It was a quiet day at a tavern in a small farming town. A middle aged bartender tended to his glasses while bar patrons enjoyed their drinks. Everyone was drinking the same white creamy liquid. The bartender was busy trying to wipe stains caused by said drink away from his drinking glasses when he heard the door open. A battered and rugged old man slowly stepped into the tavern and walked towards the bar. The man had disheveled gray hair, though there seemed to be a handful of dark blue strands in there, and a rough and poorly trimmed beard that covered most of the lower half of his face. The man kept it from being completely unmanageable, but that was the extent of his grooming. The man's time ravaged skin seemed to want to pull his eyebrows down, giving him the look of a constant glare. The man's face was sunken and wrinkles were deeply engraved into it, spoiling his face for any positive expressions of emotion. The man's posture was very straight, and he was fairly toned and muscular, but he otherwise looked like he was pushing on his mid seventies. The man's clothes were ragged and unassuming. The only thing notable about them were bandages the man had on his right shoulder, but the man was clearly a laborer. It wasn't that unusual for someone like him to be injured. The man approached the bartender.

"Well if it isn't one of my best customers! Mercer, how are you doing, you old bastard?! How'd the day go? Find anything good?"

Mercer sat himself at the bar. "It wasn't bad actually. Mostly scrap metal, but I also found a broken healing staff. Sold it all for 300 gold."

"That's pretty good. You're a rich man among dirt farmers now, Mercer. What will you do with your fortune?" The bartender jested.

"Just get me a drink."

The bartender took out a bottle of kumis, an alcoholic beverage traditionally made from horse's milk, and handed it to Mercer. He winced at the sight of the drink, but he didn't refrain from taking a deep swig. Mercer recoiled at the taste the entire time, but he continued to drink until the bottle was half empty. The bartender gave him an amused look. "Every time you come here and get a drink you act like it's vomit, but still you drink it. What's the matter? You don't like Donald's kumis?"

"I hate kumis."

Donald chuckled to himself. "And yet you keep coming back. I have some other kinds of alcohol you know."

"Oh yeah? What's the cheapest?"

"I'll sell you a bottle of beer for 100 gold."

"100 gold! Who are you to charge that much for a damn bottle of beer?!"

"I don't have a choice! This stuff is rare. Ever since the Fell Dragon took over the world, crops just don't grow well anymore. Any kind of alcohol made from plants, which is almost every kind of alcohol, is hard to come by. It gets more expensive every year. Alcoholism isn't a cheap vice, Mercer."

"Yeah, yeah."

"It pays my rent though. As long as there are people, there will be taverns. Speaking of paying my rent, how about you buy that beer? You said you made 300 gold today! You can afford it."

"I can barely stomach this crap anymore." Mercer said as he looked warily at his bottle of kumis. "That's really tempting, but I have to save up. Rent is due soon. You know what the Grimleal landlords do when people don't pay rent."

"Sure. Have to pay the rent. I know what that's like."

Mercer and Donald turned when they heard a woman scream. A young woman was trying to free her arm from a young man and his rather forceful advances. "Come on, sweetheart!" The man stated in an attempt at a casual tone. "Don't just leave before we get to know each other! Anyone ever tell you that's rude?" The woman grabbed her drink from a nearby table and splashed it in the man's face. The man finally let go and the woman hurried out of the tavern. The man laughed it off and sat at the bar next to Mercer. He turned back towards Donald and took a swig of his kumis. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the man turning to him. Mercer knew the man would try to talk to someone to cover up his disheartened expression, and he tried very hard to make sure that someone wasn't him. Unfortunately he was the only other man in the tavern on his own, and the young man decided to engage in the kind of one sided conversation that only benefited the initiator. "Aww these girls are too uptight, eh? They wouldn't know a good time if it swept them off their feet. I need a new town. Somewhere where the bottles are full and the women are empty."

Mercer sighed and gave the man an unpleasant glare. "It's not the girls that are the problem, kid. It's you."

The young man acted like he wasn't hurt by Mercer's comment, though it was obvious he had actually expected some sympathy. "Oh that means so much coming from you, old man. When was the last time you were even with a woman? When was the last time you scored?"

Mercer's irritation briefly turned into rage, but he caught himself. "I had a wife and kids once, kid. I cared about much more important things than just 'scoring'. When you're older you'll see how damn stupid you sound right now."

"Whatever, old man. I for one won't be spending tonight alone."

"Keep telling yourself that." Mercer muttered to himself as he took another sip. The young man tapped his hands on his knees, clearly thinking of something else to say to Mercer. The young man talked a lot about looking for women, but he really seemed to want any kind of companionship at the moment. Much to his own chagrin, Mercer was the best he had.

"So uh… wife and kids, old man?"

Mercer slowly turned to face the young man. "Yeah." He growled.

"That's nice, old man. Everyone in town just knows you as the crazy old bastard who sells scrap metal for a living. Good to know you found someone who could stomach you. What happened to your family anyways? Your kids grow up? Your wife leave you for a less insane man?"

Again Mercer almost snapped at the young man, but he suppressed his rage. "Murdered."

The young man was briefly taken aback. "Oh. I-I'm sorry. That must have been rough on your kids."

"They died too. Same time."

The young man was silent for some time, but to Mercer's frustration he decided to speak up again. "My name is Conrad. What's yours?"

"Mercer."

"Nice to talk to you, Mercer."

"Hey Conrad, whatever you were planning on doing to that lady back there? Why don't you go do that to yourself."

Conrad sighed. "Prick."

The conversation between the two was interrupted by a group of five men bursting into the tavern. Donald glanced up and prepared to yell at them, but he went silent as soon as he realized who the men were. Four of them wore revealing fur and leather armor that made them resemble common thugs, but the man in front wore mage robes. Every man had the Mark of Grima tattooed somewhere on his body. The man in front had it tattooed right on his forehead. Strangely enough, a little girl seemed to be accompanying the men. "Which one of you is Conrad?!" The lead man shouted. A number of people in the tavern pointed towards the young man seated besides Mercer. The man buried himself in his drink, and by some miracle the Grimleal still didn't notice him. The little girl with the lead man walked up to Conrad however. She innocently tugged on his pants and didn't understand when Conrad tried to shoo her away. The lead man noticed and walked towards him.

"Well, well. If it isn't Conrad."

"W-what are you doing with my daughter!"

"We went to your house to find you, but you weren't home. Your little girl was all by herself. That's not responsible parenting."

"I had a babysitter!"

"Come to think of it, a young woman did leave in a hurry when we got there. I guess she was smart enough to see what was coming. You know what else is irresponsible parenting, Conrad?"

Conrad looked at his feet. "Not paying the rent?" He said sheepishly.

"You're a week late, boy. Do I look like a common thug to you? Do I look like some gang banger?" The man tapped on the tattoo on his forehead.

"N-no sir!"

"Who am I then?"

"Y-you're Courtney. You're the leader of the Grimleal around here."

Courtney smiled. "And who leads the Grimleal?"

"G-Grima."

"You're damn right boy! Our boss is a mountain sized dragon! It could wipe out everything you've ever known with its flatulence! Do you really want to be messing with us?!"

"No sir!"

Courtney turned and started addressing everyone in the tavern. "We don't ask much from you people. We really don't ask much. The other chapters of the Grimleal aren't as merciful as I am you know. They use people in their experiments. There's a lot of nasty things you can do with dark magic, let me tell you. They hoard food from the people so that they can eat like kings. That does sound tempting to me. They levy a 'tax' on wives and daughters. Let me tell you, there are some fine looking women around these parts. Do we do that to you people though? No! We have some respect for you all! All we ask is that you respect us back! All we ask is that you pay the damn rent on time! Do you all do it?! Yes, yes you do for the most part. I'll give credit where credit is due. This town is pretty good about paying on time, but there are still a few bad eggs." Courtney turned to Conrad. "Stand up when I'm talking to you, boy!" Conrad stood up from his stool. "Now hold out your hand!"

"W-what?" He asked.

"HOLD OUT YOUR HAND! Do it like we gonna shake hands, boy!"

Conrad reluctantly held out his hand. Courtney drew a tome. Magical energy materialized in his right hand. He shook hands with Conrad, forcing this magical energy against his skin, and Conrad screamed in agony as it burned him. Courtney smiled sadistically as he held Conrad's hand, and he only let him go after almost a minute. Conrad fell to the floor screaming. "If you make us have to come back here, Conrad, we're going to do much more than just burn your hand." Courtney turned to the rest of the people in the tavern. "And if the town starts giving us problems, then we're going to have to get Grimleal Enforcers down here. Trust me, they're a lot less forgiving than we are." Courtney nodded towards his men and began to walk out of the tavern. "Come on, boys. Let's get out of here. I hate these dirt farming towns." The Grimleal left the tavern and the patrons returned to their drinks. Only Conrad's daughter came to his aid. She lightly tapped on her father while he sobbed uncontrollably. Mercer sighed and walked over to Conrad and slowly helped him to his feet.

"Thanks, old man." Conrad struggled to say through his whimpering. Mercer looked down at Conrad's daughter, who didn't seem to understand the severity of the situation at all.

"This is your little girl, huh?"

"Y-yeah."

Mercer punched Conrad in the stomach, sending him back to his knees. "You have a little girl and you're chasing women instead of paying your rent?! Do you know what the Grimleal Enforcers would do if they got their hands on her?! They'd make an example of her to the whole town! Don't ever put your daughter's life in danger again!" Mercer angrily went back to the bar, retrieved his bottle, and then stormed out of the tavern.

"Shove off, old man!" Conrad yelled. "You're just a crazy old bastard! No one in this town really likes you, you know! Why don't you just lie down and die already?!"

"Believe me-" Mercer muttered under his breath "-nobody wants that more than I do."

Mercer angrily threw his empty bottle away as he stepped outside. "Damnit! I hate kumis."

"Then why do you drink it?"

Mercer turned to see the familiar face of a woman with unnatural light green hair. She wore loose fitting red robes and had her ears tucked away beneath her long hair. Nobody would suspect anything of it at a glance, but Mercer knew why she did it. Mercer hesitated for several seconds before responding, wondering if engaging with the woman was worth his time. "Because I can't afford anything else. Beer, wine, mead, spirits, it all got a lot more expensive now that nothing grows well anymore."

"Why don't you just stop drinking?"

"If I did that, the pain would come back."

"Drinking doesn't make your pain go away."

"What does that mean coming from you?" Mercer snapped. "You don't know a damn thing about being human, Tiki."

Tiki smiled faintly. "You're right. I don't know what it's like to be human. I've tried to understand for thousands of years, but just the act of living for thousands of years only further distances myself from humanity." Tiki stepped closer to Mercer. "You get worse and worse everytime I see you, Chrom."

"Don't call me that! That is not my name anymore!"

"Of course. You go by Mercer now. You like to think that Chrom died with the Shepherds all those years ago."

"Chrom is dead. I'm just a scavenger now."

"I know you blame yourself for what happened… Mercer. I know there isn't a soul in this world that hates you more than you do yourself. I know you think that you're a broken man." Tiki stepped closer to Mercer. For an instant it seemed like she was going to place her hand on his shoulder, but she paused when his glare grew more severe. "But I know there's still a hero in you."

"Let me die in peace."

"If death is what you really wanted, you would have taken that way out a long time ago. I know what you really want, Mercer… peace. I can give that to you."

"How many times have you come to see me since Grima won, Tiki?"

"I've lost count."

"Over three hundred times. Each time you've asked me for something. You ask me for less and less as the years go by, but you're always asking for something. You wanted me to rebuild the Shepherds. You wanted me to stop Grima and the Grimleal. You wanted me to take up the Falchion again. You wanted me to fight again. Have I ever agreed to any of it?"

"No."

"I'm not a hero. I'm not going on some foolish quest to save the world. The Shepherds are dead because of me, Tiki. It's over. Whatever it is you're going to ask of me, just don't."

"I know that you refuse to resist the Grimleal anymore. I know that you swore to never pick up a sword again after the Shepherds were killed. Even if you did, I doubt you still have the will needed to perform the Awakening ritual. I know you won't help to defeat Grima, Mercer, but that's not what I need from you. I believe you when you say you won't fight anymore, but there is someone else who can."

"What?"

"There is another member of the royal family."

Mercer's tired face twisted with fury. "The royal family is dead, Tiki! Who could you be talking about?! Lucina, Lissa, Emmeryn, Owain, they're all gone! They've been gone for thirty years!"

"I know that, Mercer. There is someone I'd like you to meet, however."

"Who the hell could that be?"

Tiki turned towards an alley behind the tavern and waved. "Come on out now, Ophelia." A blonde woman wearing a thick robe stepped out of the alleyway. She looked at Mercer nervously, and she darted her eyes away when he looked back. "Don't be shy, Ophelia. Chrom is an ally." Mercer scowled at his old name, but he didn't bring it up. He watched as Ophelia slowly stepped forward. He shrugged at her, imploring her to get to the point. Tiki looked at Ophelia and nodded. "Take off your robe, Ophelia. It's okay." Ophelia slowly nodded back. Reluctantly she removed her heavy robe, showing the revealing mage clothing underneath. The style and design of her clothes were reminiscent of what Plegian mages wore, but they were also much more brightly colored. Ophelia's clothing only drew Mercer's attention for an instant, however. His eyes were more attracted to a strange symbol on the woman's arm. It was the same symbol that Mercer covered up with his bandages.

"What… what is this?!"

Tiki looked at the old man that had once lead the Shepherds in defense of human civilization itself. "She's like you Chrom… very much like you."

A frail and unassuming man slowly made his way down the halls of the royal palace in Ylisstol. He approached the throne room and stopped as a soldier approached him. "State your business!" The heavily armored guard demanded. The guard wore blue and gold plate armor like what Ylissean soldiers had worn decades earlier under Chrom and Emmeryn's father, but the Mark of Grima was also engraved on the armor.

"I have a message for Emperor Gangrel from the High Inquisitor."

The guard nodded and allowed the attendant into the throne room. The attendant slowly approached the Emperor as he sat on his throne and bowed when he reached him. "I have a message from Aversa, milord. She requests your personal enforcer for a training exercise. She wants the newer recruits to learn from a professional."

Gangrel waved his arm. "Sure. Of course. She takes so much from me. What's one more possession of mine."

Gangrel's attendant eyed him uneasily. "You're… wearing that outfit?"

Gangrel stepped very close to his attendant. "Is that a problem?"

Gangrel's attendant was clearly afraid of him, but he was also too proud to hide his disgust towards Gangrel's outfit. The attendant's eyes darted around as he looked for the right words to say, words that would convey his revulsion to Gangrel's attire but still have enough humility to avoid Gangrel's wrath. "It's just that… Aversa does prefer you to wear your official Grimleal attire. The Emperor of humanity must look his best after all, especially since you represent the Fell Dragon itself as its appointed ruler of humanity."

"I wear those robes on official events, but when I'm alone in my castle I shall wear what I want. I assure you that I look my best in this outfit." Gangrel began to walk towards a small room near his throne room that was guarded by a number of heavily armored soldiers. Gangrel waved his arm and the soldiers dispersed. "My wife hates it. She considers it 'disturbing' and 'disgusting'. Women have a way of wearing you down. With their constant nagging and pecking they slowly strip you of almost everything they hate about you. The things you care about though, the things you really refuse to give up, those you can keep. This is one of those things." Gangrel walked into the room and his attendant followed him in. "This is my legacy!"

Gangrel admired himself in a large mirror on the wall. Gangrel's outfit was a horrible hodgepodge of various trophies taken from the long since slain Shepherds. His hair, still fiery red where it hadn't turned gray with age, had Lissa's jewelry and Maribelle's bows in it. He also had Cordelia's and Cherche's headbands on his head. Basilio's collar was around his neck, and he also had an armored extension that protected his neck taken from Sully's armor. His chest plate was from Frederick's armor, and the lower part of his abdomen was protected by armor taken from Kellam. His right shoulder plate was from Flavia, and he redundantly wore Severa's arm shield over it. The armor on his forearm was taken from Sumia and Cynthia's arm plating. It was too small to fit him normally, so he he tied them to his arm. His left shoulder plate came from Stahl's armor, and the armor on his left forearm came from Libra. He also covered parts of his arms with segmented armor taken from Say'ri, and the clothing that Lon'qu had worn over his upper arms. The lower parts of Gangrel's armor were taken from Yen'fay, and he also had armored plates coming down to cover his hips that were taken from Kjelle. His pants were taken from Gregor, and his belt was taken from Gaius. The armor on his lower right leg was from Vaike, and his left leg was covered with cloth taken from Owain's clothing. Finally he wore Viron's boots. He also had a number of trophies hanging from his belt. On his belt was Gerome's mask, the keepsake from his mother that Inigo had worn which itself had come from Olivia, the small bear that Anna had carried, and the feather that Noire had worn on her head. Gangrel also wore Lucina's cape on his back and had her parallel Falchion sheathed there as well, though he was incapable of wielding it properly.

There were also a number of other trophies in Gangrel's room that he couldn't fit on his body. On a shelf were Panne and Yarne's beaststones, the tattered and bloody outfits of Olivia, Henry, Tharja, and Morgan, Nah's dragonstone, a scale taken from Nowi in her dragon form, the hats of Miriel, Laurent, and Ricken, and Donnel's pot. Leaning against the wall was Brady's healing staff, one of Emmeryn's healing staves, Priam's Ragnell, and Walhart's personal axe Wolf Berg.

Gangrel had a trophy for every Shepherd save for Chrom, Tiki, Aversa, and himself. Robin was a unique case. Because Grima had made Robin the Hierophant, Robin didn't die with the other Shepherds. Gangrel didn't have a trophy from Robin, instead having his Levin sword, the only thing on him that wasn't taken from the Shepherds, to represent Robin. Tiki had been too powerful to kill, though the Grimleal hadn't heard from her in thirty years, and Chrom had apparently escaped death when the Shepherds were defeated. He too had long since gone into hiding. Aversa and Gangrel himself had been the ones to engineer the Shepherd's downfall, so Gangrel did not represent Aversa and himself with his trophies. He had enough of Aversa in the present day anyways.

Gangrel admired himself in the mirror and gave an uneasy laugh. "In ancient times warriors would wear trophies from their defeated enemies. Who am I to look down on that tradition? Why shouldn't I wear my outfit? I am not just the king of Plegia. I am not just the leader of the Grimleal. I am not just the man that Grima made Emperor of humanity. I am the slayer of all the Shepherds!" Gangrel broke out in a maniacal fit of laughter. "Why shouldn't I embrace that?!"

Gangrel's attendant feigned a smile and nervously saw himself out of the room as Gangrel descended into one of his unhinged laughing fits.