Grand Marshal Arya Morrison strode into the throne room, a broad shouldered figure following her, dressed in a dark hooded robe that obscured their face and seemed to drink in the light around him. The robe was bulky, making the figure appear fatter than they actually were. He held a quarterstaff in one hand, gripped tight enough that their hand was bone white, whilst the other hand was encased in a black iron gauntlet. A wicked looking hunting knife hung at his side, clearly having been used recently, as blood still caked it.

Morrison herself was in her mid-fifties, her iron grey hair kept short, and her eyes were an icy shade of blue. Her armour was scratched heavily from her many skirmishes and battles, and she had declined repeated attempts to fix it, considering it an affront to those that had fallen and fought beside her. She was the middle daughter of a blacksmith, with no great prospects, she had joined the army at eighteen, much to her mother's immense disappointment. She had risen through the ranks over her long career, and had revolutionised the military's training program.

Xander wearily regarded the duo as they strode over to him. He recognised Morrison on sight, but the robed man was unfamiliar to him. The air the man was giving off unnerved him greatly, but he couldn't place the reason why. A dull, undecipherable hum permeated the edges of his own, and from the strained look on her face, Morrison's minds. He had to assume

"Grand Marshal…." He greeted, his tone exhausted. "Are we ready for war?"

"Indeed. The skirmishes have already begun, your Majesty." Morrison said carefully. "Our losses are minor, thankfully. Due in no small part thanks to my companion here."

The robed man stepped forward, and pulled down his hood. He was hairless, save for the thin black eyebrows. His eyes were brown, and utterly emotionless. A single, painful looking scar cut a deep red crevasse into his face, running through his left cheek, between his eye and nose, before ending on his forehead, and his skin was impossibly pale.

"This is Brother Skald." Morrison introduced. "He's one of the Head Priest of the Dusk Dragons…..Problem Solvers."

"..Inquisitors." Skald corrected. His voice was hollow, lacking any form of emotion or anything that even remotely resembled emotion. "We of the Inquisition are called 'Inquisitors', Grand Marshal."

"I was trying to be delicate, Brother." Morrison smirked.

"There is no need. I am what I am. Do not be 'delicate' to spare the King his feelings." Skald said. "He is the King, and thus deserves the truth, no matter how harsh or hard to hear."

"…..I know." Morrison sighed.

"Forgive me, but why are you here Brother?" Xander asked. "Whilst I am grateful for your assistance, I am curious as to why you are here, instead of continuing to help our troops…"

"That is simple. Your brother, Prince Corrin. His body is yet to be returned to us, however the Dusk Dragon demands that we honour him with funeral rites. If we wait, he will not be permitted to pass on to the afterlife at the Great One's side."

"…Why has this not already been done?" Xander asked, his voice heavy with authority. As if he could be made to feel worse, now this Priest was telling him that his beloved Little Prince would be eternally damned if he waited too long to retrieve his body.

"With respect, without a body, funeral rites can only be approved by the family head. In young Prince Corrin's case, that would technically be Prince Ryoma, as he is the eldest blood rela-"

"You have permission."

"He is not your brother by blood, my King." Skald pointed out, still in the same, monotonous tone.

"A fact that few outside the Royal Family are privy to." Xander growled. "So unless you wish me to hand you over to your fellow Inquisitors, you will perform the Rites." He was unsure of where exactly the threat had come from, but this was an important matter. His Brother mattered.

A smile, cold and dark formed on Skald's face. It didn't reach his eyes. "You are very much your father's son, My King. Fine, I will perform the right myself."

Skald strode out, leaving Xander and Morrison alone.

"….Does he…unnerve you, Grand Marshal?" Xander asked curiously.

"He unnerves everyone, My King."

A few hours later, in the small Temple located in the deepest part of Anya's winding city underground, the Royal family gathered in the main chamber. Around them, acolytes of the Dusk Dragon strode about, preparing runes, candles an incense for the ritual funeral rites.

Skald pulled down his hood, and strode into the centre of the chamber, and threw his arms out wide.

"Oh great Dusk Dragon, he who watches all

Grant our Prince Corrin your favour.

Without his worldly vessel, his journey will be a hard one.

Protect him, and guide him onward to your side.

Grant us left behind peace.

And grant those that stole him from us their just rewards.

Oh great Dusk Dragon, we plead your favour now."

The assembled Royals and acolytes repeated the last line as one voice.

Oh great Dusk Dragon, we plead your favour now.

There was a flash above them, and Skald smiled to himself.

The smile soon vanished.

The flash turned to dust, and fell to the floor.

"Is that good?"

Elise. Sweet, kind, caring Princess Elise.

"Of course. The ritual is complete. The ritual went as expected. The Dusk Dragon will take Corrin to his side. Do not worry, Princess. I trust this has brought you some measure of peace, your Highnesses?" Skald said, in his emotionless tone.

"…Some. Thank you." Xander said, and gestured for his siblings to follow. "…Let me know it you need anything, good Priests. I will do my utmost to accommodate you."

"Thank you, My King."

The Royals offered farewells, and left.

"Brother Skald." One of the acolytes hissed after the King had departed. "You're wrong! The ritual fai-"A gauntleted hand shot out from Skald's robes and gripped the man by the throat.

"I know." Skald said in a cold voice that all but froze the air.

"For-Forgive me!" The acolyte stammered as he clawed at the metal hand clenched his windpipe. The robed Brother dropped him unceremoniously, causing the younger priest to cough violently.

"Why did you lie?" A different acolyte asked. "Especially to the King of all people."

"Because he would break." Skald murmured. "Because he hasn't figured it out."

"What truth?"

"Corrin is alive." Skald snarled, showing some semblance of emotion for the first time. "The bastard has profaned our very faith with his lies!"

Skald wheeled around, and stalked off. The acolytes soon followed after.

"I cannot allow this to stand! He will be made to pay!"