The Ol' Switcheroo

by CloverCloverClover

What if Amalthus had awakened Mythra instead of Malos 500 years ago, so best girl (Nia) and best bro (Malos) got more screentime? Among a bunch of other things? Let's find out. (TITLE DOES NOT REFLECT THE TONE OF THIS FIC) ACT 5 FINALLY FINISHED! AVOID COMMENTS ABOUT CHAPTER 25 UNTIL YOU HAVE READ IT IF YOU WANT TO AVOID MAJOR SPOILERS!

29. Chapter 29

13.

Morag sat alone in the forest surrounding Fonsett village, staring up into the starry night sky. She could feel the weakness of her body as she knelt among the tall grass carpeting the forest floor. She had barely been able to bring herself to eat, lately – everything tasted like ash. She could manage perhaps one or two bites before she felt as if she might be sick. She knew her body cried out for food – it had for so long that she could feel something deeply wrong within her, some twisted knot in her gut. But she hid it well, hid it from everyone.

She felt that, if only she could cease the endless firestorms in her head, she might get better. Ever since they had arrived back in Fonsett, it had been these hellish waves of emotion that had roiled her, more emotion than she ever remembered feeling, more emotion than she thought possible, that had driven her to these woods for long hours of solitude, not wanting the others to see her stoicism breaking.

First had come the rage, the incredible, boundless rage, like a roaring, white-hot flame in her brain. So much fury, so much anger, that it felt as if her very blood was poison. Her whole country, her entire home, all the beauty, all that it might have been, everyone she had known, everything she had ever fought for, and most of all, her brother, sweet Niall, had died in horror and flame, driven to their end by the mad butchers of Brionac, and destroyed by Mythra, and it enraged her so much that at times she would gag, feeling sick, as if she might vomit. She had never been a sadistic person, but her thoughts had filled with violent fantasies of revenge, cruel tortures inflicted upon Mythra and the Brionac high command for what they had done. But there was no revenge to be taken, at least upon Brionac – they had died along with her country. But the fact that she was robbed of her revenge, upon them at least, only infuriated her more.

Her anger had fed upon itself, burning hotter and hotter, until she wondered if it might actually drive her mad. Even as she indulged in it, it was almost as if she could feel her mind warping and breaking, as if it were a blade subjected to heat from a forge. Brighid could, of course, sense that something was wrong, and her blade had tried to talk to her, but Morag had avoided her most of all. How could she tell her? How could she tell Brighid that whenever she looked at her, she saw her country in flames, she saw her dead brother, and it made her want to scream?

And finally, when she thought the rage would never end, it had burnt out of her. Not that it was entirely gone – there was still a red-hot coal of that anger within her – but the waves of flame, the burning in her blood, had died down. Not because she had gotten over it, but because the fuel had burnt out, her soul left a blackened ruin, feeling empty and hollow. And then the grief, the horrific grief, the grief that she could not contain. Her anger, she had managed to keep within, but the grief could not be, as her mind raced over memories of her brother, his tired smile, as she saw his face every time she closed her eyes, and deep in the forest she wept and it was all she could do to keep herself from screaming. Niall. She would never see him again, never see him grow up, never give him advice when he fell in love, she would grow old with the hole where he should be haunting her for the rest of her days, and it burned worse than the rage had, staining something permanent within her, and she knew even now, she would never be truly happy again, never not feel his absence, she knew, she could tell that no matter how much she might lie to herself in the future, this would cripple her, as surely as if she had lost an arm or a leg. On late, lonely nights, in the dark, no matter how long she lived, she would think of his face and feel the pain of his loss, like a hot shard of glass wedged into her heart. It overwhelmed everything, made the world feel small, dim, as if she was looking at reality through a small pane of fogged glass.

Strangely enough, she hadn't felt grief for her country. Not yet. Her grief for her brother overwhelmed everything, at least right now. But she could feel it sometimes, deep within her. The thought of everything Mor Ardain might have been. The beauty of it that she had hoped so deeply the world might be able to see one day. A future, a symphony of incredible complexity and aching tragedy that had been bought to an end, an end to all that could have been, the forever shuttering of a million doors, the death of a thousand futures.

And when she was not feeling this awful, wrenching grief, she felt...nothing. She felt numb, so much so that even her body felt numb, as if she was simply no longer receiving signals from her nerves. So numb that it was frightening, so numb that she did not even know that she could consider it a relief from the rage and grief. She wondered if she would ever feel normal again. What was 'normal' already seemed like a distant memory. Maybe this was just how she would feel, forever, once the rage and grief was done with her, if they ever were. Completely empty.

"...Morag…?" came a soft voice.

Morag whipped her head around. The numbness dulled her, she had not heard anyone approaching. There, silver hair signing in waves in the moonlight, stood Nia, a hand clutched in front of her chest, in front of her core crystal.

Morag had questions, for Nia. She had been shocked to learn that she was a flesh eater. But in the wake of everything that had happened, those questions had washed away, seeming so much less relevant now. And she had been avoiding Nia. Because….

Because of the burning shame that washed through her even now. Nia...had done so much for her. And Morag had repaid her kindness, repaid her sweetness and light, by ignoring her, ignoring her when she begged and pleaded for help, when she had thought the boy she loved was going to die. And she had asked Morag and Brighid for help, first, before anyone. Nia had trusted her, had thought she would help, and Morag had repaid her with betrayal. The shame of that betrayal was too much to bear. She couldn't take it, not right now. Nia had tried to approach her before this, and she had always fled.

Morag slowly stumbled to her feet, her head in a fog. She moved to retreat into the shadows of the forest, but froze when Nia spoke again.

"Can...can you just tell me one thing?" Nia asked, and it was the sadness in her voice that made Morag freeze. "Why will you not talk to me? Is it because I'm a..."

Morag felt a deeper shame run through her. While she had been wallowing in her misery, unable to even face Nia, the girl had been wondering if Morag hated her now because she was a flesh eater. With every shred of discipline she had remaining in her, Morag schooled her face to stillness, schooled her voice to calmness. She turned around, shaking her head calmly. "No, Nia. It has nothing to do with you. I'm….confused, but I would never think less of you for that."

Nia stepped closer, and then her eyes widened in shock as Morag's face became more visible in the moonlight. "Oh...Architect's love, Morag! You look awful! You're sick, come here-"

"No-" Morag began, but Nia either ignored her or didn't hear her, continuing to walk forward. As she got closer, Morag marveled at just how….soothing her presence was. A faint rosy blush colored her cheeks, and she seemed almost...radiant with life itself. While Morag felt like a gateway to death, the million grasping hands of Mor Ardain's dead people pulling her away from this world. A bizarre thought flittered through Morag's mind: Don't let her touch you, you'll stain life black with death. You belong to death now.

But before she could move away, Nia's hand was on hers.

Nia closed her eyes, trying to detect what was wrong with Morag. The older woman's face had been..shockingly skull-like. And as her ether laced into Morag, she was shocked to find the weakness in her body, and a deep, tangled knot in the woman's gut. But that wasn't what shocked her the most.

What shocked her the most was the indescribable wound she could feel in Morag. The black, open wound almost on the very core of her being. What shocked her the most was how much it felt like what she had sensed from Amalthus. It felt so similar that her eyes shot open, to check if somehow she had grasped the Praetor's hand instead. But no, it was just Morag, hidden almost entirely in darkness, the black of her military uniform blending into shadow, her eyes hidden.

"M-Morag," she said, recovering, "You...you're starved half to death. When's the last time you ate?"

Morag opened her mouth, as if to answer, but realized that she didn't know. She couldn't remember the last time she had even taken a small bite of the food offered to her.

Nia snorted. "Really. Come on. I knew Rex could be stubborn foolish like this, but I didn't expect it from you. Come on back to Corinne's, she has a meat pie left over from dinner-"

"Not hungry," Morag replied tersely. Despite herself, she felt her irritation growing.

"I know that's a lie."

"What could you know," Morag replied, so coldly that Nia took a step back. "What could you possibly know?" Then she shook her head. "No. No, I'm sorry, Nia."

"Y'don't have to apologize for snapping," Nia replied gingerly. "I-"

"Not just for that." Morag closed her eyes and looked away, unable to bring herself to look at Nia in her shame. "I'm...sorry for not helping you. On Temperantia. With Rex. You've done so much for me, and I ignored you when you called for help."

"It's...it's fine, really, it...worked out..."

"No. No, it's not fine," Morag said coolly, opening her eyes, staring out into the darkness of the forest. "It may very well have not worked out. Rex might have died. I may have been the difference between life and death, and I let you down. You will not rob me of the shame I should rightly feel. You..."

And suddenly, without warning, something resonated within her. She had nearly gotten Rex killed through her inaction. Just like she had gotten her brother killed through her inaction. She could have done something, she could have done anything, to take him away from the palace, not to leave him in that den of vipers as they marched Mor Ardain towards its doom, she should have done something, she would never live down this guilt, like a black ball of tar in her heart it would live forever-

The next thing she knew, she was on her knees among the grass, trembling, Nia shouting her name as she shook her shoulders. With shaking hands, Morag placed her fingers to her face, and they came away wet with tears. Embarrassment burned within her, that Nia might have seen her cry. She did her best to compose herself. "Please," she whispered quietly to Nia. "Please, I would like to be alone."

"You've been alone for weeks. Brighid is so worried...Morag, you know it wasn't your fault, right? Niall...wouldn't want you blaming yourself."

Morag whipped her head around once more to stare at Nia, wondering what exactly she had cried out when she collapsed. The young flesh eater was staring at her with...damn her with pity, ears flattened against her head, hands clasped to her core crystal. "Please, Morag," she said, with a strange conviction to her voice. "Please, take it from someone who knows...don't let the memory of Niall get lost in guilt. It wasn't you. Blame the ones who deserve it. Or no one. Just don't blame yourself. The more you do...the harder it will be to see the truth, and...the more it will haunt you."

Morag struggled to her feet. A thousand words raced through her mind, a thousand responses she might have. But in the end, all she could find strength to do was to spread her shaking hands, unable to keep the despair from her voice. "He should be here," she said. "He should have had a chance to grow up. To love, have a family, grow old...he should be here." Her voice grew hard, bitter. "Architect, he should be here."

Nia's hands fell to her side. She didn't know what to say. She felt foolish, almost. How could she have thought her grief over her sister was comparable to what Morag was feeling. Morag, who had lost everything she had ever known? The silence stretched between them for a long moment. "Morag...can I ask you something...a favor?" Nia said finally. "I….Rex has been blaming himself for what happened. I tried telling him it was foolish, but...I think he really ought to hear it from you..."

Morag kept deathly silent. How could she tell Nia? How could she tell Nia that there was a dark voice inside her that said, to her great shame, that it was his fault? That if only someone other than a child, a foolish simple child, had wielded Malos' power, that this might have all been avoided? It almost made Morag sick to hear that voice. It was the most shameful thing she thought she had ever felt. But it was there all the same. And she didn't know, in her current state, if she could keep that voice from screaming out when she talked to Rex. "It's...of course it isn't his fault," she whispered. "Tell him. Tell him I said that."

And with that, she melted into the shadows, leaving Nia alone in the forest.

And Nia couldn't help but remember that great, endless emptiness, that great wound she had felt within Amalthus once more.

14.

Morag sighed as she made her final preparations.

It was the middle of the night, within her room at Corinne's house. On her bed lay an expertly packed ruck, everything strapped down as tight as possible. She ran through a mental checklist of everything that she had placed within it. Not that it was necessary; she had ran through this list in her mind hundreds of times already. Much more difficult than the packing had been finding a time to make her departure. There was hardly an hour of the night in Corinne's house that someone was not awake. But now, in the small hours of the morning, before the first light of sun had lanced over the horizon, was the perfect time.

She quietly hefted the ruck, strapping it across her back, pulling cords so that it hugged her body tightly. She had some of her strength back – it had returned to her, somewhat, as she began eating again, in preparation for her plan. She no longer wore her Ardainian uniform – she should burn it, burn away every memory of it, but she could not bring herself to do so. Instead she wore a white blouse, loose black pants that rode high on her hips, and a pair of marching boots, her long hair tied down in a bun. Stealthily, she opened the door, and quiet as a mouse, made her way through the hallways, down the stairs, and out of the house.

The night still covered everything in a thick blanket of darkness, but Morag was no stranger to marching in the dark, taking advantage of the dim light of the moon to pick out the features around her. There was Gramps, slumbering in the center square of the village. Not a single farmer or peasant was awake at this hour.

She made her way down the path out of Fonsett, the small village disappearing quickly behind her. As the sun rose, she would have to abandon the main path and the beaches, conceal her movement in the forest, but for now it should be fine -

Or, so she thought.

As she neared the exit of the village, where the winding path bought her down toward the beach, a burst of blue light startled her, a sudden gust of hot wind and flame, sending sand scattering from the beach from where it had originated. She did not remain startled for long. She would, of course, know that blue flame anywhere.

Brighid stood on the beach, looking almost ghostly, as pale blue flames crawled across her skin. Eerily beautiful – she was always beautiful, of course, but now she had her hair down, though it flickered so that it was difficult to tell where her hair ended and the flames began – and in the darkness, she looked almost like a spirit from another world. Seeing her like this, Morag understood why Minoth had given Brighid the nickname "The Witch of Blue Flame" in his play about the Aegis war.

"Lady Morag," Brighid said, her tone deceptively light, but her face stern, almost severe. "What are you doing awake at this hour?"

Morag stepped closer to her blade, reaching out, then let her hand fall, clenching her fists, steeling herself. "I'm leaving, Brighid."

"Leaving?" Brighid showed no surprise. "For where?"

"For...multiple destinations. To search for the surviving Ardainians. There must be some. We had bases all over the world; and not all of our forces could have been destroyed when...when our Titan fell." Morag was proud of how calm she remained when she said that. "Some ships, some airships must have escaped. I...am the closest thing they have to a leader, now. It's my duty to find them if I can."

Brighid considered this for a moment, then nodded, stepping close to Morag. "That makes sense. Yes, we still have our duty. I understand; you do not want to burden the others with your task. I assume we'll be making our way to the docks, and chartering a boat from there."

"Brighid," Morag said, very quietly, "I am going alone."

"Don't be ridiculous," her blade replied dismissively. "Now, you must still have some Ardainian currency on you to fund your trip, yes? Might it be better to melt it down for the gold? Without the backing of the imperial government, Ardainian currency that remains has been going through wild fluctuations in-"

Morag held up a hand, interrupting her. "I am going alone," she repeated, in the voice she gave when issuing orders.

Brighid was silent, peering at her curiously for a moment in the darkness. And then, in a flash, she lashed out, slapping Morag across the face.

Morag bought a hand to her cheek, looking at her blade in shock. The slap had been so hard that it had left her ears ringing.

"How dare you," Brighid said, her voice like hissing steel against a scabbard. "How dare you. Lady Morag, I have ever been by your side to protect you. It is where I belong. And now you try to sneak off without me…? On some dangerous, some would say suicidal, mission?"

"Brighid..."

"No!" Brighid cried, interrupting her. And then tears of blue flame began to run down her face, dripping down to sizzle in the sand. "Do you think….do you think you are the only one who mourns? I lost Niall too! I lost him, and I don't even know if Aegaeon will ever recover from what Malos did to him, and...you expect me to allow you to go off and get yourself killed while I sit here? I can't lose you, too!"

Morag didn't know what to say. She had never seen her blade this emotional, and at the mention of Niall a hot knife of grief had lanced into her heart. "I….if I die, you'll just retreat to your core anyway…." she replied, still in shock from the slap.

"I know that. Don't you think I know that?" Brighid shook her head, then took one of Morag's hands in hers. Morag looked down at this; Brighid's blue flame, heatless, crawled over her hand. "Please," Brighid continued. "Lady Morag, I care about you. I know I wouldn't even have to feel the pain of your death, sent back to my core, but I don't want you to die. I care about you. I've...felt through the bond...I want you to live, and be happy again some day. I don't want that wound I feel in you to eat you alive."

Morag stared at her blade, not knowing what to say. She understood how Brighid felt. But how could she tell her blade? How could she tell Brighid that every time she looked at her, Morag saw Niall? All the memories of Brighid doting on him, all the times Niall had laughed, happy, from Brighid's admonitions to take better care of himself….how could she tell Brighid that going to look for the other Ardainians was only an excuse? That deep down, what she wanted to do most of all was flee from those memories, flee from everything that reminded her of her brother, and that Brighid did just that?

"I'm going with you," Brighid said firmly, breaking the silence. "I-"

"No."

Brighid released Morag's hand, her arm falling limply to her side. "Why…?" she asked, her voice hoarse. "I...Lady Morag, please. Please don't do this. Please…." she clenched her fists, steel coming back into her voice. "You can't stop me. I'll follow you whether or not you want me to. I-"

"No." Morag felt hollow, drained, empty. "No. You will stay here. Protect Rex – for who knows what Malos may do – and await my return. That is an order. An order." Morag paused, then whispered, "Please forgive me."

The blue flames around Brighid flared bright, as if she could barely contain her rage. But she didn't seem angry. She seemed forlorn. She trembled, then wrapped her arms around herself, staring down at the ground. "I can't," she replied. "I can't. I can't ever. I will never forgive you for this, Lady Morag."

Nothing but a long silence answered her. When Brighid finally looked up from the ground, Morag was gone.

And a pillar of blue flame erupted from her, stretching up dozens of feet into the sky. And the next morning, the others found her, still standing there on the beach, the sand around her melted into blackened glass.

15.

Morag leaned over the edge of her boat, watching the fog below drift swiftly past.

When she had left Brighid, she had ran. Ran as fast as she could through darkened forests, ran herself to the brink of exhaustion, ran until she had been soaked in sweat and the straps of her ruck had nearly rubbed her skin raw through her shirt. She hadn't stopped running until she had reached the docks, panting and nearly vomiting from the exertion in the bright morning sun, a little bit before noon. It had taken a couple of days walk before to make it from the docks to Fonsett, although it had been true that they had traveled quite leisurely and made time to stop for playing on the beach. Still, it had been a long way to run; one that in her weakened state she would had never been able to handle if it were not for the adrenaline coursing through her veins.

The docks – such as they were, the Leftherian docks were little more than a ramshackle structure of wood and straw, with no dockmaster to speak of – were very nearly empty, with no ferry in sight. But Morag had not planned on taking a ferry. She had approached one of the fishermen, a tanned, grizzled Gormotti with a huge, braided lion's mane, as he had unloaded his morning's catch from his ship, an ancient-looking tub with rusted green sides, but one that Morag recognized as being a repurposed gunboat of Ardainian construction, though quite old – she didn't think this particular model had been made since the end of the Gormotti rebellion. She wondered how a Gormotti might have gotten hold of it. But regardless of its history and its age, it should be able to travel quite fast.

The fisherman, when she approached him, had not been keen on selling his boat. It was his livelihood, after all. But Morag had reached into her ruck, and pulled out bag after bag of coin. More than enough for him to buy five new boats, if he wanted. He had raised his eyebrows, seeing that they were Ardainian-minted gold, and then looked her up and down. Then he had nodded quietly, handing her the keys to the engine room. He had offered her his services as helmsman, but Morag had politely declined. This was a journey she wanted to make alone.

As she had revved up the engine – still good after all these years, causing her to briefly wonder how long it would be before anything any Ardainian ever made disappeared from the world – the Gormotti had called to her from the docks. Standing there, next to his bags of gold, he had rubbed the back of his head. "I...uh...my condolences," he growled, his voice rising above the roar of the engine. "For your homeland. I had my problems with Mor Ardain, but...I never wanted it to end like that."

Morag had merely stared at him, down from the deck. "Neither did I," she replied softly.

And then she had gone back to the engine room, and sped away quickly from the docks, leaving the Gormotti and Leftheria behind.

Once she had set her course, and the islands of Leftheria had long disappeared from her view, she took a look around her new purchase. Much of the original gunboat had been stripped, but she could still see the bare rivets where once its portside cannons must have been mounted. She also found a surprise, in one of the drawers in the engine room; a war trophy the Gormotti must have forgotten when he was unloading the ship of his personal possessions.

It was a dagger, an Ardainian one. Not a common soldier's dagger; its hilt was ornate; it must have belonged to an officer, perhaps the one that had piloted this gunboat that she was now convinced the Gormotti must have captured in a battle during the Gormotti rebellions. And inlaid into its circular pommel was the grinning skull of Brionac. She unsheathed the blade; stamped into the steel was the design of a snarling wolf's head. Whoever this officer had been, he had been one of Nelson's men.

Nelson. She remembered him mostly as a man with fiery eyes, the sort of man that others spoke quietly around even when he was not angry. He rarely engaged with politics; though he had given a couple of speeches during her time at the Ardainian military academy. They were odd affairs; he had mostly turned them into a study case of particular battles, reveling in telling them old war stories rather than actually giving them any sort of speech. But he had been Mor Ardain's perhaps most celebrated commander; his battles were studied during strategy class in the academy. Every officer knew of Nelson's most famous victories; the time he had held off an entire Gormotti contingent of thirteen thousand men with a mere five hundred riflemen and two beached battleships by forcing them into a mountain pass, or his route of urban resistance from Torigoth during the rebellions, after which Torigoth had not seen any fighting during the war, used as a safe base for Mor Ardain to conduct its operations, which he had achieved by luring resistance fighters into a nearby swamp. He had provoked them with the public execution of one of their leaders, during which he had cleverly left the city barely garrisoned. When the resistance fighters, in their outrage, began a riot, the Ardainian garrison had fallen back into the swamps. Pursued by the rioters, the resistance had thought they had driven the Ardainians from the city – only to find that the Ardainians disappeared into the darkness, and they then found themselves bombarded by an airship that had hid behind the peaks of one of the Gormotti mountains. Meanwhile the Ardainian garrison doubled back to the city, and by dawn nothing was left of the resistance from Torigoth but a smoldering graveyard in the swamps by its outskirts.

Morag shook the memories of these lessons from her head. She found herself wondering if Nelson might yet live. After all, he would not have been on Mor Ardain when it had burned. No, he would have been leading the invasion on Uraya. She slammed the blade back into its hilt as a wave of shame washed over her. Nelson was not the Brionac commander she had considered the worst – that would be Maclair, plotting serpent Maclair – but to the Gormotti, Nelson had undoubtedly committed the most atrocities. So bloody had been his campaign in Gormott that even with a Brionac-influenced Senate, her father had been able to convince them to replace the Gormotti command with Casey. So many dead. And that was what Mor Ardain would be remembered for, now. They would never have a chance to rewrite their story. They would be remembered for men like Nelson, and the graveyards he had filled.

In a sudden fit of anger, she flung the dagger over the side of the boat, watching it disappear beneath the fog.

She knew why these thoughts occupied her mind. Gormott was her first destination, after all. The largest off-Titan Ardainian base was in Torigoth. If there were remaining Ardainians anywhere, it would be there. Though she wondered what might have happened. The Torigoth Gormotti and the Ardainians, last she heard, had gotten along well enough. But Torigoth was just one city. And there were doubtless many Gormotti across the Titan who remembered very well what Nelson and the Ardainians had done to them.

It took three days of travel, but eventually the lumbering Gormotti Titan, its hanging in the Cloud sea, rose into view, and then dominated it, a towering vista of green and craggy mountain peaks. Morag was able to approach it undetected – Gormott never had a navy of their own after Mor Ardain took over, and there were no Ardainian boats in sight – and she piloted her small craft expertly, into the dense swampy jungles of the Gormotti titans stomach, until she beached it on a small, suitably hidden inlet. She scouted – the inlet was particularly well-hidden from any of the main paths through the jungle – and just to be sure, she hacked some branches with a saber she had bought with her, arranging them carefully to cover any path to her boat.

She had never fought in the Gormotti rebellion, and she was not too familiar with the terrain, but she knew that as long as she climbed up she would eventually find her way out of the swamps, and Gormott's rolling plains were very easy to navigate comparably. She trudged her way through the muck, odious mud sometimes coming up to her thigh, hacking and slashing her way through the dense foliage until she found a main path. Only once, she glimpsed a Brogg, eyeing her hungrily. But even without Brighid, Morag was hardly defenseless. She had grabbed a revolver she kept by her hip and fired; the Brogg, thinking better of it, had shook itself indignantly and hopped away.

Finally, following a dirt path up a slope for a few hours, the swamps had given away to grassier, drier areas, and then, climbing a dense net of vines, she had emerged in a sun-kissed rocky tunnel, a pool of clear water glimmering radiantly in the bright light, the entrance of which peered out onto the rolling grass plains of the Gormotti Titan's back. And there in the distance was Torigoth.

Morag drank from the water of the pool, refilling her canteens. And then she took up position by the entrance to the cave, lying flat in the grass, and took out a pair of binoculars from her ruck, aiming them in the direction of Torigoth. And she gasped in confusion at what she saw, as she steadied her view on the Gormotti town.

The first, and most obvious surprise, was who was guarding the town. She had expected that either the Ardainians might still hold guard; or that if they had abandoned post, the Gormotti themselves would. But no, it was the Indoline.

She was so surprised that she almost didn't believe it at first. She swept her binoculars around the outer edge of the city's walls. But no, there was no mistaking it; no mistaking that gleaming white armor, those faceless helmets; those intimidating staves. Warrior-monks of the Indoline Praetorium stood guard by the gate, patrolled the outer reaches of Torigoth's walls, and she could even see them walking the streets, through the little of the town she could see through Torigoth's open gates.

The next surprise came when she took a closer look at Torigoth's walls. At what was swinging from them in the gentle breeze. To her horror, it was Gormotti. Dead Gormotti, hanging from ropes, their necks broken, secured to the top of of the walls. Dozens of them. As she watched, another one was dropped from the top of the walls, to bounce and dangle, by a pair of Warrior-monks pushing him over the battlements.

What were the Indoline doing? She took a closer look at the corpses. They were all male Gormotti – young – of fighting age – with one or two older, silver-haired men. They all wore blue battle-paint on their faces, a bright vibrant blue painted like a mask around their eyes. Morag knew some of the customs of Gormotti battle paint – some just used it as good luck in battle, some used it as a mark of station, some used it as tribal identification. She didn't know what that particular marking meant, however.

She surveyed again, the outskirts of Torigoth, and peered in as far as she could in the gates. Whatever the dead Gormotti meant, it did not seem as if it caused the other Gormotti to fear the Indoline. In the lumber yard outside of Torigoth, the workers waved to the patrolling monks; in the streets, the Gormotti paid them no mind.

Morag sat up. There had not been a single Ardainian in sight that she had seen. However, she could not see the Ardainian base from this angle. There was nothing to it; she would have to enter Torigoth to know what was going on.

She reached into her ruck for her disguise, removing a jet black poncho with a cat-eared hood. She felt a bit silly, but she knew non-Gormotti often wore these ponchos while within Gormott. She put this on, tossing the hood up, and wrapped the lower half of her face in a black scarf. She was glad Tora was not here to see her in this getup.

She made her way down the slope from the cave to the main road heading towards Torigoth, falling in behind a carvan laden with pottery dragged by a fat old Ardun with a bouncing yellow Nopon riding on its back. The little creature muttered incessantly as it traveled along, paying Morag no mind; it seemed to be doing calculations in its head; every once in a while it would jot something down on a piece of paper and shiver excitedly as it muttered "Profits, profits, yes yes!"

As they drew close to Torigoth, the little nopon rummaged in its pocket to flash a blue token at the group of five Indoline guards flanking the gates. They nodded impassively and let him ride on through. But as Morag approached, one of the guards held up a hand to halt her, and two of the monks broke off to bring her to the side of the road and interview her.

"Name," one of the guards asked, holding a pen to a black leatherbound logbook. His companion merely stood by, leaning on his staff.

"Sera," Morag answered.

The guard nodded, jotting it down in the logbook. "Race?"

"I don't see why I need-"

The monk not recording her answers moved with lightning speed. Before Morag could react, she found her arm caught in his vicelike grip, as he emotionlessly threw back her hood. "Ardainian," he called to his companion, who nodded and recorded it in the logbook. Morag's face burned as he released her. If she had Brighid here, she probably could have reacted fast enough to avoid his grasp. As it was, she resolved to be more cooperative as she threw her hood back up.

"Ardainian, eh," said the guard, the scratching of his pen pausing. "Are you a refugee?"

"No. Just visiting."

"Any weapons?"

Morag lifted the edges of her poncho so the guards might see the saber and revolver strapped to her hip. "The sword you may keep, but we must confiscate the revolver," called the guard as he made notes. "You will have it returned to you upon your departure from Torigoth."

Morag gingerly removed her revolver from its holster, handing it to the guard who had seized her earlier. To her surprise, he whistled appreciatively. "That's good Ardainian steel," he said admiringly, turning the revolver over in his hands. "Always wanted one of my own." Morag almost gawked. All the other Indoline monks she had ever met had been impassive and emotionless; this was the most human she had ever seen one behave.

"We had a patrol come back earlier today saying they had heard a shot fired from down near the swamps. Was that you?" The other guard called.

"Ah, yes," Morag answered. "Scaring away a Brogg." She was surprised. She had not seen any traces of a patrol while she was down in the swamp. She wondered if she had been watched on her way in already.

"Nasty things," the guard replied sympathetically. "Alright, Sera. I will inform you that Torigoth currently operates under law agreed to by the Praetorian authority and the Torigothi city council. Theft is punishable by lashes. Violent assault is punishable by imprisonment, and may escalate up to death, depending on the severity of the assault. Unless," he sighed, "Both parties agree to forgive each other. Then it is lashes or a fine. Murder is punishable by death. Any crime committed while within Torigoth's walls also means an automatic forfeiture of any property of yours the guard may hold; this means your revolver. By Praetorian edict, all laws apply equally to all citizens; there are no special exceptions made to punishments on the basis of race, status as a merchant, or title of nobility. This includes the Indoline guard themselves. If you feel you have been abused or mistreated by an Indoline guardsmen, and fear you cannot report the crime, you may make your report to the Gormotti civil defense, based out of the governor's mansion. If you find yourself without food or shelter you should not need to resort to theft; please visit the Indoline temple, currently ran by the Dragon cult. Don't worry about the bonfires or the chanting, they're good people. Also since this...uh...has caused some uproar, I have been asked to explain that, uh..." the monk whipped his head around to glance at his companion as he began snickering; Morag almost thought she could feel the glare beneath that helmet. "The, um, Gormotti have voted on a number of issues recently. One that outsiders might find surprising is the dress code. The Torigothi have decided to return to, ah, shall we say, a more traditional, tribal standard of dress. Outsiders may be surprised to learn that nudity is not technically illegal-"

"I swear, they voted for that just to see the Indoline blush!" laughed the other guard. "Jokes on them, the Dragon Cult loves it."

"Well, dress code is up to them," the guard continued, his tone one of resigned tolerance. "And...uh...miss..." here, the monk paused, almost sheepish. "I just want to say...look, we all know what happened to Mor Ardain."

"Do you?" Morag asked, quietly. "What do you think happened to it?"

"Well...nobody really knows what caused it, but I figure it must have been moving the Titan that overloaded it somehow...the point is, we all saw it go down. And I just want to say...if you feel like you need...spiritual help, or any sort of help...that's what Indol is here for."

Morag was taken aback by the sincerity in the monk's voice. She would have never expected kindness from the stoic warriors of the Praetorium. "Th-thank you," she managed. "Really."

The guard nodded to her, and then waved her through the gates, as another nopon-led caravan, this one a cart laden with dried fruits, pulled up behind her. And so Morag walked through into Torigoth, which had changed remarkably since she had last seen it.

The first thing she noticed was, outside of the Indoline, how few men there were. They weren't absent, but Gormotti women outnumbered the men almost ten to one. And what men there were were, were older. Hardly any men of fighting age. Which Morag knew as the telltale sign of a disastrous battle having taken place recently.

She hadn't been so surprised by the fact that nudity was legal. She had heard of the Gormotti doing something similar when Mor Ardain took over; it was seen as an act of defiance, a reactionary embracing of previous tribal customs in the face of a foreign occupier. And even in normal times, nudity seemed less of a taboo among the Gormotti; even before the Ardainian occupation it had not been unusual for small Gormotti children to go about nude, or for a Gormotti to slip out of their clothes for a swim. Of course, Mor Ardain had not allowed a change to the dress code. What did surprise her was the fact that Indol tolerated it. And what surprised her even more was just who was going about nude. To her shock, it was mostly the Gormotti women, and mostly the younger ones, while older Gormotti mothers crossed their arms and stared disapprovingly. Not every young woman was doing it, and some simply went topless with short skirts woven from leaves, but it was not uncommon to see Gormotti women walking the streets, their bodies painted in spiralling tribal designs in bright green paint. They often traveled in groups, laughing giddily to each other as if they couldn't believe they were getting away with it, and it did seem true that they did it to fluster the Indoline guards – more than once she saw a pair of patrolling monks cornered by a group of these women, idly chatting with them in mocking tones, as if they were simply making small talk and not naked as the day they were born, some of them even grabbing the guards by the hand to twirl them in a dance. Indol, Morag thought, must keep the streets safe indeed.

The tone in Torigoth seemed almost celebratory, as if they were just enjoying themselves after some great tragedy; music poured from every corner of the streets, nopon merchants hawked bright, colorful wares, economic activity in the city seemed booming. Morag almost found herself getting caught up in the atmosphere, but then she turned a corner, and saw where the Ardainian compound had formerly lay, and gasped. She ran through the streets until she stood in front of where it had once been, her mouth agape.

The Ardainian base was simply gone.

Not a trace of it remained; not the cement walls, not the guard towers, not the flak cannons, not the barracks, not the headquarters, nothing. Whatever had happened, it was all already gone. In its place, instead, was an open plaza bustling with Indoline dressed in bright, flashy cloaks fashioned to look like scaled wings, some of them wearing ornate headresses that looked like curling horns. Gormotti and Indoline workers laid tiles in the street, pure white cobblestone in the Indoline style, and dominating the center of the plaza was a humongous Indoline temple under construction, the workers unloading new stone from a Praetorium ship that lay at the docks, a building with four towers and a white dome in the center that was already almost half-constructed.

Morag glanced around herself, wondering if she had gotten confused. But no, this was absolutely where the Ardainian base had once been, not so long ago. Morag didn't know what she had been expecting. Perhaps that the Ardainians had abandoned their post. Perhaps that they had even been attacked by a Gormotti uprising and that all that would remain was rubble. But she hadn't expected that any trace of Mor Ardain ever being here would be so quickly erased.

One of the dragon-cult priests was approaching her, saying something to her, an Indoline of broad shoulders and flashing, intense eyes, wearing a dazzling red cloak – looking concerned. But Morag didn't hear what he was saying. She staggered off, waving him away.

What had happened? Where had the Ardainians gone? The celebrating crowds were a buzz around her. She suddenly felt eyes on her, and looked around the crowd. She wasn't imagining things. A few of the Gormotti were giving her suspicious looks, whispering to each other and pointing her out. Her disguise was probably not doing a good job of concealing that she was an Ardainian, and the only Ardainian here.

Morag quickly hid her face, and made her way back to the entrance of Torigoth, stopping before a cozy wooden building from which the smell of baking goods and stew wafted. Coedwig inn. It was getting somewhat late in the day. Perhaps, she thought, within the inn she'd find someone who could tell her what had happened since Mor Ardain's fall. She'd feel more comfortable in there than out on the streets, where she was attracting more and more attention.

She stepped into the inn, as a wave of comfortable heat from the fireplace hit her. Ordering a bowl of stew from the stout Gormotti woman behind the counter, she sat in the common dining area.

Relatively few people were there right now. There were a pair of burly, tall Gormotti men, their hair like lion's manes, puffing on pipes in the corner, their back to her. An Indoline monk and one of their priests, this one with a bright blue cloak, sitting at a table playing an odd game where they stacked awkwardly-shaped crystal shards on top of each other in an increasingly elaborate structure. And in another corner, a young Gormotti woman, though thank the architect she actually wore clothes, of tan skin and long jet-black hair with intense green eyes, sipping intently at some drink served in a coconut. This woman stared curiously at Morag as she took her seat, but then quickly – too quickly – pretended to ignore her.

Morag tried to eat her stew, but found she had no appetite, regardless of how taxing her hike had been into the city. As it cooled before her, the common room began to fill up a bit more as the sun slowly set outside. Most of the Gormotti flooding into the inn gave her no more than a passing glance.

But the two burly Gormotti that had been there when she first entered the inn – they had noticed her. They whispered to each other furtively, occasionally stealing glances back at her when they thought she wasn't looking. Morag found herself becoming more and more nervous. What was more, the Indoline had noticed the Gormotti noticing her. As the Gormotti stole furtive glances at them, the monk nodded towards the stave he had leaning against the wall in a warning manner, and the dragon priest put his hand down towards a thin, curved scimitar he carried at his hip, raising an eyebrow at the two Gormotti men. When Morag looked towards him, he gave her a reassuring smile full of sharp teeth.

Morag could feel the tension in the inn. Regardless of how certain the Indoline were, she did not want a fight to break out. She didn't want Gormotti getting executed because of her. She quickly rose from the table, leaving her stew mostly untouched, and quickly strode out of the back exit of the inn, into a dark alley lit only by the flickering light of a few oil-fed streetlamps.

As she hurried down the alley back towards the main streets of Torigoth, a voice called out behind her.

"Hey!"

She ignored it, drawing her hood up closer around her face.

"Ach, don't you ignore me. I know who you are. High Inquisitor."

Morag froze, and then slowly turned around.

There, standing in the alleyway, hands on her hips, was the Gormotti girl from the inn, the one with the dark hair and green eyes. She was slim, a little taller than Nia, wearing a short, loose green dress that left most of her legs bare. "Aye, I knew it," she continued, drawing closer to Morag, those green eyes blazing in the dim light. "You cover up your face, but I knew you looked familiar."

"How do you know me?" Morag asked, her hand dropping down towards her saber.

The girl didn't seem to notice. "Why, I saw you last time you were here. I always watch...well, watched, the Ardainian ships come in. You came in on that massive battleship. Where's your pretty blue blade?"

Morag didn't answer. "Please," she said quietly, "Don't tell anyone it's me. I don't want to attract any attention."

The girl didn't answer her in turn. Instead, she stalked curiously around Morag, leaning in almost as if to sniff her. If she was intimidated, she didn't show it. "What're you doing here?" she asked, finally. "I'm surprised you aren't dead."

"I….I was looking for the Ardainians," Morag murmured softly.

"What? You mean, you don't know what happened?"

"No," Morag replied, finally removing her hand from her saber. This woman didn't seem like an immediate threat. "Listen...ah, what is your name?"

"Me? I'm Carys."

"Carys….could you tell me what happened to the Ardainians? Why are the Indoline here now?"

Carys crossed her arms, peering at Morag. She swayed her hips from side to side as she considered, almost doing a little dance. "Oh, yeah. Fine, I will. I s'pose you deserve to know what happened to your people."

Carys leapt up a few feet, on top of one of the low stone walls bordering the alley, to sit cross legged in the grass. Morag joined her, sitting on the edge of the wall. "Gormott," she began, suddenly serious, "Wasn't so close the day Mor Ardain invaded Uraya. If you looked out across the Cloud Sea with a powerful enough lens, you could just barely make out the war. But even far away as we were, we all saw when Mor Ardain fell."

"What did you see happen, exactly?"

"Me?" Carys snorted. "Some fools say it was some internal combustion thing to do with the Titan, but I saw it clear as day. A big beam of light came down from the skies and hit the Ardainian Titan in the chest. And then right after, fwoosh, it became a pillar of flame, so tall you could see it easily even though it was so far away. I dunno. Maybe the Architect himself was punishing Mor Ardain." Suddenly she blushed, and cleared her throat. "Um. I mean, sorry..."

"It's fine," Morag said sadly. "It doesn't matter anymore."

"Er, right. Well, anyway. Everyone sees Mor Ardain go up in flames. And the Ardainians, they go crazy. You could hear them screaming clear across town. They're shouting at each other, we even hear gunshots, but they close up the base good so nobody is sure what's going on in there. They stop patrolling and just hole up in there, and you can hear them arguing inside. Some want to abandon their post, some say the Empire still exists and they have to continue their duty. Some even just take off their uniforms and go off into the wilderness. Some just take off their uniforms and start living in the town. Some folks are nice to them….some aren't so nice. Some of those that try living among the Gormotti get killed.

"Well anyway. It's been about a week or so that the base has been holed up, and no one knows what the hell is going on. And that's about when Tark showed up. Tark was a big, wild Gormotti bandit-king, great mountain of a man, swear he was eight feet tall and just as wide. And he comes up rolling right into Torigoth with his crew of bandits, maybe five hundred men? And he gets right in the plaza in the center of town and starts talking crazy. He says, this is the time to seize Gormotti independence, that he's gonna rebuild the White Chair...nobody listens to him much at first, but then he starts going on about all the things the Ardainians did during the war, and then during the rebellions. How they burnt down the first White Chair. All the people they killed during the rebellions. Gets all the young men in town riled up. Starts a riot. They start lynching what Ardainians remain in town. Everyone grabs a gun or some weapon or just a simple torch, and heads over to the Ardainian base.

"Now Tark talks tough, but he's no idiot. He starts up that riot, and then makes sure he and his boys are good in the back, egging everyone on. So all the young men in town are over at the base, banging at the door, some of them are starting to climb the walls. And it's just dead silent inside the Ardainian base. You could tell something bad was about to happen. Suddenly – WHAM – the doors slam open, and….they had set up machine gun nests inside. It was a massacre. All the rioters flood in and get killed nearly as quick as they get pushed forward. I've never seen anything so bloody. But there were just too many for the Ardainians, and there was no going back now...at the end there's a mountain of corpses, most of the men in the town killed, except – surprise surprise – for Tark and his boys. What Ardainians were left inside were slaughtered, the whole base burnt to the ground, completely demolished…

"Tark recruits what survivors are left from the men and sets up camp in the Ardainian base, setting up tents in the ruins. Now Tark talks big about Gormotti independence, but he's a bully and a tyrant. He forces the townfolk to clean up the base – it was horrible, old mothers and fathers dragging out their dead sons, my...my brother...ach..I told the damn fool not to go..." Carys wiped tears from her eyes, choking back a sob. "Stupid idiot, he was right up front, thought he was so brave – damn fool, damn fool! I'm sorry...anyway...he basically treats the townsfolk like his slaves. Forces them to work day and night cleaning up his base, and his boys are all thugs, getting real handsy with the women. One of his boys tried to give me a squeeze and I put a knife right in his eye, had to hide for days, thought I'd be killed…they're stealing food from everyone, beating people up for looking at them funny, terrorizing the girls….it was dark times.

"But it only lasts for a few weeks or so. Middle of the night one night, I'm out looking out at the Cloud Sea from the slums, and quiet, quiet as a mouse, I see a ship approaching on the horizon. An Indol ship! Now Tark had been talking big about 'allies' he was gonna get to help him retake the rest of the country, I think, is Indol his ally? And it sure seems that way, because that Praetorium ship pulls right up to the docks leading into what's left of the Ardainian base, and Tark and his boys are all up to greet it, like they're expecting it. And out of the ship walks the Praetor himself! That's right, Amalthus, and a bunch of his monks! I could tell it was him because he was wearing the tallest hat I ever saw.

"So anyway….Tark walks up to Amalthus, arms wide open, like he's talking to an old friend. And Amalthus is all nodding, nodding….but then, soon as Tark gets close, the Praetor summons a blade's weapon to his hands, a big sharp sword, and thwick-a-thwack!" Carys made a slicing motion with her hands. "Off goes old Tark's head! Never saw it coming! Praetor struck like lightning!"

"A sword?" Morag asked sharply. "Amalthus has only one blade that I know of, and she wasn't with him. And her weapon is a staff, besides."

"Hey. I am just telling you what I saw. One second he had no weapon at all, the next there was a sword in his hands, and it sure looked like a blade's weapon. Where d'you think he hid it, his robes? Anyway, Tark's head hasn't even hit the ground when the monks start flooding in, bashing Tark's boys into pulp left and right, and even Amalthus is fighting. Hoo boy, I always thought he was just some old decrepit priest, but I'd put odds on Amalthus above any warrior I've ever seen. It's over in minutes; it's a total slaughter. Tark's boys are begging for mercy in less than a minute, but the Indoline, they're relentless, they don't listen. Smash! Smash! Smash!" Carys seemed almost giddy, relishing the revenge dealt to Tark and his men by Indoline.

"So anyway. They're all dead, what ones aren't dead ran screaming into the woods, or tried hiding in the town. It's all over before the town even wakes up from all the screams. Next day Amalthus gets in the center plaza and makes a speech, and he seems like an...okay sort. Says the Indoline are here to help keep the peace, and that more of his men will be coming to route Tark's men from the countryside – guess they took over a few other places on the Titan. He says some big things too, like that dark times are ahead, but that Gormott is vital for helping the world survive – that it's our time to shine, we're gonna help feed the world and all that. He's a good speaker; makes everyone feel big." Carys shrugged. "So...I dunno. Guess Gormott's part of the Praetorium now. Been about a month since Amalthus left."

"And….the Praetorium has been good to you?" Morag asked.

"Oh yeah. His boys do right by us, they let us make our own laws for the most part, and they defend us from bandit attacks – that's who you see swinging from the walls, either bandits or what's left of Tark's men that got ratted out. And trade's been good, seems like everyone's making good money these days. And his men are nothing like Tark's, they're polite to a fault! They were a bit silent and intimidating at first, but I think the Gormotti are rubbing off on them; they're a lot more laid back now. Still, discipline doesn't begin to describe it! Hell, you've probably seen some of the girls parading around naked, I think some of the monks would cut off their own hands before they 'indulged' in any of that! The girls practically have to drag them to their beds for any fun." Carys laughed, blushing. "I don't think I'm brave enough to go around naked, but it can be fun to tease them..."

"What's going on over there?"

Morag glanced over to the entrance of the alleyway. There, casting a long shadow, was a tall, broad-shouldered Indoline monk, though his armor seemed a bit different from the others – not merely shining white, but inlaid with gleaming gold trim. He carried no staff, but instead had a sword strapped to his hip, a curved scimitar; and on the opposite of his weapon side, a black leather book-purse, carrying a thick tome.

"Speaking of," Carys said softly, blushing, as the monk walked down the alleyway.

The monk crossed his arms as he approached them, his face hidden by his helmet. "Rarely do good things happen in dark, hidden alleys," he intoned seriously.

"Oh, stick it where the sun don't shine, you wet blanket!" Carys laughed.

The monk barked a sharp laugh in return, then reached up and removed his helmet, holding it beneath one arm, revealing an Indoline with gleaming yellow eyes and white hair done up in a warrior's bun. Unusual for an Indoline, the edges of his scales were tinged red, rather than blue. "I should have known it was you, Carys. I was informed that our new visitor today was attracting some attention. Our Ardainian visitor." He looked at Morag pointedly.

"This," Carys said, leaping down from the stone wall and sauntering over to the monk, "Is Guard-Captain Valtrich." She stood in front of him, looking up at his face, then looked back at Morag, giving her a wink. "Don't let the stern demeanor fool you. He's a big softie."

Valtrich snorted. "I am just as disciplined as ever. You Gormotti may be rubbing off on some of my men, but I remain as unbreakable stone."

"Oh, that so," Carys purred. "Is that why you always sneak a cookie from my stall every time you come by?"

The corner of Valtrich's mouth twitched in a smile. "It is….true that it is difficult to live the ascetic life the Praetor suggests while in Gormott. But the occasional indulgence is no sin."

"Oh?" Carys smiled, circling around the monk in a predatory manner. "I know something else you like to indulge in, O captain, my captain..."

Valtrich's face became cold stone once more. "And what is that?"

"My kisses," Carys breathed, and Morag gawked as the small Gormotti pulled the Indoline monk down to her to smother his face with a kiss. This day held surprise after surprise. The Ardainians had always been taught the Indoline monks were ruthless, merciless, stoic, silent warriors, soldiers that could push themselves to the brink, the only soldiers in the world that exceeded the Ardainians in discipline. Warriors of legendary loyalty to Amalthus. And nothing she had seen before had disabused her of this notion. The monks in the Praetorium were silent, stoic. But...here before her was this monk, an officer no less, blushing – Architect, she had never seen an Indoline blush before! - as Carys held his head in her hands and laughed, clearly smitten with him. They were human after all. As human as her soldiers had been, though they too had hidden behind intimidating masks. So...why had she ever thought they might not be? There were certainly people in the world who thought of the Ardainians as nothing but faceless monsters – and she had even thought that too many of Mor Ardain's own leaders had thought of their soldiers as automatons. But she had led men in battle, and she knew that beneath those helmets, beneath the gas masks, had always been young men with dirty, sweat-stained faces, young men who laughed and cried, young men who had bought a smile to her face with their lackadaisical gallows humor, young men who would play pranks on each other, who had gifted her small war trinkets, bear carvings – so why would she think Indoline were any different?

And suddenly it struck her. All those young men she had ever led in battle, all those young men she had laughed with and yes, even loved, though she was their officer and she always had to maintain a professional distance, she had loved them – they were all dead, their lives cut short, thrown away for nothing, they would never laugh and love and cry ever again-

Morag gasped, clutching her chest, as this fresh wave of grief washed over her. Until now she had only felt grief for Niall, but now she felt grief for all the young men of her dead Empire, all the soldiers who, for whatever atrocities they might have committed, were human. She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing back the tears until her head ached, not wanting to embarrass herself, burying her sadness until her head felt like it was full of wool.

When she opened her eyes, Valtrich was extricating himself from Carys' embrace, blushing furiously. "Not here!" he scolded her. "Not in front of….our guest."

Carys was laughing, her face burning bright, dancing on the tips of her toes. "Oh, look how embarrassed you are," she said with delight, as she wrapped her arm around his waist.

Valtrich sighed, then looked back at Morag. "I apologize for any….discomfort you may have felt in town today. Harsh feelings linger towards Ardainians, I am afraid. Miss…." he raised an eyebrow at her. "Sera, was it?"

"Ah." Morag cleared her head – it had felt so foggy that she had nearly forgotten she had chosen a false name. "Um. Yes."

Valtrich stared at her for a long, silent moment. Morag realized, with some amusement, that he was trying to replicate the weighty, judging gaze of his Praetor. It might have even worked, but Morag had been exposed to the piercing gaze of Amalthus himself, and this was nothing compared to that. Finally, when she didn't say anything, he sighed. "Look, I am not in the mood for games, so I'll just say I know who you are. I've had you tailed since I heard an Ardainian was entering town. Extra security measures have to be taken for them, after all. And I'm afraid that it wasn't that difficult to figure out who you were, Morag. I was there in the Praetorium when you visited, after all."

Morag felt her hand drifting back down toward her saber. "I see," she said, her voice cold. "And what do you think you are going to do with me?"

Valtrich's eyes widened, he held up a hand. "You misunderstand. I don't want to do anything. You are free to come and go as you please. I...suppose you were here to find out what happened to the Ardainian base."

"No longer," Morag replied, her voice barely above a whisper. "Carys told me of its...ignominious end."

"I see," Valtrich replied, looking down at the Gormotti clinging to his waist. "Well. As I said, you are free to come and go as you please. But...harsh feelings do linger, as I said. And if any were to discover your true identity….I would not feel you were safe unless I personally had guards posted outside your door. And that would attract even more undue attention. So...I would like to invite you to spend your time in the officer's apartments. We have empty ones meant for diplomatic envoys, and I think you qualify. It would be much safer than staying in the inn...and less difficult for my men."

"I...thank you," Morag replied. "But….with the Ardainians gone, I don't plan on staying here long."

Valtrich raised an eyebrow, then glanced up at the starry night sky. "Yes. But certainly at least for a night? If your quest is to find what remains of the Ardainians, I can perhaps talk with our intelligence officers and see if I cannot find any leads for you."

Carys' face lit up with an idea. "How about I come over to cook for you two? Since you're gonna be hosting a guest and all. I've had a ham recipe I wanna try out but it cooks way too much for me to eat all by myself."

Valtrich scowled at her, though not unkindly, as if she had just pulled a trick on him. "I...yes. That's fine. That is, if...Morag will agree." He paused before saying her name, almost as if he had been searching for the proper title to call her but unsure what was appropriate anymore.

Morag looked back and forth between the two. If she was being honest, she wanted to say no. Something….something about hearing the final shameful end of the Ardainians in Torigoth, about seeing every trace of their presence so swiftly removed...the shame of it all burned in her veins. And yet, here was Carys, whose brother had been killed not so long ago by her people, willing to treat her with kindness...it was almost too much to bear, to receive such kindness from people who had been so poorly treated by her Empire. And yet, it would be even more unbearable to insult them by refusing their kindness. She tried to control her thoughts, though it was difficult; she couldn't let herself spiral into letting her soul burn with the shame of it all. "I….thank you for your kind offer," she said finally. "I think that would be best."

16.

The Indoline officer's apartments were a series of repurposed Gormotti buildings in the block next to the under-construction Indoline temple, which, as they passed it, was lit up by a procession of dragon-priests holding flames of various colors, all chanting around a large bonfire. Some of the Gormotti, it seemed, had already taken a liking to the Indoline religion; joining hands with the dragon-priests as they sang out into the night.

Valtrich showed Morag to the diplomatic apartments, letting her drop off her ruck, and giving her the opportunity to bathe. His apartment, he said, pointing it out, was the one above hers; she would be welcome to join him at any time. Carys squeezed his hand and winked, saying she needed the time to go pick up ingredients, and disappeared out into the darkness.

Morag had nodded, smiling, thanking them, and then, once alone in the diplomatic apartments, she had staggered over to her bed. And then she had sunk before it, her legs giving out beneath her, wrapping her arms around herself. It felt as if a red-hot iron was in her head.

Was this what it was going to be? Was this what she was going to find? Was the final legacy of Mor Ardain going to be nothing but shame, blood and slaughter everywhere? Was this the final memory that they had left the world with? Was this the end of their story, was this how they were to be remembered forever? She wanted to scream; she shook with the effort, the discipline it took to contain it. What was wrong with her? She had never felt so unstable, never in her life had emotion taken such hold of her. A small voice in her head said this was a perfectly natural reaction to everything she had lost and experienced, but she brusquely shoved it aside. There was no excuse, there was never any excuse for pathetic weakness like this. A comforting numbness enveloped her as she did her best to suffocate the pain she felt.

She forced herself to her feet, and to the bath, to wash away the dirt of her travels. From her ruck, she retrieved a fresh set of clothing, ruefully setting aside the poncho that had not done her that much good.

Bathed and in fresh clothing, she stood by the window, patting her hair dry, watching the Indoline priests and the Gormotti conduct their strange worship through the window. Eventually, the dancing around the bonfire ended; the Indoline and the Gormotti then sat, cross-legged in the square, as a priestess in bright yellow scaled cloak and a headress of long, winding horns, with bells dangling from them, stood on a small podium in the square, a large, fat tome open before her. "I have to say," she intoned, winking at the crowd, "I am surprised – but delighted! To see so many Gormotti among us tonight. Even in Indol, many find the Dragon Cult strange. Just you wait until the other schools set up consulates here, and you will find out just how strange they find us. Then again, many of the Dragon Cult find Gormotti strange! Even our priestesses are not quite so brave as some of you Gormotti women when it comes to the boldness of your dress. Or," she said glancing wryly at a pair of nude Gormotti sitting in the front row, "the lack thereof. But this is the beauty of this world; all can consider and contemplate The Form Draconic, no matter your background, your race, or how little you choose to wear. But...ah, can I make a request, on behalf of the monks? Will you Gormotti women stop teasing them so? They are supposed to be ascetics!" Laughter roared through the crowd from both Indoline and Gormotti as the priestess held up a hand. "I mean, personally, I don't agree with asceticism – but that is what the Praetor expects of them! They must abstain from indulgence and maintain discipline. And it is hard for them to do so when naked girls ask them to dance and drag them back to their beds. Ah, perhaps it is for the best that they are given a reprieve from their harsh lifestyle."

"Wait a minute," called one of the Gormotti. "You mean you disagree with the Praetor? I thought you Dragon folk worshiped him."

"We worship what he embodies," the priestess replied. "We do not have to agree with him on every point; though, the more you learn about Amalthus, the more you learn that he does not hold too fast to any particular ideology. Not to speak for the Praetor, but...observing his behavior over time, for him, an idea is useful for what effect it can have on the world, not intrinsically. And that is what we love, that is what we see in him that is so beautiful. Life….is strength. Strength is your ability to reshape the world as you see fit. The reason we appreciate Amalthus, the reason we call him our Great Wyrm, is because no man in history has ever had as much strength as he. He burns with life and strength, more than any truly know." The priestess sighed dreamily. "But it is not something that belongs to him alone; the Form Draconic lies within us all. In this world of suffering, in this world of great despair, it can sometimes be easy to forget that we hold that beautiful fire and strength within us. We can begin to feel helpless, powerless. But the world is what was made of it, and it can just as easily be made anew. When you look out across a world of pain, the Dragon in you is the voice that whispers to you with furious certainty – it doesn't have to be like this."

Morag glanced across the square as the priestess continued talking, with the Gormotti leaning forward to listen to her words. There she saw Carys, rocking back and forth on her feet, bags by her side, eyes gleaming as she listened to the words the priestess spoke. The Gormotti girl had changed when she ran out to get ingredients, from a simple green dress to one that seemed to be woven from a wild, rainbow array of flowers, complete with a crown of them woven into her hair.

The Gormotti, Morag reflected, certainly did seem to be….more open, to the Indoline, than they had ever been to the Ardainians. Then again, Mor Ardain...had never really had anything like the priests of Indoline. Oh, religion had been observed in Mor Ardain, but it was an occasional thing. Nobody was a fanatic, and some had evenly openly shunned the idea of worship. But not even merely worship, philosophy such as this….Mor Ardain had her mechanical geniuses; no engineers or industrialists in the world could have compared. But perhaps they had always been blind to an entire spectrum of life. Life, in Mor Ardain, was material, it was how much you could wring out of scarce few resources, and the Ardainians had become geniuses at efficiency and harnessing of the natural world. But perhaps the reason they never connected with the nations they occupied, perhaps why their bases had always been closed, walled, armed and guarded while the Indoline were open to all, was because...something like this had been fundamentally missing from them.

Not that it mattered, anymore. The story of Mor Ardain was over.

She saw Carys sigh and shake her head, picking up her bags, and she opened the door to her apartment to go meet her. The Gormotti girl grinned as she saw Morag, lifting up a hefty bag to waggle it at her. "Finally, I get to see Valtrich's apartment," she laughed. "I've been trying to find an excuse to get in there for a while now."

"You really like him, don't you?" Morag asked softly.

"He's...he's fun to tease." Carys said, as they mounted the steps to his apartment. She paused before she knocked on his door. "He...you wanna know the first time I saw him? It was the day after he arrived with Amalthus. The Praetor, I think, was meeting with the council...Valtrich was already out scouting the town to see where to set up guards, he was out by the lumber yard alone with five of his men...well, some bandits tried to strike, maybe some of what was left of Tark's men, maybe trying to get revenge. Maybe thirty of 'em. They come rushing, but the Indoline, they fight like demons. And Valtrich most of all. I swear he cut down ten men himself, and maybe five bandits survive, not one monk goes down. Well, there had been some orphans out by the lumber yard, and they saw the whole bloody mess. And there's Valtrich, literally dripping blood all over him, standing over a pile of bodies, and he sees these kids bawling their eyes out. And...he just sort of rubs his head, and damn lunatic he is, he tries to go comfort them covered all in blood! He takes out a bouncy ball and gives it to the kids. Of course they're terrified of him and run screaming. And even in that armor, you can tell he kind of slumps, and feels awkward, and...it was...it was the most adorable thing I have ever seen." Carys smiled to herself. "Yeah. I like him a lot." She knocked on the plain wooden door to the apartment.

When Valtrich answered, Morag was somewhat surprised. Valtrich, out of his armor, wore a simple black and white belted robe, and was impressively muscled for an Indoline, who tended towards the lithe and lean. But perhaps most surprising was….

"Your hair!" Carys cried, dropping her bag in shock. Valtrich's hair, out of its tightly woven warrior's bun, was cascading, shimmering waves of white that that extended down to his waist. "I...I've never seen it out of its bun! It's so long! How do you fit it all in there?!"

"Very carefully," Valtrich answered. "Please come in." He paused for a moment as they walked through, as if thinking of something, and then hesitatingly said, "Ah. Carys. That is...a very lovely dress. It looks good on you."

Carys winked at him as she walked past, tossing her dark hair over her shoulder. "I thought I'd get changed before I came over for dinner. I was considering just coming over in some body paint and nothing else, like some of those scandalous Gormotti girls. What would you have done if I did that?"

"Politely asked you not to lean on my walls or sit on my floor," Valtrich replied wryly.

Valtrich's apartment was sparsely furnished, much more spartan than the diplomatic apartments, though he did have an entire wall lined with bookshelves, and hundreds of books. Carys – after she was done staring at Valtrich with what Morag was sure was naked lust – marveled at the bookshelves. "I knew you were a bookworm, but so many?" she asked. "Have you read all these?"

"Many times," Valtrich replied. He motioned to a table, a low one set by the floor, and sat cross-legged on the floor before it. "I apologize for the, ah, sparseness. Part of the ascetic lifestyle. Perhaps it would have been better to hold this meeting in your apartment for the comfort."

"Not at all," Morag replied, sitting cross-legged across from him. Though, truth be told, her legs quickly began to cramp. She glanced at the table as Valtrich spread some papers across them.

"Wow, so many books by Amalthus," Carys called, still perusing the bookcases. "Ooh! Look, it's a book by the Dragon people. I like them." She reached out to grab it from the shelf, giving a small yelp when other books nearly got pulled down with it.

"I try to keep up with all of the schools of philosophy. I am partial to the Dragon cult myself." Valtrich gave her a stern look. "Please do not damage my books."

Carys stuck her tongue out at him, then retreated to the kitchen to prepare cooking while Valtrich tapped the papers in front of Morag. "These are the intelligence reports I was able to find about the remaining Ardainian forces after the fall of Mor Ardain. Unfortunately, many of the men you are looking for have already been killed by Indoline forces for turning to piracy after the fall of your Titan."

Morag almost appreciated the completely blunt way Valtrich delivered the news. It reminded her a bit of Malos. "I….see. Are there any that survive?"

"Perhaps." Valtrich slid out three reports. "One: Scattered remnants of Ardainian ground forces have been sighted on Uraya. Though their number remains uncertain, and they are being hunted by the mercenary groups there. Two: Reports of an Ardainian battleship, damaged in the fall of Mor Ardain, entering the Leftherian Cloud Sea. It has likely sunk in the wild currents there, but it is very possible that significant portions of her crew have been scattered across the Archipelago. And three." Valtrich frowned. "The Ardainian flagship, the Silver Eagle, has been spotted engaging in piracy. It operates now as a naval vessel, perhaps conserving fuel reserves by floating instead of flying. It is considered too well-armed and armored for Indoline ships to destroy. It would require an entire fleet to tackle. The report contains records of its sightings, though it is mobile."

The Silver Eagle. "If the flagship is still around, that means Casey might yet live," Morag muttered, looking at the reports.

"You knew the captain of this vessel? This is not an official request, but Indol would appreciate it if you could convince him to abandon piracy. The estimates of how many ships we would lose in taking it down are….considerable." Valtrich paused. "I am afraid that is all I have for you. All other Ardainian sightings have, unfortunately, been...dealt with. I apologize, but many of your countrymen turned to banditry and piracy in the wake of the Empire's fall, and it could not be tolerated."

"It is appreciated," Morag murmured. "May I keep these reports?"

"Yes, they are copies." Valtrich gathered up the rest of the reports, tucking them away by his side, as he poured them both a cup of steaming tea from a small teapot in the center of the table. "I have also heard word that diplomats from several nations are seeking you specifically."

Morag blew on the tea, then sipped from it. It was incredibly bitter, and it didn't look as if Valtrich had anything around to sweeten it. "Me, specifically? What for?"

"You are, technically, the last Ardainian Empress," Valtrich said quietly. "They seek your signature for documents detailing the official dissolution of the Imperial Ardainian State."

Morag set her tea down, unable to stop it from clattering in its plate from her shaking hands.

"I have not told them of your location," Valtrich murmured. "I understand if it is something you are...not ready for, yet. And it is just silly paperwork anyway."

"Thank you," Morag replied hoarsely. "You...you shame me with your kindness. I...am embarrassed to admit that you are not what I expected of an Indoline monk."

Valtrich gave her a wry smile. "And what did you expect? A mindless fanatic devoted to Amalthus?"

"You do have a lot of his books!" Carys called from the kitchen.

"No. Well, sort of. Ardainians...we were always taught that of all soldiers in the world, you were the ones to fear. I expected...mercilessness. Not...sympathy and kindness." Morag's eyes were downcast.

"I had no idea the fabled Ardainian military feared us. I suppose that is flattering, in a way." Valtrich's eyes gazed as if into the distance, looking at something far away. "And...we do spend much of our time studying the battle tactics of Amalthus, and his martial philosophy. I will not deny that perhaps some of our reputation is deserved. The ideal monk is supposed to be a meditative contemplative, living in a room, foregoing personal relationships and worldly pleasures, until called upon for battle, drawing strength only from within. 'You only truly know who you are, when you are completely alone.'" Valtrich smiled as he quoted this. "Amalthus. From 'Contemplations on Truth.' The seminal philosophical text all monks study."

"Seems...a bit lonely," Carys murmured, as she joined them, wiping her hands on a dish cloth. "The ham is cooking, it'll be ready in a bit."

Valtrich barked a laugh. "If you think that's harsh, you'd be shocked at the rest of the book."

"Why?" Morag asked. "What is it about?"

"I...I could never explain it adequately without you reading it. You may borrow my copy if you'd like, I have several. But the...general gist of the book...is that all we believe about life is a series of beautiful lies. For the average civilian, beautiful lies are enough. But for those who wrestle with the power of life and death, for soldiers, you must face the Truth, in all its apparent ugliness. You must learn to see the beauty, the strength, in the obscene Truth..." Valtrich seemed to withdraw into himself as he spoke, his normally confident tone beginning to taper off.

"And what is the Truth? According to this book?"

Valtrich looked up at her, his eyes seeming to unfold into black depths, the shadows on his face seeming to grow more harsh. "That….we are really alone, and we can never be anything but alone. Love is a beautiful lie we tell ourselves, the feeling fleeting and temporary, our lovers never actually loving us for who we are, but loving an idealized version of ourselves that exists only in their heads. No one ever really makes a meaningful connection with each other, or rather, connections do exist, but they are...never what we think they are, and they will inevitably be turned against us. We are...as bright burning stars, alone in an infinite dark, and we can only gain false strength by imagining there are other stars in there with us. The true strength comes from seeing that yes, you are alone, and yet you burn, and you can burn as bright as you choose to."

Carys slapped the table, frowning. "What a load of complete nonsense!" she snapped.

"Perhaps," Valtrich said quietly. "Ah, well, it is only philosophy. I doubt the Ardainians feared us for that."

"Not as such, no," Morag replied. "But we have heard legends of your training regimens. I don't know what was rumor and what was truth. Being buried up to your neck in freezing ice, walking through flame, going weeks without sleep, forced marches until men died in their boots..."

"Ah. Well, it is true the training is….quite harsh..." Valtrich sipped his tea, looking away towards the ground.

Carys, however, was staring at him intently, a blank look on her face. "Is that true?" she asked quietly. "Is that what they did to you?"

Valtrich suddenly seemed very withdrawn, not lifting his eyes from the floor. "It...is true...many men died during training," he replied quietly. "And there are, well, peculiar requirements for promotion to officer."

"I'm...sorry," Morag said. "I didn't mean to pry."

"It is nothing, really. It is merely training meant to divorce you from the pain the body experiences. To overload you with so much that you have no choice but to develop a mental fortress within to retreat to, away from the sensations of the body. And officers must prove they can withstand a great deal of pain."

"They tortured you," Carys said, horrified.

"It was not torture," Valtrich replied sternly, but Carys interrupted him.

"What did they do to you? What did you have to do to become an officer?"

"You would not be interested," Valtrich muttered.

"Fool man. Tell me, if it was not torture. Tell me what it was."

Valtrich shrugged, uncomfortably, then sighed. "Very well. To obtain lieutenant, I had to take two hundred lashes across the back without crying out."

Carys leapt up from where she was sitting, legs flashing, scrambling around behind Valtrich. He snapped in alarm, but without waiting for him, she yanked down the back of his robe to reveal his back, then put a hand to her mouth in horror. "Those bastards," she hissed. "Oh Architect, I can't believe they did this to you."

"I chose-Morag, you understand, yes? You are a soldier. Sometimes sacrifices must be made?" Valtrich looked at her almost pleadingly.

"I...well, Ardainian training could be very tough, but I never heard of lashes as anything but the harshest punishment for a soldier, and never two hundred," Morag replied, her eyes wide. "I...did they really do that to you?"

"Show her!" Carys snapped, stamping her feet. "You think it's not such a big deal, take down your top and show her!"

"I hardly think that's appropriate!" Valtrich snapped. "Really, let's stop this nonsense."

Carys glanced at Morag, tears in her eyes, almost as if she was begging for help. "I...no, I am curious," Morag said in response. "I...want to see the extent of what they did. Curiousity. It's not inappropriate, I promise you I've seen soldiers in far more compromising conditions than merely being topless."

Valtrich sighed resignedly, then stood up, turning his back to them. "Very well," he said. "If it will satisfy your curiousity. I don't think it's anything crazy, personally, but some people do find the scars interesting, I suppose."

Valtrich shrugged off the top of his robe, and Morag shouted in shock. His back was a horrifying crisscross of deeply gouged silver scars in his scaled flesh. And his left arm, his left arm was a whorl of scar tissue, strange twisted, silver patterns that entirely obscured his scales.

"Valtrich, your ARM!" Carys cried. "What happened..."

"To obtain Captain," Valtrich sighed, turning to face her, "I had to hold my arm in a flame…" As he turned, both Carys and Morag noticed yet another scar, this one in his chest, a thin silver line directly above his heart.

"And...that one?" Morag asked. "Is that one on your chest from training as well, or is it a battle wound?"

Valtrich cast his eyes downward. "That one," he murmured, "is the mark of my greatest shame."

Carys was running hands down his arm, wincing at the scarred and knotted flesh. "Your...shame?" she asked quietly. She quickly blinked away tears, trying to hold on to her anger. "What is..."

Valtrich was quiet for a moment, as if he was not going to speak. He shrugged his robe back on, refastening the belt, his back turned to them. Just when Carys was about to speak again, he spoke. "To obtain Major, you must pass the final test of pain. I want you to understand this is not done barbarically. They have the best healing blades on hand for when this is done. But for the final test, they pierce your heart to bring you to the brink of death, before bringing you back. Still, many do die. To my disgrace, I cried out in fear and pain. So though I lived, I was not promoted." He sighed, wearily. "It was a very long time ago. I have made my peace with it."

Carys stood, shaking with rage, clenching and unclenching her fists. "I can't believe it," she hissed. "I can't believe Amalthus makes you do this to yourselves."

"I...must agree," Morag joined in. "If any officer had treated a soldier in his command even half so badly, in Mor Ardain, he would have been hanged."

Valtrich spun, his eyes cold and firm. "This training predates Amalthus' rise to Praetor," he said, crossing his arms. "He is not to be blamed. This training gives us strength. But Amalthus, he gave us purpose. He is a great man. It..." he tilted his head, as if trying to think of something, then gave Carys a wan smile. "It is because of him that I met you, after all."

"Don't you try to sweet talk me. If he was such a damn great man, he could have changed your training so you don't have to butcher yourselves." She sniffled, then cast her eyes down to the ground. "It doesn't have to be like this," she muttered. "I'm sure of it."

A bell rang from the kitchen, and Carys silently went to retrieve the meal, great steaming slices of ham sweetened with a wild array of succulent fruits. They ate in awkward silence, at least until Morag asked Valtrich about the campaign in the countryside against the bandits and the remainder of Tark's men. The Guard-Captain brightened at that, saying the mission was going smoothly – Tark's men were routed wherever they were found, no match for the discipline and skill of Indol's monks. "It will be no time at all before Indol's hold here is cemented," he said, with some satisfaction.

"And….so you plan on staying here in the long term?" Morag asked curiously.

"I sure hope so," Carys muttered under her breath. Then, suddenly, she apparently decided to be in a good mood once more, and gave Valtrich a smile full of sharp teeth.

"I might have thought that with Mor Ardain gone, Gormotti would be eager to claim their independence." Morag set her fork down in her plate with a clatter. She hadn't finished her serving, but she felt stuffed – it was the most she had eaten in a long time.

"Ah, well," Carys said, "That's what Tark wanted. See how that worked out? Sad truth is even if we wanted to be independent, we have no idea who'd lead us. Most of the old nobility were killed in the rebellions, and the ones that were left who cooperated with the Ardainians, well, they're not exactly popular nowadays...and it's not like they knew how to do anything other than be rich anyway. The Ardainians never let them make any decisions, and they forgot how to lead."

"Besides, they are largely independent," Valtrich added. "The governor's councils have great say in local laws. I promise you, if it were up to Indol, nudity would not be legal. Indol is here purely in a security capacity. And, er, arranging international trade."

"Could not the governor's councils levy an army for self-defense?"

"I...I don't know." Carys put her head in her hands, gazing off thoughtfully. "I mean, reality is, it's mostly boys who volunteer for that sort of stuff. Not saying women can't fight, but boys volunteer for it more. And between the rebellions, and all the men who went off to serve Mor Ardain after...reality is, most of our men are dead. It's particularly bad here in Torigoth, but even in other places there's three or four women for every man of fighting age. They might be able to get enough if they drafted the women….but I think most folk would prefer Indol being here to seeing their daughters drafted. Besides, hardly anyone left around here has any idea how to run an army to begin with. And...I think people like the Indoline. You dragon people are fun to tease."

Valtrich rolled his eyes. "Thank goodness. Imagine how dull it would be if the Gormotti could not constantly seduce my monks."

"I see," Morag said quietly. "I had...I had perhaps thought that the Gormotti would have been hostile to any foreign presence. Not merely that of Mor Ardain. But...I suppose it wasn't that which was the problem. It wasn't the fact that there was a foreign presence on Gormott. It was the fact that the foreign presence was us." She paused for a moment, trying desperately to hide the quaver in her voice. "I...never wanted my Empire to be remembered for this. For all this bloodiness."

Carys and Valtrich were silent for a moment. "Hey," the Gormotti spoke up eventually. "The Ardainians...they weren't all bad. Don't get me wrong, there was a lot of bad blood. But...I remember one time when I was a little girl...my ma' and da' didn't have any money for my birthday. And when the Ardainians heard of it, they came by and shot off some fireworks. And one gave me a little wind-up ardun that shot sparks out of its mouth. Kids were always jealous when someone got an Ardainian toy, they always moved and had all these gears and did all sorts of cool stuff. And...even though you can't ever forget the wars, I'll always remember them for that too. For all the clever things they made. And how, even though we never really understood each other, they showed kindness to a little girl on her birthday."

"It's not merely the wars you were known for," Valtrich joined in. "I know the Indoline military leadership was always impressed and baffled by your industry. They tried to replicate it, under orders from Amalthus himself. But they were never able to match your sheer capacity for creation. That...is how I'll always remember Mor Ardain. A nation of clever men of such genius that they frustrated even the Praetor himself."

Morag rose from the floor, turning quickly to hide her face. She felt such shame that she thought she might die. "Thank you for the meal," she forced out, her voice hoarse. "I think I should go." She moved swiftly towards the exit, not waiting for Carys and Valtrich to reply.

"Wait! Morag, I'll walk you back," Carys cried, leaping from her seat. She hurried after the Ardainian, but paused at the door when Valtrich called her name.

"Carys," Valtrich said softly, standing in his apartment, dishes gathered from the table in his hand. "I….apologize for not telling you about my scars. I know they disfigure me and make me ugly. I understand if-"

But Carys was shaking her head, smiling sadly at him. "Fool man," she said softly. "What was done to you was ugly. You yourself...you're beautiful."

And then she leapt out the door, chasing after Morag. Valtrich paused for a moment, thinking, and then quietly closed the door.

17.

Morag stumbled through the streets of Gormott, past the now-silent temple, towards the gates, her arms wrapped around herself. She couldn't be in this town, she just couldn't, not now. She brushed off the concerned questioning of an Indoline monk patrol passing by, asking her if she was alright, brushed off the warnings of the guards at the gates that she was passing by the city limits and that while patrols were present in the countryside, there was always the threat of bandits if she wandered too far from the city.

She stumbled through the long green grass of Gormott's plains outside the city gates, crickets giving irritated chirps as she brushed through it, stumbled until she reached a sandy beach still in sight of the Torigothi walls, looking out across the vast expanse of the cloud sea, and finally she collapsed, sitting down in the sand, drawing her knees to her, hiding her face in them as hot tears dripped down. She couldn't stand it, she couldn't take how Carys and Valtrich shamed her so, a shame so strong it felt as if it could twist her bones.

She heard footsteps approaching too late, heard Carys calling out her name cautiously. Oh, Architect, Carys was going to see her like this. "Please," she called out hoarsely. "Please, don't look at me."

"Well, it's a bit too late for that," Carys replied. Morag didn't lift her head, but she could hear the Gormotti approaching her and sitting next to her in the sand. "Look, you got nothing to be embarrassed about. I can't imagine how you must feel right now. Having lost everything..."

It was too much, too much. Morag felt another wave of shame wash through her, so hot she thought it might make her pass out. Shame at her weakness, for weeping in front of someone, shame for how Carys was treating her. "Carys," she asked, still not raising her head from her legs, "Why are you so kind to me?"

"Eh? What do you mean?"

"Mor Ardain," Morag said, finally lifting her head, but not daring to look at Carys, instead looking out at the cloud sea with bleary eyes. "Mor Ardain brutalized your homeland, killed your brother...why are you so kind? Why do you not hate me?"

Carys was quiet by her side for a moment. "I...could give you some bullshit, about how I don't necessarily think you represent the rest of your people," she said finally, "An' maybe that's part of it….but that isn't it. I mean, after all, I didn't know you. You could have been the bloodiest of them all. Though something tells me you weren't. But no, that's not it. Fact is, there's one simple reason why I look at you and don't feel anger, or a desire for revenge, why I look at you and feel nothing but pity."

"And that is?"

"Mor Ardain's gone," Carys said simply. "It's gone, completely and utterly gone, and it's never, ever coming back. And whatever you were – whether you were one of the good ones, or a bloody murderer – what petty revenge could I ever take on you that would be worse than that? Maybe if the Clockwork Empire was still marching around, I'd want revenge on you for what you still represent. Maybe I'd even want to kill you. But it's not, and you don't represent anything bigger now. Now I can see you for what you are, without the Clockwork Demon standing behind you. And what you are, is just a sad woman who lost her homeland and everyone she loved."

Morag laughed hoarsely, finally glancing over at Carys, who was giving her a wicked, though not unkind smile. "I see. So you don't hate me because I'm no longer a threat."

"Maybe it's as simple as that." Carys shrugged.

"You're wrong though, you know. I didn't lose everyone I loved."

"Then why aren't you with them now?"

"I don't know," Morag murmured. They both stared out at the Cloud Sea for a moment, the wind howling around them. "I...didn't want it to end like this. Just so you know. I had dreams that one day, the Empire might be reformed. That we could show the world all that was beautiful about Mor Ardain, instead of endless war."

"Welp," Carys said, tossing a stone out into the clouds, "It ended when it did. It is what it is."

"It is what it is," Morag agreed.

A long silence passed between them, as Morag quietly dried her eyes. "Just...between you and me, without Valtrich here," Morag asked finally. "Are you really all that keen on Indol being here?"

"I am," Carys replied without hesitation, throwing another rock into the sea. "I wasn't lying when I said they're good to us. The Indoline are good people. And...I really like Valtrich." She blushed. "But...well...I'm not so sure about Amalthus himself."

"I've met the man. He can be quite intimidating. And it is pretty monstrous what he puts his monks through."

"It's not just that. Though boy, that sure is a part of it. That and all that nonsense he tells them about being alone." Carys whipped another stone far out over the Cloud Sea in fury. "It's….look, I haven't told anyone this, not even Valtrich. So keep it to yourself, okay?" She sighed, leaning back on her hands, ceasing her barrage of the Cloud Sea. "So...I told you before what happened when Tark's men came to town. Let's start with that. How one of his men tried to get handsy with me, and I put a knife through his eye? Well that wasn't just any old thug. That was some old lecher called 'Wild Pete', one of Tark's lieutenants, and he was a driver. Old man, but lean and mean, and his blade was...Perceval, I think was his name? Some scary looking demon blade. I didn't manage to kill him when I put a knife in him, just took his eye out and ran.

"So let's go back to the night the Praetor and his men came. Remember how I told you Tark greeted him like an old friend, before he got his head knocked off? How some of his men ran into the forest, and some ran into town? Well Wild Pete was one of the last ones who decided to run, and he ran into town. Wild Pete could jump like a maniac – think it was his blade that let him do that – and he jumps clear of the walls of the base, jumping from bridge to bridge in town, and he's sailing through the air he spots me watching, and he heads straight for me.

"I try running and hiding, but there's nothing to be done, not when he can leap like that. He and his blade grab me and drag me into some dark alley, me screaming my head off for help. Pete is swearing revenge up and down and five ways to Gormott's ass, but in between all the vile stuff he said he was gonna do to me he says something funny to his blade. He says, 'I told that fool Tark that Amalthus was a schemer. Just because he gave us weapons doesn't mean he won't stab us in the back in the end.'" Carys gave Morag a meaningful look. "Gave him weapons, he says.

"So anyway, lucky for me, by that time the Indoline monks were flooding the town. Two show up at the entrance to the alleyway, but Pete just grabs me and says if they come any closer that he'll gut me. One of the monks looks like he's gonna move forward anyway and I'm sure I'm gonna die, but the other sort of hesitates and looks over to his right, and he calls out, 'Praetor'!

"And then a few seconds later, who shows up at the entrance of that alleyway but the Praetor himself. All I can see is this shadow with two wild, crazy eyes peering out of the darkness. He just says to Pete, 'I'm going to give you three seconds to let her go,' and Pete's just cussing up a storm, and then Amalthus says 'that's three', and next thing I know I feel Pete go stiff behind me. I look back, and his own blade had put its weapon through his head. Perceval is just standing there looking horrified for one second before he goes back to his core, and Pete slumps down dead as a doornail.

"I'm standing there just stammering out my thanks, but I must have looked at him funny, because Amalthus says, 'What did he say to you, girl?' And I said, nothing, he was just threatening me...but it's like Amalthus knew I was lying. His eyes get wild, and I can't even speak anymore, the words dry up in my mouth. And I swear, for a moment, I was more sure I was gonna die than I was when Pete had me. Something in those eyes, like he was looking at an unfortunate bug that had to be squashed. But then he gets this sad look on his face, and he just tells his monks to get me a blanket. He walks up to me, but he isn't even looking at me. He just picks up Perceval's core and walks off."

Carys fell silent as Morag digested this. "That's quite the story," Morag said finally. "Why would Amalthus have given Tark weapons, only to destroy him?"

"I dunno. Maybe Tark really was his ally at first. But then the Praetor figured out he was a rabid dog that had to be put down or something. Maybe we have him to thank for Tark having the run of the town for a while, though. What's wild to me is...how did he make Pete's own blade stab him? I am telling you, that last look on Perceval's face was just horror and confusion. He didn't want to do it, I'm sure." Carys wrapped her arms around herself and shivered. "More than anything, I didn't like the way he looked at people. Maybe the Dragon Priests are right, and he is a 'Great Wyrm' or whatever. It sure felt like that when he gave his speech the next day. You could almost feel Gormott changing with his every word. But maybe there's something that having all that strength does to a person. I...think maybe he's mad. He's too big to be human. If that's one thing that bothers me about the Indoline, that's it. They are always talking about him. They all have their own take on why he's the greatest thing ever. You'd think he was the Architect himself walking the earth. But I don't even know anyone who talks about the Architect that much. But me, after tonight….after seeing what he made Valtrich do to himself...I think I hate him. I feel bad...he did save my life. But there's just something wrong about him."

"You might want to keep that to yourself. He is your head of state now, after all."

"That's the funny thing. I think I could tell the Indoline that, and they'd just try to politely explain to me why I was wrong." Carys laughed. "And...I do want to explain it to them. I want to show Valtrich that the world's not the dark, lonely place the Praetor told him it was. I want the Gormotti in general to show the Indoline that there's a whole world of beauty that doesn't include their Praetor at all. Maybe we've already started. They are a whole lot less quiet than they were when they first got here. But maybe that's all silly. Amalthus has had five centuries to worm his way into their heads. What could I do against that?"

Morag snorted. But then, she thought back. To Maclair, of all people. Spymaster Maclair, venomous snake of the Empire. He hadn't spoken to them at the academy nearly as often as Nelson, but he had given a speech on spycraft. And he had told them that the best way to recruit double agents was through love. That it was a rare fool indeed who would hang on to his ideals over love. "Perhaps it's not hopeless as all that," she said softly. "Amalthus is in their heads and hearts. But can what he offers compete with friendship? With the kindness of people you see every day and protect? With the community you live in? With a lover's embrace? I don't think so. Just make sure he doesn't make his way into the Gormotti's heads too, and I think you'll find the Indoline will drift more towards you."

Carys glanced back towards where Torigoth glowed gently in the night. The shining white armor of monks guarding the gates and patrolling the city walls stood out in the moonlight reflecting off of it. "I sure hope so." She threw a final rock out into the cloud sea. "I sure hope so."

18.

Morag ended staying with Carys and Valtrich for another week. After all, Carys had said that some Ardainians had fled into the wilderness before the base was destroyed. And Morag, knowing Ardainian tactics, would have better insight into where they might have holed up.

Valtrich got her revolver back, and she accompanied him and his men on some patrols out into the countryside, so she could direct them to locations where the Ardainians might have made a hide, or holed up a supply cache. But they never found a single soul. The most interesting thing they did discover was an abandoned camp, with the skeletal remains of a man dressed in a Brionac officer's uniform, hand still cluching a pistol, with a clear bullet hole through the skull. Around the rest of the camp were abandoned pieces of Ardainian armor, as if the men left them and never intended to return for them. Morag wondered what had happened here. Had the men killed their officer and then abandoned their uniforms? Had the officer killed himself? She supposed she would never know. Valtrich asked her what sort of burial they should give the remains of the Brionac officer. She had stared hard at that grinning skull on his decaying officer's cap, then told him to just throw the bones into the Cloud Sea.

They also managed to get her a better disguise so that she could enjoy the sights of Torigoth – though Morag felt rather foolish wearing them. It was a pair of extremely realistic looking Gormotti cat ears. As long as Morag styled her hair to cover the band, and nobody noticed them not moving, she could very easily pass for a Gormotti. In addition, Carys bought her some clothes in the Gormotti style – which usually involved brighter colors and earthy tones, as opposed to the stark whites and blacks of Morag's Ardainian clothes – so she did not stick out so much. Of course, Carys said, she could always go nude. Morag told her she was insane.

As she browsed the Torigothi markets, she did find other traces of Mor Ardain as well. The base might have been completely destroyed, but that did not mean it had not been looted. Here and there among the stall vendors, she'd find Ardainian trinkets for sale – mechanical clocks that must have kept time in the barracks, daggers of Ardainian steel, an Ardainian soldier's helmet. One Nopon even bent her ear after he noticed her picking through his Ardainian artifacts, whispering furtively that he had a really good Ardainian souvenir – which he revealed to be a fully functioning machine gun, complete with ammo belt, that he kept in a large chest behind his stall. Valtrich and his men had swooped in to confiscate that once they heard about it, while the Nopon cursed them and bounced around fretfully. But other than that, it was mostly just the odd bits and pieces found here and there. Morag considered buying the clock, but then reconsidered. Maybe it would be better if these last little bits of her Empire were scattered to the wind as souvenirs. A little piece of Mor Ardain would always live on, as someone's mantelpiece.

Valtrich also gave her a copy of Amalthus' Contemplations on Truth. It was a thick, black leatherbound book, with a simple silver circle inlaid in the cover. He had been right; there was no way that she could have understood without reading it. She didn't like reading more than a few pages a night. The words sang to her; Amalthus had a way of making a series of extremely reasonable logical steps, and yet, arriving at a conclusion that left her feeling distinctly uncomfortable. Any shocking points that she might have taken issue with had pages dedicated to them, calmly explaining what they meant, until the original shocking point itself seemed reasonable. She found herself closing the book out of the fear of what she might agree with.

Carys began attending the Dragon Cult meetings regularly. She also continued what she called 'teasing' Valtrich, but Morag was pretty sure when she said 'teasing' she actually meant 'seducing.' The Guard-Captain seemed inclined to limit their physical relationship as much as possible, while Carys took her teasing to points where Morag would have said she was practically leaping into the man's bed.

Although she was definitely not the only one. Many of the Gormotti women seemed to have taken a shine to the Indoline monks. The monks themselves seemed baffled by the attention. Morag, for her part, found herself staring at the patrols and wondering about the men beneath those masks. How many of them had their bodies covered in horrific scars. How many of them had watched their friends die during training. How inhuman it seemed, that Amalthus would subject them to such tortures, and then tell them that this death and pain was all there was, all there ever could be, that everything beautiful about life was a temporary, fickle illusion. She found herself looking at their eyes, whenever they would take off their helmets. How tired, empty, their eyes seemed, at least whenever a Gormotti girl was not trying to kiss them. It really was barbaric, monstrous what had been done to them. All so that the Praetorium might have the most feared soldiers in the world.

And she found herself thinking about Brighid. On the one hand, she could have never hidden in Torigoth with Brighid at her side, not with that glowing blue hair of hers. Oh, she knew Brighid would have dismissively claimed that she did not mind camping in the wilderness while Morag stayed in the city. And then she would have been subtly snippy whenever Morag went to visit her in the forest. Brighid definitely had a love of creature comforts. She did fine while camping, but when other people got to live in comfort while she had to live in the wild, she had a hard time containing her jealousy. Had she done the right thing in leaving Brighid behind? Remembering the pain on her blade's face, remembering her last words to her...she didn't know. She hoped Brighid would understand, when she returned.

She also considered her next destination. Her three choices. Well, two really. She thought she would investigate the presence of Ardainians in Leftheria when she returned. That left Uraya...and wherever the Silver Eagle might currently be floating. Though Uraya would be deep in enemy territory – she did not imagine that a land where the remnants of Ardainians were being hunted would be friendly – she chose to go there first. The Silver Eagle...if Casey lived, that was where he was. And Morag did not think she was ready to face him. She knew him as the one man who might have made a difference, the one man who might have tipped the scales against Brionac, but who chose to join them instead. Silver-haired Casey, looking down at her as he announced support for Brionac, with the tired eyes of a traitor. How devastated the Imperial household had been to hear of it. Truly the beginning of the end. You could draw a straight path from Casey's betrayal to the ultimate ruin of Mor Ardain at the bottom of the Cloud Sea. No, she thought if she faced him now she might not be able to stop herself from trying to kill him.

But finally the time came to leave. Valtrich offered her a new vessel – she had since retrieved her purchased fishboat from its hidden beach to park it at the docks within Torigoth – but Morag thought a captured and repurposed Ardainian gunboat was appropriate for this mission. It was the mission to find the last Ardainians, after all. It ought to be an Ardainian boat that carried it out. But he did insist on loading her down with supplies. And Carys gave her a box of baked sweets from her bakery stall. Morag felt the shame well up within her again. She didn't deserve to have it this good from them. But again, she remembered what Carys said. She wasn't a representative of Mor Ardain anymore. Mor Ardain was gone. So she simply thanked them for their kindness.

Despite all she had learned about the shameful end of the Ardainians in Gormott...her time here had improved her spirits somewhat. Perhaps it was just having something to do. Perhaps it was the festive atmosphere in Torigoth, as it recovered from the events surrounding the tragedy of Mor Ardain's final days there, even though the scars still remained – there was a massive graveyard just outside of town, that rarely did not have a Gormotti in it staring down sadly at a grave. Perhaps it was just knowing that the Gormotti would endure. That despite all the evil done to them in her dead Empire's name, the annexation, the years of slaughter at Nelson's hands, and the shameful final massacre in Torigoth, the Gormotti retained their love of life. For all the Clockwork Demon's depravity, it had not managed to take that from them.

She cast a final look back at Torigoth as she started up the engine of the fishing boat. Valtrich and Carys stood on the dock, he in his faceless white armor, weary, tortured servant of Amalthus, weaver of schemes who seemed ever-more present everywhere on Alrest, and she with her arm around his waist, in a green dress, with yellow flowers in her flowing dark hair.

"Good luck," Valtrich called. "May you find your people."

"You too," Morag replied, over the roar of the engine. "May you find...a better life." Valtrich tilted his helmet curiously at that, but said nothing.

Before she sped away, Morag felt a flicker of mirth arise in her, the first she had felt in a long time. She leaned out the window. "Carys!" she called. "Just sleep with him already, would you?"

And then she was off, racing across the Cloud Sea, the delighted laughter of the Gormotti ringing in her ears.