A/N: hi hello and welcome back!

!this chapter was beta-read by AkaiSafire over on Ao3! she is lovely and wonderful and she kept me sane through some SIGNIFICANT edits, so a huge thank you to her :D

love you

enjoy

oxy

~xXx~

"If we are all prepared to begin?" The Prime Minister asked while glancing at the other members of the parliament. "Very well. Field Marshal Havel, you wished to provide an update on the Sanbreque-Rosaria conflict?"

Havel stood from his chair, his jaw tense and his brow furrowed.

"Prime Minister, I must insist that we withdraw our support from Rosaria," Havel said. "The toll is simply too great!"

"That is hardly a report, Marshal," Hugo Kukpa criticized. Titan's Dominant lounged against one side of his throne-like seat and propped his chin up on one fist; a picture of boredom if ever there was one.

Havel gritted his teeth and said, "Another thousand Men of the Fist are dead."

"And the toll among the Sanbrequois troops?" Hugo asked no one in particular while rolling his eyes to the ceiling.

"The reports state sixteen thousand," the Minister of the Velkroy interjected and noisily shuffled through sheets of parchment, "just these past two moons."

Hugo lit a cigar and paused as though deep in thought.

"Since the reclamation of Drake's Breath, have the Dhalmekian people or, indeed, the Men of the Fist, experienced any shortage of crystal shards?" He already knew the answer but asked anyway, thoroughly enjoying the reddening of the Field Marshal's face as his concern was disregarded.

"The supply of crystals has remained constant and high," the Minister of Corava said.

The Chief Economic Advisor hummed in acknowledgement. "And it will remain this way so long as Dhalmekia supports her northwestern neighbors in their quest for justice - I see no reason to withdraw our aid."

He threw a bemused look at Havel, who appeared wounded by the utter lack of support he had found among the other ministers.

"Tell me, Marshal," he finally addressed Havel again, "who do you believe will win this war?"

The man required a moment to compose himself, but when he finally did, Field Marshal Havel fixed the Economic Advisor with a look that betrayed only incredulity.

"As long as the Warden of Light inhabits Sanbreque, there is no guarantee that anyone will win the war, save death," Havel warned. "It was before your time, Kupka, and long before Dion Lesage was born, but I have seen firsthand a battlefield ravaged by the champion of Greagor. Even you would do well to not underestimate Bahamut."

One of the ministers coughed in the silence that followed.

"You would lecture me on the merits of battle when opposing soldiers are mere bugs beneath my feet?" Hugo asked, and the shape of his cigar began to bend and warp in his grasp, "You would imply that Titan, the Archean, the Eikon of Earth, would fall before a simple dragon?"

"Yes," Havel replied simply, gravely. "Yes, I would."

Hugo bared his teeth in something that grew to be more of a grimace than a grin when Havel continued:

"And beyond that, Titan's power is great, it is true, but its strategic potential is only as great as the mind which directs it," said the Marshal while staring directly at the Warden of Earth with an eyebrow raised in challenge.

"An interesting strategy to offer me insult when the might of Titan is the only manner by which Dhalmekia can maintain her trade routes across the Rift," Hugo mused. He stood and made to leave the room.

"Kupka! This meeting is not yet adjourned!" The Prime Minister called.

"I will not suffer your foolish Field Marshal's petty comments any further," Hugo said. "You may send an aide to update me on relevant matters of the realm."

Hugo dropped his still-smoldering cigar into Havel's glass of water as he passed and exhaled the last mouthful of smoke before he pushed through the doors.

~xXx~

Dion Lesage had quickly become acquainted with the terrible stench accompanying battle; long years at war would make easy work of such a task. He was familiar with the grime and muck of armed conflict - how inconvenient it was that the dragoons wore white.

His encampment was situated quite near the Rift, and the horrific odor was a consequence of being so close to the front. His presence was a deterrent, he understood, to discourage the Phoenix from crossing into Sanbreque and scorching what fertile lands remained. The closer Sanbrequois soldiers were to the incursions onto their lands, the faster they would be able to respond.

But the Rift was far too long to guard in its entirety, and Shiva's fast-forming bridges of ice allowed Rosarian men to cross at any point the Archduke wished, at any hour of the day or night. Worse were those attacks aided by Titan; land and ice crossings, both, which allowed for far too many soldiers to gain a foothold in Dion's homeland.

The men of the Sanbrequois Imperial Army had soon learned that attempting to use the crossings to their own advantage resulted more often than not in soldiers falling into the seemingly bottomless Rift, never to be seen again. Dion prayed their meeting with Great Greagor was swift, if nothing else.

The reports had come in just hours before; another company had been cut down three kilometers south of Dion's camp. He pushed a small stone figurine over where it stood on the open map. A small collection of other toppled figurines told a grim tale:

Sanbreque was losing.

The Rift struck an intimidating black gash on the fabric map – a void where once there was free movement between Rosaria and Sanbreque. His father's proclamation all those years ago of meeting Rosaria with the full might of Sanbreque's fighting legions had soured so quickly, and yet still he insisted that Bahamut was not to appear unless ordered.

Such orders seldom came, and even then, Dion was not to attack but to boost morale.

Good, honorable Sanbrequois men fought and died nigh each day in battle either at the Rift against Rosarians or near Belanus Tor against Waloeders, and Dion could not be in two places at once.

"My Prince."

Dion turned to see Terence approaching while holding out a piece of parchment for his consideration.

Terence spoke even as Dion perused the document's contents for himself.

"Unsettling news from Oriflamme, Your Highness; one of His Radiance's attendants has gone missing, and foul play is suspected," Terence said grimly. "You have been ordered to return to the capital as soon as possible to deter any direct attacks against the Emperor."

The parchment confirmed Terence's every word. Dion exhaled sharply and set it aside, anger stewing. Why?

"My father would have me leave the front unattended," Dion observed. His voice was tight, even to his own ears. "Without the threat of Bahamut's retaliation, our men may bear the brunt of attack by two Eikons—three, if Titan is yet in residence within Rosaria. Four, if that damnable second Eikon of Fire is—this is madness!"

Dion's hand came down with a sharp crack on the writing table and Terence, to his credit, flinched only minutely.

Recalling Sanbreque's greatest weapon from the battlefront to play bodyguard…this was…not right.

"I'm afraid I see no way around His Radiance's orders, My Prince," Terence said softly. He took up the parchment and examined the words printed there once more.

"…Why?" Dion finally asked aloud. "Why does my father not command me to end this?"

Terence set the letter down and proposed, "Mayhap His Radiance does not wish for such destruction as would be wrought by a battle between Bahamut and the Phoenix?"

Dion hummed as though in agreement. Had that not been the reason for the past ten years?

"I shall ready your steed, if you are amenable?"

Dion nodded in a gesture that Terence should go ahead, and the Prince sat upon the wooden stool at the table to ponder the map without seeing it.

Ten years of death and destruction, ten long years of war taking fathers, brothers, sons…Certainly the toll of this conflict would have been much lower had the Emperor simply ordered Bahamut to cross the Rift as soon as it appeared and battle the Phoenix in Rosaria. Dion could have accomplished such a task at ten years old; he would have been tired in the following weeks, but he would have managed. The Joshua Rosfield that Dion had met at the Remembrance Ceremony may have borne the might of the Phoenix, but a fierce adversary he was not.

Certainly, the war would have been over before it began were the duchy to lose its Eikon. Mayhap Shiva would have appeared in Rosaria nonetheless, but Dion was confident he could defeat her, as well.

Then… why…?

So much Sanbrequois blood, so much Rosarian blood—for what purpose?

Despite his fear for the fate of his men upon his departure from the Rift's edge, Dion anticipated his return to Oriflamme; he could ask all his questions of the Emperor there. Then he would have answers and everything would make sense.

Dion exited his tent and mounted his steed with gritted teeth.

He was certain.

~xXx~

From the grandest seat in the nigh-empty throne room, Archduke Joshua Rosfield considered the intelligence report regarding the most recent movements of the Kingdom of Waloed with only mild concern. Lady Jill Warrick stood by his side and the light mail she wore jangled a little as she tapped her foot for want of something to do.

Elwin Rosfield and Rodney Murdoch had left the throne room soon after Joshua adjourned their daily afternoon meeting, presumably to speak further with the Undying about the worrying results of the investigations into the still-mysterious Second Eikon of Fire.

Elwin's status as Archduke Emeritus allowed him a great deal of freedom with his time, and he had volunteered to oversee the Undying's collection of information across Valisthea. Joshua was happy to allow his father to continue the search for the Second Eikon of Fire, though he worried slightly that Elwin's obsession with the Eikon would consume him one day.

Joshua also wanted more than anything to learn about the beast that had taken his brother from him, but he could see that the search was beginning to take its toll on Elwin.

However, before he could fret about his father…

"How worried must we truly be about Waloed?" Joshua asked Jill bluntly in the empty of the throne room. He handed the parchment back to Jill and continued, "They gnaw at the borders of Sanbreque like slavering hounds, but they have made no moves against the duchy."

Waloed's annoyance of Sanbreque along the east coast of Storm, and near the Strait of Autha in particular, played no small part in keeping Sanbreque divided and on its back foot for the duration of the war.

If anything, Joshua felt as though the duchy should send Waloed a missive in gratitude for their unintended assistance.

"It is unclear at present, Your Grace," Jill said. "Our scouts report that the head of Waloed's Royal Intelligencers recently deserted along with her entire division. We are unsure of the reason for her desertion, though the event follows the same pattern as the desertion of Waloed's Lord Commander some moons ago."

Joshua's eyes narrowed.

The former Waloeder Lord Commander Cidolfus Telamon…

He had been caught at the border between Dhalmekia and Rosaria – a man curiously sporting colors of a nation which typically kept to itself when not harassing Sanbreque's navy. Of course, the man's request for an audience with the Archduke of Rosaria had been met with skepticism initially. The revelation that not only was he Ramuh's Dominant, but also that he had just abandoned his position as the Lord Commander of Waloed's military…

Well, it was more than enough to convince Joshua to allow him a conversation, at the very least.

Telamon was an interesting man with an interesting past. Had circumstances been different, Joshua thought he might have liked to pick his brain about science and invention. Unfortunately, circumstances were not different, and Joshua had a war to win.

And the results of the plan that Telamon had expressed to Joshua regarding Drake's Head would make winning that war all the easier. The destruction of the Mothercrystal – arguably Sanbreque's last claim to power barring Bahamut – would practically leave the Empire without a leg to stand on. Telamon believed himself skilled enough to infiltrate Oriflamme alone and break the heart of the Mothercrystal with no aid but a miniscule amount of support on the front end from Joshua, and Joshua was more than willing to provide him with anything he may need.

Telamon had asked only one thing in return – if he were to fail in his mission, Joshua would destroy the crystal when Rosaria finally took Oriflamme, and as soon as Rosaria's future was secure, he would destroy Drake's Breath, as well.

With encouragement from his father, Joshua had agreed. Rosaria had become skilled over many years of deprivation, after all, and scarcely needed the support of crystals save for the ones the Shields and soldiers utilized in battles. When the war was over, Drake's Breath would be naught but a beautiful nuisance, coveted by the few remaining members of the Crystalline Orthodoxy. It would be better if it were removed from existence in its entirety; and, after hearing about Telamon's theory regarding the crystals and the Blight, it was only logical.

The new information about Waloed, though…

From its unseen place perched on Joshua's shoulder, the presence of the Phoenix felt very much like a wild animal with its hackles raised. Threatened, somehow. Wary.

At Joshua's side, Torgal let out a deep sigh in the manner that only truly spoiled animals could accomplish.

When Joshua peered at the massive hound over the arm of the throne, Torgal stared back at him with bright yellow eyes. The wolf's tail wagged slowly.

It seemed that pondering the movements of the Kingdom of Waloed would need to wait.

Joshua turned back to a bemused Jill.

"I suppose it is time to take a walk, if you would like to join us?"

Jill grinned. "I'd like nothing more."

The Down Gardens were verdant and peaceful, as usual, when Joshua and Jill passed through them with Torgal following alongside.

"You have an aim, I presume?" Jill asked.

And Joshua did. "I believe I should pay a visit to the orneriest chocobo in the stables," he replied.

"Nothing will have changed," Jill declared confidently but sadly, "she'll still have refused to allow anyone else near."

Joshua shrugged and addressed Torgal when they approached the gate, "Shall we visit the stables, boy?"

Torgal forced his way through the ajar gate and made for the stables at a brisk trot, tail wagging and tongue lolling from his jaws.

"You see," Joshua gestured at the wolf, "at least one among us is an optimist!"

Jill smiled a little and Joshua counted it as a victory.

Though it was many years since Ambrosia had returned to Rosalith sans her master, the bird's presence continued to remind Jill that Clive was lost to them. On more than one occasion since Ambrosia's return, Joshua had found Jill standing on a balcony staring off in the direction of the stables silently. Torgal's presence seemed at once comforting and wounding to Jill; the pup had been a friend to all three of them, after all, but Ambrosia had only ever belonged to Clive.

It did not help in the slightest that even all these years later, Ambrosia refused to allow anyone to ride her, touch her, or even come near her. Cleaning her enclosure in the stables was a challenge undertaken by only the stablemaster as the stable hands were simply too inexperienced to manage Ambrosia's temper. Torgal was the only living being Ambrosia allowed to approach her.

Joshua and Jill made their way through the main castle gate and over to the stables where Torgal was waiting impatiently to greet his friend.

"Do you think Torgal misses him, too?" Jill asked suddenly after Joshua opened Ambrosia's door and allowed Torgal access to her pen.

Joshua watched Torgal rub himself against Ambrosia's legs as a cat might brush up against members of its family. The chocobo leaned her head down and butted her beak against Torgal's back affectionately.

"Of course he does; we all do," Joshua said.

Clive's absence was everywhere, even ten years after the fall of Phoenix Gate. Joshua had never named another First Shield, had never offered the Blessing of the Phoenix to anyone else. Clive's copy of the Saint and the Sectary still sat untouched on Joshua's writing table, and every maid permitted within Joshua's chambers was warned against even looking at the writing table while making up his room.

Clive's own rooms were off limits to all of the castle's staff and only the Rosfield family (and Jill and Torgal, but they were family, anyway) were allowed access. In the weeks following the sacking of Creag Loisgte, still exhausted from the mission, Joshua had fallen asleep in Clive's room on more than one occasion and caused his father no small amount of consternation. Joshua knew that it had only been in his best interest, but at the time he had become irrationally upset when he woke in his own room after falling asleep in Clive's.

He was forgiven for his outbursts, thankfully; his father understood that grief made the world seem unkind no matter the true intentions of others.

Each year that passed since Joshua's fifteenth served as a reminder that he was older than Clive would ever be. That knowledge ached in a way that few other things could. He had been struck more than once with just how young fifteen was, in retrospect.

Joshua was lucky that he had Jill; she was at once his friend, his closest confidant, and the only person in Rosalith who understood the burden of being a Dominant.

She had also borne the brunt of the Eikonic burden in the war so far and traveled back and forth from the front to provide crossings for soldiers and Shields alike.

"How are you feeling?" Joshua asked lowly.

"I'm alright," Jill replied easily. She gave Torgal's head a scratch when the wolf emerged from Ambrosia's pen. "A little tired, but that's nothing a long rest cannot cure. You can expect many more bridges of ice from me, Your Grace," she said.

Despite the lightly joking way in which it was uttered, Joshua winced.

"We could attempt to use crystals, instead, if the pain becomes too great—"

"And we would be doing much more harm than good," Jill reminded. She cast her silvery blue eyes at Joshua. "Crystal-made ice crossings are weak and unreliable. Besides, the longer I can keep you from having to join the fray, the better."

"I am not helpless. If the Phoenix is needed, I can easily do my duty."

"I know."

"Neither am I infirm," Joshua added.

"I never said you were," said Jill. "'Twas not an infirm boy who reclaimed Drake's Breath and burned Creag Loisgte to the ground in an evening. Nor was it an infirm boy who struck down Shiva by himself when she awoke in the middle of Rosalith."

That had not been a good day, and the weeks and moons that followed had been rather difficult for everyone involved. Celebrations for the appearance of the Dominant of Shiva and her loyalty to Rosaria's cause had been hard to face for Jill, indeed, when she learned the toll of that day. Joshua was grateful that he had been there and able to help.

"And it is not an infirm man who sits the ducal throne," Jill continued. "It is my dear friend Joshua Rosfield, the Dominant of the Phoenix, who has carried so heavy a burden his entire life that I find it miraculous his spine has not crumbled to dust; Joshua Rosfield, the man who Clive Rosfield gave his life to protect. Excuse me if I attempt to honor the wishes of the First Shield and take up a portion of his duties in his absence."

She inclined her silver head momentarily and then turned to watch Ambrosia peck at the greens in her feeder.

"Would you still feel such a sense of duty if you were not a Dominant?" Joshua asked. "Were you simply Jill Warrick, would you still feel so compelled?"

Jill appeared to give her response very little thought, indeed.

"If I could not call upon the strength of Shiva, I would instead become the greatest swordsman in this land and offer my aid wherever the war needed my efforts the most," Jill declared. She smiled at Joshua. "You would be hard-pressed to keep me from helping, Joshua, truly."

Well.

"You'll tell me at once if the strain becomes too much," Joshua said, and it carried with it both the order of a sovereign and the weight of a friend's concern.

"As you command, Your Grace," Jill said and gracefully dodged out of the way of the swipe Joshua made in the direction of her upper arm.

"Shall we return to the castle proper and see what my father has uncovered about our fiery quarry?" Joshua extended his own arm as an offer.

"Let's," Jill said.

She whistled sharply for Torgal, who had started to use his superior stature to peer over the walls of the pens of other chocobos and seemed fixated on the pen containing three small chocobo chicks.

The hound rejoined Jill and Joshua, and they made for the castle's front gate.

~xXx~

The drill sergeants had been torturing Bearers again, that day.

Clive was not often required to oversee trainings in the pits – those were tasks for men with far fewer responsibilities than Commander Callum Welch, who was responsible for the coeurl's share of the Bearers in the Imperial Army. Welch would be proud to report that under his leadership, fewer of the Empire's Bearers had been lost to battle than any of his predecessors. Bearers were a sought-after resource since the appearance of the Rift, after all, and Welch seemed particularly good at ensuring that they returned from battle.

Were he able to do so, Clive would be proud to report that his careful and strategic management of Bearers in the Imperial Army ensured that they returned at a rate higher than their non-branded counterparts. He would also be proud to report that he had, with the aid of Sergeants Reeves and Burns, helped many Bearers escape from the Empire.

Inquiries were dodged artfully, after a time, and suspicions were allayed often by embarrassing other members of the brass with questions about the merits of their own strategizing; perhaps if other units were as well-organized and trained as Commander Welch's men, fewer soldiers belonging to them would fall to Rosarian steel. The commander would then express his sorrows for the Sanbrequois souls lost to the tragic conflict and move on with his day.

For all intents and purposes, Clive Rosfield had ceased to be and Private Callum Welch had appeared within the Imperial Army seamlessly, embedding himself within its structure and promoting quickly through the ranks. If that truly were the case, though, then the man suspected he would not be plagued by memories of a crumbling fortress, a mysterious hooded figure, and a night set ablaze.

If Callum Welch was not Clive Rosfield, he would not house within his own body a horned beast who threatened to sap his life for its own strength. He would not find himself shot through with headaches while suppressing the poisonous fire lurking beneath his ribs; he certainly would not be able to set the sensation of this new flame apart from the gentle and comforting warmth of the Phoenix's Blessing. However, the rumblings like growls and half-formed words that rose in his ears were of little concern when the state of the conflict was so dire.

The Blight encroached further on Sanbrequois territory each day, swallowing valuable farmland and lighting the torch of fear beneath the feet of Imperial citizens. Clive had only to wait and keep the Bearers from dying in battle long enough, and the war would be won for Rosaria.

And yet…

Clive would need to make a habit of attending trainings in the pits more often if he was going to deter the drill sergeants from spouting such venomous words at the Bearers. The men were downtrodden and depressed when the drill sergeants had finished picking their way through critiques of fighting form and strength. He would need to put a stop to the sergeants degrading the Bearers for simply being Bearers, as well, but doing so would require far more tact than Clive could manage. He would have to reach out to Tyler for advice, again…

After the day that Clive had had, the stolas in his quarters was an unwelcome surprise. The bird's white feathers and wide, enchanted eyes were out of place among the drab and functional space Clive slept in. He held out his arm and allowed the bird to land on his wrist nonetheless, sharp talons digging into the gauntlet's leather.

Neither Wade nor Tyler were scheduled to send him one, which meant that something had gone wrong. At least, that was what Clive believed until the message was relayed to him and he was addressed by someone wholly unfamiliar.

The junction of Middle-Road Ironworks and Blackwater General Goods. Tonight, after moonrise.

You're a hard man to find in spite of your station, Commander Callum Welch.

Dread, immediate and piercing.

The leech-like Eikon in Clive's chest writhed.

Oriflamme's many streets were quiet in this corner of the city so late in the evening – moonrise had not been until twelfth bell, and most of the city's denizens were asleep in their beds. Few streets were lit with crystal lamps these days, with the majority of shards being utilized in the war effort, but this mysterious contact seemed to have discovered one of the few that was. Or, perhaps, he had brought his own.

In any case, Clive arrived soon after moonrise and found a man standing between the shops he had indicated in the stolas message. He was of medium build and kept his brown hair pushed back from his face. Two blades hung at his left hip.

And something about him raised the hair on the back of Clive's neck.

"I had started to wonder if you'd missed my message," said the main in a low, rough voice. He sounded nonchalant, or was at least playing at it, and this was irritating beyond measure.

"Who are you?" Clive demanded. He rested a hand on the pommel of his broadsword. "And why have you called me here?"

"I'm a friend," the man said with a peculiar grin.

"You're no friend of mine," Clive shot back. Being around his friends certainly never made him feel as though lightning was about to strike him down.

"A comrade, then."

"Try again."

"Call me a concerned citizen," the man said, sounding decidedly unconcerned.

"I've met many concerned citizens in my time," Clive said flatly, "and none of them have summoned me to secluded locations for clandestine meetings. Do not contact me again. If that will be all." It was a clear dismissal when Clive spoke it, and he turned to leave the alley.

"Not all concerned citizens know what I know," the man claimed. "For example, that the leak the Empire's been trying to find for seven years stems from an upstanding officer of the Imperial Army."

Clive froze. Fuck.

"You're quite far from home, Commander Callum Welch. Or would you prefer 'Lord Rosfield'?"

Clive turned to see the man leaning against the brick wall of the alley casually. He threw Clive a decisively smug smirk when he caught him looking.

"How?" Clive asked.

He forced down the diseased fire rising in his chest. This man was a threat. He was more threatening than any foe Clive had faced since joining the Imperial Army. He could destroy Clive's work with a well-placed phrase to the wrong person.

"Not easily," the man admitted, "You're a damned ghost story, lad. Unfortunately for you, even ghosts make sounds if you find somebody who knows how to listen for 'em."

Clive tried not to grimace. There were more people who knew…?

"What have you heard?"

The man adopted a thoughtful set to his mouth. "Just enough to put together the pieces. The former Lord Rosfield's corpse is never found at Phoenix Gate, somehow, and just after the Rift forms, Private Callum Welch appears out of nowhere in the Imperial Army with no prior record. Along with two other newcomers."

Fuck. Wade and Tyler...

"What do you want?"

"Want? Why do you assume I want anything?"

"An educated guess."

"I want an ally on the inside for a little scheme I've been organizing for a while. In exchange, I'd see you safely back to your family in Rosaria," the man added. "I imagine the good Archduke would enjoy having his First Shield back."

Clive refused outright. "I can't."

"Can't?"

Clive decided not to answer, so the man continued on.

"Well, far be it from me to tell a man what's best for him. Might change your mind and it might not, but from how it sounded when I talked with the Phoenix, you're sorely missed."

At the mention of the Phoenix, Clive felt the Eikon's focus narrow on the man. Something about him. His head ached, again, as he worked to force the presence down once more.

Clive wondered just how 'sorely missed' he would be when his family learned that the horrific monster they had been searching for all those long years was Clive. The one who burned Phoenix Gate to the ground, the one who crushed loyal ducal Shields beneath pieces of broken castle, the one who inspired such terror, the one who nearly murdered the Phoenix…

The Phoenix. Joshua. How dearly Clive missed his brother. He was glad, still, that Joshua had escaped that night and returned to Rosalith, and he was mournful for all the lost time.

Joshua would be twenty, now - a grown man - and Clive had missed it all.

"You spoke with the Archduke?" Clive asked after a moment.

"Indeed I did."

"Is he well?"

The man took a drag from his cigarette. "Aye, the lad seemed healthy. Tired, maybe, but the country he runs has been at war for a decade."

War that had been Clive's fault, to a degree.

"I will not return to Rosaria until I'm certain the war is at an end," Clive said. "I'm assuming the price I must pay for my maintained anonymity is my participation in your…plan?"

"Aye. Just a man on the inside for a scheme," the man allowed, "I'll not drag you back to your loving family in the comfortable castle guarded by two Eikons with one on call," he snarked.

"What manner of 'scheme'?" Clive asked after a pause. "Will it harm the Empire's war effort?"

The man smirked around his cigarette. "Invariably, lad."

A more expedient end to the war could only be a good thing.

Clive gestured with his arm and leaned against the opposite wall of the alley. "Go on, then."

"Tell me, what do you know of the Mothercrystals?"

~xXx~

The Dominants of Ramuh and Garuda had both bid farewell to the castle at Stonhyrr, and the palace was certainly quieter for their departure. Sleipnir found the new peace to be something of a relief, and he slipped easily into the role of Lord Commander.

His command of Waloed's military had, regrettably, encountered a slight difficulty, and the strain was apparently noticeable.

"Speak, Sleipnir, if matters weigh on your mind," Barnabas Tharmr commanded.

Sleipnir knelt before the throne and spoke, "Trouble within the legions, Your Majesty. The fiction of Garuda's desertion is perhaps too believable; some of the more unsettled men begin to doubt."

"Reassure the men, Sleipnir. It matters not what you tell them so long as they are all fit to do battle," Barnabas said. "Mythos will soon be brought into the fold; Garuda and Ramuh shall see to it. All will be as our Master wills it."

~xXx~

A/N: more whenever i'm able to write it! hope you enjoyed :D

oxy