The once-lush country of Ylisse lay before him. Once green with farmlands and rich with trade and manufactured goods, now a desolate wasteland akin to ones so familiar and recognizable to him as Plegian deserts. Strange, faded memories of sun-bleached flaxen sand blowing over a massive skeleton- one he recognized as his own- surfaced briefly. The odd reverie broken by the sound of small footsteps echoing in the room behind the balcony, the throne room. He had kept the castle in pristine condition, if only to use it as a visual metaphor for his eternal reign. The small footsteps were all too familiar and a small, distant part of his mind cry out in with longing.
"Mo- Master Grima," The boy began.
"Morgan," Grima greeted shortly. "Did you fail me this time?"
"NO! I mean- No, I was able to level the capital. Valm's economy is centered around trade; the country will fall in just a few months, weeks even."
"But did you find Vert? Surely it was in the Emperor Wallhart's possession."
"About that...Wallhart, in the battle...He- He-" Morgan seemed hesitant to answer Grima's question.
"Out with it!"
"Wallhart, with the last of his strength...shattered Vert, Master Grima."
Grima beckoned Morgan to his side. Placing a hand on the balcony rail overlooking the remains of Ylisse, he sighed. Using his free hand, Grima lifted Morgan to his eye level by his collar. Grima looked at Morgan, who was pale-faced, sweating and was seemingly very interested in the Ylissean landscape. Morgan's hands went to grip at Grima's wrist, though thought better of it and let them dangle uselessly at his side, fingers twitching.
"Morgan. Look at me when I am speaking to you."
"Y-Yes, Master Grima. I apologize."
"Now, Morgan, as I recall, you seemed to have told me that you did not fail me. And yet, you come here empty handed. Now, you being sent to retrieve Vert and returning without the gem seems very much like a failure to me, doesn't it?"
"Yes...Master Grima."
"Morgan, I have placed much of my trust into you," Grima's grip on Morgan's shirt tightened. "And it seems you have lied to me, Morgan."
"I-I...I apologize, Master Grima! It won't happen again!" Desperation became more discernible as Morgan's voice shook and cracked. Grima dropped Morgan, who landed rather ungracefully, stumbling back a pace.
"It better not."
The tavern was loud, and packed with people. Many friendly, many finding the meager harvest, just barely enough to support such a populous nation like Ylisse and yet the largest in many seasons, reason enough to be celebrating. A large man who was reminiscent of someone Morgan used to know, long ago, toasting to Naga. Morgan quickly glanced around until he found who he was looking for. A table of 'traveling mercenaries'. Morgan was quiet in his footsteps and quick to sit down among them. Placing a small cloth bag tied together with string on the table, Morgan sighed.
"...Is this Vert?" Severa asked in a voice as quiet as the din in the tavern would allow. Morgan nodded.