Author's note: I did miss you, boomer! I'm grateful for the feedback as always. I do want to go back and revise things, but I think it's better for my motivation that I write the whole story before I look back and die of cringe. Do you have an account? I could use a beta reader before going live. Aside from that, I really love seeing the different things people focus on in their reviews, and Awakening's Storm Clouds was where I set my playlist on loop for writing this chapter.


"It's morning right now," said Chrom. "Would you like a meal?"

The assassin shook his head. Faded blond hair brushed his shoulders as he did; the standard assassin's hood had been drawn back for him. Chrom couldn't immediately tell whether the darker shade of skin stemmed from heritage or lifestyle. The assassin was unbound, with half the carriage to himself while the two men occupied the other side. Frederick immediately noted the downcast eyes that wouldn't quite rise to meet theirs. The subject was little older than the prince himself, if at all.

"If you need anything," said Chrom, "let me know and I will do what I can to accommodate you. My name is Chrom of Ylisse. This is my faithful knight, Frederick. What should I call you?"

"…Faran," muttered the man.

"Faran, is it? Would that be a Feroxi name, by any chance?"

Faran didn't answer. Muffled footsteps and indistinct conversations entered the carriage as its inhabitants fell into silence. Just as the urge to speak began rising, Chrom felt Frederick tap on his arm. The tiniest twitch of the head told the prince to remain silent, and so they did. They waited as the pressure to speak mounted—for someone to say anything at all.

"…Plegian," mumbled Faran reluctantly.

At that, a smile formed on Chrom's lips. "Please, be at ease. I harbour no ill will towards you. I've half a mind to introduce you to the Plegians in the Shepherds' ranks if I could…"

Faran lifted his head slightly—almost but not quite meeting their eyes.

"Yes," said Chrom. "Tharja and Robin are their names. They're very colorful. I found Robin in a field near Southtown, sometime before our conflict with Gangrel began. During that campaign, I met Tharja. We were actually on opposite sides to begin with!"

Frederick leaned forward—a cue to let him take over for a spell. "Were you present for the war, Faran?"

"…No," he said. "Came here during the first war. Before the border closed."

"I'm sorry that you were displaced from your land," said Frederick. That was many years ago. He had likely fled with the aid of his family. "It was a very difficult time for us all. Milord strives to follow in the steps of Exalt Emmeryn, so as not to let those events come to pass again. Do you know of her?"

"Everyone did," muttered Faran. "We all heard what happened." He shuffled in his seat. "We lost a great person."

Chrom smiled faintly. They conversed at length about nothing, airily discussing the weather of Regna Ferox and Chrom's more familiar Ylisse, filling Faran in on the Shepherds and Chrom's misadventures with them. They talked about everything except what this interrogation was really meant for.

Frederick kept a close eye on the subject. Faran remained uncomfortable but was willing to hold a conversation with them. They cleared the greatest hurdle—a prisoner able to maintain total silence was incredibly hard to open, but anyone would begin to talk more after they spoke just once.

"It's rather chilly here," said Chrom some time later. "Would you like a blanket? As it happens, Frederick acquired a great number of them on our first sortie past the Longfort, they're very warm. Frederick, what colour might suit him?"

"If I may be so bold, sire, beige would serve as a fine complement to his palette. Olive might prove flattering as well."

"Get them from storage, would you? And some lunch as well. Noon must be near."

"Then, if you'll excuse me."

"So, which colour would you like?" asked Chrom as his great knight left. "Beige or olive?"

Faran blinked. "Um, olive…?"

And so Faran found a thick olive blanket wrapped around himself while Chrom took the beige one.

"Warm, aren't they?" Chrom offered a kind smile as he adjusted his quilt.

Faran begrudgingly nodded his agreement. He would've expected to be locked in the back of an empty wagon and left there to freeze for hours. Maybe there would be scraps for dinner if his captors were generous. In his hands now was bread, bear meat, and a flask of water. All of it was provided in the same amount and quality as to the prince sitting opposite him.

"Lissa—my sister—insisted we bring these blankets with us if we had to deploy north again," said Chrom as they ate. "Sumia found much use in them as well. In the long run, I'm very grateful Frederick took the time to procure them. I'm also thankful that they emerged unscathed last night."

"Our contract didn't cover them," mumbled Faran.

Then he realized what he said and almost choked on his food. Frederick carefully showed no external reaction.

"Do you have family too?" asked Chrom lightly, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his legs.

"Not anymore," said Faran. He was happy to talk if it meant getting further from that slip just now. "We were unwanted when we came here—immigrants running from war. Few establishments took us in. What little my parents foraged was often given to me. Refused to eat until they were convinced I had eaten enough."

"How are they now?" asked Chrom. The silence was telling enough. "I'm sorry."

"I was taken in after that," said Faran. His shoulders loosened. "After my first mission… I took my pay and raced to the only tavern still open that late. I asked the old man behind the bar for the cheapest meal they had. 'Fifty silver,' he said. I knew the locals ate for fifteen, but I didn't care. That was the first time I ever sat at a table and ate a meal bought with my own gold."

"Did you know the men you worked with?" asked Chrom softly.

"Not well. Everyone knew one day, the others'll leave base on a mission and never be seen again… or be dragged back home against their will."

"A hard life indeed…"

"It… well, you asked." Faran met his gaze for just a moment. "It was how I got by."

"It doesn't have to be." Chrom moved forward in his seat. "We can protect you. Ylisse is a warm land, with rich harvests and kind people. There is much more to life that we can—"

A sharp cough from Frederick cut him off. His hard look conveyed it to the prince: he was getting too invested. Chrom frowned, but conceded the reins back to his vassal.

"But first," said Frederick. "Our men were in great peril yesterday. We must be able to prevent this from happening again."

"That's right," said Chrom. "Can you help us, Faran?"

"…What do you need?" asked Faran quietly.

"Can you tell me who hired you? Who placed us both in this situation?"

Faran was silent, and this time nothing was forthcoming no matter how long they waited.

Chrom was crestfallen. Frederick shifted his weight from resting in the seat to sitting up unsupported. He would steer the conversation from here.

"We must also consider what will occur after today," said Frederick. "Milord has a duty, to his men and to his realm, to keep them safe from harm. What will become of you, Faran?" When the assassin failed to respond, Frederick continued, "Perhaps I am mistaken—you could be choosing to remain in your line of work, for you find enjoyment in it. Perhaps you kill for pleasure." That earned little more than a brief scowl. Faran was provoked, but not enough to rejoin a dialogue.

"I bear you no ill will." Frederick moved to Faran's side of the carriage, sitting beside him as he spoke. "I seek only the truth. We did not choose to enter this battle against each other, but we must discuss it with each other now, for there will be no conclusion otherwise."

A single sharp knock on the carriage door. Chrom knew it was Robin just from the terseness. As the prince quietly slipped out of the dark carriage and into the bright winter noon, Frederick continued to implore, "It is a great many people who will believe the worst of a situation till the truth emerges. If we have the truth, and can stop this situation from happening again, we can help you. It all depends on you doing the right thing."

The door clicked shut behind the prince and he hopped down to the cold road. Sure enough, his tactician awaited him. Chrom led him a short distance away as he asked, "What is it, Robin?"

"We're ready to move," said Grima. "Judging by your expression, I assume you want more time with the subject." Most of the campsite was already dismantled behind him with the last of the Shepherds' belongings moving to the wagons. Morgan precariously balanced three boxes of books on her head on her wobbly way to storing them.

"Yes," said Chrom. "We can continue interrogation as we march."

"Understood. I'll handle the rest."

"Have you still not found time to sleep?" asked Chrom. Robin looked to be on the verge of passing out. "I believe we're close to getting a name, you needn't wait on call. You should be with Lon'qu and Laurent."

"I know my limits."

That was the flat, instant response that just screamed nobody could convince him. Chrom let a small scoff escape. "Very well. I won't be the one to haul your twitching body the rest of the way home."

"I'd rather be run through." Grima shared a chuckle with the prince.

As the convoy got moving, Chrom added, "I'm surprised Frederick is so kind with Faran. Has his time with you tempered his excessive caution?"

Faran, thought Grima. Interesting. They extracted a name from the enemy.

"Don't be fooled," he said aloud. "I'm certain Frederick is as wary as ever. Building rapport is a technique used to comfort the subject and lure them into a false sense of security. It is a ploy that tugs the heartstrings to elicit information with empty words of camaraderie and trust. It means nothing. An interrogator who grows attached to his prisoner is a failure."

"So you say now," said Chrom. "We'll see which of us gets results."

"How much has he said?"

"More than I expected. It seems his employer only targeted some of us." Chrom drew a breath. The light of the sun and the cool air brought new energy to him. "I'll brief you on everything tonight."

"I look forward to it," said Grima.


Faran spent hours and hours in the little carriage as it trundled along, moving towards some destination—Ylisse, if he was to believe the prince. Chrom returned with food in the evening, imploring him to offer the name of his employer so they could better protect the Shepherds, help Faran, and benefit everyone. The evening passed, day became night, and the two spent all of it trying to convince him to do the very simple task of speaking one single word. Faran didn't crack. He'd already compromised himself more than enough.

"I'm sorry that we cannot come to an agreement," said Chrom that night, and he seemed to truly mean it. "I cannot release you today, but I will ensure you have proper bedding tonight. We have guards posted throughout the night, so your hands will not be bound. Is this cot large enough for you?"

Not long after that, the prince and his great knight left the carriage. By the glimpse Faran caught through the door before it closed, the rest of the Shepherds all had the same or similar cots. Their prisoner received no less than themselves.

He settled under the sheets. He had little to look forward to than more interrogation tomorrow, but Faran could see himself holding out easily. Chrom was a kind man. If his treatment so far was any indication, the prince would give up long before resorting to worse.

Faran didn't know how much time passed before he awoke as his cot jostled about under him. The carriage was moving. The torchlight filtering through the crack in the door faded until he was alone in the dark. He couldn't tell where he was going and wasn't sure how fast.

Whispers surrounded him as the carriage came to a halt. He identified two distinct males and two females, but nothing else.

The whispers grew heated, became low words just barely too muffled for him to decipher, and then fell to whispers again. One of the men was explaining something at great length. They discussed for several minutes more until it ended with a faint question. The female voice responded, and then one spoke aloud.

"I know you're awake."

Faran knew that voice. He'd heard it as a feral snarl as they grappled in the tent, a strict bark commanding the Shepherds in battle, and a gleeful herald of lightning akin to the gods' anger.

"Face away from the door," ordered Robin. "Arms behind your back. Do not resist."

Faran complied. Orange light cast his shadow on the wall in front of him as the carriage door opened, and then he could only see the inside of a cloth bag. A thick rope bound his wrists and he was led out to blindly sit in the cold Feroxi wilderness. Immense heat washed over his back as his arms were secured to the chair, followed by his legs. He was completely immobilized.

There were too many footsteps for him to make sense of. They seemed to come from every direction. Faint orange light flickered through the cloth covering his face. Something heavy scraped behind him and then clanged on metal as water sloshed.

A hand lifted the bag just enough to stuff Faran's mouth with cloth, and then removed the bag entirely. Out in the midst of nowhere in Regna Ferox, he was tied down to a chair and forced to sit at a table. Illuminated by two tall torches, Robin dropped the bag and took his own seat facing the captive Faran. A hunted rabbit lay on one side of the table, fur already removed. One cutting board rested before the tactician. Robin wore a smile completely divorced from the cold dead glare drilling into the man in front of him. Numerous cleavers and knives sat neatly organized around the cutting board, waiting to be used.

On Faran's side of the table was a fork, a knife, and an empty plate.

"Have you ever considered how fascinating meat is?" asked Robin. It was light and conversational. As he tossed a dead rabbit to someone behind Faran, he might as well have been talking about the weather.

Heat seared Faran's back. Something boiled with intense fervour just behind him. Sweat formed on his neck and under his shirt as the rest of him shivered in the cold night.

"Catch!" called a youthful girl's voice.

Robin raised one finger to his lips as he caught the returning rabbit. "I am enthralled with how humans obfuscate it," he said. The cleaver swapped out for a knife and the rabbit's lightly boiled body was scored with practised ease. "They process the animal into small cuts and hack it apart to hide the creature's identity."

The knife slid under the skin, cutting away its bonds to the underlying muscle. Removing the skin along the hindquarters and legs, Robin continued, "Beef. Venison. Pork. The food is renamed to separate it from the creature of origin. Why is this?"

Thunk. The cleaver separated the rabbit's leg from its body.

"It is flesh. Something that once lived."

He tossed it to the girl behind Faran.

"I believe it is because humans are little different." Robin spoke lightly and casually, as if sharing an odd thought that occurred to him over supper. "They are just as easily pierced and pulled apart. They can be divided into cuts and each chunk of meat ranked for desirability of consumption. Flesh is flesh. We kill, we feed, and we are fed upon."

The fire crackled.

"Humans fear this truth," he continued. "They fear the idea that they are prey. They believe themselves above other animals. Somehow, they are different. The human body is sacred." Robin got comfortable in his chair and smiled. "Flesh is flesh. To not embrace that truth is, to me, disgusting."

The fire crackled. Faran couldn't break the silence if he tried. He knew the tactician was watching him, scrutinizing and analyzing every tiny action he made.

Several minutes later, the tactician raised his hand and caught the returning leg. "Rather good," he remarked as he took a bite. "My tastes are a bit more rare, but it can't be helped." Scarlet eyes glanced up at Faran. "Are you hungry? Want some?" He didn't wait for a reponse before finishing the leg. Bones crunched loudly between his jaws, and soon there was nothing left of it at all.

"Much better." Robin got up and rounded the table. "Now then—"

"Mmngh!"

The chair wobbled as Faran struggled in vain to break free. Robin held up the thin tiny patch of skin he cut from his leg—just a square inch or two.

"It hurts, doesn't it?" Robin turned the little slice over and revealed the raw pink underside. "Have you been stabbed before? You'll find that when the tip drives deep enough, it no longer truly hurts. The muscle and skin are ablaze, but the viscera within feels little to nothing of that incredible pain you experience right now." The tactician got up and snarled, "Pain I know well because I had to scrape out the filth your little dung-smeared toy left in me."

Footsteps behind Faran. The boiling water and crackling fire drowned out the whispers behind his back.

"Imagine the pain of that cut on every part of your body," whispered Robin. "Everything stripped bare and exposed to the elements. Every single muscle naked and raw. The open air will be hellfire upon you." Robin strode back to the cutting board and slammed the dead rabbit down on it. "But do you know what comes before that? Like game, you will be scored. After that… well, the cut just now was a mercy."

Robin hooked his fingers into the rabbit's skin and pulled. Sinews joining skin and muscle stretched, stretched far beyond what any body should allow, and then snapped one after another. In agonizingly slow motion, Robin peeled its skin off in one unbroken piece.

Someone gagged. Faran would've done the same if he wasn't fighting for his life.

"Mmmph!" His muscles burned as he tried with all he could to escape his restraints.

"I will tear your skin away, one sheet at a time." Robin tossed the small animal aside. "You will feel the agony of every inch ripping from the muscle below."

"Mmph! MMMMPH!" Faran's breathing was rapid and shallow, his chest heaving as he struggled fruitlessly to escape his bonds. No matter how much his arms and legs burned or how much strength he used, the thick ropes refused to yield.

"Just between us," said Robin quietly, running a thumb along the edge of the knife. "The hell you're about to dive into? I know one even worse. I desperately wish I could introduce it to you, but I'll settle for this."

"MMMMMMPH!" Faran strained and writhed violently against his restraints, desperate to get away. It was a nightmare—trapped, his limbs paralyzed, helpless before some monster bearing down on him.

"Oh, that's right." Robin crouched beside his captive, tracing a gloved finger along the calf where he'd start cutting. "I suppose I was told to get information from you. I don't really care, though. Don't break too fast, assassin. You still need to tell me what cooked human tastes like."

Another gloved hand reached around and tugged the cloth from Faran's mouth.

Robin didn't even get to pulling off the first sheet of skin before Faran was screaming the name they wanted at the top of his lungs.


"It must be him," said Kjelle the next morning. She and her allies gathered just as the sun crested the horizon, away from the rest of camp while the Shepherds of the present woke up. "It can't be anyone but him!"

"I want to think so too," said Nah. "But Faran definitely meant it, and… ugh, I guess it makes sense…"

"I conversed with many of the others," said Laurent. He had recovered enough of his strength to get up and walk around without vomiting. "Their testimony confirms Morgan's claim. Chrom and Sumia ought to have been his highest priority target, yet he himself was targeted most frequently."

"And the convoy never came under attack," agreed Owain, "even when we split up."

"But he must be behind it!" insisted Kjelle.

"I concur with this hypothesis," said Laurent, "yet what means do we have to confront him regarding this? Suspicion alone cannot sway the Shepherds to our side. We must investigate the matter when we return—"

"You mean continue to let him strike at our necks while we do nothing?" Kjelle looked from one face to the next. "Is not a single one of you intent on defeating him?!"

"I'm angry too," said Owain. "But not yet. We can't even say for sure he did this, and Morgan—"

"I'm going to lose my mind if I hear her name one more damn time!" Kjelle slammed the end of her lance against the earth. She wanted so badly to run the fell dragon through, but she had nothing to convince the Shepherds to stand down. Forget about Morgan or whoever! All of Kjelle's training, all of the blood and sweat she poured into becoming stronger, and she was still powerless in this absurd situation! "Why are you so hung up on her, Owain? There's nothing to save, nobody to help!"

"Because you beat her in a fight, she's worth nothing?" Owain couldn't quite keep all his irritation inside.

"She made her decision to follow him," spat Kjelle. "Stop getting hung up on one more enemy that you just happen to think is more likeable!"

"If you will excuse my intrusion into this discussion," said Laurent firmly, drawing their attention. "Morgan is a human shield whose life's value acts as protection against us. Owain, what is the point at which you would agree to kill her?"

"The point is that we won't need to kill her!" he said.

"That is impossible." Laurent's words were sharp and unflinching. "You and I are a living case study of persons that have crossed time to reunite with their parents. You could never be convinced to stand by without acting as another person kills them, let alone raise your own blade against them. After observing their actions and behaviour, it is readily apparent that Morgan's relationship with her father is especially close. Changing her mind is impossible."

"Maybe we don't need to. Lucina said once that there still be part of Grima holding him back. Maybe Morgan can—" Owain went cross-eyed at the silver lance hovering inches away from his face.

"Owain." Kjelle's anger went so hot it wrapped all the way around and turned cold as ice. "We came here to stop Grima from ending this world. Siding with him makes you the enemy."

"Don't shoot the messenger. Lucina was the first to say—"

"He said, she said, I'm sick of it all!"

"Calm down!" said Nah. To her surprise, Kjelle lowered her weapon, gnashing her teeth. "We won't get anywhere fighting each other. We should think this through."

"Thinking too hard got us in this mess in the first place," Kjelle muttered bitterly. But for all her might, even she had to admit the power of one human paled to the power of one dragon. Nah had somewhere to talk from.

"Grima must be eliminated," said Laurent. "He has not made an unambiguous aggressive action against us. This is correct. However, Morgan's perspective is heavily skewed to view him in a positive light. Allow me to posit a question thusly: what benefit would Grima reap should he attack us?"

"We're enemies," said Nah. "He gets rid of a threat."

"Indeed." Light glinted off his glasses as he adjusted them. "Consider the result were we not to exist at all in this timeline. The course of history will lead to the return of the fell dragon. Impetus to act does not lie upon him."

"Say it in fewer words," snapped Kjelle.

"If everyone does nothing, he wins," summarized Laurent. "If he acts and we don't, he wins. We must take action. If he organized this attack, we have to kill him as soon as possible. Otherwise, he knows he'll get away with doing it again. We're no longer safe as Shepherds."

That conclusion was a chill that cut deeper than any Feroxi wind.

"…Was it really him?" mumbled Nah. "He said he didn't hire the assassins… Faran confessed his employer… they weren't lying, both of them. I don't understand how he could've done it."

"It doesn't matter," said Kjelle. "He bleeds like a human. We should act before that's no longer the case. So what if the Shepherds spurn us? We all set out knowing our lives may be the price of peace. The world will still be safe!"

"Let's say we fought Grima and Morgan right now." Owain folded his arms, his brow all knotted up. "And let's say, somehow, the Shepherds don't pick a side." He was torn, but he made himself say, "Can we kill the two of them?"

An uncomfortable silence descended. Grima wasn't the physically strongest fighter or the most magically adept spellcaster in their ranks, but he was lacking in little and his choice weapons made for incredible firepower. All of them had seen the fell dragon in action, working any tiny detail to his advantage and preying on his enemy's every habit to seize the upper hand. Despite her friendly demeanour, Morgan's skill was right behind him, with the intelligence to keep up. In a fight for their lives with nothing held back, the fell manakete would be even more dangerous than her father.

"A scenario too volatile to gauge with any confidence," concluded Laurent. "Nah and Morgan are mutually lethal to one another. Success hinges on eliminating Morgan with no chance to react."

"Then that's what we do," said Kjelle.

"There's no way we catch them by surprise," said Nah. "They'll be even more cautious right now."

"…Gods, listen to us," groaned Owain. "We're heroes, not assassins slithering in the dark!" Looking around at his allies, he reminded them, "Morgan's our friend. We've lived with her for months—played the same games, visited the same places, laughed at the same bad jokes. You guys are really going to turn around and kill her that easily?"

"What else will we do?!" Kjelle shook her head, her expression a mixture of shock and horror. "That girl is brainwashing you. You've lost your mind!"

"It was Lucina's last wish!" Owain burst out. "You don't have to believe in it, but I do! I don't even know if she's—" Something lodged in his throat. He couldn't bring himself to voice that fear. He swallowed it and said, "Lucina wants to help Morgan. I don't… have anything else I can follow."

"Owain…" murmured Nah.

"Maybe I'm wrong!" he admitted. "Maybe she would've done something different. But she believed that we can help Morgan—that this isn't a sacrifice we have to make to stop Grima. I'm going to keep believing in that, and I'll follow it the best way I can."

Kjelle's expression was like steel. She didn't see him backing down from her gaze anymore. She scoffed to the side and uprooted her shield from where it sat with its tip planted in the dirt. "Have it your way." Her armour clanked as she brushed past Owain. "You'll do what you think is right. I'll do what I think is right."

"And what do you intend to do?" asked Laurent after her.

The heavy steps paused. "Lucina can't be gone. She's out there somewhere. We need her strength to put an end to the fell dragon." Kjelle spared Owain one last scathing look. "My loyalty is to our leader. And if any of you had a single scrap of sense left in your heads, you'd be walking with me."

She left them where they stood in the cold woods. The first rays of sunlight began to shine over the mountains on the horizon, casting their shadows long before them. Laurent removed his glasses to wipe the dirt from them.

"I respect your desire to follow Lucina," he said to Owain. "But when recent events are accounted for, I cannot condone the rationality of your decision in good conscience. I, too, believe that Lucina is alive. Circumstances that we have yet to determine must be the explanation for her absence. I will help Kjelle in locating her."

"That's fine." Owain's voice was thick with emotion. He nodded without looking up. "Safe travels, Laurent."

"I reciprocate the sentiment." Laurent wore his glasses. "And you, Nah?"

"I'll stay," she said. "We still don't know for sure if Grima was behind this in the first place. I haven't seen Lucina since I came here. Neither did you or Kjelle—only Owain has. I'll trust him." She dryly offered, "Not to mention, someone has to keep an eye on him one way or another."

"Ha." That got the tiniest smile out of the swordmaster in question. "Thanks."

Laurent set off as fast as he could to catch up with Kjelle. When they were both specks blending into the indistinct textures of the Shepherds' camp, Owain let his strength go and lowered himself to the cold dirt with a quiet groan.

Nah crouched down beside him. "What's the matter?"

"Just the worst thought in the world rearing its ugly head," said Owain. "You know Lucina's sword? Falchion? Holy sword of the royal family, blessed by Naga, only bares its fangs in the hands of her chosen, all that good stuff."

She nodded.

"While we were travelling with Gerome, I happened to find Lucina doing maintenance on it. Pommel was a mess—fixed it, that wasn't the problem. While I was there, I checked the edge, and so long as I was the only one holding Falchion…" Owain paused to pull his thoughts together. "Father, Mother… I love them. I'm so proud to be their kid. I'd never trade that for anything. I don't need to be as amazing as Lucina, but I just thought… keep the team together, protect our parents, befriend Morgan. Even I should be able to do something that simple, right?"

"It's never that simple," said Nah softly. "You're doing everything you can. We all are."

The quiet that followed was solemn. To Nah, it was deafening. She had to resist the urge to squirm at her own words.

She had other reasons to stay. Morgan and Nowi were some of the only manaketes still alive. For the first time, Nah had friends just like herself. As much as she hated to admit it, playing with another dragon was fun. She got to see the parents she only had the fuzziest memories of. Nobody in the castle bullied her for her weird ears. Nobody turned up their nose at the mongrel halfling, even down in the city. She had a warm bed and people that respected her more often than they didn't. Even Grima, despicable monster that he was, exhausting to be around as he was, had so much knowledge about their draconic heritage. All of it would go to waste when he died, but what little she already learned… that was more than Naga ever shared.

Nah wasn't an outsider anymore. She wasn't on the run every day. She wasn't forced to eat weird unknown plants and dead bodies to get by. Nah knew it was stupid, but she didn't want to go back to any of that again. She really, really didn't want to.

This was the first chance she had at living a real life.

"Yeah." Owain got up and unwittingly jostled Nah from her thoughts. "It's all we can do, like it or hate it. Sitting around here won't change things for the better." He shook himself on the spot, rattling his old spirits back in, and put on the best confident smile he could. "Let's get back to camp!"


"Leaving?" repeated Chrom through a mouthful of bread. This wasn't what he expected first thing in the morning.

"Yes, sir," said Kjelle. At her side, Laurent stood half a step behind. Head held high, she made sure her back was as straight as possible. "Today, if it would not impede you."

Grima crammed a hunk of meat in his maw and tore it in two, bone and all. He exchanged a glance with Morgan to his right. She already knew to be wary. This could be the prelude to Lucina's blade flying for their throats in the coming days.

"I have no issue with it, but…" Chrom paused as Sumia prodded him into swallowing his food. "You don't want to part ways in Ylisstol? In Ylisse past the Longfort? Not even at the next village we pass through?"

"We will take care of ourselves," said Kjelle. Her gaze shifted from the prince to the fell dragon at his side. "Grima must be stopped. To that end, we are needed elsewhere."

"If that's how it must be…" Today, Chrom learned popping in and out without warning wasn't a habit exclusive to Lucina's future self. "Robin, any objections?"

Grima wasn't worried about Kjelle. She was too simple to participate in the mind games that made up the cold war between him and the other future children. Laurent was harder to read, but Grima forced a culprit out of Faran for a reason. The future children had nothing to go off of now.

Grima spotted Owain checking in on Lon'qu in the carriage. Nah just took a seat at their table with a plate of food. The fell dragon would be especially wary of their stalking. But would Laurent telegraph an attack with such a bold resignation? They should've all snuck out and ambushed Grima before he knew they were missing. Unless this was a ploy to lower his guard through overwhelming audacity… no, maybe Lucina was somewhere it would take them several days to rendezvous, and he would notice their absence if they snuck off anyway… or perhaps…

The morning sun caught and refracted in the eyes of the fell dragon.

"No objections," said Grima. His face and tone gave away nothing. "Be on your way, o heroes of the future."

"You have done us a great service in our time together." Chrom stood to shake their hands. "Thank you. Should you ever wish to return, you will always have a place with us."

"We will come back." Kjelle's attention wasn't on the prince as she spoke. "I swear it."

Grima sat back as his men saw them off on their travels. This made months of tolerating them and getting garbage pumped into his veins all worth it. Splitting headache or no, his mind quickly spun up to full speed on how best to probe the situation and lay plans for the new contingencies.

The future children left them and breakfast resumed. It took Grima longer than he'd like to admit before he noticed that most of his table wasn't all that interested in finishing their food this morning. He swallowed the last shards of bone and addressed the table, "I doubt you are all waiting to offer your bear meat to me for my work last night."

"No way," said Morgan through a mouthful of meat. "I contributed too!"

He gave her one pat on the head to keep her happy and then ignored her to focus on the table at large. "Let me guess. This is about my methods."

"Mostly what you said," muttered Nah. "How am I supposed to have an appetite for anything…?"

"Frederick, testify that I followed the plan precisely. You agreed to this."

"I will confess," said Frederick. "He outlined much less damage to the subject than I first suspected."

Chrom took a bite out of his bread. He swallowed and then objected, "From what you told me, you flayed him alive."

"Word and action are different," scoffed Grima. "No permanent damage, exactly as agreed. His reaction came from psychological conditioning and the absence of the rush of battle."

The prince frowned, reluctant to wholly accept it. "Did you truly mean to make him eat his own legs?"

Nah abandoned all pretense of appetite and pushed her food away.

"You're a manakete," pointed out Morgan. "You put people in your mouth all the time, you should be the least queasy about eating them."

"Don't remind me!" said Nah, her head in her hands.

"Robin?" prompted Chrom. "Did you?"

"He'd be useless for information long before then," said Grima. A current of irritation slipped through. "From what you told me of him, I knew he'd break before it came to that. Deception is an inherent part of interrogation."

"And what if your bluff fell through?"

"Then it is fortunate that it didn't!" he snapped. Grima really had to take his mind off plotting for this?! "What if he was here to kill Sumia? And even if she survived, what if in five months you go to hold your newborn daughter and she emerges a tiny lifeless corpse, stolen by the venom on his blade?"

Both leaders got out of their seats, nearly nose to nose.

"That didn't happen," breathed Chrom. "Take that back."

"Gladly," seethed Grima. "When you cease to judge me for something I didn't even do." If Grima wanted to mutilate someone for fun, he wouldn't have bothered with all the speeches. He would've simply mutilated them.

Morgan nudged Frederick and whispered something in his ear. A conspicuous cough from the great knight drew their leaders' attention. The rest of camp had stopped to watch the argument unfold.

Grima and Chrom returned their gaze to each other. Gradually, they met on the same wavelength and slowly returned to their seats as one.

"I took a calculated risk and achieved my objective within expectations," said Grima. "It is the same role I have always fulfilled." Even so, he conceded under his breath, "But that scenario was too harsh. I rescind my words."

"As do I." Chrom mirrored the sentiment. Robin was still their tactician—calculating all the way down to the smallest confrontations. He addressed the others, "Men! If we're all done eating, break camp and make for Ylisstol. The culprit behind the attack needs apprehending."

The camp bustled with life again. Anna tilted her head from another table, watching prince and tactician exchange calmer words and then set off together. She remarked, "Are they friends or enemies? That's awfully intense for our leaders."

"Business as usual, the others told me," said Donnel. "Mind helpin' me get this table to that there wagon?"


For many years, Ylisstol was a city of peace. It represented a royal line that worked tirelessly to amend for the violence it inflicted on its neighboring country. It became a merry land with plentiful harvests and the centerpiece of international commerce thanks to the reform of its airborne military into couriers and messengers by Exalt Emmeryn. Although they marched into war on Plegia once more, the wicked acts of Gangrel and the death of the beloved Exalt at his hand earned the king little sympathy.

And yet after the war, that Plegian leech remained attached to the new Exalt's side. He installed himself into their royal court. Only the Shepherds' tactician on paper, but just as they understood Chrom to be the Exalt despite officially continuing as prince, everyone knew Robin was the Exalt's chief advisor in practice. An era of peace should have followed after the death of Gangrel. Instead, Robin wanted the once-decimated pegasus knight corps to grow beyond their old number! To pump more and more power into their army when they should be disarmed!

The nobles had grown used to seeing pegasus knights from the castle windows, white wings bright under the sun as they trained for war and took off to their missions. The last thing Mimas expected was to hear the great unified beat of vast wings taking flight after the sun had set.

And Mimas knew instantly, long before he raced to the nearest window to see the open gates admitting Prince Chrom and his retinue, that Robin had returned alive.

A sharp pain throbbed in his side as he sprinted down the castle corridors faster than ever before in his life. His heartbeat pounded in his ears. There were many gates out of Castle Ylisstol's walls. He had to flee. He couldn't fall into the hands of the Plegian war demon.

Mimas neared the tall doors leading out into the castle grounds—closed, with two dismounted pegasus knights securing the latch. Breathless and barely able to keep his head up, he ordered, "Open the door!"

The women exchanged a look.

"We cannot do that," one of them said.

"Do you have any idea who I am?!" Mimas wheezed out the words between his exhausted panting. "I am… Duke Mimas… I order you to open those doors!"

"A lockdown drill is underway," said the flier. "Sir Robin's orders. I'm sorry, milord, but we cannot do that."

"Damn it, damn it, damn it—"

Mimas' legs creaked and groaned, searing aflame as he ran as fast as they allowed. One torch after another raced through his blurring vision down the long halls. He didn't know where he meant to go—only anywhere but here!

The door slammed behind him. The lock turned, sealing him in his own study. Distantly, numbly, Mimas poured all the strength his body could muster into dragging his heavy oak desk in front of the door and then collapsed. Bile bubbled in the back of his throat. It was all he could do to stop himself from letting it rise up as he heard heavy footsteps nearing his study.

The doorknob rattled. Sharp and severe, Robin's voice uttered, "Like I thought. No backup in the event he failed. Open it."

"Done in five seconds or your money back!" chirped another woman's voice.

Something raked and scraped inside the lock, and Mimas hastily scrambled across the floor to get away. The door thudded to a stop against the heavy desk behind it. It slammed against the desk twice more.

"…Chrom," said Robin. "Minimize damage?"

"If you can help it," said Chrom.

"Breaking the window would be effortless… Frederick, on my mark. One, two—!"

The long silver lance wedged in the gap and functioned as a lever to force the door open, tipping the heavy desk back on two legs and then sending it crashing over. The devil tactician himself vaulted over the toppled barricade, his expression twisted into a pale mask of raw hatred as the silver sword flew from its sheath. Mimas screeched in terror, snatching a book from the nearest shelf to break the window—

Robin's fireball exploded before he could get there. The duke stumbled away from the burst of heat and tripped over himself, scrambling away the advancing Plegian nightmare. Frederick pushed the desk aside, admitting access for Prince Chrom and the small team of castle guards to follow their tactician into the study. Anna and Morgan peeked around the side of the door, and then the latter ducked back to keep watch on the hall.

Mimas stammered, "Wh—wha—what do you—what do you—"

"I warned you," said Robin. "You only get one chance."

"What in Naga's name are you talking about?! Aaagh!" Mimas hastily got to his feet and scrambled back as Robin got closer, until his back was to the wall with nowhere else to go. Robin reached into his coat and threw a knife down before him. Dark patches lingered on the blade once coated in venom.

"Don't bother," sneered the demon. "Faran has already sold you out."

"F-Faran?" Mimas' heart burned through several years' worth of beats.

"Oh, you know this name?"

"T-t-this is framing," wheezed Mimas. "I have done n-nothing wrong! I don't know who Faran is! You—you have the wrong person!"

"Oops." Robin looked down on him with a twisted smile. "Bad move, maggot."

The wicked grin melted away as he stepped back. The soldiers parted way as a young girl entered the room. She strode up to the trembling duke, one step after another, until they were barely at arm's length. She took a deep breath.

"This scent…" Nah locked eyes with him. "This is the scent of a liar, Duke Mimas."

"You…!" The slurry of indignation, fear, and anger reached its breaking point. Mimas struck out—

Massive draconic talons closed around his head and plucked him clean off the ground, his feet dangling in the air. The red dragon's deafening shriek collided with Mimas like a physical blow, rattling his organs in the flesh that shielded them. The soldiers that covered their ears felt the unearthly roar reverberate in their chests. Books trembled off their shelves. Staring into the dragon's maw, Mimas felt his robes and even the flesh of his face ripple in the solid waves of air crashing over him.

Mimas crumpled bonelessly to the floor as she dropped him. Nah returned to human form in a burst of light, backing off from the quivering mess with a repulsed expression identical to Robin.

"Well?" Robin turned back to the prince. "The prisoner confessed. Nah agrees. My deduction agrees. Mimas doesn't want the realm to descend into chaos with the death of the royal family. He only wants one man dead—or his power weakened. With little personal knowledge of the Shepherds, he assumed the newest recruits would be the easiest to pick off."

"Hold on," said Nah. "Others got targeted too. Morgan and Maribelle?"

"My right hand and my best guide to Ylisse's political world," said Robin. "The motive is only reinforced."

"You make a convincing point," said Chrom, brow furrowed. "We'll handle it from here. Frederick, may I leave his interrogation in your care?"

"Of course, milord." The great knight folded his arms behind his back and nodded to his soldiers. "Take him away."

As they dragged Mimas out, Nah's attention drifted to Grima. One of two things had happened in the past several days. Either he somehow coordinated an assassination attempt on them, in which case it wasn't a great assassination when the mastermind walked away worse off than any of them. The alternative was that he really was innocent, at least this time. Nah didn't forget that when she woke up, the enemy attacked Grima first—Grima, not the future child in the exact same tent. It couldn't be a trick after an opportunity that good.

"It's been a long march," said Chrom. "A lot has happened. Let's get some rest and we'll worry about the rest at dawn."

"…Agreed, for a change," said Grima. "Come, Morgan."

"I'll be up for a just a teensy bit longer!" Anna slinked off, waving as she went. "Heh heh, finally in town… where was that press…?"

They parted ways. Nah was left staring at the fell dragon's retreating back. Hmm… If Grima didn't plot this, he had as much interest in keeping them alive as he did the other Shepherds. If it was him, and he plotted it out right under her nose, Nah wasn't getting anything out of sticking to him all the time.

And honestly? Nah really wanted a good night's sleep for a change.

Grima heard Nah's footsteps fading away behind him. He couldn't completely stop a smirk from crawling across his face.

He found his familiar room in Castle Ylisstol just as he left it—the same books in the same order on the same shelves, the same half-organized texts and candles on the table.

"Scour the room," he said. Morgan understood and got to work checking every book and searching every nook and cranny for anything out of the ordinary.

The fell dragon strolled to the window. He had a view over the barracks on the castle grounds from here. Owain stood outside, no doubt having helped Lon'qu to his room before coming out to wait for Nah. The manakete in question came into view, crossing the field to greet her ally. Grima wasn't trained in reading lips… and they were too small for him to see the words on their tongues regardless. Moments like these made him miss the far sharper senses of his true form. Grima could barely tell their demeanour from here.

Nah turned and met the fell dragon's gaze. Slowly, keeping her eyes on him until he was completely beyond her range of vision, her head turned back and she said something else to Owain. The future children vanished into the barracks together.

They didn't wander off on the journey back. Lucina remained in hiding.

"All clear, Father." Snowy white hair popped out from under the bed, followed by the rest of Morgan.

Grima lifted his head and focused. "I feel no unusual spells," he murmured. "No hexes." At least, not until Tharja finished cooking up new ones. To some degree, Grima had to thank the witch. Half his experience in warding off observation stemmed from handling her in two lives.

The curtains snapped shut and Grima seated himself at his familiar table. Morgan took her chair opposite him while he pulled up their wooden game board and arranged the units on it. He picked up one of the tomes on the table and murmured an incantation. Colour faded across the board, plain wood taking on the tones of grass and dirt roads, translucent stone walls marking fortifications and forts as a false river trickled across the playing field. Laurent's toy books turned out to be good for something after all.

"I have a quiz for you," said Grima. "Do you recognize this scenario?"

Morgan squinted at the board and thought hard. "Um… I'm not sure. What's the scale? One unit is one person?"

"One unit is approximately one hundred soldiers in this setting."

"Okay, so that means this is…" Morgan got it. Her voice strengthened and she declared, "From Blood Teaches, the text on the war led by Chrom's father. This battle occurred near the west coast of Plegia. The group holding these forts is the Ylissean force. The Plegians are on the field, and coming up from the river are the Southron pirates."

"Correct. What happened here?"

"Ylisse established a defensible position but couldn't make any headway. Plegia would defend any attempt to break south, but wasn't likely to take back the forts. The Exalt demanded an offensive, so the commander…" Morgan gasped quietly as she made the connection. "He issued a challenge to the pirates. With the fog of war, the pirates ran into the Plegian force first and attacked them, allowing the Ylisseans to push before either enemy got their bearings."

"Correct."

"…You did it on purpose." Morgan's eyes flicked up from the board. "At the wedding."

"His profile was best suited in the court." Grima let a dark smile form without hiding. "He made for the perfect enemy. Very perceptive, Morgan."

"Kill with a borrowed knife," she muttered. "But ours didn't work?"

"Review our situation. We are alive and well in the Shepherds' company." Grima's eyes wandered to the curtain concealing the window. "The number of bodies is not the only measure of success. Broaden your perspective, Morgan. Who was responsible for hiring the assassins?"

"Duke Mimas." Morgan drew a short, quick breath. "The guy who kept getting in your way. You didn't deduce his motivations. You predicted them way before. That's why you chose to make him your enemy in the first place."

"And now he is removed," noted Grima. "Talks of succession will ensue. A power vacuum is left. His place in the web is empty. An heir will take his place, but before the confusion clears—"

"Let no disaster go to waste," finished Morgan. "Whether its gaining court power or removing an enemy, everything is a plus. And the only dangerous outcome was snuffed out as soon as you got that confession…"

"Do not forget that the surviving enemies must respond to this. And doing so reveals their hand. Two walk away and two remain."

"What can we do with that information?" Morgan racked her brain, but she couldn't come up with any good predictions just off of that. She was used to thinking in terms of big armies and divisions moving around. "Is now the time to act?"

"Reckless haste has ended many careers," said Grima. "The best time to gamble is when you lose nothing. Bringing that situation about is our role."

"You really expected everything." A smile grew across her face. "That's my father!"

"Not everything." Grima put a sharp end to Morgan's excitement. "He sent the wrong people, with the wrong weapons." The fell dragon expected to see his Grimleal put an end to the future children. Hadn't they spent enough time watching to know which Shepherds to kill? Didn't they follow him closely enough to pick up that he wanted them to arrange affairs with Mimas? The stupid maggots never were good for anything when Grima didn't have direct control.

It was easiest to manipulate an already wicked man into resorting to the acts Grima needed, but Grima should've expected the seediest noble in the court to have his fingers in the underbelly of human society. Mimas hired his killers from somewhere else. And venom took Grima completely by surprise. Robin had never fought against poisonous weapons before.

"Nonetheless," he said, "the core of the plan succeeded. All blame has been diverted. Our enemies keep their lives, but I have priorities besides taking them. I learned more than enough from this fiasco."

"What about their leader?" asked Morgan.

"Her?" Grima unfurled a huge map across the table. Every nation on the continent of Ylisse greeted his eye. The fell dragon's gaze rested on the Dragon's Table and then slid west. The last time Lucina was ever sighted was near the Plegian coastline.

His eye moved further, across the vast ocean, and settled on the land his ships would land at in four more years.

Was this a trap? A feint to lure him into acting openly?

She had to cast better bait than that.

Still, an infinitesimally small chance lingered. Lucina remained hidden in the vast world beyond his view. Grima would find a way to strangle the answer from it. He had plenty of time and the best position from which to act. He would do so on his terms. Not hers.

"We will see what fate has in store," murmured the fell dragon.