The arrival of an Imperial flagship at Gormott's docks caused quite a stir in Torigoth and the surrounding hamlets—especially when the townsfolk realized that the figure disembarking was not the Emperor and his stoic water Blade. This young woman was someone they had never seen before. However, nearly everyone recognized the fire Blade behind her. To the older Gormotti, she was the Azure Raze (and a host of other foreboding nicknames) who'd burned hundreds, maybe thousands of Gormotti during the Imperial conquest of the continent. Her figure was equally familiar to the younger Gormotti, too, although the younglings recognized her from the pictures they saw on pro-Imperial and anti-Imperial propaganda alike. Gormotti sentiment towards Mor Ardain was mixed, as was the feeling of awe and fear caused by Brighid's arrival.

As a result of that apprehension, no one approached the docks to get a closer look at the new arrivals. While the common folk later learned that the second newcomer was in fact the princess of Mor Ardain, they never saw that she did not look like much of a princess: somber eyes, almost masculine clothes that seemed to be a size too large, and an imposing whipsword on each hip. It was a long time before most Gormotti ever saw the princess again, so that aura of mystery circulated throughout the entire continent.

Only Lady Annabelle and her handmaid came to the docks to receive them. Brighid had not met the woman before, but she was immediately struck by how different Annabelle was from the Emperor. While her husband displayed a stoic, professional-at-all-times nature, Annabelle expressed her emotions freely—her bright blue eyes gleamed, reflecting the warm personality beneath.

"Welcome to Gormott, Mòrag," Annabelle said sweetly, pulling her niece into a hug. "I'm very glad to have you join me here, though I wish it were for happier circumstances."

"Thank you, my lady," Mòrag replied.

"Oh, none of that. For you, it's just Annabelle or Annie or Auntie. That's what you called me when you were little. And since we're not at the palace, we don't need to be quite so formal. Even the servants just call me Lady Annie."

"Well then, Aunt Annabelle," Mòrag began stiffly, struck by the woman's relaxed approach, "allow me to introduce you to Brighid, my Blade."

Annabelle gave a slight curtsy, to which Brighid offered the customary bow. "Welcome, Brighid. Although I hardly require an introduction; I met you when you were still in resonance with Nealon's father. My husband speaks very highly of you. Thank you for all you've done for Mòrag."

"I'm honored."

"Well, let's not hang around out here. Let's head back to the estate so you ladies can get settled before supper."

During the ride to the Imperial estate, it became undeniably clear that Annabelle was much more talkative than her husband. She prattled on the entire ride: how much the clear air of Gormott had revitalized her, how the estate staff was reduced to a small team of just six women—her handmaiden, her doctor, a cook, and three other servants—the breathtaking view of Lake Yewtle from the upper and lower decks of the manor, and of course, how much better the cuisine was than in Mor Ardain. Not that Brighid or Mòrag were really listening intently; the Blade kept a watchful eye on her Driver as she gazed out the window, marvelling at the world they passed. Never before had Mòrag seen such intense blues, such vibrant greens. Mor Ardain's scenery could not rival the colors, the flowers, the foliage, the immaculate fertile landscape Gormott offered. No wonder Mor Ardain fought so hard to claim the continent—and for the same reason, no wonder so many Gormotti considered taking it back by rebelling against the Ardainian occupation.

That beautiful landscape called to Mòrag in the days and weeks that followed, offering her a solace that no words could create. For the first time in her life, nothing was expected of her; she could study as she pleased, train as she wished (as regulated by Brighid, who feared putting too much strain on her Driver), and pass the day in the way that met her fancy. The only regulation was that she stay on the estate grounds. As a result, when she exhausted the training time Brighid allotted to her, Mòrag frequently meandered down to the lakeside.

"Let me go by myself, Brighid. I'd like some time alone," Mòrag said one afternoon.

"I'm not comfortable letting you out of my sight just yet." Secretly, Brighid still feared that if she left Mòrag unattended, she might not find her Driver again.

"Then sit on the upper porch and watch me from a distance. This...this is the last place Father promised to take me. It's silly, but I want to pretend I'm here with him. Just once."

"Very well. But only if you promise to stay in sight."

With her Blade thus placated, Mòrag ambled down to the lakeshore, found the spot with the best view, and sat down against a deer wood tree. Here, it was clear why her father promised to bring her. No factory noise filled the air—just the subtle ripple of the water on the shore, the chirrups of insects, the croaks of brogs from their homes. And was that...birdsong? The birds in Mor Ardain were deadly, never singing. But here, if she sat still enough, one would hop along the ground beside her in search of bugs or worms.

It was, in a word, peaceful.

"Father, I miss you," Mòrag whispered. "I wish we could travel together again and have one last adventure."

A soft breeze slipped past, as if somehow, he was listening.

"I have so many things I wish I could ask you. I-I don't understand why any of this happened. But it has. And now I don't know what I'm supposed to do. You always taught me to do the right thing no matter the cost. But I don't know what the right thing is anymore. Is there even a right thing left for me to do?"

Old memories began to surface as she wondered what he'd say if he were sitting right beside her.

"A good leader protects and defends those who are less fortunate than she, Mòrag. Whether you are Empress or just a princess, always remember that. If you can shield someone else from harm, do so."

"I just want to make you proud."

"You already have, my darling. And as long as you are brave and kind, you always will."

"I don't feel very brave."

"Bravery isn't an emotion. It is a choice, dear. And I believe you know which choice is the right one."

"What if I regret that choice, though? What if—"

"Who are you talking to?"

An unfamiliar voice snapped Mòrag from her daydreamed conversation. The last vestiges of her father's voice and the memory of his fond expression faded from view, replaced by a very different figure: a young Gormotti girl clothed in a bright goldenrod sundress. Her amber eyes gleamed, framed by silver hair and cat-like ears that twitched when she laughed. She couldn't have been older than ten, and yet she'd found her way onto Imperial grounds. How had she snuck in?

"N-nobody," Mòrag stammered, startled by the company she now found herself in. How much had the girl heard? "Just thinking aloud."

"I've never met someone out here before," the girl commented. "Who are you?"

Mòrag hesitated, unsure how to answer. For the past weeks she'd been so careful about avoiding the citizens and staying hidden that she never considered how to react if she encountered someone.

"Are you a friend of the Ardainian princess or something? They say she's living at the royal estate, but no one's actually seen her."

"Something like that," Mòrag lied. At least here, in Gormott, her persona had an aura of mystery for the residents. Why not hide behind it?

The girl looked around and gasped, pointing. Mòrag looked at the subject of her gesture to see Brighid standing at the edge of the manor's porch, poised to act if this stranger proved malicious.

"Is that the Jewel? Lady Brighid?" the girl asked, wonder in her voice.

Mòrag nodded. "She's the princess's Blade."

"Is she as scary as they say?"

"Only when she's angry. Otherwise she's quite nice."

"Wow. She's even prettier than the posters made her out to be. I'm told the princess is really pretty, too...Say, do you mind if I sit here for a bit? I don't want to make trouble. I know I'm not technically supposed to be here, but this is the best view of the lake."

"Go ahead," Mòrag said at last. What harm could one little oblivious girl do? Granted, she'd somehow snuck her way onto Imperial grounds, but that spunk couldn't surpass Brighid's watchful eye above. And a sense of curiosity filled her, too. She never talked to a Gormotti before.

The girl sat down a few feet away. "I'm Elsie, by the way. Elsie von Echell."

"Echell. Isn't that one of the Gormotti lords?"

She winked. "Yup. You're well informed. How'd you know that? Most Ardainians don't give a damn about our politics unless it concerns how to keep us in line." She caught herself, clapping a hand to her mouth. "Sorry. I don't suppose I should say that to a friend of the princess."

"It's fine. I understand the occupation is unpopular with some of the Gormotti. The topic comes up frequently at the manor."

"So what's your name?" Elsie asked, changing the subject.

"...Morgan."

"Well, Morgan, nice to meet you. And welcome to Gormott. So give me the scoop on the princess. Is she as good a Driver as they say? Is she nice? Why does she just stay inside the estate?"

"You're a curious one, aren't you?"

Elsie blushed. "Yeah. Sorry if I'm a bother. It's just interesting. I've only ever met Ardainian military."

"The princess is quite busy with her duties at home," Mòrag lied again. "And she usually keeps to herself. Between studying and training with her Blade, she doesn't get out much."

"I guess that makes sense. My Blade's always pestering me to pay more attention to my studies, too."

"You're a Driver? But you're so young," Mòrag pointed out.

The girl nodded. "My Da was terrified when I tried to resonate with my Blade. He thought I'd be physically too weak to do it. But I proved him wrong. You see, since Mor Ardain is in charge now, there's a precedent that everyone in leadership needs to be a Driver. Some guff about the potential to be a Driver means you'll make a good leader or somethin'. Since Da's a lord, he's got a Blade, a great cuddly white tiger with healing powers. And since I'm Da's only heir, I needed to be a Driver, too. So I resonated with mine."

"What's your Blade like?"

"She's the best Blade ever. Although, I suppose, as an Ardainian, you probably think Lady Brighid is the best," Elsie said excitedly. "She's like a sister to me. I mean, she can be a right pain in the arse—excuse my language. Da's always yellin' at me to speak more like a proper lady. Anyway, she's always nagging me to take better care of my health. Tells me to stay in bed and preserve my strength. I owe her my life, though. She's one of the most powerful healing Blades ever. If not for her, I'd probably have died already."

"You're ill." Mòrag didn't phrase it as a question.

"Yeah. Something about my ether flow doesn't work right, I guess. Makes me physically very weak. On good days, it's all I can manage to come for a walk out here. The doctors don't think there's a cure, but my Da keeps spending all his money on treatments, hoping I'll get better. My Blade does what she can to keep my ether going, but after a while, it'll get beyond what she can heal."

"How long do you have?"

"I dunno. A few years, at most."

"Wouldn't it be best to rest at home, then? You might put less strain on your ether flow that way," Mòrag suggested.

"That's what my family says. But I can cope with the idea of dying. We all die. It's the thought of dying all cooped in bed that I just can't stand. I mean, just look at everything around us. It's beautiful. There are so many pretty things to see in the world. I want to see them while I still can."

"There are plenty of ugly things. Cruel people, too."

"Yes. But I think ugly things are there to make us realize just how pretty the beautiful parts are. And...if I can, I want to inspire people, too."

"How so?"

"It'd be so easy for me to give up, to just shut myself at home and wait to die. I think that's what people expect me to do. But that's a pretty meaningless existence. And I don't want to be remembered as nothing more than a victim of some dumb disease. So I do what I can to make other people smile. Sure, it's nothing heroic. But what if, somewhere out there, there's someone who's lost hope? What if I can make that person smile? Make them feel hopeful again? If...if I could do that for even just one person, then I think it'd all be worth it," Elsie explained quietly.

The town clocktower echoed in the distance. Three tolls, then quiet again.

"Damn, I gotta get home!"

Elsie eased herself to her feet. Only then did Mòrag realize how strained and slow her movements were. And her Driver instincts told her that something was very, very wrong with Elsie's ether flow. It felt jumbled, like a knotted mass of yarn. She didn't know how she could tell, but somehow Mòrag knew that another year was a very optimistic estimate.

"Will I see you again sometime?" Mòrag asked. Until that moment, she hadn't realized how much she missed talking to someone outside the manor staff. And this girl's smile, her hope in the face of a looming early death, the ability to find the beauty in the midst of a very painful existence—it was infectious.

"Maybe. I come out here whenever I'm having a good day. Usually at this time. Bye, then!"

From that point on, Mòrag made it a habit to go down to the lakeside at that time of day. More often than not, she spent the afternoon alone reading. But whenever Elsie was feeling well enough, she would join her at the lakeside, always oblivious to the real identity of her new companion. They exchanged stories, shared picnics, told each other about holiday traditions in their respective countries, picked flowers, watched the local wildlife—nothing that would shatter Alrest. Just a simple search for the simplest, neglected pleasures of the world. At first, Mòrag thought the girl naive in her relentless pursuit to find the positive side of everything. But she quickly learned that Elsie was anything but ignorant. Her troubles had been different, but she, too, had seen the darker sides of life. Elsie lived every day with the darkest reality of all: death, and arguably a meaningless life preceding it. But this petite Gormotti chose to find the positive and the beautiful in spite of that.

It was a positivity Mòrag envied. So even though her pregnancy became more and more visible, she still ambled down to meet her friend, hoping Elsie's outlook was contagious.

Brighid and the others living at the estate knew of the little Gormotti girl sneaking onto the premises, but no one ever put a stop to it. Because every time the princess spent the afternoon with the lord's daughter, she returned a little brighter, a little more hopeful than she had been when she left. Not that all of Mòrag's sadness and fear immediately vanished; she still had days when the somber, scared expression lined her eyes constantly. But the defeated, hopeless edge of her gaze gradually disappeared. And everyone knew it was thanks to her conversations with the young stranger.

"This might seem rude, but I've got to ask," Elsie began one afternoon. "A-are you going to have a baby?"

Mòrag stiffened and fixed her gaze on a bee buzzing around a nearby blossom. She couldn't lie her way out of this one. Not to this girl, who'd been so kind and honest, the only non-Blade friend she had on the entire continent.

"Yes," she answered at last.

"Are you married? I know Ardainians tend to marry young, but you—"

"I'm not. But it isn't like that. I, well, a bad man took advantage of me. Got me pregnant."

It was Elsie's turn to look away awkwardly. "Oh. Is that why you're here in Gormott, then?"

She's remarkably astute for someone so young. No wonder she's a Driver, Mòrag thought.

"If anyone in the capitol found out that I was going to have a baby, it'd cause a lot of trouble for my family. My father is...a very close friend of the Emperor, so His Majesty offered to let me stay here until the baby is born."

"They're making you hide, even though it wasn't your fault?"

Mòrag nodded. "Quite frankly, I chose to come here. And looking back, I'm glad I did."

For a moment, Mòrag considered telling the girl the truth. At the very least, she ought to thank her for her companionship, for making those lonely days at the manor just a little brighter. But she held her tongue, scared what might happen if Elsie learned that she'd lied about her identity from the beginning. And what if Elsie told her father that the mysterious Ardainian princess was pregnant? Uncle Nealon had been so careful to shelter her from a scandal. She couldn't let a childish whimsy threaten that. Not now, when the Empire was ecstatic about the recent announcement of Annabelle's so-called pregnancy.

It ended up being one of the last times she spoke with her new friend. Their visits grew further apart. At first, Mòrag figured Elsie's health had worsened—she had been looking weaker as of late—but then the visits stopped altogether. When she sent Brighid into town to investigate, fearing that the girl had died without the chance to say goodbye, all they learned was another mystery. Lord Echell, his daughter, and their two Blades had sold every possession they owned and fled. There was plenty of gossip as to why: that the father had dabbled in nefarious occult practices, that he'd been fraternizing with unsavory Imperial and Indoline troops, that his daughter needed a change of scenery to heal, or that his creditors had come calling and he skipped town to evade his debts. Regardless of the true cause, they vanished without a trace. It was more than a decade before Mòrag pieced together the puzzle about her friend's disappearance.

But even though Elsie's time in Mòrag's life was short, her influence never left. The Gormotti girl's wish to give just one person hope again came true.

Summer turned into fall, and fall eased into the first chills of winter. A nervous anticipation blanketed the Imperial estate like the first snowfall as the child's arrival approached. With Mòrag's better outlook had come a marked improvement in her health, but that did not eliminate fears completely. Amelia, Annabelle's personal physician (and by extension, Mòrag's) disliked how little weight she put on in spite of a carefully structured nutrient-dense diet. Brighid noticed a marked decrease in Mòrag's sleep quality, and Mòrag herself feared the rigors of giving birth.

And to make matters worse, that day came significantly early.

Brighid had become a light sleeper ever since Mòrag first confided in her—a fact that did not change throughout the duration of the pregnancy. So she woke as soon as she heard her Driver enter the room.

"Another nightmare?" Brighid asked, scooting over in her bed as she did every time Mòrag needed comforting.

The girl shook her head and remained standing. "I think the baby's coming."

"Are you sure? Amelia said you have about six to eight weeks to go yet."

She grimaced. "The contractions say otherwise."

Brighid rose and donned a dressing robe. "You go back to your room, then. I'll get Amelia and your aunt."

"Please hurry. I don't want to be alone for this."

With the estate mostly empty, the errands did not take long: summoning Amelia, waking the queen herself, and last but not least, sending a servant to notify the Emperor in Mor Ardain. It would cause questions back home if he didn't "rush to his wife's side" as quickly as possible to greet the child.

After reaching Mòrag's room, Amelia took one look and whistled. "Yup, we're in labor, all right. Buckle up, ladies. It's going to be a long night."

"Are you ready, Mòrag?" Annabelle asked. The woman was doing a poor job hiding her own anxiety and excitement. While she did her best to empathize with her niece's predicament, it was no secret that Annabelle always wanted a child.

"Brighid."

The Blade looked to her Driver. The outstretched palm said it all for her: stay with me. Brighid slipped her hand into Mòrag's shaky, sweaty one and gave a reassuring squeeze. The gold cord of their affinity bond opened, too, echoing with shared feelings. Even if she couldn't share Mòrag's physical pain, she could share the complicated tangle of emotions this day entailed.

"You've been so brave, Mòrag. Just a little longer."

Brighid worried that her own emotions would be too overwhelming for her Driver, but she couldn't bring herself to rescind the affinity bond, either. Not when Mòrag needed her to simply be present. And ultimately Brighid's feelings mattered little; Mòrag was too distracted to process them.

An odd mix of prayers and curses ran through Brighid's head during the entire ordeal. This was too early; would the child even survive? Brighid feared that Mòrag might relapse if that happened. It would be just like her to blame herself for the child's death. The girl clamped down on her Blade's hand tighter than seemed possible for such a small creature. No, not a girl anymore. Like it or not, today marked the end of Mòrag's childhood. Not for the last time did Brighid curse the man responsible for that prematurely stolen innocence, vowing to burn him alive if she ever got a hold of him.

Architect, please let it be a girl. Don't let the throne be stolen from her, too.

Perhaps it was a side effect of being the Emperor's Blade in so many previous lifetimes, but Brighid had never managed to reconcile herself to the possibility that Mòrag might be anything but Empress. After all she sacrificed, she deserved to rule, not be cast aside in favor of her own infant. She and Mòrag had discussed the matter frequently, and outwardly, Mòrag seemed at peace with the thought. But Brighid's core told her that Mòrag was still destined for something great, something incredible. What could be better than leading the proudest nation in the world?

Amelia had called this an at-risk pregnancy on account of Mòrag's age, too. Complications now could claim both the child and the mother. But Brighid pushed that thought away, trying to focus on the vibrancy of her Driver's ether signature instead. With each contraction, the baby's ether signature disentangled itself from Mòrag's, growing louder and more distinct.

And in a matter of hours, the little bell of the child's ether signature transformed into a full-blown cry.

"Healthy lungs on this one," Amelia commented as she accounted for the newborn's vitals. "That's a good sign."

Brighid gave her Driver a small smile and pushed back an unkempt lock of hair, wiping away some of the sweat beads on her forehead. Such a brave little thing.

"It's a boy."

Brighid almost cut off the ether connection between them. Mòrag didn't need to feel her own indignance at the gravity of those three words. And the look on Mòrag's face when she heard the gender—was it relief? Acceptance? Disappointment? Not even Brighid could tell.

"Do you want to hold him, Mòrag?" Annabelle asked, hesitating to accept the squirming bundle Amelia held out to her.

An internalized debate shone in Mòrag's eyes. So many emotions lingered in that single glance: fear, curiosity, relief, and even some distaste as she hesitated, all at once considering the possibility of giving the child away after all. But as the infant's cries continued, that distaste faded, replaced by an expression Brighid never managed to find the right words for when she wrote it down.

Mòrag released her Blade's hand at last and nodded.

Brighid wondered if the initial resonance between a Driver and a Blade was a little like that moment—an overwhelming rush of incomprehensible emotions, of the thrill and curiosity of a first meeting between two souls that would always be together, then nothing but peace. In the first second in Mòrag's arms, the tiny infant fell silent, nuzzled against her chest. And with that touch, months of pain and fear melted from Mòrag's face. A tired, awed smile replaced it.

"Hello there, little prince," she whispered. "I know it's scary out here. But I'll make sure nothing bad ever happens to you."

Oh, Mòrag. You're a better woman than I, Brighid thought.

That thought crossed through Brighid's mind over and over again in the weeks that followed. How her Driver managed it, she never fathomed: nursing a child she never asked for, and for the good of her country and that child, allowing someone else to raise him. Maybe it was the relentless sense of duty her father instilled in her. Or perhaps it was something deeper: the kindness of a young woman who'd seen the worst hate the world could give and vowed to shelter others from it.

One day, Brighid got her answer—an answer that solidified her loyalty to her Driver.

"I-I wanted to hate him," Mòrag admitted. "When he was born, I thought he'd only remind me of all the bad things that happened. But when I held him for the first time, it was like the world fell away. He's so innocent, so helpless. I tried to hate him, but I think I fell in love with him instead. Is that wrong?"

"Of course not, Lady Mòrag. You are selfless. It is not in your nature to turn away any child in need."

"...I guess I'm not meant to be Empress after all. And Niall will never know who I really am."

"Can you live with that?"

She gave a single nod. "It's for the best. I think...I think I know what my purpose is now. It's not to lead. It's to protect. To protect Niall. And to protect others. No one should have to go through what I endured. So I'll do what I can to stop it."

"What are you saying?"

"In two years, I'll turn sixteen. Then I can join the military and help track down criminals and help protect the land my baby brother's meant to rule."

"They won't necessarily give you the assignments you want, Mòrag. Not even as the princess. What if they don't post you in Gormott?"

"I think Uncle Nealon—I mean, Father will make that small concession on my account. But if not, I'll just have to work my way to the top and make the assignments myself."

It amazed Brighid how quickly Mòrag had adapted to the nuances of the cover-up, calling Annabelle "Mother" and her uncle "Father" simply to shelter Niall from the truth of his birth. But it was more the girl's resolve that caused her to smile proudly.

"What's that expression for?" Mòrag asked.

"It's been over a year since I saw that fire in your eyes," Brighid confessed. "I'm glad. I've missed it."

"Can I count on your support in those endeavors?"

"Always."

In the days and years that followed, there was a lot of back-and-forth between Mor Ardain and Gormott. First came a trip to the motherland for Mòrag's coming-of-age celebration on her sixteenth birthday and Niall's introduction to Ardainian society (as silly as it seemed to publicly present a two-year-old to a nation). Mercifully, the Ardanach-Ladair blood ran stronger in the young prince than Pachnall's; he bore the lineage's dark hair, strong jawline, and slight frame. Only his blue eyes threatened to reveal his patronage. But since Annabelle's eyes had a similar shade, no one ever questioned it. And thus the lie held. Mòrag reconciled herself with the substance of the lie, accepting her position as Niall's sister with surprisingly little difficulty. But the act of lying caused a lingering sensation of guilt that only Brighid knew about. And it would probably never go away completely, haunting her whenever the truth threatened to surface.

Shortly after her sixteenth birthday came Mòrag's enlistment in Mor Ardain's military and its accompanying bootcamps and grueling training sessions. There, her royalty earned her nothing; it was her talent and her unbreakable resolve that won her recognition. Whereas the other recruits broke under the indomitable strain of the drill sergeants, Mòrag's past had already broken and rebuilt her. She thrived under the pressure and became a favorite of her superior officers—and quickly won the contempt of many of the noblemen's sons she surpassed.

However, she quickly became known for something else entirely.

The female recruits were small in number at the camp; Mòrag was one of seven in the class of several hundred (excluding the female Blades some soldiers had). That discrepancy frequently caused unwanted male attention—although most steered clear of Mòrag, mainly for fear of Brighid. The recruits' poor behavior went mostly ignored, but when the princess caught a male recruit cornering a girl in the rec area outside, she decided enough was enough.

"Carthaigh," Mòrag barked, her voice louder than ought to have been possible for such a small young woman. "Elodie asked you to leave her alone. If you know what's good for you, you'll do as she asks."

The soldier turned around, scoffing when he caught sight of the one who'd called him out. "Silverspoon Ladair. Was that supposed to be a threat?"

"It was. For someone who's too dense to understand the word 'no,' I'm impressed you figured that out."

A collective gasp echoed from Carthaigh's companions.

Rage boiled in the young man's eyes. "Why, you little—I ought to show you your place, bitch. Acting all high and mighty. Where do you get off being so smug, eh? If it weren't for your Blade, you'd be nothing."

"My place? I ought to show you yours, Jed. And I could do so without Brighid's help."

Jedrek Carthaigh scoffed. "I'd love to see you try. My burying your face in the dirt here and now might take you down a peg."

Mòrag pulled her whipswords from her sheaths and tossed them to Brighid, who understood the unvoiced command and took a place along the wall, watching with no intention of interfering. Mòrag clasped both hands behind her back, not even bothering to take a fighting stance. If Carthaigh wanted a fight, he would have to make the first move. And she knew he was too proud to back down after a threat to his spot in the regiment's pecking order.

By now, they'd attracted the attention of every soldier in the vicinity. Even a commanding officer looked on, curious to see how the rumored strongest Driver in the Empire would fare in an unarmed fight.

"Get 'er, Jed!"

He drew his own lance and moved to hand it off to his own Blade for a fair fight.

"You might want to hang onto that," Mòrag taunted. "You're going to need it."

"And let the entire camp think I squashed you just because you were unarmed? No thanks. I'm going to pummel you fair and square."

"Suit yourself."

Even in the earliest days of her combat training, Mòrag had learned how to irritate her opponents during a fight. In the military, it was a skill she mastered. Angry, sloppy foes, no matter how much bigger they were than she, were much easier to topple. And Jedrek Carthaigh fell right into that trap.

The moment he lunged at her, it was clear that he was outmatched. Mòrag read his movements easily, dodging as easy as breathing. And to irritate him further, her hands never left their clasped position behind her back. Brighid could tell Mòrag was toying with him; a much bigger game was at stake here. Behind this simple scuffle was Mòrag's vow to protect others from enduring what she'd suffered. Jedrek's behavior, while not criminal, threatened that vow. So Mòrag was going to make an example of him.

His fists flailed wildly; a single strike might have broken a jaw or a rib, as could his kicks. But none of them ever found their mark.

"Hold still, will you? Fight back!"

Only then did Mòrag oblige him. One of Carthaigh's punches flung wide. In a single, fluid movement, Mòrag dodged. Before anyone quite saw what was happening, she countered with a kick of her own. There was a sickening crack as her boot met his side, breaking one or two of his ribs. He crumpled face down in the sand. Mòrag never granted him the opportunity to stand. Her boot clamped down on his head. If he tried to rise, she could crush his temple.

And to the delight of nearly everyone watching, Mòrag's hands never left her back.

"How does that dirt taste?" she asked her vanquished opponent, loud enough for the onlookers to hear. "Because it's what you're acting like, Jedrek. Get your act together, or else when I'm in charge—and mark my words, I will be—you'll find yourself without a job."

The camp burst into cheers, but Mòrag simply walked away, Brighid trailing behind her. The takedown became a part of training camp lore for the officers in charge, though, who made it a point to more carefully regulate the more non-professional behavior some recruits displayed.

After completing her initial training, Mòrag accepted a post in Gormott, allowing her to live at the manor with Niall and Annabelle, whose health had begun to decline again. Before long, however, she found herself living at the manor alone; the Gormott Rebellion of 4048 flared up six months later. Emperor Nealon called his wife and his son to temporary safe-haven back in the motherland. Meanwhile, Mòrag defended the home that had come to mean so much to her. Some went so far as to say that she single-handedly quelled the rebellion. It was an exaggeration, of course; it proved to be a weak resistance, and most Gormotti had a deep-seated fear of Brighid, not her Driver. But by the time the conflict ended and Niall and Annabelle returned to Gormott, Mòrag won a fast-track of promotions. And contrary to the critics, she earned each one on account of her skill, not her royalty.

But no matter how long her duties kept her away, Mòrag always found her way back to Gormott. Over the years she grew to prefer this arrangement as false siblings with Niall. It granted her the right to protect him and dote on him without the responsibility of disciplining him—and as often as her job allowed, she did just that.

One afternoon, in the summer following Niall's seventh birthday, Mòrag took a rare indulgence and slipped away from her post in Torigoth early. As Gormott's military Inquisitor—the precursor to the position of Special Inquisitor and the highest position available to her in this Ardainian province—she could get away with it. But it was a liberty she took advantage of infrequently; she had mastered the ability to hold herself at arm's length from her brother, never giving anyone cause to question whether she valued more highly her duty or the future Emperor.

Today, however, was different. No one saw her steal through the manor's passages to Niall's quarters, where the boy was dutifully studying for tomorrow's lessons.

"Psst. Niall!" Her voice and wave drew him away from his desk and books. "Father's ship is arriving this evening, so all the servants are distracted right now. And I finished work early."

Niall's eyes lit up, glimmering with the suggestion she hadn't voiced. "Can we?" he squealed.

She nodded. "Go get your swimsuit on. Hurry!"

Mòrag couldn't help but smile as the boy dashed off and reappeared almost instantly with his new attire on. The opportunities to sneak him away were growing fewer and farther between. She had her duties as Gormott's Inquisitor; Niall's training as the crown prince grew more intense by the day. So each chance was special.

"Carry me! Give me a piggyback to the lake!"

"You're getting too big for that, silly."

"I am not. You're so strong you could carry Father on your back if you had to," Niall said matter-of-factly.

He extended his arms, demanding his ride. Charmed by his childish confidence, she relented and knelt on the hardwood floor long enough for him to throw his arms around her shoulders so she could hoist him up. Gleeful laughter escaped his lips when she broke into a run, weaving in and out of the manor's corridors. The giggles increased when the stairs jostled him on her back.

Only when they reached Lake Yewtle's shore did he squirm and break free. In a second he was knee-deep in the water chasing after a single-clawed Krustip. Mòrag shed her uniform first, grateful that she'd endured the discomfort of wearing her suit underneath her clothes all day. It was worth it when she plunged in after him.

No one at the manor heard them slip away—with the exception of Brighid, who could see the lakeshore from her chair on the upstairs porch. And the Blade had no intention of stopping them. For hours, they played: swimming races, skipping rocks, games of chase with Gormotti children from the nearby village, diving, splashing, collecting flowers and other treasures on the shore.

A description of that scene found its way into her journal. She wanted to remember the sound of those laughs, those squeals when a splash was startlingly cold. One laugh still held its innocence; the other lacked that innocence but had finally learned how to laugh again. Both sounds warmed her core. For years afterwards, Brighid found herself flipping back to that journal entry; ultimately, it turned out to be the last time Mòrag snuck him away to go swimming. That evening, once the Emperor's ship was unpacked and the royal family sat together for their meal, Emperor Nealon made a surprising announcement.

"Special Inquisitor Seamus Roibard was wounded in the line of duty. His injuries were severe enough that he elected to step down from his position."

"That's a shame," Lady Annabelle commented. "You'll be hard-pressed to find another man of his caliber to replace him."

"Actually, I have no intention of replacing him with another man of his caliber."

"Whatever do you mean, Father?" Mòrag asked.

"I intend to replace him with a woman. You, Mòrag. It is my wish that you serve as Mor Ardain's next Special Inquisitor."

Mòrag's guarded expression flinched momentarily as his words sunk in. "Father, I'm honored. But surely there are other candidates better suited to it than I. That position—it's effectively the head of the military. I'm still quite young. I've only been in service for five years now. Aside from helping with the rebellion, I haven't seen much active combat in my duties here. And I'm content to serve as the Inquisitor here in Gormott."

"This matter is not up for discussion, Mòrag. I've made my choice. The Special Inquisitor is the right-hand to the Emperor. And I can think of no better person to fulfill that role than the Empire's strongest Driver. Furthermore, youth and wisdom are not necessarily correlated. You possess the talent, skill, drive, and tenacity that post requires."

"Thank you, Father."

Mòrag's response was the dutiful one, the scripted reply. But from her customary position behind Mòrag's chair, Brighid could tell by the hairs standing up on the back of her neck that she wanted to beg for the right to stay on as Gormott's Inquisitor. Yes, Mòrag had set her sights on the role of Special Inquisitor seven years ago. However, she'd never intended to take it so early, not while Niall was still in Gormott.

"Mòrag's going to be the Special Inquisitor and wear that special uniform?" Niall gasped loudly. "She'll look so cool!"

"Niall, princes do not shout or speak out of turn," Lady Annabelle chided gently.

The boy sank back into his seat before sitting back up, minding his posture. "Apologies. But wait...does this mean Mòrag will have to leave Gormott?"

The Emperor nodded. "Don't look so sad, my boy. You will be joining us in Mor Ardain as well."

"Father?" Mòrag bit her lip after the outburst, but Nealon gave her a knowing glance and addressed the entire table.

"We're all returning to Mor Ardain. It is a subject I've discussed at length with your mother and my counselors. There is continued unrest here in Gormott. We cannot afford another rebellion, not while Uraya's trade embargoes are flaring international tensions. We will be increasing our military presence here, bringing in a consul to formally establish order. While that happens, I would feel much more at ease with you all safe and close at hand. And I believe the time has come for Niall to see firsthand what is to be his destiny. While I pray the Architect grants me a long life, I am not a young man. The sooner Niall begins his training in earnest, the better."

Further discussion on the matter was pointless; their chatter diminished into small talk until they finished eating. But when they all rose from the table, the Emperor called Mòrag to his side. Only when Niall and Annabelle had disappeared down the hallway did he speak again.

"I understand why you are hesitant to take on this assignment as Special Inquisitor, Mòrag. It will demand the bulk of your time. Going forward, you will be required to take an even more detached approach to Niall. Please understand that I did not make this decision lightly. I would love to let you continue here, splashing about in a lake with him. And while you were still so young, it was only natural for you to stay in Gormott as well. But it's time. People are beginning to question why the second-most important lady and the strongest Driver in the Empire is serving in a second-rate position in this backwater. They believe your talents are wasted here.

"Furthermore, I have had no less than six counselors advise me to arrange a marriage for you. Given your past, I would like to avoid that, but I cannot flatly deny them, either. If you serve as the Special Inquisitor, however, I would have ample reason to forestall such an arrangement."

Mòrag nodded, eyes downcast. "I respect your decision, Father. If you are confident in my skill, then I accept...And thank you for considering my feelings regarding a marriage. I will do that duty when it is required of me, but I don't yet feel ready to. I think I'd much prefer the duties of Inquisitor to those of a wife."

"You will do your people proud in the role, my dear," the Emperor said, nodding in approval at her compliant response.

"May I make one request?"

"Let's hear it."

"Niall doesn't become a Driver until he is of age, or—Architect forbid you die before then—when he takes the throne. And when he does, I want to instruct him."

"Very well."

As Emperor Nealon predicted, Mòrag made her people proud in her new role as Special Inquisitor. In fact, the position turned her into something of a celebrity. All of her childhood training to be Empress served her well; the tactics, logistics, and management procedures her critics expected her to be ignorant of translated easily into the military office she now held. And she made good use of her new authority, cracking down on harassment and misdemeanors within the Ardainian ranks. Thanks to her reforms, the military saw a gradual influx of female recruits.

Meanwhile, Niall grew and matured at a rapid pace. Whereas Mòrag had been a prodigy with the sword, Niall was a prodigy in the classroom and in the Emperor's court. His cunning, curious mind latched onto and mastered complex topics. Despite his youth, he understood the good his country caused, from the robust trade centers in Torigoth to the physical safety of Alba Cavanich and the uncanny ability to take the fumes of a dying Titan and turn them into something useful. But he also witnessed the darker sides that national pride caused: the starving, underdeveloped hamlets outside Torigoth; the cramped refugee camps outside the Praetorium; the exploitation of core crystal trade and use; the contempt and distrust in the gaze of every Urayan he met. And it saddened him.

Observers remarked that Niall's drive rivalled Mòrag's, although his drive was different. He vowed to use his reign to finally establish peace with Uraya and heal some of the wounds Ardainian conquest caused. He kept that goal secret, however, really only ever mentioning it to his sister. It was not a sentiment Emperor Nealon shared; the current ruler hoped his successor would continue his imperial legacy. So Prince Niall continued to study and strategize, biding his time until he could leverage the power of the throne himself.

He ascended the throne far earlier than anyone would have liked, but for a time his personal power was limited. On account of his intelligence and wisdom beyond his years, no regent ruled in his stead. But in accordance with Ardainian statutes, he could only pass bills and laws with the majority consent of his council and his retainer. Usually he got it, although they resisted his push to prevent another Urayan-Ardainian conflict. Only when he was of age could he truly pursue peace instead.

Until an alternate possibility presented itself in the second year of his reign: whispers of an Aegis and the young salvager who'd sworn to help her reach Elysium. The rumors immediately piqued the young Emperor's interest. Why fight over dwindling land and resources when there was a path to peace atop the World Tree?

When he dispatched his Special Inquisitor to investigate in Torigoth, no one would have predicted the frenzied chain of events that followed: the recall of the consul from Gormott and the ensuing distrust of the natives, Bana's commercial exploitation on his own continent, the calamity at Temperantia, the summit at Indol, the horrifying near-miss with death.

But all those events only served to further convince him—Elysium was their only hope, and Mòrag needed to be one of the first to see it.

Follow your heart, Mòrag Ladair.

Those words repeated over and over in Mòrag's mind as she stood on the deck of the Indoline airship, watching Indol and Niall's flagship fade away on the horizon. She twiddled Aegaeon's dormant core crystal in her left hand, not sure if she could bring herself to resonate with him when its facets turned blue again. She'd stayed up all night thinking about the odd knot in her chest. It wasn't dread over leaving him. Not sadness or guilt, either.

Brighid sensed it, too.

"Are you sure you're up for this?" the Blade asked. "There's no telling how long we'll be gone. It could be a long time before you see him again. And after what happened yesterday—"

"Your concern is appreciated, Brighid. But it's not necessary," Mòrag replied. "Yesterday was terrifying, but it reminded me how much Niall has grown. He's old enough to make selfless choices like that. As much as I don't want him to sacrifice himself, I no longer have the right to tell him not to. He can handle himself now."

Brighid nodded, a half-smile creeping into her expression. "I know exactly where he got that hero complex from. You did assign additional guards to him before we left though, didn't you?"

"The best security team he'll ever have, or I'm not the Flamebringer."

"Hey, you guys!" Nia called from the door to the ship's hold. "Pyra made meatball pot-au-feu again. You'd better get down here before Gramps eats it all!"

The Gormotti disappeared as quickly as she appeared.

"I still think it's uncanny how much Nia looks like that girl from Gormott," Brighid pointed out.

"Agreed. In any case, something about her doesn't feel right. But I haven't found the right moment to ask." Mòrag let out a long sigh before continuing. "Niall is right about one thing, you know. I have been tied down for a long time. When I was little, my father used to take me traveling everywhere with him. I loved that. And I don't think I realized just how much I missed it until we started tagging along with this motley crew. It's actually been fun."

"They're tolerable, I suppose," Brighid admitted. "With the exception of that sexist little Nopon. I'm still debating roasting him like a marshmallow."

Mòrag laughed. "Toasted Nopons or not, I'm actually grateful to be going on this adventure. I think it will do me good. I just have one condition: that my best friend stays with me every step of the journey. I'd be lost without her."

Brighid returned her Driver's fond smile. "I wouldn't dream of leaving."

"Here we go, then. To Elysium and beyond."


"And there you have it: the Ardanach's dirty secret," Mòrag sighed. Now that the whole tale was told—and Zeke had kept silent the entire time—a lump formed in her throat. For a long time, he didn't say anything, fiddling with the seam on his pillowcase.

He's so disgusted by your hypocrisy that he doesn't even know what to say. Told you this would happen.

"That explains why you're so attached to him," Zeke said at last. "Not that siblings can't be close, but...wait, does Niall even know?"

"There's no way he could. There are no records of his adoption. And we always told him that Annabelle and Nealon were his parents. They raised him, and I always acted as his sister. The only motherly thing I did for him was nurse him, which he of course has no memory of."

"I would have never guessed it if you hadn't told me. You play a very convincing protective older sister."

"If you tell a lie long enough, you start to believe it yourself. Sometimes even I forget the truth," Mòrag said. "...I-if you want to back out of this, I wouldn't blame you. We could have the marriage annulled. I can find someone else to give Mor Ardain an heir."

"Why the hell would I want an annulment?"

"Because I lied to you. The entire premise of this marriage was a fraud, to give my country an heir. But I already have a son; the Ardainian royal family is just a mess of lies and hypocrisy. Tantal can't afford to be tied to that. And you deserve better."

Zeke shook his head. "My entire royal line is a great big lie. My house was just a bunch of usurpers, but when you found out, you didn't reject me. So why would I do the same to you?"

"That's different. You had no control over those circumstances," Mòrag replied.

"I don't think it's all that different. And honestly, as far as I'm concerned, my knowing your past doesn't change anything," Zeke continued. "Yeah, I didn't know your whole history. But I'm not going to jump ship on this marriage because of it."

"You're not angry?"

"Of course not. Only one thing has changed now that I know the truth: how much I respect you, Mòrag. You've always been the strongest woman I've ever met. Sure, you can be a bit of a hardass sometimes when it comes to traditions and romantic patriotism. But you're kind. You're loyal. And you're incredibly brave. Now I know why. You faced hell and you spat in its face, survived, and made your own life. I admire you for that...more than I can say. So yeah. This changes nothing. I'm here. You're stuck with the Zekenator."

Respects you? Admires you? Please. This numbskull must be drunk. He's spouting nonsense. For the first time, the voice wavered—like it was frantically searching for a criticism that would stick in the face of his calm acceptance.

"This still isn't fair to you. You deserve someone honest...who isn't afraid to have sex with you."

"Do you honestly think I was only in this for the sex? Do I seem that shallow to you?"

"N-no, of course not. But it was part of the bargain."

"Mòrag, let me make one thing clear: you don't owe me sex. You don't owe Mor Ardain an heir, either. The only person you owe anything to is yourself. You owe it to yourself to heal, no matter how long it takes. Sex is a privilege, not a right. And yeah, I hope that someday it's a privilege we're able to share with each other. But not until you're ready."

"What if I never am?"

"Then we'll adopt a kiddo or something. But let's see what happens, okay? Tonight's only night one of an entire lifetime. We'll cross that bridge if and when we need to."

Mòrag fought back a tear. Only this time it was not a tear from sadness, but from sheer relief. He heard the truth and didn't even flinch. Her scars, her abuse, the cover-up, how she nearly gave up and threw everything away—he didn't care. All these years, she feared that anyone who found out would make the whole thing public, destroying the little sphere of solace she managed to create, dragging Niall down with it. And when the concept of marriage was first proposed, there'd been the terrorizing thought that every night of her marriage, she'd be forced by some nobleman to escape to that place in the back of her mind, letting the voice shelter her from the sensations, from the memories. But now, Zeke actually respected her choices? And he wasn't going to push intimacy onto her? It felt too good to be true.

"You're a good man, Zeke," she whispered, slipping her hand into his.

"...Can I just ask one thing?"

She nodded. He had that right.

"I always knew that you entered this whole arranged marriage so Niall wouldn't have to get married so young. And now that you've told me all this, it makes even more sense why you're so hellbent on protecting him. So...I can respect why you tried to force yourself into this. But I need to know. All of what's happened between us since the gala: was it all forced? W-was any of it real?"

"I've been lying to everyone for so long that sometimes I can't tell the difference between what's real and what's fake anymore," Mòrag began, choking back a guilty tear. "But I do know that of all the men I could have married, I'm...I'm glad it ended up being you."

"So the kisses were forced, then."

"They were at first, but…" She took his face in her hands and brought it close to her own. Were those tears? Where a month ago, she might have hesitated to kiss him, now the gesture felt natural, secure, instinctive. His lips quivered, but they were soft, and no betrayal lurked behind them. "But I think they're real now."

Relief spread across his face as they parted...until his expression broke as a loud, gaping yawn slipped out and drew a weak laugh from them both. "It's been a long day. Should we get some sleep? I can go crash in Pandy's room if you like."

"Please stay," Mòrag said. "I don't mind the company. And the servants would gossip if you were seen sleeping anywhere else."

"You sure? I don't want to upset you again."

"We've slept in close quarters before. It's fine."

" 'Kay. But you have total permission to slap me hard if I ever do anything to upset you, even by accident."

Mòrag smirked. "Now that's tempting."

"Oi, don't get carried away with it. You know what I meant." He replaced his pillow and made himself comfortable. "Goodnight."

"...Thank you, Zeke." Mòrag pulled the covers over them as she lay down, nuzzling close enough to soak in his warmth. She let her hand fall to his chest again. The room went quiet, and the only sound she heard was his smooth, rhythmic breathing and the steady pulse of his heartbeat.

For once, the voice was silent.