Potential spoilers ahead. Read at your own discretion.

Marth jolted from beneath the covers, her breathing ragged and hair matted down by the sweat that had pooled on her cot. With shaky arms, she tore herself from the tight grasp of her bed and out into the drafty expanse of the empty intensive care tent. She fell down almost immediately, her feeble legs unable to support her despite her best efforts. Her recovering body was met with a rude greeting as it hit the floor with a resounding thud. Marth desperately tried to get up from her pitiful position but it seemed all her strength was resorted elsewhere. Her heart was pounding, and so painfully so, that Marth felt as if it would burst clear through her tightly bound chest. With an unsteady hand, she put it against her pounding chest in an effort to still her thrashing heart.

She was better off saving her already diminished strength.

Arms still weak, Marth made no further effort in picking herself up. Body on the floor, her mind laid elsewhere, distant. It was still racing after, or perhaps running away from, the dreaded nightmare that tore her from solitude and rest.

It was the pitch of night.

She was standing in the darkness, alone.

An empty field stood before her, its weeds sprawling towards the empty vastness of the sky. They were more akin to clawed hands, reaching, climbing, searching for salvation beyond where they were bound.

She was alone.

Then, in blinding flash of light, the field erupted into flames, its vast sea of blades disappearing beneath the ravenous hunger of the unquenchable fire.

There was nowhere to run.

The flames surrounded her, cutting off all paths to salvation. Even if a patch of unburned grass remained it would do no good.

Her body refused to move.

Her arms were holding what she could only imagine was a sword and they hung limply before her, the blade being swallowed by rising flames. Her legs felt like lead, entrenched in the fiery field that was to be her grave. The thick smoke that hung in the air was like a hangman's noose. It was strangling her, torching her insides and clawing its way into her chest and lungs like a ravenous beast. She wanted to claw at neck, to free her from its vise-like grasp, but her arms stayed put, being licked by the climbing fire.

"You abandoned us."

Amidst the hell before her, she could hear a thundering voice lash at her, its tone angry but sorrowful. She wanted tried to turn her head to see where it was coming from but her neck stayed fastened to her shoulders, not budging in the slightest.

"You left us to die."

She wanted to answer back, to tell the voices that they were wrong. She would never leave anyone behind to die. There was no way she could have done such a thing.

Could she?

But no matter how many times she opened her mouth, no sound escaped from her parched throat. No matter how hard she tore at vocal chords, nothing came of it.

Just more silence.

"It tore us apart, piece by piece, until all that remained was nothing."

The flames had completely enveloped her now. There was not a single part of her body that was not caught ablaze. She felt her skin begin to peel away, the fire like a worm, tunneling, burrowing, and eating away at her vulnerable and raw body, It was if she had begun to melt, like wax on a burning candle, the fire reaching her now exposed bones, the flesh on her fingertips and limbs now all but eaten away.

"How could you have forsaken us when we needed you most?"

Amidst the flames, she mustered all the strength she could find and tried leaping from the fire. Even with all the smoke and ash, she could see the veiled outlines of voices that were condemning her. They loomed ominously over her charring body like shadows in the night, not even the fire was able to hide them from sight. Without thinking twice, she leapt towards them. She did not why but deep inside she felt that she needed to reach whatever lied beyond the shroud. Stretching a scorched, bony arm, she reached for them with all her might.

Then, the burning weeds that had walled her in, wrapped themselves around her burning body. They were no longer stalks of tall grass.

They were hands. And they were pulling her down, back into the fire.

Back into hell.

Every fiber in her body resisted the hands that dug deep into her flesh. Like hooks, they had clawed their way into what little still clung her body and into her bones and tethered her to her demise. Her struggle was in vain as every attempt to rip herself free only burrowed the hands deeper and pulled her down further.

She would never escape the flames.

She would never escape here.

"How could you have done this us…?"

The voices called out one more time.

They were crying.

The ground had opened from where hands had come, pulling her deeper into her tomb. The flames only rose higher as the burning crumbling ground had begun to pile above her. Her arm remained outstretched, as if it were one last plea, one last attempt at reaching for the voices.

It would be for naught.

The world around her was darkening, her sight failing. The flickering light of the flames had begun to subside. Rock, dirt, and ash were her only companions. Trapped in her smoldering cocoon, and with what remained of her ears, she tried listening to voices one last time, desperate for something beyond this tomb.

…

"How could you have done this to us, Lucina?"

She screamed from her fiery grave.

She must have screamed in reality as well. Before Marth could come to her senses, she felt her limp body being gingerly lifted from clawing clutches of the cold floor and onto the safety of her cot. Her body's temperature must have dropped dangerously low because she instinctively clung to whomever was holding her so tenderly. But was she clinging on because of the cold or because she needed someone, anyone, at that moment, to simply hold onto in perhaps her most vulnerable moment since coming here? Even she wouldn't remember but at that instant she would distinctly remember the welcoming, warm reciprocating embrace of whomever held her, their warmth and strong arms slowly reeling away the nightmares that gnawed at the corners of her mind.

"It's okay…" A soothing voice called out to her as their arms rocked her back and forth gently. "It's over. You don't have to worry anymore."

This warmth and comfort… they almost felt familiar…

The person in question patiently held her, softly caressing the injured woman, until Marth herself decided to pull away quite abruptly. And that's when she noticed.

She had been crying.

Unable to face whoever stood before her, she turned away, pulling the sheets over her near-bare body. Not out of embarrassment, but out of shame. It was humiliating to display such… weakness.

It was an uncouth and selfish act but she just couldn't help herself. Quietly she cursed her own weakness, both in be able and unable to show it.

But before long, she had drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep, away from everything.

Just quiet.

Marth awoke to the morning birds' songs that echoed through the air and the rays of light that seeped into the billowing flaps of the tent. It was the crack of dawn and she could feel the chill in her bones but the light's soft embrace was a welcome reprieve from the clinging cold.

The light's warmth reminded her what could have only been assumed as the night before. Her nightmare and the mysterious individual who comforted her at the end. Did it really happen, she wondered? Had there really been someone in her tent that comforted her until she fell to asleep? Or was that just another figment of her imagination? Like a dream after a nightmare that was meant to wash away the dark residue left behind by its foul presence. The questions kept coming but Marth found no answers. Perhaps she would ask someone later to see if there had been anyone at all with her the night before. But before she could get around to doing that, she had other more urgent-at-hand matters to attend to.

Stretching out her sore body, Marth did not know how long she had been asleep until she awoke from the nightmare the night before. Had it been a day, several days, perhaps a week, since the defense of the Order's stronghold? She wasn't sure but her body felt as if months had passed. The familiar aching she felt was akin to the one she bore when she first arrived in Askr, a dull stabbing that pervaded every muscle and fiber in her body. She felt it in her fingers, her legs, even her eyes. Instinctively, she rubbed her eyes with firmly bandaged hands, doing whatever she could to massage away the dull yet constant pain that kept pulsing at every movement.

With stronger legs than from before, Marth slowly got off her cot and onto the floor. While the sunlight provided some heat, the tent was still relatively drafty. Looking by where she had awoken, Marth saw a neatly folded cloak that waited for her by the bedside chair. She quickly grabbed the garment and whipped it open, swinging it over her shoulders to shield her exposed upper body from the biting cold. She would find suitable clothes later but this would do for now.

Clumsily putting on her boots and donning her mask, she waddled out into the morning air beyond her tent. All was quiet in the Askrian camp, the birds had yielded to morning atmosphere, and the only sounds that filled the waking dawn were the crackling fires and marching of patrols. The snapping of the burning wood sent chills into Marth's body but she brushed those thoughts aside for the moment. She couldn't afford to let her mind wander back there again.

There was a boiling kettle that was hoisted over the fire on a spit. Feeling an awful emptiness in her stomach, Marth reached for the wooden handle of the steel kettle as she hastily grabbed one of the few scattered cups that laid before her. She picked up the cleanest looking one and poured the kettle's contents into it. The liquid was pitch black and was far from the aromatic drinks she tasted back in the capital but she didn't mind one bit. It was cold and she wanted something warm in her body, it wouldn't matter if the drink was green or blue. As long as it was warm, it wouldn't matter.

The black substance tasted… better than she anticipated. She half-expected it to taste like dirt and ash and reek of soot but it was much milder than its initial appearance and smell. There was a hint of herbs and a dash of roots as she fumbled around with its taste. Strange to be sure but she wasn't complaining.

"Does the tea suit your taste?"

Marth nearly spat out the liquid from her mouth as the voice came out of what appeared to be thin air. She had enough of disembodied voices for a while.

Turning around, she saw the raven-haired swordsmaster from Hector's unit. Despite the cold, the man was had the inside of blue flowing robe nearly bare save for his shirt that did little in covering his chest. His blood-red sword rested in its sheath, dangling by the man's belt.

"Don't be alarmed, I will stay my hand." The man said, following Marth's gaze. "I will not strike allies and I haven't killed anyone for taking my hard-brewed tea without permission." His eyes then flashed a fearsome look. "Yet." Marth could feel her blood run cold from just looking at him.

He sat down across from her on a rotting stump, unfastening his sword and setting it gently beside him. "The tea you are drinking is one that is hard to prepare. One must search long and far for its ingredients and then spend hours if not days preparing each vital component before it is ready to be brewed. But its painstaking efforts are worth it in the end for its fascinating properties."

Marth quietly sipped her drink. She afeared that if she interrupted the man she would offend him. After all, she did take the man's tea without so much as asking. The man took her silence as a gesture to keep talking.

He continued.

"It heightens the senses of the consumer and soothes their mind, allowing them to see things they might not have been able to see before while maintaining their calm." The man said, pouring a cup of his own. "A welcome addition for sparring. Perfect for the battlefield." The man slowly drank it down.

"I-I'm sorry." Marth finally said. "I should have been more prudent in regards to your belongings."

"As I said, don't be alarmed." The man replied with his eyes closed. "My niece, much like her own mother, keeps prodding me on, to share what my knowledge with our allies, to bolster our strength." He took another sip.

"Your niece?" Marth asked.

"Fir. She grows more like her mother every time she swings her sword."

Marth looked down at her cup, the black liquid barely able to reflect back at her.

"And after seeing you on the field, perhaps she is right."

The man set his cup down.

"There is something mysterious about you… Marth." He said opening his eyes and examining her body like a hawk. "You're quite skilled. You flow around the battle exceptionally and your swordsmanship is something to marvel… But you are also like a blank slate. All the finer points are present but there is something hollow in your form. Something completely lacking."

His words were sending shivers down her spine. What did he mean by hollow? A blank slate?

"I see that you are not carrying your sword." The man said, narrowing his eyes. "Foolish…"

Marth had completely forgotten about arming herself. Had the early days of peace she experienced in this land already begun to affect her? Back in her old world, she would never step foot out without arming herself with her sword first.

Falchion…

"I would have challenged you to a duel to see which of us had honed the finer technique… To see whether I was still worthy of being called the Wo Dao's master. To see if you would have made for me another worthy adversary" The man added, a subtle grin now on his face. "But perhaps you're wiser than I give you credit for."

It may have been a blessing in disguise that Marth didn't bring her sword with her this morning. She recalled the man's ferocity on the battlefield, how she could hardly keep up with the man's vivid yet vicious attacks as he wielded his blood-red sword. She would not be able to hold her own against him if he challenged her to a duel, not in this state at least.

"Karel," Marth said to her own surprise. The man's name had eluded her the entire time yet it sat on her tongue. "What is it that you fight for?" The man's method of speaking about swordsmanship and finding worthy opponents made her grow curious. What would a battle-lusting man like Karel be fighting for? What would he gain from allying with the Order?

"The same question everyone asks." Karel said, folding his arms. "What does the Sword Demon have to gain in fighting this war…?" He smirked. "To save worthy opponents."

"Save?"

"I have searched lands far and wide to see if there was anyone that could measure up to my blade. I desired to find and fight anyone who would be able to stand up to my technique." He was smiling now. "Here, I have the chance to meet and fight what fate calls heroes and legends of the world, perhaps the worthiest adversaries I will ever find in these long searchings of mine."

"But how does that save your opponents if you cut them down?"

Karel laughed, shaking his head. "You misunderstand me Marth. My adversaries aren't with Embla." He flashed a terrifying smile.

"They are with Askr."

Marth's eyes turned wide. "What do you mean?"

"If my enemy falls before even crossing my sword, they aren't worthy of being my opponents. But here, I am surrounded by swordsmen, swordswomen, lancers, halberdiers, axemen, berserkers, riders, and fighters, all hailing from the time when they were regarded as heroes and legends, all of which could give me the fight I so desire."

"Then what is keeping you here?" Marth asked. "Why don't you fight for Embla?"

Karel shook his head. "I fight for Askr and her enemies in order to keep these heroes to myself. These heroes are all growing stronger every day, I will not see to it that their fighting legacy ends on a mere Emblian soldier's lance."

"But if they did fall, then wouldn't that make them unworthy opponents for you?"

For once, Karel did not find an answer. Instead, he remained quiet and stoked the fire. Marth however could see the truth in the man's face. He had meant what he said. It was the same look of determination she had seen many times before back in her world. But there was more to it than that. Karel was fighting to protect something.

Or someone.

Not having received an answer, Marth quietly finished her tea. She thanked the swordsman for his hospitality to which she received no response.

"I forgot to ask," Marth began to say. "Who was watching my tent last night?"

"I've been setting camp here since the day you closed your eyes and have been preparing the tea for quite some time elsewhere." Karel said. "Roy was tasked with guarding your tent at night."

Roy. Marth would later ask him if he had heard or seen anyone in her tent.

"Then what about Genny?" Marth asked once more. "Have you seen her?"

"She was in charge of taking care of you. After you showed signs of recovering, she was moved to the capital to assist in funeral preparations."

Funeral? Was there going to be such a thing? Marth asked the swordsman again.

Karel kept feeding the fire. "You must not have heard. Understandable after your injuries. There is the grand funeral today in the capital, commemorating all those who fell in Askr's defense."

Marth looked around, she could see no one else. "Then what about you? Aren't you going to go?"

He shook his head, his jet-black hair swaying. "The dead are dead. They do not hear our words nor feel our emotions. Why would I waste my time in such a fruitless task when I could be spending it somewhere else?"

The man's harsh words were like a blow to the gut for Marth. The dead deserve all the respect and honor we can muster, she thought to herself. After all, they gave the ultimate sacrifice in giving their lives up for the greater good. But at the same time, she couldn't deny the truth in Karel's words. The dead, no matter how one would try, would not hear their heartfelt words nor would they be able to see how they were commemorating them. They were dead, in the ground, beyond saving.

Beyond reaching.

"But if you must insist on going," Karel said, interrupting her. "Just head straight towards the Merchant Manor. From there you will be able to see the Front Gate. When you do, march on down past the gate and you will eventually reach the ceremony."

But as Karel had finished Marth had already disappeared.

(A/N): Sorry for the wait. I published the chapter on Reddit but completely forgot about updating it on here. My bad. Well, I hope this makes up for it. Further updates are on there way. Thanks for reading and stay tuned for more!

Cheers.