cw: graphic violence and themes of death


"And so you have come."

The throne was empty, where they'd expected to find her. Ferdinand yelled, "Show yourself, witch!" He slammed the Spear of Assal on the stone. "Or are you afraid?"

She appeared, warping into the throne itself, legs crossed and the picture of a seductress. The torches blew out in the Aegir throne room, save two. Under the low light, Cornelia balanced a chalice in her hand while cackling.

"Well, it'd be poor form to not show myself to guests. What a poor host I'd be," she said through laughter. "As what kind of host does not offer her guests with entertainment?"

"That chalice," Constance hissed. "That's not a chalice, that's the Chalice."

Ferdinand nodded next to her. "Then you take her. I'll deal with whatever this entertainment is."

Cornelia waved a hand. Flecks of darkness blew from her hand like flower petals. Each landed in a growing pile on the floor; blending together, amalgamating.

"A gift, from your dearest Hapi," Cornelia taunted. A massive hand—paw—emerged from the darkness.

Ferdinand spun Assal in his hand. "Leave it to me. The rest of you, take her."

"Don't be stupid," Murphy said, striding up and drawing her sword. She was shaking, but her resolve won out. "This is work for two. Besides, I'm useless against a mage."

Ferdinand spared her a smile. Then, he called, "Constance! Make her pay."

"With pleasure," the fallen noblewoman said, eyes of rage turned on their enemy.

Cornelia grinned and gestured with her hand. "Sic 'em, boy."


Blue skies for a battle. The rainy season had offered them a reprieve, something Marianne was immeasurably grateful for. Merceus had been hell.

While Lorenz and Claude led the prongs of their trident into the fiercest opposition, Marianne's took to the docks. Oh, how odd to think of it; her, leading a third of the army. But maybe it wasn't odd. Maybe it never had been.

The docks were comprised of many spread out buildings, the de facto slums of the city. Property that would have been valuable for its proximity to the docks, but was left untouched due to the summer storms that buffeted the homes.

Her people split off into preplanned groups, taking to each and every street. Like veins in the body, they flooded the area with the yellow and whites of Alliance and Coalition alike. Over the canals and through the wood buildings, to the waterfront garrison they went. It was the primary objective of her force. Secure and deprive means of escape. Mercy was to be offered, but Claude, Holst, and Seteth agreed that letting any Empire leaders escape was catastrophic.

The fight ended today. Their journey reached its conclusion.

Not even five minutes passed before they made it far enough in to meet their opposition. Along the docks themselves, red clad soldiers had set up. Massive boats arrayed in the harbor bore soldiers with bows, waiting for the order to fire. It wasn't a trap so much as it was just a clever maneuver.

Marianne blinked calmly. Once upon a time, she'd have floundered, insisted she could have done nothing. But now, things were different. She'd always been capable, but only know was there acknowledgement.

"Cover me," she ordered, the command ironclad. Holding up a hand, she felt the familiar chill of ice-at-fingertips.

Hanneman had once given a lecture she's sat in on about the finer points of Black magic.

"Fire is love, passion through and through," he said at the blackboard. Scribbles of chalk collided with each other; organized, he was not. "Art imitates life, it is no wonder that we describe such things as a burning passion. Fuel for the fire, all of that."

He continued. "Wind, happiness. Not the act of being happy or having something you desire, but rather the act of reaching for it. Wind works best directed at a goal, chasing something that fulfills and heartens you."

"Lightning, is anger. Anger lances through us quick and hot, and one might even be tempted to call it fiery. Myself and other scholars disagree. For if you're angry, it is lightning that strikes with quick fury. You attack like lightning when you're motivated."

"And ice?" she had asked in a quiet voice, a rare raised hand catching up to her even rarer question.

Hanneman sighed. "Ice is despair. Sadness, desperation, other colder emotions. Definitely the least utilized of the elements. An icy heart, a cold demeanor, all associated with ice. And for good reason. Ice magic manifests in spikes in its purest form, and spikes keep people out."

Hanneman was a brilliant man. Marianne smiled as she looked to the boats while the enemy commander began to give an order. Brilliant, but not infallible.

Ice was despair. It was hopelessness, it was anguish, it was fear, it was the sheer feeling of being overwhelmed by everything and swallowed whole by the darkness. She was well acquainted with it. And perhaps, just left like that, it was a fair description. But by that logic, Marianne's magical ability in ice should have been decaying. But it was not.

True ice magic wasn't fueled by despair. Nay, it was by vulnerability. Of taking that selfsame despair that would debilitate and opening her heart to others. Of embracing it.

Her hand swept in a circle while the other pierced the center of the magical glyph. Salt water rippled before jagged spears of ice leapt from the water, breaching the hull of the first ship. Wood would not deter such a thing, and they burst through like a skewer and moved onto the next ship. More joined from the depths, the frigid ocean water not taking much persuasion to coalesce into its solid state.

It was okay. It would all be okay. Her friends taught her that. Hilda taught her that.

Gritting her teeth, Marianne flung her hands out. Water that had begun to fill holes in the ships burst into spikes of their own, creating more and more holes in the hulls. The intensity was so great, the ocean's surface began to freeze, breaking the forming sheet of ice into chunks as it refused to sit still.

The fleet at Enbarr began to sink.

Marianne lowered her hands, gazing at the commander who had never finished his orders. He stared back at her, fearful. For he looked upon one of the heroes of Fódlan, and found himself unworthy.

"We can't afford to lose," she murmured to herself. Marianne did not look back at her own similarly stunned soldiers as battle's orchestra began throughout the greater docks. Raphael's people had met resistance.

The imperial commander was shoved aside by an impossibly large man. He was bare-chested, holding a dark, but familiar, Relic in his hand. The Sword of the Creator.

Nemesis. A Deadlord. So Myson had gone so far as to bring back the King of Liberation.

But fear did not take her. Marianne began to walk forward, maiden of frost, towards the newest foe. She called out, "Leave him to me. The rest of you, fight. Fight for our world, and for peace!"

In stunned silence, there was realization that they were the ones with Marianne on their side. The Alliance soldiers at her back cheered, and ran forward with shouts of Edmund.

They carved a berth as imperials rushed to meet them. In that secluded center, Marianne walked up to Nemesis. He glared down at her with dead eyes before growling out, "Maurice."

"I am Marianne. No one else," she said, not faltering.

A tense second passed before the Sword of the Creator broke apart into a whip, lashing at her. Ice was at her fingertips again in retort, and her battle truly began.


"Shh," Yuri whispered, looking up to the top of the wall at the guard who just passed by. They were deep in Enbarr, right next to the castle itself. Scaling the city's walls had been easy due to the chaos, but the castle would be better guarded.

Bernadetta nodded silently, rubbing her thumb back and forth along the Inexhaustible's string. Then, quieter than a mouse, she asked, "Think they'd know where Myson is?"

It was a good thought, or at least better than the plan they had in mind. Yuri shrugged. "I'll find out. I'll signal you if I need you." Hope was a better prospect that searching the castle for Myson.

Yuri brushed a hand against the stone, feeling the mortar between the pieces. Erosion was his friend, and had weathered away some of it. The wall was adjacent to the gatehouse, forcing the wall to come to a corner before resuming its perimeter.

They made sure Begalta was secure against their back before digging fingers between the stones to the small edge afforded by the construction. Hand over hand, they climbed up the good twenty feet. For three quarters of it, there was no worry. But in the last stretch, he felt his fingers slip.

Yuri pushed off the wall, leaping for the other side of the wall, perpendicular to his. He caught a hand on the top of the wall, then scrambled up the side, standing.

All in full view of the guard, jaw dropped in surprise. Swearing, Yuri leapt at the man, the solitary guard who hadn't been pulled for the front. Drawing the blade midair, he aimed the end, going for the gut so as to not be lethal. He missed, and the blade speared the man's heart. He died instantly.

"Fuck," Yuri muttered. They looked around and there was no one else. That meant they would be searching the castle for Myson, or until they caught wind of where he was.

Yuri undid the rope they'd tied around their waist and threw it down to Bernadetta. As she climbed, all Yuri could think about was the lack of guards. During battle, the leader was supposed to be protected.

Which meant Edelgard had a plan, and that couldn't be good. A cold feeling settled into their stomach.


The battle was bloodiest along the main street. It was the biggest open area in the city; a straight shot to the castle. They forced their way ahead, clashing with imperials in a near standstill.

A near standstill. They were making progress.

Catherine headed up the vanguard, a whirlwind. For all the people spared her blade, Shamir was there to pick them off. Partners in all things, but foremost the battlefield. The two knights were the only reason they'd gained the ground they had.

Lorenz was the one who stuck by her, shouting orders. His perspective let him get the best idea of where help was needed.

Where she was needed.

"Deadlord!" screamed a man before he was cut down. Byleth didn't need to wait for Lorenz' words, though they came anyway. She bounded through the crowds of soldiers, Sword of the Creator's red light forging her path. It streaked behind her like paint on a canvas, tracing her path as she ran.

One of the dead Elites pulled her blade out of a corpse and turned to face her. In her hands, a large shield to accompany the blade. It was a black, faux thing that bled darkness.

Fraldarius, she reasoned. Byleth shifted her stance, adopting speed instead of strength. If the woman fought at all like Felix, she'd need it.

TRAITOR FOOLISH THIEF HE-WHO-STOLE MOTHER FROM ME KILL HIM KILL HIM—

Byleth winced, and forged on as the memories hit her.

(...)

Cichol stood next to me, stalwart as ever. Battle suited him far better than he'd admit. His spear, Assal, glittered like a brilliant diamond amidst the darkness.

"Nemesis approaches," he said, spitting the name out like poison. So he was as angry as I was. Good. It would be a boon on the battlefield. He turned to me. "Do you still mean to face him yourself, Seiros?"

"I shall," I said. "What of Macuil? Has he news?"

Cichol shook his head. "We've not heard from him. Nemesis' closest ride with him. Macuil is no doubt too busy getting caught up in the fight. You know how he is."

I shook my head. It did not matter. Not now. No, for there was only one thing on my mind.

Looking out over the Tailtean Plains as the armies clashed, I could see him. That wicked blade-of-my-mother glowed a hellish red as he cut through scores of soldiers.

"Lord Jormungandr wants to speak with you," Cichol whispered. "Shall I delay him?"

"Can he not see we are in battle?" I snarled.

"You would think. Politics waits for no one, it would seem," Cichol said, sharing my annoyance. "Seiros, are you sure about all this? You…I've never seen you like this. It is not a good color on you."

"Take me out to him," I said, ignoring him. My shield and sword were comfortable in hand. "Let me deliver him his divine retribution."

Cichol pursed his lips and nodded, waving for our soldiers to bring his wyvern. Would that he could just transform and carry me.

Vengeance, mother. The Red Canyon would not be forgotten. Even should the rest of the world forget it, I will remember.

That ungrateful humans murdered you.


Dorothea was always thinking about the stories. The odes, the ballads, the serenades, what would be composed after this war? Would it be songs of love or anger? Plays, musicals, or neither? It felt at times that she were in one.

For fighting her betrothed's long dead ancestor reanimated made for quite the tale to tell.

She and Lamine had carved a large opening in the army for themselves. Soldiers surged around them on both sides of the main street, trying to get to the front where Lorenz led the charge and away from the fight. Only Mercedes waited in the wings, offering the support of her magic where she could.

Dorothea didn't give her many opportunities. Not for anything so foolish as to protect her—Mercedes was capable of that herself. No, Lamine was just that vicious.

Fire blended with lightning in Lamine's hands, tricks Dorothea hadn't seen anyone but herself do. But this was an Elite, a hero of eld.

One who should have stayed dead, she grumbled to herself. The burning bolt lashed towards her and a wall of ice shot up from the ground before Dorothea. The bolt impacted and cracked the ice, but didn't shatter it. It was Dorothea who did that, crashing through the wall with a gust of wind. The wind carried shards of ice with it—tiny hornets flying—and sailed towards Lamine.

The Deadlord didn't balk as ice shredded her skin. She was dead, there was no feeling. Instead, while Dorothea recovered, Lamine weaved her own wind. Ice that had flown from Dorothea's hands changed sides, reangling in the air. The wind picked up, a fervent gale brewing in the area. A fimbulvetr.

A glimmer of light. Mercedes was at her side, flinging a mote of light towards Lamine. It was small, tiny, insignificant. But as it brushed against Lamine's cheek, it exploded into a golden dawn; a sunrise itself. The Deadlord was blinded.

Dorothea didn't wait. Flexing back to lightning, her tried and true, she threw an arm forward, one after the other. Each held a bolt which struck true, a jolt to a reanimated heart. Lamine staggered with each hit, stumbling backwards as she tried to cast. But she lost focus on the building spell, and it fizzled.

With a swish of her hand, Dorothea grabbed the wind from the air and severed Lamine's head.

The crowd of soldiers who had stayed their distance cheered. With renewed confidence, they pressed forward. Mercedes caught Dorothea as she stumbled.

"Falling for me?" Mercedes teased.

Dorothea smiled faintly. "That one…took a lot out of me."

"Fall back," Mercedes said. "I'll stay to keep an eye on By."

"No," Dorothea said. "I'm her friend too. Her family. I'm staying to help."

"Dorothea, you can barely stand."

"Just need five minutes."

And they didn't have it.

From their right flank, several bodies flew through the air. Soldiers scrambled back, terrified, as they looked upon devils.

Caspar stood, holding twin Freikugels. One glowed a Relic red, the other a ghastly dark. His face was empty of all emotion, betraying the husk he was. Blood covered him, proof of his allegiance in this fight.

"No," whispered Mercedes.

Another devil walked in his footsteps, carrying a scythe like the reaper himself.

Jeritza.


"Down there!" shouted Ignatz, pointing to a small clearing in the city.

Nader tugged Aldebaran's reins, urging him towards where Ignatz pointed. With a practiced dive, the wyvern zipped out of the clash of aerial combatants.

They crashed to the ground, the wyvern landing, too crowded to quite fit in the area. Part of a roof had been broken by his tail.

Nader still scratched his neck, and Aldebaran gave a delighted cry, leaning into it. "You sure you're alright on your own?" Nader called to him as he slipped off the wyvern.

Ignatz landed on the ground with a stumble, his weaker leg taking too much weight. "I'll be okay," he called back. "You know me, I stay out of trouble."

"Hmph, I daresay that's the complete opposite of what I know," Nader grumbled. With one last look, he cracked the reins. Aldebaran roared before flapping his wings, taking to the sky.

Ignatz brushed some stone dust off himself and unshouldered his bow. He rolled his shoulders and knocked an arrow.

Time to hunt.


Ice emerged from the ground beneath her feet, pushing her upwards and out of the Sword of the Creator's reach. Nemesis growled at her like the beast they used to say she was. "Maurice!" he screamed.

Marianne danced back onto the roof of one of the houses. She'd had to get him away from the fighting, where his whip was causing untold collateral damage. He may have had eyes for her, but a weapon like that left bodies in its wake no matter what.

Nemesis crouched before leaping up and clearing the height of the house without issue. Fear bubbled in her throat. That had been more than thirty feet.

Hand shaking, she conjured. A blade of ice formed in her hand, in the shape of Blutgang. Though it lacked its counterpart's innate abilities, it was just as sharp.

"Maurice," Nemesis growled.

She took three short breaths, just like Byleth had taught her years ago. She bent her knees and held the blade up. Meanwhile, her eyes darted around. She was far from the canals, the ocean. Ice could be conjured from water in the air, of course, but large reservoirs made it easier. There was an aqueduct not too far from where they—

Nemesis' blade smashed down against hers. Ice-Blutgang buckled under the weight. He didn't mean to overcome her strength. He meant to break her sword.

The edge facing her dulled and she braced it with another hand. Marianne had never been known for strength, and facing down this goliath would be a short thing. She needed a plan. Fast!

"Maurice," Nemesis muttered, his stale breath of decay and death making Marianne gag. It was the opening he needed. Ice-Blutgang began to crack under the weight, and Nemesis leaned into it against her momentary weakness. But she managed to hold.

"You will not…end my journey here," she growled, a feral tone taking to her voice. Faces filled her vision. Hilda. Claude. Lorenz. Ignatz. Leonie. Byleth. Raphael.

"Marianne!"

Raphael's voice carried across the air. She chanced a glance towards where it came from. He'd climbed one of the maintenance ladders of the aqueduct and stood on the ledge nearest to her, some distance away. He gave her a look of desperation.

And the plan formed.

Raphael took a running leap and she dropped the hand bracing ice-Blutgang. Water from the aqueduct became ice; a bridge reaching towards her. Raphael landed on it with a stumble and took another leap.

The pressure let up as Nemesis changed targets. Raphael's gauntlet smashed into the Sword of the Creator, making Nemesis stumble back.

"Get away from my sister," Raphael spat. He spared her the briefest look to make sure she was okay before surging forward.

Men that big shouldn't have been that fast, but both were the result of years of training. Raphael's fists smashed like the wind, quick and effortless. Nemesis' blade caught most, and those he didn't fell true. Blood, or whatever Deadlords bled, began to trickle out of his chest. It was a slowly losing battle for the Liberation King.

Until Nemesis flipped his sword mid swipe and Raphael's fist hit the man when he hadn't expected it. Trying to recover, Raphael pulled his hand back. Quick enough to avoid injury, but not to avoid the leather straps that fixed his gauntlet to his hand getting sliced.

The silver weapon fell, rolling off the building. Raphael put up his other gauntlet in defense, backing up as Nemesis stalked forward.

Marianne acted, waving a hand. Ice coalesced into a spike in the air, jabbing into his shoulder. Nemesis roared, twisting and shattering it with his Relic.

Raphael took the opening. He leapt forward and punched Nemesis in the face with his naked fist. But that wasn't meant to hurt him. Nemesis lashed out with the Sword of the Creator and Raphael's gauntlet caught it between the sharpened tines on its end. With a twist of his wrist, the sword fell out of his hand.

With his free hand, Raphael grabbed it and skewered Nemesis through the stomach. With a vicious kick, he sent Nemesis off the edge of the roof. Marianne scrambled to the edge to look at the Deadlord. He wasn't moving, prone on the ground. But to be safe, she still flicked a finger and dropped a chunk of ice on his head, crushing it.

Raphael wrapped her in a side hug. "Nice job with the ice."

"It was a good plan on your part," Marianne complimented.

"Well, we had a good teacher," he chuckled. He did a once over on her, like he'd no doubt done with Maya many a time. "You good?"

"Uninjured. Just shaken," Marianne said.

He nodded. "Ready to get back into it?"

She smiled. "Let's stick together this time."

He reached out a hand and helped her up.


Petra muscled up the final overhanging roof of the castle. Unlike Faerghan castles or Leicester manors, the Imperial Palace of Adrestia was a gargantuan building with multiple roofs. Why, Petra didn't know. To her it seemed an eyesore.

But that was neither here nor there. Though she was tired and covered in sweat, she looked upon her quarry. Hanneman was shackled in the center of the roof of the palace, lying on his side. A trap? Surely.

Petra walked right into it, drawing her blade. Her eyes shot around for any sign of enemies, but there weren't many places to hide. She saw nothing, and continued forward.

Crouching by him, she said, "Hanneman, can you hear me?"

He was roughed up, but opened his eyes slowly. "Petra?" he whispered, hoarse. "No…you shouldn't be here."

"Neither should you," she said. "I'm getting you out of here." His shackles were some sort of obsidian, something she'd never seen before.

"They prevent magical casting," Hanneman explained, ever the teacher. "I invented them."

"How do they come off?" Petra asked.

"The mage who puts them on can release them," Hanneman said. "Or they come off when said mage dies."

Petra blinked. "That is stupid."

Hanneman laughed lightly. "I never said it was a finished design. Still, Hubert deigned to make use of it." His voice went somber. "Is Lysithea okay?"

"Yeah, I left her where it's safe," Petra said. She brushed her fingers along the shackles. "I don't think I can break them."

"Break them? Petra, are you insinuating you could break regular shackles?" he asked, bewildered.

She glanced at her biceps, then back at him. "Most, yes. But these are harder, stronger. Without the key, I'd need to break your thumbs to get you out of them."

Hanneman bit his lip. "Then let's—"

"Ah, a class reunion."

Petra whirled on the spot, sword pointing at Hubert as she took a fighting stance. Edelgard's right hand man slowly walked from the edge of the roof.

"Pardon me," he apologized. "I got held up. But it seems I'm in time enough. You left so soon last time, Petra. Do I frighten you?"

Memories of knives, of magic, of her screams; torture she'd tried to put from her mind. She pushed them out of her head with sheer will. "I will be having your head." Her voice shook, nonetheless. Was it fear? Was it anger? Hate or fury? She didn't know.

He noticed, and the smile on his face grew wicked. "No, I don't think you will, Shrike."

Petra roared like a lion, and charged at him.


There stood her brother, holding both scythe and white flag. His gaze fell upon her, and he faltered. Caspar did not, as he continued to cut through those in front of him.

"Mercedes!" shouted Jeritza. "I've come to parley."

Dorothea shot her a look, staying her casting until she spoke. There was anger in her eyes, but it was held back by respect for her and her choices.

Ignatz screaming, falling to the ground as his leg was severed.

Annette screaming, her voice becoming quieter as she was strangled.

No more. No more mistakes.

"No," Mercedes said, spitting the word like venom. The absolute gall of her brother made her want to gag.

"I was hoping you'd say that," Dorothea said. "I've got Jeritza." Without waiting for a reply, she began her casting. Jeritza swore loudly and ditched his white flag.

Mercedes turned her gaze to Caspar, to her once friend. His axes crushed another Alliance soldier before he turned to her.

"Caspar!" she called, desperate as he began to walk towards her. He looked unrecognizable, at this point. His pale skin matched his white hair, his eyes felt empty. Was there really no trace of her classmate left. "Caspar, I know you're in there!"

The words fell on deaf ears. Caspar swung Freikugel at her. Mercedes leapt back in fear. The axe struck the ground where she'd been, breaking through stone. "Caspar!" she pled. "It's me, Mercedes!" Desperately, she wove light. If she couldn't reach him, then she could at least incapacitate him.

He pulled Freikugel out of the ground just as her arrows of light shot at him. The first struck his shoulder, and he shrugged it off. The second missed, and the final one hit his leg. He stopped moving for a moment, before continuing.

She wasn't strong enough. Mercedes was a healer, not a fighter. "Caspar!" she tried again, to no avail.

Dorothea screamed.

Time slowed as Mercedes turned her head to see Jeritza grab Dorothea and throw her to the ground. He spun his scythe in his hand as he looked down at the prone woman. He raised the weapon and hesitated.

Mercedes spun on Caspar and shrieked. "Cas, he's going to kill her like they killed Lin!"

Caspar stopped.

"You're helping the people that killed your friend! They killed him, Cas, not us! Even like this, are you going to forget him?"

He slowly turned.

"Please! Save her!" Mercedes begged. She fell to her knees and folded her hands.

Jeritza looked over to her, his face lighting up in understanding about who Dorothea was to her. His weapon began to lower, his face uneasy. "Sister—"

He was cut off as Caspar's Freikugels smashed against his scythe, deflecting the strikes just in time.

Mercedes was at Dorothea's side in an instant, White magic blossoming from her hands. Her beloved was alive, and weakly squeezed her hand as she took it.

"I couldn't protect Lin," Caspar snarled, his voice all kinds of warped but still his. "I couldn't protect father. No more. No more death."

"Caspar!" Jeritza barked.

Caspar flipped both axes in his hands, clarity in his eyes. "For Lin. For Annette. For my father."

Jeritza spun the scythe in his hand, becoming a hurricane. He spun, the force behind the strike enough to lop a head cleanly off. Caspar ducked the first pass, and Jeritza spun again. This time, he caught the scythe with the faux-Freikugel.

Her brother had intended it, yanking the scythe and pulling the axe from his hands. It clattered to the ground, far from them. Caspar barely looked bothered, changing his grip to both hands. He lurched forward, getting in close, and bashed the pommel of the axe into Jeritza's ribcage. The man staggered back and Caspar let him, allowing himself room to wield his axe.

Jeritza planted his back foot down and speared the scythe forward like a lance. The head smashed against Caspar's chest, forcing him to backpedal. With more ground between them, Jeritza spun the scythe again; a spinning top. Its head crested down, catching Caspar's shoulder and digging deep. But whatever magic Myson had performed on him was a boon, and he leaned into the blow without feeling pain.

He swung his axe in an uppercut, trailing both red and blood as he cut into Jeritza's chest. Her brother swore, stumbling back as Caspar kept up the assault. Swing after swing, Jeritza backed up further, but Caspar gave no ground. The scythe shot out, an attempt to snag Caspar's other axe away.

He was ready for it. Instead of turning the force of the blow towards Jeritza, his target was the ground. The scythe and Freikugel careened to the ground, colliding with stone. Metal couldn't hold itself against such force, and the top of the scythe broke off. Caspar laughed and let up, content with his win.

Except it wasn't one. Jeritza spun the now metal rod behind his back, like a bō staff. It was long, but Jeritza didn't seem bothered. He struck, swinging the bō out and cracked it against Caspar's ribcage. The sound of ribs breaking was audible. Mercedes cast a healing spell toward him, but it didn't take. He was dead, there was nothing to heal.

The Deadlord growled, ducking back from the next strike. No longer weighed down by the metal of the scythe, Jeritza was a tempest. Grabbing the bō with both hands, both ends became dangerous as he struck like a viper. He spun the staff, weaving feints alongside strikes that broke bones. Caspar backpedaled, not feeling the pain, but suffering from broken bones all the same. He began to limp as the bō lashed out at his leg, fracturing something.

Caspar realized he was fighting against time and made his gambit. He lowered his guard and Jeritza cracked the staff against the side of his head like a hammer. A normal person would crumble beneath the pain. But Caspar's head bent an unnatural angle and he drove Freikugel up with both hands, carving into Jeritza's torso. Freikugel's head stopped just before his shoulder, though not before cutting through organs.

And like puppets done with the show, both fell.

Mercedes caught Caspar as he fell, crumpling to the ground. She lay his head in her lap as she tried to no avail to heal the wounds. His eyes were cloudy, though this time it had nothing to do with magic. She brushed a hand over his chest and felt broken bone after broken bone. No way there were this many without internal bleeding, and that didn't even take into account the blow to his head.

The worst part of being a healer was the moment when there was recognition that a victim couldn't be saved. As none of her White magic took, Caspar began to die slowly.

"Mercedes," croaked a man's voice. It wasn't Caspar's.

She turned to see her brother, lying on the ground with his head turned to her. He was crying. "Mercedes," he called again.

She did not answer, nor did she break eye contact.

"I'm so…sorry…" he managed before his head fell limp.

Emotion strangled her, and she turned away to focus on Caspar. Mercedes looked down at him, and he was smiling. Beneath the foggy expression, there was recognition at her as he died. His eyes teared up.

Tears of her own pricked her vision. She felt like a mother, holding her child. Mercedes held him close, and did what her mother had always done for her when she needed comfort.

Mercedes sang.

"Hush, sweet child, dry your eyes," she whispered, barely managing the words. "I'll always be there by your side." A song Diana had sung to her as a child. One of her favorites.

"No one loves you more than me." Memories of her mother holding her in the Faerghan cold. "You're my world, dear little sweetpea." She cried as Caspar's eyes closed for a final time.

His smile was wide and content.


Author Notes: That's right, double update, par for the course. Next part goes up tomorrow.


Editing Notes:
4/19/2022: Minor grammatical adjustments.