The cloudless sky bled orange by the time Robin and Lucina reached the castle outskirt. They wove around the jagged outcrops that barricaded Plegia's heartland, dust wafting by in bursts. Robin whistled the sweeping, adventurous melody of an Ylissean ballad, 'The Trickster and the Sailor', as he twisted his veil of shadow against a sandy breeze. The sand broke before him in dashes of beige and smoke.
Looming ahead was the colossal dragon's skull. It grinned in death; long, curving teeth jutted from its maw, a forest of spines. Three eye-sockets opened monstrous caverns above a rock-shelf cheekbone. Around the base of the jaw ran the courtyard ramparts, a pitiful attempt to fence in the skull, their parapets barely reaching the bottom teeth.
The skull had been in sight since crossing the ruins threshold into Plegia's merciless sun. Lucina, ever suspicious of the next course, had paused on the sandstone dais to survey the foreign land. From their vantage, the wastes had stretched into the horizon, before disappearing behind shimmering waves of heat.
"See that?" Robin indicated with his chin to a dome-shape nestled in the far sands. Sun-bleached white against an ocean of beige, the skull was hard to miss. Lucina traced his gesture, and her eyes flickered with recognition.
"That's Plegia Castle," he said, "about half a day off. Since your friends are probably in hysterics as I speak, let's head back home first, then we can figure out how to proceed from there."
"'Home'," she repeated, looking at him unblinking. "What manner of bare-faced trap is this?"
"You know, you could give Frederick the Wary a run for his title. Considering we've made an agreement and all, you do realize that's your castle now, it being a den of evil conspirators notwithstanding. Oh, and not to forget―I hope you like sand, because this region is full of it. All yours."
He extended a hand to the wastes. Warm, dry air blew into his sleeve.
"Welcome to Plegia, Princess."
The dead dragon's craggy neck sloped into gargantuan dunes of sand and shale. Years of sandstorms had buried the carcass beneath an earthen crust; and years of labour from Plegian settlers had carved roads through the rock and raised flat-roofed buildings over the carcass's hide. Rising at the crest of the dragon's nape was the capitol itself, a spiny-spired crown to cap the city.
"That corpse," Lucina's voice said, a rare sound since leaving the ruins. He turned and found her slowing to a halt, staring at the half-buried dragon, hands curled at her sides. The furrow in her brow told him she had been gnawing on the thought for a time.
"Is it... you?" she asked, finally breaking her gaze.
Robin spread his arms and glanced down the front of his robes. "The last time I checked, I was perfectly alive."
"You know what I meant," she said in an annoyed tone.
He turned ahead and kept walking.
"It's not me."
A score of attendants hailed Robin's return to Plegia Castle. Dressed in coarse homespun browns, they gathered by the sandstone walls, bowing low and fawning. When they raised their heads to catch sight of Lucina, they smiled with all the joy of receiving the prince's guest.
Their enthusiasm belied the subtle glances they shared. Lucina, in her thick mantle, navy cloak with the crimson underside, and lapeled boots, cut a distinctly Ylissean figure in a land where most denizens wore loose-fitting robes, drab smocks, or almost nothing. If her presence weren't conspicuous enough, Robin had also arrived without any entourage to speak of.
The last he had returned alone was to claim the title of crown prince. Then, the people had whispered of how he'd been found in a field by none other than the Shepherds. Some had suspected Robin's dubious allegiance to his home country, while others thought he'd been kidnapped by the Ylisseans and brainwashed. There were even tales of how the prince had braved years-long imprisonment beneath the watch of Ylisstol's elite guards, where he had bided his time, plotting out the patrols and the passages of the fortress, until his meticulous plans had at last culminated in a heartracing, narrow escape. Depending on the story, his pursuers ranged from the wicked Shepherds, their captain Prince Chrom, to Exalt Emmeryn herself.
Robin had done nothing to stem the rumours, allowing them to grow as wild and inaccurate as gossipers could imagine. There had been no need for intervention. Plegia's recent victories in the war, under his lead, had pushed out any grumbling about an absentee prince's undeserved claim to power.
With how very popular a subject Ylisseans were in Plegia, and the late exalt visiting, speculation was bound to start anew. Robin could feel the rumours coiled in the air, ready to let fly the moment his back was turned. But just as he couldn't be bothered back then, he couldn't be bothered now.
Presently, a pair of blonde attendants stepped forward, offering ceramic cups of water. If Lucina was sweltering under that outfit of hers, she had given no indication, but Robin was parched. The desert air had been stifling, even with his improvised parasol and a stop by an oasis. The chilled water felt good going down his throat.
Lucina waited three of his gulps, before accepting the other drink with a soft "Thank you" and the barest hint of a smile. She lifted the cup in both hands, about to take a sip when she caught his look.
"What?" Lucina said.
Robin glanced aside and drained his cup without responding.
They stepped under the fang-like portcullis, and soon the dusk light melted away. Smells of spices and burning wood wafted from the castle interior. Raising his eyes to the torchlit hall ahead, Robin saw that the twin rows of bodies had grown again since his last departure. The bodies laid face-down and side by side, each as still as a sack. Then one of them shifted with a nervous titter.
He sighed inwardly. If the attendants had been deferential, the Grimleal were grovellers. Every rank from initiate to high priest pressed themselves flat on the tiles along Robin's path. When he passed, they came alive with a desperate chorus. The gaunt torchlight and the Grimleal's dark clothes made for a sinister passage, as seemingly disembodied hands snagged at Robin like brambles. The Grimleal reached out to his boots and the hems of his robes, snatching the fabric, offering prayers and begging for Robin's favour, hailing Grima and praising his guardianship over the vessel, all in one long stream of breaths.
Over the next fourteen steps, Lucina affixed Robin's heels with a rapt stare. At least the robed rabble paid no attention to the exalt, so focused they were on their fated lord, or whatever title they had latched onto next. She met his eye, and he offered her a shrug.
Still, Robin thought he could understand the Grimleal's revived motivation. With Mad King Gangrel dead, his apostates scattered, and the war swinging in Plegia's favour, the faith swelled with recruits eager to join the winning side.
He received their worship well enough, as this time, he didn't step on any fingers. Not that he supposed the Grimleal would complain if he did. No, they would consider their trodden hands a stroke of Fate. They would count their injured knuckles and find in them some rapturous meaning. To them, nothing was an accident beneath the guidance of Grima's plan, especially not the vessel himself, fellblood, boots, and all.
For that matter, Robin could say almost anything, and the Grimleal would swoon over his words. He had once uttered to them a few random phrases: 'clouds, pegasi, watermelons', 'moons and chimney'. The Grimleal had taken his words for symbolism and squabbled over who could best decipher the meaning behind his wisdom. Later, Robin had heard of a victor, but he never cared to see who.
Toward the end of the line, a few apprentices scampered closer for one last grab at his robes. Robin shifted his gait so their hands swiped air. In the corner of his eye, he saw Lucina tilt her head as if pretending not to notice.
Dear Father waited at the end of the vestibule, beneath the gullet-shaped archway carved with six leering eyes. His lanky frame hung like a spectre against the soft light emitting from the inner chamber. He wore his open-chested black vestment with the gilded hems that flowed down to his bare ankles. Around his unreasonably long neck was a chain, heavy gold and dangling with spade-ended tassets. A black goatee, streaked by a shock of white, honed his already-sharp chin to a point.
The king's sunken gaze fell upon Robin, wrinkling in joy. That joy became a touch strained when the man looked to the exalt, as if an odour had passed beneath his beak-like nose.
"Welcome home, my son and prince," King Validar said with purple lips.
Robin recalled sneaking a look at his father's napkin, to see if any powder had rubbed off after the man dabbed his mouth. He had been impressed to find Validar's complexion intact. Validar had ashen skin, eyes that somehow sucked out the light around them, and of course, the purple lips. Robin could barely imagine he was related to the man. But while the legitimacy of their relation might have been questionable, its usefulness was not, and that was the only reason he let things be.
Lucina glanced between them, no doubt puzzling over the question he'd had many times.
"I'm glad to be back, Father," Robin said, nodding.
"I must say, it pleases me to find the nature of your arrival as my messenger had spoken," Validar continued. "I had heard that you captured the exalt herself. Well done."
The messenger likely hadn't said any such thing, but Robin let him go on. The king clasped his spindly hands, clicking together long, raven-black nails. His eyes narrowed to crescents.
"At last, we have the beating heart of Ylisse in our clutches. Tell me, Son. How shall we prepare the execution? A hanging, or perhaps a beheading? … No, I expect you would find that too merciful yourself. Perhaps we should burn her at the pyre, as we do the heretics. Yes, yes, perfect! Let all be invited. The day shall go down in the books as one of the most glorious in all of Plegian history."
Robin glanced at Lucina and caught the twitch in her fingers. She was halfway to drawing Falchion.
"That won't be necessary," he said to Validar.
"Oh, is it that you want to deliver the final blow yourself?" His father laughed so lowly that it sounded like a rasp. "Brilliant. That must be why the exalt isn't bound in chains. You could end her at any moment if you so wished."
"Well," Robin waited for Validar's laughter to subside, "if you would allow me a moment to introduce you two. Lucina, this is my father, the venerable King Validar of Plegia. Father, this is my future consort, Exalt Lucina of the Halidom of Ylisse."
"A pleasure," Lucina said. She considered Validar with a measured, if cold, air.
The king's black eyebrows raised, wrinkling the skin of his forehead manifold.
"Oh, yes, of course. What a delightful development!" Validar said, not sounding at all delighted. "Time passes quickly. I had not realized you were getting to that age. Come along, then, for such an honoured guest ought to be shown her chambers. For one of the exalt's station, I believe we have a most suitable room underground."
"You needn't worry yourself, Father," Robin said pleasantly.
"But I insist." Validar leaned forward, the golden spades on his necklace clinking. "You both must be weary after a long journey. Allow this king, then, to aid his son… and, ah, future daughter."
His lips stretched ever upward, reminding Robin of a seedy innkeeper in a backwater hostel.
"Now, it wouldn't do for you to dote on me whenever I return from a trip, would it?" Robin returned a smile. The thin kind, for when his patience was wearing. "I assure you I can make these arrangements myself. Besides, it's only right and customary that I show my own guest around our home."
Validar's mouth twitched at the word 'our'.
"Very well, yes," he said at last, and gave a vaguely wistful sigh. "I do believe that one such as the exalt is best off in your care, after all."
"I'm glad we see eye to eye on the matter. Now, then." Robin glanced past the king and let his smile drop.
"But if you would allow me a few more words." Validar edged back into the focus of his vision. "Might I ask how long you shall be staying this time? We have had many new acolytes join in the past month, and it would bode well for them to acquaint with the hierophant. You'll join us for the morning sermon, won't you?"
Robin tried to school his dour tone. "I've noticed the recruits, and yes, of course I'll join you. But matters press us, and we'll have to depart again thereafter. Unfortunately." He felt Lucina give him a pointed look, not that he wanted to tarry, either.
"So soon?" Validar said with sweet regret. "It would please me if you could stay awhile and regale us of the recent times, as you had before. Surely, much has happened in a month. I recall, last you had brought such... exhilarating news of your campaign at Border Pass. Of the canyons washing red with the blood of heretics. Of our men forging into territory never before claimed by Plegia."
Validar laughed, openly now, his gaze sliding from Robin to Lucina. Black nails travelled to his goatee, stroking it like a treasured feline. "Oh, again and again, I wish I had been there to see the heretics' faces―or their backs, as our forces slaughtered them like the squealing pigs they were."
"There will be time in the future," Robin said. "For now, I will see you at dinner, Father. If it's news you want, you'll have it then."
This seemed to placate him. His shoulders relaxed, and his laughter lowered to a chuckle. "Yes, I see. I look forward to it, my son."
Validar shifted aside with wraith-like finesse and swept a claw hand toward the interior. Thin gold bracelets chimed.
Robin stepped past, Lucina following a few inches closer than usual. The low archway broke into a circular atrium. The spire ceiling rose high above, dying sunlight seeping through an array of panes. Across the faintly-lit floor, black and red tiles depicted a serpentine dragon spreading six feathery wings. Rising at its back was a halo-like ellipse, the dragon's wings and tail bursting past the golden rim.
Validar lingered behind long after they had passed. As Robin crossed the dragon's gaunt head, he could feel the man's stare bore into his back.
"Grima."
Robin released the door handle and looked to Lucina. She had halted outside the candidate chamber, resting a hand on the fluted ivory threshold. A reasonable interior had opened before them, offering a double bed of silken sheets and a gold-gilded mirror on an ashwood dresser, but Lucina had lowered her gaze to her shoe.
"Robin," he corrected.
"There was something I did not ask you," she said. "About Border Pass and the Galland Knights."
"Oh?"
Of course that would be fresh on her mind, as Validar had, with all the grace of a bludgeon, brought up one of Ylisse's worst military losses. For her general lack of restraint toward Robin, at least she had known better than to rise to Validar's bait.
"I had heard in the reports, but I did not believe them. I... had thought it preposterous, even for you." She peered up at him.
"Did you laugh?" Lucina asked.
Robin blinked. "What?"
"The reports said that you laughed when our men faced your forces. That you laughed so long and loud that it rang in the canyons."
She paused, lips parted as if to say more, but then she closed them.
"Oh," Robin said.
"What do you mean, 'Oh'? Did you, or not?"
Robin stepped past her into the hallway. He looked down the row of mounted torches to where they broke around a corner, the junction lying dark and still.
"Here."
He cupped his hands around his mouth and inhaled.
Low, guttural laughter trembled the air, multitudinous in pitch, and not at all human. The fires flagged and snapped, splashing erratic shadows on the bricks. The castle's ancient walls stirred. He felt reverberations in his soles, deep, rolling, as if the stones would liquefy and sink beneath him.
He thought back to Border Pass, to the line of soldiers, bearing blue-white tabards over polished steel. To the bristle of their claymores, lances, and halberds, that flashed against the afternoon sun.
"There! The Plegian traitor!"
"His men have abandoned him. He's alone!"
The knights of Galland poured forth, dozens of boots thundering down the valley. The road, mapped with lightning-fork cracks and trod with old maroon stains, rapidly diminished beneath their advance. They loosed a battlecry to wake the canyons.
"For the exalt!"
Robin raised a hand, palm up, and flexed his fingers.
With a crackle, the slim black tome he carried split open. A page sheared into the wind, then another and another. Torn sheafs of parchment joined a growing flurry that gusted, furled, undulated, and finally, burned, erupting in inky-violet gouts of flame.
The magic that lay inert around the valley's peripherals awoke.
Robin let the tome, now empty, slip from his fingers. Its metal-studded corner struck a rock. The earth resounded with a dark heartbeat. Soldiers staggered, weapon hafts banging against shoulderguards, couters against couters. They shouted in confusion. Several of the men cast looks at their feet, misdirected.
Amidst the distraction rose wet rasping sounds. Tendons creaked and popped like timber on fire. Hunched forms shifted in the corners of Robin's vision, emerged from the shadows of the narrow pass. They dragged behind them monstrous axeheads, metal keening against gravel.
There was a scream.
Then, screams.
"Risen!" someone yelled. "Behind us!"
"In front too! A trap! Where did they―" The voice was lost among fresh cries of agony.
The Risen might not be quiet when animated, but when dormant they were as still as any corpse. There had been so many outcrops. So many crags to hide soldiers, or bodies, or both. But the Ylisseans had cast aside their caution in pursuit of the lone enemy tactician, and before they could react, a dozen men had crumpled beneath rust-eaten axes.
Soon, the Ylisseans began to mount a desperate retaliation, peals of metal against metal joining the din. Their formation fell into a loose convex, pushing tighter as the dead closed in like a fist.
"Stand fast! Don't let them surround us!"
Galloping hooves and the rhythmic clinking of armour joints. A knight barreled down the valley atop a spike-barded stallion. In his heavy gauntlet, he raised a broad-bladed partisan. He clove through the oncoming Risen, the spear scything through heads, limbs, and torsos, leaving behind a trail of smoking husks. Chestnut hair whipped against his hard face.
He had broken from the carnage. He was looking right at Robin, and he was coming closer.
A holler of defiance rose at the knight's back. The Ylisseans, spurred by his valour, redoubled their efforts. The Risen were still outnumbered, even one against a pair of footmen. They could be pushed back. The knight had slain five himself―Robin had felt their presence wink out, one after the other, with more to join. Each passing moment, the Ylisseans became more certain of what Robin already knew.
Watching impassively, Robin raised his hands around his mouth.
The canyon walls amplified his voice a hundredfold, echoing, echoing until the cliffs quaked. The sun dimmed as though its rays were collapsing from the valley. Shadows lengthened, distorted.
Men's mouths gaped beneath wide eyes and half-helms, forming soundless words: dragon, demon, monster. The Ylissean ranks frayed and pushed together again, soldiers swaying like waves in a storm.
The stallion reared. It flailed its front hooves, head thrashing, tongue lolled out in an unheard whinny. Studded reins went taut as the rider yanked them back.
At the last moment, the knight threw himself from the saddle. He rolled against the ground, pauldrons ripping up dirt and shredded weeds. The stallion cut a hard turn and struck another soldier on the way out. The knight tumbled into a crouch, spear cradled in the nook of his shoulder, dust streaming from his heels. Flipping the spearpoint forward, he kicked into a charge. Heavy plate boots hammered the earth.
I swore in milord's name, Frederick shouted, the tide of echoes drowning his voice, I would put an end to the betrayer who took his life. Today, I fulfill that promise!
Robin could see the whites in the man's eyes. Closing the last paces, Frederick threw the whole of his weight and rage into a single, terrible blow.
The spear slowed as though caught in mire. Black fumes bloomed around its point, like ink dispersing in water.
For a second, the blow came to a standstill.
The partisan shattered. Metal splinters rained the dirt, bouncing and skittering. The force drove Frederick backward, armour ka-chunking as he staggered once, twice. He opened his fist and released a handful of shards where his spear had been. Then he collapsed on a knee.
A silver fragment hit the toe of Robin's shoe, which he kicked aside. His voice came out a hoarse growl. "Did she send you?"
Frederick's mouth curled defiantly.
"Tell me!"
Sounds of screaming, fighting men dulled to a muffled throb, their frantic forms blurring into dark, faceted shapes. Robin was angry―albeit not at Ylisse, not at the knights, not even at Frederick. A question seared his mind like a white-hot brand: did Lucina hate Robin so much that she would send her retainer, and her father's oldest friend, to die hunting him?
"No," Frederick said at last. "I set out myself, to right what was wrong."
A derisive noise escaped Robin. If he were honest, he had thought that Frederick might still have upheld Emmeryn's ideals. But he also knew it had only been a matter of time before he met Frederick in battle, or, in this case, at the forefront of a crusade. Outliving three exalts had taken its toll on the Ylissean royal family's closest supporter.
"You know what? I never considered you a blind man, Frederick. Zealous at times, yes, but not blind."
He stared down at the knight.
"So," Robin said, "why are you here, instead of with Cynthia and Lucina?"
Something flickered across Frederick's expression, a chip in his stony demeanor. The man took a sharp breath. It came back out as fog.
"You―"
"No, not me," Robin said. "You, Frederick. They need you by their side. They need you too much for you to be playing the puppet to Ylisstol's court. If you're not blind, which you aren't, you know this.
"Now, you can join your allies, who really want to get at the towns just past that ridge behind me, which they're not going to make it. Or, you can kindly remove yourself from my sight." He clapped his sleeved hands together. "I prefer the second option myself, but what say you?"
Robin didn't hold the sound for long; his lips and throat were growing numb. He had lost his voice for days following that battle, and he wasn't keen on a repeat. Ending on an unceremonious cough, he watched the fires flutter back to an uneasy rest.
Sixfold echoes fled down the corridor. Somewhere amidst them, Robin heard muffled screaming and a distant flurry of retreating sandals. So much for eavesdroppers. Or maybe that was the help, and he had just scared them away.
"If that's what you mean, then I did," he said.
He turned to see Lucina's fingers tight around the threshold. Her face was stricken.
Her annoyance would have been fine. Anger, too, he could handle. But fear… Robin began reaching toward her, before he caught himself and pulled back his hand.
Lucina recovered with a scowl.
"I see," she said. "A lowly trick, then."
"It worked, didn't it?" he asked. "Did you think I was laughing at them because I―"
"―Liked watching them die?" The corner of her mouth creased. "Maybe you weren't. I'm not certain it's any better."
"Probably not," Robin said.
In the dining hall, long-tables seated on each side a dozen chattering Plegian nobles. Wide clay plates were heaped with hearty delicacies: pig's intestines stuffed with beans, peanuts, and rice; mackerels from the Sajerei River, scalped and seared; pickled pork snouts; flat rye-breads topped with dollops of sour-smelling cheese. For drink, red and date wines were served in ebony ceramic jugs.
A trio of female dancers, clad in flowing strips of green, pink and orange satin, took the stage. Braziers drew hard outlines against their bare shoulders and waists. They cartwheeled and spun from the points of their toes to the tips of their fingers, flinging sand in cascades. Below them sat the musicians, strumming lutes, banging on tambourines and twittering reed pipes to a lively fanfare.
Most attendee eyes, however, were not on the entertainment, but on Robin's table. Or rather, on Lucina, who sawed at a piece of yellow toast with a serrated knife. She had changed into a less-conspicuous sable dress for the evening―just the evening―but her uncommon hair colour and her seat beside Robin had attracted the hall's attention.
Robin was content to ignore the gossipers. He sampled as many dishes as he could reach: a hunk of spicy tendon, a bit of the intestines, a dipper-full of sandbear stew, some fish. Not because he liked all of it, but all of it was his to eat, and by the gods, he was hungry.
"Lucina, you should try this mackerel," he said. "It's quite acceptable."
Using a twin-pronged fork, he filleted half a fish. Robin held the flaky flesh over the edge of her saucer and raised his eyebrows.
"If you say," she said. He set the fish down, and she tried it.
"It's acceptable," Lucina agreed.
When she made no move to take any other food, Robin glanced over the spread of dishes, most of which were too spicy, too sour, or too scorched for an Ylissean palate. He settled on a pot of bubbling, thick brown contents. "You might enjoy the sandbear stew. Sandbears are kind of like bears, besides the snout and the extra paws. Didn't we see one along the way?"
He filled a half-bowl of stew and slid it over the table. Then he scooped another chunk of the salty, fatty meat for himself.
"I'm not hungry," she said.
"You can ignore them, you know." Robin cast around the hall. At that moment, many nobles became fixated with their plates, with each other, or on the feast. "They won't hurt you. Well, most of them won't."
Lucina took the bowl in both hands and gave the stew a sip.
"Interesting, isn't it?" he asked, taking a mouthful of his own. "Tastes like home, in a literal sense."
She finished the rest, although the set of her mouth told him it was more out of politeness than anything.
A passing attendant set down a wide-rimmed plate. Hunks of stringy red fruit, each speared with an ivory skewer, rested in a pool of crimson syrup.
"Bloodfruit, a Plegian delicacy," Robin explained to Lucina, who was eyeing the dish warily. He took a skewer and popped into his mouth a piece of the tangy and sour flesh.
"Also passable." He smacked his lips. "Strawberry syrup, by the way."
Robin offered her some of the fruit, which she refused along with the next six-odd dishes he introduced. With no more options in range, he began emptying the nearby plates to scraps, Lucina watching with a mild horror akin to seeing the Grimleal back in the entrance hall. It was unfortunate that she didn't share his enthusiasm. Robin could eat the world if he didn't have to give it to her.
He had scraped the last bit of sauce from the stew pot before deciding he'd had enough. With spirits high and festivities simmering down, Robin rapped his knuckles on the table.
The gesture spread through the banquet like a ripple. Voices hushed. The musicians slowed their tempo to a quiet, steady thrum. The dancers landed on their feet and curtsied to the audience as if their performance had ended just then. Table by table, the Grimleal, the court advisors, the nobles of influential houses, the nobles of not-so-influential houses, and the high-ranking castle guard, each turned to him.
A hundred pairs of eyes rested on Robin.
He stood and raised his chalice. A cherry bobbed in the wine.
"First of all, I offer my thanks to the staff for arranging this magnificent banquet on short notice. It gives me joy to return home to such welcome and jubilation."
He held the chalice to the attendants, who clasped their hands and bowed, followed by the dancers sketching a curtsy. The lute-players twanged just a bit louder, and tambourines jingled. He turned to the chefs by the kitchen counter. Their soot-tanned faces broke into smiles, and they waved. Robin thought they looked unfamiliar. Perhaps the king, with his finicky tastes, had tired of the old cooks, or there had been yet another poisoning attempt.
The king. Robin looked to the head of the table, at Validar. A heavy crown rested on the man's wispy black hair. Validar strummed his long fingers on a pearl-encrusted armrest. A frown perched on his lips.
"And thank you, Father, for your generosity and wisdom that guide Plegia to an ever better future. Long may you rule, and long may the country thrive."
Validar nodded. Robin cast his gaze outward, to the rows of men and women. They nodded along with the king, along to the empty words.
"Now," Robin said, raising his voice above the dull crackle of braziers, "those of you gathered here, young and old, commoner and noble. I expect you are all well aware of Plegia's war with Ylisse." Again, heads nodded. "Some of you may be wondering about my return, knowing that my role as Grandmaster requires constant vigil. Rest assured, Plegia's borders are safe, as is the Heartland.
"We have repelled every incursion against us. We have driven Ylissean forces from the borderlands, their garrisons from their forward advances. We have had them reeling since the battle at Border Pass. And now, pushed back into their own territory, all that Naga's zealots can do is lick their wounds as they await the inevitable. I say to you with confidence that the finale of the war is at hand, and there is only one outcome."
Cheers. Mugs banged against tabletops. The king broke into a wide, wicked grin, as did the Grimleal beside him.
"It is at this point, I have two important announcements to make." He paused, let his audience's faces grow expectant.
"The first is that I have chosen a bride."
Excitement swept the gathered Plegians anew. Some of the more drunk patrons, sensing the mood upswing, beamed at him.
"In fact, some of you may have noticed that she sits beside me even now."
Lucina had stopped cutting her toast into tiny squares. She sat back in her chair, eyes narrowed, mouth flat. Robin couldn't fully see the angle of Lucina's arms from where he stood, but he was fairly sure she had her hand on Falchion, ready to cleave the table apart and a hole through the nearest wall. He gave her a knowing smile.
"My betrothed is none other than Exalt Lucina of the Halidom of Ylisse."
A murmur spread through the audience, more than a few sounding confused. Robin heard some clapping, hesitant at first, soon bolstered by dozens of others to a polite patter. For several among the guard and the nobility, the motions seemed to come rote, as they clapped while regarding each other with suspicious scowls.
Raucous applause broke out at one of the centre tables. A nobleman, cherry-cheeked and drunk, howled approval and slapped his meaty hands together, a graceless spectacle to the scandal of everyone in his vicinity. This continued for several seconds, until a woman beside him jabbed an elbow into his ribs. The noble jolted. His face clouding, he peered around as if seeing the hall and its patrons for the first time. He slumped his shoulders, stilling his hands around a mug. Robin shot him a grin.
"With our union, the long-standing divide between our nations shall be abolished. I henceforth make my second announcement: the war between Plegia and Ylisse is at its end.
"As the month closes, I expect to be issuing orders of recall for our soldiers, and closures of our garrisons. There will also be the matter of deciding what becomes of the newly-freed military funds. Without delving into details so early, the prospect is that efforts will be made toward reparations and amendments."
A surge of voices. Heads swiveled as the Plegians spoke openly with their neighbours. General Campari's face was thunder, as did the other captains and war advisors look shocked. The advisors turned to one another, flapping their mouths. At the end of the table, commissioner-of-arms Jamil steepled his fingers together, staring off in hard contemplation. If Lucina's hand hadn't been on Falchion before, it certainly was now, only her attention was no longer directed at Robin but at some very upset captains and noblemen.
Meanwhile, several lesser nobles, chefs, and attendants lowered their heads, expressions softening with a guilty relief. A few glanced around furtively, in case they had drawn the ire of angrier patrons.
Validar slammed his palms onto the table. So forcefully did he rise that his heavy throne scraped against the tiles. The sounds were swallowed by the din, however, and scarcely any attendees took notice.
Robin raised his voice, though few people listened anymore. "To the prosperity of Plegia. May Lord Grima spare us all."
He drained his chalice in a long gulp, smiling at the irony of his words.