Chapter Eighteen: Prologue to the Legend

"The revolt has begun."

Andrew stared at the messenger, his expression solemn as he heard his son shift nervously behind him.

After a week's travel from the Imperial Capital, he, his son, and their wives were finally home, behind familiar walls and among familiar faces only to be greeted by a footman announcing that a messenger from Zeltennia had arrived two days prior, awaiting an audience with him. Sensing that something was amiss, Andrew had ordered that the messenger be taken to the parlor and that his son accompany him while apologizing to their wives for not attending to dinner. The three men were now gathered at the castle's parlor where the small and simple room afforded them a bit of privacy.

"By whom?" Andrew leaned forward to take up the decanter on the round wooden table in front of him to pour more wine for their guest, who gladly took the glass, muttering his thanks before drinking it.

Both father and son waited patiently as the man finished the glass before replying to Andrew's question: "A Nanten knight by the name of Reuel Montieg. It is by his order that I have come."

"Oh, is that so?" Andrew returned curiously, filling both his and his son's glasses before stoppering the decanter.

The messenger nodded. "Yes. He wishes for Limberry's support, if that is possible. He states that if you are loyal to Ivalice and its people, you would aid them."

Lord Birch passed a glass to his son, silently contemplating the messenger's words. He studied the man from the rim of his cup as he drank and saw the eagerness in his eyes, reflected in his hands that slightly trembled as he placed down his cup. There had been revolts in the past and the people who fought in those were desperate, full of despair. However, this seemed different this time around.

Why was that?

Finished with his drink, Andrew leaned forward to place his empty glass on the table and instead of sitting back, he propped his elbows upon his knees, his chin resting upon his folded hands as he stared at the messenger curiously, thoughtfully.

"Tell me," he began in a friendly tone, "why has Sir Montieg decided to start a rebellion? I've heard all the reasons before: oppression of the people, Church dictatorship—"

"But there's more to it than that, sir!" the messenger exclaimed excitedly. "Yes, there are all those other reasons as well, but the true reason is that Sir Reuel had a vision!"

"A vision?" Andrew asked inquiringly, his interest piquing. That was certainly different.

"Yes!" the messenger nodded fervently, his eyes shining with excitement. "You see, ever since Queen Ovelia died and was laid to rest at the ruins of Zeltennia's Church, Sir Reuel had made visiting her grave every night a habit, saying that it was his penance for failing in his duty as a knight. Then about eight nights ago, his penance was rewarded when the spirit of the dead queen appeared to him, giving him instructions to raise up the knighthood, unite with the commoners, and drive out the Shrine Knights from the city. He followed her directions and now Zeltennia and Zarghidas are free from the Church."

Andrew sat back, rubbing his beard in thought as he absorbed the tale. "I find this hard to believe, Gabriel," he commented after a pregnant pause. "How could he have accomplished such a task without providing the people with proof of his 'vision'?"

"At first, I did not believe it myself," Gabriel agreed, "until he showed us the Holy Stone that had been a royal treasure for generations, a crystal carved with the Virgo crest. We couldn't believe our eyes. Thought to be lost at Orbonne Monastery, there it was held in Sir Reuel's hand. But there were some who doubted the stone's authenticity and those who had actually seen the stone before studied it, hoping to find it a counterfeit, condemning Sir Reuel for treason. However, after careful study of the stone, they found it true and knights and commoners alike readily answered to his call for a revolt. They stand ready now, awaiting word from you, Lord Birch."

After a moment of contemplative thought, Andrew stood up and said, "I must think on this a while and, hopefully, give an answer on the morrow. In the meantime, please make use of our castle. I apologize for delaying you further."

"Not at all, Lord Birch," Gabriel shook his head as he rose from his seat. "I'm quite taken by the city and its people. I hardly visit Limberry, you see."

"Then please, enjoy yourself while you can." Andrew smiled as he gestured towards the door. "Good night, Sir Gabriel. I shall have a servant summon you tomorrow morning."

Gabriel nodded his thanks and departed the room, leaving the two men alone. Andrew stalked to a window as his son took a seat, filling his glass with wine, studying his father who seemed to be staring out in thought. "Father," he ventured, "what will you do?"

Andrew sighed as he shook his head. "This is so sudden…" he murmured. "First it was Agnes' death then Ramia's discovery, and now this. Events are happening too quickly and I cannot help but suspect that they are somehow linked."

"Really?" Alex returned doubtfully. "How so?"

"I don't know." Andrew gazed at the heavens, hoping to find an answer written in the stars. But he was no seer or astrologer, only a mere knight in the service of his country, and he was no longer sure who he served any more.

His son clarified that for him.

"If you ask me," Alex began as he stood up and walked over to his father, wineglass still in hand, "we should aid this Sir Reuel. I think it's time we take back Ivalice. Living under the Church's shadow for fifteen years is far too long."

"Perhaps," Andrew allowed then turned to face his son. "This is not an easy decision. I think it's best we discuss this with our wives. Their advice had always been sound."

"I agree," his son nodded. He then called for a servant to summon the Ladies Celinda and Tiana to the parlor. A few moments later, they arrived, looking quite agitated.

"What is it now, Andrew?" Celinda asked admonishingly, taking a seat on the couch with a huff. "I'm tired from the journey and wish to rest." She then studied both her husband and son's faces, seeing the worry and uncertainty there. "But that seems impossible now," she added, becoming a little worried herself.

"Forgive me," Andrew bowed his head apologetically towards his wife, "but we are in need of your counsel; both of your counsel," he quickly amended when his daughter-in-law silently took a seat next to his wife. They sat attentively, his son standing behind them. He then took a deep breath and repeated what Gabriel had told them about the revolt at Zeltennia, Sir Reuel's next plan, and his own suspicions on how Agnes' death and Ramia's discovery may be linked to these events.

"Alex suggests that we join them," he concluded, bringing the briefing to a close. "I…am not so sure if that is a wise decision."

"And that's why you have summoned us," Celinda surmised. "This is a difficult decision indeed."

"One needed to be made tonight," Alex added grimly. "We don't have much time."

Tiana then began to laugh as if this was all some sort of game that she just won. The others frowned at her behavior, finding it inappropriate at such a time. "The answer is so obvious!" she exclaimed with a chuckle. "Do not join them."

"Why not?" Alex demanded as he came over to glare at his wife. "Do you wish to continue living like this? Under the Church's shadow?"

Tiana's smile faded as she stared solemnly at her husband, undaunted at his outburst. "No, I do not, but now is not the time to start a rebellion. I'm sure Father Jaren will soon hear of this and when he does, he'll probably send a small army to regain Zeltennia and Zarghidas. But that is not the reason why we should not join them. The answer was obvious when your father commented on how these events may be linked to Lord Oaks' death and Ramia. If we join with the Nanten, we may be putting Ramia in danger, especially now that she knows she's the daughter of a heretic."

"I see," Andrew nodded, his eyes closed in thought as he stroked his beard. "Father Jaren may use her against us, keep her hostage, or worse."

"Exactly!" exclaimed Tiana. "As long as Ramia is still a part of our family, we can do nothing but wait for the right time. Besides, we have our own son to think about."

"You're right," Alex sighed in reluctance as he shook his head. "Galvin may be put in danger as well."

"Then are we in agreement?" Celinda inquired as she stood up from her seat. "That we do not aid this rebellion?"

Andrew nodded readily followed slowly by Alex who said, "I don't like it, but I don't like the thought of Ramia and Galvin in danger even more."

"Then it's decided," Celinda sighed in relief. "Now, shall we all find our beds?"


The morning brought a cloudy sky over Limberry, the sun doing little to warm the guards at their posts, the wind chill as it came from the north. Winter was almost upon them, the first snows coming in a few weeks time. But it seemed that winter had already arrived for Gabriel, the parlor suddenly chilling after hearing Lord Birch's decision.

"I see..." he muttered, trying to hide his disappointment.

He had awakened well before dawn, eager to learn of Andrew's decision, hoping to carry back the good news to Sir Reuel. But that was not the case.

"I'm sorry," Andrew apologized, feeling upset himself at the decision. He would gladly lend his men to aid the rebellion army, to give back to the people what was once theirs, but due to Ramia's adoption into his family, he could not risk putting her in danger. He could, at least, offer some sort of compensation for it.

"Please tell Sir Reuel that though I do not send aid, I will not retaliate against him or his army," he said. "I give you my word that you need not fear attack from behind. It is the least I could do to show my support in the rebellion."

Gabriel thought on it a moment then nodded. "Very well then, Lord Birch. I shall take word of your promise to Sir Reuel. I'm sure he'll be glad to hear it."

Andrew nodded. "I pray for your success."

"And I pray you join us soon. It will be an empty victory with no one else to share it with." With that said, Gabriel bowed and left the parlor for the stables.

Andrew stared at the double doors well after Gabriel's departure, murmuring, "An empty victory…" before turning towards the window just in time to see the messenger from Zeltennia ride out through the castle gates. He sighed, saddened at the thought, as he closed his eyes in reflection. Later, he heard someone enter the room, his eyes opening at the disturbance.

"So, how'd it go?"

"He accepted my answer," Andrew replied without turning to greet his visitor. "We can only hope for their victory."

"Is that all you will do, father?" Alex inquired as he moved towards him. "Pray? Hope? While men will be fighting and dying for the common good? We cannot sit idly by while major events are happening outside these walls."

"I know," his father replied softly. He then turned to him and asked, "But what would you have me do?" And knew that he had played right into his son's ploy when he smiled in answer, saying, "I was hoping you would ask that." Andrew stared at him questioningly.

"A reconnaissance mission," Alex explained matter-of-factly. "Though we're not sending aid, we can help the rebellion in other ways." He grinned shrewdly, adding, "Don't you agree, father?"

Andrew rubbed his bristled chin in thought then smiled, finally understanding full well what his son meant to do: basically to gather information at the capital and relay it to the rebellion army. "Agreed. So, who shall we send as a delegate to the Imperial Capital?"

"Why not you, my Lord Birch?" Alex bowed respectfully.

"Me?" He hadn't expected that answer, anticipating his son to volunteer instead.

Alex nodded. "You are the perfect choice. I would go myself, but I am just the commander of the Aegis Knights. You, on the other hand, are the recognized ruler of Limberry; therefore, your presence at the capital would take precedence over mine. It would also show that Limberry is…willing," he gave a small cough, apparently lying, "to support the Church. There's also the matter of Ramia and Galvin's safety. I would feel better if you're with them."

"They may be knights, but they're inexperienced when it comes to war and politics," Andrew agreed still rubbing his chin. "I do not wish to return to the capital so soon, but if it's the only way for this rebellion to be successful, so be it."

"Shall I make the necessary preparations, father?" his son asked, moving towards the door.

"Please," Andrew nodded and his son left. Lord Birch sighed afterwards, returning to gaze out the window. "I've just returned home and already I'm setting out for the capital once more," he murmured in thought. "So much for relaxation…"

Staring at the overcast sky, he wondered if the storms of war would be winter's way of commencing the season…


As Andrew and Alex made plans concerning the rebel army, out in the west, in a small village hidden in the mountains of Fovoham, five men were discussing strategies on how they would go about seeking allies and building an army of their own.

"It would be difficult to persuade the people to follow you after so long an absence," Orlandu stated sagely as he stared at Delita gravely.

"I am aware of that," Delita nodded, "but I have no doubt that they would side with me."

"If you can provide proof of your identity," Ramza countered. "As Kyshon had said in Zarghidas, your royal signet may not be enough."

"I remember," the monarch returned sourly, frowning as he stroked his beard.

"But you easily convinced Reuel in Zeltennia," Raizen suddenly put in encouragingly. "How is this any different?"

"Because I know Reuel personally," his father returned, "but when it comes to the other provinces…" His voice trailed off as he shook his head. "It shall be hard to persuade them, to listen to a man they never met or saw."

Everyone in the lodge grew quiet at that statement, grudgingly in agreement. Delita had not been king for long to establish friendly relations with the rest of Ivalice, especially the western region of the continent. A stumbling block he had unknowingly left behind when he had disappeared from Ivalice. But now he must overcome that small obstacle.

But how?

His son unwittingly provided the answer.

"Didn't Reuel present to you the same problem, father?" Raizen asked innocently and all turned to him questioningly, prompting him to continue. "If I remember correctly, Reuel questioned on how he could sway the people without any proof of his so-called 'vision' you gave him."

"And I gave him the Virgo stone," his father nodded then frowned in incomprehension. "I don't see how that is going to help us."

"For one who used to manipulate people to get what he desired, I don't see how you could be so narrow-minded."

Delita glared at Orlandu from across the fire that burned low in the middle of Malak's lodge. He need not be reminded of his faults for they still haunted him to this day.

Sensing the tension building, Ramza quickly intervened saying, "I sense you are on to something, old friend. What is on your mind?"

"Three words," the old knight replied, holding up three fingers. "Zodiac Brave Story."

"The legend?" Ramza inquired curiously.

"Yes," Orlandu nodded. "Think back on the Lion War twenty years ago."

Ramza crossed his arms and closed his eyes in thought, his mind recalling the memories of those days he fought against his brothers, against the Church, against Lucavi… Of all those who had perished: Wiegraf, Izlude, Simon…

What's the real reason for collecting the stones…? And reviving the Zodiac Braves?

To gain the people's trust, of course.

His eyes snapped open suddenly at the memory, coming to an understanding of Orlandu's implication. "The Church planned on using the stones to gain the people's trust," he stated.

"I see." Delita stroked his beard again, his eyes closed in thought, his mind returning to those memories he would rather have locked away. He remembered the High Priest's plot, having been party to that plot.

"Father, do you have a plan?" Raizen inquired softly, seeing that he was deep in thought.

"Yes," the monarch opened his eyes, gazing at all those present. "My plan is to follow the late Funeral's plan. The people are dissatisfied with the current rule and I'm sure the knighthoods are as well. All we need do is incite them to revolt against the Church." Ramza was about to voice a question, but he halted him by raising a hand.

"Now I'm aware that there had been revolts in the past," he continued, "and that all had ended in failure, thereby everyone giving in to despair. But we now hold the key to their salvation!"

"The Zodiac stones," uttered Ramza, answering his own unasked question. "Anyone who believes in the legend would quickly rally with whoever possesses the stone."

"Yes!" Delita exclaimed excitedly. "And to stop these revolts—"

"—Jaren must order the Shrine Knights to quell these rebellions," Malak finished, finally coming to grips with the plan. "He would have a difficult time deploying knights to the four corners of Ivalice."

"They won't have enough soldiers," Orlandu noted wisely then smiled at the monarch. "I guess you're not as narrow-minded after all."

"The second step into being a wise ruler, old man," Delita retorted, recalling the old knight's words the night before, "is to keep an open mind."

Orlandu laughed at the quip. "You learn apace!"

"I have to," he replied solemnly, "if we are to win."


Andrew Birch had not thought to return to Bethla Garrison again so soon, as he and his escort trotted through the gates, a small welcoming party waiting for them at the flagstoned plaza beyond, mail glittering in the afternoon sunlight, the keeper of the fort standing a pace before.

He was a tall, thin man, clean-shaven and sparsely haired, the graying strands tugged severely back from an austere visage. He raised a hand in formal greeting, shouting, "Hail, Lord Andrew Birch of Limberry!"

Andrew responded, "Hail, Lord Aral Rycroft, keeper of Bethla Garrison!"

The formalities dispensed, Rycroft came respectfully to Andrew's stirrup, his face lit by a warm smile. "I am surprised to see you again so soon, my friend. It's only been five days since your family passed through here on your way home. What brings you back to this dreary place?"

Andrew climbed from his saddle and took the hand Rycroft extended, his own smile warm as he studied the man, the warmth echoed in his voice. "A mission, Rycroft, old friend. I take it you haven't heard the good news yet."

The keeper snorted. "What news is good these days?"

At which Andrew laughed hugely. "Indeed! But I assure you this is good news, the best news I've heard in the past fifteen years!"

The old keeper raised a quizzical brow. "That good, eh? I would like to hear it."

"And you shall," complied Andrew. "You have our quarters prepared?"

"And baths ready," Rycroft nodded. "How long shall you be staying?"

"Only for the night." Andrew passed the reins of his chocobo to one of Rycroft's men to have it taken to the stables. "Our mission is urgent."

"I would like to hear this mission of yours as well," Rycroft said, bellowing orders for their chocobos to be stabled and food prepared for the travelers afterwards.

"All in good time," Andrew returned patiently then looked towards the bathhouse. "I think I should have that bath first."

"Of course," Rycroft nodded. "You can find me in my quarters after. Perhaps we can share a cup or two of cider while you tell your tale."

Andrew smiled and said, "Why not?"


The bathhouse was a low-roofed structure located along the northeastern wall of the fort, adjacent to one of the wall towers. The doors stood open on a tiled entryway from which there were two exits, the place divided by sex. Andrew took the door to the left into a vestibule where he stripped out of his riding gear and accepted a towel from the waiting attendant before being ushered into a smaller room with a sunken pool just large enough to contain four bodies at its center. Only after he was clean would he continue to the steam room, where soldiers gathered to talk as the vapors rising from the pipes that lay beneath the floor completed the cleansing process and eased the stiffness and the aches imparted by the long ride from Limberry.

It was in this room that he encountered a very familiar face.

Wrapped in a towel, he entered the steam room, the place nearly empty except for one person who he could not see clearly through the haze. He gave a soft greeting to the figure to alert him of his presence before settling wearily on a bench. He pushed shoulder-length hair streaked with gray back from his face, sighing luxuriantly as his muscles relaxed, the final aches from the ride dwindling as the steam did its work.

"Refreshing, isn't it?" the person spoke from across the room.

"Yes, very soothing," Andrew agreed, "especially after a two-day ride from Limberry."

"Limberry…" the figure repeated wistfully. "It's been seven years since I last set foot in that place."

Andrew was surprised at the statement and somewhat confused for he thought Rycroft let his men visit their respective homes once in a while. "You've been here seven years and yet have not made the short trip to Limberry?" he asked as he stared at the hazy figure across from him, who chuckled in response.

"I've only been here for three days, sir," the person explained, "on business. I'm actually stationed in Lesalia, but I was born and raised in Limberry."

Now Andrew was clearly confused, rubbing his beard in thought as he continued to stare at the obscure figure, feeling as if he knew him. "I do not mean to pry," he began, "but I'm curious. If you are from Limberry, why are you stationed in Lesalia? Wouldn't it have been better if you stayed at Limberry, near your home?"

"Yes, it would have been better," the figure replied, "but my family wanted me to train at Lesalia under a close friend of theirs, a knight whose family had served the royal family for many generations. But," Andrew note the change of tone in the stranger's voice as he continued remorsefully, "he died about a month ago, killed by a ninja." He then sighed and next he spoke, it was with resolve. "Despite my failure, I still carry out my duty to his family, warding his only remaining kin. And it is because of this duty that I cannot return to Limberry."

The story further confused Andrew, raising his suspicion that indeed he knew the person that was talking to him. The circumstances pertaining to his own family were very similar to this stranger's events, and there was only one knight that had died in Lesalia a month ago…

But what was his grandson doing here, if it was Galvin he was speaking to?

"Well, I'd best be going," the stranger said suddenly, breaking into Andrew's thoughts. "I've been here longer than I would have liked."

Andrew saw the shape stand and move towards the next room that contained a huge pool, its water chill and invigorating to dispel any lassitude produced by the steam. For a moment, the mist parted and he could see the figure's face clearly.

Just as he suspected.

It was Galvin!

As his grandson passed him, he asked calmly as if his presence did not surprise him, "What are you doing here, Galvin?"

His grandson turned at the sound of his name and gasped when he saw who he had been conversing with. "Grandfather? What are you doing here?"

"I asked you first," countered Andrew as he too stood up and followed his grandson to the larger room that contained the pool.

"I," Galvin began then stopped, unsure of how to continue. How could he explain to his grandfather that he was here because Ramia had brought him here? Because Ramia had discovered that her mother was a prisoner here in Bethla?

A splash saved him from the trouble.

The pool was large enough for swimming and he found his grandfather enjoying the cool water as he swam the length of the pool several times. He watched him as he dove under the water only to emerge seconds later, brushing back wet locks away from his face. As all Limberrians were exceptional sailors, they were expected to be excellent swimmers as well and the Birch family was no exception.

Galvin joined his grandfather in the pool, quickly forgetting the conversation they had earlier as he grunted at the shock of the icy water, numbing at first, but then invigorating. Both grandfather and grandson raced around the pool, enjoying the practice until both were too numb and tired to continue.

They climbed out of the pool and dried themselves, each accepting a clean shirt and breeches offered by an attendant. "Grandfather, about me being here…" Galvin began when they were both dressed.

Andrew shook his head. "I think it's best we discuss the purpose of our visits more privately," he told him. "Rycroft is awaiting me at his quarters. Best you accompany me. It would save me from telling the same story twice."

"All right, grandfather," Galvin nodded, wondering what news he brought as he followed him to Lord Rycroft's chambers. It certainly couldn't be as serious as his own visit to the fort.

They proceeded through torchlit corridors with windows looking over the surrounding landscape, albeit windows that were cut deep to provide firing points for bowmen. They soon entered the airy room of the keeper, tapestries coloring the walls and rugs the floor, a cheerful fire burning in a hearth.

Rycroft greeted them, briefly glancing questioningly at Galvin. "Did you tell him?" he asked softly and the young knight shook his head, frowning in discomfort at the subject attached to that question.

Again, his grandfather saved him when he said, "I bid him to come with me for both of you need to hear this. Then after, perhaps you can tell me why you're here, Galvin, unless it is of great importance that I should know…?"

Galvin shook his head again before Rycroft could voice a response. "As Lord of Limberry, your presence here far exceeds my own. So please, shall you tell us why you are here?"

Andrew noticed Rycroft's troubled expression as the keeper gestured to the chairs set about a table of polished mahogany, a pitcher of the promised cider and a few cups at its middle. He doubted that the troubled expression was in anticipation of the news he was about to impart to both of them, but in response to Galvin's upcoming explanation.

They settled around the table and Rycroft poured the cider, passing each a cup before settling himself down. "Shall we begin?" he commenced after.

Andrew nodded, his good news seeming to be the opposite as Galvin and Rycroft stared at him gravely. Anxious, and a bit curious, to hear Galvin's story, he quickly explained his mission starting with the visit from Gabriel to Limberry's plan of remaining neutral, giving the impression of support to the Church when in actuality, he was the eyes and ears of the rebellion army, planning to send word to Reuel of the Church's future plans.

Rycroft nodded in satisfaction at such news. "This is good news indeed," he murmured thoughtfully. "So, the Nanten are on the move, but if Father Jaren gets wind of this, he may send word to Lionel for reinforcements. How much I hate those Church-loving bastards, I cannot refuse them if they pass through here to get to Bervenia. What would you have me do?"

Andrew frowned as he stroked his beard. "Why can't you refuse them? Bethla Garrison is a fort manned by both Nanten and Aegis knights. There are no Shrine Knights here to keep you from fighting them. You could claim that you have broken your ties with the two provinces and are acting on your own will. I'm sure those under your command would willingly follow you despite your 'betrayal'."

"But that's where you're wrong, grandfather," Galvin suddenly inserted before the keeper could put in a word. "It's true that no Shrine Knights are posted here, but there are a few Church authorities present."

"Yes," Rycroft murmured, "now that she's here."

"Who's here?" Andrew asked curiously. He saw the apprehensive looks that passed between the two and wondered who this person was to cause them so much worry. Then Galvin turned to face him.

"She is the reason why I'm here, grandfather, the reason why Ramia and I are here." He clutched his cup of cider as he explained what had transpired the day after his family had departed from Oaks Keep and Lesalia and the unexpected trip to Bethla, aware of Andrew's frown as he listened.

When Galvin was done he said, "So that would explain your presence here. Ramia is finally reunited with her mother, and as much as I want to be happy for her, I cannot help but feel that this would complicate things a bit." He then set to stroking his beard again as he leaned back in his chair in thought.

"Indeed," Rycroft agreed bitterly. "Jaren has his eyes on this fort as long as she is held prisoner here, more so now that Ramia knows of her mother's whereabouts."

Galvin looked at the keeper strangely as Andrew leaned forward, his hands folded on the table as he asked, "What do you mean by that?"

"A day after you left here with your family," Rycroft began as he explained, "a Divine Knight arrived carrying a letter for the warden assigned to guard the…" Heretic was too strong of a word especially for one whose family had been close friends with the Birch family, so he settled for, "…prisoner. I assume it was from the accursed priest. The knight did not stay long, leaving immediately after his errand. A day later, you two arrived." He looked at Galvin who asked:

"What did the letter say?"

Rycroft shrugged. "Who knows? But I find it strange that one thing happened quickly after the other, as if it was somehow planned…" He then grunted as he took a sip of his cider. "That priest is plotting something; I know it, especially concerning the two women."

"Then I must find out what he's plotting," Andrew returned before finishing his drink. "As you and I suspect, it may involve Ramia." He then stood up, indicating the end of the discussion. "Speaking of Ramia, I wish to speak with her."

"I'll take you to her," Galvin offered as he, too, stood.

"You'll probably find her down in the dungeon at this time," Rycroft informed them as he idly poured himself another cup of cider.

Galvin nodded. "I know. She's been spending a lot of time down there."

Andrew sighed as he shook his head. "Fifteen years… And I'm afraid this is just the beginning…"


Lars Sertawz, warden assigned by Father Jaren to look after the heretic, sat stolidly at his desk in his office that was located below the main floor of the fortress, near the stairs leading down to the dungeon, perusing the letter he received from the Divine Knight a few days ago, wondering irritably when Ramia would leave so he could carry out its instructions. He did not have to wonder long for their came a knock on the wooden door. The warden glowered, returning the letter in its drawer before bidding the knocker entry.

Andrew entered followed by Galvin who carefully shut the door behind him. "Are you the warden in charge here?" inquired Lord Birch.

"Yes, I am," Lars replied as he stood to address the visitor properly.

Andrew saw that he was as tall as him and seemed, despite the thick overrobe that swathed him, skeletally thin. His shoulders were strangely hunched, his hands long. Hair the color of fresh snow fell straight and unadorned from the dome of his skull. His face was triangular, the brow wide and high, rising craggy to overhang eyes sunk so deep in the sockets, twin craters of blackness at the centers of which glared two pinpricks of pale blue light. The nose was straight and long, his mouth narrow. The chin was the lowermost point of the triangle, drawn in toward the slender neck as the head ducked slightly in greeting. "Lars is my name and you are…?"

It seemed that a corpse welcomed them as Andrew wondered if the pale man ever went out of the dungeon for some air or sun to color his pallid features. "Lord Andrew Birch of Limberry," was the curt response he gave. "My grandson," he gestured towards Galvin behind him, "told me that I could find my daughter down in the dungeon visiting someone."

"If you speak about Ramia then yes, she is down there." Lars' voice was soft as silk, but as sharp as steel. He pointed to the stairs behind his desk. "Shall I guide you there?"

Andrew shook his head. "There's no need. I know the way well enough."

"Of course," the warden nodded in acceptance.

Andrew nodded once in return before gesturing to his grandson to follow him as he begun to climb down those stairs.

For the second time in his life, Galvin went down the rough staircase, feeling uneasy in its darkness. He vowed never to visit the dungeon again after his first trip, knowing it for its misery, but he could not disobey his grandfather and so followed him into the dark until it was disturbed by the faint glow of the torches at the bottom where they were greeted by the same jailer that had greeted them three days ago.

"My grandfather wishes to see Ramia," he informed him.

The jailer nodded and led them to the same cell where they could hear someone speaking within, and when the jailer moved to unlock the door, Andrew motioned him to halt, indicating silence afterwards. As he stepped forward, the jailer stepped back, allowing him to peer through the bars of the wooden door.

A lantern glowed softly, radiating its dull light within the small chamber so that he could see the two women crouched on the floor. He recognized Ramia immediately, being the hale of the two, looking to be in high spirits since last he saw her. Perhaps because it was due to the other woman's presence.

Her hair was lank and filthy, the gray robe she wore torn and disheveled, stained with dark splotches that might have been blood. She looked smaller, yet somehow larger. That, he decided, was her eyes—they blazed with such purpose as he'd not before seen, as if their light alone animated her wasted body.

"Agrias…" he whispered her name, unknowingly alerting one of the cell's occupants of his presence.

Hearing Andrew's voice, Agrias turned her head to face him, staring unflinchingly. Ramia, seeing that something has caught her mother's attention, looked to where she stared and gasped, "Father!" when she saw who it was at the door.

Andrew nodded then briefly disappeared from view as the jailer unlocked the door that later swung open as her father entered the cell. She and her mother rose to meet him, one facing him curiously as the other stared at him indifferently. "I'm glad to see you safe, Ramia," he began as he hugged his daughter, but shifting his gaze to Agrias, who was frowning in disapproval.

"It's good to see you too, Agrias," he whispered softly so the jailer could not hear, still in the guise of hugging Ramia. He knew the jailer would take word to Lars at what transpired down here, so he had to be careful.

"Father…" Ramia protested softly, embarrassed at his display of fatherly affection.

"Quiet, Ramia," Andrew reprimanded. "That jailer is watching us closely and I must speak with your mother. This is the only way I could think of to hide our words from him." He then looked at Agrias. "My time is short so I'll get to the point. I promise to support Ramia in any way I can even in efforts of releasing you from this place."

"You knew?" Ramia asked.

Andrew nodded. "I guessed. To have finally found your mother, only to risk losing her again so soon must be hard to bear. She is the only family you have left and I'll not see you separated again."

"Father…" Ramia clutched him, wetting his chest with her tears, touched by his selflessness.

As Andrew held her, he saw the doubt reflected in Agrias' eyes. "It's nothing to me—your father was my good friend and I love Ramia as my own. All I ask is that you trust me."

Agrias stared at him, searching his eyes, and seeing the truth within them, she nodded, smiling slightly.

Andrew then parted with Ramia, but still he spoke softly. "I must go now lest they get suspicious, but before I leave, there is something else both of you need to know. A rebellion has begun against the Church, this one different from all the others. This may be to your advantage or disadvantage, depending on how Jaren plans on quelling it. I wish I had the time to explain fully, but know that I secretly support this rebellion." He then looked at Ramia. "Tomorrow I leave for Lesalia. I want you and Galvin to accompany me. I know this is sudden," he added upon seeing her frown, "but if you want to help your mother, it's best you come to the capital with me. You could do more good there instead of staying here."

Ramia was about to protest, saying that she needed more time, but her mother stalled any argument by placing a withered hand on her wrist. Agrias shook her head in admonition, pointing at Ramia then at Andrew before bringing their hands together.

Andrew briefly stared at their clasped hands, then—with a heavy heart—brought Ramia and Agrias' hands together. "Make your farewells…" he whispered remorsefully as he released their hands, which were still clasped.

Without another word, he left the cell, paying no heed to the jailer as he closed the door behind him, nor did he paid any heed to his grandson who quickly followed behind him as he went up the stairs. There were many things to be done—preparing for the trip to Lesalia for one, but most importantly…

...preparing for the battles that were to come.


Riovanes Castle.

A bustling port city sitting at the edge of the North Ice Sea, it was home to the late Grand Duke Gelkanis Barinten, also known as the 'Weapon King' for making strong weapons and training soldiers and magicians for his army.

Because of their location, Riovanes was a hub of trade much like Zarghidas Trade City, but unlike the trade city who dealt mostly with Ordallian merchants, Riovanes traded with those countries in the north. There was never a day the harbor would be empty; it was always filled with docked merchant vessels. Merchants, sailors, and mercenaries were plentiful and that was how Barinten was able to assemble a group of these mercenaries to fight on his behalf during the Fifty Year War.

But where there were trading ships, there also came the threat of pirates.

The walls of Riovanes Castle are twice as thick as normal walls built to fend off pirates that terrorized the northern seas. There was also the added protection of Ivalice's only navy.

Like Limberry, Riovanes possessed skilled sailors, but unlike their fresh water cousin, they were trained to withstand long journeys across the sea, to survive the winds and the waves, and to arrive at their destination alive. Such was their ways, guarding the seas from both invaders and pirates that would threaten their way of life.

But where as these sailors—called Marines by the local townsfolk because of their blue capes as opposed to the red of the castle's knights—protected the coast from pirates, the Tempest Knights protected the city from threats of any nature—a huge contrast to their namesake, which only serves to destroy those in its path. It was a tempest, however, that had saved Riovanes from being pillaged and destroyed.

The story goes that men from the Northlands sought to raid Riovanes in their longboats. This was long before Riovanes became part of Ivalice, when they were still an independent kingdom. As such, only their knights were available to ward this threat, seeking no aid from the other kingdoms. Having no boats of their own, they prepared for their arrival at their shores with gleaming swords. Catapults were also ready to fire once their targets were within range.

But none were to be fired.

Before the Vikings—as they were later called—could come within range, a huge storm swept them away, rendering their longboats to splinters. The next day, wreckages from the enemy fleet had washed onto shore. The tempest had saved them and that's how Riovanes' knights got their name.

They were the 'Tempest' that would stop their enemies from advancing.

Within a tempest, however, was an 'eye', a place of calm in the center of the storm, and as the storm passed, the 'eye' would move along, bringing calm to another region as the winds destroyed what had been calm before.

Such an 'eye' existed within the Tempest Knights, an elite group that did not strike until all deemed it safe. As the 'eye of the storm' produced a false sense of security, they posed the greatest danger within the ranks of the Tempest Knights.

Barinten personally saw to the forming of the 'eye', as he built orphanages around Fovoham for children who lost parents during the Fifty Year War, providing training to those he deemed 'gifted' to become professional assassins. He christened them 'Kamyuja', which meant in a northern tongue, "To strike when all is calm".

And that's what the former leader of the elite assassination group planned to do during this time of 'calm'.

The day passed without incident, the docks filled with merchant vessels, the taverns along the wharf rowdy as always with drunken sailors, and the Marines patrolling the harbor. Shrine Knights guarding the gates were lax in their duties, hardly questioning the travelers, even when one was draped in the fur of a panther.

Malak thought he would never return to Riovanes—the place where he and his sister were adopted by Barinten and raised to become members of the Kamyuja—having found his place among his people hidden in the wilds of Fovoham.

This place reeks of bad memories, he thought dolefully as he looked up at the Romandan spires that top the castle. On the rooftop of that very same castle, he had been shot and killed by the person who raised him as he rushed forward to protect his sister. Unlike the Grand Duke, he was fortunate enough to obtain a second life. He did not waste such a gift—a blessing to most, a miracle to his sister. He looked at her now, seeing the uneasiness in her eyes as she gazed around.

Like her brother, Rafa thought she would never set foot in Fovoham's capital. She hated the place—the place where she was taught only to kill and to serve the Grand Duke. She shuddered at that thought, drawing her arms about herself.

Seeing her distress, Malak gently placed a hand on her shoulder as he whispered, "It's all right. I'm here now, remember? You don't have to be afraid anymore."

Rafa looked up at him and saw his reassuring smile. She felt calm then as she nodded. "You're right, brother." She then looked at the castle, her eyes suddenly firm compared to the uneasiness she felt a few moments ago. "I need not be afraid…"

Malak gave her a small squeeze, proud to see that she finally closed that chapter of her life. "Come then," he beckoned her softly. "We must seek the others."

"Where will we start?" his sister asked him as she followed behind, noticing that they were heading towards the wharf.

"The Galley," was the simple reply.

The Galley was a tavern—one of many along the wharf—and a favorite of the Kamyuja, known for their strong drinks and its tendency for fights. As leader of the Kamyuja, it was Malak's responsibility to check his men from time to time and to know where they were at all times, orders or not. Therefore, he learned about the tavern. With any luck, they would find a member or two there.

As they approached the dockside bar, they heard a loud commotion within, the splintering of wood as someone fell on top of a table and the bellowing of patrons as a fight ensued unmistakable in the evening air. A body suddenly crashed through the door, as Malak and Rafa were about to enter, having to immediately jump to the side to avoid colliding with the thrown individual.

"Don't bother coming back here if you don't have the money to pay!" the owner of The Galley roared from the splintered doorway, shaking an angry fist at the crumpled figure on the street, before returning to his bar, muttering, "To think you were once a member of Kamyuja…"

Hearing the owner's remark, Malak and Rafa turned to regard the body. It seemed luck was on their side, having found a former member of the assassination group, if the owner's comments proved true. As the thought passed, both siblings went to help the stranger, who spat as he slowly rose.

"Are you all right, sir?" Malak asked politely as he helped the stranger up. "You're not injured, are you?"

"I'm fine!" the man growled, pushing Malak away. "I don't need your help!"

"Of course," said Malak as he stepped back, allowing the man to brush himself off.

During the short exchange, Rafa studied the person while there was still light to see. The sun was sinking quickly beneath the waves of the harbor, the wharf beginning to crowd as sailors and dockside laborers rushed to the taverns.

He was a head shorter than Malak, and a lot leaner, as if he didn't have enough food to eat, yet somehow knew they were muscles carefully toned to react to the slightest movement. His face was angular, the cheekbones prominent, the jet black eyes slightly slanted. His hair was cropped short, a red headband about his head, the only piece of decoration, the ends slightly fluttering in the sea breeze.

Rafa felt she knew him, but could not recall his name or where she had seen him last until he turned about as he walked away, exposing a faded symbol on the back of his tunic. The symbol was of a skull and a broken sword.

The symbol of Shiken, the Death Sword.

"Wait!" Malak called to him, also recognizing the symbol upon his back. The man continued on his way and he shouted, "Shiken!"

That got the Death Sword's attention as he turned around to regard the strange man that had briefly spoken to him. "How do you know my name?" he asked warily, crossing his arms on his chest, seemingly casual as he secretly readied to throw a few shurikens at the strangers if they proved to be unfriendly. "Who are you?"

"Then what the owner said is true," Malak stated, ignoring Shiken's questions. "You were part of Kamyuja."

Shiken retorted, "What if I was? What does that have to do with you knowing me?"

"Plenty," replied the former Hell Knight. "I have a message from the former leader of the Kamyuja to the former members of the assassination group. He said that if I were to find any of you, I would tell you this message. Care to listen or would you rather throw those shurikens you hold in your hand?"

Shiken looked at him in surprise as he thought, How did he know?

"The Hell Knight has told me everything about you and the others," Malak explained, giving answer to the Death Sword's unasked question. "Now would you listen or would you rather be on your way?"

Knowing that he could not take this stranger by surprise, he uncrossed his arms and shrugged saying, "Why not? I'm surprised to hear that the boy is still alive. Hiding from the Church isn't easy especially when there are Shrine Knights patrolling the cities." He thrust a thumb towards the docks where knights in red capes inspected the ships.

"Obviously," Malak nodded in agreement.

"So, what is the message?" Shiken asked, returning to their previous subject.

"He sends his greetings," Malak began, "and wishes to meet with all of you at the 'usual place' around midnight tonight. He will address you then. That is his message. I was to relay it to all members but…"

"You can't find them," Shiken finished for him. "That's not surprising since most left this city a long time ago." He then nodded, coming to a decision. "I'll relay your message to the others. They'll probably be as curious as me to know why Malak has returned since Barinten's fall."

Malak ducked his head in gratitude. "Very well then. We shall leave you to your task." And with that said, he and his sister left the ninja, returning to the main portion of the city.

As they walked, Rafa asked, "Brother, why didn't you say who you really were?"

"I did not want to make a scene, Rafa," Malak replied solemnly. "If someone gets wind of who we really are, it may cause an alarm that would have Shrine Knights coming down our throats. And the last thing Ramza needs is our deaths weighing on his troubled mind. He has other important things to worry about…"

Rafa nodded in understanding, knowing that he was about to face a battle, neither of the sword nor the mind…

But of the heart.

And as her brother suggested that they eat and rest awhile before meeting with the group, she prayed that he would not succumb to the sorrow, but overcome it.


Darkness came early to the port city, changing the tides, as strong winds blew from the north, swelling the waves, making it difficult even for a skilled sailor to navigate through the whitewaters.

But not the Kamyuja.

They knew the waters and how to tame it for were they not the 'eye', the calm of the storm?

Shiken expertly controlled the dinghy with its eight occupants, forcing it to stay on its course towards a cave mouth along the rocky cliffs of Ivalice's northern shores. No moonlight shone, the sky dark with only the stars to guide him. He looked up now, discerning their position, and seeing that they were close to their destination, ordered his passengers to take up oars and start rowing. The current had carried them where they needed to be and now they had to do the rest in bringing them the rest of the way.

After many minutes of back-wrenching strokes, the crew finally entered the cavernous opening. Someone lit a lantern and mounted it on the boat's prow, dimly lighting their way deeper into the cave. The slap of oars was discernible in the quiet grotto, echoing eerily among the rocky walls. Soon a faint glow appeared ahead and Shiken watched coolly as it grew steadily brighter. He made out the shape of a woman standing at the landing stage, behind her the stairs that would lead to the 'usual place'.

As the jetty hove into view, Shiken rose slightly and shouted a command that instantly reversed the oars, bringing the craft to a smooth halt directly below the steps leading up to the wharf. A rope was secured to a mooring ring before the passengers made their way to shore.

Shiken sprang to the jetty after his companions, halting with his back to the waters and his eyes on the woman who greeted them—the same woman he had seen with the messenger on the wharf that same eve.

She was dark of eye and skin and hair, so that it was difficult to determine the expression on her face, though her voice was warm and friendly as she motioned to the stairs behind her and said, "Welcome. Malak Galthana awaits you at the top of those stairs."

Shiken nodded and followed her across the jetty, the others falling in step behind, wondering at this strange meeting.

It's been twenty years since they had last gathered and, like Shiken, were intrigued to meet with their lost leader, curious to hear what he has to say. It was stranger still to climb up the steps, remembering the times they had climbed it past, recalling the surrounding walls that glistened under the torchlight, their footfalls as rhythmic as the water that dripped from the rocks above. They soon emerged into a large room, dark except for the torch their escort held.

"I have brought them, Malak," she called into the darkness.

A snapping of fingers answered her call and the chamber was suddenly bathed in torchlight, the group shielding their eyes as they adjusted to the brightness. His eyes settling quicker than the others, Shiken surveyed the area, hoping to catch a glimpse of the Hell Knight.

The assembly room was just the way he last remembered it save that most of the wood had rotted away due to the degree of salt in the sea air. The white and red banner of the Eye—the symbol of their group—that hung at the other end of the room was frayed, the ends hanging in tattered strips. The only furniture that seemed to have escaped time and the sea air unscathed was the huge chair at the end of the long table, close to the banner.

The chair's back was turned towards them and he watched as the woman approached that very chair and whispered something to its hidden occupant. Shiken thought it best that he should initiate the meeting, wanting to ask questions, and eager to find answers. He stepped forward and said, "I have brought the other members with me as your messenger have requested."

"And I thank you," the person sitting at the chair replied. "Please," Shiken saw a hand wave towards the rotting chairs that surrounded the long table, "make yourselves comfortable. You must be weary from the long boat ride."

Shiken warily accepted the invitation, choosing a seat somewhere in the middle of the table. The others followed his example, just as wary as he, giving suspicious glances at the woman who continued to stand near the head chair.

"Now then," Shiken again initiated the conversation, "why have you summoned us?"

"Why was the Kamyuja created?" the hidden Hell Knight countered.

Shiken frowned at the question as he gazed at the others wearing similar expressions or close to it, confused on why a question was asked. Having no clear reason, he decided to answer the question, hoping it would yield the nature of this meeting. "As the name implies, to strike when all is calm."

"That is correct," Malak agreed, still keeping himself hidden from view. "But there is another reason."

Shiken was suddenly intrigued, leaning casually on his chair, propping his feet up on the table as he began toying with a dagger. He wanted to throw it at the head chair, doubting that it would penetrate through the thick wood to kill their former leader, but suspected that it would not even reach the chair as the woman watched them like hawks, eyes shifting at the slightest movement. She had a protective air about her and he wondered if there was a special relationship between her and the Hell Knight. Perhaps she's his woman, he thought, but could not elaborate on it further for another member spoke.

"And what is that reason?" a disgruntled archer asked. She did not come here to speak of reasoning or motives of who they are, or were for that matter. She came here in the hopes of fighting for the Kamyuja again, to regain the respect their group once claimed.

"As the eye controls the storm, we are to also watch and control the Tempest Knights if they were not doing their duty," the hidden Hell Knight replied calmly. "Ever since the Church took over, they have neglected it."

"Nonsense!" a knight cried out angrily as he pounded the table with his fist. Shiken thought he heard a slight crack from the blow, carefully withdrawing his feet from the table lest it fell under its weight as the knight continued defiantly, "We are doing our duty!" as he stood up and drew his sword. "And I'll prove it to you by arresting you, heretic Malak, in the name of the Church!"

Shiken observed the woman whispering something into the hidden Hell Knight's ear, which elicited a booming laugh from the chair. This reaction further angered the knight. "Why do you laugh?" he demanded as he sliced his sword through the air in an angry gesture.

"Because I find you amusing, dear knight," Malak chuckled lightheartedly, unperturbed by the knight's threat. "You wear the colors of Riovanes, yet you arrest me in the name of the Church. Where do your loyalties lie? Riovanes or the Church?"

The knight snorted in response. "Riovanes, the Church, none of it matters to me, only that reward money."

"Strange… Just a moment ago, you boldly claimed that you were doing your duty as a knight," the Hell Knight noted calmly. "Now all you care about is the money? How contradictory of you. It seems you have no loyalties except to your own greed." He paused then and though the others could not see him, he looked up at the faded banner in thought.

"It was greed that created us," he stated softly afterwards. "Greed for our strength, our skills, our power… We were trained to fight and to kill using our individual abilities. All in the name of greed… Do you want that, dear knight? Do you want to be as greedy as our creator? As greedy as Barinten?"

Shiken and the others saw the uncertainty on the knight's face as he stared at the chair, his sword lowering a fraction as his confidence waned.

He reflected on Malak's words, sensing a bit of truth in them. He did not want to become like the late Grand Duke, who taught them that the strong rule the weak, that only power matters in this world. And like a fool, he believed in that philosophy, fighting and killing for that cause.

But it did not bring him satisfaction in life.

Was he born to kill or to be something more? To use his talents for something better?

When the Kamyuja disbanded, he joined the Tempest Knights in answer to these questions. He wanted to use his talents for the people, guarding and protecting them from tyrants such as the late Grand Duke, who did not even care for Riovanes, only his quest for power. Instead of doing harm, as he was trained to do, he would be doing good.

Once this was realized, he fully lowered his sword and answered, "No," before sheathing the weapon. "I realize now where my loyalties lie and the reason why I have joined the Tempest Knights." He then turned to regard the others. "My loyalty is to Riovanes and, therefore, to its people," he firmly claimed without shame. "Not to the Church that has forgotten us for their own selfish deeds. Just to think that I once believed in the Church sickens me."

There was a slight murmur in the room as some nodded their agreement, mostly those who have joined the ranks of the Riovanes knighthood.

Again, Shiken observed the woman whispering something in Malak's ear in response to their reaction.

In which Malak replied, "I'm glad to hear this from most of you. But there are some who are still unsure. Perhaps they care for the money more than their pride…"

"It's better than being burned at the stake," said Shiken. "You cannot convince me or anyone else otherwise." He then saw some movement between the woman and their former leader.

"Even with this?" Malak inquired as the woman stepped forward and placed a red crystal on the table. Shiken's eyes glittered with interest as he and the others stared at the stone.

It was one of the Holy Stones that they had collected for Barinten during the Lion War!

"I sense by your silence that you are now willing to listen," observed the former leader of the Kamyuja as he finally stood up from his chair and faced his visitors for the first time.

"You!" Shiken gasped upon recognition of the man he had met at the docks, dressed in leathers as similar as the woman who accompanied him save for the panther fur about his shoulders. "Malak Galthana?"

Malak nodded as he stepped forward towards the table. "I'm sorry to have lied to you, Shiken, but I did not want to make a scene and I wasn't sure if you would bring the rest of the members if you had known my identity." He then gazed at the others, his dark eyes grave, seeing that they were so few.

Hopefully this will be enough, he thought as his gaze lingered a moment longer on the knight that had challenged him. He then turned back to Shiken who exclaimed in annoyance, "Enough! You still haven't told us the reason why you have summoned us here."

Malak smiled as he shrugged. "Isn't it obvious?" Shiken stared at him curiously as he began to walk around the room. "The purpose of this gathering," began the Hell Knight as the knight resumed his seat, "is to revive the Kamyuja. As I have said, the Kamyuja was formed not only to strike when all is calm, but to also bring the Tempest Knights back on course if they have strayed far from their duty."

He paused behind the chair of the knight, who shifted nervously, feeling the weight of his stare upon him. "Your name, sir knight," requested the Hell Knight.

"Sir Kristopherson Galyndo," the knight replied.

"State your duty, Sir Galyndo," the Hell Knight instructed him, "so that all may hear."

"To protect and serve the people," Sir Galyndo stated without hesitation.

"To protect and serve the people…" Malak repeated as he resumed his pacing around the damp room. "Now think carefully and answer truthfully. Are the people satisfied with the way things are right now?"

He paused again, this time at the other end of the table, surveying them as each looked to their own thoughts for the answer. He especially looked to those who were not of the knighthood, who were soldiers for hire, Shiken among them.

The ninja winced as he rubbed a bruise on his cheek that had formed shortly after the brief scuffle at the tavern, a somewhat painful reminder of his current position. Mercenaries were lacking in jobs these days, more than ever now that there were few travelers on the road where most were hired to protect passing caravans. It would be easy to kill the Hell Knight and claim the reward money for his own, thus both remedying himself of his lack of funds and doing a favor to the Church.

But the owner's last remark made him think otherwise.

"The people are afraid," he unknowingly answered for all of them. "Fifteen years of living under the Church's rule… They seek release from this oppression."

"There has been news of rebellions," Kristopherson added, "but all have ended in failure. That's why we're a bit hesitant when it comes to the Church."

"A bit hesitant or afraid?" challenged Malak. The knight turned his gaze away as the others looked down at the table in an attempt to hide their shame. It was not hesitation on their part that stopped them from doing what was right, but fear…

Fear that they would fail.

"We have no wish to embrace the flames of the stake," said Sir Galyndo, a fragment of his confidence returning as he again stared at Malak.

"You will not," the Hell Knight claimed with assurance, "as long as you have the stone with you to prove your worth."

"How?" Shiken countered.

Malak smirked. "Have you heard of the Zodiac Brave Story?"


Igros, Capital of Gallione.

It served as the home of the late Prince Larg and the Hokuten Knights under his command, the most feared knighthood in all of Ivalice, the second being the Nanten of Zeltennia. Unlike the home of their Black Lion rival, Igros boasted to be the largest fort city next to the Imperial Capital. It possessed a long history from where many war heroes and great noble families were born, the Beoulves foremost among them.

Pillars of knighthood they were called, having served the royal family for generations. Their three-hundred year history was filled with many glorious battles and honorable knights, most of whom became leaders of the Hokuten.

Twenty years has passed since their fall, putting an end to their long history, yet their spirit lived on in the form of a man and his sister…

Ramza and Alma Beoulve were the last of the once well-respected family. Both siblings had been presumed dead until Olan claimed them to be alive in his report. The truth of their survival now known in Ivalice, they too were now hunted by the Church.

They were unafraid, however, as they rode down a familiar road, one that led to the Beoulve Mansion, the place of their birth. The land that stretched around them had belonged to their family and they wondered if someone owned it or has been abandoned after their presumed deaths.

That was soon answered when they caught sight of holdings that dotted the land like islands amidst a sea, the residents preparing for the harsh winter ahead as they chopped wood and stored whatever food they could save.

So someone did own the land.

Delita—who had agreed to accompany the siblings on their journey to Igros—had his own thoughts. Just seeing those people reminded him of his humble origins as the son of a chocobo breeding family that had worked for the Beoulve family.

"I never thought to see this place again," he murmured as he closed his eyes in remembrance.

Born of common blood, his childhood was not one of comfort. Every day he would feed the giant birds and brush them down, his father taking the matured birds to market, hoping to sell at least one for a few gil. His mother, on the other hand, stayed at home more often than not, to take care of him and his sister. He tried to help out often as he could, lightening the workload for both of his parents.

However, life became harder when the plague struck their home. Losing both of his parents, he had to work twice as hard just to keep food on the table for both he and his sister while earning enough gil to pay the heavy taxes imposed on those living in the fiefdom. They were barely old enough to know the way of the world, only that they needed money and food to survive…

Hearing his father's soft comment, Raizen asked, "Is this where you were born, father?"

His son's voice broke into his thoughts as he opened his eyes and looked to his right where he rode alongside him, answering, "Yes," as he nodded. He then turned forward as he added, "I was the son of a chocobo breeder, but I was not destined to carry on the family business, as you can see. Your grandparents died from the plague when I was but a boy. Having no other kin, General Balbanes took pity on my sister and me and took us in."

"And that's how you met Ramza and Alma," Raizen concluded and Delita nodded.

Soon after, the gates to the former Beoulve Mansion loomed ahead, marking the end of the road.

Home…, Ramza thought as he halted before the familiar, open iron gates, staring somewhat longingly at the white building that stood at a distance, the banner of the noble family unreadable. Dare he go in? He was curious to know who had inherited their estate after their fall.

"Shall we go, brother?" Alma asked, voicing his very thought, as she brought her chocobo—one that she had taken from the Galthana's Village—next to Ramza's. "Shall we meet the current lord or shall we stay here and reminisce?"

"But we'll be entering uninvited," Raizen commented. "Wouldn't that be trespassing?"

"Not really," Delita replied with a casual wave of his hand. "The gates are open, inviting all those to enter, like it had been when General Balbanes was lord. It was a sign to the entire fiefdom that he was available to settle any matters; an open-door policy he called it. But I don't see why we should make ourselves known to the current lord." He then looked at Ramza and asked, "Why have we come here anyway? Our place is at Igros Castle."

Instead of replying to Delita's inquiry, Ramza urged Boco forward pass the gates towards the mansion at the paved pathway's end. Alma and Raizen followed his example, leaving Delita behind, who sighed in resignation before following after them.

They rode pass neatly trimmed hedges and trees whose branches were practically bare, a sign of the approaching winter months. Stillness governed the air save for the rhythmic tapping of their chocobos' clawed feet upon the pathway. The wind that blew was gentle and soothingly cool, the fallen leaves upon the pathway swirling in its wake as if bowing in greeting to the guests.

"Do not expect a homecoming," muttered Ramza as the mansion drew closer, the banner almost readable. It seemed very familiar to him somehow…

"Impossible!" he suddenly gasped, bringing his chocobo to a halt, staring up at the banner in disbelief.

It was the standard of the Beoulve family!

"How could this be?" he heard her sister whisper, shocked as he.

"Perhaps your brothers survived after all," Delita suggested as he hopped off his chocobo, staring inquisitively at the banner. The green and white cloth was still in excellent condition just as he had last seen it when he had left with Ramza to rescue his sister from the Death Corps.

"No," Ramza replied firmly as he too dismounted followed silently by Alma, her eyes still fixed on the banner. "I saw them die with my own eyes..." He then looked down at his hand, whispering, "I killed them…" as he clenched it into a fist. He shook his head and muttered, "It couldn't be them."

"Then who could be the current lord?" Raizen asked as he joined them, leading his chocobo by the reins.

Ramza looked up at the banner then at the door just ahead. "There's only one way to find out," he replied as he strode purposefully across the pathway, the others in step behind. He pounded on the door thrice before stepping back as he waited anxiously with the others.

Soon the portal opened a crack. "May I help you?" the person asked in a timid manner, keeping himself from being seen as he hid behind the door. "Have you come to see the master?"

Ramza gazed into the slightly ajar door, trying to discern their nervous greeter. "Yes," he smiled reassuringly, hoping that would calm the unseen servant. "We wish to meet with him unless, of course, he's busy."

There was a slight pause. Ramza had the feeling that they were being studied by the servant as he considered the request. "Wait here," the servant then replied before closing the door softly, in turn, shutting them out of the mansion.

"Well, that was very friendly," Raizen remarked sarcastically at the servant's wariness.

Alma nodded in agreement. "Not what I expected."

"Why the edgy welcome?" Delita wondered. "We're not thieves here to plunder the mansion nor are we murderers here to assassinate the current lord. We have the decency, at least, to make ourselves known."

Ramza just stared at the door in thought before it suddenly opened. A thin, balding man emerged, a bland expression on his lined face. He wore waistcoat and breeches, his shirt white, fastened at the neck with a silk foulard, and his shoes were buckled with polished silver.

"Lord Ruglia has agreed to meet with you," he announced as blandly as his expression. "This way, please." Without awaiting an answer, he turned and walked away, assuming that they would follow him into the mansion.

Raizen made to follow then paused when he saw that none of the others moved. He looked back and saw that each of them wore an expression of surprise and disbelief. "What's wrong?" he inquired, puzzled.

"Ruglia…" his father whispered in reply as if that word alone answered the question.

"Ruglia?" Raizen repeated, still puzzled. "That's what the servant said. Do you know him then?"

"Ruglia…" Delita again whispered as he shook his head. "That was..." He looked to the Beoulve siblings especially to Ramza, who nodded, his face now grave.

"Yes, our mother's name."


Walter Ruglia was born the son of a farmer, tilling the soil of the Beoulve fiefdom as their family had done since they could remember. Never did he dream of elevated status, believing it impossible for a commoner such as he to ever attain.

Was he ever wrong in that matter.

Shortly after the Lion War had ended, he had found himself—much to his surprise—to be the successor of the lost fiefdom after the presumed deaths of Lord Beoulve's last surviving kin. It was due to his sister's relationship to the late lord that their family was able to cross the line between noble and commoner.

Sara Ruglia.

His elder sibling by a year, she had moved to the Beoulve residence when she was about twenty-five and had worked there as a parlormaid, a great honor for a farmgirl whose family could barely support themselves when the harvest had failed for three years running. It was during her stay there that Balbanes Beoulve, the great general of the Hokuten, fell in love with the simple peasant girl.

Walter didn't know why his sister did not resist his affections. She was a commoner, Balbanes a noble, and as such, the two could never be together. But it had happened and the result could not have been worse…

Two children born out of wedlock.

He had never seen his nephew or niece—his family was not allowed to enter the noble's home—but news of their births was brought to them by a messenger. News of her death was also announced by a messenger eight years later after the birth of her second child.

He had been devastated by the report. Their father and mother had died not knowing if their daughter was well, not knowing their grandchildren even if they were of illegitimate birth. He, on the other hand, did not get the chance to say goodbye, to see her one last time before God took her away.

Unlike their parents, she was given a proper burial at the public cemetery in Igros. Under normal circumstances, he would have burned her body, having little to no money to afford a funeral. But Lord Beoulve was kind enough to pay for everything, even if she was a commoner for in his eyes, she was more than common. It was hard not to hate the man, the noble, for he had been generous to him and his family even after Sara's death.

Perhaps a little too generous, he thought as he looked around his lavish surroundings.

The walls were covered with various paintings that depicted battles of past wars, the floor with colorful rugs. A fire blazed merrily at the hearth to one side—the past few days gradually growing chilly—as the mid-afternoon sun radiated through the windows at the other end of the room.

Lord Beoulve seemed to have possessed incredible foresight when he had written his last will and testament. He had predicted that none of his children would survive to inherit the estate, so he left it to 'the Ruglia family, Sara's kin'.

Being the last of 'Sara's kin', Walter Ruglia had inherited the mansion and the surrounding lands. Everything that had once belonged to the prominent noble family now belonged to him, a common farmer. The elevated status that was the envy of most commoners was his, and he did not wish for it in the first place.

He sighed at the thought, idly raising a silver goblet to sip its contents and started, nearly spluttering red wine over himself, when there came a knock on the door. "Lord Ruglia," a mild voice called, "I bring the visitors."

Walter frowned at the title as he tried to compose himself. Even after twenty years, he was not used to being called 'lord'.

"Enter," he bellowed after as he settled back in his chair, facing the portals from across the table as the servant opened them and ushered the visitors through. He studied them closely, judging them as if he were judging the land where he would plant his next harvest.

There were four of them, three of which were male dressed as the mercenaries he had seen passing through his—the Beoulve's, he silently amended—land, all in leather jerkins and armed with blades. However, it was their fourth member that caught his attention. He stared at her thoughtfully, remarking at her appearance.

Like the men, she was dressed in leathers and armed with a small dagger at her belt. Her fair hair was drawn and held back by a ribbon as green as her eyes that shone with such vivacity that he had not seen for a long time. The thought saddened him somewhat for he had been staring at his sister's eyes. It was evident that this woman was not his sister, but...

...the resemblance was there.

Save for the feeling of remorse, he gave no more thought on it as he waved the servant away. "I rarely entertain guests," he began once the servant left, closing the doors behind, "especially those who are willing to visit this place. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Curiosity, I suppose," one of the men replied with a shrug and he noted that he was armed, not only with one sword, but with two, and the smile he gave was friendly and strangely familiar. "The banner outside depicts the standard of the Beoulve family."

Walter nodded as if he expected such an answer. "Mercenaries have come here before after seeing the banner, believing that the young Beoulve siblings have returned to their own home. By the way you look, I assume you are mercenaries, and I'll tell you what I have told the others: they are not here."

"Of course they're not!" the man exclaimed in return, which took Walter by surprise. "That's not why we have come here though."

"Then why?" Walter questioned in annoyance as he refilled his goblet. He had hoped that his answer would be sufficient enough to send these people on their way. Ever since acquiring the title of Lord, he had become wary of strangers. As a farmer, no one would bother him, leaving him to his position in society unlike a noble who was always watched closely by the public.

The man smiled reassuringly. "There's no need to fear. I'm just curious on why you left the banner hanging when you are clearly not a Beoulve."

"What does it matter?" Walter snorted, his patience wearing thin. "You're mercenaries. Such trivial things should not concern you."

"To most mercenaries, yes," the man nodded in agreement, displaying an extreme calm despite the lord's temperament, "but it concerns us a great deal. You see, we know the Beoulve family well. You can say that we have worked for them in the past. It surprises us to see their standard hanging from the roof when they are surely dead, excluding the younger siblings, of course. I'll ask again: why?"

"And I'll say it again, it should not concern you!" Walter snapped as he abruptly stood from his seat, knocking his goblet over in the process, red wine staining the polished wooden surface of the table. "Now get out! Leave these premises at once!"

"Pity," the man sighed as he turned away, motioning for the others to go ahead of him. "I was hoping to meet the uncle my mother spoke so fondly of in my childhood."

Walter heard the words, and it took a moment for them to register before he was struck by their significance. His brown eyes narrowed. "Who are you?"

The mercenary stopped at the door and glanced over his shoulder. "Perhaps the question is: who are you?" he countered. "Mother spoke of a gentle farmer who cared for his crops as much as he cared for his family. All I see is the exact opposite. Your sister must be very disappointed in you as am I." With that last remark, he left.

Walter made no move to stop him, only staring at the door, contemplating the mercenary's words. "Cared for his crops as much as he cared for his family...?" he repeated softly to himself as he slowly sank back in his chair.

Did his sister really say such things about him to her children? Surely, he cared about his family, having sent his four children to the Aristocratic School in Igros despite the harsh ridicule from the nobles, yet they were now educated enough to lead prosperous lives here among the land that Balbanes had bestowed upon him.

He thought of the late general then and how he had cared for his sister despite their difference in rank. Even after her death, he had cared for them as if they were family. And what had he done in return but to turn away his own kin?

He suddenly felt very ashamed of himself.


Delita watched Ramza closely as they passed through familiar corridors filled with childhood memories as they wend their way to the exit. It was difficult to discern what his friend must be feeling, his expression neutral, but he had no doubt that he felt sad and perhaps a bit embarrassed by the whole situation. His feelings soon became apparent once they stepped out of the mansion into the crisp afternoon air.

As he rubbed his chocobo's feathers, he heard a soft sigh escape from his friend's lips. "I'm sorry you had to endure that," he said to him, his voice sympathetic. "You must be sad."

"Not sad," Ramza replied as he checked the buckles on his saddle. "Just...disappointed." Seeing that it was fastened securely, he mounted and looked up at the banner.

Delita again studied his friend carefully as he too mounted his chocobo, concern in his dark eyes. For all the calm Ramza showed, he saw in his eyes the pain the dismissal had caused. He then glanced at Alma and saw her brother's pain reflected in her green eyes.

"I pity them." Delita turned to see his son who also observed the siblings. "Being rejected from their own home, from their own uncle," Raizen continued as he shook his head sadly. "It's as if they do not belong here."

Delita wanted to refute his son, to say they belonged here as much as the Ruglia family as long as their banner hung from the roof of the residence. Instead, he said, "There's nothing we can do about it. Even though they are tied by blood, a huge gap separates them."

"Then perhaps a bridge must be built to link that gap," Raizen suggested.

But who shall build it?, Delita thought as Ramza and Alma steered their chocobos away from the mansion and started for the path.

"Come," Ramza called to them. "Let's be on our way."

None objected as they followed him down the road toward the gates, where they were interrupted by the arrival of a party of four that mirrored their own. All rode on chocobos and were dressed in similar fashion with jerkins edged with fur to keep the chill wind away and breeches that disappeared into tall boots. Three were armed with small silver-hilted daggers that hung from wide leather belts, as they surrounded their fourth member—the only female—in a protective circle.

"Ho! What have we here?" the lead rider exclaimed, his chocolate-colored eyes twinkling in friendly greeting when he caught sight of Ramza's group as he brought his party to a halt. "Visitors?"

"We were just leaving," Ramza stated flatly, bringing his own party to a stop. "I'm afraid our company is not welcomed here."

The rider frowned at the response, his eyes troubled as he rubbed the slight stubble on his chin. "Did father turn you away too? He always does that to strangers despite their good intentions," he sighed in exasperation. "I will have a word with him. This won't do to keep turning away visitors."

Ramza stared at him speculatively, curiously. "Lord Ruglia is your father?"

"Yes," the rider nodded. "I am his eldest son, Will, and I do apologize for my father's behavior. If there's anything I could do to repay on his behalf, please let me know."

"Thank you for the gesture, but there's no need." Ramza smiled apologetically, but in truth, he wished he could stay and know his cousin better for he seemed to be friendly and kind much like his own mother. However, the thought of meeting with his uncle again silenced the request. "We must be on our way to Igros Castle if we are to make it by dark," he explained before urging his chocobo forward. "It was a pleasure meeting you, Sir Will."

"I would say the same of you," said Will as he moved to block their path, "if I knew your name, sir. Your mission must be urgent—"

You have no idea, Ramza thought.

"—but that certainly can wait until tomorrow," Will finished. "It's almost dark." He indicated the purplish clouds colored by the setting sun that was quickly sinking in the west, shadows lengthening as stars began to dot the twilight sky. "You will not make it to the fort city by nightfall."

"He's right, brother," Alma whispered in agreement. "It will be well into the night when we reach the city."

Ramza frowned as he turned to look at her. "And what do you suggest we do? Camp out? At least in the city, we could stay at the inn and continue on with our business in the morning."

Alma grew quiet, unable to find any fault with the arrangement. She had hoped that her brother would ask their cousin if they could stay for, like he, she wished to know him better.

Much to her surprise, her wish was suddenly granted, not by her brother but by their cousin, who said: "You need not travel to the city tonight." Ramza returned his gaze to him as he continued, "I invite you all to stay at the mansion as my guests." He emphasized the word, acknowledging that they need not fear expulsion again. His father could not object to such an arrangement. "It shall be your repayment for the patience you have shown to my father."

It was a tempting offer, one that Ramza considered carefully, his lips pursed in thought as he rubbed his beard. Delita offered to help him by whispering, "We may as well stay here for the night. There's no point in traveling."

"Besides, it will allow you and Alma to know your family better," Raizen added then smirked. "Perhaps you'll have your homecoming after all. Isn't this what you wanted?"

There marked the heart of the decision.

Ramza pursed his lips even tighter. He could not deny that this is what he wanted, to meet with the family he and his sister had heard so much about from their late mother. He looked to Alma and saw that she felt the same as she met his eyes.

That was all the answer he needed.

"Very well," he nodded as he smiled amicably. "We accept your invitation, Sir Will."

"Excellent!" Will exclaimed, beaming. "And please, call me Will. I wasn't one for formalities anyway. Now come, come!" He beckoned them with a wave of an excited hand as he took his position again in front of his party, leading them down the road towards the mansion.

As he and the others followed, Ramza took the time to study his cousin. Will was, as best he could judge, of an age with him, his red hair like darkly burnished copper, his features slightly tanned and weathered like any honest farmer. Again, Ramza caught himself staring at him speculatively, curiously. Even in his elevated status, did he still work the soil, unable to forget his origin as a commoner? It seemed there was more he needed to learn about him.

When they finally reached the mansion, they found Lord Ruglia standing outside. He came to meet them as they trotted to a halt, his eyes bright as he saw his son and his family, then starting wide in genuine amazement as he recognized the guests he had just dismissed.

"Father," Will greeted as he slid from the saddle. "We've guests."

It was hard to tear his eyes from the mercenaries, from his presumed nephew that led them, and he glanced sidelong at his son. "They are welcomed."

His voice was brusque and Ramza doubted they were really welcomed until he caught his eye and saw the relief there and a hint of joy.

"Thank you, father," Will said gratefully as Ramza and the others dismounted. Lord Ruglia nodded then, taking one last look at the mercenaries, turned away to disappear into the mansion, leaving his son to deal with the guests, who addressed them saying, "I offer you, honored guests, the hospitality of our home. Please," he gestured towards the door where his family entered, following his father's example. "You must be weary and hungry from your journey. Come and rest awhile. Your chocobos will be stabled and your rooms prepared."

Ramza ducked his head. "Thank you, Will."

"It's been a while since we last entertained guests," said Will as he led the way into the mansion and through its numerous corridors.

Being away on self-imposed exile for twenty years did nothing to the siblings' and Delita's memory of the candle-lit hallways and carpeted floors, knowing by the route they took that they were heading to the dining room.

Like the hallways they had passed, the dining room was just as they remembered in its simplicity. Across the entrance was a great window, the red curtains parted to reveal a scenic view of the surrounding land in its last stroke of light. To their right, a servant stoked the fire as others passed through the kitchen doors to their left, carrying various platters to the long table that stood in the middle of the room surrounded by high-backed chairs of which some were already occupied by Will's party and Lord Ruglia, who stood from the head as he greeted them softly with a smile:

"I welcome you all home. Tonight is a momentous occasion when we celebrate your return."

Assuming that his father spoke to him, Will said: "I thank you, father, but we've only been gone for a week. There's no need to be so formal."

But Walter only shook his head, his smile enigmatic as his eyes twinkled in amusement. "You and your family may have been gone a week, boy, but there are those who've been gone for far longer." The twinkle in his eyes slightly dwindled as they gazed at Ramza, adding, "Much longer…"

"Yes," Ramza agreed, returning his uncle's stare without flinching then smiled faintly as he added, "It is good to be back."

Will stared at his father then at the stranger in confusion. "I…don't quite follow…" he murmured, perplexed.

"There'll be time enough for explanations later," his father replied before motioning to the empty seats. "Please," he invited Ramza and the others, "join us. As your father has accepted us, I accept you in return. We feast in your honor and in the honor of his good name."

"Thank you—" Ramza paused briefly, unsure of his next word as he glanced sidelong at his cousin, but decided to let the truth speak for itself as he finished, "uncle."

Will gasped as he stared at the stranger in bewilderment. Though the word was spoken at a whisper, he had heard it clearly and he wondered exactly who he had invited to stay at their home. He looked at his father, who nodded in approval before resuming his seat, again gesturing for their visitors to follow suit.

As Alma, Delita, and Raizen went to take their seats, Ramza placed a comforting hand on Will's shoulder. "Come, cousin," he bid him. "I know you have many questions to ask. I have a couple to ask you myself, but as your father said, there'll be time for explanations later. Why not speak of your trip? I'm sure your father would like to hear of it."

Will settled with the suggestion as he took his seat to his father's right, across from his wife, and his—Cousin?, he mused—took a seat between his eldest son, Thomas, and the woman that accompanied him.

As he related their recent trip to the capital of Gallione to his father, he sensed their guests' interest in what he had to say, and when he raised his cup to be filled with wine by the servant that waited attentive behind him, he caught a glimpse of the visitors eating slowly, as if weighing each word he had spoken. He then remembered that they had been en route to Igros and, as he sipped his drink, wondered what business they would have brought there.

His curiosity was later satisfied when the table was cleared of all but the decanter and the servants were dismissed before Walter spoke without preamble.

"Our visitors belong here as much as we do, perhaps even more," he declared. "They are the son and daughter of my late sister, Sara, and of the late general, Balbanes: Ramza and Alma Beoulve, the rightful owners of this mansion and land."

A young man to the right of Will gulped in surprise, choking on wine. Will gasped, setting down his goblet. "But I thought…" He gathered his wits, scattered by this unexpected announcement.

Now he knew why the stranger had called his father 'uncle' and him 'cousin'. Because they were truly related by blood. It was strange to finally meet with kin thought to have disappeared from the face of Ivalice. But why, of all times, did they show themselves? Didn't they know that their lives were in danger? He then gazed at his son to his right, seeing that he studied the two siblings intensely, his hand slowly straying to the dagger belted at his waist.

Louis Ruglia had been recently given the title of knight in a simple ceremony at Igros Castle, another reason for their trip to the Gallione capital. As such, he knew that the Beoulve siblings are hunted criminals with a reward as large, or even larger, as any noble's purse. One of his duties as a knight was to capture criminals to be brought to trial for the crimes against them.

"It's surely common knowledge that the Beoulve siblings are wanted by the Church for crimes unknown or long forgotten," Louis spoke for the first time in an ominous tone as he fingered the hilt of his dagger. "Heretics as they say…"

"That's surely the common belief." Another of the visitors spoke, this one with dark eyes and an equally densely colored beard that rivaled his grandfather's. His voice was dry and Louis gazed at him skeptically, as if daring him to challenge the truth. The stranger took the bait, returning his stare with a piercing gaze of his own as he uttered, "But it's the Church's way of hiding the truth from the people."

What has started as a dare now became a riddle to the knight. Is it true that the Church sought the siblings' arrest to hide something from the public? Were they afraid of this 'truth' that the siblings seem to possess?

As a knight-in-training at Gariland Academy, he was told nothing of the reasons why the siblings were sought after, only that it was his duty to capture them and all of their accomplices by order of Prince Clemence, who he knew was being influenced by the Church. When he heard his grandfather introduce two of their visitors, he was quickly reminded of his given duty, eager to make the arrest so that his family may be finally esteemed among the aristocrats of Gallione.

Being from a family who turned 'noble' by inheritance did nothing to gain their approval, only disgust because of their common origins. When he had attended the academy, his goal was to be the top of his class. Perhaps then, the aristocracy would recognize his family. But that, too, did not work well as he had accomplished his goal of being ranked first. That had been his last chance of gaining 'status' among the nobles…

…until tonight.

He wouldn't risk losing this one chance because of a dare gone wrong. Slowly, he tugged his dagger free from its sheathe as he asked, "And who are you to question the Church's diktats?"

"Louis!" the woman to Walter's left chided even as Will exclaimed, "That's enough!" restraining his son's hand. "You may be a knight, but you have no right to be rude to our guests especially if they're the friends of our kin."

"Kin?" Louis pushed his father's hand away as he abruptly stood up from the table. "You acknowledge them as our kin?" he shouted angrily, motioning to Ramza and the others as he glared at his father. "They're nothing but criminals! What would the nobles think if they found out that we were harboring heretics in our home?"

Will frowned, knowing where this was leading them. They had this conversation before, when his son would argue that they needed to take their place in society if the nobles were to accept them. Unfortunately, such arguments had always ended in an impasse.

"This wasn't our home to begin with," Louis' older brother refuted softly, his small hands clutching his cup as he looked down into its depths.

Unlike his knight brother, who was quick to temper given of his profession, Thomas Ruglia was calm and intelligent. Given to study rather than swordplay, he had the makings of a scholar.

Thomas then gazed up at his brother, his eyes penetrating, as if he saw his deepest desire written in his heart. "You should be thankful to them, brother," he said with the patience of one who was explaining something to a child. "Without their father—our grand-uncle—you wouldn't have been able to attend the academy much less be a knight right now. We wouldn't be living here in this grand mansion nor less be the nobles we are today. Where would we be now if our grand-aunt did not know the great lord, the great General?" He stressed the word, knowing his brother had always admired Balbanes Beoulve, having heard his many exploits at the academy and imparting those stories to him when he would return home to visit.

"He is our kin and they," Thomas gestured towards Ramza and Alma, "his children. Would you dishonor his name—their name—by arresting them?"

Louis scowled. His brother knew him too well it seemed as he reluctantly sat back down. "Forgive me," he muttered, trying to regain some sense of formality. "My current status led me to overlook grand-uncle's generosity."

The stranger smiled, dismissing the incident with a wave of his hand. "It's quite all right really. I did not take offense and knowing that you are a knight will make our task much easier, I think." He glanced across at Ramza, who nodded in agreement.

"What do you mean?" the knight inquired, seeing the brief exchange between the two men. "What is this task?"

"Yes," inserted Will thoughtfully. "You mentioned heading to Igros Castle. What sort of business do you have there? Certainly, you don't plan on turning yourselves in, are you?"

The stranger snorted. "It will defeat the purpose of our coming here. No, no…" He shook his head before taking a sip of his drink. "Our mission is far too important for us to get caught now."

"Explain," Thomas urged coolly, leaning his head against his hand as he twirled his goblet in the other, his eyes reflecting the sparkle of the vessel as it caught the light of a nearby candle.

"Let's begin by answering your brother's earlier question," the stranger began. "Who am I to question the Church's diktats? Well," he smiled grimly, "I'm glad you're all sitting because this may come as a shock." He took a deep breath before continuing:

"I am Delita Hyral, the rightful ruler of Ivalice."

There was a mixture of responses from the Ruglia family. Will and Louis gazed at him in shock while the woman could only shake her head in disbelief. There was a loud clang as Thomas dropped his goblet, spilt wine spreading across the linen cloth like a great bloodstain, his cool facade now matching those of his father and brother. Only Lord Ruglia seemed to be unaffected by the announcement as he nodded in acknowledgment.

"I thought you looked familiar," he said, bringing everyone from their shock. "Hyral. Jonathan Hyral. You must be his son."

"I am," Delita nodded. "You knew my father?"

"A fine chocobo breeder, if ever I saw one," Walter replied. "It was most unfortunate that both your parents were taken by the plague."

"Wait a minute!" Louis interrupted before Delita could affect a response. "I also know the name of Delita Hyral. It is written in our history books that he ended the Lion War twenty years ago, but there was no mention of him being the son of a chocobo breeder."

Delita smiled, amused at the fact. "I'm not surprised. They wouldn't want the people to know that a commoner became king." He then scratched his nose, his expression thoughtful. "Out of curiosity, what do the people know about me?"

"Delita Hyral, a knight of the Black Sheep under Baron Grims, rescued Princess Ovelia from the Hokuten and brought her to safety at Zeltennia among the Nanten. As the Lion War escalated, he was given command of the Nanten Knights, where he led them to victory. Later, he married Princess Ovelia to become King, and thus, ended the Lion War only to disappear a few months thereafter," Thomas stated, quoting a passage from one of the many history books he had read during his studies. "You are known as the 'Hero of the Lion War'," he added as he picked up his goblet and hid the stain with a handkerchief.

"Interesting…" Delita mused. "And my origins? Anything about my family?"

"It is written that you had attended Gariland Academy when you were sixteen and became a knight a year after," Thomas replied, refilling his cup. "There is no mention about your birth or your family."

Delita nodded. "I see…" He then shrugged. "As is expected of history. The image of me as a hero is more appealing than that of the son of a chocobo breeder. Wouldn't you agree, Sir Louis?" He grinned at the knight as he tipped his goblet towards him as in salute.

Louis studied him as he drank the contents of his goblet and later refilled it. He didn't seem to be the king he had envisioned while studying at the academy. More like any other ordinary man than a great ruler that was said to have killed ten men with a swing of his sword. "Are you really Delita Hyral, the king of Ivalice?" he inquired, uncertainty edging his words.

Delita heard the doubt and asked grimly, "Do you desire proof?"

Louis shook his head and replied, "Just your word."

"That is the mark of a true and honorable knight," Delita said in approval. "Very well then, Sir Louis. You have my word that I am who I say I am."

Satisfied, the knight said, "Then I am honored to serve you, your majesty. If you would permit me…?"

"We come full circle," remarked Delita with a smile. "As I have said, knowing that you are a knight will make our task much easier."

"You've come to reclaim the throne," Thomas stated in an obvious manner. "And to do that, you need to regain the confidence of the people and the knighthoods. But how can you accomplish such a task when you're in the company of two heretics?"

"Not to mention that you've been gone for twenty years," interposed Will.

"True," Delita agreed. "But there is a way to sway the people and your son shall help me in that matter."

"How?" questioned the knight.

"Tell us, who is currently in command of the Hokuten?" asked Delita. "And who is the ruler of Gallione?"

"Braeden Gallows is our commander," Louis replied and paused briefly as he heard Ramza mutter, "A good man…" before continuing, "and a priest from nearby Murond is in charge of the province, placed there by Prince Clemence's advisor, Father Jaren. I haven't the slightest clue what his name is though."

"Father Michael Thirsk," Thomas again stated matter-of-factly and Louis glared at him from across the table, annoyed by his sagacity, "an old priest that lets Gallione govern itself. You needn't worry about him."

"I'm not worried at all," Delita reassured them with a smile, "knowing that Braeden is commander of the Hokuten."

"Shall I arrange an audience with him tomorrow?" offered the knight and when Delita nodded, asked, "What shall I tell him?"

"Tell him," the monarch grinned at Ramza, "that two fellow cadets from his academy days have come to visit."


For some reason, morning at Igros Castle was strangely calm whereas the past few days it had seen its share of blustery winds from the western coast, a sure sign of the winter storms approach. Nothing stirred in the streets of the city below and the banners on the walls of the castle hung limp in the dead air. It was as if the world held its breath, waiting for something to happen…

It unnerved Commander Braeden Gallows of the Hokuten as he patrolled the ramparts, wondering why the wind had suddenly stopped this morning. It was uncharacteristic of the weather to change so suddenly, especially when winter was on its way. Unlike most of his knights, he was a superstitious man and he felt that this was an omen, a sign that something significant was about to happen today.

He only wished he knew what.

Unfortunately for him, he learned all-too-soon when he returned to his office. As he was reading some reports, there came a knock on his door. "Who is it?" he inquired sharply.

"Sir Louis Ruglia, Commander," came the reply. "There are some visitors who wish to speak to you. They say that you know them from their academy days."

Braeden was caught unawares by the last remark, wondering who Sir Louis referred to. Certainly, there are a lot of his fellow graduates serving under him, the few others being assigned elsewhere. Perhaps these visitors were the 'few others', who brought news from their appointed provinces. And any news would be a welcome boon to him than sorting through reports.

He called, "Enter!" pushing the stack of reports to the side.

The door opened as Sir Louis—recognizable by his emerald eyes and red hair, bright as a new-picked carrot—ushered in the visitors. As they strode past the door, the commander took their appearance at a glance, noting their attire and weapons, knowing that they pose a threat if they proved to be hostile from the way they carried themselves. These were seasoned fighters, yet he did not recognize any of them, but it seemed they recognized him as two smiled in acknowledgement.

"Welcome," he greeted them formally before motioning to Louis to wait outside. He caught the knight gazing at one of the visitors uncertainly, as if waiting for a reply. The stranger then nodded and Louis left. Again, Braeden found himself wondering who these strangers were to possess such authority to command his own knight.

"Braeden, it's been a while," the visitor then spoke when the door closed behind Louis. "I hope we're not intruding."

"Not at all, Sir…" Braeden's voice trailed off, unsure how to address him. "Who are you, by the way?"

"Perhaps I should say it's been a long while," the guest amended. He then gestured toward some chairs and asked, "May we sit?"

The commander nodded and when they were settled, asked, "Do you want anything to drink? Ale? Wine? Or perhaps some cider to warm your bones? You must have traveled far through the cold to come see me."

"We appreciate the gesture, but we're not for long here," another, who sat next to the spokesperson of the group, replied.

"Then let's begin," Braeden said, all friendliness gone, as he fell back into the formality given of his position. "Who are you and what business do you have with me?"

"It's true what Sir Louis said," the first visitor replied lightly. "Both of us," he pointed to himself and the man sitting next to him, "knew you from our academy days. But as I said, it's been a long while since then, twenty-one years in fact. We've all grown and life continues in its never-ending circle. And life has brought us back here, to our place of beginnings." His voice then grew grim. "What I am about to tell you will shock you, Braeden. I must have your word first that you'll listen before doing anything rash. And knowing you," he smirked, "you act before you think."

Braeden sighed as he shook his head. "You know me too well it seems, sir. You ask for the impossible for I have not changed much since then, but I always keep my word."

The man then nodded, pleased, before turning to look at his partner, who stood up and placed a crystal stone on the commander's desk. Braeden stared at the stone curiously, finding it quite familiar, but could not place where he had seen it. He looked up at the stranger as he resumed his seat, his curious expression still clearly on his face.

"The Zodiac stone, Capricorn," the man explained.

Braeden's eyes widened at the explanation then narrowed as he studied the man more closely. There was only one person who possessed the Holy Stones of Murond, and it wasn't the High Priest Hex. "Ramza…?" he whispered in disbelief, afraid of any eavesdropping and when the man nodded, demanded still in a soft voice, "What are you doing here? Do you know that your life is in danger? Why risk being seen?"

"Why not?" Ramza countered simply with a grin. "Who would recognize me, Braeden? Not even you could see me for who I really am. As Delita said," he gestured to his left where the other man sat, "we've all grown."

"Delita?" Braeden gasped, staring from him to Ramza and back again. It was difficult to believe that two recognized men in history sat before him, very much alive and ready for some action it seems. But what did it portend? Was this meeting among fellow cadets the significant event that he had anticipated upon the wind's calm?

"Unexpected, I know," Delita said, sympathizing with the commander. "I'd received a similar welcoming at Zeltennia, but you are the only one, besides the Ruglias, to know that Ramza has returned to Ivalice." He did not mention Orlandu and the others who also knew of Ramza's return, keeping them safe from scrutiny for the time being. He deemed it safer this way to avoid any complications that may arise in the near future. "I hope you will keep it a secret between us. As to my own return," he grinned, white teeth flashing through his dense beard, "you should know."

Braeden did not share his enthusiasm, however, frowning at the notion. "I'm afraid you come a little too late, your ma—"

"Please, Delita is fine, Braeden," Delita interrupted. "We speak as friends, nothing more."

"Delita," Braeden quickly corrected, his frown slightly softening, before he continued. "Though many people yearn for a king, many believe you dead. Why? Why did you leave Ivalice only to return now?"

"Because of me," a third of the party—a young man sitting behind and to the left of Delita—replied and Braeden gazed at him, frowning a question. "I am Raizen Hyral," the man explained.

"My son and your Prince," Delita added. The Hokuten Commander was about to question him further, desiring an explanation of the Prince's existence for there had been no news of a birth and Queen Ovelia had passed away so suddenly after the Lion War that the thought of she bearing a child before then was a bit dubious.

But he did not receive the explanation he sought as Ramza said, "I'm sorry, Braeden, but we do not have the luxury of time to explain everything. Even as we speak, various provinces are already on the move. The Nanten has joined our cause and soon the Tempest will, too. Now we seek the Hokuten to aid us in regaining control back to the people and to give them their rightful king."

"And the Aegis?" questioned the commander. "What of them?"

"Reuel has promised me that he would persuade them to join us," Delita answered. "If they are loyal to Ivalice and her people, then you needn't worry about them. But if they're not…" He then shrugged indifferently. "Well, we'll just leave it at that. I don't want them as enemies, but if they prove difficult, there's nothing we could do about it. The same could be said of you, Braeden." His voice grew sharp. "The choice is yours, but know this, I will regain the throne and restore peace to Ivalice. I swear it on my dead wife's grave."

Braeden Gallows held no doubt that his friend would honor that oath. But he wondered if he could honor their friendship, and his duty. "You present me an interesting decision and a difficult one by all means."

"It is not so difficult if you think about it," Ramza assured him. "I know you'll make the right choice, Braeden. You always had a sharp mind and a kind heart."

"Such faith in me…" the commander murmured, touched by the sentiment. "Even after all these years…"

Ramza nodded. "To lose faith in you is to lose a friend," he stated softly as he stood from his chair, the others following suit, a sign that the meeting was at an end. "The stone is yours to keep, Commander. What you do with it is totally up to you. Show it as a sign to the people to unite and fight or," he shrugged, "return it to the Church and become our enemies."

"Those are my choices?" Braeden inquired, staring pensively at the stone on his desk.

"What other choice do you have?" returned Delita curiously.

"To turn a blind eye," was the simple response as he gazed at the two men. "To forget that this meeting ever occurred and continue on as if nothing happened."

"But, of course, you wouldn't do that." Ramza grinned shrewdly, and when Braeden returned the smile, he knew the faith that he placed on his friend was not in vain. He then ducked his head in farewell. "Good day, Commander Braeden Gallows. May good fortune smile upon you."

"And unto you, Ramza Beoulve." Braeden stood up and offered his hand and Ramza took it, as the commander finished the formal farewell: "May we see each other again, be it in battlefield or in paradise."

Soon after the group left, Braeden resumed his seat. He stared at the stone, his face passive, completely hiding the war waging in his mind as he thought back on the things that were said during the meeting. Dare he defy the Church that had ruled them for fifteen years? Dare he risk his life and the lives of his men to follow the duty sworn to them?

"Perhaps now is the time to fulfill that duty," he murmured as he grabbed the stone and held it to the light.

The wind blew through his window once again, a refreshing breeze that foretold a promising future.


Almost a week had gone by since Andrew and his party, including Ramia and Galvin, had arrived at the Imperial Capital—two weeks since he had left Limberry. Besides their little meeting with Jaren on the day of their arrival, when they learned that troops from Lionel have already been dispatched to Zeltennia and where Andrew had been ordered to keep his knights in reserve, the days had passed uneventfully.

Andrew wondered, as he walked among the corridors of Oaks Keep, how his son fared at Limberry. He had sent a letter to Alex the next day after his meeting with Jaren, informing him of what took place in the capital and his order to keep the Aegis knights in reserve. He had also written that he would be staying at Lesalia until he deemed it was safe—both for himself and for Ramia and Galvin—to return home. In light of current events, he felt helpless as he played this waiting game with the priest, anxious to hear any news, whether it be from the capital or from the gardeners themselves.

As he passed a window that overlooked the main road heading south out of Lesalia, a brief glance told him that something was amiss. He stopped and looked out, closely studying the road. His eyesight wasn't what it used to be, but he knew a courier when he saw one. The rider was running full tilt along the muddy path, their chocobo near exhaustion, its feathers drooping. He watched as they passed through the city's southern gate with not so much as a scrutiny and he knew then that the news he had been anxious to hear, in one form or another, has finally arrived.


The rider approached the gates of the royal palace with shoulders slumped, his stance indicative of too many days in the saddle. Soldiers came out to greet the rider as he came through, reaching to help him from the saddle. He shook his head, waving them back as he kicked clear of the stirrups and swung to the ground. His legs trembled then and he clutched at his saddlehorn for support, pushing himself upright as he said, "I bear a message for Father Jaren. It's imperative I see him."

Sensing the rider's urgency, one of the soldiers complied, saying, "I will bring you to him."

The rider straightened his soiled scarlet cloak, adjusting the hang so that the golden cross emblazoned on the thick material was spread for all to see. "Lead on," he nodded.

The soldier set off across the courtyard, studying the man as he turned to lead the way through a door and up a winding stairwell that brought them to the labyrinthine interior of the palace. "You have traveled far?"

"From Igros to Murond," the rider grunted, "then to here."

"A hard road," the soldier murmured sympathetically. The rider merely nodded.

The soldier halted outside a carven door and tapped three times. A voice granted entry and he thrust the door open, seeing Father Jaren seated at his desk and his aide, the Divine Knight Tomas Varyn, to the side, standing near a cheerful fire.

"Milord!" the rider greeted before the soldier could announce him, ushering himself into the room. "I bring terrible news!"

"What news?" Jaren's head was cocked to the side like a crow's; he seemed not much disturbed.

"Igros Castle is in upheaval!" the rider exclaimed. "Our Shrine Knights are having some difficulty controlling the Hokuten and the city's citizens. Father Michael has already requested aid from Murond, but he's afraid that won't be enough to quell this rebellion."

Jaren nodded slowly, his eyes thoughtful, assessing the situation. He could not deploy more Shrine Knights; they were already engaged at Bervenia. The Church's resources are running thin now with Murond aiding Thirsk at Igros. He then remembered his brief meeting with Lord Birch and how he had ordered his knights on reserve just in case those Shrine Knights fighting at Bervenia needed the extra help. Perhaps he could do the same to the Tempest Knights at Riovanes, ordering them to aid those at Igros. But the idea was soon abandoned as the door opened and another messenger came in, looking as equally weary as the first, and as urgent.

"Milord, we've lost hold of Riovanes!"

Jaren's eyes grew cold at that declaration as he heard Tomas mutter, "Fovoham, too?" apparent disbelief in his voice. "How could this be?"

How could this be?, the priest repeated the thought darkly.

"Fovoham is not lost to us yet," the second rider declared. "We're planning a last stand at Yardow, but we need reinforcements if we are to hold the fort city."

"Which we are lacking," the Divine Knight muttered. "Shall we employ Limberry's aid?" He turned to the priest, who thought on the idea a moment, before shaking his head in negation.

"No. By the time word reaches Limberry, Yardow may already be lost to us."

"Then what?" Tomas demanded.

"An alternative." Jaren turned to the two riders. "Who's leading these rebellions? Were the heretics' hands detected in this?"

The first rider immediately shook his head, but the second seemed to hesitate for a moment before answering: "Perhaps… There's no way to know for certain, especially when age render their countenance different from when we started hunting them. But…"

"Yes?" Jaren goaded the rider impatiently.

"There are some rumors that the rebellion was started by the assassination group, Kamyuja," the rider continued a bit uncertainly. "As we all know, the Kamyuja was disbanded shortly after the death of the Grand Duke. And according to the Durai Report, the heretics Malak and Rafa Galthana were a part of that group." He then shrugged. "Maybe they had a hand in reviving the group."

"It's quite possible." Jaren folded his hands as if about to pray, but instead tapped fingers against his pursed lips. "This may be the chance I've been waiting for." He then offered the rider a thin-lipped smile, coming to a decision. "You shall have your reinforcements in two days. You shall wait for them, no doubt."

"Yes, Milord," the rider nodded, "and thank you."

Jaren nodded, then: "You must be weary. I shall have a servant escort you to your quarters." He waved to Tomas, who flung the door open and shouted for a servant. When the rider left, escorted down the corridor by the servant, he closed the door and turned to Jaren, who was addressing the rider from Igros.

"As for you," Jaren said, "I'm afraid you have to wait a bit longer. Once Fovoham is secured, I will send the knights required. For now, however, I will send my own personal aide to help you."

That caught the Divine Knight's attention. He straightened as Jaren gestured towards him.

The rider turned to regard him as Jaren explained, "A skilled Divine Knight and quite the tactician. He shall be a great asset in your fight against the rebels."

The rider nodded, pleased. He offered his hand towards the Divine Knight as he said, "An honor, Sir…"

"Tomas," the Divine Knight supplied as he took the rider's hand. "Tomas Varyn." After the simple introduction, Tomas turned to the priest. "By your leave, Your Eminence, I shall make the necessary preparations for my departure."

Jaren nodded. "In good time, in good time… But first," he motioned towards the rider, "escort our weary friend here to his quarters. He will wish to rest, no doubt, and eat. After, summon Lord Gyle and Lady Ramia to attend me. We need to take care of the reinforcements to Yardow."

Acting the obedient servant, Tomas complied, "As you wish, Your Excellency," before escorting the rider out of the room. But he wondered, as he led the way down the corridor, what Jaren had made of the second rider's account of the rumor that the heretics may have started the rebellion at Riovanes and what it portended for Lady Ramia.

Just as the letter he bore to Bethla Garrison after her visit to the priest, he felt this summoning bode ill for the young Holy Knight.


A slight frown of confusion wrinkled Ramia's brow as she followed Sir Tomas through ill-lit passages, bypassing the main corridor that led to the audience chamber where meetings with Father Jaren usually took place, before arriving at a carved cedarn door. The Divine Knight thrust the portal aside and ushered her in as he announced, "Lady Ramia, as requested, Milord."

Jaren smiled at the announcement as he watched Ramia enter. "Welcome, Lady Ramia. Thank you for answering my summon." He motioned to Tomas that he could leave.

"Yes, of course," Ramia nodded as the door closed. "But why have…you…"

The question died on her lips when she noticed a man standing to the side, wearing an amused expression—a knight she knew too well.

"What are you doing here?" she growled in anger.

Gyle merely shrugged as he answered, "I'm here to find out." Then, with that same amused expression, he turned to Jaren as he asked, "Milord, care to explain why you have summoned us? Lady Ramia and I bear no love for each other and I find it curious that we should be summoned together."

"These are troubled times, Lord Gyle," Jaren explained. "I summoned the both of you because I trust that your leadership qualities could help me rectify a problem."

"What is it, Milord?" Ramia demanded, eager to attest to the knight besides her of the leadership qualities Father Jaren saw in her. If there was really a problem that troubled the priest, then she would do anything in her power to solve it.

"I have received startling news regarding the other provinces." Jaren stared at them gravely, his hands folded within the voluminous sleeves of his robe. "It seems not only Zeltennia is in an uproar, but Fovoham and Gallione as well. Here is the situation." He motioned to the two knights to come closer before pointing to a map spread across his desk.

"As you know, I have dispatched Lionel troops to Bervenia." He pointed to Lionel Castle, a thin finger tracing the path to Bervenia. "Murond," he then tapped a small island to the south of Gallione, "has sent its knights to Igros," he finished by tapping a symbol of a castle slightly to the northwest of the island. "That only leaves Fovoham unaided." He gestured to the province north of Gallione before withdrawing his hands back into his sleeves. "The question is who should I send as reinforcements?" He gazed at them speculatively, his bird-bright eyes already revealing the answer.

"Are you suggesting we are the reinforcements?" Ramia questioned.

"Not quite," Jaren shook his head, "but you are close to the mark." He again waved at the map. "Even though I have Limberry's promise of aid, it would take at least a week for word to arrive there, then a couple of days for the army to get ready before marching to Fovoham's aid, which would take about another week. Two weeks would be wasted and probably for naught for Fovoham could be lost during that time. What we need are knights that would be ready to march in two days, knights that are closer to Fovoham, knights—"

"—that are stationed here in Lesalia," Gyle finished, his gaze fixed at the map, as he tapped his chin. "I think I see now… If I'm not mistaken," he raised thoughtful eyes to the priest, "you want us to use our leadership skills to lead the order."

"Which have been without a commander since Lord Oaks," Jaren nodded.

"I'll gladly take his place!" Gyle stated proudly, as Ramia glared at him in contempt. "There is no better candidate than I!"

"Perhaps," murmured Jaren, "but you forget that I have also invited Lady Ramia and she has a good a chance as you in becoming commander. Her lineage makes her the perfect candidate even."

Ramia grinned smugly at Gyle as he seemed to deflate at the suggestion, his ego having been punctured by it. "Her mother is a heretic," he argued, hoping that would put Ramia at a disadvantage for the position. "Certainly, you must take that into consideration."

"I have," Jaren replied calmly, unperturbed by the challenge. "If I were to appoint Lady Ramia as commander, there is the possibility that her mother would be set free."

As Gyle demanded to know why, Ramia just stared blankly ahead in complete shock. Her father had been right in suggesting returning here. She could do more good here than staying at Bethla and if becoming commander of the St. Konoe Knights was the way to free her mother then she would gladly take the mantle.

"A chance," she heard Jaren answer Gyle's question. "A chance to redeem herself and her family."

"Explain!" Gyle fumed, seeing that his chance of becoming St. Konoe's commanding officer was slipping away.

"There's been news that the rebellion at Fovoham was caused by the heretics."

The information brought fresh anger to Ramia. To learn that the heretics responsible for Agrias' imprisonment and the dishonor brought upon her family were a few days away gave her some cause for excitement, clenching the hilt of her sword, her eyes burning fiercely with anticipation. Finally, she would face those that had wronged her, that had tainted her mother with lies.

Jaren studied Ramia, pleased with her reaction. This is going well than I had hoped. "Lady Ramia, I will absolve your mother of all charges in exchange for their capture. How does that sound?"

Before Ramia could reply, Gyle asked, "And what of the leadership of the knights?"

"If Lady Ramia considers and agrees to the arrangement, leadership shall go to her." Jaren smiled as he reiterated, "A chance, Lord Gyle." He then turned to Ramia, still smiling as he asked kindly, "What say you, Lady Ramia?"

Ramia straightened as her heart was overcome with emotion. Her mother would be free of that filthy place and she could finally return home. Capturing the heretics would be a task she would very much enjoy. Grandfather, I see the way, she thought as she replied, "Consider it done, Milord!" enthusiastically.

Jaren nodded in approval as Gyle sputtered in denial. "I will not allow it!" he seethed through clenched teeth. "I will not follow the orders of a girl whose wanton mother willingly shared her bed with a vagrant!"

Ramia held her temper in check with some difficulty. "You dare insult my mother?" she threatened softly, her eyes glaring dangerously.

Gyle sneered. "Yes," then added almost casually, "the bitch."

Temper flared then as Ramia lunged forward, enraged, her sword almost out of its scabbard when Jaren shouted:

"Lady Ramia, stay your sword!"

Ramia froze, still gripping her sword as she continued to glare at Gyle, whose smile seemed to her triumphant.

Jaren sighed as he stood from his desk and walked around to put a placating hand on Ramia's sword arm. "I did not invite you to attack Lord Gyle, Lady Ramia" he said quietly. Gyle's smile seemed to grow wider at the reprimand, but faded when Jaren glowered at him as he added, "Nor to trade insults," coldly.

He then removed his hand from Ramia's arm, as she grudgingly sheathed her sword, but remained standing, arms folded into voluminous sleeves once again. "As I have stated in the beginning of this meeting, I have invited you because I believe that your leadership qualities could rectify a problem. Good leaders need to cooperate with one another if they are to be successful in their missions." Gyle was about to give another retort, but Jaren stayed him with a raise of his hand. "Even though Ramia is the chosen commander," he continued, "that doesn't mean that your abilities are ignored, Lord Gyle. Lady Ramia is inexperienced when it comes to warfare—"

"And that's why I should be the one to lead them!" Gyle spluttered. "I—"

"Silence!" Jaren's harsh order brought Gyle's argument to a quick close, the knight immediately snapping his mouth shut. "I grow tired of your whining, Lord Gyle. Now, if you would allow me to finish…?" He gazed sharply at the frustrated knight, who muttered an apology, submitting to his authority.

"Thank you." The priest's voice was cold, edged with a small amount of menace. "Lady Ramia would need an experienced knight to counsel her in battle tactics, someone who could serve as her second-in-command. A knight who had fought both in the Fifty Year War and the Lion War, a knight whose leadership qualities equals that of the commander, a knight such as yourself, Lord Gyle."

Now it was Gyle's turn to stare blankly ahead in complete shock. If he couldn't be the commander, being second was just as good, especially if he was to "counsel" the young upstart. Perhaps this meeting wasn't in vain after all. He smiled at the thought.

Ramia, however, detested the arrangement as much as she detested the knight. "Milord, there has to be someone else who is more capable of the position," she protested. "Not that I'm denying Lord Gyle's," she gave the knight a mocking smile, "competence."

"I'm sorry, Lady Ramia," the priest apologized as he shook his head, "but I deem you two are the most able candidates in the order. Even if the roles were reversed, the outcome would still be the same. Please, you must drop your dislike for each other if you are to be successful in the upcoming battles at Fovoham. Failure is not an option when dealing with the heretics." He then smiled. "I have complete faith in the both of you."

Gyle returned the smile as Ramia scowled. "Very well, Milord," she said forcefully, trying to hide her disappointment…and her dislike. "I will tolerate Lord Gyle's company for the good of the country."

And for the good of my mother.

"Spoken like a true commander," Jaren praised. "You do your grandfather proud." He then picked an object from his desk and extended it towards Ramia. "Your badge of rank," he explained as the Holy Knight took it. "You will need it as proof of your newfound title when you announce that the Order of St. Konoe has a commander once more."

"Thank you, Milord." Ramia was nearly overcome with joy as she stared at the badge—the same badge she had seen her grandfather wore so many times with his cape, save it was missing the family's insignia above the carved tripartite crown. She wondered whose family's insignia should be engraved there: Birch or Oaks?

"I'm sure you are eager to make the announcement and to make the necessary preparations for the march to Fovoham." Jaren's voice cut through her thoughts and she nodded, more to herself than in agreement with the priest's polite dismissal. The space above the tripartite crown would remain blank for now but, perhaps in time, the wreath of oak leaves would adorn its surface.

In time…, she thought as she took her leave.

Gyle made to follow her, but stopped when Jaren called to him: "Lord Gyle, I need to speak with you. We have some other things to discuss that are of great import. I hope you don't mind, Lady Ramia," he added politely to the awaiting Holy Knight, who gave a smug smile at Lord Gyle, hoping that the priest would put him in his place, as she shook her head.

"Not at all, Milord, but I expect him to come to the garrison as soon as you're finished with him"

"Yes, of course," Jaren nodded and Ramia gave Gyle one last mocking smile before leaving the room.

It was tempting to linger, to eavesdrop on the telling off her second-in-command would unquestionably receive, but she was reminded of her orders and her duty when she gazed upon the badge held in her hand. She then clenched it tightly in her grasp, seeking its strength.

"Grandpa, guide me…," she prayed before setting down the corridor towards her destiny.