Persona M

by GalacticAttorney

In the medieval ages, the kingdom of Brilan exists under an oppressive caste system. Wymare Thiebaut, a quiet young man with nothing to his name, struggles to live as a member of the Scadarah, the lowest caste. It is on this path that he encounters unexpected allies and discovers an inner strength capable of reversing the world's disastrous fate: the power of Persona.

4. Chapter 4: The Winds of Change

Chapter IV - The Winds of Change

From his vantage point on the second-floor platform of the cellblock, 'Clerebold' looked down upon Wymare and Yselt, malign intent flashing in his iridescent yellow eyes, and cursed them in his thoughts. For such filth to walk the halls of his prison, free from restraints and negligent to their labor - it was an affront to everything he stood for, and he would not stand to see their offense go unpunished.

"W-What are you doing in here? And... what's happened to this place!?" Yselt asked, her tone frantic and confused. As her voice reached his ears, 'Clerebold' could not help but deepen his grimacing. Of all the crooked-nosed knaves under his watch to step outside of their bounds, it just had to be her. Or at least, someone posing as her - an act more criminal in his mind than any other.

"Why does your tongue flap about as though you would not know the answer to the very query you pose?" he retorted, beginning to walk along the platform to make his way down to them. "This is my labor unit's holding area; the place that undesirable trash like the both of you rot when there is nowhere else to turn."

"Wha- What are you saying, brother!?" Yselt pleaded, searching for a connection to the strangely-dressed Clerebold lookalike that wasn't there.

"Hold on, Yselt," Wymare spoke up before his companion could talk further. "Something's not right here - I don't think that's really Clerebold. But that aside, are you serious? He's your brother?"

"She certainly seems to believe so," the other Clerebold answered in Yselt's place as he descended the metal ramp to the first floor of the cellblock. "But the notion is laughable. One such as I shares no blood with one of a lower caste, much less a filthy, basic Scadarah." He spat the term with a venomous delivery as though it were an insult that he was being made to say it, and as he did so, Wymare could see the color drain from Yselt's already pale complexion.

"I-I..." Yselt stammered. She seemed paralyzed by the multitude of emotions that were running amok in her mind, and so Wymare spoke up in her stead to address this alternate Clerebold's callous dismissal of her.

"How can you say that!? If she's your sister, then you ought to care for her no matter her caste!"

"Shut your damn mouth, you repulsive waste of air!" the other Clerebold bellowed in an unexpectedly animated response. "I shan't entertain the naïveté of an orphaned whelp who understands nothing of family, nor what it means to occupy a caste that represents anything but the paltry dirt at the bottom of this world's foundations!"

Wymare winced as the Clerebold doppelganger's words cut deep. Between his injured bravado and Yselt's demeanor, heavy with the weight of despair, 'Clerebold' smirked at the sight of Scadarah misery before continuing to speak.

"Occupants of my prison are expected to keep themselves in line and follow my orders. I alone possess the authority to oversee them... command them... control them. That is the duty entrusted to the shoulders of the warden, as well as those of leaders everywhere. And so, when the prisoners would discard their bindings and seek their freedom as though they can leave their warden's oversight..."

The other Clerebold's smirk expanded into a full grin as he raised one arm and snapped his fingers. At his summons, shadowy creatures like those in the cells appeared in bursts of black fog and sludge, forming a ring around him, Wymare, and Yselt, the latter two looking around with alarm as they were surrounded by more of the ghastly beings that had chased them down to the Scadarah cellblock.

"...It is the responsibility of the warden to remind them of their place," the Clerebold lookalike finished, lowering his arm to gesture at Wymare and Yselt once his lecture had concluded. The dark underlings rushed forward like a pack of animals upon their warden's command, rushing the two intruders and pulling them apart from each other.

"Gah! Yselt!" Wymare shouted as he was wrestled to the floor by several of the creatures, reaching out to Yselt as she was similarly seized by a swarm of slaves that dragged her to the other side of the cellblock. He tried to resist them, but their physical capabilities were far greater than their scraggly, malnourished bodies would suggest.

"Ah! H-Hey, let go of me!" Yselt cried, resisting the advances of the shadowy servants and trying to twist out of their way. It was to no avail, however, and after one of the larger underlings seized her by the arm, it wasn't long before others were pinning her in place, her arms and legs helplessly spread out and held at the joints by several pairs of hands.

"Hmph. It would seem as though you haven't the slightest idea of how one in your situation should be behaving, even after my imparted wisdom," gloated the other Clerebold, sweeping his arms out to make his cape billow before bringing them together to make a grand show of the otherwise menial gesture. His eyes, wide and bright with their sinister yellow glow, flickered with sadistic pleasure as he watched his sister squirm. It was like an animal of prey relishing in its victim's last moments, and the lump in Wymare's throat leaped a little higher as he recognized the danger of the situation.

"What are you t-talking about, brother!?" Yselt pleaded, her eyes squeezed shut in fear and frustration. "I-I don't-"

"Enough! Cease your self-convincing insistence, peasant!" interrupted the prison's lord, his boisterous tone stunning her to silence. "You may well wear her skin and speak with her voice, but I left my sister behind long ago when I began my pursuit of greatness."

"W-What…?" replied Yselt, her voice awash with confusion. Her attempts to break free of the servants ceased at once, her mind overtaken by what her brother's doppelganger had declared.

"You would respond in this way as though you wouldn't understand?" growled the other Clerebold as he turned on a heel and began to pace between the mobs of his slaves that were restraining Yselt and Wymare, his arms shifting to cross at his back. "If you were indeed my sister, then you would surely recall the lunacy of our mother and father that led to our family's disgrace."

"Disgrace…?" Wymare echoed softly.

"Hmph. Indeed," the doppelganger nodded. "You see, we had the luxury of being members of the Dämian caste. Our parents were both proud members of the Brilanian army, and they embodied their code of honor through their service, allowing the four of us to thrive in the luxury we deserved. But then those fools… They cast it all aside, leaving the two of us to fend for our very lives as they drove themselves into exile! All for a weak, intangible justice!"

The other Clerebold was beginning to grow increasingly agitated as his story continued, eventually culminating in another dramatic flourish of his cape as he faced Yselt.

"They dragged her and me to the bottom of the world! We were nothing but poor, starving Scadarah, running through the back alleys of the capital and foraging through trash like common rats! And now, unchained by the misfortune imposed on me by the fates, I stand above all who looked down on me as a man destined for power! And I shall realize my destiny no matter who stands in my way, nor who I must destroy to achieve it!"

"C… Clerebold…" murmured Yselt, her eyes full of sadness at the sight of what her brother seemed to have become. Wymare, too, furrowed his brow at the nigh insanity of Clerebold's apparent thirst for authority. Both were quickly recaptured by dread, however, when the shadowy servants became restless again, pulling them apart and thrusting Yselt flat against a section of wall between the cells while Wymare was wrestled and pinned to the ground.

"And you have the audacity," the other Clerebold continued, marching toward Yselt with fury in his step, "To dredge up these past events to appeal to a man that no longer exists, bearing the face of a girl that is dead and gone! And for such a slight…"

The humanoid creatures grew even more agitated as their ruler trailed off, swarming over each other as they grabbed and pried at Yselt's body. From his place on the floor under his own pile of assailants, Wymare could only watch as the other Clerebold reared back his fist and slugged Yselt across the face. She coughed a moment after the punch hit its mark, and Wymare could see a few flecks of blood on the floor that had flown free from her mouth. She had only a moment to recover from the blow, however, as the other Clerebold raised his other arm and threw another punch, beginning a series of blows that continued to rain down on Yselt's upper body.

"What is he doing? He's going to kill her at this rate!" Wymare thought, gritting his teeth and furiously straining against the monsters that were holding him down in a vain effort to escape and stop the beating. "I have to do something... But, what can I do!?"

"No need to put up a fuss, peasant," the other Clerebold spoke in a mockingly assuring voice, addressing the struggling Wymare as he wrapped one hand around Yselt's throat, boasting an evil grin as he looked upon her bruised and bloodied face. "After I've had my fill of this wench, I'll grant you the privilege of feeling my fists rain upon you as well."

"No... Please..." Yselt whispered, choked by her attacker's grip. Tears were brimming in her eyes and sliding down her cheeks, smearing the trails of blood that seeped from her lips. In response, the other Clerebold simply began to cackle, his servants swarming all over her and his arm raised to deliver yet another blow.

"Damn it!" Wymare cursed in his thoughts, continuing his resistance against the beings that held him down. "All this grandstanding on the basis of caste... I won't let him get away with this! It doesn't matter how... I have to help her!"

"Would ye stand against the world?"

Wymare's eyes, clenched shut in the frenzy of his struggling, snapped open when a booming voice rang out in his head. In shock, he gasped, and as he looked around him he saw the scene at a standstill: 'Clerebold' was frozen mid-swing, as were the dozens of creatures that had instants ago been swarming over him and Yselt, whose pained face was turned to the side as she braced for another hit. As Wymare looked upon her face, the voice continued.

"The world which sees thee for the label it assigns, casting aside thy nature and what ye stand for…"

"The world that grants its rulers all freedoms, and their broken vassals none..."

"At the bottom of such a thing, one can yearn only to rise."

"Thy heart cries out for this… Does it not?"

The question posed by the mysterious voice gave Wymare pause. There was a stirring feeling in his chest that told him the answer, and yet he almost found himself wanting to suppress it as a force of habit. Brilan's caste system was not the place for dreams for one such as him, and so he had never truly given himself the liberty of imagining a better life than the one he woke up to each morning. It was nothing but false hope, he'd believed, accepting on principle the words of the adults around him that a Scadarah had no place changing the world. But the more he thought about whether or not that was a fact or an idea forced upon him, the more he was sure he knew his response.

"...Yes."

"A truthful answer, though beset with irony."

At the voice's answer, Wymare suddenly seized up in extreme pain as a deep, resounding boom resonated within his consciousness. His eyes went wide and his breath was choked in his throat, leaving him to squirm around on the floor like a fish out of water as he gasped and flailed through the torturous sensation that filled his mind. His intense fit of suffering continued even as the scene around him returned to normal, drawing the other Clerebold's attention as the monstrous entities holding Wymare down began to scurry away warily.

"Has thy will to exceed the trappings of the name 'Scadarah' not been with thee all this time?"

"Resigned to thy title, thou hast laid like a battered animal, blind to the power of change that was always thine to seize."

"H-Hey!" the other Clerebold yelled, hesitation heavy in his delivery as he regarded the spasming Wymare. "What are you doing, churl!? You will lay on the floor like the scum under my boots you are, or you shall suffer my wrath!"

Too occupied with the pain to answer coherently, Wymare forced himself to roll onto all fours before pushing up and rising to his feet, however weak his posture was. His breathing grew more and more labored as he dragged his body around with every move, turning to face the other Clerebold with an angry, determined scowl. The self-imposed ruler, unsure of what he was witnessing, backed away a step, standing between the quaking Wymare and the beaten Yselt, who stared from behind her attacker's cape with a look of awe.

"Thy place in this kingdom affords thee no strength… But with this contract…"

"...Ye shall take thy first step on the road to freedom."

Wymare lurched forward with a pained gasp as a burning sensation suddenly appeared in his right shin. He blinked on instinct as he fell onto his left knee, bracing his body by planting the palm of his hand against his right leg. From the other side of the room, the other Clerebold and a winded Yselt watched him struggle, sweat beading down his face and past his eyes, which had turned a bright yellow. The shady creatures under the other Clerebold's command were all skittishly circling Wymare now, displaying the predatory tactics of a beast waiting for the right moment to pounce on their prey. However, what stayed their attacks didn't seem to be tactical patience; instead, from their gazes shifting to and from Wymare to the slow, careful steps they took, it seemed more like they were afraid of him. Mimicking them, the humanoid figures locked in the cells grew restless, bashing their tools on the floors and cells of their confinements and shaking the bars that held them back.

The pain in Wymare's right shin was only growing more intense, and so he shakily turned his head and looked down to see a gash cutting through his pants and into the meat of his leg. It felt as though someone was meticulously cutting into him with a blazing hot knife, and Wymare continued to gasp and tremble as the deepening wound compounded the terrible migraine he was pushing through. The slash continued to intrude on his lower leg, eventually cutting so deep that the bone of Wymare's leg could be seen in the center of the injury, and yet there was no blood flowing from the exposed flesh.

"I am thou… Thou art I."

"Even now, the winds of change stir in thy breast… Grasp thy resolve and set them free!"

In a sudden spout of blue flame that erupted from the gaping wound, something even stranger than all the things Wymare had seen coming into this place occurred: a weapon appeared in the blaze and manifested itself within the gash, its blade securely stuck between the edges of his exposed muscle and bone. It was a massive battle axe, its handle of wood and steel easily measuring several feet in length and the bit stretching a full yard across from one point of the blade to the other. The entirety of the weapon was covered in strange carvings, and it was almost completely green, from the steel of the bit to the wood of the handle.

Wymare had never laid eyes upon such a magnificent weapon, and he might have taken more time to admire it were it not stuck deep in the meat of his leg. Yet as his gaze traveled from the head to the handle, something within him knew what he needed to do.

"Raise high thy chivalrous spirit, cleave a path to thy future…"

"...AND CALL ME FORTH!"

With a trembling arm, Wymare obeyed his gut instinct and grabbed the handle of the axe with his right hand, his fingers clutching the steel wrap so tightly that his knuckles turned white. Then, much to the shock of everyone around him, he began to pull at it, attempting to dislodge it from his leg with little success. Short, heavy gasps of pain escaped his lips with each pull, the axe seeming so impossibly stuck that it may as well have been a genuine extension of his leg. Then, abandoning the strategy of repeated, small tugs, Wymare poured all of his strength into a combined effort, continuously pulling at the handle despite the agonizing feeling that rippled up his leg and through his mind like fire in his veins.

Then, as his labored groaning grew into a full shout, the axe came free. As the steel bit departed the wound in Wymare's shin, a trailing shower of blood followed it, flying through the air before landing on the carpeted floor in a long red stain. The entire room was silent; none of the onlookers made a sound as Wymare dry heaved and desperately dragged air into his lungs, his newfound weapon held out at his side as his own blood dripped from the blade.

"...Per..."

Wymare laboriously rose to stand tall as he attempted to speak, still racked with tired breaths and a trembling body. The aching in his mind was gone, and miraculously, so too was the agonizing pain of his leg wound, and the newfound clarity he felt in his mind was like nothing he'd ever experienced before. And so, thrusting the axe skyward and lifting his shockingly intense gaze to meet the other Clerebold's, Wymare gathered the strength to finish his declaration.

"...sona."

The axe erupted with a brilliantly blue column of fire upon the invocation, casting a bright light across the cellblock that pushed back the other Clerebold's minions even further. The flames circled about the open space with intense rage, and yet Wymare's gaze remained fixed and forward-facing as the blaze grew to engulf his body, almost as if he welcomed it. From outside the flames, those looking on saw the shadow where Wymare was standing grow in size before moving higher in the flames, forming the silhouette of two beings braving the inferno from within.

Then, from behind Wymare's unmoving body, the shadow raised what looked to be a sword over its head with both hands before swinging it in a wide forward slash, cleaving through the fire and creating a massive gale that blew the flames away and forced those nearby to stagger and stumble. Wymare, visibly unscathed by the flames that had raged around him, now looked as collected as ever, the axe held securely at his side in his right hand. It was what had appeared behind him, however, that made the shadowy creatures chitter with terror, forced the other Clerebold to stagger back so much that his back was to the wall, and drove Yselt to slump to the floor in shock, staring with wide eyes as she beheld the unbelievable sight.

Floating above and behind Wymare's head was an imposing figure clad in a full set of knight's armor, a striking circle of repeating green and yellow emblazoned on the breastplate. The helmet was engraved with the shape of a double-sided battle axe bit on the front, encompassing the slot for the eyes where only a brilliant off-white light shone from within the armor. Atop the helmet itself was an iron two-headed eagle crest, and flowing from the back of its shoulders was a billowing stream of green wind that assumed the likeness of a flowing cape, giving the entity an air of grandeur and heroism. Finally, it wielded a colossal longsword with glowing rune-like characters engraved on the side of the blade and the image of a crown carved into the tip, the weapon's ornate details hardly distracting from its razor-sharp edges that made the sword look as though it could slice through solid stone.

The other Clerebold's terrified gaze could scarcely decide whether to linger on Wymare or his new companion for more than a second at a time. However, when Wymare trained his glare on him and lifted the axe to point in his direction, his fear reached its apex. Thus, when Wymare opened his mouth and spoke, he was left utterly without verbal recourse.

"Get away from her," Wymare ordered.

The other Clerebold only screamed in fear and scampered to a door on the other end of the room, hastily cycling through a ring of keys that he produced from a pocket in his uniform and unlocking it to make a hasty escape. Before he disappeared, however, he waved at the horde of shadowy creatures that were still sizing up Wymare and his massive new ally, hurling at them one final order.

"G-g-go! Hurry and destroy them!" he demanded, slamming the door behind him as soon as he finished his command. With the ringleader out of the picture, Wymare turned to face the twisted servants as they began to shiver and contort, jumping back alongside the floating knight to get between them and Yselt, who still sat on the floor against the wall and stared slack-jawed at Wymare.

"Can you walk?" asked Wymare as he lifted his axe to hold it in front of him, both hands tightly grasped around the handle.

"Y-Yes... Yes, I-I think so," Yselt answered, still too shocked by the proceedings to move.

"Good. Stay strong; I'll clear us a path," Wymare instructed as the other Clerebold's servants collapsed into a black mess on the floor before exploding up in a shower of similar bile. From the twelve or so that had stood there moments ago, they had now condensed into four enemies, all having taken the form of a wolf with bodies of lightning. These new opponents snarled and sparked as they bared their fangs, prepared to attack with savagery and bloodlust.

In the face of the enemies' readiness, Wymare lowered his stance a bit more and pointed his axe forward as the knight at his back swung its sword out to one side, conjuring yet more winds that whipped the room up into a frenzied battlefield. There was no avoiding the immediate skirmish, and so Wymare stared ahead with a collected, confident look as he issued the first command.

"Cut them down, Gawain!"

The electric wolves howled and sprinted toward Wymare as he spoke, and at his orders, the knight at his back rushed forward with its blade at the ready. Meeting the monstrous creatures halfway, Gawain swung its mighty sword and cleaved through one of the wolves like butter, a shocked look on the abnormal animal's face as its head was separated from the rest of its body and it crumbled into dark ash. With the enemy's numbers reduced to three, Wymare stared down the remaining wolves and issued another command.

"Blow them back! Garu!"

Obeying, Gawain spun around in midair as its sword became shrouded in a green whirlwind, which it unleashed with another swing of its blade in the wolves' direction. One of them dashed to the side in the nick of time to avoid being caught up in the wind skill, but the other two were not so lucky; the wolves collapsed to the floor in a stunned heap, a vulnerability that Gawain capitalized on as it flew in and swiftly decapitated them both with one strike.

Seeing its brothers disintegrate as their bodies were cut apart, the remaining lightning wolf howled with righteous fury and sprinted past Gawain, setting its sights on Wymare himself now that his powerful ally was too far away to get there in time. With a snarl like rumbling thunder, it pounced, only to be caught by surprise when Wymare swung his axe with surprising speed, the sharp end of the bit catching the wolf on the side of the snout and sending the beast tumbling across the floor with a pained yelp.

Gawain reappeared at Wymare's back with a flash of blue fire, poised in a ready stance as Wymare rolled his neck in preparation for another attack. This time, though, as he looked upon the battered creature attempting to nurse the wound on its snout, it would be him that took the offensive.

"Let's end this!" spoke Wymare, crouching down before taking off toward the monster in a sprint much faster than he had ever been able to achieve before. Twirling the axe in his right hand as though he had been wielding it all his life, Wymare closed the distance to his target with Gawain at his side in a matter of moments, and they descended upon the last lightning wolf with a sonorous war cry and a flurry of slashes that was near impossible for the naked eye to track. Then, once the creature was sufficiently lacerated and beaten, Wymare split it with a great overhead strike that took him straight through its body, and before the attack could even register, he planted the bit of his axe in the floor, leaned on the end of the handle that now faced the ceiling, and ran a hand through his rust-colored hair with a sigh.

"From whence you came."

The impact of Wymare's final hit played out as he spoke, shattering the final wolf's body into a dozen pieces that eventually crumbled to ash just as the rest had. This time, though, there was a glowing sphere that tumbled from the wolf's corpse, and it flew from the decaying body and into Wymare's axe. The weapon absorbed the orb in a shimmer of light, and although Wymare was surprised by this for a moment, he disregarded the sudden happening for the more pressing issues at hand, turning around and walking to Yselt as Gawain disappeared into the axe in a trail of blue flames.

"I..." Yselt whispered, stunned to silence at the awakening she had witnessed. "What... did you just do?"

"I'm not sure myself," Wymare answered, "But we can't stay here. More of those fiends are likely to come at any moment."

"R-Right... But, will you be okay?" Yselt asked, looking with horror at the gaping still-present wound in Wymare's leg.

"It doesn't hurt anymore," Wymare assured, reaching his free hand down to her. "Now come on, let's get out of here."

After taking a moment to further process the insanity of recent events, Yselt's look grew determined as she nodded and took Wymare's hand, allowing herself to be helped onto her feet. The two then took off running once again, sprinting up the winding stairs that they had entered from as the shadowy laborers broke free from their cells and attempted to give chase.

The two entered the main hall only to be greeted by a handful of the lingering pumpkin-headed monstrosities that had pursued them earlier, and they quickly took notice of the fleeing pair of intruding humans, thrusting out their lanterns and flying forth with killing intent. Seeing their approach, Wymare pushed Yselt ahead of him to keep her away from the monsters before spinning his axe in one hand and pointing it in at the mixed group of demonic hunters. "PERSONA!" he shouted, and Gawain came forth in a burst of blue flames, barreling through the swath of foes and blowing them all about the hall with mighty gales of wind.

As the enemy forces were in disarray following Gawain's attacks, Yselt and Wymare were able to continue their retreat, heading up the stairs, through the halls of the Guild wing, and toward the door that had led them to the twisted castle. More and more shadowy creatures burst from the environment and chased them all the way to the door, and the two were only barely able to push the door open, slip through, and slam it shut behind them as if their lives depended on it.

As soon as she was sure that they had returned to reality safely, Yselt collapsed in an exhausted heap, the scars and bruises left from the beating she had been subjected to lingering on her face. Her expression seemed to be caught between sorrow and relief, but as she pulled in heavy breaths to catch up to all of the running she had just done, she at least seemed like she would be fine in the long run. At this, Wymare felt relief wash over him as well, giving him little room to register that his impressive axe had vanished as soon as they had gone back through the door. They were both alive and well, and that was all that he was concerned with.

However, the relief that had poured into Wymare was soon overtaken by a massive energy crash. His entire body felt weaker than straw as the toll of his awakening set in, and the last thing he saw was Yselt laying on the rug as his knees gave out under him, his mind went blank, and the world seemed to tilt as he fell over, losing consciousness halfway to the corridor floor.

. . .

Wymare stirred. His eyelids were heavy and his mind was clouded, but as he came to his ears picked up on the familiar sound of elegant piano keys and beautiful vocals far off in the distance. He strained to open his eyes, and even as he was squinting he could tell where he was by the dominant blue hue of his surroundings. He was back in the Velvet Room, and once he was able to get a good look at the three seated across from him, he could see them regarding him more strongly than they had in their first encounter. He felt something laying in his lap, and when he looked down he saw the green axe from the earlier battle in his hands.

"Welcome back to the Velvet Room, young man," Igor greeted. "It would seem as though your contract has sealed at last."

"My contract...? Oh, that's right," Wymare realized. "I was watching that other Clerebold, and then..."

"You awakened to the power that was lying dormant within your soul," Phoebe interrupted. "The power of Persona has been called forth by you for the first time."

"So, Gawain was the one to heed your summons," Archibald mused, stroking his impressive facial hair as he spoke. "Not an altogether unimpressive showing, I must admit."

"I... Thank you," Wymare replied. "What... happened to me, though?"

"This may be hard to understand right now," Igor prefaced, "But those monsters you fought are called Shadows - fragments of the human mind that spawn and live beyond the door you entered through. All living people have Shadows of their own selves that are suppressed and exist within them. And you, my dear boy, heard the call of your own Shadow when you resolved to fight back, allowing you to summon your Shadow as a Persona."

"So... Gawain is my Persona," Wymare summarized. "I don't fully understand, but... When I heard his voice speak to me, I felt very strange. It was like I knew what to say and what to do even before I did it."

"Not surprising," Phoebe responded. "Your Shadow is still you; it is merely the conglomeration of all the aspects of yourself that you do not wish to acknowledge. As your Persona - *yawn* - it becomes something of a weapon, empowering you to stand up to Shadows like the slaves of that prison and their ruler."

"Their... ruler?" Wymare repeated, taking a moment to realize what Phoebe was saying before regarding his conclusion with alarm. "So, that other Clerebold was... Clerebold's Shadow Self?"

"That is correct," Archibald nodded. "It represents not only the parts of his psyche that he buries deep in his mind, but also the way he views himself in the context of that space."

"Is... that so...?" Wymare lowered his gaze as he extracted the meaning of Archibald's words. "Then that means the Scadarah labor unit is his personal slave force. Not too off-target, I suppose, but still..."

"The details of all of this shall become clearer in due time," Igor assured. "However, we do have something pressing to discuss. Now that you have awakened to the power of Persona... What shall you do with it?"

"Huh? What do you mean by that?" Wymare returned.

"When you first entered this room, you were filled with doubt about your potential to enter your contract and enact your foretold future," continued Igor. "But now that you have awakened to your Persona abilities, that potential is well within your reach. In fact, it may be the only way to stop this world from collapsing."

"W-What? Collapsing!?" Wymare exclaimed.

"Dark forces stir in the kingdoms, even as we speak. If you are to stave them off, you must hone your power and recruit capable allies to your side. You will inevitably require our help to do this."

Wymare looked down at his axe as Igor spoke. He couldn't deny the lingering feeling that still burned in his heart from when he awoke to Gawain's power, nor could he shake off his Shadow Self's cutting words. It was hard for him to accept them, but he knew they were true. And as he now understood matters, they were spoken by his own inner self. To consider denying them would be foolishness.

"...And what would you ask in return?" Wymare questioned, not expecting powers such as those of the Velvet Room to be running a charity with the help they spoke of.

Igor shook his head as though he already knew what Wymare was implying. "All we ask is that you abide by your contract and assume full responsibility for the choices you make. Nothing more, nothing less."

As Igor laid out the simple price for their assistance, Wymare looked down at the blade of his axe and pondered. Staring at its verdant green color, he remembered the words that his Persona had imparted to him, as well as the rush of emotion that he had felt once he had torn the blade from his leg. Even then, the pain had been potent, but it had been drowned out in that moment by the strength of will that had surged through every fiber of his being. Everything had felt clear in the midst of that searing, purifying agony, and he drew from that memory to answer Igor's proposition.

"...I accepted my helplessness... Welcomed it, even," Wymare said, clenching his fists around the handle of his weapon as he spoke. "But not anymore. For all whose lives this world has wronged... I'll stand on my own two feet, and fight. So yes, I agree. Please, help me grow stronger."

Igor, greatly pleased at the boy's declaration, chuckled and clapped as he reveled in his guest's vigor. "Excellent!" he praised. "In that case, you are henceforth a guest of this Velvet Room, and we shall do our utmost to assist you on your journey. Phoebe, if you please?"

At her master's bidding, Phoebe opened the large book in her lap and closed her eyes, the pages shimmering with a magical glow. Her focus came to bear fruit in the form of a small key that appeared in front of Wymare with a flash of light.

"That key is symbolic of your place here, and it shall grant you passage to us from a number of spaces," Phoebe explained, pausing to yawn before she continued. "Use it in the event that you would wish to use our services."

"Services? What would those be?" Wymare asked as he seized the key and slid it into his pocket.

"As we have stated, you possess the power of Persona: the ability to wield your inner self as a defense against life's hardships and other earthly matters," Igor repeated. "However, that is not the only tool you wield. You are a bearer of the Wild Card, a unique ability that shall transform your bonds into strength and further your capabilities. It is like the number zero: empty, yet filled with unlimited potential."

"Wild... Card?" echoed Wymare, unfamiliar with the term.

"Recall the events of your earlier battle," Igor instructed. "When you cut down the last Shadow with your weapon, a strange orb fell from its body and was absorbed into your axe."

"That was the Shadow's essence being drawn to the infinite potential of the Wild Card," Archibald continued, picking up for his master in the explanation. "Its likeness and powers were transformed into a Persona for you to use."

"However, it would seem that you possess an even more unique ability," Igor resumed, lowering his head and closing his eyes as though mulling over his words in real-time. "You do indeed bear the power of the Wild Card within you, but its power is... How shall I put this? Unlike its usual appearance."

"Wait, what? 'Usual appearance'?" Wymare questioned. "Does that mean I'm not the only one with this power?"

"There have been past instances of Persona-users who wielded the Wild Card. However, in its ordinary form, it allows the user to freely swap between individual Personas at will. In your case, meanwhile..."

Igor cut himself off before finishing his thought, opening his wiry eyes again and looking upon the green axe held in Wymare's hands. Wymare followed the long-nosed man's gaze and looked upon the head of his weapon, turning it over to notice something peculiar: along the side of the weapon's steel bit were three engraved slots in the shape of circles, each filled with a glass-like sphere. The lower two were empty, but the one on top suddenly began to glow with familiar energy, a soft yellow light beaming from its container.

"Fascinating..." remarked Phoebe. "It would seem as though the power of your new Persona has been added to that of your initial Persona."

"Indeed," Igor agreed. "Your Wild Card abilities will allow you to freely augment the abilities of Gawain, granting you an advantage when you battle against Shadows."

"It would seem that your Persona can only handle one augmentation at a time at present," noted Archibald, "But fret not. Even in a rudimentary state such as this, the Wild Card's power is vast. As you progress in your journey and make use of our services, your capacity for augmentation shall likely increase further."

"So... The more I battle against Shadows, the more powerful I'll become?" Wymare asked. The amount of information he was being presented with was difficult for him to process, especially on the heels of the turbulent events he'd just witnessed, but he did his best to follow the logic being laid out for him.

"Your power will not be the only one to grow," Igor countered. "You see, the Wild Card's greatest asset is its ability to convert the power of one's bonds into further strength. You will invariably encounter new allies on your journey who will come to your aid, and part of your agreement as a guest here is that you will develop your alliances with such individuals. This will serve to strengthen not only them, but your Personas as well."

"The services we provide are to foster that strength," Phoebe added. "You will be made familiar with them once you have a use for them."

"Now then, time continues in your world," said Igor. "You must take your leave of this place and awaken once more. When next you visit us, it shall be of your own volition. Farewell..."

. . .

The first thing that Wymare felt when he was roused from his unconscious slumber was a damp cloth sitting on his forehead. As the wet rag tickled his skin, he slowly opened his eyes and moaned through the grogginess that fought to keep its grip on him, taking in the sight of a stone ceiling overhead from which a lantern hung by chains. His senses returned to him now as he pushed himself to sit up now that he was awake, and he heard the sounds of porcelain clinking against metal off to his right.

He took a look around, finding that he had been laid upon a long wooden table lined with a thin blanket in some sort of office. There were two other tables like the one he was sitting on situated around the room, and on the far side from him stood a short girl in black robes that he guessed were those of a nun. She had her back turned to him, and from the looks of it, she was doing something on a bench that involved vigorous motions of her arms.

Wymare slid off the table and stood up, removing the wetted cloth from his head and setting it back on the table. The girl seemed to hear him get up, and she looked over her shoulder to confirm it before ceasing her activity and turning to face him.

"So you've finally come to," the girl noted. "I was beginning to wonder if you were going to stay there into the night."

"The... night?" Wymare asked in response. "How long have I been here?"

"Since that Scadarah girl brought you here. If I was to wager a guess, I would say it has been... seven hours."

"Seven hours..." Wymare's head was still muddled, the lingering effects of his comatose state forcing him to take longer to process what he was being told. Even still, he figured that seven hours from when he and Yselt had returned from the other side of the door meant that it was well into the evening now, hence the nun's comment.

"You two caused quite a stir when you first arrived here, you know," the girl remarked with a smile as she turned back to her work at the desk, which Wymare saw to be grinding medicine with a mortar and pestle when he walked close enough to see over her shoulder. "That girl refused to tell us where she got all of those injuries, and even the most well-trained of our sisters could not determine why you had lapsed into that state. They laid you there, took measures to prevent fever, and there you laid until... well, just now."

"...Sisters? Oh, I see," Wymare realized. "You must be one of the nuns of the royal church."

The girl giggled, her laugh soft and restrained yet full of heart. "We maintain a small medical office here in the castle for castle workers who fall ill or suffer wounds. You're currently in the halls of the Church of Bahamut - the Godhalls, if you've heard the term before."

"Right; I see." Wymare had heard of the Godhalls, of course; they were only the most revered place of worship for the followers of Bahamut in the whole of Brilan. He kept himself from phrasing it in that way to the nun, however - officials of the Church of Bahamut were by default members of the Sepurcius caste, the highest caste save for the ruling class of Caeso, and as the nuns of the Godhalls were included under the term of 'official', he was wary of casually conversing with her as though they were equals.

"You arrived in the capital just today, correct?" she asked, her focus still on the mortar and pestle in her hands. "Clerebold, your supervisor, said as much when we told him about your condition. I would advise that you return to your quarters with haste if you feel able; perhaps it is improper of me to say so, but your supervisor seemed rather grouchy about the state of you two."

Upon receiving her words of recommendation, Wymare nodded and made for the door that led out of the medical office, making sure to offer proper appreciation by saying, "I'll do that, then. My thanks for the treatment, sister."

The girl nodded with another warm smile as she continued to grind the medicinal herbs contained in her mortar up. "Should you suffer another ailment, please feel welcome to visit us again. May Bahamut be with you."

With that, Wymare departed the office and observed the large hallway that he had exited into. The ceiling was massively taller than even the one in the castle's main hall, a red rug with gold fringes lined the floor, and beautiful stained glass was displayed in the colossal window frames up and down the walls of the corridor. The splendor of the Godhalls in Castle Gornemant surpassed even what Wymare had expected to see from the tales he'd heard back in Colkirk.

However, he could not linger and take in its magnificence. Not only was he worried about Clerebold's reaction to his unconscious episode, but after being reminded of Yselt after the nun had mentioned her, he felt a strong need to consult with her about what had happened to them. With a purpose to his stride that he had not felt before, Wymare took off down the candlelit halls of the Church of Bahamut, making for the underground floor that housed his lodging, a spark lit by the fury of his contract burning in the depths of his heart.