Random fact of the day: the laetiporus is a wild mushroom that tastes like chicken.

Chapter word count: 2,988

"Sir Mark, I would like to request your assistance for reading this passage—"

Sue stumbled back a half step as Mark shouldered her and kept walking. She sighed and began walking to the battle mages studying in a circle a few yards away from her, figuring someone else could help.

"Sue, what's the matter?" Lugh asked as the nomad sat beside him. "You're usually so calm, so seeing you so down is gonna make me sad too."

Sue turned to him and smiled lightly, clutching the parchment in her lap text-down. "I wanted to have a conversation with General Mark, but I guess I wasn't as prepared for his coldness as I thought I was."

"Oh? Lemme see it," Lugh reached for the paper and was surprised when Sue flinched, quickly moving the paper out of his reach. "Uh… Do you not want me to see it?" he asked.

"Hm?" Sue seemed oblivious that she had done anything at all, before realizing what had just happened. "Oh… Forgive me. I wanted Mark specifically to see this, but there is no harm in showing it."

Lugh carefully took the text handed to him and took a few minutes reading it. "This is a diary?"

Sue nodded.

"In what language? I see some ancient True-languages but then right here is International Basic. And… Hey! The letters are all shifting around!"

Sue nodded again. "It was my mother's personal journal from after the war against Nergal. She disappeared a few years ago, but left that stack of paper next to my sleeping bad as I slept. She had it enchanted at least twice by Uncle Canas, but he is with Mother Earth and Father Sky now, so I need a new mage to help me read it."

"Canas? I heard Mark say that he wanted to recruit a druid named Canas," Lugh noted. "If it's the same guy and he's really dead, you'd better let the general know."

"I will be sure to do that," Sue said. "But you cannot read this?"

Lugh shook his head. "I don't think any of us could read this. We've been nearly exclusively researching battle magic for weeks now. Army stuff first, sorry," Lugh apologized, offering the papers back to Sue, which she took. "Also, you should really have those papers bound. It'll protect them better."

"I understand. Thank you, Lugh," Sue smiled, ruffling the boy's hair. Standing up and walking away, she began to feel the sadness creeping back up on her. Why had her mother, Lyndis, left so suddenly? Why was Mark acting like he had a personal vendetta against her, even with his rudeness toward everyone in general?

"Did you see the strategist go by just now?"

"Yeah, he was pumped. Looked like he was getting his adrenaline going for a fight… Did someone make him mad?"

"I doubt it. Only the princess and General Roy would dare touch him with a forty-foot pole."

"I heard someone mentioned that axe-man, Bartre, and Mark just strolled out!"

"Why would he look for that looney? He would tear the tactician apart!"

So the rumors spread. Mark was hunting Bartre all through the camp. He was in the mess hall just too late and directed to the training grounds. He was in the training grounds only to be directed to the axe yard. Finally, he spotted Bartre talking to that myrmidon that was always hanging off of Noah. Mark hadn't had time to meet her yet, but the way she fought and the shining silver hair floating around her every stroke seemed oddly familiar…

"BARTRE!"

The huge, mustachioed, muscled man turned just in time to be shoulder-checked straight into the mud. Wasting no time, Bartre brought his knees to his chest and kicked his assailant head over heels.

Mark rolled, landing upright and facing his target. "Remember me?"

Bartre examined Mark for a brief moment, and then completely dropped his guard, shocking the many bystanders attracted by Mark's odd behavior. "Mark!"

And then the two gritty, middle-aged men both screamed, "HEAD SLAM!" and rammed each other in full-speed headbutts, at which point several soldiers and Lilina all sighed and went back to their duties. The two men were clearly having fun, and while Mark was known for being unusual when drunk, and this was just some old friends meeting back up.

The two men drank until sunrise, completely forgetting that the injured General Cecilia was holding a war council beside Roy the next morning.

"You're a drunken disgrace."

"And you're a liar."

"I was stabbed and bleeding out!"

"You broke your promise and lost Blondie," the hung-over Mark jabs a thumb to his right, where Guinevere is sitting calmly. Miledy glares at his nickname of her charge, but Guinevere gestures to her, believing the situation to already be ridiculous enough.

"You couldn't remain sober long enough to have a serious discussion about the fate of this army!" Cecilia retorts.

"Oh, I see," Mark replies, standing up and sweeping his hand across the council. "Class, how many of you opposed my order to finish our job in the Isles before we head off to Arcadia? Yes, nearly all of you, before Roy put his foot down and agreed. Now, how many of our men and women have died since that decision was made? That's right, none. We fought three battles including one against a Dragon General and lost nobody. This is historic. But my drunkenness is supposedly getting in the way of my tactics. Who agrees?"

Not giving anyone the chance to mistakenly answer the rhetoric, Cecilia slams her hand on the table. "General Mark! You are here as a guest of Roy's, and with Etruria's protection of your own army, mine. I demand you show the proper respect!"

"You… do realize we've already elected to rebel, correct? That makes you a traitor on top of being a bad bodyguard. I win, sit down. Time for my grand decision-making," Mark announced mockingly. "We head to Arcadia 'cause we promised the weird purple girl."

"Sophia," Lilina speaks up. "She is our guest, and saved General Cecilia's life. She is not a target for your rudeness."

One person standing up to Mark at a meeting was one thing. With Cecilia and Lilina tag-teaming, their points against the tactician were at least taken seriously, not just shot down. That, and Mark occasionally listened to Lilina.

"Whatever," Mark continues, dropping his tirade. "We go to Arcadia, and then retake Etruria. Any questions? No? Good," Mark says quickly, storming out of the tent as usual.

Opening the tent flap, he bumps right into Fir.

"Oh! General Roy! I need you to—"

"No time, Karla."

Fir wasn't prepared, and ended up knocked to the ground as he brushed by her. Bartre, who watched the event, helped her up and whispered in his disappointed daughter's ear. "He just called you by your mother's name, did you catch that?"

"…I did, father," Fir replied. Tears welled up in her eyes. "He knows you and doesn't even know what happened to her…"

Pulling Fir into his arms, Bartre says, "Fir, we haven't seen each other in twenty years. He doesn't even know we got married."

"You weren't interested in each other at all back then? You spent a lot of time in the Lycian Alliance…"

"Fir, I saw your mother as an unattainable level of strength for years. When we met up during the war, I challenged her to a duel and she nearly killed me. I was a massive knucklehead back then. We fell in love shortly after Mark disappeared, and then we had you."

"I've heard all this before, Dad."

"I know. But I'm hoping that remembering your mother will make you stronger."

"How?"

"A man just knocked you down. Quite rude to another man, and unchivalrous to a lady. Additionally, he doesn't even have the decency to help you up or learn your name, instead bringing up your dead. Mother's. Name. Regardless of your emotions."

Her father was riling her up. Fir knew that, but it was still working. She pulled free, jogged to catch up to Mark, and when she grew near, she shouted what she'd wanted to shout every day since she met the tactician.

"General Mark of Lycia! I challenge you to a duel of skill!"

Mark stops his pained stumble, smoothly standing upright as though his hangover was a total lie. Without turning to face her, he accepts. "As the challenged party, I choose tomorrow evening as the time, the place shall be the ten-foot cooking fire pit, and the weapons shall be one dagger and one short-sword of each competitor's choosing."

Fir stares at him, dumbfounded. Had he wanted this, or was this his fake show and he was actually sick? It was so hard to tell whether he was the drunk everyone took him for or the genius he always proved to be. "I, er, agree. Tomorrow at sunset."

Mark begins walking again, muttering under his breath. "Really, a duel of skill… Had she said anything else at all, or even just 'duel', she'd beat me without a second thought…"

With that, Mark went to rest. He really did have a nasty hangover.

"General Mark of Lycia! I challenge you to a duel of skill!"

"As the affronted party, I choose an hour from now as the time, here in the arena's second fire ring as the place, daggers as the weapon, and an additional wager of 100 gold pieces."

"That's two months' pay!"

"Do you withdraw your challenge?"

"I'll pay. I agree to your terms."

The 17-year-old tactician strode into his tent and immediately began panicking. He changed into his light combat gear, stuck a dagger in his boot and one at his hip, and began pacing the room.

Lyn walked in and smirked at Mark's attitude. "You're really gonna duel Karla with blades and balance? You've just dug your own grave, my friend."

"Just help me get ready!"

Lyn and Mark spent the next hour going over basic dexterity drills before heading to the arena's fire ring.

There were two types of fire ring in Ostia's battle arena. The first was a standard, round dueling ground with a ring of fire to prevent surrender or fleeing. The second was a raised, narrow ring of dueling space with raging fire on both the inside and outside, to discourage falling. Mark specified the latter.

Balancing in the edge of the raised space, Mark's entire foot couldn't even fit across the space; his toes stuck out toward the fire. Karla faced him on the other side. Eliwood and Hector were the judges, as Eliwood called out, "First blood or first to fall. The time limit is five minutes. Fatal blows are to be avoided. Begin!"

Mark shuffled over to the left, while Karla ran normally towards him. Their blades met. Her first swing. Left hand. Block. Swipe from the right. Block. Kick out! Karla jumped back to avoid Mark's foot, then leapt right back in with a swing at his head.

Duck. Uppercut. Catch her ankle. Missed. Stab shoulder. Regain balance!

Karla dodged Mark's stab with a simple twist, throwing her opponent off-balance. As he fell forward, her knee came up, knocking him in the jaw. Finally, she did a side-swipe to his cheek to win before he lost by default when he fell.

Lie flat. Brace with hands. Don't fall. Turn 180 degrees. Sweep her leg. She jumped back. Stand up. Fight still on? No call. She didn't manage to get me. Step back. She's coming. Defense!

"Augh!" Karla dashed again, swinging down-to-up with both knives. Mark caught them in a low x-block and swept her arms out to the side, throwing her into a scramble to stay on the ring. In that brief second, she felt a light, sharp rip across her upper-arm and knew she had lost.

"I expected you to throw me in to win."

"I wouldn't burn an ally," Mark answered. Taking her uninjured arm and helping her step down the stone stairway rolled up to them, he added, "But more importantly, I wouldn't burn a friend."

"Roy, you can't let them do this," Lilina pleads.

"She challenged him," the prince answered.

"And that makes this okay?" Lilina gestured to the cooks building the fire in the pit up higher and higher.

"My dad told me a story once. He said that Mark used to trick people into challenging him to duels so that he had the advantage, but he would only do it for good reasons. He challenged Bartre to get the wild man to respect him. He challenged Canas because he never shut up about strategy suggestions."

"So if he's doing it for a false moral reason then it's fine to risk severe burns or bleeding?"

"He's gotta have a good reason," Roy mutters. "He's gotta… He hasn't done one destructive thing this whole time…"

The fire sufficiently built, Mark hops onto the makeshift balance ring of flat stones and drops the overcoat he always wore, revealing average-looking rough-and-tumble type gear. Fir climbs to the other side, and draws her weapons. Marcus, the judge, called for order as dozens of people watched. "First blood or second fall. No conceding. One dagger and one blade of each competitor's choice. Mark?"

"Two daggers."

"And Fir?"

"The Wo Dao."

"Understood. Fighters at the ready… Begin!"

I can do this, Fir told herself. Mother taught me how, specifically after losing a fight to this man. One-move victory time! With that, she let out a shout and jumped the ten-foot gap, across the top edges of the flames, singing her clothes, and swung straight down onto Mark.

He sidestepped. Fool.

Fir twisted in mid-air, landing on the narrow stones but managing to roll back up, waving her arms to regain balance. Mark didn't take advantage of her plight, which only riled her up more. "Gah!"

Up. Left. Right. Across from the left. Up. Left. Right. Across from the right. Mark dodged every swing Fir threw at him. "You practiced a single pattern for a full day. You think I wouldn't catch on?"

"Shut up and take me seriously!"

Left. Block. Right. Block. Duck the wide slash. X-block the up strike. Swing her arms out. She did a full turn and landed fine. She's good.

"Oh? You want me to take you seriously? That's what it's about," Mark yawned exaggeratedly, goading her. "I bet it must bother you when I do things like… this…"

Sheath a dagger. Revert to one-handed fighting. Change stance. Pretend this is easy. Relax more. Left, right, block, duck. Mark's analytical method to fighting was to give even himself orders, and it worked. "She's speeding up. Up. Left. Right. Across. Up. Left-right. Down?!

Mark jumped back at the change in pattern. He expected it, but she had timed it differently than he guessed. A mistake like that on the battlefield would cost an entire unit of troops, he berated himself. "Good! But now I'm bored, so I think I'll take a nap."

He. Sat. Down. Fir finally lost control of her anger, throwing a dirty kick to Mark's face. He caught her foot in a flash, twisting it so he had full control of her movement. Standing up, he angled her straightened leg around and pushed so that her face was closer and closer to the flames.

"Roy…" Lilina implored, dragging out his name to show her nervousness. "He's not gonna…?"

Roy grit his teeth, watching. Marcus had sworn he wouldn't get involved until Roy called off the match, but even Marcus might break the rule if Fir was going to get hurt so maliciously.

Thankfully, Mark stopped. He pulled Fir back to a standing position, tossed her weapons into the dirt outside the ring, and leaned in to her side, whispering in her ear. Then he hopped off the stage.

Fir followed dazedly, walking up to Roy and Lilina and staring off into space.

"What did he say to you?" Lilina asked quietly.

No answer at first, but then Fir spoke, her voice cracking. "H-he… He just…"

Then she stopped trying to speak, buried her face in Roy's shoulder and sobbed.

"So what did you tell her, my old friend?"

Mark squinted at the shadow in his tent flap, obscured by the light filtering in. "I told her what I honestly thought of her."

"Was it good? Or was it bad?"

"Why do you care? You're not real."

"What do you mean? I am real. And I'm dead because of you."

"Get out, Kent!"

"Mark!" Roy shouts, entering the tent and revealing himself. "You're hallucinating. Go see a medic."

"Bah," Mark spits. "This isn't drugs or drinking. This is just… regret."

Roy sits down on a stool while Mark stays lying in bed. "Do you… always see the people who've died on your watch?"

"Good and bad both, boy. Now leave me to my sorrows."

Without another word, Roy leaves the tent.

"You're good, and you're strong. I see your drive, and I understand how much your mother means to you for you to work so hard in honor of her. Practice more variety. Take training. Be the best swordmaster you can be, and be proud of who you become. But be sure to have fun. Court that Noah guy you like. Take more time for friends. Be the best woman you can be, as well. I'm sure that your mother would want that, and I know that she is proud of you."

As the niece of the Sword Demon lie awake that night, hearing the soft sound of Lilina's and Sue's breathing, she finally came to her conclusion: Mark of Lycia, Strategy General of Roy's Lycian Alliance Army, had a good, caring heart, darkened by hardship but still clinging to the hope of finding a light.