Hector stood with a poise Matthew would have once sworn was beyond the man, arms resting behind his back as he surveyed the fort with penetrating eyes. It was almost noon now, and the sun beat directly down upon them, occasionally interrupted by the white flag flapping in the air above their tiny group. The wind sweeping off the mountains kept them cool, and kept their capes billowing behind him. Matthew could not have planned a more regal appearance. Hector's plate—which should have looked ridiculously oversized, but fit his frame perfectly—shone in the sunlight, and his square face, framed with wild blue hair and a matching beard, was set on the fort. A hundred paces behind them, Sanders and his men watched the scene like gathered birds of prey. Only Matthew, Oswin, and Hector himself had approached the fort walls, flying the symbol of parley.

And now they waited.

And now they were done waiting. The gates of the fort creaked open, and a small party approached. The woman they'd seen in the market was at the head; four morph escorted her, each carrying a weapon and wearing a grim expression. They'd come to talk, but they were ready to fight.

They stopped twenty paces away. The woman looked around at the others, and opened her mouth to speak. Hector chose the precise moment to beat her to it. "I am Lord Hector," his booming voice carried across the plain. "Marquess of Ostia, and leader of the Lycian League."

The woman flinched at being cut off, but did not cower at his voice. "I am Cassandra," she called back. "I lead these people."

"People?" Oswin grunted. Matthew tried not to think about how much the knight had aged over the last few years. His brown hair had begun to show flashes of grey, and his face had developed what might be described as wrinkles.

Hector motioned Oswin to silence. "I wish to see Mark."

"He's in our fort," Casssandra replied. "He is safe."

Hector nodded his understanding. "I wish to see Mark."

Cassandra hesitated a moment. "We can conduct our negotiations without—"

Hector lifted a finger. She looked aghast at it, but was surprised enough to fall silent. "I wish," he said again. "To see. Mark."

The woman curled back her lips in a snarl. "Do you imagine you are in a position to make demands, Lord?"

He met her gaze evenly. "Do you?" He did not motion to the troops surrounding her fort. He did not need to.

She looked from Hector to the men in the distance and back again. Matthew caught his hand straying to his blade. Hector was treating this woman as a fellow lord—surrender, or your people will pay the price. On a human, that might work, but would this woman value the lives of her fellow morphs? Would pragmatism drive her to accept Hector's terms, or would she simply allow her people to break themselves against the Ostian forces until none remained?

Her shoulders sagged, and Matthew felt tension he hadn't realized was there slip from his own. She waved to the men on the wall, and a group of them vanished. Less than a minute later, two morphs emerged from the gates; they were ones Matthew recognized from the fight the night before, probably the only two left in good shape. He hoped they didn't hold that against him. They supported a hooded figure between them, and even with a cloth obscuring his face, Matthew recognized Mark from across the plains. Again, he felt himself relaxing when he hadn't realized he was tense. The tactician looked mostly unharmed. Even the leg wound he'd sustained seemed to have been healed—which meant the morphs wanted to keep him healthy. For now.

Matthew frowned at the thought. Was he really such a pragmatist that his thoughts went to how this would affect their negotiations, instead of simply being happy that Mark was safe? Was he any better than the woman glaring across at them? Did he even have the empathy to care if he was?

He shook the thoughts away as the morphs pulled the hood from Mark's head. The tactician was unharmed. Friend or asset, that's all that mattered.

"Mark," Hector said, nodding gravely to the man.

"My lord," Mark said, keeping his eyes lowered. "I apologize for the situation."

"I don't blame you, Mark," Hector responded, eyes shifting to Cassandra.

She straightened her spine. "If he had minded his own business instead of following me, we would not be in this situation."

Hector inclined his head. "Perhaps," he said. "But we are. And now let's discuss how we're going to get out of it." He motioned, and runners rushed forward, carrying two chairs between them. They deposited one at Hector's back, and the other was gingerly carried over to Cassandra, who eyed it warily before taking it. "Starting," Hector went on, "with how you're going to return Mark to us."

She snorted. "And give up my greatest advantage?"

He tilted his head, and allowed himself a smile. "You really think I care that much about some quill-pusher? Who do you think this man is to me?"

"He's Mark," the man to the captive's left said. The three Ostians started, staring at the man. He held a bow, and his jet-black hair went down past his ears. Matthew peered at his pale face; hadn't he seen this morph somewhere before?

"Come again?" Hector asked, gaze intensifying as he looked the man over.

"Mark, no known surname," the man repeated. "His history before six years ago is unknown. He advised Lady Lyndis of Caelin during her campaign to overthrow her uncle Lundgren. He later joined Eliwood in his search for his father, leading directly to his assisting you in your secret war against Nergal—and the morphs that served him." The man's expression remained neutral, but his eyes bored into Hector as he spoke.

Hector's mouth opened, but no words came. Matthew pursed his lips and stepped forward. "You're well-informed," he said—though the man had said nothing about Mark's actions since the war. "What's your name?"

The man's mouth quirked in a smile. "It's Denning. A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Matthew."

The spy didn't flinch at having his name mentioned, but Oswin and Hector did, much to his chagrin. Cassandra shot Denning a glare before going on. "This tactician has helped you win many battles in the past, and could continue to do so in the future. You're not going to risk his life by attacking us."

Hector's expression darkened. "You willing to bet your life on it?"

"My life," she answered, "and the lives of every morph in those walls."

"Maybe allowing an enemy to make their camp on my doorstep isn't worth one man's life," Hector said. Mark flinched at the words, and Matthew had to look away.

Cassandra crossed her arms, studying Hector closely. The two men behind her exchanged an uncertain look. "We are not your enemy," she said at last; her voice was so soft, Matthew almost didn't believe it was her who'd spoken. "At least, we don't have to be."

Hector looked at Matthew, who shrugged. "Explain."

"The men and women in this fort are the stragglers of Nergal's army," she said. "Survivors that went unnoticed on the battlefield, or reserve units never called to combat." She placed a hand on her chest. "I was the leader of one such reserve unit. When you defeated Nergal, I gathered what others I could find, and took them here."

Oswin glanced over at them. "Was this part of your…" He scratched at his neck, still clean-shaven after all these years. "Your purpose? The orders Nergal put in you?"

Denning parted his lips a hair's width, his teeth shining out at them. Grin or grimace, it was difficult to tell. Cassandra cast a look at him before continuing. "Protecting my unit was part of that, yes."

"And bringing them here?" Oswin persisted.

Cassandra fell silent, gazing off into the distance, as though she hoped to find her words on the horizon.

"You're trying to convince us that you're not our enemy," Hector growled. "But so far, all you've told us is that you're reserve soldiers occupying a fort on the edge of our borders after the death of your beloved leader."

"Beloved?" the other man snarled—the one still holding onto Mark. This one had shorter hair in a military cut, and a broad face at odds with his wiry frame. "You don't know us at all if you think—"

He fell silent at Cassandra's glare; she turned back to Hector, hands tightening into fists. "I was… different."

Hector crossed his arms.

"I was able to act despite the purpose Nergal gave me. Sometimes, even against it." She lifted her chin. "I was free. And when he died, I started to free what others I could find as well."

All three of them—four, counting Mark—stiffened. "How?" Hector demanded.

"It's complicated," Cassandra said, pursing her lips. "And not important right now." She looked back at them. "The point is, we are not here to invade Ostia. We are simply seeking out a place to live out our days. Leave us alone, and we shall do the same to you."

Matthew could almost hear Hector's teeth grinding. "And I am to take you at your word?" the lord spat.

"What options do you have?" Cassandra motioned to the fort behind her. "We have a stronghold, and hundreds of morphs, all of whom have been given the skill to use a blade as well as any soldier. Attack us, and you may be able to wipe us out, but you'll pay for it with Mark's life—and with the lives of your men." She met Hector's gaze. "Is that worth it to you, Lord? Do you hate us so much you'd sacrifice your own to see us gone, rather than let us live in peace?"

The three Ostians stood in silence, not daring to look at each other. Hector's hands, still folded neatly behind his back, were trembling with fury. They had the superior numbers, and could easily overrun the morphs—but Cassandra was right; doing so would cost them many lives, starting with Mark's. Matthew did not envy his lord the decision he had to make. Already he found he could not meet the tactician's gaze.

Hector took a deep breath. "If you want me to believe you're not my enemy," he said evenly, "then return Mark to us."

Cassandra shook her head. "That's not going to happen. He's the only guarantee I have that you won't attack."

"You have my word," Hector said from between gritted teeth. "Return him, and we won't attack."

She quirked an eyebrow. "Your word?" she said. "Lord Hector, I have every reason to believe you are an honorable man, and that people can trust your word. But"—her eyes flashed to Oswin—"we are not people, are we?"

Hector's muscles tensed, and his hand started straying dangerously close to his ax. Denning cleared his throat, looking from his leader to theirs. "Hostages have been used to secure alliances in the past," he said. "The precedent exists."

Matthew felt his heart speed up, and Mark's face fell a little. "Hostage?" the tactician asked, the first thing he'd said since Hector greeted him.

"You can't be serious," Oswin growled. "You—"

Hector cut him off. "If it's a hostage you want, I can find you one," he said quickly. "We can exchange Mark for—"

"That's not," Cassandra repeated, "going to happen. An exchange would give you an opportunity to cheat us or attack us." She glanced at Mark, and then returned her gaze to Hector. "Your loyalty to your friend is admirable. But it's also exactly why we need to keep him."

Hector's hands were both clenched into fists now. "You can't afford to make an enemy of us," he growled.

"And you can't afford to attack while we have him," she countered. "This is the only way I can be sure."

The air between them seemed to crackle, and Matthew moved his hand closer to his concealed blade. If a fight broke out here, he might be able to get to Mark before—

Hector slumped backward, the fight draining from his face. "We'll need proof of his continued health," he said, almost whispering.

Mark, Matthew, and Oswin could only gape at him. Cassandra nodded. "He can write you monthly letters."

"Weekly," Hector said, drawing up his shoulders.

She looked ready to deny him, then stopped, glancing at her captive. "Very well. Weekly. Your men at the garrison can pick them up."

Hector glared at her. "Try to forge the letters, or force him to lie, and we'll know."

She spread her hands before her. "We have nothing to hide from you, Lord. As I've said, we just wish to live in peace."

"Peace?" he shook his head. "This is not the way to peace."

"Perhaps," she conceded. "But it's the way to survival."

Hector pursed his lips, then turned to summon a scribe. Within a few minutes, they had an agreement drawn up, Matthew advising Hector to account for every loophole Cassandra might exploit. The Ostian lord stamped it with his seal, then handed it to Cassandra with a quill and a glare. She marked it with her own signature and returned it to him.

Hector handed the signed document to the scribe, then looked uncertainly over at his tactician. "Mark," he said, "I…"

Mark lowered his eyes. "It's all right, my lord." His voice was trembling. "It… you made the tactically sound decision."

Hector bit his lip, and turned away. Matthew forced himself to meet Mark's gaze when the tactician's eyes lifted. "We'll get you out of here," he mouthed.

Mark smiled sadly back at him. It was not the smile of someone who believed you.

"Matthew," Oswin said, laying a hand on the spy's shoulder. He let the gentle pressure turn his body until he was facing away, and the two of them strode after their lord. They'd need to return to Ostia, and—

"My lord?"

Hector stopped, turning slowly to face Cassandra. It was the first time she'd called him "my" lord.

She looked suddenly unsure, standing there with one hand on the hilt of her blade, the other hanging at her side. "I… you only want to do what's best for your people," she said. "To keep them safe—to keep them all safe." She looked at Mark, then at Hector. "I… understand how you feel. I wish the same thing." She bit her lip, and lowered her eyes. "I'm sorry that our shared goals have put us at odds."

Hector's jaw tightened as he looked her over. "Not as sorry as I am," he replied.

He turned once more, and this time, she said nothing to call them back.

"It's over," Lefty breathed; his eyes were fixed forward, as if he wasn't even paying attention to where they were leading Mark. "It's finally over."

"It's just beginning," Cass—who Mark now knew was named Cassandra—said quietly.

Mark risked a glance over his shoulder, and managed to catch one last glimpse of Matthew as the gates swung shut. He hadn't expected the guilt on the thief's face—not that he'd expected any of this. Despite everything, beyond all reason, he'd expected Hector to get him out of there, somehow. But he couldn't blame the lord for how things turned out; it had been, as he'd said, the tactically sound decision.

"Take him back to his cell," Cassandra said.

Righty—Denning—frowned at her. "You mean his room?"

"Call it what you like," she spat. "I have work to do." She turned and started away.

Denning looked like he was about to call after her, but stopped himself. Lefty cast him a disapproving look before hauling Mark toward the building where his room was.

Division in the ranks. Perhaps Mark could find a way to exploit this weakness. Gods knew he didn't have much else to work with right now.

The two morphs returned him to his room. Lefty swept out almost immediately after shoving Mark into his chair, but Denning lingered. "How's the foot?" he asked, golden eyes probing the tactician.

"Better," Mark mumbled. His tongue felt unexpectedly heavy in his mouth.

"Grace never finished healing it, did she?" He looked at Mark for a moment, then went on when he didn't get a response. "I'll tell her to come by."

So Curls is really called Grace. That's three names I know. Mark looked up at him. "Will there be a guard?"

"No." He paused, and his shoulders slumped. "Probably. I don't know if…" He glanced up at Mark, gold eyes shimmering, and then looked away. "I shouldn't be talking to you. I'm sorry."

Me, too. He couldn't find the energy to say the words aloud.

Lefty looked in the door, and shot a glare at Denning. The bowman returned the glare. "I'll be back," he said, and left without another word.

Mark was alone, again. Except this time there was no hope of rescue. Hector had been handed an impossible situation, and made an impossible choice. Mark didn't blame him for that. The morphs, if Cassandra was to be believed, were just trying to survive. He couldn't blame them for that, either. It didn't mean he was pleased with the outcome. For the foreseeable future, this was his life; and while he seemed to have an ally in Denning for whatever reason, the others were determined to keep him locked away. Perhaps he should simply let himself die; then Hector's hands would no longer be tied, and…

He shuddered. No, that was a good way to make sure that nobody got what they wanted, and he was not so spiteful as to seek death for that reason.

Which simply meant that, one way or another, he was going to have to live with this.

"It was supposed to be one week," Hector murmured.

Matthew blinked, glancing over at him. "My lord?"

"Mark was supposed to visit us for one week," Hector said. "And just days before he's due to leave, we lose him."

Matthew grimaced. No. We didn't lose him.

"Find a way, Matthew," Hector said sternly. His hands were tight on the reins, but his eyes barely seemed to see where they were going. "I don't care what it takes. You get him out of there."

"I will," Matthew promised. "I just… don't know how yet, ok? It's not like we can exactly sneak somebody in there."

"We should contact our allies," Oswin said, eyes scanning the ground. "Together, maybe…"

"Most of our allies don't even know what a morph is," Hector sighed. "And it's best to keep it that way. If information about Nergal and his efforts spread, we'd have some very difficult questions to answer."

Matthew nodded. "Worse, they'll have trouble accepting that we're staying our attack for the sake of a hostage who isn't even noble." He let out a breath. "There are other tacticians."

"This isn't a problem might alone can solve," Hector sighed. He grimaced. "I hate those. Remember when all I had to do to solve a problem was to put an ax in somebody's head?"

"No," Oswin said with a smirk, "because that didn't actually solve the problem; it just left Lord Uther and I to clean up after you."

Hector lowered his eyes. "Well. I still miss those times."

Matthew looked the two of them over. For a moment, Hector had looked five years younger, still the brash lord who wanted nothing to do with governing a nation, but only desired to support his friends. "What do you want to do, then?"

Hector drew himself up a little. "As much as I want to burst through those gates and get Mark out, first, we need to investigate what Cassandra said. Was she truly able to act against Nergal's orders? If so, why, and how?" He looked over at Matthew. "For that, we need brains, not brawn. Canas, Erk… Pent, if he's available. Anyone who knows a thing or two about morphs and the magic that goes into them. We'll need to alert Eliwood and Lyn, of course, and…" He stroked his beard, which still looked foreign on his face. "Is Lucius still courting Serra?"

Matthew caught himself chuckling. It felt good. "I don't know if 'courting' is the word I'd use with those two, but she hasn't stopped writing him letters since he left with Raymond."

"Well, tell her it's time to invite him back. We're going to need all the help we can get."

Matthew nodded, looking up toward the sun, hoping its glare would burn the image of Mark's eyes from his mind.