Tear wakes up early.

Or, at least, she thinks she wakes up early. The faint rattling of sand against the windowpanes and the dull, muddy brown of the world outside fail to corroborate what her internal clock is telling her. The light-what little there is of it-is weak and filtered through who knows how many tons of sand. She breathes out and then in, long and slow, like she's preparing to warm her voice up.

Instead of opening her mouth, she sighs through her nose and turns on her side. Wit is still asleep, and the scar that tugs at the bottom of her lip strikes Tear as being at odds with the relaxed set of Wit's brows and the slow rise and fall of her chest.

Tear can't claim to have met many people, considering how prior to this she'd spent most of her life in Yulia City. Everyone had known her. She was the mayor's granddaughter, after all. Still, in the days since they made the decision to travel together, Tear's gotten the impression that Wit is rather strange. Among other things, how many people keep a black, high-collared, long-sleeved shirt on without breaking a sweat in the desert, of all places?

A soldier has to be in full uniform when they're on official business, Tear, whether they like it or not. This is the way of the world. Mercenaries will often keep to this rule as well. It's professionalism—and a way to identify them. Legretta's voice echoes in her memory, as warm as Legretta had ever known how to be.

Which... isn't much, all things considered, but Tear misses her nonetheless. Especially given the circumstances, she finds herself wishing for her mentor's presence more than ever before. Legretta would probably be able to handle this situation with far more grace and efficiency—but then, Legretta never would have gotten herself into this situation in the first place, because she never would have gone against Van.

Van.

The corners of Tear's lips turn down without her permission. What is Van thinking? What is he doing?

No… what is Van aiming for? Tear thinks, heart clenching. What is he working towards without telling me? I understand that he's been busy… but what I've heard, what I can see with my own eyes… something is going on.

And when she'd learned about his plan, even the little she pieced together sounded ominous. So she'd tried to kill him. Van. Her brother. The Commandant of the Order of Lorelei.

Legretta often spoke of his plans to have Tear become his second-in-command. The thought made her flush with joy—with meaning, with purpose, with the idea that her brother needed her, that he wouldn't leave her behind—but now, it only leaves her cold. He has been off on undisclosed "official business" and sending the God-Generals on unofficial missions and gaining more and more control over the internal workings of the Order; he has butted heads with the Grand Maestro more and more openly, something he never would have done before she graduated from her training.

He is making himself known. Seen. Heard. And yet nobody seems to know what he wants to do. Even though she only has an inkling, that little inkling, well…

That's duty, isn't it? Duty. Loyalty. Tear closes her eyes. I'm his responsibility… but he's my brother. We're family. That makes me responsible for him, too. So… no matter how it makes me feel… I have to…

A knock sounds on the door. Wit jolts awake, head swiveling to the door, but after a moment she relaxes and meets Tear's gaze.

It's Guy, Wit mouths.

"Hello?" comes Guy's voice, sure enough. "Sorry to disturb you…"

"We're awake," Wit calls, and winces at the way her voice creaks. "Just give us a few minutes, yeah?"

"Oh, no, it's nothing urgent. Just thought you might want to know that breakfast is ready. Luke's already eating."

"I'd call that urgent," Wit mutters. Tear stifles a laugh. Wit's eyes flick towards her with a small smile, and she raises her voice again. "Thanks, Guy. We'll be down there soon."

"See you there, then," says Guy, and there is the sound of footsteps fading away from the hallway beyond the door.

For a beat, there is silence. Then— "Been up very long?"

Tear shrugs. "I can't tell."

Wit glances at the window and a shadow passes over her face; it's gone before Tear can get a good read on her, but not fast enough to have gone unnoticed. Wit smiles again at her as she sits up and shoves the thin cover sheet to the bottom of the bed. "Well, it looks like it'll be a while before the storm blows over. Take your time. I'm going to sneak into the kitchen and see if I can get the chef to serve some coffee."

"Thanks," Tear says, feeling somewhat stilted in the face of Wit's warm charm. "And… good luck."

It earns her a chuckle as Wit runs a small brush through her hair, then bends down and shuffles through her bag. "I'll need it. She's one of those curmudgeonly types."

"Oh, really? I didn't think she was unfriendly…"

"No, but she did sort of harrumph when Guy complimented her cooking last night. Not the easiest to please," Wit says, finally pulling out a small, leather-bound journal and a larger, plain-covered book from her bag. "You've got to strike a careful balance when dealing with that kind of thing."

Right, okay, Tear thinks with a raised eyebrow. "Sure."

A knowing smile. She has rather a lot of smiles, Tear's noticed. Another strange thing. She's never met anyone who uses a smile to say so many different things. "See you later. Don't forget—Ion wants to talk to everyone later."

The door closes behind her before Tear remembers to respond; she stares instead at the empty room, frowns, and sits up to light the lamp on the table between the two beds. I need to wake up. This sort of fogginess is unacceptable for a soldier… Legretta would remind me of that the moment she learned of this.

Tear shakes her head, for a moment disappointed in herself, and sets about to beginning the day.


When Wit emerges from the kitchen with a steaming mug of coffee, it takes her a moment longer than usual to spot Luke's bright red hair—he's half bent over his journal, seated at a corner table, with his empty breakfast plates pushed to the side. She takes a step forward, intent on providing him with some quiet company, but the floorboards beneath her feet protest loudly at her weight.

Luke jumps, slamming the journal shut with a panicked yelp.

Okay, she thinks as he scowls at her. Maybe I don't need to be lugging my hammer around on my back when I'm at an inn.

His face is quickly flushing pink—meaning an outburst is soon to follow, and she knows for a fact that the other unlucky souls who'd gotten stuck in the inn alongside her group are still asleep.

"Good morning, Luke," she says, mild, stepping past the floorboards like nothing happened. "How did you sleep?"

"Terrible," Luke mutters, scowling down at his journal as she sits down across from him.

"I can't say I slept very well, either. Still—that's what this is for." Wit raises her mug up from the table and takes a sip, relishing the rich, robust flavor of coffee. She's missed it out on the road, where rural specialties reign supreme over imported goods.

Luke makes a face. "That stuff is disgusting."

"It's definitely an acquired taste."

"Yeah, whatever."

It is to this auspicious dismissal that Ion enters the room, lost in thought. Wit gives Luke a polite smile and opens the weathered book she'd brought with her; as she does so, Ion meanders over to their table and smiles at both of them.

"Good morning," he says, taking a seat. "It looks like things outside are a little lighter."

Wit peers out the window next to the table. "You're right," she says, making a face at the thin film of sand covering the window panes. "I can see the other side of the street."

"Perhaps the last of the storm will lift today?" The hopeful lilt to his tone belies the uncertainty in his eyes.

"That would be nice," she agrees.

"Man," Luke sighs, settling his chin on his hand. "I just want to go home already…"

"So you've mentioned," Ion ventures, tilting his head. "Might I ask what you've been travelling for?"

Luke opens his mouth. Wit kicks his foot under the table. "Well, some things got mixed up, and he and Tear ended up near Tataroo Valley," she explains cheerfully, ignoring the death glare being shot her way. "It turned out that we were all headed back to Baticul, so I thought that travelling together might make things a little safer for all three of us."

Ion nods, hair bobbing with the motion. "It's good to have people you can rely on. I know I wouldn't be able to do as much without the help of my F—my friend… She takes very good care of me when she isn't attending to her duties."

"So is she here right now?" Luke asks, curious despite himself.

He has demonstrated that he doesn't understand subtlety before, Wit reminds herself, resisting the urge to give him a flat look.

Still, Ion smiles and shakes his head. "No, she's conducting some business in Malkuth at the moment. She'll meet me in Baticul, whenever I get there."

"And that's where I come in," Guy says, stepping out of the kitchen himself.

Huh. Must've gone in while we were talking, Wit thinks. Guy takes a seat next to Luke, sending a brief, apologetic look in Wit's direction. She shrugs; he smiles, relieved. "Seems like I'm finding myself with a lot of kids to keep track of these days."

"Ah, yes… I apologize," Ion murmurs, smile faltering.

"Hey, I told you not to worry. I agreed to it, right?"

"Yes, you did. I'm very grateful."

"Agreed to what?" Luke cuts in.

"Guy agreed to escort me to Baticul, since I have some business to conduct there myself. He was certain he'd find you along the way," Ion says, eyes curving with his smile.

"Ah…" Luke frowns. "Well… good."

Wit frowns to herself, perhaps unduly surprised given that Luke seems to have a soft spot for Ion. That's all? she thinks, turning her head toward the window in order to avoid the motion being noticed.

"Good morning, everyone," comes Tear's voice, shortly followed by Tear herself. A round of greetings follow as she pulls a chair up to the table. "Wit mentioned you had something you wanted to talk to us about, Ion?"

"Right," Ion says, quickly looking much more serious. Even Luke can sense the mood shifting, it looks like, as he shifts in his seat and tries to copy Ion's serious look. It doesn't quite have the same effect. "The truth is… I have a very important mission to fulfill. I must see the king of Kimlasca… I must speak with him. Normally, this kind of meeting wouldn't be too difficult to accomplish, but unfortunately… I've run into some issues."

Tear draws in a sharp breath. All eyes turn to her. "You don't mean—the Grand Maestro?"

"I couldn't say," Ion demurs; Luke looks between the two, frowning.

"Why?" he asks, sounding rather annoyed.

Guy sighs. "Fact of the matter is, Luke, that what Ion's doing leaves his tongue tied around people who may not already know. It's an international affair, for one, but it also involves the Order of Lorelei, and that means he has to be very careful. It's too important to risk anything going wrong."

Wit blinks. That's... some of the more blatant bait I've heard in my time.

"…At least, that's what I've gathered," Guy says, looking at Ion, who nods.

Hm. Maybe he isn't intentionally leading Luke on, but regardless—Ion is building up to something. Guy just translated it into Lukese.

"If you're on a mission," Wit says, "isn't it a tad unseemly to go about without your Guardian, or even a few attendees? My apologies, but it is highly unusual."

Ion looks down at that, brows creasing in… worry? Worry. "Yes, it is quite unusual. Normally, I'd never leave Daath without my Guardian, and at the beginning, I did have people to help me out. But I've had to continue by myself. They're supposed to come through Chesedonia, so I hope to meet up with them before continuing on…"

"If they don't show, it shouldn't be too hard for us to take you along," Guy says. "You're close now, after all. Baticul is just a boat ride away."

"I guess I get why you're all talking around it, but it's really damn annoying not knowing what's going on," Luke says, crossing his arms.

Ion pauses. "It's a difficult situation," he acknowledges. "Normally, I'd be happy to discuss international affairs… but it really can't be helped at the moment, unless…"

"Unless we agree to help you," Tear says, tilting her head.

"Yes," Ion says, giving her an apologetic look.

"Ugh… this is so troublesome." Luke leans back in his chair. "I just want to go home."

A moment of shared silence as the other four glance between each other.

"I have to admit that as an Oracle Knight, I am concerned about this situation," Tear says, moving right along. "But I promised that I'd get Luke back to Baticul… I'm personally responsible, after all."

"Well, for my part, I'm a servant of House Fabre. As much as I'd like to help past escorting you to Baticul, what I do will ultimately depend on what Luke does," Guy says, glancing at his pouting friend.

"I'm interested, myself," Wit says, tapping a finger on her empty mug. "However, I work for the great blacksmith Aran Adami, and I'll need to check in with him before I can make any decisions."

"I understand," Ion says, smiling. "Thank you, regardless."

"What about you, Luke?" Wit asks, and all eyes shift to him.

"Well…" Luke fidgets uncomfortably under the weight of everyone else's eyes, cheeks turning a little pink. "Hey, Ion. You'll probably need help to get into the nobles' quarter, right?"

Ion looks thoughtful, but Luke barrels on before he can say anything. "Right. So I guess I can help you get into the castle, even though it's inconvenient for me," he says in a rush, fingers tapping on his bicep. "If you need the help that badly, I guess."

Another silence. Wit keeps her smile to herself.

"What," Luke nearly spits, face twisting with embarrassment.

"It's nothing. Thank you, Luke. I'm very grateful for your aid… you're kind," Ion says. And he means it. Shock upon shock.

"Whatever. You'd better be," Luke grumbles. A flush is slowly creeping up his neck.

"Well, that's settled for now," Wit says, taking her mug and standing. "Ion, I would like to help, but I can't promise anything just yet. We're stuck in Chesedonia until the last of the sandstorm blows over, anyway—with it tapering off like this, I'm going to see what I can do about picking up some orders for Aran. If any of you would like to come with after I take this mug back, you're welcome to it."

"I'll come," Guy says, pushing his chair out. "Didn't realize you worked for the best blacksmith in Baticul. I'm curious to see where he gets his supplies."

"I have nothing better to do," Luke says, standing as well.

"I've got some things to think about, and some questions for Ion—if you don't mind," Tear says, glancing at him.

Ion nods. "By all means, go ahead. Have fun, you three."

Too late, Wit tries to hide her lack of enthusiasm by looking away. Guy smiles as he leans against the wall next to the door.

"We'll have fun," Wit murmurs, shakes her head, and makes her way into the kitchen.

"What?" Luke asks Guy. "What's with her? She said any of us, didn't she?"

"Just don't say too much when she's talking to the suppliers," Guy says, clapping a hand on Luke's shoulder.


Dusk falls while Wit is finishing up the last item on the instructions Aran had sent with her, so she drops Luke and Guy off at the inn and finds the nearest decent-looking bar she can, intent on making some progress in her long-postponed studies. It's only when she settles in the corner with a light, sweet drink and private surprise at how well-lit the establishment is that she realizes she's found the newest bar on the border between Malkuth and Kimlasca—a place she's been meaning to look into for some time now.

What sparks this realization is not so much the playfully-decorated strip delineating the line between the two countries so much as it is the blue uniform of the Malkuthian colonel seated at the bar itself and the stares that uniform is getting from patrons on the opposite side of the bar.

Wit finds herself staring as well. Something about the man seems—not quite familiar, per say—but where…?

He turns his head. Crimson eyes meet hazel; her heart stops in her chest as recognition strikes her.

Colonel Jade Curtiss, prized scientific mind across Auldrant, infamous military commander, father of fomicry… author of the book she's currently got open on the table and former superior to her dead brother.

Awkward.

As casually as she can, Wit turns her attention back to her book. She tries to ignore the way panic makes her heart pound; she isn't eleven any more, isn't an anxious slip of a girl eager to please, and revisiting that is of no interest to her. She settles into an uneasy rhythm after a few pages, managing to take a few notes, but the odd feeling of knowing the Colonel is present and examining her refuses to go away.

She'd never expected to see him again, considering she only ever met him once throughout Daud's years of service.

Right when she decides that enough is enough, he stands and starts ambling toward her table, drink in hand. The panic flares anew in her veins; she finds herself stuck on page 131, scanning the words over and over again but failing to comprehend their meaning. The worst thing, she thinks, would be if—

"Elisa Antema," Jade says, sitting across from her with a pleasant smile. "I hardly recognized you."

—if Jade recognized her.

In the corner, the shadows shift. Wit fancies she can hear faint laughter emanating from them, as though the universe itself mocks her misfortune. She forces a smile and doesn't quite manage to avoid its resigned tinge. "Colonel. It's been a long time."

"Please, do call me Jade. What brings you to Chesedonia? Last I heard, you planned to help your father in Nezacht."

Wit shifts. "Well, I was eleven," she says diplomatically, finding an odd sort of comfort in the knowledge that Jade hasn't changed, and therefore wouldn't have approached her if he didn't have a reason for it. "But I've been on a business trip. I work for Aran Adami now—the blacksmith, you know? Got stuck, though." She nods at the piles of sand visible through the window.

"I see," Jade says. "You've been busy, Elisa."

"That's life, I suppose. But I do go by Wit now."

At that his gaze sharpens; he takes a sip of his drink. The strongest thing they have here, it looks like, a dark crimson under the torchlight. Damn. "Is that so?"

"Yeah," she says, casually. Too casually, probably. "Easier to sign off on things for work. I guess you could think of it like a professional nickname."

"I'll keep that in mind, then. How interesting, though. I assume there's a great deal of travel involved in your work—Aran Adami does not have his reputation for nothing."

"There is, yes," she grants cautiously, not entirely sure where he's going with the subject. Aran does have a unique reputation, and part of that comes from his insistence on using rare materials to create his more artistic work; she's found herself all over the world in pursuit of things like ancient decorative helms and metals that harmonize with fonic energy. But is it just curiosity, or is he aiming for something else?

It is at this moment that the door on the Malkuth side opens, distracting both of them. Wit tries not to breathe a sigh of relief when it's Guy who enters, glancing around the room. She starts to wave him over, but his eyes fall on Jade and light up in recognition; he strides over without needing to be asked.

"Jade," Guy says, standing next to the table with his hands in his pockets and a smile on his face. "It's good to see you made it in one piece."

"Oh, it wasn't too much trouble," Jade says, voice light. Wit looks between the two, mentally trying to account for two separate halves of her life suddenly and forcefully welding themselves together after many long years of disassociation.

Guy nods at her. "Hey, Wit. Didn't know that you two knew each other."

"Well, I met him once when I was young," she says, trying to keep her smile up. "We haven't really kept in touch, but hey, we're both here."

"And I assume you two know each other," Jade says. It isn't a question, and if she's reading him right, he's… pleased about something? Hm. It bears further consideration; he has one hell of a poker face.

Guy nods. "She's been taking care of my friend Luke. She'll be with us at least until we reach Baticul."

"How interesting," Jade murmurs, and Wit tries not to feel the cold shiver of doom that runs down her spine when he gives her a fleeting speculative look.

She needs a distraction. "So, you're in on the plan?"

"I might be," Jade says with a twist of the lips that could be something like a smirk. His voice is mostly neutral, but she's old enough now to hear the hint of mischief. "But then again, I might not be. It would depend on what you're talking about."

Wit gives him a flat look. She is not eleven any more. Instead, she raises an eyebrow at Guy.

"From what I understand, he is," Guy says with a touch of nervousness and a sheepish smile.

"Now that's not any fun," Jade says as he stands. "But you're not wrong—I do need to rendezvous with our mutual companion, if he's here."

Wit glances at him, too aware of the open book on the table. "I've got some studying to finish up, so I'll be behind both of you if you're headed back to the inn."

"That's fine," Guy says. "Just came to check up on you. It's getting pretty late, after all."

"Oh, don't worry about me. Go on, I'll meet you there—nice to see you again, Colonel," she adds, waving them off. She ignores the feeling of her smile wilting at the edges. Guy's stride is relaxed, while Jade's is the perfect picture of military precision—hands clasped behind back, steps measured, pace even.

Quite the contrast, she thinks, turning back to her notes, trying not to imagine what a similar sight might have looked like years ago. Some things never change.

Her smile falls as Guy's words finally register in her brain.

It is getting late, true. She hadn't even thought of that. Cramming as much activity and knowledge into her life as she could possibly handle has really put a dent in her ability to keep to a semi-regular schedule.

She sighs, massaging her temples. This is turning into far more than I bargained for.

Still, she had told herself and Aran that it would be interesting, and she's been proven astoundingly correct. First it was a lost Oracle Knight accompanying a clueless noble, then the Knight was the Commandant's sister and the noble was a fon Fabre, and from there things have only gotten more and more complicated.

The shadows in the corner flicker in time with the gentle swaying of lamplight from the window. Wit forces herself to read and comprehend, but a small portion of her mind is still spinning with implications and possibilities that refuse to slow down.

She knows that a Scorer would call the continual turning of the world on its axis a matter of fate, and a layman would not be terribly likely to think anything else of it, if they thought of it at all. But again the course of her life follows the laws of irony: her reading has once again presented her with the fact that there was life before the Score as well.

Jade, in this book, does not address this beyond the statement that prior to the Score, prior to Yulia, the Dawn Age had regenerative technology that saved lives. He is, after all, primarily concerned with examining the feasibility of replication technology and its application in the modern world. He'd written it years before he'd instituted the ban on fomicry of living creatures, and it's fascinating to see what he was up to when she was a teenager, but the implications behind that simple statement—"Before Yulia, in the Dawn Age, lives were saved through superior regenerative technologies"—are breathtaking.

For someone like her, those words represent hope. Hope for a new world.

Her lips thin. She will never get anywhere by merely dreaming of the future; if she wants change, she will have to create it with her own two hands.

If creating that future means aiding the Fon Master, well, she'll sacrifice comfort and safety. There are some things in life that are too important to simply pass up; an opportunity like the one before her, she knows, is one of them.

For what feels like the millionth time that evening, Wit lets out a long sigh and forces a calm she is far from feeling.