Surprisingly I am back with another update. Hopfully I can keep this pace going for the remainder of this story.

The Castle of Melior was a looming work of architecture, a near impregnable bastion in times of war, the slab sided barracks of the Royal Knights, and the seat of governance since the creation of Crimea. Beneath the castle, her armories, battle cages, and shrines to the legends of old are many. We all worship them in our own way, these temples of violence and honor. I knew where to find the east wing of the Royal Armory easily enough.

Now the castle stood as the palace of two mighty empires, one beorc and the other laguz, united in the bonds of matrimony. The name had not changed but its occupants had. As I made my way to the forges, I passed several members of the Bird tribes who had recently taken up residence in the halls. Many were artisans, having spent their extended lifespan in the pursuit of a trade. Few found enjoyment inside the dark and heated armories, those that did were experts in their craft. I hoped that they were the ones who attended to my shattered war plate.

I pushed open the massive doors to the armory and breathed in the smell of honest labor and fire. The smell of the earth being crafted and honed to the use of mortals racked my nostrils. Unlike the medical wing, the armory was dark but it radiated warmth. As far as I could see, there was smoke, flame, ash and the taste of metal. Wizened masters of the fire tended the forges and their precious metals inside while hammer armed servants battered away at the steel.

Here, the artifacts of war were crafted and repaired.

In times of peace, these forges were used to create ploughs and tools for the fields. However, since news of Volus, the industry of bloodshed took over once more. On a large dais in the center, a division of blacksmiths filed the edges to the payloads of siege weapons while incense to soothe the individual spirits of the metal was scattered over the pieces. Upon a mighty anvil, a team of three men swung their hammers down on a sword in perfect unison.

All of this paled in comparison, however, for closest to me lay a magnificent suit of artificer armor and weapons. Their polish shined in the light of the forges, and they looked every bit like the tools I needed for my occupation of war.

It was good to see them again. It would feel even better to don them.

A tall man with a thick blond ponytail was hunched over my armor with a hammer and chisel to carve in the runes of warding into my repaired armor as well as my many battle honors. He was no blacksmith, he lacked the muscle to swing the hammers needed to shape the flesh of the earth. He was dressed in a flowing black and green robe which showed his position as an arch sage, perhaps the most acclaimed in Elincia's royal court. He is also the rumored sire of my nephew, though I do hold reservations that my older sister Lucia would let him into her embrace, such was her distaste for his jester-like theatrics.

He has just finished to inlay patterns of gold into the victory laurels upon my helmet. With his work done, I know that he would not mind me interrupting. "Bastian." I made my presence known and the Count rose from his work and clasped my outstretched arm in a gesture of good will.

"Nobel Knight Commander Geoffrey, as I live and breathe it is a summer's day to hear that you have fought the cold encompassing grasp of death and won." His theatrics, usually a pain in my ear to hear, were surprisingly a welcomed sound. It was good to be back in the land of the living. "I have almost finished my dutiful ministrations to your armor and instruments of war. I hope you will be pleased to hear, that like thyself, they yet live."

I have always found it strange how some individuals believed that there were spirits inside of inanimate objects such as weapons and books. Bastian had not only overseen my armor's repair, he had been soothing the individual spirits that made up the metal in my armor and blades. It seemed unusual, but then again I have seen many strange sites in my two and a half decades of life. I have seen the dead rise from the grave, an entire continent turned to nothing but stone, and a mere man slay a goddess. I suppose I should be a little more open minded about such seemingly impossible things.

"Indeed I am, Bastian. I look forward to relishing the feel of my armor on my body and a weapon-" I stopped as my eyes focused on a large group of laborers at the back of the chamber moving between rows and rows of tables. I could not hide my anger. "What, in the Dark Goddess' name is that?"

Beyond the honest industry of the armourium, beyond the slow beaten battle-plate and forged blades, beyond the Scorpion spear throwers and iron chariots, was an abomination.

Bastian looked back as he finished stuffing his elongated tower warden pipe with moldy leaf tobac, incredulous to my genuine concerns. "Fragmentation, scrap, the mangled remains of your foes. They are what we could scavenge before we had to leave Volus to its fate."

In the back of the forge, on half a dozen tables ranked up being categorized, examined, and tested, were the remains of the Flayed Ones. Heads, fingers, limbs, even broken portions of their broken weaponry were under the intense scrutiny of Bastian's servants. Even from the long distance between myself and the scrap, the urge to grip my dao deepened.

I began to cross the threshold with Bastian besides me. "They are inactive, I take it?" It seemed like a redundant question to ask, but I needed to feel at peace with my surroundings. If I could not feel safe in this castle then where could I?

Bastian nodded. "Indeed they are. But even by examining the inert pieces of them we can figure out how to bring ruination to them should they attack us again." The fact the Harlequin Count could neither see nor appreciate the danger in bringing this flotsam into our fortress only served to show the gulf between us in sharper relief.

I walked through the workshop, Bastian following, and approached one of the work benches where a servitor was toiling over an array of limbs, heads, even torso sections. I reached out to one of the silver skulls, its rictus grin mocking me even in destruction, but fell just short of touching it. "How is it that they are even here? When I fought them, they self-repaired if the damage wasn't extensive enough while those that did fade from existence. How is it that there is even a piece left to study?"

"Apparently the survivors of Volus discovered a unique way of doing it, through natural magnetism." Bastian explained as he held of a jagged rock that pulsed with magnetic flow.

I scoffed at the notion. "Really? A border city with rudimentary technology and understanding managed to achieve what baffled even the most capable of our battle mages? Using nothing more than magnets and a theory?"

"Between you and me, I was similarly ill-convinced, my good sir. But…" Bastian lit his pipe and gestured to the rows and rows of tables filled with the remains of those who had humbled me.

"I would not have sanctioned such a thing to have happened." I muttered under my breath. There was one skull that stood out to me in particular. Something about it was out of place and it seemed to call to me.

"His King and Her Majesty agree that finding out as much as we can about these… Flayed Ones will help us to either communicate with them or to find a way to fight them admirably." Bastian said with his dark umber eyes seeming like ink spots in the darkness that glowed with the embers of the tobac burning.

"We fought… admirably enough." I said distantly as I examined the skull there was something about it, something that drew me in like a siren calling to a sailor. Beckoning, enticing-

I felt the shadows close, the veil around me tightening and suffocating. Bastian's next words were lost in this fog, as was my response. All I could see was the skull, the eyes aglow, its haunting smile locked in death. I reached for my blade, but grasped air and neither hilt nor scabbard. Legs buckling, unable to hold my weight, I fell to my knees and gasped.

The air would not come. I was drowning with no ocean for miles, save the one of oil and blackness devouring me. Everything surrendered to the dark. Bastian, the armourium, the serfs, my armor – all were consumed. Only I remained, staring down at the lidless orbs of that gilded, grinning skull. Eyes that showed the pain and suffering it would inflict on all those I could care about, from former lovers to my own nation. The skullmask spoke, mocking me with a damnable face and that skinless voice hounded all of my senses.

"I am death…"

The last of my breath ghosted the air as an icy chill overcame me. I felt ice underfoot along with the frigid chill of the harsh winds, though I was still inside the Castle of Crimea, and a low rumbling tremor in its frigid depths...

I breathed and the darkness crowding my vision bled away at once like ink dispersed in water. The ice melted. I resurfaced from the vision. The flayed one's skull helmet clutched tight in my hand as if it was a prop and my torment was a deep monologue. The eyes were dead, lifeless and without a glow to show that it yet carried life. A rusty patina weathering cheeks, pate and temples of gunmetal grey. Not gold. Not the king. Not here.

Bastian was gone – only the serfs were left – and I assumed he had let me stay here to peruse the battlefield relics as if I alone could unlock some secret by merely looking at them. He hadn't realized I had become lost in a dream, and nor had I.

The wound in my side flared anew and I grimaced to keep the pain at bay. My armor was waiting for me, a gift from Bastian before he left to some other part of the foundry. I took it, eager to leave the Royal Armory and the unquiet resonance it had stirred within. I needed to ease my mind. It had been never so pure and focused as when in combat. I headed at once for the battle-cages.