I rested against the wall of the barn, observing the other prisoners in the moonlight that filtered in through the window high above my head. The smell of dirty hay overpowered the lived-in space, mounds of straw piled up every so often without a rhyme or reason. The only bedding was scraps of cloth to serve as threadbare blankets. A small fire pit served as the centerpiece of the room, around which every bed was arrayed.

It was also where the soldiers had marched us prisoners to before leaving the barn without a word.

"Calm, calm," a weathered voice stood out among the cacophony, belonging to a tall man with long white hair tied behind his head and a beard that dipped below sternum. The veins and tendons stood out on his arms and the skin sagged in some spots, but anyone with eyes and a brain could tell he was still a powerful man. He knelt in front of one of the prisoners to cut his bonds, speaking in a reassuring manner all the while.

Immediately the scurrying prisoners calmed down just from the sight of the man alone. They stilled as he spoke, asked them about our charge on the Locket, news of clans back home, and of their health. The mixture of distractions and familiarity with the situation was enough to keep them from violence.

Most of them, at least.

"...And you, child?" My eyes darted up, hoping against hope he wasn't looking at me, but it wasn't to be. He gestured to me with his knife held out to the side, an obvious attempt to remove the threat it posed.

I ignored him and bit at the hemp rope around my hands, easily freeing myself. One benefit of being younger, smaller wrists are harder to bind. That it looked like I slipped them wasn't intentional, but I could work with that. The faster they understood I couldn't care less about them, that I didn't need them, the better this would go for me.

Before the greybeard could do more than frown at me, one of the warriors surged to his feet and stormed towards the door. A warning was yelled at his back as he barged through, but it was lost on the young man. Through the open door I could see the torches of our escorts, waiting outside our cage for the defiant.

The stern words did not soften the sounds of blows, wood on flesh, that came through the side of the building.

"...Ignore that, if you can," the greybeard sighed as he sat in the center, fire pit at his side. He looked haggard and stretched thin, and his voice matched, "I am… the chief of this pitiful tribe, call me Lacon. I offer you sanctuary, as much safety as I can."

"Greybeard," one of the bigger men, I couldn't remember his name, spoke in near reverence as he rubbed at his raw wrists, "Why are you here? Why are we here?"

The older man sat down in the middle of the room, but the rest of the men and women in the barn turned back to their tiny parts of the room intent on ignoring the newcomers. "I am here because more will be captured, and more will need my guidance."

"How long have you been here?" Another younger man asked, though I could tell that wasn't what he wanted to ask. His eyes shifted around the building, like a fawn who'd heard a branch snap or a leaf crinkle underfoot. He was panicking, and trying to hide it. Poorly. Lacon held himself with grace and strength, his hands firm and unwavering, his face kind-hearted and stoic. He held himself like a man who could leave. I wonder how true that actually was.

"Long enough to have seen nearly two hundred men and women pass through those gates," the old man scratched at his chin in thought, "Ten winters, I believe, maybe eleven."

The others could only stare in disbelief, unable to comprehend the length of his imprisonment, but I simply closed my eyes and leaned my head against the wall. Rest was needed, answers to questions I'd asked years ago were not.

I needed rest to escape, to get back to the Monastery.

By the time my head hit the ground, I was already out. My dreams were flashes of heat and blood, familiar tiles and statues.

I dreamt of home.

The sounds of boots beyond the walls went unnoticed.

My eyes were heavier than I could remember them being, and the hours of bad sleep was catching up to me. Flashes of heat, the feeling of blades in my chest, these were not what good dreams were made of. The sounds of guards milling around the arid field made for a poor distraction from the sounds of spellfire and war machines that echoed in my head.

I looked down the trench I'd dug and wondered if the guards would kill me if I just laid down and slept right there. Instead I reveled in the simple rhythm of my tool rising and falling. The simplicity made it easy to keep count, which made it easy to ignore everything else that simmered in my head.

My rhythm was interrupted by the others on the farm as they worked, each with some type of tool in hand as we struggled to till the dry and caked land. Nearby our guards watched on with weapons in hand, making sure we were doing our jobs.

Just as they had for the past few days.

Whether I had been given brain damage from the battle at the Throat or I'd become a prophet was still up in the air, but I'd been right on how the time I'd spend in this prison was going to go. Five days in and I'd been woken up with the crack of dawn, handed a tool and told to do some menial task. The food was shit and the guards were mean. The morale of people in the barn fell with each day as some tried to escape and were stolen away by the guards, or some were led to a carriage with the capital as the destination in mind. The only thing worse was when the guards hauled them back in, bloodied and bruised.

Still an improvement over Almyra, though.

A sharp whistle pierced the air as Sergeant Rhoam made his way into the field while he was flanked by some of his men. I continued to ignore the venomous whispers that only I could hear as he hit the edge of the field and cleared his throat. Even braced for his voice I still flinched in pain when he shouted into the field, "Prisoners, form rank!" I snorted at the idiocy of trying to make Almyrans get into pretty little lines, but we complied as best we were able.

I looked to my right just in time to see one of the prisoners batted across the face for talking shit.

Rhoam waited until we were quiet and cowed before nodding and stepping aside. In his place came the Baron, hands crossed behind his back and eyes narrowed at us. He stalked in front of our line, stopping a few feet away from me and staring down the biggest of the prisoners. "Rhoam," the sergeant stood straighter at attention, his spear held firmly in his right hand, "How have the prisoners been behaving?"

"They've been…" he looked over at the man with a quickly swelling black eye, "Unruly." Rhoam's rough and unshaven face was adorned with a graying beard and a set of dull green eyes that watched us like a hawk.

"So they've energy to spare?" The Baron's angular face stayed stoic, but his voice tilted upwards in amusement. "Good. I've a proposition for them," I blinked owlishly at him, wondering why he was insisting on the theatrics.

"It's a little early for that," Rhoam hedged hesitantly before the Baron sent him a sharp look. Rhoam sighed and shrugged before nodding, "As you say, Sir."

"Very good sergeant, see it done," And with that, Baron Marigny stalked off with his honor guard of four escorting him off the field. I winced as I heard the teeth of the man next to me grinding together.

Only once the Noble was off the field did Rhoam straighten and return to his normal bellows that shook the trees around us, "Listen up!" The soldiers around us straightened while prisoners stiffened. "The Baron has decided that some exercise would do some of you well, and we are the reserve for the Locket. We need willing bodies to serve as training partners," His eyes shone underneath his peppered gray eyebrows, and his mouth was set in a harsh line.

Immediately most of the men brightened up.

"We have men who need practice hitting a moving target," Rhoam explained as he tapped the butt of his spear on the ground, killing any blooming enthusiasm, "You will be beaten black and blue, you will be exhausted, but you will be fed well."

I heard a few men scoff at the 'deal', but the largest man stepped forward, and the signs of hunger were clear on him, "I doubt I'll feel the swings of a Fodlan dog," he declared smugly, earning a few laughs from the men beside him, who also stepped forward.

To my right I noticed one man looking at his blistering and rubbed raw hands and staying silent. A few more stepped forward, leaving the five men I'd remembered accepting while the other eleven decided against it.

If what I remember was correct, I really shouldn't agree to this. I hadn't last time and the few that had had come back bruised and bleeding, barely able to move that night.

But the guards had kept their word and given them meat.

I looked down at my hands and saw how small they were, how thin my wrists were, and thought of how far I had to go. I needed all the food I could get, maybe it could make me any bit stronger- 'You need to do this.' I blinked as the voice cut into my thoughts, not liking that I inadvertently ended up agreeing with him, 'The gruel they are feeding you will make you brittle and weak, unable to swing a sword let alone fight a war. You are a growing child, you need meat not grain. Maybe you'll grow past a runt if you eat like a man instead of cattle.' I hoped against hope I could think of a reason to deny him, just out of principle more than utility, but could find no reason.

I sighed deeply and stepped forward.

A few of the soldiers laughed, a few of the prisoners did too, but Rhoam just stared me down. "Are you certain, boy? It won't be a fun time." I could hear the last bit of his kindness in the current in his voice, but I only nodded. Out of the corner of my eye I could see a soldier with a sneer on his face, no doubt thinking about how much of a moron I must be to agree to this. It was answered by a smug grin by the largest Prisoner, "My men will not hold back because you're a kid," The sergeant asked one last time.

I could only see the broken tiles and blood. Green eyes and a sword. I need all the practice I can get.

My only answer was a shrug.

We waited maybe a minute more for anyone else to step forward, but none did. With barely a word Rhoam turned on his heel and stomped his way to the treeline while his soldiers herded us in the same direction.

A breeze wafted through the trees and leaves lightly fell to the ground around the clearing. Once more the resounding echo bounced off the trees reminding the archer of how remote his training spot really was. The distance, the way noises bounced off of trees and seemed to travel for miles, someone wouldn't have been insane to assume it had been manicured to be exactly the way it was. It was with a satisfied smile that he reached down and grabbed another arrow, aiming once more to hit the bullseye.

He paused as the sounds of movement made themselves known, a slow and steady thump of fine boots on dirt. 'Seeing as only two people know where this is, its either mother or…' He released his arrow before the intruder broke the treeline, with his shot hitting slightly to the left of where he wanted it. "Tss," he hissed in frustration.

"Slightly off the mark," the voice was broad and old, masculine as the sun was bright. The footsteps were heavier too. Basically, it wasn't his mother or anyone else he wanted to have a conversation with. Duke Riegan watched from the edge of the clearing as the archer took his time picking his next arrow.

"Are you out here for a reason, surely you've more important things to do besides critique my aim?" he couldn't help the snipe, it was second nature to him at this point. He'd only been reintroduced to Fodlan's political landscape for close to a year or so at this point, and already he was tired of the barbed words and false kindness. He longed for home, where his brothers openly spoke of beheading him openly and with the next sibling going for more grandiose descriptions of violence. The honesty suited him better, he felt.

Not that he was a bad liar, but he liked insulting someone to their face much more his style.

"Is it not my prerogative to check in on my kin?" The man's hair was graying more and more rapidly as the days went on, and you could hardly recognize the man from who he had been but a year or so ago. But his eyes were sharp, and his mind sharper, so people tended to listen to him anyway. That he was well known for his cunning even among the politically savvy Derdreu nobles made it hard for anyone to ignore him, despite the outward appearance of an aging man.

Having nothing to say to him, Claude hefted his bow and readied a shot once more, letting the older man say his piece before he made any more slips of the tongue.

A chuckle left the Duke's lips, "Quite. Now, on to business, yes? I've seen fit to enroll you at Garreg Mach." The arrow sailed high as Claude let go far too early, sending a look over to his grandfather who simply continued to speak, "A year and a half from now in fact."

The bowstring was pulled once more as Claude began to piece information together, nodding slowly before releasing the string. The arrow hit the target a little up and to the right, and he cursed his inability to multitask, something for later. "That wouldn't happen to be the same year that his Highness is attending, would it?"

"Among other notable scions, yes, it would happen to be the same year," The old man smiled, his mirth spilling over onto his face, "Why, I do believe that Gloucester's Heir will be there as well." Ah, that puffed up Ponce. He'd met and talked with him at a few balls, and had to play nice a few times when Count Gloucester was in the capital. If the Duke had mentioned him, then he was in the play that he was conjuring up, and if what Claude had heard was true then Gloucester was making plans to take the Alliance helm for himself, for whatever inane desire the small minded man had in mind.

Power?

Prestige?

…Women? His son certainly had women on his mind often enough that it might be an actual motive. In either case, Claude being sent there at the same time wasn't a coincidence, so he assumed he was expected to outperform him and outmaneuver him to the point that the Alliance Nobles couldn't deny his claim to leadership come his graduation or his grandfather's inevitable death.

From the sounds of things, he had a while yet to gather information and scheme towards his own ambitions, something that his grandfather was relatively content to let him do. He'd assume that he was after the position anyways and do his damnedest to help him get it, but announcing an heir this early on? Without any proof of his abilities?

Political suicide. Something like that would be the hottest gossip for years, nepotism incarnate.

Save that for Faerghus and its backwards nobles.

"Of course," His grandfather broke back in, "There has been other news that may concern you." Claude let the bowstring go once more, but this time it landed low. He suppressed a groan at his aim dancing about the target before looking back at his intruder, "Another attack on the Locket, a tad more successful than the last."

Of course, his home would do him no favors in his journey, "Casualties?" The inquiry was one of curiosity more than need, the number didn't make a difference for him. Any number was too high.

"Over thirty dead, less than twenty wounded soldiers. They managed to break the lines this time, give them another decade of this and they might take the Locket," came the cold and calculating voice he had come to expect. Another piece of evidence slotted into place as the Duke stood there stroking his chin like the Noble he was. And if he was bringing that up, it was simultaneously a nod to his heritage and the effect it could have on his standing as well as a critique of the man in charge of the defense. That he was my only true rival for the position of Grand Marshal was icing on the cake.

Duke Riegan sounded close to recognizing his heir in public, he just needed something he could show as an explanation.

"How many Almyrans?" he asked before he could stop himself.

"Unreported casualties, but a dozen or so prisoners," The Duke humored him as he cursed under his breath. He said prisoners, but he may as well have said slaves. The Duke probably saw it as loyalty to his homeland, but Claude couldn't bring himself to consign anyone to that fate, Almyran or Fodlan.

"Where was Holst at the time of the siege?" I asked instead, hoping to derail my thoughts. No point in worrying myself into an early grave. If I managed to pull this off, I could make things better for them anyway.

"He was manning the wall personally, he was the one who wrote the report." The final nail in the coffin then, no weaseling out of it or pinning it on incompetent subordinates. His standing would take a nosedive when this got out. There was a beat of silence as he worried at the fletching on an arrow, thinking through paths forward, but his grandfather must have mistaken in for a random bout of compassion, "The prisoners are of no concern for you. Even having one in the city would be a hazard for you, you'd never know when you could be outed. No," he stated imperiously before he turned away and made his way home, "You can't save everyone Claude."

He pulled the arrow angrily before manually calming his breathing and his racing mind. His fellow nobles were failing and too far up their own ass to change themselves. His fellow Almyrans were nothing more than rabid dogs on his doorstep. The Kingdom had their Crown-Prince on the up-and-coming with his international debut made with the subjugation of a rebellion. The Empire had been silent ever since the Coup d'Etat, and no word had been allowed in or out, to or from his family's contacts. Things were looking grim.

…He needed information, contacts to make.

He began going through the list of noble births around when he had been born around the same time as him and who had yet to attend Garreg Mach. He wanted to reach out and find out who would be attending with him and begin the planning, but from how it was said the Duke wanted it on the down low-

But what if he publicized it? Made a showing of his competence and desire to attend? Convince a few nobles they were… behind the curve? Mayhaps convince a few on the fence nobles that they needed to throw in now or lose standing in the races? He smirked briefly as his thoughts went to their final conclusion.

…Maybe some charming rogue convinced them to do things his way once they got into position?

Showing him as a good leader, capturing people who were guaranteed positions of power, and, if he were lucky, convince the Kingdom and Empire to do the same? The bow in his hands was taut as he thought about the access he would have, the things he could do. He nodded his head and the bow bucked one last time, "Jackpot." The arrow came to a rest, standing proudly in the center of the target.

The blow slammed into the shield in my hands, striking dead center and rebounding back, but the strength of the strike made my arms shake. I grit my teeth through the blow as my left foot slipped back and I tried to make some space between me and my opponent, but he didn't make it easy for me. I wanted to dodge, get some space, reach for a bow I didn't have-

'You're not using that right,' I ducked underneath the spear as it whistled where my head had been, hefting the wooden shield between his next stab. This one sent me toppling ass over end, 'You aren't even running away like a coward,' I set my shoulders as I came back up, hoping to ease out the tightness in my shoulders. The soldier across from me took that chance to step forward and tried to drive his weapon through my shield, or so it seemed, but all it did was bounce ineffectually off, 'And yet he can't get an actual hit in. I think you did it, you found the one man worse than you,' the echoes of mocking laughter and clapping were ignored as I stepped into his last thrust and pushed him back.

I took the chance while the man, who was wearing considerably more armor than me, slowly got to his feet, as he had for the entire training session. I spied most of the other prisoners being used as training dummies fairing similarly to me in their bouts, what with their inexperience in wielding a shield and no weapon on hand to fight like they knew, but with the exception that they weren't fighting novices.

The telltale clank of metal told me that I'd spent too long looking and barely brought my arm up in time to not take the full force of the blow to the head. The laughs exploded in volume as I rolled along the ground with another bruise to add to my collection, but I pushed them to the back of my mind and focused. My eyes caught the eyes of my partner, and I was unsurprised to see the hate that looked back at me. I could understand his side of the issue, though, as he only had one eye left to glare at me underneath his helmet.

I squinted at the young man who had hauled me out of the dirt on that baked-clay trail, wondering why he was trying to kill me with his eyes alone, before he exploded forward with a sweep. A sweep that I easily ducked under and moved to the right, instinctually getting around to his overextended and exposed side. Seeing as I had no weapon I circled farther and tried to make space. 'You do have a weapon, you failure,' the harsh whispers started up again, 'You could take him down, prove your strength, earn your freedom-' I ignored it once more as another sweep slammed into my shield, this time from my left, but I was starting to understand how to use a shield, so instead of standing still or leaning into it I let him carry me away from his strike as I took a few halting steps backwards.

My shield was carried with both of my hands, and my arms were beginning to go numb from the exertion, so whatever feat of strength my own personal trainer was demanding I do, I didn't think I could manage it in this state. But he was right on one thing; I had no idea what I was doing. I let the other man wail on my shield as I gave ground and circled around him to his back, my cheeks was probably already blue from the first blow my opponent had landed, a strike so vicious my head was spinning for a good fifteen minutes afterwards.

Rhoam had even stepped in to make sure I wasn't dead. Thankfully, one of the only things I could ever say with confidence was that I could take punishment, and that was exactly what I did for the rest of the day. Me and my opponent stayed in our ring until the sun went low, until they had to break out the torches for the training yard, until I couldn't hear anything outside of his training spear smashing into my shield.

My breathing came in gasps, ragged and crisp in the rapidly cooling air, but I continued. I needed to get stronger. I needed to learn.

And the only way I learned was by doing.

Unfortunately for me, a sweep was coming for my face, and I couldn't seem to drag my shield up to block. Instead, I dropped like a sack of bricks underneath it, laying on the ground panting and gasping for breath. My opponent stumbled forward as his attack left him stumbling, ending up using his spear as a crutch.

"Enough!" A bark resounded from the sergeant, finally drawing my eyes up to look around, seeing the other prisoners having been beaten black and blue, eating from their bowls like a pack of starving wolves. Rhoam grabbed me by the collar and bodily threw me in the direction of the other prisoners, where I lay on the ground trying to regain my breath before standing and walking the rest of the way. I sat myself down roughly in the dirt before a bowl was shoved into my hands with a piece of nearly stale bread.

I devoured it in seconds.

A meaty hand slapped me on the back, causing me to lurch forward, my eyes going wide and feral at the thought of someone taking the food in my hands, but instead I found myself staring at the tall and broad Almyran who had first stepped forward those long hours ago. His right eye was swollen shut and his right shoulder looked like it's taken a series of nasty hits, but he nodded at me with a pain filled smile. "Galos," he said, before looking at me expectantly. I quirked an eyebrow at him, so he nodded once more, "My name. Yours?"

"Cyril."

He nodded in agreement, "Good name, nice and simple. At least we've one warrior among us, aye?" He laughed a hoarse laugh as he sipped at what was left in his bowl. The man next to him looked mutinous and probably would have hit him he wasn't eating, though a few others barked out laughs alongside him, but I didn't get the joke. Upon seeing my blank look he laughed even harder before slapping me once again. "Everyone else here took the first chance we got to land a blow," he declared proudly, even as one of the guards standing around us cursed him under his breath, but Galos only nodded at him in acceptance, "And of course they took the opportunity to group up and beat us half to death."

"You nearly caved my head in with your shield!" The guard pit venomously at the inmate.

"How're you gonna learn if it don't hurt?" the man sitting next to Galos retorted right back, "Besides, a death like that'll see you to the Maker in no time!" For that he got a whack to the head, and the small bit of food he had in his bowl was sent tumbling into the dirt. The man knelt over his bowl and howled, "The bowl had no part in this you-!" He got another spearbutt to the back of his head while the other four men laughed at his plight.

I scrunched my eyes together at the raucous group and suddenly remembered one of the most annoying parts of my people; They're morons, one and all.

"But not you," The large man continued with a hearty chuckle, "Little man's got some honor 'im no doubt," I blinked at him, wondering if that was what the voice had been talking about. I was just training, same as I did at the Monastery. "Who's clan were you with?" I focused on my food, the horrible stew that it was, as the topic turned to one I didn't really care about. Hadn't cared since I left Almyra.

"Not mine."

"Never seen him."

"One of the Bear's, wasn't he?"

Galos blinked around, before turning owlishly back to me, "Where're you from boy?"

I wondered what I had to lose, as no one had expressed interest in this in my other life, one of the benefits of laying low I suppose. The question was only important for warriors, as no one had ever asked the boy tasked with cleaning weapons and doing the dishes what clan he was in. "No clan, no names," I answered truthfully, but Galos looked as though he'd been struck.

"No clan? And you can move like that when you're a small man?" He shook his head before draining his bowl, "Now I've heard enough. The spirits must be crazy to leave you on your own."

I shrugged before following suit and eating the rest of my now cold dinner. It wasn't my fault they were so damn slow, not when I was used to training with Shamir.

"Alright, alright, up you get," Rhoam announced as he entered the log fence to the training yard, looking more haggard than any of the other guards in the yard. He'd been the one keeping everyone, guard and prisoner, from the other's throat. "You've still land to till in the morning. To the barn with you, the lot of you." The guards roughly demanded that we stand and dragged us back to our quarters, with one or two of the prisoners baring their teeth at the rough treatment. The moment the guards left and shut the gate behind them I fell against the wall underneath the window, content to get some sleep.

Once more, the moment my eyes closed and all I saw were the familiar tiles of home, and the familiar fires of war.

End Chapter.

The hope for this Fic is to flesh out underutilized characters, story elements, and concepts from the base game (No shocker, that what all of them are about). I like Almyra as a briefly described country of bandits and brigands, but I wanted to not just go with the whole "Undeveloped and uncivilized people" aspect because Claude obviously isn't the product of a country of only war.

I probably won't handle it well, but I wanna try.

Jericho out.