Ferdinand tapped his knee rhythmically, pulling at the collar of his tunic as he looked to the door again. At first, he had attempted to seem nonchalant, leaning back in the chair as he stared at the door to the war council room with a mix of trepidation and faux-coolness. That quickly evaporated once he realized how disrespectful it would seem, instead adopting an official posture with his back straight and his hands before him, clasped together. After a few minutes of doing that, however, his lower back began to hurt, and sweat began to drip down his neck.

Truthfully, Ferdinand was almost as nervous as he had been during his brief incarceration after the Battle of the Bridge of Myrddin. And back then, he imagined a whole number of foul fates for himself, although none came to pass. He was lucky his old professor still remembered him, and their friendship. If not, he half-expected Prince Dimitri to execute him on the spot.

Fighting against the Empire, even for the brief period he had done so by that point, proved to be a very difficult challenge for Ferdinand. In another time, he commanded the very men he fought against. Nonetheless, his path was clear. And if Edelgard did not stand down when the Empire was beaten, then someone would need to take charge of the fractured country. And while he had never expected their rivalry to end with death, somehow, it seemed fitting.

But all of that was secondary to his current concerns. He had read, of course, of the Champion. Any self-respecting noble or knight would have. A paragon of virtue, they were always on the front lines of Seiros' forces, serving the Empire and the people both. It was an ideal that Ferdinand could find solace in. And if stories of his family were correct, one of his ancestors had known that Champion, though Ferdinand did not know his or her name. That was where the inspiration ended, and the fear began. If his ancestor could be forgotten in so many years, what hope was there for Ferdinand's name to be echoed in eternity?

At last, after what seemed like an eternity to the wayward noble, a figure entered. In all the stories of the Champion that Ferdinand had read, he never expected the Champion to look so… ordinary. Tanned skin stretched across an angled face, with high cheekbones and a fledgeling beard. Brown hair and brown eyes, coupled with the functional, if dull plate armor, completed the look of a low-ranked knight rather than a figure of legend.

"Are you Ferdinand von Aegir?" the man asked, brow raised as he walked in, watching Ferdinand's every move.

"Ah, yes," Ferdinand replied, feeling as if his tongue went numb for a moment. "I presume that you are, er, the Champion?"

The man let out a scoff as he looked to the side.

"Not the Champion you have heard of, probably," he said, "that would be my son, but I know of your family, Ferdinand. My name is Ashton Wright, sworn knight in service to Saint Seiros. I knew your ancestor."

"So it is true," Ferdinand swallowed. "I suppose events and people are more complicated than indicated in old tales. Would you like to have a seat? I want to hear what you have to say. I would be lying if I said I have not been looking forward to this meeting, but I never expected it to start like this."

"I have heard that a lot, too," Ashton replied, taking a seat beside the noble. The war room had a long table with many chairs, and yet Ashton chose the one closest to Ferdinand, his eyes still scanning him. Although it made Ferdinand feel somewhat uncomfortable, it was a welcome retreat from the usual awkward gazes he would receive from the Kingdom soldiers.

"Well," Ferdinand began, the stone in his throat growing. "I must say, I did not expect you to come so soon."

"You were waiting in here for a while, were you not?" Ashton asked, "You wanted to speak with me, for reasons that have so far eluded me. Go on, then. Speak your mind, Ferdinand von Aegir."

"Ah, yes!" Ferdinand snapped his fingers. "I suppose I was just curious, you see. It has been a point of pride in my family that we were acquainted with and favored by one of the legendary figures from the War of Heroes, as many noble houses had their own patrons during that time. We were lucky enough to have two: Saint Cichol and the Champion. I was curious about what my ancestors were like, if you do not mind speaking of them?"

For a few moments Ferdinand wondered if he had done something wrong, as Ashton merely stared at him with a blank expression for a few seconds, before he sighed and spoke.

"You do not even know his name, do you?" Ashton murmured.

"Writings from that time are incredibly fragile, and very few of them have been transcribed onto modern parchment," Ferdinand stated, his hands settling in his lap. "I have seen a little of what they had written, though; most of it is applicable even to today's world, with musings on our noble system and its consequences. Alas, their name has always been blotched out, or otherwise not recorded."

Ashton nodded, a deep frown on his face. "That sounds like him, alright."

"Him? So it was a man, then. Might I know his name?" Ferdinand asked, leaning forward. "I… would very much like to know it, if you do not mind."

"His name was Roland von Aegir, son of Tobias von Aegir. You are right in your assessment, Ferdinand; he saw what was to come, could see the broken families and social issues that would result from the Crest system, and yet all of his efforts, all of his advances were for nought, and now he is gone. Dust, just like everyone else I knew."

Ferdinand felt as if he had been slapped.

"You remind me of him, too, you know," Ashton added hastily, tapping his fingers on the table. "Just the fact that something of him has survived the passage of time is… well, it is nice. And more than I would have expected."

Ferdinand rubbed his forehead. "I do not know how to handle this. If my own ancestor could not stem this tide, then what hope do I have? I have betrayed the Empire by being here. Perhaps I should not have let the professor talk me into defecting after all. All of the honor of House Aegir rested upon my shoulders, and now it has none left. I may be the last one."

"Ferdinand," Ashton began, "look, I know what I said a moment ago seems as if it spells doom for you and your efforts, but the fact that you are here right now proves that you are worthy of your noble title, of the name of your noble house."

"And how do you think so?" Ferdinand hissed. "I have abandoned the land that I was supposed to serve."

"And do you think Emperor Edelgard is doing what is best for said land?" Ashton pressed. "Look upon the corpsefields between here and Enbarr, and ask them if the honor of the Empire matters. You are here to end the war, to ensure that nobody else dies, to make sure that mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters need not wage war and die for a cause they do not truly believe in. You are to take care of them, in any way you see fit. And from my perspective, Ferdinand von Aegir, you are on the right path. Surely you have thought of this. You did not join the Kingdom army because the professor asked you to. If you are anything like Roland, then you were motivated by a sense of duty."

"A sense of duty? Yes, I suppose so," Ferdinand admitted. "But how do I know that my sense of duty has not misled me? This war has dragged on for five years. And now, I am almost certain that Edelgard will meet her death by the end. Someone would need to take the reigns of the Empire, if it is still called as such when the time comes. But how can I be certain? How do I know I will not end up like Roland did?"

"You don't," Ashton replied.

Ferdinand's lips thinned. "That is not what I needed to hear."

"No, but it is the only answer I can give you, other than putting your faith in something higher than yourself, and I will be honest with you: that way, only insanity lies. I would know," Ashton remarked bitterly. "Roland put his faith in himself, and maybe if I had stayed, he would have succeeded. But I did not, and he failed, or maybe he succeeded at first, only to have whatever reforms he put in place revered. Nonetheless, do not let the failures of the past define what you do in the present. The future will always be a mystery, Ferdinand. The least you could do is try to define it for yourself."

Ferdinand mulled over Ashton's words, feeling his heart slowly beat in his ears. Perhaps the man out of time was right. If Ferdinand took control, did what he always believed was right…

It would be a long and uphill battle, for certain. However, to Ferdinand, it didn't seem quite as far-fetched as it did a moment before.

Now," Ashton said, "is there anything else you want to discuss? I would rather we spoke of something less terrible."

"Yes. In fact, I am curious about something else now. What was my ancestor like? You said I am similar to him, and I wish to know in what other ways that is true," Ferdinand began.

"You perplex me, mercenary."

Shez had to admit the same thing to the pretty green-haired man who accosted her in the halls of Fhirdiad's castle. She had no idea what its name was and honestly, she couldn't care enough to learn it. It's not like she would be staying long anyway. Nothing had gone as she had planned it.

Remember, if nothing else, ask the Ashen Demon to a spar. Even if it's not to the death, it would be a good measurement of how far you've come.

Yeah, if I can catch them while they're alone. I'd be inviting a fight with half the army. And besides, it's not like it really matters anymore anyway.

You've been listless for so long, I expected you to have a fire in your heart after we learned he was still alive! It's troubling to see you become a herald of doom.

"Are you still in there, mercenary? Or has your mind left your skull?"

Shez shook her head. "Just deep in thought. So, I 'perplex' you, huh? In what way?"

Arawn had his arms crossed - a common thing for him, Shez noted - and he leaned against the wall as he spoke. "There is something about you that seems familiar somehow. I have heard from the others that you can summon a sword at will. One that looks like a Hero's Relic, and yet is not. It is rather interesting that a no-name mercenary would be endowed with such power. From whence did it come, I wonder?"

Shez snorted, even as her heart raced. Not because she felt like she was falling in love, no; she had no idea what that felt like, but if it was anything like what was happening to her, she didn't want a part of it. If anything, it felt as if her life was in grave danger. Arval had gone completely silent.

"I think we both know the answer to that, eh?" Shez shrugged. "It's Agarthan or something, ain't it? I think it is, anyway. From what you told all of us."

"Indeed. The metal looks like circuitry, and the blade resembles the bone of a real relic. But that is not what I meant, mercenary-"

"I have a name. It's Shez," Shez interrupted with narrow eyes, copying Arawn's stance with arms crossed. "I know I'm not the Ashen Demon or anything, but the least you could do is call me by name."

"Hmm," Arawn hummed, brows raising as he nodded. "Yes, I suppose I can grant you that simple courtesy. You are a tremendous fighter, if nothing else. Your time as a mercenary must have been interesting."

"Are you going somewhere with this?" Shez asked pointedly, tapping her foot. "Because I get the feeling you're trying to lead me somewhere but I don't really have the patience for it. So, you know, out with it already."

"I have a talent at annoying people I am trying to converse with," Arawn murmured. "It is a talent I had forgotten I had until recently. It is something my mother and I share. My apologies if I have offended you. That was not my intention going into this, but clearly I have."

Shez sighed, waving a hand. "Look, I don't mind you asking questions, but you gotta work on your people skills. This is ridiculous."

"Indeed. Would you be willing to help with that?"

It was at that point that Shez believed she had heard everything. Arawn, asking for help. She had only known the half-Nabatean for a little over a month or two and she had seen him shrug off every attempt at small talk by the others in their merry band. The fact that he was going to her, of all people, to learn how to talk with others - she could barely comprehend it, and for a few moments she found herself merely staring at the man, dumbfounded.

"You need not look so shocked," Arawn groused, running a hand down his face. "I did not believe it was possible for me to feel shame anymore, and yet you have done that quite handily. I would commend you for it if I was not red with rage."

"I'm just trying to understand you," Shez finally said. "It's a lot to wrap my head around, you know? I mean, I'm tempted. Really tempted. Maybe you'll start acting like a person instead of a fountain of lore."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You have it," Shez nodded. "My pardon, I mean. For whatever good it is. Anyway, fine. I'll help you, but on one condition."

Arawn was silent, receptive to what Shez had to say. After a while of quiet contemplation, the purple-haired mercenary spoke again.

"Tell me about yourself. I'm curious," Shez said, "I wanna know what's going on inside your head. You know, because you're-!"

"I am Byleth's grandfather, yes, and I am doing this so that I can try and gather the courage to speak to him of this. Are you satisfied enough to begin, for the moment?" Arawn said, causing Shez to sputter.

"Okay, yeah, I don't think I'll ever get used to that. But fine, alright, let's start." Shez replied.

"You're doing better, right?"

Dimitri barely heard Marianne over his own thoughts, looking at the blue-haired maiden as he sat upon the throne of Faerghus. He didn't plan on staying there long - in fact, simply sitting upon the lavishly-decorated throne made him uncomfortable; there were people starving within the Kingdom, and yet he could sit upon a throne of gold that could be sold to feed them all. Of course, such thoughts were not realistic - sell it to who, after all? - but it was what occupied his mind.

That, and the incessant voices of those who were long gone. But he had learned to ignore them, and over time, they had grown far quieter, almost as if in acceptance of his choice.

And so, Dimitri had a good answer to Marianne's question.

"I am doing much better. Thank you, Marianne," Dimitri finally replied, standing up. "My father and uncle sat on this throne, and now here I am, sitting upon it myself. After five years of constant bloodshed, this almost seems like a dream."

Marianne smiled. Dimitri never grew tired of seeing it.

"I could say the same,"Marianne said, looking out into the empty throne hall. "I am… I am glad I am here to see it. Five years ago, I never would have imagined seeing this. We really do have a chance, right?"

"If we could liberate Fhirdiad, then I have little doubt that we could liberate the whole continent, given enough time," Dimitri stated. "Of course, I am not expecting it to be an easy endeavor. And Edelgard is nothing if not tenacious. The plan right now is to invade Fhirdiad from Alliance territory, capturing Fort Merceus and then heading straight to Enbarr."

"When you say it like that, it almost seems like the war is almost over. Could that really be true?" Marianne asked.

"I am likely making it seem much more simple than it will actually end up being. We have very little information on Imperial defenses outside Gronder Field," Dimitri continued, his arms behind his back as he paced in front of the throne. "I do not revel in the bloodshed that will no doubt come, but it must be done, for the good of all Fódlan.

"Do you think Claude will help us? I am sure I could send him a letter. We were old classmates, after all," Marianne suggested, crossing her arms as Dimitri continued to stomp about. "And if not, maybe more of the former Golden Deer house would help."

"I appreciate the suggestion. Do what you think is best," Dimitri replied, "we could always use more troops. I was going to ask Claude myself, but you would probably have an easier time trying to convince him. He is already feeling the pressure of the Imperial advance, so he knows he cannot stay neutral forever."

The throne room went quiet for a moment before Marianne started giggling.

"D-did I do something funny?" Dimitri asked, bewildered.

"N-no! I was just- I was just thinking about how strange this all was again," Marianne said, calming down. "A few months ago, you were not in your right mind. And now you are plotting the next course of action with the kingdom with me by your side. So much has changed in such a short amount of time!"

"I… fail to see how that is funny. Is this what Dedue feels like?"

"I-it isn't very funny. Not really. I just couldn't help myself," Marianne admitted. "It's nice. All of this is nice. I just wish it didn't have to come about during a war."

Dimitri could do nothing but nod silently at that.

Sparks from the ancient machines within Shambhala coated the ground in grand showers not unlike the sparkling stars in the sky that Thales would sometimes lose himself in. The broken machinery, however, proved to be far, far more vexing than the stars ever did. Broken bodies were spread about the broken architecture. They were all expendable; the lost machines were the real tragedy. They could not be replaced while simple flesh could. Eventually, the path of ruin led straight to where the vessel for their god had been constructed.

"A-ah, Agastya Thales…" Thales heard the quiet whimpering of Myson within the shattered chamber. Broken glass covered the floor, and the sparkling black panels had been burnt out. "Were I able, I would have instructed the orderlies to see you in. Unfortunately, my eyes are not what they once were."

Thales had been hardened by centuries of toiling and hardship, and even then, he had to restrain himself from physically recoiling from the state of Myson's vessel. True to his word, Myson's eyes had seen better days - that is, if they still existed. Burnt craters were all that was left of the lesser sage's eyes. His entire body had been morphed beyond recognition, with burns and blood dotting his pallid skin. He looked more like a corpse than a living being. The fact he was even able to speak was a miracle in itself. His lips had become cracked and bloody as well, with a steady stream of blood going down the edge of his lips.

Deep in the smoke, Thales thought he saw two pairs of compound eyes staring at him.

"Myson," Thales began breathlessly, his white brows furrowing as he prepared for his own god to attack him. "What happened?"

"I-I believe our god was… displeased with our work," Myson spat out. "I only barely survived because I shielded myself. The others were not so lucky."

"Is Prometheus here?"

"Not anymore," Myson answered, taking a misshapen hand and wiping his lips. Bits of dried lip fell to the ground afterward. "He slumbers now, but… Thales, we cannot continue. He cannot be completed in time. If he were to be activated before his time, then…"

"I will be the judge of that. Not you. Your failure may have spelt doom for us all," Thales replied.

"My failure, Agastya Thales?" Myson echoed, his malformed mouth opening in either disgust or indignance. "Our god, here he stands before you, and you would call that failure?"

"He would fight for his subjects!" Thales snarled, grasping the handle of Ridill. "Shambhala lies broken and decrepit! And you would tell me this is a success!?"

"We have received exactly what we asked for," Myson mumbled, as the sound of clinking metal echoed through the dark chamber that housed Prometheus' vessel. "A god that will cleanse the surface of beasts. We were merely mistaken in assuming we were not beasts as well."

"Silence, fool! Or I will cut your head from your shoulders!" Thales growled. "No, it just needs to be calibrated. It needs to be more suitable for his divine essence."

"More suitable?" Myson echoed again. "Agastya Thales…"

What little light remained within the ruined section of Shambhala was reflected off of red metal as a pair of compound eyes made themselves visible within the gloom. Thales prepared himself. Though at one point, he would never have imagined raising Ridill against one of the gods of Agartha, he would do whatever it took to rid the world of beasts, and he could only truly do that while alive.

"He already finds this vessel suitable," Myson finally replied, blood turning black as he reached out his hand. "And he sees us."

A metal hand the size of a dozen men suddenly snapped out of the dark, its skeletal form shining in the light as it clasped what was left of Myson. The sundered sage screamed as the sound of bones shattering and muscles shredding echoed in the air. Pulling itself back into the black, Myson's screams echoed in the dark before suddenly being cut off by the sound of grinding metal and what to Thales' ears seemed a distant waterfall, gently falling down upon rocks.

Deep in the dark, red metal flexed and groaned as eyes innumerable stared into Thales' very soul. The Agastya of Agartha could scarcely withstand even that much. It was like staring at a dark sun.

Thales took a step back from the opening into the chamber as the vessel's jaw clamped shut over and over again, the remnants of Myson dribbling down its skeletal chin in chunks.

HEAR ME WELL, THALES.

It sounded as if the voice came from everywhere at once, a cacophony of voices all speaking in unison. Thales knelt, if in reverence or pain, even he could not tell. The sparks of broken machinery only grew in intensity as the vessel leaned forward.

COMPLETE THIS VESSEL. YOU ARE NOT HUMANITY, BUT YOU WILL DO.

Thales could barely keep his eyes open as the lights dimmed.

AND THE CHILDREN OF STEEL AND THE CHILDREN OF SOTHIS WILL BE TORN FROM THIS WORLD. THE TIMELINE MUST BE CORRECTED.

Thales fell to the floor, as the head of the vessel moved forward, its mouth agape in a silent shout as a metallic hissing spread through the air.

It's a bad day to be an Agarthan, eh? See you guys next time!