Getting Rex and the others to join them on yet another expedition took very little convincing. In truth, it took more time to convince Rex that they ought to plan the journey first, not rush in headfirst. According to their scouts, the valley of Crá Gleann was situated in one of Elysium's more rugged, unexplored regions. No doubt that gave the Aramach some of the privacy they wanted to scheme against the crown. But it left their group without much to go on in terms of terrain, travel routes, and the logistics of packing provisions. Still, Mòrag insisted on going herself, so the beginnings of a plan were drafted. And once they received Niall's approval, they set out.
Since they knew relatively little about the Aramach's strength and numbers, caution was the name of the game. Most of the journey would need to be on foot, where it was easier to evade detection. And the memory of the Aramach blowing up the Emperor's flagship was too fresh in Mòrag's mind to risk taking even the smallest airship. So they called on Azurda to help; he dropped them off roughly two-thirds of the way to the valley. That cut a good week or two off their travel time. Plus, it gave Rex an opportunity to send a message back to Corrine about his continued absence (which, unsurprisingly, he had neglected to do—again).
No one felt particularly enthusiastic about the thought of an indefinite-length hike through the Ardainian wilderness. But it couldn't be helped. And thankfully, the first day's walk passed by uneventfully, as if the Architect was kindly easing them back into their old habits. They took a moderate pace and made camp relatively early in the evening. For now, small game was plentiful—courtesy of Dromarch's hunting proclivities—and they opted to save their field rations for later. Not that Pyra ever minded cooking, so long as Zeke and Pandoria stayed out of her way.
"Awesome as always, Pyra," Rex sighed happily, rubbing his belly once he'd cleaned his dish. "Say, Zeke. Once our food's settled, wanna spar? It's been a while."
Zeke was still shoveling the last remnants of his bowl when he answered. "Sure, chum. Let's see how manly you are now, eh?"
Nia groaned. "Seriously, guys? Already? Go over there when you do it." She gestured to the widest part of the clearing. "That way the rest of us don't have to smell you when you get soaked with sweat."
"It's not sweat, furry ears. It's the precipitation caused by the incredible thunderstorm that is the Zekenator's unfathomable power."
Nia shook her head and stifled a laugh. She looked to Mòrag, who was helping the Aegis clean up. "Seriously, Mòrag. What possessed you to marry this spanner?"
A few weeks ago, Mòrag would have asked herself the same question. But now, she had at least a small clue as to the answer: his unshakable kindness and an uncanny ability to make her take things a little less seriously. Granted, she hadn't realized that at the time. But such an honest answer would only egg Nia on. And as for how he first demonstrated that kindness to her—she couldn't possibly explain that.
"I'm still trying to figure that out myself," she retorted instead.
Zeke flinched and gripped at his chest as if he'd been shot, making quite the spectacle of falling to his knees and then collapsing on the ground. "The Zekenator falls! Oh the calamity, the tragedy—fatally wounded by the sharp tongue of his own wife!"
Pandoria followed suit, begging him to "not go into the light" just yet and whacking him with her tail to try to rouse him. "Somebody help him!" she squeaked, barely containing her own laughter. "Nia! Mòrag! Rex! Anybody!"
Zeke looked Mòrag in the face. "Come on, Flames. Don't let me die. I need mouth-to-mouth," he deadpanned.
She almost got up and obliged him, mostly in hopes that it would stop him from being such a dork—but no. Even though they'd kissed in front of the others dozens of times at the wedding, it still made her bashful. That tenderness was an indulgence she'd rather save for their private moments.
"Dromarch, would you mind doing the honors?" she asked, gaze focused on the dish she was scrubbing. "I don't want to drag my husband's corpse home. And it's hardly cold enough to bury him underneath a snowman."
The "wounded one" pouted, and Dromarch looked like he was choking down a hairball. Brighid completely lost her composure and laughed out loud. After all, hearing Mòrag actually make jokes—and ones that were marginally funny—was so out of character. She couldn't help but laugh audibly.
"I'd rather die, thanks."
Pandoria kept giggling and helped Zeke to his feet. It didn't take long for the girls to finish cleaning up the last of their dinner dishes, and by the time they had, Zeke and Rex were already going at it. In the "interest of protecting the natural ecosystem," as Zeke put it, they weren't fighting with their Blades, just their weapons. But even without the ether, they still made plenty of noise. The others largely ignored their antics. Tora busied himself with Poppi's routine maintenance. Nia spent time grooming Dromarch's fur while Brighid and Mythra reminisced about their old rivalry. Pandoria listened in while tending to Turters.
Mòrag intended to take advantage of everyone's distraction to sit against a tree and read for a while, enjoying at least the idea of some solitude. But her mind had other plans.
It should have been easy to engross herself in the text. After all, this was one of her favorites as a teen: a thrilling adventure story about Emperor Hugo. It was an exaggerated tale, but telling Zeke about Hugo's Day had stirred up enough nostalgia to prompt her to pack it just in case they had a more relaxed evening. But no matter how many times she forced herself to look at the opening paragraph, her eyes kept trailing up to the pair of sparring Drivers.
Zeke didn't dwarf Rex anymore—at least not as much as he did a year ago. And in most Bladed matchups, the two were evenly matched. But without Mythra's foresight, Rex struggled to keep up with Zeke's rapid strikes. The prince was holding back, never going too fast, just quick enough to keep the young Aegis Driver guessing. But not to be outdone, Rex managed to give him a decent fight. Both men were quickly dripping with sweat (although the smell was not as bad as Nia made it out to be).
Mòrag's eyes traced their movements, capturing and criticizing every strike with the gaze of a seasoned fighter. When she first met Zeke, she hated his fighting style. It struck her as wasteful; why did he spend all that energy faking out opponents and adding new twists and turns to his already powerful strikes? If he simply channeled that same energy and honed his technique like a soldier and not a showman, he would be a peerless Driver. But she quickly learned that his showmanship, as flashy as it was, came with a strategy: not only did those "wasted movements" allow him to follow the chaotic flow of his lightning's ether energy, but they also lulled opponents into a sense of security. And now she understood that his out-of-control movements were just the opposite. Every trip, every extra flash of lightning was a carefully practiced technique. And those were techniques that Zeke developed himself, because traditional fighting styles be damned, he was his own Driver.
Now that she knew to look for the technique beneath his "snazzy" combat theatrics, it was entrancing to watch him. The way he pretended to struggle with the weight of his sword, how he fluidly maintained his balance even though Rex used his anchor relentlessly (a good tactic, since Zeke's center of gravity was a good ped and a half higher), the way he managed to be everywhere at once...how had she not noticed before?
The fight paused long enough for the two Drivers to shed their shirts—to which Nia made a teasing whistling sound—so as not to overheat in the region's intense heat. And then they began again, panting and dripping with sweat. Zeke commented that Rex was much "manlier" than he had been a year ago, thanks to a year gaining muscle mass on Corrine's new farm. But he still seemed scrawny compared to Zeke, Mòrag decided. The difference was obvious in the tight, defined arcs that rippled across his back each time he raised his sword, how his arms bulged each time he brought it back down, or the pop of his abs every time he twisted or turned.
All at once she wanted to feel those muscles twitch underneath her fingers, like they had when they first cuddled under the saffronia tree in Uraya.
It was a silly, nonsensical urge. Seeing his bare chest wasn't new; he liked to sleep shirtless. And she hadn't particularly minded; he walked around with just a half a shirt most days anyway. Over the past several nights, she'd even woken up to find herself with one arm slung across his chest. But that touch was unintentional; what she was feeling now...wasn't.
How pathetic. You're ogling like a pubescent adolescent. Pull yourself together, or you're going to do something that will get you hurt.
"May I join you?"
Brighid's voice pulled her attention away from the spar. The Blade had her journal and pen in hand. Morag nodded, hoping Brighid would immediately settle into recording the day's events. Instead, Brighid leafed through the book, aimlessly skimming more recent pages.
"Monday marks one month of married life for you," she commented casually.
"And what a chaotic month it's been," Mòrag murmured. She was only half listening. She hadn't given the anniversary much thought. What was the point?
"And are you going to do anything to celebrate it?"
"Hopefully blow the Aramach off the map."
Brighid gave another amused huff. "Not very romantic now, is it? Although I suppose I should have expected as much. You're hardly the sentimental type...Lady Mòrag, you're staring."
"I am not," she insisted, raising her book a little closer to her face.
"Then is there another explanation as to why you're still on page one of your novel?"
On that point, she could not argue. Brighid never failed to notice such things. She shut her book. "I-I'm not doing anything wrong."
"No. But you should be grateful that Pyra and Mythra know which one you're staring at. Or else you'd have a serious problem."
A flush washed across her face. "I'm a confused mess of emotions. It's immature."
Brighid failed to stifle another chuckle. It was just so amusing to watch these feelings fail to compute in her Driver's mind. The confused look on her face made her seem much younger.
"A little interest in his body is nothing to be ashamed of, Mòrag. It's perfectly natural. And quite frankly, I think it's a good sign. But if you must stare, I have to recommend you do so with a bit more subtlety. Nia has already made remarks about 'eye babies,' and if you continue to pine like this, not even Dromarch will be able to persuade her to keep her comments to herself."
Architect, did Brighid have to phrase it so damn bluntly? "I do not pine."
"You just keep telling yourself that," Brighid laughed.
"You're supposed to be helping me feel less confused, Brighid. Not more," she groaned.
"As much as I love to assist you, Lady Mòrag, I'm afraid this is one matter that you must handle personally. Helping you avoid looking like a lovestruck fool is one thing. But helping you determine whether you are or aren't a lovestruck fool is beyond even my considerable talents."
"Don't you have anything helpful to say?"
"...Your instincts are rarely wrong, my lady. And you are usually right to follow them. Those instincts can still apply in your love life."
Brighid's phrasing made it sound so...informal, and yet formal at the same time. Formal in the sense that there'd already been a ceremony, and this was supposed to be a lifetime arrangement. Formal because it was political. And strangely informal because now she found herself wondering if maybe the relationship could move beyond that political formality.
"Love life" sounded informal because for the first time, she entertained the notion that maybe there was a sliver's chance of actually having one.
But all the same, if Brighid's advice to "follow her instincts" was meant to be helpful, Mòrag didn't see how. Because right now, she had two instincts, both conflicting. One told her to chase that foreign "love life" concept and indulge her own curiosity. And the other instinct told her to run in the opposite direction. To leave things exactly as they were was safe—kind of nice, even. So which instinct was she supposed to pick?
When their little group finally started to settle down for the evening, she set out her bedroll next to Zeke's, trying to ignore the not-so-subtle peeks the others stole while she curled up beside him. And when he rolled over for a little goodnight kiss, she didn't bother trying to hide it.
"Oh my gosh, that's so cute."
"Don't say the 'c' word! She hates that."
"She's asleep, dimwit."
It seemed no one in their group was any good at whispering. But it took her a few moments after she woke to realize why they were whispering to begin with. She was lying on her side, head propped on one arm, legs half-curled...leaning against something warm and solid. An arm draped around her waist, and little rhythmic puffs of air tingled against her neck.
"It's like she's his teddy bear."
She stifled a nervous shudder when she realized how this must look. His proximity to her wasn't the problem. Granted, it was slightly alarming to wake up in that position, but she couldn't fault him for it. As it turned out, her subconscious self was a clingy sleeper. Maybe it was a lingering habit from when she used to hug Brighid in desperate attempts to keep the nightmares at bay. That was over a decade ago now, though. Or maybe she was braver about direct contacts when the haze of sleep kept the bad memories away. Regardless, it was becoming an increasingly common occurrence for her to wake with a hand across his chest or with her arm clenching at one of his biceps.
Until now, he had never sleepily reciprocated those touches. And since his arm was truly situated around her waist—in the innocent space between her chest and her hips—it didn't really bother her.
At least, it wouldn't have bothered her if he hadn't done so in front of their friends. How had she not even noticed? She had always been a pretty light sleeper and an early riser. So she should have woken in time to slip out of his sleepy grip before they noticed. But to be found like this made her feel childish.
Architect, please let them go away. Go get breakfast, she thought, clenching her eyes shut. If they would just leave for a few minutes, she could steal away and avoid them until the worst of her embarrassment subsided.
"Respiration rate of friend Mòrag is at standard operating levels," Poppi recited.
"Wha—?"
"She awake. Only pretending to be in sleep mode."
"Shit. Run!"
The same thought occurred to her (only to run in the opposite direction). But she simply peeled his arm off and walked the short distance to the stream to freshen up. The water was warm—almost too warm, like everything else in the area. It didn't fit the fair weather the rest of Elysium had. But it helped to snap her out of this odd mood. Architect, she'd been so silly last night. She was indulging in petty distractions, and it had to stop. Especially now.
Get back to work, you fool, she chided to herself. It was something she said frequently to soldiers. But she needed the military scolding—to find the soldier side of herself again. That part of her life always made sense. By the time she returned to the others, she finally managed to reassemble her professional persona.
And so their little group set out again, this time setting a much faster, driven pace.
Meanwhile, Zeke had to learn from Pandoria why everyone was acting so childish this morning. Her answer certainly explained why Mòrag was suddenly giving him the silent treatment. And when he finally got a few seconds alone with her when the others weren't listening—well, technically, Brighid was hovering a few feet away as she always did—Mòrag still didn't have much to say on the matter.
"Look, I'm really sorry. That was an accident, I swear. I'm trying to respect your space. Please don't be mad at me."
Her face and tone were both businesslike as she glared at him from underneath her cap. "It's not the touch that's the problem, Zeke."
"Then what are you bloody mad about?"
"Control yourself when we're in front of the others, please," she hissed.
And then she stalked off. So this was about appearances? Kissing in front of them was okay, but somehow accidentally spooning her wasn't? How did that make a lick of sense? He never even planned on sleeping next to her last night. Sure, they still shared quarters at the palace, but that was because Mòrag didn't want the servants gossipping, right? But now that they were out in the open air, he'd expected her to curl up by herself or next to Brighid. It both shocked and delighted him when she put her bedroll next to his instead. She'd been the one to initiate this, not him. And now she was mad about it? Or was she just embarrassed that Mythra, Rex, and the others saw it?
Things with Pandy had never been this confusing. The beginning of their richer feelings, the thick of the shared emotions, even breaking it off had been as natural as breathing. But maybe that was because their affinity link made communicating feelings easy. And, of course, his Blade hadn't had a shitshow of a childhood. Mòrag, however, rarely communicated her feelings to anyone. Even at the World Tree, when she tried to convey to Rex how they all felt—that they were like a little dysfunctional family—all she'd managed to say was "I'm so glad to have met all of you." Not exactly a clear declaration of friendship or familial regard, much less anything deeper. But that was probably as verbally affectionate as Mòrag got.
And where was the damn line that he wasn't supposed to cross? It almost seemed like she kept moving it. One day it was okay to hold her close while they danced, and the next she was icing him out for an accident. How was he supposed to respect her boundaries with those sorts of mixed messages?
Then there were his own feelings to consider. And his own boundaries, really. He was resolved to keep letting her set the pace for their more intimate interactions; it was the right thing to do. And he didn't regret it most of the time. Contrary to what his fighting style said, he could restrain himself. But some of the things she did kept confusing that resolve. Like last night, when she chose to sleep beside him. Or even earlier than that, when she was watching his spar with Rex—it didn't take two eyes to see that she was staring. That certainly hadn't escaped his notice. And those keen, almond eyes just seemed to linger in his vision no matter how many times he blinked.
I've gotten myself in way over my head, he thought.
But overpowering all that confusion was one singular desire: for her to feel happy and whole again. Growing up, he'd always yearned to help fix things and make life better for people. That his father refused to do so was half the reason he'd left home. Life, however, taught him that he was usually too weak to help as much as he wanted. He didn't have the strength, or he didn't have the time or resources, or laws and traditional procedures prevented him, or he wasn't around, or—the list went on and on.
This, though...maybe helping Mòrag was one thing he did have enough strength to do.
Rex's inquisitive voice pulled him back to reality.
"Say, Mòrag. Look, I'm no expert on Ardainian geography, but this place is weird. It almost looks volcanic. And it's so damn hot. But Alba Cavanich is green and fertile, and the climate's really fair. Why is that?"
The Inquisitor didn't even bother to turn around as she answered. "I used to be an expert on Ardainian geography until last year. Now I'm still relearning it myself," she admitted. "But I do know this: our Titan didn't really merge with the land like the others. It crashed into it."
"And what that mean?"
"Do you recall our Titan's shape?"
"Yeah. It looked like a man with really long arms."
"The only androgynous Titan since Coiea, if the legends are correct," Dromarch commented.
Mòrag nodded approvingly—as if anyone could forget the Titan's shape. "The other Titans were alive when they merged with Elysium. Mor Ardain was in its death throes, for lack of a better term. So when it struck Elysium, he landed face-down. We essentially rebuilt our country around his corpse."
"That's creepy. Is there a point to this explanation?"
"Alba Cavanich was originally positioned by Mor Ardain's shoulder. But when we rebuilt the capitol, we opted for a location that was much closer to the sea. So now Alba Cavanich is situated well below where Ardain's waist used to be. That region is stable. Here, however, we're much closer to its chest."
"And you're saying that this area isn't as stable?"
"Titan bodies react with the atmosphere as they decay. The larger the Titan, the longer that process takes. And as a Titan dies, its remaining energy concentrates around its core to protect any Blades that might still be forming within its matrix. That concentration of energy, paired with the Titan's decay, must be affecting this area. I think that's why it's less inhabitable," Mòrag explained.
"Gosh, I swear you're like an encyclopedia sometimes," Rex replied.
Pyra nodded in agreement. "Over time, the area should stabilize. Once the Titan's residual energy has finally run out."
"For now, though, we should be cautious."
"So what is this Crá Gleann, anyway?"
Brighid took a turn explaining. "Mor Ardain's remains create natural cliffs and mountains within the landscape. As a result, there's a valley in the canyon between its torso and its left arm. That's Crá Gleann, if our reports are correct. I expect the Aramach will have taken their fortress deep into the valley."
"Wait. So we're just walking up into the Titan's...armpit?" Pandoria snickered.
Brighid scowled at the electric Blade. "Must you put it so immaturely? But for lack of a better term, yes."
Nia shuddered. "That gives me a bad feeling."
"How so?"
"Mor Ardain's pretty big, right? So the canyon will be massive—no climbing in or out. We have to walk in...and walk back out in the same direction. It could be like walking into a Feris cave or den. Dromarch and I accidentally did that once when we were on the run. We almost didn't make it back to the entrance of the cave. We can't let that happen."
"Let's get there first. Then we'll see what we're up against. It might not be so bad," Rex volunteered optimistically.
As their journey continued, the landscape shifted even more. Trees gave way to rugged, rocky terrain. To the northeast, they could spot great cliffs—the Titan's ribcage. Before long they would be able to see similar cliffs on the northwest. The heat only increased the closer they got to the Titan's chest cavity. Whereas Brighid and Pyra had been the favorite Blades on their journey to Tantal, now Nia and Dromarch found themselves in the limelight for their water affinities. And when they settled down to make camp, there was no sparring or accidental cuddling. Everyone kept their distances from each other for no other reason than to preserve their body temperatures. Without the plentiful game of the previous days, they fell back to field rations. Ardainian field rations—not a morale booster.
But it didn't matter too much; they only had to choke down a few field meals before they found that the cliffs on either side were now much, much closer together. Less than a mile apart. They were approaching Crá Gleann. They slowed their pace then, focusing on subtlety.
Nia was right to worry, Mòrag decided. They had no idea how many airships the Aramach stole, how many men they truly had, and what they were after...besides revenge for the man Birall called his brother. The longer they could avoid detection, the better. And this was probably nothing more than a scouting mission, anyway. They had to be getting close.
As if on cue, Azami seemed to materialize in front of the group. Her porcelain-plated face gleamed with excitement. When Rex asked her how she'd found them, the Blade simply replied:
"I'll do anything to be with my cutie-pie Driver. I've been watching you since you left."
Rex shuddered at Azami's unsettling declarations of loyalty, but Mòrag didn't give it much thought. In fact, Azami would be a big help. Even if she couldn't use her Clairvoyant Eye as well against the Aramach, she still made for a very good telescope. An assassin too, when necessary. If there were sentries posted outside the hideout, Azami would probably be the first to spot them. And thanks to her talents, it would be easier to sneak up to the fortress without having to wait for the cover of darkness. Azami quickly covered them with a sphere of camouflage-type ether. Ciaran might be able to prevent her from spying on the Aramach, but since this wasn't a remote ether technique, it ought to work.
And it did.
After about an hour of walking—more like sneaking, really—the fortress came into view. "Fortress" wasn't exactly the best term; there weren't any buildings or structures. Instead, it was more like a blockade of grounded airships. The sight filled them all with dread. The Aramach didn't have just three or four ships. There had to be at least two or three dozen of them, surrounding and guarding the Artigo like an imperial vanguard. And in the gaps between the ships were cannons of many shapes and sizes. Patrols and individuals alike meandered through the region.
"Shit," Brighid whispered.
Everyone could tell how drastic the situation was simply by looking ahead, but hearing Brighid curse made that reality sink in (the only person who cursed less than Mòrag was her Blade).
"...Mòrag, what are we supposed to do? Mòrag?"
"You go home, Rex. I can't ask you to go further than this. It's too dangerous."
"Like hell we're leaving," Mythra retorted. "And if you're planning on trying to break in alone, I'm going to personally knock you out and drag you back to Alba Cavanich. You can't take them all on yourself. That'd be a suicide mission."
"They're trying to overthrow the Empire. I can't simply turn around and leave them be. But it would take half an army to get in there."
"So what are we supposed to do?"
"Shut up! There's a patrol coming!"
There was a sickening second or two when they all wondered if Azami's ether camouflage would be enough to conceal them as a rough-looking group of men sauntered past. They were all armed; most had relatively crude, old weapons, but three or four had Blades. But more important than their weapons were the things they carried: a large crate of core crystals, some dormant and some ready to resonate. Mòrag shuddered; if they had this large of a crate in hand now, how many crystals were already inside the blockade? And how many enemy Drivers would they be dealing with?
She took a second look at the group of Aramach. Her eyes kept returning to one figure: the man at the center. He looked to be the captain of the group. She could have sworn she'd seen him somewhere before.
And then it hit her: Cor Baragh.
So he was alive and well after all. But something didn't quite seem right, either. Even in the fading sunlight, she got a good look at his face. His expression was odd. His eyes darted about, as if he expected someone to double-cross him at any moment. If she hadn't known any better, she would have said he was looking for a way out. He gripped his weapon tightly, too. It wasn't the lance he held when she first met him, either; he was a Driver now. The Blade that strode behind him was just a common one, but she didn't have to fight him to know that his combat abilities would be considerably improved now. The Blade's expression matched his Driver's. Both were afraid of something.
Why, though? Cor believed he was free now, protected from criminal prosecution by allying himself with the Aramach. He ought to be celebrating, enjoying the confidence that came from not being hunted day in and day out. But instead, he wore an expression of dread. But whether it was dread from within the fortress or without, she couldn't tell.
She took two steps forward, drawn by the urge to wrap her whipswords around his ankles and yank him back to the capitol. After all, the day she'd first encountered this man, this chaos all started. Maybe if she could just capture him, things might begin to calm back down.
Brighid's crystalline hand clamped on her wrist, holding her back.
"Mòrag, don't be stupid. They'll see you."
Just run in and light everything on fire yourself. They can't hurt anyone if they've been burned alive.
No, she couldn't do that. Even if she managed to light enough fires to burn every single ship to ash, that kind of rash stupidity would get her killed in the process.
At least you'd kill them off. You'd do more good for the Empire with your death than you have with all of your worthless, secretive life.
I thought I told you to go away.
Not happening. You still need me. And now's not the time to be arguing with me. You've got bigger issues right now, right?
"Mòrag, what do we do?"
"...Let's fall back. Get to someplace where it's safe to talk."
Retreating to that morning's campsite felt like she was walking away after losing a battle. It made everything ache more, including the soreness in her feet, the heaviness in her eyelids, and the stiffness in her muscles. Dashed hopes tended to do that.
Given the region's heat, it wasn't necessary to make a fire. So they simply sat in a circle, using the light cast from the Blade's core crystals and weapons to illuminate their surroundings. For a while, no one spoke. They already knew that the Aramach had bolstered their ranks by breaking convicts out of the prison. But no one expected their stronghold to be this massive. It was like a small state unto itself. A small state with a decent amount of firepower.
"If only I still had Siren. I could just wipe them out myself," Mythra commented.
Mòrag stared at the dim, flickering light flowing from the hilts of her swords. "...We'll have to dispatch airships out here, I suppose. Our artillery is well equipped to dispatch airships, even ones on the ground."
"You mean you're just going to blow them all up? What if there are people in there who are only helping the Aramach because they got busted out of jail?" Zeke pointed out.
"They're all criminals."
"Yeah, but not all of them received the death penalty."
"This isn't Indol. The idealistic approach of just letting people live doesn't work here," Mòrag shot back.
"Well think about—"
"Cut it out, you royal arseholes," Nia interrupted. "Now is not the time for you two to have another debate about capitol punishment!"
"And it's a moot point, anyway," Brighid added. "We can't simply bomb them away. It's too dangerous."
"How so?"
"...The Titan's decay is making this region unstable, just as the gasses released by our Titan weapon in Temperantia were unstable. Even the soil here is highly flammable. If we were to bomb this region, the entire ecosystem would be affected. We could unleash toxic gasses that could travel as far as the capitol. Or the plant life for miles around might be destroyed. Not to mention all the innocent Blades that are trapped inside there. If we blow them up, we lose them, too."
"Wait, the soil's flammable? How do you figure?"
"You forget that mineralogy is one of my skills. Watch."
Brighid reached down and traced a line with her fingers, picking up a small pile of soil. It was black and dusty—more like ash than dirt. Then she summoned a small ether shield so it formed a sphere around her entire hand. All it took was a single spark before the soil ignited, then burst. A little cloud billowed around that tiny explosion she'd caused. That cloud bounced harmlessly against the shield she conjured, but it did not dissipate until she burned it away completely.
"All that from just a single spark. Just imagine what would happen if an airship blew up," Brighid warned.
"Or if Mòrag's flames got out of control in a fight out here. Or Pyra's. We'd all be toast," Rex sighed.
"So we have to do a ground assault, then. Hand-to-hand combat, or else we all go up?"
"It seems so."
"Shit." The Aegis Driver punched the ground beside him. "What the hell are we supposed to do?"
Mòrag was almost grateful for his passionate reaction; he was expressing outwardly the same sentiment she felt internally. If a ground assault was their only option, she'd need several decades of soldiers, along with all the logistical support it would take to get them to this remote location. And since the region was so volatile, they couldn't just be common infantrymen with rifles. She'd need Drivers—more than the four she had with her now. But with the Urayan conflict, there weren't many men to spare.
They were fighting a war on two fronts, and their defenses were spread thin, like butter over too much bread.
Defending Mor Ardain in Titan form had never been this hard. Hyper-concentrated land mass had been difficult to live on, but keeping it safe was simple. These sprawling land masses, though—there were too many locations for Uraya to get in, and just as many for the Aramach to get out.
"...The royal council needs to hear about this. Maybe they'll know what to do," Mòrag said at last. It wasn't what she wanted to do; it was what protocol and common sense demanded.
"So we're just going to walk away from these creeps? What if they leave again?"
Zeke spoke up. "I don't think they're planning on leaving, chum. Whatever these guys are up to...I think this where they plan to finish it."
"Why do you say that?"
"Well, think about it. We have it on good authority that Birall and his brother wanted to make the Ardanach line pay for something. Mòrag makes up half of the Ardanach household. And she's the Flamebringer. This region is one giant minefield for fire wielders. That can't be a coincidence."
"...You think they're after me?"
He made a single nod. "They knew you wouldn't be able to resist coming out here. And if they managed to get rid of you, it would be a cakewalk to get rid of Niall, too."
