"Umm, Mòrag. What the hell are you doing?"

"Nia. I didn't realize you were coming along. I thought you'd be going with Rex and Pyra."

Mòrag lowered the project she'd been fiddling with. A quick glance at the clock told her that she had whittled away—literally—an hour of the flight to the front. She ought to have spent the time reading the latest war briefing before arriving at the front lines, but the feeling of curled fragments peeling away from the wood was oddly soothing. It helped her think.

"Going with them was my original plan. But the Emperor asked me to come and watch your back. I think he's worried you'll get your arse hurt on the front lines."

She rolled her eyes, thankful that at least around Nia, she could be a little freer with her own exasperation. Not only was Niall refusing to give her the assignment she really wanted, but he was also giving her babysitters. Since when was he so concerned for her safety?

"I can handle myself," she said aloud.

"Oh, come off it. This won't be the first time I've had to heal your sorry arse, Miss 'I'm-Going-to-Draw-the-Aggression-of-Every-Single-Monster-in-a-Fifty-Ped-Radius.' And I'm sure it won't be the last."

"So you nickname Zeke 'Shellhead' and that's what you're going to call me? Really?"

"Your nickname is a work in progress. Anyway, what's this?" The Gormotti gestured to the piece of wood she held. "Are you...carving a turtle?"

She nodded, holding up her half-finished carving so her friend could see it better. Nia took it and gave it an appraising look. Her eyebrows shot up, ears twitching in surprise.

"Woah, that's not half bad! I didn't peg you for the artistic sort."

Mòrag shrugged. "I don't know if I'd call this 'artistic.' I'm just very skilled at cutting things with a knife. But thank you."

"Is this supposed to be for Shellhead?" Nia asked bluntly.

"Maybe, provided I don't ruin it in the process...It's silly, I know."

She never really intended to carve a turtle to begin with. But when she found the chunk of deer wood when they stopped to refuel, she picked it up, borrowed Brighid's dagger, and started aimlessly knifing away shavings, lost in thought. The turtle had just emerged from the wood without prompting. It wasn't until she began carving the more intricate tortoise-like details along the shell that she realized exactly what she was doing. In truth, it was a crude little carving, but considering the fact that her typical weapon burst into flames and extended into a whip, she fared quite well with the tiny knife. Nia's "not half bad" description fit the bill.

"I dunno what to make of this, honestly. Like is it supposed to be a romantic gesture? If so, then I guess it's kinda cute. But it's stuff like this that makes it so hard to come up with the right nickname for you. Like, you're really hard to peg. Just when I think I have you down as a stoic warrior, you go and do things like this. Hmm...maybe we'll go with 'Shellhead' and 'The One Who Has the Hots for Shellhead' for now."

"I do not have th-the hots for him."

"Yes you do. Honestly, it's a wonder that your wooden turtle hasn't burst into flames in your hand when you think about him."

"To quote Mythra: 'I'll burn you,'" Mòrag warned.

"I kid, I kid! Sheesh. Seriously, though. It's obvious you like him."

"It's complicated."

"You've been saying 'it's complicated' for months now...But Zeke isn't what's complicated for you. It's your past, right? Something that happened fourteen or fifteen years ago now, I think."

Mòrag stared at her. Even though she had pieced together the fact that Nia used to be Elsie's Blade during their delve into the Spirit Crucible, she never actually broached the topic with her. Nia clearly hated talking about her past, and out of sympathy, Mòrag chose not to bring up the subject of her Driver. Dredging up those memories might be painful for the Gormotti. She always had suspicions that Nia might know something about her stay in Gormott. But until now, the Blade had never breathed a word of it, so she'd kept her peace.

"So you do know."

"...You didn't honestly think we were never going to talk about it, did you? About her. And you, really."

"Those days were challenging for us both. I did not want to stir up painful memories," Mòrag admitted. "What all did Elsie say about me?"

Nia gave a bittersweet smile. "She actually didn't tell me all that much. Just that she'd met a new friend named Morgan. I put the pieces together on my own over time."

"What do you mean?"

"Flesh Eaters are, well, unique. Our Drivers...they don't exactly live on inside us. It's not like I have two voices going in my head at all times. She's here, but she isn't at the same time. Ugh, I'm not explaining it very well. You see, Elsie's mostly gone. It's like I have broken bits of her memories, though. And on really rare occasions, she tells me to do something or not to do something—almost like a second conscience, I guess. Or maybe I'm just going mad. Either way, after I...ate her, I started seeing bits of her memories. A lot of them were jumbled, especially the ones near the end. But most of the clearest, happiest ones involved you. Or at least, a younger, pregnant version of you. I connected the dots. I don't know the whole story, of course, but I gather you went through some serious shit back then. And it's why a relationship is so complicated for you."

"...Elsie was a good friend to me back then, even though we didn't know each other for very long."

"You meant a lot to her, too," Nia said quietly.

"Why are you telling me all this? Why now?" Mòrag asked.

"Well for starters, she wanted me to thank you for being her friend. And she wants you to be happy. She said as much."

"But I thought you—"

"Yeah, she can't really talk to me. I can still sense her emotions, though. So I can tell that she'd want you to be happy."

"...Now's not a good time to be concerned for my personal happiness. Not with everything that's going on."

"If you constantly wait for a good time to try to find your happiness, you'll never start looking, Mòrag. And it's not selfish to look for it. Sometimes, taking care of yourself can actually be the best way to help others."

Mòrag couldn't fight back a disbelieving huff. "That's ridiculous."

"I'm talking from personal experience here, so don't laugh at it. Just think about it. You're a great soldier now, even though anyone can see you're letting your so-called complicated feelings for Zeke rip you apart. But what if you just accepted your feelings for him? What if you let yourself be happy? I think it'd make you even more powerful. Hell, if you managed to banish your own demons, I don't think anyone could stop you."

"...None of what you're saying makes sense, Nia."

Nia shook her head, as if Mòrag's dismissive response exasperated her. "I think you'll understand someday."

The Gormotti handed back the half-carved turtle and walked away, leaving Mòrag struggling to wrap her head around the thought that pursuing her own happiness wasn't inherently selfish. That couldn't be true, could it? And yet something about the statement seemed to stick inside her chest, like it belonged there.

But she didn't have time to ruminate over the baffling suggestion Nia made; at that moment, the airship transitioned into a landing pattern, its engines and turbines whirring as it slowly circled down to a makeshift dock. And then the assault of incessant meetings began: a briefing with General Haig, an appraisal of their current resources, and a firsthand look at the battle zone.

That last item was bone-chilling. In truth, the scene was very straightforward: destruction everywhere. Not terribly bloody, or at least not yet. Unlike man-to-man combat, most of this conflict thus far had been artillery, a cacophony of tanks, airships, and shells that tore through the landscape. No, the blood had all been burned away, leaving behind different horrors. Charred and blackened foliage. Remnants of titan weapons, empty metal husks like the abandoned exoskeleton of an insect. Ash—so much ash, illuminated by the still-glowing embers that created it. And everywhere, the smoking haze that hung over everything.

Not for the last time was she struck by the bitter irony that for something so cataclysmic, the act of making war, at its core, was simple. Brutally so. It was the before and after of war that was complicated. But this—the fighting itself—took little thought. Kill or be killed. Defend what you care for. Stay alive. Reduce losses as much as possible. It was a to-do list. Eventually, the substance of the list would change as they exhausted their airships and artillery and changed to more direct combat. When that happened, the glowing embers of bombed ships would turn into the pooling blood of dying men.

Life became a fevered dream of combat and strategy: wake, choke down food, issue orders from the command tent, send and receive reports from Alba Cavanich, and whenever infantry managed to break through, engage in hand-to-hand combat. Collapse into a dreamless sleep and repeat. As the weeks dragged on, the number of airships decreased. The casualties increased in equal measure. What had been a fight in the skies became a battleground as the two sides continued to wear each other down—neither able to gain ground but likewise refusing to yield it. And always, there were hundreds of men falling on either side, their last words echoing in curses, lost hopes, forsaken dreams, or the name of a child or lover.

At this rate, no matter who won, the victory would be pyrrhic. But war always was.


Raqura frowned at the man kneeling—more like being forced to kneel—in front of her. She didn't need to be told who he was. She recognized him from the wanted posters posted everywhere: Mor Ardain, Indol, Gormott, Leftheria, and even her own Fonsa Myma. Cor Baragh. His name carried a massive reward, prompting bounty hunters to run out in droves in hopes of catching him before the Ardainian Inquisitor. That he had managed to evade Mòrag, the Garfont Mercenaries, and dozens of independent hunters was something of an international mystery.

Normally, Raqura's stomach would turn at the sight of him. She couldn't even put into words the full extent of how much his crimes revolted her. But as he was now—with the fatigue of weeks of traveling pulling at his already gaunt face and ether-blocking handcuffs around his wrists and his Blade's—he was no threat. He looked run-down.

The only thing preventing him from looking totally pathetic was the glimmer of his eyes. It was the look of a man unleashing a desperate gambit.

"Bennett, why are you stinking up my court with this filth?" she asked.

"Your Majesty, he claims he has information that could help Uraya win the war. Information about the Ardanach household," her advisor explained.

"And what information is that?"

"We don't know yet. He's been very insistent that he would only speak with Your Majesty."

"Why, then, are you wasting my time with some criminal's baseless ramblings?" she demanded. "I have little time for this."

"Well, if you please, Your Majesty, you know full well how messy the front has gotten. It's been about nine weeks of combat. We've taken so many casualties already, and there's been no progress into Ardainian territory. It's a standstill out there, and it's starting to get to the men. The guards who brought him in had already blabbed that this guy had a silver bullet for taking down the Ardainians. If we didn't at least make it look like you granted him audience, we might have a riot on our hands."

"So they've gotten worked up over a false hope, then."

"Maybe. If you don't want to talk to him, I'll just take care of him."

Something that could drop the Ardainians in a hurry? And this sleazebag was the source of that information? As far-fetched as it was, she couldn't deny that she was curious.

"Fine. Cor Baragh, let's hear what you have to say. Give me one good reason why I shouldn't ship you right back to Mor Ardain. We have an extradition agreement with them, after all."

The man scowled. "Why should you honor that agreement? Mor Ardain isn't exactly keen on returning the favor right now, eh? Now before I say a word, I want something in return. Bringing this information here put me at great personal risk. And he could still find me. So before I say anything, make it worth my while."

"What exactly is it that you want?"

"Amnesty."

She fought down the urge to laugh in his face. Amnesty—as if he would find that anywhere. Only a foolish king would protect a man with his rap sheet. He'd be a threat to her citizenry, too. But she was under no obligation to meet his demands. And manipulation and deception—well, two could play at that game.

"Fine. Now let's hear it."

The tale he told was too good to be true. And yet too awful to be true. But it did fill in some of the mental gaps she had. Her spies kept tabs on every nation's leaders, and one thing she had never understood was why the Lady Mòrag had spent so much time at Gormott. The former crown princess was a peerless Driver; she ought to have served at the Imperial capitol from the moment she came of age. Stationing her at a subjugated province was a waste of talent. And yet her spies had never gotten close enough to the Imperial estate to find out more. This new revelation regarding her true connection to the Emperor explained that.

If one assumed that Cor's tale was correct, then his outrageous claim that his information could topple Mor Ardain wasn't quite so far-fetched. It would be like taking the head off a snake.

But Raqura also felt a pang of conscience. As Uraya's ruler, she wanted the Ardainian threat to be neutralized. But she believed that completely wiping Mor Ardain off the map was not the answer—although some of her council advocated that position. After all, Uraya's economy and Mor Ardain's were inextricably linked. Even in Elysium, Uraya relied on Mor Ardain's industry for ruska flour and machinery like snake joint and rabbit diodes; in turn, Uraya traded ores like tricolor rock and mille-feuille along with fresh seafood from their ports. The war between them had already wreaked havoc on her economy. Fonsa Myma's ports reeked of unsold fish, and flour was already requiring rationing. Surely the same ripples were being felt in Alba Cavanich, too. If one country blew the other away completely, that economic strain would last even longer—even the victors of a war felt the pain of its aftermath.

So as Uraya's ruler, the possibility of weakening Mor Ardain by exposing the truth of the Ardanach household...it was a tantalizing option. Without the Special Inquisitor, the Ardainian military might suffer from discord as aspiring generals made their bid for her position. And with the Emperor's authority called into question, their governance would shatter, too. But that presented its own problem: with the Emperor unseated, the Senate would have emergency powers over the country. And recent events had put the radical Brionac party in charge of the legislature. Without the Gardic party and the throne to temper their impulses, Brionac might unleash the complete might of the Ardainian military. Then the war would get truly ugly.

Those were her thoughts as a ruler. But as a person, as an individual, she liked the Ardanach household. Or at least its current members. She never got along with Emperor Nealon very well—life during his rule had been constant pins and needles—but Emperor Niall was everything his predecessor wasn't. Until their current predicament, she had truly believed that his reign might mark the beginning of an amiable relationship between their countries.

And there was always the possibility that Cor Baragh was just lying, fabricating an elaborate tale to save his own skin. He certainly had the intelligence to attempt it. But she had to know for sure.

"Bennett, get this scum out of my sight," she said at last. "Take him to his new accommodations. I think he'll find the corner cell is quite to his liking."

"We had a deal! You swore you'd grant me amnesty!" Cor shouted, spit shooting from his mouth.

"I swore nothing, Baragh. There was no binding agreement. And first I have to see if your information is worth a deal to begin with. Don't fret, though. The cell is quite comfortable. I hear it has a nice view of the river."

Cor was still shouting angry curses as he was dragged away from the hall. Raqura shook her head.

"Your Majesty, what would you have me do?" Ingrid asked.

Already, a plan of action bounced around in Raqura's mind. The old traditions for settling armed conflict with as little bloodshed as possible...under ordinary circumstances, Mor Ardain would never agree, especially not with their superior firepower. One life to compensate for the loss of thousands and to prevent thousands more despite bloodlust on both sides—it was laughable, and yet it had worked in the past. But maybe, the Special Inquisitor could convince the Emperor to agree to it. She had to try.

"My lady?"

Raqura turned to her Blade. "Serve as my envoy to Mor Ardain's command center right away. I want to talk to Special Inquisitor Mòrag personally."


"Special Inquisitor, an Urayan envoy has arrived. She wishes to speak with you."

Mòrag didn't even look up from her work. This shipment of weapons needed to be inspected immediately so it could be distributed to the soldiers by nightfall. The general in charge of quality inspection had been wounded in yesterday's skirmish, so the task fell to her (although Brighid had volunteered, only to be sent off to send a report to the capitol instead). An Urayan envoy would just have to wait.

"I've told Raqura a thousand times. Those demands will not be met," she replied flatly.

"If I may, Inquisitor, I must advise that you speak to this envoy. I believe you'll want to hear what she has to say."

Only then did the word choice sink in: she. Until now, all of the envoys had been men, armed with a long list of demands, which they called "recommendations" on how to end the conflict. It had been utterly ridiculous. Not that all-male messengers were too surprising; Uraya's military was almost exclusively men. Their ridiculously bulky armor almost ensured that women struggled to enlist. So for the messenger to be female…

"It's Ingrid. Queen Raqura's Blade."

That explained a lot.

"Fine," Mòrag agreed. "Send her over here."

Unaccompanied, Ingrid had an uncanny ability to seemingly materialize at her destination. Mòrag certainly didn't hear her coming, but the Blade arrived quickly after the Ardainian solider departed. Almost too quickly. Ingrid gave her customary bow, which Mòrag returned, not bothering to exchange greetings. After all, if Ingrid was here, then the person really wanting to talk was Raqura.

In a matter of seconds, a hologram of the Urayan queen materialized, as if Ingrid held an ethercom between her palms.

"Your Majesty," Mòrag began, "you are the last person I expected to see today."

"Lady Mòrag, I understand how busy you are, so I won't waste your time. I wish to speak with you."

"It's a bit late for words, don't you think?"

Raqura smiled politely. "I think you'll want to hear what I have to say. I believe I've found a way for us to end this war as painlessly as possible."

"Such as?"

"I will not discuss it here. Not where we can be overheard by prying ears. Come to Fonsa Myma to speak with me privately. I promise you safe passage. We will discuss it when you arrive."

"And how do I know that this isn't a thinly veiled attempt to kidnap me and use me for ransom against Mor Ardain?"

"I assure you it is not. If it eases your fears, I will even allow your Blade to accompany you. And a second Driver and Blade, if you choose. This is a peaceful meeting, I promise."

"...Fine. I'll hear your piece. But I have a condition."

"Yes?"

"Both sides call a temporary ceasefire while we discuss whatever it is you hope to discuss. I won't have your army trying anything funny while I'm away from my men."

"I'll give the order, provided you do the same."

"I will see you in Fonsa Myma, then. Now, if you'll excuse me."

Mòrag was secretly grateful that Niall had not chosen to join the front line of combat as so many Emperors in the past did. Then she would have had to ask for his permission; and given his unusual concern for her safety as of late, she doubted he would agree. But he could not forbid her to go if she never bothered to ask. And something about Raqura's expression during their brief exchange...Mòrag's instincts told her that she needed to go to Fonsa Myma. She couldn't explain it—Raqura's invitation wasn't exactly a compelling one—but something in her gut screamed that the trip was important. And if nothing else, a day or two's ceasefire would give her soldiers some much-needed rest. Even if Raqura's proposal amounted to nothing, that made the triph worth it.

So she put the arrangements in motion the second she returned to the command tent. Most of the commanding officers questioned why there would be a temporary halt to the hostilities, but like the dutiful soldiers they were, they obeyed their orders.

Zeke, however, protested the idea of her going alone into enemy territory.

"What if they try to kill you? Or take you prisoner? I know your gut's good, but something about this isn't right."

"I agree," she said simply, tossing a few personal belongings into a satchel. With as late in the day as it was already, she would probably have to spend at least one night in Fonsa Myma. "But that's exactly why I need to go."

"I don't like this, Mòrag."

"If you're so worried about it, come with me. Raqura said I can bring one Driver with me. Naturally, I planned on bringing you. You did promise to be a shield for my back, did you not? Then come. Between the four of us, Uraya would be hard pressed to manage any treachery."

"Okay. But if they try anything funny, I'm going to electrocute everyone in the entire palace and get us the hell out of there."

As soon as Mòrag was confident that the Ardainian forces were under control—and Pandoria finished packing, which took a surprisingly long time—they accompanied Ingrid back to her airship and departed for the Urayan capitol. The trip was uneventful, and mercifully, it went quickly; talking with Raqura's Blade in earshot was uncomfortable.

As they flew over the Urayan capitol, Mòrag found herself hoping that whatever harebrained scheme Raqura had would work; the new Fonsa Myma was incredibly fortified. The city looked much like it did on Elysium (not crash-landing on the new continent helped infrastructure), but thanks to new building materials, Uraya managed to reinforce much of it. Now the walls were thicker, the gates taller, the stone harder and more unyielding. Mor Ardain's strongest airships would struggle to topple the stronghold if it ever came to a full-scale invasion. Alba Cavanich, on the other hand, would not fare as well as the Urayan capitol.

By the time they arrived at the palace, it was too late for Mòrag to have an audience with the queen. So they were ushered into some guest apartments with a vague promise that "Raqura would see the Inquisitor first thing in the morning" and left to themselves for what little remained of the evening.

Zeke made a quick sweep of their apartments and checked their Blades' accommodations in the adjoining room "just to be on the safe side." But once he was sure they were secure, he collapsed onto the bed with an exhausted exhale.

"It's been ages since we slept in a proper bed," he sighed.

"I thought you liked being out on the field. You've always told me palace life was never your thing," she teased. Deep down, she was glad for some more comfortable accommodations, too.

"Heh, you know I can sleep anywhere. But a good pillow is a nice change from the cot we've dealt with for the past couple months."

"You should be grateful you're with me, you know. My station has its perks, and that cot is one of them. Most of the common soldiers are stuck with sleeping bags."

He grinned and begrudgingly got back up to prepare for bed. Granted, it didn't take him very long, and soon he was making himself comfortable again. By the time Mòrag had finished her own routine, relishing the chance to wash her face with warm water after so long, she half expected him to be asleep already. But he wasn't. Instead, he stared up at the ceiling with one arm folded behind his head as if lost in thought. He hardly even seemed to notice when she climbed in beside him.

"Thanks for coming with me," she said quietly, breaking the silence.

"Maybe I was just being paranoid. Doesn't look like it was a trap after all."

"Perhaps not. But if nothing else, I'm grateful for the company."

"You're welcome, then. Let's get some sleep, shall we?"

After a gentle goodnight peck—they were so simple now, like the comfort of a routine—he turned out the lamp. Between the day's stress, the lack of battle noises in the distance, and the warmth and softness of a proper mattress, Mòrag fell asleep quickly.

When she woke, it was still dark. Grogginess still hung in her eyes; maybe not much time had passed? What then, had pulled her from her sleep? It wasn't a nightmare. Those had been much fewer and farther apart lately. And then she realized: someone was whispering beside her. Zeke. But who was he talking to? She kept still and strained to listen for a second voice—maybe one of the Blades had slipped in with news from the Ardainian camp? Brighid did have the remote ethercom. But no, there wasn't a second voice. Just his.

Curiosity got the better of her, and she didn't turn around, clenching her eyes shut again. It almost sounded like he was talking to her.

"...It's silly, really, talking like this," he whispered. "But I'm kind of scared to say it to your face because I know you're not there yet. And I don't want to upset you, but I don't know how much longer I can bottle it up inside."

What could Zeke possibly be scared of? She forced herself to breathe deeply so he wouldn't realize she was awake. She wanted him to keep talking.

"You're absolutely incredible, Flames. I dunno know where to begin, honestly. You're brave and resilient, and it inspires me to be a better man. 'Cause compared to you, I don't even measure up. Not even close. I know that deep down, you don't think you're worthy of love, but you're wrong. You deserve everything. But here's the thing: I'm scared that I'm not the kind of man you deserve. I'm just a wannabe prince who bummed around for over a decade after getting himself banished. Until recently, I've always run from my problems. But you've always faced yours head-on."

His whispers faltered for a moment.

"I wish I could borrow some of your courage. Maybe then I could say this to you directly. Because I think I've fallen in love with you. And that scares me like nothing else because I'm not sure I'm worthy of loving you." He hesitated again. "But I promise I'm going to try to be better. I want to be worthy of you. I'll become the kind of man you deserve. And maybe when I am, I won't be scared to tell you properly: I love you, Mòrag Ladair."

H-he loves me? But this is an arranged marriage. He's not supposed to—he doesn't have to—Architect, should I say something?

Her panicked sensation left far sooner than she expected it to. Somehow, she'd been expecting this. But she couldn't bring herself to say anything, either. And even if she wanted to, she never got the chance. With his piece spoken out to what he assumed were unconscious ears, Zeke laid back down and seemed to fall asleep easily.

He's lying. He doesn't love you.

No, he was telling the truth! Suddenly she felt sure of that. She wasn't quite sure how the truth made her feel, but she knew the bitter voice was wrong. He thought no one was listening. He wasn't lying. Maybe...maybe it's you who's been lying all along.

Me?! I'm just trying to protect us. Protect you! You need me.

I-if what he's saying is true, then I don't need protecting. Not when I have a place to belong.

The voice had no response to that, which filled her with a sense of relief. It was the first time she'd ever contradicted that voice and not felt...hurt afterwards. Sleepiness crept back up on her, but before she drifted off again, she thought that maybe she finally understood what Nia had meant. Because this—this was peaceful.

When morning came, however, she didn't feel quite as peaceful. She woke before he did, which meant she had to lay there, staring at his face—he'd probably be embarrassed to know there was a little trickle of saliva on his chin—and wondering if she should say anything about his whispers when he woke up. And then there was this odd twist in the pit of her belly that she had no idea what to do with. When he finally did wake up with a murmured "morning, Flames" and a giant, overkill stretch, she decided not to say anything about it. He'd probably be embarrassed she heard.

Given how she was feeling now, though, she doubted her ability to maintain a good poker face. So she got up.

"My meeting with Raqura should be pretty soon. I'm going to get a shower."

She walked to the bathroom and turned the knob to the hot water, hoping she could reassemble her professional persona in spite of what he said last night. She needed to focus. But when she turned to shut the door, she stopped short and looked back at him.

Zeke stood, making the bed—a habit she'd finally managed to engrain in him, apparently so deeply that he was doing it even as a guest. The bedspread wasn't particularly heavy, but each tug of the covers made the muscles in his back flex. He moved to fix up the opposite side of the bed. The fragment of his core crystal caught a small beam of sunlight streaming through the window. It gleamed back at her, and for a moment, she could have sworn she heard Pandoria's voice cooing "my Prince" at him.

An odd urge to pry the crystal from his chest surfaced, but she fought it down. That would probably kill him. And why did it matter that Pandoria's mark lingered on him? Both the Blade and the prince had assured her that their relationship was familial, just platonic. But for some reason, the crystal looked like a brand—the Blade's lifelong claim to her Driver. And Mòrag suddenly wanted it gone.

If you hate Pandoria's mark so much, mark him yourself. Right on his neck where everyone can see.

The sheer possessiveness of the impulse startled her. She kept still.

"Mòrag? You okay?"

She nodded. "You need to shower, too, right?"

"Yeah. Don't spend all the hot water. Uraya's steam industry still isn't as good as Mor Ardain's," he smirked.

She hesitated, debating whether she should voice the idea that just popped into her head. Surely it was a bad idea. But it had been weeks since they'd both had a proper, warm shower, and…

Go on. Say it! You know you want to.

Don't you dare! This is stupid. You're going to get yourself hurt again.

But he said he loves me. He didn't mean for me to hear it, but he said it.

Those were just words. And the poor fool doesn't know what he's saying because you keep confusing him. This is only going to make him more confused.

Or it could help.

Ugh, you're an idiot sometimes. Fine, do it. But don't come crying to me when this ends in disaster.

"Um, you can join me, if you like," Mòrag suggested weakly.

A pillow dropped from Zeke's hands and bounced on the floor. His jaw seemed to drop just as far. "You mean, like, shower with you?"

"Yes. Please don't get the wrong idea. I'm still not quite ready for sex. But—" Architect, this was so embarrassing to say out loud, "b-but I think, maybe, I'm getting closer to the point where I might want to be ready to? I don't know. Maybe I'm just being stupid. But I think it, well, it could help me get to that point. Only if you'd like to, that is. If you're not comfortable with it, I understand."

Her voice was a pathetic, flustered whisper by the time she finished her explanation. But she'd managed to say it. And somehow, that felt like a little victory.

"Okay. I'll be there in a second."

Simultaneously relieved and nervous, she returned to the bathroom and shed her pajamas quickly. Somehow, the thought of undressing in front of him was more vulnerable than simply being naked when he walked in. She stepped into the shower; maybe the steam would mask some of the flush on her cheeks. Despite the preheated temperature, each water droplet felt like ice against her skin. She was being so odd today. Inviting him to bathe, simply on account of a little petty, unfounded jealousy of his Blade? Or was it because of what he said last night? Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all...

But when he stepped in to join her under the stream of water, the world seemed to stop for a moment. They both stood, dumbfounded and dripping, politely trying not to stare, but neither quite able to resist stealing glances at the other's form.

Ugh, would you just get on with it? Do it! You know you want to.

Can't you see she's just toying with him? She likes dragging him along.

"Um, pass the shampoo, please," she murmured, hoping a productive action might calm her down. The only thing worse than her own embarrassment was the two voices—or maybe it was urges—debating in her mind. Which was she supposed to listen to? Or was there a way to get both of them to shut up?

Zeke's hand fumbled with the bottle, but he did as she asked. Once she got the soap she needed, she handed it back to him and set to work massaging her scalp, trying to fall into a rhythm. Zeke then took some for himself. Not watching what he was doing, he poured too much, only to run it through his fingers anyway, as if he wanted to pretend it hadn't happened.

To her own surprise, she didn't want to hide from his gaze. And yet, she was suddenly aware of all the scars lining her frame. Skincare had been the singular aspect of her own appearance she actually cared for. Her wrists were one thing; he'd seen those. The others, though...With a careful routine after Niall's birth, she managed to fade most of the stretched skin on her stomach. But now, with Zeke's eyes on her, it felt like the last traces of her pregnancy were burning and glowing on her skin.

"I can wash your back for you. If you like," he volunteered, the usual dramatism missing from his voice.

She turned around, half glad to shelter her stomach from view but half not wanting to be unable to see his. His touch—both with the sponge and his fingers—was gentle, soothing, and task-oriented, never dipping below her hips. She couldn't decide if she wanted his hands to stray or not.

"You know, this reminds me of that time Tora tried to get you to bathe with us back at the hot springs."

She groaned. "That was so embarrassing."

"Definitely the most flustered I've ever seen you. You tried so hard to save face, but Tora was so clueless."

"Do I really seem so...unfeminine?"

"No," Zeke said quietly. "Honestly, I think looking back on it, that was the first time I ever even wondered what you looked like out of uniform. But if you'd told me then that we'd end up getting married, I would have laughed at you."

"And now that you know what I look like, are you, um, disappointed?"

Architect, I said that out loud. Why do I even care? What has gotten into me today?

"Now, if Tora volunteered to wash your back for you, I'd probably dropkick him. Rex, too. There's...there's something about your back that just gets me, I guess."

So Zeke had a little jealous streak, too. Now she was sure that the heat wasn't just coming from the shower. But the warmth made her even more bashful.

"Thanks to Nia, it's one of the few parts of me that isn't scarred. Because of her, the cuts from that Guldo didn't scar."

"I don't mind your scars, you know. Not these." His fingers brushed the scars on her left wrist. "Or these," he whispered. His hand finally strayed from her back, tracing around her waist to find her stomach. He stroked one of the faint divots in the skin there. "To me, they're just proof of how strong you are."

The touch sent little shivers through the muscle beneath, but it wasn't unpleasant, either. Quite the opposite, actually. She turned to face him. What was she supposed to say—that his scars surrounding Pandoria's crystal made her so agitated that she crossed boundaries she never intended to? Or mention his confession? And these impulses—if she acted on them, would she regret it?

"W-we should probably finish up. I shouldn't keep Raqura waiting," she said in a hurry. Now was not the time for this. "Would you like me to return the favor?"

She gestured to the sponge in his hand. He took the cue and handed it over, taking his turn to face the wall while she scrubbed his back. While she did, he fell silent. Was he waiting for her to say something in return? Disappointed that she cut the moment short? Or just enjoying the same touches he'd given her? Regardless of the reason, he said nothing as she finished the task. Once the suds were gone, she let herself wrap her arms around him, inhaling the faint, fresh scent the soap left behind on his back.

This was probably the most impulsive thing she'd done in over a decade. Sure, it was a bad idea, and perhaps terrible timing, but...for once, that was okay.

"Thank you for being patient with me," she murmured. Her breath left goosebumps on his skin. "I'm still not quite there yet, but I...but this was nice."

"Yeah...You're right, though. You should probably get going. Raqura isn't the most patient woman."

As expected, reassembling her formal, "Special Inquisitor" persona was challenging. But by the time she pulled on the last piece of her uniform, she managed to dispel the last of her uncharacteristic feelings. But now she really hoped that Raqura's proposal could work. Maybe if the war was over, she could come back and work through these confusing emotions without feeling guilty about neglecting her duties. It might be nice to finally figure it out.

Thankfully, she did not have to wait long. Ingrid came to fetch her shortly after they finished breakfast. It was to be a private audience, so Zeke and the Blades all stayed behind at the door to the throne room.

Mòrag took a quick inventory of the room's occupants: no guards, just the queen and her Blade. Odd, but it made her feel a little better. She'd stashed a dagger in her blouse just to be safe. If things turned sour, she could hold off the Driver and Blade long enough for Zeke, Brighid, and Pandoria to force their way in. But then again: why so quiet? Where was Raqura's usual pomp and circumstance? The courtiers? The advisors? The staff? The guards? Something didn't feel right.

"Welcome, Lady Mòrag, and thank you for coming to meet me on such short notice. I trust you had a safe journey?"

"I did, thank you."

"Oh, and I suppose congratulations are in order. I haven't seen you since your wedding, so I never got the chance to extend my best wishes."

"We can dispense with the pleasantries, Your Majesty. Why am I here?"

Raqura studied her carefully, as if the queen was still considering dropping an ether net over her. And the woman's expression was odd. It hung somewhere between sympathy and pity, mixed with disdain. From what Mòrag knew of her, Raqura was a good ruler, despite her distrust of Ardainians. Raqura always did what she believed to be best for her people. Even if that placed them on opposite sides of an armed conflict, Mòrag could respect that sense of duty.

For a lingering moment, Mòrag found herself wondering what life would have been like if she had been Empress, Raqura's political peer. Would they still have butted heads? Or would she, like Niall, have found a way to pursue peace between their two nations? That seemed unlikely. But no, that did not matter now. Even without the crown, defending Mor Ardain remained her priority.

"...Our countries are on the verge of destroying each other. Thousands of lives have already been lost, and the death toll grows rapidly. This war, it needs to stop. And soon," the queen explained.

"Then make this ceasefire permanent," Mòrag said simply, knowing full well it was a pointless suggestion.

"Trying to write a haphazard peace agreement to end this war would be like putting a flimsy bandage on a bullet wound and hoping it will heal on its own. It would be foolish. One of our countries must subdue the other. It must end. But I am loathe to lose my entire army to do so. My country has too many widows as it is."

"We've tried to bring you to the negotiating table. You refused. So why am I really here? Has Uraya had a change of heart?"

"Not exactly. I have a proposition for you to present to your ruler. One that could end this conflict quickly, and with minimal loss of life."

"Unlikely. But let's hear it."

Raqura's suggestion sounded like something from a storybook, but Mòrag did her the courtesy of listening to the end. According to the Urayan queen's plan, each country would select a Driver from its army to act as its champion and representative. The champions would fight in a battle to the death, with their battle acting as a proxy for the bloodshed of a battlefield. Whichever country's champion won would, in effect, win the war. The fallen's would surrender. History books and legends detailed accounts of this very act; Coeia and Indol had utilized the method to resolve one of their own conflicts centuries ago, when the Titans were first beginning to show signs of decay. A few others did it, too.

But Raqura was a fool to think it could work now.

"Unthinkable," Mòrag scoffed when Raqura finished her explanation. "Our military might is superior to yours. We will have victory. And you would ask us, the world's strongest military state, to risk our victory on something as simple as a duel?"

"I understand that our army is smaller than yours. But as you've seen already, we have managed to cull your numbers quite effectively. Your army might be able to subdue mine, but at what cost? In your relentless attempts to prove your own military might, you'd be losing it with each soldier's death. This could resolve the conflict without such wanton violence."

"Be that as it may, the Senate would never agree to it."

"But the idea might appeal to His Majesty. He could easily overrule them by decree, correct?"

"He could."

"Then convince him, Special Inquisitor."

"...No. I won't ask him to further compromise his already precarious position with the Senate."

Raqura gave a very heavy sigh. Her chin dropped to her chest. "I really hoped it wouldn't come to this," she whispered. "You will convince him to agree to this single combat resolution. You'll convince him, or I will have no choice but to tell the world the truth about the Ardanach household."

With a fire Blade constantly at her side, Mòrag was unaccustomed to the feeling of being cold, of a chill running down her spine. But in that moment, she fully understood what stories meant when they said that the hero's "blood ran cold." Her entire body responded to Raqura's words. Goosebumps lined every inch of skin. And even though her heart was racing, desperately pumping blood at a frenzied pace, she couldn't feel its heat. She forced back a shiver. Maybe Raqura was just grasping at straws? Hoping to get a reaction from her to verify unconfirmed suspicions?

"I'm sure I don't know what you're implying, Your Majesty."

"'Your Majesty.' Interesting word choice, Inquisitor. After all, by rights, that title should go to you as well. But to preserve your dignity, you abandoned it."

Hah. Do you see now? You told Zeke, and the secret's getting out. Even Uraya knows now. The world is about to know what a coward you are.

Mòrag kept her mouth shut—she feared that if she loosened her tongue now, she would unleash a torrent of words that would get Mor Ardain into further trouble.

"You can stop pretending, Lady Mòrag," Raqura continued. "I know that any child you have in your present union won't be your first. The current Emperor is your son, but the world believes him to be your brother. Quite the valuable bit of information, don't you think? I do believe even your own countrymen would find it to be an interesting tale."

"On what grounds are you basing these allegations, Your Majesty?" Mòrag asked. She silently prayed that the flinch in her voice wasn't obvious to the other royal.

Raqura raised a questioning brow. "Judging by the expression on your face at the moment, they're not allegations. They're facts."

"What's your source? I demand you tell me!"

"Don't get frantic, Special Inquisitor. My source's identity is my concern. I'm under no obligation to tell you. I'm also under no obligation to keep this information secret. But if you were able to convince the Emperor to settle the conflict in a one-on-one combat, then I might agree to keep this information confidential."

Shit. Backed into a corner. "So you're blackmailing me, then."

"Blackmail is such a harsh term. That implies that only one party benefits from the arrangement. But this method is in the best interests of both parties. Why settle this war over thousands of lives when we can use our two best fighters as scapegoats? We'd avoid the pointless loss of life."

"Mor Ardain would never agree to such an arrangement. Not in normal circumstances."

"But you have a very keen incentive to convince the little Emperor to go through with it anyway. And I'm confident you will. If not, then I'm afraid I may have to leverage the weight of the information I now know."

"How dare you, Raqura. You owe the Emperor your life! He threw himself in front of a live bomb to protect you. And you would repay him by threatening to take his throne? How could you?"

"I derive no joy from this either, Inquisitor. I am simply trying to protect the lives of my people. And you should know that some of my citizens believe that little stunt at Indol was staged. Personally, I have nothing against your son maintaining his status, regardless of his heritage. In fact, I think his rule indirectly benefits my own country. I would rather not force him off his throne. But if doing so could help protect my country...you of all people understand that duty."

"I always thought so highly of you, Raqura. But this...I'm not sure this can be forgiven."

"All is fair in love and war, unfortunately. I do what I must."

"What would be the terms of the combat?"

"All combat ends on both sides once the duel is complete. If the Urayan champion wins, then Uraya will annex the demilitarized zone, and Mor Ardain will withdraw its borders back by ten titanpeds. If Mor Ardain is victorious, then Uraya will make the same concessions. Any further arrangements can be discussed at an official summit. Naturally, those arrangements would favor the victor, but negotiations would be made."

"...Anything else?"

"Yes. The Ardainian champion...it has to be you, Lady Mòrag."

Mòrag shook her head. There was the other catch. She should have seen it coming.

"Why me? If you want me dead, I'd prefer you say so directly."

"This is not a personal vendetta, Lady Mòrag. It is simple necessity. The tradition of single combat to settle a war is an old one. Essentially, the combatants act as scapegoats for their respective armies, shouldering the aggression and violence that would otherwise claim hundreds, thousands of lives. But for the duel to be valid, each side must offer up a worthy adversary to serve as the scapegoat. My men are very angry. They want blood. For them to accept this measure, a suitable head must be won for them."

"And you've deemed that mine will placate them."

"No one else's will. The sight of Mor Ardain's Special Inquisitor falling in battle, and of the Jewel of Mor Ardain returning to her core crystal—that alone would sate their bloodlust."

Mòrag clenched her fists behind her back, willing all of the tension in her body to manifest itself in her hands so Raqura could not see all the anger boiling inside her.

"You'd best choose your champion wisely. That sight—you're not going to witness it, Raqura. I've been a Driver for more than half my lifetime. Together, Brighid and I are unstoppable. And as you now know, I have faced dozens of hells and survived. Surviving this won't be any different."

"I always did appreciate that unflinching Ardainian confidence. I take it you're agreeing to the arrangement, then?"

"You leave me little choice. I will present the proposal to His Majesty. I will have an answer for you in a week's time. Is that satisfactory?"

Raqura nodded.

"...If the Emperor agrees, how can I be sure that Uraya will uphold the bargain? When I defeat your champion, how do I know the Urayan army won't continue to fight anyway?"

"I give you my word that will not happen."

"As if your word means anything to me," Mòrag hissed. She didn't even bother to mask her frustration now.

Raqura shrugged as if she'd expected that answer. She nodded to her Blade, who left and returned with a bedraggled prisoner in tow. "I can understand why my word might not be enough for you, given the circumstances. So as a show of good faith, allow me to send you back to the Empire with something your country misplaced. I believe you've been trying to apprehend Baragh for months now, correct?"

Mòrag almost didn't recognize the man. When she first encountered him, he'd looked so defiant and full of energy. But now he seemed deflated, betrayed. If not for the atrocities he committed and the sheer hassle of trying (and failing) to apprehend him personally, she might have pitied him.

"How did you get him?" she demanded.

"That's not important," Raqura said dismissively. "What matters is that our countries have a unique opportunity to end this war swiftly. I hope for your sake you can convince your Emperor to do so. Because if you don't, I will do what I must."