I.
Two years after King Raminas's assassination, Penelo turned the same age Reks was—the last age Reks was. She stood in Migelo's kitchen punching bread dough on the day of the consul's arrival—kneading it, if anyone asked—and watched the great gleaming airships ease along their courses through the sky overhead, Dalmascan flags waved well beneath the colors of Archadia.
A calamity more than a tragedy, that her brother had died for this—that the justice he gave the king could do nothing to save the kingdom. The Archadian forces left all pretenses of peace by the wayside after the betrayal at the treaty-signing, and they met no resistance as they resumed their advance into Dalmasca, toward the royal city of Rabanastre. Unable to fight them and unwilling to welcome them, the princess took her own life on the night of their arrival.
And Penelo was abandoned, along with the rest of the city—along with the rest of the country—and now Archadian was spoken in the streets daily, armored guards posted and patrolling, pale faces intermingled among the gold-skinned populace. So much, and so hard, and so fast that for that first full year of the occupation, Penelo had jumped at every shadow, and been afraid to close her eyes each night, for what the world might look like when she opened them. Migelo was always telling her that Dalmasca was the past and Archadia the future, but Migelo was complacent, servile—rushing and fretting and preparing for their conqueror's welcome gala—and when he burst into the kitchen that morning as Penelo kneaded dough, his only outrage was directed at her:
"You've been stealing again!" He held up a fist full of copper coins—the ones Penelo had stashed in a drawer earlier when Migelo almost caught her counting them. "What happens if they catch you? We need you to be there for us, Penelo. You're no good to anyone if you're locked away in some dungeon."
She slapped the loaf on a pan and covered it with a towel. "Oh, what? Am I the leader now?"
"You're the oldest—they look up to you!"
"We're orphans," Penelo growled. "First thing we learn is we gotta watch out for ourselves. Hey! What are you doing!?"
"I'm keeping it," he replied, sliding the coins through his palm and into the pouch at his belt. "Aren't you always saying that this money belongs to the people of Dalmasca? And the Imperials stole it from us, so it's only fair that we take it back? Aren't I a Dalmascan?"
"I never said anything about taking it back from me," Penelo choked.
Migelo was a stout man, past fifty but not yet bent by time, and while the gentleness of his tone could not achieve any semblance of intimidation, it somehow weighed all the heavier for the air of disappointment underneath it. "I know how hard it is to see them in our city every day, but they're getting through their lives the same as we're getting through ours. They're only following their orders."
Penelo clapped the flour from her hands. "So I should be angry with the high-born jerk moving into our royal palace instead?" she asked.
"Our palace has been empty for two years now," Migelo replied. "And you should be careful what you say with all those soldiers around listening for the Resistance."
"The Resistance is the only hope we have left."
"And what kind of leaders would they produce? Would you really want them at the head of our country?"
Penelo struggled against the knot in her apron's strings and at last flailed it off and onto the floor. "I'd rather be ruled by a Dalmascan terrorist than an Archadian one."
Migelo straightened himself, but thought better of whatever he had to say, and instead he softened, leaned against the thick wooden counter, and spoke through a sigh: "Penelo, I know this isn't right. I know Reks gave his life to avoid this—and so did all the others. But it's what we have now. It's all we have."
Penelo crossed her arms and turned half away from him, eyes on the floor, one foot scuffing circles in the flour there.
"Now, you don't have to work at the fete tonight," Migelo went on, "but at least come to the consul's introduction. He's not a bad person."
"How can you say?" Penelo shot back, tone low. "You've only met him once."
"And he was very cordial."
"They're born that way."
Migelo smiled. "He even said he didn't feel right living in someone else's palace."
Her eyes lifted at this, though her expression did not lift with them. "How did he feel about us throwing a party for him?"
"We don't exactly have a choice," said Migelo, "and I doubt he does, either. Now, come on. We're going to be late. Or are you going to stand here and watch dough rise?"
Penelo knocked her heel against the cabinet beneath her, then jerked herself forward and into motion, following Migelo out of the shop and into the market beyond. The orphans of Archadia's war swarmed on the streets, mostly running errands for Migelo, picking up packages and relaying sundries to the palace guards, though a pair of them scurried up to Penelo when they spotted her, and walked with her to the square where the new consul was to be introduced.
Penelo never volunteered to play big sister, but she was one of the older orphans in Rabanastre—funny to think that anyone would look up to her, would look to her for comfort, let alone guidance, but there it was. Always at least a few faces at the door, looking for a meal, wanting to hear a story or tell one. Her answers to their questions had grown automated, distant—all the little ones liked to know about Rabanastre before the war, about the battles and alliances, about her brother, the great soldier whose testimony sentenced the Kingslayer to death. The years had borne legends: the story of Princess Ashelia's wedding grew grander with each retelling, she more beautiful and he more handsome, and Nabudis a fallen paradise.
What the children didn't know—what they didn't seem to realize just yet—was that the war was far from over. Rozarria's attacks had ceased and its forces gathered for restructuring, but this was only because Archadia now held more land and the more advantageous borders. Ownership of Dalmasca brought with it trading treaties with Bhujerba, a small island with as many magicite mines as Rozarria's entire empire. The city of Rabanastre sat at the center of Dalmasca's longest and widest stretch of desert, surrounded by a verdant oasis that was fed from three sides by the River Lete—a hub for transport and military strength that did little to bolster Dalmasca against the strength of Archadia, but now gave Rozarria second thoughts about pressing forward.
The children could not remember the war, and so could accept that they had lost it, but Penelo lived on the penumbra of a hovering shadow—conquered by one empire for the sole sake of waging war against another. For all the ill she wished on Archadia, she trembled at the prospect of it succumbing to Rozarria.
Despite its arid surroundings, Rabanastre flowed with water—in streams, in fountains, and in countless clusters of greenery that remained otherwise a rarity for the region. Whimsical Dalmascan architecture sprung from behind the hanging gardens that surrounded the city, strong and imposing in the daylight, yet graceful and lax in the dark, and people glutted the cobbled plaza before the palace where the consul was to speak.
Penelo and Migelo pressed themselves into a niche among the spectators and joined them in raising their hands and squinting their eyes against the gleam of the sun-basted rooftops. Noon quickly approached, the palace's arches and peaks glinting with light, shedding a glow over the entire grounds in a painfully bright depiction of Dalmasca's former glory. Archadian politicians and nobles lined the steps leading to the palace gate, their prim dress in deep contrast the laidback desert attire of the citizenry.
Several officers stood between the diplomats and the crowd, and four armored figures kept close watch in all directions, flanking a well-dressed man with a war-hardened countenance who Penelo could only assume was the new consul. Though the exact titles and positions of all the others assembled on the palace steps eluded her, she did recognize Lord Gregoroth, the chairman of the Archadian Senate, and several others who appeared to be Senators or perhaps representatives of the war council as well.
At last, an Archadian man approached the podium and began to describe—in Dalmascan—the events leading up to the consul's appointment. He did not mention that Archadia started the war—only that Archadia ceased its hostilities in light of the king's murder and, apparently out of pity and with hopes of providing solace and security, offered Dalmasca "generous" peace terms.
Penelo and Migelo watched motionlessly as the prince gazed out at his domain, eyes dark and mouth still, impervious to the mob's whispers and sneers. He was undeniably handsome—lean and tall, with thick black hair and murky brown eyes—but the troubled look on his face lent a grave shadow to his expression, almost sinister in nature. He looked bored, surveying the ocean of people with passing interest and clenching his jaw as though it physically pained him to put up with the ceremony.
Glancing downward, Penelo realized that she could no longer bring herself to look at him. She pressed her knees together and rubbed her left forearm with her right hand. Migelo put a hand on her shoulder.
"You okay?" she asked.
"Can we go now?" Penelo replied.
"They just started."
She laughed unevenly and shook her head. "Oh, what's wrong with me?"
"It's alright," Migelo assured her.
As the man at the podium attempted to introduce the prince, the crowd began to sway with anger, slurs, oaths, and cries of rebellion ringing out.
"Order!" the man shouted, his Archadian accent received with disdain. "We will have order!"
None came until the armed soldiers surrounding the crowd stepped inward, pressing the civilians together. The man at the podium paused, settled, and at last continued on: "I give you your new consul: His Excellency Lord Vayne Carudas Solidor, son and heir of His Imperial Excellency Emperor Gramis, and commandant of Archadia's western—Your Excellency?"
A unified gasp surged through the crowd, briefly silencing their groans and taunts, for their consul had shaken his head in dismay and pushed the announcer away from the podium, instead taking to it himself and speaking.