(And with that, we've finished Part Two, and our story's about one-third of the way finished! It's been a crazy few months, everyone, and when I get the website reconfigured, I'll tell you all about it. For now, I need time to sort out other projects, so I'll be taking a six week break before we launch Part Three. If you're hungry for more content, check out quickascanbe dot com, and follow me on Twitter and Facebook. Thank you so much for reading)

Chapter 61: The War of the Lions

Bethla Garrison crackled. Electricity hummed through the air, the tingling weight of a storm about to break. Every inhabitant of the fortress, from the lowest servant to the highest courtier, scurried with a look of dread and panic in their eyes, as though waiting for that first crack of thunder to signal the downpour.

Count Cidolfas Orlandeau could not begrudge them their fear. He too, was afraid—perhaps more frightened than he had been since the last battle against Ordallia's forces, with the thunder of cannons and the flash of distant spells, the deep rumbling of cliffs collapsing as the Nanten and their allies had fought to keep the foe from Zeltennia's heartland. Cid had been at war since he had been old enough to wield a sword; the past years of uneasy peace had not dulled his instincts, or his memories.

The Nanten had been assembled in full, patrolling the far fringes of Zeltennia as the bulk of their forces massed along the border. The Marquis de Limberry had assembled his own army, as had the Viscount Blanche and all the lords of Zeltennia and Limberry. They had begun these preparations when Louveria had accused both Goltanna and Ovelia of treason. They had been made more tense still by the conflagration near the old Ydoran shrine—the conflagration that had wiped out both the Cult of the Ebon Eye and the Black Sheep who had gone to stamp them out. And now they found themselves, stunned, reeling, and unsure, with the Princess Ovelia Atkascha herself among them.

Cid's old, weather-worn cloak flared around him as he hurried down the hall to the grand chamber where Goltanna had called his counselors together. Olan hurried at his side. "Tell me again, Olan," Cid said.

Olan's reddish brown eyes were steady, but sweat stood out against his pale forehead. "A single chocobo approached from the northern highroad last night," he began, for the third time. "This chocobo bore two riders and was accompanied by a single woman on foot. When challenged by a soldier on patrol, one of them claimed to his companion as the Princess Ovelia Atkascha. The soldier reported the matter to his commander, who brought them directly to the Duke."

But none of this made sense! Goltanna had his doubts about Ovelia's guilt, but he had ostensibily agreed with the official story about her treason, and sworn she would be brought to justice. It was no surprise that Goltanna would at least offer safe haven to the Princess until he had learned the truth. But the soldiers had no reason to believe that would be the case. Which soldier? Which commander?

"I'll need you to gather information on the garrison of the highroad gate," Cid said.

"I'm already begun assembling a dossier, father."

Always so quick! Cid smiled at his adopted son, his blue eyes softening for a moment, his trim silvered beard gleaming in the runelight from the walls. "Thank you, Olan."

Olan flushed and nodded so his pointed chin almost hit his chest.

They entered the vaulted chamber from which so much war had been commanded—by any standard a throne room, though all Goltanna's followers were careful never to call it such. Goltanna was proud of his royal blood, but his rivals feared it, and any insinuation of power and prestige above Goltanna's already-lofty station would bring unofficial censure at the very least, if it did not provoke an all-out war. Cid was sensistive to these realities, even if he found them pointless; Bethla Garrison had been a stronghold of the Nanten since before Cid had led them, and had been the seat of great powers since the time of the Ydorans.

Goltanna occupied the marble throne on the far side of the room. Cid admired his liege lord's composure; in spite of the tension that racked the fortress, Goltanna seemed attentive without being concerned. His heavy mustache drooped down past well past his chin, and his hands were clasped in front of his ever-growing belly. Though the years had fattened Goltanna, they had not decreased his essential strength and solidity; he was stout more than he was fat, and seemed as stable and eternal as an ancient oak. The runelight gleamed off his bald pate.

And seated at his side, in an ornate wooden chair reserved for guests of state, was the Princess Ovelia. It was Cid's first time seeing her—a blonde woman, slight but with tremendous poise. Her hands were folded in the lap of her faded, ragged dress. Large brown eyes were set back in a pale face, and Cid was at once struck by the power of those eyes. They regarded him as he came in with a distant interest, as though he were a bird soaring in the distance. That was a royal gaze.

"Cid!" Goltanna called, as Cid entered the room. "You took your time!"

"I apologize, my lord," Cid replied. He fell to one knee, with Olan beside him. "Given recent circumstances, I felt it best to reorder our forces, in case our guest should face pursuit."

Goltanna nodded. "I assumed as much. Thank you, Count."

"Thank, you," Ovelia said, with a smile. "I have heard so much of the Count Orlandeau. It is a rare pleasure to see reputation match reality."

Cid looked up. "You do me too much credit, your Highness."

Goltanna gestured for them to rise, and Cid and Olan did so, moving to a corner of the room near a high window, close to the throne. "We didn't offer her a change of clothes?" Cid muttered to Olan.

"We did," Olan replied. "She was adamant that we hold counsel at once."

That made sense. It was nearly a month since the Princess had fled from Orbonne, ostensibly the chief architect of a plot to assassinate Queen Louveria and Prince Orinus. She was wanted far and wide across the kingdom. Her position in Bethla Garrison was still precarious, and she was probably loathe to rest until she had a better grasp of her situation.

But the fact that it represented such political savvy confused Cid further. The Princess had bene kept far from the reins of power since Orinus' birth. She had been denied counselors and support. How would she have learned any of this?

While he puzzled over this, Cid looked around the room. A number of courtiers stood closer to the door, where a guard of some of his best Nanten stood waiting. A similar coterie of Nanten stood at the foot of the stairs that led up to the dais on which Goltanna and Ovelia sat. At the base of these stairs stood the Bishop of Canne-Beurich, his dark eyes glittering, and Chancellor Glevanne, his silvered pompadour a little limp, his eyes distant and thoughtful. Besides Cid, most of Goltanna's trusted advisors were scattered across eastern Ivalice, in command of their own forces—Viscount Blanche, Baron Bolmina, and Marquis Elmdor among them. It made for a rather lonely chamber; few indeed were the voices of reason.

But Cid's idle thoughts were forgotten when the Duke stood.

"I have gathered you all to announce my decision," Goltanna said, his hands braced behind his back to give him military poise. "I had nursed private doubts about our Princess' guilt, but in the absence of evidence to the contrary, I gave my orders to you all, to follow the Crown's orders. But her Highness has informed me that, far from being a sinister architect of devious plots, she has been the victim of such a conspiracy. And though I am loyal to the Crown of Ivalice, I will not allow it to simply kill a rightful heir to the Throne on the whim of a madwoman."

Cid's breath caught in his throat. That was dangerous talk, and there was no doubt Louveria would hear of it one way or another. Goltanna was intentionally provoking Louveria.

"Ovelia Atkascha is in my care," Goltanna said. "If the Crown wishes to arrange her a trial, so be it. But it will be a fair trial, conducted on territory I control. I do not trust her accuser to offer her impartiality."

He turned and bowed his head to Ovelia. Ovelia inclined her head in turn. "Thank you, cousin," she said. "It has been a long journey to reach you, but I am glad to see you have earned your reputation every bit as much as your soldier. If not more."

"You do me too much credit, your Highness," Goltanna said.

"I hope not," Ovelia said. "For if I am wrong, we are both in terrible danger."

Goltanna's head jerked up. "What do you mean, your Highness?"

Ovelia raised her voice. "The conspiracy that was aimed at me was aimed as much at you, cousin," she replied. "The man who saved me can tell you more."

Goltanna studied her for a moment, then gestured to the Nanten at the door. The soldiers in their red cloaks hurried outside, and returned mere moments later with a soldier in their midst. Clay-red hair hung down around his tan face, and one cheek was mottled with old burns. He had no sword at his hip—few indeed were the armed men allowed into the throne room—but he still wore armored leathers.

He fell to one knee as soon as the Nanten released him, bowing his head. "Your Highness," he said. "My lord."

"Rise," Goltanna said, gesturing again. "It is too much to ask the Princess' rescuer to bow to me."

"It is only your due, my lord," the young man answered, though he rose to his feet.

"Tell them your story, Delita," Ovelia prompted. "We haven't much time."

The young man nodded, and closed his dark eyes. His face was creased with weariness and pain. But something bothered Cid—something about the boy's name.

"My lords," he said. "I cannot claim credit for much of my deeds. If I have succeeded, it is only by the benediction of our Saint, by the sacrifice of a valiant Lionsguard, and by the insight of the Baron Grimms."

"You're one of the Black Sheep?" Cid asked, studying the boy. It was possible—Grimms' men had been a motley crew drawn from every station and every corner of Ivalice.

"A newcomer, my lord," Delita said, inclining his head. "I had only just joined them, when..." He trailed off and looked around. "Is there...is there word of them?"

Goltanna stared. "You...you hadn't heard?"

"Heard?" Delita replied at once, his voice taut. "Heard what?"

"Ah..." Goltanna trailed off, blinking sheepishly.

Cid glanced at his Olan, who nodded and stepped forward. "With your permission, my lord?" Goltanna nodded, and Olan looked to Delita. "I am sorry to break this news to you, Ser Heiral, but the Order is no more."

Delita stared at Olan for a long time. "I'm sorry?" he said, in a whisper that seemed about to fade into silence at any moment.

"You are aware of their last mission?" Olan asked. Ah, clever that: test whether the boy was a member of the Sheep as he claimed.

"I was present for much of it," Delita replied. "The Order of the Ebon Eye was plundering an Ydoran shrine and attacking anyone who tried to stop them. That is where we..." Delita trailed off, shaking his head. "What happened?"

"The Ydoran ruins held some power we did not know," Olan continued, firm but gentle. "The resulting spell...there were no survivors. On either side."

Delita's head jerked down in a clumsy attempt at a nod. His mouth worked, and his hands opened and closed. "I..." Delita shook his head. "I did not imagine...that the Largs would..."

Goltanna straightened up. "The Largs?"

Delita's eyes were closed. He nodded again, with a little more strength. "I am sorry, my lord. I..."

"No, no," Goltanna murmured. "Of course."

Cid glanced towards his son, who wore an expression of neutral curiosity that would have appeared authentic to any outside observer. But Cid saw the slight frowning curve to his mouth, the way one temple pulsed and the way one eye squinted. Delita's story seemed sensible enough to Cid, but something bothered him. What?

"Delita," Ovelia said. Delita looked up, and she said, in almost the same tone as Olan had used when sharing news of the Black Sheep, "There will be time for grief later. But my cousin must know of the powers arrayed against Ivalice. We owe your friends that much, at least."

Delita's eyes were wide and hurt, but at the Princess' words they narrowed. He drew a deep, shaking breath, and nodded more firmly. "I apologize, my lords," he said, raising his voice and looking around the room. "When the Baron sent me to warn the Princess and her guards, I did not think...I hoped to be reunited with them, so we could put a stop to this conspiracy."

"What conspiracy is that?" Chancellor Glevanne asked, his voice thick with evident distrust.

Delita glanced at the Chancellor, then away. "My lords," he said, raising his trembling voice and looking around the room. "You are some of the best and brightest of Ivalice. I do not say this to flatter you; I say this because I know you already have your own suspicions. Suspicions of loyal Lionsguard soldiers assassinated in Leslia. Suspicions of men and women who dress in Nanten cloaks and take action that would disgrace their commander. Suspicions of a Queen who would imprison all who threaten her power. Suspicions of the brother whose army enables her madness. And suspicions of the chaos that has spread like wildfire across every part of our kingdom."

As he spoke, Delita's voice had steadied, and assumed an orator's persuasive cadence. Even Cid felt part of himself captivated, as though listening to a talented bard relate a compelling story. At once, he understood Olan's distrust. This seemed too much a performance.

"I was recruited by the Baron as a result of his suspicions," Delita continued. "He feared the hands that pulled upon our strings. And when he found proof of the plot-"

"What proof is this?" Olan asked, polite as ever.

Delita looked up at Olan. Olan stared steadily back. After a moment, Delita said, "The bulk of our evidence rests in the hands of my comrade, Valerie."

"Valerie..." the Bishop mumbled from his place near Goltanna's side "Valerie Amfra? The mage?"

"You know her, Bishop?" Goltanna said in some surprise.

"I do," the Bishop said. "A promising member of the Magical Academy." The Bishop's pale face was set. "We had hoped to recruit her for the Templar Garrison here, in fact, but we had lost track of her until she showed up with these two in tow." He nodded to Delita and Ovelia.

"She was the one who first came to Grimms," Delita said. "She was part of the Academy team sent to investigate the Ydoran ruins, where the Ebon Eye..."

"I heard of this," the Bishop said. "I thought the Ebon Eye slaughtered every member of that team? That was part of what made them so dangerous," he added to Goltanna. "They stole some of the best equipment the Academy had, using it to empower their mages.

"Valerie escaped," Delita said. "With letters written to the cultists that proved the scale of the plot...and their intent." He looked to Goltanna. "The Baron first became aware of the plot when a letter arrived from Annabel Iphis of the Lionsguard, alerting him to the plot. That is why he moved with such haste to confront the Ebon Eye. With the city of Zeltennia threatened by powerful mages, you would have to focus a considerable portion of your forces here. That made it easier for the Largs to set the stage against you. Uprisings through the kingdom, weakening your power and those of your supporters, rendering you vulnerable to traitors, spies, and assassins."

"Ridiculous," scoffed Chancellor Glevanne. "I will not pretend Queen Louveria is some bastion of reason, but she cannot both be madwoman and a cunning spymaster."

"She doesn't need to be," Delita countered. "She has Dycedarg Beoulve."

"And what would you know of Dycedarg Beoulve?" the Chancellor retorted.

Delita stared at the Chancellor in disbelief. "I thought you knew who I was?" he asked.

"How would I know such a thing?" the Chancellor growled.

Delita straighted. "My apologies, my lord. My name is Delita Heiral. I was raised alongside Dycedarg and Zalbaag, as a ward of House Beoulve."

Silence in the room. Cid looked between the red-headed young man with the burnt cheek and his son, whose eyes were squinted. Delita Heiral...he'd heard that name before. Where? From official reports?

"You were raised among the Beoulves?" the Bishop said at last, his voice reedy with disbelief.

"I was, my lord," Delita said. "I have seen firsthand the fruits of Dycedarg's treachery...and of his brother's willingness to acquiesce to it, for the good of the Hokuten." Delita raised a hand to his scar-mottled cheek. "For this reason did the Baron recruit me. His suspicions were fixed upon the Hokuten, even before he received Dame Iphis' letter alerting him to his hand in the scheme. He wanted someone who knew how they thought."

"Perhaps too well!" the Chancellor exclaimed. "How are we to trust a ward of House Beoulve?"

"You go too far!" cried Ovelia, rising to her feet, her eyes blazing.

The Chancellor was visibly cowed. "Your Highness, please-"

"No!" she snapped. "A skeptical mind is all well and good, but this man saved me from the clutches of a royal plot! He took an arrow to shepherd me safely from our Hokuten pursuers. And you have the gall to question...!" She jabbed one finger at him like a spear. "You will hold your tongue!"

Silence in the room, heavy with tension. Cid's eyes flickered between the Princess and her protector. A ward of the Beoulves...now he remembered! Balbanes had written him about just this, hadn't he? He felt a stab of old pain—he missed his old friend. Even in the thick of the war, their respective obligations had taken them far apart. They'd tried to write as regularly as they were able, but the plague had put an end to that even before it had put an end to Balbanes himself. The last letter Cid had received, months before the war's end, had spoken of these new wards he'd taken...and of the bastards he'd naturalized.

And now this long-forgotten ward appeared, speaking accusations against the leaders of House Beoulve and the Hokuten.

But perhaps more interesting even than this ghost from his past as the behavior of the Princess Ovelia. Again, Cid was surprised at her vigor and awareness. She had always been a factor in the delicate negotiations of Ivalice, but her involvement was an afterthought—move here to placate this Church luminary, dangle the promise of a marriage alliance to this noble or that one to keep them complacent. He had not suspected she had such strength. He would be surprised if anyone had.

"It seems you have become close during your ordeal," Cid said, raising his voice so he would be heard throughout the room.

The Princess and Delita both looked towards him. Delita's face was calm, but Cid could not make sense of the emotions he saw in Ovelia's face, a complex medley that baffled his attempts to decipher them.

"Men pretending to be Nanten came to fight my guard," Ovelia said, with just the faintest tremor in her voice. "While they were distracted, assassins used the Ydoran sewage system to infiltrate the monastery and try for my head. If not for Delita, I would be dead. If it is improper to grow close to a protector who risks so much on your behalf, than I will be gladly be improper." She paused, and her face softened. In a much more girlish voice, she asked, "I...I had hoped for word of my Lionesses."

Cid glanced towards Olan, who stood at stiff attention. Goltanna nodded, and Olan said, "We know nothing, your Highness. They disappeared in pursuit of you."

Ovelia nodded, and closed her eyes. Her jaw clenched.

"The Nanten will keep our eyes open," Olan added. "As will all who call us friends."

Ovelia's eyes opened. She managed a wry half-smile. "I am grateful. You are...?"

"Olan Durai, your Highness," Olan said, bowing his head.

"My intelligence officer," Cid added. "And my son."

Ovelia's smile widened, and she glanced at Goltanna. "It seems your whole court is kind and competent." She shot a withering glance at Glevanne. "With some exceptions."

Goltanna shrugged, even though his eyes blazed with pleasure at the compliment. "The Saint has blessed me." Glevanne's face was pale, and he held his hands stiffly at his side as though he were fighting the urge to clench them into fists.

"But you spoke of great urgency," Goltanna prompted. "What news of this plot?"

Before Delita could speak, the doors at the far end of the hall creaked open. "Pardon the interruption, my lords-!" said one of the soldiers standing guard outside.

"Let me THROUGH!" shouted a coarse woman's voice, and there was a burst of air that flung the doors wide open and tossed the soldiers back. Cid was already halfway across the room, Excaligard in hand, ready to cut down whatever mage dared assault his liege lord: Olan was a step behind him, both hands glowing with his luminescent own magic. But to his surprise, Delita was a step ahead of both of them.

"Valerie!" he called. "Calm yourself!"

"I will not!" she answered, and Cid had to admit she cut an imposing figure; runes gleamed upon her clothes, and wind billowed off her body, stirring the tapestries on the walls and sending her golden hair dancing in the breeze. She had a leather sheaf beneath her arm. "Not when the traitor stands in this hall!"

"Traitor?" Goltanna exclaimed.

"Those are my effects!" Glevanne shrieked in outrage.

Valerie, standing imposing in the doorway, took a step forward. "So you admit it!"

"CALM YOURSELVES!" thundered the Bishop, and so surprised was Cid to hear the meek, conniving man speak with such authority that he actually slowed, and risked a glance over his shoulder. The Biscop was clutching at his staff. "Tempers run high!" he said. "But we cannot afford mistakes!" He pointed with his staff. "Valerie Amfra! Cease this display at once!"

Valerie paled, and the magic died away. The soldiers around her slowly retook their feet, weapons in hand. Cid moved a little closer to her, ready to cut through any spell she might assail him with.

"Knights!" cried Glevanne. "Remove this assassin to the dungeons!"

"A moment, Chancellor," the Bishop said, quietly with the same surprising authority. "I would hear what she has to say. Would you not, my lord?"

Cid looked over his shoulder to find Goltanna contemplating the messy scene at the end of this throne room. He seemed uncertain, until Ovelia rested a hand upon his wrist. "Cousin," she said, just loudly enough to be heard. "I owe my survival as much to her as to Delita."

That seemed to decide Goltanna: his face steadied, and he said in a clipped voice, "You may speak, Valerie Amfra. But speak quickly."

Valerie nodded. "I apologize for my temper, my lords," she said. "But I could not stand by and do nothing, not again. My friends and teachers were..." Valerie closed her eyes. "Were slaughtered, to keep these secrets. I will not stand by and let it happen again."

"You found the proof?" Delita said.

Valerie nodded, and lifted her eyes to Goltanna. "When I escaped the Zeltennia ruins, I was able to lay hands upon the private correspondence of one of the cult's leaders, who was made aware of several uprisings across Ivalice before they happened. That included the note about Orbonne-"

"Which is what warned us of the plot against the Princess," Delita added. "Between the death of a Lionsguard warning us of Dycedarg's involvement, and these interlinked outbreaks of violence, we had proof that this plot reached high into the echelons of the Hokuten..." He searched Valerie's face.

Valerie nodded. "Annabel Iphis passed on many documents that she found at the cost of her life, including this." She reached into a pocket and pulled out a crumpled letter. "This unsigned note was found in Prince Larg's personal correspondence, outlining the lamentable weaknesses of several Nanten garrisons, particularly in their bookkeeping" She held up the leather folder with her other hand. "I hope you will forgive my impertinence, but I took the liberty of comparing it with the Chancellor's personal correspondence."

Utter silence in the hall. Glevanne's face was as white as a corpse.

"You are implying-" the Bishop said, and his authority was gone, his voice cracking like a pubescent boy's. "You are-"

"You're sure?" Ovelia asked, and her voice was racked with anxiety but somehow still firm, afraid and yet resolute.

"There can be no doubt," Valerie answered.

Ovelia turned her gaze upon the Chancellor. "I see," she said. "So for what did you sell out your liege lord?"

"This...this is madness," whispered the Chancellor. "We have only your word the letter exists-"

"I am more than happy to show you all," Valerie said.

"I...I manage many of the affairs of Zeltennia," the Chancellor continued, a little frantically. "And the Hokuten are allies of old, surely I cannot be blamed for official business-"

"If the business is so official, why is the note unsigned?" asked Ovelia. "And why would you provide the exact information that Larg would need to pretend the men who tried to take my life were Nanten soldiers?"

"This is an outrage!" breathed the Chancellor, though he seemed closer to sobbing than shouting. "You have no proof you have no-"

"We have proof enough," Ovelia said. "Delita?"

"Your Highness?" Delita said, straightening up.

"Execute the traitor."

Without hesitation, Delita moved across the room—again, faster than Cid would have credited. One of the soldiers nearer the throne reached out to stop him; barely looking at him, Delita pivoted, planted his foot in the knight's belly and knocked him to the floor while pulling his sheathed sword from his side.

"No!" the Chancellor shouted. "You cannot-"

But his words were interrupted by the sword that sliced across his throat. Blood poured down from the ragged wound, and soaked the Chancellor's white robes. He gasped, blinked, reached out one feeble hand, and fell lifeless to the floor.

There was silence in the room. Cid stared at the tableau—the one-time ward of House Beoulve with stolen sword in hand, the dead (traitorous?) Chancellor at his feet, the Princess who had given the order standing regal on the dais. He did not know what he was supposed to do.

"What did you do?" the Bishop whispered, his back pressed against the stone wall.

Ovelia shot an imperious glance towards the Bishop. "You will forgive me if I do not waste time on civilities that were not extended me—and, I assure you, would not have been extended my cousin."

Goltanna did not speak. His eyes were fixed upon the Chancellor's crumpled form.

"My dear cousin," Ovelia said, and took Goltanna's hand. Then she fell to her knees in front of him, her forehead pressed against his fingers.

Gasps around the room. Goltanna started from his reverie, and struggled weakly to pull her to her feet. "Your Highness! Please, this is unseemly, you should not-"

"You have given me safe haven from my enemies," Ovelia whispered, resisting his attempts to pull her upright. "You have behaved with honor, for all the traps they weave for you. As they turn your court against you." She lifted her eyes to him, shining with emotion. "I cannot imagine what you have faced, with the accusations laid at your feet."

"Your Highness..." Goltanna breathed.

"But I must ask more of you," she said. "I have no army of my own. This false queen, this poisoner of rightful kings and this abuser of righteous men...she has tried her best to see me dead. And I swear, cousin, if by my death I could buy peace for Ivalice, I would, but...but I fear my dying would only be the start. She will not be content to see me put to the sword. She will not rest until any who might threaten her—any who might stand for Ivalice, rather than for her—are done away with."

Goltanna no longer tried to pull Ovelia to her feet. His red-brown eyes seemed very strange, glinting with a light Cid didn't recognize.

"Cousin," Ovelia said. "I would protect Ivalice. But I cannot do it alone."

Goltanna fell to his knees at once. There were gasps around the room—Cid was surprised to find he had gasped as well. He did not recall ever seeing Goltanna kneel, except in prayer.

"Your High-" he began, and then broke off, shaking his head. "No," he whispered. "I use the title your usurper has inflicted upon you. Your Majesty."

Something cracked inside Cid then. He felt that crack echoing across the clouds of tension that had engulfed Bethla Garrison. He felt it as though thunder had rumbled on the horizon.

Your Majesty. In those words were war.

"Olan," Cid said under his breath.

"You will need our fastest messengers," Olan replied quietly. "I will go."

He hurried from the chamber without pausing to ask for anyone's permission. Cid doubted Goltanna would notice this breach of protocol; he was still speaking to the Princess-

"-I confess I myself have been deluded by the usurper. I knew she was an impetuous creature, but to sink to such vile deeds..." Goltanna shook his head again. "To turn my own Chancellor against me, to instigate revolution and violence that would make us remember the Death Corps with fondness...I do not believe I was capable of imagining the depths to which she would sink. But now that I know, I fear not for my own life. I fear the depths to which she would take Ivalice, if we allow her to sit the throne."

He stood up, and pulled the Princes—no, not any longer, the words Majesty had changed everything—pulled the Queen to her feet. "I will fight for the rightful Queen of Ivalice, against the assassin who would see her dead!" Goltanna roared, and that was the voice of the general who had commanded armies in the widest and bloodiest war on Ivalician soil since the time of the Ydorans. "Are you with me?"

Shocked, battered, and bewildered as they were, the soldiers and officials in the room knew the call to action when they heard it. More than that, they longed for it—even Cid wanted the clarity of purpose to guide him from his shock, doubt, and confusion.

"YES, MY LORD!" the howled, in one great voice.

The echoes of the shout had not quite died when Cid stepped towards the Duke. "My lord!" Cid said. "If we are to march, I must make ready-"

"Go, Count Orlandeau!" Goltanna answered, and Cid turned and went, sheathing Excaligard as he hurried to the still-open wooden doors.

"Mage Valerie," Goltanna said behind him. "Please join us. I must know the scale of this plot."

Cid was just passing the mage when Goltanna called out to her; Cid glanced over his shoulder as she hurried forwards, joining Delita and the Bishop as they ascended the dais to speak in low voices with the new Queen of Ivalice and Duke Goltanna. All of them wreathed in questions: how had a ward of House Beoulve joined forces with this mage and this Princess? What had they faced, in the weeks since this attack on Orbonne?

With an effort, he turned away from them. Whatever they were speaking of could wait for another day.

Olan was waiting for him just outside, pages, squires, and messengers pressed against the walls, waiting for their orders. "The bulk of our forces are here, and we have no time to worry about supply trains," Cid said quickly. "We must take Lesalia before they even know we march. Send our fastest riders to every town and garrison around the route, to have supplies ready and waiting for us on arrival. And send a messenger to the Marquis, as well; he must march on Gallione, to distract the Hokuten."

The pages moved, one way or another; Cid was already hurrying down to the officer's wing of the fortress, to prepare his best advisors. "We need more information," Cid continued, as Olan fell into step beside him. "On Glevanne's correspondence, on Hokuten spies, on...everything." He looked at Olan. "I can trust no one else."

"I know," Olan said, and hurried away to make ready. Cid was not sure what now ticked in his son's mind, but he was sure it was an insight only he was capable of, and he would let Cid know what he required to confirm it.

And for a moment, Cid allowed himself to freeze. He allowed himself to feel the sheer, stunning weight of what had just happened, and what was to come. The Chancellor's treachery (and his so-swfit execution) would necessitate a reshuffling of the power structures of all eastern Ivalice—not to mention the death of Grimms and the possible hand of the Hokuten in the uprisings and revolts devouring the kingdom. And now the two great armies of Ivalice, who had together turned back the Ordallians and preserved Ivalice from destruction, would tear each other apart.

Was there no stopping it? He had fought alongside Dycedarg, Zalbaag, and Bestrald; he knew first-hand many of the generals and officers who would face him in battle. Did he really have to fight the men Balbanes Beoulve had trained and led? Did he really have to kill men he had once considered comrades?

In the days before the Heavenly Knight and the Thunder God had become soldiers of renown, the Gariland Academy had not been the gold standard for training—merely one of many sources from which the regional lords could draw their potential commanders. Cid himself had been a squire in the Nanten. He had met the recently-graduated Balbanes when the two of them had been messengers on the frontlines of Zelmonia, and had to take up arms against and Ordallian incursion. Swords in hand, surrounded by Ordallian men-at-arms, they had fought together with all their strength.

Hokuten and Nanten, united for the good of Ivalice. Was that not the way it was supposed to be? Did not the legends of the Zodiac Braves make clear that the separations between the so-called kingdoms were illusory, their borders the creation of the ambitious who sought to rise at the expense of their rivals?

Cid reached into the folds of his cloak, and felt for the treasure of House Orlandeau—the gleaming Libra Stone, passed onto them by the founder of their house, who might well have been a disciple of Ajora (or might just as well have been an Ydoran executioner: he had heard it both ways, over his long years). He clutched at its solid, potent weight, and for a moment dreamed that he could be a Brave, and find some other way. That he could be the hero he'd believed in, when he and Balbanes had stood back-to-back, surrounded by foes, trusting in each other in spite of their different backgrounds.

But then the moment passed, and Cid was off and moving again. His soldiers gathered now to prepare a lightning strike against the capital of his kingdom—against a Queen who might well have poisoned her husband and arranged for the death of her adopted daughter. He did not know who he could trust, or how far this conspiracy might extend. But he hoped that if he acted decisively—if he, like Balbanes, refused to turn away from the horror, but plunged straight through, in the hopes of saving who he could—that this grim and awful war might end in a single strike.

Hoped, and prayed, and doubted, as he strode through the halls of Bethla Garrison. Hoped, and prayed, and doubted, because he feared that no matter how strong the soldier, how weak the soul, or how godly the man, they would all be in danger soon enough.

...Ivalice could not live beneath the rule of two opposing Queens, and the ambitions of the powerful made compromise impossible. The White Lions hoped to hold onto the throne they'd claimed: the Black hoped to depose his great enemy, and seize the reins of power with which his foes had threatened him. So the Nanten marched on Lesalia, confident in their righteous rage; so the Hokuten stood fast, to defend the righteous order; so the great armies of Ivalice clashed mere years after they had stood shoulder-to-shoulder against the Ordallian menace, confident in their righteous cause.

Ten thousand died upon the first day. Another ten thousand all the next. And as war spread across Ivalice, all the powers of the kingdom leapt into the fray on one side or another, and fanned the flames still higher.

In the shadows, the conspirators who'd arranged for an inconvenient princess to stay on history's stage watched with greedy eyes as the war spread. Some hoped to see the Lions so exhausted by their War that they might be tamed—or killed outright. But others, unknown even in the ranks of the conspirators, nursed a darker hope. Others hoped the war would never end, to properly baptize the Bloody Angel they served.

-Alazlam Durai, "The Zodiac Brave Conspiracy"