increase tenfold. "What is that? Shit, Tharja, that's just water. No wonder you can't hold up in drills."

Tharja holds and equally hard stare back at him, deadpanning. "Some of us don't make a stipend that can support meat and vegetables every day."

Vasto let's out an annoyed "tsk" and turns away. His gloved hand runs over the scruff of his beard with urgent thought. He lets one glance fall to his table, then back to us. Vasto lets out a sigh that seems more in disgust of himself than the situation. Reaching into his belt, coins jingle about in their pouch. He extracts two of them and slams them on the bar for Rosemere to see.

"Two night specials," he grits out. "On my tab."

Rosemere says nothing, scooping up the coins with eyes as big as a hawk to its prey. She disappears into the kitchen right after.

"What was that for?" Tharja asks him with a wary eye.

"You need to stay in peak fitness, so I'll provide today," Vasto says. "Rosemere will be bringing them over to the table. Gonna have to find yourself a chair."

"I don't think that's wise." Tharja turns to meet seven sets of eyes watching us with deep interest. Having been caught, her fellow troop members turn in their chairs causing a massive screech of wood to echo through the room. Tharja flicks her hair over her shoulder and turns back, scowling. "They don't care for my aura."

"What's that supposed to mean?" I laugh out loud, slapping the counter top with my hand. "Did someone actually say that? You have a spooky aura? What are they, children?"

Vasto puckers up like he swallowed a lemon. He throws that same look to his soldiers, the few who catch his eyes dropping their heads quickly to hide. The man cusses low under his breath, scrambling to find some way to salvage the pride of his people. "C'mon Canada, it's not, I mean it's more difficult then -"

He pauses, swallowing his tongue over Tharja's withering gaze. I watch him with an expectant smirk, daring him to come up with a valid reason for his people's attitudes. In the short time I have been with them, it's obvious they have no love of their 'College' members. A valid, if not common attitude, among commoners with no understanding of magic. Superstitions and whatnot still run deep in rural communities. However, meta-knowledge tells me that her Grimleal status is the culprit behind their grievances. But Vasto, unaware I'm onto their secrets, is merely suffering under the fact that my opinion of his professionals is growing lower by the minute since these grown adults are acting like children.

He flexes both fists into a tight ball before releasing them with a greater stream of air from his mouth. Vasto collects himself, drawing himself up to height in order to reclaim his image. "Tharja, creepy aura or whatever bullshit they say, you're still one of mine. I take responsibility for you."

"That's sweet of you," Tharja's saccharine compliment dips into a thick coating a poisonous disdain, "but you're mistaken if you are under the impression I care what those buffoons think of me."

"Tharja, come on..." I say, try to coax a bit of camaraderie out of her. We've been doing so well getting- Wait. These are Plegians. What am I doing enabling such relationships?

Vasto raises up both hands as if he were ready to strangle the space between them. He huffs, letting out a deep growl of defeat. "I am trying to...Forget it! I don't care where you fork it in! Just make sure you eat the damn meal, woman!

Tharja watches Vasto stalk off to the other end of the bar where he waits for the food from the kitchen. She shakes her head, muttering, "Stubborn fool."

"He seems nice," I say. Vasto sneaks a glance at us, realizes I'm still watching, and bristles like a raccoon with his hands in the trash. I tease him with a little wave, causing him to turn his back to us, foot tapping with impatience over the wait. "He tries, anyway. They all do."

"The Captain's not the worst," Tharja muses into the emptiness of her bowl. She picks up her utensil and drags it through. Her spoon scratches along the bottom for any missed vegetables, but comes up with nothing. "The man is tainted by prejudices like everyone else, but at least he's loyal. He believes in his soldiers, even the ones he doesn't care for."

"As for them," Tharja doesn't finish her sentence. She looks at the rowdy antics of the soldiers nearby. Sirin's man, what's his name...Art! Art is crowing over his friends, sweeping in the stones they use for winnings with both arms. Basking in his wealth, he leans over to plant a kiss on his beaming wife. Tipsy from the drink, he misses her and collapses right over her lap. The group falls into an uproar.

"Idiots," she mumbles, not necessarily malicious in her intent.

"They seem to have been together sometime before you joined," I comment, the thin press of my lips a bitter smile. It stirs up a familiar ache of longing. There's a lot of similarities in Tharja's people to those in my Ylissean allies.

Tharja doesn't respond, her attentions lost in her own world. My sights wander, falling on her Captain. It's another strange anomaly in the story. Vasto is a throwaway boss fight tying stages together in the game. Since his attack on Emmeryn never happens, it makes sense he ends up displaced in new avenues. Never thought I would be thrust right in front of it. Worse, never though I would kind of ...befriend him and his troop.

I find myself admiring the strong profile of his back. Vasto is lean, trim, and definitely a fighter. More agile than brute force, I wager. It's hard not to notice the line of his muscles through the shirt he wears. He'd be a tempting catch, right up my alley. But...again, I just don't have the efforts in me. Well, ignoring the fact we're technically on opposite warring sides. I doubt he'd be extending such kindness if he knew the truth.

Tharja's gaze darkens as she stares at me in disapproval. "Don't. He's too attached to his mother. It's an embarrassment."

I offer a playful nudge with my elbow, and my defense of him only makes her scowl deepen. "Nothing wrong with a man who loves his mother."

Tharja's gaze drops, her hair obscuring her face like a dark curtain. "You're too nice. Don't be so optimistic about strangers."

Before I can answer her, a loud crash of furniture erupts behind us. I swivel around to see two men on the far off side of the room throwing punches at each other amidst the cheers of their friends. From their staggering gaits and far reaching swings, I'd say they were pretty far gone in terms of drunkenness. The activity causes a nearby server, one of Rosemere's girls, to go running into the back with skirts flying around her, a stream of Rosannese words filling the air around her.

Lost in the scene, I almost do not feel the slight prick at my skin from the back of my skull. It's just enough to irritate me, and I grasp at the back of my head in reflex. All I find is a handful of hair.

"Sorry," I hear Tharja say behind me. Turning, I see a few of my plucked strands rolling between her fingers. "Something in your hair."

"Uh huh," I say. I know Tharja from the games. I know her type of magic. Any other place or time, I would have called suspicion on her. But, I can't. I'm not supposed to know she's a Grimleal or a traitor in disguise. And that...that dampens the mood. A lot.

I won't lie. I've grown rather fond of this charade we've all unwittingly thrown ourselves into. Regardless of Tharja's feelings about me, it's becomes more apparent that she's invited my presence with open arms mostly out of loneliness. We have actual conversations that are far from the stalking obsession game-Tharja portrayed. It's even more obvious when she comes up with as many excuses as she needs to keep me around longer, especially when she's on the training grounds. I think even her own Grimleal cohorts ignore her. Which is good as that will make recruiting her later all the easier.

With my lingering at the training grounds, my appearances have become a begrudging acceptance around the others. Perhaps too accepting. Vasto's soldiers are made up of farmers from between the ages of fifteen and twenty-five, with the exception of the married couple. The soldiers who I encountered in the battle at the pass were the older, experienced warriors. Vasto claims they left to do 'volunteer work for the Count.' That they were the type who would rather fight than patrol. In essence, a thinly veiled excuse to cover that his more blood-thirsty folk would rather see battle than put up with whatever task was currently being handled here.

It hurts to know I had a hand in the fate of his missing soldiers. He doesn't seem to miss them on a personal level, but he is as Tharja said, a loyal man. He keeps an eye on the horizon, though less so as the weeks wear on. I wonder if the stoic sense of acceptance settling over his people are any way close to that of my own. Did the Shepherds ever carry the same looks, before I sent my letter? Was I, even for a short time, dead in their eyes? I can't imagine the pain my disappearance might have wrought on them. If it's anywhere near the same as my own, I can only pray they're quick to forgive me when I return.

My grin falters and I turn to look into the lifeless broth settling in the bottom of my bowl. As poor of a decision as it is for me to have gotten so close to Tharja and her whole band, it was something I did for my own sanity. The loss of the Shepherds has left a gaping whole in my existence. Without them...without him...I-

The sudden appearance of a giant plate of smoking food slamming down in front of my breaks the somber gloom plaguing me mood. I almost fall from my chair as the plate rattles loudly, sending a few carrots rolling off the edges. Vasto's body stands between Tharja and I with two meals set in an aggressive presentation before us. His sharp eyes flicker over my face before darting to Tharja.

"There, don't say you can't come to training tomorrow," Vasto says, stepping back from us.

"I didn't ask for this," Tharja replies, her blank stare offering no thanks for his financial sacrifice to her well being.

The two start to bicker in their usual petty fashion. I find myself unable to watch, still struck by the fact that he actually bought me dinner. Vasto and I are nowhere close to the same level of camaraderie Tharja and I struck up in such a short time. I still hated his guts for the next few days after our first meeting. I mean, he is an enemy boss from the game, for goodness sake! I should have just stuck to hating him.

Yet, even he grew on me as I spent my days hanging around the grounds. I won't lie, his wyvern is adorable. Needle and I, we got a thing going on. It's rare for a wyvern to even bond to their rider on an emotional level. Needle, however, seems to perk up whenever I'm around. Even more now that I've been bringing him bits of jerky as snack. I guess the wyvern's immediate affections were enough to convince his rider that I'm not just some down-on-her-luck traveler. This begrudging acceptance we've established allows for small talk between drills that usually doesn't end in one of us arguing with the other.

I push the plate back, fishing at the clasps of my travel pouch for what meager reserves of currency I have. "This is too expensive for me to take from you for no reason. Let me at least pay you back."

Vasto and Tharja pause their fighting to look at me. The captain raises a hands and rubs it over the length of his face, breathing heavily. Now both of us are arguing his charity and he's about to lose his patience over it. "Last I saw, you were out of a job, Canada. You don't have the funds to toss around."

"I'm not destitute, I have savings," I lie. Anything I have is borrowed from Vaike's family, all of which will be paid back with interest. This is a promise I made to them and myself.

"My idiot wyvern is getting thick around sides with all the food you keep bringing him," Vasto says. He juts a thumb in Tharja's direction, "I'm pretty sure you were going to pay for her meal too, ain't I right?"

Tharja, having realized no mention of payment for food had been made since coming here, looks at me with wide eyes. Okay, so maybe I might have signaled Rosemere to put both our meals on my running tab here.

...

I really am getting soft for a group of Plegians. Hells.

"If you're going to be a charity basket, you're gonna need money to do that" he persists.

I try to push the plate away, despite the steaming contents making my stomach grumble. "Yeah, but -"

"Crivens, just take it!" Vasto growls, slamming his hand down in the path to block my plate. He glares me down until I retract the dinner, then steps back and shakes his head. "I thought women liked it when a man buys 'em dinner."

"We don't fraternize with fellow soldiers," Tharja says, jabbing a fork in the center of the duck breast on her plate. "And Robin looks like she knows better than to be wooed for an easy lay."

Vasto buries his face in his hand, breathing out through his nose. "Tharja, your attitude is a problem."

Tharja sneers into her food. "I didn't ask to join your band of fighters. I was fine on my own. If the - "

She chokes. Vasto and Tharja both cast a guilty eye on me, quieting immediately. I stare back with my fork partially hanging out of my mouth. Chances are, Tharja almost said something she shouldn't. About her Grimleal orders, perhaps? Either way, I pull a blank face and diffuse the situation with a little humor.

I swallow the mouthful and pat round my chin in earnest. "What? Something on my face?"

Tharja jerks her head to the side, a dark plum tinge dusting her pale cheeks. Vasto just sinks further into his hand, squinting at the floor with no particular interest.

"You're...fine," Tharja mumbles, burying herself between her shoulders

"Riiiiight," I drawl. I pick up my utensil and poke around a few vegetables. Being an outsider in their eyes has offered me a warmer perception, unlike any Ylisseans I've seen them encounter. Even still, they would never go so far as too threaten their cover.

"Look," Vasto says, breaking the silence, "you're down on your luck, without friends, and stuck in this shithole. Life ain't easy. But, if it really bothers you that much, just pay me back if things change. You know where to find me. You visit the fields every day already."

"Not for you," Tharja quips from beside him.

"I didn't say that." Vastos's teeth are grinding down by the second.

I dig a fork in the steaming duck breast on my plate. The meat gushes with the aromatic juices it cooked in. I jab a hastily cut piece in my mouth and wag my fork at that. "Food's good," I shout over them both, trying to end the petty argument.

The duo blinks in my direction, words lost at the sudden outburst.

"You done?" I ask, hoping they feel as juvenile as they look.

"Fuck me," Vastos's face, from the tips of his ears to the hollow of his throat, grow red. He throws up both hands and stomps away. "Just enjoy your damn meal."

"All it takes is a word, and he runs off that easy?" Tharja shakes her head, pressing her fingers to her forehead. "He's so obvious it's embarrassing."

"About?" Tharja looks at me like I grew another head. She starts to say something, and changes her mind upon seeing my smirk. "I'm joking, Tharja. It's flattering, I think? Though clearly, he's trying to repress it."

"I'm not going to say that he's a bad idea," Tharja pushes away her untouched plate and sets the utensils aside. Folding her hands in her lap, she leans in face to face in order to whisper between us, "but if you are thinking about it, he's a terrible idea."

"Why?" I say, genuinely curious for her reasons.

She leans back, stoic in posture and tone. "I'm a better option."

I blink, not expecting such a candid declaration.

"It's a joke." She continues to say in the same monotonous tone, before adding with a tiny smirk, "Probably."

"Noted," I say, "Probably."

I'm rewarded with a rare chuckle of approval from Tharja. It fades as quick as it comes, and she's serious once more. "I mean it, don't get involved with him. Or, any of them, for that matter."

"Is it because you're hired mercenaries? I heard from other locals many soldiers here are foreign hires. Hired help bought in loyalty by gold only," I ask her.

"You could say that," she mumbles.

I rest my chin against my palm and watch her. "Are you always this mysterious?"

Tharja glances to the side, then quickly away. She chews on her lip a moment in thought. "It's...best not to make things complicated."

A set of frantic shouts put us on alert. This doesn't sound like any argument. There's more vitriol in the exchange than I'm used to. Near the inn's entrance, a set of dirt-covered miners are pressed toe-to-toe with some off-duty guards. Both parties have their hands on swords, picks, and anything else within grasp. They're shouting over seating privileges or some such nonsense. Either way, things gets worse when a guardsman taking a sucker punch to the jaw. After that, all hell breaks loose.

Rosemere comes running from her kitchen, silver hair a web of chaos around her face. She swings her pan around at whomever gets it her way as she fights to reach the brawl.

"Mes dieux! You idiots! Not again! Saree, tu emmènes tes sœurs a la cuisine!" She shrieks in her native language, ushering her children toward the back. When a piece of china smashes near her feet, tufts of hair come out by the roots in her hands. "Ma porcelaine! Arrêtez!"

"The miners are fighting us again," my companion says with a bitter edge. "They really do hate us."

"Why?"

"Take your pick. Curfews, overworking, poor representation. The Count is no fan of the lower classes, and they're no fan of us taking their resources and jobs," Tharja explains.

"Should we do something?" I say.

Tharja starts to answer, but the gruff shout of her name from the back interrupts her. Her looks sour, and she shrinks into her cloak. "Drat."

Vasto rushes up to Tharja, barking orders at her hunched form. "Tharja! I need you in the back. We'll need to use those spells of yours!"

"Oh joy, I'm needed," Tharja sulks.

Vasto breaks from his directions to offer me his own special orders. "Canada, stay back in the corner will you? Leave this to the- "

One of the brawlers catches sight of Vasto's guard uniform and turns his aggression on him. He lets out a slurred threat that turns into a war cry. Vasto rolls his eyes and plants himself firm to a stance that allows him to brace for their tussle.

Standing halfway between them, the challenger will have to run past me. Seeing the overturned chair next to me, I wait until the man is close, then react. Hooking my ankle through the lower supports of the chair, I swing my body to the side and send the piece rolling along the floor. The chair intercepts the man's path and tangles up in his legs to create a tumbleweed of human limbs. He somersaults to the side and lands in curled position nursing the kneecap he landed on.

Threat eliminated, I puff out my chest and beam at Vasto. "What was that again?"

Vasto's gape of surprise turns into grin of approval. "Should have remembered a soldier's daughter would know how to handle her own."

"Just a thing or two." I point to the newcomer over his shoulder. "Behind you."

The newest brawler joins the fray with fists swinging wide. My forewarning gives Vasto enough time to turn and drop his torso low enough to avoid the first punch. Vasto curls and thrusts a fist into the man's sternum with enough force to draw a rush of air from him. The man doubles over and falls to his knees, in perfect alignment with the top of Vasto's incoming knee. His head snaps all the way back and he falls to the ground, out cold.

"Thanks, Canada." Vasto cracks the knuckles on his dominant hand, a wolfish grin of victory claiming his features. There's a dangerous gleam in his eye, one I see often in those who enjoy a good fight. He turns to take on another fighter, stopping to yell back to me, "Your turn. To the left!"

I see the blur of a human form from the corner of my eye. Battle instincts kick in. These are not soldiers, and I doubt they have weapons. These workers are all in physical labor, so all they need are their fists. That's enough for me to know the incoming attacker is winding up a punch of his own. I drop to the ground, feeling the rush of air overhead. I kick out my left leg and catch the weak area behind his knee. The point of my boot digs into the softest part and his leg buckles.

I grab at a discarded serving tray and pull it all the way back over my shoulder. My torso springs around, the wooden tray a battering ram to his face. I catch one glimpse of his surprised expression before the heavy board connects to his nose with a crunch.

"Sorry! Just sleep off the pain!" I yell. Dropping the impromptu weapon, I let him crawl away, one hand trying to stifle the blood pouring from his nose. I jump up myself and back up toward the only safety I know; Vasto.

He ducks under a plate-turned-frisbee. When he pops back up, Vasto scowls at me in disbelief. "Don't apologize to them! This is a bar fight!

"I didn't mean to get dragged into taking a side!" I try to rationalize. We stand back to back, surveying for more attackers in the mob around us. The tavern doors are wide open and the fight has spilled into the streets. This is not how I envisioned my afternoon! I already had enough drama today!

The sound of running feet thunders beside us. Two inebriated revelers, one already sporting a black eye, run side by side at us. Vasto grabs my shoulder and shoves me behind to take the full brunt of their strength.

A touch of the arcane cools the air and draws my eye to the left. A sheen of near imperceptible green glimmers over a table. The four legs scratch along the surface, as if testing its own weight. Then, in a flash of igniting magic, the furniture turns, hovers in mid-air, then strikes the two men coming toward us. They crash into several bags of flour resting against the wall. The cloud that erupts blinds us in a cough-inducing haze. It affords us a moment of peace, allowing Vasto and I to seek shelter behind the bar.

Out of the cloud, a shadow follows us. Waving away the white dust, Tharja emerges with threads of wind magic still clinging to her hand. She lowers the napkin covering her mouth. "Are you alright, Robin?"

"Fine," I manage to rasp between coughs. Tharja steps over and proceeds to look me over, ignoring Vasto. He watches her continue to fuss over me despite my protests, agitation growing until he can't hold it in any longer

"Now you feel like helping?" he says.

"Yes," she state in plain admission. She rubs at a stain of powder on my cheek, making my skin burn.

"I appreciate the attention, Tharja, but we're all in this fight."

Tharja hums in disappointment, the raspy glum intentional. She wants Vasto to know she'll back him up, begrudgingly.

"Maybe I'll hire you on after this, Canada. You're doing a better job giving her orders than her own captain."

"Well, Captain," Tharja says, pointing toward the doorway, "here's a word of warning."

We follow her direction to see five individuals in light armor. Two are already engaged with members of Vasto's troop. They all sport weapons.

"Swords in a fist fight?" I pout. "That's not how bar fights go!"

Vasto squints at the man in the center issuing orders. His eyes widen in recognition, then his face sets in one of pure disgust. His hand goes to the sword at his side and he grits through clenched teeth, "Errod."

"Who?" I look between them for an answer.

The two men lock eyes and sparks ignite. Vasto's sword slides from its sheath in unison with the other man's, equal contempt written on both men's faces.

"Errod ain't here for the thrill of the fight," Vasto hisses. "He's here for blood. Probably set the damn thing up!"

"Tharja, move!" I yell in warning before pushing her aside. Mages have no place in close quarters combat.

We take shelter further back and watch more armed fighters jump into the fray. Whoever they are, the ragtag fighters sport the colors of Arcos, but no mascot on the heraldry. Vasto bursts forward and meets the man named Errod halfway. The sound of metal clashing causes a pause in most of the fighting around us. Many of those fighting earlier drop their guard and make an immediate scramble for the tavern entrance. Those who remain, Vasto and Tharja's people, scramble to regain a footing as more of Errod's fighters swarm the area.

"You two! Hurry!" I hear one of Tharja's people call out to us. The friendly one from earlier is beckoning us over in haste. She ushers us back behind the bar to take cover with a few of the serving staff too far from the entrance for escape.

"Serrin, what just happened?" I say, my mind still in a whirl from the sudden events.

Serrin glares down the attackers and presses a thumb to the side of her nose, a common swear gesture many South coast folk use. "Surely you've heard of Errod. One o' the the crime lords in town. He don't like the Count, nor 'is guard. No doubt takin' advantage o' the chaos to cause as much damage as he can 'fore the rest o' the guard show up."

"Right arse, that 'un," her husband shouts behind her, repeating the same gesture on the nose. Unable to use his bow in close quarters, he looks awkward and unsure with sword in hand.

"He might have planned this. If not, he was waiting for it. Most of the guard is out with the logging camp. The barracks are in the castle," Tharja explains to me.

"Enough time for a lot o' damage to 'appen, that's for sure." Sirrin ducks underneath the spinning head of a throwing ax. It lands with a shattering blow against the wall behind her. She cusses out loud and scrambles back down.

I turn my head to Tharja. "How often is this happening?"

"More often than before. Ever since the Count announced he was hosting the Court. The various crime holds have been attacking more because of all the supplies coming in for the Count's moronic ball. Though for Errod, he attacks us personally."

"My dining hall!" I hear Rosemere shriek as she comes back out if the kitchen, armed to the teeth in combative cookware.

"Ah, hells! The Captain's at it with Errod," someone from another guard unit yells.

"Looks like we're spilling blood today!" Someone else jeers.

This... this is just not my day. Gotta defuse the situation somehow. I can't think of anything if I'm hiding down here though. Where can I find a better vantage point? Somewhere to survey the room. Wait, what am I even looking for? The bar is right in front of me! That's perfect!

I hook one arm around the top of the counter and pull my torso up. Half of my face peeks out over the top checking for any danger. With the coast clear, I move further out. I raise one leg and manage to get my knee over the lip of the bar top. I push the rest of my torso up and over, rolling on to my back.

I feel a tug on the hem of my coat. "What are you doing?" Tharja asks me.

"Planning," I reply.

The room is a mess. Half of the tables have been turned leaving a slick mess of food and broken plates over the floor. Chairs have flown in all directions leaving a haphazard maze of disasters waiting to happen. One asshat in the back is actually hanging on to an overhead light, kicking out at whomever she's next to.

Errod's people look to be overcoming the numbers of the guard here. Wearing red ties around their heads, it's easy to see they keep entering the bar as normal patrons fight to get out. Every one comes in armed, leaving the guards here to pull their own weapons in self-defense. I see blood, but no one has succumbed to wounds. The rabble-rousers don't appear to be seasoned fighters. From those I've encountered so far, they look to be no more than your average working class citizen. Numbers are their only advantage.

"Hold out, Cap'n! Nieve's gone for help!" Someone shouts to their officer.

The leader, Errod, leaps on a table and holds his sword overhead. "Hear that? We have fifteen minutes to take out as many of these villains as we can! Have at them!"

A cheer goes up, and the fighting renews harder than before. Errod's goal isn't theft. It's murder. I notice that he's only attacking three of the four battalions previously here, with brutal aggression no less. His men are actually trying to push the other team out toward the doors. My only guess is that he's singling out the so called 'mercenary guards' the Count has been favoring. He might even know they're Plegian. Too little to go on. Only thing I can surmise for sure is that these guys are here to cause as much damage as they can. Simple tactic. Strike hard and fast before disappearing wherever they came.

These idiots definitely have no plan. While there's a split in the action on both sides of the room, a heavier number of fighters are on the left wall where Vasto and two other captains are fighting. Errod is doing his best to press into the trio as hard as he can, not realizing he's dragged his people away from the exit and pressed their backs to it. If the strike was swift enough, it would be easy to box him in to the back of the building.

My eyes dance over the room taking in structures and figures, crunching ideas at a rapid pace. Tables there overturned so...Can't use the sconce but on the ceiling..?...Hm.

Leaping off the bar top, Tharja watches me rush by her and stand at an angle from the madness occurring before me. "Where are you going?"

Raising my hands in two "L" shapes, I press them together and shift them before my face. I survey them across the action, take two steps left, and resume testing angles. If I moved that there and press them back to the corner...

"Canada, get outta there!" Art yells while yanking me back at the collar of my coat.

I stumble behind him, propping myself up against the wall for support. "Look, I've got an idea -"

"We 'ave to get to the cap'n! Move, Art," his wife yells.

"Tharja, get a spell workin' or somethin'!"

The mage watches the couple run into the fray with not a muscle budging. "Sure," she answers, content to watch the chaos.

"Hey, I have a..." I trail off knowing full well nobody is going to answer. Why would they? I'm a civilian, and this isn't my team. Not used to that. I work out my arm muscles, then pat my cheeks to work some blood in them. "I'm doing this alone, I guess."

"What are you doing now?" Tharja says, trailing after to me.

I roll up my sleeves, the fresh pink of my skin something I can happily flaunt. "I have a plan."

She follows me to where one of two long tables sit neglected. While askew to its original position, the hefty piece of woodwork stands strong against those pushing up on it. A relic of Rosanne, the hand carved banquet table has a top width taller than the average man. They did some serious feasting in that country, according to Virion. Food preparation, poetic acting, and the occasional duel make these tables veritable obstacles to overcome, especially in a fight. Tipped over it can be just the blockade I need to prevent a direction of escape.

I'll worry about tipping it over after I align this right. Pressing my hands to the lacquered surface, I anchor my heels and push.

"Holy..." I turn around and press my lower back to the table for extra weight leverage. My feet skid against the floor in useless motions trying to push the thing.

"Damn it! This piece of...too...heavy! Piece of shi – OW!" I yelp, slipping on a puddle of soup. In true comedic fashion, I slip back in a jumble of limbs. My head catches the edge of the table, causing me to grab it with both hands. I hiss through my teeth in pain.

Overhead, Tharja looks down on me. The bemused smirk on her face matches the coy tease of her words. "Need help?"

I flinch."Yes...please."

Magic activates around her in a dense wave of power. I find it comparable to Ricken in terms of raw strength. "Tell me where you want it."

I roll onto my knees, pointing to the wall. "I need this aligned directly with the south wall, pressing that end to it. Think of it like a really big blockade."

Tharja's wind tome is back out and primed for spell casting. Magic ignites around her hand. It whistles in from behind her, drawing from the outside. Her spell wafts forward in small, spiraling waves, each pressing against the heavy long table. The angled corner towards us jerks then scrapes in a guttural screech over the floor. The slow grind of wood over wood is obnoxious to the ears.

Tharja's brow is furrowed in concentration, her question strained from her efforts. "What's the point of this?"

I run up to her side and start pointing out for her all the aspects of my idea. "Errod is so consumed with fighting he doesn't know he's brought his fight deep into the back. He's got his back to the wall. Remember all the decorations on the wall? They're all from the past adventurers of Rosemere's husband. And if you come here and look up..."

Tharja's eyes flicker just quick enough toward the ceiling before returning to her concentration. "A fishing net?"

I bring my palms together in a loud smack that demonstrates my point. "The ends are weighted. If that falls on you, better believe it will take five men to get it off. The dear, departed captain of this inn's inspiration fished iron crabs from the Burning Bay. You know how big those get."

The table and wall connect which ends the hard part of her task. Tharja lifts both hands and thrusts them upward. Her lips press so hard they disappear together under the quiet exertion she uses to lift the table. The furniture rumbles in place, fighting her magic. Just when I think it's futile, Tharja's whole forms lurches forward in one great step. The table flips as if a tornado like wind threw it aside.

"Tharja!" The mage staggers back in a faint causing me to run behind her. She collapses in my arms, the stinging cold of her wind magic still clinging to her hands.

"You okay?" I ask while helping her stagger away. I keep one arm around her waist while I pull her over to a dining chair.

"I'm fine," she utters under her hood. I try to help her ease into the seat, but she continues to cling to me. Her eyes flutter in an attention-seeking way. "I'd be better if you would hold me a bit longer."

I loosen my grip on her, feeling her sink toward the dirty floor. "Tharja, I will drop you."

She sighs in disappointment and stands with no problem. Tharja dusts off the front of her outer garment, then proceeds to fluff her hair. "Fine, then."

Did she...fake that? God help me, this woman is something.

Tharja's looks over her handiwork, then to the fighting. "Errod's men are not far enough under your net. If it drops, it will miss."

I walk around, already preparing myself for the next part of my plan. For the sake of her curiosity, I gesture to rack of ale tuns towering over the fight. "Nothing a good set of rolling kegs can't handle to push 'em back. Can't go forward, can't go to the side. They'll be boxed under it and caught when I cut it loose."

Tharja folds her arms, appraising the shelves with doubt. "You really think that can work?"

"I have to try something!"

"What about our fighters?" She calls after me.

I walk backward and press my hands together in prayer. "You mind playing the bearer of bad news? Please and thank you, Tharja!"

Tharja rolls her eyes and sulks in her familiar way, but changers course for her people. Parting ways, I rush back to the bar. Climbing up on it once more, I take the daunting task of running the length of it. The bar curves at the end to meet the wall. That's where I need to get to. Exposed as I am, I might as well have a target on my back. This is crazy, but when have I ever let that stop me? I suck in a dizzying amount of air, fists forming at my sides. I shift from one foot to the other, testing my weight. Alright, all set?

GO!

My boots are a thundering echo over the fighting. Each pound of my heel against the wood bends it inward. The bodies of combatants blur together on my right. The long row ahead of me seems to stretch on an endless road in the spans of my imagination. Ahead, light from the overhead candelabra slices across the edge of blade. The arc of its swing intercepts my path and forces me to leap over it. I hold my breath tight in my lungs when the sword cuts beneath me. It expels in a blast of air as I land with both feet pressed down in my crouched position. The pewter plate I land on cracks in the middle, the mash of whatever on it squishing up under my heels. The disgust of it breaks my focus for a second, allowing my face to screw up in revulsion. "Gross!"

The exclamation catches the attention of the man fighting beside me. Fearing an attacker from behind, he whirls around with sword raised. His brown eyes, filled with malice, rake over me. As fierce as it once burned, the rage is gone and replaced with confusion.

"Robin?" Vasto reels back in bewilderment, my real name spilling out for once.

I pick up a shard of the plate from beneath me and whip it past his face, momentarily stunning his opponent behind him. "Watch out for kegs rolling. Keep your people to the west side of the building."

"The hells are you -" Vasto's question is left unanswered when he spins around to continue the renewed press of the man attacking him.

My palms, slick with sweat, are thankfully able to get traction because of my gloves. I scramble on all four to regain momentum in my run. Pressing off the wood, I push myself upright and approach the bend in the counter space. Whipping around the end, I throw myself forward. My back is pressed flush the building's wall, chest heaving as I try to catch my breath. Even after all my battles, the frantic thumping of my heart is still unpleasant. I afford myself the luxury of a few seconds before turning to the rack of ale tuns.

The casks are stacked to the ceiling and held in place by a simple shelving system. I've seen these in the castle at Ylisstol. Three rows high, the contents are held in place so long as each shelf remains locked. If any of the levers on the side are pushed down, a ramp releases to allow the kegs to be rolled down. Typically ropes secure any of the unneeded storage so they aren't all released at once. Trust me, no one wants four tuns rolling down after them all at once. Well, usually. Today is not that day.

"Okay, just a simple leap. I got this."

Swinging my arms back and forth at my sides, I crouch at the knees. One. Two. Three!

I leap across the short distance, fingers and toes searching for holds to grab onto. I manage to swing an arm through one of the supports and edge a boot on a lower one. Taking a moment to reorient myself, I look over the chaos. At the far end, I see Tharja pulling at Vasto. She points over at me hanging from the side of the storage unit. I raise a hand and salute them both, causing Vasto's jaw to drop.

He shouts something over the space, but it's drowned out in the fighting. Wasting no more time, I find a firm grasp and scale the side of the shelves. Reaching almost the ceiling, I can feel the tremors from the floor running up the side. This thing is too heavy to collapse or sway, but it still feels disconcerting. My left hand manages to flop over the top of the stand. I pat around under the fibrous strings of rope scrape the underside of my palm. Gripping it firm, I use it to pull myself up. With little space to bargain with, I can only move on my hands and knees. I crawl towards the front edge and find the first cords securing the tuns in place. I fumble at my waist until I pull out the only source of self-defense I have; a borrowed dagger from Vic. The edge is serrated and made for cutting through various materials he encounters as a logger. Perfect for severing the ropes here.

I press the knife's edge to the first cord and start to saw away at it. Sweat starts to form across my brow, the speed at which I'm cutting an exhausting strain on my arm. One by one the rope frays until it separates with a resounding snap. The keg beneath me shutters as it hits the edge of the raised bar holding it in place, before bouncing back. With one rope down, I got a few more to work through. It's impossible to keep an eye for my own safety, so I'm working blind. My arm has gone from numb to just feeling like jelly. All the force is coming from my shoulders, and the dull aching settling in grows with each of the motions.

When the file restraint snaps, I could almost cry. The structure I'm on groans with the full weight of its cargo pressed forward against the metal bar holding them. I feel myself start to lean forward with the shift in equilibrium.

"Hey! What's she doing?"

I'm surprised it took so long to notice me! Not that it matters. My work is done!

Crawling back along the top, I notice out of the corner of my eye that the fighting has paused at the sounds of the massive keg stand. Vasto has his people subtly moving back from their aggressors. Not enough to look like a retreat, but the extra inches will give them a head start to running.

Reaching the edge, I slide my legs over the side and let them dangle. Oof. That is a ways down. Luckily, all I have to do is activate the lever aligned with the row I'm over. I press the soles of my boots against the release and flash the crowd a big smile.

"Ah, piss," I hear one of the men below say.

Indeed, my friend.

I push with all my remaining strength. Gears crack and whir with the downward snap of the lever. The bar across the top retracts and the ramp releases. There's single breath that is held in unison throughout the room as all eyes watch the tuns teetering in place. The shelf groans in relief as four tuns of ale tip down the slope, the wood creaking into a terrifying roar of wood.

Vasto and a few others give Errod's people a shove so they stumble back against the wall. Disengaged, the two parties scramble in separate directions to avoid the parade of alcohol cruising through the inn's dining room. Somewhere in the background, Rosemere wails in horror as her hall succumbs to madness. Vasto's soldiers are all free of their path, though a handful of Errod's escape as well. That's fair. My quarry was the leader himself. But now is not time to rest! I still have one step left to do, and those kegs will finish rolling by shortly!

The fishing net is tied above my head. The weights still attached to the ends means I can do with severing three of the four ropes. The last should snap on its own from lack of supports. No better time than the present. My knife flashes into action again, cutting away at the first suspension line running between the bar and keg stand's space. The first cut makes a bite through the rope, but the center continues to resist against my cutting. I try to work harder, but it only becomes more difficult the longer I try. These ropes are the same as the ones I cut before, so what's the problem?

Ah, I see.

Slight miscalculation. I never factored in my own human capabilities. I'm fatigued. There's no way I can cut as fast as I did. Shit! I could use magic if I had a tome, but that's out of the question! What to do? What to do?

Magic? Tharja!

Hanging tight to my line, I angle myself out and balance against the structure. I call out over the rumbling of tuns. "Tharja! I can't do this alone! I need the suspension lines severed!"

Tharja catches my eye over the floor. She nods and backs up, pulling a tome from under her cloak. Tharja slips a finger through the pages and opens it to a bookmarked page. Nestling it in the crook of her arm, she raises the other and spreads her fingers out. Green runes circle around her summoning, spinning in place until her power builds. They shatter outward and form a sickle shaped projection. Tharja aims her spell at the closest suspension and lets it go. The projectile is a sparkling guillotine of wind magic. Its razor edge strikes the rope and cuts through it with little resistance. The netting sags, one of the weighted ends coming down and knocking candles out of a candelabra nearby.

A cheer lingers on the tip of my tongue, but it falls into a muffled yelp as something whistles past my ear. Turning my head, I see the head of an arrow sticking in the wall.

Down below, the resistance members have figured out my ploy. Errod himself has a bow in hand, the arrowhead notched and aimed right at me! I have little balance already leaning as I am. I have no time to dive the other way. I wrap both arms tight around the suspension rope I've been cutting into and lean my body all the way against it. My foot slips out from under me and I garble out a shriek of surprise. My remaining leg wraps around the rope and I fall until I'm hanging upside down. The arrow that had been aimed at me plants itself in the wall where I formerly stood.

I had been afraid that the rope would have unraveled. However, my cutting did not sever it enough to fully do so. No, it's my weight that causes alarm, suspended like I am. The addition of my weight, along with the sudden pull against it, causes the anchors in the ceiling to come undone. The wood around the metal piece splinters, causing the rigidity of the rope to sag. I fall a short distance, watching the anchor piece separate from the ceiling in a maddening pace.

"Canada! Let go!"

Over my shoulder, I see Vasto below with his arms open. Is he going to catch me? There's something ironic in the fact I'm trusting a former enemy to break my fall. Oh well. It's that, or let this suspension take me right into the path of the netting. Pressing my eyes shut, I brace myself for the worst and let go.

The fall feels longer than it truly is. Just enough time to hear the wind rushing in my ears and to feel my heart swallowed into the pit of my stomach. The impact of our two bodies colliding is a jarring snap against my spine and ribs. The breath inside my lungs leaves me completely and I'm left gasping. I'm only further disoriented when I feel my body swung around and pulled at a rapid speed.

There's a loud crash at the edge of my frayed rationality. Lots of voices rise up, some in cheers and others in cussing bellows. My body comes to a rest and settles against the inn's floor. The end of a spoon pushes into my upper back, but I'm otherwise in one piece. Given the chance to breath, I let out everything I had been holding in. My eyes flutter open, the pale light of a half lit candelabra swinging overhead.

"Fuck," I murmur, testing the weight of my arm. Ow, I am sore.

Vasto leans over me, the light from above darkening his face, though not to the point I can't see the features on it. Blood dribbles over his left eyebrow and down to his cheek where a fresh cut swells. He's frowning, the wrinkles deepening as he scrutinizes me.

"What in the seventh hell was that stunt?" Vasto utters, torn between sounding angry and awed.

"Take out the leader," I sputter, coughing between chuckles, "and you blow the morale of the group. Thought I should end it before things got bloody."

"No wonder you lived among the Risen so long. You're crazy enough to do that, then..." Vasto runs a hand through his hair. He looks back over his shoulder, then back down at me. "Get your bearings, Canada. I gotta deal with this mess."

He steps away, only to pause and grimace. Placing a hand against his shoulder, he pulls it away from a blossoming spot of red. I don't think he intends for me to hear this, but very clearly, under his breath, he utters, "Fucking Ylisseans."

My head falls back to the floor with a thump. Fucking Ylisseans, huh? I wonder, Vasto, what happened in your past to make you hate them so. Was your family affected by the last Exalt's crusade? Your village? This violence runs so deep. At this point, I doubt anyone was spared some impact of this cultural feuding.

"Well, lookit that."

A hand claps down on my shoulder. I follow up the length of its arm to the shoulder. "Art?"

"Should 'ave listened to ya in the first place, foreigner. If I'd a known you 'ad a plan that entertain' to watch, I'd 'ave jumped right along with ya."

"No, ya wouldn't 'ave." Sirrin slides up behind him and yanks his ear in affection. He rubs at the reddened cartilage, but laughs at her. Sirrin slides over to where Tharja rests against the bar. "Tharja, come on over 'n get a pat on the back."

Tharja is huddled into her cloak and submerged from sight as far as possible. I can almost hear the animalistic hiss in her voice as she leans away. "No. No patting."

Respecting her space, I throw her a thumbs up. "Thanks for the help, Tharja."

Tharja perks up at my voice, her demeanor softening. "You're not injured, are you? I have a vulnerary to spare."

I massage the space over my left arm. "Nah, just sore. Save it for someone who needs it."

Next to us, the guard are attending to the captured men. They extract Errod's people one by one. The primary instigator, Errod himself, is already bound and kneeling before Vasto and the others captains. On a closer look, Errod doesn't seem like the type to be causing trouble. He's an average sized man, neither too lean nor too muscular. No marks of hardship or war mar his body. If anything, he looks more filled out than his compatriots. There's a care and detail to the fashioning of his hair and clothing, simple as they may be. Errod has even taken a fresh razor to his chin, something many of the working class here have rarely seen in months. Errod looks more like an aristocrat than a rebel.

One of the captains leans over Errod and grabs a fistful of his blonde hair. A cocky sneer of triumph plasters over the woman's face as she gloats over him. "Errod. Should have known. You've been stirring shit with the guard for months."

"Looks like your luck finally ran out," another taunts with boisterous laughter.

In answer, Errod whips his head to the side and spits at them, landing on the side of Vasto's boot. He backs up with grimace and wipes it across across the floor while the other captains laugh.

Vasto's crew is gathered beside us. I see Ranalph and Art talking under their breaths together.

"Good bounty on this one's head. Causin' us a mess o' trouble, that one," Ranalph says, nodding in approval.

I step back to Tharja's side and whisper between us. "What's his bounty on?"

"What all oppressed types do." Tharja waves her hands. "Pillage from the rich, give to the poor."

The 'guards' around me are busy congratulating each other with claps on the back and shaking hands. A few aggressive taunts rise from the back, jeering the captured men. Those here are taking the capture with a lot of celebration.

Contrary to the guard, the few civilians left watch with a somber quiet. The looks they cast the imprisoned are more out of pity and sadness. If he is some hero of the people, like Tharja said, this is a dark day for the public.

Begs the question, if he is so important to the masses, why would he pull such a reckless stunt? Sounds like he's been a pain in the Count's side for months. Someone that good would have approached this with more tact.

Errod holds his head up with dignity, staring down each leader in succession. "Tell me, how does it feel to be one of that traitor's loyal dogs? Slavering over his boots while he grinds us to dust beneath his heel? Do you feel proud knowing he hoards resources for himself while the rest of his domain works tooth and nail for the scraps of his table." Errod challenges them further. "I am the one who keeps the common folk alive. What do you do?"

The unknown male captain leans back on the pommel of his sword, smirking. "We protect you from all the monsters out there, of course."

One of Errod's men tries to stand, but is held down by two guards. Despite the resistance, he manages to shout his piece. "Like them farmers last month? Or them shepherds before that? Dumping the bodies on their widows' doorsteps cause it was too much an inconvenience to take them to the church for proper preparations? My brother deserved better!"

Another tries to stand, his voice joining the chorus of rising dissent. "What about the two not claimed by kin thrown in the ditch behind the pig pens?"

"What?" It sinks in, the depravity of their accusations. It's a cold shock of water in the face. Looking around, I see only truth in the Ylisseans here. They avert their eyes or mutter a silent prayer. "Tharja, is that -"

I can't finish the sentence. It's too cruel for me to utter those words. But, the guilt in her eyes is enough. And just like that, the harsh truth of the situation becomes evident. At the end of the day, these are still Plegians. Plegians who hate Ylisse.

"What happened to the bodies after we delivered them is out of our hands. If you had complaints, you should have brought it up at the monthly assembly," Vasto explains without an ounce of care. His neutral response is rehearsed. Even if he had no role in that decision, the lack of humanity he exhibits is just...

"Ah yes, the monthly assembly. The same function I was tasked with presiding over before my cohorts and I's abrupt removal. The same one all commoners are banned from attending, by the Count's own orders. Truly, they can be heard."

"Can someone take him in, please? My ears are going to bleed from such righteous garbage," the female captain complains. She stretches her arms overhead and yawns. "That fighting knocked all the booze right out of me. Damn."

"You think this will stop here? This is only the beginning! The nobility can hide behind their walls, but they cannot shut us out forever. There's a plague in these walls, mark my words!" Errod preaches as he is hauled to his feet and out the doors. There's a crowd at the inn's entrance watching the aftermath of the fight. Reinforcements from the barracks have arrived and control the crowd accordingly.

Wanting an unbiased opinion of things, I approach the innkeeper huddled behind the bar with her daughters. "Rosemere, who was just taken?"

Rosemere's hair is nothing but loose curls around her face. The hard lines of her skin draw a severe edge of anger to it. She continues to stroke through the hair her youngest, trying to soothe her fears.

"No one you should worry about," she says.

Noticing the wary eye she casts the guard, I switch to her native tongue. Virion has helped me greatly in improving fluency of the language, so the act of switching to Rosannese is not as cumbersome as it once was. "What about now? No one can understand us."

Rosemere pulls the shawl of her daughter tight around her shoulders. Patting her head a final time, the woman stands. Her accent is smooth and floral, as many describe Rosannese. "I told him not to do it. Silly man. Too righteous for his own good. He's helped us so much."

Being a foreigner herself and sharing a language has softened her guard around me. She has no problem continuing to speak freely of the man. "Errod is one of the count's old advisers. The guard say he's angry about losing his post to the new council that replaced him. They're only saying that because they work for the count. Things were not that bad before. Ever since the count disassembled his old council and stripped the prior nobility of their posts, things have been worse and worse for us. Then the guards were all replaced and, well...The Count was a greedy as any other before this, but now..."

"He's taking advantage of the war?" I surmise from her explanation.

Rosemere picks up a plate from the counter top. It crumbles at her touch, falling apart through her fingers. "I suppose so. Errod thinks the Count is playing two sides. Working for a foreign power. All this discord, and the dead that are walking, Naga bless me. An ill omen it is. We should be praying in these times, not taking advantage of each other."

A foreign power, huh? Errod doesn't know how right he is.

Rosemere's speech slips back into Ylissean, a frightening gleam in her eye. She wipes her hands through a nearby rag and slaps it down. "You'll have to excuse me, dear. There's a word I need to have in terms of compensation for my bar."

Rosemere hikes up her skirts and waddles toward the trio of captains. She shakes her finger at them yelling her demands. "You three! My tavern is ruined, again! I do not want someone to clean this, I want recompense for this madness! This is the third time you idiots have ruined my inn in your shenanigans!"

"Take it up with the Count," the female replies with a dismissive turn of her head. The unknown male ignores her completely having walked off midway through her rant.

Her finger wagging turning into a shaking fist and stamping foot. "I cannot, you louse! Did you not hear Errod? I have children to support you...you..."

Vasto looks ready to leave with the others, but his path is blocked when one of Rosemere's elder daughters crosses in front of him. She tries to pull her mother back, whispering urgent words in Rosannese begging her not to taunt the guard and become like Errod. The sight hits Vasto hard. Emotions flicker in rapid succession over his face, a pained one winning out. He hides his face behind a hand in thought, listening to the two argue.

It's when Rosemere pulls away to give chase that he takes action. Vasto steps in front of her to block her path. When she tries to move around him, he catches her by the arm. "Leave it, Rosemere. Close shop and reopen tomorrow."

"I cannot reopen tomorrow. I have no dining hall!" she glares at him. "How do I reopen when I have guests upstairs who have no food tonight?"

She snatches her arm away and gives him the eye of disappointment only a mother could. "You always treated the business and I better than the other guards the Count hired in. I cannot believe you agree with this madness. I thought you a better man."

She whirls around on her heel, gathering up her daughters like chicks to a mother hen. Vasto opens his mouth to say something, but thinks better of it. He tugs irritably at his sleeve, forcing himself to look away from her. He carries the faraway look of someone caught in their own memory.

"You should probably go," Tharja says behind me.

Seeing the aftermath of the scuffle, and knowing my own hand went into it, I feel my conscience urging for me to act. I pick up the broken half of a mug and turn it in my hands. "I could help -"

Vasto's voice carries between us, a hoarse command. "Tharja, go check in with Taleese. We got some scrapes you can heal up."

Tharja watches him in silence, gauging his sincerity. Feeling her eyes on him, Vasto's distracted gaze clears. "You need a bleedin' invitation? Move!"

A low whine of disapproval slips out of Tharja. She mutters something about a boar under her breath and sulks away, pausing beside me to utter a soft, "Farewell, Robin."

I barely manage to bid her goodbye when I find the broken shard in my hands pulled roughly away. Vasto throws it over his shoulder and it shatters further across the floor. I can smell the mixture of swear, leather, and alcohol on him. He looks terrible.

"Tharja's right. Not sure how you ended up in this backwater slum, but you should get out while you can," he tells me.

"This backwater slum is your home," I say, feigning surprise. It's a dangerous game to play, but calling people out on their bullshit just makes my day.

The man appears taken back by my blunt statement, but recovers quickly. "A means to an end, Canada. Don't go poking your nose any deeper than that."

It's a thinly veiled threat. Even if I didn't know his game, he'd be stupid to think I wouldn't question him about things. Even a foreigner isn't ignorant to basic human rights.

"Is what Errod said is true?" I wait for a response, but get none. The silence carries its own weight in evidence. It leaves me disgusted knowing the Count has been committing such atrocities in our country.

"I didn't think things were this bad. This isn't right," I say more to myself in reflection than conversation.

"Common decency seems to be lacking when a man is left to his own in these parts. Easy to forget morality when out of the Exalt's eye," he replies. Vasto kicks the broken remnants of glassware away from his foot. The act is more out of aggression than clearing space.

While I can't define it, there's something leaking through Vasto's rough facade. The extra bitterness in his last statement is enough for me to put together that he's been scarred by something in the past. If I had to bet my money, I'd say it was on the last Exalt's war. He acts like an absolute ass to all Ylisseans, don't get me wrong. However, he's quite different with Rosemere and I, refugees in a war torn front. He's looking out for us, helping us in his own surly way.

There's something still human in him under all the hate. An impossible thing to explain to an Ylissean. All Plegians are heretics, just as the inverse is all Ylisseans are zealots.

Yet, how can I overlook anything if such mistreatment is commonplace, like Errod's people say. Is it all the Count, and why is he betraying his own people? This goes beyond aligning with Plegia. He's acting just as biased against his own culture.

"I don't have anyone here in Arcos," I find myself saying.

"Yeah, and?" Vasto snaps at me.

"I could have ended up in that ditch just as easily."

He looks at me, long and hard. I see the process of the statement play out easily: first the awareness, then the dawning of understanding, the pain of conflict... That's the worst part of being human. You can thrive on negativity, defining your whole life around it. When something comes into play to make you see otherwise, that black and white are not the only ways to live, your function of reasoning breaks down. The sure cut paths you were meant to follow now have blockades. You have to make tougher choices. You're now responsible with living out the repercussions of your views in ways that weren't so tailored to this vision you once knew.

And, like most people, Vasto does not like this realization.

Vasto steps close and grabs my forearm, pushing me back towards the entrance of the inn. "Get outta here, Robin." He pauses, then adds, "I mean this town. Someone like you shouldn't be here."

I look him in the eye, my grip over his hand tight with conviction. "Do you want to be?"

Vasto pushes me back, hard. He releases his grasp and backs away. Breaking eye contact, a scowl plants on his lips. Vasto shambles away, back bent and arms pushed in the top of his belt. He barks out several orders to his soldiers, a sign business between us is done.

I push my way past the broken remnants of the inn, overcome by dizziness. The little bubble I've surrounded myself with has popped. Reality is a bitch, one whose bite is worse than its bark.

Mostly, it just hurts.

There's only a handful of people left around the inn when I leave. Those still curious are fighting against the guards milling about, so I slip away easily. The further away I walk, the heavier my feet drag. I curse myself for hoping today I could dig up some dirt on these people. I didn't get anything relevant. No, I got personal. That's a far more dangerous route to delve into. That's what breeds doubts, hesitance, and more.

I exit into center of the market district and notice Asche's tent is gone. Looking up and seeing the sun but a sliver on the horizon, it's safe to say they're back at Vaike's home. I'll have to head that way too. I'm just tired.

I take the shortest route back. Unfortunately, my mind is bogged down with anxieties I can't shake. It's a distraction that pesters me like the worst bugs do, just buzzing and stinging at my thoughts. I slap at my ears, covering them in hopes it would help somehow. All I get is pain and the rushing of blood over my skin.

I turn and press my back against the wall beside me. Cutting through this alley has drowned out most of the street noise. The sky is vast and far off over the thin crevice of fading sunlight above. I can already see the deep indigo bleeding into the reds and oranges of the sunset. Away from the outer stimuli, it helps clear my head. Enough that I can feel myself being trailed by something.

Someone, actually. Crossing my arms, I slump back and wait for my tag-along to appear.

"Your presence is in turmoil. What happened?" a familiar voice drifts in between my thoughts. Seconds later, the body it comes from materializes in full. The General observes me with a pensive watchfulness, preparing for any potential bad news afflicting my spirits. Lucky for him it's my own demons plaguing the air.

"Nothing for you to worry about," I say blindly waving him off.

The sound of his armor creaks and groans until I see the tips of his boots enter my vision. "You look terrible."

"Bar fight." I straighten up and display the beer soiled lining on the outside of my coat. "I was on the winning side. Got caught up with Tharja's people in a tavern spat."

"The Plegians?" he scoffs. "That is hardly what I would call the winning side."

"They're not...bad. Okay, they are. A few okay, most bad." He's got me there.

The General's only response is to shake his head. Pressing on with his business, he reaches into the folds of his cloak. He withdraws a loosely bound set of rolled scrolls and pushes them toward me. His voice betrays a hint of pride. "The task is done."

"What?" The thought of something going right today seems unbelievable. "Really?"

The stack of papers shake with insistence in his grip. "Yes. Truly."

He got the papers? No tricks? No harrowing escapades? No worries about the guard kicking my door open tonight in suspicion?

I feel the joy bubbling up inside of me. It rides through my diaphragm and exits my mouth in a loud whoop of victory. I punch into the air and jump with glee! I reach out and snatch them from the General's grasp like a kid given candy on Halloween. I sing him praises while attempting to unroll the parchment. "You are amazing! This will give us the edge we need!"

"It was not easy. The castle is on high alert. There are guard patrols everywhere. Our contact is restricted to the Count's personal quarters. He cannot leave."

That puts a damper on the mood. Remembering the fact that Xian'li hasn't been out to see his family in weeks is devastating to them. He does it by choice to employ the Count's trust as he knows how it can help us. He has been relaying information in secret hoping somehow the others could get the knowledge to Vaike. But to be away from your loved ones like that is just unimaginable.

"We're lucky. Xian'li is risking so much. It must be terrible to be locked up there unable to come down. I know he's doing it to maintain his position of trust, but that level of sacrifice is..." My voice catches in my throat. I've been saying that a lot lately. To adults and children. This is all unfair.

I roll up the papers and stuff them into the inner pockets of my coat. I do my best to avoid eye contact with the General, though that hardly helps the depressing knot sitting in my chest. "I'm sorry you have to go through all this."

"I do what I must for what little I have," the General says, plain and dry as the day itself.

What little he has...what he once did have... I talk about sacrifices, but here's an individual who has lost everything. He can barely cling to his children the way they are. How could someone like him have ended up with Grima? I wish he would just-

"Don't. I can already tell where your thoughts are leading to." The sudden burst of his voice shakes me in surprise. I startle back, bumping into the wall. His eyes narrow behind his visor, words harsh in warning. "I will not indulge you on this topic again."

I press my hands together and beg him with everything I got. "Not even one? In the name of our new found trust and bonding?"

I hold his stern gaze without blinking. Seconds tick by, neither side wavering in their stance. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, the General drops his arms and sulks into the greatest heave of air he could muster. "What is it?"

"What dragon clan do you hail from?" He doesn't answer right away. He stares at the ground, all aggression seeping away. When he looks at me again, I feel something akin to curiosity. A wary curiosity, but one nonetheless. The General waits in silence, daring me to continue. So, I do just that. I walk back and forth counting off the dragon clans on one hand. "I ask because all the other generals are from the original clans, those that didn't side with the Divine. Earth, Water, Fire, Magic...I'm just wondering where you came from."

The General crosses his arms over his chest plate, the tips of his fingers making pinpoint ticks against his armor as they drum away in annoyance. "I have not answered about my past before. What makes you believe this is any different?"

Gods' blood, he is stubborn! I wipe a hand over the lower half of my face, in part to part to stifle my own frustration on top of blocking my grimace. I breath in deeply and steady my voice. "I'm trying to get a handle on your motivations. I can tell certain activities make you uncomfortable. I don't want you working on a task you find conflicting to your loyalties."

Negativity blooms its ugly head, tainting the space between us. He pulses with restraint, holding back a well of anger. His eyes flare bright, but I don't feel like he's looking at me. Rather, something beyond me. The ghost of something else.

"Since when did you ever care for my well being?" his hoarse accusation reflects through my head.

I feel my temper flare, and he can feel it too. I stare aghast at him, fists balling at my sides in anger. "When have I not? I have been nothing but considerate of you and the twins. Don't tag me as the same cut of cloth Grima came from! I'm just trying to understand, well, anything! You're too sympathetic to humankind for me to believe you're anything but a Divine dragon. But, why would you have sided with Grima then? I suppose not all Divine dragons could have sided with Naga, just as not all other dragons in the other clans were involved in the war against humans."

My anger simmers, the effort too much for me to maintain. I rub both temples feeling that headache coming on again. Too much stress for my body, I swear!

"You're driving me crazy," I admit to him. "I'm trying, you know."

A moment of hesitance follows. Then, quietly, barely even worth calling a murmur, his answer comes. Small and vulnerable, there is a palpable shame swallowed up in three small words. "Yes. You are."

"You..." I hang my head, fingers scraping up my scalp and burrowing though my hair. I laugh at the dismal circles we keep running in. I try to get close to him, he pushes away. He makes an effort to work with me, I piss him off. I want to be patient. I have to be patient. I'm not the one who suffered under the abuses of Grima. It takes time to heal. Time to trust. I'm in no position to demand anything. I...

"It must suck working with me. Every time you look at my face you see Grima looking back at you. You're barely holding everything together." I fall across the back of a nearby crate, gripping the sides of it. I turn my chin toward the sky, counting the stars beginning to emerge in the burgeoning night. I sigh. "It's scary, you know, that I could potentially hold the key to the demise of mankind. It makes no fucking sense. I was so normal back home. There's no such thing as gods, magic, or prophecies! Yet- "

I close my eyes, every part of my being knowing this to be truth. "I'm not the fell dragon. I'm not the bad guy here."

The General has his back to me, form stiff in posture. The infernal light of his eyes reflects off the walls of the alley and bathe us in an eerie light. His silence is unsettling. Thanks to our bond, I can feel that he battles with something deep. His thoughts are consuming him with indecision. The General grips tight to the weapon at his side, as if it would help battle his turmoil.

"The..." His voice is small and weak. He's trying to find strength to speak, but he struggles to maintain that throughout. "The things I endured under Grima's time is not forgotten. Forgiveness is not so easily given. I doubt I will be anything more than a revengeful wraith in that regard. When you lose everything as I have, the picture of your revenge is all that can be clung to in the name of staying sane."

I close my eyes, unable to comprehend his pain. "I can't imagine- "

"Then don't," he interrupts.

So many mysteries, so little answers. No matter what I try to say, he just stops me every time. The General is purposely keeping in me in the dark. It's something I don't even have to guess on, the fact is truth. I can feel it. I don't know why, but I get it. In his own way, he's been doing what he views as a favor for me. "You're trying to protect to me from the truth," I tell him, finally putting my suspicions to voice.

A rough, dry rasp exits his throat, like dust through a pipe. The projection the General communicates between us is identical in its tone. "Has the truth done you any good?" The edge of his words diminishes. "Did hearing of the princess of Ylisse's past help you?"

"No," I say, "but it showed me what I had to do to ensure this is the last time she ever endures that pain."

"You can't."

As much as I want to give him leniency in his attitude toward my actions, I don't take it favorably when he judges my time with Lucina. If there is one thing I do have, it's my conviction in saving her future. I try not to take offense to his statement, but my feelings betray me. "Why is that?" I ask, narrowing my gaze in a way that dares him to continue.

His shoulder pauldrons shake as the muscles drop. The General's armor seems to shrink, as if the sadness around him is eating away at the metal that protects his Risen core. "She remembers a brother who no longer knows her as kin. How will you protect her when the truth of their past relations come to light. A brother she loved who only seeks her demise in Grima's name."

Well fuck. He went right for the jugular, didn't he? I cover my face with both hands and sink backward with a groan. "Gods damn me, I'm trying to do what's best for her. For the future she deserves. Even if I have to get creative, I'll think of something."

"I see." That's all. No dry remarks. No combative accusations. Nothing. He shuts off between us leaving me colder than I had been before. A sigh leaves him, one that rattles his whole suit. "Evening falls. You should return."

"Yeah." I don't have it in me to argue.

I hear his armor moving, growing closer. The unmistakable chill surrounding him drops the temperature further, causing me to huddle deeper in my coat. I expect him to pass me by and fade into the darkness. I feel his shadow linger, then stop. He materializes again and waits. Curious, I peek up at him through my fingers. He watches me over his shoulder. Then, his voice slips through the cracks of my mind. "I have ties to Divine dragons. Make of that what you will."

A tiny smile plays at the corner of my mouth. Did he just...Ha!

"You're going to leave me with that? Now I do have questions," I chuckle faintly.

"I doubt you will for long. You refuse the safety of ignorance. You'll figure it out soon enough."

Figure it out? He says this so sadly. He's gone through great lengths to keep his secrets. Does he think it will naturally reveal itself in time? He acts as though this is a bad thing. I'm not sure what to make of it.

Tendrils of darkness swirl around him and his lower half starts to fade the more he walks down the alley. He passes under a slice of lengthened darkness from a shadow overhead and dissolves completely into the inky void. His presence is gone and I am alone again, more confused than ever.

This day has just been one thing after another. I'm not sure how much more my poor heart can take. It's gone through a wringer of emotions. I'm sure I've touched on every major realm of human feeling imaginable.

I am elated when home base comes into view. A few individuals are walking up the boarded streets lighting the posts alongside the public walkways. They tip their heads in silent greeting as I walk by. A handful of young teenagers run past me, answering the final calls for home from their parents. Anyone else out are heading into town for a drink after work. With the children and rowdy animals holed up for the night, the lower districts are quiet.

A lone cricket plays in the grasses around Vaike's childhood home. There's a single light shining through the kitchen shutters. I hear Veira humming inside. There's some activity in their side shed. Someone is handling a horse. From behind, it looks like Vic. He's probably tying up the animals with his father for the eventing. Ignoring them, I walk along the building to the side door.

"Home, sweet home," I sigh to myself, reaching for the door. I can't imagine anything better than getting off my feet. I push on the door and its hinges creak under the weight. The first slivers of light shine across the ground in a golden thread across the grass. My toes just cross the threshold when I pause.

Something is off. I should experience the familiar tingle of my magic passing over me upon entering the room. I press my hand to the frame and run a thumb over the edge. The runes I placed here for protection are missing. I see Veira ahead milling about like normal, but that doesn't prevent a cold stone of fear to drop in my stomach.

"Veira?" I call out to her, fully emerging into the kitchen.

"Robin!" the woman startles. She drops what she's cleaning on the table and approaches with arms open. She takes me by the shoulders, one hand threading through my hair until it catches on a tangle. "Gracious, you look terrible."

"There was a bar fight and -" I push away the fingers tugging loose the knot in my hair. "Never mind. Is everything okay? The wards on the house are disturbed."

Veira chuckles to herself and returns to where she set down her rag. She picks that up and the plate beside it to resume wiping it down. Why does she have so many out to dry? "Oh, I wouldn't worry about that. The darling mage from the College dismissed them on accident. She'll put new ones up in the morning. Did she not tell you?"

I stop counting the place settings in my head and raise my brows in surprise? Oh God, don't tell me Tharja made her way here. "Mage? College? I don't know what you mean."

"Where are the others?" Veira sets her plate down and peers over my shoulder into the emptiness outside. "Didn't they come back with you? They're going to miss dinner. I'm surprised it took so long to find you."

I shake my head, puzzled. "Did you send Vic or Van after me for some reason? I was out in the market district today."

"Oh, no." Veira's eyes widen. She covers her mouth in surprise. "Oh dear. Robin, did you not know?"

I feel that chilly pebble rolling around in my gut, prickling my skin. "Veira, you're scaring me."

Veira takes a brisk walk around me and presses her body to the door frame. She leans out into the dark, her thoughts rambling out of her mouth in rapid explanation. "They said they were going out to look for you this afternoon to let the others rest! Even your Feroxi friends volunteered. I can't believe you've never crossed paths! You missed them this morning, and now you miss them again! I suppose that explains how calm you are. I expected you would run here after they told you -"

"Veira!" I shout in exasperation. She stops her rant and watches me. "Who did I miss?"

"Ah, silly me. I'm getting ahead of myself in my excitement," she laughs, pressing a hand to her chest. There's a glitter of a tear in her eye. Her smile grows so big it could overtake her whole face. "My boy came home looking for you."

Her boy came...

Her...

"Vaike?!" I gasp, my voice taking an upturn in volume so it's comparable to a squeak.

She nods clasping her hands together. She bounces on her heels, beaming. "Your friends too."

"The Shepherds?" I feel faint. "Here?"

I stagger back, hands reaching out behind me until they fumble against the rim of the table. Veira leaps forward and catches me by the arm. She helps guide me into a chair nearby. I sink down until I'm in a reclined slouch, the back of my hand pressed to my forehead. Veira takes my other hand in hers and pats it in sympathy.

"If this isn't a dastardly trick of Grima, it is. Vaike and the Shepherds showed up early morning, tired and weary. Used an old entrance in the abandoned guard barracks to get in unseen. They were out looking for you. Even Asche and Sigrún volunteered to help. Luckily, they've been searching in shifts," she explains, though I'm not listening.

"I missed them," I mourn, staring blankly at the ceiling.

Veira's smile remains bright, "Yes, but the good news is -"

"I missed them!" I shout in anger, waving my hands over my head in frustration. "Two months and I somehow miss them?"

"Robin, it's -"

My heel slams into the floor. "How do I miss them all day? I haven't left the thrice-damned market!"

"In the guest room is -"

I sit up in my chair and kick back until it hits the table. I jump out of it and pace back and forth, my footsteps thudding echoes in the small space. "This day has been absolutely shit, Veira! Is Naga laughing at me?"

"Robin, behin -"

I start ticking off the day's happenings, one by one. "First I get the worst fortune-telling of my life. Just ghastly. I don't recommend it. Ever," I wait a beat, then add, "Don't tell Asche I said that."

"Mmhm."

"Then I think I'm going to get a good meal, but a bar fight breaks out!"

I twirl around in my dirtied coat to show off the alcohol and food stains. "Then. THEN! A wanted criminal shows up trying to mass slaughter the guard! I have to help them and nearly fall off a shelf in doing so! Also, shot with an arrow, almost punched in the face numerous times, just to count a few."

Veira just keeps nodding. I know she's trying to be polite in suppressing her growing smile as I keep rambling. I must look like a child ranting as I am, but I have to vent.

I shake my fist at the ceiling as if Naga could see my rage. "Now I miss the homecoming of my own people. The sole family I have here. Only the same people I have been trying to return to for -"

The door to an adjoining bedroom opens behind me. A sleepy inquiry of worry slips out from within. "Veira, what's all the shouting about?"

My face scrunches together in embarrassment for having been so rude. Veira shakes her head and comes up beside me. She turns me around to face the same direction, talking sweetly. "Apologies, your Highness. I know how weary you were from traveling, but my goodness! Poor Robin just needed to vent. She had a taxing day, you see. Forgive her, will you?

"What?" I stammer, tearing my eyes away from her face.

"W...hat?" The sleepy voice repeats after me.

My heart is not beating, it is thundering. Swift pounds banging against my chest. My whole body feels inflamed, the heat of excitement spreading across my skin to every finger and toe. My last breathe remains held in my lungs, the dizziness of euphoria locking down my body. I'm frozen, my fingers gripped to Veira's arm like two vices. This...this isn't a dream, is it? Tell me it's not. For once, let me be wide awake. Let this be real.

It's been so long since I last saw Chrom. Dream and memory start to merge after a time, blurring the familiar lines of the face. But now, seeing him standing in the room before me, it all becomes clear again. There's those same eyes who have watched my back since our first fight together. The same mouth I've watched form smiles of joy and frowns of sadness over our days and nights in the Shepherds. The same strong form that's supported me through the anguish of the unknown without question. My unmistakable anchor in this world.

Chrom shakes his head, rubbing a blurry eye with the back of his hand. He takes a step out into the kitchen, the flicker of candlelight making his blue hair almost violet in the dim setting. He's transfixed with the sight of me, unable to look anywhere else. Perhaps he's wondering if he's still in dreams?

"Robin?" Chrom calls, faint and uncertain to me. He raises a hand, then draws it back as if afraid to believe the person standing before him is real. His eyes, once glossy with sleep, are wide and sparked with life as he searches me up and down for deception. With slow deliberation, he extends an open palm toward me as if he were reaching across the short distance to touch me. Chrom tries to speak, but his throat catches in emotion. His hand remains extended for me to take. An invitation. A plea.

My heart stops, no swells, in my chest until it wants to burst. I laugh, a desperate crackling of disbelief. I take a step. I run.

I envelop him completely, throwing both arms around his neck and burying my face in his shoulder. Chrom doesn't expect the force of me catapulting into him. He staggers back three steps until he can regain his footing. Peels of laughter continue to roll out of me, full and bountiful in their commodity. I must sound like a madwoman, but I can't help it.

With the shock wearing off, Chrom comes to his senses. His arms wrap around me and lifts me in a full embrace. I'm hanging off the tips of my toes and feeling more protected than I ever was in my lifetime. Chrom utters a rabid, broken string of words as he clings to me. The lines of a thankful prayer breaks apart between apologies and promises to Naga. His fingers sink into the lining of my coat and pin me close. I doubt there is anything that could part us in this moment.

I had dreamed of this reunion, rehearsed all sorts of scenarios in my head. Most were witty and a few cool and composed. Faced with the real thing, all of that slipped away in the actual event. I couldn't even find words then. All I needed was to know my best friend was by my side again. That things were going to be alright again.

"You came," I whisper to him, unable to still believe it despite standing in the moment.

"How could I not?" A breathy chuckle follows, a drowsy lull still caught in Chrom's voice. "Henry's crow came with your note."

I snort at the ridiculousness of it all, remembering tying my message to the decrepit bird. "That ugly thing...Sorry you had to find out the good news that way."

Chrom releases me just enough for space to look me over. "I prayed day and night to Naga for a moment like this."

He looks...bad. Worn to the bone. To be fair, he probably rode his horse into the ground to get here. Between the circles under his eyes and the shallow look of his cheekbones, he hasn't been sleeping. Ugh, he hasn't seen a razor in days either. With these plain looking travel leathers hanging off him, he looks like an antisocial lumberjack who just crawled out of his cave. He's never looked so pale and unkempt before.

I feel the weight on my lower back lessen. He raises a hand and it hovers just shy of my right cheek as if he were so afraid to shatter the illusion before him. Chrom lingers in hesitation, then chooses to place it on the outside of my bicep. "Gods, you're alive. You're here."

The happiness he once radiates dims. Chrom's smile thins and his eyebrows draw together in a curiosity born of worry. He withdraws his hand from my sleeve and pulls away several clusters of straw that came right off the inn's floor. They must have caught in the threads of my coat during the scuffling. If you add that to the stains, dirt spots on my face, and over-all frazzled look, that bar fight has left me looking worse for wear.

He flicks his hand away, throwing off the straw. "I can't imagine what you've been through."

I let out a dramatic groan and unleash my greatest eye roll. "Absolute garbage. Risen, Grimleal, hunger, loneliness...but who wants to hear about that?"

I draw back and withdraw my hands from behind his neck, resting one on his shoulder. I throw the other in a dramatic wave over my head, voice dripping with theatrics. "I had this whole reunion speech in my head. I was gonna have this grand entrance with flower petals, harps playing, and a flock of doves in the air! It was much better than this, I swear."

Chrom laughs, shaking his head at my efforts. God, did I miss the sound of his voice. "Doves, you say? Sounds like it would have been a grand display. What a shame."

"I know. Guess you're just stuck with boring old me," I sigh, patting his cheek in sympathy.

Chrom catches my hand in his own, staring in wonder at the touch. He turns it, staring at my palm in a dazed sort of wonder. His thumbs rubs idly over the top of my hand bringing tingling sensations to the skin I feel even through the glove. I think, for him, it's finally sinking in just how real the experience is.

"I would take you come pauper or princess, Robin." He turns blue eyes on me, earnest and alive. "So, don't you ever leave us again."

I feel my mouth go dry. Such an earnest plea from him is leaving me speechless. It's one thing to know that you're close to someone. It's another to hear it from them. To be begged never to leave. It's...I've never been needed like this before. I've become a stable fixture in Chrom's life, as he has mine. Being apart and coming together again has made me see just how much I come alive with him and the other Shepherds around. Even in this house full of people it's easy to see how lonely I was when watching Veira and-

Oh my God, Veira is still with us!

I loosen us apart just enough to turn partially around, ready to spew apologies at her. "Oh, jeez! Veira, I'm sorry. Are we grossing you -" I look all over the kitchen, but find us the only occupants around. "Where'd she go?"

Chrom lets out an embarrassed chuckle. He rubs at the side of his neck, color already splotching his skin and cheeks. "Perhaps to give us privacy. Or, maybe to tell the others outside."

"Others?" I repeat, looking up at him. "Outside?"

"You didn't think I would come alone, did you?" The outside door slams behind me. I hear the sound of steps on the floorboards until they come to a halt. Chrom gently turns me around, whispering, "There's a familiar face right now."

A different set of emotions take hold. Ones equally precious in their own right, but unique to our relationship. Lucina is gulping in air in an attempt to catch her breath, a hand pressed to her chest while the other grips the back of a chair. Her hair is windswept and falling free of the ponytail she had it swept up in. She raises her chin and the lone gaze of her branded eye falls on us between the parts in her hair. Lucina straightens, mouth parting in wordless gasp as her vision darts between her father and I.

Chrom gives me a little nudge to say something, breaking me from my own stupor. A flood of relief mixes with pride. She's safe. Lucina is alive and still fighting as I always know she does. And she...she ran here to see me. I...

Wetness pricks at the corner of both my eyes. I feel my lips tremble a little, even as I smile. "Hey, there's my favorite warrior princess. Willing to give your old tactician a hello?"

A flurry of emotions pass over her face. I have no doubt that something deep within in her is stirring old emotions. A rare sight of a past long forgotten from her youth. A crack forms in her demeanor. One tear starts to fall, then another. "You..."

Her start is slow, one staggering step over the other. The closer she gets, the more desperate her expression grows. Lucina's pace grows to a brisk walk, culminating in an all-out run. Her arms reach out, one for each of us. Chrom and I separate to allow her in between us. Lucina pulls us in tight to her, burrowing her face deep in my shirt. Her body is wracked with sobs. The protective shell she has built around her crumbles to dust. In the quiet night of this little home in Arcos, a warrior named Marth returns to a young woman named Lucina searching for the hope of family.

"You...you great fool!" I hear Lucina sputter between crying.

Ah, there she is. I rub her back in gentle circles, resting my head on the top of her own. "Yeah, I am. At least this fool made it home."

The kitchen's outside door busts open again, this time almost off its hinges as it slams into the back wall. Two figures walk in from the nighttime gloom. A boisterous laugh fills the room, culminating in a teasing observation. "Well if that ain't the cutest thing I've ever seen. Makes you want to puke, eh Vaike?"

"You said it, Sully."

Our red-headed cavalier leans with one leg crossed over the other and her elbow resting on Vaike's shoulder. He stands almost to the top of the doorway with arms crossed. Both are grinning ear to ear, their friendly jest the only kind of greeting I could expect from them.

"Guys..." I whine, words failing me at this point. This is too much for me to process. Can I really be this happy?

Vaike rolls his shoulders and yells behind him. "Ol' Vaike's smelling a group hug comin' on! Miri! Get in here!"

Two hands appear between Vaike's right and the doorway. Miriel's nasally commands echo out in annoyance. "Perhaps I may if you would alter the position of your broad musculature, Vaike. I would very much like to behold my wayward subordinate."

Before I know it, the guest room is filled with the familiar sights and sounds of my friends. The ugly parts of reality try to push up anxieties in the back of my mind, but I suppress them. For now, in this moment, I want to embrace the entirety of this moment. I would let this magic go on forever if I could. It will come to an end tomorrow morning, but I'll revel in whatever I can get for now. Encased in the safety and love of my friends, I know that the challenges of this future I now face are stronger than ever before.

"Welcome back, Robin," Chrom whispers to me, hugging me tighter.

Welcome back, indeed. Back to the place I belong.

Home.


A/N: Oh look, a wild update appears!

Not much to say, this chapter was a lot of work. A lot of research. I hope you enjoy it.

Stay healthy and stay safe out there everyone.

*Edit: Happy Six Year Anniversary!*