Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dread Isle.

The name alone was enough to send shivers down the spines of even the strongest of warriors. Stories of shipwrecks and missing seafarers—sailors, travellers, and traders alike—were copious in amount. Nary would a month go by without another story of a missing ship and its crew. What was once an event that would occur every two or three months soon became a weekly incident.

The "Young Lion" of Pherae, Roy, had returned to his father Eliwood after defeating King Zephiel of Bern and slaying the Demon Dragon, Idunn. Though he had been expected to marry, he had yet to do so—he put the good of the land above his own social obligations and was diligent in his efforts to take up his father's mantle. Eliwood was proud of how much Roy had done to help rebuild Lycia, but over time, he became increasingly concerned for Roy's health. The young redhead tended to overwork himself, and one night, Eliwood happened upon his son sprawled across his desk, passed out from exhaustion. This incident is what prompted the marquess to forcibly send Roy off to "get some godsforsaken rest."

Though Roy protested at first, his aching eyes and sore hands were enough to persuade him into agreement with his father. His idea of rest was different from Eliwood's, however, as it was nothing close to what one would consider a normal luxury.

His bid was simple: to go on a short journey of his own, without the weighty responsibility of an army under his command.

Initially, Eliwood was surprised. It wasn't long, however, before his surprise soon ebbed away into understanding. Roy had always been a curious spirit and he had been all but cooped up in Pherae since the end of the war with Zephiel. So, he indulged in his son's request.

"Where will you go?" Eliwood had asked Roy.

"I would like to go meet my uncle," Roy had answered, choosing his words carefully, for he realised his request would not be an easy one for his father to grant.

The Dragon's Gate was a controversial place; Roy knew this well, considering the pain it had wrought due to the ambitions of the power-hungry. The young man had been curious about the other side of his family, however—he had never met his mother, for she had died soon after his birth, and all he heard about her and was from his father. He did not doubt that his father knew his mother well, but he wanted to hear about her and 'the other half' from someone who grew up with her and lived the life of a dragon. So, that left him with only one option: Nils.

"The Gate was sealed by your uncle, it won't open," his father had explained. Perhaps if Eliwood was able to temper Roy's expectations, he would reconsider the idea.

Roy nodded in understanding, "I know, father. But I would like to talk with him. Perhaps I would be able to do it through the sealed gate."

From what Eliwood had told his son before, Nergal had been able to speak to both Ninian and Nils when they were inside the Dragon's Gate. It appeared as though Roy's idea was to attempt the same form of contact, and his father frowned.

Eliwood was understandably wary of the idea. He knew the only reason it had ended so terribly with Nergal was because of how corrupt he had become and what his motives had been, but sending Roy to Dread Isle was a dangerous prospect in and of itself, Dragon's Gate or no.

However, he could also tell that meeting Nils was important to Roy. His son was eighteen by that point and had never met anyone from his mother's side of the family—he knew nothing of the dragons, other than what he had learned during his studies in Ostia and what he had been told from Eliwood and the others. As well as what he had experienced during his own campaign against the Kingdom of Bern, of course. As he considered his answer, he stared at his son- and in him, saw a reflection of his younger self, eager to see the world and unwilling to give up.

Therefore, with a hesitant nod, he allowed his son to go on this journey.

Violent waves crashed against the shore of Dread Isle as Roy looked over the sea. The water had been dangerous, that much was certain—but thankfully, his ship did not struggle as many others seemed to.

He turned his head and tilted his gaze upward at the island.

"I'm here," he said quietly as he surveyed the area with sharp, curious eyes. The wind rushed past him as a wave crashed against the rocky shore and his cadmium red hair whipped about his face. He squinted, tugged his tattered cape back, and began his trek into the island alone.

The fog had been thick at the shore, but it had become nearly opaque by the time Roy found the old ruins that contained the Dragon's Gate. It seemed like an eternity of wandering through those ruins before Roy finally stumbled upon a tall and wide staircase. He looked up slowly as he felt a tugging in his chest, almost like the mounting energy in the air had been calling out to him. His eyes narrowed and he slowly ascended the stairs, the armour on his legs making the quietest clanks with each careful step he took.

As soon as he reached the top, he stilled in awe.

Directly across from him stood a towering gate, decorated with ornate designs and statues of dragons on either side. He felt his heartbeat quicken at the sight. Even though the gate was sealed shut, he could still feel that overwhelming energy charging the air.

A few moments passed before he closed his eyes and took a moment to centre himself. Afterwards, he calmly walked towards the gate and stopped when he was only a mere step away from it.

"... Nils?" he called. There was no answer.

He pursed his lips; surely, he could do this. If someone as human as Nergal could evidently speak through the gate, Roy could as well. He thought for a moment before he decided to try again, this time offering more information.

"Nils," Roy began, "My name is Roy. I'm here to talk to you, because you knew my mother."

Silence. Roy's eyes closed and his shoulders drooped slightly—not from sadness, but from exhaustion. He had travelled quite a long way to get here, and it would have been a tough pill to swallow if the trip turned out to be unsuccessful.

"My father is Marquess Eliwood of Pherae. And my mother's name is Ninian," he said, and paused before adding, "I've been told that you are her brother. I was hoping I could speak with you."

Silence again. Roy's lips pursed as the bitter pang of dejection plucked at his heartstrings.

"... You are Ninian's son?" a surprisingly young-sounding voice responded.

The response startled Roy and he quickly looked back up towards the stone gate.

"I… yes, that's right," Roy answered. "Are you Nils?"

"I am," Nils confirmed. "Why are you here to talk with me?"

Roy let the faintest of smiles cross his lips as his mood brightened. "I wanted to learn about my mother. My father always tells me stories about her. And... I also wanted to meet you."

One could almost sense the surprise that Nils felt when he heard Roy's words. There was an implication behind the young man's verbiage that made Nils worried- as if his sister was unable to tell Roy herself- but he refrained from expressing it immediately.

"… Alright," Nils finally responded. "It's nice to meet you, Roy. Let's talk."

Hours went by as Roy spoke with Nils, learning about his uncle, the dragons, and most importantly, his mother. Roy had clarified to his uncle about Ninian's passing shortly after he was born, and Nils had been despondent for some time after that. However, Nils had managed to recover from the news just enough to comment that Ninian made that choice on her own.

"She really loved your father," Nils said. "I was surprised at first, but Eliwood is a really great man… so I can see why she ended up falling in love with him."

Roy, who had decided to sit back against one of the pillars of the gate some time before, nodded slightly. "My father... he's told me a lot about her. He loved her, too. A lot."

There was a heavy silence as Roy chewed on the inside of his bottom lip and tapped the tip of his pointer finger on his knee. The far-off wall of the inner sanctum had become far too interesting to him as he tried to distract himself from his insecurity. It wasn't something he had ever made a point to talk about-- the guilt he felt due to his mother dying after childbirth-- so it was a burden he had always shouldered alone. Even Eliwood was unaware of this dark train of thought that loomed like a spectre over his son, as far as Roy knew.

"... You know, it's not your fault, Roy," Nils finally spoke, and Roy's fingers twitched on his knee as his heart skipped a beat.

Roy blinked and looked over his shoulder at the gate, as if to Nils. "What?"

"You told me she ended up passing away after you were born," Nils continued. "But it's not your fault."

Roy stared at the cracked stone behind him, his thoughts trailing. "... I know," he responded slowly.

"Do you?"

There was another bout of silence as Nils' question hung in the air. The lack of response from Roy brought Nils to speak up again, worried that he had offended the young man.

"… Roy—"

"Wait," Roy cut him off.

Quickly, Roy pressed the palm of his hand to the gate behind him and pushed himself to his feet. He looked around as the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. There was an uneasy feeling in the air. The magic that filled the room had shifted from the consistent static charge of the Gate to a much darker and heavier sensation of foreboding. Roy had been through more than enough to know that someone had their eyes on him, and he slowly brought his hand to the hilt of his blade as he remained still and simply listened-

"Is something bothering you, little manakete?" a chilling voice called out from the darkness of the chamber. Roy's gaze snapped to the source of the noise—a man in a dark black cloak standing atop one of the pillars to the side of the staircase.

When did they get there-?

"Who are you?" Roy called out, his pose instantly shifting to a defensive one as his fingers clutched at his weapon.

"Does that matter?" the cloaked man responded coolly. "You don't need to know our names."

"Our? " Roy repeated, and his skin prickled as he glanced around him.

There were now five other cloaked figures, each one standing atop pillars, looking down on him. Each wore similar robes, though in slightly different hues. The first man snickered, and Roy's attention returned to him. "Only a manakete would be powerful enough to stay in this place and talk through the Dragon's Gate for so long without going the least bit mad. We have seen it time and time again."

"I am no manakete. I've never had that power," Roy repeated firmly, in vain hopes to reason with the man.

One of the others challenged him. "Then if you are not a manakete, why do you harbour such an incredible level of Quintessence?"

Roy pursed his lips and remained silent, unsure of how to counter his point.

There was a smile in the black-cloaked mage's voice as he cocked his head and mused, "Ah, that must mean you're…a half-breed? No, not a half-breed... only a quarter of your blood is the blood of a dragon's, right?"

Roy's body visibly tensed, and his breath stilled for a moment as his eyes narrowed into a level glare. The fact that they were able to deduce his lineage so quickly was alarming. It was almost like they knew who he was, or at least had a disturbingly accurate idea.

"I seem to have struck the nail on the head," the black-cloaked man said, pleased.

"Roy," Nils' voice interrupted, echoing through the gate, "Get out of here right now."

Roy looked back, poised to respond, but was cut off before he could.

"Unfortunately, I believe the time to escape has long since passed," the mage spoke again.

At that, Roy pushed his sword from its sheath with his thumb, just enough to let the base of the blade catch the light with a glint. Normally he was not one to issue threats, but in a precarious case like this, he would make an exception. "Who are you people?" Roy asked again, louder.

"You won't stop asking, will you?" Another mage- a woman- responded. "I suppose I can share a little bit with you. We are mages that, years ago, came to the Dread Isle to study dark arts, and have stayed here to further hone our powers."

The black-robed man's smile faltered slightly as he picked up, "But no matter how much we practiced, we were never able to become as powerful as those before us- like Nergal."

Roy's eyes widened slightly, the mention of that man chilling him to the bone. "Nergal?"

The mage nodded. "Back when he was still alive, we were followers of his. Though we witnessed his power first-hand, we never knew how to become more like him."

"Roy," Nils spoke. "You have to get out of here right now! "

Roy needed no further instruction. He quickly dashed for the staircase, knowing full well that these mages were going to cause nothing but trouble for him. Though Nergal had been killed by Eliwood before Roy was born, his father had told him plenty of harrowing stories about Nergal's abilities- the most disturbing of which being when he had used an Ice Dragon as a tool for his own means. The time where the Durandal had awoken and Eliwood had been forced to slay that dragon, which had turned out to be Ninian herself. Anyone happily willing to sacrifice someone else as a tool for their own crooked plans, especially family, was beyond redemption- a monster through and through.

So, if these individuals claimed to be students of such a terrible man, Roy wanted absolutely nothing to do with them. At least not when he was alone, cornered, on the Dread Isle. He had no idea what they were capable of, or what their intentions were, but nothing about them spelled for anything good.

His mind was racing through his few options of escape as he ran, but when Roy was just a few paces from the first step, a huge bolt of lightning struck the ground of the first step. Reacting quickly, he skid to a stop as the ground was charred and smoked, unhappy with the clear demonstration of violence. He looked upwards, towards the mage who was now holding a tome in her hands.

"It's not polite to leave during someone's story," the female mage spoke slowly. "I suggest you stay where you are and let us finish."

Roy gritted his teeth. He knew if he tried to escape again, he would be struck by a spell. These people were powerful, and he was clearly outnumbered. Though he had worked to become more physically strong over the years, compared to when he was campaigning against Zephiel, trying to fight against multiple spellcasters that were out of his reach was just asking to be killed.

"As I was saying," the black-robed man continued. "We did not know how to become more like him. And then, one day, we realised we had been neglecting to capitalise on the incredible power of Quintessence. Do you know what Quintessence does to a person? How much more powerful a man can become with even just a little bit of it? Or how insanely strong many people can become with a lot of it? Say, six people?"

Roy's blood ran cold at the sudden realisation. "Gods," he whispered. "You can only get that by taking it from someone. Don't tell me, those missing ships were all-?"

The mage barked with laughter. "You really are as sharp as they say," he said. "Yes. It was us. Shipwrecks full of crew members, their bodies ripped to shreds by the tides and stony shore of the island, with their Quintessence sent straight to us. That allows us to power even worse storms, and more people wash up dead here. It's a rather efficient cycle, wouldn't you say?"

The redhead could feel his stomach tighten, sickened by their inhumanity, but his outward demeanour remained consistent as he stared critically at the mage.

"But, unfortunately, we need more. What we have now isn't enough, and imagine our surprise when we check on the Dragon's Gate, only to find a manakete here?" The mage waved his hand towards Roy, fingers outstretching as he stared hungrily at the young man over his palm. "It's like we were sent a gift straight from the heavens, really—even with only a quarter dragon's blood, you're still a font of power."

Without warning, there was a sudden surge of pain that wracked Roy's mind, pulsating and pressing against the back of his eyes. It was like his skull was being crushed in a vise-grip, and he let out a strained cry. His leg muscles tingled as he lost the strength in them, and he fell to one knee as his hands desperately grabbed at his hair.

Roy had been through a lot in his eighteen years of life and had experienced his fair share of injuries during the war against Bern three years ago. He had been stabbed by all varieties of weapons, singed by spells and dragons' breaths, and countless other one-off events. Beyond even that, he had experienced no small amount of mental, emotional, and spiritual hardship. The pain of losing friends, allies, family, innocents- the feeling of being completely incapable of helping them, of saving lives. He had seen and experienced it all, in every horrible, intrusive detail.

But never had he experienced a pain like this. A pain so overwhelming, so pervasive, so demanding that it took his breath away and forced every thought to the back of his mind as he tried to comprehend the static in his head. It was so sudden and so much, and he couldn't stop himself from choking on a gasp as he curled downward, pushing his chest closer to his knee as he tried to stabilise himself.

"Roy!" Nils called out from the gate.

"Ah, watch as the manakete squirms," the mage almost cooed. "You know, this dark magic is very useful. Even though you've only got that little bit of dragon's blood in your veins, it's still enough that spells like this will cause you more pain than a normal human would have to endure."

Roy let out another laboured cry as he tried to endure the spell. He dug his fingertips into his scalp, and he crumpled further as waves of pain washed over his body.

"We could kill you now, you know, and steal your Quintessence. You do have a lot of it to share, after all," the female mage taunted and strummed her fingers on her chin. "But that's not really fun, now, is it?"

The room was fading back and forth, doubling and tripling in Roy's vision as he shook. His neck was stiff, and he dug his fingers into his scalp, finding it harder and harder to keep even one of his eyes open. His teeth started to chatter, and he strained to look upward. The mage with black robes now had his hand outstretched to him, and dark tendrils swirled about on his fingertips. In his other hand was a tome as dark as coal, even down to its pages.

The first mage's mouth twisted into a sick grin as he continued, "You know, I have never had a puppet. I've always wanted one after I saw how Nergal did it. You're not a complete dragon… so I wonder how hard it would be for us to pull your strings, like Nergal did with your mother."

With those words, something seemed to snap in Roy's mind. His head twitched upward, straining against his tightened muscles, as if he was struggling against the force of the magic on his brain. His eyes flickered with a momentary spark of rage and clarity, even as his mind was being wrenched apart by their magic. The darkness that danced on the mage's fingers flared as he grinned widely, showing his teeth.

"That's the look I was hoping for," he said. "You're calm on the outside, but on the inside, you're still a dragon—press enough buttons and that beast is sure to burst forth."

Another force gripped his mind, which enticed another strangled cry from Roy, and his head dropped once more as he fisted at locks of his hair. His eyes screwed shut and his breathing quickened from the intrusive pain. A coil of darkness was forcing itself through him from the inner depths of his mind, and a clawing feeling ripped at him from the outside, like two powers were fighting for dominance over him—the intruding magic, and something furious from within him.

However, that all came to a stop when the other five mages raised their hands one at a time, their palms raised towards the ceiling. Within each of them glowed a writhing darkness, swaying about like a flame that grew further in intensity as one joined after the other. Roy gagged as he took a half-step backwards, his back bumping into stone door of the Dragon's Gate as he struggled to keep his balance. His lungs felt empty, even though he was practically on the verge of hyperventilating. His voice was ragged, and he couldn't even hear himself speak through the screeching that was ringing in his ears.

"N-Nils-" Roy choked out, "I... can't-"

"ROY!" Nils' voice echoed out from the gate, clearly panicked. Nils couldn't reach him, he couldn't help him, not with the Dragon's Gate closed like this-

One of the mages, adorned in dark purple robes, tilted their head downward, studying Roy with a quiet, critical gaze. The way the redhead was trying to fight back made them scowl faintly, especially once Roy let out a strangled cry as the first mage clenched his outstretched hand into a fist. The darkness pulsated, beating like a drum and rattling Roy's skull as his consciousness slipped from him for a split moment.

However, the Binding Blade at his hip burned hotly against its sheath, and the red gemstone encrusted within it hummed with an arcane fire that pushed back against the darkness within Roy's head like a roaring wave. Roy's blood seared, boiling angrily with the sword's magic, and his back shot straight as he ground his teeth. His thighs were shaking and every fibre of his being screamed in pain, though his vision was suddenly clearer as he gave the first mage a wild look of fury. 

That mage's brow raised as he watched Roy regain that small sliver of his strength. "You're holding on a lot longer than I expected, especially for someone that's only a quarter dragon. I'm impressed."

"It isn't his strength that defies us," the purple-robed mage interjected flatly. "The sword at his hip is what fights us back. It rejects the draconic force that we seek to awaken."

With a thoughtful hum, another of the mages replied, "So the rumour is true, then. The blade is still in his hands. Can we not simply overpower it?"

Roy could only watch as the mages took a moment to look towards one another, and then to the one in purple robes. He seemed to shake his head, uncaring, before he waved his outstretched hand nonchalantly. Needles pried into Roy's head as he pressed further back into the stone and screwed his eyes shut, though he refused to cry out. After another moment of quiet contemplation, that mage curled his fingers just enough to force Roy's head to pull forward and droop. Roy coughed, sweat beading on his brow and trailing down his face.

Roy was cursing inwardly as he was being yanked back and forth, pulled about by the mages' strings and the angry roiling of a familiar fire that waged war against it. Desperately he wished he could join in with the Binding Blade's might, but for some reason, it was like a wall had been erected between them. Not to mention the fact that his blood was searing in his veins like lava, and his muscles were bound so tightly that no matter how hard he tried to will himself to move, he couldn't . 

"It should be simple enough," the purple-robed mage said as he observed Roy struggling to even push his head back up, and a faint smirk played on his lips. "That sword can only do so much with him in a state like this."

With a pleased chuckle, the first mage chirped, "Then let's not waste any more time and capitalise on this good fortune."

Trembling, Roy glanced up through his eyelashes as he tried to see what these figures were readying to do. His heart was hammering in his chest, rattling his ribs as the reality of his situation settled in. He was, terrifyingly, completely at the mercy of these figures.

And from what he could tell- he was going to end up an unwilling puppet, just like his mother had.

"I-" he rasped, " Refuse- "

"Refusal is, unfortunately for you," the mage woman purred, "Not an option, Roy."

With that, a shrill ring pierced through Roy's ears like an arrow, and his eyes twitched wide; the inferno that had been blazing within his body was swiftly snuffed out as easily as the delicate flame of a candle.

The silence scared Nils half to death, and the small manakete shouted for his nephew. A few of the mages shared in laughter, and the mage-woman one tapped her fingertips to her cheek.

"I don't think he can hear you," she cooed. "You should see how dull his eyes look right now—like a real puppet, if I do say so myself. How impressive."

The purple-robed mage, ignoring the others' delights, glanced from the Dragon's Gate to Roy. "Stand."

Roy's body twitched slightly, as if it was trying to process the order given to it. Slowly, Roy pushed himself off of the Dragon's Gate and stood straight; his eyes were dead, and not a single, desperate coherent thought could rise above the deafening static suffocating his mind.

"Good dragon," the black-robed mage praised, far too pleased. "Now, how about you open that Dragon's Gate for us?"

The tension in the air was so thick, and Nils exclaimed, "Is that what you were after this whole time?"

"In part," the purple-robed mage replied, and as he did, Roy turned to face the Gate entrance. His armor clanked dully with the heavy weight of his thoughtless, automated steps.

"It won't work," Nils stated hastily. "You can't open the gate from the outside."

"Oh, we know. But who said we were going to open it from the outside?" the black-robed mage responded with a light laugh. "Roy- point your sword to your chest."

The order hit Nils like a tonne of bricks, and the manakete reeled, shocked. "You wouldn't," he said.

The man grinned more. "We would."

Slowly and mechanically, Roy had reached across himself and grasped at the hilt of the Binding Blade before slowly pulling it free from its scabbard with a metallic trill. That hollow sound echoed in the room, a wordless threat that sent Nils' anxiety skyrocketing.

Grasping the legendary weapon tightly in his right hand, Roy traced it along his chest before settling the point directly against his sternum, his unblinking gaze not once leaving the carved stone gate before him. The purple-robed mage then spoke, cold and uncaring as they issued their final order, though this time directly to Nils:

"Open the gate, or he dies."

Chapter Text

"Open the gate, or he dies."

The words lingered in the air and the tension was so thick it could be cut with a knife.

From the safety of the Dragon's Gate, Nils began to tremble, his fists balling tightly as he tried to think. There had to be some other option that he just wasn't thinking of. Some other way to free Roy without letting them get the Dragon's Gate open. He just couldn't figure it out.

After a few moments of silence, the first mage spoke up again. "Come now, you wouldn't let your sister's son die, would you? What would she think of you if he died on your watch?"

Nils clicked his tongue in frustration as he ground his teeth, his anger flaring. They really did have him cornered, and his words felt like acid on his tongue as he gave in to their demands. "... Alright, I'll open the gate."

There was a pulse of magical energy as the gate began to glow. The lead mage grinned viciously as he watched the portal form between the pillars of the Dragon's Gate, illuminating the dusty old walls of the chamber. The air picked up, whipping Roy's cape about behind him as the earth rumbled.

"It's beautiful," one of the others whispered. "And it contains such immeasurable power."

There was a loud and hollow groaning sound as a small figure started to form in front of the portal. The glow quickly took shape into the form of a young male with blue-green hair and dark red eyes. His eyes instantly locked on the mages, who were still standing atop their perches on the pillars. Then, his gaze flicked down towards his nephew in front of him. He was still unmoving and had the tip of the Binding Blade still pressed lightly to the centre of his chest, and even when their eyes made contact, Nils could easily tell that he was looking into the eyes of what was currently a lifeless doll. His skin cralwed at the memory of his sister being pulled by similar strings, and he growled as he craned his neck to look back up towards the nefarious individuals that were watching.

"You have what you want—the portal is open," Nils said, "Now release your hold on Roy."

The first mage quirked his eyebrow at this. "Release him? I don't remember saying I was going to do that."

Nils furrowed his brow, hazarding half a step forward as he glared daggers at the mage in black. "Don't go back on your word!"

"I'm a man of my word, that much I can assure you," he replied smoothly, "I didn't say I would release him. I said open the gate or he dies. You opened the gate, so he won't die. At least not by our hands."

Suddenly, Roy yanked his sword away from his own chest before lunging at Nils with his sword raised over his shoulder. Nils nimbly ducked out of the way and the blade cut downward, whistling in the air as it sliced through nothing. It collided with the ground where the smaller manakete had just been standing, cleanly slicing into the stone and embedding itself there.

"Gods—Roy!" Nils yelled, clearly taken off-guard by the sudden attack.

A dark laugh echoed around the chamber as the black-robed mage shouted, "Let's see how this new puppet plays. Maybe he could even slay a manakete!"

With a flick of the hand, the mage forced Roy to move again. He attacked and chased after Nils, who continually dodged every blow, without hesitation. Roy's sword had been set ablaze with a clear intent to kill. After a particularly close call with the burning sword whizzing past Nils' face, narrowly nicking at his bangs, Nils jumped back to create some distance between him and his attacker.

"Roy, snap out of it!" Nils shouted. "These people are using you!"

"There's nothing you can say that will stop him," the purple-robed mage, who had been silent since Nils' arrival, spoke before adding half-bitterly, "Not even Eliwood could sway him from his orders without having to kill him."

The mention of Eliwood made Nils jolt in surprise, barely having the opportunity to spare the purple-robed mage a brief glance before having to kick back out of the way of another blow of the Binding Blade. The flames singed the cloth of his shorts as he tumbled back, trying to create enough distance to catch his breath. Nils was quickly growing exhausted and increasingly frustrated as he kept dodging his nephew's assaults. Truthfully, Nils was never one for fighting—he would much rather play his flute than swing a sword—but he knew he wouldn't be able to keep the dodging game up for much longer.

Therefore, he made one last attempt to free Roy from the grasp of the mages' magic:

"Roy! Please, Ninian wouldn't want this!"

The low thrum of static in Roy's mind all but swallowed Nils' words, though within his subconscious, a small sliver of Nils' nephew heard the muted shouting.

Roy was swinging wildly with his blade at spectres that ran at him with weapons- since when had they appeared? Who were they? What was this-

He was breathing heavily as he turned every which way- the world around him was consumed by gray fire and crumbled stone. The intense screeching of wyrms and bloodcurdling screams of men were deafening him, and he dropped his blade and grabbed at his ears in a desperate attempt to shut out the horrific sounds.

"Help us... help us!" came a panicked, inhuman voice, gurgling in a way that Roy could recognise. They were bleeding out, whoever they were, and choking on it.

"We don't want to die-"

"They are all against us-"

"This war, we don't want any part of it-"

"No matter where we go-"

"Everything wants to kill us!"

One after another, voices continued to swarm him, overlapping and echoing over one another at a ruthless pace, increasing in volume to the point where, even when Roy let out a scream, the sound of his own voice was swallowed up by the others.

"-Roy-"

Roy's heart leapt into his throat, and he batted his eyes quickly, staring down at his feet at the blurred fire licking at his soles. That voice- he recognised it-

"- Ninian wouldn't want this!"

Roy tore his hands from his ears and shouted into the flames, trying to call for his uncle as a darkness encroached upon him-

Roy's body jerked and stilled, having halted in its advancing steps, and for a split-second Nils thought he had finally made it through to him-

Before the black-robed mage made a wild swipe of his arm, fingers splayed out like a conductor on a stage, orchestrating a symphony of strikes. Roy, eyes void of any emotion, kicked into a sprint, and his blade sliced through the air as he neared Nils again.

Instead of jumping away, however, Nils only ducked before sending a fist straight into Roy's gut. The impact caused the latter to cough harshly and stumble back a few steps, allowing Nils to follow up his first hit with a swift roundhouse kick Roy's side. Roy flew across the platform and tumbled across the tiled ground, his sword knocking loose from his hand.

"Tch, that's enough," the first mage hissed with impatience as he readied a Bolting tome, "This is getting old. We will kill you if the puppet can't."

"I don't plan on dying here," Nils retorted, staring down Roy's form through the clouds of dust as his nephew slowly pulled himself to his feet. He then shot a glare up towards the mages, noting how almost all of them had tomes of varying types readied in their hands.

"No one ever plans to die," the mage-woman taunted as lightning sparked in her free palm. "But not every story ends happily. You will be slain for your defiance!"

By the time the dust had cleared, Roy had fully recovered from the earlier blows and was slowly walking towards Nils, his blazing sword once again in-hand.

Nils, realizing he was low on time, was forced to make a difficult decision: either escape through the portal himself, or-

"I can't…!" he muttered through clenched teeth.

Nils quickly turned away from his nephew and dashed towards the Dragon's Gate. This was his last chance—either stop Roy here, or die trying. He stopped mere steps from the gate and spun around, readying something in his tightened hand.

The eyes of the mage in purple flicked to that object, zeroing in on it yet not making a move as he noted what it was: a teal-coloured stone. His fingers twitched as he grasped more tightly at the Aircalibur tome in his hand, muttering under his breath, "Is that-"

Roy's pace quickened, and he ran at his uncle once more, the Binding Blade pointed back and ready to strike. As he brought his sword around, Nils grabbed his arm tightly, locking them in a stalemate. The incredible force behind Roy's swing caused Nils' arm to tremble, but the young manakete held his ground. His heart pounded in his chest, so hard even that he could hear it in the backs of his ears, and he swallowed thickly as he dug his fingertips into Roy's arm.

"I'm sorry I have to do this, Roy, but I have no choice," he spoke, before pleading to the heavens, "Mother... sister, please, help me!"

Then he reeled his other hand back- the one that he had been holding that stone in- and forced it against Roy's chest with a shout. He used every ounce of strength in his small body to push back against the force of his nephew, and the muscles in his body were searing from the stress as he tried to pull Roy to one side, their feet scuffing against the ground as he did.

"Enough of this!" the black-robed mage yelled and raised his tome. The others raised their tomes as well, poised to cast their spells. "We will kill both of you!"

Adrenaline surged through Nils' veins and time seemed to slow down as all six mages cast their spells—a mix of Bolting, Elfire, and Aircalibur—at the two below. Nils roared, using a burst of strength to yank Roy around him. With determined eyes, he yelled something that Roy was unable to hear between the static and loud explosions before shoving him hard.

Suddenly, Roy's mind was freed and all he felt was excruciating pain.

Then everything went white.

Chapter Text

The young prince Marth, exhausted yet relieved that his most recent bout—one against a group of unpleasant pirates who had been ravaging the ports of Galder—had ended in victory, walked down the stony roads of the town and checked on the townspeople and his army. Though there was some struggle at first, Marth had been able to successfully rout the enemies in the area whilst simultaneously recruiting more people into his ranks. Ogma, Bord, Barst, and Cord all joined him as soon as the skirmish had started; their loyalty was declared swiftly, and Marth gratefully accepted their assistance. Castor and Darros were both fine men that ended up on the wrong side of the battlefield, but with the prince's understanding of Darros and Caeda's taking pity on Castor, they were both turned around and fought alongside the small army to free the port.

"Thank you again for all of your help," Marth spoke to the group of new recruits. "Your brave assistance has helped us free the people here."

"No, thank you sire for allowing someone such as myself fight alongside you and Princess Caeda, even after my initial betrayal," sheepishly responded Castor.

Marth smiled. "Castor, your heart is in the right place. I can assure you that neither I nor Princess Caeda bear you any ill will."

The bowman quietly nodded before casting his gaze downward again, quietly thanking the prince once again for his kindness.

After Marth dismissed himself from the group, Caeda approached him.

"Marth," she greeted.

Marth smiled at her. "Hello Caeda. Is there something you needed?"

She nodded. "Yes. There is elderly man here that wishes to speak with you. He came here from a house on the outskirts, and it seems like he is in need of help."

"Ah. I'll go see him, then," Marth said. "Is the matter urgent?"

"Yes, he says so," Caeda responded. "I'll show you to him."

The two walked together to an old house near the edge of town, where an elderly man was waiting along with a younger village boy. As soon as the prince came into view, the elder perked up with anticipation.

"You're here!" he exclaimed.

Marth nodded once as he approached the elderly man, sparing him a polite smile. "Yes, good afternoon. I heard you had something urgent to tell me?"

"Yes, yes… Prince of Altea," he started, his voice growing grim. "Could you please help us? Sister Lena, a young woman from our town, went up to the Ghoul's Teeth to tend to the sick there and she has yet to return. She is an angel, and we could not live with ourselves if something were to happen to her. We would go to find her ourselves, but… with word of the bandits that have taken root in the area, I fear we would be sorely outmatched in a fight."

Marth grimaced at the thought of a young woman being lost in such a dangerous place, and immediately, his heart was beset with worry that she had been captured by the aforementioned bandits. "Yes, of course. We must travel through Samsooth Mountains on our way to Aurelis, anyway, and if she is in danger, we will rescue her."

The younger villager shifted his weight and scratched the back of his head as he spoke up. "The Ghoul's Teeth… they're dangerous mountains, sire. Gramps mentioned bandits- well, they call themselves the Soothsire Bandits. They would kill you without even battin' an eye."

"Unfortunately, I have heard of them well before we had even arrived here," Marth responded with a small nod, his hand resting on the hilt of his blade. "But the best path to Aurelis is through those mountains, and we must not hesitate. Besides, I would be hard-pressed to ignore them if there is potentially a young woman there, in trouble."

Both the villagers seemed relieved to hear such an answer.

"Thank you so much, Prince Marth," the elder said and held out a pouch. "Please take this as a preemptive show of gratitude. It should be enough gold to cover for anything you need to find her."

Giving the elderly man a warm smile, Marth gave a small bow as he accepted the gold. "Thank you, this is quite generous. I can assure you it will not go to waste."

A short while passed as Marth and his army made sure that the port was completely rid of pirates. Once everything was considered safe for the villagers to once again return, the young prince, along with his cavaliers Cain and Abel, headed out into the fields to survey the area.

"We will leave early in the morning," Marth said, looking over the grassy terrain. "But tonight, we should rest. It has been a long day for everyone."

"That sounds like a plan to me," said Cain chipperly as he craned his head back to look upwards, "It looks like it's going to rain here soon anyway."

Marth nodded in agreement as he looked up to the sky. There were dark clouds looming overhead—a sure sign that storms were coming. The blue-haired prince let a small sigh escape his lips as he allowed his gaze to fall back down to the grass. Abel looked over to his young lord, noting his solemn expression.

"Sire, there's no need for the long face," he said, causing Marth to look up to him. "We will reclaim Altea. I am certain of it."

Marth was quiet for a moment before smiling a little at the cavalier, appreciating his words of confidence. "Yes…" he spoke slowly as he looked upwards once more, "Though there are dark clouds in the sky, there is nothing but a shining future ahead of us. Today, we took our first steps towards reclaiming our homeland."

The cavaliers smiled at one another before joining Marth in his skygazing. The breeze blew from behind them, the heavy scent of petrichor lingering in the air. After a few moments, however, the breeze seemed to stall, and the previously calm atmosphere began to feel unnaturally charged.

"Do you feel that?" Cain asked quietly.

"It feels like magic," Abel responded, the tension in the air causing him to slightly readjust the position of his horse nearer to Marth.

Marth looked around with his brow furrowed. "We are in the middle of an open field. If there were any enemies, they would not be able to hide. They would be out in the open just as we are."

Abel readied his javelin and slowly trotted his horse forward, with Cain positioning his horse in front of Marth. "Sire, please stay behind us," Abel said.

Marth looked towards the pair. "Cain, Abel, you mustn't—"

Just as the prince began to speak, a large explosion echoed throughout the sky, followed by a blinding light. All three covered their ears and clenched their eyes as the wind sucked up into the sky like a vacuum. Cain and Abel's horses reared back with loud neighs, nearly throwing both cavaliers off.

"Cain! Abel!" Marth yelled out to his friends, but his voice was swallowed by the roaring wind.

Suddenly, the wind completely stopped just as quickly as it had started, sucking the air out of their lungs. Marth stumbled forward and looked up to the sky, his eyes squinted nearly shut. But as soon as he beheld the sight, his eyes shot open. All the nearby storm clouds had been sucked into a condensed ball of energy above them, and it looked like it was about to burst.

"Get down!" Marth cried out before ducking low to the ground, grasping at the dewy earth with his fingers.

Upon seeing the orb in the sky, the cavaliers practically leapt off their horses to get on the ground. There was a loud crack before the ball of clouds violently exploded, causing a deep, deafening boom that immediately caused all three men to wince. All the wind and energy sucked into it was expelled from it once again, rushing through the sky and fields. The trees that had once dotted the fields were quickly blown over or snapped in two from the force of the wind, and bolts of lightning and spurts of flame shot out from the epicentre of the blast.

Marth could barely lift his head against the incredible power of the wind and his fingers dug into the ground. He struggled to look up to the sky, but once he finally could, what he saw both amazed and terrified him.

"What is this?" he thought, shaken.

A huge fireball shot out from the source, travelling far across the fields ahead of them. It crashed into the ground and skidded through the grass, leaving a long path of scorched earth in its wake. Not long after, the remaining energy dissipated from the skies and the wrath of the elements had ceased. For an agonizingly long few seconds, the three men simply remained flat on the ground, breathing heavily as the shock ran its course through them each.

Shakily, the young prince then pushed himself to his feet. His two friends soon followed suit, with Cain stumbling slightly as he tried to regain his footing. All of them were completely speechless as they observed the sudden carnage.

"What… was that?" Abel rasped; his voice was barely audible now.

"I… I don't know," Marth mumbled, still in shock.

There was a stunned silence between the three of them as they all tried to process the event that just unfolded before them. Abruptly, Marth then straightened up and grabbed hold of his sheath as his instincts as prince kicked back into gear. "Cain, go check on the town! Abel, come with me! We need to check where that ball of fire landed!"

Cain, still slightly shaken, nodded and mounted his horse before taking off back to the town.

Abel looked to the prince. "G-go there? Sire, we don't know what could be out there!"

Marth nodded and looked to him. "Maybe so, but this was in no way a natural event, and those flames soared quite far! If it is indeed something dangerous, we cannot let it roam these lands freely."

The green-haired cavalier stared for a moment, slack-jawed, before letting out a slow sigh. "Yes. You are right," he said with a curt nod as he regained his composure, "Alright. Let us go then, sire."

Abel mounted his horse once more, Marth hopping behind him to ride pillion, and the two of them made their way across the field to where the ball of flame had first touched the ground.

"Incredible... everything's been completely incinerated," Abel observed with worry.

"Yes… stay on your guard, Abel," Marth advised, his grip tightening on the hilt of his blade. "We do not know what awaits us at the end of this charred trail."

The duo crept along the side of the burnt streak, Abel directing his horse to take steps that were hesitant and wary. When they neared the end, Marth noticed something lying on the ground, still partially obscured in the clearing smoke. At first, he couldn't tell what it was exactly, and he squinted as he tried to make heads or tails of it.

Once they were but a short distance away, however, the prince was able to make out the figure as human.

"Gods, there's a person in there!" Marth exclaimed, astonished. Without a moment's hesitation, he leapt off of Abel's horse and ran over to the seemingly lifeless person lying amongst the cinders and debris.

"Wait, Prince Marth!" Abel yelled out with his hand outstretched. "Ah- it could be dangerous!"

Marth completely ignored Abel as he ran into the smoke, taking quick yet careful steps to avoid any lingering flame. He waved away the smoke from his face with his arm and his eyes pricked with tears, agitated by the cinders and soot. Stifling a small cough, he approached the figure warily.

What he saw through his tears was a young man with bright red hair, lying wounded and unconscious amongst the debris.

Chapter Text

The sudden burst of magic and wind had been surprising—"surprising" being an understatement—to Prince Marth. Of course, even with how wild the initial magical outbreak was, finding the unconscious body of a young man lying amongst the charred rubble of one of the fireballs was even more astounding.

After discovering the redhead, Marth and Abel had brought him back to one of the homes along the port at Galder, where they had laid him in a bed. Whilst they were waiting, Marth had additionally sent Jagen and Caeda out to do a thorough search of the surrounding area to make sure there were no other bad actors hiding out after the commotion.

Marth watched from the other side of the room as Wrys healed the mysterious person's injuries. The gentle crackling of the lantern on the bedside table was all there was to fill the void of silence as himself, Abel, and Cain tried to decipher the most recent events of the day. None of them had been expecting the bloody battle in Galder to be so quickly usurped in their heads.

"He doesn't… look like he's from here," Abel spoke hesitantly, being the first one to break the silence as he watched from the other side of the room.

Marth shook his head, brows knit tightly both with worry and intrigue. "No, he does not. But he also does not look like he hails from any other place, either. At least any that I have seen."

"He kind of looks like a mercenary," noted Cain. "If he doesn't claim any homeland when he wakes up… then I wouldn't be surprised."

Abel frowned in contemplation. "Yes, but did you see his blade? Surely no mercenary would have a blade so…intricate, unless he was incredibly skilled."

Abel's comment caused Marth to turn his gaze towards the strange sword the redhead had been carrying when they found him. It had been knocked away when they saw it, the tip of it dug deep into the singed ground. At first they had been unsure of whether or not it was his, but when they saw the intricate sheath on the mysterious man's hip, it was a perfect fit. It was certainly true that a mercenary having such a wildly expensive-looking weapon was out of the ordinary. In fact, it put the weapons of anyone else in their little army to shame- Marth's rapier included.

Marth's eyes trailed down the peculiar sword, noting its features: a hilt made of pure gold, encrusted with what appeared to be two real sapphires and a strip of emerald. And of course, the radiant red jewel in the middle. It wasn't a ruby—Marth knew that for certain. It was like nothing he had ever seen before, and something about it made his heart swell against his ribs.

"Prince Marth?" Cain said with his eyebrow quirked, snapping Marth out of his thoughts.

"Yes, Cain?" Marth responded.

"You seemed pretty contemplative, there," Cain said. "Is something wrong? Do you know anything about that sword?"

To this, Marth only shook his head. He definitely did not know anything, but he felt enough of that unsettling twinge in his chest that he found himself unable to speak the actual words. It was strange to feel such a way due to an inanimate object, but for some reason, he couldn't shake it.

It had not taken much longer for Wrys to finish healing the young man. "He is no longer on death's door. I was able to heal most of his injuries," Wrys said and turned to Marth, "His condition is fair now, so he could wake up at any time."

"That's good news. Thank you Wrys," Marth responded with a smile.

The elderly healer nodded and excused himself before exiting the room, probably to go check to see if anyone else still needed any assistance after their earlier pirate fight. There were a few moments of silence as those who remained of the small group stood by the door, unsure of what to say.

"So, do you think he… came from that ball of fire in the sky?" Cain asked awkwardly.

Abel gave a small scoff at the outlandish proposition, but Marth could only cross his arms contemplatively. It wasn't like they knew any better, so it would be unwise to rule Cain's idea out completely- even if it did seem a bit silly when spoken out loud.

"Either that, or he happened to be hit by it as he was walking through the field," Marth answered. "Which, considering the two options, seems to be the most likely."

"I would also assume he got hit whilst walking," Abel said. "There's no way someone could just… appear out of thin air, in a fireball, from the sky."

"That does seem far-fetched," Marth agreed. "Though I suppose we shall find out for certain when he wakes."

Either that, or they might learn more when Jagen and Caeda returned from their search. Marth could only hold out hope that he would find out either way.

A couple of hours passed, and the two cavaliers had dispersed, leaving Marth alone in the silence of the bedroom. He had gone out only one more time to check on the state of his allies and the people of the harbor, but he had been quick to return to the small house in which the mysterious young man was still resting.

The young prince found himself growing ever so slightly restless. He was not upset by the other's unconscious state—he was worried by it. What if he had sustained injuries that one could not heal, or that Wrys may have overlooked? He did get struck by a ball of fire, after all.

With soft steps, Marth made his way over to the bedside. He looked down at the redhead's face.

"He seems so different," Marth whispered as he looked over the man's features.

Suddenly, there was the sound of sheets shifting. A low groan escaped the unconscious man's lips, and his expression contorted for a moment. Marth blinked a few times as the stranger's eyes drifted open just enough for him to see the icy blue shade of his irises, looking directly at him.

There were a few stunned moments of silence as Marth stared back down at him, unsure of what to do and at a loss for words. His lips pursed as a sudden feeling of nervousness washed over him, tingling all the way to his extremities. He had waited quite some time for this stranger to wake, but now that he had woken, Marth was stuck stiller than a statue.

"Where… am I?" spoke a quiet, groggy voice, effectively snapping the prince back into reality and out of his stupor.

"A-ah," Marth stood up a bit straighter. "You are in a house on the port of Galder."

The redhead stared up at the prince with hazy eyes and a confused expression.

"Galder," Marth spoke a bit more slowly. "It is a port town here near the island of Talys."

Once again, the prince was met with nothing but a confused stare. This caused him to frown a little.

"I see… so you don't remember where you are," Marth mulled quietly, "Do you have a name?"

There was a long silence, as if the redhead was trying to remember, and his gaze drifted up to the ceiling as he thought.

"... Roy," he said slowly.

The prince smiled a little bit at that. "Roy… a unique name," he commented. "Well, I am Marth. It's a pleasure to finally get to meet you."

Roy slowly nodded as he processed the new information, and he turned his gaze to Marth's once more. "Marth…" he mumbled groggily, doing his best to take note even though his thoughts were still swimming. "What happened to me?"

"Some friends and I found you unconscious in the plains not far from here," Marth explained as simply as he could, "You had been struck with a rather large ball of fire, so we rescued you and brought you back here to heal."

"A ball of fire?" Roy repeated, as if he couldn't believe it.

"I'm not quite sure how to explain it any other way," Marth replied with an apologetic shake of the head. "That is how it happened- at least, from our perspective."

Roy was silent for a few more moments as he considered Marth's explanation. A few seconds later, he slowly began to sit up.

Marth quickly rested his hand on Roy's back to help him. "Be careful; you sustained many injuries. We had you healed, but it is still best not to push yourself too hard so soon."

"I should be fine enough to sit up," Roy responded softly, though his voice was a bit hoarse. "I'm not feeling any pain, other than my head."

Marth nodded a little and the door to the room opened.

"Prince Marth, si—oh!" came Abel's voice, causing both Marth and Roy to look to the door, "It seems you've finally woken up."

"Abel," Marth greeted with a smile, "Yes, Roy just woke up."

"Roy, is it? My name is Abel," Abel said as he walked into the room, "I'm glad to see you're doing alright. You took quite the hit out there."

Roy nodded slowly in acknowledgement and Marth asked, "Is there something you needed of me, Abel?"

Abel turned his attention to Marth, his posture and expression hardening back into ones expected of a diligent soldier. "Yes, actually. Could you come with me for a moment? I've a question for you about tomorrow's move."

"Of course. I'll be right out," Marth answered.

Abel smiled and nodded once more before leaving the room. Marth then looked to Roy, who still seemed out of sorts.

"I will be back soon, but for now, make sure to rest," Marth said before he stood. "Please excuse me."

With that, Marth turned and left the room, leaving Roy by himself. The young man stared at the door as it closed behind the prince. So, he had been struck by a ball of fire in a field, and now he was woken up by Marth- who also happened to be a prince? It almost sounded like something out of a fairy tale, and he had a hard time believing it himself. The burns and scrapes that still lingered on his skin told him otherwise, however, and he frowned deeply.

There were a few long moments of silence as Roy quietly stared, fixated on the woodgrain of the door as he did his best to try to remember anything, anything at all-

Yet nothing came to mind.

He strained, clenching his eyes as he dug deep into his mind in an attempt to figure out anything. Still, absolutely nothing reached out to him. There was nothing but a dull, throbbing pain in the back of his head that only got worse the harder he tried to concentrate. It was like his past had all been sealed away into some dark corner of his mind that he just couldn't reach.

Roy let out a strained breath before gripping his hair, muttering. "What happened to me…"

The time that Marth was gone felt like ages. Roy slowly lifted his head from his hand and looked around the room once more, noticing a sword—his sword, though he did not know this at the time—leaned against the wall by the bed, safely tucked in its sheath. He squinted at it critically, and a few more moments went by before he gave up and let out a quiet sigh.

"I can't lie in this bed any longer," he said quietly as he gripped at the blankets covering him. He tugged them to the side, tossing them off of his legs as he moved to touch his feet to the floor.

Just as he was going to stand, however, Marth once again entered the room, this time accompanied by a young woman with hair as blue as his own. Marth blinked slowly and hurried to Roy's side when he noticed he was attempting to get out of bed.

"Roy, hold on," Marth said as he pushed his hand carefully against Roy's shoulder, "Don't rush yourself."

All Roy could do was offer Marth a small frown as he stalled, his fingers still clutching at the edge of the bed. "I'll be fine, I just need to get up…"

Marth was hesitant to allow him to stand, but he lessened the pressure of his hand anyway, keeping it on Roy's shoulder only to offer stability if he needed it. Roy wearily began to rise to his feet and something small tumbled out from his shirt and fell to the floor with a soft clatter. Everyone's gazes shifted to the object on the floor.

A dull, small, semi-opaque stone that was slightly chipped and jagged rested on the old wood floor, glinting palely in the light.

Marth furrowed his brow. "What is that?" he asked before looking to Roy.

Roy slowly knelt to the floor before carefully picking up the stone. He eyed it, turning it over a few times. The way the light refracted in its surface was oddly mesmerising, but that was all Roy really noticed about it.

"I'm not sure," was Roy's confused response. He rose to his feet again, his eyes never leaving the stone.

The younger woman came over to him and looked at the stone herself. "I don't think I've seen anything like it before," she said. "But it doesn't look particularly dangerous. It's just a small stone."

Marth nodded. "I didn't think it would be dangerous, but it is curious. Either way, is it a memento of yours?"

Marth's question seemed to just go through one ear and out the other as Roy's eyes were still fixated on the stone in his hand. Suddenly, a small sharp pain jolted through Roy's mind.

A fuzzy silhouette was right in front of him and Roy was unable to move, as if someone was holding him still.

"…. s… go… t of… y…!"

A force hit him and he went flying back. The already unclear surroundings were sucked away into whiteness.

A pained groan left Roy's throat as he gripped his forehead with his free hand. The hand holding the stone tightened around it and his knees went weak. Marth, immediately alarmed, swiftly returned his hand to Roy's shoulder to keep him from falling on his face.

"Are you okay?" Marth asked, clearly worried.

"Y-yes, just a headache," Roy answered slowly before raising his head again. Marth opted to keep his hand on Roy's shoulder this time, not feeling like gambling with the potential for another collapse, and he turned his head to look towards the young woman next to him.

"Caeda, when we finish with Jagen, could you please bring Wrys back? Perhaps he has medicine to help alleviate Roy's headache," Marth said to her.

"Of course. I should step out for now, though, since Jagen has probably caught up with us," Caeda replied.

"Please let him know that I will be with you both in a moment, then," Marth said, to which Caeda nodded. She then left the room, leaving the two men by themselves. Marth let out a quiet sigh and Roy looked to him.

"Well, I am glad you are at least able to move around. Somewhat, anyway," Marth spoke and smiled politely at Roy, "We were all worried you wouldn't make it at first."

Roy, made less tense by the prince's smile, wearily returned the gesture. "Apparently a fireball isn't enough to take me down… I suppose that's something to be happy about, all things considered."

Marth chuckled a little at his lighthearted humour. "It seems so."

There were a few moments of silence between them before Marth spoke again.

"Say, Roy," he started, choosing his words carefully. "Are you a mercenary, by chance?"

This question caused the redhead to blink. "A mercenary?"

"Yes, a mercenary," Marth reaffirmed, "As in, someone who pledges no allegiance to any particular country, kingdom, or army… but rather, can be employed to work for anyone he chooses."

"Ah, I might be. It seems like something up my alley, but I don't really remember," Roy answered, "Why do you ask?"

"When you were unconscious, we were trying to discuss it. You do look like one," Marth began, "Your clothes don't seem to match any specific country's that I have seen, as if you are your own person without any ties. And that sword is definitely not that of an ordinary soldier's or traveller's. It must have cost a small fortune, and skilled mercenaries are paid rather well."

Roy looked to the sword against the wall and then down to his own clothes. "I… suppose," he started before looking back up to him. "I do not pledge any allegiance to any country as far as I am aware. But that isn't saying much, considering my current circumstances."

Marth stared into Roy's eyes for a moment, as if analysing the truthfulness of him and his words. After determining that Roy must not have had something to hide, Marth decided to extend an offer. "Alright. In that case, how would you like to work as part of this army? To save my kingdom and my sister?"

Roy seemed surprised by the offer, and he stammered for a moment. "Uh, you would trust me enough to just… let me join you?"

Marth nodded. "You have not given me a reason to distrust you. This land is wrought with strife, and though I must be careful, I also cannot doubt the intentions of every person I meet. Therefore, I see no reason to rule you out as a potential comrade."

It took Roy a few moments to process the prince's words. It was a bit odd, he thought, to be so quick to adopt someone into an army like this-- especially someone that was a complete unknown-- but it would be a bad idea for Roy to look this gift horse in the mouth. So, he slowly looked to Marth again, and nodded a little, deciding not to question it any more than he already had.

"Then I would be foolish not to accept," Roy responded. "I'm sorry in advance if any more fireballs try to strike me down in the meantime, though."

Marth let out a soft laugh at Roy's joke. "I would certainly hope no more fireballs get slung your way, but if they do, we will endeavour to help you. With that said, I am glad to hear you accept my offer. I realise you are still recovering, but we were planning to leave for the Samsooth Mountains in the morning. So, I suggest you get as much rest as you can in the meantime."

A small flicker of opposition flashed in Roy's eyes since he clearly did not want to lie back down on the bed. This coaxed another laugh out of Marth, and he gave Roy a warm smile.

"Please, it is for your own well-being," Marth insisted.

Roy stared at him for a moment longer before letting out a small sigh. "I suppose you're right."

The newly-dubbed mercenary sat back down on the bed, and Marth smiled warmly at him. "Well then, I have a few things yet to attend to this evening. I will see you in the morning. Wrys should come by soon to hopefully help you with your headache. In the meantime, please don't hesitate to ask for anything if you need it. There are plenty of us that would be happy to lend you a helping hand."

Roy nodded in understanding, and after a polite farewell, Marth exited the room. After Roy knew Marth was a safe distance away, he let out a groan as he fell back against the bed. A whole lot had just happened to him in very short succession, and he had barely even had the chance to recuperate from the apparent hellfire he had just barely managed to survive.

Thinking on everything that he could- all that he learned since he woke up, alongside the paltry amount that he could remember- Roy realised quite quickly that he was in a dire state of affairs. He brought his right hand up towards himself and pressed his palm to his forehead, before roughly dragging it down the length of his face.

Tiredly, he stared up at the ceiling and muttered to himself. "… Who even am I?"

When Prince Marth had finished speaking with Roy and returned outside, Caeda and Jagen had both been waiting for him. They had finished their scouting not too long before, and Caeda had just gone to fetch for the young prince when he was on his way to check up on Roy. The look on her and Jagen's faces both seemed critical at the time, though the old paladin's moreso- so Marth had asked for them to brief him on their findings.

The three of them walked together to the edge of the port town, heading out towards the fields where the terrifying explosion of elements had occurred. It was painfully silent between the three as Jagen held his tongue, clearly thinking through the words he wished to say, and Marth patiently waited. His gaze flicked from Jagen's to Caeda's, and his childhood friend simply gave him a small reassuring smile.

It seemed like whatever it was that had Jagen in such a twist was going to become an issue for Marth, as well, based on the apologetic look on Caeda's face.

"Sire," Jagen finally said, breaking the silence. Marth straightened as he returned his full attention to Jagen, and Jagen cleared his throat as he hardened his expression to one expected of an old knight's. "We did not find any intruders in the area."

Upon hearing that, Marth couldn't help but react in mild relief. "That is certainly good news," he replied. "Pray tell, then, why you wear such a grave expression?"

The metallic clinking of Jagen's armor pricked in Marth's ears as he watched the older man straighten even more, his arms tucking behind his back. "Though there were no enemies we could see, the aftermath of whatever occurred out in the fields points to some kind of magical cause," Jagen explained. "Sire, in my many years of service to both you and your father, I have only ever seen destruction on such a scale when it has been wrought by a very powerful spellcaster."

Frowning deeply, Marth's head bowed as he considered Jagen's words. The grass swayed lazily at their feet as the sea breeze slipped by, tickling at the soles of their boots. If this was what Jagen had deduced, then it was certainly a cause for concern. Marth rolled his shoulders back as he straightened and looked up towards Jagen once more.

"So, you are led to believe that this was the result of an attack?" Marth asked.

"Quite possibly," Jagen replied gruffly. "Though, sire, as stated, we did not see any signs of any other intruders in the area. Not even footsteps. I realise some time had passed between you finding that young man and us going out to scout the area, but even so, it is hard to accept that the culprit would leave no trace behind."

With a small nod, Marth said, "Of course. Especially when we must consider that most of this area is open plains. Is it possible that they escaped by some other means?"

"It's possible," Caeda chimed in, her voice a welcome shift in tone from Jagen's. "A powerful spellcaster could employ magics such as a Warp Staff to escape. Though it would be rather concerning to consider that someone with access to such a spell is potentially nearby."

Yes, it would be very concerning, Marth agreed with that. Though why would someone so potentially powerful be in Galder, of all places? Were they lying in wait for an opportunity to slip into Talys?

"The other option," Jagen cut in, "Is that the young man you found is the spellcaster."

The clear accusation from Jagen pulled Marth from his thoughts, and he furrowed his brow. "Jagen, I have my reservations about that," Marth said. "Roy does not seem to have any sort of magical capabilities that we could discern from his belongings. In fact, he had been carrying only a sword with him as a weapon. No tomes, staves, or otherwise."

The wrinkles on Jagen's face only seemed to deepen as he frowned. Marth shook his head as he thought further on it, and made a small wave of his hand. "Besides, why would he have attacked himself with such powerful magic? It was a ball of fire in the sky," Marth recounted. "That would be quite a grave mistake to make if that were the case."

"True," Jagen agreed, "But I would hesitate to rule that idea out right now. It could have been purposeful, or an accident- though neither of those absolve him of suspicion. He just woke up, did he not?"

With Marth's nod of affirmation, Jagen continued, "Then we should ask him about it, directly."

There was a short pause as Marth pursed his lips, awkwardly trying to piece together how to respond next. Deciding that blunt honesty would be the best policy, he replied, "Well... we could ask him, but I doubt it would get us very far. He seems to have amnesia."

Jagen's eyebrows immediately shot up to his hairline, surprise and clear suspicion evident on his face. "Amnesia?"

"It's true," Caeda said, "When I saw him just a few minutes ago, with Marth, he seemed quite out of sorts. His words were slurred and he couldn't even remember a keepsake that was on him when it fell to the floor."

Obviously, Jagen was very hesitant to accept or believe this, and he shifted forward as he took a half-step towards Marth. "Sire, please forgive my rudeness, but as your knight I cannot in good conscience turn a blind eye to the circumstances here. After the loss of King Cornelius and our exile from Altea, it would be negligent for me to do so. Amnesia is a story far too convenient for this young man to get close to you. What if he is merely acting so that he can make an attempt on your life?"

Bristling, Marth could feel the way his heartbeat quickened, and his extremities hummed with the hike in his emotions. "Jagen," Marth began, "Whilst I do sincerely appreciate all that you do for me, would it not also be negligent for me, as the Prince- the son of King Cornelius- to turn a blind eye to someone who is clearly in need?"

Whatever response Jagen was prepared to send Marth's way quickly was swallowed back down his throat as he closed his mouth with a quick click of his jaw, and he returned to his previous stance, no longer leaned forward. Marth sighed tiredly.

"If you would let him have a chance," Marth said, his voice lowering back to its usual tone, "I would be quite grateful. We are in need of all the help we can get, and from what little we could piece together about Roy, he seems like he may be a considerable ally to have. We can address any suspicions as they come to fruition, if they do. Does that seem fair, Jagen? Princess Caeda?"

Caeda only gave Marth a kind smile and a nod, to which Marth gratefully returned. Jagen remained still for a moment before finally relenting, letting out a deep sigh as he did. "Yes, sire," he replied, "That is certainly fair. I will keep my eye on him in the meantime."

Both Marth and Caeda couldn't help but feel a twinge of sympathy for Roy, knowing how protective Jagen could be. Neither of them would dare to say it out loud, however. Marth could only hope that this mysterious mercenary would truly turn out to be an incredible ally.

Chapter Text

The atmosphere was a little bit more relaxed when they finally set out to the Samsooth Mountains the next morning. The small army was quiet, only mumbling amongst one another rarely, but the sound of horse hooves and clanking armor was enough to keep things from falling too awkwardly silent.

However, even with these noises, Roy still found himself feeling nothing but awkward. He knew nothing of the faces that surrounded him, the grass beneath his feet, the tapering mountains by his sides, or even the sky above his head. It was all so foreign to him—even his new title of "mercenary" seemed alien to him, like that wasn't who he really was. He supposed the bill fit him, since he claimed no homeland and he most definitely did not fit in the visual norm of his new comrades, but it still just felt wrong.

With a slight shake of the head, Roy tried to clear his mind. He looked ahead of him, watching the slightly billowing cape of the prince that was walking not but ten paces in front of him. He introduced himself as Marth, the castaway prince from a land called Altea. Roy found Marth interesting; he was young, maybe only a year or two younger than Roy himself, and here he was, building an army to reclaim his homeland.

And of course, Roy was now in this army, for one reason or another. He figured it was for the better, seeing as though he had no idea where he was and apparently there was enough of a language gap that some of the others would ask him to rephrase his sentences every now and then. Without being in a group, he would more than likely be even more helplessly lost than he currently was. The prince's group had saved him and healed him, so fighting alongside them for a time was the least that he could do to repay them, especially since he had nowhere else to go.

As the group managed its way up winding hills and craggy paths, Roy could feel the air begin to thin and cool. He had begun to take slightly shallower breaths and it was clear to him that this was a type of terrain he wasn't quite used to. The grass crunched mutedly under the pressure of boots and hooves as they proceeded, and they soon found themselves at a fork in the path. At this, Marth raised his hand to halt them.

The young prince turned to face them. "Believe it or not, this is only the foot of the mountain," he said, mostly to Roy. "We've still quite a distance to go, and there are two paths… though truthfully, I do not know which tactic would be to our benefit."

Caeda trotted forward on her Pegasus. "Marth, the passages sweep around the mountains and connect on the other side. Perhaps we could split the forces in two and meet back together once we've rounded these spires?"

Marth thought about her proposition and nodded slowly. "If they connect back together again, then perhaps that is the best idea. There may be forces on either side—to leave many bandits behind could be grounds for trouble later. I would loathe to leave the people of Galder or any other surrounding towns in danger of an attack of reciprocity."

The group agreed with Marth's thoughts on the matter and soon, he, with the direction of Jagen and Malledus, began to divvy up members into two groups: one group that would head north through a short and narrow passage, and one that would go west through a large field. Caeda would be the one to lead the northbound group and Marth would lead the westbound group.

Roy watched in silence as Marth went around to each individual member of the army, telling them which group they would be in. As Marth made his way around, Roy was certain that he would be put in the group with Caeda due to him being such a new recruit. A few minutes later, Marth came to Roy.

"Roy," Marth began. "You will be with my group heading west."

This came as a slight surprise for Roy. "Really?"

Marth simply nodded. "I had Cain and Abel check ahead on each route. The western field seems home to more brutal characters than those to the north, so I will need all the power I can get to fight back against them."

That made sense, Roy thought with nothing but an understanding nod in response. This caused Marth to smile and bow his head slightly before heading away once again. Not much longer went by before all units were assigned to a group and started to split up. Roy made his way over to his group, which consisted of Marth, Wrys, Jagen, Ogma, Darros, Bord, Barst, Abel, and himself. Marth had definitely chosen those with more brute strength for his side, at least based on looks. Roy had yet to see their performance on the battlefield.

After a brief explanation of strategy, the small group set off through the field. Though they were not trying to be particularly stealthy, their group did remain tight-lipped as they travelled further into the mountain pass. What had once been a delightful, salty sea breeze had been replaced entirely by a dry and nippy wind by the time they had reached this point, and the way that it whistled through the mountain spires sounded almost ominous. Every nerve in Roy's body was on edge, and he palmed at the hilt of his blade as they continued onward, staying on high alert.

Though he couldn't see these bandits immediately, he could practically feel the oppressive aura weighing down on him. Like there were eyes on him, keeping his every move in check. Little did he know, however, that it wasn't the eyes of the bandits that had him so pinned down- it was the older paladin riding his horse not but a few paces behind him, watching him like a hawk.

The tense silence, the anticipation of a fight, frayed and snapped like old rope as the hollering of men echoed through the expanse of the pass. Toweringly large men came leaping down from the rocks and darting out from the craigs with weapons raised and drawn, bloodthirsty and excited. Arrows whizzed past their heads and axes clashed against swords as they were hit with the first wave of enemies.

Even though there were many of them, with some being physically impressive, Roy was largely unimpressed by their attacks—they had no coordination, and it was obvious none of them had ever been trained, so it was easy for him to avoid most of their swings and cut them down as they came at him.

The sky had long since clouded over and droplets of rain began to sprinkle down on them. Roy glanced up to the sky, taking note of the slowly darkening clouds before turning his attention back to the fight at hand once more. A burly man, noticing Roy's momentary lapse in concentration, ran at him, letting out a barbaric yell as he swung his axe down at Roy. The bellowing yell from the man had brought Roy back into the action, and he quickly brought his sword upward to block the blow of the axe- though his form wasn't as solid as it should've been, and his knee half-buckled beneath the strength behind the man's swing. Even though Roy's initial block was successful, he had to concentrate on holding the man at bay, and he was caught off-guard when he felt the incredible power of the man's knee jam itself into his gut. He let out a pained grunt and slumped forward slightly, which allowed his attacker to grab him by the neck and throw him down violently against the ground.

Roy's breath caught, and he let out a choked cry as the back of his head hit the rough dirt beneath him. The enemy hovered above him, his rough hand still clamping tight around Roy's throat. He let out a disgusting laugh—one full of conceit and hatred—as he raised his axe once again.

"Stupid damn kid, not so confident now are ye," he growled through missing teeth, "I'll kill yer ass for what you did to the others!"

He continued to talk—probably about something with language even more vulgar than before—but Roy could barely make out a word over the loud ringing in his ears. His vision was speckled with black, and his upper lip twitched as he gnashed his teeth together. As he saw the man tighten his grip on his axe, he knew that surely this would be the way he died; to think it was all because of him being distracted by the weather. What a horribly unprofessional way to be taken out, and so soon after being saved by Prince Marth, no less.

"Hah, I would tell you to say your last words, but it looks like you can't talk now can ya!" the man yelled as he laughed. "I'll be sure to make it as painful as possible for you, pretty boy."

"Not on my watch!" came Marth's voice, the gentle yet courageous tone penetrating through the haze that had its hold on Roy's head.

There was the sickening sound of metal piercing through flesh and cracking bone as Marth stabbed through the Soothsire's back. Roy could barely see it, but he could feel it as the grip on his throat loosened and the foreboding shadow that was once above him disappeared into a slump off to his right side. He gasped a little for breath and Marth quickly came to his side to help him sit up.

"Roy, can you hear me? Are you alright?" came Marth's quick words.

"I—I'm fine," Roy spoke between breaths. He winced and went to stand with Marth's help, wobbling slightly as he tried to regain his footing. "Thank you for… saving me there."

Marth nodded. "Of course. I can't have you dying here, can I?" he responded and smiled slightly. "We're almost all the way through. Their fortress should be just around the bend."

It took Roy only a couple of minutes to recover from the blow he had taken, thanks to a healing hand from Wrys. There weren't many enemies left on the field by the time Wrys had finished, and Roy noticed Marth speaking with a young woman in robes as well as a young man that was with her.

The girl must have been who they came here to get, Roy thought to himself. He dropped his stare to the sword in his hand; the blade was still stained with blood. With a few good swings, most of the blood managed to come off his sword and spatter onto the earth beneath him. The body of his attempted killer still laid on the ground by his feet and Roy couldn't help but frown. He turned and walked away from the scene before it allowed itself any extra time in his mind, for there were much more important things to worry about now that he was safe from death.

Thankfully, the sprinkling of rain from earlier had subsided for the time being as Marth brought everyone from his group together once again. Roy learned that the two Marth had been talking to just moments earlier were named Lena and Julian—Julian being an ex-Soothsire, and Lena being the one that Roy had briefly been informed about on their way to the Ghoul's Teeth.

Under the direction of Marth, Malledus, and Jagen, the small force formed a v-shaped "wall" as it made its way to the fortress. Their new formation made a good barrier against the few enemies that were left, and in no time, they were at the entrance to the Soothsire's fortress. A dark snort and laugh caught the attention of the group, and they all raised their gazes to the source. On top of the fortress' outer walls stood a man, roughed up and shirtless with his arms folded across his chest. He wore a timeworn green bandana around his head and an aggravated smirk was on his face.

"You really must wanna die, comin' to the Soothsire's palace unbidden, you know!" he shouted from atop his perch.

"This is nothing like a palace," remarked Marth. "Your forces have fallen and there is nothing but a few of you remaining, including yourself. You are outnumbered and have been outwitted."

This caused the man's smirk to flash into a deep scowl. "I would watch yer mouth, dainty lad," he growled and jumped down. He landed his feet on the ground with a thump, though the high fall did not seem to faze him. "You look more like someone who'd have his nails painted with polish than with blood."

Marth's lips pursed into a frown, his grip tightening on his rapier. It was clear that the man's comment had hit a small nerve, which made the ruffian laugh. "If you wanna prove me wrong, then come at me! Fight, you damn kid! See if you can get lucky against me!"

At this, another group of Soothsires, presumably all that was left of them, attacked. Roy found himself once again reading attacks with ease and his sword sliced through skin like a hot knife through butter. The prince ran at the leader and began a fight of his own against him.

Roy would occasionally glance from his own fights to Marth's. It was clear that the man, whose name he had overheard being Reynard, was much more physically powerful than Marth was, and that Marth was struggling. With a swift swipe of his blade, Roy cut down the last enemy that had come at him before he started to make his way toward Marth. He would need backup against Reynard, that much was certain, and Roy owed it to him for saving his life not just once, but twice now.

A swift kick to the chest sent Marth flying back and tumbling across the ground with a pained cry. Reynard laughed. "Is that really all you've got? You'd be better off in a dress than you would in that armor, lad," he hissed with satisfaction. "Or even better, six feet under!"

Roy had managed to run in during Reynard's taunting and he took that opportunity to ram himself and the side of his sword into the man with as much strength as he could muster. This sent Reynard stumbling over with a yell. He gripped at the deep cut in his bicep that had been carved by Roy's sword and blood spilled down his arm.

"You damn brat!" he shouted and ran towards Roy with a swing of his fist, but his new injury slowed him down and Roy was able to duck out of the way. The two of them took part in a tit-for-tat exchange of blows and dodges as Roy did his best to buy Marth some recovery time, which was a courtesy that Marth was very thankful for.

Roy's distracting attacks gave Marth enough time to catch his breath and pull himself up from the ground before he ran at Reynard, his rapier once again poised to strike. Spotting the young prince out of the corners of his eyes, barreling towards them with a readied blade, Roy brought his sword around in a crescent-motion as he swung with the flat of his blade right towards Reynard's upper arm. The heavy blade crashed into Reynard's body, knocking him partially off his feet and sending him into a half-turn towards the approaching prince-

And with one hasty movement, the man's chest had been pierced through by the slender blade of Marth's rapier. Blood spattered on Marth's face and clothes as he ripped the blade back out, and the man fell back against the ground. With a cough, a thick line of crimson traced itself down his jaw from the corner of his mouth.

"Damn you," He muttered, his voice cracking as blood bubbled in his throat. "One day… it'll be you…"

Both blood and venom dripped from his lips as he spoke those final words before his eyes hazed over. Marth slowly sheathed his rapier once again before he looked to Roy, who was still looking down at Reynard's body and breathing heavily from exhaustion. That man had been a handful, and Roy was still recovering from both the fireball and the earlier hit on the head, so he was completely drained.

"Thank you," Marth said suddenly, which drew Roy's attention to him. "I had been greatly overpowered. I appreciate your help."

At this, Roy only shook his head. "It's fine. You've saved me twice now, so the least I could do is return the favor. Besides, all the 'dainty' commentary was pretty inconsiderate."

Marth could only manage a small, tired, embarrassed laugh at that. It had, unfortunately, been needling at Marth's pride, so he appreciated Roy's comment. "That it was."

It didn't take long for the last few Soothsires to be slain, leaving the fortress itself completely void of enemies. Jagen, Abel, Bord, and Barst all went inside to check the halls and rooms to be sure as Wrys healed any injuries the others had sustained. The quiet rumbling of hooves and feet in the distance started to become more apparent as Caeda and her group made their way to the fortress. Marth excused himself from Roy's company and went over to the other group to speak with them, leaving Roy by himself once again. He stared at the prince's back silently for a moment before looking up at the sky. His eyes narrowed.

It was most definitely going to start raining again. Of all the times for nature to be cruel, it had to be on the battlefield, didn't it?

However, even with the rain coming and the smell of death heavy in the air, his mood was still a bit lighter than it had been just a few hours before. He didn't know who he really was or where he was from but fighting alongside others was enough to make him feel like he still had a purpose. He was only broken free from his thoughts when he heard footsteps approaching him. He looked over to see Jagen walking towards him, holding his horse's reigns in his left hand.

"Roy, would you be willing to help us clear out some of this fortress so we may use it during the storm?" the elderly knight asked.

Roy nodded. "Of course."

He followed after Jagen and entered the old Soothsire fortress. The air inside felt slightly damp and cold against his face, similar to the air outside, but much more stagnant. It did not take long for them to clear out a few rooms and the main hall of debris or other junk and furniture.

"Thank you, Roy," Jagen said as Roy walked past him with an armful of old wooden planks. The redhead hummed a little in response as he set them down into a pile in one of the far corners. Jagen paused before speaking again, "Tell me something, actually."

The sudden statement caused Roy to blink and look back to Jagen questioningly. "Tell you something?"

Jagen stared at Roy hard, his eyes seemingly scanning his to catch any sort of hesitation or lie. "Yes. Do you really not know anything at all about yourself?"

The question caught Roy off guard. "What do you mean?"

"Do you really not remember anything at all?" repeated Jagen. "You claim to not know anything but your name, but that doesn't make any sense to me."

Roy furrowed his brow at Jagen's words, obviously a little unhappy with the clearly accusing finger being pointed at him.

Roy shook his head and firmly waved his hand to the side. "I am not lying. I really don't remember anything, and if I did, I surely wouldn't keep it from anyone. Especially not from the person who saved my life not but a day ago."

Jagen remained silent for a few more moments, but his intense gaze never left Roy's. "Alright," he finally said and turned. "I will be out to see Marth. We'll be spending the night here, though a few of us will have to take guard shifts. I'll be back soon."

With that, the old knight walked out of the hall and out the fortress doors. Roy watched him as he left, his brow still slightly furrowed. "He's not going to trust me for a while, I feel," he mumbled to himself before glancing down, eyeing a crack in the floor. "I suppose I don't blame him, but still, he came on pretty strong..."

He let out a small sigh. The night was going to be long; he could tell that much for certain. Perhaps he would be given a guard shift—that actually sounded like a great idea to him. It's not like he would be able to sleep very well anyway, given how there was so much on his mind.

The evening passed quickly after that. The sun had long since set and dark imposing clouds blanketed the sky.

Once, twice, flashes of lightning split those clouds and rumbles of thunder shook the earth slightly. He was on guard duty by his own offer, and though Jagen had been suspicious at first, Marth himself had come to him and convinced him that it would be fine to allow Roy the position.

So here he was, standing under an archway near the main doors, staring out into the rain. The storm was vicious, and Roy found himself captivated by how powerful it had become in just a few short hours.

Another flash of lightning lit up his surroundings before leaving him in darkness once more. His eyes closed as he let in a slow, deep breath, and exhaled quietly with the quaking of the thunder. The noise from the storm made it hard for him to hear the footsteps approach from behind, but once they were close enough, he glanced back over his shoulder to the source.

Marth smiled gently. "Ah, it seems I was not quiet enough, was I?" he spoke softly. Roy smiled a bit and Marth came to his side, gazing out upon the darkened fields, "This storm is quite something, isn't it?"

Roy nodded and looked out to the sky again, "Yes, it is. I take it that's why you're here?"

"Yes, in part," Marth replied, which caused Roy to turn his attention to the young prince once again. "Between the events earlier and the storm raging outside, I was a bit too preoccupied to try to sleep."

This made Roy smirk slightly in sympathetic understanding. "That's why I asked for guard duty," he mumbled, which made Marth chuckle.

"I figured as much," he said.

A comfortable silence fell between the two as they both stared out at the rain-soaked fields once again. The rain seemed to taper off slightly for a minute or so at a time before returning to its downpour state. The thunder grumbled and lightning lit up the clouds like a flash of fire that was doused almost instantly. Roy let out an inaudible sigh and closed his eyes once more.

Marth glanced to him quietly. He could tell that Roy seemed to be engrossed in his thoughts, but he decided against asking him about it. They had just met, after all, and surely it would be rude to pry into someone's mind after such a short time. His lips curled into a small smile.

"Well, please get some rest soon, Roy," Marth said suddenly. "Jagen should be out within the hour to trade shifts with you."

Roy opened his eyes wearily and looked to Marth with a small nod. "Right… thank you."

What Marth saw in those eyes seemed to surprise him, just like the day before. They were that cool blue, much lighter than his own, but there seemed to be something else hidden behind them, almost like they glowed softly. It took him a moment to realize that he had started to stare curiously, though Roy didn't seem to mind. Marth's shoulders tensed before he quickly brushed off the odd feeling of uncertainty he was starting to feel in his chest. He began to walk back inside before stopping with his hand on the handle of the door.

"Good night, Roy."

"Good night."

Chapter Text

As the Altean Army was on its way to Aurelis, it was met with surprise: not long after setting foot in the kingdom, they heard what sounded like another army fast approaching. This turned out to be the case, as Marth and his group were quickly met with opposition in the form of Bentheon's forces. Most of their enemy had been routed within a couple short hours, and all that was left were a handful of soldiers and Bentheon himself.

It was a swift victory as Marth slew Bentheon. Though Bentheon had been powerful and his Ridersbane had kept Marth's usual backups of Cain, Jagen, and Abel at bay, Marth had been able to take care of the enemy general with nothing but his rapier. The Altean Army was showered in thanks and gifts of weapons and even gold by the villagers and farmers around the southern castle, for they were relieved to once again be safe from harm. Though he was grateful for their appreciation, he could not help but feel a little embarrassed by their excess of praise.

Upon entering the castle, Marth, along with the small group of Jagen, Malledus, Roy, Cain, and Abel, was greeted with open arms by the castle's elder. In his old, outstretched hands rested a silver sword, one of the most expensive and brilliant weapons a warrior could wield.

"Prince Marth, you have our thanks for liberating the southern castle. Captain Hardin is at the Northern Fortress in Aurelis, protecting lady Nyna and the king. Please deliver this silver sword to him on behalf of us here."

And, with his usual graceful smile, Marth accepted the sword and promised to deliver it to Hardin. Roy was intrigued by the new name—to give someone something as pricey as a silver sword as a gift must mean that they are held in high regard. Knowing this wasn't the time to ask about it, however, he kept himself quiet and only pondered the idea of who this man Hardin might be—though it seemed like they were on track to meeting him soon enough.

The villagers nearby had generously lent the army use of their inns that day. Malledus had decided that using the rest of the afternoon and evening to rest and replenish supplies and energy would be the wisest decision for the group, which is something that all of them were thankful for.

Though relaxing was nice, Roy was still a little bit restless. He was seated on a barrel just outside of the inn as he noticed Marth speaking with the two cavaliers, Cain and Abel. Curiosity set in quickly, and although he had averted his eyes, he still listened in on their conversation. Even though he felt a twinge of guilt for eavesdropping, he couldn't help himself.

"Yes, I've already sent out Ogma and Navarre to find us some more weapons to replace the ones that were broken in battle, so all that we need now would be vulneraries and the like," Marth said.

Both Cain and Abel seemed glad to do the task.

"Do you mind if anyone else comes along with us?" Abel asked. "Since you won't be?"

Marth smiled at him. "I do not mind at all, no. I would come with you myself, but Merric and I have a little bit to catch up on. It has been a long time since we last saw each other, and he would probably appreciate me letting him know about my sister."

Merric—one of the newest recruits, having just joined during the fight against Bentheon—was one of Marth's friends since childhood, Roy found out. From what he had seen of Merric, he was a fairly eccentric mage, maybe even a little bit showy. It appeared he had feelings for Marth's sister, with how he talked about her.

Roy had been deep enough in his own thoughts that he didn't hear Cain's boot steps approach him. "Roy, would you like to come with me and Abel? We're getting more supplies before we head out again tomorrow."

This caused the redhead to look up to Cain. "Oh, yes, sure," he responded simply with a nod. He rose from his spot on the barrel and Cain smiled at him before heading back over to Abel and Marth, with Roy now following him.

"Thank you, you three," Marth said. "Abel, here is the gold you'll need for the supplies. This should be enough to purchase quite a bit."

Abel took the bag of gold that had been handed to him. "We'll be sure to use it wisely," he responded. To this, Marth only nodded.

"Alright. Well, I shall see the three of you later," Marth said and flashed them all a small smile. He turned and walked away, leaving the two cavaliers and the mercenary by themselves.

"Well! Alright," Cain spoke up, causing both Roy and Abel to look at him. "Let's get going and make sure to get what we need."

It had been a couple of hours and the three men were almost finished gathering the supplies Marth had asked them for. Plenty of vulneraries, concoctions and other items had been purchased and were now being carried in two large sacks by Cain. Roy had offered him help, but Cain declined it in his hubris, saying he would be fine carrying the bags by himself—this, of course, had caused Abel to make a noise somewhere between a scoff and a snicker, which made Cain a little red-faced.

Roy found the two of them to be, for lack of a better word, amusing. Both men took their jobs as Marth's knights very seriously, just like Jagen, but they also acted more light-hearted around each other, especially off the battlefield. In a way, they acted very much like brothers, with Cain trying to one-up Abel every now and then and Abel finding him silly for trying to make a point in some sort of imaginary competition. It was a refreshing change from the usual marching, fighting, sleeping, and repeat pattern that the army had fallen into in just the short time that Roy had been with them.

"This should be our last stop," Abel spoke up as they reached an old-looking wooden building. "According to the townspeople, this place might have some rarer items, such as Speedwings, Spirit Dusts, and maybe even a Dracoshield or two…"

Cain quirked his brow. "Really? Well it would be our lucky day if we were to find even one of any of those, especially in a random old shop. Let's go check it out then."

Roy held the door open for the two cavaliers as they went inside. He entered after them, quietly shut the door behind him, and looked around the shop.

The shop itself was the size of just one large room, and it was full from floor to ceiling with strange items all along the shelves and gondola units. Patterned rugs covered the aged wooden floors, and the lighting inside was yellowed from the pyramidal bits of old stained glass hanging from the ceiling. Each pyramid contained a small flame that cast just enough light for customers browsing to see what was on the shelves around them. The place felt old and slightly cluttered with only enough room for one person to walk down the aisles at a time, but it wasn't uncomfortable.

Many of the strange artifacts and items grabbed Roy's attention and he ended up wandering slowly around the room, looking at everything he possibly could. Abel had gone straight to the elderly woman behind the counter to ask about a few things and Cain had followed him there, which left Roy to himself. He saw many strange items, from old scrolls to Pegasus bones, which gave his interest a little bit of a surprise, though nothing in particular stood out to him too much. Just as he went around the corner, however, something on one of the old gondolas suddenly caught his eye.

A sphere made of smooth, reflective stone, swirled with colours in an almost prismatic effect, was resting on the second to top shelf. It sat atop a silky cloth not much bigger than a handkerchief, and it was brilliant, even amongst the dingy discoloured shades of everything else around it.

Roy's breath had caught in his throat and his heart skipped a beat as he stared at the object, almost entranced by it. He stared for a few moments before the elderly woman spoke up.

"Do you know what that is?" she asked him like she already knew what it was. Roy blinked a few times and looked to her, their eyes locking, which caused her to tense up in sudden realization.

"Wh… What is someone like you doing in my shop?! Get out of here! I don't want your kind here!" she shouted and hobbled out a few steps from behind the counter to the surprise of Cain and Abel. "Get out, get out!"

Roy blinked a few times, clearly puzzled. "Uh… what?"

Abel attempted to interject. "Ma'am, he's not doing anything wrong—"

"I said get out!" she insisted and jabbed her cane towards Roy, causing him to step back.

Roy, now flustered, muttered a few apologies before he stepped out of the store, but not before he looked to his two comrades, who were both just as confused as he was by her sudden outburst. He closed the door behind him as he left and awkwardly rubbed his left arm.

"That… was odd…" he mumbled.

A few minutes passed before Cain and Abel both came back out of the store. The sound of the door opening caused Roy to look back to it and straighten his posture.

"Did you get what you needed?" He asked politely.

"Yes, we did," Abel responded with a frown, "Are you alright?"

"Oh. Yes, I'm fine," Roy answered. Abel slowly nodded back in response and Roy continued, "Did she say anything to you?"

Cain shook his head. "Nothing. We asked if there was a problem and she just angrily muttered to herself. It was strange. She still sold us what items we asked for, though."

Roy nodded a little and still seemed slightly troubled by the elderly woman's outburst. Abel smiled and put his hand on Roy's shoulder, which caused the latter to look up at him.

"Let's just go back to the inn now," Abel said.

With that, the three walked away from the old shop. Roy casted a quick glance over his shoulder, half expecting the woman to be staring at him as they walked away. Thankfully she was nowhere to be seen, so Roy turned his head forward again, relieved.

"This is a fairly… straight-forward plan, Malledus," Marth said hesitantly.

"It is," Malledus agreed, "But we've not much choice. With the rivers and bridges the way they are, this is really the only way to the Northern Fortress."

Marth, Malledus, and Jagen were all seated at a table in the inn, a map sprawled out on top of it with various marks all over it. Marth's left arm was across his chest and his right hand was cupping his chin in thought as he stared down at the large piece of parchment with calculating eyes.

"Keep in mind, too, Prince Marth, that Captain Hardin will also be there. He may join us in our plight, so our army won't be totally alone out there," Malledus said. Marth nodded at this.

"Yes, I figure Hardin would want to join forces. That does make this strategy a little… less reckless, I suppose," Marth conceded.

Jagen turned to the prince. "Sire, have you any plan for which of your men will go where?"

"Ah, yes," Marth responded and moved his hand from his chin. He then proceeded to explain who would go where, using Malledus' strategy as his base. His hand pointed at various spots on the map as he threw out ideas. Both Malledus and Jagen seemed to be on board with Marth's plans, at least until he got to the front lines: "… Jagen, Ogma, Abel, Matthis, Roy, and I will be in the front lines, with us splitting into pairs as soon as we pass the first bridge."

At this, Jagen frowned. "Roy, sire? Are you sure he should be in the front with us?"

Marth cast a sidelong glance to Jagen, his head still bowed toward the map. "Is something wrong with that, Jagen?"

There was something about the tone of Marth's voice that caused Jagen to quieten. After a short moment, he shook his head. "No. I suppose not, sire."

Marth straightened his back and turned his head to look directly at Jagen. "I have no reason not to trust him with us in the front. He is strong, even if he may not see it himself," Marth paused before lowering his voice a little. "I am usually one to trust in your opinion, Jagen… but this time, please trust in mine."

Jagen quietened at Marth's words before he hesitantly nodded. The three men went back to planning.

Not but half an hour later, Roy, Cain, and Abel all returned to the inn. Abel led the other two to the door of the room that Marth was planning in and gently knocked on the door. Marth allowed them entry and Abel opened the door and stepped inside, with Roy and Cain following close behind. Marth smiled at them as they entered.

"Welcome back. It seems you found everything we needed?" He said.

Abel nodded. "We did, as well as a few extra things. A Dracoshield, Goddess Icon, and Spirit Dust, to name a few."

Marth seemed surprised. "Wow, a very lucky find. Thank you, you three. I'm glad all went well."

Cain nodded and smiled. "Well, everything was fine except for that crazy old woman, right Roy?" he said and looked to Roy, who instantly averted his eyes.

"A… Ah, yeah," Roy mumbled awkwardly. "That was strange…"

Jagen narrowed his eyes quizzically. "Old woman? What was it that happened?"

Abel explained the situation with the old shopkeeper to Marth, Malledus, and Jagen. As he told them of her strange outburst, Marth and Malledus seemed to grow more surprised, but Jagen's expression hardened and his gaze shifted to Roy.

"So, she just yelled at you out of the blue?" Marth asked Roy, and the latter nodded. "That's definitely strange. Perhaps she mistook you for someone else."

"Or she just doesn't like mercenaries," Malledus added, to which Marth nodded. Jagen stayed silent.

"Well, either way, I think she was just a little crazy," Cain said. "She had a whole lot of weird stuff, so I wouldn't be too surprised if that was the case."

Marth smiled a little. "I suppose so. There's no need to worry about it anymore, though. You got what I sent you out for and then some, so for that, I am thankful."

Roy looked to Marth once again before glancing to Jagen. Jagen's stare was enough to cause Roy to look away again, as it was painfully obvious that Jagen did not trust him whatsoever.

"We'll be setting out for the Northern Fortress in the morning, so it's best we all get some rest," Marth said. The others agreed and Malledus rolled up the map. Cain set the bag of items with their other supplies in the room and he and Abel left. Malledus followed them, and Roy allowed Marth to leave before he did.

Jagen walked out after Roy and closed the door behind him. He turned his head to watch Roy as he headed down the hall and up the stairs.

"Sire, even though you told me to trust him, I am not sure if I can. At least not yet," Jagen muttered. With a sigh, he turned heel and walked down the hall to his own room to retire for the evening.

Roy had returned to his own room—one that he was sharing with the aloof Navarre—and had sat down on his bed and removed his boots. Navarre was nowhere to be seen, which wasn't too much of a surprise to Roy as the myrmidon seemed to be more of a night owl. The young mercenary took this time as a chance to open the pouch on his waist and pull something from it: the stone that had fallen from his shirt when he first woke after Marth had found him.

He stared at the stone and slowly turned it over in his palm as he observed it. It was very similar to the stone he had seen in the old woman's shop, but for some reason, his seemed much duller. Roy's brow furrowed as he thought—what kind of stone was it? Marth did not know, and neither did Roy himself. Perhaps he would find the answer eventually.

Upon hearing footsteps approaching the door to the room, Roy tucked the strange stone into his pouch once again. Navarre entered the room and Roy greeted him quietly—Navarre giving him nothing but a quiet hum in response— before he rested back on his bed. The old bed creaked under Roy and he exhaled slowly when his head hit the pillow, his body thanking him for finally deciding to lay down. They had quite the long travel awaiting them.

Chapter Text

After what felt like days of travel, the army finally made it to the outskirts of Aurelis. Even from far away, the enemy military was obvious in their view—clad in red armor with their weapons glinting in the sunlight, speckled across the fields like collections of red ants. The enemy had unfortunately been notified of Marth's presence, for they had readied their ranks for the inevitable battle to come.

However, the enemy wasn't the only force aware of Marth's presence—Hardin, a powerful warrior widely known as the Coyote, had heard of Marth's plight and brought his own army to fight the enemy from the east side of the fields, beyond the rivers.

As Hardin fought in from the east, Malledus had everyone go through with the tactics planned out a few nights before to fight through to the northwest. During their fight inward, Marth and his small group of Jagen, Ogma, Matthis, Abel and Roy were able to escape across a bridge more to the north. There were still enemies in the field beyond the bridge, but the forces were lighter. With Marth's order, the group split into pairs.

Jagen was paired with Roy, much to the older paladin's reluctance. The prince had sent Jagen a glance before putting them together that seemed to communicate something along the lines of "please get along." Though Jagen did not trust Roy, he would not let his aversion to the mercenary affect his ability to fight. Jagen may have been a wary man, but he was not petty, especially when lives were on the line.

Roy seemed to understand why Marth had placed Jagen with him, but that did not stop him from being on edge. The paladin hadn't exactly been subtle about side-eyeing him with suspicion.

"Let's go together now," Jagen said to the redhead. "I see a village off in the distance- perhaps we could head there first."

With a slight nod, Roy started on his way out into the fields. It didn't take them long before they were attacked by a wave of enemy soldiers. For an ordinary foot soldier, being attacked by a group would most certainly prove to be fatal—but for two skilled soldiers like Jagen and Roy, it was easy to wipe them out.

Jagen kept careful note of Roy and his fighting style as they fought together. He did this for two reasons: he needed to keep an eye on the younger man, and he also wanted to observe his sword techniques to try to pinpoint where Roy may have come from.

With swift swipes of his blade, Roy was able to cut through the enemy soldiers with relative ease. The way he handled his sword was much different from any other soldier that Jagen had seen— Roy would often hold the blade backwards in his hand, jabbing and slicing through their thick enemy armor with only one blow, as if he were elbowing his enemies with his sword. His style was refined as if he had been formally trained at one point, but it was still wild and confrontational enough that it made him hard to read. Part of Jagen wanted to chalk it up to Roy's youth that made him so different, but there was something about Roy that, overall, made Jagen more confused with him.

It didn't take the pair long to make it to the village along the outskirts of the fields. They were greeted by a small group of villagers at the entrance.

"Thank you for coming to help us," an elderly woman said. "Those soldiers in red were terrifying. We couldn't fight back…"

"It is our honor," Jagen responded, resting his hand to his breastplate as he did.

"Were any of you hurt?" Roy asked politely as he looked over the group. They shook their heads and Roy smiled. "That's good to know."

"Watching you fight was crazy!" cheered a younger man as he approached the two of them, grinning from ear-to-ear at Roy. "I reckon I haven't seen vigor like yours since that time I saw a manakete in Pyrathi! Man, wasn't that a rare sight, huh?"

"Oh? A manakete?" Jagen responded with a quirked brow.

"Yeah! Y'know, I had heard of 'em before, but didn't know they looked like people! It was mighty crazy, you know what I'm sayin'?" he looked from Jagen back to Roy. Roy only nodded, not quite sure of what to say. The longer the young man stood near him, however, the more he felt his hair begin to stand on end, and he furrowed his brow as he peered over the man's clothes. His eyes caught a curious shimmer of something red tucked between the front seam of their tunic, and he cocked his head curiously.

"Say, what is that?" Roy asked and motioned to the glinting object in the villager's shirt.

"Wha? Oh, this?" he said and pulled out the object, which was a red, polished stone orb. "Y'know, I have no idea. I found it in Pyrathi. It kinda gives me the creeps, but it is pretty nice lookin', and it glows. You want it?"

Upon seeing the stone more fully, Roy's intrigue was immediately piqued, and he couldn't take his eyes off of it.

"It is a very intriguing stone," Jagen replied to the man.

Roy's stoic reaction betrayed the intense amount of intrigue he felt when looking at the smooth, lava-red surface. The way it sucked him in, like it was calling out to him, made him almost want to lean in closer- but he caught himself before he even so much as attempted to move.

The young man grinned. "Yeah, ain't it? Y'know what, you guys can have it. It might be worth somethin', and I'm thankful for you two helpin' us out, so here."

The villager held out the stone to Jagen, who carefully took it. "Thank you. We'll see if we can put it to good use for our army. Roy, would you mind keeping it with you?"

Surprised, Roy asked, "With me? Are you sure?"

"Yes, do you have room for it in your pouch?" Jagen asked him. "My armor makes it more difficult to store items like this away."

"Ah, that makes sense," Roy responded as he moved to touch his pouch, ensuring that he did, indeed, have enough free space in it.

"Good. Keep it with you for safekeeping, then," Jagen said.

Roy hesitated before slowly nodding. "Sure, I can do that."

Jagen held out the stone to Roy, who gingerly took it in his right hand. He felt something almost like a warm wave wash over him as soon as the smooth sphere touched his palm. A small shudder went down his spine and he brought it closer to himself to look at it. Exactly as he had thought, it was remarkably similar to the stone at that strange old woman's shop. His eyes narrowed slightly at it before he put it away, out of sight, recognising how much of a distraction it would be otherwise.

"Alright," Jagen said, "We need to head to the western bridge, Roy. Prince Marth and the others shall meet us there."

"Right," Roy said. "We shouldn't keep him waiting."

With a farewell, the duo left the village. As they trudged through the field to the bridge, Roy felt slightly more awake than before, almost like a veil of fog had been lifted off of him. The fatigue from their travels and earlier battles weighed far less on him now. Not but a short while later, the two of them made it to the bridge, where Marth and the other three were already waiting.

"I'm glad to see you two made it here so quickly. Were the villagers safe?" Marth asked as soon as they arrived.

"They were all safe, sire. Thankfully the Medonian soldiers hadn't hurt any of them," Jagen responded.

"Good. Now then, the six of us will head across the bridge to meet with Hardin and his forces first, and the rest of our forces will come shortly after, led by Cain and Caeda. That's when we will storm the castle," Marth explained to them. "Hardin's forces are not very far from the other side of this bridge, so thankfully, we will not have to fight alone for long."

He smiled slightly and the others. "If any of you need to use a vulnerary, now is the time to do it. We'll be crossing over in a moment."

Ogma took the chance to use one of his own vulneraries as Marth went to survey the fields across the bridge. Roy watched Marth as he scanned the western fields. The way the prince was standing tall, eyes forward with clarity and determination, made it hard for Roy to look away. Roy's chest swelled almost intrusively with an overwhelming sense of intensity and pride, and without even realising it, he had clutched at the cloth over his heart with his hand.

He was ready to continue onward and liberate the castle.

Thankfully it didn't take long for the group to head off again. The six of them quickly made a beeline to the battlefield where Hardin and his forces were fighting the enemy. Surrounded by footsoldiers on all sides, Hardin- riding atop his horse and armed with an impressive lance- seemed to be handling the situation well. Though corpses of both enemies and allied soldiers littered the field, there was a markedly higher number of enemies.

The scent of blood was pungent to Roy, and he scrunched his nose as their group cut their way through the enemy lines.

Upon their arrival, Hardin made note of Marth approaching, and he yanked his lance from the chest of another unfortunate footsoldier.

"Ah!" Hardin called out. "You've made it here quickly!"

Marth nodded curtly. "Of course! Let us make quick work of these enemies," he said.

With the power of Marth's forces and Hardin's forces at their disposal, the allies quickly routed their foes. The others in Marth's army—led by Caeda and Cain—made it across the bridge about halfway through the fight, and with them there, it was like the battle had ended in the blink of an eye. The enemies had been totally outmatched—not even Merach, the man appointed by Princess Minerva herself to hold the grounds outside of the castle, stood much of a chance against them.

Once the area was deemed safe enough, Marth sheathed his rapier and made his way over to Hardin. "Lord Hardin, it's a pleasure to meet you. As you know, I am Marth of Altea… I've come to help however I can."

"And I am grateful for that, young price. For someone your age, you have achieved much. I feel as though I've gained a thousand allies in one," Hardin responded.

"I've heard quite a bit about you as well, 'Coyote.' It is my honor to fight alongside someone so esteemed," Marth spoke with a smile.

"The same to you," Hardin said. "I've left Princess Nyna in a safe place for the time being. Since we will be fighting together, it seems one of us will have to command… I was hoping you would be willing to lead the charge."

Marth blinked slowly. "Me? But you are far more qualified, Sir—"

"Nonsense," Hardin said. "It does not matter which of us is listed in the history books as the leader here. Take command so that you may instill fear in our enemies- to let them know that the Prince of Altea has returned!"

Marth hesitated before slowly nodding. "If you are certain…"

"I most definitely am. I fancy myself a good judge of character. If you acted out of selfishness, I would not have the faith in you that I have now. You have earned my trust," Hardin spoke with a smile.

"Thank you, lord Hardin… I am honored. I feel as though we will make good friends," Marth said.

"Of course. May our friendship be a long one," Hardin said with a nod.

Marth and Hardin then came back to the others.

"Prince Marth shall be leading the charge of the castle," Hardin said, mostly to his own soldiers. "Fight with all your might, soldiers of Aurelis! We are to rescue the king, liberate the castle, and finally free this place from Medon's influence!"

Hardin's forces let out an incredible battle cry. Roy couldn't help but smile slightly from it—it was uplifting to him, and though he did not know anything about this land, he also wanted to fight his hardest to help free it from its oppressors. A fire ignited in his chest and he was more than ready to take on whatever lied ahead of them within Aurelis Castle's walls.

There was shouting, cursing, and clashing of blades as the rebel forces challenged the Medonian intruders that had managed to take control of the castle. Roy had made it a point to fight with as much might as he could muster—so much so that he was practically plowing through enemies left and right. With a forceful slash of his sword, he cut down another enemy soldier—his sword was cutting through their metal armor almost like a hot knife through butter, though Roy didn't take much note of it at the time.

One of the enemy archers couldn't help but let out a shriek as soon as he saw Roy run at him. They were too close for the archer to be able to draw an arrow fast enough, and Roy ran him through with a swift lunge of his blade. The archer let out a pained shriek as the heat of the sword singed his skin and he looked to Roy with angry eyes.

However, upon locking eyes, the archer's once defiant anger seemed to crumple back into fear. "Y…ou… You're one of those…!" he coughed up blood as Roy pulled out his blade. "Y… ou… monster… you're on the wrong… side…"

The archer fell to his knees before dropping forward, slain, and Roy stared at him for a moment with his eyes narrowed. The archer's words made no sense to him, but something about what he had said made Roy slightly agitated.

"Monster?" he quietly questioned to himself.

"Roy!" came Jagen's voice from not too far behind him. Roy quickly looked back to see the old paladin surrounded by about four different enemies, one of which being another archer he couldn't reach. The archer had an arrow drawn, poised to shoot Jagen as he was busy keeping the other soldiers at bay.

"Jagen!" Roy yelled as the archer let his arrow fly. With a sudden burst of energy, he dashed to the arrow and swung his sword upward, cleanly slicing it in two before it reached Jagen. He turned quickly, his sword ready, and cut the Medonian archer down. Jagen was able to take care of the other enemies that had been surrounding him as well.

"Thank you for your help," Jagen said to Roy.

Roy quickly nodded in response. "You're welcome."

Jagen stared at Roy for a moment, as if thinking about something, before he shook his head. "We're almost to the throne. I am sure Prince Marth and Sir Hardin will make quick work of whoever is leading these soldiers. In the meantime, clear out these halls so they can make it to the throne room with ease."

"Right, I will," Roy responded. He turned on his heel to run down the hall, where more enemies awaited.

Jagen's eyes narrowed as he watched Roy run off in the other direction. His gaze shifted to the arrow—now in two pieces on the floor not far from his horse.

"How did he manage to do that…?" Jagen mumbled.

There was immeasurable bloodshed as the rebel army routed the castle of Medonian enemies. Just as every other war up to this point, the opposing general—in this instance, Emereus of Medon- was too angry and haughty for his own good. Marth and Hardin took Emereus down together, their combined might and skill proving to be too much for Emereus to handle, and thus reclaiming the castle from the hands of Medon.

After checking on the king and ensuring his safety as well as reclaiming some of the riches that had been stolen from the royal vaults, Hardin led Princess Nyna back to the castle from her hiding spot in a nearby fortress. Marth, as well as everyone else, bowed with respect as she came into the throne room. Gemstones glimmered in the tasteful crown that adorned her head, and the gold accents of her ivory gown glinted warmly in the amber candlelight.

"Prince Marth… finally, we meet," Nyna said, her tone solemn yet hopeful, "I am Nyna of House Akaneia. It is my land's duty to protect the world from strife—a duty I have striven to fulfill. Doluna has laid waste to my kingdom, and now the world is falling to ruin yet again. I can't help but find myself feeling powerless as I watch this happen around us."

"Princess Nyna, it is not your fault," Marth said to her, a small frown on his face. "These are times of war. Atrocities of all sorts will invariably affect everyone, no matter how hard you fight otherwise. That you still stand here today is a testament to your unwavering love for your people."

Marth's compliment was somewhat lost on Princess Nyna, however, as she remembered the cries of her own people. "I appreciate your kindness, Prince Marth. Even so, I am the one responsible for this kingdom, and now look at it. So, please, pick up the banner where I have let it fall. Fight against Doluna to liberate us all from the darkness that has begun to swallow the land whole."

"You have my word, Princess Nyna. I vow to destroy Medeus, just like Anri did before me," Marth said. "It may be difficult… but we will not fail."

This made the princess smile once more. "That makes me glad to hear."

Then, she turned to one of her subordinates and he passed to her what looked like a shield- ornate and beautiful, shining like gold. A regal bird was carved into its surface, and in the centre wrapped a coiling dragon, with five crevices on each of the shield's corners.

"Let me give you this," Nyna said as she turned to Marth once more, holding the shield out to him. "This shield... it is called the Fire Emblem. The very one that Duke Cartas wielded in his fight against Medeus."

Marth, surprised, seemed hesitant to receive it. "The Fire Emblem? Are... are you sure about this, Princess Nyna?"

"I am. Akaneia will only bestow it upon the one that we believe has the power to save the world," Nyna reassured, "and I can think of none more fitting than you, Prince Marth. So, please, it is my honor to bestow it unto you."

Marth, albeit still in shock, rolled his shoulders back and stood tall before he reached out with both hands, allowing the shield to be passed into his arms. From the other end of the hall, Roy, amongst all the others, watched the passing of the Emblem to Marth.

Though Roy nor anyone else in the room seemed to notice the red stone in the crossguard of Roy's blade glowing softly.

Princess Nyna rose her gaze to Marth's, her expression one of resolve.

"Never give up, Marth. Fight, until the day you restore light to our world."

Chapter Text

Back in Elibe, Nils had been in an outraged panic. Eliwood had done his best to keep him calm, but it didn't seem like there was much that he could do outside of let Nils calm down on his own.

It had been weeks since the events at Dread Isle and Roy's disappearance. Nils had escaped the island and made his way to Pherae as quickly as he possibly could. His sudden appearance had surprised Eliwood at first but seeing as though he had shown up heavily wounded, Eliwood's initial surprise was quickly overcome by concern. After Nils had been tended to, he recounted the events with Roy at the Dragon's Gate.

"And then I shoved him into the gate, to get him away from those men," Nils said.

"So… you're telling me that Roy went through the gate- and now you've no idea where he's gone?" Eliwood questioned, worry evident in his voice.

"That's... yeah. That's right," Nils said and pursed his lips. "But it was either that or let both of us be killed right there on the spot, with the Dragon's Gate wide open for those bastards to do whatever they pleased with it. Seeing them as they were, you would probably have another Scouring on your hands if that had happened."

Eliwood quietly nodded. "Is… is there anything that could be done to bring my son back? Do you know if he's alive?"

"… I don't know," Nils said. "The Dragon's Gate connects many realms together. I don't know which one he was sent to, especially now that it's been destroyed."

This caused Eliwood's heart to sink. Nils, seeing the way that Eliwood was taking the news, felt understandably horrible.

Nils then added hesitantly, "The only way I would be able to search for him would be if we could somehow restore the Dragon's Gate."

Eliwood's expression immediately hardened, and he put his knuckles to his chin in thought. He stared at the stone floor of the room as he mulled over Nils' words. "Then if that is our only option, we need to rebuild it."

Nils was taken by surprise at how forward Eliwood was and how quickly the marquess had come to his decision. The manakete pursed his lips into a thin line, all the complications and unknowns immediately cropping up in his head now that he had voiced the idea.

There was a stiff silence as Nils debated something in his mind. Eliwood noticed Nils' hesitation.

"Nils, is there something you haven't told me?" Eliwood asked him.

Nils looked up to him, shaking his head. "Eliwood… I'm sorry. I really don't know if it's possible. The Gate was destroyed… I have no idea if it would ever be repairable, or how to do it. And I definitely know I'm not strong enough to do it on my own even if it were possible."

There was silence once more as Eliwood processed Nils' words.

"So, then… Roy could potentially be lost forever," Eliwood finally said.

"... Yeah."

A frustrated sigh left Nils' throat as he looked up at the sky. He was out in the garden behind the castle, trying to clear his mind. His arms and legs and chest were still bandaged up from his injuries, so he wasn't really able to do anything at all besides wander around House Pherae.

He watched the clouds slowly drift by as he was once again absorbed in his thoughts. This had been happening a lot during his month of recovery, especially since there was nothing he could really do outside of sit around and heal.

His eyelids slid shut as he let out another sigh, this one quieter than the last.

"Take this and go!" Nils shouted as he shoved a stone to Roy's chest. "Get out of here… I can't lose you too! Ninian, mother, please keep him safe!"

With as much force as he could muster, he shoved his brainwashed nephew into the portal, and the mages fired off all their tomes at once. Nils was barely able to get out of the way before the magic all struck the ground where he once stood, but he didn't get out of the situation fully unscathed—much of the Elfire had managed to burn his sleeve and singe his skin. Nils let out a pained hiss as he gripped at his arm.

"You brat," the lead mage hissed. "You think you're so smart… we'll kill you here and now!"

"I won't let you do that," Nils growled, his voice laced with pure anger. "You've managed to make this dragon really angry!"

His body glowed brightly and the ground shook as his body transformed, taking the form of a towering Ice Dragon. He let out a vicious roar and bared his fangs.

"Damn," grunted one of the mages. "He is no joke…"

"Keep him distracted," muttered the mage clad in purple, directed towards the first mage. "You should already know the boy is working on borrowed time. Dragons cannot retain their form in Elibe for long without going completely mad."

"Of course; and we promise to keep him distracted. You know what to do," the first mage responded.

Wordlessly, the purple-robed mage leapt off of his pillar amidst the commotion.

Nils let out another roar, his mind wrapped in rage. He turned to swing his tail against one of the pillars, knocking through the middle of it and causing it to crumble. The mage that had been standing atop it jumped off as it started to fall apart, only to be intercepted midair by one of Nils' massive claws. The mage was sent flying into a far wall, where his body slammed into the aged brick and fell into the shadowy depths below the ruins.

The quick demise of one of his allies caused the black-robed mage to growl. "Damn you, you foolish beast!"

He rose his tome and held out his free hand as a glyph appeared beneath his feet, yelling as gales burst from his open palm, "No matter what you try, we will get our way!"

Nils roared as he was hit with a powerful blast of Aircalibur that managed to leave deep gashes in his neck. He returned the hit with magic of his own—a blast of freezing breath billowed forth from his maw as he tried to strike the mage. The pillar was encased in ice from the attack, but the mage had dodged the attack somehow.

Nils quickly looked around to see where the mage had gone but was hit with another strong bout of magic—this time, Bolting—on his side. He stepped to the side and shifted his weight, causing the floor and ceiling to once again rumble. Debris started crumbling away from the ceiling.

"You're being a pain," spoke the mage-woman that suddenly appeared in front of Nils' face, her hand outstretched. Nils was barely able to manage a glance at her before his eyes were struck with Elfire.

Nils let out a pained rumble as he stepped back one step and shook his head with his eyes clenched tight. His eyes stayed clenched as he bore his fangs and let out a huge breath of ice- hoping that, even without a target, he could hit someone.

He was unable to see for a number of minutes, but he could still hear very well. He could hear the mages as they flitted about him in the air and struck him with spells. He was able to land the occasional hit, which one was usually good enough to take whatever mage he struck out of commission, but it was getting increasingly more difficult and more painful to move.

He opened his eyes slightly to try to see, and though his vision was blurry, he could see enough to ascertain his surroundings and spot his enemies. Only two of the mages were left, with the one in black being one of them.

"Amazing, can you still see?" he taunted. "Dragons… truly are incredible."

His tone was almost like he was mocking Nils for being a manakete, but Nils saw something through his damaged eyes that shocked him. The mages were actually flying- not just teleporting about with staves. No wonder they were able to so easily slip out of the way of his attacks.

Nils could not stay surprised for long, however, as he was once again attacked with Bolting. This time, though, Nils was more prepared—he lowered his head just before the magic struck him and lunged out to bite at one of his attackers. There was an almost bloodcurdling scream as Nils sunk his fangs into flesh before throwing the mage down onto the ground.

All that was left at that point was the one he assumed was the leader.

"You know, I'm actually quite angry," growled the remaining mage, unhinged. "Very angry, in fact. I'm practically bubbling up with rage on the inside."

Nils glanced to him and a cool mist started to leak from his open maw as he had begun to prepare his attack.

"You're nothing without your Gate or your kind," the mage hissed. "So how about instead of destroying you, I destroy this!"

With a swift motion of the arm, the mage cast a huge gust of Aircalibur at the Dragon's Gate. Nils barely had any time to react as the powerful magic collided with the portal and stone gate surrounding it. Debris and dust kicked up everywhere, obscuring the back of the room, and when it finally started to clear, Nils couldn't believe his eyes.

The Gate had been totally destroyed— portal and all.

The sight caused Nils to snap. He let out a terrifying roar that shook the entire place before swinging his claw at the remaining mage. The sudden attack had caught the mage off-guard and he was hit dead-on, Nils' massive claw plummeting down into the ground beneath them and slammed the mage into the stones, pinning him there. Bones cracked and organs rupture at the impact of the attack, and the mage let out a strangled cough as blood trailed from his eyes, nose, and mouth. Fueled with rage, Nils' gaze bore down into the mage below, who was barely able to draw breath.

"H…ah… F…ool… without your gate… now what… will you do…" he breathed out. "Our plan… was already set… in motion…"

Nils growled lowly and opened his maw, fury building up in his throat and expelling as one final, brutal breath of frigid ice. The amount of power he had put behind it had been entirely unnecessary, but Nils couldn't stop himself as he coated them in sheets upon sheets of frost. The last of the mages was slain, but with the Gate reduced to nothing but rubble- this was no victory.

Nils couldn't help but cringe at the memory. "Why couldn't I do better…?" he whispered to himself.

He had been beating himself up over the past few weeks for his inability to keep the Gate safe. And even though he was able to kill off five of the mages, he had realized later that one of them was still unaccounted for. He quietly cursed himself.

"Sister… I'm so sorry," he spoke softly as he clenched his eyes. "Please forgive me for failing you so badly…"

Nils could hear two sets of footsteps approach him as he thought. The distressed manakete looked in the direction of the sound to see Eliwood and a very small winged girl approaching him.

Nils blinked slowly. Winged girl? A manakete?

"Nils," said Eliwood. "How are you feeling this afternoon?"

"Oh," Nils quietly spoke before clearing his throat. "I'm doing fine, thank you."

Eliwood nodded. "That's good to hear. Nils, this is Fa, a friend of Roy's."

The little girl waved enthusiastically at Nils and fluttered her wings. "Hello!"

Nils stared for a moment before smiling a little. "Hi."

"I remember what you said about the Gate," Eliwood started before hesitating. He then lowered his voice respectfully, "That you weren't sure if you were strong enough to restore it on your own."

This caused Nils to cringe a little. "Yeah?"

"As I'm sure you may have already guessed… Fa is a manakete as well," Eliwood said and smiled to Fa, who let out a small happy sound. "She is from the village of Arcadia and is a Divine Dragon."

Nils quickly looked to Fa, who grinned.

"Fa wants to help find Roy!" she exclaimed, "Fa will help Nils and Eliwood with the gate so Nils can find Roy!"

Though her enthusiastic nature was charming, Nils still couldn't help but feel slightly cold. "Eliwood..."

"Nils," Eliwood spoke up, his tone serious, "This isn't the time for self-loathing. We have a problem on our hands."

Nils tensed up, wincing again at the directness of Eliwood's words. Eliwood continued, "You protected my son the best that you could. He's not dead—I refuse to believe that the incident on Dread Isle would be what ends him. He's just somewhere else right now, and if we rebuild a gate of our own, perhaps then you could pass through and bring him back to our world, where he belongs."

Then, after a brief pause, Eliwood's tone softened and he added, "I have faith in you, Nils. Ninian would, too."

The sound of his sister's name shook Nils, and words suddenly became a lot more difficult to find. "Eliwood, I let her down."

"Nonsense. You didn't let her down. You didn't let anyone down, Nils," Eliwood responded, closing his eyes as he continued, as if trying to convince not only Nils, but also himself, "Roy is alive, out there, somewhere in another realm. That alone is enough. You did nothing wrong, and I am sure Ninian appreciates all you did to help her son escape."

Nils shook his head a little and clenched his eyes tight. He gritted his teeth as he tried to hold back his tears. Fa frowned sadly before going over to Nils. She tugged on his sleeve, which caused him to glance to her. Then she smiled cheerfully at him.

"Don't be sad," Fa reassured, "We can fix it all together. Roy will come home! Everyone will be happy, then."

There was something about Fa's innocent resolve that calmed Nils enough for him to stop himself from breaking down into tears. He closed his eyes and let in a slow breath before holding it. He nodded once and breathed out. "Alright."

Eliwood smiled and Fa let out a cheerful noise once again. She took Nils' hand and fluttered her wings. "We can do it! Roy will come home soon! No giving up!"

Nils gripped Fa's hand slightly with his own and he nodded slowly. "Yeah… no giving up."

Chapter Text

The clanging of swords, trampling of feet and neighing of horses echoed loudly throughout the valleys as the Akaneian League fought valiantly against Princess Minerva's forces and the Whitewings. Even though stories said Minerva was well-versed in battle, she had decided to keep her distance throughout the fight—only attacking to defend herself when necessary. Regardless, her crimson-armoured visage off in the distance was more than intimidating enough.

Roy had opted to fight alongside Caeda as they made their way south. "Roy!" Caeda shouted as she lanced an approaching foe. "You'll have to go on without me after we clear out this fortress, I'll stay behind to keep it from falling back into enemy hands!"

"Are you certain, Caeda?" Roy asked as he shoved the flat side of his blade against an opposing dismounted cavalier.

"Yes, make sure you accompany Marth! He's going to need all the help he can get taking down Minerva! She's terrifyingly powerful!" Caeda looked back to him. "I'm sure I can hold up this place with Bord or Barst at my side."

Roy hesitated before nodding. "You've got it," he said and cut down the cavalier he had forced back. "I'll go get one of them!"

Roy ran out of the fortress and quickly looked back and forth, scanning the battlefield for either Bord or Barst. It took him a few seconds to spot the green of Bord's clothes, but once he did, he started off toward the fighter. "Bord!" he called out.

Bord's axe swung around and sunk into an enemy as he turned to look at Roy. "Oi! What's it?"

"Caeda needs your help maintaining the fortress! Would you be able to make your way over?!" Roy asked and sliced down a fighter who had tried to barge in front of him.

"You got it!" Bord shouted, "I'll be over 'ere in a bit!"

"Thanks, Bord!" Roy yelled back before rushing out into the fray. "Now where is Marth…?"

As if right on cue, Roy caught sight of the blue haired prince not too far away, skillfully cutting an enemy down. He was surrounded by enemy soldiers—probably because they could tell who he was—and though he was killing them off as they came at him, Roy could tell he was beginning to tire. Quickly he ran to Marth, swinging his sword and fatally wounding enemies as he approached him.

"Marth! Are you alright?!" Roy asked as he came in close and turned his back to Marth, gripping his sword in both hands.

"Oh, Roy, yes," Marth responded between pants. "There's quite a few enemies aren't there?"

Roy couldn't help but smirk a little at Marth's response. "Just a few," he said and blocked an axe with the flat of his blade. "I… figured you might need a helping hand!" He swiftly swiped his blade to the side to knock the axe-wielding fighter off balance before flipping his sword backwards in his hand and swiping upwards, killing the fighter with a single critical blow.

"That was thoughtful of you," Marth said as he jabbed another enemy paladin.

"Thank Caeda," Roy grunted as he whipped around and blocked another enemy soldier's attack with his blade. "She gave me the chance to get over here."

There was no response from Marth as he concentrated on what few enemies were left. It didn't take long before the two of them cleared the area together. Marth took the opportunity to catch his breath. The moment of calm was short-lived, however, as another small wave of soldiers came at them, this time with Minerva in tow.

Roy noticed the axe in her hands. "Is that…"

"Minerva, yes," Marth finished with a nod, before turning his head to look to Roy. "I'm going to fight these foot soldiers—do you think you can take her on your own for at least a moment?"

Roy shot Marth an incredulous look. "By myself? Isn't she supposed to be one of the strongest warriors around?"

Marth hesitated before nodding. "Yes, she is."

Roy stared at Marth for a moment, his brow furrowed. "Alright, I'll do it."

Marth seemed surprised. "You will? Roy…"

Roy shook his head. "Don't mention it. I'm a mercenary after all, and if you're telling me this is something I need to do, then I'll do it. Besides… if you think I can hold my own against one of the strongest warriors around, then I'll take it as a compliment."

Marth was glad his indirect compliment had not gone unnoticed, and he nodded to his comrade, "Alright. Thank you, Roy. I'll clear you a path, and try not to get hit by her axe."

The soldiers came upon them and Marth and Roy instantly got to work fighting them off. Marth was able to clear out a small area for Roy to break through the lines.

"Roy!" Marth shouted.

Roy took his cue and ran through the new split in the enemy formation and made a beeline right toward where Minerva was. Perched atop her wyvern mount and equipped with the legendary axe Hauteclere, it was easy to understand why she was considered one of the most fearsome warriors one could face.

She had been watching Roy approach, and, once he was close enough, ordered her wyvern to swoop down and attack. The enormous beast let out a roar and flew down at Roy, its maw gaping open to reveal rows of sharp fangs. Roy stopped in his tracks and slid forward before jumping back and out of the way of the incoming bite.

"You're quick on your feet for a swordsman," Minerva said as her wyvern raised its head. "Who are you?"

"My name is Roy, just a mercenary," Roy said, keeping a firm hold on the hilt of his blade. "You are, without a doubt, princess and commander Minerva."

She nodded curtly. "I am. I'm surprised you were able to pry yourself away from your prince to fight me in the first place—you seem quite devoted for just a hired sword."

Roy blinked and his cheeks burned slightly. "What?"

"It's nothing, don't mind me. Now," she raised her axe to her side and her wyvern reared a little in the air. "Prepare yourself, lest you'll be slaughtered where you stand!"

Roy steeled himself and both parties quickly leapt at each other, axe clashing with blade. The friction of the metal caused sparks to fly and Roy used the force from Minerva's Hauteclere to jump back out of her range. He switched his grip, ran at her once again, and tried for an underhanded swipe with his blade. She tugged her wyvern out of the way and swung her axe around to catch him from behind, but Roy nimbly ducked underneath it.

This went on for a few more rounds—neither of them had managed to hit each other, but something about Roy had made Minerva wary. With each hit she missed, he seemed to come back faster and stronger than the time before.

Roy, upon ducking under another axe swing and sliding out of the way of a wyvern bite, switched his grip once more and swung his sword upward. His growing speed had obviously caught Minerva by surprise and he finally landed a powerful blow across her arm and chest, causing a shallow split in her armour.

Minerva let out a small grunt of pain and her wyvern flew back a few feet. Roy darted after her and jumped up before bringing his sword down on her. She was barely able to block the blow with her axe, and even when she did, her arm buckled a little under the force of his weapon on hers. With the strength she could muster, she pushed Roy off, allotting her enough time to fly away farther.

"What is this," she mumbled to herself and stared down at Roy now that she was high enough in the air that he couldn't reach her. "He's stronger and faster than any swordsman I've faced before… it is as if his frustrations fuel him."

A sharp burst of pain radiating from the bruising of her chest pulled her from her thoughts and she cringed. "Rrgh… even so… I can't keep up the fight as it stands… I must withdraw."

Roy, with his eyes still firmly fixated on the wyvern rider, took a small step back. Minerva glanced to him once more before turning her wyvern and flying off in the opposite direction, withdrawing from the battle without a word.

Palla, the leader of the Whitewings and the one who had been fighting Marth, noticed Minerva escaping and tugged at the reins of her Pegasus. "Where is she going? Is she withdrawing…?"

"It seems she has lost to our side!" Marth responded between labored breaths.

Palla quickly backed away from Marth and her steed flapped its wings a few times. "If my commander is leaving, I've no reason to stay! The Whitewings have no loyalties to our general, only our commander. Consider yourself fortunate, prince!"

Palla called out for Est and Catria and they all came together before they fled the battlefield, following Minerva.

Roy ran back to Marth. "Marth! Are you alright?"

Seeing his comrade rushing towards him, Marth smiled warmly. "I'm fine. Are you injured? I can't believe you got Minerva to retreat on your own."

With a small cock of his head, Roy shot Marth a teasingly critical look. "You can't believe it? Aren't you the one that sent me there to fight her alone in the first place?"

Suddenly feeling rather sheepish, Marth's cheeks flushed, and he raised his hands in a weak wave. "No, no, it isn't like that! I just am relieved to see it done so quickly, and hopefully without any injuries to you."

At Marth's frantic gesture, Roy let out a small laugh. "I'm fine, don't worry. We've still got the general to defeat, though, and I have a feeling he's not going to go down easy."

Relieved that Roy wasn't actually upset, Marth simply nodded in agreement and they both headed out once again—this time, in the direction of Harmein's hold.

Harmein slammed the side of his fist into a wall, causing some of the dust on the ceiling to fall to the floor. "She what?!" he shouted.

"Sh-she withdrew from the battle, sir!" came the scared voice of one of Harmein's knights. "M-Minerva and her Whitewings have left."

Harmein let out an angry growl and grabbed his silver sword. "Get the reinforcements! We're going to go out and kill those Akaneian League bastards if it's the last thing we do, with or without that selfish princess!"

The soldier saluted before quickly running out of the room. Harmein let out another growl. "Curse Minerva and her pride," he hissed. "No matter… if I am to die here, then I won't be dying alone! I'll take those Akaneian whelps with me!"

He turned and stormed out of the room, his blood boiling from anger.

Once Harmein had entered the battlefield, it was almost like hell had broken loose—not only the general himself, but also a wall of reinforcements swarmed upon Marth and his allies. Weapons clashed and armour was split as blows were exchanged—the enemy soldiers were not as strong as those on Marth's side, but they were greater in number, which made it harder to clear through them all.

Harmein let out a yell as he charged at Marth, "You! You'll be killed here and now!"

Marth had been preoccupied with an opposing swordmaster and was unable to do anything about Harmein's sudden approach. Jagen quickly rode in and blocked the silver sword's blow with his lance.

"Jagen!" came Marth's surprised voice.

"Prince Marth, keep your guard up! I will make sure the general doesn't get to you!" Jagen responded.

Marth nodded slightly. "Thank you, Jagen!"

Jagen looked to Harmein, who was clearly both angry and amused by Jagen's intervention. "You're just postponing the inevitable!" he growled. "I'll sap the life from your old bones and then crush your prince in the palm of my hand. I don't need Minerva or her Whitewings to wipe the floor with what's left of you!"

Harmein raised his sword and swung his sword down at Jagen, who blocked it again with his lance. Jagen skillfully spun his lance to force Harmein back before lunging it at him. Harmein was able to dodge a fatal blow, but the lance still pierced through his arm, staining the beautiful silver with dark red. The enemy general let out a groan of pain and Jagen yanked the lance back out of him.

With an eye shut tight, Harmein looked up to Jagen with a sick chuckle. "You are pretty skilled, aren't you, even for an old man."

Jagen said nothing and Harmein let out a yell before charging at Jagen once again. Even with an injured arm, Harmein still slashed his sword swiftly, and Jagen's horse was barely fast enough to raise out of the way. Jagen had switched to the defensive and continued to block and dodge the flurry of attacks thrown at him.

All was going well for Jagen for quite some time until Harmein finally faked him out—he pretended to come in from the right, and Jagen dodged accordingly. A smirk crossed Harmein's face before he quickly turned his blade and cut upward, cutting into Jagen's armour much like how Roy had cut into Minerva's earlier. Jagen grunted and his horse staggered back as he yanked at its reins.

Marth's fear spiked upon having seen the quick turn in the tide of the fight. "Jagen!"

During this time, Roy had been busy fighting alongside the others, attempting to fend off the enemy waves. However, when Roy heard Marth's cry, he looked over to see what had happened; seeing Jagen injured with his hand gripping his chest and Harmein poised to strike again with his sword made his blood run cold. It was clear that Marth would be unable to run to Jagen's aide in time, as he was still being attacked from all sides.

"Say your last words, old man," Harmein spoke gruffly. "I will take your life here and now, and then your prince is next!"

"No… no he's not," whispered Roy as his teeth clenched. Roy slammed his sword into the heavily armoured soldier that had been giving him trouble, forcing them to stumble back and giving him just the room he needed--

Jagen glanced to Harmein. "Even if I die, the rest of us will kill you before you even get within a foot of Prince Marth," he said weakly.

Harmein simply laughed. "Your resolve is refreshing! But it is misplaced!" His silver blade glinted in the sunlight as he rose it higher. "Now hurry up and die so that your prince can be next!"

He brought his sword down to land the finishing blow on Jagen, but instead of making contact with the paladin, he made contact with another blade. A loud echoing clang emitted from the two weapons and Harmein hissed from the sound.

"What!" Harmein shouted, startled.

Roy had sprinted over just in time, his blade drawn, and had blocked the attack. "Jagen, get out of here, go to Wrys or Lena and get your wounds healed! I can handle this guy!"

Jagen seemed surprised at Roy's sudden appearance and stared at the back of the young mercenary's head. He said nothing at first, and Roy shoved Harmein back with a grunt. Roy spared Jagen a sharp glance over his shoulder. "Hurry! We can't have you dying here- Prince Marth needs you!"

The two men held eye contact for a brief moment, and Jagen finally gave Roy a curt nod. "You are right. Thank you, I will fall back," he said before backing up his horse. With a swift pull of the reins, his horse threw its head back and turned, and he charged away.

Roy took a moment to watch Jagen's retreating form before he looked forward to Harmein again, his expression one of pure fury. The general couldn't help but tense at the look he was being given.

"Who even are you!" he shouted and swung his sword, slamming into Roy's blade to force him back.

"I'm a mercenary working with the prince," Roy responded and slowly straightened his back. His eyes burned and he grip tightened on the hilt of his blade, the leather of his gloves squeaking from the pressure as he continued, "And I am done with all of this fighting. So, either surrender or meet your end here. Though I personally prefer diplomacy, it's your choice."

"You… you're--" Harmein stammered as he seemed momentarily stuck, unable to look away from Roy's glare. Finally though, he clicked his tongue and shook himself from his temporary stupor, "No matter! I will slay you next; your youth has gotten to your head anyway."

Unhappy that he was unable to make the man surrender, Roy frowned. "Looks like you've made up your mind, then..."

Roy then ran at Harmein, clearly taking the general off guard. Harmein was still unable to fight properly due to the injury on his arm, and with a small growl, Roy used a particularly powerful slash to knock the silver sword from Harmein's hands. Once Harmein had been disarmed, Roy flipped his sword in his grip. With one final backhanded swipe, Roy's blade split Harmein's armour in two and he sliced through the general's chest, ending the duel once and for all.

After the fall of their general, the rest of the army either retreated or was defeated with relative ease. Jagen had been healed by Lena and was no longer on death's doorstep, and Marth had fought the soldiers that had him surrounded without suffering any major injuries. Caeda and the others were also fine, with Cain being the only other person to sustain any injuries on the level of Jagen's, though he had been healed successfully by Wrys. The now-healed Jagen, along with Caeda and Abel, had left to check on surrounding villages and had been gone for some time now.

Marth stood alongside Roy. "Roy, thank you for intervening back there. If you hadn't… well, Jagen…"

Roy shook his head. "It's nothing, Marth. I know how important he is to you; I wouldn't let him die."

Marth quietened for a moment before smiling gently. "You're right, he is. Still, thank you."

The way Marth stilled, as if he had more to say, and Roy cocked his head just a bit. "Marth?"

Weakly, Marth smiled. "I apologise. I was just thinking how lucky we are to have found you in Galder. Your skills are impressive. I worry I might be sorely underpaying you for your services."

Surprised, Roy reeled slightly and put his hand on his hip. "Underpaying me? Marth, please- it's fine. If anything, I'm the one in your debt."

Though Marth attempted a rebuttal, the sound of footsteps approaching drew both of their attentions away from their current conversation. Malledus was approaching them, his eyes crinkled in an apologetic smile- realising already that he had been interrupting.

"Sire, do you have a moment?" Malledus said.

"I do, Malledus. What is it?" Marth responded and turned to him.

"Well… you know of manaketes, yes?" Malledus asked.

"Manaketes? An odd question to be asking now," Marth replied as he thoughtfully brought his knuckle to rest against his chin, "You mean dragonkin, correct?"

Roy looked between them, feeling a tad out of the loop- though he did recognise the term from the brief conversation he and Jagen had with a villager not to long ago. Deciding to glean for more information, he asked, "Manaketes? Dragonkin?"

"Ah, that must be something you don't remember," Malledus smiled as he responded to Roy, "Yes. Manaketes are dragons with the ability to turn into human forms by use of dragonstones."

Roy nodded slightly at Malledus' explanation—what an interesting power, he thought. "Dragons that can turn into humans... is there even a reason why they would want to do that? Is it for the sake of convenience, or...?"

"The manaketes inhabited our continent long before the dawn of humanity. Ordinarily their draconic forms stayed suppressed," Malledus explained, "They were incredibly powerful, however, far more so than humans, and it is said that over time, some of them became increasingly more hostile to humankind. So, rather than choosing to terrorise us, many chose to live peaceful lives far away, and we coexisted for quite a time. However… a century ago, Medeus, an incredibly powerful dragon, appeared and everything changed. He took root in the Doluna region and built upon it a vast empire, and from there, he invaded the human realm and subjugated humankind, oppressing them all for years."

Roy remained silent as he listened intently to the story being told. Clearly, then, Dragonstones were not just an item of convenience, but survival in a world they shared with humans.

"Things were going nowhere but downhill for humankind… but it was then, in that darkest hour, that a young man named Anri appeared and rose against Medeus. With the blade of light—Falchion—he slew Medeus, freeing humankind from further subjugation. From there, he founded Altea… and the rest, I believe you should know, Prince Marth," Malledus said, as his gaze flicked towards the young prince.

Marth simply nodded and furrowed his brow. "Yes, and as Anri's descendant, I am the only one able to wield the Falchion. I have already vowed to finish what my ancestor started—there is no turning back, not now that Medeus has returned," Marth added, capping off the story.

There was nothing Roy could say. Learning this history made it obvious as to why there was such a divide between humans and dragons. Why, then, did it feel like there was an anchor weighing in his gut, as if he had heard this all before? Like it should have been a problem already solved? That there was information missing? Roy's internal musings were cut short by Marth speaking once again.

"However, that still does not tell me why you asked if I knew of Manaketes," Marth commented. "Malledus, might you explain this?"

Marth's question brought a small, contemplative frown to Malledus' lips. "Well..."

"Sire," came Jagen's voice as he approached, still mounted atop his horse. "Allow me to interrupt."

"Ah, Jagen, you've returned! And… you've brought someone, it seems?" Marth asked, tilting his head. Malledus and Roy looked over to Jagen and the newcomer.

An elderly man with greyed skin, clad in red robes, stood beside Jagen. His appearance sent a shiver down Roy's spine and he was unable to break eye contact with the man.

"Sire, this is Bantu," Jagen started. "We found him in a village not far from here."

"Bantu?" Marth repeated before nodding. "I see. Is there business you had with us, Bantu?"

Bantu looked to Marth and hummed quietly, his voice gruff. "Yes… you are Prince Marth, the leader of the Akaneian League… you are trying to slay Medeus. I figured you would be a good person to ask—have you come across a young girl by the name of Tiki whilst on your travels?"

Marth shook his head. "I have not. Who is she?"

"Tiki is the last of the Divine Dragon clan. She is your only hope to actually make it through Doluna's manakete forces that serve under Medeus," Bantu explained. "She must be found, and soon."

Malledus motioned to Bantu. "He is the reason why I came to you with the talk of manaketes, my lord."

Marth nodded slightly in understanding. "I see… a Divine Dragon," he thought aloud before looking to Bantu again. "So does that make you…?"

"A dragon, yes. A Fire Dragon, to be exact—but it is in name alone," Bantu replied before elaborating, "My firestone was lost somewhere in Pyrathi, and without that, I cannot fight."

Curious, Jagen asked, "In Pyrathi?"

"Yes," Bantu said, "Quite some time ago, I'm afraid. A crimson orb that might look to be of some value to those uninitiated. I would not be surprised if it was taken by someone."

Upon hearing Bantu's description of the stone, Roy had a sudden realisation. "Wait," Roy said as he opened his pouch and dug through it for a moment. He then pulled out the bright red stone Jagen had entrusted him with. "This… is this yours?"

Bantu was clearly taken by surprise, and he approached Roy. "Why… it is, yes. What an odd twist of fate. Wherever did you find it?"

Roy held it out to Bantu as soon as he was close enough. "We were given this by a villager a while back. I had a feeling it was something different than just an ordinary stone… but I never realised it was so important."

Bantu glanced up from the firestone to Roy and stared at him for a moment, as if analysing him. Roy stared back and could feel a small lump form in his throat—even though Bantu posed him no threat, there was something intimidating about his eyes.

"I see," was the old manakete's response. He carefully took the stone from Roy's hands. "I thank you, then, for keeping it safe, even without knowing what it was. I can only hope that it was a boon to you."

As soon as the stone was passed off to the elder dragon, Roy could feel the hum of energy that had been coursing through his body begin to ebb away. He believed it to be the fatigue from battle finally settling in as his adrenaline lessened, so he thought little of it. "I'm just glad to see it given back to its rightful owner," Roy said with a wearier smile.

Bantu considered Roy for a moment longer before he turned to Marth. "Prince Marth, I would like to travel with you, in hopes of finding Tiki. I realise that the relationship between mankind and dragonkind is strained, but will you let this old manakete fight by your side?"

Though Marth was obviously surprised by the question, it didn't take him long to respond. "Absolutely. Manakete or no, I can tell you mean us no harm. And perhaps it will be easier to find Tiki if we search together."

Bantu nodded slowly. "Yes, I certainly hope that is the case."

Chapter Text

As soon as all Marth's soldiers were ready, they had left the previous battlefield and trekked to Port Warren. It was still peaceful there, and the group took this rare opportunity to rest and take in the sights—something that many of them had been longing for quite a while. Some of those in Marth's ranks banded together to partake in food and spirits at the local alehouse, others went out to the fields to practice with one another, and some decided to go off on their own to explore the port town on their own terms.

Roy took the opportunity to explore the port by himself. He had been walking around the town, but not to sightsee—his mind was preoccupied with the conversation that took place a few days prior with Malledus and Marth.

The history of Akaneia was something he was not very well acquainted with. Whether this was something he had just never known before or if it was because of the amnesia, he was not sure. However, it was something that he could research on his own now that they had a moment to breathe. Perhaps it would be a good way to learn more about the manaketes, or maybe even jog his memory, he couldn't help but think as he walked down the road.

"It's worth a shot," he mused quietly.

It took not but a few minutes for him to happen upon a small library that, even though the building was modestly sized, was filled to the brim with books from old to new. Roy could not help but be impressed as he looked around.

It took him a while to find what he was looking for—a detailed history book that recounted the events of the entire known history of Akaneia. Once he found it, however, he made a beeline to one of the small studies near the back of the old building. He pulled out one of the two chairs at a table by the window and sat down, quickly flipping the book open to the very beginning.

Time went by and Roy didn't seem to care—he did not look up from the book for hours as he read and learned. The information about dragons was fascinating to him, as was the history, but what he was reading began to trouble him. At some point in Akaneia's history, it seemed as though dragons must have ruled over it all. There were, supposedly, ancient civilisations of these dragon tribes that were abundant. Though for some reason it seemed like they all began to collapse upon themselves over time, and they chose to then direct their vitriol towards humans. It was then that a terrible war broke out between humankind and dragonkind, which inevitably led to the full collapse of dragonkind's rule over Akaneia. The only dragons that appeared to show any sort of true kindness towards humankind on a wide scale were those of the Divine Dragon tribe, though even they appeared to have disappeared.

A knot twisted in Roy's gut. None of the names, places, or events in this book rung any sort of bell to him-- even though most of the retellings were quite vague due to the age of the conflict. Though for some reason it still felt strangely familiar to him. He found himself unable to put his finger on exactly why, however, so he continued reading.

After a few more pages, Roy finally reached the point in Akaneia's history that actually rung a small bell thanks to Marth: the previous war with Medeus, the King of Dragons. Roy's eyes were glued to the words written on the parchment as he flipped through the pages detailing the story.

A certain warrior by the name of Anri-- the man that Marth had mentioned not long ago-- was a pivotal figure in more recent history. His story began almost seventy years ago as nothing more than that of a young peasant man living in Altea, which was only a small town in those days. At some point in time, he and Princess Artemis, who was the last surviving member of the Akaneian royal family, had met whilst she was hiding away in Altea. The two then fell in love, and in order to protect her, Anri left Altea in search of a legendary blade, known as the Falchion. That journey that Anri had embarked upon was now known as Anri's Way, and it took him through various lands-- some of which were unfathomably dangerous. Perhaps the most dangerous of them all being where he finally happened to find the Falchion: in the land of dragons.

"So the dragon-slaying sword was hidden away by the dragons themselves?" Roy muttered under his breath as he continued to read. "I guess that makes sense..."

The Falchion, hidden away and protected in the Ice Dragon Temple, was then retrieved by Anri. However, it was no easy task to do so: for the frozen wasteland that the Ice Dragons called home was not a welcome place for humans. Though beyond even that, those dragons that inhabited those lands were ferocious and violent. The Ice Dragons had gone mad, and so Anri had to fight his way out.

A deep frown etched itself onto Roy's lips. "The Ice Dragons had gone mad? This book makes it sound like it was some sort of insanity-- but why?"

Growing disturbed, Roy strummed his fingers on the worn tabletop as he rested his cheek in the palm of his other hand. Bantu had seemed like a reasonable enough old man when they spoke briefly the other day- surely he couldn't have gone insane. He had also mentioned someone by the name of Tiki, as well-- a girl he claimed was a Divine Dragon. If that was the case, would Tiki have also gone mad? Is Marth potentially walking straight into the jaws of danger by promising Bantu his help?

Roy stilled, then, as a sudden realisation dawned upon him. His eyes widened as he stared across the table, blankly fixating on a bookshelf near the far-off corner of the spot in the library he had chosen to study in. Marth's words from that day echoed in his mind, hollow like a sombre bell: "Yes, and as Anri's descendant, I am the only one able to wield the Falchion. I have already vowed to finish what my ancestor started—there is no turning back, not now that Medeus has returned."

The fingertips that had been anxiously tapping at the tabletop twitched to a halt as the young prince's words truly sunk in. Roy had already known of Marth's intentions of regaining his kingdom and winning the war, but now that Roy had more context as to the muddied state of Akaneia's history...

He felt sick, somehow. Logic would state that it would be the right thing to slay the enemy king, one that has apparently invaded and subjugated not only your own kingdom, but the continent as a whole. However, Roy couldn't help but shake the fact that something wasn't lining up.

Marth, who had left their place of stay to traverse the town as well, also came into the library. He saw Roy and was surprised—to think that a mercenary would care enough to visit a library and spend time with a book. A small smile graced his expression as he quietly approached Roy, though the pale look on the redhead's face gave Marth an immediate cause for concern.

"Roy," he spoke gently.

No response. Marth couldn't help but hum curiously, and his eyes shifted towards the book on the table, then back to Roy. He gently placed his fingertips on the top of Roy's hand that was resting on the table. "Roy," he repeated.

This time, Roy quickly looked up. "Oh, Marth," he said as his hand jerked, closing his book in reflex. "What are you doing here?"

Marth noted Roy's sudden closing the book and shook his head. "There's no need to hide your book, I was just stopping by to see what they had to read, and I saw you here. I must say, I'm a little surprised," he said as a small smile curled on his lips.

"Surprised…? Oh," Roy glanced back down to the book and was quiet a moment. "I suppose it could be surprising, but I've always enjoyed reading. At least, I think I have, anyway."

"Have you?" Marth asked before he slowly moved to sit across from Roy in the other chair. "Do you mind if I join you?"

Roy paused briefly, seemingly a bit guarded, before he finally shook his head. "I don't mind at all."

Marth carefully sat down in the chair across from Roy at the small table. "Thank you. What are you reading?"

"Ah, I…" Roy hesitated and he averted his gaze from Marth's back down to the book. "I was reading about the history of Akaneia," he said, deciding to omit his particular interest in dragons.

If Marth hadn't been curious before, he was now. "The history of Akaneia? Why is that?"

"Well, I don't remember anything of my past, so I… I figured reading this, it might help me. Maybe I would remember some of these things and I could start to…" Roy trailed off and he bit his bottom lip slightly.

There was a moment of silence as Marth watched Roy. "I see, then maybe I could help you."

Roy's gaze returned to Marth's once again. "Help me? How so?"

"Well, maybe I could answer some of your questions… or tell you things that history book may not have in it," Marth explained. "How does that sound?"

Marth's generous offer had taken Roy by surprise, and he couldn't help but stare at the prince. "Are… are you sure?"

A small chuckle came from Marth. "Yes, I'm sure," he reassured. "I'll be more than happy to help you, Roy."

The selflessness of the offer caused Roy to blush a faint, dusty pink. His lips pursed and he glanced down to the book once more, suddenly unable to look Marth in the face. "Alright. Thank you, Marth."

Marth simply nodded and without a word, got up from his chair. He picked up the chair and brought it over to Roy's side so he could sit beside him. Roy scooted his own seat closer to the wall to make room for Marth on his side. Once Marth had sat himself down again, he looked to Roy, and Roy kept his gaze firmly cast downward to the book. Marth couldn't help but smile a little at Roy's display.

"Alright… let's get started then," Marth said.

Though Roy had already spent a few hours in the library prior to Marth's arrival, the two of them ended up staying there for a few hours more as they read the book together. Although the information in the book was almost all things that Marth had known for quite some time now, he didn't mind looking it all over again to help his friend. Roy had several questions for him as they went through the timeline of events and Marth was happy to answer all that he could.

As they read, they got to a section detailing the known Dragon Tribes and their differences from one another. Though some of the information was somewhat unsubstantiated, learned only via ruins or obtained second- or third-hand, it was still quite interesting and believable nonetheless. Roy's interest had piqued, and he began to ask Marth more questions.

"Yes, that is how the dragonstones work," Marth said in response to one of Roy's inquiries. "At least, it is what we know from what few manaketes have been willing to confirm with us."

"So… there are different kinds of dragonstones for different kinds of dragons," Roy said quietly. "And… they make dragons more powerful, even if they aren't using the stone actively?"

Marth nodded a little. "That is correct. Even if they don't transform into a dragon, when holding a dragonstone, manaketes have more stamina and speed than a normal human. Perhaps it is because of the magic within the stone that reacts with their bodies; however, I am not sure."

Roy fell silent and nodded weakly. He turned his gaze from Marth back down to the book once more, and that long-off look once again settled on his face. Marth glanced to him. It was clear that Roy wasn't reading anymore, as his eyes weren't flitting back and forth. Something seemed to be on his mind.

"Roy, is something troubling you?" Marth asked politely.

Roy merely shook his head. "No, it's nothing important," he said, his expression falling flat. "I'm just… I'm not remembering anything."

This caused Marth to frown a little. "Roy… I'm sorry," he said. "Maybe this just isn't the right way to go about it."

Roy nodded a little in agreement before he carefully closed the book. "I'm sorry to have wasted your time, Marth," he said, sounding genuinely disappointed in himself.

Marth shook his head. "There is nothing to apologize for. If anything, I'm glad we got to do this. It showed me more of the side of you that you only show when off the battlefield. It doesn't happen very often, so I'm grateful."

Roy stared at Marth a moment, searching his eyes as if to see if he was telling the truth. "Perhaps," he mumbled before glancing down to the book once more. "Looking at it that way, it feels like less of a waste, now."

Marth smiled. "Think positively, Roy. Even if it doesn't happen now, I'm certain you will remember your past eventually."

A weak hum was all Marth received in response, and the young prince grew curious once more by his comrade's dour mood. "Roy... is that really all that's on your mind? Is there something else?"

The low crackling sound of the lantern overhead prickled in the prince's ears as he eagerly awaited Roy's response. Though after a short yet heavy silence, Marth began to worry that he had overstepped. "I apologise, perhaps I should not have--"

"Marth, can I ask you a question?" Roy asked, though his eyes stayed fixated on the worn leather cover of the book.

Confused, Marth leaned forward just a hair. "Of course, Roy. What is it?"

The question that burned in Roy's mind seemed almost intrusive, in a way, and he could not seem to shake it. Calling from the back of his mind, it demanded to know the answer. "Medeus... do you want to kill him?"

To say that Roy's question had caught Marth off-guard would have been an understatement. "I... I'm sorry, I don't believe I understand your question. Might you elaborate?"

"Dragons used to rule the world seemingly without issue, until their society suddenly started to collapse, and they attacked humans. That was the first war that started this whole conflict, and the dragons were mostly wiped out at that time. Then, when I was reading about Anri, it said that to defeat Medeus, he had to get the Falchion from the Ice Dragon Temple. When he tried to leave, though, it's said that he was viciously attacked by the Ice Dragons there..." Roy trailed off for a moment as the words threaded together in his head, formulating the question that he needed to speak. "It seemed strange to me that all of a sudden, dragons had gone from being relatively normal with a thriving society, to being so cruel. What if something happened to them that made them act that way?"

At that, Marth grew warily silent. Roy's questions were certainly curious, and if Jagen were here the old paladin would have certainly been quite upset to hear them. However, as Marth observed Roy's face and watched as the words he spoke seemed to weigh further and further on his shoulders as he let them slip from his lips, the young prince allowed some of his wariness to subside. It seemed like Roy was truly trying to make some sense of a history that, truthfully, even Marth had refrained from questioning. "Are you implying that Medeus' actions are not of his own doing...?"

"I'm just... I'm just saying we don't know," Roy responded, though after a short pause, he added, "Or at least, I certainly don't. So, I guess I just was wondering-- if... somehow, there was a way that a dragon even as seemingly evil as Medeus could be saved... would you take the risk? Or would you still kill him?"

A heavy silence fell between the two young men as Roy looked up from the book, towards Marth, who was eyeing him thoughtfully. Roy's throat grew parched and he swallowed thickly, realising now that he had probably sounded rather suspicious. "Sorry, I just now realised that was probably a really strange question--"

"If there is a chance to save someone, be it man or dragon, I would always choose to save, rather than slay." Marth's gentle words cut through the tension like a well-honed blade as a gentle smile once again returned to his lips. The fear that had taken root in Roy's heart withered away, replaced swiftly by relief, and he let out a heavy sigh. Marth then tilted his head. "Though, Roy... I must ask, where did that come from?"

The memory of those intrusive thoughts bubbling up in Roy's head like boiling water brought him to shake his head. "I'll... be honest, I don't really know. Just, after reading these general recollections of Akaneia's history, then remembering the tale that Malledus and yourself told me the other day... and how you were wishing to follow in Anri's footsteps... I started feeling uneasy, for some reason. Like a part of the picture is missing, and it isn't just me that's missing it."

Considering Roy's words, Marth's gaze lowered to the history book once more. The antiquated leather was bound together by threads that had long since begun to fray, and even though it was quite detailed in most of its contents, Marth could not help but find Roy's concerns compelling. "Perhaps you are right. We know a lot about the history of Akaneia from the side of the victors-- humans, primarily-- but all too little about the plight of the dragons. Though unfortunately, what few dragons still exist seem to be less than eager to interact cordially with us. Bantu is the first I have personally ever met. If he knew something about it, I would think he would have been forthcoming with any knowledge he would've had..."

Roy chewed on his bottom lip thoughtfully as he also returned his attention to the book, though mostly because it was growing far too hard to continue looking at Marth. "Right... I guess so. I'm sorry, Marth."

Roy's apology had caught Marth by surprise. "You're sorry? Whatever for?"

Offering Marth a weak smile, Roy sat back straight again in his chair. The old wood creaked from the movement, and he let out another weary sigh. "I asked you whether or not you'd be willing to save the life of someone that you hated... in a way, I feel like I just implied something less than stellar of your character by doing that. So, I wanted to apologise. I shouldn't have doubted you like that... not after all the kindness you've shown me, someone you know nothing about."

Marth's gloved hand rested fully, then, on the back of Roy's with a reassuring pat. "There is nothing to apologise for, Roy. You had a concern, and you have every right to air it to me. There is nothing wrong with clarifying what I stand for, especially if you are lending me your capable hand. I only hope that my answer quelled your fears."

Roy's cheeks warmed as his smile broadened, albeit only a fraction of a twitch. "Yeah, it did. Thank you, Marth."

With that, Marth gave Roy's hand one more soft pat before he gracefully stood from his chair. "Now, let's put the book away and go back to the others, shall we? I'm sure you're famished—I know I am."

Roy let out a small breath through his nose. "Yeah, I am."

He rose from his chair as well and Marth pushed his back to its proper side. Roy pushed in his own chair and went to one of the bookshelves off to the right of the table, carefully sliding the old history book back into its proper place. Marth walked over to him and they left the library together. The sun had started to dip behind the mountains in the distance and the sky was tinted various shades of orange and pink.

"We were in there for quite a while," Marth said. Roy nodded and Marth smiled at him. "Well, at least the day was both relaxing and productive."

They began their walk back to the inn on the other side of town. Though the daylight had almost run out, people were still busily walking about the streets of Warren. The two passed by a number of small merchant stands as they went through the port town.

One merchant stall had been very busy—a group of five or six people had huddled around the front of it, and it was a little difficult to pass it by. Marth squeezed through the small crowd to get to the other side, but as Roy started to go through, a tall man in a dark purple cloak bumped back into him, causing Roy to stumble slightly.

"Ah, sorry," Roy apologized as he looked over to the man. He couldn't see the man's face very clearly due to the shadow cast on it from his hood, but he could tell that the man was not one to fuss with- in fact, he seemed to emit an aura of pure unease. Roy shifted and hurried to Marth's side once again before continuing their walk, and he glanced over his shoulder slightly.

The man in the purple cloak was no longer there. Roy furrowed his brow and heard the beginnings of an unpleasant ringing in his ears. He quickly looked forward and shook his head a little to rid himself of the sound. Marth was feeling a little uncomfortable as well and he quickened his pace—because of this, it didn't take long before they had returned to the inn.

Unfortunately for the two of them, dinner had yet to finish cooking.

With a small sigh, Roy turned to Marth. "I'm going to head up to my room for a while. Thank you again for helping me today," he said.

Marth nodded with a smile. "Any time, Roy."

Roy turned and made his way up the stairs. His shoulders sagged slightly as he reached the top of the stairs and headed down the hall. Even though he was grateful for the time he spent with Marth today and all the questions he had answered, he could not help but feel like he let both Marth and himself down.

He gripped the doorknob to his room with a gloved hand, and, like he had done a few times before, found himself lost in the woodgrain before him. He wasn't thinking of much in particular—just floods of words and sounds buzzed through his mind and he tried, in vain, to find some sliver of consistency in them.

Consistency in a world embroiled in turmoil—a turmoil that he still could not bring himself to remember, no less.

Roy closed his eyes and his expression dropped to one more solemn. After a few more moments of standing in the hall, he opened the door and quietly entered his room. He was sharing with Merric and Navarre this time, but thankfully neither of them were there. He made his way over to his own bed and slowly sat on it.

There was an odd, almost lonely feeling in Roy's chest as he stared at the empty beds of his comrades, and once again his mind drifted off into a negative place.

Who was he? Why was he here? What had he been doing before this? And now, with his ever-growing doubts, he couldn't help but ask: what was he?

In times like these, he found solace in the one thing he knew had a tie to his past outside of the clothes on his back and the weapon at his side— and however small it may be, it was still something. He carefully flipped open his pouch and fingered around for the misshapen stone that he had been carrying with him ever since Marth's company had found him in the fields.

Roy slowly pulled it out and held it in front of him. He stared down at that prismatic yet dull stone with tired eyes, silently sending it his questions and pleas like he had done countless times before. This had turned into an almost nightly ritual for him—he would find a place to be alone if he could, and he would hold this stone, hoping that maybe he could find an answer somewhere in its greyed-out, swirled pattern.

Sometimes he would get lucky and get a headache coupled with muddled voices and sounds that he couldn't understand. Most times, however, he was answered with nothing but silence.

This seemed to be one of the latter times.

A small sigh escaped his lips and he quietly put the stone away. It wasn't going to happen for him today—he had resigned himself to it.

"I just need to sleep," Roy mumbled to himself as he laid back on his bed.

He stared up at the ceiling for a long time, his mind blank. Never had he felt so empty before, not even when he first awoke all the way back in Galder. The mix of knowing he had forgotten everything plus being totally unable to do anything about it, even after trying all day, had done nothing but sink his mood down to a new low.

Not quite an hour passed, and Marth went upstairs to find Roy.

He knocked gently on the wood of the door. "Roy?" he called quietly.

Upon receiving no response, he opened the door only a crack so he could check inside. On the farthest bed lay Roy, curled on his side with his back facing the prince. Marth, a little worried, decided to quietly enter the room and walk over to Roy's bedside. He peered over Roy to see his face.

He was sleeping.

Marth let out a small breath of relief.

"Sleeping," he mumbled to himself before allowing himself a small smile. "I shouldn't be surprised…"

Marth moved to unfold the blanket that was setting on the corner of the bed before gently draping it over Roy's sleeping form.

"At least use your blanket," he whispered before going silent. "You've had a long day… rest up. I'll make sure to have a meal left over for you."

Marth straightened his posture before turning and walking back toward the door, where he paused. He looked back over his shoulder one last time before he left the room and closed the door quietly behind him.

This day would be the last peaceful one they would have in a long while. It would not be much longer until Grust's soldiers fell upon the Akaenian League, and war would commence once more.

Chapter Text

Port Warren had gone from peaceful to hectic as soon as Grust's soldiers appeared. The Akaneian League had fought them off the best they could before fleeing towards Pyrathi, seeking refuge.

As they walked toward the island, Roy managed to keep his gaze downcast, opting to stare at the grass a few feet in front of him rather than the scenery around him. A lot was on his mind at that moment—most of it relating to the question and answer session he had with Marth in the library at Port Warren. The idea that, even without actively using a dragonstone, a manakete could still benefit from having it on their person worried him.

He had noticed that, back when he was fighting against Minerva and Harmein's forces, his energy levels were much higher than in previous battles—he was able to body countless enemies without even breaking a sweat. However, as soon as he had passed off the firestone to Bantu, exhaustion took over him and his limbs were terribly sore.

The idea that he may be a manakete was preposterous to Roy. He had made sure to look himself over before the attack on Port Warren took place, and he was sure he looked nothing like Bantu, who was a true manakete. They looked different, spoke differently, and overall, Roy acted more like Marth or Jagen or Abel than he did Bantu. Not to mention, Roy was absolutely terrible with magic, whereas Bantu seemed to understand it like the back of his hand.

There was no way he was a dragon. He was certain of it, even without his memories there to reassure him.

Roy's brow furrowed and he shook his head a little as he stared harder at the ground. Jagen noticed Roy's movement and, curious about Roy's current state, sped up his horse slightly to catch up with him. Once he was close enough, he called to the younger man. "Roy."

Roy quickly looked over. "Oh, Jagen? What is it?"

"Are you alright?" Jagen asked. "You seem troubled."

"Oh. No, it's nothing. I'm fine," Roy responded. "Thank you for asking, though."

Jagen was silent for a moment before nodding, hesitantly trusting Roy's word. Marth, who was walking not far from the two of them, had overheard the conversation. It was overtly obvious to him that something was bothering Roy and had been since the day at the library, but he did not want to pry. After all, if his mood had anything to do with the subject of dragons, it would not be wise to mention it in front of Jagen. It seemed like the old paladin was finally beginning to warm up to Roy just a bit, and the last thing Marth needed to do was accidentally throw that progress to the wind.

Finally, after almost half a day of walking, they had made it to Pyrathi. There were small groups of houses here and there scattered across the isle, but there was plenty of empty space for the group to set up camp for a night if they were allowed. Unfortunately for them, however, those inhabiting the small island kingdom were not friendly in the slightest. Upon seeing the group of travelers approaching their shores, many pirates appeared to deny them entry. Their weapons were already drawn, and they were ready to fight.

"It seems like resting here or leaving peacefully is not an option," muttered Marth. "This is… unfortunate, at best."

"Sire," Jagen said as he came to his side. "We are surrounded on three sides by pirates and returning from where we came is not an option."

"Yes, it seems we'll just have to ready our arms and fight," Marth said. The young prince turned to the rest of his comrades. "Everyone, though I know you are tired, you must prepare yourselves! We've a battle on our hands!"

As the others ran ahead to begin the invasion of Pyrathi's shores, Bantu came to Roy. "Roy," he said. "I've something to tell you before you head out to battle."

Roy, who was about to run after the others, stopped. "What is it?"

"Do not push yourself like you did back when you were fighting Harmein's troops," he advised. "Keep yourself reigned in this time."

It took Roy a couple seconds to process Bantu's request. At first, Roy seemed hesitant, but Bantu seemed very sincere in his concern, so he gave the older man a curt nod. "Alright, I'll do my best to keep that in mind."

Bantu seemed pleased with his response. "Good."

"Roy!" Marth called out from up ahead. "Come with us!"

Roy looked Marth's way to see him waiting with Cain, Abel, Merric and Ogma. He spared Bantu one last look before running over to meet up with them.

"I've sent Jagen, Hardin, and Caeda off with their own groups to fight off the incoming pirates," Marth explained. "That will give us the opportunity to go straight to the shrine to the east."

"If you didn't know," started Cain, "The guy in charge here is an intimidating one that goes by the name of Mannu. Legend has it he's actually a dragon."

What a bizarre choice of occupation for a dragon, Roy thought. As if reading Roy's mind, Cain added with a small shrug of the shoulders, "Sounds odd, I know. But that's how the story goes."

"In any case," Marth interjected, "I'm going to need some of my strongest allies with me if we want to stand any chance against him. That is why I wish for you five to assist me, if you could."

Roy understood this and nodded. "Right. I'll go with you."

It was then that Bantu also approached them. "Prince Marth, where would you like me to go?"

"If you could assist Caeda's group along the southern shore, I would appreciate it," Marth responded. "I would feel better knowing a powerful dragon was assisting the princess of Talys, especially with another enemy dragon potentially awaiting us."

"Then that is where I shall go. I will keep the young princess safe." With that promise, Bantu then left their group to meet with Caeda. The group of young men watched for a moment at Bantu's retreating form before returning their attentions to one another.

Marth gave his rapier a slight swing, his cape catching the sea breeze behind him as he sent his comrades a confident smile. "Let's be on our way, then!"

Without further hesitation, Marth's group crossed the bridge leading to the island of the supposed wyrm and its henchmen. Almost instantly they saw a small village off to the east with a band of thieves and ruffians making their way towards it—a sight that always ended in tragedy if they were not stopped quickly enough. Cain and Abel decided to ride ahead to intercept them and made it just in time, halting their advance right in front of the town's gates.

A skirmish broke out from there; brittle, cheap weapons broke and splintered, scattering all about the ground and cobble path just outside of the town gates as the pirates were swiftly being felled by the six of them. However, there were still larger in number than Marth's troupe, and it was taking them some time to clear their enemies out. The slender blade of Marth's rapier ran right through the ribs of one of the pirates, piercing through the man's lungs and causing him to spit up blood with a gurgle before he fell lifelessly to the ground. Knowing not to waste time staring at the corpse, Marth readied his sights on another pirate near Ogma.

It was then that a shrill cry split the air, causing Marth to stall in his tracks and whip his head towards the sound. A small girl, probably no older than nine or ten years old, was being nabbed particularly rough looking man. He flashed Marth a sick grin, showing gaps in his teeth, as he hoisted her up closer to him with one muscular arm wrapped around her torso. He brought his axe towards her throat and shouted, "Drop yer weapons or the girl's as good as dead!"

Horrified, Marth's grip tightened on his rapier as he took a half-step forward. "You wouldn't-"

Though he was cut short by the man taking an equal step back, pulling the girl roughly with him and pressing the rusty edge of his axe to the skin of her neck. "I would, lad! So drop the fancy sword or this little girl's blood is gonna be on yer hands!"

Suddenly clamming up, Marth swallowed. There had to be a way to handle this situation without the girl getting hurt. Perhaps once Merric saw the man, he could strike him down with his magic--

However, the prince's frantic thoughts were cut short as a blast of blood spurted out from the pirate's forehead and his body jerked. His limbs grew limp as his eyes rolled to the back of his head, and the little girl was dropped to the ground at his feet before he stumbled backwards and fell to his back in the dirt. Marth hardly had the opportunity to register what had just happened before he saw another pirate, off to his right, stumble and fall to the ground in another spectacular burst of blood. Then two more swiftly followed suit, and it was then that Marth saw how: each of them had taken an arrow directly to their skulls.

A sniper.

Marth's blood ran cold as he swiftly darted towards the sobbing, frightened young girl. "Miss, are you okay? Did that man hurt you at all?"

She could only respond to the prince with blubbering tears and a frantic shake of the head, and Marth carefully helped her to her feet. "Alright, that's good. Please, run inside and to safety!"

As the girl heeded his advice and bolted into one of the nearby homes, Marth then looked about him frantically. Where could this sniper be?

"There's nothing to be worried about, Prince Marth," came an unfamiliar voice from a nearby rooftop- and it was then that Marth spotted him: a blonde-haired man, clad in red and armed with a bow. "I don't plan on shooting you or any of your comrades down."

Uncertain, Marth turned towards the figure and squinted as the noontime sun assaulted his eyes. "Who are you?"

"My name is Jeorge," the blonde replied as he loosed another arrow, the slender projectile whistling in the wind before embedding itself in another enemy pirate's head, though this time right beside Abel. "I'm a sniper serving Princess Nyna. Though I think we should leave the introductions for a later time and take care of this pirate infestation first."

Upon the mention of Princess Nyna, Marth's eyes widened. The Akaniean Princess? If that were true, then they were certainly fortunate to have arrived in Pyrathi when they had. Deciding to take Jeorge at his word, Marth gave him a curt nod before he darted back towards the battlefield.

The rest of the conflict went by in a blur after that. With Jeorge's assistance, the pirates that remained were dealt with swiftly and with a frightening level of accuracy and efficiency. Only once the coast was clear did Jeorge descend from the rooftop and join Marth's group on the ground, and with a brief introduction of himself to the prince and his comrades, he was unquestionably brought into the fold.

"You were chased off by Doluna?" Abel asked him as they made their way southwest, towards the shrine.

"Yes, I tried to defend the palace, but it was for naught—Doluna was far too powerful," Jeorge explained. "Thankfully, their power lies in their muscles rather than their minds. I was able to escape and made my way here, hoping that at some point, I could meet with Princess Nyna once more."

"I will be sure you are able to see her once the matter at hand is settled," Marth assured him.

"That is all I could ever ask for, Prince Marth. Thank you," Jeorge said.

Roy had only been paying half attention to his comrades' conversation—he was too busy looking around him. The landscape had slowly been turning from open fields to ruins as they approached what was more than likely Mannu's keep.

"Say, Jeorge—you've been here a while, have you heard whether or not the stories involving Mannu are true? Is he really a dragon?" Merric asked. This question grabbed Roy's attention and he turned his head to look to Jeorge.

"Unfortunately, yes," Jeorge responded. "The stories are definitely true. To take him on without being prepared would prove… well, fatal."

Cain frowned. "Sounds great."

Jeorge shook his head. "I've been told there's a powerful weapon, one called a Wyrmslayer, enshrined in the palace off to the east. If anything, that would be our best bet to take him down."

Marth did not need to hear any more. "To the east? Then we need to go there, and right away—the path has already been cleared by Hardin, so it shouldn't take us long."

Marth had been right when he said it would not take them long to get to the eastern palace. He had been able to find it quickly, go in, take the legendary Wyrmslayer, and escape. Because their forces had been split into multiple groups, most enemies had been eradicated, or had at least been held back. This provided Marth's company with a fairly easy travel back across the small isle toward the main shrine.

The closer they got to the crumbling ancient structure, the more nervous Roy became. His stomach twisted and his heart began to pound in his chest. He knew this was not normal for him, which worried him more—why was he having such a strong reaction to his surroundings right now? Were the others feeling it too?

It was then that a large voice boomed from just ahead, shaking the ground. "Foolish humans!"

All eyes turned to the source—atop the shrine stairs stood a menacing cloaked figure with greyed skin and a beard. His eyes were black and gold, and his expression was fierce. "You unclean, puny creatures; you are defiling this sacred ground with your presence! I will dye the lands crimson with your blood as I kill you all, one by one!"

The ground began to rumble more violently as the orb in Mannu's hand began to glow, immediately plunging the battlefield into a state of panic.

"Get back! He's about to transform!" Marth shouted.

Roy and the others didn't need to be told twice; they bolted back to the shrine ground entrance as fast as their feet could take them. Though right as they crossed the threshold of the entrance, a terrifying and monstrous roar ripped through the air.

The others turned to face their enemy, but Roy found himself unable. He was frozen—the roar had not only permeated the air, but it also shook him to his very core. Every fibre of his being screamed in protest as he fought the urge to cower or run away.

Slowly swallowing the lump that had formed in his throat, he was able to muster the strength to turn and look back to Mannu.

What he saw before him was, without a doubt, one of the most horrifying things he had ever seen. Huge claws, sharp scales, and a form whose intimidating presence was unmatched.

It was a fire dragon.

His eyes clenched as a sudden flood of emotions washed over him, causing him to quiver. His heart and mind raced as fuzzed memories flashed through his mind, overtaking him.

The roar of a fire dragon echoed in his ears and the talons of War Dragons ripped through his chest. Pain shot through his body and he thought he was dying—but there was no such luck. Upon opening his eyes, he was met with a realm of blackness, though he could tell he was not alone. Red lines began to pulse around him and there was the faintest sound of something breathing out with a growl.

Almost instantly there was a dark, scaled face—one that was even darker than the abyss that surrounded him—directly in front of him, its mismatched teal and red eyes glaring into his. Roy was unable to breathe as the creature lifted its head and opened its maw. Then it struck, swallowing him whole.

The muddled sound of yelling and clanging weapons slowly became more apparent as Roy started to come to.

"… oy! Roy!" Came Abel's frantic voice.

"Damnit, Roy! Come on, snap out of it!" Cain shouted before grunting and blocking an axe.

Roy was barely able to open his eyes—his eyelids were heavy and his spirit was weak. His head thumped, his ears rung, and he was covered in a cold sweat. Slowly, his surroundings became more apparent to him, and he cringed at the sound one of the pirates made as they met their demise by Cain's lance.

"Earth to Roy!" Cain shouted. "We need you right now!"

Between Cain's yelling and the commotion of the fight between Mannu and Marth, Roy forced himself to look around. Armed with the Wyrmslayer, Marth had been able to cut deeply into Mannu's scales and skin, carving out a bloody chunk of the beast’s neck. Mannu reeled from the pain, a shrill roar ripping from his throat as fury burned in his eyes.

"Brat!" hissed Mannu as he slammed his claw into Marth, knocking him far to the side. Marth let out a pained sound as he tumbled across the ground. Mannu bore his fangs and, though he was angry, couldn't help but be amused. "You'll pay for what you've just done; even if I die, it will not matter so long as I take you with me!”

The air became hot as Mannu inhaled, readying his flame breath. The warm charge in the air slowly brought Roy out of his haze and he mustered the strength to look ahead of him.

Marth was on the ground of the shrine, the Wyrmslayer knocked from his hands, and clearly knocked somewhat out of sorts. He was gripping his head and faltering as he tried to push himself up onto his hands and knees. Mannu was standing before him, preparing what would be a fatal buffeting of flames, and Roy's breath caught in his throat.

The sight before him triggered a strong, overwhelming sense of urgency that felt far too familiar. The sword on his hip burned hot beside him and the gem in the centre shined brightly, as if begging him to draw it. With a sudden burst of willpower, he drew his blade and rose to his feet, still slightly unsteady.

"Die, you foul, insignificant animal!" roared Mannu as he stood tall. Flames billowed in his mouth and he lowered his head to let loose the stream of fire that had been building up in his throat.

As Marth clenched his eyes, preparing himself for the inevitable, Roy yelled loudly- an angry and involuntary sound- as he dashed toward Mannu, his blade graced by fire. He leapt into the air, leaving a burning streak in his wake, and held the sword above his head with both hands before plummeting it down into Mannu's skull.

Time seemed to stand still as the blade sunk through flesh and bone, and fire erupted from the wound. Mannu's body stilled, his eyes wide open in shock, and there was a crackling sound as his body began to change. Starting from Roy's blade, crystals began to grow and cover Mannu's body layer by layer in thick, immovable sheets. Marth slowly opened his eyes and looked above him. The sight was both stunning yet terrifying; Mannu's crystallized head was looming just over him, and Roy was crouched atop it, his sword pierced in all the way to the hilt.

Abel had gotten off his horse to run over to Marth. "Sire!" he yelled and came to his side. "Come on, get up!"

Abel quickly helped pull Marth up from the ground and brought him back to where he and Cain were. Marth was unable to look away from the now-petrified fire dragon.

Roy slowly withdrew his blade from its head and stood. Moments after, chunks began to crumble and fall from Mannu's corpse, causing the earth to shake beneath it. The dragon's body quickly became unstable, forcing Roy to jump off, and all the crystals split and fell apart- leaving nothing of the fire dragon behind but a pile of clear blue dust and shards. He said nothing as he clutched tightly at the hilt of his blade, the glimmering dust now somehow intimidating him moreso than the terrifying draconic creature it once was.

Slowly Roy turned to the others and he made eye contact with Marth, and a slew of questions started to run through the prince's head as he tried to process what had just happened to Mannu. The sound of Caeda's shouting and hooves clomping reminded Marth that there were other things he needed to attend to first, however- the questions would have to wait until later.

He pulled away from Abel and looked back just as the rest of his comrades were beginning to make their way to the shrine. It seemed as though the enemies had all been routed and the area had been secured, but not without cost—there were a number of injured scattered throughout the growing crowd, and they needed to be taken care of as quickly as possible.

As the injured had been tended to, Roy slipped away from the others unnoticed. By that time, Marth had just finished checking in on everyone, but no matter how hard he tried, he was unable to find Roy amongst the others. He furrowed his brow.

"Where could he have…?" Marth mumbled to himself before glancing around once more.

He decided to hike around the area and search through the ruins himself in an attempt to locate the roving mercenary. It only took a matter of minutes before he stumbled across a small hollow in which Roy had decided to stow himself away. Roy's head was bowed as he was leaned against the crumbling wall of the temple, and his fingers were threaded through the mess of his hair. If it hadn't already been obvious Roy had been deeply sucked in on himself, the way his eyes were tightly clenched would've given it away.

"Roy," Marth said—to no response.

This made Marth come to Roy and take him by one of his shoulders. He shook Roy slightly, concerned by his lack of response. "Roy, what are you doing out here? I was worried—"

His words stopped in his throat as soon as Roy made eye contact with him, however. His eyes were dark, glassy—they were saturated with fear, like the eyes of a man who had borne witness to nothing but horror in his life. It was a far cry from the look Marth would have expected of a warrior who had just slain a dragon.

"Roy…" Marth mumbled, his grip on the other's shoulder loosening considerably. "What happened to you? Is everything alright?"

The question caused Roy to seize up as his breath lodged heavily in his throat. His eyes clenched again, and he lowered his head, his fingers digging wearily into his scalp. With a vigorous shake of the head, he pressed himself back further into the stone behind him, trying yet failing to ground himself.

"I remembered… something," Roy barely spoke. "It was frightening."

Marth’s concern for his comrade only heightened at his words. “Can you tell me what it was? What did you remember? If it is too painful to recount, please do not feel obligated..."

There was a pained silence as Roy struggled to decide whether he could say anything. Slowly and shakily he inhaled through his nose and held his breath before exhaling. "I… what I remembered-- what I remembered… there were shadows everywhere. Roars and screams, claws… ripping through my chest. Dragons everywhere…"

Marth tensed in surprise. "Dragons…?"

"There was fire and everything around me was shaking… I thought I was going to die," Roy continued, bile burning in the back of his throat as he swallowed. "But… then… it all went black. And it was warm… like there was something around me. Then there was a dragon's face, and it…"

Roy teeth grit and he clenched his eyes, as if remembering it hurt him. Marth quickly shook his head, and he placed his hand on Roy's upper arm before giving it a soft squeeze. The gesture was enough to help pull Roy from the nightmare he had been starting to relive, and he quickly moved to lightly grasp at Marth's forearm with his other hand. Not minding the touch, Marth remained still, acting as Roy's anchor to the real world.

"It's okay, if you can't say anymore, don't," Marth reassured. "I've heard enough, I think, to understand."

Roy looked up to Marth a little, and Marth smiled at him. "I recognise how terrifying that must be to envision... but, maybe it will eventually start to make sense.”

Confused, Roy grimaced, and his fingers knotted into the cloth of Marth's glove. "I... don't know if I want it to make sense."

Giving his friend an understanding nod, Marth replied, "That's an understandable reaction... but, perhaps you've fought and slain dragons before this, and those are the memories that came back first when you saw Mannu."

Marth's theory gave a lot for Roy's mind to chew on. If Marth's idea was the case, it would make a lot of sense, and Roy was still alive right now. So, even if it had been something terrifying- like a massive, angry dragon- he had clearly been able to make it through the encounter.

"You think that's what it was?" Roy asked, unable to hold the fragile twist of optimism at bay.

Marth nodded, masking well the fact that he was skeptical of his own suggestion. "It seems reasonable… and right now, it doesn't make sense because you've got no context behind it."

Roy was quiet for a moment before calming. "That… sounds plausible.”

A weight was lifted as Roy took another deep breath and exhaled. "Thank you, Marth."

Marth shook his head. "There's no need to thank me."

Roy glanced to Marth again before looking behind him at the island shores in the distance. "I'm sorry I froze up back there. Because of that, you ended up getting hurt, and the others were put in danger trying to keep me shielded…"

"Don't worry about it," Marth quickly dismissed, "It's what we're here for. Besides, you killed Mannu— I doubt anyone will be upset with you after that."

"I couldn't have done it had you not already worn him down," Roy muttered. "But... I guess you're right."

Roy's modesty was beyond charming. Marth gave him a gentle, reassuring pat on the upper arm. "Come on, let's go back to the others. We're going to camp here for the night and then leave early in the morning."

Roy nodded and had no qualms with that plan—his body could use a rest, as could everyone else's, he was sure. They both returned to their comrades, with Roy still a little unsteady on his feet, and helped erect their camp.

As the sun set, its light reflected off the pile of crystal shards that were left over from Mannu's demise. Roy sat by the entrance of the shrine's courtyard, looking out at it, thinking back on what had happened just hours before.

Quietly, Bantu came to him. "Roy," he said, drawing Roy's attention away from the crystals to him. "Are you well?"

"Oh, Bantu," Roy nodded. "Yes, I'm fine. what is it?"

Bantu shifted as he put his hand in the front of his robe, searching for something. "I've got something that I think you should have," he said and pulled out what he had been searching for.

A round stone, freckled with red, brown and gold, glinted in his wrinkled hand.

Roy, instantly recognizing what it was, shot Bantu a confused expression. "A firestone?" he asked. "Where did you…"

"Yes, a firestone—retrieved from Mannu's crystallized remains," Bantu said. "You took good care of mine when you had it. I would like you to do the same with this. These are not easy to come by and are quite powerful, so it would be better in our hands than left here."

This confused Roy further. "But wouldn't that help you more, since you're a dragon?"

A small smile crossed Bantu's lips. "Perhaps, but I already have a firestone of my own, and you have earned my trust. So, this one is for you, boy—keep it safe."

Chapter Text

Dawn had come, and as the sun rose over the waters, the ever-weary soldiers rose from their beds. Roy had already been up for a short time now, as sleep had escaped him for much of the night—in truth, he had been almost afraid to sleep, for fear that the dragons may have visited him in his dreams.

He groggily stared out into what little of the morning sun he could see, his eyelids heavy and his body exhausted. As he looked out, he could have sworn a dot had begun to grow in the sky in front of the sun, but he shrugged it off as his imagination taking advantage of his tiredness.

It wasn't until a few minutes later, however, that he realized the dot was not just his imagination—it had grown considerably, and it looked like it had wings. Roy's eyes narrowed as he tried to focus.

What looked to be a Pegasus knight was approaching their encampment. Roy blinked slowly a few times and pinched the bridge of his nose before looking out to reassure himself of what he saw—and, once again, he saw a Pegasus knight.

"What would a lone Pegasus knight be doing coming here," he mumbled to himself. He pushed himself off the ground with his hand and dusted himself off, deciding it would be best to inform Marth of their incoming visitor.

Marth had barely woken up when Roy came to him, and, upon hearing what he had seen, nearly dropped what he had been holding of the tent's supports that he had been groggily gathering. Cain offered to finish tearing down the tent for Marth—an offer the prince gratefully accepted—and Marth followed Roy out to where he had seen the Pegasus knight.

By that time, the visitor was already at the island shore not far from them, and Marth seemed to recognize them.

"Is that… one of the Whitewings?" he questioned out loud, which made Roy look over to him. Marth glanced to Roy before heading out to meet her a little further out, and Roy hesitantly followed.

"Prince Marth," the blue-haired girl said as she landed her Pegasus in the grass. "Finally, I've caught up with you. I am Catria, one of the Whitewings of Medon."

"Yes, I remember you from before," Marth said. "What are you doing here?"

Catria looked down before looking back up at Marth. "I have come with a request from Princess Minerva."

Considering that the approach of an enemy soldier normally spelled for an incoming invasion, hearing that the Medonian Princess had a request caught both Marth and Roy by surprise. Understanding this, Catria continued, "I realise this is highly irregular, but please, hear me out. Princess Minerva is planning to lead us against Doluna in rebellion; however, we are unable to do anything so long as Doluna holds Princess Maria, my mistress' younger sister, captive in Castle Deil."

Roy's eyes narrowed and he crossed his arms in front of his chest. "So is that why she attacked us alongside Harmein?"

"Unfortunately, yes. She has been under Doluna's thumb for far too long now, and her conscious is unable to handle much more," Catria explained. "We need to rescue Princess Maria, but we are unable to do it alone. Will you help us? The Whitewings will assist you in your plight if you are able to free her."

Roy looked to Marth, who had a stern expression as he contemplated Catria's question. Catria, though she did not want to show it outwardly, was desperately hopeful.

"Alright, we will help," Marth declared.

The Pegasus knight visibly relaxed as she bowed her head. "Thank you, prince Marth. With this news, I can leave knowing that soon my mistress and we Whitewings will no longer be under Doluna's control."

"Are you not staying here to help us?" Roy asked.

"I wish I could," Catria said, her expression troubled. "But my sisters and I were split up, for the enemy feared that we would work to conspire against them if we were all together. If I were seen on the battlefield alongside you now, I worry that my sisters would suffer for my actions."

Doluna was certainly not one to cross, that much Marth knew. If the sisters had already been split, it was no doubt that they were already walking on very thin ice, and Marth could sympathise with Catria's precarious position. "That's fine, I understand. You have already put yourself at risk by even coming to us."

Catria lowered her head, staring thoughtfully at the flowing mane of her Pegasus. "You're right, I have. Nevertheless, I am thankful I found you. I must go now, however, or the others will notice my absence..."

With a pull on the reins, her Pegasus flapped its wings as it lifted from the ground, and she called down to Marth. "Thank you again, Prince Marth, and I am certain we'll see each other again soon—but next time, on the same side of the battlefield."

With that, Catria departed. Marth and Roy watched her leave before Marth turned.

"I will go inform the others," Marth said before looking to Roy again, "Though Roy, you look like you haven't slept a wink. Rest for a while; we've still got some time before we depart for the castle."

Roy shifted. "It was that obvious, was it?"

Marth smiled slightly. "The bags under your eyes say it all."

Roy had been thankful for what little rest he got before they left for Castle Deil—the travel was a long one, at least two days in length. They had already left Pyrathi and had started their trek across the peninsula.

Every single bone in Roy's body ached dully, though he would not complain out loud, nor would he let it show through his body language. Once in a while, he would find himself looking ahead to Marth, who was a short distance in front of him.

Even though Marth was young, he was a capable leader. A capable, thoughtful, and compassionate leader—and though he was still learning the art of war, his power on the battlefield was impressive.

Roy couldn't help but wonder if he would be like that himself one day. Or had he already been? For some reason, there was this lingering, nagging feeling in the back of his mind, that maybe he had been important at some point too.

The Akaneian League travelled as far as they could that day—as the sun finally began to set, Marth halted the company and had them set up camp for the night in a field nestled between two forests. By the time the camp was built, the sun had already hidden itself behind the horizon and stars dotted the skies.

Marth had gone to Malledus and Jagen to speak with them in private and had been absent for quite a while. Roy was seated at a campfire along with a few others—namely Barst, Darros, Merric, Matthis, Lena, and Julian.

"I don't know what to think of this," Matthis said. "It all just feels like some sort of trap, and we're walking right into it."

"Heh, I get ye," Darros said as he continued to clean his axe. "This ain't the kind o' leadership I thought I'd see from a prince. It's pretty dangerous."

Merric frowned. "I'm sure Prince Marth has his reasons. He wouldn't just jump head-first into something without thinking it out first."

"Even so, that doesn't change the fact that this whole thing reeks of a setup," Matthis said.

"When I used to work for the Soothsires, they'd pull this kind of stuff all the time," Julian added. "If it's a trap, I wouldn't be surprised."

Merric was clearly uncomfortable with how little faith the others seemed to have in Marth's decision. Lena looked around at everyone before stopping at Roy, who had been silently staring into the fire for the whole debate, not really listening.

"Roy," Lena said, drawing his attention away from the fire. "What do you think? Do you think that this is just a trap?"

Roy blinked slowly and stared at Lena for a moment before looking back to the fire. "What do I think…?"

Marth, who had just finished meeting with Jagen and Malledus, had overheard Lena's question. Though he was about to walk to the campfire himself, he decided to pause behind a nearby tent to listen.

After thinking for a moment, Roy returned his gaze to the others. "I think that Prince Marth is smart, and I don't think Minerva is one to lie."

Roy looked to the fire once more, his gaze drifting as he watched an ember flit away into the air. "Prince Marth has given a lot of us something that we wouldn't have if not for him—food, clothes, weapons and armor, and even though they're constantly changing, a group of friends and a home. Though I've only known him for a few months, I trust his leadership, and I trust him with my very life. I will fight alongside him, and my comrades, until my last breath escapes me. So… whether this is a trap or not, I have faith that he will make the right decisions in that defining moment, and we will emerge victorious."

The others at the campfire hushed, the only noise being the crackling of burning wood—Roy's words had left them with no rebuttal.

Marth was taken by surprise and could not help but stare in silence at the back of the mercenary that had just stood up for him. Even though they had known each other for a relatively short period of time, it was apparent that Roy held Marth in very high regard. The prince's gaze slowly lowered to the grass by the tent's edge.

Slowly, a small, genuine smile graced his expression.

Deciding against intruding, Marth turned and left towards his own tent to retire for the night.

It had taken the Akaneian League two nights and two and a half days to finally reach their destination. On the horizon loomed Castle Deil, which, under other circumstances would have been more of a relief—but because of its occupation by Doluna, all it spelled out was more warfare.

The quiet crackling of lit sconces emphasised the quiet of the throne room as Zharov, the occupying commander, mulled over the cryptic words of a purple-robed individual that had requested to meet with him.

"So, you're telling me to keep an eye on this kid if we ever have to deal with him?" Zharov said gruffly, sitting on his throne. "Why should I believe you, someone I have never met before?"

"I assure you it will be in your best interest," spoke the robed mage as he thumbed at a tome in his hand, "Perhaps you will realise why when you do finally meet."

A knock on the door to the throne room drew Zharov's attention away. "Come in."

Princess Minerva entered the throne room, her scarlet armour clinking heavily with her steps. "General."

Zharov's eyes narrowed. "Princess Minerva, why are you here? It is unwise to leave your designated post, seeing as though your sister's wellbeing depends on your ability to obey orders."

Minerva's lips pursed. "General Zharov, I did not come to start a problem, and I am aware of my sister's current state. I only came to request to see her. She's only a child; to be alone in a prison for so long is not fair to her."

"That's not happening," Zharov said, cutting her off. "She is a prisoner- a hostage. Start following orders if you're so concerned."

Minerva cringed slightly, and the door behind her suddenly burst open.

"General! We've got a problem!" shouted a soldier as he entered.

Zharov let out a noise somewhere between a groan and a growl. "One interruption after another. What do you want?!"

The soldier stopped next to Minerva and offered Zharov a quick salute. "I'm sorry general, but it's an emergency! The rebel army, they've been sighted! They're coming in from the east, and quickly!"

Both Minerva and Zharov were surprised.

"The rebels…?" Minerva whispered to herself, "That means Catria must have been able to reach the prince..."

"Damn it, why the hell would they come here, anyway?!" shouted Zharov as he stood. "No matter! Ready the troops and the Dragoons, we'll wipe out those blasted rebels here before they get the chance to go any farther!"

"Yes sir!" the soldier responded with another salute before running back out of the throne room.

"Minerva, I better see you on the battlefield," Zharov growled at her. "If not, your sister will be the one to pay alongside those Akaneian League fools."

Minerva tensed before nodding. Without hesitation, she quickly left the room so she could prepare herself for the upcoming fight. She was going to have to at least play the part of a willing subordinate if she was going to be able to save her sister.

"And you," Zharov said as he looked to the cloaked mage. "You go on ahead and warn Khozen and Volzhin of the approaching rebel army. I'm sure they'll be more than willing to pass on the word of your loyalties to Medeus. I would do it myself, but now my hands are full."

The man smiled under his hood. "You have my thanks, general," he said, his voice eerily smooth. In a wisp of dark wind, the mage was gone.

Zharov clicked his tongue and turned his back to the door of the throne room. "Those damned children. All of them, from the prince to Minerva- all of them are fools. And every single one of them will pay."

Chapter Text

Just as Zharov had commanded, the Akaneian League was met with the entirety of Doluna's forces that had been stationed at Castle Deil. Marth's soldiers were, without a doubt, heavily outnumbered, and even though Marth remained outwardly silent on the clear disadvantage his side was faced with, he had begun to feel nervous. The castle's prison walls were just ahead and a solid line of Doluna soldiers, from cavaliers to archers, had formed in front of it, facing the approaching rebel army.

Roy could sense Marth's nerves—in fact, they were almost beginning to overwhelm him the closer they got to the battlefield, as if Marth's own emotions were reaching out and pulling Roy's soul in. Because of this, he decided to catch up to the younger prince and tap his shoulder from behind. "Hey, Marth."

"Oh, yes Roy? What is it?" Marth asked as he looked over his shoulder.

"Try not to be so nervous," Roy quietly reassured him, "We'll be fine. We'll take them out, rescue princess Maria and free Minerva, and then we'll continue on, just like we always have."

Something about Roy's tone was rather calming to Marth, and his shoulders relaxed slightly. "You're right. This is no time to let my nerves take over me. Thank you for reminding me."

Roy smiled warmly and nodded at him.

Once they got close enough to Castle Deil's walls, Zharov's army charged, initiating the battle. Almost instantly there were soldiers yelling, weapons clanging, and bloodshed—though unlike past battles with other enemies, this one was being fought against soldiers and knights with much more finesse and knowledge of their weapons. On top of that, many of them were much better armed than previous enemies—Marth had noticed the glinting of a sea of silver weapons not owned by his own men out of the corners of his eyes as he fought.

Roy and Jagen had ended up fighting alongside each other once again—something that the older of the two of them never thought would become such a common and welcome occurrence.

"Roy, we need to clear a path inside," Jagen grunted as he slew an armored knight. "Princess Maria is in there, and we'll need to get Marth to her as quickly as possible before anything can happen to her!"

Roy was locked in a duel with another sword-wielding knight and clashed blades with him. "I'm on it," Roy growled as he pushed the armored knight back. With a swift slash of his blade from left to right, he cut his enemy down. "Let's get going then!"

Jagen nodded. "Get on my horse. It will be easier to cut them down from here, and once we get to the entrance, you can dismount!"

Roy nodded slightly and, without a word, ran to Jagen's horse. He hoisted himself up behind Jagen and extended his sword to the right. With a hearty shout, Jagen snapped at the reins, and his horse bolted.

With his silver lance, Jagen ran his enemies through on the left while Roy sliced them down on the right. Most enemies were taken off-guard by the two of them charging in on the same steed, making them easy targets. Just like long before, Roy could feel a heat building up in his chest as he cut his enemies down one-by-one, their blood staining the fields. He let out a sharp breath through his nose.

Once they reached the entrance to Castle Deil's prison, Roy swiftly dismounted Jagen's horse.

"I will bring Prince Marth here next," Jagen said. "Will you be fine, holding enemies off on your own until he's arrived?"

Roy nodded curtly, his grip tightening on the hilt of his blade.

Jagen smiled a bit. "To think I would trust you enough now to let you go into this prison together with the prince," he said before turning his horse back around. "Life works in the strangest ways."

Roy watched for a moment as Jagen shouted, riding back out into the fields to retrieve Marth. He shifted his sword in his hands before turning to enter the building, deciding to go ahead and clear out at least some of the hall on his own. Upon entering, however, he noticed that it was eerily still, unlike the chaos going on just outside the prison doors.

His eyes narrowed and he glanced around. Something was definitely wrong.

The sound of a bowstring snapping caused him to jolt, but by the time he saw the arrow, it was too late—the slender projectile had embedded itself in him, directly underneath his right shoulder. Roy let out a loud groan of pain and fell to a knee, grasping at the intruding object with his left hand. A group of soldiers ran out from the darkness around the corner up ahead and charged at him, their weapons drawn.

Roy glanced ahead of him and grunted as he yanked the arrow out of his body and tossed it to the side. Shakily he rose to his feet and, with a surge of power, he ran at the enemy horde alone. Any hesitations that he had about fighting earlier were quickly washed away by a primal urge. His mind was in a haze of pain and anger as he locked blades with one of his enemies.

"Wh—you… monster!" the man half-shrieked before his sword was swept out of his hands. Roy ran him through with his sword, swiftly killing him. The man's words had not reached Roy's ears, but they did reach the ears of the other soldiers.

"Monster…?!" one repeated and gripped his spear.

Roy glanced at him and frowned slightly—he could feel his skin crawl, and he could feel the fire in his chest burning hotter. The arrow wound in his shoulder was but a dull tingling now.

Jagen had gotten back to Marth and rode him through the battlefield to the entrance of the prison like he had done with Roy just a short while ago. Marth leapt off Jagen's horse and gripped the hilt of his blade.

"Be careful, sire," Jagen warned. "I'm certain the interior of the prison is well-guarded."

Marth nodded. "Without a doubt, yes. I will be careful."

Jagen bid Marth good luck before he rode back out into the field to fight once more. Marth pursed his lips and held his breath for a moment as he looked up at the prison walls.

"Well, here goes nothing," he said to himself before running in.

The smell is what got to him first. The whole hall smelled like dirt, must, and blood. Marth couldn't help but cringe at the odor before he covered his nose with his left hand.

"Gods…" he muttered. There were enemy soldiers' corpses littering the floor, each of them killed by what looked like the stab of a blade to the chest or stomach.

A sudden bestial yet familiar roar from down the hallway snapped Marth's attention away from the carnage.

Marth ran down the entrance hall and to the connected hall on the right. His eyes widened in shock as he saw Roy cut cleanly through a guard's chest, right through his armor.

"Roy!" Marth shouted as the guard's body dropped to the floor.

The mercenary's back tensed up and he froze for a moment when Marth called out to him. Marth ran over to him and put his hand on Roy's shoulder from behind. "Hey!"

Roy shuddered and looked back to Marth quickly. For a moment, Marth swore he saw something red beneath Roy's eyes before it faded.

"Ma…Marth?" Roy stuttered, as if he had just been woken from a deep sleep.

"Gods, Roy, how did you--" Marth's breath caught as he turned Roy enough to see the dark stain of blood soaking through his tunic. "You're wounded!"

As soon as Marth brought attention to the arrow wound, Roy could feel it throb.

With a small grunt, Roy winced and put his hand over the still-bleeding spot. "I didn't even notice…"

Marth glanced from Roy's hand to his face. Roy's eyes were tightly clenched, his lips were pursed, and his skin was slightly paler than before. Worried, Marth opened his mouth to order Roy to fall back-- however, the sound of a girl crying out for help quickly tore Marth's attention away from his comrade. Roy looked forward as well, his eyes still squinted.

"Do you think that's…" Roy started as Marth shook his head.

"There's no time to think about it right now, we need to go find out!" Marth looked to him. "Will you be alright to run?"

Roy nodded. "If one arrow wound could take me down, I wouldn't have made it this far," he mumbled. Marth couldn't help but smirk faintly before they ran down the hall to find the source of the scream.

A group of roughed up enemy soldiers were crowding in front of a cell that, from what the two of them could see, contained a young red-headed girl.

"Go away!" she shouted.

"No way hun," one of them growled. "You're coming with us! To let you fall into that bastard prince's hands…"

"'Bastard prince?'" questioned Marth out loud, drawing the group's attention to him and Roy.

"G-Gah! Damnit," one grunted as they all drew their weapons. "They're here already?! Blast, charge!"

The mob of angered soldiers ran at Marth and Roy, and the two of them raised their weapons to fight back. The fight was a mess of stumbling and sloppy attacks from the enemy side, probably due to their own hastiness. Roy stepped back a few steps as he blocked an enemy's downward strike with his own sword. His arrow wound throbbed, and he grit his teeth as he pushed the other man back before bringing him to a swift end.

Once the hall was cleared, Marth let out a sigh before glancing to the cell not but a few feet away. He went to the cell door and looked inside. "Ah! Are you…"

The young girl, who was standing back in the far corner, looked out to him. "Go away…! I don't… wait, are you…?"

"I am Prince Marth of Altea," Marth said. "You must be the princess."

"Prince Marth!" the girl exclaimed and wiped her eyes before dashing up to the cell door. "Yes, I am! Oh, have you come to rescue me?"

He simply nodded. "Yes. We just need to find a cell key first and I will…"

"Marth," Roy said as he approached, the key to the cell door in hand. "This was on one of the soldier's belts."

"Ah? Is that the key?" Marth questioned. "If so, that makes this a lot easier."

Roy nodded and Marth stepped out of the way to let him get to the door. Roy inserted the key and turned it—a small, metallic click signaling the lock's opening.

"There we go," he said as he opened the door. Maria instantly rushed out to them.

"Thank you so much!" she exclaimed, looking to Marth. Her cheeks tinged pink as she held her hands together. "My sister will be so glad to hear you rescued me!"

Marth smiled. "I'm glad we got to you in time," he said. "Now let's get going, lest we want to get caught again."

Roy nodded in agreement. "You're right," he said before turning his gaze to Maria. "Is there any exit near here?"

"I think so," she said. "Down the hall here, to the left. I'm coming with you."

After a short pause, Marth nodded his head. "Alright, then let's head out," Marth said before going on ahead.

Roy allowed Maria to go before him, so he could protect her from any potential enemies from behind. The way that she had been treated had made him deeply disturbed. To think their enemies would stoop so low as to take such a young girl as a hostage. It was a miracle he and Marth had gotten to her when they did.

It didn't take long for them to reach the exit and go outside, where they were met with the unsightly view of a ravaged battlefield once more. Thankfully however, since they left through the back door of the prison, there weren't many others out there at the time—most of the fighting was still taking place near the front of the structure.

"Princess Maria, please stay close to us," Marth said and looked back to her. "This is going to be dangerous, and we want to get you to your sister as safely as possible."

Maria nodded in understanding and Marth looked to Roy before heading out into the battlefield, his sword at the ready. Roy glanced around him, surveying the surrounding area as they made their way through the field.

Naturally during their trek they were met with some opposition, but not as much as they were expecting—even though the battle was still mostly being held near the front of the prison, the emptiness of the field between the prison and castle seemed strange.

"Marth!" Roy called out as a shadow quickly passed them from above. A slender spear embedded itself in the ground near them and Maria let out a frightened squeal. The two men quickly filed in front of Maria, both readying their weapons and prepared to fight. A familiar red-haired woman, perched atop a large, scaled wyvern, descended to the ground in front of them.

"Halt!" she yelled. "I, Princess Minerva of Medon, shall strike you down where you stand! Doluna will not fall to the forces of a rebel prince!"

"M-Minerva?!" Maria shouted from behind Marth and Roy. "Minerva! Sister! Wait!"

Maria quickly pushed between her two protectors and ran forward. Minerva seemed shocked and instantly moved to lower her axe. "Maria!"

Roy furrowed his brow before slowly lowering his sword. Marth did the same.

Minerva had leapt off her wyvern and ran to Maria, pulling her into a hug. "Maria! You're safe!"

Maria cried and buried her face into her sister's chest, trying to stifle her tears. "Th-they saved me…! I didn't think I would ever see you again!"

Marth couldn't help but smile slightly at the exchange and glanced in Roy's direction. He stalled, noticing something unreadable about Roy's expression- like he was looking right through the two sisters.

Marth started to speak up, "Roy-"

"Prince Marth," Minerva said suddenly, drawing Marth's attention to her. "Thank you for saving my sister. I… honestly did not think you would do it… or, not that you would not, but that you could not. I see now that I was wrong. Please forgive me for attacking you, for this time and the time before."

Marth shook his head. "No, there is no need for an apology. I am just glad we were able to return your sister to you and keep her safe from harm."

Minerva agreed, "I am in your debt. And now that she is back, I no longer have any reason to be tied to Doluna. I am finally free to fight back… hopefully, alongside your army."

There was a moment of surprise, and Marth blinked. "Ah? Would you truly wish to join us?"

"Yes," she said firmly. "If you would be willing, I will gladly fight alongside you and put an end to this once and for all."

After a short pause, Marth nodded his head. "We would be honored to have you fight at our side, Princess Minerva."

Minerva bowed slightly. "Thank you, Prince Marth," she said and straightened.

"Of course," he responded. "Would you be willing to lead us to the castle ahead?"

"With pleasure," she said with a hint of anger in her tone. "If I may have my chance at revenge against this wicked empire, and against him."

Marth paused. "… Of course."

"Just don't let your anger get the better of you," Roy suddenly interjected, seemingly pulled out of his earlier contemplation. The concern was clear in both his face and tone.

Minerva looked in his direction, her gaze sharp. "I wouldn't dream of ruining this opportunity. I will approach it as I approach any war, with a clear mind."

"Good," Roy said and nodded. "Then let's get going."

The scent of blood permeated the air as Roy, Marth, and Minerva cleared their way towards the room Minerva told them was the throne. General Zharov was still inside the chamber, surely waiting for them to come to him first.

As they battled their way through the halls, Marth couldn't help but notice differences about the way Roy was fighting. He seemed less refined and calculated—his movements were impulsive and swift, almost like there was some driving force behind his blade hand other than his own. It was subtle enough that others may not have seen it, but with how much time Marth had spent with Roy on the battlefield and sparring, Marth could see the changes clear as day.

He could have been just overthinking things, Marth thought to himself as he drew his attention away from Roy to block an enemy's blade. But even though he tried to push those musings aside, deep down he couldn't shake the feeling that something was off.

Eventually they made it to their destination. In front of them stood the massive, impressive throne room doors. Minerva said nothing and simply glanced back to Marth and her sister before pressing her palms to the doors and throwing them open. There was a rumble and groan as the doors parted and swung open. The three of them ran inside, and Maria tagged along behind them, keeping close to her sister.

At the very end of the room sat Zharov, the centre of all Minerva's current disaffections, on the throne.

"So you've finally made it," Zharov spoke slowly, his tone deep with pure abhorrence.

Zharov's voice immediately sent a shock of discomfort through Roy, his mind screeching to a temporary halt. He quickly bowed his head to grip his temples, his teeth gritting from the pain as a hazy flood of memories came back to him, emphasised by the clanging of swords with every word:

"Jealousy."
"Hate."
"Greed."
"As long as humans exist… this madness will never end!"

Roy gagged and gasped for breath, his throat burning. He weakly gripped at Marth's arm to keep himself steady, and Marth quickly put one hand on Roy's back and another on his chest to help keep him steady. The wound from earlier was throbbing again, acting as an agitating physical manifestation of his current mental turmoil.

Zharov's eyes narrowed. "I see… so you're the one he told me about. No matter. My fight is with you, Minerva."

Minerva looked from her comrades to Zharov. "That it is," she said, pulling out Hauteclere as Zharov rose from his seat at the throne.

Reinforcements burst forth from the doors behind them and Marth quickly looked back. With a click of his tongue, he clutched at Roy's back as he tried to think of a strategy.

Roy winced and pulled down on Marth's arm just enough to grab his attention. "Marth… let go. We can handle this," he mumbled before he pushed out of Marth's grip carefully. "Minerva can take out Zharov… We'll take care of the reinforcements."

Marth looked to Roy quickly. "Roy, you cannot push yourself—"

"Marth," Roy insisted, "If I don't fight, I'll just be dead weight here. There's no other choice."

Marth tensed and the sound of an explosion from Minerva's direction made him glance that way. Minerva had already begun attacking Zharov, and the two of them were locked in a heated duel.

"Alright," Marth said. "Then let us keep them from disrupting Minerva! Maria, stay behind us!"

The two swordsmen kept themselves busy with the reinforcements as Minerva battled Zharov, her former general. Though Zharov was incredibly powerful, Minerva's sheer force of will was beginning to prove to be too much for him to handle. The blade of Hauteclere clashed against Zharov's steel lance, making sparks fly. Her teeth grit as she put all her power behind her axe, and Zharov's knees began to buckle. A cough tore from his throat before he swung his lance enough to force her back.

He could barely regain his footing before Minerva was back in front of him, swinging her axe in from the side. He pulled his lance over to block the blow, and their weapons collided once more—this time, however, the Hauteclere sliced right through the damaged lance, and gouged through his ribs.

Zharov was clearly taken by surprise and his eyes bulged before he began to cough up blood. "Y-you-!"

"Quiet!" Minerva yelled, raising her axe. "You will have no final words!"

And with one swift, final strike through his neck, the shackles that bound Minerva and her sister were finally severed.

After the defeat of Zharov, the last of the forces at Castle Deil surrendered or fought until defeat. Many of Marth's soldiers were tired or wounded from the hard-fought battle, and Marth ordered a night of rest for everyone.

"We will march forth to the Millennium Court after this," Marth had said. "So, make sure to heal and rest before then. I am counting on all of you."

Roy had been injured during the fight against the reinforcements within the castle—another arrow, curse them—and was being tended to by Lena. She tried to make some conversation with him, but he was too preoccupied with his own thoughts to say much in response to her. She didn't seem to take much mind of his short answers- or if she did, she didn't say anything about it- and when she finished healing him, he thanked her before she went on her way.

He glanced around him before slowly and, he hoped sneakily, walking away from the others. Once again his mind began to be wrapped in a haze and he stumbled behind a large rock in the field not too far from the rest of the group, but in such a way that the rock would hide him from his comrades' eyes. He dropped to his knees almost instantly and doubled over, gripping his hair with one hand and grasping at his chest with the other. His breath caught in his throat as nausea began to wrack his body.

Roy gagged and coughed, moving the hand that was in his hair over his mouth.

"Do you fancy yourself a hero?"

Roy's gut wrenched and his fingers trembled from numbness. His memories twisted into something of a nightmare as the man's voice grew darker and deeper, and much less human.

"I can sense the envy inside you, present even in the very marrow of your bones. What are you after here? This world is not your own, and yet you fight. Why? Don't you just want to go home? You know you don't belong here. You've known all along. You've just been too scared to admit it. You believe yourself to be some kind of hero, wanting to save the world, and yet your actions only showcase your incompetence."

A small groan of pain escaped his lips as he curled up, wrapping his arms around his stomach and curling his fingers into the fabric of his shirt at his sides. His eyes were clenched tightly, and his face was pale. A cold sweat was beginning to form over his skin, and his arms quivered.

"You are nothing but a murderer. Both you and your father, and all of the rest of your ancestors. Nothing will ever change that."

Marth had been looking for Roy in the group before noticing his absence. Concerned, Marth asked around to the others to see if any of them had seen where Roy had gone. Julian pointed Marth in the direction he had last seen Roy going, which was towards that rock he had hidden himself behind. Marth thanked him before heading over.

As he got closer to the rock, he heard low groans of discomfort. Suddenly struck with worry, he hurried around to the other side to see Roy still there, curled up tightly in a trembling ball, his forehead almost touching the ground. The sight before him was similar to the last time at Pyrathi, yet somehow decidedly worse.

"Roy!" Marth exclaimed before coming to his side. He knelt beside him and put a hand on his back. "Hey...!"

"N-no… no, you're wrong," Roy muttered into the grass, not hearing the words of his comrade at first.

"Roy!" Marth called out again before shaking him slightly.

Almost instantly the voice in Roy's mind was cut short, and the horrible feelings that were gripping his body vanished. He inhaled sharply before quickly moving to sit up.

Marth noticed how pale his face was. "Roy... Roy, are you okay? Can you hear me?"

"Y…yeah," Roy mumbled quietly. His eyes looked almost blank as he stared forward. "It was just another memory… that's all…"

"A memory….?" Marth repeated. "What of? What terrible memory would have you so sick?"

The expression on Roy's face made it clear he wasn't sure of how to answer. "It was just a voice, and the shadow of a man…" his voice trailed off.

"Did he say anything specific…?" Marth coaxed, attempting to help him along.

"… The voice just got all jumbled and overwhelming, like a raging fire in my mind," Roy lied. "It made me feel sick, and I couldn't move. Then you snapped me out of it."

There was a silence that fell between them for a few moments as Marth processed what Roy told him. Something didn't seem quite right with Roy's story, but Marth couldn't bring himself to push Roy any farther. "Alright. Roy. If this happens again, especially on the battlefield, please fall back. I don't want you getting hurt because of something like this, like what happened today and the… arrows," He made sure to put emphasis on the fact Roy had been wounded twice.

"Right," Roy mumbled and nodded. "I'm sorry for worrying you. I'll try to be less of a burden from now on."

Marth shook his head. "No, you misunderstand. You are far from a burden. It's just that… to see someone with your skill be harmed due to this..." he stopped, as if trying to find the right words, before he shook his head. "No- beyond just that, you are much too important a friend to me. I do not want you being put in unnecessary danger, especially if you begin to feel ill." He felt like could have said much more, but decided it would be best for them both to keep it short.

Roy was momentarily stupefied. "Marth… Thank you. I'll do the best that I can."

Marth nodded. "That is all I could ever ask of anyone here, including you. We will work together. Thank you, too, Roy."

Roy nodded almost dumbly at the statement. Marth smiled gently and got up before holding his hand out to his friend.

"Can you stand?" Marth asked.

Roy hesitated before nodding again and taking Marth's hand. With the prince's help, he got back to his feet, albeit a tad shakily.

"We have quite the battle ahead of us at the Millennium Court," Marth said to him. "Please, make sure to rest well before then."

"I will," Roy said with a nod. "You, too."

Marth couldn't help but smile a little once more. "Of course."

From afar, a cloaked figure watched as Marth and Roy returned to the others, and his eyes closed. The tips of his fingers traced along coal-black parchment as he flipped through the pages of his tome.

"How unfortunate," he muttered to himself, "I hate to be interrupted."

The dark tome in his hand closed with a light pat. "Though I suppose it is of no matter. I wonder how long the manakete brat will hold up before he finally snaps. Something tells me that the prince won't be ready for it when it happens."

His fingertips strummed thoughtfully on the tome as he mused. "Though I loathe to do it, I suppose I could do something to help speed that along. It would be exceedingly difficult to recreate this magic now that I'm here, but it's the least I could do to repay him for the headache he and his father Eliwood have caused me."

His head tilted back, and he looked up towards the unfamiliar sky above. Much like in Elibe, this world was embroiled in a war between mankind and dragonkind as well. He let out an unamused scoff.

This mage was far too bitter to let the opportunity pass him by. The hatred in his heart was all-consuming, and if he had the chance to cause Roy more suffering- and potentially take the annoying redhead out of the equation entirely- then the price of this tome was a price he was more than willing to pay. Especially if that meant the Binding Blade would similarly be forever lost here, in this other realm, never to return to Elibe.

Chapter Text

When Marth had said that there would be quite the battle ahead of them at the Millennium Court, he had been right. Actually, the Altean army had yet to even make it to the Millennium Court before they were met with another battle in Knorda Market. Grust's soldiers were a force to be reckoned with, especially this time—ballisticians were keeping all in Marth's forces on their toes, for fear of being shot at from afar.

Marth had ordered that their first priority was to make sure the townspeople were safe, so he split his forces—one to head northeast and press onward, and another smaller force to go southeast to check on the homes of the people of the market town. There had been a few swordsmen walking the streets that, as soon as they saw anyone from the Altean army, charged to attack. Thankfully, none of them had been too horribly strong—a few swift hits would take each one out of commission.

Roy was by himself and had made his way through the streets to check on people's homes, making sure that no one was hurt or in danger. Most of the townsfolk were too nervous to speak to him aside from answering whether they were safe or not when Roy asked, but one elderly woman did have a few words of her own opinion to share with him when he came to her door.

"I am sick and tired of this war," she grumbled, moving her arms to the sides exasperatedly. "If it ain't the screams of battle you're hearin', it's the bawlin' of the widows who lost their men. All of you should just go home to your loved ones if you ask me, and get outta here while you can."

Roy had simply agreed that war was tough, but it's what they had to do and that he would not be turning back. The old woman shook her head and wished him luck before closing the door. It took Roy a few moments to gather himself again after the conversation had ended.

How could he go back to his 'loved ones'? He had no home or 'loved ones' to return to—and even if he did, he could not remember them, no matter how hard he tried.

"As long as humans exist… this madness will never end!"

The man's voice in his head from just a couple days before rung in his ears again. As much as he hated it, the voice had a point. Humans lie to each other, fight each other, and kill each other. If they did not exist, those problems would no longer plague the world like they do now.

But even with that said, that did not mean humans should all just be gone. There are good people that, to Roy, outshined the bad—like Nyna, the princess of Akaneia who has been trying to free her homeland, or Marth, the prince of Altea… his friend. By this point in their journey, the young prince had shown himself to be an invaluable comrade that Roy could barely imagine living without. So even though war was horrible, and humans were the ones fighting each other here, simply turning his back to the wrongness of the world and hiding wasn't an option. Neither was damning all of humanity, like the voice in his head did.

A small sigh escaped his lips as he shook his head and turned away from the old woman's house. There were still a few more houses to check up on before he could return to the battlefield up north. With another short breath, Roy jogged down the street towards his next destination.

Marth was on his way towards the centre of the market town. He had only met with a couple of enemies on his way there, but he kept his guard up regardless. As he got closer, he felt a tenseness beginning to weigh on his shoulders, like something had been stalking him from behind. His grip on his sword's hilt tightened as he whipped around, ready to attack anything or anyone that may have been behind him.

Not but a few paces away, a cloaked figure stood, tome in hand. The figure's face was shrouded by his cowl.

"My, you are quite sharp," the cloaked man admired.

Marth kept his hand resting on his weapon, clearly wary. "Who are you?" he asked, glancing over the man's clothes.

His robes were dark purple, nearly black, with golden embroidery and markings that Marth had never seen before. The tome in his hand was similarly unrecognizable. "That's not really important, is it?"

"It is when we are in the middle of a war, and you are following me with a tome," Marth shot back, his eyes narrowing. Generally, Marth was polite in his initial interactions, but this man was clearly not of the friendly sort. He blinked once and, to his surprise, the figure that was just in front of him was no longer there.

"Well then, closing your eyes isn't exactly smart practice when faced with someone you consider an enemy," came the man's voice from behind. Marth instantly swung himself back around, cleanly unsheathing and slicing his sword through the cloaked man's side in one movement. However, instead of slicing through skin and bone, the blade simply sliced through a shadowy mist. Alarmed, Marth quickly looked around him.

The man was a few paces away from Marth, on his left, and he let out a thoughtful hum. "This is amusing and all, but I've not come here to fight you today. I just came to see your army's progress."

"Our progress?" Marth repeated skeptically and turned to face him, his sword still at the ready.

"Yes, the fact that you fight so hard is amusing to me," the man responded. "And you hold hands with your so-called 'comrades' and expect them all to cooperate and listen to you. It's odd. Do you really think they will still be standing by your side if the tides turn for the worst?"

Marth could not help but scowl at the man's amusement. "What is the point of this?"

"Ah," the man drawled, and Marth could see the faintest of smiles beneath the shadow cast by his hood. "I just wanted the opportunity to ask you some questions before I lose the opportunity to."

"Enough of this," Marth responded, ready to attack him again. "Whoever you are, you are wrong about my comrades. We will continue to stick together until this war has ended in our victory."

The cloaked figure chuckled. "How painfully naive. I am almost envious of your outlook. Here is my advice to you, then: keep a close eye on the ones you hold dear, or else those fragile bonds may just snap."

With a frustrated grunt, Marth ran at the cloaked man and stabbed at him with his blade. However, even though he had been quick, the man still dodged out of the way, he disappeared into a dark wind. With an exasperated exhale, Marth looked around him once more. The foreboding feeling he felt before had disappeared entirely and the cloaked man was nowhere to be seen. Marth only gave a shake of his head, before he moved to stand up straight.

Deciding against standing there in thought too much longer, the prince continued on his way to the town centre. It was there he saw a band of ruffians causing problems for the townspeople and refusing to back down to the other two soldiers of Marth's, Abel and Roy, that had made it there before him. As soon as Marth approached, however, the ruffians went from obnoxiously uncooperative to scared out of their wits, and their leader called for them all to retreat. Abel muttered under his breath as he watched them run off, clearly frustrated with how inept they were, and Roy simply shook his head and shrugged his shoulders.

The three of them checked up on the Akaneians that had been held hostage by the gang and made sure that no one had been seriously hurt. Once they were all considered well, Marth asked for them all to go home to their families and stay out of harm's way. Every hostage happily obliged, clearly ready to go home, except for one—a young woman by the name of Linde who had disguised herself as a boy.

"My father was Miloah," she explained. "Because of that, Gharnef had sent his soldiers after me… so I went into hiding. But I was taken by those ruffians right after I escaped Gharnef..."

"Well, I am glad we've found you now and that you are safe," Marth responded. "Princess Nyna will be happy to see you again—she's been worried about you. I promise I will keep you away from danger so that you may surely see her again."

However, Linde would have none of that—a fire lit in her eyes as her expression hardened. "No. Let me fight," she said. "I want to avenge my father and destroy Gharnef!"

Marth was clearly unsure of the idea, but he could not tell Linde no. Therefore, he allowed her to join as a mage, so that she could fight with them against Gharnef and Doluna. The farther their army travelled, the more Marth saw of people like this: those that were broken by the enemy and lost all that they held dear and were driven by vengeance. While he understood their emotion and could not tell them to change their mind, it did not help but make him sad to see so many people consumed by hatred.

With the market town now checked and deemed safe, Marth led his small group back up north into the fields to meet up with the rest of the army. They had made quite a bit of headway—Jagen had led them forward and they were already nearing the outer walls of the palace. The ground rumbled as Marth, Abel, Linde and Roy continued their trek to meet with their comrades.

"What was that?" Marth shouted as their group looked about them.

The answer came in the form of a loud, echoing roar.

"A dragon!" Abel exclaimed.

Roy had clammed up slightly at first, but quickly shook himself free of the feeling as he remembered Marth's encouraging words from before.

"If there's a dragon, then…!" Marth began, but was quickly cut off by Cain, who was riding towards them on his horse.

"Prince Marth! We've got to hurry!" he shouted. "There's a fire dragon! There might not even be a palace left to liberate at this point if we don't kill it, and fast!"

There was another roar and heat radiated from around the cliff bend. Cain led Marth and the others around to where the rest of the army was fighting, and the sight was a shock to all of them. A massive fire dragon was rampaging in the field near the castle, setting anything that moved alight with its flame breath.

"Burn! Burn!" the dragon roared. "Burn everything! I, Khozen, will kill all of you!"

Khozen swung his tail around, crashing it into a crowd of Marth's men, sending them all flying and tumbling across the ground, either unconscious or dead.

"No!" Marth shouted, gripping his sword. Never in his life had he seen so many people taken down at once, with no chance at fighting back. The sound of Marth's voice drew Khozen's attention towards his group. There was a glint of mad pleasure in the dragon's eyes as embers flitted away from the corners of its maw.

It was like Pyrathi all over again, but this time it was even worse. Roy felt his stomach tighten as the dragon towered over them, not once breaking eye contact, like a hunter staring down its prey.

"You humans! You of this bastard prince's army, you are all the same! Even those of you that know not what they are fighting for," the dragon Khozen growled, its gaze shifting for a moment to Roy before looking back towards Marth, "All of you shall suffer for your arrogance! Burn! Your blood and flesh, I will set it all ablaze in the name of Medeus!"

With a feral roar, Khozen raised his claw in preparation to slam it down on them.

"Everyone, move!" Marth yelled out, and all five of them quickly ran in different directions to escape the attack.

Khozen's claw slammed down into the spot where they had all just been standing, causing the earth to shake and the ground to buckle and crack beneath the force of the attack. Cain and Abel were the targets of Khozen's flame breath next, and both rode their horses out of the way as quickly as they could, with Abel barely making it out of the way. The fight was completely one-sided—none of them could even remotely get close enough to Khozen to try to attack him, but Khozen was constantly throwing things their way. It was completely overwhelming, and Marth could feel his head spinning from the intense heat of the flames being spat over and over.

"Die, die!" Khozen roared and slammed his tail into the ground, causing it to shake. "You will never surpass us!"

Marth could barely keep his footing from the last quake, and he stumbled a few steps. This gave enough of an opening for Khozen and he let out another roar as he readied his claw to slam into Marth.

Roy glanced up just as Khozen rose his claw in the air, and his eyes widened—the memory of Pyrathi flashed vividly in his eyes, where Marth had been disoriented and struck down by Mannu's claw.

It was going to happen again. But this time, Marth wouldn't make it out of the attack alive.

"Die!" Khozen's voice boomed as he brought his claw down.

"No!" Roy yelled, a fire ablaze in his chest. The firestone burned in his satchel and he lunged forward with a sudden burst of incredible speed, his arms outstretched.

Khozen's claw came crashing down onto the ground and flames erupted from the ground, causing thick black smoke to billow out.

"Prince Marth!" Abel cried out, and he and the others were all sure he had met his fate.

Inside the smoke, Marth clutched to Roy's chest and coughed profusely. Roy had tackled him just before Khozen's claw made contact and they had rolled rather violently across the ground. As the smoke started to clear, Marth began to open his eyes, even though the burning feeling of the smoke forced him keep them squinted. However, what he saw above him made him forget the pain in his eyes and he quickly opened them wide.

Roy was breathing heavily above him, his eyes clenched tightly, and red crystalline scales were dotting his skin under his eyes. His teeth were sharper and his hair seemed a little bit wilder, and his body was almost as hot as fire.

"R… Roy," Marth barely stuttered, at a loss for words.

After a moment that seemed to last forever, Roy slowly opened his eyes. His eyes were a deep red and his pupils were thin slits. Marth's whole body tensed in shock and, initially, fear.

"Are you okay?" Roy grunted, his voice quiet and rough. Even though his eyes were frightening at first sight, there was still a genuine kindness and concern in them that showed Roy was still very much himself, at least at that moment.

"I'm fine," Marth mumbled in response, unable to tear his attention away from Roy. The smoke cleared enough for Khozen to spot them once again, and he let out a loud roar. His tail came to slam down on them.

"Look out!" Marth shouted as he quickly pushed Roy over with himself, and the tail slammed into the ground right next to them, causing a powerful enough blast of wind to send them rolling a few more feet.

Roy grunted as they settled again on the ground, this time with Marth above him, and Marth glanced over to Khozen. "We've got to get up," Marth said quickly before scrambling back to get to his feet and grip the hilt of his rapier. Roy pushed himself off the ground as well, and Khozen seemed to laugh.

"You are such a fool! You don't even know what you're doing!" he roared. "Tell me, stupid manakete: how do you expect to kill me without even utilizing your own strength?!"

Marth grit his teeth and glanced towards Roy, who still had his back facing Khozen. His eyes were closed and his brow was furrowed, and it was clear to Marth that he was doing his best to hold himself back.

Roy's mind was churning as he was filtering through his emotions. There was a feral force that kept pressing and prodding to break free, and the force burning in his chest only grew as he tried to ignore it. The elder dragon's taunts did his fragile mental state no good as his words tugged at that angry being within him, tempting to draw it out. The prince could practically see the warring within his comrade's mind as his expression twisted into one more focused and scrunched, his eyes remaining firmly clenched.

"Roy, don't let him get to you," Marth panted out.

"You are a lost fool! Let that stone take hold of you and show me what dragons like you are capable of!" Khozen taunted. "Or are you too afraid to let it free?!"

At that, there was a short silence as Roy let out the breath he had been holding in. With a shift of his weight on his feet, he began to turn to face their enemy. Marth tensed at the movement and looked more towards Roy.

"Roy—"

"Marth, get back," Roy said as he opened his eyes, still burning red, to look straight up at Khozen. "I will deal with him."

"Roy!" Marth tried again. "You shouldn't—"

"Marth! I said get back!" Roy shouted as he stared at Khozen, his voice laced with a roar.

Even though his mind and body told Marth to not leave, the prince decided to back down. Hesitantly, he took a few steps back, and Cain rode over to protect him. The prince kept his eyes firmly trained on his comrade as he noted the growing energy emanating from his body.

"You are one of us, even if you refuse to accept it," Khozen growled. "It doesn't matter if you look different. You are one of us!"

Roy said nothing and lunged up at Khozen's head, his sword leaving a trail of fire behind him. Khozen roared and moved his head out of the way of Roy's attack, bringing his claw up to slash at him. Streaks of fire lit up the sky around Khozen as Roy leapt around, trying to attack him.

"You don't even know what you're fighting for!" Khozen roared as he swung his tail at Roy once again. "You have such a fire in your soul, yet it has no direction!"

Roy heard all of Khozen's taunts and though he tried to pay them no mind, the dragon's words were needling his consciousness and further antagonizing that growing ferocity that Roy had been holding back. Khozen, realizing Roy's growing fragility, finally decided to go for the one nerve in Roy's head that he had been prodding for the whole time:

"That cloaked man was right, you are weak! So weak and afraid of yourself that you'll watch your friends here all die by dragons, just like the ones in your own land will now that you are gone!"

With that, the single thread keeping Roy's mind held together snapped and a flood of emotions washed over him. He gnashed his teeth together before letting out a loud, echoing roar. Muddled memories of war, many people he could not recognize, and pain flashed through his mind as if something in him was trying to grab hold of anything from his past to keep him grounded—but there was no such luck.

Marth yelled out his friend's name as he watched him be consumed by fire, and the flames burned so brightly that he and the others had to shield their eyes.

Khozen laughed manically as he boomed, "Ahaha! Get angry! Let those seeds of rage sprout and show us your true self!"

A low draconic roar permeated the air and the brightness of the fire lessened enough that Marth could uncover his eyes. However, as soon as he uncovered them, he wished that everything he saw before him was just some sick, twisted nightmare.

There stood, in front of Khozen, another horrific beast.

Flames erupted from its back as it roared. Marth could not believe what he saw.

Roy had transformed into a fire dragon.

Chapter Text

Marth could barely breathe at the sight before him.

Roy was a fire dragon. His body was orange and yellow, and instead of having wings like Khozen, fire was erupting from his back and extended down his tail. Talons jutted out in front of his chest and horns lined his head. A strange strip of gold lined the sides of his neck, stomach, and tail, and small sharp crystalline spikes seemed to overlay some of his scales.

With a shake of his head, Marth quickly tore his gaze from Roy and stared at the ground.

"Gods," he could hear Cain mutter under his breath. "All this time…"

Roy let out a roar and stamped his front claws into the ground, causing a small tremor. Khozen let out a twisted laugh. "Finally! Now fight me like the dragon you are!"

Roy growled and rose up on his hind legs to lunge towards Khozen. They collided and their tails thrashed about, whipping through the air and slamming on the ground.

"Shit," Cain spat. "We need to get back! We'll get hit by one of them if we stay here! Prince Marth!"

Marth didn't respond to Cain's call, however. Roy roared loudly, making Marth look up towards him again. Cain grit his teeth.

"Gah, sorry sire, but we really gotta move," the cavalier grunted before suddenly grabbing Marth and hoisting him up onto his horse. "Hyah!"

Cain rode away until they were at a distance that was safe enough from the two dragons before he stopped his horse. He looked back to Marth to check on him. Marth didn't move at all, and he stared intently at Cain's back, his thoughts clearly racing. Though this was not the first dragon he had ever seen, the idea of his mysterious friend being a manakete like this had never once crossed his mind...

"Marth!" came Caeda's voice as she flew towards them with her Pegasus, with Jagen following right behind. Marth quickly snapped out of his daze and looked towards them.

"Caeda, Jagen…!"

"Are you both alright?!" Jagen asked, concerned. Caeda's Pegasus huffed loudly as she landed.

"Y… Yes, we are both fine," Marth responded and nodded. They both seemed relieved at that.

"Good," Caeda said. "There are two dragons out there… I thought there was only one here!"

Marth shook his head. "There… was… but," he paused and glanced over. "One of those dragons is Roy."

Jagen tensed instantly. "Roy?!" he repeated and looked out towards them still fighting each other.

"Yes…" Marth responded, hesitant. He wasn't sure of what to do, and Jagen looked towards him. It had been a long time since he saw confusion and fear gripping his lord like it was right now. The last time it happened was back when Marth lost his family and had to escape to Talys. There was a heavy silence as the old paladin considered his words carefully.

"Prince Marth," Jagen said, drawing Marth's attention. "We can trust him."

Marth was clearly surprised. "Wh… what?" he responded dumbly.

"We can trust Roy, even if he's like this," Jagen said and looked out to Roy and Khozen fighting again. "I have faith that he knows who his comrades are. He will not attack us. Leave that enemy dragon to him."

It was clear that Jagen's words took not only Marth, but all three of the others there by surprise. After a few moments of silent consideration, Marth's brow furrowed, and he nodded curtly.

"Right," he said, his voice returning to normal. "We will busy ourselves with the rest of our enemies and leave the dragon to Roy!"

Roy's eyes glanced towards them as the group rode away to rejoin the fray. Khozen let out a maniacal, growling laugh, drawing Roy's attention back to him. Khozen bore his fangs and moved his head, shifting his weight to taunt at Roy. A growl escaped Roy's throat and he lunged towards Khozen once more, their claws tearing at each other and their jaws snapping as they tried to rip at each other's necks.

The ground shook and the air whipped about as their tails slammed into the earth and sliced through the air; fire bellowed out from their maws as they scorched each other's hides and the foliage around them.

Bantu watched the two of them from a safe distance away, his old eyes narrowing at the sight. There were many things different about Roy's dragon form that he had never seen before, even throughout all his years of life, that puzzled him; from his scales to his horns and even his wings of flame, Bantu found himself wondering how exactly this form of Fire Dragon had appeared in Akaneia.

However, even beyond his appearance, there was something else Bantu noticed about Roy that troubled him; he could sense Roy's energy and how it was seemingly stifled—like he was straining himself to be in the form he was, which, for Bantu, meant one thing: the boy was no pureblooded dragon, and the use of the firestone was taxing him greatly. And as if that wasn't enough on its own, it seemed like there was another power struggle going on inside him, like a bubble straining not to burst.

"But he is holding up well, even with that conflict within him," Bantu grumbled to himself before turning his attention back towards another group of approaching enemies.

Khozen laughed madly once more as he and Roy exchanged talons, ripping into one another. "Yes, keep fighting, you fledgling, and show me your budding power so I can crush it with my claws and shred it apart with my fangs! Your fury will only get you so far!"

A deep growl bellowed forth from Roy's throat and he let out a roar. Blood had gushed from his wounds, and the pain of those mixed with his transformation was starting to become unbearable. He only had a fraction of his energy left to end this fight and be the victor, but Khozen was not yet weak enough for a final blow. Perhaps if his own power was used against him, Roy would have a chance at taking him out.

An overpowering amount of heat began to flare to life in Roy's chest, as if in response to his potential strategy, and he snarled from the discomfort. It seemed like that would have to be the course of action, because otherwise, he felt like he was going to burn himself up from the inside out if he didn't.

Roy's arms tensed and his head reared back as fire started to build in his chest and travel up his throat. His tail slammed into the ground as he whipped his head forward, a massive ball of fire shooting forth from his maw right at Khozen. It burst upon impact, the force of the fire causing Khozen to rear back and let out a low screech. The flames burned Khozen hotter than before, and he stumbled back as he tried to keep himself steady.

"What kind of flame is that to melt through the scales of a dragon!" Khozen roared, baring his fangs once more at Roy. "I will show you your place!"

Khozen breathed in deep, the air around him increasing in temperature dramatically as his own flame breath built in his chest. Roy roared and followed suit—embers flitted through the air and the area around them became unbearably hot as they both readied their final blows. Though the others had put distance between themselves and the two warring dragons, the increasing intensity of their flames was quickly becoming unbearable.

"Prince Marth," Jagen shouted as he pulled his lance from one of his few remaining enemies. "You need to get away from here lest you be scorched! Let me take you away from here! Our enemies may fall to their flames, but you cannot!"

Marth nodded in agreement, the building heat causing him to sweat more than he already was. "Yes," he said simply before quickly pulling himself onto Jagen's horse. As Jagen rode them a safer distance away, Marth looked back to the two dragons, his brow furrowing as he bit the inside of his lip.

Roy grumbled as his veins surged; something within him made the intensity of the flame in his chest continue to build, almost to an overwhelming degree. This was his last effort—after this, he would be spent—so it was all or nothing, even if taking out Khozen cost him his life.

Khozen let out a roar as he whipped his head forward, a huge ball of flame bursting forth from his mouth. Roy returned fire with fire, and a ball of white-hot flame shot at Khozen's before they collided. A blinding light swallowed the field around them as the flames exploded—scorching hot winds pushed back everyone and everything not absorbed by the light, sending many of the Akaneian League members and their enemies flying. Marth shielded his eyes from the light and Jagen's horse neighed loudly as it stammered back, almost bucking the prince and the knight off.

"Gods-!" Jagen shouted, though his voice was drowned out by the wind.

After a few moments, the wind died down enough that Marth could finally move his arm from his eyes. He squinted as he looked to the field were the two dragons were once standing and was surprised by what he saw—both dragons were still standing, their gazes locked on one another. Their breaths were labored, and both were clearly exhausted.

"H…ah… Even… after all this…" Khozen barely wheezed out, "to be… bested by a child... Emperor Medeus… I…"

Khozen's arms buckled as he stumbled forward and collapsed to the ground, the evil dragon finally breathing his last. Roy's eyes were trained still on Khozen's corpse as he breathed heavily, fatigue finally setting in and weighing him down like a ton of bricks. He closed his eyes and let out a disgruntled groan as he stumbled, his tail falling limp behind him as he fell to his stomach. His draconic form caught flame and dissipated, leaving naught but his weary human form left, on his hands and knees, battered and bruised from his fight.

All the sounds around him were muddled, as if he were underwater. He could hear what sounded like shouting, and perhaps the hooves of horses and footsteps, but his head was too heavy to lift to look around him. The charred grass and dirt beneath him were all too interesting as his eyes tried to focus. It was like his mind was lagging, like he was in a dream. Maybe if he just took a quick rest, he would be okay.

His eyelids grew heavy and just as he was about to let darkness consume him, an arm wrapped under his chest and pulled him back, startling him out of it.

"—oy! Roy!" Marth shouted. "Don't close your eyes here, you'll-!"

Roy gasped for air and his hands scrambled to grip at the ground and Marth's tunic. His eyes were wide for a moment as he whipped his head around to get his bearings before he looked up towards Marth. "Marth…?!" he spoke, his throat raw and his voice raspy.

"Yes, it's me," Marth responded with a nod, "You're awake, thank the gods."

Though Marth seemed relieved, Roy could not find himself able to rejoice in quite the same way. His whole body ached, he was covered in deep cuts and bruises, and his insides felt like they had been ripped apart. Everything hurt.

The prince, noticing his friend's pain, looked towards Jagen. "Jagen, please go find Maria and Lena as quickly as you can," he ordered. Jagen nodded and quickly rode off on his horse in search of the two.

Marth's attention turned to Roy once more as his friend started to cough. His grip tightened on Marth's back and his eyes clenched shut as his expression contorted from the pain.

"Hang on," Marth spoke quietly. "We'll get you healed up as much as we can…"

A short while later, Jagen had returned with Lena and Maria, who quickly got to work on healing Roy's wounds. Bantu slowly approached them, his eyes fixed on Roy, who was lying back on the ground, staring up wearily at the sky. Marth glanced towards the older manakete as he approached before turning to him. "Bantu," he said and nodded. Bantu slowly nodded back at Marth before drawing his attention to Roy once more.

"… I suppose I do not have to ask you how you feel," Bantu spoke.

Roy, without moving his head, shifted his gaze towards Bantu, and his expression told Bantu more than enough about his current condition. There was a long, tense silence as Lena and Maria finished their work and rose to their feet.

"We've done what we can for now… you should be out of any immediate danger," Lena spoke softly. "Though you will probably still be sore for some time."

Roy nodded a little and cringed as he pushed himself up, sitting up on the ground. "I would rather be sore than on the brink of death… Thank you, I'm in both of your debts."

Maria smiled at him and rocked on the balls of her feet. "You'll just have to get us presents at the next town," she teased.

Her teasing lightened the grim look on Roy's face as he responded, "It's the least I can do."

Lena smiled and bowed a little. "There are others that need our help, so we will be off." Jagen then brought his horse back to them so both her and Maria could be taken back out to the others that needed healing.

Once they were gone, silence fell between the three that remained. Roy was staring at the ground in thought, and Marth pursed his lips. Roy then turned his head to look at Bantu.

"Bantu," Roy started, "I have a lot of questions."

Bantu's eyes narrowed as he nodded slowly. "I am sure you do."

"Did you know?" Roy asked hesitantly as he carefully pushed himself up to his feet.

"I had a hunch," the old manakete replied truthfully. "But what transpired is not what I expected."

Finally, Marth felt the need to interject. "'What transpired?' What do you mean?"

"I was not expecting him to turn into a dragon," Bantu admitted as he glanced to Marth. "Though the stone I gave him would affect his strength, I was not expecting him to transform as he did."

Roy furrowed his brow, not quite understanding. "Why is that? Dragonstones are used by manaketes to transform into dragons… so why would that be any different for me?"

Bantu turned his attention back towards Roy and stated simply, "Because you are not the same as a manakete such as myself. Your blood is weaker by a significant margin. No manakete would have expected you to transform the way you did."

The three went silent for a time and Roy stared at the ground, hard in thought. His fists clenched as he looked back to Bantu once more. "Are you saying then that my parents…"

"You are no pureblood," Bantu clarified. "There is manakete in your lineage, but you were born of both man and manakete, not manakete alone."

Still uncertain of the ramifications of his transformation, Roy asked, "Is that why everything hurt as it did when I transformed?"

Bantu thought on it for a moment, carefully weighing his ideas. "It may have played part, yes. I could tell by your energy that being a Fire Dragon was less natural to your body… which tells me your lineage contains no Fire Dragon blood. Though manaketes of all kinds can employ the use of a Firestone, it can sometimes be more taxing for those that have never used one before… and it is multiplied by your diluted manakete blood. For one such as yourself, transforming in general would be taxing on your body, but pairing yourself with a stone that is different from your lineage would increase your struggle."

Roy nodded slowly. That much made sense, at least. If he wasn't supposed to be able to transform whatsoever, yet he managed to somehow transform into a type of dragon that wasn't even of his own kind, he counted himself lucky he was able to walk out of that fight with Khozen at all.

"But," Bantu started once more, "Even with all that said… I would not have expected it to injure you as much as it did."

That caught Roy and Marth both by surprise, and Marth spoke up again, "What do you mean?"

Bantu quietly stared at Roy, looking into his eyes as if trying to calculate something. After a few quiet moments, he took a few steps forward, closing the gap between them. He put his old clawed hand against Roy's chest. "Inside here, I could sense something… something inside of you that was trying to rip the dragon out of your body. Something ripping your two halves apart from the inside… but I do not know what."

Something in his words sent a chill down Roy's spine. Something else had been trying to attack him, but from the inside- he didn't understand, but it seems Bantu did not, either.

Marth quietly watched from beside them, troubled. He wanted to say something, but he knew nothing more of which they spoke, so he elected to stay silent.

"Lord Volzhin," a general exclaimed as he quickly approached his lord on the top of Akaneia Palace's walls. "Khozin has been…"

"Defeated, yes," Volzhin said, not turning his attention away from the charred battlefield not far away. "Slain by a youngling dragon."

The general gulped quietly. "Y… Yes, my lord. What should we do? The army will approach the castle if we do not go out and…"

"Let them come," Volzhin responded, cutting the general off.

The general seemed surprised. "My lord?"

"I said…. Let them come," Volzhin said as he turned his head to look back at the general, a small, dark smile on his face. "Ready your men—that's an order."

The general tensed and quickly saluted. "Sir!" he responded before quickly heading back inside.

Volzhin turned his attention towards the battlefield once more, and from beneath his coat, he pulled out an abnormal blackened tome. His old hand touched a page of the book and the smirk on his face grew.

"Yes... Let them approach these walls so I may lend them the opportunity to rip themselves apart; to stain these walls with their blood, shed by their comrades as I play them like puppets and march them to their death."

Chapter Text

With Khozin and his forces dead, there was no one to stop Marth's entry into the city of Pales. The thunderous sound of hooves echoed throughout the town as the Akaneian League stormed towards the Millennium Court.

With resolve burning in his chest, Marth gripped the reigns of his horse, eyes fixated on the castle ahead. Though his muscles ached from battle, the adrenaline coursing through his body ensured he felt little fatigue.

The opposite could be said for Roy, however: his sudden violent transformation earlier still had his body searing in pain. His expression betrayed his thoughts, as his entire world had been rocked not but minutes prior. To be so forcefully ripped to shreds both inside and out and turned into something so monstrous and foreign, and yet somehow strangely familiar. Being a dragon...

Roy grit his teeth slightly behind pursed lips. Here he was, still in the dark about his past, and now he was hit with this, completely devoid of context. His eyes clenched for a moment as he tried to bring his thoughts to a centre and calm himself. Now was not the time for his mind to wander to things he couldn't control.

The distance was closed between the Akaneian League's forces and the walls of the Millennium Court all too quickly. Marth's horse had barely come to a halt before he dismounted, and his hand was readied at the hilt of his blade by the time his feet hit the ground. His gaze immediately shifted upwards towards the beautiful—though currently imposing—palace before them.

Jagen's horse slowed to a stop next to Marth's, and the rest of the army followed suit. Roy stayed a few horse lengths behind Marth and Jagen, staying near Cain, Abel, and Julian. He glanced across the Millennium Court's walls- there were lines of archers dotting the open windows, their arrows trained on their army.

"That doesn't look good…" mused Abel, and Roy could only nod in agreement.

Their attention was drawn skyward at the sound of a loud, strong voice, however:

"You've finally arrived! Welcome to the capitol," came the taunting voice of an older man. Marth's grip on his sword's hilt tightened and his expression soured.

"No need for such a dark expression, prince," the man continued. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Volzhin of Doluna, the orchestrator of the final arc in your story of petty defiance."

"How poetic…" Cain muttered under his breath, causing a slight uptick in the corner of Roy's mouth. It seemed like every one of the enemy leaders had a serious power complex issue.

Standing firm, Marth straightened himself and shook his head. "We will not end here. We will defeat you just as we have all those that have come before you."

The old mage exhaled out of his nose and chuckled. He then raised a red tome overhead and he boomed, "No, I promise you, it won't be so simple. You will writhe in the flames of Bolganone! Naught will be left of you but charred bone!"

With a wave of his free hand, Volzhin ordered his troops to charge- they burst forth from the court's gates, weapons readied. Almost immediately there was the clashing sound of steel on steel echoing through the air as both armies met, violence ensuing instantly; blood spattered across stone and grass as soldiers from both sides wounded one another.

Cain thrust his sword through the chest of one of the Dolunian foot soldiers that had fixated on him. "Damn, there's so many of them," he grunted as he pulled his weapon back. "We need to make a path for Marth to get inside or we're going to get overwhelmed before we even make it to the gates!"

Julian huffed as he hopped back, dodging an arrow, "Well what do you suggest then, Cain? Ya got any bright idea in that head of yours? Because-"

Cain shot Julian a look, and Abel took a moment to glance up towards the walls where archers were trained on their allies. "Here is a plan- we wipe out those archers before one of them manages to get a lucky shot."

Following Abel's gaze, Cain huffed in thought. "Yeah, I don't know about you guys, but my horse can't scale walls. And our archers are already busy trying to keep back the footsoldiers…"

Roy gripped his sword and his eyes darted across the walls of the court as he tried to analyze the situation. After a moment of consideration, he had a realization and turned to Julian. "Julian, you were with the Soothesires, weren't you?"

The other three looked to Roy, and Julian raised his brow. "Yeah, what of it? What's that got to do with anything?"

Abel caught on to Roy's train of thought. "Ah, I get it," he said, and Roy simply nodded to Abel. Abel looked to Julian. "You're an ex-thief… any chance you have any of those useful, but annoying, thief-like accessories on you?"

It took a moment for Julian to catch on, but once he did, he grinned. "You mean like smoke bombs or shrapnel bombs or something? I might still have a few."

Cain grumbled. "Yeah, you've used those stupid smoke bombs on us whilst camping once or twice…"

Abel shrugged and looked from Cain back up to the court's walls, where the archers were stationed and still firing. "Well, it looks like those might come in handy right about now. You can complain about his pranks later after you've helped him blind these archers."

The redheaded cavalier turned his horse to better face Abel. "Me? You can't just volunteer me to ferry this guy around—"

"—Too late! C'mon, Cain—those archers won't know what hit 'em!" Julian shouted as he hoisted himself up onto Cain's horse.

With a long, aggravated sigh, Cain shook his head. "Fine, but don't pull any shit, or I swear…!"

His horse neighed loudly and reared before charging off towards the castle.

Abel turned to Roy. "That was a good idea."

Roy simply shrugged and shook his head. "I guess we'll find out if it really was once it works… or doesn't. Let's just hope it does."

Not too far away, Marth and Jagen were dealing with their own predicament. Due to Marth's initial entrance, most enemies knew exactly who he was, and many of them had eyes trained right on him—much to both the prince's and the paladin's chagrin. Though Jagen was strong, and would defend Marth with all he had, even he was struggling to keep up with the sheer number of soldiers and archers that had their hearts set on killing the prince.

"This is getting bad," Marth huffed, growing wearier as he cut down yet another enemy soldier, though there were still more running his way. "There are far too many of them."

An arrow whizzed past him just inches away and imbedded itself into the dirt a few feet beyond him, which caught him off guard. A warrior charged forward, raising his axe quickly to prepare what would certainly be a fatal strike on Marth. Though before the prince could even react, an arrow flew from his left, right into the warrior's temple, dropping him instantly. Marth could feel his heart in his throat as he whipped his head to the side, spotting Jeorge with his bow raised and a new arrow already nocked. He simply nodded to Marth before shifting his aim towards more of the approaching soldiers, firing away.

With a slight tremble in his hand, Marth readied his sword again. He swallowed his nerves with a silent vow to not let himself get caught so off guard again—if Jeorge had not been there, Marth certainly would've been killed.

There was a dark, mocking laugh that came from the top of the castle walls. Volzhin, sensing Marth's fear, took the opportunity to taunt the young prince, "Perhaps you've come to realize the futility of your struggle here. Just lay down your weapon and die already!"

A huge swath of flame bellowed towards the prince as Volzhin cast Bolganone. Jagen's horse reared and let out a distraught neigh, barely backing away enough to avoid the powerful spell, and Jagen readied his shield to use himself as a barrier between Marth and the fire. The paladin hissed as a stray flame singed his leg, which caused Volzhin to laugh once more in amusement. The mage's amusement was cut short, however, when the sudden sound of explosions and billows of smoke burst forth from the openings in the walls. The archers all ceased their firing as they were overwhelmed by the smoke.

"What?!" Volzhin yelled as he scanned the grounds below, trying to make out what was going on through the smoke.

"Hell yeah!" Cain shouted as he thrusted his fist in the air.

Julian let out a long whistle and grinned, cheering, "That'll teach them to mess with us! Now's the time to charge the gates, before the smoke clears!"

Abel rode towards Marth with Roy following on foot not far behind. Caeda, Jeorge, and Merric came to Marth and Jagen from the other direction, using the smoke as a cover.

Jeorge coughed. "This smoke is really quite something." To that, Julian only smirked and gave him a thumbs-up.

Marth nodded in agreement. "This gives us the time we need to sneak inside…!"

"How DARE you!" hissed Volzhin, "You slimy rats! I will kill every last one of you!"

Through the smoke came another huge blast of Bolganone in their general direction, though thankfully the smoke had concealed them enough that the fire missed its target. Jagen clicked his tongue and looked to Marth.

"Prince Marth, go now! We will hold the line outside," he advised. "Cain, Abel, Julian, Jeorge- go with the prince, the rest of us will stay out here to keep Volzhin distracted."

Abel nodded. "Yes sir," he responded and turned his horse. "Prince Marth, with me. We need to be quick."

Marth hoisted himself up onto Abel's horse and looked to Jagen. "Please be careful," he said before looking to Caeda, Merric, and Roy, "You as well. I do not want to lose any of you today."

Caeda smiled. "We do not plan on letting you down, Prince Marth."

To that, Roy nodded in agreement. "I've still got too much to figure out to die here."

The group of five, led by Marth and Abel, took their leave and beelined straight towards the castle gates. Once they were inside and out of view, Jagen turned to Caeda, Merric, and Roy. By that point, the smoke had begun to clear, revealing the four of them to the mage above.

With the remaining four now clearly in Volzhin's sight, the old man let out a snarl of detest. Since Marth was now inside the castle, he decided to turn his attention to the redhead. Their eyes met, and the ice blue of Roy's eyes were piercingly cold as he glared up at Volzhin.

How amusing—yes, this was clearly the one that the dark mage had told Volzhin about earlier. Well, even though the prince had snuck off, perhaps he would still be able to pry him back out of the woodwork with something a little different. Roy could tell Volzhin was weaving something nefarious in his mind by the way the old man's mouth twisted into a sick grin. Roy clenched his fists and narrowed his eyes slightly.

"How unfortunate that the prince ran away," Volzhin said, sarcasm thickly laced in his delivery, "That means I have to turn my attention to someone else. Like you, little dragon boy."

The hairs on the back of Roy's neck prickled up and his lips pursed into a thin line. Jagen frowned and his horse took a slight step forward, but Volzhin only shook his head and slipped his Bolganone tome away into his robe, exchanging it for a different tome that was completely black- even down to its pages.

Merric was taken by surprise by the bizarre book. "I haven't ever seen a tome like that before."

Caeda glanced from Merric to Roy. Roy's expression had grown from firm to wide-eyed with concern.

"Roy, is everything okay? Do you know what that is?" Caeda asked him.

"I… I don't know what it is… but I feel like I've seen that book before," Roy muttered, not averting his gaze from the book. "But… wait…"

Volzhin flipped the book open and stared down at its pages. "I am not one to get my own hands soiled with blood if I don't have to. So, I have a better idea," he said menacingly, a smirk forming on his lips as his eyes flicked just enough away from the book to look at Roy. The air began to funnel inward towards the old man as he raised his hand up, and a surge of panic hit Roy, like his instincts expected what was to come next.

"Get away! Now!" Roy shouted to his comrades, though he was barely able to finish speaking before a powerful, painful shock seized his mind. He immediately fell to his knees and grasped at his hair, letting out a loud, anguished cry. It was like lightning was shocking his body and fire was coursing through his veins as Volzhin's spell overwhelmed him.

An all too familiar darkness consumed him as he lost consciousness to the abyss.

Chapter Text

Marth and his comrades dashed through the corridors of the palace, cutting enemies down as they proceeded further into its depths. Thankfully it seemed most of the enemy soldiers were focused on what was going on outside, meaning the castle itself was a little easier for them to navigate and search for whatever prisoners were still inside.

"Princess Nyna had mentioned in our travels that there were prisoners kept here, but where…" Marth mused as he glanced around a corner and down one of the other corridors. The group had split into two smaller groups—Julian and Cain were with Marth, while Abel and Jeorge went up to the higher level to deal with the snipers while they were still disoriented by lingering smoke.

Julian squinted as he knelt below Marth and looked around the corner down the same corridor. "Well, looks like that way heads downstairs, so… maybe they've got themselves a dungeon?"

Marth hummed in response and nodded a little. "Likely. Though I'm sure that we will be met with opposition down the way…"

Cain shifted his weight and looked to Marth. "Yeah, the hall's a bit too quiet for it to not be a trap. But do you want to go for it? Or should we wait for Jeorge and Abel?"

The prince pondered this as he touched his knuckle to his chin. After a few moments, he shook his head a little. "No. We haven't the time—the longer we wait here, the more opportunity the enemy has to harm whatever prisoners are left."

Cain nodded. "Makes sense," he said. "I'm not one to turn down a fight, so consider me in."

Julian stood up straight and nodded in agreement. "Yep. And I can try to pick open those locks if you keep 'em distracted."

A brilliant idea—perhaps that was why Jagen had Julian come with them. Marth smiled and readied his blade. "Then let's not waste any more time, then."

The three of them sped down the hall and to the steps leading to the lower level. Upon descending the stairs, they were immediately met by the sound of weapons being drawn and the command to charge. Steel clashed as Marth, Julian, and Cain were attacked by enemy soldiers that had clearly been waiting for them. Even though they were outnumbered, the three of them were able to hold their own well and were able to fell a few of the enemy soldiers quickly.

"C-commander Heimler, they're a lot stronger than they look…!" one of the mages exclaimed, panicked.

Heimler clicked his tongue. "No matter. Even if they kill all of you, they won't be able to get past me. And if they try, I can just take those prisoners' lives with me, and that brat prince will be left with nothing."

The commander's coldness was palpable, and Marth was appalled by how quickly he would be willing to throw his own men's lives away. "How could you…"

As Marth pushed a soldier back with his blade, Cain rode forward and cut the unfortunate soul down. "Marth, now's not the time to feel sorry for them. We've got prisoners to rescue and a palace to rout."

Though Marth was troubled, he could not deny that Cain was right. They were there to save the prisoners and reclaim the throne for Princess Nyna. He closed his eyes momentarily before opening them again and raising his sword to the enemy commander. "Commander Heimler, in the name of Akaneia, I will strike you down here and now!"

Heimler grinned darkly. "I'd love to see you try."

Abel grunted as he pulled his lance from yet another enemy sniper's chest. Not too far away, Jeorge let loose an arrow, hitting a soldier that had just run up the steps to the top floor where they were.

"Not fast enough," Jeorge mused before he glanced to Abel. "Abel, we're almost clear up here."

Abel spun his lance to whip the blood off, paying the red liquid no mind as it splattered across the palace floor. "Right. And the few that remain have run off to hide… perhaps we should go find prince Marth—"

His words were cut short by the deafening sound of a deep roar from outside—the walls shook, and small bits of debris dropped from the ceiling to the floor from the vibration. Both Jeorge and Abel were taken by surprise and Jeorge took no time to nock a new arrow as he raced to the balconies to see what the commotion was. Abel followed him in short order.

"What in the blazes—" the cavalier started before his breath caught in his throat.

Down below, a familiar fire dragon was stumbling and whipping itself about.

"Is that Roy-?!" Jeorge started before another roar interrupted him.

A huge scaled tail came flying at the side of the castle near them, crashing into it and causing a huge quake. Both Jeorge as well as Abel's horse barely kept their balance from the severity of the tremor.

"Shit," spat Jeorge. "We need to get back downstairs or else we'll end up toppled in the rubble!"

Without hesitation, both of the men ran from the balcony, just in time for a wall of flame to scorch where they had just been standing.

Down below, Caeda and Jagen—the latter of which had taken Merric on his steed—had escaped the trampling of draconic feet and made it farther away, where they met with Maria, Minerva, Bantu, Gordin, Hardin, and Princess Nyna. They looked on in abject horror as their comrade thrashed about in a rage.

"This is not good," Hardin grunted, agitated. "Your friend has lost his mind. At this rate, there will be no castle to save."

Jagen shook his head and looked back to Merric. "Merric, what in the seven hells is that spell that Volzhin cast?"

Merric was clearly flustered and shook his head quickly. "I… I have no idea, I've never seen it! Not even during all of my studies."

The group fell silent for a moment. Another tremor from a crashing tail caused Minerva to press her lips into a thin line as she gripped the hilt of Hauteclere.

"We've no time to sit here pondering," she said, drawing everyone's attention to her. "We either deal with the problem, or we will be getting dealt with soon enough."

Minerva's words caused Gordin and Maria to look to one another, both clearly uncomfortable. Maria looked to her sister. "But Minerva… that's our friend…"

The elder sister's eyes closed as she shook her head. Her voice was level. "It doesn't matter right now what he might be. Right now, he is a crazed monster, wrecking the capitol."

The tension in the air was thick as everyone considered her words. After a moment, Bantu spoke up.

"I will keep him busy," the old manakete said as he glanced to the others. "There is something holding him back… his mind is not totally lost; use the time I grant you to find the prince and put an end to Volzhin."

Jagen narrowed his eyes at Bantu. "Bantu, are you sure about this?"

Bantu looked up to Jagen, his eyes piercingly red as he had already begun to channel the energy from his own dragonstone. "Though you are strong, dragon against dragon is more of a level playing field."

After a moment of hesitation, Jagen nodded in understanding. "I see. Then we will take this opportunity. Thank you, Bantu."

Minerva got onto her wyvern once more and looked to Caeda. "Caeda. Will you join me in an attack on Volzhin?" she questioned, taking it upon herself to lead the charge against the enemy mage. Caeda nodded and gripped her javelin.

"I'll stay out here too," Merric said as he hopped off of Jagen's horse. "If that's okay. Magic versus magic and all that…"

Minerva seemed pleased, though her expression was unchanging. "That sounds like a plan. Maria, go with Jagen and Hardin—it's safer that way."

The young cleric went to protest, but was silenced by her sister's gaze. "Okay, Minerva," Maria conceded sheepishly.

Princess Nyna quietly watched the young dragon as he thrashed about outside of the castle. She could practically sense the turmoil as he seemed to be fighting whatever it was that gripped him. Her thoughts were interrupted by Hardin's hand on her shoulder. She turned her attention to him.

"Princess," Hardin began, "Come with us into the castle so we may find Prince Marth and those that have been kept hostage."

She only nodded at that, electing not to speak about what she saw just yet. "When we enter the castle, please take me to the throne… there is something there I need to give the prince," she requested, as she shifted her eyes to the fire dragon before them once again. With their plans set, they split into two groups—one that was led by Minerva to attack Volzhin and keep Roy at bay, and the other led by Jagen, to locate Marth.

As Jagen's group departed to enter the castle, Minerva turned to Bantu. "I'm putting my trust in you."

Bantu only let out a slight breath in response as he closed his eyes. The heat Bantu suddenly generated was nearly unbearable; Roy must have sensed it as well, as his thrashing momentarily halted as his head whipped around to look back towards them. Flame devoured the old manakete as his body grew and morphed into a towering fire dragon. Bantu roared, the low timbre of the elder dragon's voice reverberating through the air and shaking anything still living down to their very bones.

Volzhin only laughed. "Oh, no, now this is interesting. It's a shame this tome only works on one dragon at a time, but perhaps it's better that way!"

With a wave of Volzhin's hand, Roy's body convulsed and a strangled growl left his throat, as if the mage had given him a silent order.

Both dragons ran at each other, brick and dirt being crushed beneath their feet under every heavy step as they collided. Talons ripped at hide and scales and fangs tore at each other's throats as they began to fight viciously. Minerva, now in flight and carrying Merric in tow, could only help but scowl at the sight.

"Horrific," Merric muttered under his breath. Though they had seen Khozen and Roy fight not too long ago, there was something much more horrendous about watching two of their comrades go at each other with such a primal intent to kill.

Gordin, who was perched behind Caeda on her Pegasus, felt his nerves building and gulped. His hands were clammed up as he shakily kept a grip on his bow. Caeda shook her head and looked out to the castle walls, spotting Volzhin as he waved his hand once more, as if giving Roy more orders.

"Now isn't the time to be dwelling," she said and reared her Pegasus up. "We need to deal with Volzhin!"

Minerva furrowed her brow and narrowed her eyes. "I could not have said it better myself. Off with his head!"

Much to Merric's dismay, the wyvern knight immediately beelined straight towards Volzhin, Hauteclere readied at her side. Caeda followed her, both her and Gordin with their weapons at the ready.

Both duos flew circles just overhead and Volzhin scoffed as he glanced up their way. "Pesky rats," he grunted as he flicked his wrist to have Roy turn his head towards them. Fire built in Roy's throat as if to breathe it at them, but he was quickly cut short by Bantu sinking his teeth into the side of Roy's throat. Another feral roar escaped the enraged dragon as his attention was brought back to Bantu once more.

Volzhin, unimpressed, simply snarled and closed the book. "Fine, no matter. I will take care of these ones myself."

His hand reached into his cloak to exchange the mysterious tome out for Bolganone once more. Minerva dove in, Hauteclere raised and ready to strike the first blow. Fire burst forth from Volzhin's palm as he cast Bolganone, the scorching flame forcing her wyvern to dodge out of the way. Without skipping a beat, a gale of wind shot out from Merric's outstretched hand directly at Volzhin, causing him to step back and cover himself to keep the sharp wind from cutting into his eyes.

"Damn you," he hissed. "I will teach you to stand against Doluna!"

Caeda's javelin raced by him and sliced him right across his raised arm, which made him whip around to face her, immediately and defensively casting another round of Bolganone, which missed in his haste. Being surrounded as he was, he realized quickly that his death was imminent, and let out a labored breath. His teeth gnashed together as he mulled over his options.

"This is absurd," Volzhin shouted as he threw Bolganone to the side, the book skidding across the brick, forgotten. He yanked out the black tome once more. "You will die here- if not by me, then it will be by your own comrade's talons!"

Heimler let out a gurgling cry as Marth pulled his sword from the man's chest. The prince panted, catching his breath as he stepped back while the old general collapsed backward, his lifeless body staining the ground red with blood. He closed his eyes as he swallowed the lump in his throat—his lungs burned and his muscles ached. However, now was not the time to rest. As soon as their skirmish settled, Julian jogged over to the locks on the dungeon gates, tinkering with the rusted metal contraption until a satisfying click sounded the unlocking of the mechanism.

"Success!" he exclaimed as he yanked the lock from the door. He could barely step back before the prisoners—led by a younger woman and elderly man—rushed out of their confinement.

"You! You must be the army that Princess Nyna brought back with her!" the younger blue-haired woman exclaimed, her expression serious, but hopeful.

Cain trotted forward on his horse. "Yeah, that would be us. And you are?"

The group of prisoners introduced themselves. The woman was named Midia, a paladin that served the princess. The elder was Boah, a bishop. The remaining three were Tomas, Dolph, and Macellan—all three of which were Midia's subordinates. Pleasantries had to wait, however, as the sound of hooves and footsteps approaching the dungeon drew everyone's attention to the entrance as their hands all grabbed for their weapons.

They were not greeted by Dolunian soldiers, however: the familiar faces of Abel and Jeorge were seen in the doorway instead, both wearing quite grievous expressions.

Marth was immediately on edge. "Abel! Jeorge! What is going on?"

"You have to see it for yourself—" Abel started before a huge tremor cut him off. He continued after the shaking quelled, "We've got a problem on our hands."

Cain frowned. "What's the point in being so vague about it…" There was a low rumbling and a familiar snarling roar, muffled by the palace walls, that caused everyone in Marth's party to tense from surprise. Marth shot Jeorge a questioning glance, and Jeorge only frowned with a nod. So it was what Marth thought it was…

"A problem indeed," Marth mumbled, mostly to himself, before he looked back to their newfound allies. "Midia, I hate to request your assistance so soon, but—"

The paladin waved off his concern and clenched a fist near her chest. "There is no need for apology. We will proudly fight by your side, for the princess and for the future of Akaneia!"

"Right. Then let us go," Marth commanded before leading the way out of the dungeon.

Upon reaching the main floor, he could not help but lament the tragedy of how many had been slain here—enemy soldiers or not, seeing the castle halls littered with corpses and stained with blood was a solemn welcome. He had wished that his first visit to Pales, and the royal castle, would have been on better terms than this, though unfortunately fate had not seen for it to be that way. The air hung heavy with the scent of death, must and blood as he led the group towards the main hall. It was there that they had come across Jagen's group, who had routed the rest of the enemies in the palace's hall not long before Marth's arrival. Princess Nyna smiled a little upon seeing Marth, relieved to not only see him alive, but also the familiar faces of Midia, Boah, and the others as well.

"Prince Marth," Nyna said as the two groups met in the main hall. She held a beautifully ornate bow in her hands. "Please take this. It's the Parthia, one of the three regalia from my family. I wish I had the other two to give, such as the sword, which would be of more use to you… but some of the soldiers took off with them before we arrived. We were only able to get this one back…"

The prince shook his head and carefully took the bow. "Princess Nyna, there is no need for apologies. Thank you."

Hardin stepped forward, a stern expression on his face. "Prince, we have a problem, here."

Marth nodded and as if on cue there was another roar, albeit much louder to their ears now. The terrible sound echoed throughout the castle, and it sounded as if the dragon was screeching from intense pain. Without hesitation, Marth ran towards the entrance to the castle, disregarding Jagen or Hardin's requests for him to pause. After an exchange of glances, Jagen waved his hand for the rest to follow after him.

Shock jolted through Marth's veins as he saw the familiar form of Roy, transformed into a Fire Dragon, tearing into Bantu. Both dragons were tangled, claws and tails flailing and fire billowing from their maws. Bantu was the worse for wear of the two, though both were covered in gashes, burns, and blood. Roy's scales and limbs were dotted with spine-like crystals that varied from small to large that looked like they were hindering his movement, but he was so enraged that he would break the crystals with little care as he retaliated against Bantu's attacks.

It made no sense. Why would Roy be attacking his own comrades? What was going on? Marth's heart was pounding in his chest as he saw Bantu get slammed into the earth and pinned down by a large, crystalline claw. The air charged with heat as embers began to flit from Roy's maw—if he wasn't stopped now, Bantu would be…

An arrow flew and embedded itself loosely into Roy's neck, interrupting his attack, and he let out a low growl as his head whipped back to look towards the source. Hands trembling still on his bow, Gordin was still sitting behind Caeda on her Pegasus with his weapon drawn. Sweat was beading on his brow.

"You stupid beast! Kill them!" Volzhin screamed as the glyphs on the pages glowed with his command.

A piercing roar gurgled out from Roy. He slammed his free claw down as he kept Bantu pinned, the weight of it cracking the earth as fire roiled in his maw, now focused on the group fighting Volzhin.

The distraction had been more than enough time for Minerva, however, and she let out a cry as she dove on her wyvern towards Volzhin. Far too slow to dodge her strike, Volzhin was struck cleanly with the Hautclere. He let out a harsh curse as his chest was crushed by the force of Minerva's blow, and blood spurted from his mouth as well as the fatal wound. The tome flew from his hands and onto the ground as his body was sent backwards and into the debris.

All Volzhin could manage, through the bubbling of blood on his lips, was the weary curse of a dead man. "Haha... your... your fates... are already sealed…"

Minerva's expression remained unchanged as she pulled the axe from the mage's chest. With a final choked gasp, Volzhin stilled, lifeless in a thick pool of his own blood.

With a low, distraught groan, Roy faltered once more; his claw lifted from Bantu's chest as he backed off of the elder dragon, barely keeping himself standing. Once Bantu was freed from Roy's weight, his dragon form dissipated into flame, leaving naught but his battered humanoid form left lying on the ground. Without hesitation, Maria ran towards Bantu, as did Marth and the others that were at the castle gates.

Maria and newly-recruited Boah wasted no time as they began to mend Bantu's wounds, which were quite grievous. Though Marth wished to thank Bantu for risking his life, Caeda called out from above.

"Marth! Look out!" Caeda cried, which made Marth turn—though his breath caught in his throat when he was met with the dark, powerful gaze of a dragon—his friend—staring him down.

Within those eyes the prince could see nothing but powerful emotion: anguish, confusion, anger, despair, pain. Those emotions communicated so strongly through gaze alone that Marth could practically feel them all as if they were his own, and it was overwhelming—so overwhelming that he did not even notice the embers that had begun to escape from the corners of the dragon's maw once more.

"Prince Marth!" came one of his comrades' voices as he was hit with a weight that sent him crashing to the ground, right as flame scorched the ground where the prince had just been standing. There was loud ringing in his ears as he tried to regain his bearings and look up to see who had hit him out of the way. One of the prisoners, Dolph, stood up and helped bring Marth back up to his feet. "You can't just go dying here like that!"

Another roar escaped Roy's throat as his claws slammed into the earth. Even with Volzhin dead, it seemed Roy was still completely consumed by rage and unable to stop rampaging. More crystals covered his body as he crashed his tail into a nearby building, sending bricks tumbling to the ground.

Another arrow—this time coming from Jeorge, who had picked up the Parthia after it had been knocked from Marth's hand when he was tackled just moments prior—embedded itself into the dragon's shoulder, and then another into his neck. Roy roared as he staggered backwards. It was clear that he was already weak from his fight with Bantu, and he was covered in wounds. Those crystals seemed to keep shattering with his movements, but would regrow larger and thicker than they had before. Roy snarled and bore his fangs as he endured the pain and took a step forward, still not giving in, and his eyes were still locked on the prince.

"Marth, now!"

With grit teeth, Marth shakily gripped the hilt of his blade and steeled himself. This is not the way he expected this war to go at all. Pointing his own blade at his ally, eyes locked as his comrade's emotions swelled and reached out to him as if he was asking to be freed. Those crystalline growths had consumed half of his body by that point, and his fatigue rendered him too weak to break free of them again.

"Roy, my friend… I am sorry," came Marth's whisper as he ran forward and leapt. The weakened hide of Roy's chest served as little resistance against Marth's blade as it sunk in to the hilt. Marth's heart was racing and his ears were singing so loudly from the blood rushing to his head that he could not even hear the weary growl that left his friend's mouth as he weakened. Though the prince's eyes were screwed tightly shut, he knew what he had done.

A warm, gentle gust swayed his hair and he dared to open his eyes. No longer was his blade sunk into the chest of a dragon, but a familiar person. Marth's hands shook as his eyes trailed up from the weapon, up tattered clothing, and to Roy's face. Roy's eyes were glazed over, lidded and nearly devoid of life, and his face was riddled with scratches and small streaks of red. His hair, usually bright and soft, was matted with dried blood and clinging to his headband and cheeks.

Roy choked out a weak breath, coughing loosely and spattering blood onto both himself and Marth.

Marth could not think straight. There was no way—no, he refused it—there was no way that this could be happening now. He had slain many enemy soldiers in his travels, and though their deaths troubled him, nothing had ever hit him as hard as this. His thoughts were a whirlwind of emotion as he was trying to cling to something—anything—that would allow him to explain this away as some sort of twisted lie.

A quiet, troubled voice tugged him from his thoughts as if a hand reached out to him as he had been drowning.

"Marth."

His muscles tensed for a moment before his gaze rose once more—when had he looked down to his hands again, he wondered—to meet ice blue. It was as if the world stopped as their gazes lingered.

"Thank… you," Roy managed. "I… I'm sorry…"

The last words barely left his lips as his eyes slid shut. Marth's grip on the hilt of his sword loosened as Roy's knees gave out. Quickly, Marth's arms reached to keep his friend from falling backwards onto the dirt, and Roy's body slumped forward, his head lulling as his body collapsed and leaned against Marth's shoulder.

With quivering fingers, Marth slowly gripped at the torn fabric of Roy's cape as he carefully hugged him tighter. His eyes, conceding defeat to his tears, clenched shut as his jaw tightened. Unable to withhold his emotion any longer, Marth let out a wail wrought of pure despair.

The heavens stood in silence as the prince shared in his comrade's agony.

Chapter Text

It had been many weeks since Roy's disappearance from Elibe.

Nary a day went by where Nils did not stare out at the sky, wondering what he could have done different. Though the sun blazed overhead, the manakete felt nothing but cold as he stared out into the open blue. The breeze rustled his hair as he closed his eyes and let out a slow sigh.

Eliwood had been intent on beginning the construction of a Dragon's Gate right there in the gardens of House Pherae. Even with Nils' initial concerns, the marquess was loathe to change his mind, and eventually Nils agreed to help.

It had been his fault that Roy disappeared, after all. If he just had done something, anything different that day…

He frowned. There it was again- that passing thought that had constantly nagged his mind since that day at Dread Isle. Regardless of whether he was conscious or not, his doubts and guilts plagued him even in his sleep. Nightmares were almost nightly for him now, with the scene replaying over and over as he stood there as a bystander in his own unfortunate past. What would his sister say if she was alive now? Surely, she would be disappointed in his inability to protect her son.

Right?

Even Roy's friends, like Wolt, Fa, or even Lilina were unable to bring Nils out from this crushing guilt he had subjected himself to. Never had he felt so inadequate in his life—not even when his sister had been taken by Nergal, or when he watched as Elbert—

No, now was not the time to dwell on that, either.

The sound of careful footsteps crunching in the grass behind him pulled him from his thoughts and he glanced back over his shoulder. Eliwood smiled gently at Nils as he approached, some papers in his hands.

"Good afternoon, Nils," he greeted. Nils nodded his head slightly in response.

Eliwood walked forward to take a spot standing next to Nils. "You have been staring out at the sky again…" he said quietly, which made Nils glance away. "I can't tell you how to feel. But know that you aren't alone, and if you do need to talk… well, there are many of us here, myself included, that are here for you Nils."

Nils had heard this more than once from his brother-in-law. While he appreciated the sentiment, he was not particularly sure he was ready to open up just yet.

"Is there something you needed help with, Eliwood?" he asked as he looked up to the marquess. Eliwood looked to the parchments in his hands and sifted through them.

"We were just going over these documents you drew up for us and had a few small questions, is all. Would you have a moment to answer?" Eliwood looked to Nils. He had an understanding but expectant look in his eyes.

Nils nodded. "Yes, I do."

The redhead seemed pleased. "Great. Thank you. Come with me, we were discussing this in the main hall…"

With a slight motion of his hand, he bid Nils to follow him as he turned on his heel and proceeded back towards the mansion. Nils followed his brother as they made their way to the main hall. Eliwood opened the door to allow Nils in before him, and the manakete took a few steps into the room before halting with slightly widened eyes.

A friend he had not seen in many years stood but a few paces away, one hand on her hip as her other palm supported her weight against the table as she read the diagrams laid out for them.

"Lyn?"

The green-haired woman looked their way and smiled as she stood up straight. "Nils, it's been a long time," Lyn greeted. "You look just as I remember you."

For some reason, a swell of emotion built in the smaller manakete's chest and his lips pursed as he held his feelings back. He could only manage a small nod in response. Eliwood smiled and closed the door quietly before walking past Nils and towards the table. After a moment of hesitation, Nils came to the table as well, though he kept watching Lyn all the while.

"I appreciate you coming, Lyn," Eliwood said as he set the parchments down on the table. "I know it has been a few years now since we last saw each other… so your prompt arrival means a lot."

Lyn shook her head and smiled. "There's no need. I heard what happened to Roy," she said. "There was no way I could simply ignore your request for help. Besides, Kent and Sain were itching to take a trip anyway, so it didn't take much to convince them to tag along."

A small chuckle escaped Eliwood's lips as he closed his eyes and shook his head. "I should not be surprised. They seemed as sprightly as ever."

She only shrugged, a smile still playing on her face as she looked to Nils. "So, you both are deciding to build a Dragon's Gate…" she started as she looked to the marquess again, "Right here, in Pherae. I'm sure you already thought over it long and hard, but are you absolutely sure that this is going to work?"

Eliwood only shook his head, and Nils glanced away. "No… we're not sure," Nils said quietly. "But it's the only option we have left… the Dragon's Gate that was on Dread Isle was completely blown to bits when those mages attacked Roy and I, after I pushed Roy through the gate. And Eliwood didn't want us to build something far away since it would be hard to keep quick progress going if everyone had to travel back and forth between Pherae and the gate…"

Nils laced his fingers behind him, resting his hands on the small of his back sheepishly as he kept his gaze averted. Eliwood glanced to Nils. "He's correct. And though I know it's a potential danger… well, it is a risk I am willing to take for the time being, while we try to bring my son back," he added before looking to Lyn again. She only nodded.

"Run in first, ask questions later… you're sounding like Hector," she mused.

Eliwood rested his fingertips on the table as he turned his attention to the parchments and drawings sprawled across the wood. "Perhaps."

After a short silence, Eliwood cleared his throat slightly, drawing the attention of the other two in the room. "Nils, the reason I had Lyn come here was to request her help, as you are aware. However, we have more than enough hands as far as the actual construction of the gate goes."

Nils furrowed his brow a little, unsure of where his brother was going with this. Eliwood tapped his knuckle to the table slightly before picking up the parchment that had been beneath his fingers. "I have finished reading over all of the notes you took, Nils, and had a couple of concerns that require travel. Since I am more or less required to stay here, especially in Roy's absence, Lyn has agreed to address these issues in my stead."

"Okay…" Nils responded slowly, still unsure. "Then you needed me here for…?"

The marquess picked up the paper in his hand and kept his eyes trained on it as he went over Nils' scrawling again. "You had concerns about the gate's power source…" he recounted as he looked over the notes, "Isn't that right?"

A slow nod.

"Right," Eliwood started again, looking to Nils. "If you think it might take more power than you and Fa have, then perhaps having someone travel to Arcadia would be able to persuade a few more dragons to assist... and if you would be willing to go along to help them talk to-"

Immediately, Nils shook his head and threw his arms to the sides. "No," he practically shouted, but quietened once he realized how strong his reaction had been. "I don't…"

Lyn frowned a little and crossed her arms under her chest. "You don't want to go there, do you," she said. Nils lowered his arms and stared down at the floor. "Nils… why?"

He shook his head and put his forehead in one of his hands. After a moment that felt like an eternity, he finally mumbled, "… That's where my father…" His thought trailed and he found himself unable to say anything further.

The other two exchanged glances and Eliwood felt as if he had requested far too much of Nils. However, with the situation as dire as it was, he turned to look at his brother again. "Nils… I know it is hard for you…" he started, "My father… he died in my arms. I watched him take his last breath. But for you, you had to watch your father live on even after his soul had long since left him."

Nils grit his teeth. "Is this supposed to make me feel better…" he muttered.

The paper in Eliwood's hands crumpled in the corner as he gripped it just slightly tighter. "… What I am trying to say is… it was very difficult for me to come back to Pherae, and to this castle, after my father's death. There was more than one occasion where I would call out for him to show him something I had discovered, only to receive no answer… and the memories of that day would flood back like a wildfire," he explained. "But… I had to stay strong for my people, my friends… my wife. Even though there were times that I wanted to turn my back and run away in my grief, I…"

Lyn was quiet—though her and Eliwood had been friends for many years by now, he had never spoken so freely about his feelings. He always took things in stride or with a smile. It made sense that he would have struggles too—it's not like he lacked humanity, after all—but to hear him admit them out loud made them reality instead of imagination. Nils relaxed a little bit as his gaze rose up to Eliwood. Now it had been Eliwood's turn to focus on the floor as he thought back to his past.

"… But even in the times where I found myself falling into grief, I had those friends and family to pull me back out again before I drowned. Even my mother, before she passed." Eliwood lowered the paper back to the table and turned his attention to Nils once more, "You have withstood so much and are far stronger than I could ever hope to be. But… if you ever find yourself struggling to stay afloat, please remember that your friends, and I as your brother-in-law, am here for you. I say it often, but I truly mean every word."

That emotion Nils felt earlier built in his chest again, so high that it began to escape from his eyes as he tried to fight back his tears. Red eyes clenched shut as his shoulders shook with a quiet sob. His reaction to Eliwood's suggested plan and his encouraging words had been so strong—had Nils really been bottling up his emotions this much? Nils swore he was okay, happy even, with the resolution from years past; he had moved beyond losing his mother, beyond Ninian's first death, beyond his distrust of humans, beyond laying his father to rest after hundreds of years of torment, beyond leaving through the Dragon's Gate alone… and beyond learning of his sister's actual death after she had given birth to Roy.

Recounting it all just made his heart ache. Maybe he had not been okay with it after all. Having to bear witness to his nephew falling under the same horrible spell that had taken his sister away from him the first time and having him so quickly ripped away through the Dragon's Gate, must have triggered a slew of dark emotions Nils had buried over the years.

A gentle hand on his shoulder brought him from his thoughts and he raised his head to see Lyn in front of him with a sympathetic smile. "We are still here for you Nils. Your pain is our pain to share. You won't be alone."

He swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat and, after a few more sniffles, nodded. Lyn's smile grew and the corners of Eliwood's lips turned upwards as well.

"… Alright… I'll go," he said quietly. "To… to Arcadia, with Lyn."

Eliwood came to Nils as Lyn stepped back to allow him room by his brother. The marquess pulled his brother in for a firm hug.

"Thank you, Nils," he said. After a stunned moment of silence, Nils returned the gesture.

"Yeah…" he said. "I'll do whatever I can to get Roy back. For you… for my sister."

After a long night and a few hours of early-morning preparations, primarily because Lyn had insisted on assisting in the actual physical building of the gate while she was there, they were ready to set off for the hidden city of Arcania.

Kent and Sain acted just as they did years back—those two managed to find a smile in any situation. It was contagious, Nils thought, as he had caught himself smiling and holding back chuckles on more than one occasion throughout the last few hours.

Perhaps getting those few tears out earlier lifted some of the weight that had kept his heart chained down for so many years. At least, he hoped it was that.

The jingle of the metal rivets and loops on Lyn's horse's bridle was oddly calming as she brought her horse to Nils and Eliwood, who had been standing by the manakete's side.

"Well, we've got all of our things ready," she said as she patted her horse's neck. "Nils, are you ready to go?"

He shifted on his feet and glanced to Eliwood a little before turning to Lyn again with a nod. "I think so," he said. "I haven't… actually had to travel there myself, so I'll have to hope you can get us there."

"Well, we will not be going alone," Lyn said as Fa bounded towards them with Kent and Sain in tow.

"Fa will show you how to get there! Fa will show you!" she cheered. "Fa is from Arcadia!"

Sain rubbed the back of his head and grinned. "We're going to have our hands full, but I've been itching for another adventure. It's been a long time."

Kent nodded in agreement. "Arcadia's pretty far away too. So that means a lot of sightseeing along the way…"

Lyn rolled her eyes. "We are not here to sightsee, you two. We have an important mission."

Both Kent and Sain shrugged a little. Eliwood seemed amused as he put his hand to one of the horse's noses. "Well, regardless, please do travel safely. Arcadia is far away."

After exchanging their goodbyes, they all mounted their horses, with Fa sitting behind Lyn and Nils behind Kent. Eliwood stepped back a few paces and waved as Lyn's horse took off, with Kent and Sain following.

Nils looked back as they departed, and his eyes met with Eliwood's as the marquess was lowering his arm. There was a fire in his irises that Nils had seen only a few times before, years ago- the most notable of which being when everything was on the line as he stood against Nergal. Nils could remember that day like it was yesterday; Eliwood had held himself firm with determination, unwilling to back down, even when faced with immeasurable odds. It was then that he saw the true strength and power of Eliwood's relationships with his comrades.

That look was in his eyes again. That determination and trust—though this time, it was meant for Nils.

Nils… We will do this. Together.

Chapter Text

There was naught but darkness. Embraced by cold, Roy felt nothing but the bitter drift of the void—there was no sound, no life, nothing.

Surely, this was where he would find rest, right?

Though just as he felt himself letting go, a thread tugged at him.

"Roy," came an ethereal voice.

That empty abyss devoid of anything began to melt away into something far more tangible—though still, he could not see.

"Roy…"

There came that voice once more. It was gentle, soft… warm. Loving. For some reason, the beat of his heart—when did that begin to beat again, he wondered—quickened at the sound. His chest ached, but not from pain, only a distant longing.

"Roy… open your eyes."

Slowly, his eyes slipped open. Everything was a haze as his vision returned slowly, and his surroundings became more apparent.

He was slumped on the ground, against a wall. His arms were limp at his sides and his eyes shifted as he slowly glanced back and forth, surveying the room. It was a large hall, with pillars and statues of dragons lining each wall. Everything was timeworn—the walls were beginning to crumble, the tiled floors were cracked, and some tiles were misaligned. A soft, otherworldly glow seemed to emanate from everything around him, as if it was charged with some sort of magical energy- or as if it were not even real.

The air was cool as it met his nostrils and lungs with each inhale.

His gaze rose higher, and far in front of him was an empty throne. No one was there, and it seemed like no one had sat in it for a very long time.

"Roy…"

His head lifted as he looked upwards towards the ceiling. As his neck stretched and his head tilted back, he swallowed the lump in his throat. It was sore and dry, like he had not breathed or drank water in ages.

Slowly, he willed himself to stand. His legs were weak, and the world rocked as he shakily pulled himself up, the palms of his hands pressing wearily into the rough stone wall behind him to keep him from collapsing. His head was heavy and he could feel the blood pumping through his veins behind his eyes as he suffered through a horrible headache; one of his hands pulled from the wall to cover his mouth as he tried to keep himself from being sick.

After the initial wave of pressure and nausea subsided, he lowered his hand from his face and carefully looked forward once more towards the throne.

"Roy…"

He took one step. Though his footsteps were gentle, the sound echoed for what felt like eternity—as if he was still entrapped in an endless void. One step turned into a second, and then a third and a fourth; eventually, he had trudged his way to the throne that had been so far away. His eyes stayed trained on the ruby cloth of the seat.

"Keep going."

Without hesitation, he began wandering further into this place. Not knowing where he was, or where he was going, or even why he was there in the first place. That tiny thread continued to tug his soul along as he travelled further into the labyrinth's depths.

The silence was deafening. All he heard was the echoing of his own footsteps down the halls of this ethereal warren. If he had been more lucid, he would have been driven mad.

Slowly he stumbled down halls and halls of emptiness. Each new hall, each new room looked just the same as the last. Up staircases, down staircases—no matter which way he meandered, everything looked the same. Empty thrones upon empty thrones, decrepit halls upon decrepit halls.

The further he travelled, the less he felt of his physical self—the painful throbbing in his head, the searing burn of the hole in his chest, and the stiffness of his limbs were less and less apparent as he continued. Memories, muddled but still strangely clear, flitted in and out of his mind as the energy in the air thickened.

That glow grew brighter with each passing step. Upon rounding one more corner, Roy was met with a wide staircase that appeared endless.

"You're almost there…"

With those words coaxing him, he began his ascent. With each step, it became less and less daunting, and his soul felt lighter the higher he climbed. That light emanating was nearly pure white now.

Eventually, his surroundings were completely swallowed by the light, and he could not step further.

"You made it…" that gentle voice called again. It was as if the voice embraced him from both everywhere and nowhere at once; there was a warm, familiar feeling that the coldness of Roy's soul sorely lacked and longed for.

From that empty whiteness, the visage of a woman appeared—though Roy was unsure of when she came to be, or if she had actually been there the whole time.

He had never seen her before, and yet at the same time, he knew exactly who she was.

"… Mother…" came his hoarse voice, jarring yet quiet.

Ninian smiled. "Look at how you've grown…" she said, heartfelt pride evident in her eyes as she looked upon him. "Just like your father…"

As soon as her voice met his ears, it was as if that gentle thread that had been tugging him suddenly yanked his soul back into himself. No longer was he wandering in the light without consciousness. His eyes slowly grew from lidded to wide as the reality of who he was facing hit him.

"You've struggled so much," she said quietly. "I am sorry that I have not been here for you…"

His heart was pounding in his chest and his body burned as adrenaline hit him. It was almost too much to handle.

"You're… really her," Roy barely stammered.

A gentle smile eased his nerves, albeit only slightly. "I am. I am Ninian… and you are my son, Roy," she responded.

It was as if a bubble burst in his chest as his eyes grew moist with tears that threatened to spill over.

Her expression grew saddened as she closed her red eyes and put a hand to her chest. "You have suffered so much, and yet you are still so strong… it has been a blessing to be able to watch over you now, as I have been…"

He swallowed hard as one tear streaked down his cheek. "You've been… watching over me?"

She opened her eyes again and looked to him with a small nod. "The stone."

He did not need to ask for clarification—immediately he reached to his satchel and searched its contents. After a moment of searching, he removed his hand, having procured that mysterious stone that had fallen from his shirt when he first woke in the ports of Galder. That once dull surface now glowed with a soft teal-white light, as if it had awakened from slumber.

"That… is my dragonstone," she said quietly, causing Roy's attention to snap to her once more. "My brother… your uncle, he gave this to you. I had put all the power I had into that stone, and even though I have died, what is left of me in that dragonstone has allowed my soul to keep watch over you."

The realization that Roy's mother had been watching over him through his journey in this foreign land caused more tears to bud and stream down his face. He had no words as his gaze shifted from his mother to the dragonstone in his hand.

"You are not alone…" Ninian said quietly, her voice sounding farther away than before. "I am with you… I promise. And… so are all of your friends… that you have made along the way…"

Her voice grew quieter as she spoke, and Roy tilted his head upwards to look to her once more—only to be panicked by the sight of her fading into white.

"W… wait," he stuttered, realizing her vision was fading before him.

She smiled at him. "Roy. Be strong…"

His body shook as he reached out to her with his free hand. "Wait, wait—please… I want to talk with you more, I—"

His voice, body, and consciousness were sucked away into the light.

"Wake up, Roy."

The events of four days ago had been weighing heavily on Marth's mind.

His rapier had plunged cleanly into Roy's chest—thankfully, however, it had been far enough to the right that he missed anything vital. Though Marth was horrified by what he had to do, he was thankful that his comrade did not die by his own hands.

There was no way the prince could have forgiven himself for his actions if it had ended in death. Even now, he struggled to cope. That memory of Roy's eyes looking back into his, lifelessness overtaking them, plagued him like a nightmare.

He had hardly left his comrade's bedside in the infirmary since he had been taken in for healing. At first, there was always a cleric at Roy's side, working on his wounds. However, over the course of the last few days, they had come in less frequently as his condition grew fairer.

That should have eased Marth's fears. However, the prince still found himself wrought with worry over his friend's physical state.

Though the chirurgeons had assisted in the healing of his physical cuts, burns, and punctures, there was still an aspect of his condition that had Marth feeling cold: Roy's right arm, half of his chest, and part of his neck were covered in a crystalline growth. It looked just like the crystal that grew over him while he was a dragon, but instead of being spiked, it was like a rough sheet of glass or ice.

Marth had never seen anything quite like it before, and perhaps more worryingly, neither had any of their healers. Without thinking, he found himself slowly reaching out to his friend's arm to touch it.

His fingertips brushed against the crystalline limb, and a shudder ran up his spine. It felt unnatural to the touch—cold, yet hot with energy at the same time. His eyes stayed fixated on it as he got lost in the light blue glow.

Eventually, his gaze shifted up to his comrade's face. His hair had been cleaned of blood, yet it was still quite matted since he had been unconscious for so long now. Small beads of sweat dotted his forehead, and his eyebrows twitched every now and then.

Seeing Roy like this ripped at Marth's heart in a way he only felt once before, when his father died.

The prince let out the breath he had been holding and allowed his eyes to slip shut. His hand rested fully on Roy's forearm as he attempted to concentrate. His reaction had been so strong—to wail in agony as he had as he clutched at his comrade was wholly unlike him, and yet it was the first thing his heart yearned to do.

Perhaps…

With a slight shake of the head, Marth wished the idea away, and opened his eyes once more to look at Roy again.

His heart skipped a beat as he was met by a familiar ice blue gaze.

Chapter Text

That blue gaze sent Marth's thoughts in a whirl.

Roy's awakening had evoked such a strong emotion from him that the prince had attempted to immediately rise to his feet and call for one of their bishops. However, as he rose, Roy's arm slipped from under Marth's palm and a crystalline hand gently grasped at the prince's, halting him before a word was even allowed to slip from his mouth. Marth looked down to their hands, and then to Roy, who had been looking right back into his eyes, his expression weary, but alert.

A gentle and weak grip on Marth's hand coaxed the prince to sit once more, and so he did, keeping his eyes trained on his comrade's all the while. Nothing was said for a few moments as Roy stared into Marth's eyes, and the latter could tell that Roy was thinking hard about something—he could see the gears turning even behind his tired gaze.

"You're real… right?" came the redhead's hushed voice.

The question gave Marth pause and his hand twitched in Roy's grip before carefully tightening around it.

"Indeed," Marth said quietly, though his heart was racing. He could hear the pounding in his ears as his nerves buzzed about in his chest.

A long moment of silence ensued as Roy considered Marth's words and continued to search the prince's eyes as if he were trying to determine if it was a lie. Eventually, a small, slow breath escaped Roy's lips as he visibly relaxed, and the grip on Marth's hand loosened slightly.

"You're right," Roy finally concluded as his eyes slipped shut again.

Swallowing a lump in his throat, Marth sidled closer to the side of the bed as he looked at his friend.

"How are you feeling?" came his gentle question, causing the redhead to open his eyes once more.

"A little… worse for wear," Roy admitted. "But I can't really… feel a whole lot at all right now."

Roy's breath hitched in his throat and he coughed. Marth quickly stood, carefully setting his friend's hand back down on the bed as he did so.

"Let me get you some water," he said as he reached to the bedside table to pick up the small cup of water that had been sitting there since that morning. Roy only grunted as the cup was carefully placed to his lips and tilted just enough to let some of the cool liquid quench his thirst and calm his throat.

With another small cough, he turned his head just enough to signal that he was finished, and Marth pulled away before setting the cup back down on the wooden nightstand. He retook his seat at Roy's bedside and rested his hands in his lap, waiting to say anything until Roy was ready to speak again.

There was another long silence before Roy opened his eyes again to stare up at the ceiling.

"How long have I… been unconscious?" he asked quietly, his voice significantly less strained now after having some water.

Marth pursed his lips. "It has been four days."

With a small hum of acknowledgement, the sheets began to shift as Roy started to move his arms. Marth, realizing that his friend was going to try to sit up, quickly leaned over to stop him with a gentle hand on the uninjured side of his chest.

"Please," Roy insisted. "I need to sit up… my back is sore."

The prince hesitated before nodding apprehensively. He moved his hands to Roy's back and shoulder to help lift him off of the bed and prop him up against the headboard. With a shuddering exhale, Roy shifted his weight to sit a little more comfortably and he opened his eyes again to look at Marth, the two of them still close.

"Thanks," he mumbled, and with a nervous smile, Marth removed his hands and sat back down.

Roy's gaze shifted downward to himself, examining his exposed torso. His expression was critical as he glanced over himself, looking over all of the cuts, bruises, and burns that littered his skin. He paused as he studied the puncture wound on the right side of his chest, and Marth could feel his hands clam up as he followed Roy's gaze to the wound. Guilt gripped him like a vice as the prince furrowed his brow and averted his gaze in shame.

Noticing Marth's reaction, Roy tilted his head to look at his friend. "Marth," he called, and the prince apprehensively turned his attention to Roy once more. The knowing expression on Roy's face made Marth want to retreat his gaze, but he refused to do so as they stared at each other. Roy frowned. "Please, don't feel guilty."

Once again, Marth found himself turning away, but the careful grip of a crystal hand on his wrist bid him not to.

"Thank you for stopping me."

Marth pursed his lips at Roy's words, before shakily whispering. "I… almost killed you. How could you thank me for such a thing?"

Slowly, Roy let go of Marth's arm and rested his hand on the bed. "It shows me that you have unwavering resolve. Even when faced with a difficult choice… in the end, you did what was right."

With a shake of his head, Marth protested, "No. There could have been another way—"

"Marth," Roy interjected firmly, "If you hadn't stabbed me… I would have killed you."

His words made Marth's blood run cold. That lump had formed in his throat again and he swallowed it in his nerves. Marth certainly knew that Roy was right—if he had not been stopped there, Marth and everyone else likely would have perished. Though logically he knew this, every fibre of his being refused to accept it as the truth.

Roy could sense Marth's internal turmoil and smiled a little sympathetically. "You did the right thing," he repeated. "And that shows me that you are true to your cause… certainly a person worth serving and worth dying for."

Marth whipped his head up to look directly at Roy, his expression bewildered. "Do not speak of dying. I will not have it… not after…"

His attention drifted to that wound once more and his words were stolen from him. At this point, the wound was healing well, but would certainly scar over, leaving a permanent reminder of what transpired between them just four days ago. His heart wretched at the thought, but he willed himself to speak again.

"Not after what I have done," Marth continued. "Though it was the right choice to make, I will still live with the consequences of my actions. This guilt will… hopefully fade with time, but right now is too soon to have it slip away."

With an understanding nod, Roy let out a huff of breath. "That's fair. But… tell me… what is this?"

Roy raised his crystallized arm just enough to draw attention to it. Marth shook his head.

"I don't know," the prince responded. "Neither do the chirurgeons. We were hoping you would have some idea."

Roy considered the condition of his arm and chest with a thoughtful hum. He twisted his arm and moved his fingers slightly, as if testing the flexibility of his limb, and bent his arm at the elbow to pull his hand closer to himself. After another few moments of thought, he simply shook his head.

"I don't know," Roy finally said. "But… it feels strange. It's cold. But at the same time, it feels like it's burning."

His description drew concern from Marth. "Does it hurt?"

Roy shook his head again. "No. It just… is. If that makes any sense. I feel it, but I'm not agonizing."

How puzzling, Roy thought. From what little he remembered of his rampage, these crystals were present then, too. He could distinctly remember the inability to move as he trudged forward towards Marth, right before his comrade dealt the final blow, and how his body felt just as it does now.

Unfortunately, it seemed like yet another mystery for him to tack on to the ever-growing list of mysteries that inundated him. With a small sigh, he lowered his hand to his lap.

"I guess there's no use wondering about it now, if no one knows anything," Roy conceded.

The tone of his voice made Marth frown sadly. He sounded almost defeated, which was quite unlike him. Thinking on what to say to shift the subject, Marth got an idea.

"Say… Roy," Marth started, catching his friend's attention. "While you were unconscious, I noticed your expression…"

The redhead quirked his brow slightly at Marth's words, and the prince could feel his face heat up slightly at the realization that he had been staring for such a long time while Roy had been unconscious. How strange it must have sounded to Roy for Marth to begin to mention such a thing, but the prince pressed onward regardless, his curiosity be damned.

"Your expression changed a few times," Marth continued, "It was as if you were having a dream, but you appeared very emotional. Actually…"

He shifted in his seat and elected to find literally anything else in the room more interesting than the person in front of him as he avoided eye contact. "There was one moment where it seemed as though you were going to cry. It was not long before you woke. Your brow knitted and twitched so often that it was like you were reacting to something."

At that, Roy stiffened with surprise. So, that labyrinth really was something that he dreamt, but at the same time…

It had felt very real.

At first, all Roy could muster was a thoughtful hum. He squinted as he focused on the blankets covering his lower half, and examined the wrinkles of the fabric draping over his legs. "You're right."

Marth turned to his friend upon hearing his confirmation. Roy looked up to Marth again, his eyes as clear as ever as he seemed to be recalling the events of his dream.

"I met someone from my past," Roy said. Marth's eyes widened in surprise, and Roy paused before clarifying, "It was my mother. Her name is Ninian."

"Ninian…" Marth repeated. It was quite a foreign sounding name—he had never heard anything like it.

With an affirmative nod, Roy continued, "She… said she had died. But she was watching over me, even now, from beyond. And…"

He paused, the memory of her words causing his heart to throb ever so slightly. His crystallized hand slowly pulled at the blanket covering him as he gripped it, recalling the encounter.

"She told me that I was not alone," he said. "That she would be with me. As would all of you."

A wave of calm washed over Roy as his eyes slid shut. He thought he had been done, but more came back to him as he reached out into that light to remember her.

"She said she was proud of me. And that I reminded her of my father," he added. "And that even though I have suffered… I am strong."

The prince took note of his comrade's hands and shoulders quivering as he recounted his late mother's words. He tenderly placed his own hand on Roy's, a gesture that quelled the shaking, even if just for a moment.

Roy's expression grew solemn as he stared down at Marth's hand on his own. "I didn't get to speak to her much. She disappeared not long after that… and then I must have woken up."

Marth could not say anything at first; actually, even though he wanted nothing more to commiserate with Roy, the words refused to form in his head. Though even with the lack of verbal response, his heart ached for his friend—an emotion that was so strong that Roy could certainly feel it as he continued to stare at their overlapping hands, and then to his own arm again. The glinting of the crystal covering his skin was almost bewitchingly cold—though he knew nothing of its source or where it came from, and perhaps he should have been scared…

His gaze traced along his forearm and slowly back down to his comrade's hand on his own. That twinge of something in his chest needled at him again, and that coldness was overtaken by an overwhelming feeling of warmth. He allowed himself to relax for just a moment—his tense muscles appreciating the reprieve—and in that second, he remembered something more.

"Ah," Roy started, causing the prince to raise his head. "My satchel… where is it?"

Marth blinked at the sudden question. "Your satchel? Oh. Well," he turned his head to look towards the other end of the room, where a few pieces of Roy's clothing lay, along with his sword. "Most of your clothing was ruined from the fight, but I believe your satchel should be over there still. Let me get it for you."

He rose from his seat and, with graceful footsteps, proceeded to the other end of the room as Roy watched. Marth was not wearing any of his usual armor—only his tunic, pants, and boots—and Roy realized that this was actually the first time since the port town library that the two of them have been in such casual company.

All things considered, it was nice to have a moment of quiet like this, where Marth could feel comfortable enough to be without all of that gear. After what seemed like weeks of endless fighting, Roy figured the young prince was appreciating these days of downtime. Well, minus the part about him lingering by Roy's bedside for days on end—a thought that made Roy smirk absentmindedly in amusement.

"What is it that has you smirking?" Marth questioned as he returned to Roy, satchel in hand.

Roy only shook his head as he deflected, "It's nothing." Marth seemed unconvinced, but decided against prying. He smiled and held out the satchel—now certainly worse for wear after the last battle—to Roy for him to take.

With careful hands, Roy took the satchel and flipped open the mouth to search through it. Marth tilted his head curiously as he watched his friend rummage through the bag. It did not take the redhead long to remove his hand from the bag, holding that chipped stone in his non-crystallized fingers.

"Ah, that's the stone from when we first found you," Marth recognized. "Wait…"

That soft glow that Roy had seen in his dream was still present. The prince could see how his friend's expression grew surprised, as if he had not been expecting the stone to be glowing as it was.

"It's still glowing," Roy mumbled. "So… she really was real."

Marth's brow furrowed at Roy's words as curiosity set in. "What do you mean?"

Roy looked from the stone to Marth. "This is… my mother's dragonstone. Apparently my uncle gave it to me at some point before you found me. This is how she's been keeping watch over me…"

To say Marth was surprised would have been an understatement. "So, then your mother was a dragon?" What an interesting discovery, Marth thought. He scanned over the stone in his friend's fingers quizzically.

"Well… thank you, lady Ninian, for watching over him," Marth said, directing his words at the stone. Roy shot Marth an astonished look, and Marth only smiled back at Roy and put his hand to his own chest. "It seems only fair for her to receive my thanks as if she were standing here with us."

It felt as if Roy's heart was in his throat as he listened to Marth's words.

Marth continued, "Besides, I would like to think that perhaps she might be why you are still here now," his voice grew hushed as he picked his words carefully, "So I am certainly grateful to her for… keeping one of my closest comrades alive, to fight another day by my side."

A silence fell between the two as Roy processed Marth's words. Slowly, he lowered his gaze to the glowing dragonstone in his hand. "… I suppose you're right. Full glad am I that my time was not cut short."

Marth said nothing, but he could not help but agree entirely. Yes, thank the gods that he had not died, the prince thought to himself.

A gentle knock at the door pulled their attentions towards the entrance to the room.

"Please come in," Marth said.

The door creaked as it opened slightly, and Wrys stepped in. His expression grew shocked when he saw Roy sitting up in his bed.

"Roy, you're awake," he stammered as he shut the door behind him and came towards the two, relieved. "It's good to see you lucid. I was just stopping by to begin your next round of healing…"

Marth noticed the way Wrys' words trailed, and he took a slight step back from the bed. "I suppose then that I shall take my leave for now," he said with a smile, and Roy turned to look towards Marth with a confused expression. To that, Marth only chuckled. "I'm certain you would not wish for me to see you in naught but your smallclothes, right?"

At that, Roy's cheeks flushed almost as red as his hair as he got the picture. "A…ah, right."

With another chuckle, Marth began to walk towards the door. "Roy, I will see you later this evening. Please, try to get some rest. Don't push yourself too soon… okay?"

"Yeah, I'll try not to," Roy said. "But I can't make any promises."

Marth glanced back towards him with a knowing glint in his eyes. "I expected no different," he said, the corners of his mouth still tugged upwards into the slightest of smiles.

With that, the prince excused himself from the room, the door closing behind him with a soft click.

Chapter Text

The desert sun was harsh as it blazed overhead, shining upon the sea of sand that was the Nabata Desert. Beads of sweat dotted the cavaliers' foreheads as they ferried Nils and Fa through the desert, with Fa directing them as she perched behind Lyn on her horse. Sain was almost certain by that point that they had gotten lost, and that Fa was just sending them in circles, but the small manakete insisted they were almost there.

For the sixth time in the last couple hours she insisted once more that they were certainly, assuredly almost to Arcadia. Nils let out a small sigh as he put his hand to his forehead. Though being a manakete provided him with great resilience, he was an ice dragon, so this heat was certainly not something he was used to—and honestly, with how excruciating it was, he would be more than happy to never be subjected to it again.

How he hated the burn of the sun. It reminded him of the flames of that day all those years ago…

He let out a small sigh, and Kent looked back to his passenger. "Something on your mind, kid?" he asked.

Nils grumbled. "I am not a kid," he corrected. "And… no. I'm just a little hot, is all."

Lyn glanced back over her shoulder in the direction of Kent's horse. "As an ice dragon, this must be quite difficult for you," she commented, and Nils only hummed in confirmation.

"Fa promises we are—" she started, only to be cut off by Sain.

"—Fa, you've promised us this like seven times now. When will we be there?" he prodded.

The manakete puffed her cheeks with a scowl and fluttered her wings as she shot Sain a look. "Why did you interrupt Fa? Fa was saying, Fa promises we are there now! Look that way!"

She pointed somewhere between one and two o'clock, and in the distance, what appeared to be a wall of sand came into view. With a few rapid blinks, Sain groaned.

"Not this shit again," he grumbled, "I'm so tired of these sandstorms."

"Oh, quit whining," Kent said as he rolled his eyes. "This just means we're actually almost there!"

"Let's go, we've no time to waste," Lyn ordered, ignoring their bickering.

With a shout and kick of her heel, her horse took off towards the sandstorm with Fa gripping tightly to Lyn's dress so she would not fall off. Kent and Sain fell in line behind her and Nils preemptively pulled his scarf up over his face to protect himself from the vicious sandstorm.

The howling wind was deafening as they trudged their way through the violent sands. Though their voices were sucked away in the tempest, Nils was fairly certain he heard more than his fair share of curses coming from the two cavaliers as they tried to steer their horses. As they neared the eye of the sandstorm, Lyn could see the light peeking through ahead, between the flying granules of sand. With one more push, she bid her horse to go faster, and eventually, they broke free of the storm.

With a loud inhale, Nils pulled his head from his scarf- he had been holding his breath that entire time to keep from swallowing any sand. He opened his eyes to look ahead and immediately tensed from amazement at what he saw.

A beautiful oasis in the middle of the storm, with grass, trees and springs was before them. Buildings made of sandstone dotted the area, and he could see people outside, interacting with one another.

"We're here, we're here!" Fa cheered as she hopped off Lyn's horse. "Let's go!"

Without a moment of hesitation, the smaller manakete hurried off, practically skipping as she went towards the old city of Arcadia. The other four looked between each other and Lyn nodded and continued behind Fa. As they neared the city, a few of the inhabitants looked their way, their expressions tensing in shock at the sight of foreign people coming into their city through the sandstorm. Though once they noticed Fa, they visibly relaxed, recognizing the small manakete as a friend.

Once Fa reached the town, she turned on her heel and hopped a few times with her wings fluttering behind her. "Come on, come on!"

Lyn could not help but smile faintly at the girl's enthusiasm. Nils was quiet as he glanced around a bit, examining the area.

"This is the city of humans and dragons…?" he mused quietly. It was more quaint than he had expected. Lyn slowed her horse to a stop ahead of Sain and Kent, and the two cavaliers followed suit as they surveyed the area as well.

There were a handful of buildings and a large temple in the outskirts, near the water's edge. Lyn put her hand to her chin and thought about something for a moment before dismounting her horse.

"Fa," she began. "Who is it that we can speak with here for help?"

The little manakete smiled and thought. "Fa can take you to the Elder! Maybe the Elder can help."

With a puzzled glance, Lyn looked back to Nils, who only shrugged before he carefully got off Kent's horse. He had never been to Arcadia himself, so he knew just as little as the Lyn.

Fa bounded over to Nils and took his hand. "Come on!" she pulled on him, almost causing him to trip as she fluttered down the path towards the old temple. The two cavaliers dismounted their horses and joined up with Lyn before following the two manaketes towards the old building.

As they walked—well, for Nils, stumbled—up the steps to the temple entrance, the boy felt a strange tightness begin to form in his chest. It was an unsettling feeling somewhere between foreboding and loneliness. It grew more and more overpowering the higher up the stairs they climbed, and Nils found himself pulling his hand away from Fa, which made the smaller manakete look back to him.

"Nils?" she asked. His brow was furrowed and he shook his head.

"… What is that feeling?" he asked.

Fa frowned a little. She knew what feeling he was referring to, it seemed. "Fa will show you, but, you have to keep going, okay?"

Nils stared at the girl for a moment. Their pause had given Lyn, Kent, and Sain the opportunity to catch up, and the others stopped just behind the two manaketes.

"Is something wrong, Nils?" Lyn asked him, noting his hesitation.

"… No," he finally responded. "Let's… keep going."

Fa nodded and continued up the stairs, this time letting Nils walk himself, and he quietly ascended the steps behind her. Lyn's expression hardened as she watched Nils walk ahead, knowing that he had lied, though she was unsure why.

"… I suppose we will find out soon enough…" she mumbled to herself as she also continued onward.

They finally made it to the entrance to the temple—the sandstone doors were many meters higher than any of them were, their imposing nature only amplified by the pit that Nils felt in his stomach. They were ornate, but in a very primitive way, as if the runes and depictions on the doors had been etched in thousands of years ago. The doors groaned and scraped the ground as they opened, revealing the inside of the temple.

In a way, the sight was haunting, yet beautiful, like a glance through a lens that saw back in time to an era long since passed. The halls were a beautiful azure and crystals lined the floors and walls. Pillars reached high into the ceilings that almost seemed too tall to be real.

Though the sight was incredible, Nils found the experience greatly hampered by that growing feeling of loneliness that clutched his chest, threatening to suck his life dry. By this point, he just wanted to turn away and get as far from this place as possible.

"Elder, elder!" called Fa, and off in the depths of the main hall, an older man looked towards them. Beside him was what appeared to be two women: both had long lavender-tinted hair, and one of them was holding a book. The other one…

Nils' breath caught in his throat as he made eye contact with the other woman; her mismatched red and green eyes gazed back into his, and though they were quite a distance away, Nils could feel her energy as it pierced through him, reaching to his very core.

He had never felt anything like it. This woman was clearly a dragon of some sort—but who was she?

What was she?

The older man smiled. "Fa!" he exclaimed. "You've returned…"

Fa happily bounded towards him and gave him an excited hug once she was within reach. She then turned to each of the other women and gave them hugs, as well, though the woman with mismatched eyes did not seem to return the gesture—she only watched with a small smile as the smaller girl nuzzled into her purple robes.

"Who is this you've brought with you?" the other girl asked Fa in a gentle tone.

"Oh!" Fa looked to the four she arrived with. "Come here, come here!"

She waved her arms to encourage Nils and the others to approach. Lyn, noticing Nils' tenseness, elected to take the lead and walked over first, with Kent and Sain following. Sain patted Nils on the back to coax him into moving as he walked by, and Nils pursed his lips before unhappily following suit.

"This is Lyn, Kent, Sain, and Nils," Fa introduced excitedly. Lyn bowed, as did Kent and Sain in introduction, but Nils stood firm.

"It's nice to meet you," the elder said. "Welcome to Arcadia. I am the elder here… these two beside me are Sophia and Idunn."

Lyn froze for a moment. "Idunn?" she asked. Though she had not met Idunn herself, she had heard stories about the demon dragon that had apparently been slain by Roy himself with the Binding Blade; but if the woman in front of them was that very same Idunn, then…

The elder nodded. "Yes," he responded, knowing where Lyn's mind had wandered. With her concerns now confirmed, she furrowed her brow, realizing why Nils may have been hesitant as he approached the temple. Nils looked between Lyn and the elder, not catching on—he knew nothing of "Idunn," but it was abundantly clear that there was some history between them.

Sophia frowned a little. "I know what you may be thinking…" she started. "But there's no reason to be worried about her now. She's no longer under the control of Zephiel…"

With an unsure glance, Lyn shifted and put her hand on her hip. "If that is what you say. I was told that she had been killed a few years ago."

"The Binding Blade that Roy used…" the elder stroked his chin, "That blade did not kill her. In truth, it freed her soul from the confines of the darkness, which Zephiel had been taking advantage of to keep her under his thumb when he was still alive. It has been a slow process, but she has been more emotional as of late. It is as if her soul is slowly returning to her as time passes. Lord Roy took mercy on her, and Fa brought her here, so she could live in peace, free from the dangers of mankind."

Nils took a slight step back as he glanced to Idunn again. Her eyes were trained on him once more, her gaze rooting him to the spot. Her power was immeasurable—to compare his power to hers would be like comparing a single grain of sand to the force of a raging sandstorm. The oppressive weight of her attention left him with a feeling akin to that of a trapped bird.

"… An ice dragon…" Idunn said quietly, making note of Nils' energy. With that, all attention was turned to her. Nils shifted uncomfortably as the elder's eyes narrowed.

"An ice dragon?" he questioned politely as his gaze shifted to Nils. "I see… it has been many years since one of your kind has come to Arcadia…"

After a moment of silence, the elder brought his hand to his chin once more in thought. "Though… this begs the question: what is it that brings you here?"

Fa's wings fluttered. "We need help!" Sophia tilted her head at Fa's exclamation.

"Help?" she asked.

"Yes," Lyn interjected as she removed her hand from her hip. "We need your help. May we have a moment of your time, elder?"

The older man only nodded. "Of course," he said.

Lyn recounted the situation to the three Arcadians. Roy's disappearance through the Dragon's Gate, the gate's destruction, and Eliwood's desire to build a new gate in Pherae. She further explained that needed extra help to power the gate and could not do it with just Nils and Fa alone.

"A new Dragon's Gate?" the elder questioned, bewildered. "That is an incredibly dangerous proposition."

Lyn only shook her head. "He is aware. But it is the only option we have left to try to retrieve Roy…"

Sophia frowned sadly. Roy had always shown her and the others nothing but kindness on their journey through Elibe. The thought of him being lost forever was troubling, to say the least.

"I am afraid I cannot condone the construction of such a portal," the elder said. "There will be no help from Arcadia in the reconstruction of this Dragon's Gate."

His words echoed through the hall, and the air grew still. Tensions rose as Lyn knit her brow and set her jaw in frustration. There had been the chance of this happening, but none of them sincerely considered it as they made their plans back in Pherae.

"Wait—what do you mean you won't help?" Sain asked, clearly annoyed. "We can't do this alone! Eliwood's never going to see his son again at this rate!"

The elder shook his head. "I am sorry for Marquess Pherae, but the dragons of Arcadia have already suffered enough at the hands of men trying to obtain power. While Eliwood's cause is pure in intention, the assistance of Arcadian dragons in the powering of this new Dragon's Gate will surely draw the attention of the nefarious."

Silence fell between the members of the group once more. While his answer was not the one they had hoped for, they could not deny the validity of his concerns. Sain let out an aggravated sigh, and Kent looked towards the floor with his hands firmly placed on his hips. Lyn clicked her tongue and crossed her arms under her chest as she tried to think over what to say next.

Nils was quiet. That guilt he had felt before they left Pherae had reared its ugly head again, consuming him. This trip had given him some hope that there would be a light at the end of this lonely tunnel, but alas, it had also ended in failure. That crushing feeling of defeat was only exacerbated by the lonely energy that was exuded by Idunn, and Nils lowered his head in sorrow.

The demon dragon watched as Nils' expression grew distraught, and she frowned slightly.

"… You need… power," she said quietly, which made everyone look to her again. Her eyes stayed fixated on Nils', however. "To… save Roy…?"

Nils swallowed. She had asked him that question, and the look in her eyes demanded an answer.

"… Yes…" Nils answered, his voice small as he held her gaze. Never in his life had he felt as insignificant as he did right now, cowering before what was objectively the most powerful dragon alive.

"… I want to help," she said quietly.

"Idunn," the elder started to interject, but she slowly looked towards him.

"No…" she said quietly. "Roy… he forgave me…"

There was a long, tense silence as the Elder and Idunn held each other's gazes. It was clear that Idunn was not going to back down, and at that, the Elder let out a slow sigh.

"… Please be careful," was all he said as he closed his eyes. "I do not wish for you to have your freedom torn from you again."

Idunn quietly returned her gaze to Nils, not paying anyone else in his party any mind. The fabric of her cloak rustled and slipped out of the way as she reached out her hand to him, a look of resolve hidden somewhere deep within her eyes.

"… I will… lend you my strength."

Chapter Text

It had been a week since the liberation of Akaneia. Princess Nyna had gracefully given Marth and his army free reign of the Millennium Court and the surrounding city so they could relax and recover their strength from the last battle, and prince Marth had taken the opportunity to explore the city as well as the castle now that Roy had woken up and was in fairer condition.

The people of Akaneia, with the help of Marth's own army, had done an incredible job tidying the place even after only a week of calm. Where just a short while ago the skies were filled with smoke and bodies littered the ground, much of the city was cleaned up, and some of the buildings that had been damaged by warfare were already in the process of being patched and repaired. It was clear that the people here held their country and princess in high regard—something that the young prince found himself aspiring to be more like with his own land and the people of Altea.

A wistful sigh escaped his lips as he slowed his gait to an eventual stop just outside of the courtyard of the castle. Ever since this war began and the oppression of Doluna gripped the continent, Marth had little time to himself; while he was generally more than happy to be there for everyone and certainly appreciated their willingness to trust in him as their leader, he found himself wishing that someone would listen to his own woes. The blades of grass swaying in the breeze beside the cobblestone path became increasingly more interesting as he dove further into his own thoughts.

His mind wandered to the events of a week ago. It was difficult now for him to let go during this moment of reprieve because of how much his previous actions plagued him. Though Roy had thanked Marth for stopping him—how silly, thought the prince as he closed his eyes—he could not help but continue to think in circles about how things may have gone differently if he had tried something else.

Of course, both he and Roy knew that there had been no other option, but that did not stop the prince from lamenting, nonetheless. After another few moments of silence, Marth decided to continue on his way through the courtyard.

As he reached the gardens of the castle, the stillness was broken by sounds of grunting and clanging somewhere in the near distance. Marth turned his head to listen and recognized the sound as someone fighting nearby. His shoulders tensed and without hesitation, he broke off in a sprint to find the source of the echoing sounds.

It did not take him long to discover what the sounds were coming from; as he rounded a corner, he saw a familiar redhead swinging his sword about, practicing against a thick bundle of straw. Jagen was with him at the time, his wrinkled arms crossed over his chest as he observed the younger swordsman striking at the dried hay. Jagen's lance was leaning against the brick wall beside him.

"Jagen? Roy?" Marth called out, drawing their attention to him as he walked their way. Jagen straightened and bowed as Marth approached.

"Sire, good afternoon," he responded. Roy rested the tip of his blade on the ground as he nodded towards Marth in greeting.

"What are you two doing?" the prince asked as he stopped not but a few paces away.

Roy craned his neck to the side as he narrowed his eyes curiously at Marth. "Practicing," he responded as he rested his free hand against his hip. "I was feeling restless…"

Before Marth could chastise his friend for being careless, Jagen raised his hand slightly in request for Marth to pause. "I have been watching him in the meantime, sire. We were sparring a moment ago, but I requested a break, so he has turned his attention to the hay bundles…" his voice trailed as his gaze shifted to the aforementioned hay, now looking significantly worse for wear. "Even with your injuries, Roy, you have quite the energy. I am not sure I can keep up."

Roy shifted as he turned to face the elderly paladin, a slight smile on his face. "If you say so, I guess," he partially deflected. "I just needed to do something other than lay around in bed."

Jagen closed his eyes and hummed in understanding.

Marth was quite surprised at the kindness Jagen was showing towards Roy. The paladin glanced to Roy, and then to his lord. "I do, however, need to take my leave… I had planned to go with Abel to help some of the Akaneian people on the outskirts of the city who still have yet to be assisted or given many supplies."

Both younger men nodded in understanding.

"Thank you for taking the time to spar with me, Jagen," Roy said, and Jagen bowed his head in a nod.

"It has been my pleasure. I am glad you are recovering well," he responded before turning to Marth and bowing. "Please excuse me."

The elder paladin picked his lance up from its place against the wall and took his leave, the dirt crunching beneath his boots as he rounded the same corner that Marth just came from. There was a short silence as the remaining two stared in that direction before Marth turned his head to look at Roy, which drew the redhead's attention to him. The mercenary smiled, and Marth furrowed his brow with a concerned expression.

"Are you sure you should be up and about so soon?" Marth asked, and Roy was unsure if the concern or the aggravation was more prominent in the tone of his friend's voice.

With a slight shrug, Roy lifted his sword over his shoulder, the grey fabric of his cotton tunic bunching at the base of his elbow. The sunlight glinted off his arm's crystalline surface.

"I feel well enough," he responded. "Wrys brought me these clothes to wear for now and said I was healed enough that I could get up and look around."

Marth crossed his arms. "Get up and look around," he emphasized. "Not spar."

By this point, Roy had picked up on a few of Marth's cues and quirks. The prince was very emotionally involved in the wellbeing of his comrades, and he wore those concerns on his sleeve. The way his mouth had turned downward into the smallest hint of a scowl only convinced Roy to smile more.

"I promise, I am fine," he reassured, to which Marth's unamused expression faltered ever so slightly. "Would you like to spar?"

The scowl came back with a vengeance. Roy chuckled at his comrade's reaction to his question and continued, "Okay, fine- I was kidding. I'm sorry I asked."

Marth uncrossed his arms and looked to Roy's exposed right arm. "How are you feeling today?" he asked, though his question was primarily angled towards hearing an update about the mysterious ailment that had afflicted his friend. Roy lowered his sword again and followed Marth's gaze to his crystallized arm.

"I'm doing okay," Roy responded as he rotated his forearm, watching the sun play off its bizarre surface. "Whatever this is has not really changed since I woke up a few days ago, so things could certainly be worse… and it doesn't particularly hurt. My muscles just feel a little stiff."

Well, Roy was right; things certainly could have been worse, and Marth agreed with that. Roy's eyes glanced up towards his friend's, and he squinted slightly upon noticing the faintest hint of sadness in the blue of Marth's eyes.

"… How are you?"

Marth blinked once and looked up from Roy's arm to his face and was slightly startled when their eyes locked.

"How… am I?" he repeated dumbly, and Roy only quirked his brow with a nod. It was such a simple question, but Marth was not sure of how to answer. "I am fine," he eventually responded, his voice wholly unconvincing.

"Are you sure about that?" Roy asked as he straightened, his tone taking a more serious turn. "You seem lost in your thoughts. Is something on your mind?"

There was a long pause as Marth considered his comrade's question. Was there something on his mind? Well, certainly there was: his thoughts were always consumed by one thing or another, but there was never truly any time nor need to talk about it. As prince and leader of his army, his own people's needs came far before his own.

Roy, realizing that Marth was not going to say anything, frowned slightly and sheathed his sword. "Marth," he called, which caught the prince's attention. "If you don't want to spar, how about we go for a walk instead?"

Marth gave him a few more blinks. Roy had been assertive before, but primarily only on the battlefield when times were dire; any other time he was quite quiet and preferred to listen to others, much like Marth.

A small sigh escaped Roy's lips and he walked towards Marth, before firmly patting his normal hand on his distracted friend's shoulder.

"Marth," Roy repeated, shaking the younger prince from his thoughts once again. "You're losing your concentration a lot this afternoon… I can tell something is on your mind. Care to take a walk and discuss it with me?"

Finally, Marth used his words, stammering, "A-ah, I… yes, that sounds like a great idea."

After removing his hand from Marth's shoulder, Roy motioned for Marth to join him as he began to walk towards the cobblestone path of the courtyard. The prince took his place beside him as they walked together. The breeze was relaxing as it brushed through their hair, and for a short while, they simply walked in comfortable silence. The assumption had been made on Roy's end that Marth would speak when he was ready to.

After a few quiet minutes of walking, the two of them had ended up following the garden paths and had meandered to a more private area near a small, manicured pond. It was there that Marth stopped walking, and Roy followed suit as he turned his head.

The water in the pond was crystal clear with a few lily pads dotting its mirror-like surface. With knitted brows, Marth allowed his eyes to slip shut as he let out a heavy sigh. There it was, Roy thought to himself—he knew that something had been weighing on his friend's mind, and he was about to learn just what it was that was bothering him.

"… Our conversation the other day," Marth began, his eyes opening just enough for him to continue staring out at the water. "When you told me about your mother, I was… quite surprised. And learning that she had passed away made me think back to my own parents, and how they are also no longer with me."

The air grew solemn as the prince recounted the events of his past.

"My father… king Cornelius, years ago went to war with Doluna and Grust to fight against their oppression," he started. "The War of Shadows, it is called. He wielded the Falchion—a legendary sword passed down by Anri, my ancestor. Like Anri, my father wished to slay Medeus… the dragon emperor of the Dolunian empire. However…"

His voice trailed off as he looked up towards the sky. "… However, he was betrayed by the king of Gra, Jiol, and murdered."

Roy frowned as Marth continued, "Though that was not the end of it. My sister and mother were taken hostage when our kingdom was attacked by Doluna… and then my mother was killed in cold blood, by one of Medeus' right-hand generals, in our own castle."

"Marth…" Roy mumbled.

"…My mother made me escape to spare me the same fate. Though, I would be lying to you if I said that sometimes, I wish I had not been spared at all," the prince admitted as he turned his head to look towards Roy slightly, a sad smile gracing his expression. His words came as a shock to Roy at first, but after the initial surprise ebbed away, Roy found himself understanding how Marth felt. This moment also brought to realization just how little Roy actually knew of Marth this whole time: here he was, shouldering this incredible loss more or less alone, and leading an army all the while. There were many things that the redhead felt he wanted say, but it was hard for him to find all the right words—at least at this particular moment.

"I am certainly grateful that you were spared," Roy said as he turned to fully face his comrade, and Marth returned the gesture. "Though I am sure I'm not the only one that has said something similar to you."

Marth's sad smile turned into one more genuine. "No, not exactly. Though…" he paused as he considered his next words carefully. "… It means very much to me that you would say such a thing."

Roy felt a little sheepish as he let out a slight chuff and glanced away, the corners of his mouth ticked upwards into a slight smile as well. "I suppose so. You seem to put a lot of weight to what I think…"

The prince hummed thoughtfully, noting his comrade's reaction. "Perhaps."

A gentle breeze rustled the leaves of the trees near the water's edge, and a few stray leaves flitted across the wind before finding their resting place on the water's surface. Marth's head turned to look towards the leaves floating on the water.

"It is rare that I get to share personal thoughts with others. I… being the prince, and the leader of this army, my needs come last," he said. "Which I am fine with bearing that burden, for the record. But… sometimes, I cannot help but find myself wanting for someone who is willing to lend me their ear as well."

At this, Roy took a half-step forward as he clenched his left hand into a loose fist. "Marth," he started, "You… if you ever need someone to lend you an ear… I know I am not Jagen or Malledus… or Caeda, Abel, or Cain… but…"

His voice grew quiet as his confidence wavered just enough, and he took that half-step back as he relaxed his fist. "… I know I am not any of them. But you can certainly count on me to be there for you if you need someone to listen. Or… well, anything else, really…"

By that point, Marth was staring directly at Roy, slightly surprised by how firmly the redhead had started his response, and how quickly he faltered. It was as if he had been embarrassed by his own forwardness.

There was something very endearing about it.

With a slight chuckle, Marth nodded. "Thank you. Perhaps I will take you up on your offer sometime again."

Roy could feel his ears burning slightly from… something. He assumed embarrassment—but he really had no need to be so embarrassed, did he?

"Ah…" Marth realized something, and Roy glanced to the prince out of the corners of his eyes. "Speaking of the past… have you remembered anything more, Roy?"

Now it was Roy's turn to frown—he had not remembered anything truly concrete since he had been awake. He had replayed the events of that labyrinth his soul travelled over and over again in his mind, but it was to no avail. Marth took his comrade's silence and expression as his answer, and he seemed disappointed.

"Nothing then…" he said. "I see. I'm sorry, perhaps I should not have asked."

Roy shook his head. "Seems we're both asking poor questions today," he joked. "But… really, I have not remembered much. When I was unconscious, before I saw my mother, the only other thing that happened was I just… remembered a lot of violent things. Fire, war, muddled voices and faces… but everything was so obscured that it hasn't done me much good."

"I can only imagine what you have been through to make you dream of such terrible things," Marth wondered, and Roy nervously chuckled.

"Yeah… in a way, I kind of don't want to remember," he admitted. "Though I suppose there's always the chance that it was not really as bad as my mind wants me to think it was…"

The two fell silent as the breeze brushed by them again. The fingers of Roy's right hand twitched when met by the feeling of the air, and he turned his head to the left, his eyes musing on the water as the leaves drifted along its surface. The prince took the opportunity to gaze at him thoughtfully.

The crystalline cover on his skin had been running all the way up the side of his neck and ended near the back of his ear. Though he wanted to know more about the source of such a bizarre condition, ruminating over it at this point seemed useless. He only hoped that they would eventually figure it out together.

The prince's eyes widened slightly at his own thoughts as he realized something, but after a few more moments, he let the thought pass and his expression relaxed once more.

"… It's interesting," Roy suddenly said, drawing Marth from his thoughts.

"Interesting?" Marth repeated.

Roy continued to look out at the water as he nodded. "We…" he paused, and his brow furrowed as he thought. "… We are very… similar, yet different."

His words caught Marth by surprise, and the prince grew curious. "What do you mean?"

His comrade closed his eyes and inhaled slowly before letting the breath go. "… You lost everything. Your family, your homeland. And yet you still push forward, even during those times where you wished it would all just end…" Roy tilted his head to look to Marth again, their eyes meeting. His expression was serious as he pursed his lips. "… I… look into your eyes, and I see a reflection of myself. I don't know why, but I truly feel as though we…"

"… We understand one another more than anyone else in our lives has," Marth finished, and Roy felt his mouth run dry as he nodded. Marth smiled sympathetically at his comrade. "You are right. I feel the same. Maybe that is why we have felt comfortable enough to open up to one another as we have."

The prince closed his eyes as he pondered the situation. "… Yes," he continued before opening his eyes once more. "I feel as though I have known you much longer than I truly have. Those kinds of relationships come but once, maybe twice in a lifetime."

Roy could only manage a quiet hum as he averted his gaze to watch the water again. "You have a way with words," was all he could manage, and Marth could not help but chuckle at Roy's response.

The two of them certainly had become close comrades since that fateful day in the ports of Galder, and that relationship had grown to be invaluable to them both.

Chapter Text

The crisp, cold air rustled the fabric of his robes as he drifted forward.

With fixated eyes obscured by shadow, he stared into the horizon of Mamorthod; an endless sea of sand stretched out in all directions beyond him, and yet the energy drifting on the currents of wind beckoned him in what he knew was the right course.

The lost city of Thabes—the graveyard of an era lost, forever cursed by the darkness of its haunting past.

With shuddering breath, he inhaled and allowed the bitter night air to fill his lungs and burn his throat. The closer he drew to that accursed city, the more the sound of the howling wind shifted, and soon enough it echoed in his ears like the wailing of the damned.

A shudder traced up his spine as the overwhelming scent of death enraptured him. Their lives had been lost to history, and yet the land had not forgotten; it fed on their slumbering bodies, their deteriorating corpses fueling the corruption that gripped this place.

With a mumble of words beneath his breath, he slowed his flight before hovering just over his destination.

The ruins of a city once great were not far beneath him, and the unmistakable stench of death yet lingered.

Slowly he descended to the ground, his boots silently touching the derelict stone path. The city ruins sprawled out like a labyrinth; by this point, most of it had been buried by the drifting sands of the desert.

With calculated steps, he walked at an unhurried pace forward. The desert breeze blew back at him as if trying to force him to turn away—as if the city were trying to deny him entry.

A small breath escaped his lips, and the faintest of smiles graced what little one could see of his face, yet no words were spoken.

Though he could feel the presence of every life that had been lost and every soul that had been cursed to wander in this forgotten wasteland, there were the flickers of flame in the sea of darkness. Surely that flame would not beckon the wind so.

Another gust, and his eyes slipped shut beneath his hood as he continued his leisurely pace down the pathway.

Perhaps it had. Though at this point, it was no matter.

Eventually, he returned his gaze to what was before him and paused; ruins that were partially obscured by sand and yet still imposing lay before him. The crumbled entry to an old castle was not but a short distance away from where he stood. He considered the structure in silence: the image of something fading away to the sands of time and yet still holding on by the arms of the spirits that refused to let it fall.

Exhaling from his nose, he found himself growing further jaded—this energy clings to the land, refusing to let it disappear, and to what end?

"One must destroy the past to forge a more perfect future," came his voice from the shadows of his hood as he whispered to himself. "Even in death, you all act like fools."

A darkness heavier than night weighed on him as a presence made itself known.

Neither figure moved as the wind died down—the air was thick as both figures tested each other with naught but their own wraithlike energy. The wailing that had drowned out the cloaked man's voice had been silenced as if those damned souls stood in wait, acting as an audience to the soundless exchange.

After what felt like ages, that new dark energy receded and a voice took the place that it had once demanded.

"… So, you are the one that Zharov sent word of," an old, wicked man said.

At that, the faint smile returned to the cloaked man's face. His neck twisted just enough to shift the fabric of his hood, a gesture to show the old man that he had heard him.

"Correct," the hooded figure responded. "With the dark power that you radiate, I can only assume that I am in the presence of the great sorcerer-king, Gharnef."

The old man, Gharnef, watched him, his wrinkled face grimacing critically as he studied the figure.

At his silence, the robed man elected to fully turn and face the sorcerer. "Volzhin spoke to me briefly about you," he disclosed, tilting his head just slightly to look down towards Gharnef.

Gharnef's critical eye was unwavering as he stared. "Yes… Volzhin."

The tone of the sorcerer's voice indicated unspoken questions, though the robed man seemed unfazed. "Is there something that you would like to ask?" he questioned.

After a few more moments of silence, Gharnef straightened just slightly and glared at the man across from him with his lone good eye. "I've heard tellings from the soldiers that escaped that battle…" he started, "That there was an interesting twist of strategy. Would you care to enlighten me?"

The corner of the man's mouth ticked upwards in a slight smirk. "Ah," he responded coolly, "That. What did you hear?"

"Do not play dumb with me," the sorcerer-king hissed. "Out with it. They caught sight of a strange tome in Volzhin's hands, and claimed he controlled an enemy dragon. Never have I heard of a tome such as what they described—even Imhullu's power is different in nature. This was your doing, and if you wish to see Medeus, then you would be wise to divulge all that you know now. Otherwise, I shall have you torn limb from limb for meddling in our conquest."

The mage's smirk faded and was quickly replaced with a hardened expression. "… Take me to Medeus, and I ensure you all will be revealed that you need to know."

Gharnef's eye narrowed. "Unlikely. Why must I trust you, a man who seemingly appeared out of nowhere…" he glanced over the man's dark yet ornate robes as he continued, "Dressed in such strange garb, having set a course straight to our leader, rife with power? And… completely without name. Who are you?"

The cloaked man hummed in mock thought. "Would knowing my name truly allay your concerns that much?"

The sorcerer's eye narrowed further at him. "It would be a good start."

There was a long silence. The tension in the air, procured by the magical force of their souls, would have been paralyzing had either of them faltered for so much as a fraction of a second.

Finally, a sigh escaped the hooded man's lips. "If it would soothe your soul so, then I shall abide. My name is Fafnir."

Gharnef's gaze returned to normal. "Fafnir," he repeated. "That is a dragon's name."

Fafnir huffed slightly, clearly unimpressed. "Now you must see why I wish to meet with Medeus… do you not?"

The fabric of Fafnir's cloak shifted out of the way as he raised one of his hands slightly, revealing clawed fingers. "I have travelled… very far to meet this dragon emperor of yours. Allow me to speak with him."

Considering Fafnir's words, the old sorcerer drummed his fingers quietly on the Imhullu tome he held at his side. "… Not yet," he responded, drawing a deep scowl from Fafnir, "I want you to answer me first. Tell me, what happened to that tome you offered Volzhin? What magic was that."

"The tone of your voice denotes more of a demand than a question," Fafnir responded flatly. "The tome itself had limited use. The one I provided him would have disintegrated the moment his life left his body. You have Imhullu… I am certain you can do anything that you wish with the magical prowess that you have. I can smell the stench of your rotted soul, as you've given it up to the darkness long ago."

At that, Gharnef laughed madly. Fafnir's words seemed to have earned his favor.

"You are sharp for a young one," Gharnef commented, "You are right. I can do anything that you can, and much more, as I sacrificed my humanity long ago. I am glad you know your place. I simply wanted to know where you learned such magic, yourself."

"I am far older than you seem to think," the hooded manakete professed. "I have had a long time to practice what I do, just as you have."

"And yet you've still not given up your soul," the sorcerer-king taunted. "I see."

The two of them stood still, staring each other down—Gharnef could tell the manakete's eyes were burning on him from even beneath the shade of his hood. With a twisted, amused grin, Gharnef let out a cackle.

"I can sense such a deep hatred burning in your chest," he observed. "Fine. I will entertain your request to see Medeus."

What little the sorcerer could see of Fafnir's face showed him that his response came as a surprise to the manakete.

"However, we will need time. I will contact you myself when Medeus is ready to speak with you, youngling," Gharnef added, much to Fafnir's chagrin.

However, the manakete decided to withhold any further comment. "Very well," was all he managed to mutter.

If time had taught him anything, it was that patience was rarely a virtue; however, in this case, he would have to play by the dragon emperor's rules to get what he required.

There were no parting words as Gharnef whisked away into the darkness of the ruins. Fafnir watched his retreating form and narrowed his eyes behind his hood. That man, Gharnef, was without a doubt a man with nefarious intentions—Fafnir doubted his loyalties to the dragon emperor.

Though he had no room to speak, for he was not exactly loyal to Medeus, either. No, his loyalties lived and died with Nergal.

He inhaled slowly, the desert breeze once again flowing back through the forgotten corridors of Thabes as Fafnir's and Gharnef's conflicting energies ebbed. The choir of wails rung in his ears once again, screaming in a language long lost, yet he could feel their lingering pain through their cries.

Though his heart still beat, he found himself commiserating in their cries—to lose all that you hold dear within a blink of an eye, to be lost to the tides of time. The silence that the world hears is the echo of all that have perished; it is the hopes, dreams, and ideals of those that were swept away in the current of fate.

This forgotten city of Thabes was the perfect example of the dance of disorder—the stillness of suffering—that was brought forth by those with power beyond sense, or ambition beyond compassion.

No creature, man nor dragon, should have the gall to claim such a loss as necessary. These neglected wails only reassured his resolve.

Midst the silence, he found himself snarling. No—this cycle would end, and he would ensure it so.

Chapter Text

As Marth looked out into the setting sun on the horizon before him, he felt a knot tighten in his stomach. It had been two days since they departed from Pales and they were currently travelling to their next destination: Gra.

His fingers twitched on the hilt of his rapier as his mind wandered back to the day that his father was betrayed and murdered in cold blood. The coward king of Gra, Jiol, had turned his back on king Cornelius and sided with Grust and Doluna to earn their favor. It did not take long for Altea to fall to their oppression after his father was taken out of the equation, and of course, his mother soon followed suit.

With a bitter scowl, Marth cursed Jiol for his actions. It was not normal for the prince to feel such a deep-seated hatred for anyone or anything, but Jiol was one of his sole exceptions.

The clinking of armored boots drew him from his thoughts, and he turned his head to look over his shoulder. A familiar friend was walking towards him, albeit in newer garb.

"We've finished setting up camp for the night," Roy said with a faint smile.

"That's good. This should be a relatively safe place for us to rest for one more night before…" the prince's voice trailed as he glanced out towards the horizon again. Roy watched his comrade thoughtfully before electing to close the gap in space between them.

"Something's on your mind again," the redhead said as he stopped next to Marth as he contemplated the horizon as well. "Gra is ahead… isn't it?"

In this case, the prince's silence was enough of an answer. Roy's eyes shifted to glance to Marth. The breeze brushed his bangs slightly as Marth closed his eyes, his expression one of anguish. Just ahead lie the source of so many of the prince's woes.

Roy turned to his comrade and reached out a hand to rest on his shoulder. Marth's body tensed faintly at the gesture before he relaxed once more. Neither of them said anything for a time, before Marth let out a small sigh.

"I have dreamt of this day," Marth finally said, "Many times at night, when I am sleeping, the scene plays out in my head where I finally avenge the death of my father. And yet, now that the day is almost here, I find myself more nervous than I have ever felt in my life."

With a slight nod, Roy responded, "It's understandable. A lot is riding on the events of tomorrow."

Another silence fell between the two and Roy removed his hand from Marth's shoulder. "Just know that I will be at your side. We all will."

The prince swallowed, nervousness drying his throat. "… Yes."

The mercenary sent his friend another sympathetic smile, and Marth looked his way. They held each other's gaze, Marth searching Roy's eyes for something. Roy could see the prince's desperation hidden in his irises.

He would be lying if he said it did not tug at his heart. It was quite unlike Marth to be so outwardly insecure. They remained as they were just a few moments longer, before Marth averted his gaze downward to Roy's chest.

"How does the new armor feel?" Marth asked, changing the topic. "We had to make it in a bit of a hurry, but…"

Roy followed his gaze. Marth had requested for an armorsmith in Pales to forge him new armor, and a seamstress to sew him new clothes after his old clothing had been ruined during the fight against Volzhin. The prince had specifically requested for a breastplate, even—a decision surely borne from the unfortunate end to that day two weeks ago. Some parts of his clothing were reminiscent of his old garb, but his new armor was blue and gold much like Marth's own. Though perhaps the most careful detail was the clasp of his cape—a small golden brooch that held his mother's dragonstone within it, right near his heart.

"It feels great," Roy said with a smile. "It's definitely a little firmer than my old clothes… but that's not a bad thing at all. I like it. Thank you for having these made for me."

All Marth could manage was a slight nod. "I… am glad that they are working for you."

Roy studied Marth as he was still staring down at his breastplate.

"… You know, if anyone saw you staring at me like this, they might get the wrong idea," Roy teased, to which Marth quickly glanced up and shot him a look. Embarrassment was written all over his face and the redhead let out a quiet laugh. "There we go. That's a far better expression on you."

Marth furrowed his brow at first, but then his critical look lifted as he smiled slightly. "You have an interesting way of lightening the mood," he mumbled.

"I learned from the best," Roy complimented as he put a hand to his hip. "Now isn't the time to be fretting, though. You already have tomorrow for that, right?"

Well, Roy was right, Marth supposed. He certainly did have more than enough time tomorrow to be agonizing over Jiol.

The sound of someone clearing their throat pulled their attentions from one another and they both looked to the source. Abel was standing not far away, having come in search of Marth, and he had an interesting smile of sorts on his face.

"Ah, Abel," Marth observed. "What is it?"

Abel bowed slightly as his smile remained. "Prince Marth, I was just coming to check on you both. I had sent Roy this way to tell you were were done setting up camp for the night, and when he didn't return, I came to go find him…"

Roy could feel his ears burn slightly. "Ah, right. I'm sorry. I got a bit caught up in conversation."

The cavalier straightened his posture and sent Roy a sly, knowing expression—something that Roy would have expected from Cain and not Abel. "Not to worry. We do need to prepare for tomorrow's advance, however," he remarked. "Would you both have a moment to do so?"

"Certainly," Marth responded as he turned to face Abel. "I apologize for making you wait. We will be there in a moment."

With a nod, Abel bowed once more before turning on his heel to walk back towards camp. Though Roy could not help but notice the curious glance that the cavalier sent him over his shoulder as he departed. The mercenary brought one arm up to rub the back of his neck with a crystallized hand.

"Geez," he muttered under his breath, drawing the interest of his comrade.

"Is something wrong?" Marth asked, and Roy only shook his head.

"No, it's nothing," Roy answered. "I'm just imagining things."

Though the prince was curious as to what his comrade meant, he elected to leave it be for now. There were more important things to address at that time and he trusted that Roy would tell him what was on his mind when he was comfortable enough to do so.

"Alright," Marth said. "Then let's meet with the others and talk strategy for tomorrow's battle. Shall we?"

"What?!" hissed Jiol as he threw his arm to the side, slamming the ball of his fist into the wall beside him. The scout that had approached him leapt slightly from shock as he nervously held his arms firmly down at his sides.

"Y-yes sir, they are on their way here now, sire. It's only a matter of time before the League arrives at the Bastion," he stammered, and the coward king curled his upper lip in a snarl. He glared daggers at the scout.

"They are not worthy of the title of "League,"" the king growled, "They are naught but a pack of rebel whelps that should have been killed long ago."

"M… my apologies, sire," the scout whimpered. "Prince Marth leads their army… it is the combined forces of Altea, Aurelis, and Akaneia… so that is what they've been titled…"

At that, Jiol whipped his head to the side as he thought, his expression one of unadulterated disdain. "Altea, Aurelis, and Akaneia… and the Fire Emblem."

After a few tense moments, Jiol turned his attention to the scout, who was shivering in his boots. "Tell me, you did call for Doluna, didn't you? As much as I loathe to admit it, we will require their aid against this washed-up prince and the fools that follow him."

"I-I did send word, sire!" the scout affirmed. "Medon is sending a troop of Pegasus knights to—"

"Pegasus knights?!" Jiol shouted in disbelief. "You are kidding me! We are faced with the entire combined force of the enemy army, and Medon only sends us a troop of ponies? This is unacceptable!"

He stamped his foot as he threw his fist into the wall once again. "I turned against Cornelius for these bastards on Gharnef's word—I even delivered them the Falchion like they demanded. They damn well better send me more than some Pegasus knights! Demand them to send something—the Sable Order, the Dragoons, anything! I refuse to die here!"

With a nervous gulp, the Gra scout saluted the king before scampering out of the room. The coward king cursed out loud, enraged by the lack of support from Doluna.

"That stupid prince. I will make him suffer just like his father did… everything was going to work out fine until he sprang up from the woodwork!" He gnashed his teeth. "I will make him regret ever surviving in the first place!"

That following morning, the Akaneian league had lined up along the riverbank just outside of Gra Bastion. The air was still, as if the land itself waited with bated breath for the war to begin. Prince Marth looked out upon the castle walls in the near distance, just across the fields.

Vengeance was within reach. His fingers tightened around the hilt of his rapier, like they had the evening before.

"… For my father," Marth whispered under his breath, " and for all of Altea."

The soft crunching of hooves on grass signaled Jagen's approach as he led Cain, Abel, Caeda, and Princess Nyna towards the prince. "Sire…" he uttered, and Marth turned to the group.

The fire in the prince's eyes gave the old paladin pause before he spoke again, "We are but a field's length away from Gra Bastion now. Your father would be proud of how far you have come thus far…"

With a slight bite at the inside of his bottom lip, Marth nodded. "I could only hope so. Though… I would not have been able to do this without the support of all of you. We are one field from the capitol of Gra, and one border from home."

Cain smirked slightly. "Yeah, and it's sure been a while," he said, to which Abel nodded in agreement.

Caeda put her hand to her chest. "I am glad that we've finally made it this far. Marth, it won't be long at all before you've returned home. Though, we will certainly miss your presence in Talys."

"Yes, it will be a little bittersweet, won't it," Marth agreed as he smiled at his childhood friend. "I only hope that your father realizes just how thankful I am for the shelter he gave us as refugees."

Roy was watching from a distance away whilst standing amongst his other comrades. He was silent and watched the prince as he spoke before his gaze wandered to the castle looming just ahead. The sky was blanketed in grey storm clouds and a mist enveloped the grasslands that would soon become the battlefield. His right hand clenched into a tight fist and the fabric of his glove squeaked slightly under the pressure of his fingers. With the thoughts of the coming battle consuming him, he had not even noticed Bantu approach him.

"Roy," came the old manakete's voice. Roy turned just enough and immediately his expression turned to one of guilt as he saw who had called out to him.

"Ah… Bantu," he replied. "Is… there something that you needed?"

His demeanor was stiff as Bantu stood before him. "I thought it important to speak with you before the current of war sweeps us away once again," he explained. "Have your wounds healed?"

The redhead's throat was dry as he swallowed. How could Bantu ask him how his wounds were, when Roy had harmed him so? Deciding to hold back his insecurities, he simply nodded. Bantu seemed pleased.

"That's good," the old manakete responded. "After the events at Pales, they did confiscate the fire dragonstone that you held, and gave it to me. I hope that you are not feeling slighted by their decision."

Roy quickly shook his head. "No. I fully understand why they took it," he replied. "After what I did, I don't think I could even so much as… look at that stone again."

That guilt that weighed on his heart was almost crushing. He had not seen the state that Bantu was in after their fight, but he remembered enough of their battle through his rage to know that Bantu had been grievously hurt, and he had seen some of the residual carnage during their stay at the Millenium Court.

"There was no way to know that such a spell would befall you. Do not blame yourself," Bantu reassured before his eyes trained on the brooch attached to Roy's cape. "Besides, it seems as though you've got a dragonstone of your own now, is that right?"

It would only make sense that Bantu could sense the true nature of the stone at his chest, Roy thought. With a slight nod, he affirmed Bantu's observation. "Yes, you're right."

His hand reached across his chest to gently touch his fingertips to the dragonstone. The energy from the stone burned faintly against the crystal of his fingers, and his lips pursed. "I suppose this one… is the only one I should ever need," he mumbled thoughtfully, and Bantu hummed.

"It seems important to you," he replied, to which Roy smiled.

"Yeah, you could say that," Roy confirmed.

The old manakete pressed no further, though even if he had wanted to, he would not have had the time; Marth cleared his throat just loud enough to draw the attention of the front lines.

"All," the young prince began as he lowered his fist from his lips. "Before us lies the capitol of Gra. Many of you have been with me for months now. For some of you, it has been years. This battle here earmarks the beginning of the end of this years-long war. How we perform here will impact how seriously Doluna's forces will take us."

There was a moment of silence as Marth determined his next words. All eyes were on him, and though usually he had no issues speaking publicly, the gravity of this situation had robbed him of his words. He quietly scanned the sea of people and his eyes locked on a familiar face. Roy sent him a small smile of encouragement, and Marth felt a spark of courage ignite in his chest that bade him to keep going.

"… I have no doubts that we will end today victorious," he continued, "With your help, we will take down the kingdom of Gra. To avenge the fallen king of Altea, to recover the Falchion, and to deal a blow to Doluna's power that they will be hard-pressed to turn away from—they will be forced to view us as a force equal to their own. We have worked hard to get here, and we will not falter now! For Altea! For Akaenia!"

The prince's words surged through his ranks as a needed boost to their morale, and one cheer soon turned into countless as the voices of the Akaneian League joined in unison. The sound echoed across the fields and pierced through the dreariness of the landscape, surely shaking any opposing soldier down to their core.

The prince turned to face Gra Bastion. He pointed his rapier towards the enemy capitol, his convictions unwavering.

After so many years of wait, closure was finally within sight.

Chapter Text

The roaring sounds as the Akaneian League's forces collided with the forces of Gra echoed throughout the grasslands outside of Gra Bastion. Weapons clashed and it took little time for the green beneath the soldiers' feet to be painted with red as soldiers on both sides were cut down.

The fight itself had spread across much of the open plain—in fact, it had been so widespread that Marth had to make the difficult decision to split his forces into three as they not only combated their enemies, but also ensured the safety of the surrounding villages. Though the villagers were technically citizens of Gra, Marth swore to keep them just as safe as if they were his own people. This certainly won the villagers' favors, and one particularly interesting individual claiming to know Prince Nyna even gave him a tome of great importance.

"I find it strange how that man said that the Bishop's tome just found its way into his hands. Especially if Volzhin had been the one holding onto it initially," muttered Abel to the prince. Marth certainly agreed but knew that now was not the time to dwell on the specifics—they were lucky enough to have been given something so important in the first place.

"Regardless of the reasoning, we have it now. If anything, I am more curious as to who that man was," Marth responded before he shook his head, "But now certainly is not the time to try to figure it out. We have far more important matters immediately at hand."

Yes- far more important, the prince thought to himself as he led his troop back out into the fields. Gra Bastion was in the near distance, and he was bound and determined to make it there as quickly as possible.

From what he knew of King Jiol, the man was a complete coward; not only had he backstabbed Marth's father when he had least expected it, he also sent all of his own men out into the fields to fight without him, choosing instead to keep himself more or less holed up in his castle. While the survival of the King was obviously important, the fact that he would not even attempt to step foot on the battlefield when the war was going on right outside of his doorstep simply showed Marth that Jiol was clearly not fit for his role as a leader. One must lead by example, especially in times of war.

It only made his soul burn hotter in his frustration. How such a man could be the one responsible for killing Cornelius and setting the stage for the fall of Altea?

With a sharp inhale, Marth clenched his hand around the hilt of his rapier. With each moment and each felled enemy soldier, they came closer to the walls of Gra Bastion.

"My lord."

With slow footsteps, Gharnef approached the throne of Medeus. He stopped near the base of the stairs and put a wrinkled hand to his chest before bowing slightly. Narrowed eyes considered him as the dark pontifex straightened his back.

"Gharnef. You are here far sooner than I anticipated," came Medeus' indifferent voice. "What is it that has you at my feet?"

Gharnef's expression soured. "It is about that whelp prince, Lord Medeus," he began. "He is already at the doorstep of Gra. It will be little time before he arrives in Altea."

The implication of Gra's imminent demise drew a humored huff from the earth dragon. "Gra has yet to fall and yet you spell that coward king's death."

With pursed lips, Gharnef shook his head. "We both know it is only a matter of time. He was simply a pawn for your use."

Medeus laughed darkly at Gharnef's choice of words. "A pawn he is. And he will die like one—unceremoniously."

The Dragon King put his hands on the arm rests of his throne and hoisted himself up slowly. "We will simply keep an eye on how the situation unfolds, as always. I wholly expect the child to overthrow Gra. Thankfully, that has no negative effect on my greater plan. Actually… one might say it's even for the better. Tell me, you had fetched the Falchion from the coward before the Akaneian League got there, did you not?"

With a nod, the dark mage smiled sinisterly. "Of course. So even after the king is overthrown, it will be for naught, as the Falchion is far away from there now…"

"Then for now, we have no reason to worry," Medeus said. "This is all a distraction to simply buy me more time."

After a moment, the Dragon King put his knuckle to his chin. "Speaking of time… tell me, what have you found out about that mage? The one that Zharov sent word of before he was killed."

At the mention of Fafnir, Gharnef grinned. "Ah, yes. That one. He is quite interesting. I met with him in Thaubes, as requested."

There was a glint in Medeus' eyes as he squinted them. "And? Out with it. Your grin begets interest."

"It seems he is a manakete, my lord," Gharnef said. At that, the Dragon King's brow raised.

"Is that so," he responded, his tone remaining flat.

"Yes. He claims to have come from quite far to meet with you, specifically. I told him that I would express his interest to you, and you would entertain him only when you were ready," Gharnef explained. "Whether or not you wish to respond to his request…"

"I am interested," Medeus interrupted. "Find him and bring him here. I will test him for myself."

"What do you mean the Pegasus knights turned on us?!" Jiol shouted as he gripped the breastplate of his messenger. The messenger panicked and waved his arms, trying to allay his King's obvious anger.

"I… I am not sure, sire, I just received word from the front lines—well, what remains that is—that the Pegasus knights that were sent to us were found cutting down our own men…!"

With an agitated growl, Jiol tossed the messenger to the side, and the poor man collapsed onto the floor ungracefully.

"That is enough of this! I will simply go out there myself! This has gone on long enough," the King shouted as he finally grabbed his own weapon.

With heavy footsteps, he left the great hall in search of the Altean prince, unaware of just how close Marth was to simply finding him on his own.

Jagen rode his horse ahead towards the castle gatehouse, his lance outstretched. He caught an enemy archer with his spearhead before the man could let loose his arrow, and the path was cleared enough for the prince and his troupe to make it safely through.

"Prince Marth, now is the best chance to…" he started, but Marth ran past him before he could even finish. The paladin only shook his head and mumbled something about the folly of youth as he kept the way clear for his allies—consisting of Hardin, Midia, Cain, Roy, Merric, and a few others—to get through.

"We're almost there," Marth whispered between grit teeth.

"Prince! Enemy reinforcements coming from the barracks!" Midia shouted.

"Don't worry about them," Hardin cut in. "We'll handle them. Prince Marth, go on ahead!"

With a quick nod, Marth thanked him before turning his attention to the two red heads in the group. "Cain… Roy, can you two come with me?"

"You needn't ask twice," Cain responded with a smirk. "We've got your back!"

"You've got it," Roy agreed. "Though the final blow goes to you."

The comment caught the prince off guard and elicited a much-needed chuckle from him. "Yes, certainly."

Without further discussion, the trio broke off from the remainder of the group and proceeded to push their way through the corridors of the gatehouse. Thankfully their quick advance meant that they had been able to outpace the reinforcements, and they had little trouble finding the exit. Upon breaking through the gate they found themselves in the castle courtyard, though they were not alone: directly across from them stood a row of ten to fifteen enemies, all wielding a variety of bows and lances.

Directly behind them stood Marth's target: King Jiol.

The prince's blood practically boiled at the sight of his father's murderer.

"You…" Marth hissed through grit teeth, and Jiol snarled in return.

"Altean rabble," Jiol spat. "You would have the gall to trespass here and challenge me! You've proven to be a bigger hassle than you're worth! I should have killed you years ago when I had the chance!"

Both Cain and Roy set their jaws. The cavalier scanned the line of enemies before them. The lancers all had their spears readied at their sides, and every archer had their bows nocked with arrows trained on Marth.

"This is tricky," Cain muttered. He glanced to his right to look at Marth and then trained his eyes on Roy, who was on Marth's other side. Roy had been side-eyeing him as well and their gazes caught. With narrowed eyes, the mercenary nodded curtly to Cain, which made the corner of the cavalier's mouth tug upwards in a smirk.

Go figure—they were on the same wavelength, Cain thought. Perfect—that would make this easy, though it might give the prince a bit of an unexpected scare…

A small price to pay for victory.

"Here goes nothing!" the cavalier shouted suddenly, drawing the attentions of everyone but Roy, who had been expecting the outburst. His horse reared before taking off in a beeline directly towards the line of foes, obviously taking them off guard by how they stumbled every which way as they clamored to aim their weapons towards him.

During the confusion, Marth felt a sudden grip on his forearm, and he quickly whipped his head to the side. Roy was holding onto his arm and staring directly at him with determination and a hint of playfulness in his eyes.

"We'll keep the other guys distracted. Now's your chance," Roy said as he shot Marth a confident smile. Roy quickly let go of Marth's arm before ran off after Cain.

Though the shock stuck with him for a moment, the prince quickly shook himself out of it. "You two…" he muttered before he pulled his rapier in close. "Thank you."

"I have always wanted to try this," Cain murmured to himself as he weaved his horse out of the way of an enemy arrow. He quickly pulled himself up to crouch on the saddle of his horse with his javelin pointed out at his side. With one swift movement, he jumped high off his horse with his javelin readied above his head.

"Mess with The Bull of Altea, and you'll catch his horns!" he shouted, grinning from ear to ear as he plummeted his javelin into the group of footsoldiers.

"Cain... you're absolutely crazy," Roy commented with a smirk. Fueled by Cain's energy, he joined the fray, easily cutting down a lancer in his wake. Between the two of them, Jiol's backup had been thoroughly distracted- giving Marth an easy path right to the enemy king.

The prince sprinted towards king Jiol, rapier readied, and Jiol hissed with disdain as he clutched his spear with a wavering grip.

"You are just as much of a fool as your father was! What do you expect to gain by going against Doluna? You will end up a sacrifice for Medeus, just like the rest of your family!" Jiol shouted as he swung his lance at Marth.

"I will not stand idly by and watch as our world is consumed by hate," Marth responded as he avoided Jiol's weapon. "Medeus will only bring forth suffering, and you are an accomplice!"

Their weapons met with a metallic clang, though the weight of Jiol's spear was far greater than Marth's rapier as the metal curved against the pressure of the polearm. The prince slipped out from under the king's spear and swiped at him for a second time, cutting through Jiol's bicep.

The coward king hissed in pain as he took a step back. His expression was contorted in anger and his nostrils were flared.

"It's not my fault I can see the clear winner of this war," Jiol shot back, "It would have been foolish of me to stay on your father's side when the rest of the world was losing or turning against him for Doluna!"

Marth shook his head. "If that is how you feel, then show me your resolve here. But know that I will not fall to you—for my father and for my people, I will strike you down!"

With a cry, Jiol came at Marth with his weapon at the ready once again, and the prince met him with his own. There was an inferno burning in Marth's chest as he thought back to the devastation that befell his family and his homeland those years ago when the very man before him betrayed them all. With every clash, every dodge, every near-hit, memories of his father's smile and strength flashed in the young prince's mind.

It was as if his father's spirit had come from the heavens to lend Marth his strength as a surge of adrenaline coursed through the prince's veins. As Jiol came barreling down once again with the length of his spear, Marth dodged to the right, and his eyes darted about as he looked upon every aspect of Jiol's armor and form in search of an opening.

Then, he saw it-- at the lowest point of Jiol's swing, he slowed just enough due to the weight of his weapon, and Marth zeroed in on a gap between the man's arm and breastplate. He then pulled his weapon back, practically pressing it to his cheek as he focused on his target.

"This ends here!" Marth shouted as he thrust his rapier forward.

Metal loops and rivets sang and snapped as the slender blade pierced through that gap, and as metal met flesh, it was as if the sky split open and light was finally cast on the darkness of the past, dispelling the demons that had been lurking in the depths of Marth's heart.

With a choked cough, blood sprayed from Jiol's mouth as his eyes bulged- with the weapon embedded through the width of his chest, his lungs were pierced clean through, and he was unable to breathe. His breath caught over and over as Marth roughly pulled the rapier from him, and Jiol's hands trembled, loosening their grip on his spear. The weapon fell to the ground with a loud clatter, and Jiol stumbled half a step, but he was unable to right himself. He was sent careening forward to the ground, his armor clashing against the floor and ripping another heavy cough from his lungs as blood pooled around him.

Marth grimaced at the sight. Though he never looked forward to taking a life, this man had been one of the primary orchestrators in the destruction of his family and homeland. The young prince felt little pride as he looked down at the man bleeding out at his feet, however, and his eyes trailed to Jiol's face as he saw the man twitch. The two of them made eye contact, Jiol glaring to Marth over his shoulder, and Marth's expression hardened.

"It doesn't... matter," Jiol managed, blood dribbling thickly down his chin from the corners of his mouth. "If I die here... you still... won't win... this war..."

Anger swelled within Marth for a split moment as he glared down at his father's murderer. However, upon seeing the light quickly fading from Jiol's darkened eyes, he relaxed, not allowing the rage to consume him any longer. His voice was calm as he replied, "We shall win this war. No matter what, I will never stop fighting, even if our odds seem insurmountable. I will not allow cowardice or fear sway me as you let it sway you."

A weak, bitter laugh bubbled up from Jiol's throat, forcing another thick glob of blood to spill onto the floor beneath his head. "You... are a fool. Just like... him..."

Jiol's voice trailed off as he said those words, and then, his neck grew slack. His temple tipped towards the floor, and his limbs grew limp and heavy. With Jiol's final breath, closure had finally come at last.

Chapter Text

The victory over Gra had been one to celebrate. The people of the Akaneian League, upon learning of Jiol's defeat, had raised their weapons and cheered, their voices seemingly chasing away the storm clouds that had loomed overhead. The sun had shone down on the fields as that chapter in the War of Shadows had come to a close.

The next day had come quickly and word of the Akaneian League's victory had spread to all the surrounding towns by that point. There had been various townspeople—primarily young men and women, though some villagers were older and more experienced—that had come to the castle that next day. They all had been requesting to join the war against Doluna, according to Jagen.

Marth had been quite humbled to see just how many of the common folk of Gra wanted to help. To turn them down certainly was not an option, and with Marth's personal approval, more people were added to their ranks.

One of them—a middle aged villager—had said something that morning that struck something within the prince, and he could not seem to get his mind off it as he stared out at the now-setting sun. He slowly closed his eyes as he recounted the conversation from earlier:

"You're still just a kid, ain't ya? Yet you're standin' there looking as strong as a king. A lot of us in Gra really liked your father, you know! Altea was always real nice to us," the villager said.

"Is that so?" Marth responded, smiling slightly.

"Sure is," the villager responded. "It ticked a lot of us off when King Jiol turned his back on you guys. Why throw us under the banner of Doluna, you know? There ain't no way that they have our best interests at heart!"

Marth could not agree more. Jiol had made a very short-sighted decision when he had turned against both Altea and Akaneia for Doluna.

"Anyway," the man continued, "You're lookin' a lot like your old man did. He's probably real proud of you right now."

Marth's lips pursed as his brow furrowed. Something about what that man said had troubled him greatly, but he did not want to dwell on it overlong. With a sigh, he opened his eyes.

Imagine his surprise when a familiar person was standing not but a few paces away from him, arms crossed. Marth practically choked on his own breath.

"Roy," he said, surprised. "How long have you been standing there?"

"Not very long," Roy said as he quirked his brow. "I called out for you a couple times, but you seemed pretty focused on something. You must not have heard me. Is something bothering you?"

Marth shrunk a little in his embarrassment. To be caught in his own thoughts was one of the things he disliked the most—he always wanted to be as attentive as possible, and yet, Roy always managed to find him when he was at his most vulnerable.

"Ah, no. It's nothing. My apologies," the prince said. "Is there something that you needed?"

Roy's eyes narrowed critically as he thought, "… Yeah. Malledus was wanting to go over a thing or two with you for when we set out again. I think he said it would be in a couple days, but he seemed pretty serious and wanted to talk to you about it right away," he explained.

After a brief pause, he added, "… If you're available, that is."

Marth cocked his head slightly at Roy's choice of words. "I am available, yes."

With a slight nod, Roy to his right, towards the rampart. "He was exiting the casemate the last time I saw him. He said he was on his way to the gatehouse and wanted to talk with you there."

"Alright, I'll go find him then. Thank you, Roy," Marth said with a smile.

Roy said nothing for a moment before finally replying, "Sure thing. If you'll excuse me." He nodded his head before turning on his heel and heading back out towards the fields where they had been set up their camp. Marth watched his comrade with a curious expression.

"I wonder what's bothering him…" he mused.

Deciding not to leave Malledus waiting any longer, Marth made his way down the cobblestone path connecting the castle entrance to the gatehouse. Upon entering the structure, he searched for the old tactician, and eventually found him in one of the many side rooms, along with Jagen, Hardin, and Princess Nyna.

Worry made itself evident in the prince's eyes as he saw his company, all of them wearing expressions that were difficult to decipher. He closed the door behind him as he entered the room.

"Malledus, you called for me?" Marth questioned, to which Malledus nodded.

"I did, yes," he confirmed.

"With rather unfortunate news," Jagen added. The wrinkles around his mouth were made much more pronounced by his scowl.

This only served to make Marth more worried than he already had been. "Well, what is this news, then? Is it…"

"Falchion," Malledus interrupted. "We could not find it anywhere in the castle. The casemate, halls, bedchambers… we have had every room turned upside down, and yet the Falchion has yet to turn up in our searches."

The prince's heart sank at the news. "This is… not good," he responded, "The Falchion was stolen from my father by Jiol. If it's not here, then…"

"I asked some of the villagers that came to us this morning," Hardin stated. "They mentioned something about seeing a "crusty old mage" visiting the capitol with some Dolunian forces just a short week ago."

"A… "crusty old mage," you said?" Nyna recited slowly, to which Hardin nodded in confirmation.

"If that's the case, then there's only one person that comes to mind," Malledus deduced. "Gharnef."

"Gharnef?" Marth questioned, surprised.

"The twisted King of Khadein," Jagen muttered as he crossed his arms. "I should not be surprised that he made a move before we got here."

"I agree," Hardin added. "He is, essentially, sitting at Medeus' right hand. It would only behoove him to steal the blade which could end Doluna's reign."

Princess Nyna brought her hands together as she thought. "Perhaps we should set our course to Khadein…"

Malledus nodded. "That is why I asked to meet," he said as he turned to Marth. "Sire, I know that Altea is just a short distance away from us now... but you must certainly know that we need the Falchion. Would you entertain a change in plans?"

The question made Marth's heart wrench. Just as they were closing in on the liberation of his homeland, they were thrown a significant roadblock. Already he had been feeling off about their victory over Gra, and this only served to amplify his growing discontent. However, Malledus was entirely correct: they absolutely needed the Falchion. With that in mind, Marth pushed his own feelings aside so that he could agree.

"Yes," he began. "I would. If we must change course and march on Khadein first, then we shall. The Falchion is not something that we can simply let remain in the hands of the enemy."

Malledus seemed relieved to hear the prince's answer. "You are right, sire. Then we shall use the remaining few days here to draw up new plans."

Roy had made his way back to the camp after fetching Marth for Malledus.

Usually he was greeted warmly by his fellow comrades when they crossed paths, but upon his return this time, he was mostly avoided. Perhaps there had been something particularly heavy about his gait this time.

No, there really was no wondering about it—he had definitely appeared quite sour, and his steps were about as weighted as a Clydesdale's.

Upon finding a familiar group of tents, he quickly found his own and, without so much as even saying hello to his friends, immediately slipped inside.

The few of his comrades that were outside—Julian, Cain, Merric, and Abel, respectively—all looked to each other curiously. Abel only shrugged as he went back to stoking the flames of the fire pit he had started.

His partner from the day before, Cain, was the only one willing to break the ice. The redheaded cavalier had no qualms about strutting into the tent he was going to be sharing with Roy. Upon seeing Roy practically sulking—or was it seething?—on his cot, Cain put his hand on his hip.

"So, what's got your mane all fluffed?" he asked, getting right to the point.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Roy muttered as he absentmindedly fingered at the hilt of the blade on his hip.

"You're acting like you just got shot down by the princess herself," Cain observed with a shrug. "It's a hell of a lot different from your normal demeanor."

"Shot down?" Roy shot Cain an incredulous look. "I… what?"

Cain exhaled out of his nose, suppressing a chortle. "Geez. You are all out of sorts compared to how fired up you were yesterday. Do you need to talk?"

Roy averted his gaze, opting to stare at a stray strand of thread that had been dangling from one of the tent walls. "… No," he lied.

There was an awkward silence as Cain said nothing but continued to stare. Roy could feel the cavalier's eyes burning on him as if he was needling him with unsaid questions. Eventually the one-way staring contest finally grated enough on the mercenary's nerves that he let out a defeated sigh.

"Fine," he conceded. "I guess I do need to talk. But I don't really know what exactly it is that I need to talk about."

"Hey, everyone has to mindlessly rant every once in a while," Cain reassured. "Why not come sit out here with us by the fire and tell us what's on your mind?"

Roy turned his attention to Cain once again. "… Us? As in, like, the four of you?"

Cain shot him a grin. "Yeah, if you're comfortable. It might help to have a few sets of ears to listen to your woes, you know?"

It made sense Roy supposed. Though even so, he still was not entirely sure what it was that had him so frustrated. It was wholly unlike him, and he didn't want to be a bother.

With a grumble, he decided to hoist himself back up to his feet. "Alright. But if you guys get tired of listening, then just stop me," Roy said. "I don't want to take up your whole evening with… whatever this is."

Cain, acting as if he had won the most difficult battle in his life thus far, clenched his fist in triumph. He exited the tent and Roy hesitated before slumping his shoulders just slightly, wondering why he had agreed to do this in the first place. Unfortunately, it was too late for him to change his mind, so he simply straightened his posture once again before heading out of the tent as well.

He was immediately met with the scent of the firepit being carried on the breeze. Though it was something he smelled almost daily at this point, it still never failed to relax him, even when he was at his most volatile. The dirt crunched under his feet as he walked over to where the other four were sitting, and he took his seat on the grass between Cain and Julian. His eyes were trained on the fire before them.

At first, no one spoke a word, and even though the fire was warm, Roy was still uncomfortable enough that it felt like the dead of winter. Eventually, Abel cleared his throat to break the silence.

"So, Roy," he politely began. "Cain said you had something on your mind that was bothering you. I hope you know that you are more than free to speak about it with us."

Roy's gaze remained on the fire as he answered, "Yeah. He told me. I'm just not sure what exactly it is that has me so worked up, and I don't really want to waste any of your time with something silly."

The green-haired cavalier smiled sympathetically. "It isn't a waste of our time, that much we can assure you. If you hold things in for too long, eventually they just compound into one indiscernible problem. Perhaps it would help if you told us what triggered your… sour mood?"

With a slight glance towards Abel, Roy considered the idea. "… Alright. I was doing fine until I went to find Marth earlier. He was lost in his thoughts," he trailed off for a moment as he frowned, "I could tell something was bothering him. Though when I asked, he brushed it off."

"So, you were upset because he didn't disclose what ailed him?" Abel questioned further, to which Roy hesitantly nodded.

"Yes," he confirmed. "I've told him before that if he ever needed to talk to someone, that I would be more than willing to listen. There was a lot about him that I didn't know that he ended up sharing with me the other day in Pales…"

As he recalled their conversation at the Millennium Court, he felt his chest tighten. It had been an intimate conversation that the others had no business knowing all the specifics of, but he figured that everyone in his current company at least knew about the history of Marth's family.

"Like with his parents, and how they were murdered. I never knew about that," Roy clarified. "Finding out that his father had been betrayed and murdered just… it made me angry. And that his mother had lost her life as well. Prince Marth has had to deal with a lot of trauma that, well, I just wish I could help him more with."

His voice had grown quiet, and the other four glanced around at one another with curious expressions. Now it had been Merric's opportunity to question him.

"So," Merric started as he put his knuckles to his chin in thought. "That kind of reminds me of myself and Elice. Except I'm constantly beset with worry, considering she's currently in the hands of the enemy…"

Roy exhaled out of his nose. "Marth is here with us and I still find myself inundated like this as of late. If he was in Elice's situation, I think I would have to have Jagen physically keep me from running off on my own. I don't understand how you can do it."

"That's just a normal emotion to have as a knight though, isn't it?" Merric asked curiously.

"I guess, yeah," Roy responded.

Cain, however, found Roy's tone interesting. The cavalier squinted his eyes curiously. "You guess? I know how I feel as one of Marth's knights. I would want to run off and find him, sure. But," his gaze rose up towards the amber sky as he continued, "Getting in danger is part of the job as prince, too. And I'm pretty sure he would not be very happy with any of us if we just ran after him alone. Even I would wait to come up with a group plan."

Roy pulled his knees to his chest and rested his chin on the leather of his boots as his expression darkened. He stared into the fire and muttered with a completely flat tone, "I don't really care if he didn't like it, I would do it anyway."

Roy's attitude was a far cry different from his usual, and Cain found himself growing a sly smirk. "That so? Why's that?"

Thankfully Roy continued to stare forward, because if he had seen Cain's smirk, the cavalier was certain it would not have ended well.

"Because I just-" Roy sighed, irritated. "The thought of that happening just… makes me angry- emotional? Like when we were fighting Khozin, and Marth almost got killed. I jumped in the way, and we tumbled across the dirt. When I opened my eyes, he was beneath me, and looked like he was in pain. It just- and maybe it was the dragonstone that got me heated- but the only thing I could think of was…"

With a shaky inhale, he went quiet before he shook his head. "You know what, nevermind. I don't think I can deal with this right now… I apologize for bothering all of you with this, but I need to go clear my head."

He quickly moved his arms to press his palms into the earth before he pushed himself to his feet. Without another word, he turned away from the others and trudged off between the tents and out of view.

The four of them stared in the direction that their friend just retreated to.

"Someone's not very good at handling his feelings," Abel mused. "I had been suspicious, but…"

"Right! I thought you were kidding, Cain, but I'll be damned if ya ain't onto something," Julian said with an amused smirk.

Cain inhaled with a smug expression on his face and laced his fingers behind his head, reveling in being proven right.

"So, if that's the case… then what are we going to do about Marth?" Merric asked awkwardly.

"What do you mean, "what are we going to do about Marth"?" came a familiar voice, immediately causing the other four to startle.

Marth and Jagen had approached the fire, and Marth had a curious expression on his face. "Did I miss something by chance?"

"Uh," Cain smiled awkwardly as he rubbed the back of his head. "No, no. Uh, well…"

Merric pursed his lips. "… No, actually, you did. I think Roy was a little upset about something. He just left a moment ago."

The prince blinked a few times in surprise. "Is that so?"

"Yeah, we tried to talk to him about it, but could not get him to say much. The two of you are fairly close… perhaps he would be more willing to talk to you?" Abel added. "That is, if you can find him, anyway. He left in a hurry."

His words obviously worried Marth and the prince looked towards Jagen, who simply nodded his head.

"Go ahead, sire. I will update Cain and Abel of our change in plans," he said.

With a grateful smile, Marth thanked the paladin. Merric motioned in the direction that Roy had run off to and Marth quickly followed in the mercenary's footsteps. After a few moments, the elderly paladin turned his gaze to the four that were gathered around the fire with an expression one could consider equivalent to that of an exasperated father.

Much to Marth's chagrin, he had been unable to find his elusive friend anywhere around the camp. He had asked around and had gotten nowhere, until Lena mentioned something about potentially having seen the mercenary heading towards the castle. With genuine thanks, he departed from the camp and made his way back up the cobblestone path towards Gra Bastion.

A frustrated sigh escaped his lips as he ran his fingers through his hair. Of all the places he could have run off to, he chose the castle, which would certainly prove to be the most exhausting place to search. There were many halls and rooms that one could hide away in, and Marth worried that Roy may have found somewhere too elusive.

"So long as he is not enduring another nightmare by himself, I suppose…" Marth muttered, remembering the few times prior where his friend had stowed away somewhere post-battle to suffer through his panic attacks alone.

Though the prince figured if Roy had made it this far away from camp, then perhaps that was not the reason why he ran. Marth found his pace increasing as he went from room to room, still unable to find his comrade. Eventually, after having seen the prince pace by on more than one occasion, one of the guards spoke up.

"Sire, is there something that you're looking for?" he asked.

Marth realized that he simply could have asked the guards long ago if they had seen who he was searching for. With a slow shake of the head, he cursed his lack of foresight. "Yes, actually. I am looking for someone. Have you seen a red-headed swordsman with blue armor recently? He is just a tad older than me, and just the slightest bit taller."

"Ah, yes sir. I've seen someone matching that description. He asked me where the solar was, and I gave him the directions there," he explained. "Do you need help finding him?"

With a smile, Marth shook his head. "No. I've been to the solar once already, I should be able to find it. Thank you for your help."

"It's my pleasure, sire," the guard replied with a bow.

Marth excused himself and walked past the guard and up the main stairs. The solar was generally where the royal family's bedchambers were in any castle. With that established it would go without saying that they were usually quite beautiful, with intricate architecture and a lot of natural light from the balcony—which that was no different here at Gra Bastion.

As the prince made his way down the hallway towards the solar, he felt himself growing cold with nervousness. His footsteps, though quiet, still seemed to echo down the length of the hall, especially now that he was the only one traversing it. Surely Roy would hear him coming, right?

With a slow intake of breath, the prince stopped just outside the wooden doors of the solar. He stared at the woodgrain for a few moments before putting his hands against the doors to push them open.

Directly across from the now-open doors, on the other end of the beautifully grand solar, the person he had been searching for all evening stood with their back facing him.

Though Marth's first instinct was to say something, he refrained from doing so. Roy was standing out on the balcony with his right arm pulled up in front of his chest, as if he was in thought. After a few moments, the prince took a few steps into the solar and quietly closed the wooden doors behind him. The tile floors made little sound beneath his feet as he walked across the room and closed the distance between himself and his comrade.

Upon reaching Roy, Marth quietly stood beside him and looked out at the sky, now mostly dark. The sun was almost completely set, and there was a hint of starlight as they began to flicker through the darkness of the night sky. Neither of them said anything for a time, and though there was clearly something weighing in the air between them, it felt different. Eventually the prince hazarded a glance towards Roy, who still had his arm pulled up to his chest, and his knuckle resting against his lower lip.

In the dim light, the crystals on his skin glowed ever so faintly. In a way, it was almost alluring, especially the way that glow had begun to play off the details of his face.

"… Is there something on my face?" Roy asked suddenly, snapping Marth out of his thoughts.

It was then that he realized he had been staring, and Roy was staring directly back at him.

Gods, he really needed to stop doing that.

"Ah, uh, no," Marth mumbled nervously. "I apologize."

A small hum was all he got in response as Roy turned his attention elsewhere again.

Once again, another silence fell between them—the only sounds were the buzzing of cicadas and the distant, muffled sounds of the army's camp in the grasslands below. The prince's heart was beating hard in his chest.

"… Marth," Roy finally said, though he continued to stare out into the distance. "Something's been bothering me."

"Bothering you?" Marth repeated as he turned his full attention towards his comrade.

"Yeah. Earlier, some of the guys back at the camp tried to talk to me about it. I was feeling and acting very much… not like myself," Roy admitted. "Which they mentioned… and they were completely right. They tried to dig to the bottom of it with me, but…" The mercenary bit the inside of his lip as he scrunched his nose. "… Urgh. I am not good at this," he grumbled.

"Good at what?" Marth asked. Carefully, he reached out to put a hand on Roy's arm, but as soon as his fingers touched the fabric of Roy's sleeve, his comrade pulled away. Marth brought his own hand back and furrowed his brow as he stared at Roy, who was staring very firmly ahead with a strange expression, and even in the darkness of night, Marth could see his cheeks were red.

"Roy, what is it?" the prince repeated, albeit quieter.

Roy gulped hard—his throat was completely dried. There was no denying it by this point, he thought.

"We… I…" he started awkwardly. "The conversation we had the other day, back in Pales. I wasn't just kidding you know."

Marth blinked once at Roy's words and opened his mouth to request further clarification, but Roy motioned for him to stop before he had the chance.

He clarified, "When I said you had a way with words. The whole thing about understanding each other more than anyone else has?"

Ah, that. Marth simply nodded in response.

"… I… have been thinking about that," Roy muttered. "A lot. It's been on my mind ever since we had that conversation. Earlier today when I asked if something was bothering you, you said there wasn't. But I knew you were lying."

Caught red-handed, Marth had no rebuttal. "… You're right, I was lying," he admitted quietly. "I thought that killing Jiol would be the solution to my grief… and yet I see now that vengeance will only heal so much. I was just remembering that I still have a long way to go before this war is truly done."

Roy finally looked to Marth, his blue eyes clearly expressing his relief at finally being told what had been bothering the prince. "Finally."

Marth smiled a little bit sadly. "I am sorry. I should have just told you earlier. I am just processing a lot of emotions right now... as it seems you are too."

Having the conversation focus back to Roy made the redhead quickly withdraw his gaze, and he stared back out at the sky again. "… Yeah. I am. Actually, I think I've figured it out."

"Is that so?" Marth asked with a smile. "That is good to hear. What have you discovered?"

His question brought about a long silence as Roy squinted, seemingly trying to determine his next words. The buzzing of the cicadas quietened as he thought.

"Do you really want to know?" he asked in a hushed tone before turning his gaze to Marth.

There was something unreadable about his expression, and his eyes darkened with emotion. Marth held his breath for a moment as he studied the depth of Roy's gaze.

"Yes," he finally answered.

The mercenary pursed his lips into a line as he turned to face Marth completely, and he lowered his arm back down to his side.

"When the guys back at camp tried to dig to the bottom of my troubles earlier, they ended up asking some questions that made me realize… something," he said. "I had to walk away from them and figure it out by myself. That's why I came up here."

Marth craned his neck to the side slightly. "Right… and I take it you figured it out."

"I did," Roy affirmed with a nod, "and… it's not what I was expecting, but it's the only answer that makes sense with how I... act around you. Dragonstone aside."

The low tone of Roy's voice, coupled with his unreadable gaze, caused Marth's heart to stutter.

"I may not remember my past, but I do think I know what this… feeling means," Roy whispered as he motioned to his breastplate. His eyes closed for a moment before he reopened them, and he carefully reached out to offer Marth his hand. Marth's eyes flicked towards it, taking that fleeting moment to admire the glimmer of the pale blue veneer on Roy's skin, before he reached out to rest his hand in Roy's. The feeling of crystalline fingers on Marth's skin made his hair stand on end, and he tilted his head back up to look to the redheaded man standing before him.

"… I understand," was all Marth could say. Even without Roy saying it outright, he had gotten his point across, and it was as if every fibre of Marth's being was screaming in reciprocation.

Roy must have felt it too, because his body visibly relaxed as he held Marth's hand in his own. A small smile tugged at his lips.

"I think it goes without saying, then, that I will be here by your side for as long as you will have me here," Roy said quietly.

Marth's cheeks burned as he smiled up at Roy. "Then you will be stuck with me, even after you regain your memories," he responded, to which Roy laughed.

"I guess you're right," Roy said with a smile. "I'm certain there are far worse fates to have befall me. Though you should be more worried than I…"

Marth laughed gently. "Perhaps I should be… but I cannot bring myself to mind."

Chapter Text

The wind was bitter- its bite was sharper than the fangs of a wolf sinking into skin as the Akaneian League travelled through the desert.

One would think that a barren wasteland of sand would be sweltering, but under the cover of night, the chill of the moon reflected off every granule beneath them, only amplifying the drop in temperature.

They were almost to their destination: Khadein, the city of magic. On its throne sat none other than the dark pontifex himself—Gharnef—and within his grasp was the divine blade, Falchion. The thought of someone so sinister having the Falchion at his fingertips made Marth's skin crawl. Surely Gharnef would not destroy the blade, for it was far too valuable.

There had been something that Hardin mentioned about Gharnef that piqued Marth's worry: Gharnef certainly was not the type to bow to anyone, so why would he be so eager to serve Medeus?

The only answer that had come to Marth at the time was quite disturbing: Gharnef had been serving Medeus only to betray him later. Now that the wrinkly old mage had the Falchion in his possession, he had a powerful tool to hold Medeus at bay if and when the time came. With that vision, Marth was not sure which fate would be worse—a world ruled by Medeus, or a world ruled by Gharnef.

Regardless, both outcomes seemed equally bleak. At the end of the day, it did not particularly matter which one of them brought about the world's end—there would be just as many corpses piled by the time it was all over. His stomach dropped as he imagined the outcome.

The thoughts troubling Marth's mind weighed on Roy's consciousness like a boulder. With furrowed brows, he watched the prince from behind. Roy had been able to pick up on Marth's emotions the longer the two of them travelled together and, with their most recent conversation back on the balcony at Gra Bastion it was as if their hearts beat together in the mercenary's chest. It was a bizarre feeling that he did not quite understand, even a few days later.

He wondered if Marth felt the same shared heartbeat, though now certainly was not the time to ask. A ball of fire shot by their heads as the enemy military engaged. With an order to attack, the Akaneian League charged the oncoming enemy army.

Though the desert air chilled them to the bone, the heat of battle kept the blood boiling in their veins as they fought. Though the incredible magical prowess of Khadeinian mages was intimidating, their defenses were relatively weak in comparison—one or two swipes of a blade felled them without further effort. The tricky part however was actually getting the opportunity to strike; many of Marth's soldiers were quickly being overwhelmed by arcane magic that seemed beyond the power of normal men.

The stench of cooked flesh and electrified earth caused Roy's nose to scrunch. There was little else in the world that smelled worse than the corpses of those who met their end by way of flame. Wickedness coursed through the veins of the mages that opposed them, and Roy could not help but wonder if their fates had been dictated like his had when Volzhin stole his free will.

A quiet hum buzzed in the mercenary's head as he swung his blade upwards, cutting through the chest of another enemy mage. Writing it off as adrenaline, he pushed forward.

With an amused chuckle, Gharnef watched as the Akaneian League neared the walls of Khadein: though a king should usually fear an approaching enemy army, Gharnef practically welcomed the opportunity with open arms. Wishing naught but to see the sands run red with the blood of Marth's army and of the prince himself, a twisted grin grew on his face. His lame eye practically bulged from his skull as he watched with incredible interest.

"… You stand here and do nothing," Fafnir growled from a few paces behind Gharnef—his impatience evident in his tone.

Gharnef glanced back towards the hooded figure behind him. "I am waiting for them to come to me. You would be wise to learn patience, brat."

With a scowl, Fafnir stared at Gharnef from under his hood. "If only you knew who you were speaking to, preaching patience…"

A scoff escaped the pontifex's wrinkled lips. "My cares are better spent on more important things," he snipped as he returned his gaze to the oncoming army below his perch. "A measly manakete such as yourself is of no real consequence to me. Mind your place, lest I rip your forked tongue from your maw."

Gharnef's words garnered no response from Fafnir as the younger man's scowl deepened. Another chuckle escaped Gharnef as he continued to watch the battle unfold.

"I will raise you this: assist me here, and I will give you what you desire. You still wish to meet with Medeus, do you not?" Gharnef asked suddenly as he turned to face Fafnir.

After a calculated silence, Fafnir tilted his head just enough to look down his nose at Gharnef. "I do."

"Then descend upon them like a tempest and prove your worth to me," Gharnef hissed. "Now, follow."

No further words were spoken as Gharnef faded into a wisp of darkness. Fafnir glared at the stone floor where Gharnef once stood before following suit.

The singing of metal echoed throughout the stone walls of Khadein as weapons clashed with bursts of magic.

"It seems like no matter how many we cut down, there's always more waiting in the wings," Hardin huffed as he slew yet another enemy mage.

"It's a bit excessive, I agree," Roy grunted as he pulled his sword back, "Yet it seems like the castle is within reach."

Marth said nothing as he stepped back—his mind was wholly focused on the battle at hand. Suddenly, it was as if a curtain had fallen on him as a feeling of foreboding overtook him, and he pried his eyes from the soldiers before him and looked up towards the sky.

A figure was floating overhead: Gharnef, the Dark Pontifex. A wicked grin wrinkled his face as he stared down at the prince with a wild eye.

Fingers tightened around Marth's rapier as he stared up towards Gharnef critically. Roy, upon noticing Marth's focused stare, trained his eyes on the sky as well.

"So, the Akaneian dregs are here to… do what, exactly?" Gharnef taunted from above. "Are you wishing to challenge me? You would not be the first to try."

"Perhaps not, but I am afraid you have something I need," Marth said as he readied his blade.

With a smirk, Gharnef waved his hand. "The Falchion," he said. "Yes. Unfortunately, I do not plan on simply handing it over…"

Another portal of blackness appeared behind Gharnef, and a familiar hooded figure manifested.

"You speak too much," the hooded figure growled.

Both Marth and Roy were taken aback by the mage's sudden appearance.

"You… you're familiar," Roy said, which drew the hooded mage's attention to him. "Where have I…"

"You!" Marth exclaimed, shocked. "You are the one that approached me in Knorda!"

The mage glanced towards Marth next, the slightest of smiles now tugged up on his lips. "How flattering that you would remember. Did you heed my words from then, or did they simply fall on deaf ears?"

Marth recalled the events of that day in Knorda Market and the mage's warning:

" Keep a close eye on the ones you hold dear, or else you may just be faced with something you will not be able to handle."

Not long after their meeting, Roy had turned into a fire dragon before Marth's very eyes—and though for Roy's first transformation he was in full control, the second transformation had taken a very drastic downward turn. Marth's expression turned grave as he made the realization, and the hooded figure chuckled.

"So, it seems they did," the mage said. "You simply thought them the ramblings of a madman…"

"Were you the one that orchestrated that?" Marth questioned suddenly; his heart pounded in his chest so hard that he could hear his pulse thundering in his ears.

A slight shrug was all Marth needed to see to know the answer, and Roy glanced between the prince and the mage. Roy could see the fire build in Marth's eyes as the reality of the situation dawned on him.

"Marth, what are you—" Roy started.

"I grow tired of pleasantries…" Gharnef mused. "First this child complains that I waste time, and now he wastes even more. My boredom has mounted."

The cloaked mage shifted his gaze just slightly, and the air chilled even further.

Gharnef reached within his robe and pulled out a tome; the cover of the book was black, and it was decorated with gold patterning. What appeared to be a skull and ornate swirls were on the book's face.

"Imhullu," Gharnef said as he breathed out. "The most powerful tome in existence… that will be your undoing! Cower!"

With a wave of his hand, a gust of purple magic billowed towards Marth and Roy. Both ran in opposite directions to avoid the spell—the wall of purple fog deteriorated everything it touched, leaving naught but withering destruction in its wake.

The effects of Imhullu piqued the interest of the cloaked mage. "Hmmm…" he mused. "Perhaps you are more interesting than I gave you credit for."

Gharnef glanced over his shoulder. "Quit your yapping and do as you said you would, lest you wish to progress no further than here."

With a growl, a sneer grew on what one could see of the mage's face. As Marth and Roy poised their swords, the mage drew his own tome—Aircalibur.

"That is all you wield?" Gharnef questioned, clearly unimpressed.

"It is the only tome I require here," the mage responded flatly. "Now you quit your yapping. Are you a mage, or a mongrel?"

Marth and Roy exchanged side-eye glances. It was clear there was no love lost between Gharnef and the mage that accompanied him. The mage raised his hand, his tome now open as he stared down at the two of them on the ground. Without another word, he cast Aircalibur and multiple blades of green wind sliced the air towards Roy.

The sudden attack made Roy jump back in suprise—the ground in front of him was blasted with wind, causing dust and rubble to be kicked up into the air. The veil of dirt was split in two as the mage burst forth from it; a slender blade had been drawn at his side, his intentions made clear as he sliced down at Roy. Sword clashed against sword as Roy pulled his own up to block the hit, and sparks flew as steel ground together.

Quickly whipping his gaze up towards the hooded figure's face— what little Roy could see of it gave him pause. Had that been a glint of red beneath his hood?

Using the friction of their blades, the hooded mage pressed enough to launch himself backwards. He landed gracefully on his feet, the heels of his boots making the quietest tap as they touched the stone beneath them. With a slight smile, he shrugged his shoulders.

"Even now, I find myself unimpressed," he mused. "You bear that dragonstone on your breast and yet you still reek of weakness."

Roy's eyes narrowed at his choice of words. "What do you mean, "even now"?" he questioned as he gripped the hilt of his blade.

The faintest of chuckles escaped the man's lips as he shook his head. "You still don't remember. I suppose I should not be surprised… I can still sense the humming of magic in your veins. You must have taken quite the hit."

"What are you talking about?" Roy questioned again as he gritted his teeth.

"There were six of us at the start. Now there's just one… me," he mused. "Though it's of no consequence, those humans' lives meant nothing… I only needed them to help get the gate open."

A wave of pain washed over Roy as he faltered and gripped his head. His extremities went cold and his mind roared as fuzzy silhouettes and environments flashed through his eyes, the visions entirely unclear to him. Amongst the sea of uncertainty, bits and pieces were clear enough for a voice to ring in his ears:

" Roy, get out of here right now."

"— snap out of it! These people are using you!"

" I'm sorry I have to do this, Roy, but I have no choice…!"

The air that had been robbed from his chest rushed back in as he gasped. His skin was clammy, and his limbs were trembling—the tip of his blade pressed into the earth as he tried to keep himself from collapsing forward.

With another shrug, the mage chuckled and raised his Aircalibur tome. "I would rather wait to kill you until after you remember who you are…" he said. "It would be significantly more cathartic. However… there's no reason I can't maim you instead."

With a twist of his hand, he cast another bout of wind at the staggered mercenary, though the spell never hit its mark. The mage scowled deeply as Hardin swept in on his horse, lowering his now-damaged shield.

"I may not be certain as to what you did to cause him to falter so," Hardin began as he turned his horse to face the mage head-on, "but I will not allow you to strike him while his guard has been so thoroughly dropped."

With an unamused huff, the mage closed his tome. "This is becoming far too cumbersome. My business is not with you."

With a spin of his lance, Hardin stood firm. "You have made the decision to side with Gharnef. That means that the whole of the Akaneian League has business with you."

A laugh ripped from the mage's throat. "Oh? The whole of the League? Is that so?"

Gharnef, who had busied himself with Marth, sneered. "I grow bored," he hissed as he cast Imhullu once again.

The prince strafed out of the way and used this opportunity to run towards Gharnef with his rapier poised to strike. Gharnef stood immobile as the rapier pierced through him, and for a split second, Marth thought he had hit his mark. Then, with a blink, the sorcerer was gone, and his blade was bare of any blood. Marth pulled his sword back as he looked around him—he tried to find Gharnef, but the twisted man was nowhere to be seen.

Finally, the prince's eyes found their target as Gharnef manifested behind the mage that accompanied him. The mage tilted his head back in acknowledgement, and Gharnef whispered something that Marth or Hardin could not hear.

However, even though they could not hear Gharnef's words, the intimidating smile that grew beneath the shade of the other mage's hood gave them enough of an idea.

Gharnef frowned as he turned towards Marth, Roy, and Hardin, his face a mask of ennui. "I am afraid you have bored me here. If you truly seek the Falchion, then you will have to work harder to keep me interested, prince."

"What…?!" Marth exclaimed as he stepped forward, but the other mage stepped between him and Gharnef.

"I will be awaiting you in Thabes," Gharnef continued. "If you can make it, that is…"

With a laugh, Gharnef disappeared into darkness. Marth ran forward to attempt to give chase, but the other mage pulled his own sword out to stop Marth. Their weapons collided, but the mage stood firm, and the faintest smile continued to play on his face as he stared at Marth from beneath his cowl.

"I look forward to seeing what you do next," he said. "I would be lying if I said this wasn't an interesting development."

"You…" Marth's jaw set and his eyes shifted between the mage and Roy, who was being helped back to his feet by Hardin.

With a slip of his blade, the mage leapt back, once again landing gracefully on his feet. "Continue on your path, prince. I will continue to watch with increasing interest."

A cocoon of shade appeared behind the mage as he stepped back into it, not once breaking eye contact with Marth.

Marth saw the glow of red eyes beneath the hood's shadow before the mage was sucked away.

His heart leapt in his chest. "What… were those his eyes?" he questioned to himself.

"Prince Marth," Hardin called out, drawing the prince's attention to him. "We must get out of here as soon as we can—we need to give chase if we hope to ever see the Falchion again!"

Marth nodded, but his eyes immediately were drawn to Roy, who was still weak on his feet. He had been staring at the stone floor beneath them with a strained expression, as if something heavy was weighing on his mind. Marth knew he would need to ask Roy about this, but now was not the time; they needed to escape from Khadein and plan their route to Thabes as soon as possible.

After their withdrawal from Khadein, Marth had retired to his own tent with Roy to rest before their next preparation meeting. Roy had taken to rest on Marth's cot, and Marth sat at the foot of it. The prince rubbed his chin in contemplation as he considered Gharnef's parting words. Gharnef said he would wait in Thabes with the Falchion, but…

With a deep frown, the prince realized something: he had been completely incapable of landing even a single hit on Gharnef. If that was the case, then how could the tides possibly change for him in Thabes?

As if someone had heard his silent questions, a voice called out to him from somewhere:

"Marth," came the voice, which caused the prince to jolt.

Roy twitched as well as the voice rang dully in his own ears. His fingers knotted into the blanket.

"What?" Marth questioned as he quickly took to his feet. Upon seeing no one else in his tent, he scrunched his nose. "Who are you?"

"Gotoh," echoed the voice. "Please do not be alarmed. I am using my magic to speak with you from Medon."

Marth was taken aback. "The White Sage, Gotoh?"

"The very same," Gotoh responded. "You are troubled. Gharnef has the Falchion, does he not?"

Between clenched teeth, Marth mumbled, "Yes. He does."

"Gharnef is plotting something beyond Medeus. Now with Imhullu and Falchion, he sits in a comfortable position where Medeus—as well as Doluna as a whole—would be forced to rethink challenging Khadein…" Gotoh said, "With Imhullu rendering him invincible and the Falchion in-hand, he could easily conquer the world if he wished it."

Gotoh's words rendered Marth speechless, and his fists clenched at his sides.

"… Imhullu…" Roy mumbled, which drew Marth's attention to him. The mercenary pushed himself into a sitting position on the cot. "… So Imhullu makes him impervious to anything we try to do."

"Yes," Gotoh confirmed. "It is due to my own carelessness that he has such a powerful tome in his possession in the first place… he stole it from me before vanishing. Now, I see what he has been planning."

After a long silence, Marth chanced a question. "So… do you know how we could stop him?" he asked.

"There is one way to undo Imhullu," Gotoh responded. "Starlight, a spell made from the combined powers of the Lightsphere and Starsphere. If you are able to find those, and bring them to me, then I could create Starlight…"

Roy frowned. "… But it's not that simple, is it," he said.

"… Unfortunately," Gotoh said. "I am unable to discern one major piece here. That mage that was with Gharnef, he is not someone that I have ever known. Yet his soul spoke for a thousand years."

"A thousand years?" Marth questioned. "What do you mean by that?"

"He is a lot older than he appears," Gotoh said. "It is very… rare to see someone with a soul like his. One would think that I would have come across him at some point in my lifetime… and yet…"

"… And yet you never have seen him before in your life, have you?" Roy questioned, his tone serious. Marth turned his gaze to Roy and squinted critically. Roy had that far-off look in his eyes like he did earlier, after Gharnef's escape.

"… You are correct. I am wholly unfamiliar with his presence," Gotoh admitted. "Please tread carefully. Though I can ascertain Gharnef's schemes, I cannot tell for the other."

Marth pursed his lips. "Understood… thank you, Gotoh. We will search for the Lightsphere and Starsphere then."

Gotoh's presence dissipated from their minds as his magic withdrew. Neither of them said anything for a time, and Roy stared down at his hands in his lap.

"… Roy," Marth said, finally breaking the silence. "You had a memory come back to you earlier… I can tell."

Roy bit the inside of his lip. "… I did…" he admitted. "I don't have any context to the words, however. But…"

"But…?" Marth coaxed him as he sat back down on the cot beside Roy.

"… That mage…" Roy started as he clenched one fist. "… I have a feeling that he has something to do with me."

"With you?" Marth responded, seemingly surprised. "Why would you…?"

"He said something earlier… about how he could still feel the magic in my veins from a spell… or multiple spells. I couldn't tell," Roy explained. "And that there were six of them at one point. But the others must have died… and he didn't care, because of something about a… a…"

A sharp pain pierced his mind and his hands quickly found their way into his hair as he gripped his head. With a groan, he crumpled forward.

"Roy!" Marth called out as he put his hands to Roy's arm and back. "Hey…"

"… Open the gate, or he dies…?" Roy whispered, confused.

Roy's words made Marth's blood run cold. "What…?"

"… Open the gate, or he dies," Roy repeated. He winced before he forced himself to sit slightly straighter. "It… those words… Those just came to me… someone said that…"

All that could be heard was the desert wind outside of the tent as the two sat in silence. Marth was unsure of what to say.

"… I don't understand it," Roy whispered. "I can't see any faces… any places or anything… these are the only things that have come to me. Voices panicked, yelling about how I am being used… and now this…"

Roy's throat ran dry as he ran his fingers through his hair. "That mage… he has something to do with it. He must. I don't have any proof, but…"

After a long pause, Marth gripped Roy's sleeve. He stared out at the fabric wall of the tent as it bowed from the wind. "… I saw him in Knorda not long before you first transformed into a fire dragon," Marth said, which drew Roy's attention. "He had warned me about dealing with something I potentially could not handle. At the time, I did not understand him. And then shortly after your first transformation, you transformed again and…"

"… You had to stop me," Roy finished. "In Pales."

Marth's heart wrenched at the memory, still fresh in his mind. "… Yes."

The air was tense as Roy contemplated the gravity of this chain of events. A few moments later, he turned his gaze to Marth, his eyes dark. "I have no doubts now. He has something to do with my past."

The realization that Roy was partially responsible for this mess made him look elsewhere as he refused to hold eye contact with Marth. "… And now I realize that it's probably my fault he's bothering you now. I don't know why… but…"

Marth quickly shook his head and put his hand on Roy's upper arm once again. "Roy. Please, do not apologize," he said with a small smile. "We will figure this out together. Both for you and for the future of Akaneia."

Marth's hand on him had quelled the negative energy that had begun to bubble in Roy's chest. With a quiet nod, Roy decided to brave a look towards Marth again. Upon making eye contact with the prince, he managed a small smile.

"Right…" he said quietly. "One step at a time…"

Chapter Text

It had been a long and unexpected journey, but finally, Fafnir's goal was in sight.

Before him stood Castle Doluna: home of the Dragon King, Medeus.

The sheer force of power that pulsated from the peaks of the towers ahead made his skin crawl with anticipation.

"So, this is Doluna…" he whispered.

Gharnef, who was just paces ahead of him, glanced back over his shoulder. "Try not to get too excited. Remember that Medeus owes you nothing, even with the "long journey" you've taken to meet him."

Fafnir paid Gharnef's gaze no mind as he continued to stare up at the castle. "That is no matter. Just take me to Medeus."

The sorcerer's eyes narrowed as he contemplated the manakete. There was something odd about Fafnir, that much was for certain; however, Gharnef could not quite put his finger on what it was.

Sunlight was denied by thick, murky clouds and mountains surrounded them on all sides. The screeches of wyrms and wyverns that flew overhead and crawled in the valleys below echoed throughout the open air as the two men proceeded down the craggy path to the entrance of the castle. Medeus' domain was nothing if not intimidating, but Fafnir only smiled as the castle doors rumbled open, granting them entrance.

Immediately before them was the grand hall. With languid steps, Gharnef led Fafnir into the hall towards the throne. Looking straight ahead, Fafnir's gaze met with another's.

Medeus.

The elder manakete's eyes were piercingly red as his glare bore into Fafnir's. His posture was relaxed—bored, even—as he leaned to the side and rested his cheek against the knuckles of his right hand. He was bald, significantly larger than either Fafnir or Gharnef and his face was hardened by thousands of years of torment. No words were spoken as they approached the Dragon King.

They stopped just short of the steps that ascended to the throne.

Silence weighed heavy in the hall as Medeus' eyes remained trained on Fafnir. All that could be heard was the muffled echoes of the dragons outside. Though Fafnir stood firm, he could feel the overwhelming presence of Medeus' soul as it extended to him, and Fafnir could feel the phantom press of claws in his chest as he was silently tested.

After moments that extended for what felt like eons, those claws retracted, and Medeus' expression shifted from one of boredom to one of mild interest.

"Your soul is old," Medeus grumbled. "And it is foreign."

Fafnir smiled slightly at Medeus' judgement. "As I told Gharnef, I have come from very far to meet you."

With a quiet scoff, Medeus shifted to sit straight up against his throne. "Though you have yet to disclose just how far. Tell me, from what land do you hail?"

Fafnir closed his eyes as he shook his head. "A land not present in this world."

At this, Medeus' eyes narrowed. "Explain."

This new development certainly piqued Gharnef's interest as he also turned his attentions to the manakete beside him. Fafnir's smile did not falter as he raised his hands with a slight shrug.

"It is as I say," he said. "You must be well aware of the many worlds that exist. Surely your vision as the Dragon King could not be so narrow that you had not considered the possibility…"

Medeus' snarl elicited a chuckle from Fafnir as he relaxed his shrug. "My apologies, Your Highness. I am not used to being in the presence of royalty. Forgive my rudeness."

"I have no interest in your hollow pleasantries," Medeus said. "Tell me. If you claim to be from another world, how is it that you arrived here? And why?"

Medeus' questions were not exactly unexpected, though Fafnir had been hoping to be more in charge of the pace of their exchange. He frowned in discontent as he considered his answer.

"I arrived here… truthfully, by accident," Fafnir admitted. "I passed through a passageway from my world without a destination in mind… and I ended up here, in your realm. Yet I see now that it was perhaps fate that brought me here…"

With narrowed eyes, Medeus said nothing, though the silent question of why yet hung in the air.

"In my world, there are few dragons left," Fafnir explained. "It seems as though the dragons have met a similar fate here… is that not right?"

With a low growl, Medeus rose to his feet. "You have assumed correctly. Humans have all but rendered dragons extinct, and we Earth Dragons were betrayed by our own kind."

"Betrayed by your own kind, you say…" Fafnir mused, interested. His tone reflected his understanding.

"The Divine Dragons," Medeus said. "When dragonkind and humankind waged war, the Divine Dragons turned on the Earth Dragon clan… and sided with humankind. Earth Dragons were all but eradicated, aside from myself."

The Dragon King's eyes closed as he recounted the past. "That witch, Naga. The leader of the Divine Dragons… she sealed my brethren away and entrusted me to guard their slumbering bodies. Meanwhile, humanity continued to subject what remained of the dragon clans to torment. After years of watching our kind suffer, I had enough. I lead dragonkind in a war against the humans. Victory was within my grasp… and then I was slain by one of those human worms, with a blade forged from Naga's own fang—the Falchion."

His rage billowed and the atmosphere in the room grew hot from his anger. "Now, I have been resurrected… and my second chance has come. This time, I will not fail."

Upon hearing Medeus' recounting of this world's history between man and dragon, Fafnir remained silent, though his eyes narrowed critically beneath the shade of his hood. Medeus' gaze shifted down towards Fafnir once more.

"Now tell me. Why is it that you seek me out?" Medeus questioned, his gaze burning. "I can feel how intensely your soul yearns for vengeance. Tell me your plight, wyrmling."

To be called a wyrmling made Fafnir's frustrations flare, though he kept outwardly calm as he gazed up at the King. "… Your story is much like my own. In my world, dragonkind was persecuted by humankind until the dragons were forced to flee or be killed in cold blood. The Divine Dragons… they turned on their own kind, electing to stay neutral and hide while their brethren were slain left and right."

With a rough humph, Medeus' glare softened. "I see. So, you, too, understand."

Fafnir paused. "… I do. However," he started, once again eliciting a critical look from the Dragon King before him, "Not all Divine Dragons that remain from my world are… neutral."

Curious, Medeus tilted his head back to look down his nose at Fafnir. "Explain."

At Medeus' command, Fafnir's expression twisted into a small smile. "Ah, do you not understand…"

Slowly, Fafnir reached to the clasp of his cowl. With a movement of his hand, the gold plating covering the top pulled away, revealing a stone that glowed like opal.

"A Divine Dragon!" Gharnef spat, shocked. "You…"

Medeus' gaze darkened as wrinkles formed beneath his eyes. He scowled deeply.

"So, you are one of them," Medeus said darkly, though after a moment of pause, he continued. "No... You are not of pure Divine blood."

Medeus' keen senses drew a scowl from Fafnir. "… Your observations would be correct," he affirmed. "I am but half Divine Dragon. My mother… she was from the ice tribe, and my father was from the divine tribe. However, my father bestowed upon me his dragonstone before he met his end."

"I see," Medeus said. "That is a power that few can claim to have. Consider yourself lucky."

The vitriol in Medeus' voice betrayed his compliment. Fafnir could not blame him; in truth, Fafnir hated his progeny just as much, if not more.

"I wish to return to my world," Fafnir admitted. "However, I realize that I am cursed to remain here until I discover a means to return. In the meantime, I wish to assist you in crushing humankind here, before I do the same in my own realm."

Gharnef's eyes narrowed slightly. "Is that truly all you wish for?" he questioned. "Or is there more to your story that you are withholding from us, wyrmling?"

With a deep scowl, Fafnir turned his attention to Gharnef. While he could withstand Medeus' use of such condescending language—as Medeus was far older than Fafnir, and in a much higher position of authority, though he loathed to admit it—he had little patience for the mutterings of a decrepit corpse of a human.

"Watch your tongue," Fafnir hissed. "I have told you my piece."

"No," Medeus interjected, "You have more to hide. Out with it."

The pressing nature of Medeus' command drew a huff from the younger manakete. He turned his gaze upward to stare at the derelict ceiling of the castle hall.

"… Fine. You are right," he admitted to the King. "There is one more piece to my plan here. There is a… hybrid man travelling with the prince. He is from my world. I wish to crush him."

At this, both Medeus and Gharnef became far more intrigued. "So, there are two of you from your realm here?" Gharnef questioned, his tone all too readily expressing his interest. "… The red headed boy that you fought in Khadein. Is this the one you are referring to?"

With a slight nod, Fafnir continued to observe the architecture of the walls and ceiling. "Yes. He is the reason why I was thrust into this world in the first place... I wish to get my revenge on him for being such an inconvenience to my plans."

Medeus observed Fafnir's behavior with suspicion. It was obvious to the Dragon King that there was more yet to the younger manakete's story, but he elected not to pry. The truth would come in time, and Medeus was far more patient than most would give him credit for. He was a brutal ruler, but he knew when to play the pieces on the board to his benefit.

Though with that established, he still knew of one way to test this Divine Dragon's supposed loyalties.

"I see. Then if your wish is to ally with Doluna," Medeus boomed, snapping Fafnir's attention straight to him, "Then I will give you your first order. Prove to me your loyalty."

Fafnir tilted his head just enough to rustle the fabric of his hood. "And what would your order be?"

The question made Medeus grin, his fangs sharp and intimidating as his lips pulled back. "It is only a matter of time before the prince arrives at the doorsteps of Altea. Though it has been entertaining to watch him as he scrambles to free the realm from my grip… I grow bored of his folly. End him."

Fafnir's eyes narrowed. "That seems—"

"And," Medeus interrupted, not caring for Fafnir's opinion, "Unleash the power of your own dragonstone to do so. I wish to see the look on their faces as a Divine Dragon turns on humankind. Whether or not you are from our realm, they do not know that, as they have never seen one from the divine clan in true flesh and scale. Surely seeing a beloved Divine Dragon side with Doluna will crush their morale to the point that it would blow away like dust on the wind."

The silence that followed Medeus' command drew intrigue from the Dragon King. His gaze hardened.

"Well? Do you oppose my orders?" he questioned.

Fafnir's nose twitched as he held back a scowl. "No. I simply was awaiting any further words. If that is what you wish for me to do, then I shall abide."

The grin resurfaced on Medeus' face. "Good. Then we are done here. Go—and once you have fulfilled your mission, return to me."

"… Yes, Lord Medeus."

Chapter Text

With the battle at Khadein leaving them without the Falchion, Malledus had suggested they return to their original plan: to march south to Altea. This was met with clear support from Marth, who had been yearning to see his homeland again. They had wasted no further time and had set out from Khadein that next morning after their fight with Gharnef, and it took them about two days’ time to arrive at the border of Altea.

While Marth had told him of the beauty of Altea, Roy had been quite eager to see it with his own eyes. However, the sight before them was far from one of awe: yawning fields barren of life. Villages and towns that clearly bustled in the past were now haunting shadows of their former selves. The people—what few they came across—were sickly and distraught.

As afternoon fell to evening, the Akaneian League took a short time to pause and begin their preparations. The capitol of Altea was yet another half day’s journey, and with such an important battle surely looming on the horizon, it was imperative that they were well rested.

That evening dragged on far too long for Marth. Rest had all but eluded him while he sat on his cot, and the sad eyes and skeletal bodies of the Altean people clouded his mind like a thick haze. Those barren fields stretched out in all directions around him, and his chest felt hollow with grief as the raw reality of what befell Altea weighed on him. With closed eyes, he inhaled as he tried to keep himself from becoming too emotional.

In another part of camp, Roy was assisting Jagen with carrying some spears to the armory tent.

“The drastic loss of life here is…” Jagen paused. “It’s hard to believe.”

The clinking of the lances in Roy’s arms filled the silence as Roy tried to think through how to respond. Devastation and hopelessness on such a grand scale was harrowing. He thought back to the faces of the many starved villagers that they saw on their way. A sudden pain in his chest, like a vice had gripped his heart, made him grimace as he faltered enough to cause a clatter as all the lances he had been holding slipped from his arms.

“Roy!” Jagen said as he stopped walking. The commotion had drawn the attention of a few other members of their camp.

Roy pressed the palm of one hand to his temple and the other to his chest as he rode out the pain. Within an instant, not only Jagen, but also Gordin and Maria descended upon him.

“Roy? Roy, are you okay?” Maria asked, clearly worried. “Are you hurt? I can heal you!”

With a slight shake of the head, Roy dismissed her concerns. “No… I’m okay. I must have just tripped or something…”

“You don’t hold your chest after you trip…” Jagen muttered.

Gordin felt a twinge of guilt. “Is it your injuries from Pales? Are they still bothering you?”

All the attention was too much for Roy to handle, and he shook his head again. “No, please, I’m fine. You don’t have to worry,” he said as he removed his hand from his head so he could look at the other three. “I think I might just be a little tired.”

Jagen offered his hand to Roy, and Roy took it before being hoisted back up to his feet.

“After we are done with these spears, go rest. Tomorrow is going to be the most important battle yet,” Jagen said.

“Right… Sorry for the trouble,” Roy responded.

Maria huffed at him, “And, if you are still not feeling well tomorrow… tell me! I’ll help heal you!”

The young princess seemed to have grown quite fond of him by now. Roy smiled at her.

“Sure. Thanks Maria,” Roy said.

With Jagen’s assistance, Roy gathered the spears back into his arms, and the two men were off once more. After the last of the weaponry had been organized, Roy bade Jagen a good evening before he exited the tent. His mind was still buzzing from earlier. Without a destination in mind he wandered, primarily keeping to himself as he mulled over his headache.

His heart thumped twice in his chest, and though the pain wracked his body, he stood firm. He wanted nothing more than to groan, but the sound caught in his throat. After a few moments of standing still, he staggered. Perhaps if he laid down, he would feel better after all. Though it was difficult, he mustered up the strength to walk back to his own tent as normally as possible.

He flipped the door to his tent open and stepped inside. The fabric of the tent slipped across the top of his hair, brushing it just a little out of sorts as the flap closed behind him.

Much to his surprise, he was not alone: Marth stood near his bed with his back turned to Roy. It appeared the prince had not noticed Roy’s entrance, and after a brief pause, Roy walked over to his partner.

“Marth, what are you doing in here?” Roy asked curiously, which caused the prince to quickly turn on his heel to face him.

“Oh, Roy,” Marth said. “I just… well, I had been looking for you, but you were not here… so I figured if I just waited here, you would show up eventually…”

Something about Marth’s tone made Roy suspicious, and with slow steps, Roy closed the distance between them. “… Are you okay?” he asked.

The humming in Roy’s head only grew stronger now that the space between them was so minimal. He chose to ignore it, however, in lieu of Marth.

“No, actually,” Marth admitted. “Seeing my country in such a state has left me feeling naught but sorrow. I knew that Altea had suffered since Doluna took control, but… I had no idea to what an awful extent until now.”

Roy frowned. “Right. You had been telling me about how beautiful your homeland was…”

With a slight nod, Marth lowered his gaze to the brown, wilted grass beneath their feet. “Yes… and now, it is a wasteland. I cannot wrap my head around it.”

Again, Roy’s heart pounded once, hard, in his chest. This time he could not muffle his discomfort as a grunt escaped from his lips, and his hand pressed to his chest as it rattled. Marth quickly put his hands on Roy—one on his arm and the other on Roy’s raised hand—to keep him steady.

“Ah, Roy- are you okay?” Marth questioned, worried.

Though Roy wished to simply brush the concern aside, he had promised Marth there would be no secrets between them. He gulped and shook his head; his eyes clenched all the while.

“Here, sit down,” Marth said as he guided Roy to sit down on his bedding. “Are you wounded? Did something happen in Khadein—”

Marth’s words were stolen from him as Roy opened his eyes just slightly. Ruby irises clouded by agony locked with Marth’s own, and Roy’s breath was more labored than before.

“Roy- your eyes,” Marth whispered, and Roy grit his teeth.

“Yeah… I know. I can tell,” Roy grunted, his voice significantly huskier than before. “I don’t know what’s going on.”

With a gulp, Marth placed his hands on Roy’s shoulders as he knelt. The grass crunched beneath his knees as he knelt to be face-to-face with Roy, their eyes not straying from one another.

“You are breathing too shallowly. Try taking a deep breath,” Marth guided. “With me. One, two…”

Following Marth’s lead, Roy slowed his breathing—one deep breath in and out, and his eyes closed. Another, and his muscles loosened. After a few more deep breaths, the tightness in his chest and the humming in his mind had all but subsided.

When Roy opened his eyes again, Marth was relieved to see a familiar deep blue, rather than red.

“There,” Marth said quietly with a smile. “Much better… are you feeling okay now, Roy?”

“Yeah, I am,” Roy responded breathily. “I don’t know how you managed to do that, but…”

A small chuckle from Marth brought a smile to Roy’s face. He had grown to really enjoy that sound—it was always so genuine.

“I am not sure either, but I am glad to be able to help…” Marth said.

Roy moved his left hand up, and he slipped his arm beneath Marth's shoulder. Carefully, he pulled Marth’s other hand to the side and intertwined their fingers to give it a small squeeze. Even with a thin layer of crystal covering his digits, he could still feel the warmth of Marth's hand.

“Well, now that you’ve helped me…” Roy started, “How about you finish telling me what’s on your mind? What you were saying before you were so rudely interrupted, I mean.”

“Ah, I had more or less said all I needed to,” Marth admitted, his cheeks faintfly flushing. “I only wish I had been able to liberate my people sooner.”

With another slight squeeze of Marth’s hand, Roy nudged at him. “You’ve made it here now. Within the next couple days, your people are going to have hope again, and you are going to be their hope.”

Marth’s non-responsiveness drew a huff from his partner, and another tug brought the prince into a close embrace as Roy fully wrapped his left arm around his middle. Marth’s fingers gripped at Roy’s sleeve and his right hand as he closed his eyes.

“Hey,” Roy said, his voice low. “This isn’t like you. I know you have doubts about your leadership, but we trust you—the people of Altea, the Akaneian League… me. We all look to you and see hope. So, try to believe in yourself… alright?”

After a few long moments of silence, Marth let out a long breath with a quiet nod. His head was still bowed against Roy’s shoulder as he was held in that embrace. There was a warm, gentle press to Marth’s temple that caused his heart to skip a beat.

“I’ll be at your side the whole way…” Roy mumbled against Marth’s hair. He was, truthfully, a little embarrassed by his own gesture, but he held fast- for Marth. “We all will.”

The knot in Roy’s chest had returned, but it was different in nature this time: it was as if he could feel Marth’s heart fluttering as they remained in each other’s arms.

The Akaneian League had made it almost to the castle—Marth’s home—before they were attacked by a large Grustian force. The main Akaneian army had formed two separate units: the vanguard, and an infiltration team. The vanguard was to take the winding route across the isles to the southwest, led by Jagen, Hardin, and Roy; the infiltration team was led by Marth and Jeorge, and was to take the route to the southeast through the prison.

Grust’s primary force had been engaged by the vanguard, which provided Marth and Jeorge’s team the opportunity to make their way south. They encountered far less opposition during their trek, but the enemies that they did face were just as vicious as those battling the vanguard.

The brutality of it all was overwhelming. To think that his homeland would be drenched in blood, and the wailing of the injured would permeate the air—it made Marth’s skin crawl. The bitter rain only served to further chill him, though his sense of duty kept his soul ablaze with fury. The towering walls of the prison were just ahead and nothing would stop their advance—regardless of the severity of their struggle.

His rapier sung as it cut through the rain and pierced through the breastplate of an opposing soldier. With a gurgling groan, the man dropped his axe and fell to the side. Blood pooled on the earth below him as he bled out.

No matter how many enemies were slain by his hand, Marth would never grow comfortable with it.

Roy would not, either. The sickening sound of bone being crushed by steel would rattle in his ears forever and feed his nightmares.

Thunder boomed overhead as sparks flew; it was pouring rain and the battlefield was treacherous. The dry, dead earth absorbed little, and many soldiers lost their footing, only adding to their struggle against one another. There were shouts of enemy paladins as they raced forward and led more of their troops into the fray.

Mud was kicked up from the earth as hooves trampled by. Bits of armor and cloth, spattered with blood and dirt, flung through the air as soldiers on both sides were cut down without mercy.

With a cough, Roy tried to catch his breath. He had been exerting himself a little too much—the incredible fervor that fed his dragonstone had pushed him near his limits—but he wanted to put forth his all to free Marth’s homeland. Roy had seen Marth as he fought earlier and felt how intensely the prince’s soul burned as if it was part of Roy’s own. His skin prickled and the intrusiveness of his partner’s emotions fueled him even after Marth’s unit split from the main force.

Like a web, light scaling spread down his left arm and across the bridge of his nose as his eyes flashed ruby. At first, the sensation alarmed him as the scales knit themselves over his skin and his teeth, now fangs, ached. All sounds drowned out as his eyes clenched shut.

“Roy… I am with you.”

His mother’s gentle voice freed him from the shackles of his fear, and he opened his eyes with newfound courage.

“No losing control this time…” Roy whispered as he gripped the hilt of his blade.

As he fought, his weapon felt lighter and lighter in his grip, as if wielding it had become effortless. There was an unmistakable feeling of turmoil in his chest as the dragon within him writhed. The cries and groans of felled soldiers bothered him increasingly less as his mind acted on instinct, and any fatigue he felt previously had melted away into nothing.

Jeorge had sniped the two guards that were standing post at the gates to the prison. With their way now cleared, Julian snuck into the entrance to get a clearer idea of how guarded the jail was. Only a few moments slipped by before Julian stepped back out with a frown. There was a multitude of soldiers watching the cells within, which would cause Marth’s group a fair bit of trouble if they were spotted. They would have to sneak their way through as much of the prison as they could if they were to make it out unscathed.

The prince looked over his company. Jeorge, Julian, Astram, Merric, Rickard, and Marth himself were the only ones to make up the team. If they were careful, they could slip through without rousing suspicion, and Marth could guide them, so long as his memory of the prison’s layout served him.

To say he lacked fear would be a lie—Marth’s heart was in his throat as he snuck down the entry hall. Jeorge led the way, though he followed Marth’s directions as to which halls would take them to the exit at the other end of the structure. There were many guards on duty, and they strutted down the halls with their weapons at their sides. Jeorge’s eyes narrowed as he waited for one particularly slow guard to pass them by, before he motioned for Marth and the others to quickly scurry across the way with him.

Once they had safely made it to the other side of the corridor, Rickard glanced back around the corner towards where that guard had just gone. There was another that rounded the corner at the very end of that hall and was headed right towards them. Alarmed, Rickard turned to the others and tapped Marth’s arm, which drew the prince’s attention.

“We’ve got a problem,” Rickard whispered. “’Nother guard comin’ in from behind. We need to move.”

“Right…” Marth responded, before he turned to look to Jeorge. “We’re just over halfway to the exit… just a few more corridors. Though there are a lot of guards here. Even my father did not have this prison so strongly protected... it makes me wonder why.”

Jeorge shook his head. “We don’t really have the free time to look around and find out.”

“Right…” Marth mumbled.

A few more corridors. That was all, and then they would be able to breathe again.

The metallic clinking of footsteps came around the corner, and the guard looked around.

No one was there. He simply turned on his heel and continued down a different hall.

With a gulp, Marth shook his head. They all had scurried around the next corner just in time. “That was far too close.”

“Far too close?” came a new voice, which made the entirety of Marth’s party react with surprise.

They all turned their attentions to the source of the voice—a young man with red hair, contained in a cell just across from them. He wore an interesting smile of sorts on his face.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to spook you,” he said.

“Who are you?” Marth asked.

“The name’s Xane,” the redhead responded. “You must be Marth. Nice to meet you, princey.”

Marth straightened slightly in shock. “You know who I am? … What are you doing in here?”

“It’s a bit of a long story, and you’re short on time,” Xane said with a shrug. “But let’s just say Doluna got real interested in me—once they found out I could shapeshift, they threatened me and threw me away in this cell after I refused to join ‘em. Can you believe it?”

“Shapeshift?” Merric questioned. “Is that truly something you can do?”

Xane shot him a grin. “Sure is,” he confirmed before he turned his attentions to Marth once more. “Would you be willing to help a guy out here? If you do, I’ll even team up with you as thanks. I don’t really want Doluna rulin’ over this whole world anyway…”

All eyes turned to Marth as his expression hardened in consideration. If Xane had been taken captive by Doluna, then he was an enemy of Doluna—and any enemy of Doluna was a friend of his. Besides that, there was a glint of something familiar in Xane’s eyes that Marth was unable to pinpoint.

“That sounds like a good idea,” Marth said. “We will get you out of there.”

Xane beamed again and hopped up off the ground. “Great, I owe you one. I won’t let you down, princey.”

At that, Marth turned to Julian and Rickard. “Julian, Rickard, would you two be able to figure a way to pick that cell lock?”

The two thieves looked to one another and nodded.

“Shouldn’t be a problem, princey,” Julian responded with a smirk.

Marth only shook his head with a smile. “Then please, by all means. Thank you.”

“Try to be quick about it,” Merric added.

Without further conversation, the two thieves made their way across the hall to Xane’s cell and started working on the lock. It was a huge old iron lock, and it had proved to be incredibly finnicky as they attempted to pick it. Jeorge and Astram had gone to opposite ends of the hall to peek around the corners and watch for any other incoming guards.

Much to Jeorge’s dismay, one of them was headed straight towards where they were. His jaw set as he pulled back and motioned to Marth, alerting him of the guard on his end. Marth’s expression sank, and he briefly considered their options before he nodded to Jeorge as he put his hand on the hilt of his rapier.

The sniper shifted to take his own bow into his hands and nocked an arrow. One shot was all he needed to drop the guard, and that would buy them a little more time—but as soon as the guard’s body was discovered, their cover would be blown. Once the shot was taken, they would need to move, and move fast.

With a slow inhale, Jeorge set back his shoulders and tensed his muscles. On three, he would shoot.

One.                                                                     

The crunch of the dirty floor beneath the guard’s boots echoed closer.

Two.

He could hear the clinking of the sword at the guard’s hip with each approaching step.

Three.

Jeorge whipped around the corner, bow raised and poised to fire. He loosed the arrow and the guard let out no more than a gag as the projectile embedded itself in his neck. He dropped instantly, and Jeorge swiftly moved back behind the corner again and looked towards Marth.

“We’re definitely on borrowed time now. We need to hurry,” Jeorge said.

The lock clicked and came loose before it dropped to the floor with a clunk. Xane grinned as Rickard opened the door for him, and Xane trotted out.

“You have my thanks,” Xane chirped. “I’m sure Doluna would’ve just had me rot in there.”

Marth nodded. “Of course. I am glad we were able to free you,” he said. “Though further pleasantries will have to wait. We need to get out of here before—”

“Hey! What’s going on?!” came the shout of a guard.

Jeorge chanced a glance around the corner and saw a guard running towards the crumpled body of his fallen comrade. He clicked his tongue and readied his bow again.

“We’ve got a problem,” Jeorge said as he kept his eyes trained on the other soldier.

“Over here too,” Astram said as he backed off from the corner. “Just saw three more guards run by, and I’m sure there are more to come considering the commotion. We’re going to be in for a difficult time getting out of here.”

With one hand on the hilt of his rapier, Marth stood firm as he glanced to his left. “I remember the way out from here. They are already alerted to our presence. At this point, we shall just have to make a break for it. Follow my lead!”

The group sprinted down the corridor and ran through the intersection with the hall that Jeorge had previously scouted. One of the guards that had gathered noticed them as they ran across the hall and shouted in alarm. The sound of weapons being unsheathed reverberated down the length of the hall as the guards gave chase.

After a few more quick turns, the exit was within sight—the old iron doors groaned angrily as they were swung wide, and the group burst through. The rain had died down to a mere drizzle and the air was thick and humid, which soothed the burning sensation in Marth’s lungs.

“We are not rid of them yet…” Astram said between breaths. “Looks like some of them are still coming our way.”

“Prince Marth, please go on ahead,” Jeorge said, his bowstring already pulled taut with an arrow at the ready. “I will stay back and take care of this.”

“Jeorge, I will not leave you here to fend them off by yourself—” Marth said, but before he could finish, he was interrupted by Astram.

“Prince Marth, I’ll stay behind as well,” Astram said. “My blade will prove useful for you here.”

Before Marth could question Astram, Rickard and Julian offered to stay behind as well, and after a moment of hesitation, Marth agreed to let them stay.

“All of you, please be sure to return to the vanguard once you are finished here… I do not want to lose anyone. Especially not here,” Marth said. With their confirmation, Marth then turned to Merric and Xane with a nod.

The three of them escaped west, through the still-soaked fields. Thankfully for them, there had been no enemy presence throughout the entire east half of the isle after leaving the prison; perhaps their enemy did not expect them, nor anyone else, to go that route.

“Ah, would you look ahead at that!” Merric shouted. Just across the isle, the vanguard force was pushing back on what remained of Grust’s defenses.

“We made it just in time,” Marth said, relieved.

Xane seemed intrigued. “So that’s the other half of your army, huh?” he asked, to which Marth nodded. The redhead squinted curiously in thought, and Marth found his expression interesting.

“Is there something wrong?” he asked.

“Ah, ain’t wrong or anything, but I am curious…” he rubbed his chin as he peered out at the crowd of soldiers. “There’s a dragon or two out there, aren’t there?”

Marth was taken by surprise. “I… how did you know?”

Xane smirked and shrugged. “Let’s just call it a lucky hunch. One’s an old fire dragon, right? And the other…” he paused as his nose scrunched. “Well… I can’t put my finger on it. Feels like an ice dragon, but it’s not like any ice dragon I’ve ever met before.”

His words troubled Marth. “What do you mean by that? You’ve met other dragons before?”

“Sure have… let’s just say I’ve seen a dragon or two in my life,” Xane said. “But I’ve never seen or sensed one quite like that. It’s like it’s almost the same… but there’s something just off that’s got my interest all piqued. I want to meet ‘em.”

Merric had noticed Marth’s unease, and decided to take the reins from there. “Well, perhaps you could meet this other dragon later. But right now, we’ve got a battle to rejoin…”

Xane happily agreed, and with that, the three of them set off again towards the battlefield—though the shapeshifter’s words hung in Marth’s mind. What could Xane have meant by that?

Though Roy had been thoroughly embroiled in the fight before him, Marth’s presence as he neared caused Roy’s head to spin. Clawed fingers gripped at his hair as he gnashed his teeth. The hilt of his blade was scorching hot against the crystallized skin of his right hand, but he could pay it no mind in his current environment. Far too many other things demanded his attention.

A shiver ran down his spine as the scaling on his skin spread and knitted further. His left arm and hand had been fully covered in scales ranging from translucent to pale teal, with spots of gold interspersed throughout. Those same scales ran up his neck and under his eyes, and his ears had become pointed and almost fin-like.

Without so much as a second thought, Roy found himself chasing after Marth’s energy.

Marth had nary a moment before he was swarmed by enemy soldiers—the tiara on his head signified his rank, which drew the attentions of many unfriendly characters.

A sharp gale blasted past his head, blowing a few soldiers away before they could even approach. Both Merric and Xane provided Marth much-needed backup, and Xane whistled.

“Gee, princey, you sure have a lot of fans,” he said. He had picked up a sword from one of the fallen soldiers and twirled it in his hand before he shot Marth a grin. “Though they’re a bit more aggressively into you than you probably care for, huh?”

Marth shook his head as he stepped back. The mud squelched beneath his boot as he shifted his stance before he lunged at a particularly insistent myrmidon, and his rapier pierced through the man with ease. Marth grimaced as he pulled his weapon back out, and the man fell to the earth.

“I do not know if “into me” is the proper turn of phrase in this case,” Marth said.

Xane shrugged with a chuckle, though a moment later his previously lighthearted expression quickly turned to one more critical as he looked around. That draconic force he felt earlier was moving their way, and quickly.

A collective of shouts turned the trio’s attentions to the west as Grustian soldiers practically flew back and tumbled across the ground. Marth’s breath caught in his throat as he saw Roy barreling towards them, half-scaled and with burning red eyes fixated on the prince. Marth’s fingers wrapped tighter around the hilt of his rapier in reflex and his heart pounded. The event that unfolded in Pales was still a fresh wound on his consciousness, and he feared for a repeat.

“Marth,” Roy gruffed. He skidded to a stop right before Marth, and his chest heaved from labored breaths. “You made it back. Did everything go well? Where are the others, are they okay?”

Though Roy’s voice was husky, much like the night before, it was clear that he was still in full control of his faculties. This eased Marth just enough that his grip on his rapier relaxed, and a small smile pulled at the corners of his lips.

“Yes… they are fine, they stayed behind to clear the prison of the remaining guards. But what about you? You’re…” Marth said, though his voice trailed as his eyes slowly traced up Roy’s left arm, and up to his eyes. No more was needed to be said, and Roy averted his gaze.

“I’m okay… I think,” Roy said quietly. “I was scared at first. But this… transformation… feels a lot more comfortable to me than when I had that firestone.”

His tone shifted to one more firm as he returned Marth’s gaze once more. “And you’re back now. So now I find myself a lot less worried...”

Marth could feel the heat rise to his cheeks just enough to dust them pink, and Xane quirked his brow.

“Huh… I had been joking about the whole “aggressively into you” thing, but maybe there was some truth to it after all…” he mused, which brought a darker blush to the prince’s face as he shot Xane a critical eye. Xane only laughed before he returned his attentions to Roy. “So you’re the interestin’ one I felt earlier. I must have a chat with you after this is all said and done, got it? I want to pick your brain a little.”

Xane’s request was mildly puzzling, but Roy nodded in agreement, nonetheless.

The sound of a war horn drew the group's attention towards the castle, and the gates pulled open, revealing a horde of soldiers. The final wave of Grustian soldiers poured forth from the castle’s entrance with their general, Hollstadt, at the helm.

“You worthless rabble!” boomed Hollstadt as he raised his lance skyward, "Your campaign ends here!"

“Looks like we’ve got more company,” Merric said as he flipped his tome open. “Let’s save the chatting for later!”

Chapter Text

All hell broke loose as Hollstadt's final wave of troops descended upon the Akaneian League. Arrows soared into the sky and rained down, pelting the field. The sound of hooves filled the air as paladins on their horses cantered across the battlefield, churning the earth in their wake. The storm clouds gave way to sunlight, and the rays glinted on their black armor. They were, without a doubt, members of the vaunted Sable Order.

It had taken Hollstadt little time to find Marth amongst the carnage—the young prince had been busied by a few of Hollstadt's subordinates. The paladins circled the prince and the comrades that were by his side.

With a firm grip on his rapier, Marth readied himself for any incoming attacks, though the paladins merely slowed their circling before they came to a full stop. Marth, Merric, Roy and Xane all had their weapons at the ready as they waited for one of the Sable Order paladins to make the first move.

"Prince Marth," Hollstadt rumbled as he approached. The heavy armor he wore clunked with each step he made. "It appears you've already been caught. Tell me, was all your training and your entire campaign for nothing? How did you expect to succeed here if you're so easily cornered?"

Hollstadt's words made Marth grimace, and no rebuttal came to him. He could find no words to refute the disappointment in the older man's voice.

"Pah, so you've nothing to say. No matter," Hollstadt said as he thrust the butt of his lance into the earth. "You are the leader of the Akaneian League! Therefore, as the general of this army, my fight is with you—one on one."

Marth was unable to hide his surprise. "One on one?"

"Though it would be easy to simply strike you down now as you are surrounded, that is not how I wish to end things," Hollstadt responded. "No. As one of the Sable Order, and as a general in the army of Grust, I demand an equal fight."

The four younger men had no time to question the truthfulness of Hollstadt's words—the paladins that surrounded them pulled their weapons back, and each horse backed away to form a ring. It appeared that Hollstadt's desire was genuine. Marth bit the inside of his lip as insecurity inundated him.

"Well, prince? Will you raise your sword, and fight me as a leader?" Hollstadt questioned as he raised his lance from the ground. "Or will you cower and run, as a child would?"

There was a slight nudge to Marth's side that bade him turn his head, and he looked towards his left. Roy was looking at him intensely, and a small nod of encouragement was enough to coax back Marth's confidence. The prince then returned his attention to Hollstadt.

"I accept your duel," Marth said.

"Excellent," Hollstadt said as he whipped his lance forward to hold in in both hands. "Then we shall have our duel. And your comrades…"

As his voice trailed, the members of the Sable Order that had surrounded them suddenly readied their weapons with a sharp clatter of steel, the horses snorting and pawing at the dirt. Merric, Roy, and Xane steeled themselves at the show of aggression.

"… Well, we will just have to see who remains to call the victor. Though we do not plan to fall here, prince!" Hollstadt said as he started to run towards Marth.

Within the castle, Morzas watched the battle unfold with sick interest. A cackle bubbled up in his throat as he saw Marth struggle against Hollstadt—the Grustian general was far bigger than Marth and had many more years of experience in battle. Grey, wrinkled fingers twiddled with amusement as his claws tapped on the sill of the window. The fact that Marth even made it to Altea was enough of a surprise, though Morzas was quite thrilled to imagine Marth's reaction to the withered state of the land he once called home.

Though there was more to Morzas' interest than simply the prince alone: his eyes strayed from Marth, to the redheaded manakete fighting nearby.

"My, my," Morzas hissed. "To think an ice dragon would turn on his own kind. What a fool. I almost wish to trample him myself, and yet…"

His gaze returned to Marth and Hollstadt once more, and shock overtook him as he saw the shine of Marth's rapier, now bloodied, sticking through Hollstadt's back.

Hollstadt grunted in pain; with labored breaths, he stumbled back as Marth pulled his rapier out from the split in the general's stomach. "You… did well."

Marth, still panting, pressed his hand to a bloodied cut on his right arm. "You as well."

"Princeling," Hollstadt said, his voice quiet, "Grust did not wish to be part of this war. Though as a knight, I have my duty, as do the rest of us in the Sable Order. My only hope is that with my death, you may continue on to Doluna, and…"

A rough cough ripped from his throat as blood spattered onto the ground beneath him. After a moment, he glanced towards Marth once more, though the light in his eyes was rapidly fading.

"And end this war… for mankind. We… leave the rest to you," he finished before his knees buckled and his body collapsed. The clanging of his armor as he fell echoed in Marth's ears.

With Hollstadt's words, Marth's victory rang hollow: it served as a bitter reminder that not all his foes were truly evil. Some were simply bound to their duty.

The last of the Sable Order's knights swung their sword at Merric, though in a pinch, Xane hopped off the ground with his sword raised.

"Not quite!" he said as he blocked the paladin's blade with his own.

With a quick wave of his hand, Merric shot a blast of Excalibur at the paladin. He let out a shout as he was knocked from his horse and tumbled across the ground.

"Great teamwork Xane," Merric said cheerily as he closed his tome. "All in a day's work."

Roy jogged to Marth's side. "Marth, are you okay?"

The blood trickling down Marth's arm had drawn his attention. Marth only nodded.

"Yes, I am fine," he responded. "The bleeding makes it look a lot worse than the wound truly is."

A screech pierced the air and they all covered their ears in response—the sound was practically deafening.

"You rats! Rats, all of you!"

Morzas flew down from the spire of the castle, his green robes violently rustling from the speed of his descent. His lips were pulled back in a wild, maniacal grin, though his eyes burned with fury.

"You wretched Altean whelp," he hissed. "And that foolish Grustian general. Hollstadt. I knew he was not worth his rank!"

Anger roiled in Marth's heart as he locked eyes with the manakete. "You…"

The darkness of Marth's tone was unlike anything Roy had heard from him before, and the hairs on the back of his neck prickled. Agony washed over him, and Roy's nose scrunched as he snarled in tandem.

With a gruff laugh, Morzas grinned and bore his curved fangs at them.

"Welcome back to Altea, little prince," Morzas said, his voice laced with laughter. "I am surprised to see you here before me. Will you run away for a second time, or remain here to die? These halls have already been stained with royal blood… though I am sure this land would certainly love to drink deep of yours!"

Anger continued to build in Marth's chest, and his fingers twitched on his weapon. The pure, unadulterated hatred that he felt for Morzas surpassed even his hatred for Jiol; this monster had taken the seat at the throne of Altea, where Marth's father once proudly sat, and used that power to force the people of Altea into lives of suffering. All with that same smile of devious delight that Morzas was wearing now.

Marth's loathing was becoming too much for Roy to bear. "Marth…" he growled. Marth looked his way, and Roy's pupils contracted.

Before Roy could continue, Morzas' cackling interrupted him. "I suppose this is fitting. This means that I get to kill you myself… I wonder if your screams will be as pleasurable to me as the screams of your mother."

With wide eyes, Marth turned to face Morzas once more. "What did you- what did you just say?"

Roy's body shook as an overwhelming pain pulsated through his head, and he knotted the fingers of his right hand into his hair. His surroundings faded as a voice momentarily overtook his senses:

" I wonder how hard it would be for us to pull your strings, like Nergal did with your mother."

Air rushed back into his lungs as he gasped, and his hand moved from his hair to quickly clutch at his chest.

Chuckles gave way to booming laughter as Morzas raised his magestone. "That's right! I was the one who killed your beloved mother! I tortured her endlessly- listened to her beg for mercy! And finally, once she had withered away into nothing, I ended her life! Limb from limb, she was torn apart by my maw!"

Marth had little time to react as the energy from Morzas' magestone was expelled. The manakete's voice morphed into one much more monstrous as his insane laughter boomed throughout the open wastes that were once Marth's homeland. "Now cower and fall to my might-- the might of a Mage Dragon!"

The wind was so strong that all eyes were forced shut as Morzas transformed. A low, harrowing roar cut through the gales. Upon opening their eyes, Marth and Roy were both taken aback by the feral creature that towered before them: a dragon with ashen scales, wicked spines and talons, and eyes that were redder than blood. Unlike the Fire Dragons they had seen before, like Bantu, there was nothing in Morzas' eyes that suggested anything deeper than pure heartlessness.

Morzas roared and reared back on his hind legs before stomping the ground heavily, shaking the earth and sending everyone nearby stumbling. He lashed out with his tail, clearing the area of possible intruders to their fight. The only ones left standing at his feet were Marth, and Roy, who had only been spared due to his proximity to the prince.

The magical energy Morzas exuded was incredible; Roy could feel the dragon within him cower at Morzas' might. He chanced a glance towards Marth. Ferocity burned in the prince's eyes as he stared forward; Morzas' words had stripped him of all fear and replaced it with the overwhelming desire for vengeance.

"Marth…" Roy muttered under his breath. Seeing his partner stand confident and firm against such incredible odds helped shake him from his own anxiety.

"You are the one that killed my mother," Marth said, his voice terrifyingly calm. "You were the one to take all I had left from me. You subjugated my people to horrific torture and slavery, let this land run thick with blood, and defiled my father's throne. Your reign of terror ends here-- this, I swear on my life."

Morzas' maw hung agape as he breathed, revealing rows of sharp teeth with saliva webbed between. The slits of his pupils remained trained on the prince as he reared his head. "Such bold words from such a small, weak human. Your defiance will be your undoing. Now writhe! Allow me the pleasure of watching you succumb to your death by my hand!"

Volatile magic billowed forth from Morzas' mouth as he shot his breath at the two of them. Roy's heightened speed gave him enough of an edge that he was able to pull Marth out of the way with him, though the edge of his cape was slightly singed in the process. Marth wasted no time as he dashed forward with his rapier raised so that his knuckles pressed to his cheek, and with a swift jump, he swept the slender blade across the soft underside of the beast's neck.

Morzas hissed and reared his head back as his left claw raised from the ground, though his movement was halted by the searing pain of Roy's blade gouging through his right foreleg.

"You traitor," Morzas thundered as his attention was drawn to Roy. "To turn on your own kind and band with this rabble! Humans are naught but worms that are to be ripped from the earth and crushed!"

"You're wrong," Roy growled. "Humans and dragons… they can live together if both sides wish for it. Your hatred only holds dragonkind back!"

A powerful feeling of foreboding weighed in the air and Roy stiffened.

Not but a short distance behind him, a familiar voice spoke flatly, "How naïve."

Morzas, Marth, and Roy all turned their attentions to the newcomer: a portal of blackness warped the air as a hooded figure stepped forth from the abyss.

"You!" Marth shouted. Roy's jaw set as he gripped his sword so tightly that the scales covering his knuckles ached as they pulled.

"Yes, me," the hooded mage drawled, clearly less chipper than their last meeting. "Try not to act so surprised."

Morzas' nostrils flared as he sneered, "Your stench… what brings one like you here?"

"Medeus' orders," the mage responded. "I have been assigned with the task of eliminating the Altean prince."

Roy's blood ran cold as his eyes widened. "What?"

A dissatisfied hiss escaped Morzas. "You? Some nameless mage whose soul is shackled with grief—what would you be capable of doing that I could not do?"

The mage let out an unamused huff. "I've no time for your squabbling," he said scornfully and shrugged. "You've already been injured, and your fight has just barely begun. Just step aside and allow me to do the honors of ending this pitiful charade."

Without a second thought, Roy stepped in front of the hooded mage with his blade pointed. The mage's expression soured further at Roy's defiance.

"Your fight is not with Marth," Roy said firmly. "Your fight is with me."

After a few tense moments of silence, one corner of the mage's mouth twitched into the slightest hints of a smirk. "You are right. My fight truly lies with you. And after I tear your soul from your body, I will go after the prince next."

"Assuming you make it through me," Roy said. "I will not fall to you."

The mage grinned, revealing sharp teeth. "The defiance in your eyes reminds me of your father's. You do not deserve the dragonstone you bear, nor the sword in your hand. I will relish in taking them from you, along with everything else you hold dear," he said before he tilted his head up to Morzas. "You busy yourself with that Altean brat. I will finish this half-breed off and then join you once he breathes his last."

"Roy—" Marth called out, though the gaze that Roy shot Marth from over his shoulder silenced him.

His irises held a ferocity that reciprocated Marth's own. No words needed to be spoken; the two of them trusted each other's strengths.

Morzas boomed with draconic laugher, and Marth turned to face him. Before him towered his mother's murderer: a terrifying beast, drunk with power, and far beyond any redemption. Wickedness exuded from his being in a way that Marth had never experienced before.

"I suppose I can be grateful that your little dragon friend will be otherwise engaged. This gives us the quality time we so deserve. The hatred in your eyes is so pure, I would hate to be distracted from it," Morzas said. "Show me just how much a worm like yourself can writhe against my grip; I want to see you struggle!"

Without so much as another word, Marth dashed towards Morzas—his boots gouged the earth as he closed the gap between them, churning the mud and grass with heavy footfalls. Massive claws swung at him as he approached, yet none hit their mark. He leapt and swiped at Morzas once again, though the scales on Morzas' body were far too thick to be cut by Marth's rapier.

With a growl, Morzas whipped his head around to slam the spines along the side of it against Marth, which sent the prince flying back. He tumbled across the ground, yet he refused to lose his grip on his weapon. Spots dotted his vision as the world rocked, and his teeth gnashed together as he pressed his palms into the grass to push himself back to his feet. The force of their collision left him dizzy and nauseous, his vision swimming, though he refused to yield.

The memories of his mother filled his mind as Morzas loomed over him. Her smile, laughter, her gentle kisses on his forehead when he was a child—those memories would remain forever entombed in the past, sullied by blood. To be trapped alone for so long, prisoner in her own kingdom, only to meet her end by means unspeakable.

Marth's distress could only be eclipsed by his rage, and with shaking fingers, he pulled his rapier back to his cheek. Though his vision was clouded by what was likely a concussion, his path was still clear in front of him:

A path of vengeance, borne by blood, and ended by it.

Roy drew in a deep breath, letting it fill his lungs and sharpen his focus on the cloaked mage before him. His hands tightened their grip on the hilt of his sword.

The mage's blade made a sharp, metallic sound as he drew it before he lunged at Roy. His sword clashed with Roy's own and bits of flame sparked along its edge.

Their fight was much like a dance: the mage was swift and light on his feet, with quick strikes. His attacks were a far cry different from Roy's heavier, more powerful blows. If either of them misstepped or overswung, they would gouge the other in an instant.

A sharp pain seared through Roy's left arm as the mage's blade swept across his scales. With a hiss, Roy stepped back and raised his sword to block the mage's second attack. A smirk played on the man's face.

"Pathetic," he said as he pushed back. "Completely, utterly pathetic. Even with the power of her Dragonstone you still lack so much."

Roy frowned deeply. "You--"

"I grow tired of this," the mage said as he pulled a tome from his robe. He held the open book in his left hand as he pointed at Roy with his blade. "Your bloodline has caused more than enough trouble."

With squinted eyes, Roy watched the mage critically. "My bloodline?"

A deafening, monstrous screech interrupted Roy's question and pierced their ears.

Marth had been deeply engrossed in his own fight with Morzas-- the murderer of his family and subjugator of his people. Though the young prince was well-known for his calm, when faced with a monster of this magnitude, the gentle nature of his heart had ignited into an unbridled fury. Morzas had been booming with laughter and had been taunting Marth with each failed attempt the prince made at slicing through his scales.

Morzas had raised upward, readying to crash down into Marth and crush him with the sheer weight of his massive body, and Marth suddenly saw his chance. As if guided by those he loved and lost, Marth had readied his rapier as he zeroed in on the tanned hide of Morzas' neck as the inhuman beast came barreling down onto him.

The dragon had been cocky and over-confident, and that would cost its life.

Marth's blade had sunk to the hilt through Morzas' jaw, piercing through his head from underneath. The soft hide of his underbelly had served as little resistance, and his blood ran thick down his neck as he reared back with a roar. Droplets of blood sprayed from his maw as he choked, and with a strangled curse, the beast collapsed backwards into the earth.

The quake that followed shook the three of them that remained. Roy, having noticed his chance, made a dash towards the staggered mage as he switched the grip of his blade.

Fire suddenly graced his sword and with one swift, powerful slice upwards, the steel of his blade met flesh as he cut through the mage's face.

The mage's hood was sliced through, throwing his cowl back to reveal his face. Short teal hair whipped backwards as his back arched, and his red eyes were widened in shock. His weapons dropped from his hands as he stumbled backwards a few paces.

Time seemed to stand still as all went silent, and the clattering of weapons ceased. The mage stared upwards towards the clouded sky and said nothing, and blood, burned black and cauterized by flame, made a dark contrast to the glint of his fangs as his jaw hung open.

Finally, the mage curled forward as he brought his clawed left hand to his gouged cheek. The braid on the right side of his head dangled down in front of his pointed ear, and his fingers trembled.

"You," he finally said, his voice frighteningly quiet. The tone of his voice made Roy's blood run cold, and Marth carefully made his way to Roy's side, prepared to assist him in his fight. "Your blade… you actually cut me with that accursed thing."

Neither Marth nor Roy responded as they watched the mage with heightened alarm.

Slowly, the mage removed his left hand from his face as he started to straighten his back. His expression was unreadable—as if he were a moment away from going mad—and the red of his eyes was strikingly deep as he glared at Marth and Roy with abhorrence.

His expression strained with still-widened eyes. "You know nothing of what you have and yet you dare raise that blade against me," he hissed through gritted teeth, though the volume of his voice remained quiet. "Your blade, your father, your bloodline… your kind. Dragonkind… humankind… all of it, you are the epitome of it all. How my hatred burns, like a searing brand on my heart, every time I lay eyes on you."

"Who are you?" Roy questioned as he clutched his hilt tighter.

"Who am I?" the mage's expression relaxed as he maintained eye contact with Roy. A throb tore his attentions away as he pressed his left hand to the gouge—the wound seared hot against his palm as the skin of his cheek stiffened beneath the dried blood.

That arcane force was intruding upon his body now, and it infuriated him. Bitter memories of Nergal being brought low by Eliwood, wielding the blazing Durandal, flashed through his eyes. To think that he would flirt with the same fate by the hands of Eliwood's brood was ludicrous.

A mad laugh tore from his throat as that final thread snapped, and the Dragonstone at his chest glowed as he clutched at it with his right hand. Energy burst forth from him and the wind whipped into a roaring tempest.

"Who am I?" He repeated between chuckles. A tail, adorned with tattered fins, sprouted forth from behind him as he rose from the ground, and feathered wings spread from his back.

"I am Fafnir; the wings of despair and harbinger of the end!" Fafnir proclaimed, and his voice echoed through the gales. Flames were drawn into the whorl and the earth beneath him burned. "Surrender your souls! All shall be torn asunder by my claws and scorched by the flames of divinity!"

Chapter Text

"Surrender your souls! All shall be torn asunder by my claws and scorched by the flames of divinity!"

Fafnir’s voice, ferally warped, was carried by violent winds. The whorl was overpowering as his wings pushed downward, lifting him from the earth as his arms spread to his sides. His head tilted back and he stared up towards the still-clouded skies with a mad grin.

Marth grasped onto Roy’s tunic to keep himself held still, and Roy did the same with Marth’s cape; the unnatural force had nearly swept the two of them off their feet.

“Your fight is futile! Your lives are already claimed; for if you are not shred apart by my talons, you shall be smote by flame—your existence shall be purged!”

Feathered wings curled around Fafnir’s body as if to form a cocoon, and Roy could sense the growing bubble of power from within the blanket of feathers. Without thinking, he pulled Marth to his chest and whipped them around so that his back was to Fafnir.

Before Marth could even mouth his question, he was silenced by a bone-chilling roar. His limbs quivered as he pressed himself further into Roy’s chest, his fingers pulling at Roy’s clothing. That roar shook the world as if an explosion had burst behind Roy’s back, and he dug the heels of his boots further into the mud to keep himself from toppling over. Wind gouged the skies and the clouds split like shorn fabric.

Finally, the tempest quelled, though the unmistakable sound of flapping wings filled the silence. Roy’s fingers trembled as he hesitated to turn his head, for he knew what sight awaited him. His mind screamed to retreat, and the heavy flapping was drowned out by the screams and roars of events hidden far in his subconscious.

Fear welled up in him swift and suffocating, the screaming in his head so loud he almost failed to hear Marth’s voice as he called for him. The gentle tone beckoned him back from the darkness and he found the courage to open his eyes.

Marth was still in his arms, looking up towards him with genuine concern. Those emotions reflected back at Roy so intensely in those pools of blue that his fear was washed away.

“I’m okay,” Roy whispered, his voice hoarse.

Slowly, carefully he loosened his grip on Marth, and the bunched fabric of his partner’s cape draped free as he removed his hands. Relinquishing his hold on Roy, Marth looked forward as Roy turned to face their foe.

Before them stood a dragon whose presence demanded the eyes of the world: with scales of white and teal, and wings made of fur and feather, it was perhaps the most incredible of all the dragons they had yet witnessed. Golden horns glinted in the pale sunlight, and the crown of feathers and fins at his head shifted in the now-calm breeze. Red eyes trained down at Marth and Roy, and his finned tail swayed as he considered them.

Roy’s soul quivered and balked at the critical gaze of the dragon before them, and he swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat.

“Morzas was naught but a waste of time,” Fafnir spoke, his voice resonating in their minds. “To see a Mage Dragon fall so quickly to you. An insignificant creature. a “Prince.” Pathetic.”

Marth’s jaw set as he held Fafnir’s glare.

“Though I commend you. Both of you. You’ve proven to be much more entertaining than I ever expected,” Fafnir continued, the edges of his maw curling into what one might consider a grin. “To force me to stray so far from my original plans… that I would end up here, standing as a Divine Dragon in front of you as you continue to defy my will.”

Fafnir’s words sent a chill down Marth’s spine as his eyes widened in disbelief. “A… Divine Dragon?”

At that, Fafnir raised his head in laughter. “That’s right,” he hissed. “One of your beloved Divine Dragons. Those that you hold in so high a regard you consider us as gods!”

Both Marth and Roy were similarly shaken. Roy’s grip on his sword faltered slightly as the gravity of Fafnir’s words weighed on him.

“Why would a Divine Dragon side with Medeus?” Marth questioned. “He is evil! Not only does he wish to subjugate humanity but also—”

“Silence,” Fafnir spat as his nostrils flared with a snarl. “Your kind have had enough time to rule, and I tire of you all. Especially you.”

With all attention turned to Roy, the mercenary stiffened and his knuckles ached as he gripped his sword tightly once again. “Me?”

“Look at you. I’m surprised you’ve even made it this long,” Fafnir said. “You’ve survived every single attempt I have made on your life… every one of my carefully orchestrated plans has unraveled at its seams in your wake. It infuriates me. You are as persistent as Eliwood!”

Eliwood. Roy winced as the name rung in his head.

Eliwood? He knew that name—but how?

However, Fafnir’s voice tore Roy from his thoughts. “But it is of little matter. I will simply take your lives myself.”

His head reared back as his maw was set aglow with embers. As he threw his head forward, white-hot flame billowed forth and scorched a line across the earth, aimed right towards Marth and Roy. Grabbing Marth’s wrist, Roy ran with him to the right to escape the inferno. The temperature rose considerably as the air was warped by the heat of the flame, and the pungent scent of burning earth assaulted their noses.

The light of the sun was blocked out and both of them immediately turned their gazes skyward. A huge shadow barreled towards them from above, and Roy let go of Marth’s wrist so each of them could move out of the way. Fafnir’s tail collided with the ground between them, throwing dirt and stone into the air. Marth tumbled across the grass, having barely dodged what would have been a fatal blow.

The scaled appendage served as a wall between Marth and Roy. Marth grimaced and he threw his hand to his forehead as his head continued to swim. The black dots in his vision further consumed his sight and it was as though a shadow had been cast over him as he struggled to see anything.

The dread he felt was palpable as he realized that the darkness was not caused by those specks alone—a huge claw loomed over him, waiting to crush him.

Fafnir bore his fangs. “Perish!”

Marth’s eyes clenched shut as the claw was brought down on him.

However, a pained roar beckoned his eyes back open and he realized the claw had not fallen. Marth’s heart raced as he turned his head as he tried to focus his vision on Fafnir. The huge beast had reared back, and what Marth noticed on the dragon’s back caused his fingers to dig into the mud and his heart to leap in fear.

Roy was dangling from Fafnir’s right shoulder, his blade buried in all the way to the hilt.

Fafnir let out another agonized screech as his wings flapped, stirring up the winds once more as he lifted from the ground. Roy’s grip remained firm on the hilt of his sword as his feet kicked and pressed against the dragon’s shoulder to try to find some semblance of footing.

As Fafnir flew higher into the air, he writhed as he tried to force Roy off him. Roy’s left hand slipped from his sword and he quickly tried to grasp at anything that might keep him from falling. He found a ridge of one of Fafnir’s scales and gripped it tight—though the intense pain that radiated from Roy’s palm as the glass-like scale cut into his flesh drew a hiss from him.

Marth, having pulled himself back up to his feet, cried out for Roy. Unfortunately, Roy was so high up into the air that Marth’s voice could not reach him. The fact that his partner was stuck and struggling to hold on scared Marth more than it seemed to scare Roy, who was wholly focused on the beast before him.

Blood trickled down Roy’s arm from the cut in his left hand as he continued to hold tight to Fafnir’s scale, while keeping a desperate grip his blade with the other. With another hiss, Fafnir flung his head to the right as he whipped his body to the side—the stretch of his muscles forced Roy’s blade to push out just enough from where it had been embedded, and it slipped loose.

Roy lost his grip on the sword as it came free, and his left hand slipped as well. His eyes widened as he was suddenly left in a freefall.

The wind howled in his ears and his stomach lurched as he plummeted.

“Roy!” Marth yelled as he ran. Perhaps if he could get to Roy fast enough, he could catch him, or cushion his fall—

But Fafnir had flown too far, had been mercifully low when Roy had been flung loose and he had not been fast enough. Roy’s body slammed into the earth, the force of the impact causing the ground to fracture. The tip of his sword pierced the earth many paces away as it, too, had fallen.

“Roy! Roy!” Marth yelled as he ran, swiftly leaping over pointed stone and crags, to his partner’s side.

The loud ringing in Roy’s ears drowned out all sound as his eyes stayed tightly clenched, and he lie there, unmoving. Pain racked his body so much that he could not even think to budge. Marth continued to call for him as he knelt by Roy’s side, and the firm yet careful touch of Marth’s hands on Roy’s arm and stomach made the redhead twitch. Though he still did not open his eyes.

A rumble shook the earth as Fafnir landed with labored breaths. Transforming into a dragon was always a major tax on a manakete’s body: the power of a dragon unleashed was difficult to control and the volatility of the magic itself would be enough to drive one mad if it was not sealed back within their dragonstone soon enough. Fafnir knew this well; however, there was something this time that made his transformation much more exhausting than it ever had been.

The magic in this world was foreign compared to the magic of Elibe; what would be considered equilibrium here was wholly unlike what his body had been attuned to. The elements reacted to his magic much more violently and sapped his strength at a pace that was alarming. His gaze fixated on Roy, who was still lying amongst a crater of rubble. A realization dawned on him then: perhaps this was why he suddenly could not control the power of the…

Fafnir’s thoughts were cut short as he noticed Roy’s eyes open.

Marth’s fingers knotted into Roy’s tunic as his eyes widened. “R-Roy!”

Roy’s pupils were thin—like the eyes of a dragon, and his teeth had grown sharper. Scales continued to spread and freckle his skin under his eyes, and Marth could have sworn he saw the faintest glints of teal strands in Roy’s hair. His breathing was labored, and the rattling of a growl escaped his throat with every exhale.

“Marth… let me stand…” Roy whispered as he strained to speak.

Marth tensed in hesitation, though in searching Roy’s eyes, he found himself able to relax his grip on Roy’s clothes. Roy grunted as he shifted to the side and propped himself up with his elbow, before placing his bloodied left hand into the dirt to help push himself up to his feet. His vision was swimming and his head was reeling from the impact of his fall, and his knees shook as he found his footing.

He brought his right hand to his head and threaded his fingers through his hair as he tried to ignore thunderous throbbing radiating through it. The screeching of the dragon within himself as it tried to wrestle control was overwhelming, though he knew that he was in no position to allow it to break free.

“I see you’re still fighting it,” Fafnir growled as he masked his fatigue. Roy’s eyes opened just barely as his attentions were drawn up towards Fafnir. The dragon rumbled in amusement. “You keep fighting your own nature. If you hate it so much that you would deny yourself, why not just let me end your struggle now?”

Roy’s jaw set as he bared his teeth, though he said nothing. Fafnir’s words angered him, for he did not hate his dragon half; no, he just did not understand it enough yet. He refused to put his comrades in any more danger than he already had in the past because of it, so he had to deny it. He insisted to himself that he would not allow it to come free until he felt like he could control it.

Fafnir, realizing that his words had yet to pull a strong enough reaction from Roy, decided to try another angle. “That dragonstone at your breast. It is your mother’s, isn’t it?”

Roy’s eyes widened in surprise. “How… do you know that?”

A glint flashed in Fafnir’s eyes. There was a weakness he could use, he thought to himself as he raised his head. “How disappointed she would be in you, seeing you so vehemently refusing to accept the power she left you before she died. You sully her memory with your guilt.”

Fafnir’s words stung like venom as Roy’s breath stilled; his anger spiked more fiercely, though he refused to show it outwardly. That mattered little, however, as Fafnir could feel the energy in the around him shift and twist with Roy’s heightened emotions.

In fact, those emotions were so strong that Marth could feel them too. “Please do not let his words get to you,” Marth whispered to his partner.

“Quiet, princeling,” Fafnir spat in interruption. “You understand nothing of our kind beyond what lies at the end of your blade. This conversation does not include you.”

With a growl, Roy took one step forward as he continued to ignore the agonizing pain in his limbs. His fists clenched at his sides and his nails dug into his skin, reopening the injury and causing more drops of blood to drip from the aggravated cut on his left palm.

“No, he understands a lot more than you give him credit for,” Roy hissed back.

Fafnir’s eyes narrowed as his head cocked to the side haughtily. “Ah, so you think some promise of a future together is enough to be considered an expert on dragonkind. Is that it? I can sense how the two of you are bonded. You’ve sworn your loyalty and your soul… what a fool you are to give your heart to a human. It looks like poor decision-making runs in your family.”

Marth’s lips pursed at Fafnir’s words. It was clear that their foe knew quite a bit about who Roy was, though he was purposely avoiding saying anything more specific beyond names or sweeping statements.

Roy bared his teeth as he let his frustrations be known—the constant mention of his family that he was unable to even remember only served to stoke the fury in his heart. With a vicious roar, he ran at Fafnir without weapon or thought.

Roy’s mind was unable to follow his actions as he leapt into the air, his right hand pulled back in a fist behind him. Everything was a blur of fangs and snarls as his fists met scales, and finally, a claw swiped at him to throw him back. This time, however, Roy had been able to flip himself as he flew towards the ground, and he landed on his feet. His cape fluttered as the breeze chilled and swirled around him.

Small flecks of snow dotted the air, and Marth’s breath caught in his throat as a snowflake drifted past his vision. Roy’s heart was pounding in his chest as he fought tooth and nail to keep in control, though he was losing the fight within himself fast. The amused, knowing look in Fafnir’s eyes as he glared back at Roy told him that his foe could sense him unravelling as well.

“Roy… one more time,” Ninian’s voice echoed in his mind. “Remember… I am with you.”

His chest burned as he breathed in deep. His skin was numb as the temperature around him continued to drop, and even his scale cover provided little insulation from the cold. In fact, it only seemed to conduct it more.

“You cannot hope to defeat me,” Fafnir rumbled as he spread his wings, “I am the voice of ruin… all shall vanish with my song, and you shall be the first to disappear!”

Fafnir reared his head as embers built in his throat—a sign of the inferno to come. Ninian’s dragonstone at Roy’s chest glowed as a surge of strength coursed through his weary muscles, and with one final push, Roy ran straight towards Fafnir.

His left arm ached as his hand changed into one more draconic, and sharpened claws stretched from his fingertips. A ball of flame blasted from Fafnir’s maw as Roy leapt into the air one more time.

In Roy’s left hand formed a spire of ice. His talons wrapped around it, and he reeled his arm back before throwing it forward into the oncoming inferno.

The collision of fire and ice caused an explosion of magic so violent that all their surroundings were swept away in bright light. Marth was unable to keep standing as he was pushed back by howling gusts, and both Roy and Fafnir were forced from the epicenter of the blast and shot in opposite directions.

Fafnir, having exhausted his power in his dragon form, transformed back as he soared through the air. Both manaketes hit the ground and tumbled across the grass before they each finally came to a halt, lying on their sides.

Marth pushed himself to his feet and ran towards Roy, who was hacking from the impact. The wind had been knocked from his lungs and he shakily pressed his right hand into the mud as he tried to lift his chest off the ground.

“Gods, Roy,” Marth said between pants as he quickly knelt. “Breathe! What were you thinking?”

With another rough cough, Roy looked up towards Marth, his face half coated in dirt and blood. “I… wasn’t thinking,” he admitted as he gasped.

“Certainly not,” Marth practically shouted, “To run at a Divine Dragon unarmed…!”

With a grunt, Roy pressed his still-clawed left hand into the dirt before he pushed himself up, and with the help of Marth’s arm wrapped under his own, he was able to stagger back to his feet. His body was as cold as ice, and a shiver ran down Marth’s spine as he held Roy up.

Weary cackling drew both of their attentions across the battlefield. Fafnir had managed to pull himself up to his feet, though his back was still curled as he stared at the ground with tired eyes. “You… Are far too persistent…” he said, his voice strained.

Marth frowned. “So are you,” he responded, “You can barely stand.”

Fafnir’s gaze rose to Marth with a glare so full of pure hatred that it silenced him. Then Fafnir’s gaze shifted to Roy’s.

“I am not done… with you,” Fafnir hissed.

After a tense silence, Roy loosened his grip on Marth, and the prince looked to him with confusion. “He’s right… we’re not done here yet,” Roy said, and Marth immediately tensed in alarm.

“Roy, you—” he started, though Roy simply spared Marth a glance of defiance before he turned.

He walked a few paces away to where his sword had sheathed itself in the mud and grasped the hilt with his right hand. “Marth… you trust me… right?”

The question parched Marth’s throat. “Yes… I do.”

With a slight nod, Roy pulled his blade from the earth. “Then trust… that I can handle this, like you did Morzas.”

Marth remained silent for a few moments before slowly nodding. This was still Roy’s fight, after all. Roy’s gaze rose from the sullied blade in his hand to Marth. The prince was just as dirtied as he was, with bits of mud and blood stuck in his hair and to his face. His clothes and armor were a mess. Even in such a dire situation, Roy felt his mood lighten just slightly at the sight of Marth so disheveled.

Fafnir scoffed. “The way you two look at each other… it makes me sick,” he spat as he shoved his hand into his cloak. “I hate it!”

He yanked a tome from his cloak and opened its pages. Roy turned to face Fafnir and his eyes hardened before he dashed towards the opposing manakete. His right palm felt like a fire was burning him as he clutched his sword, and just before Fafnir could cast his spell, Roy swung his arm skyward. The book flew loose from Fafnir’s hands, having been cut clean in two, and at the peak of his strike, Roy let go of the hilt of his blade.

The next move was something Fafnir never anticipated: Roy balled his hand into a fist as he released the sword, and pulled his arm back before thrusting it forward. A powerful punch rammed straight into Fafnir’s cheek, sending him right back into the dirt.

Fafnir choked out a grunt as he hit the ground. The metallic taste of blood flooded his mouth and he snarled, wasting no time trying to push himself back up.

However, his movement was halted by the unmistakable press of a blade at his throat. It was like a brand pressing against his skin, searing hot, though there were no flames gracing the steel. His gaze rose from the sword to Roy, who was looming over him with eyes just as unreadable as his own.

The two stared at one another in silence. Finally, Fafnir had enough of waiting.

“What are you waiting for?” Fafnir growled, “Just end it already. Kill me.”

Though at Fafnir’s command, Roy found himself hesitating. Even though venom dripped from every word, there was something hidden deep within the manakete’s eyes that made Roy falter:

Sorrow. Pure, genuine sorrow.

Roy winced as the memory of something dark towered before him. Reflected at him in that mysterious beast’s mismatched eyes was an emotion so depressingly lonely and real that his heart reached out for it.

Before he even realized it, he had lowered his sword from Fafnir’s neck. A bead of sweat ran down Fafnir’s temple as he swallowed behind clenched teeth.

“What are you doing?” Fafnir questioned, “Won’t you finish the job?”

“No,” Roy muttered as he opened his eyes once again to look at Fafnir, “We’re finished here.”

With a scoff, Fafnir curled his fingers into the ground, pulling bits of grass from the dirt as he did so. “You ignorant fool. Do you really think that showing me mercy here will do anything? Just end it already—kill me! Why won’t you just end my—”

Roy only continued to stare critically down into Fafnir’s eyes, and the teal-haired manakete inhaled sharply to cut himself off. His eyes closed momentarily as he thought, and then they opened again, clouded with animosity.

“Fine. Spare my life if that is your wish,” Fafnir hissed. “Though you will regret this. I will make certain of it.”

Tendrils of black reached out from beneath Fafnir as he pushed himself up and away from Roy. Fafnir’s knees quaked as he stumbled backwards a few more steps, and Roy scrunched his nose as he frowned deeply at the sight. Their eyes remained locked until Fafnir fully receded into the darkness.

That whole time, Roy had seen something familiar in those red eyes glaring back at him.

Though with their threat now gone, Roy suddenly felt every ache and pain hit him like a ton of bricks, and he dropped his sword as he groaned. The scales on his body began to fade, and his energy was completely sapped from him as he began reverting back to normal.

The field around him swung out of view as he tilted his head and fell backwards into the grass and mud, and he could barely hear Marth calling out his name as his eyes slipped shut.

Chapter Text

The journey back to Pherae seemed to drag on forever for Nils. The incessant clopping of hooves in dirt as Lyn, Kent, and Sain ferried Nils, Fa, and Idunn would have probably driven Nils crazy had he not already been so thoroughly preoccupied with his own thoughts.

The elder in Arcadia had insisted on spending time with Nils while they had been visiting. At first, the request seemed to be borne from simple curiosity, yet once the temple gates had shut behind Lyn, Kent, and Sain after they left, the tone had shifted drastically. The elder had been looking upon Nils with critical eyes and peppered the boy with questions about the events that had happened at Dread Isle.

How many of those mages were there?

Did Nils know who they were?

What did they do to Roy? To Nils?

How many did Nils kill? Did he kill them all?

What did they want?

Nils flinched as he recalled the questions that had been thrown his way. There had been so many questions that he shrunk considerably in the elder’s presence. Only with Sophia’s gentle interjection had the elder halted his barrage.

Apologies had been uttered, though they fell on deaf ears. Nils wanted nothing more to do with the place, nor the elder. He had already felt guilty enough, and having to recall those events—his failures, he thought—felt like rubbing salt in a wound that was still far too fresh. This had only been exacerbated by his frustrations with the man who had been so overbearing and intrusive—the elder had no right to be so critical, given how little contact he even wanted to have with the rest of the world.

What room did he have to be so concerned if he could not be bothered to help?

Before Nils could even realize it, a frustrated sigh escaped his lips. His fingers knitted into his scarf as he stared at Kent’s back with a hardened gaze.

“You alright there, kid?” Kent asked as he spared a quick glance over his shoulder. “That was a pretty hefty sigh.”

Nils flicked his eyes up towards Kent before returning his attention back to a small scratch in Kent’s armor. “Yeah… I’m fine. Sorry.”

Deciding to drop the question, Kent hummed and looked forward again.

Idunn quietly watched Nils from behind Lyn. His uncertainty and aggravation were palpable, and though she said nothing, she reached her soul out to his in understanding.

After three days of travel, they finally arrived back in Pherae; thankfully it was still midday when they approached the manor, and the guards at the gates were quick to allow the group back in. Word had already been sent to Eliwood that they had returned, and as they were dismounting their horses, Eliwood came out to them with Lilina and Wolt at his side.

“You’ve returned safely,” Eliwood said with a smile. “I’m glad to see you back.”

Nils hopped off Kent’s horse and looked towards Idunn as she gracefully stepped down onto the grass. Upon seeing Idunn, Lilina and Wolt both tensed in surprise.

“Idunn?” Lilina questioned, which drew the manakete’s attention. Lilina smiled at her as soon as their eyes met. “It is you! It’s been so long!”

Idunn remained quiet for a few moments before she nodded in acknowledgement. “… You… are taller,” she observed.

Heat rose to Lilina’s cheeks as she laughed a little. “W-well, it has been a few years…” she responded. “It’s nice to see you again.”

“Idunn…?” Eliwood mused to himself as he cupped his chin. Lyn walked over towards him as he was still thinking, and she tapped his shoulder.

“Eliwood,” she said. “We need to talk.”

“Sounds like you have something important to share… as do I,” Eliwood responded with a nod. “Let’s all head inside. Wolt, Lilina, please join us as well.”

The Marquess was quick to lead the group inside the manor, and to the main hall where all the papers were still spread across the table—though now they looked significantly more organized. Nils’ eyes trailed across all his scrawling and notes, and he noticed someone else’s handwriting on some of the parchments. Eliwood must have been writing down his thoughts as he was going over all the diagrams.

A cough from Eliwood as he cleared his throat drew the attention of the room. He glanced around at his company and a small smile graced his features.

“Well… welcome back to Pherae. I see that you’ve brought along a friend… albeit an unexpected one,” he said. “Idunn… I believe this is the first time we have ever truly met.”

Idunn tilted her head in a slow nod.

“Idunn agreed to come with us and assist,” Lyn explained. “But the rest of Arcadia? We aren’t going to be getting their help.”

At this, Eliwood grimaced. “Is that so…”

“It’s okay, though!” Fa said as her wings fluttered. “Idunn is really, really strong, so we’ll be okay!”

Eliwood certainly appreciated the sprightly manakete’s enthusiasm, but he still found himself questioning. With a quick glance to Nils, he silently asked for reassurance.

Nils’ gaze shifted uncomfortably, though after a moment, he nodded. Idunn was the most powerful dragon in existence, without question, so having her help was like having the power of an entire flight of dragons by their side.

“She is very powerful,” Lilina chimed in with a smile. “It’s been a couple years, but I remember the day we battled like it was yesterday…”

“Yeah,” Wolt mumbled. “Especially seeing Roy fight her. It was unlike anything I had ever seen before… needless to say, I’m real glad we’re on her good side now…”

Idunn had no response. Eliwood simply nodded, seemingly satisfied with the opinions that were provided.

“… Well, with that out of the way… Eliwood, what was this important information you had for us?” Lyn asked.

A small hum escaped Eliwood’s lips as he put his knuckles to his lips. “Well, Wolt would be the one more equipped to answer that than me. Wolt?”

All heads turned to Wolt, and the young sniper rubbed the back of his head nervously. “Oh. Uh, well, right,” he lowered his arm from his hair and lowered his voice. “Yesterday morning, Lilina and I were walking the fields just outside of the manor. Everything seemed alright, but… well, there was this strange shadow that darted by behind the tree line.”

Lyn furrowed her brow in concern. “A shadow?”

“Yes,” Wolt responded with a nod. “It definitely looked like a person. Since it was so early and so close to the manor, I asked Lilina to go back to get Alen or Lance, while I gave chase. But… well, I didn’t see anything after searching. And I searched for a while. When Lilina brought back Alen and Lance, all four of us searched the forest, but didn’t see a soul.”

Kent rubbed his chin with a grumble. “Well it’s not like someone could just up and disappear. Are you sure you saw something?”

A vigorous nod was all Wolt could give before Lilina spoke, “There was no mistaking it. I saw it too. When we were searching the forest, even though we didn’t find anyone… I felt very uncomfortable. It was like we were being watched.”

“Well, it is not uncommon to feel paranoia in such a situation…” Lyn mused. “But it is concerning nonetheless—I agree.”

“As do I,” Eliwood said. “Because of this… well, I apologize. Lyn, Kent, Sain—would you be willing to help one more time? My only request is if you could stay a little while longer and assist us in potentially finding the source of this mysterious shadow.”

“Eliwood,” Lyn started with a smile, “We would be more than happy to help. You do not need to apologize.”

“Yeah,” Sain added as he put his hands behind his head. “Besides, this means we could probably teach those other guys a thing or two. Alen and Lance, were they?”

“Those are their names, yes,” Eliwood confirmed with a chuckle. “Thank you, you three. It means a lot to me that you would be willing to stay a little longer.”

“I don’t think we could return home without seeing your kid come back first, anyway,” Kent said. “At least, I couldn’t.”

After a moment of consideration, Eliwood turned to Lilina. “Lilina, would you be able to take Fa and Idunn back to the Dragon’s Gate in the garden?”

“Of course!” Lilina smiled happily and put her hands together. “Fa, Idunn, I’ll show you the way. Though Fa should already know where we’re going…”

Fa’s wings fluttered as she nodded. “Yes, yes! Fa remembers! Let’s go!”

“… And Wolt, would you be willing to take Kent and Sain to Alen and Lance? The five of you should be able to cover a lot of ground, trying to track down any clues…” Eliwood added.

With a nod, Wolt motioned to Kent and Sain for them to follow him. “We’ll get going so we have as much daylight as possible to search.”

As those six filed out of the room, Lyn’s brow raised as she crossed her arms under her chest. By that point, it was only her, Nils, and Eliwood left. Nils glanced between the two of them before settling his gaze on Eliwood, who still clearly had something on his mind.

“And I’m going to assume you needed to speak with us…” Lyn mused, to which Eliwood nodded.

“… You would assume correctly. Lyn, Nils, there’s been something bothering me as of late. It happened while you were away in Arcadia,” Eliwood began. After a moment of tense silence, he let out a sigh and threaded his fingers in his hair.

“Eliwood… you look like you haven’t slept a wink in days,” Lyn said. “What is it?”

There was another moment of uncomfortable silence before Eliwood allowed yet another sigh to escape his lips as he lowered his hand from his hair. The brick floor below them seemed to have drawn his interest as he contemplated something.

“… This whole situation… it has me very concerned,” he grumbled. Lyn and Nils exchanged glances at his verbiage.

“Did you see something as well?” Lyn asked, to which Eliwood only shook his head.

“No. That… isn’t it. It’s something different,” he responded before raising his gaze back up to a hallway to their left. His brows were furrowed as he stared down the length of the hall. Nils remembered it as the way to Eliwood’s chambers.

Lyn shifted on her feet as she rested her hand on her hip. Her gaze followed Eliwood’s, and she squinted. “What is it, then?”

After a pregnant pause, Eliwood spoke. “The Durandal.”

Nils grew cold at the mention of that sword, and Lyn seemed surprised. The room was awfully silent, aside from the crackling of the lamps hanging on the walls.

Finally, Lyn broke the silence. “The Durandal?” she asked. “… Eliwood… what about it? Didn’t it get laid back to rest?”

“It… did, after we defeated Nergal, yes. However, when Roy headed the war against Bern, well…” Eliwood looked to the papers on the table as he recalled the events of Roy’s campaign, “The Durandal had been stolen from its resting place by some thieves. Roy had been able to locate it again, and after he found the Binding Blade and defeated Zephiel, he brought the Durandal back to me. I had been opposed to it at first, but Roy claimed he did it so that it wouldn’t be stolen again... with that in mind, I agreed to keep it here in Pherae for a time. It’s currently hanging on a wall in my chambers.”

“Okay… so, you have the Durandal,” Lyn said. “But what about it?”

Nils could sense Eliwood’s nerves as the Marquess stared down at the papers; his emotions had been building steadily as the conversation progressed, which made Nils uncomfortable. Especially considering the subject matter…

The Durandal. That sword. Nils was unsure if that blade was a blessing or a curse.

Finally, Eliwood spoke, though his tone was quiet. “Not once have I been tempted to wield that blade since it was brought back here,” he began, and his lips pursed momentarily before he continued. “… Not until last night. The Durandal beckoned to me for the first time since I laid it to rest over twenty-three years ago.”

The room grew cold, and Nils’ fingers trembled slightly as he swallowed the lump in his throat. The idea of the Durandal’s awakening worried him greatly.

After all, the last time the Durandal beckoned to Eliwood, he had ended up killing Ninian.

Eliwood had looked to Nils and could tell exactly where his mind had drifted. “This is why I am nervous to have this blade here. However… I cannot ignore that call. Which is what has me worried,” Eliwood said.

“… You think something’s coming, don’t you?” Lyn asked.

“Yes,” Eliwood responded. “Whatever that… figure… is, that Wolt and Lilina saw… it speaks trouble. I am certain of it.”

Lyn hummed as she tapped her cheek in thought. “If this is the case, then I will certainly stay until after Roy returns—there are no doubts now. I would rather you have our help if something bad does befall Pherae during your search for Roy.”

Lyn’s words calmed Eliwood. “Lyn… thank you,” he said, the relief evident in his tone. “You do not realize just how grateful I am for your help.”

“It’s no problem,” she said with a smile. “It’s almost a little like old times.”

Eliwood returned the smile with a nod.

Nils, on the other hand, remained silent. He had been unable to find any of the right words since they returned to Pherae, though with the conversation at hand, he realized he was running out of time to speak his mind.

“… Eliwood,” he mumbled, his voice coming across a bit more uneasy than he had hoped for it to.

The attentions of both Eliwood and Lyn turned to Nils, and Eliwood’s expression dropped at Nils’ tone. “Yes, Nils?”

Having their undivided attention made Nils almost too nervous to speak. Since when had he become so unsure of himself? He scrunched his nose at his own lack of backbone. He must have been silent for a long time—Eliwood gently asked him again what was on his mind before Nils finally found the power to speak.

“… The mages,” Nils said.

Eliwood immediately bristled. “What do you mean?”

Nils shook his head as memories of that fight on Dread Isle replayed in his mind. “Back on Dread Isle… after I pushed Roy into the Dragon’s Gate, I fought those mages off. By the time the fight was done, they were all dead… except… one of them was unaccounted for.”

Both Lyn and Eliwood were alarmed—this had been news to them both, Eliwood included. Nils had kept it to himself the entire time that he had been back in Pherae, and now he felt a little guilty for not opening up sooner.

“I wasn’t sure where the mage went,” Nils said as he chewed the inside of his lip. “At first I thought one of them ran through the Dragon’s Gate, and panicked. But… when I looked over all their bodies, they were all human…”

“… So you think this might be that mage that’s still unaccounted for,” Eliwood responded, having immediately understood what Nils was getting at.

Nils hesitated, but nodded. “I think it’s… possible.”

“The implications of this are very serious,” Eliwood said sternly. “The only reason I can think of that the mage would come here… would be because of the new Dragon’s Gate we are building.”

The three of them remained silent as Eliwood contemplated the situation at hand. His wrinkles deepened as he narrowed his eyes at the papers laid across the table once more.

“… Nils,” Eliwood said as he stared at a sketch of the Dragon’s Gate on the parchment before him, “Are you absolutely certain that the other mage did not go through the Dragon’s Gate?”

The question hung in the air as Nils lowered his own gaze to the parchment. “… No, I’m not sure. During the fight, I had been blinded by fire, so I couldn’t see for a long time.”

Eliwood nodded in understanding. “… Then realistically, both possibilities are still on the table. The mage could have gone through the gate, or they could be here.”

Nils seemed unsure. “The only way they could have gone through the Dragon’s Gate would be—"

“—if they were a dragon, yes,” Eliwood finished. “Even though the ones you killed were human, that doesn’t mean they all were. Especially if you had been blinded…”

Nils remained quiet as he balled his fists. Eliwood was right—Nils honestly was unsure at this point. Even though Nils had not seen where the other mage went, surely he would have felt their presence as they retreated, right? He exhaled in frustration.

Lyn frowned as she crossed her arms once again. “Well, regardless of whether they went through the Dragon’s Gate or stayed here, we do have a potential problem on our hands. We do not know who they are or what they might want. If they stayed here, and this shadow is them, then we will certainly have an issue here. However… if they went through the gate, then this means they could potentially be stuck with Roy as well.”

Neither Eliwood nor Nils had even considered that possibility, and they both quickly looked to Lyn with grievous expressions. Lyn only shook her head with a long sigh.

“Roy… I certainly hope he will be okay out there until we are able to return him safely home,” she muttered.

“… I will only hope that they were sent to different worlds entirely,” Eliwood said quietly. “My son can hold his own in a fight—not just a fight, a war—but these people seem to have a plan far too nefarious for my own comfort, especially considering that they waited until Roy arrived to see Nils before they appeared…”

Once again, Nils found himself unable to speak. Something about this whole situation was wrong, though he was unable to put his finger on what. Though he realized, perhaps unfortunately, that he would find out in due time.

Chapter Text

With a snort of a laugh, Cain tugged on the reins of his horse as he led it back towards the stables. “You really do have a knack for pulling off some crazy shit, you know?”

Roy, who had been helping clean out the stables—which had been a mess due to a long time of neglect—sent the cavalier a curious glance over his shoulder. With a huff, he hoisted up the last forkful of dirty bedding and muck and tossed it in a nearby wheelbarrow. “What do you mean by that?” Roy asked as he turned to face the stable entrance.

Cain rolled his eyes. “Fist-fighting a dragon? Really?”

Oh, that again. Cain had been completely unable to let that go, and had been muttering about it for the last couple days as they cleaned up the Altean castle grounds. Roy shook his head with an awkward chuckle.

“Yeah, I guess so,” Roy mumbled.

“You literally punched a dragon. Repeatedly! And came out of it not dead,” Cain continued, clearly still unable to believe it.

With a shrug, Roy opened the gate to the last of the open stables so Cain could lead his horse inside. “I honestly wasn’t even able to tell what I was doing at that point. It’s all just a blur now.”

Cain patted his horse’s neck before he walked back towards the gate. “Right after you passed out, Marth ran over to you in a panic,” he said, and Roy latched the gate behind Cain as he walked out. Cain put his hands on his hips and smirked. “He was all worried, but then he ended up passing out too. Right on top of you. You both about gave Jagen a heart attack. I don’t think I’ve seen that old man run that fast in years.”

With another awkward laugh, Roy rubbed the back of his head with his right hand as they both exited the building. “I suppose I still owe Jagen an apology for that,” he said sheepishly. “Adrenaline does work in some pretty powerful ways.”

Cain snorted. “You don’t have to tell me twice. Maria, Lena, and Wrys really had their work cut out for them. You both were completely wore out by the end of that fight. It’s a wonder you didn’t end up in sickbeds for the next month.”

“I think I’ve had more than enough of the whole laying around in bed, recovering, thing,” Roy responded dryly, and Cain laughed.

No sooner than Cain closed the stable doors behind them did a chipper voice call out.

“Hey, Roy-boy!” came the unmistakable tune of Xane’s voice as the eccentric man trotted towards them.

Roy quirked his brow at the new nickname. “Uh… yes, Xane?”

Xane stopped but a few paces away from them and rested his hand on his hip with a smile. “I see you’re done with the stables. Is now a good time to hit you up on that little chat that I asked for?”

A side-eyed glance towards Cain silently asked for approval, and the cavalier nodded.

“Go on ahead,” Cain said. “We’re all done with the horses now.”

Xane smiled broadly and bowed.

“Thanks, Cain,” Roy said before he turned his attention back to Xane.

Still holding that broad smile, Xane motioned for Roy to follow him with his finger, before he turned to walk away. Roy shot Cain a curious glance, and Cain only shrugged. With a quiet sigh, Roy jogged away to catch up with Xane.

It was a nice day out—significantly nicer than the downpour of days prior—and the breeze was a welcome reprieve from the humidity. The two of them engaged in small talk as Xane led Roy away from the castle and stables. The mercenary spared a glance over his shoulder and noted how far Xane seemed to be taking him; perhaps this “chat” would be more than just idle pleasantries.

Roy’s gaze turned back towards Xane. The feather in the man’s hair bobbed as he walked, and his eyes held a glimmer to them that was almost cryptic. He certainly was an interesting fellow: Roy could tell there was more to Xane than initially met the eye, though he was not going to question him about it.

Xane, on the other hand, was full of questions for Roy. After they had walked a long enough distance away from any of their comrades, Xane halted his steps, and Roy followed suit. The once-calm breeze seemed to still as Xane turned to Roy with a significantly more serious expression, and Roy bristled at the sudden shift in the man’s demeanor.

“Xane?” Roy questioned, “Is something wrong?”

“No,” Xane responded. “I have some questions for you, though.”

Thoroughly caught off guard, Roy paused for a moment and he squinted at Xane. “… Alright. What questions do you have?”

“What kind of dragon are you?” Xane asked suddenly.

Roy blinked twice, clearly surprised by the question. “… Ice dragon. I think.”

Xane crossed his arms. “What tribe?”

Another blink. “I don’t know,” Roy said.

After a tense moment of pause, Xane lowered his arms to rest his hands on his hips and hummed thoughtfully as he looked up towards the sky.

“… Why are you suddenly asking about this--” Roy started to ask.

“-- Can you keep a secret?” Xane said quickly, which cut Roy off.

Roy continued to stare at Xane, who was still looking up towards the sky. “… I suppose I can. What is it?”

A smile tugged at the corners of Xane’s lips—clearly pleased with Roy’s response—and he kept his head tilted upwards as he glanced to his side, towards Roy. “I’m a Divine Dragon.”

The silence that followed was heavy, as Roy processed Xane’s words. Finally, he took a slight step back.

“Wait—” Roy said, reeling, “You’re a Divine Dragon? Why would you confide in me something like that?”

Xane threw his arms behind his head and laced his fingers together in his hair with a smirk. “I just have a good feeling about you, Roy-boy,” he said. “I think you’re interesting… and maybe we’d both feel a little more comfortable if we both knew that we were, more or less, of the same blood. Camaraderie and all that. Don’t you agree?”

Suspicion was evident on Roy’s features as he grimaced. The two of them searched each other’s eyes—Roy more critically than Xane—for a few moments before Roy finally let out a sigh.

“… I guess I can understand that,” Roy muttered. “Though it still sounds strange to me.”

A realization then dawned on Roy. “Wait. If you’re a Divine Dragon, why couldn’t I tell? I can… sense that Bantu is a dragon. Same with all the other manaketes we’ve met… but what about you?”

With a nonchalant shrug, Xane responded, “Probably because I can’t transform anymore. I threw my dragonstone away a long time ago.”

“What?” Roy said, surprised. “Why would you do that?”

“Well, I didn’t really feel like being persecuted for being a Divine Dragon,” Xane said flatly, but then his smile returned. “But I guess that doesn’t matter much anymore because I ended up getting locked up anyway!”

With a grumble, Roy mulled over Xane’s response. It made sense to want to avoid persecution, but Xane seemed so lighthearted about it happening to him anyway, even after he went through the trouble to toss his dragonstone. Xane observed Roy’s reaction curiously and tilted his head.

That coy smile grew on Xane’s face once again. “Well, anyway. This has been really enlightening. I have some things I need to go do now, though, so…” he trailed off momentarily as he lowered his hands from where they were resting behind his head and winked. “I’ll see you later!”

Before Roy could even hope to respond, Xane had already started to jog back towards the castle. The mercenary was left with one hand awkwardly raised as he stuttered, confused by Xane’s sudden exit.

“Oh!” Xane turned on his heel and walked backwards as he shot Roy a grin. “You should probably go check on your princey and see how he’s doing! I hear he’s up and lively today!”

Roy’s raised hand clenched into a fist as the heat rose to his cheeks, and Xane ran off. Frustratedly, Roy grumbled as he averted his eyes and lowered his hand. Though he would not admit it, he figured it was probably a good idea. He had not gotten the chance to see Marth much the last few days, with how preoccupied the prince had been since they liberated Altea.

It certainly made sense that Marth would have his hands a bit too full to make time for anything or anyone else, but Roy had been feeling a bit lonely nonetheless. A shudder ran down his spine as the breeze reminded him that he was still standing outside in the middle of a field, and he brought his left hand up towards his ear. He carefully rubbed it as he headed back towards the castle. They were longer, pointed, and felt rough to the touch—still wholly draconic.

A sigh escaped his throat as he lowered his left hand. He then flexed the digits on his right hand, and the heat from the crystal over his skin as he moved only served to further agitate him. There was far too much happening to him all at once to really be able to understand it anymore. Between his body going through so many unknown changes, being tailed by another manakete that hated him, and not knowing his own past, his patience had started to run a little thin.

As he approached the castle gates, the two guards that had been standing post both bowed towards him. His hand raised in a slight wave as he walked by, and the guards pressed open the doors for him. It was a little strange seeing others treat him that way—like they were somehow subservient to him—and he held back a frown as he entered the castle.

Castle Altea was significantly improved compared to how it was a few days ago. Much of the grime, dirt, blood, and debris were cleaned from the floors and walls. Statues that lined the grand hall were unfortunately still crumbling away—a sad shadow of what they once were—and old tattered banners and linens had been pulled from the walls, presumably to be discarded. Everything seemed very barren.

This, of course, did not help Roy as he began to meander the castle halls. With nary a thing to make one hall stand out from the next, and with various people—some he had never seen before and some he had fought alongside—darting every which way, he found himself lost. Eventually he stood at the intersection of a few halls as he watched people hustling around, carrying bits of this and that, as if they were searching for or gathering various items. He spared a moment to wonder what it was all about, but figured they were probably just trying to recover whatever they could from the old royal family.

The thought made Roy’s mood drop further. All these people fretting over the belongings of a king and queen that were long gone. Relics of a country once great, now in shambles, being collected as people mourned their loss.

He wondered how Marth was taking it.

His expression must have been particularly dark. Malledus, having just exited a room not too far down the hall, noticed Roy and curiously made his way over to the brooding redhead.

“Roy,” Malledus called, which drew Roy’s attention towards him.

“Ah, Malledus,” Roy said with a nod. “Nice to see you. How are you faring?”

Malledus rubbed his fingertips against the book in his hand. “I should ask you the same thing. I am doing well, though you seem to be in quite… low spirits. Is aught amiss?”

“Oh. Ah,” Roy glanced to the cobblestone floor beneath them. “No, no. Everything is fine. I just was lost in thought, is all.”

The elderly man hummed in understanding, and Roy looked back up towards him. “Hey, actually. Have you seen Marth anywhere? I was looking for him.”

“Prince Marth? Actually, yes,” Malledus said with a smile and nod. “The room that I just left—the old council room, just down the hall there-- he and Princess Nyna should still be in there.”

What a convenient relief, Roy thought to himself. “Great. Thanks, Malledus.”

With a quick bow to the older man, Roy wasted no time as he jogged down the hall towards the old wooden doors that apparently led to the council room. He tilted his head back as he looked up the height of the doors. They were beautiful, built from some species of high-quality wood and lacquered, with various details and bronze reliefs around its edges. One particularly impressive relief was directly in the middle, split in halves between the two doors. Roy looked it over.

Underneath the dirt and specks of rust, he could make out the clear image of a man with long hair and warrior’s armor, wielding a sword and shield. The sword was plunged into the body of a dragon, and a halo of light circled the man’s head. In the clouds above there were winged people—angels—overlooking the scene, and people below the man’s feet had their hands raised in cheer.

It seemed that the story of man versus dragon truly did extend quite far into history.

He frowned slightly as he examined the imagery for a few moments longer. Finally, he raised his hand to quietly rap his knuckles on the door.

The voice that responded was muffled, but Roy could clearly recognize it as Marth’s. “Come in,” Marth said.

Roy pressed his palm to the door and pushed it open just enough that he could step inside. His eyes trailed around the room before finally settling on the only other people that were in there: Marth and Princess Nyna.

A smile graced Marth’s features once he saw his visitor. “Roy! Good afternoon.”

Roy returned the smile. “Good afternoon, Marth. Princess Nyna.”

Princess Nyna bowed her head in greeting. “Good afternoon.”

Upon glancing around the room once again, Roy looked to Marth, and then to the Princess. “If I’m interrupting, I can come back later.”

With a gentle laugh, Princess Nyna waved her hand. “No, you are not interrupting. We were just discussing a few more political topics, though now we are more or less finished,” she said. “In fact, I should go find Hardin to relay some of what we’ve discussed here…”

Her voice trailed as her gaze flicked between Roy and Marth. Roy blinked once as she surveyed the two of them. Another smile tugged at her lips. “Yes, I should certainly go do that. I shall see the two of you later,” she added before looking directly to Marth, “And Marth, congratulations once again on liberating your homeland. Altea has a bright future ahead of her, now.”

The young prince’s cheeks flushed at her praise, and after a mumbled thanks, Princess Nyna bowed. She walked towards the door, and Roy stepped back to hold it open for her as she exited the room.

Their eyes met as she stepped by him, and her smile only grew. “Thank you, as well, Roy. You fought very bravely.”

Her compliment took him by surprise, and he averted his gaze as he cleared his throat. “Oh… Don’t mention it.”

She said nothing further as she left the room and made her way down the hall. The heels of her shoes made a soft echo as she walked farther away, and Roy quietly pulled the door shut behind him once again. His eyes stayed trained on the wall to his left.

After a few moments of silence, Marth tilted his head. “Roy… is everything alright?”

A soft grumble escaped Roy’s throat as he continued to glare at the stone wall. “Yeah… I’m fine,” he mumbled before he finally brought his gaze back to Marth’s. “What about you?”

“I am also doing… well, all things considered,” Marth responded truthfully.

With an awkward nod, Roy elected to say nothing further. The prince squinted at him from across the room, and once he realized that Roy was not going to move from the door, he decided to close the distance between them himself. Upon hearing Marth’s footsteps as he approached, Roy scrunched his nose.

Those footsteps stopped once Marth was not but a pace away.

“Something is wrong, Roy. What is it?” Marth asked gently, but firmly.

Roy’s stomach churned as he loathed to entertain the question. “Really, I’m fine. It’s nothing. I’m just… glad to see you’re doing alright.”

A soft chuckle escaped the prince’s lips, and Roy felt his mood lighten considerably at the sound. “Well, you were the one who fainted initially, so if there is anyone to be concerned about… it would be you,” Marth said.

Roy raised his head to finally look to Marth, and his brow raised in unison. “… And you’re the one who allegedly fainted on top of me, according to Cain. We were both a little bit exhausted.”

Marth’s cheeks tinged pink again as he laughed. “I suppose you are right.”

The atmosphere had certainly lightened—the two of them were looking at each other with smiles on their faces. As Roy searched Marth’s eyes, he noticed a curious glint; almost as soon as he saw it, Marth let out a soft breath as he narrowed his eyes in thought.

“… Is… something wrong?” Roy mumbled questioningly. He suddenly felt as though he was being studied like a scholar would study their texts.

Realizing his stare could be taken the wrong way, Marth quickly leaned back a little. “Ah, no. My apologies. Nothing is… wrong, per say.”

The confusion was evident on Roy’s face, and Marth smiled sympathetically as he attempted to clarify. “Nothing is wrong. Just… different.”

The meaning behind Marth’s words registered instantly and Roy recoiled a little as his condition was brought to the forefront of his mind. “Oh. Right,” he muttered, clearly unhappy.

While his right arm and half of his torso were covered in crystal, the rest of him had begun to change, too. Small, semi-translucent teal scales—almost too small to notice unless one was close enough—freckled the skin under his eyes and part of his neck. They covered his shoulders and left hand, too, though thankfully those were mostly hidden by his clothes. His ears were pointed and scaled, with the faintest hint of blue at their tips.

And, of course, if those changes had not been obvious enough, his once-red hair now had very visible stripes of teal in it as well. In short, he felt very much inhuman.

He had been so distracted by his own critical internal monologue that he almost missed Marth’s question.

“May I… touch one of your ears?” Marth asked quietly.

A few blinks bespoke Roy’s obvious confusion, and Marth immediately began to retract his request. “I—I apologize, perhaps I should not have asked—”

“—I… I guess,” Roy mumbled, and Marth’s breath caught as he stopped his stammering.

“… Really? Are… you certain?” Marth asked again.

“… Yeah. You’re the only person I… think I feel comfortable enough with to do it, though,” Roy said as he averted his gaze. “So… go ahead, if you’re curious…”

Though Roy gave him permission, Marth still hesitated. His lips pursed into a thin line as he debated whether or not he should attempt to reach out his hand. Roy, having taken note of Marth’s uncertainty, reached out to take Marth’s right hand in his, and pulled it up carefully to his left ear. Marth’s hand stiffened as his fingertips touched the scales along Roy’s earlobe. Even though one could barely see the scales on Roy’s skin, Marth could certainly feel them—they overlapped like the scales of a fish, and trailed down the entire length of Roy’s ear, all the way to the pointed end.

Roy found himself suppressing a shudder. Perhaps this had been a bad idea—the heat rose to his cheeks and he held his breath as Marth curiously examined his fin-like ear.

“How fascinating…” Marth mumbled.

“Is that so…” Roy grumbled as he did his best to keep himself held together.

It seemed that Marth had been completely oblivious to Roy’s reaction to the Prince’s continued touching. With a gruff, quiet sigh, Roy bit the inside of his cheek.

“… Marth,” he said as his voice grew increasingly rougher.

“Yes?” Marth responded as he turned his attention to Roy’s face.

Roy was staring directly at him as stoically as possible, though his cheeks were completely red. “… They’re kind of sensitive,” was all he could manage to mutter.

Marth’s face immediately flushed as red as Roy’s and he retracted his hand so quickly, it was as if he had touched fire. “Oh, I am so sorry—I did not mean to—”

With a rumbling breath, Roy cupped his hand over his clearly overstimulated ear. “No… no, it’s okay. I didn’t really know either…” he said. “I don’t even understand why they’re still like this in the first place…”

The embarrassment Marth had felt was almost immediately overshadowed by concern, and he shifted on his feet. “What do you mean?”

Roy shrunk a little in self-consciousness. “Aren’t I supposed to be back to normal now? Bantu doesn’t have ears like this I don’t think… nor does he have the scales…”

It was clear that he was troubled by his appearance, and Marth quietly looked him over in consideration before his eyes rose back up to Roy’s face—though the redhead refused to reciprocate Marth’s eye contact.

“… Perhaps he does not… but I certainly find them endearing. From your ears, to your scales, and even the teal in your hair,” Marth commented.

Roy’s entire body stiffened as the heat rose to his cheeks once again. “… Endearing, huh?”

Marth smiled at Roy’s reaction. “Certainly. It’s nice to be able to see more of you.”

Roy immediately looked to Marth with an incredulous, almost embarrassed expression, and his fingers twitched. Marth, clearly unaware of what caused Roy’s bewildered response, stared at him with a similar look.

After a moment, Roy could only manage to bring his hand to his head before he dragged it down his face. “Marth… you…” he started awkwardly, but then shook his head with a sigh. “… Nevermind. Forget I said anything. Thank you.”

The prince’s brow raised, still completely unaware of what caused Roy to react the way he did, but he decided to let the subject rest. With a small nod, he rested his own hand back on Roy’s, and Roy glanced down towards their hands.

“Is that what had your mood so sour earlier?” Marth questioned, and Roy’s silence was enough of an answer for him. “… Roy… please do not be so self-conscious. It is a new experience for you, so perhaps you will tame it in time. That was why you held yourself back against Fafnir, was it not?”

Roy’s gaze immediately snapped up to meet Marth’s. The prince was quite keen when it came to certain things, and Roy’s muscles relaxed as he laced his fingers in Marth’s.

“Yeah, you’re right. That was part of it,” Roy admitted.

The gentle way that Marth approached the subject made it a lot easier to navigate. “Just part of it?” Marth asked. “I trust that you knew you were making the proper call when you spared his life. But… I do wonder, what was it that went through your mind in that moment that made you lower your blade?”

Roy gently rubbed the pad of his thumb against Marth’s knuckle as he glanced away in thought. There was a statue along the wall at the far end of the room of an armored horse and paladin, and parts of it were broken and chipped from neglect. He mulled over the events of just a few days prior, and the way that Fafnir had taunted him during their fight.

“… It seemed like he knew a lot about me,” Roy said as he continued to stare at the statue. “Not just me… but my family, too. I realized if I had killed him there, I would lose the only real lead I had to my past. Then what? Would I never remember?”

His grip tightened on Marth’s hand absentmindedly as he squinted. The statue’s arm, that had once clearly been raised and holding a sword, had been broken off. “… Not to mention, at that point he was completely at my mercy. No weapon, nothing. He was thoroughly beaten. But…” Roy paused. “… It was almost like he was about to ask for me to kill him. Like he wanted to die.”

At that, it was Marth’s turn to squint. “What do you mean?”

Roy’s gaze continued to bore into the statue as if he was quietly asking it for answers. “It was as if he was about to ask me to… end his suffering. But he stopped himself before he finished talking. Maybe I’m just imagining it…”

Silence fell between the two as Marth mulled over Roy’s words. Finally, he returned Roy’s firm grip. “Roy, look at me,” he said.

At Marth’s request, Roy turned his head back to look down to Marth, who had been looking directly into his eyes. There was an air of authority about the Prince that parched Roy’s throat, and he swallowed.

After a few more almost agonizing moments of quiet, Roy finally asked, “Marth? What is it?”

“You need to stop doubting yourself,” Marth said firmly.

Roy, who now felt thoroughly outed, shifted on his feet and tilted his head up a bit to look at the ceiling. “I’m not sure where this came from…” he mumbled.

Marth, on the other hand, was having none of it. “In the heat of battle, you make decisions that save lives… you put your own life on the line for others, and you still come out victorious. You are strong, smart, and care for your comrades… you even care for those that oppose you on the field. And yet outside of battle… outside of war councils… you constantly doubt yourself.”

With a few rapid blinks, Roy glanced back down towards Marth as he took in the prince’s words. Marth was certainly right—though Roy had been through many battles by this point, and he was confident in the field, he still held a lot of self-doubts.

Self-doubts that were only further highlighted by his continuing degradation.

“I know it is certainly rich coming from me, as I doubt myself quite often as well. But you… need to give yourself more credit,” Marth finished.

After a few moments of silence, Roy managed a smile. “Only after you start doing the same. Then we’ll talk.”

Marth could not help but chuckle at Roy’s response. “I will work on it.”

The smile on Roy’s face widened as he gently pulled Marth in for an embrace. His eyes closed as he bowed his head just enough to bury his face into Marth’s hair. He must have had the opportunity to bathe, for he smelled of rosemary and clove. A curious choice, though certainly not unpleasant; perhaps Marth had still been feeling sore from their battle, so he had bathed in herbs. With a quiet exhale, Roy relaxed his muscles, which had still been quite tense, and he rubbed the fingertips of his right hand into Marth’s back absentmindedly.

A small shiver wracked Marth as he returned the embrace. Roy’s body temperature felt significantly colder than it had before. The shivering drew Roy’s attention, and he pulled his head back enough to look to Marth’s face.

“Is something wrong?” Roy asked. “You’re shivering… Oh.”

The realization that he was the reason behind Marth’s trembling caused him to grimace. Shame overtook him, and with a muttered apology, Roy loosened his arm to pull away. Marth’s own hand stopped Roy before he could do so, however. Gently, Marth gripped the back of Roy’s sleeve and he shook his head.

“No,” Marth said quietly. “I will embrace the cold. Please do not apologize for who you are.”

At a complete loss for words, Roy stared down at Marth with wide eyes. The two of them held each other’s gazes as Roy searched Marth’s eyes for any sign of uncertainty; upon finding none, Roy pressed his lips together into a thin line.

Beckoned by a gentle tug on his sleeve from Marth, they embraced again, and Roy pressed his nose into the top of Marth’s head. His eyes clenched shut, and he bit the inside of his lip.

Marth had shown him nothing but kindness and acceptance. His heart ached as he fought back the tears that threatened to prick at his eyes. If Marth could find it in himself to accept Roy and how he had changed since they first met, Roy could find it within himself to accept himself, as well.

After all, these draconic features were from his mother—and at this point, she was the only family he knew anything about. Maybe he should accept it as it is and forgo the increasing shame. Would his mother be upset with him for how much self-hate he had? Had she struggled the same way? Did she have the same doubts?

If only he could ask her, he thought—but that was a lot easier said than done.

What he did know, however, was that the person in his arms right now accepted him the way he was. Marth accepted the inhuman parts of him just as much as he did the human parts.

At the end of it all, perhaps that was the only thing that truly mattered.

“… Roy,” Marth mumbled into the front of Roy’s cape, and Roy hummed into Marth’s hair in response. “… Please… do not leave my side.”

The tone of Marth’s voice had shifted dramatically from the confidence it held earlier; his voice had shrunk, full of weariness and emotion that he had tried his best to keep bottled up.

This commanded Roy’s full attention, and the redhead furrowed his brow as he leaned back enough to look to Marth’s face again. Blue eyes were tiredly focused forward as Marth stared at the fabric wrapped around Roy’s neck.

“… Marth… Why would you say that?” Roy asked quietly.

After a moment of pause, Marth closed his eyes. “… I have lost my father… my mother. And perhaps even my sister at this point…” he said, his voice holding the ghost of a quiver. “… Though I have… regained my homeland, it will never be the same. This castle… will never be the same. My family will never be the same. I…”

Those tears that had been threatening Roy earlier now challenged Marth—though the Prince was unable to hold them back as they trailed down his cheeks from the corners of his clenched eyes. Roy shifted in Marth’s grip and he pulled his right hand up to Marth’s cheek. He gently wiped the tears from beneath Marth’s eye with his thumb. He couldn’t feel the wetness through the crystal over his skin, though he was too preoccupied with Marth to pay too much attention to his own lack of senses.

“Hey…” Roy whispered.

Marth quickly shook his head as he tried to press back, away from Roy. “I-I apologize, I should not be unloading all of this onto you—”

Roy exhaled audibly as he pulled Marth back in close to him. “No. If I’m not allowed to apologize, then neither are you,” he said sternly, before his voice softened. “Besides… You’ve been through so much. It’s not good to keep your emotions bottled up… We’re both pretty bad at that. Let’s work to fix it.”

Marth swallowed hard as his eyes stayed clenched.

“… I promise I’m not going anywhere,” Roy said quietly. “I swear to you.”

Roy’s promise caused a surge of emotion to well up in Marth’s chest, and his eyes opened even though tears once again threatened to spill. He glanced up to meet Roy’s eyes.

“… You really mean that,” Marth mumbled, half questioning.

“Of course I do,” Roy responded with a smile. “I… honestly don’t know where I would have ended up had you not found me that day in Galder. At first, I joined your army because I owed you my life… and because I was lost with nowhere else to go. Then, I stayed, because I had grown to view all of you as my friends… and you earned my respect.”

His face heated up just slightly, and his fingertips curled so that he could brush his knuckles against Marth’s cheek. “And now, I promise to stay, because my loyalty… my soul, is yours. I swear it.”

There had been the bite of a growl hidden deep in the timbre of Roy’s voice as he uttered those last words. What Marth could only describe as a blaze of magic burned within Roy’s irises as he held Marth’s gaze, unwavering.

In a way, the whole thing had been practically breathtaking.

Is this what it was like to be blessed with a dragon’s affections?

Marth found himself at a loss for words, and his mind raced. His fingers twitched against the fabric of Roy’s sleeve, and before he could even realize it himself, he had closed the distance between them.

Roy’s heart pounded and his eyes widened—Marth’s eyes were clenched shut, and his lips were pressed firmly to Roy’s own. Both had flushed various shades of red at Marth’s gesture, and after a few long moments, Marth slowly pulled away.

Neither of them said anything for a time. Marth only looked away, red-faced, as Roy stared at him with an expression akin to bewilderment. Though Roy’s lips were parted, he was completely incapable of any speech.

Finally, he dug deep within himself to figure out something—anything—to say.

“… I…” he inhaled, shakily, as he tried to steady himself, “… I wasn’t expecting that.”

Marth could barely manage a chuckle—his embarrassment was all too crushing at that moment—and he continued to stare at the ground to his side. “… I… was not, either. Something must have just… come over me, or—”

“—It’s fine,” Roy interjected. “I—I didn’t mind it. I…”

Marth hazarded a glance Roy’s way, and now it had been Roy’s turn to tilt his head to the side nervously. “… Really, I didn’t mind it at all…” Roy muttered, cursing his tepidness.

In truth, he had been happy—incredibly so—that Marth had kissed him. He only hoped that Marth could see through his façade to see just how delighted he was.

Marth must have been able to tell, for he straightened his back as some of his confidence returned to him. “Then… may I try once more,” he asked, “Though this time, with a little more thought to it?”

The request momentarily caught Roy off-guard, but he looked to Marth anyway—the certainty in the Prince’s eyes was completely different from the reservation they held just a moment earlier. Roy’s heart skipped a beat and his left hand gripped Marth’s tighter as he managed a curt nod.

Upon receiving Roy’s approval, Marth drew in a breath.

If only his experience matched his confidence. Now he found himself wavering again.

A gentle tug on Marth’s hand pulled him from his thoughts as he refocused on his comrade—his partner—before him.

Right. He could certainly do this.

Without waiting a moment longer, he leaned up before doubts could plague him again. At that same time, Roy leaned down as well.

Their lips met in a single, chaste kiss.

Though they held it for a few long moments, it had been far too short for them both. Upon parting, Roy rested his forehead to Marth’s and they looked into each other’s eyes.

“… That one went better. Though I still vote that we need to work on it,” Roy mumbled, drawing a laugh from Marth that caused Roy to smile.

“Y-you… are right,” Marth managed between chuckles, “I think I can agree.”

Carefully, Roy unentwined their fingers and let go of Marth’s hand so he could pull him into a full embrace. Marth returned the gesture and closed his eyes as he rested his head against Roy’s shoulder.

The statue across the room held Roy’s attention as he held Marth in his arms. The horse’s front right hoof had been raised, with the left one pressed down into the neck of a dragon that was hissing back up at it. The paladin in the statue, when he had his sword arm, must have been preparing to deal the final blow to the creature. Roy considered the scene quietly for a few moments.

“… It may be a little unconventional,” he mumbled, “With me being… a dragon, and all. A manakete. But I promise, I will be by your side until I breathe my last.”

He then swiftly added, “… Which will definitely be a really long time from now.”

Marth could not help but snort a little at Roy’s quick save. “I should certainly hope so. There is no one else I would rather have at my side, manakete or not. Thank you, Roy.”

“Yeah,” Roy mumbled. “… Thank you, too. For everything.”

A small hum was all he received in response as Marth relaxed. Roy could feel the tension in his body fade away as he closed his own eyes. For once, he allowed himself to indulge in this moment exactly how it was and furloughed his uncertainties for another day.

Chapter Text

After Fafnir’s defeat in Altea, he had escaped and returned to Doluna as Medeus had ordered him to. His condition, however, had been far too dire for him to withstand any of Medeus’ or Gharnef’s questioning at the time, and he had collapsed on the floor in the throne room not long after his return. Though even with the severity of his wounds, he outright refused the help of any chirurgeons; his pride had already been cracked, and to require healing by someone else’s hand would have only served to further shatter what pride he had left.

So here he sat, upon a dusty old cot in one of the many rooms of the castle. His robes had been ruined; sullied by blood and dirt, burned by fire, and cut by steel. Surprisingly, Medeus had supplied him with new garb—delivered by one of his underlings—which Fafnir had left neatly folded on the foot of the bed.

The dingy, musty air of Doluna Castle was less than pleasant, and the castle itself was far from an ideal place to nurse one’s wounds. Doluna was already the last place Fafnir wished to be, and he loathed it. This loathing, of course, was also wholly exacerbated by the agitating skeleton at his side.

“How unimpressive,” Gharnef criticized as Fafnir re-wrapped a wound on his forearm. “A haughty Divine Dragon such as yourself cannot even put a stop to some child prince and his pitiful army?”

A sneer tugged at the bridge of Fafnir’s nose as he shot Gharnef a glare up through his eyelashes. “Quiet, you banshee. You know nothing of which you speak.”

With a snort, Gharnef tilted his head back to glare back down his nose at the wounded manakete before him. “Is that so? I am the uninitiated, and yet between the two of us, which one is here licking their wounds?” A smirk carved into Gharnef’s face as Fafnir’s expression further contorted in silent anger. “That’s what I thought. I have told you before to hold your tongue—you have no right to talk back to me, failure.”

A growl laced Fafnir’s breath as he exhaled, and yet before he could speak, they were both interrupted by a commanding voice.

“That is enough.”

Gharnef turned to face their visitor, and Fafnir spared the elder manakete a glance out of the corners of his eyes.

“Lord Medeus,” Gharnef greeted.

Medeus only spared Gharnef a glance before shifting his attentions to Fafnir, who had continued wrapping the rest of his arm.

“I see your injuries are healing,” Medeus observed, his tone flat.

Fafnir’s hand twitched and the fabric of his bandage wrinkled between pinched fingers. “You would be correct.”

The silence that fell between the three was heavy. Medeus continued to watch Fafnir with critical, uncaring eyes. Finally, Fafnir finished wrapping his arm, and he glanced up towards the Emperor.

“Is there something you wish to say?” he asked, his tone mixed with barely the hint of a pleasantry.

The corner of Medeus’ mouth ticked upwards into a faint smirk. “Your lack of situational awareness is quite entertaining,” he half-complimented. “No other manakete would dare snip at me as you have, and though I have threatened you once, you continue to push boundaries.”

“Glad to be a breath of fresh air,” Fafnir muttered, clearly unamused by Medeus’ words. “… Obviously, you didn’t come here to throw me half-hearted praise. What is it?”

He had been in no mood to fake any sort of kindness or praise for a king that he, quite truthfully, cared nothing about. Medeus was only a gambit that Fafnir wished to take advantage of during his time in Akaneia.

Medeus’ smirk faded as his expression returned to one more serious. A hardened, calculated gaze held Fafnir’s own, and the older manakete’s eyes narrowed further.

It was clear to them both that they each had their own agendas—and though Medeus’ was quite clear from the beginning, he doubted the validity of Fafnir’s own intentions. What was it that Fafnir was after, and why?

Medeus’ eyes slipped shut as he let out a slow, rumbling breath. “Though the Altean Prince is still alive, it is of no consequence to me.”

That piqued the surprise of both Fafnir and Gharnef alike. “It is of no consequence?” Gharnef repeated, quite curious.

With a sound of agreement, Medeus reopened his eyes and his gaze bore into Gharnef’s. “You heard correctly. The Prince is not dead. However…” his eyes trailed to Fafnir, “Discord has been sown. Doubt has found its place in their hearts. Things will unravel, regardless.”

Fafnir’s eyes squinted for a split second before his expression returned to normal. “… Medeus,” he started. “What is your end goal? Just to take over the world… or what more is there to it?”

A rough snort indicated how little he thought of Fafnir’s question. “This world belongs to dragonkind. We reigned supreme over the land, seas and skies before humankind came to be,” Medeus said. “And that is the way it must return. The spirit of humankind must be crushed, and what remains should be made to serve us, or die.”

His words carried the weight of his anguish and hatred, each syllable laced with venom and spite as he hissed them between gritted teeth.

Fafnir could not help but find it all pointless. “I see,” was his response.

This drew a disapproving scowl from the Emperor. “You seem unmoved by my words,” he said.

“I’ve heard them before,” Fafnir muttered monotonously as his eyes closed. “It was simply the response I expected, is all. Pardon my lack of unabashed enthusiasm.”

Yes, he had certainly heard those words before.

“They are below us! This world was made for our kind alone!”

“They only bring us death. Surely you understand this now, do you not?”

“They wish to claim this world for themselves and use the knowledge we bestowed upon them to destroy us.”

“You would turn your back on your own kind to live a life of neutrality?! After what they have done?”

“Her head was hung from our gates as a promise of what is to come. Surely you cannot stand idly by and betray us—betray her?!”

Fafnir’s teeth ground together behind clenched lips, and his chest burned with fury as voices—echoes from a thousand years past—roared in his ears. Medeus’ eyes narrowed at the sight of Fafnir’s ever-darkening expression.

“No matter,” Medeus grunted. “I see you have your reasons for your jadedness. So long as you fulfill your promise to me, and my cause, then we shall have no problems, and you may do what you wish with your own world.”

“… That was the plan anyway,” Fafnir said as he glanced up towards Medeus.

After a few long seconds of silence, Medeus looked to Gharnef. “Gharnef. You know of the Fane of Raman, yes?”

Immediately intrigued by the mention of the ancient temple, Gharnef smiled. “I certainly do. What of it, Lord Medeus?”

“I expect the Altean Prince and his army will proceed that way next,” Medeus answered. “The Fane of Raman is said to be the resting place of the sacred spheres. If the prince were to have any hope of defeating you—and by extension, me—he would need those spheres.”

Fafnir listened in interest. “If you don’t mind me asking, what exactly are these “spheres”?” he questioned.

Gharnef spared him a glance. “The spheres are the Starsphere and Lightsphere. Together, their power creates a tome that undoes the power of Imhullu. It is Imhullu’s only true weakness.”

Fafnir hummed in understanding, and Medeus continued, “However, there is magic guarding these spheres. Only those of Divine Dragon blood can open the seals which hold them… meaning that the princeling’s plight would be for naught.”

At this, Gharnef grinned. “Interestingly… there is a child Divine Dragon there, in the Fane of Raman. Her name is Tiki.”

Fafnir’s breath momentarily caught in his throat. A child Divine Dragon?

“I do not wish for the Starsphere and the Lightsphere to be freed from their slumber… so if you wish, I may bewitch the girl into turning on the young Prince when he arrives,” Gharnef said. “That way, they could eliminate each other. Or… at the very least, eliminate Tiki, so that the seals may never be broken.”

“I accept this idea,” Medeus grunted. “Gharnef, I leave this task to you.”

Gharnef seemed pleased. “With pleasure. My return to Thabes will simply come after. I will happily do this for you while this worm is stuck here, licking his wounds and cowering,” he jabbed snidely.

Almost instantly, Fafnir attempted to shoot up to his feet, though a sharp pain in his shoulder stopped him partway and he grasped at it. Gharnef only laughed.

“You look like death warmed over,” the sorcerer added. “Perhaps you should recognize your own inability like Medeus has and sit back down.”

A hiss, fueled by anger and agony, escaped Fafnir’s throat as he sat back down and glowered at Gharnef. “You…”

“Enough,” Medeus interjected. “Gharnef. Go. Now.”

“On your word, Lord Medeus,” Gharnef said as he bowed his head. He shot Fafnir one more amused glare before he stepped away, and darkness consumed him as he exited.

Neither Medeus nor Fafnir said anything for a time. With closed eyes, the younger manakete merely listened to the sound of the wyrms in the skies, flapping their wings and roaring over their dominion. Fafnir, having expected Medeus to leave after Gharnef disappeared, simply chose to wait in silence for the inevitable conversation that Medeus was planning to have with him.

Medeus, however, first took the opportunity to examine Fafnir. Now that they were within close enough proximity, he could sense every twist and churn of the younger manakete’s energy as it enveloped him; everything was almost as Medeus would have expected, but off by just a hair of a degree. He had certainly been telling the truth about his otherworldly origins—however, even with that in mind, there was something remarkably unmistakable about his power that Medeus could only recognize as something that must have been universal.

With a grimace, he pushed aside his observation. “I must speak with you, now that we are alone.”

“I figured. You seemed eager to make Gharnef leave,” Fafnir muttered. Though he had responded quite casually, the fact that he was still wounded and stuck with the Emperor alone, put Fafnir on edge.

There was a slight uptick in the corner of Medeus’ mouth once again—he must have noticed Fafnir’s tension. “I wish for you to go to the Fane of Raman.”

Taken by surprise, Fafnir tilted his head up to look towards Medeus. “What? Why the Fane of Raman? You just sent Gharnef there.”

“You are correct,” Medeus responded as his eyes bored into Fafnir’s own. “I want you to go there after Gharnef departs. Alone. And bring to me both the Starsphere and the Lightsphere.”

Fafnir recoiled slightly, momentarily startled by the request. His brows knit as he frowned. “That doesn’t make sense. You said yourself that only those of Divine Dragon blood—”

Fafnir’s words caught in his throat and Medeus’ smirk only widened at Fafnir’s obvious realization.

“… I am only half Divine Dragon,” Fafnir spoke slowly, his tone dangerous. “And from another world, no less. You realize your plan’s chance of success relies solely on taking this… rather large gamble?”

Medeus tilted his head back, as he found the trepidation in Fafnir’s response interesting. Perhaps Fafnir himself did not completely understand what Medeus was able glean from his energy just moments prior.

With that in mind, Medeus could not tell what was more prominent: Fafnir’s god complex, or his insecurity. With a rough laugh, Medeus bared his fangs in a grin.

“I would like for you to attempt it, nonetheless,” Medeus growled. “Know that I have alternative plans if this does not work.”

“… To kill Gharnef, you mean,” Fafnir said. “That’s why you want these spheres in the first place, isn’t it?”

“You are sharp,” Medeus said. “Surely, you can see the nature of our relationship. Though we work together—as you and I also do—I would never trust a man such as he. At the end of it all, even though he is an abomination, he is still a human. One who weaves nefarious, underhanded plots and manipulates others on a level they could not even hope to comprehend, all for his own personal gain. What would stop him from simply trying to do the same to me once I use my power to overwhelm the rest of Akaneia?”

Fafnir said nothing as he narrowed his eyes. There was certainly a point to be made—Gharnef was a vile individual, human or not. It had been something Fafnir could sense from the very first moment he and Gharnef met in Thabes. That Medeus would also see this so clearly, and even plot to undo the man that was essentially his second-in-command, made Fafnir both impressed and disgusted.

People and dragons would never change. They would always trample one another—even their own kind—in the struggle for dominion. It was a song and dance he knew well.

After all, he had been a witness to it for over a thousand years by now.

Electing to keep those thoughts to himself, he decided that now would be an opportune moment for more insight on the nature of this magic. Carefully, he leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees as he laced his fingers together. His braid dangled beside his head as he held Medeus’ gaze.

“… Fine, I’ll bite,” Fafnir responded. “However, answer a few questions for me, first.”

Medeus’ silence marked the go-ahead, and Fafnir shifted just enough to lean more weight on his less-wounded arm. “We’ve established that the… Starsphere and the Lightsphere have the power to destroy Gharnef. He mentioned something about a tome, and Imhullu—explain this to me,” Fafnir asked. “I know that Imhullu is a powerful tome. That much I had been able to learn via your land’s history books before I even met Gharnef. However, those did not answer everything. What is it about Imhullu that makes him impervious to anything else?”

“A good question,” Medeus half-complimented, and his eyes closed. “As you are from another world, I am going to assume there is nothing there quite comparable to Imhullu. It is a powerful tome, as you know. It was created by the Darksphere—and as you can probably tell by the name, the Darksphere is of a similar vein to the Starsphere and the Lightsphere. For the sake of completion, there are also the Geosphere and the Lifesphere.”

“Yes… I had read of these, though there was little information to be found in any texts. All I found is that they were presumably created by the god Naga—or, the one whom you call a witch. So, they had these spheres originally,” Fafnir muttered.

“Yes. The Divine Dragon tribe once possessed all five spheres,” Medeus responded. This confirmation immediately piqued Fafnir’s curiosity, though he did not show it.

“Regarding Gharnef… Imhullu was created by him, with the power of the Darksphere as its fuel,” Medeus explained. “The Darksphere is immensely powerful… the sphere alone will protect its wielder from all harm. The only way to counteract that, is by using the Lightsphere to negate its power.”

Though Fafnir mouthed to begin a new question, Medeus raised his hand to halt him.

“However. Now that the Darksphere has been used to forge Imhullu, the tome has properties of its own,” Medeus said. “While the sphere alone can be negated by the Lightsphere, Imhullu’s only weakness is the magic of Starlight, a tome forged from two spheres: the Lightsphere, and the Starsphere.”

Fafnir remained silent and stared out of one of the loopholes on the far side of the room as he allowed the new information to process. The sky was still muddled by dark clouds, and the silhouettes of dragons as they soared by were the only figures to break the monotony.

Finally, Fafnir muttered bitterly, “When I first met Gharnef, I could tell his soul was long gone. So then, I suppose this magic is also what’s given Gharnef the capability to live as a husk for what seems to be hundreds of years, defying death. Is that right?”

“You are correct,” Medeus confirmed. “By using the Darksphere so… his soul was consumed by it, eternally trapping him in its darkness in exchange for immeasurable power.”

Fafnir’s gaze flicked upwards towards Medeus in interest at that and he brought his still-entwined fingers towards his lips to use as a rest. “… I see,” he murmured, his gaze sliding away again as he considered the usefulness of this new information.

“These spheres are sealed by magic that only Divine Dragons can unlock, and they are held in the Fane of Raman because of their power. The Divine Dragon clan never wanted their power to be in the hands of humans, or any other clan of dragon,” Medeus grunted. “Yet that old Divine Dragon… Gotoh, the fool, lost the Darksphere to Gharnef after failing to protect it. Now, I will force him to assist me in killing Gharnef, to finish what he started.”

Gotoh. That was a name that Fafnir had only heard once or twice, in passing, during Gharnef’s ramblings. “Gotoh… and you expect him to help you, why?”

Medeus smirked. “To Gotoh, it would be clear who the lesser of the two evils are. Gharnef would be invincible should he get his hands on the other spheres… or should the spheres be lost to obscurity. He would have to lend me his power if I were to hold both spheres needed for Starlight.”

With a hum, Fafnir straightened his back again. He had learned quite a bit of important information. Though Medeus’ plan made sense enough, Fafnir could not help but feel that it was still risky—if even one thing were to go wrong, it would all completely unravel.

However, he was certainly in no place to criticize the Emperor before him. All Fafnir could manage was a curt nod as he pressed his palms into the fabric on the bed beneath him. Carefully, he pushed himself to his feet.

“If you truly think that this… plan of yours will work, then I will entertain your request,” Fafnir grunted as he straightened. He tilted his head to look up towards Medeus.

Amused, Medeus grinned. “’Entertain’? You make it seem as if you have a choice,” he responded.

Medeus was right—something Fafnir loathed to admit. What little pride Fafnir had continued to crack under the pressure of his current situation, and his right hand twitched. Without Medeus’ shelter, Fafnir would be in a much worse situation as he tried to recover from his recent loss in Altea.

Unfortunately, he owed the Emperor. He clicked his tongue as he closed his eyes.

“… Understood,” he said. “Then… I will go to the Fane of Raman. Just tell me how to get there.”

Chapter Text

Though it had been difficult to leave Altea so soon after its liberation, the search for the Starsphere and Lightsphere was of utmost importance; for without those, Gharnef’s demise would surely be naught but a pipedream. Even though the prince had done his best to mask his sadness upon leaving his homeland, Roy had been able to see the emotion as clear as day in his partner’s eyes as he glanced back over his shoulder at the castle as they departed.

Roy’s fists had clenched. They would certainly be able to return to Altea soon. Just after this war was over.

They had taken a northern route from Altea, towards Helena Castle—a stronghold smaller than those they had seized most recently, but full to the brim with supplies that the Akaneian League sorely needed. Though a sizable Grustian force had been stationed there, they were quickly dealt with by a split unit led by Hardin while Marth and the main force continued onward towards the strait just beyond the forests.

The unit of Sable Order knights that barred their way stood little chance against the Akaneian League, the latter having been well-rested and in high spirits since the liberation of Altea. With a skirmish that lasted for what felt like less than the blink of an eye, the bridges crossing the strait were mostly routed of enemies.

Sternlin had been their leader: he had claimed to be there in General Camus’ stead. Much like Hollstadt, Sternlin fought not out of malice, but out of his sense of duty.

It only further wrenched Marth’s heart that such valiant soldiers were doomed to fall by his hand, all because of those above them allying themselves with Doluna.

The Fane of Raman was only a half day’s travel away, just beyond the forest ahead of them. Hardin’s troops had yet to reunite with the main force, so by Marth’s orders the half of the army with him waited near the strait and unloaded their gear.

A few of them—Jeorge, Xane, Roy, Merric, and Abel—had been talking amongst one another around a small fire; an event that had become commonplace throughout their long campaign.

“I honestly expected a little more from the Sable Order,” Jeorge said as he thumbed at his bowstring. “Though I suppose high morale does make a difference.”

Most of the others agreed in unison—though Roy was focused on the fire before him as they chatted.

It was true, the battle had been quite easy. To be completely honest, it was almost not even worthy of noting, even though Sternlin had been eliminated. By this point they had already fought much worse and even had a run-in beforehand with the Sable Order back in Altea, so they had an idea of what to expect before the battle had even begun.

However, even with the battle being as easy as it was, and with Roy’s spirits being high, the difficulty he had wielding his weapon did not go unnoticed by him. It was as if his sword arm had been shackled and weighted. The fingers of his right hand tapped against the earth as he contemplated his condition.

“Hey Roy-boy,” Xane suddenly chirped, which drew Roy’s attention from the fire. The flame reflected in the other manaketes eyes, complementing the knowing glint that shone in his irises. “You’ve still got some dirt on your face from when you ate that soldier’s elbow earlier.”

A rumble of chuckles erupted from the others in the group, and Roy frowned as he brought his hand from the grass to rub at his face. “I guess you’re right. I should probably go wash it off while I still have the time…”

With a nod, Xane’s smile grew into a grin. “That’s probably a good idea.”

“Go on ahead, we’ll make sure Cain doesn’t take your spot,” Abel said as he motioned towards the strait.

“Thanks,” Roy said as he pushed himself up to stand. “I’m probably going to take a quick walk too while I’m at it.”

“Something on your mind?” Xane questioned playfully.

“… Yeah,” Roy said with a nod. “I think I just need to unwind from the fighting earlier…”

Abel waved Roy off again with a nod, encouraging him to go before Xane started asking further questions. Roy sent the cavalier a thankful smile before he turned on his heel and walked away from the group.

Xane watched him as he walked away, and the shimmer in his eyes darkened as he stared at Roy’s retreating form. His eyes trailed to Roy’s crystallized right arm, and after a few heavy moments of silence, he returned his own gaze back to the fire.

That was going to quickly become a problem, Xane noted.

The crunch of grass beneath Roy’s boots as he walked along the edge of the strait was an almost therapeutic sound, coupled with the babbling of the water beside him. His gaze wandered from the grasslands before him up to the sky. The sun was lower in the horizon, but not quite ready to set, and clouds blanketed the amber sky. Some were billowing and tall, others were scalloped, like the scales of a fish.

A few trees and rocks blocked his way as he wandered farther from camp, though they were easily maneuvered around. One particularly large, chipped boulder had been lodged into the earth near the water’s edge, surrounded by other stones and trees. There was enough of an opening between a snapped trunk and the boulder that he could climb between. That space should be easy enough to wedge through, and Roy hopped up on a smaller rock in front of him to align himself with the opening.

As he pressed his right palm into the boulder, his muscles tightened so quickly and painfully that his breath was taken from him. His eyes clenched as he immediately halted.

He was far enough away from camp that their voices were naught but muffled sounds, carried by the breeze. After the initial pain had subsided, he glanced back over his shoulder.

Though his hand was still pressed to the stone, he was completely unable to feel it. With a grunt, he pushed himself through the opening and leapt back down into the grass with a thud. His arm ached as the reverberation travelled through his body, and he grimaced.

“… This is probably far enough,” he grumbled.

Under the cover of the rocks and trees, he carefully proceeded to remove a few outer layers of his garments: his cape, gloves, breastplate and pauldron were removed first and carefully laid on the grass beside him. He inhaled deeply, though his breath caught short in his throat and his brows knitted in discomfort.

He had not realized just how difficult it had been getting for him to breathe. Since when was he incapable of drawing a full breath? Is this why he had been fatigued during the battle earlier?

A grumble rattled his chest as he exhaled gingerly. After a few moments of wait, he removed his tunic, though pulling it over his head took far more time and effort than it should have. Every time he moved his arm, it felt like his muscles were tearing.

In short, it was agony.

With a huff, he sat on the grass with his legs crossed and pressed his back to the boulder. His eyes trained left to the cape and armor at his side. The gold clasp holding his mother’s dragonstone glinted slightly in the dimming sunlight. Carefully, he reached out his left hand to the clasp, and opened it to remove the dragonstone.

The stone itself was as cold as ice, and a shudder ran down his spine at the chill. As he brought it close to him, he stared at it, and watched the magic as it drifted beneath the clear surface of the stone.

Unlike when he first held it in Galder, where it had been opaque and lifeless, it was now as clear as water and teeming with power. It even glowed a soft teal—an effect that Roy found comforting.

His lips pursed as questions began to bubble up within his chest.

“… Mother,” he mumbled as he stared at the stone, “What’s happening to me?”

After a few moments of silence, more questions arose. “… Did this happen to you too? All these changes? Is any of this normal? I… don’t understand it.”

Still silence. A heavy sigh escaped his throat as he lowered his hand and draped his arm across his knee. His head lulled back against the boulder and he stared up at the sky.

“Still not going to answer me,” he mumbled. “Why does this have to be so difficult…”

His left hand grew significantly colder, and he returned his attention to Ninian’s dragonstone. It had started to glow brighter than before, and with widened eyes, he pulled it close to himself again—

However, a surge of pain stopped his movement short, and the dragonstone fell to the grass beside his leg as he lost his grip. A low groan ripped from his throat as he clutched at his chest, and the digits of his right hand twitched as agony overwhelmed him. His fingernails dug into the dirt as he clawed at the ground, and he crumpled forward; it was as if a web of fire was spreading across his body, weaving stiffness in its wake.

His eyes screwed shut as his forehead touched the grass, and he hissed between clenched teeth. His abdomen tensed and his right leg twitched as that web further spread through his body.

However, the overwhelming sensation that inundated him seemed to fade just as quickly as it came on. He gasped for breath and ripped up blades of grass as he tried to pry himself back up from the ground, though it was far too difficult to do with one arm. Beads of sweat dripped from his forehead and his eyes were wide as he stared at the green beneath him. His left hand was still clutching at his chest, and with a slow, dry gulp, he lowered his arm to use both hands to push himself into a seated position once more.

It had been difficult. His muscles screamed at him as he tried to straighten his back, though he pushed beyond it as he shakily brought himself up to his feet. He wearily leaned against the boulder as his head tilted to his right.

Though his vision had been spotty, he could very clearly see the reflection of himself in the water beside him, and his breath caught.

That damned crystal—whatever it was—had spread down his side and continued beyond the hem of his trousers, along the outside of his leg. His outer thigh felt numb, going all the way down to his knee. He could tell even without removing his pants that it must have gone at least that far.

It took all the strength he had left not to scream, though he balled his right fist and slammed the side of it back into the boulder with a loud crack.

Yet even though the sound indicated a hard collision, he felt none of it. His hand was completely numb to anything outside of the constant burning between his skin and the crystal that covered it.

“This… there’s no way… that this is normal…” Roy hissed. “The… scales, the ears… the claws… I can accept that now… but this…”

His eyes trailed to his right hand, and the crystal glinted sunlight back at him as if in silent mockery.

“… I can’t handle much more of this,” he whispered. “It… feels wrong.”

The water drew his attention once again, and he studied his own reflection. The scales were still dotting his face, his ears were still pointed, and his hair was still mixed with teal. Thankfully, no one had really asked him any questions about it or treated him any differently for it yet.

Finally, he flicked his gaze up just enough to stare into his own eyes, and he tensed.

They were bright red, and his pupils were thin slits.

Before he could even comprehend his own gaze, his head throbbed; quickly he pulled his left hand to his forehead as he threaded his fingers in his hair. His eyes clenched shut as voices and dragons roared in his ears.

One particularly deep voice, unmistakably the voice of a powerful man, echoed louder than the rest:

“Humans are filthy. They are greedy and power-hungry. They will flock to those with power and betray their allies without so much as a second thought if it meant they could obtain more power.”

“Jealousy. Hate. Greed…”

“… As long as humans exist, this madness will never end.”

Roy groaned. That voice, again. It had been a long time since he last heard it.

Within the darkness of his eyelids, the towering figure of a man in armor stood before him. His lance was pointed in front of him, towards…

Roy?

“This world belongs to the dragons. They deserved this world; mankind is evil, and I will be the one to ensure the blight of our existence is scourged from this earth!”

“Zephiel... you couldn’t be more wrong!”

Wait. That second voice—those words sounded familiar.

Was that him?

“Your naivety will be your undoing, child. The Kingdom of Bern will not fall to you. Dragons will regain control, and you will lose… even with the Binding Blade in your hand.”

Air flooded his lungs as his mind was freed from the grip of his memories, and he fell back to one knee as he gasped for breath. His ears rang and his limbs trembled as he regained his bearings. He swallowed dryly.

The Kingdom of Bern. Zephiel.

He thought back to the time he spent in Port Warren, poring through those history books with Marth. He had not seen a single mention of a “Kingdom of Bern.” He had never heard anyone talk about a “Zephiel.”

And even beyond that—

What was this “Binding Blade”?

The second voice he had heard was distinctly his own, albeit younger. How long ago had this happened to him? What were the circumstances?

“What… is going on,” Roy mumbled between labored breaths.

The soft glow of the dragonstone beside him pulsated, and he glanced its way. Bubbles rippled beneath its crystalline surface, and he bit the inside of his lip.

“Why won’t you respond to me…” he asked the stone. He would have given up almost anything at that point to have another visit from his mother.

Alas, he still received no response. Slowly, his eyes slipped shut and his head hung in defeat.

As if he had not dealt with enough already that evening, his mind wandered back to the fight he had with Fafnir. Almost immediately, he snapped his eyes open again.

“You are as persistent as Eliwood!”

Eliwood… Who was Eliwood?

A few moments passed as he mulled over the possibilities.

“… Eliwood…” Roy said quietly. “… My father?”

Though he received no verbal response, the dragonstone behind him pulsated brightly as if to confirm his suspicion before it dimmed. Surprised, Roy sat back on his haunches as he stared at it.

“… So… that’s my father’s name,” he said. “Eliwood…?”

His mother was Ninian—a dragon. His father was Eliwood—a human.

Though he was unable to truly remember either of them and he had only met his mother once in his dreams, he could feel in his heart that that had to be the correct answer.

Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes as he stared at the now-dim stone before him. His mother had passed away, but what about his father?

Was his father still alive?

Did his father know he was gone?

… Was his father out looking for him?

He sighed and closed his eyes as he brought his left hand back to his forehead.

“This is way too much…” he grumbled.

He dragged his hand down his face and he returned his gaze to the water again.

He was covered in sweat, his hair was out of sorts, dark bags were under his now-blue eyes, and… the smudge of dirt was still on his face that Xane had pointed out earlier. A dry laugh left him.

“You look… like a disheveled mess, Roy,” he said to himself. “Pull yourself together…”

With a shaky sigh, he pushed himself to the side so he could face the water. He scooped some of the water into his hands before he splashed it onto his face.

Though the water was objectively cold, to him, it felt almost lukewarm. His body temperature was a lot colder than it used to be. On the one hand, he could find a reason to be frustrated with that, too; but at that moment, the temperature of the water was a small gripe compared to everything else.

His left hand trailed down to his chest and brushed across the rough crystal that covered his right shoulder. He stared at himself in the rippling water and frowned as his attentions were brought to one particular spot on his chest: the scar from when he had been stabbed by Marth in Pales. His fingertips carefully felt along the gnarled skin, and his eyes closed. That wound had long since healed, but that scar would certainly be an everlasting reminder of what he had done.

He vowed he would never put his comrades in danger like that again. Roy would never put Marth in such a difficult situation like that ever again, where Marth would have to turn his blade on him.

After taking a few more moments to reflect, he finished cleaning himself up and carefully began to redress. He held his cape in his hand as he reached down to the grass to gather his mother’s dragonstone, and flipped the golden clasp open with his thumb before he returned the stone to its rightful place within it. After a few moments of contemplative pause, he pressed the clasp shut.

The fabric fluttered in the breeze as he swung the cape over his shoulder and wrapped it around his neck. He fastened the straps together in front and stared down at the clasp as it rested over his heart. Though the dragonstone’s glow had returned to its normal faint shine, Roy found it within himself to smile at it.

“… Thanks,” he said quietly. “For answering me earlier.”

Thankfully, his hopes had not been very high for yet another response, for he received none.

His blade still rested against the boulder at his side, and he glanced towards it. It was ornate—far more unique than any other sword he had seen, and even Marth’s rapier paled in comparison. His eyes trailed up the length of its scabbard, towards the hilt. The red gem in the center glinted in the sunlight, and his nose scrunched.

The Binding Blade…

“… Is that what you are…?” he asked the sword. “The Binding Blade?”

The breeze rustled the leaves of the trees overhead, and the damp parts of his bangs were brushed against his skin and stuck there as he stared at the sword. No matter how hard he studied it, he just could not remember anything about it—and of course, the sword spoke no answer back to him. Why would it?

A huff of breath left his nose and he took the sword in his left hand so that he could refasten it to the strap of his belt. The metal of the sheath clinked as he turned on his heel to begin the trek back towards camp.

However, before he even made his first step, he paused.

Marth.

He glanced to his right hand.

“… What do I do,” Roy muttered.

The two of them had promised they would hold no secrets, but… Marth already had the weight of the world on his shoulders.

“… I can’t… worry him with this. Not now,” he said quietly, though the guilt weighed heavily on him.

He would just have to ask Marth for his forgiveness later.

Chapter Text

“… So this is the place,” came Fafnir’s grumbling tone as he sharply scrutinized what lay ahead.

Before him stood a temple of incredible intricacy; the steps that led to its doors were grand, carved from stone and marble, with pillars and arches that reached high overhead. His eyes scanned the area slowly and critically as he took his first few quiet, careful steps up the stairs.

The air was warm and humid as it brushed by him, and the residual magic that seeped from the earth and walls swirled around him as if in greeting. His skin crawled as that power traced along his arms, and he scowled.

“I am not one of you,” he muttered. “Leave me be.”

Though the energies refused to back away fully; they only pushed away enough to allow him space to continue up the stairs untouched.

It mattered little, however, for he still felt as though thousand eyes were on him as he reached the top of the stairs.

The temple doors were sealed shut in front of him, and with a sigh, he closed his eyes. What darkness he could feel beyond the stone walls was familiar, but it was not Gharnef.

“… So he’s left already,” he mused to himself. “Good. Then I’ve no reason to wait.”

With firm steps, he approached the doors and pressed his hand to the seam between them. His fingertips hissed as ancient energy met his skin, and the doors groaned before they rumbled and slid open with a simple push. Fafnir inhaled slowly as trepidation filled him.

This temple was a holy place. The charge in the air was unmistakable; at one point, this had been home to something—or someone—of unimaginable power. A sneer grew on his face as he cursed himself.

“Now is not the time to cower,” he growled. “What are you, a child? Have you not learned?”

Frustrated, he quickened his pace as he entered the temple. The marble floors beneath his boots created an echo with each step that travelled down the empty halls at his sides as he passed them by. Elaborate carvings of god-like figures decorated the area between each arch on the walls. The floors had been given similar attention, and beautiful patterns interlaced between each tile. Beautiful golden chandeliers hung from the ceilings, each housing a dozen candles that had long-since burnt out.

Fafnir did not need to be of this world to realize that this place had certainly been a location of great importance in the past. Just like…

With a quick shake of his head, he flicked his gaze forward from the walls towards the length of the hall ahead of him. A dark presence loomed not far in the distance, and he grimaced, his pace faltering.

It was Gharnef’s magic—but it was not Gharnef himself.

Fafnir remained silent and simply stared down the hall.

It was a Divine Dragon. He could tell that presence from anything.

There was a sinking sensation in his stomach that irked him, and with a silent hiss he forced himself to ignore the feeling as he continued forward. He had come here for the spheres by Medeus’ orders—that was all he wished to deal with.

However, the voice of a small girl stopped him dead in his tracks before he could reach the inner sanctum.

“Who are you?” came the voice, young yet tired. There was something about her tone that rubbed Fafnir the wrong way; it was like she had been unaware of her own words, or she was speaking in her sleep.

Fafnir elected to remain silent as he walked up the three steps to the sanctum doors, and he opened them.

The groaning of old hinges reverberated throughout the sanctum, and not far from its entrance stood a small girl with ivy green hair. A strange gold crown adorned her head, and she was wrapped in light pink robes. Though she was much smaller, and much younger than Fafnir, his entire body froze as he tried to process the power in the air around her. It was, in short, nearly overwhelming. He had not met a dragon with an aura like hers in over a thousand years.

“… Who… are you?” the girl asked again, and her tone grew far more defensive. “What… are you doing here?”

Gharnef’s magic, Fafnir realized, had already taken hold of the girl.

“… I do not have time for this,” Fafnir grumbled at her.

“Are… you here to hurt me?” She asked and raised her hand towards her chest, as if to ready herself to fight him.

Great.

“No. I am not here to hurt you,” he responded flatly.

She must not have believed him, as she curled in on herself and stepped back half a step. Her eyes, though tired, were still glaring at him with intent to fight. A sigh escaped the older manakete’s lips as he threaded his fingers in his bangs. Though he loathed to do it, he closed his eyes and reached out his own energy to hers. His dragonstone glowed as he tried to worm through the veil of darkness that Gharnef had draped over the girl’s soul.

The darkness had been persistent, though a sliver of light shone through as his soul finally reached hers beneath the veil.

Almost immediately, the girl recoiled and relaxed, and Fafnir wasted little time to retract his own magic. Though Gharnef’s spell still bewitched her, she thankfully no longer saw Fafnir as a threat.

“… You… are like me…?” the girl asked, to which Fafnir only hmphed. “Who… are you…?”

“… I am Fafnir,” he said. “… You must be Tiki.”

With a strange, slow hum, the small girl nodded. She was certainly far more relaxed in his presence now than she had been just a moment ago.

Fafnir studied her for a few moments before he narrowed his eyes in thought. He was never particularly fond of children, though in this case, he supposed he would have to work with her to get the answers he needed.

“… Tiki,” Fafnir started gently, “Do you know where the Lightsphere and the Starsphere are?”

She seemed to pause as she processed his question. “… Yes… but why do you want to know that?”

“… There… are many bad people that wish to use them,” Fafnir said slowly. “… I wish to take them away so they will be safe and hidden, so that no one can misuse them.”

The words felt like acid on his tongue as he lied to the girl, though he forced himself to ignore it once again as he stared at her. After a few moments, and a long, blank stare, Tiki smiled faintly at him.

“I… can show you…” she said, with a ghost of happiness in her tone.

“… Thank you,” Fafnir responded. “Please lead the way, Tiki.”

She turned and began to lead him deeper into the sanctum. Though there was plenty around him to look at, Fafnir found himself unable to look away from the back of the girl’s head as she walked in front of him.

He refused to accept what he felt at that moment was guilt.

Finally, she stopped before a large set of ornate carved doors, and Fafnir’s gaze trailed upwards. They were covered from top to bottom in imagery and runes that he did not understand. The runes reminded him of what he had seen in Thabes—perhaps it was the same language.

“Are they behind this door?” Fafnir asked as he looked down towards Tiki again.

She looked back at him with a nod and stepped out of his way. His lips pursed as he craned his neck upwards again, and he glanced to the doors out of the corners of his eyes. This would either work, or it would end in complete failure. His eyes slowly slid shut as he inhaled.

His arms raised towards the doors, and the dragonstone at his chest glowed brightly as he channeled its energy. The power burned in his limbs as his father’s dragonstone reacted with the seal on the doors, and the runes glowed; the air stirred to life as the magic threaded together like a lock and key.

Fafnir’s eyes snapped open as a gust billowed towards him from the doors, and the phantom screech of a dragon rang in his ears as the old doors cracked open before swinging wide.

With a thick, dry swallow, he slowly lowered his arms. It had actually worked.

A tiny voice pulled him from his shock. “They’re inside…” Tiki said as she pointed into the small room just beyond the open doors.

Fafnir spared her a quick glance. “… Right…” he mumbled.

He carefully stepped into the room, and it was as if he had been hit with a wave of light—an ethereal power he had long since forgotten the embrace of—and he put his hand to his mouth as his eyes clenched.

“… It makes me almost sick…” he muttered to himself. “It’s… too similar…”

After taking a few moments to regain his bearings, he removed his hand from his mouth and looked around him. Three spheres rested within the chamber, each on their own bed of silken cloth. He looked each of them over and realized he could not tell which one was which.

He hesitated before he looked back over his shoulder. “… Tiki,” he called to her, “I have never seen the Starsphere or Lightsphere. Which ones are they?”

Another smile graced her expression. “The left one… and the middle one… those ones are the right ones…”

He turned his head to look towards the three spheres once again, and his eyes narrowed critically. Those were the only two he needed.

Carefully, he plucked the Starsphere and the Lightsphere from their resting places and held one in each hand. Their power was incredible—his hands burned and the muscles in his forearms tightened as he held them, and the magic they held swirled beneath their surfaces like currents.

“… Incredible,” he muttered to himself.

To think that these spheres held such unmatched power. No wonder Gharnef was essentially invincible with the Darksphere, or Imhullu, in-hand. However, as he gazed into the glassy surfaces of the Lightsphere and the Starsphere, he grimaced. The thoughts of Gharnef brought him back to his original orders from Medeus.

No matter what world it was, it seemed like people would always stab each other in the backs—dragons and humans alike. His mood darkened considerably at the thought.

“… Where… will you take them?” came Tiki’s small voice, which drew Fafnir’s attention.

He turned to face the girl and put the spheres in the satchel at his side as he did so. After a moment of hesitation as he considered his words, he quietly said, “… Far, far away.”

That answer seemed satisfactory for Tiki, as she smiled at him again with a slow nod.

He bit the inside of his lip as he stared at her. Finally, he shook his head as he exited the chamber, and she followed him. As he walked towards the doors of the inner sanctum, he cursed that she was still right on his heels; would she not leave him be?

As he took the first few steps out of the sanctum, he realized her presence had begun to recede, and he looked back over his shoulder. She was standing a few paces away from the sanctum doors with a sad expression.

“… Are… you leaving?” she asked him quietly.

Curses.

“Yes,” Fafnir responded impassively as he turned to face Tiki.

Her shoulders seemed to sag just slightly as her gaze lowered to the marble floors. After a tense silence, she asked, “… Will… we see each other again…?”

His expression immediately twisted into a dissatisfied grimace as he stared down at the girl. “… No,” he responded quietly as he shook his head. “We probably won’t.”

Her energy sank, and the room felt heavy with her sadness. “Oh…” she said quietly. “… I… wish we could…”

To say Fafnir felt uncomfortable would be an understatement. “… Why is that?” he asked.

“… I’m… lonely,” was all she could say.

An even deeper scowl etched his face as he balled one of his fists. Her words—her sadness and loneliness—had hit far too close to home. It was clearly obvious that she was the only Divine Dragon anywhere even remotely close—in fact, she had been the only other Divine Dragon he had met since his arrival in Akaneia.

It made him wonder: was she the only one left?

“… I am sorry,” he responded with a softer tone, to which Tiki said nothing.

The turmoil in his heart ate at him as he tried to determine what to do or say further. Finally, he sighed quietly—releasing some of the tension that had built in his chest—and he reached out his hand to carefully pat the top of the girl’s head.

“… I promise, we shall meet again… eventually,” he muttered.

Tiki tilted her head to look up towards him as Fafnir removed his hand. “You mean that…?” she asked, the hope evident even behind the fog that clouded her irises.

“… Yes. I mean that,” Fafnir said.

He could see the contentedness wash over her as she relaxed. “Okay,” she responded—that time unmistakably happily.

His throat parched as he closed his eyes. It certainly was guilt that he felt, and he turned his back to the younger manakete as a portal manifested for him to retreat into. It crackled and buzzed as it formed, and he spared one last glance towards Tiki behind him.

“… Tiki,” he grumbled. “… Be sure to stay… in the sanctum. Close the doors, so you don’t get hurt by any bad people while I’m away. Alright?”

With a nod, she brought her hands to her chest. “Okay, I will… I’ll see you later, Nir-Nir.”

His legs felt like they had been chained to the ground upon hearing his new nickname, and his eyes widened.

He needed to leave—now.

“… Goodbye, Tiki,” he muttered.

Quickly, he retreated into the darkness of the portal, and allowed it to sweep him away before it dissipated.

By the time the Akaneian League had almost arrived at the Fane of Raman, both Gharnef and Fafnir were long gone; the halls were empty, and the land surrounding the ancient temple had stilled almost in anticipation of the young prince’s arrival.

As the army neared the temple, Xane bit the inside of his lip and furrowed his brow. Roy had done similarly not too far away from him. Though the air was thick and humid, neither of them had broken a sweat until now.

Roy absentmindedly rubbed his right arm as they trekked through the forest. The closer they got to the temple, the more he felt as if they had an audience. However, no matter how often he glanced over his shoulders, or scanned the trees for any figures, he saw nothing. A small bead of sweat trailed down from his temple down to his jawline, and he wiped it away with a quick rub of his hand.

Marth could feel it, too; whether it was him and Roy sharing their unease or if they had felt it individually, neither of them could tell. Marth balled his fists as he continued forward, towards the edge of the forest. The light began to shine through the leaves in thin rays and dappled the ground the closer they got to the temple.

“We are almost there…” Marth said.

Malledus, who had been at Marth’s side, nodded. “Just beyond the forest lies the Fane of Raman…” he said. “There, we shall find what you are looking for, sire.”

“Yes,” Marth responded. “The two spheres. From then on… Gharnef should no longer be a threat.”

Roy glanced forward to look at Marth, who had been walking just a few paces ahead of him. The redhead said nothing, as it was not his conversation to take part in—but he could not help but feel a twinge of uncertainty in his chest.

He was unable to put his finger on why, exactly; that is, until a ghost of a voice whispered to him on the wind, through the rustling of leaves:

“You… are not the first to come here.”

A chill ran down his spine and he quickly glanced over his shoulder again, and he pulled his right hand up to cup his ear. No one was behind him aside from his usual comrades—and that voice…

That woman’s voice had not been one of theirs.

Suddenly feeling vulnerable, Roy quickly snapped his gaze forward once more and pushed his hand back down to his side.

Finally, they reached the edge of the forest, and as soon as they broke free from the shade of the trees, some of the tension eased. Before them stood the Fane of Raman, its marble walls and grand staircase seemed to glow as the sunlight reflected off it. It was incredibly beautiful—almost breathtakingly so—and Marth found himself frozen in awe as he stood a few paces from the base of the staircase.

Roy, as well—he was rooted to the spot near the tree line as he stared forward at the beautiful building before them.

“Impressive, isn’t it,” Xane mumbled as he tapped Roy’s arm with the back of his hand.

Roy glanced towards him and nodded. “I… can’t say I’ve ever seen anything quite like it,” he said.

Xane snickered and cocked his head to the side as his gaze drifted forwards once more. “Yeah. You could say it’s pretty one of a kind… at least for here, anyway.”

With a slight squint, Roy mouthed to ask Xane what he meant—though he was interrupted by Bantu as the he stepped forward.

“Prince Marth,” Bantu said, which made Marth turn on his heel to face the man.

“Bantu,” Marth responded with a smile as the elderly manakete approached him. “I am sure you know far more about this temple than any of us would, right?”

With a slow nod, Bantu’s gaze rose towards the temple entrance. “Perhaps you would allow me to enter the temple alongside you…”

“Of course,” Marth said. “I would appreciate any knowledge you might have to share… especially if that would help us find the spheres we are looking for.”

Bantu grumbled and brought a wrinkled hand to his chin. “… It might… become a problem, if we cannot open the seal that keeps them here…”

Marth’s brow furrowed as he considered Bantu’s words. “What do you mean? They… are sealed away?”

“Yes…” Bantu said. “They were sealed away so that they would not fall into someone else’s hands… but… the only way the seal will open is by the power of a Divine Dragon.”

“Wait, so you are saying that… even after travelling here, we might not be able to get them?” Marth asked with slightly widened eyes.

Bantu nodded solemnly in confirmation. While Marth and Bantu were busy speaking with one another, Roy’s gaze slid to Xane, who had his arms crossed in front of his chest with his eyes closed. He wore a defiant frown on his face, and Roy squinted slightly at him.

A nudge of Roy’s elbow bade Xane to open his eyes, and he glanced towards Roy. His previously heavy expression lightened into his usual, whimsical smile. “Something on your mind, Roy-boy?”

“Yeah…” Roy muttered so that only Xane could hear. “Surely you overheard what Bantu just said, right?”

That whimsical smile quickly faltered, and Xane lulled his head to the side to break eye contact with Roy. “… Yes, I did.”

“… So…” Roy started as he motioned one of his hands slightly, “If only a Divine Dragon can break the seal…”

Xane quickly shook his head and closed his eyes again, and his hand gripped at his sleeve. “I know what you’re thinking. It will not work. I don’t have my dragonstone… remember?”

At Xane’s quick dismissal, Roy pursed his lips and remained silent. Xane spared Roy a glance again, and after a moment of consideration, he sighed.

“Besides… no one else here really knows that I am a Divine Dragon, remember? Just you, Roy-boy. And I don’t really feel like outing myself,” Xane muttered.

“… Even with Akaneia at stake?” Roy asked, and Xane shrugged.

“Akaneia might be at stake, but I already know what I can’t do… and I know I couldn’t open that seal if it’s still there,” Xane said. “Trust me. I don’t regret throwing away my dragonstone, but if I knew it would’ve come in handy for something like this, I probably would’ve held onto it for a little longer.”

Roy huffed in understanding and rested his hand on his hip as he glanced over towards Marth and Bantu again. “… Well, regardless, I guess we’ll find out soon enough…”

Xane followed Roy’s gaze just as Marth turned to face towards them and the rest of their troupe. Marth’s expression was quite tense compared to how it was just moments prior.

“Well…” Marth started, uncertainty evident in his tone, “Bantu has informed me that it might be more difficult than we thought to get the spheres from the temple. We… will move forward, regardless. I certainly do not want to bring more people than is necessary into such a holy place, and there are no signs of enemies nearby. So with that in mind, I would only wish to bring a few along with me…”

Marth’s gaze trailed to meet Roy’s, which drew an uptick in the corner of the redhead’s mouth. He nodded curtly, and Marth spared him a small smile before he looked around.

“… Bantu, Roy, Jagen, Xane…” Marth started, and thought for a moment before continuing, “… Merric, Caeda, and Linde. Would you all be willing to come with me?”

Each that had been named stepped forward to join with Marth and Bantu, who had already been standing in front of the steps to the temple. The young prince smiled at them all, and with a quick thank you, motioned his hand for them to follow him.

Bantu was right beside Marth, and Roy was a few steps behind. Xane lagged a few paces behind Roy, alongside Linde; the young sorceress glanced Xane’s way as he stared at the steps just in front of them as they ascended. His brows were furrowed and he looked like he was very deep in thought. With a quiet hum, Linde averted her gaze from him and looked forward towards Roy.

They were certainly a curious pair of gentlemen. Both seemed to grow more somber than even Bantu upon reaching the Fane of Raman. She would have to take some time to get to know them a little better as their journey continued.

It took little time for them to reach the apex of the staircase, and their steps quickly halted.

Bantu seemed shocked. “The doors to the temple are already open…” he said. “… Someone has been here already…”

Bristled, their eyes immediately scanned the area to look for any signs of potential aggressors—however, they were very much alone. A gentle breeze brushed by, and a shiver ran up Roy’s spine.

“… Child, you follow in the footsteps of another.”

“Ugh…” he muttered as he put his hand to his forehead. It had been that woman’s voice again. With a quick shake of his head, he lowered his hand back down to his side and spared a glance around the rest of the group. No one else seemed to have reacted the way he did.

Was he the only one that could hear her?

Marth quietly shook his head. “If the doors here are open… then we need to be careful. Though no one awaits us outside, we may have trouble brewing within the temple…”

“Sire, would you like me to enter first?” Jagen asked. “I would rather not put you in any excess of danger by leading us in…”

“Jagen…” Marth smiled. “I appreciate your concern. Though I think we should be fine—I have quite a distinguished group of allies alongside me right now.”

With a quiet chuff, most averted their gazes with a twinge of embarrassment. Roy’s expression softened at the prince’s words.

“Let’s not waste any more time,” Merric said. “If someone has been here before us, they may just still be here. Or…”

“They may have left already,” Xane cut in quickly.

Roy glanced towards Xane, who had a critical expression on his face with his arms crossed again. Though Xane had suggested it as a possibility, his expression seemed to tell Roy it was more of a truth than a guess. Marth fixated his gaze on Xane as well, and after a moment of silence, the prince nodded his head as he rested his hand on the hilt of his rapier.

“Well, let us go find out,” Marth responded.

The group made their way into the Fane of Raman, and the clinking of their armor and bootsteps echoed back at them as they wandered down the forgotten halls of the temple. Even though it had been clear there had been no caretaker for many years, the temple itself was in very fine condition, as if it had been protected from the rot of time.

Their pace was slow as they looked around—the sheer amount of intricate detail in every nook and cranny was incredible, even more so than any of the most ornate castles they had already seen. It was hauntingly beautiful.

Another shiver ran up Roy’s spine as they walked further into the temple.

Linde turned to the side and walked over to one of the walls, where a huge relief was carved. She traced her fingers along the marble surface and shook her head.

“This is so incredible,” she said quietly. “This figure… all of these figures, they look like gods.”

“I’ve never seen anything quite like this,” Merric added as he walked over to stand by her. “It’s as if we’re looking into a lens that’s shown us a thousand years past. And it is practically untouched.”

“I wonder why that is…” Caeda mused as she put her hand to her hip. Her gaze drew upwards from one of the pillars, to a chandelier that hung just above them. “The only thing that really tells us its age are these burnt candles. Everything else…”

“Yes…” Bantu grumbled. “The Fane of Raman… it was created by dragonkin, many thousands of years ago… The Divine Dragons themselves took care of the temple. Perhaps it still stands strong today because of their lingering power…”

“The Divine Dragons…?” Marth mumbled.

Xane had been notably quiet, and Roy took a few steps over towards him.

“… Xane,” Roy mumbled under his breath as he stood next to the manakete. “… Is that why you’re acting so tense?”

“…” Xane shrugged a little and offered no further response.

“… Is that why it’s so uncomfortable in here…?” Roy muttered, mostly to himself, as he looked down the length of the hall. Not too far away stood the doors to what he assumed was the inner sanctum.

After a few more moments of gawking at the beauty of the temple’s architecture, Marth led them towards the doors down the hall. It had been incredibly quiet—almost too quiet—and the closer they got to those ancient doors, the more charged the air felt. It flowed thick with a lingering magic—in all honesty, Roy had been struggling to not feel sick.

Though it seemed not to affect Xane or Bantu like it affected him. The other two manaketes were proceeding forward in silence, completely unmoved by the energy in their surroundings. Was this just because these draconic powers were new to him?

Something in his heart tugged as if telling him that was the wrong answer, and he grimaced. Was there something more to this that caused his reaction?

They finally made it to the doors, and after ascending what few steps led to it, stopped right at the entrance to the sanctum. There was something—someone—beyond the door that made Roy’s hairs stand on end. It felt like a powerful light, yet somehow shrouded.

Another wince, and one of his eyes clenched.

“… Weary child… what has brought the two of you here?”

That voice was loud in his ears, like a roaring tempest, though it dissipated almost as quickly as it came. The two of them? What did she mean by that? Did she mean Marth?

“There is… something beyond this door…” Bantu said. “That light… I could recognize it anywhere. Is it you Tiki…?”

“Tiki? That was the girl you were looking for, right, Bantu?” Marth asked, to which Bantu nodded.

“Yes… but…” the old manakete paused as he frowned. “Something feels… wrong. Come, let us open the doors and find out…”

With a firm nod, Marth stepped forward and pressed his hand to the right door, while Jagen stepped forward and pressed the left door. Slowly, they swung open with a resounding groan, and a puff of air brushed by the group as the inner sanctum was revealed to them.

Large dragon statues lined the sanctum; they were toweringly tall and almost life-like, and each of them differed from one another. There were six of them in a circle: an Ice Dragon, Fire Dragon, Wind Dragon, Earth Dragon, Mage Dragon, and Divine Dragon. Bantu motioned to each of them to explain which was which as they entered the room.

“Incredible…” Marth mumbled as they looked over all the statues.

With a slow gulp, Roy slowly turned his head as he examined all the statues surrounding them. His fists clenched slightly and his gaze grew far more critical as he scrutinized the Fire Dragon. It looked a lot like Bantu had when he transformed, but more ornate. Then, his gaze shifted across the figures to the Ice Dragon. Was this how his mother looked?

As he looked into the creature’s eyes, he found himself unsure. With a slight shake of his head, he then turned his attention to the one that seemed to tower even above all the rest: the Divine Dragon.

It looked… nothing like Fafnir.

A sinking feeling weighed in his gut, though he had little time to dwell as the voice of a small girl drew the attention of him and the rest of the group.

“Y… you… how did you get here?” came her voice.

“That voice… Tiki!” Bantu said, relieved, as he surveyed the room. “Tiki, my child, where are you?”

There were a few tense moments of silence before finally, with hesitant steps, Tiki slowly crept out from around the base of the Divine Dragon statue. Her eyes were glowing faintly red, and her posture was bereft of any friendliness; she clearly considered them a threat, and her knuckles were white with how tightly she was gripping at the ancient marble.

Xane immediately grimaced at her reaction. “Tiki…” he muttered.

“Tiki! It is I, Bantu…” Bantu said. “And…”

With a glance back towards Xane, Bantu seemed to quietly be requesting for Xane to speak up. Xane pursed his lips before he waved his hand almost lightheartedly.

“… Tiki—girly, it’s me, Xane,” Xane said. “Don’t you remember us?”

The air was thick with tension as Tiki’s eyes slowly shifted between Xane and Bantu. “… It’s… Ne-Ne…? Ban-Ban…?”

Bantu seemed relieved. “Child, you remember us…!” he exclaimed as he slowly took a step towards her. He raised one wrinkled hand towards her with a gentle expression on his face and beckoned for her to step out from her hiding spot.

After a hesitant look around at the rest of the group, Tiki slowly took the first few steps out from behind the statue, and Bantu carefully walked towards her as well. Once they were close, Bantu pursed his lips.

“This spell…” he grumbled. “Did Gharnef do this to you, I wonder…?”

The mention of Gharnef immediately made Marth tense. “Gharnef…?”

Bantu only shook his head. “Child… please, open your eyes. Cast off the veil that has shrouded you,” he spoke softly as he put his hand on Tiki’s head. “Awaken, dear Tiki.”

At his touch, the glow in Tiki’s eyes faded and she relaxed. “… Ban-Ban… Is it really you?” she asked.

“It is,” he confirmed with a smile. “It’s been a long time, my girl. I am sorry I lost you.”

Tears welled up in the small girl’s eyes. “Ban-Ban…!” she cried as she threw her arms around him. He returned her hug wholeheartedly.

As they were hugging, Linde glanced to Xane. “So how did you know her?” she asked inquisitively.

Xane spared her a glance and smiled faintly, though it had been difficult for him to. “Long story, dear.”

The young Tiki let go of Bantu before she ran towards Xane and Roy. “Ne-Ne, you too!”

Xane craned his neck as he rubbed the back of his head. “It’s great to see you too, Miss Tiki,” he said cheerily. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so happy to actually see me.”

She smiled happily towards him. “It’s just… been so long! And lonely… so I’m happy to see you too.”

Xane lowered his hand and rested it on his hip. “Well, let’s see how long that lasts,” he teased with a wink.

Tiki giggled before shifting her gaze towards the rest of the group. Her green eyes scanned everyone. “Who are all of you?” she asked, curious.

Politely, each of Marth’s group began to introduce themselves to the little manakete. Merric and Jagen had made Tiki’s acquaintance with gentlemanly bows, and Caeda and Linde had both complimented her on her pretty dress and hair, which brought a pleased blush to the girl’s cheeks as she similarly swooned over the two women.

Marth smiled warmly at Tiki as she turned to him, and with a courteous bow, he introduced himself. “I am Prince Marth, of Altea,” he said before he straightened. “Bantu had told me about you before. It is nice to finally get to meet you, Miss Tiki.”

The girl’s emerald eyes sparkled with cheer as she put her hands together. “Oh, it’s so nice to meet you too, Mar-Mar!”

Roy was completely unable to hold back the chuff that escaped him as Marth’s face flushed from embarrassment at the nickname.

“M…ar-Mar?” Marth mumbled.

A grin grew on Xane’s face as he chuckled. “Looks like you aren’t safe from it either, princey.”

Tiki then turned to Roy and bounced on her heels. “What about you?”

With an awkward smile, Roy said, “Uh, I’m Roy… just a mercenary.”

That sparkle shone in her eyes again. “But you’re a dragon too, aren’t you?!” she realized excitedly as she put a finger to the tip of her ear. “Look, your ears are like mine, Ro-Ro!”

“O-Oh,” Roy stammered as he blushed, “Yeah… I guess so.”

Bantu chuckled quietly as he and Marth observed Tiki’s excitement over her and Roy’s similar manakete features. “Fledgling dragons do have a bit more of a hard time controlling their power…” he said quietly. “They both still have a lot to learn yet.”

Marth spared a glance towards Bantu out of the corner of his eyes with a slight hint of a smile. “Is that so?”

“Indeed…” Bantu said as he eyed Tiki and Roy as Tiki continued to compare the two of them.

Marth’s smile only widened as he watched Roy rub the back of his head as Tiki poked at the scales between his sleeve and glove on his left arm. “… Well, I find it quite charming,” Marth mumbled.

Roy’s gaze trailed from Tiki to Marth, and their eyes met—a slight twinge of pink dusted Roy’s cheeks as he sent Marth a weak smile, clearly a bit embarrassed by the attention that he was being given.

Caeda, as if on cue, stepped forward. “I apologize for interrupting, but Miss Tiki, would you be able to help us?”

Tiki turned her head and rocked on her heels as she sent Caeda a wide smile. “Oh! Yes? What is it?”

“Well… we were looking for something,” Caeda said as she leaned down to be more along Tiki’s eye-level. “Do you think you could help us find it?”

“Yes, Tiki, we certainly need your help,” Marth added. “We were looking for the Lightsphere and the Starsphere. Do you know where they are?”

Tiki turned to face Marth, her ponytail trailing behind her as she did so. “Oh! They were in there,” she said as she raised her right arm to point beyond the Divine Dragon statue. Farther into the sanctum, there was a pair of doors that led to the inner chamber—though they were already wide open.

Immediately, Bantu froze. “Wait, Miss Tiki,” he said. “The doors… they are open.”

Xane’s eyes widened as he took a few hasty steps forward to stand next to Bantu, and his gaze never left the open doors just ahead. A thousand scenarios ran through his mind at once, and he quickly snapped his gaze to Tiki’s. “Tiki. Why are the doors open? Did you open them?”

With an innocent shake of her head, she put her hands behind her back. “No, I didn’t do it! Another Divine Dragon came and did it.”

The temperature of the room seemed to drop dramatically at her words, and all eyes were on her. After a few long, tense seconds of silence, Bantu slowly furrowed his brows—the wrinkles around his eyes deepened and his red eyes glinted as he did so.

“… Another Divine Dragon?” he asked slowly. “What do you mean?”

Tiki grew nervous at the quietness and suspicion in Bantu’s tone. “He came here and said he was going to take them away from bad people… so he opened the doors and took them far away.”

Roy shifted on his feet before he knelt on one knee, which drew Tiki’s attention back to him. His expression was stern, but the worry was evident in his eyes. “Tiki…” he started quietly, “Do you know his name? Did he tell you?”

Tiki scuffed one of her feet against the ground timidly as she nodded, and she brought her hands together in front of her chest nervously. “Yes... he did, his name is Nir-Nir.”

Roy’s eyes slowly widened. “… Nir-Nir?” he asked, his tone serious. “That was his name? … Do you… mean Fafnir?”

A small nod from Tiki made Roy’s heart skip a beat and Marth’s fists clench at his sides as the reality of their situation hit them.

They had a huge problem on their hands. If Fafnir, allied with Doluna, had taken both the Starsphere and the Lightsphere…

Gharnef would be invincible.

Chapter Text

The march toward Grust had been quiet.

Marth’s spirits had been lowered significantly after their departure from the Fane of Raman. With the Lightsphere and Starsphere out of their reach, their odds of defeating Gharnef were…

Well, it seemed as though they were slim to none.

A small sigh escaped the prince’s lips. Perhaps they would figure out some loophole. That was all he could hope for.

The careful nudge against his arm drew his attention upwards—for he had been staring firmly at the grass beneath his feet—and Jagen’s brow raised as the prince’s gaze met with his own.

“Sire, it seems there is a town just ahead,” Jagen said. “We were running low on provisions after camping last night.”

“Ah,” Marth drawled. “We were. And even beyond that, I am sure some of the others would appreciate sleeping in a bed if any inn rooms are available.”

After a moment of pause, he brought his hand up to cup his chin. “Though we are still approaching enemy territory, so it might not be quite so easy.”

“We don’t know unless we try,” Abel chimed in. At that, Marth could only nod.

A few young boys that had been play-fighting just outside the village gates had dropped their sticks as the Akaneian League approached. One of them raised their hand to point towards the army and yelled something before he ran back into the village with his friends. The surprised display caused a side-eyed glance from Marth towards Jagen, and the elder paladin only grimaced.

“That doesn’t seem to bode well for our reception,” Jagen muttered. “Sire, would you like for me to ride ahead and check before we get any closer?”

With a frown, Marth shook his head. “I would rather you not go ahead alone.”

“I can accompany him, Prince Marth,” Abel offered. “Would that help ease your concerns?”

“Not particularly,” Marth mumbled truthfully. “I would rather you two not be alone if they are hostile towards us, but…”

The prancing of Cain’s horse as he took a few steps forward in line drew their gazes back towards the other cavalier. Cain smiled widely.

“Hey, Prince Marth,” he said. “If you don’t think they can handle it, ol’ Cain here can join in.”

Abel narrowed his eyes at Cain. “Oh, do you think that you’d really provide that much more assistance? I’m sure Jagen and I could handle anything thrown our way.”

A rough snort signaled Cain’s amusement. “That so? Oh come on.”

Marth shook his head with a slight smile and raised his hand. “Alright, that is more than enough,” he interjected. “Fine. Jagen, Abel, Cain, if the three of you would please ride on ahead to check and see if the villagers are… friendly, I would appreciate it.”

“With pleasure, sire,” Jagen said with a nod. With a motion of his hand, he ordered the two younger cavaliers to follow him as he rode ahead towards the village gates. Cain and Abel quickly followed suit, leaving Marth and the rest of the army behind as they crossed the field.

Roy crossed his arms as he watched their horses ride away. “Wonder if we’ll actually be let in,” he mused.

Marth turned to face him. “We can only try,” he said with a small smile. “Perhaps we will be lucky, and be graced with their friendliness.”

“Maybe,” Roy mumbled.

“Hey, Roy-boy!”

Both Marth and Roy turned their heads to look back. Xane was jogging towards him with his signature, strange smile and what appeared to be a large balled up brown cloth in his hand. Tiki and Bantu were following close behind him. Curious, Roy squinted at the approaching manakete.

“Huh? Yeah, Xane?” Roy responded, to which Xane only bared a more eager grin.

“Catch!” Xane said as he tossed the mysterious cloth.

The heavy fabric caught in the air and Roy barely had time to stumble forward with his arms held out to catch it before it fell to the grass. He knitted his fingers into it and glanced between it and Xane with furrowed brows.

“A… cloak? What is this for?” Roy asked. Marth tilted his head as he leaned around Roy’s arm to look at the cloak.

It was quite like the one that Tiki was wearing.

“Well, you don’t wanna give the poor people of the town a bunch of heart attacks, do you?” Xane questioned as he prodded his finger in the air, nonchalantly pointing to Roy’s face. “You know, what with your scales and all that.”

The heat rose to Roy’s cheeks as he quickly glanced back down to the cloak in his hands. “Oh, uh… I…”

Tiki hopped on her feet once as she clasped her hands together. “Look, Ro-Ro, I have one too, see? So does Ban-Ban. We can match!”

Roy’s gaze rose from the cloak, towards Tiki, and a small smile tugged at the corners of his lips. Her genuine, innocent enthusiasm was oddly contagious. “I… Right. I guess we could.”

Marth took a couple steps to the side to give Roy some room and he motioned his arm to his partner, encouraging him to put the garment on.

With a slight sigh, Roy unfurled the cloth from the ball it had been wadded up in and allowed it to drape free in his hands as he held it in front of himself. It was quite long—about ankle-length—and not particularly ornate by any means, aside from some simple embroidery along the edges. With a shake of his head, he quickly swept the cloak back and around him so that it would drape over his shoulders, and he clasped the front of it right on top of his breastplate. The heavy fabric shifted into place with a slight shrug of Roy’s shoulders, and he pulled the hood over his head to cover his hair and ears. There was enough of a shadow cast by the hood to dull the shine of the scales that had begun to cover his cheeks, so they would be easily overlooked by any passersby.

His fingers tightened ever so slightly around the hem of the hood as his gaze stayed fixated downward. Though he was certainly self-conscious about what changes were happening to him, having to hide his scales and draconic features did weigh a little unpleasantly on his heart.

“Sorry, mother,” he muttered beneath his breath.

A gentle hand on his arm drew Roy’s attention as he glanced to his right. Marth was standing beside him with a smile, and a gleam to his eyes that Roy could only recognize as one of understanding.

“It is only for a little while,” Marth reassured. “Besides… now you look like some sort of mysterious hero.”

Marth’s unexpected compliment drew a snort of laughter from Roy. “Oh, is that so?”

“He’s right,” Xane chimed in as he tapped his cheek with his forefinger. “Like some sort of otherworldly hero descended from the heavens themselves, that must hide his true visage so that he can fulfill his destiny without being discovered!”

Roy shot Xane an incredulous look and tilted his head back slightly. “That is… an oddly specific idea you have,” he responded, to which Xane smirked and shrugged.

“Well, after how you appeared in Galder,” Marth mumbled.

Roy sighed. “Marth, don’t egg him on.”

With a whistle, Xane leaned forward. “Now you’ve got me intrigued! I must know more about this incident in Galder!”

However, just as Roy opened his mouth to respond, the sound of horse hooves approaching interrupted him.

“Sire!” Jagen called.

“Ah, Jagen,” Marth said with a smile as he turned to the paladin. “You’ve returned! … Without Cain or Abel. Is something wrong?”

Jagen slowed his horse to a stop just a few paces away from their group. “Not at all. The people of the town were more than happy to allow us to stay. Actually, they seemed almost relieved.”

“Really?” Marth responded with genuine surprise. Perhaps they would be lucky after all.

“Yes,” Jagen said. “Cain and Abel went ahead to see if there were any open inns for at least some of us to stay. The town is not particularly large, so not all of us would be able to sleep in the inns, I’d wager.”

“Hm… well, then I certainly do not want to waste any more time idly standing by. We should go see what capacity they have for us, and go from there,” Marth said.

At Marth’s word, the army made their way to the town. It was clear that there would not be nearly enough space for all of their people to stay within the town itself—so, as was routine, many of them began to prepare their camp just outside of the town gates.

As Roy had begun to set up a tent, Marth had come to his aid. Between the two of them, they had been able to get a few tents readied before Roy’s attentions drifted elsewhere: not too far from them, about six tents away, Nyna was standing with Hardin. Her expression was one of distress, and her hands were gripped together in front of her as Hardin seemed to be trying to reason with her about something. His arms motioned to the sides as he whispered harshly, and Nyna appeared to be offering him no responses.

“Seems like something’s going on over there,” Roy observed as he finished tying one of the ropes. He stood from his hunch and straightened his back as he put his hand on his hip. “Nyna looks a little down.”

Marth’s gaze followed Roy’s to the princess not far away. “Ah. That does… seem to be the case,” Marth agreed. “And Hardin seems a little…”

“On edge,” Roy finished, to which Marth nodded.

After a few moments of silence, Hardin let out a sigh and shook his head as he turned and walked away. Nyna’s hands remained clutched in front of her chest and her gaze was firmly fixated on the grass beneath their feet.

“I don’t mean to give you an order,” Roy started as he looked to Marth, “But it might be a good idea to see what’s going on with her. I can finish setting things up over here.”

Marth seemed unsure as he spared Roy a glance. “Are you sure I should?”

Roy huffed with a slight smile. “What, do you think I’m so frail now that I can’t set up a single tent by myself?”

A slight blush dusted Marth’s face as he stammered. “A-ah, no, that is not what I…”

With a chuckle, Roy waved his hand a little. “I’m just teasing. Don’t worry, I’ll be okay over here. And if Nyna is going to open up to anyone else here aside from Hardin, it’s going to be you. So you should probably talk to her.”

Well, Roy was not wrong on that front—though Nyna was a very kind woman, she never seemed particularly inclined to speak her mind to anyone outside of their preparatory meetings. A small sigh escaped Marth and Roy cocked his head to the side.

“Go on,” Roy encouraged as he patted Marth on the back of the arm. “I promise I won’t let the tent blow away in the breeze.”

“Right, right,” Marth responded with a small smile. “Thank you, Roy.”

With another casual wave of the hand, Roy refocused his attention back on the tent they had been setting up. Marth watched him for a moment longer before he turned away and walked towards Nyna, who was now standing by her lonesome. It was clear as day that something was wrong—a frown had been firmly etched into her expression and she had yet to remove her gaze from the grass. Marth wondered what could possibly have her mood so soured.

Roy, who had returned to crouching at the base of the tent, glanced upwards from the knot in his hands as he tied the rope. He watched Marth as he walked out towards Nyna. The breeze had been a little stronger than usual that day, and the prince’s cape fluttered behind him as it caught the wind—his hair, too, as blue locks were ruffled with every gust. The growing admiration Roy felt became increasingly evident on his face as he watched Marth’s retreating form.

“You look like a lovestruck lass, you know,” came Xane’s voice suddenly, and Roy jolted in surprise.

“Xane—” Roy sputtered as he quickly regained his bearings, having almost toppled forward into the tent from his crouch. He quickly whipped his head around to look back towards the man as he approached. “Really!”

Xane laughed and crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Hey, I only say what I see,” he quipped. “And what I saw, I definitely felt the need to comment on.”

Before Roy could retort, Bantu and Tiki also came towards them. “Ne-Ne, leave Ro-Ro alone!” Tiki interjected. “You’re making him mad!”

With a wide grin, Xane raised his hands in a shrug. “Hey now, Miss Tiki, would you rather me direct the teasing back to you?”

With puffed cheeks, Tiki balled her fists and scuffed her foot across the dirt. “No, but you’re not supposed to tease Ro-Ro either!”

Bantu cleared his throat to pause their quarrelling. “That’s enough,” he said with a small smile. “Though it is certainly nice to all be together once again, that does not mean I will stand for excessive quarreling between the two of you.”

“But Ban-Ban…” Tiki started, though her voice trailed before she sighed. “Okay. I’m sorry.”

Xane rubbed the back of his head. “Yeah, yeah. Sorry, Bantu.”

The elderly manakete shook his head and looked to Roy with a smile. “Say, Roy, Miss Tiki wanted to go into the village and look around. Would you like to come with us?”

A few blinks marked Roy’s confusion, and he shifted on his feet. “Me?”

Tiki grinned widely. “Yes! Please, Ro-Ro? Can you come with us?”

At Tiki’s hopeful request, Roy pursed his lips. “Well, I suppose if you would like that, then I can. But I do need to finish setting up this tent before Marth thinks I’m actually incapable of doing it…”

A small, rueful smile tugged at the corner of his lips at his own remark, and Xane laughed.

“I’ll help you,” Xane said. “Just to get it done quicker so we can get on our merry way with little Miss Tiki, here.”

Even though Roy could have finished the tent by himself, it would definitely get finished faster with Xane’s help. So, with a slight nod and a wave of the hand, he eagerly accepted Xane’s offer.

A few hours had passed while Bantu, Xane, Tiki, and Roy meandered around the town, taking in what sights there were. Tiki was notably excited, as she had not been able to experience the outside world for a long time—even the simplest of shops and items brought a glimmer to the young girl’s eyes as she curiously perused everything she could. It was quite sweet to watch old Bantu as he took care of the girl and answered her questions about the many little things she saw. Roy had secretly been intrigued as well—there were a lot of little things he still seldom knew about, considering most of his time had been spent fighting or travelling, and he was still bereft of his memories.

As his eyes trailed across the various shops and people walking the streets, he noticed a couple familiar faces not far away in the nearby square: Linde and Lena, lightheartedly speaking with an elderly gentleman. He was dressed in cleric robes and held a long staff in his hands and was using it to assist himself in standing straight.

Roy’s eyes narrowed curiously from beneath his hood. “Huh, I wonder who that is,” he said. With a questioning hum, Xane turned his attention from Tiki and Bantu to look at Roy, and then to the square just ahead.

A gleam of interest shone in Xane’s eyes. “Mmm? An elder cleric, is it?”

Tiki ran right by the three in the square, with Bantu following in a walking pace not far behind. Between giggles, Lena and Linde waved to Tiki as the young girl sped by. The elderly gentleman seemed just as amused at Tiki’s sprightly attitude, before the sound of Xane and Roy’s bootsteps brought him to turn his head.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” the man greeted with a slight bow of the head, and both Xane and Roy smiled at his welcome.

“Good afternoon,” they both responded in unison. Lena smiled widely at them.

“Ah, Xane, Roy, good afternoon!” she said quite cheerily.

“My, Lena,” Xane started as he leaned forward with his hands on his hips. “You’re in very high spirits today! I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile quite so widely!”

Heat rose to her cheeks as she laughed a little bit, timid. “Oh, yes. Well, today is just a very good day. This is my grandfather,” she said as she motioned her hand towards the elderly cleric, “I have not seen him in so long, I was worried I would never see him again!”

“But now we’ve been reunited! Thanks to all of you,” her grandfather added. “I am so grateful to the Akaneian League for keeping my granddaughter safe all this time.”

Xane raised his brows in interest. “Well how wonderful is that, to see your family again! That’s quite sweet.”

Though Lena and her grandfather were clearly happy, Roy’s smile faltered ever so slightly at the topic. There was a twinge of guilt that gripped him considering his lack of enthusiasm for his friend and her family.

Linde tilted her head as she observed the difference in Roy’s demeanor, though she decided against mentioning it. “What are the two of you doing out? Just traversing the town?” She asked.

“You are absolutely right, miss Linde,” Xane responded. “We were showing little miss Tiki around, as she is about as curious as a kitten. And what about you?”

Linde shrugged slightly and motioned towards Lena. “Well, Lena and I were doing similarly. Though she said her grandfather was a cleric, so I wanted to meet him too.”

Lena’s grandfather seemed a little embarrassed. “I was certainly not expecting to have so many people interested in speaking to me. It seems my reputation has preceded me.”

“Is that a bad thing?” Roy asked politely, though his voice was quieter than usual.

With a tap of his foot on the cobblestone path, Xane straightened his posture again—though his hands still stayed firmly on his hips. “It shouldn’t be. I can certainly tell the two of you are related. Strong magic must run through your family, Miss Lena… even your grandfather has a presence! Tell me more about this reputation!”

Both Lena and her grandfather laughed at Xane’s observation. “Yes, sure,” Lena responded. “My grandfather and I used to travel a lot and help people who were sick. A lot of people’s lives were saved by his magic. He taught me much of what I know, after my mother died.”

At this, Roy’s attentions were immediately piqued; his eyes widened slightly from beneath the dull shade of his hood as he tilted his head up to look directly at Lena. “Your mother passed away?” he asked.

With a small nod of confirmation from Lena, Roy pursed his lips as his shoulders drooped slightly back. “I see. I… am sorry for your loss.”

Lena only shook her head, the soft smile remaining on her face all the while. “It’s been a long time now. Though I am certainly overjoyed to see what family I do have again.”

Roy shifted on his feet and glanced to the right, breaking eye contact with her. “Yeah, I can understand that.”

Xane sent Roy a questioning side-eyed glance, though the sound of a familiar young manakete girl making excited sounds—was she actually talking or just babbling? Sometimes it was hard to tell—stopped any questions Xane may have had right in his throat.

Not far from them, on the edge of the square was what appeared to be a small tea stand. Tiki and Bantu were standing just in front of it and the younger girl was bouncing on the balls of her feet as she held on to Bantu’s arm. The elderly manakete was smiling, though clearly growing tired. Perhaps they should go offer their old friend some backup, considering Tiki’s unending energy was clearly a bit draining.

“Well, we won’t hold you up any longer Miss Lena! We should probably go check up on those two before the little one drives our old friend crazy,” Xane said as he nudged at Roy with his elbow.

Caught off-guard, Roy only nodded. “Uh, right,” he agreed.

Choosing to overly-express his gratefulness, Xane offered the elderly cleric a deep bow, flourished by a slight swoop of the arm to rest his hand at his chest. “It was a pleasure meeting you, sir. Please excuse us.”

“Of course, it was a pleasure meeting you as well,” Lena’s grandfather responded in kind.

As Xane stood straight, he motioned for Roy to follow him before he began walking away; Roy quickly bowed and thanked the others for their time as well before he jogged away to catch up with Xane.

Xane really had a bad habit of just walking off. This was the second time he had done that to Roy now, much to the mercenary’s chagrin.

Linde hummed as she watched the two men walk away. “Lena, do you mind if I pardon myself and catch up with you later? I actually had a couple questions I needed to ask the two of them.”

“I don’t mind at all, please go ahead,” Lena said with a wave of the hand.

Thankful, Linde also bowed to Lena and her grandfather before she ran after Xane and Roy. The clacking of her footsteps against the cobblestone path signaled her approach as Roy turned his head to look back over his shoulder.

As soon as she caught up with the two of them, her pace immediately slowed to a walk. “Hey, do you mind if I tag along too? I’m a bit thirsty.”

With curious glances at one another, Xane and Roy shrugged. “Sure. The more the merrier, Miss Linde,” Xane responded.

The scent of fresh tea and sweets wafted on the air as they approached the tea stall—it was exquisite, and Roy closed his eyes as he took in the scents.

Recently, all his senses had become far keener. Smell, hearing, sight—all of them were markedly improved compared to even just a few months ago. Though with that, he found himself becoming fatigued far quicker than before as well. It was clearly something of a double-edged sword.

“Ro-Ro! Ne-Ne!” Tiki called, which quickly snapped Roy from his thoughts. “Look! Doesn’t it all look so good?”

Animatedly, Tiki pointed repeatedly at the assortment of foods displayed at the stall. A smile tugged at Roy’s lips, and Xane grinned.

“It sure does,” Xane said, to which Roy nodded in agreement.

“Do you mind if we rest here for a while?” Bantu asked as he turned to Roy, Xane, and Linde. “My feet would certainly appreciate it if we took a moment to sit.”

At this, Roy shook his head. “No, not at all, Bantu. Do you want me to order some tea for you while you go sit down?”

“I would appreciate that very much,” Bantu responded, pleased.

“Sure thing,” Roy said. “Actually, I’ll cover the tea for everyone. And, Tiki, whatever sweets you want. How about that?”

Immediately the young girl perked up, her hair bouncing slightly as she hopped on her feet. “Really? You would do that, Ro-Ro?”

“Of course,” Roy said.

“Hmm,” Xane drawled as he raised his brow with crossed arms. “Trying to outdo me, are you?”

Roy shot Xane a look, his eyes squinted. “I just don’t use much of the money I get paid from the army. I’d like to give back to my friends somehow, so this seems fitting.”

Chuckling, Xane pulled his arm out and patted Roy firmly on the back. “I was just joking, no need for the stink-eye. Thanks, Roy-boy.”

Roy could only grumble in response, and Tiki twirled around to face Linde with her hands clasped together in front of her chest. “Are you going to have tea with us too?”

“I would love to have tea with you,” Linde responded politely as her fingers threaded together in front of her waist.

Genuinely happy, Tiki hopped on her feet once again as she let out a small, excited cheer. Compared to just a few days ago when they first met her, her attitude was significantly more positive, and it was incredibly endearing.

After ordering their teas and sweets, the five of them had sat at a table just to the side of the stall to enjoy a much-needed break. There was some small talk between them, though Roy was far too preoccupied to speak much—the tea swirling in his cup seemed far more interesting than the conversation going on at the table. A small petal had drifted on the wind before fluttering into his cup, where it languidly floated on the surface of his drink. The light teal color of the petal reminded him of his mother’s hair—that same color that now streaked through his own locks—and his heartstrings were tugged at the remembrance of her.

His silence and immersed expression did not go unnoticed by Tiki, who tilted her head at his behavior. “Ro-Ro?” she asked, which successfully pulled his gaze up from his cup. “You look sad… is the tea no good?”

“Oh, uh… no, it’s not that. Sorry,” Roy mumbled.

Xane’s chair creaked slightly as he leaned back in it and swirled the teacup in his hands. “Feeling homesick?” he asked as he stared out at the massive trees that lined the square.

Roy seemed a bit surprised by Xane’s question and squinted at him. “What do you mean?”

With a nonchalant shrug, Xane took a small sip of his tea before he set the cup back down on the table. “You’ve been travelling for a while, right? I figured you might be missing your… homeland.”

There was something off about Xane’s tone—it was as if he was trying to pick his words carefully. This did not go unnoticed by Linde, and she glanced between Xane and Roy as she held her teacup to her lips.

After a moment of pause, Roy shook his head as he looked back down to the table. “I honestly don’t remember it. So, I don’t know how much I can really miss something I can’t remember.”

Linde seemed intrigued. “You don’t even remember where you’re from? Really?”

Roy sighed as the familiar feeling of defeat crept up on him. “No, I don’t.”

Linde hummed curiously as she leaned back into her chair and held her cup in both hands.

With narrowed eyes, Xane turned a little in his chair so that he could put one elbow on the table and lean on it. He stared directly at Roy even though the mercenary was intent on not returning eye contact. “Interesting… not even an inkling?”

One more shake of the head from Roy elicited another hum from Xane as his eyes scanned over Roy. Linde took another drink from her tea as she observed Xane’s behavior; it was quite obvious to her that he seemed to be fishing for something, but what would he be fishing for? She retained a relaxed expression as she sat her cup back on the table with a soft clink.

A gruff hum from Bantu was the only thing that could draw Xane’s attention away from Roy as the older manakete said into his cup, “Well… this world is full of many places. Perhaps the answer shall come to you itself.”

Bantu’s choice of words elicited a critical squint from Xane, though the older manakete simply closed his eyes as he actively chose to ignore the look he was being given.

“… Oh! That reminds me,” Xane suddenly chirped as he patted the palm of his right hand on the table. “Earlier, the Princey made a comment about you and Galder. What was that all about?”

“Oh, that,” Roy muttered as he picked up his cup, keeping his eyes trained on the petal. “Well, I joined up with Marth in Galder months ago. But I guess I got struck by fire beforehand, and that’s how he found me.”

“Fire?!” Tiki exclaimed as she put her hand, still holding her sweets fork, to her cheek. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Roy grumbled. “I guess there was some big explosion out in a field, and there was this fireball… I must have been walking in that area and got hit. I assume that’s when I lost my memory, too, since he said I was on death’s doorstep.”

“Is that so,” Xane mused, his tone once again lowering considerably as he considered Roy’s story. “You sure that’s how it went down?”

Roy glanced to Xane with a suspicious squint. “I mean, I don’t exactly remember, myself. Marth was there when it happened, so if that’s what he saw, well…”

Xane immediately leaned back again with a hum as he crossed his arms in front of his chest. “How curious.”

“You seem rather invested in his story, Xane,” Linde remarked, to which Xane glanced to her out of the corners of his eyes.

“Well, I am always up for a good story,” he chimed. “Though I’m not really a big fan of cliffhangers, or loose ends. Roy-boy’s backstory is just so intriguing. Is he truly a mercenary? Or was he a lumberjack, or a miner? … Or maybe even a noble?”

At that, he squinted and leaned forward with both elbows resting on the table. “It’s just such a curious tale. Especially now that he’s so freckled with scales. Pardon my intrigue—but perhaps Tiki isn’t the only curious kitten in this group.”

Tiki immediately frowned. “I am not a kitten,” she retorted, and Xane laughed.

“Of course, it’s just a figure of speech, Miss Tiki,” he said. “But anyhow, I do apologize if my questions seem a bit too prying, Roy-boy.”

“No, it’s fine,” Roy responded as he shrugged. “I know my case is a bit of an oddity, so…”

Even though Roy seemed unconcerned by Xane’s questioning, Linde found herself unable to be quite so willing to brush them off. She spared a glance towards Bantu, who had also remained markedly quiet. The older manakete simply continued to sip his tea, and with some innocent encouragement from Tiki, the subject shifted to something else once again.

Not long after Marth had approached Nyna in the campground, Cain had returned to them with news of him and Abel having successfully secured the remaining rooms in the inn for as many members of their army as they could fit. At Marth’s insistence, Nyna agreed to stay in an inn room for both her own comfort and ease of protection.

Though it was abundantly clear that she had something heavy weighing on her mind, and she had requested Marth accompany her to the inn to speak about it. Marth assumed it had been whatever she was discussing with Hardin earlier, so he agreed to go with her.

So here the two of them were now, in one of the inn rooms. It was a simple room with a bed, a small table and a few lamps, and two windows on the wall opposite the door. Marth had shut the door behind him upon entry, which allowed them the privacy needed for whatever discussion Nyna needed to have. It had taken Nyna little time to walk over to one of the windows on the other side of the room, and she was staring through the glass with her back to Marth.

Marth was definitely worried by this point.

“… Nyna, what’s going on?” he asked quietly. “Why are you so…”

Before he could finish his question, Nyna interrupted him. “The next major battle we have will be with Grust…” she said, her tone sounding almost distant as she watched the townspeople outside.

Marth blinked. “Yes, that’s right. But what about it?”

Nyna suddenly grew cold feet, and the words caught in her throat. She threaded her fingers in front of her as her gaze shifted downward. After a few moments of wait, Marth took a few steps forward to close the distance between them.

“Nyna… we are running short on time. If you have reservations about something, please tell me—especially if it involves Grust,” he said.

She shifted uncomfortably before finally relenting. “Yes… I am sorry, I should be more open about this with you considering all you’ve done to help.”

Marth nodded. “Please, I am all ears.”

Her eyes closed slowly. “… I am sure you know, but I was supposed to be executed after the rest of the royal family had been killed during the seizure of Akaneia by Grust and Doluna. Grust was going to execute me by Doluna’s order, but…”

“But…?” Marth questioned.

Nyna inhaled slowly and held it for a few moments before exhaling to steady herself. “… General Camus of the Sable order saved my life. He was the one that arranged my escape to Aurelis. I… had hated him at first, but after he showed me such genuine compassion and risked his life and status to save mine, I…”

Clearly seeing where Nyna was headed, Marth’s eyes widened. “Nyna… Do you…?”

At that, Nyna remained silent. After a few moments, Marth slowly nodded in understanding. “I see. I… will see what I can do, but…”

Nyna’s tone dropped. “I know you will. Though, I feared that it would come to this. After I gave you the Fire Emblem, our fate was all but sealed...”

“What do you mean, whose fate was sealed?” Marth asked, confused by her vagueness.

Slowly, Nyna turned away from the window to face Marth. The pain was evident in her eyes as she looked up to him. “Prince Marth… have you heard of Artemis’ Curse?”

Perturbed, Marth shook his head.

Nyna hummed quietly. “I see. Well, perhaps it is only superstition, but…”

Now wholly invested, Marth furrowed his brow. “Tell me more about it. Even if it is superstition, it seems to have quite a grip on you.”

“Yes, unfortunately it does,” Nyna let out a long sigh as she began to recount the tale. “The Fire Emblem… it was cursed, many years ago, by the princess Artemis.”

Upon hearing Artemis’ name, Marth became further intrigued. “I remember reading of her. She was one of the past princesses of Akaneia… and was in love with Anri.”

Nyna nodded. “That’s right. They happened to meet one another and fell in love—though even with Anri’s heroic deeds, slaying Medeus with the Falchion, their difference in status kept them forever apart.”

Marth pursed his lips. “… Right. But what does that have to do with the Fire Emblem?” he asked.

Now even more visibly uncomfortable, Nyna averted her eyes from Marth’s. “… Artemis had given the Fire Emblem to another duke for safekeeping before she met Anri. Because Anri was a commoner, their love for one another did not matter in the eyes of the people… So, instead of being allowed to marry the one she loved, she was urged to marry the duke—Duke Cartas. With their marriage, she was permanently kept from a happy future with Anri. Because of this, she cursed the Fire Emblem out of her misery… saying that if it were ever to exchange hands again, the one who gave it away would suffer the same fate.”

The tale caused a chill to crawl across the prince’s skin. “I… see. So, when you gave me the Fire Emblem…”

Nyna paused. “… I worry that this curse will pry its way into my fate as well. Please… I am sorry to ask for this, but please try to reason with Camus…”

A heavy silence blanketed the two of them before Marth finally found his voice once again. “… I will do all that I can, Princess Nyna.”

At that, she only spared him a small nod. “Thank you… I am sorry to ask something like this of you.”

“No. I am just glad you told me, that way I can do all in my power to help you,” Marth said firmly.

Even with Nyna’s thanks, that weighty silence still persisted—quickly serving to revive Marth’s earlier trepidation. “… Is… there something else you wish to say, princess?”

“… Artemis’ Curse…” Nyna started as she straightened and returned her gaze to Marth’s own. “… That young man, the mercenary—Roy—you and him are… quite close, aren’t you?”

Being asked such a direct question about Roy encouraged the heat to rise to Marth’s cheeks, and his throat parched.

“… Yes, you are right,” he admitted.

After a long pause, Nyna pursed her lips. “… Take care of him. The last thing I wish is for the curse of this shield to befall the two of you as well.”

Chapter Text

The sky was painted in shades from purple, to blue, to pink and yellow as the sun set over the ocean’s edge; to most, it would be a particularly breathtaking sight as the night slowly overtook the day, and the rolling waves of the ocean reflected those colours like a mirror.

The water crashed against the stony shore, spraying a cold, salty mist up into the air.

By this point, Fafnir’s clothing had been dampened by the ocean mist, though he was far too preoccupied to care. Sharp eyes bored into the horizon as countless questions whirled through his mind. A snarl tugged at the bridge of his nose as he closed his eyes and inhaled. His fists clenched at his sides as he reopened his eyes and held his breath.

Finally, he let go of that breath, though it was laced with a curse as it escaped him.

He had yet to return to Medeus—in fact, he had not even left Grustian territory, even though a few days had passed since his visit to the Fane of Raman.

The Fane of Raman. That accursed place. The memory of that young divine dragon girl—Tiki—burned in his mind like a raging wildfire. She had seemed so alone.

And of course, he, in a moment of weakness, had promised to her that he would see her again. What an utter fool he was to promise such an insignificant thing, and yet here he was, internally fulminating on it.

The waves lost his interest and his gaze trailed downward to the grass as the blades swayed in the breeze.

What would they say to him now? To not stray? Not falter?

His jaw set firmly, and he tilted his head back up to look out towards the sea once again.

Nergal… what would he say?

The breeze seemed to chill further in response to his questioning. After a few long, tense moments of staring out at the water, Fafnir suddenly pulled his gaze away from it and looked down as he moved his right hand to unlatch the pouch on the right side of his hip. Though when he pulled the fabric open, his fingers twitched, and he halted as he stared down at the contents.

Finally, he clicked his tongue.

“What are you hesitating for?” he spat, annoyed with himself.

He reached into the pouch and retrieved what was inside: first, the Lightsphere, which he passed into his left hand, and then the Starsphere, which he held in his right hand. He stretched his arms out in front of him just enough that he could get a good look at both spheres.

Their glassy surfaces glowed faintly in the dimming sunlight, and as darkness slowly overtook the skies, his own reflection stared back at him. For reasons unknown even to himself, he stared into his own eyes—desperation gleamed clearly in the red, and a grimace formed on his face. His grip tightened on both spheres as frustration overtook him.

However, a sharp pain immediately shot through his muscles and his arms seized; both spheres dropped to the grass and he let out a long hiss as he doubled over and clutched at his face with his left hand. The scarred skin across his cheek felt like it was on fire, drawing another slew of curses from the pained manakete as he waited and wished for the agony to subside.

Eventually it did, though it had taken far longer than Fafnir wanted—his breathing was labored and his vision was spotty as he slowly began to regain his bearings. The spheres, now lying at his feet, were both glowing a touch brighter than they had been before, and the magic within them swirled slowly. Full of loathing, Fafnir glared down at them with a frown as he slowly pulled his left hand from his face.

The visage looking back at him from the glass of the Lightsphere, however, made his entire body freeze as his eyes widened.

That cut on his face from the fight in Altea—from that wound now spread a bluish crystal, which covered part of his cheek and neck.

Everything seemed to stand still in the moments following his observation. Finally, after a few long moments of staring, he slowly closed his eyes and straightened his back. A dry laugh escaped him as he lulled his head back, and his neck ached in protest. Mad chuckles died down after a few moments, and Fafnir inhaled slowly before he let out a steadying breath.

“… No. I will not stand for this any longer,” he mumbled between clenched teeth, the dull ache of the crystal on his face making it difficult to move his jaw. “My time is limited now. I shall carve my own path… not only in Elibe, but in Akaneia—Medeus, Gharnef, Eliwood, Nils… Marth… Roy—all of you be damned.”

He paused for a moment and opened his eyes so that he could stare up at the sky, now speckled with stars as night fell. He considered his next words carefully before adding, “… Nergal. I shall use your teachings to shape the future that I desire.”

With another slow inhale, he focused his attentions on one particularly bright pair of stars in the sky above him as they twinkled every so often. One had a faint teal glow, compared to the other which was warm yellow. His chest constricted as he stared up at those stars, and he bit at the inside of his bottom lip slightly.

“... Or I shall shape… the next best thing. For the chance at the future that I truly desired has long since come and gone,” he muttered.

A gust of wind pressed at his back, whipping his braid forward as he lowered his gaze back down towards the spheres that were still lying on the ground.

These were the only objects in existence with the capability of destroying Gharnef. Medeus had been quite confident in his ability to force Gotoh into complying with his wishes if it meant Gharnef would be eliminated. Medeus’ hubris left Fafnir unimpressed and he fought the urge to roll his eyes.

However, maybe there was a small kernel of insight in Medeus’ plan after all—Gotoh. If Fafnir could find this sage himself…

A slight, hoarse chuckle rattled his throat at the idea. Yes, it would be rather interesting to meet the sage. Perhaps if he held on to these spheres, and use them as leverage to find Gotoh, they would actually be of some use to him after all. With a hum, he mulled over the idea as he leaned down to take the Lightsphere in his hand.

He wanted nothing to do with killing Gharnef himself, that much was certain—the agitating sorcerer was someone Fafnir could stand to never see again. Unfortunately, he knew that not seeing him again would be impossible, considering Fafnir’s current predicament, as well as…

“Thabes,” Fafnir mumbled to himself as he turned the sphere slightly in his hand with a fluid motion of his fingers. His reflection stared back at him darkly as he considered that cursed place.

It had been so full to the brim with untapped energy. Nergal certainly would have been beside himself if he had found a place even remotely similar in Elibe—even the energy that remained in Dread Isle was far surpassed by the reservoir in Thabes. All those souls, their Quintessence completely undisturbed for what had probably been a thousand years or more, now being roused to life by Gharnef. Fafnir could remember their wails vividly.

Those wails. His brows furrowed and his eyes screwed shut as they echoed in his ears, coupling with the wails and screams that had haunted him for a thousand years.

It was like a chorus of agony that grew ever louder in his mind—how he wished he could silence it once and for all.

Marth stared up at the night sky in silence; his expression would have been unreadable to anyone that may have seen him, though thankfully he had been left alone to mull over the conversation he had with Nyna the day prior.

“Artemis’ Curse… That young man, the mercenary—Roy—you and he are, quite close, aren’t you?”

“… Take care of him. The last thing I wish is for the curse of this shield to befall the two of you, too.”

Her words had pierced his chest like a lance, and his throat constricted as he inhaled slowly. It had been weighing on him since yesterday—surely the curse was just superstition, he thought.

However, somewhere in the back of his mind a demon nagged: what if it was not just superstition? Would fate be so cruel as to plague him—plague Roy—with a future of unhappiness as well?

The sickening sound of metal and cracking bone replayed in his ears as his mind immediately drifted back to the fight in Pales. His sword through Roy’s chest—dancing the line of a fatal blow—and Roy collapsing forward into Marth’s arms as he bled out. The prince’s stomach churned as the memory inundated him; the scent of blood and charred earth were pungent in his nose as if he had still been standing there in the battlefield.

Not a day had gone by since that fight that he had not thought about it. Others—even Roy himself—had assured Marth it would never happen again, and yet the prince still found himself fretting. That coupled with this new concern over some curse had not been good for his conscious. A rumbling sigh escaped him as he ran his fingers up through his bangs before allowing his hand to fall back down at his side.

“Perhaps I should go speak with him about this…” Marth mused as he raised his gaze back up towards the sky.

He searched the stars—his eyes lulling over the countless glowing speckles—as if silently asking them for their advice. A pair of particularly bright stars drew his focus: one teal, and one gold, quite close together. The teal one seemed to flicker ever so slightly as he stared at it.

After a few long moments of silence, the prince shook his head and lowered his gaze before he turned on his heel to start back towards the camp just outside the village. Though Nyna had spoken to him in private, the knowledge of this supposed curse was burdening him far too much, and he wished to speak with Roy. Perhaps his partner could soothe his worries—Marth had no doubt that Roy would know the words he needed to hear.

It had been a long day for Roy. Ever since he had woken up that morning, he had been assisting one person or another with various tasks around their camp, as well as around the town. Physically, he was exhausted—however, his weary muscles were the last thing on his mind as he sat before a small fire pit with a few of his other comrades.

The entire time he had been thinking back to the conversation he had with Xane just the day prior. The manakete had asked some interesting—confusing—questions to Roy that he was unable to get mind off of. Smoke billowed into his face, having been carried on the breeze, and he put the side of his hand against the bridge of his nose so that he could pinch his temples and shield his eyes.

“You sure that’s how it went down?”

Xane’s apparent skepticism at the events in Galder had left Roy unsettled.

A fireball hit him as he had been walking through the field, or something—right? That was what Marth said must have happened. What else could it have been?

“You seem a bit distraught, Roy,” came a familiar elderly voice, and Roy pulled his head back just enough so that he could peer out from over the top of his hand. Jagen was staring directly at him just a few people away, near the other side of the fire.

“Oh, I’m fine,” Roy mumbled as he removed his hand from his face. “Just have a lot on my mind is all.”

Though the elder paladin seemed thoroughly unconvinced by Roy’s dismissal, and the doubt was obvious in his scrutinizing gaze. Without realizing it, Roy had shrunken in a bout of sheepishness. It was as if he were a lordling being scolded by his superior—a feeling that was, for some reason, strangely familiar to him.

“Lord Roy, please be careful. You mustn’t work yourself to such levels of fatigue.”

An elderly voice rumbled loudly in his ears, and Roy clenched his eyes tiredly as he returned his hand to his face. “Ugh… sorry, did you say something?”

Jagen narrowed his eyes. “I said you mustn’t work yourself to such levels of fatigue. You are clearly fighting off sleep. Remember that we depart in the morning… so if you are this exhausted, there is no shame in turning in early.”

Roy grew quiet at that, as he clearly wanted nothing to do with sleep—though a slight nudge from Cain at his side stopped Roy before he could protest. “Go to bed, man. You do look pretty exhausted,” Cain said.

With a sigh of defeat, Roy gave his temples one last pinch before he pulled his hand back. “Alright, alright,” he conceded.

Grinning, Cain waved Roy off as he stood. “Good. Have a great night, Roy-boy~” he teased, which immediately drew a low grumble from Roy. Ever since Cain had heard Xane call Roy by that nickname, the cavalier had taken it upon himself to start calling him that, too—and even though Roy wished he could convince Cain to stop, he knew a losing battle when he saw one.

So, after sparing Cain a glare and a wave to the rest of the group, Roy started back towards his tent. Marth had offered him a room in the inn—citing that Roy could use the extra comfort to help with his ever-growing fatigue—but Roy had politely declined the offer. He was just as much of a regular soldier in the Akaneian League as anyone else—he was no royalty or nobility, nor was he a child or an elder.

On the way back to his tent, he saw a few others—namely Lena and Linde, who seemed to be quite content in each other’s company, much like the day before. Lena’s eyes lit up as Roy walked down the path by them, and he bid the ladies a good evening as he passed them by.

“Turning in early?” Linde asked curiously, which brought Roy’s gait to a halt.

“Yeah,” he said with a nod. “I think all the running around today has just worn me out.”

A sympathetic smile graced Lena’s face as she brought her hands together and laced her fingers in front of her chest. “I saw quite a few of you doing a lot around the town today. My father said that you and a few of the others—who I can only guess were Jeorge, Merric, Bord, and Cord, by my grandfather’s description of them—helped the church with their tome and staff supply.”

Roy rubbed the back of his neck with a slight chuckle. “Yeah, that would be right. They had a lot of books that needed moved. I never realized just how heavy those things could be. Bord and Cord helped repair one of their bookshelves too.”

“Yes, that was what I heard. My grandfather was very thankful to have the help of so many youthful people, and I am thankful as well. You all did a wonderful job,” Lena complimented. “But that seems like it was only a fraction of your day. So please, go enjoy a well-deserved rest.”

Slightly flustered by her praise, Roy averted his gaze from the two of them momentarily before glancing back their way. “Well, if you put it that way… then I will. Thanks, Lena. You two have a good night.”

Linde smiled and brought her hand up in a quick wave. “You too, Roy. See you in the morning.”

Feeling a little lighter than before, Roy turned on his heel and continued the trek back to his tent. The two ladies watched him as he walked further away, and Linde put her hands on her hips.

“Xane’s right, there’s something going on with him,” Linde said. “You could see it too, right, Lena? Or is it just me?”

Lena frowned a little and shook her head. “He did look very exhausted, much more so than usual. Even though he worked hard today, even Merric is faring better than he is this evening.”

With a grumble of agreement, Linde tapped her foot on the dirt beneath them. “He’s strange. But so is Xane... so maybe I should be keeping an eye on them both.”

A small laugh escaped Lena’s lips as she brought her knuckle to her lips. “Is that your way of saying you’re worried?”

With a slight cough and a roll of her eyes, Linde brushed off the question, though she did spare Lena a smile of her own.

There were no other distractions during the last stretch to Roy’s tent, and he slipped inside, welcoming the cool darkness that the makeshift room had to offer. Immediately he got to work on unbuckling and removing his boots and sat them to the side of his bed alongside his armor that had been there since yesterday. Even though he certainly liked the armor that Marth had commissioned for him, he had been grateful to have the opportunity to go a couple days without having to lug it around.

Stretching his arms overhead, he arched his back to try to relieve some of the pain in his muscles. The reprieve was short-lived, however, as a sharp pain shot up through his right side. His teeth clenched as he brought his arms forward in front of him, determined to stretch his muscles through the aching and burning. His eyes, which had clenched shut in reflex, opened just enough so that he could see through his eyelashes at his outstretched arms.

What little light there was in his tent—primarily from a small beam of fading sunlight that filtered through a tear in the side—glinted off the fingers of his right hand. His lips came together and pursed into a small, contemplative frown as he slowly moved his fingers to watch the sunlight refract off the crystal.

Even though it caused him constant pain, he found it easy to get lost in its fractal surface, and he found himself staring at it more often now when he would allow his mind to wander.

The nagging of Xane’s questions momentarily faded to silence as Roy thought back to the Fane of Raman. His eyes slipped shut as he recalled the incredible energy that lingered about the temple. When they had found Tiki within that inner sanctum, the magic had been so thick in the air Roy had felt half ill by the time they left.

Though even beyond the magic alone, the inner sanctum had given Roy more reasons to feel out of sorts: the dragon statues that had circled the room. His mind could recall every distinct, vivid detail of each of them—their visages had left quite an impression on him.

 “… That Divine Dragon really looked nothing like Fafnir,” Roy grumbled as his eyes slid open once again to stare at his fingers. “And… the Ice Dragon…”

He had felt no connection to the Ice Dragon statue. Furthermore, from what he knew from Bantu’s description, the Fire Dragon had looked different from how Roy looked as well, back when he used that fire dragonstone. The harder he stared at his own hand, the more his nerves knotted up in his gut.

Lowering his hand, Roy shook his head before he squatted on the ground by his armor. He rustled through his cape to find the clasp on its front, and he traced his fingertips along the golden filigree before he unlatched it. He removed his dragonstone from the brooch and held it in his left hand as he shifted on his feet to turn and plop back on his rear on the roll-out cot. His arms rested across either of his knees as he pressed the pad of his thumb against the cold surface of the dragonstone, watching how the magic within it reacted to his fingers.

After a few moments of silence, Roy glanced to his right hand. His fingers had been twitching, and he pulled that hand back towards himself to get a better look at it. Faintly within the crystalline cover he could see a flow of magic, and with another press of his left thumb against his dragonstone, the magic within the crystal churned and caused the fingers of his right hand to twitch.

“… So it really must be because of this dragonstone,” he mumbled as he glanced to the stone still in his left hand. “… I wonder…”

Roy tilted back and shifted to sit cross-legged as he brought the dragonstone close to himself. His gaze flicked between his left and right hands as he mulled over the idea that had sprung to him.

Finally, he slowly transferred the dragonstone from his left hand to his right.

An immediate burning sensation shot from his palm through his arm and the rest of his body, and though it was excruciating enough to cause him to recoil, he refused to let the dragonstone go. The longer he held it, the more the pain seemed to intensify—though he reacted by doubling down as he tightened his grip on the stone and hissed a curse through grit fangs, and his eyes clenched tightly shut.

Draconic screeches and roars thundered in his ears as he held firm, and even though it had quickly become hard to breathe, a distinct sound pulled a gasp of breath from him:

A voice.

“… What?” he growled; his voice was labored from the anguish.

The dragonstone glowed brighter, as if in retaliation to the magic within the crystal, and another intense wave of pain rocked him as he pressed on.

“… You… have come… so far….”

That voice—Roy had never heard anything like it. It sang with a beautiful timbre, deeper and calmer than even the deepest depths of the ocean.

“Come… so far? What…” Roy grumbled as he opened one eye slightly, squinting, so that he could see the dragonstone in his hand.

It had been glowing with a radiance far brighter than he had ever witnessed before. While he was still inundated by pain, Roy could feel an uncertainty emanating out from the dragonstone as if it were borne from his own emotion.

“… The burden… of this power is what ails you.”

Upon hearing those words, he was certain that the voice had not been his mother’s, nor the one he had heard in the Fane of Raman.

“Who… who are you? What are you talking about?” he hissed.

However, the agony had grown far too intense to bear any longer, and the muscles in his hands spasmed; the stone fell from his hands as another curse escaped him, and he immediately curled in on himself as he grabbed at his right wrist. His body was nearly drenched in sweat and his lungs burned as he gasped for air.

Aside from his wheezing, all else was silent, and his body trembled violently as he rode through the last overpowering waves of ache. After what felt like ages, he finally chanced to open his eyes, though his vision was blurred as he tried to search the ground in front of him for the dragonstone.

Thankfully, it was still radiating light, though the glow flickered as soon as he laid eyes on it.

“I… please… say something,” came his raspy plea, “Who… who are you? How… just how many of you are out there, in my head?”

However, his questions were for naught; he received no further reply, and though he had fully expected the silence, it still served to further stoke the flames of torment that burned within his heart. The roaring in his ears had dissipated, though his palm still felt as if it had been scorched, and he was still wracked with a lingering, intrusive feeling of anxiety.

 “… Silence, again,” Roy hissed beneath his breath. “Damn it… I was so close…”

Even if he had wanted to try to force the voice to speak again, his body was far too weary to endure a repeat of what he had just put it through. Every fibre of his being screamed at the mere thought.

Frustratedly he let himself fall back onto his cot with a grunt, and wasted no time grabbing the dragonstone with his left hand and turning himself over so that his back faced the tent flap. His eyelids were heavy as he shifted in bed in an attempt to get more comfortable.

Once he had determined his position was as comfortable as it was going to get, he settled down to sleep. Perhaps some of his fatigue would be gone by morning if he actually got a full night’s rest. His thumb absentmindedly brushed against the surface of his dragonstone as he stared into it. It took little time for his weariness to finally catch up with him, however, and his vision blurred as he drifted off into slumber.

Though as he slept, the dragonstone held limply in his hand flickered to life once more, its soft glow signifying its awakening.

The silence was cold.

As the sea of darkness drifted around him, Roy let out a quiet groan.

His limbs were indescribably heavy.

The echo of a voice from deep within the abyss reached his ears, though he could not make out the words.

Not long after, another voice joined with the first. They were a little clearer now, though their conversation was still lost on his ears.

Then came a third. The flowing current around him seemed to solidify as the familiar sound of bootsteps brought a twitch to his nose. They stopped not far from his face.

The voices’ words were clear as a bell now.

“… Oh, how the mighty fall so easily!”

There was mad laughter. Cackling, cursing and clanking of metal. Roy could feel his heart begin to pound in his chest as fear—true, genuine terror—coursed through his veins.

Though the fear was intrusive. It was as if he was feeling not only his own emotions but partaking in the emotions of another.

Pain wracked his arms and legs. His neck burned and he gasped as he tried to flail his arms, his talons scraping at stone.

His breath stopped in his throat. His talons?

Quivering overtook his body as he dared to open his eyes.

His head was pinned to cobblestone and tilted to the side. He could see his left arm splayed out beside him, chained to the ground like the rest of his limbs seemed to be.

His arm was massive, reptilian, and covered in teal scales. Fins adorned the back of his arm, though they were tattered. It was entirely unhuman. A snort of breath left his nostrils with a puff of mist.

Was he a dragon?

More footsteps pulled Roy from his confusion as a man rounded him from behind. His face was unrecognizable, though Roy could assume by his garb that he was nobility of some sort. He wore purple and gold armor and had a rather ornate sword at his hip, and the haughty sneer on his face made both his distaste and amusement clear.

“You were a real pain in the ass,” the man said through chuckles. “If you had just listened to us in the first place you wouldn’t be here right now.”

Roy wanted to speak, but his voice caught—his throat was completely raw, and it burned. The chain around his neck made it impossible to draw a full breath.

The man seemed to quickly grow unimpressed—annoyed, almost—before he kicked at Roy’s shoulder. “What, you’ve nothing to say?”

The man’s kick glanced off Roy’s shoulder with nary a twinge of discomfort, but Roy growled at the violent gesture, nonetheless. The rest of his body ached far more. He tried to flip his tail to the side, but that, too, was halted by chains, and the metal clinked together as it caught him mid-swing and dug into his hide.

A grumble rose from his throat at the feeling of the chains tightening around his tail—they had tied them tightly, and it was agonizingly painful. The man laughed, and he was joined by two others—once again, faces Roy could not recognize. One of them had an axe in his hand, and the other wielded a lance.

“So much for the Ice Dragon Tribe’s revered primogenitor, huh?” one of them said mockingly. “If we were able to take you down this easily, then what of the rest of your kind?”

Sadness and anger welled in Roy’s chest as he bared his fangs. Finally, he found the voice within himself to speak.

“You… why would you betray us?” he asked, though as soon as the words left him, he froze.

Those words had not been his own, and his voice had not been alone when he spoke. The voice that he heard in his head just earlier spoke in harmony with his, washing over his own like a wave.

 “Betray you? Really?” The first man hissed. “You dragons look down on us as if we were your pets. You show us pity like we are lesser—“

“You… are wrong,” Roy responded—though not of his own volition. His voice had been fully overpowered by the other, sounding far gentler and feminine, with his own barely mingling in her timbre. “We would never… you misunderstand.”

 “Quiet,” the third one hissed as he put his lance to Roy’s—or rather, her—neck. Roy could feel the metal scraping across her scales as the man firmly pressed the sharp metal to the softest point of her neck, right behind her jaw. “We are tired of living in the shadow of dragonkind.”

Fear radiated from the point of her neck where the lance pressed into her, and pain blossomed as he felt wetness begin to trail down behind her jaw.

Blood. The lance had begun to pierce through her hide.

A roar fueled by terror erupted from her as she thrashed her arms and legs as much as she could—her talons gouging the cobblestone as she did so. She tried to yank her head off the ground, though the bindings that held her were tight. The three men pulled away and stumbled a few steps back as her nostrils flared.

Her teeth grew frigid as a powerful blast of ice and snow billowed forth from her maw, completely freezing over the area in front of her with a thick sheet of ice. The men cursed as they scrambled out of the way of her magic. Roy could feel her heart racing as her eyes darted every which way to try to keep the three men within her sight, though they had run out of her field of vision.

She could still sense their presence behind her, even though she could not see them. Their curses and shouts rang in her ears as the familiar feeling of steel piercing flesh radiated out from her back.

“Even you, one of the supposed pacifists, would dare bare your fangs at us?”

“We will make an example out of you! And once war breaks out, we will eradicate what’s left of your kind!”

A shadow spread across the ground just before her as the axe-wielder raised his own weapon from behind her head, and Roy panicked from within her consciousness as he realized what was coming.

Then all he could feel was an indescribable pain. An overpoweringly raw agony wracked him and her from head to toe, pulsating out from the weak point just behind her jaw.

Another strong spike of pain pulsed through her again as the world blurred and a strangled breath left her. What little remained of his—her—voice laced the groan as her eyelids grew far too heavy to keep open.

The darkness that came after was… cold. A different kind of cold than before. It was not comforting-- it hurt, like a heart breaking into thousands of little pieces.

“… Aenir… Fafnir… please… run from this turmoil…”

Upon his return to the camp, Marth had been approached by Jagen. The elderly paladin seemed concerned at the time, and curiously Marth had asked why, to which he had been informed of Roy’s early turn-in. According to Jagen, Roy had appeared quite fatigued that evening.

“I know the two of you have grown close,” Jagen had said. “If he were to share his woes with anyone, you would be his first choice, sire.”

Even though the situational context behind Jagen’s words was less than ideal, Marth had still grown slightly flustered. Many people looked up to Marth as their leader, but most of them also treated him like he was above them—perhaps even untouchable. To think that he and Roy were able to speak so freely with one another as equals warmed his heart.

So, he had wasted little time going to find the young man that he had grown so close to. Though he spared quick pleasantries for those he passed by, no one attempted to stop him to chat—it must have been outwardly obvious that he had been in a hurry. His steps were heavy as he paced towards where he knew Roy’s tent was set up, and within a few minutes, he had made his way to its front.

Marth carefully pulled the flap just enough to the side to peek in.

“Roy? Are you decent?”

The dimness of the tent brought him to squint as he focused. Across from where he was standing, in the back of the tent, was Roy. The mercenary’s back was turned to the entrance and he was lying on his side on his mat, clearly asleep judging by his non-responsiveness. His blanket was still neatly folded off to the side of him, clearly forgotten.

With a small blink, Marth straightened, and a small smile tugged at his lips. The sight was familiar, echoing their time in Galder—when he and Roy had first met. At the inn, Roy had fallen asleep in the exact same way, and Marth…

Marth quietly stepped inside, and the flap slipped shut behind him as he walked over to Roy’s sleeping form. He carefully picked up the folded blanket that was at Roy’s bedside and let it drape down from his hands.

“You… will catch a cold if you forget to use a blanket, you know…” Marth mused as he knelt down on one knee to get closer to Roy.

However, he went still at the sight before him, and his grip tightened on the blanket he held.

There was a faint, ethereal glow shining forth from the dragonstone in Roy’s hand. Even though it was dark, the soft light allowed him to see enough to immediately be gripped with worry. Roy was shivering and his hands twitching; his brows were furrowed and his face was contorted in pain. His teeth were clenched, and Marth could see the sharpness of his fangs as they protruded out from behind his lips in a weary snarl.

Marth quickly tugged the blanket out of his way, dropping it to the ground. Gently he placed his right hand to Roy’s arm and shook him slightly.

“Roy,” Marth said quietly, attempting to awaken his partner.

Unfortunately, Roy seemed far too lost in his dream to wake, and he quivered beneath Marth’s hand. The prince tried once more to nudge Roy awake, but that attempt failed as well. After a few moments of consideration, Marth shifted to carefully sit beside him, his hand remaining on Roy’s arm.

It was clear Roy was having a nightmare of some sort and, with a hesitant glance to the glimmering dragonstone still clutched in Roy’s hand, he figured that perhaps there was more to it than just an average bad dream. He watched as Roy twitched and shivered, and inwardly cursed his own inability to help. With a small bite at his lip, he stared at the dragonstone still clutched in Roy’s hand.

“… Might you have something to do with this…?” Marth whispered to it.

There was a flicker within the crystal and small bubbles seemed to churn and pop within it. The prince’s breath caught in his throat, and he watched as it seemed to react to him—though that moment was fleeting, for the light quickly faded. Once again, the dragonstone grew dormant, and with its dormancy, Roy’s shaking quelled. Marth’s eyes trailed to Roy’s face, which slowly began to loosen and relax, and a weary puff of breath escaped the redhead’s lips as the tension in his body melted away.

Silently Marth watched over Roy, unsure of whether or not he would be okay, or if another bout of nightmares would wrack him. His eyes flicked towards the blanket at his side, and his lips pursed. With silent resolve, he turned just enough to reach for the blanket and pick it back up from the ground.

The blue fabric, faded and frayed from use and travel, all but fixated him as he stared at its threads and ruminated. Nyna’s words once again nagged at him, whispering in the back of his mind like a pack of relentless demons. Frustrated, his nose scrunched as he swallowed and turned his head to look at Roy once more, his gaze immediately fixating on the crystalline cover on his neck.

His heart grew cold at the sight of it. Those demons began to nag at him louder, whispering harsh insecurities in his ears.

With a swallow, he clutched the blanket tightly in his hands before leaning over to drape it over Roy, taking care not to wake him. His hands loosened on the fabric as he began to lean back just enough to gaze down at the mercenary’s face, now much more relaxed than before. The cold that gripped Marth’s heart melted into warmth and then heat as the prince pursed his lips and clenched both of his hands into loose fists on his thighs.

“… I will do all I can… everything in my power to help you just as you have helped me,” Marth whispered. “Curse or no curse, I promise you that, Roy.”

At that, he leaned down to place a soft kiss—a ghost of a thing, really—to the sleeping redhead’s temple. Hesitating for a moment, his lips lingered just above Roy’s head—though Marth managed to shake his head and sit back up straight. From there he silently put his hands to the earth and pushed himself up from his knees to stand.

Roy deserved all the time he could take to rest, and Marth was not going to risk potentially waking him by staying too long. Closing his eyes, Marth turned on his heel and began to walk back to the entrance of the tent. As he reached out to push the flap out of his way, he spared a glance back over his shoulder towards his partner, who was still sound asleep.

Resolve burned in his breast as he stared at the mess of red hair, and the hand at his hip tightened into a fist once more. Then without a word, he ducked his head and exited the tent.

Chapter Text

Eliwood silently gazed up at the Durandal, watching the dim flame reflect off of the metal. A grimace tugged at his lips.

He had always been a man that would do what he must, and with all the recent turmoil, the time that he would have to use that blade again seemed to be swiftly approaching.

“… Ninian… my love, I am sorry…” Eliwood said, his tone soft. “I know that you would not necessarily be upset with me using the Durandal again, but the guilt that I feel for wielding it against you all those years ago is still lingering in my breast…”

After a moment of pause, he managed a small chuckle. “Though I suppose you wouldn’t like that either, would you… I can hear you chastising me even now for apologizing over something like that.”

Reminiscing over those bygone days, he managed a small, rueful smile as it seemed like the past never would truly be the past. The sword was still here, her memory was still with him, and here he was, knowing full well he would need to don his armor and take the Durandal into his hands once again. He only prayed he still had the strength in his older age to do what he could over twenty years ago.

He glanced to the armor on its stand, allowing his eyes to lull on the old scrapes and scratches in the metal, before he returned his attention back to the Durandal.

“Well… let’s not waste any more time waiting, shall we, old friend?”

Soft chirping and the rustling of leaves was only interrupted by the muted scuffling of boots as Sain and Wolt were trudging through the forests surrounding the manor, scouting for anything abnormal.

“So… Wolt,” Sain said. “How are you and Lilina holding up? You know… with Roy being who-knows-where.”

With a frown, Wolt shrugged. “Well… we’re worried. But we’re doing the best we can to keep our chins up.”

He paused for a moment as he eyed a finch as it flitted overhead. “… Roy’s been through a lot, so we’ve got faith he’ll come back to us eventually. We just have to keep trying to look for answers is all.”

Wolt’s response brought Sain to smile. “You’ve got a lot of faith in the kid. Eliwood talks pretty highly of him too. I know he’s his son and all, but his old man seems to respect him even beyond that.”

By that point, Wolt had begun to peer around a tree and through some bushes, though Sain’s words brought his attention back to the older cavalier. Wolt managed to return the smile and nodded.

“Yeah. Eliwood sees Roy as an equal, I think. I… I’ve been at Roy’s side since we were kids, too. He’s got my faith… and the faith of everyone else in Pherae, though sometimes he might not think he’s worthy of it,” Wolt responded.

Intrigued, Sain rested his hands on his hips as he lulled his head back to look overhead at the bird from earlier as it continued to chirp. “Sounds a lot like how Eliwood was all those years ago.”

“Huh?” Wolt responded, his head cocking slightly to the side. “Really?”

“Sure does,” Said affirmed, punctuating it with a curt nod as he lowered his gaze back down to the green-haired sniper.

Humming in thought, Wolt brought one hand to his chin as he glanced down towards the grass for a quick moment before returning his attention back to Sain. “Um… Would you be willing to tell me more about what things were like back then sometime?”

A small chuckle escaped Sain as he smiled broadly. “Sure, once this is all said and done, we’ll get together and have a few drinks and make an evening of it!”

Taken aback, Wolt flushed and shook his head as he brought up his hands to wave them slightly in front of him. “Uh, I don’t think it needs to be that involved—”

The sharp snap of a twig cut the two of them short, however, and they both immediately grew rigid as their heads turned in the direction of the sound. Any previous levity had swiftly dissipated only to be replaced by a tense silence as they both listened. The clear rustling of leaves in the near distance brought them each to rest their hands on their weapons, and with a quick glance spared, they each nodded and proceeded to sneak off towards the sound.

Due to his shorter height, Wolt easily was able to duck around and under some tilted trees and low branches, giving him the lead on Sain, who needed to toe through the brush. The two of them followed the rustling for what felt like an eternity—though it had realistically only been a couple of minutes.

Finally, the rustling ahead of them grew silent, and Wolt’s eyes narrowed as he gripped at his bow and slowly pulled it from its spot on his back. His fingers on his right hand traced across the shafts of his arrows as he quietly drew one from his quiver before nocking it.

Seeing Wolt ready his weapon, Sain also clutched at his lance, readied for any person or creature that might jump them. However, the closer they came to the source of the rustling, more light filtered through the trees than before, and the two of them soon came close to the edge of a low clear patch in the forest’s depths. As the trees thinned and the height of the brush grew shorter, the two of them were able to see farther out ahead of them, and what they saw brought them each to a halt.

In the near distance stood very clearly a hooded figure, donning dark navy robes, with its back turned to them. Wolt could spot the finer details of blue and silver embroidery along its edges, and an unrecognizable symbol on its back. Narrowing his eyes scrutinizingly, he edged closer towards the figure, and Sain carefully followed him as they both hid behind a rather large tree trunk. The younger sniper glanced over his shoulder curiously towards Sain, and the cavalier only frowned and shook his head at Wolt’s silent question. It seems neither of them knew who or what exactly they were looking at.

Deciding to chance a closer look, Wolt slowly stepped out from behind the tree just enough to edge forward—however, he quickly felt the edge of the earth beneath his foot as his heel slipped off a small ledge. With a sharp gasp, he was quickly grabbed by Sain and pulled back, but the skittering of rocks and clanking of armor and weapons completely broke any chance at further stealth.

“Shit—” Wolt cursed between grit teeth as Sain hoisted him back to his feet. His gaze quickly flicked upwards towards where the hooded figure had been.

At the clamor, the figure swiftly whipped around with its hand outstretched. Realizing what was coming, Wolt’s eyes widened.

“Take cover!” Wolt shouted as he quickly pushed Sain and himself back behind the tree.

A massive blast of ice shot their way, buffeting the opposite side of the tree that they had chosen for cover, and both of the men endeavored to make themselves as small as possible as to avoid the icy winds that encircled the trunk. Once the violent, cold wind ceased, Wolt immediately whipped back around the side of the tree with his weapon raised.

However, the figure had already escaped the clearing—all the sniper could see was a flash of black in the brush across the way before they escaped his vision.

“Damnit!” Wolt shouted, “We have to chase them! Don’t let them get away!”

Sain had barely even had the opportunity to respond by the time Wolt had jumped down from the ledge and darted after the figure. The cavalier took a step towards the ledge, but his attention quickly flicked back towards the tree they had been using as cover, which was now coated in ice. Whoever this mage was, they were no mere novice.

“Wolt! Wait!” Sain yelled, “Shit. Kid!”

Not wanting the two of them to get separated and lost with a clearly dangerous mage in the vicinity, the older cavalier dashed after his younger comrade, lance in-hand. However, Wolt was far faster and smaller than Sain, and by the time he had reached the forest on the other side of the clearing, the sniper was already out of sight.

A slew of curses laced Sain’s breath as he fought his way through the thick brush of the forest, his head on a constant swivel back and forth to try to spot either Wolt or the enemy. Quickly drawing a silent breath, he scanned around the trees and brush, looking for any possible sign of motion.

As quickly as he had been looking, he nearly missed the quick flash of movement behind the trees off in the distance to his right. However, his eyes had caught it, and without a second thought, Sain darted in its direction with his lance at the ready. A white blur kept darting in and out of the bushes and trees just far enough ahead that the older cavalier was struggling to keep up.

“Damnit, get back here—!”

The wind was nearly knocked out of him as he suddenly collided with something solid, and he was sent crashing to the ground. There were more slews of curses and grunts as weapons clattered against the dirt, and the two men that had slammed into one another scrambled about on the ground.

“Wicked white—Sain!” Kent snipped as he practically shoved the other man off of him. “What in the hells!”

“Kent! Damnit, sorry,” Sain sputtered as he shoved himself off of his comrade and onto his knees. “There was a figure I was chasing, I didn’t even notice you were coming!”

Though Kent was more than ready to throw a remark back, he was interrupted by the rustling of leaves as two others, Alen and Lance, approached. The two of them looked mildly alarmed, no doubt because of the commotion.

“Kent! Sain! Are you both alright?” Lance asked.

“Did you catch up with it, Kent?” Alen followed up as the two of them took quick steps towards their older counterparts. The younger cavaliers outstretched their hands to help the other two off of the ground.

“I almost had it, until Sain ran into me!” Kent griped as he got to his feet.

“I already said I was sorry—wait, what were you chasing?” Sain responded as he stood with Alen’s help. He looked to each of the other three.

Alen’s expression hardened. “There was a figure in white robes we found. They were quite… strange—their back was to us, so we could not see their face. As soon as we got too close, they ran.”

With a look of bewilderment, Sain replied, “So you saw one in white?”

Kent squinted as he rubbed his arm, as he had fallen on it when Sain collided with him. “Why do you ask it like that?”

“Wolt and I saw someone wearing navy robes,” Sain clarified, then hesitated. “But wait, the one I had just been chasing… they were definitely not wearing navy.”

“So that means there are at least two of them,” Lance said, his brows furrowing. “This is decidedly worse than expected.”

“You’re telling me,” Kent grumbled.

There was a tense moment of pause before Alen then took a quick glance around them.

“… Where is Wolt?” Alen asked.

No sooner did the question leave his mouth, did a yell resound through the forest. All four of the men immediately turned their heads in the direction of the sound.

“Wolt!”

In an instant, the four men were sprinting towards the source of the sound, dodging branches, stones, and roots as they went. Beneath the sounds of the rustling of the brush and stamping of boots, there were three distinct snaps of a bowstring followed by the shrill gust of a magical blast—and another strangled sound from their young comrade.

Panic and adrenaline surged through Sain’s veins as he pushed past what limits he had to sprint further ahead of the others, leaping over a fallen log as he neared another small clearing. The light coming through the leaves brightened as he neared the edge of the tree line, and with his weapon at the ready, he burst through, steel raised to pierce any enemy he saw.

Though within the small clearing there were no figures but the one of his young comrade, Wolt, curled over on his knees with his right hand clasping at his bloodied left arm, just below the shoulder. His trusty bow discarded on the ground beside him, clearly having fallen from his grasp.

“Shit, kid!” Sain shouted as he quickly closed the distance between the two of them, practically skidding to his knees with a dust trail of pebbles and dirt behind him. Lowering his polearm to the side, he reached out with his right hand to gingerly touch Wolt’s left shoulder, right above the younger man’s own hand. The sight of blood staining Wolt’s sleeve sent a cold shiver down Sain’s spine. “Gods, Wolt, I’m sorry I lost sight of you! What in the hells happened? Are you okay?”

Wolt only managed a slight nod as he swallowed. His eyes opened up, and he tilted his head to look across the way at the tree all the way on the other side. “I’m fine… I managed to find the mage… but as soon as I tried to approach them, they cast that magic at me again. It missed me the first time, and I fired a few shots at them. But they dodged out of the way and threw more ice at me again. Which…” his head lulled down once more, and his gaze trailed towards his injured arm. “Which hit me the second time. It just cut my arm, but… still, it burns. It’s freezing cold.”

“Remove your hand,” Alen’s spoke, quickly drawing the eyes of the two men on the ground. The younger cavalier smiled faintly as he approached, though the worry was evident on his face. “Let me see your arm.”

Doing as he was told, Wolt carefully pulled his hand from his wound, the bloodied fabric sticking to his palm before peeling off his skin. Sain pulled his own hand away, shifting to the side to make more room for Alen as he took a few more steps forward and knelt down. Looking beyond Alen, Sain spotted as Kent made his way way towards the far tree, which was peppered with the three arrows that Wolt had fired off just earlier. At the same time, Lance was inspecting the ice-covered ground and tree just behind where the three of them were kneeling.

Alen wrapped his fingers around Wolt’s bicep before carefully pressing the pad of his thumb near the edge of the wound, pushing the skin just enough to see within the split. Wolt let out a faint whimper as he ground his teeth together, and Alen whispered a quiet apology as he ascertained the state of the wound as quickly as possible before removing the pressure from it. The flesh was tender and dark, and sizeable bits of frost still stuck to it.

“It’s frostbitten,” Alen said with a grimace. “Even for using ice magic, this is quite rough… no wonder it’s so painful. We’ll need to get this treated quickly…”

Lance narrowed his eyes as he slowly dragged his fingertips across the ice-coated tree. Mist emanated from the frozen bark, and the ice seemed to remain steadfast and unmelting even in the heat or beams of sunlight. Similarly to the three arrows that peppered the far tree, there were numerous spikes of ice that were sunken into the trunk of this one—one of which was bloodied.

As Lance had been looking over the state of the tree, Kent made his way over from the other side of the clearing with Wolt’s arrows in one hand, and something else in his other.

“What did you find?” Sain asked, drawing the attention of the entire group to the aforementioned man.

“Looks like Wolt had a pretty good shot,” Kent said as he held up the mysterious object for the rest to see. It was a shorn piece of fabric, dark navy in colour, that had been pierced through by one of Wolt’s arrows.

“From the cloak!” Sain said as he quickly rose to his feet, and Kent simply nodded.

“It appears that way. You said the one the two of you found was wearing navy,” Kent responded.

Taking a few steps towards Kent, Lance reached out his hand. “Do you mind if I see that?”

With another nod, Kent reached out, passing the piece of fabric over to Lance. The green-haired man squinted as he looked over the thick, silk fabric. Without saying a word, he turned on his heel and walked back over towards the tree that he had been looking at just a moment prior. The ice was far too cold for him to take into his hands, even with his gloves—but taking some of the evidence with them would certainly be better than leaving it here in the woods.

Wrapping the bloodied spike with the torn fabric first to protect his hand, he then grasped the spike firmly before pulling it from the tree. Even with the cloth between his skin and the ice, he could feel the frigid temperatures still seeping through the fabric and stinging his skin.

“What are you doing?” Alen asked as he stared up towards Lance, his brow furrowed.

“This ice hasn’t melted even a lick in the heat,” Lance said. “Even for magic, this is incredibly long-lasting.”

Grass crunched beneath Kent’s boots as he closed the space between himself and Lance, his eyes firmly fixated on the spike of ice now in the younger man’s hand.

“Hm… If we take this back to the manor, perhaps one of the mages there can give us some idea as to what kind of magic this is. I certainly know I’ve never seen it before—at least something this strong,” Kent said.

“Yeah,” Lance responded. “Even through the fabric, it’s difficult to hold.”

Wolt grunted quietly as Alen wrapped his arm underneath his armpits to assist in hoisting him back to his feet. “Then we should probably get back to Lord Eliwood… we don’t have much time to waste,” Wolt said.

With all in agreement, after one more quick sweep of the immediate area to ensure they weren’t being watched, the group began their long, slow trek back to the manor.

It was nearing sunset by the time the five of them finally managed to trudge their way back through the forest and across the plain towards the manor. Though they were all tired, Wolt was the one who was worse for wear, and the temptation of a long night’s rest is what kept him hot on the heels of his uninjured comrades. As they neared the front gate, they spotted a familiar friend who appeared to be waiting for their return.

Lyn had been sitting on a crate just outside the front gate, her left leg crossed over her right with a slight bounce as she contemplated the situation at hand. Her arms were crossed beneath her chest, and she was staring up at the sky. Though she was quite steeped in her thoughts, the sound of movement approaching drew her eyes downward, to see the five men approaching. A small smile graced her expression, albeit only momentarily, as she quickly noticed the injured Wolt, still gripping his bloodied arm.

Swiftly un-crossing her legs and hoisting herself from the crate, she landed on her feet with a thump before standing tall and jogging towards them.

“Goodness, what happened to you all? Especially you,” she said, poking her finger towards the injured Wolt.

“Had a run-in with some… eccentric folk,” Wolt managed. “Not exactly talkative… or friendly, for that matter.”

“We need to speak with Lord Eliwood immediately,” Lance said.

Hearing the urgency in his tone, Lyn nodded before asking them to wait as she went to fetch Eliwood for them, and asked for them to wait in the main hall in the meanwhile. She then turned on her heel and hurried back into the manor before the rest followed suit.

It didn’t take long for Eliwood—now clad fully in armor, and with the Durandal at his side— to make an appearance in the meeting hall, being led by Lyn. With the other five having taken seats or standing places around the table, they were already well prepared to report their findings. Though it certainly surprised the lot of them to see their lord donning armor for the first time in what would have been many years.

“I’ve been informed you all have some news,” Eliwood said as he stepped towards the end of the table. The torchlight glinted faintly off the metal of his armor as he stood tall and confident.

“Yes sir,” Alen responded. With a subtle go-ahead from Eliwood, Alen then spent the next few minutes detailing the events of the day—with the clear highlight being the two mysterious individuals with embroidered robes, and their powerful magic.

As Alen described the scene where they found Wolt, injured, Lance then took the opportunity to procure the ice spike from his side-satchel. It was still wrapped in the torn robe fabric, though by this point, the fabric had begun to frost over due to the sheer cold.

One could have heard a pin drop in the room as Eliwood and Lyn silently considered their findings.

“… It troubles me to admit that I have no real idea as to who these people could be,” Eliwood finally said. “Lyn, what say you?”

“Surprisingly, I have no idea either,” she muttered, the knuckle of her finger pulled to rest gently on her chin. “It’s not every day that you happen across a mage capable of slinging spells so strong that the ice won’t even melt. I don’t think it’s too far of a stretch to assume they might be cut from the same cloth of folks that attacked Roy and Nils on Dread Isle.”

 In silent agreement, Eliwood attempted to think about their options.

“… Perhaps we should find Lugh and Raigh. One of them may have an idea about the magic at least,” he said. “They are currently assisting with the construction of the Dragon’s Gate alongside Idunn and the others, so we will go ask them there. Afterwards, we can have Lilina tend to Wolt’s injury.”

Honestly, even though it felt like a long shot, asking around was the best option they had—especially with the twin mages right nearby.

“Come,” Eliwood said as he motioned his hand for them to rise from their chairs. Turning his head to give Lyn a momentary glance, he then walked towards the door, leading the way.

When the group finally made it outside and to the group of people working on the new Gate, Eliwood went directly to the twins, who were working with Idunn and Fa at the time. He asked Lance to present the mysterious chunk of ice to Lugh and Raigh with a faint hope, but it was quickly stifled when the twins shrugged.

“Sorry, I can’t recall ever seeing something quite like this,” Lugh said as he looked it over, and Raigh let out a grumble of agreement.

“Yeah, but if anything, guess that means they’re not your normal every-day mages at all,” Raigh added.

“That is unfortunate…” Eliwood said, his gaze trailing back down to the ice still gingerly wrapped in cloth. “Though I believe you may be right.”

“But didn’t Nils say there was only one of them unaccounted for? I suppose there could be more out there than those that showed up at the Dread Isle, but even so…” The Marquess thought.

As Eliwood remained contemplative, Lyn looked from him to the others—before her eyes landed on Idunn, who appeared to be stone-still. Her attention was fully trained on the ice in Lance’s hand.

“Idunn?” Lyn asked.

“… Eliwood… may I see that?” Idunn asked quietly, reaching her hand out towards Lance.

The cavalier shot his lord an uncertain look, to which Eliwood only nodded. Heeding his lord's orders, Lance stepped forward towards Idunn and gingerly passed the item in question over to her, careful not to let the raw ice touch her skin. Her fingers loosely tightened around the cloth-covered spire, and her lips formed a firm line as she kept her head bowed towards it.

Noting her clear discomfort, Eliwood said quietly, “Idunn… Do you know what this is?”

The silence that followed was tense as Idunn simply stood still, her gaze refusing to leave the glinting surface of the ice in her hand.

“… Yes.”

Her one-word response of confirmation—one that would normally cause relief—only seemed to further unnerve Eliwood. Noting the heaviness of the manakete’s tone, a weight settled in his chest, and his off-hand absentmindedly gripped at the pommel of the Durandal.

“… Alright,” Eliwood managed. “Let’s go back inside. Idunn, come with me. Lyn, you come along too. Lance, if you could fetch Nils and tell him to come meet me inside as soon as possible, that would be appreciated.”

With a curt ‘yes sir,’ Lance made a swift exit from the group, with Alen following him. Eliwood then requested the rest of the earlier search party go rest up for the evening, and directed Wolt to go get his injury taken care of by Lilina—much to then young sniper’s dismay, since he knew she would chew him out for being so reckless—before making back off towards the manor hall with Lyn and Idunn in tow.

That roiling sensation of dread grew more intrusive with each step closer to the meeting table.

Something was coming, and he did not want to acknowledge the burning in his palm where his skin still touched the legendary blade at his side.

Chapter Text

When Lance and Alen had found Nils, he had been sitting on the stairs exiting the manor’s rear garden. He had been so lost in his own thoughts that he barely even recognized their approach—which was a common enough occurrence at this point that neither cavalier had made much note of it. However, once Lance briefed Nils on the events of the day and Eliwood’s orders, the manakete had jumped to his feet and made haste inside without another word to the two men.

Lance and Alen had spared each other glances before heading off elsewhere.

Nils panted as he raced to the manor, his lungs burning as he darted through the open doors and made a beeline directly to the meeting hall. He held out his hands as he approached the large wooden doors, pushing them open with a violent creak and whipping of hinges, causing both Lyn and Eliwood to startle.

Nils panted heavily as he stumbled to a stop, looking back and forth across the three surrounding the table, and he swallowed dryly. “I’m here,” he said, taxed. “S-sorry. I heard the news from Lance and Alen and…”

Eliwood cleared his throat and raised his hand, gesturing for Nils to quiet. “It’s fine, Nils. You just startled us is all. Can you close the door behind you?”

Sheepishly, Nils did as Eliwood requested, the doors once again groaning as he swung them shut—this time much more gently than when he had burst through them. He then turned and came to the tableside, and Eliwood offered him a reassuring smile before turning his attention to Idunn, who was markedly unaffected by Nils’ sudden entrance. She still held the spire of ice in her hand—her gaze never left it, even as she set it down on the table before her. She quietly continued to look it over.

Eliwood’s brow furrowed at her actions. Finally, after moments that seemed to last for eons, Idunn’s eyes raised from the ice. She was looking at no one in particular—in fact, she seemed to be staring beyond everyone else in the room—as she finally spoke.

“The magic that created that ice is unmistakable,” she said, her voice subdued. “It is the force of Tiamir.”

Those in attendance glanced between one another, and Lyn crossed her arms under her chest as she continued to watch Idunn.

Nils’ eyes widened in surprise. He had heard that name a long time ago from his mother, Aenir—though he never found out who she was.

“Tiamir?” Eliwood asked, “Who—or what, for that matter—is Tiamir?”

“Tiamir… the leader of the Ice Dragon tribe,” Idunn said. “The strongest Ice Dragon to have ever lived.”

The entire room fell silent; Nils was completely frozen, and even Lyn had momentarily dropped her guard in surprise. The implication that Idunn was making here was nothing short of absurd.

Finally, Lyn regained the ability to speak. “Wait. So you are telling us,” she started as she firmly pressed her hands to the table top, “That this was the work of the leader of the Ice Dragon tribe? I didn’t even know there was such a thing.”

“It is the truth,” Idunn responded. “There is no Ice Dragon in existence that could match her power. This is undoubtedly her magic.”

Tense, Lyn ground her teeth as she considered Idunn’s words. “How have we never heard of this ‘Tiamir’ then, if she’s so powerful?”

“She was,” Idunn quietly corrected. “Was powerful. She died a long time ago…”

Eliwood immediately added, “… During The Scouring, you mean.”

Turning her attention to Eliwood, then, the look on Idunn’s face was all the Marquess needed to see to know he had hit right on the mark.

With an ever-deepening frown, Eliwood narrowed his eyes. “… It would make sense,” he said, drawing Lyn’s attention. “We have no… truthful history books to page through. The entire history of the Scouring and the dragons were completely rewritten by mankind.”

At that, Lyn fell silent. Eliwood cupped his chin and he stared down at the spire thoughtfully. Already it had started to freeze the woodgrain around it, frosting over a small part of the table. The thought of thousands of years of history having been completely thrown away, lost to time and conquest, was distressing.

There was a long silence, before Nils finally managed to speak—though his voice was barely over a whisper. “Idunn… you were there.”

In an instant, all eyes turned to Nils, and the younger manakete frowned deeply. “You were alive back then… you were right in the middle of the conflict.”

“That’s right…” Eliwood said, the realization dawning on him. The manakete woman standing just beside him was none other than the very Demon Dragon used in the Scouring to fight against humankind.

“Idunn,” Eliwood said suddenly as he pulled his hand from his face. “… Everything. From the beginning… whatever you know, or remember. Tell us everything of dragonkind before The Scouring.”

All heads turned to Idunn. Her expression remained neutral, even under the pressing gazes of everyone else. Eliwod realized that recalling such memories could be painful for Idunn, but there was no other choice, no other option—especially with the other dragons of Arcadia refusing to offer help. At Idunn’s silence, Eliwood’s fists clenched, fully anticipating a ‘no’ or ‘I don’t remember’—

“… All right,” she said. “I will tell you.”

Though the Marquess was surprised, he held his composure, and his fists loosened. “Thank you, Idunn. Please.”

Idunn’s acceptance caused Nils’ shoulders to droop. He never did learn much about what dragonkind had been like, for he was still very young by the time the Scouring had begun, and his mother and Nergal had lived far away from anyone. The curiosity burned in his chest—the longing to know more about a world he was never a part of—but so, too, did the fear.

The fear of the unknown, the fear of knowing just how perfect things had been before it had all fallen apart.

Idunn’s gaze dropped from Eliwood’s to the ice, still loosely wrapped in cloth. Mismatched eyes quietly searched it, getting lost in the depths of it, as countless painful memories played back through her mind. Memories that she had completely forgotten for a long time, until she was granted freedom by Roy and the Binding Blade just a few short years ago.

“… It is true… dragonkind and humankind lived in harmony for hundreds of years before the Scouring,” Idunn started. “Dragons… we were here long before humans ever came to be. Benevolent and intelligent, dragons shared their knowledge with humans to help foster their growth. This, you now know.”

Eliwood nodded. “Yes. But somewhere, humans betrayed dragons, and the Scouring began.”

“Yes,” Idunn affirmed with a small nod. “Before the Scouring, dragons had five tribes… The Fire tribe, Ice tribe, Wind tribe, Earth tribe, and Divine tribe.”

“Five?” Lyn repeated, shocked. “There were that many different kinds of dragons…”

“I had no idea…” Eliwood mumbled.

“These tribes… no longer exist, as you are aware,” Idunn said. “Each tribe had a leader, much like human families and countries have leaders.”

Idunn’s gaze shifted back down towards the spire of ice lying on the table. “Samal, the leader of the Fire Dragon tribe. Loptus, the leader of the Earth Dragon tribe. Seti, the leader of the Wind Dragon tribe. Tiamir, the leader of the Ice Dragon Tribe. And… Jormungandr, the leader of the Divine Dragon tribe. Each of them was undeniably the most powerful of their kind, and each led their tribes for thousands of years before the Scouring ever began,” she said. “Our leaders… they would often gather and confide in one another their knowledge and assist other tribes. They were all looked up to greatly by all of dragonkind, regardless of which tribe from which we hailed.”

“Incredible…” Lyn muttered as she straightened and put her hands on her hips. “Did you know any of them?”

“I was still a child at the time, but… yes. I met them all,” Idunn responded as she looked across the table to Lyn. “Dragons did not have children as often as humans… so the birth of a new dragon was always an event of great magnitude. Tribe leaders would often gather for the birth of a new wyrmling… and, since I had been born as a Divine Dragon, it was even more notable, as Divine Dragons were the fewest, and most powerful, of all the dragon tribes.”

Nils pursed his lips as he listened. To think there had once been harmony on such a grand scale…

“… Though you know of the truth behind the Scouring, and that humans initiated the war…” Idunn’s eyes traced along the room towards Eliwood. Her expression was unreadable, and Eliwood grimaced. She paused for a few moments longer. “… Do you know of the event that started it all?”

Her question garnered no response but sheer silence; at this, her tone dropped, and her voice grew quiet, as if in mourning. “Tiamir… one whose benevolence could only be rivaled by Jormungandr himself, was murdered in cold blood by humans. Her head was carved from her body and hung from the gates of Dragon Temple as an example of their strength.”

Though war was cruel, Eliwood had not been expecting that; his stomach churned as nausea wracked him. Beset with shame, any words he could have formed left him. Nothing he could have said in that moment would have mattered.

Nils had done his best to suppress the whimper that threatened to escape him. His bottom lip quivered as his hands clenched into tight fists; his skin pulled taut over his knuckles, turning it white.

Why?

“… Jormungandr and Tiamir, after thousands of years together, had fallen in love with one another. Jormungandr was horribly distraught by the murder of his love,” Idunn said. “Though when the rest of the dragon tribes went to war with humankind, Jormungandr did not. He stayed firm that Divine Dragons would not go to war.”

“But why?” Lyn asked. “Wouldn’t he want revenge?”

“… I am sure that, deep in his heart… he wished for revenge,” Idunn answered. “As anyone would. However, I believe he saw the result of the war as soon as it began. Humans could reproduce much faster… they matured much faster. He could see that our fight would be for naught. Our deaths would have been meaningless. So, he wished to spare his tribe from needless slaughter.”

“… Of course, the other tribes did not see it that way as the war raged on. The tribe leaders that remained came to Jormungandr and demanded he help them. They were not powerful enough on their own to turn the tide of war, and they needed the help of the Divine Dragons. They wished for him to offer his soul, to become a Demon Dragon of unparalleled strength,” Idunn trailed for a moment as she glanced down towards her own hand. “… He refused.”

The way her tone had dropped indicated worse to come. Eliwood felt sick, but wished to know the full truth behind the war, from dragonkind’s side. “… And when he refused…?”

“… The other tribe leaders branded him a traitor, and killed him,” Idunn responded.

Shock ran through the room. Lyn’s lips parted, though she was wholly unable to speak.

“… The Ice Dragon tribe was matriarchal,” Idunn said, suddenly. “Tiamir had a mate of her own choosing so that she could continue her bloodline amongst her own kind. Generally, that would have been it. However… Jormungandr and Tiamir also had a child, together. Part of me believes that Jormungandr kept our tribe out of war so that his and Tiamir’s child would surely live on, for he could not protect her other children, as they were solely of the Ice Dragon tribe.”

Nils finally found it within himself to speak. “… Did any of Tiamir’s children live?” he asked, his voice wavering. He felt like he knew the answer but wished to hear it from Idunn.

Idunn’s gaze shifted to Nils’. “… Yes,” she said. “And that blood flows within your veins. Aenir was one of Tiamir’s daughters, born solely of Ice Dragon heritage.”

Nils’ heart certainly skipped a beat in his chest, and his eyes stung. He was once again unable to find any of the right words to say. He remembered little of his mother, but Ninian had shared with him stories of her before her death. Had Ninian known of this, too? Had Aenir ever spoken of Tiamir?

Eliwood, however, had no such trouble. “Wait,” he said quickly. “So… this means that Nils and Ninian are…”

“Descendants of Tiamir, yes,” Idunn confirmed. “Her energy… When I first met you, Nils, I had been unsure. But now, that I am… more alive… I can feel the pull of Tiamir’s soul in yours, just as I feel it in this spire. The primogenitors of our tribes were the most powerful of us all, so their aura is unmistakable.”

After a moment of pause, she added, “… Ninian must have had a soul like that, too.”

Both Eliwood and Nils said nothing. Their hearts simply ached.

Lyn, upon noticing their trepidation, took the reins of the conversation. “Alright. So… Tiamir was murdered by humans. Then, Jormungandr was murdered by the other dragon tribe rulers after he refused to help them. Now we know that Nils and Ninian are descended from Tiamir. What about you? What happened to you?”

A wry smile tugged at Idunn’s lips from Lyn’s question. “Jormungandr had been worried that something might happen to him, so he had commanded us to escape if something ever were to befall him. When he had been murdered, the Divine Dragons gathered their young, and ran away… I, however, remained behind, to act as a mediator. It… did not go as we had hoped it would. Now I am as you see me here.”

She motioned to herself. “A Demon Dragon.”

Lyn bit the inside of her bottom lip. “… I see. I’m sorry.”

Idunn shook her head. “No… my fate was of my choosing. Jormungandr had advised against it, but I wished to try…”

The flames of the torches against the walls flitted and danced, their muted crackling the only sound to fill the void of silence that befell the group.

Finally, Eliwood spoke, “… But if Tiamir died over a thousand years ago… then what about this ice? You said it was Tiamir’s magic, did you not?”

“… I did. You are correct,” Idunn said. “And… this is where I no longer understand. Tiamir is long dead. All the tribe rulers are as well, as are most—if not all—of the Ice Dragons outside of what few remain in Arcadia. This spire… it should not be here. For that implies…”

“… That Tiamir is still alive,” Eliwood said.

Idunn’s brow furrowed, and a glimmer speckled her eyes. “But it would be impossible. I remember that day. The screaming… crying… confusion,” she said quietly. “… Family… friends. They were all in a panic.”

Her eyes slowly closed as the memories of a thousand years ago replayed, vividly, in her mind.

The scent of blood was pungent. Idunn, who had been far too young to witness such atrocity, hid her face behind the leg of her mother in fear. Her mother’s wing covered her as she protected her child.

“Idunn… please, keep your head lowered until I say all is well to look again,” her mother whispered, and Idunn only nodded as she further buried her face into her mother’s fur.

“Tiamir! Tiamir!”

A large white and gold dragon wailed, and the timbre of his voice shook the pedestal at which he stood. Debris rattled free from old ashlar as he flapped his wings, using the wind to lift him from his place so that he could glide to the centre of the ampitheatre.

The other dragons that had gathered quickly stepped back, allowing ample space for the legendary beast: Jormungandr, the leader of the Divine Dragon clan.

Before him lie the head of his beloved; her eyes, which once shone like the light of a full moon, were hidden behind closed lids. Her beautiful teal scales were tainted by blood, and the fins on her cheeks drooped, limply splayed out on the ground.

Jormungandr’s wings fell to his sides, the feathers and fur covering those heavy limbs rustled as they dragged along the stone ground. His breath wavered, and his jaw trembled.

From his perch to the right, Samal hissed as he pressed one claw forward, and the air around him burned. “Humans…? How could they…”

“Those… wretched creatures!” roared Seti as his wings flapped, kicking up gusts that disturbed the dirt below. “For all we have done—all the knowledge and companionship we have bestowed—humans would turn their blades on us like this?!”

“Cowards,” boomed Loptus. “Out of us all, they choose Tiamir; one whose trust in them was unwavering. None are less deserving of this fate than she.”

Jormungandr found himself unable to utter a word. His emotions were far too powerful: they had welled up in his chest to the point his throat had constricted, and tears burned at his eyes.

A frail, wavering voice—though far quieter than the rest, demanded the great wyrm’s attention.

“… Mother…?”

Quickly, Jormungandr’s head rose from where it had drooped, and he looked behind him as his wing unfurled. A wyrmling stood just a few paces behind him, his limbs trembling in fear, and his expression contorted by confusion.

“Son,” Jormungandr said quickly. “Please, look away—”

“—No,” his son said, though the fear in his voice outweighed his defiance. “I-I…”

That familiar voice beckoned Idunn from her hiding spot beneath her mother’s wing. Idunn’s head tilted as she peered out from beneath long fur.

Her friend, the son of Jormungandr and Tiamir, stood with his father. Never had Idunn seen him so scared or confused—it looked like his heart had broken into a million pieces.

She hazarded a timid glance towards the focus of his attentions, and gasped before she ducked her head behind her mother again.

So that was what it was.

Tiamir...

Who could do such a despicable thing?

Eliwood had been watching Idunn as she stood silent. Her expression had twisted as she recalled those horrible memories she had not thought of in many years.

“… Yes,” Idunn mumbled. “I distinctly… remember her death. It is a painful memory that will be with me until I, too, perish.”

There was a heavy silence that blanketed the room. Idunn’s eyes opened slowly as she gazed down at the ice on the table. Eliwood’s gaze drifted to the spire of ice as well, and he remained silent as he searched its fractal surface.

“… Idunn…” he started, “You said that Nils and Ninian… their mother, Aenir, was descended from Tiamir. Are you descended from Jormungandr?”

Idunn shook her head. “No. Jormungandr is not my father,” she said. “Jormungandr… only ever had one child before his death. It was the child that he had with Tiamir.”

Eliwood glanced up to meet Idunn’s eyes. “Is that so?”

“Yes… though… I have not seen him in a very long time,” she said quietly. “I am unsure if he yet lives…”

“… You sound like you knew him,” Lyn said, and Idunn only nodded.

“We were… friends,” Idunn said slowly. “He… was there when his mother’s head was brought to the temple. I had never seen him so… confused.”

After a few moments, she then added, “… And when his father died… he… looked lost... before he was taken away by the others, to flee to Arcadia…”

Nils’ hands twitched from surprise. “… Arcadia? He… was taken there, too?”

Idunn nodded. “Yes… the last time I ever saw him was before he was taken there. He was not in Arcadia when Roy took me there three years ago…”

With a slow gulp, Nils clenched his fists and stared hard down at the table. His mind drifted to when he had been left alone with the Elder back in Arcadia:

“Nergal… he did have a few close friends, spanning from old to young. In fact, there had been a young manakete here, one that had been under my wing at the time, that had been quite interested in your father before he was banished. You remind me a little bit of the boy… though, he also left Arcadia once he got a little older, much to my chagrin. I have not seen him since… I wonder how he fares.”

Things were slowly beginning to come together in a way that filled Nils with dread. He only hoped that the Elder’s story had just been some sick coincidence.

A sudden commotion outside, however, drew the room’s attention as one of the guards burst through the doors. He was without breath and seemed to be in a panic.

“L-Lord Eliwood!” he shouted, “I-I apologize for the intrusion, but it’s an emergency!”

The Marquess bristled as he straightened his back and turned to the guard. “No, do not apologize. What’s going on?”

“O-Outside the gate sire,” the guard started as he pointed frantically out the door, “Two figures spotted! Th… they are wearing garb that match the descriptions you gave us!”

Tensions flared immediately as armor and weapons clinked in response. Eliwood quickly turned his head to look back to his comrades gathered around the table.

“It looks like our targets have decided to come to us,” he said.

“Sounds like it,” Lyn said as she frowned. “I’d say let’s not make them waste any more time waiting.”

Eliwood nodded curtly as his grip tightened around the hilt of the Durandal, and the metal of the handle burned as the blade began to rouse from its slumber.

It seemed even the Durandal knew when there was only one clear path ahead.

Eliwood could only hope that whatever battle were to come next, he and his comrades would have the strength to overcome it.

As the group quickly exited the manor, following Eliwood’s lead, countless other guards were readying for action as well—armor and weaponry clinked and clanged as they followed their lord to the main gates.

With every heavy boot step, the grip of the Durandal grew hotter and hotter against Eliwood’s palm, and the Marquess could feel a fire ignite in his breast. Eliwood was not alone in this rising anticipation, however; Lyn and Nils were similarly agitated, and even Idunn felt a pang of unnerve.

Before them, the large wooden gates slowly began to pull open, kicking up small clouds of dust as they heavily dragged across the ground. Bit by bit, the fields just beyond the manor grounds were revealed.

Eliwood’s pace did not slow as he pressed through the gates, eyes firmly trained ahead—and it was there, in the open rolling plains not but a short distance away, he saw them: two cloaked figures, one taller and clad in white, and the other shorter and in navy blue, waiting side-by-side. Even though shadows shrouded their visages, he could feel them watching him as he slowed to a sudden stop a safe enough distance apart.

Lyn stopped just a few paces short of him, as did Nils and Idunn, followed by the other guards. The silence was palpable as a wordless war raged between the cloaked figures and Eliwood, who were intent on keeping each other pinned with their gazes.

Nils felt uncomfortable as he stared ahead, at the figure clad in navy. Why did that presence feel so much like…

“Grew tired of darting around the woods,” Eliwood questioned, though the inflection of his voice came out more like a curt statement of fact, “What business do you have in Pherae? Why did you attack my people?”

His questions garnered no response.

At first, anyway.

Then, the white-robed figure shifted, and Eliwood’s blood chilled at the sound of the man’s voice.

“We’re here for you, of course,” said the man in white.

Lyn was similarly struck still. She recognized that voice—but there was no way it could have been—

“… Hector?” both Eliwood and Lyn spoke, practically in unison, their voices laced heavily with disbelief.

Time seemed to drag on far too slowly as the man reached up to his hood, and, with both hands, he pulled it back.

Short blue hair poked free from the hood first as the man kept his head bowed, and once the hood had fully fallen back behind his shoulders, a scarily familiar face tilted upwards to look across the field at Eliwood.

Across from Eliwood stood his best friend—a man he remembered having died just a few years ago.

It was Hector.

Though this was a Hector he hadn’t seen in over twenty years. He was young, in the prime of his life, and his eyes burned with an unyielding will that both Eliwood and Lyn knew all too well. Lyn’s body trembled, and she slowly shook her head. Eliwood was speechless.

Nils’ heart raced, panic threading through every fibre of his being, rattling him to his very bones. If that was Hector, then…

“N-no… No way,” Nils stammered, momentarily drawing Eliwood’s attention as the Marquess glanced back over his shoulder. Nils’ eyes stayed trained on the navy-robed figure as tears began to prick in his eyes.

“… S… Sister?”

That one word struck Eliwood to his very core, like the sharpest lance had pierced straight through his breastplate and into his chest. Fear welled up within him as he slowly turned his head back towards the still-cloaked figure standing beside Hector. No response came to Nils’ pained question, and never had Eliwood wished to hear someone’s voice so much before in his life.

He hesitated, almost afraid to speak her name—but finally, he managed the smallest whisper:

“Ninian?”

The Marquess had fought in many wars. He had slain countless men, he had endured losses and hardships that most would consider to be far more gruesome and scarring than anything else could ever be.

But no battlefield had ever caused him to feel as much anticipation, longing, and fear as saying that one word. That name.

Eliwood’s mind was racing with countless thoughts, mostly unintelligible in the chaos, though one roared far louder than the rest:

“Please. Answer him. Answer me.”

His heartbeat roared in his ears as he looked on, anguished, as the navy-robed figure slowly brought their hands to the rim of their hood. Bit by bit, the cloth slipped back, and…

Eliwood’s breath caught in his throat.

Beautiful teal hair, long and silken, practically glimmered in the sunlight as the navy-robed figure—now clearly a woman—let the hood of her cloak fall back behind her shoulders. Her eyes drifted open, and a hauntingly beautiful red gazed back into Eliwood’s own eyes.

The love of his life stood before him, and all he could do was manage a heavy, shaky breath. His lips quivered as all the sorrow and guilt he had buried deep in his heart all these years welled up to the surface and spilled down his cheeks, dripping to the ground below.

It was a ghost. It had to be. Both of them—both of them.

Hector and Ninian were dead. He knew it, beyond a shadow of a doubt.

And yet…

“Eliwood… Nils.”

That voice was unmistakable. That aura that Nils felt, too—it was…

“Who are you,” Eliwood cut in quickly, his voice wavering much more than he would have liked. His grip tightened on the Durandal, and the blade’s power surged in his grip as he stared ahead through his tears.

Hector frowned at the clear display of aggressive suspicion.

Idunn then took a slow step forward, in front of Nils, and to Eliwood’s side. She stared firmly at the two figures across the field, unblinkingly and critically. No words left her lips, but her approach alone was enough to draw Ninian’s attention.

And when their eyes met, Ninian’s lips turned upward into a gentle smile.

“Meet us at the ruins of the Dragon Temple,” Ninian said softly as she looked back to Eliwood, her face hardly visible through his tears. “Then all you see before you shall ring clear.”

Chapter Text

Warm winds traced along the plains of Grust, yellowed grass swaying like waves across the open fields. It was overcast, and even though all was calm except for the distant sounds of soldiers going about their preparations, the gravity of the inevitable conflict just on the horizon weighed heavily on the shoulders of two men, mounted atop their horses.

General Camus and General Lorenz of the once-glorious kingdom of Grust, two of Akaneia’s most battle-hardened and respected warriors, stared out upon the fields of their homeland in silence. To both of them, the current state of their country was a source of deep frustration left unspoken yet mutually understood. However, with Prince Marth’s forces on their doorstep, Lorenz had requested some time with Camus, and the two of them had taken to their horses for a ride just beyond the reach of their soldiers or scouts.

Eventually they had ridden along right up to the crest of a hill, and it was here that Lorenz had motioned for Camus to halt his horse with a raise of the hand. It had been at least five or so minutes ago that he had done this, and whilst Camus was a relatively patient man, a small frown had settled on his features as he waited for the older general to give him some indication as to why they came out this way.

Finally, as if sensing Camus’ waning patience, Lorenz spoke, “How are you faring with this war?”

The frown on Camus’ face etched deeper, growing into an uncomfortable scowl as his eyes narrowed critically. Continuing to oversee the fields ahead of them, he responded, “The burden of a knight is the one I chose to bear. To stand tall during times of war is part of my duty.”

A deep huff of breath left Lorenz, the armour of his breastplate making a small clink as his chest rose and fell. “That it is.”

The air was charged, between the two of them, and Camus turned his gaze towards his older comrade, who was still looking out at the landscape ahead. “Lorenz.”

With a low hum of acknowledgement from Lorenz, Camus paused as he considered his next words. The leather of the reins squeaked beneath his hands as he clutched them tighter, and he stared forward once more before continuing, “... What we are doing, we do for our country. It is not a knight’s or general’s place to question his lord…”

The ‘but’ went unsaid, though Lorenz replied, “You find yourself wavering. That is quite unlike you, Camus.”

Another silence befell the two men, giving Camus just enough time to second guess even broaching the subject. However, Lorenz’s horse edged forward half a step, and the older man stared out into the distance with a critical eye.

“The Akaneian League,” he started, “Princess Nyna is said to be travelling amongst their ranks.”

Camus’ heart lodged into his throat, stalling his breath. Lorenz turned his head as if to look back towards him, his eyepatch blocking his view. “If you were to doubt your role in this war, Camus, now would be the time to do it.”

Immediately, Camus’ eyes narrowed as he gave Lorenz an irritated glare. “That is not it at all. You misunderstand.”

“Do I?”

Those two short words ripped any retort right out of Camus, leaving the general uncomfortably speechless. The way his fingers tightened again on his reins, however, told Lorenz all he needed to know.

“Camus… you are still young. The fight that approaches us will only have one victor,” Lorenz said, “Would you be content if your life were the one sacrificed?”

There was a quiet stutter before Camus clicked his jaw shut and recomposed himself. “I am a knight– my life belongs to Grust. If I were to die on the battlefield, it would be a sacrifice for my country’s future. Lorenz, you should understand this more than anyone.”

With a curt nod, Lorenz replied, “I do. But I also know that the loss of such a young, promising man in the name of an ill king and tyrannical empire would be naught but a shame.”

Growing frustrated, Camus nudged his horse half a step forward as well, matching with Lorenz. “Are you implying that our king is unworthy of my sacrifice?”

At that, Lorenz gave a firm smile and let out a huff of amusement from his nose. “To say such a thing would land me in quite a bit of trouble,” he replied. “What I mean is that your life has a lot more that is worth living for beyond just the battlefield awaiting us.”

The two men simply stared at one another for a time after that. Camus’ gaze flicked back and forth between Lorenz’s good eye– still slightly crinkled by his smile– and his eyepatch, before finally, he let out a frustrated breath as he looked forward again. Finding Camus’ reaction at least somewhat satisfactory, Lorenz also peered out at the horizon, watching as a flock of birds lifted off into the sky in the distance. Their chattering cries were quiet but carried well in the open air– a sombre, heartwarming symphony that reminded the older man of his childhood spent running happily about in these selfsame plains that would soon become his grave. 

Lorenz waited for those bird calls to fade, living in that memory for as long as he could, before he spoke again, “... I am not saying for you to join the Akaneian League. All I ask is that you rethink a few things before being so willing to throw your life away. After all, us humans only get one of those.”

Camus glanced to Lorenz out of the corners of his eyes, and upon seeing the distant, solemn smile on the man’s face, he closed his eyes with a soft chuff. “You are far too sentimental, Lorenz.”

A small bark of laughter cut through the tension in the air. Lorenz tilted his head back as the humour ran its course, before straightening again and replying, “Perhaps. But in my old age, I can look back on my life and find many things worth being sentimental about.”

Unable to help himself, the corners of Camus’ lips tugged into a faint smile as he shook his head. An easy silence fell between the two before Camus finally spoke, “Lorenz. Thank you.”

“Oh? What’s this about?” Lorenz responded as he turned his head towards Camus, though the younger general simply remained silent with his eyes fixed ahead. With a deep hum, Lorenz smiled in understanding. “Hm… I see.”

The two of them remained atop the hill for a short time after that, simply enjoying each other's quiet company. However, the sudden, swift clopping of hooves in tall grass grabbed their attention as a mounted scout came barreling their way.

“General Camus! General Lorenz! A messenger from Doluna has arrived!” they shouted, and the two generals shared a momentary look of confusion before turning their horses.

“Doluna?” Camus questioned.

“You didn’t manage to piss off that old wyrm again, did you?” Lorenz asked, half-jokingly.

Camus scoffed, “Not that I’m aware of. Let’s go see what this is about.”

The ride back to their encampment was quick, the two generals taking the news as seriously as they could. The way their soldiers were awkwardly shuffling, sparing them sideways glances whilst still trying to go about their preparatory work as the two rode by, following their scout, made it obvious that the two generals weren’t the only ones painfully curious as to why Doluna would send a messenger here.

Once they arrived outside of their primary war tent, both Camus and Lorenz swiftly dismounted, dust kicking up beneath their feet as the soles of their boots hit the ground. Two soldiers quickly ran up to take the reins from them, and Lorenz gave them a short word of thanks as Camus walked ahead. One right after the other, Camus and Lorenz slipped through the entry flap to the tent, scanning to see any unfamiliar faces–

To which they quickly found, sitting on one of the stools and toying lazily with one of their wooden map markers. An unfamiliar manakete man with tanned skin and teal hair, braided off to one side, with one leg kicked up over the other as he stared down his nose unimpressed at the strategy map before him. The two men grew instantly tense, and Camus’ expression hardened.

“You must be the messenger from Doluna?” Camus asked, his voice clipped, and the manakete glanced towards him out of the corners of his eyes. Red, inhuman eyes met blue, and Camus’ nose twitched in frustration as he watched the manakete continue to toy about with the wooden figure in between his fingers.

“Ah, yes,” the manakete said before placing the piece down back on the map, his eyes trailing back over the parchment before him. “And you must be General Camus and General Lorenz, of Grust.”

“Aye,” Lorenz confirmed, though without a hint of the earlier friendliness he had with Camus in his tone. The two of them were very clearly on edge.

The manakete hummed as he rested his hands together on his raised knee and threaded his fingers together. He then turned his full attention to the generals and replied, “Excellent. I am Fafnir, and I come bearing orders from King Medeus.”

Narrowing his eyes, Camus paused before speaking, “Go on.”

“As you are already aware, the Akaneian League is approaching from the north, having just left the Fane of Raman,” Fafnir began, “Which means they should be here in… what, one or two days? Knowing that princeling, probably just one.”

“Surely, which is why we are preparing now,” Lorenz replied, curtly, “So, why have you come? What is it that your King needs from Grust?”

Shifting in the stool and uncrossing his legs, Fafnir readied himself to stand as he responded. “I will get to that. However, I wish to ask a few questions of you two Grustian generals first.”

Camus and Lorenz shared an uncertain glance before they both returned their attention to Fafnir, and as the manakete stood tall, Camus was the one to speak first. “What is it?”

With a faint smile– one that both men could easily see did not reach his eyes– Fafnir gave a small sideways motion of his hand. “You see, I have only left Doluna a couple times in my life, and I find myself quite curious about your kingdom. Your king– Ludwik, was it? Why is it that he allied with King Medeus in the first place? Are you humans so desperate for your own conquest that you would simply walk freely into the maw of the beast that wishes to feast upon your bones?”

The twisted nature of Fafnir’s question cut both men to the quick, and they stood rigid. Growing less and less friendly by the second, yet still doing what he could to remain impassive, Lorenz responded. “That is a strange question to ask.”

Fafnir shrugged at that; a nonchalant motion that only made the two men that much more agitated. “Pardon my intrigue. Simple manaketes such as I are given so little information– I was only curious as to your logic.”

Camus’ blood had begun to boil, though years of training as a knight did wonders at times like these. Keeping as outwardly level-headed as possible, he explained their kingdom’s “logic” with enough of a bite to let Fafnir know he was displeased with the manakete’s behaviour. “Our king’s children were taken hostage by your kingdom. That is why Grust is your ally.”

There was a split moment where both Lorenz and Camus could see a genuine glint of surprise flash in Fafnir’s eyes. Had he truly not known why Grust stood by King Medeus’ side this whole time?

However, that surprise was fleeting, and it was swiftly replaced with a small but amused smile– one that Fafnir was feigning, though to the two generals, it was impossible to tell that. “Is that so? You humans have so many children– to so eagerly throw away the fate of your kind just because of a couple of kids? Absurd.”

At that, tensions flared, and Lorenz snipped back. “It would be like if the king of dragons lost his child. Would your kind simply sit and allow time to go on, or would you not bare your fangs and fight?”

Immediately Fafnir narrowed his eyes, the reds of his irises seemingly flaring with a magical glow as his pupils constricted. His full attention was on Lorenz, though the general stood firm, refusing to give in to the manakete’s intimidation. Fafnir let out a rough snort at the man’s display of bravery.

“Do not speak as if you know what dragonkind would do if faced with incredible loss. You know nothing,” Fafnir said. After a moment of consideration, he let out a frustrated chuckle. “I grow tired of this folly. Your kingdom’s view of the world is so narrow. Just like everyone else here that I have met, even the mighty Dragon King himself. It makes me sick.”

Shocked, Camus started, “What are you–”

“- You are not truly allied with Doluna, are you,” Lorenz interrupted, and Camus’ attention snapped to him.

“You’re quick on the uptake,” Fafnir replied in mock-praise. “What tipped you off?”

“Doluna’s kidnapping of King Ludwik’s children may not be widely known to the rest of the world,” Lorenz started, his armour clinking as he shifted his weight forward, “However, I found it hard to believe that a manakete under the direct servitude of King Medeus would be oblivious to the situation. Especially if he had sent you here with orders for Grust.”

With a thoughtful hum, Fafnir closed his eyes. “I suppose that would be a fair enough reason to doubt my allegiance to Doluna. An astute observation. I applaud you.”

“I do not need your flattery,” Lorenz said firmly as he grasped at the hilt of the sword at his hip.

Camus then followed, similarly clutching his weapon as he spat, “Tell us why you are here, then, and why we shouldn’t cut you down here and now.”

Seeing as both men had poised ready for a fight, Fafnir sighed and raised both of his hands in a weary show of amity. “I was getting to that. My, your kind… you truly do always reach for your weapons first, when confronted with something you don’t expect.”

“Out with it,” Camus barked, no longer willing to play along with the friendly charade from earlier.

“I am here to advise that you defect to the Akaneian League,” Fafnir said, and immediately the tent fell silent.

His suggestion had been entirely unexpected and had thrown both Camus and Lorenz completely off their guard. The two of them stared at the manakete across from them, with his hands still partially raised, as they tried to decipher his intentions.

“Why?” was all Lorenz could ask. Though he had never wanted to be allied with Doluna in the first place– in fact, he had begged King Ludwik to reconsider the alliance when it was originally brought to the table– he had never expected to hear a manakete advise them that they should turn their backs on the dragon kingdom.

Fafnir’s brows furrowed as he tilted his head, and he frowned at Lorenz with an expression that almost read ‘are you stupid?’ “Was I not clear earlier? You are leading your people into the hungry jaws of death, and the chains of subjugation– an inevitable tyranny of dragons over man. Is that not reason enough to fight against Medeus?”

“That is more than enough reason, you are correct,” Lorenz responded. “What I want to know, however, is why would you, a manakete, advise us to fight against that very tyranny you would greatly benefit from?”

Straightening his posture, Fafnir lowered his hands to his sides. “It is because I dislike Medeus and his goals. Is it that hard to understand? Dragons are not unlike humans in that we have free will, and ideals that differ.”

Fafnir’s words were, at their core, common sense: of course an intelligent, thinking being would have its own unique ideals and aspirations separate from others. Humans were that way, after all, so this revelation should not have come as such a surprise.

However, neither Camus nor Lorenz had quite thought of it that way before– at least, not in reference to dragons. Medeus’ power, and the consequential political reach of Doluna, were really the only aspects of dragonkind that either man was familiar with. So the two of them only stood, silent and stumped, as Fafnir weighed their physical responses to what he had said.

Then, Fafnir let out a tired chuckle. “I see. So it really is hard to understand,” he mused. “Regardless. Additionally, I have information for the young princeling– Marth. I figure that the two of you would be the best ones to deliver it, considering the circumstances.”

Upon hearing Marth’s name, both Lorenz and Camus straightened, alert once more. “What is it?” Camus asked, suspicious.

Fafnir wrapped his arms behind himself, lacing his fingers together at the small of his back as he took on the posture of someone delivering a message far more official. He smiled at Camus. “Two things: One, I have quite a bit of privileged information regarding Medeus’ future plans. And two, let him know that what he was searching for is safe and sound, and that they will see his way to him in due time.”

“What he was searching for?” Camus repeated, the demand for more information obvious in his delivery.

Fafnir only gave a sharp click of his tongue as he cocked his head to the side. “I can’t exactly go about telling you that if you’re still allies with the enemy of the League, now can I?”

With a sharp inhale, Camus shot Fafnir a glare. “You are playing both sides, and putting us in a difficult position, telling us to give helpful advice to our enemy whilst simultaneously telling us to abandon our ally. Must I remind you that you are here in Grustian territory, in our encampment, with our army’s strategic maps on full display to you, simply because you lied about your own allegiance to Doluna? You are in no position to withhold information, especially if we are the ones meant to deliver it.”

With an uninterested hum, Fafnir only gave a slight shrug of his shoulders, sloughing off Camus’ vitriol. “You can attempt to kill me if you’d like, but you still won’t get the details unless you can tell me that you will march alongside the Akaneian League. Oh, and I should say– if I did die here, you would be ensuring the future where your people are subjugated by Medeus.”

Just as Camus was readying to step forward and shout, Lorenz quickly shot his arm out to the side, halting the younger general with the palm of his hand pressed to Camus’ chest. Though Fafnir was choosing to speak in a purposely antagonistic way, to Lorenz, it didn’t seem like the manakete was outright lying . Lorenz’s eyes did not leave Fafnir as he interjected, his voice level yet firm, “I will join the Akaneian League.”

Fafnir’s brows raised with intrigue, and Camus took a slight side-step as he looked at Lorenz in furious shock. “Lorenz, what are you saying? You would betray Grust at the final hour?!”

“I am not betraying Grust, Camus,” Lorenz replied. He grit his teeth as he frowned, and his hands clenched into fists at his sides as he continued to stare at the manakete that was watching the spectacle unfold before him with clear interest. “If Doluna– if Medeus is to have his way, there will be no Grust. This Fafnir– as infuriating as he is– has the right of it. To march down that path is to march us all to our deaths. King Ludwik showed his cowardice, and now our people– nay, all of the people of our world– are going to pay the price if we do not do something now.”

Lorenz’s words, though painfully true, only served to further incense Camus, though the younger man did not respond with words– he only balled his fists and lowered his head. The two of them remained that way, in tense silence, for a time, and Fafnir flicked his gaze back and forth between them.

In truth, he hadn’t been expecting Lorenz to take to the idea of joining the League so readily. Though it seemed like it had been a wound in the general’s pride that had been festering for quite some time by this point. It was certainly convenient for Fafnir, in that case.

Regardless, he was running out of time, and this awkward silence was dragging on for far too long. “If that is the case then, General Lorenz, I would happily share all the information I have with you. Though if I do, I would hold you to the expectation of secrecy.”

Both Camus and Lorenz could hear the coy smile in the manakete’s voice as he extended the offer, and Lorenz’s nose scrunched for a brief moment before he recomposed himself and stood tall. “I will readily accept those terms, even if that means I must be exiled from this army, or this land.”

“A noble sacrifice. You have my gratitude,” Fafnir hummed, and his gaze slipped from Lorenz to Camus. “And you, General Camus? Are you still going to cling to the corpse of your kingdom, or will you join General Lorenz?”

All eyes were on Camus as his fists tensed and he dug his fingertips deep into the palms of his hands. He pulled his lips taut and closed his eyes, and as he stood there in heavy contemplation, the earlier conversation between him and Lorenz replayed clearly in the back of his mind:

“I am not saying for you to join the Akaneian League. All I ask is that you rethink a few things before being so willing to throw your life away. After all, us humans only get one of those.”

“You are far too sentimental, Lorenz.”

“Perhaps. But in my old age, I can look back on my life and find many things worth being sentimental about.”

With a slow, deep breath, Camus relaxed his fists and rolled his shoulders back to straighten his posture. He then reopened his eyes, confidence eclipsing his earlier fury.

“In a world ruled by King Medeus, I see no future for my kingdom. Therefore I, General Camus of Grust, shall stand beside General Lorenz… and the Akaneian League.”

Chapter Text

The morning following Roy’s nightmare had been sluggish and gruelling; Roy’s limbs were stiff from the poor quality of his sleep, though thankfully he had been covered by a blanket at some point during the night, which spared his skin from being chewed on by bugs. Only one person would have been comfortable enough entering his tent long enough to cover him while he slept: Marth. The kind prince that Roy had busied himself with trying to track down first thing this morning, as the sun was still cresting over the horizon.

Realistically there were only two places that Marth would probably be at this point in the day: the main tent, where he would be discussing strategy, or his own personal tent. Having decided it would be more proper to check the main tent first, Roy headed that way, and upon arriving, ducked his head inside to look around. There were a few of his comrades already inside, Jagen and Abel, who perked up as Roy’s shadow blotted out a section of the sunlight filtering in through the opening.

“Oh, good morning, Roy,” Abel greeted, a wooden map marker held between his fingers. “Looking for someone?”

Roy offered the two knights a small smile as he stepped inside the tent. “Yeah. I’m looking for Marth, actually. Have either of you seen him yet this morning?”

Unsurprised, Jagen let out a soft, amused chuff. “No, not yet. I figure he should be arriving shortly, however, if you would like to join us.”

What Roy needed to talk to Marth about wasn’t an inappropriate subject by any means, but just because it wasn’t inappropriate didn’t mean it wasn’t private. So Roy gave a weak wave of his hand and pointedly ignored the heat that tingled at the bridge of his cheeks. “I appreciate the offer, but I wouldn’t want to interrupt the time you have set aside for planning tomorrow’s march. I’ll see if I can catch him before he’s busy here.”

“Very well. Hopefully Malledus will be able to join us before Prince Marth arrives, then. Would you be willing to let him know that Jagen and I are here already when you find him?” Abel asked, politely ignoring the embarrassment on Roy’s face; thankfully Abel was kinder than Cain would have been in that regard.

“Sure thing, I’ll let him know,” Roy said with a nod. With a polite parting, Roy exited the tent and continued on his search for Marth.

The comforting, woody scent of smoke wafted on the breeze as more of the camp began to wake. Roy couldn’t help but appreciate the feeling of being surrounded by those he had come to not only appreciate as comrades, but consider to be friends and family. Last night he had witnessed what it was like to be truly alone; he was forced to watch through the eyes of a lonely dragon as they lived out their last few painful moments of life. Whether the scene in his head had been real or fake didn’t matter– the emotions he felt as he slept, and even after he woke, had been real. Raw.

Marth’s tent was quite close to the centre of camp, so it did not take long to reach it, especially with Roy’s mind so preoccupied. Noting that the tent was closed, it was safe to assume Marth was still inside– something that Roy would be quite grateful for, as he certainly could do with seeing his partner right about now.

Roy stepped closer to the side of the tent and leaned in near the split in the fabric. “Marth? Are you there?”

The familiar sound of an ‘oh’, followed by the shifting and clinking of metal, immediately returned the smile to Roy’s face. That was especially true once the fabric in front of Roy pulled back just enough to reveal just the person he wanted to see, halfway peeking between the crack.

Marth’s expression was warm as he greeted Roy, “Good morning, Roy. I wasn’t expecting to see you up and about so early.”

Seizing the opportunity, Roy joked, “Well if that’s the case, I could always go back to sleep.”

The lighthearted laugh that bubbled up from Marth’s chest just then was well worth the rough and early morning, Roy thought.

“No, please don’t do that,” Marth said as his chuckles began to die down, “I’m delighted that the first person I get to see this morning is you. Would you like to come inside? I still need to finish dressing.”

With a small stammer, the flush returned to Roy’s face at the offer. “Uh– are you sure? I can always wait outside.”

“I promise you I am not indecent,” Marth assured as he pushed the entry flap to the tent more to the side, revealing that he was already dressed in his tunic and trousers, though bereft of his accessories and armour. The relief that Roy felt in that moment must’ve been seen clearly in the loosening of his posture, as it elicited yet another soft laugh from Marth as he moved a half-step out of the way. “I would not have offered otherwise. Come on in.”

Roy’s teasing thoroughly bested, he took Marth up on his offer and stepped inside. The sunlight swiftly disappeared behind the tent fabric as Marth let it go, leaving the two of them in the warm lamp light emitting from a pair of candles on a makeshift desk to the side. It didn’t take a particularly discerning eye to notice that Roy was tired, though Marth was thankful for his keen perception all the same as he noted the bags beneath Roy’s eyes. “How did you sleep last night, Roy?”

“Truthfully, not well,” Roy admitted as he turned to Marth, who had walked back over to the remainder of his clothing and gear that he had yet to don. “Though I can say, thankfully, that I did not wake up with a cold or covered in bites. A kind stranger must have slipped into my tent and put a blanket over me as I slept. Would you have any idea as to who that might have been?”

Roy didn’t miss the way that Marth’s fingers stalled on the brown leather of his belt, and he smiled a little wider as Marth resumed picking it up from his cot. “I’m afraid not. Though if you do find out who it was, please let me know, so I can thank them personally. I would have been worried sick if you had fallen ill on top of everything else.”

Having recognised the real concern beneath Marth’s veneer of lightheartedness, Roy took a few steps closer to him. Without the need to deliberate whether or not Roy should wrap his arms around Marth in that moment, he did it; strong arms encircled Marth’s waist from behind as Roy embraced him. “Marth… thank you. I’m sorry I’ve worried you.”

Roy could easily feel the way that the back of Marth’s shoulders stilled against his chest, before eventually the tension was released, and the prince let out a slow breath. “There’s nothing to apologise for, Roy. I’m just glad you came to see me this morning, is all. It would have been much harder to focus on our upcoming strategizing had you not.”

There was a soft puff of cold breath against the back of Marth’s head before Roy leaned in, lightly pressing his lips to it. “Yeah, I could see why.”

Silence befell the two as they simply stood there, in each others’ presence, and Marth lowered a hand to rest on Roy’s crystallised forearm around his waist. Both of them had quite a bit on their minds that they wished to say, though it seemed like neither was willing to break the fragile, comfortable quiet just yet. Gently, Marth brushed his thumb along the smooth crystal beneath his hand, and he closed his eyes.

In the darkness of his eyelids, Marth could clearly envision the azure glow of the Dragonstone from the night before; the way that its surface bubbled and rippled, seemingly causing Roy to jerk and wince with every ebb and flow of its power. Marth’s brows knit as he remembered it, and his thumb stalled in its motions. His voice was barely above a whisper when he finally decided it was time to speak. “Roy, last night when I went to check on you, you were tossing about like you were having a terrible dream. Though that was not all that I witnessed; your Dragonstone was alive and vibrant, as if it were reacting to you… or you to it. What happened?”

The way that Roy’s chest rumbled against Marth’s back, and the cool breath tickled his scalp, as Roy chuckled sent an involuntary shiver up Marth’s spine. Roy’s arms wrapped ever so slightly closer around Marth as he gave Marth his tired reply. “Thank you for cutting right to the chase. I didn’t know exactly what to say to start this all off.”

Hearing how relieved Roy sounded gave Marth good reason to open his eyes, and he tried to turn in Roy’s arms– to which Roy allowed by loosening his grip. Face-to-face, Marth looked just a hair upwards towards Roy, and he took that time to admire the freckling of teal scales on Roy’s cheeks and ears before finally looking him in the eyes. “It’s the least I could do.”

The admiration seemed to extend both ways, as Roy refrained from responding as he gazed upon Marth’s features, before he finally settled. “I had a terrible nightmare. Or I guess what I would assume was a nightmare,” Roy began, and with a soft hum of encouragement from Marth, Roy continued, “I was a dragon– rather, I was seeing through the eyes of a dragon. I knew it couldn’t have been me because, well… when I tried to speak, it was the voice of a woman, and her words weren’t mine.”

Roy’s eyes lulled shut as he relived the scene; he was intent on imparting unto Marth every detail he could. “She was an Ice Dragon, that much I could tell. She was hurt and chained to the ground inside some place… a castle, perhaps. There was a group of men that looked like knights, wearing ornate clothes and armour, and they were threatening her…”

As Roy’s voice began to trail off, Marth rested his hand on Roy’s upper arm reassuringly. “It’s alright, Roy. Why were they threatening her? What did they say?”

The pungent scent of blood lingered in Roy’s nose as he continued, spurred on by Marth. “She tried to defend herself from them, and they scorned her for it. The… primogenitor of the Ice Dragons, they called her. They were going to kill her and use her as an example, to make sure the rest of Dragonkind knew that they were next… that they were going to all be exterminated. They were wanting to incite a war.”

Pressure had been steadily building in Roy’s chest as he recollected the details; it built upon itself so much that his lungs had begun to hurt. “I remember, right before she died, she prayed– she prayed for her children to be safe. I want to believe it was just a nightmare, but… I don’t know if it was. It all felt so real. Every wound, every thought, every emotion…”

Roy’s hands shakily grasped at Marth’s back, and he let out a deep breath. “Though out of everything, what shook me most was when she said a name that I know. When she prayed for her children, she said the names Aenir and Fafnir.”

Marth stilled. “Fafnir… that was the Divine Dragon that attacked us back in Altea. The one that claimed to hate you– the one that you spared.”

Roy’s eyelids were almost too heavy to lift as he reopened them, and he looked down to Marth with a small nod. “Yeah, it was.”

“Is that even possible?” Marth asked, “If your dream took place through the eyes of an Ice Dragon, and it truly was a vision of sorts, then the Divine Dragon we fought could not be her son… could it?”

The fight with Fafnir in Altea was still quite fresh in Roy’s mind, and he worried at his bottom lip as he thought back to the way Fafnir screamed at him, half a breath from begging Roy to end his life.

“I don’t know if it’s possible,” Roy whispered, “But after I defeated him in Altea, Fafnir was half a breath away from begging me to end his suffering. That’s not normally how someone acts when they’ve lost a fight…”

“Unless they’ve already lost everything,” Marth concluded thoughtfully, and Roy only gave him a silent nod in agreement. Marth frowned and reached up towards Roy, then, to gently brush a few red and teal strands of hair from his face. “But that still doesn’t explain the fact that he was a Divine Dragon. Though there was a teal hue to his scales, they were not anything like yours, nor I would assume hers. I do not mean to question your judgement, but are you certain she was an Ice Dragon?”

Appreciating Marth’s thoughtfulness, as well as his gentle touch, Roy leaned his cheek into the palm of Marth’s hand. “It’s alright, I’d rather you ask me questions. I trust you,” Roy said before he allowed his eyes to close again, relaxed by the familiar warmth of Marth’s skin. “I saw her breathe out a sheet of ice as she tried to defend herself. Compared to Bantu’s fire, or even Fafnir’s radiance, I figured it was a fair assumption to make.”

“That does clear it up,” Marth agreed as he began to stroke the small scales flecking Roy’s cheek. “I would be inclined to agree with you then. After all, even though I have yet to see you turn into an Ice Dragon, let alone breathe out a bellowing of ice… the lovely cold sheen of your scales have given me enough evidence to go off of.”

A knot twisted in Roy’s stomach at Marth’s kind compliment, and his skin warmed to match the heat of Marth’s hand. “Marth…”

Though Roy’s eyes remained closed, Marth smiled lovingly all the same. “I’m sorry, was that too much?”

Finally tempted enough to work open his tired eyes once again, Roy spared Marth a thoughtful glance before he responded, “No. Not at all– not from you.”

Still wholly content, Marth did not mind as Roy reached up to carefully pluck his hand away, and before either of them knew it, the space between them disappeared; their lips met and for a brief moment, nothing else mattered.

Though for Roy, that feeling was far too fleeting, and as he pulled away from Marth just enough to look away, he earned a worried frown from the prince. “Roy, is something else on your mind?”

As Roy stared down at the flattened grass beneath their feet, all he could see was his reflection staring back at him from the night after their successful capture of Helena Castle, when he had suffered another bout of the crystal’s spread. He had refrained from telling Marth about it back then, because he didn’t want to give him anything else to worry about as they came hot off the heels of liberating Altea.

Now, though, Roy had no excuse to keep what had happened to him then so close to his chest. “Yes. Something that happened the day we liberated Helena Castle.”

Surprised, Marth straightened in Roy’s arms, giving him a more earnestly concerned stare. “That was nearly two weeks ago.”

Guilt needled at Roy’s heart, and all he could do was nod. “It was. I… my condition got worse,” he admitted, and the way that Marth immediately honed in on the visible crystal on Roy’s neck only served to make his guilt that much more palpable.

“Roy, why didn’t you say something?” Marth hurriedly asked, his voice hushed.

“I couldn’t bring myself to do it,” Roy responded, “You already had so much on your plate, Marth. I couldn’t just–”

Roy froze as Marth’s arms wrapped around his neck and he was pulled down into a tighter embrace. His mouth and nose were partially stifled by the collar of Marth’s tunic, muffling his voice and cutting him off as Marth interjected, “Roy, it is my duty as the Prince of Altea to bear the burdens of my people. There is no amount of trouble I cannot withstand.”

After a sharp breath and a tense pause, Marth shakily added, “Though beyond even my responsibilities as prince, I care about you, Roy. Your life is important to me.”

The sincerity of Marth’s words brought Roy to hug him tighter again, and he shifted to bury his forehead in the crook of Marth’s neck as he whispered, “I know. I should have listened to my gut, but I didn’t. I was too caught up in everything.”

Marth’s fingers knotted into the fabric of Roy’s tunic. “Is that why you’ve been so exhausted as of late? Because your condition has gotten worse?”

The pair already knew the answer to Marth’s question, and Roy’s silence only further solidified it; the only way Marth could lessen any of the tension building in his chest was to let it escape with a sigh. What kind of prince was he if he couldn’t even help relieve his partner’s illness?

“That wasn’t all, though,” Roy hesitantly said, “I remembered a few things, and I haven’t been able to really come to terms with any of it. No matter what angle I try to dissect them from, they just don't make sense… and I was scared to tell you.”

“You were scared?” Marth asked as he tilted his head in an attempt to get a better look at Roy, who still had his head bowed.

“The memories weren’t anything terrible– it wasn’t like I discovered I was some vile criminal– but in a way, I feel like that would have been a lot easier to explain to you than what I actually got,” Roy admitted, and he finally pulled back to look at Marth. “I remembered people, and places.”

Normally, Marth would have been elated to hear that Roy had remembered anything that concrete– though the weary confusion that weighed on Roy’s face sobered him, and he elected to let Roy continue uninterrupted. Roy’s eyes seemed to flick back and forth between Marth’s before finally dropping. “The problem was that none of them are anyone we’ve met, or on any map we’ve seen. They weren’t even in any of the history books we read back in Port Warren. But I remember them so clearly. The Kingdom of Bern, King Zephiel… and the man that Fafnir mentioned in Altea– Eliwood, my father.”

The topic lingered heavily between them, like an iron weight pressed on their chests; Roy was worried about what any of this could mean, whilst Marth wracked his brain for any pieces that could potentially fit together in his partner’s story. He had no shortage of them to work with now, after all.

Truly, Marth had begun to struggle quite considerably with the situation surrounding Roy— not that the prince would show it on his face. That would only happen occasionally, like it had just a moment ago. In full truth, however, Marth had been losing no small amount of sleep. The crystal on Roy’s body had been visibly causing him pain and discomfort, and even though Roy was quite apt to hide it, Marth had begun to notice. He just did not understand why, for perhaps far too long.

The more Marth learned, the more his errant thoughts became something more substantial, and he found himself wanting for answers. Roy was right– at no point in history that Marth knew of had there ever been a Kingdom of Bern. Their previous study session in the dusty library at Port Warren had been the perfect refresher for that. 

The problem was that Marth had no idea of what to do with this information. Roy seemed so certain.

Noticing Marth’s silence, Roy grimaced; he had begun to regret mentioning any of this in the first place. “I know I probably sound crazy, but…”

With a quick shake of his head, Marth interrupted, “No, you do not sound crazy. I just wish I had heard of any of those names… I cannot say that I have.”

Memories of places that didn’t exist, wars that had not been not waged, and people that neither lived nor died— that was all Roy had to work with. More and more he felt the gloom of it all creeping over him. Tender hands reached up to cup Roy’s cheeks, then, and drew him from the storm that threatened to pull him under.

The kind smile on Marth’s face was like a glimmer of sunshine through parting clouds. “I believe you, Roy.”

Simple words that carried the weight of the world. Weakness caused Roy’s lower lip to tremble before he pressed forward, wearily and perhaps selfishly with the wish that Marth would share some of his strength. To which Marth did, wholeheartedly.

When they parted, a nervous chuckle left Roy’s lips alongside his breath. Burning hotter than fire in his chest was a terrifyingly strong emotion that he could not— or would not— place. “Marth, I…”

He knew exactly what it was that he felt in that moment, but he forced the words back down his throat with a swallow. “Thank you.”

Dark azure eyes bore into Roy’s own, flicking back and forth thoughtfully as Marth considered his own reply. Then, after an agonising wait, they crinkled with a smile; forgoing further talk, Marth simply sealed his response with another kiss to Roy’s lips.

Roy was certainly not going to complain.

Eventually, after the two of them had untangled from one another and Marth had returned to dressing himself, Roy realised, “Oh. Jagen and Abel were waiting for you. I think they mentioned something about Malledus, too. For planning?”

As Marth clasped his sword to his belt, he gave a small nod. “Yes. We will be departing on the morrow and need to ensure we have our plans well put in place before we go.”

“Not wanting to give Grust any more time to anticipate us,” Roy half-questioned as Marth turned to him.

Fully dressed now in his ensemble, Marth truly did look the part of a prince. It was almost like looking a fairy tale in the face, and Roy couldn’t help but find Marth’s pleasant smile one worth returning.

“Yes,” Marth replied, “I daresay they already know we are here. There is little to be gained in making them wait.”

“At least in our favour, anyway,” Roy mused. “Makes sense. Do you want me to get started on making ready, then?”

“Would you be so kind?” Marth said fondly as he approached Roy once again. “I trust you have a good idea of what supply we might need.”

“I’ve got a fair idea of it,” Roy said.

“Then I would be grateful for your help, as always,” Marth replied, and a small flush teased Roy’s cheeks.

“Sure. You already know I’m happy to,” Roy said as he gave a weak rub at the back of his neck. The crystal-on-crystal made it hard to feel any of the contact, but that wasn’t going to stop him from being bashful. “Are you ready?”

“I have a couple more things to wrap up before speaking with Jagen, Malledus, and Abel,” Marth said, “So please don’t wait up on my account.”

Curiously, Roy’s brow twitched into a small quirk, though all his unasked question garnered was another sweet smile from Marth. So Roy gave a small shrug of his shoulders. “If you say so. I don’t want to keep you held up. I’ll see you later then?”

“I would want nothing more,” Marth replied kindly.

Less hesitant now, Roy offered Marth another small kiss on the cheek before he left, leaving Marth in the solitude of his tent with fingertips ghosting over the lingering sensation. His lips were twisted into a thoughtful yet troubled frown.

“The Kingdom of Bern… no, I am certain there are no kingdoms in history with such a name,” Marth whispered to himself, “Unless such a kingdom existed in the time before written history. But that was at least a thousand years ago…” 

Marth thoughtfully cupped his chin. Though he was young he was no fool, and over the course of Roy’s stay with their army, no few strange occurrences had happened— most of which notably surrounding the mysterious mercenary.

Once, Marth had figured the oddities began with Roy’s sudden transformation into a Fire Dragon in Pales— barring the already incredulous manner in which he had appeared at the port, when they first met. However, Roy’s crystalline affliction had made Marth reconsider their time together, and with that reconsideration he recognised another oddity from even before Pales: that being the slaying of Mannu, in Pyrathi. Roy’s sword had pierced the Fire Dragon’s skull to the hilt, before the beast erupted into crystals not unlike the ones on Roy’s very own body now.

“Could it be his sword?” Marth whispered, the concept revelatory.

But Roy had not been pierced with his own blade, had he? Surely not. The crystals appeared only after Roy’s transformation in Pales, after Marth had stabbed him with his rapier.

Marth’s fingers stalled on his chin. No, that wasn’t it.

The crystals had appeared before that. They had been on Roy’s body when he was still transformed . Marth could distinctly recall now how those strange crystalline growths had tugged at Roy’s amber hide as he rampaged about the Millennium Court.

But as far as Marth knew, there was only one dragon-slaying sword with power seemingly of such magnitude: Falchion. The weapon that Gharnef claims to have stolen and hidden away, that Marth was still desperately chasing down.

Was it possible that more than one such creation existed? After all, the Falchion was no solitary gift; the Fire Emblem and Falchion together were a complete force according to legend. So already there were two known relics of extreme power.

Who was to say there couldn’t be a third? It had been immediately obvious to Marth and his comrades at the time of finding Roy that his sword was oddly remarkable. So much so in fact that they had assumed him a skilled mercenary, which is why Marth had offered him a place in his army in the first place.

And by the way Fafnir had responded, with nothing short of panicked vitriol, after being injured by it— Marth’s curious hunch was beginning to seem more and more reasonable by the second.

Marth’s heart practically dropped at the thought. If it were true, he would have a lot of considerations to make. Like why Roy would even have a weapon so legendary in the first place. Or how one could even combat the effects of it.

Though for now, all Marth had was conjecture. Roy still was without his full memories, so there was little prodding Marth could do there to learn more. Not to mention, he would not want to panic Roy, especially if his theory was incorrect.

Perhaps he should pay a visit to Bantu to discuss it instead. Out of everyone in the Akaneian League, the old manakete was probably Marth’s best bet at getting to the bottom of this dilemma.

He would have to do that after his strategic meeting with Jagen and the others, however. They had been waiting on him to arrive for long enough.

Chapter Text

It had been difficult to concentrate during the preparatory meeting.

Marth was unquestionably preoccupied with the thoughts of his earlier conversation with Roy. As Marth exited the tent, his gaze cast low and critical, he busied himself with staring at the dirt beneath his feet and he walked. Perhaps it was dangerous to ponder too hard on the details but he was unable to pull himself free from theory’s tempting grasp.

Though it was doing him little good based on the knowledge he had currently. With all he knew from Roy, as sparse and contextless as it was, Marth could only come to a few different conclusions– all of which were seemingly a bit far-fetched. Roy was a curious case, though, so it was possible the scale of what would normally be far-fetched was skewed.

That was what Marth was trying to tell himself, anyway, as he considered his outlandish conclusions. Regardless of what way he looked at the circumstances, the only theories that made any amount of sense were either that Roy had somehow travelled through time, woken from a slumber like Tiki’s, or was from somewhere else entirely. 

However, each of those theories had their own issues.

Marth had never heard of any magic powerful enough to rip someone from one point of time and place them into another. He struggled to believe such a magic could exist in the first place at all, for if it did, someone would have exploited it by now. Like Medeus, or Gharnef.

Roy was also unlike Tiki. The girl was a full-blooded Divine Dragon, meanwhile Roy was only part Ice Dragon. Was it even possible for a part-dragon to fall into a slumber like Tiki’s, and live long enough to make it to the point in time they were in now? If this Kingdom of Bern had existed, it would have needed to be from at least hundreds of years ago, where history had become far less clear. That would have meant that Roy, as a part-manakete, somehow lived for hundreds of years without ageing past what he appears to be now. That did not seem possible, even with Marth’s admittedly limited knowledge of Manaketes and Dragonkind.

Finally, the concept of Roy being from an entirely different place seemed to be the most outlandish of them all. At first Marth thought it was possible that Roy was from the continent of Valentia, as Marth was not entirely familiar with that land, but from what he could recall of it, the Kingdom of Bern did not exist there, either. When he had asked Jagen and Malledus of it just earlier they had confirmed, albeit confusedly, that they had never heard of a Kingdom of Bern in either Akaneia or Valentia. So that only left him with one other option: that being world-hopping. If the concept of time-hopping magic was absurd, world-hopping would be even more so. Not only would that imply that a magic so incredibly strong existed and that one could traverse the worlds with it, but it would also imply there were more worlds out there than just Marth’s own.

He frowned deeply as he continued his way down the path, and decided then and there that he should finally pay a visit to Bantu. Marth had yet to speak with Bantu since they set up camp, so he politely asked around to see where he was, and was eventually pointed in the right direction. Apparently, Bantu had been keeping himself scarce as of late, opting to stay inside or about his own tent. Marth could hardly blame him for that; even being a Manakete, it was probably quite hard for Bantu to travel quite so much at his age. It made Marth all the more grateful for Bantu’s help.

As Marth neared his destination, however, he noticed that Bantu was not only standing outside, but also that he was not alone. Xane was there with him, and the two seemed to be engrossed in conversation.

For a moment Marth considered whether or not he should just come back another time, though Xane seemed unbothered as he beamed at the approaching prince. “Princey! Good afternoon!”

Marth smiled politely, letting the pet name roll off his shoulders as he always did. “Good afternoon Xane, Bantu. I hope I am not interrupting.”

“Not at all,” Bantu replied before Xane could utter another peep. “In fact, you have come at a great time.”

Marth gave Bantu a curious tilt of the head, and Xane clapped his hands together in front of himself as he proclaimed, “That’s right! Your timing is impeccable, Princey. You see, we just finished our own conversation.”

It was obvious enough that whatever it was the two of them had been talking about was not a subject to be shared with Marth, so the young prince simply gave the pair a nod before he turned to Bantu. “If that’s the case, then I wish to speak with you on matters surrounding Roy, Bantu.”

Marth failed to notice the intrigued glint in Xane’s eyes.

“Roy?” Bantu questioned slowly, his brows raised beneath the shade of his hood, “I may give you what insights I have, though I cannot promise anything. Is this about his illness?”

“Which one?” Xane commented lightheartedly.

For once, Marth could only entertain Xane’s joke with a worried frown. “Both of them. The amnesia as well as the crystallisation.”

Bantu hummed thoughtfully. “Prince Marth, I am not certain if I will be of much help, but I can certainly try.”

“That’s all I can ask for,” Marth responded. “Thank you, Bantu. May we have this conversation inside?”

Xane tugged the flap to Bantu’s tent out of the way and gestured inside, smiling as coyly as he always did with a quiet bid to enter. Bantu was the first to go in, followed by Marth and Xane, and before long, the three of them were standing in the dim light of Bantu’s sleeping quarters. The elderly Manakete lit a lamp then to help.

“So, what is it that you wished to ask me about, Prince Marth?” Bantu asked as he busied himself with adjusting the wick of the lamp.

Marth watched the flame as it grew, hungrily feeding on more of the wick as it was exposed. “I suppose I would ask firstly, have you ever heard of a place by the name of Bern? More specifically, the Kingdom of Bern?”

“I am afraid not,” Bantu responded, and Marth could feel his heart sink for the second time that day.

“I see,” Marth mumbled. It seems he would have to go back to the drawing board, then. “Then I suppose you would not have heard of anything else I would have thought to ask.”

“Why not ask and find out?” Xane chimed in as he laced his fingers together behind his head, stretching his arms so that his elbows pointed into the air. “You never know. Bantu’s old, maybe he just forgot.”

Bantu only gave an unbothered smile at Xane’s jape, and Marth gave an uncertain glance between the two of them before nodding. “I suppose, then, it is worth a try. A few others that were mentioned, this time people, were King Zephiel– who I supposed was the King of Bern– and then Eliwood, who is Roy’s father.”

Noticing the troubled grimace on Bantu’s face, it was clear that he had never heard of those names, either. So Marth thought once again. “The only other names he said that he could remember, for some reason, were the names of Aenir and Fafnir. Apparently they were the two children of an Ice Dragon.”

That got a response, though not from Bantu. Unseen by Marth, Xane’s fingers stalled in their strumming on the back of his head, and his arms grew rigid. Those were names that Bantu had heard by now, certainly; though it was not because Bantu had met them.

“Those names are certainly familiar,” Bantu mused. “Children of the primogenitor Ice Dragon, Tiamir. Her daughter and son, respectively.”

Marth perked up immediately at that. Finally, he had a lead. “The children of the… primogenitor Ice Dragon. Is she still alive?”

“No,” Bantu said. “Unfortunately she was killed many years ago.”

Marth’s fists clenched lightly at his sides. So that matched with what Roy had told him. Whatever he had seen then must not have been a nightmare, then, but an actual vision of the past. “When did she die?”

Bantu tilted his head back as if in thought. “I cannot remember now. Though it has been at least a thousand years.”

Marth considered this new information. So the vision Roy had was of something that had happened at least a thousand years ago– but if that was his mother’s Dragonstone, and his mother’s name was Ninian, then he could not have been from that long ago. Right?

Which would take the theory of time-travelling magic immediately out of the equation.

“And since Roy is only part-dragon, is it possible for him to go into a sleep like Tiki?” Marth asked suddenly, not really caring to thread that thought in with the last.

“No,” Bantu replied. “He has more human blood in his veins than Dragon’s blood. I’m afraid that, even if he did get put into such a sleep, he would be more likely to grow old or die. Though I suppose I have never seen someone such as Roy, so I cannot say for certain. I would be surprised, however, if he could slumber such as Tiki does.”

Marth only gave a silent nod at that. So, that took the long sleep mostly out of the equation as well.

That only really left Marth with one other theory. The one that was the most absurd of all, though eerily the most fitting. However, those were waters he wished not to tread just yet– mainly for himself. Besides, there was no shortage of other questions to ask. Such as the matter of Roy’s weapon.

“Then I hope you do not mind a small switch in subject,” Marth said. “Falchion was a weapon made for the express purpose of slaying and sealing away dragons. Were there any more that were created like that? Or was it just Falchion?”

With a thoughtful hum, Bantu nodded. “There were other weapons made, such as a sword that was sent off to Valentia. Though as far as weapons go that stayed here in Akaneia, I cannot think of any. That does not mean they cannot exist, however. A very long time has passed since their creation.”

A sword sent off to Valentia– Marth’s expression must have given away his surprise, as Xane suddenly felt the need to interject. “You know, I have heard tales of many impressive weapons in my past travels. What’s causin’ you to ask about that, Princey?”

“Well, I’m wondering if it’s possible that Roy could have been affected by something of that sort,” Marth replied, opting to keep the suspicion of Roy’s own weapon out of his comment. “I have just never heard of the Falchion turning dragons to crystal.”

“That is curious,” Bantu mused.

“Hm,” Xane feigned to think as he turned, trotting to the side a few steps. He stared upwards towards the roof of the tent, where a small spider had begun to spin a web in the corner. “I think I’ve heard of a weapon like that before. Or at least the tales of one.”

Surprised, Marth immediately gave Xane his full attention. “You have?”

“It’s a tall tale, I must admit. Even for someone like me,” Xane said, “But yes. Called the Sword of Seals, or the Binding Blade? Either of which suits your fancy, they both mean the same thing.”

“The Binding Blade… have you any more information about it?” Marth asked, now wholly interested.

“Not much,” Xane replied. “But I remember hearing bardic tales of that sword, with a power more frightening than even the Falchion! Apparently, it could burn hot like a torch and kill dragons with even a single seemingly negligible scratch to their hide. Of course that would be a drawn-out death, but death nonetheless.”

Marth’s blood ran cold at the tale. It was vague, yet chilling. “How have I not heard of a weapon of such calibre?”

Xane only shrugged before he loosened his hands from behind his head, and dropped his arms back to his sides. “Not sure. I can only suspect it’s because if people knew about it, they’d be fightin’ to have it. Wars worse than the one we’re fightin’ right now to get the Falchion back, I would guess. A weapon that could be used by anyone, to kill dragons indiscriminately, with so little as a nick? That’s a recipe for disaster.”

His tone twisted into one as lighthearted as his smile now as he added, “Or the sword is totally just a legend. That too. Like I said, I heard of it from some bardic tale. It’s more likely that it just doesn’t exist at all!”

Marth’s own witnessing of the events in Pyrathi betrayed Xane’s assumption of mythology, however. Roy’s weapon had caught fire before he stabbed Mannu, and immediately after that, the terrifying Fire Dragon had been turned to naught but crystalline dust.

“I’m not so sure about that,” Marth mumbled, though mostly to himself, and a tense silence followed.

Bantu gave a deep clear of his throat, breaking the silence, “Is there anything else you wished to ask, Prince Marth?”

Marth took a moment to consider before shaking his head. “No, that was all, I think.”

He hesitated, then. No, this would probably be the best time to ask. “Actually– and I apologise if this might seem strange– is our world the only one to exist?”

The question lingered, and with each passing second Marth began to feel less and less certain of whether or not it was actually a wise idea to broach the subject. He probably sounded like a fool.

“I often wonder that myself,” Bantu finally responded, and the tightness in Marth’s chest immediately released upon hearing the elderly man speak. “Long ago, I wholeheartedly believed there to be more out there than just our own world. Though I am uncertain if that is the case anymore.”

“But what a strange question to ask,” Xane suddenly added, his hands to his hips. “Has our Princey’s eyes been set to rule more than just Akaneia, now?”

Immediately Marth prickled– a pervasive emotion he rarely felt rear its ugly head– and he shot Xane a conflicted look. “No, that isn’t it at all. I don’t even have my eyes set on Akaneia.”

The two of them stared at one another for a few moments, before Xane finally leaned back with a hum. “My apologies, Princey. It’s just an odd topic of interest, so I felt the need to ask.”

“It’s–” Marth took a small noseful of breath before exhaling, “it’s no trouble, Xane. I was just curious if Bantu had any insights, is all. He has a wider breadth of knowledge than I ever could.”

“Well,” Bantu started, drawing the pair’s attention back to him, “All I know is that there once was a time where Dragonkind was abundant, and some of those Dragons claimed to be from places beyond Akaneia. Whether they were from different worlds, or simply different continents, is beyond my knowledge. Though I do not think you a fool for asking the question or considering the possibility.”

At the very least, Bantu’s encouraging outlook on the matter helped serve to make Marth feel better. “Thank you, Bantu. I suppose it’s something worth looking into more as time goes on. I appreciate all you have shared with me.”

“Any time,” Bantu said. “I only wish I could be of more help.”

“No, you have helped plenty,” Marth reassured. “Both of you, for that matter. Thank you.”

Xane offered Marth a toothy smile. “‘Course, Princey. Glad you found my little bard’s tale worthy of thanks.”

Marth offered the two of them a polite farewell, not wanting to impose for any longer than he needed to. With an animated wave from Xane, Marth ducked out of Bantu’s tent to head elsewhere– leaving Xane and Bantu alone.

Xane was unable to look away from the space where Marth had last been standing, the chipper smile all but absent on his features now. His brows were pulled together and his lips were pressed taut as he was consumed by his own thoughts. Anxiety bubbled in his chest in a way that Xane had long become numb to, though this time, he found himself unable to mask it with his usual lighthearted smile. “Bantu. Do you have a moment?”

Bantu, who had gone to calmly tend to his own supplies, responded without even sparing Xane a sideways glance. “My, I was wondering when you would find it within yourself to speak once again.”

Coming to a stiff halt, Xane stopped mid-turn as he stared at Bantu. “I– sorry, Bantu. It’s just–”

“There’s no reason to apologise,” Bantu calmly interrupted as he stood as straightly as he could, before he turned to Xane. “I can tell something is weighing quite heavily on your mind. With another battle on the horizon, now is certainly not the time to be so frantic. Tell me, what is it?”

Bantu’s question hung in the air, and all Xane could do for a time was gnaw at his lower lip. Considering Xane had already deigned to bother Bantu earlier whilst the older man was already busy, and Bantu had offered Xane his ear, backing out of the conversation now that the two of them were alone again would not be proper of him. Beset now with worry, he let out a deep breath.

“I knew Roy’s story had too many loose ends,” Xane started, cutting straight to the point. “When I first met him on the battlefield in Altea, I could tell, right away then, what he was. I didn’t want to believe it at the time, but I just had to know for certain. So I tried to pester him about it in a way he wouldn’t suspect me, back when we were all having tea.”

“His story about showing up suddenly, having amnesia, all of it just lent more credence to my theory,” Xane continued, his voice lowering to a vulnerable mumble, “But I still didn’t want to believe it, even with all the evidence staring me dead in the face.”

Bantu silently waited, watching closely as the gears in Xane’s head continued to turn. Xane’s stomach sank as his surroundings became blurred and muffled, his train of thought only taking him down deeper rabbit holes. “ But now Marth’s here asking questions about dragon-slaying weapons and other worlds.”

“An unexpected development for you, I would wager,” Bantu said.

Xane swallowed his breath, then gave a reluctant nod. “Yes. And no one else has seemed to notice except for us other dragons– in differing degrees– that Roy’s aura is different. It’s powerful. Really powerful.”

“And familiar,” Bantu asked, though his question came as more of an addition to Xane’s statement.

Denial rounded back to Xane at that moment, and he grit his teeth as he tried to think his way out of the logical conclusion he kept coming to. “But that would be impossible. To be a descendant of Tiamir? If that’s true, then that could only mean that Roy’s from…”

Xane’s hands balled into tight fists at his sides as he stared intensely down at the ground in front of him. It had not been long after he joined with Marth’s forces that he had seen both Roy and the enemy Divine Dragon Manakete. At the time, Xane did not want to believe what he felt, or what he heard and saw. Even now, he found himself struggling to accept it.

There was no way that Roy could be from Elibe.

If that were true, then the dragon that had attacked them in Altea couldn’t have simply been another Divine Dragon that had escaped here all those years ago, who had run away from the Scouring. If he had been, then surely he would have died by now, or gone mad just like any of the other Divine Dragons that had refused to fall into slumber or throw away their Dragonstones.

That meant that both of them had travelled to Akaneia through the Dragon’s Gate, and recently.

The reality of the situation fully gripped Xane at that moment, and his voice wavered. “Oh, this is truly disastrous. Do these events dare to imply that the Scouring has yet to cease? ”

For the first time in many long years, the joyful facade that Xane had worked so hard to perfect fractured, and his surroundings now became blurred by his tears. “I had my suspicions, yet for them to be confirmed like this… I feel no joy. Only sorrow. Immense sorrow, Bantu.”

Bantu remained quiet for a time, allowing Xane’s thoughts room to breathe, before finally speaking again. “You had wished for both man and Dragonkind of your world to one day see peace, even if you were not there to see it with them. I remember you telling me this, many years ago, when we first met– and after you threw away your own Dragonstone.”

“I was so young then, and so angry. Why did I have to be one of the dragons that were taken away, to some other world, when our own was being destroyed by the greedy and power-hungry?” Xane reached out to look at the palm of his hand. He could still see the vision of his Divine Dragonstone in his palm, right before he had thrown it away into the sea. “I felt so guilty about it all, that I decided if I would never be able to use my Dragonstone to save my own world, I had no reason to keep it. I did not deserve to keep it.”

The animosity Xane felt all those years ago swelled in his chest, twisting and churning like a pressure that fought to break free. He brought his hand to his heart and grasped at his tunic, knotting his fingers tightly into the red fabric as he was thrust right back into the thick of it all. “And do not think that I did not recognise that Divine Dragon’s name, Fafnir. When we were children– he had been such a kind boy, just like his parents, and his sister. We had been friends."

Xane's throat constricted as he remembered days long gone, and of youngling dragons that he had forced himself to forget. The hollow echoes of jovial laughter drowned out in his ears by the screams and cries of fear, of hatred, of loss. "That the son of Jormungandr and Tiamir now fights his very own family? Could their deaths truly have twisted Fafnir so much that even after all these years he would still be wanting vengeance? Does he even realise in his hatred, what he does? ”

It had been a very long time since Xane had cried– the last time being the day he had decided to throw away his Dragonstone, into the cold dark waters of the Akaneian Ocean. With his Dragonstone fell the last tear he had ever shed, and after countless years he had assumed that well all but dry.

Yet now they had returned in full force, and he could not stop them from coming. “I told Roy that I did not regret throwing away my Dragonstone. At the time I did not realise that I had been playing myself for a fool, Bantu. An utter fool. Now I am facing the consequences. What power I had, I threw away in a fit of immaturity. I thought I was making a point, making a stand– proclaiming that I would choose a different path–”

Xane vigorously shook his head as he brought the back of his hand to touch the bridge of his nose, covering his eyes. “Yet now I see my actions for what they really were. They were the acts of a coward. One who chose to run away, just like my parents had when the Dragon’s Gate first opened. The Scouring has returned, standing before me and wearing the visage of a long-lost friend, and I can do nothing to stop it.”

As Xane sobbed, he felt little relief. The walls he had so carefully built up around himself, ones that had taken a thousand years to erect, had begun to crumble away like dust on the wind, leaving him no shelter from the storm. He had spent a thousand years lying to himself. The smile that he had practised for so long tricked not only others, but also himself, into believing it was real. Yet it was nothing more than a cover.

“And what will you do about it now? Once these rains have ceased,” Bantu asked surprisingly firmly, instantly snapping Xane’s attention towards him with a confused stare. “Take the time that you need to come to terms with not just your actions, but how you feel. You are allowed to feel regret, Xane. However, what matters most going forward is what you choose to do with it.”

With a rub of his sleeve against his eyes, Xane attempted to dry his face and regain some level of composure. Crying was certainly not an action he was familiar or comfortable with anymore. “Whatever do you mean by that?”

Bantu reached into his sleeve, only to pull out the Geosphere– with energy that shined like the stars just beneath its polished, jadelike surface. “What I mean, is that while your regret is understandable, you need not use it to cause any further harm to yourself than it already has. Allow it this time to exist, here, as it is owed that time to be heard and felt just as any other emotion would be.”

Bantu’s gaze lifted from the Geosphere, to look Xane right in the eyes. “Though upon leaving this tent, only allow it to serve you as a tool from then on out. Perhaps these may just be the musings of a hopeful old dragon, but I would like to think that you still have all the strength you need to make a difference. You might just need a little push or two, and as poor the circumstances may be, both Roy and Fafnir have proven to be quite the combined force in that regard.”

Taken aback, Xane grew rigid, and after a stunned silence he could only manage a small mutter, “Bantu…”

The wrinkles on Bantu’s face deepend as he smiled warmly at Xane. “I am not saying to run out there and bare your full truth to the world just yet. The right time to do so will present itself to you in due time. Of that, I am certain. That was why you had made certain to quietly pluck the Geosphere from the Fane of Raman before we departed, is that not right?”

Bantu then lowered his arm, and his hand retreated back into the burgundy fabric of his sleeve, alongside the Geosphere. “In the meantime, I believe Roy may also be in need of a little push as well, and I could think of none better suited to the task than you, Xane.”

Silence fell as Xane took the time to consider Bantu’s words, though eventually he let out a bitter chuckle. “Bantu, my old friend, now you give me too much credit. How am I to bring a smile to the face of a forlorn friend when I have failed to even convince myself of my own gaiety?”

With a low hum, Bantu turned back towards what few supplies he had been sorting. “That is where you misunderstand, Xane. I am not suggesting you bring to him levity, but clarity. More than anything, I believe that is what Roy and Marth need right now. Just as you did.”

If Roy truly had come to this land from Elibe, through the Dragon’s Gate, Bantu was right. No one else in the Akaneian League was in the position that Xane was– not even Marth, who was trying to put the pieces together despite this. However, on the rare chance that Xane’s observations were completely wrong, he would feel even more like a fool for getting himself worked up over nothing.

As if sensing Xane’s trepidation, Bantu spoke. “Xane. You have already spent a thousand years doubting your own judgement. I believe you owe it to yourself to trust it– even if it’s just this once.”

The air in the tent was uncomfortably humid, practically sweltering under Xane’s scarf as he hooked one of his fingers around the cloth. He gave it an absentminded tug as he ducked his head, opting not to reply as he abruptly turned and trudged towards the exit. Intent on leaving, he reached out to take the thick fabric into his hand– though he paused as his fingertips lingered on its surface. His voice was barely audible as he whispered, “Thank you.”

Electing not to wait for Bantu’s reply, Xane swiftly exited the tent– though not without the faintest of smiles.

It was time to go track down Roy.

Chapter Text

Even though the war with Grust was on the horizon, the air around the Akaneian League’s encampment was relatively light. For most, they kept themselves busy with the preparations for the upcoming clash, or spending time with their comrades whilst they still had the opportunity. Lighthearted banter and laughter brought much needed comfort to the weary soldiers’ souls. After all, there would be more than enough time to be serious come the morrow, when they had intended to begin their march on Grust proper.

Though that easiness was not felt by all: Roy being one such example. War was certainly weighing heavily on his mind, much like everyone else– though not the one currently at hand. After the nightmare he had the previous evening, he found himself unable to focus on anything but the horrific vision of what appeared to have been a war waged long in the past, and the brutal murder of a dragon betrayed. Even though he had spent time that morning talking to Marth about it, that had done little to alleviate its demand on his attention.

Her voice played over and over again in his mind, as if he had truly experienced her horror first-hand. Her failed attempts at making peace with her aggressors disturbed and depressed him more and more as the day went by.

In fact, the dark cloud of sadness hung so heavily over Roy’s head that others at camp had noticed, and had begun to wonder amongst one another. However, no matter who asked, Roy would answer them all the exact same way: with a dismissal of their concerns, punctuated by a weak and unconvincing smile. Even the cheerful nudging of Tiki did little to soothe his woes, and all she could do was look on from afar as Roy was diligently sorting out healing supplies just across the way. 

She had immediately called upon the wise counsel of Xane when she had failed to lighten Roy’s mood. Luckily for her, apparently Xane had been looking for Roy as well, and was more than happy to answer her request for help. Though even Xane had been oddly quiet as he considered Roy’s far-off demeanour.

“Do you think we should ask Mar-Mar?” Tiki eventually asked, her ears practically drooping as she did. “Maybe he could help?”

Xane, who had still been standing beside her, spared her a smile and gave her a pat on the head. “I dare say that our princey is probably still busy with planning tomorrow’s move. It might not be the right time to bother him.”

For once, Tiki allowed Xane to pat her head without brushing him off. Clearly the small manakete girl was worried about her friend. “But what will we do? Ro-Ro looks so sad, and Mar-Mar always knows how to cheer him up. They’re always smiling when they’re together.”

With a thoughtful hum, Xane rolled his eyes to look upwards towards the skies overhead. It was a beautiful day, with nary a cloud in the sky– far too nice of a day to be spent sulking. He had already done that more than enough earlier when he was with Bantu. A curious smile curled at his lips and he tilted his chin down to look at Tiki, his hand stilling on her head as he did so. “I think I might have an idea. Though it might take me a bit of time to convince our lovely princey to shirk his work. Think you can keep your eye on our mopey manakete in the meanwhile?”

The way Tiki’s eyes practically sparkled made Xane grin only wider– the girl’s enthusiasm truly was contagious– and she gave an excitable nod. “Okay! I’ll watch him!”

“Good! I’m counting on you, Tiki!” Xane practically bounded backwards, maintaining a toothy grin, before he spun on his feet and began to walk away.

However, the moment his back was to both Tiki and Roy and he had created some distance between himself and them, his smile twisted into a frown. As he weaved through the camp, around various tents as well as his comrades– to which he feigned a happy greeting– his mind was once again wracking possibilities that he never thought he would need to consider.

Xane would not expect anyone else to have sensed what he did, standing there and watching Roy as he had been. Or if they had sensed it, he would not have expected them to understand its significance– like the innocent Tiki, for example– but he did. For a while now, he had suspected no small number of possibilities regarding Roy, their mysterious manakete friend; though Xane had been trying to ignore it, the most impossible possibility was the most plausible one now.

Roy really was from Elibe. That was what Xane’s judgement was telling him now.

But Roy couldn’t remember a lick of it, that much was abundantly clear. So Xane would need to devise a plan to nudge him in the right direction, just like Bantu had advised he should.

Thankfully, he had the perfect idea in mind. All he had to do was act on it now.

During this time, Roy had been caught sulking during their pre-march check of inventory by none other than Cain. After having been informed of the situation by Tiki, who had been waiting for Xane to return and was watching Roy like a dejected pup, Cain had decided to take matters into his own hands. Thankfully he had been able to distract the young girl by enticing her to run off to help Caeda with the pegasi, leaving him with full, unsupervised reign over interrogating his friend.

The cheery cavalier had strolled up afterward, grinning from ear to ear as he gave Roy a hearty clap on the back, earning him a low grunt. “Hey, Roy! Seriously, the long face does not suit you. Is something up?”

“No,” Roy grimaced, punctuated with a dismissive shake of his head. He straightened his hold on the bag of medical supplies in his arms, intent on ignoring his comrade as he continued on about his work. “I just didn’t sleep particularly well is all. It’s nothing to worry about.”

Cain, however, was having none of it; the cavalier slapped his hand firmly on the top of the supply sack, stopping Roy’s movement, and he gave Roy a firm frown. For a moment, neither of them said a word as Cain searched Roy’s eyes, noting every crease and irritated blood vessel. His voice lowered considerably, being mindful enough to keep their conversation more private. “You’re not a very good liar, man. Never have been. You’ve been moping about all day, and even though you don't have to tell me exactly what’s up, promise me that at the very least, you reach out to me or… anyone else, if it’s something that bad. Alright?”

Left uncomfortably speechless, Roy could only stare at Cain as the other man refused to look away or remove his hand. Since Roy was more or less stuck, and still far too polite to just shove Cain aside even though he was feeling less than social, he just let out a sigh of defeat. “Alright. Thank you, Cain.”

Having expected the weight of Cain’s hand to lift from the supply bag, Roy tried to move, though Cain only patted his hand down firmer. A discerning scowl pulled at Cain’s lips as he narrowed his eyes almost comically at Roy, and even though his friend’s expression was one made in jest, Roy couldn’t help but look away as an uncomfortable bubble of guilt and frustration festered in him.

The sound of approaching footsteps halted whatever Cain had been planning to do just then, and the relief Roy felt the moment he heard Xane’s voice chime in was palpable. “Leave Roy-boy alone, would ya? Can’t our dashing mercenary sulk in peace?”

As Xane took Cain’s arm and tugged it away, with Cain immediately sputtering to let him go, he sent Roy a wink. “Don’t worry, I’ll protect your rugged and charming character.”

Though the weight was no longer blocking Roy from moving, he couldn’t help but get caught on his words. “I– I don’t think I would call myself rugged.”

“Ah, yet you didn’t argue against the ‘dashing’ or ‘charming!’” Xane grinned, before he was cut off by Cain violently yanking his arm free. Xane stumbled with a gasp, before he quickly righted himself and continued as if nothing had happened. “That’s why the princey likes you so much, of course. I don’t think he’s into the rugged type!”

Thoroughly caught off-guard, Roy could feel his cheeks heat up– and in a vain attempt to save face, he turned away from his two comrades to go back to organising the medical supplies. Xane threw his arms behind his head and gave Cain a triumphant, toothy grin– to which the cavalier, no longer supposedly vexed, returned.

However, after depositing the supplies he had over into the properly sorted pile, Roy then turned on his heel to look towards the pair. His cheeks were certainly still flushed with embarrassment, he could tell, but he attempted a serious facade as he stared them down. “If you have time to congratulate yourselves, you have time to help me organise the rest of the supplies.”

The way that Xane and Cain were positively beaming as Roy stared them down made it painfully obvious to him that he was just as bad at physically lying as he was verbally lying. Thankfully the two spared him any further grief though as they immediately went to work alongside him without another word on the subject.

There was no shortage of small-talk, though, between the men as they organised, with Xane and Cain doing the heavy lifting in that regard. As Cain passed off another pack of supplies to Roy, he asked, “So, why’d you even join up with the Akaneian League in the first place, Xane? Not that I’m not happy to have you with us or anything, just curious.”

“Well, considering the princey let me out of the gaol, I figured it was the least I could do,” Xane replied thoughtfully, the feather on his head bobbing as he hoisted up a bag, “And it’s certainly a lot more fun travelling with the lot of you than being alone. Besides, I’ve made some lovely friends– like Roy-boy, here.”

Feigning hurt, Cain sneered, “Just Roy? What are the rest of us, then, chopped liver?”

Xane laughed cheerfully. “Oh on the contrary, you’re all quite great. I just took a particular liking to that one there.”

As if sensing Xane’s eyes on him, Roy’s attention shifted to his left– and sure enough, he had caught the attention of the peculiar man. In that moment, however, Roy surprisingly noted a strange mood buried beneath the smiley glint in Xane’s eyes. Was it fear? No, not quite fear–

“You better be careful saying something like that,” Cain responded to Xane, which immediately snapped Roy’s focus in half like a twig. “I have a promise to Prince Marth, you know, as his knight. If you try to get in the way of… whatever it is those two have going on, you’ll absolutely be hearing about it from me!”

“Oh, please! Anything but The Bull of Altea’s horns, I could never survive such a terrible fate,” Xane teased as he acted the part of a frightened maiden, tossing his head back with his hand to his forehead. He laughed heartily at the cavalier’s resulting embarrassed stutter, before he looked back at Roy. “Though on the subject of you, would you have some time to train with me this afternoon? After we’re done here?”

Roy was completely unable to mask his surprise at Xane’s question. “Train? With me?”

Not once had Xane ever asked him to train together; in fact, Roy wasn’t even sure if he had ever seen Xane practise his swordsmanship at all. Though Xane only gave Roy a jovial nod, as if his request had been the most normal one in the world. Roy was puzzled, but had no real reason to turn down the request. “I… sure, we can train together. After this is done.”

With a cheeky trill, Xane shot Cain a triumphant look. “Excellent! Then let’s stop dawdling and get to work, Cain. I won’t have my training cut short!”

“Dawdling? You’re saying I’m the one who’s dawdling?” Cain shot back. Just like that, the two had restarted their lighthearted bickering.

Roy felt a little bit better than he had before as he listened to the pair and continued to work on organising. Somehow their unconventional way of teasing him, and each other, had actually managed to lighten his mood. Roy realised he would have to thank them later– way later, though. There was absolutely no way he was going to further fan the duo’s flames right now.

Luckily, with multiple sets of hands, the medical supplies were sorted and prepared for tomorrow’s departure far more quickly than initially anticipated. Since other preparations were being handled by other teams, Roy found himself fortunate with some free time– which had already been claimed by the exceedingly peculiar Xane. As Roy fastened his sword at his hip, the familiar sprightly gait of his comrade caught his ears, and he spared the approaching man a brief greeting, which was much more enthusiastically returned. After taking a moment to ensure Roy had grabbed everything he needed, the two men began their trek down the paths of the encampment.

Xane threw both of his hands behind his neck and interlocked his fingers. “So, what were you wanting to practise today, Roy-boy? Anything?”

Roy gave a few of their comrades– Jeorge and Gordin– a polite wave as they passed by. “Well, I wasn’t originally planning to train today. But you wanted to train with me now, so, did you have something specific in mind?”

Xane hummed as he tilted his head back into the comfort of his arms. “Not really! I don’t exactly train.”

At his admission, Roy immediately shot him a sceptical look– though he held his tongue. The way that Xane was looking off, just above the tents and into the distant sky, spoke louder to Roy than Xane probably realised it did.

Or, perhaps he did realise it– Xane’s eyes caught Roy’s, and he offered a faint, weary smile to his suspicious friend. “We can figure it out when we find where we wanna go, eh? Don’t want to let our friends know just how little I actually know about fighting.”

The silence that followed weighed heavy with unasked questions, though Roy supposed they would have to wait. After it all, it seemed like Xane was willing to tell him whatever it was that was clearly on his mind– he just wanted the privacy to do it.

So, the pair finally left the campground with their weapons at their sides, and found a private enough place to train just beyond a nearby treeline. It was far enough from the encampment that others would be unable to see or hear them, but near enough that they could return swiftly if they were needed.

At first, the two of them did actually train, much to Roy’s surprise. In fact, Xane had been the one to pull his blade first– though it had been clear as their weapons clashed that Xane’s mind had been preoccupied with something other than improving his swordsmanship. 

In Xane’s defence, however, their practise was far from the first thing on Roy’s mind as well. With a firm swipe of Roy’s arm, his blade sliced through the wind with a low whistle. Over and over again, he practised different types of strikes– trying but failing to keep his mind focused on his training.

Roy’s forearms had begun to protest his constant, aggressive movements. Sweat beaded on his brow and cheeks, weighing at the roots of his hairline as he grunted and thrust forward with the heavy steel of his blade. With a low clang, the two men’s swords clashed for probably the hundredth time that afternoon. Yet neither of them pulled back to strike again, and Roy’s chest heaved as he held his weapon fully extended. It trembled in his grasp as the tendons in his fingers threatened to give way.

They had sparred for long enough. At this rate, Roy wouldn't be able to even stand in the morning, let alone march on Grust. Besides, the stormy look on Xane’s face was hard to miss, and Roy wanted to know what was bothering his friend so much. "Xane, can... we pause?"

Seemingly okay with the idea, Xane refrained from closing the distance between them, and Roy was silently thankful. Even with the clear ulterior motive for their time together this afternoon, Roy was about ready to throw in the towel. It was good that he wouldn't have to. 

With a dry swallow, Roy finally allowed his arm to drop, and the tip of his blade cut into the ground near his foot, turning into a firm crutch. For a time, he simply allowed his head to hang as he caught his breath– with the only thing burning hotter than his lungs being the pain in the backs of his eyes. Wearily, he brought his free hand to the bridge of his nose and pinched at it, and he rubbed at his eyelids with his fingers to soothe the ache. He was exhausted, but he cared enough about his comrade to try to help if he could.

"I'm sorry if I'm making a... wild assumption here," Roy started, "but you weren't wanting to just come out here to spar with me, were you? Something's on your mind."

A half-practised chuckle escaped Xane at that. Roy seemed to be as perceptive as ever; though Xane hadn't been particularly subtle either, he supposed. With the two of them half a minute from keeling over, Xane figured it was probably a good enough time as any to cut to the chase. “You're right, I... had a question. Do you know Tiamir?”

Every muscle in Roy’s body tensed, and had it not been for the surprise he felt at Xane’s question, he probably would’ve been crippled by the pain beneath the crystal on his skin. His voice came out as a hoarse croak. “What?”

“Tiamir,” Xane repeated, “Does that name… ring any bells to you?”

For some reason, that name put Roy on edge. Goosebumps had blossomed on his uncrystallised arm and his throat felt tight. He tried to navigate the bizarre spike of anxiety he suddenly felt; it was almost like he was feeling someone else's emotions again.

“I’m sorry, Xane,” Roy managed. “It doesn’t. Is that what you came out here to ask me about?”

Xane scowled as his chin sunk behind his scarf. If Roy didn’t know about her, then maybe he was wrong after all– maybe the energy he felt radiating from Roy before was just a mistake. It had been a long time, after all. Xane had been so caught up in his own thoughts he almost missed the question being asked to him.

“Who is Tiamir?" Roy asked. When Roy spoke that name, his heart practically stuttered so hard that his fingertips grew numb. Why? "Are they a friend of yours?”

This was, for both Roy and Xane, potentially the point of no return– depending on what Xane said here would shape the trajectory of the rest of their time together. For Roy, it would have consequences even greater than that. As uncertainty began to rear its ugly head in the back of Xane’s mind, he found himself unable to speak. 

That is, until he remembered Bantu’s merciful words. He had spent a thousand years doubting his own judgement already– was he going to continue to let his regret rule him as it had been for so long? Or was he finally going to stop running from who he was?

Deep down in his heart, he already knew his answer. So with a rueful sigh, Xane smiled wearily as he pierced the tip of his sword into the ground next to him. He pinched at the hem of his sleeve and began to fold it up. “Yes, I believe I could say so. She was a lovely lady, though far older than I was. I was more of a friend to her children.”

Seemingly understanding the situation now, Roy immediately straightened and pointedly ignored the pain that radiated down his spine. “She was a dragon, then?”

For some reason, Xane was unable to return Roy’s gaze, and chose to further busy himself with the straightening of his sleeve. “That’s right. An Ice Dragon.”

The hollow whispering of the wind was perhaps the perfect follow-up to Xane’s clarification. Based on Roy’s silence, Xane was certain that his friend had quickly started to put together just why the two of them had something to discuss, and he waited patiently for Roy to pick up the thread of conversation.

Denial had been given voice for the second time that day as Roy followed up with another hesitant question– one that, for some reason, he felt like he already knew the answer to. “Is she still alive?”

“No,” Xane hissed almost too quickly, and he winced at the bitterness of his own reaction. He took a deep breath, before continuing more softly, “No… she is not. She was murdered a long time ago, all to incite a war.”

As Xane finally grew the confidence to look up from his sleeve, he could see clearly how the confusion on Roy’s face ebbed away into morbid realisation. That was all he needed to know that his hunch had been right after all.

“That rang a bell, didn’t it?” Xane mumbled, even though he already knew the answer.

Immediately a grimace twisted at Roy’s lips. His neck ached dully, still, from the nightmare he had. Even though it wasn’t real, it certainly felt like it was, and he could still hear the vicious shouting of corrupt men shouting:

“We will make an example out of you! And once war breaks out, we will eradicate what’s left of your kind!”

The sounds of talons desperately scraping on cobblestone, the pungent scent of blood, and the adrenaline pulsing through his– her?-- veins– all of that had felt so horrendously real that when he had finally awoken, he had done so in a panic.

During his time with the Akaneian League’s forces, Roy had been growing more and more fatigued, but he had always been able to remain persistent. No amount of strain had been able to get in his way, even after he had been stabbed in the chest, and even after his body became more and more difficult to move. If he ever felt too weak, he knew that he had those that cared about him that he could reach out to– like Marth.

After last night’s nightmare, however, every minute movement Roy made that day took far more effort than it should have, and though he wanted to continue to stay standing, he knew when his limits had been reached. So he sat down, unceremoniously, on the grass with a heavy slouch. His sword hand slid from the pommel, down the flat of the blade, before finally falling to his lap, and the hand that had been previously rubbing at his face soon followed suit.

For a while, Roy simply sat still, staring thoughtlessly at the swaying grass in front of his knees. Though it did not take long for that to lose his interest, and before he realised it, he had fished out his mother’s Dragonstone, choosing instead to be lost in its icy blue depths. Carefully, he thumbed at the surface of it with his left hand, and watched as what seemed like small bubbles and glimmer bobbed beneath its surface.

“Tiamir,” Roy whispered as if committing the name to memory, “So, that was her name? The nightmare that I had, where I… where I lived out her final moments, wasn’t just something my mind made up, then, was it?”

Now that Xane had discovered just what had caused Roy’s grim mood, he couldn’t stop himself from sharing in it. Xane carefully knelt down in front of him, though the glimmering Dragonstone held his eye. “I’m afraid not, Roy.”

The pain of a thousand years weighed heavily on Xane’s shoulders, though Roy was unaware just yet as to why his comrade had been so unwilling to admit what he had. However, the palpable sorrow gave Roy reason to raise his head towards his friend. “Xane… what more do you know? Who was Tiamir?”

This was it– there was no going back now, for either of them. Xane knew that if he wasn’t careful, that if he wasn’t able to lead Roy in a way that would allow him to come to the conclusions on his own, that he would risk shattering his poor friend’s entire world. The way that Roy was beginning to press for answers painted a very clear picture for Xane of just how close to the edge he was already dancing.

Xane offered Roy a tired smile as he reached out to carefully give his friend a reassuring pat on his uncrystallised shoulder. “It’s a good thing you’re sitting already, because if you weren’t, well… you would be soon enough.”

Xane slouched his posture as he removed his hand from Roy’s shoulder, and as he stared down at the Dragonstone in Roy’s hand, he could see in it reflections of a life he lived long ago. Of family and friends he had not seen in a thousand years or more. “Tiamir was one of the most powerful dragons to have ever lived. She was the primogenitor and matriarch of the Ice Dragon Tribe.”

“That was what her murderers said in my dream,” Roy said slowly, and he grimaced as he relived that horrendous scene in his mind. “They called her ‘the Ice Dragon Tribe’s revered primogenitor.’ They mocked her, claimed they would make an example out of her–”

Roy’s grip on the Dragonstone tightened, and the pads of his fingers squeaked quietly against it. The frigid magic that it emitted seeped through the leather of his gloves, and his arm began to quiver from the pressure of his grip. “She was horrified and scared. She didn’t want to fight any of them, but they were completely unreasonable.”

The way that Roy had started to tremble as he regaled the horror of Tiamir’s final moments forced Xane to avert his gaze. There had always been a part of Xane, deep down, that had wanted to know what exactly happened to Tiamir all those years ago. Now that he was literally knelt right in front of it, however, it made him almost too sick to hear.

Apparently the same must have been true for Roy, as the topic suddenly diverted in an unexpected way. “Is that truly what caused this war here, all those years ago? None of the history books I read with Marth had the details of why the dragons in Akaneia went to war with the human kingdoms…”

The revelations that Roy thought he had been making brought Xane to worry at his lip. Bantu had told Xane just earlier that no one would be better suited to the task of giving Roy the little push he needed than him. Normally when someone is considered to be uniquely qualified for a task, they would be excited or honoured– but Xane decided if crippling fear and anxiety was a side-effect of that esteemed position, then he never wanted to be considered qualified again.

However, even though the stress was hard for Xane to bear, he knew that it would be even harder for Roy if he had to endure it alone too. Xane knew all too well how it felt to cope with knowledge he could do nothing about, alone, with no one that could truly relate to him. It was only a matter of time before Roy would start to put the pieces together, and remember everything; the least Xane could do was be the catalyst, that way he could support his friend through the resulting inevitable fallout.

First, though, Xane would have to actually walk himself and Roy to the proverbial edge. He shook his head before quietly interrupting Roy’s musings. “Roy, you’re not going to find anything about that war in any of the history books here, and it’s not because the books were scrubbed, or the knowledge was lost to time.”

Roy trailed off as his eyes immediately snapped back to Xane’s; there was something about the gravity of his delivery that punched at Roy’s heart. It was as if whatever Xane knew was the key to every conflicting piece of knowledge Roy had, and he knew it. “Xane… whatever it is, tell me. I want– no, I need to know.”

There was a pause as Xane parted his lips, wracking his mind on what exactly to say. He could practically feel the height of the cliff they were both standing on in his head. Though after a moment of deliberation, Xane realised that there really was no easy way to push Roy off of that edge. It was just like Bantu had said: Xane was not there to provide levity, but clarity.

So, his response would be clear, with no room for misconstruing. No room for error. “You won’t find it because it’s not Akaneia’s history. It’s the history of another continent, on a completely different world from this one. It’s the history of Elibe.”

Elibe.

Upon hearing that name, Roy’s thoughts immediately screeched to a halt, his eyes growing as wide as saucers. The panic that had been steadily building in Roy’s chest fizzled out in an instant– like a raging ocean amidst a storm that suddenly turned into glassy, waveless sea. 

Then the memories of the violent battle in Pales came back to him. The blood, the smoke, the fire, the rage. He had heard a voice at that time– one that was far too personal to be the memories of anyone else but him.

“I wonder how hard it would be for us to pull your strings, like Nergal did with your mother.”

That voice had been so intrusive at the time. Out of nowhere, it was hissed sickly into his ears as if the culprit had been standing right beside him– yet it was nothing but a twisted memory. The old scar on his chest, the one he had earned that horrible day, throbbed dully as if in response to his memory. He grimaced as he reached his crystallised hand up to cover it, and his brow furrowed.

Pieces were beginning to fit together, and as they did so, more and more inhuman voices began to flood Roy’s mind. Unravelling and screaming like a violent wind, they wailed in his ears:

“Help us… help us!”
“We don’t want to die–”
“They are all against us–”
“This war, we don’t want any part of it–”
“No matter where we go–”
“Everything wants to kill us!”

Roy winced as he raised his left hand up to his forehead, pressing the cold surface of the Dragonstone to his skin. Unable to catch a full breath, he clutched at his tunic, knotting his fingers into the linen fabric.

He choked, doubling over on himself as he coughed roughly, and the searing pain of the crystals that had been smothering the right side of his body only seemed to increase in intensity the further and further his mind slipped back. Though he was unable to stop now, even if he wanted to; he had been sucked into the undertow by his memories.

The ghostly sensation of fire burned against his right side as if he were next to a roiling fire pit, and as the barrier between reality and illusion blurred, he could hear the measured clanking of footsteps.

His footsteps.

“Roy! Please, Ninian wouldn’t want this!”

"I'm sorry I have to do this, Roy, but I have no choice! Mother... sister, please, help me!"

With a greedy gasp, Roy slouched forward as a wave of nausea wracked him. He desperately grasped at the hilt of his sword to keep himself upright, and droplets of sweat began to bead and drip from his forehead.

The cold smell of sea water wafted through the air and a frigid breeze needled at his skin. An involuntary shudder split down Roy’s spine as his breathing stalled. Goosebumps blossomed over his arms at the sudden phantasmal cold.

“Nils, my name is Roy. I’m here to talk to you, because you knew my mother.”

“... You are Ninian’s son?”

The forest had become harder and harder to distinguish as a wetness welled in the corners of his eyes. Grass had begun to give way to cobble beneath his knees, and he heard the familiar, kind voice of an older man ask him a question. One that Roy remembered clearly having answered.

“Where will you go?”

“I would like to go meet my uncle.”

Warm candlelight dimmed and faded to black as he was pulled further under. Down, and down, and down–

Until he could see the vague suggestion of ruins: ones he could place immediately as the very same he had seen in his dream where he met his mother. A man, towering overhead with furs and gilded armour,  was threatening him with an angry and resentful tone.

“This world belongs to the dragons. They deserved this world; mankind is evil, and I will be the one to ensure the blight of our existence is scourged from this earth. Dragons will regain control, and you will lose… even with the Binding Blade in your hand.”

Those ancient halls soon became swallowed by purple and red, as coiling scales snaked around his vision, and the sweltering heat of a dragon’s breath seared his skin. Mismatched eyes were staring into his eyes from above, and Roy froze as fear began to creep back over him.

His own voice– younger, desperate, and hopeful – finally caused him to gasp as it split through the clamour.

“No, I can’t kill her! She didn’t ask for this fate. I want to save her– I have to!”

Reality fully gave way to memory then, and before Roy even realised it, he was there. Wielding the Binding Blade, his sword, and standing before a towering dragon with scales like ink.

Roy was a child of only fifteen years, thrust into the forefront of a war far beyond his head. Unlike his father Eliwood, he was not strong, nor did he consider himself particularly smart. Though even with that said, there was one strong aspect of him that was inarguable to anyone asked: no matter the odds, Roy was a young man that would never give up. 

Not even when death stared him in the face.

Or when black fire singed his skin.

Or when claws, sharper than blades, sliced through his armour.

Even as hellfire burned around him, roiling furiously as it overtook the ruins of the Dragon Temple, he would continue to stand his ground and fight.

His heart was racing in his chest with fear– though it wasn’t from the fear of his own possible death. It was the fear of failing. Failing to save Elibe, though strangely more importantly, failing to save her: Idunn, the Demon Dragon. An innocent Divine Dragon who had been forced into a life of lonely misery, enslaved and used as a weapon of power unparallelled.

For a thousand years she had suffered, and it was he who had to challenge her here, on the axis of fate that Elibe was so precariously balanced on. In no way were his shoulders broad enough yet to bear upon them the heavy burden of the world.

A massive claw came barrelling down towards him, and he barely darted out of the way as it slammed into the earth, fracturing the floor instantly. The walls shook and debris fell from the ceiling. Her pained roar– a hollow-sounding wail that wrought despair just as much as it did fear– echoed throughout the crumbling halls of the Dragon Temple.

As Roy righted himself from a rather ungraceful tumble across the stone floor, he rubbed a line of blood from his cheek. By that point, the only part of him racing faster than his heart, was his mind. There had to be something he could do. Anything.

Though as he tried and tried to think, all he could hear was the loud protests of some of his own soldiers when they had heard about his plan.

“Are you mad? You can’t save her– she’s beyond saving! You have the Binding Blade, you’re the only one that can slay the Demon Dragon! You’re the only one that can save us!”

“Can’t you see you’re endangering the whole world for the sake of one dragon? An evil dragon on the side of Bern, at that?!”

“You’re in over your head! I knew we shouldn’t have thrown our lot in with some kid! I don’t care who his father is or what weapon he has! He’s going to kill us all because of his idealism!”

Idunn’s head slowly curled back towards him, and as their eyes caught, Roy’s jaw firmly set. His gaze flicked momentarily to the Binding Blade in his right hand, and the way the red gem was glowing brightly signified clearly to him what it was ready to do.

But Roy did not want to fulfil the whims of the Binding Blade. He did not want Idunn to die. 

No more than he wanted to seal her away and force her to suffer again for a thousand years or more. That was a fate so horribly cruel that he couldn’t even fathom it being his only other option.

Another weary roar bellowed from Idunn’s throat, and Roy pushed himself back up to his feet. With a swing of the Binding Blade, he brought it into both his hands and pulled the sword near to his chest, with the blade pointed skyward. As he saw her pull her head back, he took that moment to close his eyes–

– and he prayed, earnestly, for the future he believed in.

The Binding Blade burned to life in his hands, an inferno sprouting forth from the glistening metal; his eyes snapped open just as Idunn lunged towards him. A yell tore from his throat as he dashed towards her, a prayer burning brightly in his heart:

“This world, Elibe –”

The screeching of Idunn’s roar filled his ears –

“– I wish for it a future where man and dragon can once again live in harmony,”

– and his eyes burned as tears welled up and spilt, evaporating in the blistering heat;

“– where these thousand-year scars of the Scouring may finally heal,”

– there was a brilliant flash of light that swallowed them both whole,

“ – and so that no one, man or dragon, has to suffer loss to the fires of war ever again!”

– and as divine radiance finally overtook the darkness, a new future was forged in its flames.

The foliage around him was bathed in a crimson glow, emanating from the gemstone within the Binding Blade that was clutched against his right palm. The teal Dragonstone in Roy’s hand had similarly flared to life, freezing cold against his otherwise scorchingly hot skin.

He was panting heavily and his arm was shaking as he dug his fingertips into both the sword and the stone. His eyes, aching yet wide, were fixed forward, staring at the burgundy tunic that Xane always favoured to wear. Lips trembled and his jaw remained slack as the violent flood of thoughts finally ceased, leaving nothing behind but the weary sensation of a receding tide. Every single one of his limbs weighed heavier than lead, and yet he felt hollower inside than the bones of a bird.

Every battle, every injury, every life lost and every life saved, as he had campaigned against the Kingdom of Bern. The campaign he had led as the young son of the Marquess of Pherae, in the land of Elibe. It all made sense now, why the Kingdom of Bern or Pherae were never mentioned that day he and Marth had spent back in Port Warren, at the library, dissecting book after book.

By then, the ground beneath him had already been considerably speckled with tears. Roy’s lips trembled as he tried to mouth the words, but his voice failed him at first. Though he tried again, and again, until finally, he managed a hoarse whisper:

“I… I remember…”

Seeing the visceral nature of Roy’s reaction, Xane wondered if he had reacted the same way all those years ago, when he found out he would never see Elibe again. His heart stung dully at the thought.

So, Xane tried to distract his friend from the pain in the only way he knew how– with levity. “It’s about time you did, Roy-boy.”

Chapter Text

There had been far too much to process, way too quickly. Roy was desperate to catch his breath.

“What I would like to know is how you got here,” Xane finally said as he crossed his arms over his chest. Clearly Roy wasn’t going to be able to stop the turbulent thoughts going through his head right now, so Xane would have to be the one to stall him. They would have to just work through each topic one at a time, though this one was easily the most important of them. “It’s not exactly an easy task to just waltz from one world to the next. You being here carries a lot of heavy implications that I’m not exactly fond of.”

Heavy implications. Roy wasn’t entirely sure of what that meant, but by the tone of Xane’s voice, it was something ominous. “I’m… not sure. It’s all a blur.”

“Well, what do you remember doing before ending up here?” Xane asked, leaning in a bit to punctuate.

Roy thought back, past the wall of fuzzy visions and sounds. “I had gone on a journey to find my uncle. I wanted to talk to him… but he wasn’t in Elibe. He was…”

Roy’s heart leapt into his throat. “The Dragon’s Gate— he was at the Dragon’s Gate!”

The revelation would’ve easily sent Roy to his feet if he had the energy for it. Alas, a knot in his calf put a rude stop to it, and he knelt back down with a hiss. Xane could only look on at the display, unable to find any humour in the sight, when he might’ve under any other circumstances. The Dragon’s Gate was what Xane had been pushed through a thousand years ago, to escape the Scouring. It was still open?

“The Dragon’s Gate?” Xane asked, the mask he had spent years perfecting once more settling comfortably on his features. Roy didn’t need to know the full truth. Not yet. Not until Xane had more information.

As Roy gingerly rubbed at the lump in his calf, he sucked in a small breath. Upon exhaling, he responded, “Yes. A… it's a portal between Elibe and other worlds. Like… like this one. Only dragons can pass through it though, not humans.”

The morbid curiosity was getting to Xane. Thankfully his next question was still technically safe to ask while he still feigned ignorance. “Alright. So you went to find your uncle, who was at the Dragon’s Gate. Why was he there? What did you want from him?”

“My uncle, he’s an Ice Dragon. Years ago he closed up the Dragon’s Gate with himself on the other side,” Roy explained, a deep grimace settling on his face. “I’ve… never gotten the chance to meet him. And my mother passed away when I was born, so I…”

That was a sore subject, obviously enough. Xane gave a small wave of his hand to keep Roy from going further down that train of thought. He would rather they circle back to the part about the Gate being closed. “Right, I see. So you went there to meet him. And the Dragon’s Gate was closed?”

“Yeah,” Roy muttered, grateful to Xane for keeping him on track. “My uncle closed it probably a couple decades ago, but my mother stayed behind in Elibe to marry my father. He– Nils, is my uncle’s name– Nils wanted to shut the Dragon’s Gate so it would never be opened again.”

“Why?” Xane asked, perhaps a bit too quickly for his own good. Roy’s eyes flicked up towards him, his lips slack for a moment. It took quite a bit of effort for Xane to keep his expression flat and unreadable.

Thankfully Roy seemed to take the question at face value. “The Dragon’s Gate had been closed for a really long time. After this huge war between humans and dragons came to an end, it was closed, and stayed that way for a thousand years.”

Xane’s breath caught at that. So the Scouring was over?

Roy continued, “Then an evil man by the name of Nergal managed to get it open again, which is how Nils and my mother first got back into Elibe in the first place. After my father and his friends killed Nergal, Nils went back into the Dragon’s Gate and closed it from the inside, with the intention of making the closure permanent.”

There was a noticeable lull as Xane remained mildly stupefied, the conflicting feelings of grief and relief fighting each other in the depths of his heart. The Scouring was over. The war was over. Which meant that the dragons were all…

“Xane?”

Xane startled, though quickly he attempted to regain his composure with a light laugh. “My apologies, Roy. I’m just trying to take this all in. There was a war with humans and dragons where you’re from too? That sounds an awful lot like Akaneia. Seems like us dragons just can’t catch a break no matter where we are.”

Xane wasn’t wrong. Roy frowned, lowering his head as he returned his attention back to his own Dragonstone in the grass. “Yeah… it seems that way. And now it seems I’ve stirred up something else.” He scrunched his nose. “When I was visiting my uncle, I was attacked by a group of mages. I can hold my own in a fight, but magic has never been my forte, and I was so heavily outnumbered that it would’ve been a death sentence to try to fight them all off by myself. So I tried to run.”

As Roy began to recount the event on Dread Isle that kicked off this whole predicament, he could feel the crackling of their magic on his skin. The heat of fire. “But they had me cornered. They wanted to kill me and harvest my Quintessence. I guess dragons have a lot of that, and since I’m part one, well…”

Quintessence? That was certainly a new word for Xane. He’d have to keep that in the back of his mind to ask about later.

Roy let out a heavy sigh, suddenly feeling a lot more guilty. “They couldn’t kill me, but they used some magic to control me. I remember hearing all the screaming of dragons in my ears, begging for mercy and help… I don’t remember what happened except for me fighting phantoms in my head. But I have a pretty good guess, now, thinking back to what happened to me in Pales. They must’ve used me to get Nils to open the Dragon’s Gate, somehow. And as for how I actually got through it…”

"I'm sorry I have to do this, Roy, but I have no choice! Mother... sister, please, help me!"

The memory of Nils’ plea rang in Roy’s ears and he swallowed dryly. “I think Nils pushed me through. Probably to protect me. Then I ended up here.”

Xane remained thoughtfully silent as he mulled over everything. That must’ve meant that Fafnir slipped through the Dragon’s Gate at the same time, then. Realistically he was probably part of that same troupe of mages that threatened Roy’s life. But why? For Quintessence? What even was that?

Just as Xane opened his mouth to ask, Roy interrupted him, “Xane, wait.”

Xane could only blink at Roy. “Eh? What is it, Roy?”

“You…” Roy began, but stalled. The way Xane was asking these questions made it seem like he knew nothing of what happened in Elibe, or about the Dragon’s Gate– which would normally make a lot of sense, if he was from Akaneia. However, something wasn’t adding up.

Roy’s mouth twisted into a thoughtful frown. “This doesn’t make sense. How did you know about Tiamir if her death is what caused the Scouring?”

Xane’s fingers grew cold as he felt his mask begin to crack again. “Well… There was no shortage of dragons that escaped to Akaneia from Elibe. I… I met a few of them, once. A long time ago. They told me about her.”

It was visibly obvious that Roy didn’t buy the story. Xane clearly knew a lot more than he was letting on, so Roy pressed. “You said you knew her. You were friends with her children.” 

Upon being faced with such pointed statements, Xane could feel his weakened draconic powers waver at the sheer presence that Roy had now. Apparently the mercenary was less than content at the moment– not that Xane could blame him. “I-it’s not like I was actively trying to hide anything from anyone at first. It just wasn’t something I was ever expecting to have come up.”

“What do you mean by that?” Roy prodded, regaining some of the strength in his limbs as he retrieved his Dragonstone and began to push himself up from the grass.

Xane grumbled, annoyed with himself for having shown his belly so easily. “ Elibe, ” Xane said, his fingertips knotting into his sleeves as they dug weakly into his biceps. “I haven’t had to think about that place in a thousand years.”

Roy stalled, still half-standing, as Xane’s words hit him.

A thousand years.

“The Scouring,” Roy mumbled before he could catch himself. The way that Xane’s face wrinkled in disdain told Roy more than enough. “You… Xane– were you there? Are you–”

“There’s no real need to ask me if you’ve already figured it out, yeah?” Xane hissed through grit teeth. He wasn’t angry at Roy. It just hurt. Elibe hurt. Xane knew this conversation was going to be hard for Roy, but it seemed like he sorely underestimated just how painful it would be for himself to face, too.

Roy must have realised this as well, as his jaw clicked shut.

Xane was from Elibe.

Though not from the Elibe Roy knew. One from a long, long time ago, that was once peaceful and unmarred. Before it was irreparably damaged by a brutal war that would shape the course of history. From a time before the Scouring. From a time during the Scouring.

Roy’s earlier suspicion, his earlier agitation, had been immediately sobered. The tension that had begun to build in Roy’s chest was beginning to feel unbearable, and with a heavy breath he said the only thing he could think to say, even though he knew it would count for little in the end. “Xane… I’m so sorry.”

This was the perfect time for Xane to once again be grateful for all those years of practised joviality. He gave Roy a weak smile. “Nothing for you to be sorry for, Roy-boy. It’s not like you were there. If you had been, I think you would’ve had half a mind to stop it.”

Unable to find the right words to reply, Roy simply lowered his head and watched as the blades of grass tickled at the edge of the Binding Blade, which was still lying on the ground at his feet. The blade gleamed warmly in the afternoon sunlight. It, alongside the other legendary weapons like the Durandal, were the very weapons that warped the whole of reality for Elibe and its inhabitants. They changed the world and shaped it into a place that was so hostile to Dragonkind that they all had to seal themselves away, run away, or simply die.

Would Roy have been able to stop it if he had been there? Would he have tried to? Xane seemed to think so, but Roy couldn’t be so sure.

Roy’s train of thought was broken when Xane finally spoke, his voice tired and below his breath, “You know, I didn’t want to believe it myself, that you had her power in your veins. Yet only a fool runs away from reality, and I.. I am tired of playing the part of the fool.”

“Her power?” Roy asked, confused.

“The Dragonstone that you have in your hands right now teems with Tiamir’s magic,” Xane clarified. The reds of his eyes flicked towards the crystal in Roy’s hand, watching the icy light through his eyelashes, before he turned them to Roy. “That’s why you were able to see her final moments as you did. At least, that’s what I would guess.”

Roy was a smart man. He knew, deep down, what Xane meant by what he had said. To have someone’s blood flowing in your veins– that could only mean one thing. Yet, for some reason, Roy found himself shaking his head at the obvious logic. “But this is my mother’s Dragonstone. It doesn’t make sense.”

“Don’t try to play ignorant now, not after you just put me to the fire. It makes perfect sense, Roy, and you know it.” The muscles in Xane’s arms were beginning to ache at the way his grip had tightened, but he was remiss to stop it. He had to keep himself grounded somehow. “Tiamir is your ancestor, Roy. Your mother’s lineage– your lineage– traces right back to her. It might be your mother’s Dragonstone, but a primogenitor’s magic doesn’t care about that. It’s in your blood just like it was in hers. Just like it’s in that stone.”

The reds of Xane’s eyes were notably dark, like a sombre sunset after a storm. They were the eyes of a man that had seen more than his fair share of tragedy– of a man that simply wanted to forget. And for a long time, he did. Though he couldn’t do that anymore. “I never thought the day would come that I’d once again be staring the past in the face. Yet that’s all I can see now when I look at you.”

The breeze teased at Roy’s hair, red and teal locks tickling at his cheeks. He couldn’t move. He was too tired, too shaken, too shocked. In fact, he could scarcely breathe anymore as his lungs continued to burn. An all-too-familiar anxiety was gnawing so thoroughly at him now.

It was like he was fifteen again, thrust into the middle of a turmoil far beyond his means. Clearly he had gotten much more than he had bargained for by wishing to meet with Nils. “I… Xane, I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do now. With all this.”

With a rueful huff, Xane finally uncrossed his arms. His right hand rested on the pommel of the blade at his hip. Roy’s words were less a statement and more of a question– a plea.

Unfortunately, Xane was quickly realising that in pushing Roy off the edge, he had gone right alongside him. Xane was freefalling now, too, and he didn’t have a Dragonstone anymore to sprout his wings with; to catch the wind and fly away. “Me either. So I suppose that makes two of us.”

Roy bowed his head as his fingers weakly clenched at the Dragonstone in his hand, and within its cold light, he could see it again: Tiamir’s final moments.

He could hear her voice. Her plea.

“Aenir, Fafnir… please, run from this turmoil.”

“Aenir,” Roy struggled, “That name. Tiamir said it. That isn’t my mother’s name.”

Xane did his best to mask the distress of hearing the name of his old friend– one that he knew was probably long dead, considering the circumstances. “You’re right. That was Tiamir’s daughter, an Ice Dragon.”

Split from the echo of Tiamir’s voice came a second one that was far more familiar. Soothing, loving, and wholly lucid in Roy’s head.

“That was my mother… Aenir. She lost her life during that war...”

Crystalline fingers gripped immediately at his chest as Roy’s entire body and soul practically jolted, intense emotion surging through him without warning. He knew that voice, and he could barely speak through the grief. “Mother.”

Ninian’s voice overtook the sound of the leaves, the birds, and the wind, in Roy’s ears as she continued, “I remember that day. It was the day that I not only lost my mother, but my father. We were told by him that she was ‘taken away by some very bad men.’ Deep down, something inside me knew there was more to it than that. But I was too young, and too scared, to see it.”

The way the Dragonstone shined, bubbling and sparkling, was so enrapturing that Roy could not look away. Neither could Xane. Though only Roy could truly see the visions that Ninian wished to share.

“As Aenir’s life was lost, Nergal took both myself and your uncle to the Dragon’s Gate to protect us. He promised he would come back for us…”

Ambient energy crackled lowly in Ninian’s ears as she held onto one of Nils’ trembling hands. She gave it a reassuring squeeze as a dark-haired human man towered protectively over them. 

He looked over his shoulder, then out to the distance. No one had followed them, it seemed, and his shoulders relaxed. “The two of you need to stay here, do you understand?” 

Wordlessly, Ninian nodded, as did her brother– though his tiny sobs were choked in his throat. He wasn’t taking this well. Though truthfully, neither was she. She just needed to do her best to be strong for him.

“We will,” Ninian replied obediently.

“W-will you come back to us?” Nils asked, half-weeping as he rubbed his eyes with the back of his other forearm. His little fingers gripped tightly at his sister’s hand. She gripped back.

“I promise you I will,” the man said as he dropped to one knee, the ground crunching beneath the weight of his fall. He clasped one hand on one of each of the children’s shoulders, and he smiled reassuringly. “Once I find her, I will come back for you. Then we’ll all be together again, like we were before.”

Ninian rather liked the sound of that. She offered the man a fragile, watery smile of her own. The man gave Nils a gentle pat on the head, ruffling green locks between gloved fingers. “However, it might take a little time. Ninian, if someone finds you, or if I fail to return here in the span of ten days, I want you to take both yourself and your brother through the Dragon’s Gate. Alright?”

That was the cold, stony structure that they were standing just beside, that dwarfed them all. That was the Dragon’s Gate. Ninian shifted on her feet, suddenly feeling a bit uncertain herself. Something about this plan seemed off, somehow. What if things went awry? “Through the Dragon’s Gate? But… what about you?”

“Like I said before, it might take some time,” the man repeated as he returned his hand to Nils’ shoulder. “I can’t go through that gate with you, though I wish I could. I’m only human, after all. But the two of you can, and I know that you will both be safe inside there.”

It made sense, but deep down in her heart, Ninian still had her reservations. However, with a confident squeeze of the hand on her shoulder, that growing anxiety was held well at bay and she once again found herself complying. “Okay.”

“Thank you, Ninian, Nils,” the man said. He sounded relieved. Heavy capes drug across the dusty ground as he reached his arms out to the two children, and he pulled them into a loving embrace. “I am the luckiest man alive to be able to call the two of you my children. You make me so proud.”

The warmth of their father’s arms finally brought tears to Ninian’s eyes, but she pushed her forehead into his chest to hide them. Nils practically climbed into his lap as his small fingers knotted into their father’s cloak.

Nergal’s voice wavered as he tightly held on to his children. He never wanted to let them go, but he knew he had to. He had to, for Aenir. “I love you both so much.”

“He never came back.”

Roy’s heart was hollow. His mother’s pain, her sadness– he could feel it all as if it was his own. 

“Mother, I’m so sorry,” Roy whispered. It was tragic. Was that really what happened to Nergal? Did Eliwood know?

Before he could ask, Ninian’s voice gave way to another. The mournful timbre of another woman’s voice echoed in Roy’s ears now, more overwhelming than even his own thoughts.

“My beloved daughter… she died. As did her daughter… as did I. As did we all…”

It was Tiamir.

“Oh, my dear children… Why did this happen? Why must you all suffer so? My daughter, Aenir, is dead. Ninian, my beloved granddaughter, one that I never had the pleasure to meet… so, too, did she die.”

Roy could feel the immediate, overwhelming burden of guilt as it dug into him like talons. Ninian’s guilt. Tiamir’s guilt. His guilt.

Ninian died because of him. It was his fault. That same horrible spectre that had loomed over him his entire life had returned now that he remembered it all, and now he suffered to learn even more.

“Though… this feeling, these visions that I see now– does this young boy yet live? … Roy, is his name– is your name?”

Roy’s head began to hurt. Copper bled into his mouth as he gnawed at his lower lip, digging sharp fangs into chapped skin. Yes, that was his name. Roy. Son of Marquess Eliwood of Pherae, and Ninian, an Ice Dragon.

“Son of Eliwood… son of Ninian, my granddaughter… Then that makes you…”

The world had begun to swim in his vision. He was so tired. A voice yelled for him, at least he thought one did– it was a familiar one. Who?

It didn’t matter. Tiamir’s voice was far too loud now, and Roy couldn’t hear anything else as the world went black.

“We must talk, you and I.”

Chapter Text

The sun was shining and the winds were gentle as the trampling sounds of two horses echoed across the rolling hills of Bern. 

Eliwood had wasted no time setting out on horseback with Lyn, Nils, and Idunn in tow. It was a riskily small group, but Eliwood was not going to leave the estate nor the Dragon’s Gate lightly defended by taking more forces with him. Nor did he want to endanger his other comrades more than he already had by taking them along.

Usually, on bright and warm days such as these, Eliwood and Roy would have been out together, training, riding their horses, or making the rounds to nearby villages in Pherae. The Marquess had been keen to make sure that he always had time for his son, especially after Roy’s return from the war with Bern a few years prior. Part of the reason was because he was proud of the boy and knew he would make an incredible Marquess in the future, and also of course because Eliwood loved him dearly.

However, another part of Eliwood did it out of fear– fear that if he neglected to do it now, he never would have the chance to again. The murder of his best friend Hector had made that possibility all the more real and personal to him. The unexpected death of his beloved wife, Ninian, as well. He had worried that it would be his turn next.

Never did Eliwood expect to be in a situation where it would be his son who was completely out of reach, his status unknown. Never did Eliwood expect to be riding forth like a bat out of hell through the land of Bern, chasing ghosts.

He had been completely unable to stop the tears. Even now, as the wind stung his eyes, wetness pricked at the corners. Everything about this screamed that it was wrong– that it was all some kind of sick, twisted joke.

Idunn was quiet behind him as she rode pillion, staring at the back of his head as greying orange locks whipped about with the wind. Ever since those robed figures had revealed their faces, Eliwood, Nils, and Lyn had been completely blindsided and incapable of pulling themselves back together. To see the faces and hear the voices of those they had once loved and lost– it had been too much for them to bear on top of everything else.

Eliwood most of all. With his son missing and his beloved wife and best friend long dead, he had wasted no time in rounding the horses and setting forth, determined and blazing a trail towards the answers he so desperately desired to have.

It was difficult to witness. Though the others saw the faces of their loved ones, Idunn had seen further past the skin to what had been roiling underneath– a magic personally familiar yet twisted.

Ninian and Hector were not who they appeared to be. This, Idunn knew. She suspected Eliwood knew this as well.

That was why she had elected to stay silent then, outside of the gates, standing firmly between their own group and the two cloaked intruders. She did not need to question them outwardly. Her eyes had said enough. That was why Ninian had told them to go to the Dragon Temple before she and Hector were whisked away on the winds, leaving no trace of their visit behind.

As if he was able to feel her eyes on him, Eliwood spoke up, quietly but just loudly enough for Idunn’s ears to pick up on his words. “... Idunn, did you recognize them?”

The manakete said nothing for a time, her lips turning downward into a frown beneath the shade of her hood. Eliwood had posed a question but his tone denoted otherwise. He could tell that she knew something yet refrained from talking.

“I did,” Idunn finally said, the words feeling unexpectedly acidic on her tongue. “They were simply spectres of the real ones, but magic is magic.”

There was something in the tone of Idunn’s voice that brought Eliwood to pause– it sounded to him like an emotion he was far too familiar with.

“... Are you okay?” Eliwood asked gently.

The question had caught Idunn by surprise, and she looked forward again, only to still see the back of Eliwood’s head as his eyes were still trained firmly ahead of them. Idunn studied him for a brief moment.

“... Perhaps the three of you are not the only ones wrestling with grief,” Idunn admitted, mostly to herself. She hadn’t thought of the heaviness in her heart as anything but a reaction to the power that exuded from the two robed figures before this.

Eliwood’s grip tightened on the reigns of his horse. “... I’m sorry. The grief you have endured for so long is unimaginable.”

“I simply wish for answers, just like you,” Idunn responded. “My time to grieve has long since passed. To nurse an old wound that has long since scarred over is unneeded. I only seek to understand what is happening here and now.”

A thoughtful silence followed her words, the drumming of hooves and whistling of the breeze being the only sounds to fill the void. In the distance, both Eliwood and Idunn could see the outline of their destination as it slowly grew closer and closer– the ruins of the Dragon Temple.

“Do you think their intentions are nefarious?” Eliwood asked.

With a slow shake of her head, Idunn closed her eyes and inhaled quietly. Since when had she been so focused on her thoughts that she had forgotten to breathe?

“I cannot say for certain,” she said. “I have long been severed from the ability to feel emotions. They have been returning to me with time, but they are essentially a brand new experience again. However… with that said, the smile that was given to us before they disappeared appeared genuine.”

Eliwood’s grip tightened and his teeth gnawed gently at the inside of his lower lip. The smile that had been given to them by the one wearing Ninian’s face– it was either genuine, or a bastardised act of kindness that was so wholly convincing it had reduced him to tears.

He wasn’t sure which one was worse– either option would lead him to a broken heart regardless of the intent, because that robed figure wasn’t her.

“... I was not expecting this,” Eliwood said quietly. “To see… them , again. Ever. Even though I know it cannot be the real Hector, or the real Ninian, my heart still aches.”

Idunn simply remained silent. She felt just the same– though the faces of Hector and Ninian held no emotional weight to her, it was what the others could not see that had her so similarly shaken.

“You said you recognised them,” Eliwood continued. “If I may be so bold to ask… who are they?”

His question weighed heavy in the air. Eliwood knew his question would not be easy for Idunn to answer, and whether she knew their actual identities or was hazarding a guess. Though the manakete woman was clearly the reserved type, he knew pain when he saw it. He knew it when he heard it, too– that was why her next response almost made his heart stop in his chest.

“Two of the most powerful dragons to have ever lived,” was all she said, her voice barely above a whisper. Though he had strained to hear her, the waver in her voice was unmistakable.

Choosing not to press further, he simply clutched at the leather reins in his hands and continued his charge forth, towards the ruins. She had said enough, dug into old wounds enough.

Lyn’s horse edged closer beside Eliwood as they grew closer to their destination. Her eyes were burning with determination, with Nils as a stark contrast behind her, his hands gripping to his chest as he stared firmly down at the saddle sat atop. Eliwood spared a quick glance their way, noticing their increasing proximity.

It had been no mystery to him that Lyn had held Hector near to her heart, and vice versa. So near in fact, Eliwood had been surprised that she had decided to return to Sacae rather than stay with Hector in Ostia. When Eliwood had asked his best friend if he was going to ask Lyn for her hand, Hector had simply responded that he would not be the one to stand in the way of her and the freedom of the plains– an answer that Eliwood had understood and respected, though the Marquess could not help but wonder what the future may have been like if the two of them had acted on their feelings.

The fire burning in Lyn’s eyes at this very moment had Eliwood suspecting that she was wondering the same.

Behind her, Nils’ shrunken form spoke similar volumes. He had been through so much in such a short period of time. He had separated from his sister, remaining alone beyond the doors of the Dragon’s Gate for decades. His sister, mother, and father were dead, and now his nephew was missing somewhere beyond the now-broken Dragon’s Gate. He couldn’t even search for Roy now if he tried– not until the Gate being built in Pherae was completed, at least– and now he was faced with the visages of his dead sister and old comrade. 

From any point of view, the last few decades of Nils’ life had been bleak at best. That he was even willing to stand at all was a testament to his unbelievably strong will, whether the manakete was willing to admit it or not. Eliwood’s heart broke just as much for his brother-in-law as it did for himself.

That was why, when they finally reached their destination, surrounded by the rubble of a temple that once stood great, he stopped his horse near the collapsing entrance and spoke with as much confidence as he could muster. As their friend, as their family, as the Marquess of Pherae.

“Beyond here lies, for all of us, what might seem like a hurdle currently insurmountable,” he started, his voice steady and clear. “I would be lying to you all if I said I was not scared– if I was not hurting, entering this temple with a heart as crumbled as the stone beneath our feet. But we must endure, regardless of what adversity is thrown our way.”

With a small tug of the reins, his horse adjusted with a minute turn as Eliwood looked directly to Lyn and Nils beside him. His expression set, reflecting the determination he saw on the face of the green-haired woman staring back at him.

“Know that any sorrow you hold in your heart I will shoulder alongside you. We do not stand alone, but as comrades, as friends– as family.”

Eliwood meant every word– Lyn knew it. Nils and Idunn as well, even if it was difficult to comprehend or accept.

Lyn gave Eliwood a confident smile, her head bobbing just enough to give a slight nod. “As family. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Eliwood returned the smile with one of his own. The sheer presence Lyn had, even when faced with a conflict so emotionally daunting, was contagious. It always has been.

With a strong swing of her leg, she turned and pushed herself off of the saddle of her horse, landing on the ground with a heavy thud before straightening her posture. “Then let’s get on with this charade. Whoever they are, they better hit back in a fight just as hard as he did, or I’m going to be really disappointed in them for getting my hopes up.”

Eliwood and Idunn were the next to dismount, and Eliwood chuckled quietly at his friend’s words. His hands remained on the side of his saddle as he adjusted the fasteners of his cape. “That’s what you’re concerned about, is it?”

“If they’re going to have the gall to wear his face, they better back it up with his strength,” Lyn responded, her hands firmly on her hips as she stared forward into the darkness of the temple ahead. “I’m not going to be playing around. Not after having my heart battered around like this. He better either be real, or an impressive enough fake that the real one would have been jealous.”

Her knuckles were white with how tightly she was grabbing at her own hips, and Eliwood quietly considered her for a moment. Though before he could respond, Idunn spoke.

“... If they are who I believe them to be, then you will not be wanting for a stronger opponent,” Idunn said. “That is, if we are to fight them.”

“It’s going to take a lot for me to keep my weapon sheathed,” Lyn replied frankly, her gaze staying trained on the entrance. “If they didn’t want a fight, they should have picked different people to mimic.”

During this exchange, Nils had remained silent, unmoving from his spot on Lyn’s horse. Eliwood looked his way, and he frowned as he saw a familiar turmoil roiling in Nil’s eyes, threatening to spill over. Eliwood slowly approached his brother-in-law, wanting not to stress him any further, and he waited until Nils’ eyes shifted his way before he offered the smaller man a gentle smile.

“Are you going to be okay, Nils?” he asked softly.

Nils’ throat dried, his breath catching in his throat as he swiftly ducked his head and pulled his clasped hands up to his forehead in a vain attempt to shield his face. His shoulders quaked and he gnawed at his bottom lip, struggling to sift through every tumultuous thought rattling around in his head. Eliwood patiently waited, giving Nils the time he desperately needed to think.

“... I’m so scared,” Nils finally choked out. “I don’t know if I can do this. I can’t see her again. Not like this.”

Everyone remained silent as Nils shook his head, pressing his knuckles to his forehead as he tried to wrangle his thoughts and emotions. “I know it can’t be her. It can’t. But it looked like her. It sounded like her… it felt like her. I don’t know what to do. I’ve already… I’ve already lost her once. I can’t do it again, Eliwood… I-I can’t.”

Tears streamed down his cheeks as he curled in on himself, fighting and failing to hold them back. “I… I lost them all. Even her son. I couldn’t protect him. I just… I-I can’t face her.”

It was clear to Eliwood that Nils was still battling the regret of losing Roy. Now, here he was, being forced to face his sister– Roy’s mother– from beyond the grave, with this pervasive feeling of guilt and shame for failing her in some way.

Without further hesitation, Eliwood reached out to take Nils gently by the arm before tugging it away from the manakete’s face. Nils’s eyes were screwed tightly shut, and Eliwood gave him a small but reassuring clench around his forearm– a gesture just strong enough to get Nils to open his eyes again and look Eliwood’s way.

Eliwood smiled warmly, though his own eyes burned with the threat of tears as he stared directly into the red eyes of his brother-in-law.

“What happened at the Dragon’s Gate was not your fault,” Eliwood said, “I am beyond grateful that you would put so much on the line for our son. Ninian would say just the same. Without you, we would have no hope at all. But it is because of your heroic actions and sacrifices that we have a chance to save him. Please, if you are wracked with guilt, allow me to shoulder that burden with you. As Roy’s father, as Ninian’s husband– as your brother. I am here for you. I always will be.”

The way Nils’ body trembled as he tensed his shoulders signalled to Eliwood that what he said had gotten through– at least in part– and the Marquess gave his brother a reassuring tug of the arm to coax him off of the back of Lyn’s horse. Nils wordlessly shifted his weight and followed Eliwood’s lead, dropping down from the large animal’s back and barely having the time to steady his footing before Eliwood had pulled him into a tight embrace. When Nils stiffened, Eliwood worried that he had overstepped his boundaries– but that fear was swiftly abated when he felt the pressure of Nils’ arms wrapping back around him, returning the gesture in earnest.

“Nils,” Eliwood whispered, “We are in this together. You are not alone.”

Neither Lyn nor Idunn spoke, or even moved, as the two brothers held one another, not wanting to cause a stir that would break such a tender moment. Eliwood tightened his arms for a short moment, wrinkling the cloth of Nils’ tunic as he pulled the smaller man closer before loosening his grip just enough to allow Nils the breathing room he’d need to respond.

“And… I need you too,” Eliwood added quietly. “The Marquess' mantle I wear might make me appear strong on the outside. But it would mean the world to me to have my brother at my side, strengthening my resolve that is being so sorely tested right now. Just like I hope to bolster yours.”

The fingers clutching at the cape draping from Eliwood’s back trembled, clutching tighter as Nils screwed his eyes shut as Eliwood’s words struck him. For so long, Nils had been running away from everything and everyone he loved out of fear. Fear of change, fear of growing too close to someone only to have them cruelly ripped away from him, like his father, or his sister– but in doing that, not only had he isolated himself, but he had isolated his own family as well.

Right now, Eliwood was showing a vulnerability to Nils that the manakete had been too blinded by his own pain to notice before. Eliwood was hurting, but he continued to stand tall and act as a beacon of hope and strength for those around him. Whilst Nils had been hiding, avoiding to truly reconnect with anyone during his recent time in Pherae unless directly asked for, Eliwood had been working harder than anyone else to pick up the pieces. To march forward with determination much like he did today as he took the reins of his horse and rode off through the land of Bern. Even with the loss of his wife and the disappearance of his only child undoubtedly weighing heavy on his shoulders. Or like an unbelievably tall mountain, threatening to be unsurpassable.

Nils swallowed thickly, the reality of the situation stalling his tears. Eliwood was right. Nils wasn’t alone. Nils had friends, and he had family holding him in their arms at this exact moment, putting their own pain aside to help soothe his own.

Looking back on it, he couldn’t help but feel like he had been acting selfishly all along.

“Eliwood… I’m sorry,” Nils whispered, his eyes opening to stare at the purple breastplate in front of him. “This whole time I’ve been keeping you and everyone else at arm’s length. I never… I never stopped to really think too much about how you might be feeling too. That we were both suffering. You’ve been nothing but kind and supportive to me this whole time, but what about you? I really haven’t done anything to support you in kind, have I?”

Eliwood pulled back a bit more, giving the space needed so that he could look down at Nils, who was still staring forward with a distant look of realisation on his face.

“I did not say that to make you feel guilty for taking the time you need for yourself,” Eliwood replied.

However, Nils only shook his head before turning his gaze upwards towards Eliwood, his brow furrowing as the previously distant look in his eyes gave way to one far more present.

“No,” Nils said firmly. “That’s not… that’s not it. I’m not saying that because you made me feel guilty just now. I’m… I’m saying it because it’s the truth. Ninian… she was my sister, and Roy is my nephew. But that isn’t all they were or are. Ninian was your wife. Roy is your son. I never once stopped to think about that beyond how it made me feel now that they were gone. You’ve been hurting this whole time and I’ve never even asked you if you were going to be okay.”

Nils’ fingers tightened once again on Eliwood’s cape as he grit his teeth. “But you’ve always checked in on me. And it’s not just you, everyone else has too. And I just… kept to myself, refusing to reconnect with the people that needed that connection just as much as I do.”

Eliwood was rendered speechless as Nils was pouring his heart out, reflecting on everything that had transpired up until now.

“I’ve been doing everyone such a disservice by remaining so distant, so consumed in my own thoughts,” Nils continued. “You… most of all, Eliwood. You’re my brother. And… you’re right. It’s not just me that needs you. We need each other. And… I’m sorry I haven’t realised that until now.”

The familiar burning sensation of incoming tears tingled in Nils’ throat as he held a firm gaze upwards, refusing to break eye contact with Eliwood as the older man took the time to process what all he had just heard, the surprise evident on his ageing features. Then, finally, that surprise gave way to a smile so heartfelt that Nils’ vision began to blur again as tears welled in the corners of his eyes– Eliwood’s, too.

Though they both had been related by marriage for years, this would be the first time that the two of them had ever truly felt like family.

“Thank you… Nils,” Eliwood responded, his voice slightly choked as two decades worth of weight was lifted from his chest. “You have no idea how much this– you – mean to me. Thank you. ”

Unable to speak without the threat of a sob breaking free, Nils only nodded as the two of them embraced once more– though this time, it was resolve, rather than despair, that fueled it.

“I promise,” Nils managed as a tear rolled down his cheek, soaking into the cloth of his own scarf, “I promise I’ll be as good of a brother to you as you have been to me from here on out. No more running.”

Eliwood could only smile harder, his eyes remaining closed as he ducked his head and allowed the relief he felt to spill forth as tears. “I look forward to it. More than anything.”

Lyn smiled warmly as she stood beside Idunn and watched, the happiness she felt for two of her closest friends bubbling up in her chest as her own eyes grew wet. With a quick rub of her right eye, she let out a soft chuckle as the two men finally parted.

“The two of you really know how to pull at heartstrings, you know,” Lyn commented lightly.

Eliwood laughed quietly as he wiped the tears from his own eyes with a slow two swipes of his thumb. “My apologies. Truthfully, I had forgotten where we were for a moment. I hope you can forgive the exposition.”

“No, no,” Lyn said with a wave of the hand. “Don’t go apologising. If anything, I think this is the second wind we all needed right about now. Right?”

Lyn spared a quick side-eye towards Idunn, who held an expression as unreadable as ever.

“Lyn is right,” Idunn responded. “It is far better to approach this situation with unwavering resolve, for we all will need it based on who I assume awaits us within the temple.”

Nils’ fingers dug into the palms of his hands as he clenched his fists at his sides. It had taken him far too long to get to this point– to regain even a sliver of the confidence he once had– and he was not going to let that fire fizzle out.

“Then… let’s go see them. There’s no time to waste.”