(A/N): Hey guys. Here's another chapter. Please enjoy.

Potential spoilers ahead. Read at your own discretion


"Are you sure you are ready to do this?"

"In time, I'll have my answer."

Alfonse gazed warily at the lone swordswoman that stood before him. It had been six weeks since the fateful revelation and now she stood before him, unyielding, ready to push forward. The stiffness she once had in her movements seemed nonexistent and the doubt that once plagued her seemed to have melted away. She glided about with a mysterious air now, one that spoke not of her intentions nor her destination.

It was as if she became someone else, a complete blank slate.

But she wasn't without blemishes.

Bruises, varying in all sorts of shades, lined her body like splotches of paint in avant-garde art piece. Her arms, her legs, her torso, even her face wasn't devoid of injuries. Pain had seemed to become her constant companion. What she had gone through, Alfonse would never know but whatever it was caused the hesitation that permeated from her to vanish.

She wasn't the Marth that had first arrived in Askr anymore.

She was something more.

Or, perhaps, had she become something less?

"Understand that once you step into the Tears of Spirits, there is no turning back." Alfonse reminded her. "You may have recited your Vows at the Temple of Silence but know this. You are spiritbound to your resolve and will be unable to break that contract of your own will until your death or your victory once you do this. Do you understand what I am saying, Marth?"

"I do." The masked warrior said without hesitation.

Alfonse nodded silently. The Hero's Vows were a serious ceremony that was commenced when inducting a Hero into the Order. It was held in secrecy, with only Askrian royalty and a select few being allowed to attend. A hero would strip themselves of their previous attachments and offer themselves in a crystalline pool called the Tears of Spirits that lay deep in the heart of Askr that would constitute as binding a contract to their soul.

It was the final trial a hero would have to face in their journey before the real journey began, a final test to their will and determination. It was as stated, once a hero had tasted the waters of the Spirit's Tears, their lives would be bound to whatever cause they were to serve.

Alfonse had never seen the shrine that below with his own eyes but instead had seen what it would do to those who delved into its depths.

This was an ancient ritual that had only been recently discovered since the Order's research into Breidablik. It was still relatively unknown but its power was potent. Its instructions were present in ancient texts that dated centuries ago. This wasn't a rite that was concocted on a whim.

It was planned.

Perhaps the silent goddess used this as a test to judge and deem a select few worthy. Or maybe it was a trial to test one's loyalty.

But for what exactly, Alfonse could not guess.

Alfonse approached the large boulder that guarded to the sacred shrine that lay below. Next to it lay a smoothed-out stone entrenched on a pedestal. What outsiders wouldn't know is that the stone was actually a rune that reacted when it came into contact with someone that had the blood of Askr running through their veins, a person from the blood of royals. It would then open passage to the shrine for the hero to conquer their final trial.

Alfonse removed his metal-padded glove and placed his bare hand on the smooth platform. It soon began to glow with an otherworldly blue and hummed vibrantly with energy. The large immovable stone began to roll away, resigning from its place of guardianship.

A dark, almost foreboding tunnel loomed before him. Alfonse could feel the dampness and cold that emanated from it even though he was at a distance from it. He looked over at Marth who showed no sign of hesitation and gave a confirming nod.

Marth nodded back, her now shortened hair resting gingerly above her mask. She took a deep breath before marching down the cold tunnel.

Not a second sooner, the boulder rolled back into place behind her.

Now, all that was left was Marth's resolve.

Alfonse prayed to the silent goddess that the last forty days would have been enough.


"What is it that you want me to do, Lord Ephraim?"

"Strike me. Don't hold back."

Marth was dumbfounded.

The young lord had brought into a mild clearing in a grassy field a ways distance from the abandoned barnhouse they now resided by. It had been a rather uneventful second day thus far. Despite how much he had told her that fateful night, he still remained an arm's reach away from Marth, both in position and as a person.

He hadn't slept in the same tent as her of course. The tent was tailored to house on individual and Marth had been the one to use it. When she had asked Ephraim where he was going to retire, he gave a rather straightforward answer:

"Outside."

And outside he stayed.

The first day had been a cold and nearly lethal one. Marth had woken up to a world that was drenched with water. It rained without ceasing all day. Grown worried, Marth peered out from the flaps of her dry shelter and saw that Lord Ephraim remained kneeled beneath the giant tree that loomed over the dilapidated barn with his back to her. He made no effort to seek shelter elsewhere, whether it may be in the barn or the tent Marth was in. The tree actually, with its great many branches and leaves, provided an excellent roof that kept most of the water out but Marth hadn't noticed this at first.

Without even making an effort to clothe herself properly, Marth ran out into the rain towards the lone lord. Once her bare skin was exposed to the air where cold had dominated, she instantly regretted her decision. She had kept her leggings on but she left the cloak Ephraim had lent her back in the tent, but her upper body wore close to nothing beside the heavy number of bandages that were bound around her. Still, she pressed on and stood next to Ephraim, who remained a silent as ever but still dry from the cascade beyond the tree's protection.

Not knowing what else to do, Marth sat beside him, through the rain and cold. She wondered if perhaps he was testing her but his lack of communication made her think otherwise. And the two sat by the tree, with the mighty branches of aged wood shielding them from the waterfall of rain that fell from the sky, for hours.

Hunger, chills, and a screaming soreness eventually came to be in Marth's still recovering body. She was no way equipped nor suited for such an endeavor and no matter how hard she pressed on with her body, it was showing signs of giving up in such harsh conditions. Eventually, she blacked out from the sheer amount of stress her body was put under.

After an undisclosed amount of time, the rain had ceased and Ephraim had carried her back to her tent and this time stoked a small fire by it. A raging fever had awoken in her body and she would wake up in short bursts before losing consciousness. It was perhaps foolish of her to expose herself to the elements like she had. Even in her lapses of consciousness she questioned her actions.

But before long, Ephraim poured a warm brew down her throat as she was floating in and out of consciousness. Strangely, it immediately cooled her body from its furnace like temperature and set her at much more comfortable one, one that allowed her to breathe easy and no longer ached her muscles. Soon, she fell into a dreamless sleep, letting her beaten body rest.

Her muscles no longer ached and her limbs felt supple. The feeling of rejuvenation that had eluded her for so long had finally come to rest in her bones. She was beginning to feel more like herself again.

"What are you waiting for? Come at me."

And yet here was Lord Ephraim, instructing her to attack him with the wooden sword he had handed to her. Was this another test, Marth couldn't tell.

"Are you asking me to fight you?" Marth asked, puzzled.

The lord raised his eyebrow. "Have you never trained before?"

"But…" She was hesitant. Not because of her body's capabilities. She was actually feeling than she had ever had been ever since she arrived in Zenith. Whatever it was that Ephraim made her drink really helped her. What caused her pause was Lord Ephraim himself. She had seen his prowess on the Field of Fire, she had seen him dismantle almost an entire shock cavalry brigade by himself.

She had seen the powers that rested in the hands of that lord and his fearsome lance.

And now he was asking her to come at him with all that she had?

There had to have been a catch.

"The day will end if you dither any longer." The lord goaded, beckoning her forth with his hand. "Come now."

Marth steeled herself. The lord was being serious. "If you insist." She raised her wooden blade and slowly approached the seemingly vulnerable lord.

He left himself wide open to attacks but that was not the impression Marth got. There had to be a reason to his utter confidence and lack of caution and Marth paid close attention to that. Every step she took towards him left him unfazed.

When Marth was no more than five steps away, she launched her attack. Taking advantage of her current condition, she took the lord head on per his request with a low angled slash for the left.

Her attack hit air.

Ephraim had side stepped the well angled attack with ease.

She continued her assault, this time with a stab. A slash could be telegraphed and avoided but a stab would be harder to predict and avoid.

In a blink of an eye, Ephraim weaved around the wooden blade, his sea-green hair flaring over the wooden shaft of the practice sword. Immediately, he counterattacked Marth with a solid blow to her chest with an open palm.

It knocked the air out of her lungs as she fell to a knee from the pure impact of the blow, her sword clattered to the side.

"You're cautious, I'll give you that." Ephraim said, as he paced around her. "But you think too much."

"How can I not?" Marth wheezed, hand tightly grasping at her heaving chest. "You're telling me to attack you out of nowhere."

"It's because you're scared." Ephraim said, deadpan in expression. "You cloud your mind with a million thoughts not to push away your fears but because you are riddled with them. And that's all it is. You think because you are too afraid to act."

Marth slowly rose. "So you're telling me to enter a fight without a plan?"

Ephraim shook his head as he brushed off the dust that had collected at his shoulder. "A plan is one that is thought out and carried out in equal measure. You had no plan in the last two swings. There was no long term thinking in your offense. All you were thinking about was your opponent and not thinking on how to beat him."

Marth swung an underhanded low-sweeping attack at Ephraim.

Scoffing, the lord stomped his boot down on the face of the wooden sword's blade, bringing Marth's hand down hard to the ground with it.

"You lack will." Ephraim said, unsmiling, as he looked upon Marth's pained expression while his boot grinded against her hand that was pinned to the ground. "And not simply as a fighter but as a person. What are you fighting for Marth?"

Marth quickly shot out her left leg, swinging it around towards Ephraim's own as it stood above her sword hand.

He nimbly evaded the kick but that allowed Marth to free her hand. She rolled back to her feet.

"That's what I want to know." Marth growled, clenching her raw fist around the wooden hilt tightly.

"Then I'll give you a purpose." Ephraim said as he unfastened his tattered cape, freeing his mobility even further.

"Strike me." He said bluntly. "If any one of your attacks can hit me, you win."

Marth readied her stance, the dirt shifting beneath her feet.

"But until you do, this fight will never end."


Marth marched down the damp and dark cavern passage. There was a dim light that emanated from far beyond the end of the long, stretching tunnel. It shone with a soft blue light, giving the feeling that the cave was submerged beneath the waters. The air was far from sticky despite the dampness, in fact it even felt a bit cold. With every step, Marth felt that she was stepping deeper and deeper into the chilling waters of lake.

Left right. Left right.

More steps forward.

It hurt.

Everything hurt.

From her finger tips to her feet, every inch of her body screamed at her.

But it told her that she was alive.

Lord Ephraim's words rang louder now than before.

"Use your pain. Let it move you forward."

Left right. Left right.

She was about halfway down now.

As Marth strode forth, her empty scabbard battered against her thigh, its metal fasteners jangling in the silent cave. She had grown used to the pain of it coming in contact with her raw and injured body, and the coolness of the cave helped further soothe the aches that reverberated with every movement she made.

Her heart beat at a steady rate, Ephraim made sure of that during their arduous training. She was beginning to learn how to be in more control of herself in spite of her circumstances. She had to ignore the pain that streaked across her body. She had to conquer the fears that pounded in her head.

She had to let go of her doubts.

Left right. Left right.

It was easier said than done.


"You lack sense and focus. You have no will."

Ephraim batted her swing away with ease with nothing but his palm. He didn't even need to rely on the practice spear that he had behind his back. It was something akin to a quarterstaff, a weapon with no sharp end but an equally powerful weapon all-around. What it lacked in cutting ability, it made up for in pure bludgeoning and force.

How many times had she passed out now? She lost count after the fifth time. The sun had set and rose again plenty of times afterwards but their fight had not yet ended. She no longer felt hunger or thirst. Just the pain of the great many wounds that afflicted her and were etched across her battered body. But they fueled her. The pain kept her moving.

It gave her purpose.

Marth leapt back a several steps as she regained her stance. She gripped her wooden practice sword tightly.

Even now, swords still felt unnatural in her hands. Even if she were to position and time herself with every strike, she wouldn't be able to react fast enough.

Every parry, every swing, every counterattack, every movement seemed to move at a clip slower than she had wanted it to.

Ephraim stepped forward.

She swung a two-handed attack at the young man.

He wasn't even fazed.

He had gripped the blade with his bandaged hand mid-swing and closed the gap between them instantaneously.

With the force of a bull, he charged Marth down, knock her off her feet and tumbling into the dirt.

"What happened to becoming a hero?" Ephraim goaded her on.

Using the sword as a crutch, Marth tried to raise herself up. Ephraim however had other plans and knocked aside the wooden blade with a swift kick. Marth toppled back into the ground face first as dust was sent flying about everywhere, the wooden sword cluttering to a stop from a distance.

"… I never asked for any of this…" Marth muttered, as she crawled in the dirt. It was a pitiful sight.

But Ephraim showed no pity.

He kicked her hard that had rolling in the dust gasping for air.

"It doesn't matter what you asked for." Ephraim spat as he set his boot on her back, rendering her immobile. "This is the hand that you have been dealt with. This is the fate that lies before you."

Marth couldn't respond, both verbally or physically. She gritted her teeth as shallow tears welled in the corners of her eyes. She clenched her fists so hard the blood had begun to pool in her hands. The unsettling realization of her own weakness had returned.

She was helpless.

She was powerless.

"So what are you doing on the floor, crying?"

Even if she tried pulling herself up, Ephraim's foot kept her down. It was if a large boulder rested atop her badly beaten back.

"If this is what your will amounts to, you can have back the knife." Ephraim stabbed. "You're going to end up having someone carve a piece out of you, might as well let that person be yourself."

"That… isn't my path." Marth managed to say, spitting out the blood that had gathered in her mouth.

But she wasn't hopeless.

Mustering all the strength she had, she pushed herself away from the foot that had her pinned down. It hurt terribly as the boot tore at her skin as she rolled away but now she was no longer grounded.

Weakly, on uneasy knees, she stood up.

Ephraim had an unsettling smile on his face, one that would cut into one's soul if they were to stare it for too long. He pulled free the staff he had been holding back for so long.

"You may survive one battle yet." He quipped.

Marth had no time to find her sword. She would have to improvise. She hadn't been clenching her hands in the dirt for nothing. In spite of her bleeding palms, she gripped a handful of sand that she could use as a momentary distraction. It may be nothing to a monster of a fighter like Lord Ephraim but it was better than having nothing. Even if she were to gain only a second of an opening, she would be thankful. Every second counted in this fight, the bout—nay, her entire future—depended on it. She tightened her grasp around the watery sand.

"I already lived past one Lord Ephraim." She snapped back, steadying herself.

"And the swordswoman lives." Ephraim retorted, inching closer, staff in hand. "But for how long?"

His hand rested at about the middle of the staff. The entire staff was about a good 8 feet long. It would be able to close any gap of that distance in no time at all, cutting off many of her options of approach.

She wouldn't be able to simply toss the sand at Ephraim with reckless abandon. That would be making her only trump card invalid. He would be able to react in no time, given their distance, and be able to counterattack instantly. Time her attack wrong and her one chance would be forever lost.

She stood still as patient as she could. The lancer lord did the same.

The two had a stare down that seemed slow time itself.

Marth then moved first.

She dashed to the right, which was towards the left side of Ephraim. She needed to bait out an attack from him.

The beauty about staff weapons is that they have a flexibility many swords don't have. Swords have generally one purpose and that is to hack and slash at the foe. As such, its path was a predictable one that followed an easily telegraphed trajectory. A master of the blade would know how to react to an oncoming sword swing appropriately.

Staves on the other hand have two methods of approach. There is the predictable swing that too follows its shortened brethren's movements. But instead of simple slashes, a spear or a staff can attack straightaway by stabbing. Instead of following an arc, it could attack from a point. Swords were used to cut down foes, spears were used to riddle them with countless holes.

Ephraim, knowing that a swing would be easily counteracted, chose to jab his staff's blunt end toward the oncoming Marth.

But Marth had been prepared for this. She didn't receive days after days' worth of beatings and punishments for no reason.

When the stab came forward, she wrapped her left arm around the quarterstaff and held as hard as she could. And before Ephraim could react, she tossed the sand in his eyes.

For a moment, the young lord was bewildered as he took a step back.

But that was all Marth needed.

Wheeling towards Ephraim's backside, she began to aim at the back of his knees. Their bout, ever since the first fight, had a rule that if Marth were to knock Ephraim down at least once, even down to one of his knees, he would concede the victory to her.

That was easier said than done of course and the injuries on her bodies told no lies.

This time, for sure, she would at least bring him down a knee. Generating as much force as she could, she aimed a swift kicked to the joint.

But instead of her sharp heel cutting into the lord's leg, a wall like fist greeted her face head on.

Ephraim had swung a hammer fisted punch that circled behind him and rammed his target dead on. Marth was catapulted off of her feet and was thrown into a grassy patch that did little to soften the impact.

Back to the ground, her body lay limp, her muscles refusing her orders.

The blow was so strong that her vision had become distorted and faded.

How? She thought to herself as darkness began to creep along the corners of her eyes. How was Ephraim able to react so perfectly?

The moment played before her eyes once more. She had stepped forward, anticipating an attack from the lancer. And as expected, Ephraim responded with lunge attack. She recalled the she wrapped her arm around the staff before she tossed the sand into his face. Then she dashed towards his back to prepare in delivering the final blow before she was deflected by a solid blow to the head. She remembered each bit with perfect lucidity. Every movement was still felt in her bones.

Then it hit her.

She never let go of Ephraim's staff.

With her running around, staff in hand, it would be basically tracing over the lancer's body as to where she was running. As such, it would be easy to retaliate.

Another amateur mistake.

She would receive another earful from Ephraim.

She saw a looming shadow appear before as her consciousness was on its last legs.

She didn't want her last memory of the moment to be riddled with ridicule.

She braced herself as he consciousness wavered.

"You did well."

Then she passed out.


A body of water as large as the fountain in the town square of Askr greeted her as Marth reached the end of the tunnel, it waters gleaming with an otherworldly light and radiating with a strange energy. To the opposite side of the pool a beam of light had laid its rest above a statue of a shrouded maiden before what appeared to be an altar, holding a planted sword before her and an open hand, as if she were reaching out, beckoning someone to take ahold. With the way the light shimmered, it almost appeared as though the statue were actually moving.

Marth remembered the many faces and sculptures she had seen erected at the Front Gate and along the windows of the Askrian throne room.

This was not one of them.

A great many gemstones and raw ore lined the walls of the enclosed shrine, reflecting a bombardment of various colors throughout. The light from the pool allowed the many crystals to shine, albeit softly.

Marth inched forward to the edge of the waters, her reflection shone back at her.

She was a mess.

If any of the Council Members had seen her now, they wouldn't need to think twice before agreeing with Mauder's sentiments.

Her hair had been haphazardly cut short, her once flowing blue locks being replaced rough patches of short hair. If anything, she would no longer need to tend to her hair to hide her identity, she already appeared like she always had been. That would mean she would no longer have to beat herself up over with doing her hair like Severa had taught her to. Maybe Gerome now would worry less about she kept her appearance with her mask.

Gerome? Severa?

Names rang in her ears and pieces of her memory floated mockingly at the precipice of her thoughts.

But that was all they were.

Pieces.

She was nowhere near piecing herself back together.

Marth removed the light vest she had been wearing off of her shoulders and also took off the undershirt which's length rested lightly above her heavily scarred abdomen. Her fingers grazed the wounds that bore her body, the jolts of pain still ripe. How Marth had received these burns and scars, she did not remember but she felt for certain these injuries were inflicted before she came to Askr.

She didn't know why she came to think that way but a feeling in the back of her mind kept telling her so.

Marth then tended to removing her leggings and boots next, carefully making sure not come in contact with her many bruises that covered most of her sore lower body. The grueling training had taken its toll on her body. It surprised Marth how well she had acclimated.

Finally freeing her toned legs and lower half, Marth started to unbind the wraps around her chest. Had this been any other moment, she would be teeming with embarrassment, even by her lonesome, at her modest bosom, but now all she could feel was the chill that encroached her body and the sparks of pain that shot up across her body. Before long, the wraps had become undone.

She stepped forward to the pool, looking one last time at her reflection.

It was like staring at a stranger.

The person who stood before her, the one who no longer had long hair, the one who was covered in countless scars and injuries. The person who left her own world, the person who was taking up arms to fight in someone else's fight.

The one who had removed the mask.

Was this really her?

But before doubts could resettle back in her mind, Marth took a step into the pool's waters, shattering the image that stared back at her. Now wasn't the time to get caught up in her thoughts. All the time she had spent readying herself for this moment, it would be for naught if she had second thoughts.

The waters reached up to her waist and climbed up further still. The pool was deceptively deeper than it appeared. Its waters, despite its chill, kept pulling Marth in, to walk closer and closer into its center where the light seemed to be the brightest.

Before she could realize, she was fully submerged.

There was no longer any light that lit her path. Frantically looking for the surface, Marth darted back and forth to find a breach. But with water's murky waters, she could distinguish which way led to the surface and which way led further below the water's depths.

She wouldn't be able to hold her breath for much longer, her lungs crying to her with the absence air. Panic had begun to set in. She clawed and kicked and moved about, still holding onto the hope that she could find her way out of the waters but it was a futile endeavor. The water pried at her mouth, as if trying to force water down into her pounding lungs.

Her demise seemed near but even in spite of that her body refused to succumb to the waters. It was a miracle she had even lasted so long thus far.

Even if she wanted to pass out, something kept pulling her awake. Even if she wanted to lay still and let the waters overtake her, her body was unwilling.

She wanted to overcome this.

It didn't matter if she no longer recognized herself. It didn't matter if she couldn't remember who she was.

She wanted to—nay, she had to—live.

If it meant that she would matter.

She had to.


Marth felt the evening breeze whip through her newly exposed neck after her messy attempt at a haircut. Setting the charcoal knife down on the rotting stump by the fire, she wrapped the ill-fitting vest she had procured around herself, trying to trap the warmth of the fire inside of her away from the biting chill. Shuffling her feet, she scooted closer to the fire. Out here in the countryside, it seemed to get colder than back at the capital. Or perhaps it was because she was foregoing the luxuries she was previously living off of.

She was miles away from the nearest establishment. She wandered much farther than she had thought when she was wandering listlessly after the council meeting. That was over 25 days ago and Marth had started to lose count. She had been living off what she could scour off of the various abandoned small villages that were littered along the edge of Askr, all of them in a similar state as the barn where she was staying at with Ephraim. What happened here, she would never know for sure but the impact of the War of Heroes definitely caused this.

She looked up at her lone shadow dancing along the walls of the dilapidated barn, trying to imagine whose else's shadows danced along those walls, whose voices filled the now cold air with laughter, joy, and warmth, whose lives revolved around this very barn.

Whose lives and warmth were now extinguished.

It reminded her of own world.

"Hand me the knife."

Turning over her shoulder, Marth saw Ephraim emerge from the darkness of the forest, a large deer over his shoulder. The deer must have weighed easily more than he did but he carried it like a sack of rice. With little to no effort, he set down the freshly killed animal on the laid-out plank he had her set before he left hours prior. There was a gaping hole in its neck, a clear wound that ended its life after the long hunt. Without further ado, Marth handed the dark knife to the busy lord who immediately began gutting and flaying the animal to prepare their evening supper.

Early on, Marth had made the mistake of gorging herself with rabbit meat after a long sparring session. Before long, she was curled over a hastily dug hole vomiting her insides out like no tomorrow. Ephraim had told her to never indulge an empty stomach after training afterwards. Even though the rabbit meat was very plainly cooked, it was still much too rich for the near withered stomach Marth had carried after her long battle.

"No rabbits today?" Marth asked, trying to strike up a conversation after being by her lonesome for so long. Unintentionally, she began to rub her stomach, recollecting how she nearly threw it up days before.

"You can't sustain yourself with just rabbit meat alone." Ephraim said, his eyes glued to the steaming carcass of the deer as he unwound the intestines from within. He was rather meticulous about the whole procedure, not wanting to waste even a single scrap of meat or piece of hide. With the knife in his hands, he cut through the flesh of deer like cutting through butter. "Rabbits have little to no fat on their bodies, given they need to outrun their prey. Living off of rabbit meat alone will kill you."

Marth kept her eyes on Ephraim's swift hands as he quickly transformed the deer from once a magnificent creature to a grotesque piece of art that would eventually fill their stomachs. "How do you know all this?"

"Wandering for decades will do that to you." Ephraim said bluntly, taking a moment to wipe the drop of blood that found its way to his cheek.

Marth wasn't sure she had heard correctly. Decades? "But you look almost as young as Prince Alfonse."

Ephraim set the knife down to his side as he turned the deer's body over. "I still haven't figured why… Perhaps…"

His hands went idle, his eyes closed, deep in thought. Then he quickly resumed his task. "No use dwelling on it now."

Marth inched closer to him. "What do you mean? Did something happen?"

Ephraim laughed, but it wasn't a hearty laugh. It was full of spite, and even perhaps anger. "Did something happen? Nay, I happened. I was a little lordling who thought he had the entire world wrapped around his little finger. And that old tale wound me up here."

"You were summoned."

He shook his head and picked up the knife once more.

"Then how—"

The knife began its dance along the deer's hide. "I still wonder why myself." Ephraim muttered, his knife strokes becoming more savage-like, tearing away at the skin of the deer rather than cutting. "How could a no-good cursed sister killer like me wind up in a place like—"

Ephraim stopped mid-stroke. He looked up at Marth and chuckled to himself, seeing her pale face. "There's the look. Have you forgotten who I was? Who you came to?"

"You're Lord Ephraim." Marth said, almost in a whisper, as if she didn't want to hear the words she recollected herself. "The Scourge."

"That's right. I'm the Scourge. The Scourge of Renais. The blight of all of Magvel. The one who ended the life of his dear sister with his own hands…" He proclaimed, as if he were inviting the world to listen in on his self-declaration. He turned away from the deer and stared straight at her. "Why did you seek my help?"

There it was. The soul piercing gaze that would send shards of ice into her heart.

"I—I…" Marth began to say. "I don't know…But something. Something drew me to you… it felt like instinct."

"If you keep following that instinct of yours, you're going to wind up in an early grave." Ephraim muttered. He then said something peculiar. "You may wear a mask to hide to become someone else but from what I've seen, people wear masks to fully embrace who they really are. Our fickle hearts are on full display once they have been veiled by something so simple."

Marth unintentionally touched her mask, the one thing that kept her secret from the world. Were his words true? Did the mask change who she really was? Or had she really been this way, from the beginning? The very thought of her cowardly nature from before appalled her. But what about Lord Ephraim? He didn't wear a mask nor did he need one. But what was he hiding behind?

"Then why didn't you refuse me?" Marth asked. "You had seen what I truly thought of this situation. And I hadn't promised you anything. Why did you not send me away?"

Ephraim fell silent for the first time since their coming together.

"You told me yourself. That I was in fact more like you. That I wasn't the hero that you and I ought I should be. You—"

"Because you still remind me of someone I knew."

Marth was taken aback. There was no hostility in Ephraim's words nor was there the sardonic air that had nearly grown commonplace in his voice. Because he really was being genuine. Because his eyes told the story.

One of loss.

One of deep regret.

She needn't ask more. Ephraim, for all his faults and past mistakes, still kept fighting. For a man who was fabled to have killed his sister, he clearly hadn't given up on his own life yet, even if he had tried many times before. Was this his attempt at redemption for his past crimes? A way to seek atonement from himself for himself? Marth knew from experience that nothing would really wash away the stains left behind and yet here he was.

He was stronger in more ways than one and stronger than she would ever be.

Was that why she was drawn to him?

Because she too was like him?

Because she perhaps wanted to be like him?

"You loved this person, didn't you?"

Ephraim remained silent.

"Was it her? That one statue by the Front Gate. The Restoration Lady?"

A dark expression flashed on his face and tumult swirled in his eyes. But only for a moment.

He then resumed flaying the deer.

"No."


Ephraim hadn't spoken to her much afterwards. Even after supper, the lord quietly marched off back into the forest, out of sight. There were no signs of him returning either. Marth grew worried. Had she again said something insensitive to another hero, if she could call Ephraim that in the first place?

No, he was one.

She hadn't seen such anguish on his face before. And this was only when she brought up the woman who stood silently by the gates of Askr, encased in marble, eternally trapped in where she stood. What did she mean to Ephraim? Marth remembered overhearing from soldiers that a lone figure would be seen during the early hours of dawn standing before a certain statue within the Front Gate. No words could be heard. Just the songs of silence. Whenever anyone came near to inspect closely, the figure would disappear from sight, only deepening the mystery of the individual. It was obvious who it was now.

Why was Ephraim so adamant about seeing the statue face to face? Why would he without fail go see the statue almost every morning? Marth remembered Ephraim's face when she mentioned the woman's title.

But how could it be that she was still so important to him?

Marth couldn't quite understand what she was feeling at the moment. Was she feeling this way because she was genuinely worried about the man who had taken her under his tutelage? Or could this be envy? Envious in that this statue meant more to Ephraim that she ever would. But why would such a feeling have taken root? How could it have? There was no reason for it to.

That's what she began telling herself.

And it worked.

But beautiful lies only persist for so long.


Gasping for air, her head broke through the surface. With wild, frenetic hands that clung to dear life, she clawed her way beyond the waters and reached what felt like wet sand beneath her.

She had reached a shore of some kind.

Kicking with all her might, she burrowed past the soil beneath her and soon made it out of the water's grasp. She had reached land at last.

The mere thought of her survival was so significant, Marth didn't realize the strangeness of the entire situation.

That is, until he spoke.

"So you're alive, princess."

Marth's blood ran cold and the joy of being alive warped away instantly. Raising her head, she saw a towering figure that stood before her.

But it wasn't someone she knew.

He was clad in dark armor, with portions of his pauldron swinging outwards, like the wings of a large raven. To further add to his mysterious appearance, he bore a golden mask that glistened in the moonlight that was interwoven with pieces of dark steel. She had never seen the man before in her life yet he seemed to know who she was.

She opened her mouth to speak but found that her body no longer responded to her. A freezing stiffness began to spread across her bare body as it lay on the shore.

"I didn't think you would actually survive. I had come to retrieve your body but this is a surprise. You're still breathing and in one piece."

Recover her body? Marth already didn't like the surprise visit and she didn't like the way the man spoke of her, as if she were something akin to a disposable tool. It ran more chills down her spine than what the temperature could. Struggling, she tried to speak.

"Wh-who…"

"Don't bother knowing who I am." The man said, adjusting his mask. "For the next time we meet, it shall be as enemies."

He looked up toward the looming moon.

"My time grows short. I have to hurry."

He then quickly reached down to her and wrapped his cape around her, drying her quickly and shielding her naked body from the approaching cold now that her adrenaline had begun to wear off.

"The fact that you still live means that the seal has not been broken." The man spoke cryptically, to nobody in particular. "It means the Order still has a chance. If they don't find out that is…"

"Are you going to kill me?" Marth finally spoke.

The man shook his head, his silver hair swaying about.

"I'm saving your life."

"Why…?"

The man then lifted her and began to march away at a swift pace, keeping Marth bundled within the cape he had wrapped around her.

"You may not understand the gravity of the situation with the fact that you're even still alive, so I'll be brief."

Marth careened her stiff head to get a better glimpse of the man as he continued racing down the unpaved and unknown road.

"The goddess has rejected you."


Author's Note: Oof. This was the longest chapter by far. My fingers were burnt out after finishing this. But I hope you enjoyed. Thanks for reading.

Cheers.