The air was cold. But it was always cold on days like this, when the breeze from the ocean and the nearby rivers would sweep over onto land and flood the sky with clouds. It was the sort of cold that managed to actually be tiring based on the amount of heat the body needed to produce just to avoid shivering every moment. The boy with the purple hair pressed his thumb curiously to the icy window. His eyes widened as the frost melted. It was surprising, that it could simply disappear that way. He stared at the pane of glass another moment with wonder.

His parents were arguing. That much was obvious in the tone of their voices. It didn't take the boy's understanding what they were discussing to comprehend that it wasn't something pleasant. Every few seconds, another muffled shout would punch through his door. They had closed it to shield him from the noise, but, of course, that had done nothing.

"Like it or not, it's the way the world is headed. That's how it's gonna hafta be," sighed the boy's father.

"Absolutely not," his mother rejected. He could practically hear her eyes widening in shock and anger, "I don't care what that bastard Walhart wants, our land will always be our own."

"That kind of attitude is going to get us killed one day," the boy's father grunted critically, "Do you want to drag down the boys with you and your unlimited sovereignty?"

"Don't you dare bring the children into this!" she scolded.

"I will, because it matters!" the man retaliated, "What do you care for this land, anyway? You're Plegian through and through."

"Exactly why we need to keep Walhart away," her voice quivered a bit, "Have you seen what that monster does to Grimleal? And you think bending our knees in obsecration will keep him away from our sons?"

"No," the man replied more flatly, "Nothing's going to keep the Conqueror away from our family."

There was a hesitation, something the boy with the violet hair assumed was transmitted by countenance, "What are you talking about?"

"Excellus... he..." the father grasped.

Another moment of hesitation, "What? For gods' sakes, what?"

There was now a strain on his father's voice, as if he were lifting weights as he spoke, "Agents of the Conqueror... they were already here last week when you went shopping. They demanded to see him... 'the Grimleal boy with the talent for strategy.' They promised they would spare his life and ours if I gave him over."

"But Excellus..." the boy's mother was hanging on every word.

"Excellus... I don't know what drove him," the father sighed, "I like to think it was selflessness, but he had some mad look about his eyes, as if he'd just been offered the key to the world. He pushed me out of the way and claimed to be the boy for which they were searching. The agent took him without hesitation."

The groaning sound of a chair scraping on the hardwood floor was issued. The boy heard his mother sit and place her elbows, or perhaps her entire head on the table. "...eard fro'm'im?"

"What?" the boy's father didn't seem to move.

"Have you heard from him?!" she screeched.

"No," he paused, "but he's only been gone a few days. He promised to write within ten days, if possible. I'm sure we'll hear from him."

"That settles it," the sound of the chair scraping came again, followed by hurried footsteps, "I am getting my son out of this hellhole of a country, and you can sit here on your thumbs in the meantime while soldiers massacre your friends and neighbors if you like." The door to the boy's room swung open and he whipped his head around to face his mother. "Hello, my love," she called much more gently, a placid smile adorning her face, "Come, we're going to go on a wonderful little trip."

"You can't!" determined the boy's father, rising and following her, "He's my son, too, and I won't let you steal him away!"

"M-Mother, where would we go?" the boy with the violet hair mused softly.

"Back to mother's home, my dear, in Plegia," she ruffled his hair gently.

"But I've so many friends here," the boy frowned.

"I know," she nodded, "but you'll make new friends there, and mommy can introduce you to some of her old friends there, as well. It will be perfect. You'll have at least twice as many friends as before."

The boy felt tears drawing down his cheeks, though he wasn't quite sure why, "Mother... I don't think I want to go."

"I know, dear," she persisted, "but it'll be much better this way, you'll see."

"Damn you, woman!" his father called, "Can't you hear? The boy says he doesn't want to leave, so let him be!"

"I will not let him die for your passiveness!" she retaliated.

"You think you can win him over with your honeyed looks!" the man growled, "I've stayed my tongue long enough, you succubus! Son, your mother doesn't care a wit for you!"

The boy's eyes sank. That couldn't be true, could it?

"Petty lies, just to make the boy upset?" the woman roared, "You should be ashamed of yourself. Your father's the one who doesn't give a damn about you or I."

"Mother, father, please don't fight..." the boy cried impotently between their cutting stares.

"Look here," his mother kneeled next to him and offered her hand, "Your mother treats you the way you ought to be treated. She doesn't go about telling you to hide your gift, does she?" The boy looked down to his own pale hand. She was referring to the patterns tattooed onto him since birth. They were a sign of his power, she had said.

"He ought to be treated like a normal boy," his father mocked, "that's what he really wants, not to be ousted for some Plegian blood curse."

A noise ripped the front door open. Both of his parents' eyes became wide as dinner plates and about as pale. A curious look came across the face of the boy's mother, as well as a flat concern upon his father's.

The woman leaned in toward her son, so that he could see the seemingly endless darkness in her pupils as they reflected his image. "My son, no matter what befalls you, remember that you have a right to exist. No one can deny you but yourself. Be strong, and never capitulate to the demands of others."

"Now listen," his father interjected, not rudely, but putting aside his mother's words, "Any son of mine will know that you have a right to be, but not to overreach. Live a life that doesn't impede upon that of others. Fight for yourself only when absolutely necessary. You are but one man, and your desires don't outweigh all of existence."

The boy stared blankly at his parents. They seemed to know what was going on, but he remained woefully in the dark. The boy opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by the sound of footsteps. They turned their heads in horror, expecting to hear a rush, a wave of clamor storm into their home, but no. There was only a single set of slow, soft, repetetive advancing footsteps. Boots hit the ground and tapped like a lethargic applause. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

And, all at once, they stopped.

The image began to fade. What followed was a series of sounds belonging more clearly in a slaughterhouse, a prison... anywhere that was not before the eyes of this little boy. But, alas, he watched, mouth agape, face pale, and eyes bulging out of his skull as his parents kicked and screamed, the blood pouring from them in every direction. The crimson liquid flew everywhere about the house, splattering onto walls, redecorating chairs and washing in sickly warmth onto the face of the terrified little boy, made wholly deaf by the sight.

He fell to the floor, unable to utter so much as a sound to signal the absolute terror and pain he felt. The floor was cold and hard.

As a shadow loomed over the purple-haired boy, he let his body slip into numbness, assured that this would be his final breath.

One word accompanied him into the blackness of certain death: "No."

The eyes parted and he was somewhere different altogether. How could this be? When had he gotten here? What had he been doing?

"H-Hey," a girl with black hair waved at him, "You holding up all right? You look like hell."

[...]

Hell. He was in it, all right. The young man coughed and struggled a bit with the blankets on his bed. A small creak came from the corner of the room. He didn't even need to open his eyes, "Dahlia?"

The woman with rose-colored hair paused a moment and glanced at the sleeping figure, unaware if she should reveal herself, but he knew, anyway, "Good morning, milord."

"Don't call me that," he insisted, cracking one eye open, then the other.

"Of course," she apologized.

The young man pushed himself off of the mattress and coughed a few more times into his palm. He sat gingerly on the edge of the bed. He wiped a hand across his face and raised his eyebrows in an effort to further open his tired eyes and stretched his back. He leaned over and stared at the young woman in the corner of his room silently.

"Would milord-er, that is, would you care for a cup of tea to begin the morning? Uh, sir?" she lifted her head.

"No," he declined, "No, that won't be necessary." The man with the amethyst hair stood and stretched his arms, letting the loose fabric of his pajamas slip down the length of them to his elbows. "Dahlia, allow me some time to dress myself properly."

"Of course," she bowed, getting up, "I apologize for my... indiscretions."

"I recognize your intention," he shrugged her off plainly, "And Dahlia?"

"Sir?" she turned in place.

"What are we going to do?" he looked back. This was a test.

"You've never told me your entire plan, sir," she muttered before putting her hands up, "which, of course, I understand."

He shook his head as the rose-haired woman bowed hers. She had failed. "We," he declared with grandiosity, "are going to end the suffering and change the world." Resolute, he turned with a snap and gathered his clothing, "Tell the harbormasters. Our time is at hand." She nodded gravely. A fire smoldered in the young man's eyes, burning the very ocean before him. It was cold.

[...]

A defeated sigh projected from the hallway. Leo stared forlornly as his mother emerged from within the castle's corridor.

"Nothing in there, either, huh?" guessed a sympathetic Stahl.

"No," she exhaled... "It doesn't look good, does it, Stahl?"

"Don't get to thinking like that," the viridian knight insisted, "You know what Robin's done in the past. If there were one man I suspected to be capable of living through anything, I'd stake my own life on Robin."

"I appreciate it, Stahl, but you haven't been around," she tried to wipe away some of the moisture that was pooling above her cheeks as they flushed, "Robin... he's not what he used to be."

"Ya mean the ol' man's cough hasn't gotten much better, eh?" her son suggested.

"No, it's gotten worse," she muttered morosely, looking to her feet.

"Any sign of them?" they were distracted by the princess's voice.

"Gregor is finding neither carapace nor cuticle of them," the sellsword sighed.

"That's 'hide nor hair,' dear," the pegasus knight corrected, "And no, we haven't seen any sign of Lissa, Donnel, Owain, or Robin."

"Impossible," Lucina clenched her fist, "Could it be that we're too late?"

"Nonsense! Heroism is never too late!" came a commotion from outside the gates. Kjelle and Lucina nodded at one another, prompting Kjelle and her mother to open the door. As per their expectations, the plucky pegasus knight sprang into the court with panache, "Ta-da! Hee hee... nailed it!"

"Cynthia," called Frederick in nigh-disbelief.

"Heya, daddy," she smiled brightly, "Did I worry you? Sorry, my bad."

The knight's jaw clenched, "I'm just... pleased to see you unharmed."

"Cynthia, while I hate to break up your quite timely reunion, what is it that brings you here?" Lucina demanded.

"Oh, right!" she smiled as she produced a piece of parchment from her saddlebag, "I come bearing news from Lissa!" Eyes around the room brightened and a small murmur filled the air. "My mom met them on the way back from Regna Ferox," the pegasus knight elaborated.

"Them?" Lucina repeated, "And what was your mother doing in Ferox?"

"Shh..." she insisted dramatically, "All will be revealed: you see, my mother was supposed to be accompanying Inigo on his way back... but... she kinda fell asleep on her mount on the way up and... Well, she missed the actual date of the job by about forty-eight hours... But, the point is I was running drills with the other pegasus knights at the academy when I saw Owain running along with Yarne, really purposefully. I decided to follow them, and that was when I learned about Ylisstol being overrun. I went to my mom first to tell her about it, and when we met up, we found Lissa, Donnel, Owain, and Yarne accompanied by Steven, headed across the Feroxi border!"

The entire population of the castle was riveted with the information, "Well don't keep us in suspense, Wobbles," the ginger-haired thief pulled a lollipop out of his mouth, "What's Princess's little cadre up to?"

"Uh, lemme see..." she stared at the paper and prepared to read, clearing her throat:

"Dear Chrom... or Lucina... or whoever it is that happens to be receiving this message,

First and foremost, let me tell you that I'm doing fine! Donny and I were rescued by our brave and stalwart son. How adorable is that? Anyway, Owain was down here with Yarne, and I don't know where Panne is, so I get the sense that Lon'qu's making a cry for help. Steven found us after we escaped from the castle and has been leading us to Regna Ferox to seek asylum until we can coordinate a plan to combat the mercenaries who seized Ylisstol. It's been a tiring march, but we're glad to be away from the murderous thugs at this point and to have the cold be our only remaining adversary. With luck we'll only be about a day's march from the West-Khan's Palace by the time this letter reaches you. In the meantime, Sumia's going to fly down and switch places with Cynthia once she's sure that this message has reached... well, someone.

Hugs and kisses!

Lissa

(P.S.: If you happen to find this letter and don't know what it's about, please give it to the nearest Ylissean authority. They'll know who it needs to go to.)"

Lucina remarked upon the thought on the minds of all her companions, "What a relief... So Aunt Lissa is all right?"

"Yep!" the pegasus knight was pleased with herself.

Anna twiddled her fingers idly before muttering, "Did... did you see Robin anywhere?"

Fortunately, Cynthia managed to hear her, and frowned sympathetically, "Um... no. Sorry. I haven't seen Robin, or Inigo, for that matter."

"And my mother and father are still absent," the princess sighed weightily, "My deepest condolences, Lady Anna, but I swear we'll do everything in our power to find him." A smile tugged at the corner of Anna's lips as she let a small laugh escape. "Is something funny?" the sapphire-haired girl wondered earnestly.

"You just... reminded me of your father a bit, that's all," the redhead mused.

"Why don't I take you to bed, mom? You're not lookin' so hot," her son held her arms.

"Leo," she breathed, "Thank you, but I'd prefer a little time to myself, if that's okay."

He frowned at her, knitting his brow, "If that's whacha want, I ain't gonna say 'no,' but... Just, come to me if you've got a problem, you know?"

She smiled briefly again, "Yes, I know." The merchant turned and vanished into the castle corridors again.

"I should extend my thanks for helping to return control of the castle to Ylisse," Lucina offered, sidling up to the side of the young assassin. It was the first time she had had a proper look at the young man: he was of mostly average height, perhaps no more than an inch taller than herself, and he had a sort of square-looking jaw that seemed to fit his pale but sun-twinged complexion. Scars dotted the visible parts of his arms and legs, but didn't appear to be anything severe. Mostly, he was wrapped in the black vestments typical of an assassin, complete with vambraces and an innumerable amount of straps and pockets to hold knives, as well as what appeared to be the odd vial of poison. He wore a curious emblem on the center strap that held his dark leather pauldrons on, catching Lucina's curiosity for a moment as her eyes trailed up, finding a salmon-colored cloak trailing down his back, worn more like an ornamental cape, clinging to the back but seemingly forgotten. As her view continued upwards, she looked again to his face to note his strangely sharp sandy-brown eyes and clean-cut, cropped auburn hair. That was a cut that belonged in a military capacity; she'd know it anywhere.

"Ah, no big deal," the assassin dismissed casually, "I'd'a done the same thing for anyone. That Arc fella was just one big joke waiting for a punchline."

That made her smile, "Still, I'm glad to have you on our side, for the record."

He nodded more enigmatically, "That's all well and good, princess, but don't get to thinkin' you're invincible. Tides change. One day it might be your neck I'm comin'after."

Lucina's eyes widened, "Well... I suppose I can be glad that day isn't today, right?"

He laughed, "Right."

"So you're Robin's other boy," a more gruff voice sounded, interrupting them.

"Aye, what can I do for you?" he looked up to the redheaded cavalier who was now leering down at him.

"Nothing much, just wondering if you're as big a stick-in-the-mud as your big brother," she scratched the back of her neck.

"Nah," he waved his hand, "A life like Steve's'd be enough to kill me. I'm like a shark, you know, gotta keep moving to keep the heart beating."

"So I see," she reported, now also taking the time to look over his outfit, "I think I've seen that emblem before. Who's it belong to?"

"Can't say," he touted teasingly, waving his finger.

"Is your mom all right, kid?" she changed the subject.

"Yeah," he looked back to the corridor, "she has her rough patches... She'n dad love each other like a turtle loves its shell, so it's easy to see why one of 'em feels lost without the other. I'll stick by her, though, and with the news that Steve's doing okay, too, I think she'll manage. Gotta say, though, even I kinda want to know where it is the old man's gone to."

"Well, that's the thing," Sully's eyes flashed, "see, I was with your dad and your baby sister, Kjelle and I both were, when those dastards stormed the castle. We had to take shelter, but I seem to recall your dad and Morgan making plans to go to Valm, to scare these jokers into going back home."

"Ha, that sounds like one o' the old man's plans, all right," his son chuckled, "But both he and Morgan were alive?"

"When last I saw him," the crimson knight took care not to sound too optimistic.

"Well, I think I might go relay that info to my mother. I'm thinkin' she'll find it... whatsa word? 'Invigoratin,''" he guessed.

[...]

The young man gestured toward his guardsman in the affirmative with a bright smile, facing the woman, rather than his subordinate. "I'll see that they're provided extra blankets, milord," his stalwart, Stewart, replied for him.

"Oh, gods bless you, sire," she lauded, tears pooling in her eyes.

The young man's eyes glowed, as to express a mutual sympathy, deflecting the gratitude. "Milord gives his regards, and assures you that he would take similar action for any such request," Stewart nodded.

"The children will be ever so pleased. I can't begin to express my gratitude, milord," she shook her head and wrung her hands feverishly, smiling broadly all the while.

The young man upon the throne shook his head with a smile. "Milord only asks that you provide the children with the love and care they so desperately require," Stewart announced.

"Of course," she bowed humbly.

Three sets of footsteps were heard halting promptly at the door. A familiar voice called out to the young man, "Vlasis, a word?"

He looked down to the woman before him and raised his eyebrows toward his subordinate. Stewart cleared his throat, "Now, my lady, if you'd be so kind, it seems milord is being called upon by an old acquaintance of his. I would ask that you depart at this time."

"Ah, but of course," she hurried out, chiding herself for taking too much of her khan's time.

"So," the man strode forward in the inky cloak he was always wearing, careful to hide his face, as per the usual, "You seem to be doing well for yourself, my boy." The man looked to Stewart, who was suspiciously guarding the entrance, "Long live Khan Vlasis."

"Long live Khan Vlasis," the guardsman recited tenuously, still leering at the cloaked man.

The young man sitting on the throne was still wearing a pleased smile, his snow-white hair glittering in the light of the afternoon, already reflected from the fields of snow that blanketed the land outside his window. He sat properly in his throne, his royal robes wrapped carelessly around him as he didn't appear to mind the cold. His smile subsided only in the slightest as he nodded affirmatively to the cloaked man.

"What was that, just now?" wondered the man beneath the cloak.

"Milord was granting a request to grant a local orphanage a stockpile of additional blankets," Stewart reported. He looked imposing as he stood, the garnet armor gleaming as it was supported by his naturally muscualr shoulders. His blond, wavy hair gave him an air of complacency and passivity that was shortly discouraged by his jagged face and dark eyes.

"I see," the cloaked man nodded to himself, "What a fine ruler you've become, so kind to your subjects. It's no wonder they adore you."

The young man nodded toward his acquaintance, bowing his head and setting aflutter his snowy locks. "Milord credits you for his ability to give the people what they desire," Stewart recognized.

"Please," the man smirked, his narrow eyes gleaming beneath his hood, "Don't bother crediting me. I'm an ugly old wizard. The people want to believe it is their shining paragon of virtue, their guardian angel, who gives them hope for the future."

The man on the throne nodded, "Ahura, hang gou."

"Now, don't strain yourself, my boy," the man beneath the cloak smiled, "Let us discuss the future of Regna Ferox a moment, once you are named Khan Regnant."

[...]

The man sat down gently upon the orangish stone beneath him and whistled softly. He adjusted his posture as a flapping trailed its way to him. He smiled delicately, holding out his finger as the bluebird alighted it. "Good morrow, Rafiel," he called to it. It chirped loudly in reply. "Have you been keeping them in order?" The bird chirped proudly. "That's good to hear," the man smiled, nodding his head slowly. At once, the bird chirped a few times in rapid succession, suggesting panic. "And what did Naesala see?" he wondered. The bird flapped its wings and readjusted itself on the man's finger, cleaning its wing with its beak before chirping again, "That's interesting. Did they look like nice people?" Rafiel stared the large man in the face, not saying anything. "Very well, tell Tibarn he's to keep an eye on them," the man accepted with a sigh. The bird chirped loudly again before hopping off the massive finger and taking back to the skies. "And tell your brother to behave himself," the mountain of a man called to the bird as it flew away.

"Milord Argent, there's been speculation-"

"I know," the man declared simply, rising tiredly from his seat.