The legends say that Oslia was founded four millennia ago, after the battle between the Dragons and Man had ravaged the world. In the end, the king relied on the might of five great heroes to bring the Dragons to an end. To honor their accomplishments, the king decreed that the five heroes would be given honors unparalleled in Oslia. When he asked what the five wished for, the five answers were given:

The first said: Let me be honor. Let justice run through the hills and valleys of Oslia, and let all my people be safe and true. I will be the First, the sword of Oslia.

The second said: Let me be wisdom. Let knowledge flow through the rivers and plains of Oslia and let my people be rational and wise. I will be the Second, the staff of Oslia.

The third said: Let me be strength. Let might surge through the mountains and forests of Oslia and let my people be healthy and powerful. I will be the Third, the spear of Oslia.

The fourth said: Let me be courage. Let bravery embed itself through the towns and the cities of Oslia, and let my people be hardy and determined. I will be the Fourth, the spirit of Oslia.

The fifth remained silent, and when asked the question, hesitated to speak.

Finally, he gave his answer: Let me be death. Let our enemies know that Oslia is guarded by demons. Let them know that I am a rider of darkness, and a reaper of souls. I will be the Fifth, the wrath of Oslia.

A celebration was held in honor of the five heroes, but only four attended. The Fifth had vanished into the darkness.

He couldn't sleep, and not for lack of trying. The ship was too damn rocky. Every wave seemed to flip the ship over onto its side. He rolled back over to his side before deciding that he really couldn't stand the rocking anymore. He picked himself up from the cot and sat, his feet dangling off the side.

The healer that Captain Koslov provided had done his job admirably. He had been doused with anti-venoms over and over again in order to purge his system. In truth, if the antidote Captain Koslov gave him was the correct one, the poison would have already left his system and wouldn't be a danger to him. The other antidotes just made his life a bit miserable with the violent vomiting. "After effects of the potion" the healer said. He knew well enough that it was true, but a part of him thought that the healer really fucking hated him and wanted to see him in serious pain.

Time seemed to slow down on the vessel. No not just slow down, it seemed to stop entirely. Boredom had replaced the pain and discomfort of being poisoned. Day after day after day was spent sitting and staring and wondering when in the name of every single god they were finally going to cross the fucking ocean.

A part of him wished he were still vomiting. Then at the very least, he could be looking for new places to vomit.

It had been a few weeks (he had to check with the old healer, because he honestly thought it had been a year or two) since he had left his home, and he couldn't help but feel a bit homesick. He had done it before; he lead campaigns and conquered lands, but the thought of never being able to go back home struck a chord in him.

No, it wasn't that he wasn't able to go back home. It was the fact that there was no home left. Home had ceased to exist. The army was scattered, fleeing as far as their feet could take them. Osliton had been burnt to the ground, razed and salted. Its citizens had been murdered. Its lands had been conquered. The emperor was dead, beheaded and replaced by a fat, disloyal prick. Oslia, what he had called home, was gone.

You called yourself a loyal general. Funny. You're alive and the man you served is dead, his body decaying in the dirt, his head on a pike in front of the castle walls. And all you did was run away. Like a coward.

Coward.

He had time to wallow in misery. He had more than enough time. Hell, that and reminisce were definitely on the top of the "things to do" list. He talked to the old man sometimes, he did odd jobs on the ship here and there, but for the most part, he sat in the room and waited.

Father would be disappointed. He never failed this badly.

He let out a small snort. His father, the previous Fifth, had passed his position down to his son. Not because he thought his son was the best choice, but because it was tradition. He would have carried on with the role of the Fifth if it weren't for his failing health. His father had said numerous times that if it weren't for the weight that tradition carried, he would have gladly given the position to anyone else. There were, his father said, at least twenty people he could name off the top of his head that were better suited, more cunning, more ruthless, than he was.

He was a miserable failure, a worthless sack of shit that didn't deserve to breathe.

Yeah, well, clearly I got that part right. Definitely got the part of failing miserably right. What were the legends? That the Fifth was the Rider of Darkness or some stupid shit? Old men trying to be dark and scary and try and make a single asshole general a deterrent. That worked oh so well against an axe wielding red hulk in armor.

No, Walhart the Conqueror was not the one who put him in the predicament.

Mahkno. I'm going to kill that fat fuck. I'm going to shove a sword into his throat and laugh as he chokes on his own blood.

A knock on the door stirred him from his thoughts. He got up slowly and walked over to the door, opening it to reveal the old healer, leaning against his staff.

"Ah, general. How nice of you to awake."

The general snorted. "I've been awake. The damn ship won't stop rocking. What time is it?"

"Slightly past mid-day," the healer said, walking inside. "I wanted to inform you that we will be making landfall within the hour."

The general nodded. Finally. His legs were turning into jelly from all the damn rocking that still wouldn't stop.

"Perhaps," the old man continued, "you would like to leave your little hovel and venture into the wide open world?"

The general grunted an indifferent response. He did, however, feel the urge to stretch his jelly legs. Without another word, he left the room, and climbed the ladder up and out of the ship's cramped interior.

The light was blinding. After being stuck in a half dark room illuminated by shitty candles for weeks, just being out in the sun was invigorating and at the same time painful. He winced as the light stabbed into his eyes.

And now I'm a vampire.

His eyes adjusted after a few seconds, and he was back to normal. The deck was relatively empty, at least empty compared to what he was used too. He had sailed more than a few times, but the ships he had sailed on were all crewed by the Oslian Navy, meaning they were usually filled with half-drunk sailors singing sea shanties while firing flaming arrows at pirates. This transport ship was manned by a small skeleton crew of maybe twenty men. Really, it was a miracle to find twenty men who were willing to sail into a burning city to rescue a poisoned, delirious man. How Koslov ever managed to arrange for the vessel to come was beyond him.

Money can buy anything, I guess. Although that begs the question: how did he get that much money? I don't manage his paycheck, but I'm fairly certain he doesn't make enough to afford a ship and a crew. I hope he isn't moonlighting as a stripper or something…

Relief came to him as he stared out toward the east. Land. To the east, mountains jutted into the sky, the peaks shrouded by mist. As the ship approached, he could see more of the land in front of him. Tall pine trees grew as far as the eye could see, with only a small village interrupting the endless glades of green. Near the village was an old, dilapidated dock, more suited for small fishing boats than anything else.

One of the men approached the general. The man was clearly the captain, with the fancy hat and the awful ruffles adorning his clothes.

"Captain, where the hell are we?" the general asked, turning to face the captain. His Ylissean geography wasn't exactly the greatest in the world, and he had no idea where they were.

"Regna Ferox, home of the barbarians."

That was a name he was familiar with. And he wasn't particularly happy about that.

"You chose the land of barbarians." It wasn't a question. It was more of an incredulous statement. "You couldn't have moved the ship slightly southwards where we could go to a nation where people don't argue with their fists? A place where people make rational decisions instead of finding the weakest person in the room and pummeling him with their shoes?!" he hissed.

"Plegia?" the man said, trying, and failing, at hiding a wry grin.

"Ylisse, the godsdamned Halidom! The only normal country in the fucking continent! The only country not ruled by someone with an obvious mental condition!"

"Ah, General, would that I could. I hear Ylisse is filled with bountiful harvests, rich and elegant cities, and beautiful women... But I have a ship full of cargo, and a ship full of cargo needs to stop where it needs to stop."

The general frowned. He wanted to retort with the fact that they could always turn into pirates. But then he felt like a whiny spoiled child. He sighed. "Fine. At least barbarians are better than demon worshippers."

He should have considered himself lucky. If it weren't for the random ship owners, he would have been, most likely, dead in an alley way somewhere. At least, at the very least, he was very far away from people who wanted him dead, even if he were in the land of people who solve problems with axes to the face. That didn't mean he had to like it, however.

"Might I ask, General, what you are planning on doing when we arrive?"

The general opened his mouth to say something, but then realized, he really didn't know. He had spent the trip wallowing in his misery, thinking about what he could have done in order to prevent the razing of his home. He didn't want to think about the future.

"Plot my revenge?" he said. Honestly, he didn't really even want to do that. "Be lost? Die due to frostbite? Fight and challenge one of the Khans for supremacy of Regna Ferox? Oh, become a goat herder and live the rest of my life in the mountains? Hell, I didn't even know where we were until just a few seconds ago. Do you really expect me to know what I'm going to do?"

"At least a general timeline."

The general ignored the last comment. "When are we going to reach the dock?"

"About fifteen minutes. You might want to get all of your things packed up right now."

He got a grunt in response. Seconds later, shuffling his feet, the general walked back below decks and into his room. He grabbed the pack from the corner. He had already prepared, anxious for the boat ride to finally be over. The pack didn't contain much: a few changes of clothes, money, trail rations, just a few things he would need if he were to be traveling a lot, which he certainly planned on doing. The captain's question did make him think though. He really had no plan. Perhaps he would wander and just… do things. Maybe he would be a goat herder.

Grabbing a pack didn't take all that long, but the general sat in the small cramped room with the pack on his back just brooding. Eventually, he realized that he had just sat there staring at a wall in a dark room for a few minutes.

What the hell am I doing? Moping? Gods above, what is wrong with me?

He shook his head in an attempt to clear his thoughts. He needed to leave the room, because all it did was cause him to brood, and he didn't want to do that. He want to get to Regna Ferox.

Maybe, he thought, he should start over. Cast aside the sword and pick up a hoe, become a farmer. Or become a merchant. Or a teacher. Or a sailor. Or pastor. No one knew who he was in Regna Ferox. No one knew who he was in the entire continent of Ylisse. If he wanted to, he could become a totally new person.

Yes, maybe that was the plan. To make a new person. Start a new life.

Or maybe, that was his delusional thoughts convincing him that cutting Duke Mahkno's throat didn't seem at all appealing.

Didn't mean he couldn't do both.

A new life. Until I find an opportunity to return and murder Mahkno.

By the time he reached the deck, the ship had already reached the dock. The hustle and bustle of sailors unloading cargo filled the air. On the deck, sailors and merchants grabbed large heavy boxes filled with goods and moved them into the small town. By the side, the captain and the old man stood, talking in hushed voices. Hushed voices were never good.

"Captain," the general greeted as he approached the two. The conversation immediately stopped as the two acknowledged the new person.

"Ah, general. Have everything you need?" the captain asked.

The general grunted back a reply.

"Very well," the captain said with a nod. "I expect you will be escorting our fine guest from the ship?" he asked, directing his attention back to the old healer.

"Yes, captain. Thank you for your service."

The captain brushed off the thanks with a wave. "No. Thank you for the gold," he said, a wry grin appearing on his face. With that, the captain excused himself and went back to his men, immediately yelling for them to work faster, and that cargo didn't unload itself.

"So general, thought of what you will do when you step off?" the healer asked once the two were alone.

That was the question he had debated with himself for the time he had spent in the hold. He thought he had arrived at a suitable answer.

"I want to lay low and start a new life. At least until I find the opportunity to return to Oslia and kill Mahkno."

"Ahh, loyalty to the throne."

"No," the general interrupted. "I just want to kill him. For my own satisfaction."

The old man frowned. "Beware, general. When seeking revenge, you must dig two graves. One for your victim, and one for yourself."

The general cut him off with a wave of his hand. "I don't need your philosophical bullshit. The thought of murdering Mahkno makes me happy, and I will go through with it."

Quieter, he continued, "Besides, I've already lost my humanity long ago."

A silence settled between the two men as they watched the sailors cracking open the various crates and begin to distribute the cargo inside multiple warehouses.

"I know I cannot sway you general. If revenge is your path, I wish you luck. I only pray that when your revenge is satiated, you will still know who you are."

A twinge of frustration settled deep within the general's heart. He wanted to yell at the old man for not understanding anything., for being a condescending sack of shit. What did the old healer know about revenge? He was the fifth, the most ruthless and most deadly man in the continent of Valm, and to him, revenge was sweet. Revenge was necessary.

"I've already had my revenge on dozens, what makes this any different?"

"Because for once, you are dealing with your own loss. Not your army's loss, your country's loss, your lord's loss. You are dealing with your own emotional baggage."

The general snorted. His own emotional baggage. The old man made it sound like he was an angsty teenager, rejected by the farm girl next door.

"Sure," he replied. The non-committal reply ended the conversation immediately.

The two waited there. They waited until the men had finally cleared all the cargo, the merchants had finally bought all their wares, and the dock workers had finally stored all the remaining goods. They waited until the afternoon was almost over. The dock cleared out and the only remaining people were the crew, now getting completely drunk at an awful hour, and what little remained of the dock workers, who were gambling amongst themselves in a corner. The rest of the dock was a nigh ghost town.

"Time for me to head out then," the general remarked. He liked the fact that the area was empty. Fewer people would see him, but that wasn't the biggest reason. He just didn't like the crowds, and he wanted to stay on the ship. At least on the ship, no one was going to potentially kill him.

"Aye, general."

The general grabbed his packed and double checked one more time to make sure he had everything. Then, he slung the pack on his shoulder. Then, he looked back at the old man.

"Sir healer," he said, very professionally, "I pray you find good health and good luck." The old Oslian goodbye for when they possibly would never meet again.

"General, you will need to watch what you say. Most people in Ylisse speak in the Common Tongue."

Without hesitation, the general switched languages, abandoning the rough Oslian he preferred and switched to an almost accent less Common.

"I'm familiar with Common. Goodbye, sir healer."

The old man nodded, but replied back in Oslian.

"Also, Sir General, you will need a new name."

Gods above, I want to leave, stop fucking stopping me from descending this goddamn plank.

The old man, however, was right. He couldn't use his real name here, not in Regna Ferox. His goal was to lay low, to stay unnoticed, and he would need to be as careful as possible. He knew that, at least under his command, his spies were everywhere. He had spies in all three major countries in Ylisse. Still, word traveled slow, especially across oceans. There was actually the chance that his spies were still loyal to him…

No, better not risk it. By the time he could make contact, he expected his spies to have done what they were ordered in case Oslia fell. They were to immediately cease work, burn all documents related to what they were doing, and sever all contact with Oslian Intelligence. The more loyal, and more fanatical ones, were to commit suicide in order to lead any possible pursuer into a dead end. He had given that order himself.

Besides, the spies he sent over to Ylisse were the shitter spies, the one that had probably already backstabbed him. It was really for that reason why he sent them across the goddamn ocean to perform the most menial spying tasks. Their orders had no real impact on anything. He had no plans for Ylisse back when he actually had a position. As the saying went, out of sight, out of mind.

He did learn some rather amusing information though. Apparently the prince of Ylisse wore the most hilarious smallclothes.

"A new name," he said to no one in particular, switching languages again. He was just more familiar with his mother tongue, although, he would have to make sure to use Common from then on.

"Might I make a suggestion?"

The general nodded.

"Aedan."

"Aedan?"

"Yes, after an old legend. It is said that he was the son of a betrayed house. His country was shattered by civil war, its borders under attack by foreign nations, while the countryside run amok with monsters, and yet Aedan reunited his kingdom and drove back the evils that plagued it."

"Are you trying to draw parallels or something?"

The old man just smiled. "I might be."

He was sick of legends. Legends were the things that got him in this mess in the first place. He didn't say that though. Frankly, he didn't want to come up with a better name. "Fine then, Aedan… It is a good name."

With a nod, Aedan stepped forward, down the plank, and into Regna Ferox.

Howdy anyone who cares to read this.

Next chapter is where we actually get to the meat of the story, ie, we finally meet Chrom and company.

College has started, which basically means I don't have time to write as much as I used to. I will try to update as fast as possible, but if you don't see me in like five months, it's because I was murdered by triple integrals.

Hope you enjoyed. Have fun with your life.