Even without eavesdropping, Brighid could have guessed what transpired during Mòrag and Zeke's conversation. The door-slamming gave an excellent hint, and Brighid could feel a complicated mess of Mòrag's emotions surging through their ether bond. Neither occurrence was normal. Only a few things ever rattled Mòrag so deeply: a threat to Niall and a confrontation about her past.

She ought to have given them privacy. But once she'd moved to an adjoining room at Zeke's request, Brighid shamelessly listened at the doorway. She was, for lack of a better term, rather possessive of Mòrag. She detested not knowing what happened to her Driver. And the thought of having to share her, even for political necessity, disturbed her. After sixteen years of practically raising the girl, serving as her retainer, protecting her, Brighid felt she had the right to eavesdrop.

"So that's why you're always wearing gloves." Zeke's words echoed in Brighid's mind. She hated those scars more than Mòrag did. To her, they served as a grim reminder of her biggest failure—she'd failed to shield Mòrag from not only her own self-destructive tendencies but also from the tragic circumstances that drove her to that brink. Brighid's journal entries told her one thing: in all her lifetimes, she relentlessly defended each and every Driver. To protect was her sole reason for being. Never before had she failed so drastically. Those days had shaken her to her core, caused her to question her own existence.

And every day, Brighid strove to atone for Mòrag's scars.

Outside of battle, that atonement meant that Brighid spent most of her waking hours assisting the Special Inquisitor—sending missives, managing the daily agenda, and when necessary, tackling solo missions. Her goal was to keep Mòrag's life as simple as possible. So when her Driver rose the next morning looking as if she had not gotten a wink of sleep, Brighid decided to take over the role of Special Inquisitor for the morning. Mòrag scoffed at the suggestion.

"I've had too much time away as it is," Mòrag protested. "There's too much to be done."

"Whatever needs to be done, I will address," Brighid promised. "And if I may be so blunt, you don't look up to the task. You look like you need a nap, or at the very least, a strong cup of coffee."

"Fine," Mòrag relented. "I'll come in two hours late. But no more than that."

Satisfied with that partial concession, Brighid made her way to Mòrag's office. Compared to Niall's royal council chamber, the office was rather plain. The previous Special Inquisitor—a man without noble blood who'd earned his way into the title—had chosen the furnishings, and Mòrag elected not to change them. There was an executive desk of black walnut along with a few matching pieces: chairs, a few bookshelves, and an armoire with spare uniforms stashed inside. These darkwoods stood in sharp relief against a crimson tapestry of the Ardainian coat of arms. That was the room's only adornment, and Mòrag preferred the all-business appearance her predecessor left behind.

Brighid propped open the door, opened the curtains, and set to work. She only got a few pages deep into a stack of paperwork before the ethercom buzzed loudly.

"Incoming transmission: Outpost 39," flashed across the circular screen. With the press of a button, the text transformed into an image: Rex, a mix of exhaustion and satisfaction clear on his face. Tora and Poppi crowded the edges of the image, sometimes shoving Rex out of frame. The young Aegis Driver seemed surprised to see Brighid on the opposite end of the ethercom.

"Hey, Brighid! Is Mòrag there?" Rex shouted over the noises behind him.

"She is otherwise engaged at present. What is it?"

"Oi, Tora! Shut your hole for a minute! Rex is trying to talk!" Nia shouted from somewhere out of sight.

"I really think Mòrag should be around to hear this," Rex added once his surroundings had quieted some. "Could you get her?"

"Mòrag is not to be disturbed right now," Brighid lied. Although it was true, in part; she herself gave the order not to bother Mòrag. "I will pass your message along, assuming this is not a simple social call."

"Nah, I've got news."

"Let's hear it, then."

"It's a good-news bad-news kinda situation, really," he began. "We haven't gotten any leads on Cor himself, but we did get some info on who he's working for. Azami tracked one of Cor's men and brought him back to the outpost. Apparently, he was trying to sneak his way back to his base after Cor left him behind. Sly git. She questioned him and got him to talk a little. How she managed that, I have no idea. I almost feel bad for him, ya know? She can be real creepy when she wants something."

"Rex, you're rambling. Cut to the chase," Mythra's voice scolded.

Rex scratched the back of his head. "Sorry. Anyway, this guy says that he's part of this crime guild thing here in Mor Ardain. Cor is, too. They're calling themselves the Aramach, and by the sound of it, there's a lot of them. Their leader sounds pretty tough, too. He's got a powerful Dark Blade named Cioran or something."

"Ciaran?" Brighid asked.

"Yeah, that's the name."

Damn, not him. Brighid felt the color drain from her face. Back in the woods, she had been hoping that the mysterious Blade's talent was just a coincidence. Ciaran was the one Blade she hoped she would never need to face again. Even another fight against Aion sounded easier. But there wasn't time to dwell on that. She needed a plan—and fast.

"Rex, this Aramach member you've apprehended: where is he now?"

"In a cell here at the outpost. I think they're gonna transfer him to the capitol soon."

"Keep him there," she said quickly. "W-we cannot risk the Aramach trying to rescue him mid-transport. He has too much valuable information. I'll come to the outpost and question him myself...What is your next move?"

"Since he was trying to sneak back to his base on foot, we're hoping it's not too far away. We're gonna track him to see if we can get a location for these Aramach. It'll be tough, though. Can't rely on Azami's eye with this Ciaran fellow."

Brighid nodded, distracted. Her mind was too busy formulating her own plan of action to truly listen to his. "Very well. Please be careful, though."

"You and Mòrag worry too much. We'll be fine. If we find this base, we'll turn around without going in and report back. Promise."

"Good...And Rex? If you do have any future updates about this case, please direct the information to me, and not Lady Mòrag." Another excuse came to mind. "She is rather busy with the coming wedding."

"So?"

Convenient as it was, the details of the lie quickly clicked into place as if they were true. "Do you have any idea how stressful it is to plan a wedding, Rex? Mòrag will be inundated with countless decisions over the next few weeks. If I can reduce her workload by handling this case, then I will."

"Got it. Well, I better get going. Daylight's burning."

The salvager waved before abruptly cutting the call. The ethercom's glass filled with static before the machine turned itself off, leaving Brighid alone with the clamoring sound of her own thoughts.

She summoned a small spark of flame, shaped it into a ball, and juggled it between her fingers mindlessly. Ciaran. She had not seen him in nearly fifteen years. He probably had not changed much—not a comforting thought. But how had she not realized it was him? With his identity revealed and confirmed, so many pieces of the puzzle made sense: how Cor had managed to slip away so many times, the growing crime rate despite the best economy Mor Ardain had in centuries, why no ordinary soldier could get a workable trail. Ciaran's ether-blocking techniques could easily help build a criminal empire that even the Special Inquisitor would be hard-pressed to overthrow. But what were Ciaran and his Driver after? Riches and renown were one thing. But these skirmishes were too calculated, too well-timed to be random. Her instinct told her something deeper lurked beneath each Aramach crime.

That thought, however, paled in comparison to one other: what was she going to tell Mòrag about Ciaran? Was she going to tell Mòrag? Her Driver suspected that Ciaran was involved, but she believed him to be a new incarnation. Brighid feared otherwise.

Before she could decide, however, a nasaly voice yanked Brighid from her reverie.

"Woah, Brighid. I never pegged you for the sort to hide stuff from your Driver."

Pandoria stood in the doorway, casually leaning against the entrance to the room. Sunlight glared in her glasses.

"Pandoria! Just how long have you been there?"

"Long enough to know that Mòrag's gonna be pissed when she finds out you're keeping secrets from her. Why don't you want Rex to tell her?"

"That is none of your concern."

Brighid struggled to keep her expression cordial. Of course Pandoria was the one to overhear. She had a knack for entering conversations at inopportune moments—even Zeke's private conversations. Brighid had nothing against Pandoria, but she did not enjoy the electric Blade's company, either. The elfish woman could be nosy and overenergetic. Not that Brighid could fault her for the nosiness, though, at least not where her own Driver was concerned. Brighid made a mental note to close the door whenever she next spoke with Rex. There was no telling how often Pandoria would try to overhear her conversations in the coming months.

"Let me just give you a bit of advice, Brighid. Keeping things from your Driver never ends well. One time, I tried to keep it secret from Zeke that I lost Turters. Only managed to hide it a week before he found out. And let me tell you, he was beyond pissed."

"This is a far more serious matter than a lost turtle. And if I find you've said a word about this to Zeke or Mòrag, Architect help me, I'll—"

"Yeah, yeah, I know. You'll broil me alive or something," Pandoria interrupted, clearly not perturbed by the threat. "What you do or don't tell Mòrag isn't my problem. But don't come crying to me when she finds out that you've been keeping secrets from her."

"The Jewel of Mor Ardain does not cry."

Pandoria laughed. "Whatever. But if you need any help questioning that creep Rex nabbed, let me know. I'm already bored of standing around here. A job would be nice."

"I'll keep that in mind. Now if you'll excuse me, I have many pressing matters to attend to."

Not watching to see if Pandoria left the room, Brighid returned to her work. Mòrag would probably show up a little earlier than the two-hour mark, and Brighid wanted to make some progress before she arrived.

Meanwhile, Mòrag made surprisingly good use of the spare time Brighid had forced on her. Her Blade was correct; she was exhausted. She slept precious little the night before, her mind racing after her conversation with Zeke. After some thought, she almost felt relieved that he knew. But if he told anyone, especially Pandoria…

Lying awake overnight, she'd come up with a plan to, well, "thank him" wasn't exactly the right word. She did want to thank him for agreeing to this crazy endeavor, for saving her from a lifetime married to a power-hungry noble. And she was grateful for his honesty about his past, more than words could say. But she also needed him to keep silent.

So shortly after Brighid shooed her away from the morning's work, Mòrag found herself entering the dining area with a parcel stuffed under her arm, a plate of spicy cakes in one hand, and her own breakfast in the other. Finding Zeke was easy thanks to his distinctive hair and Tantalese garments.

"I hope you're still a little hungry," Mòrag said, raising her voice enough to get his attention.

Zeke turned around, half a slice of bacon still hanging from his mouth. The Ardainian press would have a field day if they ever learned of his table manners. "I'm a strapping, muscular chum in his late twenties. I'm always a little hungry."

"May I join you?"

Zeke nodded. She sat across from him and set the plate beside his current dish. His eyes widened.

"Addam's embercakes," he gasped. "Wait, where did you even get these?"

"The kitchens. I can't promise they'll be any good. I asked Gawain, our head chef, to try his hand at them...I thought that, since you'll be living here now, you might want a taste of home."

Zeke met her gaze and smiled gratefully. "Thanks," he said, taking a bite. "Not half bad. A few more tries, and it'll be almost as good as Tantal's."

"Gawain will be glad to hear it. Mor Ardain isn't known for spicy foods. I...I also want you to have this."

Mòrag set her package on the table. Zeke raised an eyebrow and proceeded to unravel the haphazardly wrapped canvas. The lumpy cloth fell away to reveal a simple vase. Not much adorned the vase in terms of painting, etchings, or shapes. Not that it needed it; the vase's beauty rested solely in the material that comprised it. Milky-white faceted crystal reflected light so intricately that, depending on how you looked at it, one side of the vase was purple, another blue, then pink, then yellow.

"A snow-crystal vase." He whistled. "These are my favorite. How did you know? And where did you get one?"

"...The last time we were in Theosoir with Rex and the others, I saw you admiring these, and I bought one. I figured Tantal's prince had an eye for the best souvenirs. But I didn't end up using it. I imagine it'll be more appreciated in your care...I didn't peg you for the flower sort, though."

"I love flowers, actually. More than a lot of women do, I'd wager...We rarely had them in Tantal, what with all the snow and all."

Mòrag nodded. The Ardainian Titan had not been much better, but Gormott boasted fertile grasslands teeming with wildflowers. She realized now that she had taken those for granted. "Do you have a favorite bloom?"

"Moon flowers, hands down. Such resilient little things, growing in cliffs and rock. Pretty survivors. What are your favorites?"

She paused as warm images surfaced in her mind: a young Niall splashing in a lake, up to his knees in mud. Once he grew tired of the water, he would ramble up onto the shore to pick as many blooms as his little fists could carry before dropping them in a wilting heap on her lap.

"Dawn hydrangeas," she said at last. "Niall used to pick them for me when we lived in Gormott."

"Sweet kid," Zeke murmured. "Now tell me honestly: what are these presents actually for? You're not the sappy, present-giving type. I can tell you're after something. What are you bribing me to do?"

"I-it's not a bribe. It's an...advanced thank-you gift." Mòrag twiddled with her fork.

"That's basically a bribe. What for?"

She lowered her voice. "For not telling anyone about what you saw last night."

"Of course not."

"I'm serious, Zeke. Not even Pandoria. Please."

"My lips are sealed...I mean what I said, though. If you ever need my help, I'm here for you, yeah? Don't go back there."

"I'm completely fine now. But I'd still prefer that no one else found out."

"Ardainian leaders have to be strong, eh? Can't lose that image."

"Essentially."

"I get it. People can be...unfair when it comes to letting royalty make mistakes. Yes, we're supposed to set a good example. But we're human, too."

Mòrag nodded and turned her attention to her breakfast. Zeke seemed to get the cue that it was time for a subject change.

"What's on the agenda for today, then?"

"As I understand it, the Emperor will be making a formal announcement about the engagement and subsequent alliance at court this morning. Following that, I have plenty of military matters to attend to."

"So what can I help with, then?"

Mòrag hesitated. Sure, by the end of the day, Zeke would be regarded as an affiliate of the royal family. But to most Ardainians, he would still be something of an outsider for a while longer. Staff members within the palace might be more open to talking with him than the Special Inquisitor. Maybe with his help, she could make some headway on uncovering Mor Ardain's spy.

"...Actually…"


Screaming was not a foreign sound to members of the Aramach; it was, at times, a necessary part of their occupation. But none of them had heard quite as much screaming as they had the past thirty-six hours. The Boss had brought in a prisoner—a rare occurrence in itself—for questioning. But the truly surprising thing was that he tortured her himself. Rarely did he do his own dirty work.

"You're a smart girl, Caelyn. A servant at the imperial estate at such a tender age? That takes incredible potential. You could have a bright future. Tell me the truth and you might get to live out that future. Whose baby was it?"

"Just kill me already. I won't tell you anything," the girl whimpered. "I will not betray the Emperor."

Cor recognized the look in the girl's eyes—they said that she would have much preferred death to her current predicament. And he could not say he blamed her for the loyal defeatism, either. Cor enjoyed watching people suffer, but the torture the Boss inflicted on his female prisoner was enough to make him even him feel uncomfortable. He had a front-row seat, too. Witnessing the relentless interrogation confirmed that, beyond any doubt, the Boss was not a man to be crossed. Cuts, burns, starvation, near-constant darkness, broken fingers, water dripping on her forehead...it was a long list of methods. Boss's imagination did not run out, but his patience did.

So the man played his final trump card.

"Tell me what I want to know, Caelyn," the Boss whispered in a voice that sent shivers up the spines of all who heard it. He held a white-hot poker just centimeters away from Caelyn's eye. "As I understand it, your grandmother is still alive. She worked at the estate, too, didn't she? Perhaps she would be able to tell me instead. Shall I talk to her?"

"No! Don't hurt my gran," Caelyn begged.

"Oh, that's right. A conversation with me might kill her. Her old bones aren't as resilient as yours."

"Don't you dare hurt her, you bastard."

"Then tell me what I need to know. The child born at Gormott fourteen years ago: was that baby Lady Annabelle's?"

Cor's interest was suddenly piqued. Annabelle was the late Emperor's wife. If she hadn't birthed Niall, then the Senate's whole bid for the throne...was it legitimate after all? Should the Inquisitor be the one on the throne instead? Was the Ardanach dynasty a farce? So many questions, and Cor's mind spun at the implications of each.

"I swore I wouldn't say a word."

"Your grandmother is currently hiding in a small cottage in the residential quarter of Uraya. I can have a man there in twenty minutes. Choose your next words carefully, dear. Yes or no: was it Anabelle's child?"

"... No."

That single denial dissipated all of the Boss's wrath. Cor thought that he almost seemed relieved, or satisfied, somehow. He moved to exit the room, a triumphant grin on his face.

"...Cor, do what you want with the girl and then dispose of her," the Boss ordered.

"Aren't you going to ask her about—"

"Not a word of this to anyone, Cor, or they'll be your fingers next time. I was confirming a suspicion. The girl told me all I needed to hear. So take care of her. I don't pay you to ask questions."

"Yes, Boss. So does this mean the plan to kidnap the Emperor is a go?"

The man nodded. "I'll have to contact my source in the Empire, but yes. When we're finished, the brat won't be Emperor anymore."


Just get it over with, Mòrag, she told herself. Her fingers rapped out two quick knocks before she could think better of it. The sound of hurried, clumsy movements echoed from within before Zeke peeked out from the door to his apartments. His chest was completely bare, empty of the typical half-open overshirt and numerous leather belts. For a moment, she struggled to make eye contact, distracted by his exposed skin. For as long she'd known him, Zeke had always possessed a well-defined physique that could only be won with extensive training. Clearly he maintained that regimen even in times of peace.

"Oh, um...Sorry. I should have realized you'd retired for the evening," she apologized.

"No worries. What's up?"

"I was…about to go for an evening walk in the palace gardens," Mòrag said shyly. "Brighid is already nagging me about picking flowers for the ceremony; she wants the groundskeepers to have time to prepare them. I thought that, maybe since you like flowers so much, you might want to join me."

Zeke seemed surprised by the suggestion, but he nodded. "Sure. I'm in. Let me, er, grab a shirt."

He quickly tossed a black shirt over his back, not bothering to button it closed. What a pair they must have made, idly chatting and walking through the palace halls, with Mòrag still in uniform and Zeke only half-dressed. But unlike the night before, conversation flowed naturally, almost as if they were talking about their latest sparring match.

"Here we are," Mòrag announced when they reached the gardens.

Even in the dim light of the newly-installed lanterns, the royal gardens were the new pride of Mor Ardain. As a country, Mor Ardain had endured centuries without much plant life. So the moment flora became a part of their ecosystem, Ardainians scrambled to make it flourish. Dawn hydrangeas, crystal camellias, mystic dahlias, night lilies, panda pansies, shepherd's purse, kind marigolds, and dozens of varieties native to Elysium—Mòrag felt as though she spent nearly an hour leading Zeke through the ambling pathways, reciting the name of each flower, why Niall chose it for that patch, and where they had acquired the seeds.

Zeke's eyes gleamed the entire time. He kept silent for the most part, but when they started their second lap of the gardens, he reached out and squeezed her hand gently.

"Thanks for showing me this. I love it."

"You're welcome." She surprised herself by letting her hand linger in his. Somehow, knowing her scars brushed up against his made the gesture seem safe.

"So what about this patch, then?" Zeke asked, pointing to an empty patch in the back corner. "What's Niall planning to put there?"

"I don't know. We're not quite finished with this, I'm afraid. We had to halt aesthetic additions when this whole succession affair came up."

"It's a shame that it's empty."

Mòrag nodded. Then an odd idea popped into her head. He did like flowers, after all… "What if we claimed this little patch?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean we could choose seeds for it, plant them, take care of them. Together. Dawn hydrangeas and moon flowers might look nice together."

"True. But us, gardening?" Zeke laughed.

"Us is the key word there, is it not?" Mòrag sighed. "I've been thinking about this whole engagement affair. The decision has been made for us. We can't change it now. So, I thought it might help if we...made a concerted effort to spend time together."

"Are you...asking me out?"

Mòrag blushed furiously. "N-no. I'm asking you to help me make this work. I'm not expecting us to act like giddy, love-struck adolescents. But...our countries need heirs. We have our duties to perform. Getting to that point...it's not going to be easy. If possible, I'd like things to be less awkward between us by the wedding."

"So you want to date me by planting flowers together?"

"It doesn't have to be flowers. That was just the first thing I thought of."

Now that she'd made the suggestion, Mòrag felt a bit silly. Planting flowers—that was the best she could come up with? Most people would scoff at the thought of their royals digging around in the dirt. But it was the first and only idea she could think of. Planning leisure activities never ranked high on her priority list, or at least not since Niall was very young. Now she read a chapter or two of a book in the rare spare moments she did have, but that was not something she and Zeke could do together. And apart from sparring, she did not know what Zeke did for fun.

"We could try cooking, too," Zeke suggested. He blinked in such an odd way that Mòrag wondered if one-eyed people could wink.

"Absolutely not. I still haven't recovered from that Argentum monkfish incident."

Zeke threw his head back and laughed. "I'm kidding, of course. I'm probably even worse at cooking. All I can manage is electrocuting a fish."

"Personally, I'd get rather tired of fried fish," Mòrag admitted, chuckling at the mental image of Zeke zapping a fish on a stick.

"Let's just stick with your idea, then. Could be fun, anyway. A lesson in something new."

This whole arranged marriage will be a new lesson for both of us, Mòrag thought. But maybe, with time, it would not be such a bad lesson after all.