"After I refused to let you handle the Aramach invasion, why on Elysium do you think I would agree to this?" Niall demanded.

There it was: the exact reaction she'd been expecting. Immediately after departing Uraya, Mòrag had issued strict orders to the generals at the base: no combat until further notice. Unlike many orders, those were met with cheers or sighs of relief. She doubted anyone would be disobeying them in her absence. And then she took an airship and rushed back to Alba Cavanich to discuss the matter in person with the Emperor. This was not a conversation to have over ethercom. Unsurprisingly, Niall did not take it well—at least, not the condition that his sister and Inquisitor would be the required Ardainian champion.

"The Aramach situation was a trap set for me personally. I would have had no control over the ebb and flow of that battle. You didn't want me to blindly waltz in there, and I respect that decision. But this—this isn't a trap. How the battle fares is in my hands."

"You would be in the same level of peril."

"I am the strongest Driver in Mor Ardain. I can handle anything an enemy Driver throws at me."

"But Mòrag, Raqura's terms are clear. It's a fight to the death."

"You know I have no qualms about killing. I do not enjoy it, but I will do what I must. And I am more than willing to lay down my life for this country. I always have been."

"...I'm not sure I'm willing to lay down your life, Mòrag. Not like this."

"You must act like a king now, Your Majesty," Mòrag said sternly. It came out harsher than she intended, but it needed to be said. "Think about this tactically. If Raqura allowed you to choose anyone to be the champion, would you agree to it?"

He gave a feeble nod.

"And why is that?"

"Because it's an advantageous proposal. It would allow us to exponentially reduce the loss of life, limb, and property. And then we could transfer our soldiers to Crá Gleann and finish off that threat, too. All in a matter of weeks...And with reduced casualties, we could greatly increase our chances of establishing a lasting peace with Uraya, too."

"You see? A single combat settlement is probably best for Mor Ardain, especially with our forces split. We should agree to it. And you cannot let your feelings for me get in the way of that. We are royals. This is our duty, Niall."

"It feels like I'd be signing your death certificate."

"I understand how hard of a choice this is," she urged, toying with the thought of telling him the truth. If he understood the full gravity of the situation—why Raqura was practically forcing them to acquiesce—maybe then he would agree with it. But no. He needed a level head right now. "But it's a choice you'll have to make. You're aware of the casualties we've incurred from my reports, but you haven't seen the front yourself. I have. It's brutal. There's been very little progress on either side. Morale plummeted weeks ago. The sooner this can end, the better. I think we should take the offer."

He nodded but frowned at the same time. Then she saw his eyes glaze over as they did so often when he devised a new plan or policy. He was looking for a loophole.

"Niall, do you trust me?"

"More than anyone. You know that."

"Then trust me now. Let me end this war."

"...As you wish. I will make the arrangements with Queen Raqura."

She gave an approving nod. "And how would you like me to assist you in that effort?"

"...See to your physical well-being, sister. I don't doubt that the stress of serving on the front for so long has been rather tiring. If I must send you into a fight to the death, I want you to be ready for it. Whatever you need to do to prepare, do so. Relax a little. Train with Brighid. Eat well. Sleep. Anything that will help you be in top fighting shape next week. Please."

"I will."

That promise, she could keep. And she had plenty of help from her friends; when Rex, Pyra, and the others staked out at Crá Gleann got word of the impending duel, they raced back to the capitol to be "the best damn moral support anyone could ask for," as Rex put it. As a result, she never ran out of sparring partners—although Zeke seemed hesitant to join in. In fact, as soon as the arrangement was finalized with a date set for the following week, the Thunderbolt became unusually quiet and reserved. But Pandoria's solo exuberance during training more than made up for his absence. So Mòrag had ample opportunity to refamiliarize herself with how to fight against nearly every element. But she favored sessions with Nia and Dromarch; her gut told her that Uraya's champion would be Driver to a water Blade. What better way to prepare than by fighting two?

The training grounds would require repairs from steam damage, no doubt.

And so she walked that delicate line between training at maximum intensity and not overdoing it (although Brighid was the primary reason she avoided overexerting herself). All the while, she tried not to dwell on the thought that these days, these meals, could be the last ones.

There were much grimmer affairs, too—getting the last of her affairs in order should the worst come to pass. She had a will, of course; members of the Ardainian royal family were required to write one the moment they came of age. She never bothered to update it. But with Niall as her only child (albeit unknowingly), it was a simple process. Brighid and Aegaeon would be returned to the Emperor; her other Blade cores would be donated to a local initiative striving to make Blade distribution more accessible to everyone, regardless of station. Maybe that way Blades like Yuzu and Umi could finally have the companionship they deserved. The office of Special Inquisitor, per her recommendation, would go to General Haig.

She never saw much sense in collecting many belongings, so there was not much else to bequeath to anyone. The only material possession she really treasured now was her wedding ring. But when she tried to promise that Zeke could have it back if she died, he refused.

"I always meant for you to keep it, no matter what," he said firmly. "And if they won't bury you under a snowman, then at least this will let you take a little piece of Tantal into the great ether stream with you. You're technically part of the Tantalese royal family, after all."

And that was that.

What an error in judgment.

Pachnall found it hard to restrain his anger. Offering asylum from the law usually turned criminals into the most loyal followers. After all, they typically owed him their lives. And with the addition of the prisoners from Phriosune, he had expected his mass of followers to be worked into an anti-Imperial frenzy. For the most part, it worked. Despite their hunger, a majority of the Aramach were eagerly awaiting their chance to get back at the country that imprisoned them. Some even admitted out loud that they would throw themselves on a live bomb if it meant they could get back at the Special Inquisitor. So his pawns didn't seem to mind starving—although his most eager, slippery followers had managed to sneak out of the encampment just enough to steal some provisions from the Ardainians. It would be too little, too late in the long run, but it helped keep up morale.

Cor Baragh, however, had been a miscalculation.

Never before had one of his assets broken out. Pachnall knew the man was the independent sort, but he didn't expect him to be this much of a risk-taker. To abandon the relative autonomy of a world that welcomed criminals and try to make it on his own—it was foolhardy but brave. He almost admired the man's courage.

But now reports told him that Cor went to Uraya. And while Pachnall had no definitive evidence, he expected that his rogue operative was responsible for the pending resolution to that international conflict. All that hard work getting Mor Ardain and Uraya to rip each other apart, and now it might go to waste.

And worse, she might get killed in the process.

If she survived, then he could return to the original plan. That was a trap she wouldn't, couldn't resist. Without Birall, it would be much harder, but he had no other options. All that remained was to be patient and trust that she could survive tomorrow.

"You've come a long way, Rex. You're not the child salvager I met in Torigoth, that's for sure."

Mòrag sheathed her whipswords and took a seat, downing several gulps of water from her canteen. In the interest of conserving the ether in the area, they'd fought without their Blades. And to preserve her strength, they kept the sparr short.

"I'm still just stumbling my way forward," Rex laughed. He plopped down across from her and mopped his forehead. "I've still got a long way to go before I measure up to you, though."

"Nonsense. You're the Driver of the Aegis. We stand as equals."

"Pssh, if not for Mythra's Foresight ability, you'd fight circles around me. You're on a whole 'nother level."

"Fighting is a way of life for me, I suppose."

"I almost feel badly for the bloke who has to fight you tomorrow." Rex grinned. He'd grown a lot in the last year or so, but apparently the child-like optimism would always be a part of his personality.

"Whoever he is, it would be unwise to underestimate him."

"There's no way he's a match for you. I mean, Mòrag, think about it. Back when we were trying to get to Elysium, you were one of the strongest members of our team. But you were also the only 'normal' one."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Zeke's a Blade Eater. I was one, too. Well, sorta. And Nia's a Flesh Eater. We all had some sort of Blade-based advantage. But you—you're just human. And yet you're like, ultra-powerful. You made us look bad all the time. I don't think a normal Driver and Blade team could really stand up to you."

She returned his smile. "Thanks for the vote of confidence, Rex. I hope you're right."

His mood visibly darkened. "...How are you holding up with all this?"

"With a job like mine, you get used to the feeling of being a few hours away from impending death. I'm all right."

"Oh, come on. Gimme an honest answer."

"I'm trying not to think about it too much, actually. Because when I do, my stomach feels like we just got launched off the world tree. I truly believe I can win, but...there are plenty of unknowns," she admitted.

"Makes sense," he sighed, chewing his lip thoughtfully. "I don't want to pick a side in a war, but still. You have to win. And my money's on you, Flames."

She playfully kicked his shin. "You're not allowed to call me that."

"Okay, okay. I guess it's fair that Zeke has special privileges. Just do us proud out there tomorrow, alright?"

Most of the night's conversations were a similar variation of that theme: an expression of concern for her life, good-luck wishes—but no goodbyes. Saying those would make the possibility too real. By the time she'd spoken with everyone that mattered—including receiving an awkward wing-hug from Tora (but given his height, it was more like a hug to her knees)—night had fallen. She made her way to her tent just outside the arena, unsure if she'd even be able to sleep. If nothing else, she could enjoy some much-needed silence. Even if Zeke was there, he'd been relatively quiet all week. Almost worryingly so.

However, she found Brighid waiting outside. Her flames cast an eerie glow across tomorrow's battlefield.

"Another message from His Majesty regarding tomorrow?" Mòrag asked, trying to keep her voice casual. Not that it did any good to hide her emotions from her Blade.

"No. I'm here of my own volition. For you."

"...I'm all right. Really."

"And have you ever stopped to consider that I might not be?"

It was unusually harsh, even for Brighid...But Mòrag choked down a sudden feeling of guilt. She'd never stopped to consider how all this might affect her Blade. What sort of Driver assumed that her Blade was ready to return to her core crystal if the battle went poorly?

"I-I'm sorry, Brighid. I took your loyalty to me for granted. Forgive me."

The Blade shook her head. "My apologies as well. I didn't mean to snap at you. I've just been doing far too much thinking today. You see...Lady Mòrag, there's something I need to tell you."

"I'm really not in the mood to talk right now, Brighid. I'm not sure I can take another emotional conversation tonight."

The Blade's head fell. "I understand that. But I need to be honest with you. And...this could be one of our last conversations. I-if you die, if we die tomorrow, well, what I'm trying to say is, I don't want to die until I get something off my chest."

The Driver's eyes rolled dramatically. "Not you, too."

"I'm sorry?"

"Why does no one seem to believe I can win this? Everyone keeps talking like I'm doomed to die tomorrow. Except Rex. But he's, well, Rex. I'm the Flamebringer. I can win. I have to. I wish people would have a little faith in me."

"We do believe in you, Mòrag. It's just that being forced to entertain the possibility of a world without you in it—that's a frightening thought. For all of us."

"I need at least one realistic person to talk to me as if my victory is assured. Or at least possible. Please be that person for me, Brighid."

"As you wish, then," Brighid sighed. "But first, I really do need to tell you the truth—"

"No." The Driver's tone was firm, unyielding. "I'm not going to listen. Not now. Whatever it is that's so important to say, you can tell me tomorrow after we've won. Alright?"

Brighid's expression turned into something like a pout, but she nodded in agreement. "Goodnight, then."

"I never did understand why your uniform doesn't burn away when you fight."

Mòrag turned around to see Zeke holding her jacket out so she could slip both arms into it.

"You've been quiet all week, and that's what you finally choose to say?"

He shrugged. Even last night, when sleep evaded them both, he said very little. But just being with him in those last few hours was more soothing than all the "pep-talks" the day before. So she never pressed him for details as to why he'd been so taciturn. Was it simply that he was worried about her? Or something more than that? Granted, a fight like this ran counter to his ideals, but he usually spoke up about that sort of thing. For him to stay quiet was out of character.

"It's fireproofed," she said at last, deciding not to inquire about his mood. There wasn't time for such a discussion now. She slipped into the outstretched sleeves and set to work buttoning the jacket.

"So that's why the fabric is so stiff," he observed.

She nodded. "After one unfortunate wardrobe mishap early in my career, I decided the discomfort was worth it. But I don't notice it anymore."

"Makes sense."

Today, her belt armor felt abnormally heavy; her fingers fumbled with it. Without a word, Zeke took over, pulling the belt to just the right loop. Then came her pauldron; it was a complicated fastening of gears and straps that had taken her months to master when she first took the uniform. But he easily maneuvered the metal and leather as if it was his own.

"You're surprisingly good at this."

"It's different than mine, but I do see you put it on every morning." He faked a weak smile.

He noticed more than she gave him credit for.

"What about your hat?" he asked, his voice just as quiet as before.

"I won't wear it today. I can't risk it falling off and distracting me."

"I've seen you backflip with it on, though."

"I secure it with pins. But I think it's safe to say this fight will be more intense than usual."

She bit her lip. What was the point of all this small talk? It felt childish to ignore the issue at hand—especially with only a few minutes left. But at the same time, she was grateful for it. She feared that talking about it would break her facade. And she needed to look calm and collected by the time she walked outside. If Niall saw her waver—she couldn't bear the thought of what his face might look like. Still…

A loud gong sounded, signalling for the crowds to gather.

"Before I go out there, there's something I have to ask," Mòrag whispered.

"What's that?"

"I...Back when we were in Uraya, the night before Raqura brought up this duel, I-I woke up in the middle of the night. You were talking, and I heard what you said."

He hung his head, embarrassed. "You weren't supposed to hear that."

"But I did. About what you said, well, I have to know. Was it true? Did you really mean that?"

"Yeah. I get that it probably seems really sudden. But it's the truth."

It was her turn to look away. Now he'd admitted it not just once, but twice. So it was true after all.

"Then I need you to promise me something."

"What?" He continued to stare down at the floor as if he dreaded her answer.

She bit her lip. "I-if something happens to me out there, if Brighid and I don't make it, promise me you'll be there for Niall. And make sure he resonates with both Brighid and Aegaeon again. I don't want him to be alone."

Zeke shook his head violently and gripped both of her hands in his. "No. I'm not going to promise that. I'm not going to waste my breath on a promise like that because you're not going to die. You're the strongest Driver I know. You're going to go out there and win. You're gonna kick that guy's arse and end this bloody war and come back to me."

"Zeke, you know that anything can happen in a fight like this. I'm going to do my utmost, but there are no guarantees. One slip-up, and that's it. So please: promise me you'll look after him. I'll fight better if I know for certain that he'll be safe no matter what the outcome is."

"...Okay. I will. Promise."

She let go of his hands and pulled him in for a tight hug. He was probably trembling more than she was, but she didn't care. Being in the arms of a man who loved her inexplicably, with no strings attached—it left the voice speechless. And it seemed that the tension in her body left her senses heightened. She wanted to savor it all: the tiny prickles of his stubble against her cheek, the softness of his travel-worn coat, the erratic rhythm of his breathing, even the scent of his cologne—some combination of bergamot, birch, and black plum, she realized. It all needed to be emblazoned on her memory.

Architect, please don't let this be the last one of these.

"Lady Mòrag. It's time." Brighid's voice, an unwelcome but anticipated, inevitable interruption.

Mòrag pulled away just enough to nod to her Blade. "I'll be right there."

The Blade left as silently as she'd entered; only the faint rustle of the tent flap betrayed the fact that she even departed.

One heavy sigh to steel her nerves. Another to convince herself that yes, she had to go. What a shame that here at what could be the end, she finally understood. There was so much left to say. Even if she still feared saying them, the words seemed to bounce around unvoiced in the empty silence between them. She hoped he could sense them.

"One last kiss before I go. For good luck?" she whispered.

It was the fiercest kiss he'd ever given her, his lips firm and warm despite their trembling and the tear slipping down his cheek. His hands clenched around the collar of her uniform, as if he wanted to pull her in and keep her there permanently—not that she particularly wanted to go. She finally persuaded herself to pull her lips away, but still her forehead lingered against his.

"Th-thank you, Zeke. Thank you for everything."

Any longer and she wouldn't be able to leave. She broke free at last and joined her Blade outside the tent. Her hand went to her mouth for a moment; if only her fingers could hold the last remnants of warmth there indefinitely.

"Mòrag, you—"

"Don't. Not now," she interrupted, banishing her hands to their customary position behind her back. "Let's finish this."

"Roger that, Lady Mòrag."

Thankfully, her tent had been set up a short distance from the arena, so she didn't have to spend long stewing in her thoughts as they walked.

From the moment the two nations' sovereigns finalized the terms of the single combat, Mòrag knew she would be at a disadvantage: she didn't know the identity of her opponent. Raqura never disclosed it. On one hand, that didn't matter. Sometimes, when fighting a known, studied opponent, over-anticipating moves spelled trouble. And she fully anticipated that since only one Blade was permitted to each champion, Uraya would try to capitalize on her own weaknesses by choosing someone with a water affinity to face her. But at least that weakness would work both ways. And this certainly wouldn't be the first time she overpowered an enemy she never faced before.

Here, her years of hard work—sixteen grueling, heart-wrenching yet rewarding years—training as a Driver could pay off. Some criticized her as arrogant, but for her fighting skills, she felt she had the right to be. But her first look at her opponent made that confidence waver: Gunther, the Flamebane.

Therein lay the problem: Gunther was the only figure present inside the arena.

There was no else with him. And yet he held a Blade weapon: a thick greatsword, much like Rex's and Zeke's weapons, marked with a fierce serrated edge. The ether that rippled around him was distinctly aquatic. No surprise there, although the element did not suit his hulking frame. Mòrag never met the legendary Vandham in person, although she'd seen him from a distance (and reviewed photos of him collected by Ardainian intelligence). But Gunther reminded her of him: thick, jagged scars, including one on his right cheek and then dozens more that tore across his firm musculature. His wardrobe choice exuded an aura of confidence, too. Aside from his ardun leather greaves, cuisse, pauldron, and gauntlets, he left his skin entirely bare. He'd left her plenty of target space; a single well-placed strike would leave him with a skewered chest.

At least, that would be true if he had a normal chest.

Instead, an eerie blue-red light shone from his core crystal. It swirled with intense energy and unknown potential. Something told Mòrag that he wasn't one of the "failed experiments," either.

"He's a Flesh Eater," she murmured to Brighid. "I should have known."

"That can't be right," her Blade protested. "Uraya shouldn't be allowed to use a Flesh Eater as their champion! The rules of engagement clearly state that each country can have one Driver and Blade team. And only one."

Mòrag shook her head, half-admiring Raqura's sly maneuver and half-hating it. "Raqura found a loophole and exploited it. One Driver and one Blade. You could argue that a Flesh Eater is both simultaneously. Well played, Raqura, well played. I should know by now not to underestimate her."

"Then you don't intend to contest his appointment as champion? What if this gives him an unfair advantage?"

"We've overcome Flesh Eaters before," Mòrag said simply.

"I distinctly remember that one of those encounters ended with you being grabbed by the throat and tossed like a rag doll."

Mòrag stifled a shudder at the memory. She hated moments like that most of all, where she came so close to protecting those she cared for, only to falter at the last second. But it wasn't a fair comparison. That was multiple Flesh Eaters, Mikhail, and a menagerie of blade bots. Gunther was just one warrior. An immensely powerful one, perhaps, but a solitary fighter. That made all the difference, surely.

"He'll be formidable, to be sure. But if I contested his appointment, it would reflect badly on the Empire. Not to mention I would be seen as a coward."

"Formidable" was putting it mildly; deep down, she knew that. Flesh Eaters did not heal as quickly as Blades, but they still regenerated. Any wound she managed to inflict would vanish in ten, maybe fifteen minutes. Meanwhile, she would continue to bleed from any she received. And Gunther could fight with abandon, never worrying about protecting his companion. Yes, he might be easier to surround. But a fight where he had nothing to lose except himself—in times like this, that was an advantage. She could die of blood loss. But Gunther had only one way of dying: a destroyed core crystal.

Worse, she knew nothing about his Flesh Eater talents. If he could alter the replication of her body's cells like Nia, it would be a quick fight. And there were other, more terrifying possibilities. Back in Bana's factory, there was that mysterious ether anomaly Patroka exhibited, as if she was on the verge of transforming into...something. Could this man transform into some sort of aquatic monster?

Impressive bladework would not be the only thing to watch out for, it seemed.

"What's our strategy, then?"

"Simple. Focus on the one weak point. Let nothing distract you."

"I wonder if it's possible to immolate a core crystal. I've not tried," Brighid mused.

"Well, you're welcome to attempt it today."

"...If he bests us, it has been my honor to serve you, Lady Mòrag. I hope you know that."

"We will have victory. Failure is not an option."

"Are you saying that for the Empire's sake, Zeke's, or your own?"

She gave a grim little smile. "...There is much I wish to protect. Now come. To the arena."

The "arena" as she called it wasn't exactly a coliseum, but it would suit its purposes just fine. Queen Raqura and Emperor Niall opted for an arena in the heart of the neutral territory, so a flat circle nearly a hundred peds in diameter had been roped off for the combat. To Mòrag's relief, it was scorched, gravelly terrain. She couldn't torch the area by accident.

Naturally, a great host from each army came to watch this crucial duel. But they'd been forced to stand a fair distance away—collateral damage was not an option. As a result, only a select few individuals were granted the privilege of watching the combat up close. Nia and Dromarch stood close at hand to heal the winner once it ended. Pandoria squirmed beside her, tapping her foot nervously since her Driver had yet to show. Meanwhile, Rex and Mythra waited beside her, acting as a visual deterrent to treachery should either side attempt further combat after the duel ended. Originally, Rex loudly protested coming; he did not want to be used as a token for impartiality when a friend was fighting, turning his bias to one side. But with some prompting from Pyra and a direct request from each nation's monarch, he agreed. Not to be excluded, Tora and Poppi tagged along (despite not receiving an invitation, no one turned them away). And naturally, Raqura and Niall joined, as did a member or two of their personal guards. A few spare Blades accompanied this entourage to project ether shields just in case any Arts bounced out of bounds.

A cheer went up from the Ardainian ranks when Mòrag and Brighid entered the arena. She gave them a polite but insincere wave—more for morale than anything else.

The two combatants saluted and assumed their positions across the small battlefield.

She took a quick inventory of her form. Heartbeats—so many of them. Rapid breaths. A sudden build-up of sweat beneath her flame-resistant clothes. Tiny, barely perceptible muscle quivers. The urge to succumb to that panic.

In a moment of clarity, she heard her father's whispers: Still your breath, and the body will follow. Old advice, but well worth following. Inhale, exhale. Feel the flow of Brighid's ether, the fire of their link already burning. Much better.

Yes, a fire needed oxygen.

"Let's show him why they call you Flamebringer."

Mòrag took one last glance at Niall, then at Zeke. Then she forced the world to melt away from her focus. Gunther. She was blind to all else now.

Whipswords in hand. Fighting stance.

"Combatants! Begin."