(Publishing one chapter a week until the end of Part 5)

Chapter 124: The Will of God

As a Cardinal of the Glabados Church, Frederick Bremondt knew that all things happened according to God's will. But as a man blessed from the day of his birth, and every day thereafter, Frederick Bremondt knew something else: that his will was often the same as God's. He had only to want something, and that something would be his.

God had laid a wondrous path for him from the first day of his birth. He was the only son of the proud Bremondt family, nobles of Gallione who could trace their lineage all the way back to Ajora's Disciples. His parents favored him, spoiled him, indulged, him, taught him, and trained him. He excelled in school even before he awoke to his Dragoner abilities. And when they did—when, in playing the role of a dragon to his friend's knight, he breathed honest fire upon a hilltop near his home—he realized his life would never be the same.

It was a long way from those childhood games to this place of pride, commanding a warship strong enough to lay waste to any rival, as his Amazons hurried to and fro at his command, and metal Workers brought back to life by his magic and ingenuity tested the cannon mounted on the Invincible's bow. He was a man of legend, aboard a ship of legend, surrounded by figures of legend. He was so close to securing his legacy. He was so close to making sure his story would have the ending he deserved.

It was obviously a story, as every moment Bremondt could remember had been. Look at this storied child, born to a storied lineage, heir to a storied power. He knew the lives of others could seem winding and treacherous: he had seen friends and colleagues struggle with indecision and uncertainty, and sympathized with their pain. He could not imagine what life would be like, if it did not seem every step of the road he was to walk had been paved before him by some unseen power. He had felt this certainty all his life: when the Templars came calling, he understood at last that it was God who had paved the road for him, to lead him to this place. He, like the Saint before him, would lead by example, prove himself worthy of his many blessings, and pave a road for others to follow.

And then, he found Reis. Or rather, Reis found him.

Bremondt had been a public figure almost all his life: ever since his Dragoner powers had awoken, and he had begun his education among Gariland's many academies. He was used to being something of a spectacle, used to being sought after for reasons grandiose, mundane, eccentric and selfish. Letters had started to come to him when he was no older than 14: he corresponded with nobles, merchants, priests, mages, generals, historians, and many more besides.

Every so often, he would receive a letter from some poor soul deluded into thinking they had a Dragoner's strength. When he had received the first such letter at 17, he had been excited: someone else he could share his journey with! But when he had found the drunk in Bervenia babbling about breathing fire, his heart had been crushed. He had helped the drunk into the care of the Church, but his heart had hardened after that. His path was one he was meant to walk alone.

He tried to salve that pain as best he could. He imagined there were other children somewhat like him: talented in their own ways, but condemened to ignominy by accidents of chance and birth. As his power and influence within the Church grew, he sought out such talent in Ivalice's many orphanages. The boys he helped enroll in the Templars, but the girls were a different matter: female Templars were not unheard of, but they tended to be frowned out, as they were in the higher echelons of most of Ivalice's military forces.

Pointless, utterly pointless, talent squandered and left to rot upon the vine, and Bremondt did not want any child to feel as alone as he felt, so Bremondt paid for their training out of his pocket. The program started very small indeed: a talented mage here, a talented soldier there, an occasional scholar, an apprentice machinist. And when they had finished their training, every one of those girls had wanted to repay their debt. When he had amassed a small squadron of such women, he felt they deserved a name of their own, a legend like his. So Bremondt had named them after the elite female warriors who had once resisted Ydoran invasion, centuries ago. He had named them his Amazons.

And look around him now. There was Beatrix, his resolute captain, her sword arm as strong as the legendary Lioness for whom she was named. Behind him, manning the helm, was Elyn, as fierce a sailor as had ever plied the seas. Down by the cannon. Hilda was barking orders to one of the Machinists as she tightened screws near the base: she was nearly as skilled a machinist as Barich Fendsor.

So many strong women, whose talent would have been wasted. So many stories that would have gone untold. He had done as God had wanted him to do: he had tried to pave the road for others.

And God had rewarded him.

Bremondt well-remembered Reis' letter, on crumpled paper of bad quality, written by a child at the Duelar Orphange in Igros. Letters from children were not so unusual: not with the work he did raising funds for the orphanages, much less the various orphans he'd sent to the Templars or to private instruction. Nor was it the first letter from a child claiming she had Dragoner powers: many children mistook their private fantasies for legendary power. Twice before, those children had merely mistaken their budding magical abilities for Dragoner talents (one of those children was back at Bahamut Isle, making sure the shrine was ready for him), so Bremondt always paid extra attention to these.

And then the child said something he couldn't ignore. She had described how her magic worked: she had described the feeling of immense, almost alien, strength inside her, like a beast growling in her chest.

Bremondt remembered sitting at his desk, staring at the letter in disbelief. He remembered that childhood game on the hill near his parent's manor, as his friend Basch had galloped towards him with a large stick in hand, playing at knighthood. His shoulder still stung from the place where Basch, larger and stronger than Bremondt, had struck him once before. But Bremondt refused to cower: he refused to run. He would win this game, as he won all games. And when he roared his pain-laced anger at his friend, something else had roared inside him, and turned his roar into fire.

That roar had launched him from his talented childhood into his meteoric ascent. But, though Bremondt had often told the story of his make-believe game on the hill near his house, he had never told anyone else of the beast that had roared fire inside him. He had never told anyone that, when he had breathed fire at Basch, the beast inside him had meant it to burn him. Even in his youth, he understood: his story would have had a very different direction, had he burned his friend to death.

So at every step of his Dragoner training, he had mastered the beast more sternly. Its wild rages had to be suppressed: its fits of furious passion had to be directed. He could not afford to lose control, as he walked the path God had laid out for him.

And now a child spoke of just such a beast.

He had gone to the Duelar orphanage, with a gift of blankets, food, and toys. He had entertained the children with little tricks: letting fire curl from the corners of his mouth, or inflating a large sheet with a beat of phantom wings. And as he did his tricks, he looked around the orphans for some sign of recognition-

And saw her: a gangly young girl, with eyes of striking violet gone wide with disbelief.

Reis Duelar. A Dragoner, just like him. After years caring for the stories of others, God had rewarded him: he was not alone.

"Should be ready, your Eminence!" Hilda called, stepping back from the cannon mounting.

The Cardinal nodded. He had been alone for too long now: Reis would not slip from his grasp again.

"All hands to battle stations!" he bellowed. "And engines to full power!"

So close now. So close to setting the story back to rights. So close to his future, his happily ever after.

He had helped many young men and women in his decades of work with the Church, but he had never had a protege of his own. He could impart aspects of his knowledge to Reis that no other living soul could understand. But more than that: he found someone who could show him parts of his power he never knew. Wind and fire were a Dragoner's bread and butter, but she had invented uses for them he'd never thought of. Once he'd taught her how to make her phantom wings stronger, and beat powerfully enough to throw gusts, she used them to leap to the rooftop of a nearby chapel. And after a moment's surprise, he'd followed her, laughing as he leapt through the air.

She was poised, and brilliant. She was also young, and headstrong, and reckless. He could not blame her: his power had truly awoken in a fit if childish pique, while hers had awoken saving her from enemy soldiers. She thought she could trust the beast inside her: he had to show her otherwise. But still, there was surprising wisdom for a girl so young, and surprising grace.

He could not teach her everything: there were others she needed to learn from, and besides, Bremondt still had his duties. But he relished seeing her grow, both as a Dragoner and as a woman. Before his eyes, the gangly girl had blossomed into womanhood: broad-shouldered and willowy, with her long limbs and neck bespeaking the power she carried inside her. Bremondt had never known satisfaction like this: the satisfaction of seeing someone grow into a peer, under your tutelage. He had been alone for so long: he was lonely no more. For long years, he was content.

The first shock to his contentment came shortly after she had finished her schooling Gariland. There was an odd longing to her violet eyes, when she looked out the window: there was a secret smile that she hadn't worn before, worn when she didn't know he was watching.

"You seem distracted, Reis," Bremondt remarked, one lazy afternoon in the Cathedral library.

Reis started, dropped the book she hadn't been reading, and flushed. "Oh, I'm...I'm sorry, Father, I was..."

"Daydreaming?" Bremondt smiled, thought he felt something prickle in his heart. "About what?"

"I..." The red in Reis' high-boned cheeks deepened. "It's just..."

"Just?" Bremondt prompted, still smiling merrily, still ignoring the prickling in his heart.

She couldn't meet his eyes. "I...I met a boy."

A boy! Of course. She was at the right age for it, and in Gariland besides. There was magic in that town quite different from that practiced at the academy: the wide-laned streets lined shadowed by old trees, the secret corners and secret knowledge of the libraries, the exhilaration of growing and learning...Bremondt had had his own dalliances in his time there, though nothing that amounted to love. The prickling in his heart was easy to push aside: she was young, and deserved her time to make mistakes.

That's all this was. A mistake. The kind you made on your road to adulthood. Bremondt's own short loves had taught him the same lesson as the drunk's letter. There was joy and meaning in such things, but no true companionship. She would learn that, as he had learned it.

Besides, there were worse mistakes to make. The boy turned out be Beowulf Daravon, son of the Military Academy's legendary Master Instructor. Her dalliance with him introduced her to Ramza Beoulve, and through him, to Alma Beoulve. Soon, she was spending her free time with the sole daughter of one of Ivalice's most prominent families. Reis' talent matched Bremondt's: now, she had connections to help her rise as he had risen. God paved the way for both of them, as he paved the way for so many things.

And when tragedy struck—when Alma Beoulve's lady-in-waiting was kidnapped by the Death Corps—Reis had come to him, and asked for his blessing to go after her. How his heart had ached, looking at her. She seemed more beautiful, more capable, by the day.

"It is not for Templars to take part in such worldly affairs..." Bremondt had started, and had seen the regret in her eyes, and hated it. "...but it is not in noble souls like yours to let such tragedies go unanswered."

With tears in her eyes, she had embraced him, and whispered her thanks into her ear. Her whisper had felt like electricity, and he had remained in his study for quite some time after she departed. He should stop her throwing herself into danger; no, he should gather his Amazons, and send them into the fight with her; no, he should demand the Templars march against the Death Corps...!

He did none of those things, because in each urge, he felt the dragon inside him stirring. It wanted those things too badly, too fiercely: it was hungry for them, because it was hungry for her.

How long had that hunger been there? Some shade of it had been with him for as long as he could remember. Blessed as he was with talent and ability, there was no one who shared his destiny, or his knowledge, or his power. The hunger would intensify in those moments when he found the world insufficient: with those Gariland lovers who seemed so shallow and incomplete, with the long-ago disappointment of the drunk in Bervenia.

But the hunger had changed when he read Reis' letter. Hope of satisfaction had been rewarded: he was no longer alone. Every lesson imparted, every conversation about the strength inside them or the beast within, was like a droplet of water poured down a parched throat. It satisfied, yes, but it also awoke a deeper need. He had been been thirsty for so long...

But it was not just his thirst. It was the beast's thirst, too. And he had learned long ago that he could not trust the dragon within. It was to be channeled, and used: it was never allowed to decide for him.

Besides: he was walking God's path, and God would reward him for it. She would test her strength against the world, and learn exactly how lonely the road she walked could be, just as he had. But unlike him, she knew he was there, waiting for her. She would realize that he was her only real peer in the world.

God prepared the way, though Bremondt did not see it at the time. Reis returned, heartsick and exhausted, from the campaign in Fovoham. The boy was terribly wounded: Ramza Beoulve and both Heirals had disappeared. At Reis' behest, he offered the boy a place among the Templars. He was not such a bad child—terribly young, of course, his body battered and his ego bruised by his battle with the Death Corps. A strong sword arm could be of use to the Templars...and besides, keeping him close might rob him of some of the romance a far-away lover had. But even he had not imagined how God would grant his request.

The boy had no magic. Not an onze of it.

Every Templar who had helped to train the boy agreed that he could not join their ranks. Every one said it with obvious regret. Bremondt mimicked their regret, because he was ashamed of the glee inside him. The boy had dreamed of greatness: now that greatness would never be his. It solved Bremondt's problems nicely...but it was hardly the boy's fault.

So Bremondt had tried to be kind, when he had invited the boy to his office near the Igros belltower and told him: "You cannot join the Templars."

The boy's acne-pocked face was horribly pale. "I'm sorry?"

"So am I," Bremondt lied, as the dragon growled with satisfaction inside of him. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, to master the beast and conceal his joy. "You are talented with a blade, and you work harder than any one I have ever known..."

"But?" The boy swallowed against the shaking in his voice.

"But you..." The beast was quiet now: Bremondt opened his eyes. "You have never broken a single sword, correct?"

"I...no, but-

"Have you ever tried to cast a spell?"

Beowulf nodded again. Bremondt could see the dawning realization in his eyes "It...didn't work." The fear was mounting "But...but that's not uncommon, lots of cadets can't cast spells, I-"

"Most magic fields are too weak to do very much," Bremondt agreed. "Without the right materials, only the most talented among us can do very much. Our dear Reis and myself are rare exceptions to that rule." His heart leapt with delight as he said it. Reis needed a peer, a partner, someone who could stand at her side. This boy could never be that: Reis could never be his. "Wiegraf Folles was another," Bremondt continued. "But Beowulf..." He sighed, and reminded himself that this was not the boy's fault. "You've been given the right materials. We've tested you in every school in which a Templar can presently be trained."

He rose from his seat, crossed to the boy's side. "Most of us can do little with a single finger-" he pointed at Beowulf. "But multiply that finger by five-" the rest of his fingers flicked out. "-and now we can do much more, no? But..." He closed his hand into a fist. "No matter how much you magnify nothing, it is still nothing."

The terror in the boy's eyes stirred fresh guilt in Bremondt's heart. "You're...what are you..."

The Bishop sighed again. "You have almost no magical field to speak of. There is no art, no weapon, that will change that." He rested his hand on Beowulf's shoulder. "I am sorry, child."

Sorry, yes. Sorry that you have encountered the ceiling on your dreams. Sorry that you walked a path not meant for you. God did not lay such roads for everyone: only the truly fortunate, the truly blessed. Bremondt was one. Reis was another. They would walk their path together. The boy's road had joined theirs for a time. Now it led to some other, lesser place.

Reis came to him later that night, while Bremondt was leafing through reports from the orphanages and the parish. She sat heavily in front of him. Bremondt was ready to comfort her: she had lost someone she cared for, after all.

But her eyes were not sad. They were bright and fierce.

"Don't dismiss Beowulf from the Templars yet," she said.

Bremondt sighed once more. He should have expected this. Reis was wise, and brilliant...and still so young. "He is a fine swordsman, Reis," Bremondt said. "But it takes more than that to be a Templar."

"I know," Reis said. "It takes talent. We only accept the best."

"And a talented swordsman is not enough."

"It would be, if he were a Silencer."

Bremondt laughed. "There's only one Silencer in all of Ivalice!"

"And he's willing to train Beowulf."

Bremondt's laughter died in his throat. A wave of cold gusted through his veins. "What?"

"Alister Rosenheim was in Igros on a contract from Larg," she said. Her eyes were burning. "I asked him to take a look at Beowulf. He'll give him a month. See if he has what it takes."

Bremondt's mouth was hanging open. Alister Rosenheim had been a name whispered in the halls of the powerful for years now: the only Silencer left in Ivalice, since his master Zidane had disappeared. Many members of the Templars had petitioned Alister to impart his skills to their initiates: Alister had declined every time. The only contract he'd ever taken from the Templars was one Bremondt himself had offered him, to help hone Reis during her training some years ago.

And Bremondt realized, to his horror, that he couldn't say no. The chance to have a Mage Masher in the Templar ranks was too valuable to pass up. Even if he wanted to say no, others in the ranks would question him, should they ever find out.

And besides...he couldn't say no to Reis.

"Oh, very well," Bremondt sighed. "If Captain Rosenheim is willing to take a chance, I can hardly do less." He shook his head, and managed a quavering smile. "I can hardly believe you managed to convince him. You have a big heart, Reis."

"A dragon's heart, one might say." Bremondt chuckled weakly at the joke, and Reis took his hand in hers: Bremondt felt a thrill tingle across his skin and his heart. "Thank you, Father."

"No need to thank me, Reis. It is only my duty."

She smiled at him: such a wry, lovely smile. It was older than her young face should have allowed, so full of knowledge and subtlety: it was one of the most beautiful things about her. "You're wrong about one thing, Father. It wasn't hard to convince Alister. I just told him the truth."

"The truth?" Bremondt repeated.

"That Beowulf's gonna be a legend, one way or another. This way, Alister gets to help shape that legend."

Bremondt shook his head. "You have that much faith in him?"

The fire in her eyes changed. The smile changed. And that gaze, that smile, broke Bremondt's heart. The heat in her eyes brightened, widened, strengthened: the smile softened, deepened, grew younger. It was like watching the sun rise over the horizon, painting everything in resplendent shades of dawn. That was more than love: that was devotion.

He thought of that smile, long after she'd left him with words of thanks. He thought of that smile, as he looked out the window of his room, and saw the lights gleaming in the streets and windows of Igros. He was Frederick Bremondt, Dragoner, Bishop of the Glabados Church. He should not feel this frail, this weak, this powerless. Almost he began to write a letter, regretfully expelling Beowulf from their ranks, claiming time, expense, anything so he would never have to see that expression on Reis' face again...!

He heard the dragon growling in his chest, eager for those things. He took a deep breath, and shook his head. No. God would provide. Besides, just because Alister had agreed to train the boy did not mean he had the talent for it. A Silencer's art was subtle, painful, difficult. Surely this would just be another obstacle the boy would fail to overcome, surely...!

But thoughts of the boy were nearly forgotten, when he was called away to Mullonde, and brought to the Confessor.

He had only met with the High Priest a handful of times, but each moment had been pregnant with meaning: in his early days as an initiate with the Glabados Church, upon his ordination into the priesthood, and his promotion to the Bishopric of Igros. Each meeting had marked an important moment on the path Bremondt had walked since his youth. This latest meeting would be no different.

"Archbishop Dysley will be retiring at the end of Scorpio," the Confessor said. "And we would like you to take his place."

This was no surprise: the Archbishop had told some of this to Bremondt last year, and Bremondt had fully expected to take his place whenever he decided to retire. But the Confessor's next admission took his breath way: "And with your promotion, is a high time we bring you in on our plans to save Ivalice."

Bremondt blinked. "Your Worship?"

"You will have heard about the Senate of Lords?"

Bremondt nodded. "Yes. A pity they could not resolve their differences with the Queen-"

The Confessor waved a dismissive hand. "No diplomacy now, Frederick."

The dragon growled appreciatively, but Bremondt hesitated. He did not like to speak so openly about such difficult matters. Even here, secure in the Mullonde Cathedral...who knew who might be listening?

As though to confirm his suspicions, the doors to the Confessor's book-lined office swung open, and Knight-Commander Tengille strode inside. He stopped to bow to both of them, tracing the sign of Virgo in the air in front of him. "Your Worship. Your Grace."

"Perfect timing, Vormav," the Confessor said. "I was just about to inform Frederick of what lies ahead."

"He's a smart man, Confessor," Vormav answered. "I'm sure he already knows."

"Knows what?" Frederick asked.

The Confessor gave him an exasperated look. "Frederick, you have been Bishop of Igros for years now, and your exemplary work is why I am promoting you to Archbishop of Gallione. You are not blind to political realities: in fact, you excel at working within them. So tell me: what do you think lies ahead for Ivalice?"

Again, the dragon growled inside him. Bremondt put a soothing hand upon his own chest. He took a moment to gather his wits, then said, "If the other lords of Ivalice cannot find some way to rein Louveria in...there will be bloodshed."

"Be honest, Your Grace," Vormav said. "There will be war. At least between the White Lion and the Black, and this business with the Death Corps raises the possibility of other armies, other factions. Perhaps another mass rebellion, or the Khamja could be the locus for a coalition of other forces, or the Ordallians could invade again, or..." He shook his head. "War is inevitable. But the nature of that war, and how it ends...that has not yet been decided."

Bremondt nodded. "What would you have me do?"

"We would have you do exactly as you have always done," the Confessor answered. "Show Ivalice all that is best, kindest, and most generous in the Glabados Church. Preach the Gospels and keep the faith of the people, so that when you speak of the return of the Zodiac Braves, they believe you."

Bremondt's heart leapt in his chest. "The return of the-?"

"Braves," Vormav finished, and held out a golden crystal, shining with solar radiance.

The Braves. What an ambitious idea. What a dream. There was no child of Ivalice who did not know the legend of the Braves—be it the tale of Ajora and his Disciples, or the folk stories passed down through all the regions of Ivalice. It had been so long since Bremondt thought of them (he had his own legend to live up to, after all), but how his heart thrilled to hear what the Confessor told him. They would build trust in Glabados Church all across Ivalice, and when the cowardly ambitions of vain tyrants like Louveria were frustrated, they would step forward to forge a new order, a new peace, a new justice, a new Ivalice.

But before he could build Ivalice anew, he had to rescue his protege. He had to finish the work he had begun in Goland. The work the boy had interrupted.

Not the boy would not stop him this time, as the Invincible cut its path across the water, and the island swelled into focus in front of him: a inhospitable place, of jagged crags and treacherous cliffs. To look at it, you might not suspect the dragon that made her roost there. But they had been tracking her for two days now: they had searched every possible island where she might make her roost. She was here.

His faith was rewarded, as it always was, and always would be. As they drew closer to the island, he heard a faint roar, and saw her emerge from beyond an uneven ridge of black basalt. She was magnificent, even as a dragon: the long sweep of that powerful neck, the great expanse of her leathery wings, the gleam of her violet scales.

So much had gone wrong, that day in Goland. That the boy had lived, first and foremost: but that he had broken the spell Bremondt had spent so long studying and preparing was no less heartrending.

Because it had been years, and still Reis did not see, and every day the boy grew stronger and stronger, bolder and braver, and no matter what impossible task Bremondt set for him the boy always managed to exceed it, and Bremondt could have borne that, except for the devotion he saw in Reis' eyes.

How did she not understand? They were a special breed, separate and better than the sheep of Ivalice. They had the power of dragons and the blessings of God. They were meant to be together.

But she would not abandon this idiotic, childish attachment to the boy. And with every day that passed—with every new challenge he rose to, with every new feat—Bremondt began to fear that the boy was everything she'd said he was. That he was special. That he was meant for great things. That Reis was...that Reis was meant for...

He remembered, the day he had given the boy his Templar cloak. He remembered, pushing open the door to his prayer cell, as he knelt before the tapestry of Zodiac signs.

"Beowulf Daravon," Bremondt asked, with all the authority he could muster. "Have you completed your vigil?"

Beowulf nodded. "I have."

"Do you know why we ask these vigils of our Templars?"

"To honor the Saint, who spent many a night searching his soul for guidance on how best to serve God's will."

"And in your long night of the soul, what truth have you discovered?"

All of this was formula, a ritual oft-repeated. That repetition did not necessarily rob it of meaning...but at the moment Bremondt asked the question, he found he meant it more than usual. He wanted to understand this boy, who refused to stand aside from the path God had laid for Bremondt.

"I am unworthy of the honor," the boy had answered, and Bremondt blinked in surprise. "I cannot live up to the ideals of the Saint, or the Church that hopes to serve him."

Bremondt had stared at the boy, baffled. For him, the road to God had always felt easy. How had the boy managed so much, carrying such doubt?

"I cannot live up to those ideals," the boy said again. "But I can try to. And every time I fail, I will learn from that failure. I will hope to redeem myself, as the Church hopes to redeem the world. If you are willing to have a man like me."

And Bremondt was almost speechless.

Maybe it was God's will, after all. Maybe he needed to be reminded that his path to God was not the only path. If his path had been one of relative ease, with God smoothing the way before him so he might use his considerable prowess in his service, perhaps there were other paths as well. Paths like rushing rapids that smoothed a tumbling stone. Paths like the blows of a blacksmith's hammer, to shape a weapon to his service.

"I told you once that you could not be a Templar," Bremondt said, and when he smiled at the boy, he almost meant it. "I have never been more glad to be wrong."

All things according to God's will. The boy was here for a reason. He just had to keep his eyes open, and understand it.

Ahead of him, Reis raised her head to the sky, and gave a roar of defiance. With a beat of her powerful wings, she took to the air-

"NOW!" Bremondt roared, with every ounce of his conviction and authority, and the Workers tensed their hands upon the cannon, as Bremondt lifted his Cancer Stone.

This Stone had been hidden inside of the Goland mine: it had been the power source for the complex, back in the days when it had been used to bind dragons and Dragoners to Ydoran wills. And the cannon in front of him, taken from the research complex he had spent the last several weeks inside, was a weapon designed to help subdue those dragons first.

The cannon pulsed, and a wave of shimmering light crashed out of it, like heat radiating off stone but painted in the colors of a sunset horizon. Reis gave a strangled cry, and her wings shivered: she crashed back to the island.

"AGAIN!" Bremondt bellowed, because he not risk her escaping, not as she had escaped so many times before. He had chased her across Ivalice, had dedicated every onze of his will, his knowledge, and his resources to reclaiming her. Now, at last, she would be his again. Now, at last, she would resume her rightful place at his side.

Late one night, not long after the boy had joined the Templars, Bremondt sat in his study, an empty bottle of wine before him, his head swimming. He had stared at the bottle, but he did not see it. He saw the boy. He saw Reis. He heard them both.

And he wondered, just for a moment: was he wrong?

The dragon inside him had growled angrily, so angrily it had shaken his bones, and Bremondt felt himself in that anger, but he had to ask the question. He had been so sure the boy was just a passing fancy, but the years seemed only to have brought them closer. He had been so sure the boy would fail, but every failure had only whetted the boy's edge. The boy was becoming the very legend Reis had told Bremondt he would one day be, right before his eyes. He might claim a place among the Braves, the same way he had claimed Reis.

Why didn't Reis understand? Why didn't she see? Was it because Bremondt was wrong? Was it because he was the one who failed to see?

The dragon inside him had growled again, in rage and fear. And Bremondt felt that growl inside him, and stood up, his eyes wide.

Of course. The dragon inside him. The dragon inside her. He had tamed his beast, but she had never mastered hers: by her own admission, she chose to live with it, listen to it, nurture it. It clouded her senses with primal passions. What should have been a passing, youthful fancy had instead consumed her, and blinded her to the path she should walk.

But he knew what to do about that. There had been other Dragoners, who had been bound to Ydoran will so they not become feral beasts. He would use that power, bind her and her beast, so she might grow properly. She would learn control. She would learn gratitude.

And the boy? Well, the boy would have to be put aside, lest he continue to seduce the beast inside her.

His Workers and his Amazons hurried onto the island, bringing with them their chains and ropes to bind her. She lifted her fearsome head, and fire burned in the back of her throat: "AGAIN!" Bremondt roared, and the cannon fired once more, and the fire died to embers, her head twitching one way and another like a fish on dry land.

Look at her! Flailing feebly on some rocky promenade, lost entirely to the dragon inside her, reduced to savage instinct by the boy's foolish interference! But Bremondt would finish what he had started. He would finish saving her. He would finish showing her God's will. He would-

Foom! Crack! An explosion of sound, the rush of a might impact and the splintering of wood, and his mighty ship shook beneath his feet. Bremondt stumbled, his eyes casting about for the source of this attack. Not Reis: with every moment, she was more tightly bound upon the rock, his Workers had already begun dragging her back to the ship, where-

"Enemy ship!" Elyn shouted. "All hands to battle stations!"

Bremondt whirled, scanning the horizon. There, closer than should have been possible: a ship with a fearsome pattern of scales upon its hull, and two yellow eyes upon its bow. Those eyes were smoking now, like some Lucavi of legend.

But Bremondt spied someone else, too. In the ship's crow's nest: a tall figure, blonde of hair, with a sword in either hand.

His lip curled. The dragon inside him growled with rage and hunger in equal parts. And this time, Bremondt thought he might just let the beast loose.

The boy stood in his way. In Reis' way. In God's way. So Bremondt would show him the error of his ways. He would smite him, for opposing the Will of Bremondt. The Will of the Glabados Church. The Will of God.