Author's Note: This chapter was originally uploaded without proper dividers between scenes. I've since gone through and added them. Thanks to the anonymous reviewer who pointed this out to me, and my apologies to the readers who had to suffer through the original version.

Then again, perhaps I haven't.

The party that returned to the conference room was far quieter than the one that had left. Canas looked at each of their faces in turn, noticing the various degrees of surprise and confusion. Grace and Priscilla had descended as well, evidently deciding the proceedings were too important to miss. Grace sat next to Mark, putting her directly next to Canas as well. He tried not to be too obvious in his interest; the morph was a fascinating subject of study, but a married man staring at a married woman was improper no matter their species.

Still, he was close enough to hear when Grace leaned over and hissed to Mark, "You've seen the red book. It must be decades old."

"Centuries, even," Mark whispered back.

Grace glanced at Renault. "How?"

Mark merely shook his head. Canas quickly pretended interest in the stained glass above their heads.

Once everyone had settled in, Hector and Priscilla taking their seats next to each other, Renault addressed the assembly. "I will repeat what I said upstairs for the benefit of those who weren't there," he began. "Mark reported that the fort's leader, Cassandra, found one of Nergal's notebooks, which she used to free her subjects." He drew a slow breath. "It's true that the second book—the blue one Peleus used to revert the morphs—was Nergal's. But the red book was written by me."

Shocked silence quickly gave way to agitated murmuring. Some people rose to ask questions, but sat back down at a glare from Hector. "Go on," he said.

Renault lowered his eyes. "My past is… complicated, and in some ways, incomplete. Suffice to say, I found myself assisting Nergal with his experiments in creating morphs."

"This was a long time ago," Canas said gently. He realized belatedly he might be giving away how much he knew about Renault's past; indeed, he was drawing a few surprised glances, as people realized he wasn't surprised.

"Yes," Renault sighed, rubbing his eyes. "A very… very long time ago." He blinked, and looked back up at the others. "When I saw the results, at first I was..."

"Shocked?" Grace asked, glowering. "Appalled? Horrified?"

Renault flinched at her words. "Yes," he admitted. "All that and more." He looked over at her with soft eyes. "But I ultimately remembered that the mistake was not the morphs'. It was mine. And I sought to correct it."

Grace crossed her arms. "You sought to kill them."

"No. Even then, I could not..." Renault's eyes went distant for a moment before clearing. "What Nergal had created were puppets. I sought to cut their strings."

His eyes were down as he spoke, and Canas shivered. He's not just talking about the morphs.

"Which was why you wrote the red book," Eliwood mused. His chin rested on his steepled fingers.

Renault nodded. "I was a simple mercenary, but participating in Nergal's experiments… changed me. I was able to understand the code he used when creating the morphs, and learned to bend it to my whims. Even as I worked toward his ends"—his eyes flicked to Lucius—"I worked also to subvert them. But I…" He trailed off yet again. "I was never able to achieve that goal."

It was a struggle for Canas to remain silent. He knew a little of what Renault had been through, what he'd done, and what that red book must have meant to him. Judging from the way Lucius was looking at Renault, and the sadness in the monk's eyes, he wasn't the only one.

"When I did finally leave, I was unable to take the book with me. I thought it lost forever. And, after our battle with Nergal, I thought the same of the morphs."

Grace shifted in her seat, her discomfort having little to do with the baby. Canas had to ignore the impulse to comfort her.

"But." Renault straightened. "Cassandra found it. She completed my work. And it seems I have a chance to make up for some of my past mistakes."

Eliwood stroked his chin thoughtfully. "I hope so, your excellency. But how do we keep the morphs from reverting again after we free them?"

"Eliwood," Hector said warningly.

"We kill Peleus," Grace said, a hard edge to her voice. "And burn the blue book."

Mark looked uneasy. Renault cleared his throat. "I know more now than I did the last time I wrote in those pages. Once I have the red book—and Cassandra's additions to my work—I'll be able to prevent any future incursions on their minds."

"All right," Eliwood said, looking around the table with a triumphant smile. "So we have a way to free the morphs once more."

"Which does not change the question of whether or not we should, my lord," Jaffar murmured.

Canas cringed at the words, but said nothing. Nobody did—not even Hector, though he glared daggers at Jaffar.

"Oh, come on," Mark said at last, rising from his seat. "We're not still talking about this, are we?"

Hector frowned. "Mark—"

"You've all read my letters," Mark went on. "You've all seen Grace." He motioned to the morph, who sunk into her chair, trying to avoid the gazes that fell on her. "This isn't some invading army at our doorstep. It's a peaceful community of people—yes, people—who need our help."

Hector stood slowly, eyes on the table. "You say that," he began. "And I want to believe it. But this Peleus—what has he done to this community?"

"Enslaved it," Mark said. "Robbed the people of their freedom, their individuality—"

"And created an invading army at our doorstep," Raven finished.

Mark flinched, but did not retort. Canas felt himself start to sweat.

"What exactly do you propose we do, Mark?" Hector said. "We may be able to use the red book to free the morphs, but we don't have the red book."

"So, we get it," Mark said. "Send a stealth team to infiltrate the fort and retrieve the book. Then we use it to save them all."

"How?" Hector's voice grew insistent.

For the first time, Mark faltered. "We… well, we can..." He looked to Renault. "Can you use the book on more than one morph at a time?"

Renault frowned. "I wrote those notes a long time ago, and didn't succeed in my goal. I have no idea whether it will work on one morph or a hundred."

"All right," Mark said, looking back to Hector. "So, we subdue them. Capture them. Then we'll have all the time we need to—"

"Are you listening to yourself?" Hector shook his head. "Subdue an entire army? Morphs as skilled as any fighter? If we tried to take them all alive, we'd be slaughtered."

"There are stories," Mark said. "They say that a Nohrian noble once—"

"Stories aren't going to win us any battles," Hector said. His voice was soft, even though his words were hard. "Mark, I'm sorry, but I just don't see any way to—"

The door boomed open; the entire conference room jumped as Oswin strode in once more. "Blessed Elimine, Oswin!" Hector shouted. "Can't you open that door any more quietly?"

"Another visitor," Oswin said, ignoring the question. "One you'll want to receive."

Hector frowned. "Almost everyone's here already. Who the hell is left?"

Oswin just smirked as he took up his ceremonial position by the door. "Announcing Lady Ninian," he called. "Marchioness of Pherae."

She looks beautiful in red.

It was a foolish thought, and Eliwood knew it. He'd seen his wife in and out of all sorts of colors over the last five years. But red was what she was wearing today, and gods, did she look good in it. The dress flowed—no, cascaded to the floor, elegant sleeves draping off her arms and the gold-trimmed neckline preserving just enough of her modesty. The red should have made her pale skin and white hair stand out, but it seemed to lend more life to them instead. He saw much of his mother's design in the regal dress, yet it retained the sash and streamers of Ninian's dance attire, a blend of her old and new roles.

He went straight to her, propriety be damned. She beamed back at him as he took her hands. "You look beautiful," he said, voicing his thoughts, however foolish.

She laughed, lowering her eyes. "You always say that."

"It's always true." He glanced over her shoulder at the open door. "But what are you doing here? We agreed you'd stay in Pherae." He frowned. "You couldn't possibly have heard about Mark already."

"No," she admitted, "though Oswin filled me in after I arrived." She placed a hand on her chest. "I just got… a feeling."

Eliwood nodded slowly. These premonitions came more rarely to Ninian than they had her brother, and even less often since the war had ended—but they both knew to heed them when they did arrive. "What about—"

"Pherae will manage for a few days without us," she said soothingly. "Rebecca has things well in hand with Wolt and Roy, and Lady Eleanor was happy to help her. You know how she dotes on her grandson."

"And you?"

She swayed a little on her feet. "I'm all right. Stronger than I was after Roy's birth."

But still weaker than before. Eliwood couldn't help but think about the last thing Nils had said to his sister; how remaining in Elibe would, eventually, kill her. None knew if that would happen in one year or a hundred, but…

No matter. She's not dying today. "Thank you for coming," he whispered. "I'm glad you're here."

Oswin had wedged another chair in next to Eliwood's. Rather than take her straight to it, he led her the long way around the table, letting her briefly greet old friends. She and Priscilla shared a tight embrace and a few kind words; Ninian, having given birth only a few months before, was more than happy to offer comfort to her friend. She stopped also by Grace, looking her over and offering a soft smile. Grace, still steeped in uncertainty, managed to smile back.

When they reached their seats, Eliwood pulled out Ninian's chair, but she gave a slight shake of her head, motioning instead for him to sit. He did so, eyeing her.

Ninian turned to Hector. "Lord Hector," she said. "I don't know how formal these proceedings are."

Hector snorted. "Ninian, it's me. How formal do you think they are?"

She smiled at him. "Then I won't bother asking you to recognize me. I'll only ask you to listen."

Every pair of eyes in the room was rapt on Ninian as she held her hands over her heart. She touched the ring on her right hand, a mirror of sorts to the wedding band Eliwood had given her so long ago. "I've forgotten a great deal from my childhood," she said softly. "My mother's face. My father's name. I know they gave me Ninis's Grace, but… I don't remember when, or where, or why." She lowered her hands, and her eyes. "I do remember what it was like on the other side of the Gate. Sometimes easy, sometimes… hard. Young dragons, like Nils and I, who were trying to find their own path. Old dragons who remembered the Scouring. Very old dragons, who..." She shook her head. "You've all heard the legends. Medeus. Duma. Anankos. Perhaps madness is the only fate for dragons who live long enough to meet it."

An uncomfortable silence fell as everyone pondered this. Doubly so for Eliwood, who was once more reminded that Ninian was far, far older than she looked.

"Everywhere, there were tales," Ninian went on. "How the humans had betrayed us. Robbed us of our true power and our rightful home. 'Humans are cruel, treacherous, and greedy,' they'd say. 'Pray to Naga you never have the ill luck to meet one.' You have your own version of the tales, of course," she said, motioning to those who looked like they were about to speak. "About eight great heroes who vanquished the dragons that would have wiped out humanity. I ask only that you remember, there are two sides to every story."

Any potential protestations fell silent. Ninian nodded, and went on. "Then, Nils and I were summoned through the Dragon's Gate. And the humans were just as we'd been warned." Her eyes flicked to Jaffar and Legault, who were suddenly avoiding her gaze. "We were imprisoned straightaway, and once we escaped, we were hunted across Elibe. We hid our true natures, but expected at any minute that the truth could come out, and we'd be torn apart."

She blinked, and then turned her gaze across the table. Lucius sat there, slowly regaining his color. She then turned to Lyn, who met her gaze evenly, arms folded. "And then," Ninian said softly, "we met you."

Lucius and Lyn shifted in their seats as Ninian looked down at Eliwood. Even after five years of marriage, his heart still thrilled at the look in her eyes. "And you met us," she said.

He took her hand, involuntarily. She smiled, and looked back to the group. "Dragons are not all you were told," she said. "Humans are not all I was told. And morphs..." She looked over at Grace. "Morphs are clearly not all we were told, as well."

Grace blinked, hands folded protectively over her belly.

"All I ask," Ninian said, "is that the morphs be given the chance we dragons were not."

She sat down then, giving Eliwood's hand a squeeze. He felt like taking her in his arms right then, but resisted; the smile she gave him was promise enough for things to come later.

Looking around the table, Eliwood saw that much of the others' conviction had slipped. Raven looked to Priscilla with troubled eyes. Jaffar looked to no one, keeping his gaze fixed firmly on the table. Even Legault, who'd had his feet up on the table when the meeting began, looked unusually somber. And Lyn…

Lyn rose, walking over to Mark. She stood behind his chair, touching his shoulder without looking down. "May I speak with you?" she said; her voice was low, but in the silence, it echoed across the entire room. "Privately?"

Mark suddenly looked as though he'd been sentenced to the gallows, but he nodded nonetheless. He rose and followed Lyn out of the room. The only person who didn't watch them go was Grace, who was staring at Eliwood's wife.

"Wait," the morph asked after a long moment, "did you just say you're a dragon?"

The last time Mark had seen Lyn was at Hausen's funeral. She'd borne her grief with grace, then; she'd known it was coming, after all, and was grateful for the years she'd had to get to know her grandfather before he passed on. Still, the depth of sorrow in her eyes had been enough to bring Mark to his knees. He nearly dropped everything to return to her side, briefly envisioning going back to how things were, all those years ago: just the two of them, wandering the planes of Sacae, no plans, no burdens, just the wind and the sky to guide them on.

How quickly things change.

Lyn led him through a few passageways; not to her chambers, just away from the meeting hall. She eventually came to a halt at a nondescript corner. She didn't turn to face Mark, not right away; he approached her, mouth dry. "What did you want to talk about?" he asked.

She flinched at his words, as though she'd forgotten he was there. She turned to him, and he found her face unreadable. "It's something Florina said," she said softly. "Some of your letters, the way you talk about Cassandra..."

A part of Mark had known this was coming. He swallowed his fear, and met her gaze. "What about it?"

Lyn blinked. "Do you… did you develop feelings for her? Did you grow to care for her?"

He had to lie to her—but he couldn't. She'd pick up on it in a heartbeat. Besides, if anyone deserved the truth from him, wasn't it Lyn?

"Yes," he said, gazing unflinchingly at his feet. "I know it seems stupid, but… she changed in the time I knew her. Or—maybe she didn't change, she just allowed me to see more of her than my captor. I earned her trust, and she earned mine, and there was this moment when we were looking at each other and—"

He broke off, finally looking at her. Lyn remained opaque, but something in her eyes had shifted. "Lyn?" he asked with trepidation. "Are you all right?"

She didn't answer at first. Her gaze flicked from his eyes to his hair to his disheveled clothes, her breaths deep and even. Finally, she looked up at him, fingered the hilt of her blade—and smiled. "Yes," she said. "Yes, I… I'm all right." She looked down the hall. "I thought I'd be angry, or worried, or… maybe even a little jealous. But I'm all right."

He blinked. "You mean it?"

"Yes!" She began to laugh, a soft, beautiful sound that made him long for Cassandra. "Father Sky, Mark—it took getting captured by morphs, but you finally found someone you can be happy with."

A weight seemed to lift from Mark's heart, and he managed a laugh. "I wasn't that bad, was I?"

Lyn shrugged. "Hector told me he was considering forcing you at swordpoint to attend the next ball, just so you'd meet someone."

"I'm glad we avoided that," Mark said, trying to sound jovial even as his throat tightened. "But now—"

Lyn placed a hand on his shoulder, and there was a new strength to her gaze and her smile. "I'll support you," she said. "I'll stand behind your efforts to free the morphs—to free Cassandra." She took his other shoulder. "I'll get her back for you, Mark. I swear it."

Mark swallowed again; he didn't dare call attention to the tears forming in his eyes by wiping them away. "Thank you," he said hoarsely. "You… this means more to me than I can say."

She nodded. "And I'm sure we can convince Hector as well," she said, turning him back down the hall. "Come on."

They started down the hall, side-by-side—until a shadow shifted in a corner. Mark jumped back, and Lyn had her sword in hand before the shadow spoke. "Sorry if I startled you," it said in a familiar voice.

Mark and Lyn exchanged a frown. "Matthew?" Lyn asked. "What are you doing here?"

"Figured it was my turn for a private chat with Mark," Matthew said. "Assuming you're done with yours." He hadn't yet moved, still cloaked in shadow.

Lyn looked back at Mark, who nodded. "I'll catch up," he said. Lyn smiled at him, sheathed her blade, and continued on down the hall.

Mark stepped toward the thief. "It's good to see you, Matthew," he said sincerely. "I know these last two months have been hard on—"

"This is my fault," Matthew said, stepping into the light at last.

Mark flinched. He'd been ready for Matthew's self-blame, ever since his first delivery to the fort weeks ago. He hadn't been ready for how the spy looked. His blond hair had become a complete mess in the time since he'd left the meeting hall, and his eyes and cheeks were tinged with red.

"Have you been drinking?" Mark blurted.

Matthew smiled grimly. "Thinking," he said. "Drinking would have made it easier."

Mark shook off his surprise. "Look, I know you blame yourself for my abduction. But it was my idea to follow Cassandra, and you did everything you could to keep me safe. It's not your fault."

"Oh, it is," Matthew sighed. "I gave myself the job of serving as your bodyguard, and failed in it. But that's not what I mean." He began rubbing his face. "Luther."

The name was so out-of-context, Mark didn't recognize it at first. "What about them?"

"I found him—them. My spies, I mean. We'd heard rumors of a pale-skinned rider hiding out in the ruins near Nabata. Once you were captured, and we knew there were still morphs, I had them look into it, and when we found them..."

"Found them?" Mark echoed. "You found Luther?"

Matthew nodded. "And we had them brought to the fort. So that Cassandra would do whatever she does, and you might be able to learn about it."

Mark's lips parted. Even from miles away, he was still manipulating us all. "All right," he said slowly. "That was… underhanded of you, but you accomplished your goal, and gave Luther a home, so—"

Matthew punched the wall. A weak gesture, but the suddenness of it still made Mark jump. "Don't you get it?" the spy hissed. "I'm the reason Luther tried to kill you. But that's just the beginning." He lifted his reddened eyes to meet Mark's gaze, and the tactician was shocked to realize that he'd been crying. "I'm the reason Peleus found the blue book."

Hector had to resist the urge to drop his head onto the table before him. He forced his chin to stay up, holding Lyn's gaze. "Can you repeat that?" he said. "I'm not sure I heard correctly."

Lyn shot him a quick glare before turning to the group as a whole. "I agree with Mark," she said. "We should try to stop Peleus and save as many morphs as we can."

Which was the opposite of what she'd indicated that morning. In fact, it was an almost complete reversal of how she'd felt about the morphs for the last six weeks. "Must have been some talk," he muttered to himself.

"Excuse me?" Lyn called.

"Nothing," he said. He looked to Eliwood and his wife. "You are in agreement?"

"You know we are," Eliwood said firmly. He and Ninian sat hand-in-hand, a unified, resolute front.

Hector pursed his lips, and looked at last to his own wife. "And you?"

"After speaking to Grace, I feel the choice is obvious," Priscilla responded. "These people need our help."

Hector leaned back in his seat, taking a deep breath, and struggling not to let it out as a groan. "So, you all hope to save the morphs," he said.

Nods from around the table answered him.

"Which means stopping Peleus."

Grace's eyes hardened as the nods continued.

"Which means fighting through an army of morphs. Morphs who have lost their free will and will likely fight to the death, no matter what we do."

Mark came wandering back into the room as Hector spoke, a frown on his face and a faraway look in his eyes. He sat down without a word, not even acknowledging the others. Hector spared him a concerned look before continuing on. "It sounds to me like we're exactly where we were an hour ago, with no way in, no plan, and, as far as I can see, no chance."

"My lord?"

Grace's soft voice cut through the room like a knife. Every pair of eyes turned to her. "Er," Hector began. "Yes, miss—uh—Grace?"

The healer's eyes lowered under the scrutiny. "I've been thinking it over, and I think I have an idea," she said. "If you take Peleus, you can force the others to stand down.

Mark blinked, looking up from his reverie at last. "She's right. Head of the snake, and all that."

"For human opponents, that might work," Hector sighed. "But—and I mean no offense here—these are morphs, programmed to fight to the death. Can we really get them to surrender?"

"You can if Peleus orders it," Grace insisted. "When he reverted them, he must have made some changes. They take orders from him as though he were Ephidel, or even Nergal himself. If he passes down the order to surrender, they will, without question or hesitation."

Hector's frown deepened. "We still have the same problem. From what you tell me, Peleus would sooner die than give such an order."

"He would," Grace admitted. Her small hands tightened into fists. "Which is why we have to make him do it."

Mark's mouth slowly opened in shock. Hector folded his hands. "How?"

"With the blue book."

Silence rang in the hall. "Grace," Mark began, "are you—"

"I'm sure." She straightened up, looking directly at Mark. "It's the best way to end this without my people being killed."

"But—"

"He deserves it, Mark," she spat. "For what he did to Denning, for what he's doing to Cassandra—he deserves it."

Mark shuddered at the mention of Cassandra's name, and slowly sat back down.

Hector felt tension rising in his spine. "Take Peleus, and stop the morphs," he said softly. "It's an appealing thought, but can we really do that?"

"We can."

It took Hector a moment to realize who the soft voice belonged to. Everyone turned to Legault, who was reclined in his chair, booted feet up on the table. The former Black Fang assassin smiled at Hector. "You get us through the wall, we can find Peleus and drag him out."

"Legault," Jaffar growled. "What are you doing?"

"Hmm?" Legault rubbed a finger in his ear. "What's that? I can't hear you over me being in charge of our little outfit."

Jaffar glowered, but fell silent.

"That still leaves the problem of how to get you through the wall," Raven pointed out.

"Yeah," Legault sighed. "If only we had a stash of Warp and Rescue staves somewhere." He rolled his gaze over to Serra.

The cleric shifted in her seat. "The church of Elimine doesn't hoard weapons," she said. "But… I might know where to get some."

Legault smiled.

Jafar shifted. "You really believe we can do this?"

"We've got the best thieves, assassins, and mages in Elibe here in the room," Legault answered with a shrug. "You really think we can't do this?"

Jafar didn't answer.

"You're sure it'll work?" Mark asked. The hope in his voice made Hector squirm.

Legault shrugged again. "Nothing's ever sure. But I believe Grace's plan is your only chance to end this without a lot of death on both sides, and we're just the ex-assassins to make it happen."

Mark turned down his eyes; Hector could almost hear the wheels turning in his head. "Ok," he murmured. "Ok." He looked up. "My lord. With your blessing, I'll begin formulating a strategy to capture Peleus, force the morphs to surrender, and begin restoring their free will."

Silence settled over the hall. All eyes were on Hector, the colored light from the stained glass playing across his face. He felt, for neither the first time nor the last, the burden of rule upon his shoulders, and the emptiness of his brother's absence.

He glanced at Priscilla, and her gaze gave him all the strength he lacked.

"You're insane," he groaned. "You're all insane. Expecting me to risk our marchies, our knights, our people for the sake of a group of morphs." He leaned forward, clutching his forehead. "And I'm just as insane as the rest of you, because I'm going to do it."

There was a rustle of movement around the table. "You mean..." Mark began hopefully.

"Yes," Hector sighed. He held up his arms. "Yes! Let's go rescue a bunch of morphs, at least some of whom have tried to kill us before, from a morph. Because this is what my life has become." He stood up. "Mark, make your plan. Legault, pick your team. Serra, find the staves and choose who will use them. And the rest of you, be ready for whatever happens—"

"My lord!" Oswin called, slamming the door open.

"Oswin!" Hector roared. "I am having that door chopped up for firewood!"

Oswin ignored him, striding into the room. "A messenger has arrived."

Hector ran a hand through his blue hair. "Where the hell from? And what did he have to say?"

"He's being brought here as we speak," Oswin said. "He was injured and exhausted; the lad could barely form a coherent sentence."

Hector slammed a fist on the table. "Because we needed even more complications."

Everyone in the room watched the door, a sense of unease spreading over the assembly. Finally, two knights marched into the room, supporting a bedraggled rider between them. Dirt and blood stained his clothes, and he had trouble lifting his head; nevertheless, he straightened and saluted as soon as he saw Hector. "My lord," he rasped.

"None of that, now," Hector commanded. "At ease."

"Sorry, my lord," the messenger replied, slumping. "But I have to deliver my message before I can rest."

"Let's hear it, then."

The man swallowed. "My lord, Lieutenant Sanders sent me. The foothills garrison is under attack."