7. Abandoned

The building was falling apart. Its windows held only jagged teeth of glass around the edges, evidence of countless rocks thrown out of malice or boredom. Those inside gathered together in a central room upstairs, as far away from the reach of the bone-chilling wind as possible. One hunched down on a makeshift chair made from an overturned bucket. Another, more restless, paced around the room. He paused in his back and forth movement, looking agitated.

"He should have been here hours ago. Something went wrong."

The third man, leaning against a wall with his dark, muscular arms crossed, frowned and shook his head.

"Everything in the world could have gone wrong. Like last night."

The first speaker exhaled sharply. "Don't remind me."

"Speaking of that," piped up a younger voice, raising his head from where he had been leaned forward with elbows resting on his knees. "Anyone else…rubbed the wrong way by last night's mission?"

"Lucas, don't."

His tone of warning went unheeded. "Three members of our cell, gone," the youth said. "And for what? Are we even sure that those nobles needed to die?"

The big man grunted, and the other ran his hands through shaggy brown hair, looking uncomfortable. After a moment, he walked over toward Lucas and scraped a barrel along the floor so that he could sit next to him.

"Listen," he said. "They volunteered for that mission. Everyone here was told the risks when they joined up. Besides, I've got my theories about the targets."

Lucas looked at him expectantly, though his expression was still a slightly dubious one.

"Actually, it was Marten's idea at first. We talked about it, after we found out about the second mission." He took a breath. "We may have been a diversion. Of sorts." He held out one hand when the youth opened his mouth angrily.

"Before you say anything, I do know that the noble targets were involved in some shady business. Funding some of the more ruthless underground groups in Zaphias, the kind that makes everyone's lives more difficult. And dangerous."

"But they weren't the real goal," said Lucas, sullenly. "Is that what you're trying to tell me, Leon?"

"Maybe." He shrugged. "Does that answer your questions?"

The boy smiled, a bit sadly. "Not really."

Leon's brow furrowed with confusion, and Marten shook his head.

"This," Lucas began. "It just—doesn't feel like what I joined the Fist for. Assassination. Suicide missions. Bombs."

This provoked a deep chuckle from Marten. "Kid, we've been blowing things up since before your parents knew where to put the parts that made you. And something like us has been around for a long time before that."

"Gross," the boy said, raising a dark eyebrow. "I mean it, though. Explosives to make a point are one thing, but—okay, what if Lady Estellise was in there. Is she our enemy, just because she might be Empress one day? 'Cause I don't know about you, but I don't want to be a part of the group that kills her."

The other two men went silent, staring into the swiftly falling darkness of the evening.

"You don't understand," Leon said. "There's reasons—"

"I met her once," the youth went on, quietly, not meeting the others' eyes. "In Mantaic. She was kinder than anyone that I'd ever met, or have met since."

"Lucas," said Marten, voice stern. "She's a part of it. She believes in the Empire, what it stands for. She's a cog in the machine."

"So she should die? Is that what you're saying?" A look of disgust flashed across his face, pulled down the corners of his mouth.

"What I'm saying is that we have a corrupt, broken government," the big man went on, getting louder with each word. "It's been that way for generations. The Empire tramples us, steals from us, and then ignores our cries for help. I don't think I need to remind you that my wife—" The muscles in his jaw clenched, and the rest remained unsaid but understood.

It was a story that they knew well. Marten's wife had been shopping in the public quarter when a group of men attacked and kidnapped her. He was a fairly important merchant—a silver smith whose clients included nobles and royalty, even receiving the occasional commission from as far away as Aspio in the north. But when he received word that Leanna was being held for a ransom far beyond his means, he had gone to the Council for advice and, he fervently hoped, assistance. They had turned him away, told him they had a strict hands-off policy with thieves and brigands. The Empire had been his last hope, and without that, he could only gather what money he had invested in his business and offer it to the kidnappers. He received the grisly, heartbreaking evidence of his failure the next day. Having lost both his love and his livelihood, he found Liberty's Fist and threw himself into working for the organization.

Lucas stared at the floor, looking miserable. The pain of Marten's loss, of all the similar stories that had brought other people to the resistance group, hung heavy in the air.

"But surely," he said in a small voice, "there must be another way. One that isn't so—"

He trailed off there.

"What?" coaxed Leon, apparently deciding it would be prudent to avoid giving the big man another chance to vent his frustrations on the youth. Lucas's lips twisted ironically, gaze remaining fixed on his shoes.

"Extreme," he finished.

"Geez, whose side are you on?"

The three men turned to see the owner of the playful—if somewhat snide—voice, framed by the doorway. A moderately tall man, but otherwise nondescript: brown hair, brown eyes, average build. His looks were neither attractive nor repulsive, just unremarkable. The only feature that could pick him out of a crowd was his smirk, which he was displaying now as he walked into the room. There was a bag slung over his shoulder, and he let it drop to the floor, though not before giving it a look of sheer disdain. Out of its opening peeked some of the crumpled brown fabric that had been his disguise. Prodding it further into the corner with his foot, he turned back to Lucas.

"Having doubts?" He tilted his head, still wearing that smirk. The boy shook his head slowly, eyes wide.

"Good," he said, flashing an almost predatory grin. "Wouldn't want to have to tell Cyrus that the brother he practically begged us to take in was questioning our methods. But, you know, we'll let this slide. It's not like you should be expected to understand, anyway."

The boy scowled up at him. "Why not?"

"Because," he said with a shrug. "You're just a kid."

"I'm fourteen," Lucas protested.

"Exactly." The man clapped him on the shoulder, then looked down at his hand with a curious expression. "Huh. Lucas, I know it's been snowing, but you're shivering like an abused animal."

"I grew up in the desert," he muttered, tucking his arms against his chest. An uncomfortable minute of silence ensued and Leon cleared his throat, drawing the other man's attention.

"All this friendly banter aside," he said sardonically, "I think we have more important things to discuss. Warren. Mission report?" The man straightened.

"We took out Giselle," he said, lifting his chin proudly. Walking around the room, Warren recounted his involvement in the attack, from his infiltration of the servants' quarters through his contact there to the events of the meeting itself. He dramatized his shock at their group being called out by a member of the Royal Guard as the origin of the first assassination attempt, described the wine glass slipping from his fingers and shattering into countless tiny pieces before he managed to plant the bomb and make his escape. In his element, Warren made wild gestures as the story came to a close, stood in the doorway with the dimming twilight casting shadows on the room. As the others watched, a length of sharp steel pressed against his throat, just short of drawing blood. The one who wielded the blade, standing behind him, cast a cold, imperious gaze around the room before he spoke.

"I am Flynn Scifo, of the Imperial Knights," he said, with a tone of unyielding authority. "If you do not do exactly as I say, that glass will not be the only thing in pieces."


Flynn was using his commanding voice. Yuri liked his commanding voice, and allowed himself the briefest of grins behind the blond man's back. On the few occasions where he was very honest with himself, he'd admit that half the reason he riled him up and pressed his buttons so much was because the exasperated lectures broke Flynn away from the polite, mild-mannered side of his personality that he preferred to show to the world, breaking the barriers that concealed the self-assured, fiery, take-no-prisoners Flynn that normally only made its appearance in moments like this one. Of course, no one saw that side of him more than Yuri, particularly the frustrated yelling part. The other half of the reason for their frequent disagreements? Well, that was the part that was unintentional, sometimes painful, and not very fun.

The effects of Flynn's words on the occupants of the room were immediate. Two of them, one a heavily-muscled man with a shaved head and the other lanky and somewhat disheveled in appearance, scattered without regard for the fate of their companion. They had apparently planned an escape route out one of the windows that lined the far wall and leapt through, their feet connecting with something below with a dull thud. A moment later, low growling and shouts of alarm could be heard. Yuri chuckled inwardly. Repede would keep them occupied, and prevent them from bringing back more of their friends.

With his free hand, Flynn pushed his captive—the "servant" from the meeting, by the description he had given—toward the center of the room. Yuri sidestepped around them and strode over to a figure huddled in the corner: a teenaged boy, not too much older than Karol by the look of it, with short black hair and sun-dark skin. Apparently he hadn't been included in the escape plan or, more likely, had panicked at the strangers' appearance.

"Hey," said Yuri, standing over the boy but cautious enough to keep him out of arms' length. He definitely knew better than to underestimate someone for their youth or size. The kid seemed pretty overwhelmed, though. Behind him, Yuri could hear Flynn asking pointed questions about the man's involvement in the attack, and receiving little in response that would be helpful—or repeatable in polite company.

"He a friend of yours?" Yuri jerked a thumb toward the brown-haired man.

"No," said the boy, more quickly and vehemently than expected. He seemed to realize this when Yuri's eyebrows shot up, and let out a frustrated sigh. "Well, we're in the same…but it's not like…I mean, he's not very nice."

Yuri couldn't help but laugh a bit at the muddled explanation.

"Sounds complicated," he said, voice laced with obvious mirth. The boy nodded, staring at the floor. It was time to take a risk. "So, what's your name?"

The boy's head snapped up, eyes flashing with—something. Pride? Defiance?

"Why? What are you going to do with it if I tell you?"

Yuri knew false bravado when he saw it, and this kid was putting on an act worthy of one of the theater guild, Showtime's productions. He spread his hands before him in a gesture of innocence.

"Nothing, really. What could I do with it? Because I'm guessing you're not one of the leaders." A corner of the boy's mouth twitched upward. "Anyway, I'm Yuri. Yuri Lowell."

"I know," he replied, quietly. "I've seen you before. With Lady Estellise, and your other friends." The words rushed out all at once, and he looked surprised that he had said them.

"Huh," said Yuri. They had, of course, been all over the world in the past year and visited most of the major cities of Terca Lumireis multiple times. It was definitely possible that this kid had seen them somewhere. They were a memorable bunch, to say the least.

The boy made eye contact, looked away again as a conflicted expression passed over his face, then huffed out a breath. "Lucas." He thrust a hand toward Yuri, whose lips curled into a small smile as he grasped it.

As Yuri released the brief handshake, Flynn appeared at his shoulder. He looked completely frayed and worn out. When he spoke, his voice was a bit hoarse, and Yuri was amazed that he'd been able to tune out his friend's interrogation so thoroughly considering the volume it must have reached. Well, he'd had practice.

"Learn anything?"

Yuri couldn't help feeling a little smug. "Yeah. His name's Lucas." He indicated the youth, relishing the look of surprise on Flynn's face.

"Why would he—" Flynn shook his head. "Nevermind, that's not important. Has he told you anything else of interest? Mine isn't being very cooperative." He punctuated the statement with a weary look back at the man, still within range of Flynn's sword if he made any sudden movements.

"He won't tell you anything." Lucas glanced between them, his words producing a wry smile from Flynn.

"I was beginning to get that impression," he said. He gave Yuri a look that translated to something like who is this kid? and the dark-haired man just shrugged a shoulder. All he could tell was that he didn't really seem like terrorizing-the-citizens material, and Yuri considered himself a pretty good judge of character. It was that sensitivity which heightened his disgust with the higher-ups of the Empire, one of the main reasons that made him unable to in good conscience continue serving in the knights. That, at least, was an aspect of the extremists that he could get behind. It was the whole trying to kill his friends thing that he had issues with.

"Lucas," he said, acting on a sudden impulse. "You don't like this guy, right?" He nodded toward the bomb-planter, who narrowed his eyes.

"Well…"

"So you wouldn't mind telling us who he works for, where he came from? We're just trying to stop things like last night and this morning from happening anymore. To be honest," he whispered conspiratorially near Lucas's ear, "I don't like the Empire much either. That's why I'm in a guild. It's called Brave Vesperia. Heard of us?"

The boy started nodding, then caught himself.

"Wait," he said, suddenly suspicious. "He said he was in the Imperial Knights." Lucas pointed at Flynn, who stiffened. Yeah, so he had misrepresented himself a little for effect. They had decided on that angle because it was unlikely that word had spread beyond the knights themselves until the official announcement, and even if it had, Flynn's attachment to his rank still carried enough authority and intimidation to likely be helpful in their situation. Besides, in Yuri's estimation, he was still of the knights. He was pretty sure his blond friend could never truly stop being one, regardless of what Noran did officially. Still, he could use this.

"Uh, he lied."

"Yuri…"

Flynn's admonishing tone got ignored, as usual. "We're not part of the Empire. We just don't want people to keep getting hurt. It's about justice." Yuri saw another inscrutable emotion in Lucas's eyes and hoped he'd struck a nerve. "Maybe you can help us."

It was really only a matter of time before Yuri's urgings provoked a response from the man behind them.

"Kid, don't be stupid. They're not on your side—that's the Commandant. One of the main people that was supposed to be splattered on the walls of the meeting room this morning. Might as well be Emperor, along with the Council. Justice." He snorted derisively.

"I think," said Flynn, "that you give me too much credit. And as you just came from the castle and have contacts there, I also suspect that you know very well that the rank of Commandant is no longer mine."

The man paled visibly and swallowed, but the hatred did not leave his face. Or at least, not until it was replaced by fear as the sound of metal boots climbing stairs drifted into the room. He looked around frantically, cursing as the tip of Flynn's sword pricked against his chest.

"That would be the knights, then. Otherwise known as your escort to a swift execution."

"Hey, Flynn—what about the kid?" Yuri glanced over at Lucas, who looked like he was about to be sick. Flynn considered him for a moment, frowning slightly.

"He may only be imprisoned if there is no proof that he is directly connected to the attacks."

"Wait." The boy's voice rang out, fearful but more certain than he had sounded since Flynn and Yuri had entered the room. He spoke quickly as the knights' voices could be heard, searching nearby rooms.

"He—Warren's not part of our cell. He's from Dahngrest. There's a big group there. The bombing was their mission. Some people say our leader, the one that no one gets to see, has a headquarters hidden somewhere in the city. I don't know, that's just what I heard. And I hate him. Warren, I mean. I hate the Empire, too, but the killing is worse and I don't want to go to jail. Please don't make me go to jail."

Yuri hated when people begged; the boy's pleading made him seem rather pitiful and younger than his appearance suggested. But he also didn't like when the knights got their hands on people who didn't deserve it. Warren responded first, however, glaring at the boy murderously.

"Dammit, Lucas. There's a reason we don't let people under seventeen join up. I knew it was a mistake as soon as Cyrus showed up with your pathetic, tear-streaked face. 'Cumore and his men killed our parents, he has nowhere else to go,'" he said, voice rising in a falsetto, mocking pitch. "They should have put you in one of those carts, too, and let you rot in the desert with them."

He tried to lean around Flynn to spit on the boy, and grunted as the sword tip twisted a little harder into his skin. A knight who had apparently heard Warren's voice called out to the others that he had found "more of them." Repede must have made sure that the men who had jumped out the window didn't escape their punishment. Yuri caught Flynn's eye and nodded decisively.

"Dahngrest, then?"

"That would be the logical destination, yes."

Flynn shoved Warren toward the doorway, a cluster of armored men and women now visible just beyond it, and crossed to the window that had served as an exit for the other extremists. Yuri leaned out and couldn't see anything obvious to land on other than the paving stones two stories down, but remembered what he had heard. There would be some sort of hidden platform or ledge, but they would have to make the initial leap blind. He swung his legs out the window, avoiding the sharp remnants of broken panes.

"Here goes," said Yuri with a smirk. "Oh, and Lucas? You're coming with us."


A/N: Well, a little longer break between updates than usual—but also a longer chapter. This one gave me a little bit of trouble, because my brain decided that this scene needed four new characters so I had to work out their personalities and how they interacted with each other. Once Flynn and Yuri appeared, the process went along a lot more quickly.

Thanks to everyone who has reviewed, favorited and added Glass Fortress to story alerts so far! It is all greatly appreciated. I try to respond to as many reviews as I can, so feel free to write back in a private message if you have anything else to say, questions, whatever. *smiles* Hope you continue to enjoy the story.