Finding My Way Back To You

by ShanoaWarrior

Brought back from the dead through the power of the holy stone, former Knight Templar, Izlude Tingel, is now able to keep his promise to his love, Alma Beoulve, whom he had died to protect and searches for her in post-Lion War Ivalice. Sequel to 'When Love Awaits'. Other pairings include Ramza/Agrias, Beowulf/Reis, Delita/Ovelia, Mustadio/Meliadoul, Rad/Alicia, Malak/Lavian.

37. A Tale of Two Rings

Disclaimer: I do not own Final Fantasy Tactics. This fic is written for enjoyment only and takes place after the end of the Lion War. I would like to thank my co-writer, Falchion1984 for his help in making this fic possible. Enjoy and please review!

Chapter 28: A Tale of Two Rings

As Mustadio Bunanza departed the Tingel Manor, the wispy clouds overhead thickened until they blotted out the sun and the air took on the cold dampness that threatened a downpour.

The weather fit his mood perfectly.

Though anger flickered in his head like stray sparks from an especially potent thundaja spell, tightening his fist until his knuckles popped and pale bands gathered at his wrist, what he felt beyond his anger was dejection.

And, as the cobblestoned streets and city folk who yelled imprecations at his careless meandering became so many inconsequential blurs, he saw Meliadoul.

In a cacophony of memory, he saw her after she had first joined Ramza's eclectic band, stonily bearing the weight of knowing that her brother was dead, that her father's very soul had been evicted by a Lucavi demon, that the church she had served all her life was corrupt to its very core, that the Knights Templar who had been her friends and comrades had been subverted by evil, and that she had nothing to return to after the war ended, whether she lived through it or not. He saw her in the training arena of Tingel Manor, trying to weary herself past the point of being able to feel the desolation that crested in her heart after death, even at her own hand, had failed to find her on the battlefield. He remembered, with no small amount of embarrassment, the overpowering candor he'd used to jolt her from her trance of manic grief and how, once he'd managed it, she'd gifted him with probably the first smile she'd given any of her unlikely new friends.

The recollection of that smile stung the most.

Being a machinist, Mustadio had little experience with women, especially those of a station far above his own, but that hadn't stopped the young and passionate man from noticing that many of the women in Ramza's company were quite attractive. Agrias had caught his eye long ago, with her statuesque beauty, poise, and prowess on the battlefield, though the machinist had, however reluctantly, kept his silence once it became clear how she and Ramza felt about each other.

That had pained him, though he'd studiously kept it hidden, instead finding it in himself to be happy for the pair, and happier still that both considered him a friend when most blue bloods would consider him worth less than the grease on his spanners.

And then, he'd met Meliadoul.

His first thought upon seeing the divine knight was that she was probably the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen.

And his second thought was that it would be best to ponder this after she was no longer trying to kill him.

He could still remember the little lurch his heart gave when, upon seeing Marquis Elmdor transform into the Lucavi demon Zalera, Meliadoul had chosen to join their band of fugitives…

…and his heart sagged in his chest a second later when he saw the desolation on her face.

That recollection was what had driven him, once he'd found her again and saw the veritable tumor of despair devouring her from the inside out, to help her find some reason to keep going after the war had ended.

And, when he'd finally managed to pierce that veil of grief and saw her smile at him, he could swear that he felt ten years younger and that every lingering ache and scar from the war had been a paltry obstacle if such a sight lay beyond.

Though the impulse had been sudden, and though little could change his being far below her station, he had resolved to tell her how he felt…

…only for that dream to melt away like snow in the summer.

Mustadio's other fist, the one holding the bouquet, tightened until the thorns dug into the flesh of his palm.

Shaken from his reverie, and reflexively trying to straighten out the mangled stems even as a cynical voice in his head asked why he bothered, the machinist forced the poisonous abscess curdling in his heart back below the surface and tried to dissect what he'd just learned; not with the silvered eyes of a jilted lover but with the keen, perceptive gaze of a man of science.

Most would consider it to be the height of foolishness, to use reason and logic to unravel such an abstraction as love, and Mustadio was well aware of this, which was why he choose to weigh the facts.

And, the facts were deeply troubling.

Damien Mitchell had come to Lesalia to pursue the hand of "Catherine Seymour", known to most as the Duchess of Lionel but known to a select few as Alma Beoulve. Damien's goal was well known, as the former Wyvern Knight of Favoham had been present for two of the three balls and had danced with "Catherine" on both occasions. Between Catherine being very much the center of attention, as a beautiful and well-heeled noblewoman and supposed relative of the king, not to mention how Damien's exotic looks and courtly charm likely turned every head in the city, there were no shortage of witnesses who could attest to this.

Gossip in Lesalia, much like gossip anywhere, had to be taken with the proverbial grain of salt. But, Mustadio had managed to riddle out how to sift the reliable tidbits from the inevitable dreck.

Some of the more diligent – or intrusive, depending on whom one asked – gossips had also reported that Damien had been observed ingratiating himself to Manon and Charlotte, the orphans whom Catherine had taken as her wards. That particular deed had done much to endear Catherine to high society, even if those same people were glaring askance at Manon's puberty-induced gaffes and Charlotte's habit of eating everything in sight.

Provided "Catherine" wasn't there to notice their condescending stares, of course.

Still, some of the more reputable gossips, who were even less attentive to decorum than their fellows, had been exchanging tittle-tattle about how Damien seemed to be plying Manon and Charlotte, as though the idea of essentially being step-father to the pair of onetime ragamuffins had been as much an enticement as the lovely duchess herself. And, it seemed the two children had been quite receptive to having a paternal figure in their lives, especially Manon who admired knights and was thrilled to have a real life one to learn from.

All in all, "Damien" was clearly making a concerted effort to win "Catherine" over. And, if the latest rumors were to be believed, he had succeeded, even if the approval of "Drake Seymour" and King Delita would be needed to make it official.

All in all, it seemed that this suitor of "Catherine's" had gotten everything he wanted. And then some.

So, why would he risk it all by visiting another woman's residence the day after the Duchess of Lionel had accepted his ring?

An immediate explanation would not be forthcoming, this much Mustadio knew. Donovan had been maddeningly evasive about why Damien had come to the Tingel Manor, offering only a shrug and a suggestion that was little more than a witticism. And, though the machinist was sorely tempted, he wasn't certain if it would be wise to barge in and try to get the truth out of Damien and Meliadoul.

Part of it was because he was reluctant to simply march through the door of the woman he loved without her consent, and part of it was because he was afraid of just what he might find.

That notion caused the abscess in his heart to bubble with renewed putrefaction. Mustadio knew that he was different than the others who'd fought alongside Ramza in the War of the Lions. He did not have Agrias' indomitable skill with the holy sword, he did not have the potent, if untamed, powers of the sky and nether mantra wielded by the Galthana twins, he had neither the charm nor the arcane spellblade of Beowulf, he had none of Orlandu's seeming limitless strength and skill, and he certainly had nothing resembling Reis' dragon powers or the inhuman strength of ancient technology that allowed Construct 8 to punch through granite walls and rip men in two with his bare metallic hands.

He was different.

He was a machinist, a skilled engineer who also had considerable talents in chemistry and archelogy. At times, this caused him to feel like his contributions to Ramza's mission were the least, as though he had little to offer in repayment for Ramza's help in rescuing his father. Granted, this unflattering self-assessment didn't last long when he realized how his skills made it possible to reactivate the powerful Construct 8 or to use the orrery to summon Cloud from another plane and then to send him home, not to mention how formidable his infamous gun proved on the battlefield.

Still, the others were well-muscled fighters, powerful magicians, and sometimes even had strength utterly beyond that of humans.

Suppose Meliadoul gravitated towards someone more like her?

That thought might've taken root, might've planed the seed of doubt that, rather than reciprocating his affections, Meliadoul had merely been thanking him for his kindness or, worse, toying with him, if another thought hadn't promptly supplanted it.

Damien was certainly intelligent and attractive; having met the man, the machinist could see why so many amongst the cream of Ivalician society found him so charming.

This was a fact.

Damien had invested considerable time and effort towards convincing Alma to accept his suit.

This too was a fact.

Then, the morning following this successful courtship, he had not only entered the residence of another woman, but her servant had recognized him and let him in as though he was a frequent, and trusted, visitor.

Another fact, and one that was causing a very disturbing picture to take shape in Mustadio's mind.

Both Alma and Meliadoul were attractive and well-heeled women, nobly born and with considerable wealth. Both were also mourning the loss of people they loved, Alma her former fiancé and Meliadoul her brother and father.

Yet another fact.

That Damien had apparently worked his way into both their lives, and in a very short period of time, was more than a bit disturbing. Though Mustadio had practically been raised in his father's laboratory, and certainly knew far more of science than he did about people, he knew enough that certain suspicions began to take root in his mind.

It was common practice for men with ample ambitions and few scruples to identify women who were wealthy and yet unhappy, and to then ply these women with the companionship and affection they so craved, all while drawing off however much of their wealth they could before deciding to seek other prospects.

Could Damien be such a cad? It did seem possible. In fact, as Mustadio delved deeper into that line of thought, even more sinister possibilities presented themselves.

Alma and Meliadoul were women of beauty and wealth, true, but they were also women with secrets.

Alma was the younger sister to Ramza Beoulve, widely considered the most infamous heretic of the last century. Granted, the charges were false, but the average Ivalician accepted their supposed validity without question. Further, though this had never been confirmed, Alma helping Ramza against the heresy examiner Zalmo might very well have gotten her similarly branded. And, of course, there was the matter of Alma Beoulve supposedly having met an untimely death prior to the end of the War of the Lions.

As for "Catherine Seymour" being pregnant out of wedlock and desperate to marry before that particular secret became impossible to hide, that could be the kiss of death to an unmarried young woman…or the perfect leverage.

As for Meliadoul, much that Mustadio hated to admit it, Dame Lollotte's accusations of desertion and cowardice weren't entirely off the mark. After learning that the Knights Templar had, indeed, been subverted by evil and many powerful figures in Ivalice, including her own father, had had their very souls evicted by Lucavi demons, she had deserted the Templars. But she had not done so out of cowardice, but because the order no longer safeguarded Ivalice but threatened it, and possibly all of mankind as well. Granted, the paying public had found Lollotte's accusations quite ludicrous after the divine knight had soundly beaten her detractor in a duel, but suppose a more complete truth began to leak out? Despite their ultimate, tragic fates, the divine knight had been adamant that she did not want her father and brother's memories to be tarnished by the Lucavi's machinations.

Damien was a cunning and resourceful man, his exploits in Gollund put that beyond question. Suppose he had uncovered some of these secrets and was using it to blackmail the two women?

That thought promptly began to sizzle in Mustadio's head, smoldering like a burning coal causing his normally orderly, if overly complex, train of thought to catch fire and crinkle inward around the edges. The machinist was not a man who was quick to anger, but what exceptions there were could have a truly jarring impact upon his usually affable temperament. He began to stroke the butt of his gun holstered at his side, to tease at the hammer, and even to contemplate the image of Damien having a neat hole punched through his forehead.

A thorn poking into his finger shook him back to reality, breaking the hold his rage had had over him and causing him to contemplate, with similarly visceral imagery, the likely results of shooting Damien in the face over a hunch.

Reason rubbing salt into the wound, Mustadio let out a thunderous bark of anger and drove a fist into the façade of the nearest building, cracking a few bones and causing every eye within fifty feet to snap in his direction.

The machinist suddenly felt very young and very foolish.

"Er…," he began pathetically. "Rough day, sorry."

Several of those same eyes took note of the, slightly battered, bouquet of flowers in his hand and eyebrows promptly began to arch. In short order, the Lesalians went back to their daily business, though Mustadio didn't doubt for a minute that half the city would be speculating on his woes within the hour.

It was almost enough to make him contemplate the image of himself with a bullet hole in his forehead. Almost.

Still, he steeled his resolve. He wasn't sure where things stood between him and Meliadoul, or if there even was a "him and Meliadoul" anymore, but none of that changed the fact that Damien was up to something with two women who were important to the young machinist. He loved Meliadoul, that much was true, and the temptation to run straight to her and beg for an explanation was palpable.

But it was also true that it was Alma, not Meliadoul, who was on the brink of marriage to the mysterious Wyvern Knight. During Alma's time amongst Ramza's group as they travelled from Lesalia to Orbonne in their ill-fated attempt to retrieve the Virgo Stone, and in the solemn days following the end of the War of the Lions, Mustadio had gotten to know Alma quite well. He'd found her to be a very sweet girl; clever, funny, sweet natured, and unfailingly courteous and considerate even to those well below her station.

She did not deserve to be tricked into a loveless marriage to a man who might very well be a philandering cad, a greedy social climber, and/or an unscrupulous blackmailer.

Whether Damien was the slime ball Mustadio now suspected he was, whether he was just after Alma's wealth, whether he was cheating on Alma before the two of them were even officially engaged, whether he had uncovered some of Alma's secrets and was planning to coerce her into marriage, or whether he inexplicably had a perfectly innocent explanation for calling at another woman's residence within hours of putting a ring on Alma's finger, Mustadio could make all the educated guesses he liked but he still had no real proof.

"Data, data, data", he mused, recalling a catch-phrase of sorts he'd learned from his father which warned against doing too much theorizing based on too little information. "I cannot make clocks without sprockets" …or, is that "I cannot make gunpowder without sulfur"? I know it wasn't "I cannot make glass without sand", because that was Mother's catchphrase.

In midstride, the machinist let out a self-deprecating groan, wishing as he sometimes did that even a drop or two of his keen intellect would help in in the fine art of wielding withering witticisms.

Oh, I did not just think that! he mused angrily, aghast at his appalling alliterative apprehension. Or that!

Having driven himself to greater depths of anger and sadness, Mustadio turned towards Lesalia Castle, grimly firm in his purpose.

Whatever it was Damien that was doing while away from his fiancée's eyes, Alma deserved to know, and to get the truth out of the Wyvern Knight, before she committed himself to a lifelong union with him.

As for Meliadoul, he would get his answers soon…

…he only hoped his heart could take the blow he expected was forthcoming.

SSSSSS

"Oh, don't tell me it's raining again!"

The futile request was rendered all the more meaningless as the sudden pattering sound against the roof of the tent grew louder. First soft but persistent, and then becoming a cacophony as the hail of rain, rapidly becoming a deluge, gained in force. From his bedroll, a downright irritated Olan heaved a frustrated sigh as he resigned himself to another night of little sleep at best and none at worst.

Aside from the occasional mission at the behest of his "late" step-father Orlandu or the late, unlamented Duke Goltana, Olan had spent little time in Limberry, and he now remembered why. Though the marshy province that served as the bread basket of eastern Ivalice was vital to mending the battered kingdom, having to travel through the region was not pleasant. The deep mud sucked at one's boots, the wilder regions were rife with such creatures as swamp snakes, leeches, and midges, and all manner of unpleasant illnesses awaited those who underestimated what hazards might result from days spent tramping through the marshy landscape and the chronically damp air.

Still, Olan supposed he ought to grouse a bit less…but just a bit. After all, now that Limberry's farmlands were productive again, after having been ravaged by drought throughout the War of the Lions, the price of food, which once had been driven heavenward by scarcity, had plummeted to well within reach of even those of the most modest means. All through the journey, the chancellor had seen many farms, once abandoned and forlorn as their owners had decided to take their chances getting into already overcrowded Lesalia, now well labored and green with ripening crops. Some, who he'd paid for dry lodging for the night (sometimes having to insist on paying) were operated by their original owners, who had been determined to reclaim their old lives and pick right back up where they'd left off, while others had changed hands, unofficially as often as not, and were manned by hardy folk eager to find a new niche in this strange, but enticing, new Ivalice.

Of course, all of this was made possible by the fact that the aforementioned drought had been broken….

…broken into smithereens…

…which were, in turn, broken into further smithereens…

…and so on and so forth.

"That's got to be the fifth downpour we've had since we got here," Olan groused, his earlier affirmation to complain less promptly forgotten as the echoing pitter-patter threatened to drive him mad. "I swear, I'll go stir crazy long before we reach our destination."

"Well, maybe we should…make the most of our time together?" a sultry voice suggested from the neighboring bedroll.

Olan tried, without much success, to tame the redness climbing his cheeks as he turned to face his bunkmate.

His cheeks were promptly subsumed by crimson as he saw her scooting up close enough to rest her chin on his shoulder…which she did.

Olan could feel his throat constrict at the close contact, and even a shiver that had more to do with the way the tendrils of her flaxen tresses teased at his neck than with the chill of the rainfall.

After, barely, regaining his composure, Olan told himself that this was just relief on Balmafula's part. After all, days before, she had had a not-so-proverbial loaded crossbow aimed squarely at her head and the only question being whether it was Delita's hand or the church's which would release the bolt. Yet now, inexplicably, she was free…

…well, mostly.

She had chosen to remain as Delita's informant and counter-intelligence agent, even though Delita had forfeited his leverage. Most would, in her place, had assuredly signed the parchment and charged out the door, laughing giddily at this sudden providence.

But, rather like a certain former Beoulve, Olan and Balmafula were not "most people".

Most people were blissfully unaware that their king – the man who'd risen from children's tales to reality, who'd ended a war that had nearly undone Ivalice, who'd fostered unprecedented cooperation along the provincial and even class lines of Ivalice, and who'd upended the seemingly immortal truth of a man's birth deciding his fate – was, in truth, a devious and dangerous man, and who'd found a ready match in the church within which practically the whole of the kingdom prayed for salvation, if not in this life than the next.

There remained the distinct possibility that Delita's newfound power might corrupt him, much as it had the ancient king of Murond who, in a lost era, had sought to use dark magicks to unify Ivalice under his rule, a goal not-so-coincidentally shared by Detlia, only to be killed by the demon he'd sought to enslave. No less probable, or ominous, was the chance that the unspoken truce between Delita and the church might crumble, rending Ivalice in two once again when the wounds of two prior wars were still fresh and bleeding. Given all that, it might help to have a few people on the inside to watch for trouble…

…which made this bizarre errand all the more inscrutable, and worrisome.

Swallowing a growl of frustration – he didn't doubt for a minute Balmafula had heard it, but hoped she'd assume he was still upset about the recalcitrant weather – Olan tried to turn his focus away from what was bothering him, though that was no small task. After long moments of contemplation, he fell back upon some advice which his step-father had given him long ago.

"The best way for a leader to forget his own troubles is to think about his men."

And, as Olan made use of that advice, he found it to be wise indeed.

Though it had come as a surprise that Ramza's old classmates from the Gariland Academy would act as his escort, and it did bother him to have six more people aware of the need to keep watch on Delita away from their posts, he had been glad to see them again.

He still remembered how they, along with Ramza's other companions, had saved his life during his mission to Gollund and how they, albeit involuntarily, spared him the grim task of hunting down the Nanten deserters on Grog Hill.

Though his acquaintance with them had been brief, and he had mostly known them through Ramza, his first impression was that they were unlike any knights, pre or post-War of the Lions, that he'd ever met.

And, on the heels of that impression was that he rather liked the change.

Though he'd gone on numerous missions at the behest of his step-father, and though he shared, and acted upon, Orlandu's conviction that the best leaders are the ones who return home with their men alive and well, it seemed Olan was not blessed with Thundergod Cid's ability to break down the barriers between him and his men.

Orlandu's men could, and did, come to view him not as a noble or a superior, but as a brother-in-arms, not the smallest reasons being that he made a point of never giving an order he wasn't willing to carry out himself and how he fought alongside his men at the very forefront of the combat.

His step-son, however, had not been similarly blessed.

Often, the knights and other soldiers who'd served under him, owing to the deep stratification of Ivalician society, would blindly assume that his being the son of a noble house meant that his judgment was peerless and that any order from him, no matter how foolish or ill-considered, must be the proper course of action and ought to be obeyed without question.

Considering that Olan's missions had always been centered on diplomacy and espionage, with the nuances of the battlefield and the intricacies of teamwork in combat being nebulous concepts to him, this assertion was made even more ridiculous than it would seem to one looking in from the proverbial outside.

And, it didn't help that, in many cases, there was mutual acceptance of his assertion, which had led to innumerable sons and daughters who'd never returned from the battlefield because their lives had been placed in the hands of commanders who'd been placed in engagements which they were hopelessly ill-equipped to handle.

Nearly as bad as that, however, had been those who'd looked to Olan and, rather than a noble to be put upon a pedestal, saw an opportunity for advancement.

Many of these social climbers would, with varying degrees of skill, act in a deferential and solicitous manner towards Olan. They would do him such small favors as taking a bit less honey in their coffee and offering him the remainder, of securing the choice locale for his tent, of refurbishing his weapons and armor, and other such transparent attempts to win his favor.

Most nobles, whose egos had crowded out their brains, would've easily been taken in by such displays and made sure such opportunists received such rewards as a small increase in salary, first pick of armaments, or even a promotion. Other nobles, more intelligent but less scrupulous, would see right through the charade but, having long since lost sight of the difference between ensuring loyalty and nepotism, would oblige the opportunist nonetheless.

Ramza's old classmates, however, were a very different story.

Though they had graduated alongside Ramza and Delita from the prestigious Gariland Academy, and all came from noble houses, they had followed Ramza after he'd chosen to leave the Hokuten in disgust at how corruption had sunk its roots into the order. After years of distance from their former roots, a lot of their blue-blooded breeding had fallen by the wayside…

"BBBBRRRRAAAPPP!"

…quite a lot of that breeding had fallen by the wayside. Especially as Olan recognized that distant and yet clearly audible expulsion of intestinal gas as having come from a tent belonging to one of the women.

Still, these unlikely Knights of the Chimera were unlike anyone Olan had previously served with. Aside from their lack of decorum, which was equal parts jarring and yet liberating, they also did not put him on a metaphorical pedestal nor try to solicit his favor.

At least some of this, certainly, had to do with them being well aware of his fallibility. After all, when they and the rest of Ramza's band first met Olan, he had been neck-deep in armed thieves who'd been keen to sever that neck after he'd chanced upon their lair in Gollund. Further, Olan had had the, since validated, impression that Ramza's band was not the sort which agonized over formalities.

How could they be, after all, when they were constantly on the move, always hunted by the worst of church and state alike, and where their numbers were always tiny compared to those of their enemies?

Noble titles, or a lack thereof, mattered very little amongst such an unlikely and unconventional host, but this lack of structure was more than compensated for by an abundance of cohesion.

Ragtag and hodgepodge they might be, but Ramza's company was intensely loyal to one another and to their cause. More to the point, constantly being hunted by seemingly everyone had lent them a survival instinct that was second to none and made them unquestionably skilled.

They did not need Olan dictating every aspect of their expedition, using knowledge he might or might not even have, nor did they try to curry his favor through hallow gestures of devotion.

What they knew how to do, they did.

However, they also recognized his own talents, namely his keen intellect, quick wits, and talent for collecting information. So, when they needed such skills, they knew that he was the man to ask.

It was quite a change from what he'd been accustomed to, but it was not unwelcome. Quite the opposite, in fact.

Though Olan was certain there had to be more eloquent ways to phrase it, he felt…normal.

And, he found it to his liking.

He was jolted free of those thoughts, which were promptly replaced by very different thoughts, when Balmafula turned around in his grasp and lowered herself into his lap, purring something that sounded like "warm".

Feeling rather warm himself, Olan cleared his throat and…forgot what he'd been about to say.

He'd been about to say something, and he was reasonably sure it was of some importance. But, the aroma of the witch's hair, some exotic perfume which he could not name, had caused his recollections to become hazy and indistinct.

This wasn't the first time the witch had thrown his thoughts into such disarray, and he rather doubted it'd be the last either.

When he'd first laid eyes on Balmafula, following his "pardon" for his father's alleged treachery, and the newly crowned king had explained the relationship the three would have, it hadn't taken Olan long to notice that Balmafula was quite an attractive woman. Her accent and some of her features suggested that she was not a native Ivalician, though just where she might've come from, he could not say. But he'd was quickly distracted from pondering that enigma by the curious slant of her eyes, how the tendrils of blond hair cascading over each shoulder swayed seemingly of their own accord, and the bow of her lips.

Perhaps she was aware of his scrutiny, for those same lips had tilted upward at the corners into a discreet but sly smirk, which promptly jolted Olan from his reverie and he'd listened to the rest of Delita's words while discreetly kicking himself for such unbecoming thoughts.

And, such thoughts were becoming all the more frequent now, especially as Bamafula let out a feline purr and leaned into him like he was an especially comfortable armchair.

Olan was well aware that these enticements were by design, and that a woman who laid out such bait usually wanted something, that "something" rarely being friendship and scintillating conversation.

For the chancellor's part, he wasn't entirely sure what to make of that.

Granted, he'd come to respect Balmafula, even to attach importance to her well-being.

Was there more to it than that?

Perhaps.

But, whatever that might be, he'd already decided that it would be best if he kept his reserve for the time being.

After all, they were here on the king's business and they were not courting, let alone married.

Besides, it was well known amongst Ramza's friends, of whom Olan was proud to number himself, that "Drake Seymour" and Agrias had had their daughter and gotten married, in that order, and that the late Izlude Tingel had unknowingly gotten Alma with child prior to his death.

Between that, and how it was Lesalia's worst kept secret that Delita and Ovelia had consummated their marriage before having the ceremony, Olan had decided that somebody had uphold the right and proper standards for how a gentleman treats a lady.

So, instead of treating her inviting behavior as, well, an invitation, he simply took her hand, fine boned and supple, in his own and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

Like more than a few former prisoners, the bars of their cell abruptly being thrown wide had been equal parts the wonderment of regained freedom and the foreboding prospect of building one's life anew with only one's own inner resources.

As reprehensible as had been the machinations Delita had used to shackle them to his service, they had nonetheless provided structure and direction, and Olan had even begun drawing up plans for how he could still serve the people of Ivalice while under Delita's thumb, even, or especially, if Delita were to decide that his ambitions meant more to him than the well-being of his subjects. Likewise, by feeding misinformation to the church and reporting their doings to Delita, Balmafula had a role to play in making sure the Church of Glabados' ambition of subverting the monarchy remained out of reach.

Delita's inexplicable forfeiture of his leverage over them, and his even less explicable offer to release them from his service, had thrown that structure into confusion and caused the metaphorical moral compass to dance. And, though neither quailed at this bizarre development, it had left them…shaken.

The chancellor could sense this, even though the witch's provocative bravado, and so he decided to let his hand say what his mouth was not sure how.

Namely, that this strange future was one she need not face alone.

In answer, she craned her head to meet his gaze and gave him a smile that had his cheeks turning dusky again.

Before much else could happen, the pair was jolted back to awareness by the sound of shouting outside.

"ROUSE UP! ROUSE UP! SLEEPERS AWAKE!"

Both Olan and Balmafula knew that there was only one reason for such clamor, especially in such weather.

The camp was under attack.

Hastily disentangling themselves from one another, their haste not entirely attributable to the threat of whomever or whatever was attacking their camp, the pair scrambled towards their gear. A quick hastega spell from Balmafula had the chancellor and witch pulling on black garb and lordly robes respectively while Olan snatched up his omnilex and Balmafula grabbed her wizard rod and aegis shield, all in what would seem a blur of motion to any onlookers. Olan murmured a courtly, if awkward, thanks, though the spell turned the simple courtesy into an unintelligible mishmash of syllables that reminded him, unpleasantly, of a nobleman who had the questionable habit of feeding his parrot coffee and having the bobbing bird mimic speech. This caused the witch to regard the chancellor with a raised eyebrow and a hint of amusement, suggesting that she, like more than a few attractive women, was used to causing men to stumble over their words.

This, in turn, caused Olan to inwardly chide himself as the pair sprinted into the rain, the din of ringing steel already resounding through the downpour.

SSSSSS

As was the case with many things in Lesalia, the subject matter for the latest gossip was heard well before one could clap eyes upon it.

"Ouch! Watch where you're going!"

"Oof! Knocks an elder over and just keeps going. Young people these days!

"Argh! You just knocked two bunches of violets in the mud and cost me a day's wages! I see you again, I'll grind you into fertilizer!"

"Ow! My foot! Watch where you're treading, you lummox!"

Deep in a fugue of anger and desolation, Mustadio continued his march towards Lesalia Castle, obliviously pushing and shoving his way through the crowd, trampling on anything, and anyone, that didn't get out of the way quickly enough, and generally making quite a menace out of himself.

He never noticed, and might not have cared if he had.

He still had no idea what game Damien was playing at, getting engaged to one woman and then calling at another's home mere hours later, but the machinist doubted it could be anything good. Besides, Duchess Catherine Seymour of Lionel, known to a select few as Alma Beoulve, was a good friend of his, nearly as much so as her fugitive brother. And Mustadio did not want to see any friend of his be bound for life to a lying, philandering slime ball like the Romandan knight who charmed his way into her good graces while seeking the favor of another woman behind her back before they were even officially engaged.

And, of course, that was assuming Damien was a philanderer rather than a blackmailer. Which, given just what secrets Alma and Meliadoul were keeping, might be even worse.

After forcing his mind back to what he had to do, and forcing apart a pair of pedestrians who promptly began complaining of pain in their hips, he arrived at Lesalia Castle. As a friend of the Seymours and guest of the royal couple, Mustadio was allowed to come and go from the castle as he pleased so long as he obeyed the curfew and other rules set by King Delita…

…which was why he jerked to a halt when he noticed the sentries at the gate eyeing him with clear displeasure.

"Mustadio Bunanza, I presume?" one of the sentries inquired, his tone as displeased as his features.

"Er…," the machinist began eloquently. "Yes… Um…is there something I should know?"

"Yes, that Lesalians have turned gossip into an art form, and that they notice when you make a menace of yourself this early in the morning."

The sentry pointing back the way Mustadio had come, and the machinist saw the trail of chaos he'd left in his wake, along with a veritable horde of angry faces.

Being a kindly sort by nature, eager to help and not one to let his own errors go uncorrected, Mustadio decided he could take a few minutes to help sort out the mess he'd created.

And, being barely literate in social niceties, he never realized how problematic it might be when he shoved the battered but still lovely bouquet into the hands of one of the sentries, absently said "hold this, please" and then left. The sentry in question quickly hid the bouquet behind his back while his friend snickered and muttered something that sounded like "one of those days".

After a half hour of tidying up the mess he'd made and the people he'd ruffled, most of whom slapped him across the face anyway, a very battered and very, very chastened Mustadio returned and reclaimed the flowers from a sentry who looked keen to put the machinist in the ground. Though he was allowed past the guards, both made it clear that the ruckus he'd raised had him on thin ice, and that he might be in for a flogging if he so much as chipped a royal teacup. After taming his mortification, the machinist inquired about Duchess "Catherine's" whereabouts so he could speak with her on a matter of the greatest import and urgency. The sentries admitted they didn't know where the Duchess of Lionel might be, but allowed him in nonetheless.

After questioning a few of the castle servants, Mustadio discovered that "Catherine" was in the castle gardens with Queen Ovelia. Having already telegraphed his eagerness to see the Duchess of Lionel on the way in, the machinist forced himself to adopt a calm expression and maintain a steady pace as he proceeded to the castle gardens…and promptly realized it was meaningless given the damage inflicted by the less forgiving amongst those he'd tried to help by way of apology. Resigned to his particular attempt to be helpful being as embarrassing as the others, but knowing it had to be done anyway, he pressed on. In due time, he found two guards standing watch near the entrance to the garden. The pair, upon seeing his approach, crossed their spears, barring his path, since no one was allowed to see the queen or duchess without requesting a formal audience.

Normally, Mustadio would have given Alma and Ovelia prior notice before such a visit. But since he had only recently discovered "Damien Mitchell's" suspicious activities at the Tingel Manor, the machinist had no time to wade through the intricate protocols of requesting a formal audience. He had hoped that his personal connection to Duchess Catherine would convince the guards to let him into the castle garden, but their taking in his battered face with raised eyebrows did not fill him with confidence.

"Excuse me," Mustadio called out, knowing he had to try anyway. "I have urgent information for the Duchess of Lionel; please let me see her!"

To his dismay, the two guards refused to budge. "I'm sorry, sir. But no one is permitted to see Lady Catherine or Queen Ovelia without requesting a formal audience," one of them said.

"I understand, but I am a friend of the Duchess of Lionel. Please, just tell her I'm here. She'll vouch for me."

The second guard looked at Mustadio suspiciously, and the machinist had to admit that the bouquet and his battered face likely made this entreaty look questionable. After a long moment, however, the sentry's face lit up with recognition.

"Say, aren't you Mustadio Bunanza?" he asked, to which the machinist nodded reflexively.

In hindsight, Mustadio supposed he ought to have seen this coming. Others had recognized him as the flamboyantly dressed young man who attended "Catherine's" ball, who'd put on quite a show by challenging Lollotte to a target shooting match, who'd caught the eye of Lord Phelps who was keen for his input on gun legislature, and the one who was rumored to be the favorite of Dame Meliadoul Tingel.

That memory stung, profoundly, but he forced himself to keep the pain from his expression.

"What business do you have with Lady Catherine Seymour?" the sentry asked.

Mustadio hesitated as he thought about how to answer the guard's inquiry. The machinist's knowledge of social niceties may have been sadly lacking, but even he knew it would be unwise to speak ill of the Duchess's fiancé in public, especially if he didn't have any concrete proof of the man's alleged wrong-doing.

This did, however, leave the question of just how, or if, he could convince the guards to let him pass without revealing what he'd seen and adding fresh grist to the ever grinding mill of Lesalian gossip.

"Like I said, it is a matter of great import, but also private and meant for Lady Catherine's ears alone. Please trust me and let me through," he implored pathetically.

The sentries were clearly skeptical. Although the young machinist appeared sincere in his claim and looked harmless enough, the guards were still hesitant to let him into the garden to see Duchess Catherine, especially since his ruffled appearance and evasive entreaties didn't sit well with them. Trying not to let his frustration show on his face, Mustadio pondered a number of possible excuses that might get him past. Perhaps he could claim he wanted to pitch his presentation on the workings of guns, so that those crafting the legislation on them might better understand how to go about it. He could claim that "Catherine" had offered to sit through a rehearsal and critique his performance, and/or that he hoped to secure Lionel's backing when he and Lord Phelps put the legislation forward for the king's consideration.

But that would raise the question of why he'd go to Catherine instead of Drake, not to mention that preparing for a meeting which hadn't even been scheduled yet might not warrant the label "a matter of great import but also private and meant for Lady Catherine's ears alone"

Mustadio was about to try a different approach when they all heard a feminine voice calling out from within the garden.

"It's all right, he's a friend of mine. Please let him through," Alma said.

Turning, the guards saw "Duchess Catherine" approach, Queen Ovelia following close behind. However, Mustadio himself could only make out hints of blonde hair and skirts, as the sentries, despite turning their backs to the machinist, had taken the precaution of pressing together at the shoulder so that he could not shove them aside and dart through.

Not that Mustadio would've. Despite the events of that morning, he wasn't that stupid.

Even with Alma's permission, the two sentries hesitated, looking to their queen to see if she gave her approval as well.

Ovelia, looking as though she was still getting used to such deference, remembered herself after a moment and nodded. "You may let him pass; this young man is also a friend of mine as well."

"Of course, Your Highness."

With that, the two sentries resumed their posts, flanking either side of the door and paying the mangled machinist no further mind. After the way was clear, Mustadio approached Ovelia and Alma and quickly took a knee in a gesture born more of heartfelt respect than simple obedience.

He'd only known Ovelia for mere days, which was far more than most his station could've expected, but he hadn't forgotten that it had been she who'd persuaded the rest of Ramza's company to help him petition Cardinal Draclau for help in rescuing his father from the Baert Trading Company…

…granted, that hadn't gone as expected, but it likely would've gone far worse if Ovelia hadn't intervened on his behalf.

He was jolted back to awareness, however, when he heard both women gasp in shock.

After a moment's perplexity, the machinist kicked himself when he recalled the numerous red marks and bruises on his face from the ruckus he'd unwittingly caused on the way in. As his cheeks suffused with embarrassed redness, not that anyone could tell given the state of his face, Alma quickly yanked him to his feet and began plying him with cure spells.

"My Lady, this really isn't necessary," he protested feebly. "This is…well, it's unsightly but the damage is cosmetic."

"Oh, nonsense!" Alma insisted. "Half your face is turning purple, and the rest already has. Now, please hold still."

Belatedly reminded of just who Alma's real family was, and how both survivors of that family had stood unflinching in the face of demons, Mustadio knew better than to argue further and consented to her ministrations. Once he looked a bit less like someone who'd started a brawl, and lost, Mustadio decided he'd best get right to business.

"Your Highness, My Lady," he began, certain he'd already butchered several formalities. "I have a matter of great import that I must bring to the attention of Duchess Catherine."

Curious, Alma asked "Yes, what is it?"

Mustadio hesitated for a moment. He'd been in such a rush to get here, until recently having the bruises to prove it, that he hadn't thought out just how he ought to approach the subject of Sir Damien not being what he appears. Though he counted Alma as a friend, and hoped the feeling was mutual, none of that changed the fact that he was about to make a very serious accusation against her fiancé with barely a scrap of evidence.

And, as if that wasn't enough, he hadn't anticipated Ovelia being here and showing no sign of leaving. Even if the queen could be trusted to keep a secret, he doubted the same could be said about her guards and other attendants who were assuredly within earshot.

"Umm…it's a rather personal matter, if you don't mind, My Lady…," he entreated, all too aware of the desperation in his voice.

Alma and Ovelia exchanged looks of concerned perplexity before turning back to Mustadio.

"It's alright, Mustadio," the Duchess of Lionel reassured. "You know that Her Majesty and I are friends. There is nothing you can say in front of me that cannot be said in front of her as well."

The machinist gulped. Even with the duchess and queen's permission and assurances, Mustadio still felt hesitant to bring up the subject of the wyvern knight who had won Alma's favor and casting him in a negative light without any real proof. Even so, if there was any chance his intuition about Damien's character was correct, speaking now might very well save the Duchess of Lionel a lifetime of being trapped in a miserable marriage with a lying philanderer or, perhaps worse, of being exploited by a man who was a greedy social climber and/or a blackmailer.

Angry at himself for his impulsiveness, but not nearly as angry as he was at Damien for causing this mess, and once more thinking about giving the wyvern knight a lesson in manners along with a few bullet wounds, the machinist decided to take the plunge.

Quickly beckoning for the two women to lean in close, he whispered "Your Highness, is there anyone here who can't be trusted to keep a secret? Guards, attendants, anyone with loose lips?"

The queen's brow furrowed, but she shook her head firmly. Then, with an indrawn breath, Mustadio said his piece.

"My lady, it is about your fiancé, Sir Damien Mitchell. I do not wish to speak ill of him but, this morning, I spotted him at the home of Dame Meliadoul Tingel. He apparently called on her this very morning, and her gardener did…suggest that he was a regular visitor. This struck me as most odd, because I cannot think of any legitimate connection or business, he would have with her, especially just after…well..."

Unable to finish the sentence, he let his eyes drift pointedly to Alma's left hand, whereupon lay Damien's ring.

Ovelia raised a brow and placed hand on Alma's shoulder. "I can see why you were so concerned about privacy, Master Mustadio. This is very concerning indeed. I think it best that I leave you two to speak in private, Catherine, and I'll make certain the garden remains empty while you two talk. If there's anything you need, please don't hesitate to ask."

Alma dipped into a curtsey, grateful for the queen's consideration. If the subject was about her new fiancé, then perhaps it was better that she spoke with Mustadio alone after all.

"Thank you, Your Highness, I will."

"You're welcome. If you are able, I'd like you to join me and…the king for lunch later."

Was it Mustadio's imagination or did Ovelia sound hesitant, as if she were unsure if the king might attend?

For that matter, didn't she usually call her husband by name, especially in what certainly seemed an informal setting?

"Of course, Your Highness," Alma replied, jolting Mustadio back to the present.

Before departing, as she had promised, Ovelia asked the guards to accompany her. As it turned out, there were quite a few more than casual observation would've suggested. Still, the subtle act brought a small smile of relief to Alma's face since it enabled to her to speak to Mustadio alone.

After the queen and guards were gone, Alma gestured for Mustadio to follow her a bit further into the castle garden. The unlikely pair moved through a small enclosure of hedges and ultimately reached a stand of decorative trees, dense enough to constitute a miniature forest, where Alma was certain they could speak without being overheard.

Once he was certain they were alone, Mustadio made a formal bow to Alma and, upon her invitation, hesitantly seated himself upon a patio chair set up within the miniature forest. "I thank you for seeing me on such short notice, My Lady. I would have requested a formal audience, but this matter could not wait."

Alma smiled, hiding whatever concern she felt, which must've been considerable, quite skillfully. "It's alright, Mustadio. And you don't have to be so formal when we're alone. Please, tell me what you saw. Spare no detail."

Mustadio took a deep breath, so deep that it made him feel slightly dizzy, and then grimly complied. "My lady…Catherine… I'm not sure if you know this but, during the ball last night, Meliadoul was insulted and challenged to a duel by another Templar."

"I did hear about that, but only after the fact. They say you and Meliadoul put on quite a show."

It belatedly occurred to Mustadio that bringing up Meliadoul might've been painful to Alma.

After all, had fate dealt a kinder hand, the two women would now be sister-in-laws.

Deciding it was too late to retreat, the machinist instead pressed on.

"Well, during her fight against the Templar, Meliadoul took a blow to the ribs," he continued, pausing when he saw Alma's eyes widen with alarm. "Don't worry, she just needed to return home early to rest. This morning, I decided to visit her, to make sure she was feeling better."

"I guess that explains those," Alma opined, pointing to the bouquet of flowers, windblown but still very beautiful.

When Mustadio saw them, however, he felt his eyes become hot. But, with an effort, he forced himself to continue.

"When I arrived at Tingel Manor, I spotted Sir Damien speaking with the gardener. Then, he went right in. When I questioned the gardener, he wouldn't tell me anything except that Sir Damien wished to pay her a visit, and I got the impression that Damien was a regular visitor. Or, at least, had been expected. This has me concerned. I know of no other reason he could possibly want to see Meliadoul, except…"

Alma frowned, though this hid the beginnings of panic welling up within her breast. Surely Mustadio must be mistaken and could not be implying what she thought he was.

But, then again, this wouldn't be the first time that fate had played a cruel prank on Alma Beoulve.

Her father's untimely death just as his dream of an end to the Fifty Years War stood on the brink of realization, Teta's death due to her simply being in the wrong place at the wrong time, Alma's own abduction by the Knights Templar, falling in love with Izlude only for him to die in her arms, her brief but deeply scarring possession by Altima, having to effectively bury "Alma Beoulve" and live under a false identity.

And now, this?

Much though she wanted to deny what Mustadio was implying, she could not dispel the veil of doubt that how settled over her heart. Even before the machinist had elucidated, she could see why he was so troubled.

A hitherto unknown man, of obviously keen wits and resourcefulness, managing to work his way into the good graces of not one but two women, both of whom were quite wealthy, mourning the loss of people they loved dearly, and had highly volatile secrets to keep.

It was simply too big, and too alarming, of a coincidence.

And, Alma was more than aware that certain unscrupulous men might look at such a situation and see an opportunity.

Yet, she recoiled at the idea that the man she'd fallen in love with, who had so charmed the long fatherless Manon and Charlotte, who had given her faith that happiness could be found again after Izlude's death, and who might be willing to raise her baby as his own might be such a villain…

…but that was only because the alternative was unthinkable.

Mustadio might not be able to prove his theory, but nor could Alma disprove it.

"Please don't jump to conclusions, Mustadio," Alma urged, though she could not say if she was reassuring the machinist or herself. "Damien is good and honorable man, surely he wouldn't…"

Seeing the distressed look on Alma's face, Mustadio felt ashamed for even bringing up the subject. But he certainly could not ignore it and say nothing either.

"I…want to believe that he is too…really, I do," he admitted, feelingly. "But I also care about you very much, and don't want you to make the mistake of marrying a man who may not treat you the way you deserve, My Lady."

Alma was silent for a moment as she grimly weighed Mustadio's words. The young machinist had been such a good friend to both her and Ramza, as well as a fine ally in battle. She did not believe that Mustadio would deliberately lie to her, but could not shake off the feeling of doubt that was growing in her heart towards her new fiancé.

It was obvious, however, that she was not the only one haunted by such doubt, however.

Though Mustadio had never confirmed it, she was quite certain he'd bought that bouquet of flowers as a gift for Meliadoul. As she studied it at greater length, she could see that, although the flowers did look a bit battered and windblown, they were still quite beautiful.

She could also see the heartsick look on the young machinist's face as he stared, unseeingly, at the flowers, his thoughts having obviously drifted elsewhere once he'd said his piece. Her heart aching for the distraught machinist, she reached out to grasp his hand and give it a reassuring squeeze.

So deep in his reverie was Mustadio that he nearly jumped out of his seat at the contact. The Duchess of Lionel almost laughed at his reaction, but it caught in her throat when something hanging around his neck, sent flying by the motion, swung into her line of sight.

Her jaw dropped.

It was a small gold ring on a chain that looked very…no, impossibly similar to the one she was wearing on her finger.

The ring that Damien Mitchel had given her.

"Mustadio, where did you get that ring?" she asked, unable to keep her astonishment from her tone. "The one around your neck?"

The machinist almost jumped, again, at the urgency and intensity of the question. Like Alma, Mustadio might have worn the ring Meliadoul gave him on his own finger, but it was a size too small even for his pinky. So, he wore it around a chain, right over his heart.

It felt much colder and heavier than it had that morning, he absently noticed.

"Um…," he began with great articulateness, "the ring was a…gift from Meliadoul. It was supposed to be a token of her favor, when I agreed to champion her against that Templar who'd insulted her…and acceptance of my courtship."

Curious, Alma asked "May I see it?"

Mustadio was perplexed by Alma's strange request, and felt more than a bit concerned about how she seemed…almost desperate for him to comply. But, seeing no harm in it, he unclasped the chain from around his neck and handed the ring over to her.

"This ring…you said it was from Meliadoul, right?"

"Yes… is there something wrong, Catherine?"

"This ring…it's the same one Izlude gave to me when he asked me to marry him. I gave it back to Meliadoul after we escaped the Graveyard of Airships."

Mustadio was silent for a long moment before saying, in a chastened tone "I'm sorry to have dredged up bad memories on top of everything else."

"No, it's not that," Alma interjected. "Not entirely, at least. It's just that it looks so similar to the one Damien gave me."

"Really?"

Alma nodded and removed her own engagement ring, holding up both it and the one she took from Mustadio, for comparison.

And both were shocked to find that the rings didn't just look similar; they were practically identical. They were even the same size.

"What can this mean?" Alma asked in wonder as her careful eye spotted what looked like a small inscription on the inside of both rings. No doubt that they were wedding dates.

Dates that were also identical.

23rd Day of Capricorn, Year 974

Something about that date struck Mustadio as familiar. After mulling it over for a long moment, he realized that that was the wedding date of Meliadoul and Izlude Tingel's parents.

When he explained this revelation, Alma was puzzled.

"I see," the Duchess of Lionel said, though the opposite was closer to the truth. "But why would it be on the ring Sir Damien gave me? And how can the rings look identical like this?"

Curious as well, Mustadio examined both rings and noticed that, while they were remarkably similar, there was a slight difference between the two.

"No…" he began. "They are not completely identical, Catherine. If you look closely, you can see that your ring looks brand new while mine has a bit of wear on it. You can also tell the one I have had been cleaned several times. This discoloration here? It's where the polish didn't take."

"Yes…I remember that Sir Damien said he had this ring made especially for me when he arrived in Lesalia. And not only does it look like yours, it's also the same size too."

"I…don't understand." The machinist admitted, accentuating his words by scratching at the back of his head. "I mean, my hunch that Damien was having an affair or blackmailing you and Meliadoul? That doesn't explain these rings."

Perhaps it was irrational, perhaps it was foolish, perhaps Alma was begging to have her heart broken again.

But she could not help but feel, and seize upon, some small flickering ember of hope that Damien was not the man Mustadio feared he might be.

"Do you think this means that Sir Damien has some kind of connection to the Tingels? Could he possibly be another son of Sir Vormav and his wife?" Mustadio asked curiously.

"I'm not sure," Alma confessed. To her knowledge, Izlude and Meliadoul were the only children of Vormav Tingel. And Damien did not look like either of them or their father. The only other possibility she could think of would be if the late commander of the Knights Templar had an illegitimate son by someone other than his wife.

Like a Romandan woman.

"To be honest, it's not impossible", Mustadio said, speaking with considerable delicacy. "It's not uncommon for nobles to have children outside of their marriages."

The machinist had been bracing himself for the aftereffects of telling Alma that she was marrying a bastard, by blood if not by character, but she merely continued to regard the rings with puzzlement.

"But Sir Damien told me both of his parents were descended from Romandan immigrants. Why would he lie?" the Duchess of Lionel asked.

"I have no idea, Catherine," Mustadio admitted. "And I don't want to call your fiancé a liar, or a philanderer, or a blackmailer, or a bastard. But, clearly there's more to him than he's told you. I think you should question him before you allow him to court you any further."

The machinist bit his lip. He knew his suggestion was bold and that he had no right to advise the Duchess of Lionel on what to do regarding her fiancé. But Mustadio still felt it was something that had to be said. Though his theory about Damien being a philanderer and/or a blackmailer simply could not accommodate the strange rings, the Wyvern Knight was clearly keeping secrets, and he wanted to make sure those secrets could not hurt Alma. For as long as he knew her, Mustadio had seen that Alma was a reasonable and intelligent woman, so he hoped she would consider his advice. After all, it was not only for her sake that he had brought up this less-than-comfortable subject, but also for Manon, Charlotte, and her unborn child.

And, quite possibly, for Meliadoul as well

That thought, perhaps the least pleasant in its own way, caused the machinist to lapse into a long moment of sullen silence. Alma, clearly sensing his mood and what lay behind it, sighed and returned Mustadio's ring, pointedly draping the chain that held it over his neck.

"Meliadoul means a lot to you, doesn't she?" she asked, though she already knew the answer.

Mustadio nodded, and wiped at something in his eye he insisted was a bit of dust.

"She and I started seeing each other a few days ago," he began. "She was…in a bad way after…everything that happened. She does seem to be doing better now, though. She smiles more, sometimes even jokes. It's at my expense half the time, but it's worth it to hear her laugh."

Perhaps Mustadio's words managed to slip their leash and spill forth without his heed, or maybe Alma coaxed them out. Either way, he went on to tell her about their first "date", a label used in its loosest possible sense given that it involved some overly candid speech, a mess of a meal, and some guns going off.

"Well, I'm sure Drake and Agrias had stranger…," Alma's words trailed away when Mustadio's words, and how they rather thoroughly disproved hers, sank in. "…I beg your pardon?"

"Well, a knight would never stand for his sword being belittled, so why should I tolerate my gun being treated like that?" Mustadio asked rhetorically, some of his fire flaring to life. "Besides, we were shooting at archery targets. We both had a good laugh when the recoil sent Melia right on her back, but she's a fast learner."

""Melia"?"

"Er…can that stay between us? Please?"

"Of course. And, I'd like you to take your own advice. Talk to Meliadoul and find out what's going on. I think Drake is calling everyone who's in Lesalia to a meeting about…the truth, and I suspect she'll be there."

"That's good advice," Mustadio replied. "And thank you…Alma."

"You're welcome, Mustadio. And, thank you for bringing this to my attention. I should question Damien about my ring. I'm not angry with you, so don't worry."

The machinist released a breath of relief. "I'm glad, Alma. I only want what's best for you and will trust your judgement of your Sir Damien, whatever you decide. Now if you will excuse me, it'd probably best if I take your advice now. I don't know how, or if, she knows Damien or what connection he has to her family, but I want to find out."

At this, the Duchess of Lionel felt profound relief. She knew that Mustadio was only looking out for her, and was grateful that he'd gone out of his way to bring this news to her attention, especially since the…implications of Damien calling on the woman he loved likely pained him greatly.

"Yes… I think you should as well. Thank you again, Mustadio. And good luck."

"You're welcome, My Lady. Have a good day."

"Thank you, and you do the same."

As Mustadio sketched a courtly bow – tried to, anyway – and then left, Alma let her reserve slip, just a bit. She still found it hard to believe that Damien would carry on an affair, let alone resort to blackmail, but she knew the kernel of doubt would remain until it was disproven…

…if it was disproven.

Yet, recalling how the machinist, a man she'd known for barely a few weeks, had cared enough to relay even a vague hunch that she might be in danger of losing the happiness she's struggled so to rediscover also impressed upon her an immutable truth:

Though House Beoulve was no more, she still had her family, and it was much bigger than she thought.

Her baby promptly dovetailed the point by stirring beneath her ribs.

SSSSSS

Olan and Balmafula had reached the battlefield spoiling for a fight, the astrologer with his fearsome Celestial Stasis spell at the ready and the witch having dozens of incantations on her tongue with which scorch her foes with the power of the arcane.

As it turned out, they needn't have bothered.

Their escort of Chimera Knights were AMAZING!

As Olan and Balmafula sized up the situation, which was well enough in hand that the two might as well have been spectators at a joust, they saw that several malboros had emerged from the marshy water, tentacles waving with bloodlust as they scuttled towards the group of knights head-on, while packs of goblins approached from either flank.

Against the common soldiers of Ivalice, such opposition would've been quite daunting. And, against any unlucky farmers who'd had the misfortune of chasing stray livestock into such an ambush, this would've been a veritable death sentence.

But these were neither common soldiers nor were they hapless farmers.

These were veterans of hundreds of battles, who'd constantly gone up against superior numbers and won, and who'd mastered innumerable aspects of war, which they could weave together to create novel techniques that left most foes bewildered, and then dead. They were also well studied in the preferred hunting methods of monsters, such as how the goblins would swarm a single target to try and overwhelm their prey though speed and sheer numbers while the malboros preferred a straight-on assault. Both techniques, simple and blunt, had their weaknesses, however.

This was handily demonstrated as, rather than being driven back by the malboro's whipping tentacles and massive jaws, it was the malboros who stopped in their slimy tracks while the goblins soon found themselves swarming away from the knights, nursing wounds and, in some cases, clutching stumps that used to be clawed hands.

Candidly put, goblins and malboros were apparently the sort of foes these knights ate for breakfast.

Olan supposed he shouldn't have been surprised, though. Not only were these six veterans of the War of the Lions, but they had also been Ramza's companions, literally from day one, and had seen battles from the war against the Corpse Brigade all through Ramza's secret war against the true architects of the War of the Lions.

Studying their techniques for a moment, Olan found their methods to be simple but effective. The heavy hitters, usually Raffe the dragoon or Wynefreede the samurai, would engage the foe head-on, relying on their greater strength and heavier armor to crush lesser foes and to pin down hardier ones. Meanwhile the skirmishers, typically Francis the thief and Mydrede the ninja, would use their greater speed and agility to race toward and then dart around the enemy, strike at their vulnerable flanks, and then dance away from the counterattack, often as not opening their foe up to a strike from another quarter. The ranged combatants, often Abel the black mage and Emery the white mage, would support their allies from medium to long range, waiting for a clear shot and then bombarding the enemy with spells. By working in trios, and sometimes shuffling their lineup to keep their opponents off-balance, the six Chimera Knights presented as a finely tuned machine that had ground its way through all manner of opposition.

This was made even more effective by how the strange crew had also implemented the techniques of other vocations into their own fighting styles. Raffe had also studied the martial arts of the monk, allowing him to engage in hand to hand combat when the enemy maneuvered too close for his spear to be effective. Francis had worked the dragoon's jump technique into his repertoire so that he could readily escape, and counterattack, when cornered. Abel had woven time magicks together with his black magicks, allowing him to grant greater speed to his allies and bombard foes with conjured meteors just as readily as he could summon fire and lightning. Wynefreede, in addition to a samurai's known prowess for fighting in deep water, had also used the geomancer's ability to overcome terrain that would otherwise put one at a keen disadvantage. Mydrede had discerned how to use the knights' art of war with her dual ninja blades, allowing her to shatter weapons and armor, to diminish their strength with quick cuts to the arms, and even to hamstring foes trying to escape with swift slashes to the legs. And Emery, who was keen to blow a few holes in the archetypes about white magics only being useful to chanting the blood off of those doing the real work, had also learned black magicks to lend her offensive strength, which she readily complimented with her unexpected prowess with guns.

All in all, Olan almost wished he'd stayed in his tent.

Almost.

Though Olan was a man of uncommon courage and grit, he was not a warrior. His unsporting yet incredibly powerful Celestial Stasis spell notwithstanding, his was a clumsy presence on the battlefield and the legendary skill of his famed stepfather simply did not carry over to him. His talents lay in espionage, statecraft, and in gleaning information upon which lives might, and often did, depend. Still, though not a knight himself, he had been born and bred amongst them and he could tell any of those knights he'd known in years gone by would be green with envy at this display. He was rather jealous himself, but he reined it in.

He had his own role to fulfill in mending the tattered kingdom of Ivalice, and he'd need all of his faculties to fulfill it.

A while later, once the motely band of goblins and malboros had been routed, which happily coincided with the rain stopping, the group quickly assessed the damage to themselves and their camp. Finding both to be negligible, Raffe promptly ducked into one of the tents and brought out what appeared to be a keg while Wyenefreede ducked into another and retrieved a collection of pewter tankards. Within moments, in which Olan gleaned was likely a ritual of victory for the sextet, they filled their tankards with a strong and foamy beer. Then, with a merry chorus of "Here's to us!" they clacked their mugs and drained them in long pulls.

"Ahem!" Balmafula spoke up, huffily displaying her empty hands. "Where's my drink?"

"Where's your tankard?" Francis smoothly retorted.

"Why would I bother bringing a tankard when you can find a tavern around every corner?!"

"Hey, beer is as important as mana when you're out in the field," Mydrede countered, which she accentuated with a purposefully deafening belch. "If you can't plan for how to get it, you won't get any."

Olan could swear he strained an optic nerve rolling his eyes.

"And here I was thinking that Knights of the Chimera were supposed to be gentlemen!" the witch groused with a breathy sigh, which became louder when Francis and Abel promptly re-shattered that illusion when the former began picking his nose and the latter scratching his armpit. "Well! If you won't serve a lady her drink, I'll just have to provide for myself."

Before anyone could ask what she meant, Balmafula stretched out one hand, palm up, and her brow furrowed in concentration. Her shapely lips writhed in words too quiet to hear and, with a final pronouncement that might've been "Trace on", a bluish light sparked to life in her palm. The strange light elongated, becoming the vertex of six glowing lines that extended outward for a short distance before suddenly shooting upwards. The glowing lines then spawned new tendrils, giving the strange construct of light a circular base and top, both fairly broad, and then a wide crescent on one side. Then, suddenly, it began to darken and solidify until a tankard, indistinguishable from the other six, was held in Balmafula's petulant hand.

"Well?" she asked trying to sound like she was still annoyed, but unable to hide her amusement at the knights' astonished faces. "Oh, don't gawk. This is just a facsimile. I can make facsimiles of just about anything, but they all disintegrate in an hour or so."

"Still, that's pretty impressive," Abel admitted. "Even if you can't, say, restock a whole armory, even being able to…er, "trace" weapons or potions in an emergency would be invaluable."

"Thanks," Balmafula replied, sounding more sincere than she might've intended. "Now, how about that drink?"

There was a short, but rather undignified, argument about just which of the three male knights got to tap the keg, which an annoyed Olan quickly rendered moot by handling the task himself.

The chancellor's frustration with the knights' shenanigans was promptly forgotten when Balmafula responded to this small courtesy with a smile that caused his cheeks to go warm.

It didn't help matters when she took a long pull from her drink, giving an enticing view of her shapely neck, and then her tongue began darting out to clean the stray bits of foam from her face.

His frustration promptly came roaring back, however, when he heard several snickers behind him.

Feeling for all the world like he was twenty years younger, at least, and being called out in class for letting his attention drift, Olan seated himself and wondered if the marsh might swallow him up.

"Ahhhh," Balmafula let out, with clear pleasure. "You lot have good taste. A rich, malty flavor, a hint of hops, goes down nice and creamy, and leaves a bit of foam in the mug for you to remember it by."

"Didn't think you'd be interested in a brew like that," Emery opined. "Even most women who have that kind of tolerance usually avoid this stuff. Too worried about their figures, they say."

"Well, if you ladies quaff this stuff after every fight, I'm guessing you're stockier than you look under those outfits."

After a moment's pause and several disbelieving blinks, the three female knights let out an indignant "HEY!" while the male knights barked a laugh at the witch's retort. Olan felt his own lips curl in a mutinous smirk despite himself.

After a few more minutes of good-natured shenanigans, and some talk comparing Balmafula's sorcery to the more common magicks of Ivalice, the group took advantage of the break in the weather to set up a campfire. Naturally, there was little dry wood to be found, but gathering what wood there was and then drizzling it with lantern oil soon had the group enjoying a warm and cheery blaze. Olan took the opportunity to ask about their techniques at greater length. Apparently, it had evolved since Ramza's band would sometimes split up, answering calls for help posted in the taverns which likely would've gone unanswered otherwise. Ramza's old classmates, it seemed, had been dispatched on many of these missions, and much of the treasure they'd acquired had since found its way into Lesalia's museum.

Further, Rad, Alicia, and Lavian had also been sent on these missions to help those who'd been abandoned while the warring dukes clawed at each other over the crown. Rad had swiftly gravitated towards the ebon armor of the dark knight, and then made that fearsome vocation all the more daunting by coupling it with a ninja's ability to wield a weapon in each hand and a time mage's ability to teleport around the battlefield. Alicia had developed a fondness for the martial arts techniques of the monk and, upon realizing she still had reserves of mana but no techniques which tapped them, used the time mage's mana shield so that any foe that landed a blow would drain her mana rather than inflict true harm. And, when Lavian had donned the horned miter of a summoner, she had mitigated the vulnerability inherent to casters with the samurai's impeccable technique for evading blows, known as shirahdori, as well as the mystic's ability to replenish mana while moving about the battlefield.

All in all, Olan decided that, despite how troublingly inscrutable this mission might be, he and Balmafula would at least be in safe hands while they searched for the mysterious "package".

Olan just wished he knew a bit more about what they were searching for…and why it filled him with such strange foreboding.

As if she had caught the thought, Wynefreede asked just what this mission from Delita might be. It was at this point that the chancellor realized he hadn't told them…not the smallest reason being there was almost nothing to tell…

…no, Olan realized suddenly. That may have been factually correct, but it was less a truth than it was an excuse. Long, displeasing years of having to work alongside sycophants and opportunists had, over time, led him to close himself off to his subordinates, save for those rare exceptions he already knew to be cut from a different cloth. Between that, and much of his work necessitating that secrets be kept, the sort of free and easy banter he had seen in the past few days was more than he had opened himself up to in years. Indeed, that particular habit of holding himself apart had become so habitual that he'd forgotten he had it.

Still, this was different.

He was among those he considered friends, or that he could be friends with. People who knew him and respected what talents he could bring to the proverbial table rather than seeing him as some living idol to be put on a pedestal or an opportunity to be milked for personal gain.

Perhaps, much in the same way Ivalice was changing, this was a good time to start doing the same with himself.

And, telling the others what he could about their mission, scant though his information was, might be a good start.

"Well," he began, choking down the uncertainty that simply refused to go away, "we're looking for a missing person."

A moment of silence, and then…

"…seriously?" Abel asked, sounding a bit let down that it wasn't something more grandiose. "Doesn't Limberry have constables for that sort of thing? Or, are they missing too? With all this mud, there's a lot of ways to go missing around here and not too many ways you're likely to be found."

"I mean, did Delita give us this assignment because I pissed him off?" Raffe asked no one in particular.

"Well," Emery began, "you DID ask him why he and Ovelia were taking so long making their heir."

"YOU DID WHAT?!" Olan thundered, scandalized.

"Hey, it's a perfectly reasonable question between old chums," Raffe replied feebly.

"No, it isn't," Mydrede said flatly.

"Yes, it is."

"No, it isn't," this time everyone said it.

"Well, that explains what Raffe is doing here, but what about the rest of us?" Francis asked.

"Well…" Raffe began nervously. "I might've…let slip…that we hand a…betting pool going on…about just when he'd knock Ovelia up…and that Emery had…the best odds."

"YOU DID WHAT?!" Olan roared, this time addressing the lot of them.

"Hey, Gemini, Cancer, and Leo are the best times for healthy birth weights, so of course I have the best odds," Emery pointed out. "It's your fault that you guys didn't bother reading up."

"That is entirely beside the point!" Olan fumed, pausing to facepalm. Hard. "You seriously didn't think it might, just might, blow up in your faces, taking bets about your liege's sex life and then asking him about it? Getting a degrading assignment could've been the least of your worries!"

Granted, Olan knew more than enough of Delita's dirty little secrets to think that people gossiping about his sex life right in front of him was the very smallest indignity he deserved, but Olan still attached much value to the dignity and decorum that was supposed to be part and parcel to being a knight of Ivalice.

But, then again, he supposed that this was a sign of the times they'd been through.

Over the long and bloody Fifty Years War, as more and more sons and daughters of Ivalice left for the battlefield never to return, the relentless attrition necessitated that corners be cut in training Ivalice's defenders. Classes on the ethics and principles of knighthood, not to mention decorum, fell more and more by the wayside in favor of training centered on combat, tactics, and strategy, and even those saw a decline in standards as men, always more and always faster, were needed on the battlefield.

These six, along with Ramza and Delita, the latter's valedictorian status notwithstanding, had likely been rushed through graduation when battered and bloody Ivalice, humiliated and destitute after the Fifty Years War ended in their capitulation, found fresh enemies at home amongst the disenfranchised and disaffected.

So, there had been no time to learn such things etiquette and decorum.

And, even if there was, sitting through lectures by Professor Daravon was torturous enough. Reportedly, Orators could make their enemies literally fall asleep in the middle of a battle just by imitating him.

Having met the professor, Olan could believe it.

Still, perhaps it would be different now, with Ivalice at peace?

It was a pleasant thought, and those were scarce given what Delita had done to get onto the throne and what he might do now that he sat upon it.

"You really need to lighten up," Balmafula suggested, jolting Olan back to the present. "Delita has known this lot for years. He knows their…eccentricities, and he also knows they're the best. If he's sent them, and us, it must be for something important…despite appearances."

In truth, Olan knew that. But, if anything, it contributed to his disquiet. Still, knowing that he could do nothing about it at the moment, he shoved it back below the surface of his thoughts and focused on something he could control.

Such as his urge to bang his head against the nearest log over this lot's idiocy.

"Besides, if you're right about Drake becoming Grand Master of the Chimera Knights, I think we can expect some posh assignments," Raffe chimed in.

"Until he remembers what you said about his wife," Francis replied.

"Oh, this I gotta hear!" the witch spoke up, laughing airily and somehow coaxing the corners of Olan's lips to rise.

"It was after Agrias got pregnant, but before the rest of us found out," Abel said, pointedly ignoring Raffe frantically waving for him to stop. "He said she was getting fat – and, yes, he was that direct about it; surprise, surprise – and suggested she talk to Alicia about the diet she was using as part of her monk training.

That urge Olan felt to bang his head against a log promptly returned. With a vengeance.

"Hey, this was after she found out about the church's role in the war and that Ovelia had thrown in with Goltana," was Raffe's feeble excuse. "I thought she was stress eating…and having a second growth spurt in the chest area. Besides, it was Wynefreede who asked Agrias how she went up a cup size so fast."

"Deny it! DENY IT!" Wynefreede frantically contradicted.

"You asked her, and you were measuring your boobs with a scowly face," Myrdrede claimed. "We were bunking together at the time, and I nearly got a face full of your tiny tits when I stumbled into the tent after a long day re-killing undead."

The chancellor wanted to scream.

"So, for those of us keeping score," Olan groaned out, "you've asked grossly inappropriate questions about your king and queen's sex life, put up a betting pool on the subject, and told the wife of the man who might very well be your commander that she looks fat and that she ought to go on a diet."

"And asked how she got bustier," the witch added, her tone hovering between amused and stupefied.

"Far be it for me to cast aspersions on the judgment of a…friend," the chancellor continued, uncertain how to phrase his relationship with Balmafula, "but I'm quite certain you can expect more degrading assignments in the future. Especially if "Drake" becomes Grand Master. A LOT more."

These six were brilliant fighters, but it seemed they were just as dangerous to everyone's sensibilities as they were to any enemy.

The group exchanged bleak stares, as the prospect of other demeaning missions or their shenanigans being curtailed, or both, seemed to weigh upon them. And quite heavily, judging by their dour expressions.

"There's only one balm for a wound such as this," Raffe announced solemnly.

A pause, several more exchanged glances, and then the group nodded in unison.

"More beer," they chorused.

Olan facepalmed again, harder this time, as another round of drinks was imbibed.

Just how did these clowns graduate from the Gariland academy? He asked himself despairingly.

"So, who is this missing person?" Mydrede asked, after letting out a belch that might've been heard in Bervenia.

"Well, we don't really have much information about her," Olan admitted.

"What's her name?" Francis asked.

"We don't know," Balmafula admitted.

"Wait, what do you mean you don't know?" Abel asked, perplexed. "How are we supposed to find a girl when we don't even know her name?! …wait, who reported her missing?"

"That's a good question," Olan admitted. "King Delita simply instructed us to find her. There was no mention of who reported her missing, or even if she was reported missing at all."

The six Chimera Knights exchanged dumbfounded stares and, falling back on their favorite technique for dealing with frustration, quaffed another round of beers.

"Do we…BRRRRRUUUUUPPPPP! Do we know how old she is?" Mydrede asked.

"When was the last time you said "excuse me"?" Olan asked, annoyed.

"Olan," Balmafula said, smiling prettily but her words carrying a serious undertone. "We're sitting in the middle of damp, chilly marsh trying to figure out how to find a missing girl whose name we don't even know. I really think the lectures on manners can wait at least until we're someplace warmer and drier."

The chancellor conceded the point. And, when Abel broke wind an eyeblink later, he wondered if such a lecture would do any good.

"Well, the information we have, such as it is, says she could be anywhere from her toddler years to her early teens," Olan continued.

"Do we at least know what she looks like?" Wynefreede asked, sounding very near to angry.

"Sorry, no."

The Chimera Knights apparently decided that they needed another drink, and Olan frankly shared the sentiment. Recalling the contents of his damnably vague orders, he decided to give them at least half a cause for optimism that they hadn't been ordered to find a metaphorical needle in a haystack.

"The only thing we really have is an immediate relation, an older brother," he began. "So, we at least have someplace to start."

"That's a relief," Emery opined, though still grumbling. "So, we track this guy down and ask him if he's misplaced any siblings lately…wait a minute. Why didn't he report her missing?"

"Because he's dead."

"I knew I should've stayed in bed this morning," Wynefreede grumbled. "Well, if this brother has a name, then maybe we can make do with that. Go to where he lived, look into him, ask his neighbors, that sort of thing. So, who was he?"

"A Limberry noble, by the name of Algus Sadalfas."

The six knights had been taking yet another pull from their tankards but, at hearing the name, their faces screwed up in shock and they choked on their drinks. After long moments of coughing, choking, and sputtering, during which the intensity of their reaction had Olan's brow furrowing in worry, the group fell into a shocked silence as they regarded him in slack jawed astonishment.

"What…what did I say?" Olan asked, suddenly wondering if he really wanted to know.

And, over long minutes of pained recollection, the six Chimera Knights told him the tale.

Of how, when they had first graduated from the Gariland Academy alongside Ramza and Delita, they had joined the war against the Corpse Brigade. Of how, during a skirmish on the Mandalia Plains, they had chanced upon the aftermath of Marquis Elmdor's abduction and a survivor of the ill-fated journey, a squire of the Aegis Knights by the name of Algus Sadalfas. Of how Algus had proven himself an able combatant as their small band ultimately rescued the Marquis. Of how Algus, whatever achievements he'd had to his name, remained forever tarnished by how, during the Fifty Years War, his grandfather had, upon being captured by Ordalia, sold out his brothers-in-arms for his own freedom, only to die in disgrace, and at the hands of a mere squire no less. And how, as the tale became widely known across Limberry, and then beyond, House Sadalfas' bannermen deserted them, leaving that house, which had once been as revered as House Beoulve itself, reduced to a handful of penniless pariahs.

The knights even told of how, in spite of all that, Ramza and Delita could tell that Algus was a brave and skillful warrior and might've considered him a welcome addition to their band…

…if not for the fact that he was a terrible human being.

Many of the truly ancient families of Ivalician nobility viewed those of humbler births as being so far beneath them as to matter as little as the dust on their boots. Algus, however, viewed those of low birth with a contempt and hatred that bordered on genuine madness. Against the lowborn soldiers of the Corpse Brigade, he would sometimes get spun up into such a fury that he would attack with nary a thought to his own safety, even jeopardizing his companions by throwing formations and battle plans into chaos with his impetuousness and bloodlust.

Against those of the Corpse Brigade who were bound and helpless, he was a sadist of the highest order, taking unseemly pleasure on excoriating the lowborn for daring to rise against the nobility, inflicting wounds with his words as much as his fists, all while sporting a grin of manic delight.

Unsurprisingly, Algus grew to hate Delita, not only for the latter being practically a son of the wealthy and illustrious House Beoulve, but also for how Delita had begun to question the morality of their fight against the Corpse Brigade. And, the feeling of enmity was promptly reciprocated. It all came to a head, however, when the Corpse Brigade raided the Beoulve Manor, seeking human shields after their numbers had been decimated in a Hokuten counterattack and their final redoubt at Fort Zeakden was days away from coming under siege. Teta, Delita's younger sister, had been abducted, likely having been mistaken for Alma and, though Dycedarg had sworn her rescue would take precedence, Algus had been quick to puncture that illusion, angering Delita to the point of violence but also causing him to second guess whether he could trust anyone besides himself to save his sister.

True to form, Algus had conferred this insight with such callousness and condescension that, even hearing it second or third hand, made Olan want to find Algus's corpse and punch it in the face. Still, in a sad, sick irony, the late Algus had been proven right.

In fact, Algus had proven himself right when, having joined the offensive against Fort Zeakden, he had personally made the shot that had killed Teta, simply because she had been held between him and the last remnants of the Corpse Brigade.

Had he simply been simply following orders? Or, having seen Teta, a lowborn girl being raised alongside the cream of Ivalician nobility and having all that should've been as far out of her reach as the moon, and all that should've been his, handed to her on a silver platter, was it possible that his killing her was an act of jealousy and sick pleasure?

None could say, not the smallest reason being that Delita, having seen the murderous deed, had promptly disarmed Algus and strangled him to death.

The recollection petered out then, giving way to a long, solemn silence, contemplating how one simple act of cruelty had had effects that yet reverberated across Ivalice.

How might things have turned out differently if Teta had lived, and Delita hadn't embarked upon the path of manipulation and deceit that culminated in him snatching the bloody crown of Ivalice after all other contenders had unwittingly stuck their necks into his unseen nooses, only for him to draw them tight and see them added to the mountains of dead the war had left behind?

None could say, but that still left a pertinent question unanswered.

What would Delita want with the younger sister of the man who, assuredly, was his most hated enemy?

Olan could think of quite a few things Delita would want to do with Algus's supposed younger sister.

With her, or to her.

And, none of them were good.

A/N: Sorry for the late update. Hope you enjoyed and please review! ;)