Author's note: This is a sequel to Change of Heart, so reading both is recommended. The cover comes from Gaming NAO's tome project. So! They announced Fallen Morgan units on their birthday. I might really have to throw myself into gacha hell again. I sifted through my ten-year-plus log of miscellaneous tracks and the first thing I found was Atomic Bonsai. I've never read Homestuck, or consumed a lot of things that ended up in my collection, but maybe one of these days. Well, it's been a few weeks! How are we all feeling? Old faces still out there in the crowd? I'll be trying my hand at some new things as I go, so feel free to let me know how it feels (and don't forget to wish everybody's daughter/son a happy birthday).


Nah jolted awake to the reeking stench of raw killing intent.

All the better for it, seeing as Grima couldn't open his eyes and look at her without setting off that alarm.

For his part, Grima had never been so irritated that Chrom offered him a room with two beds—ostensibly meant for Morgan, but his daughter insisted on sharing his bed and he'd long since given up on shooing her. Upon arrival in Ylisstol after returning from the eastern oasis, the four future children wasted no time in scouting his room in the palace. Outvoted three to one, Nah was saddled with the role of observing the fell dragon overnight thanks to her heightened senses.

Though Grima had to admit that one way or another, it probably would've come down to this, all of his enemies cramming into his room, or having them camp the hall and window. He and Nah didn't exchange words—only a glare of mutual hatred.

"Mnn…" Morgan whined quietly as her father shook her awake. The warm sheets were tugged away, letting in the cold air and forcing her to open her eyes. "Morning, Father, Mother."

Nah's groan was exasperation incarnate. "Call me that one more time and I'm eating you both."

"Morning, Nah." Morgan sat up, stretched, and lightly slapped her cheeks a few times until she was fully awake. "All right!" She bounded out of bed, snatched her Elwind tome from the pocket of her coat on the rack, and loosed a blast of wind to fling the curtains open and let in the first light of the sunrise. "Finally back in Ylisstol! Oh man, there's so much I wanna do! Nah, wanna hit the library with me? Maybe I can get Laurent in a round of tome stackers, he seems like the kinda guy to enjoy that! Oh, but I also need to hit the stables and—"

"We've been absent for three weeks and the prince for one," said Grima, pulling one of several identical shirts from the closet and putting it on. "The backlog is immense. You're not escaping your responsibilities so quickly."

Morgan pouted and complained, but it was clear her father wouldn't budge. After the three of them got ready for the day and left their room, she asked Nah, "How many clothes do you have? I didn't see you carrying around that much luggage."

"I don't have much more," said Nah. "Things as simple as decent clothing became scarce as I grew up thanks to somebody."

Another baleful look between manakete and fell dragon.

"That won't do!" said Morgan. "You can't go around in the same dress all the time. We're hitting the town as soon as I'm outta the office!"

"Says the girl with at least six copies of the same outfit." Nah frowned at the girl clinging to Grima's arm. Father and daughter were dressed in nearly identical grandmaster attire, from the matching gilded coats to the dark gloves to the same shade of white hair. The biggest differences were her stockings to his pants, the silver locket around her neck, and of course the vibrant bursting energy versus thinly concealed bottomless hatred.

"It's seven, to be exact," said Morgan. "I've got other stuff, but I like this the most!" She stuck her arm out in front of herself, admiring the enchanted fabric. "I wish I could have another one of these fancy coats though."

"You might as well ask for a full set of customized plate armour," said Grima. His eyes remained locked on the far end of the hallway as they walked. "Remember your tasks before frivolity."

"Work, train swords, train spells, practise pegasus riding, study tactics, plot world destruction." Tapping the side of her head, Morgan beamed up at him. "Don't worry, I've got it all scheduled out!" Morgan caught his gaze, and her dark gray eyes sharpened. Making friends with the future children is a task too.

The father looked as calm and collected as he so often did. The daughter was as cheery and upbeat as ever. Nah's gift for scenting intention let her glean the former's perpetual desire to kill her and some odd mixture of turmoil from the latter, but it also left the manakete dead tired. Never mind not being able to fall asleep until long, long after Grima did—Nah just couldn't deal with this first thing in the morning.

So Nah was beyond relieved to see Laurent and Owain waiting for them in the dining hall. "Thank gods you're here," she said.

"Good morning," said Laurent. "Are you unhurt?"

"Physically," she muttered.

"Thanks, Nah," said Owain. "We'll watch them from here."

As she hurried off to get some real sleep, Grima felt a low growl rumble in his chest. The future children didn't plan on letting him out of their sights at any point. Coordinating with Morgan would be difficult unless he found a way to shake them.

He knew Morgan wouldn't turn against him. That wasn't his concern. Grima could listen to Lucina and obediently follow the course of established history, but Lucina was working to undo him all the while and this ceasefire could be rescinded at any moment. He wasn't content to live with her invisible sword over his head. He had to find an opportunity to make the first move and make it decisive. Until then, he had to feign being the tactician called Robin.

Mortal enemies ate together. Morgan cracked jokes and talked merrily with Owain as he flourished and posed on his side of the table. Grima felt a smile cross his face as he opened the door to his office. Validar had been crowned as king of Plegia recently. Somewhere in those mountain of papers on his desk waited a cordial invitation to the ceremony. It was the perfect excuse he needed to meet with his high priest and escape to the Dragon's Table, where his fabled Truth waited to be freed by his hand. With its power fuelling his own, Grima would trample these maggots into the dirt.

"Gods… this is way too much!" Morgan slumped into her chair behind the desk at her father's side. As she slowly melted down it, the stacks of paper looked taller and taller. "Owain, Laurent—"

"Don't need to bother helping." Grima went straight to work, eyes flying along the pages in front of him. "Sit there and fester, worms."

Morgan groaned aloud, but sat up and dragged a small pile in front of herself. "Why can't these all be stuff on tactics?" she muttered. "Ooh! Recruits, training, supplies… pegasus knight corps stuff! This isn't all that bad. Father, can I have the papers about Risen too? Working out good deployments is fun. Stuffy politicking isn't."

"Thank you for volunteering to manage the stuffy politicking." But Grima slid her the pile she wanted.

About half an hour in, Owain was kicked out for turning the office into his personal theatre stage. He came back with a quill, inkpot, and a huge handwritten book he refused to talk about. Laurent got up after that and came back with an armful of unusual tomes.

Sunlight streamed in through the window on one side of the fell dragon. On the other lay a series of low shelves and a huge pin-filled map of the continent dominating the wall. Morgan periodically got up, did some stretches in the middle of the room, and paced about in front of the map rearranging its numerous colour-coded pins in accordance with her reports.

"Page 58, Attributes," whispered Morgan. "Divine weapons are weapons imbued with divine energy. They can be created through—"

Owain slammed his book shut, face burning bright red. "Don't! The Manual of Justice is more than your mortal eyes can handle!"

"Aw, don't be a wet towel!" Morgan laughed and reached over his shoulder to pry the book open again. "I'll let you read Father's tactics and we'll call it even."

Owain managed to keep it shut until she started tickling his sides. "Hahahaha—That's not the same at all—hahaha—stop, stop!"

Morgan spun around, beaming ear to ear with the Manual of Justice in hand. "Holy Slayer (emphasis on 'Holy,' not to be confused with Holy Slayer, emphasis on 'Slayer') has effectiveness against undead and evil attributes, tripling its—"

"You're gonna kill me through pure embarrassment!" He snatched it back. "Is it because I haven't put that meal together yet?!"

"What's to be embarrassed about? I think it's amazing!" Her eyes lit up as she advanced on him. "But if it gets that mystery dish of yours done faster…!"

Without looking up, Grima raised his free hand and snapped his fingers. Morgan stopped in her tracks.

"Finish your work," he said.

"I'm gonna go crazy if I have to stare at these documents all day," she whined. Even so, Morgan hopped back into her chair with a playful poke to her father's cheek—

He twitched and her finger jolted back as a spark jumped on contact. Grima let out a deeply aggravated growl and got to his feet to peer over the top of his table's mountains of papers. In the corner opposite Owain, Laurent wore a look of intense concentration, muttering a rapid-fire incantation under his breath with a tome's pages turning in his hand. A tiny cloud formed over the potted plant by the window, wetting its soil with rain.

"Laurent," said Grima flatly. "What are you doing?"

The mage stopped chanting and the cloud instantly vanished. "I finished deciphering this tome. It seems to have the ability to control the weather, albeit on a very small scale. The humidity of the room has decreased as a result of it."

The fell dragon stared hard at him and slowly lowered himself to his seat again. He reminded himself of Morgan's plan to decrease open hostility with the future children. "…I see none of your books are common combat tomes."

"I'm particularly avid in my acquisition of magical tomes. As you're well aware, they serve both as a mage's weapon and a history. Some tell of ages of the gods; others are treatises on nature and its energies. Reading and analyzing their contents is an extremely satisfying pursuit."

"I don't recognize those tomes of yours. Is that puny cloud its sole purpose?"

"It appears so. Some tomes offer precious little in practical use, but hide wildly entertaining powers. And whenever I find a book of that sort, I simply must acquire it for my collection." Laurent snapped his book shut and looked pointedly at Grima. "However, I doubt such pointlessly immaterial spells have any relevance to you."

"Incorrect." Scarlet eyes flicked up to meet Laurent's before returning to his papers. "Skill is born of a strong mind and vast experience. Show me these pointless spells of yours… unless, of course, you consider yourself too incompetent to overcome what little I glean from you."

"Further demonstrations are declined," said Laurent. He didn't rise to the bait.

"Tch." Grima reached into his coat. "Catch."

Laurent looked up just in time to grab the thrown tome before it hit him in the face. His mouth fell open as he realized the fell dragon just gave him the divine hammer, Mjölnir.

"That book leaves my presence and I'll see that your soul leaves your body," said Grima.

Laurent opened it. Power pulsed through its pages. Without reading a single line, he knew it was the genuine article. "You would allow me to analyze this ancient tome in exchange for demonstrating spells with no practical use?"

Grima didn't answer. He twitched as a poke in the cheek zapped him again.

"Father… what happened to working?" said Morgan. "I don't mind though—break time! Let's see those funny spells!"


The future children gathered in a small circle during a break on the training grounds a few days later. Many of the other Shepherds paced about, taking drinks or wiping away sweat with towels. Morgan stuck out like a sore thumb at the end of the line of pegasus knight recruits that Cordelia was ordering around. The soldiers ostensibly under Morgan's command moved well with their lances, yet the girl herself swung wide and clumsy.

"We've heard nothing from Lucina," said Owain. "I would've expected a letter from her to Ylisstol at some point…"

"Grima may have gotten to her." Kjelle shot a look at the fell dragon. He paced back and forth beside Frederick, wooden training sword in hand and steel sword sheathed at his side as always. "We should take matters into our own hands."

"It's more likely that she remains alive than the alternative," panted Laurent. "I glimpsed some of Grima's papers. They included reports that a masked swordswoman and a wyvern rider were spotted in Plegia as recently as two weeks ago."

"Lucina and Gerome," confirmed Owain. "They're both alive."

"Another thing." Kjelle scowled. "…Mother has yet to marry. She didn't recognize her ring."

"Likewise," said Laurent. "We returned to prevent the rise of the fell dragon. However, we ourselves have yet to be born into this time. If Grima kills either of our parents, or our past selves…"

"He could pop us out of existence?" said Nah breathlessly. Manaketes weren't meant to exert themselves so hard in human form…!

"Likely so."

"That breaks our conditions," said Owain. "But if one of us suddenly vanishes, could the remaining three take him and Morgan?"

"Even if he doesn't do so himself," said Laurent, "history has been thrown off course. Any number of developments through happenstance may result in us never existing without need for his direct intervention."

"What about Lucina?" pointed out Owain. "Uncle Chrom's engaged with the right woman. If Grima was going to unmake any of us this way, he would've gone after Lucina first."

"I doubt he could've stopped them from marrying if he tried," muttered Kjelle.

The future children hesitated. They nodded their agreement.

"My parents aren't in Ylisstol," said Nah. "Chrom said he needs a few weeks to gather all the Shepherds in Ylisstol to tell everybody about us and Grima. When everyone's here, let's tell them who to get married with."

"Is there a fixed point of divergence?" mused Laurent. "Let us assume that my mother married a man besides the father I remember. Whether I disappear when they marry, when they develop feelings for one another, when a child besides myself is born, or not at all—these possibilities would all be conjecture. We lack sufficient information."

"Grima might know," said Nah. Her comrades turned to her. "Naga sent us back in time. The two are parallel gods. He must know… but he'd never tell us."

"That might be his plan," said Kjelle. "He doesn't need to kill any of us—not our parents or our past selves. But if we vanish because our parents never married, we may never know whether he did it on purpose."

"You guys need to get your parents married," said Owain. "Yesterday."

"Oh gods," said Nah. "We have to be our parents' wingmen. We have to make sure they… make us."

All of them shuddered at that.

"We can't let him find out who our parents are until they're already married," said Kjelle. "Who does he know about?"

"He might know all of our parents," said Owain. "Then again, we barely knew anything about Robin in our time either."

"They called him Grandmaster of Ylisse," said Kjelle. "Tales abounded of his genius on the battlefield, but we saw little of him in person."

Laurent said, "He knows your parents, Lucina's parents, and my mother. This much is certain. By nature of her species, Nah only has one possible candidate in the Shepherds for her mother. Having knowledge of our mothers does little to aid him. He would have to prevent or destroy their relationship with our future fathers while avoiding us."

"Guys," said Nah. "Who did Robin marry in our time?"

They all thought about it.

"…Pretty sure he didn't," said Owain. "I don't remember him having a daughter either."

Laurent looked at Nah with horror.

"What?" asked Nah. "What is it?"

"Morgan didn't exist in our time," said Laurent. "You informed me that she's a manakete, yet exceedingly few manaketes remain in existence. The most likely candidate due to extended contact is this world's Nowi."

"Mother, married to Grima?" Nah retched at the thought.

Owain looked over his shoulder. Thankfully, the fell dragon didn't seem to notice. "Morgan might've been born in our world to someone else. Maybe she was, uh, kept secret… or something? If you're right, wouldn't Grima have married your mother already?"

Nah looked ready to throw up.

"I take that back."

"Let us assume this is all correct," said Laurent, "and Morgan is Nowi's daughter in this time. How can Nah and Morgan both exist?"

"Fate has to be possible to change," muttered Nah. "So what's going on? Unless—" She shook her head violently until her train of thought derailed from its horrifying destination. Nah would never ever be Morgan's mother. That suggested… with Grima—

"FORM UP!" ordered Frederick. The present Shepherds immediately returned to continue their training.

"This is making my head hurt," said Kjelle with a deep scowl as they got up. "We'll figure this out when everyone's here."

Grima let out a soft growl as the future children returned to their positions and continued Frederick's drills. A tap on the shoulder got his attention. "Lon'qu?"

The swordmaster jerked his head away from the group. "It's been too long since we fought," he said. "To first blood, and I request pure swordplay—no further tactics."

"You would be better served asking a fish not to swim," said Grima. But he glanced at Frederick, who nodded back—he could handle the group just fine in the tactician's absence. He set down his training sword and followed Lon'qu.

The exchange was over in three seconds. A flurry of blows, and then Grima's steel sword was deflected and twisted away by the Killing Edge in the same single motion that cut the fell dragon's hand and ended with the tip of the katana resting just over his throat—an immaculate counterattack in opposition.

They lowered their blades and stepped back. "What would your plan have been in a true battle?" asked Lon'qu.

"Never allow you into range at all with Mjölnir and terrain advantage," said Grima. "If forced, throw the scabbard at close range. You know you can cut through without slowing down. Deflect it, and I strike back. Cut through it, and you can't take back your slash before I catch it in my body and strike back. Stab under it, and I catch it in my body and strike back. Dodge, and I have time to reassess the situation." His scarlet eyes sharpened. "You'd predict those scenarios. To avoid letting me do so, you would use superficial attacks to whittle me down to defeat through blood loss without ever letting your sword be caught in my body. Alternatively, you would attempt to instantly kill me in one stroke. The former gives me enough time to compose a deeper strategy."

"And the latter?"

"A secret," said Grima. "You suspect that after my explanation, this short response leads you to suspect I have no real answer to it, conditioning you to—"

"You think too much," said Lon'qu.

A lofty shrug. "You wanted to know my plan. Your mind wouldn't consider it, but your instincts would."

"…You are a strange one." The swordmaster sheathed his sword. "You strike in battle with thoughtless motion yet control the battlefield with careful planning. You claim to be a tactician, yet you fight as an old master trapped in a body too weak to let their blade fly as their heart desires."

Grima narrowed his eyes. "I'm an efficient killer. Who's thinking too much now?"

"I desire to become stronger," said Lon'qu. "How did you achieve such a state of mind?"

"Why do you fear women? Why do you seek power?" Grima waited for a response that didn't come forth. He knew he couldn't answer. "That is why I have nothing to teach you."

"I see." Lon'qu let out a breath. "Then it can't be helped."

"But there is a question I have for you. How did you overcome your fear?"

They both looked at the training grounds. With Lon'qu's ring on her finger, Lissa was there swinging about her iron axe with surprising ease.

"It remains," said Lon'qu. "It will likely never fade. Though for her… I cannot say for certain how it happened. I simply grew accustomed to her presence."

"Curious," muttered the fell dragon.

"Why do you ask?"

"Insight." But Grima didn't discuss it further, and it was clear he had no intention of it either. "Your son achieved Astra in the battle at the oasis."

"I saw," said Lon'qu. A tiny smile crossed his face. "Can I ask you to place the order for his swordmaster's attire?"

Grima scowled. "Those were extenuating circumstances. Speak to Morgan."

He winced. "I'd prefer speaking to you, Robin."

"Speak to Morgan," he repeated. "You're strong enough with the blade. Consider not having a heart attack in the presence of females, lest you drive yourself to an early grave."

Lon'qu grimaced and set off on the long, laborious journey of inching towards the girl flailing around with a dull lance.

Grima beat him to it by a long stretch. "Morgan," he said. "How is your progress?"

"Getting somewhere, eventually, probably!" Her coat lay folded on the bench at the edge of the training grounds. Despite the sleeveless shirt underneath being far lighter, Morgan was still working up a sweat. She looked at the pegasus knight beside her and tried to mimic a few strikes with the training lance. "What do you think?"

He motioned for her to freeze mid-lunge. Grima paced around her, the flat of his training sword rapping lightly on her leg or arm so she could correct them. "You've fixed your grip, but you're leaning too far into the thrust—acceptable for a sword, but not for a lance. Widen your stance and lower yourself more."

"Like this?"

"Close enough. Stay focused and continue."

When the round of training finished and the pegasus knights dispersed, Morgan flopped to the ground and groaned aloud. "Fatheeer, this is never gonna work! It just doesn't feel right."

"You're ruining your clothes. At least roll on your coat." Grima pulled her back to her feet. "You're learning a weapon for the first time. Hard work is necessary to achieve results in anything."

"I'm not gonna be able to use a lance as good as I can use swords or spells," said Morgan. "I'll be flying around using tomes while I'm up on a pegasus anyway."

"That isn't a reason to neglect it. Your experience and observations on the battlefield should've made it clear that a broad set of skills can only benefit…" Grima trailed off with a distinct frown. "Have some water." As she drank, he switched tracks. "You have potential, Morgan. Your mind is flexible and you adapt easily to new situations. The path will be long regardless, but I'm certain you'll master it. You have my confidence."

"Hm? Oh!" Morgan laughed. "That's not quite where I'm going with it! I was thinking it'd be nice if I had something to work towards."

"What do you mean?"

She reached into the pocket of his coat. Mjölnir waved in front of his face. "This!" she said, eyes sparkling. "Cordelia and Sumia are amazing fliers and I'd love to fight like them, but it'd be super cool to have an awesome weapon too! Like this book, or Falchion, or Hauteclere!"

With a dry chuckle, Grima plucked his legendary tome back out of her hands and stowed it away. "Nice try," he said. "I'm not getting you a lance of legend."

"But Faaatheeer!" she whined. She dropped the act immediately and excitedly added, "What about your tome? Ooh, I wanna try using Falchion!"

"That sword will never respond to us," said Grima, ruffling her snowy hair with a towel of the same colour. "But keep your studies at their current pace and you may be able to use Mjölnir."

"How long will that take?"

"A few years with your current workload. You only have so much time to devote to one topic. Granted, you could always surpass my expectations again."

"There's so much to do, I wish we had more time in the day. Feels like there's never enough for everything I wanna do!"

Grima let a small breath escape him. Having spent millennia in one form of consciousness or another, time felt as if each day lasted a year while also slipping through his fingers like so much sand.

Morgan took the towel from him and beamed. "I like it when you cheer for me though! Maybe I should be more mopey so you'll come pick me up whenever I look a little down."

"Don't test me." Grima looked around. "It seems the pegasus knights have finished their training for today. You'll be joining the Shepherds' sparring."

"Got it!" Morgan ran off and retrieved another wooden sword in record time. With the others duelling around them in pairs, father and daughter found a suitable space free of obstructions and readied their training weapons. "Ooh, another thing! I want a rapier! Father, can I have a rapier? It seems like a totally lordly sword! Gotta complete the image if we're living in the castle."

"You already broke a much bulkier sword with Ignis. Rapiers would be expended faster than arrows." With a pointed look, Grima added, "And when you have a Levin Sword already? You're being too greedy."

Morgan pulled out the most adorable watery-eyed pleading face she could muster. "Pleeaase?"

He sized her up. She certainly wasn't prone to handling her weapons as roughly as himself, but rapiers were tailored specifically for use by the royal house of Ylisse. It'd be a mediocre sword in the hands of anyone who didn't know exactly how to leverage its strengths against cavalry and armored units as Chrom or Lucina did. Then again, she had no issues acclimating to the bizarre feel of the Levin Sword…

He couldn't deny the humour in the thought of the fell dragon's daughter running around cutting down the exalted bloodline using their own sword, but he also wasn't about to let her get away with pulling that adorable card on him. "No."

"You're no fun," said Morgan, pouting. "I wonder where Chrom is. What's his schedule nowadays?"

"He attends every other day," said Grima. "The rest, he trains after hours independently."

"Darn," said Morgan. "I wanna study him."

"What for?"

Morgan hummed aloud, eyes darting about and pointedly avoiding the question. "Isn't it funny how much of your style I picked up from you, Father?"

Grima understood the real answer—Chrom's style was a valuable glimpse into Lucina's style. "I have no style," he said aloud. "Your technique still bears the hallmarks of—"

He sidestepped her attempt to throw a fistful of blinding dirt in his face. Morgan's slash was parried and then her blade caught against the cross of her father's blade. Grima rushed into point-blank range with both their blades locked up and his scarlet eyes boring through her. Morgan's stomach dropped as his leg slipped behind hers, but the sweep that would send her to the dirt in a fatally losing position never came.

"Well-practised but textbook approaches born of rigid training," he finished. "What was your plan after I dodged?"

Morgan laughed nervously and tried, "Hope you didn't?"

"You normally have good footwork—confident and swift. I expected you to rebalance on the other leg. When did you decide on this approach?"

"While I was getting the sword. Figured it might work out."

"And you used conversation to lull me into falling for it." Grima chuckled and backed away. "You do share my style, but you should always know your plan's weaknesses and what to do if your opponent takes advantage of them. The ability to recover and adapt is especially important in direct combat."

Morgan slumped for a moment. She perked right back up, hopped on the spot a few times, and then settled back into her stance with bright cheery eyes. "Okay, again! I'll keep at it till I outplay you ten times outta ten!"

Grima matched her smile and returned to the fray. Despite not banking on a quick win condition, she kept much better pace, landing grazes, nicks, and stray hits. Most matches ended with her sword removed from her grip, him set to throw her, or his wooden blade at her throat, but she certainly made him work for it. There was the occasional clean hit in Morgan's favour that earned her a win, and each one was punctuated with the girl cheering and jumping. One way or another, he always seemed to have a new word of praise for her and a point of improvement to go with it.

The time came for everyone to switch partners. After downing half her water in one go, Morgan ran off to harass Lon'qu at her father's suggestion. Meanwhile, the rest of the Shepherds became painfully aware that Robin had avoided striking Morgan because he had zero qualms smashing his blunt sword into them with all of his power.

After all, it was the perfect time for Grima to rehearse killing them.


The Demon's Ingle was cursed land. Yen'fay knew this village built in its shadow would one day meet a fiery end. He merely expected it to be struck from existence by the cruel god of flame, not burned down by the Conqueror and his forces that seemed to hold no regard for the wrath of the gods.

He also expected battling here would invite their anger on his enemies before himself. By the cooling corpses of his aged mother and father, he was a fool to rely on the gods. What good was his blade, then?

Though they met their ends with blades in hand on the battlefield, it was a vindictive trap that claimed them rather than any noble clash. The Demon's Ingle and the surrounding terrain formed a valley—safe one moment and then a river of false lava the next. He should've been the one to lead the charge.

But Yen'fay could certainly exact vengeance in their place. The sages that laid the trap were atop the small mountain opposite the volcano. Yen'fay was gone from the base of the valley in an instant, deftly scaling the rocks as bolts of Thoron crashed down and Rexcalibur's vortexes howled around him. Say'ri shouted for him to turn back, at least go where she could follow. He ignored it.

Amatsu flew from his hand with unnatural speed, a golden streak as swift as the lightning raining upon his surroundings. One sage dropped dead with the seven-branched sword driven through his skull. A twitch of Yen'fay's hand, and the blade ripped itself free to return to his grasp.

And then he was out of the valley and in the imperials' midst, an emerald storm impossible for any eye to keep up with. Tomes were cut to pieces, bloodied pages fluttering through the air as their owners fell one after another. The moment he was done, a tomahawk and then a hail of arrows garnered his attention.

Yen'fay looked out across the battlefield. Wyvern and their riders clouded the sky against the backdrop of the Demon's Ingle and its seemingly endless spire of black smoke. Dozens of thinner plumes marked where houses once stood in the village. His men and the imperials fought head-on, but the latter were fearless and their number impossible to count. A mustached general and his retinue of warriors and other generals had earned Yen'fay's attention.

But his focus slid further along the battlefield, and Yen'fay saw the real target of his ire.

He swept through the general's men, weaving through every sluggish blow and gouging every opening his blade could find on the way past. Yen'fay blitzed a lightning-quick path to the Conqueror through the din of war. Walhart's back was to him, wading through the army of Chon'sin and letting all men try him so they could fall to his sword.

Yen'fay jumped to personally remove Walhart's head while the body remained in the saddle. The moment his feet left the ground, Walhart turned and parried the blow with superhuman force.

"YOU!" Walhart's steed trampled over the bodies of dynast and imperial alike as he smiled down on his newest enemy. "You must be the prince of this nation!"

"…My title matters not," said Yen'fay. "I am but judgement. Begone."

The distance vanished. Amatsu fell in a lightning flurry of blows. Its blade rang as it clashed with Sol and armour of steed and rider. Walhart weathered the barrage as if it hardly existed, shifting just enough so even the swordmaster's sword could only find impenetrable armour. Sol cleaved the air, every strike threatening to rip Yen'fay in half yet never finding their mark.

Spell circles glowed to life under them. Yen'fay backflipped away, Walhart whirled aside on his mount, and the lava plume of Bolganone found neither.

"Muhahaha!" Walhart turned and stormed across the battlefield, cutting a crimson path to the sage that had thrust himself into their duel.

Yen'fay readied his blade and gave chase, batting aside blades and sliding or leaping past spells. Shouts, clashing steel, the whizzing of arrows and the chaos of war surrounded them as feet and hooves pounded the earth. Amatsu stabbed at the hindquarters and found armour again as the horse leapt and spun round. Yen'fay leapt over the wide slash that beheaded a soldier too close to them. For an instant, Walhart rode in the saddle of an airborne mount, facing backwards mid-spin with Yen'fay inverted over his head at the peak of his jump.

The Conqueror's gauntlet met Amatsu on its path to his skull. Yen'fay let the impact pull him into a spin and landed right beside Walhart as the latter completed his own rotation, and they continued clashing across the fields.

"Very good!" roared Walhart. "It has been too long since I met so worthy a swordsman!"

Amatsu flowed in the hands of its wielder effortlessly, rearing up for an instantaneous killing blow before withdrawing out of range. But Walhart seemed just as fluid, if not moreso—struggling to pin down the blur flinging metal that was his enemy, yet always closing every gap in his own defenses in the instant it took Yen'fay's blade to get there.

They waged their own war in the midst of another. Though their blades couldn't cut each other, they were stained in red regardless as they cut down whichever enemies had the misfortune of standing too close as they roared past. A wave of arrows saw Yen'fay shelter behind a burning tree and then return to the fight over pincushion bodies against Walhart, who braved the storm head-on and came back as undaunted as ever.

As the two fought, a lance of lightning split the air seeking the Conqueror. It impacted with a violent discharge of electricity. Yen'fay took his opportunity and rushed through the sparks with his blade flying for the gaps in Walhart's armour where he was seated in the saddle.

As if it knew without seeing, Sol flashed, and Yen'fay had to disengage. He leapt back and slid across the earth, leaning back under an opportunistic Valmese warrior's attempt to sever his head. Amatsu repaid the attempt with a proper decapitation, and Yen'fay returned his attention to Walhart so many dozen paces away.

"Oh? So we have a zealous audience!" Walhart smiled at the latest interloper—another Chon'sin sage. A black scorch marred his breastplate, yet the man himself seemed little worse for wear. Sol returned to its sheath. He drew the colossal axe hanging at his steed's side, sunlight gleaming off its blade as he held it aloft. "Come! Break yourselves against me!"

The Wolf Berg flew from Walhart's hands to cleave the sage in two. Yen'fay kicked off. He could already see a Valmese valkyrie in the corner of his eye setting Bolganone between the two opposing commanders.

So in the instant Walhart distracted himself with another challenger, Amatsu flew from Yen'fay's hands and rammed through the Conqueror's broad shoulder.

The plume of lava erupted and its heat seared Yen'fay as he brushed inches by it. Walhart leapt back on his steed, buying the split second he needed to draw Sol as Amatsu ripped itself from his wound of its own accord.

Yen'fay burst from the ground to meet Walhart on his elevated perch. His fingers closed around the hilt of his sword, one became five, and five struck at Walhart from every angle with the power of Astra leaving vibrant emerald afterimages in their wake.

Amatsu snuck twice into the gaps of Walhart's armour. Sol caught the other three blows at once—just as Yen'fay wanted it to. Walhart's blade locked up in the prongs of the seven-branched sword. Yen'fay didn't let it happen before, lest the Conqueror's massive power fling Yen'fay off the grip of his own sword. But with the immense speed of his jump, Walhart's latest injury, and Astra hammering down on him, Yen'fay had just an instant in which his enemy's grip faltered.

Sol spun away as Yen'fay kicked off Walhart's breastplate, doing nothing to the man himself but escaping from the gauntlet that shot out for a deathly grab. A raucous explosion of cheers and yells marked the soldiers of Chon'sin striking with new vigour as their commander seized the upper hand. Amidst the din, Yen'fay heard a woman's furious incantation and flipped aside the moment he landed to escape another Bolganone spell.

He rushed back in to cut down the Conqueror, looking up at the man towering over him when he realized Walhart had only been fighting with one hand, but the other wasn't on the horse's reins. Walhart moved his fingers and flicked his wrist. The wind whispered the truth in the swordmaster's ear—those were the same movements Yen'fay used to command Amatsu's return.

Yen'fay barely deflected the axe behind him from cutting him in half at the waist. Whirling like a flying disc, the Wolf Berg ripped a grievous wound across Yen'fay's back and then completed its extended circuit into Walhart's waiting hand. Blood shed by the soldiers of Chon'sin and the metal of the giant weapon were one and the same as it slammed down in the hand of the Conqueror.

The land trembled under the impact of the Wolf Berg. In the blink of an eye, Yen'fay was over a dozen yards away.

It wasn't fast enough.

He crumpled to one knee with a pained grunt, Amatsu's point dug into the earth to keep him from falling entirely. Blood darkened front and back alike, pouring rapidly from equally vicious rends. With the imminent defeat of their own commander and the Conqueror himself before them, the battle of Chon'sin's soldiers broke down into a retreat and then an open rout.

Yen'fay didn't bother wasting his energy ordering his men to stand their ground. He had to save his energy. His injuries were severe, but he could endure them long enough to drag Walhart to the afterlife with him… couldn't he?

"You are strong," said Walhart, watching his enemy return to his feet and ready his sword. "Your form remains no less powerful. No man before you has ever survived beyond a single stroke."

Yen'fay didn't dignify him with a response.

"Yours is a nation of warriors helmed by a mighty prince. You must see the truth I espouse." Walhart reared up on his horse with his axe raised to the heavens and declared, "My quarrel is with the gods! I will tear down their fates and their destinies! Traditions and past are the chains that restrain us. Man is the ruler of his domain, by his own strength! When all the world flies the banners of my empire, the world will know true liberty. Those who fail to see are my enemy. You and your people will choose the sword or the knee!"

Yen'fay remained silent. None of the Conqueror's words resonated with him. His parents remained dead. After he joined them, Say'ri would be the one to—

Where was Say'ri?

He stirred slightly. Imperials flowed around the two of them like an endless river of men. She was nowhere in sight.

Walhart watched the unreadable swordmaster with the Wolf Berg ready and waiting to resume the battle. Pheros was at his side stowing her Bolganone. He held up his hand to stop her before she could go for her staves.

Yen'fay's cold, tranquil bloodlust wavered. A sliver of clarity found him. He had resigned himself to death to bring down the Conqueror, but the Valmese empire wouldn't crumble to dust the moment the life left his eyes. Say'ri would be forced to rule Chon'sin and finish the war alone—her parents dead, her brother dead, all the ones she loved departed ahead of her.

Perhaps that was too cruel a fate when he didn't even know whether he had such strength of will himself.

"…My people will live?" asked Yen'fay.

"Those of my world will be free to fight for what they believe in, unfettered by the dogma of any man or god. War of all but the pettiest scale from one mortal to another will come to an end." Walhart smiled. "Those not of my world will soon cease to be. Have you chosen?"

Till Say'ri is safe, thought Yen'fay. But if he would give his life for her, he could easily give his honour too.

Yen'fay set down his sword and knelt before Walhart.


"We're gonna die, we're gonna die, we're gonna die!" Yarne shredded a cavalier's steed with his claws, wailing about impending doom the whole away.

"This way!" Jostling about on his back, Cynthia managed to line up her lance and finish off the downed cavalier.

"Clear a path!" Lucina's rapier stabbed forth into the neck of another cavalier's horse and then the rider. She leapt over the bodies, joined by Severa as they ran across the battlefield. The flames of the village roared high in the distance behind them—they fought on the outskirts of the greater battle.

"This is the absolute worst," grumbled Severa. "A paladin's coming after us!"

Lucina glanced over her shoulder. The imperial paladin in question had departed from his battle with the Chon'sin forces to pursue the future children, flanked by four more cavaliers.

Gerome slammed to the earth atop Minerva, steel axe clashing against the paladin's silver lance. Cynthia and Yarne took one rider off their horse and baited another into following them, and the remaining two turned their attention to Lucina and Severa further back.

Dodging around the enemy's lance with her rapier flying in retaliation, Lucina winced as she felt the sharp sting of another cut. She expected the armies to collide a few days east of this village. Brushing against the Demon's Ingle would've been the best way to slip around them as the Conqueror's men swept out towards the other territories, but she sorely underestimated just how massive the army was! She wound up sucked into the fray, like it or not.

At least the soldiers of Chon'sin didn't attack Lucina's team while the Valmese were throwing themselves at both of them. Evidently, the only real distinguishing point for the imperials was whether the person in front of them flew their empire's colours.

Lucina cut down her enemy as Severa did the same. The princess noted with pride that her allies had gotten stronger. Yarne was a blessing against the Valmese cavalry once he got over his crippling terror—and Cynthia wasn't letting him retreat if his life depended on it. Gerome held his own against the paladin, keeping his enemy's steed at bay with the threat of being mauled by an angry wyvern and the lance reluctant to move when the heavy axe could snap its haft with a well-aimed blow. With Lucina's aid, the paladin quickly fell to a two-pronged assault.

"This is our chance!" said Lucina, jumping into the saddle of Minerva. Yarne doubled back, and Severa hopped aboard behind Cynthia.

"Where are we going?" said Yarne. "We're an ocean of men away from the other side! We'll get hacked to itty bitty pieces before we get there!"

"Lose them in the forest," said Gerome. "Cavalry can't ride well there."

The pitched battle on the fields gave way to smaller skirmishes within the greenery. Minerva skimmed low over the treetops, darting from one thick plume of smoke to the next for the cover it offered. Large sections of the forest were ablaze, whether razed deliberately or ignited with stray fireballs. Yarne zigzagged through the foliage, working his way deeper with Gerome and Lucina overhead.

"Pursuers on our tail!" said Yarne. A group of five Valmese wyvern lords sighted their group and took to the skies in pursuit. It wouldn't take more than a few minutes for them to arrive.

"And more up ahead," growled Gerome.

Lucina picked up on the sound of clashing steel ahead of them, even further away from the battlefield. Another skirmish was underway. A female swordmaster clad in deep purple robes, her Killing Edge flying in an elegant storm in her struggle to break past the general barring her path. The general was undeterred, all of her numerous blows glancing off to minimal effect before his lance struck back with vicious power.

"Go around," said Gerome, Minerva already angling her wings.

"Wait!" said Lucina.

"We stop for nothing," Gerome reminded her.

"And resign her to be slaughtered by our pursuers? I cannot allow that."

"Hero time!" whooped Cynthia.

Gerome scowled, but he knew just from Lucina's tone that there was no point arguing. Minerva tucked in her wings and dove to the ground.

Say'ri started as a wyvern rider she didn't recognize slammed to the earth between her and her enemy. Axe repelled the lance, and then a powerful headbutt from the wyvern staggered the general.

She began, "Who—?"

"It doesn't matter." A masked swordswoman jumped from the saddle, sheathing her rapier and drawing… the sword of the royal house of Ylisse? "Gerome, Cynthia—the general! Severa, Yarne—the wyvern lords!"

They dismounted and formed up. Say'ri wasted a moment longer looking around in shock before snapping to focus and turning her attention to the nearing wyvern lords. "You have my gratitude."

She dodged their dive attacks, weapons striking the earth one after another in rapid succession. Three axes only found dirt, but the last two lances earned blood. Say'ri retreated with a swift backstep and a simultaneous crescent slash across the face of an enemy wyvern.

The masked woman and her allies engaged the other wyvern lords. Say'ri readied her blade and entered frenetic combat with her own enemy. The wyvern stomped about, jaws snapping with the threat of taking their limbs as the much longer silver lance struck from above. A cacophony of draconic shrieks and screeches abused her ears. The Killing Edge flashed again and again, doing just as much work to ward away the lance as it did struggling to slip within reach to cut back.

Say'ri spotted an opportunity. She rushed in and struck a deep gouge to her enemy's hand. A deafening shriek from his steed, a colossal gale as it flapped its wings, and she narrowly spun away as the silver lance stained her robes dark red in return—failure to move, and she would've been gutted like a fish.

Teeth bared under the mask in exertion, the masked woman's blade parted the scales of her enemy's wyvern effortlessly. Say'ri's sharp eye caught it slicing as if the toughened flesh and hide barely existed at all. The wyvern lord turned his attention to her, lance stabbing again and again. He retreated as she backed up, focusing entirely on defense. A yell slipped out as lance and fang struck at once, breaking her guard—

She ducked the killing thrust and the silver lance wedged itself stuck in the tree right behind her. Blood stained it, torn from her shoulder as she moved just a moment too late to escape all harm.

The pulse of magic bending and flowing through a weapon. Two swift attacks, and the masked woman spun to a stop behind her slain enemy with the last of her blade's light still fading.

Say'ri found the woman coming to her aid, and together they felled her enemy. The Valmese soldiers sensed the shift in the flow of battle and attempted to form up, using their combined strength to do the same in return, but numbers were no longer on their side. Severa gashed the wing of her enemy's wyvern, robbing it of its greatest mobility. Yarne was shockingly fast for his size, dancing about to stay in the way of his enemy with the threat of claw and fang to keep it from joining its allies. Each subsequent kill took less and less time as more and more of them mustered their combined strength against the enemy.

The masked woman's rapier slipped into the eye slits of the general's helmet, and he stilled. She withdrew, panting for breath as the body collapsed.

"I am called Say'ri." She bowed quickly to her benefactors. "I must thank you again, my friend. What is your name?"

"…You may call me Marth," said the masked woman.

Severa couldn't fully conceal her laughter and earned herself a stern turn of the head.

"You've postponed another death." Gerome ripped a silver axe from the dead hands of an enemy. He scowled from atop his own mount. "We're going."

"Forgive me for saying so, but you seem not of Valm or Chon'sin," said Say'ri. "How did you come to be mired in our battle?"

"Disaster is at hand," said Lucina. "We have come a long way to see it never comes to pass."

"Disaster seems long since upon us. The Conqueror razes the land of all who resist and enslaves the weak to be slain for the entertainment of his men!" Say'ri cast her gaze to the battlefield long since hidden by the trees. "I am… I was of the royal family of Chon'sin. My parents lay dead and my brother in the grip of certain doom. Walhart's madness has brought an end to my world—please, help me stop him!"

"We have our own priorities." Gerome didn't show any external sign of sympathy. "We. Are. Going."

Lucina stared at her for a long time. "…Where will you go now?"

"I cannot do this alone," said Say'ri ruefully. "Silent tongues speak of dissenters to the Conqueror's rule across the nation. Apart, we are little, but we may triumph united. Were that I could breach the defenses surrounding the Voice… She is imprisoned in the temple built in the branches of the divine Mila Tree."

"The Mila Tree!" gasped Cynthia. She turned to Lucina with wide eyes full of hope.

"You would trust us, Say'ri?" asked Lucina.

"You have come to my aid already," said Say'ri. "'Twould err were I to call you anything but my ally."

"She'll slow us down," said Gerome. "There's no time to waste. Every second spent winds down towards the end of all things." Masked companions traded gazes. "If you insist on challenging fate, be serious."

"Gerome!" Severa flared up immediately.

"Peace." Lucina waved down her loyal friend. "Our goals align. Better that we have every hand willing to join our cause."

"The more, the merrier!" said Cynthia. "All aboard!"

A loud crack got their attention. They turned as one and readied their weapons as a huge branch snapped free and crashed to the ground ablaze. They were still not far from the battlefield overrun by the Valmese forces.

"Maybe we should just run for now?" offered Yarne.

It sounded like a good enough idea.