This chapter has been re-uploaded because I was a bit disappointed with the original version. I also added the same scene twice (oops).

But yes. Here's the new chapter featuring two new scenes.

Big thanks to Larieth for reviewing chapter one! Also, thanks to everyone who has this on their favourites - thank you for giving this story a chance.

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Chapter Eleven: Horrors of the Past

Lance curled his fingers into a fist, then punched it forward, knuckles connecting with a sugar filled combat dummy. He winced, sharp plain imploding in his hand, but he swung another punch. Pain was a distraction. It kept other thoughts from invading his mind. He punched it again and again, each hit more satisfying than the last.

"What did that combat dummy do to deserve this?" a voice drawled.

Lance glanced over his shoulder and spotted a tall man with blond hair leaning against the door frame, dressed in silver chainmail, a long broadsword hanging off the right side of his thigh. He narrowed his eyes. Siebold. A foreigner from Kalos who had impressed his grandfather so much, the man had placed him in the inner circle of knights.

"What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be on patrol?"

Siebold crossed his arms. "That's a fine way to address a knight."

Lance glowered. "If I was in charge of recruiting soldiers, I never would have recruited you."

The knight placed a hand on his chest. "You wound me, Lance. I don't know why you detest me so much. I never did anything to you." The man walked over to the damaged combat dummy and examined it from head to toe. "Something on your mind?"

"Did you come here just to bother me, or was there something you needed?" Lance raised his sword and pointed the tip at Siebold. "Or perhaps you could spar with me? There are practice swords here." He pointed to the weapons rack near the entrance.

Siebold snorted. "You want to fight me?"

"That's the idea. Pick a sword. That's an order."

"Very well." Siebold walked over to the weapons rack and picked up one of the longswords. He shifted the blade from hand to hand then gripped it with two hands. He swung the blade.

Lance parried the blow then kicked a leg forward, his foot connecting with Siebold's right shin, forcing the man to stumble backwards. Whilst the knight recovered, Lance swung his sword again, the flat side of his blade connecting with Siebold's own. The sword flew out of the man's hands and clattered to the ground. Before the man could try to grab it, Lance placed his sword at the man's exposed throat. "I guess I win that round."

Siebold raised both hands. A submission of surrender. The fights always ended like this. One man on his knees admitting his surrender. It was hard to fight someone who could match him. It wasn't as if he had a size advantage over anything, nor had he practiced more than the other knights – but for some reason, his attacks always hit much harder even if he wasn't exerting as much as effort.

Lance withdrew his sword and returned it to its sheathe. Extending a hand towards Siebold, he said, "Don't feel down. Any fight against me always ends up like this."

Siebold took his hand and climbed to his feet. "Yet you wanted to spar with me regardless despite knowing the outcome. Did you do that just to mock me? I know you're better – we all know it – but you don't have to make fools of us all." Once he was on his feet, he released his grip and stepped away to retrieve his sword. He returned the blade to the rack.

"You think I'm mocking you?"

"Yes."

"If I wanted to mock you, I'd fight you in the public eye before an adoring crowd. That would be humiliation for you… All those people watching your defeat and cheering for your demise. But I'm not cruel." He rubbed the back of his neck, shifting his glance to the combat dummy once more. The head was another swing away from being sliced off though he could easily tear it off with his bare hands.

Siebold snorted. "I guess I should be thankful you spared me such an agonizing defeat. What I don't understand is how you're so much stronger than the rest of us. I don't think the killing of a werewolf makes you stronger. If it does then perhaps I ought to seek one out myself."

"Werewolves are not so easily killed," Lance replied quickly. "The one I fought was nothing but a young wolf and inexperienced," he added, recalling Brawley's words. A wolf that had recently turned and had still been adjusting to his new life.

"Still, you killed a werewolf. How many other men can boast about that achievement?"

Lance frowned. "Do you think I'm proud of that moment?"

"Werewolves are abominations, Lance. You killed a monster. I'd be proud."

Again, his thoughts shifted to Brawley at the lake. The man was well-spoken, and he looked like any other human. There was nothing monstrous about him at all. Deciding to change the topic, Lance added, "Is that why you came here? To congratulate me on something I did five years ago?"

Siebold sighed. "No. I came here to tell you the king wants to speak with you. He didn't provide me any details – he just said find Lance and tell him to come and talk to me."

Of course. The man probably wanted to remind him of the approaching wedding. "It's probably something to do with the wedding."

"Clair's wedding," Siebold said.

Lance nodded. "Yes."

"I would accompany your cousin to Unova to see she arrives there safely."

"You don't need to too. Prince Benga's guards will be there."

"And you trust them?"

Lance nodded again. "Yes. Prince Benga seems like an honourable man."

"Have you spoken to him?"

"I haven't had the chance, but I tend to meet the man who is marrying my cousin before they depart." The wedding celebrations would last several days. They would not leave immediately. He still had a few more days before Clair would be gone forever. Lyra would also be out of his reach. "Return to the quarters. Tell the other knights what is to be expected of them for the wedding. Everything must be perfect for Clair."

"Shouldn't you talk to them? You are our commander."

"I've been summoned by the king, and knowing my grandfather, he likes tasks to be done with haste. If you want to impress me, then you'll do as I ask. Am I clear?"

Siebold nodded. "Of course." He bowed and took his leave.

Lance watched him retreat then shifted his attention to the combat dummy again. He could afford to spend a little more time. His grandfather could wait.

.

Morty could see the lower half of the mountain range looming in the distance, a thick blanket of cloud covering the peaks from his vision. The weather was fortunately quite cool thanks to a breeze from the south. A day had passed since they had departed for the sacred ruins, and their journey had taken them across an open field with a low number of trees in the area. In fact, he had only counted ten oak trees. A loud caw to his left made him look. A raven was sitting on a branch looking in his direction. There were no corpses in sight which meant this raven belonged to the cult. Naoko was in the area. Ravens were used as messengers.

"You're not much of a conversationalist, are you?" Morty said, glancing over his shoulder looking at Falkner behind him. The man hadn't spoken much since leaving the city. Morty assumed it was nerves. After all, he hadn't left the safety of the walls before. This was his first time venturing out into the wilderness.

"Do you always talk so much?" Falkner countered.

Morty chuckled. "Oh, come on Falkner. I thought we were getting along fine earlier. Don't be like this now. Talk to me. How are we ever going to get along if we never communicate? Didn't we come to an understanding? You help me. I help you. You want to be acknowledged. I can get you there, but you have to communicate."

Silence. Then, "How many men have you killed in your line of work?"

Ah, that was more like it, he thought. "Quite a few actually. I'm a mercenary after all. Well, was. It's part of the job description. We get paid to kill people."

"And you don't have any regrets?"

Shaking his head, Morty answered, "No. It's all I've ever known."

"But how did you become a mercenary in the first place?"

He couldn't quite tell his partner that he had been born into a necromancer cult. "Well, I told you earlier that children in my village are raised to be soldiers. We're trained to be survivors and the best make it through the ranks. Those that don't make it just keep raising children hoping the next one will make it." Well. That was partially true. Some of them were killed and used as sacrifices instead. "I became a mercenary because that's what I was good at."

"I thought you were being prepared for the military."

Good point. He cleared his throat. "Not everyone becomes a soldier. Sometimes you need scouts. Sometimes you need the people who will be in the front line, and sometimes you need people who can make gold to fund the costs." Now that was a lie, but Falkner didn't need to know that. He just hoped he sounded somewhat believable. "You and I are both quite alike, you know," he started, giving Falkner an encouraging nod.

Raising an eyebrow, Falkner said, "How do you mean?"

"We're both soldiers in a war fighting towards a common goal. We both want to be acknowledged for our efforts and we both want peace." He wanted a promotion into the higher ranks, but Naoko seemed to think he hadn't proven himself enough yet. Deciding to change the topic, he said, "I am curious. Have you got a woman? I don't mean to pry, but I don't know if soldiers in Blackthorn are allowed that luxury."

"What?"

"I said have you got a wench at home?" he repeated.

Falkner shook his head again. "I don't, but some soldiers have families to feed. It's why they work this job – it's the best paying one, so you can see why the commoners keep trying to join the army."

Morty fell silent, then, "You live a very boring life," he concluded.

"Well, what about you?"

Morty shook his head. "I was a mercenary. We were always on the move so there was no time for settling down, but that didn't mean we couldn't take a girl to our bed roll at night. Which of course could cause a few problems if the girl fell pregnant. Our leader… isn't overly keen on outsiders. She sees them as an inferior species. You must be a member of our military to earn the right to reproduce. If you haven't… Well. You end up in the Pits."

Falkner lifted a questioning brow, "The Pits?"

Morty nodded then grinned. "Those who disobey an order are thrown into something called the Pits. It's not a dungeon as the name might suggest; rather, it's an underground maze of terrors." All constructed by dark magic. The priests of the old used to have something similar – the traitors and the weak would be locked into a tomb and left to die. But the Pits gave the victim a chance to emerge if they were able to survive the monstrosities. "I don't know anyone in my time that has gone through the experience; just the threat of the Pits existence ensures that we do our best to fulfil our duties, but surviving is possible. It's a way to repent for your sins."

Falkner screwed up his nose in disgust. "That sounds barbaric."

"The most interesting about the Pits experience is that you can never predict what's going to happen to you. Some are raped, others are dismembered... some are simply eaten alive on the spot," Morty continued, ignoring Falkner's comment. "Or that's what the stories say anyway."

"But won't you be thrown into the Pits if they find you here serving a new leader?" He then narrowed his eyes. "Or is that why you are here? You're just seeking refuge within our city walls for protection?

Falkner raised a good point. He was certainly perceptive. For a moment he thought Falkner was going to assume he was acting as an undercover spy. "You're right. I'm hiding. I want a new home. I'm done with that life of always being constantly on the move. I want to put my skills to good use elsewhere and that's why I am here." He hoped he sounded convincing enough.

"…Right."

Morty considered explaining his choices further but noticed there was a man on a horse in the near distance, descending the gentle hill slope. He wasn't wearing the standard chainmail of the soldiers of Blackthorn, so he clearly wasn't one of their own. His armour seemed to be made of animal hide which was commonly used by bandits used in their clothing. "…I'd love to continue discussing the matter with you, but it seems like we have company." He appeared to be heading in the direction of the castle.

Jerking his head to the right, Morty brought Falkner's attention to the man on the horse. There were two blades attached to his left thigh: a dagger and a long sword. Further evidence the man was a rogue mercenary. Why else would he be travelling alone with decent gear? But it wasn't the blades that caught his interest – it was the large brown sacks hanging on each of the horse's sides that interested him. If he was indeed a rogue mercenary, then he was probably carrying some coin.

Nudging Falkner gently in the ribs, Morty brought his attention to the horse and rider. "I hate to interrupt our deep and meaningful conversation, but it seems we have a reason to celebrate. I do not trust him."

Falkner looked over and frowned. "He's not one of ours."

"Indeed."

"And he's not of Unova origins. Prince Benga's entourage arrived earlier."

"Then someone has heard of the royal wedding and they're planning on disrupting it."

Falkner raised an eyebrow. "You can't be certain."

"I wouldn't trust any outsider. Besides, he's carrying items. We could claim those items for ourselves… Could be coin. Could be something else. I say we take it. We could learn some information from him that could prove useful to our superiors."

Falkner pointed to the horse. "How do we get him off? He could trample us down."

That was a fair point, but fortunately the man hadn't seen them yet. Morty planned to use that to his advantage. The man drew closer to their position. Upon closer inspection, Morty noticed the man was an elderly fellow. Even better.

The rider cantered over and stopped a several feet short. "Greetings, adventurer," Morty said.

"Greetings yourself," the man replied, his voice hoarse and tired. "How many days until Blackthorn?"

Morty turned to Falkner.

Falkner cleared his throat. "Another day. Just keep travelling in this direction and you'll reach the gates."

"What business have you there?" Morty said.

"I seek an audience with the king."

Again, Morty looked at Falkner.

Falkner frowned. "I don't know if you've heard, but the king is quite busy. There's a royal wedding approaching."

Why would a mercenary seek an audience with the king of Blackthorn? He didn't look to be anyone of importance unless… He was planning on assassinating the king? Morty grimaced. Was someone else interfering with his role in Blackthorn? Naoko's sisters didn't always see eye to eye on tactics, and the longer this man talked, the more suspicious he became. Perhaps Naoko had lost confidence in him and had hired someone else.

"What's in the bags?" Morty demanded.

The man looked down then up again. "Treasure."

Morty gestured to the bags. "We're patrolling soldiers of Blackthorn so if you want to seek entrance... You will have to tell us."

"These are for the king's eyes only. I am under strict orders."

Morty pulled out his blades. Falkner did the same. "I insist."

"Then I will refuse your request." His horse reared on its hind legs and the mercenary withdrew his blade, his other hand gripping the reins. He charged.

Morty evaded to the left as the horse charged past as Falkner leaped to the opposite side and toppled over onto the grass. The mercenary turned his horse around prepared to charge again. Morty positioned himself behind the horse, hoping the man would keep his attention focused on Falkner. He didn't mean to use the other man as bait, but if he hoped to use magic to control the battle, he had to make sure his companion didn't notice. The mercenary was preoccupied with Falkner. Good.

Falkner had climbed back to his feet and was swinging his sword trying to parry the blows of his opponent. The mercenary seemed to have forgotten about him. Even better.

With the mercenary's attention elsewhere, Morty brought the blade to his left wrist and made a small cut. A necessary sacrifice to strengthen his power. A weapon enhanced with blood magic always struck harder. Blood seeped from the wound, and he pressed his wrist against his sword. A few drops of blood was all that was needed. A faint red glow emanated from his weapon. With the weapon empowered, he surged forward and slashed the blade at the horse's hind legs. The empowered weapon sliced through the tough bone. The horse screamed – a bloodcurdling sound – then collapsed, blood spilling out onto the grass beneath it. His rider fell off, his sword clattering to the ground. He tried to crawl over to the weapon, but the fall from his horse had left him winded.

"Oh, you're not going anywhere," Morty said, walking over to the man's weapon. He placed his foot on the mercenary's arm applying as much pressure as he could, enjoying the satisfied pained grunt escaping the man's throat. "Pathetic really. I would've thought you'd be stronger than this, but you're nothing but an old man past his time trying desperately to relive those moments of glory of your youth."

Falkner looked on – clearly the man had never been in such a situation before. "…What do we do with him?"

The mercenary gasped. "…Who are you?"

"I used to be a mercenary like you but then I had a change of heart and now I serve the very king you are trying to harm." He pulled his foot off then cut off the bags from the man's fallen horse. He picked the first bag up and peered inside. As he had expected it was filled with gold coins. "You were trying to buy your way in and impress the king with gold, but he has no need for your riches." The horse whimpered again. Deciding to put the horse out of its misery, Morty walked over and plunged his blade through its neck. Its death came quick.

The man grunted. "…The king must die. Zuki…"

"All men must die, but Edward lives another day." Morty gripped his sword firmly then hovered the blade directly above the man's chest. "But for you that day has come."

"Wait!" Falkner exclaimed.

Morty brought the blade crashing down, the tip piercing the flesh. Blood spilled out of the wound as Morty withdrew the sword, the steel now coated in blood. Zuki had sent the man. But why? Did Naoko already know? He winced, glancing down at his wrist. There was always a price to pay when performing dark magic. Wounds would not heal without consuming the blood of another. The smaller the wound, the less he needed.

"Falkner, collect the bags."

"Right." The boy hastily walked over to the fallen horse and picked up the bags.

While the boy was distracted, Morty dropped to his knees, dipped a finger into the fallen warrior's blood then brought it to his mouth, licking his finger clean. He looked down at his wrist again. Already, the wound had repaired itself. "How much coin?"

"A few hundred," Falkner said. "They're quite heavy."

"Excellent." Morty climbed to his feet and wiped the remaining blood on his clothes.

"He said the name Zuki. We should warn the king."

Morty shook his head. "No."

"But what if they try again? We're supposed to defend the king."

Morty glanced at him. "The man is dead. He poses no threat. This Zuki person…" Wouldn't try again, but how was he going to convince Falkner of that? "…We don't need to worry. I mean, he probably already knows about it anyway, or Lance does."

"And how did you even kill that horse?"

"It got spooked by something. You know what horses are like." He turned to examine Falkner's face. The boy looked pale, as if he had been spooked by a ghost or something. "He was a bad person. Don't feel bad for him."

"How can you just… not care?" Falkner tore his gaze away from the body. "We can't leave the corpse here. We should give him a proper burial."

"We have just saved the king from an assassination attempt, and you want to show this man respect?" Morty grabbed one of the coin bags from Falkner and hoisted it over his right shoulder. "Let the ravens feast upon his remains."

"We always bury the dead, even if they're not one of our own."

Morty sighed. "Fine. We'll drag him to the ruins and bury him there."

He picked up the man from his arms as Falkner picked him up the ankles. Truly a waste of time and effort, but the ruins weren't too far away. Maybe it could be an offering to whatever god watched over the ruins.

.

Clair wished Lance were present. But she didn't know where he was. She had been hoping he would be here to calm her nerves, but she couldn't find him. He wasn't with grandfather for the man was standing by her side. Had he been given a task to complete? Maybe grandfather had sent him away because he knew Lance would distract her.

They were waiting at the southern entrance of the castle. It was a long straight path that bypassed the herb garden and was reserved for important people only. Her grandfather wanted the royal prince to see the beauty of their castle rather than travel through the crowded streets. The day was simple. She would have to wait until her grandfather introduced her to Prince Benga and he would take her hand and escort her into his chariot. The prince would then ride the chariot around the perimeter of the castle following the path escorted by several of the best knights. This was supposed to allow them to have quality bonding time. Lance was supposed to be one of those knights.

There were eight knights ready to escort. Each knight wore a helm with a red feather which was said to represent the nobility and purity of a phoenix. The horses were white and like the knights they too wore armour and had a crest of red feathers around their necks. Clair was wearing the blue dress she had selected earlier much to her grandfather's satisfaction.

The skies were clear. It seemed even the gods wanted this day to be special. Clair wasn't a big believer in the gods – in fact, she never prayed before the altar nor took part in the offerings made by the temple workers – but she didn't deny their existence either. She just chose not to involve herself in the affairs of the religious devout followers. It wasn't as if the gods cared about her marriage to Prince Benga anyway so why should she care in return?

"Where is Lance?" Edward said, his voice low.

"I thought he would have been with you. It's probably nothing. He's not needed anyway." Though it would have been nice to have his support.

If the man was bothered by Lance's absence, then he didn't show it. "Yes. You are right. The past few days have been eventful, and another day of a full moon approaches."

Clair wanted to say more but was interrupted by the sound of a horn blowing.

"Ah, they have arrived," Edward said, rolling his shoulders back.

The knights all faced one another their ceremonial lances held upright. Clair looked towards the direction of the horns. There was a single black chariot led by two brown work horses and flanked by four Unovan knights. The Prince was inside the carriage. Clair drew in a deep breath, her right-hand clutching at the amulet hidden under her dress. Today was the day she'd say goodbye to her freedom.

It seemed to take ages for the chariot to arrive, but it reached its destination parking directly before the line of Blackthorn knights. The chariot rider climbed off the chair and onto the ground and opened the door to the carriage. He held back the door and waited for Prince Benga to climb outside.

Clair looked ahead taking in the appearance of her future husband. He was a thin lean man with flaming orange hair and piercing blue eyes. Not her picture of an ideal man. Her thoughts shifted back to Gary Oak. At least he had a face worthy of a royal princess's hand in marriage.

Prince Benga wore the traditional clothing for a prince unlike her cousin who preferred to wear the robes of a knight. Benga wore an embellished cloak and tunic which carried gold lacework and rich embroidery made of real gold. His olive trousers were held in place by a golden waistband. The coat of arms of the Unovan royal family was stitched onto the back of his cloak. The Blackthorns had a dragon to represent them whilst the Unovans had a moth to represent on their coat of arms.

"Greetings, young prince," Edward said, walking towards the man. "Welcome to Blackthorn Castle. I trust your journey was an uneventful one?" He extended his hand.

Benga accepted the handshake. "Travel by land was uneventful, but the ship was certainly interesting. I've never seen so many sick men all at once before." His eyes moved to Clair then shifted back to Edward. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you in person, King Edward."

"And I to you."

Shifting his gaze back to Clair again, Benga said, "You look beautiful, my lady."

She forced a smile. "And you look handsome, my lord," she replied. He didn't really. The man was not attractive at all. He was too lean and his face too plain. It was hard to believe this man was even a prince. Weren't princes usually handsome? But she knew she had to pretend to be interested in the man. Despite not even wanting the marriage, she didn't want to disappoint her family by making a fool of herself. She had far too much pride. She held out her hand.

He walked over and brought his head to her head, planting a kiss against the skin. It was customary to be greeted by a prince in such a manner. "If I may, King Edward, I would like the princess to accompany me on a short ride around the perimeter."

Edward nodded. "Of course."

Benga turned to her again. "Please, I would like to invite you into my carriage," he said, extending his hands towards.

Clair didn't have a choice. She nodded. "Of course." She didn't look at her grandfather. Taking Benga's hand, she allowed him to guide her to the carriage. His butler climbed on the seat and grabbed the reigns of the horse whilst Benga helped her inside. The seats were soft and made of cow leather. "It certainly is a fine day for a ride," she said, peering out the open window, gazing up at the clear blue sky. The carriage started to move, and the knights took their positions. The prince's royal guards led the way whilst the knights of Blackthorn stayed at the back end.

"Indeed. The weather is vastly different from Unova. Our skies are mostly grey until the summer months arrive, and our days are much shorter." He looked at her face, his eyes dropping to her hand clutched around her amulet. "An important family heirloom?" he remarked.

"I bought it recently from a stall." She pulled the amulet out to show him. It wasn't as if she could hide it forever as her possessions would become his.

He brought his face close and studied the amulet. "Fascinating," he mused.

She tried to read his expression but couldn't quite make out what he was thinking. He didn't look disturbed nor confused, but curious. "The woman said it belonged to the old priests."

"I've seen such a symbol before," he remarked, drawing back.

"Do you know what it means? The lady said it was supposed to protect the priests from the spirits of the dead."

He nodded. "My grandfather has a word for it – blood magic. The priests of the ancient days used to sacrifice the living to protect themselves from the dead. No human rituals – just the sacrifice of animals. These animals were placed upon an altar and their hearts would be used for spells."

Clair screwed her face up in disgust. She knew the old priests were barbaric, but she hadn't given much thought in how they created their spells. "And they became the necromancers?"

"No, the necromancers came after Nathaniel and his companions arrived. They specialized magic based on skills. Some mages became adept at healing. Others had a talent for the elements. The last came from Unova. Blood magic is something that's practiced in my hometown. Not to raise the dead, but to heal. This man took it one step forward. He wanted to cheat death itself. We cast him out of the kingdom, and he fled here," Benga explained.

Clair looked at him with new interest. The man didn't seem like much, but it was obvious he was a well-educated man who had clearly spent a lot of time reading old texts. For once, the rumours and storied were right. "You've read a lot of books."

Benga gave a light-hearted chuckle. "My grandfather, King Alder, insists upon it. Wisdom is knowledge after all. You can't be a wise king if you do not know about the world you live in. That's what he always says. So, I read all I can especially about the origins of magic. History tends to repeat itself and I think it's important to know how to deal with magic in case we are faced with it again." He peered out the window briefly then turned back to her. "To be honest, I was never much of a fighter. I prefer to fight using words."

"That is an odd thing to say."

"Not all men like to fight with swords. War is not a pretty sight to behold. You watch hundreds of good men die all for a conflict that could be resolved if the leaders had shared words, but instead of seeking to come to a resolution, kings prefer to declare war. But at what cost? Lives are lost. Gold is spent. The economy suffers. These are all the beginning steps of a civilization crumbling. But enough of this talk about war and the past. Let's look towards the future. A future in which wars will cease to exist."

She nodded. She didn't agree with his words – if men were able to think, conflict would always arise and not all arguments could be resolved in words. Only fools believed in world peace. She knew true peace could never be achieved and wars had to be fought. "That's definitely a new way to look at the world," she said. "A noble aspiration."

Placing a hand on her shoulder gently, he said, "Together, we will bring peace to our lands so our future children and generations beyond them can live without the threat of war. You will make a fine queen and our two kingdoms will set an example for others to follow." He removed his arm.

"Of course."

Clair wasn't sure how long she'd be able to retain her sanity. Yes, he was intelligent, and he had a unique perspective on the world, but his thinking was all wrong. Some people enjoyed war. Some people lived for the battle. He was a fool to think he could change human nature. She didn't speak again, preferring to look outside the window instead, watching the grassy hills pass by. Benga seemed to think she was reflecting on his words and didn't press further. One day Benga would see how wrong he was. War was inevitable.

.

"There! The ruins!" Falkner exclaimed, raising his hand, drawing Morty's attention to their destination ahead.

Morty expected to see the remains of a few buildings about, but all he saw was a ring of white columns surrounding a grey altar and a few trees and bushes nearby. A couple of white doves sat perched on a branch, but they flew away when they noticed them. He approached the ring of columns.

"What happened here anyway?" Morty said.

"This used to be where the old church stood," Falkner explained then looked down at the ground. "It was also a graveyard, and this is where the dead would be buried so they could be within Arceus's reach. It was to protect them from evil spirits in the afterlife. If they were buried within Arceus's light, they would join the Horned One in paradise." The boy stepped into the ring and approached the altar.

"I'll never understand the thinking of your people," Morty murmured, walking towards the altar. Strangely, there was a singular piece of white cloth draped over the stone, as if it were still being used for ceremonial purposes. The altar even had four small unlit braziers in each of the four corners.

"That's because you have no understanding of civilization." Falkner kneeled before the altar, resting his elbows on the stone, and bowing his head in prayer. "Sacrifices would be made in Arceus's honour. Usually animals, but sometimes people who wanted to die would offer themselves."

"I never took Arceus as a sacrificial type of god."

"If you were carrying an illness that could not be healed, you would offer yourself as a sacrifice."

Morty raised an eyebrow. "That makes little sense."

"They could escape their pain and join Arceus in the realm above," Falkner explained, climbing to his feet once more, his back turned to Morty. "I wouldn't expect someone like you to understand. The healthy would kneel before the altar and confess their sins and ask for forgiveness. We were always encouraged to become better people."

All nonsense in Morty's eyes. Arceus didn't do anything to save lives. In fact, he allowed death to spread, but his followers would probably try to justify that as part of some grand plan. Still, to humour himself, he kneeled before the altar and gripped the edges of the stone, closing his eyes and bowing his head in mock prayer. Nothing happened. Somewhat disappointed, he reopened his eyes and climbed to his feet.

"Your god is silent."

"He does not answer to non-believers."

Typical. Of course he didn't. "Have you heard him speak?"

"Many times."

"And this the life he wanted you to have?"

"We're all here for a purpose – to serve Arceus whatever way he wishes."

Morty rolled his eyes. "And what does Arceus want us to do now?"

"He wants you to step away from the altar." A woman's voice.

Both Morty and Falkner turned. Stepping out from behind the trees was a woman with teal-coloured hair, tied up in two side ponytails dressed in a white transparent robe with a golden sash around her waist. Cool blue eyes looked at him. "How long have you been watching us?" Morty said, keeping his gaze fixated on her face. She had youthful features – there were no wrinkles around her eyes and there was a rosy tint to her cheeks – but there was a hardness in her eyes that implied she had witnessed her fair share of battle and heartache.

"Adventurers always visit the ruins drawn by the promise of riches."

"We were told to come here for a problem," Falkner pointed out. "In the name of our king."

The woman chuckled. "Edward Blackthorn? The man who betrayed his own family. No. I do not care for your loyalties. You being in service of him makes you an enemy of mine, and I will not allow his spirit to be disturbed." She raised her hands to the sides and turned them up, so the palms were facing the sun. Flames emerged from her palms.

"A mage," Falkner gasped.

Morty grimaced. "Mages die the same way."

"Swords will not work here. So many have tried to loot the crypt. But I watch and protect." She thrust her hands forward, sending forth balls of flame. Morty jumped to the side, narrowly missing a flame ball. It hit the altar and set the braziers alight. A small cloud of smoke rose into the air. A good way to draw attention. Unwanted attention. He climbed to his feet, withdrawing his sword.

The other ball of flame hit a column and the fireball disintegrated upon impact. "You seek to defile sacred land? Arceus himself watches over me, and he will not let you pass!" Again, she summoned another fireball. This one slammed Falkner in the chest, sending him flying backwards into the altar. The boy smacked his head against the stone and slumped to the ground, a deep groan escaping his throat. He then clutched his head before slipping into an unconscious state.

So much for Falkner being of any use. The boy was more bait than anything else. Morty shifted his attention away from the unconscious soldier and returned his gaze to the woman. She approached him and thrust her hands forward with the force of a powerful gust of wind. The invisible element slammed into his lower gut, almost knocking the wind out of him. He gasped, and clawed at the grass, clenching his teeth.

She kneeled beside him and lowered her head, whispering into his ear. "I sensed your evil before you even reached the place. It was almost as if I could feel the life around me die as you approached. Your friend will live, but you – You will not leave this place. You will be cleansed and offered as a sacrifice. Only then may your soul find peace in the realm above."

"…Who are you?"

"Kris. I live to serve Arceus." She then stood up and turned her back to him, walking over to Falkner's unconscious form, bending over to pick up his sword.

His eyes stung. The smoke from the fire was thickening and limiting his visibility. Smoke had entered his lungs, restricting his ability to breathe properly. But she remained unaffected. Morty reached out for his sword, his fingers just managing to grasp the hilt. Fingers clasping around the hilt, he pulled the blade closer to him then pressed his palm into the sharp edge of the steel as forcefully as he could to pierce flesh.

Kris turned around again. "It's been a long time since I've seen one of your kind."

Morty stood up. Blood spilled down his arm, coating it in crimson red. "Then you would know we are not so easily killed." He swung an arm, his fist connecting with the side of her jaw. Not allowing her a chance to recover, Morty shoved her into a pillar, then pinned her against it. "How did you even know about me?"

"Arceus said you were coming."

"Then you would know what is to come next." Her mouth tightened. Perhaps Arceus hadn't told her much at all. "How does it feel to believe in a god that wants you to die for him? A god that didn't even protect the mages during the great war? I promise you – my people won't make that mistake. The Phoenix will rise again."

"You would have to be a fool to believe Arceus has not chosen a hero to represent him."

Morty grimaced. "You're lying."

"You don't believe in his power. Of course you think I'm lying." She grinned. "Life is just a cycle. Light and darkness must co-exist much like the sun and the moon, and neither side will truly defeat the other. There must be a balance. Everything happens for a reason. That is Arceus's plan. Kill me then. Open the door. That is why you are here. I see that now."

Before she could speak another word, Morty rammed his sword into her stomach. She gasped in pain, her hands falling to the blade. He pushed it in deeper, watching the light fade from her eyes. He withdrew the sword then stepped back, allowing her to fall to the ground. He dropped his sword and fell to his knees, flipping the woman over onto her back.

A sudden weariness gripped him, the world starting to spin. He cast a quick glance at Falkner – the boy was still unconscious – then turned to Kris again, glancing down at the blood from her stomach. He leaned forward and brought his face close, then drank what he needed to repair his wound. Once he had taken his fill, he rolled over onto his stomach. The smoke had faded. Even the braziers had died. All were connected to her power. He closed his eyes.

There was little time for relaxation when he felt a tremor beneath him. Bolting upright, he looked around. There. The altar. Kris's blood had reached the stone. Now cracks had appeared. He climbed to his feet and walked over to Falkner, pulling the man away from the breaking stone. The altar crumbled. When the dust had settled, he noticed a ladder leading into the underground. The doorway to some crypt.

"What closely guarded secret lives down here?"