Author's Pre-Chapter Notes:

This story is rated M for violence, graphic descriptions of gore, and crude language. However, there will be no sex scenes. Reader discretion is advised.

Also, this story assumes that readers have played Fire Emblem: Awakening all the way through. There are heavy spoilers on a per-chapter basis.

Lastly, this story is also heavily inspired by RoseWarden's Cycle, which is hosted right here on FFN. I implore you to check it out if you haven't already.

Cover art by me. I will upgrade through commission once I'm (eventually) done part 1 of this tale.

Enjoy.

With a swirl of the blade overhead, the warrior fell to the ground with a boundless scream, blood splattering behind her, painting the floor.

"No... This can't be happening..."

A man, a high-ranking lancer in his thirties, fell to the ground from the overwhelming force of his opponent barrelling through his defence. His weapon slid uselessly out of his reach and he palmed the wound in his shoulder. Warmth and wetness soaked through cotton, the shoulder plate that once armoured his figure shattering two blows ago. Sweat matted the torn-up grimace on his face. His eyes shrunk in fear as he scrambled back, legs kicking and shuffling, one arm holding him up. The fallen bodies of his comrades littered the room, crimson staining their clothes and the dusty stone walls. His escaped was blocked as he ran out of space to crawl, the back of his armour mashing into the corner where bricks met.

"You were supposed to bring us to glory!" the man cried.

A figure stood over him, slowly approaching. A deep red, tattered cloak covered most of his figure, a matching scarf hiding his chin and the line his lips made. He only wore yellow and beige cotton robes and pants, light travel wear that could filter the crippling heat of the Plegian desert's daytime. A well-worn sash held up cheap sack pants that covered up elegant leather boots. His gaze was unreadable except for the resigned glare beneath his furrowed eyebrows, his pointy, stark black hair matted and covered in sand, blue eyes glittering cold, unfeeling embers.

The man swallowed, witnessing the most terrifying sight in his life. "We all believed you! W-Worshipped you!"

The figure advanced, a gleaming white sword in his grip. The metal that made the blade glimmered in a mystical light.

"Loved you! We would have defied Naga and Grima's followers fourfold for you!" the man continued, panic reaching its plateau as the figure took one more step.

The man was swiftly and violently beheaded, leaving a splatter of gore against the nearby cabinet.

Blood spurted from the man's neck as his body became limp. The figure flicked his blade, getting rid of excess fluid. As he sheathed the weapon and walked away, he examined the room and its bodies, watching for movement, listening for breathing. Several old, wooden chairs lay fallen against the cool floor, scattered. A large table had been knocked over on its side, dumping the map and its flags unceremoniously. The remains of a shattered barrel and its rolls of parchment occupied one end of the room. Through small windows near the ceiling the sun peeked in, illuminating motes of dust and sand idling in the air. The men and women of the room were covered in wounds, faces forever stuck in shock and horror. The air reeked of iron and moulting decay. He left through the open door.

He came to a dusty fort courtyard, the fortress having seen better days. Sand-stained walls were crumbling, their century-old bricks cracking and folding from decades of desert storms. The guardhouse was collapsing and the guard tower had a hole in its side, slabs of ashlar strewn about. They had been there for a week as their new, temporary base of operations. It was easy to see why the fort had been abandoned: it was in the middle of nowhere, stuck against harsh Plegian sands and a southern continent sun with the nearest source of water two kilometres away. The mound of rock in the distance off to the north hinted where the builders got their supply for construction, but it was still a wonder as to why the fort was there in the first place. If there had been a road which the fort overlooked, it was long covered by grit and the passage of time.

But where there was once life and thriving people there was now a sickly silence. Several stalls and tents were knocked over, their cloth roofs thrown to the ground, forgotten. Wooden carts sat abandoned, all with at least one of their wheels missing or broken. Dead guards strewn about the fort walls, their leather armour burned to a crisp, women and men hanging limply off edges of stone. Civilian men, in road-worn, poor clothes, lay with naught a hint of movement, deep cuts all over their bodies, their life force soaking into the ground. Women in thin desert dresses huddled against the walls and in the corners, some trying to protect their children who also now lay still. A few of these people were disembowelled. Others were missing arms and legs. A select few were lucky, for their heads lay peacefully against the silt at the figure's feet unable to catch the suffering their dying body felt. They all lain without a breath. The wind kicked up a golden powder, rolling dust into fine round surfs that tumbled smoothly across the ground.

Nothing moved. Nobody made a sound.

There were blue banners posted inside and outside of the castle walls depicting a dragon curling around and swallowing a single moon. The guard tower's flag had been replaced by one with the same design. Some of the banners had been ripped and torn in the chaos. The material had been made through a rare desert plant called Cerulean Nightguard, a stalk that only grew against mountains or rock formations in the middle of the summer nights, blooming from silver moonlight. The banners shimmered in a certain light and could be seen for miles around when held up, a standard once announcing certain asylum from the Grimleal and Naga-damned Ylissian army.

He left the compound; there was no need to check the barracks, kitchen, or living quarters, as he already made sure they were void of life. His boots crunched against the sand, the pommel of his silver-light sword delicately clanking against his belt. There were more stalls and tents posted as shelter from the blistering sun outside the walls, but they too were abandoned. All the horses, both in and out of the property, lay flat with a foam leaking out of their mouths, a result of the poison he laced the horse feed with last night. There was a rough circle in the sand enveloping the fort grounds indicated by grains smelted to glass. A small number of flying lizards, wyverns, sat still against the earth, their owners also demised.

A shadow fell over the figure, and in an instant he jerked his head to crane up, arm following, palm open and displaying a clean-burning flame from the fingerless glove. A vulture hung overhead, circling, attracted by the scent of death. It was one of many that were sure to follow.

He lowered his hand, and the fire dispersed. There was nothing left. No trace of what had once been there, he knew for certain. Days thrice would pass and the sand would cleanse the skin sticking to their bones. The fort would be nothing more than a memory.

He picked east as his next direction. There was no path, no marks in the dirt to tell him where he was going or how to go straight. He used the orientation of the sun and his own senses to keep straight and strong his venture. His walk had reduced to a plod, his heels lightly scraping in the sand, one hand on the pommel of his sword. He hid most of his body from the rising sun with his cloak and scarf, the low-cast rays painting the landscape in an orange hue. Crystals glittered in the soot and pavement, and the steadily increasing heat was already creating image mirages in the distance.

An unascertainable amount of time passed. Sweat dotted his brow and freely rolled off his cheeks. The desert passed on endlessly for miles, shades of short and bright yellows cresting on rolling dunes. The sun swung back and forth against the horizon and open blue sky. With the warmth in the wind, he was promised clear weather and comfort but did not predict a moment for calming himself. Sand beetles, sink holes, and silt worms could appear at any time, especially on an unmarked trail, he knew. Tan particles skittered along the ground as the movement in the air swooped low. His feet sunk going up gentle hills as he walked around peaking heights in the sand that would reveal his location if he stood atop.

He did not bring water nor food, only his sword and the clothes on his back. Eventually, after a certain point, his feet began to drag ever so slightly. He wasn't sure how far he needed to go. He began to sway on his feet as the first stalks of grass popped up from the ground when sand began to transition into soil. His weakness, he knew, was not from exhaustion or the way the sun pounded endlessly on his being, but from the inside. He felt a burning from within demanding to get out.

His vision blurred. He began to stumble every couple of steps as his balance failed him and he swayed in his path. There was not a soul that had met him on his journey. Despite his countenance, he kept walking, forcing one foot after the other.

He could see the beginnings of trees against the horizon when he fell to his knees, his legs no longer cooperating with him. Against the dirt, his head slumped forward, his eyes barely able to keep themselves open. The searing heat inside was agonizing. His breathing was heavy and laboured. His body had stopped sweating hours ago. He had no ability to discern how long it had been since he left the site of his massacre. He could have been walking for hours or even days. It was of little importance to him.

As he fell forward he clutched at his chest. A glow began to emit from between his clenched fingers. He landed harshly, his face to the left, caking his cheek in dirt.

As the light in his hand intensified to shine beneath his body, his figure began to defuse into glowing lights of dust.

He is... coming to... the man thought to himself, closing his eyes.