A lot of thoughts rushed into Mòrag's head at once. Who could be leaking information about their movements, and to a criminal, no less? Senator Carrow seemed the most likely option; the timing of his taunts at the gala was uncanny. But no, that was too simple, wasn't it? The spy could be anyone: another Brionac Senator, a political advisor, even a servant. Their journey to apprehend Cor had not been publicized, but anyone who had been inside the palace recently would know.

"Mòrag, what do you want us to do?"

She shook her head, hoping to clear it. They were too vulnerable here to waste time hypothesizing about the culprit's identity. And with many of their supplies burnt, they had little hope of pursuing Cor any further on this expedition. Had she been alone with Brighid, she might have pressed on despite the danger. But she couldn't ask her friends to do something so rash.

"Let's return to the outpost. We'll figure out what to do from there."

"No more sleeping?" Tora asked sheepishly.

"Masterpon must skip sleeping as punishment for falling asleep on guard duty," Poppi said.

"Poppi! That not Tora's fault! And Poppi ought to have been talking to keep Tora awake. Poppi to blame, too."

"No one was hurt," Dromarch interrupted. "So there's no need to pass blame. We're all tired and in need of food. Our remaining stores will only last a day or two. We must get back to the outpost before they run out."

"He's right. There's not much else we can do."

During most of the trek back to the military outpost, no one spoke. Mòrag was grateful for the silence; her mind kept replaying the details of their excursion over and over. What had she missed? Something just didn't feel right about it. The spy was one thing, but there was something else. Something familiar. And instinct told her that it was critical information that she ought to have recognized.

Her old teacher's Blade...could it really be Ciaran? If that were true, the Blade wouldn't be the same individual she had known years ago. He would have returned to his core when his Driver died. But even a new Ciaran could prove problematic, especially as an enemy. His ability to block remote ether attacks would force hand-to-hand combat—assuming they even managed to track him down. But who was his new Driver? Cor? The man behind the growing crime underworld? Neither option boded well.

"Lady Mòrag, I'm sorry we weren't able to apprehend him."

"We were so close. Curse that man."

Chasing Cor to the unoccupied zone had taken them little more than a day. Mòrag had not realized what a reckless pace she drove the party at until they made the return journey. Battle-worn and dejected as they were, the undergrowth seemed thicker, the trail harder to spot. What took them an hour before now took three. Tempers worsened, especially once the food stores were depleted; the little they could hunt and gather did little to sate their appetites. Even Kora ran out of things to say.

On the fourth morning, the outpost finally came into view. As the primary military encampment along the neutral zone's border, it was a large one. Several decades of men milled about, training as a unit or patrolling their assigned zones. An airship rumbled above the landing dock, loaded with foodstuffs and ammunition. Urayan tensions aside, the entire outpost was on alert for criminal activity.

Every soldier snapped to attention as Mòrag passed.

"He got away again? Damn." One whispered.

Brighid glared at the speaker. Any further murmurs fell quiet.

Mòrag led her friends to the command center, where she found Padraig—newly restored to his captaincy—hard at work assigning men to a new patrol route. She was glad for him; Padraig was a fine soldier (excluding his ineptitude for colors). The nonsense with Dughall had been an unlucky break; his return to his previous post was a testament to his hard work and unwavering loyalty.

"Special Inquisitor!" Padraig saluted. "How may I be of service, ma'am?"

"There is much to discuss, Captain. But breakfast would be a welcome start."

"Of course. I'll have it arranged immediately. But before I do so, I was asked to give you this. A capitol messenger delivered it yesterday."

Padraig handed over a sealed envelope with the imperial seal. Inside were two notes. The larger one, which enclosed the smaller one, was in Niall's handwriting, an immaculate gothic script. The letter was brief:

Dear sister,

I pray that this letter finds you well and that the Architect blessed you with a successful mission. While I am loath to recall you so quickly from your post, I require your presence in the capitol as soon as possible, as demonstrated in the enclosed note. By the time this notice reaches you, I suspect that our guests will have already arrived at Hardhaigh Palace. As such, please return at your earliest possible convenience.

I look forward to hearing your report upon your arrival.

With love,

Niall

The second note had been scrawled haphazardly on a scrap of paper without even a salutation.

Dad liked the marriage idea. Coming to Mor Ardain soon with a Tantal delegation to "negotiate terms." See you soon. —Zeke

Mòrag sighed. Everything moved far too quickly for her liking. After the gala, she thought she had at least two weeks to sort through her own feelings about a political marriage to Zeke. And she expected Zeke to mosey his way back to Tantal in no rush. But he practically sprinted home. And then there was Eulogimenos; given his isolationism, anyone would have predicted that Tantal's king would take weeks to even consider his son's marriage to a foreigner. But perhaps his desire to save his people from poverty was a far more powerful motivator than she expected. After all, Tantal stood to gain a lot from an alliance with Mor Ardain.

On one hand, she hated how decisive everyone had been—she could not summon that same assertiveness in herself. Not for this. But on the other hand, Senator Carrow and other Brionac party members hungered for more power. The sooner the crown could make an official announcement, the better. And to help their cause, the paperwork for a political alliance would inevitably stall the Senate's less savory actions.

"Captain Padraig, never mind the breakfast after all. Please have my private vessel prepared to sail as soon as possible. I must return to the capitol."

"As you wish. She'll be ready within the hour."

Padraig excused himself, and Mòrag briefly explained the letter to her companions.

"So the marriage thing's a go?" Kora asked. Her eyes gleamed like a child on her birthday.

"...If negotiations go well, then it seems so."

"Oi, Nia! Pay up!" Rex beamed.

The Gormotti bared her little fangs playfully before handing over a small stack of gold coins.

Brighid shook her head. "Betting again?"

Rex blushed a little. "Yeah. Nia didn't think Zeke's dad would agree to it. But thanks to this, I've finally made up what I lost to Pandoria."

"And Tora still flat broke."

Mòrag was informed about most of her friends' antics at the gala, but the ongoing betting was one thing she remained blissfully unaware of until that moment. The thought of it embarrassed her. Knowing they were making wagers was almost worse than Kora's teasing.

"Even after a year, you lot are still just a bunch of children, aren't you?"

"Pretty much."

"On a more serious note, however, I do appreciate your help this past week. You're welcome to come back to Mor Ardain, or I can make arrangements for you to return home."

"Actually, Mòrag, we had another—" Nia began.

"We want to keep looking for this Cor bastard," Rex interrupted. "I know this case has been giving you a lot of trouble. We were thinking that maybe a bunch of fresh eyes might help, you know?"

"Rex, I cannot ask you to do that," Mòrag said. "It's clear to me now that we have something of a crime syndicate growing underneath our noses. Even I have no idea how extensive it is. And Cor is somehow involved with it. He certainly seems to have found himself some very dangerous allies. You could be walking into a Feris den for all I know. And this is an Imperial matter. I can't ask you to risk your lives for this."

"And who says we're asking permission to go? We're your friends, not your subjects." Nia crossed her arms, her ears twitching in determination.

"That's right. We're going to do this whether you ask us to or not," Rex insisted.

Mòrag recognized the expression in the young salvager's eyes. He wore that look the day the third Aegis sword broke at the Crucible, when they faced off against Amalthus, when he begged to help track down Bana's factory. No one could dissuade him now.

"I won't be able to come rescue you like I did back at Bana's factory," she warned. "You must promise me you won't be reckless."

"Of course! 'The cautious diver gets the most crates.' That's rule nine of the salvager's code."

"You just made that up. And it doesn't even make any sense, you idiot." Nia smirked.

"...All right, Rex. You can go. But if you're lucky enough to find Cor, bring him in alive. I want to sentence him myself."

Rex grinned. "You bet. Can't promise we won't punch him up a fair bit, though."

At that moment, Captain Padraig returned and bowed tersely. "Special Inquisitor, your ship will be ready in twenty minutes on dock nine. Also, the kitchens prepared quoteletta this morning. I took the liberty of having some brought aboard for you."

"Thank you, Captain. There's been a slight change of plans. The Driver of the Aegis and his companions will be staying here a while longer to continue this assignment. You are to afford him the same respect you would give me. Whatever he needs is to be given him, including soldiers and airships. I trust his judgment."

"Yes, ma'am.

The remainder of the day rocketed along at a breakneck pace. Mòrag sat aboard the airship in silence, poking at the quoteletta with a fork. It was excellent fare, but even with her hunger, it did not appeal to her today. Brighid penned furiously in her journal rather than talking. Thus they passed the entire journey, and before Mòrag had gnawed her way through a single serving, she found herself freshening up in her quarters.

For a moment, she was tempted to curl up and hide here. The Tantalese delegation had arrived—according to the shipyard manager, the negotiations began two days earlier. She needed to attend. But that meant confronting everything she'd hoped to put off a while longer.

"Would you like me to come along?" Brighid asked.

"Please."

To Mòrag's relief, the summit was quite small despite the stations of the dignitaries present. With King Eulogimenos were two of his most trusted advisors, Fortis and Evart, and of course, Zeke. Aegeon faded into the background behind Niall. Representing the Senate was Senator Birall, and Lord Killian represented the royal counselors. Judging by the papers strewn across the table and the men's expressions, the morning's negotiations had already gone on for several hours.

Mòrag took her customary seat on Niall's right, across from Eulogimenos and next to Zeke. Someone had broken protocol to seat Zeke anywhere but beside his father. And judging by Niall's expression, it was he who had done it. At least the Emperor could afford such indulgences.

"Please forgive my tardiness, gentlemen."

Zeke leaned over. "I didn't think 'fashionably late' was your style," he whispered.

"Duty calls."

Senator Birall shot the prince a warning glance before continuing his speech. "As I was saying, Your Majesty, the Senate has no objections to the principle of the marriage itself. An alliance between our countries will be quite advantageous. However, I have concerns about how succession will fall."

"King Eulogimenos and I have already discussed it at length. Provisions have been set for all contingencies in accordance with the law. Any children from this union would have a legitimate claim to both the throne of Tantal and Mor Ardain. In Elysium, the logistics of such mutual sovereignty should not prove problematic."

"Your brother is a shrewd negotiator, you know," Zeke whispered. "He probably could have gotten the old man to sign over all of Tantal if he wanted to."

Mòrag smiled proudly. It wasn't the first time someone had underestimated Niall's skill on account of his age. The young Emperor never took advantage of others, but he certainly knew how to leverage the power of the world's oldest nation to suit his goals.

"You misunderstand me, Your Majesty. I am speaking of succession within Mor Ardain. For the immediate future, your sister is your sole heir. And going forward, her children will naturally be heirs to the throne. But as I understand it, sire, you hope to wed one day yourself. Then you will have heirs of your own. As the current Emperor's direct descendants, your children would have primary claim to the throne. But Lady Mòrag's children will have legitimate claim to both thrones. It is my fear that heirs with claims to two thrones may view their claim as more legitimate than your children's. Our law has no provisions for such a circumstance. We could have a war of succession thirty years from now."

Niall smiled politely. It was no secret that Senator Birall had hoped to be considered for this political marriage himself—and if not for Zeke, he might have been the first choice. The Emperor expected the Senator might voice extraneous complaints regarding a Mor Ardain-Tantal union.

"I find your concerns a bit far-fetched, Senator, but I do have an answer for them. Legally, my sister's heirs will have more claim to the throne than I myself do."

There were a few confused gasps around the table.

"Observe, gentlemen."

Niall presented one of the last things Mòrag expected to see: her adoption papers. Her uncle, childless, had needed signed approval from countless government officials to adopt her as his heir. She read it once a long time ago; the document was more of a formality than anything. But the full impact of the terms had not struck her until the document was read aloud:

I, the undersigned, by the authority afforded to me as Emperor of Mor Ardain, hereby adopt my niece Lady Mòrag Ladair, daughter of my late brother, Lord Eandraig Ladair, and appoint her as my heir. Henceforth, she shall be granted all rights and privileges afforded to a full-blood member of the Ardanach line, including, but not limited to, the office of Empress and a claim to resonate with Brighid, the Jewel of Mor Ardain if she so chooses and the Architect has seen fit to grant her the potential to do so.

In the unlikely event that the Architect chooses to grace my house with a full-blooded Ardanach male heir, the empire's governance shall pass to him in accordance with Ardainian statute thirty-seven. However, as she is in effect by law with the passing of this agreement, my firstborn in all but blood, she shall retain all other rights and privileges granted to the Ardanach's eldest child unless she herself chooses to forego them.

"...So there you have it. Mòrag is, from a legal standpoint, the eldest of our house. Surely you can understand what that means, Senator Birall," Niall grinned, triumph flashing in his eyes. "In fact, your signature is on this bill, so you cannot contest it. Given the late emperor's wording, 'all other rights and privileges granted to the eldest child,' the Ardanach bloodline passes through Mòrag, not me. As such, any children she has with Zeke would, in effect, have more claim to the throne than myself."

Zeke whistled loudly. "Sending the bloodline through an adopted child? That's quite the unique setup. What made the Emperor do that?"

"I have often wondered that myself. But I cannot know my father's mind. He made his share of controversial decisions; this was his wish. Senator Birall, does the Senate have any sustainable objections?"

Birall did a poor job masking his resigned frustration. "No, Your Majesty. Once the remaining logistical matters have been addressed, the Senate will have no choice but to approve the arrangement."

"Emperor Niall, much yet remains to be discussed, but it seems we have the framework of an agreement," Eulogimenos began. "I believe the time has come to make a formal announcement."

"Already?" Mòrag blurted.

She immediately regretted the outburst. She had not gotten enough sleep lately, and now she was reacting emotionally. As royalty, she was expected to save face at all times. Her frustration at being left out of all the negotiations did not matter. Legally, she and Zeke did not have to be consulted in the proceedings at all; Eulogimenos and Niall did them a courtesy by allowing them to attend. If the kings wanted to make a formal announcement, then the news was as good as out.

Normally, she loved the breakneck pace of her work. But just this once, she wished everything would slow down.

"I will brief you on the details later, Inquisitor," Niall promised. "But now the dinner hour is upon us."

"And tonight we have much to celebrate," Eulogimenos agreed. He smiled—or at least, on the stoic king, it looked like a smile—and stood in unison with the Emperor. The rest of the table followed as the kings exited the room.

Zeke tugged on her wrist. "You okay?"

She stopped and turned to face him. "I'm fine. It's just been a long day. A long week, really."

"Mission not go well?"

"It brought more questions than answers, unfortunately."

"I'm sorry. That's a real bummer. It must be a really important case if you had to rush off for it like that. I mean, when we got here, I didn't expect you to be gone already."

"And I did not expect you to return so quickly." She forced her tone to remain steady and polite. Why the small talk?

"So...I guess this means we're getting married."

"It seems so," Mòrag said simply. But the word "married" struck her like a punch in the stomach.

"You know, most people kiss when they get engaged."

She rolled her eyes. Of course that was what he was after. Always the flirt. "We don't have to force what isn't there, Zeke."

"Says the woman who wants to have a child as soon as possible."

"That's different. I have to. They'll steal Niall's throne if I don't."

"I'm not sure it's so different. And you might like it, you know."

"You're not going to let this go, are you?"

He shook his head, smirking.

"...Fine. But just one. They're waiting on us."

Zeke pressed his lips against hers, quick, eager. Her brain hardly had time to process the sensation before he withdrew. The last time she'd been kissed, well...she hadn't enjoyed it. But this time, even with his brief, innocent touch, a foreign, dull warmth tickled in her chest. She exhaled sharply, not realizing she had been holding her breath.

He looked at her with a wide, unblinking eye. "Told you you'd enjoy it."

"That's not—I mean—"

Zeke moved to kiss her again, but Mòrag shrunk back.

"I-I have to go," she stammered. "Work."

She exited the room abruptly, trying to force her wildly beating heart to calm down. In truth, part of her had wanted to kiss him again. But that was what scared her.

This made no sense. She knew she regarded Zeke as a friend. A political marriage did not change that. But barely a week and a half had passed since the arrangement had even been mentioned. And while Niall had given her some input in some of the process, the actual decision had not fallen to her. Why, then, had a tiny peck on her lips made her shaky? Surely that couldn't be right. She was performing her duty to the Emperor. This was just another mission to protect him. She wasn't supposed to enjoy it.

You don't deserve to enjoy it. Zeke's a good, honest guy. But you're just a hypocrite. If he knew what you'd done, he wouldn't kiss you. Wouldn't like you. Wouldn't marry you, not even for political gain. He deserves better than you.

Her spine tingled as bad memories threatened to surface. She tried to push them—and the nagging, bitter voice that came with—to the back of her mind. It wouldn't do to think about that now. No. Now she had to focus on duty. No feelings, just actions. Actions were safe and, more importantly, controllable.

Ignoring the rumbling of her stomach, she returned to her quarters and set to work on the paperwork that piled up in her absence. Performance reviews. Transfer requests. Supply routes to approve. Applications for the vacant captaincy. Everything neat and orderly. Read through, decide, sign, fold, seal.

The mundane nature of the task soothed her, washing away some of the panicked sensation she'd experienced. Her focus was so deep that she didn't even notice when Brighid entered. The Blade began to seal the envelopes for her, silently falling into the rhythm of the task as if she'd been doing it all along. Only when Mòrag reached the bottom of the pile did she look up.

"I thought you might need to talk," Brighid offered.

"Hmm," Mòrag tossed aside her hat and rested her chin on her desk.

"I can guess what this is about. Zeke kissed you for the first time, and you didn't know how to react. So you ran away...But why?"

"I-I almost liked it, Brighid."

"And is that such a bad thing? You'll be doing much more than that once you're married."

"I can't have feelings for him."

"Is it that you don't want to? Or you're scared to?"

"Of course I'm scared. You know better than anyone why."

"Zeke isn't like that. He would not have agreed to this political marriage if he were."

"…I'm being downright pathetic, aren't I? Just a damn coward."

"You're not a coward, Lady Mòrag. It's perfectly legitimate to be frightened by change, especially this one. But please, don't push away what could be for fear of what was."

"...I thought you hated the idea of me marrying him."

"Lady Mòrag, if I may...I have served you for more than half of your lifetime. I would like to think you trust my judgment. At first, I hated this idea. And I still hold no fondness for Zeke myself. I find him crass, and I do not appreciate his sense of humor. But...against his moral character I have nothing to say. If it puts your mind at ease, know that I am confident that he would conduct himself honorably as your husband." Brighid paused. "That said, I believe you should tell him the truth."

"I can't."

"I fear you'll be miserable if you don't. And he's not ignorant, Mòrag. He'll probably piece together part of the story on his own."

"He might. But we'll cross that bridge when we come to it. Hopefully we never have to."

Brighid opened her mouth to argue, but a soft knock cut her off. She moved to answer the door.

"Is, er, is Mòrag in? She didn't come to dinner, and I thought she could use this."

Even from her desk across the room, Mòrag recognized his voice. "Send him in, Brighid."

Zeke entered, a plate of food from the palace kitchens steaming in his hands. He set it in front of her. "Thought you might be hungry."

She nodded. "And is that all?"

"...No. Brighid, can we have a minute?"

The Fire Blade scowled at a direct request from the prince, but she excused herself.

"Look, I just wanted to say I'm sorry, all right? I...I pressured you for a kiss when you clearly weren't ready to. I shouldn't have done that. It was out of line," Zeke murmured.

She never expected an apology from him. Zeke did what he believed was right, never caring what others thought about him—not even his own father. Apologies were not his style. When the rare "I'm sorry" did cross his lips, he truly meant it.

"I suppose I owe you an apology, too," Mòrag admitted. "I'm sending you, well, mixed signals. The whole purpose of this agreement is to produce an heir for our countries. It's unfair of me to ask you to do...that and then deny you such a simple gesture." She hoped that the dim firelight would mask the blush that crept into her cheeks at the thought.

"I still shouldn't have forced it on you. It was immature."

"As was my reaction." Mòrag confessed. Now that she thought about it, running away was the most childish thing she could have done.

Zeke smiled. "For a minute there I was worried that you thought I was bad at it."

"Not exactly...It probably comes as no surprise to you that I'm not very good at personal relationships, not even with my brother. I've never been any good with feelings. So I don't...I don't know how to react to all this. I'm overwhelmed. And to make things worse, it's happening so fast."

She shook her head. Again, she'd said more than she intended. What was it about him that made her drop her guard so easily?

"I get it. This is jolly tough. I've had some downtime to wrap my head around it. But you haven't. So take the time you need to process it, okay? I won't pester you about it," Zeke promised.

"I appreciate that...And thank you for bringing the food. It was thoughtful."

For a moment, Mòrag forgot that they were in the privacy of her apartments. Nowhere else would she be sitting so informally, gloves and jacket off with her sleeves rolled up to her elbows. She stretched. Her spine popped as she leaned from side to side, arms extended overhead. Zeke's smile shifted into a frown as he watched her; his eyes settled just above her head.

Damn. Why hadn't she left her sleeves down? She cut the stretch short and crossed her arms, hoping Zeke hadn't noticed the marred skin on her forearms.

But to her dismay, he lunged.

Zeke often lulled his opponents into a false sense of security with his "snazzy" combat theatrics, letting it seem like his massive blade slowed him down. But when he wanted to be quick, he proved why he earned his "Thunderbolt" moniker. So even though Mòrag tried to dodge, he easily caught hold of her wrist and got a better look at the marks.

"So that's why you're always wearing gloves."

She tried to summon the cold, noncommittal expression she wore in court but failed. Of all things for him to see. It was one thing to admit out loud that she was overwhelmed. But for him to see this? Before, he respected her. Now he would pity her. She hated pity more than anything. It made her feel weak.

Mòrag ripped her arm from his grip and pulled her sleeves back down over her wrists. "Get out. Leave."

"But I—"

She stormed to the door and yanked it open. "Go."

He didn't budge. Now it was her turn to grab his wrist and force him out, slamming the door behind him.

"I have them too, you know," Zeke called out, his voice muffled by the doors.

"What?"

"See for yourself."

A tense silence passed, but she did not hear him walk away. At last, she opened the door just wide enough to peek her head out. Zeke was unbuckling one of his leather bracers. Come to think of it, she'd never seen him without them on. Even at the gala, he wore them. And once the bracer was completely off, she could see why. Harsh, whitish scars lined his wrist like pale, jagged ropes. Mòrag's expression softened. All the anger she felt at his discovering her own marks vanished. Zeke—the over-the-top jovial friend who always had a stupid joke or inappropriate comment—he had these scars, too.

He did not pity her. He sympathized.

"I took it really hard when my mother died," Zeke said quietly. "My old man wasn't exactly a great grief counselor. I thought...it felt like part of me died with her. For a long time, pain was the only thing that reminded me I was still alive. So yeah, I cut myself. I'm not proud of it, but it's the truth."

"...How old were you?" Mòrag asked at last, not sure what else to say.

"Fourteen...You?"

"Thirteen." He looked at her expectantly. "...I don't like to talk about it."

"No one does. It's a really dark place to be. But sharing can be therapeutic, yeah?"

"That's as may be. But I can't tell you, Zeke. Please respect that."

"You got it." Zeke stuffed his bracer in his pocket. "Just...if you ever feel the need to get the story off your chest, well, you know where to find me. My ear's yours if you need it."

Mòrag reached out to squeeze his hand gratefully, but her fingers settled on his wrist instead. The skin felt rough and thick underneath her fingertips. Through the scars she could feel his heartbeat, steady—and most importantly—surviving.

"Thanks," was the only reply she could muster.

He gave her wrist the same reassuring squeeze. "...I guess I should turn in. We've got some crazy busy days ahead of us. Goodnight, Mòrag."

Zeke released her arm and ambled back to his apartments, wishing he could go back in time and say something a little more comforting. Yes, they both had similar scars. But something told him hers were worse. He was no medical expert, but he knew that his fingers had brushed over two types of scars: several cuts of varying depths, and over one of them, a shallow burn, as if someone had cauterized the wound.

After a year of traveling with her across Alrest, he thought he understood what made Mòrag tick: mostly Niall, followed by Brighid, her country, her work, and her relentless sense of duty. But what had made her the person she was today—that much he was clueless about, apparently. He wanted to understand.

Kissing her had been great, of course, but suddenly it seemed shallow and empty. Now his wrist tingled where her fingers had been. That simple squeeze communicated more than the kiss or anything she said: Thank you for showing me I'm not the only one.

Outside of battle, Zeke never wore his leather bracers again.