Chapter 1

Time - Early Evening, Harvest Festival, 4 years after the fall of Grima

Place - Border of Plegia, west of Ylisstol

The city is burning and my friends are dead...

"Gerome? Gerooome? Yoo-hoo?"

Gerome shook his head. Fireworks. It was just fireworks.

"You okay, buddy?" Inigo asked.

"Mm." Gerome mumbled. The visions started to fade away, the incorporeal army of Risen that had been charging them giving way to the very real trees, the orange and red foliage rustling in the autumn breeze.

He blinked his eyes rapidly. He was shivering, but covered in sweat. It had felt so real.

The ritual had worked. And with that, the world had changed. The horrors they had experienced never happened. Yet they had happened, in a time and place that no longer existed anywhere except his mind.

"'Mm?'" Inigo mimicked teasingly. "Well, glad we've got that all settled."

A few girls sitting nearby giggled. Clearly Inigo had been working the crowd. Inigo took a long sip from a deep mug.

"This Plegian mead is good stuff," he said, after putting it back down and smacking his lips a few times. "Want some?"

Gerome blinked a few times, then realized he shouldn't be surprised. "We're here as guards, you twit. This is no time for drinking and…" he waved noncommittally at the women nearby. "Whatever it is you do."

"Gerome. Gerome! Gerome," Inigo said, reaching across the table they were sitting at to pat him on the cheek. "It's a festival. We're supposed to be festivalating! No, that's not a word. Celebrating!" He paused. "Is that your cheekbone? By the Gods, that is hard as-"

Gerome swatted his hand away. "Stop touching me. And yes, I understand this is a festival, but we are soldiers, and we are here to make sure nothing goes wrong."

He scanned the field they were in. To the east was a denser forest, but the location of the festival was a grassy plain. Many long wooden tables had been set up, with benches running along either side, for people to sit and chat and eat and drink. Vendors had come from far and wide to set up booths from the backs of their carriages.

But, indeed, a good portion of those in attendance were soldiers. Gerome and Inigo were among them, as were their friends Lucina, Morgan, and Nah, who were elsewhere at the moment.

The large military presence was, hopefully, just a precaution. But this was the first Harvest Festival since the war to be jointly celebrated by Ylisse and Plegia.

Plegia had been well and truly decimated by Grima four years previously. Though Gerome and his friends had helped the heroes of this age defeat the Fel Dragon before it could consume all the world, the war had taken its toll. Forces in Ylisse and Plegia were stretched thin. Even the lands of Regna Ferox to the north, and Valm across the sea, were reeling from the near-cataclysmic events all those years previously.

At the time, Plegia had been ruled by two truly despicable tyrants in a row - first Gangrel, the rightly named 'Mad King,' and then by Validar, a cultist who actively fought to bring Grima into the world. Together, they had succeeded in turning Plegia into a truly unfortunate place to live, decimating the populace and annihilating the economy. Despite the longstanding enmity between the two countries, Ylisse had no choice but to help restore Plegia from the brink.

The odd twist to this hopeful festival of unity was that Plegia had a new king, one that had seemingly come from nowhere to take the throne. A young man named Mort, no older than Gerome, who was apparently the son of Mad King Gangrel and a woman named Aversa.

Gerome noticed their friend Morgan make her way over to sit down next to Inigo, on the other side from the women he was now shamelessly flirting with. She gave Gerome a weary smile, then cocked her head towards where Mort was sitting, flanked by his two personal guards.

"He keeps giving me weird looks," she whispered to Gerome, who gave a sympathetic nod.

Aversa also happened to be Morgan's mother, making her the unexpected half-brother of this new King. Her mother had once loyally served both Gangrel and Valider, but Morgan's father - the famous tactician Robin - managed to win her over to his cause in the fight against Grima. The two fell in love, and, after the war, disappeared.

"Has he said anything to you?" Gerome asked.

"No! But probably only because every time he comes close I dive into a buffet table to escape, or start talking loudly in an accent so he thinks I'm someone else." She glanced sidelong at Inigo. "Is he..?"
"Very drunk, yes," Gerome said with a chuckle. It was hard to stay mad at Inigo for long, despite his faults. He managed to possess an optimism and enjoyment of life that Gerome and many of his other friends were sorely lacking.

Gerome turned his gaze back over to Mort. He, himself, looked like a pleasant young lad. Well dressed, with carefully groomed white hair, there was a slight resemblance between he and Morgan. He seemed to be trying rather hard to be sitting in a regal manner, composed and dignified as a king ought to be. But reading his face, Gerome perceived a great deal of discomfort, like he'd rather be anywhere but here.

The two guards flanking him, however, looked like thugs of the highest order. To Mort's left was a tall, lanky man sporting a leer so sleazy he could likely commit sexual harassment while sitting quietly in a different room. A bow and quiver of arrows were slung over his shoulder, both shoddy and flimsy as if they'd been handed down for generations. His unkempt black hair was so greasy it could serve as a vacation spot for entire ecosystems.

To Mort's right was a mountain of a man, from the rugged riding boots at the base, to the shaved white head at the peak. His face was covered in dark stubble, which did nothing to mask his perpetual scowl. On his back was a large, two-handed axe. While Gerome preferred to fight with an axe as well, he was forced to admit he would have a difficult enough time lifting that one up, let alone using it reliably in battle.

While the Plegians were lacking in numbers compared to the Ylisseans, Gerome felt that man alone would be a challenging opponent…

"Gerome? Gerooome?" Morgan cooed, waving a hand in front of his face. Gerome snapped back to reality, annoyed with himself for zoning out yet again.

Morgan looked over towards Mort, then back to Gerome. "Were you fantasizing about fighting the huge guy?"

"No," Gerome lied. Seeking to quickly change the subject, he asked, "have you seen Lucina or Nah around?"

"I bumped into Nah while browsing the merchant stalls earlier," Morgan answered. "And Lucina was talking to your dad. Uh, sorry. The general."

Gerome looked up to the head of the table. It was mostly seating Ylissean soldiers, except for a few friends and the ladies Inigo was desperately trying to impress with heavily exaggerated war stories. And at the end of it all, Gerome's father - the highest ranking Ylissean at the festival.

Obviously, both royal families were originally meant to attend. Unfortunately, the king and queen of Ylisse, Chrom and Maribelle, had traveled north to the bordering kingdom of Regna Ferox to meet with the ruling Khans there. While they had been expected to return in time for the Harvest Festival, word had reached Ylisstol that a massive blizzard was raging through the countryside, blocking any path back. It was freakishly early in the year for such a blizzard to strike, but there was nothing to be done about it now.

So Chrom had instructed that the general of his army take on the added title of diplomat, and attend the festival in his stead.

Giving a friendly nod to Morgan, and not bothering to acknowledge Inigo who was currently discussing how he took down 40 Grimleal single-handedly, Gerome got up and made his way over to his father.

Of course, no one knew they were father and son. The real Gerome was only 3 years old, back in Ylisstol with his mother. He was just another nameless mercenary with no past to speak of. But his combat prowess was undeniable, and the general was renowned for his convivial nature and willingness to discuss and strategize with anyone who showed talent, regardless of social status.

This was because Donnel had once been a simple farmhand. Dim-witted and whimpy, by his own admission, he had been taken in by Chrom at the start of the war with Plegia six years prior. Despite all expectations, he proved to be a natural with a sword, and in time had worked his way up to being one of the most skilled fighters and trusted advisors of the king.

"Howdy, son!" Donnel cheered as Gerome approached. He hurriedly added, "which is an affectionate nickname I give to everyone, hahah. Hello, son," he said again, this time directed at an elderly woman walking by. She gave him a strange look and continued on her way.

"Hello," Gerome said, sitting down by his side. "Everything looking calm?"

Donnel gave a chuckle. "Of course. Were you realize nervous? This whole thing, all these soldiers, it's just a formality. Meant to make us look tough an' the like. Chrom ain't expectin' any trouble."

Gerome gave a shrug. "I can't help but feel wary. We don't know anything about this new king."

"We know he's a kid who lost his parents," Donnel said. "An' he looks scared as a pup in a thunderstorm. Maybe instead a' bein' suspicious, you should talk to him? That's what Lucina thought, anyway."

Gerome perked up at this. "Lucina wanted to speak with him?"

Donnel smirked. "She said somethin' like that. Girl likes to keep her chicks close to the nest, if you catch my meanin'."

Gerome, who had heard hundreds of equally meaningless analogies from his father, gave a half-hearted nod. "Right. Did you see where she got off to?"

"I wouldn't worry about a royal matchup if I were you," Donnel said. "Your Lucina ain't technically a princess no more, remember?"

Gerome blushed, taken aback by this. "What?"
"That fancy mask of yours helps hide your feelin's from some, Gerome, but not your ol' pa," Donnel said with a chuckle. Catching himself, he said, "Ol' Pa being a nickname I encourage everyone to give me. Just call me Ol' Pa!" he yelled at the same elderly lady who was now walking back in the opposite direction.

"I don't know you! Leave me alone!" she snapped.

"Ahahah," Donnel laughed awkwardly, turning back to Gerome.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Gerome said coldly. "Lucina may not be an heir, anymore, but…" he paused, and said very softly, "she will always be a princess to me."

"And there's no way a girl raised as a princess could ever want to be with a big, dumb thug like you, huh?" Donnel said, leaning forward and lowering his voice so no others could hear them.

Gerome balked at this. "This is a highly inappropriate-"

"When I met your mother, she was arguably the most famous wyvern rider alive," Donnel continued, unabated. "Stories of her skills were told across two continents. And you know who I was? A dumb farmhand who could barely tame a mule, in a village with more cows than people. When I joined Chrom's army, I was a pathetic nobody surrounded by famous heroes. And I thought about sulking about it, staying out of the way of my betters because there was no way they'd befriend a dumb kid like me." His face still set in unusual determination, Donnel went on, "but then I thought, t' hell with that! So I put myself out there, and I trained and I fought, and that famous wyvern rider fell for me as hard as I fell for her. I know you, Gerome, and I know Lucina a fair bit as well. You ain't hurtin' no one but yourselves by pretendin' she's too good for you."

Gerome was silent for a long moment. Then he reached out and grabbed Donnel's hand. "I don't have cause to say this to you often," he said softly, "but you are a good father. Thank you."

"Damn straight," Donnel said, leaning back in his seat, his chipper demeanor returning. "There's gonna be more fireworks later. Gonna be a real hoot. All romantic 'n' such. So you find your girl, y'hear?"

Gerome let out a sigh. "Sure, Ol' Pa." He allowed himself a slight smile, something he knew always made his father happy.

"Hmm," Nah said. "This is a difficult decision."

She held the orb up before her and watched as the light of the festival torches refracted through it.

"What is it, Nah?" Lucina asked, moving up through the crowd to stand beside her. "A magical focus of some sort?"

"It is...a necklace," Nah responded, with a dramatic flourish. "It looks great on me, doesn't it? Expensive, though…"

Lucina chuckled. "You know that my fashion sense is about on par with a blind newborn, yes?"

Nah slipped the necklace on and did a slow twirl. "So tell me if you think it looks good or not, and I'll just do the exact opposite of your recommendation."

The owner of the vendor stall came bustling over. She was a bubbly, busty redhead, all smiles and compliments. She knew that a flattered customer parted ways with their coin all the quicker.

"Darling, you look stunning," she said. "You have the Anna guarantee that you'll never find a finer piece of...finery!"

Nah slipped the necklace off. "Ah, it was nice to wear it for a moment, but such a frivolous thing...it would be foolish of me." She balled the chain up and handed it back over to the shopkeep.

Anna looked momentarily defeated, but Nah was bustling off into the crowd before she could stop her. Lucina gave a sympathetic shrug, then hurried after her.

"Say, Nah, what do you think of that new king of Plegia?" Lucina asked when she caught up to the younger girl.

"I don't," Nah said. "Why, do you?"

"I'm just having a hard time getting a read on him, is all," Lucina said slowly. "I don't know why. I know I shouldn't be judgmental just because his father was the Mad King. My grandfather was a warmonger, but father is as noble as they come. Still…it's odd, isn't it? That he just came out of nowhere? ...Nah?"

Nah had made her way over to another stall, this one filled with shelves lined with books, most of them old and well-worn. Sections had labels like "Magykks! Beware!" and "Forbidden Knowledges - Impress Thy Friends!"

"Who says 'thy'?" Nah asked, eyeing the stall suspiciously.

Lucina caught up with her again. "I was thinking of approaching him."

"Who?"

"Mort!"

"Oh," Nah said with a half-interested shrug. "That sounds fun. Are you asking me to be your wingwoman?"

Lucina blushed. "Of course not, I just...wait, was that a pun?"

Nah smirked. "Couldn't resist. Say, some of these tomes actually look impressive. I wonder where the shopkeeper is?"

As if on cue, a pile of books near the back of the stall shifted and unearthed a bubbly, busty redhead with a bright smile.

"Darling, you have a good eye," she said. "You have the Anna guarantee that you'll never find a finer piece of...bookery!"

Nah and Lucina looked sidelong at each other, then back to Anna.

"Aren't you…" Nah began.

"Weren't you just…" Lucina stammered.

"I get that a lot," Anna said with a shrug. "Just one of those faces! Say, what genres are you interested in? History? Fiction? Rooooomaaaance?" she said while waggling her eyebrows at the two girls. "I've got some how-to books around here, too." She turned and began rapidly skimming through the shelves. Finding one that seemed to catch her eye, she pulled it out and blew a layer of dust off the cover. "How To Please Thy Man Without Speaking Out Of Turn," she read. "Hrm...bit outdated…"

"That's quite alright," Nah and Lucina both babbled at the same time.

"I think maybe this was enough shopping for me," Lucina said, looking apologetically to Nah. "I'll catch up with you later, yes?"

"Sure," Nah responded. As Lucina pushed her way through the crowd away from the stalls, Nah found herself oddly drawn to stay at the book stall despite the eccentricity of the owner.

She brushed her fingers along the spines of a row of books labelled "On The Nature of Thyngs". On a whim, she grasped one and pulled it out to look at the title.

"A Thousand Worlds And One - A Study in Outrealms," she read. Overcome with curiosity, she turned to the shopkeep. "What's an Outrealm?" she asked.

Anna gave her a quizzical look. "Ah, well, I, uh, wouldn't know much about that. But...it's sort of like a philosophy about how the universe works? You know, how many angels can dance on the head of a pin, that sort of thing?"

Nah returned her look with a blank stare. "I have no idea what you're talking about," she said. "Is this a very big pin, or very small angels?"

Anna chuckled. "Okay, let me try and put it like this." She pulled out a gold coin and held it up for Nah to see. "I flip this coin. It'll either land on heads, or tails. Right?"

"Right…" Nah responded slowly, clearly still having no idea where this was going.

Anna flipped the coin and caught it. "Heads," she said, holding it back up. "Now...what if the wind had caught it just ever so slightly to cause one extra rotation, and it landed tails?"

"I don't know. Does it really matter?"

"Well, what if we had based an important decision on the coin flip? Heads you turn left, tails you turn right. That one gust of wind could end up changing your life forever. In this world, the coin landed heads, you turned left, you walked into a village, met the love of your life, and lived happily ever after. In another world, the coin landed tails, you turned right, walked into a forest, and were mauled by a bear."

"Shit," Nah said, unsure of how else to respond.

"Exactly! Some outrealms are total shit. But some are quite nice. That's bound to happen, though, given how infinite they are."

Nah looked at the book in her hands, then back up at Anna. "How much for the book?"

Anna held up the coin again. "Tails, it's on the house. Heads, ten gold pieces. Deal?"

Nah smirked, and nodded. Anna flicked the coin into the air. It tossed and tumbled back down to earth, and then…

"Heads again," Anna said. "Sorry, kiddo!"

Nah sighed, but fished for her coin purse and pulled out ten coins. "Thanks," she said. "This is going to make for some fascinating reading…"

Anna smiled and nodded as Nah walked away. When the girl was gone, she looked at the coin in her hand, emblazoned with the same head on each side.

"Works in every reality…"

Nah opened the book and idly flipped through as she walked through the crowd.

The concept was not entirely alien to her. She was aware that the time travel ritual she had gone through with her friends had caused something similar. There had been a crossroads in time at which the events of this world had split - one direction lead to the doomed future that, presumably, no longer existed. The other was the new world they had forged by coming back in time and fighting to successfully defeat Grima.

Some things, of course, hadn't changed. She had begun to wonder if they weren't, in a sense, inevitable. The 'how' and 'when' of death, for example, could be altered, but not the inevitability of death itself.

She had grown up without parents once. Getting to come back in time to meet them had been a blessing...and then they had been taken away again. It almost felt like a cruel jest. Perhaps the Outrealms were mocking her. An infinite number of realities, and in all of them, poor Nah doomed to be an orphan.

She almost laughed at that. A grim cosmic joke with her existence as the punchline. Her father would have appreciated it. Nya ha ha.

She continued forward through the crowd, so engrossed in her reading that she didn't notice she was about to crash straight into-

"Whoa! E-excuse me," a nervous voice said, as sharp, bony hands grabbed her shoulders. Her head jolted up, startled out of her reverie.

"What?" she asked, squinting up. Some faint glimmer of recognition dawned. "Erm. You're that new king, aren't you? Mark?"

"M-mort, actually," the king of Plegia corrected her. He gave an awkward smile. "What's that you're reading, there?"

"Hm? Oh, it's...nothing, really. Boring stuff," Nah said, stuffing the book into her bag.

Mort looked slightly crestfallen, but made a valiant attempt at recovery. "Say, you're Ylissean, yes? I haven't really had a chance to meet or befriend any Ylisseans yet…"

Nah, whose fingers had just brushed against her dragonstone, hurriedly withdrew her hand from her bag. "Ylissean? Yes, I supposed you could say that."

"Great! Uhm. Would you like to come sit with my friends and I for a bit?" Before she could concoct an excuse to decline, Mort had grabbed her arm and was gently but inexorably pulling her through the crowd.

When they reached their destination, Nah found herself at the receiving end of two very different, but equally unsettling gazes. One man, with bare arms as thick as tree trunks crossed in front of his chest, bared his teeth in a gesture of distaste that Nah had never seen presented by a bipedal creature. The other appeared to be attempting to waggle his eyebrows, make a kissy face, and smoulder seductively all at once, creating a chaotic and nauseating whirlwind across his face.

"Don't mind them," Mort said, picking up on Nah's rather obvious discomfort. "Plegia is a harsh land, and as such, tends to breed men who are a bit...rough around the edges."

Nah wrinkled her nose. "I suspect they're edges all the way down," she said, unable to stop herself.

Mort chuckled at this, though he did still look uncomfortable and out of place. It was hard to believe this...kid was a king. He wasn't even that much younger than Nah herself; maybe a year or two at most. But everything about him, from his posture to his nervous smile, made him look like a kid stuck way over his head.

Nah scanned the crowd. Lucina had been the one that wanted to talk to him. She was the princess - well, sort of. This ought to be her territory. Where the hell was she when you needed her?

Inigo smiled at Lucina as she sat down across from him, in the seat Gerome had previously been occupying. He leaned forward, the roulette wheel of vain compliments already spinning in his head, when he noticed how disheveled and nervous she looked.

"Hey, Lucina, need a drink?" he said, in lieu of a flirtatious one liner.

"Yes," she said, very hurriedly. Inigo grinned and slid over a full mug that was sitting next to him. All night, the mugs he had finished disappeared and fresh ones materialized in their place. He almost thought it odd, but little things like that often happened to him. He had just come to accept his natural good luck.

Lucina quickly downed the beverage without a pause. Inigo was impressed; it was easy to forget, amidst her beauty and royal bearing, that Lucina was as hardcore a fighter as they came. If Inigo had tried to drink that long without interruption he'd have coughed and spluttered for air like a drowning man brought back to life. Though he'd be the first to admit he was a lover, not a fighter.

"Something got you rattled?" he asked, when Lucina placed her mug back on the table.

"Trying to work up the courage to go talk to Mort," Lucina replied. "We're not all graced with your, ah...charming confidence."

Inigo chuckled. "Indeed. Why, I was just indulging these fine ladies over here with my grace and-" he waved his arm to his left, then looked and realized all the women from earlier were gone. "What the...where'd they go!?"

"They left, like, ten minutes ago," Morgan replied. "About halfway through your story about how you personally brought Emperor Walhart to his knees and made him beg for forgiveness while crying like a baby."

"But that really happened!" Inigo shot back. Morgan and Lucina both fixed him with stony, incredulous looks. "Okay, obviously it didn't, but they had no reason to think that! Isn't trust a virtue anymore? Sheesh."

Morgan lightly reached out her hand and pushed Inigo on the shoulder, tipping him out of his seat. As he spluttered and ranted from the ground, she turned back to Lucina.

"You're going to talk to Mort? Did you happen to run into Gerome earlier?"

"Gerome?" Lucina asked. "No. Why?"

"He was looking for you. Must have just missed you."

"Do you know what he wanted to talk about?"

Morgan gave an awkward cough. Between the emotionally stunted Gerome, the naively innocent Lucina, and the melodramatic Inigo, she sometimes felt like the only one of her friends with any self awareness.

"No," she lied, and quickly changed the subject. "What did you want to talk to Mort about?"

"I'm not even really sure, to be honest," Lucina replied. "I guess I just...kind of feel like I have a responsibility to keep everyone safe. It's all I've been doing for so long, I'm not entirely sure how to do anything else. If Mort really is the son of the Mad King, and he really is in charge of Plegia now…" she shook her head. "I just can't let anyone else die. You know?"

"Yeah," Morgan said with a slow nod. "I could help, if you wanted...he's been wanting to talk to me all night, since, y'know...the weird half-sibling thing," she explained. "I don't really want to but if it would be easier for us both to go together…"

Lucina shook her head. "I should do this myself. Thanks, though, Morgan." She reached out and touched her friend's hand in thanks, and offered a warm smile.

It was around this time, after several moments of intense flailing, that Inigo found his way back up to his seat.

"What're we doing? Talking to King What's-His-Face?" he asked.

"What we're going to do is stay here and not make a scene," Morgan instructed, placing a firm hand on Inigo's shoulder.

"Alright...here I go," Lucina said. She sat there for a moment longer, mentally steeling herself, then got up and made her way back into the crowd.

Inigo watched her go with bleary eyes.

"Why's she wanna go talk to that Marty guy for, anyway?" he wailed when she was gone.

"His name is Mark," Morgan corrected.

"It's Mort," Nah chimed in, as she made her way over to the table. "I just got away. Something about those guys gives me the creeps."

"Mart, Marky, whatever his name is," Inigo huffed. "I don't like this. Lucina and Gerome should be looking for each other. The Harvest Festival is a night of romance! The warm evening air, the majestic fireworks, the, the, the booze loosening one's inhibitions…"

"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that," Morgan said.

"I meant mine! Sheesh," Inigo continued. "As I was saying, I have extensive experience romancing women on this magical night, and - I heard that!" he suddenly snapped at Morgan.

"I didn't say anything!"

"You rolled your eyes!"

"You HEARD me roll my eyes?"

"AS I WAS SAYING, this is a night of romance and the last thing we need is our fair princess being ensnared by the devilish prince of Plegia," Inigo rolled on, ignoring the protestations of Morgan and Nah. "Now, normally I would use my boundless charm to woo Lucina to my side, and show her a night unlike any she has previously experienced, ow, but as I am Gerome's faithful companion and best friend, and as he and Lucina have clearly been pining for each other's loins for years, ow, please stop hitting me Morgan, it is only fair that I unite these two incredibly oblivious and awkward lovebirds. It is a heavy burden, being the only one of our group who has any idea how to handle a woman, ow, but it is a burden I carry with grace and aplomb, ow."

"You really are something, I'll give you that," Morgan said with a sigh, giving up hitting Inigo on the arm repeatedly as it was clearly wasted effort. "Did you learn anything interesting talking to him, Nah?"

Nah shrugged. "You had the right idea, earlier, when you pretended to be a Feroxi merchant who had forgotten a box of snakes somewhere, forcing you to run off." Nah craned her neck to see if she could find Mort or his companions, but could not. As night was falling, not only was visibility getting harder, but the crowd was beginning to consolidate in the center of the field, excited for the final fireworks display of the night.

"And those two guys always flanking him," Morgan said with a shudder.

"Oh yeah, I got to meet them, too," Nah said. "That huge guy? His name is apparently 'Wulf.'"

"Pffft," Inigo laughed. "Gerome would really appreciate that. Y'know I once heard him refer to himself as a lone wolf that deals only in death?" Inigo reached for yet another clean, full mug nearby, not particularly concerned with how it got there, and took a long sip. "Guy can be a real goober sometimes."

"The other guy called himself Joab," Nah recalled with a shudder. "He kept trying to touch my hair."

"Gross," Morgan said sympathetically. She and Nah both shared long, silky-white hair. Morgan ran a hand through hers self-consciously. "Did Mort say anything about me?" she asked softly.

Nah gave a half-hearted shrug. "He was kind of beating around the bush. Seemed like he wanted to, but was really nervous about it. Just...weird guy. Not sure why Lucina wanted to talk to him so badly."

"The foul magic of the Harvest Festival is trying to pull a prince and princess together!" Inigo ranted. He flailed in his seat some more, and nearly fell off once again, except for a well-timed gust of wind that pushed him back up, keeping him safely upright. Goodness, my luck is impeccable this evening, Inigo mused to himself.

Morgan noticed this, and sighed. "Maybe you should go lie down, Inigo? I'm sure Lucina won't go and fall in love without you there to make sure it's with the right person."

"Hey, you know what Mort's awkwardness reminds me of?" Nah chimed in as Inigo fought against Morgan's grip. "Inigo, when he realizes people can see him practicing his dancing."

"Over the line! Over the line!" Inigo yelled as Morgan helped him up out of his seat.

Nah grinned to herself as Morgan helped escort Inigo away.

"Calm down. Stop shouting!" Morgan hissed. "How much did you have to drink tonight?"

"How much?" Inigo asked, blinking a few times. "What unit of measurement are we talkin' here? Because, uh, several."

Morgan sighed. "Every time. Every time, Inigo. We're supposed to be soldiers. Gerome takes it seriously, Lucina takes it seriously-"

"Gerome and Lucina wouldn't know how to stop being serious if their lives depended on it! That's why they need to hook up and have litting brooding babies…"

"But not you, Inigo, oh no," Morgan continued, ignoring him. "No, it's always cute girls this, and sexy ladies that, and exaggerated stories about fighting off the grim spectre of death in single combat. You do know that half our friends really did die, right?"

Morgan regretted it as soon as she said it.

"Inigo, I-" she began.

"I remember them all every day," Inigo said softly. "Just because I try to keep smiling doesn't mean I'm not as broken as the rest of you."

He felt like he was floating across the grass. Given that Morgan only had a hand on one arm, she must have been much stronger than she looked to be carrying him so effectively. The drink made his head feel warm and fuzzy. He just wanted to sleep. Waking up was optional.

They made it to the cart they had rode in on. The back contained a few hard sleeping bags for those resting in between watch shifts on long journeys. Morgan sat Inigo down on the edge.

"I know," she said. "I have no right to judge. I don't remember any of it myself, I just...I just know what I've been told. I wish I could remember them...Laurent, Noire, Kjelle…"

Inigo allowed himself a sad smile. "I've no end of stories I could tell, not that I'm particularly fit to right now...hey, is that Gerome?"

The shadows parted to reveal Gerome in his black armour. He gave a curt nod to Inigo and Morgan. "Heading in for the night? Before the fireworks? I'm surprised, Inigo."

"Only 'cause I can't feel my legs," Inigo explained. "Of course, the lovely Morgan is welcome to feel them for me."

Morgan rolled her eyes, but in a way she was relieved the serious moment had passed. She got far too depressed, thinking about death and despair. This was not a night for such-

"Ladies and gentlemen!" called a voice, so loud and commanding that a hush rippled outwards across the entire festival. Most of those still attending had gathered near the center of the field already, eagerly awaiting the fireworks display, and now what few scragglers were left on the outskirts were heading there as well.

"I would like to thank you all so very much for attending this event!" the voice continued. Inigo squinted through the crowd, and was shocked to realize it was Mort speaking. He sounded so confident, when Nah had repeatedly described him as neurotic and timid.

"Wha's he doin'?" Inigo asked a tad hesitantly. He noticed Gerome tighten a fist around the hilt of his axe.

"I don't know," his friend responded.

"As most of you know, I am Mort, son of Gangrel, and King of Plegia," Mort called out over the attentive crowd. "But this night is not about me or my country. It is, in many ways, about our neighbor Ylisse. And we have had a tumultuous history, I know."

Inigo looked around the field. Something wasn't right, but he couldn't put his finger on it. If only someone had told him to stop fooling around tonight and take his job as a soldier more seriously! He ignored the small part of his brain that reminded him Gerome had said exactly that.

"As such, before we begin the main event of the night, I would like to welcome a special guest from Ylisse," Mort went on. "Now, Exalt Chrom could not be here, sadly, but someone no less important did manage to make it."

Inigo, Gerome, and Morgan all turned to watch as Gerome's father stood up, proudly saluting the crowd and preparing to go stand by Mort's side. Donnel had only made it a few steps, however, when Mort continued, apparently ignoring him.

"It is none other than the princess of Ylisse, Lucina."

Inigo furrowed his brow in confusion. That didn't make any sense, did it?

Lucina was standing beside Mort and his lackeys, Wulf and Joab. She held herself with poise and dignity, back straight and chin held high. Inigo knew his friend well enough, however, to recognize the distress on her face.

"How does he know?" Gerome grumbled.

"She went to speak to him," Morgan answered, "but...why would she tell him that? And why would he believe her?"

"Guys?" Inigo called out, but the others ignored him.

"She would have had a good reason," Gerome said softly, still staring with an intense ferocity at the princess.

"Yes, after many years of strained relations, the royal children of these two great kingdoms are united at last!" Mort continued. "I have long dreamt of this moment. A new age is beginning for all in this realm!"

"Guys?" Inigo tried again. Something was really bothering him.

"Do you hear that?" Morgan said. The sound she was referring to was not Inigo, but the sounds of combat starting to rise from all around them. The clash of metal, the puncture of chainmail, the screams cut off as quickly as they began.

"It's a trap!" Gerome yelled. "We have to-"

"And now," Mort yelled, his voice carrying effortlessly over the chaos, "I believe you were all promised a fireworks show!"

He snapped his fingers.

First Inigo saw red, then white, then nothing.

He heard the screams of pain and confusion as a powerful force knocked him backwards into the cart, where he became fiercely entangled with several thick quilts.

Gerome's voice cut above the rest, screaming Lucina's name, a scream of pain and fear and rage. Morgan was yelling something too, but he couldn't understand what. He thrashed and thrashed, but only seemed to trap himself further.

"Men! To me!" That was the General, Donnel. The Ylissean's had more men, and better trained! What could Mort possibly be hoping to accomplish with this brash betrayal?

Finally, Inigo ripped a hole in the quilts and sat upwards swiftly, just as the cart lurched forward dramatically. He slammed his head into the roof, experienced a moment of intense pain, then slumped backwards, blissfully unaware of anything at all.

"Men! To me!"

Nah picked herself up off the ground. Chunks of wood rained down around her from the charred remains of the feasting tables that had been too close to the explosion.

The Harvest Festival field was littered with gore, bodies of those revelers who were dead or swiftly dying. Nah shook her head furiously until the ringing in her ears died down and she could attempt to take some stock of what had happened.

Her eyes went to the spot where the blast had hit - the exact spot Lucina had been standing in. She found nothing but a charred circle in the grass.

Something drifted gently downwards through the warm night air. It was a lock of blue hair. Nah held out a quivering hand and let it land on her palm. She slowly clenched the hand into a fist.

So that was it. Lucina was dead.

"Rally, men! Rally!"

That was the voice of General Donnel. Many Ylissean soldiers had been caught in the blast and were just as disoriented as the civilians. Nah gently pushed herself up to her feet, and moved forward in a daze, her mind hardly aware of what her legs were doing.

"Nah!" Donnel shouted as she approached. His sword was drawn and a force of less than a dozen armed men and women had gathered around him. "Did you see the others? G-Gerome? Are they..?"

Nah slowly shook her head. "Inigo and Morgan got away, I think," she said softly. "Gerome, I…I have no idea."

She looked at the heartbreak in his eyes and wished for a moment she were the kind of person who could lie. How easy would it have been to just say it would all be okay?

She looked down at the lock of blue hair in her fist. But it wouldn't all be okay.

"Sir! The enemy forces with the Plegians, they...they look like Risen!" one soldier shouted as she ran up to the group, panting for breath. Behind her the fighting was getting closer as the mysterious force hacked and slashed their way through anyone still standing.

"There haven't been any Risen sightings in years!" another soldier protested angrily.

"Listen up!" Donnel yelled, his voice ringing out over the panicking crowd and bringing immediate order. "If there's one thing I learned in the last war, it's that if a mysterious crowd of zombies falls out of a sky portal and starts chargin' ya, you wonder what the hell's goin on after you've stabbed 'em and gotten to safety!"

Nah reached for her bag. She deposited the lock of blue hair safely inside, then reached for a spellbook. She avoided her dragonstone, knowing it was a bit too volatile for fighting in such a crowded area with panicked civilians and green soldiers about. Small, simple jolts of lightning to fry her enemies, that would do the trick. Yes, she was feeling quite ready to bring some pain down on whoever did this…

"No way are we going to be able to secure the field," a high-ranking soldier pointed out. "I recommend we pull back, sir."

Donnel looked torn by this. "But there are still...civilians…" he began, and only Nah knew he meant: my son.

"We'll be slaughtered if we go in there," Nah pointed out. "But if we pull back to the forest and use it as cover, we have a chance of making it to Ylisse. They need to be warned." She locked eyes directly with Donnel and continued, "there are other good fighters out there. They'll make it out alive." There, that wasn't so bad. Lying was fine if it stopped a grown man from going to pieces, right?

"Damnit," Donnel said, followed by a few other phrases that meant nothing to Nah but had the connotation of a farmer's curse.

"A donkey's what, sir?" one of the younger soldiers asked.

"Never mind. Come on! Make for the trees! Kill any Risen or Plegian or whatever that tries to get in your way!"

And so they fought, the ragtag band of survivors, for reasons they could not yet fathom. Most of the soldiers were equipped with shoddy iron swords or bows, and few knew techniques more advanced than "stick pointy end into bad guy." The exception being Donnel and Nah herself. Nah, in addition to being half-Manakete, a fact that she tried not to make too terribly obvious around civilians, was also a fairly competent mage. With tome in hand, lightning and fire flung outwards any time an opening presented itself, frying the ever encroaching horde of hostiles in its path.

Even she was a novice compared to Donnel, though. The General had been trained by prince Chrom himself during his teenage years. He had a natural aptitude, and now seemed to be in peak physical condition. Nah wasn't sure how old he was now - in fact, Donnel wasn't sure either, having come from a village where being able to count beyond your fingers and toes was seen as superfluous. She could tell, however, that for a human he was still young and spritely, able to push his body as far as it could go.

He was not a general who led from behind. He darted through the fray, cutting down Risen several at a time, his sword arm moving like a blur. Nah watched with admiration, remembering to shoot a spell through any opening he left.

Most of the other soldiers were greener than the grass they trod on, clutching their weapons the wrong way, thrusting them forward with stiff and awkward movements. Every now and again, with Donnel preoccupied against several foes already, a Risen would slip through and cut down an Ylissean with brutal swiftness before being ganged up on by the rest of the crowd.

Their numbers continued to dwindle as they reached the forest. Nah's eyes darted around, watching as they became increasingly flanked on the left and right.

She stumbled over a body, but managed to catch herself. Looking down, she saw it was a soldier - in the Plegian uniform. By all appearances they had been cut down by the Risen as well, not an Ylissean.

"Sir," she said, panting for breath from all the exertion. "I don't think the Plegians were behind this attack."

Donnel gave a disinterested shrug. "We can worry about that later, Nah." He gave a worried look at the few remaining soldiers still standing beside them. "Come on, you guys! You gonna let a few uppity skeletons get the better of you?" he yelled, hoping to rally some spirit.

But the spirit was gone. They were outnumbered at least a hundred to one. They were exhausted.

Nah craned her head around. The thick treeline of the forest was maybe 100 feet away.

Donnel seemed to notice the same thing. "Men, on my count, we run for the trees," he yelled. "One…"

The few remaining soldiers gripped their weapons tightly, sweat and grime staining their faces.

"Two…!"

Nah clutched her spellbook so hard she felt it might rip in half. She had been in this position before, in a dark future that no longer existed, staring down an endless horde of Risen with no hope of salvation.

Had that future come once again? Despite the best efforts of Lucina and their ragtag band...had nothing changed?

"Count!"

The group turned and ran, most of the soldiers throwing their weapons onto the ground to gain some speed. Nah darted well ahead of the others, not stopping to turn around as she heard the whiz of arrows fired after them or the blood-curdling screams of soldiers hit, falling to the ground.

She didn't stop until she was well beyond the edge of the forest. Finally she paused to catch her breath, leaning against a heavy oak trunk, fighting down gulps of air and trying not to vomit. She jumped as she heard rustling through the woods, but it was only Donnel and two soldiers - an older lieutenant, and a young corporal.

"Damn, damn, damn," Donnel gasped.

"Are we the only ones who made it?" Nah asked, peering through the dark to see if any others were behind them. Night had well and truly fallen now, and the heavy foliage didn't help visibility.

"We have to make it to Ylisse to warn them," Donnel said, ignoring her. "Whoever summoned these Risen must have known what a perfect time it is for an invasion, with Chrom and the royal guard stuck in Ferox, and Frederick and Cordelia leading half the army in rebuilding efforts across Valm. Our only hope is to get there first and start setting up for a siege until-"

Nah saw the torchlight in the distance, and yelled, "they're coming-" just as an arrow cut through the foliage and burst through the back of the old lieutenant's head.

"Move!" Donnel screamed. Fire seemed to be catching. The Risen were burning them out.

Nah moved, bobbing and weaving through the overgrown brush, spotting a clearing up ahead. If she could make it to that opening, perhaps she could get her dragonstone and…

She crashed through into the clearing, ignoring the pain as nettles and branches slashed at her exposed legs and face.

She turned and saw Donnel jump out from behind her. The young corporal appeared for a moment, but then let out a yelp and was dragged backwards. His yelp turned into a gurgle.

Nah turned to run again, but only got a few feet before she realized something was wrong. She turned back around and saw Donnel standing still, sword in hand, looking back the way they came.

"Donnel?" she called. "General!"

"Nah," he said. "Get to Ylisse. Warn them."

"Yes, that's the plan," she responded. "We're going to make it to Ylisse and-"

"We can't just let them keep taking potshots at our retreating rear ends!" Donnel shouted. "Go!"

The reality of what was happening began to penetrate Nah's adrenaline-filled consciousness. She took a few steps towards him, but he growled in a very un-Donnel like manner.

"If we both fall, so does Ylisse," he snapped. "This is an order. Go!"

The Risen broke through into the clearing, weapons drawn, morose grins stretched across their grotesque faces.

Donnel stepped forward, swinging his sword in the air before him. "Which one of you overgrown manure heaps wants to go first, eh?"

Nah turned and ran, tears filling her eyes. When she reached the other end of the clearing, she crouched in the darkness and watched as Donnel dispatched four Risen, making it look almost effortless.

But they kept coming. Each one that went down made way for two others to crawl out of the burning forest behind them. Nah knew she needed to be running, but she couldn't look away. She clung to the tree beside her.

Donnel sidestepped a Risen with a spear and cut it down in one fluid motion. Another Risen got behind him, however, and dragged a sword down his back. He cried out in pain and stumbled forward, before spinning around and severing that Risen's head from it's body.

He continued to move backwards, parrying blows and striking out where he could, but his movements became slower, sloppier. Another spear broke through his defenses, sliding through gaps in his leather armour and drawing blood from his hip.

Donnel grabbed the weapon and ripped it out, throwing it onto the grass. Blood poured from him freely. Yet still he fought like a man possessed, cutting down three more Risen before an arrow shot through the crowd and hit his left leg above the knee. He tumbled and fell into a kneeling position, leaning on his sword, which was nearly unrecognizable from the gore caked onto it.

Another figure came through the shadows of the forest. The fire blazing behind him gave him the appearance of a monster straight from the worst circle of hell.

The Risen moved aside as Wulf strode across the clearing to where Donnel knelt. He reached behind him and unstrapped his massive battle axe, which looked to be bigger than Nah's entire body.

Donnel looked up at Wulf. Nah held her breath, straining to hear.

"Huh," Donnel said, through gritted teeth. "It's you, isn't it?"

Wulf gave an almost imperceptible nod. "Yes."

There was a moment of such severe silence that even the night air seemed to be standing perfectly still.

"Well? Going to get on with it?" Donnel asked.

Wulf shrugged. "Weak," he said, and brought his axe down, down, down…

Nah turned and ran.

When Gerome had come back in time, he had brought his best friend with him. Not Inigo, though it would pain the young man to hear it. Gerome had grown up in the care of his mother's wyvern, Minerva. However, she had been getting old, and another version of her already existed in this timeline. After the defeat of Grima, Gerome brought the Minerva of his time to Wyvern Valley and set her free. She deserved to die as herself, rather than remain in limbo, trapped in a world that didn't belong to her.

Yes, he realized the irony of this mindset.

In lieu of a wyvern, Lucina and her father saw fit to reward him with a royal griffon for his efforts in the war. Gerome named the griffon Michalis and cared for him now, and had, despite himself, grown quite fond of the big feathered beast. He knew Minerva would always hold an irreplaceable spot in his heart, but it felt good to fly through the air like old times.

Luckily, Michalis had been brought with them to the festival. Gerome charged in a rage towards the mooring where the griffon was tied up, his axe flying through the air as if of its own volition, cutting down those in his way.

Some were Risen, who put up a pathetic attempt to stop him. Others were Plegians, who seemed to be nervously backing away or crying for help. In his furious state of mind, Gerome noted no difference. They all fell before him.

He could hear Morgan yelling after him, but eventually her shouts stopped. If she were smart, she would get herself and Inigo away and to safety.

For his part, he was not a smart man. But he could kill, and kill well. Those who had just torn Lucina away from him would pay.

With a trail of fresh bodies behind him, Gerome leapt through the air and onto Michalis' back. He kicked the griffon to spur him into action, bringing his axe down to sever the tether in one clean cut.

Soon they were soaring through the air over the crowd. Where had all these Risen come from? There were hundreds, rampaging through the fairgrounds. Surely someone would have noticed an army that large lurking in the woods nearby? How could they have been caught so terribly unawares?

The Risen didn't matter, though. He could slaughter every last one of them and it would mean nothing. No, he knew exactly who had done this.

Plegia. That new king. Mort.

Yet the young king was nowhere to be seen. The spot where he had summoned the blast of fire was clearly marked, but no body of his or Lucina's was visible. It was all Risen, and the rapidly dying Ylissean revelers falling before them.

No, wait...there was one man, standing amidst the Risen, laughing a smug laugh that made Gerome's blood boil even more. It was that greasy looking retainer to Mort.

Joab glanced up, Gerome and Michalis apparently catching his eye. He reached behind him and swung his bow around, drawing an arrow with impressive speed. Despite his bloodlust, Gerome knew that an arrow through the wing or soft underbelly of his griffon would end this battle before it had even begun. Spurring Michalis, he began to fly in an erratic circular pattern as he wove his way downward.

As planned, the first arrow whizzed through the air where he would have been mere seconds previously. Joab had a second arrow ready to go nearly as soon as the first had left the bow; Gerome spurred Michalis once more in the opposite direction, throwing off the Plegian's aim once more. He continued to dive downwards, closer, closer…

A third arrow was drawn, the bow pulled back…

Gerome lashed out with his axe, knocking the arrow aside and slicing through the bow, rending it into pieces and knocking Joab backwards onto his ass.

Michalis rapidly pulled back up before hitting the ground, and Gerome allowed himself a moment to feel smug. That was one creep out of commission, but it wasn't enough. There was no way Mort simply allowed himself to be incinerated; he was around here somewhere.

Another figure caught his eye. The huge Plegian, Wulf, was moving towards the dense woods to the east, massive axe drawn. A crowd of Risen surrounded him, most armed, some equipped with torches. As they moved into the forest, they began to set fire to it behind them.

Gerome spurred Michalis to speed up, eager to make a strike at Wulf before he disappeared into the dense foliage. When it became clear he was too far away, he made a bold decision.

"HEY!" he screamed. Dozens of Risen turned to look up at him, as did Wulf.

Wulf looked vaguely annoyed, and shrugged. He turned back around and made his way into the forest.

"COWARD!" Gerome screamed, then an odd sinking sensation came over him. Quite literally - he was losing altitude, and fast.

In his rage, he had not heard the yelp of his griffon over the sound of his own yells. Whipping his head around, Gerome saw Joab standing with another bow in hand, smirking that infuriating smirk.

Gerome kicked his heels into Michalis, but it was no good. The griffon valiantly pumped his wings to stay afloat, but down they went, down, down, down…

Wulf was gone from sight. Any Ylisseans still alive had long fled. Aside from the bodies strewn on the ground, all he saw was Risen. An endless sea of them.

He braced for impact, and hit the trees.