Dear Cain,

I don't have adequate words to express my gratitude for your help and my sorrow at having taken advantage of you. You are my oldest, most dearest friend and I have treated you terribly over the years. I have done little to deserve your friendship and yet you have been my most steadfast friend.

I know there is much left unspoken between us. I don't know how to set right the broken parts without hurting us both further. My heart is so sick with grief that I don't think it will ever recover. Every day, I wake with the pain gnawing at my insides, so deep and so terrible that I am not sure how this disease of sorrow has not hollowed me out yet while sleeping. I have heard that one day, suddenly, the pain becomes easier to bear. I am still waiting for that day. For me, the grief only gets worse, when I realize I have forgotten what his voice sounds like, or the changing shade of gray in his eyes when he was at his happiest. He dies more every passing minute, perpetually and permanently.

For now, I am a walking ghost, half remembering how breath felt in my chest, how my blood used to thrum through my veins, how my heart beat in life's rhythm against my ribs. I don't know how to be anything else. I don't know how to be anyone else but his, so I must be nothing to no one.

I will not justify my cowardly actions to you, because there is nothing I can say or write that will make it better. I will only say this: I cannot be with you, but I do not want to hurt you. My presence brings danger to those around me and I could not bear you or anyone else getting hurt for the crime of only loving me.

I will tell you only that I am safe, and Crystals willing, shall remain so. I do not ask for your forgiveness, as I cannot make proper amends to you and might not ever be able to do. I only ask for your understanding.

With all the love I have,

Rosa

Troia, to my eternal surprise, welcomed me with open arms. I emerged from the forest into their city like a dead thing, dirty and half-starved from my journey through the dangerous territory. It felt similar to when I stumbled into Kaipo, delirious with fever and half-mad with fear for Cecil. This time, however, it was fear for myself. The guards brought me into the castle, and the next day or two passed in a blur of sleep, food, and more sleep.

Eventually, I woke and felt more human, and I was brought before the Troian Sister Sages. Their proposal was simple: they would harbor me here and offer me asylum, in exchange for consultation on any magic related matters. While the Troian military remained strong even during the Crystal War, their focus was on melee combat, not magic. They had doctors, who practiced in the practical application of assisting the body to heal, but no significant magic users.

I knew, even then, that there was an unspoken ulterior motive in keeping me out of Baron's reach and under their care and possession, but I had few options that did not involve being forever on the run from Baron. And so, I accepted.

I was set up in a cottage, some way away from the city. Time passed, and I cultivated a reputation as a reclusive witch-healer, offering help to those who wandered to my door but little else in social niceties. A few young men wandered my way, offering flowers, or poetry, and I sent them along, sometimes with a suggestion of a young lady that might reciprocate their affection. I traded curative potions and salves, consulted on magic problems, and along with a small stipend from the Troian Sages, I made a humble living.

I was very much alone.

I lived with my fear. It became a tangible thing in the room with me, something I had to make room for, like an extra awkward limb. I was constantly moving around it, in a perpetual dance of trying not to disturb it or draw attention to it, lest I have to acknowledge it.

Too often, I watched the skies during the day, and dreamed of red-bellied birds chasing me down at night, and I'd wake shrieking myself hoarse with terror. Worse yet were the dreams of Cecil, who would hold me and whisper in my ear that everything would turn out all right, that he would protect me, that I was always safe with him. Those morning I'd wake with tears already rolling down my cheeks, and they never seemed to stop.

I wrote often during these lonely days and nights. Sometimes I wrote letters — to my mother, to Cid, to Rydia and every one else who had touched my life. They all remained unsent, smoldering in the fireplace and whatever sentiments they may have imparted never to be said. Misery bled forth from my pen and I could not stem it; every apology I wrote seemed so stuffed with self-pity and angst, but I could not help it.

Other times, I detailed the magical parts of my adventure with Cecil, trying to understand the nature of the foreign magics. The Four Fiends seemed especially extraordinary to me, and I sought out any literature I could that might help me understand how they might come to be. I started to assemble a growing list of folk stories telling the tale of one person who seemed skilled with an element. In Damcyan, there is a story of a dancer who moved so beautifully that the wind fell in love with her and descended from the sky as a man swathed in clouds. Another story from Mysidia describes a young sailor who could read the waves as one does a book, and his uncanny navigation skills allowed him to explore farther into the ocean than anyone before him.

I practiced my magic, researching new uses for the holy art and pushing the limits of my abilities. I found a fascinating dissertation on the use of curative spells against the undead, which posited that its use might be much more effective at killing them than even traditional black magic such as Fire.

I thought often on the nature of necromancy and how best to counter it, writing down different ideas and theories on each type of attack's effectiveness, and how to defend oneself best. I did not, however, think much on Galen himself. I skillfully avoided letting my mind wander to the abandoned boy, and let my guilt tuck it away in the back of my mind.

All in all, I survived, and if not for my dual weights of grief and fear, I might have been happy with this role in life.

—

The world changed around me.

Shortly after my boat left Dragonwing, a storm devastated the islands and surrounding sea, and sunk more than a few ships. The rumor eventually spread that I was on of those ships, and had met the same fate as my sabotaged husband. Baron became less aggressive, and lessened their military presence in Damcyan, Fabul and Mysidia, although some soldiers continue to remain as permanent fixtures, particularly in Damcyan. Baron turned its sight inward, and the word 'famine' was whispered. I knew no more than that about Baron.

In Mysidia, there was a worrying few weeks after our departure, where the undead population continued to grow and roam further away from Mt. Ordeals. So far that Mysidia wondered if they'd cross the plains to their city. As fast as their numbers had grown, they disappeared even more quickly, suddenly retreating back to the mountain and going dormant again. No one could account for this strange behavior. Mysidia itself continued to grow over the next few years, eventually opening their magic school and taking in students from all over the world.

Rumors of the undead began cropping up in different parts of the world, small pockets of zombies suddenly active and restlessly seeking out an unknown purpose. A contingent of Mysidian white mages formed, The White Guard, whose sole purpose was to combat the rising undead population, first found at Mt. Ordeals and then the world over. As the years passed, The White Guard grew in size as they began recruiting from all nations to their holy quest.

Damcyan had experienced the brunt of Baron's initial aggression in the time following Cecil's death. Under the guise of helping Damcyan rebuild, Baron installed itself throughout Damcyan, with a variety of military outposts throughout the desert, despite being ultimately responsible for Damcyan's prior losses. I often wondered about Gilbert's feelings on this unofficial occupation, but he never made a contrary statement. Instead, Gilbert publicly expressed his ongoing support for Baron and gratitude for their help. Eventually, Gilbert remarried, the daughter of the new Captain of the Red Wings, further cementing the close relationship between the two nations.

Silveria continued to flourish, thanks in no small part to Baron's ongoing patronage. Other nations tried to vie for a share of the mithril bounty in the caves of Silveria's sea caves, but were often out-bought by Baron. Thus began a worldwide search for other mithril deposits in the various mountain ranges and cave systems.

Troia made a huge leap forward in the resource race when mithril was discovered in its south eastern mountain range, one they shared with Baron, and they scrambled to lay claim and set up excavation sites before Baron did. Progress into the mountain's depths was halted, however, when zombies began emerging from the natural caves there. Troia fought them with swords and fires, and it seemed to placate the undead temporarily, but there seemed ever more within the darkness of the mountain.

The Sages often asked me to consult on the state of the forest, so worried were they about the absence of the Earth Crystal. I'd inspect a few trees, and tell them again that the magic and blessing of the Earth Crystal still remained, even without its physical presence. It was true, I could feel the hum of the green energy that flows from plant, to tree, to insect, to creature, even if I couldn't precisely define it. How were they so deaf to it? I didn't understand.

Seven years passed in this relative peace and quiet.

Somehow, without Cecil in it, the world moved on.

—

One ordinary morning, I woke to a summons from the Troian Sister Sages. This was not unusual in of itself, but an ominous note hung over the morning sky as I made my way to the castle. I saw the presence of unknown soldiers about in the city — not Baron, or Fabul, or any other nation I recognized, and they were no unifying sigil or banner. In fact, not even their armor seemed similar, each soldier dressed in his or her own different kind of kit, no uniformity to them. If I had spotted them individually, I would have thought it was a lone adventurer, but there seemed too many of them for it to be a coincidence.

Nervous now, I made my way to the audience chamber. The twelve sister sages stood solemnly together, one broke away, to come speak to me, "Rosa," and she grasped my hands in familiar greeting, but there was urgency in her voice despite the fond gesture, "Thank you for coming." She guided me forward, then stepped away to take her spot, one of twelve, ranked in a circle around the middle of the room.

I stepped forward into the middle, casting a nervous glance around to the women who surrounded me. I could read concern on a few of their faces, but otherwise they were unreadable.

"Rosa Harvey." The eldest sister at the peak of the circle summoned my attention with her words, and I turned to face her, "Let us not waste words. We have asked you here today for a reason."

"Yes." I responded, dropping into a quick curtesy to her, "How may I be of service?"

Another, two to the left of the first, spoke next, her voice soft but firm as she picked up the thread of the conversation, "As you know, through reports and research, that the undead have been on the rise these past few years."

"I do know." I agreed, turning slightly to face her.

But another spoke, one to my back, "They have arrived in our lands now, in the southern mountains." I whirled around to face the third speaker. While they usually spoke in turns like this, it was not usually so rapidly, each one picking up on the other's point and carrying it forward, "And so, action must be taken."

"What sort of action do you mean, my ladies?" I asked, not only of the speaker, but to the group at large, with a quick glancing sweep of my gaze, to indicate them all.

"We have hired two groups." A fourth spoke, this one to the right of the first speaker, stepping forward with her words, "The White Guard, to crush out the undead numbers, and a mercenary group, to protect their backs as they seek out the zombies."

"And I…?" I prompted, my words small, afraid of the answer.

"You will liaise between the two groups." The first speaker, the eldest sage, spoke again, and I turned once more to face her, "You know members in both. You will communicate strategies between the two, represent Troian interests and help craft the best course of action."

"But I cannot—"

"You may refuse us, but you must consider how little we have asked of you thus far during your stay," said a new speaker, and I turned to the voice, recognizing her as the youngest of the twelve, her face screwed up into an angry look. The sister to her right touched the her shoulder, and whispered a few words, and the younger sage's face deflated, and she stepped back, her mouth in a straight but grim line.

Another spoke, the eldest for the third time, "This is not a threat, we must clarify. We will not revoke our asylum if you refuse. But I must impress upon you the importance of this mission, of protecting our realm from such an unholy threat. You are well-versed on the subject, we know. We humbly ask this of you, and hope you heed our call in this time of need."

I took in a slow, careful breath, trying to pick my words carefully, "Who… do I know? In the two groups?"

There was a collective hush, the twelve sister sages each exchanging a singular glance.

"We shall send them to meet with you, so you may hear from them directly," came the eventual response, again from the eldest sister, "Speak with them, hear their concerns for the threat, and decide for yourself. We ask that you only listen, for now."

"I can listen." I said at last, though I could not hide the reluctance in my voice.

I returned home, my heart growing heavy with dread. I thought about just leaving, disappearing into the woods and trying to make my way solo. I had enough skill with a bow that I wouldn't go hungry, but the idea of being completely isolated made the breath catch in my chest.

I thought of the youngest sage's words — did I owe them? Of course I did. Was that enough to keep me here and loyal? I wrestled with the dual needs of wanting to keep myself safe and keeping my word.

I thought of Cecil, and the great debt he owed Troia for handing over the Earth Crystal so he could exchange it for my safety, and my guilt doubled, weighing me down. Cecil hadn't just left when it was hard; he had walked into Mysidia, wearing his mistakes on his dark armor, and he faced the consequences.

I took a deep, shuddering breath and steeled myself to the decision: I would stay. For now.

A bigger question now loomed overhead, filling my small home with tense anxiety — who was coming?