Author's Note:

In case anyone prefers a refresher.

Units of Measurement

1 curim = 1 kilogram

1 torim = 1,000 kilograms

1 rege = 1 centimetre

1 arge = 1 metre

1 selge = 100 metres

Septium

Element – Colour – Name

Earth – Brown – Amberl

Water – Blue – Sapphirl

Fire – Red – Carnelia

Wind – Green – Esmelas

Time – Black – Nohval

Space – Gold – Goldia

Mirage – Silver – Argem

S.1204.

Three months before the orientation at Thors Military Academy.

The distant baa of sheep was muffled by the high-altitude gusts in Nord. Under the dying light of the day, the grassy hills were animated. Strong winds lashed, flattening the tall grass stalks before whipping them up again.

From a binocular distance, it would have looked like a line of fireflies was trailing into the glen, to a congregation around a funeral pyre. The 'fireflies' were actually nomads carrying lanterns for the occasion.

Small hands tightened on their mother's when the children saw the elder's corpse resting on the latticed wood-pile. She laid with her arms crossing the breast. Each stiff hand clutched a polished esmela gem, ceremoniously treated by the nomad's alchemist so that the gems emitted light, which escaped in sharp slices between her fingers.

Lacan Worzel gazed down at her time-weathered face. Ishmala was her name.

At the other side of the pyre, his son Gaius secured the last of the blanket tinder. He had been selected to be Ishmala's qua'ru – an honorary role that was given to a youth in nomad tradition for whenever an elder died of natural age. To help secure her cremation into the night by holding vigil alone. And to impart the sobriety of introspection, in appreciating how their elder lived their life and contemplate what their own unspent years may be like.

"She lived surprisingly long for our people. 111 years," said Lacan.

Behind Lacan, most of the nomads from the main settlement awaited the sermon. It would be delivered by a visiting priest from Roer, who was going to recite a few lines from the scriptures.

"I heard she had an eventful life," murmured Gaius.

Lacan nodded.

"She did. Travelled a lot in her younger years. There were rumours that she met a witch in the empire. Somewhere in a place called, Isthmia Great Forest," said Lacan.

"Ishmala was lucky to live as long as she did, then. Barkhorn does not carry a high opinion of witches, with the stories he's told us. He says a witch's wile bring ill omens that drive men mad."

Lacan looked to his son. Unlike his father, the young man had never ventured out beyond the Nord Highlands. While Gaius's interest was scholarly in the foreign sovereignties which Barkhorn taught; be it through books or oratory, Gaius loved highlands too much (Lacan also suspected Sashkä was an anchor to his son) to even seriously contemplate seeing more of the outside world for himself.

"I'm sure Barkhorn is a good man but to discern the true nature of things Gaius, one must see things through his own eyes for reason. It's why this tradition exists," said Lacan.

"When did her husband die?" asked Gaius.

"Eight years ago, shortly after the Frozen Flames Meteor graced itself over the continent."

The funeral procession began. Any tears that were shed, any throaty mourns, came silently – a typicality of the nomads' temperament when fronting either grief or serenity. Gaius listened intently to the litany recited by the priest. When the sermon ended, Lacan nodded to Gaius.

Gaius picked a bark stick, wrapped in fabric from the end. From a pocket, he fished out an orbal lighter traded from the store at Zender Gate.

The bark stick lit aflame.

"Wait," someone called.

Gaius and Lacan turned. A man in his seventies shuffled to Gaius and proffered a shining cube in his palm. Gaius saw it was about the lengthways size of a horseshoe, with an unrecognised sigil on the top. The sigil was a plain circle with two wings; the left wing painted black, the other white. An unusual trinket for a Nordian.

"It was Ishmala's, my mother's. This was the only possession she ever forbade her family from touching, even though she never said why. I believe she would have wanted this curio to be with her in the pyre," said the son.

Lacan nodded to Gaius who accepted the cube.

"Thank you, Zahir," said Lacan.

Zahir nodded his head, backing away.

The cube felt surprisingly heavy in Gaius's hand – almost as heavy as his spear. Opposite its sigil-face, Gaius found an embedded argem, about the size of a bead. The oddity of the cube nearly distracted him from the task at hand. Gaius hesitated then carefully placed the cube at the hollow of Ishmala's neck. He thought the torch was playing tricks in the light but the sigil briefly flared starlight blue when it came in contact with Ishmala's skin. Her deep-wrinkled face remained unmoving.

The pyre was lit.

Gaius stepped back, watching the flames rise. The fire started orange before transmuting green. Even when the smoke watered his eyes, he did not blink for he was the qua'ru for Ishmala. It was his initiative to not look away, not flinch as Ishmala's old bones turned to embers. To ash. To observe her fully in his living awareness was to give a kind of dignity.

Minutes passed and the other nomads began to leave. Lacan pressed a hand on Gaius's shoulder.

"Your supplies for tonight are in the bundle with the horse. Sheeda packed snack comforts," said Lacan.

"Please give her my thanks."

"I shall. May the winds guide you tonight, Gaius."

Eventually it was just Gaius and the pyre. Spittle of sparks sizzled off the burning wood. The flames crackled, rising a good two arge above the corpse. Until finally, it was less corpse and more ash. Gaius exhaled, his shoulders relaxing.

He turned around and saw his horse Tyr, was waiting loyally with a saddlebag tied. Along with his spear in a leather roll.

A sleeping mat unfurled onto the ground. Gaius sat down, placing his spear within arm's reach. The wind's notes told him there were no monsters nearby but one could never be too careful. Especially in these strange times. There were peculiar instances of monster infestations spiking closer than before to the grazing fields. Even the elders commented that it was unsettling. It was never like that in the years before.

From the saddlebag, Gaius served himself hot tea out of a thermos, into a hug mug. Sheeda's sweet tooth instinct had the wisdom to include citron honey in his care package. Gaius added a measured spoon of the honey to his red tea, stirring the steaming mix into a vortex swirl.

For most of the hour, it was quiet. Between sips of hot sweetness, the stars and Tyr for company, the pyre burned into the night. Tyr himself took to a nap. It was not until when the thickest wood gave away to the incendiary decay, that the spookery began.

"Dream-Memory Engine activated."

Gaius raised his head. Did someone speak?

His sharp ears strained against the wind. Gaius saw no one walking the path from the main nomad camp. It was quiet.

Maybe he imagined it.

". . .the Vermillion Apocalypse." A whisper.

Gaius placed his cup down, alert. Did that come from the pyre?

He waited. Waited, anticipating nothing more. Then came a shout, unmistakable for its source.

"Hold the line! Hold the line! Argreion and Valimar almost have the bastard!"

Gaius sprang to his feet, spear on hand. Tyr too had woken up, hoofing the ground and snorting. The Highland stock-bred was unsettled, neighing a warning that something off, as all Nord warhorses were taught.

"Easy Tyr," Gaius called out, his voice calm.

The fire flared, xylophoning its flaming tongues in synchronicity to the voices speaking. A distortion effect started in the vicinity, the colour of the flames taking odd notes of opaque colours – like it was a burning kaleidoscopic vision into another place.

He took another step forward.

"Roselia! Dreichels is in trouble!"

Gaius raised his spear.

"I can't get him out! Valimar is critically damaged!"

The luminosity of the fire suddenly burned so bright, it seared into Gaius's retinas. He shielded his eyes, the after-effects of dazzling colours dancing behind his eyelids. It became loud. A kind of roaring of some terrible beast dying. Gaius tried to open his eyes against the blazing luminosity. Images came abrupt and fast, like a camera shutter. A giant red knight in flames. Glass domes shattering. Three denizens of knight-like armour laying carnage in the chaos of a fight, as the surrounding soldiers scrambled to get out of the way.

More visions. A broad wing-span of a black dragon flying above, shrouding the red clay city block in a shadow. An ear-splitting roar so loud, Gaius thought his skull would split.

Then there was quiet.

Gaius blinked into focus. He was no longer in the high-meadows of Nord. Before him, an ivory tower rose against the afternoon reddened sky. A powerful typhoon gust blew in a single powerful stroke from behind Gaius, sending the carts and horses in the street skittering. A black and violet patterned dragon landed on the tower, coiling around it serpentine-like. Its gripping talons spread poison-purple miasma onto the tower's climbing wood vines, killing its flushes of white flowers. Red clay tiles crumbled from the roof, scattering people from below, to run out of harm's way from the falling debris.

Aidios, what is happening?! Gaius thought.

The dragon opened the maw of its mouth – those incandescent carnation eyes pulsing. Three snake-like tongues spread like a viper's mouth gathering venom; at the centre a blot of black fire was enlarging. That thing was about to breathe a torrent of fire, to where he was standing.

Not fully understanding what was happening, Gaius raised his puny wood-shaft spear at the dragon, his grip shaking. The dragon released the combustion of black flames. Gaius thought it would rush at him but then he realised the dragon had been aiming at something in the sky.

A golden spear streaked at the tower, piercing the dragon by the wing. The dragon fell off, shrieking and frothing miasma and flames. The spear that injured the beast looked at least twelve arge long.

Gaius staggered back, clutching his spear. What could have thrown something that huge?

A seismic landing cratered in front of the tower, sending up a cloud of dust. Through the sfumato, Gaius saw the tall red armour of a knight standing in the dusty haze. The knight turned to Gaius's direction. His breath caught. That thing's eyes glittered a scarlet lens flare, alluding sentient intelligence.

"Crimson Roselia, my Awakener is preparing to engage the Millennium Weapons system against Zoro-Agruga. He anticipates city-wide carnage and demands your clan and the Gnomes help evacuate the foot soldiers," The Vermillion Knight paused then added, "-This is my own request; please be careful and get to safety as soon as you can. This will be a terrible battle."

The knight turned around and charged at the dragon, a great sword conjuring in its hand, brimming with lightning.

The world turned dark. The raucous roar of the crimson knight's battle with the dragon, dipped gradually in its volume until it was quiet. Then those frantic voices from earlier started again.

"Roselia! Dreichels is in trouble!"

"I can't get him out! Valimar is critically damaged!"

"No!"

There was a volatile sound, something in-between the percussion of an explosion – into the teeth-gnashing shriek of metal grinding and tearing.

"Lianne!"

A water droplet splattered on Gaius's forehead. It was too dark to see but Gaius knew it was raining lightly.

Fingers of light started to fill the void with one of the beams highlighting Gaius. He stepped back. Glass shards cracked under his boot. The above clarified hexagonal glistening glass panels of a dome, interconnected like honeycombs. Some panels were missing or fractured, clearly shattered by force. Where there were holes in the glass dome, droplets of rain fell with the soft quality of heaven's mercy.

When all of the ground level was illumed, Gaius gasped.

The red knight from earlier was here again, except. . .

It's been ruined, thought Gaius.

A broad lancer had cleanly pierced through its collar area, completely dislodging the head from the rest of the body. Its corrasion seamed arm was raised in the heinous character of cruelty, its crimson gauntlets curved claw-like, dripping blood. Gaius followed the line of sight to what the red knight was reaching at.

His spear dropped onto the flooring, clattering on the broken glass.

There were two more knight armours. Though they were not as devastatingly ruined as the red one, Gaius could see that these two (ashen-grey and silvery tincture) had been severely damaged. The ashen-grey knight was missing both its arms, barely standing on one ruined leg. One of the argent-silver knight's wings was crushed, crumpled out-of-shape like a broken butterfly. Gaius had an inkling of where the blood was from. The argent knight's breastplate was torn off, exposing the inner cavity.

It was at the foot of the argent knight that Gaius saw a collection of warriors gathered (to his astonishment, he saw a few spearmen dressed in antiquated Nord fashion) around a couple – a man on his knees, holding a woman in his arms. Something was wrong.

Gaius hesitated. He shuffled closer, calling out, "Hello?"

Everyone ignored him as if he was not there.

Closest to the couple was a beautiful woman. She had blood-red eyes and her hair was the colour of hay straws in morning dew. The woman raised what looked like a sceptre, uttering words foreign to Gaius (he saw the hint of pointed fangs). Hanging from the sceptre, Gaius recognised the cube embedded at its end-point. It was the same curio that nestled on Ishmala.

The vampiric-lady shook her head. She said, "I'm sorry. This fatality supersedes my magic."

Gaius came closer. He finally understood the grave mood among the fellowship. The woman being held by the man was dying. She had a grievous chest wound; despite the impediment protection of the armour she wore. Did this have something to do with the broken argent knight? The woman was talking to the man holding her.

"You have to let us go now," she said.

Gaius had never seen a man weep like this one. There was a kind of honesty to his vulnerability, his tears, the way he held the dying woman in his arms, like the sky fell down.

"No – Noooo! Lianne, please – don't. . ."

Lianne coughed. A smidgin of blood flecked her partner's jawline.

"Dreichels. . .I. . ."

"I've already lost Roland. I can't – I can't lose you! We promised we would both live the rest of our lives together! They told us happy endings happened in heroic tales! They told us our dreams would outlive us," sobbed Dreichels.

"The dream. . .isn't dead yet. You have a nation to lead now."

"Don't die, Lianne! Please! I'm not – I'm not strong enough without you. . .please."

Fat tears splashed on Lianne's forehead. Gaius saw there were tears in her eyes too. It was a tragedy ripping ruthlessly at the nerves.

"Shh. Shh. . ." the dying woman tried to console.

"I'm weak, you know why. . ."

"Look at me, Dreichels-" She inhaled as if to draw on the last vestiges of steel strength, "-Dreichels," Gaius heard the shadow of a fierce warrior.

Dreichels stilled, complying. He held her closer to his face as if she might physically slip away. Lianne whispered:

"You are the bravest man I've ever known, no-" Dreichels shook his head, "-it's true. You have to be strong, my darling. My brave Lionheart, my loyal companion. I love you because you are greater than you know. Erebonia will-" More coughs, her voice strained closer to the void, "-This nation. . .she will come to know you as the greatest emperor it ever had. All her children will sing because you gave them hope in their home," said Lianne.

"I – I don't know if I can. . ."

"You must. Promise me, Dreichels. Be their hero. Be strong for. . ." she went faint.

"Lianne, no. . ."

". . .for me."

Death's weighty finality pressed in the broken throne room. A cry of anguish ripped from the man's throat – the rawness of grief pronounced to the storm-pregnant sky above. The warriors around bowed their heads. Some knelt, obeisant to the fallen.

Gaius touched his cheek. What was this? He was crying too, as if this memory was saturating through his heart. He wiped at his eyes.

The smell of white roses and pink pepper misted around Gaius. A feminine voice whispered into his ear:

"I see. Ishmalah knew that fire would beacon the artifact's location to me. That woman ought to have stayed with the clan than become a wandering witch."

Gaius dropped his hands. He was standing in Nord again, the cold stars glittering like diamonds from above.

Bewildered, Gaius spun around, searching for some hidden trickster or a monster that may have cast a glamour on him. There was nothing. Not unless Gaius was mad enough to blame Tyr for ominous visions. The horse was nudging at his shoulder, in want of a sugar cube.

Ishmalah's pyre was now a smouldering glow of ember and charcoal. Prodding at the other end of his spear showed him the cube was now gone. Gaius took a sharp inhalation of breath through his teeth.

What was all that I just saw? Dreichels? That's the Erebonian emperor of a time passed, thought Gaius.

Three days later.

Tyr turned up the crescent of the incline to the stone circle. The outcrops of the rocks rose as the animist remains came into view, followed by the battalion company that was accompanying their lieutenant general. Though the sun was yet to rise, the soldiers recognised the profile of the young spearman dismounting his horse – a familiarity that had been tightened ever since Gaius helped a squadron take out a troubling batch of monsters.

"Here to see the general, Worzel?" one asked Gaius.

Gaius nodded.

"He's over there."

At the precipice of the plateau, General Zechs Vander stood with his back turned, arms folded. He was facing the antigodlin lines of the Eisengard mountains. On closer approach, Zechs spoke without turning:

"Of all the places in Nord, this is my favourite, Worzel. These trilithons have endured through thousands of nights worth of rain, humbled before millions of shooting stars; it has stood sentinel through conflicts like War of the Lions and this morning, my oversized warhorse's flatulence. There's a kind of permanence these stones have that puts the finite of our mortal coils in perspective. It makes me ponder how I spend mine, out here in Zender Gate."

"We're both starting the day on the same page then, general," said Gaius, joining Zechs by his side.

The wind simmered down as if she was holding her breath for dawn. The rising sun came as it did every day in Nord. First alighting the peaky giants in the Eisengard range, their snowy caps glowing like the freshly extinguished tapers of tallow candles. Then the rest of the golden flood.

Gaius closed his eyes, feeling his face warm against the sun. The wind tickled at his long locks. From the valley echoes, he heard red-tail hawks screech, proclaiming their territories against other birds and monsters.

"I don't consider myself the spiritual type, yet every day the Nord sunrise evokes something in me that can't be put into words," Zechs said, low-spoken.

Beneath the breeze's undertones, Gaius could hear the little vibratos of the Nord Highlands life. It was not just auditory but the instinct of knowing how to identify the subtle qualities. White petals falling into Lake Lacrima, chatters from the nomads by a stream, the patrol marches from the watchtower, all of it. Even the highland's secret history of epics and animism. It was like a world unto its own, isolated in a little glass globe, unperverted by sophisticated chaos.

Unless something threatened it.

"You look troubled, Worzel."

Gaius opened his eyes.

"It is true. I have been unsettled by a revelation as of late."

"Will you share?"

Gaius blinked at the Nord sunrise. There was indeed something spiritual about it – like feeling his soul was warmed.

". . .I had a vision, lieutenant general. Almost like a premonition. It was like the past was trying to tell me something," said Gaius.

"A premonition? Of what? Calvard breaching the Eisengard Range?"

"No, general. Not Calvard. Your people," Gaius paused, "-I know you speak in the language of strategy maps on the table, military intelligence and artillery points. Against all that, I am a shepherd of-"

"Worzel. Before you go on any further, don't believe me to be fully empiric. I've lived long enough to know its limitations. The moments when 'cold facts' have failed and twisted commanders. All our military intelligence could not protect Hamel from becoming a victim to this empire's blasted ambitions. I saw the near-invasion of Liberl stopped not by our empire's politicians and strategists but a prince who carries the reputation of hedonism, drowning in red wine and serenading poetry to unmarried daughters. Someone like that knew better. Someone like that, saved hundreds of thousands."

Gaius turned his head at Zechs. This was the first time he had seen the military man betray a spillage of emotion. Gaius did not know what this Hamel tragedy was but it had Zechs's moustache quivering, the corners of his mouth curled into commas of shame. Then his countenance folded. A sad chuckle.

Around them, Vander's men stood disciplined in guard – unchanged. If their superior's harsh words perturbed them, they did not show it. Their iron-clad loyalty saw to that.

"I could be court-martialled for treason for speaking like that against my superiors and the monarchy. Who knows? Maybe one day, the 'Blood and Iron Chancellor' might snap and relieve us Vanders. There are days when I visit the watchtower, I see a tired, red-eye private scanning the skies for Calvard airships and I can't help but feel the cynicism for how Zender Gate is kept in the dark of deeper machinations. Watching for enemies from outside when there are vipers within.

We live in tumultuous times where wisdom is needed. You're not just a mere shepherd, Worzel but a talented spearman born in the heritage land where Emperor Dreichels raised his army to win the War of the Lions. So please – speak freely."

War of the Lions, thought Gaius.

Gaius had this undertone feeling that Erebonian patriotism did not allow Dreichels to be anyone less than perfect. The nomads noticed this often with the garrison officers. How their nationalism inspired a feverish speak of 'Erebonian values' and its heroes. Such culture came off as strange to the nomads.

Could it have really been Dreichels in his vision? Gaius pondered. The Lionheart? The icon hero of the Erebonian Empire. The indomitable force of a man who was supposed to embody the absolute best of the empire's virtue.

A spectre of the vision's sorrow flitted in Gaius. The young man shivered in the warm morning. At once, Gaius understood what he had to do. It was like peering into a kaleidoscope that jigged a slight twist for a shift in a vastly different pattern to emerge. A darker image.

Gaius took a deep breath. This was not a light decision he was making. But. But. . .if shadows were darkling at the corners of the Lionheart's soul, then something was afoot now. Something sinister.

"Arise O' youth, and become the foundation of the world," said Gaius.

Zechs nodded.

"The man's words," said Zechs.

"Also, the motto of the military school he founded, Thors Military Academy. Or so my Sunday school teacher told me," said Gaius.

"Oh? Does this have to do with your favour?"

"Yes. I don't fully understand it myself but I know a ripple has shivered across the continent. It starts with the legacy of Dreichels Reise Arnor. Even beyond his grave the shockwaves of his victory echoes through history's pages up until today-" Gaius knelt, pressing his palm against the earth, "-it reaches my home, the Nord Highlands. Even nature around us feels it."

"I've seen that pattern in military reports of surprise ambushes and disaster. The officers recount the eeriest detail in the days or hours leading up to it. A mug chinking. A strange quality in the light. The feeling of sharp static in their uniforms. A bitter argument with the wife. As if catastrophe's presentiment is seeping in before it reveals itself," commented Zechs.

"You understand where I'm coming from then. Lieutenant general; the favour I ask of you is a letter of recommendation. For enrolment into Thors Military Academy. If danger threatens my home, I intend to be at the source of where I instinctively know it begins," said Gaius.

Zechs folded his arms.

"Trista is a long way from Nord, Worzel. Are you sure about this commitment?"

"It's like you said, general. There are vipers within Erebonia. Would I guard my home with my back turned to the serpents, out here with my horizons narrow and naïve of the world? Or will I face it directly?"

Zechs was impressed with the young man. Not only did he have a proven aptitude in a cavalry unit with a spear but the boy had a good head on his shoulders. Someone like this would be an asset to Thors.

Or an asset to Prince Olivert, thought Zechs.

"Sergeant Glenn!" barked Zechs.

An officer quickened to them. He snapped a salute.

"Sir!"

"Has the messenger courier departed Zender's Gate? The discreet one which I use for my nephew."

"I believe he's due to leave in an hour, sir!"

"Send word to base now. Tell him to hold off. Tell him-" Zechs clamped a hand on Gaius's shoulder, "-I have one more letter to write."

Two days before orientation at Thors Military Academy.

Gaius dismounted Tyr. From the saddle buckles, he unlatched two drango hide bags, containing his garments, the miscellany for grooming, scented candles Fätma made, mira Lacan gave him, a sketchbook, pencils and a lunch pack prepared by his siblings.

One soldier came hurrying towards Gaius, holding a hefty parcel with Gaius's name on it.

"I'm assuming that's the uniform pack?" asked Gaius.

The officer nodded.

"Yeap. We held onto it as you requested. Came in about a week ago. I'll help you load-" the officer broke off, looking past Gaius's shoulder.

Gaius had the instinctive knowing of who it was. He turned around.

Long braids and longer legs swung down from a white mare. Her longbow was strapped across her back. That weapon was typically drawn at monsters or game. Today, something of grim amusement trickled in Gaius as he wondered if she was going to shoot him today to stop him from leaving.

His companion was slack-jawed at the sight of Sashkä, no doubt unused to seeing Nord women of her kind; flashing clavicle tattoos of her tribe and hippogriff feather arrows, ready to nock. Sashkä stopped before Gaius, her naturally arched eyebrows intensifying the definition of her coolly appraising gaze. Gaius was intimately familiar with those eyes, the hours he spent with her in some isolated meadow full of flowers, stroking those eyebrows while her hand unbuckled his trousers. . .

She waited. The soldier blinked then cleared his throat.

"I - erm. . .I'll give you two space. Be mindful, the train is leaving in fifteen minutes, Worzel. It will be an eight-hour journey," said the soldier.

Gaius was left alone with Sashkä.

"Off to play soldier boy, are we?" she said.

If the Erebonian soldier was still here, he would have heard an attractive lilt in her scorn, because of the Nordian accent.

Gaius nodded his head, unperturbed as always.

"Sashkä. I'm glad you came to see me off," said Gaius.

Sashkä snorted. She folded her arms, looking disdainfully at Zender Gate.

"It's not a sentimental goodbye, Gaius. These irzhads are going to make you one of their hollow heart swords. Or guns. Maybe you'll be the next poster boy for the empire's expansion policy when you come knocking on Calvard's doorstep."

"You're mad at me."

"You-" she jabbed a finger at his chest, "-are a fool. Do you think they'll treat you the same? Papa has told me stories about some of these nobles. What they're like. They have a type that looks down on common folk. How do you think they'll react to someone of different skin colour?"

Gaius caressed her hand, clasping both of hers to his chest. Sashkä's expression softened for a few seconds before she remembered she was supposed to be cross. They both stood almost eye-to-eye, with Sashkä being about five reges shorter than him.

"I don't know what exactly awaits me in Trista, Sashkä. I'm sorry I'm not wise enough about the Erebonians to have a riposte to your worries. But-" Gaius pulled her closer to him, those dark eyes never leaving his, "-I have to do this, for our home. It's not forever. Unlike many of our ancestors who fought in the War of the Lions, I will return. It may even be sooner than you anticipate," said Gaius.

Sashkä pressed a hand on his heart. Its beats; strong, resonant against her palm.

"I just hope you don't forget your roots. You're not like these men in Zender Gate, Gaius. I can see it in their eyes, some of them have killed people. Your eyes – they are still clear, still ready to startle when a girl holds your hand. This Thors going to teach you to kill, a-ha?"

"If I have to do it, I must. Greater warriors than me, have done so," Gaius said softly.

"If the killing ever becomes enjoyable, promise me you'll stop. Leave it to another, with deeper spiritual kinship with Aidios. Let it be their burden. These people with their new gods of war, strife, mira and power; they don't see life as our people do. It's already sacred as it is," said Sashkä.

"You have my word. I know my promise will be inviolable because I'll miss you."

The way Sashkä's lips pressed on his, in that serene silent way, assured Gaius that he was going to have a safe trip. It was sensual. It was also bittersweet, its definition full of the years they've known each other.

"Remember that, when you're having pillow talk with their spoilt daughters," said Sashkä.

"You too."

"Ha! Forget it. We both know there are plenty of guys in the tribes who would howl for a fight at a Calvard airship, just to be with me. Some with bigger arms and taller than even you, Gaius."

Gaius smiled. They both had the mutual understanding that it was no longer monogamous between them now. When Gaius will return someday, the wind's tide of fate will decide if they will come back to each other's arms, or continue it in another.

Sashkä pressed two fingers on Gaius's lips, as per the formal custom of saying goodbye.

"May the wind bless your journey, Gaius."

There was that mystifying white of mist which was peculiar to Legram's colder mornings. The haze covered Lake Ebel, its neighbouring town, the forests and fields surrounding.

A land formation in this vicinity had a curious profile. Its curvature hollowed into the ground in such a way, that some of the locals joked that a giant took to spooning out the earth. Their humour only became sober when the daughters of the viscount took months to plant flowers called cleomes, trying to make up for the destruction which the Frozen Flames meteorite crash inflicted on the ecosystem, in a diameter cratering at almost seventy-five arges, to an inner-point depth of fifteen arges.

This morning the white cleome flowers were drenched in the dew. Droplets clung onto their cat whisker-like protrusions from the crown of white petals.

Laura S. Arseid paused at the centre of the crater, considering a large spider web that caught the dew beads. The refractories from the white petals glistened each droplet in frost white radiance. The spider itself was cocooned in a curled leaf, caught on the web. No doubt the spider was scared of Laura, who was simply unfazed by most arachnids.

In the distance, male superb fairy-wrens trilled when they saw a human standing amongst the cleomes, their blue plumage distinct from the brown coat of the female wrens with them.

"They're showing off because you're here!" someone called from the outer perimeter of the cleome crater.

Laura looked up, brushing a stray of strands out of her eyes. At seventeen, she had grown out her indigo blue hair, tying it in a high ponytail that complimented the air of nobility she had to her. She was as pretty as they came for the stereotype of a noble's daughter, even despite the quirky deviation of having a slight cleft overbite to her cupid bow's lips, which actually came off as attractively kissable (Laura used to be oblivious to this amatory weapon in her awakening womanhood's arsenal, until her sister drilled it into her when they were at Laura's society debut ball at fourteen. It explained why the boys were more interested in looking at her lips than being in awe of her newly forged greatsword!) for a fairy tale story of roses, thorns and cruel princes.

Laura nodded to the butler approaching her.

"Klaus. Who is showing off?" asked Laura.

"The fairy-wrens. The males, to be exact. It's part of their mating instincts to make a lot of noise and taunt danger in front of their female counterparts, who like to pick the most daring of the lot. For birds that are smaller than a teacup, they are quite brave. I once saw a wren fight off a snake," said Klaus.

"Even the birds have their sense of macho and valor."

"I'd wager the viscount's iconic style keeps them around Legram. Is everything all right? You haven't visited the crater point of Frozen Flames since last year," said Klaus.

A blue-banded bee landed on Laura's forefinger. She raised her hand with cherish, watching the little insect take a reprieve before it went out its day's work with the cleomes.

"I am well. I came here because I wanted to see the crater one last time. Where the heavens deposited the ore which helped forge my Brynhildr. It reminds me that the weapon I wield, traces its roots to an event which indiscriminately killed all the life that once was here," said Laura.

Klaus nodded.

"You're sober about the responsibility you have with your sword. It's a good mindset to have, for anyone who will be a Thors student."

"Is it time to leave?" she asked quietly.

"Yes. Even the townsfolk are gathering to see off Victor's daughter. You will be carrying the pride of Legram and the Arseid School with you, to Thors."

The bee took off. Laura watched it fly to a rumbustious bloom of flowers.

". . .it will never be the same from now, will it?"

"No, my dear. It was never the same. From the day I heard your infancy cries echo the halls of the Arseid mansion, to watching you grow into a fine woman. It is life's paradoxical constant, that change is always happening. The best we can do is to answer to the constant transmutations with love and nurture. Nurture it, Laura. Just as you and Elena nurtured nature back to life here."

For the first time since Laura woke up today, happiness lit up her features. On Laura, it was like the cognitive impression fairy lights lighting up. How started in her eyes and warmed her aura.

"Thank you for those words, Klaus. I fully intend to answer to everyone's expectations. With nurture. And with love."

Ymir.

A lone figure stood at the edge of the frozen lake. His dark hair was a swan-wing of spikes, teased out to a messy aesthetic. Pale purple eyes blinked at the indistinct dark figure that had been slowly decomposing in the icy waters for eight years. Though its form was distorted and blurred by the ice, the young man could still acutely remember what that monster looked like in its final visceral moment.

Eight years since the Frozen Flames meteoroid streaked over Erebonia.

Eight years since Rean killed the monster, sending it down to its watery grave.

Rean exhaled.

"It's a funny life. The day finally comes when I am to leave Ymir for Thors. Yet it feels like it was never my family or friends that truly understood me. After all these years, it was you, wasn't it? Because of what I did to you. . .what you ignited in me. Isn't that kind of fucked?" said Rean.

The corpse did not answer. It did not need to. Rean knew the dead did not nurture the sentiments of the living.

A/N:

Dream-Memory Engine. An artifact I invented for this story. When a 'burned' argem is inserted, it reads and creates alternate-reality simulations based on the memories stored in the septium. What distinguishes it from any orbal-derivative technology attempting to replicate something like this, is that the user also experiences the emotions of the memory, even if the individual is dead.

As far as I can foresee, I don't need to invent another non-canon artifact for this story.

Regarding the Vermillion Knight, the nomenclature change to the 'Thousand Weapons' system is intentional. 'Millennium Weapons' system simply sounds cooler to my inner-adolescent's seinen manga sensibilities.

This story is going to put an undertone focus on a pattern I've picked up from a male archetype in the kiseki series. Prominent heroes who pushed themselves to the absolute limit for the empire, only to become 'broken' in some way in the end. In-game history prefers to bask them for glory and valour and is typically not interested in the vulnerability they must have truly experienced in the harshest moments.

Hector Reise Arnor I, the dragon slayer. Died to the corruption of Zoro-Agruga. I sometimes idly wonder when I'm reading the Black Records; 'What went through Hector's mind as he died inside the Vermillion Knight?' ("Do turtles really breathe through their buttholes?" *dies).

Speaking of his Divine Knight, the Testa-Rossa could have been a celebrated hero like Valimar (post-CS2) but it's now harshly branded for being a 'demon'. The distinction that stood out to me with the Vermillion Knight/Crimson Calamity – was that it's more vilified than mourned for becoming corrupted to the curse, losing its sentience. This reputation was no doubt exacerbated by Orthros piloting the Crimson Calamity during the War of the Lions.

Then we have Dreichels Reise Arnor. I wanted to be explicit about my interpretation of what the Lionheart's moment of victory must have been like. To show his vulnerability for rising to the calling to save the empire from Erebonia's most destructive civil war.

The overarching point I'm trying to make here is that there is an Erebonian saviour archetype that's meant to take all the hits for the empire. This archetype is expected to bottle it up. This archetype is supposed to be strong at all times for the empire. And they typically don't have a choice because when they crack, when powerful men or Divine Knights succumb, the consequences are deadly for everyone involved. If you've played Sen no Kiseki III and IV, you can see where this is going.

There are real life parallels to the above and the male gender in our world. Men who beat their wives weren't born into this world as dickheads. They were born into a society that conditions them to suppress their emotions, vindications of sensitivity – as boys get hurt (be it physically or emotionally), indurating their hearts, dulling their sense of empathy, sensitivity and compassion. Men are taught in no unclear terms, that it is normalised they will be the cannon fodder deaths in war. In the U.S, many survivors of the Iraqi War became homeless, violent or/and addicts to opioids, because of PTSD which filled them with anger and pain. Polemic attempts to address the statistics of their plight has so far been answered with lethargic/indifferent response from the administrative mainstream because of the 'cannon fodder' standard in culture.

This isn't a justification for deplorable acts of hurting, which people do. This is my observation of the causalities; which defines that trauma unhealed, becomes trauma transferred.

Now this is where Lianne Sandlot and Laura S. Arseid pique my interest, with regards to the above. My cognition of Lianne is partially spoken for with what I wrote in this chapter, her volition to sacrifice herself to save Dreichels from becoming another Hector, and those things she said to him. With Laura, I found it interesting how she refused to accept Rean belittling himself to a smaller stature, lesser confident young man. She has this expectation of him that feels distinctive in drawing what's healthy masculinity (no doubt Victor imprinted the blueprint of the ideal model) and what's 'toxic masculinity'. I might be kind of crazy for believing this but I think Rean is more interesting in a ship where he's nurtured to be confident. Rather than a contrary where he hunches his shoulder, takes the mud-flung accusations which come his way like a doormat, all because he has that signature low self-esteem.

FAQ update: Question six has been updated.