"Oof!" Donnel hit the dirt in a graceless heap. His lance joined him moments later.

Kjelle couldn't hide her distaste. How was anyone supposed to believe this tiny kid was a Shepherd? The lightest touch sent him sprawling with bruises all over. She could probably pick him up and break him in half without trying. She wished she was sparring with Frederick or Chrom or any of the warriors on the training grounds that might stand a chance of at least making her sweat under her heavy armour.

"What a waste of my time," she said. "Are you done with this farce?"

"I ain't out of it yet!" Black and blue as he was, Donnel staggered back for more. "Whenever yer ready!"

Kjelle rolled her eyes and laid him out again. Her training lance thrashed him each time he returned while her mind wandered elsewhere.

Grima's daughter was hopeless with a lance, swinging it about like a sword and losing her balance on each stab. If it weren't part of a pegasus knight's certification, Morgan probably wouldn't have bothered at all. That, or she was making a mockery of training if her carefree laughter was any indication.

Kjelle batted Donnel aside, barely seeing him nurse his latest bruise in the corner of her eye. Elsewhere on the training grounds, Grima departed from Frederick's side and spent the last five minutes ripping apart a training dummy with his bare hands, as he did every couple weeks. Kjelle never got an explanation for it, but she noticed the fell dragon and his daughter went out of their way to avoid sparring with her and her allies as much as possible.

A particularly vicious counterattack dropped Donnel in a crumpled mess. What was Grima up to on the night he slipped out from under their eye? Once they got Nowi out of their room and Nah begged one of them to return with her, Kjelle made it clear to the others she'd only go if they were killing Grima right then and there. True to form, Owain insisted against it and elected himself to go with Nah in so many more words Kjelle couldn't be bothered to figure out. It took her a dozen tries to get Laurent to translate after Owain was already gone.

Was it just a coincidence? Did Grima have time to do anything at all? Every day he lived was another day spent in uncertainty. But if her allies were so reluctant to do their damn job, Kjelle had to do it herself. She had to keep getting stronger for that. She didn't have time to waste coddling this stupid—

Kjelle's lance barely missed and Donnel struck back instantly with untold speed and precision. Her weapon whirled his away and Kjelle corrected with a brutal strike to the chest. The snap of breaking ribs reverberated up her lance while his found only air.

After Maribelle treated the farm boy and helped him to a bench, Kjelle spotted Frederick raising an eyebrow at her. He said, "I believe we established the purpose of sparring is to train, not decommission?"

"He surprised me," said Kjelle. "I didn't expect such a precise technique from a weakling and I struck back as I would a skilled enemy."

"A glimpse of potential." Grima returned and dusted off his coat with the dummy in splinters behind him.

"Beginner's luck," she scoffed. "How much longer till he's sent packing? The weak have no place in this army."

The fell dragon curled his lip at her. "…Frederick," he said. "Spar with me. Have Olivia and Donnel train each other up for now." A wicked glint jumped in his scarlet eyes. "Our upstart can take up her grievances with the prince personally."

"Very well," said Frederick. "CHANGE PARTNERS!"

Grima immediately won their first round by throwing an old hunk of bear meat at Frederick and rushing him before the trauma-induced paralysis wore off. A cut-resistant coat did nothing to save the fell dragon from getting beaten to a pulp with a big stick on the next exchange, Frederick smiling all the while.

"The Shepherds will take any with a will to fight and hands to carry a blade," Chrom said to her. A training sword rested in his grip while Falchion rested with its point buried in the earth.

"The strong stand to protect the weak," said Kjelle. "Sheep cannot tend to sheep!"

"It's by the hand of others that we can grow to our full potential. We must join together as a whole, each of us supporting the other. Strong or weak, everyone has something unique to them, and—"

Kjelle was ready to puke her guts out. "Okay, enough! En garde!"

Chrom blinked. He chuckled and readied his sword. The girl reminded him of Robin in some way.

Kjelle knew this was—or soon would be—Exalt Chrom of Ylisse. He was the hero whose tales she and her allies were raised on. He was Lucina's father, and he was just as strong as she could've expected. From the first move, Kjelle fought her hardest. Her lance moved with all of the speed and power she could achieve, playing to all its strengths to lock Chrom out of his effective range while she rained down attacks from just a step too far away.

The others told her that Chrom and Grima had a fight at the oasis for some reason. Not with fists and half-hearted insults, but live steel, and Chrom won. If Kjelle could best the prince, she had a chance at besting the fell dragon.

He was maddeningly agile, always threatening to rush in the moment she slipped up. Kjelle kept her strikes swift and light. No need for a kill move when one clean hit was all it took to end the exchange.

But it was Kjelle that was forced to declare, "I yield!"

Chrom's wooden blade lifted from her pained shoulder. "Impressive," he said. "I couldn't get in without a graze myself."

Kjelle felt her shoulder and scowled. "That would've taken my arm in a real fight."

"I'd call that a draw," said Chrom.

He was absolutely coddling her feelings. "Again, sir!" Kjelle readied her lance. "Have at you!"

She clashed again and again. Kjelle eked out her share of victories, but she kept a silent tally in her head. Her opponent kept a lead over her each time.

"BREAK!" yelled Frederick. The Shepherds stopped sparring and scattered. They'd best make the most of what little time they had before getting thrown into the next step of training.

"Something's not right," panted Kjelle. "How can you beat me so easily?"

"It wasn't easy at all," said Chrom between swigs of water. "Your technique is superb, but I feel as if something as… missing. Like your strikes fall without their full weight."

"I need to hit harder?" If there was one thing Kjelle never thought she wanted for, it was pure physical might.

"That's not what I mean." The prince frowned and rubbed his chin. "Everything is there except for one detail. It's difficult to put into words. I may also be imagining it."

SLAM!

The earth tremored as they whirled around.

"How do you… lift this thing?!" Lissa strained and tugged at the handle of Hauteclere. A cart lay upended on its side behind her. "Hrrrnng!"

"Lissa, put that back in storage!" barked Grima across the field. "And polish the blade now that it's dirty again!"

"What?! Aw… Vaike, how do I polish an axe?"

Vaike shrugged. "How do ya polish an axe?"

"That axe," muttered Kjelle, frowning.

"Something troubling you?" said Chrom.

"It didn't feel right when I tried to use it. Am I just weaker than I thought?" Kjelle angrily shook her head. "I just need to become stronger. Strong enough to beat anyone. Then I can…" She trailed off into quiet muttering before refocusing on Chrom. With a sharp bow, she said, "Thank you for the training, sir! Please excuse me!"

"I take it you have no issue with Donnel now?" Chrom called after her. She vanished into the arms storage in seconds, no doubt ready to come back out with a mountain of weapons and armour to dive back into her personal training from hell. For all of the obstacle courses and arrow dodging and getting bombarded with spells that Frederick and Robin cooked up for them, Kjelle did it all and then put herself through even more. Indeed, why couldn't she thrash him?

He set the matter aside and made the rounds with his men. The two demons responsible for their hellish training roped in Maribelle to engage in a heated discussion as to whether or not being struck with Mjölnir counted as a resistance-building exercise. Morgan wandered away from the pegasus knights to join her father, who pointedly ignored the part where she wiped her sweat on his valuable coat. Lissa and Vaike righted the cart and loaded up Hauteclere, only for the wooden board to splinter under its weight.

"—absolutely your mom, right?" said Nowi. "I'm not dumb, Nah. Who else could it be?"

"You're too loud! I—" Nah glanced around uneasily. "Chrom?"

"Eh, we can trust him! And even if we didn't, he's heard too much already."

"You have my word," he said. "I won't tell anyone."

Nah sighed and returned her focus to Nowi. "…Yes. You're my mother. It was really hard not saying anything. Especially all the times you kept pulling me around to play games. Mother, we can't get afford to get carried away!"

"No, you're in Ylisstol and should have some fun," said Nowi. "Come on, let's ditch and go take a nap in the woods."

"That's not even an option," said Nah. "You need to take this more seriously. We're going to war soon!"

"I KNOW, silly. But thinking about it all the time isn't going to help me! The tougher things get, the more I laugh, and that makes everyone laugh, too. I think that's kind of my job here. To keep everyone smiling."

"Wait. You think your role in this army is to play all the time?"

"Exactamundo! So what do you say? Let's go play! It'll be more fun than getting zapped by Robin."

"Fun has nothing to do with it. Especially when Chrom is right here."

Nowi double-checked. Yup, that was a Chrom. "Fiiine," she said. "But we're playing tonight! It's a promise!" A burst of light, and then the dragon spread her wings and left.

"Ugh, can you believe her?" Nah turned to Chrom in search of somewhere to vent. "Dealing with her is so exasperating! All she ever does is play, play, play, as if she hasn't a care in the world! How is she still in the army?"

"She reminds me of Lissa in a few ways," said Chrom lightly. "They have their quirks, but they're certainly one of us."

It wasn't as simple as that! Nah couldn't afford to waste time when Grima was there, always studying and training even harder than her. It was outright dangerous. The last thing she wanted to do was frolic in a field while the fell dragon went through ancient texts and dug up some long-forgotten superweapon or whatever. They had to be ready to kill him, and what a daunting task that was.

If a fight broke out, Grima and Morgan were scary enough. But they weren't living in a vacuum. The Shepherds of the past were here and Nah had no idea whose side they would take. The enemy was living right in their midst, slithering into their brains. Nah couldn't point a finger and expect them to help kill the man they knew as Robin.

"Is something on your mind?" asked Chrom.

"I have a question," said Nah. "What if you had to choose between saving a friend and saving the world?"

The prince winced. "That's a cruel thing to ask."

Nah lowered her gaze and nodded.

"But it's one I've faced before." Chrom took a deep breath. "Do you know Emmeryn?"

"Just her name. She's your older sister, if I remember correctly."

"In the last leg of the war against Plegia, she was taken hostage by Gangrel. He demanded we give up our nation's most sacred treasure, the Fire Emblem, in exchange for her life. My sister or my duty…" Chrom shook his head ruefully. "There's no right answer. I was ready to give up the Fire Emblem when she made the decision for me. Her sacrifice… the war ended shortly after it. Ylisse is healing from the wounds of battle today, but I miss her. I will always miss her."

"I'm sorry," said Nah. "I shouldn't have asked."

"It's not your fault." Chrom smiled to set her at ease. "But if I had to make that decision again… I'm certain there would've been another way."

His gaze wandered. It turned out Robin finally noticed what Morgan was doing to his coat. The scolding glanced right off her without the slightest dent in her bright smile.

"Waging a deathless war is a fool's errand," said Chrom, "but our two tacticians have done an excellent job working towards it. Who knows? Maybe our ships will return from Valm as packed as when they left." He chuckled. They could even return more packed, given his penchant for recruiting men from the oddest places.

Nah stopped herself from groaning out loud. This wasn't about Valm! This was about the entire world and the fell dragon! "What if you had to fight your friend? What if they betrayed you?"

Chrom frowned slightly. Where were these questions coming from? Perhaps it was something to something Nah had experienced in the future… something she would experience? Perhaps she was still lingering on her first time killing at the oasis. There was another war looming on the horizon. Anything could happen.

"I'd like to think I pick my friends wisely," he said. "I'm sure you think the same about your friends. The bonds we forge with them are real. Worrying about it precludes us from reaching out." He patted her head lightly, emulating his tactician. "You don't need to burden your mind with it all the time. Why don't you follow Nowi and play in the woods?"

"FORM UP!" yelled Frederick. Break time was over.

Nah watched Chrom's retreating back. Then she finished processing everything and she flared up. He was treating her like a kid! How could he?!

Looked like someone needed a reminder of what she actually was!

The next exercise turned into defensive maneuvers against angry manaketes.


Say'ri looked around the small evening city. Most lights were out and the citizens had since returned to their homes. The warm glow of lanterns and merry chatter drifted from open windows. The moon shimmered far above them. Just as she thought, security was light—but it wasn't zero. A plain, nondescript brown hooded cloak concealed her identity as she slipped into one of the crowded taverns, gracefully flowing between the rough-looking regulars to a table near the back. Her newfound allies had already gathered there—how punctual of them when she herself was several minutes early.

"…just gathers attention," said Severa. As by and large unknowns to the continent, the future children had no need to hide their identities with the sole exception of their masked leader. "And not the good kind! Starting to think an eyepatch would do you more good."

"Yet if I must fight?" said Lucina, poring over the map covering the table. "My depth perception would be limited." She felt at her mask and added, "I've grown used enough to fighting with this on, in any case."

"But we could get you a magic eyepatch!" said Cynthia. "Totally solid on one side, but see-through on the other!"

Severa rolled her eyes. "Sure, and where do you suggest we get one of those?"

"Not to mention," said Lucina. "It was your gift to me, was it not? Till we met again, this mask was my dearest reminder of you."

"W-well," spluttered Severa, "that's not—you know what, forget it!"

"Greetings." Say'ri seated herself with them and removed her hood. "I see you're reviewing the map."

"Of prospective allies and Valmese supply lines, yes," said Lucina.

"I don't know about this." Yarne kept glancing at their surroundings, ready to bolt. "We had to have our meeting here? Why not somewhere quieter?"

"Nobody will pay attention so long as we blend in."

Yarne yelped and hunkered down as a burst of uproarious noise, shattering glass, and spirited yells reached them from the other side of the tavern.

"So long as we don't stick out, anyway," said Severa. "Meaning you have to stuff your dumb ears back in your hood! Who said you could put it down?"

"They're sore, okay? Any longer and they're gonna go numb and they'll have to chop 'em off! A rabbit's no good without his ears, and then I'll be put down!"

They were in a good mood. Lucina let the squabble slide and got Say'ri's attention by rapping on the map. "This is where we are, correct?"

"Aye," said Say'ri. "Not far from Wyvern Valley."

Gerome stirred at Lucina's side, but said nothing. At least Say'ri knew he was awake under that mask.

"'Tis the last intelligence I received from our spies prior to the battle by the Demon's Ingle." Say'ri frowned at the map. "Information travels slowly, and it has been longer still since then. Likely the reality has changed in the time between."

"It's better than nothing," said Lucina. "Thank you. The closest group of possible allies is by the river west of here…"

"A fickle group, them. They would only join with us were we to wield greater power beforehand. Here, in the settlement to the north, are rebels that may join us more readily."

"We heard a bit about them earlier today!" said Cynthia. "Well, we heard about a riot."

"Then they're already well-motivated," said Say'ri. "I spoke with the townspeople here. Many dissent to the Conqueror's rule, but few are willing to act upon it. They believe themselves in no position to rise up."

"We'll have to give them something to believe in," murmured Lucina.

"My thoughts exactly. There should be a convoy coming from the northeast bearing weapons and equipment for the frontlines. Walhart brought most of his men with him. Deep in Valmese territory, this convoy should be lightly guarded."

"Fly in and take 'em down, right?" piped up Cynthia.

"More than that," said Severa. "We could arm ourselves using their supplies."

"And it hinders Walhart's advance," said Say'ri, furrowed her brow. "Yen'fay… With our parents gone, the crown passes to him. He surrendered, but not all of Chon'sin will obey him at once. After these missions, we must return to the south and seek out the dynasts willing to join our cause before they are overrun."

"How many are in the rebel groups closest to us?" Gerome entered the discussion.

"We cannot say for certain until we have them. Rumour speaks of as few as fifty to over a thousand."

"A hundred is enough lives to throw at the Mila Tree to make way for us." Gerome turned to Lucina. "We get what we came for and we leave."

"Gerome," warned Severa.

"Don't start, you two," said Lucina. "I know you mean well, but it is not our only objective here. Say'ri, do you know the location of Vert?"

"The gemstone possessed by our family?" said Say'ri. "We have safeguarded it for many generations. It rests in the vault of the palace, but it falls under Yen'fay's control. What use would you have for it?"

Lucina adjusted her mask. "…Averting calamity," she said. "To that end, the Fire Emblem must be restored."

"'Tis a treasure of the royal family you ask for." Say'ri assessed the woman opposite her. "But if it comes in exchange for the end of the Conqueror's reign… Is this the sole reason you came to my aid?"

"It was the right thing to do," said Lucina evenly. Cynthia beamed and energetically nodded her agreement.

"As is not wasting our time here," said Gerome. "Don't forget we have our own war to fight. When we have the gemstones, we depart—no matter how much of this little 'resistance' we have to use up or how tattered its remains. The Conqueror isn't our concern."

"We're not condemning anyone to their deaths," said Lucina. "I won't allow that."

"This is the danger," he growled. "You're growing attached. Whether a family dies before our eyes or beyond our knowledge doesn't change the reality of the situation. How many times will you be distracted saving one life and risking the damnation of five? Will we stay and wage war until the fell dragon rises and lays waste to all—again?"

"You don't know that'll happen!" said Cynthia. "But we do know there's people who need our help right here, so we're gonna help 'em!"

"I'd prefer not to fight as much as possible," muttered Yarne. "I'm with him."

He immediately wilted under Severa's glare. "Gawds, but of course it'd be the boys stirring the pot," she said. "Can I kick them, Lucina? Once won't hurt anyone—besides them."

"Hey, we're on the same side this time!" laughed Cynthia.

"It's got nothing to do with you!"

Lucina lifted her hand, and the table quieted. "Our next steps are clear," she said. "We need numbers and supplies. We'll acquire them."

"This place is suffocating. I need air." Gerome got up and left them.

"Don't let the door hit you on the way out," called Severa after him. She looked at the rest of them and said, "Who does he think he is? Might as well not bother helping us at all with his attitude…"

"Severa, that's enough." Lucina turned to Say'ri and said, "We don't need your decision on the gemstones now, but know that is our intent."

"You may have them," said Say'ri.

Lucina blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"I saw enough." She smiled and explained, "You argue what is right and how best to enact it. These are no easy decisions, but you seek answers to them regardless. 'Tis no pretty sight, but proof that you seek to do justice. You have your honour and my respect with it. You would surprise me indeed were you to harbour any ill intent for the gemstones!"

Somehow, it was immensely refreshing to Lucina. She felt like every thought of their path brought with it a whirlwind of doubt, always having to wonder if she was doing the right thing—or if any truly correct answer even existed. She had the faith of her allies without question. It never needed to be spoken, but she certainly didn't dislike the words she heard just now.

Lucina nodded. "You have my gratitude, Say'ri. We will do everything in our power to aid you."

"Hey," said Cynthia. "Can we put away the map now? Let's get a quick bite before heading back to the inn!"


"It's illogical." Gerome sat atop a boulder on a small moonlit hill away from the city, feeling the cool wind blowing over him. A lantern rested on the ground beside him. He reached out and stroked Minerva's crest. "Find a flower uprooted and set it back in its place. Find another and do it again. Over and over, ignoring the growing fire until it consumes her along with everything she does. What does she mean to achieve? If we are to struggle in vain, we ought to fight with all that we are."

Minerva listened intently, but she also kept shuffling on the spot, pushing against his hand and then pacing about with her head low.

"…I know," said Gerome. "We're not far from Wyvern Valley. I suppose it's my fault, isn't it? If it wasn't for me, you'd be living a life of tranquility there. I'm sorry that I've dragged you into yet another terrible war."

A soft huff left his wyvern.

"Hmm? What's that? That's not why you're sad? Ah, yes. I understand completely. Your original mistress is alive in this time, and you pine for her hand on the reins."

She repeated the noise.

"Incorrect again?" he muttered. "This is the first in a while…"

"Do you have a moment?"

Gerome started and whirled around. That wasn't a voice he had heard in an extremely long time.

"I hope I'm not interrupting anything," said Cherche, her own wyvern at her back.

"What is it?"

"I happened to spot you on your way from town. I was hoping you might introduce me to your wyvern."

"Why?"

"To see which of ours is cuter. Not very sporting of me when mine is the finest in the world, I know."

Was this fated as well? Gerome didn't have the energy to do anything about fighting it. He turned his back to her with a dismissive, "Do as you please."

"I will, then! Thank you." Cherche went straight to rubbing and petting her future wyvern all over. "Hee hee! Oh, but you are cute! She's nearly a match with Minerva! And yet… oh, you poor thing. What happened to your tail? And these scars along your side… What's your name?"

"She was named Minerva," said Gerome. He didn't bother mentioning they were named by the same person.

"You as well?" Cherche laughed. "I tamed my wyvern when I was nine. I thought I was being so original when I named her, but it turned out legendary wyvern riders are a rather popular name for wyverns!"

"Are you done?" The sooner this ghost was out of his sight, the better.

"Quite the charmer, aren't you." That one was directed at the sullen rider, but Cherche returned to petting his Minerva. "No wonder your Minerva is worried about you."

"What?"

"Don't you see that forlorn look in her eyes? It reminds me of one I used to see from my own… for a time, I thought I didn't need any friends but her, and she gave me a look just like this. I sense a powerful bond of trust and friendship between you two as well."

"We must not be that close if I can't even understand what she's trying to tell me." Gerome walked away and called over his shoulder, "Come, Minerva. Let's go."

"Petting time's over already?" Cherche let the wyvern follow him. "A good evening to you, then. Ah, but no matter how close the call, my Minerva is still the cutest!"

Gerome didn't speak a word more. He had only his thoughts and Minerva for company on his walk back down the quiet streets.


"I leap into the center of the enemy formation, blade drawn, and spin! I'm no longer a man, but a—achoo!—a whirling dervish of death and steel!"

Owain sniffled and rubbed his nose as he tailed the fell dragon. Summer was getting closer and yet he'd been under the weather all day. He would've expected a cold to hit when the weather was, you know, cold. Several months had passed since they returned to Ylisstol and Grima showed no sign of taking any action. Maybe he was acting so stealthily he didn't leave a single trace? They had no idea, and the dull nothing of following the fell dragon around made it more tempting than ever to ditch the surveillance plan and go rest. But no! A mere ill from the blue could never lay low Owain Dark, Avenger of Righteous Justice!

"I spy a pack ten men strong and charge into the fray!" he continued his epic tale.

Grima continued marching down the halls of the royal palace with a folder of undoubtedly dastardly documents tucked under his arm.

"One swipe, and two fall! I lock swords with the third… CHING! His guts spill forth upon the earth!"

"Disembowelment doesn't produce a 'CHING' sound," said Grima.

"The 'CHING' was our weapons colliding! You didn't see me disengage from the blade lock while cutting open—you're not even looking." Owain coughed and cleared his throat. "Where was I? Right—his guts spill forth upon the earth! As the fifth falls, the sixth flees, driven mad. A cut and a slash and three more are done! 'I bear you no ill will,' I cry as I slay. 'Rest in peace! Or rest in PIECES!' As the dust settles, only two men yet stand. My showdown with the evil general begins!"

And where was Grima going?

Owain realized he had just been led onto an empty stage of lacquered wood. Rows and rows of benches with no onlookers stood before him. Sunlight drifted through small gaps in curtains drawn over the tall windows, thin rays of light illuminating the dust in the air.

Grima set down his papers and turned. The ends of his coat whispered inaudibly. The dim half-light of the theatre couldn't suppress the scarlet gaze burning with dark intention. Wicked maleficent air rife with the taste of death crawled down Owain's throat and poisoned his lungs, throttling the life from him without the need to lift a finger.

"Achoo!"

Wait, that was just the dust.

"We will do battle here," said Grima. "Prepare yourself."

Oh gods. Grima was making his move all along!

Owain's blade rang as it flew from its scabbard, ready to fly for the fell dragon's heart. "Hah! Come forth, fiend! Tonight, I shall release you from this mortal coil for time eternal!"

Grima pointed at Owain. "Dark expiration."

Nothing happened.

Owain blinked at Grima. "Um. Did you forget your tome, or…?"

"…I said dark expiration." Grima's tone was exactly as level and controlled as ever. "It is my fell magic. Roll on the floor in agony."

Oh. So that's what this was about.

Owain let the very start of a wheezing laugh slip and then mimed blocking a powerful attack with his sword. "Hrrrnnng! What overwhelming strength! So this is the true power of the fell dragon?! Its might surpasses human ken!" He fell to his knees holding himself, apparently wracked with excruciating pain. "But… I will not be felled so easily! Atone for your deeds in the eternal hellfire of perdition! Take THIS!" He thrusted his palm at Grima and shouted, "RADIANT DAAAAAAAAAAAAAWN!"

"Ah. Oh." Grima staggered back, clutching at his heart. Owain couldn't help but notice that his motions were excellent despite his delivery. "It is a catastrophic blow. I am at my limit. I invoke the spectre of my true form." He pointed at Owain and then flicked his hand up. "Manifest, hands of the dead. Wave of dark spikes."

Owain flipped high into the air, screaming in pain. "The torment is immense! The wrath of the many cut down by your hand flows through me!" He crumpled to all fours. "I experience the pain of a million deaths in an instant… but I am—achoo!—Owain Dark! 'Tis a wicked and forbidden art, yet I let the evil consume my being to grant me POWER!" He got up and made a fancy gesticulation at Grima. "LYON'S DESPAIR!"

"Your darkness is weak." Grima slashed his arm to one side as if to dispel the imaginary attack. "My spectre easily swallows it and grows stronger with the power you have fed it." He hesitated, and then brought down his arm to finish in a dramatic pose. "It descends to devour you."

Owain and Grima posed at each other, trading legendary moves that didn't exist and reeling as devastating blows never struck them.

"Fell dragon!" roared Owain. "Your blasphemous existence shall be wiped from this plane by the same darkness you claim dominion over! No matter how far I must fall to slay you, the light of heroism burning in my breast—the legendary blood that runs through my veins—this twitching sword hand shall never stray from its path! Be swallowed by the waves of light and dark!" He made a ton of really fast complicated hand gestures and then swung his sword while Grima was far out of reach. "FATE'S REVELATIOOOOON!"

"Aargh. I am cleaved in twain by the sword beam." Grima collapsed onto his back, staring flatly at the ceiling with arms splayed out to his sides. "You are victorious. The fell dragon is vanquished."

A deep silence fell over them.

Owain was the first to break down laughing.

Grima stood as the myrmidon howled and wheezed. Owain held up a shaking hand, only for a fresh wave of laughter to overtake him. He tried to wipe at the tears in his eyes but instead found himself lying in the dust, alternating between laughing and coughing violently. He slammed his fist on the ground repeatedly, desperately trying to regain self-control. If Grima lopped his head off right then and there, Owain couldn't have done much to stop him.

"Are you done?" said Grima.

"Yeah, I'm good, I'm calm, I'm… HAHAHAHAHA—"

Grima's expression darkened. "Are. You. Done."

"Okay, okay." He took deep breaths. "I'm calm now. Everything's fine. Everything's… gods, why's everything so funny when I'm trying not to laugh…!" Owain sorted himself out and got up. "What's going on?"

"Assessment." A flick of the wrist, and weakened Elwind blew aside the curtains to fill the theatre with light. "Do you script your delusions in advance?"

"My delusions are not scripted! I'll have you know, it's entirely improv—I mean, it's authentic! I'm the chosen scion of warrior heroes across tide and time! And you haven't told me what's going on."

The door opened. Stahl poked his head in. "Robin? Owain? Is that you?"

"You're on time," said Grima. He finished dragging a table to the base of the stage. "Where's Gregor?"

"Robin!" Gregor barged in right after. "I was starting to think you would never be announcing the eating contest again!"

"I never said this would be an eating contest." Grima gathered them around and opened his folder. Parchment packed from top to bottom with writing, hand-drawn diagrams, long lists of random item names, and copied excerpts from all manner of textbooks covered the table.

"That's right!" The bottom of Stahl's fist lightly met his palm. "Morgan's birthday is coming up soon! That's why you wanted us to meet in this old theatre. Nobody's used it in ages."

Grima's eye twitched. "Keep your interpretations to yourself. But that's correct." He rifled through his papers. "From what I gather, presents are a component of birthday celebrations. They're not to be discussed with the recipient, yet must be chosen according to their tastes."

"I get you might want a second opinion for presents to anyone else," said Stahl. "But wouldn't you know what she wants better than us?"

He grimaced. "Do you see these papers? All of them are valid candidates."

Gregor held up one of the longer lists and squinted. He could barely make out the tiny handwriting. "Oy, oy, oy… Noble Rapier? Brave Sword? Gold dragon statue? Imported Chon'sin koi pond?! None of us could make the affording for this. Employer would be having your head!"

"I didn't think you could pack so many words on one page," muttered Owain, browsing the papers.

"These are all great ideas," said Stahl, "if we ignore the part where half of them are impossible. But you know, gifts are all about showing how much you care about someone."

"…Care?" repeated the fell dragon.

"That's right. You can't go wrong with something handmade, so long as you put your back in it and show them how much you care." Stahl picked up one of the diagrams. "What's this?"

"A scrapped design. I settled for a more accurate variation of my attire, but she seems to enjoy expanding her wardrobe. You said handmade is preferable? I will sew it myself."

"I did not know you are in the fashion!" said Gregor.

Grima scowled. "I am not. It's merely a matter of gathering useful skills." In his own time, sifting through mountains of Risen for the one undead seamstress or other miscellaneous servant in his ranks got on his nerves before long. It was just faster in the long run to learn it himself. He was the fell dragon. His vessel had to present himself correctly, free of any unseemly scrapes or blemishes that suggested weakness.

"But this has much work to be doing," said Gregor. "You will not have the time, yes? Very well! Gregor help you build clothing."

"I suppose I have no choice but to organize another eating contest," muttered Grima under his breath. An inkpot clacked as he set it down and then his quill slashed a simple repeatable pattern into the margins of the page. "Consider this for the sleeves."

"Hmm… Does not fit. Gregor think this draft look better."

"I believed we had enough clothes using that already… So be it."

"Owain?" Stahl got his attention as the other two pored over the notes. "You know, I can't help but wonder. What am I like in the future?"

That was a loaded question. But if he wasn't asking about any details, Owain didn't see the harm in speaking a little bit. With a confident smile, Owain struck a pose and declared, "A proud knight of Ylisse that led crucial missions across the realm! Tales abounded of the fine paladin, yet one with a kind heart and an earthly nature that made him a favourite hero of the people."

"Wow." Stahl rubbed the back of his neck, heating up slightly with embarrassment. "I really wouldn't think of myself as that exceptional. Sounds like I've got a lot to live up to. Out of all the Shepherds, it seems like no matter how much I work myself, I'm always dead middle of the pack."

"Maybe so, but you're still head and shoulders above the average soldier!"

"I mean, if you put it like that…" Stahl laughed. "I don't mean it's a problem to me. It's inspiring, actually! Turns out that since everyone knows I'm Sir Average, I'm the benchmark for the Shepherds. So when I improve, everyone works harder to keep their standing too. If I didn't know, I might've ended up pulling us all down—we owe a lot to Miriel for that."

Owain tensed up. "Haha! Uh, yeah, sure do! So, um, what do you… think of her?"

Stahl glanced at the other two. Gregor and Robin were in the middle of discussing exactly what kind of boots matched best and where to buy them. Stahl said, "I'm glad I can help everyone by getting stronger, but I definitely couldn't have pushed myself to work so hard at it without her. It's… I don't know how to say it."

"I can help you with that," said Owain. "After all, you… um…" This was way worse than just churning out hammy lines. It wasn't the matter of thinking up fancy things to say, this was his friend's dad! There was just something wrong about nudging him into a relationship with anybody. Owain would've rather gone toe-to-toe with Grima on the spot! Like, for real.

A quick glance at the man in question. The fell dragon didn't seem to be paying very close attention, but Owain still had to mind his tongue.

"How do you feel about all the training?" tried Owain.

"I think I'm going to be sore for the rest of my life," laughed Stahl.

"And yet, spurred on by thoughts of her at your side, you withstand the waves of hardship…! Something like that?"

"That does sound about right. I know everyone's counting on me, but I can get to it because she's always watching and taking notes. I don't want to let her down."

"Though fate consigns him to be average, he strives beyond it to become exceptional in her name! How about that?"

"I don't mind being the everyman. But I think if there's one thing about me that isn't average, it'd be…"

"How much you eat." It was the first thing that came to Owain's mind. "Right, Stahl? Stahl?"

Stahl looked off into the distance, lips pursed as he focused intently. "No, there's something else… something I really don't want to just settle for being average in!" He clapped his hands together and looked at Owain. "I get it. Thanks for having this chat with me, I really appreciate it! Robin, I'll be heading out now!"

"Thank you for your input," droned Grima, not looking up as he waved the giddy cavalier away. "We'll meet at the tavern this evening. I should demonstrate my appreciation for your aid by funding a round of drinks."

"Ohh?" Gregor's eyebrows went way up. "Including Gregor? Robin's purse may not be having enough coin!"

"Laurent," muttered Owain under his breath as Stahl ran off. "You owe me now." His eyes met the scarlet gaze of the fell dragon and he stiffened up.

"I brought you here for this." Grima pushed one of the largest notebooks across the table. "This describes a modification of the rules I use to run simulations with Morgan and Virion."

"That board game?" Owain skimmed through it. "Why are you asking me about this? I don't know anything about tactics."

"You seem proficient at conjuring make-believe fantasy worlds. Review the campaign script."

"Now hold on just a second!" Owain bristled—mainly at what he just read. "Fliers shouldn't have unhindered mobility and immunity to ground attacks! What's the point of using anything else?"

"It's accurate to the reality of the situation."

"Until they come down to launch an attack, when they have to get in danger." Owain flipped back and forth between pages to get a better idea of the big picture and then said, "It should be regular interaction with most units and effective damage taken from what worked before."

"And if the flier is using ranged weaponry?"

He scratched his head and kept reading as he decided, "That doesn't need to be baked into the ruleset."

Grima scowled. "I asked you to review the campaign script. Use your buffoonery. That was the only reason I bothered indulging your stupidity."

"Good gods, same-turn reinforcements?! In what world would you ever think this is a good—oh, forget it." Owain grabbed a quill and started scratching out the fell dragon's notes. "Cancel your dinner plans, because this is gonna take a while."


"Cavalry are well suited to shock tactics," read Morgan. "The outflanking capabilities and intimidation of a beast of war bearing down upon unmounted infantry cannot be overstated. However, cavalry charges hinge on breaking the morale of the enemy and spurring retreat, allowing the aggressors to slay the enemy at their leisure. Confronted by a disciplined force that remains firm, the horses may be at risk of breaking formation and even become vulnerable to a counter-charge."

She frowned at the grumpy dark pegasus in the stable in front of her. Was it even bothering to listen? Well, she was going to talk its ears off whether it liked it or not.

"But!" continued Morgan. "Lance-bearing cavalry must be supported by ranged combat units while suppressing those of the enemy. No better unit exists for this purpose than the dark flier, combining magical resistance with unmatched mobility and wielding both tome and javelin." She looked up from her textbook and pointed a finger at the pegasus, carefully positioned out of nipping range. "That means you've gotta learn hit-and-run tactics! I've got a few books for that right here—Aerial Maneuvering for Air-to-Ground Attacks and The Art of the Wing!"

"Morgan?"

The girl looked up, bright cheery eyes spotting Cordelia at the entrance to the stables. "What's up?" said Morgan.

"I was looking for you," said Cordelia. "Are you reading to that pegasus?"

Morgan beamed. "Sure am! If we're gonna be partners in battle, she'll have to keep up with my tactics."

"I wouldn't have thought you'd be hard-pressed to find a conversation partner."

Morgan tilted her head. "I don't get it?"

Cordelia blinked. She remembered talking to her own pegasus often in the past—back when none of the other pegasus knights seemed interested in talking to her. "Never mind," she said. "I tried the meeting room, but only Robin was there."

"He kicked me out again," shrugged Morgan.

"For scattering his notes with Elwind, or so they told me."

"Hahaha! It's not my fault they spend so much time arguing over the exact definition of the word 'until' in some treaty. Gotta make my own fun!"

Cordelia watched the girl feed a carrot to the dark pegasus. She noted the numerous bandages already wrapped around her fingers. "I meant to ask you about your last report, but we can put it off for now. Care to run some exercises?"

Morgan nodded eagerly. "Yes please! I'm so glad you've been able to find the time. Feels like you're always running from one job to the next!"

"I was about to say something like that to you," said Cordelia as they led a different, less violently-inclined pegasus out to the field. "Thank you again for all your work. Sometimes it's hard to think you're the same girl with a hand in managing the royal pegasus knights." She thought to herself, As well as Robin's daughter, and all that entails…

"Ooh, and congrats on the falcon knight certification!" Morgan hopped in the saddle and added, "But you're not wearing the outfit? You and Sumia could be going around in matching equipment today!"

Cordelia laughed modestly and waved the matter aside, mounting her own pegasus. "Better that I don't flaunt it. Or rather…" She sighed. The new breastplate was too slim. One look at her in her falcon knight armour and everyone would know the truth! She had to send back and demand a replacement.

"Or rather?" prompted Morgan.

"O-oh! Um, nothing. Take a few laps to warm up, Morgan."

They spread their wings and took flight. Morgan yelped and wobbled, always caught off-guard by the first swift ascent—controlling a pegasus was nothing like using her own wings. "I wonder when everyone else is gonna do their certifications," she said as they flew about, the wind whipping through her white hair. "I hope I can get to call myself an official dark flier soon!"

"You've got a long way to go before you can start thinking about that," said Cordelia, easily gliding along at her side. "I think Donnel is learning the lance faster than you."

"Good thing I won't main lances," chirped Morgan. "Isn't it cuter for a girl to have a few harmless pitfalls?"

"…That's a good question. Is it?"

"Yeah, like Sumia tripping over herself." She giggled and added, "Guess you'll have to practise till you've got being charmingly flawed down just perfect too!"

Cordelia didn't wince, but it certainly cut deeper than Morgan likely intended.

"I wish I could be like you," sighed Morgan. "Feels like you could do anything you put your mind to."

"It's not all that easy," said Cordelia. "Everything took effort, and people always… I shouldn't bore you with the details."

"Why not?"

"What?" Cordelia couldn't hear her over the wind.

"Why not?"

"What?"

"Why not?!" shouted Morgan. "C'mon, let's hear it! I'm all ears!"

Cordelia was taken aback. Her first instinct was to assume Morgan was trying to wring information out of her to be used later. It wouldn't have been the first time. But then again, Morgan's high energy was always a breath of fresh air. Being treated as just another person wasn't so bad, even if she didn't get all the details exactly right. "I hope you're ready for a laundry list," said Cordelia. "But after these maneuvers!"

She sped up, and Morgan followed suit at a delay. Looked like Cordelia was warming up to her! That was good. Morgan figured if she was on better terms with the Shepherds besides pranking them all, it could only help her father. So what if Morgan ripped up a bunch of bandits out in the desert? They were all killers anyway. And it didn't hurt that Morgan really was interested in what she had to say, so hey! Two birds, one stone.

But Morgan also already forgot half of what they talked about. She probably ought to pay a little more attention…


The sun cast its warming light over the capital of Ylisse. Songbirds chirped and tweeted a merry tune from their trees, flitting about and no doubt gossiping about the proceedings of the royal palace. Every breath he took was crisp and refreshing. It was a beautiful day, perfect to spend in the courtyard with the distant sound of running fountains and gently blowing wind to soothe the ears. A squirrel had found its way onto the castle grounds and skipped through the grass in search of food.

At least it had the decency to not touch the cake on the table before Grima. The fell dragon felt ready to slam his face into his open notebook and pass out on the budget he managed to wrestle from the royal court. It was all he had to scrape together some form of real military for Ylisse. His elite Shepherds were a surgical strike team, not an army.

"Don't touch them," he said.

Lissa stopped shaking the wrapped box in her hands and set it back on the pile. "Just wanted to know what everyone else got her. This one was really rattly. It sounded like a lot of small things inside, so maybe… chocolates?"

"Donnel is integrating well," muttered Grima, eyes running along the pages. "Shipment from the north was delayed a few weeks… Risen. I should've reviewed it before letting Morgan send it out…" A hand waved in front of his face got him to look up with an annoyed glare.

"Is it chocolate or not?" said Lissa.

"Not."

She watched him go straight back to wracking his brain over supply management. "You should take a break from that," she said. "I feel like I haven't seen you with your nose not in a book for weeks."

"There's too much that needs doing," said Grima. It wasn't just his mundane occupation. The higher goal was always in mind. He needed an out. He had to always remain alert and on the lookout for any trace of the other future children, any opening that might allow him to begin working events in his favour.

And Kjelle was glaring daggers at him in between lance drills on the grass. Grima was restless. They never left him alone. Hated enemies surrounded him at every turn. The desire to get up and run them through on his sword burned perpetually in his core. Keeping busy kept him from drowning in his thoughts.

"No wonder your hair's all white," said Lissa. "And why's Kjelle here? You don't really talk that much. And there's still how we met after we found Morgan…"

Hateful sparks jumped as knight and fell dragon locked eyes. "I will have my rematch!" said Kjelle.

"No," said Grima. He rolled his eyes and took a breath.

"Too cowed to face a woman? Stand up and fight!" Kjelle looked ready to burst as the fell dragon finished copying every word out of her mouth and leaned back with the most infuriating smirk on his face. "You dare mock me?!"

"You've said the same lines every day for weeks. Come back with new material, shellfish."

"We're all on the same side now," said Lissa. "Let's get along! Isn't it such a pretty day out? The war and everything wasn't even a year ago, but it feels so far away now."

Kjelle returned to stabbing at the air with renewed ferocity, visualizing her lance shattering Grima's skull with every blow. Grima said to Lissa, "Enjoy it while you can."

"And all that stuff about Grima and another war with Valm… Actually, can you tell me a little more about Grima?"

Grima frowned slightly. "What brought this on?"

"You're one of the only Grimleal we have. Well, used to be Grimleal! I figured if anyone could tell us more about him, you'd be the one."

"You know everything important." Grima kept his tone level and his attention on his book, quill poised to write. "He appeared a thousand years in the past, laid waste to the land, and was vanquished by the First Exalt. He will return and finish what he started."

"Yeah, but what do they say in Plegia? Here, we go to church and have this big book on all the nice things Naga's done, and that she'll protect you if you believe in her."

Grima silently noted that he could no longer hear Kjelle swinging her lance off to the side. "Grima's Truth," he said reluctantly. "Writings from the fell dragon himself, or so they say. There are many interpretations of it, written by various authors and widely distributed in past generations. 'Do good, lest Grima's vengeance strike you down,' and the like. Another common belief is that Grima has no central being—only a force, acting with as much malice as a natural disaster. They claim him to be a portent of change and transformation, tearing down the old to make way for the new. The most radical espouse that Grima longs only for mankind's eternal torment, and servitude offers swift reprieve when the inevitable comes to pass." He chuckled. "Hypocrisy, all of it. The name of Grima is distorted to suit the speaker's needs."

"So, it sounds like any old religion," said Lissa. "Except now we know for sure that Grima just wants to blow up everything!"

"And to prevent that, you need to hone yourself."

"I've got plenty of that done!" A confident grin took over her face as she dropped her elbow on the table and offered her hand. "I bet I could take you in arm wrestling now!"

Grima raised an eyebrow. "How daring. You have indeed gotten stronger—more than I expected." His eyes flitted to Kjelle. He didn't particularly care either way, but accepting Lissa's challenges while constantly ignoring hers would irritate her to no end. He didn't need to personally fight Kjelle to gauge her skill, either—observation sufficed for the fell dragon, and Chrom was the perfect yardstick to assess them without revealing his own hand. "Let's see how much progress you've made."

"Father!"

And then a flower crown was forced on the fell dragon's head.

"Sorry to keep you waiting!" laughed Morgan. "I got a present for you! Ooh, Lissa, you're here too?!"

"Hey, where's MY flower crown?!" she protested.

"I only had time to make one on the way back from town." Morgan bonked herself on the head and stuck her tongue out with an expression of, 'oops, silly me!'

"And you veered within two paces of being run over by a carriage," said Laurent, following in her wake.

"But I didn't! All's well that ends well. So, Lissa, does a hug count to make up for it?"

"I'm kidding!" laughed Lissa. "Since when does the birthday girl give out presents? But I'll take it if it's up for grabs!"

"Happy birthday, Morgan," said Grima as the two girls sat down. He didn't bother removing the flowers on his head. "I'm surprised you remember a detail like your date of birth."

"Good thing too, or we would've had to make one up!" Morgan's eyes sparkled as her father cut her a slice of the cake. "Kjelle, Laurent!" Morgan stuck her plate out at them. "Do you guys want—?"

They had already wandered a short distance away, talking to themselves. Morgan pouted. Why couldn't they just get along? Sure, there was the whole 'mortal enemies who may have to fight at any moment' shtick, but besides that.

"Shouldn't there be candles before you…" Lissa trailed off as a plate of cake was pushed in front of her too. "Oh, whatever. Let's eat!"

As the other three chatted, Kjelle and Laurent had to compare notes. "She navigated between stalls for three hours in search of aesthetically appealing items," said Laurent. "No suspicious moves to speak of were made during observation."

"This isn't working," said Kjelle. "Why should we bother waiting until they attack us first?"

"The purpose is to wait until Lucina arrives in Ylisstol and discourage Grima from acting until then."

"That's your purpose, and Owain won't shut up about… whatever spiels he's been spouting about his intentions. Gods, I can't figure him out for the life of me. We should be searching for Lucina ourselves!"

"Her intent was to arrive in this location," said Laurent. "There exists the possibility of Lucina arriving at Ylisstol, only for us to be absent due to having left in search of her. Furthermore…" He glanced over his shoulder. Grima was busy dodging Morgan's attempts to smear cake on his face. "Our existence may be in peril."

"And has he done anything to hinder our parents?" she scoffed. "My patience is wearing thin, Laurent. We slay Grima and stop the dark future—enemies are defeated and allies protected. That's all there is to it!"

"Indeed, and protect them we must." Laurent's gaze flitted to the castle. "I believe we are best served observing for a while longer. You cannot—"

"Let's be clear," said Kjelle in a low voice. "You could never take me in a fight."

Laurent frowned, but said nothing.

"I'll go along and watch this vigil with you in Ylisstol for as long as I see fit." Kjelle stepped back, twirled her lance, and returned to her exercises. "But we're here because we have a purpose to fulfill. I'll spend my time training to see it come to pass. When I decide to leave, you'll have to make me stop if you want me to."

Morgan loved cake—sweet, fluffy, and always presented in huge whole cakes meant to be served for groups, but her appetite could polish it all off in one round! She chatted happily with Lissa and her father in the courtyard of the royal palace under the clear blue skies, scarfing down one yummy slice after another, and occasionally prodding Grima whenever his fingers started inching towards his notebook.

Everything was there! A big delicious cake, friends to share it with (even if Kjelle and Laurent were off muttering to themselves away from the table), and plenty of presents to open. In between merry conversation, Morgan found her eyes constantly drifting to Grima. He had yet to finish one slice when Morgan was on her fourth, listening intently and watching her with scarlet eyes as serious as ever. The ring of flowers on his head made for the silliest contrast—she couldn't help a giggle every time she looked.

Even so…

"Anything?" asked Grima. Where a cake once stood was only a handful of crumbs and smeared cream.

Morgan got up, put her hands on Lissa's shoulders, and shook her until a burp came out. After dodging the smack that would've definitely removed her head from her own shoulders, Morgan sat back down with a grin and shrugged, "Nothing."

"What thing?" asked Lissa.

"The memory thing!" said Morgan between bites. "I'm sure I had at least… Twelve? Sixteen? Twenty? More than ten birthdays, but I don't remember any of them."

"Hosting a party may stir some memories and by extension other glimpses into her past," said Grima. "…Or so she justified it. It's a more acceptable method than brain trauma."

"And that's the only reason, I'll bet!" giggled Lissa. She reached out, adjusted his flower clown, and earned herself a quick smack on the offending arm.

"Lissa, is this one yours?" Morgan held up a small box in yellow wrappings to the rest of the gift pile's red. Lissa nodded. "Okay, so that one's the frog. Onto the next! It'd be nice if Owain and Nah were here though—this is perfect bonding time! And the other two don't look so interested in bonding…"

"Owain came down with something," said Lissa. "She said she'll look after him, but I need to check in on them soon. Gods know I'll find him dancing on his bed when he should be resting—is that what I think it is?"

"This is so pretty!" Lid tossed aside, Morgan turned the clothes over in her hands, then held up the top over her front. "I didn't know they made dark flier uniforms like this!"

"They don't," said Grima. "I designed it. Take good care of it. You said you wanted something to work towards." He gave her a pointed look. "Your manner of dress doesn't define your competence. I expect you to continue working hard."

"How's your training coming along, Morgan?" asked Lissa.

"I sure won't be riding on a battlefield for a while," said Morgan. "But I really wanna try this on! Nobody will mind if I wear it around the castle, right? Ooh, are there more outfits?! I could learn to ride a wyvern, and then—"

"I thought I just said clothes are of limited combat value." But Grima didn't quite sound like he was scolding her as he nudged another box towards her. "You can start asking for that after you're done learning to fly on one steed. It'll take you some time, seeing as you have other matters to devote your time to as well."

Morgan beamed as she unwrapped them, tossing each new book on tactics into the air and catching it on the way down. Aerial warfare, leadership guides, and training manuals on close combat and more. But what really got Morgan's attention was the box that rattled as she picked it up. Inside were the familiar wooden pieces she and her father often used to run tactics exercises for strategies and scenarios—and several she didn't recognize. They tumbled about as she slid out one of the two books underneath and flipped through it. "This is… a script?" She gasped. "Father, you didn't!"

"And an adjusted ruleset supporting more detailed interactions and facilitating asymmetrical play," said Grima. "I'm interested in how you would lead the Shepherds exactly as they are in these situations."

Morgan flipped through the handwritten books, unable to read it all but taking in the sheer amount of text. Her gaze flitted back to the dark flier's outfit. He glossed over it, but how long did he really spend on these? How much precious time did Grima squander putting everything together, making sure every bit of the uniform came together just right and running solo exercises on the board to ensure it was balanced just how he wanted it? How much else did he attempt that she didn't know?

…Did he do it just because any chance of jogging her memory was worth uncovering the secrets his own parallel self may have divulged to her, and for no other reason?

Morgan didn't even need a tenth of a second to decide what she wanted to believe.

Grima nearly fell out of his chair when she dived right over the table with a flying hug. "Morgan, be careful!"

"Father!" laughed Morgan. "You don't have to do all this for me!"

Is that so? You should've said that earlier. I could've used the time invested on other pursuits. But Grima knew saying it aloud could only invite disaster. "Is it to your liking?"

"Of course it is!" She unwrapped her arms from around him and leaned back slightly to meet his gaze. "There is one thing missing…"

"What?"

Morgan pulled a future copy of his book from her sleeve. "I want a third one!"

Grima plucked it from her grip and flipped through quickly, the corner of each page running under his thumb. He smirked and said, "Denied. I'm still using mine. What do you really want?"

She grinned cheekily and took it back. "A smile, silly! You haven't smiled nearly as much lately."

"Haven't I?" Grima couldn't remember. He was too preoccupied with his responsibilities as the prince's right hand, attending council, dealing with the court, managing Risen and bandit attacks, remaining on-guard for an attack at any time, considering what the future children were up to, plotting his next move towards his final destination, weighing the values of any potential action… the list went on and on.

"But not a fake one either," said Morgan. "C'mon! It's your wonderful daughter's birthday!"

"Future daughter," Lissa reminded them, wearing a matching grin of her own. "But let's see it!"

Morgan rocked from side to side, waiting eagerly for her father to smile.

She waited.

And kept waiting.

Still waiting!

Any second now!

…Huh?

"Um. Father? This is the part where you…"

Staring into the fell dragon's dead scarlet gaze, Morgan felt a bit of her reconsider his reasons for going to all this effort.

Grima turned away and shifted her into the empty chair at his side. Lissa shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Birds chirped in the distance.

"…I've been rather tired." Grima's quiet excuse was the first to break the silence that fell over them. "Maybe that's why your request is difficult. One afternoon of rest… doesn't sound so bad."

"One afternoon?" said Morgan. "How late are you staying up all night anyway? You can't be getting more than an hour of sleep!"

"I'm quite busy. And you're exaggerating."

"Are those rings under your eyes I spot?" teased Lissa. At his sharp look, she quickly added, "Kidding! …Mostly."

He blinked and felt at the skin just below his eyes. "I thought I covered them."

"Not well enough, buddy!" Lissa got up, and the sombre mood lifted away with her. "You wait right there! I'll stop by Maribelle and get everything we need to really show you how to pretty up!" She locked eyes with Morgan and exchanged a knowing grin. They were going to do a lot more than just makeup for Robin.

A low growl rumbled in the fell dragon's chest. He resigned himself to his fate of being carted away into the castle and used as a living mannequin. Every single humiliation he endured would be paid back a thousandfold when the time came.

Once they were through turning him into a garish jester and allowed him to wipe it off, Morgan caught a tiny smile on his face. It died long before it reached his scarlet eyes. With everything else his mind was on, Grima slipped easily into forgetting one of his many masks. It was definitely fake. Morgan knew perfectly well that there was nothing to the wry smile on his face. But hey, she'd take that over nothing at all!

"Ooh, your eyes are pretty bloodshot now that I'm looking at them," muttered Morgan. "Lissa! Get the eyedrops!"

"The real bottle or the salt bottle?" called Lissa from another room.

"Hmmm… Surprise me!"

"My patience has limits," snarled Grima. "I tolerate this for one day only. Is this meant to be funny?"

"It's funny to me!" laughed Morgan. "Okay, okay, pass the real bottle."

Both were salted.