The scorching desert sun bore down onto Lucina as she sprinted through the dry grass. Searing wind slapped against her cheeks, and grains of sand trickled into her shoes with every step, abrasive against the soles of her feet. For every step she took, her legs cried a little harder, but she could hardly feel it past the prickling running up her tighs.

Feeling moisture running down her forehead, she wiped an arm over her face. It came away slick with sweat. Lucina gave a disgusted grunt, shaking her arm dry. As soon as she wiped it clean, another wave of sweat cascaded down her face. The crunch of the brush underfoot marked one step after another. It fell on deaf ears, the ringing in her head much louder than any noise around her, all centered around one thing.

She'd just killed her grandfather.

It couldn't have been anyone else. Falchion. Fighting on Plegian soil. The strange colors of the flag. It all swirled together to paint a very different picture than she would have liked.

A glance over her shoulder only revealed the barren plains. To her relief, no one seemed to be following her. That... that was good. The Ylisseans were probably busy with their dead Exalt.

The second her eyes wandered, her foot caught on a root. She managed to steady herself, but her run had taken a knife to the gut.

Her steps slowed. Lucina willed herself to move faster, but her legs, worn from time travel, the battle, and now this, refused to listen. The numbness coiled around her legs unwound inch by inch. The instant they did, the pain caught up to her, practically slamming into her.

Her head felt like a hammer, and her joints tore at their sockets. The great, heaving breaths she took rattled her lungs, and a faint thrum resounded in her ear, her heart pounding against her chest.

She'd already lost track of how long she had been running. An hour? An hour and a half? Five minutes? It didn't matter, just as long as she didn't get caught.

Fighting her fatigue every step of the way, Lucina cursed when her feet snagged on another tangle of grass. It was an action she regretted immediately.

As soon as her voice passed through her throat, it cracked. A sharp blade wove through the inside of her neck, gouging smooth, dry chunks from it. Each breath passed through it rubbed against the throbbing pain, leaving them feeling raw every time she sucked in a gust of air.

Her throat felt unbearably dry. Lucina let out a ragged cough. Her hand fell to her side, fingering her belt for her canteen. Her fingers traced over leather, over her still empty sheathe, and over the metal buckle. But her canteen was gone.

She would have cursed again. Instead, she let out a yelp as her legs finally gave out, and her knees buried themselves into the dirt. Her hands followed, throwing themselves out in sacrifice to keep her face in the air. The scorching dirt seared her palms. She bit back a cry, instead curling her hands into fists, digging into the ground as she did.

Dimly, she heard herself mutter, "...can't stop here... my father needs me..."

She tried to push off the ground. Her bones groaned in protest, and she buckled instead. Her lips twisted into a scowl, not ready to accept defeat just yet.

She tried again. This time, her bones weren't so kind, threatening to fail entirely if she tried one more time. Lucina refused to listen. Not when so much could be on the line.

Her grandfather was dead. Killed by her own hand. She couldn't save her father if she was executed for treason.

Just when she thought she'd finally built up the strength to push herself back to her feet, a glimmer caught her eye.

Even through the shimmering heat, it was impossible to miss the tiny brook of water, sparkling in the blistering desert sun. The cool, refreshing water, running past her, barely an arm's length away.

It was a tempting offer, to stop and take a drink at the brook. She would have to give up, even if only for a moment. But then, she was only human, wasn't she? With her canteen missing, dropped on the battlefield or left in the future, she didn't know, what other option did she have?

A short break couldn't hurt.


It would only take a moment, Emmeryn told herself.

Just one more minute in bed, she thought, turning over, tucked within her bedsheets. I'm not ready.

Of course, she also knew that if she didn't get up now, she never would be.

She peeled her eyes open, and the soft morning light flooded in. Birdsong drifted in from the open window with the cool breeze, her curtains fluttering and flickering in the wind. The sun, flowing in alongside it, bathed her white sheets in a heavenly glow like the breath of Holy Dragon herself had wrapped itself around her and kissed her cheeks with warmth.

A sigh dragged itself out of her lips, just as Emmeryn dragged herself out of bed. Once the bedsheets rolled back, leaving her exposed to the damp air, she wanted nothing more than to pull them up again. She shivered at the sudden drop in temperature around her, but her body adjusted to it before she could complain.

She sat up, the mattress crackling under her shifting weight, and she arched her back and stretched her arms into the air. Her joints popped, as she let out a small yawn. Her hand came up a second too late to cover it. She pretended she couldn't have caught it if she wanted to. Her tutors would have had her head even then, but they weren't here yet, so it wasn't as if such things mattered.

Again, her bedsheets called to her, its inviting embrace tempting to fall back into. She ran a hand through her hair. A hum slipped from her, and for a moment, she let her mind linger on how nice it was to just sit at the edge of her bed, the cares of the world nothing but distant thoughts.

As tantalizing as its offer was, though, such was not to be. Judging from the sun clawing its way into her bedroom, she would have lessons soon enough, as much as it pained her to admit.

If only I could hold the sun in its place while I sleep, she thought. Just another hour is all I need.

As if to rub it in her face, reality came knocking on her door.

Emmeryn frowned. She'd not even have a few minutes to herself, it seemed.

"Come in!" she called.

She realized a second later that her plain yellow nightclothes might not be the best manner to address anyone, but by then, the door had already creaked open.

An elderly man emerged from the door, a pair of spectacles sat on his nose. "Your Grace, I–" His eyes fell on her, and he stopped. "Oh, I didn't know you had yet to dress yourself," he said, bowing his head. "Forgive me, I'll return when you call for me."

"No, it's fine, Tomas," Emmeryn said, and she held out an arm to stop the elderly man. "Please, speak."

"I must insist. It is improper for one as lowly and humble as myself to speak with you on such terms."

"Nonsense. I'd very much like to hear all the same. It must be urgent if you've come to me this early."

"Ah. Well, you see…" The man, Tomas, tapped his fingers together, his lips stretched into a sadden expression that seemed all too restrained. "The news I bear... it's not as pleasant as you might imagine."

"Not as..." Emmeryn's brows pulled down, taking a second to wrap her mind around his words. "You mean bad news?"

"Yes. That. Bad news... regarding the... war, you see."

Emmeryn's brows sunk even further at that mention. "The war?"

"Does this displease Your Grace? If it does, I shall refrain from speaking of it."

"No, it's just that–" Then she noticed the discrepancy. "Your Grace? Tomas, that's my father's title. I'm not Exalt yet. And I thought all this war business was supposed to be directed to someone more suited to react."

"Well, you see... I believe it important for someone of your standing to know the circumstances surrounding you and your family, and..."

"Tomas? What are you trying to say?"

Tomas' face twitched. "We tried our best to save him. The brave men and women on the front lines, they fought so hard to keep him with them, but in the end, he..."

Suddenly the room felt too cold for her, the world too big. Her stomach clenched, and the sunlight, moments ago a comforting presence, seared through her clothes and into her skin. All her carefree thoughts from the morning felt so distant.

"Your esteemed father, Exalt Alabaster Lowell, is dead."


"Dead, you say?"

"Yes, it would seem so. I saw him die myself. I assume all according to your plans?"

"Yes, yes. He wasn't long for this world, anyway. This changes nothing."

The faint cry of insects filled the air as soon as the conversation dropped. The tent flap fluttered, the wind pushing it aside as it circled the two men in the room. Around them, the sound of distant chattering broke through the morning rhythm, and the shadows of soldiers milling about flickered on the tarp.

Sitting at the other end of the table, Validar scowled. His eyes narrowed, almost as if to drill holes through the head of the wyvern rider sitting before him. Orton, he vaguely remembered from his earlier introduction.

It wasn't as if the news displeased him. Far from it. He had planned the Exalt's death, but to hear that he'd been killed earlier was a pleasant surprise, especially since it gave him more time to hunt down a certain pest hiding in the kingdom.

It was less of a problem as to what the message was than who was delivering it.

"Well, if you have nothing more to say," Orton said, turning back toward the tent entrance, "then I'll see myself out–"

"Wait."

A smirk tugged at Orton's lips. A smirk Validar would have loved nothing better than to quash with a Waste spell to the face.

Instead, he let a smile of his own spread over his face. "Come. Sit," he said, and he motioned for the chair across from him.

Orton pulled out a chair next to it instead. Validar's eye twitched, but he didn't comment. Instead, he reached down and pulled out a small pouch. From the pouch, he pulled out a piece of hard candy.

"Caramel?" he said, offering the bad toward the wyvern rider.

Orton raised an eyebrow, but he didn't move.

"It's sweet," Validar added. "A delicacy from the royal kitchen."

"Then I don't mind if I do." Orton leaned over the table and plucked the candy from Validar's fingers, much to Validar's irritation, and popped it into his mouth. Validar let his hand fall back beneath the table.

"Orton." He let the name roll around his tongue, testing the feel of it in his mouth. "I don't believe we've met before. A new recruit, I assume? One of Lieutenant Vasto's wyvern riders."

Orton's eyes wandered to his fingers, and he drummed them against the table. "Not for long, not if I have anything to say about it."

"Oh? Ambitious, are we?"

"I was my master's top student. I'd expect nothing less of myself."

"Yes. Well, I haven't seen your prowess in battle, so I can't say."

"You only need to see me once, I'll promise you that."

Validar's lips curled. "Oh, I've already seen enough."

"Pardon?"

"You wouldn't be here if you truly were climbing the ranks. No, you'd be back at the front lines, wouldn't you, messenger boy?"

"Aha." Orton chuckled. "The others don't share my sentiment. Simply because I do not have the same experience they do, they place insignificant errands on my shoulders. A simple mistake to make, yet one that only a fool would make. But you, you're no fool, are you?"

"A fool?" Validar chuckled. "Boy, do you know who I am?"

"You're Validar, the king's hierophant and tactician. Sorry–former king's hierophant and tactician."

"And what does a tactician do?"

"I don't know." Orton waved his hand in lazy circles. "Plan things for the Grimleal, I assume? Last I heard, you were planning something big for them."

"Big doesn't even begin to describe it."

"I've heard you've been pretty successful so far, eh? Wouldn't you hate it if something went wrong? Maybe because you couldn't get all the details?"

Validar gritted his teeth. "What do you want?"

"With our king killed from our most recent battle, and the Ylisseans withdrawing their troops, there's been talk of civil war. The king never had an heir, you see, so the throne is up for grabs. What I want," Orton said, leaning over the table, "is a favor."

"A favor? Those can be quite dangerous."

"But also very powerful."

Validar muttered something.

"I can't hear you," Orton said, and he cupped his ear.

"I'll think about it."

"Not good enough. I'll need your word. An advisor's word is worth quite a bit, wouldn't you say?"

Validar hummed. His chair creaked as he fell back into it, his hands steepled before him. He stared down Orton, completely silent for a few seconds.

"Describe to me," he said at last, "how the Exalt died. I know you have a written report on you, but surely it would be so much better to hear it from an esteemed warrior as yourself."

Orton glanced up at the ceiling, and he chuckled. "Well, it happened sometime around midday, in front of one of those old Grimleal temples. The last I saw of him, he was writhing on the floor with a big hole in his chest."

Validar's eyes closed, and he nodded. "But who killed him?"

"Your word. Then I'll tell."

Validar didn't speak. Instead, a smile spread over his face. Silence draped over the table, the only sound the crunch of teeth grinding hard candy. It stretched on for seconds, then minutes, until Orton finally broke it by clearing his throat.

"If you've got nothing to say, I suppose you'll never know what I have to say," he said.

The chair creaked as he tried to get up. His eyes widened when his arms wouldn't budge. When his gaze fell beneath the table, he found oozing tendrils of magic wrapped around him, binding him to the chair. A sinister glow washed off from him, and as he looked back at Validar, the hierophant only grinned.

Only then did Validar allow his hand to rise above the table, dark magic woven around his fingertips.

"You call me a fool for underestimating you, yet the only fool here is you. Your pathetic mortal mind cannot begin to comprehend power such as my own."

Orton opened his mouth, perhaps to plead for his life.

"Elfire!" Validar cut him off, thrusting his hand toward the wyvern rider's face.

The tent lit up in a bright orange.

Validar stretched his lips into a grin, his teeth gleaming in the low light. He savored the scent of burning flesh for the few seconds it lingered. Writhing on the floor, Orton's screams began to fade as his consciousness slipped away, half of his face charred black.

Looking down at him, Validar scoffed. "If you want to move up in the world, I suggest you keep in mind who you antagonize, lest you find yourself in the maws of a more powerful predator."

He cared little if Orton had heard, or if he was still alive at all. As far as he was concerned, if Orton woke, he'd learned his lesson.

The tent flap rustled. Validar glanced back up just in time to see a Grimleal priest enter, his head bowed.

"Is now a poor time, Master Validar?" the priest asked.

"Not at all," Validar said. He motioned to the unconscious Orton lying on the floor, traces of smoke still wafting from his face. "Find somewhere to dispose of this nuisance. In the middle of the camp, in a river, whichever is convenient."

"As you wish."

As the Grimleal priest knelt to pick up the body, Validar leaned back, his lips pursed as he let his thoughts stew.

The Exalt's killer, huh? It can't be one of ours. The soldiers are hardly the quietest bunch, so if it was, the rabble would never shut up about it. It's either one of the Exalt's own men, or a neutral party. How inconvenient.

The Grimleal priest had made it halfway out the tent flap when Validar called for him to stop.

"Chalard, was it?" he asked.

"Yes, that is my name," the priest replied. "Or so I've been told."

"Tell the wyvern riders we have in this camp to tail any Ylissean pegasus knights they come across. Tail, not engage. Sparking another war is the last thing I want to do, at least for now."

"As you wish."

"And another thing: once you finish, I want you to head to Ylissitol. Keep track of any prisoners that find their way to the dungeons. If the Exalt's kin are anything like him, they'll stage an execution for his killer."

"And then?"

"I'll give you further instructions once this mysterious killer is caught."

The Grimleal priest bowed his head one last time. Then he disappeared through the tent flap. His footsteps, made ever more present by the crunch of dry grass, faded soon enough, leaving Validar to himself.

Flames crackled and popped as he lit a plume of dark magic in his palm. Watching it flicker in his hand, an ever-changing swirl of green and purple, he said, "Soon, my love, I'll find you. And when I do, you'll learn what happens to those who get between a man and his power."


My computer shut down in the middle of writing this, making the process of getting it done a ton more complicated than it should have been. Also, I went back and tweaked the last chapter so the Exalt wasn't wearing anything on the hand Lucina chomped down on. At first, I was going to let it fly, but then I realized I could probably do something with removing that pesky gauntlet from existence.

Something that the older version of this story didn't do so well was setting up the major characters. Heck, it took me twelve chapters to get into Aversa, so this chapter does just that by introducing Emmeryn and Validar into the story as soon as possible. Unless you have a reason for keeping a character in the shadows, it is best to simply get your major characters out as soon as possible.

As for the non-major characters, both Orton and Chalard are characters from the game. Since they old had 3-4 lines max, I had to do a lot of bending to try to squeeze as much character from them. Tomas isn't exactly an original character either. I gave him the name, but he actually is based on a character from the actual game. If you can guess who, I'll give you an internet cookie.

I'll try to get the next chapter out by next Tuesday. Until then, I wish you all the best, and remember to stay safe!