Live To Serve Zine

Live to Serve is a Fire Emblem fanzine created to celebrate the
characters who have touched our hearts and made an impact
on our lives. It was born out of our love for the original story,
their relationships, and the theme of healing: physical, mental,
and emotional during such hard times. The Fire Emblem series

may have made our days a little more bearable, a little easier to
smile, and we are forever grateful for these characters we have

come to know and love.

First, we’d love to thank our amazing contributors who met each
deadline with great enthusiasm and love for the project we were
making. This fanzine would not be possible without the amazing
efforts of our authors who wrote original writing pieces and our
artists who illustrated our not one, but two zines full of content.

Second, we have to thank our mod team for working so hard.
Our head mod organized the discord and managed our social

media so that we could reach the fans who cherished Fire
Emblem as much as we do. Our formatting/graphics mod made

the impossible possible by creating countless graphics and
formatting our amazing contributor works. Our graphics mod
also helped supplement the zine process, creating a smoother

workflow while our contributors worked.

We want to thank you, our buyer, for your support for our little
family. Fire Emblem and the dismal state of the world may have

been what started this project, but it is your support that’s
made it a reality, and your love that helped us create something
real from our passion. Without you, this fanzine project would
not be possible. We hope that you enjoy reading Live to Serve!

1

2

3

4

5

6

The Saint of Bern

Ever since the day the world ended, Elen has always known that loyalty is a fickle thing,
not strong as many would assume. Ever since Bern became rotten and began to crumble,
flames licking its edges and spreading outward, always outward, she knew that her loyalty
was like paper, because she knew that this place she had loved most, second only to
Elimine Herself, was burning, too.
She looked at Princess Guinivere that day, hoping for answers, and all she saw was her
own grief reflected back at her.
That night, as she brushed her lady’s hair, Guinivere asked her, “Are you loyal to
Bern, Elen?” Elen only faltered for a moment, but years of this ritual kept her arm
moving, if only from muscle memory.
“I am loyal to its people, milady.” She heard a sigh of relief and saw Guinivere smile in the mirror.
“So, we’re in agreement then?” Elen smiled, timidly.
“I have always been on your side, your Highness.”
“I would never force you to leave your home.” Elen put the brush down, lips pressed into a line.
“Bern is no longer my home, your Highness. It stopped being so the moment your brother
hurt another in her name.” Guinivere reached out, grabbing her hand and squeezing.
“I don’t want you getting hurt for me, Elen.” Elen put on her gentlest smile and squeezed back.
“You are the hope of every innocent life in Bern. It would be wrong of me to leave that hope
without support.” Guinivere opened her mouth to thank Elen, but Elen quickly wrapped her
arms around her princess. “I go where you go, milady. Besides, St. Elimine has blessed me with
knowledge in the healing arts. If I get hurt, I can handle myself.” I need to keep you safe from harm.
“Thank you, Elen. Thank you.”
The next day, they left the castle with Melady to head to the border. While this had left them
without most of their belongings (far more of Guinivere’s had been transferred than Elen’s),
it also put them away from Zephiel. For this, Elen was grateful, for she did not know how her
princess would respond to having to go so directly against the brother she loved so dearly.

The choice to eventually leave Melady behind was Guinivere’s, that Elen knew, but… It still
felt wrong not to tell her.
“Are you certain? I… I know she would want to leave with us.”
“I am. I don’t want to… I don’t want to make her choose between Bern and me.”
“You mean between Galle and Zeiss and you, don’t you.” It isn’t a question. Guinivere doesn’t
answer. “Your Highness…”

7

“It isn’t my place to ask that of her.” Guinivere’s voice is quiet, timid, and, above
all, sad. Elen embraced her princess, holding on tight. She wanted to tell her that
Melady loved her, but they were not her words to say. St. Elimine, please guide these hearts
together so that they may never be apart.

Still, she said, “I’ll be with you, my princess, don’t worry.” Guinivere returned the hold.
“Just a few more days, this I swear.”
Unfortunately for them both, it seemed the military of Bern, as rotten and scorched as the king
himself, decided to take matters into their own hands. It was even the same day they had planned
to leave by themselves. Elen doesn’t remember much of the kidnapping process, only the cold
harsh hands of Sergeant Rude over her mouth and throat and the rush of panic. She had prayed
to St. Elimine that he had come for her and not her precious princess, hoping this was just a
rancid desire. She fainted quite quickly, Rude’s hand on her windpipe tight and unforgiving.
When she awoke to Guinivere gagged and tied, she nearly fainted again, despair racking her
body. Tears flooded her eyes and fell. Had it not been for the cloth in her mouth, she surely would
have screamed loud enough for the heavens to hear. Her hope, Bern’s hope, had gone up in smoke.
Until she heard rage that nearly matched her own through the stone of the dungeons.
“YOU MEAN TO TELL ME YOU LOST THE PRINCESS?” came a recognizable voice,
clear despite the layers of rock between them. Elen took a breath of air, relieved beyond belief.
Melady had awoken. And judging by the continued (but no longer loud enough to be understood)
yelling, she was going to rip these soldiers a new one if Guinivere wasn’t found soon.
Elen looked to her lady, expecting relief, but all she found was terror. Before she could even
attempt asking through the gag, another soldier came rushing down.
“Sir Melady has ordered every soldier to search the surrounding area for the princess.”
“But I’m guarding th--
“She’s counting,” they say, clearly distressed. The guard makes a noise of what Elen assumes
is disappointment and rushes up the stairs, leaving her and Guinivere alone.
It takes Elen a bit of fussing and fidgeting, but after a few moments she managed to push the
gag out of her mouth. Thank St. Elimine these men were all imbeciles.
“Your Highness, I’m so sorry. I don’t know how, but the Sergeant must have known of
our plans. This is all my fault.” Guinivere shook her head, eyes pleading. Elen flushed with
embarrassment. “Oh, goodness! Here, let me help--” The gag went up in flames a short moment
later, the princess spitting out ashes with a displeased expression.
“Ugh, that tasted terrible.” Elen blinked, dumbfounded.
“They didn’t even charm the cuffs to keep you from using magic?”

8

“I bet they assumed I wouldn’t risk it without a tome. Especially since my training to
use Aureola was mostly ceremonial.” Elen frowned, seeing the recoil of burns slowly cause
Guinivere’s mouth to redden. “Now, come here. I can melt the chains so that you may escape.”

“Princess, you musn’t--!”
“Elen, please listen.” Elen shut her mouth, lips pressed into a line. “They only want me.
If you can escape, they won’t follow, and you can get help. Please. You are our hope.” Seemingly
reading Elen’s next thought, she continued, “And don’t worry about the recoil. Once we’re free,
we’ll find a stave and heal me up, alright?” Elen thought for a moment.
“Oh, alright.” She thanks the goddess once more for the soldiers’ incompetence and lack of
chaining them to a wall. She stands and walks to where Guinivere sits, back turned. She hears
the princess get to her own feet and turn so that she may grab the short chain between the
cuffs. Heat radiates from between Elen’s hands, and she squeezes her eyes shut.
One, two, three, f-- The tension between the cuffs releases. She immediately turns around to
assess the damage the magic did to her princess.
“Oh, your Highness…” The skin of her hands is bubbling with third degree burns, the metal
cooling on the ground below. Elen can hear Guinivere taking in unsteady breaths.
“Go, Elen, before they return. I can handle myself until then, I swear it.” Elen turned the
princess around, looking her in the eye.
“I will find the Lycian army and rescue you, my princess. May St. Elimine guide us both
until that moment.” She presses her lips to Guinivere’s forehead, nose, and both cheeks.
She lowers her head so Guinivere can do the same, a special blessing they always gave the
other when they were nervous.
(She always gave it to Guinivere when she had to deal with her stepmother, and eventually
her brother when Zephiel’s heart began to blacken with rot.)
And with that, Elen slipped off her gag, tied it around her princess to hide the evidence of
magic use, and squeezed through the rusty bars that easily bent and warped at her hands.

And she ran.

Her lungs ached, her legs throbbed, but she could not stop. She must keep going, must
find the Lycian army, must--

She felt her foot catch on a root and in an instant she’s collapsed on the ground, scraped and
dirty. She took a deep breath, prepared to get up and keep running.

“Be careful there!” An unfamiliar voice came from above. Elen looked up to see a boy with
red hair, reaching out a hand for her. She smiled gratefully and took it, helping herself up.

“Oh, forgive me! I’m in such a hurry…” She bowed her head in gratitude and embarrassment.
He shook his head, smiling in return. “No need for apologies. Are you hurt?” Elen

brushed off her arms, finding that any wounds were light abrasions at best. Nothing
that could keep her from moving forward.

9

“No, I’m fine. Thank you, good sir.” The boy nodded.
“Farewell, then.” Just as she was about to leave, she noticed his headband. That design…
“...Are you from Lycia, by chance?” The boy blinked, clearly surprised.
“I am. I am the son of Marquess Pherae.” Relief flooded through her entire being, tears
springing to her eyes. She looked to the heavens.
“Oh, St Elimine! Thank you for guiding me to this boy!” Thank you, Guinivere. Your blessing has
truly done its job. I’ll be back soon.
“Pardon?” She looked back at him, hands folded so that she may beg.
“Please, I need your help to rescue my mistress.” The boy’s face became contemplative.
“What happened?”
Elen took a deep breath, lungs still burning, and began, “My name is Elen. I am a cleric
of St Elimine. My mistress and I came from Bern to seek an audience with the lords of Lycia.
However, Commander Rude of the castle east of here trapped us. We were captured, imprisoned
by our own countrymen.” The older man next to the Marquessling turned to him, clearly upset.
“Lord Roy! We must avoid unnecessary entanglements with Bern!” She was about to open
her mouth to make her case, but the boy-- Lord Roy beat her to it.
“But we can’t neglect a noble of Bern who wants to speak with the lords of Lycia… Then
again, we can’t simply charge into enemy territory either…” Once again, Elen prepared to beg,
offer her services, her life, anything, when a sound came from behind her. “Wait, who’s there?!”
A soldier of Bern appeared on the horizon, and Elen felt her blood turn to ice.
“There’s the wench! Over here, boys! Get the girl! Our orders say dead or alive!” More
soldiers appeared, and with every face she felt more and more hopeless. I’m going to die.
“Well, Merlinus, they provoked hostilities. I don’t think we have any choice now.” She
whipped her head around to Lord Roy, tears of relief finally falling. She looked to the older
man, Merlinus, to see if he agreed.
“You wouldn’t listen even if we did, I’m sure. But no matter. Let me witness all you’ve
learned about tactics in Ostia.”
“All right, everyone! We’re going to charge the castle!” Guinivere… I did it…! “Sister Elen, you
should find a place to hide…” She looked at him, confused, then shook her head.
“No, I will come with you. I cannot fight, but I can heal wounded allies.”
“But…”
Her voice turned sharp, replying, “I’m the one that got you tangled up in this mess. Please
let me do what I can to help.” The boy looked reluctant.
“OK, but just stay behind us so you aren’t hurt.” She sighed, smiling. What a sweet boy the
Marquess had raised.
“Certainly. Thank you for the concern.” She received a stave and readied herself for battle.
“I’m coming, your Highness.”

10

Once Guinivere had been rescued, it took a few weeks before they found Melady.
It was only fitting that she had her own chance to rescue the princess, Elen thought,
though she wished it had been simpler than that. Her heart had nearly given out when
she heard Cecilia and the princess had been captured. Still, when she had seen Trifinne
on the horizon, she had known it would be alright.

Guinivere’s hands had been wrapped around Melady’s waist, and Elen’s chest warmed. I
knew she would choose you.

“Your Highness!” She wrapped her lady in a hug. “St Elimine continues to bless you.” She
pulled away, looking to Melady as she came up to pet Trifinne. The knight’s face was nervous,
ashamed, and Elen gave her a gentle smile.

“Thank you.” Melady’s face hardened with pride and she nodded.
“I am her Highness’ knight before I am anything else.” There was no time to talk beyond
that as the battle raged on, but that evening, after Elen had bandaged and blessed and healed as
much as her body could handle, Melady came to the healing tent.
“Are you hurt, Sir Melady?” She shook her head.
“May I sit?” Elen nodded. The only people left in the medical tent were those with severe
injuries, and they had all been put to sleep to keep them from the pain of the healing process.
It was quiet as Melady sat next to Elen, gazing at the bodies all breathing evenly as their bodies
rebuild. There were a few moments of that simple, peaceful quiet, before Melady spoke up
again. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Elen was quiet. “Why?”
“It wasn’t my decision.” Melady froze, then deflated.
“Her Highness said it was to protect my reputation. As if I want to be remembered for
anything but being loyal to her.” Melady squeezed her hands into fists. Elen hummed.
“I suppose that is one way to put it.”
“What do you mean?”
“... It isn’t my place to say.” Melady pressed her lips into a line.
“... Please?” Elen sighed.
“Oh, alright. I can’t say no to you.” Melady’s face softened with gratitude. “Princess
Guinivere said that she didn’t want to take you with us because… She didn’t want you choosing
between her or Galle and Zeiss.” Melady’s eyes widened. She opened her mouth, then closed it.
“Oh.” A moment. “Zeiss and Galle are adults. They can make their own decisions. If they
side with Zephiel… Then they are my enemies. Simple as that.” Elen smiled sadly, placing her
arm on Melady’s shoulder.
“You don’t have to choose, you know. When the time comes to fight them, you can stay out of
it.” Melady shook her head.
“No. I made my choice. If my inaction directly or indirectly causes her Highness harm,
physical or emotional, then I will have failed.” Elen’s smile widened.

11

“You love her, don’t you?” Melady’s face flushed red.
“You--! Lady Elen, I’m a married woman!” Elen laughed.

“As Princess Guinivere’s lady-in-waiting, I know full well of marriages done for
reasons other than love. It’s something Guinivere has worried about for years, her father
always determined her husband would take the throne instead of Zephiel.” Melady looked away.
“That’s it, though. Her husband.” Elen squeezed Melady’s shoulder.
“That’s the fun part about being the queen, though, isn’t it? You don’t really have to
listen to anyone’s rules but your own.” Melady turned back, looking Elen in the eye.
“... Thanks.” Elen pulled her into a hug.
“Don’t mention it. For you and the princess? I’d do anything.”

“We brought you more lamb’s ear, Sister!” Elen turned to the flaps of the medicinal
tent, finding Chad and Lugh holding baskets full of plants, some lamb’s ear, some other
medicinal plants she knew could be used in other ways. She grinned at them.
“Bring them here, would you?” They rushed over and placed the baskets on the floor in
front of her, looking up at her expectantly. She laughed. “Thank you. A blessing for your
trouble.” She leaned down and gave them each a kiss to the forehead.
“Aw, it’s really no problem at all, Sister! We’re just happy to help out,” said Lugh,
flushing. Chad nodded along with him.
“Father taught us all of this, so it’s nice to be able to use it.” Elen was about to shower
them with more praise when Lugh made a sudden face.
“Oh, no. I promised I’d help Raigh today. Sorry, but I must go right now before he throws
a fit. Bye, Sister! Bye, Chad!” The boy ran out of the tent, clearly worried about his brother.
“Such a good boy, that one. He’ll make a wonderful father one day.” She looked to Chad,
expecting him to agree, but all she saw was him staring at the exit of the tent. “... Chad?
Are you alright?”
“Huh? Oh, yes! Sorry, Miss Elen. I was just… Thinking.” She hummed.
“Want to talk to me about it while we put all of this away? Troublesome of Lugh to leave
us all this work, hm?” Chad laughed, but it lacked some of the usual heart.
“Yeah. His fault for being so caring. He overbooked.” Chad began placing the herbs
into little sections to be tied off and given to soldiers so that they could provide their own
emergency first aid until a healer could get to them.
The two worked in silence for a while before Chad’s hands folded. Elen stopped working
to look at him, giving him the time to compose his thoughts and showing him she was
listening. “... Miss Elen, what are your plans after all this? After we… Stop fighting.” Elen
hummed, taking a moment to think.

12

“Rebuild Bern, of course, at Princess Guinivere and Sir Melady’s sides.”
“A priestess would have such a good answer,” he grumbled. She laughed.
“If you wanted a different answer, you should have asked Father Saul.” He made a face.
“No.” She laughed harder, clutching her stomach. He pouted, looking away.
“Sorry, sorry, I’m teasing.” She took a deep breath to calm herself. “Why do you ask?”
“... Lugh wants to open up a magic school.”
“That’ll suit him, I think. He’d be a good teacher.”
“He’ll be the best teacher.” Chad almost sounded offended on Lugh’s behalf. Elen bit her
tongue to keep from laughing again. “It just got me thinking… About what I want to do.”
“Do you have any idea?”
“Well, I can’t keep stealing. But… Other than that, all I want to do is stay with Lugh.
Is that… Selfish of me? To want to keep him to myself like that?” Oh. So that’s what this was
about.
Ah, young love… Wait, why do I keep being the in-between when it comes to these things?
She thought for a moment, then, “Well, being selfish isn’t a bad thing. It just means
you’re taking care of yourself. As long as you let his students have his attention for a while,
I think it’ll be just fine, hm?” Chad smiled a little, clearly still unsure but a little less
nervous.
“Yeah, I guess so.” She smiled at him.
“Now, let’s finish up organizing these herbs, alright?” He nodded, smile widening.
“Yeah, okay.”

The day Galle died was one of the worst ones in all of Elen’s life. Yes, the battle was
victorious, but the cost… Elen was taught that all life was of equal value, but Galle’s loss
felt greater than all of the rest of the war combined.
Melady didn’t leave her tent for the next few days after that. Only Guinivere was allowed
in, and she’d only leave to fetch food for the both of them.
Zeiss was simply quiet, his eyes a little vacant as he went through his daily routine. After
a week of it, Elen finally went to his tent.
“Zeiss?” Silence. “May I come in?” Silence, again.
Then came a quiet “Yes.” She pulled back the flap and went in to find Zeiss sitting on
his cot, staring at the other side with a blank expression. However, upon closer inspection,
his eyes and cheeks were red and wet.
“Oh, Zeiss--” She reached out and hugged him, holding him tight, as he slowly began to sob.
“I killed him, Elen. I killed Galle.” She squeezed him tighter. “I should have talked to
him more. I could have convinced him--” She pulled back, face stern.

13

“Galle made his decision, Zeiss. And he knew what it meant. So did you.”
Zeiss pressed his lips together.

“I know, but… It still hurts.” Her face softened, and she pulled him back into the hug.
“I may not be able to use a stave on this pain, but I’m still here to heal you, anyway. I
always will be.” He wrapped his arms around her and let himself be held.
And so they stayed like that for a while.

“Guinivere?” Elen asked, brush going through the princess’ hair before bed.
“Yes, Elen?”
“We fight Zephiel tomorrow… Are you sure you can do this?” Guinivere nodded.
“The brother I loved… I lost him a long time ago. It’s time to save our people, to save
our Bern.” And so, Elen and Guinivere’s eyes met in the mirror once more, filled with
conviction.
And Elen kept brushing.

Elen returned to Bern with Guinivere to
rebuild a land ravaged by war, and to reunite
a people devastated by defeat. Her hard work
and kind-hearted nature earned her the title,

‘The Saint of Bern.’

14

15

16

17

18

To Break, To Mend, To Flourish

I. Unseen Scars
Klein had a bad shoulder. Clarine had known even before he became an archer, from the
way he winced when the cold snaps swept over their estate, or how he always had to roll it
a couple times after lending it to her for a nap. He never complained, his easy smile gracing
his lips whenever she asked why and shook his head in response.
And it was nothing her healing magic could ever get rid of—only alleviate until the next
bout came back.
“He fell,” Dieck answered solemnly when she had cornered him one day while Klein and
her mother were out hunting and her father in his study, a chance to get him alone where no
one would interrupt her, demanding answers that not even her parents would provide, “into
the arena pit when he was younger.”
“He fell,” Clarine repeated dubiously, “over a stone wall that was taller than him when he
was that young?”
Dieck’s stoney face wavered, like he hadn’t been expecting her to question him. Then his
expression softened. Dieck was always respectful of her, more so than others and he never
mocked or belittled her no matter what she did or said.
“You ever wonder why the young lord has a bodyguard but you don’t?”
Clarine shook her head—never had wondered, was overjoyed in fact, it seemed so
annoying to have someone watching your every move, following you everywhere you went.
But she did know why some nobles had bodyguards.
Royalty had swathes of them for a specific reason too. It was easy to guess.
“He was dropped. Someone tried to assassinate him.” Dieck lifted a shoulder, neither
a rejection nor confirmation of her deduction and looked over her shoulder. She
followed his gaze, to Klein speaking with their mother while they trotted through the
gates up on their horses, bows and quivers slung over their shoulders, the results of the
day’s hunting carried in after them.
“He never talks about it,” Dieck said suddenly, “even to me when I was the one who
fished him out of there. He says he fell, but we all know that isn’t true. You know how he is,
tight lipped and quiet even when he’s in pain.”
Clarine huffed, crossing her arms in an attempt to keep the biting cold away until Dieck
dropped his cloak around her. She wrapped it around herself, shaking her head when Dieck
flipped the hood up, covering her eyes. “But why? He was just a child.”

19

“He’s the heir of this house. The lord and lady, while eccentric to other nobles, are
powerful. The young lord has potential to be even greater than them. Who wouldn’t want to
kill him?”

Clarine fell silent, trying not to answer and followed the horses that were now cantering
towards the stables instead. Dieck walked to match her pace, pausing every couple of steps
as she struggled to wade through the snow.

Her mother was seemingly goading Klein into a race even though her brother shook
his head, halfheartedly urging his horse forward anyways—a kind of indulgence he often
offered to his family. Fine white powder was kicked up in their wake, Louise’s horse edging
ahead before Klein let out an explosive whoop at the last moment, barely inching out a
victory before he halted in front of Clarine, dismounting with a grace that Clarine envied.

“Klein,” she greeted, holding her head high while crossing her arms, holding the image
for a split second before the oversized hood fell into her eyes. “Welcome back.” Klein lifted
the hood for her, peering at her with a gentle smile and she squinted, realizing that he wasn’t
all that tall. She almost reached his shoulders. “Did you shrink?”

“I think you grew,” he answered mildly, folding the hood back so it wouldn’t fall back over
her eyes. “Shall we go indoors so Dieck can get his cloak back?”

And as they strode back towards the estate, where warmth and food awaited, she slipped
her hand into his and noticed how he rolled his shoulder stiffly every once in a while.

“Do you want me to help you with that later?”
“If you want,” he said, in that same mild tone that he used often with her, a smile
creeping on his face, “but I think it’s nothing a hot bath won’t fix. Pulled it again trying to
get a deer, that’s all.”
“Right,” Clarine echoed. Right. She casted her gaze around to look at the hunting party
and her mother, frowning when she realized there were no kills that they had brought back
and that they were much too roughed up for any normal hunting party. Unless they had
been hunting boars. But Klein and her mother didn’t fancy hunting boars. And no one had
brought spears.
She glanced at Dieck. Dieck looked away.

20

II. Poison

“They can’t do that!” Clarine stared furiously at the letter that had immediately drained
the colour of Klein’s face when he had read it. They had sent their ‘condolences’ for Prince
Myrddin’s death before sliding in the little line where they had appointed the previously
empty position of Archer General to Klein.

“Actually, Clarine, they can.” Klein sounded distant, distracted even as Clarine waved the
piece of paper angrily in the air that decreed he was now the Archer General. “They’re the
court.”

“You’re nineteen! And you’re the court too!”
Clarine was aware that none of this was lady-like. Not standing up on her chair, not
raising her voice at her brother, and certainly not stepping onto the table when he didn’t
even look in her direction, but she didn’t care enough about that for now.
Klein remained silent, tapping his fingers absentmindedly against the table, his food untouched.
“Well you know how it is,” he said in a blasé tone that chilled her to the core. No, I don’t
know how it is, she wanted to say. But she did. Everyone did. Good people didn’t last. “They
don’t like me all that much and archers tend to die first.”
Louise had warned Klein of that much when he had gotten better at archery instead of
going down the sorcery path that Clarine was choosing. Mages and healers were targets too
but it was a gruesome trend— of archers being wiped by the first attacks in an attempt to rid
them of long distance attack and defence. “If Prince Myrddin was still here, this would have
never happened.” Clarine regretted her words immediately after she blurted them out.
Something in Klein’s expression flickered before he schooled it.
“But he’s gone now—” if Clarine hadn’t been listening closely, she would have missed
the pain that tinged his voice, barely there, hidden under layers of carefully manufactured
calmness, “—and the court has spoken. I’ll serve my country the best I can and try to
preserve the place Myrddin loved so much.”
The hollow way he spoke—he was always like this now, ever since he’d gone to court,
worse now that he’d just lost one of his best friends—filled her with dread. It was like a
creaking dam that was failing fast. And there wasn’t a single thing to mend it in sight.
She walked across the table, stopping in front of his food, nudging it aside with her boot.
“Klein.”
“Yes?”

21

“Have you cried yet?”
“...Cried?” he said faintly, finally looking up at her.

“For Myrddin.”
“N... No... I don’t need...” He trailed off, head dipping again.
Clarine sighed. Crouching down, she grasped his face and tilted his head up, brushing his
golden hair away from his eyes. They were so dull now, a sickly purple instead of the bright
lavender she’d seen so much as a child. She now understood why her parents had not gone
to court— and why they’d protested when she and Klein had declared they would try.
It was killing him. He was not one for the courts of poisoned words and cutthroat
relationships. Too honest, too kind, with little ambition to rise higher than he was—too
much energy spent helping others instead protecting himself.
He was too easily devoured by the ones that were more ambitious than he was.
“Klein...”

“I can’t.”
“I won’t tell anyone,” she murmured, covering his eyes with one of her hands. “I’ll cover
my ears and close my eyes. No one will ever know.”

“ I can’t .” His voice cracked—she hadn’t heard it do that in years and he took in a
shuddering breath.
“Klein. This isn’t the court. This is your home. I’m your sister. You’re allowed,” her head
snapped towards the door when it opened, one of the maids peeking in before she waved
her hand to shoo her out, “to be you here. Don’t you ever forget that. You’re a Reglay.”
“Right,” he said faintly, “and what does that mean in a world where being a Reglay
means you’re the enemy?” Clarine was at a loss for words, stumped by the question. She
wished her parents were here with them, maybe they would be able to comfort him more
eloquently than she could, soothe his fears and make him feel safe.
She could only hug him. Klein cried mutedly, tears rolling down his face as he silently
grieved and suffered all the same, like he was fearful that if he let out a noise, the court
would hear him in his moment of weakness.

22

III. Mask

“Take a headcount now!” Clarine surged forward only to be pushed back by the hordes
of wounded soldiers pouring back into the medical tent after the battle. “Let me know
our losses and the amount of wounded! And make sure we start triaging for the healers!”
Klein’s voice carried clearly even above the din of the chaos that was ensuing after a plan
that didn’t go too well.

Clarine wished she could see him—she didn’t even know if he knew she was here; would
he be so calm if he did? She turned back to the wounded first, putting her magic to work.
The stench of blood, and other unsavoury smells makes her gut roil and she hoped she
would be able to keep her lunch.

A patter of feet sounded right outside the tent. “General,” there went the Dieck again,
ever steady and unwavering even after so many years, “you are injured.”

“It’s just a scratch, Dieck, I’m fine. Take a headcount first.”
“General,” there was a tick of anger in Dieck’s voice, “you’re bleeding through your
bandages.” The tent flap opened and Dieck dragged Klein in, the smaller
man trying to twist out of the mercenary’s grasp. Clarine twisted her neck,
trying to get a good look at him. Her heart dropped
when she caught sight of his ripped clothing, the sloppy looking bandage job
on his ribs almost completely soaked with red.
He looked too pale.
“Klein.” Dieck shoved him towards the closest empty stretcher and Clarine winced with
Klein when Dieck jostled him a little rougher than he should have.
“Oh, so now it’s Klein instead of General or Master Klein?” Klein sounded like he was
on the verge of snapping and Clarine grabbed the closest medic to her, gesturing at them to
finish the job before rushing towards Klein.
She skidded to a stop between them and Klein’s expression changed almost instantly,
attention switching from Dieck to her. “Brother!” she half yelled, trying to sound happy.
Dieck muttered something that sounded suspiciously like a string of profanity under his
breath before slipping away.
Klein stared at her, mouth dropping open before he composed himself.
She stared back.

23

“Please tell me,” Klein said faintly, possibly with a touch of anger, while growing even
more pale than he was before, “that this is the blood loss finally making me hallucinate.”

Clarine leaned forward to poke his injured side instead of replying, frowning when he
recoiled. She reached for his overcoat, forcing it off him so she could get a better look at
the wound. He sat there quietly, not saying a thing when she peeled away the bandages
(it looked like a hasty patch up job by someone in a rush—perhaps even Klein himself).
“Thought you would be happy to see me.” She tried not to scream when she finally saw the
wound, large and deep across his ribs—not life threatening but bad enough that just bandages
would have eventually killed him with infection if the blood loss didn’t do it first.

“I wish you weren’t here,” Klein finally admitted, voice neutral even when she pressed a
warm towel against the wound to clean it. “It’s dangerous. You’re not trained for this yet.”
His voice was detached and cool, staring straight ahead despite his whitening knuckles as he
curled his hands into fists.

Clarine glared at him. “Are you implying that I’m a liability?”
“You could be. You can’t even fight, Clarine.”
“I’ve been learning.”
“Learning while being held prisoner?” So he knew—and somehow that made her angrier.
Her anger flared; Klein had never treated her like this, it felt he wasn’t even him anymore.
“What is wrong with you?” Her voice came out much longer and shriller than she intended
and the tent fell silent in lieu of her outburst.
Perceval swooped in to the rescue, plucking Klein off the stretcher and grabbing
Clarine by the wrist (“There is sufficient medical supplies in his own personal tent,” he had
whispered aggressively while dragging them both across the camp.) before dumping Klein
onto his cot when they reached Klein’s tent.
Perceval stayed while Clarine treated Klein—brought in another medic at one point
to help but said nothing until Clarine sat back, slapping her hands away from her face,
brushing her hair back for her before pointing at the wash basin. Clarine realized her hands
were covered in Klein’s blood.
She murmured her thanks, watched as the medic finished up the job and waited until
Klein fell asleep, dazed and tired from blood loss and battle before shuffling closer to him,
his earlier remarks still stinging a little.
“His soldiers are blessed to be under him,” Perceval said suddenly, pulling a blanket over
him. “He cares much for their lives, more than most nobles.”
“Of course he does, he’s my brother. He treats everyone equally.”
“He’s changed, I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

24

“No,” she rebutted, staring at his face—worn and thin, no doubt from the stress of war
but still lined with the soft kindness he always wore. He couldn’t hide that when he was
asleep. “He hasn’t. He’s still the same Klein I knew when the court dragged him out to war.
He’s just...” She paused, trying to find the right word.

Perceval pondered with her, drew a piece of paper from his pouch, held it in his hand
like it could burn him. “Afraid?” he offered, turning it over in his hands until he held it out
towards Clarine instead of tucking it under Klein’s pillow. “After all... he is just nineteen, and
the fate of men and possibly the nation lies in the decisions he makes. It makes sense. I never
thought about it though, he just seemed to adjust so well. And he never said anything to me,
even cracking jokes with me. He said I forgot how to smile.”

“My brother is a liar,” Clarine laughed, “but not for his own sake.” She wished she could
be bitter about that but that was part of his charm, part of what made him so likeable. She
simply wished it was less so instead. “So, what is this?” She held the paper, holding it up in
the candlelight.

“His headcount.”
It suddenly felt heavier and she dropped her arm to her lap. Such a small piece of paper.
Just numbers in ink yet they could pack such a devastating blow.
“Why are you giving it to me?”
“I don’t know. Maybe because I don’t want to watch his face when he reads the number.”
“So you want me to give it to him?”
“Maybe,” Perceval’s voice was wry and tired, “he will not be mad at you if you’re the one
that is concealing the number from him.” He rose, ruffled her hair until she smacked it away,
reaching for her staff threateningly. He put his hands up and left without another word,
leaving her with her brother and the paper that could tear him to shreds.
She unfolded it, read the number with a muted kind of horror—so war was like this.
She glanced at Klein. And then she held the piece of paper over a candle, watching the
flames eat up at the parchment.
When he woke up and she was mending his wound again in the early hours of the day
before the sun had quite risen, their breath billowing white clouds as they huffed trying to
stay warm, he cast a look at the candles that flickered weakly, eyeing the ash, lips twitching
like he didn’t know whether to get angry or not. Clarine waited with bated breath, bracing
herself for the worse.
“Did you burn my headcount?” He was softer today, less of the muted anger he had
yesterday.

25

“Well...”
“Clarine...”
“You don’t have to shoulder every death that happens on your watch. It’s not like you
didn’t try your best.”
She held his gaze stubbornly, refused to look away even as displeasure flashed through his
eyes just for a moment.
She took a deep breath, praying to whatever god would listen before she started her
tangent. “You’re going to destroy yourself before this war is over. Look at you! Do you eat?
Sleep enough? You’re like a stick! You look like an old man with how haggard your face
is. You act like you’re the only one that makes the decisions around here when it comes to
battle. How do you know that it was your choices and not others that makes a plan go awry?
People are their own person you know? They mess up too, trust me, you are not the only one
that makes bad decisions.” She would have added a look at me but she felt like that wouldn’t
help, reminding him of what she had done to get here.
Klein leaned forward to clamp a hand one her mouth, glancing outside of the tent
worriedly and Clarine winced, realizing she’d gotten too loud again. The flap opened and
Dieck peered in, saw them sitting together and retreated without a word.
“You’re right,” Klein finally admitted quietly when the flap closed again. “I just...”
“If that was you instead, lying in a wood coffin waiting to be taken back to our estate for
burial, I would be devastated. Imagine how Mother and Father would feel too. Don’t wish
it was you instead.” She held his hand, wondering when he’d come to value his life so little.
“Could you at least loosen up? I don’t know if you’re going to send me back, I hope you
don’t but take care of yourself. This isn’t the court either, there are people who care for you
right by your side. Don’t act like you’re all on your lonesome.”
Klein nodded slowly before leaning against her, resting his head on her shoulder.
“Thank you,” he said softly, shoulders slackening, “I’m sorry for what I said
yesterday. I’m glad you’re here.”

26

IV. Freedom

An arrow thunked into the bull’s eye. And then another. The third missed by a margin,
Klein groaning the moment he loosed the arrow, like he knew he had already made a mistake.

“I’m rusty.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” Clarine squinted up at the sun, shifted over until she
was sitting in the shade of a tree, wiping sweat off her forehead before it could drip onto the
book she was reading. Silently, she wondered when Klein would take off his overcoat or at
least shed some of his layers. “It’s a good thing you haven’t needed to use your bow, is it not?
And that’s still two out of three, if that was an enemy the third arrow would have still hit
and they would be good for intel since they’d be alive.”
Klein nodded in response to her words, finally slipping his overcoat off, dropping it to the
ground. “I am still the Archer General,” he muttered woefully, taking a seat next to her. “I
shouldn’t get lax with my skills just because the war has ended. There’s still much work to be done.”
“Well the court is no longer really there... And there’s not much need for an Archer
General at the moment. I’m sure a replacement could be found if you chose to go
elsewhere.”
“Well that would take time. We can’t just pull another Archer General out of thin air.”
“It will take time so we can start now. You would be happier away from this position
anyways. Not that you’re bad at it,” Clarine was hasty to add in that response, not sure how
her brother still felt about his competence in the war. He was getting better when it came
to telling her about how he felt, but still tight lipped and stubborn at times. “But I think
you would be happier elsewhere. Somewhere you want to be, instead of a position that was
forced onto you. A position you took because you felt a sense of obligation to this country.”
Klein stared off into the distance, where their parents were strolling through the gardens
looking like they didn’t have a care in the world.
In a way she supposed they were like Klein—good at covering up their worries and
struggles with the image of put together nobles but at least they had each other. And they
weren’t half as stupid about hiding their pain.
Klein was tracing his fingers over the etching on his bow, he’d kept the same one
throughout the war miraculously, even though Clarine had seen her fair share of bows
shatter and break. It had been shiny and silver when he had first taken it out of the armoury,
a gift from their mother. He had taken care of it but he couldn’t help the worn look it had,
the surface scratched with marks he couldn’t polish or smooth away, leather grip dark and
stained with sweat.

27

She remembered watching him struggle with drawing it at first, the weapon too unused
and not yet broken in for him to use easily and now he made it look effortless.
He looked wistful, as if echoing her thoughts.
“I did... I did think about becoming an ambassador before this whole Archer General
thing. I would like to travel, meet new and old friends without needing them to come to
me. And forge connections with other countries. I think I’d be okay at it.” He sounded
apprehensive, like he was still trying to convince himself.
Clarine turned over another page, squinting down at the words before shutting her look,
bookmarking the page.
“You never know until you try right? You’d be happier anywhere but where you are right
now. You’ve got a way with words, that much is true.”
Klein smiled wryly. His face had finally started filling out again, no longer gaunt and
stressed. “Perceval’s going to miss me.”
“Perceval can come any time if he isn’t lazy. He belongs on the battlefield.” She reached
out, touched the space on his side that she knew still bore the scar from that particularly
nasty wound she’d had to heal. She wondered if it ached like his shoulder did. “You don’t.
Don’t stay for anyone. Grasp what you want for the first time in life. You’ve got the chance to
be free, do what you want, don’t waste it.”
Klein was silent for a long time, still fiddling with the string of his bow.
Then, he spoke, still uncertain but with a little more conviction. “I’ll put in an application.
And speak with the others then. Make sure you take care of yourself and don’t slack when
I’m gone. I still expect you to succeed father as the Sorcery General.” His tone was light
when he finished, grinning at her with a wide smile that made her feel warm. She felt she
hadn’t seen it in years.
She shook her head instead of rebutting.
“Klein.” They both jumped, unaware their parents had gotten so close. Louise peered
down at them, bow in hand. “Care for a competition?”
Klein groaned.
“You might be retiring but it doesn’t help to keep your skills sharp, don’t slack!” Clarine
imitated him the best she could, falling over when he pushed her shoulder gently, catching
Pent’s eye as stifled a smile.
Klein heaved out another groan, clambering to his feet as his silent agreement to their
mother’s challenge. “Don’t say retiring. Please.”
“Love you!” She waited until he took up his position, pulling back for his first shot as their
mother waited. “Hope you find someone to share your life with soon too. You are getting a
little old, aren’t you?”
Klein’s first shot went wide.

28

29

30

31

32

Becoming Sound

Their lodgings were hardly a formal affair, but then again, they were traveling incognito.
Joshua was used to it; slapping a hat over his bright hair, kingly regalia swapped out for his
battered and old travel clothing, and he was once again Joshua the mercenary who loved to
gamble, and no longer Joshua, the newly crowned king of Jehanna. And so, just like that, he
was prepared for the little pilgrimage that Natalia had so gently requested of him, before his
newfound kingly duties kept him from ever accompanying her again.

Of course Joshua had agreed. How could he deny Natasha something so sincerely kind?

Once they made it to Renais, he’d fully anticipated that they would have been spending
the evening either camping on the outskirts of town or within a barn of some sort. Instead, a
kindly couple had taken one look at Natasha’s garb and invited her to spend the night with
them, hushing all of her gentle protests with determined statements of, “No Sister should
have to spend the evening on the cold ground!” and the like.

Joshua had to admit he was impressed. If Natasha were any less kind, she could have
easily taken advantage of such kindness. But of course, she wasn’t the sort of person to ever
consider such a thing; instead, she refused their offers of dinner, gently telling them that they
had their own packed rations, insisting that room and board was all the kindness she could
possibly accept from them. That evening, she looked pensive as she sat on a blanket on the
floor of the main room, the only extra room the couple had the space to offer, and watched
the candle between them flicker.

“Gold piece for your thoughts?” Joshua asked, leaning back on his hands as he inspected
her shadowed features in the scant candlelight.

She had been deeply in thought; Natasha jumped a little at his words, before she
straightened, clearing her throat a little. “You don’t have to give me anything for my
thoughts, Joshua…” she murmured, lifting her gaze to him.

He huffed out a laugh in response to that, shaking his head. “Yeah, yeah, I know. It’s just
a saying, but… you wouldn’t accept it even if I was serious, right?”

Natasha dipped her head, hands pliant on her lap. “It would not be my gold to take,” she
confirmed, and he just shook his head once more. Still, he looked at her expectantly, and
eventually, Natasha pressed a hand to her chest, eyes widening.

“Oh--my thoughts? Pardon me, I… wasn’t sure that you were serious.”

Joshua’s eyebrow arched, and she continued hastily, “I was simply musing on the kindness
of our hosts. You saw the state of the town, correct?”

33

At that, he nodded. It was impossible to miss, after all, especially for a trained mercenary
eye like his. If he was still searching for work, he would’ve bypassed this town immediately.
Everyone looked ragged and worn. There was little in the way of supplies, either in their
benefactor’s house or anywhere else that he could see. And most telling of all, many houses
were still newly under construction, or being patched up as best they could before winter. This
was a town that had been through at least a skirmish or two during the war, and had come out
the other side battered and bruised and barely standing for it.

“They have so little themselves,” she said softly, head bowed. “And yet they still give so
freely to two strange travelers like us.”

“Do you feel guilty about something like that?” Joshua asked, blinking. “Far as they’re concerned,
they’re just helping out a Sister, and cashing in on some good karma points as they do.”

Natasha made a faint face at his word choice, but shook her head quietly nonetheless.
“That isn’t it. It is just that… I’m from Grado. They have no way of knowing this, but it
was my country that--”

“Okay, okay, let me stop you right there, Sister,” Joshua cut in, a frown tugging at
his lips. He’d had no idea this was something that still bothered Natasha, which was an
oversight of his own. Of course someone as sensitive and kind as her would take this as
personal guilt. “You had nothing to do with what happened to this town. And now you’re
here to help everyone out anyway, even though you don’t bear any personal responsibility.
That’s just the kind of person you are.”

Natasha was quiet a moment longer, and Joshua continued, “We’re here now, thanks to you,
so… shouldn’t we focus on what we can do, instead of what happened?”

At that, she lifted her head, quiet determination settling onto her features, and nodded.
“You’re right, Joshua. Forgive me for dwelling… we have important work to do here.”

“Nothing to forgive,” he said with a grin that he himself thought was quite charmingly rakish,
but which Natasha missed entirely as she instead slowly lay down, making herself as comfortable
as she could on the floor with only her cloak to rest on. He sighed to himself silently, but let it go.
There would be other opportunities to try to embarrass her to see her bashful face, after all, and it
was far more important that she got some rest after their journey here.

It didn’t take long for her breathing to even out into true, honest sleep, and for a moment
Joshua allowed himself a rueful smile. Again, his traveling partner was too pure and kind for
this world, wasn’t she? She hadn’t even considered the thought that their benefactors might
have meant them harm, and that they should have set a watch.

Joshua shook his head a little, grabbed his traveling cloak, and gently rested it over
her sleeping form, settling back against the wall across from her to keep an eye out for the
remainder of the night. He didn’t need much sleep anyway after his years as a wandering
mercenary; this was the least he could do. After all, tomorrow, Natasha was going to have
the much harder job to do.

34

The next morning dawned bright and early for the both of them; Joshua stirred
quickly when he heard Natasha shift to get up, stretching and yawning exaggeratedly so
she would know he was awake and stop tiptoeing around.

“Oh dear… Did I wake you, Joshua…?” she asked tentatively, and he sat up,
shrugging.

“You?” he responded casually. “You’re as quiet as a mouse even when you aren’t
trying. Don’t worry so much.”

From the look on her face, even in the dim lighting he could tell she was still
concerned, but she obediently fell silent, instead moving about the common room
carefully, gathering each of their belongings neatly and tidily. They bid their hosts a
genteel farewell, and Natasha led the way out into the early morning sunshine.

From there, Natasha’s work was simple but grueling. She walked from home to home,
gently knocking at each door, quietly offering up her services in whatever ways she
could, as a simple, humble cleric.

What surprised Joshua was how the people accepted.
While Natasha did many of the typical things one would expect of a cleric, such as
offering up prayers for the departed or the injured and recovering, she also accepted
many other tasks whenever they were asked of her. She agreed to assist with a woman’s
shopping without a moment’s hesitation, and agreeably helped an elderly man work
through an argument with his son. It was outside of what Joshua had expected, to say the
least, and it was as they kept an eye on a young infant while his mother hurried to the
market that he finally said something.
“Listen, it’s not that you’re not helping these folks out or anything,” Joshua said,
leaning back against the wall of the small house. “But this isn’t exactly what I was
expecting when you said you wanted to go on a pilgrimage.”
Natasha gently rocked the baby as he made quiet noises, until the noises had subsided
into sleep once again. Only then did she reply softly, “Were you expecting more prayer?
More guidance in the teachings of the goddess?”
Joshua shrugged a little. “Well… if you really want to know… yes?”
She smiled then, and Joshua could see a hint of teasing to her expression. “You
probably would not be the only one to think that.”
Then she grew more solemn, looking down at the baby in her arms. “But would that
sort of thing assist the people in this town…? When I look at the situation as it stands, I
have to admit I do not believe so. These people are struggling to make ends meet in a life
following a devastating war.”
She met Joshua’s eyes then, and the firm steadiness he saw in her gaze reminded him
of her calm fierceness even in the midst of their worst battles, her absolute determination
to keep her allies safe and healed. “If this is how I can help, I will gladly do whatever it
takes. That, too, is healing.”

35

Their path was slow and meandering, Natasha visiting every village and town she could
think of along their path and some they stumbled across by accident, but even so, it was only a
matter of time before they made their way into Grado. They stopped at one of the border towns
for the evening, a town that, Natasha had murmured quietly, was one she’d been to before in
her early pilgrimages as a cleric.

There was no joy on her face at the homecoming.

Taking a look at the rundown town, Joshua found he could not blame her. Even just
walking through was depressing, between the many homes that had been destroyed in skirmish
conflicts and never fixed, and the many fresh graves. People walked with their heads bowed
and flinched away from their glances, and Joshua grimaced, knowing it was the sword at his
side that made them feel this way. These people had experienced nothing but hardship from
this war and from people like him, who wore weapons openly and knew how to use them.

Even so, Natasha walked with her chin up, her eyes flinty and fixed on the scene before
them. She did not shy away from the hurts that had been inflicted on her own people, and
Joshua could only follow after her, a feeling that he thought might have been awe settling in his
chest. This young woman who would often stammer when speaking to him even now, refused
to back down or look away even for a moment from the scene they now faced.

She surveyed the town as they walked, and then abruptly stopped mid-path, turning on her
heel to move towards what Joshua had immediately noted in his own mind as “not a threat”.
A second glance, one filtered less through his mercenary perspective, made him realize it was
a person, a young man who was huddled in on himself, leaning against the wall of the empty
building behind him.

Natasha crouched in front of him, and reached out. “Are you all right, sir…?”

Her voice was as soft as ever but the man shrank back from her even so. “No, d-don’t--don’t
touch me, or you’ll…!”

Natasha paused. The young man’s shifting revealed what had been hidden by the ragged
cloak over his shoulders and front: deep, nasty claw marks that had shredded his forearm to
ribbons. Despite clearly being weeks old, they had not healed, and Joshua knew their cause
immediately just from that one glance.

Worst of all of the lingering, inflicted injuries they had experienced throughout the war were
those caused by the revenants and fiends. Those injuries did not fade, no matter how many
salves were applied and no matter how much time had passed. Those injuries were healed only
by the touch of holy water or the light of a cleric’s staff, and those things were in short supply in
the aftermath of such a horrible war, especially in a rundown town like this within the borders
of the country that had been the aggressor.

Natasha did not flinch away from the wound. Instead, she reached out, grasping his arm
gently, and equally gently slid his sleeve away from the wound. She inspected it carefully, and
shifted her hand from his wrist to his hand, until his palm was in her own, resting there gently.
It was then that she smiled, a small but sincere expression.

36

“Please, allow me to help you. I can heal your arm,” she said, and the man blinked, clearly
stunned, before he finally took in her appearance and the staff held in her other hand.

“Sister…” he murmured, still stunned, his eyes wide. “You… would heal me, even though I’m
from Grado…?”

Joshua anticipated her flinch more than he saw it for himself. He knew very well that
Natasha’s guilt over her home’s role in this war still festered and gnawed at her; even when
he tried to get her to open up to him about it, she remained quiet. He’d come to assume that
she would tell him when she was ready, and ended up simply giving her space. Still… when he
thought of how she’d been there for the people of Renais, even when it was simply a matter of
being a shoulder to cry on or another pair of watchful eyes…

Joshua was moving before he could think it over or second-guess himself. He stepped up
quietly behind her, and reached out to rest a hand on her shoulder. Giving comfort was strange
to him still; he’d lived a rough and tumble life for so long now, and even in the palace of Jehanna
he’d never been an ideal son. But in this moment, it felt right, and he felt the way the tension
drained from Natasha’s shoulders after a moment of his hand resting there. She took a deep
breath, and while she didn’t look at him, her tone was steady when she spoke again, and to him,
that was enough.

“I would,” she said calmly. “You are my countryman… but even if you were not, I would still
heal you. You have done nothing wrong, sir, for simply having been born here. So please… do
not punish yourself further.”

He bowed his head, his breath hitching, too overcome to even speak, and Natasha took that
silence as acceptance as she gently lifted her staff, its healing glow washing over him. Slowly,
the wounds that had festered for weeks closed up, mending into smooth skin as if they’d never
been there. It didn’t matter how often Joshua had seen it for himself; the miracles Natasha
could bring about with only her faith and a staff never failed to impress him.

The man stared at his healed arm, straightening as he did, and his gleeful exclamations of joy
drew a crowd almost immediately--at which point Natasha was in high demand, and Joshua
found himself stepping back to allow her to greet the townspeople with a small smile and
earnest willingness to help, no matter what it was they asked of her.

He stepped in only after she had been at it for hours, only when he saw her stumble as she
pushed herself up from where she’d been tending to a child’s sprained ankle--unrelated to the
war, but an injury nonetheless--and then he was by her side, reaching out to snag her wrist
gently.

“It might be time for a break,” he said simply.

37

Natasha blinked at him blearily for a moment, but then she accepted it, dipping her head.
“All right… I suppose a break could do no harm. This child had the last injury that needed
tending to.”

He frowned more deeply at the weariness in her tone. “Aren’t you overdoing it a little and
pressing your luck?”

“I am, probably,” she said simply in response, and then she smiled at him, tentative and
sweet. “But I know that if I press my luck too far, you will be there to help me… how did you say
it before…?”

She scrunched her nose for a moment. “‘Hedge my bets’, I think…?”

Joshua just shook his head, rubbing the back of it ruefully. “Yeah,” he said with a sigh. “That’s
one way to put it. But if you’re counting on me for that, I guess I’ll give it my best shot. Still,
when were you planning on letting me in on that little secret?”

“I… um, I just decided that now, so…” she said softly, and Joshua couldn’t help the way he
tossed his head back and laughed. That, too, was just like her--and it wasn’t a bad trait at all.

They remained in that little town until Natasha was satisfied with the state they would be
leaving it in, and when they finally left, the townsfolk watched them go with wide smiles and eager
waves, more energetic than Joshua knew they were even capable of being after all they’d seen.

In time, they had to return to Jehanna. While Joshua had left the country in the hands of
those he trusted, he himself had to accept his role as its new king. He could not put it off any
longer, no matter how much he’d learned from this journey. Natasha seemed to understand
this; she quietly and gracefully accepted the way that he turned their path northwest, towards
the endless deserts of his home. They had helped the people they could, and Natasha knew
better than to expect she could help every single last person who had been impacted by the war.

Joshua had a duty and she had promised to return with him, and so they did.

Or, at least, that had been his intention. The palace was still being reconstructed after the
fire that had ravaged it, but there was enough of the frame of what had once been there to
provide housing for much of Jehanna’s shrunken court, so he intended to return there and focus
on the tasks that required his attention. He was no longer going to run away from his destiny,
that was what he had decided.

This plan remained in place only until they reached the first of the many towns that they would
need to pass through to get to the capital.

38

Joshua remembered this town from when he had passed through it as a child; the main road
they took through the desert passed by it, and so it was a popular place of rest and refuge while
making the long trek. Even for his mother the Queen, it was common enough for her to smile
at him when he tugged at her hand, and elegantly gesture to their accompanying guard to stop
for a rest. He still remembered the well-constructed buildings and the smiles on the faces of the
people who lived there, proud of their home and that it would draw the attention of even their
Queen.

Those things were no longer true of the town he remembered so fondly.

Some of those buildings had been reduced to rubble, some burned down through what
had to have been displays of pure malice and the streets were deserted. Joshua knew that this
town had been in the path of the invading Grado army, but even so, he’d hoped that it would
have been spared--no, he’d willfully, ignorantly ignored the fact that there was no way it could
have been spared. Even so, for a moment, Joshua considered continuing on in that moment of
ignorance, pressing on to the palace. There was still so much work to be done for his people
and to stop here would be to delay that.

He could feel Natasha’s eyes on him, but she was silent at his side.

It was in moments like this that he realized just how far he still had to go to be a king that
would live up to his mother’s memory.

Joshua shook his head quietly and turned towards the town with a soft, “Let’s stop here,
Natasha. There’s more work to be done, right?”

Natasha smiled at him then, gentle and understanding and sweet; she nodded, and without
complaint, dusty and weather-worn and covered in sand, she turned towards the town with her
staff held tightly. It was only then that she responded softly, “These are your people, Joshua. I
will follow your lead.”

Joshua thought that, perhaps before this pilgrimage, those words would have daunted
him. He knew very little of leading, and even less of caring for others; all he knew was that of a
sheltered prince and then the life of a gambling mercenary. But somehow, now, the words were
grounding and calming, and he nodded. He knew exactly what to do.

The town itself was uncannily empty, but even so, it did not take long for a young woman
to come greet them. Her expression was tired and ragged, and she didn’t even bother to try to
muster up a smile.

“Forgive me,” she said softly, her head dipped slightly. “If you have come here for rest and
respite, as our town is known for, I’m afraid we can’t offer much. Our town has greatly suffered
in the war, and we are still trying to rebuild.”

39

Joshua nodded quietly at that. That she didn’t recognize him was unsurprising; between his
clothing and the fact that he as the heir had disappeared for many years, it was unlikely anyone
would recognize his face for quite some time as their new king. The common folk had more
pressing concerns, he knew very well. How could they care what king was on the throne when
their own home looked like this?

“That is why we’re here,” he told her, hands raised in a placating gesture. To his side, Natalia
clasped her hands together and dipped her head. “Please… tell us where we can help. We’ll do
everything we can to help out--even if we can’t stay long.”

The way she stared at him, both hopeful and a little disbelieving, made Joshua almost wish
he could stay their course on this pilgrimage and continue to help wherever he could, offering
hope and healing with Natasha in the corners of their continent where the people had nobody
but themselves to rely on it. But he had a duty, and he knew it, even if it made his mouth twist
downwards in displeasure to have to admit it to himself.

He didn’t realize Natasha was watching him as closely as she was until she suddenly rested
a hand on his shoulder, murmuring softly, “Part of healing others, too, is not taking too much
upon your own shoulders. We can only offer what we can--and that is more light than was in the
world before.”

Joshua straightened then, dragging in a deep breath. “Right. No time to wallow right now.
We’ve got too much work to do, isn’t that right?”

Her answering smile told him enough, and then there was too much to do to dwell or to
speak. There were homes to repair, wounds to heal, and stores to replenish--the last a serious
problem in a desert. There was only so much two people could do in a single day, and Joshua
knew they could not stay longer; he put that out of his mind, and instead focused on what could
be done instead.

Joshua left that evening, Natasha once more at his side. He could see his own exhaustion
mirrored on her face, but she did not protest once when he said, “We can make more progress
tonight.”

Instead, she nodded, and said quietly, “I am ready to continue.”

Still, even despite his firm words, as they began to make their way down the sandy road
that would lead them back to the palace, Joshua couldn’t help but look back. A number of the
townspeople had turned out to watch them leave, and in their smiles, he could read gratitude.

It was strange. They’d fought demons and monsters, saved the world from a war and
a demon king, and he had experienced the life of both a prince and a king… and yet in this
moment, Joshua was almost certain he himself had never had a heart so light. Then he turned
homeward and began to move forward.

40

41

42

43

44

Sacrifice

Micaiah ran.

She had run so much lately. Each day seemed to bring cause for it – seemed to result in her
muscles working powerfully, running. Towards enemies, towards allies in need of help, or away
from those chasing her – away from the terrors behind her that wanted her dead for some
reason or another.

Today was no exception. Now, Micaiah ran from the Begnion forces. Her lungs seared and
her legs ached as she flew through the streets of Nevassa, hot on the heels of the rest of her
ragged little party. Their shoes echoed through the alleyway, ricocheting off of the cobblestone
pavement and shabby wooden buildings all around her, yet still scarcely audible over the sound
of her own hoarse breathing in her ears.

Get away. They were the only words reeling through her mind as storefronts passed her by,
as crates seemed to materialise out of nowhere to trip her up. She remained light on her feet,
deft, and dodged each oncoming obstacle. She needed to flee – to be safe. She could not risk
being caught, or putting the Dawn Brigade in danger. They had jeopardised themselves enough
already, and the idea of the soldiers reaching them, of an armoured hand darting out to grasp
her wrist, pulling her back--

Fear rose inside of her, threatening to choke her. No! She couldn’t let that happen. Yet this
feeling that rose inside her, as insidious as bile rising in the throats of the poisoned, was not
merely fear. Micaiah was not this primally frightened of the Begnion soldiers: they did not
terrify her to this extent. She wanted to flee them, but she would not be afraid to fight them.

So, what was this feeling?

This sensation was something else – a panic bubbling up from elsewhere. This was a warning
that Micaiah was sensing, telling her that something was wrong. Something, somewhere, was
terribly, awfully, catastrophically wrong.

And she needed to stop it.

“Wait!” she shouted at once, her cry as sharp as the ringing of clashing steel. She stopped
in her tracks, hearing feet scramble to a halt behind her, and turned. She saw Sothe, concern
lighting his once-so-stoic face. “Something terrible is about to happen!”

“What is it?” Sothe asked, breathless.

What is it?

… What was it?

She didn’t know. Micaiah closed her eyes, blackness engulfing her vision, and she searched.
Deep down within her, tingling through her nerves and festering in the pit of her stomach,
she felt pain. She felt fear, and loneliness, and a threat looming over her so sinister, like a
predator with jaws agape, preparing to snatch her up.

45

It made her feel ill: sickened to the core. Each of her muscles quaked, stomach churning,
head spinning, and she searched frantically through the darkness for the source.

She didn’t know what was happening, but it was something. Something innate – something
deep in the fibres of her being, primal – told her of its danger. Somebody would be hurt,
gravely. The life would leech from them into the ground below, and Tellius would reach out
to embrace them, to welcome their body back into the ground from whence each of its
inhabitants had once come.

Somebody was going to die.

“No!” she breathed, her eyes snapping open and reality flooding back to her. “We have to go back.”

Almost instinctively, her feet took off running again. She did not even look back at
Sothe as she ran past him, scarcely registering the sounds of his footfalls behind her. All
that mattered to her now was reaching them; who it was, she didn’t know, but she needed
desperately to help them before it was too late.

The journey back felt so much longer, but Micaiah did not relent. Her lungs begged for her to
stop, to catch some air, but she weaved her way back through the alleyways of Nevassa without
a moment’s hesitation--

It was then that Micaiah gasped, a pain shooting through her back, seeming to hit her spine
and blossom throughout her as ink would spread across clean parchment. It stalled her, made
her seethe; the damage had been done – someone had been hurt. Their death had begin; their
time left on Tellius ebbing away by the second. It only hardened her resolve.

She hastened her pace; the wind whipped through her hair and rushed past her ears, and
her eyes widened as she spotted the clearing before her: the gap between the buildings that
the Dawn Brigade had made their escape through mere moments before.

The sky above was dull, and the grey-brown brickwork all around made the world seem
almost hazy. When Micaiah laid eyes upon the scene, however – upon the figures of bodies
crowding the square, some of them poised as if to bolt away – she saw light. It was as if the sun
was pouring its rays down on the townsfolk, illuminating the centre of the marketplace. Yes,
her body told her as she slowed, finally seeing what awaited her.

You’ve found it.

In the very centre of the marketplace Micaiah walked through now, a young boy lay. His
body was crumpled – contorted – and his back, clad in a flimsy blue shirt, had been pierced
with an arrow that still sat nestled into his skin. His small, underfed form and chestnut brown
hair were recognisable at once.

Nico.

The troops of Begnion were there, their armour the same deathly crimson as the
blood that poured from Nico’s wound, drenching his shirt and the stones he lay upon. Yet,
Micaiah didn’t care. She wasn’t afraid any longer – did not sense the need to flee. She
sensed no more terror, nor unease.

46

“...blame it on the Dawn Brigade!” she heard a commander’s gruff voice shout. “They
made this happen!”

Micaiah was focussed on only one thing, though.

The crowd parted for her and began to whisper, and she crossed easily over to the dying,
bleeding child. She did not go unnoticed: the commander standing before them was shouting,
barking orders, but Micaiah couldn’t hear him. She felt nothing except a potent, all-pervading
sense of purpose as she crossed the cobblestones, leading herself to Nico’s crumpled form and
kneeling before him. She knew what she had to do.

Her hand came out without her intention, and her fingertips lightly brushed his back. To
her relief, he still felt warm, and she let her eyes drift shut once again as she called from deep
inside her that primordial power that lay within. It was dormant no longer as she called upon
it, and it rushed through her blood up into her mind, pulsating wildly. It swam around, swirling
with a harsh blue light that threatened to blind her even beneath her closed eyelids. But she
took a hold of it, calmed it, hushed it until it would obey. And she sent it hurtling back through
her veins, down into her hand, where it flooded from her fingertips and into Nico’s body.

It seemed to sap at her lifeforce; the more that erupted from her hand, the weaker she felt.
It was as if blood poured from a wound of her own, more and more of her vigour cascading out
of her by the second.

She was weak – dizzy – but Nico no longer reeked of doom and death. Now, he was
revitalised, and she heard the arrow clatter to the stone floor beneath as the sapphire glow
faded from her mind’s eye. Then, only darkness remained.

“It’s a miracle…!”

“Sacrifice…”

“... Silver-Haired Maiden…”

The words slipped lazily through her ears, becoming muddled and lost in the dense fog
that now shrouded her brain. It shrouded her eyes too, and she found her lids much too heavy
to open once more.

What did it matter, though? She was not needed any longer. She had saved him – saved
Nico, pulling him from the abyss of death that Tellius had opened beneath him – and
nothing else mattered. She felt her consciousness wane, the world spinning around her, but
somehow, it was comforting.

Nico was alive. His ragged breathing and slight giggle of confused elation were the most
beautiful music: a lullaby, sending her to another realm.

Strong, familiar arms grasped her, and pulled her from the floor. She was safe, Nico was
safe, and Micaiah drifted from Nevassa’s marketplace into the comforting embrace of slumber.

47

48

49