A/N: Yes, I know I haven't written anything in ages. I've been really busy this past year. Sorry... Hopefully my pre-existing stories will finally be updated over summer, all going well.

Anyway, this recent effort is an idea I've had for quite a while now, and is effectively my attempt at Galcian's backstory. I'm aware that this sort of thing has been attempted before, although I've never read it (in fact I only even found out about it some time after starting work on this one), so this should be a sufficiently different version to make it worthwhile.

I should also note that this is intended to be fully readable by anyone, regardless of whether they've even heard of Skies of Arcadia (and let's face it, it's certainly an... obscure game, to say the least). One of my main motivations for writing this in the first place was to try and explore some of the detail of the background world that the game suggested but never really showed, so hopefully there should be a lot of new ideas here, even for those of you who have heard of the game.

A note on the rating: I've set it at M just to be on the safe side. I've no idea how this will turn out (I never do) but suffice to say this probably won't be a very happy story. You have been warned.

Anyway, enough of my extended rambling. Hope you enjoy this, all reviews/ constructive criticism much appreciated, as always.

Disclaimer: As should be intuitively obvious, I don't own Skies of Arcadia or anything affiliated to it. In all honesty I've absolutely no idea who does, although I suspect Sega may have something to do with it.

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Chapter 1- Midnight

It was midnight in Valua. Rain sliced down out of the black, murky sky and bounced heavily on the wide streets and magnificent stone buildings of Upper City. It flowed smoothly down the glass awnings over the pavements, bestowing upon them almost the impression of gently melting, before dripping into the sides of the road, roiling down the gutters and falling into the sewers. Quite evidently no-one was about, owing in part to both the lateness of the hour and the general inclemency of the weather- it was rare for the city to see any other condition outside of that which it was presently experiencing- but was perhaps also due to the fact that it was Lords' day, and the majority of the populace would be attending a late-night party or some other such function being held in one of the grander halls. By the frequent but irregular flashes of lightning, a person standing outside them might even have been able to see some of the revellers- gazing out of the smooth, cold panes, sipping exotic liquors from minuscule glasses clutched in their hands, their comments on the foulness of the evening muted beyond intelligibility by the thickness of the glass. Their shared assumptions that no-one would be about at this time of night, however, would in fact transpire to be wrong, for the streets were not entirely deserted.

It was about ten past midnight when a man emerged from a small, unassuming building at the junction of two minor streets on one of the upper levels. He had clearly not been attending a party, for he was dressed somewhat plainly- black jacket, trousers, and leather boots, with a long blue cloak around the shoulders. A rusty-looking flintlock pistol and a long sword hung from his belt. He shut the door cautiously behind him as he left, the fact that it had no visible means of being opened from the outside not deterring him in the slightest. This was not the only unusual thing about the door; while it appeared at first glance to be made of plain, black-painted wood, other aspects made apparent upon closer inspection- its curious solidness, for instance- quickly suggested otherwise. The man glanced back at the building as he descended the steps to the pavement, although he would not have been able to see its occupants, even by the flashes of lightning, for it had no windows.

The man was only very young- maybe eighteen standard years at the most, or about twenty nautical years- and was clean-shaven, with a head of untidy brown hair. He had a general appearance of hurriedness about him, which was only exacerbated when he withdrew a watch from his pocket, glanced at it, and began running madly down the street. He took a convoluted route, and despite his seemingly panicked manner it was clear that this was deliberate; he took care to read the road signs at every junction he encountered, although he never stopped. Most of the time he was kept dry by the awnings over the pavement, but every now and then he was forced to cross the road, the heels of his boots slamming dully on the cobbled street and throwing up small fountains of water with the force of their impact. The sword swung clumsily against his leg as he ran. All the while he kept one hand clutching at a part of his jacket, as though something was loose in a pocket and he was attempting to stop it falling out.

It was about fifteen past midnight when the man skidded around a corner and saw an electric carriage slide smoothly to a halt on the opposite side of the road. Traffic was virtually unheard of at this time of night; evidently this was where they intended to meet him. Pausing but briefly to catch his breath, he dashed across the road one last time. The carriage door opened as soon as his foot touched the pavement.

"You are four hundred and twenty-three seconds late," came a deep voice from the inside of the carriage.

"I am truly sorry, my lord," replied the young man, with a note of worry. He moved closer to the door.

The man sat inside was older than he was, maybe forty standard years, with early flecks of grey dotted throughout his soft brown hair and beard. He wore a coppery iron tunic, which suggested he held some form of rank within the Armada, although it was the long yellow bands on the shoulders that betrayed his status as an admiral.

"No matter," he replied, simply.

"I know it is not my place to make so bold as to ask, my lord," the younger man ventured, tentatively, "but are you by any chance an admiral?"

"Indeed I am," the other man confirmed, with a hint of resignation.

The young man gasped. "Then it is indeed an honour, your lordship!" He began to bow, but the admiral held up a hand and he stopped.

"I would rather it were not broadcast to all who may be watching," he replied. "There are many here with whom I am not on the friendliest of terms. I would have expected you of all people to know that." His voice was stern, but not accusing, and, together with the mane of hair and the deep green eyes, reminded the other man somewhat of a lion. "And 'sir' will suffice from now on, I think," he continued. "I have never been comfortable with titles."

"My apologies, sir," said the other man, inclining his head slightly in respect. "It was just that, when I first submitted my information, I did not expect it to require attention from quite so high up the chain of command."

"You claimed to have information concerning the safety and stability of our Empire," the admiral explained. "If that does not necessitate attention from the very highest levels, then I fail to see what does. ...Although I must confess," he continued after a brief pause, "that I am curious to know why you did not simply report this to your direct superiors, as per standard procedure."

"They would not believe me, sir," the young man said eagerly. "They claimed that I lack sufficient evidence."

The older man closed his eyes for a few seconds. He seemed to be thinking. "...I see," he replied, looking up again. "Fortunately, I am not so unwise. Let us see what you have."

The younger man hastily pulled a rather thin and fragile-looking scroll from the pocket he had been clutching and handed it to the admiral, who unrolled it and began to read. He was secretly impressed by the speed with which the admiral finished it; the archaic style of Classical Valuan that the Guild of Information used for writing its reports was notoriously difficult to master, but it seemed to pose no problems for the older man.

"I am afraid," he said eventually, with a sigh that made the younger man very worried, "that this is beyond even me. I shall have to convey this directly to the Emperor."

There were several seconds of silence, in which there existed only the monotonous white noise of the rain. "...The Emperor?" the young information collector managed eventually. He glanced along the street. Being on one of the upper levels, it afforded excellent views of the whole city. The Imperial Palace stood, elegant and vast, on its island in the centre of the lake of sky. Curtains of rain sheeted across the void in front of it, driven by the ferocious offshore winds. Despite being many miles away, it suddenly seemed a lot closer.

"...But, sir," the young man stuttered, tearing his gaze back to the admiral, "surely the Emperor has enough concerns of his own at the present time? By which I mean the curious rumours surrounding his daughter, and his suspicions of illness..." His voice faded as he noticed the other man's expression.

"I am fully aware of all this," said the admiral, and again there was no tone of accusation in his voice. In fact it was almost reassuring, kindly even. "It is certainly not our wisest course of action. However, it appears to be the only avenue open to us."

"Does this mean that-"

"Where do you live, my friend?" the older man asked abruptly.

"Down near Victory Docks, on one of the estates," the young man replied, somewhat suspicious of the apparent display of concern. "Why do you ask?"

"They may already know..."

"Know what?"

"Look, I think it would be safest if you came with me for the time being. The upper ranks of the Guilds will in all probability not be too pleased with this development." To the young man's complete surprise, there was genuine concern in the depths of those green eyes. "They will almost certainly hunt for someone upon whom they can attribute the blame. Most likely they will not be particularly discriminatory."

"But surely-"

"Please, get in."

"But-" The young man stalled. He had anticipated repercussions, of course-given the recent state of affairs, they were almost certain- but he had never expected them to be quite so severe. For a moment he glanced between the Palace, glittering on its distant island, and the carriage, where, of all people, a Valuan admiral was offering him some chance of safety.

"...It seems I have no choice," he said, gravely. "And I must thank you, sir, for this unexpected act of kindness. I am in your debt."

For the first time the admiral smiled, but it was a smile laden with sadness. "I am merely sick of seeing people die for the Empire's ideals, ideals that have so recently become corrupted," he explained. "I will deliver this information personally. Coming from me, they may be more prepared to accept it. I shall ensure that you are suitably protected until any uproar dies down."

"You have my gratitude, sir," said the younger man, as he climbed into the carriage and shut the door. The engine whirred gently into life, barely audible over the rain. The carriage pulled away, and then accelerated, its wheels cutting thin rivulets in the water flowing over the streets. It rounded a corner and vanished from sight, the sound of the engine growing fainter as it grew more distant.

By twenty past midnight, there was no sign that it had ever been there.

The Valuan shipyards in Lower City are widely regarded as one of the most spectacular sights of the New World. It is not that they are beautiful- in the way that the sprawling forests under the Green Moon or the sweeping Nasrean deserts could be said to be beautiful- more that their sheer scale coupled with their exquisite intricacy simply takes the viewer's breath away. They operate ceaselessly, churning out huge iron plates, engine components, drive shafts, propellers, gun barrels, firing mechanisms, artillery shells, screws, bolts, and rivets at a rate so swift as to be near terrifying, before assembling them in just as little time into new additions for the ever-growing Valuan Armada. Its furnaces are always lit, illuminating the insane tangle of girders, lifting cranes, cables and pipes like a sun setting behind a scorched and blackened forest. The noise from the compressors and the vast cutting discs that shape the iron can be heard from miles away, and up close are practically deafening. There is very little concern for the lives of the unfortunate souls who work there, and the typical death toll per ship averages at around 100. This of course does not include the number of people liquidated over the period of the build, since official figures for this statistic have never yet been released. Nor are they likely to be, since the Guild of Information fails to recognise the population of Lower City as full citizens, and hence ignores them completely.

The overseers and administrators, however, are from Upper City, so significantly more information is available concerning them. At last count, there were 548 overseers, in charge of 274 workshops, each with one administrator, who is tasked with the somewhat tedious job of managing the paperwork.

And it is upon one of these administrators that, completely unbeknown to him, the consequences of the night's recent discovery will be enacted.

The office was hung on the wall of one of the workshops, held there securely by hundreds of sturdy metal bolts. A staircase descended from it onto the workshop floor. It was completely soundproofed to keep out the noise of the machinery, although at this time of night it was unnecessary, since the workshop was deserted and everything was offline.

It was thirty past midnight when the overseer entered the office for one final check up and found the administrator still sat at his desk, poring over reams of paper.

"Another late night?" he inquired.

"I'm afraid so, sir, yes," replied the administrator, whose name was Donovan. "I've still got the invoices for this recent request to sort though, but hopefully I'll be done in an hour or so."

The overseer, whose name was withheld for security reasons, sighed sympathetically. "I know... just don't push yourself too hard, that's all."

"I won't do, sir." Despite it being late at night, Donovan was still bright and cheery. The overseer, who was very tired after a particularly strenuous day, wondered where he managed to get the energy from.

"I'll be locking up, then," he said, turning to go. "You have a key, don't you?"

"Yes, sir. ...Sir?" the administrator added hurriedly, as the other man strode towards the door.

"Yes?"

"I can't help wondering, sir... why are we building a ship with such unusual specifications? Can you tell me who requested it?"

The overseer turned around, slowly. "I don't know myself," he said, and paused, as though thinking. "...But I can certainly tell you what I suspect, although if anyone asks, you didn't hear this from me, understand?" There was a note of warning in his voice.

"Of course, sir," replied Donovan, anxious to be trusted.

"They've appointed a new Supreme Commander," explained the overseer, "and I think what we're building is going to be his flagship."

Donovan remained quiet just long enough for the silence to become noticeable. "I see, sir." So that was why the overseer had been so nervous recently, Donovan thought. If we get this build wrong, there'll be very dire consequences. "So who is he, then?"

"That's what's so worrying. No-one knows."

Again, a calculated period of silence. "But... was there no initiation ceremony?"

"Apparently not. All I've seen so far is this." The overseer picked up a copy of The City Times, threw it onto Donovan's desk and pointed at a small section of the page. "There."

Breaking News: new appointment for position of Supreme Commander of the Valuan Armada, Donovan read. All personal details withheld for security reasons owing to recent political tensions with neighbouring states and possible instability within the Empire itself. However, the new Supreme Commander has every intention of resolving the current situation as quickly as possible.

"I've been doing some asking around," said the overseer, "and absolutely nobody has the slightest idea who he might be. Apparently even the Admirals have never seen him."

"Very strange, sir."

"Even so," the overseer replied, "it's no concern of ours. All that matters is that we have a job to do, and I want us all to do it to the best of our ability, am I clear?"

"Yes, sir." the administrator said diligently.

"Right, I'm locking up and going," said the overseer decisively. "I'll see you in two days' time. Good luck for the rest of tonight."

"Thank you, sir." Donovan replied, but the door was already shut, the key clicking in the lock. He continued shuffling through the papers for a minute or so, listening to the overseer's footsteps ringing on the metal stairs outside. The newspaper still sat on the polished wooden desk. He picked it up and flicked through it for about another minute, but it seemed to contain nothing else of interest. In truth he was just making sure that the overseer was gone. Eventually he threw the paper down and checked his watch. Thirty two past midnight. It was now or never.

Quietly he made his way over to the door on the far side of the room. The office chamber was richly decorated, as befitted citizens of Upper City. It made for a rather striking contrast with the sparse conditions of the workshop floor. Donovan had always thought it somewhat arrogant, but for once he was grateful for the carpet. It muted his footsteps.

The door led through into a small corridor connecting to three private offices. Donovan headed for the leftmost one, the overseer's office. Its door was locked, as he had expected it to be, although he knew already that the lock was cheap and flimsy. He withdrew a knife, slid it into the keyhole and twisted. He heard the lock's mechanism snap to pieces instantly. Smiling, he pushed open the door, secretly thanking the Moons that he was stealing from such a lazy overseer. Come the morning, it would be obvious that the door had been forced open. They might even guess that it was he who had done it. But it didn't matter. Donovan had no intention of ever returning here again.

The overseer's office was particularly plush, with wood panelled walls, a heavy oak desk, several bookcases and even a large oil painting of a ship hanging on one wall. Donovan made straight for the cabinet behind the desk and opened it.

He had known that the safe would be there, of course. He had seen it only this morning, when the overseer had removed some files from it. He would also have bet his life that, when the overseer had shut the door again, he had not bothered to reset the combination lock. So, either the door was still unlocked, or Donovan would simply have to guess the last digit of the combination.

It turned out to be the latter situation, although he was pleasantly surprised that the door yielded after only the fourth guess. It swung silently open on its oiled bearings, revealing a single document lying on the bottom shelf. That must be it, he thought. Even so, he opened it and quickly flicked through, just to be sure. It was.

He left the safe open, along with the office door. There seemed little point in covering his tracks. He made straight for the exit, the folder tucked under his arm, and was soon on the workshop floor. Thirty four past, his watch read. Only two minutes. Impressive. And look, the overseer hadn't even employed any night security. Donovan could just walk away, and no-one would know.

The workshop was huge, a vast metal warehouse half a mile high and at least a mile across in each direction. Donovan kept close to the wall as he walked briskly towards the exit, his boots thudding dully on the uneven concrete. He had good reason for this; only the perimeter was illuminated, the centre lights having been deactivated to conserve power. Angular, uncertain shapes loomed out of the pool of darkness. Every now and then he thought he recognised the outline of a compressing hammer, or one of the cutting saws. All was relatively quiet, the only noises being the wind outside and the soft billowing of a nearby furnace left on half heat. He was about to walk past it, in fact; dull red light spilled out of its open door and across his path ahead. A gentle warmness played across his face as he passed it, looking inside as he went. Several lukewarm iron bars were resting inside on a slatted shelf. Evidently they were being tempered overnight, increasing their malleability and making them easier to forge come the morning. Donovan even remembered dealing with the invoices for these particular bars, and if he recalled correctly they were still in the left hand drawer of his desk.

The exit was just a few hundred metres past the furnace, a sheet metal gate that rolled up around a shaft at the top, much like the blinds on his windows at home. The wind outside really was vicious, he noted; a loose metal panel further along the wall banged incessantly, and dust blew towards him from the open entrance. He was about maybe fifty metres away when a huskra walked in and sat down in the doorway.

Donovan stopped. The huskra was too far away for him to see it clearly, but he got the definite impression that it was staring at him. The way it calmly sat there was unnerving. And it was growling, a soft rumble that was almost as low as the furnaces.

Donovan's aunt had kept huskras as pets. They were small, relatively docile animals, although the savage barking they had made when he first encountered them had done a very good job of convincing him otherwise. His aunt had been a veritable repository of knowledge, and had often told him strange things about them. Then again, she had said many strange things during her time, not all of them in praise of the Empire, which was presumably why she had been liquidated. At least, that was what Donovan presumed; he had turned up to her house one morning to find both her and all her pets gone, and the building devoid of furniture. There had been a sign reading 'for sale' hung on the front door. He was only young at the time. It was only years later, when he realised what had happened, that he felt the sadness. But by then it was far too late.

Donovan started walking again. As he got closer to the huskra, he noticed it was blue. That meant it was almost certainly male. Males were generally blue or yellow, his aunt had said, while females were red or pink, although there were rare exceptions. Suddenly it began barking, a powerful sound that reverberated around the whole warehouse and sent muscular ripples down the animal's body from the force of its exit. Undeterred, he continued approaching it, the bark becoming more intense the closer he got until it began to hurt his ears. He was only ten metres away now, close enough to see its eyes. Close enough to see that it wasn't actually looking at him at all.

He whirled round, panicked, dropping the folder in the process. A deserted expanse of concrete floor greeted him. He listened intently, trying not to let his imagination fill the blackness in the centre of the room, but there was nothing new to hear. The wind still pounded the warehouse walls. The furnace still crackled softly. His breathing still sounded unusually loud in the relative quiet. His state of agitation was such that it took him several seconds to notice what was missing.

The huskra had gone, he noted as he turned again. The folder made rough scraping noises on the floor as he bent down and tried to get a hold of it, eyes sweeping the room for any hint of where it might have run to. At first he reasoned that it had most likely darted back through the door, spooked by his sudden movement, but then it occurred to him that it might have fled into the darker, central area. It would certainly be a sensible move- it could continue observing him while remaining unseen itself- and huskras were very sensible creatures, as his aunt had frequently reminded him. Perhaps it was his imagination, but he fancied he could actually feel a pair of eyes watching him from somewhere in that black expanse.

His hand found the folder. He stood up and turned to the door again.

It was a curious thing, but for some reason that he could not fully grasp he was suddenly acutely aware of his surroundings in a way he had never quite felt before. Myriad sensations that his mind would never normally have bothered to process now occupied the whole of his attention. The way the light from the perimeter trickled into the dark central pool before being absorbed in some tangled alcove of machinery, the slightest nuance of the wind's turbulence, the now loud and abrasive thrashing of the loose metal panel, the soft velvet roar of the flames in the furnace, the feeling of his clothes against his skin, the coppery taste of blood in his mouth.

The latter was becoming unusually strong; in fact he was aware of the thick substance beginning to drip from between his lips. There was also a curious wet feeling that started spreading from a point on his back and grew until the whole rear part of his shirt felt heavy and sodden. Before he could spare this any thought, he was distracted by the way in which his vision seemed to be fading around the edges, growing more ragged, like a badly cut out picture. What few sounds there were grew louder and louder, even as the dizziness rose up and overcame him.

The assassin withdrew the knife from Donovan's back and took the document from his hand in one soft, delicate movement. The administrator fell to his knees, then rolled over and almost curled up on the floor, making no noise. Like all assassinations officially sanctioned by the guilds, it was quite possibly the pinnacle of efficiency. The knife had entered between two ribs, puncturing both the heart and the right lung while keeping the actual depth of the wound to a minimum. The only disadvantage of this method was the relatively high amount of blood lost, although that posed few problems in this instance.

The assassin dragged the body over to the nearest furnace, one of the ones that was currently offline, and threw it in. It was quickly lost in the darkness within. The assassin hastily but carefully checked the recently retrieved document, just to be sure. Then, satisfied that their work was done, they stepped back into the shadows and vanished. It was forty past midnight.

Come the morning, the furnace operator would flood the chamber with molten metal, vaporising the corpse in less than a second. The bloodstains on the floor would not even arouse suspicion; people would simply assume that another worker had been killed. The forced lock and open safe in the overseer's office were probably the most salient clues, and indeed the overseer would mount a full investigation upon arriving, even going so far as to order a full search, not only of his own workshop, but also of the two neighbouring ones as well. This would predictably be in vain, and may be the reason why the overseer would simply vanish shortly after the end of the investigation.

Nothing would ever be conclusively proven.