The order for execution comes from up high.
The Goddess' ordinance from the mouths of ordinary men.
Holy words on plain scripture. Tied to a name that was not her own.
Catherine's face is smooth and clear as she reads Rhea's orders. Her voice does not shake and her stance does not falter, in stark contrast to the members of the Western Church kneeling at her feet. Her expression is untroubled as she looks to those Rhea has judged, unmoved by Lonato's look of hatred. Caring little for a man broken to nothing in his own home.
"May the Goddess have mercy on your souls," Catherine recites as if she is a young nun learning to read. Someone shaped in piety, devoted to her goddess, wearing faith on her shoulders, and crowning herself with belief.
That same heavy faith that had brought Lonato his crusade and bent his knees now.
The line between sacred and blasphemous drew so perilously thin.
Jeralt feels his lips curl.
Bitterness ages poorly. Turns sour and foul, burning the back of his throat as he remembers a time when he'd stood in Catherine's stead. Spoken Rhea's words as his own and bore a pride that made his chest beat so hard it hurt.
"We can only do our best for Lady Rhea."
Simple words from a child soldier.
"We had nothing to do with the Western Church," one of the men beside Lonato blurts out, something incomprehensible drawing over his face.
"You've already been identified," Catherine scoffs, "Spare me."
"What?! T - this isn't what we were told – we were deceived!"
Lonato grinds his teeth. The corners of his mouth turning in a snarl. A Kingdom noble through and through. Who cared nothing for excuses and thought little of those who begged for their lives.
"You think the Goddess would forgive our execution?!"
"Monster – you've already slaughtered many of our brethren lik–"
Jeralt feels Byleth twitch beside him, her expression turning pensive. A bloodhound caught on prey. Scenting foul politics in the air and looking to pursue. Unaccustomed to the odor and reek that came with it and aching to pin it down.
Jeralt leans heavily against the wall. He's so tired of war and execution. Words of protests ringing in his ears like bells. Familiar excuses. Justifications. Half-truths. He was so weary of seeing the same haunted faces and sallow fear as the ones on the remaining Gaspard servants. Common folk who'd tied their fates to nobility, fearing for their necks and wondering on their consequences. Preparing themselves to be judged on ideals they thought nothing on.
"Take them away," Catherine dismisses, "This investigation's concluded. We can finally depart this Goddess-forsaken land once the execution has been carried out."
She rises to leave. Steps too close to Lonato like a dare. Her stance loose and easy. Goading him into one last attempt. Out of cruelty or guilt. It was impossible to tell. She does not meet Jeralt's eyes as she strides out of the main chambers. Knowing and trusting her guards to carry out what she – what Rhea – had commanded.
"Let's go," a knight grunts as she grabs for one of the Western soldiers.
"No - wait!"
Lonato says nothing as they pull him to his feet. Refuses to stumble or bow on his broken leg. Stubbornly mute when someone grips his broken arm and shoves him ahead. The picture of a martyr in a mass of sinners, distancing himself well away from those of the Western Church protesting for their innocence.
The Gaspard child grabs for Byleth in a fit of terrified urgency and Jeralt's mouth fills with iron as he tries not to yank him from her, understanding well what he meant to ask.
"Lord Lonato… I –" a plead cast out in sorrow. Desperation twisted up with fear. Begging for favor, heedless of the cost.
Jeralt was too old for these requests. Too aged to play at heroics anymore. Incapable of stretching his hands for anyone who pleaded. No longer knight of fairy tales. Meant to be turned to pasture.
And Lonato was the same.
The former lord acknowledges neither name nor former title. His face impassive as stone as he passes his son. His back straight and his head tall as he walks to his death. Blinding himself to a child he had forgotten and now cannot acknowledge.
"Ashe," Byleth's voice is soft.
Ashe doesn't look at her until Lonato leaves his sight.
"I – Profes–" he cuts himself off, shaking his head as he leans against Byleth's arm.
The movement jars her enough her breathing pattern changes as she takes his weight. Her breath going stiff and controlled, working carefully around the injuries Jeritza had left her with. A sound like drowning. Slow and subtle. The air escaping in careful mouthfuls, slipping away as waters come up over her.
"We can –"
"Byleth," Jeralt stills her words with a command, meeting her eyes when she looks at him sharply.
Surprised by his tone then wary. Disagreement thrumming in her body like war drums.
Jeralt refuses to cave.
Terror is cold in his chest. Silver fingers of a lady made of ice strumming dissonant cords in him.
His children are too young for war. Too young to be soldiers tangled and lost beneath the heels of those more powerful. Jeralt had done that much for them at least. Kept them free as mercenaries and untouched by the blight that was Fodlan governance.
It had been the only thing he'd been able to keep them from.
"This isn't what we were promised!" one of the Western Church screams.
Byleth bows her head. Her jaw ticks as she looks down at Ashe, patting his hair a little awkwardly as she silences the offer she'd been about to make.
Their silent argument burning in the air between her and Jeralt.
"Alright Cap'n?" one of his mercenaries slide behind him as Jeralt walks away, voice a bare whisper. Almyran born and Fodlan raised. Knowing caution in a way Byleth did not.
Jeralt glimpses the Leicester lordling as he approached Byleth. Something sweet and dangerous on his tongue as he pulls Ashe away from Byleth with skillful words. Purring something comforting though his gaze is shrewd and prying. Doing nothing to melt the ice in Jeralt's blood.
Because Byleth cannot be digging into matter not her own. Cannot dirty herself with a duty that is not hers. Bloody herself for –
Jeralt rubs his face.
There was a curse to living too long. Marked him a forgotten prophet who saw old faces and ghosts in every newborn. Caught in a flow of time that would only ever run circular.
Familiar politics and the call of the Church's dealings drawing over him like a weight. A set of rusted chains. Pitted metal twisting tight around his limbs.
"There were troops in Magdred that escaped," he says, "Dig up what you can."
"And you Cap?" accompanied by a warning look.
"Leave me alone, I'm an old man now. I don't have any real power anymore. I'm just here to keep the kids out of trouble," Jeralt says, summoning humor and failing.
The smile on his face pulls too tight. The rictus of a walking corpse as he follows in Lonao's footsteps out the door.
Conand Tower exists in a mournful space, the sole structure in a barren wasteland of pale weeds and broken weapons. A dark grave marker erect in an empty graveyard. The day's little sunlight and thin rain did little to lift the mood away from a morning funeral.
Sothis steps away from Bylead, her form shimmering and pale in the sunlight. She looks as if she might blow out with the wind as she trails fingers along the tower's even brick and meticulous build. Her expression goes pinched and stiff the longer she looks. Her unease spilling over into Bylead's side of their connection, tinged with a sense of repulsion as if he'd stuck his hand into rotting fruit.
"More memories?"
"No," and she refuses to say more as she comes back to stand by Bylead's side again, "Save your worries for the battle ahead."
Her gaze goes behind Bylead and he does not have to look to know she is indicating Sylvain and Annette, feeling her distrust for himself like a heated brand.
"Conand Tower has long since been abandoned," Dimitri says as he approaches.
"This area was the site of a massive battle several hundred years ago," Gilbert says, "When invasions from the north were at their peak."
"It will be difficult to seize," Ingrid agrees as she dismounts her pegasus. There's an uncharacteristic anxiety in her. Evident in the look she flashes Sylvain as he comes up behind her.
Felix snorts at her words, his fingers light over his blade as he examines the edge yet again, "Save your worthless concerns. I have no intention of falling today."
Privately, Bylead agrees, feeling an itch beneath his skin. An unusual desire for battle over words. He taps a little restless rhythm against his chest as he eyes the tower, wondering if this is how it felt to step in his sister's shoes. To look forward and see nothing but a fight that needed to be overcome. To be able to break down goals into such simplistic terms.
"Professor. Did you see the local villages?" Dimitri asks, his voice closer than Bylead had expected. The prince's hand hovers at Bylead's shoulder but he seems to think better of it, ducking his head a little as he steps back, "They were in rough shape, no doubt because of the thief attacks. They're not going to make it through the winter in that condition."
Did Byleth feel so burdened each time Bylead stilled her hands with his worries and sympathy? Did she want to turn away every time he'd asked her to still her blade?
Incompetence warps around him like straps. Buckles round his ankles anchored to boulder.
"We're here for Miklan. Don't let your focus stray. The villagers … we'll see what we can do afterward," Bylead says.
Lightning crackles in Bylead's palm, dancing over calloused skin and making him both hot and cold.
"If the thieves had taken up pillaging to survive, that would be deplorable … but understandable. But this is something else entirely. As if they destroyed those villages purely for pleasure. No matter their reasons. That sort of behavior cannot be allowed. Ever."
"Don't bother losing your head over those lowlifes your Highness. It's a wasted effort," Sylvain says on a laugh.
"Sylvain … the thieves' leader who stole the relic… I know he has been disowned but –"
"So he's nothing more than a common thief," Sylvain interrupts, "No longer a member of House Gautier. Or my brother."
"Are you sure about that? It would be understandable to find this situation … regrettable, to say the least."
Sothis bristles as Sylvain approaches, stepping between him and Byleadas if her incorporeal form could serve as a shield and barricade. The Pulse thrums in the center of her palm like a heartbeat, steady and sure. A moment's call away.
Unable to see her, Sylvain still manages to stop in front of her, aiming a smile at Bylead that burns like the fire raised in hand. The flames cast Sylvain's expression in a harsher light. Thin tendrils of smoke bleeding into the air as drops of rain touch his palm.
"Shall we, Professor?" Sylvain asks as if he is asking for a dance, "And don't hold back for my sake. Some people need to pay for what they've done."
And with no hesitation, hurls the fireball skywards. Red and gold roar together as flames. Fire licking through the opening of a machicolation.
A bowstring loosens and Bylead steps into battle with bitterness on his tongue and resentment at his back.
In another life, Miklan bears the title of heir and the pride of an able commander. Excels as a lone force in Gautier and stalls Sreng's invasions with a name alone as Lord Holst does for the Leicester Alliance.
In this life, he turns his talents inwards. A fox cub bred to be a dog turning on cruel masters and in doing so brands itself traitor, threat, and disappointment.
Miklan is Sylvain's shrewd cleverness honed by years of resentment and abandonment, made razor-sharp by experience. He fights with the dogged determination of a cornered fox, baring fang and teeth on all those who looked his way.
There are snipers in the ceilings. Mages beneath ground. People turned into traps. Blades and spells in hidden doorways and narrow staircases. All evidence of a man who knew how to twist his small numbers to his advantage and could direct troops with ease. Someone who crafted chaos. Bred confusion. Built his advantage.
"Disappointment," does not leave Sylvain's mouth again only swears as he's overwhelmed by axe wielders and archers.
He grows fire in one hand and swings a lance in another, knuckles whitening around his weapon as a flying axe scores a line up his collarbone, denting the armor hard. The flames in his left palm flicker and wave like a candle, flying wide as he loses his grip on the spell. Bylead and Felix sweep in to take his place as additional forces bleed into the narrow hallways like a broken blood vessel. Twin lightning trails rending the air in front of them.
"Back," Felix snaps as he seizes a fistful of Bylead's jacket, tugging for no more than a second before he swings an arm around Sylvain and presses them against the wall.
Bylead ignores him, pulling lightning from the air and swinging it like whips around them, gritting his teeth around the advice to retreat, something vicious and heavy in his chest as he lets Thunder rip from him in one great heave. Arrows rush down to greet him, chiding him for his impudence, grazing his shoulders and cheeks as he rolls out of the way at the last second. They pit the ground he'd previously stood on, making a forest of slender weapons. A muted chorus goes off above him, sounds of pain and reshuffling echoing down over him as Bylead rushes up the stairs, keeping tight to the walls. He throws lightning again and again until his fingertips go numb and the ribbons of electricity start to pitter down into sparks. Iron lights the back of his tongue, the feel as if he'd run his tongue over the ridge of a nail.
Felix's footsteps are an echo behind his. His new blade gleams white-hot each time he throws an arch of lightning, striking would-be assailants and gliding over Bylead's shoulders to pierce armor and flesh. So painfully reminiscent of Byleth with his light steps and clever blade, Bylead nearly falls to his knees the first time Felix engages an axe wielder in Bylead's place.
The swordsman doesn't say anything, too preoccupied with the heavy press of units but his lips flatten in disapproval, glaring when Bylead stumbles. He makes a noise like a snort as he goes after a troop of mages, fire in one hand and lightning in the other. His slender shoulders squared as if he can carry them all on his back.
Bylead winds his arm back, hurls fire from his fingers, and when it engulfs a man's head and makes Felix pause, he only takes the opportunity to run ahead.
He hears someone call for him but turns a deaf ear to it, only thinking of the battle ahead. There is a scent in the air, too sweet and too bitter all at once, tickling the tip of his nose and lingering on the very edge of his awareness. He disregards it quickly in favor of pressing ahead.
As Byleth would have.
Mage fire and smoke erupt beneath him just as he reaches the penultimate floor, highlighted by the familiar green of Wind. A great billow of smoke lunges over his shoulders like a bear and he gasps at the heat as he crumbles against the doorframe. Splinters dig into his palm as the floor rocks again, powerful enough he crumbles to his knees.
"Prof –" Dimitri's voice cuts off, choking on the smell, "I – There are mages behind!"
Sure enough, a score of lightning flies out at Bylead from behind, razing over his cheeks and nose as he turns, just narrowly missing his head. Fury and pain rumble deep in his chest, annoyance at his own lack of foresight.
"Cool your head," Sothis says tightly and her voice, so clear in the midst of battle, startles him hard.
Irritated, he pulls away from her, throwing up a wall between their connection when he spies Miklan above them all. The top floor is visible from here and Bylead barely registers the row of archers in front of Miklan. Instead, Bylead draws fire from his stomach, feels it coil and curl, twisting like serpents in his chest and throat as he fires high. A vicious satisfaction tightening in his belly as Miklan shouts in alarm.
An older sibling thrown off his plans. A mission easily completed.
A golden orange lance waves wildly in Miklan's hands as he beats the flames out.
The sight of it makes Sothis cringe, revulsion so potent Bylead gags on a thick mouthful of bile, feeling it as if it were his own emotions even with the wall between them. The lance is a too knobby thing with too many spikes. Something poorly crafted and wrestled into shape. Bylead doesn't think he is imagining the way the spikes twitch and curl. It reminds him of an enormous paw grasping for someone.
Sothis makes a noise Bylead barely hears, his attention on Miklan, holding his gaze steadily. Orange hair still smoldering from the flames, Miklan looks down at Bylead but only for a moment. His eyes skimming over Bylead. Seeking out someone else. And when he finds them, Miklan's entire body changes.
Bylead had never seen hatred overcome a person before but it physically warps the man. Seeps out from beneath his skin, bleeding out of every pore and swallowing him whole. Something ugly and dark comes over his face as he bites down so hard on his lip it starts to swell and bleed.
"Ha," Sylvain huffs a laugh, his eyes finding his brother's immediately. The sound is like a bee sting by Bylead's side. Pain in one sharp stick. Striking hard and true before bleeding out into an internal ache that did not leave. It's a noise so fraught with emotion, it lands at their feet liked leaded weights.
Bylead can feel the sharp edge of a rift scoring one long hideous scar in the air, threatening to engulf everyone in the room. Made of heavy anger and rotted resentment rooted in circumstances neither sibling had chosen.
Bylead loses hold of his impatience, feeling a tight knot in his chest loosen at the look in Sylvain's eyes, made still by the haunted longing in them as Sylvain looks to a brother he would never know.
Byleth crumbles in his arms, her expression pale and loose, her fingers slacken against her stomach, releasing organs she'd been keeping in place. His sister is so silent. So still. No longer able to speak orders. Jeritza runs at them, choking on his own blood even as he swings and Bylead sinks a dagger between his eyes. Feeling no remorse. Grief and terror searing away his emotions as he grabs for the Pulse yet again.
"Sylvain …" Bylead reaches out.
And then the world explodes.
Someone screams. Shrill and high, jagged around the edges and too wet. Thick gurgles as they choke on their own cries. The cries of someone dying.
Annette.
Gilbert's cry of dismay is guttural. Bloated with despair.
"Professor!" Dimitri grabs at Bylead, breaking out between Sylvain and Felix to cover him as the wall beside Bylead groans and shifts.
Strong arms slide around Bylead's back, wide hands gentle over Bylead's shoulders. Dimitri buckles beneath an axe to his shoulder, his entire body cringing in pain.
Twin tendrils of smoke bleed over Sylvain and Felix. A familiar smoked heat holding the smell of –
"Burnt flesh," Sothis whines, her complexion matching her hair as she wobbles, holding her hands to her head. Trembling apart beside him.
A memory floats up unbidden. Of a massacre and cruel experiments. Of children too young for battle much less war and their –
Another Fire explodes in the open doorway. The heat searing over Felix's chest like a blooming flower and to his credit, he doesn't scream in pain only shouts –
"Dammit! Where's my weapon? I can't … see –"
And Sylvain, as the flames rip up over his shoulders with color the same as his hair and heat and power as great as his tempered rage, smiles. His gaze never leaves his brother. Goes from hard and grim to vulnerable. His gaze finding Miklan's and it's full of empty weight, searching for something that is not there.
"Heh …" Sylvain closes his eyes as the flames crawl up his arms, "I figured… it would end like this."
Sothis gasps, trembling as she digs her fingers into Bylead's shoulders. There are more bandits beside them. The wall crumbling apart to reveal more reinforcements.
Bylead twines the Pulse around one hand as he drags an arm over Dimitri's back, grounding himself in the weight and feel of the prince. Dimitri looks at him wide-eyed, dark terror in his eyes.
"Professor, I remember every face that fell before my feet."
Blue follows Bylead backward and down the tower as he grabs for a different future, remorse and bitterness pulling him through.
It takes two more tries to reach Miklan.
Felix dies the second time from an axeman and snarls at Glenn to get out of his way when Bylead catches him.
Sylvain dies laughing the next time, mocking and derisive at Miklan's foul swears.
"Why have you come, you Crest bearing fool?"
"Still blaming me for something that isn't my fault? I didn't come to humiliate you but I will–" as the Lance of Ruin punctures his throat.
"Surrender," Bylead growls the final time, straddling Miklan's waist as he pins the Lance of Ruin to the ground.
His daggers are firmly planted between Miklan's fingers, running warm with blood. Dimly, he can hear Dedue, Annette, and Mercedes finishing their battles behind him. The sound of metal on metal slowly tapering off in the stairwell combined with Dimitri's shouted orders, ringing out clear and strong, speak of a battle won.
Still, defiance rears in Miklan's eyes, the small feral body of a rodent running on self-serving instinct.
"Return the lance and you can walk away," Bylead tells him, "This is no place to die."
Sothis cringes away as Miklan clings harder to the lance. His nails digging bloody half-moons into his palm, spotting the lance's handle as he tries to pull his hand away.
Bylead's arms ache at the strain.
The Pulse wears heavily on his body, overlapping with the weariness from spells cast in another time. His fingertips are numb and twitching, feel as if they hold sparks still and cannot discharge them. Iron and soot coat his mouth. A desert dryness rasps his throat, rubbing his words raw.
Bylead breathes out slow as he starts to drag his daggers downwards, letting them bite between the thin flesh of Miklan's middle and ring fingers.
"You have no more men. No more options," Bylead says, "What are you looking to –"
Miklan spits in his face, a rictus grin spreading wide over bloodied lips, "I died a long time ago. You think you have anything to threaten me with? A brat like you?"
"It's not a threat. I only … do not want to kill you.
Miklan's grin pulls wider as if smiling were a Gautier defense mechanism, turning derisive. So like Sylvain, Bylead feels a pang in his chest.
"Soft-hearted for a knight aren't you?"
"Not a knight. Only a mercenary."
"Even worse," Miklan sneers.
The similarities overlap. Sylvain bleeding into Miklan, tethered together by rigid anger and cold resentment.
Sothis shifts by Bylead's side but otherwise says nothing. Her fingers against the pulse like a trigger. Her eyes are fixed on the lance in Miklan's hands. As if it will come to life and lunge at her. He can sense her displeasure at drawing this out but is grateful she does not speak on it. He has only her sense of unease to deal with as he tries again to extend a hand to Miklan.
"I don't like killing," Bylead offers as explanation and Miklan laughs uproariously.
An animalistic sound far too shrill and jagged around the edges. As if he'd hit the limits of sanity.
"Professor?" Annette asks, holding a Wind in front of her as she approaches them.
Bylead can hear Dedue approaching as well, solemn heavy steps drawing close. Can see the faint glow Mercedes' glyph in his periphery.
"Professor, do you need –?" Annette cuts herself off, words lost in uncertainty.
Miklan's laughter fades in increments, something darker and more hateful sliding into place, piece by piece. A brick and mortar wall made of hatred and resentment.
"You're not kidding," Miklan says in an odd tone. As if he is testing the words on his tongue, "A merc with morality. Foolish. Idiotic morality."
And then he lunges, slams his head against Bylead's temple, leaving behind two fingers against Bylead's blades as he does. A sickening crack like thunder erupts between them as Bylead's vision blanks out. There is screaming all around him and a blast by his ear informs him Annette's loosened Wind.
"What a carefree life you must have led," Miklan snarls in Bylead's ear and there is the unmistakable press of a blade against Bylead's ribs.
Like a sword falling into its sheath, the Lance of Ruin slides into Bylead in a slow easy glide.
Sothis screams, revulsion so strong it strangles Bylead. A chorus of 'get it out' erupting in his mind. Her focus utterly on the feel of the thing inside of him, of it wriggling like a newborn's hands grasping at his organs, playing them like instruments.
Bylead gasps wetly, lungs burning as agony locks his body in a stone grip. His vision clears enough for him to look Miklan in the eye. There's a smile on Miklan's face. The pink belly of his scar pulling taut as he adopts a noble's disposition meant for a roundtable discussion.
His scrutiny burns as he looks Bylead up and down, prying for secrets with lunatic greed, "I hate brats like you the most. Leading happy-go-lucky lives without offering proper payment. Fuck your feeble morality, merc –"
The lance twists inside him and Sothis' shriek reverberates in his skull.
That terrible weapon. Made of flesh and bone. Ripped from the still body of her own –
So strong he gags on a mouthful of vomit, the acid choking the air from his throat and lungs. Pooling in the back of his –
The Pulse drops from Bylead's fingers, spitting him out from the river of time's flow.
He releases one of his daggers in order to block Miklan's head, ramming his elbow hard into Miklan's nose. There is a sharp crunch and then a thick blurt of blood against Bylead's arm. Miklan snarls as he sinks his teeth into Bylead's arm like a feral animal, tackling him to the ground.
Wind sings as it soars over Bylead's head, the green magic kissing his forehead as it snares Miklan and throws him backward. The Lance of Ruin clatters to the ground beside him and he scrambles after it like a trained hound.
"Professor!"
Bylead accepts Annette's offered hand, his vision swimming as he stands. Bile and vomit blocking his throat as his knees crumble. He grimaces, feeling Annette stiffen as she grabs for his shoulders, struggling to hold him upright. Her bony shoulder presses hard into his rib cage. Where the lance had previously sat.
Bylead doubles over in a cough, eyes lighting on the dagger he still has planted in the ground. Seeing two bloody fingers left behind, half curled like the spikes on the Lance of Ruin.
"Never had to pay for that carefree life of yours, eh merc?" Miklan shouts and Bylead tackles Annette to the ground to duck the Lance of Ruin as it swings out, "Well, that changes now."
The glow burns at Bylead's eyes. His vision swims with colors as Miklan swings the lance again. With each swing, the lance burns brighter.
Dimly, he's aware of Sothis curling in on herself, shutting herself away. The Pulse slides away from him just as she goes. The steady beat of it falling just beyond his grasp.
He grasps for Fire instead, feeling heat at his fingertips and then nothing.
Embers bleeding into smoke as a shadow grows over them.
"Goddess, Professor!" Annette clings to his arm sleeve, as she tries to stand, leaning heavily into him as a shiver racks her body.
The shadow is humanoid at first and then like a macabre puppet show twists and groans, shuddering as its limbs flail, caught in a too eager puppetmaster's hands. An audible snap like the crack of branches in fire accompanying its flailing limbs.
"W-what?! What is this?" a voice full of the terrible knowing fear of one who knew death knocked on their door and did not want to open it.
Miklan's body twists violently. A black waxy thing leaks out from the Lance of Ruin to snare his entire body, curling over his joints with the intimacy of a lover. Holding tighter and tighter until his flailing stills and then –
Snap!
Miklan shrieks and it sounds like the rabbit so long ago.
"I don't want to kill."
"Fine, I'll do it for you."
Bylead spares one thought for his sister, wishing desperately for her steadiness and then feels his stomach give way as he remembers her new sword. The stark violent shape of it pressing up to the forefront of his mind as a nightmare unfolds before him.
Miklan's eyes go glassy, his skin waxen and pale as the dark mass starts to envelop his throat and jaw. In his hands, still wrapped tight in a white-knuckled grip is the Lance of Ruin, glowing placidly, bleeding that black goo from its center point.
"The lance. Oh goddess," Annette hiccups, her entire body trembling, "I-it's devouring him."
The black mass moves with a little whisper and a sigh, clinging to Miklan's lips, pulling his jaw opens and Bylead tugs Annette backward, horror wiping his mind clear of everything but this creature before him.
"Mi –klan?!" Sylvain's voice goes from victorious to uncertain, coming to an abrupt stop hard enough neither Felix nor Dimitri manage to move him when they run into his back.
Miklan looks at who was once his brother. Lips pursing then parting. A gush of the black mass spills past them in thick rivulets. The sides of Miklan's mouth cracking apart like a fraying seam. Struggling around words that bubble, laden down and weighted by the black material as if there were something sticking to Miklan's vocal cords and drowning him from within.
"C-crest bearing f-fo – ol – Kill! You!"
The black slides over his cheek and then digs into him like a great bear, it slithers into his eyes and cheeks like one massive claw, tearing into the skin and there's a shout from Annette, nearly half-mad in fright as the skin begins to flay. Miklan's jaw goes loose with one great pop. A piece of skin flesh open as he roars his final words.
"Kill. You!"
And in Miklan Anschutz Gautier's place stands one enormous black beast howling at the skies.