A couple of notes before we start.

This story is meant to take place five years after Blazing Blade, and fifteen before Binding Blade. I've done my best to ensure that it fits into the games' continuity, but it's entirely possible I've missed some errors. If you spot some of these, I apologize, and I hope they don't detract from your enjoyment of the story.

Inspiration for this story came from Special, by LaCerise, and Perfect Being, by aviatrix8. If you enjoy what you read here, I recommend checking those out.

Thanks to The Blazing Blade (the user, not the game) and my wife for their feedback.

And thanks to you for reading.

"We're not in any danger of getting out of here on time, are we?" Matthew asked.

Mark shook his head as he perused the texts on display at the market. "Don't you have errands of your own to run? You don't have to stand here and watch me browsing."

"Hector told me to keep you safe," Matthew said, shrugging.

"Yes," Mark muttered. "You never know; one of these books might be an assassin in disguise."

"He also told me to have you back at the castle in time for the troop deployment briefing this afternoon," the spy continued, ignoring the comment.

"So we can discuss whether to move five horses from Feran to Thena or five footmen from Thena to Feran? Yes, I can see why I'm needed for that."

"You going to buy something, or just fondle my merchandise and chat all day?" the vendor grumbled.

Mark bit back his retort. The Ostian market was one of the grandest in the Lycian League, with vendors and their booths spreading out to his left and right as far as the eye could see. Yet surprisingly few of those vendors carried books—a fact some found amusing in light of Lord Hector's own feelings on reading. It would not do to sour his relationship with this one, her booth full of volumes of every shape and color—though Mark had no idea how many of them would actually be of any interest.

Mark finally picked up one of the books and paid the vendor, who counted the money while grumbling something untoward under her breath. Mark showed the cover to Matthew as they walked away. "A History of Wyvern Riding," he said. "Should be interesting."

"Sounds riveting," Matthew replied, rolling his eyes. He brushed a strand of light brown hair away from them; he'd taken to parting it, and remained clean-shaven, putting forth a front of respectability to distract from his cunning. He stretched his lean muscles as he eyed Mark. "Since when did you read so much, anyway?"

"What do you mean, 'since when?' I've been reading all my life. How do you think I got to be a tactician in the employ of Ostia, anyway?"

"Luck, mostly."

Mark frowned at him.

"Luck, and happening to be nearby when Eliwood got attacked by bandits."

"That's… not quite how it happened," Mark murmured.

"You did manage to get us through the entire conflict with Nergal," Matthew acknowledged.

"Thank you."

"With Eliwood and Hector's help, of course."

Mark opened his mouth to protest, but after a moment, nodded in acquiescence instead. "That's fair."

Matthew smiled, and Mark found himself smiling back. While Mark didn't work for Hector, he visited often, occasionally lending tactical advice. Since Matthew had risen to master of Ostia's spy network, he'd been responsible for assigning bodyguards to special guests such as the wayward tactician. At first, there had been a few spies, stoic types who mostly pretended Mark wasn't there, doing nothing to hide their disdain for a job they considered beneath them. Then, during one visit, Matthew himself had been the one at Mark's side. Mark didn't know why he'd done it, or how he managed to balance his spymaster duties with his role as bodyguard, but Matthew had been watching over him for years now. And, despite the former thief's more unscrupulous tendencies, they had managed to become friends in that time, as well.

"Besides, that's not the point," Matthew said, returning Mark's thoughts to the present. "You used to read strategy texts and the occasional story, yeah, but recently it seems you've always got your nose in a book. And weird stuff, too; biology, history, myths and legends…"

Mark peered at his companion. "You been spying on me?"

"Not intentionally," Matthew replied, shrugging. "But I am a spy, after all. I notice things like this."

"I see," Mark muttered, pursing his lips. "Well, I guess… I guess I just want to know more about dragons."

Matthew blinked. "Dragons?"

"Yeah." He rubbed his cheek, looking away from Matthew, hoping this didn't sound as silly as he knew it would. "I mean, we were all taught that they attacked humans a millennium ago, and that's what caused humans to fight back in the Scouring. But after meeting Nils and Ninian, and after seeing what Durandal did in Eliwood's hands, and after discovering Arcadia… I can't help but feel that there's more to it than that." He lifted the book. "Our history is surprisingly vague about the exact cause of the Scouring, so I've been reading up on dragons as much as I can to try and discover the truth."

Matthew glanced down. "And… you think A History of Wyvern Riding will help with that?"

"Well, wyverns are distant relatives of dragons, so… maybe?"

Matthew shook his head. "You're reaching there, friend. …But I'm glad you at least told me why your reading habits have changed so much. When we get back to Ostia, I'll check the archives and see if I can find anything you'd be interested in."

Mark smiled. "Thanks, Matthew. I appreciate—"

The next thing Mark knew, he was on the ground, his book lying a few feet away. Someone else was on top of him, scrambling to get off; he heard a hurried apology muttered by a young voice as a pair of light feet scurried away. He tried to get up, only to be shoved to the side by someone else running by. Looking up, he saw a young woman chasing after the kid who'd knocked him down; the fact that he was carrying a bag of money and she was carrying a half-sheathed sword was enough to tell him what was happening. As he rose, the young woman cast an apologetic glance back at him, just for a moment.

It was enough, though. Enough for him to gaze into her eyes, causing his own to widen.

"You all right?" Matthew said, helping him up. The woman had turned away, her black hair—done up in a braid—snapping back to the right as she renewed her pursuit.

"We have to stop them," Mark said.

Matthew looked after the two runners. "From the look of things, I'd say she has things well in hand. Poor kid probably didn't count on picking the pocket of someone as fast as her."

"Matthew!" Mark's voice was suddenly raised, and he forcefully grabbed the thief's shoulder. "We have to stop them!"

Matthew flinched at his tone. The tactician rarely raised his voice unless they were in direct combat—something which they hadn't seen together in five years. "All right," he said. "How?"

"This way," Mark said, turning toward the stalls. A map of the market was already taking shape in his mind. "I have a plan."

"Don't you always," Matthew muttered as he stepped forward. Mark pretended not to hear.

Matthew went first, because of course he did. Mark may have been a tactical genius, but the man was about as graceful as a wagon train. Matthew, on the other hand, was a well-trained stallion. Or maybe a pony; smaller and more agile. The point being, he was able to cut between the stalls, clearing a path for the tactician, who followed him with a series of crashes and shouted apologies.

"This section of the market curves around like a horseshoe," Mark had explained. "If the kid's trying to outrun her, he'll have to loop around following the market stalls. We can cut them off if we go straight through."

It was a sound plan, and after bumping a few stands and collecting annoyed looks from several vendors, they emerged on the other side of the market. Sure enough, the boy rounded the corner seconds later, sprinting through the corridor of stalls toward the pair, followed closely by the young woman.

"All right," Matthew said, "What do you suggest we—"

Mark was already walking toward the oncoming runners. They paid him no more attention than they did any of the other market-goers—until Mark suddenly stuck out his leg, and the boy tripped hard over him, tumbling to the ground and landing at Matthew's feet. Before he could get up, the elder thief had taken the bag of money, holding it up above the child's head. "This doesn't belong to you, does it?"

The boy reached for the bag, then, looking over his shoulder at the oncoming swordswoman, thought better of it and dashed off. Matthew made to grab him, but stopped when Mark grabbed his shoulder. "Let him go," the tactician said, the urgency gone from his voice.

Matthew arched an eyebrow at his companion. "I thought you wanted to stop him?" he asked, placing the bag in Mark's outstretched hand.

"Not just him," Mark said, lowering his voice as he motioned over the thief's shoulder.

Matthew turned to see the woman approaching them, her steps slowing from a sprint to a cautious jog, one hand still fingering the blade at her side. Her jet-black braid hung tentatively from her head, and her golden eyes fixed on the two, darting from one to the other as she assessed the risk they posed.

Mark made the first move, tossing the bag over to her. She caught it deftly in one hand and returned it to her pocket without ever taking her eyes from the two men. After a brief pause, she opened her mouth to speak. "Thank you," she said slowly, as if she had to force the words out. "I could have handled it myself."

"Well, now you don't have to," Mark said, his voice surprisingly warm. Matthew gave the tactician an odd look; had he really just dragged them across the market the hard way just to impress a woman? Sure, her hair was nice, although the eyes were kind of strange, and…

Matthew blinked. Her hair. Her eyes.

It can't be…

The woman frowned at Mark's comment. "If you expect some kind of reward…"

"No need," Mark said, holding up a hand. "We just saw him running, and figured we'd lend a hand."

Matthew shook off his shock and elbowed his companion. "What my friend means to say is, we'll consider us even if you'll let him buy you a drink," he called.

Mark looked at Matthew in shock, face flushing. The woman was surprised as well, although some of the suspicion left her face. "That's… very generous of you," she said hesitantly. "But I'm afraid I won't be around long enough. I'm getting supplies for my village, and must return immediately."

"Yes, well," Mark said, still clearly flustered. "Maybe next time."

"Maybe." A flicker in her eyes made it hard to tell whether she was dismissing the offer or considering it for the future. In any event, she must have judged their business concluded, for the woman turned and left without another word.

As soon as the woman was out of earshot, Mark spun on the spy. "'Let him buy you a drink?!'" he hissed.

"Here's a lesson for you," Matthew whispered back. "Nobody trusts someone as trustworthy as you." He ignored Mark's confused expression as he went on. "If you tell her you helped her out of the kindness of your heart, she'll think you have an ulterior motive. If you tell her you did it to impress her, she'll think she knows your ulterior motive—and won't suspect anything further."

Mark opened his mouth to argue, but only sighed after a moment. "That… makes sense."

"Besides, it couldn't hurt to ask," the thief added with a mischievous grin. "You aren't exactly beating the women away with a stick these days."

Matthew's jibe was rewarded with a flush on his friend's face. Mark wasn't what you'd call unattractive, though spending so much time together certainly made the tactician self-conscious. Next to Matthew, Mark's height and broad shoulders seemed less robust and more clumsy. Mark wasn't one to pay much attention to his appearance or his health, either. Most days, it didn't bother him, unless Matthew went out of his way to bring up women.

He couldn't help it. Sure, Mark made for an easy, well, mark. But Matthew also just wanted to see his friend happy.

Not that this was the time or place to find happiness. Mark's blush faded into a glare. "We have more important things to worry about," he muttered, raising his voice a little now that the woman had gotten some distance. "You see what I see?"

"Jet-black hair. Blood-red lips. Golden eyes. Skin so pale it looks like it's never seen the sun." Matthew nodded. "It doesn't seem possible, but there you have it. That woman is a morph."

It went without saying that they had to follow her. How to do so, however, was a point of some contention. Matthew was trained in the arts of stealth and subterfuge; Mark was known for occasionally walking into walls if he got too distracted. "You should go back to the castle and get help," Matthew had insisted. "Tell Hector what's going on. I'll follow her and scope out the situation."

"I'm not letting you go alone," Mark muttered as they walked, keeping enough of a distance that it wasn't obvious they were following the woman as they wound through the market crowds. "We don't know what you could be walking into. And besides, I'm as curious to see what she's up to as you."

Matthew's eyes narrowed. "Curiosity's a poor reason to get yourself killed, friend," he muttered back. "I hate to say this, but you're more a liability than an asset when trying to tail someone."

"Matthew." Mark reached into his throat for his command voice. "I'm coming with you. I know I'm not much in a fight, but if something happens, you'll want someone watching your back."

The spy glared at him for a moment, then hissed a curse. "I know I'm going to regret this," he muttered. "Come on; she's headed south."

The woman was heading back to where she'd been when the boy snatched her coin purse. There was a cart there, hitched to a horse, which was already laden with many dried goods and sundries. She inspected it, and her tense posture relaxed a little once she'd finished inventorying everything. The materials on the cart fit with her story of getting supplies for her village: there were a large number of dry goods and sundries, as well as feed, some clothing, and a few essentials such as milk and flour. The woman led the horse onward, forcing Mark and Matthew to retreat temporarily as she approached their position. The two men split up, wandering off into the crowd, hoping to avoid her attention; they reunited once she'd passed, and began following her again.

"Surprising her village would only send one person to get so many supplies," Mark muttered.

"Surprising any village would take in a morph," Matthew replied. "Most people, even ones who didn't know about Nergal, found them… unsettling, at best."

"Unsettling, perhaps, but that alone isn't a reason to toss someone out on their ears." Mark's lips were pursed. "If she was a refugee from the war with Nergal, someone may have taken her in, even if they didn't realize the scope of the conflict."

"You think too highly of people, friend." It was a common statement from Matthew toward the idealistic tactician. "But you're right about one thing. Why send her? Why send only her?"

The question went unanswered as the crowds thinned at the edge of the marketplace. Matthew and Mark found themselves having to trail far behind their target to avoid drawing attention to themselves. When they reached the road out of town, Matthew insisted on staying so far from the cart they could barely see it—which meant she could barely see them, as Mark had to grudgingly admit. Still, he quickly strode up each hill to make sure he caught a glimpse of her before she disappeared over the next rise, loathe to lose her before they figured out where she was going.

"You know her village could be days away, right?" Matthew said quietly as they crested another ridge. "We're not exactly outfitted for a long journey."

"Neither is she." Mark motioned to the cart in the distance. "No tent, no bedroll. This is a day trip, which means she came into town this morning and expects to be back by tonight."

"Or just travel straight through the night."

"Or that," the tactician admitted. "But I'm willing to bet it's not much further."

Matthew arched an eyebrow. "You haven't heard what happened to the last man who bet me something, then?"

Mark felt a shiver go down his spine. "I said I was willing to bet, not that I was willing to bet you."

"Fair enough."

The road led west, cutting through a wide valley between the Etrurian mountains, making remaining hidden from the woman much more difficult. Then she went off the road altogether, and while the tall grass provided some degree of cover, the rough terrain slowed them down. Mark grew more worried by the minute that they'd lose her, but before long, her destination became clear. Almost lost in the growing shadows of the mountains was the looming hulk of a fort wall. The woman was heading straight toward it, and, sure enough, Matthew and Mark crested one final rise to find she'd stopped her wagon by the gate.

The two men dropped to the ground as the woman glanced around, checking her surroundings. "Where are we?" Mark muttered under his breath.

Matthew stared at him. "You don't know? Who's the tactician here, again?"

"All these forts kind of blur together after a while," Mark admitted.

Matthew turned back with a sigh. "Well, if I recall correctly, then…" he shook his head. "I don't know either."

Mark allowed himself a smirk.

"There are a lot of forts," Matthew said, "and some of them have been abandoned for quite a while."

The woman moved over to the ancient wooden gate and knocked on it. Though it seemed for a moment that it might fall off its hinges from the force of her hand alone, it took a moment before it started creaking open—pulled from the inside.

Mark fought not to raise his head. "This one certainly isn't abandoned."

"Looks that way from the outside, though," Matthew muttered. "And considering your lady friend's skittishness, I'd say whoever's in there doesn't want anyone knowing they're here."

"But who—"

The gates opened fully, and three men and another woman emerged to help her with the wagon. All four of the newcomers had the same features as the woman—jet black hair, pale skin, blood-red lips, and golden eyes that pierced Mark's gaze even from this distance.

"More morphs," he said. Even if he'd wanted to speak above a whisper, he suddenly didn't have the breath for it.

"No." Mark had never seen Matthew's eyes so wide. "No. No way. There can't be this many of them."

"This many—" Mark straightened up a little, looking at the fortress walls. "How many do you think are in there?"

Matthew pointed to the wagon. "Rationed properly, those supplies could provide for an entire village."

Mark felt his breath caught. "A village of morphs."

"Try an army of morphs. These things were made to advance Nergal's cause; them being here can't mean anything good. We have to—" He cut himself off, looking around. "Oh, drat."

"What?" Mark looked over at him. "What is it?"

"Oh," Matthew sighed, returning his voice to a normal volume, "just that while we've been laying here gawking, we've gotten ourselves surrounded."

It took Mark a moment to realize what he meant. It also seemed to take the morphs a moment to realize they'd been spotted, because by the time five of the pale creatures sprung up around them, armed with blades and bows, Matthew was already on his feet, a dagger in each hand. A blur of motion, and one of the morphs fell with a garbled cry, a dagger in its shoulder. Another lifted his blade to slash as the mass of Matthew's dark cloak rushed at him, slicing through the fabric—and only the fabric, for the thief was not wearing the cloak, having thrown it as a distraction as he rushed another member of the group, blade flashing red in the light of the setting sun.

Two morphs were on the ground by the time Mark had risen from it. One of those still standing was struggling with Matthew's cloak, another engaging Matthew himself. The last of them was—

"Don't move."

Right behind me, Mark realized with a grimace. He slowly lifted his arms, and turned to face his opponent. "Look," he said softly, "I'm unarmed." He looked down at the morph's blade, examining the length and build of the sword pointed at his belly. "And I'm more use to you alive than dead. If you just—"

He moved without thinking, seizing the grip of the blade and yanking it forward while spinning to one side. The morph lunged to attack reflexively, and let out a yelp as he was suddenly pulled off-balance, collapsing to the ground at Mark's feet as the sword came free of his grasp. Mark gripped the blade tightly—and quickly darted away. Surprise was an effective weapon, but it was one you could only use once before—

Movement in the corner of his eye was all the warning he had. Not enough warning to avoid the attack. He fell with a sharp pain in his ankle, soon accompanied by a dull pain all over as he hit the ground. Before he could even think about rising, a foot was placed on his back, and he felt the cold steel of a sword pressing into his neck. "He said don't move," a new voice spoke. "I'd listen if I were you."

Mark's eyes widened, and despite the command, he lifted his head enough for his eyes to confirm what his ears were telling him. The woman from the market—the one they'd followed all the way here—was holding her sword to his throat, glaring over at Matthew. "Surrender," she called sharply. "Or your friend dies."

Matthew was still locked in combat with the morphs—he'd even managed to retrieve his cloak at some point—but they all broke off at the sound of her voice. He turned to face her, face falling as he saw Mark's plight. "Dammit all," he muttered, "can't I take my eyes off of you for five seconds without things going wrong?"

Mark didn't answer, gritting his teeth against the pain that still throbbed in his ankle. Three of the morphs that had attacked them were writhing on the ground in pain; a fourth was struggling to his feet, moving with the last of them to flank Matthew as he glared at the woman. "Matthew…"

"Don't worry." His eyes flitted around at their opponents. "I've got a plan."

Mark frowned. "What plan is—"

The thief suddenly jumped back, cloak flashing; he was in a full sprint before any of them could react. Two of the morphs gave chase until the ground suddenly exploded up at them. Mark hadn't seen Matthew use the bottle, but he recognized the effects of the alchemical mines they'd used years before. The morphs fell to the ground, earth and grass falling around them as their comrades rushed to help them back up. By the time the dust settled, there was no sign of Matthew.

Mark's eyes widened. Apparently, the plan was to run away—leaving him behind.

The blade dug a little deeper into his neck, and he felt a rivulet of blood running down his throat. "Get back here!" the woman cried. "I'll kill him!"

Matthew, wherever he was, didn't respond. Mark listened to the woman's hiss of frustration, and squeezed his eyes shut.

"Dammit," she said at last, and the pain at his neck lessened. The blade's sudden absence was almost as surprising as its appearance had been. "Take him."

The morphs turned to her. "Cass—?"

"Don't! Say my name in front of him." She glared at them, then ripped off a portion of her black cloak. "I don't know where your friend is going," she said, looking down at Mark as she held out the strip of fabric, "but if he values your life, he'll stay there."

The cloth descended over his eyes.