I

Age 7

"Close your eyes, and imagine the biggest thing you know. What do you see?"

Percy did as he was told. He imagined their house: one story, facing north. His mother in the kitchen, cooking up some disaster. His Uncle Jakob a few feet away, berating her while he brewed his coffee. The fire going strong in the hearth. His pops tripping over something on his way to the study, where Grandpa and Aunt Flora discussed tribal matters. Dwyer in their room going over healing tomes. He was told their house was modeled in the classic style, made popular before the tribe settled on Ice Mountain: adults slept on either side of the house, the center was used for gathering, and the back was where the children and animals were kept. It made sense for the period it came from, back when they weren't so safe and invaders were common. So their rooms were big, but they were so used to peace that furniture came to clutter what should have been open, airy spaces.

But was his house really the biggest thing? No, there was the Ice Village itself. It took him about two hours to walk from one side of their lands to the other. Along the way he'd pass the butchers and the tailors and taxidermists, who all knew him by name as the chief's grandson. After that he'd pass the garrison, and depending on the time of dark-day he might catch a glimpse of their conscripted going through their drills. Then he'd pass the library, a whole eight stories sturdy; right next to it was the main hall, where the tribe would meet communally and Grandpa Kilma held diplomatic meetings. Past that was the Moon Shrine, where there was always at least one sorcerer doing spellwork or performing a sacrifice on behalf of the tribe. He'd pass their ice pond. He'd pass their field of sculptures, beautiful images etched in ice by their finest artists. And then, finally, he'd make it to The End, their cliff overlooking the abyss below.

Ice Village was big. Certainly, the biggest ever. "Our tribe," he finally answered.

"Are you sure? What about the mountain?"

Ice Mountain, of course! The Ice Tribe wouldn't be what it was if it weren't for their mountain, the steep slope and thick forest that kept them safe from all bad guys everywhere. "Aw man, you're right! Okay, the mountain."

"Ice Mountain is bigger than our village, but is it really the biggest thing in the world?"

"Yeah. What else is there?"

Flora cleared her throat, but didn't answer immediately. Of course, Percy knew there were things down in the world below. His father told him about Nohr and Windmire and Castle Krakenburg, but he couldn't imagine any of those places being bigger than what he grew up around.

Suddenly, Flora placed her hand on the back of his neck and leaned in close. "Well, guess what? The moon is even bigger than that."

He opened his eyes and saw his aunt with her finger in the air, pointing to the moon's lovely face.

"When I was a girl, I thought I was lucky to live up here, since it put me closer to the sky. But I've traveled the world, and I can tell you the moon looks the same everywhere. Strange, don't you think?" He voice lowered to a reverent whisper. "But that means no matter what happens or where we go, she stays the same. Isn't that wonderful, Percy? Isn't it?"

His pops split his time between tribal grounds and Castle Krakenburg. Marrying into the Ice Tribe did not mean his fight for justice had ended, and he best channeled his heroism through his service to Lady Elise. The summer before he turned eight was the first time his father invited him along on one of his trips.

Both Grandpa Kilma and Aunt Flora took issue with his timing. It conflicted with their annual pilgrimage to the bottom of the mountain, where they would honor the blessings of summer and celebrate the eventual onslaught of winter. He remembered his aunt narrowing her blue eyes, her thin lips stretched taut across her face as Grandpa Kilma stressed the importance of their rituals.

Percy lowered his head, tears of anger glistening in his eyes. He'd been waiting for ages for his pops to invite him to the capital, to the castle, and he didn't want to miss it for some boring old tradition. Luckily, his mom was there to back him up.

"It'll be good for Percy to see Krakenburg for himself. It'll give him a chance to make friends with the royal children."

"There are plenty of children here he can spend time with," Aunt Flora quipped.

"But let me remind you, it's the royal children of today who will be running Nohr tomorrow—just as Percy will one day be involved in leading our tribe. It's good that he forms friendships with them now before politics get in the way." She let out an airy laugh. "Think of it as his first diplomatic mission!"

Percy didn't know what a 'diplomatic mission' was; it was the 'making friends' bit that caught his attention. Friends? With the royal children?

"Do you honestly think he'll be able to do that?" his aunt asked, mirroring his thoughts. "You know what those who live at the bottom of the mountain think of us."

"That you're hospitable? Charming? A beacon of justice to be envied near and far?" his pops interjected, the bite in his buttery words going over Percy's head. "I can assure you, I am intimately aware! And Percy is an exemplary tribesman. Wouldn't you agree, Felicia?"

His pops addressed the question to his mom, but even Percy could tell that the words were meant for Aunt Flora. But Felicia answered anyway, folding her hands over her lap as she nodded. "Sure is! The royals will love him. And if he forms bonds with them now, it'll help secure our position. You can't tell me that's a bad thing, father."

Grandpa Kilma leaned back in his seat, his smoky gray eyes settling on Percy like a fog after rainfall. It was the look he gave Dwyer whenever he got it in him to supervise their studies. Percy remembered how Dwyer would always keep his head down, his unwashed hair curtaining around his face. Grandpa Kilma didn't seem to like that, his murky expression sharpening into a scowl Dwyer never saw.

So Percy met his grandfather's eyes, fighting the urge to place his hands on his hips and puff out his chest. Be cold of heart, be stoic in character. A true Ice Tribesman is not a thin layer of frost, but a glacier that endures through time.

Language aside, even Percy knew what the admonition meant. He drew his features into one of peaceful neutrality. They were only supposed to apply their warrior's spirit to their enemies—not to fellow tribesmen, and certainly never to the chief. But inside, he wanted to jump and shout. I'll show 'em, Grandpa! I'll show 'em the strength of our tribe! They'll love us, I promise!

"Very well. He may go, on the condition that on your way back you take him to our ritual cites." Grandpa Kilma smiled, the skin around his eyes crinkling. "Our gods would certainly accept the late offerings of a sincere child."

His pops placed a hand on his shoulder. It was meant to look like a gesture of assurance, but it was really their secret code. Keep still. We aren't alone yet.

Only when they were alone did Percy throw himself into his pops' arms and thank his mom for backing him up. A vacation, not only to the bottom of the mountain, but all the way to the capital! To hang out with someone other than his dowdy cousin for once! To see what all those other people saw. It would be the best five days ever.

That night, he had a dream:

In the distance, past the thicket of trees that stretched onward into The End, there was a girl riding the wind. In the pale moonlight, her face was two-toned: both enlightened and cast in shadow, illuminated in her dark dealings. She seemed to almost levitate above the wyvern she rode on, lifted up and carried in the air as though she were one with it. The dead Nohrian glades withered even more in her presence. She was covered in shimmering starlight.

Two days later, his face was buried in Lady Elise's chest. The buttons on her collar dug into his skin, but he knew better than to try and rip himself away from a royal. She was nice, otherwise. Along with Arthur, the three of them went to introduce Percy to King Xander.

When they got to the throne room, Percy kneeled before him just as he was taught, head bowed in deference. When King Xander commanded him to rise, he did so carefully in hopes that the man before him wouldn't notice his trembling knees. He had to crane his neck to look up at the king; not only did he stand on the elevated platform before his throne, but he was naturally tall besides. Definitely taller than his pops, who until then was the biggest person he'd ever known.

King Xander stared down at him, a storm brewing behind his violet eyes.

In that moment, Percy felt scared. Where did pops go? Why was the king looking at him with such disdain? He felt tears gather in his eyes, but he forced them back. Be cold of heart, be stoic in character. A true Ice Tribesman is not a thin layer of frost—

"This is your son, Arthur?" he asked flatly.

"Yes, milord."

"Fourth in line to the chief's chair."

"Yes."

"He doesn't look like your typical Ice Tribesman."

Arthur didn't respond to this. Percy could hardly think of an answer himself. What was an Ice Tribesman 'supposed' to look like?

"He has his mother's eyes," the king murmured, almost as an afterthought.

"He does."

"Summer is coming to an end. Does he not observe the Ice Tribe's rituals? A lack of piety is a worrisome trait, even in young children."

"Chief Kilma has assured me that the gods of the Ice Tribe will accept his late offerings."

King Xander's face split open in a skittish smile, the corners of his mouth trembling as they twitched upward. "Somehow, I doubt that."

Once again, Arthur did not respond. A few moments of stale silence passed, King Xander never once looking away from the boy, sizing him up under his heavy gaze. But eventually, he slowly lifted his chin towards the exit. "He may go."

Percy expected his pops to come get him, but when he turned, he saw what had to be Lady Peri approaching him. She was just as Arthur described: wild two-toned hair, wide eyes, and caked-on makeup. She extended her hand to him. "C'mon, let's go!"

Her tone was cheerful, but Percy did not want to take her hand. He fought the urge to cry, recoil in fear, and run over to his pops. There was something not quite right with her, something darker lurking beneath her sweet, wide smile. Back home, his pops was always quick to whisk him away from old women who wanted to pinch his cheeks and enthusiastic generals who wanted to start his training a few years early. Why wasn't he coming to save him now?

Lady Peri bent forward and whispered, "hey, hey: now's the part where you take my hand, and I take you to play with my son and the other royal babies. Unless," her unblinking eyes seemed to grow even larger, "you wanna stay here with King Xander…?"

Percy's immediately took her hand, much more willing to risk whatever evil Lady Peri had planned than suffer under the king's heavy gaze for a moment longer. She nearly dragged him out of the throne room, and then down several winding corridors. Soon they were before a large set of ironclad doors, an effigy of the Dusk Dragon guarding the entrance from above. Lady Peri opened it, and enthusiastically waved him inside. Being the unwavering tribesman he was supposed to be, Percy obliged.

The first thing he heard upon entering the room was a sharp gasp. "Auntie, please! We're indecent!"

Percy peeked out from behind Lady Peri, and saw four children in various states of play. The boy who spoke was on his knees, carrying a small girl on his back. The girl had a bed sheet tied around her neck and a wooden sword in her hand; she was obviously engaged in mock battle against another girl with lavender braids, who held a thin book of spells in her hand. And the last child—the prettiest by far—sat at the dresser, experimenting with various ribbons.

"'Indecent'?!" Lady Peri placed a hand to her chest, eyebrows furrowed in anger. "Was it 'indecent' when me and King Garon and everybody went in to slaughter the Chevois? Was it 'indecent' when we defeated their rebels, put their severed heads on spikes, and drove their evil leader into exile? Was it 'indecent' when we came home victorious, covered in the blood and guts of—"

"Mother, please," the child at the dresser pleaded, his expression the very vision of perfect stoicism that Percy always aspired to, but could never achieve.

Lady Peri cleared her throat, all smiles again. "Battles, mock or otherwise, are far from 'indecent'! And," she turned to Percy, "I'm sure our new friend would agree! This is Percy, fourth in line to the Ice Tribe!"

Percy stepped out from behind Lady Peri, and resisted the urge to jump up, wave, ask if he could join their play session. He instead bowed in deference, as was proper. "Pleased to meet—"

"Wait! I know who you are!" the girl with the wooden sword jumped off her cousin's back and sprinted over to him. "You're Arthur's son! Yes! Mom told me all about you!"

"Oh boy, she did?" Percy studied the girl's face. There was something familiar about her, like he once saw her features on somebody else. Her cloudy grey eyes, her wispy blonde hair, her porcelain skin, her bubbly manner…

"Yes! And she was right, you really are cool looking..." She took a step back and studied him, lightly stroking the black feathers that framed his collar.

Percy thought about who her mother might be. She was a royal, so that narrowed it down considerably. He knew the king and queen had one son; the king's three younger siblings also only had one child each. And she couldn't be Lady Peri's daughter, the boy sitting at the dresser already addressed her as such.

He glanced behind the girl's shoulder and caught sight of the mock spellcaster with lavender braids. If he remembered it right, only one of the siblings wasn't a natural blonde, and it was Lady Camilla. So that only left…

Percy grinned. "Wow, Lady Elise sure knows how to talk a guy up!" She paused mid-stoke, wide eyes flickering up to meet his. "But pops told me a lot about you too, Princess Ophelia. I'm so happy I finally get to see you myself!"

An impish smile spread across Princess Ophelia's face. "Well, we should get to know each other better. And that means meeting my siblings!" She grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him over to meet the other royal children. "The valiant horse is Siegbert, the wicked diviner is Nina, and the beautiful hostage is Forrest."

"I said I wasn't playing," Prince Forrest remarked dryly, idly examining another ribbon.

Unfazed, Princess Ophelia turned back to Percy. "Would you like to join us? You can be the noble chief who comes to aide me in my fight for justice."

"J-justice…?" Percy whispered, interest piqued.

Lady Peri soon left the bundle of children to their own devices, and in the absence of watchful eyes they created an elaborate war game. Opehlia was the brave warrior who was of royal blood, but unaware of it. Percy was the sagely chief who taught the hotheaded warrior valuable lessons about mercy and forgiveness. And those lessons aided her in her quest to rescue the blissfully unaware lord from the clutches of the most evil, most cunning witch to ever crawl out of Hoshido.

In the end, the warrior discovered that she was of royal blood. She and her chief rode into battle against the vile diviner, and at the last moment, when all hope seemed lost, the warrior revealed her true lineage. "Can you really stand up to the blood of the Dusk Dragon?!" she cried out dramatically, and in an instant her body—Princess Ophelia's body—glowed. A ball of light rose from her chest and fell back to the ground.

The entire room shimmered with translucent flakes of light, dancing around the royal children. The diviner clutched her chest and screamed, falling to the floor in convulsions before finally going stiff.

"Yes, victory!" Princess Ophelia threw her arm around Percy's shoulders. "Come, my good chief! Let's go get the helpless lord-"

"But I said I wasn't playing."

"—so I can drop down on one knee, and ask if he wants to get married!"

"Stop that. We're related."

But Percy had already forgotten the game. "Golly gee, how'd you do that?!"

"Why, you saw how I won, my chief!"

Percy shook himself out of her grasp, turning to face her. "I'm serious, princess! You did something to the ground!"

The girl blinked, woken from her playtime spell. "Oh, that? You've never seen a Dragon Vein before? I thought your father would've told you."

"He did, but I thought they were for battle! I didn't think one of them could be so… pretty."

"They usually aren't," Nina explained, sitting up. "What you just saw is one of the rare harmless ones."

"Yes. Its pulse is also unusually faint. It was grandfather who first found it, not long after I was born," Prince Siegbert continued. "He activated it, and I was the only one effected. So he said the area was 'blessed with innocence'.'" He shrugged. "Or at least, that's how mother describes it. So he had the room built for me, and it was expanded when everyone else was born so we could all stay here. The dragon vein is in the center, if you haven't noticed."

Percy walked over to where Princess Ophelia was. "It's here?"

She nodded, and Percy tried to see if he could feel the Dragon Vein himself. He jumped up and down on the spot. "Doesn't seem so special to me," he quipped, already comfortable with the royal children. "What does it feel like for you guys?"

"Like we're being pulled down into the earth… and when we activate it, it's like pulling that energy up through our bodies," Prince Siegbert explained. "Though I'm sure that sounds a bit confusing…"

"Nope! It makes sense." He grinned. "What a wicked-cool power!"

That night, Percy was supposed to sleep in the same room as his father; but at the insistence of the royal children, he spent the night with them instead. A servant then brought in a bed for him to sleep in, but Princess Ophelia asked him to share a bed with her.

"It's so hot!" she explained, laying down and patting the spot beside her as a way of welcoming him in. "Mom tells me that people from your tribe are always cold, no matter what time of year. I'd be so happy if you stayed here with me."

Percy placed his hands on his hips. "Is that a royal decree?" he teased.

The youngest princess turned her nose up in the air, trying her best not to smile. "Of course! Everything I say is!"

So they slept facing each other, the princess chatting away about her 'siblings' and the court and her magical lessons. She told him about her grandfather, King Garon, who passed away the year before. She remembered him not as the warlord her aunt described, but as the playful man who let her ride on his shoulders, the patriot who showed her the greatness of Nohr, the astronomer who taught her about the stars. But her chatting came to a halt when he asked her about King Xander.

"Uncle is… okay," she finally whispered, eyes averted. "He's doing his best."

He didn't bring up King Xander for the rest of his stay there. He instead did what the royal children wanted to do, which included more war games, running through the castle halls, visiting the stable animals, storytime with Lady Camilla and Lady Elise. When it came time for them to leave, the royal children asked if he was coming back. Percy said he would.

Suddenly, Princess Ophelia came up and threw her arms around him. She held him that way for what felt like a long time. "You promise...?"

She almost sounded sad. If he wasn't coming back before, he had to now. "Yeah," he hugged her in return. "I promise!"

On the way home, Percy chattered on and on about the trip. He thought Krakenburg was amazing, it's circular, concave structure unique to anything he'd ever seen before. He also noticed how the streets of Windmire curved around the castle. It reminded him of one of their effigies of the moon, carved into a sheet of ice with lines etched around it to symbolize her ethereal glow. So Krakenburg was like the moon, then? Were the citizens like stars? Arthur ruffled his hair, and said he had a mind like his aunt.

"I like the kids there. I made so many new friends!"

"I'm glad you did, son! Lady Elise told me they like you, too. They don't get to meet kids their age too often." Arthur stroked the back of Percy's head. "But I'm sure you're tired and ready to go home, right?"

"Well... I am. I do miss mom and Dwyer and everybody else. But I wanna go back soon! We can, right?"

"Of course! King Xander told me so himself: you can come back anytime."

There was a divide between what people knew about the Shrine Attack, and what actually happened.

Years later, when he told people his heritage and they finally stopped soiling themselves, the first question would always be: were you there for the Shrine Attack?

And he would tell them the truth: no, I wasn't. He and Arthur had been away at Krakenburg at the time. Ophelia would usually jump in at this point, waxing poetic about how fate favored both him and his father, how her retainer was born under a blessed star, how the gods were certainly thinking of her when they made Percy, because what else could explain such a miraculous stroke of luck?

Percy would never say it to her face, but he didn't agree. He hated that his luck kept him from living though that first attack, the one that changed everything. He wished he'd been there to see the progression, because nothing—not any of the violence and misfortune to come—shocked him as much as coming back did.

When he left, the Ice Tribe was located on Ice Mountain, where everybody knew everybody and nobody locked their doors. It was where he lived with his family, all under one roof: him, his mom, his pops, Aunt Flora, Uncle Jakob, Grandpa Kilma, and Dwyer. The simple things that made up his world.

On their way back he and Arthur came to the Woods of the Forlorn, expecting the isolated area to be their last stop before reaching the shrine at the base of the mountain. Instead, the place was littered with Ice Tribesmen: scattered on the ground, moaning in pain, tending to their burn wounds. All faces Percy recognized.

The town baker lost his right arm from the elbow down, bloodied bandages wrapped tightly around the stump as he stared blankly at the ground. The taxidermist had half her face burned, cheek nearly melted though; she lay on the side where her face wasn't injured, screaming from some deep guttural part of her throat. The general's son had been stabbed though, staring up at the sky and murmuring his prayers as his life slipped away. He saw several women with blood leaking out from under their skirts, trickling down their ankles and getting lost in the mossy swamp ground. Children he went to school with, crying hard for parents who were probably dead.

There came a point where Arthur abruptly slammed his hand over Percy's eyes. They then made a sharp left turn. The air smelled like someone was trying to cook spoiled meat, and he begged his pops to tell him what was going on. But as he did in Krakenburg before King Xander, Arthur did not respond.

When he finally lifted his hand from Percy's face, they were standing in front of his mom. Felicia's pretty white dress was soiled and torn, black feathers strewn about her. The ends of her blossom colored hair were charred, and Percy swore her pale blue eyes had grown a shade darker. Around her, fireflies swarmed.

The first thing she did was fall to her knees and pull Percy in to a hug. She held him tighter than she ever had before, slowly stroking the back of his head, her chest hitching at certain points. She pressed her soft cheek against his, and he could feel the dampness. His mother—who always carried the faint hint of flowers—smelled like smoke.

When she finally let go, she got up and hugged Arthur in the same bone-crushing way. He held her close and murmured something into her ear. For years after Percy would wonder what his father said, because whatever it was finally caused Felicia to break. She tilted her head back and sobbed to the sky, knees buckling beneath her as she collapsed into Arthur's arms.

Seeing Felicia's condition disturbed Percy beyond words. He backed away involuntarily, slamming against a dead tree.

And it was then when it happened, the sound and sight that came to define the entire event to him. Behind him, he suddenly heard someone else wail even louder than Felicia. A voice he knew too well.

"Mom, no! Mom, please! No no no!"

Everything came to a standstill, the air around him thick like molasses. Percy turned on his heel to face Dwyer and whatever it was Aunt Flora was doing to him. He saw the family unit of three, and each became subjects in themselves:

Uncle Jakob was lying limp on the ground, his charred and blackened face staring blankly in Percy's direction. Several Ice Tribesmen were pinning Dwyer down as he struggled, every part of him moving except for his mangled left leg, covered in blood. And his Aunt Flora—with her grim determination, and the inner strength of one thousand men—stared down at her son with her steely gaze, axe raised high above her head.

It came down. She severed Dwyer's ruined leg from the rest of his body. The sharp sound of steel crunching against bone cut through the air. Dwyer abruptly stopped screaming, his entire body gone rigid from the shock. Blood spattered across Flora's face and chest. As the other Ice Tribesmen tended to Dwyer, Flora slowly turned to face Percy.

And everything was fast again. Felicia sprinted over to Flora as Arthur picked him up, carrying him away in the opposite direction. Percy's eye's darted everywhere, but he could still feel his aunt's crushing gaze on him. And where were you. And where were you. And where were you.

At least in Nohr, most people simply thought of the Shrine Attack as the official start to the Ice-Flame War.

But it was more than that. It was the end of an age.